#but their plans down the line might be more malleable and thus could fit the potentially weeklong mystery into them

[svtskneecaps]

my personal pipe dream is that one monday the egg statistics drop and flippa (and maybe tilin) are just there. at the end. with one heart, and one gray checkmark.

what i imagine is the server flips their shit. alive!!! alive!!! but they log in and they don't see the eggs. instead they get a message. i do not care who it's from or how it's delivered. they're told the eggs are being held captive somewhere, but they're alive. all that's left is to find them, before sunday at midnight pst. bc if their tasks aren't done, they die (one checkmark, one quest set. once rescued they become triple check like the other eggs)

slimeriana come CRASHING back into the server, they don't know jack shit, ESPECIALLY mariana who doesn't recognize 90% of the island anymore but holy fuck, flippa is alive somewhere and they have to find her. and maybe mariana's still in the old server days mindset of raising his kid alone but slime's slowly been indoctrinated into "it takes a village" and honestly the absolute second mariana logs on, someone's gonna be in chat already like HEY MARIANA CAN I TALK TO YOU? be it baghera or cellbit or forever or bad or I DON'T KNOW, COULD GENUINELY BE ANYONE LMAO but like mystery and eggs in danger is chumming the water for this server

which is great bc A) mariana has a concrete goal for logging into the server (finding his daughter) and B) he would be interacting with the rest of the server along the way, because he's not going to be doing this alone (he wouldn't even be allowed lmfao the rest of the server would be at his doorstep asking to help him in like 15 seconds flat) which means C) he might get reasons to log in extending outside flippa and slime. bingooooo

i call this a pipe dream bc i can poke so many holes in this even rn (does cc!mariana want flippa back, like fr? i'm not up to date) but can you IMAGINE. LIKE DAMN. i'm putting this idea into the public domain fr go nuts with it.

[bnhascribbles]

The Prince

Prince!Iida x Tutor!Reader

Fluff, Pining, Humor, Slight Angst (?)

Words: 5K

Warnings: Brief mention of blood/assassins

The floor rumbles beneath dozens of pairs of shoes and even though it’s almost completely covered, you catch flashes of the polished wood between songs.  It shimmers, reflecting back the lights of the chandelier, twinkling brightly enough to rival the stars. However beautiful and spectacular it all seemed though, you still missed spending hours alone, watching the real stars.  Your work in Inginea had left you with very little time to explore; your nights usually consisted of preparing lessons and lectures deemed fitting for members of the royal family.  It would be nice to spend time outdoors again, to feel the cool night air tickle your nose, making the hairs on the back of your neck rise.  Then again, the next time you experienced that, you’d likely be standing on the deck of some ship that was homeward bound, carrying you far away from this place and its people.  That part wasn’t so nice. In fact, it was downright depressing.

You’re jolted from your self-pity when you recognize a familiar face from across the dancefloor.  You hadn’t expected to meet Iida here tonight, but you can’t say that it’s a shock to see him standing there, seeming uncharacteristically frazzled as he sidles through the mass of swirling bodies surrounding him.  

It’s his posture that gives him away; no common person ever made such an effort to keep his shoulders so far back, his chin so steeply angled upward, his feet so firmly planted—like he was imitating the oaks lining the perimeter of the castle gates.  No, the decorum with which this man carried himself was the sort that they only taught royalty—only taught princes.  You grin and begin to shimmy your way through the crowd.

It takes more than a few gentle nudges and one less-than-subtle shove, but you eventually brave the chaos and reach him.  To his credit, Iida’s disguise was spot-on. There wasn’t a sign of his family’s sigil on any of his garments. No royal blue doublet covering his chest, no moonstone pendants gracing his neck; he had obviously gone out of his way to pass himself off as common—a near-impossible feat given the fact that the man practically oozed refinement.  Still, the laces of his shirt are frayed now and his britches stained.  If you hadn’t known his face so well, you might’ve thought him a stablehand and not the next in line for his father’s throne.  

“It’s a pleasant surprise to see you this far from the palace, sir.”  You greet him, careful to avoid using his true title. Iida flinches when you address him, but then he squints and realizes it’s only you.  He frowns.

“Was I really that easy to pick out of the crowd?  I was certain that this time, my attire was—”

“It wasn’t your attire that betrayed you.”  Had anyone from the palace witnessed the way you’d interrupted the crown prince, you might’ve received your dismissal much earlier than you intended to.  Then again, others might have been wholly more apathetic towards the situation.  Everyone was still rather confused when it came to the proper way of addressing each of the princes.  After all, Tenya Iida was the younger of the Iida brothers. He’d been raised with the same careful care and instruction as his brother all his life, for no reason other than tradition.  Because originally, Tenya wasn’t supposed to be the next king.

“To the average person, yes, you look perfectly ordinary.  But me?  I know you too well for that.  I also don’t know a single lordling that puts so much effort into the way he stands.  It was a noble effort though.  Well-thought-out.”

You nod him away from the crowd with your chin, leading him towards a quieter corner of the hall.  Nobody bats an eye. The common people knew of their king and queen, yes, but the royal children were another matter altogether.  Tensei’s face had been woven into banners lining the wall in the days leading to his coronation, so at least a few would recognize him.  Tenya had no banners, and thus, no face as far as the public was concerned.  That would change soon enough, though.

It wasn’t uncommon for assassins to be sent after royalty.  Enemies to the crown, families of those accused of treason, even other princes and princesses had all been historically known to hire men to “do away with” their opponents.  What wasn’t common was for these killers-for-hire to make it past the palace walls—to make it to the crown prince ’s chamber, unseen.  Nobody but Tensei could know for certain what occurred that fateful night, but castle gossip would have you believe a dozen versions of the same story, all with the same conclusion: an assassin lying in a pool of their own blood and a prince that was now crippled from the waist down.

Some liked to whisper that it’d been the king and queen’s decision to pass over Tensei—that they’d rushed at the opportunity to hand off the crown to Tenya, the second son, before the panic set in. Others claimed that it had been a collective decision, made by the whole of the court.  Supposedly, advisors sought to prevent rumors of weakness within the monarchy, while the nobility simply sought to replace Tensei with someone more malleable to their demands. Having actually spoken with the (current) crown prince, you knew all of these rumors to be false.

The way Tenya told it, his brother had abdicated of his own volition, long before knowing of the permanent nature of his injuries. Because Tensei had reasoned that, if he could not protect himself from one man, what right did he have to try and protect a nation from many?  And once he’d made up his mind, there was no arguing with him. The members of the Iida family were notoriously stubborn; no amount of pleading would be able to sway the prince's decision.

So every effort was directed towards Tenya Iida, the new future king.  An array of instructors were hired to fill gaps in the prince’s knowledge—nearly all of them foreign and much younger than the typical world-weary, wiry-haired persons that had formerly been in the employ of the palace.  The prince needed people to instruct him on the world beyond Inginea—the way it worked and the direction it was heading in.

That was where you came in.  

“It seems there are still many things I need to learn.”  Iida sighs, staring down at his hands, fumbling with the edge of his coat.  “I’m afraid I’ll never be ready to be k—” he catches himself before he betrays his identity, “—for the part that comes next.”

You lean back against a pillar.  “Nobody is ever ‘ready’ to lead. It comes with time.  Until then, your tutors and advisors will be here to guarantee that you understand whatever it is you need in order to rule.”

“But you’re leaving, so you won’t be one of them.”  Iida’s words catch you off guard. You’d been careful to keep news of your departure confidential.  Only the king and queen knew… but then again, you suppose that was how he’d learned.  From his parents.

“It’s true.  I’m taking a boat home in the morning.”  Neither of you speaks. The moment is tense and weighed down by a mountain of unspoken words, things you each want very much to say.  Still, there’s no silence—the party and merrymaking endure in spite of your quietude.  

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me these past few days?”

You fight desperately to keep the edges of your mouth turned upward—to keep tidbits of truth from tinging your expression.  “I’m not a fan of the word ‘avoiding.’  It implies there’s a deliberate decision being made.  Perhaps I’ve simply been keeping myself busy? I did seek you out tonight, didn’t I?  And while we’re on the subject of language, the phrase ‘past few days’ is far too unspecific of a time period to—”

“Don’t do that,” Iida says, his tone firm— firm and authoritative.  Good: he was beginning to sound like a king should.  “Don’t launch into a lecture so you don’t have to answer my questions.  Especially if this is the last night I’ll ever see you.”

You chew on your lip.  Pushing the prince any further would do no further good—he’d already followed you out this far.  After all, the last thing you wanted was for hundreds of pleasant memories with him to be soured by one, less-than-pleasant farewell.

“I’m not a fan of tearful goodbyes.  I thought it might be easier to part if I distanced myself a bit, but then you had to go and ruin my plans by showing up tonight.”  You exhale, finally letting your frown show. “There is very little that a foreigner could ever teach you in ways of domestic affairs, and you’ve learned all that I have to share in regards to foreign cultures.  There’s no reason for me to remain here any longer than I already have.”

The non-silence returns, just as awkward as the first.  This time, Iida is the one to break it.

“How long has it been since you first arrived here?”  The question catches you off guard. But you suppose it’s nicer than enduring the many other, more difficult questions he could send your way.

“About a year, I expect.  I remember they were just taking down the decorations from the New Year’s celebration when I got off the boat.”  You recall the thrill you’d felt at the time, coming to a strange new land full of opportunity, experiences, learning.  “There were these round, white objects hanging from the streetlamps at the docks—they almost looked like masks.”

Iida’s face perks up, just a bit.  It wasn’t often that he had the opportunity to teach you something.  “That’s because they were masks.  They’re an old symbol here, meant to encourage a hasty end to the cold.  The seas are rougher during winter months, so it’s believed that ancient sailors would wear masks to protect their faces from the saltwater spray, and also to frighten off harmful spirits that might sink a ship.  The first recorded figure from the time was Ingineum, the person whom our land was named after they—” He cuts himself off, as though he’s only just realized his excessive enthusiasm on the topic—the way his hands have shot up from his sides, gesticulating wildly.

“So, it’s really been a year then...”  Iida laughs nervously, his voice trailing off into the ambient noise of the room.  His face is a tinge pink, and you have to be grateful that he seems to have forgotten how angry he’s supposed to be with you.  “Is it strange that I feel as though I’ve known you for much longer than that?”

You smile.  “Not at all.  Do you remember our first lesson?”

“How could I not?  You walked into the study nearly an hour late, and you were sopping wet .”

“I got lost in the garden and it was raining and—”

“—and the gardens are indoors, so the rain is negligible.

“It was an added stress to my already-eventful first day.”  

Iida rolls his eyes.  His glasses are missing—probably abandoned in an attempt to better devote himself to his disguise (however unnecessary it ended up being)—so you get to see every second of the uncharacteristically cheeky gesture. “That still doesn’t explain how you found a way to—”

“—fall into the fountain?  The thing is carved out into the middle of the floor!  It’s a wonder more people don’t tumble into it, especially when the palace is swarming with children and servants that always seem to be in such a rush to get somewhere important.  I’ll never understand why your family never put a barrier around it.”

“There’s never been a need to: it’s massive!  Do the people from your home not know to mind their step?”

“Do the people here never have an ounce of fun?”

Iida stares, his jaw hanging low, mouth agape like he’s ready to lecture you on the difference between “fun” and “foolery.”  When he doesn’t waver after a minute of that, you counter with a wide-eyed glare of your own.  Then his lip twists upward and a stifled snort erupts from your nose, and before either of you fully-realizes what’s going on, you’re both doubled over, cackling—full-on, without an ounce of care for the dozens of haughty faces sending disapproving looks your way.  Iida grabs your elbow, his shoulders still shaking with the weight of his laughter, and drags you out a doorway onto the terrace before you can attract too much unwanted attention.  

It’s chilly outside, lingering bits of winter clinging to the air, rushing down your throat as your giggling persists.  Thankfully, nobody else is around to see the rather ungraceful way you scramble to catch your breath.  Soon, your wheezing slows to the point that you can actually speak again.

“You’ve certainly become more amicable in the time I’ve been here, my prince.”  And despite how you try to suppress it, another snort forces its way up. “That scowl you wore when I first greeted you...I was convinced you’d dismiss me without so much as a ‘hello.’”

“I seriously considered it!  I’d been waiting there for an hour !”

“Nearly an hour.”

“Regardless,” Iida insists, “nobody would’ve questioned my decision.”

“Yet here I am, still in the employ of the royal family with my reputation intact.”  You purse your lips. “Tell me: why wasn’t I cast off at the first sign of impropriety?”

It’s said in teasing—another game of yours, meant to rile him up (or to “test his patience” if you were giving it a professional sort of description)—yet Iida seriously seems to ponder the question.  He turns away from you, peering into the darkness beyond the edge of the paved terrace.  In the direction of his gaze, the glow of orange lamplight only just illuminates the edge of the palace gates.  You know their shape well, but you can’t shake the feeling that they look like rusted wrought iron from here—not the golden masterpieces they seemed in the daytime.  You wonder how the prince sees them tonight.

“I suppose I was too curious for my own good,”  Iida says, eyes still focused on something in the distance,  “I suppose I wanted to know more about the type of person that could walk into a room of strangers and still smile the way you did.”

“It’s easy to smile when you love what you’re doing.”

Iida inhales, slow and heavy.  “I…” He peers upward, like he’ll find the end of his sentence somewhere in the stars.  When Regulus and Denebola offer no words to fill the pregnant pause, his frustrated groan does the job for him.  “I don’t enjoy many things these days.”

“And I don’t believe that.” Your response is instantaneous, and perhaps a bit frank for the situation. You continue, regardless. “When you’re studying, you may not realize it yourself, but half the time you’re grinning so wide it looks as though your cheeks might split.  When we practice languages, when we discuss politics...”

He turns to face you finally, and something soft crosses his expression.  

Familiar. Affectionate. Dangerous.

“That’s because you’re there.  Because I lo—”

You tense, your hand swinging out and clutching the arm of his jacket, pleading.  “No. We’ve been through this.”  

“We haven’t been through anything because you won’t let me—.

“Say something foolish?”  A sour, stinging taste creeps up your throat as you take a step back. You needed distance and you needed him to see it.  “That’s my job, my prince  To teach you the things that are appropriate and the things that are not.  This conversation concerns the latter.”

Iida furrows his brow, his jaw tight. “Because you’d reject me?”

You should’ve expected that this conversation would happen eventually. You can’t pretend you hadn’t noticed the way Iida stole glances at you over the edge of his book when he thought you weren’t watching. How he always scrambled to fetch your papers himself when he had a good palace-worth of servants ready to do it for him. How he found every excuse to slide his seat closer, brushing his shoulder against yours as he leaned over to point at some insignificant passage, asking questions he already knew the answers to.

The worst part was...you’d caught yourself doing those very same things.  Staring for longer than you should’ve. Enthusiastically accepting his requests to prolong lessons for “just another hour.”  

Letting yourself fall in love with him, slowly, but surely, even after you couldn’t pretend not to notice anymore—after he’d cornered you in the library red-faced and stuttering, scrambling to say those sincere words that would be the ruin of both of you.  

Of course you hadn’t given him the chance to finish his declaration.  You didn’t have it in you to turn him down, not when just seeing him, looking so noble in his royal blues, had been enough to make something buzz deep in your stomach.  And returning his affections wasn’t ever an option.  Not at all appropriate for a person in your position.  You weren’t royal nor a noble. You were just another type of hired help, even if you were afforded more luxuries than the average cook or gardener.

So you’d found some clever reason to excuse yourself, frantically gushing about needing to organize manuscripts or keep a promise to teach some orphan how to read.  You couldn’t even remember the lie you’d used—only Iida’s reluctant, tight-lipped smile when he realized that you were, in fact, lying.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”  You finally say.  It isn’t a lie this time. Not really.  You were leaving, and you weren’t about to admit that it’d been your choice to refuse the king’s and queen’s offer for a longer term of employment.  Things were already so....delicate with Tenya.

“You don’t have to.”

“Just like you don’t have to become the king?”  It comes out harsher than you mean it to, hissed through gritted teeth.  Iida winces as though he’s been struck. “Nobody has to do anything in this world.  But we both have our obligations regardless, be they pleasant or not.  And I—” the shudder in your voice is as unpleasant as it is unintentional, “Tenya, don’t make me start fantasizing about things that just aren’t possible.  I’m not strong enough for that.”

Iida breathes.  In, then out. Heavy, but even, watching you the whole time.  When he speaks, the words are soft. “That’s the first time you’ve said it.”

You scoff.  “I’m smart, but I’m no saint.  Even I have my limits.”

“No.” He says, his eyes lifting to meet yours. “It’s the first time you’ve used my name.”

The air suddenly feels like ice.  Not so cool anymore—more cold incarnate, jagged tendrils working their way around your lungs and squeezing.  They freeze you from the inside out, all the while draining you of whatever oxygen your measly throat seems fit to collect.

“I beg you to forgive me, my prince.”  You’re formal about it, your back straight, your expression incredibly blank. You’re acting as you should be—as you should’ve been this whole time.

“Stop that.”

“It’s late and the hour has made me forget myself.” Tuning him out, you take a step back towards the doors, back towards the safety of the crowded hall.

“Please —"

“I think it best that I retire for the night. My ship departs early in the morning and I should be rested if I’m going to catch it.”  You swallow hard. “Goodnight, my prince.”

Goodbye would be better, you realize once the words leave your mouth. It wasn’t like you were going to see him again after tonight; you owed it to him to give at least use the proper “farewell.”  But truthfully, you don’t trust yourself enough to say anything else—not when your eyes burn the way they do.  

A tearful goodbye: this was just the thing you’d wanted to avoid.  Because in that moment, when the only thing keeping your eyes dry is sheer force of will, you make the mistake of imagining, for just a moment, what it might be like to stay.  It wouldn’t be right or responsible, but really, would that be such a bad thing?  Truthfully, you’d done a terrible job as a tutor; you’d taught the prince, yes, but you’d also committed the cardinal sin of your trade and become too attached.  You’d already acted the part of friend and confidant. What was the harm in making one more mistake?

Rather than dwelling on it for any longer, you turn away.  You can hear Iida say your name once, frantic.

And you rush towards the door.  

The footfalls behind you don’t register in your mind until it’s too late.  His fingers feel incredibly hot as they curl around your wrist, pulling you back and keeping you from taking the final few steps inside.

“Don’t leave like this.  Not while you’re forcing this....this professional facade to try and push me away.  I know you too well for that.” Hearing your own words—having them scooped up and hurled back at you like a well-timed arrow, makes your heart ache.  Still, you say nothing. You know better than to do that. So Iida continues.  

“Love me, love me not—it doesn’t matter anymore.  You’ve made your choice and I’ll respect it. But let’s not say goodbye on bad terms.  Speak with me just a little longer. Teach me something new.”

And just like that, you feel your expression melt.  Surely it couldn’t do any harm?  

Although you know that’s far from the truth, you twist to face him.  “I would, but I’m afraid I wasn’t lying when I said I’d taught you everything I know.”

When he realizes that you aren’t denying his request outright, Iida’s eyes widen.  He’d expected you to argue. “There has to be something. Astronomy? History?” His voice fades as he wonders aloud, thinking—always thinking.  You’re about to tell him to give up; the two of you can speak without a need for lessons, but then something excited sparkles in his eyes.

“Dance?  How do they dance where you’re from?”  Slowly, delicately, Iida releases his hold on you.  But he doesn’t pull back. His fingers unfold, flattening as he pushes the flat of his hand against yours.  The action itself is a question: is it like we dance here?  With quick steps and pressed palms?

“It’s different from your way.  Same principle, different posture.”  You thread your fingers into the spaces between his.  The gesture is academic—impersonal and meant purely for demonstration purposes.  “And there’s not such a rigid rhythm to it. Less stepping, more gliding.”

Iida smiles softly.  “Yes, I think I must’ve seen this in a book once.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, what with the extraordinary amount of time you spend reading.”

“Tease me all you’d like, but in this case, it helps,” he walks backward, dragging you with him towards an empty area of the terrace, “although I’ll admit, I’m a bit unsure about this next part.  So please, tell me if I’m making a fool of myself.”

“It’s simple.  I’m sure you’ll manage well enough.”  You extend your free hand out towards him. Iida doesn’t take it though.  His jaw tenses, just for a moment, then he’s shaking his head.

“They weren’t hand-in-hand.  It was different...I’m sure of that much.”

You sigh, giving his hand a squeeze.  “You’re overthinking things.”

“No, I’m right.  I know I am.”

The rest happens as... as a smear of motion, carried by the swell of music whooshing through the open doors.  You think you see it, though—the way Iida’s hand edges in, trembling, but pushing forward even so. It dips down below your wrist, then below your elbow, never halting in it's smooth, creeping motion forward.  Not until his touch is grazing across your side, feather-light, but very much there. It doesn't sink in at first—how close he is—until you feel the warmth as his fingers press into your back, dragging bits of your tunic along as they do.  You're not sure you've ever felt so feeble as you do in the instant you realize the prince’s palm is curled around what feels to be the entirety of your waist.

“I believe it was something like this,”  Iida says. The tug on your waist is gentle, but the prince’s hold over you is such but you have no choice but to stagger forward.  By the time you start wondering if this hasn’t been one big mistake, the distance between the pair of you is practically nonexistent.

All of it is entirely academic, though.  Without a doubt, it was academic.

“This is...one way of dancing, yes.”  You stutter through your breathlessness.  “Although now I’m curious to know what sort of book you were reading.”

“An old one” is all Iida offers before he begins to sway.  You fumble to find a spot for your free hand, finally setting it along the slope of his shoulders.  He’s taller than you remember—his shoulders broader.  How was that possible? How could a person you see nearly every day suddenly seem so much more... dashing?

“You’re doing well, but you still have to count, my prince.  Follow the music.”  In an effort to distract yourself from your own thoughts, you throw yourself back into your teaching.  “One, two, three, and.  One, two, three, and.”

You drag Iida along for a while, counting out loud, showing him the rhythm to follow.  Soon, he’s steady enough to lead without your instruction.  The moment he takes over, the cobblestones seen to transform a dancefloor of their own.  The endless sky becomes a ballroom, with a chandelier of stars and a tapestry of moonlight glistening over your swirling bodies.  It’s easy to forget yourself—to get lost in the fairy-tale quality of it—while you’re there, grinning and dancing with the prince.  You don’t ponder the past, the present, the future. You don’t debate the principles governing ethics or art or architecture.

The two of you just dance.

But as all things must, the song eventually ends.  The rising line of the wood flutes dies away and the steady vibration of the drums gets lost in the nothingness of night.  You and Iida stare at each other for a while neither quite sure the proper way to proceed.  You’re the first to speak.

“I believe it’s time to say goodbye.”  You’re sure to emphasize the point by pulling your hand away from the prince’s shoulder, returning it to your side.  

Iida’s grip tenses for a fraction of a second, like he’s only just remembered his hand clutching your waist.  Nevertheless, he removes it without argument.  You can’t help but notice the way cold rushes at you in the absence of his touch.  “I believe you’re right.”  

“Well then,” you smile despite the wave of nausea threatening to topple you right there and then, “thank you for a wonderful year, Prince Iida.  Goodbye.” You step away from him, but you’re distinctly aware of the fact that your hands are still joined. The prince hasn’t completely released his hold over you yet.

You’re about to repeat your farewell—a reminder—but then Iida bows his head low.  You don’t have a moment to question his intentions before he’s dragging your hand up, pressing his lips to your knuckles.  The act itself catches you off-guard. The way he lingers makes your face heat up.  You can only pray the color doesn’t carry to your fingers.

Without rising completely, Iida peers up at you, not smiling, but also not looking as upset as you’d expected him to.

“Goodnight.”

It isn’t the same, solemn “goodbye” you’d granted him, but by that point, you’re too exasperated to question much.  It wouldn’t be until early the next morning that you’d understand the meaning behind it.  

You’re stepping out onto the docks when you find the ring tucked into the pocket of your belt.  It’s silver with a single clear, blue stone propped into an intricate setting.  You’re not positive how long it’s been there, but you can certainly guess.  The gemstone alone must be priceless—expensive and much more extravagant than you ever would’ve dared to accept from anyone.  Then again, you suppose the gifter had known that—had understood that the implications behind the present would be extremely obvious.  Rings like this weren’t given as a parting gift.

As it turns out Prince Tenya was far more capable than even you’d given him credit for.  He no longer needed you—that much was clear as day.  But if his gift was any indication, he certainly wanted you.

And, much to your absolute horror, you wanted him too.  Even now.

You look to the ship— your ship—docked only a few dozen meters ahead. Its captain ushers you forward with the back of his hand, barking out some harsh words you don’t quite catch.  You glance back over your shoulder and the glint of white porcelain masks still hanging from the lampposts commands your attention. Tales of burly sailors, daring and intelligent, quick and resourceful fill your mind and...and you realize that you never did hear the end of that story.  You brush off the thought before it can make you overly-sentimental.  It’s all so difficult, though, because just beyond the lamps is the street you’ve just come from, and even further up, atop a hill you know very well, you can see a golden gate.  It’s just barely visible through the line of oaks surrounding it: the trees are tall and proud and standing adamantly upright, just like a prince you know.  Like the hill, you know him very well.

For what feels like the first time in your life, an irreconcilable sort of indecision throbs deep in your chest.  Not that there’s much a choice to make.  

Right?  

[homenum-revelio-hq]

Welcome (back) to the Order of the Phoenix, Sara!

You have been accepted for the role of non-biography character NILAM DEUIL REGULUS BLACK with the faceclaims of Go Ah-Sung & Ahn Jae-Hyun! We’re so excited to have you back into the roleplay with Regulus. We especially liked how you describe her readiness to explore her identity. We were very interested in the complications that having an underground informant pretending to be someone else via polyjuice can bring to the Order!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: Sara

AGE: i am so old, Karli

TIMEZONE: EST

ACTIVITY LEVEL: generally around every day for at least one post

ANYTHING ELSE: n/a 

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Regulus Black going by Nilam a shortening of Alnilam which is a star on Orion’s Belt and means “belt of pearls”. She tries not to use any last name but uses Deuil, the French word for mourning because it makes her think of black clothing and amuses her.

AGE: 19

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY:

Regulus Black would not know how to have sex if someone took her hand, stripped her of clothes, and gave her an extensive, hands on, tutorial. It's not that she hasn't thought about sex, or that she wouldn't enjoy it. It's more that that she went from angry and angsty Hogwarts kid straight to Voldemort's inner circle. Then she participated in some murdering, uncovered some very uncouth dark magic practices, and then purposefully poisoned herself in a cave.

She's been busy and, really, this is her very first time she's ever had the chance to be on her own and try to figure out what she likes. In addition to that, there's been this pervasive understanding that Regulus Black was a boy. Along with stealing back some time (sort of), Regulus has really stolen back her own identity after her whole life time of pretending to be another gender. Unfortunately the identity she stole back didn't come with a tutorial or a new personality. At least, so far, her mother doesn't know but that might be because she faked her own death.

Oh, and if found out most of her family will want to kill her and the other part of the family, well, can she even trust them? 

Details, really. Stupid, unimportant, details. Totally doesn’t impact her self perception at all.

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

HOUSE ALUMNI: Slytherin

ANY CHANGES: N/A

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY:

Strengths--

Expansive Thinking:

It’s not so much cunning or perception or even intelligence that Regulus Black has. Her OWLs were okay—if not spectacular. Her ability to socialize… somewhat less so than other family members. But what she lacks in social and book learning she well makes up for in being able to piece together information. Sure, Regulus might have never been able to sit down and regurgitate a chapter of a book—but she could take that same information and connect it to other chapters in other books and understand how it works. The same concept is applied outside of learning and into social situations—a perception on who-is-interested-in-whom (which got her into trouble more than once at Hogwarts when he blurted it out in the common room) or just what someone else is getting up to. Regulus doesn’t require obvious information—just enough clues that, over time, fit together like a puzzle.

Cunning it's not just a descriptor for her house: Regulus might not be the most conniving social mover, but that doesn't mean she hasn't sniffed out ways to manipulate all on her own. Before faking her own death, she became quite good at blending into the background, looking softer and more malleable than she was (although, to be fair, she was always a little more malleable than Regulus would have wanted to admit), and collecting information without being thought of as, well, anything worth worrying about. Post-faking-her-death, well, she's got to survive somehow… sure she might have it  slightly easier (everyone's looking for a boy, after all, if they are looking for anyone…) but that doesn't mean she isn't striving, and mostly succeeding, to keep herself and what she knows safe. Regulus Black might feel like she’s been dealt a shit hand—but she’s been doing okay with it so far and that’s all down to being a cunning little asshole.

Weaknesses--

Anxious it's not mess that makes Regulus anxious: its life. Regulus as always been an unsettled, introverted, pureblood who  doesn't care for loud noises (shouting is the worst), mudbloods, werewolves or mess. Counting helps, rubbing the inside of her robes between her fingers helps. Not being around people helps. Really, all of this would be a dead giveaway to her figuring out Voldemort or Death Eater plans but… its constant. It's been a part of Regulus since, perhaps, the day she was born--or, if not then, then certainly by the time she landed at Hogwarts. In fact, she's even learned how to use it to her advantage to some degree--to throw someone off  or mislead them...but that doesn't really help when an argument breaks out and all she wants to do is cover her ears and shout stop stop stop.

Unstable so all the cunning and crafty thinking couldn't save Regulus from one stupid decision: drinking poison. If you asked her, even, she was perfectly fine before she went into a cave and drank a mysterious dark potion… but would anyone stable really think that was the best course of action? Into a cave. Alone. (Does a a house elf even count?) Knowing it was set up by one of the darkest wizards of her time who was fracturing his soul for immortality. No, Regulus Black reached the point of 'unstable' long before that poison touched her lips. It's even possible that the poison she drank has nothing to do with her difficulties now. Sometimes her hands  go numb and she drops things, other times she misses a little time...well, she thinks, she didn’t need that hour anyway! Thoughts get a bit out of order--though they seem perfectly acceptable right then. This should concern Regulus more than it does but she's survived this long, hasn't she?

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY:

Walburga : Regulus likes to say that Sirius is more like their mother but, honestly, she's not so sure about that now (though she will be if she ever argues with Sirius again). Loud, dramatic, and demanding Regulus tried her best to stay in Walburga's good graces more often than not. 

Sirius : older brother, arsehole, Regulus simultaneously adores and loathes her older brother. The adoration came from when they were little, thick as thieves, and nothing could break them apart… until Hogwarts did, until Sirius left for good, until the war. There's a lot that Regulus has never told Sirius and likely a lot Sirius has never told Regulus--and Regulus isn't sure that's a bad thing.

Narcissa : honestly, if Regulus could have family related #goals Narcissa would probably be a good paradigm to aspire to… unfortunately, her poise and social management are so far out of her skillset the idea of attaining those skills is pretty laughable. 

Bellatrix : another family member Regulus delights in ascribing similar personality traits to Sirius. Bellatrix was instrumental in getting Regulus involved with the Death Eater's which was thrilling at sixteen and horrific by  eighteen.

Andromeda : Who? Even after having run away herself, Regulus doesn't  know what to  think about   Andromeda. Andromeda ran away for the wrong reasons, right?

It would be foolish to imply that Regulus Black is nothing like her family: Regulus Black is everything like her family. Slightly neurotic, settled in her own perception of right-and-wrong and superiority… all of this could be describing her mother, some of her extended family, and even her brother (well, neurotic in a different way, surely). The major difference between Regulus Black and Sirius Black is simple: Sirius was gifted a direct personality and Regulus a sponge. One might even call her sensitive—at least if they had met her at five and not fifteen. Instead of struggling against the tide of emotions and shouting in her home, Regulus absorbed it all. Instead of fighting, Regulus aquesessed: they knew better, after all. If she just did everything right maybe things would turn out okay?

Love might not ever be something said but perhaps there was that in the family, too. The language was just different and Sirius had a mistranslation. Regulus was better than that.

OCCUPATION: 

Regulus : family heir, do you think  she was allowed any "hobby" (much less job) other than Death Eater? After leaving the family "nest", so to speak, Regulus looked for ...well, it wasn't so much something to do as something to cover her weird erratic behavior. That something ended up being divination. She has an ad that runs in the paper once a week on different editions that reads: Nilam Deuil. Smoke and Ink scrying by Owl or Toad Appointment Only.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER: 

Regulus is fairly certain they are all going to die--herself most certainly included in that. Granted,  she was expecting to die about two months earlier and that hasn't happened yet. Generally, Regulus has gone from one vigilante group to another and while the people are different  she finds a strange sort of comfort in the cycle of chatter and arguments  she hears. It's … the same? different but the same. In addition to that there’s even some comfort in understanding that they are all going to die--after all, if that's the case, what does any of this matter anyway?

Purpose: Regulus is providing information for sanctuary. Part of that sanctuary agreement is that she can present as the gender she is and not to be outed to anyone. She wanted some measure of freedom (thus new face and faked death) and protection (thus aligning herself with the Order). Her information is along the lines of organization structure, horcruxes, and methodology, among other aspects.

Role: Externally Regulus presents as a new order receuit named Nilam Deuil. A few upper level order members (Dumbledore, Kingsley, Moody, possibly others in play) know Nilam is Regulus while most simply know her as low level assistance in London. Other inner circle members may know that there is some sort of informant that has come forward and is involved in closed door meetings, however they do not know it's Regulus. In this way the Order helps protect Regulus but also holds the leash keeping her tethered to the conflict.

SURVIVAL: 

Regulus should be dead. Regulus is suicidal as a general rule (not that she’d admit to it) and that is no better displayed than in her visit to a cave filled with inferi and poison. However…  she ...didn't die.  she didn't die. Instead,  she was able to get in contact with Dumbledor. In addition to that, prior to her decision to leave the Death Eaters (by death or otherwise) Regulus survived based on her dueling skill and wits--although some would question the latter. She’s only now trying to get into the swing of things of moving around a lot or getting comfortable with a bunch of mudbloods and halfbreeds: she’d rather move around a lot.

RELATIONSHIPS: 

Mary MacDonald she and Regulus only overlapped in a few classes thanks to her being a different house, but  she certainly knows about her -- heard all about her as Mulciber bragged endlessly of that one time  she "put that mudblood" in her place. Regulus got used to gritting her teeth in a smile and nodding along as though  she were oh-so-impressed...but the woman she met didn't seem to have been put in any place and now Mulciber is dead. Maybe there's more to this Mudblood than meets the eye. Maybe there's a reason  she should avoid her -- and not just because  she doesn't want to be tripped-up and found out through a accidental reference to something she should have no idea about.

Sirius Black is the one person who will, at some point, be told who she  is and where she's hiding. Regulus knows the only control she has over that is to spill the beans herself..but should she? Or should she wait and see when Dumbledor or one of the  other  upper Order Member's out her? If she waits she might die before she ever has to deal with whatever fallout that will bring. 

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: Regulus / Chemistry. Really, Regulus is more asexual then anything.

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?  Regulus : was born into every ounce of privilege and is having a hard time managing the fact she now lives as though she has none of them. Purebloods are obviously better than everyone else --except now it's everyone else that is inadvertently keeping her alive. In addition to that, Regulus also had the privilege of being tutored in dueling and additional educational opportunities. She speaks French and passable German in addition to English and… plays the harpsichord. 

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? Fuck Terfs, frankly.

PLOT DROP IDEAS: You know me, I’m here to be the IC fuck up who blows up a building on pure accident unlike Dorcas… or providing information at the wrong time (or right one)

ANYTHING ELSE? N/A

EXTRA FOR NON-BIO CHARACTERS:

PAST: 

Regulus Black was never supposed to be the heir of the Black family. Sirius was louder, a natural at many things, and just almost the ideal Heir. Almost because he rebelled a bit too much and Regulus never quite understood why. It would have been so much easier if Sirius had just… relaxed. Family was important and for all that Sirius loved them, his friends were not family. While Sirius was learning the importance of close friends (and found family) Regulus was being immersed in the family mindset. She was never one to question too hard and certainly not socially skilled enough to find better contacts. It was almost natural, certainly half expected, that her counter rebellion to her brother was joining the Death Eaters. What wasn't expected was that  she eventually, slowly but decisively, realized that her 'go along and everything is fine' way of being was the worst choice she could have made. 

PRESENT: 

Regulus Black faked “his” own death. What else was she supposed to do, really? If she left she’d just be murdered and have never had the opportunity to live as herself. Granted, she expects this ‘opportunity’ to sell what she knows to the Order and live “freely” to evaporate shortly but something is better than nothing. It’s just too damn bad that drinking poison has given her some adverse effects and pretending to be someone she’s not takes social skills she’s never honed. At least when she looks in the mirror she feels like herself for the first time...or would if her polyjuice didn't round out her face so much. For Regulus, it’s all about the details and racing a self-made clock before she fucks up enough that everyone will realize: surprise! That weird new girl is a murderous Death Eater who had enough information to buy herself a new life.

Regulus' Alias is: Nilam Deuil a former Beauxbatons Academy student and current Smoke and Ink scrying divination "expert".

FC CHOICES: Go Ah-Sung (and Ahn Jae-Hyun) or Lana Condor (and Moon Gayoung)

[elicksir]

Reflection on Wood, Metals & Plastics

In this workshop we were making 3D structures using the woods, metals and plastics workshop. It was my first time being in there and using the equipment so I had to be taught how to safely use everything - at first I wasn’t too sure about how well I’d use it all or if I’d remember but in the end I used everything correctly and found my confidence grew. The day before this workshop I’d decided on a theme I wanted to focus on for the project - which was music - so I chose for my structure to be related to this concept somehow. 

Originally my plans were quite typical in the way that I was going to make something using classic music symbols like a treble clef, but after talking to my tutor I realised I wanted my work to take on a more universal approach, since not everyone can recognise those symbols. Instead, I decided to use an idea that had been suggested to me when talking to one of my tutors about representing music in this project - one that I’d been interested in trying so I used this workshop as a chance to experiment with it. For the planning sketch I picked a song to listen to, then, holding a pencil, I made a continuous line drawing to the rhythm of the song. I used an upbeat song because I thought I would naturally make more dynamic shapes to it, and if I’d used a slow song there might not have been as much variation. In my first attempt, the sketch became too tangled because I’d overlapped my lines so much it was hard to identify the beginning or end of the sketch, thus making it hard for me to translate into a three-dimensional form. I kept this in mind during my second attempt, where I made sure my drawing spread across the page. 

I decided I wanted my sculpture to be made of a variety of materials so I could experiment with them all, plus I knew for some materials if I used one only it’d be difficult to manipulate them to look like my sketch. I used some rod for the first section because I knew the wire would be too bendy to make the proper, pointed angles that I wanted, however, in the end the equipment I used to fold the rod didn’t make the “zig zags” as sharp as I wanted them to, so if I did this again I’d probably try using tin instead. Next I chose wire - the section was full of loops and round shapes, so I knew this material would be suitable since it’s so malleable. I tried using the rod again next but I was testing how flexible it was instead of how foldable this time. It was difficult to shape it but with some determination I managed to pull it to the shape I wanted. The rest of the sculpture was tin. I found this the best material to work with because it wasn’t hard to manipulate but also didn’t lose its shape easily. The only difficult part was cutting the strips I wanted. The equipment required you to press down on a pedal with force and I found I didn’t have enough strength to do it easily. I had to put my whole weight into it and was worried I would fall off because I had to put both feet on it at points. If I struggle next time I might get someone’s help instead because what I did could’ve been dangerous if I hadn’t been careful. 

Before we made our objects we were shown examples of items considered, art, craft or design and we discussed how to differentiate them. After we’d made our objects we talked about what category we thought each other’s work fitted into. My work was put into the art section, which I agreed with. The song the sketch was based on was one from my childhood so it held personal value, and it was a form of self-expression. Getting positive feedback from the others was appreciated, and someone said it would look good hanging from the wall (I took advantage of this comment the next week when we had to make an exhibit).

I’d been cautious at first of how I would do in this workshop since I don’t have much skill with 3D work and when I’d tried in the past the outcome was not very good. I think I did better this time because I was shown all the ways in which I could properly control the materials and since my work was abstract I didn’t need to worry about it having to resemble anything (the stuff I’d made in the past was based off of real-life subjects). All in all, this was a fun workshop to partake in.

[dracox-serdriel]

Lament of the Asphodels - Chapter 37: An Elegy to the Erinyes or, the Labors of Heracles

Lament of the Asphodels

Title: An Elegy to the Erinyes or, the Labors of Heracles Author: Dracox Serdriel Artist: @liamjcnes Artwork: Post 1 | Post 2 Word count: 2,200 Rating: NC-17/Explicit (except on FF) Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, Graphic sexual content, Declaration/threats of sexual violence, Minor character death, Social stigmatization/abuse, Detailed descriptions of hopelessness/depression/inner turmoil, Descriptions of the effects of extreme phobias/social anxiety, including anthropophobia, thalassophobia/hydrophobia, and hylophobia/dendrophobia, Descriptions of shipwrecks and storms at sea

Read Lament of the Asphodels on FF, AO3, LJ, or start at the beginning on Tumblr. Written as part of @captainswanbigbang.

Chapter 37: An Elegy to the Erinyes or, the Labors of Heracles

Emma watched the shadowy silhouette swoop through the night sky, periodically unleashing fireballs as it descended into the distance. As soon as it disappeared somewhere beyond the clock tower, her mind began to race with possibilities and intrigue.

The dark would work against them, but with Pegasus as their steed, no beast could evade them by air or land. A familiar surge crept into her blood, pumping her heart a little faster and infusing her with a profound second wind. She turned on her heel toward the door, grabbing Killian's arm as she went.

But, as it transpired, he was an anchor, unwavering and unmoving. Their intersecting forces spun her away from the exit and back around to him.

She said, "If we leave now - "

"Leave?" he interrupted.

"If we don't go now, it's going to get away."

"Love, we don't even know what it is," he pointed out. "And it's the dead of night."

"Which means it'll be sleeping," she countered.

"Aye, unless the flying, fire-spewing beast is nocturnal," he said. "Swan, we've only just returned to the land of the living. Perhaps we should leave the monster till morning."

The bubbling, raw energy inside her pulsated under her skin, pushing her to insist upon her current course of action, but as soon as she opened her mouth, her argument died upon her tongue. She had her magic and he, his cutlass, but the creature spouted flame as easily as yawning. It wasn't the kind of thing to face with no rest and no plan after a very, very long journey, not when they yet had safer and surer options.

Killian wrapped his arm around her as he observed the passionate purpose in her eyes slowly recede. Her reply was painted across the lines of her brow, leaving no need for her to speak them.

"Ever the Savior, Swan," he remarked.

She smiled and said, "You're right. Whatever it is will still be there tomorrow."

Relieved, his mind returned to the many imminent tasks at hand, such as making the bed, so he failed to see the mischievous look that blossomed on Emma's face. Thus, he was thoroughly surprised when she whirled him about, took hold of his lapels, and yanked him down into a ferocious kiss.

He regained his footing with hardly a misstep, reciprocating her passion with equal fervor. On occasions like these, his stomach normally performed a series of backflips, but this time, his heart matched it movement for movement in a sensational samba that seared his blood, stiffening his member and flushing his skin.

She relished how malleable his lips felt against hers, light and soft and inviting. He shifted back, adjusting as he snaked his arms down and around her, and she followed him, rising to her tiptoes to maintain her grip.

Every impression was amplified: deeper and stronger, hotter and faster, gentler and brighter. If either party spared a moment's thought as to the reason, they surely would have concluded that their ascent from the Underworld was the cause, and they would have no way of knowing - not in the thick of things, at least - that it had no bearing on the breadth or depth of their sensations. No, it was not the realm, but rather their singular heart, freshly split between them, connecting them with every thump and flutter.

As things were, however, neither wasted even a second considering the cause of their newly-acute pleasure, for the voracity of it swept them up in a wild and uncompromising storm of lips, tongues, and teeth.

In a whirlwind of tangled limbs, they shed the barriers between them, coming together and breaking apart like the endlessly rolling waves of the tide. By the time his brace and hook clattered to the floor, their nude forms were covered with a sheen of sweat from their efforts, panting hard yet unwilling to release one another to catch their respective breaths.

A tickle of mischief ran up her spine, inspiring a playfulness that she hadn't mustered since she last stood in this very room all those years ago. Emma coiled her hand around the base of his cock, enveloping him with a marvelous heat and the perfect amount of pressure, which escalated as she slid up and down in smooth, slow undulations. He jolted in joy, his head falling back as a deep moan involuntarily erupted from his throat.

Her mouth descended upon the sensitive skin of his neck, leaving a scarlet mark on the pulse point at its base before she trailed her tongue along the line of his collarbone.

Overwhelmed by her merciless onslaught, Killian could do little more than vocalize his appreciation over the sumptuous sounds of suction springing from her lips. She continued her ministrations, descending lower and lower, until she knelt before him, nibbling at his protruding hipbones.

When he finally marshaled enough strength to look down at her, she met his eyes. Witnessing her heavily lidded eyes blown wide with want, he became desperate to know what manner of noises he might draw from those devilishly skilled lips of hers. The thought alone was enough to end him.

Killian struck like a hawk capturing prey, swooping down and lifting her to her feet as he curled her around and brought her back flush against his chest. His cock bounced off the pert lobes of her ass before being trapped against the small of her back, forcing him to smoother his groan of delight against the shell of her ear as he sucked hard.

Determined to repay her in kind, he held her tightly in place, his left arm across her shoulders and his right over her hips. He showered her radiant skin with his attentive and capable mouth, drawing rasping gasps from her chest as she wriggled against him. She reached her arms behind herself, her hands exploring his flanks with hurried, demanding fingers, only to discover her true quarry inaccessibly pinned between them. So she grabbed the sinewy flesh of his thighs and ass, anchoring herself to him. Her breath steadily became more and more ragged, but never quite elevating to the moan he desperately longed to hear.

He raised his left arm until the crook of his elbow cradled her chin. Then his right hand dipped lower, casually exploring the supple planes of her thighs, his finger gradually roaming inward with feather-light touches. Yet still, she let no utterance of passion pass from her, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth to prevent even the quietest of moans from escaping.

Spurred on by her challenge, he eased his hand over the blond curls that concealed her sex, then down to the sweet opening beneath, lubricating his finger with the abundance of her arousal before slipping up to her engorged bud, applying the slightest friction possible. She gasped as she shuttered once, twice, and then she began to roll her hips against his fingers.

He withdrew his hand, and she frantically clamped her legs together, keeping him where she needed him most.

"Killian," she pleaded.

He circle her clit languidly, applying pressure to the sensitive bundle of flesh, and finally - finally - the flood gates opened, and the dulcet tones of Emma Swan's pleasure filled the room, a fine and frenzied music to his ears. She grinded her hips against him as his name fell from her lips as a curse and a prayer, driving him to plunge two fingers into her tight, sopping-wet quim while continuing his meticulous ministrations on her clit.

He exacted a long, deep orgasm from her. She burrowed into the taught muscles of his ass, marking him with bruises in the shape of her fingertips. Her every muscle clenched in agonizing pleasure as she came, then suddenly relaxed in unison moments later, leaving her boneless against him for support.

How long Emma remained slumped helplessly against him, neither could say, nor could she speak to the interval she felt afloat, above everything, the sweet bliss of safety dovetailing with the culmination of passion. The only certainty was that it - like all mortal things - did not last forever.

At some point, Emma's faculties became attuned to her surroundings, such as the sure and steady friction Killian pressed into the vault between her legs and the intricate, delicate patterns his mouth wove against her skin, as if he might indelibly scribe the words 'beautiful', 'marvelous', and 'perfection' with his tongue.

Awareness - comprehensive and sharp - returned to her in a single, fitful moment when Emma shifted her weight to her heels and felt his stiff cock against her back. Though he had driven her to an unexpected high only minutes prior, she suddenly ached for him twice as hard. It felt as of an age had come and gone since she had last felt him buried deep within her, pleasure budding with his punishing thrusts, bringing them together with smart, wet slaps of flesh.

The thought stoked her already-roaring flames of want. By some cruel trick of nature, however, she found herself unable to speak, and therefore, without means or recourse to describe - to beg - her desires, or, indeed, any manner in which to articulate the deep and terrible well of her need thereof.

She shifted forward, and, finding his grip slack, continued until her forearms rested on the half-made bed. Then she whipped her hair over one shoulder and cast her eyes over the other, hoping her actions beseeched that which she could not speak.

Killian had, on many occasions, described her as an open book, and, if his expression was any indication, his perceptions had not failed her. His eyes were black with naught but the faintest sliver of their true cerulean hue, and his face bespoke both of his abiding, unrelenting appetite and of his delight at her wordless request.

He slumped over her and pressed his lips to the base of her spine, breathing in the scent of her sweat and sex before he continued up her back, kissing each vertebra deliberately, delighting in the salt of her skin and her tiny groans of impatience.

He swept the few stray tresses of her hair carefully to one side as he licked between her shoulder blades. He shied away from her face, following the turn of her spine so he could kiss each inch of the back of her neck.

Then, in stark contrast to his leisurely pace, he captured her lips, demanding entry to every corner of her mouth, and she sighed as she gave herself over to his dominating kiss, relishing the heat of his body covering hers as he consuming her gasps of pleasure.

He followed the well-learned lines of her figure, lining himself up without abandoning their kiss, swallowing their matching moans as he plunged into her slick, warm center with a single thrust of his hips. They broke apart to breath, pressing their foreheads together as they acclimated to their renewed connection, shuttering in tandem as ripples of pleasure flowed between them.

"Bloody hell," he whispered.

Perhaps he waited a moment too long, for she gyrated her hips as she clenched around him, drawing a string of breathless curses from him as he nearly collapsed onto her. She was tighter than a vice and simultaneously wanting and welcoming, and though they had shared passions countless times before, this felt new and bold and fragile.

Killian shifted his hips back until only the tip of his cock remained sheathed. He slid back inside with a smooth, gradual motion, forcing himself rein in his need to pound into her mercilessly. He continued to thrust at a tepid pace, grinding his teeth in restraint, but soon she was meeting him with thrusts of her own, quickening the pleasure, all the while unleashing the lowest pleas of 'Killian... Killian, please.'

With that, his resolve for tender lovemaking snapped, and he began to pump into her in earnest. The pace quickly became punishing as the room filled with the slick slaps of his flesh meeting hers in a rough tempo underscored by lengthy moans, both too far gone to shout the other's name.

Euphoria welled up and boiled over. Emma could feel the hailing quiver of her cunt enveloping him, just as he could feel the delicious plunge of his cock as it hit that spot inside her that made her see stars. Neither had any time to sort through the barrage of these newly shared sensations, for the rush of experiencing both sides of pleasure - at once giving and receiving, being penetrated and penetrating - bought their ecstasy far more swiftly than either had expected, tossing them into the throes of an abrupt and simultaneous orgasm that overwhelmed them like a Northedge storm.

Emma and Killian returned to some semblance of themselves coiled together on the now unmade bed, awash in contentment. The only interruption to their bliss was a chill, accompanied by the faintest trembling shiver from Emma. Killian had enough presence of mind to procure the discarded blankets from the floor to cover them before he followed his love into a deep and restful sleep.

End-of-chapter notes: The Erinyes were female deities of vengeance who inhabited the Underworld, sometimes referred to as the Furies.

In Greek myth, the hero Heracles was tasked with ten labors as penance for killing his wife and children during a fit of insanity induced by the goddess Hera. In the end, he completed twelve labors, for two of his earlier labors, slaying the Hydra and cleaning the Augean Stables, were disqualified because he received assistance.

Author’s notes: So, I’ve only just realized that the last chapters of this fic weren’t posted, even though they were supposed to be posted last year. I’m not exactly sure how I dropped the ball on this one, but I wanted to apologize to anyone who was wanting on an update for this fic. I’ll be doing my best to get the last chapters out before the end of April. I hope you’ve enjoyed this latest installment!

For next and previous chapters, proceed to the Lament of the Asphodels main Tumblr page.