#and the city itself becomes more alive in answer to her people's needs

[tired-fandom-ndn]

I am obsessed with La Revacholiere. She is everything to me.

[fromevertonow]

Suzanne Collins is one of the few contemporary writers who realizes the importance of names in her stories and the significance they bear. They add so many layers to the story, additional meanings that otherwise would not have existed.

The original trilogy:

Katniss: named after a plant of which you can eat the roots. Her father taught her where to find it and told her that “as long as you can find yourself, you’ll survive” (quote may be a little bit off, but it’s from one of the early chapters in THG). Additionally, the leaves are in the shape of an arrowhead, referencing her skills with the bow which her father also taught her how to use.

Peeta: literally bread lmao. But bread is one of the basic nutritions humans need, a little bit goes a long way to keep you alive. Peeta’s presence in Katniss’s life also kept her alive, literally and figuratively—the burned bread he threw her in the flashback and their complicated relationship.

Primrose: a plant with medicinal purposes, even more significant in light of her work as a medic in Mockingjay.

Gale: literally means “strong wind” and considering that in every encounter with Katniss he’s caused some reaction, he pulls her into directions she maybe initially doesn’t want to go in. Additionally, his name also represents his determination and steadfastness in his beliefs.

TBOSAS

Lucy Gray: named after William Wordsworth’s poem “Lucy Gray” which is about the titular character of the poem who got lost during a blizzard. She literally got lost in snow. Rachel Zegler sang this poem in two parts on the original soundtrack of the movie. When Snow asked who the girl in the song is, Lucy answers that she’s a mystery, just like her.

Snow: aside from the obvious snow references, I think his name is most significant in relation to Lucy and the poem. The only one who knows what caused her disappearance is Snow. He is the reason that Lucy is gone. But her traces in the snow are still visible. He will always remember her because the memory of Lucy has manifested itself in every part of his life.

Coriolanus: named after the Roman general (and also the titular character of Shakespeare’s play), Coriolanus wanted to attack Rome and become its ruler. He was scorned and celebrated by the people, only to be later exiled from the city by them. In TBOSAS, Coriolanus is the star pupil at the Capitol’s academy but sent into exile to the districts after he won the Games with Lucy through cheating.

Volumnia: Coriolanus mother who played a part in his ascent to power. In TBOSAS, she almost serves like a mentor to Coriolanus, teaching him how to think in terms of power.

(Edit) Sejanus: a roman soldier who was betrayed by the roman emperor Tiberius, just like the future president betrayed him.

(Edit) Plinth: got this info from here, but it was too good not to include here. A plinth is a base for a statue or vase to stand on. After Sejanus’s death, all of the Plinth fortune was given to Snow for being such a good to friend him. It was this money that skyrocketed the Snow family from poverty to filthy rich. The Plinth money was the foundation upon which Snow built his power.

There are so many other names that have historical (mostly Roman and Greek) connotations—Plutarch, Seneca, Cinna—but also regular names like Trinket and Beetee bear meanings that represent the character beautifully.

Names are important. For any lover of literature or (aspiring) writers, please look closely at them. They can shape your story into something unique.

Feel free to correct me if I’ve said something wrong. I know there are many names missing, but I can only add so many examples ✊🏻😔

[anotheroceanid]

excerpt from chapter five

Clarisse made an indignant sound. ‘You went into the Big House?! The thing is falling to pieces! It could've fallen to pieces on your heads!’ The more she spoke, the higher pitched her voice got. ‘What would I tell your parents if you died smashed by debris, Penelope?’

Without flinching, Penelope answered, ‘That their daughter left a mark.’

Slowly, without saying a word, Clarisse turns to Annabeth, face frozen in disbelief. Dennis is choking a laughter.

‘Your disregard for you own life does not give you permission to break rules, Penelope.’ Annabeth intervened, staring at the girl’s face. ‘I should expect that, out of everyone, you’d understand why Half-Blood Hill is off limits.’

‘Well, it shouldn’t be.’ Penelope petulantly crossed her arms, ‘We should be working to rebuild it, I mean, people arrive every day. We’re getting crowded. We either rebuild the Old Camp and expand the city, or it’ll expand itself against our will. Also, at this point that’s lighthouse for monsters, don’t you think it’ll become a problem soon?’

‘You’re exceptionally good quoting your father. Almost word by word.’ Annabeth responded, unimpressed. ‘What you have there, Silena?’

Silena blinked a few times, then opened her mouth in a perfect ‘o’ and smiled as she spoke, ‘I saved him, it’s a bird.’ Annabeth hated birds. ‘It sought refuge inside the Big House.’ She carefully shows a feathery thing, small enough to fit inside her little hands. If the thing weren’t trembling that much, Annabeth would’ve believed it to be dead. Noticing it, Silena snuggled the bird against her sweater again.

Clarisse exhaled, ‘What did you dad say about bringing animals back home?’

‘But mom…’ Silena furrowed her brows and started to pout again. Voice even more childish, helpless expression. ‘He’s so small, and he needed my help… And… And… Look how pretty his feathers are! They’re so gold, and he was calling for us, asking for help. I couldn’t just live him there.’

Dennis chuckled. ‘He is adorable.’ He agreed.

‘Yeah, and she’ll cry like a baby when it dies.’ Ajax scorned.

‘He ain’t dying!’ Both Penelope and Silena roared in one voice.

‘Sisi…’ Clarisse tried, and Silena reached out for the fabric of her chiton, pulling it gently.

‘Please mom! Please, please, pleaaaseeee!’ Her eyes filled with tears, ‘He might die if I bring him in, but he’ll surely will die if I don’t do anything. Please.’

Clarisse closed her eyes for a second and grimaced. Then, she opened her eyes and, of course, ‘Fine!’ She never denied Silena anything, and the girl cheered as if she hadn’t just broken a rule set to keep people alive. ‘But if it lives, you’ll have to set it free in the wild.’

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Daenera Velaryon returns to King’s Landing with the intention of bolstering her mother’s position and reminding both the Greens and nobility that Rhaenyra is the rightful heir to the throne. She has a specific goal in mind: to be a constant source of annoyance to the Greens and is willing to play the political game without hesitation.

However, what catches her off guard is the way Aemond gazes at her and seems to relish in her suffering. He openly expresses his desire to bring about her downfall, her ruination.

This situation leads to a tense game of cat and mouse, with each move escalating the already high stakes. Will their precarious situation crumble as the dragons soar above, or will fate intervene?

After all, love often demands the sacrifice of duty, just as duty can sometimes lead to the demise of love. Characters: Aemond Targaryen X OC, HOTD characters.

Chapter 4: The Arrival

AO3 - Masterlist

 King’s Landing had become unfamiliar in the years she had been away. 

The city itself hadn’t changed all that much. Life, it would seem, to the small folk remained the same. Or perhaps she just didn’t recognize the changes they’d all face, sitting on her high horse in her fine jewels and silks. But the hustle and bustle of the city was the same. Merchants trying to sell their wares, workers moving to and fro, children playing in the streets. And there, deeper and lower, were the beggars and orphans. All fighting to stay alive. 

“Are you sure of this, my Lady?” Ser Fenrick questioned once more. He had asked at every turn, from the port on Dragonstone and all the way over the seas to King’s Landing. Her sworn sword sat heavy in his armor, eyes flickering through the crowd for enemies and dangers. 

“I am,” Daenera answered once more. The answer to the question remained the same.

“Your mother could have sent for more Maesters.”

“And it would not change a thing. The Maesters can do little to make things grow on Dragonstone. The environment is too harsh and changing. If I am to continue my studies I’d need to actually get my hands dirty.” Maesters could only do so much with books and drawings. If she were to really learn it, she’d have to go where things could grow. Besides, it wasn’t the only reason for her return. 

“Your mother wished for you to stay,” Ser Fenrick pointed out, as if it’d change the answer. 

“My mother understands my decision.” 

In truth, Princess Rhaenyra hadn’t been happy when Daenera broached the subject of returning to King’s Landing. In fact, she was very opposed to it. ‘A den of Vipers’ was what she had called it, ‘Few and far between those who could be trusted’. She hadn’t liked the idea of her daughter returning to the capital with no one to protect her. It had been Daemon that had convinced her in the end. 

Her and Daemon had agreed that it would be her that went back. Jacaerys was the next in line to the throne after their mother and Luke was too young to go on his own. 

So it was Daenera who went back with the mission of strengthening her mothers claim.

“I should think King Viserys will be happy to see me,” Daenera  said. “I am his favorite after all.”

Fenrick didn’t accept the change of subject. “Your return will draw much attention.”

“I’m aware.”

They rode through the city in silence, watching a mere glimpse of the small folks’ lives. Daenera often wondered whether their lives were easier, but then she’d think of all the poor people toiling at work, trying to make ends meet. The struggles may be different, but they struggled all the same.

Still, she quite liked the chaos of the city, even if the smell was absolutely terrible.

They rode through the gates of the Red Keep, riding into one of the smaller courtyards. The walls of the Keep remained red, hence the name. And its towers still stood tall and true. Why she should think it was any different, she didn’t know. The courtyard felt smaller though. 

She felt eyes prickle over her skin and she straightened her spine and held her head high. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of white, like moonlight given life. He moved with agility and speed, avoiding the blade with ease, stepping aside to thrust his own blade back at his opponent. Steel met steel, the sound ricocheting through the courtyard, bouncing off the walls.

Her uncle beat his opponent's sword out of his hands, pressing the tip of the blade to his throat, the man yelding with his hands up and breath quick on his lips. It was then that Aemond’s eye met hers. She felt it slide along her skin like a blade, threatening to sink into her flesh and draw blood. 

Daenera turned her attention back on the doors to the Keep and the young queen that had graciously awaited her arrival.

Fenrick was the first one down from horseback, the sworn sword coming up to the reins of Daenera’s horse and taking them as Daenera stepped down from it, her deep purple dress falling heavy around her feet, slightly wrinkled from the time spent on horseback. It was one of her finer dresses, though modest. Her return would cause enough stir and it would have been quite the talk had she arrived in trousers.

Daenera felt the queen's eyes follow her as she approached. 

“Princess Daenera, welcome back. I do hope the journey wasn’t too rough on you,” Alicent greeted. “One should think there were many oceans between us and Dragonstone.”

The snide comment didn’t go unnoticed, but it would go unmet. “The journey has been long, your grace, but I found comfort in the thought of returning home.”

Daenera remembered the day they had fled the queens ire and the rumors nipping at their heels. Alicent remained as beautiful as she was then. A shame, Daenera had hoped that the blatant resentment in the queen's heart had poisoned her appearance. 

Beauty was always a great weapon.

One she did not wield herself. 

“You will find much has changed since you were here last.” The smile on Alicent’s lips didn’t reach her eyes. They were distrustful, uncertain of the princesses intention.

“That tends to happen with the passage of time, your grace.”

“I assume your mother is in good health? And your brothers?” Alicent questioned. The two of them walked into the Keep. 

“Yes, my queen,” Daenera answered though her attention was drawn to the changes made in the keep. Most of the Targaryen house symbols and sigils were gone, replaced with religious memorabilia of the Seven Pointed Star. She schooled her expression and swallowed the distaste, feeling the eyes of the Red Keep on her. “She is with child again.”

“What a blessing,” Alicent crooned, though Daenera didn’t believe it. If it stood to the queen, all of Rhaenyra’s heirs would be dead. It would lessen her claim to the throne. Those thoughts would never be spoken though, like so much else. 

“May I ask what brings you back from Dragonstone?”

“My studies, your grace. As you can imagine, Dragonstone is a hostile environment. King’s Landing is more agreeable when it comes to plants,” Daenera said, using the prescribed answer she had come up with. It wouldn’t be in her best interest to outright say that she was here to keep an eye on her and the king. “And if I’m being honest, I missed the Keep and my grandsire. He has begged by return for years.”

The queen’s smile got tight. “Yes, the King has always had a soft spot for you, princess.” 

“I thought the King may have taken time to welcome me back himself,” Daenera ventured. “I suppose he’s too busy.”

They had stopped on the stairs, the queen a few steps above her, looking down on her. She was the pillar of proprietary, hands clasped in front of her, a righteous look in her eyes and the green modest dress on her form, ordained by a golden, seven pointed star. 

“Do not take offense to his absence, princess. The King has not been of good health as of late and he is resting.” The excuse was weak but true enough. Viserys had been ill for some time now, some days were better than others. Daenera kept her expression schooled. “You must be tired from the long journey.”

Now, it was Daenera who got a tightlipped smile. “Yes, a bath and some rest would do me good.”

“Talya,” the queen voiced, bringing forth a rather pretty lady-in-waiting with red hair and sharp features. She bowed respectfully. “Please show the princess to her chambers and make sure she’s well taken care of.”

“Yes, my queen.”

Daenera followed Lady Talya towards what would become Daenera’s private quarters. Behind her were Joyce, Jelissa and Ser Fenrick. The Seven Pointed Star of The Faith was everywhere they turned, edged into stone, replacing the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. Most of the wall hangings had also been replaced, the once sexual tapestries now a bland mirage of forestry. Daenera found it distasteful if not outright disrespectful. It was as if the Hightowers had tried to erase the Targaryen claim to the throne. She severely doubted it was Viserys doing. 

Hightower cunts. 

Eyes seemed to follow her through the halls as the nobility realized who she was. Daenera took it in strides, a mask of indifference and politeness upon her face as she nodded to them, pretending not to know what they were thinking. 

The Hightowers had been surrounding themselves with their people it would seem, and had let their tales spread like an infection through the halls. 

By the time she reached her quarters the whole castle was bustling with her arrival. Hushed whispers spoken in shadows, ripping up old rumors to blow dust from them and speak to them anew.  

It was those rumors that had made them flee King’s Landing in the first place. 

They entered her new quarters. Daenera looked it over with a skeptical eye. The apartment was made of a large sitting area, with the bedroom connected to the right side. The rooms were big and finely decorated, sufficient. 

“I will have the maids bring water for the tub, my Lady,” Talya spoke politely. 

Daenera smiled. “Thank you.”

“I will also assign some maids to you.”

“That won't be necessary. I’ve brought my own maids Joyce and Jelissa.”

“As you wish.” Talya left the princesses chambers with new information to sell, the door clicking shut behind her. 

Daenera breathed a sigh of relief, rolling her neck and rubbing her fingers against her temples, letting go of the mask of politeness and respectfulness. 

Fenrick stood by the door, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, looking at the princess with slight concern. “If you’re already exhausted from pretending then perhaps returning was the wrong decision.”

“I’m exhausted from the travels and the ugly seven pointed star everywhere,” Daenera complained, glaring at the small round window that held the star within it. She felt as if she were in the sept and the gods were staring down at her in judgment. They could stare all they wanted. 

“The queen honored you with her welcome,” Jelissa said, beginning to unpack one of the huge trunks that had been brought to her chambers, plucking  one dress after another from its depths. 

“The queen wanted to size the princess up,” Joyce told her younger pupil, the older maid coming up to Daenera to brush her hair away from her shoulders as she began to unlace her dress. “Did you notice what they did to the Keep? It’s nothing but disrespectful.” 

“They’re honoring the Faith,” Jelissa countered. 

“The Hightowers are erasing everything Targaryen as if their children are Hightowers only,” Joyce raged, pulling the strings loose. 

“Be careful,” Fenrick warned. “There are spiders everywhere in the Keep.” 

As if to underline his warning the doors opened to let a string of maids in, each one carrying a bucket of hot water, pouring it into the tub standing in front of the fire, seam rising into the air. Daeneras' company fell silent while the maids poured the water. 

When they left again it was Daenera who spoke up. “We must be careful of our words. We never know who might listen and as we are now, we are surrounded by vipers waiting to strike.”

“Yes, my Lady,” her company agreed. 

Daenera wiggled out of the dress, standing only in her bodice and underdress. Fenrick averted his eyes, staring straight into the room while Joyce helped remove the rest of Daeneras' clothing. Red lines were drawn across her pale skin, marking out where her bodice had pressed in on her. She went to the tub, fingers skimming the hot water, her thoughts turning in her head. “When you move around in the Keep I want you to gather as much information as you can without drawing attention to yourselves. Make friends and connections. And if something happens with the King I wish to know.” 

They all agreed. 

“You may leave,” Daenera dismissed. 

Her room fell silent as her company left. Fenrick stood guard outside the door.

Daenera had often thought how utterly boring the job must be. Most of the time they just stood and stared. How they managed not to go insane she didn’t know. She herself would lose her mind out of boredom. 

With a sigh Daenera stepped into the warm waters, letting the heat prickle at her skin reddening it. She sank beneath the surface all the way to her chin, inhaling the lavender and rosemary scent, finding it far better than the smell of horse that clung to her skin. The journey hadn’t been that long. Dragonstone wasn't far from King’s Landing, but Daenera didn’t care much for traveling the sea. It wasn’t because she became greensick like her brother Luke did the moment he stepped onto a boat, the future fleet commander utterly cursed in that regard, it was the boredom of being stuck that bothered her. And perhaps Luke could command the fleet from dragonback instead. 

Daenera scrubbed her skin clean and washed her hair twice to get the smell of horse out of it before oiling it. Her lithe fingers ran through her dark curls, the very thing that started the whole fuss about her parentage. She was aware, of course, of why she looked nothing like her Father Laenor Velaryon. 

Daenera frowned at the memories her return brought up. Memories she thought best buried. But nothing ever stayed buried, unfortunately, and she’d have to contend with the fact that time may have changed but the rumors would persist. 

The princess got up from the water and wrapped herself in a robe, hair dripping down her back as she headed towards the balcony, opening the doors to let in some fresh air. She looked down over the courtyard, watched Prince Aemond move as he continued his sword lessons with none other than Ser Criston Cole. Daenera made a face. How he still managed to have a position in the Kingsguard was beyond her understanding.

 No, not beyond it, she understood very much why he still had his position, she just didn’t understand why Vierserys allowed it. The queen's favor should only reach so far. And with a man who murdered someone at a royal wedding's welcome feast should have been punished. And again when he continued to disrespect the children of the crown princess. 

Her eyes turned to Aemond again. Daenera hadn’t seen him since that night when he stole Vhagar and lost an eye. 

As if sensing her eyes on him, Aemond turned his face towards her, their eyes catching once more. Daenera didn’t school the distaste on her face and was of half a mind to roll her eyes. Aemond smirked at her.

He was going to be a thorn in her side, she just knew it. 

Daenera turned and headed towards the bed.

The heavy skirt of her cornflower blue dress swished as she walked up the steps of the Red Keep, heading towards the Kings Chambers. She had specifically chosen the dress for its complement to her eyes and the memory of Viserys telling her that blue suited her. 

This was her armor for the day.

Her heels clicked over the stone as she made her way through the Keep and towards the King's chambers, her spine straight and head held high. Behind her followed Fenrick, his armor clanking as he walked. 

The last few days the queen had dismissed her before she was able to seek an audience with the King. She would not allow it any longer. The King had sent for her after all. He’d want to see her.

So, she had sent out Jelissa to keep an eye on the King’s Chambers and the queens movement. Word had come not half through the morning that the queen had left his chambers and the king within. Daenera took her chance then. If she had to scheme and sneak around to see the king then she would do just that. 

“Lord Commander, I wish to see the King,” Daenera said, armed with a kind smile on her face. 

“The queen has just left the King's side, princess,” Ser Harrold Westerling told her. 

“Does the queen need to be present when I visit the King, Ser Harrold?”

Behind his battle worn exterior the lord commander smiled. “No, princess.”

Ser Harrold knocked on the wooden door before opening it for the princess, who smiled appreciatively at him as she passed, walking into the King's chamber to find the King sitting in a chair propped up on pillows, a thick blanket wrapped around his lower half. Daenera felt her heart sink at the sight of her grandsire, finding that age had come at him hard and unforgiving. He had lost much of his hair, having only a few brittle strings of it left. At his side sat a young stone mason, carving details into a stone figure as the King told him about the building being made, voice low and rumbling with age. Viserys one good eye lifted from his stone map of old Valyria to his grandchild, lightning up at the sight. 

“Daenera,” he greeted as loudly as he could. 

Daenera hid her pity and concern beneath a smile. She would not show him anything else than what he deserved. “Grandsire!” 

Her feet hurried over the floor, dress swissing around her feet, dark curls tumbling over her shoulders as she leaned down to press a kiss on the King's cheek. He smelled of old age and the illness that was slowly killing him. He had lost his left arm years ago, even before the incident that made them flee to Dragonstone, the sleeve empty.

 And from the look of it, an infection had taken the sight of one of his eyes, the skin beneath it hollowed out and irritated.  Daenera wondered how she’d tell her mother about how bad it had gotten. 

“It is so good to see you, my sweetling,” the King said, waving away the stone mason. Viserys tried to stand, his knees buckling and his breath alluding him as he forced himself to his feet. Daenera was quick to wrap an arm around him, supporting him as they made their way towards more comfortable seats in front of the fire. “Have you brought your mother and siblings with you?”

“No, unfortunately not, my king,” Daenera answered softly, trying to lessen the blow. “I hope I do not disappoint you, your grace.”

“You could never disappoint me, Daenera,” Viseryes told her, pinching the apple of her cheek as she wrapped the blanket around his legs once more. “I just wish we could all be together.” 

“Perhaps soon we will,” Daenera said. 

“How are my daughter and brothers?” Viserys asked. Daenera sat down in the chair opposite him, finding the seat uncomfortably hard. Her hand reached for her grandsires, holding his thin and bony hand, cold with age despite the warmth of the room. 

“They are good, your grace. My mother is pregnant with her and Daemon’s second child. I’m sad to miss the birth of my sibling but I suppose that is the price to pay if I wish to further my education,” Daenera said. In truth her education came second as to why she was here. Her concern for the King and what was happening in King's Landing was the main reason for her presence. 

“You’re still buried in books and plants?” Viserys smiled. 

“Yes. Dragonstone is a fine place but there’s not a lot of… green.” In the regard for nature it was bad, but it was a blessed place to avoid the Hightowers. “And of course I missed my grandsire.” 

“You’re too kind. I fear I’m not much these days,” the king said sadly. 

Daenera squeezed his hand as much as she dared. “And yet it is enough. You’re still the King and you are blood. I could not wish for a greater grandsire than you.”

“Flatter will get you far,” Viserys chuckled. “And how’s my other grandchildren?”

“Jacaerys is as hot-tempered as ever, I hope age will teach him to control it. He is a fine swordsman and dragonrider. You’ll find that he’s very educated in most subjects but he’s having trouble with Valyrian. And Lucerys follows his big brother around like a puppy. I’ve never seen anyone with as great of a love for their brother as him… well, perhaps between you and Daemon.”

“Is Luceryes as big of a pain in the ass for his big brother as Daemon has been in mine?”

Daenera tried and failed to hold back a laugh. “No, not yet. He’s still in the obey every word age, mayhaps when he’s older.” 

“I hope not.”

“Joffrey is still very young. Growing every day,” Daenera finished. 

They sat in content silence for a while before Daenera decided to break it with an inquiry about the changes to the Keep and by extension who was making the decisions. She had a feeling she already knew but the answer was still as cutting as it would have been had she not expected it. 

“Ah, Alicent and Otto are the ones taking care of such matters. I’m not particularly fond of the changes, but it honors the Faith and keeps the peace.” 

“You can honor the Faith and still keep some of the house symbols, your grace,” Daenera said. She knew Viseryes would avoid conflict at most cost, but she would never understand why he let the Hightowers run rampant and desecrate everything Targaryen as if he wasn’t still king. It was disrespectful. Daenera was about to press further when the door opened and the Queen swept in, her brown locks waving down her back, crown jutting from the curls, eyes finding the princess immediately and narrowing a little. Daenera got up and bowed as customary. If it wouldn’t have consequences she’d have remained seated, but alas her mother had raised her well. 

“How nice to see you again, Princess Daenera,” the queen greeted, coming up to the side of her lord husband, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her green dress gleamed in the light from the fire. Daenera wished for the flames to lick a little closer to the dress. 

“You as well, your grace.”

“I think we should hold a feast for the princesses return to King's Landing, don’t you think, Alicent?” The King asked, his frail hand reaching to pat Alicent’s hand on his shoulder. She withdrew it immediately, clasping her hands together in front of her. 

“A feast is a big affair, my king. It would take time to prepare and it would cost-,”

“I think it’s worth it for my granddaughter's return. We would have held one upon your arrival, had we known you’d have come sooner,” the king cut her off. 

Daenera pressed her lips together. They had known of her return for a fortnight. It was plenty of time to not only prepare her a proper welcome with lords and ladies present but also with the king, it would also have been enough time to prepare a feast. The queen's lips had turned into a line having been cornered. Would she refuse it would be perceived as an insult.

“Of course, your grace.” Alicent looked anything but happy, which pleased Daenera immensely. Alicent schooled her expression and stepped forward, reaching out to take Daeneras’ hand in hers. “Forgive us for our unpreparedness. We will hold a feast in your honor.”

“I understand, running the kingdom is a grand task that requires great attention.” 

“Thank you for your understanding, princess, and I hope you will understand that I need to speak with the king about private matters.” 

“Of course,” Daenera smiled sharply. It was a pretty way of throwing her out of the King's chambers. Daenera passed the queen and knelt down in front of the King, taking his frail hand in hers, trying to pass some of her warmth onto him. Their eyes met and Viseryes gave her an apologetic look that Daenera dismissed with a quirk of her lips and an understanding nod. She kissed the king on his cheek before rising. “I will come visit you soon, my king.” 

“I will look forward to it, Daenera.” 

Daenera gave one final bow before exiting the chambers. Fenrick fell into step behind her, though she didn’t not hear the clanking of his armor, her mind elsewhere. How was she going to tell her mother how bad it had gotten? She doubted her letters would leave unread by others. And how do you tell the daughter that her father was ailing and in pain, overrun by Hightowers and powerseekers. She feared for the king and his health. Most of all she feared the time when Viserys would pass. 

“Joyce has confirmed that Lord Caswell will take lunch in one of the groves of the garden at noon.”

A small smile formed on Daenera’s lips. “Perfect.”

Daenera decided to head to the library in the meantime.

The smell of dust and old books were familiar to her, having spent a lot of her childhood buried in books, soaking up all that she could while her brothers trained with their dragons. Of course, she had also had dragon training. But there wasn’t much improvement nor need if one did not have a dragon. So instead, Daenera found fulfillment elsewhere. 

The book she plucked from the shelves were of dark binding, with golden but crackled writing on the front. It was one of the old tales about a prince and a princess at odds, a tale of treachery and betrayal, of love and honor. Contented with her pick she headed towards the small sitting area by the fire, sinking into one of the chairs, fingers flipping to the first page. 

“Why have you come back?” Aemond’s smoothe voice interrupted Daenera’s concentration, though her eyes never moved from the page. She hadn’t expected him to approach her. Out of the corner of her eye, above the focus on the pages, she saw him move in front of her, back to the fireplace, a pillar of cold shadows. 

“Nice to see you too, uncle,” Daenera acknowledged, voice light and unbothered. 

“Why have you come back?”

Daenera sighed, finally laying eyes upon him, noting the intense glare in his eye, lips sharp and set in a cold smirk, that left little to interpretation. He didn’t want her here. “Would you believe me if I said I missed King’s Landing?”

“No.”

Her head tilted to the side, a bothered and thoughtful expression upon her face. “I came back to further my studies in herbal medicine and such.”

His eye darted across her features, like a knife seeking purchase. It slid along her skin, threatening to draw blood. Daenera let him glare. 

“Liar,” he hummed. 

“Oh, I’m a liar now, am I?” Daenera responded to the accurate accusation. “Tell me then, why else would I be back? To bother you specifically? Or are you implying some other nefarious reason?”

“You should go back to Dragonstone. You’re not welcome nor wanted here,” Aemond disclosed shortly.

Daenera rolled her eyes, lifting the book back into position in front of her, to continue reading from where she left off. “Hmm… It seems that the King quite enjoys my presence, and he is the only one that matters is he not?” 

Aemond stepped closer to her, snapping the book right out of her hands, her eyes widening in surprise at the sudden incursion. He held the book out of her reach, one hand on the tall back of the chair, back curved as he half leaned over her. His hair of pure moonlight fell smoothly over his shoulders, a stark contrast to her own dark, common locks. “Why are you really here?”

Daenera glared up at him, eyes as sharp as his own. He didn’t believe her lie about her education, which wasn’t as surprising as it was annoying. Alicent might not have believed it either, but she at least knew how impolite and disrespectful it was to flat out question her like this. 

“What would you like my answer to be, since all of the option’s I’ve provided do not seem to hit the mark? Would you like me to admit I’m here to find a husband? That my mother doesn’t hold court on Dragonstone and has therefore made it impossible for me to do so? That King’s Landing provides a much better place in my search? Is that honest enough for you?”

It wasn’t a lie. Not only had she come in search of allies and to keep an eye on the Hightowers, she came to find a husband. They had gotten many a letter the day she came of age, asking for her hand in marriage, but her mother had kept the hounds at bay. Coming back to King’s Landing in search of a husband created the perfect cover and with the addition of her wishing to further her studies, no one could really question her reasoning. No one, but Aemond apparently. 

“Hm…” Aemond hummed, releasing the back of her chair to stretch to his full hight again. He gave her a once over, then turned and walked away, heading to the doors. 

“My book,” Daenera chided. 

Aemond didn’t look back at her, he simply held the book up, waving it in the air before releasing his grip, letting it fall to the floor with a loud thud and then he was gone. It was such a childish and petty move that Daenera couldn’t help but stare a burning hole into the space he had preoccupied mere moments before. 

It was Fenrick who picked up the book, a thick brow raised in question. Daenera just shook her head, waving his question off.

[zahri-melitor]

New(ish) Comics:

Batman/Superman: World's Finest #30: and once again this title has redeemed itself at the final hour when I was getting exhausted with it again. It was entirely charming, and a decent interpretation of Themyscira.

Though, Tamra Bonvillain, what do you have against Dick's shorts that you coloured them as shaded black for almost the entire issue. Afraid of the texture? I know you know they're green, you had a couple of green highlight glints in the first few pages, then black the rest of the issue.

Gotham City Sirens #3: The thing is, as I read this. I become more and more convinced that Punchline is a well thought out concept for a character who is very munch not a Harley duplicate, but covering unused territory by being a modern streamer and leaning into all of the crimes, frauds, bad outcomes, horrors and so on that infest that side of things. She needs a team up with the Riddler. Someone's going to write her an even clearer Squid Game rip off, I can feel it.

I also simply don't enjoy much of Leah Williams writing, and while I think Alexis is an interesting concept, I don't like her.

Jenny Sparks #1: I am trying this because it's Jenny, even though I don't expect to love it.

I think my biggest complaint here is that I've picked it up and it feels like I've missed some connecting story about how we got here. Why is Jenny alive. How does she know the DC heroes (given she died well before Wildstorm was absorbed). What's happened to Captain Atom.

I realise some of these will obviously be answered in the run but when you're introducing people to a character who hasn't been on page for TWENTY FOUR YEARS and was last seen under a completely different publisher and imprint, you've got to onload people more than this has (okay fine there is one story in the Wildstorm anniversary books and apparently she has a flashback in the n52 Stormwatch book, but my point is nobody who doesn't already know who she is would have seen those).

Also where is her team??? Why is Batman here and not people who love her?

This might very much be one to read in trade, if you want to read it, because I was confused.

Batman The Long Halloween: The Last Halloween Batman Day Special Edition #0: wow there's a name that goes on for a bit.

So this is a reprint of Batman: The Long Halloween Special #1 from 2021, if it also feels like you've read this before. Also makes sense why they're doing it as a Batman Day issue.

There's also an interview with Jeph Loeb at the back about the process of creating the story, given Tim Sale is now dead but was present for the planning and initial drafts of sections, if you're interested in such things.

The Absolute Power tie-ins I'll deal with later, as is my habit.

The Warlord #64: Mikola Rostov and Shakira end up time travelling back to the period that Mariah Romanova and Machiste are currently in.

Also, there are dragons.

And a hot centaur shows up to flirt with both Shakira and Mikola.

[tieflingfingers]

What and who: Astarion tries to prove he's an asset via archery and needs healing. Thomasin and Wyll use their intimidation checks. Summary: Astarion insists on shooting from the rooftops of Moonhaven, later discovering there's an ambush of goblins. Thomasin decides to lean into acting like a raider drow to get through alive. She patches up the pale elf's bruises whilst they help Wyll search for Karlach. Warning/Content: A little more fluff, humor, and questionable archery. Mild sexual content/descriptions. Blighted Village gore, Act 1. Part of campaign remix, but can also be read as one-off. Word Count: 3, 949 Ao3 Link

Self-preservation weaves itself through the synapses of a young developing brain. Its concept wakes one morning. Fully formed, robust, yet subtle in its transition. Paranoia becomes natural. A requisite with age. Childhood cautionary tales elucidate and transform. Heroics and foes are no longer mere life lessons. They’re stepping stones. Breeds hypervigilance. Biology launches you from the nest, though the world’s grassy gnolls sting. 

By age nineteen, Thomasin honed panic spellcasting. Every illusionary spell she could conjure bought time. But, warbling minds was mentally taxing. Impractical. Her travels became unplanned and scattered across the map in search of solace. Little did she know, solace was in people. Damsels of the soft trade and grizzled syndicates. 

Generations of open skirts dried Thomasin’s tears upon their bosom. Turncoins. Glimmersheaths. Willing-arms. The “names” of those who gifted a young half-elf tools of survival. They mentored on how to identify worrying social cues. What certain clientele preferred and the nuances of their sexual advances. How fluid the identity could be.

It was an art. 

Speech. De-escalation. Sycophantic coercion. Enchantments.

But, in an odd way, Thomasin also grew to appreciate her time in hostile environments. Harder trade. Syndication introduced her to hardened women. Swinging mauls was as much a power play as their word. Although these women spoke with no honeysuckle. Only thistle. Lethal like the black beady-eyed fruits of belladonna.

Yet, even under calluses, they recognized Thomasin’s place. She was one of few women in a den. Sure, she took part in the operation, but there was no denying the bright livelihood of a woman just newly blossomed.

It was as though her presence smoothened their coarse edges. Some innate desire for solidarity. She often watched in disbelief as women with murals of black ink tattoos sprawled across their bodies defended her. 

Thomasin’s authorities mocked her docile demeanor. Belittled her servility, despite their hierarchies fostering such behavior. But their contempt didn’t last long. It was silly to grant her bosses power when they struggled to form sentences through a bloodied broken jaw. From that day on, the young woman realized violence could be an answer.

-

In hindsight, being thrown into the wilderness wasn’t life-shattering. Unfortunate, but second nature.  Nature she wished wore comforts of the city. She welcomed the softened and hardened feminine, even if they clashed. Probably depended on them, as did Astarion, even if neither consciously realized it. They gave him space to exist, so he reluctantly did the same. 

Thomasin awoke early that morning to a vision of Astarion basking in the sun. Their day’s velvet illumination had barely crept in to warm the chapel’s deity. He leeched the statue’s warmth with a firm press of his back against stone.

Aside from rotating the kinks out of his shoulders, he seemed pleasant. Hopeful, perhaps. Although his tendency to blanket discomfort with criticism and jokes could make it hard to decipher at times. Thomasin didn’t mind. He voiced the petty little thoughts most suppressed. 

It made the idea of adventuring fathomable. Tolerable. Their belongings tucked back into bags, satchels, and belt loop hooks. Thomasin smeared golden pigment across her eyelids and wiped what was left to glitter down her collar bone. Although their outfits weren’t suited for battle, their leather hand-me-downs were appreciated. Pauldrons and leather-covered kneecaps were better than nothing.

Arriving back at the grove’s gate, Thomasin caught Astarion’s habit of objectification.

An approving coo flit from his lips. His shoulders loosened in the presence of Wyll, as though to contrast the young man’s broad build. To become milder than Wyll’s leathers clinking audibly with fortified metal rings. A blade sheathed atop a warlock’s back and the oil seeping into his locs from maintenance lent a faint shimmer. 

Thomasin nudged Astarion to behave. Wyll was too young for her taste, but she recognized the appeal. The fruits of charisma and drive. His probable leanings towards lawfulness did raise concern though. She hoped he was just naive. Easy to manipulate, if need be.

The young man handed over a handkerchief bundled with breakfast and dug out a map. Amatuer in design but guided them well toward the east. It was a collaboration amongst the tieflings using vine charcoal ground in parchment, sketching out a legend and branching routes. Drops of wine highlighted landmarks: Purple bridges, maroon rivers, and pink territories of goblin activity.

Starting their journey around sunrise lent blooms of pastels across the woodlands. The sky diffused into candied orange and dripped like the bread rolls Wyll brought. Three honey-soaked centers delightful enough to offset stale crumb, even if their stickiness made fingers hard to pry apart. Like giggling children, they found an icy stream to plunge their hands into.

Astarion took a bit of convincing to join. His breakfast was picked at before being tucked away. It wasn't a matter of being particularly upset by the meal. He was fine. Simply not hungry. A fact he insisted when Thomasin flicked droplets at his face. 

Wyll settled into the role of guide as they walked along, despite being dropped back into Faerun not long before them. When he wasn’t scouring the map, the young man recounted his mightiest foes slain in humble anecdotes and modest laughter. Whether the details were fact or fiction was irrelevant to Thomasin. A good story provided the essentials when straight from the valiant mouth. Beast slayers weren’t always grand storytellers but storytellers were always slayed grand beasts.

The quick responses. The picturesque memory of the most minute moments. It all made her wonder how often Wyll harkened back to scripts. Even when Astarion prodded about his moonstone eye or joked about the self-serious title of ‘Blade of Frontiers’, Wyll took it in stride. He saw the upside of their downturned fates. Existing within dichotomy meant there was always an infallible answer. Stories need to end with the townsfolk saved and a bounty of roasted fresh fish to celebrate. 

Nothing could bite through idealistic visions like the present, however.

As the morning sun settled high above, they encroached on a bridge near a midway point upon the map. Splotches of pink made them assume they’d fall upon a clan staking camp, but were met with a village. Its exterior was wrapped in high stone walls blemished with age. An arched entrance greeted the travelers, providing a window that shone the true abandoned intrells awaiting their visit. The same stagnation baked into the expressions of corpses outside the village’s perimeter. The scent of sanguine caked their flesh.

The trail was littered with bashed carts they made careful steps to avoid, but one thing was certain. This killing wasn’t part of forgotten history. There was still suppleness in a few of their cheeks. Smashed fruit hadn’t devolved into necrotic mush. Although their hallowing was already well underway.

One body propped against the archway upright, sustaining the position by support of stray twigs. It was an attempt at humor. Jokes as blackened as the dead nerves in their fingertips. Beside him was a sign made of dark wood whose bolts and nails were engulfed in thick orange rust. 

“‘Moonhaven’... Poor fools,” Thomasin said, letting her hands run over tactile etched letters.

Astarion looked up from his lifted foot. Decaying melon had the audacity of seeping onto a pair of embroidered boots. What a travesty.

“Augh. Don’t knock it, dear.  I hear death is the ultimate vacation. The final destination to–”

As much as the elf reveled in tasteless levity, his hand suddenly rose. It was a signal of silence. The points of his ears twitched. They’d picked up on a noise the others couldn’t register.

Wyll and Thomasin narrowed their focus, but birds simply chirped where bugs hissed. Until something familiar cut through. Cackles.

Astarion sprung into a predatory stance. His knees lowered his body to a crouch before venturing into neighboring brush in search of potential access points. Literal and figurative cracks in the wall’s foundation. Each step crossed over another. How one dissolved their mass as instantaneous as it was created was jarring, but an asset nonetheless.

“You wait here,” Astarion whispered.

Thomasin furrowed her brow. “You’re going alone?”

“You have qualms now ? Why waste a good shot? I go high, you go low.”

Wyll and Thomasin exchanged looks of uncertainty that couldn’t shake tenacious spirit. The elf’s bow had been lovingly patched and reinforced by tieflings. Tree bark chips were shaven, exposing light wood where blades made hasty cuts and created new planes. It bent with much more confidence and, in return, so did he. 

Astarion wasn’t to waste his spotlight. 

Some street musician and a glorified body guard needed him.

The elf used protruding boulders as stepping stones. His hands gripped onto interlocking vines, making the gradual ascent toward a fracture in the village wall, inch by inch. He slipped his way in, shifted his balance, and landed atop a roof on the other side. A fact only solidified by the sound of loose shingles falling where his feet disturbed.

His disappearance prompted Thomasin to peek inside. She moved with her skirt gripped and hoisted to hover the fabric over bodies, paying them respects even if they were avoided like mud puddles.

Through the archway, the town reeked of remnants. Traces of a past raid that left ghosts in its debris. Homes and meager businesses still stood as though expecting the common folks to continue their routines. They lingered, unwilling to acknowledge they were vestiges. Relics of their former selves. Rooftops no longer sheltered from rain. Windows were mere suggestions where walls collapsed in full.

“Is he a sharpshooter?” Wyll whispered. His eyes seeked reassurance from her body language, despite it remaining deathly still.

“Gods if I know, truly. He was quite capable yesterday, but…”

“Let us hope, for his sake, his balance isn’t overtaken by the sheer weight of ego.”

“May Eilistraee save him from his britches if they get too big.”

Two smiles grew, born of ambivalence.

With her body pressed up against the cold pitted archway, a goblin came into view. Multiple. Short, crass beings rifling through barrels and making conversation they couldn’t decide were jovial or argumentative. Those patrolling walked in lazy formations that left timing difficult to predict, so Thomasin began taking mental notes. Advantageous points. Ladders, trees, wide wooden pillars to hide behind.

But, sneaking into Moonhaven wouldn’t be that simple.

“Eh, surround ‘em! Found some lil’ chickens waitin’ for the slaughta’!” a voice, shrill and high-pitched, rang.

“Fuck,” Thomasin cursed.

The half-elf abided by the carrier and slowly eased a couple steps inside. Wyll muttered under his breath. Something of reassurance lost upon her rigid condition. The feeling of him right beside her provided relief, at least.

They turned their heads to the right, where a goblin guard berated them from the second floor of a derelict home. The guard’s body clinked with ill-fitting armor. Tarnished chainmail rustled. Her laughs, scornful, stretched a tender triangular brand seared into her neck. 

Once the village was alert, the guard drove a spike into a wooden bannister at her feet, using it to scale down to ground level. Heads of compatriot grunts peeked from hiding spots and looted crates. They existed as a grumbling hive mind and picked tough cuts of meat from their teeth. Readied for entertainment. Something eventful, finally. Something not weather-wrought. Someone breathing. 

“C’mon now. I’d like to think I’m more than sinewy chicken guts to you,” Thomasin said as the guard approached, although a crack in her voice betrayed any jest. One of her hands rose. Each fingertip, a lily of the valley. Gentle in their bend and asserting fragility. Whether those stems were poisonous was buried into her clutched skirt. “We do not wish for trouble. Simply passing through.”

“Yeah, yeah!  And we simply wishin’ t’--”

Cutting through the foible, a few feet behind Thomasin, was a solid thunk. One of heft. One that turned out to have impeccable timing as Astarion laid in a small cloud of dust. His shots had revealed his position and, not anticipating the sheer number lurking in the shadows, target practice commenced. Tears in his twilled quiver revealed he had been struck. Whilst not wounded, his roguish prowess was thrown off balance. 

“How the mighty have fallen,” Wyll uttered.

While the elf’s companions held their tongues, those in the vicinity erupted into laughter. Enough of an upheaval that spared Thomasin a few seconds to look over Astarion from afar. He was intact. Enough. Limbs attached. Hair disheveled. Fingers twitched ever so slightly. It was best to let him enjoy his slumber.

Wyll nudged Thomasin’s shoulder to return her attention to the guard, who was squinting at her. Studying her as though on the verge of recognizing an acquaintance.

“Yer’ kind’s operation’s up in the temple, yeah?”

The half-elf figured it was her silver tint. She’d grown up knowing drow fled their burrows when the Underdark couldn’t satisfy their desires. Textbook pillaging behavior. Untainted topsoil begged to be aerated by poisonous blades. Although sparing goblins in their expedition wasn’t usual, from her knowledge. 

For now, that was of no concern. These vague details could be dug into. They could create a facade as long as her bite sustained. Believing one's own false narrative long enough to let its canines clamp on the guards’ sense of authority. For now, she was confident. Competent. So competent, others refrained from asking further questions in fear their skulls would appear too thick.

“So you do own some common sense,” Thomasin taunted, her eye contact lingering for an uncomfortable length. “Yet you don’t know any common decency or respect. Imagine the repercussions. You being the reason for my absence. Making them wait hours for information, only to find out you’re responsible for my death?”

“Wha- No, no- Wait. Uh… that bloke yers?”

The guard realigned her bones, using every ounce of will to suppress tears of merriment. They sat along her lashes, frightened to fall and the repercussions that could follow. It was all light fun. Who didn’t appreciate an odd sacrifice here and there? For comradery? The last thing she anticipated was being blamed for ending powerful elven lineages. 

“What he lacks in grace, he makes up for in… other feats, do not take him lightly,” Wyll commented. It wasn’t long until he caught the sight of hands grabbing the unconscious man. Grunts poured in to collectively lift Astarion for all he was worth. “Or literally, for that matter! Drop him. Now.”

“I know this ain’t t’way I’m dyin’ today. I’m goin’ back to party, fuckin’ hell,” one grunt protested. They all let go at once, leaving him to hit the floor once more. 

Astarion groaned. Eyes flickering in disorientation, he felt Wyll scoop him up like an angelic savior. With an arm tucked under the crook of his knees, Astarion rested against his chest. No verbal jabs. Simply a cheek squished against the young man’s beating heart. 

“What plans we have out east are confidential to your leaders…” Wyll continued. “But it’s not our only task. We are on the hunt for a devil walking this plane and, let it be known, it’s pertinent you give us any information you know. If you’ve seen her. Skin as red as the unnatural flames of the hells that manifest from her body. A single horn curls from her head, the other broken from the ruthlessness of war.”

Such a poetic depiction charmed the guard, whose own prose were abrasive at best. “That who ran through here? Looked spicy, but thought she’d- uh… die before she hit water. The way she was steamin’.” She pursed her lips. “ Never knew a’ drow partnerin’ with devils. No wonder the temple’s been blazing hot these days… I oughta be takin’ notes from yer’ sort.” 

Wyll eyes lit up.

“Where? Where did you see her?”

“Ran through ‘ere like a bull on fire. Out the north exit o’town– Ahhh, wait. Drama ‘appening?”

“We’ll handle the beast. Nothing a bit of lambasting won’t fix, but this will be on our own terms. None of you will perish at the hands of your authorities as long as you stand down.”

Out of homes and tucked away corners, goblins let out guttural whines. Their weapons flew to the wayside. Participating in ghost town raids didn’t have the particular horrific flair the drow promised. Now they wouldn’t even get to see a devil slain. Life wasn’t fair. The only thing keeping them afloat was dreams of rotting fruits fermenting back at camp.

The guard’s mace smacked against the ground. 

“Fine. Jus’ tell Minthara that ol’ Bhelx helped y’find the runaway, will ya? Bhelx Tut. Sounds fancy if y’say it in full. She’ll like all that.”

“Bhelx Tut,” Thomasin said, ruminating on the syllables. Each given special care to suggest she, too, found the title profound. “A pleasure. I’ll keep you in mind, but do carry on. I don’t wish to witness all your failures today.”

Bhelx’s face dropped. No matter the effort, it seemed her alliship still left her stuck low on the totem. She grit her teeth and walked off, yelling obscenities at her underlings, as though she were struggling to keep her position in their hierarchy.

Now left alone, the three could take in a town once quaint. Stables and blacksmiths quarters sat as headstones of economy. The scent of herbs intermingled with flourishing weeds and wafted from an apothecary storefront. Children’s toys made depressions in the dirt, where rain softened earth and clung to its inhabitants. Lines of hopscotch fading into the suggestions of color, pale from constant sunshine.

Even in an unkempt state, Wyll noticed an anomaly amongst the grass. Patches of singed greenery and gravel. Marks left were too benign to consider them part of the “raid”. Too scattered, but still resembled footsteps smashing their weight under infernal iron boots.

As he followed their path, Wyll watched Thomasin tend to Astarion in his arms. She gently traced her fingers along his scalp until the elf’s head was nestled within her palm. Bands of rings peeked through his locks. They traversed his fussy curl pattern whose shade of white made her silver tarnish more pronounced. 

Gradually, Thomasin’s caress began to glow a pulsing shade of lavender that splashed against the point of his ears. As though the weave illuminated on an unheard beat, she caught its rhythm and began to hum. 

“Wha…” Astarion murmured. They watched his eyes dissect their silhouettes until he could identify the angels hovering over him. “How did I get the best seat in the house?”

Thomain snickered. “Good morning to you too. One of the goblins knocked you off the roof.”

“And you’ve already made quick work of them? I’d say I’m flattered… Impressed, even. The–”

Astarion lifted his head to discover the clan was still very much alive. It filled him with ennui that made him pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t say I had faith in being this outnumbered,” Wyll said, humored by him. “For now, at least.”

“Nonsense. And now they’re still mucking up the air. You saw what they did- I’m hurt. Emotionally. Might as well be physical- Put me down.”

The elf tapped Wyll’s arm and he obliged, lowering him to allow an airing of grievances. Astarion went to busy himself, twisting and stretching as though awoken from a grave slumber. He patted at his hips, his shirt, his sleeves, and then cuffed them smooth. Twirled hairs between pale knuckles in muscle memory swirls.

“We’ll be sure to destroy the next person that mistreats you,” Thomasin said, placing a hand on his back to keep their momentum forward. “The next person to look at you wrong….” She, then, proceeded to mimic slicing her neck with her thumb.

Astarion sighed and dragged his feet.

“Good. I’ll hold you to that promise.”

Up a slight incline, they passed by drunken bugbears with opaque green bottles in hand. Their birth and existence earned them a sneer from the elf. They were enemies by association. Swiping what little belongings they had set atop tables and pouches was necessary. Not even a choice.

Thomasin scouted the area. Local plants and weather patterns could provide mild answers, but it was all they had to figure out exactly where they were on the Sword Coast. How far the nautiloid carried them from the Gate. Native flora grew from the soil. Brightly speckled where flames had not eaten at its edges. She pointed toward a patch that followed another. An obvious pattern led the three north, up and around a barn.

Unlike the stillness plaguing Moonhaven, it seemed the building was alive and well. Thumps and subsequent bangs covered muffled voices in its own brand of staccato. But, it didn’t take a millennia of wisdom to figure out what was inside. She placed her ear against the barn’s siding and listened in.

Before she could mention anything, Astarion was already utilizing a peephole he discovered. 

“Gods, that’s disgusting!” he yelled with the tact of a crass teenage boy. The same jubilance a mother would try to dissuade. Without thought, Astarion grabbed Thomasin by the wrist, pulling her toward the peephole so she, too, could witness such debauchery. The irony wasn’t lost on her, either. Two weathered adults feeding into arrested development. Wyll was twenty-four and already understood how this crossed boundaries. He wasn’t enthused.

Thomasin caged those concerns for another day and peeked at the scene inside. An ogre damsel, surely five times the size of her bugbear partner, bucked wildly. No flair, but itchy hay and scattered flesh. The simple things in life needed only simple luxuries.

“This is the sort of romance novel folks in Baldur’s Gate would be pining for. Niche smut. Imagine the book clubs. Huh.”

“Get out your pad and ink. Lighting never strikes twice for a reason, darling. Unless you cast it yourself, of course,” he added with a giggle.

Thomasin snorted and let her mind wander. Not to sensual heartwarming ogre storylines, but seeing how the two navigated their size differences. In her line of work, she’d seen it all. Partners much larger than her. Much smaller. They required adjustments, communication, yet the two operated with a brutish grace. 

“Aye! Someone there? Gettin’ a free show?” the bugbear growled. “Leave us be or it’ll be your head!”

“Oh!” Thomasin yelped. “Tempting, but just wanted to compliment your form! Enjoy your head!”

Astarion had to be ripped from his selfish voyeurism with a shove. Although he didn’t mind. His body shook with indulgent chuckling. Grin was toothy. Wyll, already making some distance up the hill, had completely eluded him. 

“Did that make you feel better?” Thomasin asked.

“I-Only a little,” he replied, hesitant to admit it. His feet kept their shuffling forward. “Do give me the honors of reading the first draft of that book. You know my patience is thin.”

Despite their foolish bouts bandaging their hardships, the truth was hard to avoid. The further they left the village center, the closer they got to open trails, the more death they saw. The scent of blood hung like a sheet, heavy atop its clothesline. Overturned wagons, fully tossed, were left next to their misfortune drivers. Death was native to nature. Part of its cycle. But, that didn’t mean those remaining didn’t quiver at the reminder.

At a high point atop a hill, Wyll’s visage shined as his heroic title implied. A man of frontiers. It seemed he was peering down a cliffside, surveying exactly where a trail winding down to the water ended. Then, he turned to face them, hand hovered over his brow to shield from the sun. The volume in his voice lowered. 

“I think I see something. Her.”

[dhampiravidi]

ancient greek/trojan war reincarnation au

After he'd torn his hair, beat his breast, and screamed his voice hoarse, Akhilleus was done living. He was alive, yes, and he would be until someone killed him, but he was done living. Patroklos, his lifelong love and friend, was dead, taken away from him forever. And it was all his fault. So once he could find the strength to stand, he put on the armor his mother commissioned for him and clawed his way through Hektor's people until the prince, Patroklos's killer, showed himself. He avenged his love. Then he took his anger out on those marked as the enemy until Apollo's poisoned arrow granted him the death he so desperately craved.

Once he reached Elysium, he searched for Patroklos, who embraced him. The man was sad to know that Akhilleus had suffered, but happy to see him again. The two were glad to be together. But Akhilleus missed the land of the living. He told Odysseus as much when the man visited the Underworld for answers on his way home to Ithaca. There was no lyre to play, no sunlight to enjoy, and really nothing to look forward to. But there was the River Lethe, the River of Forgetfulness that could wipe a spirit's memories in preparation for their reincarnation. Patroklos proposed that he and Akhilleus be reborn, for another chance at life. Akhilleus agreed to the plan, but he needed to make sure that he'd see his love again--all of them.

---

September 9th, 2006

"My thanks, Lord Aidoneus. You are most generous," Pogue whispered in Ancient Greek, eyes closed as his body repaired itself and his mind wandered to days past.

"Huh?" Reid and Ty had just come back from the vending machine. With one of their friends off on a suicide mission and the other in a coma, it was hard to simply sit quietly. But what else was there to do, other than take a few minutes to collect their thoughts?

---

Two Years Later

It was a shy kiss, one much softer than the first he'd shared with Jayn months before and the (technically not-first) one he'd gladly accepted from Caleb. But the moment his lips connected with Cassia's, long-forgotten magic sparked in the minds of the four young lovers. Jayn and Caleb regarded each other, first with curiosity, then with surprise, fondness, and a firm hug.

"Patroklos," Deidamia-Jayn murmured, "It's so good to see you again." She pulled back, and Patroklos-Caleb rested his forehead on hers as he smiled.

"What became of your son?" he asked her, and she frowned.

"Little shit gave me to his slave, Helenus. Not that the man wasn't handsome or kind, but--seriously?" She huffed, then looked over at the man who had fathered her child and joined her spirit with his.

Akhilleus-Pogue held Briseis-Cassia close. She was shaking, crying quietly. "You...y-you died, you both did...left me with them," she sobbed, and he didn't know what to say. He'd never been the best at consoling people. And she was right: he and Patroklos were her lovers, not to mention the only men who cared about her in the Achaean army. Once they died, she had nothing, and could do nothing but leave Troy for an unfamiliar man and his unfamiliar home.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, pressing another kiss to her trembling lips. She looked up at him, holding his face in her hands. Somehow, she managed to smile.

"You raided my city and treated me like your queen in Troy. And then you made sure I'd never be alone again. At least you did that much," Briseis-Cassia said, trying to hide her pain and shock. She glanced over at Patroklos-Caleb right when Akhilleus-Pogue did. With a small gesture, she told Akhilleus-Pogue to go on ahead. He let her go and took in the sight of a living, unharmed Patroklos-Caleb, his Patroklos.

"You're an idiot," Akhilleus-Pogue muttered before he yanked his childhood friend into a passionate kiss. It was so strong, Patroklos-Caleb groaned into it, slipping his hand into the shorter boy's hair to keep him close. They snapped and shifted, movements and sounds becoming more erotic and sensual than angry and mournful by the second. Even when they were both hard, they refused to part, so they didn't notice the girls in their own lust until they had all found release.

"What did you do?" Deidamia-Jayn asked Akhilleus-Pogue, once the four of them had all caught their breath, "They told me to go to the Lethe before I could be judged. I thought I fucked up so badly that I had to start all over." They laughed.

"It was Caleb's idea--"

"You said you didn't like being dead."

"I didn't! But I didn't want to live without you, either," Akhilleus-Pogue pleaded, "Any of you." Deidamia-Jayn squeezed his hand and leaned into him, the way she usually did when either he or she got upset. He kissed the top of her head. "I saw Hermes going by, so I asked him to ask Hades for an audience. I dunno if Hades would've agreed if Persephone wasn't there...He said we'd have to wait, but he'd let us live again, just once. But we wouldn't remember each other until we kissed."

"Good thing Cass wore her sexy lip gloss for you." The four laughed.

@in--somnium

[tarnishedxknight]

😟

((for Basch! can be for Carter's main or ikau verse!))

{*rubs my hands together* Oh man, Imma whip out the angst on this one haha. Let's do it in the main verse with a pregnant Carter, just to make it maximum angst. XD}

Despite being excited at the prospect of becoming a father and comfortable in his relationship with Carter, Basch had been anxious for several days now. There was something he had to tell Carter, but he had no idea how. He thought there was a good chance that she would react very badly to the news, and yet it would make itself known soon enough even if he tried to keep it from her. No, he had to tell her... even if she hated him for it.

He knew he never should have waited this long to tell her. Carter deserved to know. It had just all been so complicated, and it had happened so fast... Would she see it as a breach of trust? Very likely. Why had he waited so long?!

"I..." His heart was beating up into his ears as he swallowed hard. "There is something... that I have been keeping from you..." That was quiet possibly the worst way he could have begun this conversation, but there was no turning back now. "Not intentionally, it is only that... it is very complicated and it happened very fast and... given what I have already told you... I was uncertain as to how to tell you, or how you would receive it. I did not wish to upset you in your current delicate condition."

He needed to just say it. Basch of all people knew how much suspense and drama upset Carter. "I have found my brother," he said, letting that hang in the air for a moment as he struggled to think of how to explain. "Or rather, he found me, having seen me in... on... " He struggled so with modern terms. "...a tele-vision. As fate should have it, he is still alive... in a manner of speaking. As I said, it is complicated. He... has an apartment in the city. I have been to visit him, since he does not wish to involve himself in the affairs of those within this compound. It is only a matter of time, however, before he discovers you exist, as well as our unborn children, and when he does, he may want to meet you... I honestly know not."

That was asking a lot of her, he knew. This was the brother who had murdered his king, who had become a hated and feared general of a violent empire, who had imprisoned and tortured him for two years... and yet he was his brother still, and Basch was a loving and forgiving person. Would Carter be as forgiving? "How do you feel about this?" he asked her finally, opening up the discussion for her to participate. "I am sorry I did not tell you immediately the moment he reached out to me. I only wanted some time to access how things would be between us, who he is now... I meant no true deception, it is just..."

He shook his head and sighed. There really was no better word to describe what he was feeling. "...complicated." But he would answer any questions or address any fear she might have to the best of his ability. He owed her that much and so much more...

[thefanficmonster]

Stranger In The Crowd

Corpse Husband x Reader (Female)

Warnings: None

Genre: FLUFF, Humor, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: Having recently ended the process of moving, Y/N is rightfully very tired but also very excited for the new chapter of her life. Funnily enough, this new chapter includes a newly formed long distance friendship/crush with a very special person from San Diego.

Requested by @boiled-onionrings Hi darling! Thank you so much for your wonderful request and I’m really sorry you’ve had to wait so long for it to be posted but here it finally is and I hope you enjoy the read! Love, Vy ❤

I let out a heavy sigh, relieved to finally be at home after such a long day of standing around in the Georgia heat with only a thin layer of fabric to protect my eyes and head from the scorching sun. Yeah, anyone who says that tent did well at protecting everyone under it today is nothing but a liar. I was in a short, strapless white summer dress, the fabric of which barely had any weight and consistency to provide heat of its own yet I still damn near melted. Ok, I’ll admit, some of the roasting heat probably came from the energy and force I put into singing the songs of my band’s new album ‘Starting At The End’. 

The mini concert we held in this large open field was meant as an introduction to the city of Savannah where all the band members - myself included - are actually from but we all moved to the West Coast to pursue our music career. And now that we’ve grown, and the majority of us are married, one of us is a father now as well, we’ve decided to return to our hometown. The decision was so spontaneous and was executed so quickly due to no one objecting to it that it still hasn’t me that I’m no longer in LA. The heat isn’t helping my ‘processing’ process but I’ll get to it eventually. Do I miss LA though? Not sure I do - I think I more miss the people I was closer to while I was there.

Suddenly, as if perfectly timed, my phone dings, notifying me that I’ve received a message. I don’t have to look to know it’s from - there’s only one person I actively text and his name is....

C ~ Your virtual buddy Corpse here, making sure you didn’t die of a heatstroke today. If you did indeed survive, just reply to this message, if not....don’t do anything, I guess.

I can’t help but giggle at the sight of the message. I promised Corpse I’d text him after the concert to let him know I was ok, but the even dragged out for longer than anticipated so I’m guessing he got worried.

How cute.

Me ~ Alive and well, but I do feel like a popped tire of an overloaded truck. Hope that’s a visually appealing description

Corpse and I met on the charity livestream Jacksepticeye organized and invited our band to so we could play Among Us with some of the best gamers and streamers on the internet. It was a huge honor and a ton of fun, definitely an event I’d like to repeat in the near future because I had such a good time and I know all my bandmates did too. We all got acquainted and even became official friends with the gamers that were practically our hosts, Corpse becoming the closest friends I’d earn. That livestream happened months ago and we still text just as consistently.

C ~ Oh I know EXACTLY what you mean. Anyway, as to not exhaust you further to force you into typing, how about you send me pictures to sum up your thoughts and emotions and plans for the evening

This is OUR THING trademark, mine and Corpse’s and no one can take it away from us. It’s a significant element of our friendship that enables us both to understand one another when one of us feels the way I described in my message - a popped tire or a deflated balloon. I’m usually the exhausted one - blame the many shows we do and the many meet-and-greets we organize for our lovely fans. It’s the type of exhaustion none of the band members mind at all, but we definitely need some time to recover from it.

As I go to sit down on my couch, the flower crown I’ve been wearing slips off the top of my head, falling on the floor, creating a soft noise that attracts the attention of one of my many cats - Sasha. She’s the youngest and most curious kitty in the family, always protected by the other four - Luna, Cassie, Silver and Lynn. Those four are far lazier and a lot more disinterested in comparison to Sasha who immediately runs over to see what’s fallen.

I smile to myself, taking the flower crown and undoing it to lessen it by a few stems to make it smaller, all the while being watched by the curious Sasha whose interest is rewarded in the end when I put the now adorably tiny flower crown on her head.

While she still hasn’t shaken the thing off I manage to snap a pic which I send to Corpse who opens it mere seconds after it was delivered. 

C ~ Sasha’s pulling off your aesthetic better than you. Sorry, someone had to let you know

I burst out laughing for two reasons - 1.The message itself, damn it! It’s hilarious; 2. Corpse has learnt the name of each one of my cats and never mixes them up - not even Luna and Lynn who look almost identical. That amount of attention to detail is astonishing and very meaningful to me, it genuinely warms my heart and that may or may not be dramatic but it’s definitely not exaggerated.

Me ~ You think I haven’t caught on yet? 

C ~ Well, if it makes you feel any better you pull off my aesthetic better than I do

He’s referring to the e-girl look I did for one show the band had in downtown LA one night. I was drunk and looking forward to trying new things so I improvised the hell out of my outfit but I apparently looked presentable enough to leave a good impression on Corpse despite the pic I sent him being a bit blurry and being a mirror selfie in the bathroom of the very bar we were performing in. It goes without saying that the mirror was dirty too - had a bunch of writing on it which Corpse said only added to the aesthetic. Looking back on it now I kinda agree, and luckily so did the fans in the comments of that same photo when I posted it on Instagram.

Me ~ Means a lot actually. Nowhere near enough to aid the burn of having a cat pull off cottagecore better than I do, but still helps XD

As if sensing that we’re talking about her, Sasha hops on the couch, poking her head over my phone to look down at the screen.

Now this is gonna be golden.

I take a selfie with my phone in my lap, the camera capturing both me and Sasha at a rather unflattering angle which has me losing my mind laughing when I send the picture to Corpse who immediately sends back a string of cry-laughing emojis.

C ~ I can’t tell which one of you is cuter

Me ~ If that was a compliment, I gotta say I appreciate it greatly

C ~ Just telling the truth ;)

It’s times like these that the butterflies in my stomach remind me just why I’ve started catching feelings for this man despite all the distance between us and despite barely knowing him - he knows me more than I know him but I don’t mind it, oddly enough.

I’m fond of our connection and though I sometimes dream of something more, I’m also content with what we already have considering that ‘something more’ seems rather unattainable as of now.

My phone dings again, clearing the fog of thoughts and presenting me with a new message from Corpse.

C ~ Oh, by the way, look what I got....

That message is followed up by a picture of a ticket. A plane ticket to Georgia! 

While I’m still busy stomaching this and dealing with my quickly rising excitement, he sends another message.

C ~ I hope to catch a The Silver Rays concert while I’m there. Heard they had an adorable frontwoman ;)

My breath catches in my throat as a wide grin spreads across my face. The thought of having Corpse so close to me sends those aforementioned butterflies in my stomach into a raving mood and they practically explode my insides with excitement and joy like I’ve never felt it before. I can’t wrap my brain around the fact that we’re about to go from having an entire country between us, to being just some ways away - him in the audience and me on stage without a single clue of who to look for. That’s part of the excitement though, I guess, part of the guessing game that’s gonna make our meeting all the more interesting.

He’ll be a stranger in the crowd and I’ll be a performer on a stage - seemingly two people who have no relation whatsoever. But damn does it go beyond that: No one has to know how hard I’m falling for that stranger in the crowd.

Me ~ I’ve heard so too, can’t confirm it though

If this is gonna be a guessing game, I’ll flip the tables a bit - I won’t take any guesses. I’ll let the answer come to me. I’ll give the first move over to the stranger in the crowd, let’s see what he does.

C ~ I’ll check and let you know, don’t worry

Not worried whatsoever, Corpsie. I’m not worried at all.

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[heniareth]

But what if Nelaros had survived.

If Tabris is recruited into the Grey Wardens, he comes with!

Now he just has to survive the Joining (if he becomes a Grey Warden, but Duncan probably would have to recruit him too if the guards learn that he was involved in Vaughan's death)

And Ostagar

And every single freaking quest including the Deep Roads themselves

Nelaros with the trap-maker skill and his blacksmithing knowledge, fixing armor and weapons, maybe helping the rogues and finding new ways to apply poison to weapons which are quicker, waste less poison and are safer for the wielder

Nelaros seeing more of the world than he ever has, and it's so big and beautiful and dangerous.

His honest heart and friendly nature gain him friends among the companions. Alistair helps him hone his skills with the blade; him and Zevran discuss the differences and nuances of Fereldan and Antivan courtships in depth; he is fascinated by Morrigan's magic; he asks Leliana about Orlais, Wynne about life in the Circle, Sten about the Qun (he's had a taste of the wider world and wants more); he adapts weapons for Shale and steals Oghren's drink from time to time

Romance with the companions would be a.... topic to discuss

Tabris and him are technically married. Or engaged (the wedding was interrupted, they never said any vows). What do they do? What do they want? They fought through Denerim and through Ostagar together; where does that put them in relation to each other?

Either way, imagine: the fiercest battle couple/comrade in arms you've ever seen

They made their way through an arl's palace with stolen weapons and armor, two untrained elves who probably had a little too few meals in their lifetime, and they made it out alive

Literally nothing is gonna stop them

Making quick work on the slavers that dared to threaten their people. They rescued Shianni, they do the same for Cyrion

Standing side by side before the Landsmeet, before the nobles who stood by as the alienage was purged, the Blight swept through and slavers ran rampant, and knowing that they killed one of them at the start of their adventure and could proceed through the whole Landsmeet if necessary

Oh, and by the by, the Dark Ritual has potential new warden to complete it (:

Amd finally, the Archdemon. One sacrifices themselves; or they both survive yet again. Either way, there's gonna be tears.

After the battle of Denerim, provided he has survived, he tells Cyrion, Soris and Shianni everything about his adventures. He helps either Alistair or Tabris or both sort through the aftermath of the battle, deal with the ceremonies and get the best deal out of the new ruler's gratitude. He might not call the Denerim alienage home, but it's an alienage and he's an elf and he'll be damned if things don't get better after all of this.

Even so, he stays with the Grey Wardens. After travelling the length and width of Ferelden, the walls that encase the alienage seem terribly confining in comparison. There are more darkspawn to kill, the Grey Wardens need more recruits and capable leadership... and maybe Tabris is still around and they'll be able to share this chapter of their lives as well.

--

Or Tabris could tell the Denerim guards he wasn't involved and tell Nelaros to sit his pretty self down and to look after her family for her

And Nelaros does

He endures the hostility their neighbours direct at him and Sodis for antagonizing the humans

He defends the Alienage and the same neighbours that threw stones at him when the humans come with torches and swords (they are here because of him after all, says a voice in the back of his mind). He runs into a burning building to drag somebody out (he knows his way around fire thanks to his work at the forge). He gets one or two kids out of the orphanage and is devastated that he couldn't save more of them.

He watches Soris and Valora grow fond of each other and thinks back to the girl he went searching for and who fought by his side through a heavily guarded palace

News of the defeat at Ostagar get to Denerim and they hold a funeral for her

He supports Cyrion as best he can, looks for work, brings home money and food and medicine when they need it. He's doing it for her (and, slowly, he becomes part of the family)

He still thinks about Highever and his family there. He writes a lot of letter

Then the Blight comes. There have been plagues in the alienage before and Valendrian takes the necessary precautions. Nelaros might be able to contribute some information of interest; after all, life in the Highever alienage is rougher than in Denerim and they surely have seen plagues aplenty

When the slavers take Valendrian, everything descends into chaos. Nelaros tries to help. Valora is the next to be taken, then Cyrion. He finally goes to the Tevinter mages to see what is going on and promptly gets caged as well

He's lucky; he waited long enough before snooping around to still be there when the fabled Hero of Ferelden shows up

It turns out to be Tabris

The surprise is immense; the reunion is probably awkward (even if she's not in a romance with a companion, she's definitely not the same person he met a year ago). But all that has to be resolved quickly or be put aside because of the Blight

He helps fill her in on what happened during her absence; maybe she asks him to accompany her to the Landsmeet to accuse Loghain

Never before in Ferelden's history have two elves stirred up a Landsmeet like these two

Afterwards, Nelaros decides to be bold and asks for an audience with the new ruler. He explains the situation in the alienage and beseeches them to help change it. It might not amount to much, it might not even yield any results, but he had to try (his determination impresses the ruler. They will remember this elf)

He helps Shianni defend the alienage during the battle of Denerim. If he doesn't fall, he helps rebuild, put out fire, tend to the injured (he also tries to establish conversation with the Dailish elves that have helped defend the city. While not all of them are very receptive, their keeper is more than happy to join forces with the city elves to prevent more people from dying in the aftermath of the battle)

In the end, however, the Denerim alienage is no longer what it once was. A lot of people are leaving. The question presents itself: should he stay and help rebuild, go back to Highever or join Tabris (if she hasn't died) on her future journey? The question has no easy answer: he has come to love the Tabris family; the new ruler contacted him again about the business with the slavers and better living conditions for Denerim's elves; the kids he saved from the massacre at the orphanage look to him for a father figure. In the end, he stays. He's needed here, he has the chance to make a difference, he's happy; and, if Tabris is willing, he can wait for her a little longer

[goldensart]

One of the things I was always curious to see more after the toyline’s end was how the MU inhabitants would adapt to Spherus Magna. It was such an interesting concept to have a completely different lifestyle. The ones that would be most interesting would be the Turaga. I mean, they are leaders, but now there is a much bigger world to cover, so I had some ideas of what would each of them be doing.

Vakama: One of the easiest to make, in my opinion. He’s a leader, a guide, but he’s also a storyteller, and now he has 2 species worth of new audience memebers to tell his stories to. Not to mention that, now that they don’t live in a barren wasteland, both Glatorian and Agori have started to have more babies, which means he constantly has new generations eager to hear his stories. He also keeps active as a leader, being a calm guide others go to when needing  guidance. He’s also a reliable Turaga that makes other leaders, like Raanu, calm and hopeful about the future of their tribes. Still,  within him, the heart of a craftsman still lingers, and while some of his siblings might tell him its a waste of time, every now and then a suspiciously high quality kanohi shows up in the warehouse. 

Nokama: Calm and serene, yet strong, Nokama still guides any villagers that prefer to live near bodies of water. The most spiritual of the 6, she attracts those who seek knowledge. Being once a teacher, she takes this with stride, as with their civilization being a union of various different cultures, there is a lot to teach, both from the old worlds of Bara Magan and the MU, and from the newly reformed Spherus Magna. Few things make her happier than the expression of awe her students have when she explains a new concept. Seeing the flame of curiosity light up in their eyes makes it all worth it. Still, old habits die hard, and stubborn is as stubborn those, so new students are advised to behave, lest they get a stern lecture.

Matau: Easily the most easygoing of them all, to the point some wonder if he should be considered a leader at all. Luckily, he is more than capable. With Spherus Magana being safer than Le-wahi, his security-related responsibilities are greatly lessened, meaning he has more free time, to the detriment of others. Be it pushing for the developement of crazier and crazier vehicles, or playing pranks on other leaders, he always has the time for a laugh, which makes him quite popular with the younger Agori, Glatorian and Matoran. Some might say this makes him a bad influence on them, but his easygoing demeanor means  that whenever a villager needs advice, but considers their problems to unimportant for the other leaders, they got to Matau, knowing that, be it a scolding or reassurance, he will tell them what they need to hear, and make them laugh with every word. He walso has an amazing singing voice.

Onewa: Basically a blessing in the early days of the new village, his skill in moderating arguments made sure the union of cultures went as smooth as possible. This skill continues to this day, acting as a judge between disputes. He is so succesfull some joke he could have stopped the Core War had he just sat down with the elemental Lords to talk it out. He also keeps the culture of sports alive in the new village. Organizing leagues between Matoran, Agori, Glatorian, and even Toa (sometimes even mixed teams), and making sure the games are all fair. Be it Kolhii, Akilini, or even the gladiatorial matches the Agori and Glaotrian insisted be kept, though now way less lethal, if there is a sport to be played, Onewa will make sure it is played fairly. Also known for making amazing sculptures that go for thousands of widgets. That said, stone is not easily changed, and his anger still lingers beneath. Those unfortunate enough to have provoced it say that while his judgement skill could’ve stopped the Core War, they also say that even the Great Beings couldn’t stop his anger.

Whenua: While all the Turaga were happy to lead their people, his joy when arriving to Spherus Magna was compared to a Muaka in a Rahkshi den. Still a leader and guardian to his people, Whenua’s calling was to uncover and catalogue as many of the secrets of Spherus Magna’s spast as possible. Quickly organizing and bulding what is now called the Archives Museum, which eventually grew bigger than even Metru Nui’s Colusseum, he led similar-minded individuals in the search of memories from the distant past. From the earliest tools made of exsidian, to the first recorded conflinct, long before the Core war, he uncovered hundreds of memories the planet itself had forgotten. One of his proudest moments was the discovery of a bone that was incrdibly old, something that didin’t exists in the entirety of the MU; a fossil. With energy he hadn’t had since he first transformed into a Toa, Whenua led teams and organized dig sites, uncovering thousands of bones and stories. And as a Turaga of earth, it was easy. The earth spoke to him, telling him its memories, of when had the bones joined it. Whenua was able to date them to the dacade. He created an incredibly complete fossil record, uncovering evolutionary lineages, making discovery after discovery. Amongst his favourites were the fact that the rock steeds are distantly related to the creatures of Bota Magna, pinpointing the moment in time when the common ancestor of both the Agorit and the Glatorian first divided into groups that would become the species, the moment were the Skrall had evolved so much they could be considered a new species. From the evolution of species, to relics of civilizations older than the agori, whenua’s Museum held knowledge of everything the past could give. And the inhabitants of the mega-city knew who to go with when having questions, for Whenua was the speaker of the past, and the past is the best teacher one could have.

Nuju: Guiding those who preferred colder places, Nuju kept his mannerisms and character. Still speaking only in the language of birds, though thankfully appointing a translator, Nuju continued to look for any signs of what the future might hold. From star-gazing, to bird-watching, Nuju became an expert in predicting things like storms migrations, and even an armed conflict or two. Population movement, air pressure, for those who paid attention, the future was an open book. Still, while he kept the horizon on sight, his eyes were firmly on his people, looking for the future, but never forgetting about the present. Using his knowledge, he warned and prepared for hardships to come, saving countless lives. This skill made him popular with tribe members anxious about the future, many coming to him asking what to expect. His answer, while found unsatisfactory by some, was what many of them needed; “I can’t tell you how the future will go, all I can do is prepare myself for it as best as I can, and to take it when it comes”

Dume: The least joyful arriving on Spherus Magan, Dume had no interest in knowledge, teaching or stories, for him, only one thing mattered, the safety of his people. For thousands of years he had kept the city of Metru Nui safe, and this one would not be different. Still, he only had failed his city once, and that was a wound he would never forget. When ruling Metru Nui, he had kept his distance from his people so, when he was replaced by Makuta, nobody was close enough to him to notice. And so, the tyrant had free rign over his city, eventually leading to its doom. He wouldn’t fail his new city that way. His distance had given him the strenght to protect his city, but it had also been its downfall. And, while he now had 6 Turaga and other tribe leaders to rule beside him, one could never be too cautious. Organizing extreme security measures; passwords, secret codes, etc. Dume made sure he would never be replaced again, and if he were, it would be instantly obvious. He even kept a few bodyguards close to him and, while never becoming close enough to be called friends, it was the closest he had being to another beign since his Toa team. And this worked, as any time his people were threatened, Dume faced the threat with a will that would make a Toa of Iron blush. No matter the enemy, no matter the danger, Dume stood fast. This gained him a reputation , both with his people and his enemies. Rumors spread about him, some said he was once a Toa of iron that had willed himself tthrough a furnace and came out a Toa of fire, other said that he had stared down the Shadowed One himself. His reputation amongst his enemies was no less impressive, Skraall, Bone Hunters and Dark Hunters alike spoke in hushed tones about the “Red Judge”, who would command a legion of Toa to capture anyone who disrupted his peace,never to be seen again. Others claiming him to be a Toa, a Makuta, or even a Great Beign in disguise. Dume never cared for any of these rumors, all he cared was that his people were safe. 

[creativeashproductions]

Subconscious Match Making // Charlie Gillespie

Summary: Kenny brings in his niece Y/N and her band to provide a demonstration of the stage presence of a band. More than happy Tarnished Poets become mentors during the process of bootcamp. Charlie’s eye is stuck on Kenny’s niece; Kenny’s so powerful he subconsciously did match making

Warning: Swearing, talk about car accident, angst, and fluff.

Words: 4.6k

A/N: The song used by my fictional band is High Hopes by the Australian band Yours Truly.

Masterlist

Being part of the audition aspect of Julie and the Phantoms was unreal, especially being young with such an opportunity. The timing couldn’t be better with the band stationed stateside for recording; Kenny had presented the offer to mentor during auditions. The capacity as a musician mentor was alien, but you would do anything for the guy you considered an uncle.

Stopping briefly at the bathroom, you encountered one of the options for Julie that Kenny had sent in the PDF file of people auditioning. As you stepped up to wash your hands, you noticed her lips moving along to the song they had been given.

“Are you okay?” You questioned turning to face the teenager no more than fifteen at the most. Her brown eyes colliding with yours unable to hide the nerves, “You’re auditioning for Kenny Ortega’s show, right?”

“Yeah. I’m Madison.” The girl spoke, holding out her hand to shake, “Are you auditioning for Carrie?”

You smiled at her question, “No.”

Julie went to answer before the glance at her watch, startled her barely getting a goodbye out before she was rushing out the door. You went back to drying your hands before heading to the room Kenny had messaged you about. It was a large room with people sitting at tables and four people on stage. All in a circle speaking quietly, you took the opportunity to settle beside Kenny and your three band members.

“Hey Kenny.” You murmured turning to the man, the myth, legend Kenny Ortega himself. The man beamed at you as he had not seen you in months due to touring.

“Y/N! Sweetheart.” Kenny spoke, taking in the differences, the bags under your eyes gone from the last time he had a video call, “You look stunning as usual.”

You chuckled at his compliment, feeling he was right; sleep was definitely better when not on a travelling bus. Late nights now found at the recording studio with the band and less stress on being hounded by fans.

“So, what do you want us to do?” You questioned glancing at the quartet on the stage each keeping their attention on each other, “Who are they?”

Kenny glanced at his colleagues ready for the day to start, “This the first time they will be performing on the stage as the band. They don’t know yet. As being their age, I’d like you to show them the dynamic we’re looking for.”

You nodded along with Lachlan, Brad and Jay. Kenny’s happy smile directed you guys for a second before turning to the stage. Huddling with your bandmates, you started throwing out song choices, one the most challenging things.

“Okay. Before we have you sing Bright, I convinced my niece to join us while they are off touring.” Kenny told the actors gesturing to the band in a huddle unbothered at the lack of listening, “Okay.”

Turning as Kenny’s voice centred towards you, the people on the stage caught sight of you all; Madison’s eyes grew. She adored your music, and not recognizing you in the bathroom, burnt her. The other guys were less familiar with the band other than Owen who knew them through Madison and Savannah.

“This is my niece Y/N along with her band members Lachlan, Brad and Jay. Tarnished Poets this is candidates for the show Charlie, Jeremy, Owen and Madison.” Kenny gestured to the two separate groups who quickly switched.

With a vast amount of experience, the small stage revamped itself with the band’s personal instruments. People held to move the stage drums to replace with Brad’s drums behind the clear plastic with quick succession as the remaining members took their places.

Your dark wash jean jacket tossed to the side of the stage mere seconds before Lachlan’s fingers started the song off with shredding on his baby pink guitar. The room melted away from your mind as the four got lost in the music.

You got the nerve to come and say 

That you’re not standing in my way

When we both know

Eyes closed you moved to the fast beats feeling on the top of the world as if nothing would knock you down.

The room was quiet aside from the music enthralling the occupants as this band shocked everyone but Madison and Kenny. This was precisely how Kenny envisioned Julie and the band would be like as the room burst into noise as if it was a concert. The stage was electrifying, and the actors couldn’t sit still with big smiles and bodies moving to the beat.

Well I’ve had high hopes up til now

 And I was kinda hoping. 

 You could be my hero

 You could be my hero

At the lull, in words, the guitars and the drums wove through the room as you flipped your hair side to side concealing the expression. The music brought a feeling euphoria to you as it always had because nothing made you feel as alive.

You never stayed in one place when you weren’t cupping the microphone singing you jammed with the others. Cleaning removing the mic from the stand you move to face Brad through the clear screen with a grin. A smooth practised twirl you found yourself by the bassist Jay delving into the lyrics once more.

You can’t take it back

With all, I’ve tried 

And I know that you can’t shape me

Moving back in fluid motion Lachlan and you switched places across the stage from Jay. Lachlan began his solo ending just as you circled back to your original positions. Everyone had watched Lachlan they missed your microphone being replaced in the stand.

As the song came to an end, you ended the last note bending to the side with the stand, every member leaning over to the floor. The guitar notes faded as the room burst into applause.

“This is what I want the band to be like!” Kenny called moving to the stage you hug you, “I knew I chose the right people. Did you see how they commanded the stage? They used the entirety, exploding with energy.”

Charlie’s jaw was dropped at how great the band was, they transformed the room into a concert, and you were damn good. Owen reached over and gently pushed Charlie’s jaw back up without looking; this move alone gave Kenny insight into the dynamic between the actors.

“Can you all come up here?” You asked the four actors moving aside for them as they stationed themselves you all wandered around, “Naturally you’ve all equally spaced yourselves out. That’s good because you understand you need space to rock out, but it comes with a negative.”

Lachlan stepped forth his accent, bringing the group to surprise, “But don’t stay in the box you’ve created. The stage is yours. You’re a band so interact.”

“Don’t play the music. Become the music you play, Luke doesn’t just love music. It’s in his blood and part of his soul.” You finished squeezing the arm of Charlie, eyes fractionally widening at the solid muscle. Charlie’s eyes glued to your eyes he didn’t notice as you gently pushed the white guitar into his chest.

“Show us Luke’s bond with music.” You softly spoke, backing away from the Canadian male turning on your heel to sit with Kenny again.

Your eyes couldn’t help but return to the male with the cut off shirt, and his hair pushed up out of his face. Suspenders connected to his jeans rolled above the brown boots. Your lips parted as Madison introduced the group.

“Hi, we’re Julie and the Phantoms I hope you enjoy.” The girl spoke before the group transformed in front of the group. They were no longer actors hoping for roles, but they became the characters they desired to play.

Charlie melted into the character of Luke with ease; it was beautiful and poetic. What they didn’t know was that they were, in fact, the band.

As the music died down, you relaxed into the chair as Kenny cheered with his hands high in the air with the entire room as they bowed. Kenny’s teasing grin glanced back as he approached the stairs to the huddled youth.

“I don’t know. Can we?” Kenny spoke to the audience amused with the anticipation of the stage.

“Do it!” You called out with a grin along with the rest of Tarnished Poets keeping your eyes on Charlie. His energy intrigued you incredibly.

“Yeah you are our band.” Kenny announced changing the lives of the official cast forever. The quartet exclaimed in response clutching each other close as if they had been friends for years instead of months.

Charlie’s grin fluttered your heart as you leaned back, watching the excited group knowing you would be watching the show when it came out.

 The summer breeze was serene in the quiet area outside of the beautiful city of Vancouver, Canada where filming had commenced. Scheduling was perfect with the members of Tarnished Poets breaking off for the break. Lachlan returned to his family in Perth, Australia while Brad and Jay decided on a road trip in their home state.

You had accompanied Kenny to Canada for the first part of filming moving into a small house near the set. The home quickly became the hub of the cast with the close proximation to filming, you had even given Charlie the spare key. You two incredibly close.

“So, this is where you disappear to.” The teasing voice came from behind you. Glancing over your shoulder, you met the gaze of Charlie’s hazel eyes.

He moved through the meadow to the tree you found shade under with your guitar nearby. You always had a feeling the adventurous guy would find the trail to the meadow you frequented. His forest green shirt bringing out the green of his eyes that you adored. As if you were a character in a Tumblr story, you fell for him and wondered if he felt the same.

“Sometimes I need to leave the city. I spent too much time in them.” You spoke, closing the notebook of the song you were working on. It wasn’t one you planned on using for Tarnished Poets, but instead something you hesitated on showing Kenny.

 “I didn’t know you could play the guitar.” Charlie softly spoke gently, stroked the neck of the well-used guitar. Passed down from your mom who loved playing at cafes in her teens and into her early 20s.

“Probably because we perform with electric more often. Plus, I like doing vocals.” You spoke shuffling to face him, “So it took you over a month to find this meadow.”

Charlie chuckled glancing at the notebook with interest. He always wanted to know more about you from the moment he saw you.

“What are you working on?” He questioned slowly grasping the notebook in his hand. Usually, you would be shy and letting someone see an unfinished song. Still, something about Charlie never made you feel nervous.

“A song about regret over hurting someone.” You softly replied, moving to bring your knees into your chest thinking about one of the final devasting moments, “I’m kinda the female counterpart of Luke. I grew up in a small town where people had reliable jobs. I always loved music. My mom taught me to play the guitar.”

“Yeah?” Charlie smiled, wondering what a kid version of you would have been like. Your eyes raised to meet his.

“Her dream was to make a living out of her music, and she got rejected. A lot. I think she lost a part of herself when she gave up for a secure, stable job as an accountant. Didn’t mean she didn’t still love to play, so she taught me how to play as a hobby.”

“But you loved it like she did.” Charlie breathed picking up where the story would be going so he gently took your hand in his; something not unusual with you two.

“I posted videos of covers on YouTube and Lachlan saw it. He had moved to America to make his dream and closely, our band came together. We did some gigs around my hometown even making the long trips to the city.” You reminisced on the times where you were an underground band with a small following. Things went sour when you hit more immense success, “We had the opportunity for our music, and at eighteen we took it.”

Slowly you leaned into the body of Charlie relaxing as his arms encompassed you in a feeling of safety and warmth. His fingers tangling in your hair as he focused on your story.

“My parents found out, and Mom just exploded. We both said cruel things, and I left that night. We played gigs constantly, so I always pushed back, making up with her. Six months into the move, she got into a car accident.” You sighed nestling further into Charlie, “I wrote that song, but I couldn’t even finish it, but with Luke’s storyline, I think it would be perfect. I’m polishing it up to present to Kenny.”

“What’s it called?” He inquired, smiling as you shifted to lean your back against his chest to cradle the guitar in your lap.

“Unsaid Emily. My mom’s name is Emily.” Your words nearly buried under the soft notes from the guitar. Your lips opened to sing, but you didn’t have to. Charlie started it.

The emotion was raw in the air as the power in his voice brought you to tears, unable to do more than strum the guitar and harmonizing at one point. It was like Unsaid Emily was made for Charlie to sing. At that moment you knew, this was the song Luke needed to do for his mom in the show; however, it could be incorporated.

Overcome with an emotion you pushed to your knees to cup his cheeks as he trailed off the last word. The guitar keeping you from pressing your chests together to kiss you poured your feelings in the kiss. A kiss he returned with gusto.

“Whoa.” Charlie breathed, keeping his forehead connected to yours smiling as your eyelashes tickled his cheeks. Calloused fingers set the guitar aside as he tugged you into his chest as his lips drew closer.

Your lips parted as a tingle overtook your whole body as he lips caressed yours soft lightly you thought you imagined it. His mouth claimed yours in what might be the most passionate one you’ve ever had. Pulling away, you became aware your hands had flipped under his shirt with knowing.

“Thank you.” You spoke softly looking up through your eyelashes at the guy the grew as important as the band.

Charlie’s cheeks painted a soft pink set off by the hypnotizing brown of his hazel gaze as if you were his whole world. His eyes scanning all your features from the small scar in your hairline thanks to a table edge at six years old.

 “For what?”

“Being you.” You replied tugging fists full of the green shirt to silence her thoughts with another fervent meeting. Yours arm coming to encircle his neck as his hands copied the move on your waist. Sitting on knees time slowed in the toe-curling kiss, he pulled away once more.

 “I could kiss you forever, and it still wouldn’t be long enough.” Charlie spoke, keeping his eyes closed as his fingers pinched his skin. This was what he dreamed of, being able to hold you more than a few seconds of an embrace.

“How is this going to work? My band goes on tour when you’re at the end of filming.” You questioned nestling into his arms again. The future was scary when you both were incredibly busy with the upcoming months.

“I’ll fly over for a few weeks. See you in action.” He chuckled, pushing you away to stand up, “How about we start with dinner first?”

It seemed the universe took pity on a young couple when Charlie took you home to his family to meet. His parents and siblings being the only ones aware of the relationship. Tour came and went with Charlie, using the time before promoting JATP, attended before you flew back to Canada with him.

Being with Charlie was like breathing, necessary and beautiful. You got along with his family as he did with yours. It was remarkable how interconnected you became together in the months committed to the relationship.

“Hey.” Charlie spoke, kissing your cheek in your private home you were renting in the country of Canada. When whispers of the pandemic came around, you had flown from the house you rented in LA with a friend to home.

Charlie had had the same idea to return home to his parents’ home while you settled into a house further away from other people. Charlie walked the distance to your place, and when lockdown came into effect, the decision was, he would stay with you.

“Well hello.” You cheekily responded, resting your fingers on the sleep flush of his cheeks as the glazed look faded.

 Charlie straight out of sleep was by far your favourite version of him with the genuine and raw unguarded emotions he displayed. In the nine months together, you had fallen for him swifter than Swiper from Dora could take items. Completely reciprocated on his side.

“You look happy.” Charlie murmured tracing the path from your temple to the corner of your mouth. The boy with messy hair, he had started growing it out after Julie, and the Phantoms wrapped.

“I am.” You softly spoke, shifting closer to him, “I’ve never been happier than I am tucked away from the world in your arms.”

The flush of Charlie’s cheek no longer came from the nap, but from the attention, you placed on the actor. He could feel the love radiating from your heart just by the look in your eyes.

“I’m going to be incredibly cheesy and reply that I am holding my world in my arms.” He expressed leaning over to press his lips against your forehead raptured by the honour he had at loving you.

“The next few days will be hectic.” You articulated running your hands through the thick brown hair focusing solely on his eyes—the building excitement budding within the actor.

Charlie’s lips parted to reply when his phone vibrated on the side table, “One moment. It’s Owen.”

You shifted out of the camera view per the mutual decision to keep the relationship under wraps for the time being. You absolutely knew the show would be a hit and thousand, make that hundreds of thousands, of people, would crush on the character. By keeping the relationship quiet, it would increase the fanbase because some people honestly only care about looks.

“Hey Buddy!” Charlie beamed at his fellow quarantine hair buddy with over 3,000 kilometres between each other.

“Eh! Charlie!” Owen greeted just as excited at his best friend delving into a story of the recent lego build his mom had made.

“So, the show debuts in a few days. How do you feel about it? I’m excited but also nervous. First leading role.”

“I think people will relate to the show. I mean the music is amazing, and the acting wasn’t too shabby.” Owen replied just about to open his mouth when he slammed it shut. His blue eyes narrowed together, picking up on the odd background. He had to lean closer to his phone, “Either I’m suddenly eighty years old or your definitely not at home.”

“W-what?” Charlie scoffed eyes flicking to the surroundings completely forgetting he was in his girlfriend’s home instead of his parents, “I’m at home.”

“No! We’ve chatted so many times I could draw your family’s house blueprint with my eyes closed. That is a bedroom and it ain’t in the Gillespie home.”

Charlie moaned hanging his head, “C’mon buddy. I’m at home.”

“Charles Gillespie, you have sex hair.” Owen deadpanned unamused at the obvious and quite literally horrible dishonesty from the Canadian male. Charlie’s cheeks puffed as he blew air out of his mouth and taking the ‘L’ in the situation.

“One moment.” He spoke, putting his friend on mute and setting the phone down to create a black screen. The entire short conversation you had delved back into the songbook always on your person, “Babe, Owen won’t let it go.”

“Tell him.” You replied gazing over the rim of your glasses with a smirk scarcely visible to your partner. Your full attention returned to scribbling in the book while Charlie inhaled sharply; psyching himself up.

“Okay. I’m seeing someone.” Charlie admitted sending the blonde into screaming having been suspicious. Jeremy’s wife, then girlfriend, had tried setting Charlie up with countless refusals.

“Who is it?”

“Don’t get upset. I’m dating Y/N-“

“-like Y/N from Tarnished Poets? The musician from Bootcamp that completely made us look like toddlers?” Owen demanded gasping as Charlie panned the FaceTime to the girl under the blankets, “Holy shit!”

“I don’t know how I managed to get her date, but it’s the happiest I’ve been.”

“Hey Owen.” You acknowledged the blonde drummer with a shy smile and kind eyes that he had found numerous times on set. He looked up to you along with loving the suggestions and help Brad gave him on the drums.

“How long have you been together?” Wondered Owen with the cute little smile you found endearing. You felt happy that it was Owen that had pieced it together.

“Going on ten months now-“

“-and I’m only just now finding out!” Owen exploded jittery in his seat at the pairing he had wanted to get together since the unbreakable gaze multiple times on set, “God I love the world!”

“Just don’t tell anyone, okay? We want to keep this private; you wouldn’t have been told had you not figured it out.”

“More like hounded it.” Charlie muttered under his breath, slinking his arm around your shoulders as his right hand held his phone. You slapped the bare chest of the love of your life heart fluttering at the solid muscle as it always did, “We need to get together as soon as we can.”

“I’m so done. There’s nothing to do in Oklahoma man. So that photo from Tarnished Poet’s European tour was real?” Owen recalled the picture that had crossed his Instagram For You page a few months prior.

“Yeah. I flew over for two weeks having the best time watching my girl kill it on the stage, they destroyed the stage each performance.” Charlie gushed unable to hold himself from frantically telling Owen about you unfazed by your presence.

“Why am I so single!” Owen groaned flinging his head back, “Is it the whole living with my parents at twenty? Am I not established enough?”

“Nah, you’re just too boring.” Charlie quipped thankful he was out of reach of the taller boy earning a laugh from his side. Owen snickered with a quick retort to his fellow actor.

“Well I’d stay and chat, but my phone is at 10%, and I’m too lazy to find my charger.” Owen started waving as he hung up on Charlie without waiting for a reply.

Your lips twitched that the profanity that fell from your boyfriend’s lips at the abrupt end of the call. Owen was like that in the end, living in the moment to an extent. Charlie turned on his side to tug you into his side, uncaring of your task.

“You’ve slept enough.” You chortled at the clinging boyfriend you had.

“Do you think we should tell the cast? Owen will be bursting with the secret if we don’t” queried Charlie pining his gaze on the steadily flushing cheeks with a fondness, “They wouldn’t tell. I really want to brag about my hot rocker girlfriend.”

Your hand dropped the notebook to play with his hair, “We’ll just keep the relationship to close friends and our family.”

Too bad you didn’t place a bet with Charlie because two hours after the convo with Owen your phones harmonized together. Your iPhone showing Carolynn’s cute selfie while Jeremy called Charlie.

“You’re dating Charlie!” Carolynn practically screamed into the phone, completely excited, “Owen told Jeremy, and I have wife privileges.”

“Dude! How long?”

“Near ten months.”

“Damn, we missed so many chances for double dates, but hey now I know who you kept sneaking into the apartment. Not like the smug smirk, the next day and her stiff walking didn’t speak for itself.”

“Jer!” Charlie called out mortified yet also proud that you couldn’t walk the night after. Your reaction was to Jer’s blunt statement was to bury your face in Charlie’s neck, concealing the deep blush.

The two couples conversed a couple more hours before ending in the evening for food. The same routine would continue for the next few days with alternating between the cast. The day Julie and the Phantoms dropped on Netflix, you binged it. The acting was insane and the storyline paired with the songs? Beautiful.

The issue came when Episode 8 came with the tsunami of emotions as Luke shattered himself singing Unsaid Emily.

“Oh my god.” You sniffled shakily cupping your damp cheeks in your hands, “It hurts. He’s having this cathartic release while agonizing himself. His parents can hear him singing the song.”

Charlie tugged you into his side equally moved from the cinematic beauty Kenny’s team had done. Unsaid Emily was the most emotional piece of music you had ever written in your career; Kenny had fallen in love with it. His genius mind recreating the scene of Luke singing and changing his mother’s name to Emily.

“Sh.” Charlie soothed in your ear, rubbing circles on the small of your back crying along with you, “It’s just a show.”

“Where in the hell did you pull off that level of regretful sadness? Who hurt you.” You replied, breathing shakily as the scene. Your eyes still tearing up as Emily finally got a little peace back after losing her son twenty-five years in the past.

“I took inspiration from your story, and I watched a video with a bunch of people describing the last moment with their loved ones. Add some sad music and missing my family…well this happened.” Charlie explained gently pushing your hands away to wipe your damp cheeks in a soft smile, “You created the song. It’s your work that moved so many people.”

“I provided words and a melody. You provided emotion and bridge between Luke and the audience.” You retorted leaning closer to the Canadian boy so very much in love with him.

Charlie pressed another kiss to your forehead as you tried to pull yourself together but watching Luke and Julie try to touch? That shattered you even more. Luke deserved a hug, and he can’t even get one from his crush? Extremely tragic.

“Maybe we should write a song together.” Charlie suggested quirking up one eyebrow as his green eyes spoke volumes on his feelings no words could ever match. His long fingers playing your digits.

“I have a better idea.” You grinned, “I know season two hasn’t been confirmed but what if Jer, Owen, you and Mads write songs for the band? Give an authentic aspect to your characters and band. Do it together, in pairs and alone.” You breathed straddling him to ensure you had his full attention at the suggestion that lit a light in his eyes.

“You must be on to something.” Charlie acknowledged removing his phone from his pocket to use the group chat. In a few minutes, he had exciting suggestions for the song ideas, “I love you.”

“Love you too.” You replied, sitting back as he continued planning both via the group chat and FaceTime with the others.

Kenny was a genius both on screen and at matchmaking. As evidenced with Charlie and Kenny’s niece.

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[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part II

First | Next | Masterpost

He went straight to Vizima to find Triss, once he’d made his way out of Kaedwen. It wasn’t directly on the way to Oxenfurt, but it was close enough that he didn’t feel he was making an unreasonable digression. Though he was nervous about locating his bard, he needed to know what this Ida person could tell him.

Triss was as welcoming as always, greeting him with a brief press of cheeks and a light embrace. Yennefer had told her of Geralt’s mission, but she was unable to assist him on the first day, busy with treating several commoners who had come down with a sickness. Nothing of a magical nature, but it did detain her for much of the day after Geralt’s arrival. He busied himself in the city, restocking on potion ingredients that he’d run low on over the long winter, dropping his armor off to be reinforced, and picking up a slim cloth bracelet for Jaskier. It was a soft blue color, with silver beads spaced evenly over the surface, and Geralt thought it would please him.

Gods. He was in trouble.

That evening he dined with Triss in her quarters, despite the fact that it was wildly inappropriate. Geralt asked after it, and Triss laughed dismissively.

“That is a delightful sentiment, but no one is questioning my dalliances,” she said with a grin. “They’re too afraid I’ll turn them into toads if they irritate me. And besides, half the Continent believes that you’re courting Yennefer because of the bard’s silly songs, and the other half thinks you’re courting the bard.”

Ah. “Well,” Geralt said, articulately.

Triss smirked at him over her wine. It was exceptionally good, a vintage from Toussaint that was nearly as old as Geralt. Triss’ quarters were fairly large, befitting a court mage, but decorated in a way that made them seem almost cozy. She favored muted colors that turned rich in the light of the candles scattered around the room. There were dozens of tables and shelves crowded with books, herbs and knick knacks that made the space feel distinctly lived in. It was a stark contrast to Yennefer’s lodgings, which were always immaculate and finely organized. The clutter was a refreshing change of pace. “Yennefer told me that you’re trying to make the bard immortal,” Triss said. One of her eyebrows rose, and Geralt wasn’t sure if the look she gave him was impressed or judgemental.

“Not necessarily,” Geralt said defensively. “Just not so, uh.”

“Excessively mortal?”

He hummed. Triss sighed.

“I don’t know of anything to lengthen a human lifespan to that of a witcher’s,” she said. “But the elves have been dealing in things relating to life force for longer than there have been human mages on the Continent. If anyone has any knowledge of what you’re after, it will be the Aen Saevherne.”

Geralt nodded. “Yennefer told me to ask after a woman named Ida. A sage?”

Triss set her goblet down, looking grave. “Ida Emean. An old acquaintance of mine. Perhaps one of the last elven sages alive, though they’re so secretive it’s difficult to tell. She works occasionally with the Brotherhood, when their goals align. But you need to know, Geralt, even if she has an answer for you, this kind of magic comes with a price. Always.”

“I’m willing to pay it,” Geralt said. “Jaskier, he’s—”

Triss interrupted him with a gentle smile, brushing her fingers over the back of his hand on the table. “I know what he is to you. I want to help. I just want you to be careful.” Geralt wondered when he’d become this transparent to, apparently, half the Continent and every one of his close friends. The sorceresses were probably gossiping behind his back.

“How will you contact her?” Geralt asked, pushing through his embarrassment. He wished saving Jaskier’s fragile human life didn’t involve so many conversations about his unrequited love.

“Megascope,” Triss said, rising. “We’ll need to do it soon, when the moon rises. It will make the connection stronger; I’m not sure where she is.”

Geralt followed her into a room off of the main sitting area, a small space that was almost entirely dominated by Triss’ megascope. He’d seen its like numerous times at Kaer Morhen, where Yennefer had set her own up in the highest tower still standing. The large crystal disks swam with a cool blue light as Triss waved her hand through the air. Three brass arms rose up to hold them at shoulder level, facing inwards to form a triangle. The soft light filled the dark space, throwing Triss’ face into sharp relief before Geralt snapped a finger to light the candles in the room.

Triss stepped up in front of the negative space between the stands, uttering a few words in Elder that Geralt wasn’t familiar with. After a moment the light began to shimmer and twist around itself, slowly solidifying into a human form.

The figure was indistinct, as they usually were in megascope projections, but Geralt could tell that the woman was beautiful. Used to dealing with elves in the south, whose genes had been diluted with human blood over so many centuries, Geralt was taken aback by the sharpness of her features. Her neck was long and elegant, and her hair fell in sheets around her alien features. He was reminded suddenly of his encounter with the elves of the Blue Mountains so many years ago, the inhuman angle of Filavandrel’s cheekbones.

The smoky figure turned towards Triss first, her head dropping in a brief nod. “Triss Merigold. Keidmil.” Ida said in greeting.

Triss nodded in return, her curls bouncing with the motion. “Keidmil, Ida. I apologize for summoning you with so little warning. I have done so as a favor to a friend.” At this Ida’s eyes, empty orbs of swirling blue light in the megascope, fell on Geralt.

“Vatgern,” she said, with the tone of someone who has just discovered something fascinating but slightly repulsive on the bottom of their shoe. “You have friends in high places, wed. What business does a witcher have with me?” Her accent made the words almost musical.

Geralt’s nod of acknowledgement was more of a bow. He wasn’t normally one to show deference to those with power, but this time his heart was pounding in his ears as he leaned forward. If Ida wouldn’t help him, he would be back to square one before he’d even really begun. “Keidmil, Aen Saevherne,” he said as demurely as he could, which probably still came out sounding like gravel. “I was told by Yennefer of Vengerberg that you might have some knowledge on extending human lifespans.”

Ida’s head tilted a tic to the side, clearly intrigued. “Witchers already live near as long as any half-elf on the Continent,” she replied. “There is no spell that could give you the lifespan of a true Aen Seidhe.”

“It isn’t for myself,” Geralt said quickly. “It’s for a human. Someone I… care deeply about.” He ignored the way his face flamed at this admission, no matter how clear it was that Triss obviously knew about his infatuation. He’d barely admitted it aloud to himself, let alone anyone else.

Ida hummed, the sound vibrating through the megascope. “This has precedent. But the spell you seek does not come without cost.”

“Tell me,” Geralt said firmly.

“There has always been conflict between humankind and the Aes Seidhe. Our peoples have crossed gweld an gleidyf many times over the millennia. But there were always times when there was peace, coexistence. In the early days, before the blood of men diluted our own, the Aes Seidhe could live through half a dozen human lifetimes or more. It was taboo to form relationships with humans, and many did not bother. But there were, of course, exceptions.

“It is unclear where the ritual comes from, but the tales say that one of the Aen Saevherne fell in love with a human woman, who then fell gravely ill as she entered her twilight years. The sage, terrified of losing her, bound her lifeforce to his own, effectively extending her life at the cost of some of his own longevity. Over the years the ritual was refined by others. It has fallen out of practice, in this age; many of the Aes Seidhe’s bloodlines are so diluted that they live for no longer than twice a human lifetime. But the ritual remains.”

Geralt swallowed. “Can you explain it to me?”

“I can,” Ida said, her chin raising slightly. “But I do not need to tell you, vatgern, that all such magic comes with consequences. You cannot create those years from nothing; they must be drawn from somewhere. And you will be binding yourself to this human. I cannot say how this ritual will impact someone who is not of elvish blood.”

He could feel Triss turning worried eyes on him. She too knew the price that magic could demand. “Will Ja—the human, could he be harmed?” Geralt asked.

Ida’s head shook back and forth, her hair swaying. “You assume the responsibility of the ritual,” she said. “Is this human worth so much to you?”

“Yes,” Geralt said instantly, surprised by his own lack of hesitation. “Anything.”

Ida looked at him for a moment, as if judging his truthfulness. “Very well,” she finally said. “I will give you the words, but the ritual requires additional pieces. Gaes carraigh, an oathstone, for the vow; ghealachlíon, night’s linseed, for the binding; and ionad, a place of great power or great personal meaning. Once these elements are combined, you bind your hands with the moonflax over the oathstone and speak the incantation. It is straightforward, but your pronunciation and your intent must be exact. Me lámh le do lámh, me cáerme le do cáerme.”

“Me lámh le do lámh, me cáerme le do cáerme,” Geralt repeated. The words were easy, close enough to their modern counterparts that he was certain it would be nearly identical in southern Elder. It was almost too easy, romantic in its simplicity. Ida nodded, satisfied. “And that’s all?” Geralt asked, breathless.

“That is all. There need be no officiant, no further ceremony. You will be bound by Chaos herself.”

“Officiant?” Geralt blinked, confused. “Why would we need an officiant?”

“I have been told that human marriages tend to involve quite a few witnesses,” Ida said, sounding amused. “Ours are a bit more personal.”

“Wait. This is a marriage ritual?” Geralt felt his heart starting to sink down into his stomach.

“I thought that much was obvious,” Ida replied. “Now, if that is all you require, I have my own business to attend to.”

“Me grasha, Ida, for taking the time,” Triss piped up again. “If you ever need a favor in return…”

“I will keep that in mind,” Ida said. “Va feil.”

“Va feil,” Triss replied, and the megascoped dimmed and cast the room back into darkness.

Geralt stood in utter stillness for a moment, blinking into the dark. “Fuck,” he burst out. “I have to marry him?”

Triss just laughed.

*

Triss, luckily, knew the locations of most of the components Ida had mentioned, though the last location would be up to Geralt to determine. The first of these, the oathstone, was used frequently enough in larger elven settlements before their people were displaced. She had recommended the ruins of Ban Aine as a likely findspot, and it was situated not too far from Oxenfurt. That was to be his first real stop, to collect Jaskier and convince him of Geralt’s plan.

Hopefully without revealing too much about the exact nature of the ritual, which still made Geralt sweat when he thought about it for too long.

He couldn’t help but think of it with a strange mix of giddiness and dread, churning together in a nauseating concoction. Marriage wasn’t something that witchers got to do, ever. Their lives were transient and drawn out, and often ended in violence. Even if any of them had the time to court lovers, it wasn’t the type of life that one would wish on someone they cared for. It could only end one of two ways: the witcher outlived their paramour, or their love was left to grieve them after they were gutted by some beast or strung up by an angry mob.

Even when Geralt had been infatuated with Yennefer he hadn’t truly considered anything like marriage. He had imagined a kind of loose commitment, maybe, but he had always known somewhere deep in his own mind that Yennefer would never stand to be tied down to anyone for long. He had been desperate enough for her love that he’d been willing to settle for anything she could give him.

He had never dared to hope for more, no matter how he might want it. Still, once he had come to understand his own feelings towards Jaskier, he had been unable to stop himself from thinking about it at times. He wondered what things might change between them, if they tied themselves together. Things might stay much the same; Jaskier would come to Kaer Morhen most years, and journey with Geralt when he could throughout the rest of the year. He would bring trinkets and books and stories for Ciri, and teach her how to be human, and trade quips with Yennefer and the other wolves when they all gathered. He would still help Geralt clean up after a hunt, help him stitch his skin back together and wash away the grime and curl up at his side when night came. But maybe he would also let Geralt wake him by pressing his lips to Jaskier’s eyelids like he had so often yearned to do. Maybe he would reach out and hold Geralt’s hand as they walked through a new town; maybe he would close the distance kept between them when they lay in tiny rented beds.

Maybe he could be Geralt’s, and no one else’s.

He was successful, most of the time, in keeping these kinds of thoughts at bay. It did a witcher no good to dwell on what could not be.

Now it would be, if only technically, and only if Geralt could convince Jaskier to perform the ritual without giving away its origins. He considered telling Jaskier the full truth of it, of course. It was probable that Jaskier wouldn’t even care. In his mind, they were only friends; it would be easy enough to set aside the implications of the ritual in favor of practicality. It would be ridiculous to turn down the chance at potentially doubling his own lifespan just because hundreds of years ago an ancient ritual was used for romantic unions.

But every time Geralt thought of telling Jaskier, and of hearing him dismiss Geralt’s concerns, he felt something black and dreadful crawl up his throat. Jaskier would think it was silly, the idea that he could ever be married to a witcher. He would laugh, with that sly grin he always got when they were sharing a joke between them—isn’t that funny, the look would say, the idea of you and me.

No. If he said nothing, Jaskier would never have to know, and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Geralt would never hold him to any sort of bond that the ritual created between them; he would be happy knowing that Jaskier wouldn’t be taken from him by time and old age, at least not yet.

And at least he would have something of Jaskier for himself, even if he’d had to steal it.

[trashmenofmarvel]

Branded - Chapter 57 (Final)

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You find your relic.

(This is a fan AU of Falling’s Just Another Way to Fly by araniaart​ . Please check out this incredible series for all of your demon Bucky needs.)

AO3

You’d only been to the ancient Sanctum a few times, with strict access to the library for your studies and nowhere else, and normally you would be excited to visit the unofficial headquarters of the Mystic Arts.

But now, as you followed Wong to the room of portals that would lead to the Nepal sanctum, your stomach twisted and your heart raced. You couldn’t even enjoy the fact this was where Strange had gone on his near-disastrous pilgrimage. The idea of the Ancient One kicking him out on his ass was an entertaining one, though you were still glad she eventually trained him. As irritated as you were about a lot of things regarding the former surgeon, he and Wong both had taught you nearly everything you knew.

Plus, you’d seen the scars on his hands. As arrogant and egotistical as he appeared, Strange had suffered to get where he was. Not unlike yourself. Not unlike Bucky.

The Orb of Agamotto hung within the circular room where other sorcerers consulted with it, verifying that the magical Earthly shields were still intact. Past them were three doors leading to the other sanctums, including the one in Kathmandu.

You and Bucky followed Wong through, the familiar feeling of displacement shifting your stomach and throwing you off balance for a moment. Neither Wong nor Bucky were as unsteady as you were. It had been something you were embarrassed about, but according to Strange during one of your lessons, it simply meant you were more sensitive to spatial displacement.

As Wong led you both through the ancient stone hallways, past the commons where other sorcerers were in training, doubt crept along your nerves. Someday, possibly sooner than you were prepared, all of these people were going to follow you. Look to you for guidance, for teaching. For protection.

How were you supposed to become the next Ancient One if you couldn’t even walk through a portal without getting dizzy?

This wasn’t going to work. The idea was crazy enough to begin with. The Ancient One had to be wrong. You were going to step into her office and nothing would happen. You would make a fool of yourself; you weren’t any more talented or skilled than any other sorcerer. Just half a year ago, you’d had no idea demons and magic were even real.

And now, you were expected to carry on the mantle as one of the most powerful sorcerers on Earth? How was that even possible? How could you ever be worthy enough to—

Wong opened a door using a complicated series of hand gestures, and as soon as you stepped through, your panicked mind fell silent. Energy thrummed along your skin, setting the hairs upright.

“Here it is.”

Wong’s announcement was unnecessary; you would know this place in your dreams, even though you had never been.

It was a simple room with a single large, circular window pointed towards the mountains over the city. Potted plants perched on most available surfaces that weren’t covered with books, scrolls, and odd knickknacks.

There was only a single writing desk pushed to the side, humble and unobtrusive. The rest of the room was empty space with a single well-worn green rug in the middle. But the plants made everything seem alive and verdant. It felt very much like a place the Ancient One would spend her time. It was a reflection of her, in a way. Quiet, but hidden with secret truths.

“Take a look around,” Wong said, but you were already moving. Slowly and with intense focus, you circled the room, reaching out and feeling, not with your hands but with your mind.

Odd and powerful energy pervaded the room, muted by spells but still apparent to you. They were coming from the artifacts that were laid out, seemingly casually, on the shelves and desks.

Most of them seemed as plain and unimportant as the room itself. A cracked vase with the lip stained red. A golden helmet that was varnished and faded, but two glittering horns jutted from the temples. A knobby staff with a smooth, grey stone fixed at one end, as modest as any walking stick except for the melodic hum that emanated from the stone. You had a feeling neither Wong nor Bucky could hear it.

But despite all the weird, wonderful oddities in your reach, you were drawn elsewhere. You approached one corner of the room where lay a pile of old scrolls and their cloth wrappings, and moved them aside with care to reveal what was hidden underneath.

It was a sword hilt. Just the hilt. There was no blade, not even a piece of broken metal. The metal was dulled with time and flaked with rust, the pommel grey and dirty.

You reached out and hesitated. Fingertips inches away, something stopped you. The knowledge that once you took hold of the relic, everything would change.

You glanced over your shoulder at Bucky.

He was watching you with close attention, as was Wong, but when he caught your eye he gave a small smile of encouragement. He supported you, even though he had to know what this meant, or at least had a good idea of it.

Not every sorcerer found their relic within the Ancient One’s study.

Comfort and warmth, so strong it could only be described as love, flooded across the bond and washed away your fears. You returned his smile, even if it was shaky, and you held on to that feeling as you turned back to the hilt.

You closed the distance, wrapped your fingers around the relic, and lifted it.

It was surprisingly heavy; that was your only observation before it began. The hilt thrummed in your palm, vibrating so fast you nearly dropped it.

The rust flaked away from the metal, leaving it polished and silver. The grey pommel was shaken of its dirt, and you realized it was white bone, the metal wrapping around it to form the grip and crossguard.

The thrumming didn’t stop, but you couldn’t let go even if you wanted to. Your fingers seized around the metal, energy teeming up your hand and arm. When it reached your right shoulder, all the way up to your pentagram, the sigil burned in a way it hadn’t done since the ritual.

Bucky must have sensed your panic because he rushed forward, but you backed away from him fast, instinct screaming at you to put a safe distance between you now.

It was a good thing you had; the energy from your sigil exploded down your arm, through your hand, and into the hilt. A burst of red light shot outward, forcing you to turn away from the blinding beam.

When the light dimmed and you could see again, blinking away the after images, you stared at the sword. That’s what it was now. A glowing red blade, seemingly made entirely of light. The energy that came from it was purely of the demon realm, scorching and sulfuric.

“What…” You choked the words past your dry throat. “What is this?”

There were only a handful of times you’d ever seen Wong shocked. So, that was three powerful sorcerers you’d rendered speechless in the span of a day.

“The blade of Hell, or so it is spoken. None in the history of the order had been able to unlock its powers, rendering it anything more than a broken hilt.” He leveled you with a somber stare. “It is called Daemonio Vexatur. Which means—“

“—to become a demon.”

Wong raised a brow.

“Rough translation, but yes.”

“So, it’s a demon sword?” asked Bucky, eyeing the glowing blade. He was understandably wary, and honestly, was accepting what was happening better than you were. You were still stuck on the fact that you were holding a glowing-freaking-sword in your hand.

“Yes. And no,” Wong said in traditional teaching-fashion. “A demon cannot wield it, but it takes demonic energy to power.”

“Oh. So that’s why my sigil and my entire arm feel like they’re on fire.”

Bucky’s mouth opened and he took a step forward, protectiveness sizzling along the bond, and you gave him a hurried smile.

“Kidding. Sort of.” You smiled wider through your clenched teeth. “It is really uncomfortable.”

Bucky’s dark look told you he didn’t believe you, and with what you imagined was coming from your end of the bond, you didn’t blame him. Holding the sword was like holding on to a live wire that was also burning. There was a molten jolt connecting the hilt to your sigil, and you were just hoping to not get incinerated in the process.

And just like that, the connection was gone, and the relief of your arm no longer being on fire was dimmed by the disappointment as the sword was extinguished, leaving nothing more than a gleaming hilt.

“What happened?” You frowned, eyeing the relic as if searching for an on switch.

“It will take time and training to effectively control your relic.”

“How long?” You looked up when Wong didn’t answer immediately, catching the serious dent in his brow.

“It’s hard to say. No one in living memory has wielded the blade, and it was believed no one ever would.”

Wong gave a heavy sigh.

“So of course, you would be the one to wield it.”

You returned your gaze to the relic and turned over the hilt in your hand, admiring the metal and bone. You wondered if the bone was from a demon, a safe bet considering.

“So.” You carefully put down the hilt and turned to give Bucky your best serious face. “How does it feel to have a wizard girlfriend with a lightsaber?”

Wong rolled his eyes. He knew you well enough by now to know what you were doing, but he didn’t comment on your attempts to over your fear with humor. He muttered something about reporting to Strange as he left the office.

But Bucky…

Worry and fondness conflicted across the bond, struggling to coexist. He stepped forward, the green cloth tunic he’d found in one of the drawers of your room stretched unfairly tight across his chest. It was the largest he could find in a hurry, and it was nearly enough to distract you from your own anxieties.

“I think…” Bucky wrapped his arm around you, drawing you into an embrace that you melted into easily. “That I’m scared for you. I’m confused as hell what this means, and I’m guessing this isn’t going to make your life any easier or less complicated. But… I’m also proud of you.”

You could sense the pride easily, but Bucky was trying to bury the fear that was close to terror. He truly was scared of what this meant. You were too, and the Ancient One’s words weighed heavily on your shoulders.

There was a questioning feeling tugging at your thoughts, and you remembered too late that Bucky could sense the same anxiety, even if he didn’t have all the details. So you smoothed out your tumultuous thoughts and covered them the best way you knew how.

“You say that to all the wizard girlfriends.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“That is what swords do.”

Bucky pulled back far enough to stare at you with narrowed eyes, but when he touched his horns to yours it was with such gentleness that you nearly forgot to breathe. But breathe you did, drinking in his familiar, soothing scent and allowed the tension to drain from your muscle.

“We should head back.” Bucky said after a moment of intimate, comfortable silence in which you finally relaxed. “Got a bastard to catch.”

You reluctantly let go first, knowing he was right and you couldn’t stay here forever. Turning toward the sword hilt, you reached for it and paused. You took a small detour and picked up an old, ratty cloth nearby and carefully wrapped the relic within. Until you had a better grasp of how to wield the sword, it was probably a wiser idea to not handle it directly. You had no idea if it was sentient like Strange’s cloak, and it would be better not to accidentally set it off. Slicing off your own leg was a poor way to convince anyone that you were the next Ancient One.

On your journey back down the halls toward the portal door, Bucky said, “So… what are you going to name it?”

He smiled at your sideways glance.

“All cool swords get a name. It’s kind of a universal rule.”

Maybe you didn’t know Bucky as well as you thought you did, because you had no idea he was such a damn nerd.

“Yeah? You’ll have to bestow all your sword knowledge on me.”

“Is that a sexual innuendo?”

“It is now.”

Bucky’s smile died on his lips when you were no longer at his side. He paused and looked back where you had stopped at the threshold to the portal room.

“What if I can’t do this?” The doorway before you was no longer just a doorway. It was an insurmountable hurdle, and your feet wouldn’t budge from the floor. “What if I fail?”

Bucky approached slow and steady, his expression gentle and fond.

“You won’t. You’re too stubborn to fail.” A warm hand softly cupped your cheek, his human one, and you leaned into it. He laughed silently at your predictable need to be touched, but his expression faded into something more serious. “But on the very slim chance you do, then you get back up and you start again. Just as you always have.”

Your stomach fell. Bucky couldn’t understand what failure meant in your case. You didn’t even know what it meant, but you could guess. If you failed to be the Ancient One everyone needed… then there might not be any second chances.

Bucky wrapped you in his arms one more time, undoubtedly sensing his words of encouragement hadn’t hit as effectively as he’d wanted.

“Whatever this means, you finding that relic… Whatever happens when we find Zemo...” Bucky’s voice was deep in his chest, a rumbling sound that never failed to comfort you. “I’ll be here.”

You returned his embrace, gripping him tightly as you pressed your cheek against his chest.

“I know.”

And you did, too. Bucky would be there for you. Not because he was compelled to be, and not out of a sense of duty or guilt to protect you. He would be by your side by choice.

And that fact made Zemo’s escape, the Ancient One’s words, and your own self-doubt a little easier to bear. Because you and Bucky would weather it.

Together.

“When wounds are healed by love, the scars are beautiful.” –David Bowles

[paperpocalypse]

crackers and jam.

50 Cliché Tropes and Prompts: 41. Overhearing they have feelings for you.

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Word Count: 1,703 words

Warnings: Swearing

Some time back, not long after he got stranded in the post-apocalyptic world and perhaps a year and a half before running into you, Five’s only companion was Delores.

It had been a meeting of chance (as everything is) in the middle of a destroyed department store. She had been looking at him. And maybe that’s why he was so drawn in – that stare; it was a lifeless stare, yeah, but it was not by any means a dead stare like the ones he had met too many times before. No life had been lost to create that stare. She was smiling, too.

Five had lifted her carefully out of the chunks of concrete, greeting her because there was no one else. For the first few weeks, he just placed her at the corner of her store and visited every once in a while, then took to occasionally toting her around the City when he needed to talk. He liked to pretend that she answered back – sometimes. After a few months, he named her Delores.

Then he met you.

Unlike Delores, you were human. Breathing. Alive, somehow. And you had thoughts and feelings that weren’t always connected to his and – and it was weird. It was home.

You didn’t question his friendship with Delores. Five had seen the half-burned stuffed frog in your wagon, so you wouldn’t have had anything to hold over him anyway. He knew that you knew that he still went to the department store in the middle of the night. And, shit, deep down Five also knew that Delores was, in the end, just a hunk of plastic with eyes. But after a year and a half of having nobody else, she had become something of a comfort. And a confidant. Burdening you with his issues was not an option, so when things became a little shittier than usual, he would slip out from underneath his blanket, make sure you weren’t having a nightmare, and head downtown to voice his thoughts aloud.

Over time, though, he learned that you were willing to listen. You listened, and you were always kind about it even if you didn’t always understand. His nightly visits decreased. And it was okay for a while.

But then Five began to struggle with a new issue – one that was a little different than the usual mess of stress and anxiety – and one night, he finds himself looking down at Delores again because talking to you about it is definitely off the table.

Unfortunately, Delores’s kindness is different from yours.

Well, here we are. Again.

“I’m just here to think,” he snaps, combing a grubby hand through his tangled mess of hair. The lantern beside him glows weakly as he plops down onto a slab of concrete. “Mind your business.”

Your business is everyone’s business here, Five. And to put my own two cents in, I think that you’re scared of your own feelings.

Blood travels to Five’s cheeks, unwarranted, as he narrows his eyes at Delores. “For the last time, that’s not what this is about. It’s – Jesus Christ, I’m gonna get over it. This isn’t a life-or-death issue.”

Then why have you been ranting about it like it is?

“I’m not.”

Ha! Rich.

He grits his teeth. She stares back at him, unperturbed. Bastard.

You know, maybe you’ll feel better if you say it out loud. Air it out. Test to see if it’s real.

“I’m not doing that.”

Do it.

No.

Say it.

No.

For god’s sake, Number Five, take a goddamn look at yourself –

“Fine!” Five hisses, though it feels more like an explosion. He throws his hands up. “I like [Y/n], alright? We’re the last people on this goddamn planet and I like them, and I shouldn’t care this much but I do. Happy?”

Delores pauses. Five looks away.

Very.

Ugh.

Did it feel real?

He clicks his tongue, crossing his arms, and doesn’t answer. The smile on Delores’s face seems a little smug, and it makes him want to hurl. He shouldn’t have said it out loud. Relieve some of the pressure and everything starts to boil over …

Breathing in deeply, Five forces his shoulders to relax. He bids a soft goodbye to Delores, then heads back to camp.

—

A week later, Five’s visit comes back to bite him in the worst way possible.

You’ve been having a hard time starting the fire for tonight, so he finishes splitting the evening rations to help you out with the bow drill. As he does so, you watch in silence, both of you waiting patiently for the smoke and dust.

“Do you think we have enough wood?” you eventually ask.  

“It’s enough,” he murmurs, only half paying attention. After a while, a few chalky wisps of smoke begin to rise from the charring wood. He leans in to blow the ember carefully once it forms, then puts it into the tinder and coaxes out a flame. “Get the kindling?”

You oblige, and within a few minutes, a healthy fire starts to dance atop the wood, scorching his face and fingers with heat. Five stares intently at the oranges and yellows for a moment, lips pressed together, intrigued in a tired sort of way. Warmth. Then he backs off and grabs a portion of crumbled up crackers, handing it to you.

You spread the cloth over your knees. “Now all we need is some jam.”

“What kind?”

A soft hum escapes your throat. You contemplate unhurriedly, dabbing up some stray crumbs with a finger. “Blackberry,” you reply after a few moments. “Or strawberry. The kind that’s sort of chunky.”

It’s been a long time since he’s tasted either of those things. The simple thought of whole crackers spread with fresh jam, sweet and dark and sticky, is a luxury in and of itself. Five tries not to think about it too much, munching on his third fragment of stale cracker. It makes his mouth dry. “Hm,” he says, picking up the canteen for a few drops of water.

The fire pops. A few sparks fly out into the air and die just as quickly. You finish your supper and wipe your mouth, stretching your legs out in front of you as you sigh.

Five tilts his head at you. “What?”

“What?” you parrot back, though he sees the way your fingers fidget.

“You have something to say.”

Your facial expression shifts just the smallest bit. “How can you tell?”

(Simple – because he knows you. He knows your ticks; knows how you tick. He knows your smiles and all the subtle ways that your voice rises and falls. He’s memorized you because he fears forgetting, and it’s a problem.)

“Kind of hard not to,” Five replies.

“Oh.” You chew the inside of your cheek, still seeming unsure. “Well, um … I just wanted to talk to you about something. And please don’t be mad.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Um. A couple nights ago, I had a bad dream.”

“I know.”

“Not the one you woke me up from. A different one,” you mutter. “The night after we found the pillows.”

“Oh,” Five says.

“Yeah.” You look down at your hands. They’re dusty and rough, littered with small scars from climbing and falling and holding. “I … um, that night, I woke up and you weren’t there. And I sort of panicked, and went looking –”

The blood drains from Five’s face.

“I went looking for you, and I found you. Talking to her.” You glance at him for a split second. “About me.”

Oh, fuck.

Five stares at you as you fiddle with the scrap of cloth on your lap. You know. You weren’t supposed to know. You weren’t supposed to ever know, and now you do.

“Five?” Your voice is curious and small.

His voice is raspy. “How much did you hear?”

“Almost everything.” You grab the cuff of his coat sleeve as he attempts to stand up. “I’m sorry for eavesdropping. I really didn’t mean to, but –”

“It’s not your fault. Look, I don’t want to talk about it,” he replies tersely. “We need more firewood, anyway.”

“We have enough,” you say, though you relinquish your hold when he tugs a little harder away from you. You sound hurt. “Five, it’s okay to feel like that.”

“It’s not. It makes things more complicated.”

“How?” Standing up, your brow furrows. “I like you too, Five. If that’s what you’re worried about.”

His chest tightens. “That just makes it worse.”

“I like you,” you repeat. Your hand moves down to take his gently. “A lot. And it’s okay.”

(Did it feel real?)

Five meets your gaze solidly despite not quite wishing to, a familiar sense of guilt washing over him when you squeeze his hand.

Sometimes, he wishes he hadn’t met you. Then he would’ve gotten what he deserved for his recklessness – nothing – with nothing to concern himself with other than equations and survival and time. That, he’s fairly sure, would have been easier to manage. He hadn’t been taught to care for someone else. Not like this, at least.

But you. You. Five swallows the lump in his throat.

“I might have to leave you behind,” he murmurs, more hoarsely than he’d like to admit. The words burn like ice on the roof of his mouth. “One day.”

You don’t reply for a few seconds.

Then, for some inexplicable reason, you step a little closer. “But not tonight," you say. "Right?”

For shit’s sake, you’re so optimistic. Five chuckles dryly, hand still engulfed in yours, blinking away the vague stinging in his eyes. “Of course not.”

“Then I forgive you. If you feel like you need it.” With a mild exhale, you smile at him. Your eyes are glossy. “So can we sit back down? I like doing that.”

He quietly agrees.

So you bring him back down to sit before the fire, closer to him than before. No more words are left to be said. A heavy silence settles in their place, neither good nor bad, and almost comfortable. For the first time in a long time, Five tries not to think.

You lean against his shoulder. He welcomes it.

[lemonlillybee]

Whumptober Day 28

Title: It’s Just the Tip of the Iceberg 

Prompt: Headache @whumptober

Fandom: Spider-Man (MCU)

Word Count: 913

A/N: I also used this tumblr prompt and will be expanding this drabble to a longer story that will be posted next month

Read on AO3

It’s not all bad, at first.

At first, becoming Spider-Man is the best thing that’s ever happened to Peter Parker. He doesn’t hate his life, but he doesn’t love it, either, and when he gets bitten by a radioactive spider and gains the ability to climb walls, he feels like he maybe finally has a purpose beyond getting stuffed into his locker on a daily basis. 

The strength alone is both incredible and dizzyingly terrifying. He knows what kind of  things he could do with this kind of strength, and it doesn't seem like a high schooler should really have that kind of power. He likes the power, though. The spider bite does things to his body that make him feel powerful, and alive, and when he starts to use it to help people in his neighborhood it makes him feel as if he can finally see a future for himself that doesn’t depend on how much money his aunt doesn’t have.

It also means that he has to keep secrets from his aunt and he’s always cold and he gets beat up at school by Flash and also at night by thugs in dark alleyways when he makes a mistake. It means he has to sneak around at school to make web fluid and hide stab wounds and pretend like he can’t do push ups in P.E. It means he has to constantly eat food to fuel his new body. 

It takes him a while to adjust to his new metabolism. 

May can’t afford to feed a regular teenager, let alone a superpowered one, so he tries to get by on cheap ramen and dry cereal and canned vegetables and goes to bed so hungry his stomach feels like it’s trying to eat itself. 

Sometimes, he gets free food from people he helps when he’s Spider-Man. Today, he gets a hotdog and a bag of chips from a man who dropped his keys into a storm drain and he swings home to eat the meal. He can hear May out in the kitchen as he shoves the food into his face and quickly changes out of his suit.

“Peter? Is that you? Are you home?”

He dashes out of his room and finds her packing her bag for work.

“Hi, May,” he greets her, and she pulls him into a quick hug, kissing the side of his head and laughing when he rolls his eyes and ducks away.

“I’ll make you something for dinner before I head out,” she says, going to the pantry and rummaging around for a moment. Peter knows there isn’t anything in there though, because they haven’t gone grocery shopping for the week yet. 

“I already ate!” He says, and May pops her head around the pantry door to raise an eyebrow at him.

“When?” 

“With Ned,” he says, and it isn’t a complete lie because he sat with Ned during lunch earlier at school. 

May nods and looks like she might say something else, but then she checks the time on her phone and grabs her bag and kisses Peter’s head again and he calls out “I larb you too, May” after her as she leaves and it’s the exact same conversation they have every day.   

Every day, for six months, he marvels in his new powers and helps people in the city and tries to eat enough food to not pass out. 

And then, Tony Stark comes into his life.

After Germany, he starts to patrol more. He burns more energy. And Tony Stark– Iron Man– feeds him. And at first, it’s great. It’s perfect. It’s exactly what his body needs. He gets whole pizzas to himself and he finds snacks in his backpack and there’s suddenly money in his lunch account at school. He has a few bumps in the road, sure, and makes a few mistakes, but being Spider-Man is the best thing that ever happened to him and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

Then, the headaches start.

One year into being Spider-Man, Peter starts to discover the bad things. Keeping secrets starts to get messy. Ned finds out, and he doesn’t tell anyone about his secret, but he does start to ask questions and Peter doesn’t know if he wants to share all of the answers.

Some days, he skips lunch and some days, he eats enough food to feed an army and it still isn’t enough, and every single day he’s just really, really fucking tired of having to think about food all the time. He gets a headache when he doesn't eat enough. He gets a headache when Tony makes him eat every few hours. 

When May finds out about Spider-Man, and about his metabolism, the guilt is almost too much for Peter to take. She tries to get a second job. She and Tony argue for hours on end about who should pay for the food Peter eats. They scream at each other. Peter screams at them both, but they don’t listen to him. He just has to listen to them. 

If he has to listen to May or Tony or even Ned nag him about eating one more time, he’s going to explode. 

So, Peter does what he does best. He hides as much as he can. He hides injuries. He hides how weak he’s starting to get. He hides the headaches. He lies about eating. 

He tries not to explode. 

He’s one meal away from exploding.