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[imsodishy]

Billy's got a compass in his chest and it always points him home.

West, to California. To the coast, the beach, the water.

From the moment he first had to escape his house, small and bruised. Alone and so angry. He would plant himself in the sand, fling himself into the ocean. Let it swallow him whole and spit him back out. Wash him out, back onto the sand. Still whole. Clean and salty and softer at the edges, like a worn down bit of sea-glass.

It works all the way out in Indiana, that compass. Still points him west. It's a sustained ache under his ribs now that he can't just let his feet take him home anytime he needs it.

A girl coyly suggests she could show him Lover's Lake sometime and he jumps at the chance, but it's a disappointing spit of water and frozen besides. The compass needle doesn't even wobble in it's heading. His sends his date home disappointed too.

Steve Harrington's got no direction. He's drifting around on the tide like flotsam. Billy shoves him and he stirs up little eddies, fights the current for a once and kicks up a wake that Billy can ride for a minute and breathe deep afterwards like he's coming up for air.

The crash and ebb and flow around each other for months. Billy learns to read the wave pattern, Steve learns to watch for storm patterns.

Steve's got a pool, which is objectively even worse than a lake. Except, when he says so, Steve tackles him around the middle and sinks them both right to the bottom of the deep end fully clothed. Laughs as Billy curses him out for ruining the half pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

They splash and shove and wrestle their way out of their sodden clothes without getting out of the heated water, because March in Hawkins may be warming up, but it's sure as shit not warm yet. Steve calls him a wimp, climbs out in just his briefs, and canon-balls back in.

They tangle together under the water and Steve only lets him up for air when he really needs it.

Steve Harrington must have a lot of extra iron in his blood or something. The needle's been wobbly for a while, and it spins right off it's axis the day Steve hands him a little newspaper wrapped parcel, "Happy birthday," he says, "Made me think of you."

It's an earring, plain gold stud and fine gold chain with a teardrop stone hanging off it. Rough-hewn, softly cloudy blue. Sea-glass.

Billy's adrift, surprised by a riptide.

There's a lodestone hanging on his ear and he can't see his way back to the coast anymore.

[klemen-tine]

Glass Bones and Paper Skin Part 3

Platonic! Bruce x Model! GN! Reader

Trigger Warnings: Hint at suicide, Body Issues, Eating problems (not a disorder), Child Neglect, stalking, Partner Abuse

Part 1

Part 2

@problematicreblogger and @wpdarlingpan Since you guys wanted to be tagged lol

+++++++++++++

Y/N sat in the bathtub in the guest room. It’s been three days since they arrived, saw the photos, and the creepy trophy room. Three days since their conversation with Dick, finding out that they had all been on their terrace and taking photos of them. Stalking them. 

They wrapped their arms tighter around their legs, resting their chin on sharp knees and staring at the porcelain tiles and gold facet. Three days of walking on egg shells, somehow managing to evade most attempts in hanging out with the siblings and Bruce, and only really seeing them at meals. Y/N hasn’t built up the nerve to ask about the trophy room, but Y/N knows that everyone in the house knows that Y/N knows of the two rooms. They know of the photos, the ones taken without their permission or knowledge, and the clothes that have redefined their modeling career. 

Sighing, Y/N stared at their pruning hands and the now cool water. The bubbles dissolved a long time ago and the essential oils had become diluted enough that the scents no longer permeated the air. 

Finally dressed in a robe, lotion and oil on their skin and face and teeth washed, Y/N exited the bathroom and screamed at the sight of Jason on their bed. In the midst of their panic they threw the brush at the larger man, who caught it skillfully. 

“Wha-what is wrong with you? No-wait, why are you in my room?” Y/N walked around the large bed to where all their clothes are kept. Their eyes not leaving Jason’s imposing figure that was currently resting on their bed. 

“I knocked.” Y/N rolled their eyes, “I didn’t ask if you knocked, why are you in my room?” Jason shrugged, “Just felt like I haven’t talked to you in a bit.” Jason and Y/N’s relationship was like that of dragons in the old ages. Full of history and non-existent. 

Jason was already dead by the time Y/N had entered the Manor. A small body buried in the Wayne gravesite. In hindsight, Y/N’s timing had been awful. Moving in when Tim basically forced Batman to take him in as a Robin, Dick’s and Bruce’s relationship had worsened, Jason was dead for about a year, and Alfred had still been grieving. Truly a terrible time to join a family. Y/N could taste the tension when they had first moved in, and they understood immediately that they were just another unneeded burden. 

A 13-year-old Y/N cried in their bathroom, mourning their mother who had loved the fame more than them, the friends that loved Y/N for Y/N, and the life on the West Coast that they were now expected to continue on the East Coast. 

The unfairness of it all. 

“What do you want to talk about?” Y/N asked, rummaging through the drawers and finding a nice shirt and some nice jeans. 

“Hmm, oh you know, the casual how are you doing? How’s the model-life? Any fun stories you have? What have you been doing lately?” Y/N started changing in the bathroom, keeping the door cracked so they could hear the questions. 

When Y/N reemerged, now fully dressed and the robe hanging on the back of the door, they smiled at Jason, “I’m doing good, kind of tired but that's to be expected because of the ‘model-life.’ The fun stories I have are more of traveling around the world and seeing different cultures and eating good food. 

“As of late, I’ve been thinking about getting a cat.” Jason’s brow raised, “You travel though.” Y/N nodded, “Yeah, some models travel with their pets and I think that's what I plan to do. They’re easier to travel with than a dog, and I don’t think a dog would like my condo.” Jason nodded, “You could always leave it here. The little spawn would take care of it.” 

“I can’t do that to the family. It’s my pet and should be my responsibility.” Jason hummed, “Is it because you don’t want to visit?” The air stilled and blue eyes met E/C. Jason didn’t look bothered, if anything he seemed relaxed about the whole thing, “It’s fine if that's the reason. I hate being here too.” 

Jason came back as a dead person Y/N knew not to talk about. From the stairways, they would watch Jason storm out after a bad argument with Bruce. Unable to completely understand what exactly was going on, but from the hushed conversations they knew it was something they didn’t want to know about. 

“I don’t hate being here, I just don’t have reason to visit other than Alfred.” Jason continued to stare at them, “Not even for ‘family.’” 

“Jason, when have you ever looked at me and saw a sibling?” Jason didn’t banter with Y/N, never showed interest or any inclination that Y/N even existed. Y/N is pretty sure that to Jason, Y/N is just a stranger living in the manor. 

Y/N wonders if they will see Jason’s temper. Will it appear like the monster hidden in the closet, waiting for the right time to lash out at anything? Y/N has heard the screaming matches, the threats, the holes in the walls from Jason. For someone who has killed people, Y/N wonders if they should really be mucking around with Jason. 

When Y/N looks at Jason, they see the middle child of a family that had other priorities. Once upon a time, Jason was the youngest and loved by Bruce, but then younger Robins came. Jason died, and while never replaced, Robin was. 

When Y/N looks at Jason, they see the middle child of a family that Y/N is not a part of. 

They are not siblings. Not cousins, relatives, they are not even friends. Barely acquaintances if Y/N is honest. Which is fine. Y/N has gotten over the hurt and feelings of loneliness. 

It is just Y/N against the world, with Alfred partially in their corner. Not fully. Never fully because Alfred will always be in the Wayne family’s corner, and Y/N is not a Wayne. 

Jason sighed, “Mmm, I guess that night when you took a beating from that one dude for not getting in the car.” Y/N paused in brushing their hair, mind reeling and slowly turning their head to look at Jason who was instead picking at his nails. Y/N opened their mouth, but Jason beat them to it, “You went out partying, like almost every high schooler does, and your boyfriend was drunk.” 

“Just get in the car, Y/N!” 

“No! You’re drunk and you said you’d stay sober!” 

“I am sober, now get in the fucking car!” 

“Fuck off!” A 15-year-old Y/N stormed off, turning their back to Marcus Dueller, the then jock of the school. A rough hand grabbed their shoulder and a fist met their face, “You don’t talk to me like that.” 

“...Marcus wasn’t my boyfriend.” Jason didn’t show any signs of hearing Y/N, “You took a pretty bad beating, I’ll admit it. I was going to step in once he started choking you, but you took that brick to his head pretty hard.” 

Blood splattered across Y/N’s face as Marcus collapsed. The hands around their neck loosening and Y/N took deeply needed gasps of air. Their throat aching and lungs burning as they rolled over onto their hands and knees. Tears pricked their eyes as the pain and realization settled in. 

“I called his friends. He was fine, just a concussion.” Marcus and Y/N never talked again, and Marcus’s friends took one look at the bruises on Y/N’s face and neck to understand what had happened. 

They all stayed Marcus’s friends, because unlike Y/N, Marcus was loved by his family. 

“Then, you walked your beaten ass towards the liquor store.” 

“Oh my God! Y/N!” Stacey cried out in shock, and she gently cupped bruised cheeks and watched split lips grow into a smile. 

“Can I have that bottom shelf vodka please?” 

“Bitch, you need a second shelf from the bottom vodka.” They sat outside of the store, Stacey’s partner taking over the counter as she watched Y/N take swig after swig from the bottle. Her concerned eyes tracing over each and every bruise and cut, down to the clothes they were wearing and scrapes in their knees and hands. 

“How many does this make?” 

“Seven. Whoever said seven was a lucky number is a liar.” 

“Oh Y/N, why do you keep doing this?” Y/N gave Stacey the most beautiful they could muster. Not minding the ache in their cheeks or the burning of alcohol on split lips. 

Looking back at it, perhaps Y/N was on a downward spiral. Trying to find love in other people that weren’t the people at home. From ages 13 to 15, Y/N had dated over 9 people. Not one of them made it past two months, and none of them were healthy. 

Once Y/N got into modeling, all their attention went into it. Dating and friends were on a standstill as their career and education became a priority. Maybe that was another thing Y/N inherited from Bruce, a known serial dater. Although, Y/N knows for sure that their taste in partners was definitely inherited from their mother. 

Some of Y/N’s earliest memories are of M/N getting berated and smacked around by men bigger than her. When they would leave, Y/N would emerge with bandaids and tears on their face. M/N would smile at them, blood from her nose painting her lips red and she would cup soft cheeks and whisper in their ears- 

“Diamonds have never been made with gentle hands.” Y/N glared at Jason, who was meeting that glare head on. Now that they are older, Y/N has learned to hate that phrase. They have watched numerous models be in kind and gentle hands and still be beautiful. Still have a loving and healthy relationship with themselves and the other. 

Now that they are older, Y/N knows how untrue those words are. Yet, who said those words had to only be applied to romantic partners? 

“Now here you are, in your glass castle imitating diamonds.” Y/N’s nose scrunched, “Always the poet, reading the classics.” Jason shrugged, "Someone has to be literate in this messed up family. Sure as hell ain’t Bruce.” Y/N rolled their eyes, “So what? That still does not explain anything. More importantly, why now then?” Why was it now that they decided to make a move if they had supposedly been caring for a while now. 

Jason smirked, "Because finally, Bruce sees it too.” Y/N narrowed their eyes and watched with pursed lips as the bigger and stronger man got up from the bed, and walked over to them, “I’d wear comfortable shoes, Y/N. You’re going out with Bruce and the little spawn today.” 

“Wait, what do you mean Bruce finally sees it too? What is there to see?” Jason smiled at him, and it looked more of a monster preening at it’s prey. Callused hands reached up and traced the small, almost invisible scar on Y/N’s upper lip. 

“Make sure you smile, the vultures will be there too.” 

++++

“I do think green will look best on you.” Y/N smiled at Damian, “Green looks good everybody, Damian. You just need the right shade.” Between them was an emerald green silk shirt, the price displayed like a bounty and Y/N wanted to walk out of the store once they saw it. Yes, they made a lot of money, but Y/N also knows what it means to be frugal. 

Damian raised an eyebrow and continued to judge the piece as if it had insulted the family. Y/N set the shirt down and continued to peruse the aisles. Their eyes looking at all the clothing and trying to predict what will be in style. What could they use to match or create their own trend? It is still winter, meaning layers will still be necessary but how to make a stylish outfit when there needs to be layers. 

“Do you see anything you want, Y/N?” They jumped a bit, and whirled around to see Bruce smiling at them. Those blue eyes, intense like winter rivers, roamed over what Y/N was looking at and he raised a well groomed eyebrow, “Do you want that one?” 

“N-no, no thank you. I’m just looking.” Bruce hummed, and wrapped a large arm around Y/N’s bony shoulders and brought them close. He pressed his lips against his temple, an unusual act of affection towards his kids but everyone will chalk it up to Y/N being a model and still young. Bruce whispered against Y/N’s skin, “Just let me know what you want, and I will get it for you.” 

‘If I want to be left alone?’ Y/N didn’t voice it, but they didn’t have too. Bruce’s grin was sharp, “Within reason, Y/N.” A chill ran down Y/N’s spine and they swallowed down the bile threatening to come up. 

“I have money, Bruce. I can buy my own stuff.” Bruce picked up a shirt, “Let me spoil you. It is what parents do.” 

“You already paid off my condo, that is good enough.” Bruce continued to smile, “That was for the birthdays and holidays I missed while you were with us. I still have to make up for the time when you were with your mother.”  Y/N wanted to scream, “How about you donate that then?” 

Bruce smiled, “I already do. Let me spoil you.” He kissed Y/N’s temple once more before walking away, eyeing everything the way designers did when critiquing their pieces. Y/N had a feeling that if they didn’t get something from here, the store would be paying the price. Grabbing a sheer halter top and pair of black high waisted pants, Y/N let Damian throw the green top on the small pile and made their way to the check out. The cashier smiled nervously as the Wayne family stood in front of her. 

True to Bruce’s promise, he paid for the three articles of clothes, the pair of shoes, the jewelry, the accessories, the–

“I think that is enough.There are a lot of bags, and while I appreciate it, I really don’t need anymore stuff.” Y/N placated Bruce and Damian, already picturing the amount of trips it will be to take everything back home. The man seemed satisfied though, smiling and shrugging his shoulders, “If you insist. How about some lunch now?” 

Y/N wanted to decline. They wanted to go back to the manor and get away from everybody. The feeling of walking on eggshells and constantly being watched had their skin crawling and the need to take another bath. Bruce wrapped an arm around Y/N’s shoulder and brought them close, and Damian took up their other side. 

“You’re acting more as a bodyguard than a father it seems.” Bruce smiled, “We’re having a nice family outing. I’d hate it if one of your ‘followers’ interrupted." Y/N furrowed their brow, but they could not stop their body from tensing, “Someone is following us?” 

“Unfortunately.” The photos they saw in their old room re-emerged and a feeling of dread seized their muscles, making them lean further into Bruce. Yes, they were once all Robins, but not once in those photos taken from their terrace was there ever a reflection of the Bat. 

“It’s okay Y/N, I’ll make sure they won’t take any of you.” 

“How… how do you know its not you they want a photo of?” Bruce smiled, guiding them into a fancy restaurant, Damian requesting a table away from the windows, "Because they all know not to follow me.” There was something akin to a warning in Bruce’s voice that had Y/N biting their lips and following the wait staff quietly. 

Y/N watched as Damian and Bruce conversed casually, well, as casually as Damian can be. The topics went from school, a family named the Kents, and future prospects. Damian was still unsure about what exactly it is he wanted to do, and it most likely didn’t help that Tim was the one who was going to take over Wayne Enterprises. 

Y/N continued to eat and sip their tea, not wanting to add to anything as their mind wandered. After talking to Jason, it proved to Y/N that they were somewhat always being watched. Jason bringing up that one specific memory may have made Y/N’s heart rate spike, but it did prove that Jason was there. The photos, all of them that were taken without Y/N’s consent, show that everyone had at some point gained interest. 

However, why did they never act on it? Why wait until now to do something? 

‘Bruce finally sees it too.’ Y/N’s jaw clenched, what does Bruce have to do with any of this? Could they not interact without Bruce’s permission? Alfred would never allow that. 

Would he? 

“What do you think, Y/N?” The question jolted Y/N out of their thoughts and back into reality. Looking around the table to two expectant gazes, they gave an apologetic smile, “Sorry. I was thinking about something, what was the question?” 

Damian scrunched his nose, “What is there to think about when you have blood-related family members in front of you?” Y/N blinked in shock, and then remembered how much blood meant to Damian. They shrugged, “I have a busy schedule coming up.” 

Bruce stabbed the piece of steak with the silver fork, “You do, don’t you.” He stared at his child, one who he has left to their own devices and now is estranged from the family. Always keeping them at arms length, and never looking back to see if they are behind them. Not because Y/N trusts them to be, but because Y/N was used to them not being there. 

Y/N, for how proud Bruce is of them for standing on their own, is still naive. Still innocent. They didn’t notice the paparazzi lurking around, or maybe they got so used to them they learned to block them out. None of it sat right with Bruce. Those should have been things he taught Y/N. Things to prepare Y/N for a world that was bathed in camera flashes and gossip. How to look out for themselves. How to defend themselves, and what to do in case there is a stalker. Those should have been at least a fraction of what Bruce taught them. 

Yet, he never did any of that. Looking at Y/N sitting across from him, sitting tall and with a closed-off expression, had Bruce frowning. Y/N was still polite, smiled when they needed to and engaged in conversation, but there was still a wall between them. Almost like glass. Bruce is able to see everything and hear almost everything, but his ability to interact with his child is limited. All interactions stopped by the wall of glass put up by Y/N themselves. 

It's a good thing that Batman breaks glass windows on a daily basis. 

“You have some shoots in New York, will you be visiting afterwards?” Bruce watched Y/N’s eyes widen and lips pursed. He could see the breaking point, cracks spreading throughout the glass as Y/N’s mind tried to wrap around the question. 

“How–” 

“Is it odd for a parent to know their child’s schedule?” Y/N blinked, and processed the information. A tight smile formed on their lips, “How long have you known my schedule?” Bruce took a bite of the steak and Damian continued to eat his plate of some fancy pasta.

“Now Y/N-” 

“How long have you known my schedule?” Damian glanced up, irritated at their father being cut off, but the look on Bruce’s face had him settling down. The man was smiling, non-threateningly but all Y/N could see was the Bruce that had stood before them in the changing room after Gabanna’s runway show. The same eyes, full of intentions that had Y/N shivering and the money, power, and background to act on those intentions. 

“Like I have said, Y/N. I am making up for the lost time and neglect you have faced within our home.” 

“And I have said, Bruce, there is nothing to make up. That still does not answer my question about you knowing my schedule.” The cracks were spreading, chipping away and becoming weaker. 

“What parent doesn’t know-” 

“Don’t repeat that sentence. Bruce, you know what I am asking and you keep avoiding it. Who told you my schedule?” An emotion other than faux politeness finally filtered into Y/N’s voice, making the question sound firm and unlikely to bend or be swept away with Bruce’s elusivity. He smiled, “Oh Y/N, did Maya not tell you? GLM Agency has been under new agency since last year. Wayne Industries is now the parent of GLM Agency.” 

Y/N stared at Bruce in confusion, their pretty face twisting as the words registered with them. Everything crashed on Y/N, like glass shattering and bathing them in their shards. The guest room that is identical to their bedroom at home, the clothes that are from their closet, the two rooms full of their photos and mannequins wearing their iconic looks, that fucking Batman-inspired piece of clothing. 

“Y/N.” They’re walking away from the table, head lost in thought and body moving on autopilot. The need to get away from everyone was overpowering the logical part of their mind, and Y/N is walking towards the front door of the restaurant. Pushing the glass doors open, and being bombarded by flashes from cameras. 

“Y/N, what do you have to say about your mother?” A 13-year-old Y/N was guided out of the condo by police officers. Eyes rimmed red from crying and their only source of comfort was the blanket they managed to snag before being escorted out. 

“Were you aware of your mother’s drug-use?” 

“Are you on drugs?” A 17-year-old Y/N walked past the paparazzi, keeping their eyes forward even though they wanted to snarl at that person. 

“Y/N! Look over here!” 

“Look!”

“Over here!”  

A large hand gripped their arm guided Y/N through the crowd and towards the parking lot where the car was. The large body blocking the photos and shielding them from the flashing of cameras that had thrown Y/N back in time. Once inside the safety of the metal box on wheels, Y/N became aware of their rapid breathing and the feeling of their heart pounding. Irregular beats and sweat began to form on their skin as they struggled to take a breath. Just one breath.

The hand that had guided them to the car grabbed their wrist and placed it on a large and firm chest, emphasizing the deep breaths that Y/N needed and wanted to take. Rough fingers gently traced their cheek, up to their ear, and then to their hair. Gently bringing Y/N back to the present. 

“Shh shh, it’s okay Y/N. It’s okay. You’re safe.” E/C eyes drifted around the car, and closed once they saw the person’s reflection. 

“Father, those vermin have been cleared. All of them will be getting in trouble.” 

“Thank you, Damian.” Y/N rested their head against the glass and fought down the need to jump out of the car. Bruce eyed Y/N, and what made it worse was there was an apologetic look on his face. 

“Y/N, I… I am sorry. I thought Maya had told you.” 

“Seems like your manager isn’t doing their job if you didn’t know. You should get a new one.” 

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Y/N mumbled, feeling a headache forming and they wanted nothing more than to curl under the covers and die. They could feel Damian’s pointed look through the seat, “Maya is a great manager. She will not be replaced.” Damian sneered, “She didn’t even inform you of the change in ownership.” 

“Because it does not concern me. As long as I am able to get booked and get to my destinations, it does not matter who is in charge.” Y/N paused, “Although, now it looks like nepotism.” 

Bruce huffed at his child’s overdramaticness, "It's not nepotism. I had no say in what shows you did or who booked them.” 

“But you had a say in what clothes I wore.” Ice filled the car and Bruce gave Y/N a long look. 

“Just that one piece, and I asked her to do it. She didn’t have to do it.” Y/N laughed, long and hollow as they turned their head to Bruce, “Of course she had to do it. Bruce Wayne is asking for a commission piece, who would turn it down without risking their reputation?” The man sighed, “Y/N, I submitted a commission piece. That is the only thing I had a hand in throughout your modeling career.” 

“Others won’t believe that.” 

“Who cares what others think.” Y/N whipped their head around to Damian, “I do. I do a lot actually. I care a lot about what my fellow models say and think about me.” The boy rolled his eyes, “Why? Their opinions don’t matter.” 

“And your’s do?” 

“We are family!” 

“By blood, yeah! That’s as far as it goes.” Damian looked ready to snarl out more remarks, but the abrupt parking of the car had both of them pausing. They were already at the manor, and Y/N wondered just how fast was Bruce driving to get them here so quickly. 

Y/N was quick to jump out of the car, “I will grab those bags later. Please don’t make Alfred take them.” Bruce followed, “Y/N.” 

“No! No, ‘Y/N’ or anything. I want to be left alone.” Y/N pushed open the manor’s front door, and they wonder how many times they have snuck in and out of these doors before. Was it really even sneaking out if someone knew? 

“Y/N, we need to talk about this.” There was something in Bruce’s voice that stoked the right ember within Y/N’s chest. Whipping around, they glared at the two Waynes, “For fuck’s sake, I just want to be left alone! I was fine with how things were. None of this-this- whatever the hell this is! 

I was fine on my own. I was fine without you guys. I would have been fine if you stayed away!” Bruce didn’t even look bothered that Y/N was yelling, in fact the asshole looked relieved. He gave a patient smile with fake concern in those blue eyes, “The thing is though Y/N, you never should have done it on your own.” 

Y/N rolled their eyes, “Where the hell did all of this even come from?! This… this sudden need to be part of my life? You’re not even being subtle about it!” They were drawing a crowd, but Y/N couldn’t even bring themselves to care. 

“I keep telling you, it does. Not. Bother. Me that you all were inattentive. It doesn’t make me mad, it doesn’t make me upset, it doesn’t stir anything within me knowing you were not there. Yet here you are trying to make it up and all that nonsense, but when I tell you that it's fine you don’t listen!

“It genuinely seems that you are not doing this for me, but to ease your guilt.” Bruce met Y/N’s gaze, and it appeared they were in their own little showdown. Bruce’s gaze, not showing a hint of anger or irritation at his child while Y/N seethed. For once, Y/N looked liked the wild one in the family. Their teeth bared and eyes full of unadulterated rage, they glared at Bruce with the face of a raging angel. 

They hated how Bruce’s lips pulled into a smile, and the feeling of gloating eyes falling on their body from all their siblings. Like they all knew something Y/N didn’t. 

“Bruce finally sees it too.” 

Y/N pocketed that thought, taking a deep breath and trying to calm down. Nothing intelligent was ever said when angry– 

“So tell your big brother Y/N, how do you expect us to trust you on your own when you can’t even notice someone on your terrace?” 

– Fuck it. Intense E/C eyes landed back on Bruce, “If you bought GLM Agency a year ago, why now?” Bruce continued to stare into Y/N’s eyes, “Because it seemed like you needed a break from Gotham. So, I figured a year away would be good.” 

Y/N narrowed their gaze, “Then why didn’t you call?” 

“Because it looked like you needed a break.” Y/N chuckled, “I needed a break, or you needed time to get those rooms set up?” Bruce raised a brow, but Y/N continued on, “It's one thing to have photos from some photoshoots but not photos taken without my consent. Or the clothes I’ve worn on mannequins with almost the exact same physique as me.” 

“They are exact.” Y/N tore their gaze away from Bruce to stare at Tim, the thin and exhausted looking teen standing above them on the stairway. Chapped lips opened, “We used the measurements within the modeling database and created mannequins that have your exact measurements.” 

Y/N gaped at him for a quick second before rolling their eyes, “Wow. That’s not helping your guys’ case at all.” Dick approached them, going for a placating gesture and an easy smile, “Now Y/N, I think you might be overreacting–” 

“I think I am underreacting to all of this. I find out that you all have been taking secret photos of me, which someone them are from my ‘stalker’ and I don’t really believe that but whatever, you have access to my bank account, you bought the modeling agency I work for, commissioned a Batman-inspired piece, and that you have been keeping some of runway pieces on models that are exactly my measurements!

How else am I supposed to be reacting?! And I still don’t have my phone back!” Y/N snapped at Dick, and then began to rub their temples when the headache got worse. An Aspirin, they need an Aspirin. Now, preferably but Y/N has the strangest sense that even if they did take it, the headache would not go away. 

“Whatever, just… I’m going home tomorrow and whatever was bought today just… just ship it. Since you know my address and all that apparently.” Y/N began walking up the stairs, ignoring the panicked looks some of their ‘siblings’ were giving them and the dark look on Bruce’s face. 

Dick, ever the peacemaker, reached out, “Wait, you can’t go back yet! You still have a few more weeks before your next shoot. Just stay for a few more days.” 

“Add kidnapping and being held against my will to that list too.” Y/N continued walking, feeling exhausted and wanting to sleep. They missed the nod Bruce gave Tim and Damian, and they missed the dark and knowing looks on Jason’s and Dick’s face. The walk back to the room was long, and more exhausting than usual. The events of today caught up to them and Y/N wanted nothing more than to cry, scream, and then go to sleep. 

Because why not. 

“Y/N, you are making a mistake.” Dick followed after their younger sibling, who only sped up to get away from them. The man grabbed Y/N’s forearm, “Y/N, listen! You don’t want to do this.” 

“What is ‘this’ you are talking about Dick? I am literally just going home. It is not a big deal.” Y/N tried to pull their arm away from Dick, but to no avail. 

“It's how you are doing it Y/N. All we want is to spend time with you and make up for the lost time!” Y/N wanted to scream at Dick, but held it in and instead gritted out, “Why didn’t you do it normally then? Like… texting or calling.” Dick pouted, those blue eyes looking sad and his lower lip jutting out like a toddler, “We missed you, and we just wanted to see you.” 

Y/N’s face was scrunched, their mouth open in disgust, “How can you say that with that look on your face as if you all weren’t the ones who ignored me?” Dick looked heartbroken and some part of Y/N felt bad about that. They remembered the room with the photos and the other side of Dick that they saw only a few days ago. Their body seized in terror, but Y/N tried to keep their expression neutral. 

“Look, Dick, once again I am not mad about how my time here was spent. I’m genuinely not. But you guys keep throwing it back in my face and saying such contradicting things, of course I’m going to get upset about it.” They are trying to be civil. Trying so desperately to be civil and it feels like it is not working. Old wounds and painful memories continued to be dragged out of the crevices of their minds like it was some type of zoo attraction. 

A 16-year-old Y/N stared at the shattered mirror, tears racing down their face as they stared at their broken reflection. All they could see were the imperfections everyone continued to call out. Comparing them to their mother, to other models, to society’s twisted views of beauty that Y/N is trying to be. 

If their mother was alive, would she know what to say? Would she gaze at them with those soft eyes and long lashes, smiling beautifully and whispering, “Diamonds have never been made with gentle hands.” Continuing to remind Y/N that modeling was not a gentle job. It wasn’t a job for those with paper skin or glass bones. Those easily hurt by the meanest of comments, nastiest looks, and the horrendous words never made it in this industry.

Would this have been easier if they had the support of Bruce and his kids? 

Labored breaths and broken sobs filled room-turned-practice room as the mirrors caught the sight of a teenager breaking down. Crumbling and shattering under the pressure, pricking their fingers as they cleaned up the broken mirror and picking up their shattered image. 

It will be those same mirrors that watched those broken shards form their glass castle, posing as diamonds to deter others from trying to break in. 

Y/N continued to walk down the long hallway, ignoring Dick’s calls and locking the door behind them. It was only 2pm, and Y/N had plans to sleep the rest of the day. They had no bags to pack, and nothing here they felt like taking. All they needed to do is sleep the day away, which will be easy, wake up tomorrow, call a cab and skedaddle out of here. 

“Thats all we have to do, Y/N.” They closed their eyes for what only felt like a few minutes, until jostling and whispers of their name had them groggily opening their eyes. A yawn escaping them and their eyes struggled to open. 

“Why are you in my room?” Tim gave a small huff, “Its dinner time.” Y/N buried their face in their pillow, groaning out a ‘not hungry.’ The young man hummed, “I think you should come down for this one, Y/N. You might get the answers you want.” 

“Not interested.” Tim leaned down, his breath tickling Y/N’s ear, “You’re glass castle is shattering, Y/N. Don’t you want help fixing it?” Y/N wanted to swing. They wanted to do something to get their point across that they wanted almost nothing to do with this crazy family anymore. 

They opted to glare, and Tim gave a soft smile, “C’mon, lets go eat. Besides, Alfred said that the cab won’t be coming for you if you don’t eat dinner.” 

“Alfie!” Y/N groaned into the pillow, and they had stopo themselves from throwing up their arms and legs in a fit. Leave it to Alfred to do something so diabolical. Groaning one more time, Y/N sat up and mentally braced themselves for this shitshow of a dinner. 

E/C eyes looked at the door they know they locked, and chose that whatever little bickerment that will start was not worth it at this point in time. Throwing their legs over the bed, they followed Tim out of the room and towards the dining room. 

Everyone was there, and waiting for Y/N to appear. Once again, they were made to sit between Bruce and Damian, which they did so with little complaint. 

“Now, Y/N, it looks like everyone has some explaining to do.” Y/N gave Bruce the driest most unimpressed face they could muster, to which the man took with a smile, “So, what questions do you want answered?” 

‘They’re really doing this.’ Y/N could feel another headache forming, but decided to take the brightly colored bait. Looking at Jason, who was meeting their gaze with his green eyes waiting for this question, Y/N asked, “What did you mean when you said ‘Bruce sees it too.’” The man smirked, meeting Bruce’s eyes and back to Y/N, “Exactly that. The old man finally sees what you are to this messed up family.” 

Y/N narrowed their gaze, taking a bite of the pasta, and chewing slowly. Dick decided to chime in, “Y/N, you have been loved by us for a while. Something you probably pieced together, but Bruce took a while to see it because… well because you’re not us.” 

“Not like, you’re not Robin, but more like you’re not…” 

“You’re fragile.” Everyone’s head turned to Damian, and Y/N had half the idea to be upset about that. They raised an eyebrow, but before they could say anything Damian continued, “You are not meant for this life we lead. Vigilantism never suited you, and that is something I picked up on when I first came here.” 

When Damian had first met Y/N, it was like seeing a rare flower that had to be protected at all costs. Y/N was something that at the slightest gesture, could be hurt. When people come across something ethereal like that, the need to protect it can be divided into two different directions. 

Hovering or distancing. 

Bruce chose to distance himself, whether he knew it or not, and Damian had followed suit. He watched as his older sibling hovered from a distance, watching the rare flower bloom before it was finally the right time to engage with it. 

“Y/N, it isn’t so much that I didn’t want to interact with you, it is that I didn’t know how.” Bruce looked into his child’s eyes, “How could I interact with someone who needed gentle hands, when there is not a gentle bone in my body.” Bruce’s hands have broken more bones than the human body has. He has scars on his skin and calluses on the palm of his hands. 

“It took me a while to figure out why, but once I did, your absence became suffocating.” Everyone had been gasping for air, doing everything in their power for the slightest piece of oxygen. It was the fear of Y/N being harmed that kept them collared and chained to the photos, every interview, every runway show. 

However, Bruce knows that every now and then, children should be able to spread their wings and fall. Y/N ended up flying, soaring above them and never looking back down. Bruce, and the family, decided to give Y/N a year. Just one on their own. This gave them all plenty of time to improve the glass terrarium that they wanted Y/N to be placed back in. This time they will be protected and paid attention too. 

“When everyone stated that I can finally see the impact you have on this family, it means I have to come to terms with the fact that I no longer want to be hands off with your life and career.” Y/N’s brow furrowed, not liking the term ‘hands off.�� 

“You have done great on your own. A fabulous job. Clawing your way up and making a name for yourself, I am so proud of you. Everyone is extremely proud of you. 

However, there is no need for you to struggle anymore. You’ve proven yourself, now let us take care of the rest.” Y/N felt shivers go down their spine as they stared at their family in fear. They took in each expression, and when they made eye contact with Jason, the other had a daring look in his eyes. Begging for Y/N to do something, similar to how predators hope for their prey to fight back to make the kill all the more interesting. 

“But… But I don’t need your help, Bruce. I can do this on my own.” Bruce’s smile was that of honey, luring in unsuspecting insects and trapping them in its viscous fluid. If Y/N were younger, they may have fallen for it. They may have allowed themselves to coat their fingers in sugary words and sweet gestures, just so they could feel the love from a father. 

“I know. We know, but you don’t need to anymore.” 

“Now wait a minute-no. No no no no. You can’t just do that, explain yourself, and expect me to just roll with it.” Y/N set their napkin down, and tried to stand from the table, “I don’t need your help, although thank you for wanting to I guess. I am fine with it just being me and Maya.” 

“About that…” Dick grimaced, handing Y/N his phone and pulled up was an article. 

Y/N’s eyes widened and the world around them went cold. THey looked back up, “You’re lying.” Dick shook his head, fake empathy across his face as Y/N continued to read the article.

“No. NO this is a joke and a terrible one. Maya would never–” 

“They were found in her apartment, Y/N.” The headlines, eerily similar to ones from five year ago, flashed across the small phone screen. 

Manager of Model Y/N L/N Suspected of Drug Usage

Y/N wanted to cry. Horrible flashbacks resurfacing and tears pricking their eyes. They turned to Bruce who was still sitting and eating his pasta.

“Bruce, please. I know Maya, she would never do this.” The man said nothing. Y/N bit their lip, “Bruce… Bruce please. If its because of what I said then take that out on me. Please leave Maya out of it.

“Please Bruce! I know Maya. She’d never do that, and–and Bruce please.” Y/N was whimpering now, tears streaming down their face as the thought of losing their manager, the last person they had, nearly had them collapsing to their knees. 

“Lets make a deal, Y/N.” Bruce wiped the corner of his lips, and grabbed Y/N’s thin wrist. 

“You come home more often, during breaks and whatnot. I won’t have a lot of control over your modeling schedule, but make sure you include time each week for family. The only exception is when you are out of the country.” Y/N stared at Bruce in confusion, but nodded along. 

“In return, Maya gets out of trouble. Nothing will change other than the weekly meeting with family.”  Y/N can’t breathe. They cannot breathe and there were eyes all on them. Gulping down on whatever air they can get a hold of, Y/N sobbed out, “Why are you going to such lengths?” 

Bruce stood, and even though Y/N is tall, no one compares to Bruce’s towering figure. He smiled down at the model, and cupped a wet cheek with a calloused hand. Ice blue eyes stared into watery E/C eyes, and that smile turned too sharp to not be hidden blade, “I told you. It is too make up for lost time. Plus, as those photos suggest, you need protection. What better protection could you have that is not only part of the family, but also vigilantes?

“While it is true that diamonds are never made without pressure, diamond-encrusted jewlery require gentle hands and patience.” Bruce kissed Y/N’s temple, and the model flinched away. Ice blue met their eyes once more, “Now pick, Y/N. Either way, you will still be meeting us once a week, but you can have someone you know at your side or someone under my command.” 

+++++

“And cut! Good job everyone!” The flashes from the camera stopped and the stage lighting turned off, no longer blinding everyone within the room. Y/N stood up from the red couch, a smile still on their lips as they thanked the photographers. 

“Y/N, as always, perfect shots!” 

“Good job Y/N!” 

“Thank you for doing this, Y/N!” They continued to smile and acknowledge everyone that passed by, Maya right behind as they walked back to the changing room. Sitting on the couch was Jason’s large form and Tim’s lithe one. Both of them looking up as Y/N entered, ignoring Maya’s flinch. 

“You have a birthday gala you need to catch. Come on, change out of that and lets go.” Leave it to Jason to get the message across. Y/N nodded, taking to the changing room where they know their clothes are already waiting for them. They could hear Tim interrogating Maya in the politist way. Clipped words and empty praises. 

“Y/N they came out of nowhere! They stormed in and went straight to a vent where these-these drugs were! I’ve never even seen those there before! Let alone know that there was a vent!” Maya cried into Y/N’s shoulder as Dick and Damian watched on. 

Emerging from the changing room in jeans and a crew neck, Y/N sighed, “Alright, shall we get going?” Jason stood up and Tim shook Maya’s sweaty hand. Y/N gave his manager a nod, signalling for her to take the rest of the day off. Jason’s large hand rested on the small of Y/N’s back, and Tim led the way to the new car that Bruce bought. 

The ride was only two hours, filled with light conversation and catching up. Once at the mansion, Y/N greeted Alfred with a hug. Not as tight as they normally are, but it felt wrong entering the mansion without hugging Alfred. Bruce entered the foyer and grinned, hugging Y/N and kissing their temple. 

“Your clothes are in your room, and there is another present on behalf of Damian and Jason.” Y/N nodded, “Thanks, Bruce.” The man smiled, “Come and eat dinner when you are done. We’ll have enough time before the Gala to at least eat something.” Y/N began walking away, each step up the stairs feeling like there was lead on their feet stopping them from going any further. 

Once in the room, the locked the door and on the bed was a box and black and gold clothing. The black looking like it was made out of silk, and the gold was sequin. Y/N carefully walked towards the box, and when they lifted the lid, a white kitten mewed at them. Their fur still looking young and their eyes bluer than Bruce’s. They mewed and mewed, and Y/N could feel tears streaming down their face. 

In neat cursive and tied around the bow of the box, was a small note, ‘We’ll watch her when you decide to leave the country.’ 

Y/N bit their lip, and felt as if their world was falling a part once more. Broken glass surrounding them and no matter where they stepped, their feet will end up bleeding. Now forced to rely on their family to carry them out of the mess they made, and now… now there was a lifeform that this family can and most likely will use against them.  

Thin fingers gently picked up the cat and gave it a wobbly smile, as she mewed at Y/N. A red collar already around her neck, tied in a perfect bow. 

“Y/N, the makeup artists are here. Are you ready?” Wiping their tears, Y/N set the kitten down and took in the black and gold piece once more. 

“Not yet, but they can come in. I’ll get dressed afterwards.” 

“Alright.” The door opened, despite Y/N locking it, and it was Dick smiling as he let in the two artists who were now scrambling to get set up. Blue eyes traveled from the cat, to the clothes, and back to Y/N. He grinned and stalked closer to his younger sibling that was now being corralled into sitting in front of the makeup artist. 

He picked up the kitten and passed her for Y/N to hold, whispering in their ears, “Happy Birthday, Y/N.” 

______________________________________________________________

Honestly... I really like this series. I think I'm going to do other stories but in the other characters POV now.

[queen-scribbles]

smooth sailing

25. Smooth (pre-WotR; Trinne backstory)

This part of the house was empty now, had been for a few months. Made it a good place to come and think, or just enjoy the quiet. Trinne needed that today. Her thoughts were still a tangle over recent familial developments and if she had to hide in her sister's old rooms to process them, so be it.

She meandered through the practice room, past the sheet-shrouded harp, her fingers trailing the smooth marble-top table by the balcony doors. A breeze ruffled her hair as she opened the doors and stepped out, leaning against the railing. She'd always envied the view Simone had from here, maybe once the weirdness of her being gone had worn off, she could--

"Already plotting to steal my room?"

Trinne flinched, barking her knuckles on the rail as she spun around. "Simone?!"

Her older sister grinned, arms crossed as she leaned against the doorframe, glint of gold and amethyst on her finger. "Miss me, sprout?"

Trinne rolled her eyes. "Told you not to call me that. An' you've barely been gone two months, that's not enough time to miss you."

(Yes, it was.)

"Ow." Simone was still grinning, despite the complaint. "Maybe you missed me a little?"

"Maybe a little," Trinne said, faux-grudging and shaking out her sore knuckles as she crossed to hug her sister. "Did you have a good honeymoon? See anything cool? Most important" --she smiled winningly, arms around Simone's waist-- "did you bring me anything?"

Simone rolled her eyes and laughed. "Funny, that was Vera's chief interest, too. But she's six. Little more understandable than when you're fourteen," she teased, mussing Trinne's hair.

Trinne yelped and ducked back. "Hey, I had other questions, too! It's not the only thing I care about."

"Well, then, in order: yes, I had a good honeymoon, and I don't think you want me to elaborate further, we did see several cool things, but I'd rather tell everyone at the same time. And..." she held out a small velvet pouch that had been curled in her hand until now, "we did get you something."

"Ooo!" Trinne just managed to not snatch the pouch in her excitement, loosening the drawstring to empty the contents, a necklace, into her palm. "It's so pretty!"

The pendent was a dark bluish-grey pebble, flat and polished glass-smooth, almost twice the size of her thumbnail. A delicate silver setting had been carefully mounted on one end to connect it to the chain.

"One of the islands we visited has tidal pools around most of the coast. The ocean coming in and out but being somewhat calmed by the pools wears all the rocks extremely smooth," Simone explained. "And because of the pools, the smaller ones don't always gets washed back out. The locals make them into jewelry. I thought you'd like that, since you enjoy traveling as much as I do."

"I love it, thank you!" Trinne effused, slipping on the necklace. She rubbed the pendent between her fingers, marveling at the silky smoothness, the thready white line that crawled through the center.

"You're welcome. It's supposedly lucky, too," Simone winked. "Safe travels and smooth sailing. Guess you'll have to convince Da to take you on one of his trips to test it out."

She grinned back. "Guess I will. So, how long're you visiting?"

"Rest of the day while our ship resupplies," Simone said, teasing glint in her eyes. "Might spend the night if my little sister doesn't have designs on my bedroom."

"Hey, you can watch the Wittens' peacocks from your balcony," Trinne defended, her neck warming. You caught me.

"You can also hear them from here," Simone deadpanned. "You want to deal with that racket in the barely-tolerable hours of the morning, you can tell Mum and Da to switch our rooms. You have my blessing, sprout."

Trinne bit down the instinctive protest of the nickname and hugged her sister again. "You're the best, Sim. Now," she let go and grabbed Simone's hand to start dragging her out of the room. "I wanna hear about where you went and what you saw, let's get everyone together!"

Once the family was gather, Trinne sat and listened with rapt attention to the recounting of everywhere Simone and her husband had gotten to see, fingers rubbing her new necklace as she hoped she'd get to do the same someday.

[kendrene]

For your mini fic: Ava and Beatrice, things you said in the grass and under the stars

Beatrice leaves Europe all-together, after.

She tries not to. Lingers for a while. Drifts from city to city, country to country, but the sun shines too brightly over Venice's canals and Paris - which Ava had said they should visit together after the war - well, Paris is a haunting.

An ocean later, another landmass crossing, Beatrice hits the West Coast, slowly working her way north where pliant sand gives way to a jagged coastline. Basalt cliffs against which the waves rage. Incessant. Hungry. The sea a low roar in her ears, never too far. Persevering even when she wanders inland, past jasper-studded beaches, and into the woods beyond.

The forests themselves are old, teeming with life both new and rotting. Fog never quite lifts off of the trees, a layer of it, gossamer-thin, persevering even on hotter days.

Beatrice settles down, and grief settles alongside her, the one companion she can tolerate in newfound solitude. It's a worn blanket. A beloved jacket she cannot bear to leave the house without. She grows new habits, easy when all of her days look the same.

She spends a lot of time hiking, getting a feel for the land. Brings books down to the beach to read; in the sun when she can, under a piece of tarpaulin hastily erected in between two trees if it rains.

It nearly always does.

Sometimes Beatrice reads aloud. Imagines it is Ava she is reading to, all the stories and facts about the cosmos Ava didn't have the chance to discover for herself. She reads until her throat is dry and sore. Reads until her voice is drenched in loss, and her heart bleeds for all the things she's lost.

Reads until daylight gives way to the first smattering of stars and the words on the page are blurred by lack of light, perhaps by tears, into a smudge.

The air is wet and salty, whips like the edge of a sharp knife against the soft skin of her cheek. Beatrice packs her book, rolls up the tarpaulin. Picks the now familiar way back in total dark.

She stumbles. Trips over something yielding. Something that snags at her ankles and brings her down to her knees, a rock catching the heel of the hand she throws out to steady herself, cutting open her palm.

It's debris, Beatrice thinks. A large piece of wood. Maybe seaweed.

It is not.

It's a body.

It's Ava. And she's not breathing.

"No. No. No.' Beatrice has prayed, she has begged for Ava to come back but not like this. Not to lose her right away again. "You can't die, please." A sob rips from her, unchecked, even as she turns her over. "I can't lose you again." Beatrice will not think of her as a corpse.

Ava's skin, her lips tinged blue by the frigid waters of the ocean and not divinium. Beatrice's mouth seeking. Ava's tasting of saltwater and the abyssal things that cannot stand to be brought into the light. Ocean waves crashing around them and over. The tide coming in - a bitter, a cold a cruel baptism. Her hands red with the cold and hurting flat to Ava's chest, pushing, pushing while her mind falls into mechanical routines.

"Breathe, goddammit." Bea's own lungs burning, alight with the effort of wrangling life back into another being. "Please Ava don't go."

"Not...going." A cough. Water sputtering down Ava's chin. Her own hand rises weakly, slick around the curve of Beatrice's cheek. Light, molten gold, shearing through the night to wash over them both. "Not going anywhere." Ava's other hand grips Beatrice by a shoulder, tugs her down to sprawl rather inelegantly over her chest. She's not exactly warm, but she's not cold anymore. The Halo brightens to a shine that makes a mockery of dawn. "I'm home."

[separatist-apologist]

Love Is A Lie

Summary: After her mothers death, Arina goes from the well-loved daughter of a nobleman to a servant in his home. She dreams of escaping to the coast and making her own way, and when she learns of a ball the King of Avalon is hosting to pick a wife, Arina sees her chance. With a little help from a fairy godmother, Arina agrees to exchange a favor for one night with the King.

But Eris Vanserra has other plans when they meet, and Arina isn't sure she's ready for the consequences of one night dancing at a ball.

Part Two of OUAT series

Read on AO3

Every morning started with a bell ringing. It was the one modification to Arina’s bedroom she loathed more than any other. Attached to a wire in the wall, her stepmother could ring for her anywhere in the house rather than call for her. Why treat Arina like a person when she could treat her like an animal?

Groaning, Arina pushed herself out of bed. Still exhausted from a night spent up way too late sewing another dress so when she met the King of Avalon a second time, she didn’t look so terrible. His sneering countenance was burned in her mind, his clipped words as he acknowledged her branded like an iron just behind her eyes. He’d been…well…he’d been everything, though she didn’t dare admit that. Even if her father hadn’t given in to her step-mothers ugliest impulses and Arina could have met him on even ground, he wouldn’t have treated her any better.

Why was she thinking about him at all? Maybe because his court was warm and open and the new king was making a name for himself as someone who took in those that had nowhere to go. Arina doubted she’d be welcomed into his home, but perhaps she could beg him for sanctuary so when her father came looking, he couldn’t just drag her right back.

All the girls she’d grown up with were married now, and her family kept her indoors to work off debts Arina had never seen. The dress was necessary to prove she was more than the flea bitten dog her father had paraded her around as. If the king could see her humanity, surely he’d shield her, right?

There was no reprieve for Arina in the mornings. Her step-mother ran her ragged, inventing chores when there was nothing left until night had fallen and Arina ought to sleep. Working by candle light for the last month, she’d begun stitching an intricate pink and gold dress for the upcoming ball. They said the king intended to pick his wife that night, which made it the perfect place for Arina to slip in, convince him or someone close to him to intervene on her behalf before she took off for a coastal city. 

She’d take up work—ideally in a library if she could convince someone of her merit. She’d had to give up schooling almost ten years ago when her father remarried, and Arina, who’d once been a promising scholar, was likely lagging so far behind that no one would want her. She could always try sewing, she reminded herself. 

In truth, Arina would do anything if it meant she never had to step foot in the musty attic she now lived in. No longer a lady, no longer a person. Arina was given no time to think about herself, braiding her thick, blonde hair quickly as she made her way down the stairs in old slippers so worn there were holes where her toes ought to have been, and a dress that desperately needed to be washed.

It would be another midnight bath in the river just behind the house, quickly washing her skin and hair before carefully soaping her dress so it didn’t unspool into thread. Arina shuddered at the thought of the cold, spring water. It was safer out there than in the house, where someone might report back that she’d been wasting water, which was another mark in her impossible ledger. 

Food, too, though that couldn’t be helped. There had been a time where she attempted to forage in the woods for food and all she’d gotten for her trouble was miserably sick—a doctor cost money, too.

Besides, Arina never wanted to hear her step-mother breathlessly praying to the gods that Arina would die. All over Arina’s face—too pretty, too young. As if Arina could help any of those things. She had her fathers blonde hair and his green eyes, but everything else belonged to her mother. Unblemished, golden brown skin, and features arranged so pleasantly that even covered in soot, men still made marriage offers in the street when they saw her.

Arina knew the truth of it all, though. 

Love is a lie, her mother had whispered on her deathbed, clutching Arina’s hand as fever ravaged her frail body. Her parents had been a famous love match according to the society papers—but behind closed doors, her father was cold and cruel. Indifferent at the best of times, vicious at the worst. 

Marriage had done her mother no favors and Arina didn’t believe it would do her any, either. She could have escaped had she taken any of those men up on what they were offering, only to end up exactly as she was. A maid in someone's household, slaving away until she turned to dust. 

No. Her plan was far better. She just needed one dance with the king. Surely she could manage that—it was rumored he would dance with every single lady who attended, and Arina had managed to secure an invitation on her way out of the palace, courtesy of the princess of Ellesmere. That piece of embossed paper was Arina’s most prized possession—if she lost it, her future was ruined. 

“Good morning, mother,” Arina said, stepping into her mothers bed chamber with a silver tray filled with breakfast foods. None of which she’d eat, of course—the woman was constantly worrying about her appearance and fitting into her laced up gowns. It was all for show, a massive, monumental waste that made Arina sick to her stomach.

“You’re late. Lazing in bed again?” she demanded, pushing strands of brunette hair off a still pretty, yet aging face. There was no joy in those brown eyes, no light or warmth that could elevate her into the incandescent beauty she hoped for. Arina didn’t react, hoping to keep bruised from her face this week. Eyes down, Arina murmured a soft apology.

“Make sure you scrub the back flagstones well today. The king is sending one of his most trusted advisors to meet with your father and I will not be embarrassed by your incompetence.”

“Of course,” Arina agreed, heart thudding in her chest. The king wanted to work with her father? That didn’t bode well. Arina betrayed none of her fears, bowing out after breakfast was declared pitiful and unfit for consumption. The day was spent much as it always was. Arina did her regular chores before hauling soapy water outside to scrub the back patio. There was no chance the kings diplomat came out here, and yet Arina didn’t finish until the sun began setting.

Only then did she race to the kitchen to scarf down dinner while the rest of the gossiping staff fell silent. She couldn’t be one of them—she’d been born high above their station, even if now she was made to work among them.

And her father punished them if they tried to help her in any way. She was a liability, and she couldn’t even be angry about it. Arina merely ate over the sink before dashing out the door to bathe herself.

Just as she’d predicted, the water was frigidly cold. Her hair was half frozen by the time she trudged back to the house, draped in a thin sheet for a towel, her dress hung over her arm.

She needed a new one and didn’t want to ask. It would be more money she owed for something just as poor. It also meant she’d have to go to the local dressmaker who looked at her with such pity it made Arina’s stomach burn with humiliation. Once, her mother had taken there to be fitted for fine things.

Now Arina merely asked for the cheapest material possible and sewed it herself. She’d have to sleep by the fire, negating the bath and earning her nickname—Cinders. She smelled like ashes and was too often covered in them, too. She didn’t care. Carefully combing the knots from her hair, Arina dried it the best she could by the fire before turning to her dress. It was so nearly finished—Arina was merely sewing beads she’d been given by a rather nice boy hoping to earn her affection onto her bodice. She wanted to seem presentable, and wanted the dress to look expensive. 

Nice enough to catch the king's eye and make him think she was a nobleman's daughter. Which she was, technically. She’d have four minutes to convince him of her plight before he moved on, and that was the part that held Arina up. She didn’t know what to say to him because part of her—the part that wasn’t so struck by how young and good looking he was—wanted to hit him across the face and ask him how he could let something like this happen in his own kingdom.

Afterall, Arina had heard the rumors about his own abusive, cruel father. Surely he must know how it felt. 

But by the time Arina fell asleep, needle in hand, she wasn’t even sure that was true, either. 

And her plan seemed more foolish than ever. 

Days passed much in the same vein. Arina kept her head down and worked without complaint right up until the diplomat arrived. She’d been instructed not to be seen, to stay out of the common areas and generally not be a nuisance which suited Arina perfectly fine. She had a few coins, and was hoping to haggle a decent deal on a new pair of slippers for her gown. Her dress was long enough to hide her current pair, and something about it seemed wrong. A bad omen, to come in destroyed shoes and nothing to offer the king when she begged him for his assistance. 

“Hello, lady Arina.”

Arina choked down her laugh when the butcher's son stepped onto the cobblestone street. He was filthy, too—bloody, rather than sooty, but the effect was remarkably similar. As far as men went, he wasn’t awful to look at, and he could be terribly kind. He always offered her something to eat when he saw her, and had never made a demand of her.

Though Arina knew what he hoped. 

She smiled at him, heart fluttering when he blinked in response. He really was terribly good looking beneath the grime, with eyes so brown they were nearly black, and the curliest flop of chocolate brown hair.

He had a reputation for being kind, too—she’d heard others talk of how he fed the village beggar, and had once helped a widow and her children obtain room and board for a few nights. There weren’t many people in the world so kind. But Cyrus was. 

“Hi, Cyrus,” she replied, pleased when he fell into step beside her. His hands were in his leather apron, likely trying to hide how messy they were, but Arina didn’t mind. The square was bustling, filled with people buying and selling or just milling about and enjoying the first cool day of Autumn. 

“Are you busy? There’s a new shop just a few blocks up. We could get lunch?”

Arina’s stomach growled before she could say no, and judging from the warm smile on Cyrus’s face, he’d heard it. She ate once a day to minimize what she owed, but Arina was starving—and desperate enough to agree, knowing she was giving him the wrong idea.

He paid, like he always did, offering her a chair just out of the bright sunlight. “I heard the king sent one of his advisors out to meet with your father,” Cyrus began, watching Arina shovel rice in her mouth as quickly as she could. She still needed shoes, and if she was gone too long, someone would tell, and she’d get caught and her shoes taken from her. 

Arina nodded. “Good for business, I suppose.”

Cyrus considered that, eating slower. “My own father is getting sick. He means to give me his business.”

Oh, no. Arina looked up at him, heart thudding for an entirely different reason.

“I ah…I know you probably expect better offers, but…but I was thinking that when my father gives it to me, I might like a wife. You wouldn’t…you wouldn’t need to work so hard. And I have money, so you could run the household. It wouldn’t be anything grand, but there would be food. And you would be safe.”

It was such a generous offer. The sort her mother had wanted her to consider when she died. Love is a lie. Cyrus wasn’t offering love, but security and safety, and it was tempting.

“Cyrus—”

“It’s probably a year off, so there’s time for you to think about it,” he added hastily, clearly not wanting to hear her reject him like she’d done so many others. “We could get to know each other? I don’t expect you to agree, but I think you could like me if you got to know me.”

What did it hurt to tell him yes, she rationalized? Of every offer of marriage Arina had ever been offered, this was certainly the best. Cyrus did have money, and he treated people well. There was no reason to think that wouldn’t extend to his wife, and whatever children they might produce. And sure, she’d be in the same town her father lived in, but she wouldn’t be subjected to his cruelty.

“I think I could agree to that,” she murmured, swallowing the rest of her food. After all—if the king told her no, having a backup plan still ensured her survival. Arina was likely to drown herself if she had to face an uncertain future in her fathers household.

Cyrus’s expression lit up, his smile brilliant. “I’m so glad to hear you say that. I…I’m not well versed in courting, but I will do my best by you.”

“I believe that,” she said, offering him her own smile. It was nice, and perhaps that had to be enough. There was no knight in shining armor coming to save her, after all. No prince to sweep her off her feet, no fairy godmother that was going to rescue her. If Arina wanted out, she’d need to do it herself.

Which meant leaving Cyrus to get her shoes—a soft pair of silver slippers with little beaded flowers on the toes—and rushing back home.

Just in time to find the diplomat on a shining, black horse with a glossy mane. He paused when he saw her, swinging his leg over the saddle to hop in front of her.

Auburn hair, russet brown eyes—he was part of the royal family, she realized. His fine clothes cut of white and red fabric, with that distinctive cape hanging casually over one shoulder betrayed him as such, even if he didn’t wear a crown.

“Lady Arina?” he asked, a smile touching his face. 

What was a Prince of Avalon doing in her home? And how did he know her name?”

“Just Arina,” she blurted, offering a deep curtsey. There was no way her step-mother wasn’t seeing this. Arina’s stomach dropped. She was going to lose her shoes. 

“I’m Connal, Prince of this territory,” he said, offering her his own bow before reaching with a gold ringed finger into his jacket to procure a stunning invitation she’d seen before. “This is for you. The king has instructed all eligible ladies receive an invitation to the ball in two days' time.”

“Oh…I don’t think—”

“That includes you,” Connall said firmly, pushing the invitation into her hands. Arina didn’t dare admit she already had one. “I’ve told your father, but he had no idea where you were.”

“I was…out…” she admitted lamely. Connall smiled, handsome in an elegant kind of way. Almost as good looking as his older brother, even. 

“I expect to see you there,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hand like she was some great lady. Arina’s heart banged against her ribs as he straddled his steed. Connall offered her one last look, winking even, before he took off down the road. 

Arina watched, dumbstruck for a moment. He’d just…openly defied her father and was going to get away with it because he was a prince. Arina scurried around the house, hiding her shoes in a tree to keep them from being snatched before she made her way up the back lawn and into the home.

And as predicted, she was immediately accosted by her step-mother, who ripped the invitation from her hands. “This is ridiculous,” he breathed, hands all but trembling as she stared at the heavy, embossed paper. “You! At a ball! What will you do, serve the king drinks?”

“The prince said my presence was expected,” Arina replied defensively, fisting her dress in her hands to keep from trying to grab the invitation back. 

“And what, pray tell, will you wear? That dress isn’t fit for the kitchens, let alone the great Forest Palace.”

“I could find a dress,” Arina said, jutting her chin in the air. “And if I did, would you let me go?”

“And if you finish all your chores,” her step-mother conceded, thrusting the invitation back into her hands. It was slightly rumpled, but good enough. 

“I will,” Arina said, determined she would, all the while knowing her parents were going to try and make it utterly impossible. But she would, and she’d wear her dress and her shoes and march up to King Eris Vanserra and convince him that it made more sense to free her of her parents than it did to work with her father. Surely, their family name was old, but there was little money left to back it up.

All her family really had was tradition. 

Arina worked harder those next two days than she’d ever worked in her life. Every waking minute was plagued by that awful bell and the most absurd chores—Arina was made to wash gutters and windows, to get on the roof and into the crawl space. She dusted and mopped and scrubbed until her nails bled. 

And at night, she put the finishing touches on her dress, staying awake until she was so exhausted she passed out with a needle in her hand. Arina even risked owing more by bathing in the house so she wouldn’t have to worry about mud beneath her toes or smelling like river water. She was practically vibrating when everything was done and she could dress herself with a mere twenty minutes to spare. She wouldn’t be the most elegant woman, of course, nor the most fashionable but she was passably decent and most importantly, pretty.

Too pretty, she realized when she made her way down the stairs. Her father paused, eyes wide when he took her in. “You look like your mother,” he blurted out.

It was the wrong thing to say. Her step-mother, clad in rather pretty yellow, strode forward and ripped at Arina’s sleeve. “Where did you get these beads? Are these mine?”

“Don’t—no!” Arina cried, but the damage was done. Her sleeve hung pathetically and the shimmering, clay beads clattered to the stone floor loudly, bouncing in every direction. It would take her forever to find them. 

“You’re a little thief,” her step mother continued, ripping the fabric of her skirt again. The sound of tearing sliced through the air, filling Arina with dread. She jerked back, but another rip saw the rest of the pretty satin shred to the floor like an awful train. Too late, she realized, that she was never going to be permitted to go. 

Her step-mother smiled. “You’re a disgrace. Clean yourself up…and clean up this mess.”

Arina looked at her father foolishly, wishing he’d say something. His expression was hard and unforgiving and when he turned his back to her, boots crunching her beads into the grout, Arina couldn’t take it.

This was misery. A sob escaped her throat as she turned and fled out of the house, ignoring her step-mothers peal of laughter or the looks of pity on their faces. Arina couldn’t stop, racing over the grounds into the cool air, though half the time she stepped on the tatters of her dress which only served to ruin it more.

Months of work, ruined. And for what? Jealousy?

“It’s not fair!” she sobbed into the night, falling to her knees in the little wooded area that separated her home from the river. “I did everything she asked me to…it’s not fair.”

Pulling her knees to her chin, Arina buried her face to sob. She was never going to escape. The king probably would have said no anyway, but maybe something else would have opened up for her. Or maybe he would have said no, but he would have been kind and she would have found strength in that. She could have gone home and waited for Cyrus—another thing her family was sure to ruin.

And she’d die here, because Arina couldn’t take it. 

“I’ll do anything–”

“Anything?” A melodic voice murmured. Arina looked up, surprised to see a rather lovely, older woman standing in front of her. Her blue dress skimmed the ground while beetle black eyes watched her gulp down air in a pathetic attempt to catch her breath. She crouched, grazing sharp, blood-red nails over Arina’s cheek. “You’re a beautiful little thing, aren’t you, sweetheart? Why are you crying?”

Sniffling, and feeling quite pathetic, Arina said, “I was supposed to go to a ball.”

“Of course you were,” this stranger replied, picking up one of the pink, tattered pieces of Arina’s dress. “Where else would a girl like you be headed?”

“I can’t anymore,” Arina whispered, swallowing hard. “Not like this.”

“No,” the stranger agreed, dropping her dress distastefully. “How about a deal, sweet girl? In exchange for my assistance…you’d owe me a favor.”

Arina blinked, wiping her eyes on her elbow. “A favor? What kind of favor?”

The woman waved her hand. “Oh, nothing of consequence. Something small and easily accomplished…perhaps I’ll ask you to help me cross the street one day…or maybe I’ll need a bed to sleep in.”

That seemed reasonable enough. Swallowing, her heart racing, Arina asked, “And…and you’d help me get to the palace?”

She smiled. “I would do so much more than that. Stand up, sweetheart. Let me take a look at you.”

Rising to her feet, Arina let this woman circle her. She touched Arina’s shoulder, her hair, and her dress before standing before her again. “Do we have a deal? One night at the palace, where you’ll dance your heart out in exchange for a favor of my choosing in the future?”

What did Arina have to lose? This was her only shot out. Arina accepted the strangers hand, thinking she would feel something binding them together. Some string, some touch of magic. There was nothing but a rather sharp breeze, rustling the treetops over head and cooling her overheated skin.

The woman smiled. “Excellent.”

That was the only warning Arina was given before the woman snapped her fingers. She felt it, though, that time. Something warm touching her skin, drying the mud and salt from her face and transforming her once ruined dress into something beautiful. Arina could see, even in the dark, the gown was a soft, silvery blue color, beaded through the bodice and over the full skirts so it sparkled like stars. Cape sleeves fluttered in the breeze while her hair pulled itself off her face of its own accord. When she went to touch the heavy weight sitting atop her head, she found herself touching a jeweled headband. Her ruined, muddied shoes had been replaced, too, and when Arina lifted her skirts, she found pure, glass slippers conforming against her feet.  

Arina looked at the woman, head cocked as she examined her handiwork. Another snap saw a choker at her throat and earring dangling from her lobes.

“Perfect,” she murmured, smiling broadly. “One night—that ends at midnight. That’s all you get.”

“What happens at midnight?” Arina asked, her heart thundering in her chest. 

“You go back to the girl you were when I found you. What you do after that is up to you. But magic can’t last forever, beautiful as it looks on you. Be mindful of the time.”

“I will,” Arina promised. She only needed five minutes of the king's time. 

Arina intended to be long gone by the time midnight struck.

ERIS:

Drumming his fingers against the table, Eris considered for the millionth time calling the whole absurd ball off. Beside him, Elain Archeron watched with narrowed eyes, waiting to pounce. This whole ball had been borne in her overactive imagination.

I want to see you settled, Eris. Happy. 

Power made him happy. His father, six feet in the ground, made him happy. Hell, having her and his brother around made him happy. A wife wasn’t going to give him anything he didn’t have except for an heir. Which, he supposed, would be a useful thing to secure. One son from one of the many society women hardly seemed like a big ask. And it wasn’t as if there wasn’t interest. Every lady Elain had sent invitations to had responded yes.

Well—all but one.

“You’re going,” Elain interrupted, unaware of the slant of his thoughts. “You’re going to dance and you’ll be charming and then at the end of the week you’ll announce your new wife…assuming, of course, you don’t pick one on the spot.”

“Do I look like Lucien?” he snapped. He’d heard the tale of Elain and Lucien—and how his ridiculous, overly romantic brother had fallen in love with Elain on the spot. Rather than carve out her heart, he’d protected her and was rewarded in the end with the only good wife in the world. 

“No, you certainly don’t,” Elain replied crisply. She put a hand on her stomach, an obnoxious gesture meant to remind him that she was doing what was expected of a royal woman married to a prince. Even if that bump was so tiny it was easily concealed in her skirts, it was still there. Mocking him for not doing the same. “If you wait too long, perhaps I might begin harassing

Lucien into challenging you for the throne.”

Eris sighed, exasperated. “I’m dressed, aren’t I? Why don’t you select my wife, since you’re so determined to have a friend at court.”

Elain’s eyes gleamed. “Don’t tease me, Eris. You know I would love nothing more.”

A servant slipped into the little alcove Elain and Eris were hiding in to inform him guests had begun to arrive. Eris still had time. He wasn’t expected for another forty five minutes, which meant he could sulk privately in his absurd white get up Elain had foisted upon him, insisting he looked like the prince of every ladies dreams. His red cape hung lazily over one shoulder, threaded by a gold chain across his chest while his medals of valor were pinned so everyone knew he could slay whoever crossed him with ease.

It was all ridiculous. How was he supposed to pick a wife in the five minutes it took to dance? With each passing second, Eris felt his anxiety spike until his temper threatened to spill all over himself and Elain. It was only her, reaching across the table for his hand, that settled Eris.

“If you hate every lady at the ball, you don’t need to force yourself to choose one. We can reach out to other kingdoms, even across the sea. There is someone who will interest you, this I promise.”

“Yes, true love, I have heard this all before,” he grumbled, but still Eris squeezed back. “Let's get this over with, shall we?”

“Let's find you a wife,” Elain agreed. 

Only, Elain didn’t stick around to help him. Eris was announced to ridiculous applause in a room filled with women and their mothers and fathers, all hoping to secure a match for their children. Eris couldn’t recall the last time the ballroom had been so filled. A quartet played while hanging chandeliers threw twinkling lights over the white and black checkered floors. Everyone looked more lovely, and somehow exactly the same. Had they all conspired to order the exact same style of dress in varying colors? The same hairstyle piled atop their heads, and lips rouged to death. 

The first dance was a misery. “Sire,” the girl breathed, lowering her eyes and thrusting her breasts forward. A passing servant was handing out champagne and Eris was tempted to down a crystal flute before continuing any further. 

He took her hand, unable to care about her nice breasts or her mostly pleasing face. In his head, he could hear Elain urging him to at least feign interest. Ask her about her interests.

“Tell me, lady. How do you occupy yourself?” he asked, sweeping into the first steps of the evening. The woman in question, who had probably told her his name though Eris wasn’t listening, immediately began rattling off a list of the most boring hobbies he’d ever heard. Strolling through gardens? Was that an actual hobby?

As it turned out, it was the hobby of every woman he danced with in that first hour. Along with needle point and piano playing, which was also highly popular. Every woman who brought it up offered to play something for him privately. Eris wasn’t tempted, though he knew if he took them up on it, he was likely to at least get his cock wet. 

Sullying a lords daughter seemed the surest way to get stuck in a marriage he didn’t want with a lady he didn’t even get to choose. 

Elain was polite enough to at least rescue him after his eighth dance. “You look like you’re at a funeral, Eris.”

“Forgive me for being bored. How come you don’t play piano?”

Elain snorted. “Oh, I do, Eris. All well-bred ladies do.”

“And do you play for my brother?” he demanded.

A wicked smile spread over her beautiful face. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to. What if we…”

Eris turned his head to see what had caught Elain’s attention. The room itself was hushing to whispers, all looking toward the steps leading down to the ballroom. A last minute arrival stood at the very top, surveying the room like a queen. 

“It’s her,” he murmured, drinking in the pale, blue dress cut against her body and all that thick, blonde hair half pulled off her face while the rest was left to cascade down her shoulders. She didn’t look like the other women, in their comfortable, safe gowns and their matching hairstyles. She looked like an individual person—though, in truth, it wouldn’t have mattered if she had come looking exactly like everyone else.

Connall’s invitation had arrived, then. 

Ignoring everyone else, Eris strode across the room to wait for her to make her way down the stairs. Eris extended one gloved hand which she accepted with a blink of hesitation. But she was here—and just as beautiful as he remembered.

It was those green eyes, he decided. Still gazing upon him with familiar derision, as though she found him and everything about his ball, beneath her.

“Lady,” Eris murmured, bowing ever so slightly. “You made it.”

She curtseyed. “I—were you expecting me?”

“Hoping,” he admitted, leading her toward the dance floor. “You never sent word that you would come.”

“I…wasn’t sure I would,” she said, eyes darting around the room. Was she looking for her father? He had been chatting with other lords while his wife flitted about, gossiping over this and that while speculating who the prince might choose. Eris didn’t understand them—their daughter was beautiful and Eris had requested her attendance personally. Any other parents would have leapt at that kind of attention.

But what did he expect from a man who’d made his daughter little more than his personal servant? 

“You’re here now…”

“Arina,” she said, finally looking up at him. 

Arina. Eris could practically feel Elain’s smug gaze burning the back of his neck and he couldn’t bring himself to care. So what if Elain was right? Stupidly, Eris replied, “I’m Eris.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “I know. Everyone knows that.”

Right. Eris’s feet moved of their own accord, forgetting he had an audience. She swallowed, fingers digging against his shoulder as though she needed strength. “I came to ask you for a favor.”

Eris’s heart leapt into his throat. “A favor?” he asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. Was it wrong he half hoped her favor was marriage? That she’d come to ask for his hand, of which he might very well give her on the spot? That was insane—Elain had said he had a week to decide. He could spend the night dancing with her and perhaps in the morning try and lure her into his bed and see if they were compatible in the way that mattered most to him. Maybe give her a tour of the fucking garden everyone was so desperate to stroll around.

Hell, he’d even listen to her play piano if she offered. 

“My father,” she began with a heavy breath, dashing all his hops just as quickly as they’d emerged. “I…I still live with him.”

“Most unmarried ladies do, to my knowledge,” Eris replied. Arina bit her bottom lip while Eris fought the urge to trace it with his tongue. Instead, he pulled her a little closer, the hand on her waist too tight to be considered polite. 

“I don’t want to anymore. I’ve come to beg for your permission to leave his household.” Her eyes held such defiance in them, as if to dare him to say no. 

“You’d ask me to defy one of the nobles in my court so you can…?” Eris prayed it wasn’t to marry another man. He’d have to kill him, which was unlikely to engender the sort of warm, romantic feelings he was hoping for. 

“Live freely,” she all but whispered, eyes glazing over. “On my own terms.”

There was absolutely no way Eris intended to grant her this. At least, not how she imagined. He was decided, in that moment, that he’d make her his wife. Arina could have his whole country to roam as she pleased, his household to boss around, and maybe even expel her father from court, if it pleased her. 

“And here I was, thinking you came for a husband.”

Arina’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t—I mean—I don’t presume to think—”

“Why not?” he murmured, lowering his mouth so his lips brushed her ear. “Everyone else does.”

The song was ending, which meant his time with her was, too. Already she was pulling back, eyes pleading for him to make a choice. 

“Walk with me,” he said, reluctantly releasing his hold on her body to offer her his arm. “Tell me more about this plan of yours so I can make an informed decision.” It was a flimsy excuse to spend more time with her. Eris ignored the sounds of someone shrieking loudly from somewhere in the room, hushed into silence by another guest he didn’t care about. Arina watched, though, trying to pull away.

“You should—”

“Walk with me,” he said again, this time with more authority. She couldn’t deny him, though her spine straightened ever so slightly.

“Of course, my lord.”

Gods, he wanted her. Eris didn’t bother to hide his smile, leading her back through the crowd toward the open veranda that led into the garden. He’d have privacy here, thanks to Elain and her green thumb and determination to remake the palace in her own image. Paved pathways were illuminated by pretty string lights hung overhead, making it easy to see Arina even in the dark. Eris couldn’t drag his eyes off her—she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Arina's gown sparkled like stars, making it seem as though her warm, golden skin was glowing. Maybe it was. Eris would have believed there was some kind of magic clinging to her, creating some kind of spell between them. 

And she was trying to leave him.

“What would it take to convince you?” she asked just as soon as the music from the ballroom faded and only the sound of noisy crickets remained.

“A great deal, I’m afraid,” Eris replied, surprised that she didn’t immediately understand what he was after. 

“I’ll do anything,” she said, desperation coating her words.

“A dangerous thing to offer a man you don’t know. We’re alone,” he reminded her. Arina didn’t flinch back, nor did she seem surprised.

“Surely you can have that anytime you like. Snap your fingers and half the ladies in that ballroom would unlace their underthings for you.”

“Would you?”

“If you snapped your fingers? No, I don’t think I would. But I will if that’s what you want in exchange for freedom,” she said, that pretty defiance returning to her features. The sight made Eris feel breathless, made him practically mad with desire. He wanted to kiss her and see what she tasted like.

He wanted to feel her fingers dig against his shoulder as he moved against her, chest to chest, burning with pleasure. 

“If you’re going to disrobe for me, I’d prefer you did it of your own accord,” he admitted. 

Arina sighed. “Do you mean to tease me, then? Tell me what you want—”

“I want a wife,” he lied. He didn’t, not truly. But he wanted her, and with the clock ticking in his head, he knew he’d either secure her or she’d slip through his fingers and he’d never see her again. “What if I promised you freedom, in exchange—”

“For a crown?” Arina asked, halting just in front of Elain’s swaying sunflowers. They were at least as tall as Arina, though not half as beautiful. It was tempting to push past the pretty rock border and take her in the grass where no one would see them. Eris resisted the urge to adjust his cock, half hard at the mere thought. 

“That sounds like a shackle, to me.”

Eris blinked. “It is, sometimes.”

“Why would I want that?”

“Everyone wants it,” he replied, genuinely unsure what else to say. 

“Then pick someone else,” she said, stepping toward him. She didn’t hesitate to press her palm against his chest, eyes pleading as she added, “Let me leave. Tonight.”

“Kiss me.” Eris curled his fingers around her wrist, pulling her closer. “Kiss me, first. I just…I need to know.”

“And you’ll let me go?” she asked. Eris shook his head no, even as he began lowering his face toward hers. 

“I’m not promising that,” he replied. “I could give you anything you asked for.”

Arina was staring at his mouth. “I don’t want it. Please, your majesty—”

“Eris,” he interrupted, lips ghosting her own. “Call me Eris.”

“Eris,” she whispered. That was enough. He kissed her, one hand on her waist, the other holding her jaw. The soft, sweetness of her skin slammed into him, filling his senses with the scent of vanilla and lime. Her hand on his jacket fisted against her lapel, drawing him closer still so Eris could deepen the kiss.

He was greedy, tongue sliding against the seam of her mouth. Gasping, Arina yielded and Eris swept inside with a groan. He was decided, right then and there. Nothing else mattered, nor did he care about what she’d come for. Eris was going to make her his wife and would prove she could have the freedom she craved while he got the woman he wanted. 

“Arina,” he whispered, arm snaking around her body. “Trust me.”

“I—” The chiming of the clock nearby drew a frightened cry from Arina’s lips. Ashen with fear, she slipped from his grasp. “Say you’ll help me,” she demanded, gathering her skirts in her hands. “Say it.” “I’m not letting you go,” he replied, taking a step toward him. Behind them, the bell tolled again.

Arina let out a quiet scream of frustration. “Take what I’m offering.” “I—” A third ring saw her bolt, running from the garden so quickly one of her slippers came off her foot. She didn’t stop, leaving Eris to snatch it from the ground. Still warm, and made of glass.

“Wait!” he yelled, chasing after her. “Stop her!” 

His guards were too slow, letting Arina slip back into the ballroom before she could be apprehended. If he lost her here, Eris knew he’d never see her again. She wouldn’t risk going home, and though he could scour his kingdom in search of her, it was vast, and he couldn’t risk his seat by picking through every nook and cranny. 

She’d made it up the steps and through the doors by the time Eris caught sight of her again. “Stop that woman!” he yelled a second time, his voice cutting through the chatter and music. Everyone went quiet as Eris added, “That’s my wife.”

He didn’t stop, though some part of him thought he was making a rather big fool of himself. Of course he’d want the only woman in the world who didn’t want him back. Elain was going to have such a laugh when he explained all this later.

Eris caught Arina in the drive, her pretty dress gone—replaced, strangely, with a ripped pink gown that likely had been beautiful once. Tears streamed down that pretty face of hers, her hair tumbling like a halo of gold. He'd worry about the strangeness of her appearance later. All that mattered was she was still here.

“Please,” she whispered, whipping around when his fingers curled around her arm. Eris didn’t respond, bending on one knee not so he could propose, but to put her shoe back on her foot. Arina shuddered when he pushed the hem of her dress up over her ankle, noting she’d cut her sole and was bleeding. 

He stood, sweeping her into his arms with ease. 

“I’m sorry, princess,” he murmured as she wept miserably against his chest.

But Eris wasn’t sorry at all. 

Only relieved he still had her.

[californiaboytoybilly]

Eye Candy - pt one

Steve and Robin move to a big city on the coast after Robin graduates from her college classes with a degree in the arts.

It’s an impulsive decision, like many of theirs are. The kids are leaving for college, they’ve been fired from their jobs- Steve publicly chewed out a customer who made a gross comment about Robin’s chest- and neither of them particularly want to keep staying in their childhood homes still in their early twenties.

So they pick a city, cram their combined belongings into a car, and spend the better part of a few days slowly driving across country.

It takes a while because Steve insists on stopping at multiple cheesy landmarks on the way, much to Robin’s theatric dismay.

But they get there and they settle in and they… love it. They find an industrial style apartment that they can see the water from- over a handful of other brick buildings, anyway- and get new jobs at a musical diner. Turns out they can both sing, and Steve looks great in his tiny red shorts and rollerblades.

They spend their mornings arguing over what shape is superior to cook batter in (Robin is team waffle, Steve is team pancake) and giggling over the celebrity gossip section like teen girls. More often than not, they end up crashing in Robin’s bed at night even though they have separate bedrooms. It’s wonderful.

But one night, they are so incredibly bored.

They get all dressed up just to pass the time, doing little model walks out to the living room, striking poses, taking goofy pictures to cover the walls in. The outfits turn out honestly kind of great and it feels like a waste not to go anywhere. So they do.

The original plan was to go to this queer club they found in their first week here, the entrance to which was. hidden inside the dry storage room of an Italian restaurant. However, they take a detour through the rich neighborhoods to ogle the stupidly big houses they couldn’t afford even with twenty pooled years of diner salary, making fun of the absurdly shaped topiaries and obnoxiously shiny cars that made Steve’s look like a junk heap.

That’s when they get a reckless idea.

One of the houses a little separate from the others is a mansion with music thrumming from inside and flashing colourful lights, with a guard dressed in all black standing at the front door.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

They blurted at the same time, slowing the car to a stop.

Minutes later, Steve strolled down the long, perfectly even paving stones set into the emerald lawn with an updated, adult version of his signature King Steve ‘I belong everywhere I show up’ face.

He was dressed in a loose silk shirt and dark wash jeans, hazel eyes rimmed in kohl and hair artfully messed on top of his head. Robin had caved into his suggestions earlier, dressed in an eggshell bustier- that she kept awkwardly adjusting where it dug into her side- and black slacks with gold buttons up the legs.

They don’t look underdressed for the place, at least.

Steve gets stopped by the guard almost immediately and asked for his name, and Robin starts to sweat. She’s ready to apologize and say they must have accidentally come to the wrong place.

But Steve just scoffs, hand on his hip, with a righteously offended look on his face. “Excuse me?” He asks, tone dripping false condescension. “Are you seriously asking who I am?”

The guard looks nervous, immediately shuffling with his papers presumably carrying the guest list. A vein throbs in his temple and he flits his gaze between Robin and Steve in their dressy clothes and the door behind him.

What kind of people were at this party that the guard was that nervous about not recognizing someone?

The guard glances subtly at the list again and Robin can see there are only two names not checked off the list.

“No, sir. Of course I recognize you…” The guard trails awkwardly as he lies, “trick of the light, couldn’t see your face before. Come on in, my apologies.”

He checks off both names on the list, without asking again.

That worked?

Robin gave Steve a baffled side eye as they entered the house, to which he simply shrugged.

“My mother always said to pretend I belonged anywhere I went with conviction. She said people would wittle out a spare chair for me with a spoon rather than admit they don’t know why I’m there.”

Robin snorted. “Rich people.”

Steve just barely resisted the urge to elbow her in the ribs. “At least if I was still rich, we wouldn’t have wrestled over the last banana this morning.”

But then he paused, eyes taking in the other scattered guests.

“Hey uh… is it just me or is everyone here-“

“Insanely hot?” Robin finished his sentence, sticking close to his side as she looked around. “Steve where the hell are we?”

Steve didn’t have an answer for her, scanning the crowd of ridiculously attractive people in expensive outfits, mingling and dancing to the music playing from a speaker he couldn’t find in the massive, open concept first floor.

He didn’t get long to try and figure it out, however.

A low, faintly amused voice chimed in from a few feet away. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” The mystery person answered Robin’s query as Steve spun to face them, pulse spiking.

“I certainly would remember a face like that, especially since I made the guest list. So my return question is… how did you get into my house?”

[uhhhhmanda]

Happy WIP Wednesday! Here's a snippet from my as-yet-unnamed fic where Gaon ends up recuperating in the Kang mansion because he crashed his bike racing Yohan's Corvette (rather than due to the exploding painting).

Wandering the house again Gaon overheard a conversation between the chief judge and his niece. Their communication style was unexpected. “You need to wash him.” “I thought the cat was a girl.” “Not the cat. The boy.” “He’s almost 30. He’s not a boy.” “Well, he stinks.” “So stay away from him. He has an open wound on his back. It’s not easy for him to bathe.” “So do it for him.” “Is this a fantasy for you or a punishment for me?” This was followed by the sound of something being thrown, a dull thud, and a chuckle from the Chief. Gaon peeked around the corner. The coast was clear. “Chief,” he hissed. Kang Yohan looked extremely amused to find the subject of his conversation hiding behind a pillar. “If you could lend me yet another change of clothes I’d actually love to try to shower. I’m not dizzy at all today.” The chief judge motioned for Gaon to follow him and led him through the central room with the desk, through a bedroom smaller than the one he’d been assigned, and into a walk-in closet so extravagant that it had motion-sensing glass doors and an illuminated island. It was a dressing room, Gaon realized. This man had a dressing room. From various drawers and cupboards Kang Yohan assembled another outfit of soft clothes for Gaon: another collarless shirt, loose pants, socks, a cardigan, boxer briefs. Oh, god, I am wearing my boss’s underwear, even. Kang Yohan seemed delighted by the task. At least, Gaon hoped that was what was making the chief judge so animated and smiley — and not his own rising blush. “I can help, if you like,” said Kang Yohan. The close quarters made his voice resonate. “What?” blurted Gaon. Kang Yohan’s mouth curled into an almost vicious smile. “I could tape some plastic wrap over your bandage to keep it dry.” “Ohhhh. Um. Sure. Yes. That would be helpful. Um. Thank you.” Gaon followed Kang Yohan again to the kitchen and then his desk, clutching his change of clothes to his chest. At the desk the chief gestured at Gaon with a little pair of gold scissors. “Chief?” “Shirt.” “Off?” “Yes.” “Here?” “Why not?” “Your niece —” “Has seen worse.” “I would really rather — in my room — if you don’t mind.” Kang Yohan shrugged and led the way again, scissors, plastic wrap, and tape in hand. In the shower, it occurred to Gaon that Kang Yohan had almost certainly seen him naked. Someone had dressed him while he was unconscious and he doesn’t think it had been Elijah or the nanny. And it would have been strange enough to know his boss had seen him naked — but this boss was someone Gaon had had sexual fantasies about. And he was apparently at least a little bit of a sadist, judging by the way Gaon found him lurking outside the bathroom, waiting for him to emerge so that he could tear off the tape he’d meticulously applied in one swift, searing rip that left Gaon gasping.

[the-kr8tor]

WHAT A COMPLIMENT OMG- CALLING ME IRL PIRATE HOBIE? DONT GIVE ME AN EGO KATY I AINT THAT GREAT Daily Hobie HC! If we can have fae hobie we can hobie thats a literal dragon okay hush Hobie likes watching you tell the story of how you two met, always going along the lines of the typical soldiering on into a deep dark cave with treasure and other shiny things, guarded by a big scary dragon.. When in reality it was far from that. Hobie was just laying along the coast of a beach when you found him, looking pretty peaceful in the shallows as he looked at the seashells that were washed upon the shore at night. He wasn't a fairly large, towering dragon, just towering over you, but still daunting. I mean, it's a creature infamous for being..well, 'evil', as some would say, yet here he was looking like a dork as he waddled awkwardly on the sand. His wings, instead of being batlike, were covered with shimmering feathers, and more frill-like spikes than anything. He had piercings and a few spiked, hand(claw?) crafted accessories on him. His tail flicked from side to side as he huffed at the sand in between his talons, still unaware as you snuck up behind him. The moment he heard your soft breathing, he looked straight at you, meeting your gaze abruptly. Surprisingly, you weren't as terrified as he thought you'd be. You were still obviously scared, but mesmerized by the way his frills bounced so expressively with every movement, even flaring out in irritation at times when sand would get uncomfortable between his claws. Hobie was cautious around you, opting for a small hello, and moving on. He watched you as you sat down, simply observing him. Hobie figured you were still just shocked, so he didn't care much that you were watching. In fact, he might've thought the extra attention was amusing more than anything. Eventually, you came up to him again, holding a good amount of gorgeous shells you found for him. With a goofy, toothy grin, he holds out a small leather bag, filled to the brim with shells. You watch as Hobie's frills flattened back as you laugh, finding it oddly contagious as he tries to keep his composure..however, he manages to let a few giggles slip as you try to shove the shells you found into the overflowing bag. After that incident, you've found him flying to your place, which he somehow found, more often. He'll usually gift you little trinkets, or just ask to hang out if you're free. Funnily enough, when you invited him in, he was able to fit in the house, despite being a pretty decent-sized dragon. Eventually, Hobie just became something of the house as time went on, and the two of you got close. You'd lay against him instead of the couch while watching some boring rom-com that has him huffing and puffing all over the place, yet still trying to be quiet since he's letting you sleep under the warmth of his wing. At this point, Hobie's joking around about how you've been using him more as a bed than your own..however, whenever you try sleeping on your own bed, Hobie lays his head on your chest like a dog, blowing air on your face until you come use him as a bed because he claims to be better. (He is) -🐦‍⬛

HAHAHHAHAHHA you kinda are! Bc you play a pirate on stage and you literally spar with a sword!

Daily Hobie hc!!

AHHHHHHHHH!!!!! CUTIES!!!! He's like a giant cat but with wings and talons!!

I imagine his scales/frills changing too depending on his mood! Oh his eyes would look so amazing too!!! Like a bit of gold and red 😍

Ooohh imagine he can turn smaller if he wants to and you always find him in your cupboards resting inside a teapot or a bowl!! Also also when he particularly wants to be near you in that form he'll curl himself around your neck, draping himself on your shoulders or even weaving himself around your wrist while resting his face on your palm!!

[yellowocaballero]

milagro!!! i LOVE GL!milagro stuff. is guy still the first GL she meets? i am v curious what his story (and john’s) ends up looking like in this au in general, but my first exposure to him was in jaime’s bb run so i’m hoping that pseudo mentorship still exists here somehow

IS!! THAT!! A GIANT!! GREEN!! FIST!!

Green Lantern Milagro is the most god-tier take and we need to return to it. My "Kyle rebuilds the GLC to be woke and Milagro is the most feral Lantern" idea is actually super old - I think it's in the Reverse Robins Universe, in some unpublished stories - but it's still good. Let the furries make the judicial system. Do it. Let them free.

Let's say:

Guy Gardner was the second Green Lantern on Earth. Everything that Hal was, Guy is not. He's a hothead, meathead, go-getting action hero wannabe who has to be the biggest, the best, and the strongest. He's abrasive, selfish, mean, and short-sighted.

Guy Gardner is exactly like Hal Jordan: an All-American hero, angry and rude in a way that his colleague John Stewart could never get away with. He's part of the NRA and thinks Trump has some points. Too wimpy to make a good President, though. Give him a President who can last five minutes in the ring with Guy Gardner!

Despite his differences with the more professional and cool-headed Hal, he was shocked and horrified at Coast City's destruction. Where other heroes expressed sympathies and turned away in discomfort with his overwhelming pain, Guy stayed with him. He doesn't like to spread it around, but he's a registered school councilor - doubled with his middle school gym teacher thing - and he stayed at Hal's side through his grief as long as Hal let him.

When Hal disappeared, Guy was the one who knew in his heart that he had killed himself. He had been expecting it.

He had not been expecting his ring to break.

Guy loses it all. His power, his respect. He can't go back to who he used to be. He's not a gym teacher or school counselor anymore. He's Guy Gardner. You can't ask Guy Gardner to be a civvie.

The only thing he keeps is his Justice League International membership. He wanted to quit, but his friends (family, but none of them would admit it) needed him to stay. They had already lost the second Blue Beetle so recently, and they can't lose anybody else. Booster Gold's grieving his husband too. In that way, in some way, Guy's still needed. Guy has to be needed. But Guy has to be a hero too, and he feels like he's dying slowly by degrees in powerlessness.

Then Booster calls the JLI, drunk as a skunk and deep in a panic, saying that there's this kid in El Paso running around with Dan Garret's scarab in his SPINE, how did this even HAPPEN, how did he get it WORKING, where the hell is TED - Ted's dead, he's still dead, what the FUCK do we do, he's a baby he's gonna DIE TOO, everyone's gonna DIE -

A gym teacher and licensed counselor knocks on he door of a house in El Paso.

Booster was right. Jaime Reyes is a snot-nosed kid who's getting his ass kicked up and down to Sunday in every fight, and either he's gonna get himself killed or he's gonna blow up the city. Nobody else but the JLI ever gave a shit about Ted, and nobody's gonna give a shit about this kid with an orphaned legacy. He needs a personal trainer and mentor and he needs one right now. Jaime Reyes needs a hero, even a washed up old asshole like Guy Gardner.

And his little sister throws a heck of a punch. Oh, Guy is keeping Milagro. She's learning boxing!

An asshole, shallow kid enters the scene. A new ring appears. The last Green Lantern disappears to find the truth. Guy leads his own life. It's not like his old one, but it's good. That kid Jaime's become a good hero, and his little sister is the coolest kid on the planet. A Trumper on the street says something shitty to Jaime and Milagro about illegals and Guy lands on him the signature Guy Gardner punch. Trump's an asshole idiot, anyway. Next time, Milagro lands the signature punch. She has learned well.

A young man returns. A truth is told. A fucked up orange ring is on Guy's finger. And now he'll have to learn how to be a hero all over again.

The orange ring isn't powered by bravery and willpower. It's powered by greed. It's a greedy, cruel ring. It's mean. But Guy's pretty greedy too. And Guy's a mean son of a bitch.

Guy Gardner is the first Orange Lantern. And he's everything Hal Jordan is not: a man with a voracious need to protect and help. A man with an endless appetite for love, and to give love. A school counselor, and a mentor to some pretty nifty kids. Guy can never get enough of being a hero. He'll never stop. And he'll always help.

Because he's Guy fucking Gardner!

[wetwashexternalcleaning]

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[dragons-ire]

The Two Brothers

(as told at and for Bel Canto Winery - @wine-xiv)

Before this place was the winery it is today - before it was an opera house, even - it was just a bare expanse of tidepools and sandbar. A little higher up, maybe a few trees and grasses to keep the entire island from washing out with the tide. 

Until one day, a pair of brothers rowed over from the mainland. The eldest was called Merlgeiss, and his younger brother: Keltanth.

They'd heard there was a fortune, you see, buried somewhere on the dunes. And so they'd brought supplies and shovels, and a dream they'd packed for themselves in the bottom of their rucksacks, of becoming wealthy men.

So when they hit ground, they made camp, and got up at first light with their shovels to dig. And dig they did, from sunrise to sunset. For sennights at a time, until their hands were cracked and blistered and their backs stiff and stooped.  And at night, they ate hardtack and the freshwater they caught with the rain, and in the morning they began again.

They never found the pirate's buried hoard that had brought them there. Not in gold and jewels, at least. But they dug in the earth, and they turned over the sand all through the winter until the loam underneath began to show. 

And in the spring, they readied their shovels again, only to stop as they saw something winding through the soil that wasn't seagrass or the roots of a tree. 

Just a wild La Noscean grape vine, struggling for the sun. The seeds washed in by the sea, or carried there by some bird.

They knew then that, with some work, they'd found something just as good as gold.

It was several more long seasons of toiling before anything came of it. One single vine that turned into two, and three, and at last rows of them, green and purple in the sunlight. The first harvest, pressed and crushed and storedin the first barrel that's said to have been fashioned from the planks of the rowboat that had first carried them to the shore.

And when they decanted that first bottle, they knew that this had to be the treasure they had come seeking.

In the years before the Calamity, the two brothers' vintages were widely known up and down the coast. Pirate lords and rich merchants alike paid well to have bottles in their larders. The famous culinarians in the city competed to invent dishes to pair with them. And the brothers' made enough fortune that they could bring in workers to till the fields, and builders to build casks as well as buildings to house everyone. Before long, they had more money than they could count by themselves.

But as their fortune and fame grew, it seemed to eat away at the simple camaraderie that had brought them here in the first place. That which had seen them through all those days and nights of hardship eroded just as a seacoast will if it has nothing planted in it to keep it fast.

The workers would say, later, how they'd heard the pair quarreling late at night. Their raised voices constantly bickering about something - about the money, the business and what to do with it. The most anyone could report was that they disagreed about the place's future. One of them wanted to sell it and settle to an easy life. The other thought they were only at the beginning of what they could gain.

Unfortunately, the argument never resolved itself. One morning, the workers who rose early found the body of the eldest brother, Merlgeiss, lying on the sand, half-carried out by the tide. His body bore the marks of a violent struggle. The crabs and the gulls had already started to move in.

Not a day later, the Yellowjackets picked up Kelthanth, the younger brother, wearing his elder brother's jacket, trying to book passage out of Wineport with nothing but gil in his luggage. Whatever happened, he refused to say, but his guilt was plain to anyone looking. He went to the hangman without breathing a word as to why.

It wasn't so long after that that the Calamity washed the entire place out to sea. The rich earth was re-settled in the years afterwards. An opera house, and then, by some grand coincidence, another vineyard broke ground.

But it's said still that Merlgeiss' spirit is restless still, and wanders up and down the coast and in through the grapevines. And sometimes, even into the house itself, as if ceaselessly searching for that treasure he'd had and lost. Or at the very least, a glass of wine for his parched soul.

So: if you happen to wander through the winery late at night and find something out of place - let’s say a wine glass that someone seems to have forgotten. The staff seem to have neglected to pick it up. 

You should leave it alone. 

The guest will be by for it in his own time.

[faegoddessog]

 Seventy Two Hours of Bliss Ch. 23/41

Chapter  23: So Hot I Can't Stop

Chapter Warnings: Explicitly mature content, 18+ only, cunnilingus, fingering, anal fingering (f. receiving), masturbating, squirting, unprotected PiV (play safe ya'll!)

Series Masterlist

Series Summary:

You are neighbors with Austin Butler on the Gold Coast of Australia just prior to shooting Elvis. You become just friends because he is taken. However, after he is single again, you both find out just how attracted you are to one another and things get unrelentingly hot.

SERIES WARNING: Explicitly mature content, 18+ only,  here there be lemons.

Authors Notes: I started writing this while remodeling my kitchen, so that informed the slightly quirky narrative. It starts slow, but once it heats up, it is on fire. I have tried to pull facts from RL as much as I could, but obviously there are some assumptions and flat out dreamy wishes  involved here. 

Chapter  23: So Hot I Can't Stop

Rita stopped by a few days ago. She Ooo’d and Ahh’d over the finished bathroom. She had called all the references you gave her, they had nothing but glowing things to say about you. She really wants you to do their house in Greece. You explained to her the timeline you are working with right now and that especially if you get the Antarctica job, it will probably be a year before you can do it. She’s cool with that.

She had asked a few questions about Austin, with a glint in her eye. You answered honestly, that you'd not seen him in a few days, even though he is graciously letting you use his kitchen. She just nodded knowingly, uh huh. She commented that Tom is totally impressed with him and that this will be his big breakthrough role. You had agreed, he is impressive, your own glint sparkling.

It’s been about 5 days since you’ve seen Austin. A couple times, you think he came in late at night and slept curled around you for a few hours. The dent in the pillow next to you in the morning was a tell-tale sign.

Since you are using his kitchen, you made a dinner plate for him and left it in his fridge with a note each night. It’s gone every morning, so you know he’s been home. You passed a few texts between you each day, but you have both been busy.

Today is painting day.

You are decked out in your preferred outfit for painting: a white tank top and panties, plus mask and goggles and noise canceling earbuds. You finish spraying the last wall and stop to dance and sing to the song playing in your ears.

“It's a new dawn It's a new day It's a new life For me”

You look up and see Austin is leaning on the front door, arms crossed, watching you with a grin on his face, key dangling on his finger.

“And I’m feeling good!” you sing the last line at him and laugh.

He looks delicious in a white t-shirt and tan slacks. He is barefoot.

“How long have you been there?” you ask in a mask-muffled voice, taking out your earbuds.

“Long enough.” he laughs, looking you up and down, “Not that I’m complaining, but why are you mostly naked, you are covered in little specks of paint!”

You take off your goggles and mask and shrug, “It’s hot and paint is easier to get off of skin than clothes if you moisturize correctly.”

You motion for him to follow you to the bathroom, where you begin to clean your paint sprayer.

“You continually amaze me with how sexy you make construction,” he says in that deep, low rumble that causes you to involuntarily moan a bit in the back of your throat.

“Thanks babe, want to help me wash it off?” you offer, looking over your shoulder coyly and tilting your head to the shower. You know you are a mess, dried paint smudges all over and hair in a bespeckled bun.

“Not yet, I don’t think you are dirty enough yet,” he comes up behind you, looking at you in the mirror and snaking his hands around your ribs and cupping your breasts through the thin fabric. Your nipples start to harden in his palms.

“Oh, well let me finish cleaning this real quick,’” you start rinsing as quickly as you can. “Take your time, I’ll be right here,” his thumbs graze your nipples.

You consider abandoning the sprayer, but you know you have to clean it before it gets clogged.

His hands are roaming all around your body, stoking the fire in your core as you twist off the paint cup and start rinsing. His hands sliding on your ass cheeks and around to the front, over your belly and down. The pads of his long fingers running along the crease between your leg and pussy, teasing.

You are frantically scrubbing out the nozzle with an old toothbrush.

His thumbs hook onto your panties and slide them down and off. Your hands are full of watery paint and there is nothing you can do to stop him, as if you’d want to. He traces a line up your thigh and over your hips. You can feel little callouses from his guitar playing on his left hand. His dexterous fingers gently glide over your now naked labia, pressing them together just a bit at the root.

You moan in the back of your throat. You love the feel of his hands on you, how he knows all your little tantalizing spots. You have stopped trying to clean your damn paint sprayer and rinse the paint off your hands.

He continues up your ribs, catching your tank top and pulling it over your head.

You go to turn around to kiss him. He stops you and places your hands on the counter, staring at your eyes in the mirror.

“You keep those hands right there,” he says in your ear, “don't move them.”

Shivers course down your spine.

You are standing, completely naked, hands on the counter as he reaches around to cup and rub your breasts, pinching your nipples and pushing his fully clothed hips against your back side.

You feel his rigid length through his loose slacks. You start to reach back to rub him.

He grabs your wrists and presses your hands back to the counter.

“Now, now, I told you to keep them there. If you move them again I’ll stop. Understand?” He growls, hot breath on your neck. His eyes are serious, his brows slightly furrowed.

You nod.

“Now be a good dirty girl and spread your legs," oh god his voice is fucking amazing in your ear.

You step to each side and wetness starts to seep between your lower lips.

His right hand traces down your back, over the crack of your ass to those lips. His hands are magic. You can’t help but press your hips back towards him.

“Oh my, so wet. Do you like being all naked and exposed to me?” he dips a gentle finger barely into you and spreads that wetness around.

“Yes, I do,” you say a little breathlessly as he nears your clit.

“Mmmm, I like it too. What to do with such a dirty girl,” he spreads the wetness back toward your asshole. He is watching your reactions reflected back at him.

You stare back at his eyes, lifting an eyebrow. “Anything you want,” you boldly declare licking and biting your bottom lip. You spread your legs a little wider, arching and offering yourself to his whim.

He steps back, you make a little sound of disappointment. He rubs his chin between his forefinger and thumb, pinching his full bottom lip, considering his options. He looks your back side up and down, then at your naked reflection in the mirror, all the while absentmindedly rubbing his cock through his pants with his other hand. Then he sits down between your legs with his back to the cabinet. His face is perfectly positioned at your dripping cunt.

“This is what I want," he says, looking up, capturing you with those stunning eyes of his, “keep your hands there.”

His tongue tastes the slickness between your legs and he emits a low throaty growl of pleasure. His fingers open your folds to reveal your nub. He gently licks around your clit as he slowly slides his long fingers inside of you, curving them just a little.

You moan, eyes closed, head back.

He starts to use a flat tongue to lap and suck your clit as he glides in and out of you slowly. You look down, his eyes are closed. His head is gently moving and rolling as he doles out pleasure with his tongue, receiving as much as he is giving. Just watching him indulge in your snatch, is almost as arousing as what he is doing. Add in the quietly depraved noises he is making, and you are in heaven.

He stops licking, pulls his fingers out and presses the thumb on his other hand into your wet slit. Then slides it back to your asshole and looks up at you inquiringly. He is ever the gentleman.

Your eyes widen with excitement, the only response you can muster is nodding frantically.

Grinning at you, he rubs the pad of this thumb on your asshole. The nerve endings there are bringing new zinging sensations to your pelvic floor. Gently he pushes his wet thumb into you.

Your hips are yearning towards his face, silently begging for his tongue. He complies, face buried in your pussy, extraordinary tongue dancing on your folds and clit. You relax to let his thumb in. His other fingers slide back into your pussy and you feel him get to his first knuckle or so in your ass.

“Oh. My. Gods. That is so fucking good," you say in a desperate whisper as he moves both hands in and out alternatively, slowly at first. You start twitching your hips into his lashing tongue.

“Harder, please harder,” you moan.

“There’s my dirty girl,” he says huskily against your folds.

He captures your swollen clit in his mouth and starts sucking as his fingers pound into you. You feel a tell tale fullness inside you.

Gripping the counter to keep from collapsing, you start to go over the edge. A wail rips through your throat as your juices flood his face and hands, squirting down onto his still clothed body. He slows down his pace, but is lapping the sweet liquid from your lips, making you twitch in aftershocks. He pulls back, his face and shirt so wet.

He stands up in front of you, forcing you to take a step back, hands still on the counter. Turning around, he quickly washes his hands in the paint covered sink, Your forehead pressed against his back, you shake and shiver. Wiping his chin, he steps to the side, breaking your grip on the counter, pulling you directly in front of him.

His wet fingers are unzipping his fly and he takes out his hard-as-rock cock. He has an animalistic look on his face of deep need and desire. He can’t even be bothered to take off the clothes you soaked.

He pushes you back with a growl, kissing you fiercely and picking you up onto the counter between the double vanity sinks. He slides his cock into your pussy and groans. He grips your hips and begins to thrust into you.

You thought you were done, but as he fills you over and over again you feel that exquisite fullness. You reach down and rub your clit side to side.

“Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod” you are whispering. With a high pitched whine you push, he pulls out and your deluge stains the front of his pants dark and wet.

“Don’t stop,” You reach down and slide him into you again, “I need you more.”

“So. fucking. hot.” he says, each word punctuated with a thrust.

His pace quickens, slamming into you over and over.

His eyes close and a deep rough grunting moan escapes him as he plunges into you and shakes. The hands on your hips gripping hard as he cums inside you.

Seeing him come makes you grind your hips up and down on his cock, You have hit insatiable mode. He is shivering as you ride his still hard cock.

“No, no, no,” you beg as he pulls his cock out, your hips are shaking.

One eyebrow goes up and he smiles, panting. He pets your pussy teasingly, “Did you miss me, do you want these in you Kitten?”

Your jaw is tight, nostrils flared, that demon in you is about to eat him alive. You grab his fingers and push them into your pussy, sopping wet with his cum and your squirting.

“Fuck that pussy hard,” you demand, locking eyes with him. He leans over the counter, grabbing you by the back of the neck, his long fingers squeezing the sides. Putting his forehead to yours, he slams his fingers into you.

“Come on, dirty girl. Cum again for me. No, don't close your eyes, look right at me,” his voice is raspy and demanding.

You are rubbing your clit, hard, clenching your pussy onto his fingers. Lying back onto the marble, legs spread wide with the hottest man on the planet begging you to cum and forcing you to stare into his soul.

“Oh, fuck fuck FUUUUUHH”, you scream as you squirt a fountain over his hand, the counter, his stomach, as you come completely undone. Your whole body shivers and shakes and all you can see are his blue ocean eyes.

You aren’t sure where he ends and you begin as he slides his still hard cock into you again. Nirvana, Euphoria.

“God damn Kitten, you got me so fucking hot I can’t stop,” he pummels your drenched pussy. He goes, and goes, and goes almost savagely. Sweat is dripping off his face and onto your belly. You aren’t sure if you ever stopped cumming. All you can do is ride the wave and moan.

He finally pulls out and strokes his cock standing over you, his voice a strangled roar. Your hips are writhing as you rub yourself, you don’t have any more to gush, but the feeling of his cum surging onto your naked lips and belly sends you over a different precipice as you explode into pieces.

Neither of you have any words, heaving, shuddering. He holds you to earth, bent over you with his forehead back on yours. After a minute or two, he pulls you off the counter and to your feet, gathering you in his arms.

As your breathing slows, you notice he is still dressed in sopping clothes.

“Sorry about your clothes, I guess you are just as dirty as I am now,” you lazily giggle.

“Oh no, that was worth it,” he smiles at you, letting his pants drop and stripping his shirt off, “now we can shower.”

[cannibalisticskittles]

OC + Random Associations

tagged by @fiendpact, thank youuuuuu <3

Animal: i always waver between a dog and a cat with her – she's got the teeth and claws of a cat, the propensity for sleeping in and laying around in random bits of sunlight, and her mouth has a bit of that catlike :3 curve, but she is also extremely full of love in a way that radiates out from her much like a dog enthusiastically wagging its tail around exciting new people. either way tho – house pets that will love you deeply and also grievously wound someone who tries to harm you.

Colors: gold + vibrant blues and greens

Month: september?? i will be honest, i hadn’t had a month association before 

Songs: make the grade - jack conte, i won't hurt you - the west coast pop art experimental band, my dog’s eyes - zammuto, existential crisis hour - kilo kish, birdsong - regina spektor.

Number: 1 because she always feels lonely maybe, haha

Plants: asphodel – and I always think of strawberry blossoms when I think about what flower would best fit her, even though she is Very Allergic To Strawberries. sorry babe, but the imagery of the humble little strawberry flower is just too fitting.

Scents: ash, sulfur, whatever the hell bat guano smells like bc of all her spell components – but also something pleasantly warm and earthy, like rocks in a hot spring

Gemstone: i feel like i’ve got to go with amethyst bc. purble. 

Time of day: late late late at night, creeping into the very early morning, when the world is quiet and you can’t help but hear your thoughts (or your worries) clearer than ever before 

Season: autumn – the warm colors and dry crackle of shed leaves for her well, and even more so because she’s recently accepted the patronage of equinox, an autumn eladrin-flavored archfey

Places: caves with bioluminescent plants/fungi, places with strange and magical flora like the feywild, but also busy, crowded city streets where it's easy to get lost in the noise 

Food:  stew! and traveling rations like hardtack or jerky or dry, aged cheeses – things that would keep for a long time on the road. she’s an obligate carnivore, but she does try to pad her diet with as much non-meat as she can.

Drinks: really shit ale that you can buy in bulk at the local tavern as you daydrink with your adventuring party and discuss what steps to take next to fulfill your quest as you also take turns sneakily refilling your friend’s mug so that he remains convinced that it’s magically self-sustaining. (and also, a shitload of water. to wash down the dry ass jerky and hardtack.)

Element: fire

Seasonings: cinnamon and clove! also maybe saffron because she spent so much of her life traveling with trading caravans and saffron seems like the kind of coveted shit that would justify long-ass journeys by guarded caravan.

Sky: night, somewhere in the wilderness where it's so dark that the stars fill the sky everywhere you look

Weather:  hot, dry, windless summer days – if faerûn had wildfire watch levels, it would be stuck on extreme 

Magical power: fireball babyyyyyy (+ a dash of hellish rebuke)

Weapons: daggers. and more daggers, hidden in various places on her body. and teeth. so many sharp teeth. 

Candy/Sweets: honey candy, soft caramels – and pop rocks. she would be delighted by pop rocks.

Method of long distance travel: walking. just… long slogs on foot. walking across distances that are truly miserable to traverse – the sort where you’re ready to give up halfway through but can’t, because turning back would take as long as soldiering on, so you soldier on anyway? that. 

Artstyle: my memory of art styles has not really been brushed up on since my middle school days, i admit, but i think i lean towards impressionism for her

Fear: being useless, being alone, being Known; and, of course, the combination of those fears combined – having someone get close enough to her that it feels like they really know her and see her for who she is and then reject her as not being worth their time. 

Mythological creature: fairies/fae! they're beautiful, terrible, awful little winged shitheads and she adores them. and, to a lesser degree, unicorns, lmao. an association with and an assumption of goodness while also being fully willing and capable of skewering someone.  

Piece of stationery: an old, old notebook filled with small, cramped notes; various plans and calculations and details about people she comes across (‘naming day is just before the winter solstice; remember, they dislike most sweets and pastries’)

Three Emojis: 🥰🔥✨

Celestial body: stars, but distant and far off – she views herself as one of many, not standing out, and she’s very content with that! (imagining herself as one star in a sea of stars would delight her, actually. would feel a little less lonely.) perhaps she is a sun to someone, but that will never be how she sees it.

tagging @amphyn, @biknuckles, @brekkie-e, @fangmich, @lesbianaloy, @meishuu, @riddlcr, @stellamancer, @wasserpl – no pressure tho, haha

[spaceorphan18]

Scenes From December 1/24

Written for Klaine Advent 2022. Day One: Team.

***

December, 1993

Liz Hummel leaned against the archway connecting the dining room from the living room.  She kept her arms folded securely across her chest - the old house was a bit drafty, even when full of people, but in truth, she always felt a little out of her element when visiting Burt’s family.  Most of her family remained on the east coast, and for so long it was just her and her mom that the first time she visited the Hummel household, full of its unruly and rambunctious holiday traditions, it felt somewhat overwhelming.  Of course, since then, she had been fully indoctrinated into Hummel traditions, and the busyness of the household didn’t feel so alarming.  Still.  She wished she had brought her glass of wine out from the kitchen. 

The Christmas atmosphere swirled around her.  The living room wasn’t well lit, only a few lamps in the corners omitting an orange glow, each one decorated with red and gold tinsel.  A slightly too big pine tree had been shoved into the far corner, its ornaments awkwardly hanging from its branches as the lights around it sputtered blues, reds, and greens. There still weren’t presents under there yet - the actual Mrs. Hummel, Burt’s mother, didn’t want the dogs to get into them, and kept them away until Christmas Eve. There was a wreath hung around the giant, wooden cut of Ohio that read ‘Ohio Means Home’ that always hung on the wall.  And on every surface were figurines - some of angels, some of Santa and his elves, and one of a porcelain nativity scene that sat on top of the piano.  

Burt sat on his parents’ couch - his dad and two uncles squished next to him as all of them stared intensely at the television.  There was a football game running on the TV.  Who was playing, she couldn’t say.  She only knew it wasn’t a team from Ohio, and didn’t understand why they were still loudly passionate over third downs and missed field goal attempts of teams they didn’t usually care about.  Why not just root for whatever team is winning - she once joked to Burt, much to his chagrin.  That made the most sense to her, anyway. 

Sitting in front of the coffee table was Burt’s brother Andy, trying to teach his younger cousins how to beat a level on some game they were playing on their Game Boy.  Occasionally, the girls would get a little overzealous, wanting to play for themselves, and knock into the coffee table, knocking the bowls of chips, dip, vegetable tray, and beer cans nearly on the floor.  None of the adults near them seemed to notice - too engrossed in the game, but Liz knew at some point, there would be a spill to clean up.  

Over at the piano, Burt’s sister Christine was clunking away at jingle bells as her new boyfriend tried to sing along.  He wasn’t musically inclined at all but Christine still grinned up at him fondly as she played.  It reminded Liz, slightly, of when she and Burt started dating back in college, and she would often break out into a song from her favorite musical.  Burt’s face always turned a delightful quizzical when she did that - it made her love him even more.  

A bit of laughter floated from the kitchen.  Her mother-in-law’s distinctive laugh.  The kind of laugh that only happened this time of year when she allowed herself a few more glasses of her favorite wine.  Liz craned her neck to see the women in the kitchen, Mrs. Hummel deep in one of her infamous stories, keeping Burt’s aunts entertained as they stirred and chopped and peeled dinner.  The only odd one out was the second wife of one of Burt’s uncles, who didn’t always see eye to eye with the rest of the family, but even she was grinning as she washed dishes.  

Liz’s attention turned back to the living room, back to the old, ragged lounge chair that sat in the far corner of the room.  Burt’s grandfather was there, looking comical in the Santa hat someone had lazily placed on his head.  On his lap was her seven month old child, her little Kurt.  Even through all the commotion, she could hear Kurt’s happy laughter as Burt’s grandfather leaned forward, letting Kurt try to grab at the white, fluffy ball at the end of the hat; his chubby arm not quite able to reach it.  

Endeared, Liz made her way across the room, pushing the ottoman out a little so she could sit on it.  “Having fun?” she asked, taking a moment to rub her son’s back.  Kurt didn’t usually take to new people all that well, but he seemed genuinely comfortable sitting on his great-grandfather’s lap.  He gave his mother a comforted look then tried for the white ball again.  

It was good to see Burt’s grandfather smile so grandly.  Burt had told her how worried his mother was about him.  How hard he had taken it when his wife died last year - the pain of which surely hadn’t gone away.  But with a sweet baby on his lap, the gentle man that Liz had only recently gotten to know, the one who reminded her a lot of her husband, came back alive.  

“Well, we’re both going to be upset later since we’ve both missed our naps,” Burt’s grandfather joked.  He bounced little Kurt on his leg, Kurt breaking out into giggles.  “But it’s good to be with family.”  

Liz nodded silently, as she reached out a hand to grab Burt’s grandfather’s hand.  

There was a lot of love in this home, even at its most chaotic.  And even if she wasn’t born a part of it, even if she was still overwhelmed by what a foreign experience it seemed, she could see the love.  And that was what mattered.

“Who names a baby Kurt anyway?” he asked in his playfully gruff voice. 

Liz grinned. “Well, Burt did insist on naming him after you.”    

[ofhereditas]

hear ye hear ye — king matthos baratheon welcomes LORD LEO BANEFORT of BANEFORT! his great majesty is glad that the THIRTY EIGHT year old noble appears to be determined while overlooking that it’s said they are also depraved, as long as they are glad to celebrate peace in the seven kingdoms. fortunately for them, matthos remains oblivious that they AREN’T happy with his reign and that their true allegiance lies with THE LANNISTERS OF LANNISPORT, THE WESTERLANDS & THEMSELVES.

House Banefort, much to the surprise of no one who has ever seen their coat of arms, is a house of secrets and schemes. When you can't trust anyone in your family, dysfunction is bound to follow. And even though a fair amount of his childhood was spent as a ward of the Lannisters of Lannisport, who were very much the opposite of his family....His home life still left an indelible mark. So much so that to this day Leo swears he'll never have children.

While on the frontlines of the battle against the Iron Islander rebellion, Leo's father died. He didn't think much of it at the time, as that was what old, scary men tended to do. They'd pass in some forgettable way and would be left to rot in the ground. It wasn't until he got home, and his younger siblings confided in him, did he realize something about his father's death felt amiss. He could never prove it, but as he watched his brother squander their house's gold, opportunity and power, the thought did occur to him that his brother might of hastened their father's death along. Near on a decade passed before his own brother's reign came to an end. He was found washed up on the shores of the coast. Some surmised his injuries were simply from being battered against the rocks. Others swore that they were human made. Leo's mourning period was notoriously short, before he began to start putting the house's affairs back to rights.

But, they were in a right mess, his brother having done more damage before he could be stopped than Leo had realized. They would not be able to regain what they had lost by moral means. It started with a loan from Tybolt, which he used to purchase debts, which he would then enforce. It took sometime for this to become a viable strategy, as it took awhile for him to be able to figure which were worth his time or not. He eventually branched out even further, and with some contacts who didn't mind dirtying his hands, had a way of catching important folk with their pants down, either figuratively or literally. Most of the time he'd never do anything with the information, keeping it in his backpocket. But when he needed, he'd sell the information, use it for his own favors, or moves that both he or his friends were looking to make. Lastly, he took advantage of the reputation of Banefort, known for their hooded kings and necromancers, a dark looking keep on the rocks, looking over the water, practically able to see Pyke in the distance, surrounded by deep, entangling forests. It was a place to get lost in. And get lost, many people did. Disappeared without a trace. For the right price. --- But who would ever suspect Lord Leo Banefort? Not when he is the shining star that burns through the gloom of Banefort, a young ruling lord who looked after his smallfolk and rubbed elbows with the other great, virtuous houses of the kingdom.