#Festival fit from a previous year

[doshegotabo0ty]

[dcxdpdabbles]

#holiday request

Another chapter of Alley Boyfriends, if you don't mind, I love it so much. If not, no worries. I love your work and love to reread your stuff. May your food be filling and your bills be paid!

Danny carefully adds the finishing touches to the seahorse he’s carefully designing on the surface of Tim’s mug of coffee. He’s been practicing his latte art because business has been slow at Heart Attack in secret. The previous week, he had seen Tim watching videos of strangers creating works of art using the foams of their coffee with blatant awe.

The Halfa will admit to the sight of wonder on Tim’s face when the flashier artist created swans with colored foam, and his heart gave the oddest flutters. It had been so brief but intense that Danny had feared a new power was unlocking in their living room.

Thankfully, the moment passed quickly, but Tim’s expression lingered in his mind. Danny had abandoned the piano to search somehow for videos of latte art within the next minute of that strange heart flutter. ��

Danny had learned how to play from Wes in an ill-fated attempt to get the ginger to date him. Danny hadn’t been able to get the ginger to be his boyfriend, but he learned a skill he enjoyed. His parents bought him a second-hand stage piano that he had used for the few years he lived with them.

It broke sometime in senior year- he thinks Young Blood had blasted him through it- and he hadn’t bothered getting a replacement. Mainly because he couldn’t be concerned, as it was a hobby he hadn’t time to participate in once he got close to graduation. It would have remained a forgotten past time had the apartment not come with the grand piano.

The sound was so much richer, with a resonating tone that bypassed his skin and sunk into his soul. Danny could not let the thing of beauty go to waste. He often found himself sitting on the bench, letting his fingers dance off the keys, finding melodies and rhythms that welcomed him home like a returning hero of a fairy tale.

He didn’t think he was skilled at it, but sometimes, when he played, Tim would move closer. His eyelids would flutter close, lying on the nearby couch and listening to Danny play with a half-smile on his face. Sometimes, Tim would fall asleep, seemingly at peace, as Danny strung through Dance of the Blessed Spirits only a few feet away.

Despite all the coffee Danny had provided him with, Tim was starting to develop a better sleeping schedule. The bags under his eyes slowly faded, and he was physically fit. Tim used their apartment building gym all the time, but his skin was gaining a glow previously not there.

He also seems much happier. Danny checked off another box of Tim being a ghost in development, with his Heart Attack Coffee being a big part of his obsession.  Maybe it would not be his sole purpose when he passed, but Danny suspected that the coffee was associated with a good memory that fundamentally shaped Tim’s sense of self.

Danny didn’t like to think too hard about it. He’s gotten comfortable with death, seeing it as a natural part of life now that he spent so much time around the Death-Brought Ghosts, but the idea of Tim passing always twisted his heart into knots.

Sharp, painful knots that leave him fleeing from the dark thoughts as fast as possible. It would be years before Tim would no longer be part of this world. He had better things to do, like adding bubbles and seaweed around the seahorse and taking time to add as many little details as he could to create the scene of a lovely underwater image.

Danny finishes just as the kitchen clock- an expensive cuckoo clock that had golden trimmings, blending so well with the dark wood and gorgeous forest theme carvings that Danny had fallen in love with the second he spotted it at a street art festival that the pair had stumbled upon during a drive they took. Tim bought it when he realized Danny liked it, and it hung up that night. - goes off with a loud chime.

Another day has officially ended. 

His roommate would be up soon for whatever he does at nighttime, where he vanished for hours, coming home nearly always after witching hours, exhausted and bruised. Danny would linger in the living room for a bit if he was awake before heading to his room with a half-made excuse.

Tim would then sleep for a few hours before he was up again, rushing around the apartment to gather his things and be out for his daytime work. A lot of his job he can do at home, but Tim was important enough that he sometimes had to go to work in person.

In the three weeks that the two have moved in together, Danny hasn’t been braved enough to ask what his roommate did for a living. He knows Tim held some big corporate job- where and what he did there was a mystery- but his second job was vague and downright denied at worst.

Whenever Danny hinted so much about what he was doing at night, Tim moved the subject away. He didn’t flat out deny answering Danny’s probing, as more as he danced around the question so well, Danny found himself waltzing in a different direction before he realized what had happened. Tim had a silver tongue that was wielded like a sword, sharp, cutting, and deadly.

 It was mildly alarming, mainly because Danny had no idea what Tim was involved in. Something big, something likely bad. It could be the only explanation for the large amount of seemingly never-ending funds and the odd hours that Tim kept.

A boring office worker by day and who knows what by night.

He also always came back home half stumbling over his feet. There was even that one time when Tim had been half-dressed, his knuckles split, and hard anger set at his jaw. Danny had been caught up with a new show, only realizing the late hour once his roommate had practically shut the door.

The pair stared at each other. Danny bathed in the glow of the TV while Tim was shirtless and standing in the shadows of the front door. He wanted to ask thousands of questions, but Danny had only lifted the heated blanket- a gift from Tim- when he learned how affected Danny was by the cold. 

Tim’s face softened as he barreled into the warmth and snuggled into the couch cushions, joining Danny in watching a Korean rom-con that the Halfa had been in the middle of. He had no idea what the plot was or who the characters were, but by the end of the third episode, Tim’s head had fallen on Danny’s shoulder so deeply asleep that he didn’t feel Danny wrapped up his knuckles or carried him to his room.

Despite this, Danny didn’t move out. He didn’t stop providing Tim with his much-loved coffee. If anything, he took his worries, boxed them up, and stubbornly turned a blind eye to the worrying signs that Tim was showing.

A door opens behind him. Tim walks out, an overnight bag thrown over his shoulder as he speed walks through the living room. His roommate is scrolling on his phone, tapping a rapid-fire response to whoever he is chatting with. Danny could see the bubble messages screen even if he couldn’t make out the words before sighing. “I’ll be out all night. I’ll probably be back tomorrow around noon.”

A pool of dread piles in his stomach, but Danny pushes it away. “Alright.”

He holds out the mug, drinking in every facial feature shift as surprise blooms over Tim’s face before it melts into tenderness when he sees the shape of the latte art. It was painstaking to learn how to make a realistic-looking one on such a problematic canvas, but Danny is happy he spent time on it. After all, Tim’s favorite animal was the seashore, so he needed to make sure it looked good.

Only a few people knew that from what Danny gathered from Tim's few mentions while working on their three notebooks. He also thinks Tim doesn’t often tell people his favorites, but Danny has been paying close attention whenever Tim reacts positively to the world around him. The way Tim’s eyes sparkled when Danny clicked on a sea documentary where the small, shaped fish had been a main feature. Danny had found it adorable how Tim seemed unaware that he would randomly blurt out a new fun fact about the seahorses in the following few days.

“When you learn to make this?” Tim asks, curling his fingers around the mug. Danny’s heart leaps in his chest at the tender warmth glowing in Tim’s eyes as he gazed at him. Coughing into his hand, he waves his hand.

“I had some time since there hadn’t been a lot of customers lately. Ever since that Dr. Freeze threat, people have been avoiding the café.” Danny ignores the guilt he feels about that.

The other day, his powers had gone out of control after he made the mistake of going too long without using his ice, and when he developed that stupid head cold, he accidentally froze the street.

One coughing session later, the entire neighborhood ran to take shelter, panicking that the rouge had chosen their homes for his newest mayhem. Thank goodness the villain had actually broken out of Arkham the previous day, so no one batted an eye at the fact the ice surrounding a single barista was in the middle of closing up for the night.

“It’s amazing, Danny,” Tim tells him, quickly snapping a picture with his phone before he takes a sip. His eyelashes flutter as he savors the flavor, this one is the original Batman theme coffee that Heart Attack discontinued.

Danny found the receipt in an older binder while doing inventory. Tim had tackled him in an enthusiastic hug the second he tried it and recognized the familiar taste.

“Thanks.” He blushes, trying not to notice that the bubbles have shifted slightly, resembling hearts instead of circles. Moving his eyes away from where the foam disappears into Tim’s lips, Danny mentally kicks himself for being weird about his fake boyfriend’s drinking.

He picks up the mug lid on the counter, turning it around in his hands while Tim takes another quick sip. There is some leftover steam milk on his lips when he pulls away, and the colorful seahorse is gone now. His core pulses, making a shiver run down his spine as Tim’s pink tongue darts out to lick away the teal green.

Danny coughs again as frost gathers on his back. Thank goodness he can feel it on his skin, which means it likely hasn’t passed through his comfortable sweater. He hasn’t told Tim about his powers, and he isn’t sure he wants to.

Gotham is an anti-meta city. Tim was as Gotham as they came. He can’t stand the thought of his roommate growing to hate him, especially for something that wasn’t precisely meta, but was the closest thing he was.

He leans forward, carefully sealing the mug. This was one of Tim’s favorites among his collectible mugs, primarily because it could shift into a traveling beverage holder.

Tim smiles at him. “I’m heading out then. See you tomorrow.” 

“Bye, stay safe,” Danny tells him to walk him to the front door. He stands there, feeling like he’s waiting for something to happen. But he isn’t entirely sure what that is, so all he does is lean against the wall as Tim slips on his running shoes, juggling his drink, phone, and bag. Danny smiles warmly when Tim raises his mug at him in a fast toast before he slips through the door, leaving their apartment with a soft “Sleep well, Danny.”

The wood of their door seals shut without a sound- apparently, the rich didn’t believe in noise because everything in the apartment was somehow soundproof. Tim moved like a shadow, rarely making a sound. Danny, by comparison, sounded like a bull in a china shop.

Once, when Danny apologized, Tim laughed.

“I like it, " he said while lounging in the hot tub on the balcony. Danny was on the other side, the warm water doing wonders for the frost forming at the bottom of his feet.  Thankfully, the water hid it from Tim’s sight. “It’s like you breathe life into the apartment with your noise.”

“Stay safe,” Danny says to the empty apartment. “Come home tomorrow.”

He rubs his face and figures he should head to be. It was ten at night, but Tim clarified that he wouldn’t return anytime soon. He’s tired from the previous three nights when he waited for Tim to come home. Thankfully, his shifts had been moved to the afternoon, so it didn’t mean much if Danny stayed up until three am for his roommate.

He strides by his piano, running his hand along the closed case of the keys without seeing it, for his gaze is locked on the city that glows under his window. It’s been nearly a month, and he’s still not used to the view of Gotham from this height. The penthouse towers over most of Gotham, and the city seems beautiful from up here. A Decorative lie of the danger that waited in the wake of anyone down on their luck.

This place was like a Siren. Beautiful and alluring until its claws and teeth dug into someone’s skin, dragging them to the darkest depths where no one could hear their screams. He prays that whatever Tim is involved doesn’t let Gotham swallow him whole.

 Danny’s fingers accidentally come upon cloth, making him snap his chin down to see what had been placed on the wood and blink at the side of Tim’s discarded sleeping long-sleeve shirt. His roommate peeled it off earlier tonight when he wanted to walk around in his shirt sleeve and flung it somewhere to take a quick nap before he left.

His fingers close around the fabric, slowly bringing it up to his face, breathing in Tim’s distinctive scent mixed with the soft lavender of his fabric softener. Danny hesitates for only a few seconds before taking off his sweater and slips on Tim’s long sleeve, allowing himself to find comfort in the familiar scent surrounding him.

He lets his sweater pool on the floor in the living room as he wanders to his room, crashing under his blankets and pressing the fabric of Tim’s clothes to his face. Eventually, he is lured to sleep, dreaming of playing in Gotham’s largest theater, hands flying over the keys at a skill level he does not possess. He moves with the music, uncaring that the seats are empty except for one.

That one belongs to Tim, who watches him perform with the same tenderness as his latte art inspired, but instead of a drink, Danny’s music causes that expression.

It’s the best dream he had in a long while.

As he dreams, he is unaware of the figure checking in on him, hanging from a grabbing hook near his window. The figure smiles when its white lens notices how Danny is curled up in a ball before it zips to the roof, their cap flaring behind them.

When they land, they reach up to link on their com "Red Robin reporting for duty. Where is Dr. Freeze's last known location? I want him caught tonight."

"Good night to you, too," Oracle responds. "Any particular reason we're in such a hurry for the capture of Dr. Freeze."

"He's making it hard for the hard-working people of Gotham to work," He huffs, knowing the rest of the bats will correctly link his complaint to his roommate.

There is a loaded pause before Red Hood grunts. "I got good news for you then. Dr. Freeze has spotted this very afternoon. Meet up at Heart Attack by Crime Alley to compare notes in an hour."

"I'm on my way."

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (xiii)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, forests, sabotaging

A/N: lmao so initially this was actually supposed to be released on Halloween last year bc it was the 13th chapter. but of course, The Horrors. so have a Halloween themed chapter in the middle of fucking April. good day to you all.

Previous part || Series masterlist

Bucky doesn’t do Halloween.

To be fair, Bucky doesn’t do most organised festive celebrations. 

But Halloween specifically, is not for him. 

He barely has energy to exist in real life, and now he has to do it with a costume? Like a little circus clown boy begging for claps?

No.

So even though the team has mostly done the most with what they can, and dressed up to celebrate the spirits of the holiday, he has chosen to stick to his usual.  

He begins to feel the guilt twirling around his stomach when he finally makes his way to the event ground. 

The whole Halloween fair felt like fall in a bottle. Rows of vendor stalls lined the main walkway, overpriced cider and hot chocolate competing for everyone’s attention. The air was thick with the scent of kettle corn, fried dough, and bonfire smoke, and at the very center of the fairground, a massive pumpkin display loomed. IT was carefully arranged, family-friendly, and absolutely begging to be destroyed. 

There were costumes everywhere. Kids sprinting between hay bales in bandages and plastic fangs, groups of teenagers posing for selfies in group outfits, couples holding hands.

It was nice. It might even begin to thaw his cold, solid heart. 

The groans and bullying that follows when he pulls up half an hour late is warranted but he holds his ground. 

Hands balled into fists, chest pushed out and sturdy, he takes his usual place next to you, bracing for impact. 

“You’re a bore,” you say without skipping a beat. “You’re like fun-antidote. Where is your costume?”

“I’m wearing a costume,” he says simply. “I’m A Guy.”

“Your costume cannot be guy. I knew this shit would happen. I had a costume delivered to you one month ago, where is it?”

“If you think I’m dressing like that Dr Seuss piece of shit, you’re deranged.” Bucky casts a look at you. 

He opened the package, saw the red stripes and closed it right back up.

“There’s no way you showed up with nothing,” Nat scoffs.

“Clint wore a full Pikachu onesie,” Wanda offers, joining the group with a powdered sugar moustache.

“That’s because Clint has no shame.” 

“I heard that,” Clint calls from somewhere. God knows where.

“You were supposed to,” Bucky fires back. 

Nat raises an eyebrow. “C’mon Buck. Not even a little face paint?”

“Do I look like a man who owns face paint,” he says dryly, glaring when he suddenly notices a little detail. “Why’s everyone looking at me? This one’s not wearing a costume either.”

He juts a thumb towards you. You narrow your eyes.

“I’m literally wearing one right now,” you say, gesturing to yourself. 

“You’re wearing a black t-shirt and combat boots,” he argues. “That’s clothes. It’s not a costume.”

“It’s a good costume,” Sam pipes up. “I get it.” 

You beam at him. “Thanks.”

Bucky glances at you, then at Sam, then back at you again.

Nat, leaning back against the table, exhales a short laugh. “Really nailed the details.”

“Right?” You glance down at your fit. 

She nods. “Very accurate.”

Bucky stares for a few more seconds, coming up short.  

Finally, he grumbles, “Whatever. Where’s the video shoot?”

“You guys are shooting a video here?” Wanda asks, tearing off a piece of funnel cake and popping it into her mouth.

“Yeah, I thought it’d be fun to go through the corn maze. Local legends say it’s haunted by the spirit of teenagers who got lost in there years ago and never returned.” You shrug. “I’m gonna attach a GoPro onto Bucky’s head and set him free in there.”

“You make me sound like a rat.”

“You’re the handsomest rat I’ve ever seen, baby. If I were a piece of cheese, would you want me?”

“Stop.”

“You’re really just gonna go in there together, huh?” Sam pipes up casually. 

Bucky looks at him weirdly, but Sam has the deeply self-satisfied smirk of a man about to be a menace.

You don’t even hesitate. “Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Corn mazes have a history, you know? Just saying. ”

“A history,” you repeat. 

Nat, ever helpful, leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “Classic teenage makeout spot.”

Bucky’s eye twitches.

“I wouldn’t know, I spent my teenage years blowing up buildings,” you reply. 

Wanda hums. “That’s what they all say.”

“Literally who says this.”

“You’re not missing out. It’s cold and itchy and the whole place smells like hay,” Steve chimes in, doing his best to aid the situation. 

Sam nods solemnly. “Yeah, but next thing you know, you’re lost with no cell service, standing real close, saying shit like ‘oh no, my flashlight batteries died, guess we have to huddle for warmth–””

Bucky groans. “It’s a fucking corn maze, not the catacombs. There’s no getting lost and huddling for warmth.”

Clint, appearing just in time to make this worse, tilts his head innocently. “Oh, you guys doing the Lover’s Lane?”

Bucky gestures aggressively at the fair map. “It says Field of Screams.”

“Sure can be a field of screams if this night goes well,” you add unhelpfully. 

Bucky turns to Steve, clearly expecting him to be the voice of reason.

Steve, unfortunately, is already hiding a smile behind his drink.

Bucky’s jaw clenches.

“Assholes,” he mutters.

Sam claps him on the shoulder. “Have fun in the murder corn.”

Somewhere in the distance, the haunted house’s chainsaw gag goes off, followed by delighted screaming.

Bucky adjusts the camera strapped to his head like a miner’s torch. “I thought you were going as the tennis ball from that threesome movie.”

“Costume didn’t deliver in time. So I found something better.”

“What are you supposed to be?” 

You ignore him, but there’s an amused expression on your face. “I know you think that because you’ve gotten to this point, you’ve gotten away with not having a costume. Unfortunately for you, I have come prepared.”

Before he can react, you shove a piece of fabric into his hands.

He holds it up, balled into his fist. “Is this–”

“The cape from the laughing gas group, yes.” You nod. 

“I thought I got rid of this thing, where the hell did you get it from?” He lets it unravel in all its unironed, crinkly wonder. 

“I would never let you get rid of a piece of art like this. Now look, you’ve got a solid costume.”

“I don’t need a costume.”

“Well, now you have one. Put it on.”

“No.”

“Put it on.”

“No.”

Five minutes later, he has a shitty full-length cape on as you stand at the entrance to a haunted corn maze.

The wind picks up just enough to make his cape move ominously. He elects to ignore it. 

You adjust the camera on your head, tilting it toward him.

“Well, well, well,” you narrate,. “If it isn’t the dark lord himself.”

“I hope the ghosts take you first.”

“That’s what I love about you, Buck. Always looking out for me.”

Bucky shakes his head, pulling the cape tighter around his shoulders when the wind threatens to blow it away.

The archway is wrapped in dim string lights, flickering unsteadily.

Beyond it, the corn stands tall and unmoving, the entrance swallowing the path ahead in a thick, oppressive darkness.

“Alright, you ready?” you turn to him.

He sighs. “Always.”

________

The night is alive.

The festival’s noise carries even through the thick walls of corn, muffled laughter and distant screams bleeding through the cracks, the occasional blast of music from a game booth still loud enough to reach you guys.

Teenagers run ahead, scaring their friends before the actors even get the chance.

Bucky walks beside you, hands tucked into the pocket of his cargo pants.

A breeze kicks up, rustling through the maze.

From somewhere to your right, a group of college kids run screaming out of one of the side paths, shoving each other as they trip over their own feet.

Bucky watches them, expression completely unimpressed. “They paid twenty bucks to get chased through corn by a guy in a mask.”

“We also have done that,” you remind him. 

You walk for a while in no particular direction, just following the winding, trampled-down paths. Nothing creepy has happened yet.

“I had a place like this growing up,” Bucky mutters, stepping over a stray piece of corn husk.

You glance at him. “A haunted maze?”

“A fair. Smaller than this, but same kind of deal. Seasonal. My parents used to take us before it got too cold.”

You hum. “What’d they have?”

“The usual,” Bucky says. “Rides, caramel apples, bad magic acts. There was a fortune teller I was scared of when I was a kid.”

“You were scared of a fortune teller?”

“She was fuckin’ aggressive for a woman whose entire job was pretending to read palms. I didn’t even want to do it. My parents paid ‘cause Becca begged, and then she got too scared to go near her. I got thrown in so it didn’t up being a waste of a few bucks.”

“Becca betrayed you.”

“Sold me out immediately.”

You laugh. There’s a faint smile on his face as he walks through the godforsaken corn. 

“I had a fair once,” you say.  “It wasn’t real. But they called it a festival.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“There was a little town outside the facility,” you say, stepping over a raised tree root. “Once a year, they’d set up these tests. The whole thing was so weird. Gave us candy. Let us play games. Just to see if we could blend in.”

“HYDRA did something similar.”

You snort. “You guys ever do the winter carnival, or was that unique to usl?”

Bucky groans. “Always fucking Winter Wonderland or Halloweentown.”

You laugh, kicking at a loose pile of hay. “I used to steal candy.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Without getting caught?”

“They probably knew,” you admit. “But they never stopped me. Maybe that was the test.”

Bucky hums, before saying gruffly. “Maybe it was just a win.”

You hold his gaze for a second. The careless upturn of his lip is enough to make you forget what nonsense you were about to say.

You wonder how much footage you’d have to edit out if it was just staring at his dumb, pretty face in silence.

A breeze shuffles the corn.

The distant scream of another maze runner echoes through the night.

It’s enough to snap you out of whatever the hell this is. 

The festival noise is still going strong, bleeding into the maze, distant music mixing with the hum of people.

You reach a split in the path. A fork in the maze, with two equally stupid-looking trails leading deeper into the field.

Bucky stops, tilting his head slightly, scanning both directions.

You, on the other hand, just pick a side based on what the vibes emanating from them were. 

“This way,” you say, already stepping toward the left.

Bucky does not move. “That’s the wrong way.”

“Excuse me?”

Bucky gestures down the right path. “That’s the way out.”

You fold your arms. “How do you know?”

“Because I do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

You tilt your head. “Did you fucking map out the way to the exit?”

“No,” Bucky lies.

“That defeats the whole point of a maze.” 

“It’s called situational awareness.”

“It’s called being a control freak,” you correct.

Bucky exhales sharply. 

You gesture down the path you picked. “So what happens if I go this way?”

“You get lost.”

“Or.”

“No.”

“Or–”

“I’m not going the wrong way.”

“Fine. It appears that we have reached an impasse.” You pause, considering for a second. “I fear that our journey together ends here. Catch you on the flipside, partner.”

Bucky watches as you take a slow, exaggerated step backward down the left path.

“Are you seriously splitting us up?” he asks dryly. 

“It is not I who refuses to tread the path of integrity.” 

Bucky glares.

You take another step, arms crossed over your chest, combat boots pressed into the dirt.

He’s about to give in and follow your stupidass plan, when it suddenly clicks for him. Honestly, once he gets it, he’s embarrassed at how long it took. 

“Is your fuckin’ costume s’pposed to be me?” Bucky’s jaw drops open slightly. 

A grin breaks across your face and it’s enough of an answer for him.

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” He takes a long, hard look at your ridiculous outfit. “What is wrong with you?”

“I think I did great,” you say, pulling at the hem of your black t-shirt. “I even made sure the shade was right.”

“You think you’re hilarious.”

“I do, yeah. Now let’s get a move on.” You clap your hands. “This maze ain’t gonna solve itself.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you dressed like that.”

“Afraid people are gonna think we’re the same person?”

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. You do the same.

“Stop.”

“I’m just existing, man.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Now who said that?” You narrow your eyes. “I’m dressed like the hottest person I know besides myself, you should take it as a compliment” 

Bucky mumbles something under his breath, taking a step towards the path on the right. 

“I see you’ve made your choice. The wrong one, but I respect it.” You salute.  “See you on the other side, Barnes.”

And just like that, you disappear down the path.

Bucky stands there for a few seconds in silence.

Then, grudgingly, he starts walking again, taking his route. The correct route.

The festival noise is still there, still steady.

Bucky isn’t worried.

Because, first of all, it’s a corn maze.

Second of all, he’s already sure he knows the way out. 

The first few minutes alone, he doesn’t think about it much.

He walks, eyes scanning the paths, the layout, the movement of people up ahead. 

Unfortunately with the way his brain is hardwired, It doesn’t take him long to see the pattern.

The jump scares are timed.

The actors cycle between three or four spots.

The lighting is only dim enough to be “spooky,” but there are clear emergency lanterns posted at every exit route.

All things considered, it’s shockingly easy to navigate, so he wonders what’s so haunted about it in the first place. 

By the time he reaches the third scare actor, he’s already figured out that they’re all positioned in the exact same intervals.

A few minutes later, the familiar mechanical rev of a chainsaw sounds through the corn again. 

Bucky sighs, already exhausted.

The actor jumps out from the corn, mask on, chainsaw lifted dramatically.

Bucky stares.

The actor stares back.

There’s a long, painful pause.

Bucky slips past him and keeps walking.

_______ 

“How much fuckin’ corn is there?” he mumbles by the time he hits the next split in the path.

He hasn’t heard from you in a while, which doesn’t make sese because he should have run into you at some point. He would never admit it out loud but he would rather your incessant chattering than silence.

Seemingly ten minutes into his neverending trek, he pulls out his phone to track his way back to Steve using the damn Find My Phone bullshit

No signal.

He exhales sharply. Taps the screen a few more times, holds it above his head and even rotates it a few times. 

Still nothing.

It’s annoying, sure. But beyond that, something about it feels vaguely unsettling.

 The maze wasn’t that far away from the fair. 

It wasn’t like he’d wandered into the woods. 

He should have cell service. 

He grumbles, putting his phone back into his pocket, continuing on. 

_________

The paths aren’t endless.

The entire attraction is contained within the fairgrounds, wedged between the parking lot and the hayride station, which means if he just keeps moving in a straight line, he should hit the outer edge eventually.

Or at the very least, run into a staff member making sure no dumbass teenagers try to cut through the corn and ruin the layout.

And yet he’s been walking for a while now.

No exits are showing up.

Which is annoying. Because he’s usually good at this kind of thing.

If he can navigate a city he barely recognizes, evade people trying to kill him, track movement through urban terrain with nothing but a loose trail, then he should be able to walk out of a goddamn festival attraction.

But the paths just keep twisting, folding back into each other. 

The maze stretches longer than it should.

EVen though he’d figured it out, Bucky doesn’t immediately notice it.

He’s too focused on just moving forward. Getting to the end.

But after another few turns, another five minutes of silence, it finally registers.

There hasn’t been a single scare in a while.

The last was what, ten minutes ago?

Before that, they had been stationed at every few turns, jumping out at whatever happened to wander through.

Bucky stops.

The corn doesn’t rustle the way it usually does. 

It stands tall and eerily frozen. 

Bucky tilts his head slightly and listens.

But the fairground is further away than it should be.

There’s still wind.

It's still chilly.

Like it’s been pushed back a little further with every turn he’s taken.

Which doesn’t make sense.

Bucky exhales, shaking it off, shaking it loose, refusing to acknowledge the stupid, creeping frustration in his chest.

This is fine.

He keeps moving because at some point, it has to end.

The sky is still clear.

The night is dark.

He rounds the next turn--

Agonizing minutes later, Bucky knows he should have found an exit by now.

Even if he somehow took the longest possible route, even if he completely lost track of where he was going, he should have hit the fairground again by sheer accident.

And finally, he sees something different.

A scarecrow.

Lying in the middle of the path.

It's an old, rotting, weatherworn thing that doesn’t belong in a festival attraction.

The wood is splintering at the edges. The burlap sack tied around its head is molded and sun-bleached. The hat it’s wearing is barely holding together.

And its arms, long and stiff and thin, aren’t stretched out the way scarecrows usually are, instead pressed tight against its sides.

Bucky stares at it.

A long, slow moment passes.

“What the fuck’s your deal?” he asks. 

It does not answer. Obviously. 

He stares for a few more seconds, raising his leg to step beside it and move on–

Something touches him.

His entire body locks up for half a second, reflex screaming at him to step back, to turn, to fight.

It’s barely anything.

A whisper of sensation, a brief, feather-light press against the metal of his wrist.

Not a grab. Not a push. Just contact.

And then there’s a giggle.

Soft, small sound that feels like it’s been yanked straight out of another life. 

It takes a secodn to register that his pulse is hammering now.

Because it’s been months of this. Of coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t just imagining it.

Not from cold, clamping fear.

Something else. 

The giggle sounds again, a few feet away this time.

She’d been following him. Watching him. Waiting for a chance to get him alone and-- God, what?

What was she going to do?

His head snaps towards the sound, trying to zero in on it outside of the rustling of stems. 

When it floats by again, it’s further away. 

His feet move before his mind registers it. 

Soft peals of laughter, the same when he’d let her draw all over his sketchbooks, when he’d douse her in water from the hose, when his dad would throw her under his arm and carry her around. 

It doesn’t matter.

He rounds the corner fast, boots skidding slightly on the packed dirt.

The air is colder now than ten minutes ago, stinging his skin. Or maybe that’s just in his head.

The laughter leads him around another corner, and the weight in his chest grows more desparate.

Because if she’s there, he can tell her everything he’s been thinking of for months now.

That he’s sorry, that he’d do whatever it takes to get her to rest–

He opens his mouth to call out her name– 

He bounds down the path, heart hammering and eyes wide.

His feet skid to a halt, boots grinding into the ground when he almost collides straight into something.

Someone.

But no.

Face tucked behind a Jason Vorhees mask, fake machete resting on a shoulder.

Not her. 

“Woah,” it says, “the hell are you running from?”

Bucky stops immediately, breathless.

It doesn’t take even a second to register the voice.

In the same short second, it is gone.

The giggle. The touch on the inside of his wrist. 

It’s all gone.

And in its place, it’s you.

You’re standing like you’ve been waiting for him, mask lopsided, fake machete swinging lazily in one hand, like you just wandered in from a completely different reality. 

Fuck. He’d been sure. So sure.

But then it’s you, pulling the mask up till it rides up your forehead. 

“Look who finally showed up,” you say brightly, grinning like you haven’t been wandering the maze in abandoned slasher cosplay for god knows how long.

“I’ve been trying to find an exit for, like, half an hour. Got so bored I was about to float up and look for you from the sky.”

He doesn’t say anything, heart in his mouth.

He doesn’t smile.

He probably doesn’t even blink, head turning as he scans the area for any sign.

You cock your head at him. “...You good?”

“Yeah,” he says too fast. “Fine.”

She wasn’t here. 

You give him a look. One you’ve used before. 

He forces his hands to stay loose at his sides. Tries not to look like he’s still coming down from something. Tries not to think about the soft giggle he’d heard minutes ago, or how badly he’d wanted to find the source.

“You been in here the whole time?” he asks finally.

You nod. “Yeah. I got bored. The actors vanished a while ago. I found the mask and figured, why not.” You hold up the machete. “Also this. Very high-quality prop. Very stabby.”

He raises an eyebrow. Barely.

“I was gonna jump-scare someone, but no one’s been around.” You pause. “Except you, apparently.”

He's not entirely sure he's in the same plane of existence as you.

His gaze flicks over you again, with your mask, weapon, loose smile. Still completely unaware that he just nearly walked out of the last twenty years chasing a memory, only to find you instead.

He swallows. Pushes the feeling back down.

“Thought you said you were gonna levitate out.”

“I was!” You grin. “But then you showed up. How was your night? 

He doesn’t answer right away.

Finally he just exhales for the first time in what seems like years.

“It was fine.”

But the longer you look at him, the less sure you seem.

You study his face, squinting. “You look like you saw something.”

“Didn’t.”

You chew on that for a second, eyes still on him, before saying, “You’ve been weird, you know.”

Bucky tilts his head slightly.

“Like, not just tonight. After some of these shoots. Not all of them. Just… some.”

Bucky says nothing. He knew it wouldn't be too long before you brought this up.

You go on anyway. “At first I thought it was just your usual ‘why am I involved in this bullshit’ thing, but it’s not that. Not every time. Some of these places are different. You come back quiet.”

You shift the machete from one hand to the other. It feels stupid, suddenly.

“I haven’t said anything,” you add. “Because I figured if you didn’t want to be here, you’d say something. But you haven’t and if this kind of stuff screws with your head in some way, we can pick other places. Or we can stop the show altogether. We don’t have to keep doing this if it’s messing with you.”

You look back at him now. Direct. Steady.

Bucky doesn’t flinch.

It would be easy to lie. Easier than explaining.

So he clears his throat, looks down the path where the maze bends gently left. “Good to know.”

Something soft on his cheek tugs his face back.

He looks back at you, a small crease between his eyebrows.

You hold his face in place softly, but the look on your face is firm. "We don't have to continue the show. I'm being serious. It's not worth it if you--"

Bucky watches you trail off, but your hands don't let go of his face.

"I know," he says, voice a bit quieter, more tired.

Your gaze is intense, but he holds it. His throat constricts a bit when he swallows.

“Well. I was headed for apple dunking before this turned into a weird spiral. You coming?”

He knows you notice it.

Still, you don’t press. Just give him a small smile, search his face one last time before letting go.

“Yeah,” he says, letting out a deep exhale when you turn away from him.

“Good. I need a witness when I inevitably fight a twelve-year-old over a Fuji.”

“I will not take your side,” he manages to get out, following behind closely.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, casting a look over your shoulder. “But you’ll reap the rewards when I win.”

Bucky opens his mouth to say something in return, but shuts up when you slip your hand into his, interlacing your fingers and giving it a short squeeze. 

His heart, poor fucking thing, probably won’t be able to handle another episode of racing tonight. 

“Come on,” you say, swinging it back and forth. “You can buy me some cider.”

Bucky says something snappy, sighs a little and tightens his grip on your hand. 

It takes a while before you finally see the fair.

You push a few stalks aside and sigh like you’ve just crossed a battlefield.

The fairground lights bleed brighter through the corn, the ambient noise getting louder with each step. 

Bucky's kept his grip on your hand, but slipped it into the pocket of his jacket because the night only gets colder.

“I can’t believe I almost had to fly over this stupid maze just to find you,” you say. “What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up?”

He shrugs. “Would’ve found a way out.”

“Oh?” you say, eyebrows lifting. “With what? Your ancient Boy Scout compass? Prayer? I was prepared to carry you out, you know.”

He snorts.

“Little rescue mission. One arm around your waist.”

He stops walking. “No.”

You blink innocently. “No?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not? I can fly. Kind of.”

“I would rather die in the corn than be carried out like a wet cat.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Hasn’t Steve ever gotten a ride from Tony? I don’t hear him complaining about sitting on his teammate’s back.”

“Like he’s on a fucking horse?” Bucky says, scandalized. “No?”

“You’re emotionally allergic to help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“I know,” you say, turning to grin at him again. “But I’m gonna offer it anyway. Just to annoy you.”

The stupid Jason mask is still swinging at your collar, machete tucked like a trophy at your hip. Bucky rolls his eyes but can't help a smile from slipping out.

“Anyway,” you say casually, “I’m just saying, if I hadn’t found you, you’d still be in there. They’d name the field after you eventually.”

He doesn’t respond to that, but you catch him shaking his head.

You swing the machete against your leg like a toy. “Would the team have come looking for you if I hadn’t?”

Bucky glances at you. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” you repeat. “Cool. So like… couple of days?”

He shrugs. “Give or take.”

You nod sagely. “Okay. So if it takes you a few days to get rescued, I’m looking at what, two weeks? After someone trips over my skeleton by accident?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says, “That’s not how it works with us.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Us?”

He gestures vaguely. “The team.”

You scoff. “I literally had an entire PR team trying to erase me from the internet not too long ago.”

Bucky studies you with a sharp look for a few moments. You keep swinging the machete back and forth, one arm locked in place inside his jacket pocket.

“Do you think it was a coincidence,” he says finally, “that the week your article dropped, everyone just happened to go batshit insane?”

You blink at him. “What.”

“C’mon,” he says. “Steve makes a huge donation. Nat starts a fight on live TV. Clint breaks into a goddamn bank vault. Your story got the least coverage out of all of them.”

You frown slightly. “I thought that was just Avengers being Avengers.”

Bucky shrugs. “Nobody told anyone to do anything. They just did it loudly so you’d know whose side they were on.”

You fall silent for a moment. “Huh.”

He doesn’t push.

You don’t ask again, but you shuffle closer. He tries his level best to stay cool, and mostly succeeds.

The second you step out of the cornfield, it's like walking into a trap.

Scattered around the festival’s edge, half-lurking by the caramel apple stand and the booth selling “Blood Smoothies”, are most of the team, waiting.

Nat is nursing a cup of hot chocolate like it's vodka and watching everything with the faint smirk of someone who knew how this would end before it started.

Sam spots you first. His grin spreads instantly. 

“Generally when people disappear for a while, they show up with less clothes than before,” he calls. 

You glance at your mask and machete and Bucky tugs off the stupid cape. 

“Just in time for the main event. I was about to start placing bets.”

“On what,” Bucky mutters, already tired of this conversation.

“Whether we were getting a call from you,” Sam replies, “or the morgue.”

You shrug. “Por qué no los dos?”

Wanda drifts in with a caramel apple in one hand and a too-knowing smile at your hand in his. 

Bucky’s expression shutters instantly, mouthing. “Don’t.”

She shakes her head lightly, not saying anything. 

You’re still smiling, focused on the conversation at hand, “He got lost. I heroically rescued him. It was a very emotional journey.”

“I wasn’t lost.”

Steve finally wanders over, coffee in hand, squinting at Bucky like he's trying to decipher something.

“You good?” he asks, handing him a slice of pumpkin pie.

Bucky nods. “Fine.”

Steve looks between the two of you. Then at the mask. Then at the machete. “You two gonna go find other hauntings or are y’all done for the evening?”

“I’m going apple dunking,” you say brightly. “I’m about to ruin some middle schoolers.”

“Emotionally or physically?” Clint asks.

“Whichever’s funnier.” You shrug, nudging Bucky’s shoulder. “I’m gonna destroy some third grader and dedicate the win to you.”

"I don't know you."

You give him a bright grin, and wiggle your hand out of his to follow behind Clint.

Bucky doesn't like the sudden lack of warmth, but he finds respite in pie Steve has handed to him.

Bucky’s always liked the noise of fairs.

Not because he actually enjoys them and the overstimulation it brings, but because he can disappear into the background. Everyone's loud. Everyone's distracted. No one looks at the guy who stands still.

So that’s what he does now.

Leans against a picnic table, a second slice of pie in his hands that he hasn’t even looked at, while Steve stands beside him with a cup of something steaming and unremarkable.

It’s easy, the quiet between them. Familiar.

Which is probably why Bucky says it out loud before he thinks about it too hard.

“Do you remember PBJ?”

Steve squints. “The sandwich?”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “No. The nickname.”

Steve takes a slow sip, then looks at him again.

“Oh,” he says, softer now. “Right. What I called you and Becca."

"D'you remember why?" Bucky doesn't meet his eye.

"Wasn't it 'cause she couldn’t spell your name properly when she was little? Wrote ‘Jam’ everywhere. Used to drive you insane.”

“She got very smug about it,” Bucky mutters.

Steve laughs. “Only ‘cause you kept calling her ‘Peanut’.”

Bucky nods, tight smile on his lips.

“I’d forgotten about that,” Steve says. “God, Peanut Becca and Jam. You were so serious about it, too."

Bucky notes quietly, “She wrote ‘PBJ’ on everything. Lunchboxes. Schoolbooks. Hell, birthday cards.”

"I remember."

Steve elbows him gently. “Why’d you ask?”

They stand there a while longer.

The lights flicker in the distance.  

And there it is. That soft pang in his chest, sharp and sad and warm all at once.

Bucky hesitates. Opens his mouth to say something else–

“Gentlemen!”

You’re striding toward them with far too much confidence, holding a large, offensively purple stuffed bat in both hands like it’s a gift from a distant god.

“I bring tribute.”

You shove the bat into Bucky’s hands, grinning. “For being so brave in the cornfield. And for looking like you were about five seconds away from emotionally unloading on pie.”

The bat’s wings sparkle. Its eyes are mildly unhinged.

Bucky looks at it to you. “What is this.”

“A cherished new member of the team. And a gift to you.”

Steve’s face does something complicated behind his cup.

And for a second, Bucky just stares at the stupid plush thing in his hands, and tries to ignore the way his throat tightens.

Bucky huffs. “Thanks. It’s horrifying.”

“I know,” you say, bright as anything. “Try not to fall in love with me over it.”

He has the sick, annoying, grating feeling that it's a warning that's come too late, probably.

But he doesn’t say that.

Because you steal the rest of his pie.

And the ugly bat now rests on his bed.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

Next part

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC I FULLY EXPLODED WHEN I SAW IT

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

[countrydionysia]

2024 Rural Dionysia Announcement

Io! The time of the year has come again for the Rural Dionysia!

How to participate

The Rural Dionysia is meant to be a smaller competition than its urban counterpart, as such, we have selected only 3 categories:

Freestyle poetry

Modern hymns

“Complete the fragment”

Freestyle poetry

Your poem can be about any chosen topic (myth, personal experience etc.) in any written format. It doesn't have to be religious in nature.

Modern hymn

An hymn must sing the praises of a deity of your choice. Unlike the "freestyle poetry", your work must be of religious nature to fit in this category.

Complete the Fragment

Each year, we choose a fragment from an Ancient Greek poet to work with. The challenge is that the initial fragment must be included somewhere in your piece in its original order. This means you can fill the gaps however you want, but you can’t switch the order of the words in your piece or remove words from the original fragment.

Here is the fragment selected for this 2024 edition:

Fragment 113 by Alcaeus (trans. David A. Campbell; Loeb 142)

…kiss…(they) began…knowledge…sits…are…mortal

Here is the Greek text for reference. Note that because the word "they" is implied, it will be acceptable to keep or modify this word.

If in doubt for any of these categories, remember that you can check submissions from the previous years to get an idea of how others have done before.

Submitting your piece

Please submit your piece through submissions on this blog. All entries must be tagged for the category they are being submitted to. but you can only choose 1 category per piece and each person may only submit 1 entry per category each year.

Entries must also be tagged for potentially triggering content and squicks. If your entry needs a trigger warning, kindly add them at the end of your submission and we will take care of adding them in. Check the rules below for further information about submissions.

Calendar of the event

Nov. 16: Official announcement and opening of submissions. Dec. 17: Final submission day. Dec. 18: Vote opening. Dec. 25: Vote closing. Dec. 25-26: Announcement of the winners!

No worries though! We will be posting reminders about each step when the time comes.

General rules

Roleplay and fanfic are not acceptable submissions. This is a religious festival, please respect our faith and do not submit an entry if you are roleplaying or writing fanfiction.

Unlike with the City Dionysia, entries do not necessarily have to be about specific deities or Hellenic polytheism except for the “Modern Hymn” category, which has to be dedicated to one or many gods of your choice.

There are no meter restrictions. This is up to the writer.

All stories, myths, and poems must be entered using the submissions button.

All entries must be tagged for the category they are being submitted to. Entries must also be tagged for potentially triggering content and squicks.

An entry may only be submitted to a single category.

Each person may only submit one entry per category each year.

Winners for each category will be decided by popular vote.

Admins of this blog cannot participate, for obvious reasons. As for now, this includes @thegrapeandthefig @verdantlyviolet

Questions about the rules? Check the blog for past answers, your answer might be in there. And if it's not, simply submit an ask. We'll answer in the best delays possible.

[allwaswell16]

🔔 It's December! That means it's One Direction Advent fic season! Advent fics are generally posted daily from December 1 to December 24/25. Don't forget you can subscribe to the author to get a daily email reminder to read their Advent fic! 🔔

🕯️ All The Lights by LetTheMusicMoveYou / @letthemusicmoveyou28 {Fic post}

“As you know, every year Syco Industries throws the Holiday bash of the year. Their annual Christmas Eve charity ball, held in the building’s lobby.”

Louis arches a brow. “Robbing a Christmas charity? That’s your brilliant idea? That’s a little low don’t you think?”

Niall snorts. “The only charity that money is going to is in Simon Cowell’s pocket and we both know it.”

He’s not exactly wrong.

“Alright sure, but I’m pretty sure Santa still frowns upon stealing.”

Niall just grins.

“Being on the nice-list is vastly overrated anyway.”

(Or a holiday heist featuring a rag-tag team of lovable criminals, a pair of exes who hate each other except for when they don’t, and a lot of festive chaos along the way).

🎁 You Should Be Here With Me by @lululawrence {Fic post}

The festive period is a traditionally hectic one in the world of Premier League football, and this year is no different. A lot is riding on how Manchester United is able to come through the fixtures in the coming weeks.

Louis and his teammates know all too well the pressure that is on their shoulders. They need to prove, not just to fans of the club but the entire league, that they still have what it takes to be a team worthy of fighting for the top of the table.

Throw in the fact that Louis is all too aware that he's not getting any younger in a profession that demands your peak physical fitness year round and the incredibly fit Harry Styles, who is part of the club's social media team, and this year's festive period might just be the most important one yet.

🎅 Your Reign is Free (to give along to Santa) by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup {Fic post}

It’s Christmas Eve. It’s a totally normal Christmas Eve. Harry and Louis have some friends coming by, and some totally normal birthday and Christmas plans. It’s a totally typical totally normal Christmas Eve.

A fic that takes place over 24 (+1) hours where surely everything will go totally to plan.

🦌 You'll Never More Roam by @tommokat {Fic post}

Harry likes his job as a traveling nurse. It pays well, it allows him to travel across the country, and he doesn't have to worry about an annoying coworker past an average of 13 weeks. The pros of never staying put have always beat the cons. Until one of those cons has bright blue eyes, a fluffy companion, and a heart of gold.

Tax exemptions don't hold a candle to Louis Tomlinson. And as Harry's about to find out, neither does his heart.

🌟 Find a light, hold tight by louisismycat / @liminalkittyfics {Fic post}

a fic about finding light and holding tight - hanukkah for everyone!

Told from the gentile perspective of Louis, recently widowed and trying to cultivate his son’s connection to his paternal Jewishness, Find a light is intended for everyone — Jews and gentiles alike — who might find comfort in the light, wisdom, and warmth of Hanukkah.

🔔 Larry Xmas Countdown by 28goldensfics / @28goldens {Fic post}

Harry and Louis will stop at nothing to make each other happy, even if that means robbing Buckingham Palace for a set of priceless bells they use to ring on Christmas morning.

✨ Twinkling Lights, Fated Nights by Darling28 / @darling-28 {Fic post}

Louis is an Omega who doesn't like being told what to do and is happy with his single life in the snowy town of Frostbrook after a terrible previous relationship. But then Harry turns up - an Alpha who is anything but the typical macho. Instead of giving commands, he makes an effort to understand Louis, which annoys him more than anything. But Harry doesn't give up.

And maybe that's exactly why they fit together so well: Two people who don't fit the cliché at all, but who suddenly feel more for each other than they would have expected. In the midst of lights, snow and mulled wine, something begins to grow that neither of them had planned - even if Louis would rather not admit it.

A story about healing, love and finding home in each other.

❄️ Fluffcember 2024 by Candy_Kittens / @candyfloss-kittens

A collection of one-shots for Fluffcember 2024. All of these one-shots will be for One Direction rpf.

🌲 Through the Riots – Will You Guide Me When I'm Lost? by childofthelarents

His hands had a death grip on Harry's arms, making him unable to push back. "Fuck you," Harry growled, looking like he was seconds away from punching Louis straight in the face. The softness of his features had been replaced by pure fury, the green of his eyes burning into Louis' soul. As the seconds passed, Harry seemed to realize the lack of space between them, his eyes growing less piercing and more irritated as he scanned Louis' face.

~ Louis had his heart set on rooming with his best friend Zayn, but fate—or a cruel housing assignment—stuck him with Harry, who seems to hate him instantly (and boy, is that feeling mutual). Determined to find a way out, Louis quickly realizes that their fiery clashes only make things worse, fueling the hostility between them. Yet, as tempers flare and boundaries blur, their battles take an unforeseen turn, shifting into something neither of them expected.

☃️ Fading Shadows by Arezou_Styles

A cosy tale of life in 2024, almost canon, centers on Harrys and Louis marriage, their family life and quite some self-discovery that this year brings for both of them. Loads of info on ADHD included.

🎄 Christmas Play by @itstilliswhatitis

December is Harry's favourite time of year. The neighbourhood he bought a house in three years ago has a yearly Christmas decoration competition, and this year, he's set on winning. At least until his new neighbour, Louis turns out to be a grumpy Christmas Grinch. To make matters worse, his new neighbour happens to be his co-star in the new play Harry just bagged, playing the love interest to his role as first lover. The play is like a really bad fanfic, and everything is a disaster. This might be the worst December ever!

❤️ Hearts All Whole by @justanothershadeofblue {Fic post}

Father Louis Tomlinson hasn’t seen or talked to his high school boyfriend in over a decade, not since they went to different colleges and slowly grew apart. This means it’s a bit of a surprise when he looks out from the pulpit on the first Sunday in Advent and sees Harry Styles’ unmistakeable head poking up from a pew halfway back and on the left. How’s a priest supposed to make it through the madness of the holiday season with his very friendly, very attractive ex distracting him at every turn?

🛷 You are my home, my home for all seasons by starryhaze / @starryhaze28 {Fic post]

“I love you,” Louis says quietly, his voice tender. Harry’s not sure if Louis is talking to him or the camera, but either way, the words settle warmly in his chest.

Louis moves closer, holding the camcorder up, and Harry blushes as the lens focuses on him. “Look at your mummy,” Louis coos, directing his words at their unborn baby. “Isn’t he just the prettiest, carrying you?”

Harry giggles, shaking his head. “Your daddy is ridiculous,” he responds, looking pointedly into the camera, his voice light and teasing.

Or the one where Harry is seven months pregnant and he and Louis navigate the chaos of Christmas as they try to juggle festive traditions, their families, and friends while preparing for the greatest gift of all, the arrival of their baby.

🎁 Wrapped it up and Sent it by downcamethelightning / @downcamethelightnings {Fic post]

Harry was the only real crush he’d ever had. There had been people he’d shared classes with, or seen in the school hallways who he’d thought were cute, but he never had any interest in anyone beyond that point. Louis had always felt like he simply didn’t care enough about anyone to actually dedicate any time or energy to liking them, or going out with them.

But Harry was the exception.

With some (heavy) convincing from his friends, Louis decides to risk it all and tell Harry how he feels about him, and Christmas seems like the perfect time to make a move. Everyone's happy during the holidays anyway. Maybe it'll weaken the possibility that Harry will hate him forever if he doesn't feel the same.

An incredibly fluffy, teenage Christmas advent fic.

🧣2024 Advent Calendar by larryftnoctrl / @the-larry-way {Fic post}

25 independent one-shots with wintery/Christmas themes centering Larry Stylinson

[jamiepaige]

Constant Companions Closeup #1: DYAD

(also on spotify!)

Hello everyone!! It's been a couple weeks and change since Constant Companions, my newest album, was released unto the world, and I've been genuinely blown away by the response. Genuinely, thank you to everyone who's been streaming, commenting, making mashups, changing their pfps and usernames - it means the world to me!

I wanted to give some of that love back with something people have been asking me a lot about - and, admittedly, something I love doing. Song explanations! Deep dives! Dropping the lore! Welcome... to the Constant Companions Closeups...

For the next eleven days, I'll be going into each track one by one and babbling about the process, inspiration, details, feelings, and thoughts behind each one! We're getting sappy. We're bearing our hearts. We're telling unfunny jokes. And we're starting with track one - DYAD (featuring unit.0)!

---

Naturally, since this is the first track, it also serves as a great point to talk about my intention with this album as a whole!

I'll elaborate more on this with future tracks, but to me, there are really two main things that define the sonic progression of this album versus my previous work - guitars and vocal synths. Obviously, these things have been present in my work since I first started calling myself Jamie Paige, but Constant Companions is intended to be my overwrought, sappy confession of love to these two things that time and time again have made me simply want to make music. I love rock and I love Hatsune Miku dammit!!!

I had originally written this song in February of 2023 for a game-jam-esque online festival hosted by my friend Loni called HAPPY PARTY TRI, and at that time, I had found myself at a major crossroads. I had put out People Posture Play Pretend and :women_wrestling: the previous year, and while the response was nice, I was feeling listless and lost.

I love singing. I like my voice well enough. I certainly love writing music with lyrics!! But... there was something uniquely electrifying about using vocal synths. Amidst a lot of insecurity and emotional turmoil surrounding the process of making art and putting myself out into the world, it was one of the few things that just made everything feel right. Suddenly, I was making the same kind of music that had touched my heart so many times over.

Would it alienate people, though? Would I lose longtime listeners? Yes, that weighed on my mind more than I'd like to admit, but even more than that... I was worried I'd lose some part of myself, as silly as it sounds. Maybe what I thought was a bridge would become a barrier, and the messages I wanted to send across the gap would never find their way.

Ultimately, I felt that Dyad was the only kind of opener I could've possibly given this album, and a perfect fit for the album's motif. A dialogue between myself, stricken with loneliness and a lack of inertia running in circles, and that synthesized voice (ANRI Arcane my darling), grabbing the outstretched hand and asking a question I already know the answer to -

"Baby, do you know what you wanna hear?"

Yes, it's a love song, but it's not just for a person - it's a love song for the creative impulse, and for the places I wanted it to take me.

im resisting the urge to be jokingly dismissive of myself to diffuse tension but i still need to signal that the emotionally bare part of this is over so pretend im doing a funny little dance Anyways let's talk more technical stuff

---

Like many of my songs, Dyad came together from a patchwork of different snippets and ideas I had laying around. The back half of the chorus - "dream together, we can dream together" - originally came from this idea I had jotted down something like 9 months prior, but ended up being a perfect fit for Dyad in basically every way. The verse snippet that I'd written to go with it got reused for a later song on Constant Companions as well! (I say without naming it, as if it isn't literally lifted wholesale from this demo and thus incredibly obvious)

I wasn't originally planning on brazenly quoting the bridge of a Tally Hall song when I set out to write this song, but while toying around with a bridge idea involving a shortened version of the pre-chorus melody, I realized I had inadvertently copied it anyways. I was going to scrap it... but at the request of my dear friend and certified Tally Hall lover Marcy Nabors, I made it an explicit reference. Which I'm fine with, personally! The first CD I ever owned was a copy of Marvin's Marvelous Mechanical Museum my sister bought me all the way back in 2006 - You can pry that sentimental attachment from my cold, dead hands, TikTok kiddies.

Lastly - not really behind the scenes so much as just a shoutout - thank you to unit.0 for the lovely lead guitar work on this song!! He's been a beloved collaborator of mine for many, many years now, and one of the people who ultimately convinced me this direction was the right one to go in, so it means a lot to share this song with him. Go listen to his music!!! Now!!!!!!

That's about it for this song! Not to sound like a fucking YouTuber, but genuinely, if there are any details you'd like to hear more about, let me know and I might made a bonus post at the end of all this. Otherwise, thank you for listening! Tomorrow: Not Quite There, featuring telebasher!

❤️💚

[sacramentohistorymuseum]

As Halloween approaches, we are printing some of the letterpress cuts in our print shop exhibit that fit the holiday. Also, October 26th is National Pumpkin Day!

For today, Jared letterpress printed an image from a modern photo engraving, which was made about 20 years ago. This was used to help promote a previous Halloween festival that was held in Old Sacramento. The print depicts a head of a scarecrow with carved pumpkins on each side. This was printed with blue rubber base ink using our Washington hand press, which was made in 1852.

[novaursa]

Web of Gold (addendum)

- Summary: Alicent could only watch as you handle her son like a lioness who plays with her food.

- Pairing: lannister!reader/Aegon II Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: honeymoon

- Next part: rook's rest

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @purple-1995 @thisbiann @whiteoakoak

The gates of King’s Landing swung open with a grand flourish as you and Aegon returned from your whirlwind tour of the realm, greeted by the thunderous cheers of the gathered crowds. Banners fluttered in the breeze, the sigils of both Targaryen dragons and Lannister lions emblazoned proudly on the fabric, while the people shouted their king’s name.

Aegon, ever the showman, soaked it all in with a wide grin, waving dramatically to the people as though he had just conquered the Seven Kingdoms single-handedly. You, perched beside him on horseback, had to stifle a laugh. For all the pomp and spectacle of this homecoming, you could tell Aegon was already itching to extend the party.

As you rode through the streets, the capital bursting with energy, Aegon leaned toward you, his grin widening. “Y/N,” he said, his voice filled with excitement, “I’ve decided. We’re not done celebrating yet. We’ve shown the rest of the realm how to have a proper feast—now it’s time for King’s Landing to see what real revelry looks like.”

You raised an eyebrow, though you could already sense where this was heading. “Aegon,” you said, half-amused, half-cautious, “we’ve been feasting for weeks. Surely the court could use a break.”

Aegon shook his head, waving off the notion as if it were absurd. “Nonsense! The people deserve a celebration fit for a king—and queen,” he added with a wink. “We’ll carry on the festivities for the rest of the moon! Feasts, tourneys, music in every corner of the city! They’ll be talking about it for years.”

Before you could respond, the gates to the Red Keep came into view, and the sight of the familiar walls made your stomach flip slightly. You could already imagine the look on Alicent’s face when Aegon announced his grand plans.

Sure enough, not long after you dismounted and entered the throne room, there stood Queen Alicent, her face set in a stern frown as she waited for the two of you. Otto Hightower stood beside her, his expression unreadable but his fingers steepled in that calculating way of his. And just beyond them, Aemond loomed in his usual silent, brooding manner, his single eye watching everything with an intensity that never seemed to fade.

As you and Aegon approached, Alicent wasted no time. “Aegon,” she began, her voice tight, “I trust your tour went well, but it’s time to return to the business of ruling. The capital cannot afford to indulge in more distractions.”

Aegon, still riding high on the enthusiasm of the crowds, waved a hand dismissively, his smile unfazed by her scolding tone. “Oh, Mother, lighten up! The people love a good celebration, and we’ve been giving them the best across the realm. It’s only fair that King’s Landing gets to enjoy the same.”

Alicent’s frown deepened, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “Aegon, the treasury is not bottomless. Another month of feasting and revelry will stretch our resources thin. We must be responsible.”

Aegon scoffed, leaning back against the nearest pillar as though the very idea of restraint was foreign to him. “Responsible? What’s more responsible than keeping the people happy, hmm? A happy people don’t rebel, Mother. Besides, we’ve got plenty left in the coffers.”

Alicent opened her mouth to argue further, but before she could get a word in, Otto Hightower cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. His eyes flicked between you and Aegon, and to your surprise, his lips curled into a small smile.

“Aegon is right,” Otto said calmly, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “The celebrations have been well-received across the realm. They have strengthened alliances and fostered goodwill. Extending the festivities here in the capital would solidify that image. A generous king is often a beloved one.”

Alicent shot her father a sharp look, her displeasure obvious. “Father, the court—”

Otto raised a hand, silencing her. “The court will adjust. We can manage the expenses for another moon. This is a time of transition, and maintaining the support of the realm is paramount.”

You glanced at Aegon, whose grin had only grown wider now that his grandfather had weighed in on his side. He turned to you, his expression triumphant. “See, Y/N? Even Otto agrees with me. The feasting continues!”

Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line, clearly torn between her frustration and her inability to counter Otto’s logic. You could practically see the internal battle playing out behind her eyes. Finally, she let out a sigh, though it was filled with exasperation.

“Very well,” she said, her voice tight. “But keep it within reason, Aegon. The court cannot afford your excesses forever.”

Aegon beamed, clearly taking that as an outright victory. “Of course, Mother. Reasonable revelry. I can do that.”

You bit back a laugh, knowing full well that “reasonable” and “Aegon” rarely went together, especially when wine and celebrations were involved.

As the conversation moved on to other matters of state, Aemond approached, his usual brooding expression firmly in place. He stood beside you, his presence silent but somehow more intense than anyone else in the room.

“You’ve returned, I see,” Aemond said, his voice low as he glanced at you, the edge of his mouth quirking ever so slightly. “I trust Aegon kept you… entertained.”

There was something in the way he said it that made you smirk. “Entertained? That’s one way to put it,” you replied, keeping your tone light. “It was certainly more… lively than I expected.”

Aemond huffed a quiet laugh, though his gaze remained fixed on the gathering. “I can imagine. My brother never does things by halves.”

You smiled, glancing sideways at him. “And you, Aemond? I imagine you would have preferred a more… subdued tour?”

Aemond’s eye flicked toward you, the corner of his mouth curling slightly. “Perhaps. But sometimes it’s necessary to indulge in… excess. When the occasion calls for it.”

There was a brief pause, a moment where the weight of your words—his words—hung between you, unspoken but present. Aemond’s eye lingered on yours for just a beat longer than was necessary before he turned his gaze back to the court.

Meanwhile, Aegon, now fully engrossed in discussing the details of his extended celebration with Otto, called out over his shoulder, “Come, Y/N! We’ve got a feast to plan. Tourneys, music, and of course, more wine! We’ll make this a month to remember.”

You gave Aemond one last, lingering glance before moving to join Aegon, the smirk still playing on your lips. King’s Landing was in for quite the spectacle—though you had a feeling the real entertainment had only just begun.

The festivities in King’s Landing were in full swing. The courtyard of the Red Keep was alive with music, the clatter of goblets, and the sound of laughter. The scent of roasted meats and fresh bread wafted through the air as courtiers danced, drank, and mingled under the golden glow of torches.

Aegon was, unsurprisingly, at the center of it all. His goblet of wine was never empty, and his laughter echoed through the courtyard as he moved from one group of guests to another, basking in the glory of his extended celebration. You stood by his side, entertaining the courtiers with your charm and grace, though your attention occasionally drifted to the antics unfolding around you.

Aemond, as was his habit, stood on the sidelines, his brooding presence a stark contrast to the revelry around him. He watched the festivities with a quiet intensity, his single eye scanning the crowd, though every so often, his gaze seemed to linger in your direction just a bit longer than usual.

It didn’t take long for Aegon to notice.

He was halfway through another story—one you had heard more times than you could count—when he suddenly paused, his grin faltering for a moment as he caught Aemond looking your way. His brow furrowed slightly, and he turned his head to squint at his brother, his expression somewhere between confusion and suspicion.

You raised an eyebrow, wondering what had caused Aegon’s sudden silence, but before you could ask, he leaned closer to you, his voice low but loud enough to catch the attention of anyone nearby.

“Is it just me,” Aegon slurred, his tone a mix of amusement and indignation, “or has my dear brother been stealing glances at my beloved wife all night?”

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden accusation, and glanced over at Aemond, who stiffened slightly, his posture going even more rigid than usual. His eye narrowed, and for a moment, it looked as though he was about to brush off the accusation with his typical icy calm. But instead, he responded, his voice more defensive than even he likely intended.

“I was not stealing glances, Aegon,” Aemond said, his tone clipped, though the way his eye darted between you and Aegon betrayed a hint of unease. “I was merely… observing.”

Aegon, clearly emboldened by the wine, let out a loud, exaggerated gasp and clutched his chest dramatically. “Observing? Oh, dear brother, that sounds an awful lot like admiring to me!” He leaned closer to you, his arm snaking around your waist as he grinned wickedly. “I knew it! You’ve been eyeing my beautiful queen this whole time!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, though you tried to stifle it, glancing over at Aemond, who now looked as though he wanted to throttle Aegon or possibly sink into the nearest shadow and disappear. His jaw clenched tightly, and he met Aegon’s gaze with a steely glare.

“Aegon,” Aemond said through gritted teeth, “I have no interest in your drunken fantasies. You’re imagining things.”

But Aegon, now fully enjoying the moment, wasn’t about to let it go. He grinned even wider, clearly thriving off of Aemond’s discomfort. “Oh, I don’t think so! I see the way you look at her—like a cat eyeing a piece of cream. You’ve always had that brooding look, but this…” He gestured between the two of you with his goblet, sloshing a bit of wine onto the floor. “This is something else entirely.”

You glanced between the two brothers, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Aegon was clearly playing it up, but the way Aemond’s usual cool facade had cracked just a bit was… well, more amusing than you cared to admit.

Aemond straightened, his expression darkening as he stared down at Aegon, who was now swaying slightly but still grinning like a mischievous child. “You’re drunk,” Aemond said flatly. “As usual.”

“And yet!” Aegon hiccupped, pointing a finger dramatically in Aemond’s direction. “Even in my drunken stupor, I can see it clear as day! My own brother, pining for my wife! Oh, the betrayal! The scandal!”

You finally let out a laugh, shaking your head as you placed a hand on Aegon’s arm, trying to calm him down. “Aegon, you’re being ridiculous. Aemond isn’t pining for anyone.”

Aemond shot you a brief, grateful glance, though his jaw was still set tight. “Precisely. I have better things to concern myself with.”

But Aegon, in full performance mode now, wasn’t about to let the matter drop. He turned to the crowd of courtiers, raising his goblet high as though addressing the entire realm. “Ladies and gentlemen! My own brother, the fearsome Aemond Targaryen, reduced to a lovesick puppy!” He paused for dramatic effect, his grin widening even more. “Do you think he’s jealous of my charm? My wit? My—”

“Your lack of self-control, perhaps,” Aemond cut in, his voice sharp, though his eye gleamed with a hint of amusement now. It seemed that even he couldn’t entirely resist the absurdity of the situation.

Aegon waved him off, laughing. “Oh, come now, brother! Admit it! You’ve been watching her all night, haven’t you?”

Aemond’s eye flickered toward you again, just for a brief moment, and then back to Aegon. His lips pressed into a thin line, but finally, he let out a sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit.

“I was observing,” he repeated firmly, his voice calmer now. “Not pining.”

Aegon threw his arm around you, pulling you close and grinning like he had just won a great victory. “Ah, well, as long as it’s only observing, I suppose I can forgive you. After all, I’d be staring too if I weren’t already married to the most beautiful woman in the realm.”

You rolled your eyes, patting Aegon’s chest as you tried to gently pull away from his overly enthusiastic embrace. “That’s quite enough, Aegon. Let’s not make a spectacle out of your brother.”

But Aegon, never one to miss an opportunity for a little more drama, held up his goblet in a mock toast. “To my brother, Aemond, the most observant man in the realm! May he continue his not pining for many more years to come!”

Aemond huffed, though a ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he raised his own goblet in a grudging toast. “To Aegon,” he said dryly, “and his complete lack of sense.”

The courtiers, sensing the tension ease, burst into laughter, and you couldn’t help but join them, shaking your head as Aegon leaned in to press a sloppy kiss to your cheek.

As the night continued, the tension between the brothers faded into the background, but you couldn’t help but notice that Aemond’s gaze lingered on you just a little longer than before. Whether it was “observing” or something more, well, that was a matter for another night.

[hunny-beann]

The Coming of Spring

Loki Laufeyson x f!Reader

Synopsis: It is May Eve on Asgard, a Holiday that exists to celebrate love, fertility, and the coming of Spring…

Though, if your lover, Prince Loki has his say in the matter (and he usually does), Spring will not be the only thing to come, nor will it be the only worshiped aspect of this particular eve.

Note: Welcome to the smut fest! For some reason I've found myself up at six in the morning writing this, so please forgive any mistakes I've made while in my horrendously exhausted state. I hope you enjoy! :)

Warnings: Pretty graphic NSFW, vulgarity, somewhat of a breeding kink, and pure unadulterated filth

Word Count: 2,419

There was a rather frantic energy pulsing throughout the room as the palace staff rushed about nervously, not a single set of idle hands to be found in the combined effort to finish the preparations for the afternoon's upcoming festivities in a timely manner.

You blew out a puff of air, already exhausted from the tasks you had completed thus far and silently cursing this day for daring to come at all.

And yet this year, as with every other, the springtime holiday still arrived, the augur of some great change, according to legend, though for you it always meant the same thing:

Waking up at five in the morning to prepare for the upcoming afternoon festival in whatever manner the queen deemed fit for the proper celebration of what had come to be well known Walpurgisnacht, or May Eve, the holiday that brought upon the loud and boisterous worship of love, fertility, and the coming of Spring.

And of course, a day so dedicated to such things was one of pleasant festivities to be certain, and thus you never failed to enjoy it, but even still, your chores weighed heavily upon you as your overworked fingers weaved petals and stems through glistening golden iron.

It had been four hours since you had gotten up to work, and somehow it had felt like an eternity, your hands cramping and begging for relief as the tips of your fingers rubbed themselves raw with duty.

You paused for a moment to yawn into the crook of your elbow, wishing for the one hundredth time within that hour alone that you had gotten more sleep the night before.

Still, it had been a worthy sacrifice, had it not? A little bit of exhaustion today in order to avoid the simmering desire of the realm's younger prince throughout the festivities, or, more accurately yet, throughout your abundant tasks that you had scheduled about your day?

Yes, almost assuredly. You had learned all too well from last year (and the other two before that), that it was rather hard to do such things as wash the finest of the palace's dinnerware with Loki's skilled fingers upon your chest or beneath your dress, after all.

So, if a bit of freedom from your concerns of being dragged off into some dark corner upon every available moment of your dear prince's day came at the cost of you being forced to wake up early while he slept away the previous evening's activities, then so be it.

At least this way, you could know for certain that you still had quite a few hours yet until someone urged the prince to rise, giving you plenty of time to complete at least the preparatory chores before he began his ever persistent search for you.

He seemed to enjoy the game of seeking you out each morning, or at whatever time it was that he rose or found himself at leave, though usually it was to do little more than tease or annoy you as you attempted to work through his ceaseless attempts at distraction.

But on a holiday like today, you found that he was typically all too content with taking his teasing quite a few steps further. That said, much to your (mostly feigned) chagrin, that did not mean that he never found himself seeking out far less innocent sounds than those of annoyance, laughter, or sheer disbelief from you on random days throughout the year.

No, Loki was incorrigible, and beyond even that, incomprehensible with his choices and behaviors, and you could normally never hope to know upon which day you might find yourself sandwiched between his chest and some palace wall, though with the arrival Walpurgisnacht, it was almost always a certainty.

Still, with something that was perhaps akin to a fool's ignorance, you dared to hope that maybe, after a night like the one this dawn had followed, your prince may have been just sated enough to make it through the holiday without torturing you so the way that he usually chose to.

Such a thought could not be so terribly remiss, could it? Not after the hours upon hours of groping, fleeting, and cradling touches that the two of you had offered one another the night before.

Not after an afternoon's worth of teasing at the hands of the god of mischief upon that very same day, or the longing glances that carried on well into the evening.

Not after he had cornered you in the garden after dinner had come to an end, speaking his long withheld and inconceivably filthy promises of what was to come clearly and casually into the cool night air as if the two of you were simply taking an evening stroll together, talking about the weather or your hobbies rather than the way he planned to have you upon his tongue within the hour, hands creating bruising imprints of obvious ownership in the soft flesh of your hips and thighs as he drove you to madness before pulling you right back toward sanity again with the blunt tip of his cock as it kissed up against your wet folds, smearing precum amongst the remnants of his saliva and the glistening drool of your already thoroughly abused cunt.

Not after you had given in a mere twenty minutes after hearing his whorish promises of what he intended to do to you once he laid his hands upon your bare flesh again, knocking quietly at his heavy chamber doors until he finally came to find you standing there, having made you wait in a manner that was no doubt intentional just so he could feel the exaggerated way that you melted against him when he finally pulled you near, kissing you deeply until his amused and teasing chuckles turned into low and rumbling groans that arose from deep within his chest, and he pulled away to order you to your knees before him, mouth open and waiting so he could see the way your eager tongue stuck out to taste him even before he was bare before you, and how your perfect thighs began to rub together in a fruitless attempt to ease the ache that the sight of him never ceased to cause.

Not after he had held you firm against his chest, arm looped around your middle as you'd laid beneath him on all fours while he'd thrust his strong and lithe hips against your trembling ones, not an ounce of mercy to be found as he hissed and moaned with reckless abandon beside your ear, the sounds of his pleasure easily matching and occasionally even drowning out your own as he reminded you of who you had been born to serve, to worship, and to cum for upon his very command.

And oh, did he command.

Eleven orgasms, if you had counted correctly, and you were fairly certain with as hazy as your mind had felt after the first four, that you had not.

Your cheeks burned red at the clear and persistent memories of the previous night, Loki's satisfied groans and sluttish moans playing over and over within your head as if he were right there with you, cock buried in whichever tight, wet hole was deemed worthy of his attentions within that particular moment.

You swallowed thickly, pressing your thighs together tightly as you continued your seemingly endless work, flower after flower coming to rest perfectly upon the third archway that had been granted your efforts for the morning thus far.

Though, in spite of how diligently you worked at your assigned chore, it seemed that the fates themselves had something against it being completed,

For what other reason could there be for such familiarly agile hands to suddenly rest upon your hips so early in the morn, in spite of the tiresome escapades that had occurred the night before?

It was so unlike the younger prince of Asgard to awaken so early after a night of passion, after which he tended to lounge upon his sheets, naked body blessing the very realm with its presence as sunlight danced upon his skin.

You had seen that many a time after all, hadn't you? So you would certainly know, better than most at that, if not better than all.

But then again, it was so very much like Loki to rise early not to seize this day, but rather to seize you upon it as he had done for the past three May Eves since he had claimed you as his own...

And maybe you had not considered that fact as diligently as you should have while working to tire him out the night before, though now you were embarrassed to admit that you scarcely knew why you would have wanted to do so in the first place.

It seemed that your rather vivid memories of the prior evening's festivities had brought about a familiar stirring betwixt your thighs, and you knew all too well that there was only one set of hands, one silver tongue, one long and devastatingly thick cock, and one god of mischief who could help you to ease your sudden discomfort.

"Good morning, my dear."

He purred against the shell of your ear, warm breaths causing your hair to flutter about delicately as his hands traveled over top your gown.

"It would seem that I require some additional support when it comes to selecting and befitting myself with the proper attire for this afternoon's festivities."

He all but purred, forcing you to bite back a shiver as you struggled not to make your already overwhelming need for him too obvious.

It was never fun to just give in, after all.

You knew all too well how much he liked the chase.

So, with that thought in mind, you steadied yourself to the best of your ability, giving your already racing imagination a few brief moments of peace before finally, you spoke,

"Is that so, my prince?"

You asked, feigning curiosity as you did your best to continue working on the task at hand, sore fingers working deftly at soft petals and slightly thorny stems as you weaved them continuously through metal.

"Well, I regret to inform you that your dear mother, our most respected queen, specifically requested that I myself create the flowered arches for the festival this year."

You began,

"She was kind enough to let me know how much she enjoyed my work upon them last eve in Lady Juniper's absence, and asked if I might be willing to work my magic for a second year running."

You heard an amused chuckle arise from behind you, and though you were certain that Loki had already planned something truly devious to drag you away from your duties with, you continued to feign innocence.

"And how could I dare say no to a request such as that, dear prince? It would seem that Lady Juniper's past maternity leave has provided me with quite the opportunity with which to rise into our lady's good graces, and who would I be to squander such a thing?"

There was a thoughtful hum from your lover as he reached beyond you to thumb at a few of the petals that decorated your current project with his left hand, though the right stayed firm upon your hip, the pads of his fingers pressing deftly into your flesh just as they had done the night before, mirroring the bruises he'd left there perfectly.

"An utter fool, to be sure."

He replied easily, voice low and smooth as he continued,

"Though, I can think of a far better way for you to rise into the All-Mother's good graces, sweetling."

He murmured, lips brushing against your neck just enough so that you could feel the smirk that rested so prominently upon them.

He had you exactly where he wanted you, though you could scarcely bring yourself to mind when there was such a tremendous desire building for him deep within your core.

"Oh?"

You asked curiously, nimble fingers still working on your once so heavily fixated on project,

"And what might that be, Prince Loki?"

At that, you felt the ever teasing god of mischief crowd your back, his hardness pressed against you as you desperately fought the urge to wriggle against his crotch just to hear the no doubt sluttish groan he would let out if you did.

Thankfully enough though, your lover seemed eager to get to the point, the reasoning for that fact somehow growing even harder at the touch of your warmth, even with it being so dulled beneath your clothing.

He chuckled,

"Well my dear, I think you would find her to be quite pleased if you were to request your own leave in the coming months."

He purred, and this time, you could not even hope to fight back the shiver that followed, your hands finding either side of the nearly completed archway with a gasp as Loki bent you over at the waist, pressing himself as close to your clothed core as he could manage with a low and eager groan, his words dripping with both amusement and thinly veiled arousal as he spoke up again,

"Would you like me to give you a reason to do so?"

He all but growled, offering you one tortuously slow gyration of his hips in order to ensure your understanding of his less than subtle connotations as the hand that had once gripped so tightly to your hip moved swiftly beneath your dress, rubbing firmly against your bundle of nerves through your undergarments as you gasped both out of humiliation for where he had you so plainly in need of him, as well as out of arousal at his confident and ever beseeching touch.

And then suddenly, you were giving fervent and almost pleading nods in response to his previous question, having given up entirely on any hope of completing your most important project of the day.

It was, after all, May Eve, and how else should one hope to properly celebrate the coming of the Spring if not by blossoming beneath the touch of the queen's beloved second son?

And, it was as Loki had so cleverly stated himself,

It was not as if you would not be arriving swiftly and permanently within Frigga's good graces soon.

No, not if the god of mischief had his way,

Not if the two of you celebrated Walpurgisnacht in the way that Freyja herself had intended.

Loki Tag List: @mischief2sarawr

Additional Tag: @lokisgoodgirl (thank you very much for so kindly answering my anonymous questions regarding the SAS earlier! I've found that I have yet to develop the courage necessary to directly message any (other) particular authors yet, but I figured I can at least step outside of my comfort zone and tag you as you oh so kindly gave me permission to in your reply. Thank you again for your encouragement! <3)

[uselessmoonlight]

Stranger part 14

Reader is Telemachus' friend, and when he leaves for his "diplomatic mission" he asks her to watch over his mother. Later, once the king has returned, she stumbles upon an injured Poseidon.

Previous / series masterlist / character sheet / next

Content specs: she/her pronouns used, afab reader, Platonic! Telemachus x reader, Epic!Poseidon x reader, possible OOC!Poseidon, Polites’ daughter! Reader, unrequited love, blood, fighting, nudity, illusion, possibly more?, trying to avoid using y/n, slowburn, suggestive themes, English is not my first language, sorry if it's too much exposition, it's my first fic.

The next three days went by without anything special happening. The weekly ritual had gone by without issue, the man continued healing, Ónoma helped out around the village, and the relationship between her and Perikles had blossomed into something of a friendship.

The fourth day had brought them something interesting, however. A formal invite to the palace for both of them. To celebrate the return of Odysseus the entirety of Ithaca had been invited to the palace for an evening of festivities on the following day. Perikles had visibly paled at the information and had been able to play it off as nerves.

Of all the islands he could’ve ended up, it had to have been Ithaca. He should’ve asked about it sooner, that way he could have left to heal elsewhere, but now he had an invite. He may have been a God, but turning it down would be rude, and he did not want to deal with his brother, the God of hospitality, right now.

Ónoma’s gut told her to not believe Perikles’ excuse of nerves, but she found no reason not to trust him, either. If he was that nervous about it, he should be glad that he did not receive the other invitation as well.

Word of the king’s return had spread throughout the islands. The man’s war buddies had also insisted on a celebration, this one consisting of royals and nobility from all over Greece, and Ónoma. The second invitation had had her visibly paling. She had no place among royalty, had no knowledge of proper etiquette, and had no interest in going. Not that she had a choice. She would also be of marrying age at the time of these festivities, something she was less than looking forward to. She’d also be celebrating her birthday in the palace tomorrow, which she would usually spend on her own, wallowing in self-pity.

It was the one day a year where she’d allow herself to do so. Just sit and sulk on her own, though, she supposed she’d done so not that long ago, the day of Hermes’ message. Sure, she’d not been alone that day, but she sulked, so it counted.

“We’ll have to alter some clothes to fit you better.” Peach broke the tension. “My brother’s old clothes are fine, here, but not in public. I’d take you to the seamstress, but she’s probably cursing at the king for giving the town such short notice. She might need some reinforcement today, best get to work on you now, then.”

“Is there anything you can’t do?” The God asked, omitting the fact that he’d given her some, divine assistance. Her work was great, but he wanted to look his best, should he be unable to avoid the king.

“I’m a bit surprised myself, I’m decent at alterations, but this is a bit… outside of my skillset. Six, by the way.” She was becoming increasingly suspicious of certain things, and this only made it more so.

For now, she would have to let it go, as she had her own robes to work on. Not for tomorrow, she had a chiton formal enough for that, but for the other party. It was time to alter her mother’s blue dress. It was the one piece of clothing that she’d yet to alter, but this occasion seemed like the right moment. She’d accessorize it with her mother’s and her own jewellery. She rarely wore it, preferring to be practical, but once again, this situation seemed to call for it.

One: how had he been able to catch that many fish, but unable to properly filet or cook them.

Two: this man was healing at a rate she’d never seen before.

Three: how had he survived his wounds in the first place?

Four: was Perikles actually his name? When he first introduced himself as such, he seemed hesitant, and when she used the name he reacted oddly.

When she was finished, she wished she’d had a mirror in her home, but she would have to make do with the reflection of the water. Sadly, her bathtub did not offer her a proper view. As she stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed up, Perikles turned to look at her.

“Wow.” Was all he was able to say. She’d looked beautiful before, but now, with her hair pinned up, adorned in luxurious fabric and gold, she looked other worldly. Dare he say, like a Goddess.

“What do you think?” She asked, giving him a little spin. “I wanted to see for myself, but I don’t think I’ll be able to.”

“You look… exquisite, love. How about we check in the water, outside?”

“I won’t see much with all the waves.” She mumbled.

“It’s worth a try.” He stated, steering her by the waist. She blushed at the contact, but let him guide her. As they stood in front of the sea, the water was uncharacteristically calm. “Still six, by the way.” She felt his breath on her neck as he stood behind her, his hand still on her waist. As she looked at herself, she saw her mother as well.

And as he looked at her, he knew he would keep the oceans still for eternity, if she wished him too.

He moved to stand next to her, the shift in the reflection caused her to look at him. “What’s one more day?” He asked her, shifting his gaze from her eyes to her lips.

“Nothing.” She whispered, as she leaned in. The hand on her waist pulled her against him, the other cradled her face. She closed her eyes at the touch, and finally felt his lips on hers.

Next.

Taglist:

@apollos-dodgeball-target

@barrythestrawberry041

@doodle-with-rhy

@isla-finke-blog

@suckerforblondies

@trashcannotbealive

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

The tale of Alex Turner's girlfriend's jumper, Josh Homme, and the making of Humbug

(Extracts from Mojo Magazine, September 2009)

The jumper sealed the deal: the cable-knit jumper, belonging to his girlfriend. Alex Turner just happened upon it early one evening in the different late summer of 2008, as he waited for the telephone to ring. It wasn't so much the fact of it being a girl's jumper. He could get away with wearing a size skinny, after all. And besides, it would be dark at the gig he planned to go to later on. No, it was the cable-knit which gave him pause. Was he, Alex wondered, really a cable-knit guy?

His reverie was interrupted by the call he'd been expecting. Alex had spoken to Josh Homme before: the Queens Of The Stone Age leader declared himself a fan by marching into the Arctic Monkeys dressing room at a Belgian festival the previous year; later in 2007 the Monkeys supported the Queens in Houston. Compliments were exchanged, though Alex did wonder about the precise mutuality of this appreciation. Maybe 70-30? Obviously, the Monkeys were big fans of QOTSA: the Queens' sensual dirt-rock had been a key benchmark for their album Favourite Worst Nightmare. And Josh Homme? He had at least heard of Alex's band, and that was good enough. But now here he was, on the phone, accepting the invitation to produce the next Arctic Monkeys album. Alex deferred taking the conversation down to brass tracks. Airily, he mentioned his knitwear dilemma.

Homme was firm on the matter.

"Go for it, man."

But I'm not sure. I mean, it belongs to me girlfriend, and it fits, and it looks all right, but...

"Just throw caution to the wind," said Homme, as if issuing an imperial edit. "Let go of those inhibitions you've got there and just wear your cable-knit."

Sound, said Alex. So, about this record...?

"I listened to the demo," said Homme. "I heard 30 seconds of it and thought, You're coming to the desert." Then, to himself, he added with relish. "And little do you know what's about to happen..."

That evening, Alex Turner wore his girlfriend's cable-knit jumper. A month or so later, he and his three bandmates were picked up from a Los Angeles hotel by Josh Homme and driven out to the small Mojave Desert town of Joshua Tree, where they began recording the new Arctic Monkeys album. One phone abut cable-knitwear later, Arctic Monkeys were off to southern California for a hot date.

....

Presiding throughout this transformative process [of recording Humbug], during the warm autumn days or late into the chilly desert nights, would be Alex Turner's girlfriend's cable-knit jumper.

"Josh likes to speak in analogies, in terms of how things should sound," says the Arctic Monkeys' songwriter with a chuckle, as he reflects upon the six-month gestation of his band's new album. "Cable-knits got mentioned a lot during recording. He was like, if you can wear a cable-knit you can put a glockenspiel on a tune. It became a metaphor: you can wear a cable-knit and then sonically we can try something different. We went off on a little adventure. Because we were conscious that if this were really going to work, we would have to open up a little more than we have in the past. Joshua Tree really feels far away. You felt..." He frowns, reaching for the right word. "Unpoliced."

Which all rather begs the question: does that six and a half foot ginger hunk of abiding rockness Josh Homme wear cable-knitwear? A small smile plays around the corners of Alex Turner's mouth.

"He assured me he did."

....

The previous evening Alex finally spoke to Josh Homme for the first time since Humbug's completion. After expressing his delight with the end results of their combat crawl through the Mojave badlands, Homme enquired whether Turner was going out later. Alex informed that he was. "Cable-knits?" asked Homme. "Cable-knits," said Alex, the Arctic Monkey, comfortable in the embrace of the strange.

....

[gloriousgwendolinechristie]

Gwendoline Christie interview on After This Death at Berlin Festival 2025: Mystery, love, loss, & artistic evolution

Gwendoline Christie delves deeply into the enigmatic world of After This Death, a film she describes as a visually stunning mystery that abstractly portrays a woman's journey through foundational life challenges such as love, loss, and grief. Christie reveals that the film's intricate narrative evolved significantly over the 15 years it took to develop, embodying a dreamlike quality that captivated her from the start.

Her connection with director Lucio was serendipitously formed during a pandemic Zoom meeting, where she expressed admiration for his previous work, "End of a Century." This meeting led to a collaborative effort on After This Death, where her role as Alice was initially small but expanded over time, reflecting the fluid nature of creative projects. Christie portrays Alice as a stabilizing force, bringing support and tenderness to the narrative, which navigates complex themes.

Christie underscores her commitment to independent and art-house cinema, highlighting the importance of supporting films like "After This Death." She reflects on its thematic exploration of self-discovery and artistic expression, praising its genre-defying and provocative nature. This makes it a perfect fit for the Berlin Film Festival's celebration of human complexity and art.

As she anticipates future projects, Christie emphasizes the value of collaborating with artists who inspire growth and creativity. Her passion for storytelling and art is evident, offering insight into the making of a film that challenges and transcends conventional cinema. Join us for this compelling interview, where Christie's dedication to her craft shines through, providing a glimpse into a film that pushes the boundaries of traditional storytelling.

[kisskisstine]

Once Upon a Time in Fairywood - Chapter 2

2 - The Conflict at the Soirée!

Go to Index | Chapter 1 <- Previous | Next -> Chapter 3

>>Read Chapter 2 on AO3<<

Fanfic Summary: Once Upon a Time in Fairywood, FOPANW fanfic featuring the pop idol and actress Goldie Goldenglow and Peri (the unemployed), featuring Irep (super employed), as they run away from the Fairywood award festivities and explore the city altogether!

Chapter 2 Summary: Goldie and Blonda entertain the Fairywood Award attendees at the opening night soiree. but at the dinner table, Blonda showing distain for Goldie's naiveté coming into her newfound megafame, as Goldie encounters an conflict at the soirée sending her to tears.

Read Once Upon a Time in Fairywood on AO3.

--

The Enchanted Palace Hall was a glittering dining room flushed with imperial arches garnished with Corinthian columns and high ceilings decorated with chandeliers, illuminating the art deco detailing against warm marble.

White-clothed round tables embellished the hall, seating the celebrated guests and attendees for the Fairywood Awards. Paintings of enchanted creatures from times past distinguished the walls in gold frames, giving the feeling they, too, were part of the ceremony. All while Goldie stood front and center stage at the podium under the beaming spotlights, sharing the stage with her co-star Blonda Fairywinkle as they announced they were both picked to co-host this year's awards ceremony.

Goldie finished her welcome speech with exceptional poise and grace alongside Blonda as the dining hall roared in applause and cheer. It’s not every day she got to speak to such a prominent group of enchanted beings. Blonda was exceptionally dazzling this evening. Her ice-blonde hair, styled in an elegant up-do, showcased her brilliant aquamarine gemstone earrings. A white, plush fur wrap draped her shoulders, complimenting her glacier blue, fitted silk gown, embroidered with the finest diamonds and silver threadings. She wanted everyone to know who was queen, and just by Blonda’s presence, she made the entire hall give their reverence and full attention.

Goldie and Blonda’s welcome speech was charming and playful. They easily flowed back and forth, just as in their mother and daughter movie roles. Goldie enjoyed Blonda’s character and cherished every moment of their onstage relationship. Blonda was the warm and patient parental figure that Goldie needed through this overwhelming stage in her life. But as they started heading back to their tables as the band took over the stage, Blonda’s real personality showed through.

“Ugh, you should have let me say that last line, Goldie. You know everyone is here to see ME host the awards. Blonda scoffed as she took a sip of her olive martini. “You’re just here to pull that new crowd of younger fairies born after that silly fairy baby ban was lifted. Sure, you may have larger ratings right now, but remember that I span GENERATIONS of fans. Everyone loves me, and I’m sure people will love you too. You know, eventually.”

“Sorry, mom— Blonda! I mean, ma’am! I didn’t mean to! I was just trying to riff–”, Goldie stuttered as she nervously tried to sip her pina-colada mocktail.

“Sweetie, your drink is spilling on your face,” Blonda stated, with a smirk.

“Ah! Sorry! Sorry!” Goldie patted her mouth with the dinner napkin. The band started playing a new song, and the attention was thankfully shifted away from that embarrassing interaction.

It was often that Blonda was hard on her. It made sense, as she was a legendary actress. Goldie was just a newbie, and what legend would want to work this much with a newbie? Blonda is probably embarrassed being around her. Since their lead casting in their first film, they were paired endlessly together. Talk shows, stage cameos, theatre specials, day time and prime time shows, celebrity events, and even MORE movie roles! The list goes on. Goldie was sure that Blonda was just tired of carrying the weight of a newbie around. She would do her best to be on Blonda’s good side even when it came with snarky remarks and heavy criticism. Blonda was just giving her strong learnings as a newbie, right? Regardless, Goldie tried her best to see Blonda as her on-stage warm, motherly persona and was happy that Blonda was also co-hosting the awards with her. 

The dinner was finished just shortly after dessert and the dining hall was magically turned  into the soiree’s cocktail lounge for after-dinner drinks. Tall tables, velvet curtains draping the walls, twinkling fairy lights, bartenders on call for cocktails, and a lively band, transformed the hall into a jazz lounge only rivaling the Caveau de la Huchette lounge in Paris.

A couple well-known actors came by Blonda’s side to greet her and thanked her for the speech. She giggled with them elegantly as they exchanged kisses on the cheek and went their way while Blonda stayed at the tall table with Goldie. Male attention always enthralled Blonda, and it put her in a better mood than before, which relieved Goldie. Blonda’s new dry olive martini arrived as she brought it up to cheers. Goldie, on the other hand, was still working on her previous pina colada mocktail and politely asked Blonda how she knew the two gentlemen who had stopped by.

“Oh, we are just old friends from back in the day! We used to be so close while we were still working on our acting careers. We only really catch up on events like this that can bring us back together.” Blonda took a pause to reflect, smiled, and took another sip of her martini. “So Goldie, darling, did you bring anyone special to this weekend’s awards show? I didn’t see Cupid or Nmsic Phairy. Don’t tell me you’re alone!”

Blonda had an unexplainable way of gut-wrenching Goldie while staying elegant and lovely. Again, Goldie knew it was just because she was just a silly newbie, and newbies probably deserved it.

“Ah, actually, they might come later!” Goldie said meekly, finishing her pina colada mocktail and ordering another one from a passing waitress. “I got Bruno to reserve a room for them if– I mean, WHEN they do come. Haha!”

“Oh, how marvelous. Bruno sounds like he’s treating you well, then. He’s new to bodyguarding, but he seems like he’s been a great help!”

“Yeah he’s great!” Goldie smiled, as her new drink arrived at her table. She took it from the waitress’ tray and looked up to thank the waitress but was surprised to see a familiar face!

“Luma?! Is that you?!” Goldie exclaimed. She put down her drink and went to hug Luma, but Luma didn’t hug her back. Must have been because she’s carrying a drinks tray, Goldie thought. “Blonda, this is my friend, Luma Glitterwings! She and I were trainees in the same idol talent agency!”

“Nice to meet you, Ma’am. And hello, Goldie.” Luma said very matter-of-factly. She was a petite fairy with sparkling eyes who stood at Goldie’s same height. Her long, pink hair was pulled tightly into a bun that served to keep it out of the way while waitressing. One could imagine Luma dawning a dazzling iridescent pop-idol outfit with mic in hand singing under the spotlight, but no, she was here just waitressing.

“This waitress outfit is so cute on you! Blonda and I wore one for a TV show we just shot for last week. How’s life?! How are you?!” Goldie excitedly rambled. 

“Look, Goldie. I don’t think you should call me your friend.”

“Wait– why not?”

“I’m not the only one who also thinks this, but ever since you became this big shot, you’ve become so self-centered and a terrible person that I don’t want to associate myself with you anymore.”

“Uhh.. I don’t think that’s true.” Goldie replied in confusion. 

Why would Luma think this way of her? Luma was probably going through a tough time, and Goldie just so happened to be the punching bag for it. Luma’s words hurt deeply but Goldie tried her best to be neutral and understanding. 

Unfortunately, Goldie’s response didn’t turn out for the better. “Luma, I’m sorry you’ve been feeling this way. You know we were close at the talent agency. I just don’t understand how you can come to that conclusion?”

“Don’t gaslight me! I’ve seen you on TV. You’ve truly become a selfish person!” Luma raised her voice in pure resentment, and the whole hall fell into silence, as all the attention was on both of them. “I was let go by the idol talent agency, and I had nowhere to go! You never even bothered to see what was happening in my life.” Luma trembled with anger. “All I needed to hear was ‘I’m sorry that happened to you’ that’s it. That’s all I needed to hear, Goldie! But no! I heard nothing from you!”

“Luma, I am truly, truly sorry that happened to you.” Goldie's heart dropped as she held her hands to her chest, pleading to her friend. “You should have contacted me too, and told me how much it was affecting you! I would have loved to hear from you while I was working non-stop for months! Luma, if you’re just able to hear me out, I would have–”

“Too late. You had your chance, Goldie.”

“Luma,” tears started bubbling up in Goldie’s eyes, but she tried her best to push them back. “That’s not fair.. I didn’t know–”

“‘Not fair?’ ” Luma taunted as her anger went fully unleashed. “Give me a break, Goldie! If you wanna see the receipts of what’s NOT fair, I got that list right here for you!”

As Luma went to raise her wand, a poof of clouds all of a sudden came between Goldie and Luma as Bruno appeared, his broad shoulders in his black tux separating them two.

“That’s enough now, miss. Let’s get you a spot to work away from the hall.” Bruno rested his hand on Luma’s shoulder and started gently escorting her towards the exit, nodding to Goldie as a sign of ‘the situation has been handled. ’ 

“Oh, so now you let your bodyguards handle your ‘friends’ now? Jeez, that’s so pathetic.” Luma snarked back.

Goldie was left vulnerable and petrified from the encounterment. Guilt and sadness enveloped her body and it didn’t help that all eyes in the entire hall were on her, but her feelings were so intense that she felt numb to being a spectacle.

Blonda was apparently thrilled to see this entire happening. “Ha! Oh, Goldie, don’t blame her. This is just what happens when you get big. Friends just get madly jealous of you, that’s all.”

Petrified, Goldie was only half listening to Blonda. Tears finally broke from Goldie’s eyes and streamed down her face. A sudden fluster came from her heart and moved her almost involuntarily as she broke from her state and raised her voice for Luma to hear.

“Luma, I love you and you’re going to do well in everything you do! I miss you, and I’ll always love our friendship!” Goldie exclaimed, her face dripping with tears. Just before Luma had any chance to respond, Goldie took out her wand and poofed out of the hall, disappearing in front of everyone.

She returned just in front of her hotel room, as fairy hotels have strict privacy enchantments on their rooms, and felt relieved to see that she was alone in the corridor. She wiped her face and tried to keep herself from breaking down but kept fumbling with the keys as she struggled to unlock the door. She was finally able to turn the key to open the door, floating in, and closing it abruptly behind her.

Goldie paused to look around the room. It was a large, circular hotel suite with Victorian furnishing and ginkgo leaf wallpaper. The tall ceilings were garnished with meticulous crown moldings and chandeliers that illuminated the space. A canopy bed sat on the opposite side of the room, framed by a window and French glass doors that led out to a juliette balcony. The hotel staff had taken care of unloading Goldie’s luggages and as she turned around to look back at the wall behind her, she saw that the staff took an extra step in setting up her movie and idol group posters, awards, achievement plaques, and medals all along the same wall of the door behind her. 

For a moment, she looked in awe at them all as if she didn’t even know this person despite them all having her name and the images bearing her semblance. Then suddenly, as if all the anxiety and sadness of the evening's events bubbled up at once like boiling water spilling over, she broke down with tears streaming down her face and crumpled to the floor.

-End of Chapter Two-

—-

Go to Index

Chapter 1 <- Previous. | Next -> Chapter 3

[kikyoupdates]

Goddess Wink ⭑˚💘⭑ 𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑡 & 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑦

bnha x f!reader

reverse harem, my hero academia x fem!reader, slowburn

Ever since your Quirk first manifested, you’ve been the apple of everyone’s eye. With the goal of becoming a hero, you enroll to U.A. and soon find yourself drawing the attention of many. Will you form genuine connections with others, or is this all just your power's will?

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There were two weeks until the Sports Festival. Those two weeks were all you had to prepare yourself for one of the biggest events of the year. Even now, none of your classmates really knew what your powers were, and you intended to keep it that way, at least until you had to use them to compete. Most of the students in 1-A were really friendly, and you’d exchanged numbers and chatted with a couple of them. This was also how you’d learned about what most people’s Quirks were, and which classmates you’d do well to keep an eye on.

One of them was a boy named Todoroki Shouto. You hadn’t actually spoken to him yet, but Hakagure had told you how he’d easily overpowered some villain grunts back at USJ, and the way he’d secured victory during the battle trial as well. He had an ice Quirk, from what you’d heard, but he could apparently also release heat from his left side. Nobody had ever seen him emit flames, though.

Another one, to your surprise, was Izuku. He didn’t seem like the type, just based off his shy, fidgety appearance, but he had some sort of superhuman-power type Quirk. Unfortunately, it seemed to come at great risk to his own body, and he would end up with broken bones after using it.

The last person that your classmates had warned you about was Katsuki. Even if you’d barely known him for two days, his past with Izuku and the cold glares he flashed you during class were evidence enough of his poor demeanor. His Quirk allowed him to release explosions from the palms of his hands, which was fitting for someone with such a short fuse. He’d apparently placed first in the entrance exam, and even though he’d technically lost against Izuku and Uraraka during their battle trial, he was very adept at using his powers. He also definitely didn’t seem like the type to ever hold back, so if you ever ended up having to fight him, you would need to give it your best shot.

“Are you going out, [Name]?” Freja was busy sweeping the main floor as you came down. You nodded and headed for the front door.

“Yeah. Since I don’t have class today, I figured I’d start figuring out how to train for the Sports Festival. I’m going to go for a walk and clear my head.”

“Okay,” she smiled. “Stay safe.”

It was a nice, clear day, perfect for going on a walk. You inhaled the crisp air and set off, with no particular destination in mind. There was a little park close to your house, but you went there all the time, so you figured you’d go somewhere else this time. You scrolled through maps on your phone. Izuku’s neighborhood had a park too, and maybe if he was free he might come out to join you.

It’s decently far away, but I’ve got time to kill.

As you walked, you tried to think of ways you could hone your Quirk in time for the Sports Festival. It was kind of difficult, because you couldn’t really improve upon a power like yours without using it on someone else. If Izuku decided to come out today, you technically could practice using it against him, but you didn’t much like the idea of using your friends as test subjects. Also, it was probably for the best that you keep your classmates from discovering how your Quirk worked for as long as possible.

It was around midday, and rays of sun were catching in your [h/c] locks. You’d had to walk a good deal and even take a bus to get to Izuku’s neighborhood, but the park was in view now. It seemed to be a good deal bigger than the one by your place, so at least you’d have more room here. It also wasn’t particularly busy, which was nice. The odd couple going on a walk together, and a family with their young children, but it was quiet for the most part. You spotted a bench a little ways over, and decided you’d sit down before figuring out your game plan.

Just as you were walking over, a random jogger rushed by you and nearly clipped your toes. You jolted backwards out of surprise, but the jogger caught your eye long enough for you to realize that you actually knew him. Blonde hair, furrowed brows, an overall unpleasant expression…

“Katsuki-kun! Hey!”

He stopped at the sound of his name, looking back over his shoulder in confusion. You ran over towards his side, waving your arms wide and smiling innocently. His eyes locked with your own and he immediately scrunched up his nose.

“You… what the fuck?” he grunted out. “Why the fuck are you here? And—who gave you permission to use my first name, goddammit it?”

“It’s me, [Name]!” you grinned. “From class!”

Katsuki scowled. “I know who you are, dipshit. I asked what the hell you’re doing here.”

“Oh, I just figured I’d head to a park and start preparing for the Sports Festival. There’s one near my house, but I got kind of bored of it and thought I’d try someplace new.” You were about to ask what he was doing around here, but then you remembered that him and Izuku had been friends back when they were younger. You wouldn’t be surprised if they lived in the same neighborhood.

“Uh-huh.” He turned his head to the side. “’Kay, well, I don’t have time to waste with you, so I’m leaving now. Bye.”

“Wait—”

But he’d already started jogging again, breezing past you as if you weren’t even there. Your lips curved into a pout. Sure, you hardly knew the guy, but would it kill him to at least try to be friendly? You were hoping to find a way to train with someone else anyways. If he was already here, then…

“What kind of stuff are you doing to prepare for the Sports Festival?”

“The fuck—?!” Katsuki jolted his head to the side, eyes widening when he saw you jogging beside him. “Didn’t you hear me, you dumbass?! I said I’ve got shit to do, so hurry up and leave me alone!”

You kept smiling, completely unfazed. “Jogging, right? How long do you usually run for? I don’t mind joining you.”

“I never said you could fucking join me!”

“This park isn’t your private property,” you chuckled. “Anyone can run whenever they want.”

He gritted his teeth, obviously getting more and more irritated. “You’ve only just joined the class, and already you think you’re all buddy buddy with everyone. Pisses me the fuck off…” He lurched forward, breaking straight into a sprint. You blinked a few times then immediately laughed. It was obvious that he was trying to lose you, but you weren’t going to give up that easy.

You burst forward, keeping the blonde in your sights. He was definitely fast, and you could see just how fit his body was through the thin workout tank-top he had on. His upper body was chiseled and strong, no doubt a requirement to support the strain of the explosions he let out. Still, as strong and well-built as he was, you’d always been awfully light on your feet. Stamina and speed were the first things Mikael had made sure to train you on. Stamina was required to keep using your Quirk for long periods of time, and was a basic requirement for most heroes, and speed was just as crucial since you needed to touch people in order for your Quirk to be most effective. If you couldn’t get close enough to them, there was no point.

“You’re really fast, Katsuki-kun!” Your breath escaped in soft pants, and your cheeks were flushed from the blood pumping so vigorously through your body. Katsuki’s mouth was agape, seemingly in denial that you were able to catch up to him. If it were just sprinting, you could keep up with him no problem, but if he started using his Quirk, you probably didn’t stand a chance. He wasn’t using it though, which was surprising. You figured it would be the first thing he’d do to get away from you. Or maybe he didn’t want to risk setting off explosions when there were other people so close on the trails?

He might not be as thick-headed as he looks…

“You little—!” Katsuki veered to a stop, taking in a big breath of air. “Fucking quit it already!” he snapped. “Stop following me! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You took a few breaths to compose yourself, wiping the beads of sweat off your brow. “I just thought it was pretty cool that we ran into each other. Can’t we get to know each other better or train for the Sports Festival or something?”

“Why in the fuck would I want to train with you? I don’t even know what your shitty Quirk is.”

“Oh, right.” You scrunched up your brows. “Sorry, but I don’t want you to find out just yet. Since I started late, I figured I could use it to my advantage during the Sports Festival.”

He scoffed. “Well, at least you’re not as stupid as you seem. But if you’re not gonna bother telling me shit, then why even ask?”

“Hm, I don’t know. Maybe we could just spar hand-to-hand? Or you could try using your Quirk on me, and I’ll dodge?”

Katsuki stared at you for a few moments. You watched his glare turn into a conceited smirk. “Ha! You seriously think you stand a chance against me? If you don’t use your powers, you’re just gonna end up being my punching bag. Is that what you want? You looking to get your ass kicked?”

You laughed. “No, not particularly. But I’m sure we could find a way that we both benefit from the training.”

“Bullshit. A weakling like you is just gonna waste my time.”

“You don’t even know what my Quirk is, but you’ve already decided that I’m a weakling?”

“You’re a weakling,” he declared, his eyes turning dark. “You hang out with that shithead Deku, so you’re obviously a weakling.”

You weren’t sure what the best way to respond to that was. If you defended Izuku right now, you were sure Katsuki would lose his shit and possibly never speak to you again. There was definitely no chance he’d agree to ever train with you, either. Probably best to gloss over the issue altogether.

“I heard you placed first in the entrance exam,” you smiled, deciding to try stroking his ego a bit. “That’s really awesome. I haven’t gotten to see any of it for myself, but it seems like you’re probably the strongest in the class. That’s why I was hoping to get to train with you.”

“Strongest in the class?” He blinked uncertainly, but quickly shook it off. “O-Of course I am,” he huffed. “But that doesn’t make me a fucking charity case. I’m not gonna get anything out of punching you around.”

“Aw, pretty please?” You leaned into him and batted your lashes for effect, finding yourself rather pleased when a small flush rose to his cheeks.

“Quit it with the cutesy shit!” he snapped. “It may work on the other idiots in the class, but it sure as hell won’t work on me.”

“Okay, fine. I won’t pester you into training with me. Can I at least join you for the rest of your jog? I promise not to bother you.”

Katsuki gritted his teeth. “You seriously don’t know when to give up, huh?”

“I’ll buy you food afterwards.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering what sounded like “annoying girl” under his breath, but he wasn’t yelling at you to go away anymore, so you figured that meant he’d decided to give in. It wasn’t much, but you smiled, happy to at least have some form of company for the day.

It was clear that Katsuki put a great deal of time into maintaining his health and fitness, because the jog went on far longer than you’d been expecting. You were able to keep up with him, but by the end of it, you were feeling pretty worn out. The promise of food had kept you going strong, though. You decided you’d treat yourself today.

“Katsuki-kun, what do you like eating?” you asked.

He narrowed his eyes. “What, you were actually serious about that shit?”

“Of course! I looked up some places to eat nearby, and there’s a decent amount pretty close.”

“Don’t tell me something I already know,” he scoffed. “There’s no chance you know this area better than me.”

“Okay, so you lead the way,” you smiled.

“I never even agreed to fucking go!”

“Well, I’m really hungry now from all the running, and you said you know the area better than I do, so it goes without saying that you should show me around. Obviously.”

Katsuki clenched his fists so hard they began to tremble, and you had to bite down on your lip to keep from laughing. You could see how he could be hard to deal with for a lot of people, but you’d never been the type to take things too seriously, so a lot of his hotheaded tics were more amusing than anything else.

“Let’s just get this shit over with,” he sighed. He began leading you out of the park, and past the residential area. You had a lot of things you wanted to talk with him about, but you figured being too overbearing would just work against you, so you strolled by his side in silence, with a smile on your face. Before long, you’d stopped in front of a ramen store. Katsuki kicked open the door, completely ignored the workers greeting him, and plopped down into one of the booths.

“This place has some of the best spicy ramen I’ve ever had,” he told you.

“Oh, you like spicy food?” you smiled. “I do too, from time to time. I like a combination of sweet and spicy, actually—the contrast always ends up tasting so good!”

“Ugh,” he scowled. “Why ruin a perfectly good spicy dish with sweet crap?”

“It depends. I can eat spicy things on their own just fine, usually.”

“Whatever. I’m picking for you. Hey, old man,” he waved, addressing the server. “We’ll have two servings of dish number nine.”

He called him old man…

The server smiled. “Extra spicy, as usual?”

“No shit.”

You shot a hesitant glance down at the menu to see exactly what dish number nine entailed, and your stomach immediately did a flop. This thing already sounded loaded enough as it was, and Katsuki had gone ahead to order extra spice? Maybe you’d talked a bigger game than you were capable of.

He seemed to have noticed to worry filling your expression and smirked. “What’s this, [Name]? You scared?”

“Oh!”

“W-What? Did you just piss your pants cause of how scared you are?”

You giddily clasped your hands together on the table. “It’s nothing, really. Just that it’s the first time you’ve ever actually said my name. To be honest, I was worried you’d forgotten.”

Katsuki opened his mouth to protest, but his cheeks darkened with the realization that what you’d said was true. He gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath, as if remembering someone’s name was a crime in and of itself. It was a little surprising how quick he was to get flustered. Surprising, and a little bit dorky, too.

Your food eventually came out, and Katsuki wasted no time before digging in. You, on the other hand, were staring down at the ominous bowl and its all-too obvious bright coloring. The smell alone was enough to have your nose burning.

If I back down now, he’s just gonna treat me like even more of a weakling.

You inhaled sharply, briefly pondered what series of events had led you to this and lifted the spoon to your lips.

“HOLY FUCK THAT’S HOT—”

“Ha! Dumbass!”

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[marinersapartmentc0mplex]

Never Let Me Go

Damian Wayne x Journalist!OFC

Chapter Thirteen: Brand New Dance

Ao3 Link & Previous Chapter

Series Masterlist

It was the last day of school before winter break—December 23rd, a half-day—and the mood in Gotham Academy had transitioned into something light and festive. The hallways were filled with the rustling of coats being pulled on and the crinkling of gift bags being stuffed into backpacks. Christmas had arrived and the entire student body had mentally checked out.

The final bell had rung a couple of minutes ago, yet Damian and Elena were moving unhurriedly as they packed their books and stationary away from opposite sides of the chemistry laboratory. It was the last chemistry lesson together before the winter break, and the classroom was rapidly emptying, students eager to escape the rigid routine of school and dive headfirst into the holiday spirit. 

However, Damian and Elena did not rush.

It had become a habit of sorts—lingering after every lesson they shared, packing up at a pace that wasn’t slow enough to draw attention but just enough that by the time they were done, they were among the last students to leave. A calculated slowness that allowed them a few minutes to check in on each other, to discuss some lead, or some half-formed theory to toss back and forth. 

Their teacher, Mr. Langford, didn’t seem to care. He was hunched over his desk at the front, red pen scratching across lab reports, occasionally muttering to himself about inconsistent results and sloppy titrations. He barely spared them a glance.

 “We’re missing something,” Elena muttered as they fell into step walking out the chemistry lab, eyes scanning the surrounding space to make sure no one was in earshot. “Kade is working for LuthorCorp now, but why target regular high school kids? It doesn’t fit Luthor’s usual—”

“—obsession with alien inferiority,” Damian finished, voice edged with irritation. “It doesn’t. Which means we are looking at it wrong.”

Since Elena had made the discovery of Elias Kade’s hiring at Luthorcorp, she and Damian worked relentlessly to try and connect Lex Luthor to the case—the shell companies, the students, the phony clinic. However, it seemed that either Luthor was smart enough to cover his tracks meticulously or he had no true connection to the phantom scholarship.

They were taking the longer route to the assembly hall, though neither had acknowledged how it had also become a shared habit of theirs. It was just what they did. Walk slower, stretching out these in-between moments as if the next step forward might hold a major breakthrough. But today, like every other day, it didn’t.

“Luthor wouldn’t waste resources on something like this without a reason.”

She glanced at him. “You still think it’s some kind of recruitment program?”

“It would make sense. If he’s targeting specific students—ones with intelligence, athleticism, leadership potential—then he is building something.”

They lapsed into silence as they rounded a corner, passing groups of students still loitering by their lockers. A girl ran past, barely avoiding them, her arms full of gift bags. 

As they walked past the last few clusters of students lingering by their lockers, Damian shifted his bag higher onto his shoulder and motioned subtly toward the art block.

Elena glanced toward the hallway leading to the assembly hall. “We’re going to be late.”

Damian gave her a pointed look.

Elena rolled her eyes but followed anyway. “Fine. But if we’re told off I’m blaming you.”

Damian leaned against a nearby desk, arms crossed. “Elias Kade studied genetic engineering at Yale for his postgraduate degree.”

“I know, it was in his profile and the article.”

Damian was already two steps ahead. “Every year, my father is invited to a Christmas gathering at the Yale Club of New York City. Kade will likely be there, according to the guest list I found.”

Elena blinked. “Your dad graduated from Yale?”

“No.”

She frowned. “Then why—”

“My grandfather did his undergraduate degree there before going to medical school in Gotham. Invitations do not usually extend to legacy affiliation, but my family seems to be an exception to that rule.”

She tilted her head. “And your dad actually goes to these things?”

“Father never attends these events, but if I were to express an interest in Yale he may reconsider the invitation this year.”

Elena stared at him. “You’d actually do that?”

“I would not lie,” Damian said coolly. “I would simply allow my father to believe that I am considering it.”

“You want to use the gathering to get information.”

“If Kade is there, I want to hear what he says when he thinks he's in a cozy little echo chamber of like-minded geniuses.”

“And if he isn’t there?”

“Then perhaps someone there will know him.”

Elena nodded, “well, it’s better than anything we’ve done in the past few days. It feels like all our research has come to a halt.”

His fingers tapped an impatient rhythm against his arm, frustration evident in the slight furrow of his brows. “We should go over everything again. Tomorrow.”

Elena blinked. “Tomorrow?”

“Morning would be best. We can cross-reference Kade’s research with other publicized LuthorCorp projects, see if there’s any overlap.”

She groaned, tilting her head back. “Damian. It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.”

“And?”

“And you need to take a break. We both do,” Elena said, exasperated. “You should be spending it with your family, not buried in research and CCTV footage.”

The only tell that showed Damian was unconvinced was the way his lips pressed into a thin line. “Wasted time is wasted opportunity.”

“We’ve been hitting dead end after dead end,” she continued, softening her tone. “Maybe we just need to step back for a second. Give our brains time to reset. It might even give us a fresh perspective on things.”

“Just two days,” she tried again. “Christmas Eve and Day, Damian. Unless something major happens, I think we’ve earned a break.”

Then, begrudgingly, he gave a short nod.

Elena smiled. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Elena hesitated, then exhaled through her nose as if working up the courage for something, and reached into her bag 

“Besides. I, uh—” She pulled out a rectangular, flat object wrapped in brown paper, suddenly second-guessing the whole thing. “I got you something.”

Damian’s brow furrowed slightly. “Why?”

Elena scoffed. “Because it’s Christmas? And we are friends despite the whole allies thing you have going on.”

He only shot her a flat, unimpressed look.

“I take it you’re not a fan of festive traditions.”

“I simply don’t see the necessity of gifts between us.”

“Well, that’s too bad, because I already spent two whole afternoons thinking of what to get you.” She shoved it toward him before she could change her mind.

Damian took the package, testing its weight in his hands, fingers pressing lightly against the paper as if gauging what lay beneath. Then, in a way that was so typically him he began to neatly unwrap it. Unlike most people who might have torn into the paper, he removed it with care, peeling away the taped edges and unfolding it neatly.

Elena shifted her weight slightly from one foot to the other, suddenly growing extremely subconscious. Maybe this had been a stupid idea. Maybe he wouldn’t see the point. Damian wasn’t exactly sentimental—not in the way most people were. She had never once seen him get attached to material things, and the thought that this might be met with indifference made her stomach twist.

The paper fell away completely, and his fingers stilled.

Elena saw the way his eyes flickered, scanning over the framed piece in his hands. It was a copy of her Gotham Academy Gazette article—the one about the mini-farm. The one Damian had, in no small part, pushed her to write. It was by no means the first investigative piece she wrote, but it was the one she was most proud of.

But it wasn’t just the finished version from the school newspaper. Behind the glass, preserved alongside the neatly printed column and the accompanying photographs, was the original draft—the messy, hastily written one, the one with sentences half-rewritten in the margins. The one covered in Damian’s slanted notes, suggestions and sharp-edged commentary layered over her words in a way that, in hindsight, had made the whole thing better.

Damian remained silent as he examined the gift.

Elena bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to speak. “I didn’t really know what to get you,” she admitted, huffing a small breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “But I figured… this kind of belongs to you too. I know my name is the only one on the byline, but you deserved to be on there too. You brought the story to me. Plus, it shows we make a pretty good team.”

“I asked not to be on the byline.” He finally said as he turned the frame.

“But the article wouldn’t have been what it is if you hadn’t pushed me. And now I know how much animals mean to you too.”

“Is that an admission of incompetence?” Damian said, lips twitching slightly. 

Elena rolled her eyes at him despite the relief that flooded her systems. “You’re a terrible person.”

“Says the girl who was rambling about how amazing the article was because of me.”

“Careful or I’m taking the gift back.”

Damian hummed. “That would be a highly inefficient use of your time.”

“If you hate it you don’t have to keep it.” 

“I do not hate it.”

Elena blinked. “Oh.”

“I do not require material gifts,” he said plainly. “But this is… thoughtful I suppose.”

Her lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the way he said it—not begrudgingly, or dismissively, but simply as a fact. She exhaled, the last of her nervous energy settling.

“Well, good,” she muttered, crossing her arms. “I was starting to think you were allergic to basic gratitude.”

Damian’s lips twitched slightly, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he neatly folded the wrapping over the frame and put it into his bag, securing it carefully before lifting the sleeve of his coat to check the time.

“We should go,” he said. “There is no point in even going to the assembly hall, it will be over by the time we get there.”

It turned out Damian’s assumption had been right. By the time they stepped through the double doors out into the cold air of the student parking lot, students were already piling out of the hall. 

“Would you like me to drive you home?” Damian offered, although he knew she would refuse.

Elena shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m meeting Lila. We’re going to the mall for some last-minute Christmas shopping.”

They walked side by side across the car park, the crunch of their steps over scattered bits of ice and slush filling the space between them.

Damian glanced at her again. “What about your other friend? The three of you were usually together.”

“She flew out to India with her family yesterday,” Elena said. “They don’t celebrate christmas so they’re using the break to see family back home.”

Damian just nodded at that. Meanwhile, Elena scanned the lot for Lila’s car, spotting the familiar white vehicle and turning to Damian.

He cleared his throat. “Thank you. For the gift.”

She smiled. “You’re welcome, and Merry Christmas, Damian.”

And with that, they parted. Damian pulled the keys to his car out of his pocket as he approached the Aston Martin, while Elena hurried towards Lila’s car.

Elena barely had the door shut before Lila turned to her, eyes curious.

“So,” she said, dragging out the word as she fiddled with the aux cord, trying to untangle it from the mess of other cables in her center console. “You were with Damian Wayne. Again.”

Elena rolled her eyes as she pulled on her seatbelt. “Good observation skills, Nancy Drew.”

“I mean, it’s just funny,” Lila continued, finally plugging her phone in and scrolling through the playlist she, Elena and Amrita made together for when they were in the car together. “You two always just happen to leave school together, always just happen to be in deep, serious conversation.” She flicked a glance at Elena. “Not that I’m saying anything, but…”

“You’re absolutely saying something,” Elena muttered, crossing her arms.

Lila snorted, hitting play. A pop song with a thumping bass filled the car as she pulled out of the parking lot. “I’m just pointing out patterns, okay? And that pattern says you and Damian have been spending a lot of time together lately.”

Guilt clenched within her. It wasn’t just that she was keeping secrets from Lila—it was that she was keeping them from Lila and Amrita, the two people who had been in her corner for years . They were the ones who didn’t judge her for being on a scholarship or being in foster care. The ones she’d called late at night when her brain wouldn’t shut up, the ones who had celebrated every win with her, no matter how small. 

And now, here she was, spending hours working a case with Damian—tracking leads, combing through countless files, chasing the weakest of clues—and saying nothing to them about it.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust them. She did. But every time she thought about telling them, something stopped her. Maybe it was the way Damian talked about keeping things need-to-know. Maybe it was the fact that once she said something, there would be no taking it back.

Or maybe, deep down, she was afraid of what they would think .

Would they call her reckless? Would they be angry that she’d kept this from them for so long? Would they tell her to stop?

She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answers.

So instead, she forced herself to shake off the thought and turned back to Lila, latching onto the easiest distraction.

Lila huffed a dramatic sigh. “Fine, be mysterious.” She leaned back, one hand on the wheel, the other skipping a song. “But just so you know, your silence is very suspicious.”

Elena let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “Says the person keeping a whole secret internship from her mom.”

That got Lila to snap her head around. “Hey! That’s different.”

Elena smirked. “Is it? You know, at some point, she is going to find out.”

Lila groaned. “Not if I can help it.”

Elena tilted her head. “Why do you care so much? You love fashion. This internship is a huge deal, and you’re killing it.”

“I know that,” Lila said, tightening her grip on the wheel slightly. “But my mom doesn’t see it that way. To her, if I’m not doing something academic or ‘serious,’ then I’m wasting my time.”

Elena didn’t offer many words of comfort to Lila. Not because she didn’t care, she truly did. But Elena did not have a single clue on how to deal with mothers. She never had one. Not one that she remembered, anyway. There was no template for mother-daughter conversations tucked away in her brain, no bank of past experiences to draw from. And how was she supposed to help Lila navigate a complicated relationship with someone when she had never even had the chance to form one? When Lila talked about her mom, about the expectations, the guilt, the desperate need to be seen and understood—Elena could only nod, listen, and pretend she understood what that meant. 

She couldn’t relate to feeling suffocated by parental expectations. No one had ever pushed her to do better, demanded excellence, pressured her into a path. In fact, Elena had suffered from the opposite. No one expected care kids to do well in life, it was like some predetermined rule that they would all end up in some mediocre job, or struggle to meet ends once they aged out of the system. She still remembered the look of disbelief at her parent’s meeting when her English teacher at her previous school suggested Elena apply for a scholarship at Gotham Academy to her social worker. Elena was convinced from that moment on her social worker was her greatest enemy.

So when Lila talked about keeping things from her mom, about fearing disappointment, about wanting something so badly but knowing it wasn’t what her mother wanted for her, Elena didn’t know what to say. 

What she did notice, though, was the way Lila and Amrita rarely complained about their parents in front of her. They used to—back when they first became friends. Little things, like Lila venting about how overbearing her mom was, or Amrita groaning about her parents’ insistence on having Life 360 on in case of an emergency. But at some point, that had stopped.

Elena had never called them out on it, but she saw the way they hesitated now. The way Lila caught herself mid-sentence, backtracking, brushing things off. The way Amrita’s rants about curfews or strict house rules had slowly dwindled. They were careful now, tiptoeing around the subject, as if speaking too much about their families would remind Elena of what she lacked.

She hated it.

Hated the unspoken rule, the way they handled her like she was made of something delicate, something that might crack if they pressed too hard. She didn’t want their pity, even if it was out of the goodness of their friendship.

She didn’t want to be the reason they held back, like her absence of family made her too fragile to hear about theirs.Because the truth was, it didn’t make her fragile. It made her exposed. Like a wound that had healed over but never quite closed, and their carefulness only made her more aware of it. 

So she didn’t tell Lila it would be okay. She didn’t say that her mom would understand eventually, or that she’d find the right words to explain. Because she didn’t know that. She didn’t know what mothers forgave, what they let go of, what they held onto.

Instead, she just leaned back in her seat and said, “So, have you bought gifts for everyone on your list?”

And just like that, Lila let the subject drop, her shoulders loosening as she sighed. “Ugh, I still need to find something for my cousin.”

The care home always felt different in December. Warmer, somehow, even though the draft still crept through the old windows and the radiators clanked like they were on their last legs. It smelled of cinnamon and pine, the artificial kind from cheap scented candles, and the common room was strung with tinsel that had been used for so many years it had lost its shine. Someone had made paper snowflakes and taped them to the windows, but the edges were curling from condensation.

It was the 23rd, which meant the house was at its fullest. Some of the kids were lucky enough to spend Christmas elsewhere—foster families, old relatives, even friends who’d begged their parents to let them stay over. But for the ones who had nowhere else to go, this was it. A second hand Christmas in a place where nothing was really theirs.

Elena had stopped caring about that part years ago. She knew what to expect: Laura and Andrew would try to make it feel special. There would be hot chocolate in chipped mugs, and if she was lucky, no one had scarfed the marshmallows yet. Later, they'd open presents—donations, mostly. Generic things like puzzle books, scarves, or those supermarket bath sets that smelled too strong. It was predictable, and predictable was fine.

Elena had barely stepped through the door before stuffing the shopping bags deep into the back of her wardrobe, burying them beneath her hung-up clothes. The glossy red and green handles peeked out, but she quickly pushed a sweater over them, hiding them completely. Out of sight, out of mind—at least until she found time to wrap them up.

The mall had been suffocating, filled with people clinging to last-minute holiday shopping, their faces dulled by exhaustion. Not to mention, an entire wing of the mall had been sectioned off since the explosion. She and Lila hadn’t lingered longer than necessary, picking out things they thought others would actually like and heading straight home. As soon as she was inside, she shrugged off the day like a heavy coat, heading for a hot shower.

Her itchy uniform was swapped out for the soft knit sweater and loose trousers she’d found on sale last spring, the fabric comfortably worn in and familiar. She ruffled a towel through her long damp hair as she padded down the stairs, the sound of Laura’s voice carrying from the kitchen.

“No, that’s not—listen, I understand that, but we can’t stretch the budget any further this month,” Laura was saying, one hand pressed to her forehead as she stirred a pot with the other. “We need the additional funding before January, not after.”

Laura was talking on the phone, her tone brisk, in a way that meant she was handling something serious as always. Elena recognized the expression on her face, familiar after spending six years watching the way Laura’s forehead pinched in frustration when finances were running low or funding for the children’s extracurricular activities suddenly got cut.

Without a word, Elena stepped in. She picked up the spoon from Laura’s hand mid-stir, and took a glance at the pot, frowning at the heat setting on the stove (it was way too high), and adjusting it before the entire thing burned. Laura barely reacted beyond giving her a quick, grateful nod before turning back to the call.

She gave the mixture a quick taste. Too sharp. She adjusted the heat, grabbed the salt, and sprinkled in a small pinch before reaching for a wooden spoon.

Elena worked efficiently, moving through the kitchen like she belonged there. She threw a knob of butter into the sauce, letting it melt down to soften the acidity, then set a pot of water to boil on another burner. She measured out the rice  like she had done a hundred times before, rinsing it once, twice, until the water ran clear before tipping it into the pot.

The scent in the kitchen began to thicken, warming the air with the rich aroma of home-cooked food. She tasted the sauce again—much better. Satisfied, she turned the heat down low, letting everything simmer.

Laura let out a long sigh as she finally ended the call, tossing her phone onto the counter. “You're a lifesaver.”

Elena shrugged, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. "I just got it going. Nothing special."

Laura let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "You always say that, but the kids would go on a hunger strike if they knew you weren’t cooking tonight.”

Elena smirked slightly, but didn’t argue. She did know how much they looked forward to it. Especially Leo, who had been asking about cookies for the past three days. A small promise to bake cookies had backfired into all the children putting in orders like she’d started a business.

"I figured I’d start on the cookies," she said, already moving toward a cupboard. She pulled out flour, sugar, and a packet of chocolate chips she hid inside a teapot that was rarely used.

Laura softened, something fond in her voice. "You're good at making them feel like kids."

Elena didn't answer, just started to eyeball the ingredients from muscle memory.

She understood what it was like to be one of them, to be so aware of the weight of your situation even when the world tried to wrap itself in holiday cheer. The others might not have said it out loud, she certainly never did at their age, but their excitement always came with an edge of hesitation, bracing for disappointment before it even arrived.

“Where is Toby?” Elena asks as she pours vanilla into the mixing bowl, noting how quiet the home is. 

“Andrew took him to the elderly home after school to see his grandfather. They’re hosting a small Christmas party for the residents and their families.”

Elena nodded absently sidestepping to grab the sieve from the top drawer and began to fold in the flour, which left a small cloud of dusty white powder in the air. She was so used to doing this recipe she could do it in record time, and so by the time the rice had cooked, Elena was wrapping the bowl with cling film before putting the dough in the fridge to chill.

Laura had already set the table, and moved to grab the spoon Elena had used for the dough, tasting the dough and humming in satisfaction, “mm, you are responsible for every sugar high in this house.”

Elena laughed as she began to plate the food, “if it keeps them happy.”

The heavy mahogany door of Bruce’s office creaked slightly as Damian pushed it open, stepping into the dimly lit office. The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing long shadows across the dark wood paneling. His father was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, fingers steepled as he reviewed something on his Wayne tech tablet.

Bruce looked up, an imperceptible surprise in his expression at Damian’s figure in the doorway. It was rare that Damian ever sought him out, something he wished his son did more. However, it was a given when considering that Damian was raised by Ra’s and Talia to be entirely independent, believing that to rely on someone is to admit weakness. Bruce had once believed that too. But that was before fate led him to a circus, to a boy who had lost everything; raising Dick had taught Bruce many invaluable lessons.

“Damian. I assume this isn’t a social call.”

Damian walked in further, allowing the door to shut behind him. “School has been putting more emphasis on preparing for college applications. Thought I would update you, since you rarely pay attention to Gotham Academy’s emails.”

“Go on.” Bruce said, placing the tablet down, ignoring the financial reports. 

Damian lowered himself into the leather armchair, his posture loose in a way that only someone who had been trained to deceive could achieve. One arm rested along the armrest, fingers drumming absently against the smooth fabric, while the other hand rested in his lap. His gaze flickered upward, drawn to the portrait that loomed above the fireplace.

Thomas Wayne’s face was cast in the warm glow of the firelight, the oil painting capturing him in the prime of his life. What caught Damian’s attention, as it always did, was the color of his grandfather’s eyes. A bright, striking blue. A color that stood out against the muted tones of the rest of the painting.

That same blue stared back at him now.

Damian’s focus shifted back, his gaze settling on his father across the desk. The resemblance between them was undeniable, but where Thomas Wayne had been immortalized in oil as a man of warmth and wisdom, Bruce sat in the flesh—a much colder presence. The years had shaped him differently, the loss of his parents had sharpened him at the edges, but those eyes remained the same.

“I was thinking about attending the Yale Club’s Christmas festivity this year,” he said evenly. “Thought it might be useful to see who is there, and make some worthwhile connections.”

“And why, exactly, would you care about making connections there?”

“Because I have been considering applying to Yale.”

Bruce leaned back in his chair. The surprise on his face was subtle, but there. “Yale?”

Damian gave a short nod. “I would be a legacy student. Thomas Wayne attended Yale for his undergraduate degree.”

His father studied him in silence for a moment, then said, “I have to admit, I didn’t think you had any real interest in college.”

“I never said that.”

Bruce tilted his head slightly. “No, but Gotham Academy called me earlier today.” He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. “Apparently, you’ve been skipping classes. Specifically on Tuesday afternoons.”

Damian’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. He hadn’t intended for this to come up now, but it seemed he needed to get the truth out to his father now. Even if he wasn’t entirely ready to admit a different part of his life to him.

“I have been going to Sacred Heart Hospital,” he admitted. “Checking on Emma.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed slightly. “Emma?”

“The girl who was hurt a few months ago.” Damian crossed his arms. “I wanted to see how she was doing. Dr. Bashar was there when I visited.”

“And?”

Damian met his gaze steadily. “He asked if I wanted to volunteer.” A pause. “So I forged a signature.”

There it was—the minute shift in Bruce’s expression, the slight downward twitch of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes, the blaring disappointment.

“Of course you did,” Bruce muttered, rubbing his fingers against his temple.

Damian lifted his chin. “It is not the first nor the worst crime I have committed.”

“No, but it is reckless,” Bruce shot back. “Do you even understand the legal implications of forging signatures, Damian? Or do you just do things and expect them to work out?”

“It worked out fine.”

“Volunteering is one thing. But forging your way into a medical institution because you decided on a whim that you wanted to play doctor—”

“It wasn’t a whim,” Damian snapped, heat rising in his tone.

Damian ignored the disappointment laced in his father’s tone and continued. “I have been reading Thomas Wayne’s journals. He speaks of Sacred Heart in his writings too. His work in medicine got me thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

Damian held his gaze. “About pursuing medicine.”

“So that’s why you’ve been distracted on patrol.”

“I’m not distracted—”

Bruce cut him off. “Only weeks ago, I couldn’t get you to care about anything that wasn’t fighting. You lived for patrol. Now you’re skipping school, forging documents, and letting it affect your work in the field.” His tone turned hard. “That’s not focus, Damian. That’s losing sight of everything you worked for.”

Damian scoffed, a sharp exhale of frustration. “And what, I’m not allowed to change? To question things?” His voice rose slightly. “When you were my age, you walked across the earth to find your path, and now I’m not even allowed to consider mine?”

Bruce’s expression darkened. “You think this is the same?”

“Yes,” Damian snapped. “You were lost, trying to figure out what you were meant to do, and no one stopped you—”

“Because I didn’t have a father to talk to about it.” His words landed deliberately. “But you do.”

“You had Pennyworth.” Damian shot back, expression twisted in cool anger.

“That is different.”

“And you think that gives you the right to decide for me?” Damian’s voice was quieter now, but no less heated. “If I have something I am drawn to then why can’t I pursue it.”

Bruce exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose before dropping his hand back to the desk. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about?” Damian demanded. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds a lot like you think you get to dictate my future for me.”

Bruce’s gaze was unwavering. “It’s about the fact that you have a responsibility. To this city. To the people who rely on you. And I didn’t force that responsibility on you, Damian. You chose it, and now you are choosing to abandon it.”

“All the other Robins before me moved onto greater things. Why should I allow the mantle to drag me back from what I want? Until you find a replacement to take over? Or perhaps you can have another child with that harlot of yours.”

“Say that again,” Bruce said, his voice dropping an octave lower.

Damian lifted his chin, meeting his father’s stare without hesitation. “Perhaps you can have another child with your harlot ,” he repeated, tone cold and clipped.

“You will not speak about Selina that way.”

Damian scoffed. “Why not? Because she has fooled you into believing she is something she is not? Or because you are so blinded by sentimentality that you have forgotten what she is at her core?”

“Selina is family.”

“No, I am family.” Damian’s voice was colder now, sharpened like a blade. “She is a distraction. A temporary indulgence you have convinced yourself is something more.”

Bruce’s gaze darkened. “That’s enough.”

“Is it?” Damian tilted his head, his tone turning mocking. “Or is it simply inconvenient for you to hear the truth?”

“Is that what this is really about?”

Damian frowned slightly, thrown by the shift in his father’s tone.

“Your sudden interest in medicine. The skipping class. The reckless choices. You think I don’t see it?” His blue eyes pinned Damian in place. “You’re lashing out.”

Damian scowled. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Am I?” Bruce didn’t look away. “You don’t do things without reason. So tell me, Damian—are you actually interested in this path you’ve chosen? Or is this just another way to prove something to me? To punish me?”

The accusation landed like a well-aimed strike. 

Damian’s jaw tightened. “You are being ridiculous.”

Bruce’s voice was eerily calm now. “You’ve been angry with me since I told you about the engagement. You barely acknowledge Selina. You act as if she’s a threat instead of someone who cares about you.”

“She is not my mother ,” Damian bit out.

“No one said she was.”

Damian’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “Then stop trying to force her into my life.”

A heavy silence settled between the father and son before Damian broke it once more, “This is not about your engagement to Selina. I am trying to figure out who I am outside of the shadows you cast.”

Damian did not wait for a reply, but simply stood, turned on his heel, and exited the office without another word.

The door to Damian’s bedroom closed behind him with a quiet click , sealing out the world beyond.

Damian stood motionless for a moment, the tension in his shoulders refusing to uncoil. His father’s voice still echoed in his mind, words sharp, honed like a blade to cut deep. The conversation had been inevitable, yet it left him feeling like a blade dulled from overuse.  He exhaled through his nose before turning away from the door, shedding his blazer with and draping it over the back of his desk chair. 

Perhaps his father would eventually come to understand.

His room was dim, the bedside lamp illuminating it in a golden glow. Titus stirred at the foot of his bed, the great dane lifting his head at the sound of Damian’s approach. His ears flicked forward, dark eyes tracking his every movement, but he made no sound. Just watched. Observed. Like he was trained to do.

Damian ran a hand absently over the dog’s head as he passed, fingers sinking into short fur, before his gaze landed on the half-open backpack propped against the leg of his bed. A corner of something glossy peeked out from the gap between the unzipped teeth of the bag, catching the dim light.

The gift. He had nearly forgotten.

Damian crouched, fingers brushing against the smooth glass of the frame before he fully pulled it free, shifting to sit on the edge of his bed. The article stared back at him, preserved behind the glass.  It wasn’t just the final, polished version from the Gotham Academy Gazette —the one with crisp typeset letters and cleanly arranged photographs. No, it was the first draft. The one Elena had typed up in one night, notes surrounded the text filled with hastily written thoughts and unfinished sentences, where his own annotations littered the margins.

His handwriting stood stark against hers, the contrast undeniable. Hers had been fluid, almost careless at times, the ink shifting between bold conviction and uncertainty. His was smooth and bold in comparison. It was strange, seeing them side by side like this—two distinct approaches captured in one frame. 

He hadn’t thought much of it when he had pushed her toward this article. Truthfully, he just saw her as a voice better suited to speak for the animals.

But perhaps, if he were being honest with himself, it had been more than that.

He had known Elena Gold since the ninth grade, when she first arrived at Gotham Academy on a scholarship. The details of their brief interactions over the years escaped him now, but he remembered that she had been one of the only students who never seemed impressed by his name. He had been used to the weight of "Wayne" preceding him, either opening doors or closing them, but she never treated him differently. Never sought him out for favors or opportunities. Never tried to insert herself into his space. Never saw it as anything but simply a last name.

She had always been just , in a way that few people truly were. Even back then, before she took over the Gazette, there had been something relentless about her—something unwilling to bend when it came to what she believed was right. It made her an outlier. Made her stand out in a school where influence mattered more than integrity.

When she became chief editor of the Gotham Academy Gazette near the end of last year, she had changed the paper entirely. Before her, it had been little more than a self-indulgent tool for the school’s wealthiest students—a place where those with the right last names could publish puff pieces about their own achievements, where stories were carefully curated to avoid controversy, where the title of chief editor went not to the most capable, but to the highest bidder. Every year, the role had been filled by someone whose parents had either donated a substantial sum or had bribed their way into the position.

But not Elena.

She had taken the position by merit alone, refusing to let it fall into the hands of another legacy student looking for an extracurricular to pad their college applications. And she had made damn sure that as long as she was in charge, the selection process for the Gazette would be different. The advertisements she had put up for new writers and editorial staff had been clear—applications would be anonymous. No names, no family ties, no reputations to hide behind. Only the work would be judged.

That decision had pissed off a lot of people. Students who had expected their last names to carry them into an easy leadership position. Parents who were outraged that their children had been “overlooked.” Even some faculty members who had grown comfortable with the previous system.

But Elena had not wavered.

And looking at the article in his hands now, Damian found himself thinking about just how much she had earned her place in such a hostile environment.

His fingers traced the edge of the frame absently, gaze lingering on the notes in the margins. On the careful interplay of their handwriting, side by side. She had done the work. She had proven herself. And yet, there were still people who resented her for it. 

Despite their vastly different situations, he understood that feeling. More than he cared to admit.

Titus let out a slow breath, his heavy head resting against Damian’s leg as if sensing the shift in his thoughts. Damian let his free hand drift down, fingers scratching absentmindedly behind his companion’s ear.

Sighing, Damian pulled open the drawer of his bedside table, setting the frame down beside a copy of the Gotham Academy Gazette . The front page bore a more refined, polished version of the very article encased in glass.

He needs to order a gift for her.

Damian lay back against the pillows, one arm draped over his eyes, the other lifted in the air waiting for Titus to jump up onto the bed and tuck his head on Damian’s stomach as usual.

Titus’ familiar weight settled against him and Damian focused on his breath, falling into the same measured rhythms he mastered during meditations in the League.

[countrydionysia]

2023 Rural Dionysia Announcement

Io! The time of the year has come again for the Rural Dionysia!

How to participate

The Rural Dionysia is meant to be a smaller competition than its urban counterpart, as such, we have selected only 3 categories:

Freestyle poetry

Modern hymns

“Complete the fragment”

Freestyle poetry

Your poem can be about any chosen topic (myth, personal experience etc.) in any written format. It doesn't have to be religious in nature.

Modern hymn

An hymn must sing the praises of a deity of your choice. Unlike the "freestyle poetry", your work must be of religious nature to fit in this category.

Complete the Fragment

Each year, we choose a fragment from an Ancient Greek poet to work with. The challenge is that the initial fragment must be included somewhere in your piece in its original order. This means you can fill the gaps however you want, but you can’t switch the order of the words in your piece or remove words from the original fragment.

Here is the fragment selected for this 2023 edition: Paen 16 by Pindar (52q Oxyrhynchus papyrus; late 2nd century AD; trans. William H. Race; Loeb 56)

……………… ] Lord Apollo, .…] for I pray ….] with willing (mind?) to give ….] power suffices and you were judged to be ….] most gentle to mortals.

Here is the Greek text for reference. Note that because the word "mind" is unsure in this translation, it will be acceptable to keep or modify this word.

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If in doubt for any of these categories, remember that you can check submissions from the previous years to get an idea of how others have done before.

Submitting your piece

Please submit your piece through submissions on this blog. All entries must be tagged for the category they are being submitted to. but you can only choose 1 category per piece and each person may only submit 1 entry per category each year.

Entries must also be tagged for potentially triggering content and squicks. If your entry needs a trigger warning, kindly add them at the end of your submission and we will take care of adding them in. Check the rules below for further information about submissions.

Calendar of the event

Nov. 10: Official announcement and opening of submissions. Dec. 10: Final submission day. Dec. 11: Vote opening. Dec. 18: Vote closing. Dec. 19-20: Announcement of the winners!

No worries though! We will be posting reminders about each step when the time comes.

General rules

Roleplay and fanfic are not acceptable submissions. This is a religious festival, please respect our faith and do not submit an entry if you are roleplaying or writing fanfiction.

Unlike with the City Dionysia, entries do not necessarily have to be about specific deities or Hellenic polytheism except for the “Modern Hymn” category, which has to be dedicated to one or many gods of your choice.

There are no meter restrictions. This is up to the writer.

All stories, myths, and poems must be entered using the submissions button.

All entries must be tagged for the category they are being submitted to. Entries must also be tagged for potentially triggering content and squicks.

An entry may only be submitted to a single category.

Each person may only submit one entry per category each year.

Winners for each category will be decided by popular vote.

Admins of this blog cannot participate, for obvious reasons. As for now, this includes @thegrapeandthefig @verdantlyviolet

Questions about the rules? Check the blog for past answers, your answer might be in there. And if it's not, simply submit an ask. We'll answer in the best delays possible.