#but she still likes to embroider and animate her little objects and he likes to sing for her and make her laugh

[nejackdaw]

Sometimes I like to think about Charlotte showing up at the fort and she and Celann just stare at each other for a minute baffled. This has been an incredible way to further develop Charlotte but I keep coming back to

Charlotte: your hair got long

Celann: yours got short

(Their hair is nearly the same length as each other's)

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

Overindulgent father Astarion who tells his children they’re allergic to any kind of jewellery that isn’t made of the highest grade Dwarven crafted gold. 

It’s not even because Astarion might have a certain aversion to silver, no, he just raises his children to have standards, thank you very much. 

And it doesn’t end with shiny things, oh no… 

The Ancunín brood is known to be dressed in perfectly woven cotton, silk and soft leather clothes, no matter the occasion.

They’re seen playing with expensive toys, reading artfully illustrated books that certainly belong behind thick glass, not in children’s sticky hands. 

There’s even talk that one of the children is not as naturally inclined to music as his parents claim him to be, surely his lyre must be enchanted—the instrument certainly looks extravagant enough! 

And then there’s always this air of effortless haughtiness surrounding the Ancunín children whenever their nannies and servants are parading them through town as if they were perfect little dolls; objects to show off the wealth their parents acquired in quite the mysterious ways. 

So, it’s no secret that Astarion and Tav are pampering their children—some might say they’re even spoiling them rotten. 

And maybe they are, especially Astarion.

But he doesn’t see why he should raise them any other way, nor does he want to.  

When it comes to his children, Astarion has his own standards, and as long as Tav agrees with him nothing really matters. 

Because, these people, they don’t know anything about the Ancuníns. 

They don’t know that it’s not unusual for Astarion to wash out dirt and mud and strawberry stains from comically small finery, leaving behind only the memories of a day spent playing in the garden, chasing after ducks, picking flowers, lazing in the sun…

That any holes and tears the children’s clothes might suffer are quickly mended, making them look as good as new in no time. 

Nor do they know that Astarion doesn’t mind fashioning a brand new dress to match that of a favourite doll, either. Or to embroider a pretty vest with the likeness of that stray cat the children seem to adore, although their father would rather they don’t touch the mangy animal. 

No, those people know nothing at all...

“Not tired!” Astarion’s youngest cries; the vehement denial of her father’s earlier accusation is cut short by a telltale yawn.

The room still smells of fragrant lavender oil and peaches even when the bath water has already grown tepid, just one or two degrees above what Astarion would consider too cold to be enjoyable. 

Amused, he raises an eyebrow at the protesting toddler before he lifts her out of the copper bathtub with little effort. 

By now, he knows every step of this game.

“Tut-tut, my dear child, what did mama and I say?” Astarion kneels, quickly wrapping a soft towel around the child to keep her warm. “We only tell lies outside of this house.”

Unfazed by her father’s gentle scolding, the girl crosses her arms that haven’t yet lost their puppy fat across her chest, reminding Astarion a little too much of a very displeased Tav. 

Suppressing a sigh, he leans back to consider the pouting child, wondering what could possibly be upsetting her this time—the list is growing longer by the day, after all. 

“What’s the matter, dear?” Astarion asks gently, hoping it’s something easily fixable as it’s growing rather late. 

“Want apple!”

Decades ago, Astarion might’ve rolled his eyes—he knows exactly which stupid apple the child wants, it’s been haunting him all day—but once he started to treat his children’s problems as if they were his own, his life has grown somewhat easier. 

“Why, let’s get an apple on our way to bed, then. Would that be alright, Your Highness?” 

The girl promptly nods her head, allowing Astarion to pat her hair dry before dressing her in a clean night dress. 

She rests her cheek against her father’s shoulder as he carries her first to the kitchen to grab a fragrant apple and a knife, then to her bedroom where they settle on the cosy window seat, just like they do every night.

Soft moonlight is pouring through the windows; the child giggles at the way the knife’s blade is catching the silver light as Astarion peels and cuts the apple into even pieces.

“Here you go,” he finally says, giving the slice of apple one last examining look before surrendering it to the impatient little hands reaching for it. “A sweet treat for my little sweet. Doesn’t it taste so much better when we don’t eat it off the floor, darling?” And when it’s not crawling with ants…

The appeased toddler nibbles at the juicy fruit as Astarion carefully combs through her still-damp curls. 

Her hair’s getting long, he notices, knowing that taking care of it will become more time-consuming each day. 

Once, Astarion would’ve thought this task tedious, brushing out hair that’s not his own, oiling and braiding it for no other reason than knowing his children enjoy him doing it. 

But that’s why he loves doing it in the first place, he supposes.

Astarion can tell by his toddler’s heartbeat that sleep is about to claim her. 

The half-eaten slice of apple is still clutched in her little fist as he cradles the child to his chest, slowly rising from the window seat to put her to bed. 

He’s just about to lay the child down that the fruit drops to the floor, his daughter’s tiny hand clutching at his shirt instead.

“Thank you, papa,” she mumbles, more asleep than awake.

Astarion pauses.

He breathes in the clean, yet unique scent of the little girl that is forever engraved in his brain, the same way he knows under which exact constellation she was born. When she took her first steps, what her first word was. Soon, he will have to memorise her favourite colour, and what she likes to eat when dirty apples won’t be that appealing anymore. 

By now, Astarion knows this game by heart, knows that with every year that passes, he has something new to learn about his children.

And sometimes he wonders what it’s like to grow up with clean bed sheets and full bellies. Sleep filled with naught but warmth and happy memories. Ever open doors and tears that are dried by tender kisses. Living in a house where mistakes and anger are welcomed, safe. 

He wonders what it’s like for his children to know that their father’s love comes without conditions. Not now and not ever. 

Sitting down on the bed, Astarion holds his youngest a little closer to his chest, unwilling to let go of her, yet. 

He’s often accused of spoiling his children when most people can only just grasp the very surface of his love for them, the bare minimum of what he feels for his one and only, precious family. 

These baseless accusations are as unimportant to Astarion as the people voicing them.

He’s raising his children to have standards, wants them to take their father’s love for granted, to accept nothing less but pure devotion.

It’s the only way Astarion knows how to love them, the only way that comes most naturally to him. 

Astarion looks down at his little girl, now fast asleep, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. 

After all these years—all these children—he’s still in awe watching them sleep in his arms as if no harm in the world could ever befall them.

And it won’t—not if Astarion can help it. 

“No, thank you, my heart,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against the crown of the toddler’s head. 

When it comes to his children, Astarion holds himself to the highest standard.

[punsmaster69]

9/JAN/20XX

been a minute since i stayed in my room all day by myself.

once upon a time, that was a pretty common occurrence.

and maybe i still won't, but it's how i've spent today so far.

feels a bit different now that i'm actually lifted off the ground.

while stretching out as much as i could, i accidentally knocked something off the bed with my foot. lazily rolling over to see what it was, there was no real intention in me to get up and grab it.

a stuffed plush of a bear laid pathetically on its face.

i glanced back at the other stuffed animals on the end of my bed.

"...but these ones feel special for some reason."

"must be the fabric quality."

..that's what i'd thought the day she won them for me, right?

they're not particularly notable in quality, in honesty.

still, they do feel special.

sliding off the bed and landing on my feet next to the bear, i lifted it to meet my face.

the stuffed animal's beady eyes, obscured partially by fur, returned my stare.

"you're only special because of her, huh?"

i can tell myself i'm not a stuffed animal person.

i'm not the type.

i'm not a sentimental guy.

and it'd probably be true,

if it weren't for her.

the other plush creatures had been arranged by size at the foot of my bed, resting against the baseboard.

the doing of a neater skeleton than i.

and, the un-doing of a messier skeleton than he.

sitting myself in front of the wrecked arrangement, i tried to recreate how they had been previously.

two equally exaggeratedly fat animals start the line off at the largest size - differently colored chickens.

floor bear is the dead-center of the grouping. it's got longer brown fur and a small gold ribbon tied into bow around its neck. the bow and the animal's eyes are somewhat obscured by the fur length.

then, a creature i can't quite determine between raccoon and squirrel which it might be.

either or, whatever that one is has a little fall cardigan on.

smallest, final of the line, is a something that is decidedly not an animal.

stuffed shape is more fitting, it being a heart; that kind of semi-shiny, soft material.

"I never want to be ap-heart!"

reads the front.

the embroidered font is fancy and silvery.

texturally, the words are rough.

really, they're the exact quality one expects from festival booth prizes.

so to be displayed on the end of my bed like this...

it's more a sentiment to the memory surrounding them.

another day like that would be nice. can admit to myself now that i really would enjoy it.

friends can s

the festival setting in particular isn't quite the part i'm thinking about.

where around here could we

....

properly seated, the stuffies feel like an audience in a way i hadn't noticed before.

on the other hand, putting them anywhere but on my bed feels like disrespect.

for now, i'll turn them the other way.

——

turning them away feels wrong in a way i'm not sure i could specify if i tried, so i rotated the bear back to me.

it's a show of innocence.

of normal-ness.

friendshipness.

(the friendship-adjectives are getting out of hand.)

i held my hands up to further prove to the inanimate object that innocence.

i put them back down because hands don't have anything to do with this.

"you're a gift from a friend. no other way to see it."

not entirely sure at this point whether it was really the bear i was convincing - or entirely sure why i was bothering doing this to begin with - i moved on.

...

i already noted the amount of "friendship" adjectives i've been coming up with over time to excuse things.

𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴.

sure.

unspecific enough.

"friendship" is a nice label you can put over things that you don't wanna give any 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 labels to.

labels feel like making a choice.

labels feel concrete.

labels feel like 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.

and, uh.

you know something?

never have been the kind of guy to act first.

another thing calling it "friendship" is good for is...

can't call it "cowardice" when i won't vocalize (or similar) what's occupying my mind

if it's still called "friendship."

maybe the fact that i'm trying to justify it at all should bring light to somethin'...

but that kind of self awareness is reserved for therapy calls.

and i'm hanging up the phone for now.

[freedomarrow]

"Good afternoon, Leonardo. Keeping well, I hope." Elincia holds an object behind her back, careful to keep it out of sight. The sheepish expression on her face gives her motives away far too easily though, along with the pale pink flush on her cheeks. She had never been skilled in deception, no matter the circumstances. "I want to apologise, it's a little later than planned but I couldn't simply ignore your birthday." Shifting uncomfortable on her feet, she slowly presents him the surprise she'd kept hidden.

It's a bunny rabbit. Not a live, wiggling one of course! It would be reckless to spring an animal on someone who may not wish to or be in a position to care for it. Rather, it's a stuffed animal, plush with cotton inside and extra squishy. She's a little embarrassed that some of her stitches can still be seen despite her best efforts to hide him but she is proud of his golden, crocheted scarf, embroidered with a little deer at the ends.

"He took a little longer to finish than I planned and I couldn't well offer him up headless. What on earth would that imply?" Nervously, she offers it to Leonardo with awkward laughter, hoping the gift doesn't seem insulting. That she hasn't committed an awful faux pas here. They'd had little time to speak, to find common ground and yet... the image of them both in that field of rabbits is etched into her mind. Maybe it's an olive branch, an offer of friendship extended with great sincerity.

"Happy belated birthday. I er... hope you like it. But if you don't, I'm terribly sorry. Please, do with it whatever you see fit."

Elincia's voice catches Leonardo off-guard, surprise clear on his face as he turns to look at her upon hearing his name - though he masks it quickly with a light, courteous smile. "I am, thank you. I hope so are you," he responds.

She brings up his birthday, and his brow quirks ever so slightly - oh. It has now been a couple days, and he had expected everyone to move on to the more important daily matters by now. To learn that she had spent so much time preparing something for him, makes him... well, a mixture of embarrassed, flustered, grateful and curious.

He cannot help but feel his smile brighten up, however, as she presents the gift to him; a stuffed rabbit plushie, soft to the touch, reminiscent of some of the earliest memories of his carefree childhood. "You made this by hand?... It's so cute," he chuckles, looking over it as it arrives to his hands, before holding it close to his chest similarly to how he would a puppy.

"There is no need to apologize, or anything," he assures her quickly. He is not entirely certain why she would feel the need to apologize to him - treating him like a child, perhaps? He does not see it that way and he would not mind a chance to finally be one again, if only for a moment, really. "I love it... And I appreciate you spent so much time on this for me. Thank you."

The smile he gives Elincia as he says it is the warmest one she has received from him yet. Maybe he could finally accept that it is time to move on from what once was.

[catchydesignhillstuff]

Meet the 21 Sherman Teddy Bear Your New Cuddle Companion!@Zazzle #zazzle...

🧸 Hurry! 15% off all Sherman Teddy Bears with code JUNE24SAVING 🎉 Make someone's day special with our lovable and soft bears! 🐻💕 SnugglePal Sherman Teddy Bear https://bit.ly/4ctsWcc CuddleMate Sherman Teddy Bear https://bit.ly/3VW01Zc CozyHug Sherman Teddy Bear https://bit.ly/4cR7Fd1 ======================================== #ShermanTeddyBear, #SoftTeddy, #SafeToys, #TeddyBear, #PlushToys, #ToyReview, #TeddyBearLove, #KidsToys, #CuddlyToys, #PlushieLove, #ToyUnboxing, #TeddyBearCollection, #LuxuryToys, #ChildrensGifts, #SoftPlushies Meet the 21" Sherman Teddy Bear: Your New Cuddle Companion! Intro Hey everyone, welcome back to the channel! you ever wondered why no matter how old we get, a teddy can still bring a smile to our face? Today, we're diving into the world of ted bears, specifically a superstar in the plush toy world - the 21" Sherman Teddy Bear. Whether you're a collector or looking for the comforting gift, stick around as we explore why this teddy bear is more than just a stuffed animal. Main Content Let's start with the basics. The Sherman Teddy Bear comes in three sizes - small at 11'', medium at 17", and the star of today's video, the large at 21". Now, what makes this bear so unique? First off, it’s the attention to detail.@Zazzle #zazzlemade #personalizedgifts The eyes and nose of the Sherman Teddy Bear are carefully embroidered. This not only enhances the bear's adorable expression but also ensures safety and durability for younger fans. Moving on, let's talk about the contrasting tan fur on its snout and ears. This gives it a distinct look that stands out from many other teddy bears on the market. And then there's the feel of the bear - it's exceptionally soft, almost like hugging a cloud. Imagine coming home after a long day and just sinking into a warm, plush hug from Sherman. But why do we love teddy bears so much? It turns out, teddy bears often serve as comfort objects that remind us of home or a peaceful time. Psychologists suggest that cuddling a teddy bear can release serotonin and oxytocin, reducing stress and anxiety. Isn’t it amazing how powerful a simple toy can be? For those who love customization, the Sherman Teddy Bear doesn't disappoint. You can personalize it! Think of a sweet message or a name embroidered on the bear, making it the perfect gift for birthdays, anniversaries, or even as a get-well-soon buddy. Now, let me tell you a story about Samantha. Samantha is a viewer just like you who purchased a 21" Sherman Teddy Bear for her grandmother. Her grandmother, living alone, often felt lonely and disconnected. When she received Sherman, with 'Love, Samantha' embroidered on its foot, she felt a wave of love and connection, despite the physical distance between them. This story beautifully illustrates the emotional bond that can be fostered through such a heartfelt gift. Wrapping up with a fun fact - did you know that the first teddy bear was created in honor of President Theodore Roosevelt? After a bear hunting trip in 1902 where he refused to shoot a bear cub, toymakers were inspired to create a bear and named it 'Teddy' after him. The teddy bear has since become a symbol of care and companionship worldwide. Outro Alright, folks, that wraps up our journey into the cuddly world of the 21" Sherman Teddy Bear. If today's video made you smile or rekindled your love for teddy bears, don't forget to hit like and share this video with someone who could use a little bit of plush happiness in their life. Do you have a teddy bear with a special story? Share it in the comments below; I’d love to hear about it. Don't forget to subscribe for more delightful content. Thanks for watching, and remember, you're never too old for a teddy bear! ==================================== #teddybear, #plushies, #teddybearcollection, #stuffedanimals, #plushielove, #teddybearlove, #handmadeteddybear, #collectibletoys, #teddybearhistory, #teddybearmaking, #bestteddybears, #teddybeargifts, #kidstoys, #teddybears, #antiqueteddybears

[oc-aita]

AITA for not wanting to get my belt dirty?

Context una: I (28, M) happen to be part of a certain group with some people I'll be calling JB (29, M), AC (32, M), CZ (56, M), PA (35-ish?, M), and LK (24, F), with PA being the "leader". We live separate lives for the most part, but we share a career that requires us to also share a vehicle, the Battle Van (26, Chevy G20).

Context dooey: out of this group, I consider JB and LK to be my best friends, but the problem is that they fucking hate each other. LK is Russian, and the rest of us are either American, Canadian, or whatever PA is, but I personally think the hostility is less about JB not trusting Europeans, more about LK being an open Stalin apologist. I honestly don't care, though.

Context tray: at the time of the incident, I had recently purchased this absolutely wonderful light tan Maroquin belt with a neat little embroidered herringbone pattern on the edges that not only goes perfectly with my favourite pair of shoes, but is also exactly the right width for most of my clip-on knife holsters.

Anyways, as I was going to say, we'd just barely managed to drive out of Chicago after the whole thing with the museum (you've probably heard about it on the news), and we had pulled the Battle Van over on the side of a back road due to a little scuffle we had with a police vehicle (long story short, AC and I were trying to steal the Cubs bumper sticker using a claw on a stick, and the cop got out and said some objectionable things to PA).

We'd found a public cottage, and we were having a little argument about whether we should dump the lacoddy out back, destroy it, or frame it as a suicide. Something about pigs (as in the animal) came up, I don't remember what was said for certain, but, anyways, it led to LK biting out old Lilly Law's jugular vein.

So then LK started choking, so CZ (who's kind of like her adopted father or something?) jabbed her in the chest with his cane a few times, which dislodged what she was choking on, which was the cop's badge. It bounced off the floor a few times, then fell down an open grate on the floor. PA, who'd been trying to make the bite wound look more like a gunshot wound (y'know, so suicide still looked like an option), made JB run out to the Battle Van for the claw on a stick, grabbed it out of his fambles, and told me to take off my belt.

I asked why, and he said he wanted to use it to fish the badge out of the sewer through the grate so as to return it to the corpse. JB objected, saying to give it to him for his badge collection instead. I said no to the both of them, just as they were about to start shouting at each other, because I loved this belt and it was expensive, and no way was I about to dip it in some manky fucking sewer (LK couldn't join the argument because she was still wheezing on the floor, and CZ had gone outside to take some ibuprofen, and AC was busy trying to position the cop on his lallies so that he was face-down in the urinal, so it was just us three).

We kept arguing, and I got so mad I tried to stab PA in the face, but I luckily missed in the heat of the moment and stabbed the air in his empty ogle socket. We only wound up shutting up because CZ came back in to tell us he'd just watched someone steal one of our tires, so JB started yelling at him instead about why he didn't do anything about it.

How we got our tire back is another story, but the whole belt thing never really had a conclusion, so, if you don't mind me asking: am I the asshole?

[starryevermore]

✍🏼 can you do a headcanon of bringing alpine home and bucky is not happy about it but he ends up loving that cat with everything in him?

here kitty kitty

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

word count: 530

warnings: fluff, bucky pretends he doesn't like alpine, pet name (doll)

note: whoops i missed this was supposed to be a head canon, but a blurb's just as good 😅

Bucky had a strict "no pet" policy. He just wasn't an animal guy, he said. But you thought that was complete and utter bullshit. The man melted when Sarah got AJ and Cass a dog. He loved playing with the kitties at the local florist whenever he'd pick you up a bouquet. Hell, he even loved talking to birds (but he'd insist to Sam that birds are objectively the worst animal). Bucky Barnes was an animal person, even if he refused to admit it.

Besides, he'd definitely like this kitty.

Alpine, as the shelter had named her, was the absolute sweetest kitty. You had gone in with no intent on adopting, just wanting to play with some of the animals they had. It was a good stress relief for you, and it was a lot of fun for the sweet fur babies. But when the little white fluff ball kept crawling into your lap, purring contently as you pet her, you knew she'd already won over your heart.

Now, she just had to win over Bucky's.

And you had perfect plan on how to do it.

"What's that?" he grumbled, his eyes narrowing at the kitty.

"This is Alpine, and she's gonna be your best friend," you said, holding her up to Bucky. She let out a quiet meow as she tried to wriggle out of your hands and into Bucky's arms. "She already likes you. Which means she's got good taste."

"I said no pets, doll," he said.

"And Alpine isn't a pet. She's a friend. If anything, she's more like a daughter."

"Doll..."

You pouted. "Just give it a shot, please?"

"...fine."

"Oh, and don't forget, I'm gonna be outta town for Nat's bachelorette party this weekend, so you and Alpine will have plenty of time to bond!"

When you got back Sunday evening, you were fully expecting to see Bucky still pouting about your new baby. You never expected to see what you walked into.

The entire apartment was decked out in cat toys and cat trees, and everything cat themed. You almost wondered if Bucky had become a crazy cat lady while you were gone. He must've bought every single thing Alpine could've ever wanted from the pet store. The kitty was being treated like a goddamn princess.

And Bucky himself? He'd gotten a custom sweatshirt that read "Ask Me About My Cat" with a little white kitty in the likeness of Alpine embroidered just below the words.

"Well, well, well," you said, crossing your arms and staring down at him as he cradled Alpine in his arms. "What do we have here?"

"I'm just cuddling my baby, doll," he said.

"And here I thought you didn't like cats."

"Now where'd you get an idea like that from?" he teased. "I've always liked cats. You know that, doll."

"Sure, I'll pretend I believe that," you said. "Now tell Alpine to move over. She's been spoiled enough with your lovin'. It's my turn now."

"No need to fight doll, there's plenty of Bucky lovin' to go around!" he laughed, opening his arms and letting you curl into his side. "I love you."

"And I love you too."

[astrolabe-blade]

Fuck it, here. Have a list of some hobby headcanons.

Blue: (he/she)

Loves dancing. Tends to do more theatrical or ballet styles.

Likes to birdwatch

Good at engineering and mechanics as well as forging.

I'd imagine he makes a lot of cool trinkets and machines by hand. DEFINITELY looks up to clock makers.

Also a fan of biology and other natural sciences!

An Artist(tm) that tends to do more environment or technical drawings. Lots of patience when it comes to her craft!

Loves to cook! Excellent presentation.

Sings, but is very shy about it.

Writes, despite what some may think. The short stories and poetry she writes are very real and raw.

Her passion comes through loud and clear no matter what she works on.

Red: (he/she/they)

Crafts all sorts of things!

Loves knitting and crochet. Sometimes helps Vio with sewing.

Their room is FULL of origami, papercraft, art supplies, and yarn.

Big fan of painting! Paints whatever their heart desires. Focuses on how things feel rather than how they look.

Enjoyer of trinkets and miniatures.

Bakes! Excellent at decorating cakes and other baked goods!

Singer and songwriter. Plays kalimba, ocarina, and pan flute.

Gets into Yoga and Gymnastics. Is incredibly flexible. Definitely creeps people out on purpose with this fact.

Loves horses and animals. Frequently helps out at the castle stables.

Dances to her own beat. No true "style", just having fun with the rhythm.

Learns fire magic and healing magic. Will put on little magic shows for kids (both using actual magic and stage magic).

Green: (he/they)

Avid hiker

Knows a LOT about physical geography. It's a special interest for him. (Did you know that when a tree falls it creates pits and mounds that usually persist even after it decomposes? You can tell how big the root structure was based on the depth.)

Woodcarving, whittling, etc are some things he really enjoys. Started getting training in carpentry in his free time!

Climbs trees, forgetting he is afraid of heights. Keeps a Roc's Cape on hand in case he ever falls.

Pretty dang good at guitar. Definitely the sort to play around a campfire on a camping trip.

Loudest whistler. Sometimes goes bird watching with Blue and does imitations of birds they find.

LOVES bugs.

Tends to draw more comical or abstract drawings. Very stylized and feels fluid and light. Learns a lot about anatomy from Vio.

Excellent at horseback riding, will frequently go on rides with Red.

Vio: (they/them)

Sews a lot of their own clothes. Trained under Ilyana, the local eccentric tailor.

Embroidery! Enjoys embroidering flowers and various insects.

Loves bugs, but still gets freaked out or startled by them from time to time. Typically lets Green do the handling.

Writer! Enjoys poetry and prose. Rarely dialogue heavy. Loves reading romance, but shys away from writing it.

Favorite genres to read are adventure and romance. Yes, even the cheesy kind.

Big astronomy fan. They commission Blue to make them a astrolabe and they cherish it.

While Blue gives them cooking lessons, they aren't that great at it.

Damn good at rock climbing.

Interested in anatomy. Does figure drawing and studies of the human form.

Learns about medicine, herbology, and alchemy, with the objective of healing ailments or wounds.

What might make some people squeemish has no affect on them. The body is a fascinating mechanism in all aspects.

Studies magic with Red and gets help from Shadow. Earth based and darkness based are their specialties.

Shadow: (they/it)

When writing, it's more chaotic and less structured. Damn good at horror. Frequently does short dark comedies. Their vent works rip your heart out.

When painting, it tends to be more abstract and a way to release and process their emotions. They do from time to time make satirical work that's dark but can't help but make you laugh.

Loves space. Doesn't know much about the scientific aspect, but will always go stargazing with Vio. The dark world doesn't have stars, and to think that these little balls of light are thousands of miles away is awe-inspiring.

Definitely loves sci-fi. Would love to explore other worlds.

Can't stay in one place for too long. Frequently goes to explore.

Amused by things people might consider gross. Toads, milipedes, snakes, spiders. One time it snuck a toad into Blue's bedroll. It didn't go so well for them.

Once they get used to the light, they find sunrises awe-inspiring. Will frequently sit up on the roof of Hyrule Castle and watch it come up above the mountains.

Finds psychology fascinating. Actually gives really good personal advice. (Therapy helped them a lot and it became an interest after.)

They actually really like helping people. They'd never admit it though.

They ALSO really like pulling pranks, though that's a given.

Enjoys making cookies of various sorts. Famous for its peanut butter banana cookies, with slices of banana baked on top.

Frequently will trade baked goods with Red.

Will help Blue with welding (They need a magically enhanced welding mask, though!) as well as forging.

Also very much enjoys dance. Does more energetic and gravity defying styles.

Zelda/Sheik: (she/they and he/they)

Chemist and alchemist. Very much looks like a mad scientist at work. Goggles on and a fierce grin as the potion she's making releases a big poof of purple gas.

Astronomy and astrology, shares her observations with Vio.

Damn good at fortune telling, even without tapping into Hylia's powers. She reads cards, tea leaves, bones, as well as runes.

Also a damn good climber. He excels at parkour and frequently pulls outrageous stunts. He's quite a thrill seeker.

Even does stunts on horseback.

Absolutely insane.

Like. Just picture it. Wow.

Really good at gambling games. Whether or not they cheat is up for debate. They don't gamble for money, however. Just for fun with friends. When they do earn money, they give it away to those who need it.

Fantastic dancer, both at more energetic styles and ballroom. Can both lead and follow.

Goes out exploring with the Links every chance they get.

Too daring for their own good at times.

I heard that Princess Zelda has an eight pack. That Princess Zelda is shreaded.

She looks and acts so fucking regal that you would never expect she's as much of a gremlin as the others.

She even pulls pranks with Shadow from time to time.

LOVES acting and being dramatic. She and Shadow get along SO well in this aspect.

[gamerbearmira]

*steeples fingers* would you mind telling me more about either the encanto asoue au or the jack and the cuckoo clock heart au (or both? i’m fascinated! you’ve got such good ideas here)

I'll do both! I'm so glad you love the ideas :))

A Series of Unfortunate Events AU:

The Madrigal Orphans. I altered their ages a bit but I digress. No Gifts, but skilled in a certain area.

Isabela, The Botanist: Well versed in Botany, can also put together on site medical cures with the right supplies.

Dolores, the Sound Engineer: Able to use/invent Sound based objects to her advantage.

Luisa, the Athlete: Naturally Strong and athletic, quick on her feet. Can carry Camilo, Mirabel and Antonio at once.

Camilo, the Chef and Disguiser: Good at disguises, the best at cooking out of all of them, can make meals from very little food.

Mirabel, the Seamstress: Able to sew with unnatural speed and talent, she can invent things on the spot. (She's the one who embroidered her own dress and everyone's clothes.)

Antonio: Able to read an animal's body language and use them to his advantage, good at building.

So the children were on the beach, and they were going around, exploring on the gloomy day. Same as before Mr. Poe tells them Casita was on fire and their parents and abuela died in the fire. (Bruno wasn’t there but he’s important later.) So they do go to live with Count Olaf (still deciding whether I should change his name or not.)

The Justice Strauss of this AU is Bruno! He disappeared off the map for a while and no one knows what happened. It's not until later do they figure out that they are genuinely related to him and it's a race against their entire situation of them trying to convince Mr. Poe that Bruno's their uncle. The Quagmire of this AU is: Mariano! I decided to make it just him though, no triplets or twins or anything.

Also, Isabela isn't mean to Mirabel, they are quite close. They are all actually pretty close. Each orphan is an expert in their interests (listed above.) I also made Camilo the cook too, I just think he spent a lot of time in the kitchen. Also, Antonio can speak, but not very well. When he does make remarks, much like Sunny, they're usually very salty/sarcastic. Difference is he speaks it in Spanish, so no one except the orphans, Bruno, and the Hooked-Handed Man can understand him.

All the events keep going the same, with them figuring out the VFD, the sugar bowl etc. This AU is still pretty new so I don't have much, but I hope you're happy with the info I've got now!

Jack and the Cuckoo-Clock Heart AU:

So Antonio was caught up in a really bad snowstorm from Pepa. Julieta can't heal him amd the other doctors say he'll be gone by the end of the night. Mirabel is NOT down with that. So when no one is looking, she takes him to the clockwork woman; the only other person in the encanto with some kind of medical knowledge.

The clockwork woman replaces Antonio's heart and tells both her and Antonio the 3 rules. This leads to problems with the family. They're happy he's back (if not a little mad at Mirabel for taking him away). Mirabel tells them the rules but they seem to brush them off at first. This leads him almost dying on several occasions.

Abuela is constantly trying to touch his clock, trying to figure out how it works and if he'll ever be normal again. Julieta and Agustin are too busy to be around him. Pepa and Felix produce too much electricity, which can stop his heart, so he can't be around them for long. Isabela's plants get too close to his hands. Luisa is just scared she'll accidently crush him, so she avoids him. Camilo gets him too excited with his stories and it overworks his clock hands and gears, causing him to smoke.

The only ones who he consistently sees is Mirabel and Dolores. Dolores finds the "tick tock" of his heart is calming. Mirabel is his primary and pretty much sole caretaker. She watches over him and keeps him in check. All of his time is spent with her, usually playing with the kids, Mirabel as a supervisor. She also custom makes his clothes to fit around his heart. She teaches him everything and generally is just a mother to him.

His heart doesn't stop cause he fell in love romantically. It stopped because his bond with Mirabel is so strong, that it caused him to spin out of control. (But that's for another ask...)

---

Feel free to ask more about these ask more about these AU's, Mamabel, Papatonio, Housebroken or any other AU's you find on this blog!

I also take art suggestions for these AU's (+Cocooned!)

You can also suggest an AU idea and I'll write for it best I can :)

[chudleycanonficfest]

Day 30, Post 1 by @blimeypeople

Hi! This is my first time writing a fiction story in English (I'm not a native english speaker) and it's unbetaed :(  If you have time to spot something wrong or if this story doesn't make any sense, just let me know, pretty please?

Thanks for hosting this fest. You're all so awesome!

---

Title: Don’t run, please.

Author: blimey,people

Pairing: Ron/Hermione

Prompt: Parenthood

Rating: G

Hermione Granger-Weasley really thought her life was perfect, that she had achieved everything she wanted and made her heart happy: she had a husband who loved her, a job she enjoyed, saw her friends and family whenever she could (well Sunday lunches at The Burrow were an unwritten rule but she enjoyed them a lot), but then what was she doing running through the corridors of the Ministry of Magic? Hiding from her husband, that's what she was doing. She turned on the corner of one of the corridors, she was no longer running, but she was walking hurriedly heading in the direction of the main library of the Ministry, so big and wide that not only was it difficult to locate the books you needed, but also the people that were inside. The best hiding place, Hermione thought and quickened her pace when she saw him: Ron, standing in front of the large wooden doors, staring at his shoes in his scarlet Auror team uniform, which was somewhat wrinkled. Probably coming back from training, Hermione barely had time to think when she turned around running to the opposite side. They were quite far apart, so it wouldn’t be that easy for him to reach her but he was faster.

  "Hermione!" She heard him scream, but she couldn't stop, she was scared, she was afraid of having a conversation with him. She accelerated her escape as she felt his footsteps getting closer.

  "Hermione! Don't run, please! " She had heard that voice a few times. Her memories took her to a particular occasion, when she was also hiding, but from evil forces who wanted to end their lives and the life of their best friend. She couldn’t resist his voice, she had resisted it countless times while he asked her for forgiveness inside the horrendous tent. It hurt her soul, it hurt her not being able to hug him telling him how much she loved him, but her pride won. Only months later, she was able to achieve what her heart and mind most wanted: to reveal her feelings and be reciprocated. Now her heart and mind told her this was far more important, that this could perhaps destroy the relationship that with so much love, time and dedication they had built, this could possibly end one of their most cherished dreams, burst the bubble of joy and emotion that had appeared inside them almost three months ago. This could take away their most precious gift: their future child.

  So she stopped, took a deep breath, and waited for him to catch up with her. It didn't take many seconds when she felt his long fingers capture her left wrist leading her towards a deserted office.

  I should’ve flooed home, Hermione thought as she walked alongside Ron. He would have found me there in an instant though, I should’ve gone to..., she tried to complete the thought, when she was struck by doubt. Her choices were limited in terms of places where she could just go to think without being seen, without being interrupted, no questions being asked by anyone. Her childhood room in her parents' house might have been a great option, but now recently her parents had semi-retired from their jobs (occasionally they went to the office in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon, at times they took turns and one of them stayed home while the other went to work), thus Hermione didn't know for sure when the house was thoroughly empty. Besides if they found her in her old room on a Friday lunch, at the time in which she should still be at the Ministry plus they were aware that, due to her almost obsession with completing every unfinished task at the end of the week, Fridays were her most complicated days at work, it would potentially lead them to ask her thousands of questions and if she chose to answer truthfully, as she had done since she met them again in Australia two months after the war, tired of hiding things from them. This time, though, she was certain they wouldn’t be as understanding as they were back then. Now the situation wasn't just about her, it involved someone more important and vulnerable, someone they hadn't met yet but they already loved.

  Her parents, Jean and Hugo, were over the moon since the day they learned about the arrival of their first grandson or granddaughter. The imminent growth of their little family filled them with infinite joy. On countless moments, mainly when Hermione and Ron would give them the news about the birth of a new child in the ever growing Weasley family, the faces of Jean and Hugo gave away what they wanted: they were dying to ask her when she and Ron would finally decide to have one of their own. Therefore they were ecstatic. The decision to adapt a room on the first floor as a playroom for their future grandson or granddaughter came easily. Well, we don’t need a library anymore, do we, Hugo?, said her mom. It took them a week to disappear the shelves loaded with books that were once part of the room. Toys, kids books, little stuffed animals, big stuffed animals, a white cot and the largest most colorful collection of clothes Hermione had ever seen overflowed the rather large space. Apparently, her mother considered it was better to have more variety than later needing a neon green footie embroidered with dinosaurs and not having it on hand. Her father, more serene and restrained, but just as enthusiastic, had bought a beautiful memoir book for the baby, where he himself would be in charge of writing down every detail of his or her first year of life. However, Hermione was sure something was wrong with her for she hadn't been able to share the same level of enthusiasm of her parents or her husband hence she just smiled everytime they mentioned the baby. Therefore, she was certain Jean and Hugo would probably agree with Ron on this issue. So now he was being proven right, they would help him convince her to "do the right thing for the baby." Except she honestly couldn’t discern what was right anymore so the confusion and fear consumed her. She loved her job, enjoyed the responsibilities that came with it, rejoiced in every new challenge she encountered no matter the outcome, she was sure of it. Her newly discovered feelings for the little human being growing inside of her were what confused and scared her at the same time.

  Ron guided her to an old and solitary chair within the rather desolated office gently helping her to sit on it. Rather than sitting beside Hermione, he stood in front of her and crouched down. He took one of her hands, placed it on top of her knee, gently stroking it.

  “Hermione, the evidence is overwhelming. If they were able to send an object specifically charmed to harm you into your office, it is because they aren’t our most common enemies. It means they are doing their homework figuring out your routines. They’ve been following you for at least a few weeks. They knew that only us usually go there so you would open the package without a second thought,” Ron couldn't control the tone of sadness, anger and despair as he spoke.

  Minutes before lunch, Hermione received a small package wrapped in a black paper with little stars, the wrapping of Hermione's new favorite bookstore in Muggle London. She frequently went there alone and sometimes Ron accompanied her. She ran to get it, unwrapping it in an instant. She didn’t even have time to see the title of the literary work, when the book came to life and suspended in the air began to hit her repeatedly, increasingly hard on the chest, arms, legs. Her wand was on the handbag she regularly took to lunch. The book kept hitting her, in one moment heading for her belly. Hermione started to scream, moving as far as she could from the object. In seconds, the auror who was stationed outside her office managed to undo the spell. It wasn’t the first threat, that's why the auror guarded her office. Whoever was behind it, had tried to harm her on previous occasions but they had never been so close to actually hurting her. The spell was very powerful, the package was able to pass the rigorous inspection of the experienced auror. A mother who genuinely loved her child would already be home, protecting him or her by being away from danger, the thought stunned her. She began to run through the corridors of the Ministry even when she heard the auror screaming for her to stop. She didn’t want to see anyone, especially Ron, who a week ago had almost begged her to stay home for a few days while they determined who was threatening her.

  “Harry and I are very close to identifying who is doing this, Hermione. We just need you to get away from danger a bit… ” Ron started, looking her straight in the eyes.

  “I don't want to quit my job, Ron, not after working so hard for many years. I'm nearly there with the house-elf protection law… "

  “I know about all the work you've done, Hermione. I would never ask you to do it, if it weren't for… "

  "The baby," Hermione completed looking down, "I understand Ron, but I honestly don't think it's necessary ..."

  "Not putting our child at risk is more than necessary, Hermione, it will only be a few months," Ron interrupted quickly.

  "Ron, I can't. So many magical creatures trust in me..."

  "They will continue to trust in you when you return," said Ron.

  "We said having a child wouldn't alter our lives, that I would continue working, you know I don’t want to be a stay at home mum." Hermione felt Ron's hand tighten on top of hers.

  "It's not that. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if the situation wasn't like this," argued Ron, "Tough I must say you were the one saying having a child wouldn't alter our lives. I think you were trying to convince yourself. For my part, I believe that many things are going to change, things we won’t be able to control."

  "Ron…"

  "I reckon you're getting scared ..." Ron continued coming closer and reaching her shoulders to hug her.

  "I'm not…" Hermione tried to interrupt and wriggle out of the hug. But he knew her better than anyone. Hermione was sure he had noticed her doubts, insecurities and fears even before her.

  "I am scared too, I'm not just talking about the threats, because I can assure you that we are going to find out who is behind everything and he’s going to pay for putting you through this," his voice was harsh and he had struggled not to shout during the last sentence. "I’m positive you're scared for him or her too," his voice had taken a delicate, sweet tone, the tone he used when they fought and he wanted her to understand he was right without making her feel too bad.

  "You are doubting yourself, asking that brilliant mind of yours a ton of questions, not finding answers. You’re wondering if you’re going to do a good job or if you will love him or her enough. The fact is, Hermione, the love you will feel towards our child will never be enough, it will be infinite", he raised one of his hands caressing her cheek, “It's not about doing a good or bad job, love. It's about doing the best we can in our own way, making mistakes and learning together, because you do realize we're in this together, right?” Ron delicately squeezed her cheek, Hermione looked up, her beautiful blue eyes pierced through her with the deepest love, he lowered his hand placing it on her still small belly, “He or she deserves the world, I assure you we will give it to him or her when the time comes. What we can do now is protect our little one, we are not going to let anything happen to him or her. Okay, we should definitely find out if it’s a boy or a girl, I'm getting tired of this”, he grinned.

  In that instant, Hermione felt within her how the little life Ron and she had created began to move and the most profound love, love she only felt for the man in front of her, completely invaded her. Ron gave no sign of feeling it, but it wasn't necessary. She placed her hand on top of Ron's, looked him straight in the eye, and nodded. He smiled at her, hugging her tightly.

  At this precise moment in her life, despite her insecurities about her ability to love and protect her unborn child, the certainty of knowing Ron never made vain promises began to fill her with strength and hope. If he firmly believed everything would be fine, it would be. If he was by her side on this adventure, there was no doubt the next few years would be different, challenging, but wonderfully incredible.

[tsushimanoonryo]

Drabble: Chiyoko pt. 3

Kazumasa had been true to his word and began to treat Chiyoko with a little more respect. However, in the seven years that had passed since then, Hiroto could tell that his friend still had warmed up to the idea of marrying his little sister. 

At eighteen, Chiyoko had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, but she still had an eccentric streak. She’d stopped chasing bugs and animals, thankfully, but she preferred to be outside in nature when most women of her class would be inside reciting poetry or perfecting their other artistic endeavors. The one time she was meant to be outside was when it came time to practice wielding the naginata. Samurai women were expected to use it to defend their homes when their men were at war, but Chiyoko was always conspicuously absent for those training sessions.

Kazumasa was not keen on marrying a woman who could not defend the Sakai estate while he was away at war.

“You know as well as I do, these rumblings in Yarikawa are going to come to a head soon,” Kazumasa hissed as he fussed with the haori himo of his wedding kimono. “Do you think Castle Shimura and the Sakai estate will be safe? If you do, you’re a fool. How is Chiyoko supposed to defend herself if she can’t tell one end of her naginata from the other?”

“She would be welcome to stay with my mother and my wife,” Hiroto said. “And stop fiddling with that.”

“Your mother is old and your wife is pregnant,” Kazumasa hissed. “How much help are they going to be?”

“My brother’s wives will be with them also,” Hiroto reminded them. “She would not be left alone.”

“Even so,” he said. “My estate would be. It’s shameful, knowing my wife won’t be able to defend our home when the time comes for it.”

Hiroto shot him a warning look and that shut Kazumasa up immediately. Although he didn’t look happy about having to hold his tongue.

“I understand your concerns,” Hiroto said. “And when you are her husband, you can bring this up with her. But until then, do not make today hard for my sister. Let her have this one day of happiness.”

Kazumasa still didn’t look pleased, but he stood up straight and took a steadying breath.

“I suppose I can do that,” he said. “For you, my friend.”

“And for her.”

“Yes,” Kazumasa said glumly. “And for her.”

………………………………………………….

Usually there was much more fanfare to these things. The wedding procession was small, consisting only of the immediate family of both the bride and groom. Although Hiroto had downplayed it when talking to Kazumasa, the Yarikawa threat was a lot worse than he’d let on. Both families agreed that the wedding was necessary to seal their alliance, but that it needed to be small so as not to draw attention.

It is a shame, though, Hiroto thought. Chiyoko really does look beautiful today.

Truthfully, he could not see her face because of the wataboshi. But even so, she cut a fine figure dressed in a stark-white kimono, intricately embroidered in white and silver thread with floral motifs. The only bit of her that was visible was her pale white hands, clutching her ceremonial fan.

Chiyoko was led out to meet Kazumasa by the Shimura women. She kept her head down as she walked, careful not to show her face to anyone until her intended had seen it first. Hiroto watched as she approached the groom and finally lifted her head to meet his eyes.

The change that came over Kazumasa was visible to everyone in the bridal party. Whereas before he’d been sullen and dour about this wedding, he now looked utterly bewitched. His eyes seemed to glaze over momentarily and once clarity returned to them, a flush crept up his cheeks.

“Lord Sakai is blushing,” a voice near his left elbow said. “I didn’t even think he could.”

Hiroto turned to find his wife Yua standing at his side, gently rubbing at the swell of her stomach. Hiroto felt a wave of affection wash over him as he saw her, but willed himself to only give her a brief smile. A samurai was in control of his emotions after all; it wouldn’t do to appear a lovestruck fool at someone else’s wedding.

“I didn’t think he could either,” Hiroto admitted. “I suppose there’s a first time for everything. Does my sister truly look that beautiful?”

“She does,” Yua said. “Much more beautiful than I did at our wedding.”

“Impossible,” Hiroto said. “I married the most beautiful woman on the island.”

“You’re biased because I’m carrying your son inside me,” she said with a laugh. “But I’ll take the compliment.”

“You really think it’s a boy?”

“Your mother said I’m carrying the way she did with you and your brothers,” Yua said. “It has to be.”

Hiroto knew it was foolish to hope. There was no way for sure to know until the baby arrived, but even so, he smiled at the thought that she’d give him an heir within a year of marriage. Not that he had much for his heir to inherit. As the jito’s fourth son, there wasn’t going to be much left for him to inherit.

………………………………………………….

The procession from the Sakai estate to the temple at Omi Monastery was slow going, although the distance wasn’t that far. They were supposed to be inconspicuous, but even so, it seemed Lord and Lady Shimura wanted everyone in the village to see their daughter marrying the heir to Clan Sakai. They chose the most circuitous route to the temple, using the excuse that this was the “most auspicious” path.

Half-way there, it began to rain and the procession nearly stopped. They would have, had Chiyoko not finally spoken up.

“You’re going to ruin your kimono,” Lady Shimura argued. “And then you won’t be able to give it to your daughter when she marries.”

“I won’t have a daughter,” Chiyoko said defiantly. “I’m going to give Lord Sakai a son. I’ll have no need for this stuffy old thing after today. And we’re almost to the temple.”

Lady Shimura looked to Kazumasa, silently pleading with him to talk some sense into his future wife. But Kazumasa was, for once in his life, silent. He kept looking at Chiyoko like she was some sacred object to be worshipped. Not the girl he’d been complaining about having to marry less an hour before.

“Seems there is a fox wedding today too,” Yua said from his side.

Hiroto turned to look at her, brow furrowed in confusion.

“It’s a sunshower,” she said, gesturing to the rays of light showing through the droplets of rain. “Isn’t that what the old folktale says? When it rains while the sun is out, a fox is having a wedding.”

Something bothered him about that. Hiroto vaguely recalled a memory from his childhood that he had buried deep within himself. Something about a fox cub that had been dying on the outskirts of the forest..

“I can’t remember if it’s supposed to be good luck or not,” Yua said, tapping her chin as she thought. “I hope it is.”

“I hope so too,” Hiroto said, withdrawing from his reverie. He suddenly felt very strange and wanted to get out of the rain. “I hope so too.”

………………………………………………….

They had mostly dried off by the time the ceremony was over, although Chiyoko’s white kimono was forever ruined by the rain. No one seemed to mind, though, as the mood grew quite jovial once the sake started flowing.

“You’ve changed your mind about Chiyoko, I see,” Hiroto said to Kazumasa once they’d gotten a moment to themselves.

“I can’t remember why I was so against this whole thing,” Kazumasa said, speech slurred slightly with drink. “Look at her, Hiroto. Isn’t she lovely?”

Now that the wataboshi was off, Hiroto could get a clearer look at his sister. She was lovely, especially the way his sisters-in-law had done her hair and cosmetics. But she didn’t look that different from how she normally looked. He didn’t know why Kazumasa was so smitten. But he supposed he’d rather that than have him complain about Chiyoko all night.

“I’m glad you’ve come to your senses,” Hiroto said. “And I’m glad you made today nice for her.”

“I’m going to make every day nice for her if I can,” Kazumasa said. “I’m going to break things off with Tsuna the first chance I get. I’m done with other women.”

“The sake’s gotten to your head, my friend,” Hiroto laughed.

As much as he would have loved for Chiyoko to be the only woman in Kazumasa’s life, he knew the way of the world. And he knew how Kazumasa liked to carry on at the teahouse.

“I mean it,” he said. “Maybe all men feel like this on their wedding day. But right now, if she asked anything of me, I’d give it to her. Anything.”

Hiroto thought back to his own wedding day. His had been an arranged marriage and he hardly knew Yua when they were wed. But in the year since, he’d grown to care for her very deeply. He would give her anything she asked for. Within reason. But that feeling had come in time, after he’d really gotten to know her.

“I think,” Hiroto said tactfully. “That you should perhaps have some water for a bit.”

“Ha!” Kazumasa laughed. “Afraid I’ll not be able to perform my duties tonight when I bring Chiyoko back home to my estate? You dog.”

“That’s not at all what I was implying,” Hiroto said. “But now that you mention it…”

[jimlingss]

Worshipers of the Spring

Part of the Worshipers Series

➜ Words: 9.5k

➜ Genres: 55% Angst, 40% Fluff, 5% Smut, God!AU

➜ Summary: The God of Wine is carefree and indulgent. Unlike many others who depend on pride and dignity, he does not care that he is not a powerful god. But when he stumbles upon a forest in the mortal realm, he discovers what desperation and anguish means.

The flowers bloom on command.   With one simple flick of the wrist, they bud and blossom, spilling over in an abundance of petals and flourishing in the living forest. The trees breathe, dancing together to the melody of the chickadee birds perched in their branches. It’s a hidden place that not many but brave souls or wandering children come across — a place where fields are verdant, hills grow and water bends.   And in this serene meadow, you are screaming.   If not from anger then out of sheer boredom.

The God of Wine waltzes into the grand hall.   As he stands with his feet rooted in the ground, chin high in the air and back straight, he runs his hand through his honey hair and then catches sight of a nymph dressed in loose robes barely hanging off of her shoulders. He smirks, the corner of his plump lips tugging with a sense of superiority and her eyes widen.   He winks and she nearly swoons to her knees.   “Jimin.”   The interaction is unfortunately cut short by a playfully stern voice, one where he can already envision the pout on the god’s face. It is only confirmed when he turns to find the God of Sun quickly skedaddling towards him, white and gold clothing swaying with him, and his glorious presence is enough to make the nymph scatter away with her cheeks blushing.   “You take all the fun away.”   “No, I am merely making sure that no one copulates on my floor.”   “Do you take me for some wild animal?” Jimin feigns offence and then bursts out laughing when Seokjin gives him an extended stare. “I can promise you that it would be extra fun to indulge in our lustful pleasures together, Seokjin. You, your concubines, and I.”   “You’ll know I’ll agree to that proposition the day the sun rises in the west instead of east, Jimin.” Seokjin fishes a red envelope out of his sleeve and hands it to him, the emblem of Heaven sealing it from being opened. “I need you to give this to Hansol.”   The God of Wine takes it with curiosity, wondering what Seokjin desires from the God of Mountains. “Isn’t he residing in the mortal realm?”   “He is.”   “I’m not your messenger boy, you know,” Jimin whines, realizing that he was called for yet another lousy task. “I’m supposed to be supplying wine to the gods, answering prayers of fertility, and throwing extravagant parties! Not reduced to delivering your letters like some measly servant.”   “I know, but you’re the only one I can trust, or at least the only one who I know won’t pry into my matters and try to open that and spread unnecessary gossip.” There is a held silence, and then the god of all gods relents. “The anniversary of the war is coming. It’ll mark one century of peace kept, I’ll let you host a celebration, alright?”   The corner of Jimin’s mouth pulls, the taste of victory sweet on his tongue. “That sounds more like it.”   //   There are many gods that despise mortals — it’s no secret when all they seem to do is beg, destroy, get greedy and beg some more. But the hatred has lessened greatly after the war, even when it was caused by a mortal. It’s true that the anger and resentment of the mortals forged the destruction, but it followed centuries of the gods being unforgiving and punishing. It was the consequences of them abandoning the humans for pride and contempt.    So while customs and habits have changed to ensure peace, the better part of Heaven still had their distaste for humans and the mortal realm. There were the strange ones who sympathized and adored mortals, but for Jimin, he was quite neutral.   At best, he found them amusing. Thus, he takes his time to enjoy the realm he seldom arrives at. Or at least those are his intentions until he descends and finds himself in an unfamiliar forest.    The God of Wine wanders for a moment, trying to find an exit, but it is strange. Even when the place is seemingly friendly, the sunlight cascading through the canopy of the trees and illuminating the shades of green into brighter hues, he cannot leave no matter what direction he takes. The trees seem to trap him inside.   Jimin is about to vanish away to free himself, but then as a breeze brushes through his hair, he halts.   The god catches sight of something. Or rather, someone.   Through the warm wind, peace blossoms flutter down from the tree like rain. It entwines with your hair, seemingly wrapping your entire frame with the soft colour. The petals decorate your crown, getting caught in your light pink silks adorned on your body, hugging you. The aroma of the flowers surround him, not pungent but rather faint, like a whiff of fresh perfume passing by.   “Stop that,” you scold while the loveliest of giggles befalls your lips and your nose scrunches as a petal falls onto your cheek until you brush it away. “It’s getting all over my dress and it tickles!”   You are the most beautiful person Jimin has ever had the privilege of laying his eyes on.   The God of Win’s breath hitches. He struggles to find the power of speech and then it uncharacteristically stutters out of him. “W-Who are you?”   Your neck snaps around at the sound of his sweet and soft voice. His honey hair is swept back, body adorned with luxurious black robes that are embroidered with gold swirls. Your gaze meets one anothers and it instantly goes quiet, the sound of the wind whistling between you two.   Jimin doesn’t notice the way the flowers around him bloom.   “Who are you?” The question is given back to him. “I don’t give my name to strangers.”   The corner of the god’s mouth quirks. “Well I’m not a stranger anymore.”   “You are until you give me your name,” you presumptuously state with your soft-spoken voice and the God of Wine grins, giving into your stubbornness.   “Jimin. My name is Jimin.”   “My name is Y/N.” A smile itches onto your face. “It’s nice to make your acquaintance.”   You catch a blossom within your hand, one that hasn’t bloomed into its full potential and he watches as you flourish it within your palm. The petals open up, pale pink that matches the shade of the sky during the first blush of dawn. Jimin is frozen in his spot as you close the distance, stepping across the forest floor to approach.   “I haven’t had someone stumble here for quite some time.” You extend your arm and he takes the flower you’re offering him, not sure what to do with it. But then you smile, quirking your head to one side. “Would you like to accompany me for a little while? I’ll make it worthwhile.”   Jimin smirks. “And if it isn’t worthwhile, then what shall you compensate me with?”   There seems to be a long moment where you genuinely contemplate, but after a beat, you huff out and have the audacity to grab his hand abruptly, tugging him along. “Just come see.”   Jimin nearly bursts out laughing. If you knew that he was the God of Wine who resided in Heaven, you’d probably get on your knees and bow — but your ignorance is endearing. For once, it’s enjoyable to be treated without caution or fear.   He follows you into a small meadow clearing where the tall trees surround and protect the area. The grass is a vivid hue of verdant, the lights soft with flower beds around. It’s clear that this is your home and that you’ve naively invited him into it. You have no sense of caution at all, unaware that he’s known for lust, that he embodies the entire idea of it. You’re merely humming underneath your breath, an infectious smile placed on your features.   Jimin wonders who exactly you are.   “I haven’t had a guest in so long,” you sing-song. “Come sit!”   You show him to a measly tree stump and he stares at you in indignation while you look at him blankly and then he’s giving in yet again. Jimin swishes his robes behind him and sits, thighs spread as he claims the spot like it’s a throne.   He eyes you as you waltz to several baskets under a nearby tree, tearing objects out. “It must’ve been a very long stroll to come to my forest. You must be hungry, right? Do you like nuts and berries?”   “I’m actually not hungry.”   Yet, you still come over with two wooden bowls that are filled with nuts, fruit and berries.   You place it on the pathetic stump in front of him, a small table of sorts, and you plop down across from him, smiling wide. Your elbows are propped on your knees, cheeks rested on your fists and you intently stare at him like he’s a new toy. “I insist.”   Jimin holds his sigh in his nose and takes a berry into his mouth. He nods at the taste.   If possible, you become even more enthused. “Like it?”   “It’s nice.”   “Yay!” You cheer and Jimin scoffs lightly with a smile. The things he does for fair maidens…   If Seokjin knew this was what he was doing in the mortal realm instead of running his errands, he might smite him. But in your presence, it might just be worth it. “I’m sorry there’s nothing to drink. I need to go to the stream again to collect freshwater…”   Jimin cocks a brow. It’s an opportunity to impress and he steals it while he still has the chance. “Well that’s not a problem,” he declares with a smirk and flicks his wrist.    At once your bowl fills with deep ruby wine.   You’re visibly taken aback, perplexed, and your expression quickly turns into a pout. You eye him. “You’re….not a human, are you?”   “Nope.” He playfully smiles, shaking his head. “I am the God of Wine. God of Fertility and Celebration, Jimin. Pleasure and drunkenness are in my domain, lust and bliss are bound to my will. Heaven knows no name but mine.” Jimin leans in, eyes connected with yours. You’re still surprised and a wolfish grin spreads across his face. “You aren’t a forest nymph, are you?”   “No.” Your head quirks and the corner of your own lip curls. In spite of knowing he is a god, you don’t appear to be anxious or reverential — and that fact is entertaining.   “What are you, girl?”   You hum as if contemplating to tell him. Jimin sits on the edge of the seat. But then—   “It’s a secret.”   The God of Wine scoffs. Though he must say, he likes the game you’re playing. Of all of his lifetimes, the females that have wanted him have given themselves to him easily. If he was not slapped by goddesses, then he had them in his lap. It’s not that he minds that it’s effortless, but you make him intrigued. He wonders how he can shed your coyness.   “You seem like a creature of many secrets.”   “I am, Jimin.”    Suddenly, the collar of his robes grabbed in both your fists and he’s pulled forward. Soft lips meet his. The god’s sound of surprise is muffled but he welcomes it. His eyes droop to become half-lidded and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, dominating your tender point of contact.   It’s a velvet texture and Jimin can’t resist slipping his tongue into your mouth, drawing out those delicious whimpers of yours. It’s sweet, almost like what he imagines roses and tulips to taste like.   The bowls are soon knocked over, the wine dripping off the wooden stump and you push yourselves forward until the two of you are colliding onto the grass. Jimin rolls on top of you, pinning you to the soft meadow floor.    And when you both break apart to gasp for air between your swollen lips, Jimin realizes he was wrong.    You’re beautiful, but even more beautiful like this.   “Are you not fearful that I am a god?”   “Should I be?” you ask, shamelessly staring at his mouth and still grabbing onto his clothing with a tightening grip. Your hair pools around you, eyes glistening in the sunlight, your smile warm. Jimin considers that the best painting and sculpture in Heaven doesn’t even contend with you.   “You should.” He smirks. “I would hate to break someone as fragile as you.”   “Hmm, I’m afraid you’ve sorely underestimated me.”   “Oh?” Jimin’s shit eating grin expands. “I’ve had many servants, nymphs and goddesses cry for me before, Y/N.”   “And you assume I’ll be one of them too?” Your lashes flutter and he smiles, brushing a strand of your hair away from your face. “If this is a competition, then I’ve made plenty of mortals cry before too. Who knows, you might be the next one.”   The God of Wine laughs candidly and seals your lips once more in a searing kiss.   Your arms wrap around his neck and you pull him closer until he can feel your chest against his. His hand snakes up your leg, silk robes rolling up with it. Jimin knows it now — you’re a temptress. All you’ve done is play with him and tempt him, and he doesn’t know anything other than your name.   One moment he’s speaking to you and the next, he has you underneath him in this empty meadow. You are talented, he has to admit. To get a god like him crumbling so easily…   He is a master of lust but also one of self-control, though he was quickly losing it.   The thought has him pulling away before his desires overcomes his dignity.   “Where are you going?” It’s difficult when you look at him that way, rounded eyes and pouting as he comes to stand. You sound urgent too and it’s sweet. “Are you leaving?!”   “I’m glad you enjoyed my company, but trust me, pet.” Jimin leans down to tap your nose. “It’s better to miss me than to be bored.”   You scramble upwards, eyes glossy. “Won’t you stay a while longer?”   The god has an urge to kiss you, to hold you and bury himself inside while having you crying his name, but he shakes his head. “I’ll come back.” Jimin’s too smitten with you after all. “I promise.”   //   The envelope still sits in Jimin’s pocket, but before he goes to deliver it, he lingers in the nearby town. The God of Wine approaches a cluster of people at the marketplace and doesn’t hesitate to intrude into their conversation to ask about the girl in the forest. No one knows what he’s talking about, confused at who he is and what he’s inquiring about.   But before the god turns away without answers, a lady enamoured with his looks stops him.   “There are children myths. No one grown believes them, but they say there is a girl of flowers in the forest who makes the green grass grow. And a lot of young men who wander there don’t often return.”   The rumour has him perplexed and befuddled, coming up with more questions than answers. And before the woman can ask where he has come from, she looks back and he has vanished.   //   Jimin returns within three days' time, unable to break his promise or refuse his desires.   He descends to the forest, finding the familiar peach blossom tree and taking refuge beneath it while he waits for you. The God of Wine stays patient — surprisingly finding that he wouldn’t mind waiting years if he needed to see you. It all just adds to the anticipation after all.   Luckily for Jimin, he doesn’t need to wait more than a few minutes. He finds you wandering the forest while humming, a basket of flowers swinging from your wrist. And the moment your eyes connect with his, a smile plasters on your features, the basket drops to the ground and you’re running over.   The god laughs, worried that you’ll trip but you manage and even throw yourself around him.   “You’re back!”   He returns your embrace, arms wrapped around your shoulders. “I said I would be. You missed me, huh?”   “It’s not like I have anyone else to miss,” you say, pulling away from him and while he doesn’t know exactly what you mean, he’s distracted when you point to the bottle in his left hand. “What’s this?”   “It’s a gift for you.” Jimin smirks at your surprised delight and when you take it, he pompously crosses his arms across his chest. “The best wine in the entire universe created by yours truly. You should treasure it! It’s not often that others can receive gifts from the gods.”   “I...love it.” You’re ecstatic, studying the bottle intently as a grin expanding into your cheeks like you’ve never received a present from anyone before. And your genuine reaction only makes Jimin’s heart soften even more. You’re too naive, too innocent for him. It’s dangerous.    Jimin’s endearment for you makes him want to treasure you.    He knows he won’t be able to throw you away so easily — and he doesn’t want to.    “It’s only fair if I give you a gift too, right?” You smile tenderly, handing the bottle back to him for a moment.    Before he can protest and tell you that it’s unnecessary, you approach the tree and press your palms against the truck. As if you’re calling onto the universe or speaking to nature itself, suddenly the peach blossoms begin to bloom and fall. A warm breeze sweeps over the meadow, entwining into your hair and your dress. His breath becomes caught in his throat, head tilting towards the sky and he watches the way the pink petals dance in the air, enveloping him in a ticklish embrace.   Soon the God of Wine is being consumed by a whirlwind of blossoms. A storm of flowers raining down from the sky. It’s beautiful — especially with the way you cheekily grin at him, obviously enjoying how impressed he is by your powers. And it’s at this moment, as Jimin is encompassed by flower petals bursting forth, caught in the middle of this rain, that he finds himself unequivocally captivated by you.   “What do you think?” you ask of him when you’re done, arms behind your back as you tilt your head, lashes fluttering. There are still flowers drifting in the air, sweeping in the horizon downwards.    Jimin gazes at you and then he tugs you in by your waist. He presses his mouth against the delicate petals of your lips. He can feel you smile against him and that only serves for him to deepen the kiss.   His half lidded eyes soak in your sheepish expression and the God of Wine’s palm lifts to cradle your cheek. You’re letting him have his way with you and he’s unable to resist temptation any longer. Jimin’s fingers gently trail down to the collar of your robes and he slips them off your shoulder. The silks cascade down.   You’re a sorceress that has trapped him — who has completely enchanted him.   The two of you collapse back onto the forest floor, on top of the bed of fallen flowers. You pull him in, arms encircling his neck while murmuring his name through swollen lips that gasp for air. Your hands interlace together and Jimin eagerly parts your thighs with your timid permission, allowing him to slot himself where your heat is.    He kisses you again, plush lips against your neck, between your breasts and down to where you’re wet. As Jimin’s mouth wraps around your bud, broken sobs of his name are drawn out of your heaving chest. He relishes in the noises and the way your fingers sink into the hair at the nape of his neck to pull.   The God of Wine feeds off of the lust swelling between the pair of you and soon, you’re both trapped in his thick haze, intoxicated off of one another’s bodies. Jimin is drunk when he lifts himself to kiss you again. He is giddy when you urgently pull at his own clothes until he’s bare like you are. And he’s dizzy when he nudges the head of his cock to the pink lips of your heat.   Your legs wrap around his waist when he finally pushes in, groaning your name while you cry out, writhing beneath him. He brushes a strand of hair away from your sweaty forehead, finding you utterly captivating. You’re beautiful when you’re beneath him, surrounded by a bed of flowers, calling out his name like it’s the only thing you know.    It makes the God of Wine selfish — holding a desire to keep you here forever. To keep you by his side for eternity.   “Feel good?”   “Y-yeah.” You nod shyly, teeth sinking into your pink lips.   Jimin looks down to where you’re connected, where he continuously thrusts in and out of your weeping center. It’s mindless, where he succumbs to his own self-created atmosphere of pleasure, but when he looks up at you again, your eyes are fluttering at him. You have the sweetest smile spread into your face, hands grabbing at his arms.   He’s corrupting you in the middle of the forest floor and you don’t even seem to mind.   It makes his hips stutter and your breath catches in your throat. “J-Jimin.”   “I love you.” The confession spills out of him unintentionally.    They are words of affection that were always too great for the dignity and pride that he carried on his shoulders. Yet now it tumbles out without thought, without any consideration for the consequences or your inevitable rejection. But even when it's an accident, even when he fears the emotions swelling in the pit of his stomach, the God of Wine doesn’t mean it any less.   “Ji-min.” You’re gazing into his eyes before you’re cumming around him. He picks up pace and leans down to kiss you quiet, allowing the smallest of muffled whimpers to spill over. And then soon after, his pelvis hits against yours and he’s cumming deep into you, ropes painting your walls white, leaving himself inside your core until you’re dripping past.   When the pair of you are done and spent, Jimin holds you close. His lips lay against your forehead, arms wrapped around your torso as he dreams. “Let me bring you to Heaven.”    He doesn’t care who you are anymore. He just wants you by his side. “I can show you my home. You can have whatever you want. I’ll take care of you.”   Suddenly, his side becomes cold.   You’ve pulled away from him, body looming over his as you sorrowfully stare into his eyes. “I can’t, Jimin. I can’t leave this place,” you murmur with the scrunch of your brows.   He sits up with you. “Why not?”   “An….an angry god has trapped here.” Your forehead leans in to press against his. “I have to stay in this forest.”   The God of Wine pulls away, hands wrapping around your shoulders. His eyes darken and his tone lowers to resonate all around the meadow. “Who? What god?”   You shake your head. “I don’t know.”   Your anguish only serves as his own heartbreak.   //   The God of Wine has never been so bewildered and distressed. He is used to easing other gods, allowing them to become tranquil under the cloak of pleasure and drunkenness. In the realm of the gods, Jimin is fun-loving, carefree, irresponsible as opposed to many of their disciplined and imperious personalities. He enjoys throwing extravagant parties and celebrations, making wine to get divine beings under his intoxication, even when he is aware they are all trivial affairs that don’t affect the universe.    Jimin knows he is not a powerful god, but it has never bothered him. Until now.   Now, he yearns for you. Now, he has been overcome with such a strong emotion that his incapabilities bring forth frustration. Now, he is troubled instead of jovial.    It doesn’t make sense. There is no reason a god should ever punish you.   You are genuine, demure, kind hearted. You wouldn’t even hurt a flower or butterfly, much less anything else.    He does not know the reason as to why you have been trapped. He does not know who has punished you so. And he does not know who you are.   “Jimin.” His name booms from an individual with the scent of the sea wafting off his dark blue robes. His arms are placed behind his back as he walks with his lips tight in a line. And he approaches him in front of the palace of the Sun, below the hundred steps and on the cobblestone path “I was looking for you.”   The God of Wine brings his attention away from his thoughts and grins at the God of the Sea in all his glory. “The Great Jungkook looking for me? That doesn’t happen every decade! I am honoured.”   Jungkook is unamused. “I heard you were throwing a celebration to mark a century of peace.”   Jimin hums, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps.”   “I can assume then that you will not extend an invitation to anyone unnecessary.”   Jimin smirks, aware of the ongoing conflict between him and the Goddess of Sky. “Perhaps,” he playfully answers.   Jungkook’s eyes narrow. “It would be wise of you to tread carefully.”   He hums. “Perhaps.”   “Jimin.”   The God of Wine laughs. “Last I checked, Seokjin has given me full permission to do as I please, so I will. I don’t get to throw celebrations like this every century and you have to come whether you like it or not. But fear not, there will be plenty of opportunity for you to indulge yourself, so if you want to release some of your tension….”   Jungkook huffs, slapping Jimin’s hands away when he comes to squeeze at his shoulder and wrinkles his luxurious clothing. “I don’t know why I even bother.”   The God of Sea turns away, stomping and while Jimin smiles, it falls after a moment.    “Jungkook.”   “What?”   All traces of his mischief and lightheartedness have dissipated. What remains is a state of solemnness and urgency. “Do you know of anyone who lives in the mortal realm’s forests?” The two of them look at one another after Jungkook turns. “Someone who can make flowers bloom.”   The Great God of Water furrows his brows. “I don’t. Why?”   “No reason,” he murmurs.   It is difficult to find the answers to the numerous questions he has.    Jimin doesn’t want to ask Seokjin himself, certain that the god would never respond seriously and might just give him riddles that would make his mind want to melt. And inquiring from the Goddess of Wisdom, Yena, herself would simply arouse her curiosity.    Rumours would spread and he doesn’t want to risk putting you in danger if you were indeed a mortal. After all, relations between gods and mortals are looked down upon. It’s disgraceful. And the last thing that Jimin wants is for you to have to suffer the consequences, of having to face the council and have other gods meddle with your affairs. He would never be able to keep you right by his side as he desires…   The God of Wine finds himself seeking refuge to one of the most ancient gods — one that he knows would never chatter about his predicaments to others.   Jimin slams down the door of the cold palace, causing the God of the Moon to jolt where he’s asleep on his grand bed, blindfold on and blanket tucked to his chin. It’s too easy to disrupt him or to come and go as he pleases, especially when there’s not a single servant around to stop him from making such a rude entrance.   “You must be asking for death,” Yoongi mutters out of the corner of his mouth, voice husky and thick with slumber. He raises to slip off his blindfold and glares. One of the most composed gods in the universe is glowering at him with the intensity of death itself. “It is midday, Jimin.”   “Was just checking to see if you were lonely.” Jimin grins, waltzing in casually.   “I was asleep.” The God of Moon is nocturnal, sleeping during the day to lift the moon during the night. But in spite of his rest being disrupted, he sighs and loses tension in his form. The wise god knows it must be of importance to be suddenly awakened. “What do you want from me?”   “I want to give you an invitation to a party. I don’t have it on me now, but I just wanted to tell you that you’re invited.”   It goes quiet.   Yoongi stares, cat-like eyes in the colour of obsidian and he repeats himself. “What do you want from me?”   “Well, now that you say it like that, I feel kind of guilty for coming at such an inconvenient time…” Jimin lingers and then clears his throat. “I was wondering if you knew of someone who lives in a forest in the mortal realm.”   “There are many forest nymphs like that—”   The God of Wine shakes his head. “Someone who can make flowers bloom. Someone who can turn buds into full flowers and make it rain petals.” His fists clench in his lap as he remembers you and your heartbroken expression. “I keep thinking about it and...I can’t come up with a proper name for them.”   It is silent once more.    “Why?”   Jimin shrugs, feigning a smile. “Curious, that’s all.”   “I don’t know of such a person. I’ve never heard such tales.” Yoongi falls back down onto his bed and rolls over so his expression isn’t seen. He tugs his covers up over his shoulders and the God of Wine scoffs. But before he can leave, his calm voice calls out to him— “Spare yourself. Don’t wander where you shouldn’t, Jimin.”   “You know who she is?” Jimin halts at the darkened doorway. “Yoongi.”   There aren’t any answers.   Jimin leaves a bottle of wine on the God of Moon’s table anyhow as compensation for waking him so rudely. He knows full well that Yoongi won’t say any more than what he already has.   But that doesn’t stop Jimin’s frustration from swelling, feeling powerless when he is trying to find the answers to what he so desperately wants to know but having nowhere to turn.   Once outside, he turns to search the sky that’s painted over in a shade of bright azure without a cloud in sight. The rays are almost blinding, and with the reminder of Jungkook’s apprehension, Jimin goes to find a friend he has known well — a lonely goddess who lives on a lower part of Heaven. It’s a peaceful place without prying eyes, but with two servants who constantly fret over her.   The Goddess of the Sky greets him with her customary hug, eccentric as she is energetic. And the pair of them sit together on the patio of the garden house with a small table in between. They share drinks like they’ve done occasionally through the decades while silently sharing their sorrows.    Today, Jimin enjoys how the goddess has decorated the place with flowers blooming from their boxes as a slight breeze brushing through the leaves of the trees. The atmosphere reminds him of you and suddenly, the wine tastes bitter on his lips.   He calls the Goddess of Sky’s name.   “Hmm?”   “Do you know of anyone who has been trapped in the mortal realm’s forest?” He thinks of you and his heart aches. “Someone who lives in the meadow. Someone beautiful and kind who collects flowers in baskets, who makes petals rain from the sky, who makes flowers bloom.” Jimin speaks your name in a soft whisper like it is a prayer. “Do you know anyone like that?”   The Goddess of Sky’s head quirks and she doesn’t wonder why he asks. “There is only one goddess who can make flowers bloom.”   //   Jimin doesn’t care for keeping his promises.    Perhaps it is because he is fickle like many gods, or tricky. He has always liked to find loopholes after all and twist things the way he wanted them to be. Promises, after all, are merely words that hold little consequences.   But with you, Jimin has always kept his word.   He has no desire to lose your trust, for you to wait for him and be disappointed. Everything he has said to you has been his vow. It has been the oath of a god.   So he visits you again, descending down to the forest, patiently awaiting underneath the peach blossom tree as he studies the trees that breathe and whisper his name, allowing you to know that he is here. And soon enough, you are humming and hopping down the path.   When his gaze meets yours, the biggest smile spreads into your cheeks, one infectious enough to make him laugh too. Then you’re running and he opens his arms, stumbling back as you leap into his embrace.   “I missed you so much!   “I said I would return, didn’t I?”   He is a fool, no less than a mortal man himself. He’s fallen in love with you without even knowing who you are.    Your arms wrap around his neck and you lean up to press a kiss against his smile. It makes Jimin’s grin widen while he tries to kiss you back and after a moment, as the flowers dance through the warm breeze, you take his hand. “Come on.”   Just for this second, he savours your warmth and softness of your hand.   But like all moments, they never last as long as one would like.   The two of you make it to the clearing, to your home. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Would you like anything?”    “No.” Jimin pulls you back before you can run towards your baskets and he gazes at your features with softened eyes. “Actually, there’s something that I want to talk to you about, Y/N.”   “Oh?” You loll your head to your shoulder, pout at your lips. “What is it?”   The God of Wine braces himself. He squeezes your fingers that are laced together with his own. He inhales a breath, filling his lungs with the fresh air and his senses with the scent of the fertile soil around him. He listens to the rustle of the leaves, watching the way the wind tangles through your hair and silk clothing.   Jimin wants to bottle this moment to keep by his side, but he can’t. He can’t plead ignorance to what he knows now, can’t turn a blind eye like he wants.   “I know who you are.” The words befall his lips in a murmur. His gaze locks with yours. Jimin calls your true name— “Goddess of the Spring.”   The wind whistles around him.   But the trees remain still. The verdant grass does not move. The flowers no longer sway.   The forest is at a standstill, frozen in time.   You are the Goddess of Birth, the Goddess of Flowers. You are the controller of the vernal equinox, of fertility of vegetation and of budding florals. You are the Goddess of Spring.   And you were in the council of fifteen before being exiled and banished from Heaven for your participation in the Great War — for fighting against Seokjin and the other gods. You’ve been forgotten and now trapped here as a punishment, forced to live amongst the mortals that you despise the most and forced to watch your beautiful creations die when the seasons end into the cold and frost.   Jimin knows how much you hate humans; how much you detest them for tricking you, taking advantage of Spring and killing everything that you love. He knows how you often lure humans here to kill them — that underneath this forest floor is a layer of blood and bones — that you were probably going to kill him too until he revealed that he was a god. And he knows how you haven’t been reborn since that time, since over a hundred years ago and you’re still holding onto your resentments of the past.    “I’m right, aren’t I?”   Like a faint spot on his mind, Jimin can faintly recall you.   He remembers seeing you over a century ago, walking down the paths of Heaven, giggling with the other goddesses, always with flowers in your hair. He can barely remember the way his eyes used to stray towards you, not thinking much but merely how beautiful you are….   Your hand lets go of his.   You stumble back.   “It wasn’t my fault.”   Jimin remains still, staring into your eyes. The wind whistles around him as if calling his name.   “I was tricked,” you murmur and shake your head wildly. “I don’t deserve to be here. I...I’ve been by myself for so long.” Tears fill your eyes, droplets hanging off your lashes and you gaze at him. “Don’t leave me...don’t leave me….you...can’t leave…”   He doesn’t notice the way the branches grow, twisting towards him until they’ve wrapped around his wrists and ankles. Jimin sharply inhales, fighting against the pulling binds and trying to break them apart. But the thorny vines from the rose bushes grow, capturing his limbs. “Y/N! I won’t leave!”   “You lie to me!” You shriek and the tornado of petals surrounds him in a storm. “Everyone lies to me!”   “I haven’t,” the God of Wine spits while struggling against the shackles that hold him up.   Jimin knows — you were manipulating him, trying to use him for escape, using him to find a way to leave. And even though it hurts, he didn’t care for a second when he found out.   “I’ve given you everything you wanted!” you scream and the forests darken, creeping towards him. “I let you abandon me twice! Leave me here waiting for you to return! And now that you know….you’re going to leave me here forever!”   The thorns sink into his skin, branches tightening around his flesh.    Jimin gives up. He stops fighting. Instead, he chooses to gaze into your eyes tenderly.    “I love you.”   “Liar!” you cry out, sobbing as a great tremor breaks through you, tears rushing down your cheeks and the flowers around you begin to wither away.   “I don’t care who you are. I don’t care what you’ve done,” he says, heart aching as he watches you succumb to your derangement, having been trapped in this one place for a hundred years by your lonesome. “I want to be with you, I want you by my side.”   “All the gods have ever done was lie to me.” You shake your head and crumble to the ground. Your hands lift to cover your ears as if you don’t want to hear his sweet words any longer for fear of being deceived. “All they’ve done is taken advantage of me, trapping me from one place to the next!”   Jimin’s unable to escape and you’ve broken down in front of him.   He stares at you while he becomes enveloped in branches and vines, much like how you’ve killed other young men. But he is not a mere mortal.   A haze erupts from the God of Wine. It’s a smothering spell that sweeps across the meadow, making it hard to think. And it creates an intoxicating atmosphere of pleasure as if you had bathed in wine. It steals your sobriety, making you drunk and incapable of thought.   Through the gaps between the branches, Jimin can see tension leave you. He can see the way your form softens, your hands dropping from cupping your ears and the forest lights again. The grass and leaves become verdant, flowers standing upright, the animals peeking out from their hiding places.    He’s impaired your wrath, made you inebriate from your anguish of isolation and imprisonment.   And he frees himself from the vines and branches.   “J-Jimin…?” you call out to him gently, words slurring and eyes narrowed as if you cannot see.   He thickens the haze, keeping you in place — into yet another prison — cloaking you away from reality.   “I will come back. I’ll figure out a way to free you, I promise.” With the God of Wine’s oath made, he vanishes.   //   The palace of the Sun has always been the grandest of all of Heaven. It faces west so that when the sun rises, it lifts behind the towers and illuminates the hundred marble steps leading up to it. It is deserving that the place Seokjin resides in is the most impressive — after all, he is the ruler of all rulers, the god of all gods, and somehow manages to keep the peace between the most prideful and self-interested deities. It is a task that most would be unable to do.   But on this occasion, Jimin cannot muster forth his respect or come quietly into the palace as he often does.   “Your Highness!” There is a sea of servants chasing after him, the God of Sun’s advisors floundering at his feet as he marches through the corridor, ripping open every door. “Please!”   “Where is he?!”   “Who dares make such a ruckus in my home?!” There is a booming voice that resonates across the sky and when Jimin whirls over, he finds Seokjin staring down at the yellow room from his place on the upper terrace. His many servants jolt and lower their heads immediately, moving aside as he walks down the stairs, glorious robes brushing against the tiled floor.   Seokjin sighs, anger quickly fading at discovering the God of Wine. “Is there something wrong, Jimin?”   “You trapped her there, didn’t you?” he asks, brows furrowed and expression crumpled in sorrow.   The God of Sun inhales a deep breath and turns to where his servants are. He waves them off with his hand and they deepen their bow before scattering away. Once alone, Seokjin returns his attention onto the god. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that if you want me to know what you’re talking about.”   “The Goddess of Spring.” Jimin speaks your name, looking up at Seokjin for an explanation.   It goes silent and Seokjin places his arms behind his back, slowly walking towards the open arch window of the room where the silhouettes of temples and homes in Heaven can be seen. Jimin follows him, eyes pinned on his profile.   “How long have you been seeing her?”   “So it’s true.” Jimin doesn’t answer, knowing that Seokjin's question is the confirmation he needed. “You trapped her in that forest.”   “She is intelligent, Jimin. More than what she seems. She knows how to influence others,” the God of Sun murmurs and twists to look at him. The two gods’ eyes connect to one another’s. “But yes, it’s true. She fought against us in the Great War, caused chaos and devastation of Heaven and the mortal realm. But she showed me sincere remorse and because I pitied her, I gave her what she wanted. She wanted to be in her forest and in the mortal realm.”   “You trapped her,” Jimin argues.    Your biggest desire was granted to the greatest extreme.   You were brought to the human realm and forced to watch everything you love constantly live and die when the seasons end. Never to return to Heaven — never to leave the forest.   “It is her punishment,” Seokjin clarifies. “And she was treated with the most leniency.”   Jimin shakes his head, throat becoming clogged with grief for you. “How long do you intend to keep her there?”   “More than a century.” The bright sunlight casts on his face, causing his skin to glow. “Perhaps indefinitely.”   “Let her go,” he whispers, pleading.   “Jimin.”   “Free her.” The God of Wine pushes all dignity aside to beg. “Her isolation is driving her to madness and because she hasn’t been reborn, she is still holding onto resentments of the past. Her anger can’t fade.”   “Good,” Seokjin says, turning away from him. “She is our enemy, Jimin. This is supposed to be her punishment.”   “For more than a hundred years?”   “You do not remember what destruction she has caused.” The God of the Sun sighs. “Many gods wanted worse for her. And she has been exiled from Heaven. I cannot risk conflict when peace is still fragile.”   Seokjin snaps his neck around when Jimin suddenly drops. He looks down, finding the God of Wine on his knees. “She won’t hurt anyone anymore. I will swear to it.”   “How can you assure that?”   Jimin lifts his chin, gaze unwavering. “Allow her to be reborn with me. I will watch over her. We will start anew together.”   “You love her,” Seokjin mutters and exhales steadily. He shakes his head in disapproval. “Get up, Jimin. No god should get on their knees, not for another and not for me. She has manipulated your emotions into feeling this way. Your mind will clear with time.”   “It won’t,” he says with such certainty. And for a God like him to have such conviction, the God of the Sun is surprised. “Please, Seokjin. Give her a chance. If not for her, then for me.”   “I never took you for such a fool, Jimin. Get up before someone sees you.” On his command, Jimin wobbles upwards. “You must trust that my judgment is not wrong. I will free her someday but not now. Collect yourself and if you know what is good for you, then you will not see her anymore.”   Before the God of Wine can part his lips and make counters, beg and plead on his knees once again, the God of Sun has already strode away with his arms behind his back and his shoulders square, unwilling. Jimin is left staring at the god’s backside until it fades away from his sight.   And against Seokjin’s advice, he goes to see you again.   He can’t leave you behind. He won’t.    No matter what anyone says, no matter if you are using him and tricking his emotions to your advantage, he won’t abandon you. As foolish as it may be, his affections for you are unconditional.   Jimin steps through the thick haze, coughing at the atmosphere he had created and put in place. It is smoldering and suffocating, making it difficult to think. But because it is his own power, he is able to tread through it, past the trees of the forest and into the familiar clearing.   There he finds you, slumped on the ground where he had left you, muttering to yourself.   “Y/N?”   “J-Jimin?” Your eyes narrow, unable to see him and your words slur as if intoxicated. The force of pleasure has rendered you incapable of much thought or movement. “You’re back?”    He lowers himself down, tears threatened at his lashes as his gaze sets upon you. Jimin reaches out and embraces your body, your head against his chest. “I’m here.”   “I...I can’t feel...my hands,” you blubber, panic leaking into your voice with the shreds of your sanity fleeting. “Help...he..lp.”   He has imprisoned you — to keep you from your anger, to keep you from hurting him and yourself. The God of Wine has done the one thing he swore to liberate you from. “I’m sorry. I...I’m sorry.”   Jimin is powerless.   He cannot free you from this forest. He can’t free you from your isolation and madness.   “I’m sorry.” He holds you against him as you drunkenly sob into his shoulder.   The meadow is serene, but when you begin to scream, he wraps his arms around you tighter.

The celebration marking a hundred years of peace is planned and thrown successfully with all the gods invited to commemorate. Jimin is diligent, more so than usual, having personally handed out each invitation and ensuring that Seokjin would be satisfied — he is, but never brings up the Goddess of Spring again in spite of how hard Jimin earnestly tries.   Time passes as Jimin continues to throw parties and celebrations, drinking wine with the gods above, expediting the pleasure that they can indulge in. But it’s not the same.    And the God of Wine never stops seeing you.   Each time he has a moment to spare, each time Spring begins and ends, he comes to be with you, cradling you in his arms and soothing your maddening worries.    “’m cold.”   You’re shivering against him, placed lifelessly in his lap with your forehead pressed to his cheek while his arms are secure around your shoulders. Winter has come and claimed all you have known and love. The branches of the trees are enveloped in frost, icicles hanging where petals once were. The meadow is blanketed in white, frigid snow making all that was living hiding away.   Your forest has turned into a frozen void, an eerie silence lingering where the violent blizzard was — it took all that you had created and nurtured over the year.   “I know.” Jimin pulls you closer.   “Everything’s dying…” you murmur, surrounded in the grave of once was. The flowers have withered and tears slip down your cheeks. The droplets aren’t of sorrow but anger and the God of Wine thicken the intoxicating haze to try to ease your mind.   “It’s okay…” He does what he can to console you over the loss, but he knows it does little.    Jimin is helpless and incapable.    But if he were stronger, if only his powers meant more…   You’re lulled to sleep in his embrace, breathing steadying. Jimin sighs, breath creating a cold cloud from his parted lips. And after a quiet moment, he hears the crunch of snow — it’s not made by an animal, but footsteps of another.    Jimin turns to discover the God of Sun walking through the field of snow, slow and cautious with his arms behind his back as his golden and white robes sweep against the ground.   “You never listened well, did you, Jimin.” Seokjin offers a soft smile and his fond eyes stray to you for a moment. It’s been a long time since he’s seen you. “Don’t let her wake up. If she sees me, she might just die in a fit of rage and make it worse for the both of us...”   “How did you know I was here?”   “I was looking for you and heard you didn’t return to Heaven. I knew there was no other place that you could be. I knew you ignored my warnings and continued to see her.”   “Are you going to take her away from me?” Jimin asks, fear and wariness rising in his voice.   But Seokjin calmly shakes his head.   “I’m going to stay with her, whether that means in Heaven or here,” Jimin declares while his arms around you become rigid, in case he’s torn apart from you.   “I know.” He nods. “I’ve never considered you so loyal and devoted, but it suits you well, Jimin. I am glad there are gods like you.”   Jimin sets you down on the blanket and you stir for a second before falling back into your slumber, chest rising and falling in a state of ignorant bliss. He gazes at you for a moment and then comes to face the God of Sun, trusting him enough that he won’t rip the two of you apart.   “You can’t protect her forever, even in this haze you’ve created,” he sighs and waves his hand around as if dispelling away a cloud. Seokjin is the only god unaffected by Jimin’s abilities. Yet he has never belittled his tricks and even now smiles.    Jimin doesn’t need to ask why he’s here. Seokjin tells him, “You can say I’ve had a change of heart. I’ve been thinking of what you’ve told me. I wouldn’t be a good ruler if I didn’t have mercy and compassion, right?”   The implication of his words sinks into Jimin and his breath catches into his throat.    “You’re….going to free her?”   “Justice has been served,” Seokjin says, looking around the forest, able to see how well it’s been taken care of even in the middle of the coldest season. “It’s not good to live in the past either. But I have conditions—”   The God of Wine is eager. “What conditions?”   “I will release her from her imprisonment and you both will be reborn as children for a fresh start.” Seokjin’s voice booms across the forest, resonating all around them as if he was making an oath. “A new lifetime if she can agree to put the past behind her. But you must watch over her, Jimin. It won’t be easy. Most of the gods won’t be happy about this arrangement. It will be an uphill battle to gain acceptance. So, you must guide and protect her. If the Goddess of Spring ever steps out of line or causes bloodshed or strife in Heaven, the fault will be both of yours to bear.” He pauses and the corner of his plush lips quirk, eyes lit with mirth. “Do you agree to this deal?”   Jimin answers through an embrace.   The God of Wine leaps up to hug the God of the Sun, causing the latter to stumble back and burst out into laughter, patting the former’s back awkwardly. “Alright, alright. Don’t forget who we are.”   “Thank you, Seokjin. Thank you…”   “I know.” He pulls him apart and grins. “But if it were not because I trust you, I would not so easily agree.”   The God of Sun’s hand falls on his shoulder, touch feather-light but squeezing comfortingly. He has an approving expression, mind put at ease knowing that you have someone like Jimin by your side. And it’s at this moment that Jimin knows his efforts were not futile. What he could not achieve with his powers, he countervailed with sincerity and truth.    No longer are you the trapped goddess punished for past wrongdoings.   You are the Goddess of Spring, companion of the God of Wine.

“Jimin!”   A squeaky giggle streams from your chest and he whirls around sulking. You pout at him, getting impatient with how long he’s taking. The sun wasn’t going to be up forever and you still wanted to play. “C’mon, slowpoke. What are you waiting for?”   “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he whines and runs to you, leaving the third jug of wine unfinished from brewing. He’s still not very fast at making it, but he knows he’ll learn. There’s still plenty of time.   Your hand opens, catching his and you laugh as your fingers interlace.   Heaven is noisier than it used to be.   The grandiose paradise of temples and homes of gods, etched with precious marble and gold, now has two rascals making mischief together. As headache-inducing as the pair of you are to the many gods that reside here, you’re still endearing as you are troublemakers. And with how you’ve filled every crevice of Heaven with beautiful flowers and Jimin supplies them wine, no god is ever angry for long—    Except that time you transformed Jungkook’s head of hair into a bed of moss; Jimin couldn’t help you much there. But he won’t ever let anyone bully you...unless it’s himself, of course.   “Are you sure this is okay?” you ask, quirking your head to one side as you watch him climb the fence into Seokjin’s garden.   “It’s okay.” Jimin gives a cheesy grin. “I know a secret hideout!”   Jimin still knows his way around Heaven, recalling vaguely from his past life where everything is. But for you, everything seems new and unfamiliar. It’s been a long time since you’ve been back to Heaven, Jimin knows, although he really enjoys the way you gander around with wide eyes as if you can’t believe this is your home now.   “Come on!”   Without hesitation, you take your best friend’s hand and he helps pull you to the other side.   The garden is wide and vast, verdant grass tall and luscious. The bushes and ground are full of buds placed perfectly in rows, petals nervously peeking out, still yet to fully open. Jimin’s been thinking about it for some time now, but he’s sure this is a place you would really love.   He looks around with a proud smile.   “What do you think?”   When there’s no answer, Jimin twirls around.   At the same time, a breeze brushes through his hair and he halts.   Your palms are pressed flush against the truck of the tree in the center of the garden. And as if you are calling onto the very soul of the tree, through the warm wind, peace blossoms begin to flutter down the tree like rain.   It entwines with your hair, seemingly wrapping your entire frame with the soft colour. The petals decorate your crown, getting caught in your light pink silks adorned on your body, hugging you. The aroma of the flowers surround him, not pungent but rather faint, like a whiff of fresh perfume passing by.   Giggles befall your lips, nose scrunching as the petals fall onto your cheeks, tickling you.    And Jimin smiles. His previous lifetime wasn’t wrong — you are indeed the most beautiful being he has ever seen or laid witness to.   “Like it?” you ask with a grin.    The flower rain was a gift and one he will always cherish.   Jimin smiles as he gazes at you. “I love it.”   And the flowers around him bloom.

[phykios]

the marble king, part 11 [read on ao3] [rated M for adult situations]

“I was speaking to your mother while you went to market,” his wife said as they settled back into their bed for the night.

For the time, they were lingering a few extra days in Messalia. It was difficult not to--Venice did not have his mother’s cooking, nor his sister's sweet smiles, and Paul was much better at teaching Annabeth Italian than Percy. As well, Percy needed to go and convert some of their money to florins and ducats and the like, far, far more money than he had ever thought he would ever possess. He was very glad for his step-father’s assistance in this manner; neither he nor Annabeth were terribly talented with numbers, and there were quite a lot of calculations to be done. He was equally glad for the affection between his wife and his mother; that the two most important women in his life got on so well was very pleasing to him. “Oh, yes?”

“I had some questions about pregnancy.”

He turned to look at her, a sudden flutter in his stomach. She had not told him of any new complaints or complications, but perhaps she had shared them with a trusted woman. “Are you well?” he asked.

Annabeth pursued her lips, frowning so hard he could nearly see the interconnected web of her clever mind.  “I... must admit I have a problem.”

Percy raised himself on one arm, concerned. “A problem? Is it serious?”

“No, no,” she shook her head. “Your mother assured me it was perfectly normal. However, I may require your…” Annabeth trailed off, then, glancing uneasily at him. “...Your assistance.”

“Anything,” he said, laying a hand on her arm. Such casual touches still managed to thrill him, sending shivers down his spine. “I am at your disposal.”

“I am…” She swallowed, licking her lips. Percy’s eyes could not help but track the movement. “That is, your mother assured me it was normal for a woman in the last stages of her pregnancy to be taken with certain… needs. So to speak.”

“Of course,” Percy nodded. Expectant mothers were cursed with sudden, intense, often contradictory desires. He had learned that years prior with his mother and Esther, and had witnessed it firsthand with Annabeth and their little Anja.

Annabeth met his eyes, stunning storm clouds ringed with gold. “Certain… carnal needs,” she said, slowly.

Percy… Percy blinked.

“It is quite common,” Annabeth said, her pink cheeks rapidly turning red in a manner quite becoming, “for women who are pregnant to find themselves with increased lust.”

“I… see,” Percy said.

Well, he had certainly not known that when his mother was carrying Esther.

Still, there were much more pressing matters at hand. “How… may I assist you?”

Did she require the room to herself, and need him to protect her privacy? Did she wish him to go and… procure her a tool for aid?

Was that why she had been so fixated on brothels the other day? Was he meant to find her a companion at one? If he did, would it be presumptuous of him to select a woman? He did not like the idea of her laying with another man, but--but she had told him of Katya and Clarice and--

No, he furiously thought, nearly shaking his head. Annabeth did not wish to be the object of his lust, and he would not make her so.

“What may I do to assist you?” he asked her again. As her husband, he would serve his wife and her pregnancy however she required it. The actions he took which led to such a situation had been distasteful to her, and so he must endure some of his own distaste now on her behalf.

She cast her eyes from his once more. “I… cannot reach,” she admitted, her hand flicking below her round belly. “I was wondering if you would be willing to…” her voice faded away, shame and embarrassment plain on her red face.  

Percy swallowed. “I… you--you wish me to… touch you?”

She nodded. “I find myself in rather… urgent need of completion, and I should be very grateful for your assistance--if,” she rushed to assure him, “it is not too distasteful for you, of course.”

“No,” Percy said, then, quickly, at her crestfallen expression, “I mean, yes, of course it is not distasteful.” He swallowed again, his mouth watering, but making sure his eyes rested on her face and no lower. “I am happy to assist you however you need.”

A moment passed between them, long and charged. There was a time when he would have been able to divine the whole of her mood and motivations, just from the tilt and shape of her brow. Now, however. He had not been able to read her for quite some time.

Slowly, as though he was approaching a skittish animal, he sat up in bed, peeling the sheets off the both of them. She wore a red kirtle over her chemise this night, her wimple discarded on the floor below, her hair braided down her back. Simple, sturdy traveling fare.

Hushed, he questioned her once more. “May I…?”

Annabeth nodded.

Ever so carefully, Percy pulled her dress up, up over her calves, her thighs. Her stockings were tied above her knees, the garters delicately embroidered with wavy lines of green. Percy had not had the pleasure of undressing many women, and the goddesses of his father’s court did not take to modern fashion. He did not know if such garments were standard, or a mark of the maker. Perhaps Annabeth had made them herself and merely liked the pattern.

“Is there a problem?” Annabeth asked when he waited too long, Percy attempting to keep all his attentions on the cloth and not her pale thigh.

“No, no,” he said, faintly, and then pushed her dress up more. Perhaps sensing his fear and trepidation, she took it from his hands just as it uncovered her center, pulling it the rest of the way so that it lay at her hips just below the swell of her belly.

There, beneath the curve of her stomach, he saw the pink flesh and more of the blonde curls which adorned her head, and his mouth nearly watered. They were a darker gold, here, and easier to see in the afternoon sun than they had been by the glow of the hearth on their wedding night.

Would she allow him the use of his mouth, rather than his hands, he wondered? He was not unskilled with his fingers, but his true abilities were in his tongue. He would prefer it, as well, the flatteries of which his tongue never tired.

With a deep, steadying breath, grounding himself in the sweet, fantastical reality of her laid out before him, open and willing and longing for his touch, he reached out a finger, and traced along the seam of her cunt. Once, twice, three times, until she gave a little gasp, her outer lips parting carefully about the tip of his finger.

So wet already--he tried not to moan himself at the feel of it, at the smell of her as it wafted into the air around him.

Up and down and up and down, he sweetly toyed with her folds, then dipped inside with a finger. At the little whine which escaped her throat, he had to force down his pleased smile.

Cease with your foolish thoughts, he chided himself. This was not about his own pleasure. This was about hers.

Over and over again, then, he went, caressing her cunt as it deserved, as he wished he could do to her every night, trying desperately not to get lost in her sounds of pleasure. This was to ease her suffering, he always had to remember--not for his own benefit.

“Percy,” she gasped his name, and he felt himself twitch in his breeches. “Please!”

Too afraid to ask, too caught on his name on her lips, he did not know for what she begged of him. So he took his other hand, and after briefly caressing her belly, the holy chalice which held their child within it, he brought his thumb down on the place at the top of her cunt, rubbing at it while his other hand teased at the rest of her sensitive pink flesh.

“Yes,” She cried. “Yes, just like that, yes . Percy, yes, please .”

He quickened his pace on her skin, and rather than tease her further, as he so desperately wished to do, instead slid his fingers inside her and out again. As long as he did not say so, as long as he did what she asked, he allowed himself, just for a little while, to pretend it was his cock instead.

Her sweet cries grew hurried, more breathless as Percy moved his hand faster, harder, with greater intent.

“Good girl,” he murmured in a hushed voice, a voice which was not under his control, yet nonetheless taken from the deepest, most desperate places of his desire. “Good girl. Just like that.”

She cried out once more, and he was forced to bite his tongue, lest he declare her beauty to rival that of Aphrodite--or lower it for a taste.

As a flower to the sun, her cheeks bloomed, her eyes fluttering shut as her lips pulled beyond a smile in ecstasy. Letting out one final, piercing cry, Percy felt more wetness gush out of her, straight into his waiting hand.

He was certainly not unschooled in the ways of women, but he had never seen that before. Percy licked his lips, thankful that she could not see him.

Slowing his movements, then, he gently brought her down from her feminine heights, her body twitching with latent pleasure as her climax passed her over. Only when he was certain that she was well and truly sated, that her breathing had returned to normal, that her limbs were loose and lax, that her cunt had ceased to ripple around his fingers, did he finally, torturously remove them, sliding them from her body with a great, private reluctance.

Sleepily, she slid her eyes open once more, catching him with her gaze. “Thank you,” she mumbled, her skin still flushed. “Thank you.”

His heart pounded as though he were the one who had just undergone such a physical act, throbbing in his chest. “It was my pleasure,” he said, his voice sounding at least somewhat more normal--a feat far more heroic than any other he had ever attempted before. “To--to help you however you need,” he stammered, quickly following up.

She nodded, waving a limp hand.

Almost against his will, he glanced once more towards the peak of her thighs, wet and glistening. “Allow me to clean you,” he said, pathetically desperate for just another touch of her.

Slipping off of the bed, he made his way to the water basin. When he turned away from her, it took every ounce of willpower and fortitude he possessed not to lick his fingers clean. Instead, he rinsed them off, and then wet his handkerchief, returning to the bed to gently wipe at her folds. She squirmed, weakly, her brow furrowing in a discomfort of feeling.

When he finished, she tossed down her skirts, and with his help climbed out of bed, undoing the lacing of her dress and shucking off her kirtle, before easing herself back down again. He had seen her like this for months now, Annabeth in her linens, her growing belly pushing against the fabric until she had to purchase more to modify her dresses.

So beautiful, he mused. So perfect. His wife, but not his.

He would do well to remember that fact. Anja Elisabet was wife, his friend, the mother of his child--but not his. This was the deal they had struck.

She looked out the window, her eyes half closed in sleep and Percy stripped off his own outer clothing.  

He was careful as he climbed into bed not to show Annabeth how much his assistance had pleased him.

“Thank you, Percy,” she hummed, pleased and pliant, turning onto her side, a hand curled protectively around the swell of their child.

This bed in the inn was far too comfortable, he thought. They had been here for much too long. “Of course,” he said once more.

Of course.

Of course he would serve her, however she needed.

Of course he would feel empty as soon as the deed was done.

***

They had no need to stay in Messalia for three weeks, but stay they did, for his mother’s embraces, his step-father’s smiles, and his sister’s giggles. Were it his decision, he would have put down his roots in the port city, never to be parted again. But Venice was what he had promised his wife, and there was the church built in the image of the St. Sophia, perhaps the new home of their godly family.

So there he left his mortal family behind.

“Here,” he said on the last morning, as their various parcels were loaded onto the boat, and Annabeth was distracted by Esther’s hugs. He handed his mother another velvet purse, stuffed with more money taken from his little allowance.

“Percy,” his mother said, breathless at the flash of gold. “This must be at least a year’s wages.”

He nodded, a bit uncomfortable. “I thought it might do you some good.”

“Oh, my darling son.” She placed her slander hand on cheek, her calloused skin rough against his, and his willpower nearly dissolved. “You do not have to do this.”

“Of course I do,” he said. “You took care of me for so many years, and now that I am able, I shall take care of you in return.”

He paused, then, as he considered his next statement. He did not wish for it to be misconstrued, as he held no ill will towards her husband, but… it needed to be said.

“I am giving this to you,” he spoke, catching her eye so that she could divine his full meaning. “Not to Paul.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He took her hands in his. “I have left Paul our cart and our horse. I know that you told him of the money I gave you weeks ago, but please, do not feel as though you need to share this with him as well.”

“Percy,” she chided, “Paul would never--” “I know that, mater ,” he said, for if there ever was doubt to his character, he might have dispatched the man himself long ago. “Still, I think it is fair for you to keep something for yourself, for any trouble which might arise.”

With those keen, piercing eyes which saw so much, they looked on him with so much affection, he felt his own eyes grow wet. “My son,” she said, so full of tenderness, “I can see that you are a good husband, and will be an even better father to your little girl.”

He smiled at her words, a tear falling down his cheek. Her excitement over her granddaughter was palpable.

Percy would see them all again, he swore, and one day, his mother would meet his little Anja, and she and her family would come to call Venice home.

They all embraced. Esther sobbed, and Paul and his mother were not without tears. Nor was Percy, though he was only in real danger of unbecoming emotion when he heard Annabeth whisper to Esther about what a good aunt she would be to the baby.

And then, once more did they board a ship, sailing towards a place unknown.

The first few days, he had worried that perhaps sea sickness would strike his wife again, but, to his pleasant discovery, she was as hale as could be expected, waddling about the ship, hand around her middle as she took in the fresh, salty air. Percy thought fleetingly of the Madonna he had seen in the church Athens, then put her from his mind entirely, for this was surely a more divine and holy mother, this Anja Elisabet, draped in robes of blue and white, belly full of his daughter, standing proudly aboard a ship.

What goddess, either that of the Christians or the Hellenes or the Norsemen, could ever hope to compare? Perhaps this was the source of Hera’s animosity and ire, all those years ago, the knowledge that one day Annabeth would surpass her in her own domains of marriage and motherhood.

“You are in a very good humor,” Annabeth said, five days into their journey. “I would have expected leaving your family to put you in a foul mood.”

She was in something of a foul mood herself today, languishing in their little cabin, unwilling to tread outside. In hopes of lifting her spirits a little, he was rubbing the tightness from her feet, digging his fingers into her muscles. At one particularly strong motion, she moaned, low in her throat, in a manner not dissimilar to when she came, shaking on his fingers.

“I am very sad to leave them,” he admitted, hoping to keep his mind off of… other things. “But we are our own family now, are we not?”

Her face still slack from the relaxing massage, she frowned, her brows drawing together the way they did whenever she was faced with a particularly thorny Gordian knot of a problem. Percy could not, strictly speaking, discern whether or she derived any joy from such a statement.

He spared a moment to wonder if he had said too much, or if he had made her uncomfortable. But she just nodded. “Yes, of course. We are a family, as well.” She shifted, trying once more to situate herself in the position which would cause the least amount of physical discomfort from her stomach.

Though she were still, at times, entirely unreadable, Percy knew when something weighed heavily on her. “What is it?” he asked, his hands stilling on her foot.

Pausing, she looked away, no doubt weighing the merits of keeping whatever it was to herself. “It is nothing,” she said, after a moment. “I was reminded, for a moment, of Lukas, and of Thalia.”

“Oh.” Percy pressed his thumb into the ball of her foot, easing the tense muscle there, grounding himself in the feel of the delicate bones of her ankle beneath his fingers.

The last Olympian had granted him a vision, once upon a time, of Annabeth as a very, very young girl, lost in what he now knew to be far northern wildernesses, having been rescued by the two older children. Lukas had pledged to her, then, to be her new family, to replace the one which had so cruelly cast her aside--only to cast her aside himself, five years later. Undoubtedly, the concept of a family which would not abandon her was not a concept with which she was overly familiar.

Well, Percy would certainly do his best to familiarize her with it.

Shifting again, she shooed away his concern, bidding him to keep up his work on her aching feet. She seemed to prefer that to even his work on her cunt, which he still provided nearly every day.

“You never told me,” she inserted into the silence, tight and restrained. “When did you sell the cart and horse?”

He froze, his knuckles pressed against the sweeping arch of her feet, a wave of guilt crashing over him, as the shore in a morning storm.

Oh, dear.

Percy swallowed. “I… that is to say…”

In truth, he had hoped she would not ask. She seemed accustomed to a certain standard of living, and now, burdened with her share of her inheritance, he had thought that she may not notice some of the finer details. But of course, she would, being the cleverest, wisest woman in the world. How, then, did he apologize for such a gross misuse of funds? Of her trust? “I must confess something.”

With some difficulty, she adjusted her seat, so she could look on him more fully. “What is it?” she asked, her tone short.

She had been so forthright with him, it was only fair that he did the same. “I did not sell the cart and horse,” said Percy, meeting her gaze. “I gave them to Paul.”

She tilted her head, appraising. “I did not know he was in need of either of those things.”

“I gifted them so he could sell them,” said Percy, “so they could make use of the money.”

“Of course,” she said, nodding her head. “That is good compensation for their hospitality, among many other things.”

“There is more,” he said, nerves rising. “I also… gave my mother some money. Well, quite a sum of money.” A year’s wages, she had said, but between both purses he’d handed over, it had really been much closer to two. “A… rather large sum of money.”

She frowned, and he felt the guilt sinking lower in his stomach. “How large a sum?”

“Probably… a hundred or so ducats.”

“Oh,” she said, her face falling from a frown into a sort of bemused smile. “I understand why your mother would think that was so much money but--”

“I wish to assure you,” he chimed in, quickly, desperate to explain himself, “that I will work tirelessly to recoup it when we make land.”

“Recoup what?”

“The money which I took from you.”

“Percy,” she said, in a tone he knew from their youth, the one she assumed whenever she tried to patiently explain something to him, rather than simply calling him the fool she considered him to be. “The money is in your name. You know that, yes?”

“I do,” he agreed, “but that does not make it mine.”

“Any law would say otherwise.”

“The law does not always speak truly,” Percy said, “The money is yours, by right and by blood. I apologize for taking so much of it without your express permission, but please know that I do intend to pay you back in full.” Such a task would take a long while. Two years at least, for the money he gave to his mother, and quite a bit more for the horse and cart, then he could begin working to save to send for his mother and her family. Hopefully, Annabeth would be willing to pay for their room and board when they arrived. “I suspect there is work to be had on many a ship in Venice. I know a good many merchants make their homes there. If not, perhaps I can find employment in a shipyard. I cannot be a shipwright, of course, as I would not be able to afford the apprenticeship, and I am too old besides, but there is always work to be found, if not on the sea, then in the city.” It would be torture to live so close to the sea and yet work with the soil, but he would find a way to persevere. “I will find something, I promise you.”

Annabeth stared at him as though he had grown a second head. “I do not understand.”

Percy knew very well how the children of Athena hated problems they could not quickly understand. “I want to assure you,” he tried again, “that I will pay you back all that I owe. Unfortunately, it shall not be quick. Nevertheless, I shall toil until you are compensated in full. I fear, though, that without any previous social standing, such an undertaking may encompass several years. I am sorry for the delay, but I will fulfil my debt to you, one day’s wage at a time.”

This had been the issue, oh so many years ago. It had been an issue in Constantinople, when it was all he could do to feed himself during the siege, and it had been an issue at the tender age of sixteen, when he could never have supported a family. Now, thankfully, his wife had a deep cushion upon which she and their child could fall, which took a tremendous weight off of his shoulders.

“One day’s wage…” she repeated, softly, unbelievingly, then with a force and speed which surprised him, Annabeth yanked her foot back from his hands. “You mean to tell me,” she said, steel-voiced and spitting fire, “that you plan to become a common laborer?”

“Unless by some measure of luck a man of distinction from Constantinople with whom I served now resides in Venice, I have nothing in the way of connections.” The odds of that, he felt, were startlingly slim, however. He could, perhaps, send a message to Aachen, as they had their own web of social ties running up and down Italy, but he thought Annabeth might dislike money made from a Latin connection even more than the slow amounts he could provide with work by his own hands. Iason would be eager to help him, but Annabeth would likely not be eager to take it, and so he would not mention it.

Annabeth still stared at him, befuddled, angry. “But--I--You--”

She stood up off the bed with easy grace, long practiced even despite her belly, but as she began to pace in their very small cabin, she did waddle around a bit, distracting Percy with the beauty of the image. This was an important conversation, he told himself, shaking his head. “What can I do to--”

Then, with a frustrated cry, she whirled on him. “You truly would disrespect me so much?” she demanded, her face red.

The force of her words was so strong he had to lean back a little. “I--” he stammered, uncomprehending, “I only wish to do right by you.”

“Do right by me?” she sneered. “How? By disrespecting our marriage so entirely that you will not claim what is legally yours? By reducing me to a laborer's wife in a city of strangers? Me!” she scoffed, her voice rising higher and higher in pitch and volume. “A daughter of Athena. A warrior of Rome. A legacy of Frey and a lady of house Förfölja!”

“You can be whatever you wish,” he offered, and although it was true, it sounded small to his own ears. Her father had wished for her to play politics among the noble houses of Svealand--if she wished to do so in Venice instead, he would not stop her.

“Oh yes,” she said, venom in her voice. “I can certainly go and meet with the Doge and his retinue. I shall dress up in my silks and my aunt’s jewels, and when they say, ‘Oh, Signora Thalassinos, who is your husband?’ I will have to reply, ‘Oh, he mucks the stables near the shipyards!’”

Overwhelmed by her fire, her intensity, he blinked at her, speechless.

“You would have me introduce our son,” she went on, incensed, “not as the legacy of great gods and greater heroes, but as the son of a man who refuses to honor his marriage, and would rather toil away on the docks!”

His hands raised before him, he beseeched his goddess, demurely, placatingly. “What would you have my do, my lady?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed, and he was reminded of her mother, of so many years of disapproval. Lady Athena had wanted him to stay away from her daughter, and for several years, he had thought she had gotten her way. “Take what has been freely given,” Annabeth demanded. “If you wish to return to the sea, well, buy a ship. Buy a dozen! Surely you would have better luck carrying goods across the Mare Nostrum than any other man, with your father’s blessings. But if you insist on ignoring the money that is by law, custom, and my own wish yours , then you shall earn it back in a manner which will not shame me or my child.”  

Stunned, he said in a quiet voice, “I do not wish to take advantage--”

“Oh, I know,” she nearly snarled. “You will take no advantage, nothing of me--only my hand and my maidenhead.”

He flinched, as though he had been struck.

“And what do you give me in return? Your distance and your disrespect.” Her breathing was hard, labored, as though she had just gone several rounds in the arena. His own heart beat so rapidly in his chest it felt like the sparring match was against him. Perhaps it was. “I took you as my husband, son of Poseidon. I expect you to act like it.”

She made to leave their cabin, to make a grand exit worthy of the Empress she should have been, had she chosen a better husband. Then, as she reached the door of their cabin, her shoulders tensed, and she curled in on herself, letting out a cry of pain.

Percy was by her side in a moment. Wrapping his arms around her, her hands clutched at her stomach. “No,” he breathed, all anger and fear forgotten, “not now.”

“No,” she agreed, “no, I think not.” She straightened up a little, but left most of her weight on him, “Your mother told me this could happen. False pains, she called it. It is not yet time.” But she did not seem so confident.

“Come,” he said. “Sit.”

She ended up laying down on their little cabin bed, huddled on her side, her face drawn in pain and worry, but after ten long, excruciating minutes, no other pains came, and her breathing returned to normal.

“Do you need anything?” Percy asked her, gently. “Some water? Some wine?”

She nodded weakly, but did not specify which.

After a few minutes, making certain she was no longer in any serious pain, he then went in search of one or the other, and possibly even a little bit of food.

The sailors greeted him as he emerged onto the deck. He was quite friendly with the seamen. Annabeth had paid good money for their services, yes, but also, he sensed that they could feel a kindred spirit among them.

He found the quartermaster, a kind man with five children of his own and the air of a legacy of Neptune, with very little trouble. The man was always eager to assist this young charge and his wife, and gladly procured Percy wine and hard bread.

“Anything else?” he asked.

Percy considered, as a thought occurred to him. “You do not happen to be in possession of any olives, do you?”

He gave Percy a sort of sideways look, and then, to Percy’s amazement, nodded, producing a small jar of the stuff.

Percy could have kissed the man. His thanks would have lasted all night, had he not been shooed away, back to his wife.

She had maneuvered herself to a sitting position once more when he returned. Freya the cat had made herself quite at home against the line of her thigh, purring contentedly as Annabeth rubbed at her belly, speaking words he did not understand, but recognized as her father’s tongue, so musical and lilting that it could have been a lullaby.

“I have returned,” he said softly, almost unwilling to interrupt the moment. “With--"

At his voice, she raised her head, her eyes a little red and puffy from tears, but the smile she directed towards him was soft and pleased. “Oh, thank you, Percy. Here, come sit by me.”

Settling in on her other side, ever mindful of both her stomach and her furry companion, he handed her the wine, resisting the urge to brush her hair which had fallen into her face.

“I do apologize,” she said, after she had taken a drink. “I did not mean for my words to be so harsh.”

“It is alright,” he replied. “I did not realize the enormity of your feelings.”

Nibbling on a piece of bread, she swallowed, chasing the morsel with a little more wine, before pinning him with an odd sort of stare. “You must remember, Percy, that your choices no longer solely affect you. You are a husband, and a father. There are certain things which you are now obligated to provide.”

“Yes, I am aware,” he said, throat thick. Money and order and prestige, none of which he possessed. “All I meant for was to reassure you that I would not trap you in a situation from which you could not free yourself, should you ever need to.”

More than she knew, the shadow of his mother’s first husband hung over him still. He would rather die than submit Annabeth to even an echo of the same treatment.

“I am not trapped,” she said. “I extended the proposition of marriage to you, and you agreed--quite the opposite of the way things are usually done, might I add.”

He chuckled. That did seem to be a common thread between them.

“But,” she went on, “I am your wife. You must remember that. There are things for which I will not stand, and unlike some women, I have a noted history of running off when I do not like my treatment. When I married you, I knew, however, that you would never do those things.” She paused, considering him, holding his gaze. “I am a reflection of you, as a wife always is. I chose a brave, handsome, powerful, intelligent husband, and I am happy to be with him--but it will do me no good if he hides away and refuses to use his gifts, or disrespects our union by not valuing property that is rightfully his. If you act as though our union is not one of partnership, but one of a great burden, then, whatever your intentions, that will harm me.”

There were a million things he wished he could tell her, in this moment, promises of autonomy, declarations of love, but he knew she would not want to hear either. “That is not fair to you,” was all he ended up saying.

“I never said it was fair,” she agreed, a sympathetic twist to her mouth. “However, this is the way it is. I am not so displeased with my choices, not yet, but please, for my pride, if nothing else, do not prove me wrong.”

“Well,” Percy offered, falling into old step, “pride is your fatal flaw, skjaldmær . I suppose I must take particular care with it.”

She smiled at him, real, true, beautiful. “That is what I ask.”

“Is that all?”

“Well,” she grinned, a little of her humor shining through, “I daresay I shall ask for much much more--for what, however, at this time I cannot say.”

Percy wished he could, were she so inclined, offer her the world, his devotion, his love, all that he had and more. He settled instead for reaching beneath his cloak and pulling out his gift from the quartermaster. “I know you said that your cravings had--”

Before he could even finish his sentence, Annabeth had yanked it from his hand.

“Olives!” she cried in a tone not dissimilar to that of her lusts. “Oh Percy, you found them! You found me olives at sea!”

In very quick succession, she kissed him, and then she had the jar open and began shoving olives into her mouth.

***

In Neapolis , as he was disembarked, he made certain to purchase more olives for her. He did not do so because he wished to put some space between himself and his wife, but rather because she loved them, and at this stage in her pregnancy, she was finding herself uncomfortable all the time. The movement of the boat was not the cause of her nausea, but the cramped quarters and lack of comforts were wearing on her.

So, he set out to find her olives. The fact that he felt his own failure as a husband keenly, but he still did not know how to rectify it, was merely an additional consideration. Thus, he would provide her with food, because it appeared he was unable to provide her with anything more effective.

He managed to procure a few figs as well, juicy and sweet. And some salted nuts he thought might please her. And many many olives. He spent a good deal of money on the volume, hoping  that they would last them to Venice, or at the very least to their next stop.

Spending money on his wife was no hardship. On himself, however? It took him several minutes to convince himself into purchasing a new hat, as his had accumulated a rather disgusting layer of road dirt.

She would like this one, he hoped. It was black, but with a blue and gold trim around the brim. She seemed to enjoy that particular color scheme.

He came back to the ship to some commotion, though he only half listened to the first mate’s words as two trunks were loaded aboard. He was nervous around his wife, still, her condition always lighting fearful fires within him, but he found he could never be too far away. Percy felt as though he were a young boy of fifteen all over again, just returning from their terrible, terrible trip beneath the earth, only now coming to terms with the breadth of his feelings for her.

“There's been some commotion on the ship while you were gone,” said Annabeth as he entered their cabin, once more laid out on their bed. Freya the cat did not crowd her this afternoon, but slept peacefully on Percy’s discarded winter cloak.

“Yes,” Percy agreed, handing her the olives and figs, watching with detached horror as she stuffed them both simultaneously into her mouth. Would it be husbandly to mock her choice? Had they both still been youths, he would not have hesitated to do so, and that good natured mocking had come so easy to him still, even with his devotion, but everything now felt so unbalanced. Marriages did contain humor and good-natured ribbing, but were they acceptable enough substitutes for love and affection? Too fearful to try, he instead answered her question. “We have taken on a new passenger, it seems.”

“Anyone interesting?”

“A count, returning to his home in Venice,” he said. “The first mate did not volunteer many more details.”

“Perhaps you should introduce yourself,” she suggested. “As you said, we have no connections in the city. A count on friendly terms could potentially be a great boon.”

A part of him hated how she had listened to his every word, as she should not have to manage his life so fully, but, well, it was a very good idea.

“I will do so when you are feeling a little better,” he promised.

“See to it that you do.”

She winced, then, moving about to readjust herself on the bed. “I apologize,” said Percy, for what must have been the thousandth time. He never wished to cause her such discomfort, even if the reason was a happy one.

“I have asked you repeatedly to stop apologizing,” she said, relaxing into the bed. “You know it is no trouble. I have traveled to the ends of the world with you twice now, both ways. I think it is in fact easier to do while with child, mostly. Next time,” she continued, quickly, refusing him ample time to dwell on her strange words, “perhaps we shall arrive before the later days.”

Such words belonged to the realm of dreams; “next time.” In truth, they would not have another opportunity such as this. This would be their only child. He tried to comfort himself with the fact that it was better for her, as many a tragedy befell women in the birthing bed.

His own fears about what might await his wife were quiet, but as the date came nearer, it had been harder and harder to quell them. She was hearty and hale, but normally she would have been confined to comfortable rooms. Even traveling up and down the continent, the meanest inn made a far better place to lay than the softest beds upon the undulating ocean.

They had no nectar or ambrosia here, no healer of Apollo or midwife of Artemis on hand. Annabeth only had Percy, and he was sorely terrified he would find himself lacking in the crucial moment.

Ashore, in Neapolis, he had burned a sacrifice in preparation, to Artemis, Eileithyia, and Hera, and any deity who had even the remotest connection with childbirth. He had strongly considered using one of their precious few drachmae to attempt to contact the agoge , or perhaps Thalia and her maiden hunters. They had, like their lady, brought babies into the world on occasion.

Without a guarantee of success, however, he found himself loath to waste such time and resources. But it mattered not--they would be in Venice in a few days, he would find her the most comfortable of rooms, the most talented of midwives, and the most celebrated of doctors, and there they would await the birth of their daughter.

Afterwards, what he was supposed to do still remained a mystery. Not be a laborer, not find work on a ship, he was too afraid to ask what she wanted him to do. Too afraid to once again ignite her ire. Too afraid that he could not give it to her.

In some ways, her growing discomfort was a blessing. It distracted them both from having to figure out what he was to do to make her truly happy.

They set sail again, and Percy sunk into the feeling of the sea all around him, a brief escape from his wife’s, his dearest friend’s discomfort. They were very close to their destination, less than a fortnight at a normal speed, and with Percy’s help, well, they could be much, much faster.

As Annabeth winced and groaned, her momentary peace fleeing her with the rocking of the ship, he decided that they would make it to Venice in ten days’ time. Most likely, he could manage an even quicker pace, but he did not wish to scare the sailors so badly that they might stop all together.

Perhaps they should not have dallied in Messalia. Or perhaps they should have remained longer, long enough for her to give birth.

He should have done a great many things differently, it seemed.

At her request on the second day, he took her out of their cabin, supporting her as they slowly walked about the deck. All night, he had heard her toss and turn in their shared bed, groaning in pain. She seemed a little better this morning, but hopefully the sea air would do her a bit more good.

“And if not me,” she said, her jest squeezed through gritted teeth, “then perhaps your sea spawn.” Her laughter was cut off by her gasp of pain, digging her nails into the skin of his arm.

By his count, she had done that at least every five minutes for at least several hours. The time between the pain might have even been getting shorter.

“Are you certain you are alright? There are plenty of places to make port between here and Venice.”

She waved him off. “I am fine, I just… ooh , it feels as though your child is nearly as excited by the sea as you are.”

Usually, Percy would have been mollified by such a statement, and he would have gone about his business as usual--but not today. “I think we should return to our cabin, and get you back in b--”

All at once, she crushed his hand, nearly falling into him as she let out a terrible, heart-wrenching cry.

“Annabeth!” He braced her against his body, a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “What is it?”

“ Ma ton Dia ,” she gasped, “I… oh, no! Oh, stupid, stupid, I am such a fool!”

“What?” he pleaded. “What?”

Her eyes were wild, shiny and tinged with pain. “The baby,” she groaned, “Percy--your mother told me I would--” Then she cried again, even more anguished than before.

“Anja!” He nearly buckled beneath her weight.

“It’s coming,” she grunted, struggling to remain upright as the ship roiled beneath them. “The baby--it’s here!”

Oh, no. Ohhh, no no no. “What? Now?”

“Yes, now!”

“I--”

“Perc--” she wailed again, too much in pain to speak.

A large wave crashed on the side of their ship, sailors shouting orders to one another.

Paralyzed with fear, all Percy could do was clutch her closer. Now? Now, of all times?

One of the men stepped up to them, beginning to herd them towards below decks. “Signore Thalassinos,” he said, gruff but commanding, “there seems to be a storm rising, we ask that you return to your cabin until it has passed--”

“My wife is having her baby,” he blurted to the man.

His fear and terror must have been plainly evident, for the man paled in response. “Now, sir?” he squeaked.

“Yes, now!” Percy said. “Come, we require your assistance.”

When he made to shift her so that he could carry her, she cried out even more, releasing her grip on Percy so as to clutch at her stomach. Together, they braced her between the two of them, but rather than return them to their cabin, he led them to the captain’s suite. “The captain has a much larger bed,” he said, easing the door open with his shoulder. “Your wife shall be more comfortable here.”

Percy did not even have the wits to protest, or thank the man.

She shrieked as they laid her down, her hands clawing at the fine sheets. “Shh, shh, Anja,” he gentled, lacing her fingers with his. “I am here, I am here.”

“Signore…”

The crewman was looking down at his feet, gesturing to a spot on the captain’s rug. It took him far, far longer than it should have for Percy to realize that it was blood. A trail of it led beyond the door, onto the deck of the ship. Squeezing her arm in a silent apology, he positioned himself in front of the other man so he would not be able to see, then lifted up just a corner of her dress.

Her chemise had been white when she had put it on this morning. Now it was all stained and colored, a deep, dark, red.

Hastily, he laid the fabric back down, his hands shaking.

��Annabeth, darling,” he said, one hand coming up to push the hair which had fallen from her wimple out of her eyes, “you are bleeding. What do I do?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her face red, tears leaking from her eyes. “I--I have never done this before. I do not know.”

“Is there supposed to be so much blood?” Percy knew little of childbirth, but quite a bit about injuries. Had this been an arm or a leg, he would have been very concerned. Being a woman was bloody business, he knew, but was this how they were supposed to go?  

“I do not--I do not think so…” she whimpered.

The helpful sailor still stood there, at a loss of what to do with himself. From beyond the cabin, he could hear the pelting of rain as it smashed into the ship.

“Percy, I think something is wrong,” she said.

Something was wrong.

Something was wrong.

“It hurts,” she cried, “differently, differently than it had before. I can’t--” Then she let out a great wail.

No. No. No.

The boat beneath them rocked, violently. Percy was able to keep himself and Annabeth stable, but the crewman was not so lucky.

“It’s alright,” he soothed, “it's alright.”

Again the ship lurched beneath them, sailors shouting in fear and terror. He paid it no mind.

Annabeth screamed, her whole body contorted in pain.

“Something is wrong,” she said once more. “Something is wrong .”

No. No. He felt like the sea outside--angry, rolling, ready to burst.

The ship swayed again.

“Percy!”

"Signore, what is it?” asked the crewman, having finally, fully righted himself.

Had he been of a clearer head, he would have recognized that the man could not understand Annabeth, as she had been screaming in Greek. At the moment, however, he was too full of fear to be kind. “Don’t just stand there,” he snapped. “Go and get the doctor!”

A midwife would be far, far better, but they would have to settle for the ship’s doctor. Between his experience and Percy’s battlefield expertise, hopefully they would be able to come up with something between the two of them.

“Yes,” said the man, “the count’s friend, he is a doctor, he said. He is a doctor.”

“A doctor,” Percy repeated. “There is a real doctor aboard?”

“ Si, Signore, yes. He is not Italian, but the count says he is a doctor.”

“Fetch him for me,” Percy pleaded, “please, fetch him, tell him something is wrong, and I will pay him whatever he wishes.”

The sailor departed, nearly tripping on himself to get out of the cabin. “What is happening, Percy?” Annabeth asked, frantic. “What did you say, where is he going?”

“He said there is a doctor aboard,” Percy said, turning his attention back to his wife, “he is going to get him.”

“The ship’s doctor?”

“No, the count’s doctor is aboard--I sent him to fetch the man.”

Weakly, she reached for him, her fingers clumsily hitting his arm. “It will be alright, won’t it Percy?” she asked. He had never seen her so afraid before. “Percy, promise me it is going to be alright.”

“It will be alright, I swear it.” Hands working quickly, he undid her wimple, as he knew she disliked the garment, and he did not want her to grow even more feverish.

Under it she looked pale and almost clammy. Still she bled.

The seas outside turned even choppier as Percy waited for this mysterious doctor to come and save his wife.

He did not want to disturb his wife with any more loud noises. The last thing she needed right now was to see him in all his fear and terror. Within the depths of his mind, he cursed himself for being a fool. If only he had not been so selfish, staying in Messalia for so long! If only he had not given into the sweetest of all possible temptations!

But now was not the time for self-flagellation. Now was not even the time for prayer, though pray he did, begging all the gods who had ever thrown a scrap of goodwill their way to save her, Eileithyia for a safe delivery, Apollo for a safe recovery, even the queen of the heavens, who had no lost love for either of them, but whose protection extended towards families. He prayed to them all for the gift of Annabeth’s life, and that of their child, promising anything, everything. There was not much he would not do, should they call upon him to pay his debt, as long as she would survive this.

“You’ll be alright,” Percy said, pressing a kiss to the curls plastered on her forehead. “You’ll be alright.”

“And our son,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “He’ll be alright too, won’t he, Percy?”

“Of course.” He smiled, hoping to put her at ease. “Everyone shall be healthy, hale, and whole--you shall see.”

It seemed to work, somewhat, Annabeth relaxing into the pillows, giving him a shaky smile in return.

Kronos’ curse upon them, perhaps, it was likely mere minutes, but felt like another age had passed before the cabin door once again swung open. “Here, Dottore , here she is.” said the crewman, ushering in another man. “Signore, I have brought you the count’s doctor. As I said, I apologize for the interruption--”

“It is no trouble,” said the other man, his voice lightly accented. “I am happy to help. Hello Signora Thalassinos, I am… Ana Zabeta ?”

Percy looked up sharply. That voice, that--

“Guillaume?” Annabeth whispered, raising her head.

“ Guillaume ,” Percy repeated, “Will.”

It was him. Will, son of Apollo, the greatest healer of heroes, the most skilled doctor that the agoge had ever produced.

“Percy?”

“Oh, thank all the gods,” Percy cried, dropping his Italian completely. “Oh, thank you, Boedromios , thank you, father! Will, something is wrong.”

Sparing him a quick glance, he stripped off his own outer layer, discarding it on the floor of the cabin, and rushed over to Annabeth. “Help me get her gown off,” he told Percy, before waving at the crewman. “You, stay--I may have need of you yet.”

“Can you help her?” he asked.

“Childbirth is generally the purview of women,” Will said. “I have only assisted my aunt in a few before--but I am confident in our process.”

That was enough reassurance for him.

He and Percy got her kirtle out, so she was only in her chemise, the linen sticking to her skin as Will peeled it away to examine her. A consummate professional, his face remained calm even as the boat ferociously lurched to one side, then the other.

“Percy,” WIll said, firmly, “please stop raising a storm outside.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Please try, for Annabeth.” Touching at her belly and between her legs, he frowned as he looked at the blood. Even in pain, nothing escaped Annabeth’s notice.

“What is wrong?” she asked, weak and withdrawn. “Will, Will, is my baby--”

“Sailor,” Will called in Italian, turning back to the man to look at him, “please go and tell the count to bring me my specialty bag. He’ll know what it means.”

“I can go fetch it for you, sir. I will not bother the count.”

“No,” Will said, firmly, years of wrangling unhelpful demigods in the infirmary lending him strength. “Tell the count to bring my bag, and some linens if he has some on hand, which he should. If he questions you, tell him I demanded it.”

“Will,” Percy said, “let me go go and--”

But he shook his head, reaching into his bag and removing some cloth. “Stay. I shall need your assistance for this next portion.” He handed Percy a wooden rod and a cloth, then leaned over Annabeth, the picture of peace and serenity, even in such a stressful time. “Annabeth,” he said slowly, “I sense there is some tearing, and you are bleeding far too much. However, I promise I can take care of that. Unfortunately, there is another problem: the baby is in the wrong position.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, wincing as another wave of pain crashed over her.

“I can feel the baby’s feet,” Will said, “when I should feel the head. I will try to turn it, but I may need to try a few other things beforehand.”

Eyes glassy, she begged of Will, “You will save my baby, Will, yes? Please… Percy…” She grasped at his hand, mumbling words he did not understand.

“Percy,” murmured the good doctor, “this will be painful. I will do what I can, but I wish to keep her as comfortable as possible. I’ll need you to make sure she can bite down on the wood, and wipe her face and her chest as well. Can you do that?”

For her? Anything. “Yes,” he said, “yes.”

“Very good. Can you calm the sea?”

“I--”

There was a knock on the door to the cabin again. “Will?” came a deeper voice, speaking Greek. “What is going on? There is a vicious storm brewing, and I found this cat who seems to be in serious distress."

“Quickly, quickly.” Will called back, not looking away from Annabeth. “Come in.”

Too exhausted, too worried, too scared, Percy could not properly comprehend precisely what he was seeing when Nico Di Angelo walked into his cabin, carrying a leather bag that seemed to glow even in the dark room in one arm, and Freya the cat in another.

Nico, however, did not have that problem. He nearly dropped both of his parcels at the sight of them. “Percy?” Eyes wide, mouth open, he then took in the whole strange, frightening scene. “Annabeth? What--what is the matter?”

“Several things,” said Will, “and we shall have our joyous reunion once they are resolved.” He wiped his bloodied hand on a cloth, and then opened the bag which Nico had placed beside him, taking out several little clay jars and water skins. Smearing a substance on his finger from one of the jars, with his other hand, he gently tapped Annabeth’s cheek, pulling her attention, her eyes fluttering open. “I need to attend to some of the bleeding,” he said, serious and stern. “I apologize in advance, but this will feel very strange.” His countenance never wavered, even as he lowered his hand and slipped his fingers inside of her. Then he nodded at one of the water skins. “Percy is going to help you drink some, yes? Just a few sips.”

“Alright,” she agreed.

Percy reached for the skin, recognizing it as nectar from the smell as he dribbled a bit into Annabeth’s mouth. For him, it smelled of his mother’s kitchen in the evening, cinnamon and honey and nuts. “Here Anja,” he said, hoping it would remind her of home, “drink up.”

“No,” said Will, “only a little! The other is unicorn draught. She can drink all of it, if she wishes, as long as it is done slowly.”

He brought the other skin to her lips. “Careful,” he said, as some of it leaked out of the side of her mouth. Unicorn draught was potent, powerful--he himself had had much of the stuff during his stay with the Legion, and he knew firsthand just how effective it could be.  “There we are, there we are, love.”

Nestled in Nico’s arms, their poor cat wailed, upset at her mistress’ distress.

“Nico,” Will ordered, “please pet that cat before she wakes every sea monster that Percy has not already raised with his storm.” Then he took a deep breath. “Annabeth, I am going to reach inside and try to reposition the baby. You can bite down on the stick. It will all be over soon.”

“Can you bite down for me, Anja,” Percy asked, putting the water skin aside and raising the stick to her mouth.

Eyes shining, she pulled together a smile, soft and full of pain. “ Jag skulle göra vad som helst för dig .” she whispered. Then she bit down.

He could still hear her scream around it. Several tears ran down her cheeks, and he wiped them away

After a few moments, Percy looked towards Will, who was now smiling.

“Good, Annabeth, very good,” said Will. “You're ready, you can start pushing now.”

“ Malaka ,” swore Nico, looking rather green. Dressed in a black doublet, surcoat, and breeches over black hose, in his arms resting their little white kitten, he made for a startlingly amusing picture, entirely out of place for such a fraught moment.

“It is alright, Anja,” Percy said. “It is nearly done.”

Weeping, red-faced, exhausted, she nodded, and began her most harrowing trial.

There was not much more he could do to ease her suffering at this point, but he supported her as best he could without a birthing chair, allowing her to brace herself against him as she cried out and made aborted movements. Then Will was announcing things: a head, shoulders, arms.

And then a cry pierced the room, cutting through Annabeth’s moans and the roar of the sea in Percy’s ear. Annabeth fell back against him, loose like a bow released from its string.

“Annabeth,” Will said breathlessly, a bright, broad smile on his face. He stood, holding something in his arms, and presented it to them. “You have a son!”

A son.

A son.

Percy had a son.

He took a closer look.

It-- he --was small, and round, blotchy white and purple and brown. Wrinkled and wet. Ugly.

He looked, all things considered, like a turnip pulled from the ground.

Reverently, Will placed him into Annabeth’s outstretched arms.

“Oh,” she cooed, breathless, “look at you.”

A son. He had not wanted a son. He had hoped, so hoped, for a daughter, a little Anja to be a reflection of her mother in all things.

The boy resting in Annabeth’s arms already had dark hair, and a mighty cry, calming when he came to rest on his mother’s chest. Then, for the first time ever, he opened his eyes.

His face was still purple and white and splotchy, yet when he looked up at Percy, his eyes were the color of the Bosphorus on a sunny day. Those were Percy’s eyes. That was Percy’s dark hair coating his small head, Percy’s nose reflected in miniature.

Yet there was something in his expression, mere moments old, passing judgement on his father. You wanted a daughter , it seemed to say, but I knew better .

Annabeth always knew better than him, and so, it seemed, did her son. Her beautiful perfect son.

His son.

He fell in love at that moment, meeting his son’s eyes, sea green to sea green. “Welcome,” he said, reaching out to run a finger along a round, splotchy cheek. “May all the gods' blessings be upon you.”

When he pulled back, Annabeth was watching him. “Are you alright?” she asked, hushed.

“I have never been better,” he promised, his voice thick with unshed emotion. “And you?”

“I…” She did not answer, her brow furrowed. Swallowing, she turned back to the baby in her arms.

“Here,” said Will, holding out a square of ambrosia, “take this, if you please.”

Nico hummed, looking out of the cabin door. “It appears as if the storm has broken.”

While Will did his best to make Annabeth comfortable as she took the baby to her breast, Percy cleaned up what mess he could, gathering the dirtied linens together. He would have to apologize to the captain for commandeering use of his quarters, and pay him back for the use of his bed.

“Do not fret over the captain’s things,” said Nico, somehow divining his thoughts, as he usually did. His black clothing was now covered in white fur, as Freya had made herself quite at home in his embrace, all distress forgotten, sleeping peacefully in the crook of his arms. “He is a good friend--I can certainly compensate him for a new set of linens.”

Percy shook his head. “That is very kind of you, but I can afford it.” If he were to have some control over their shared finances, then he would not begin by placing themselves in debt.

“I apologize for the interruption,” said Will, “but I need to give Annabeth another exam. Percy,” he grinned, and it was then he noticed that Will was holding the baby in his arms. “Would you like to hold your son?”

“Yes,” came tumbling out of his mouth. “Yes, I do.”

“So he is your son, then?” Nico asked. At least he had the decency to look bashful at the look Will shot him.

The good doctor placed the baby into his waiting hands.

He was so small.

He did not cry, being removed from his mother, but blinked up at him, sleepily, uncomprehendingly. Percy began noting so many little details--the thin, patchy eyebrows which would no doubt grow in with time, his pudgy fingers, curled into a little fist, his ears, an exact replica of his mother’s, the ones for which Percy had once considered composing sonnets. This was his son , made in their image, but also a little person in his own right.

Was this how his own father had felt, all those years ago, holding Percy in his arms?

“I think you will be just fine,” Will proclaimed, rising from Annabeth’s side. “I will go get you some food, but in the meantime, please, drink the rest of the unicorn draught. I shall return shortly. If there is any issue, do not hesitate to send for me at once.”

“But--”

“We can ask for their adventures later, Nico,” Will said, tossing his golden bag at the son of Hades. “Come, let us give them some privacy.”

Though, as they made to leave, Freya the cat extricated herself from his one-armed embrace, landing on the floor without a quiet thump , before leaping up on the captain’s desk, observing the whole scene from her perch.

Nico and Will shut the door quietly behind them, leaving only Percy, Annabeth, and their son.

Propped up against the pillows, Annabeth reached out her arms. “I wish to hold him again,” she said, quietly, still so exhausted. “Please.”

He acquiesced without hesitation.

Annabeth took him with a sweetly tired smile, bringing him to her chest. Immediately she returned her gaze to the baby, tenderly fingering a stray wisp of hair on the top of his head.

His breath caught in his throat.

Now he had a better understanding of why the trinity men worshipped a mother.

“What should we name him?” he asked, sitting beside her on the bed.

“I had thought we could call him Perseus,” she said, so taken with the little boy. “A first born son should be named after his father, should he not?”

He swallowed, his heart fit to burst. He deserved not this woman, nor their son, and yet the gods had seen fit to bless him with both. He could not, however, allow his son to labor under his curse. “I think not,” he said, with only a little regret. “I think very much not.” The first, great Perseus was only related to him by the most distant of circumstances. His own mother had given him the name of the only hero of antiquity who had earned a happier ending than his peers, dying old, in his bed, surrounded by his family, in order to pass some of that same luck onto Percy. He had never considered himself terribly lucky, until this very moment, but his life had been a long, hard one, and he did not want his son to share his fate. Percy did not deserve this family--not yet. When he did, then, perhaps, they could have a child which bore his name. Placing a hand on her shoulder, she turned her head to face him. “Let them say,” said Percy, quoting that old poet, “that he is greater, by far, than his father.”

Annabeth’s face fell, but she nodded.

“Alexandros, then,” she said, after a little silence. “Alexandros, for greatness.”

“Alexandros,” he breathed, looking at the child. Will had wrapped him in a bit of the linen Nico had brought with him, and he was, all told, barely bigger than a loaf of bread. “Alexandros is perfect.”

“Then be we agreed.” Annabeth said, pulling down her chemise, and helping the baby latch onto her nipple. Percy retrieved the unicorn draught from its place on the floor, opening the stopper, ready and waiting for her. “Alexandros Thalassinos.”

Beyond the cabin walls, the sea was calm, placid, the ship moving smoothly through the waters towards their final destination, the city on the lagoon. There were many, many things still to be done, money to be exchanged, property to be sought, connections to be forged. What good fortune, then, that they had happened upon Nico di Angelo--the man was surly and ill-tempered, but he had proved himself a good friend and a great ally on many occasions. With his assistance, they would be able to find what they sought in Venice, he was sure of it.

But that was all to be dealt with later. Now, there was Freya, who leapt from the captain’s desk onto the bed, curiously sniffing at the small thing which now occupied her favorite spot of her mistress’ embrace. Now, there was Annabeth, and Alexandros, sweaty and panting and in dire need of a bath.

Now, there was his family.

He wrapped an arm around his wife pressing another kiss to her curls.

“Perfect,” he said. “The greatest.”

[notapaladin]

and thank the lord i don’t have my way (1/3)

HELLO FRIENDS IT IS THE ONE YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF ME POSTING THE FIRST OBSBLOOD FIC EVER. So you get not one, not two, but three fics today! Blame @arahir

Acatl has let the boundaries stay open for far too long. Tonight, he closes them. Tizoc attempts to object.

Also on AO3.

-

The Revered Speaker’s chambers are very dark and very cold. Never mind that it’s the rainy season and that the air at sunset was filled with steam rising off the puddles of the day’s deluge; the sun set long ago, and Metztli the moon illuminates nothing away from the path of the windows. The walls are splashed with murals of war and conquest that must surely be blood-bright in the light of day; they are muted and faded now, shadows on shadows.

They aren’t as faded as the man on the Revered Speaker’s sleeping mats. True, Tizoc-tzin, emperor of Tenochtitlan, is approaching his middle age, but his hair is still black and his limbs are still straight. When he smiles—cold and cruel as that smile is—he has all his teeth. He dresses in the finest quetzal feathers, turquoise, jade; even here, alone on his mat covered with jaguar skins, his loincloth is finely embroidered cotton. An emerald rod pierces his nasal septum. He is covered in the riches of his Empire. He should be magnificent, a true symbol of the power of the Mexica.

He should have died six years ago.

Acatl knows this. His bare feet are silent on the tiled stone floor, and his god is silent in his head. Mictlantecuhtli evidently has not deigned to share whatever opinion He has on this with His most faithful servant. Good. Acatl’s long since made up his mind regardless.

Tearing open the boundaries had taken all three High Priests. Closing them, but leaving them that tiny bit ajar, had taken two High Priests, the Guardian of the Duality, and the Revered Speaker of Texcoco. But to slam them shut...well. Acatl is High Priest for the Dead, High Priest of the Lord of the Place of Death, and he can do that with his bare hands.

He stops at the foot of the dais upon which Tizoc’s mat rests. For a long moment, he simply looks at the snoring, twitching man currently rumpling the blankets. He inhales. He holds for a count of three.

He could do it with his bare hands. It would be easy. He’s no trained warrior but he’s strong enough for this, strong enough to put his hands around Tizoc’s neck and squeeze until he turns purple, until his eyes bulge, until he rolls back limp. It’s what Tizoc would have done to him. (What he would have done, and what he probably—gods, he probably would have made Teomitl watch.) Or there’s his knives, lethally sharp, whose wounds always fester and never heal. It would take only the smallest scratch to have Tizoc rotting from his blackened heart outwards, to have him die slow and incoherent as pus oozes forth from every pore, whimpering like an animal, like the clergy of Tlaloc in their pens—

He exhales.

No. He will do this properly. At least this, too, is easy; he dares not chant out loud, but his lips move in the words of a prayer as his magic builds low in his gut. It won’t take much. Tizoc’s life hangs by a thread as it is, and he holds it tightly in his hand.

Tizoc stirs. Snorts. Rolls over.

He nicks his forearm, dabbing a single fingerprint of blood on the dais. And he keeps praying. The edges of the boundaries yawn wide as a mouth, ready to swallow Tizoc whole. The completion of this slow weaving will close them. My Lord, he thinks, I deliver this soul unto Your keeping.

Tizoc wakes, sees him—and screams.

Acatl smiles. He knows what Tizoc must be seeing. A man-shaped figure, his eyes voids, his bones shining like moonlight through the black glass of his skin. It’s a terrifying visage; even Teomitl, who is used to it (Teomitl, who is in awe of it, and that still knocks him flat when he thinks about it too long) flinches when he spots it out of the corner of his eye. Tizoc has always been craven, and now he looks so horrified that for a moment Acatl thinks he might not even get to finish the spell.

As the magic begins to pool together—a feeling like muscles tensing to spring, a beast of shadows preparing to leap—Tizoc finds the breath to yell, “Guards! Guards!”

He takes a breath and lets it out. His skin is an ordinary brown again, bones no longer visible through shadowed muscles, but Mictlan still leaves him feeling like a hollow shell. His voice is the voice of a corpse. “They won’t come.”

Now he supposes he has to give Tizoc credit, because the man tries to lunge for his eyes. Tries and predictably fails; already the spell Acatl’s cast is leaching through his veins, and his limbs will not obey him. Sadly, the same can’t be said for his shrill voice. “What have you done to them?! Traitor!”

He remembers sunlight on the water, and a smile that was even brighter than that. Remembers a murmur of, “Thank you, Acatl.” He lifts his chin, letting pride leak into his voice. “They are following orders tonight.”

Tizoc’s eyes move like rats in a trap, but he’s not a complete idiot. There’s only one man the army would fall into line behind so easily. When he speaks next, he sounds almost resigned. “...My brother,” he spits. “So you have corrupted him.”

Acatl grits his teeth, but there’s no need for him to lose his temper here. “Teomitl is a far better man than you could ever dream of being. You ought to thank me for your years of life; he would have put you down like the dog you are ages ago.” And I should have let him.

“I will have you flayed. I will loop the flower garland around your neck myself, I’ll make those traitorous siblings of yours watch, and then I’ll put them to the sword—”

There’s more, but Acatl isn’t paying attention. He’d once thought that no mortal justice could compete with the need to keep the Fifth World intact; he still thinks that, but by now he’s learned that sometimes pursuing justice and doing his duty are one and the same. It’s taken him long enough. Oh, he’d wavered at first—that first time Teomitl had shared his plans for the future, not even him following it up with a declaration that he was going to wait was enough to stop his heart from sinking. But then Tizoc had come back—no, had slunk back into the city, like a coyote with its ears flat and its belly pressed to the ground—and he’d been nearly stunned with the wrongness of it. That Tizoc could lead an army to its death and then let an entire priesthood to be slaughtered like beasts—it’s not an affront that can be borne. His incompetence will tear the Empire apart if the Tlaxcallans and Tarascans don’t get to them first; each campaign leaves Teomitl a little more tired, a little more snappish and run-down. Soon he won’t be able to carry the army on his back anymore.

The man he loves has new scars. He blames Tizoc for that, but first and worse he blames himself. It was his hand that put Tizoc on the throne, and it will be his hand that removes him from it. There’s only as much justice as he can make, after all.

Mictlan gnaws at his guts again, and he lets it scour him clean. In and out and in again, he breathes. The spell pulses like a living heart. Tizoc must feel it, because he bleats, “What do you think you’re doing?!”

He whispers the rest of his prayer, ignoring Tizoc for the moment. This spell is rarely used, not because of the cost—a few paltry drops of blood—but because of its very specific conditions. It only works on dead souls, not dead bodies, avoiding the attention of the Wind of Knives. It would not do to cheat a comrade of His captive. Rare is the soul that can die without harming the body; how helpful it is, then, that Quenami crafted Tizoc a new one. He must remember to thank him. “Sending your soul to Mictlan where it belongs. None will see any hand in your death but the gods’ wills.”

Tizoc’s breath rattles in his lungs. “Blasphemy. I can’t imagine your precious sister—”

“My sister? The Guardian of the Duality? That sister?” Acatl feels himself smiling. “I am restoring the order of the world. She would hold my cloak for me.” After all, she hates Tizoc too. Not as much as he does—she’s a good woman, she doesn’t nurture her grudges the way her menfolk do—but quite enough to look the other way should his soul be severed from his body by what looks to all the world like a common attack of the heart. Such a tragedy, she’ll say, and meet his eyes, and smile. He kneels to wipe away his bloody fingerprint, the only sign of his presence here tonight.

Tizoc is still trying to defend himself. The fool. “You—you can’t,” he splutters. “What about...” Eyes roll wildly as he casts about for an excuse, and finally alights on one he thinks must work. “Your patron! Surely, surely Lord Death can’t approve—”

“My lord,” Acatl says, with a gentleness he doesn’t feel. “I brought you back into this world after your death, breaking all natural laws in the vain hopes that you could do the one single task you were crowned to do. Lord Death will rejoice that I have now taken you out of it.”

“You’ll never get away with this!” he snaps. “Quenami...Quenami will...”

Ah, yes. Quenami. Acatl snorts. “You imagine he will still be alive to avenge you?”

Tizoc goes, if possible, paler. “You wouldn’t.”

He remembers, with a slow uncoiling of rage, the blade at his throat. The way Quenami had smiled. He’d wanted to carve it off his face. “I might,” he growls, but even as he says it he knows he’ll be lucky if Teomitl doesn’t get there first. “You should be happy. You’ll have company on your journey.”

He’s breathing harder now. Hyperventilating. It’s panic, not magic; he can’t even face death like a warrior. “No—no, you can’t—”

Acatl’s spine stiffens. “Only the gods and Teomitl tell me what I can and cannot do.”

“...Heh,” Tizoc spits. “Is he fucking you?”

He considers this. They’ve been discreet—possibly not discreet enough if Tizoc is asking that question, but then the man has always been paranoid of any influence on his brother, even before he was his Master of the House of Darts. He can certainly imagine Tizoc suspicious of what else Teomitl might have been learning from him, and if he’d only known then what he knew now...well. He is a man, and not a statue. Tizoc might have been right about something for once. But he isn’t, and for a moment Acatl weighs whether he deserves the truth. It’s not something he’s ever had to say out loud; Mihmatini is the only one who knows, and she doesn’t want to hear details. Finally, a bit of uncommon smugness curls his lip. “Actually,” he says coolly, “most of the time I’m fucking him.”

Disappointingly, this does not cause Tizoc to expire immediately. Teomitl will be quite displeased to have lost that bet. “You—you vile—you foul—”

Then he starts coughing, wet and disgusting, and blood gathers at his lips. Acatl lets Mictlan’s power fall away from him like an old cloak. “Rant all you like, my lord. Your time is ending. Teomitl will erase all you’ve done as though it’s never been, and the foundations of our Empire—of our world—will grow stronger for your absence.”

“I’ll kill you,” Tizoc hisses. “I’ll haunt you from beyond death, like those ghosts you’ve been slaying throughout my reign. You’ll never sleep soundly again.”

Interesting. He hadn’t thought Tizoc had been paying attention. He hums noncommittally, shaking his head. There will be no more such hauntings now that the boundaries are properly closed.

Tizoc is panting harshly now, beyond speech. Good. The guards are still nowhere to be seen, which is a further relief; as loyal as they are to Teomitl, he still doesn’t want to put them in a position to lie about whatever they might see.

Not that there is anything to see. Over the next few hours, Tizoc’s soul will unravel from its moorings so slowly, so carefully, that no magic his fellow High Priests could muster will be able to tell it’s anything other than a natural death. (He knows Acamapichtli won’t even look. He still mourns his clergy, and now they’ve been avenged.)

Acatl turns away. He’s done here. By the time the sun rises, Tizoc will be dead.

He has things to do before then.

[wxldchxld]

sparrow, nightingale, cardinal - beck flock, hummingbird, crane - harper

Beck

Sparrow- what artistic or creative hobbies does your muse have? What is their favorite or most treasured creation?

Beck has a variety of hobbies. She has a pretty decent amount of free time and when she's not exploring she particularly likes knitting, crocheting, and embroidering things. Her favorite thing to knit is little stuffed rabbits. She'll drive around for weeks or even months, acquiring a collection of them, and then the next time she's in a city she will stop by domestic violence shelters, hospitals, and soup kitchens where she hands them out to kids.

Her favorite item that she's ever made is an embroidery of Dawnbreaker which her best friend Dori helped design. I feel like the sentiment there is pretty obvious.

Nightingale- how does your muse show love, platonic or romantic? What is their love language?

Beck is primarily touch driven. She likes touching people and she likes being touched by others. It's not as big of a deal with friends, but her romantic partner not wanting to touch her can very easily be misinterpreted as them not wanting her at all and it can really plummet her self esteem.

Beck also likes to make things for people. Especially food. Her access to food now is usually pretty solid, but as a kid she went hungry a lot. For Beck, making and sharing food with people is sharing a resource that she doesn't take lightly.

Um, acts of service is another big one. This largely stems from witch culture, especially the culture of her father and her grandmother's clans (the wolves and the reindeer) where community is very highly stressed. This is how some of the people she loved the most in life demonstrated love, and even though she was young and most of them are gone, it's stuck with her.

Cardinal- how does your muse recover from strong emotions? How do they recouperate?

This doesn't happen very often and that's another hc entirely, but I just want it noted. It's very rare to see Beck in this state unless you're very close to her.

Depending on how nasty it is and what kind of emotion led to her losing her composure her methods vary, but they're all forms of escape and avoidance. If she's really just unable to get her composure back she'll shift and disappear for a while. Living life as an animal for a few weeks or months can do a lot to bring clarity.

If she's upset with someone and she actually cares about the relationship enough to stay, she'll usually go to Grani. He is the least talkative out of her familiars, but his presence can soothe her in ways that Ringo or especially Boda's can't. Maybe they'll go for a ride or he'll let her braid flowers into his mane. He can help her recenter herself so that she can go back to that person and talk things out.

Harper

Flock- what is your muse’s family like? How do they get along with them?

Harper has very little to do with her family. Her biological father bailed before she was born and her mom... It's not like her mom didn't try. They are two very different people. Her mom wasn't really ready for a kid. She'd had a falling out with Harper's grandmother several years prior. Her mom didn't necessarily like life as a witch. As soon as she could she joined the military and Harper had a very unstable upbringing because of this. Her mother had a pretty heavy drinking problem and while Harper was never physically harmed, her mother had a mean spirit when she was drunk and criticized Harper a lot. By the time Harper was a teenager and her mother got sober, they were practically world's apart.

Her most positive relationship was with her grandmother... and when she died Harper went so far as to learn necromancy to see if there was a way to bring her back. But there wasn't.

Harper does still have contact with her mother but rarely ever sees her. She sends her a generous check monthly but only because it might tarnish public reputation if she left her high and dry. At the very least it would prompt people to ask questions and poke into her past. She'd prefer that not happen.

As far as she knows she doesn't have any other family. Her father tried to make contact with her once. She... put him in the care of her associates.

Hummingbird- what are your muse’s comfort objects, comfort foods, comfort objects, etc?

Harper likes perfumes/soaps/lotions. They are one of the very few items that bring her any sort of comfort. She's got a tumultuous relationship with food. Sometimes her craft leaves her absolutely ravenous and other times even the thought of food is enough to make her dry heave.

Crane- Is your muse graceful or clumsy? How is their posture? How do they carry themselves?

I'd say she's pretty graceful. I'm not saying she never trips or that she always lands on her feet, but she isn't like, bumping into tables and knocking things over on accident. She's generally very rigid though. Maybe that's not the right word. Her posture is very inflexible. She stands very upright and walks around generally very proud. She wants to convey her strength through her appearance in every way possible. It keeps people from getting too bold with her and making a nuisance of themselves.

[aubergineanathema]

Secrets behind stone walls

Part 1 - The ruin in the clearing: Preface Part 2 - Whispers in darkness Part 3 - Käsdorf and Wulvosburg ---- Part 4. The full moon shone over Wulvosburg, filling the halls with an eerie luminescence through the various windows, light of various colors filtering through the stained glass. The windows in every hall had been commissioned to be crafted with luxury, although in the darkness of night their splendor was muted. Heavy velvet curtains, bolted to the wall high above, were pulled back on either side of each tall, narrow, window, punctuating the gray walls with deep red lengths of color, and every dozen feet or so, a painting or some other finely-wrought object was on display.

Brighter than the moonlight within the walls was a warm candle flame, flickering as it hovered down the corridor. Carrying this flame was a young woman, her bound brown hair drooping with the weight of a long day. She wore a simple red woolen gown, overlaid with a worn apron, dusty and stained from the events of the day. She was hesitant in her step, as though she were trying to remember exactly where this corridor led. She glanced at the walls and the ornate displays her lord had devised over the years, pausing every so often, and clearly fascinated by objects collected here. Small figures of exotic animals with strange exaggerated features sat on a wooden cabinet, their names unknown to her, carved of some gleaming white stone. A strange sword, curved and sharpened on one side, not straight like the ones she had seen men wield before, hung from the wall with a hilt of gold and intricate spirals curving along the blade.

She stopped briefly to stared at a portrait. It was of a beautiful woman, the paint creating a facsimile of lusciously folded red garments and carefully twisted golden hair. Her framed face was pale and angular, her gaze sharp and stoic. There was something in the expression that was a mystery to the servant, something guarded and opaque, and compellingly sad. Something about the face of a long-dead noble, staring possessively out into a world that was no longer hers. One could not help but get lost in such a face, at least for a moment. “You’re papa’s new servant.” A knowing voice declared from the darkness.

The servant gasped and fumbled, startled by the sudden knowledge that she was not alone. She dropped the candle that lit her way, hastily snatching it up again to prevent the flame from going out, realizing a second later that liquid tallow had splattered across a beautiful red and gold rug. “I’m so sorry!” She stammered, staring at the mess she had made. “I’ll clean it up once the wax cools! It shouldn’t be--” She stopped at the shrill sound of giggling, and looked toward the source of the voice. Stepping out from the shadows, without a candle of her own was a beautiful young woman. She wore a bright emerald evening gown of silken material, the edges of which were intricately embroidered with gold thread. The elaborate pattern was mesmerizing, as were her piercing blue eyes. The servant stared as she approached, an uncanny feeling of familiarity washing over her as she saw the sharp angular face and rich blonde curls, done up with such exact perfection so late at night. She glanced again at the portrait on the wall, and it was as though it had come to life. The young woman in the green gown noticed this association and sighed. “Mama was so beautiful, wasn’t she? She’s gone now, but this is only one of the portraits Papa had commissioned.” She stopped just beside the servant, closer than anticipated, and stared up at the portrait for a moment, too. The servant grew uncomfortable as the delicate satin brushed against her coarse woolen sleeve, but did not know if it would be appropriate to step away. She could not even think to give condolences for the woman in the portrait.

But then it was over. The young woman stepped back with a laugh and twirled  so that the green gown unfurled around her. “Maid, you may call me Angelika, daughter of Lord Alastair of Vorsfelde. And what is your name?” The servant was still reeling my the suddenness off the conversation that it took her a moment to reply. “It’s Helga, Lady Angelika.” Helga bowed quickly in response to the introduction. She was not yet well-versed in the etiquette of a noble household, and seemed anxious not to displease. “Helga? Hm.” Angelika seemed to ponder the name for a moment. “And you are from the village?”

Helga nodded. “Yes, it is an honor to be here. And, it is an honor to for my family to serve yours!”

Angelika waved a hand and scoffed, as though she cared not to talk about such things. In fact, she seemed a bit annoyed with the pleasantries altogether.

“And what are you doing wandering the halls so late at night!″ Angelika changed the subject, her eyes flashing with curiosity.

“Oh! I was looking for the servants’ quarters. The cooks had me working in the kitchen all day doing inventory, and when I finished, everyone else was gone.” Helga replied sheepishly. She had been wondering if she had worked too slowly. “And, I’m afraid I still get lost in this place. It’s so large compared to the village.”

“I can show you where that is, I suppose.”  Angelika gave a polite smile. “But first, let me show you something much more fun.”

Helga, who had been on her feet since dawn, felt weary at the idea of doing anything but sleep, but weakly she nodded anyway. She did not think she could reject the offer of the daughter of a lord even if she wanted to. “Wonderful!”

Angelika lunged forward and took Helga’s hand before Helga could even blink and began to pull her along. She stumbled after her, nearly dropping her candle again as she regained her balance. She noticed with faint surprise that Angelika’s hands were gloved in soft white leather, and yet again wondered why that might be. Why was this woman dressed as though she were entertaining royalty on a quiet night like this? Perhaps, she reasoned tiredly, this was just how nobles were.  

“Oh, and don’t worry about the rug. They don’t mean much to Papa.” She explained nonchalantly as she led the servant away. “They were... inherited, not sought out.” Helga looked down at the beautiful rugs that seemed to line each corridor. She didn’t understand how such beautiful things could be so disregarded, but did not dare to say anything about it. She resolved in her head to return the next day to clean the mess she had made, if only for her own peace of mind.

They traveled in silence for awhile, Angelika keeping a firm grip on the servant’s hand as they walked. Helga did not think it was proper to necessarily speak if not spoken to, and so she looked at the various paintings and decorations instead, and tried to use these as points of reference to gather her bearings. They went down a flight of stairs, and then another, and Helga recognized the corridor that would lead to her quarters. But then they continued down another stairwell, and the burning question of what this woman wanted to show her was threatening on the tip of Helga’s tongue. 

“Sister! Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Came a voice from behind them. 

Helga gasped again, as Angelika used her grip on her hand to essentially fling the servant behind herself as she turned on a dime to face a young man, strolling towards them from the darkness. Helga caught herself from falling and looked back, mute with confusion.

The man who approached them wore an easy smile of bright white teeth. He had the same angular face, and blond hair. His hair, however, was less perfectly coiffed, and pulled into a knot at the back of his head, only allowing a few strands to fall around his face in ringlets. The clothes he wore, too, were not nearly as luxurious. He wore a dark brown tunic and pants, with only the slightest hint of gold embroidery along the cuffs and collar.  “Don’t act so startled, sister. It’s unbecoming. I just wanted to introduce myself to the new help.” He nodded in Helga’s direction. “I’m Lucian, son and heir to Lord Alastair of Vorsfelde. And you?” “H-Helga of Kasdorf.” Helga managed, unsure of the situation. She hesitated and then bowed again awkwardly. “I just didn’t expect you back so soon from your gallivanting.” Angelika grimaced in his direction and returned to Helga’s side. “And anyway, go away. You’re bothering us.” 

“Bothering you, my dear and noble sister? Under this roof? I wouldn’t dare!” “You just want to steal this servant away from me. Go and play with one of the toys father gifted you. Go on.”

When Lucian simply smiled and continued to follow them, Angelika grabbed an ornate censer from a nearby cabinet and lobbed it directly at Lucian’s head with force and clear intent to hit. Helga stood frozen, shocked at the sudden violent outburst, but Lucian dodged it easily and laughed. It clattered dully across the rug and crashed against the wall.

“Come on, sister. I only want to accompany you.” Lucian continued, undeterred. “You’re going to show her our most esteemed guest, aren’t you? Father’s newest import from Spain? I’m coming with you, or I’ll tell our father you’re tormenting the help again.”   “Fine.” Angelika growled with exasperation, dramatically latching on to Helga’s arm and leading her away. “Just keep your distance, Lucian.” “Where are we going?” Helga finally managed to ask, her voice wavering. The grip Angelika had upon her was even tighter than before, and it was clear to her that she had no choice but to follow.

“Don’t worry your little head. We’re almost there.” Angelika replied.

Another flight of stairs, and they were underground now. The only light came from slits in the stone walls far out of reach, near the ceiling, and of course from Helga’s candle. She saw that they were passing by cells with bars on either side. It was too dark for her to tell if there were poor souls sequestered inside. The shadows seemed to stretch in odd ways down here, playing tricks on the eyes. Helga felt the grip of cold and dampness in the air.

Ahead of them, there was movement and the sounds of grunting, but they were not close enough for the candlelight to reach. At her back Helga felt Angelika nudging her closer, so as to illuminate the cell further with the candle. “Hey, wait!” Helga did not want to get any closer to the cell than she already had to be. She shuffled backwards as much as she could against Angelika’s firm grip.

Within, there was a brief moment of silence. Then, the sounds of labored breathing and sniffing. Something massive churned behind the bars, and it knew they were there.  “Well, this is boring.” Lucian stepped forward and shoved Helga at the bars.

Helga yelped and fell to her knees, too shocked to feel the stone scrape her skin. The candle was dropped and rolled away from her. Her eyes could only stare as it as it rolled, slowly, off to the right, illuminating a small part of the cell before her. She heard growling and unable to breathe she lifted her gaze slowly.  A huge snarling beast loomed over her, just beyond the bars. It was all matted fur and limbs and glinting fangs as large as kitchen knives. Spittle smelling of blood and dirt and death dripped down from quivering jaws. Rabid eyes fixed upon her.

She screamed.

The beast howled in response. ----

This has been Part 4. For more, see my Fiction Updates post.

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