#but the temptation to be dramatic is too powerful

[lxgentlefolkcomic]

Wilhelm, while your in hell, may you please tell that impaling jerk I said hi?

[metalomagnetic]

Either must die snippet

***A dear friend asked on discord if I have some EMD writing left, so here it is.***

----

Harry hadn’t stopped screaming since he entered the kitchen; he’s furious. It’s been a long time since he exploded in such righteous anger.

Cheeks red, jaws set, and those damned eyes of his glinting. Why, it’s almost like before, back in the war. Of course, now at least he can appear somewhat intimidating, what with the size of him. He doesn’t intimidate Voldemort, but it is easy to imagine he could make a random individual cower. Voldemort would like to see Harry going off like this on some pesky journalists or one of his stalker fans. It would be entertaining.

As it is, it’s not entertaining at the moment. It irritates Voldemort to be screamed at.

One flick of his wrist, and he could silence Harry. Another flick and he can send him crashing into the wall. To resist temptation, he drums his fingers on the table, reaches inside to find patience. It’s getting harder and harder to be patient these days. He had to suffer it for a while, but now he’s back in power. A Minister, not a war lord, yet people learned not to trifle with him, not to glare at him, not to talk back.

Even Harry learned, as the years passed by. He minded his business, and he let Voldemort be. Yet it’s not worth the trouble to put him in his place, now. He can already imagine the dramatics that would follow. Harry would break again, and Voldemort will either have to lock him in an attic, never to be allowed in public, or he’d have to put in the effort to build him back up, and he certainly lacks the patience for that. Hermione would be insufferable about it. Delphini would cry.

Harry must be aware of these unpleasant outcomes, too, because while he screams, he doesn’t dare do more than that. He cries, too, tears of pain and frustration and pure despair. That improves Voldemort’s mood a tad. Harry always looks good when he’s crying. “I asked for one thing!” his voice breaks, rough. “One thing! You have everything, and I said nothing- you use me, you use my name, you- I only asked for one thing.”

What a lie. Harry might not verbally ask for much, but those pitiful eyes of his ask plenty, and Voldemort gives it to him. The ungrateful brat.

“And you couldn’t let me have it! You’re a monster!”

Show him, a voice begs, a voice that was dormant for so long, but it’s waking up lately. Show him the monster. Show him how patient you’d been with him all these years. Show him how it could have been.

Voldemort ignores it. His fingers curl around the table, momentarily, because just drumming them isn’t enough anymore, he itches for his wand, but then the crisis is avoided, and he is in control, he won’t snap. He does stand, because it’s safe to do it, his temper is in check, and Harry tired himself out with his tantrum. “You asked for her life,” Voldemort reminds him. “She is alive.” Moly Weasley lives. Thought it seems a misfortune befell her earlier that day. Well earned. Delicious revenge. Harry, sadly, is not the type to enjoy the poetic justice, the mastery in this delivery of punishment.

She lives, like he wanted, she isn’t even in pain, but the score was settled. Fleetingly, he wonders if Bella is happy, if she laughs gleefully in the afterlife. Perhaps not- Bella was never one for poetry, for subtlety. She got her vengeance in blood and screams. Harry stares at him, shaking his head. “I hate you,” he whispers. Voldemort did not want to break him, but he broke, anyway. So fragile, this boy of his, despite his impressive muscles, he shatters like glass. “Nothing new,” Voldemort replies, and walks out of the kitchen.

As soon as he reaches the garden, he feels his anger rising, now that he isn’t focused on not hurting Harry until he explodes into a pile of blood and bones. He gets angrier and angrier with every step. He feels as impotent as Harry must feel. No matter how mad the boy was, how obviously hurting, he did not even think to draw his wand at Voldemort, or punch him, like he once did. He would have- for Molly fucking Weasley, he would have. Harry has few limits, but the Weasleys are one. Harry would crash and burn with them, for them, the world be damned. He didn’t, however, because he must know, deep down, that it wasn’t Voldemort. But he can’t admit it to himself, not consciously. Voldemort is a convenient scapegoat. Voldemort is a monster, rotten and evil, and it’s easier for Harry this way. Easier than the truth.

He Apparates to Lestrange Manor, and he thinks of Bella again. How odd- he hadn’t truly thought of her in years, but now he feels her around; when he walks to Lestrange Manor, is feels like before, like when he’d walk this path and knew he’d find her and Rodolphus inside. He doesn’t, of course. He finds a copy of her, instead. Bella left him copies of herself, echoes that remain to dwell the earth in her absence. Voldemort walks past Andromeda, strolls through the Manor, until he finds Rodolphus’ copy.

Voldemort knows Rabastan is guilty as soon as he lays eyes on him. That stiff posture, the fear in his eyes, even if he keeps his chin up, defiant. “Your wand,” he snarls. Andromeda followed him, she’s frowning, confused, asking what the matter is. The matter is that Voldemort was disobeyed. “Leave,” Rabastan begs her. “Leave,” Voldemort snarls at her. Andromeda is a cheaper copy of Bella, in all senses. Tamer, sadder, broken. But wiser. She leaves.

Rabastan gives up ‘his’ wand. It’s not his, of course, just like Voldemort suspected. He knew, as Harry was screeching, as Voldemort sat there trying not to snap, he was thinking how all this could have been accomplished. Delphini is at Hogwarts, after all. Impossible for her to also be at the Burrow. Unless she Apparated there. But she wouldn’t risk doing all that with her wand. It became quite obvious who would have given her a wand. “It had to be done,” Rabastan dares to speak. “You moved on, but I can’t; not until justice was served. You moved on, but Delphi couldn’t.” Delphini is a far better copy of Bella, compared to Andromeda. But, as Voldemort feared- you do not fear!- as Voldemort suspected, she is no true copy of her mother. Oh, she’s her spitting image, she has some Black traits in her personality, but no- Delphi is his copy. The anger reaches its peak. Voldemort always treasured Rabastan over most others, awarded him more leeway than most others. But Rabastan is no Harry, he’s no Delphini, and Voldemort snaps.

He reminds Rabastan who he serves, whose mark is on his arm. Useless, of course. Rabastan was never one to cow for pain, nor learn from it. Yet his pain serves to soothe some of Voldemort’s anger, lets him take it out on him. Another convenient scapegoat.

(-)

She does walk like Bella, a confident, defiant tilt to her hips. She walks loudly, proudly, as if used to have others look at her in awe, covet her. She brought her heels, even if the path to the Forbidden Forest is not exactly best suited for heels. Whenever she angers him, she knows to make herself look even more like her mother.

Once, when he searched her mind, he saw Rodolphus teaching her this, on the night before he left her at Rowle’s. “It’s best if you look like her,” he told her, advising her to let her hair free, to wear the dresses Bella favoured. “He treasured her above all others, and, in time, I hope he’ll treasure you, too.” She doesn’t stop at a respectable distance, like Bella would have done when she knew she messed up, when she angered him. No. Delphini comes close, closer than anyone dares.

She’s taller than Bella already, and the heels almost bring her up to his chin. She looks up, and those are his eyes, that is his glare, his defiance, his stubbornness. “What potion did you give her?” “My own invention,” Delphini says, and pride flushes stronger on her face. “They won’t detect it.” “And if they do, then what is the problem, no?” Voldemort asks. “Who is going to suspect a perfect school girl? And if they do suspect her, who is going to blame the Minister’s daughter? Who would dare arrest her?” Delphini shrugs.

“If you plan on using my influence to stay out of trouble, if you know you can easily fall back on me to protect you, then you should discuss things with me before you do them.” “Why bother,” she spits. “You would have said ‘no’. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.” He should have tortured Rabastan more, because not all the anger is out of his system. Furry comes back hot, coursing through his veins, going to his head. “Ask for forgiveness, then,” he hisses, and he takes the step that separated them, towers over her. If she wants to play these games, he’ll play them. She will lose. It’s time for her to learn to lose- Harry spoiled her, far too much. He ignored Voldemort’s warnings that Delphini shouldn’t get away with everything she does, that he should push back, whenever she tests them.

As always, Harry’s kind, tolerant heart, explodes spectacularly in his face.

Delphini doesn’t cower, not truly, but he can detect the current of fear that passes through her. Strangely, it does nothing to improve his mood. Terrifying people usually soothes his fury, but now it just taints it with an unknowable feeling. “I thought you loved Harry,” he says, softly.

“I do!” Her fingers curl into fists at her side. Her neck is bent back uncomfortably, trying to keep Voldemort’s gaze. “She’s alive, isn’t she? Like he asked. She loves Harry, didn’t forget him, and she’ll no doubt dote over him, like a mother. In fact, now that she only remembers loving him, she’ll love him even more! I took nothing from Harry! He can have his pretend mummy! I only took away the memories of all her living children! It’s only fair!”

Delphini’s voice gets louder. Defensive. “She stole my mother from me! So it’s only fair she forgets all the beautiful memories she has with her children, memories she didn’t let me form with my mother. It’s only fair she will only remember her dead son, like I have to remember my dead mother, every time I step foot into the Great Hall, where that harpy took her from me. From us! You lost her, too! And now Molly Weasley cannot remember her husband, either! It’s fair, it is!”

It is beautiful, he agrees. It is poetic and it is just. It is perfect. However.

“You knew he’ll blame me for it; you understand he’s devastated; you understand how he’ll avoid me now, how he’ll suffer, how he’ll moan and whine at me for months on end, start drinking again, retreat into his spare bedroom and rot there for who knows how long. You are perfectly aware Hermione will blame me, too. That it could potentially harm my work. You knew this would affect me. And you did it anyway.” He cups Delphini’s face, and she finally flinches, though she doesn’t draw back.

So beautiful, this child. So intelligent. She loves Voldemort, understands him like no other. His perfect girl. If Voldemort would have ever wanted a daughter, if he’d have been given the chance to make her, build her from scratch- this is what he’d have imagined. Only, he still wishes she would have been more like Bella, or Rodolphus, or Harry; it would have been easier. For him, and for her. Alas, she is not like them. She is like him.

“She deserves it,” Delphini insists. “She hurt me!” Ever her tears are perfect, pretty shapes, clear, trailing down her cheeks. “That never works with me, Delphini,” he reminds her, using his thumb to brush one tear away. “I know!” she hisses. “Nothing works with you! That’s why I didn’t ask! Because you give Harry everything he asks, you are so attentive to provide him with what he needs, but you never care about what I want. What I need. I asked you to punish her, you promised me, remember? When I first met Ron. You promised me! But then Harry asked you to spare her, and you did what he wanted. You forgot about me, about my pain-“

“Shut up,” he says, softly. “I allow you far more than I would anyone else. Harry is my prisoner, he does only what I allow him to do, even if he deluded himself into thinking otherwise. I give you freedom. I don’t make decisions for you. I accept you as you are. But-“ he takes his hand away. “Do not trespass against me, Delphini,” he warns her. “If you want to hurt others, don’t use your mother as an excuse to do it. More importantly, don’t hurt people that are useful to me. Ask before you pull something like this again. And when I say ‘no’, better heed it. Or leave. Go far away, and make trouble there. This is my country, and nothing happens inside it without my say so. I worked for sixty years to subdue this island. If you want that kind of power, you will have to work for it, too.”

[skzdarlings]

the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part v

part one| part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | tba | ao3 link

pairing: han jisung/reader summary: You are a queen. He is a kingsguard - a member of a holy order that vows to defend the king in the name of the gods. They forsake all earthly goods and swear a vow of chastity to avoid all worldly temptation. When he stands in as proxy for the royal wedding, all those vows are tested.

content info: reader described with curly hair.

content warnings: the previously established story dynamics are prevalent in this chapter, please proceed at own discretion. the king threatens sexual violence again. there is explicit consensual sexual content in this chapter with reader and jisung. first times, breaking of vows, lots of mental work packed in there lol.

chapter word count: 11500 words.

enjoy <3

-

Despite the delay, you reach the intended campsite before nightfall.  The king finds his own entertainment while everyone else works at erecting tents and constructing fire pits. 

Chan assigns Seungmin to watch the king while he occupies himself elsewhere.  The tension between the king and the kingsguard captain ripples through the camp, though no one – not even the king – is audacious enough to remark on it. 

The kingsguard has a sanctified power, burdened with the responsibility of protecting the crown above all else.  This manifests as protecting the king so long as oaths are kept and holy accords obeyed.   The king is abundantly aware he is not in the leader’s good graces right now.   Even that petulant fool of a man is smart enough to recognize that antagonism from an ancient religious order is a perilous position for a holy king. 

Because he cannot harass Chan, the king directs his ire towards Hyunjin, so Chan sends Hyunjin across the camp to help there.  Jisung accompanies him.  As the lowest ranked kingsguard, his absence will not be minded. 

You are irate, watching Hyunjin limp away with Jisung following behind him.  You think of their skill and bravery in protecting you from the assassins.  You think of their loyalty and good hearts.  They both deserve better. 

Stewing in irritation, you opt to stay out of the way.  It is better to remain unobtrusive rather than instigate more dramatics after the events of today.   

You kneel down in the grass, out of the way of the tents.  You are organizing a bag of personal effects when an unfamiliar pair of painted boots appear in your line of your vision.  You look up, startled to find one of the king’s courtiers looming over you.  He is one of the few who has been riding in the carriage and you are surprised he is so far from the inner circle now. 

“Your Holy Majesty,” he says, surprising you with the appropriately respectful title.  He surprises you further by offering his hand and helping you to your feet.  The final surprise is a bow so deep he bends his knees.  “I ask for your grace and forgiveness,” he says.  “And I ask for you to pray on my behalf that the gods may also forgive me for my petty transgressions.  I would never speak ill of the gods-chosen king but—”  He looks over his shoulder briefly, spots the king far across the camp with the remainder of his inner circle.  Satisfied with the distance, he looks at you, expression solemn.  “But I believe human error may have conquered the holy senses,” he says.  In a lower voice, tinged with resentment, he says, “To raise hands to the queen in public, especially after the events of the other day…” 

You are still too surprised to respond.  You remain silent, hands folded in front of you. 

He says with some finality, “I know I am not alone in feeling this way.  Your Holiness, please ensure that you have support in some noble factions here – particularly after today.  And please do recall, this is not all the court, merely the king’s personal selection, and there are those at home in the capital who will also support you.” 

The sincerity of his oath leaves you stunned.  You stare at his footprints long after he has departed. 

The courtier does not return to the inner circle but joins a different cluster of palace residents.  Their attention turns to you, followed by dips and bows. 

Your bewildered mind finally catches up to your racing heart.  You sweep into a quick return bow.  When you turn away, you let out a breath.  Your eyes trace the treeline around the clearing.  The smoky orange mist of sunset winds through the branches.  You look but do not see, mentally replaying the whole exchange.

It seems even the most devout courtiers have a restricted capacity of tolerance for royal misconduct.  Their motivations may be selfish in seeing a flagrant disrespect of the gods’ will and worrying what ramifications will manifest for them, but it is still a significant loyalty shift.

You allow yourself a little smile.  Knowing the camp is no longer brimming with hostiles lightens your heavy heart.

You are barely at ease when you turn around, startled again by yet another visitor.  This time is the kingsguard Minho.  He stands as still and patient as marble, hand on the hilt of his sword.  He lists slightly to that side, his other hand dangling in a fist. 

“Your Majesty,” he says.  His bow is more of a nod as he seems lost in contemplation –  or maybe that is scrutiny, studying your face like it holds the answer to some profound question. 

You are open as ever, as patiently marble in waiting for him.  

He exhales.  It sounds like a surrendering.   It makes you nervous, especially with the way he darts a glances over his shoulder.  The king and other kingsguards are busy, the courtiers turned to their own affairs, and the servants are busy with meal preparation.

You cannot imagine what Minho has to say or do that cannot be witnessed.

Your answer comes without a word but a gesture, his closed first opening between you.  You jump at what he reveals.

The phial of sleeping draft.  You assumed it was lost in the ocean tide.  Last you touched it, it went into your dress pocket and that dress is now underwater.  You thought the draft was lost too.  You lamented the only protection you had in prolonging the king’s advances. 

It must have fallen out of your pocket earlier than that, when you threw yourself to the forest floor in sickness.  Minho helped you through it.  Somewhere in your distraction, he must have grabbed the bottle. 

A hot flash of terror spreads through you, looking at the dark liquid sloshing around in that little phial.  When you look up, his brow is furrowed, face pinched with intense scrutiny. 

You are not sure what to expect.   Minho is decent and he seems close with Jisung, which naturally lends your trust to him, but your interactions have been minimal.   He could grab you by the wrist and drag you to Chan to accuse you of harbouring poison.  It would no doubt instigate the king’s wrath and everything would spiral before you could catch your breath. 

Minho sighs. 

“Will it kill him?” he asks. 

“Oh.”  It is not the question you are expecting.  With sincerity and pleading eyes, you reply, “No.  I swear.  It’s just a sleeping draft.  For – for myself.  To help me – at night.” 

He has clever eyes.  You suspect he can deduce what that really means.    

“Mm,” is all he says.  He takes your hand and puts the phial in your palm, then he closes your fingers around it.  He gives you a look, something stern that demands secrecy without a word. 

You nod, clutching the bottle tightly. 

“Be careful,” he says. 

“Of course,” you reply. 

He walks away while you gather yourself, the adrenaline of two unpredictable encounters simmering.  It has not yet settled when the king barks an order, his voice making you jump, particularly when your name is included in his angry tone. 

It draws Hyunjin from the outskirts.  He is still teeming, looking as though he wants any excuse to swing at the king again, punishments be damned.  Jisung is a step behind him, looking with worried eyes while the king seeks you out. 

The king stops a distance from you, speaking across a fire pit, like he cannot be bothered to cross that space.  You think he is also a little intimidated because Hyunjin is fuming in his periphery. 

The king does not look at the kingsguards, not even Chan who approaches on his other side.  He glares at you, enunciating every word with a snarling upturn of his lip as he says, “Go to the river.  Bathe yourself.  You will see me tonight.” 

This gives you another flash of terror, wide-eyed as you stare at his retreating form.  The implications are not subtle.  They are also not surprising.  He has spent the day being belittled and tested and he blames the brunt of it on you.  Of course a cruel and violent man would steal back his supposed dignity in the only hateful way he can, putting you in whatever perceived place he believes you belong. 

You know he will make it awful.   He would have been unkind on your initial wedding night but now you are certain he will be brutal.   He does not just want to use you; he wants to hurt you. 

You wish you could be stronger in the face of this reality, uncaring and brash and mouthy, snarking at him behind his back.  Your heart is not built that way.  You are frightened and very sad, fist curled so tightly at your side that it shakes. 

You almost forget what that fist is holding until you glance at Minho.  He is leaning against a tree, out of sight of the king.  He quirks an eyebrow then mimes taking a drink. 

Unfortunately, this makes you laugh, your nerves melting into the outburst of sound. 

The king looks at you over his shoulder, his eyes furious.  You feel the sparkle in your own as you stare back at him. 

Before the king speaks again, Chan steps forward.  His displeasure is obvious, his concern more so.   He looks at you with that despondency, helpless to do anything insofar as the marriage bed.  That is not the realm of the kingsguard, to say the least, though Chan looks like he wishes he could command otherwise. 

“The queen should not be left unaccompanied,” Chan says.  Looking at the king, he says bitingly, “Especially considering recent attempts on her life, Your Holiness.” 

Holiness sounds like an accusation in that tone. 

The king straightens, glaring back at Chan. 

Hyunjin, seemingly determined to escalate the mounting tension, walks towards you with an easy gait.  He smiles a very charming smile. 

“I can escort the queen,” he says, in a very different voice than usual, almost sultry in its depth.  It makes you blink in confusion.   

The king forgets Chan entirely as he reels around, pointing a finger at Hyunjin. 

“You will burn for eternity first, kingsguard,” the king snaps. 

Hyunjin just smiles prettily, hands folded neatly behind his back.  The lack of response agitates the already exasperated king who huffs and shakes his head.  His eyes dart around and inevitably land on Han Jisung.  It startles Jisung who swings into an instinctive bow.  He stares wide-eyed at the ground. 

“Bard boy,” the king says.  “Take the queen.” 

You look at Jisung as he straightens.  His blinking gaze moves from the king to you. 

That laughter is still caught in your throat, its bubbling delight only intensifying as you look at each other.  You think of that kiss on the riverbank, the softness of his every glance since then.  You do not even think it is especially subtle, or maybe you are just supremely aware of it, holding his gaze as he approaches you.  You feel like it gives everything away. 

The king is arrogant and he thinks Jisung is nobody important.  He does not even glance at at the unassuming bard, his eyes following Hyunjin as he waltzes away. 

“Are you going to take me then, bard boy?” you whisper. 

Jisung chokes on a laugh, a blush darkening the tips of his ears.  He looks over his shoulder but everyone else is ambling back to their posts.  

He looks at your innocently fluttering eyelashes. 

“Don’t tease,” he says with a nervous giggle.  “I think it might kill me.” 

He means it in a playfully hyperbolic way, but you grant there is a sobering truth to that statement.  It succeeds in quieting you, your fingers now clammy where they grip the phial.  You let your mind wander to that, preoccupied with the thought of tonight while you fetch some necessities.  Jisung is dutifully quiet the entire trek, following at an appropriate length all the way down to the riverside. 

You think he has similarly sobered, so quiet behind you as you step through the trees to the water.  The grass turns to sand and pebbles beneath your feet, crunching with every step. 

Your mind is far away, thinking of your very precarious position, how you can slip the king sleeping draft tonight, if it is even worth it to prolong the inevitable.  You doubt he will ever change his feelings for you.  You cannot be so demure and loving that a man with no respect for humanity will somehow see special humanity in you. 

Your gaze rests on the flowing river and the setting sun.  Streak of of orange and lavender flow over the water.   The breeze is laced with an evening chill, brushing a curl off your shoulder.

You realize the gentle touch is actually Jisung.  You shiver as his fingertips follow the tumbling curl down your back, until he is not even touching you but you still feel the proximity.  It moves through you with an intensity far more powerful than the king’s threatening glower. 

This warmth is not terror, a different heat that rushes and burns with startling efficiency. 

“What can I do?” he asks in that careful, low voice. 

You remember him behind you just like this, supporting your body, the look on his face and the feel of him as you discovered more pleasure than you ever knew existed.  You are amazed that it is not the most preached phenomenon of them all, that the gods would bestow such a gift on humanity.  You cannot imagine what you would have done without the revelation.  The immensity of it all has you shivering. 

“You’ve already done so much,” you say. 

“I’ll come to you after,” he says, words flowing in a nervous rush.  “I’ll help you.  Whatever you need – if you’re – if something happens – I can come.  The king won’t care if it’s just me.  I’m just bard boy, ha-ha, I don’t – it won’t matter, at least—”

You turn around.  His breath catches as your eyes meet.  His hand is trembling but he drops it to his side.  His eyes dart to the empty treeline and back. 

“Bard boy,” you whisper with a smile, teasing.  “The king may believe otherwise, but you are most assuredly admired by your queen.”  

“You—”  He looks at the still-empty treeline then you again.  He is so clearly flustered. On a startled, nervous laugh, he says, “You can’t say things like that to me.”

“Why not?” 

He kisses you, a reply made with no hesitation. 

He cups a hand around your jaw, fingers firm on your neck with a guiding pull.  The kiss is more than a touch.  If kisses can be whispers, this is a song, rhythmic and grand. 

Your knees nearly buckle beneath you.  This is your third kiss but it feels like first and the thousandth, the natural way you move together, gasps of breath and pressing lips.  His hand moves under your hair, cupping the back of your neck.  Your own hand raises, fingertips stroking his jaw then resting between his neck and shoulder. 

He makes a noise into the kiss, tilting his head, kissing you with so much intensity that you both stumble.  His eyes widen at his own actions, a hand covering his mouth as he looks at the treeline.  His startled expression makes you burst into giggles.

“That was my fault,” he says, throwing his hands into a surrender, then raking them through his hair until it is a dishevelled mess.  “My fault, my fault, it’s fine, it’s fine.”  He makes a series of faces while muttering to himself, giggling nervously at you, then walking away to stand guard. 

You turn your back to him, hiding your smile as you touch your lips.  Somehow a kiss provided all the courage you needed to decide, yes, it will be worth prolonging the king’s advances.  You and Jisung are already outsmarting him, his arrogant eye turned to the wrong kingsguard, and you will continue to find ways to do so.   The sleeping draft was made by a friend and you know you will develop more.  Perhaps alone you cannot combat a king, but you are not alone. 

For now, you will play his game.  A quick wash will feel good after the long day in the summer sun regardless of intention. 

You strip down to your shift as is appropriate for a queen bathing out-of-doors.  It is about the only appropriate protocol, as you should have more company than solitary male guard, even a kingsguard.  It is not surprising the king has you left you bereft of any ladies, forgoing introductions, actively discouraging his nobles.  That is something you will remedy yourself in the capital. 

For now, you are not mad it is just you and Jisung.  You glance at him while disrobing, catching his eye, smiling at his flustered blush as he looks away again.

You pile your curls as high as you can, then step to the water.  Even though there is a chill in the air, the water is warm because the hot sun has been pouring down all day.  You suspect it will be colder to emerge than to enter.  For now, it is comfortable as it laps at the foot of your shift, darkening the hem as you walk. 

You find a smooth boulder to perch on, grateful to use one of your own soaps from home as you scrub your skin.  The breeze is sharp against your wet skin so you sink into the water up to your shoulders, paddling around for a little bit as you let the day wash off you. 

The sunset has lost its golden traces, the sky melting from orange to pink, and you let yourself admire the colours as they swirl overhead. 

When you look at Jisung, he is already staring at you.  He is sitting on a rock, fiddling with the hilt of his sword in an absent-minded distraction.  He exhales heavily when you look at him. 

“What is it?” you ask. 

“I—”  He laughs then thuds the heel of his palm against his forehead in a punishing little smack.  “Nothing,” he says.  He looks at the ground then slowly at you, his gaze moving across the shimmering water before tracing up your shoulders, neck, and face.   “I just hope no one tries to attack us right now.  Because honestly?”  He lets go of the hilt to show his hand, revealing the slight tremble.  He immediately crosses his arms, tucking his hands under them.  “I don’t think I’d be much help,” he finishes with a laugh. 

“Don’t worry,” you say, matching his smile.  “I’ll keep you safe.” 

“Oh,” he says.  “Good.” 

You smile at each other for another moment.  It is disturbed when you hear the king shouting about food, far into the distance.  A couple of birds fly out of the trees and away.  You spread your arms in the water and watch them go, wishing it was that easy. 

“We should go back,” Jisung says, though he sounds as uneasy as he looks, biting his bottom lip, his big eyes as shiny and concerned as ever. 

The water is not very deep.  When you stand, it comes below your hips.  You squeak, a mousey and unqueenly sound, as the evening chill swarms you.

“Oh goodness,” you say, too distracted with the cold to think of much else.  “Robe, please.” 

Jisung is a very capable soldier.  You have witnessed it firsthand.  Where most of the kingsguards appear to specialize in certain skills, he has so far proven to be a master of everything.

He trips over his own feet now.  He slides clumsily across the gravel, drawing a sharp line in the sand.   He manages to remain upright, only just, muttering to himself as he picks up the robe you requested. 

He steps to the water’s edge, the robe under his arm.  He holds out a hand to help guide you forward, but he is very distracted with looking at the rest of you, so he keeps accidentally moving it out of reach. 

You finally clasp his wandering hand.  Only then does he lift his frantic gaze to your eyes. 

This is your second time emerging from water in nothing but a shift, the light material leaving nothing to the imagination.  Last time, you were shy and embarrassed, but it seems a bit silly to be modest now considering what he has seen.  Furthermore, you do not feel embarrassed, not with the way he looks at you.  The shift clings to every curve, nearly translucent, more so with the chill as the sensitive peaks of your breasts pebble against the wet white fabric.   

His eyes dart there again, his mouth open.  He doesn’t say anything.  With a bit of struggle, he manages to say, “Ahhhh…?”

“Robe, please,” you say again, amused.  Truthfully, you are not as cold under his gaze, flushed with a tingling warmth that conquers the other senses. 

“Fuck,” Jisung says, shaking his head as he wraps the robe around your shoulders.  “Sorry for cursing, pretend you didn’t hear it.”

Now that he is speaking, the words come in a breathless stream.  It comes from an honest, human subconscious that a kingsguard should have under control, but which he has evidently relinquished from mental bondage. 

“I can hit him on the head,” Jisung says.  “I mean – fuck.  I can’t do that, obviously.  He’s the king.  I wouldn’t do that – but also I would, if you asked.  If you ask then it’s fine because I’d do anything for the queen.  I should obey the queen.  I must protect her.  Then again, if I hit him on the head, It could go wrong, and he could die, then I didn’t just hit the king but killed him, and kingsguards aren’t supposed to do that.  Well, sometimes they do, but that’s very rare and definitely not the bard’s call.  I shouldn’t kill the king, even if you ask, right?  Right.  Fuck.  Sorry for cursing.  You wouldn’t ask that anyway, even if he deserves it – ah!  I didn’t say that.  Maybe if I get him drunk instead then he won’t be able to – you know–”

He lifts his finger, a rather impolite mime of a rising erection, which he realizes is a very rude gesture to make in front of the queen.   He throws his hands together in a prayer position instead. 

“By which I mean,” he says, “Nothing.  I meant none of that at all.  Unless you say otherwise, my queen.  Then I meant it all.” 

It is silent save the sound of the river lapping at the shore.  His hands are still clasped for prayer and you are holding the robe closed.  He blinks at you.  You are already smiling. 

“Right,” he says.  “Umm… Fuck.”

You pat him on the arm, stepping around him.  You go to your possessions and kneel down to find the phial. 

“I wasn’t going to ask for help,” you say.  “I fear I have already put you in a precarious enough position as is—”

“You haven’t done anything,” he says, quick and sharp.  His black robes swish with the swiftness of his spin.  He marches to where you are knelt down. 

You look up at him, your hand closed around the phial, but he does not see it.  His eyes are on your face.

“My queen,” Jisung says.  He crouches down so you can look at each other.  “I’m a lot better with words when I’m singing, especially a story about someone else.  That’s easy.  But I—”  He stares into your eyes.  His shoulders fall with an exhale, his expression softening just as surely.  “I wouldn’t go back to the easy I knew days ago.  I know I’m a mess now.  I don’t know what’s happening anymore, or what’s going to happen soon, but—”

He looks at the treeline.  It is still empty, of course.  The king does not see the pretty bard boy as a threat to his dignity.  He is probably brooding and glaring at Hyunjin and Chan while it is Jisung who lays a hand on your cheek.  Jisung captures you more completely than the king could do with iron. 

“It’s probably wrong to say,” Jisung speaks in a low voice, his face close to yours.  A tuft of dark hair falls near his brown eyes.  “It’s too selfish for a kingsguard or any mortal to say, but…   You said it first, that you feel the gods when we’re together.”  His thumb strokes your cheek and it might as well be a lightning bolt launched from the heavens, wracking your whole body with a shiver.  “I feel it too,” he says.  “I think I’m supposed to be here.  My life, the war, becoming a kingsguard, a – a – a queensguard – it was supposed to happen.  The gods led us here and we made it happen, and the gods allowed us, so we must – it must – it can’t be completely wrong, right?  When the king is like that, and you are like this.”

You are everything I ever dreamed of worshipping, he told you two nights ago, before you ever kissed, before you even really touched. 

“You’re worth a thousand kings, Han Jisung,” you say. 

It is confident amidst his stammering and it makes his eyes go wide.  You brush the hair away from those eyes. 

“I don’t know what will happen either,” you say.  “I know the king will try something untoward sooner than later, whether I am faithful and obedient or not.  I believe it is thus appropriate to reserve my faith and loyalty to that which I pray directly.”

You turn your face and kiss his palm.  You look at him from the corner of your eye, watching his breath catch as his eyes are bound to where your lips touch his skin. 

You wonder if he is so flushed because he is remembering how you said physical love was like prayer.  Hearing your words now, seeing and feeling your kiss, he seems to stop breathing entirely. 

“And in such a case as that,” you say, “I believe I would like at least once more night to pray for answers.” 

You open your hand and reveal the phial.  His gaze drops.  His eyebrows leap comically high as he looks between you and the bottle. 

He snatches it, looking at the treeline, then whispering so frantically that his voice breaks again, “Is that poison? Where in the name of all the gods did you get poison?”

You cup his face with both hands, laughing helplessly at his expression.  You stroke your thumbs across his cheeks and it lessens his panic. 

“It’s not poison,” you whisper.  “It’s just a sleeping draft.”

“A sleeping draft,” he says, words a little slurred as his cheeks are squished in your hands.  He looks down at the phial again, then at you.  “Well,” he says and gets to his feet.  He adjusts his sword belt, swishes the length of his robe and clears his throat.  “You could have started with that,” he says. 

You are laughing as he helps you to your feet. 

-

Thanks to your friend’s sleeping draft and Jisung’s help, you escape the king unscathed for another night. 

Jisung completes his task in the only way Han Jisung would and could: with a great deal of theatricality. 

The sun is nearly set and everyone is gathered around the fire pits.  The king is with his inner circle, guarded by Changbin.  After changing into a clean dress, you sit with the remaining kingsguards.  The meal is simple, meat cooked in a spicy broth.  Apparently, esteemed kingsguard leader Bang Chan is tragically intolerant towards heavy spice, a fact you learn because the others relentlessly tease him. 

It makes him crack a smile, the first one all day.  He has charmingly deep dimples when he lets himself go.   You are sitting beside him and the sight delights you. 

In the midst of comforting food and friendly laughter, Chan looks at you.  While the others are rowdy and distracted, he takes a moment to say, “I’ll guard the king’s tent tonight,” he says.  “Find me, yeah?  If you need… anything.” 

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely touched.

His chivalry will not be required, however.  Moments after he says that, the king starts screaming. 

“You incompetent mongrel!” he shouts, clear across the campsite, scaring another pair of birds. 

The kingsguards are quickly on their feet, food and jibes forgotten. 

You stay sitting, slurping your soup.

“Your Holy Majesty, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, a thousand times sorry,” Jisung says to the king. 

You glance over there, watching as Jisung alternates between bowing and scooping up the bits of meat that splattered on the ground when he knocked over the king’s bowl of soup. 

When Jisung told you he would take care of administering the sleeping draft, he did not tell you his plan, maybe assuming you would not like it.  You cannot honestly say you are happy to see him intentionally drawing the king’s anger, but it is certainly a fair strategy.  The king is too surrounded to truly sneak up on him.  He is, however, very easy to antagonize.    

Jisung tries to hold out a dirty piece of meat as offering.  The king slaps it out of his hand.  Jisung looks at it with dramatically wide eyes.

“I swear to the gods, kingsguard—” the king says, raising his hand as if to strike Jisung.

Jisung bows again, holding up his hands in supplication. 

“I apologize, your Holiness,” he says, bowing some more as he grabs the king’s empty bowl.  He remains bent over while scampering around.  “It was an accident.  I’ll get you more food.  Forgive me, sire, I’m a worthless dog, I’m a flea on a dog, I’m a flea on a flea on a dog—”

The king kicks at him as Jisung scampers off to get more soup.   The other kingsguards sit back down, either laughing at the nonsense of shaking their heads, chalking it up to Jisung being a little clumsy and silly. 

You slurp some more soup. 

The king only makes it halfway through his meal before he falls asleep.  The remainder of his soup splashes onto the ground when the bowl falls out of his lap, so fortunately no one else ingests it.  

No one seems bothered by the peculiarity of his sudden slumber.   This seems to a combination of the exhausting day and simple relief that there is no more yelling. 

Chan, Changbin, and Minho carry the king back to his tent where he will sleep alone and where you will not be visiting any time soon.  

Seungmin is assigned the first shift to guard your tent but Jisung escorts you while Seungmin is still finishing his meal.  You and Jisung walk side by side, saying nothing suspicious or untoward.  Nothing beyond his wink and your smile, at least. 

“Was the king this bad on the journey over?” you ask while Jisung unties the clasps of your tent. 

“Almost worse,” Jisung admits.  “He doesn’t like travelling.  And you already know he wasn’t, um, happy with the wedding, heh.  Now everything with Felix—”

“Right,” you say, watching as the last clasp comes undone.  “I suppose an affair can change a man.”

“So I’ve heard,” he says.  

The tent opens.  There is a lit lantern inside, brightening the night with golden warmth.  The interior is simple, though marginally more comfortable than the average tent. It is tall enough you can walk around without ducking. The ground is neatly covered, a thick bedroll unfurled in the middle of the space.  It looks as inviting as it can be, blankets draped across the long cushion, a pillow at the head.  One of your smaller trunks is in the room.  There is a low table and a cushion beneath it, a tea pot and cup in wait.  The lantern sits on the ground, near the bed. 

You look at each other. 

It would require only a step out of the darkness and into the light, then he could kiss you again.  Only a step, yet a serious one with real ramifications. 

Despite all that, you want him as you have never wanted anything before.  You want him so much that you learned how to want.   Before him, you were numb but content.  Now you feel every prickling tingle of a hair standing on edge, the anticipation twisting inside you, and the flush of heat that moves through you when his eyes move to your lips. 

“I—” he starts and never finishes.

You can see the complicated gears and cogs spinning in his head.  You think of him on his knees before you, kissing your hands, shaking with desperation.  Every kiss is both a gift and a surrendering, the forging of a serious vow in the breaking of another.  You want him but not in the way a king wants his kingdom, not with a selfish and possessive cruelty, and not with a command. 

“I enjoy your company,” you say.  “When Seungmin takes his post, would you play some music for me?  It would make me happy.” 

He releases a breath. 

“Yes,” he says, smiling at you.  “Yes, that would make me happy too.” 

Jisung stands guard until Seungmin arrives, then he leaves to fetch his guitar.  You dress down for the evening, removing your layers and letting your curls loose.  You sit on the bedroll in nothing but your shift.  It goes without saying that it does a better job of modesty when it is dry.  The recollection of Jisung’s staring makes your cheeks feel hot. 

You are smiling down at your embroidery when he returns.  There is only a brief conversation between him and Seungmin, the latter somewhat perplexed by his presence. It is not inappropriate for a kingsguard to guard the royal personage from inside the tent, but it has not been deemed necessary, nor has Jisung been posted. 

Jisung lets the guitar does most of the talking.  It is very persuasive.

Moments later, Jisung is inside the tent, lacing it closed again, the guitar on his back.  Somehow, the lacing of the tent ties feel even sturdier than a lock.  It would take a long time for someone to undo it, making it nearly impossible to sneak up on you. 

You suspect it would also take you a long time to become conscious of the real world.  Jisung is not kissing you, not even touching you, just moving inside the same small space as you, and you are already distractingly rivetted. 

So distracted, you poke your finger on a needle.  You put your finger in your mouth to catch and wipe the tiny pinprick of blood.  You look at Jisung as he sits.  He does not sit on the bedroll, just beside it on the ground. 

His eyes flick to your mouth, his face a little flushed. 

“Ha-ha,” he speaks it more than laughs it.  “Right.  Music.  Um.” 

The first strum of the guitar feels very loud in this small space, making your heart jump.  The alarm slows to a gradual stop as you let the gentle plucking of each string soothe you.  He hums softly until you are visibly comfortable with the sound, then he starts to sing too. 

He starts with a familiar ballad, famous enough it reached your land at the borders.  The next song you do not know but he has hummed snippets here and there over the past couple days.  The third song is about you, though it takes a second to realize it.  Your eyes are on your embroidery, knotting little loops of cherry blossom petals, when you realize the ‘mermaid in white with curly hair’ who has ‘wanting eyes for the soldier on the shore’ is maybe not so distant or fantastical as the lyrics might imply. 

You look at him, flicking your gaze to the sealed tent flap as if to remind him that others can hear.  He grins innocently and keeps singing, your story hidden in the details of some fictional recreation.  

Hearing his interpretation of your supposed thoughts makes you laugh.  He is often doing everything to make you laugh.  Hearing the thoughts of the soldier on the shore stirs rather differently, your heart palpitating as he sings about longing and terror.  Both those feelings seem to torment the soldier, a man equal parts integrity, desire, and fear. 

The lyrics trail off though he keeps strumming the guitar.  You suppose the story is not yet finished. 

The melody changes a little.  He hums to chase it, perhaps crafting another song in his mind. 

You look at your cherry blossoms, listening to him, remembering the first time he sang to you.  He had never even spoken to you.  You did not know him at all.  You were alone and miserable, sulking in the dark, and he jumped into the light and touched you with his music. 

It feels like so much has changed even while technically nothing has.  You are still married to the king.  You have both sworn oaths. 

His music still touches you.

Your vision blurs, then the first teardrop plunks onto a cherry blossom.  He notices immediately, just like he was the only one to see your tears at the ceremony.  The music comes to an abrupt stop, a suspended note awkwardly fractured.  He puts the guitar aside and gets on his knees, leaning over your embroidery to lift your face. 

You sniffle, smiling at him through your tears. 

“I’m sorry,” you say.  “I’m not even crying because of the sad things.” 

“That’s okay,” he says, his face as morose.  He tries to smile softly, though his brow is still pinched with concern.  “You can cry,” he says.  “If it will make you feel better.” 

Yes, you think it will.  You have too long repressed feeling.  You are allowed to be angry and passionate and sad.  Crying will not necessarily solve all your problems, but it will empty the clutter of your mind and soul. 

You let it wash away, then you let him wipe your eyes. 

“Thank you,” you say, wiping the last teardrop as he sits back. 

He picks up his guitar, though he just looks at it, running his hand along the neck while you tidy up your embroidery tools.  He looks from his art to yours, blinking at the cherry blossoms. 

“What are you making?” he asks. 

“Just bits and pieces, really,” you say.  “Spring is my favourite season.  It’s beautiful back home, with the blossoms and warm rain showers.  Everything sparkles all the time.”  

If you had not already cried, thinking of home might have done it.   You just sniffle and lay the fabric down.  You smile at him. 

“What’s your favourite season?” you ask.

“Mine?”  His eyebrows lift.  His mouth is open as he looks for an answer, then he glances at your embroidery and laughs.  “Spring,” he says.

You swat his arm and he playfully howls, clutching it. 

“You can’t just say that because it’s mine,” you say. 

“Why not?” he asks, still laughing. 

“Because!” 

“All right, all right,” he says.  He taps his chin with great contemplation.  “Autumn?  No, no, it’s gross in the capital then.  The rain doesn’t sparkle there, not in the fall.  It sort of just – pings.”  He makes a high-pitched sound on the word, miming each droplet as it tumbles.  “Let’s see then – it’s not autumn and spring is forbidden to me.  Ah, winter?  No.  No.  Guard duty in the winter is the worst.  Oops, I’m not supposed to say that – of course being a kingsguard is a blessing, and I can’t wait to experience the next winter, Amen.”  He opens his palms and pretends to pray, then bows his head before continuing.  “So it’s not those.  Then, ah, let me think.  What’s left? Hmmm…” 

You are already giggling when he leans towards you, grinning.

“Remind me,” he says.  “What’s left?”

“Summer, of course,” you say. 

“Ah, of course.  Let’s think.  It’s hot, muggy, and the rain doesn’t help either of those things.  Everything feels a bit like soup.  But…” 

“But…?”  You lean towards him as well, playfully eager like this is the most important secret he could reveal.

“But…” His eyes drop momentarily to your smile.  “That’s when we met.”

You look from his mouth to his eyes.  The joining of your gazes makes everything feel very quiet, slow, and warm.  Nothing exists past the golden light beside you. 

“Yes,” he says.  “Summer.  I think I used to hate it.  I think I’ll never hate it again.” 

“That’s funny,” you say. “I feel the same way.”

“Well, you can’t,” he says, abruptly teasing again. “Because that’s my favourite, and you can’t just pick it because I did.” 

Your laughs turns into a snort and you quickly cover your mouth.  He laughs at the sound though he tries to stifle it. 

You swat each other, trying and failing to keep the laughter down.  A kingsguard keeping watch or a bard playing music is one thing, but giggling with the queen is a little different.   

Your embroidery is between you and he accidentally puts his hand on it.  He hisses like he was run through with a sword rather than pinpricked with a sewing needle. 

“Oh my goodness,” you say, shaking your head with playful irritation.  You gather your embroidery things and place them out of reach so there are no more accidents.  “Silly,” you say.  “Big strong guard, you are.  It couldn’t have hurt that much.”

“It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt,” he says with dramatically sad eyes and a spectacular pout. 

“Oh, I’m sure,” you say, taking his hand.  It is not even bleeding.  Still, you bring it to your mouth. 

You do not intend to be seductive.  You are truly just playing, intending to wet his finger against your lips and tease him some more.  The moment your lips touch his skin, however, the whole energy inside the tent changes.  If you did not know better, you would say the earth itself tilted. 

You look at him while taking the tip of his finger in your mouth.  His smile vanishes too, those dark eyes suddenly smouldering in the lamplight.  Your heart is pounding so hard that it wakes up the rest of your body.  When you kiss that fingertip again, moving your mouth, making no mistake of its deliberateness, your heart seems to plummet as well.  It drops right between your legs where it continues to pound, sending heat in every direction, so stark and sure that it makes you want to double over. 

“Jisung,” you say, your lips a little wet. 

He does not have far to go, cupping your face and pulling you in for a kiss.  You clasp his shoulders, closing your eyes and kissing him back.  You would not notice an intruder, nor even a fire, not even a god walking the earth.  You lose yourself completely, even more than those precious kisses from before.  Maybe it is knowing you are truly alone, that the king is out cold, that it is nighttime and you are in your shift and he is right here, and it would be so easy to lay down and—

“I—”  He abruptly breaks the kiss.  He still looks lost in it, eyes half-open, face tinged with a blush.  He pushes his fingers through his hair and shakes his head like that will pull him out of it. 

He looks at you then at your mouth, then he falls right back in.  His eyes close and he moans when he kisses you, like it is rearranging him.   He cups your face with both hands and guides the kiss, opening his mouth, inexpertly but hungrily.  You follow just as inexpertly but just as passionately.  You make a sound of your own, higher and lighter, sweet in the kiss as he licks into your open mouth. 

He is affected, either by the sound or your taste or your tongue against his.  He pulls back with a shuddering gasp, like he forgot to breathe the whole time.  You think you forgot too, breathing much harder than before. 

“I—I’m so—”  he says, forcing himself to look away.  He stares down at the lantern.  His eyes look a little wet, verging on tears as well.  He pushes his hand into his hair and keeps it there, the dark locks messy around his fingers. 

“Jisung,” you whisper his name, touching his shoulder, then his face.  “Jisung, I know.  This is – this is all crazy.”  He looks at you, eyes still sad, hand still shoved in his hair.  “I know,” you say.  “You’re not alone.  I know this is complicated.”  You stammer, tripping over your racing heart.  You cup his face and stroke his cheek.  “I’m not asking for anything but what you want to give me.”

“I know,” he whispers.  “I’m not scared of you.  I’m scared of me.  Of what I want to give.  It would be—”  He finally lets go of his hair.  It takes a second to fall back into place after being pushed for so long, falling messily across his forehead.  “It would be easier,” he says again, “if I didn’t want to, at all.  But I—” 

It is certainly easier for him to speak in song.  He conveyed so much as a soldier on the shore, longing and terror in equal parts.  Yes, that is all over his face as he looks at you, even if he cannot articulate it like this.  He just breathes.  He tilts his head and looks at you.  He is right, that this would all be easier if that expression was not so tender and loving. 

“What about you?” he asks.  “What do – what do you want to – give?” 

“Jisung,” you say, almost laughing, because isn’t it obvious?  “I want to give you everything.”

You thought that was so obvious but his look says otherwise, that he is surprised and taken back and overcome. 

“I believe,” you say, “that even though we are surrounded by danger, my heart and my body would be truly safe with you.”

“Oh,” he says.  He gazes back at you for a time, then he looks down.  He takes your hand.  His eyes closed, he brings it to his mouth and kisses your palm.  He holds it to his face after, eyes still closed, clearly thinking very hard.  When he straightens, he says, “It is.  But when it comes to me, I—”  He laughs without much humour, his expression rather withering and his tone self-deprecating.  “I think I’m broken beyond help.  I think I always have been.  I don’t even have a good reason why.  I just know I feel worthless if I don’t cling to the only vow that has ever meant anything and you – and I – and—”

“You’re safe with me too,” you say gently.  “Whatever that looks like, Jisung.  Whether you think it’s broken or not, I’ll take care of it all.” 

He nods, sharp and quick.  He rests his forehead against yours.  You close your eyes and stay there, just breathing until your racing hearts are under control again.  He kisses your forehead before standing.  You stand as well, mostly to see that your legs still work, everything fuzzy after all that. 

He picks up his guitar and goes to the tent entrance.  He unlaces it carefully, then looks at you before parting it.  His expression is fond, his mouth open with some parting words, but his eyes widen and he swallows whatever gentle words were on his lips.  You look over your shoulder, wondering what surprised him, but there is nothing there.

“What is it?” you ask, smiling when he does. 

“Ah, uh, you—”  He points behind you with the guitar.  There is still nothing there.  When you lift an eyebrow at him, he giggles.  “Um, the light,” he says.  “Behind you – it, um.” 

Oh.  The lantern is shining right through your thin white shift.  Perhaps it is not reliable for modesty even when dry, turning almost invisible as it reveals the shape of everything beneath the fabric. 

“Well,” you say, brushing the material out.  “I suppose it’s nothing you haven’t seen.” 

“Yes,” he says, breathlessly.  His eyes move down your body and up again.  It is such a thorough, thinking regard, that you think he might be changing his mind.  Then he swallows, closes his eyes, and bows his head.  He departs without another word. 

You do not listen if he and Seungmin speak some more.  You douse the lantern and climb under your blankets.  You thought you had tempered yourself, but that last look was hungrier and more powerful than a kiss.  With the image of him so fresh and clear in your mind, and with the tent securely laced shut again, you slide a hand beneath the covers and whisper his name again and again. 

-

You wake in the middle of the night.  You do not know what time but it is nowhere near daylight, the world in darkness all around the tent.  You went to sleep to some bustling noise in the camp but now it is silent so you believe it hours have passed. 

Your eyes adjust to the midnight blue, making out the shape of your table and trunk, the unlit lantern.   The only light is outside the tent, the guard posted with a lantern of his own.   He is holding it in the air so you can see his silhouette. 

Two silhouettes. 

It takes a moment for your groggy mind to catch up but it does.  You realize there is a hushed argument happening on the other side of the tent.  You realize you are also correct about the hour, because it is late enough that there was a guard change.  That is not Seungmin’s voice or silhouette outside the tent, but Minho.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Minho whispers, in obvious agitation.  “She’s sleeping.  Why would I let you into the queen’s tent?”

“I just want to see her.”  That voice is unmistakably Jisung.  You would recognize his voice anywhere.  Your heart wakes faster than your mind. 

“In the middle of the night?”  Minho asks.  “Are you crazy?”

“Yes!” Jisung whispers back, with a high-pitched strain.  “I am!  Now let me see her!” 

“What kind of argument is that?” Minho asks. 

“I just—”  Jisung sighs.  You watch his silhouette, his hands moving through the air as he gestures at nothing.  “I’ve been thinking—”

“I get that’s new for you,” Minho says dryly, “But the queen can be alerted to this miracle tomorrow.”

“And I just need to see her,” Jisung finishes.  “Because – because I only have half my thoughts when I’m not with her.  Like the world is only half full and I’m only—”  He jabs his chest, exhales heavily.  “Only half whole.” 

The lantern lowers slightly, Minho seemingly losing power as his arm lowers. 

“Please,” Jisung says.  “I’m just going to talk to her.  I’ll be fast.  She won’t mind.  The king will be passed out until noon at least.  This is just – I need to see her.”

“I hate you,” Minho says.  “If I hear even one disgruntled squeak from her, I’m considering it permission to kill you for being a nuisance.”

“I can’t wait to haunt you forever,” Jisung says, clapping him on the shoulder with a friendly pat.

Minho shrugs him off.  The lantern swings away as Minho stalks back to his post.  He plunks the light on the ground. 

You can no longer see his silhouette but you can hear as the tent unlaces.  Each slip of a tie has your heartbeat skipping.  You prop yourself up your elbows, watching slivers of moonlight slip into the tent.  Eventually the tent is undone enough that Jisung can step inside, then he grumbles and swears to himself as he laces it back up again.

You sit all the way upright but he does not see you.  At first, he is preoccupied with the laces.  Then, once the tent is secure, he turns around.  Your eyes are adjusted to the darkness so you see him perfectly, but his are not adjusted and he evidently has no idea you are awake and upright and staring at him.

He seems to go through a myriad of emotions, his face an entire theatrical spectacle in the span of thirty seconds.  Then he curses and turns around and reaches for the laces, having seemingly lost all his nerves, intent on departing again. 

“Jisung?” you say.

It makes him jump, shoulders leaping.  He slowly turns around to face you.  He still does not see you properly, squinting through the dark, but you think your general shape is taking form.  He faces the correct angle, at least. 

“Um, yes?” he asks. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask. 

“Oh, that,” he says.  “Right. Um.  You see.  I was thinking about everything you said.  And everything I said.  And did.  And we did.  And the king said and did.  And I was just – I was thinking – what I mean is.”  He clasps his hands together and punctuates his words with a pointed gesture.  “The. reason. I. am. here.” 

He lets his arms fall to his side.  You think he can see you because his eyes finally find yours. 

He should be a terrifying figure in the dark, all long dark robes with a shiny sword at his hip.  You are not scared.  His hands are the ones shaking, his eyes wide.  

“Yes?” you say softly, encouraging. 

He takes a step forward.  His hand rests on the hilt of his sword out of habit, no doubt a consolation to his nerves.  He looks down at it, seems to contemplate it like it has answers, or maybe just more questions.  Eventually, he reaches into his robes and undoes the sword belt.  You watch with baited breath as the sword falls into his hand. 

He crouches, laying the sword on the ground.  On one knee, looking at the sword, then looking at you, he unclasps the top layer of his robes. 

“I think,” he says, “I’m here to pray.”

You are quickly out of the covers, crawling down the bedroll towards him.  He drops his other knee so he is kneeling upright at the foot of your bed, his robes open to the dark layer underneath, his chest rising and falling as quickly as his heart must be racing. 

You get up on your knees too, hands floating between you as you take a second to just look at each other.  His mouth is open like he has more to say but he never finds the words.  You think they have all been said and they are better encapsulated in a kiss. 

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in.  His hands find your waist, at first with the chivalrous touch of a guard, the same way he has been holding your waist when he helps you from here to there.  Then the kiss deepens and your eyes close.  His tongue pushes against yours and his hands are searching, squeezing, feeling the shape of every curve under his palm. 

He says your name, not your title.  Your shift is messily gathered in his fists.  He kisses you softly, just a peck, then another, then those kisses move across your face and down your neck.  You sink your fingers into his hair, holding him there as he kisses a long, hot kiss against your throat.  You feel it all the way down between your thighs, liquid heat and a pounding need.  You scratch  at his scalp as his open mouth moves across your skin and he moans.

“Shh,” you say gently, his voice softening against your neck, just a light sound as he licks the place he kissed. 

You want to tear the robe off his body but you don’t want to startle him, his hands already shaking where they move over your clothed body.  You decide to go first, already more comfortable with it. 

You always thought disrobing for a lover would be petrifying, aghast at the thought of ever baring yourself to a husband.  Well, perhaps that last part is still true.  It is not difficult to share yourself with Jisung.  You like the way he looks at you, like he is writing songs of worship in his head. 

You lean back and smile at him.  He looks flushed and messy, his lips wet.  He blinks at you, though his gaze lowers when you gather the hem of your shift and lift.  His mouth is hanging open when you toss it to the side. 

“It’s not like you haven’t seen me before,” you whisper, laughing lightly. 

“That was different,” he says.  “I couldn’t really look.  I tried not to look.  I knew if I did, I’d want to touch you.  I tried to pray instead.  But I can’t hear the gods when you’re not near me.  Now—”  His hand moves up your naked side, skimming your curves, his eyes following the trail.  He swipes his thumb across your breast and your back arches into him.  “Now,” he says again, dipping his head, “I know where I was made to be.”

His mouth closes around the tip of your breast, already pert from stimulation, hardening further between his lips.  He sweeps his tongue across your skin, moves to the other side.  His hands move everywhere, up and down. 

He slowly lays you on your back.  He tears off his outer robe and leaves it on the ground, following you down.  You will not push him for more, knowing already how much he is giving you, though one day you want to feel every inch of him, skin to skin.  It will happen, you decide.  One day, you will be in a bed, and there will be time, and you will never be done exploring. 

He lets your put your hand under his shirt, scratching down his spine.  His arms are bare so you squeeze those too.  Your legs part to make room for his hips.  You are kissing and you make a sound in each other’s mouths when he lowers his hips against you.  You can feel him through the material of his trousers, like you could feel him that other night.  Where he ran away that night, this time he lets your hand wander down.  When you cup the hard shape of him in your palm, it makes your breath catch in an uneven stutter. 

“Jisung,” you whisper, arching against him when he says your name back. 

“Yes,” he says, pushing himself upright with shaking arms.  He kneels between your open legs.  He pushes his hair back and swallows as he looks down.  His mouth moves but he doesn’t speak, though he does make a garbled noise while running his hands along the soft skin of your inner thighs. 

That skin is very sensitive.  You are already arching by the time his hand is on you.  You have to cover your mouth.  No amount of touching yourself could prepare you for his touch, his fingers rougher and calloused both from his sword and his guitar. 

You are so wet for him.  He makes a face like he can feel the pleasure of it even though it his fingers rubbing through all that wetness.   He finds that place he showed you, as adept with the instrument of your body as he is with any other tool he puts in his hands.  Just as he is always determined to make you laugh, he is now determined to give you pleasure.   He grips your thigh in one strong hand and deftly moves his other thumb around and around that small centre of pleasure. 

You twitch in his grip, still gasping with those short, stunted breaths.  You can keep your voice down on your own but it requires more concentration now, swallowing those sounds as that pleasure breaks apart inside you.  Your hips lift, chasing his touch, before you drop in shy retreat, oversensitive. 

He grips both thighs, squeezing the soft flesh, then runs his fingertips back to their centre, then up, up the curve of your chest, touching your open mouth.  You take his fingers in your mouth, nothing like before which was playful then uncertain and demure.  You take them like you want to take everything, deep and wet and needy, moving your head, sucking them hard between your lips until he has to cover his own mouth to stop himself from being loud. 

He takes his hand back.  The other drops from his mouth.  You look at each other, hearts racing.   His hands are shaking again as he reaches for the ties of his trousers, fumbling more than a little. 

You sit up to help.  With him kneeling upright, it puts your face at a rather advantageous position.  His fingers get even more clumsy until he is no help at all, leaving it to you to unlace. 

You look up at him, holding his gaze.  This is certainly not the wedding night you were ever prepared to participate in.  You were instructed to lay back and wait, then it would happen and be over.   That could not be more different than your searching hands, eager to feel him, your eyes on any sliver of skin he shows you. 

Once the trousers are unlaced, there is little hiding, the fabric falling open and everything inside lifting up.  Truthfully, you are nervous but also emboldened with passionate wanting.  You are aware you are about to do something that cannot be reversed in the eyes of the law. 

I’m the queen, you think.  I make my own law.

You touch him as he lays you back down.  When you are on your back, you rest your hands at your sides, your legs open around him, hair spread out underneath you. 

He pushes his trousers down his hips.  He looks into your face for as long as he can but eventually he needs to look down.  He curses to himself as he is a little clumsy again, trying to guide himself to your entrance.  He finds it but your body is resistant even though you are so wet.  You wince a little but shake your head when he stops, telling him to keep going, please, please, please. 

You can only imagine how painful this would have been with the king.  Well, that man will never be your first, no matter what he tries in future.  It will always be Han Jisung, slowly pushing inside you, his face buried in your neck, murmuring your name as he fills you to utter completion. 

You almost cry when he is all the way inside you, not even from the tenderness but just the rightness.  You cling to him, sliding a hand down the back of his shirt.  He rocks his hips a little, kissing your neck when you whimper. 

“It’s okay,” he says, lifting his face to look at you.  He kisses your lips, a few short pecks that leave you wanting more.  He stares down into your face like he can hardly believe you are real.  “I have you,” he says.  “I have you.” 

He knows how to listen beyond words, hearing every cry and request of your body, even if you cannot articulate it.  He is careful until that tender burn lessens, careful for his own sake too, muttering the occasional oath when you squeeze around him.  it soon really does sound like praying with how often he calls the gods and you. 

You kiss him, moaning into his mouth, probably clawing up his shoulders as he starts to understand how to roll his hips.  Those scratches won’t matter because he’s a kingsguard and he will be completely covered tomorrow.  Only you will know his back is a canvas of your pleasure, fingers bruising and nails raking desperately as he takes you, deeply, thoroughly. 

“I’m – I can’t – inside,” he says between breaths, face scrunched up as he nears his pleasure. 

“I know,” you say, but whimper helplessly.  “One day.” 

That makes him moan deeply, a sharp thrust into you, then he is quickly pulling out.  It just takes a single stroke from his hand before he finishes too.   It is more than you knew it would be, a white streak that falls across the soft skin of your belly.  It takes a second for the sight to register for him, then he squeaks and grabs his robe again. 

Cleaning that off the queen is almost certainly not the intended use of the kingsguard robes, but it makes the most sense, as he is more likely to be able to clean it without any questions.  Still, he seems to realize just how sacrilegious it is, looking at the black fabric, then at you. 

He smiles.  It turns to a short laugh, a sound of disbelief. 

“We…” he says. 

“Yes,” you say, giggling too. 

You are not sure if he is more amazed with you or himself.  It certainly takes him a moment to stop looking so shocked, even though he was the one who walked in here. 

He comes to his senses, at least enough to lay down in your arms for a time. 

He can’t sleep here but you hold him for a while and he is happy to let you, his head pillowed on the softness of your breasts, his arms around your middle.   He turns his face and kisses your skin, just a chaste kiss, but there is a fire simmering beneath your skin now and you fear it will never be doused. 

You sit up together.  You kiss his bare arm, right up to where the shoulder of his shirt gets in the way.  He looks at you, appreciative, fond, and a little less scared. 

“We need to be careful,” he says. 

“Of course,” you say.

“I can’t let anything happen to you,” he says, cupping your face.  He brings it close to his, your noses touching. 

“I know you won’t,” you say.  “I’m safe in your hands, bard boy.” 

He laughs then steals one final kiss.  He doesn’t put the outer robe back on, giving you a chagrined smile while you giggle.  You shuffle back into your shift while he stands up and re-ties his trousers.  He smooths his hair as best he can.  He hooks his swordbelt into place.

He looks somewhat more composed but not entirely untouched.  You wonder if you look like that, if the change is all over your face and in the lines of your body.  You can certainly feel it inside, both literally with the ache between your thighs, and also emotionally. 

He unlaces the tent and looks at you again.  He gives you one last departing smile before he steps out. 

He has barely laced the tent shut before the lantern re-appears.  You catch Minho’s silhouette, his hand swinging down to swat Jisung hard on the backside.

“Ouch!” Jisung jumps.

“That was not talking, you asshole,” Minho hisses. 

Jisung, in much better spirits than his friend, simply plants a kiss on the other guard’s cheek and ruffles his hair.  Even in silhouette form, Minho is clearly shocked by this.  It takes him too long to retaliate, left standing there as Jisung skips away.

Minho shakes his head.

Smiling, you lay down to sleep, safe for tonight.  With your growing allies, you are confident will you find a way to remain so.   

[temis-de-leon]

You just have to keep trying

Characters: Mammon x gn!MC

Main Masterlist

C/W: first kiss. There's alcohol involved, but they're both completely conscious about what they're doing. OOC I think, but I'm literally half-dead from sleep right now

A/N: I'm planning on trying to post something else this weekend. This is just a sleep-deprived little treat <3

.

The night had been frantic, although MC doubted they would remember half of it in the morning and caring seemed useless; despite the sweat, the loud cheering, and the music piercing their eardrums, their smile was wider than ever before. They’d never felt happiness so pure in a long time, maybe ever, and if their heart dared beat any harder, it would surely come flying out of their chest.

Not even their fingers behaved properly, seemingly too eager to touch, grab and never let go and, judging by the neediness in Mammon’s embrace, it appeared he felt the same. Both of them were trying to absorb as much as possible from the other.

Did he always smell this good? His perfume had almost worn off, but the essence was still there and, after such a long night full of drinks and cocktails, he’d gained a certain sugary scent mixed with the bitterness of human alcohol.

“Now you can enjoy the party too!” all the brothers had said hours ago while presenting the obscenely wide selection of bottles.

And enjoy MC did.

They were about to enjoy it again, actually, with their bones vibrating to the rhythm of the music and their breath shattered in excitement, when Mammon suddenly put his hands on their shoulders and stared at them. His cheeks were blushed and his eyes showed softness, something only they were allowed to see, and, adding that to the affection with which he was rubbing circles into their skin, MC was finding it extremely difficult to breathe properly.

“So…” he started, his whisper barely audible under the synthetic melody from the dancefloor. They nodded encouragingly, urging him to keep going. “Did you like it?”

“Did I like it? Hm, let me think…”

“C’mon, don’t be like that!”

MC chuckled at his feigned exasperated expression, mindlessly giving themselves the freedom to intertwine their fingers behind his neck. Mammon dropped his hands in return and hugged their waist to bring them closer. Leaning in and showing him just how much they had liked their first kiss was a strong temptation, but the need to tease him was way more powerful.

“I give it a solid 8 out of 10” they finally said, exaggerating an academic tone to make the joke clear. He gasped in surprise and MC fought hard to hide their smile. “Might’ve been better if we weren’t interrupted”

Which was completely true.

The music had been nothing but spectacular the whole night and their feet already hurt from all the dances they had shared with all of their demon friends in those long hours, especially Asmo, so of course it was fate that the Avatar of Lust would be the one to open the storage closet door just in time to see his older brother finally asking MC permission to kiss them after a heartfelt declaration of love.

“Damn Asmo…” the demon muttered under his breath. Then, turning as fast as a switch, he hid a cheeky smile under a hand and dramatically rolled his eyes, as if doing MC an immense favour. “Let’s have another one, then”

“You can only have one first kiss with someone, dummy” they chuckled, taking a strand of his hair between their fingers and wondering if they really cared about the specifics.

“Then we start over”

He broke the contact between them, leaving MC cold and lonely despite being a mere metre away in a storage room with no open windows or AC.

“Listen well, human!” Mammon exclaimed in a theatrical tone, one hand to his chest and the other gesturing elegantly in the air. “I am the Great Mammon, Avatar of Greed, and I was wondering if you could… maybe… y’know, like, let me give you a kiss…?”

MC’s eyes were open wide in surprise, but still, their smile occupied half of their face. They launched forward while laughing in delight and excitement, landing on his lips but unfortunately clashing their teeth together.

“OW!”

“Well, that was a straight 5”

“It was your fault entirely, idiot!”

“Let’s try again, then”

There was a beat of silence where, they could swear, both of their hearts stopped at the same time. Multicolour lights drew the outline of their faces from underneath the door and the music made the glasses on the shelf tremble, but MC couldn’t stop looking at him.

“Maybe this time I have to be the one to do it” they muttered, their focus shifting completely from his blue eyes to his partially opened lips. “It’s obvious you’re awful at it”

.

.

Taglist: @ilovecandys2010  @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion @whimsybloom

[rey-jake-therapist]

Galadriel going off with Sauron into the sunset as full “dark couple” not only seems highly unlikely to me, but doesn’t make sense storywise, honestly. I know a lot of Saurondriel fans want this, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. I mean, Tolkien fans would indeed lose their minds, like the Polish reviewer says, but that’s way too extreme, in my opinion.

I do think she will temporarily succumb to Sauron’s temptation (that’s also lore-breaking, because in the books Galadriel sees right through him), and she might be willing to go with him and be his queen (messing up genealogies as created by Tolkien), but something will break it off: herself, Elrond or even Nenya itself (proving once and for all the Elven Rings are not under Sauron’s influence). Galadriel not being able to resist Sauron would also show how powerful he truly is to the audience, and how powerful Galadriel herself is going to become in the future.

If they go with S1 finale 2.0. it would be extremely disappointing, and boring. Not to mention it would undermine both characters, and destroy all the foreshadowing and build-up S2 has been preparing so far.

Also, Sauron will most likely forge the One Ring after this. He poured all of his cruelty, malice and evilness, as well as a huge part of his soul and power, into the ring, binding it to his very being. Him being full of anger, hatred and grief after Galadriel being denied to him makes perfect sense (meaning she won’t be by his side), even more so than simply Galadriel saying “no” again (S1 finale rehash). The One Ring destroys and poisons the mind of every being who takes a hold of it, and takes away the very will to live; Sauron should have been in the depths of “f*ck you all, Imma burning it all down” when he forged it. The “precious” tempts power, but power is also a form of lust, obsession and unrequited love up to 100. I think, thematically, this all makes sense with what RoP is doing with Galadriel and Sauron dynamic/connection and how it will remain a core part for the series until the end.

I might go off anon and use my main account in here if I’m right 😂

Yup, I agree with all of this. Galadriel going full dark, even for a short period of time, would be very OOC imho. I love Saurondriel but I don't want that. I want a story that stays true to the characters, especially Galadriel. I'm not a Tolkienist by any means, I don't mind all the changes that were brought to the lore so far and I'm just enjoying the show ; but doing this would do a disservice to the character of Galadriel, I think, regarding what we know of her even within the show itself.

I'm still wondering if it's already in Sauron's plans to forge the One Ring, or if it's something that will come later, as you suggest... But I love the idea that the show brings, even if it's not explicit (yet...) : that Sauron's first idea was to forge two rings for him and Galadriel, but decided to forge one very powerful ring for him and him alone, once he knew he would have to rule by himself. And if your instinct is right and that for a moment, he believes he can win her back... It makes the whole story even more dramatic !

[ai-musclebound]

> Naciss' Story <

Naciss was obsessed with his own beauty. Every day, he stood before a mirror, admiring his well-toned body. Yet he longed for more – ever more muscles. One day, he discovered an old mirror in a shop. The shopkeeper told him that the mirror was magical. Fascinated, Naciss bought the mirror and brought it home.

As soon as he arrived, a voice whispered from the mirror: "Naciss, I know your desire. I can make you more muscular. But in return, you must stop looking at yourself. Each time you see your reflection, your muscles will shrink twice as fast as I have made them grow." Naciss hesitated briefly, but the temptation was too great. "I agree!" he declared.

In the following days, he felt his muscles growing. His clothes became tighter; his body felt more powerful. But the urge to gaze upon his new self became overwhelming. He removed the cloths with which he had covered all the mirrors. Yet as soon as he glimpsed his reflection, he felt his muscles dramatically begin to shrink. Panic seized him. "No!" he shouted, turning away.

His body was now noticeably slimmer than before. Desperately, he avoided all reflections from then on – window panes, shiny surfaces – and ventured out only at night. But the world was full of reflections, and again and again he caught a glimpse of himself: in a puddle, in a shop window, in the gleaming surface of a car. Each time, the shrinking began anew. Naciss became increasingly paranoid.

In a fit of rage and despair, he confronted the magical mirror. "Take back the deal!" he shouted. The mirror replied coldly, "A pact is a pact. You made your choice."

In fury, Naciss struck the mirror with his bare fists. The glass shattered into a thousand shards. He felt a sharp pain in his eyes, clutched his face, and sank to the ground. Darkness enveloped him – he was blind.

The pain was unbearable, but he also felt his muscles growing. Destroying the mirror had not broken its magic. Horrified, Naciss realized that without the ability to see, he could never again behold his reflection. The magic of the mirror would now let his muscles continue to grow unhindered.

[elsfleur]

⋆·˚ ༘ * COOL ABOUT IT - PART TWO

ellie williams x reader

summary: it was an odd thing to enjoy your work, but with a passion for music and a fling with your coworker the days at the record store seemed bright, until of course you meet her girlfriend.

content warning: i guess it’s angsty, very filthy smut with sub!ellie and dom!reader, mentions of cheating and bad self image, implies of degradation, mentions of masturbation

word count: 1,749 and previous part here

📼 ʾ ⠀

she would come to you in dreams, pale green eyes pointed at you like a weapon, body soft as a menace, reach out towards your face and in tenderness you’d surrender as though you never meant to have walked away in the first place. you’d wake up panting the nights you’d forgive her, you’d shower away the disgust the nights you thought to have felt her tongue– traitor was a dramatic word, but your heart claimed it as ellie’s synonym.

work had become insufferable but you grew into an astoundingly good employee, never at the break room as to not encourage ellie into a conversation, constantly roaming around and chatting up clients with entire discography conversations going as far as escorting them to their car in odd fashion, you appeared sparkling and every glance of your shine that reached ellie’s senses immediately sent her skin on fire. she had been miserable and lazy, escaping from her thoughts only through deafening music as to drown out the distance between you, you too a constant in her nightly affairs, forgiving, beautiful, near.

she melted into the couch imagining it your embrace, let the melody transport her into better times, hated herself for replacing her songs with your laugh as a favourite track, for indulging in temptation through entirely wrong means. she thought herself a symptom of disease, wreckening plague in the lives of those she cherished that once established could only widespread devastation. the idea that perhaps keeping you casual and secret would make it unknown to the universe and therefore not give it the power to ruin it was stupid, once she fully thought it out, but it had been comforting. allowing your affection to fill in the broken cracks of her being as though glueing them together was a sensation she knew selfishly not deserved but craved as a drug addict. you thought she called you her angel as a bit, but she felt it pulsing through her veins.

tears prickled her eyes for the eleventh time that shift, heavy metal not enough. turning the volume down her body rolled sideways and she begged it into slumber for moments of peace.

“wake the fuck up williams we’re mid shift” you cursed taking hold of her headphones and tossing them aside rather agressively, the girl immediately stood up overwhelmed, a scoff being her immediate response to your turned back heading out the room.

“what the fuck? you haven’t spoken to me for fucking weeks those are the first words you say to me since you left this place before i could even explain anything and you just go walking away again?”

“jesus christ, i’m sorry someone woke up cranky from their midday nap but what the fuck else do you even want me to say? oh right i’m sorry, how about how’s your girlfriend?”

“we broke up” ellie stated simply before interruption.

“great! and i suppose you want me to run into your arms straight into a sunset beach now while it rains unicorns and rainbows, isn’t that right?”

“oh my god you are the most insufferable human being i have ever met! i fucking hate you and i hate the way every time we walk to work together you have to stop and pick out a flower at every single bush we walk by and if i don’t put it behind my ear your feelings gets hurt and you have the goofiest smile making fun of me, and i hate the stupid witchy herbs you make me ruin my weed with that makes it taste so girly and like you and i hate the way my mouth memorized your fucking lipgloss to the point i can’t do anything without feeling you on my lips and it drives me fucking insane, i hate your frilly little love songs that only start sounding not so bad by the hundredth listen and i hate that i fucking know the lyrics to taylor swift now and you made me relate to them! i hate your smile and i hate that fruity perfume you wear that always gets stuck to my clothes and i hate the way you looked at me like i’m a good person to the point i almost believed you for a second and and i hate your lame ass sense of humour and how you’re the only one who laughs at my fucking jokes and god worst of all i hate the way i can’t even begin to hate you at all!”

you opened your mouth to reply though not quite sure what words would escape you, but she was quicker, pacing around and heightening her tone in complete desperation that cracked knuckles in soothing.

“no and you know what? yes i fucked up and i cheated on my three year relationship but we were fucking done! we have been done for years! and we haven’t been more done since the day i first laid eyes on you and thought this girl is going to fucking ruin my life! i am worse than a cheater, yes, i’m a coward! because guess what angel, it has always been you. god, it probably has been you since before i even knew you existed and you don’t understand how insane it is to say this because you’re the one who believes the whole soulmate bullshit! i’m a mess and i’m fucked up and i’m too much and still not enough and-“

“ellie” you called out, her eyes finally meeting your own as you felt immersed in the same light green dreams you have ferociously tried to escape from, the pink lips you knew so intimately quivering at your stare as though taunting you to kiss its fear away, you had heard enough for an answer “kneel.”

“what, do you want me to beg for your forgiveness now?” ellie asked ironic though her legs were compliant, lowering themselves till she fell on her knees, running a hand through her messy hair to keep it from falling on her face staring up at you in clear shot.

“take off your shirt” you demanded, watching intently as she lifted up her arms to remove the fabric obeying though deeply confused, her cheeks flushing red with the attention, eyes drifting everywhere except for your face until your hand found the edge of her chin and forced it up to meet your eye “you’ve done enough talking”

“i fucking hate that you lied to me” you started impossibly close to her face “i hate the way you ruined this job for me, i hate that i can’t look at you without feeling sick with desire like a desperate whore pulsating at flashes of skin, i hate that i’m so used to moaning your name that you may aswell have ruined sex for me aswell, and i fucking hate how your little girlfriend kissed you infront of me and doesn’t even know your mouth was sucking on me minutes earlier, take off your pants”

she slowly rose up to detach herself from the jeans squeezing her figure, only to be pushed back down once fully rid of them back onto the ground, you weren’t finished.

“i hate that i can see how wet you are right now, i hate that you have made it so i feel disgusted to touch you, i hate that i still want to do it so fucking bad as if your moans in my ear would erase your dumb mistakes from my memory. just a question, were you fucking her when you were with me too? nevermind that’s silly, of course you were, unless you spent six months making her believe you have gone celibate-“

ellie shook her head hard, gulping down “n-no i didn’t, i told you angel it was a façade relationship all i wanted-“

“shut up. touch yourself” you ordered as she slid a hand under her underwear, lightly rubbing on her clit and silencing own whimpers through biting down her lip “i hate that i have to ask myself if she made you feel good like i did, if she knows your whole dominant archetype is actually just hiding a brat who wanted to be ordered around and fucked so bad, right els? did she get you on her knees for her too, touching yourself to the thought of her before she even took off her clothes? or am i just special?”

“angel” ellie moaned out, inserting a finger into herself.

“does she know about the freckles on your hipbone that look like the gemini constellation? did she see the bite mark i left there last time we fucked? does she know you like it when i spell my name on your pussy with my tongue, has she tried it? do you remember what it feels like to be inside me as opposed to her, remember begging to add more fingers so you could feel my walls closing in on you, remember staying inside even after i came because you wanted to feel the warmth around you, was she warm for you, ellie?” you asked, warm breath hitting her face like a makeout.

“angel, please” she begged embarrassingly.

“please what? use your fucking words since you wanted to have the last one so fucking bad”

“please fuck me” ellie moaned out arching her back with a gasp as you easily slid one of your own fingers inside her alongside hers, the sounds of wetness with your every thrust bordering filthy.

“i hate that i can’t fucking stop dreaming about you, that you’re so fucking wet for me you’re drenched, that i’m thinking after all this making me an idiot i shouldn’t let you cum, how’s that?” you asked curling your fingers inside her which lead to a near pornographic moan escaping past her lips and an aggressive head shook to your words “i hate your stupid lake eyes and how they shine like galaxies, i hate the way you hold my hand to cross the street because you know i get distracted, i hate the way you effortlessly played my favourite song on the guitar although you claimed before to not like it, i hate how badly i want to fuck the attitude out of you until my heart stops hurting about this”

“i’m sorry, my angel, i’m so sorry” she croaked out whimpering, swaying her hips for friction with your fingers every movement making it harder to keep a cleared mind, dizzy in desire “fuck, i’m here now please please let me show you i can be good i want to be yours”

“want?” you chuckled removing your fingers and shoving them by her mouth so she’d taste herself on them, sucking slowly “you are mine, ellie. i just haven’t decided if i’m yours”

[3hobbitsinatrenchcoat]

The World Shrinks to the Circle of Your Arms

Happy Dorym Week 2024! Today's drabble is inspired by the prompt "I miss you. (I love you.)" and the song May I by Trading Yesterday

I'll post all my drabbles to AO3 later, but for now enjoy them here on tumblr.

(Beware spoilers for Episode 95)

-----

“She’ll be alright.”

Dorian kneels down in front of Orym, who in the aftermath of Laudna’s dramatic window exit has stumbled over to the wall opposite and slid down to sit on the floor. He barely glances at Dorian, instead his eyes are locked on the inky black square of night beyond the window.

“I don’t think any of us have been alright for a long time, Dorian.” he says, voice cracking with exhaustion. His eyes don’t leave the window. “I just wish I could understand why she’s so determined about this.”

Sighing, Dorian reaches out and brushes his fingers against the side of Orym’s face. His heart flutters at the way his friend leans into the contact, but he tamps the feeling down. It’s just comfort, friendly comfort. After the night he’s had, Orym just needs a friend.

He swallows hard and says, “Probably for the same reasons you’re determined. You’re both grieving, you just have different ways of showing it.” 

Orym finally tears his eyes away from the window, ducking his head with a small wry smile playing at his lips. “Gods. I’ve missed you. You always know what to say.”

“I wish that were true,” Dorian moves to Orym’s side and slides down the wall next to him, pulling the blanket from his bedroll over their laps against the night-time chill. He lets his head thump back against the wood paneling. If he knew what to say Cyrus would probably still be alive. Opal would still have all the feelings and memories that had been torn away by the spider queen. At least Dariax was fine. There, that was one person he’d used the right words for, one person he’d managed to save from the landslide that had become his life… 

Dorian is pulled away from his spiraling thoughts by Orym (probably unconsciously, Dorian thinks) leaning into his side, forcing him to pull his arm out of the way before it gets pinned in an uncomfortable position. He holds it in the air for a moment, unsure, then gives into temptation and wraps it around Orym’s shoulders.

Orym hums softly and leans harder into him. “I mean it. I missed you. I… I thought about you every day.”

“Even on the moon?” Dorian asks with a quiet chuckle.

“Even then,” says Orym, pausing as he yawns so widely Dorian thinks he can hear his jaw creak. Orym presses a palm against his eyes and Dorian can see a faint tremor to his normally steady hands. When he speaks again his voice is quieter, tone approaching dreamlike. “Did you know they call Exandria the ‘blue promise’? They look up at us and have hope for the future. I…”

He cuts off abruptly, turning his face away, though Dorian can still see the flush staining his cheekbones.

They sit quietly for a long moment, then Dorian swallows hard and gathers his courage. “I missed you every day too, Orym. There… there wasn’t a single day I didn’t wish you were by my side.” 

He feels Orym slump against his side, his breath finally evening out into exhausted slumber. With an amused huff the genasi tucks their shared blanket more firmly around them both and rests his cheek against the top of Orym’s head.  

“Hope for the future,” he whispers, breath ruffling Orym’s hair. “There’s worse things to wish for.”

Try as he might, though, sleep is not so quick to claim Dorian. He holds Orym tucked close into his side and thinks of friends lost to objects of immense and powerful darkness. The last thing he remembers before his eyes finally, blissfully, slide shut is the pale streaks of dawn peaking through the window and the creak of floorboards as his wayward companions return. 

[maraschinocheri]

Happy 39th birthday to the London production of Les Misérables (which officially opened on 8 October 1985 at the Barbican Theatre, though previews began at the end of September)! By way of celebrations, scans from the 1985/86 / 1986/87 Royal Shakespeare Company Yearbook, which honoured the success of the Barbican production and its transfer to the Palace Theatre by making Colm Wilkinson and Michael Ball during 'Bring Him Home' its cover stars. The annual RSC Yearbook summarised productions in all of the company's (at the time five) theatres and on tour with production photography and critical commentary from newspapers and other media. Text from the pages above is under the cut below, with bracketed extra information to clarify some references.

Not since Sondheim’s Sweeney Todd back in 1979 has there been a score which soared out of the pit with the blazing theatricality of Les Misérables, and to those of my tabloid colleagues already in print with feeble and fainthearted objections to the show, I have but this to say: remember the demon barber. Sweeney, too, we were once told; was too dark, too savage, too downbeat a theme for a musical. Six years on, that show has won more awards and been acclaimed to more opera houses than any other in the entire history of the American musical. Les Misérables, in a brilliantly intelligent staging by Trevor Nunn and John Caird, will achieve a similar kind of long-term success …

[The Times’/Punch’s Sheridan] Morley went on. ‘… The greatness of Les Misérables is that it starts out, like Sweeney and Peter Grimes, to redefine the limits of music theatre. Like them it is through sung, and like them it tackles universal themes of social and domestic happiness in terms of individual despair.’

[The Financial Times’ Michael] Coveney talked of the allying of ‘Nickleby*-style qualities of ensemble presentation to a piece that really does deserve the label ‘rock opera’, occupying brand new ground somewhere between Verdi and Andrew Lloyd Webber. It was not, he thought, a company celebration like Nickleby, ‘but an appreciation of those values along with the musical experience gathered by the team (Trevor Nunn, John Caird and David Hersey) on Cats and Starlight Express.’ To that extent, he went on, the show was an important one, ‘bridging gaps between musical and opera, and subjecting rock musicians to RSC tutelage while last year’s Clarence [in the RSC 1984 production of Richard III], Roger Allam, is unveiled in the role of Javert as an outstanding performer in the musical idiom.’

[*The RSC's landmark 1980 production of an adaption of Charles Dickens’ The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby]

[The Guardian’s Michael] Billington posited that if you fillet any great nineteenth-century novel, ‘you are left with melodrama.’ Les Misérables, he said, jointly produced by the RSC and Cameron Mackintosh at the Barbican, becomes exactly ‘high class melodrama.’ It was staged ‘with breathtaking panache by Trevor Nunn and John Caird. It is impeccably designed by John Napier. It has a lively score by Claude-Michel Schönberg. But it is three-and-a-half hours of fine middlebrow entertainment rather than great art.’ Billington claimed to have ‘conned’ the novel sufficiently ‘to realise that it is a towering masterpiece about social injustice, redemption through love and the power of Providence.’ What the musical offered, he went on, ‘is the hurtling story of Jean Valjean, the paroled prisoner who becomes a provincial mayor, who is relentlessly pursued by the policeman Javert and who achieves heroic feats of self-sacrifice at the 1832 Paris uprising. What you don’t get is the background of moral conflict that makes this more than a classy adventure story.’ In this he thought, Hugo’s novel was infinitely more dramatic than the musical.

[The Times’ Irving] Wardle spoke of the temptation in such circumstances for anyone who has read the novel ‘to quarrel with any adaptation for its omissions and liberties instead of judging the adaptation on its own merits.’ In this instance, he maintained, Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schönberg had done a capable gutting job. ‘They present a clear outline of the epic contest between Jean Valjean, the saintly ex-convict, and his implacable pursuer Javert: including Valjean’s defeated attempt to save the wretched Fantine, and his life-long devotion to her daughter, Cosette, only to lose her to a young love, Marius, amid the Paris barricades of 1832.’

The adapters had cut corners with boldness and ingenuity, Wardle believed, and had found fresh situations where Hugo’s are theatrically unworkable. They had also preserved the essential sense that Valjean and Javert are two of a kind, belonging, as Hugo puts it, to the ‘two classes of men whom society keeps at arms length: those who prey on it and those who protect it.’

Coveney maintained that the organization and placement of the continuously revolving stage was ‘beyond praise’, with John Napier’s design doing as much honour to Hugo’s Paris as he lavished on Dickens’s London [in Nickleby]: ‘Two huge trucks rumble on and form a barricaded wall which, just as Hugo describes, seems to contain a city in itself, a fantastic jumble of chairs, barrels, planks and people, a teeming segment of a revolutionary catacomb.’

This alternative society, Coveney said, was presented without sentiment ‘as indeed are its urchin sentinels, the daughter of Thenardier (a devastating waif performance by Frances Ruffelle) and Gavroche … sweetly and surely sung by an admirable child actor and just when you feel the production is slipping by allowing a [writer of Oliver] Lionel Bart-ish point number, he is shot full of bullets and left to sing plaintively on the wrong side of the barricade.’

The music, [The Sunday Times’ John] Peter though, ‘has a fresh, astringent lyricism and a powerful, ballad-like drive: number after number makes robust contributions to character and drama.’ The best performances, in Peter’s opinion, came from Alun Armstrong and Susan Jane Tanner as the ‘horrible Thenardiers', Patti LuPone (Fantine) and Frances Ruffelle (Eponine). But this was, he pointed out, ‘essentially a company musical rather than a star vehicle. If it transfers to the West End where its masterful theatricality would outshine almost anything else on offer, it might show people that success in this genre doesn’t depend solely on expensive star turns.’ The transfer to the Palace, of course, came swiftly after the Barbican opening.

[The Observer’s Michael] Ratcliffe described Schönberg’s score as ‘all tinselly arpeggios, stabbing staccato, pile-driving trumpets and thinly-disguised hymns.’ In polite terms he said, it was ‘electric, trailing a range of references from high-tech Bizet and Massenet to the air-time acceptable, and Celtic Fringe Folk.’

Some scenes, said Coveney, go straight into operatic form, ‘for example the apprehension by Javert of Valjean at Fantine’s deathbed, or a beautiful garden trio for young lovers in Valjean’s garden hideaway.’ There was also a ‘startling thematic echo of Rigoletto as Valjean ponders the son he might have had.’ Colm Wilkinson’s Valjean was in Coveney’s opinion ‘a remarkable study in impassive acquisition of self-knowledge … He [has] particularly fine and lyrical use of his upper register. Above all he transmits palpable goodness without sounding like a prig or a boar [bore?].’ [The Sunday’s Telegraph’s Francis] King thought Wilkinson not only sang the role with eloquence ‘but – far more difficult – brings out the essential goodness of a much-wronged man.’ The outstanding voice of the evening in King’s opinion, was that of Patti LuPone as Fantine.

The band under the stage and the musical direction of Martin Koch include some rumbling brass premonitions of disaster as well as some very fine work on synthesizers, brass and strings. The score also underpins such exciting production movements as the arrival of the barricade, the suicidal leap (done by the bridge flying up as Mr Allam free falls on the spot) and the descent to the sewers with lots of dry ice and naked banks of light not equalled in impact since Mr Hersey did something similar in Evita.

In short, this is an intriguing and most enjoyable musical, fully justifying the mixing of commercial resources with RSC talent and personnel, even if not all that many RSC actors are involved.* Being now acquainted with the demands of the score, I see why that should be so. [Morley]

[* The RSC members who appeared in the Barbican production were Roger Allam, Alun Armstrong, and Susan Jane Tanner. Other RSC members at this time joined Les Mis in later companies, among them David Delve, who would replace Alun Armstrong as Thenardier.]

[conundrumoftime]

Ring-temptation thoughts and Galadriel

The three bearers of the Rings of Power in the late Third Age, upon the suggestion that they should take the One Ring:

Gandalf:

[Speaking to Frodo] 'But you have been chosen, and you must therefore use such strength and heart and wits as you have.' 'But I have so little of any of these things! You are wise and powerful. Will you not take the Ring?' 'No!' cried Gandalf, springing to his feet. With that power I should have power too great and terrible. And over me the Ring would gain a power still greater and more deadly.' His eyes flashed and his face was lit as by a fire within. 'Do not tempt me! For I do not wish to become like the Dark Lord himself. Yet the way of the Ring to my heart is by pity, pity for weakness and the desire of strength to do good. Do not tempt me!'

Elrond:

[Boromir is speaking] 'Valour needs first strength, and then a weapon. Let the Ring be your weapon, if it has such power as you say. Take it and go forth to victory!' 'Alas, no,' said Elrond. 'We cannot use the Ruling Ring. That we now know too well. It belongs to Sauron and was made by him alone, and is altogether evil. Its strength, Boromir, is too great for anyone to wield at will, save only those who have already a great power of their own. But for them it holds an even deadlier peril. The very desire of it corrupts the heart. Consider Saruman. If any of the Wise should with this Ring overthrow the Lord of Mordor, using his own arts, he would then set himself on Sauron's throne, and yet another Dark Lord would appear. And that is another reason why the Ring should be destroyed: as long as it is in the world it will be a danger even to the Wise. For nothing is evil in the beginning. Even Sauron was not so. I fear to take the Ring to hide it. I will not take the Ring to wield it.'

Galadriel, when Frodo suggests it:

'You are wise and fearless and fair, Lady Galadriel,' said Frodo. 'I will give you the One Ring, if you ask for it. It is too great a matter for me.' Galadriel laughed with a sudden clear laugh. ‘Wise the Lady Galadriel may be,’ she said, ‘yet here she has met her match in courtesy. Gently are you revenged for my testing of your heart at our first meeting. You begin to see with a keen eye. I do not deny that my heart has greatly desired to ask what you offer. For many long years I had pondered what I might do, should the Great Ring come into my hands, and behold! it was brought within my grasp. The evil that was devised long ago works on in many ways, whether Sauron himself stands or falls. Would not that have been a noble deed to set to the credit of his Ring, if I had taken it by force or fear from my guest? ‘And now at last it comes. You will give me the Ring freely! In place of the Dark Lord you will set up a Queen. And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love me and despair!’

Galadriel, when Sam suggests it:

[Sam speaking] 'But if you'll pardon my speaking out, I think my master was right. I wish you'd take his Ring. You'd put things to rights. You'd stop them digging up the gaffer and turning him adrift. You'd make some folk pay for their dirty work.' 'I would,' she said. 'That is how it would begin. But it would not stop with that, alas! We will not speak more of it. Let us go!'

(Sam's suggestion there is easy to overlook coming right after the much more dramatic 'all shall love me and despair' moment, but I find it really interesting as an insight into her.)

One thing I like about all this is how you can feel the effects of the Ring tempting each of them through the person suggesting they take it. Frodo is telling Gandalf that he's only a hobbit, 'not made for perilous quests', and Gandalf is wiser and more powerful than he is, and Gandalf immediately recognises this for the tempation it is: 'the way of the Ring to my heart is by pity, pity for weakness and the desire of strength to do good.' Elrond gets: the fight against Sauron wouldn't be as hopeless as you fear it is, all the peoples of Middle-earth would be able to come together again and fight him, if we only had the courage which you could give us here by taking that ring. And Galadriel gets 'you are wise and fearless and fair', and then immediately after that, 'you'd put things to rights.'

Another thing I like about this is that Galadriel effectively gets tempted with the Ring twice, in succession, from Frodo and then from Sam, and that Sam's comes immediately after she's already refused it in the most conclusive way possible:

Galadriel: I have been tempted by this for thousands of years and now, finally, I reject it once and for all. I have passed the test.

Ring: okay I hear you, but...

And the third thing I like is how different Galadriel's response is to the other two. Both Gandalf and Elrond know enough to be horrified by what they might do with that kind of power but are quite vague in the specifics: they know how the ring would target them, they know they would not be able to resist its corruption, and they know they'd end up like Sauron, and beyond that it feels very much like an It Does Not Bear Thinking About Further thing.

But Galadriel has definitely thought about it and says as much. Galadriel's response is more detailed, more personal, and much more of a definite future than a vague and threatening hypothetical. (Even the way they describe it: Gandalf: "Over me the Ring would gain a power still greater"; Elrond: "he would then set himself on Sauron's throne, and yet another Dark Lord would appear"; Galadriel: "you will set up a Queen. And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night!")

Galadriel has her Mirror which shows her visions of possible futures, so it makes sense that this would seem more immediate to her; quite possibly she's seen all this. (I have more to say on this re: Galadriel's Mirror but that's for another post because this one's getting quite long enough as it is.)

And finally, I like that what Sam offers her is: 'you'd put things to rights'.

She's been in Middle-earth for thousands and thousands of years at this point, fighting the long defeat; and here's her big temptation of all the power she's sought; and here's the test that she finally passes; and then here's Sam with a little postscript afterwards, and he's not even offering her 'you could defeat Sauron' or 'you could re-establish all the great kingdoms of the elves', he's saying she'd sort out the Shire if she could.

And she says yes! Yes she would, she'd be really good at it, those people would absolutely damn well pay if she was in charge... but, alas, that's her gateway drug to becoming a tyrant, so: thanks but no, Sam.

[hbyrde36]

It's Only Forever

A final heartfelt thanks to @penny00dreadful for everything you do and for always having my back! 😘💜

R: Mature | WC: 5793 | | Ch 8/8 | Read on AO3

[Penny Art - Eddie's Introduction] [Penny Art - The Ball]

[SissayeRys Art Link]

Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 Ch 4 Ch 5 Ch 6 Ch 7

Chapter 8: Home At Last

Eddie sighed dramatically as he stared up at the vaulted ceiling of his bedchamber.

He’d been tossing and turning for hours, unable to quiet his troubled, restless mind. 

After a lengthy walk around the castle grounds, and a conversation with Dustin that Eddie had so badly wanted to eavesdrop on…

He hadn’t, for the record, out of respect, but the temptation hadn’t been easy to resist.

…Steve had come back to the castle and said he needed to sleep on it. Saying very little else before retiring for the night.

Another practice in restraint, Eddie had sent up food, fresh clothes, and a basin of clean water to Steve and Dustin’s guest-quarters with a few goblins—the three Dustin had grown so fond of—rather than take it to them himself like he wanted. 

It would have been the perfect excuse to catch another glimpse of the other boy, but Eddie didn’t want to force his company when Steve had so clearly expressed the desire for time and space.

He was determined to stay on his best behavior, doing everything he could to prove to Steve that he was more than the act he’d been putting on. He’d even gone out to meet Argyle and Jonathan earlier, where they still waited at the bottom of the castle steps, and introduced himself. He let them know, in no uncertain terms, that he meant them no harm, that Steve, Dustin, and Robin were now his guests, and that they were welcome in the castle too.

The unusual pair, who inexplicably introduced themselves as brothers, took him up on the offer, and were even now sharing the last of the spare rooms in the castle.

Chrissy invited Robin to bunk with her. No surprise with the way Eddie had seen them looking at each other, after the two had already spent hours with their heads bent together poring over books and scrolls, giggling behind their hands whenever he walked by.

Eddie was happy for them, even if it meant that he was now spread out in the middle of his giant bed alone, with nothing and no one to distract himself from his own thoughts, or help him forget that Steve was right down the hall. 

So close, and yet completely out of reach. 

It wasn’t an outright rejection, or so he kept telling himself, trying desperately to keep hope alive in his heart. Steve was still there, after all. That had to mean something, right? But still, it was hard not to fall into the pit of despair. 

Because really, why on earth would Steve want anything to do with him now?

No matter how well they seemed to fit together. 

If it was just a physical thing, Eddie could have probably let it go, but he didn’t only appreciate Steve’s body, he was attracted to his fucking soul. 

Who he was at his very core.

And who Steve was, was kind and caring, loyal to a fault, but also quick-witted and catty, in the best way. He was, too, a bit conceited and cocksure, but he had the cunning to pull it off.

Most of the time. 

He loved with his entire being.

He was as brave and smart as Dustin had claimed, and absolutely everything Eddie could have hoped to find in a— 

Boyfriend? Lover? Partner? 

No word properly encapsulated all of what Eddie wanted from Steve now. None of them quite hit the mark of describing just how deep he’d fallen.

Giving up on the idea of sleep, Eddie got out of bed, wrapping himself up in a long black silk robe. 

He’d worn nothing to bed, never did unless Chrissy slept over, save for the necklace that made this life of his possible—the unusual pendant given to him by the last goblin king, a powerful amulet which allowed him to wield the powers of his position, now split into two halves of that formerly single whole.

He wondered if maybe he should have waited until Steve gave his final answer to make them, but he’d wanted Steve to know he was serious, that he meant it.

Forever.

Those twin rings resting against his chest bore much more than a physical weight. They were a tangible promise of either pain and heartache, or, the greatest happiness he’d ever know.

The castle was quiet when Eddie slipped through his door, padding up and down the long hallways on bare feet. Without meaning to, he found himself heading for the atrium, drawn to the place where he’d finally laid himself bare before Steve.

It was somewhere peaceful to sit and think, or to maybe try to stop thinking at all, but it was also a place he could go to feel close to Steve without actually bothering him.

Or maybe not? 

The space was full of shadows as Eddie entered, dimly lit with the soft flickering light of a few sconces dotted along the curved walls, and the only sound to be heard was the tranquil trickling of water into the central pond.

Eddie breathed deep, taking in the scent of night air mixed with the heady perfume of all the exotic flowers in bloom.

He was halfway around the room when he spotted someone sitting on one of the benches. The familiar figure’s head was tilted up to the sky above, admiring the glittering expanse of stars.

His back was to Eddie, but somehow he knew Eddie was there all the same. 

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Steve said without turning around. 

Eddie wasn’t sure if he should intrude or not, but Steve hadn’t told him to go, so hesitantly he approached, rounding the front of the bench just as Steve’s eyes fell to meet his. 

Steve wore a long white linen nightshirt that fell to barely mid-thigh, and Eddie tried hard not to think about whether he was wearing anything under it or not as he raised his eyebrows asking silent permission. 

Only after Steve nodded did Eddie sit down, careful to leave a polite amount of space between them. 

They sat together for a long while in the quiet dark, watching the night go by through the wide, open ceiling. It was impossible for Eddie to look up at the view and not think of their steamy rendezvous on the terrace, and wonder if Steve was remembering too.

It was again Steve who eventually spoke first, blowing out a long shaking breath before breaking the increasingly heavy silence between them. “You’d think after such a long and difficult day sleep would come easy.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie whispered, and as the words passed his lips his heart fell, realizing he never really did apologize properly for what he’d done. 

“I’m so sorry, Steve. I tried to tell myself that I was just doing my job, what I was put here to do, and that was true to an extent but—” Eddie leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he let his head fall into his hands, cheeks growing wet. 

“I was—” he sniffled, rubbing roughly at his face before looking back up to meet Steve's eyes again, “—so angry, for such a long time. I resented my dad for abandoning me, for not trying harder, or at all, and I let that color my perception. I took it out on you, and you didn’t deserve that.”

Steve was quiet for a long beat, until slowly, ever so slowly, he raised a hand, reaching out to brush away a stray tear from Eddie's cheek.

Eddie’s breath hitched.

“You did what you thought you had to do. If anyone can understand that, it’s me.” 

“But—” Eddie started to argue but Steve’s fingers drifted down his face, letting the same thumb that had dried his tears now rest against his lips, gently silencing him.

“Hey,” Steve whispered, his steady gaze piercing, demanding Eddie’s full attention with that single soft word. “I don’t regret it. Any of it. I'd go through it all again. It’s like you said, without all this I never would have come here. I wouldn't know that I was capable of so much more than what my parents wanted for me. I wouldn’t have met Robin, or Argyle, or Jonathan. 

“Or you—”

Steve let him go, and before Eddie could mourn the loss of his touch, Steve was moving closer, the lines of their legs pressing together as he gathered up both of Eddie’s hands in his own, lacing their fingers. “And I'm sorry about your father. I’m sorry if he ever made you feel for even one second that you weren’t worth fighting for. Because you are, Eddie. You’re worth everything.”

Their faces were suddenly so close, Eddie hadn’t realized he was leaning in until their noses nearly brushed. 

“Steve?”

Eddie didn’t even know what he was asking but Steve gave the barest of nods, and in the space of a blink they were kissing. He wasn’t sure who had actually closed the distance between them, but it didn’t matter. The second Steve’s lips touched his, Eddie was as lost in it as he had been that very first time. The rest of the world simply fell away, narrowed down to warm hands gripping tight, and desperate tongues sliding together.

He was left gasping, drowning in desire as Steve ducked to kiss down his neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. Then Steve’s hands were gone, leaving Eddie untethered for a terrifying moment, until they wrapped around his waist instead, lifting him up and over until he straddled Steve’s lap.

Eddie’s robe fell open with the movement. All that was left between them was the very thin cottony fabric of Steve’s nightshirt, leaving no more question as to whether Steve had anything on underneath.

He… did not, and that knowledge, along with the air hitting his suddenly bare front, set Eddie’s blood on fire.

Steve continued his assault on Eddie’s neck, grinding his hips up as his touch began to wander south, caressing Eddie’s ass and thighs.

“W-wait—” Eddie forced out, pulling back, and pulling his robe back around himself as best he could.

Steve’s brows pinched together in concern. “What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t think I can do this if it’s only for tonight.” Eddie smiled down at Steve sadly, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to his forehead. As much as he wanted this, it would make it all the more painful if—and let’s face it, when—Steve decided to leave.

“I’m not rushing you to make a decision. I told you to take all the time you need and I meant it, but I don’t want to know the taste of your body if I'm going to have to say goodbye to you tomorrow.” He tried to slide off of Steve’s lap but found himself pinned in place by the other boy’s unwavering grip. 

“You won’t have to,” Steve said, his voice a little strained, but steady.

“Do you mean..?”

“Yes, I'm saying yes.”

Eddie’s heart leapt, hope threatening to bloom in full, but still he cradled Steve’s face, tilting it up to look for any sign of doubt there. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been sure since almost the moment you asked.”

“Oh, I see,” Eddie’s face spread into a wide, wild grin as he wound his arms around Steve’s shoulders. “You’ve just been enjoying knowing I was going crazy then?”

“Maybe,” Steve smirked, pecking him on the tip of his nose. 

“Brat.”

They kissed again, and as much as Eddie tried to hold back it wasn’t long before he found himself filling with heat, the same heat he saw reflected back at him through Steve’s half-lidded eyes. At this rate Steve wouldn’t even get to see the inside of Eddie’s bedroom, their shared bedroom now, he supposed, before finding their pleasure together here, out in the open in the center of the castle. 

Eddie couldn’t wait to show Steve all that they shared now, from his favorite parts of the Labyrinth, to the fun they could have with the powers they both possessed. 

“Wait—” Eddie broke the kiss and wrenched himself back, panting, pressing a hand to Steve’s chest when he tried to chase after him.

Steve groaned, letting his head fall with a light thunk to the back of the bench. “You’re killing me here.”

Taking far too much pleasure in torturing them both, Eddie cackled, leaning back to untie the cord around his neck. He pulled, letting the two rings slide off the end to land in his palm.

“Oh,” Steve breathed, sitting up a little straighter.

Eddie picked up the gold ring with his other hand, raising his eyebrows in another silent bid for permission.

With wide eyes Steve bit at his swollen bottom lip, offering up his hand. 

Eddie slipped the ring into place.

It was a perfect fit.

Without hesitation Steve plucked the remaining silver ring from his palm, and in an infuriatingly good impression of Eddie’s own mannerisms, raised an eyebrow.

And oh, was Eddie going to enjoy taking him apart later. 

He flipped his hand over, offering it in the same fashion Steve had, and felt everything—his past, present, and future—click into place as Steve slid the silver ring home. 

Home.

The castle had never felt like a place he was meant to be, but now, with Steve’s solid form beneath him, holding him, and the people they both cared about most sleeping peacefully upstairs—

Yeah, home sounded about right.

Miraculously, they did manage to make it to Eddie’s—their—bed before their mutual displays of affection went too far.

And when the morning came, as though it had been some sort of premonition and not a wild fantasy, it was exactly as Eddie pictured.

Far too distracted with learning the curves and planes of his love’s body, Eddie hadn’t thought to close the drapes. He’d been half asleep, drifting in and out while basking in the afterglow of round two, but at the first sign of sunrise he forced his eyes open to watch the soft golden rays of early sun, shining in through the wide windows, dance over Steve’s sleeping form half-hidden beneath the bed sheets.

Which was a crime, frankly. 

After seeing, touching, and tasting every square inch of him last night Eddie longed to make a royal decree that Steve should be nude at all times.

Though he suspected as an equal ruler Steve would probably veto that idea.

Which was probably for the best, uncomfortable working conditions for the goblins and all that—and the fact that their friends probably wouldn't appreciate it much.

As Eddie watched Steve began to stir, rolling over so the light now fell on his bare face and chest. A truly magical sight even without the rings they wore.

Hazel eyes blinked open slowly, a syrupy sweet smile spreading over Steve’s face as he gazed up at Eddie, reaching for him, tucking a clump of frizzy curls behind his ear.

Eddie leaned into the touch as Steve lingered to caress his cheek, nuzzling his palm before turning his head to press a kiss in the middle of it.

“Everything alright, baby?” Steve asked, his voice sounding more than a little wrecked and not only from sleep.

Eddie shivered at the memory, and it might have had him considering a round three if he didn’t know how tired they both still were. Instead he settled himself back down, nestling his head in the crook of Steve’s neck, and resting his hand in the middle of his chest, fingers raking through the soft swath of hair.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Everything is perfect.”

It turned out the rules Eddie had spent so much time and energy worrying over, afraid that if he broke them it might somehow break their realm all together, were more like loose guidelines.

With Robin’s help, Chrissy was finally able to put more of the pieces together, and it seemed that Eddie, and now Steve and Eddie as one, could do basically whatever they wanted, and had the power to back it up. 

“Within reason, of course,” Chrissy had warned.

Most importantly, They could take Dustin home, secure in the knowledge that they could bring him back to the Labyrinth to visit whenever he wanted. 

Steve had agreed to give the boy one more day—to play with his friends, get to know Robin, Argyle, and Jonathan, and to say a proper goodbye to them all before returning to the real world. Any longer and it would be even more of a mess to clean up with their parents, Steve was sure.

“How will we keep in touch with each other?” Dustin asked Steve, as they, along with Eddie, Chrissy and Robin gathered in the atrium, the place everyone agreed would be the best point in the castle for traveling between worlds. “I guess it’s too much to hope cell phones will work between realms so we can text and facetime?”

Eddie hadn’t really thought about that. How would they communicate with Steve’s little brother to make plans for the future? Popping in on him randomly could prove tricky.

Steve turned to him with a frown and concerned eyes, and that simply wouldn’t do.

“Don’t worry, um, I-I’ve got just the thing,” Eddie stepped around Steve, rubbing a comforting hand across his lower back before crouching down in front of Dustin, where the younger boy sat on one of the thick velvet floor cushions.

“Here,” he said, holding out his hand, empty one second, and the next cradling one of his oft-used crystal balls.

Looking both awed and dubious, Dustin carefully took it from Eddie’s hand. “B-but I don’t have any magic.”

Right. 

Okay, no problem. 

There’d been no spell to follow when Eddie created his and Steve’s rings, but he’d wanted it enough to make it happen. This was no different. He could do this. 

Leaving the crystal in Dustin’s grip, Eddie covered the boy’s hands with his own, and let his eyes fall shut. He thought of love and family, and the desire to stay connected no matter the time, distance, or circumstances. The desire to see and hear those most dear. He remembered the determination Steve had shown in his effort to do whatever he had to to get Dustin back, had that feeling fill him and the ball, let it shape the magic. 

“Can you feel it?” Eddie whispered, for Dustin’s ears only.

“Yes,” the boy breathed, his words coming just as softly. “It feels like Steve. How I feel when I think about him.”

“Good,” Eddie said, opening his eyes. He released his hold on Dustin and stood, reaching down to ruffle the boy’s hair. “You tap into that and look into the ball whenever you want to see or hear him, and if you hold it up to your lips and talk he’ll be able to hear you too.”

“What about Steve? What if he needs me and I don’t know it?”

“We have other crystals. I gave you Present, but there’s still Past and Future up my sleeve. I’m sure I could tweak them somehow.”

“There’s also this,” Chrissy said, pulling a large leather-bound book out from behind her back. She offered it to Steve. “I found it the first time Eddie left me alone in the library.” 

“What is it?” Steve asked, carefully cracking it open and thumbing through what, at first, looked to be empty pages.

“As far as I can tell, it’ll show you just about anything. Movies, television shows, real events. All in writing, obviously, so I hope you’re a reader, including writing a story in real time of what’s happening à la The Neverending Story… kinda?”

Eddie sputtered. “I’ve been asking you what your secret was for years, and Steve waltzes in here and you tell him in a matter of days?!”

Chrissy stuck her tongue out at him and shrugged. “Sucks to suck.”

Steve was still flipping through pages, eyes flying over the words as they appeared while he smiled to himself. He flipped a few more as Eddie watched, until his face abruptly fell into a deep frown.

“Shit, Dusty,” he said, snapping the book shut. “The police were at our house. Mom and Dad filed missing persons reports. They think we were kidnapped or-or murdered, or something. We need to get you back there, now.”

Steve handed the oversized tome back to Chrissy with a nod of thanks, and turned to face Eddie. “How do we do this?”

“Together,” Eddie replied simply, reaching out with his ringed hand to take hold of Steve’s. “Dustin, take our other hands, so we’re all connected.”

The younger boy rose, uncharacteristically quiet as he slipped the crystal ball into his pocket and joined them. 

“Be careful,” Chrissy said, blowing a kiss in their direction. 

“You better bring him back in one piece, Munson,” Robin added, coming up behind Chrissy to wrap arms around her waist. 

Eddie knew he was going to regret telling her his full name. 

With Eddie steering, and honestly not having much more practice with this travel magic than anyone else, they landed together in the same spot Eddie had entered the first time—Dustin’s window. 

Which of course was not big enough to hold all of them. The three crashed to the floor, off balance, banging into Dustin’s desk, and loudly knocking over several empty cans of Mountain Dew in the process.

In seconds footfalls began pounding up the steps of the house, headed their way.

Eddie lurched to his feet, helping Dustin up before grabbing for Steve’s hand, a question poised on his lips, but Steve shook his head before he could even ask. 

The plan had been to just leave Dustin in his room and go, so Steve wouldn’t have to deal with his mom and stepdad. Dustin was prepared with a whole story about how his older brother had run away, and how he had gone off to find him and got lost, but it seemed Steve had other plans now. 

“Stay here,” Steve said, pressing a kiss to the top of Dustin’s head, “Love you, bud. We’ll see each other again soon,” before crossing the room in a flash, flinging the bedroom door open and marching out into the hall with Eddie following close behind.

“Steven?!” A woman, Steve’s mother, gasped, slowly making her way towards them from the other end of the hall, a man who could only be the infamous stepfather Gary lumbering behind her. “What on earth—where have you been? Is Dustin—” 

“In his room, safe and sound,” Steve answered calmly.

“Was this your doing?” Gary asked, with the sort of attitude Eddie desperately wished to wipe off his face the old fashioned way.

“Yes,” Steve admitted. “It was an accident, but I’m sorry we were gone so long. Don't blame Dustin, it was all my fault.” 

“Where have you been?” Steve’s mother asked. 

She, at least, looked mildly concerned and relieved to see her son.

“I-I’ve been—” Steve took a deep breath, and reached back blindly for Eddie’s hand. He gave it, coming to stand next to his sweetheart. “I’ve been miserable. I’ve spent my whole life lying to myself, listening to the two of you and your bullshit. I went along with all of it because it was easier than sticking up for myself, and figuring out what I really wanted. But I know now. I've learned more about who I am, and who I want to be in the last forty eight hours than I was ever able to under your roof. I found where I belong.” He glanced over at Eddie, smiling and pulling him into his side.

Eddie wrapped his arm around Steve’s waist possessively, staring the dumbstruck couple down with unwavering eye contact.

“I’m leaving,” Steve went on. “Moving out.”

“With him?” Steve’s mother squeaked.

Steve’s jaw tightened as he replied. “His name is Eddie.”

“Steven, you cannot be serious about running off with this… this… freak!”

Steve bristled at his side but Eddie threw his head back and laughed. Some things never changed, no matter how many years had passed. He wasn’t even wearing one of his elaborate costumes, he’d put on his own old clothes again in an effort to blend in, on the off chance they were seen. 

“Oh Gary, if you’re gonna flirt with me at least wait until your stepson is out of earshot,” Eddie purred, raising his eyebrows. “Not to mention your wife.”

Steve snorted.

Gary, aside from being so angry he was rapidly turning purple, did his best to ignore him, addressing Steve only. “Your mother and I won't allow you to throw your future away like this!”

Which only made Eddie want to poke at him more. “With all disrespect, Steve is an adult. He’s eighteen and legally you have no power over him.”

Steve’s parents had no power over him in any sense of the word, actually, but Eddie figured that knowledge was best kept between himself, Steve, and Dustin.

“Fine,” Gary snapped, “but Steven, if you walk out that door now don’t think we’ll let you come crawling back when this miscreant kicks you to the curb. I will not have you waltzing back into our lives to corrupt Dustin.”

Steve seethed, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as the lights above their heads began to flicker. 

Eddie rubbed his cheek along Steve’s shoulder, urging him without words to stay calm. 

Thankfully, while they glanced up at the fixtures with furrowed brows, Steve’s so-called parents didn’t seem to understand what was happening right in front of them. 

Typical.

Steve took a deep calming breath before he spoke, the lights returning instantly to normal. 

“I—we, will see Dustin as often as we like, and you will not try to control him the way you did me. He’s smarter than all of us. He doesn't need you to tell him who to be. You let him live his own life or so help me you will not like the consequences. And I’ll know, trust me on that.”

Gary grit his teeth, but turned and stormed off without another word, smart enough to know when the battle was lost. 

Steve’s mother just stood there, watching silently as Steve pulled on Eddie’s arm, leading him to his bedroom. 

Steve had started to pile things Eddie assumed he wanted to keep on the bed, when his mothers voice came from the doorway.  

“Where you’re going, you’ll be happy there?”

Steve’s shoulders stiffened for a moment but he turned to look at her, face pinched in confusion. “Yeah.”

She nodded, wringing her hands in front of her looking down and then away as she spoke again. “Make sure you pack your coat. You know you get cold so easily.”

Every part of Eddie itched to protect him, to step in and tell this woman that Steve wouldn’t need a fucking coat where they were going, that Eddie would give him whatever he needed—whatever he wanted. Hell, that Steve could take care of his own fucking self! 

Until he saw the way Steve was looking back at her, the way his face had softened, a bit of the tension in his shoulders easing as he did. 

And Eddie thought, maybe it wasn’t about the coat at all. 

“I will. Thanks, mom.”

She looked up, eyes swimming and moved for a second as though she would go to him, but stopped herself, giving her eldest son a tight-lipped smile before turning to go, heading for Dustin’s room.

“You okay?” Eddie asked.

Steve gave a small nod, clearing his throat. “How should I..?” He asked, gesturing at the small mound of possessions he’d collected, mainly clothes but also a few books and photos, and a shoebox full of small items rattling around inside. 

Eddie took Steve’s ringed hand, connecting them just as he had before, knowing now how much stronger they were together, and raised his free hand high in the air. With a simple snap of his fingers everything on the bed vanished. 

Steve sucked in a breath. “I’m never gonna get used to shit like that.”

Eddie laughed, squeezing his hand. “Home?” 

Steve shuffled his feet, looking suddenly almost more nervous than he had been in facing his parents. “Actually, I thought maybe we could take one more stop, if you’re up for it?” He stepped away, digging through the drawer of a small desk until he pulled out a scrap of paper, hastily scratching something out on it before handing it over.

It was an address. 

Eddie’s head snapped up. “W-what… How did you—” He knew that address. Had it memorized since he was five years old, just in case.

“When I was reading Chrissy's book. I thought about him, what you told me about him, I mean, and It appeared.”

Eddie swallowed hard. “He’s still there? H-he’s alive?”

Steve took the paper from his hand, tucking it into his pocket before wrapping him up in his arms, pressing their cheeks together. “He’s in his 80’s but still kicking. What do you think?”

“Yeah,” Eddie let himself melt into Steve’s comforting hold. “Let’s go see Uncle Wayne.”

They landed, hand-in-hand on the crumbling front porch of a dilapidated old trailer.

The place hadn’t been much to look at in Eddie’s youth either, but now it was quite literally falling apart. The whole park seemed to have fallen into disrepair, mostly abandoned save for Eddie’s beloved uncle’s home.

Afraid to lose his nerve Eddie knocked on the door the moment he had his feet securely under him, heart pounding as he listened to the sound of someone moving around on the other side. 

The ancient door creaked open, revealing a wizened old man in a moth-bitten flannel. He was completely bald now, but still sported a short beard, white these days rather than the salt and pepper of Eddie’s memory, but there was no mistaking those kind, if piercing, eyes.

“Eddie?” Wayne gasped, looking at him as though he was seeing a ghost.

Somehow Eddie hadn’t thought through the fact that he hadn’t aged a day since he last saw the man in front of him, and that was going to require some sort of explanation, assuming the shock of it didn’t give him a heart attack first.

“Long time no see, Uncle Wayne.”

“No kidding,” the gruff man huffed, making a visible effort not to let his mouth hang open. Wayne glanced from Steve to Eddie and back again before shaking his head, mumbling something to himself as he shrugged and stepped back into the house. “You boys better come on in then.”

Eddie didn’t move at first, he felt frozen and so unsure, but then Steve was pressing a hand into his lower back and he remembered he wasn’t alone. They followed Wayne inside and it took everything in Eddie not to break down and cry. The place was just as run-down inside as out. 

“I can’t believe you still live here,” he said, looking around at the peeling wallpaper, barely hanging-on paneling, and the thick layers of dust on almost every surface.

“Refused to move,” Wayne explained, leaning heavily on the old formica countertop in the kitchen, his eyes tracking Eddie’s every movement. “Even after everybody else left. I—your dad told me you ran off, and to be honest I was happy you did. But I knew you might need family one day, and I was afraid if I left you wouldn’t be able to find me. I never gave up hope.”

The tears Eddie had been fighting off won out, running in thin lines down his face.

Wayne took a wobbly step towards him, voice breaking as he spoke again. “I missed you, Eddie.” 

Eddie let out a sob, surging forward to wrap him up in a hug. Wayne was both shorter and thinner than he remembered, but there was still strength in his arms when he gripped him back.

“I missed you too, old man. Every day I missed you.”

They held each other for a long time, until Eddie’s tears slowed and Wayne could stand on his own again. 

The older man pulled back, eyes all for Steve now, giving him a narrow eyed once over. “Now—Eddie, you gonna introduce me to your boy here? And maybe explain to me why you look the same as the last time I saw you even though it’s been nearly forty years?”

“Right,” Eddie mumbled a breathy laugh escaping his throat. “Um, this is Steve.”

"Hrmph,” Wayne hummed, still squinting at Steve. Honestly Eddie wasn’t sure if the man’s eyesight was going or if he was trying to appear somehow intimidating. Knowing Wayne, it was probably a bit of both. “Steve, huh. You love my boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve answered quickly, his hand coming to rest again on Eddie’s lower back.

“Sir—” Wayne drew the word out, thinking, then gave a single decisive nod. “I like ‘im.”

All the breath whooshed out of Steve’s body at once, as though he’d been holding it, worried about his reception. Eddie bumped their shoulders together.

“As far as the rest goes, It’s kind of a long story.”

“Sorta figured,” Wayne grunted. “No matter, I got time.”

“Wait,” Steve said, his hand gripping tight to Eddie’s side now as he spoke softly in his ear. “How about we show him instead?” 

And If Eddie wasn’t already head over heels that would have sealed it for him. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Steve’s cheek, infusing it with every ounce of love he felt for the other boy in that moment.

“What do you say old man, you wanna come and live with me and Steve?”

Wayne didn’t answer for long enough that Eddie was afraid he might refuse, but after a long pause his face spread into a familiar smile. “I’d love that. Let me just get my jacket and we can be on our way.”

“Don't you wanna bring anything with you?” Steve asked.

“Nah, this junk don’t mean nothing. I got my boy back, that’s all I need. Where are we headed anyway?”

“Back home, to the castle,” Eddie grinned, knowing the reaction that was likely to get. 

It didn’t disappoint. 

“Castle?!” Wayne shouted, loud as a gunshot.

Eddie and Steve shared a look, giggling as one. 

“You’ll see.”

Eddie took Steve’s hand and together they held on to Uncle Wayne to make the journey home, so much easier now that the final weight Eddie had been carrying around for so long had been lifted. After decades of mourning everything he thought he’d lost, only to find so much more in return, he was more than ready to begin this new chapter of his life, and make up for a little lost time. 

Stay tuned for a look into Steve and Eddie's happily ever after in a new spicy sequel one-shot coming this winter!

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@goodolefashionedloverboi @themagicalari @awkwardgravity1 @rocknrollsalad

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@ravenfrog

[multi-fandoms-posts]

Trouble maker

X Men Masterlist

It is a dark, rainy night when Y/N suddenly appears in the field. With a soft *pop*, she materializes right next to Charles and Erik, in the middle of their mission. Charles spins around, his eyes widening as he sees her.

“Y/N?” he asks, surprised, his voice gentle but concerned. “What are you doing here?”

Erik raises an eyebrow but keeps a hand hovering slightly in the air, ready to use his powers. “Did you get lost, or did you intentionally come here to spoil our fun?” His voice is as deep as ever, laced with that ironic undertone.

Y/N grins and steps closer, water dripping from her clothes. “Fun? Did you really think I’d let you go off without me?” She leans in slightly, letting her fingers playfully glide over Charles’s arm. “What kind of mission would it be without me?”

Charles’s face remains serious, but his lips twitch slightly. “I just didn’t want to put you in danger.” His gaze softens as he looks at Y/N.

Y/N sighs dramatically, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer. “You and your eternal caution,” she whispers before kissing him on the lips. The kiss is slow and intense, the tension between them immediately palpable.

Erik, observing this, smirks. “Really? In the middle of the mission?” he asks, crossing his arms.

Y/N pulls away from Charles, turns to Erik, and smirks. “Maybe you shouldn’t complain so much. You could be next.” She teleports directly in front of Erik, grabs his jacket, and pulls him down towards her. “Or what do you think, Magneto?” she whispers seductively and presses her lips against his.

Erik hesitates for a moment before returning the kiss, his hands firmly resting on her hips. But after a moment, he pulls away and grins. “That could be distracting,” he murmurs, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Maybe,” Y/N says, her eyes sparkling with delight. “But you like it when I distract you, don’t you?” She lightly trails her fingers over his chest before pulling back.

Charles clears his throat, trying to regain control of the situation. “Let’s focus. We have a job to do.”

Y/N takes a step back, tossing her wet hair over her shoulder. “So, what’s the plan, you two tactical geniuses? Let me guess: Erik causes chaos, and you, Charles, sneak into people’s minds?”

Charles nods, his eyes serious. “Erik distracts the guards, I penetrate their thoughts. You, Y/N, can teleport us into the more difficult areas. We need to get this done quickly and efficiently.”

Y/N clicks her tongue. “How boring. Where’s the fun in that?” She grins widely and playfully teleports around the two of them. “I could make this so much more interesting.”

Erik watches her, his eyes dark and intense. “If you cause too much trouble, you’ll be the one who gets punished.”

Y/N blinks innocently and teleports directly into his arms. “Oh, please,” she murmurs, lightly stroking his jawline. “Will you promise me that?”

Erik narrows his eyes but says nothing. Instead, he gently pushes her away while Charles sighs. “Focus, Y/N,” he warns, though there’s a faint smile in his voice.

---

They enter the building, and immediately spring into action. Erik raises his hand and hurls a massive metal plate at the guards before they can react. Y/N teleports between them, skillfully kicking a guard to the ground and winking at Erik. “See? I can cause a bit of chaos too.”

Charles stands still for a moment, closing his eyes. “There are more in the next room. Be ready.”

Y/N teleports to Charles and plants a quick kiss on his cheek. “Don’t worry, darling. I’m keeping an eye on you.” Then she teleports back next to Erik and whispers in his ear, “And you too, Magneto.”

Erik gives a slight grin and raises his hands defensively. “Always with the temptation. But first, the mission.”

---

In the central room, they finally reach the weapon, a menacing machine surrounded by a shimmering barrier. Erik tries to manipulate the metal structure, but the barrier is stronger than expected.

“It looks like I could use some help here,” he murmurs.

Y/N steps closer and examines the barrier. “Can you crack it, Charles?”

Charles closes his eyes, his face tense with concentration. “Maybe… It’s complicated. Give me a moment.”

Y/N teleports behind the barrier while Charles tries to weaken the energy mentally. She looks at Erik, who is watching her, and grins. “Ready to save my life, Magneto?”

Erik snorts. “Isn’t that more my job?” He raises his hand as the barrier flickers.

Y/N teleports into the barrier, grabs the device, and destroys it with a precise blow. The apparatus explodes, and the energy barrier dissipates in a shower of sparks.

She teleports back to Charles and Erik just as the building around them begins to shake slightly. “Done,” she pants and leans casually against Erik.

Charles takes a deep breath, his forehead sweaty, but he smiles. “You saved us once again.”

Y/N winks at him. “Of course. What would you two do without me?”

Erik steps closer, placing a hand on her hip and looking at her intently. “Well done, Trouble maker,” he says, his voice deep and quiet.

Y/N laughs softly, one hand on Erik’s chest, the other stroking Charles’s arm. “Alright, boys. If you’re so grateful… how about you make it up to me?” Her eyes sparkle challengingly.

Charles tilts his head slightly and pulls Y/N closer. “I think we’ll find a way to show you how grateful we are,” he says, his voice gentle and earnest.

Erik grins wider, his eyes dark with desire. “But be sure, love … you’ll need rest afterward.”

Y/N’s smile widens, and she teleports between the two of them, her arms loosely draped over their shoulders. “I’m curious how long you will last.”

With one last mischievous grin, she lets herself be drawn deeper into the darkness by the two men, ready for her own special mission.

[beneathashadytree]

CLUMSY LOVE - LEON DOMPTEUR X READER

Warnings : mentions of injuries, reader is gender-neutral!

Genre : fluff <3

Word count : 0.9K words

Additional notes : This was born after seeing @leonscape ‘s posts, reminding me of how criminally underrated this man is in the fandom. His kind of safe, warm love is right up my alley, because I can’t imagine anything more comforting.

Tip jar if you’d like to buy me a Ko-Fi!

Masterlist

Leon Dompteur was a prince in all but blood. He had the refined poise and power over every room he walked into, the indelible charm that pulled everyone in, the wicked spirit that thrummed underneath his skin and fought to make it out, and the bravery to serve one’s country as one would lay his own life down.

But one thing he was not even remotely princely in, was fine motor skills. With big calloused hands, long and thick fingers, and hardened palms over the years, so used to handling roughness and sharpness, it made perfect sense that he would find it difficult to handle the smaller things that required immense concentration and deftness.

That, however, did not necessarily stop him from trying. For what it’s worth, it seemed that he was hellbent on changing that one shortcoming of his, constantly trying to do things his hands frankly weren’t meant to do.

Many a time did the kitchen staff stumble upon the fourth prince trying to pipe saccharine icing ontop of the cookies Yves had just pulled out of the oven, his tongue sticking out in concentration as he tried to scribble sugar lines. In the end, they always looked wonky, but Yves helplessly sighed every time and patted him on the back for trying.

Sometimes, Jin would be nursing a bottle of expensive wine in melancholy, a despondent look on his face, and Leon would then offer to take his paperwork and finish it up for him. Though he tried his best to imitate his eldest brother’s manner of writing, he simply wasn’t made for the tiny, neat calligraphy that Jin often resorted to, and his attempts at doing so only made the writing all the more illegible.

And though Licht was adamant to always hide his countless injuries from his brothers, Leon’s keen eye always caught sight of at least a few unhealed wounds littering his pale skin. It was up to him as his caring older brother to offer to patch up his bloodied forearms (something that was always met with a bit of push and pull), but he probably did more harm than good, what with all the loose tiny bandages and squiggly lines of ointment on the infinitely small wounds.

Still, nothing seemed to deter him from trying, even if he knew that—realistically speaking—his chances of success were incredibly low. Leon best expressed himself through actions that bared his big heart, and he wasn’t about to stop anytime soon. If anything, his failures only made him more determined to try and share his brothers’ burdens even more.

And that little quirk of his also extended to his beloved, of course. After all, in his eyes, there wasn’t a single person in the world more worthy of his attention and care. To others, it was a great shame for a prince to supposedly “debase himself by serving another”, but the mere idea made his blood boil. If anything, he—a prince made of nothing—would give the world to them should they show a sliver of interest in it.

In a less dramatic manner, he resorted to doing little things, like that he did on one particularly pleasant spring manner. The weather was too good to pass up on a nice stroll in the gardens with his lover. Said stroll slowly crumbled with the temptation of laziness, and soon turned into lazing around in the freshly cut grass in the midday sun.

Their hand was brushing through his ebony locks, twirling strands between their fingers as their other hand flipped page after page of their book. With all the duties planted on their shoulders, they had little time left to read and relax like this. Thankfully, that meant that they paid Leon no mind as he fiddled with something.

A few minutes passed, maybe half an hour (they did have a habit of losing track of time while reading), and he turned to face them in their lap. His bright smile was almost as blinding as the afternoon sun above, and when he tugged at their sleeve, they didn’t know what to expect—but it certainly wasn’t whatever it was that he presented them with.

Curiously inspecting it for a beat or two, they didn’t know what to call it. After all, Leon was never good with his hands, and that was common knowledge by now. Anything he made was practically unrecognizable without an introduction.

“That’s a…?”

He took their discontinued sentence as an invitation to elaborate. “A ring made out of flowers.” He grinned even wider as he pointed at it. “See. All daisies.”

“Well, they’re not very… sturdy, I think,” they laughed out, turning it around in their fingers. “It’s the thought that counts though. So thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Leon shook his head, before he took their hand gracefully in his, slipping on the makeshift ring with less than half of that grace. A quick prayer was sent above to whoever was listening, hoping that it would not fall apart—and, much to his relief, it stayed in place, wonky daises with half-broken stems and all.

“Is this a proposal?” They jokingly nudged him with their newly-adorned ring finger, not expecting the soft look he returned them with, nor the gentle kiss he pressed against their knuckles.

“A place-holder, until I find you the perfect ring.”

And though he was never quite good with small things or fine skills, he clearly was well-versed in the art of getting their heart to pound furiously against their ribcage, threatening to spill into his hands; for him to have and hold. Only he—and no one else—had the ability to make them fall head over heels, over and over again, slowly and then all at once, just like it were the first time.

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[someonesblog1555]

MOST INTENSE SYNASTRY ASPECTS:

Mars opposite Pluto: This aspect isn’t talked about much because it tends to be somewhat rare. The best way to describe it is a taboo and magnetizing attraction to one another. One partner may be very intimidated by the other. In my personal relationship I have found the Pluto partner to be the obsessive one, while the mars partner tends to rebel against Pluto’s controlling nature. The sexual connection here isn’t over exaggerated. Sex is a power play. Sex is a mode of control and manipulation from both sides. This aspect can also breed vengeance. The Pluto partner desperately wants to possess the mars partner, and in doing so can become aggressive, and needlessly cruel to the mars partner. Overall this relationship includes dramatic displays of affection, and an overall taboo vibe to the entire relationship. The best way to describe this relationship is the famous quote “all is fair in love and war” because when this aspect is present the partners will do whatever it takes to win. Regardless of who gets caught in the middle.

Mars/Venus conjunct Lilith: From the very start the attraction here can feel as magnetizing as it is frightening. It can create an intense and raw connection between two people. Although there is clearly darkness creeping into the intimate moments together. With this aspect you may question if this relationship is right. You feel so drawn to each other, yet there is a repulsion that you can’t quite put your finger on. A relationship filled with intense stares, and indescribable tension. It’s the unbelievable sex that’s followed by a horrible gut feeling afterwards. Its giving into your temptation even though you know it’s wrong. This person, although they may be attractive, just irks you. Not in the way that would make you grossed out, but something deeper. Nonetheless, the sexual connection is incredible. It’s the type that keeps both partners coming back for more even after countless betrayals, and no matter how many people have been hurt. For some reason you can never shake the thought and this person, and they can never shake the thought of you.

Moon conjunct Lilith: This emotional connection. The type they write about in movies. The type you write home about. I see the darkest parts of myself reflected back to me when I am with you. You probably know this person better than they know themselves. You probably see their motives long before they can even recognize them. This bond is intuitive. It’s deep. A lot of time can pass, but when you reunite it feels as if you just saw each other days ago. It’s home as a person. You know each other. Too well. You know what they think, and what they feel, but since Lilith is involved things quickly get complicated. Both the moon and Lilith person have an extreme emotional attachment to one another. So much so that they can never truly close the book on their relationship. It’s always a farewell, but never a forever. With this connection. You always come back together. There is no final goodbye.

Venus trine Neptune: “I see stars in your eyes.” Was poetry written by Venus-Neptune people? Or was it written for them? Probably a mix of both. When these two planets meet in Synastry it feels as though actual magic is present within the relationship. It might as well be a perfectly written novel. There are tragedies. Passion. An overwhelming love for one another, and just an overall ethereal vibe to the entire relationship especially in the beginning. If you had any dreams or hopes for what love would be, then Venus trine Neptune would make those dreams a reality. In fact it would probably exceed your expectations for what love could be. Still this aspect signifies delusion. It also tells of an unconditional love. No matter what your partner does. You still love them. And the same is applied vice versa. Almost nothing could make you despise this person, you will always see the good in them.

[officialraylynn]

Love... Is in the air.

Also posted on AO3!!

Commission for @farmernotafarmer of Sable Ward and Danny Olsen (Ghostface) in their AU that was super fun to dabble in :D

Warnings and tags: Macabre Muse; first kiss, obsession, violent thoughts, violent urges, discussions of murder, trust, vulnerability, temptation, dreams and nightmares, the entity, bruises, fluff, wholesome, worship

Summary:

Sable is, apparently, the one urge Danny struggles to deny himself.

It was the perfect evening.

Through the open window, past the curtains wafting from a gentle breeze, the sky bled beautiful and vibrant across the horizon. Night was approaching, swallowing the hues of sunset in its abyssal maw, glistening teeth of stars soon to shine.

As the sunlight faded (soft glow replaced by the harsh white of the streetlights outside) the humidity plaguing Sable's small bedroom faded with it. With it gone, the lazily lounging (for even with the open window it had been too hot and humid for any activity) couple were given reprieve, were finally given the chance to take advantage of their day off.

For Danny, that meant getting messy.

Hauling his sketchbook out and plopping into a well-worn beanbag chair in the corner, his charcoals (current preferred medium) and sketch pencils within arm's reach. He started sketching with nothing specific in mind, trusting that before long something would spark inspiration— especially once Sable was finally ready to begin recording her podcast.

Sable never failed to inspire him, but like this? Headphones nestled among messy hair; pale legs awkwardly criss-crossed with her knees poking out from under the arms of her computer chair, the look of deep concentration on her face highlighted by the artificial glow of her monitor... She was breathtaking.

Mind you, Danny always thought Sable was attractive, there was simply something about her like this. Dressed down in a tank top and sleep shorts; emotions so free on her face, relaxed and open for him to see every flaw and perfect imperfection. Her vulnerability, her faith and trust in him— how could he ever ask for a more graceful, more beautiful sight?

"Good evening fine listeners."

Sable's voice broke Danny out of his starry-eyed staring, and he ducked his head to return his attention back to his sketchbook. He wouldn't want to psyche her out by so blatantly reminding her of her physical audience, after all.

"Tonight, I'll be talking about the mysterious "Love Letter Murderer". Strap yourselves in folks, this one's not your average serial killer- and if you're triggered by stalking, this is your warning to stop listening now."

For her, Danny had tried to resist. Had kept his gaze firmly on the paper in his hands, refused to be swayed... But Sable's voice (the passion, the melodic lilt, how powerful she made her words) was a siren's song his valiant attempts crumbled beneath.

By the time Sable was describing the murders, voice low and hushed for both dramatic effect and respect for the dead, Danny was ensnared. His hands skimmed listlessly over his sketchbook; his eyes transfixed on the way Sable gestured as she spoke, his ears hearing her voice but not taking in her words. She was beautiful, ethereal even. Something not of this world, brought into his life to tempt him— tempt him into what, he wasn't sure, but he had fallen hard.

Fallen into fantasies, his thoughts consumed by her. Thoughts of date nights and cozy mornings in. Of her pale skin, how easily it would bruise, how beautiful it would look blooming purple in the shape of his handprints. Of her voice, lovely and serene— the sounds of her screams (of pleasure, of pain) beneath him (his hands, his knife).

Danny didn't hear his sketchbook clatter to the ground as he stood, abrupt and urgent like a man entranced. Sable (headphones on and engrossed with her podcast) didn't notice his approach, his presence looming behind her or his hands reaching towards her.

"— One of many unanswered questions about these killings, is 'were they crimes of passion?'— huh?"

Danny's fingers pushed against Sable's jaw, tilting her head back so she could see him standing behind her. Confusion flickered across her face, but before she could finish asking "What's up?" Danny leaned in and rendered her silent by melding his mouth against hers.

Sable gasped, but didn't draw away. For those few heartbeats, this blissful eternity, nothing but this precious first kiss existed in the world.

It couldn't last forever, though, and soon Sable was pulling away from his touch and removing her headphones— the soft, fond look on her face was one Danny would cherish.

"What brought this on?" She asked, voice as gentle as her expression.

Danny shrugged and settled his hands on her shoulders, thumbs idly rubbing circles into them. "You're just..." he waffled for words before settling on kissing her forehead. "So damn beautiful."

Sable’s hands rose and settled over his, giving them an affectionate squeeze. “Am I now?” The bemused tone of her voice made Danny kiss her cheek, something very much like love unfurling in his chest.

“You’re spectacular.” Another kiss to her cheek, causing her to laugh oh-so-sweetly. “Breathtaking, inspirational,” his kisses swept over her face and pressed against her jaw, “simply amazing.”

“My my~” Sable laughed and titled her head to give him more room at her throat. “Should I talk about murderers more—” she cut herself off with a strangled sound, flailing slightly as she pulled away from Danny “—I’m still recording!”

Danny laughed and leaned over her shoulder, watching as she fussed with her recording and adjusted her equipment. Like this, flustered and huffy and real, she was less a fantasy and more… A tether to reality. This was what he wanted. Laughter, tender touches, the trust in her eyes when she gazed up at him with his hands so close to her neck.

“—I think if I just re-record from here, it should be fine—”

Content, he rested his head against Sable’s, soaking in her presence, allowing the warmth in his chest to take root. Maybe it wasn’t a fairy tale first kiss, but he was no Prince, and Sable was a witch not a Princess. He may have been charmed, swayed by dark temptation, but just as she had unwittingly bewitched him she had brought him to the light again.

Like this, Danny affectionately by Sable’s side, their perfect evening faded into a domestic night in. When the yawns seemed to never stop, when eyes were more closed than open, the couple retreated to bed. Sleep came for them quickly, but while Sable’s was restful and calm, Danny’s was plagued by murky dreams.

Dreams of a sketchbook filled with haunting and grotesque images, each page a different depiction of him intimately and violently murdering his muse, his beloved. A voice, timeless and ancient, spoke to him in these dreams, commanding him to follow, guiding him to a fog so dark it was a misty abyss.

If it wasn’t for Sable’s voice, faint yet pure and pleading, calling for him, a beacon for him to find his way home to her… Who knows if morning’s light would have shone on him again.

[gffa]

Hi!  I'm not sure how much help I'm going to be because my view of the sequel trilogy lives in kind of a nebulous space, where I really like the characters and I actually like a lot of the potential of the storyline, but I dislike TFA, greatly dislike TLJ, and was actually pretty okay with TROS all things considered. I don't want to dig too deep into the negativity of my feelings but they're basically - TFA was too much of a repainting of ANH for me, the initial shine of it was through its potential, but when that didn't pay off in the other movies, the shine came off TFA, too. - TLJ was set too close to TFA, Finn's character should have been tied into the Canto Bight plot (which was exhausting as it was), as a stolen child soldier he has the most reason to hate the rich, but absolutely nothing was done with him, Luke being on that island for that long was out of character for him, Rey's entire story became wrapped up in Kylo Ren, neither of those characters had nearly enough connections with others despite having very good reasons to, like why do we not spend more time on Luke & Kylo?? and it played at being subversive but it absolutely was not, it's all been done before (and I really hated the way Force abilities worked in the movie) and killing off your main villain in the second act was a baffling decision - TROS' biggest problem is that it should have been two movies instead of one, it was a series of trailers rather than a story with breathing room, and it suffered the most from the lack of planning + the main villain being killed off in the second movie But here's why I still like The Rise of Skywalker the best:  The bones of what's there are a pretty good Star Wars story!  Yes, Rey Palpatine came out of nowhere and was very silly, but if you can't handle silly, I don't know how you can make it as a Star Wars fan, it's such a silly franchise! I'm not afraid to love a scene I laugh out loud at--and, yeah, I laughed RIGHT OUT LOUD the first time Kylo dramatically said, "You're a Palpatine."  I laughed so hard I had tears in my eyes and let me tell you, I fucking LOVE that scene now. Or how the last words of any Skywalker, the last word Ben Solo/Kylo Ren ever says in the movies' franchise is, "Ow."  I am laughing RIGHT NOW, please, p l e a s e, that is so on-brand, I can't handle it, it's too funny. But I also like the basic storyline because Rey's story in TROS is her struggling with her own inner darkness, that she feels there's something dark in her soul because she's Palpatine's granddaughter.  The movie isn't saying that's true, but that Rey struggles with thinking it's true, and she has to wrestle with her dark side, just like every Jedi before her has as they're coming into their power. Anakin wrestled with his dark side and lost in Attack of the Clones and even worse in Revenge of the Sith. Luke wrestled with his dark side in the vision he sees of himself in Vader's helmet in the cave in ESB and in the climactic scene of ROTJ, where he nearly hacks his father's arm off in rage after his sister and friends are threatened.  He has to claw his way back out of that. Ezra Bridger struggles with the dark side in Rebels as he comes into his power and he has to claw his way out of it as well. Rey has to struggle with her own lure towards the dark side as she comes into her power--she rips a ship apart in the sky because she was so determined that Chewie was hers, she was so angry at Kylo that Force lightning burst out of her.  She's seeing Sith visions of herself on the wreckage of the Death Star.  This is a theme that has been there since the very beginning, that Jedi have to struggle through a temptation to the dark, and her relation to Palpatine preys on that. That's kind of why I wound up loving Ben's scene with Han as well, because that was an entirely imagined scene, but it represents that the way the Force works, you have to dig yourself out of the hole you're in, that Ben using the memory of his father, the last moments of connection he had with his mother, to pull himself out of the dark, really worked for me.  And I'm okay with his death, because this is Star Wars, people die before they should all the time. I even liked the political message of the final movie, yes, Rey vs Palpatine was the big Jedi vs Sith showdown, but the main galactic battle?  Had people showing up.  Just... people.  One of the themes I've talked a lot about, especially because The Clone Wars kind of has it as a running theme is that the average galactic citizen doesn't do jack shit about the state of the galaxy they live in.  The Rebellion had people starting to stand up, but it was an organized effort, it recruited people. TROS had just people showing up, that Leia and the Resistance had been trying to rally the cause, but ultimately it was the galactic public finally, finally saying, "We have to stand up and fight for ourselves, not depend on other people to do it."  Was it ham-fisted and not nearly as polished as it should have been?  Oh, no doubt.  But the message.  Just people showing up to fight against the First Order that was trying to bring back the Empire.  That meant a lot to me. And I loved Luke's character here, that he admitted when he was wrong, and gave us that banger line that's spot on:  "Confronting fear is the destiny of a Jedi."  Yes.  Yes.  FUCKING YES.  LUKE SKYWALKER AND JEDI PHILOSOPHY.  MY HEART.  Nailed it. Does this movie hang together as well as it should?  Absolutely not.  It needed a stronger writer, it needed more time than it got, and it needed better build-up.  But the bones of what was there were actually pretty good and, man, any movie that has Daisy Ridley in that white outfit with the hood where she looked practically ethereal cannot be all bad, in my opinion.