#Meanwhile he taught oliver everything

[maraudersidk]

Percy having a long torso so his shirts, esp if they're hand-me-downs from charlie who does not have a long torso, end up skimming his waist so if he bends down or reaches up u catch a glimpse of that beautiful little waist and oliver loves it.

Everyone does tbh even our resident lesbians penny and audrey appreciate the view, percy gets flustered whenever they mention it but always deflects when someone points out that he hasn't gotten them tailored even when he had the money to do so.

I imagine once one of the weasley kids catches kingsley ogling percy and they just like 'uh excuse me😀' cuz to them its just their freakishly tall brother.

[flwrkid14]

Tim Drake, Son of Green Arrow: A Wild What-If Timeline

Okay, picture this: Tim Drake ends up being adopted by Oliver Queen. Wild, right? But hear me out.

It all starts with Janet Drake. Back in her boarding school days, she was close friends with Bruce Wayne and Oliver Queen. As adults, they drifted, but she always trusted them. So, when drawing up a will with Jack, she names Oliver as Tim’s guardian if anything ever happens to them. Why Oliver? He’s got a stable family life with Dinah, and Bruce is still just “Brucie” at this point, with no Dick Grayson or Robin yet in the picture.

Fast forward. Tim’s parents die in a tragic accident, leaving him alone… until Oliver Queen steps in. Tim gets whisked away to Star City, where he finds himself in a home that actually feels like a family. Oliver, Dinah, and Roy include him in their lives in a way his biological parents never did. They’re attentive, warm, and actually there.

Tim’s obsessive interest in Gotham and the Bat still exists, though. Even as he helps the Queens behind the scenes (because, of course, Tim figures out their identities), he keeps an eye on Gotham and Robin. When Jason Todd dies, Tim immediately notices the shift in Batman. He sees how broken Bruce becomes and, unable to ignore it, brings it up to Oliver.

Oliver listens. He pulls some Justice League strings, and they all step in to help Bruce. But even with the intervention, Tim can see Batman isn’t the same. Batman needs Robin.

Tim, being Tim, takes matters into his own hands. He sneaks back to Gotham, tracks down Bruce, and demands to be Robin. Bruce, skeptical but too tired to argue, lets him. Tim starts living a double life—splitting his time between Gotham as Robin and Star City with the Queens, who have no idea what he’s up to. Bruce assumes Tim’s guardian is some guy named Eddie (a lie Tim pulled out of thin air), and Tim’s balancing this precarious act of being a superhero under two noses.

Then comes the reveal.

After the Tower incident, when Jason comes back and beats Tim bloody, Tim limps home to Star City, where he can’t hide the injuries anymore. Oliver and Dinah are horrified. They demand answers, and Tim finally confesses everything. Dinah is livid, Oliver is fuming, and Roy is caught somewhere between “I’m proud of you” and “I want to wring your neck.” Oliver decides he’s going to have a chat with Bruce about endangering his son.

But Tim? He begs them to let him stay as Robin. He swears he’ll stop as soon as someone else steps in, but Gotham needs Robin. Reluctantly, the Queens agree, but now they’re involved. The next time Bruce and Tim are working a case, Oliver is in the Batcave, glaring daggers at Bruce while Dinah insists on debriefing Tim like he’s an adult.

And oh, the dynamics.

Tim is fiercely loyal to both his families. He adores the Queens—they’re the parents he always wanted—but the Bats become like a second family to him. Jason, after getting over the guilt and anger, starts treating Tim like a brother. Meanwhile, Roy and Jason develop this weird rivalry over who’s Tim’s actual favorite sibling.

Roy: “I taught Tim how to shoot a bow. Can you even use a bow?” Jason: “I’m sorry, does the term ‘second Robin’ mean nothing to you? He’s literally following in my footsteps.” Tim: “I like both of you equally!” Tim, internally: It’s definitely Roy.

Bruce? Bruce gets jealous. He watches Tim laugh freely with Oliver or cling to him at the Watchtower, and there’s this pang of something he doesn’t want to admit. Bruce cares about Tim, but Tim’s already got a dad in Oliver, and it shows.

But at the end of the day, both families fiercely love Tim. Whether he’s in Gotham or Star City, he’s surrounded by people who’d do anything for him. And Tim? Tim wouldn’t trade either family for the world.

[kriz-fics]

The Sword’s Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Fourteen: Ebb and Flow

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters)

Length: 14.6K

CW: Eren being an absolute boobs man / YN getting off to Eren's voice - not (dammit) but, well... read on

Never, in all his sixteen years of life, can Armin recall partaking of a private dinner as grand as this. They begin with flatbread and a stew thick with clams and cod and crabs. Then come fennel greens with radishes and crumbled cheese and olives, lamprey pie and trout, and swan served in her plumage stuffed with oysters and sun peppers. For the sweet, a heaping tray of lemon cakes is to be served.

All southron fare, Armin notes. A taste of home, Rod Reiss declared, smiling that magnanimous smile of his. A taste of home but for the swan. After all, the king must have his swan. Which is stuffed with southron victuals, to be sure, Armin grants as he bites into a sun pepper embedded in his forkful of fowl and promptly feels his mouth burning. He reaches for his glass of lemonsweet at once and sighs a secret sigh of relief as the cool sweet and tart drink douses the fires in his maw. He has never been able to tolerate heat within as well as he can the heat without. He is perhaps the only southerner made so, as his lord grandfather will often jest. Still he does not shrink from the flames. He is a true southerner in that regard; he need only have his proverbial buckets of water and he can eat his fill of spices and peppers like the true southron boy he is.

The room in which they dine is as grand as the feast set before them. Few have been fortunate enough to claim they had set foot in the king’s privy chambers - Armin cannot quite believe he can now count himself among that fortunate few. It was all he could do not to stare around like an ignorant dullard the moment he entered the very heart of the king’s private life earlier that night.

It is the richest privy chamber he has yet seen, with its high vaulted ceiling and gray marble floor, so shiny that he could see his own awed face looking back up at him from beneath his feet. Yet nothing caught his attention better than the large glass-fronted wooden display situated against the righthand wall of the room. The king’s private collection of scientific artifacts, Armin thought with a thrill of realization, eyes flitting rapidly, hungrily across the wooden shelves. He would have gladly spent the night musing on every one had the king not ushered them to their seats. They have set the long table at the heart of the chamber, moving aside the purple velvet divan and armchairs that normally occupy the space.

How very considerate - and very diplomatic - of the king to set such a table before them all, his southron subjects. And what a table it is. You would think he is feasting seventy instead of seven, with the sheer size of the portions of each course.

To be on the receiving end of the royal bounty is an uncanny thing. His grandfather, sitting to his right, feels so, too, Armin can tell. Beneath the courtesy and politesse, he can hear a note of apprehension in Granik’s voice. As well he might. Six years at court have taught Armin that such bounty is not without its costs. A generous king is a courting king, and there is little doubt that this king will have something from them. They have yet to know the price they’ll pay for this generosity. But the presence of Uncle Kaspar and his brood tells Armin much and more.

“Have a taste of the swan, Hagen, it’s most excellent. And I say that as someone not well-disposed to these tongue scorchers you southerners love so much. Server!” His Majesty barks toward the line of serving men standing dutifully behind his seat at the head of the table, ready to serve at his command. “Give his lordship a good thick slice off that roast.”

One of them obliges, a man with a common face in the purple livery and Founder’s head badge of the Royal House’s household staff. He sets about his commission and returns to his place behind his lord’s chair, expression blank and servile. Behind the line of servants, the tall glass windows flaunt the great capital of the crown lands, Belris. Against the black velvet sky, the many lights of the city’s many buildings take the place of the stars above. Lord Hagen smiles civilly down at the hunk of spiced bird on his plate and spears himself a piece, to the king’s approval.

“So, when will you leave our most vibrant court for the comforts of home?” His Majesty inquires as he starts on his third slice of lamprey pie. A plate chockful of swan and greens is lying beside the pie dish. Every few heartbeats, the king will grab a bite from one platter then the other, and back again. The man is never one to stint himself when it comes to food and drink.

Armin averts his gaze, careful not to stare too long at the ample royal frame. He takes a prim bite of his trout and listens on as his grandfather answers. “On the morrow, Majesty. So you must forgive us our surprise at this unexpected but very much welcome invitation. If we seem much harried, it will be because of our preparations.”

The king waves a swan leg about to dismiss his lord’s beg-pardons. “It’s of no consequence, my good man. I imposed upon your time and so it is I who must beg your pardon. But, see, I have thrown you an excellent leave-taking feast. That warrants your king your full forgiveness, surely?” There is a round of ingratiating laughter before Rod Reiss drains his goblet and clears his throat importantly.

“Now to business,” he says, crisp and brisk all at once. The general air of relaxed contentment about the table grows anxious and expectant at the drop of a hat.

Armin schools his features into a look of mild curiosity despite the eels in his stomach. Here it comes. For the umpteenth time that night, he wishes he is seated on the opposite side of the table if only to get his fill of the king’s curios. The gilt white marble of the fireplace and its lively flames can only offer so much distraction. Prince Urklyn and his Gudrun almost make up for that, though. Their cloying display of unabashed affection is enough to make him gag. Fourteen-year-old Cousin Gunther, seated to his left, is no better off; Armin can hear his snorts and huffs of disgust every time His Royal Highness and his sweetheart turn to each other with their sickeningly sweet simpers as they feed each other morsels from the other’s fork.

“As you know,” the king begins after a healthy bite of pie, “our Procurator, may the gods give him rest, has gone on to join his forefathers in the light of the Fields. A most untimely and tragic end for a good and devoted servant, brought about by evil hearts.”

An unseasonal chill immerses the luxuriant chamber, driving away the warmth of the hearthflames. It is enough to make even the happy couple stop their simpering. His Majesty sighs into the silence, his face grim, and waves his empty goblet around. Little Yakob Halkin totters forward, clad in his own purple tunic to match the serving men, and refills the king’s cup. The pitcher is half his height, heavy with wine and cumbersome for a little boy of six, yet not a drop is spilled.

Good lad, Armin finds himself reveling in the lordling’s success as he watches him toddle back to his place amongst the servants, at the end of the line of these much older and more capable men. The boy seems to shrink back against the tied-up swags of the long purple velvet curtain he is standing in front of, as if he can somehow make himself disappear into the folds of rich cloth.

Poor lad. Most of the Halkin clan will not be going home for this reprieve. All fear for their stripling and what the king may do in their absence. Children as young as him are a rare sight in court; the nobility prefer to keep their brood at home until their tenth yeardays. Even babes in arms born at court are soon whisked off for home, where they will grow and be raised in the ways of the highborn until they come back to court a full decade later. Yakob Halkin, at six, is a precocious little courtier. Too young to be a piece in the long game. Armin recalls the excitement and the anxiety he felt during his first few days at court six long years ago. There will be no excitement for the Halkin boy. That leaves only anxiety. Not a good sentiment for a child.

“And so we are left with an empty seat in the most illustrious Conclave, and that empty seat wants filling,” Rod Reiss announces after a long swig of wine.

Armin feels his heart beat faster, hardly daring to believe it. He shoves a forkful of swan in his mouth on reflex, unable to feel the burn of the peppers nor taste the heavy juices of the meat. Granik’s grip tightens on his table knife yet otherwise he betrays no emotion but for a discreet interest.

The king turns to Lord Hagen with an air of flourishing his favor. “It pleases me to name you the new lord treasurer and Procurator of the Royal Conclave.”

And just like that, the Arlert star rises even higher. Armin looks down at his half-emptied plate. The grease from the swan and his trout has mixed and is slowly starting to congeal. What little mouthful of pie he has lies to the side of the plate, brown, oily, and brown. Suddenly, he finds his appetite leaving him. He places his knife and fork down. His House’s fortune is being made and yet it holds no joy for him. For a moment, he feels like the most contrary boy in the world.

The joy will come, a voice inside him whispers. Shock is only natural for shocking news. It is enough to know that you rise high.

Lord Hagen finds his voice at last. “Y-Your Majesty, you honor me. I hardly think I am fit for such an office-”

“Why are you not fit when I deem you so?” The king pops an olive into his mouth, chews, swallows. “I will be judge of your fitness. I see what you have done in Krolva. You run an excellent household, they tell me.” He takes another deep draught from his goblet and continues, “I say you are more than capable. You must not presume to question my good judgment, my lord.”

“I would not dare, Your Majesty,” Lord Hagen assures hastily, hearing, as Armin heard, the edge to the royal tone as the king uttered his last sentence. It is a soft edge, and mild, but an edge it is still. “I simply meant- I am glad you deem me fit for such a station, Your Majesty, lowly man as I am. My gratefulness knows no bounds. You will not be remiss in your faith in your most humble servant.”

“Excellent.” His Majesty gestures, and a serving man sweeps at once through the lilac gossamer drapes of the entryway next to the king’s collection. The royal bedroom, Armin knows, a place even fewer have set foot in. Only those who serve Rod Reiss intimately can claim the honor, such as it is, of entering such a personal space.

The servant returns moments later with a small chest, mahogany inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which he carefully sets before Lord Hagen and opens. Nestled upon its purple velvet lining is a golden chain, the chain of the Procurator’s office with its horn of plenty medallion.

“An officer is not an officer without his badge of office,” His Majesty remarks as the manservant takes the chain from its case and waits patiently for the new Procurator to remove the chain he is wearing for the night, a sumptuous piece of gold and mother-of-pearl, with its mother-of-pearl pendant of the Arlert conch. The servant drapes the new chain neatly over Lord Hagen’s shoulders and withdraws silently to his place by the windows.

The sight of the horn of plenty upon Granik’s chest does what words cannot. The truth of his lord grandfather’s rise to power has just now hit Armin, and it hits hard. Granik is advisor to the king and in his confidence. His thoughts turn to you and Eren, issue both of Conclave lords, and suddenly he feels a thrill. Here comes the joy at last. You all three are now scions of the councilmen. In a single night, he has joined the ranks of the luminaries, whom he can finally count as equals.

His knife and fork are in his hands again as he sets to his dinner with renewed gusto. That brief lull makes everything taste better somehow. How he thought the fare was too greasy is beyond him.

“How do you like the fit, Lord Procurator?” the king inquires, eyeing the chain around his lord’s neck and looking pleased.

Lord Hagen takes the medallion and examines the sigil etched upon its golden surface. “It is… a good fit, Majesty.” He releases the disk and it falls back to its preceding place upon his chest, the gold tailor-made and seamless against the gold and yellow of his embroidered vest.

“That it is.” Rod Reiss turns his attention to Armin, to his surprise. “Mayhaps our young master Arlert here can aspire to a similar chain in time, further walk the path his lord grandfather walked. With a mentor such as this, I would expect nothing less. You can be sure I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, Young Master, two eyes, even.”

Armin blinks (somewhat foolishly, he feels) and inclines his head deferentially toward his king. “I thank you for the kind words, Your Majesty. Should I ever become half as good a lord as my lord grandfather, it would be a great honor indeed,” he says, turning to beam at Granik, who returns it in kind.

“Ah, it is nice to see filial piety still good and alive in the youth of today,” the king remarks as he polishes off his pie, before turning to his son, who instantly straightens up in his seat and takes Gudrun’s hand in his own. Armin eyes their linked hands and waits with bated breath. “Speak of filial matters… I must confess I had a more personal reason for extending you this invitation, Hagen, as I think you already know. As such, I would like to discuss the matter of my son’s marriage.”

“My Lord Procurator,” the prince begins at once, a mite anxious and hasty, before soldiering on, “I would like to ask for the hand of your granddaughter in marriage. It should hearten you to know that her lord father, Lord Kaspar, has already consented.”

Uncle Kaspar sits beside his glowing daughter, doing his best not to glow himself. How long his uncle has known of his daughter’s affairs, Armin does not know, yet he does wonder. Longer than we know, it would seem. The constant deferrals and refusals of marriage offers for his only daughter suddenly became a great deal more understandable.

Armin stares long and hard at his uncle, pondering the barely contained glee on his plump face with its thick honeyed moustache, the very image of his brother Lothar before he lost all the weight. Kaspar Arlert is proving to be a more enterprising man than any of them gave him credit for. Lady Mariya had never been a robust woman and he had staked Gudrun’s hand and reputation on that. Armin can only marvel at how well he hid this affair from the hawkeyed court always hungry for scandal and secrets.

Uncle’s gamble has paid off massively. Not many can claim to have won takings as rich as royal marriage kin. Yet it is not truly his decision to make in the end. The stakes are still on. At the head of the table, the king sits with his steepled fingers pressed to his mouth, watching the proceedings with those shrewd blue eyes.

The dice seem to be loaded in Lord Kaspar’s favor.

His lord father can only listen on as his prospective grandson by marriage presents his suit. “You are the Head of my beloved’s House and so we must needs ask for your permission to wed, which I hope you will grant. I love your granddaughter dearly. I swear to the gods both old and new that I will take care of her and cherish her. ‘Til aught but death part her and me.” He smiles, loving and tender, at Gudrun, who twinkles at the words of the wedding rite.

Will you, really? Armin takes a sip of his lemonsweet to mask the derisive leer threatening to take his lips over. The Lady Mariya must be rolling in her grave right now. A woman betrayed and led on was not a woman cherished.

“What say you, my lord Procurator?” The king leans forward, expectant. Almost bullish, Armin thinks, noting the forceful cast that has taken over His Majesty’s face. “The boy makes a most compelling case. You will be glad to know they have my full blessing. And how not? You Arlerts come from good Paradisian stock, descendants of the Sea himself!” Rod Reiss laughs and takes a swig of his drink. “It is a fine match and not the first of its kind. My distant forebears deemed the blood of Nyrdos fit enough to wed, and so do I. Let the blood of gods flow anew through our lines once more.”

Armin glances once more at the happy and nervously waiting couple before him. The crystals of the great chandelier above throw rainbows over their matching cloth-of-gold raiment and their faces, so bright and alive with hope.

A matched pair. A golden, glittering pair.  

Perhaps he had judged the prince too harshly. Perhaps that look of earnest, guileless affection for his cousin is as genuine as it seems. Perhaps they truly had been lovers long before Lady Mariya, unable to wed owing to a vital and unbreakable precontract. Gods know it happens enough amongst the highborn circles. Armin has never seen Urklyn Reiss - this young man of twenty-three, a man grown - look as he does now, an anxious, eager, lovestruck boy on the verge of hearing that sweet ‘Yes’ from his beloved. Granik, the beloved in this circumstance, truly had little choice in the matter, in the end.

And so it is that House Arlert finds itself bound to the Royal House once more, after two hundred years of lull. Armin looks on at the rest of the table as they set about hammering out the terms of the marriage contract, bartering and haggling like fishwives at the market, and feels a dawning sense of immensity swallow him in its grasp.

A seat at the Conclave and the right to call themselves kin to the royal family… No one has won greater odds in a single night. We just rise higher and higher. A chill - of thrill, of dread, of something else - courses through Armin as the ground seems to fall away beneath him and vanish entirely. They are rising.

Too fast, too soon.

Any faster, any higher and they may lose sight of the earth quicker than they’d like. And gods help them if they fall.

Thousands of years ago, when this world was yet young, sand havens were godsends, places of relief from the burning heat and endless sands that held sway in much of southron Lovaya. Finding one was a matter of life and death, and this was especially true for the desert clans, those hardiest of peoples who laid claim to the hellscape as their own.

The present is a more forgiving time. The Southron Flowering had reduced the need for such havens yet godsends they remain to any traveler who braves the Deep Sands.

You adjust your grip on the bowls in your hands and make sure the fleece blanket draped over your arm is securely in place, before trudging through the camp toward your betrothed’s tent. Eren emerges from within almost at once, as though he had sensed your presence, and flashes you that sunny smile that you are so fond of.

“Dinner?” you say, proferring one of the bowls to him, and pressing on. “I thought we could eat by that glade over there,” you gesture with your chin over to the wood of palm trees that border the fringes of the lake you have camped beside for the night.

Shimmerwood, this sand haven is called, so named for the beautiful, glittering blue spheres that beset it of a night. These are no mere fireflies, as folk had once thought, but magic at its most wondrous. The spheres would emerge soon after sundown, making the blue of the lake waters come alive, a veritable crystal in all but composition. They besiege both air and water; it is always a joy to splash around the shoreline and watch the water sparkle like liquid of the bluest diamond as the little orbs fly about the surrounding palms, like the fantastical fae of yore before they vanished forevermore in the wake of the Sundering.

The progress this year had not taken you this further south, though the journey led you through Sontsovo, Shimmerwood’s highly contested Province. For as long as Vascalin had been a unified State, Sontsovo and its neighbor Rybikhna have been at loggerheads over the jurisdiction of the famed locale.

You had spotted the glade earlier that evening as your convoy set up camp. It was just visible from your viewpoint across the lake, a cozy little nook, and private. It would be nice to have some peace and quiet far removed from the hustle and bustle of the company, now larger with the addition of the desert clan you find yourselves sharing the haven with for the night.

Eren takes a bowl from you with a murmur of thanks then glances at the woods. His brow furrows. “It’s very… private. Will your guards be with us?”

You suppress the onrushing urge to grin at the way his eyes flick over you, nervous as a bride on her wedding day. You do not know who you like better: the sweet, flustered, blushing boy that he is now or the hot, sensual, teasing young man he can sometimes be at an unexpected flash. It is a wonder to you that both can live in one being at all. But that makes him all the more exciting.

“We don’t need guards where we’re going. Have no fear, Sir, your virtue is safe with me,” you chirp then carefully reach out to lace your fingers through his and tug him along. He goes willing and agreeable, but not before giving you a little scoff. You hear the amusement in it and smile.

You trek across the sands on sandaled feet, past several men and even more livestock. Camels, cattle, sheep, goats, horses, all of these you pass, the lifeblood of the nomad folk. Soon, the sights, the smells, and the sounds of the busy camp fade away as you lead your knight through a stand of date palms and into the blue.

A dreamy sigh escapes your lips the moment you emerge from the trees. You cannot recall releasing your betrothed’s hand. The blue spreads out before you, wide and sweeping, shot through with fresh green and bordered by tall palms, most heavy with sweet desert dates. A high cliff of towering sandstone surrounds half the lake. Four waterfalls flow down its rockface, dotted here and there with more palms. Everywhere and around you the azure motes fly, dazzling, ethereal, beautiful. The place ensnares your very essence and casts an enchantment upon you, one that you are reluctant to break. Shimmerwood, always and without fail, is a haven in the truest sense of the term.

You tighten your grip on your dinner and bend to unlace your sandals one-handed. You look up almost at once as you feel the bowl cupped in your hand lift away. Eren stares down at you holding both your bowls, a small smile on his face. “Wouldn’t want you wearing mutton stew now, don’t we?” he gibes lightly as he moves to place the dishes upon a long, flat stone overlooking the shimmering, luminescent lake waters.

“Thank you,” you murmur at length, now under an entirely different spell. Only Eren could have broken Shimmerwood’s hold on you.

It is putting up a good fight, though, a worthy contender to the last. Another sigh escapes you as you gaze out across the endless, sparkling blue and feel the soothing coolness of the water lapping around your bare calves. Not too cold nor too warm. The magic of the place serves as a most excellent regulator. You paddle your legs and grin at the glittering eddies you stir up beneath the depths. Tonight’s bath will be a pleasant one.

“Which clan is this one?” Eren asks, taking up his bowl from your stone seat and pressing yours on you.

“The Pejić.” A group of clansmen is settled on the lake's treeless bank opposite you. Outriders, you guess, observing their distance from the main body of their band. Your own outriders are oft stationed thus whenever camp is made. “It’s nice to see Saʂa Pejić doing well after all these years.”

The Saʂa had been deep in discussion with the Alik (as the clansmen like to call Father) in front of your cookfire when you had left your pavilion in search of dinner. No doubt they will speak late into the night apprising the other of vital civic matters - Father will come with his news of the wider realm and the court, and the Saʂa will answer with tales of the South and the state of the desertfolk.

“I’ve never been this… familiar with the sandmen before,” Eren remarks after a spoonful of stew. “They visited Lenberg once or twice during my wardship but I’ve never seen them in their natural element like this. We never crossed paths with any of them when I was escorted home for the autumn.” He takes another spoonful and observes, keen and interested.

Half a hundred clans roam the Deep Sands, from Vascalin to Krolva, as they have done since the olden days. The advent of the Southron Flowering did little to still their restless hearts. A handful had grown roots and settled, founding their own Houses and rising to further power, yet many and more held to their ancient ways, only ever stopping for a season at most in some corner of the South before moving on once more.

“They're good folk, and true.” You spoon up your stew. The meat is tender, the stew full-bodied, well-seasoned and -spiced. Kolya never misses. You eat some more, pleased. “It’s good to know that Lord Hagen is friendly with their sort. If only that was true for all of the South…” A frown creases your brow as a sudden consternation takes you over, making you lower your spoon.

Relations with the clansmen have always been ever-changeable, ever-shifting as the grains of sand will shift underfoot across the dry land they traverse. The desertfolk are not widely beloved; the Provinces of the hostile highborn are best left shunned for friendlier parts.

Even your forebears had not always been forthcoming with their itinerant subjects. Countless annals speak of countless wars waged between the Rhyzkovs and the clans. It is a fact, one of many, that shames you. Houses old in honor are also old in shame. They make much of the glory and the many attainments they have made over the millennia, yet there are just some things that do not bear lauding.

“The Paramount House is at peace with the sandmen, that counts for more than the love of some Lesser House with little clout,” Eren puts in. The profound way with which he uttered those words charms you and does an excellent job of bringing you out of the doldrums. He truly has a talent for it.

“A statewide peace would suit better… but you’re right. My great forebears’ goodwill has done much for them already.”

Somewhere within the campsite, someone has pulled out his finger drums. In a flash, the night comes alive with the music of the desert. The rhythm of a sand dance. For a moment, the yen to return to your pavilion and watch comes over you. The lake waters cling to your legs, however, watery stocks that bind you to its side. The better part of you wants to stay, stay and bask in the enchantment of this place, away from everything and everyone but your knight. Like Kaya and her paramour. Except we’re both ashore and well-dressed. The thought gives you much amusement. And just that merest bit of heat.

“We’ve had a century of goodwill between each other, the clans and most of the South. I’d love to continue that precedent and keep my predecessors’ peace.” You watch the desert outriders at their rest across the lake, their beautifully embroidered sandsilk tents as intricate as their sandsilk tunics, trading japes, whittling figures, making merry. “My people are my people, city- or sandfolk, mobile and immobile, it makes no matter. A good ruler must care for her people. At the least, I hope I can continue to bring them the peace and respect they are due.” Most of the outriders have drifted off to the heart of the camp, to mingle and revel with kin and guests alike. “Other roads might be closed to them, but they’ll always be welcome in Arsechkala.”

“You’ll make a great ruler someday.”

You give your attention back to your betrothed and still. There is a soft cast to his gaze, fond and tender, redolent of the way he stared at you as he pressed his kiss to the back of your hand a mere week ago. The pale blue light from the drifting, glowing motes gentles his expression even more. It makes your breath catch in your throat.

“I mean it. And I’ll be there to see it all.” He places his empty bowl beside him and laces his long fingers through yours. You stare, enthralled, as he places a long, slow kiss on the back of your hand, keeping his eyes resolutely, steadily, firmly on yours. Never once does he break, keeping you trapped in the blue of him, the blue and the green of those eyes, a sight more beautiful and enchanting than the lake before you.

“Ah-!”

You jump a little as he springs back in surprise, blinking rapidly at the cerulean orb that has chosen to settle (and vanish) on the tip of his nose. And just like that, his spell is broken. You tighten your grip on him, disappointed beyond belief. It is not easy keeping your ire to yourself then. You refrain from glaring outright at the pestilential motes buzzing around you. How you thought they were enchanting is beyond you. Bloody little buggers.

“Bloody little buggers,” Eren gripes, rubbing at his nose, and the sight is so endearingly comic that you giggle. The little pout he gives you makes you laugh even more, and so your disappointment ebbs away. There is no use dwelling on the regret of a lost kiss, especially not on the shadow of one. You have a whole lifetime ahead for that.

You set aside your own bowl and inch closer to him, reaching into the pocket of your cobalt vevda as you do so. “I brought sweets,” you say, holding out a couple of blood oranges you had wheedled from the cook. “Well, sweets and tarts,” you add thoughtfully, as the sharp, sweet scent of the fruits fills the space around you.

Eren takes one and proceeds to peel. “Ah, the good old blood orange. So much better than the plain old bloodless orange. It’s how an orange should be, sweet and tart and bloody.”

“You knights do love all things bloody.” You bite into a segment. The fruit is sweet and tart and full to bursting with blood-red juice, which you quickly catch in your dinner bowl before it can run down your chin and stain your skirt.

Eren frowns at you a little as he spits out a pip into his own bowl. “You make us sound barbaric.”

“But you knights do love going about hacking and hammering at things,” you beam at him but then break off abruptly with a little gasp and a whispered, “Oh, look.”

A spectral turtle has manifested high up on the side of one of the palm trees behind Eren. The sight is so fascinatingly incongruous that it drives all thought from your head.

“Interesting things, aren’t they?” Eren remarks, diverted. “I can’t say I’ve seen one on a tree before.” A cool night breeze sweeps through the haven, rustling and bending the surrounding trees slightly. Still, the ghostly turtle holds on, quite immovable.

You shiver slightly and grab the fleece blanket you have set aside for this very eventuality. The desert nights can be bitingly cold, even more so now that autumn is setting in. You throw the cover over Eren’s shoulders and wrap the other end around yourself snugly before he can so much as turn to see what you are about.

Heat suffuses you at once, to your astonishment. You know he runs hot but it takes only this night to hammer the fact home. You will be sweating beneath the fleece before long. Not that you mind. Not truly.

Eren stiffens against you as you press closer, the better to keep the quilt around you. You cannot believe how broad he had gotten over the past year. You wonder if he will grow any broader. The image is a highly attractive one. Truly.

“Y-you only brought… one?” Eren croaks, voice strained. His arm flexes beside yours.

“Mm-hmm. It was the only one they could spare.” Those halcyon nights in Reicona spent on the outer stairs of one of Highridge’s study towers comes back to you in a thrice. You brought a blanket each for yourselves then. But the lady and the squire were new trothed and still tentative with one another at the time. The lady and the knight now have grown a great deal more familiar.

The knight, stiff as a board still, shifts in his seat at the lady’s proximity. “M-mother used to say that in the dawn of time, the world was one huge ocean. There were no continents, no islands, no land. Just one unbroken world of blue.”

His voice is yet strained and higher than you are used to. You press closer, smiling. “That explains the turtle ghosts.”

“And the flying sea jellies. Nasty buggers.” His forearm is pressed lightly to your lower back beneath the blanket, you realize then. Your heart picks up pace just that bit more.

“How many times have you run afoul of those nasty buggers?”

He chuckles and all the strain in his being seems to melt into the night with the sound. “Just the once. Once is more than enough.” His voice returns at last to its customary pitch, low and soothing. Lower than it used to be, you are almost sure.

You laugh softly. “While that sounds like an exciting tale, I want to hear about your mother’s.” You hesitate for half a heartbeat then, with your heart in your throat, carefully lay your head on his strong shoulder. The scent of him further encompasses you, sweat and sand and sun and Eren, a surprisingly pleasant, heady blend that you can happily drown in.

Eren stiffens once more the moment your head touches his shoulder. His grip on his corner of the quilt tenses. “I-it’s a Paradisian legend, from the C-creed. I’m surprised Lady Theresia h-hasn’t told you…”

“She has. But I find that these tales change shape the more they change hands. Perhaps Lady Carla’s is different from Mother’s. And if it’s not, it’s still a good story. It’s been a while since I last heard it. It’ll be nice to hear it again after all this time.”

Slowly, you feel his hesitant hand slide across your lower back and come to rest on your hip, gingerly at first then firmer, surer as he holds you as close to himself as he can. “If it pleases my lady to hear the Godstale then I must oblige her.” His voice is warm, so pleasant to the ear, and his kiss, when it comes, presses light as a feather on the crown of your head.

You close your eyes a moment at that tender touch, basking in the presence of your betrothed, utterly at peace with the world. Never have you felt so safe with someone. He is… easy. So easy, so safe, so comforting.

He begins his tale and takes you into another blue, the blue of the gods and the dawn of days. Around you the orbs fly, the lake shimmers, and the night pulses with the desert’s heartbeat.

---

The water is cool, yet not unduly so, soothing and perfect for a good long soak.

A private bath is a rare and blessed thing to have on the road, and by the gods will you indulge in this luxury. You scoop up your last bowlful of river water and trickle it over your head to wash out the last of the herby lather from your hair. You watch the slow and silent current bear the foam away, swirling white scrollwork patterns upon the black waters of the ford.

Ages past, Grisha Rhyzkov, third of his name, had built the Hallowed Sphere as a bride gift for his Halkin bride. Yana Halkina was a northwoman and unused to the southron graces such as they were. Thereupon her new southron husband commissioned this sand haven, a retreat three hours’ ride away from the city, so the foreign queen could escape the hustle and bustle and bedlam of the city as it please her.

The Sphere was a wonder in its time, the best of the continent’s pleasure gardens. The place had gone to seed in the ensuing years after the War of the Ancients, however. Zoya Rhyzkova had diverted Vascalin’s funds to the war effort, in support of her Reiss liege. Unnecessary luxuries as extortionate as the Sphere were not worth precious Vascalene coin, she claimed, not during these times of unrest and upheaval. The war is long ended yet no Rhyzkov liege has seen fit to restore the place to its former glory. And so nature took it over. Only desert plants and the sands roam the once sumptuous halls - as they have for the better part of a century.

You wade through the waist-deep waters toward the cracked marble steps that lay half-submerged in the stream. Though it lay in ruins now, you can still yet see the glory the haven had once been. Gossamer drapes would have hung from these towering rounded pillars, you think, seeing, clear as day, the delicate hangings flutter all about you, light as air and sheer as ghosts. The very pillars would have been smooth and whole, the silent lilies painted on their stone columns bright, vivid, not washed out and dulled by time and the scouring sands. The silent lilies would not have been allowed to proliferate on the river as much as they have at present, and the patches of golden, prickly king’s thorn would not have been allowed to proliferate at all.

But there is beauty in ruin and destruction, you have always thought. Poignant, melancholy, desolate, yet beautiful all the same. It is fascinating to fill in the gaps from what is left behind, to wonder at what it could have been before time and fate reduced it to this shell of bygone times. The remnants could have been anything and everything once, in the flower of its existence. The mystery of the unknown, it’s that which makes it beautiful and evocative.

You place your wash bowl beside your soiled clothes, piled in a heap in the middle of the stairs, and carefully stow your bottles of wash within the wooden basin. You then sit upon one of the lower, submerged steps and tilt your head back upon the white marble step above you, serene and content. Overhead, the sky is black velvet strewn with diamond-bright stars.

So beautiful.

A soft rustling and a tiny plop from nearby make you look round. A lizard - a newt? - quickly swims away from your perch, vanishing into the clump of water weeds on the other side of the stream.

“Oi! Who goes there?”

You still, eyes widening up at the starry canopy at Pavel’s abrupt challenge.

“Oh, it’s just… me.”

You bite back a gasp and sit up, heart pounding.

“...Pavel? Ksaver?”

You lower yourself into the stream so only your head is visible above the waters. You turn to gaze up at the top of the stairs, horrified and aghast and excited beyond all measure at the sound of Eren’s footsteps coming closer, ever closer.

“Sir, we cannot allow-”

His voice comes hushed as he calls out for you.

“Y-yes?” Your voice sounds shrill, too shrill, to your own ears. You wince and clear your throat.

There is a pause.

“...are you bathing, by any chance?”

At any other time, you would have laughed at how small and strained his voice has become. Nothing could be less laughable now.

“Y-yes.”

“Alone?”

A hint of levity is starting to seep inside you now that the initial shock of his unexpected appearance begins to subside. Suddenly, it all seems comically absurd. “Yes, Eren. Do you hear Mother and the girls shouting greetings?”

“No, you’re right… stupid question, really.”

You giggle at his embarrassed tone. “Dare I ask what brings you hereabouts?” A thought occurs to you. “Are you here to make water?”

“...yes.”

“Ugh, gods.” You wrinkle your nose and make to gather your things.

He chuckles abruptly, bringing you up short. “I only jest. I wouldn't dare pollute my lady's bathwater with my foul essence," he says, dry as the desert sands.

There is a bawdy joke in there somewhere. You refrain from making it. You consider a moment, hand pressed to your neatly folded drying sheet, before proclaiming, “Pavel, Ksaver, leave us.”

The silence that falls is heavy and pregnant. “M-my lady?” Pavel stammers somewhere in his post atop the steps. “Your lord father has made it clear, you are not to-”

“It’s all right. I trust Eren with my person and my honor. I promise you, my maidenhead will come away intact by night’s end.”

Another pause comes to augment the night’s collection. You do not need to see slender Pavel and portly Ksaver to know that they are trading glances. “A-as you say, milady, but orders is orders,” Ksaver answers, firm and uncertain in equal measure.

“You don’t need to move too far away, then. Perhaps you can station yourselves at the end of the hall? You can still keep an eye on everything and keep to your duty.” And give us privacy to talk. The hallway upstairs is nice and lengthy; no words of yours should reach your guardians’ ears.

“As you will, milady,” Ksaver says at last after a whispered discussion with his compatriot. The scuff of their sandaled feet on stone resounds above, followed by a “Sir,” (this murmured to Eren), as your guards proceed to obey.

“Good blokes, and dutiful,” Eren remarks at length.

A remarkable statement, coming from one who doubted those dutiful blokes. He had been leery of those particular guards of yours once he learned of their specific duty: that of guarding you at bath. “Pavel will find you prettier than he does me, and Ksaver is a eunuch, who finds neither girls nor boys pretty,” you had told him when he raised the issue. He retracted those doubts forthwith. Which is just as well. They are good enough for your father, they should be good enough for any husband looking to safeguard his woman’s person.

“That they are.” You entertain the idea of moving farther away from the stairs just so you can get a glimpse of your betrothed. And give him a glimpse of you, another voice whispers, filled with wanton mischief. You desist. “So… what brings you here?”

A sigh, and the rustling of cloth. Eren has sat down somewhere near the steps. “If you really must know… I was chasing a newt.”

The answer is so unlooked for that you blink. “A newt?” An image of the little swimmer darting through the river waters flashes through your mind’s eye. “I’m sorry to inform you that your quarry has escaped into the watery beyond.”

“Dammit.” Another sigh. “Well, if you see one, would it be too much to ask for some assistance? If you could catch one for me, that’ll be great.”

“What would you want with a newt?” Something swims past and you tense, poised to strike, only to slump back in your seat. Only a fish.

“...reference.” This said after an unduly long silence.

“Reference.”

He must have heard the skepticism, for he adds, “Lydia wanted a newt. As a good brother by marriage, I should oblige her, yes?”

“With a wooden newt or a live one?”

That makes him snort out a little ‘Heh,’ which makes you beam. “Why aren’t you bathing with them? You’ve done so the whole journey.”

“Exactly. Private baths on the road are rare and blessed things. I wanted to have a nice long soak without Mother or Darya or Lydia harrying me along. I want to moon around in the water, you know?”

“Sweet and pretty Kaya, maid of the mere, heedless of the man she ensnared with her beauty ‘neath pure moonlight.”

Your mouth goes dry as the desert. And yet there is all this water. You lower yourself a little back into the stream at the sound of his voice. You had not wanted him here, had been dreading his presence ever since your betrothed stumbled in without notice.

Perhaps you should’ve kept your guards around, after all.

“And sweet and pretty Kaya screamed bloody murder having, at last, clapped eyes on the strange man come upon her at her bareness.”

He laughs, light and airy. “I don’t think that’s how the tale went.”

“It should. At least, if I were Kaya. That is how my tale will go.” Your shoulders relax a little at his tone, returned to its accustomed pitch.

“Where is that scream?”

And just like that, the tension is back.

“I think you’re more like Kaya than you let on, my lady. I would hardly call that sweet little peep you gave me earlier a scream,” he says, with his voice like silk.

“You’re not exactly strange to me.” You swallow and shift. The heat would have been unbearable were you not submerged. But now that you think on it, the water is not as cool as it had once been. “And you saw- see nothing. And will see nothing.” Tonight. You clutch at the tops of your thighs, kneading the skin.

The hum that escapes him is the most sinful thing you have yet heard. You shift again. “Ever? Will I see nothing ever?” Heat bursts up your face and you open your mouth to let fly a retort when he continues, “Such a sad tale we make. Great Forebear Anselm was a luckier man than I, to get a glimpse of his beloved’s exquisite bareness.”

You find your tongue once more. “I didn’t say you won't-”

“Oh, so I will get a glimpse?”

You gape at the quick riposte. And at the low, smooth laugh that follows. Sin. This is the sound of sin.

“I’ll hold you to that. My lady.” You can hear the smirk in his voice. “I might yet coax a scream from you someday.”

Who is this man? You turn to stare up the steps, mouth ajar and brow furrowed. Your entire face is burning. Is this truly Eren? Now you are tempted, tempted to wade out and see if this polished silver-tongued orator is your betrothed and not some other man. He certainly sounds like Eren. At the worst, you could have a devilish skinchanger on your hands, out to take your virtue.

Part of you wants to curse him. Part of you wants to lead him on, to climb up these steps, dripping and naked as your yearday, and draw out that flushing, stuttering, fumble-tongued boy that you can tease so easily. See how he likes that. Nothing will turn the tide against him better than that. Nothing is more like to rid you of him, Eren at his most sensuous.

Eren at his most sensuous is a most dangerous man, and dangerous to your constitution. And with you so exposed and so vulnerable… You dig your nails into your thighs, frowning. All of your trained refinedness flew out of the window tonight. You can’t have that. It will not do. It will not do at all. “How deep into your cups did you get?”

“I emptied half my waterskin during dinner. And it wasn’t filled with wine, either,” he answers, forestalling your rebuttal. “I have a wineskin for that, love.”

You glance down at your sunken lap, cheeks burning at that endearment new-heard from his lips.

“I don’t need to be drunk to proclaim my interest. Is that such a strange thought?” Suddenly, he is solemn as the grave.

Yes, when you’re coming on as strong as this. “You wouldn’t be saying such things to my face as I am now. Your silver tongue will tangle worse than yarn.”

“I seem to recall a certain game of qaxan where I did say such things to your pretty face. The silver tongue that you take so much interest in did not have a problem getting under your skin.”

“Was I wet and naked then, Sir? I don’t recall that I was.” The waters of the Silent Ford are crystal-clear despite its ceaseless current, slow as it is. You can see your lap, and your hands pressed to the soft skin of your thighs. Naked, so very naked. With the water this clear, there is no hiding anything. “You’re brazen when you're not facing me. Say what you said earlier to my face as I am now. Without stuttering, without fumbling, without blushing. Tell me how much you’d love a glimpse of my bareness. Look into my eyes and tell me how much you love the sight of me when I come to you as I am now, with water running down my naked skin.” You dig your toes into the fine gray sand, watch the current snatch away the gray clouds you have dug up. The words pass through your lips, unbidden and not entirely unwanted, “Tell me how you mean to make me scream.”

You bite your lip, hard, as your eyes widen. Slowly, you place a trembling hand over your mouth, that loose and traitorous mouth that had exposed you so. How you dared to say that to him, you do not know. Whatever had possessed you to do so was a potent force and irresistible.

The silence that follows is even more pregnant than the preceding one, straining and fit to burst. And then… “Are you sure you want to hear all that, my lady?” If you thought you had known how deep his voice can go, you are sorely mistaken. Gooseflesh prickles your skin as his words sweep over you like a physical caress, intent and sensual as a lover’s. “How much I want more than a glimpse? How my hands will take the place of that water running down your skin? For you can be sure I won’t be keeping my hands to myself.”

You start a little as you feel something touch your legs. A couple of small, silvery fish are placing tentative kisses on your calves. It tickles, the way their tiny mouths press against your flesh. You wonder how Eren’s mouth will feel against your skin, if he will be tentative as these fish or bold, hard, firm as only Eren Jaeger can be.

Your fingers slowly crawl higher up your legs, the tips dipping between your thighs.

“We’re treading dangerous depths here, my lady.”

His voice has reached such low and dangerous depths. Your eyelids lower until you are staring at your lap with a half-lidded gaze. Your forefinger presses softly, carefully upon the top of your mound.

“Are you sure you want to know-” your lips part in a silent gasp- “the things I’ll do to make you scream?”

You snatch your hand away from between your legs, quick as a flash. The splash of your movement echoes into the night and wakes you from your trance.

“Oh, to see your face now…” he murmurs with his voice of spider silk. “I do love that face you make when I get a rise out of you.”

You want him to be silent. You want him to keep talking. You want… You want.

"There’s a fire in you, my lady, and I would draw it out."

You cannot understand how the boy of Shimmerwood is the very same man who torments you so tonight. The boy of Shimmerwood is easy and safe and comforting. The man of the Hallowed Sphere does not feel easy and safe and comforting.

A soft huff of bemused amusement escapes you as the fog of lust makes its gradual exit. Whatever that all was is a bawdy farce of the utmost absurdity. Perhaps this is why men love to fuck so much. Bottling lust in is enough to drive one up the wall. Would that I could take my pleasures as easily. Your sordid affair, such as it was, with Roman made your lord father sharp to such matters as regards to you, however. He will have no young man warming your bed before you are wed. Even your own betrothed will not have the privilege, practically married though you are in the eyes of gods and men. The constraints of honor and decency have reduced you to only teasing and pulling at each other with words to ease the strain.

You wrap your arms around yourself and stare at the crop of silent lilies blooming across you, their silver-gray petals eerily blurred around the edges and glowing with a strange ghostlight. Floral ghosts. “It would seem that we both love to get a rise out of the other,” you muse, a quiet observation meant more for yourself. “It makes for an interesting ebb and flow.”

“My lady should emerge and get dressed, else she’ll turn into a pretty prune.” Your body draws up tight on instinct as he speaks but relaxes once more at his tone. Eren at his most sensuous has seemingly vanished at last, leaving you with Eren. Just Eren. You turn to stare up at the steps once more and smile.

The first stroke of the soft linen of your drying sheet across your skin comes as a sharp shock. It feels almost… abrasive. It feels strangely good. Further gooseflesh rises across your body as you hurriedly wipe down, bewildered at how responsive you have become to touch. Wiping across your breasts is a torment, a most pleasurable torment. Your nipples, already hard from the chill night air, harden further at the light brush of the cloth, and you bite your lip at the pleasure that flares hot through your chest. The quickest of swipes makes do for your cunt. There is a place you do not want to linger on.

You looked down at your breasts in slight dismay as you gather your things on the steps. The thin cornsilk of your nightgown does little to hide their aroused state. Putting on your rose-satin bedrobe does nothing to help matters. The little buds poke persistently at the thicker fabric. You sigh and hold your belongings to your chest, determined not to let them betray you to your amorous betrothed. You’d suffered enough traitors from this body of yours.

Eren is sitting cross-legged on the cracked stone floor near the edge of the stairs, hunched over with his arms crossed over his lap. Your breath catches in your throat at the sight of him, as it almost always does these days. Southron fashions truly do him justice. And he wears them with the ease and familiarity of a local. It is fashion for the men of the far South (the common sort mostly) to wear their vidnoye sans a tunic underneath, and in this Eren adheres to. His scarlet-trimmed dark blue vidnon jacket is lying half-opened over a bare chest. The way his mother’s key lies draped over the smooth, muscled skin is enticing. A large part of you wants to run your hands all over it and all over him. Learn every dip and ridge and line of his beautiful body.

How the gods came to bless you with a man so desirable is a marvel indeed. He stares up at you as you emerge. You can see the light of the nearby lanterns reflected in the dark pools of his eyes.

“Looks like I will be polluting your bathwaters,” he says without preamble in a tone one would use when talking about the good weather. The manner of his current stance is made much clearer to you then.

Immediately, helplessly, your eyes dart to his crossed arms, the only things keeping you from seeing the… evidence of his interest. “Oh.” Oh-so nice and eloquent, that, mutters a snide voice in your head. You cringe inwardly. This night has reduced you to something else entirely. Where is Rhyzkova when you need her?

He notices the object of your attention almost at once and glances down at his lap. The smile he flashes you is wry and crooked. “Since this is entirely your fault, I would ask you to take responsibility but…” Eren turns his head to look down the long lamplit hallway at your faithful guards, who are traipsing across the corridor, having seen their charge finally arise. His expression is almost petulant.

“A good ruler must always take responsibility but I’m afraid I’ll have to defer.” The looks you give each other then are heavy with mirth and something else, something a deal more loaded. You consider a moment then hand him your drying sheet all careful-like, making sure your breasts are still well-covered by your bath things. “Take care not to soil it too much.”

“I have better breeding than that, my lady. Ask any Jaeger laundress. Not a spot on my sheets anywhere, no matter the day’s… provocations.” His earlier roguish suggestiveness returns to color not only his voice but also his gaze. “And she is a most provocative lady indeed.”

“Are we now speaking of ladies? Here I thought we were speaking of days’ provocations. But she’s not so provocative as all that, surely?” You can get used to this… flirtation. It is a tentative acknowledgment of the carnal desires you had skirted around with before and, gods, is it freeing. The trained little lady would be affronted by such lewd cheek; the wanton tart with the stronger presence is thriving and wanting more. “I’m sure she’s done nothing to inflame so much passion. Or give rise to such risings.”

Eren laughs, your sheet draped across his lap, and would have answered had your guards not come up to you at last. “All finished now, milady?” Ksaver inquires.

“Oh, yes.” You try to force down the disappointment the arrival of your men gives you and are not quite successful. Would that they had walked slower. Another minute and you would have heard Eren’s most stimulating sally.

“I’ll leave you to your business, then. Perhaps you’ll finally catch that elusive newt while you’re at it,” you tell your betrothed, glancing down at his upturned face, before making to leave with the guards. You hesitate a moment then reach out to touch the crown of his head, running your fingers through the soft, dark strands of his hair, before moving on. “Have you a good night, Sir.”

Eren catches your hand, surprising you, and presses a kiss on your fingers. “Good night, my lady.” His dark eyes gleam up at you as you walk away, fingers tingling from the warmth of his breath.

You turn to look back at him before you disappear through the sand-blasted columns that border the place. He is staring back at you likewise; he raises a hand to wave farewell with that sweet smile you love so much. You return both smile and wave and walk off.

The smell of the sea is the first thing that strikes him.

Beside him on your Nightsilver, you look up and snuff at the air. A smile lights up your face, beautiful as sunrise. “The smell of home.”

Eager as he is, your excitement feeds his own, filling him with so much elatedness it is a wonder he is not floating his way to the city. But, more than anything, it is gratifying, cheering, enchanting to see you as you are now - just you, just a girl coming home after a long time away. It is lovely and charming and beguiling. And no hint of Rhyzkova in sight. The thought thrills him more than he can say.

“It’s been years since I’ve last smelled the sea… I didn’t realize how much I could miss it.” The past couple of progresses had not taken them to the far South and its glorious coastlines. Eren spurs Goldmoon into a faster trot; at once, you follow suit. You move ahead of the column, steadily outstripping the ponderous Rhyzkov wheelhouse.

And by gods is it ponderous. He has been doing his utmost best to get the both of you out of it as much as possible. His first foray into the confines of the vehicle was rather awkward. At least it was for him - he had never been in such close quarters with his future marriage kin before. But they proved pleasant enough and soon gave him ease. Pleasant as they are, though, being stuck inside the wheelhouse only makes him restless. It doesn’t even have proper windows; the ornamental lattice over them was wrought so closely together that he can barely see anything out of them.

But having better windows will only make the vehicle just that tad bit more tolerable. Traveling the country is so much better on horseback. Better yet, having you to himself vastly improves the experience. Besides, you look better, more in your element ahorse than cooped up in that great wheeled cage.

You stop just before the company of standard bearers. The crimson banners in their hands snap and flap in the wind, displaying the golden winged orb of their masters’ House high and proud.

“Years, huh… I can’t imagine staying away that long.” You glance around at the groups of commons, mostly farmers with their wayns packed with produce to sell at market or offer to the gods for the approaching Alyfeis. They move aside to let their overlords pass with respectful inclines of the head. You nod to a handful as you breeze through the paved winding road to the city walls.

“I envy you your proximity to the sea. Land-locked Shiganshina has its charms but it’s still that, land-locked.”

“Well…” You stare down at the reins in your hands, tucking your head in further beneath your lesos. The color of flame it is today. You look almost sweetly, endearingly shy. “You won’t be away from it for that long anymore. Soon.”

He has never grinned wider. Nor blushed harder.

The capital’s city gates are nowhere near as spectacular as those of Reicona’s. But then, no city has walls that will ever match those of home. He supposes the great sandstone pilasters flanking the entrance are impressive enough, with their sculpted winged orbs perched atop the columns, but the Pillars of the Falcon outstrip them in magnificence by leagues. A pang of something akin to wistfulness steals through Eren at the thought. It will be some time ‘til next he sees the Pillars of the Falcon.

He does not mourn for too long, though. The sights drive everything but awe out of his being, the moment they pass through the inner walls. There is just so much to take in.

The last he had been in Arsechkala was a couple of years ago when the court took its progress to the greater South. He had been only once before that, in another progress, his first time in the other southron capital, Lenberg’s sister city.

He recalls being struck by how different everything was between the two, Lenberg and Arsechkala, the new South and the old. It is not the South of his childhood, that fact is little in doubt. Has it changed much these past couple of years? Perhaps. Perhaps not. He takes it in with fresh eyes filled with wonder.

Everything he sees about the place seems new yet familiar all the same. Pillars and pillared buildings are much in abundance in every square and plaza. The packed dirt ground underfoot throws up little puffs of dust as their convoy marches along. Scores and scores of people go about their business, the Arsechkai in their lesostok and their vevdaya, the catchall term for the loose, shapeless garment of the South, cinched at the waist with belts of all styles and make. He has foregone one today in favor of a dark green tunic trimmed with gray (in the southron style, of course). He prefers wearing vevdaya mostly on formal occasions; floor-length ones are too cumbersome for exploring, and the shorter knee-length ones make him feel a child. The freedom one gets from a tunic and a pair of pants is still unequaled.

A steady stream of Rakiva assails him from all sides. The convoy slows for a time so they can skirt some road accident. A cart full of figs and a cart full of the pottery Arsechkala is famous for had somehow crashed together. Broken shards of glazed clay lay everywhere amidst scores of sweet figs. The two tradesmen manning each wayn are cursing each other as a small crowd of onlookers starts to gawk and gather. Eren can understand one word in every five yet he knows the curses the vendors spit at each other well enough. A handful of passersby furtively help themselves to the tumbled figs and hurry off before the fig seller can get wise to them.

They move on to the riverside market. Fishwives are everywhere crying the day’s catch as buyers of every ilk mill around, looking for the choicest purchase. Small and slender paddle boats ply the waters carrying goods of all sorts. Lenberg is a city of pools and waterways and rivers, the far-famed City of Fountains. The only waterway Arsechkala has is this river Goldtide, which empties itself into the Cobalt Sea by way of Sandpiper Bay.

For all the differences the two capitals have, though, much still stays the same where southron conventions are concerned. Of course, southron fashions remain alike either way of Lovaya, with the barest hint of disparity in certain design elements. The pervasive heat is also common to both, yet with the onset of autumn, it is not expected to put in much of an appearance in the next few weeks. Even the smells of the cities are redolent of each other. There are scents and spices not present in one or the other but the salty scent of the sea is prevalent as to overpower most everything.

It is the smell of his childhood, and it is fresh and bracing and heady. Enlivening.

No further incident holds up their progress through the city and before long they are coming up to Goldhaven’s massive sandstone walls. They had sent a bird earlier to inform the household of their coming and so they find the gates already open. The guards on either side of the entrance stand to attention and salute as the procession passes.

Eren stares around at the sprawling courtyard, as interested as he was the last time he had set foot on the place. It is not so much a courtyard as it is a small town. Highridge’s own yard is as large yet the little buildings make Goldhaven’s seem that much larger. To the right of the path leading up to the castle is the servants’ commune, he knows. The left is where the barracks are, home to the Rhyzkov garrison. This setup has always fascinated him; he has yet to see another castle made so.

Servants and soldiers alike are darting out of their cottages to welcome their masters home. A great rumbling boom resounds through the ward as the castle gates are pushed shut. Eren vaults down Goldmoon immediately and hastens over to you before you can dismount yourself.

You throw him an amused glance before sitting sidesaddle and extending your hands out to him. He ignores them entirely and reaches out for your waist. At once you stiffen in his hold. Your surprise delights him. The way you reflexively grasp his shoulders as he lifts you off your mare delights him even more.

He gently steadies you and holds you a while longer, gazing down at you affectionately, wanting to snatch this small moment before the bustle of activity sweeps you up once more. Your touch feels good, light as it is. And there is that exquisite expression again, that look that he loves, the look of soft, tender awe, as though you would see through the very heart of him, as if you are in awe of him, of all people.

But your family is coming up, and grooms are hurrying about, and servants are busy unloading, unpacking, unburdening… The moment breaks, and you step away from each other. You reach out to twine your fingers with his. Eren tightens his grip, happy as a jester.

“Went ahead, did you now? A pair of wanderers I have in my hands here,” Lord Alexander smiles, eyes twinkling down at your linked hands.

Eren is once more struck by how much of a big man his future father by marriage is. He can only imagine how hard a punch from the burly lord will be. Not that Eren will ever hurt you. Never. Never.

“I trust the journey has been well? Not too tired?” Alexander asks Eren, who shakes his head.

“No, my lord, I thank you for asking. I still have a few more leagues in me, in fact,” he quips, grinning as you laugh.

Lord Alexander chuckles. “Ah, the glories of youth. Would that I still have mine… In any case, it would be remiss of us as hosts to not see you well-rested. My child, if you could be so good as to escort your betrothed. Paul should be on hand to assist.”

“Of course, Father.” You smile at Eren and tug him along to climb the stone steps leading up to the castle proper (definitely not as long as Highridge’s, he thinks, glancing askance at you and smiling to himself). A gilded man and woman each flank the top of the stairway, both clutching a scepter in their left hand and a winged orb in their right.

Goldhaven’s halls are entirely unchanged since last he’d seen them, with its passages of warm red stone and marble, gray and white. The vaguely familiar steward, Paul Kolas - red of hair, green of eye, and thin of frame - directs you to the guest wing and henceforth to Eren’s allotted chambers for the duration of his stay.

“Only the best for our most esteemed guest,” you remark as Eren looks around, more than impressed. That this is the best of the guestrooms he does not doubt. A large iron brazier stands in the middle of the room, unlit and filled with coal (“Sea coal. Only the very best,” you inform him).

Great rounded pillars lead out to a balcony with the most stunning view of the sea. Eren finds himself heading straight outside, as though his legs have wings. “Your view is so much better than mine,” you say, a little wistfully as you sit on the green velvet daybed that lies beside a tall potted plant. A flock of pigeons is roosting on the banister, cooing and paying their intruders no heed. “But I suppose the city and the Greatshield’s silhouette could be pleasing to the eye in certain lights.”

“Gods, it’s beautiful.” Eren leans against the parapet, feeling the wind ruffling his hair, and takes in a deep whiff of the cool salt breeze. Never has he felt so alive.

“I’m glad the young master thinks it’s so.” Mister Paul enters the room, polishing his knuckles nervously. “I hope the green is to your taste,” he adds, and Eren glances around to see what he is about.

They certainly did not stint on the green, he thinks. In addition to the daybed, everything that can be tinted with the shade is tinted in it, from the long linen hangings of the pillars to the sheets and curtains of the bed, which stands in its place upon a slightly raised dais to his right.

“We hoped it would-” the steward begins, only to be cut off by his mistress.

“-give you a taste of home.” You stand from the daybed, your lesos now pulled back from your head to lay draped about your shoulders. “As I said, only the very best for our beloved guest.”

“And for the future lord consort,” Mister Paul puts in, clapping his hands together and beaming all over his thin, freckled face.

You and Eren carefully avoid glancing at each other.

“Well,” you clear your throat and move to stand beside the steward. “If you want to bathe, the bath is over here,” you gesture to a wooden door some ways away from the bed. “Come see me after you’re done,” you throw over your shoulder as you make to leave with Mister Paul. “Meet me outside the presence chamber.”

And so he is left to his cleansing. Which he is most grateful for. The sweat and stink of horse must be abolished. Sir Levi is a stickler for cleanliness and it has absolutely rubbed off on him. As it did all the knight’s squires, Eren had been told - the cleanest men in Lovaya are almost certain to have been under the greatest (and cleanest) living knight of the realm’s tutelage at one point, it is often jested. While Eren does not mind getting into the thick of things like any other respectable soldier, he does not feel entirely at ease in his own skin until he’s scrubbed himself down. Preferably with water, if it is close to hand; with sand if he has no other choice.

The cold water pouring down from the beak of the copper birdshead above him feels incredible after all that time spent beneath the heat. He finds a bar of soap - something flowery and herbal - on its dish atop the raised edge of the small pool he is washing in. The scar on his right arm is still quite tender, over a month old though it is, and he scrubs over it gingerly so as not to further inflame the flesh.

This certainly is his largest and most impressive scar to date. Anointed knight as he is now, he wonders if he’ll accrue more of its kind. Most like. Not that the prospect daunts him. He’d never shied away from pain as a squire. Being a knight won’t change that.

His fingers trace the red puckered flesh, standing stark and sharp against the smooth skin. Sir Erwin would’ve gotten likewise marked had his arm survived. The gods and their strange games. To have Sir Erwin Smith, the Lord Commander of the elite Royal Guard himself, lose an arm; to have him, Eren Jaeger, a mere squire, go through the same thing and come out whole and intact is an irony of the cruelest sort. Even their assaulted arms are the same, the sword arm, the lifeblood of the warrior. Eren cannot imagine going on without it. He would not have handled the loss half so well as Sir Erwin.

His fingers slip down his arm and thread through his wet hair. He scrubs, slowly at first and then more vigorously, working the lather through his scalp. No use dwelling on unpleasantness. He is back in the South, back by the sea, with the promise of a whole season spent with his lady. Who is waiting for him. Thoughts of your comely smiling face make him hasten his bath - quick but thorough, a voice that sounds a lot like Sir Levi echoes inside his head. Hasty he may be but Eren will leave no patch of skin unscrubbed.

He finishes his wash feeling a good deal more refreshed. And smelling strongly of floral herbs. The water drains in the bath’s small empty pool (thank the gods for piping) as he slips into a short-sleeved dark brown tunic, with its ornamental bone-white belt, and black pants. He slides on a new pair of sandals and trudges off, heading to his lady.

Two years away have chipped at his memory of the palace. To be sure, he had not needed to visit Goldhaven’s presence chamber before. Eren stops a couple of crimson-clad servants to ask them, in his best Rakiva, for directions to the hall, which they are happy enough to provide. They could’ve spoken slower, though. In the end, he understands enough to know where to go. That wasn’t too bad. He had as well practice his Old Tongue; fluency will not come if he doesn’t at least start.

Black and gold greet him as he steps into the presence room’s antechamber, which is open to the sea. The smell of salt is strong here, as it is in the rest of the palace. He will not be free of it even within the confines of this building. Not that he wants to be. The pillars these southerners love so much are much in abundance here, beautifully wrought in black basalt and expertly fluted. Eren slowly turns round in a circle, admiring the arched ceiling with its gilded meanders and circles and triangles. He is about to head over to the nearby balustrade and bask further in the sea air when the sound of footsteps approaches.

He looks down and gapes.

Skin. So much skin, is his first thought. Breasts, is his next. His mouth snaps shut, dry as bone. Were southron fashions always this revealing? he thinks, wracking his brains frantically for memories of the southron women of his youth, the southron women of two years ago, and the manner of their clothing. Only vague impressions come back to him. The Rybikhon do not dress like this, that much he is sure of.

“Ah, here you are. Well-refreshed, I hope?” you say, with your glittering smile and pretty, pretty face.

And such pretty, pretty breasts. He wants to punch himself. Eren opens his mouth to reply. Only a faint gurgle comes out.

“Eren? Are you all right? You look-”

Whatever else you said vanishes as his eyes greedily take in the glories of your body. You are not clad in the vevda, that much is certain. While they come with all manner of sleeves, sometimes dispensing with them altogether, vevdaya never have straps. Not like this dress. Not like this sheer and gauzy dress. And its deep vee of a neckline.

Has he ever seen such pretty breasts? He cannot recall as such. Your court gowns do not do them justice, by the gods. They will fill his hands perfectly, he can tell. Soft and shapely they look; he would love nothing more than to bury his face between them and feel the warm satin of your skin beneath his lips as he presses kisses everywhere and anywhere he can reach. The alabaster fabric is near translucent enough that, in a good light and with a good eye, he will be able to just make out your nipples. He wonders how responsive they truly are… He wants to take them into his mouth and suckle them to hard peaks, hear your encouraging moans of pleasure as you run your hands through his hair and press his face closer to your breasts…

Oh. Fuck.

Eren wrenches his mind away from those sodding dangerous thoughts as the budding tension rising between his legs makes itself very, very known to him. He casts about, panic-stricken, for another thought, for an image, anything to set his head straight. Think of Zeke fucking Elva, something shouts at him, and he snatches at it wildly. At once, his mind’s eye is full of his brother’s cheeks, clenching and unclenching as he pounds away at his lady wife.

His desire and his manhood wilt in a flash. Eren suppresses a sigh of relief and a shudder of disgust. Disgust is better than desire, though, in public. Desire can be indulged much, much later, in private. He wonders how many times he will have to indulge it, though, if this is but a taste of your preferred homegrown fashions. How is he expected to survive a whole season of this?

Zeke’s ass. Zeke’s ass. Zeke’s blond, hairy ass.

He wants to weep at what he has to resort to to keep his cock limp in your presence. No, no, he will get used to it. As he did when first he’d lusted for you. He is not some beast of a man, easily tempted by the baser pleasures. And he has never been, it should be an easy thing, and simple, to temper his carnal thoughts as he can do so effortlessly with womankind.

But then, you are not just any other woman.

He helps himself to another peek at the lush curves of your breasts. Gods, he truly is a beggar for your flesh.

The snapping of fingers beneath his nose makes him recoil.

“Eren!”

You frown at him, hands on your hips. “Glad to see you back on earth. Headworm get in your ear?” You cross your arms over your chest. He wishes you hadn’t. “What’s gotten you so up in the clouds?”

You.

Your eyes flicker down to your chest and back up at him. He quickly averts his gaze, his nose and cheeks burning. A chain of golden winged orbs cinches that cursed dress about your waist. His eyes trace every one as he tries to ignore the deafening silence in the hall.

“Oh.”

He does not like the sound of that Oh. Nor does he like the look of that smile on your face, when he dares to glance up at you once more.

Eren tenses as you slink forward and loop an arm around his. He swallows as the scent of apples and winter roses assails his senses. The plain gold band you are wearing on your upper limb presses against him. But for that, you feel so deliciously soft and warm. Zeke. Zeke. Zeke.

“Where shall we head to this fine day?” you say conversationally, steering him forward and away from the antechamber. “I thought to keep our excursions within the palace for the rest of this afternoon. Don’t want to tire either of us out too much, we just got here. And we still have your welcoming feast tonight to attend. Do you have any place in mind? I’ll play the gracious hostess and oblige you.” The sly and vulpine smile is back. “Father asked Lord Grisha for permission to stud Goldmoon, did the Magister tell you? Goldmoon is such a beautiful steed, we’d love to sire our own line from him. I would love to see him breed with a sand steed. Imagine how beautiful the foals of that union would be! The Saʂa is truly a generous man.” The Lord Pejić had given them the pick of his stable as his guest gift when their convoys parted ways at Shimmerwood; the Rhyzkovs, in turn, presented him with the choicest animals of their livestock to augment his herds.

“Perhaps we should nip down to the stables, hmm? Look over the new mares the Saʂa gave us and choose which one your stallion gets to mount,” you go on, then to his horror, press your breast against the arm you are clutching.

You are as soft as you look.

But with his cunt-struck delight comes a hint of annoyance. “Now you’re just teasing me.”

You giggle and pull away, to his horror and relief. “Perhaps a little.”

“Careful, my lady. Push too far and I’ll push back. You won’t like it if I do.”

“Oh, I like it well enough.” You gleam at him, all tacit challenge. “Not exactly the first time I’ve driven you up one too many walls, is it? You have the most delectable manner when I do.”

He stops abruptly in the middle of the nigh on empty hall you are walking through to slip his arm out of your hold and tangle your fingers together. Slowly, purposefully, he saunters forward. Slowly, helplessly, you amble backward until at last he has you cornered and pressed up against a pilaster.

Eren looks down at you, watches that lovely, delectable expression take your face over. Oh-so delectable. He leans forward, close but not too close. “You haven’t pushed me far enough yet, love. Carnal words are the least of what you’ll get when you do.” Your luscious lips part and all at once you are close enough for him to smell the mint in your breath, for you to trade air. Any further and he will be able to taste the coolness on your tongue.

Footsteps echo down the hall and he pulls back as though he has been scalded. Your hands remain entwined.

“M’lord. M’lady,” a washerwoman curtseys, as best she can with her load of clothes. She eyes your linked hands, yet says nothing but, “Have you a g’day.”

“You as well, goodwife,” you answer, cool as mint. You turn to Eren once the woman goes on to her duties. “And so, where shall it be, Sir? Do you have someplace in the castle in mind? Or would you be led by me?” The inviting look on your face remains.

A corner of his mouth curls up. “Please, lead on, my lady. You can lead me anywhere.” You beam, a more guileless smile and girlish, and tug him along.

He is liking this bolder, more open flirtation of yours. At the very least, there is no doubt now: you desire him as much as he does you. With any luck, you will be speaking freely of it in a more serious context.

And he likes this back and forth, the ebb and flow as you called it that night in the Sphere. He has always liked watching you squirm - gods know you've teased and made him squirm and look the fool countless times. Some part of him likes that, though, the teasing and the squirming. Less for his dignity but more for the way you are when you are at it - so passionate, so spirited, so animated.

Eren glances at the back of you, swept along by your current. Being home seems to agree with you. Lovely. Charming. Beguiling. This autumn will be his best one yet. And it can only get better from here.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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A/N:

AOT'S BACK, BABY!!! Absolutely perfect to smash that writer's block that is the bane of every writer's existence. It's a bittersweet thing to see Eren my beloved on screen again. Sweet because ❤Eren��� and bitter because... well, he's not exactly in the best of circumstances, is he? Compensating by giving him happiness in this AU (fornowtreasurethiswhileitlastsbahahahaha)

An absolute beggar for your flesh Eren is - boobs man, legs man, just a plain old YN man, actually, he's desperate, he'll take anything, even your ankles.

Nerdy worldbuilding info time! They tell time differently from us, obviously, but how does it work? There are only 12 hours in a day for Lovaya, each named for the twelve sacred beasts of the Creed. One hour for them is around two hours for us. I based this on the Chinese Zodiac time, which names the hours for the Chinese Zodiac, as the name suggests, and is also divided into two hours each. ASOIAF has a similar timing convention, though I'm not sure if GRRM actually based his times on the Chinese Zodiac. And trivia done!

Another long chapter... I have a feeling this arc would have them cause this is honestly my favorite arc of the story that I planned out (wartime arc aside, which I am so asjfdkjdshfksdjhfs excited to get into but! I have to lay everything down properly so, we'll get there, we'll get there...) Til the next update!

Tagging: @alekstraszas @lukepattersin @jakes-babygirl

[byneddiedingo]

Babek Ahmed Poor in Where Is My Friend's House? (Abbas Kiarostami, 1987)

Cast: Babek Ahmed Poor, Ahmed Ahmed Poor, Khodabakhsh Defaei, Iran Outari, Ait Ansari, Sadika Taohidi, Biman Mouafi, Ali Djamali, Aziz Babai, Rafia Difai. Screenplay: Abbas Kiarostami. Cinematography: Farhad Saba. Film editing: Abbas Kiarostami. Music: Amine Allah Hessine. 

I think Dickens would have liked Abbas Kiarostami's Where Is My Friend's House? It deals with one of Dickens's great subjects: the anomalous place of children in an adult world that often doesn't even hear or see them or recognize them as human beings with their own problems and concerns. It's the story of 8-year-old Ahmed (Babek Ahmed Poor), who goes to school in the village of Koker. One day the teacher berates the boy who sits next to Ahmed, Mohamed Reda (Ahmed Ahmed Poor), because he has done his homework on a piece of paper and not in the prescribed notebook. It's the third time Mohamed has done this, the teacher scolds, and the next time he'll be expelled. We can see Ahmed wincing at the treatment of Mohamed, and after school he helps the boy when he stumbles and drops his schoolbooks. When he gets home, Ahmed discovers that he has accidentally picked up Mohamed's notebook and is horrified that this means the boy will be expelled. He tells his mother that he needs to take the notebook to his friend, but she's preoccupied with doing the wash and tending to the baby, so she tells him to do his homework first and then to pick up the bread for dinner. Perplexed, Ahmed tries to do his homework but his mother keeps interrupting him to help with the baby or to carry the washbasin, constantly dismissing his insistence that it's important that he deliver the notebook. Finally, he seizes the opportunity to leave, but he knows only that Mohamed lives in the neighboring village of Poshteh, which is over the hill from Koker. So he races up the zigzag trail that takes him over the steep hill and down through the olive grove that lies outside the village. He knows Mohamed's family name is Nematzadeh, but there are lots of Nematzadehs in Poshteh, and he doesn't know which branch of the family is his friend's. Finally, he gets a lead and is told that Mr. Nematzadeh and his son have just set off for Koker. So he races back over the hill, only to be delayed in his search by his own grandfather (Rafia Difai), who sends Ahmed off to fetch his cigarettes. While Ahmed is running this errand, the grandfather expounds his theories of child-rearing to a friend: His own father, the grandfather says, would give him some money and a beating every other week, whether he deserved it or not. Sometimes, he admits, his father would forget the money, but he always remembered the beating. This, the grandfather proclaims, taught him the discipline and obedience that children today like Ahmed don't learn. Meanwhile, Ahmed, who is struggling to fulfill what he sees as his duty to his friend and his family, has learned that the boy who accompanied Mr. Nematzadeh was not Mohamed, and that the man has just started back for Poshteh, riding on a donkey. So Ahmed makes another trip over the hill, keeping Nematzadeh in sight and following him into the labyrinthine streets and alleys of Poshteh, only to discover that he has the wrong branch of the family after all. Eventually, after another misadventure, a despondent Ahmed returns home, finishes his own homework, and copies it into Mohamed Reda's notebook, which results in a well-earned happy ending. It's an excellent movie for children, but beside that, Kiarostami's screenplay, direction, and editing, and his empathy with the people and landscape of Northern Iran bring everything together into a fable about miscommunication and the difficulties of growing up. It's not as ambitious or complex as some of Kiarostami's later films, but it has their depth of feeling and brilliance of execution.

[byneddiedingo]

I think Dickens would have liked Abbas Kiarostami's Where Is My Friend's House?* It deals with one of Dickens's great subjects: the anomalous place of children in an adult world that often doesn't even hear or see them or recognize them as human beings with their own problems and concerns. It's the story of 8-year-old Ahmed (Babek Ahmed Poor), who goes to school in the village of Koker. One day the teacher berates the boy who sits next to Ahmed, Mohamed Reda (Ahmed Ahmed Poor), because he has done his homework on a piece of paper and not in the prescribed notebook. It's the third time Mohamed Reda has done this, the teacher scolds, and the next time he'll be expelled. We can see Ahmed wincing at the treatment of Mohamed Reda, and after school he helps the boy when he stumbles and drops his schoolbooks. When he gets home, Ahmed discovers that he has accidentally picked up Mohamed Reda's notebook and is horrified that this means the boy will be expelled. He tells his mother that he needs to take the notebook to his friend, but she's preoccupied with doing the wash and tending to the baby, so she tells him to do his homework first and then to pick up the bread for dinner. Perplexed, Ahmed tries to do his homework but his mother keeps interrupting him to help with the baby or to carry the washbasin, constantly dismissing his insistence that it's important that he deliver the notebook. Finally, he seizes the opportunity to leave, but he knows only that Mohamed Reda lives in the neighboring village of Poshteh, which is over the hill from Koker. So he races up the zigzag trail that takes him over the steep hill and down through the olive grove that lies outside the village. He knows Mohamed Reda's family name is Nematzadeh, but there are lots of Nematzadehs in Poshteh, and he doesn't know which branch of the family is his friend's. Finally, he gets a lead and is told that Mr. Nematzadeh and his son have just set off for Koker. So he races back over the hill, only to be delayed in his search by his own grandfather (Rafia Difai), who sends Ahmed off to fetch his cigarettes. While Ahmed is running this errand, the grandfather expounds his theories of child-rearing to a friend: His own father, the grandfather says, would give him some money and a beating every other week, whether he deserved it or not. Sometimes, he admits, his father would forget the money, but he always remembered the beating. This, the grandfather proclaims, taught him the discipline and obedience that children today like Ahmed don't learn. Meanwhile, Ahmed, who is struggling to fulfill what he sees as his duty to his friend and his family, has learned that the boy who accompanied Mr. Nematzadeh was not Mohamed Reda, and that the man has just started back for Poshteh, riding on a donkey. So Ahmed makes another trip over the hill, keeping Nematzadeh in sight and following him into the labyrinthine streets and alleys of Poshteh, only to discover that he has the wrong branch of the family after all. Eventually, after another misadventure, a despondent Ahmed returns home, finishes his own homework, and copies it into Mohamed Reda's notebook, which results in a well-earned happy ending. It's an excellent movie for children, but beside that, Kiarostami's screenplay, direction, and editing, and his empathy with the people and landscape of Northern Iran bring everything together into a fable about miscommunication and the difficulties of growing up. It's not as ambitious or complex as some of Kiarostami's later films, but it has their depth of feeling and brilliance of execution.

*The Persian title has been translated several different ways: IMDb, for example, calls it Where Is the Friend's Home? I prefer "my friend's house" as more colloquial, and because it avoids the real-estate-agent coziness that tries to pretend that every house is a home.

“You see, children, your first obligation is education.”

Where is My Friend’s House? (Abbas Kiarostami, 1987)

[aitaikimochi]

The BNHA Season 4 BluRay/DVD Vol. 1-6 Box Set comes with a special bonus light novel called the "Cultural Festival Wrap-Up Party" about Class A's after-party they had the day after the Cultural Festival, written by Anri-sensei. Here's the summary! Enjoy~

Boku No Hero Academia Cultural Festival Wrap Up Party

The story starts off with All Might greeting Aizawa as he enters the faculty office, a day after the Cultural Festival. He says good work to Aizawa and asks how the clean-up went for the Cultural Festival. Aizawa says that everything has been put away properly and recalls how it was a bit of a risky Cultural Festival this year with the whole fiasco that almost caused them to stop the festival, referring to the incident with Gentle and La Brava.

Aizawa mentions that the students are now preparing for an after-party. He says, “too bad they can’t put this amount of effort that they did in the Cultural Festival towards their studies instead,” and All Might laughs and says, “Well, they’re still just kids after all.” He also tells All Might that a little while ago, Sero stopped by the office to ask him something. Aizawa says, “What?” and All Might explains, “Well…you see…”

Next scene is at a nearby discount variety store (**note: basically a Don Quihote department store in Japan that sells a variety of things including food at really cheap prices). The Class A band team, consisting of Jirou, Kaminari, Bakugou, Yaoyorozu, and Tokoyami, are buying snacks and drinks for the after-party. However, Jirou seems to be the only one who’s actually taking this seriously as she can’t find where everyone else ran off to. She bumps into Yaoyorozu, who excitedly says, “Jirou-san, look at these super cheap drinks! They’re only 10yen each! If we buy 20 of them that’s only 200yen!”

Jirou looks at the bottles and notices that they’re only on sale because the drinks had already expired. She tells Yaoyorozu to put away the items. She then continues to search for the other band members and finds Kaminari. He tells her that he wants to add these cool snacks into their pile of food, which come with bonus cards or toys. He says, “Look at these! Doesn’t it take you back? Man, when I was a kid I used to collect these all the time!”

Jirou looks at the items and says “put it back,” and Kaminari whines but does so anyway. Yaoyorozu keeps getting distracted by all the things in the store since she’s very rich, she seldom has the opportunity to visit these discount stores that people go to. Jirou finds Tokoyami, and Dark Shadow dumps a whole bunch of sweets into their shopping cart. Jirou says that they don’t need that many sweets and to put things back. Tokoyami then gives Jirou a snack with packaging that says “The Witch of Darkness’ Apple Pie.” Dark Shadow says, “Fumikage used to love these sweets when he was younger!” and Tokoyami gets flustered. Jirou then pats Dark Shadow on his head, and Bakugou comes up behind her.

He says, “What the hell are you guys even buying!?”

Kaminari cries out, “Whattya mean!?”

Bakugou says, “If we’re gonna eat this at the after-party, then we need several big bags of food! And why the hell am I even here shopping with you guys right now!? This is so annoying!”

As he says that, he fills the shopping cart with bags of potato chips, sweets, paper plates, and trash bags. Jirou sighs in relief and says, “Yeah! I was thinking of getting paper plates too so clean-up would be easier!” They then agree to buy some more bottles of juice and soda, and Bakugou says they only need a maximum 5 bottles to which Jirou agrees.

Bakugou then says, “Well then let’s just get the hell out of here!” and Kaminari regrettably puts all of the sweets that he added to the shopping cart back on the shelves. Jirou looks at Bakugou and says, “Bakugou, you’re…kinda like a very capable Mom.”

Bakugou gets mad and says, “WHAT!? Stop saying such stupid crap!”

While the Band members are buying stuff at the discount store, the Dance Team members and Stage members are back in the Class A dormitory preparing food and decorating the common room. The Dance Team is in charge of the food and the Stage team is in charge of decorations.

Satou is the one who is cooking most of the food, but the other Dance Team members are helping him with the food preparation. Iida is in charge of chopping the vegetables, and although he is known for his speed, he’s not used to handling knives, so he chops them at a slower pace. Hagakure is in charge of prepping the oil and oil absorbent sheets to fry the chicken and place it on the sheets. Ochako and Ashido are in charge of stirring the pot, which contains beschamel and bolognese sauces.

Ojiro checks up on the oven to make sure that it’s the right temperature. Satou tells Ochako and Ashido to add the sauce for the lasagna and to not forget to put olive oil on top. Shouji says that he’s done making the dressing for the salad, and Satou samples it. The kitchen is full of lively sounds, and everyone is excited for Ojiro’s delicious cooking.

Ochako, Ashido, and Hagakure then discuss how Christmas is around the corner too, so they should do this again and throw a Christmas party next time. While they think about having a potential Christmas party, Iida says, “Hey now! Christmas is a day that celebrates the Birth of Jesus Christ! You should be spending it with your families, so this Christmas we…”

Satou then says, “Iida, the knife, watch out the knife!” since Iida was talking while swinging the knife around in his hand. Iida apologizes. Ashido then says, “But wouldn’t a party be fun?” and Mineta appears in the kitchen holding some peaches while muttering, “Christmas…Christmas costumes…Santa Girl skirts…That’s awesome…”

However, they eventually convince Iida that Christmas is indeed a time to celebrate things together, and Iida gives in and says he will ask Aizawa for permission to throw a Christmas party much to everyone’s delight.

Mineta had been slacking off on his duties by looking at the peaches and stroking them gently, imagining something lewd, and Hagakure calls him out on his perverted thoughts and tells him to help out along with the others.

He is in charge of cutting the carrots, and while everyone is helping prepare the food, Ochako stares at the fried chicken that just came out of the fryer. She can’t help herself and pops one into her mouth only to find that it’s burning hot. Tsuyu says to be careful since they’re still hot, and Ochako apologizes as the fried chicken looked and smelled so delicious she moved without thinking.

Satou asks her how’s the flavor, and she says the fried chicken is really good while giving him a thumbs up.

Ojiro and Hagakure are washing the dishes, and Hagakure holds the plates, making them look like they’re floating in mid air. Ojiro then tells Hagakure that she should probably put some clothes on if she’s going to be in the kitchen where people use fire and knives, but she said she just wanted to see what people’s reactions were to her small pranks. Shouji then passes her an apron, and Mineta muses that it’s one of those tropes where girls wear aprons while naked, but Iida warns him to not go further.

Meanwhile, in the common room area, the Stage Team is preparing the decorations to be strung about the living room. Deku, Todoroki, and Koda are folding origami together to put on the walls as banners. Deku folds a cool All Might shaped origami, and Todoroki praises him, saying “Wow, All Might! That’s awesome!” Deku actually used to practice folding the All Might origami countless of times to perfect its shape, and he blushes a bit when he hears praise from someone.

He then sees that Todoroki folded a crane, and Todoroki says that his sister taught him how to fold the crane origami when he was a child.

Koda then says, “Oh um…I…made a camera origami!” and shows them a whimsical camera shaped origami that makes a shutter noise when pressed. Deku then notices that Koda actually had folded a ton of different origami flowers and animals, and Koda gets a bit embarrassed at the attention.

Koda says, “But the All Might origami is amazing…” and Todoroki agrees.

Todoroki then asks Deku to teach him how to fold the All Might origami. Deku is happy to oblige, and he says, “Okay first you fold a triangle and then…”

As he starts teaching Todoroki, Kirishima comes into the room and puts up his own dorm room’s fisherman banner on the wall of the common room. He says that this will make the place a bit flashier, and the others agree. Aoyama then comes in and also says that they need something sparkly and bright. Aoyama tells them that he’ll come back with something sparkly.

Kirishima then says, “Oh wait I’ll come help too!”

Todoroki then turns to Deku and says, “Midoriya, so how exactly do you fold the All Might origami?”

Deku realized that he was in the middle of teaching Todoroki before they got interrupted by the others, so he resumes his lesson by saying to first fold a triangle. Afterwards, he goes off on a tangent about how to perfect the folding process as well as making sure to accentuate the silhouette of All Might through the folds, and as he mumbles a bit, he accidentally folds the origami too quickly.

Todoroki is patient with him though and says again, “Um…can you please start from the beginning and teach me the steps a bit slower this time?”

Deku apologizes for folding the paper too fast and teaches Todoroki again, this time at a slower pace.

Kirishima then walks by and says, “Woah Todoroki, you also want to learn how to fold the All Might origami?” He leaves them to their folding and joins Aoyama and Koda in putting the finished origami and other decorations up on the walls.

After Todoroki successfully folds the All Might origami, Deku says, “You made your first All Might origami!” and Todoroki responds quietly, “I think this should be able to fit in the letter…”

Deku says, “Hmm?” and Todoroki says, “Ah, it’s nothing.”

Aoyama them brings a disco ball into the common room, and he, Kirishima, and Sero put up the other decorations.

Finally, the preparations are complete, and the Class A students gather in the common room surrounding a bunch of food that’s placed on the tables. Iida then makes a toast to a successful Cultural Festival, and everyone raises their glasses and says, “Cheers!”

Satou mentions that he also has prepared dessert, and they have two choices of either a chestnut and fig montblanc cake or an apple and peach jelly. Tsuyu chooses the jelly as jelly is apparently her favorite food. Tokoyami also chooses the jelly dessert while Ashido takes the montblanc.

Iida mentions that he and Mineta were in charge of chopping the cabbages and carrots for the cole slaw. Todoroki and Deku praise him and say that the coleslaw is delicious.

Bakugou watches irritably and decides to leave the party, but Kaminari says, “Hey hey hey, where do you think you’re going, Kacchan-kun!?” Bakugou says that seeing everyone making small talk is pissing him off, but Kaminari rebutts by saying, “But you looked excited when you were buying food!”

Kirishima then comes over and says, “Bakugou! I brought you some fried chicken! Let’s eat a ton!” and puts a bunch of fried chicken in front of Bakugou, to which he says he doesn’t want it. Kirishima doesn’t back down though and says, “Oh I got it! So you want lasagna instead!” and brings a slice of lasagna for him.

Satou noticed Kirishima carrying the food over and says, “Hey, you should put a bunch of tabasco on it before eating too!” and pours a bunch of tabasco onto the lasagna and force feeds Bakugou with it. Bakugou yells, “What the hell are you doing!?” but eventually pipes down after taking the lasagna from Kirishima as it seems like he does enjoy the food after all. Kirishima watches him and says, “See, I told you it’s good! I’ll bring you seconds!” and goes to bring Bakugou more food.

Sero then turns everyone’s attention towards the TV in the common room. He says, “Well then now that Bakugou’s calmed down, let’s watch the recap of our Cultural Festival performance!” He turns on the TV and everyone gathers around to watch the recorded performance.

Some of the members mention that Deku was late to the performance, and they thought that he might not even be able to perform. Deku apologizes for being late, but as the performance starts, they can hear the audience’s chatter as someone yells “YAOYOROZU!!!” Ashido and Kaminari tease her about having fans, and she gets flustered. Satou then whispers, “It’s starting…it’s starting…!” and the screen fills with the sound of Bakugou’s drums as well as a huge explosion.

The girls all fawn over how cool Jirou looks while singing, and this causes her to blush and say, “Please stop…” Koda also adds, “You were really cool, Jirou-san,” which makes her blush deepen.

Ashido exclaims, “Look look, the dance is all in line too!” and the class watches as Ojiro uses his tail to swing around. Everyone on the dance team mentions how it was thanks to Ashido being their teacher that they were able to have fun while dancing and making this possible. Next is Deku and Aoyama’s synchronized dance, and Shouji murmurs to Tsuyu, “Wow, they are so in sync!” to which she replies, “Midoriya-chan and Aoyama-chan practiced real hard, right?”

The students continue to watch as Aoyama becomes a disco ball and the stage team starts their part of the performance with Kirishima shaving the ice that Todoroki created while Sero uses his tape, and Kirishima says, “You guys’ timing was perfect, Seroroki!”

Sero mentions that they should try this move out while doing actual hero work next time, and Todoroki agrees. As Kaminari watches himself play the guitar, he says, “Woah there…I feel like I’m gonna be super popular after this with those slick guitar moves…!” and Mineta says, “But wait did you guys see my harem dance? That was the best…!”

Jirou says, “Tokoyami, you’ve gotten super good at guitar!” and Tokoyami mentions that it’s all thanks to her.

Kirishima and Bakugou are watching the performance from a spot a little away from the rest of the class, and Kirishima smiles at Bakugou, saying, “Man, you’re great at drumming after all!” and Bakugou replies casually, “it’s just average.”

Jirou overhears their conversation and says, “No way! Your drumming was phenomenal! Your rhythm is what allowed us all to stay in sync! Thank you for taking on this role!” and Bakugou scoffs and says, “Well, you’re the one who carried the whole performance though!”

Everyone is really impressed by Jirou’s bass skills as well as her singing, and they vote for her as the Class A Cultural Festival MVP. Everyone, aside from Bakugou, smiles at her, and she blushes, saying, “What…why…”

Yaoyorozu remarks, “Jirou-san, you were shining the brightest!” and Aoyama says, “Even more than me!?☆” But he agrees that Jirou indeed deserves the MVP title.

The class asks Jirou to make a small speech. She thanks everyone for making this performance a reality, and she’s really happy that they were able to perform together.

After everyone is done eating, Sero and Kaminari tells the class that they have some cool party games planned for everyone. Most of the class are excited for what they have in store, but Bakugou feels like it’s a waste of time and gets up to leave. Kirishima tries to stop him, but Sero taunts, “Oh, you’re leaving because you don’t think you can win, right? Well that’s fine, you can go back. Even though we have a quiz specifically tailored for you, but I guess you’d fail anyway.”

This gets Bakugou angry, and he agrees to participate in Sero’s dumb quiz challenge.

The games that Sero and Kaminari have planned are for one member of each Cultural Festival team to undergo a “Can you guess the __” type of challenge. Bakugou is first up, representing the Band Team. His challenge is to differentiate between three different types of pepper spice seasoning purely by taste (called 一味 ichimi).

Bakugou sits down in front of the table that has the seasonings, and Sero blindfolds him by putting on an eye mask that has a funny grinning face on it. Deku and the others snicker at how ridiculous Bakugou looks with that eye mask on, and Bakugou gets mad, yelling, “Damnit Deku, what the hell is so funny!?” Deku replies, “Well, anyone would laugh when they see…hahah!”

Bakugou roars, “You piece of shit!” but Todoroki says calmly, “Hey Bakugou, maybe you should consider wearing a hero suit that matches that mask.” Bakugou is furious and yells, “Shut the hell up, you half and half bastard!”

The challenge then begins, and Kaminari spoon feeds Bakugou the three different spices. He surprises everyone by correctly guessing each type of spice and goes even as far to explain which company manufactures them. Kaminari and Sero are speechless, but Deku says, “I thought that Kacchan would know the difference. He’s always had a very particular sense of taste. He could even tell when sweets expired and would never eat the expired food.”

Bakugou gets mad and says, “Don’t put on that stupid face as if you know it all!” and throws the eye mask at Deku.

The next challenge is Todoroki’s turn, representing the Stage Team. His task is to figure out among three cups of brown liquid which one is soba noodle soup. The cups contain either coffee, soba noodle soup, or throat medicine, and Todoroki cannot smell or taste them before picking his answer.

Iida mentions that Todoroki often eats soba during lunch, so there’s no way he would guess incorrectly for a food that he loves. Deku says, “Good luck, Todoroki!” as everyone watches him study the cups closely. The catch is that he also has to drink from whichever cup he chooses. Todoroki decides on a cup and drinks from it, only to spit it out and say, “That…wasn’t soba noodle soup…”

Kaminari chimes in by explaining that the cup he chose was actually throat medicine. Todoroki apologizes for spitting out the throat medicine, which splurted all over Iida and Deku. They tell him not to worry as more importantly, they need to get tissues to clean up the mess. Todoroki mutters, “I don’t think I want to eat soba anymore after this…”

The next challenge is for Tsuyu, where she has to differentiate from three different types of fluffy things: Koda’s bunny, Ojiro’s tail, and Deku’s hair by touch only. As she puts on the eye mask, Koda, Ojirou, and Deku stand in front of her. When Koda offers the bunny, Tsuyu says, “it’s fluffy.” When Ojiro offers his tail, she also says, “it’s fluffy.” When Deku offers his hair, Tsuyu says, “it’s…fuzzy?” She then correctly guesses which fluffiness was which.

Kaminari and Sero then round up the results of the various challenges, and the winner ends up being Bakugou!

Bakugou says, “Obviously I would win!” but the party’s not over yet! Next up is the Personality Quiz! Sero explains that since the class is with each other practically 24/7, they should all have picked up on small details of each other. This quiz will test how well they actually know each other after all.

The first question they ask is, “What did Iida answer on his Hero Test the other day to name the three most beautiful Heroes of the past?”

The class guesses incorrectly, and the answer was that he wrote on his test “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and everyone has their own different types of beauty.”

Baffled, Iida asks Sero and Kaminari how they even knew what he wrote on a test paper, and they explained that their accomplice, Hagakure, has been doing a bit of spying on everyone in order for them to make this quiz a reality. Hagakure apologizes for doing so, but she says that she saw it as an opportunity to also test out her hero skills too.

The next question is “What has Yaoyorozu been obsessed about lately?” Jirou answers first, saying “Oh, is it furikake (rice seasoning)?” The answer turns out to be correct, and recently, Yaoyorozu has taken a strong liking to furikake to season her rice, which makes her blush a bit.

Sero then says, “All right Kaminari, what’s the next question?”

Kaminari answers, “Okay! For the next question, what made Ojirou disappointed recently!?”

Satou guesses, “Cementoss said his effort was average?”

Shouji says, “Tetsutetsu told him his strength was average?”

Aoyama ponders, “Recovery Girl said his health was average?☆”

The correct answer is actually Ojiro changed the conditioner for his tail recently, but no one noticed. However, Hagakure sidles up to him and says, “I actually saw you looking around near the bathroom area to see if anyone noticed, haha!” and Ojiro gets red, saying, “Well if you were watching me, why didn’t you say anything…!?”

The next question was, “What was hidden in Kirishima’s elementary school yearbook!?” Kirishima panics and says, “Huh!? How did you…!” but Sero grins and says, “That’s only for me to know. But I totally could not believe what was hidden there!”

Ashido guesses, “Maybe a love letter!?”

Mineta exclaims, “A porn magazine!!”

Todoroki says, “Failed test scores?”

All three of them were incorrect. The correct answer is “a photo of him dressed up as a girl!”

Bakugou says to him, “You’re actually into that kinda stuff?”

Kirishima gets flustered and says, “Wait, you’ve got it all wrong! It was during my elementary school’s festival stage play of Cinderella where I played the Stepmother! When I left the picture at home, my mommy kept showing it to other people, so I tried to hide it!!”

Kaminari then continues with the next question, saying “Okay, so next question. Before the Cultural Festival performance, what did Uraraka mess up on!?”

Deku says, “She accidentally made herself float!?”

Iida offers, “She was too nervous she threw up!?”

Tokoyami asks, “She ate too much mochi and threw up!?”

Kaminari says they all guessed wrong and the correct answer is “she was looking for Midoriya but tripped and accidentally went into a room where Class B’s Monoma was in the middle of changing clothes!”

Ochako gets red in the face and says, “I didn’t do it on purpose!!”

Mineta comments something lewd, but Tsuyu shuts him down.

The next question is “What was the reason why Jirou and Hagakure were arguing!?”

Koda says, “Because Hagakure-san was messing with Jirou-san’s earphone jack…?”

Yaoyorozu offers, “Jirou-san accidentally stepped on Hagakure-san’s naked body?”

Mineta exclaims, “Fighting over a guy!”

The correct answer is because Hagakure tried scaring Jirou after they watched a horror film together. Ashido asked whether they actually argued, and Jirou said she got mad because when she takes a shower alone, she’s usually scared of the bathroom area anyway. So when Hagakure messed with her by causing the lights to flicker on and off and the faucet to suddenly turn on by itself, she absoutely freaked out and felt like she almost had a heart attack. Naturally, she was livid, and Hagakure says, “Sorry Jirou, your reactions were just too good!”

The next question is about Deku, and Kaminari asks, “Recently, Deku has been leaving the dorm early to meet with someone. Who is that secret someone!?” (**Note: The word they use is ‘aibiki,” which means secret date/meeting).

Deku is surprised and says, “Wait, how do you know that…?”

Mineta and Satou ask if he was secretly meeting up with a girl, and Iida says, “Midoriya-kun! Are you actually in a relationship with a girl!? You should prioritize studies first!”

Ochako is confused as she says to herself, “Aibiki? Like the type of meat?” (**Note: Ochako isn’t familiar with the word, so she thinks it’s referring to ‘aibikiniku,’ which is a combination of different types of ground meat)

Deku gets nervous and says, “No, it’s not like that…” He thinks of ways to deflect the situation without making it known that he’s actually meeting up with All Might in the morning to train his quirk, but the other classmates continue to guess.

Kirishima says, “He’s meeting with someone from the General Class!?”

Ashido says, “No way…maybe he’s meeting with someone older, like Midnight…!?”

Mineta suggests, “Maybe he’s meeting with a living thing other than a girl…!!”

All three of their guesses were incorrect, and the correct answer was that he was meeting with the Support Department’s Hatsume Mei!

Deku is relieved to know that the others have not found out about his secret rendezvous with All Might early in the morning to do training.

Bakugou snorts and says, “There’s no way that dumb nerd would ever be popular!” but Sero says, “No, Midoriya is quite popular among the ladies. Like during the Provisional License Exam when that naked upper classman got all over him.”

Deku rebutts by saying, “But that was because she was attacking me!?”

Iida then recalls how Hatsume helped Deku out when they went to the department together earlier, and after an explosion, she was also all over him. Mineta then gets lewd thoughts again, but the conversation switches to Mineta using his mogimogi hair balls and puts it on Deku’s head. Iida notes that it looks like Deku’s wearing those infamous mouse ears from “Zoo Dreamland” (aka Disneyland). Ashido mentions that she used to go to Disneyla—…Zoo Dreamland all the time when she was younger. The class chatter switches to discussing their favorite rides, attractions, and food.

The class then asks Mineta to put mogimogi balls on their heads too so they can look like they’re wearing those infamous mouse ears as well. Mineta enjoys the attention and says, “All right I guess…”

Before the party wraps up, Sero mentions that there’s one more video that they want to show to everyone. As they gather around the TV to watch, they see Aizawa on screen with a cat. As the video starts, Aizawa suddenly appears in the common room and reprimands them, asking what are they doing up so late? The video pauses on the screen.

Aizawa stops the party and tells everyone to clean up and go to their rooms. Since the party’s over, he tells Sero, Kaminari, and Hagakure to stay behind. The three students prepare themselves for a scolding, but instead, Aizawa asks them where they got this footage.

It turns out that Present Mic gave it to them after he recorded it while hiding in sight. The footage was of Aizawa trying to befriend a cat, but the cat ignores him and goes to All Might instead. Sero actually came to the faculty department before the after-party to ask for permission to show the footage, and since Aizawa wasn’t there at the time, All Might said it was okay.

However, Aizawa says he will be collecting the footage and tells the three to never discuss the contents of the video to anyone. They agree, and he sends them off on their way.

It’s been a long day, and Aizawa sighs and wonders just when he got caught up in all of this student stuff. However, although adolescence is short, that never stops them from chasing their dreams forever. Happily, while young, without sadness, sweetly, harshly…youth is a precious thing.

The light novel ends with Aizawa saying, “Good luck, everyone” with the words “the festival had ended, but even so, their bright days continue onward.”

THE END

[yandere-society]

pjm | “carnal lechery”

pairing: yandere! vampire! jimin x novice nun! virgin! fem. reader

rating: M

genre: yandere au, supernatural (vampire) au, smut, angst

word count: 10.5K

Headline: Halloween Night Massacre; Police Baffled By Murdering Spree

warnings: yandere themes, dub con, angst, graphic sexual content, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, oral (m.rec & f.rec), bonding, blindfolding, biting, loss of virginity, virginal blood worship, overstimulation, use of feathers and chains, mentions of blood, graphic descriptions of slaughtering, mentions of religious cults, mentions of christianity, mentions of sacrifices, gore.

synopsis: Attempts to precede his arrival made you ornery as he slipped like thin air from your fingers, even when you’d have him so close. You had almost ultimately fixated in your mind that you’d never know your secret admirer. Meanwhile— mysterious murders, disappearances and uproars about the return of the most fabled coven of vampires: ❛The Rouge❜ leads you to expect your imminent death. However, you do not expect the turn of events and the appearance of the one you’d been seeking for.

admin: @unfurlingtwinklingstar​

It was one of those macabre mornings when you’d find an oh-so-familiar garland at your doorstep.

The very same kind of flowers that you’d prefer for decorating your little reading nook with, would lay wrapped in a delicate paper foil. The dew on its petals would appear golden as it would kiss the ray of dawn streaming through the porch of your fern-scented cottage.

A feverish shiver would run through your spine at the sight of a caramel-colored envelope right underneath the lavender foil in anticipation of what this letter would say about you.

It would be hard to persist the laden need to find the giver first when the lovely pink petals would almost frown at your resistance.

You cherished calla lilies. There wasn’t a day when they’d not sit on your vase with their trimmed stems soaked in lukewarm water, smiling as they bloom.

Every Friday, this was to be expected. Yet, you weren’t fully comfortable with the handwritten cursive that’d make your fingers slack at its message.

The meander cursive masked the obscene descriptions of your curves, the filth in the mind of the writer was impeccably reflected in the flow of the dark ink.

The first time you had gotten such a letter, you had a recurred session reading it with obscure scrutiny, only to find the title ‘Third youngest of the Rouge’ in the sender name column.

The letters had chanted your name like a prayer, it’d beckon for you to have a taste of the kind of pleasure that you were trying to celibate yourself from, the kind that’d be a sin to indulge in.

It made your body thrice warmer, your body blazed into a pretty rouge like the robes you wore during service hours in the church.

Eroticism and romance were taboo subjects to conventuals and canonesses at the convent of Volterra. Being a novice in service to the almighty, you were taught to be a holy carmelite, a slender benedictine, devoted especially to scholarship and liturgical worship.

But the intimate descriptions highlighted the black traces of sin in the depths of your soul as if the devil awaited his chance to stand erect and applaud in sheer satisfaction at the sight of your crumbling control.

Sucking in shaky breaths, you grab hold of the stirrer and kindle the crackling flames dancing in your fireplace.

Without a second thought, you toss the expensive pieces of poetry into the topaz flames and watch as the fire comes to life and blazes the parchment to ashes.

You were considered too much of a vestal to submit to this admirer of yours.

The choirs at the convent church were different compared to other choirs that didn’t sing hymns. Their voices were almost like the angels’, high notes soaring over the clouds, graceful notes dancing on the staves, they sang for the almighty only.

This was halloween at the monestery. Whilst the town wore spooky robes and went around sharing treats in exchange of spared tricks, you sang along with your fellow sisters, honouring the almighty and paying tribute to saint Marcus.

You sang along, keeping a low voice and swaying to the gentlest harmony in devotion. The stanzas are clutched to your heart and you cherish this moment when you feel the string between you and your god. You cannot fathom how satiated you feel. Your mind strays to your past, when you were under foster care.

You were a doting, little child despite how the other girls prayed for a future where they can possess expensive goods and glittery jewelry. You only kept away from their notions of want and sinful desires for pleasure even as you became an adult.

You chose to bake cookies, share blankets, study the Bible, smile and croon at the praises the church would give you, rather than read obscene novels and join the young woman of your age in subjects that were atrocious in the eyes of the holy.

Sister Siena walked you to your dwelling at the convent’s residence while she chattered about her moss garden and herbs that could treat flu. You listened quietly, letting out little nonchalant hums. Gardening wasn’t a subject of your interest and you were much more fatigued to feign enthusiasm.

“The halloween rituals might probably need an addition of prune juice, don’t you think?” she asks while you unlock the latch and walk into your home.

You let out a small smile and usher her in whilst nodding to everything in your surroundings. A little envelope peeks out from the gap between the floor and the hallway door, making your chest tighten at the realisation.

A letter from your mystery admirer was unforeseen and definitely unwelcome, especially in the presence of a fellow nun in your dwelling.

The attention of sister Siena is brought back at the sight of a cream-coloured envelope with a rather unfamiliar stamp on its surface.

Her olive eyes narrow to two slits and makes perspiration bead out and down your clavicle in fear. In the blink of an eye, the envelope’s seal is torn and the letter is perused by the chestnut haired female at once.

Her response however, gives you a cursory shock. Her lips turn into a smile and she stares up at you, eyes in awe as if she had witnessed the grand work of Caravaggio.

“You have an admirer”, she infers and you scour her face for signs of offense only, to find nil. She seems rather, glad.

“I— I usually burn them there” you point to your fireplace and her shoulders buckle in a brief fit of giggles, as if you had shared an anecdote.

“Who would pray to have a vestal nun? It is like counting the stars.” she mumbles into her mug of tea, eyes flickering from your face to the letter, absent-mindedly.

You shrug and get seated opposite to her, straining your eyes on the flickering flames that warms your numb, cold toes. You sigh in bliss at the tranquil frame of your nook and almost the next minute, your eyes flutter shut and you sink into the lulled sounds of the crackling fire.

Unbeknownst to you, the young nun seated at your opposite has her nerves ossified at the glimpse of the sender’s title. Comprehension of ‘third youngest of the rouge’ sends her mind into frenzy. Dismay sinks into her heart and makes it thud and toll like church bells at the realisation of the plight that you have been pulled into and she shudders.

Without so as to even a noise, the letter is slid into her crimson tunic and the envelope is thrown into the fire.

The coolness of the midnight is deceptive; the sun has barely risen and this altitude is always cooler. Siena’s destination is low down and deep into the interior, well away from the onshore winds. When she reaches, the heat of that region makes her compare the temperature to her kitchen’s, on a baking day— like a friendly warmth instead of the inferno it always is.

Her footsteps are ushered as the heels of her moccasins rap against the laid out cream carpet in dull thuds, her breathing is in a frenzy too for, hundreds of thoughts swarm in her head at once.

Siena is cold to the bone despite striding across the blazing heat of the deep, dim chambers of the three elderly canonesses, at the convent. The canonesses— head nuns are rather reserved and hostile about their roles in the society.

Before the 17th century, such chambers were often considered clandestine— precisely, before the battle of Tuscany. The battle held a significant place in history, for how saint Marcus and his veterans fought and impeded entire Tuscany off of sanguinarians— a term used to describe vampires.

The rise and fall of the most fabled coven of vampires was inscribed in the olden scriptures and was forgotten to tell tales about wizards and curses as of the present. Siena had studied about them at school.

The mere image of the counts brings shivers down the woman’s spine and she shudders as she holds onto the letter and walks, toward the canonesses’ chambers.

It is dark when she arrives; gnarled trees hung low over the baronial church, creaking ominously in the howling winds. The heavy oak doors broke open, echoing around the empty church.

The moonlight shone through the heavily cracked stained-glass windows, casting an eerie glow onto the dusty alter. Thick cobwebs hung on every surface and her footsteps sounded deafening on the cold stone floor.

Two elder ladies sit perched on their carpeted thrones with their veils over their heads and backs turned toward Siena. They hold hands in a circle and mutter chants to themselves.

Siena’s eyes capture the silent movements of their fingers and the incessant nods of their heads. She gently walks— almost stalks, until one of the elder canonesses perk at her arrival and seek her to sit with them.

The chamber walls radiate off its warmth and the conversation is lulled as Siena breathes out her concerns with utter respect, her expression remains composed despite her rapid breathing.

The canonesses nod with eyes widened at the size of fire lanterns, their fingers tremble slightly in comprehension of the magnitude of issue that the young nun had brought to them.

In the next hour, right on the death of halloween, nuns and monks are summoned from the monastery and a ceremony is held right in their place to seek peace once again.

The seven Rouge sanguinarians, the fabled coven of vampires have returned to Volterra.

The four canonesses sit in a circle and one of them draws a circled figure at their center. The symbol seems ominous to Siena, it seems almost like a satanic pentagram. A silver crucifix is fixed right at the junction of the chalked lines and the series of chants begin.

For almost a quarter of a hour, Siena sits— rooted and in the careful look-out for queer changes in the surroundings. The next minute, one of the canonesses jerk as if she had felt a foreign presence and collapses on the canoness next to her.

The chamber queerly begins getting chilled as the chants get more louder in unison. Whooshing noises of the wind soon fills the chamber and an eerie figure settles through the open window, making Siena freeze, petrified.

At the end of the hallway stands a slender yet, robust, almost surreal, young-looking man sheathed in a heavy, scarlet cloak. His eyes are shut, as if he is in deep thought, and once they open, they make Siena jump out of her seat in fear.

Skin almost translucent, a bloodless hue, reminiscent of cave dwelling creatures that never saw the light of day, as pale as the living dead, as pale as a corpse. His bleached skin was as white as a sheet of paper next to the sleeve of the black woolen sweater, his orbs seemed bloodshot, yet, they held a life of their own like the burning rouge of a ruby.

“Third youngest of the Rouge”, Siena hears a canoness announce, the latter’s voice seems both startled and in disbelief.

“Ann. Fancy seeing you there, you seem older than in our last meeting, don’t you agree?”, the young count seethes and takes steps toward the eldest of all the canonesses.

Siena stares at the duo, perplexed. The two seem to know each other like old acquaintances yet, their eyes hold an unexpressed rage that she does not fathom.

“I am afraid greetings will have to wait, Park. You and your brothers must be well aware of the treaty you have broken.” Ann almost hisses, stepping in front of the rest as if she is unafraid to emphasize her point.

The ethereal man quirks an eyebrow at Ann’s actions in disapproval yet, curls one side of his mouth in a smirk, eyes reflecting a certain devilish glint.

“Ah. You accursed humans never seem to learn, do you? Fifty years ago, we made a pact. For our coven to never be disturbed by you humans, in exchange for us to move our grounds”, he accentuates the words and sets his eyes on Siena, making the latter freeze.

“Twenty years ago, there was a lovely young woman with round orbs and curves more enrapturing than the meanders of Tuscany’s hills”,

At the mention, something turns in the face of Ann as it hardens like wilted musk. Park further continues walking and retracing his steps, eyes glued shut and jaws clenched in raw rage.

“She was bonded to one of the youngest counts and the war—” he pauses in his steps with his sculpted back turned toward the canonesses, as he stares blankly ahead, grieved.

“The war, it killed her. She lost her life, she died in vain. She was destroyed by her own race. The pact was shattered broken at that moment, that moment when the light left her bewitching eyes.” he croaks a bit, shoulders slacking as if the memory was his venom.

“She was innocent yet, she was killed. By your people.”

There’s a shadow casted in the slender man’s eyes and it was quite clear. The rage for revenge that was cloaked in it.

Even whilst his back was turned, his head seemed calculative of the canonesses’ immediate response. Ofcourse, humans never seemed to learn.

Ann’s eyes reflect death and almost the next second, she strides forward with the silver crucifix in her hand and tosses it at the empty black space where Park stood, moments before.

The next second, a heavy, red, mushy liquid is splattered onto Siena’s face as she screams and crawls toward the exit, horrified for her life.

The canonesses’ throats had been cut and they lay like butchered animals in a waste of blood. One corpse had slipped from the low throne to the right of the door and lay staring up at her, the mouth open, the head almost cleft from the body. She saw again the severed vessels, sticking like corrugated pipes through the clotted blood. The second was propped, ungainly as a rag doll, against the far wall. Her head had drooped forward and over her chest a great mat of blood had spread like a bib.

Tuscany’s most esteemed dignitaries of the church society lay like ghoulish mannequins, the esophagus and arteries sticking out like so much corrugated and rubber tubing. The smell that vapoured from their bodies could only come from slaughtered animals.

Thick, warm blood crawled into Siena’s throat and clawed at her air sacs like muck. Spewing with every glance at the mass slaughter, she struggled to wipe away the splutters of blood stuck to her skin and crawled on her limbs not any different from a five-sensed mutt, heaving and croaking for mercy.

Her pleadings for mercy fell upon deaf ears. When the bone of her ankle was seized to pull her toward the ghoulish young count, Siena thought the night would take away the last of her breath.

Her jaws were clasped in the count’s fingers and her eyes were a hair away from the orbs of death. The young count was sheathed by the moonlight in a silvery halo.

Without the traces of blood on his mouth, skin resembling the late winter and rage on his sculpted visage as red as his name, anyone could mistake the monster to be an angel.

His temper was on a hair-trigger and his eyes were lethal.

“You will run to the town’s mayor. If you want your soul to be spared, you will run there and shout to those mucks that the Rouge have returned”, the count spewed venom with each word.

“You will throw this parchment on their faces and demand that they comply to every syllable that’s scribed in the sheet!” he speaks, spelling out thunder claps and boulders at the poor nun.

“If not, Tuscany will have every breathing and crawling creature slaughtered like its canonesses”. He warns and whooshes away like smoke— ungraspable by bare hands.

Even in the wintry morning when town folks discussed the daily’s headlines with an uneasy settlement in their guts, you pursued boiling tea and folding your blankets neatly, unmindful of their great fear.

The afternoon too was eerily quiet and folks everywhere preferred to speak in a whisper and contain themselves in their abode. It seemed rather dubious and as heedless as you were, you never perceived that your innocence would lead to your downfall.

The sun sank lower in the sky, draining away the golden hue of the warm and gave path to a velvety dark night. The same moment when the crickets came out to chirp, dusky colours subdued in the fading light as shrieks and collective roars were heard at the heart of the town.

You, along with some of your fellow nuns peaked at the commotion and threaded through the crowd that swarmed in front of the Mayor’s office. On the board was a derogatory notice. Although, the crumples and rusty stains gave away the fact that the notice wasn’t pinned by the authorities. Its calligraphy looked eerily familiar to you.

“Tunic as red as our coven’s name, skin shining like beacon, tresses sheeny and burnished, eyes like the forest floor and gentle flowers with mirth, feminine curves softer and untouched like a laden bush of peony,”

The fear is a weight on the Mayor’s ribs and there exists a dull ache in his eyes, an unwillingness for his mouth to lift past neutral, to charge against but, words are lost in the hollow of his throat. Fear stills his lips as he pursues it to read out the rest.

“—The young vestal nun with a name that echoes across valleys of Tuscany, the one who dwells in the only fern-coated cottage near the gates of the lush forest.

Bring her to the place where human ritual pyres blaze, those who dare do otherwise, prepare to meet death as painful as a swine’s.

Against you rise, prepare to pay a deathly price.” he ends and mutters hurriedly in the commissioner’s ear and you notice the skeleton of his wrinkled fingers tremble at the slightest.

There’s a hushed eruption of conversations that bubbles ever so slowly amongst the townfolk at the astonishing notice and you freeze, petrified when eyes stray toward you, almost accusingly. You realise, with horror, they’ve recognised the vestal nun in the description.

You breathe heavily and your gut begins to twist into an uneasy coil when the commissioner’s fingers point directly at you.

Your desire to evaporate heedily rushes into your mind and something akin to being a criminal overwhelms you. When you step away to sprint far, you are seized by heavy men as they haul you off the earth by your limbs.

The thousand pair of ears at the town’s center fall deaf to your scattered pleadings— screams. Heartlessly, they drag you to the threads of your last few breaths and you helplessly submit, falling prey to your fatigue from the endless stream of tears that races down your rosy cheeks.

Your wails are unheard as the elder women of your town shield you from the public view, sit you in a warm creek and wash you in the clear stream, no different from a creature to be sacrificed for their religious rituals.

You croak out the last of your pleadings before the sun sets, and the women only watch you with nothing more than pity in their eyes.

Their hands are hurried as they strip you and dress you in the most rouge of all cloaks in the town, steam your hair dry, stain your lips with sliced beet, trace the lines where your lashes lie with charcoal.

Other than the sizzling charcoal that dries your tresses and your dull sobs, the creek is silent even as the herd of women stand together.

When you are sat and tied to the sacrifice stone, you shriek with more violence than gales. The ties that bound your limbs to the stone would not come loose at the desolate way you cried.

You sobbed and sobbed and sobbed until your throat closed on itself and you felt the heaviness on your eyelids. Fatigue beckoned you and you obeyed, submitting to it unconsciously.

The stillness of the air seemed to suck even the sound of the chain’s clanks when you moved your limbs into the nothingness of the cave. Even the trees seemed not to rustle as if they were tense with nerves for what was to come.

You jostled awake when the trees rustled and a strong wind blew from nowhere, chains rattling at your limbs’ sudden motion.

Trees stood naked as they had before, but their twigs curled in a distorted way, as if the tree itself screamed in pain.

The sky was a mass of grey cloud, again so ordinary for autumn, but instead of letting small shafts of light through they emitted an ethereal glow.

The wind was just as bitter as before, coming straight from the north, but the scent was something else, metallic almost, with a tinge of acrid burning.

The fire that kept you warm flicker, casting an ominous glow throughout the tunnel, causing shivers to ripple across your body. You drag your legs across the surface of the sacrifice stone, gathering yourself into a ball.

Wind streams through the tunnel, waking the bats in the cave, twirling them in the air, only to drop them off into the void. All signs of life vanish from the tunnels that were once so full of warmth and the fire becomes extinguished.

You peer as you stare at the mangled stone beneath you.

A heinous laugh echoes throughout the tunnel, rebounding off the crumpled walls, and you crawl closer to the wall in sorrow. Like the cave, your soul is too abandoned and then all fades to black.

You shut your eyes and sit, quivering in fright as footsteps echoed menacingly. There was a hoarse breathing heard dully and you began to hear your own whimpers.

At an unexpected chime of the hour, through the empty night, a gentle voice calls out your name.

Your arms tighten around your body and the curtain of your hair falls around your face, shielding your view of the silhouette growing in front of you.

“Tuscany’s most loveliest lily”, the voice shallows into a soothing whisper and a woody fragrance tickles your nostrils. Your mind ticks at the familiar syllables uttered out and something blossoms in you besides fear, your features contour into slight puzzlement.

“I climb so high, lost in the sensation, I succumb to the scent of the stream that runs in your veins”, you listen more closely.

“I cry out in pleasure, my body on fire, I cling to your scent, hunger feeding my desire”, by then, you are sure of the stanza. It was what licked your insides, it was what beckoned you to sin. The lines were your admirer’s.

Then, it pauses.

The voice is gone, so is the scent. You push your tresses off your eyes and cautiously look in the dead of the night that seemed alive a few moments prior.

Something creeks and rustles at the faintest— right behind your neck, causing its hair to stand. There’s something behind you. Or rather, someone.

Your eyes shut at the feeling of a cold breath tickling the locks of your hair. When a thick strand is pulled and a deep inhale is heard, you whip to find only emptiness.

There’s a few moments of listening to only your anxious breath and thuds of your breathing heart before a fine piece of silk is wrapped around your eyes.

You let out a startled scream at the sudden hindrance of your sight and the feeling of a glacial pair of brawny arms sheathing around your waist. A set of black dots disperse in your vision and your mind is lulled by a hushed, smooth voice into your ear.

“Found you, my little fawn”.

You regain consciousness in a dimly lit room, on a lush, oak-coloured duvet. With the movement of one leg the tell-tale clink of wine bottles rouses you and one blink of the eye tells you that your head is just as bad. You squint, dry mouth sticky with thick saliva and your legs are immediately pulled to your chest at the queer recognition of the place.

You feel as though you have lived a very long time in this colossal manor.

The Manor grew out of the manicured lawn like an infant castle. It’s nascent stone walls were a pale grey and were barren of the moss or ivy that clung to the walls of the older homes in the village. Its large oak door was double wide and was sheltered under a wide porch supported by stone pillars. The entry way was grandiose, sweeping into a wide circle in front of the dwelling with an ornate fountain in the center.

As seconds advance, your mind harks back to unfamiliar images in the same space— a young woman in an elegant frock chortling as she gets chased by a burly yet, slender man who looked youthful as well.

His laboriously chiseled face, cheekbones that had near pierced his flesh had led to sunken eyes, puddles of avarice set about them.

Dark hair covering his head, long and fragrant with rose thorns.His chin, one such extremity which sought to put his cheekbones to shame, it succeeded in its purchase to pierce its own flesh. A small scab could be seen about it’s exit, to which his hand tended to itch.

A thick, velvety cape traces his sturdy steps— chasing after the woman and you gasp when her face comes into your sight.

It is you.

Only, more alluring in the gown that hugs your— her curves. Her laugh is unceasing and sultry mostly, seductive.

Your eyes dilate when you see her unhitch the ties holding her robe to her curves and like a vixen, she steps out of it, lying back on the duvet, beckoning for the ethereal man to her.

He seemed ravenous, his irises iridescent as they turn from raven to crimson at the sight of the slick between her legs.

She seemed brazen, like a cur in heat, in need of flesh when she crawled upon the alluring man, rolling her hips into the air provocatively, she caused the balls of the man to get filled, none similar to your dainty facet.

She takes his girth into her lips, making the count seethe in pleasure, her tongue wrapping around its head, she makes him bellow like a buzzard when she takes him deep into her throat and teases his balls.

He looks feasted, satiated beyond syllables when she licks every inch of his hard wood and takes him to a state of druken stupor.

Your breathing comes out in strained huffs as you watch him take her— you as he presses his lips against her skin and utters words that make her keen and bawl in pleasure.

You watch as their naked flesh twist gracefully into one and something else begins to unravel in your memories.

Where there should be blank space is blank memories, like a soft beige wall bereft of photographs. It brushes through the subconscious, recalling memories that bring out the deepest spark of nostalgia of the soul.

You recall every single one of it, your eyes shut intuitively and you sink into a rather familiar abyss of lost memories. In it, you hold hands with the same man who appeared moments prior. Only now, you know his name.

The one who loved you past all the years that went like streams to the sea, in all your lives as a mortal.

“Soft. Your hands. Soft and warm - on my face, on my chest, in my dreams, in the umbrella of dawn, under the first streams of morning light. Your hands in the pitch black of night, muscles and tendons dancing between each other in a lover’s dance. Fingertips like matches grazing my skin with flame, our scars being the measure of our love. I bare my scars, because I remember the time when your flame danced on me forever, before your hands turned to ice.”

All of your admirer’s words make sense to you. The lost passion, the lost memories, the lost life of yours as the light left your eyes when humans attacked the manor you had peacefully lived in.

There was a deep cut in the skin of your neck from the shattered pieces of glass and a heavy cry escapes the throat of the man at the dreadful sight— you, on the Jimin’s thighs, in his arms as he cried for you to not leave him.

You had smiled and reached your hand to his cheeks, engulfed his lips in one last passionate kiss before your eyes shut on its own, soul departing your frail body.

You see him, your past lover begging for you to return, you see his brothers lifting you into your grave.

Shudders rack your body and your cheeks are wet when you open your eyes to the present, to find the shadowy, familiar presence sitting right across you, his arms prop his chin upright and his eyes drink you in.

Jimin steps from the shadows, stealing your breath and the heat from your skin. Suddenly your defences are just paper, paper that is being soaked by the rapidly falling briny drops.

Before you can draw in the air your body needs, you have melted into his form. You feel his firm torso and the heart that beats within. His hands fold around your back, drawing you in closer.

You feel your body shake, crying for the missed time the two of you will never make again, crying to release the woe of long years in separation.

He caresses your cheeks and wipes the tears with a calloused finger, even this roughness brings more relief than your heart can hold. He is eating you with his eyes, running his hand through your hair, as if he cannot quite fathom you are not part of an almost forgotten dream.

When he kisses you, it is sweet, gentle, and it tastes of your tears. You want to speak but all you can do is croak,

“Jimin”.

His mouth paints a soft smile and he kissed you once before folding you in his arms again.

“My beautiful peony, my little fawn, my love, my heart, my entire world. It was never your fault”, he mutters and you keen closer to him, pulling his mouth to yours once again. You close your eyes shut at the feeling of his tongue twisting with yours and your knees lose strength, sending you spiralling into his arms.

“Oh, how I missed having you close to me, seeing yet, not being able to ravish is a curse” he whispers and you feel the heat pooling in your core when he noses at your jugular and inhales your scent.

“The scent of your blood remains heavenly through the ages” he sings, arms digging further into the curve of your waist.

“And this musky arousal—”

You gasp when you feel the tips of his nimble fingers brush the crotch of your undergarment, relishing in the heat of your wetness.

“This time, I’ll have you breathing for eternity, little fawn. I’ll turn you into what I am”. He declares with a stern voice, consuming the breaths that escape your lungs.

When you stare into his crimson irises, you pray for his touch, beg for what he promises. “Claim me, my lord. I’ll spend an eternity in your arms. Touch me, make me yours”.

Surely, it would be yes. The count was a notorious rake and libertine. He was called a thorough and absolute rouge, true to his name. How could he possibly turn down the chance to debauch the most delicious little fawn tempting him to revel in her taste?

With one kiss, Jimin swooped you off the floor and completely into his arms, transporting back to the cave you were sacrificed in.

He had planned for the entire town to hear your wails of pleasure. When you felt and heard the rattling of chains around your limbs, you shrieked, startled.

“No need to be afraid, my lovely fawn. I only wish to show these mongrels who you belong to”. Jimin expounds, making your core clench in need.

“Touch me, my lord” you scrounged like a fox, coaxing the ravished count with the tantalizing motions of your hips.

“Disrobe for me, little fawn. Take that sheer robe off, I want your naked flesh”, Jimin snarls and his mouth waters when your dainty fingers scramble to untie your gown. You sputter, your cheeks flush a vivid red at his grimy words.

Fear. Nerves. And illicit, forbidden, wrong physical desire. You felt it all at once.

Jimin bent to you and pressed his lips to your neck. The oddest jolt of fire leapt from there. It rushed through your veins like flames licking at the sky.

His hair tickled the bones of your cheek as he stroked and hollowed his mouth along your throat and reached the rim of your ear. He brushed back your hair. Surprisingly, his breath was cool. Almost icy. You had heard women speak of men blowing their breath by their ears—something that hadn’t sounded at all enticing—but the maids had described warm breath. Jimin’s breath was cold.

Still, the brush of it did feel surprisingly … good.

He nibbled your ear, making shivers tumble down your spine. He stroked the exposed skin at your collarbones. Goodness, how could it feel so hot—like a candle’s flame flickering close to your skin?

He tugged your cowering hands away to expose the swell of your breasts. His body tightened with arousal at the sight of your full, generous curves, erection bucking against his stomach.

Pushing you on the boulder, he ravaged your mouth, letting his hands venture down to the cleft of your arse. You bucked at the foreign feeling, gasping at the feeling of his tongue suckling the soft flesh of your lips into his mouth. His tongue curls around yours and he suckles it too, making you melt into a puddle in his full hold.

His mouth traces your throat and when it ghosts over the curve of your breasts, you shudder and your skin breaks into goosebumps.

He suckled. God, you were delicious. And you were moving beneath him. You arched to press your breast to his mouth.

Your scent reached his nose. And, he was lost. Lost in want. He rolled over you, coaxed your legs apart with his, and settled between, caressing your sweet cunny all the while. You gasped at the feeling of his thumb rolling your pearl and whimpered when his middle finger found your entrance, dipping to revel in your slick insides.

Oh goodness, he had flicked that most sensitive place—the little bump that lay between your nether lips, and you almost rolled her eyes back into your head at the pleasure.

Your hips arched up. He stroked you a little harder, as if he had known the rocking of your hips was a wordless signal that meant: I am begging you for more.

Then he slid his finger inside you. Between your nether lips, parting them gently. Goodness, he was inside you. You were doing the most intimate thing possible. With the man who remained an enigmatic admirer in your mind until the touch of his fingers tainted your soul, with the man who held your heart for eternity.

“Open your eyes.”

The first things you saw were thick, velvet-soft black lashes and gorgeous crimson eyes. Eyes that glittered at you in the firelight. “I want your eyes on me” he ordered huskily.

Then his finger slid deep inside, and you gasped at the sudden sensation—an intense quiver that rushed through you. You heard a shocking wet, sucking sound as his finger thrust in and out. It was the sound of your arousal.

“Let your moans out, little fawn. I wish to hear your sweet voice” he coaxed.

Biting your lower lip, you whimpered. You didn’t want to speak. The pleasure his wizardry brought was fervent, it felt foreign yet, acutely compelling and delicious. It made you drool, you needed him, flesh, bone, heart, soul.

His hand moved and he stopped stroking the little nub that vibrated with such intense feeling. You gasped in frustration.

He wrapped his hand around the shaft of his erection—you could feel the brush of his fingers against your stomach as he took hold of himself. Then, with his hand tight around it, he stroked the head of his erection against your nether lips. They had stuck together, resisting him, but he gently eased them apart.

Your arms were splayed on the mangled boulder beneath you and your eyes appeared to have gotten a taste of heaven, hands clenched in tight fists, toes curled and digging into Jimin’s hips at his ease into you.

Deeper he went, and his manhood stroked a place inside you that made explosions of light in front of your eyes. Then a twinge of pain rushed through you and you gasped in shock.

His fingers traced the curve of your cheek. “Shh, my fawn” he whispered. “Easy. It will hurt when I go past your little maidenhead. But after that it will be very, very good.”

“Jimin—”

He thrust. You squealed. You clenched. You tightened. You wanted to back away. But you couldn’t vanish into the boulder. Nor could you push him off. There was a searing pain that burned the walls of your insides yet, the delicious stretch of his girth brushed the softest tissue that made your mouth open wide, soundlessly and expose your luscious throat for his mouth to marr.

Jimin’s lips suckled every inch the clammy flesh of your shoulders and breasts— until lilac bruises respired in its wake. The perked peaks of your breasts were soft and toothsome in his mouth. And the tiny heels of your palms digging into his chest felt euphoric, he wished for it to caress his veiny member instead.

His nose nudged into your sternum, imbibed the scent of rushing blood to your breasts. His eyes shut as he sniffed deeply, his fangs grew in length and a gravelly groan rumbled from his chest at the redolent aroma of your blood.

“You feel warm and soft, my delicious little fawn. I could forever inhale this toothsome stream running through your veins”.

Without stalling, Jimin enveloped the teat of your breast into his mouth and laved, before piercing his honed fangs into the soft flesh, guzzling at the divine, rouge liquid that leaked onto his pearly teeth and sharp tongue, making you hiss at the feeling.

The feeling was gut-wrenching at the onset, it made you scream into Jimin’s shoulders.

He pressed against you, seating himself all the way inside, and he didn’t move. He stayed motionless, and he rained kisses on your forehead, cheeks, lips. It was hard to feel pain with such glorious kisses stealing your breath. And little by little, the stinging sensation ebbed.

A few moments of incessant suckling and your strained huffs at the strokes of his tongue on your tormented peak unfolded a queer pleasure, obscure to be produced by human males.

Soon, each suckle and lave from Jimin’s mouth pulled you to the white, hazed edge of pleasure and you cried out in ecstasy. Your cheeks were riddled hot, body spasmodic, in graceful waves as you began to roll your hips.

You whispered, “More”, Then you saw his sculpted visage.

He looked starved, ravenous. He looked raw, ravaged, tormented. His eyes were wild. His mouth was a slash, bracketed by harsh lines. He looked as though his control could snap in a heartbeat.

“My lord?” you called for him.

“You are tight, sweet, and perfect, my fawn. So no, I am no longer all right.”

You let your arms slip from his neck, but your legs were still wrapped around him, and his groin, hot and hard, was pressed tight into you. Then came the gratifying wave of pleasure as Jimin rolled his hips into yours, his girth slipping in and out of you, wholly, fulfillingly.

Gods, he was huge. The thick, hot, pulsing hard muscle of his legs throbbed against your thigh. His big manhood twitched inside you— feeling as thick as your arm. He groaned, kissing you fiercely as he moved his hips and nudged his swollen head further inside, almost into your cervix. You cried out, feeling it pulsing into your drooling slit.

With a moan into his lips, you strained your thighs and allowed him to pound in and out of you, the thick, slick shaft of his cock sliding wetly out from between your lips as you groaned throatily.

“Have a screaming orgasm, little fawn.”

He circled his hips as he said it, stroking his long shaft within you. He planted one sweet, sensual kiss after another on your lips, and kept your gaze locked with his.

You watched a smile touch Jimin’s full, handsome mouth. Then groans deepened the lines framing his lips. His eyes glowed as if they were on fire, and his deep, throaty moans … You drink all of them.

You were weak with pleasure, yet driven to rock with him. You clung to him, arching your hips, panting. Your nipples had hardened, and each thrust brushed them against his chest. Lips tingling from kisses, breasts throbbing from swift brushes, your quim pulsed … and fire raged in you, hotter than fire and you screamed as you came, body spasmodic.

He held you as his lips slurped at the slop of blood from the punctured marks on the peaks of your breasts.

It is when he pulls out of your body, he turns. This time, his eyes travel below your navel and licks at your core. There’s a thin stream of his release that flows from within you and there is a whit of warmth that seeps along with it, making his stomach clench with carnal hunger.

Carnal lechery for your blood and the musk of your release, it blows like a breeze over him.

Your fragrance consisted of a scent that represented freshly cut timber, like the damp forest after a rainy day; you smelt heavenly, like fresh-scented pine and honey, he wanted to indulge in the depths of the hint of cinnamon-like musk it produced.

It is the blood that reflected your lost virginity, your lost innocence. You are no more vestal, he has made you sin.

In the depths of night, your eyes were dew, scattering the nascent rays, ever illuminating the dark in his soul and he lusted vigorously for the taste of you, to let him be consumed by everything you offer to give him.

And so, he chains your limbs again, and blinds your vision for the nonce, for your senses to get heightened, for your slick to stream like nectar from ambrosia.

You gasp quietly at the impairment of your vision.

His fingers pluck a pair of pampas grass fluttering in the wind and when you feel it caress the tiny puncture holes at your sensitive nipples, you whimper, your slick caressing Jimin’s chest.

His lips find purchase at your inner thighs, fangs shallowly sinking into the soft flesh. The feeling makes your toes curl and you croak his name out in pure bliss.

“How delicious, your scent is divine, my fawn” he growls and pulls your core to his nose with vigour while you attempt to slither away, shyly.

“Trying to escape my grasp is useless, little fawn” he warns, making you cry out at the feeling of his arctic breaths blowing over your sensitive core.

“I’ll catch you faster than the wind could sheath around you” he gutturally breathes and spreads you beneath him, holding your soft thighs in his metal hold.

He moved lower, his breath teasing over your thigh. And then, you felt it, and the moan of pure ecstasy tore from your lips.

Jimin’s hot, wet tongue delved between your lips, dragging slowly and wetly up every bit of you until it flicked across your aching clit. You moaned in pleasure, crying out as his powerful hands pushed your legs wide apart and his wicked tongue pushed deep between them.

With a moan, your eyes flew open to see his face hovering above your delicate and exposed core. His eyes glinted wickedly at you, and you watched, panting in pleasure as he slowly licked his lips clean.

“Like nectar,” he growled. “Lie back, little fawn. Lie back and let me taste you.”

He moved back in, and suddenly, you moaned loudly. The feeling was like nothing else you had ever felt — this perfect, electric feeling of his icy tongue teased over your lips and clit. His wide, strong tongue dragged up and down your pussy, making your whole body arch and tremble for him. You balled your fists and cried out into the flickering firelight of the cave.

He slid his tongue deep inside, spreading your lips with his fingers, dragging your sticky wetness up from your opening to slide electrically across your aching clit. You arched my back and cried out as his tongue made contact there. It curled at your bud, bringing whimpering mewling sounds to your lips before sliding down through your folds again. You stiffened, and then moaned as you felt that hot, wet tongue slide wickedly against the opening of your arse, making you gasp as it slid over the sensitive ring there.

You couldn’t believe the sensations flooding your body at the touch of this rough, powerful, demanding, gorgeous man — from the rouge who was gentle to a creature with hound-like   lust for your dripping arousal and blood.

His tongue pushed against your opening, pushing in to curl sensually inside of you. His thumb moved to your clit, his growl rumbling through me as he teased your little bud and tongue-fucked your slippery core, making you clench and arch your back off the stone under you.

You screamed as the orgasm exploded through you, hips bucking against Jimin’s perfect mouth. Your core clenched at the invading tongue, spasming around its thick wetness while the orgasm ripped through me. The famished count hungrily growled and pushed his tongue deep inside, tasting all of your virginal blood as the aftershocks exploded through you.

Slowly, he pulled away, his lips trailing over the little seam of your inner thigh as your whole world spun under you.

The feathery leaves of the pampas grass caressed the seams following his mouth and you felt his arms lifting you onto his lap, straddling him. He gently entered you again, mouth tracing the prominent vein at your jugular, tongue teasing it.

You shook and rippled around his thick wood, chains rattling loudly as you bite at every inch of his skin that your mouth could reach.

“I am going to turn you, my sweet fawn. Tonight is perfect, the moon is hidden and the branches sing for us. Let it all out, scream my name” they are incessant breaths against your jugular and you clench around him, hearing him cry out his devotion for you.

“I am ready, my lord. Turn me, I— I belong to you!” you cry out as the tip of his girth brushes your most sensitive spot.

Then the whooshing wind caresses your bare bodies, you feel the chains loosen and fall to the ground while Jimin embraces your shaking body entirely, increasing the pace of his inhuman thrusts.

His mouth takes yours and swallows your pleasured pants, yours tongue mulls his own when he feels your fingers thread through his soft locks and dig into his scalp. His hold on your hips are deathly and when he feels you clench and pant harder, he bites into the inside of his cheeks, closing his eyes as his blood trickles from his mouth, into yours.

Your throat closes at the repulsive, metallic taste and you gag, making Jimin tighten his hold on you. He twists your tongues together and urges you on, making you swallow down the thick drops of his blood.

When you feel his member caressing that sensitive spot of your insides once again, you gulp faster and Jimin smiles blissfully into your mouth as his tongue traces the sharp lines of your protruding canines, they course rapidly into pointy knives and he relishes in the sharpness of your fangs, tongue drinking your breaths in.

There’s an ethereal glow of light sheathing around the two of you. For a nonce, the bright, golden-silvery stratum panelling over you in particular makes the deep, dark abyss of the night seem like day. The round curves of your orbs sparkle an aurish dust and makes you look more beguiling than any other supernatural power to ever exist.

Jimin feels the illuminance and shuts his eyes in ecstasy for the warm streams of your blood chills into familiar ice, the same temperature as his. Your thrusts are gentled and you cry out in a new found lust for Jimin’s blood.

He can feel the urgency in your gulps as you grow more hungry for blood, his blood. He shudders when you sink onto him again, tilting his head to pierce your fangs into his throat.

He groans at the pleasurable feeling of your mouth gulping his blood hungrily and he forces you to pause, for his eyes to drink in the birth of your vampiric form.

The moment you open your eyes and stare into his, his breath catches.

Your orbs are a beautiful, fierce topaz-crimson and there is a bleached tone added to the luscious sheen of your skin, when you lick the drops of his blood from your lips, exposing the knives of your fangs, he feels the carnal lechery for you boil in his heart and stir at his manhood.

You are fully turned, looking like the goddess of death herself, veiled in an ethereal halo in the deep, dark, inked night.

His eyes drink your appearance ravenously and he concludes. Carnal lechery for you, that’s what possessed him all those years ago, that’s what drives him to sink his fangs into your flesh and drink your sweet blood over and over.

You are turned and you are eternally bonded to him, there’ll be no mongrel mortal in this universe to take you away from him.

Autumn days wane toward the inevitable colder weather ahead, each nightfall coming sooner that the one before.

Seven days were gone ever since you were welcomed and brought to the Rouge’s dwelling, the rocky fort miles away from your grim, little mossy town.

Topaz leaves dangled from the shadowy skeletons of trees, each one like as ominous sword of Damocles. The river was almost ice, showing reflections of the heavy, ashy sky so thick. The chill breeze rattling at the closed windows of the fort seemed to cry autumn, the roads were moist with stealthy dew as the season deepens their graceful boughs will be the prettiest of charcoal sketches, drawing themselves tall, reflecting the light of a wintry sun.

You are huddled in the silky red sheets of Jimin’s large duvety mattress, the lines of your naked legs traced by the sheets. You lie fatigued after a thorough session of lovemaking with your mate while he wordlessly caresses your hair, eyeing your curves, breathing the essence of your hair as he licks the remains of your dried blood from your breasts.

The sudden slam of the door came like a punctuation. There were panicked calls all around in the veranda and one of the maids peek their head through the door to the master chamber, her chest rising and falling in urgency.

“Forgive me for barging in, master and mistress”, she breathlessly bows, making you both rise, startled. You scatter to cover your body with the sheets while Jimin groans and ties his night robes to shield his body.

“Master, we seem to have an intruder. The other masters summoned you to the court immediately”, she keeps her eyes low and Jimin barks at her.

“How would we have an intruder? This fort is well protected!” he grunts and turns to you, placing a soft kiss on your lips as you eye the maid scurrying away, bowed.

“I’ll be right back, my love. You might as well get dressed".

You smile and pull on your silky night robes to your body, mindlessly staring at the creaking trees in the wind while Jimin marches to the veranda, his booming commands slowly ebbing away.

For a few ticks of chime, you hear nothing but the rustling leaves, sparrows chirping at a distance and the echoes of voices downstairs. When the door to the chamber you lie in opens on the spur of the serene moment, you fall back and onto your elbows, on the cottony patchwork of the carpeted floor.

A loud gasp knocks your lungs at the sight of the familiar fern-eyed, thick woman looming over you, offering her hand.

Siena. She is puffing out harsh breaths and her legs tremble, hasten. She seems too afraid as her eyes cavort to the door in trepidation and you realise, she is the intruder.

“Y/N! Y/N. You should listen to me, you should run away, the one you are with is a monster!” she hastily whispers, gripping at your arm.

You yawp at her gnawing grip and attempt to pull your arm to yourself and grit your teeth. At the sight of your crimson eyes, Siena’s hold gets loosened.

“H—he turned you, didn’t he?” she utters in shock, something in her eyes clutches at her back again and she pleads you again. You sigh and move to the chamber’s doors, pulling the latch to lock and you turn to face her.

“I am sorry sister Siena, but I must ask you to leave. History does not tell the truth. The Rouge were innocent, it was the people who broke the treaty”.

You eye her pitifully. She had come all the way for vain.

“Jimin is by nature of laws, my soulmate. I cannot live apart from him, I am no longer one of the mortals”. You proclaim, clasping your fingers together.

“Now, please leave—”

“I am afraid you do not know everything” mumbles Siena quietly, her olive eyes swimming in a stream of exigency, her limbs still tremble.

“Who has Park claimed to have murdered you in the past, Y/N?”

The will to not let her affect your resolution faintly faltered at the sight of her tenacity, she shakes similar to a leaf jostled by storm gales yet, her eyes remain adamant.

“Tell me, please”, she begs to the extremity of crumbling, her orbs trembling just as much as her limbs do.

You release the air from your lungs and mutter softly— “Humans. The ancestors of our town. I saw it, the evocation of my past self, I was killed by the town folks”.

Siena shook her head, her face contouring into a brew of disdain as well as pity, you were almost uncertain if it was aimed towards you.

The whooshing gales and Siena’s voice seem the same when she mutters out what earth had not devised itself ready to hear.

“No, my dear. It was not the town folks who had killed you, it was the very man you share this bed with, the most conniving, astute count amongst his brothers— Park Jimin of the Rouge!”

And in that light the carpet of leaves became crooked, and all aurish colours vanished, the wind tumbling around the empty space. Your heart pounded wildly in your chest and your face morphed into one of disdain, you were abhorred yet, shattered to the ground like the dry twigs stepped on by passing carts.

You knew nuns took an oath to preserve and authentic despite the unembellished life they lead because you were one too. Siena was not lying, every single word of hers proves to be true only by the contours of concern etched on her face.

“H-how? I—” you flounder like a fish taken out of the pond.

Siena sighs dismally. “When I went to the elder canonesses on halloween night, the eldest of them apprised a hidden tale of a young town girl and her lover— Hyun woo whose throats were silt by the third youngest of the Rouge”,

“Only sister Ann knew the story behind it”. You listened carefully, feeling prostrated mercilessly.

“Park Jimin had found his consort and by the scent of her blood, he knew she was destined to be bonded to him by nature’s law. But, she was irrevocably in love with another mortal to whom she had been having love affairs with, even as she was taken against her will to the Rouge fort”,

“An infuriated Park had butchered the young woman’s lover in front of her whilst the woman pleaded and cried for the man’s life. As days passed, Jimin’s consort became coldly vacant in grief",

You were turned into stone at her words.

“She had ultimately repudiated to consummate their bond. The same night when Jimin had killed her to erase the memories of her lover, the town folks declared a war to avenge Hyun woo and rescue the young woman. Park Jimin had promulgated to his brothers that the woman was killed by humans, he must have recast your past self’s memories, Y/N! He is not the gentle lover you loyally surmise him to be!”

One time when you were blind in a tree, waiting motionless for wind to wander by, you dozed off and fell ten feet to the ground, landing on your back. It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from your lungs, and you lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything.

That was how you felt at the moment, your ribs felt crushed into a mere refuse, fear and disgust of your past killer’s touch burned everywhere, the faded puncture marks on the peaks of your breasts, thighs, neck, shoulders felt as if touched by the flicks of flame, you felt abhorred.

Even the loud rap of knocks and thuds on the door to the chambers were heard, you were frozen into ice. Eyes teary, vision blurred, you fell to the ground, crestfallen.

Siena shakes you harder in panic at the sight of the door’s latch rattling violently, the sundry of voices with Jimin’s voice rack unpleasant shudders through her spine as she attempts to resuscitate you to the present.

A single squawk like a squall causes the doors to shatter as if hurled to the ground by a tempest. Park Jimin stands sited at the other side. There is not a sliver of a plinth to hold his rage in place, he looks irked to the brim of extremes.

“Seize her!” he barks and by the tick of a second, Siena is hefted into the air by a couple guards, their grasps cause her to bawl in pain.

“Y/N! My dear, what did she do to you?“ Jimin’s voice is mellowy as he gathers you into his arms, perusing your form thoroughly.

Like the mountain river under sunlight, like snow melting under the beaming sunlight, like the gentle song of the topaz leaves swaying in the autumn breeze, his voice was pleasant as beautiful as his perfectly sculpted face.

You shake away weakly from his grasp and his face withers, twinging a deep cut into your heart.

“You cold-blooded murderer, let her free”. You mutter, abhorred and stare at him, as empty as the ocean at night.

Jimin peruses Siena and you wordlessly, taken aback by your sudden disgust. When you see his head lift and lips curl to one side, you see the once loving mate of yours turn into the callous, blood-thirsty hound of a creature that slaughtered so many lives for its own illiberal gain.

“I see my little fawn has discovered the truth”, he heinously chuckles, making you swallow down in utter disgust.

“It was worth the effort, was it not?” he perches himself on his lush seater loftily, a wicked grin stretches his lips at Siena’s struggles.

“Now that I have the maiden of my dreams to myself”, he wickedly whispers, his sharp eyes travel down your body as he slips his lower lip into his mouth.

“I can debauch her to my heart’s content” his eyes are demanding as they meet yours, his slender fingers tipping against the mahogany handle of his seater.

“What causes you to think I would submit to you?” you spew the words like venom as the haughty count feigns hurt, crumbling to the ground.

In a blink of an eye, Jimin whooshes at an inhuman pace across the chamber to you, gripping your jaws tight from the behind as he has his own clenched. Your wrists are pressed together at your back and he presses his chest to your back.

You attempt to wriggle away at the bulge pressing into the cleft of your arse and you screech at his hold.

“What can be done by a little fawn like you, against me? There is a reason why I did not wait even for an hour to turn you that night”. He lilts mockingly, lips brushing the lobe of your ear.

“Oh, little fawn. I had become the master of your body, soul and mind duly after turning you. Every single thought that runs in this little head, I can hear it”. He declares, arms slithering around your body in a vice-like grip.

“After decades of longing, I finally had you. Would I not have prepared for the same mistake to never occur again?” he presses his nose to your jugular, breathing your scent. It makes him roll his eyes in pleasure as the heavenly scent tickles his lungs.

Your fighting limbs fall limp as his fangs pierces the skin of your jugular, taking little gulps of your sweet blood.

Siena screams as she realises the actions performed on you by the count. She seethes and cusses, fighting against the guards’ hold on her.

“Forget everything that makes me bad in your eyes, little fawn”,  Jimin whispers pleasantly, making you fall into a lull of sleep with a soft hum.

“Only I am your love, only I am your lord, no other mongrel of a mortal owns you, forget it all, my one and only little fawn”, he sings soothingly, lifting you in his arms more delicate than a priceless treasure, cooing in adoration at the sight of your angelic face in peace and parted lips, memories flitting you away from him washed away profoundly.

In the course of a mo, Siena’s head is snapped and the poor nun’s body is embedded into the fertile earth heedlessly.

A famished count with an endless carnal lechery presses a soft kiss to your lips and envelopes you in a lover’s embrace, waiting for your eyes to open and say his name sweetly, oblivious to events that have unfolded a very few chimes ago.

Carnal lechery, it was what possessed him to possess you.

© unfurlingtwinklingstar 2020 | all rights reserved | do not re-post/translate

[wegog]

I think Plesantview have many examples which could fit for that idea just like Bella - Cassandra, Mary Sue - Lilith/Angela, Dustin - Beau and Darren - Dirk.

Hello my dear anon! Thank you for this curious question. Because, in spite of the fact that I don’t agree with some of these points (and I’ll explain why) I adore to discuss ts2 lore! And I hope it’ll interesting for you just like it's for me.

In my ‘you don't have to be like them’ post I was analyzing really bad sims who did, without exaggeration, terrible things (sometimes it was evil and frightening). And that of course doesn’t mean these characters are least favorite for us. On the contrary they’re deservedly the most beloved by the players. Each of them has their own unique story. Some of these sims have changed (like PT9), the other wont regret what they did for the rest of their days (like Olive). For example, I hate xenophobes in real life but I love playing with Buzz Grant. I mean, these sims are nice to play meanwhile they’re not really nice. Pleasantview is a completely different thing. Yes, there’re bastards there too. And perhaps Brandi Broke killed her husband (although to be honest the developers never hinted at this)... But even these situations and these sims are not as extraordinary as, for example, a serial killer or an alien racist. And actually life in Pleasantview is more trivial. But I still want to explain everything with more details.

Point 1. Bella and Cassandra. I know there’re a lot of speculations about Bella’s disappear, we have a bunch of theories and I love them all. But I’m so nerd who prefer to stick to the realities (that’re boring just like me). Bella Goth was abducted by the aliens because of Caliente sisters’ collusion. She didn’t run away, she wasn’t killed, etc. This is how the developers presented this story to us. This is canon. And Bella is a very good person (she has 7 nice points) and she is really humble (only 3 outgoing points). She and Cassandra have a very similar personality. If you look at Cassandra's memories, you will find that her mother taught her all toddler skills (without Mortimer). Bella Goth is a wonderful mother. In addition, Bella refused Don. This is what Cassandra has to do. Cassandra should be like Bella (actually she is). And I can see nothing bad about their relationships or about our ‘lady in red’.

Point 2. Darren and Dirk. What’s wrong with Darren? He’s definitely of the nicest sim in this game! We talk about the widower who truly cares for his son and supports Dirk. Perhaps you mean that Dirk is a fortune sim so he can see his father as a loser. Because Darren left the business carrier to realize his dream of becoming an artist. And this’s not so ‘economically efficient’… I can definitely see this kind of conflict between them. It’s very interesting. But I’m sure Darren can demonstrate to his son sometimes money and a career are not enough for self-realization. So I belief Dirk should be like Darren.

Point 3. Mary Sue and Lilith/Angela. Their situation is more complicated but we still can avoid a tragedy. Mary Sue works very hard and often forgets about her family. Especially it hurts Lilith who hasn't received enough love from her parents since childhood. But I want to note the relationship between Mary Sue and ‘an evil twin’ is not the most terrible (unlike the relationship between Lilith and Daniel). Mary Sue makes the typical mistakes that many parents make. This can damage them a lot, but she still has a chance to fix it. And she loves her girls and has never done anything terrible. However, I feel like Lilith and Angela should be more independent from their parents’ influence that seems to me toxic in some way.

Point 4. Dustin and Beau. Close enough to the main idea. Even in Beau's biography, there’s a mention of his bad ‘genetic destiny’. But this’s only one case. And in fact Dustin is still very young. And he also has a chance to change his life. Especially if he'll be under the influence of his girlfriend Angela (after all, his biography says that deep in his heart ‘wishes people would tell him what to do’).

I know it was a quite long. But I hope I managed to explain everything :)

[amariaamaris]

Of changes and Revelations Part 2

Here’s the second part! It took me awhile because well... life. Anyway I hope you enjoy and comments and constructive criticism is always welcome!

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For the past two weeks, Bonnie has been getting to know the group from Wakanda. All of them came to the collective agreement to give her a crash course on, well... everything. Then they would all help her set up to move to Wakanda while allowing her to keep her Grams house for as long as she wants it.

The first thing T’Challa told her about Wakanda and their royalty... don’t bow, they don’t do that in Wakanda. They have very different ways of giving and showing respect. For the most part, if you give respect you will receive respect. Everyone in Wakanda is essential to it’s strength and continued growth. Ayo and Okoye taught her how to tell what rank and clearance one person has and they have started teaching her how to fight. Apparently she made a good impression because they want her as an honorary Dora Milaje. 

James Barnes or rather Bucky has started teaching her self defense and certain spy things. Why she would ever need to know that is beyond her, but Bonnie just goes with it. He’s also been teaching her how to spot someone trailing you and to know friend from foe in a split second. 

Meanwhile, N’Jadaka - or Erik as he insists on her calling him, she chooses to ‘forget’ that just to annoy him (don’t tell him that) - has started teaching her their language and other nuances of their culture that the others may glaze over. She may of may not have had a miniature panic attack when N’Jadaka had her look at the inside of her lower lip... he didn’t stop laughing for a good 15 minutes after.

When she started to cry again, he immediately got serious and once again helped to piece her back together. After every truth bomb he gave her and Bonnie’s shattering... she felt completely raw and much like an empty husk. Everything started making sense; her strange dreams of panthers and a language that she couldn’t seem to find no matter how hard she looked, lost memories, her father seeming to hate her for more that just who and what her mother and grandmother were. Her parents constant arguing and why she was never allowed to truly be by herself and with herself. Of course that changed when her mother left, but by then her memories were deeply buried.

Bonnie allows herself to close her eyes and let out a deep cleansing sigh into her mug of tea as she settles more into the bench swing, underneath a very cozy blanket. Her eyes flicker open to look down at the grimoire she has on her lap. Before she can start reading again, she feels eyes on her. Bonnie allows herself to slowly look up and promptly blinks in surprise at who she sees standing at the steps of the porch. Then she blinks again wondering if she is seeing things in the late evening with the fairy lights lining the porch. Upon seeing that the person is really there... well it takes all of Bonnie’s will to not groan in annoyance.

“What do you want Elijah Mikaelson? Are you here to demand my services? It didn’t go over very well for the oh so powerful hybrid.” Discretely Bonnie reaches to her wrist and lightly touches one of her kimoyo beads to let N’Jadaka know that she had a visitor (since he is in her grams house doing something). When all he does is stare at her in response, Bonnie lets out an aggravated breath. She starts to move to get up and go inside, Elijah quickly moves to step forward. The barrier quickly stops him in his steps.

“Miss Bennett please, I’m not here to upset you and not here to ask you to do something. Please, just stay there... I would like to apologize.” Bonnie just barely stops her jaw from dropping in shock, the only thing that stops her is feeling the kimoyo bead warming up. She quickly brushes over it to let N’Jadaka know that he didn’t need to interfere (yet). Bonnie gives Elijah a slight nod and settles back in her spot.

She watches as he shifts briefly then adjusts his cuffs while quietly clearing his throat.

“I would like to apologize for all of the pain I have caused you. I knew some of your ancestors and I respected every single one of them. I loved and respected Ayana, She was like a second mother to my siblings and myself. I regret that I have ever done any of the things that I did to you. I don’t expect your forgiveness and am not worthy of it. I would like to offer you perhaps some sort of closure. I would have written a letter to you to apologize, but you deserve more than just written word.” Bonnie can feel her buried emotions from all of the shit she was put through for Elena Gilbert come up and quickly started to blink her tears away.

“You’re right,  you don’t deserve my forgiveness, but I do. Elijah, I do forgive you. Out of everyone in my life even my friends and family... especially them. None of them ever apologized to me. As much as I hate to say this... Thank you, thank you for apologizing and actually meaning it. Thank you for doing what you did because your actions may have caused me pain, but it also helped to open my eyes. So, thank you. Although, if you ever and I mean ever try anything like that with me again... I will finish what your mother started.” She let herself watch as the different emotions flickered across Elijah’s face, which finally settled on a small, soft smile. Which evidently made him look extremely genuine and attractive.

“You Miss Bennett are an enigma, you deserve more than anyone has ever given you. I see now where they they get their compassion from. I hope you can live a life worthy of who you are.” A real joy filled smile covers Bonnie’s face and lights it up, causing Elijah’s breath to slightly hitch.

“Elijah, you are a good man. I can see why my ancestors like you. You deserve better too, get yourself out of here. Your siblings eventually have to figure it out for themselves. You are not accountable for their actions. You have the right to live your life for yourself.” Elijah briefly looks down, and lets out a slow shuddering breath, feeling all the history and buried emotions come off his chest and shoulders. He carefully reaches behind him and picks up a bag and carefully sets it down on the first step.

“These are all your ancestors grimoire's that were in our possession. Including Ayana’s, they belong with the Bennett line... we never should have had them with us in the first place. Thank you Miss Bennett, you have shown me more kindness and compassion than I deserve, goodnight.” Bonnie tilts her head, listening to the whispers upon the slight breeze as a soft smile comes upon her face.

“Goodnight, my ancestors say that you have been fully forgiven. They offer you and only you protection from other witches, do not do anything to make them pull that protection. They will not be as forgiving if you do.” It is silent for a bit as they both allow that promise echo in the air backed up by the layered whispers. Then with a slight smile on her face, Bonnie decides to add one more thing, as an olive branch for Elijah from her directly. “Oh, one more thing... Ahnika, my name, it’s Ahnika.”

If the name confused Elijah he didn’t show it and he took the olive branch for what it was. “Ahnika... Goodnight.” As he slowly walks his way down the path to the sidewalk, Elijah hears Bonnie quietly return his farewell. “Goodnight Elijah.”

After waiting for a bit, Bonnie gets up and walks to pick up the bag full of grimoires. Before she could touch the straps, N’Jadaka is there; wrapping an arm around her waist and with his other, picking up the bag with ease. “Kitten, care to tell me who that white suited man was?” Bonnie just barely held back the shiver that wants to make its way through her body. His lips are right at her ear and his front is flush with her back.

Bonnie just continues to stare at the bag in his hands and mutely shakes her head. N’jadaka lets out a huff, as he easily moves both of them back to the bench swing. He carefully sets the bag down next to the swing as he sits himself in her spot and Bonnie on his lap. Of course throughout this time he has had no care for her personal space. Bonnie is positive that he just enjoys watching her reactions.

“Kitten you better start talking, you were the one that brought my attention to an unwanted visitor. If you force me to make you talk, you won’t like how I am.” Bonnie turns on his lap to face him as his arms wrap around her to keep her steady. 

“Don’t worry about him N’Jadaka, I thought that he came here to cause problems. He just came her to apologize for his actions. That’s all” 

“I’m really supposed to believe that? Was he trying to bribe you to forgive him?” Bonnie can’t help but watch in fascination as what James had dubbed the Killmonger look filled his eyes and face. Causing his eyes to darken, his jaw to clench tightly, and tension seemed to cover his entire body. Even as she finds the look fascinating, she knows that if she doesn’t calm him down before he tries to go after Elijah... He would end up dead within the night. So, with careful fingers she starts tracing the raised markings that always peek slightly out of his shirt. Marking him as an experienced killer.

“He didn’t bribe me, I’m ready to move on from this life. I was willing to forgive him because he was honest in his regret, I want to move on from my hate. What goes on in this town with my friends and the others in none of my business nor is it my problem. Those are the grimoires that my ancestors had, they rightfully belong with the Bennett’s. He was just returning them to the correct hands.”

N’Jadaka’s eyes seem to switch and darken in a different way, a way that Bonnie couldn’t read. Though, the shiver that danced down her spine felt particularly pleasurable. Without either of them realizing it, her fingers had danced their way under his shirt following the markings. Feeling the ripple of muscles following her fingers movements caused a small smile to twitch at her lips.

“Kitten, don’t start something your not ready to finish.” N’Jadaka’s tense voice broke the peace and silence of the night. Causing Bonnie to freeze and slowly meet his eyes. She takes notice of the fire blazing in his eyes and his clenched jaw and how his hands are white knuckled from the effort of not moving. Bonnie studies his eyes a little longer and bites her lip. Feeling a flare of playfulness, determination, and something else she really didn’t want to focus on right now; made her choice.

She allowed her figures to move across his markings again and within a few seconds a snarl escapes him (sounding much like the big cats that they have in their history). Before she can react, N’Jadaka is on the move; throwing her over his shoulder, opening the door, stalking inside, allowing the door to close with a definitive click. Bonnie’s shocked laughter seems to stay ringing in the air as the bag of grimoires are left out on the porch. Where her ancestors stay outside to watch over the land. After all, none of them particularly want to watch their descendant in that way.

----

Early the next morning Bonnie or rather Ahnika quietly slips out of bed and throws on N’Jadaka’s shirt. She slips down the stairs and quietly out the front door to grab the grimoires. Once she gets them inside, she carefully starts to put them in the box with the other grimoires. Right as Ahnika finishes she feels N’Jadaka’s presence behind her.

“It’s way to early in the morning for this kitten. The day can wait.” It was, being only 3 o’clock it was definitely way to early. Though before she can say anything,  N’Jadaka latches onto the side of her neck. Then, quick enough to give Ahnika whiplash; picks her up and carries her back to bed. Yes, the day definitely could wait.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thank you for reading! Peace, love, and joy!

[bare1ythere]

Do you by chance have any good tma fic recs? I have yet to read any because I'm afraid I'll have to go through a lot of not so good ones before I can find a good one.

Ohh I have a few!! I’m very biased so they’re mostly jonmartin fics but they’re all really good!! (all of these are from AO3). This got a bit long so I’m putting them under a cut

The 14 Labours of Jonathan Sims by LotusFlair is one of the first TMA fics I ever read. It follows Jon and Martin as they try to reverse the apocalypse! This was during the 6 month hiatus, so it was a prediction of what the fearpocalypse might have been like that doesn’t match up with canon 100% anymore. Regardless, It has some really cool events for each of the fears and did make me cry at the end. I really suggest it!! Description:

Atonement comes in many forms. In order for Jon to free himself, he needs to perform 14 tasks. One for each Entity. Only then will he be able to rest. Only then will he be at peace.

Guess Who’s Coming for Dinner? by pantsoflobster is a really goofy jonmartin safehouse fic where Martin accidentally invites a couple from the Scottish village over to the safehouse for dinner and have to pretend to be married. It’s really cute and, what can I say, I’m a sucker for fanfic tropes! Description: 

“Jon,” Martin said. “I have made a grave mistake.”

Jon whipped his head up, nearly tossing the elastic from his messy bun. “What? What’s wrong? What--what did you do?”

“I... might have invited guests for dinner.”

Jon stared blankly. “What, here?”

“Seeing as this is where we live at the moment, yes.”

---

In which a week in the safehouse turns into a fake-married sitcom, because they deserve to worry about social ineptitude instead of the apocalypse for a minute

and some call us fools by Brightblack is another safehouse jonmartin fic where they do pub trivia!! Really cute and wholesome stuff!! Description:

There isn't much to do at the safe house, so what better than to go down to the village pub and play some trivia?

Or, Martin and Jon get to have a nice evening.

stranger, stranger by blueskiddoo is one of my absolute FAVOURITE fics!! This is a season 1 didn’t-know-they-were-dating jonmartin fic that genuinely has some really hilarious writing. Full of fun tropes and ongoing! If you only read one fic on this list let it be this one!! Description:

“Sure,” Georgie says, still laughing at him. At least someone is having fun. “Don’t you have assistants for that kind of thing?”

“Yes, but…” He huffs, scratching the back of his neck. “I wasn’t going to ask one of them to download an app called...Lover? Lov-rrr? I don’t know how you say it.” He flaps his hands dismissively. “There are--unions and such. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

*

jon makes a fake account on a dating app to investigate a statement. tim sets martin up with fake account on a dating app to boost his self-confidence. it goes exactly how you might expect.

And Did You Know That You Were Always Like A Fantasy? by my friend @waitineedaname​ is a really cute and wholesome safehouse jonmartin fic!! Feat. the mechs as jon’s college band and DANCING!!! It’s wonderful! Description:

Even if the worst was yet to come, it was hard to care during mornings like this, when everything felt still and quiet. Not the still quietness of a world holding its breath, but the peace of Martin’s warm body brushing against his side as they went through the domestic motions of washing the dishes together.

No More Idle Hands, You’ll Destroy the Lamps by my friend @shootlngstxr​ is a really cool ongoing fic where instead of being just marked by the web as a child, Jon becomes a web avatar and now Annabelle, Agnes, and Oliver (plus other avatars) are working together to raise him. So much found family and Agnes and Annabelle’s relationship is really interesting!! Description:

Annabelle was there right from the beginning when he woke up. She was the one who brushed the webbed curls of hair from his face, pulled him from his tangle of slumber. When he merely stared at her, confused; she sighed, wrapped him up in her six arms, and carried him to the webbed den she tentatively called home. That definition would solidify in time.

There was, after all, a reason why children were not made into avatars. They did not yet know enough of the world to solidify their own fears, nightmares ever-shifting, changing, unstable. And he would need to be taught many things.

lastly: "Have You Tried Turning It Off And On Again?" - How the Magnus Institute learned to embrace the IT ticketing system, upgraded their antivirus, and still found the time to teach one old man how to copy and paste by shinyopals!! I read this fic last night at around 3am because I couldn’t sleep and it was genuinely so good!! The format is really fun and creative and really made me have to deal with the fact that throughout all of season 4 the magnus institute was an Actual Functioning workplace gdhskjfdhs Surprisingly a little heart wrenching at parts, but over all really funny!! Description: 

I hope you find your new role as Head of the Institute as rewarding as captaining the Tundra, wrote Elias Bouchard, to Peter Lukas. There are so many people working there: all with their own interesting lives, and all desiring your attention and support. I'm sure you will relish the challenge it will bring and enjoy every moment spent with the fine men and women of the Institute. In time I'm confident they'll become like a family to you.

The Magnus Institute has a new boss. The Magnus Institute also has a new tech support technician. These two facts are unrelated, except they both happen at the same time.

Meanwhile Jon's woken up from being dead for six months and for once he's trying his best. He just wishes Martin would stop avoiding him and answer his messages...

[starcrossedrose]

Quidditch Gave Me Life and Love

This ficlet is for @hprarepairnet & @slytherdornet - pride challenge and it focuses on our favorite Gryffindor Quidditch Captain.

Tagging: @solembum22

Oliver Wood was an accident.

His parents didn’t plan to have him.

His parents were Quidditch Players, like Oliver was....except.....they were really good Quidditch players.

His father, Anthony Wood, was the Keeper for the England National Quidditch Team.

While his mother....Sofia Ramirez, was a Chaser for the Mexican National Quidditch Team.

They met during the Quidditch World Cup.

In between all the playing and team rivalries, they met and felt an attraction towards each other.

So, they decided to have one night to have fun and relieve a little stress from the competition.

Dinner, dancing, and every else in between...One night.

Then, when morning came, they would both go back to respective teams and the events of the previous night would never happen again.

That was their plan and they stuck to it.

When the Cup was over, they went their separate ways without a word of goodbye.

It wasn’t like they were ever going to see each other again.

And on the off chance, they ran into each other again at the next World Cup...they probably wouldn’t even remember each other.

Months later, during morning practice, Sofia felt...nauseous all of a sudden.

The team’s doctor told her to sit practice out, but Sophia dismissed the advice.

Sophia once played Quidditch when she had a cold. She could easily get through a nausea wave.

But as she continued to practice, her nausea worsened and then....the stomach cramps started.

The pain was so intense that it felt like Sofia’s stomach was getting hit by a Bludger over and over again.

After immediately noticing that Sofia was in physical distress, the coach benched Sophia and forces her to go see the doctor again.

Except this time...the doctor handed her a pregnancy test.

Sophia did not want to take it.

She was scared of it.

But she took it because despite the fear, there might be a strong chance the test turns out negative, right?

WRONG.

It was positive.

Sophia was devasted.

She didn’t want to have a baby. She didn’t want to be a mother.

All she wanted to do was play Quidditch.

The doctor eventually told the coach who effectively benched Sofia until the baby arrives and her body healed from the stress of giving birth.

News reached Sofia’s mother and she was excited beyond belief.

It was the most miserable nine months of Sophia’s life.

Finally, it was time for the baby to arrive and little Oliver Ramirez was born.

And Sophia felt nothing but dread. And her dread kept increasing with each passing day after that.

She knew Oliver was only a baby and babies required a lot of attention and energy....but it was becoming way too much for her.

Sure, her mother helped her raise the baby, but Sofia had reached her breaking point.

Then, she had an idea.

Oliver should be raised by his father.

He helped bring Oliver into the world. He should have the responsibility of raising him.

So, Sofia convinced her mother that she should travel on a mini-vacation for a few days.

Her mother didn’t want to, of course, but Sophia was able to sway her mind.

The day after her mother left, Sophia traveled straight to England and tracked down Anthony Wood.

He was shocked to see her and even more shocked to see the little boy in her arms.

Sofia told him that Oliver was his son.

Anthony was delighted to hear the news and was eager to become a co-parent, but that delight soured when Sofia told him of her plans to place Oliver solely in his care.

An argument broke out between the two.

Anthony has no problem helping raise Oliver but to just....spring his son on him with no warning..and expect to be okay with raising him alone?

That was asking for far too much, but Sophia refused to listen.

And seconds later, Sophia was out the door and on her way back to Mexico.

When Sofia’s mother returned, Sophia had told her what she’d done.

She figured that...sure, her mother would be upset, but her mother would understand because Sofia was her daughter and her wants/needs were important.

That did not happen.

Sofia’s mother was furious.

She called Sophia selfish, inconsiderate, and many other things until her English blended into Spanish.

Sophia tried to defend her mindset, but Sofia’s mother would not hear it.

The elder Ramirez explained that Sofia might not have wanted a child, but that child was here now and Sophia was responsible for him.

Sophia had nine months to prepare herself for this responsibility.

And for her to shift that responsibility on the man who just learned that he has a son...in a matter of seconds?

It was unforgivable.

So, Sofia’s mother packed up her stuff and prepared to move to England.

Sofia tried to stop her, but the old woman had made up her mind.

Since Quidditch was the only thing that seemed important to Sophia, then Quidditch would be the only thing she has left.

Her mother was done with her and would never see or speak to her again.

Meanwhile, Anthony Wood was bending over backwards trying to get everything that was possibly needed for raising a child when he heard a knock on the door.

The visitor introduced herself as Maria Ramirez, the mother of Sophia. She stated that she was going to help raise Oliver, much to Anthony’s delight.

Maria planned on purchasing an apartment near Anthony’s house, but Anthony insisted she just move into one of the many guest rooms inside the household.

They were family after all.

Anthony retired early from the Quidditch Team and dedicated himself to being a father.

His former teammates often stopped by to see Oliver and help take care of him/make it easier on Anthony so he wouldn’t do it alone.

Then, one day, Anthony was stunned to see Sofia’s teammates at his doorstep.

They had discovered what Sofia did and were so appalled that each and every one of them quit the team.

They could play for other teams, but they refused to play with Sofia. And, if Anthony was okay with it, they were more than happy to help care for Oliver too.

And Anthony was more than okay with that.

So, Oliver grew up surrounded by love, care, and support his father, grandmother, and many, many friends of the family.

Anthony found love in Jose, the former Seeker of the Mexican National Quidditch Team, who moved to England very soon after they started getting serious in their relationship.

Five years later, Anthony tearfully said yes to Jose’s proposal.

The two were married half a year later, while Oliver was the cutest ring bearer, Maria Ramirez was Best Woman, Jose’s mother was Matron of Honor, and both mothers planned the wedding together.

Every Quidditch player that ever been in Oliver’s life all had a part to play in the wedding.

It was absolutely perfect.

As Oliver grew up, he grew to love Quidditch just like his dads.

Sure, he found out what his mother did when he got older, but that didn’t stop him from loving Quidditch any less.

In his mind, Quidditch brought his dads together and gave Oliver the best aunts and uncles ever.

Years down the line, Quidditch brought a boy into Oliver’s life that Oliver spent many years trying to best him in the sport that he loved so much.

And this boy eventually became the man that Oliver would marry in his adulthood.

And when Oliver Flint was blessed with two twin daughters, he taught them everything he knew about Quidditch.

He hoped Quidditch would give them the same things that it gave him: life and love.

[petersasteria]

168 Hours - Haz Osterfield (10)

Pairing: Haz x Reader

Haz Osterfield Masterlist ||  Ultimate Masterlist || 168 Hours Masterlist

DISCLAIMER:  *This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.*

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: In which your son’s wish comes true and it turns horrible. Now, he has to fix it in 168 hours.

Special thanks to: @myblueleatherbag and @dudethisvoid for being so helpful

Click pictures for better quality

𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲-𝐭𝐰𝐨 hours have been consumed out of one hundred and sixty-eight. This means that Harley and Amadis have ninety-six hours left for their mission. In days, they only have four days left. Harley didn't know what to do. He was panicking. Harley wasn't sure if his parents are falling in love again. Unbeknownst to him, his parents are already in love with each other.

Harley wakes up the next day feeling really good and he didn't really know why. He feels a presence next to him and he turns to see Y/N fast asleep next to him. Harley was surprised, but he sighed as he stared at her.

"Good morning, mum." Harley says in a whisper. He gets out of bed and stretches before walking out of the room to see Harrison sitting on the couch, rubbing the sleep off his eyes. "Good morning, da- Harrison!"

'That was close.' Harley thinks.

Harrison smiles at him and stands up, "Good morning, Harley! What do you want for breakfast?"

"Hm..." Harley hums in thought. He wanted a big breakfast. "I actually want a lot of things."

Harrison nods, "Okay, go on. Tell me."

"I want pancakes, bacon, orange juice, scrambled eggs, and a banana." Harley smiles. Harrison laughs, "Wow! Someone's hungry. I'll get to it."

Harrison walks to the kitchen and takes out the ingredients for pancakes. Harley immediately stands next to him. "I make great pancakes and I take pride in that." Harrison boasts.

"You sound just like my dad." Harley smiles at Harrison fondly. Harrison really is his father... or will be his father in the future. But it still kind of hurt when Harrison just laughs it off.

"I'll take that as a compliment. I bet he's an awesome dad." Harrison says. He gets the bowl and looks at Harley, "You can help me. Tell me the steps."

Harley nods and reads the steps on Harrison's phone, "Two tablespoons of sugar."

Harrison opens the sugar and puts some of it in a mug. Then he pours the contents of the mug in the bowl. Harley gasps, "You don't have the measuring spoon thing?! I think that's a lot of sugar."

"I like sugar, Harley." Harrison chuckles. "Read the next one."

"One and a half cup of flour." Harley reads. Harrison opens the flour and pour the floor in the mug and pours it in the bowl.

"It's getting everywhere." Harley comments.

"You see," Harrison says as he fills up half of the mug with flour. "That's the thing with flour. It gets everywhere."

"Either that or you're messy." Harley giggles.

"Haha, very funny." Harrison playfully rolls his eyes and puts the rest of the flour in the bowl. "Who needs friends when you have food?" He says randomly.

"That's true." Harley nods in agreement as he watches Harrison put a bit of baking soda in the mix. "Next we need salt."

"Salt?!" Harrison scrunches his face in disgust. "No one wants salty pancakes. Do you want salty pancakes?"

Harley shakes his head, "Let's just skip it. Two cups of milk." Harrison fills up the mug with milk twice and puts it in the bowl.

"Eggs."

Harrison cracks an egg and adds it in the mixture. He moves away to grab a whisk and hands it to Harley, "Whisk it, little guy."

Harley does what he's told as Harrison prepares the bacon and scrambled eggs. Harley reads the steps and adds a splash of olive oil and chuckles to himself when it gets on his shirt.

"I think this batter is good to go." Harley says. Harrison nods after setting the table. He grabs the bowl and starts cooking the pancakes, "Get the glasses and the juice in the fridge."

Harley obeys and does everything he's told. A few minutes later, Harrison is done cooking the pancakes and Harley's already seated on the table as he watches YouTube on Harrison's phone. Just then, Y/N hurriedly emerges from the room with her hair all wet and her clothes disheveled.

"Whoa, you look like a crazy person." Harrison laughs as he sits down. "Where are you going?"

"I'm so late!" Y/N groans as she sits down on the table and grabs a pancake before eating it with her bare hands. She didn't have time to use cutlery. With her mouth full she says, "I forgot I have an appointment with the wedding planner today! I'm also going to help Tom's groomsmen to pick out their tuxes."

"Isn't your fiancé supposed to do that?" Harrison asks. "I'm no wedding expert, but I'm sure he's supposed to do that."

Y/N takes a big gulp of the orange juice and says, "Yeah, well he's not here. He's in Prague with his best friend Bradley and this needs to be done now. We're getting married in four days."

She stands up and goes to the sink to wash her hands before going to the living room to get her bag and her wedding planning notebook. She puts on her shoes and turns to Harrison, "I'm sorry, I can't babysit with you today. I just- I really need to get things done."

"We'll be fine, won't we?" Harrison smiles at Harley. Harley nods excitedly and they say goodbye to Y/N.

"I'll be home at seven-ish. Bye!" Y/N leaves and the two boys are left eating their breakfast in silence.

"So, what do you want to do today?" Harrison asks. "We could binge watch movies, play board games, go to the mall. What do you want?"

"I actually just want to stay in, so binge watching would be nice." Harley smiles. "Let's watch Harry Potter!"

Harrison looks at him and pretends to wipe the 'tears' away from his eyes. He says, "Whoever your parents are, they taught and raised you well. Harry Potter is amazing!"

'If you only knew that you and Y/N are my parents.' Harley thinks.

The rest of the day is spent on binge watching Harry Potter, eating, and Harrison forcing Harley to take a bath. Aside from that, the day was amazing.

"Harley, help me cook dinner. What do you want to eat?" Harrison asks as he gets up from the couch. He looks at Harley who's busy watching Harry Potter and The Half Blood Prince. Harrison waits for a response and when Harley doesn't say anything, Harrison shakes his head with a chuckle before going to the kitchen to cook something.

He ends up cooking lasagna. Unfortunately, it burned causing the smoke alarm to go off. Harley quickly opens the windows to let the smoke out and Harrison gets rid of the burnt food. Then they hear a knock on the door. Harrison quickly opens it and reveals someone he's never seen before.

"Um, yes?" Harrison asks.

"Oh, hi! Is Amadis there? I'm Finn." Finn smiles.

"Oh, he's at Prague at the moment. I'm babysitting Harley." Harrison grins. "Is there anything you need?"

"Nah." Finn shakes his head. "I just came here to drop off Amadis' mail. It's cash from... his work." Finn hands the envelope to Harrison.

"Oh, thank you! I'll guard it with my life." Harrison jokes.

"No problem!" Finn smiles and leaves. Harrison leaves the door slightly open so that the smoke would leave the room. A few minutes later, Y/N comes home and was surprised to see the door slightly open.

"Hey, why's the door open?! We could've been rob-" Y/N enters the apartment and was surprised to see smoke everywhere. "W-What happened?" She sets her things down and hurriedly helps them.

"I tried to cook dinner." Harrison sheepishly says. "It failed."

Y/N nods, "Yeah, I can see that now."

Harrison opens the envelope and his eyes widen when he sees two thousand pounds in it. He looks at the front part of the envelope and it says: 𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.

"Well, we can buy ourselves dinner. I assume that this daily allowance is for Amadis and Harley." Harrison says.

Harley's ears perk up at the mention of the allowance and he nods quickly, "Yes! That's mine and his allowance. We can buy pizza and all other stuff!"

In the end, the buy two boxes of large pizzas, pasta, and a box of chicken wings. It was a perfect thing to wrap up the day.

𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐔𝐄...

"You know, you really should answer your phone." Saint Thomas Aquinas points at Amadis' phone that keeps lighting up with God's name.

"Yeah. God doesn't like it when you don't answer his calls." Saint Christopher says as he munches on baby carrots and offering some to the other saint and the frustrated angel.

"I don't even know why you're so tense or whatever. You're doing a great job on your mission. Meanwhile Saint Anthony is still M.I.A." Saint Thomas Aquinas mentions.

Saint Christopher shakes his head sadly, "It's ironic how the patron saint of lost things is now lost. What a shame."

Amadis picks up his phone and clears all his notifications. He was about to lock his phone when he gets two notifications.

Saint Christopher takes a peek of Amadis' phone and smiles, "At least, we know Saint Anthony's alive."

"Technically, he's been dead for, like, a million years. In fact, we all are." Saint Thomas Aquinas retorts.

"Okay, I've had enough of your philosophical stuff." Saint Christopher rolls his eyes. As the two saints start to argue, Amadis sighs and calls Jesus through FaceTime. Jesus answers almost immediately.

"Hey there, angel!" Jesus chuckles.

"That pun will never not be funny." Amadis laughs. "How's heaven?"

"Great! We just had a banquet." Jesus answers. "Anyway, Heavenly Dad just wants updates. What's happening there? Where's the kid? I want to see him! Kids love me."

"Uh, I'm in Prague right now and I left the kid with his parents in London. I'm kind of following the other guy." Amadis bites his lip nervously.

"Other guy?" Jesus furrows his eyebrows. "OH! You mean, Thomas Stanley Holland?"

"Yup."

"Ahh, his mother prayed to me earlier today. Something about safety or whatever." Jesus shrugs. "Not that I don't care or anything. I do care, but like, he's a big boy. He can take care of himself. I can guide him, though."

"Where were you when he cheated?" Amadis sighs in frustration.

"He cheated?! Oh my gazebo." Jesus gasps. "I was busy tending to other prayers. I have so many piled up and I'm trying to get to all of them because if I don't answer one prayer, there'll be a non-believer."

"Jesus, we have five new non-believers." Saint Peter says in the background. Amadis purses his lips and Jesus just sighs.

"Anyway, I'll check in on you soon. Bye, angel!" Jesus waves goodbye with a smile.

"Bye!" Amadis gives him a tight smile before ending the call.

"You know, you shouldn't be upset that he cheated." Saint Thomas Aquinas pipes up.

"Why not?" Amadis rolls his eyes.

"Because it's supposed to happen. If he didn't cheat on her, she'd be married to him and she wouldn't be with Harrison Osterfield and they would never have Harley and you would still be stuck in heaven." Saint Thomas Aquinas explains. "It's all part of the timeline, trust me."

"I guess you're right." Amadis shrugs. He didn't want to admit that Saint Thomas Aquinas was COMPLETELY right because his ego might get big. Now all Amadis could think about are the 'what would've happened if's' and so far, he couldn't formulate answers.

* * * *

AFTER A LONG TIME, HERE'S AN UPDATE

𝐇𝐀𝐙 𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓: @abrielleholland @silencetheslaves @imeanlifesabitshit @joyleenl @hjoficrecs @myblueleatherbag @poguesholland @harryismysunflower @justanothermarvelmaniac @lonikje @lizzyosterfield @itstaskeen @ilarbu @turtoix @badreputationlove @starlight-starks @swiftmind​ @sovereignparker​

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[mikauzoran]

Lila Fake-Dating/Emotional Blackmail Adrienette: Betting Against the House: Chapter One

Read it on AO3: Betting Against the House: Chapter One: The New Deal

Adrien was changing back into his street clothes after an excruciatingly long photoshoot with his least favourite coworker when the door to his dressing room swung open without warning.

He jumped, quickly zipping up his pants with one hand and throwing his opposite arm across his torso to provide some modicum of cover.

“Lila, I’m getting dressed!” he protested as she closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, taking him in with roving eyes and a self-satisfied smirk.

“I know. I like to watch,” she laughed in that bell-like way that everyone thought was so charming as she leered at him, rubbing the side of her thumb back and forth over her bottom lip as her eyes traced every line and curve of him up and down.

He couldn’t contain a shudder of discomfort.

“It’s so cute how shy you are,” she chuckled. “We literally just spent hours hanging all over each other in skimpy clothing for that summer wear shoot, and now you’re embarrassed for me to see you bare-chested?”

She pushed herself off of the door and sauntered over to run her fingers along his shoulders.

He stepped back, shrinking away from her touch. “Sorry. Could you not? I don’t really like being touched.”

This small act of rebellion clearly displeased Lila. Her olive eyes narrowed into a glare, and she strode forward, placing her palm flat on his chest like she owned it.

“You’d better get used to it, then,” she warned, all levity gone from her voice, “because I’ve been thinking. The media has been speculating about our relationship status for several years now, and I’ve decided that it’s time for us to officially start dating publicly.”

Adrien recoiled, pulling away until his back was pressed up against the mirror. “Sorry, but I don’t think so.”

“Too bad you don’t get a say in the matter,” she informed him with authority. “We’re dating now, and you can either do as I say or watch as I spread rumors about Marinette until everyone thinks she’s trash and no one wants to talk to her.”

“Lila,” Adrien hissed low in warning.

She clasped her hands in front of her chest and assumed the higher-pitched, innocent voice she often used when soliciting sympathy or agreement from others. “Because, you know, I’m so worried about Marinette lately. I overheard some of the basketball team members talking about seeing her out late in a skimpy little dress at this bar with a much older man.”

“Lila,” Adrien repeated through gritted teeth, his fingers clenching into fists.

“You don’t think her family is having money trouble, do you?” Lila continued, batting her eyes and playing dumb as she feigned concern. “Has she said anything to anyone? It’s so easy for desperate young women to get into trouble, and I want to make sure we’re doing everything we can to help, if she needs it. That’s what friends are for, am I right?”

“Lila, this is crossing a line,” he growled, standing his ground. “I’m not dating you. In fact, I think it’s time I told my father about your increasingly inappropriate behavior.”

“Try it, and I’ll go to the media about how you’ve been taking advantage of me for years,” she retorted coolly with a shrug of the shoulder, always master of the situation. “I’ll tell them I didn’t say anything sooner because I wanted so badly to succeed in modeling, and if that was the price of success…”

He rolled his eyes. “You can’t touch me, Lila. I am the Gabriel brand. Try it, and my father will bury you. You’ll never work anywhere again. Trust me. My father is a very petty, vengeful man.”

She held up her hands in surrender, conceding the point.

“Fair,” she agreed. “Maybe I can’t slander you personally, but there’s no one to protect poor Marinette. I can and will burn her to the ground,” she promised. “Your father may like her now, but just wait until he hears about how Marinette’s been using you, making you fall in love with her so that she can get a leg up in the world.”

Adrien stiffened, a rush of fear streaming in.

He didn’t think his father would turn on Marinette so easily, but…Adrien had seen Lila in action before, and the young woman was very persuasive.

“You couldn’t protect her,” Lila snickered, crossing her arms with a venomous smirk. “If you tried to refute my claims, your father would just see how in love with her you are, and you’d only confirm her guilt in his mind, and Gabriel Agreste is a very powerful enemy, Adrien. As you say, he could keep her from working anywhere if he wanted to.”

Adrien’s chest tightened, making it harder to breath as he tried to come up with a rebuttal to her logic.

“You may be untouchable, but Marinette isn’t,” she sang, seeing from the distressed look on his face that she had won. “Only you can protect her, Adrien…so what will it be? You can give in now or watch me ruin her only for you to end up giving in later. Which do you prefer?”

His shoulders slumped, and he looked away, muttering, “Fine. Just don’t push your luck on the PDA because I really don’t like being touched, and someone’s bound to notice that it looks like I’m under duress,” he warned in what he knew deep down to be a futile attempt to set boundaries.

“Noted,” she hummed generously, watching as he retrieved his shirt and pulled it on. “So long as you know that no one would believe you if you told them. Everyone knows that any seventeen-year-old boy would kill for the attentions of a beautiful, Italian model like me. No one would believe that you were the victim here.”

He kept his gaze down as he re-rolled the sleeves of his overshirt into cuffs. “…Why do you even want to date me anyway?” he wondered sulkily. “It’s not like we’re really friends. I mean, we’ve never actually gotten to know one another because everything out of your mouth is a lie, and it’s not like we’ve ever had scintillating conversations for you to observe my quick wit or charming personality. I honestly don’t get what you see in me.”

She snorted at his naiveite, going back to leaning and crossing her arms as she watched him get dressed. “You’re a fool if you think anyone will ever be interested in you for your mind or your personality.”

Adrien flinched, wounded by the way that she laughed at his romantic idealism.

“People are only ever going to want you for your money, your body, or your influence,” she informed matter-of-factly.

He wanted to tell her she was wrong, but…he’d been one hundred percent himself around Ladybug and Marinette, and neither of them seemed interested in him romantically. Meanwhile, hordes of fangirls were just lining up for him to autograph their bosoms because they idolized the public image he projected as the face of the Gabriel brand.

“My particular aim is to use your influence to get a leg up in the world,” she confessed, and he found it ironic that she was the one guilty of something she was all too ready and willing to accuse Marinette of.

“You’re useful for getting my name out there and opening metaphorical doors to future opportunities,” she continued to talk about him like he was an object without feelings, meant only to be used until he was used up.

It reminded him of the way his father talked about him, and that added an extra sting because it made him think that if he were to go to his father about what was happening, Gabriel would only scoff and blame Adrien for getting himself into such a mess in the first place.

He could easily conjure his father’s voice saying that Adrien deserved what he was going through because Adrien hadn’t been smart or strong or clever enough. He could imagine his father berating him for being weak and letting his feelings for someone trap him.

Gabriel might believe Adrien, but he wouldn’t do anything to save him.

“It also doesn’t hurt that you’re a nice piece of eye candy,” Lila laughed, clearly enjoying herself and luxuriating in her victory. “Plus, it’ll make some of my rivals jealous, and I just feed off of their envy,” she chortled.

Adrien looked up at her with a frown, utterly baffled by her behavior, not for the first time. “Why are you like this? Why can’t you ever just…I don’t know. Tell the truth? Be nice to people? Try to work your way up in the world through effort and perseverance?”

Lila’s laughter stopped as her brow creased and her eyes narrowed. “What? You mean like Marinette?” she scoffed, giving her hair an indignant toss. “Adrien, you live in such a fantasy world. I would have thought your father had taught you better.”

Adrien tried not to let her see how her words cut him. He didn’t want her to think she had any kind of power over him when it was really only that she sounded so much like his father that it almost felt like Gabriel himself delivering the admonishment.

“I am the way I am because that’s how people actually succeed. The goody-goody path doesn’t work,” she asserted, and he wanted to ask her if she had ever tried it.

“Soft-hearted people like you might not like it, but you’ll see when you grow up and open your eyes that I’m right. I know what I want, and I’m willing to do whatever I need to do to get it. Maybe you think that makes me a bad person,” she allowed, “but I’m not. I’m just living in the real world. Soon you’ll realize that this is what life is really like. You’ll see that I’m right. I am the way I am because people like me are the only ones who win.”

“I hope you’re wrong,” he whispered at the end of her diatribe.

She gave her hair another flip and turned on her heel. “Keep dreaming, then. In the meantime, let’s get a move on. You’re giving me a ride to school. If we leave now, we can make it back by the end of the lunch break, and that will be the perfect time to announce to everyone that we’re officially dating.”

Adrien shuddered but didn’t protest as he followed her out of the dressing room.

[themockingpoint]

A million minutes late but here is my Sansa Appreciation Week day 5 submission. Takes place during the feast of 8x4. Shout out to @chryswatchesgot because I could not do that stupid cannon quote and their post from that episode gave me the perfect response.

  “It’s alright to be enjoying yourself.” Jon said, to Sansa shaking her out of her somewhat drunken thoughts. “If only for a little bit.”

 “Tell that to your queen.” Sansa said, before she could help herself. She showed off a grimace as she practically felt her brother’s annoyance bleed off him with a sigh.

 Sansa knew that the conflict between her and her brother’s… paramour was causing him undue tension, but she could not help it. Jon told Sansa that she is just refusing to see the Targaryen queen as she truly is and is letting what her family did to the Starks get in the way of that. However, Sansa would argue that it was her brother that was not seeing clearly ever since the two monarchs slept together. She sighed and downed another cup of wine.

 The way that she legitimized Gendry “Rivers” without thinking or consulting her advisors showed Sansa exactly what she needed to know. Putting aside the fact that she barely knew him enough to even know his actual name or the fact that he was her second cousin -and according to the great council of 101 AC that would probably make him, as a male, a stronger contender for the throne- his father was Robert Baratheon and her father was the Mad King.

 As bad of a king that Robert was, the smallfolk did not see it. His era signified an era of peace. Meanwhile her father was Mad King Aerys. He… well he got the name for a reason. Jon may have bent the knee to her, but their lords will always remember their Uncle Brandon and their grandfather. Let alone what the smallfolk will think. Joffrey most publicly was the smallfolks woes, yet Tyrion was the one blamed since he happened to be there once they started. No way would they forget what the mad king put them through. They were slaves waiting to be freed, they were people who just wished to go on with their lives with Highborn war.

  Another thing that Jon was forgetting but Sansa never would, was the fact that she spent years in King’s Landing, years. Joffrey, Cersei, Baelish, Ramsay, all of them taught her how to see a mask of benevolence. The Dragon queen may be projecting the air of the Good Queen Alysanne but Sansa likened her to the Young Dragon, Daeron I. The Dragon Queen may win the throne, but she would never be done conquering. She took over rulership in Meereen but was now looking to rule the Seven Kingdoms. The woman would never be done conquering, and Sansa did not plan on allowing the North and her people to be one of those Kingdoms to conquer that she will eventually become bored with.

 “I’m sorry.” Sansa slightly slurred from drink. “I am a little on edge… Feasts… I do not have the greatest history with celebrations…”

 “Here, here!” Tyrion said, walking behind them causing Sansa to roll her eyes.

 Sansa looked at the man that she used to think was the smartest man alive. When she knew him, he was the sharpest man in the room, taking people’s number without much of a challenge. He, Jon, and Varys -although he seemed to flip-flop worse than the Tyrells- all trusted her, is her own prejudices not allowing her to see the woman truly?

 Jon told her a little bit about the woman. The parallels between Sansa and Daenerys herself were strong, very strong. Sansa would not, could not, deny it and to be perfectly honest? It scared Sansa just how similar the two of them were. Abusive husbands, they were both raped on their wedding nights, both were used and passed around as bargaining chips, and both would do anything to get their countries back. Sansa almost crossed a line she never could have come back from.

 As similar as they were, Sansa knew that the dragon queen was not her friend, and definitely not Jon’s friend. She would only ever see them as subjects, never allies. They would be expected to fight whatever wars she would want to fight at the drop of a hat; ironically not unlike how Robert Baratheon was like with Sansa’s own father. As Sansa said, she would never be done conquering and -like during the Baratheon regime- the North would be dragged into it. She could not let her people be killed by the petty southern wars. She would not fail them; not again.

 “Why don’t you walk around?” Jon said, giving her a sympathetic smile. He knew how the last few feasts that she had turned out.

 “I… don’t think that is a good idea… I think I may be a little drunk.” She said, with a slight giggle.

 “Well I believe in you!” He said, slamming his hand down on the table in an ironic echo of her earlier statement.

 She walked away and a few minutes later saw the queen walk off in a huff of jealousy. She must admit, she was no Joffrey. He never would have abided by someone singing praises that were not directed at him, especially if he thought it was at his expense. She was not her father either, who would have just burned someone alive had he gotten annoyed with them.

 But it does not matter. The North was the North. They were not like the other seven kingdoms, even Dorne had more similarities to the southern kingdoms than the North did. The North just did things differently, they had different traditions, hell even their gods were different from the rest of the kingdoms. They were too detached from the rest of the Kingdoms to be part of such a kingdom that was practically united against them.

 She needed to clear her head as she was depressing herself. As she walked amongst the lower tables she saw where Tormund got to. She froze as she saw who he was sitting next to. Sansa knew he was here. Jon and Arya both mentioned the fact, he apparently had saved Arya’s life during the siege. Sansa has not been avoiding him, but she had not been seeking him out either.

 “Af’er all that he just comes North and takes ‘er from me.” Tormund said, weepily leaning on Sandor. “Just takes ‘er. Like that!”

 “Her?” Sansa thought to herself before she remembered who Tormund had been obsessed with since she had met him. “He can’t… He can’t mean Brienne, can he?”

 Thinking back to how her sworn shield starred at Jaime Lannister with starry eyes as they continued speaking, Sansa quickly realized what had happened when a quick look told her that she was not there. She felt happy for the woman despite her feelings about Jaime Lannister. She was more devoted to her duty than any other person than Sansa knew. She deserved this, she deserved to relax.

 “I’m not ‘fraid of Wildlings.” The serving girl (whore? She know Tyrion hired many to spread into the waiting staff) said, raising an eyebrow as Sansa finished another glass of wine. She doubts that she has even been this drunk and she must say she thinks that she is handling it very well.

 “Maybe you should be.” Tormund said, suggestively wagging his eyebrows.

 As Sansa realized what was happening, she felt a tightening in her own belly. One she had not really ever felt before, except maybe with Loras Tyrell. She shook out of her distraction as Sandor growled at the woman, terrifying her so that she would make her escape. Thinking of the feeling in her belly she walked over.

 “She could have made you happy…” She said, as she sat down. She wondered if his rejection of her was due to lack of interest or because of self-hatred and cynicism. Gods know that he has enough of that. Enough that he tried passing it onto her. “For a little while.”

 He looked up in surprise, whether he was shocked she was there or that she decided to speak to him she did not know. When they finally broke eye contact, he said, “There’s only one thing that’ll make me happy.”

 “And what’s that?” She said humoring him, trying to get him to lighten the hell up.

 “That’s my business!” He growled trying to scare her away. Once, it might have worked. She drunkenly cocked an eyebrow to show that she was unamused. “Used to be you couldn’t look at me.”

 “That was a long time ago…” She said sadly remembering the kiss from the Blackwater. One of the only two people she has ever kissed and the only one she somewhat wanted it from. Is that why he was not looking at her, trying to scare her away. “I’ve seen much worse that you.”

 “Yes I’ve heard… Heard you were broken in… Heard you were broken in rough…” He said, almost smugly and she clenched her teeth. Why was he being so hostile? She was trying to extend an olive branch.

 “Yes.” She said, she had already lost Theon today and her patience was quickly wearing thin. “He got what he deserved. I gave it to him.”

 “How?” He asked, genuinely curious.

 “Hounds…” She said, causing a moment of laughter from him.

 “You’ve changed, Little-Bird.” Sandor said, taking a drink. Once she had a sickening liking to the demeaning nickname. Now it just angered her. “None of it would have happened had you come with me.”

 “And there it is.” Sansa thought to herself. Most of the men in her life tried taking credit for what she was or could have been. To be frank, she was sick of it. Sansa was the woman she was today because of two men and a woman, all of which were named Stark. She may not have gotten everything she has due to her own merits but the men who spit poison and abuses at her no longer could claim credit for it. She would not allow it. No longer.

 “That’s the thing Sandor.” She said, grabbing his hand to his surprise. “I was never a little bird. I was a puppy. And Gods help those who think they can tame a Direwolf.”

 She stood up and grabbed Tormund’s nearly full goblet. If he wanted to stew in his cynicism, hatred, and self-loathing than he was more than welcome to it. She was not going to allow him to infect her with it as well. That is all he tried to do even since they first met at the Crossroad Inn all those years ago. She was done trying to save someone who did not want to save themselves but drag her down to their level instead.

 She would always be grateful for what he did for her sister, but she was done trying to save him. It was not her job. She looked down at her former would be protector and walked off, forgetting the reason that she came over in the first place.

[srsly-messed-up-fruitloop]

Tug of War (Ch 3)

ch 1 - prev - next

Word Count: 1,495

(AKA the random Christmas chapter)

The next week, Danny was greeted by the sight of a very pissed off Sam giving Tucker the silent treatment. He had warned him.

Sitting down in his seat, Danny hesitantly asked, “Hey Sam, how was your trip?”

Her vicious glare redirected to him. “Danny, how could you let him install the grill?”

Read on AO3 or under the cut

“Uh…” He looked over to Tucker, who looked like he was about to cry. “I told him it was a bad idea.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I tried, Sam.”

Sam glowered at him for a moment longer before sighing. “Fine. Trip was alright. But I’m so behind on everything now.”

He took notice of her slightly tanned face. “Didn’t get much time to study?”

“No, ugh. My parents wouldn’t leave me alone for a second.”

“Sounds like they’re gonna miss you when you’re gone off to college,” he remarked, remembering his own parents.

“I won’t be gone off to college if they don’t let me study,” she huffed.

Right then, Mr. Lancer strolled in the classroom wearing a Christmas sweater with “TO BE OR NOT TO BE JOLLY” knitted on the front.

Danny couldn’t help the scornful look that appeared on his face. He never could stand the holidays. Every year, when stores started playing their annoyingly repetitive Christmas playlists, every channel on TV kickstarted their broadcast of the same five Christmas movies, and everybody in his life began to treat each other with an exaggerated cheer, he just wanted to vomit. Call him a Scrooge, the Grinch, he doesn’t care. He’d rather go to sleep and wake up in January than go through it all again.

Later that day after school, Danny questioned his entire purpose as he weaved around the mall’s annoying Christmas decorations (more like obstacles) to chase Spectra. Apparently, for the last week, she has been making kids miserable by telling them Santa Claus isn’t real. Which...well, despite how true she is, it still isn’t right for her to relish in their despair.

“Aww Danny, you’re so boring. You won’t even let me have some fun, it’s almost Christmas,” Spectra teased as she shot an ectoblast behind her towards him.

Danny grunted, barely dodging it. “I think you’re misunderstanding the definition of fun. One, in any dictionary you will not find ‘making children miserable’ under ‘fun’. Two, nothing associated with Christmas is fun.”

“Ah right, I almost forgot how much of a Scrooge you are. But we know you act this way to hide something deeper. Tell me Danny, why do you bury those traumatic memor—”

“Shut up Spectra!” Danny yelled before shooting a blast back at her.

She easily dodged it, and smirked at how easily ruffled the boy got. His frustration was so delicious! Spotting Bertrand in his human form, quietly approaching with a string of colourful fairy lights behind him, her smile grew even wider.

Before Danny could react, Bertrand tossed the fairy lights like a lasso, catching his leg and slamming him to the ground. The mall tile instantly cracked upon impact.

Bertrand harshly pulled a Santa hat over the boy’s head before flying off with his companion, cackling.

Wes filmed the entire exchange with his brand new camera while he hid behind a trash receptacle. He couldn’t help but wince when Fenton hit the tile.

“Eh, he’s a ghost, he’ll be fine,” he muttered to himself, zooming in on Fenton’s form as he slowly got up.

Fenton yanked the hat off his head and grumbled, “I hate Christmas,” before chucking it to the ground and taking off to confront the two ghosts again.

Wes stopped the camera and frowned. Fenton hates Christmas?

How could anyone—okay, sure, no doubt the concept of Santa actually came from Satan and the holidays are practically an excuse in today’s society for corporations to milk more money from their consumers. But, even he himself couldn’t help but feel a little happier during the holidays!

Of course, this only further proves Fenton’s true identity. Only a ghost could feel so hateful towards such a merry time of the year, right?

Suddenly, an imaginary light bulb lit up above Wes’ head. His eyes locked on the nearest store selling Christmas decorations and he naughtily grinned.

~

If Danny could have it his way, he’d just spend the entire day lying in bed. His back was so sore from the fight with Spectra and Bertrand yesterday. Even his self-healing abilities weren’t enough to ease the pain.

Of course, he had to show up today, he had a math test. And a physics lab that counted for twenty percent of his grade. He couldn’t even tell himself that he could rest after school, his entire week was jam-packed with assignment deadlines. It was the last week before winter break but to Danny, it felt like an eternity would pass before he’d get to relax.

He was so looking forward to the break. Don’t get him wrong, he still despised everything to do with Christmas. But he’d happily welcome a break any day. Ghosts also generally calm down around this time because of their truce. Although, Spectra yesterday definitely was an exception.

Before he pondered any longer on that thought, Danny sluggishly opened his locker and froze at what he saw. Every inch of it was covered in loud red and green Christmas wrapping paper, flashing multi-coloured fairy lights lined the door, and ornaments hung from the two hooks. He went to grab his physics textbook and growled when he realized all of his books were also covered in wrapping paper.

“Woah there Danny, I thought you weren’t much of the festive type?”

Danny whipped his head towards the sound of Sam’s voice. “I didn’t do this! Wes—he even wrapped my textbooks!”

It only infuriated him even more when he noticed Sam trying to suppress a laugh. “It’s not funny!”

However those words were lost to her when she couldn’t contain it anymore. Danny scowled and began ripping off the paper on his textbooks.

A few moments later, Sam finally calmed down just when he started to harshly tug on the fairy lights. “You know, even though it’s pretty cheesy to me, people do this. The whole decorating lockers kind of thing. Heck, Paulina still maintains that shrine of you in hers. Maybe Wes just really likes Christmas?”

“But I don’t! It’s my locker too,” he angrily insisted as he continued to pull.

“True. You should still talk to him before doing that,” she said, watching him grip an ornament as if he wanted to crush it.

He paused. “Why are you even trying to defend Wes when you still won’t talk to Tucker?”

She instantly shot an indignant look at him. “That is totally different! I told him not to do it, yet he did it anyways!”

“ You should still talk to him ,” Danny repeated in a mocking tone.

“Ugh! Fine, go and tear down those decorations!” she snapped before stomping off towards their first class.

He coolly observed her retreating form for a moment before crushing the ornament in his hand.

~

Danny and Sam were already sitting at their lunch table toying with their food and complaining about all their assignments when Tucker walked up to them with a steaming tupperware container. Sam’s look instantly melded into a glare.

“Tucker seriously? I already told you to get rid of that grill and now you’re here making food for yourself?“

“Sam. Here, take this.” Tucker calmly offered the container.

“You know I don—“ she stopped mid-sentence when she noticed it was filled with grilled zucchini slices.

“Try one,” Tucker urged. “I promise, I cleaned the grill properly before cooking these.”

Danny was almost sure she was going to reject it. Except, she grudgingly reached out and grabbed one with her spork.

“What did you put on this?”

He shrugged, “Olive oil, some salt, black pepper, herbs, garlic and onion powder, oh and balsamic vinegar. Just like how you taught me.”

She eyed the slice for a moment longer before taking a bite.

“Look, by the end of lunch, if you still don’t want it, I’ll uninstall the grill, alright?” Tucker proposed.

Sam seemed much calmer now and Danny couldn’t tell if she liked the zucchini or not. “Tucker, I’m mad at you because you didn’t listen to me. It’s our locker we share together, we’re supposed to make decisions together.“

“I’m sorry Sam. I just...”

“Listen, you promise that you’ll take full blame when a teacher finds out?”

“No teacher is goi—”

“Tucker.”

“Alright, I promise.”

This time, Sam smiled and went to grab another slice of zucchini. “What do you say about me bringing in a spice rack tomorrow?”

Tucker looked at her in disbelief for a second before responding, “Heck yeah!”

Meanwhile, Danny was grinning. His friends will always have their squabbles. But somehow, they manage to work it out in the end every time.

Abandoning his own bland lunch, he picked up his spork just when Tucker began to dig in.

[allimariexf]

okay UGH here have some 8x01 observations 😭😭😭

IT KILLS ME the little differences we see in Oliver’s behavior as he’s “reliving” his history, not just because he’s seeing people he hasn’t seen in years, but because HE IS SUCH A CHANGED PERSON NOW. It allows us to see, side by side, just how far he’s come and like. UGHHHH MY HEART. Case in point:

the way he responds to Moira when she picks him up at the hospital 😭 Instead of being all closed off, he just....smiles so big. And squeezes her so tight! And says “I missed you so much!” 😭 (Contrast that to how Moira’s reaction is almost exactly the same. It just stabs me right in the heart!)

and then obviously his shock at things being different, like he thinks he’s on familiar territory and it’s all going to be easy. It really speaks to me, because it shows how he’s come to accept his past as part of him, so that reliving it is comfortable and familiar, unlike how it was the first time around! 😩💔💗 

which only becomes clearer when we find out what happened to THEA OMG. !!!!!!!! HIS SHOCK AND SORROW AND DISBELIEF! Because (aside from how much he just loves her) protecting Thea and being a brother is such a huge part of who he is, and has shaped him into the person he has become, and just! It shakes his very foundation. I love how well they show him experiencing this, and then bring it back later on in the episode when Dig is trying to convince him that things on this earth are WORSE OFF because he wasn’t there. SO BEAUTIFUL! SO PERFECT! SO WELL DONE, WRITERS (god it’s been an age, hasn’t it? lol)

and the fact that Oliver mentions William - SO SIGNIFICANT. Because even though he’s here, back with people he loves and has lost, almost like a “second chance,” he is thinking of William - of the life he left behind, his real life. 😭😭😭 Even with all he went through, he wouldn’t change a thing, basically. 

Which is why it’s so perfect when Malcolm asks him how he managed to survive on the island all those years, and Oliver just says (with his cracking voice), “It’s a long story” I DIIIIIIIIIED. It’s his story...his whole history of how he found his people - Dig and Felicity - and grew as a person, and became a hero. It’s all there in his voice and I am dead. 😭

and can I just say that it’s just so well done: Oliver came into this thinking he had it handled, but again he ends up having to leave dinner early, again because of how things have changed “at home” - because they’re not like how he was expecting. GUH, again, it just shows how far he’s come in accepting his past as part of who he is today. 💗💗💗

OKAY so Oliver staring at the picture of HIS FAMILY 💔 and his uncertainty about whether he did the right thing in leaving Felicity and Mia and William OMGGGGGGG STAB ME IN THE HEART RIGHT NOW. 

“AND SOMEDAY, WHEN YOU HAVE CHILDREN” his face omg his face his tears and the fact he can’t even look her in the eye because it would be too revealing OH GOD MAKE IT STOP 💔😭💔😭💔😭💔 FUUUUUUCK.

AND THEN “MOM I’M SO SORRY” because this is the first time he’s looking at her complicity in the Undertaking from the perspective of a parent and like UGHHHHHHH I AM DEAD. 💔💔💔 I CANNOT EVEN 

And okay Moira saying “Close your eyes, sweetheart” CANNOT BE A COINCIDENCE. Moira’s voice saying those words RIGHT BEFORE SHE GETS STABBED BY SLADE in 2x20 is INGRAINED in my BRAIN okay. GAH THE PAIN. 😭

Oliver’s snarky bitterness toward the Monitor is 💯👌🙌 like, okay he’s committed to the mission but he’ll be damned if he’s gonna like it loool.

Now to: “the most important room on this tour” AKA WHERE IS MY WIFE 😍

(also jesus FUCK he looks so fucking good, and his outfit is very similar to 1x03 THANK YOU!! 🔥🔥🔥)

(also okay not to be a bitch but that actress looks nothing like Felicity, not even from the back?? Um even giving differences due to different earths, she wouldn’t look THAT different and Oliver would certainly not confuse her for Felicity mmkay? Also why would random lady be wearing Felicity’s 1x03 outfit and why would she be chewing on a pen? I mean, the adorable pen-chewing is kinda part of Felicity’s unique charm. BUT ANYWAY I appreciate what the writers were trying to do here so I will let it slide.)

HIS LITTLE SHY EMBARRASSED HAPPY SMILE WHEN HE THINKS IT’S HER OMG 😍😍😍

“It’s supposed to be red” OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY OKAY GAH

his obvious dismay when it’s not her looool

“Oh good for her” 💗💗💗 swooon

Oliver puttin’ to use those “My wife taught me a thing or two” skills 🙌

Tommy as the Dark Archer - YASSS and I called it! 

MAH BROTP!!!!!!!!!!

The absolute relief on Oliver’s face when something FINALLY is right on this earth - meeting Dig. GAHHHH!!!!!

meanwhile John’s face with hidden amusement should have been a dead giveaway that he is OUR Dig 😂

and Oliver’s token “wait no I don’t need a babysitter” LOL SO DELIGHTFUL

Oliver being just SO SO HAPPY that some things haven’t changed, John’s “Diggle. Dig if you want.” 😍

and then the failed car escape attempt!!!! and John’s laughter!! and Oliver’s confusion!!! AAAAAAHAHAHAAAAAAHHHH SO PERFECT! 💗

just....AFTER EVERYTHING THEY’VE BEEN THROUGH TOGETHER, and HOW FAR THEY HAVE COME, and HOW THEY’VE BECOME CLOSER THAN BROTHERS, and then for them to get to relive together this moment when they were strangers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I LIVE!!!!!!! 🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌🙌

GODDAMN OLIVER LOOKS SO FUCKING HOT IN THAT SUIT 🔥

And just watching Oliver as John says “Felicity.” Ugh, my heart. How nice it must be for him to have his John here, who knows his history, who he has become, who knows all the most important people in his life. 💔  

then their conversation about being brothers, and Oliver being vulnerable about his impending death. 💔

AND THEN OLIVER ESCAPING THE PARTY AND "YOU ALWAYS FALL FOR THIS MOVE” OMGGGGGGG I DIEDDDDD 😂😂😂😂 so perfect!

“This world isn’t better. It’s much, much worse. And do you know why? Because you weren’t in it.” 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

everything in this episode was leading up to this moment, and it is SO PERFECT. PERFECT for setting up the season. And PERFECT for Oliver having to confront this other version of his life. And PERFECT for him dealing with lingering insecurities and confronting his impending death. OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD. 💔😭💔😭💔😭💔😭

Okay I know there were things I skipped, not the least of which was all the Tommy and Moira feels, with Oliver’s goodbyes to them 😭 but this thing has gotten way longer than planned 😂

so anyway. those were some of my thoughts lol