hightownquccn

[the-velvet-worm]

I really love how Vox Machina was like yeah we are fruity and sometimes people speculate we’re in a polycule and we play into that for the laughs and while we are queer for the most part we all end up in relationships that look traditional to the untrained eye, but are actually quite forward-thinking and queer in nature.

Meanwhile the Might Nein are like we are gay we are so so very gay. All of us have crushes on each other and every single person we encounter along our journey. Beau is out here having one night stands with every single woman/nonbinary individual they meet, she has a crush on Jester, she has a crush on Yasha, she’s a lesbian disaster. Caleb had a boyfriend and a girlfriend at the same time and now he’s in a monogamous relationship with a war criminal. Molly will fuck anything that moves. Cad is the archetypal aroace emotional support friend. Just so much variety in one group of people how can you even.

[call-sign-shark]

Of Bending and Breaking || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Always being the one who cares for others comes with a price: you break down, but the most unexpected person is here for you: Tommy, the man you were forced to marry.

Words: 2,3k

TW: Hurt/Comfort, very tiny mention of past sexual assault, no proofreading 'cause it comes from clearing my drafts.

Notes: Aunt Isabella's is a tribute to my own aunt Isabelle who, unfortunately, died because of cancer a few years ago.

It all started with Polly shaking Tommy like a tree, her thin hands firmly grabbing his nephew’s broad shoulders: “You can’t keep sabotaging yourself like this, Tom.” These were the words that left her quivering lips as she dragged his staggering frame to the bathroom and pushed his face into the bathtub right under the tap. When the freezing water splashed all over his neck, Tommy opened his blank eyes wide and inhaled sharply, as if he had suddenly come back to life. Since Grace’s awful death, the gangster was the shadow of his former self. When he wasn’t waging a senseless war with Father Hughes and the Italian, or when he wasn’t keeping his buzzing mind busy with work, Tommy usually numbed himself with a deadly combination of whisky and opium until his deep-seated pain became bearable. It was the night he almost overdosed that Polly decided to take charge of his nephew and found him a new wife, in the hope of soothing his nephew’s mind and finding a mother figure for poor little Charlie. The idea had obviously sent Tommy in a fit of anger but Polly Gray couldn’t care less.

Regarding your own situation, it was not the opium nor the loss of a dear lover that had led you to Birmingham’s most dangerous man but rather the bump in your belly. Aunt Isabella had understood what you were suffering from the moment you had stormed out of the vardo to throw up your breakfast in the nearest bush. The tall and lean woman, whose light brown and curly mane danced in the cold autumn wind, had looked at you right in the eyes and raised one of her thin eyebrows. If there was something pleasant with her, it was that words weren’t necessary.

Yet, later she encountered Polly, with whom she had been a great friend since childhood, and explained that a powerful American man had forced his seeds in you during his stay in England. Not willing to go through the traumatic experience of aborting, Isabella only saw one solution to your problem: you needed a husband who could protect you and your future baby from the evil man with his scarred lip. A wedding would be your salvation. At the realization of what Aunt Isabella had planned for you, you tried to run away from the camp in the middle of the night but she knew you too well and soon caught you, her sly hand firmly grabbing your wrist: “Y/N! It’s for your sake! He’s rich, he needs a wife and he is feared! You’ll be safe with him, don’t you understand?” She explained, cupping your face with her long fingers adorned with claws painted in red and far too many rings. “I don’t need a man to protect me! I don’t need anyone. He’s older and he’s a criminal! Who’s going to protect me from him eh? Have you think ‘bout that?” You cried, the soft light of the sunrise turning your tears into liquid gold.

But still, you wedded him and what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life turned out to be a dull event during which you dissociated the whole time. The only memories you had in mind were two piercing and frightening turquoise eyes staring right at your soul and soft whiskey-tasting lips stealing a quick peck from your cherry lips. A kiss devoid of any form of affection. And then, the groom left.

From what Aunt Isabella told you, your husband had spent most of the celebrations with his brothers, drinking and taking bets outside of Arrow House. Months had passed and still, you felt estranged to this place and its staff. The only moments your heart lightened were when Aunt Isabella visited you, or when Charlie spent time with you, otherwise you remained emotionally closed, trapped in your own mind. Overall you could not complain: You had a house far too big for you with plenty of workers willing to exhaust every one of your wishes. Charlie was a sweet boy, who loved you with all his heart even if you were well aware that you’ll never replace his mother. As for the Shelby clan, they were cordial with you without being really friendly either. And there was Tommy…

Cold and distant Tommy, who you only saw late at night when he discretely slipped under the bedsheet and turned his back to you without uttering a single word. Busy Tommy, whose replies remained concise and spoken with a quiet husky voice each time you asked him something — at least he talked to you a little bit. Trapped in a loveless marriage, that was what you were: Tommy was more a stranger, a mere gust of wind in your life, than the love of your life.

Still, the gangster stayed true to his words and he provided for everything, never refusing to give you money when you asked, and protecting you from the man who had taken your innocence. He even gifted you a wonderful stallion because he knew how much you missed riding. In exchange for his protection and riches, all you had to do was take care of Charlie and do your best to be there for your husband when his darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

You found out about the nightmares shortly after your wedding and quickly decided to do something about it. When he woke up screaming and drenched in sweat after tasting the tunnels’ dirt and Grace’s crimson blood in his troubled sleep, you always cradle him, your fingers losing themselves in his wet dark hair to pet his head gently. At first, you feared his reaction, expecting the infamous Tommy Shelby to push you and not-so-kindly ask you to keep your distance but, to your greatest surprise, he never did. Instead, he would bury his face in your cleavage, panting and trembling, and let you reassure him. Just like he let you bring dinner to him each time he drowned himself in paperwork and forgot to eat. He never commented on your cooking skills though, even if he always handed back empty plates.

The blood on his skin? You cleaned it.

The wounds of his flesh? You never failed to patched them up.

The hole in his heart? You tried to seal it off with caresses, soft kisses, and shoulder massages. Maybe one day he would slowly turn his iciness into affection. Little did you know that he needed it. And by it he needed you. Just like the whole family. How many times did you walk the streets of Birmingham at night, seeking for Arthur and then bringing him home to take care of a wasted and high him? Far too many to keep track. Similarly, you had spent countless evenings helping Ada when she felt overwhelmed, either nursing Karl or cleaning her house when, just like her brother, she overworked herself. And finally, Polly could never thank you enough for everything you did to soothe her mind after the gallows, still haunted by the bite of the hanging rope on her throat.

“Thanks Poppy.” Arthur muttered, the gravel in his voice coated with shame now that you were down clearing and disinfecting his split knuckles. The oldest brother had started to affectionately call you so for the sole reason that, according to him, you must probably grow better when blood was considering how much you had seen when patching the Shelby siblings. “Sorry for errr… For the mess.” He went on, his steel blue eyes fleeing yours.

“That’s okay.” You replied in Romani, “You, sweet idiot.” Endeared by how surprisingly soft Arthur’s harsh complexions could turn, you couldn’t help but gently put your hand on one of his cheeks. And during this tender display of affection, Arthur was convinced he had caught sight of a smile — a scarce event barely happening on your beautiful but resigned face. Comforted by the warmth of your palm, he leaned into your touch and looked at you through dark lashes, his lids half-closed.

“Tommy’s one lucky bastard to have ya for himself, eh."

"Let's both flee together then." You teased, the familiar tone of Romani language rendered even more melodious by your siren-like voice.

"Don't tempt me, little one." Arthur replied, softer than intended and probably only half-joking.

The oldest Shelby brother had barely closed the door when your smile disappeared and tears flooded your eyes. Admittedly, spending months of repressing your own anguish didn’t do any good to you despite thinking that focusing on others would have helped. Quite the contrary, all those negative emotions you had left on the back burner turned into a silent and deadly parasite that was eating you up. Dragging your tired frame to the cold and empty marital bedroom, you curled up in a ball in a corner of the room, your bruised knees pressed against your chest, “Positive. You gotta stay positive and push forwards y’see Y/N? Do the right things for the family…” You whispered to yourself as your breath started to quicken for the ball of sorrow in your throat was growing more and more. Yes, you had to smile and say that all was just fine because you knew you were lucky to be here and that you hadn’t any real reason to complain now according to the rest of the world. And yet, the truth was you were tired. So tired and overwhelmed by everything around you. With your wild soul trapped here in the mighty walls of Arrow House, you could not help but drown in an excruciating feeling of worthlessness.

You were lost in a world too difficult for you to understand. Lost and unprepared for a life that asked for too much. When you were living in the vardo with Aunt Isabella life seemed so much easier despite the lack of money and, sometimes, food. Prior to your wedding, she used to tell you that everything would become clear once you’d be a wife and a mother. You’d be an adult adult, you see? But she lied. They all lied. Even with a husband and kids, you still felt like a scared and confused child, who wanted to hide under the blanket of her warm bed and never face the world ever again. These concerns of yours? You never shared because you wanted the Shelby to keep seeing you as a reassuring presence— moreover, God knew how much their broken hearts needed your silent care.

Bringing your trembling fingers to your mouth, you muffled a first sob, convinced it would be enough to keep you from crying. What you didn’t expect was to burst into tears, uncontrollably weeping. After all this time forcing yourself to be strong, your mind had enough. As your heart-wrenching cries echoed in the room they muffled Tommy’s footsteps that were coming closer and closer. When the door flung open, you did not even move, lost in a spiral of pain and psychological exhaustion.

“Y/N?!” Tommy called you, his usual coldness swept away by a surge of panic. He closed the distance between you and him with hastened steps, and put one of his knees on the floor to be at your level, “What’s wrong, ay?” His husky voice asked, worries thickening his Brummie accent even more. You hiccuped and raised your flooded eyes towards him, parting your lips to answer. Yet, as soon as your gaze met his turquoise iris you started weeping again, louder this time. Words were at a loss by dint of never having the chance to express what you felt throughout your life. “Bloody Hell, Y/N! Speak!” Tommy hissed, his heart now drumming in his chest at the sight of his young and always-so-strong wife crumbling in bits in front of him. Never in his life, he had felt so powerless, not even in the tunnels… And, God, he hated it.

“N-nothing. I don’t… I don’t even know it’s just that— I’m so fucking tired, and lost, and confused, and afraid!” You spoke with a very fast pace, spitting years and years of repressed emotions flowing from you all the while feeling deeply ashamed of your mental breakdown. When you were done venting, you simply turned your head and waved off the topic, tears still rolling down your reddened cheeks “Anyway! You’ve got — more important things to do.”

“Stop it, Y/N,” He scolded, low voice rumbling in his chest. His strong and calloused hands, damaged by the war and hard work, cupped your face with a softness you didn’t know he possessed. For the first time in your life, his grip felt utterly reassuring as if you knew these scarred palms were not going to let you fall apart. Never. “You’re what’s important right now.” With that being said, Tommy leaned his forehead against yours and his enchanting eyes soon met yours to force you to focus on nothing else but the vast blue oceans which composed them. “I want you to calm down.”

“I can’t, I can’t—“ You tried to speak but you couldn’t, struggling to breathe under the crushing weight of your panic attack. Your mouth gaped, looking for the oxygen it couldn’t find.

“Oi!” Tommy said louder. So loud that his voice managed to overcome the cacophony of your beating heart and the buzzing sound of your anxiety that filled your head, “I want you to breathe with me, Y/N. Alright? You can do that for me, ay?” He asked, his eyebrows slightly frowned and charming crowfeet appearing at the corner of his eyes — how odd it was to see Tommy’s face veiled with something else than unsettling placidity. Caught off guard by the sudden realization of how close he was, you quieted down a little bit and soon followed the pattern of his breathing.

One long inhale through the nose, one longer exhale through the mouth, and a short pose.

Do it again.

Your shaky hands slowly grabbed his wrists in a desperate attempt to anchor you to reality. This, as well as the focus you had on his mesmerizing complexions.

His long dark lashes — you inhaled slowly.

His cat-like turquoise iris — you exhaled.

His salient cheekbones — You stopped breathing for a very short while.

The myriad of freckles — “Breathe with me, Y/N.”

The soft, hoarse lilt guided you through the dark and thick fog of your own brain, just like a lighthouse. Coming back to clearer waters, your body finally relaxed and fell almost limp in his arms. And once again he caught you, keeping you all safe against his chest. Tommy’s voice, low and steady, resonated one last time in the bedroom with a reassuring warmth as he uttered the simple yet powerful phrase, "I'm here." Each word carefully enunciated, carrying a quiet strength that soothed and reassured, like a comforting anchor in a stormy sea.

Keep your writers motivated: Reblog and/or comment if you liked it, you filthy animal! o/ English is not my first language btw.

Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @raincoffeeandfandoms @kishie8 @zablife @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996 @vanhelsingsbigtoe @red-riding-wood

[kosmosguk]

Lineage (M) | Special Chapter: How It Began

Pairing: Duke Yoongi x Princess Reader

Word Count: 4.4K

Summary: When an engagement locks you, the 8th and forgotten princess, to the duke infamous for his cruelty, you find yourself counting the days until your inevitable death. It’s terrifying to think of your end, but when you arrive at his territory, you realize there’s a more morbid reason behind your marriage, and that the duke is much worse than the rumors have painted him out to be. But many years before the events of Lineage's main story takes place, there was once only the love of a beloved goddess and a damned demon.

Warnings:  HEAVY yandere themes, death, gore and death, near-death experiences, obsessive behaviors, manipulation, mentions of smut, 18+, explicit language

A/N: Surprise, everyone! It's been, what, 4 years since I finished Lineage and 3 years since I stopped writing on this blog. I've been through a lot of ups and downs in the meantime (to underplay it), but I'm now in a pretty good spot. I've thought about writing this for years and there's probably at least 10 incomplete versions of this on my old laptop, but writer's slump was a huge barrier. It wasn't until a conversation with a roommate who had complained that a fic she liked was never fully fully complete that I thought about trying again, from scratch, to complete this part for Lineage. Lineage will always be my baby, and on a reread of it to prepare to write this chapter, the me of the past did do better than expected (probably better than the me of today). I don't know if any of my original readers are still here from the days when I was active on this blog, but even if it's just one, I hope I brought this story alive just a little longer. Will I write the epilogue though (which also has 10+ incomplete drafts)? We'll see :) Hopefully it won't take another 4 years!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Special Chapter |

A beautiful clearing stretched on underneath the heat of a sun that always remained warm. It was green and lush, but void of any budding blooms. There were bits of dried flowers that showed that there might have been flowers once, which had blossomed as quick back then as rain drops fell from the sky. This clearing was eternal, and it could only be changed by the touch of a being blessed by the divine or damned by the evil.

A man, cloaked in black, bent down into the clearing. There was only one more bloom now that still remained, a reminder of a time that seemed distant and far. It was hard to pick out from the shadows that spread from his feet, but he restrained the shadows until the yellow flower could tentatively peek out through the green.

It was time now. He could bring her back. She would fill this clearing with flowers again like she did before, and she would laugh as he clumsily wove together a crown from them.

He plucked the flower out of the grass and pressed it against his lips tenderly. It shriveled and dried up, leaving a colorless husk. He let it flutter out of his grasp and looked up at the sun for the first time in his existence.

"I will bring you back," he promised then. His voice sounded like he had not spoken in many years. He pulled out his sword and pierced it into the grass, watching the green shrivel into gray.

In the glint of his sword, there was a reflection of a young maiden, her fists kneading against a ball of dough. When she moved slightly, nudging the hair off of her shoulders, a hint of red was seen on her skin.

You were born in a field of flowers, blooming beautifully underneath a sky lit with gold. The daughter of the God of Life and the Goddess of Creation, you were beloved by all beings who relied on the earth to live. You, who had lived under the protection of all who was Good, were woefully ignorant of the true darkness of those who lived in the shadows of Evil.

But then on a peaceful day, not unlike the day you had been born, you realized then how easy it was for Evil to creep into the realm of the Good.

“Wake up, my goddess!”

You flinched, peeking your eyes open to the Fairy of Tulips pulling the hem of your tunic with her small fists. “I am sleeping, Little Tulip. Only official orders will wake me.”

The sun was warm against your skin, and the clarity of your mind was still soft from the blurry haze of sleep. Though deities had little need for sleep, your habit of naps was known far and wide through the Creators’ realm. You tried to close your eyes again, nestling back into the bed of grass, and brush her off your clothes, but she clung onto your palm, chomping on your thumb. You yelped, now wide awake.

She squinted down at you, fluttering up off your palm, and placed her hands on her hips, the sunrise tulip petals adorning her body swaying in her frenzy. “The flowers have been murmuring that there’s evil nearby! We have to leave. Now!”

You laughed. Evil? Evil had not existed in this realm for many eons, after the War ended with victory of the Good. But when the little fairy’s expression didn’t show a hint of amusement and the muttering of the flowers around you remained, you frowned and pushed yourself up to stand.

“If you are certain of evil, then I will bring myself to check it out. It would not do any of us good if I left the situation unchecked, as we are by the border of the realm.” You stepped forward, flowers blooming underfoot to soften your path. The little fairy tugged at your clothes, hoping to stop you, but you kept walking further away from the clearing you had been lazing in towards the forest by it. Instead of the welcoming lush green that usually greeted you, the forest was coated in darkness.  

When the muttering of the flowers pitched in volume, you knew you were getting close. You placed your hands out, ready to call for nature’s aid if the situation called for it. However, instead of some vile creature looming over you with venom oozing from its pores, a young man laid in the midst of the darkness. A closer look prompted a gasp to leave your lips. He was beautiful, more beautiful than any deity you had ever seen, and if you had not been entrenched in shadows, you could have been fooled to believe him holy. But the oozing black blood from the wound on his side and his eyes, which flickered open to glower at you, were a startling red.

He scooted back, his free hand falling to the blade by him.

“I will not hurt you!” you spoke before you could process the thought, mesmerized by the sight of his eyes. You showed him your hands. Your eyes dropped to the curve of his lips, which if it had not been pulled in a sneer would have been lush and have softened his features. “I am a healer and a grower, not a killer.”

His expression decreased in hostility. You hesitatingly asked: “Is it alright if I come close? You can keep your sword by you, and if I do anything unpleasant, I will understand if you slay me but...” You teetered for a moment. “But if you kill me, I cannot ensure your safety and that would be bad for you and me. Me because I would be dead and you because you would also be dead and...”

You were interrupted by a laugh. Your eyes flickered back to him. He looked startled at the sound he had made, and you smiled brightly in response. You took a step closer. When he did not tense, you dropped to your knees and raised your palm over his side. You lifted your gaze to meet his, and both of you sat in an entranced silence, staring at the other. His eyes dropped to your lips, though there was still a guarded look to him, and you held your breath.

“Do you want me to put my hand down?”

“What?” you sputtered. Oh. Heat burned at your cheeks as you noticed the playful tug of his lips. You nodded quickly. He must have thought you were amusing. You focused back on healing, and you would leave and tell Little Tulip to not say a word. You vowed that you would never see this brute, who enjoyed your embarrassment, again.

When he dropped his hand, you called your healing power, but the unpleasant quirk of your lips increased the time it took to fully heal his wound. When the flesh closed over the wound, you leapt back to your feet. You felt foolish, very unlike the noble and dignified deity you were supposed to be.

“I am going now. I will not tell a soul about you. You do not need to thank me, but I will tell you that you must not wander into this realm again. I guarantee that the next deity you meet will not be as forgiving as me and...”

Your lips pinched together when you felt his touch around your wrist. He pulled your hand down, and lifted his head to kiss the inside of your palm. You flinched at the press of his lips on your skin. He looked up at you, mistrust no longer in his eyes. “You are my savior. May I not be able to see you anymore?”

You dropped your gaze from his. If he heeded your words and you no longer saw him again, would the emptiness in you at the thought grow more and more?

“Only here,” your voice was but above a whisper. “If I see your shadows in the woods, I will come find you. But you must not come find me.”

He was silent for a second. “You are as cruel as you are kind, my goddess.”

He still had not let go of your hand and though his touch was cold, you felt fire licking up where his fingers made contact with your skin. You pulled your hand back like he had scalded you and spun on your heel, flowers having barely enough time to bloom underneath your bare feet with the quickness that you fled.

When you left the woods, your feet scratched up for the first time in your existence and your cheeks red, you could only force yourself to squeeze out a sentence at the quivering little fairy: “There was no evil.”

Your encounters with him continued, in secret and away from prying eyes. You talked about your visits to the human world: the songs you had heard and how you wished you could have danced and the loaves of bread you spotted cooling on the tables. You even talked about how your duties burdened you, though you were made to fulfill them, and how you felt like you were only able to handle them out of love for your humans. He talked about the books he had picked up in the human world, how he had found them meager and naïve at first and then interesting, and the little lake of lava he had grown up by and skipped rocks in. Though he spoke very little, when he did, you were captured by him.

And with the increase of encounters, your feelings of love, which you had reserved for only the creations that had been blessed by the hands of the Creators, grew. You let him hold you close to his chest, and when you laid your head on his flesh, you swore you could almost hear a heart beat quicker and quicker.

On your seventh encounter, when you had brought a basket of flowers into the woods to weave into crowns, you had placed one on his head. When he reached out into your basket and pulled out a handful of flowers, you watched him clumsily weave the flowers together and place the lopsided crown on your head. How could this man, as tender and clumsy as he was, be evil?

When he looked dejected at the sight of the crown limply hanging onto your head, you laughed and pressed a soft kiss on his lips. You had seen your lovely humans do this to express their adoration. And it was accurate to the moment: you adored him, to the point where you could ignore where his origins had laid root in.

Immediately, his hands reached up around your waist and pressed you close until you were on his lap. You gasped against his lips, and his tongue was in your mouth, delving into its depths. You burned underneath his exploration, your hands clenching onto his clothes into fists. Oh, you had never known pleasure like this, so unlike the simpleminded happiness you felt watching the trees hum in the wind and your humans create art. This pleasure was different: it blazed hotly, burning down trees and creating destruction in its path.

When the two of you were separated, your eyes blurred in a haze, he brushed his finger over the plumpness of your bottom lip, soaked in the mixture of saliva. His eyes were filled with anguish, but for what, you did not know. “My name is Yoongi.”

You let out a startled gasp at this. Oh. Oh no. You knew this name. You pushed away from him and onto your feet, flinging an arm out to point at him. “You are the Demon God. You...!”  

He was on his feet now, his hands reaching out to grab onto you. But you were inconsolable, banging your fists on his chest. Fire burned before your gaze, glimpses of your beloved humans hopelessly shielding their children from horrible monsters that would tear them apart and consume their remains. You knew those screams. You could hear them even now.

“You are the one to harm my beloved humans! I have seen your creations rise up, full of evil and malice. I have seen them destroy and terrorize and kill-!”

He held your hands to his chest, pressing your fists against where his heart would have been had he been human. The fight drained out of you, as you laid limply in his embrace, tears wetting the fabric of his clothes. His voice was ragged as he spoke. “I am full of evil, my goddess. I was full of evil. I admit, I who had been wandering in darkness did not know good. But you, who could have slain me, showed me good when you saved me. I can be good for you, as long as you do not leave me. You hold my pitiful existence in your hands.”

He reached up a hand to touch the flower crown. The crown disintegrated underneath his touch, leaving bits of ashes. “You see, whatever I touch, I destroy. But with you, I can control this damned ability of mine. I can see reason.” He swallowed heavily. “I can see you. And when I see you, I see all that is good. I can see the flowers that you love to smell and out of all of them, you love lilies the most. I can see that you love humans, though they pillage and lie and kill. I can see why all beings seek the warmth of the day and fear the coldness of night.”

You looked up at him. You could only see the redness of his eyes then. But beneath it, there was a being who you were certain loved you. And you loved him, as much as you loved your humans. He, who was evil, was nothing more than a creation led astray.

“I am sorry,” you finally whispered, a stray tear slipping down your cheek. “I...You will have to give me time.”

When you pushed yourself away from him, this time for good, you walked away.

When he saw that you had left without even a look back at him, he looked up as a large crow flew down. When it landed, it transformed into that of a handsome man with narrow eyes and bronzed skin and cheeks that would have revealed a dimple had he been a smiler.

“Namjoon,” Yoongi spoke, “Keep an eye on her for me. I will leave to deal with the issues of the Demon Realm.”

Namjoon nodded his head and hummed in agreement. “I will. A favor for a friend.”

Yoongi laughed. “Your associations with humans have made you more like them. A demon has no need for friends. In our existence, there are those who lead, and those who follow.”

Namjoon turned his head to look at where the little goddess had been. “And how would you describe her: a leader or a follower?”

Yoongi’s hands clenched briefly, like he could still feel her warmth, and his eyes were still pinned to where she had been. “She is holy. Holier than my damned existence. And yet I still want to monopolize her and make her look only at me.”

“So then?” Namjoon asked again. “How would you categorize her?”

Yoongi remained silent for a moment. Then, he vanished, leaving Namjoon alone in the forest. Namjoon thought to himself then: what about this little goddess captured the attention of a demon that had been damned from the beginning?

Namjoon kept a careful eye on the goddess. Though on the surface, it was due to orders from his liege, he could not help the insatiable curiosity about her. She was kind—though kindness was not much familiar to a demon like him. She certainly loved those humans, as foolish and terrible they were. And when she watched a wedding, there was a certain sadness lingering in her eyes that captured him.

And so, as Yoongi remained away from her side, Namjoon found himself fixated on this presence.

He had been following her in a crow form when he was caught by the pudgy hands of some kid who was little more than the neighborhood bully. The kid had thrown him onto the ground and menacingly reached down to start plucking at his feathers. He had thought about growing back into a fierce snake, who could rear up to bite the human that dared to grab him and leave him on the verge of death, when a voice cried out.

“Leave that bird alone!”

The child bully looked up, prepared to viciously attack the person who dared to interrupt his fun time, but swallowed his words at the sight of the glowering adult. The little goddess had taken on the form of a muscular man, with biceps that bulged like the size of a boulder, and the kid had been too flustered to come up with a retort. Instead, the kid dropped Namjoon’s bird form and sped off.

When the muscular man shifted back into the form of the little goddess, Namjoon watched as you ran up to him and lifted him up to inspect him. “Oh, I am so glad you were not harmed! I love those humans, but I do not particularly enjoy it when they decide to hurt other innocent beings.” You squinted down at him with analytical eyes. Namjoon gulped, fearing that you would have caught onto the true self that lingered underneath the disguise. “Do you think I was too mean by taking on that scary form, right?”

Namjoon shook his head, forgetting that birds should not have understood the human language. But you laughed like this was to be expected, and Namjoon felt silly: of course, animals like birds would understand the words of this goddess. “Good! Well, I will let you be now, little guy. Try to be more careful, so you will not get caught again. You are a handsome bird, with very beautiful feathers. There are many humans who would catch you just to capture your feathers.”

Namjoon puffed up in pleasure. Of course, he was beautiful. He was a high-ranking demon. This crow form was nothing for him. If anything, he was the most handsome crow out of all the crows that occupied the human realm. He squinted his eyes. What was he even thinking?

In his agitation, he fluttered his wings and flapped away, ignoring the tinkling sound of laughter that she made when he almost rammed into a tree branch.

When Yoongi returned and had asked Namjoon on how his goddess had fared without seeing him, Namjoon could not help the zip of pleasure that ran through him when he had answered that she had been more than fine, and Yoongi had glowered in response.

Namjoon then understood why Yoongi had been unable to answer him when he had asked which category the little goddess had occupied. She was neither a leader nor a follower. Her existence itself was a source of contentment, of happiness that destroyed the boundary between who was meant to control and who was meant to be controlled.

There were many creations that were beautiful. And there were few creations that were both beautiful and kind. But beautiful and kind creations never lived long.

You loved most the most beautiful and kind of the humans: a young girl who had lived as a daughter of a baron. You had chanced upon her on one of your visits, watching her help the poor though her family itself had little means, and when she had begged for help from a deity to help save her from her plight, you had been listening to her pleas that she not be sold to the vicious king that ruled over her kingdom.

You did something that you reserved for only your most favorite humans: you appeared in front of her. When you had offered her a way to avoid the favor of the king—a bell that would turn her into a bird that could fly out of the king’s grasp—she had laid on the ground and kissed your feet in joy.

But word of the goddess that appeared with the golden bell spread far and wide. And when you entered the human realm, wanting to see how that human girl was faring, you were soon captured by the king’s army. When you were lead to the throne room, your hands wrapped in chains, you were distraught at the sight of your most favorite human pointing at you.

“This is the goddess!” she declared. She turned to the king, who looked like a walking corpse with sallow skin and hollow cheeks underneath the gold and silk he wore. “Your majesty, I implore you to remember our deal. For her capture, you will let go of my parents and give us enough gold to revitalize our land and tend to our people.”

Oh, though she had betrayed you so, you felt a rush of pride. Betrayal for a good reason, you could tolerate, for you loved her so. But the king had merely raised his hand, and a knight rushed forward with a fell swoop of his sword. When her head, bloody, fell in front of you, you let out a ragged cry.

The king knelt down in front of you, a blade in his hand. You flinched as he wielded the knife...and sliced his palm open. He reached up to cup your cheek, smearing his blood on your flesh. “I heard tears from a goddess could cure all wounds.”

He lifted his palm back and watched with awe as the wound on his palm closed up. His eyes glowed with a sick greed. “Then it must be true. That the blood of a goddess can cure all ailment. You know, I had this knife brought to me for this very moment when I first heard the legends. It is made of a terrible evil capable of killing good. You should know that I was granted this knife from the Demon God himself after I sacrificed many peasants.”

He raised the knife and sliced your palm. You felt pain for the first time in your existence, but even more hurtful, you felt anguish bite at what might have been your heart. Gold ichor spilled out of your wound, and he hastily bent down to drink your blood. Color returned to his cheeks at once. You watched in disgust and horror as he laughed with glee. He sobered up, looking down at you. His eyes glittered with the remnants of the sickness that had imprisoned him so.

“Then it must be true. That the sacrifice of a goddess can fulfill any wish, a wish that would last for all of time. Your death can bring anyone back to life. For with your death, life will follow. I will be able to see my wife then.” He lifted the knife, and you were silent as he brought it down in a fell swoop. The blade pierced the flesh above your clavicle, but not a sound of pain left your lips. You pinched them together, even as your body collapsed on the cold floor.

You thought of Yoongi then. You wanted to let him know that you forgave him, for his deceit and for how he had tricked your beloved humans. But you were no longer capable of doing so. You were bleeding out on this floor, just like any other mortal that you had loved. You hoped that the Creators would not hurt the humans who had harmed you. There were many you had loved. And you knew that the Creators loved them even more so.

You saw a flash of red in front of your blurry gaze. A voice called your name, begging. You had never heard a voice that despaired like this voice did. You wondered, for a moment, why it sounded like Yoongi. Something wet splashed onto your skin, the sound of a crackle and a pop following. Ah, the tears of a demon, unlike the tears of a god, caused pain. But you did not feel any pain, not now. Ah, it was Yoongi.

You wanted to tell him that you loved him, that you saw good in him, that even when you were not around he could still be good. But your time, which had seemed to stretch on infinitely before, was now finite, limited by a few seconds left.

You whispered, gasping out short little breaths between the words. “I...forgive...all.”

“Wake...!” you heard.

And then you could speak no longer. And you could hear no longer.

The end of the realms was imminent. Underneath the grief of the ruler of the demon realm, fires roared and overtook earth. Soon, once earth was taken and destroyed, rage would spread and bring all that existed down to the burning afterworld.

The God of Life could not stand by and witness the end of all that he had created. When he had found himself in front of the Demon God, he had been prepared for the sword that the Demon God had pointed at his chest.

“You...! She is your daughter, and you wish me to spare the lives of the humans who...!” The Demon God had screamed in anguish. He laughed then, the sound ironic and cruel. "I know you beings are both cruel and kind. For if she had been less kind, she would have been less cruel, choosing her love of humans over...over our love."

The God of Life loved all he created very much. And he had loved his daughter, who had sprung forth from the love he had with his wife, very much as well. But as the Giver of Life, he was unable to upset the balance of the world he had created, not when the balance was so fragile. He could not bring his daughter back. Not without an equal trade. Not without a deal.

“More than you would ever know in your damned existence, I love her very much." Loved. "Yet, I too am unable to go against the tide of Fate." In that moment, for the first time in his existence that had always been steady and predictable, the God of Life relented.

"However, there is a chance for her to return.” He started. “But you must adhere to what I will tell you. So that you will not destroy the world, I will tell you of how you may be granted mercy from Fate. But there is little in this world that is certain."

The Demon God was silent now, his face stony and emotionless. But there was something dangerous taking root in his eyes. A sickness that could not be cured: Hope.

And Hope was the most dangerous thing, for as much as it could create, it could also destroy. Hope would be the reason why humanity would continue. And hope would be the reason why the king, who in his madness had killed a deity, did not die. And why many, many years later, a princess that once had been the most loved existence in all of the realms would be born into this kingdom in the absence of love.

For hope could destroy lineage, as much as it tried to preserve it.

A/N: As always, leave a comment! Though I'm not active like I used to be, I do check messages that come into my inbox and do see when y'all (if anyone is still here haha) comment. If anything, another motivator that had me come back to this blog just for this story was someone who messaged me two years ago. @theedungeonwitch, though I was in a not so great place then and wasn't able to respond to you, I'm leaving my flowers here for you now. No tag list, since I'm not sure who's still here and still willing to read this chapter :)

[siasthoughts]

« I'M THE ONE YOU ALWAYS NEED. »

CONCEPT; MORTEFI X F!READER . YOU WENT TO HIM TO ASK HIM TO INVENT SOMETHING.

TOPICS/WARNINGS; USING TOYS . QUICK ORAL (F!RECEIVING) . ATP IDK . NGL THIS FEELS LIKE A DRABBLE . P IN V . PROBABLY OOC

IM PLAYING WUTHERING WAVES AND IM IN LOVE W SO MANY OF THEM N R PLANNING SOME FICS 💞 also should i start writing on ao3 hehe

WORD COUNT; 1.5K

"hey..." you voiced awkwardly as you tapped your knuckles at his open office door, catching his attention. "yes, do you need anything?" he asks, turning towards you and putting down his tablet. you walk into the office nervously, "you said i could ask you if i needed anything made, right?" you questioned, averting your gaze and looking around the room. "yes... i did say that." he looks at you, crossing his arms as he observed your anxious expression. you gulped quietly, swallowing your pride as you really can't seem to find anyone that sells these things... "have you ever made a..."

his eyes widen slightly at your inquiry, a replica of male genitalia? he clears his throat, holding up his fist to his mouth as he took a few moments to think before speaking up, "well no but... i couldn't say that anyone ever asked either." he turns back around to his desk and sends the current hologram he's working on into his drafts before starting a new project, "so... can you?" you asked for reassurance, tilting your head to get a view of the hologram.

he turns to you, leaning on his desk as he looks down at you with rested eyes, you could feel that you've definitely piqued his interest with your 'invention idea.' "have you ever considered just finding someone to be able to..." his voice lowers, "-use the real thing?" he leans down just a bit, but enough for you to get what he's insinuating. "well sure, in a way." you answered, your voice tensing up.

"oh really?" he retreats back, bringing up his hand to push his glasses back, "which person have you thought of?" he interrogated, seemingly trying to pry a certain answer out of you. you look away, staying silent for a few moments he breaks the silence with a small sigh, "well, it's understandable if you wish to not answer. but, i'll try to make that for you. expect it by the end of the day."

he sure works quick. a relieved exhale, even though embarassment still ran through your body, huffs out of your lips as he turns back to his desk. "t-thank you." you stammer nervously as you swiftly made your way out without exchanging any last words with the red haired researcher.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

as you were just getting ready to leave the laboratory, you hear a certain voice call out from behind you. you turn to see a familiar figure with gold-rimmed glasses—mortefi, and he was holding a paper bag.

you feel heat rise to your face as you remember what you just asked of him. "here's what you requested." he walks over to you, holding up the bag as his tablet rested within his other hand. "oh... you really made one." your hands trembled slightly as you took the bag, feeling shame wash over you. "oh, and sorry if it might not be to your best liking, i used... my own as a slight reference." he said as he closed his eyes for a few moments before looking back up at you.

shock runs through you for a few moments before you smiled awkwardly at him, "oh- okay. thanks a lot though!" you tried to force an enthusiastic answer, failing miserable as your voice cracked a bit. "well then, i guess it's time to head home and have fun, no?" he said rather coldly, and with a straight face as he eyed you. well that felt rather insulting. you laughed sheepishly as you clenched onto the paper bag.

you thought about it for a while, if it's like his... why not just use the actual reference?

"sir... have you ever bothered doing these things with someone?" you asked, making the tension even more unbearable and uncomfortable. his eyes narrowed as he looked at you, certain conclusions and thoughts already being formed in his head. "yes, in a way." he answered, seemingly mocking your words from earlier. "then..." you took a small breath, "would you mind using this with me?" your voice shakes as your grip on the bag tightens.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

well fuck.

he now knelt in between your thighs, with your legs over his shoulders, taking in your most sensitive parts as you sat over his desk. "i suppose we need to make your body ready first, right?" he voiced hoarsely, how is he doing this with a stern and cold expression? you swallow a breath as you looked at his calm gaze, "y-yes." you stuttered in a failed attempt to seem composed.

he took off his glasses, and placing it on his cold table before placing a warm, wet kiss onto your core, making your body shiver. you looked down at him as he strategically worked his mouth around you. he held onto your thighs, keeping you stable as his tongue gently worked around your folds, preparing your body and riling up it's appetite. your legs lock his head within your thighs, pulling him closer to your pussy. "mm..." he groaned out, making him frown a bit though he didn't really... dislike it.

"sorry..." you mumbled quietly, loosening your grip as he pulls back, and getting back up "it's very much okay and reasonable." he assures as he reaches for the bag and takes out it's contents. you shift your gaze to what's now in his hands, he used his own as reference?! it was lengthy, and he brought it down to your already wet cunt. "are you ready?" he asked, positioning the dildo against your drooling pussy, "yes." you whined quietly, looking down at the silicone toy.

"alright, i'm gonna do it slowly, okay?" he assured, his voice was low as he slowly pushed it in, starting with the tip. he kept his attention down towards your hole, observing the way it clenched desperately around the fake cock. he clenched his jaw as he slowly pushed it further, earning him a small moan from you as he felt his pants tighten. well shit.

he notices the now growing bulge in his pants as he pushes the entire thing into you gently, "is it okay?" he asks, looking back up at your now pleasure-washed face. it turned him even more. "absolutely..." you responded breathily as you looked down to see his aching cock hiding under the fabric of his pants. "i'll move it now." he thrusted the toy in and out slowly, hearing the wet noises as your pussy resisted against the movement.

he groans, feeling extremely jealous of the silicone figure within his hands. you moaned at the sensation electrifying you, shooting shots of pleasure into your veins as his hands sped up. your body shook as he started to get rougher, now slamming it into you as a knot formed quickly within your core.

"i-i'm getting close..." you mewled out as your legs instinctively closed themselves, and your back arching as his hand kept themselves on your hip to keep you stable. you cry out as you feel the pleasure wash over you, that knot breaking apart as you feel warm liquid spill out of your pussy, making your legs weak. "ah..." he muttered as he slowly pulled it out, feeling the fabric encasing his own heat now tighten even more as it hurts.

you look down at it, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you look up at him, "better if it's the real thing, no?" you said with a dazed laugh as you wrap your legs around his waist. "is this permission?" he asks with eager eyes as he put the dildo aside and his hands slowly undid his pants. "mhm..." you hummed, and even though you just finished, you felt excited for the real thing.

he laughed quietly as he let his pants fall a bit, revealing his twitching dick. it was desperate for your gaping hole, the way it squeezed on the dildo made him all frustrated for some reason. he wanted to feel it for himself. "i'm sorry, dear, i can't wait." he apologizes before pushing himself slowly but firmly into you. he groans at the feeling, your walls tightened against him and sending his body into euphoria as he feels his control over his body slowly dissipate.

you let out a staggered breath, though the smile returns to your lips as you find it in you to make some teasing remarks. "feels good, doesn't it?" you whisper as your hand moves up to cradle his face. "yes..." he says huskily as he couldn't find the strength to move. "what's wrong? why can't you move?" you voiced rather condescendingly as you start to circle your hips against him.

he frowns as his body twitches at your motion, with his grip on your waist deepening. you feel his fingers dig into your soft skin, making you feel a bit confident of your skills. mortefi hisses through his teeth as he slowly started to move, his length leaving your insides empty for a few moments before burying himself back inside you.

a small cry escapes your lips as you feel his cock fill your empty hole, and your body reacts as if it was running on desire. you reach for his back, your arms travel down his waist, stopping just at the hill of his hips. you push him further into you as sounds of pleasure quickly filled the room, echoing through the empty walls. you're both so lucky that everybody's gone.

you claw at his clothes, feeling as if you were ripping the white fabric apart, you whine out his name as you feel that familiar feeling boil up within your body. and you were sure he could feel it too. "are you close?" you asked breathily as his pace started to speed up, rougher, and harder. "so... tight." he frowns as he ravishes in the pleasure, letting it devour him as he continues to ram himself into you.

"i'm so close-" he scowls, his other hand roaming the skin of your stomach as he takes in the view under him. your vision slowly fades to white as you feel your mind go blank, losing your control over your body as you feel that sensation shatter, sending shards of pleasure all across your body. your body uncontrollably trembles under his touch as he pulls out swiftly with a groan and pressing his dick against your cunt, grinding into his climax.

you feel a sticky, warm liquid spill across your stomach and the soft plush of your pussy.

okay it's all up to u now guys 🤑

you have reached the end of this post

→ HOME?

[chimielie]

i swear that i will hate you 'till forever

summary: Yaku x F!Reader. sometimes divorce is what you really need to strengthen a marriage

word count: 1.2k

cw: angst, alcohol, pr marriage gone extremely wrong, yaku is older by six years, reader is a socialite with no life skills or healthy coping mechanisms, yaku also has no healthy coping mechanisms, no one in this story is doing well, The Judgment of God Himself, also blasphemy

a/n: heeey long time no see. i actually genuinely don't know when i wrote this, i'm just emptying my drafts of all the half-written fics i have locked in jail. i do still like this concept a lot so shoot me an ask if you want to know more about what i had planned for the full thing :)

Morisuke hates weddings.

He stares up at God, who is trapped in a little circle in a bigger circle, surrounded by gorgeous, centuries-old paintings of angels and saints and little red devils. Everything is gold, the flickering light of hanging chandeliers shining down to gild a rapt audience, even as the real people seem to pale in comparison to their artistically rendered counterparts. Standing here, surrounded by ornate displays of divinity, Morisuke has never felt so wealthy in spirit and physicality. He wasn’t raised in this religion, nor was he ever baptized into it as an adult, but he doesn’t find a seed of objection in himself he’d though he would. The icon he thinks is God looks both mournful and benevolent. All the shining things make Morisuke feel as though he’s looking into a mirror.

The people rustle, whispering among themselves. A stray string instrument sounds, alone and twanging into a silence far greater than itself, and Morisuke almost misses it when the orchestra starts up moments later. He has a headache, the kind that gets worse because he’s so irritated that he has one at all.

He looks down and away from God, straight into the blinding flash of a camera. His only reaction is a slight narrowing of the eyes, the closest he’s come to flinching in years. When the spots clear from his vision, you’re there, an angel from the fresco come to life, a goddess in the church.

Morisuke folds his hands. It feels only right to pray, the way he’s seen it on television, the way some of his teammates do before matches. You stare at him as you walk down the aisle, light playing over your dress in shining bursts that make his head throb harder. He can’t find any bridal tears in your eyes.

He shifts in his dress shoes, fights not to run his hands through his carefully-styled hair. The air-conditioning is too strong, meant to keep a thousand pressed-together people from overheating, or perhaps it’s the winter air leaking in through the great doors. You reach the stairs to the altar, wobbling a little on your first step up, though the movement is so minuscule anyone but him wouldn’t have noticed. Without thinking, Morisuke reaches a hand out to steady you. Your fingers press hard into the flesh of his palm, gripping him bruisingly tight. He can barely pull his hand away fast enough. The music stops, and Morisuke takes in a deep breath, while your chest doesn’t move to inhale or exhale. This is the last moment before you are knotted together irrevocably for life. A groom who hates weddings for a bride who doesn’t cry.

one year, eight months later

If you tilt your head up and almost close your eyes so that you’re looking through your lashes, you can pretend that you’re floating among the stars. You do so, walking backwards, tipping champagne down your throat as you go, trying to envision yourself as a constellation. You’re pretty sure you are one—Morisuke’s gift to you on your birthday, the first one after you’d married. The tabloids had eaten it up. You, watching him board a plane through the social media stories of your so-called friends, hadn’t felt quite as romanced as your picture in the news claimed.

You had forgotten about the constellation. Perhaps it had stuck in your subconscious, though; it was awfully romantic. Perhaps that’s why you had chosen the planetarium as a venue for tonight, though in the light of day it had been the midnight blue velvet and shadowy, domed ceilings that had cinched it for you. But you throw a lot of parties, and you don’t need any more sentiment in your life than what you’re currently suffocating under. You’ll come back on your own, you decide, finishing off your glass and plucking another from the nearest hand to you. You like being lost amongst your guests, freewheeling in space even without oxygen to breathe.

You stumble as you continue your backwards, meandering path through the party. You kick off your shoes, lab-grown crystals chipping off as they bounce. You don’t notice. You’ll buy more. You could buy the whole stupid world, with your husband’s money that he throws at you so he doesn’t have to come home and face you. Your husband who leaves you alone to do whatever you please. Alone, dancing among the stars.

Morisuke was twenty-eight when he proposed to you; you had just turned twenty-two when you said yes. You had been officially seeing each other for three months and acquaintances for nearly a year prior.

The story of your first meeting the interviewers knew was one you and your husband had told many times. A mutual friend had introduced you at a high-profile event and said, blatantly, that the two of you should “make babies.” Morisuke was smooth; you were flirtatious. The story played out like a romantic comedy, ending in a fairytale wedding.

You and he had kept the real story for yourselves, to take out and admire in times of trouble, to tuck away in your pocket like a note between secret lovers.

You were running through a rose-garden maze, eyes over your shoulder, hands fisted in your skirts. He had been walking a perpendicular path to yours (looking for someone else, another lover, you’d later learn) when you had tripped right over him, tumbling head over heels through the flora and into a new sector. Your breath knocked out of you, it was all you could do to stare up at the sky and try to laugh.

“Miss?” He’d called, ducking through the opening, pushing stray rose canes away. “Miss! Are you alright?”

He sounded so formal. You accepted his hand up, but only pulled yourself into a sitting position, trying desperately to catch your breath. He was so handsome, it was making things much harder. Inconsiderate of him, you thought

“I’m fine,” you managed, eventually. “Are you?”

“No more bruised than usual,” he’d returned, teasing. You cocked a brow. “I’m an athlete. I dive face-first onto hardwood floors all day."

For reasons you couldn’t recognize, you’d taken his hand, pushing up the sleeve of his shirt. His forearm toward the elbow had a nasty bruise, as he had said. You ran a careful finger over the discoloration, and he hissed.

“How was my form?”

“Awful,” he said frankly. “But—“ He’d seemed to get lost there, watching the way the sunlight filtered through the clouds and played across your features. With all the raw honesty of someone saying something they hadn’t even known they were thinking, he opened his mouth and said: “I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

On a slight breeze, the petals you’d knocked off drifted around the two of you, catching on his shirt, in your hair. They pooled between you, and when you ducked your head down they were all you could see.

You fell in love during that first meeting.

He never fell in love with you at all.

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

Matching Scars, Matching Rings, and Future Tales

A/N: I forgot this was in my drafts. Wrote this a while back.

Steve and Eddie had healed together in the safety of Steve’s house. Harrington Castle, as Eddie had named it, had become Eddie's safe house until he was officially cleared of all charges. That had happened quicker than they had thought, and Eddie was about to move back in with his uncle when he nearly got jumped by some of Jason's friends. He went back to stay with Steve again until the shady government people dealt with Jason's goons.

"Hey, Stevie, since we have matching scars, you know what this means, don't you?" Eddie asked as he stood in front of the mirror with his shirt off.

"I don't know. That we're married?" Steve asked.

"Oh. I was going to say that we're connected forever and that you're stuck with me. If you really want to be married to me, then married we are, big boy," Eddie said with a wink.

"Hmm. Married, huh, and all I get is a bat bite scar, not even a ring," Steve said sarcastically. "How will this marriage work?"

"Oh, baby, if it's a ring you want, then a ring you shall get," Eddie said as he slipped off one of his rings and put it on Steve’s finger. "Better?"

"Well, I've decided to put off the divorce, so that's something," Steve said.

"You're hard work, sweetheart," Eddie said. "But worth it."

Later that night, Steve was sitting up in bed reading when Eddie appeared in the doorway, looking pale and clutching his pillow.

"Uh, I heard married people sleep in the same bed together," Eddie said.

"You have a nightmare?" Steve asked, peering at him over his glasses.

Eddie nodded. Steve moved over and pushed the covers back. Eddie crawled in and plopped on his side as he looked up at Steve.

"Whatcha reading?" Eddie asked with a dimpled grin.

"Um," Steve said, blushing. "A book."

"Gasp! A book! What's that?" Eddie exclaimed dramatically and then scowled. "Yeah. Thanks. I can see that it's a book. What book are you reading? . . . The Witch and the Pirate's Heart. . .Steve, are you reading a romance novel?"

"Um, yeah. . .I like romance, so what?" Steve said.

"Nothing wrong with that. So, what's it about?" Eddie asked.

"This pirate kidnaps a king's daughter, hoping to ransom her for gold. Turns out she has powers because her mother was a witch, a fact she never told the king about. The pirate falls for the daughter, and a war ends up breaking out when the king's rival finds out about her. So, the pirate has a choice to make: return to the sea to resume being a pirate or risk everything to save the woman he loves?" Steve told him.

"Oooh! I'm in," Eddie said. "Read to me?"

"Sure, I'll start over," Steve replied.

"You don't have to do that," Eddie said.

"Nah, it's fine," Steve said. "I just started it."

Eddie lifted up his arm and settled against Steve’s chest. Steve smiled as Eddie's hair tickled his chin.

"In the small but grand kingdom of Osprovia, there lived a king with his daughter, and they lived rather boring lives, or so the King wanted his daughter to believe. Since the death of his beloved wife, Christina, King Edmond did everything he could to make sure his daughter knew nothing of the troubles that came with being royalty. Meanwhile, Eleonora dreamed of adventure. . . "

The next morning, Steve smiled as he got ready for work. Eddie was fast asleep, with his face pressed into the mattress while drool spilled out of his open mouth. One arm and leg was hanging over the side of the bed while his hair was covering part of his face. He grinned and knelt down next to Eddie's face. Steve moved his hair out of his face and stroked it. Warmth bloomed in his chest. Eddie's hair was surprisingly soft. It took him a minute to realize that Eddie's eyes were now open and blinking sleepily at him.

"Morning," Eddie said.

"Good morning, I was just letting you know that I'm leaving for work," Steve said softly.

"Okay," Eddie said, his eyes closing. "Have fun, sweetheart."

Eddie rolled over and hugged Steve’s pillow to his chest. Steve watched him fondly for a moment as his breathing started to slow as he fell back asleep. He started walking out of the room and stopped when he heard Eddie mumble.

"Love you."

Steve went to open his mouth to say something when he heard Eddie's snores. Did he mean it? He shook his head and left to pick up Robin. He smiled as he gripped the wheel, gazing fondly at the ring on his finger. Robin didn't even notice until well into their shift.

"What the hell is that?" Robin asked.

"What is what?" Steve asked.

"That," Robin said, pointing to the ring.

"Oh, that," he replied casually.

"Yes, that. It looks like Eddie's ring," Robin said.

"Well, he is my husband," Steve replied.

"HE'S YOUR WHAT?"

"My husband."

"Your what?!"

"My. Husband."

"Your what?!"

"Robin!"

"Steven!" Robin exclaimed. "Did you get illegally married without me being there to be your best man?! We've talked about this! We both get illegally married to our partners on the same day!"

She punched him in the arm.

"Ow! No, it's just a bit we're doing. I think," Steve said.

"A bit?"

"Yeah. A bit. He's not serious. He made a joke about our matching scars, and then I made a joke that we're married. That's when he put the ring on my finger," Steve said, blushing.

"Oh my god!"

"What?"

"Oh my god!"

"Okay, you have to stop doing that," Steve said.

"You want it to be real," Robin whispered.

"What? I mean. I don't know," Steve said. "Shut up."

"Steeevvvvve. You would tell me if you were gay for this man, wouldn't you?" Robin said, pausing. "I'm sorry, bi for this man."

"You'd be the first to know," Steve said.

"I better be."

Steve walked through the front door of his house. The first thing he smelled was burning toast. Oh God, was he having a stroke? That's a sign that you're having a stroke, right? He walked into the kitchen and found Eddie freaking out over a smoking toaster.

"Eddie?" Steve asked, placing the box of food on the counter.

"I swear I'm not trying to burn your house down!" Eddie exclaimed and shrieked when flames burst from the toaster. "That's really unfortunate timing!"

Steve laughed and took the fire extinguisher from under the sink. Eddie quickly hid behind him and watched as he put out the fire.

"My hero!" Eddie exclaimed and kissed his cheek.

"What were you doing?" Steve asked.

"I was trying to make dinner," Eddie pouted.

"And it was toast?" He asked.

"It's the only thing that I really know how to make," Eddie muttered. "I want to do something nice and then tell you about how I got a job at Thatcher's Tire. Also, I lied. Hopper told me Jason's friends had been dealt with a week ago, and our house had been ready for a while, but I told Wayne that I really like living with you so it's really his house. I just wasn't sure how to bring it up with you."

"Well, it's a good thing that you didn't burn our house down," Steve said. "And you're lucky that I got our favorites from Ruby's diner. Let's eat, then clean up the kitchen, and after dinner, we can read more of the book."

"Can I read it to you this time?" Eddie asked, and Steve smiled at him.

"Yeah. Hold on. I have to go make a phone call," Steve said.

"To whom may I ask?" Eddie asked.

"Robin!"

A couple of weeks later, the 'earthquake relief fund' rolled in for everyone involved. Eddie fought with Steve on using some of his money to take him out to Enzo's.

"Come on," Eddie said. "I want to treat my husband. . . Please?"

"And you're okay with people seeing us there?" Steve asked.

"Yeeess, are you?" Eddie asked.

"Okay then, but we're going to have to wear something nice," Steve said.

"You're lucky that I went shopping today," Eddie said.

Steve came downstairs and saw that Eddie had finished getting ready first. He wore a tight red blazer, black jeans, and a black button-up that Eddie left quite a few buttons undone. His red guitar pick stood out against his pale skin. His hair was in a low bun with a few hairs framing his face.

"Oh, yeah, I'm definitely putting out tonight," Steve said without thinking, but Eddie just laughed and took his hand.

"Come on, big boy."

Enzo's was crowded tonight, which was a good thing for Steve and Eddie. They sat in the back next to a window. It set off away from the other people, which is exactly what they asked for.

"So, we finally finished the book," Eddie said coyly as he sipped his wine, and they waited for their food.

"Holy shit, I was not expecting it to end that way," Steve said. "I mean the real reason that King Thomas tried to take Edmond's crown and daughter. . .God, no wonder it was at the bottom of the bin at the thrift store marked do not read."

"I guess that person was against burning books," Eddie cackled. "I just hope there's going to be a second book because holy shit, that ending. Maxwell the pirate deserves better."

"We should make Robin read it so she can share in our misery," Steve said.

"Definitely," Eddie smirked, and they clinked their glasses together.

"I'm glad Edmond worked things out for both kingdoms. He's happy, and I know that he would do anything for his daughter even if it meant helping out Maxwell," Steve said. "I definitely like Edmond."

"I don't know, I kind of like King Thomas and his fancy hair," Eddie said.

"He was an asshole," Steve said.

"Yeah, but he had good reasons," Eddie said. "I'm just glad Edmond finally decided to stop running away."

"I did like that Thomas decided to stop pretending to be someone he's not," Steve said.

Steve reached across the table and took Eddie's hand in his, rubbing his thumb across Eddie's hand.

"You know, you look good tonight too, Stevie," Eddie said.

"Well, you did say you like me in yellow," Steve said.

"Aww, you wore it just for me?" Eddie said.

"I'd wear anything for you," Steve said, and Eddie opened his mouth. "Within reason."

When their food came, they switched back to talking about the book again until they were done with their dinner.

"Do you want to order dessert?" Eddie asked.

"Uh, actually, can we have dessert at home?" Steve asked.

"Sure, whatever you want, Stevie," Eddie replied.

As soon as they walked through the door, Eddie sped off into the kitchen and started digging through the freezer.

"What are you doing?" Steve asked.

"Looking for dessert, duh. Ooh, we still have Rocky Road left!" Eddie exclaimed.

"Eddie!" Steve exclaimed laughing.

"Ooh, but we have double chocolate!" Eddie said. "Which one do you want?"

Steve sighed and put the ice cream back, closing the freezer. He grabbed Eddie by the hips and lifted him onto the counter, stepping into his open legs.

"Eddie, when I said that I wanted dessert at home, I meant that I wanted you," Steve said.

"Ooh! Oh!" Eddie said, pausing and staring at Steve. "I don't know what to do next."

"Well, I think this is the part where you tell me whether you want me or not," Steve said nervously.

"Oh! Yeah, I fucking love you," Eddie said, blushing. "I actually wanted to give you something."

He pulled out a box from his pocket and opened it. Nestled inside were two silver rings, bats wrapped around the band.

"What's this?" Steve asked.

"Well, Steve, they look like rings to me," Eddie replied.

"Alright, smart-ass," Steve said. "I mean, what do they mean?"

"I want this to be real, like really real. You know, like a real marriage. I mean, as real as it can be. I still want you to keep the ring that I gave you, but I made these rings because I thought they'd be cute as wedding rings. I know it's been like six months, and we haven't dated at all. Plus, it would be illegal, so it probably wouldn't be all that real," Eddie rambled.

"I'm so tired of dating. I've dated, and I don't want to date anymore. I think that I knew that as soon as you pushed me against the wall of that boathouse. I love the rings, and I love you. This marriage might not be legal, but it doesn't mean it's not real. A real marriage means something to both of you. It's a promise that grows old with you both," Steve said. "A piece of paper, a pair of rings don't mean anything until you make it mean something."

"Have you been secretly working on wedding vows?" Eddie asked. "Because holy shit, so much better than mine. All I can think about is how much that I want to be with you forever."

"That's pretty good too," Steve said.

Steve grabbed one of the rings before slipping the ring onto Eddie's finger before letting Eddie do the same with him. Steve cupped his face and kissed him deeply. Eddie gripped his hair at the nape of his neck and wrapped his legs around Steve's waist as Steve gripped his thigh. In a flash, Steve picked him up.

"Woah!"

"It looks like I was right. I am putting out tonight," Steve smirked.

"You are not carrying me up the stairs like this," Eddie said.

"Okay."

Steve moved him over his shoulder so that way Eddie was looking directly at his ass.

"Oh, yeah, this is a great view," Eddie said.

A little while later, they were both naked and covered in sweat. . .completely exhausted from consumating their batty union. Steve was smiling at the ceiling, and Eddie watched as the smile fell from his face.

"Watchya thinking about, big boy?" Eddie asked.

"Robin," Steve said.

"Oh God, is this marriage over already?" Eddie asked.

"No! She's going to kill me! We were supposed to have a double illegal wedding!" Steve exclaimed.

"Oh, that's good. I thought I was going to have to explain to you that Robin's a lesbian," Eddie said.

"I know she's a lesbian and I know that you know that I know that she's a lesbian," Steve said.

"Look, if she wants to get married one day, then we'll stand up beside her and whatever wife who's lucky enough to marry her," Eddie grinned. "If you want to have a ceremony, that is."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, I always knew Robin was a package deal," Eddie said. "Besides, I would be an absolute failure of a soulmate in law."

"I love you," he said.

"And I love you, Mr. Munson."

A FEW MONTHS LATER. . .

Robin stormed into the Harrington-Munson Castle, Vickie following behind her. Eddie and Steve were lounging on the sofa watching TV.

"Excuse you, how do you know we weren't going to go upstairs and fuck?" Eddie asked.

"Please, it's Saturday," Robin said. "Saturday mornings are for cartoons."

"How do you know we aren't thinking about trying?" Eddie asked.

"For a baby?" Robin asked. "Is there something you want to share with the class, Eddie?"

"Yeah, if Steve is determined enough, I think he could get anyone pregnant if he wants it that badly," Eddie said.

"So, you think that if my best friend is baby crazy enough, he can just look at someone and get them pregnant with the power of his mind?" Robin asked.

"Yes!" Eddie exclaimed.

"Yeah, sounds about right," Robin said softly.

"Well, wouldn't that mean that you wouldn't even need to have sex to get pregnant?" Vickie asked.

"Shit," Eddie cursed. "You're right."

"Robin, why are you here?" Steve asked.

"Why did you make me read this book?!" Robin asked, holding up the Witch and the Pirate's Heart.

"I read it too! It was really good," Vickie asked.

"THOMAS AND EDMOND WERE GAY FOR EACH OTHER AND THEIR FUCKING BREAKUP NEARLY CAUSED A WAR! AND IT ENDS WITH MAXWELL IN A COMA!" Robin yelled as she collapsed on the floor. "Steve, why the hell did you make me read this book?"

"They're bisexual, actually," Vickie corrected, and Robin glared at her girlfriend.

"And Maxwell turned out to be a woman! Holy shit! And Eleonora realizing she still has feelings for Maxwell regardless of their gender. . . Holy shit! Maxwell needs to wake the fuck up!" Robin exclaimed. "Who the fuck is this author? Who is Christopher Quinn? Is there a book two?"

"Yeah. We tried to find anything about the other, but it didn't even say where it was published or when," Eddie said. "We looked through dozens of dozens of bookstores."

"Seriously?" Vickie asked.

"Maybe it was sent from the future because that sex scene between Veralyn the elf and her pixie girlfriend, River, was pretty detailed," Robin said. "It was a head of its time."

They all sat around the coffee table, talking about the book and debating it's origin. Meanwhile, amongst the trees behind Steve’s house, a man popped out of a portal and began searching the ground. He looked suspiciously like Eddie, but older and with shorter hair.

"Goddamnit! I know I put that book somewhere! Oh, Steve is going to kill me!"

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

Crown of Gold

cw. gn!reader, eremite!reader, pre-relationship, reader rizz

pairing. kaveh x reader

notes. this has been in my drafts for months. literal freaking months. this was supposed to be done and posted ages ago but apparently... this is what happens to a oneshot in the hands of a master procrastinator. this isn't anything too long but kaveh simps, come get your simp juice.

“You have a really fun toy, Mister!”

“Mehrak isn’t a toy! She’s my precious toolbox!”

There’s a mechanical beep and you hear gleeful shrieks and clapping following.

“A toy, a toy!”

When the man ー Kaveh, you remember ー groans in frustration, you aren’t able to stop your soft chuckles that are drowned out by the sounds of your younger sisters’ laughter. Let me help the guy out before he pulls his hair out.

“Uru, Jericho,” you step from behind the pillar, tugging your brocade off your face to give them a stern but playful look. The twins share a look of panic between them, Uru letting go of the strange, sentient box in her hands. “Are you bothering our guest?”

Aaru Village isn’t your home but it is a stable place to keep your sisters while you work.

You were born into the life of a mercenary, you seldom had a choice in what to become. Your mother was a mercenary and you grew up surrounded by them. Uncles and Aunties who would carve bowls and husk ajilenakh nuts with their swords. Stories being told around a fire as songs that have long since lost their names are sung. The scent of iron and dust blending into each other.

Your father passed away months after your birth and as for the twins’ dad, you doubt you would be able to pick the man out of a crowd even if held by blade point. You don’t know if he’s dead, nor do you know if the man simply abandoned his children in favor of life in the rainforest. Maybe he even had a new family.

You doubt you’ll ever receive an answer. Nor do you care if you ever receive one.

After your mother died on a job, you took your sisters and brought them to Aaru Village. Here your sisters can grow up with friends they can see everyday and neighbors with varying life expectancies.

You, on the other hand, continued your life as a hand-for-hire. Mercenary work is what took your family but it is what gave you the means to survive with the family you have left.

Uru and Jericho are your pride and joy. You want them to have the opportunities you couldn’t.

That doesn’t mean they can torment the architect whose visit to the village coincided with your own however. 

“He’s the one who designed the library they’re building. He’s Kaveh!” you learned quickly from little Ayten. One might find it honorable he returns to make sure his work is being followed completely to the letter, another might find it simply as the architect doing his job.

You like to believe his reasoning is a happy medium between the two.

You give Kaveh a polite smile and he smiles back in relief. It’s practically reflex that you feel a small stutter of your heart. He is very beautiful. You have seen your fair share of beautiful people in both the desert and the rainforest. 

This son of the rainforest is perhaps the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

It isn’t the first time you’ve seen the architect without your Eremite brocade inhibiting your sight. You’d seen him from a distance in the afternoon sun, discussing with Setaria and Badawi. Yet it is a different experience when he is standing right in front of you with locks of gold crowning his head and framing his ruby-red eyes.

“Go on and apologize to Mr. Kaveh and his Mehrak, okay?”

“Sorry, Mr. Kaveh,” Uru murmurs, hands behind her back.

“Sorry,” Jericho mumbles, fiddling with her dress.

Kaveh clears his throat and he sounds a bit too pleased at the apologetic words even if they are technically forced. “It’s fine, just make sure to treat Mehrak gently. She’s very important to me.” As if to agree with her master, the sentient box beeps. “Mehrak says she forgives you as well.” The twins brighten at this declaration. 

“Now why don’t the two of you go and play with the children your age, hmm,” you nod in the direction of some children playing enthusiastically with their small scarab warriors.

“Sorry about my sisters,” you tell the man softly when the twins make their exit. “They think you’re fascinating.” He is fascinating. The clothes you buy are built for practicality. For the heat of the desert and for the humidity of the rainforest. Kaveh’s form of dress is undoubtedly fancier than what most desert folk don. He was swathed in the colors of Sumeru from the greens of the rainforest to the pale golds of the sands. “Most rainforest folk they see in Aaru Village are... different compared to you.”

Scholars in their Akademiya robes or those who now call the Red Sand their home. Those are the types of rainforest folk you'll typically find here.

“They aren’t too much trouble,” the architect tells you smoothly like he hadn’t been softly bullied by the two only moments prior.

“Really? They’re a pair of troublemakers to me,” you laugh, scarred hands resting on your hips. “They know they’re cute too. You’ve fallen right into their trap. They’ll be begging you to make them wreaths with your Vision if you’re not careful.”

Kaveh doesn’t look upset by your guffaws. His smile is one of exasperation and self-admitted doom. “Yep, they got me good,” he sighs good-naturedly. “I owe you a ‘thank you’. For Mehrak,” the toolbox beams in what you think is a happy tone. “And you’re the additional help Badawi mentioned, right? I appreciate you helping with keeping the trade route open to help lower loss of materials.”

“No need to thank me for that,” you shake your head. You don’t deserve them. You’re only helping since this coincided with your visit. So when Badawi asked if you could assist with keeping the costs down in the way you knew best, you easily told him he had your axe. “If it weren’t for that, I probably would be who knows where right now.”

Kaveh shakes his head at you even more firmly, “regardless of the reasoning, you’re helping out and that’s worthy of an expression of gratitude.”

You decide to let the architect win this battle. “Consider it my own thanks,” at the look of confusion he gives you, you are quick to explain: “For the library. It’s something this place desperately needs.”

Kaveh's smile is a bit more warm than polite. "It's my pleasure to work on any desert revitalization efforts."

You sit on one of the stray crates close by and gesture for the architect to sit beside you. He does, setting his toolbox beside him, it's bright green glow gone. "When it comes to this library you're building, can we expect to see it decorated entirely in plants?"

"I'll have to disappoint you," the man laughs sheepishly. "The building will probably be plainer than you're thinking."

"Don't worry, I was just pulling your chain," you reassure him. "It's enough that the children here will have a place to study."

“Plants have never been my strong suit,” the architect admits with a begrudging tone. “I’m happy with the Vision I have but plants aren’t an element I have a natural affinity for. I would have expected something more fitting to my interests or maybe that has more to do with my career.” He then mutters something along the lines of ‘maybe Geo or Cryo for sample constructs’, lost completely in thought.

He really is beautiful. It’s a look you’ve seen on him before from a distance. Deep in thought in the glow of the sun that made his hair shine more bright and his red eyes a red as deep as the cloths eremites use to cover their eyes.

“I have a friend with a Dendro Vision who hails from the Amurta Darshan, he definitely is able to use his to its fullest extent,” Kaveh sighs in finality. "I'll see if there are any plants he recommends for the desert

“I think it suits you,” a blond eyebrow raises in curiosity. As if he's challenging you for such a thought. An architect with with the power of plants doesn't seem that ridiculous a notion to you.

“The rainforest is your home so I think Dendro suits you just fine." He's much like the plants of Sumeru himself with the bright colors he swaddled in. "You’ve grown into your plants quite well, son of the rainforest. Besides, flowers are beautiful. Beautiful things are best suited for beautiful people.”

Perhaps that was too honest if Kaveh’s flaming red face at your candor is anything to go off of.

“As for myself, a Vision would be nice but I don’t need one. My ambitions in life are simpleー give my sisters the life I couldn’t have," you continue on, looking at your sisters.

They have no scarabs of their own to join in their friends' game, but they are watching the present match enthusiastically.

It’s a goal that can be accomplished with or without a Vision, blessings from the gods are simply boons for that goal. “I want them to go to the Akademiya and have the best chance at a good life. Maybe meeting you will inspire them to join Kshahrewar and become architects. Whatever makes them happy.”

Your words bring Kaveh out his flustered stupor, crossing his arms with a look of indignance. “I refuse to let those two be architects,” he says too resolutely for someone who is practically a stranger to the three of you. “If they want peace, they should definitely find a different field of study.”

You snort in amusement, “Setaria was telling me about how you’re this bigshot architect in the capital and you don’t want more students to join the craft?”

Kaveh shudders as if recalling terrible, terrible memories. “I’m surprised my hair hasn’t already turned gray,” he nods to himself, even more convinced than before. “Those girls look more like Amurta researchers to me. Maybe Spantamad if they find they like field research.”

“I’ll be sure to pass on your opinions to them, Mr. Kaveh,” you say with a bemused grin. “Maybe in the future they’ll surprise us both and do none of the things we’re talking about.” But as long as it isn’t mercenary work, it doesn’t matter.

"Kaveh," the architect corrects you. "You can just call me Kaveh. No formalities needed."

"Feel free to just call me [First]," you grin. You believe you'll enjoy working this project for however long you're needed. You don't think it's too arrogant to believe the man beside you is thinking the same. "No formalities needed."

Extra:

I was heavily moved to write this because I was thinking about VADTD's Penelope and how when she first met Callisto her eyes were drawn to his golden hair. I have a weakness for 2D blonds that that have red eyes, it's such a sexy combo in manhwas

[daniswoso]

That Goldmine Changed you.

Ella Toone x Reader

Summary: You and Ella are just two humans trying your best. Like you’re supposed to do. So why’s it so hard?

Warnings: Arguments, both ET and R are stressed as fuck and snap at each other, Ella being a sweetie, R being an ass, Mancity reader, Manutd Ella (obviously), Song fic! Based off ‘The Gold’ by Manchester Orchestra and Phoebe Bridgers. Song lyrics in green italics

*********

"What is your fucking problem, Y/N?!" Ella screamed at you. Tears streaming down her face as her lip quivered. You had just gotten into another one of your petty little fights.

It had been happening a lot lately, but who could blame either of you? You were both stressed, playing for rival teams while also balancing social media and being in the public eye.

You were overstimulated, so was Ella. You forgot that sometimes, though.

And she had dropped a glass.

Your favourite glass.

You heard it shatter on the hard ground of your shared kitchen, hearing Ella's soft curses as she picked it up. She called you in, and off you went. Your eyes landed immediately on her slightly smaller frame hunched over with the dustpan and brush desperately scraping it up. She was trying her best.

I don't think I love you anymore

But you couldn't see that. You lost your temper, and that brought you to now.

"What's my problem? What's my fucking problem? Fucks sakes Ella you are so incompetent! You just can't do anything right can you?" You yelled, tears streaming down your own face as you had now taken over picking up the shattered cup. The smaller bits of glass sticking into your fingers.

That gold mine changed you.

Ella didn't reply. She said nothing. Silence.

A sound so deafening, yet now so common in your once warm home.

An uneasy sound. An unwelcome and unexpected sound which the both of you hated, but couldn't prevent.

"Ella," you sighed, wiping a hand over your face as you stood, turning around to see her staring vacantly at you while the tears still fell.

"I was tryna do somethin' nice, ya know?" she whispered, her accent coming in thick. You looked to the counter. She had been making you a hot chocolate and an omelette, despite not being able to cook for the life of her.

You don't have to hold me anymore.

She was trying her best. She was trying.

And so were you, but you both forgot that sometimes.

"Ella, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that-"

"Ya wouldn't have said it if you didn't mean it!" She snapped, her brows knitting together, "Do ya have any idea how hard I work to adjust my schedule to match yours?! To make sure that the bed is made for you when you come home from late training? To make sure you have food on the table for ya? Do ya?" she asked shakily.

Your head hung in shame, as your fists clenched and you took a deep breath, meeting her blue eyes.

Our cave's collapsing.

"Ella, I'm sorry. You're trying, you're trying so hard and I'm not realising it and I'm so sorry baby, please." You begged, pleading with your eyes for her to just hold you.

Instead she shook her head, pulling a hoody over her head and putting her earphones in, grabbing her keys.

I don't wanna be me, anymore.

"I'm going for a walk." She yelled as she exited.

You turned into a ball of strangled, body-wracking sobs against the front door after that. Not being able to find the strength in your body to move.

But who can blame either of you, right?

You were just two humans trying your best, like you're supposed to.

**********

A/N: Enjoy the angst. really clearing out my drafts today y’all are in for a treat.

[bluebellhairpin]

I read the series in middle-school. 14 year old me was a percy girl. 22 year old me is an ares girl and i'm making it everyone's problem. so anyway here's a ares x reader drabble i had to get out of my drafts - enjoy <3 (post-battle of manhatten. reader is the mother of an ares kid)

Ares finds you in an alleyway. 

Manhattan is eerily quiet. Dust has settled, smoke clearing. The mortals all still sleep soundly, and the remnants of the last monsters are fading. 

It wasn’t like he was looking for you specifically, but a part of his search was for you. Aside from his daughter, you were the only other one who fought this war hard enough to catch his attention from so far away - of course he’d like to see if that ended with you dead or not. 

When his eyes caught sight of a red plumed helmet lying on the ground, the surroundings stopped becoming a blur. He wondered how he’d noticed it before he noticed you. 

You sat with you back against the brick wall, armored chest still heaving with an arm resting on your bare knee. Ares saw blood, red and gold alike, drip from your chin to the leather of your pteruges, and his jaw clenched. He strode over, nudging your foot with his. When all he got as a response was your chest rising in another deep breath as you thickly swallowed, he knelt down to your level. 

“Hey,” Ares said, curling his finger under your chin so your black stare left the wall and focused on him, “You’re okay.” He said it more of a statement than a question. Although his soft spot for you was softer than most, he still wasn’t quite there. Not yet. 

“Where is he?” You replied. Your voice was quiet, but he didn’t miss the fluorescent red of his blessing that flashed across your eyes. A rage still simmered beneath your surface, and it made him want to kiss you senseless. 

His hand pushed your matted hair back from your face, and his head shook. Your jaw clenched, and your hand reached for his wrist with a grip that - now, with his blessing had become a curse - was strong enough to make him wince internally. 

“Ares. Where is our son?” 

[cierraonline]

More Than Ready

chapter one: more than ready

warning: none

masterlist | next chapter

XXX

A father holds his daughter's hand for a short while, but he holds her heart forever.

What does that mean?

I’m about to beat this old man in a game of basketball.

“You’re not getting close to that hoop,” LeBron James huffs as he tries to block his daughter's clear path by staying low and close to her.

“Good thing I don’t need to be near the hoop to make the shot,” Sasha smirks, dribbling the ball between her legs. She pulls back and aims for a long-range shot... which goes in. “And the crowd goes wild for The Assassin!” The brown-skinned girl runs around the court, making loud cheering noises. “Thank you, thank you…” She stops mid-run, pretending to give a heartfelt speech. “As the number one draft pick, I would like to thank me, myself, and I. Because I couldn’t have done it without me, myself, and I.”

“Is that really going to be your acceptance speech next year?” her father laughs, still trying to catch his breath.

“Next year?” She furrows her eyebrows, her pearly whites still visible, but her overall expression shows confusion. “It’s my junior year, remember?” Sasha turns to her father. How could he make a mistake that meant the world to her? “You remember... the plan? I can enter the draft my junior year, be the number one pick, and get sent to play for the Sparks.”

“I know that’s what we agreed on, it’s just... maybe it’s too early.”

“What do you mean, ‘maybe it’s too early?’” She laughs, shaking her head, retrieving the ball from the bushes where it had rolled after swishing through the net. “If anything, it’s the perfect time to enter the draft. I’m projected to be the number one pick, and the Sparks get the first pick.”

“I know, but... you’re not ready,” he says, trying to come up with an answer.

“Not ready?” Sasha scoffs, offended. “My stats are higher than yours when you were with the Cavaliers, and your fans considered that your prime.”

“You haven’t even finished college.”

“I have two bachelor’s degrees, one in sports management and another in racial and gender equality. 4.5 GPAs, always on the Presidential List. I’ve interned at the WNBA, did a semester abroad as head coach for the Youth Olympic Games, and we took home the gold.” The list of accomplishments echoed through the hot California air.

“What about your master’s programs?”

“I can always finish them online, Daddy,” Sasha shook her head, not believing the excuses coming from her father. “Since when were you against the plan?”

“I’m not against the plan, baby girl.” LeBron approached his daughter, trying to offer a comforting touch. He noticed she was starting to work herself up, as she usually did when her mind entered defense mode.

“Well, you sure don’t seem for the plan,” she said, taking a step back, not wanting her father’s touch as if he were about to deliver bad news.

“You guys ready to head to the airport?” Savannah James, wife and mother of the father-daughter duo, stepped out onto the patio in a mocha brown suede tracksuit, paired with a clean pair of white Nike Air Forces.

“Baby, I called the airline and made sure they have cans of ginger ale so you don’t get sick during the flight,” said Paige Bueckers, the 6-foot tall UCONN guard from Hopkins, Minnesota, and Sasha James' wife of two years, as she entered the area with a bubbly smile.

The two women on the porch noticed the tense energy between father and daughter and decided to take the risk of finding out what was going on.

“What’s happening?” Savannah asked, her gaze shifting intensely between her daughter and husband.

“Daddy doesn’t want me to enter the draft this year!” Sasha blurted out, turning to her mother for support.

“Bron?” Savannah’s expression filled with confusion as she turned toward her husband. “The plan?”

“It’s just... she’s not ready!” LeBron defended himself, raising his voice as he often did when confronted by the women of the house. “She’s not ready to be drafted!”

Silence fell over the patio. No one knew what to say, stunned to hear such words from LeBron James himself. This was the father who always told people his kids would be drafted and playing in the big leagues. The father who said his children could achieve anything if they worked hard. The father who had seen how basketball had lit up his daughter’s eyes from the moment she first touched a ball. And now, that same LeBron James was declaring in their household that his daughter, Sasha James, wasn’t ready to be drafted into the WNBA.

“LeBron!” Savannah sharply scolded him, her tone resembling that of a mother catching her child with something they weren’t supposed to have after being told multiple times to put it down.

“What happened to my dad who used to rave to his teammates that I’d be the face of the WNBA when my time came? The dad who swore his son and daughter would play in the same city under the same family name? The dad who said, ‘Don’t get filled with rage and attack on the court, just wipe the hate away, because one day you’re going to be the number one draft pick, and they’re going to be sitting behind you wondering if their name is even going to be called’? Where’s the dad who jumped up in excitement when Bronny suddenly said he was going to enter the draft his sophomore year at USC, even though we both know he doesn’t have the stats and the recruiters aren’t confident in him yet?” Sasha looked at her father, her eyes filled with hurt. “I’ve been planning this moment since I was four. I sat on countless benches, forced to watch, study, and practice because no one wanted to play against a girl for years. You can’t say I’m not ready when my stats match yours at your prime. You can’t say I’m not hungry for it because I’ve always put in the work, on and off the court. What happened to my dad who was all for the plan and ready to make revisions when things got tough?” Without another look, Sasha shook her head and pulled away from the tense bubble between her and her father, heading back inside the house.

“I-I should probably go check on her,” Paige awkwardly pointed in the direction her wife went, not wanting to stay in the tense, somber atmosphere.

“The plan was for Sasha to enter the draft her junior year if she was ready,” Savannah spoke up as she watched her husband stare at the spot where their daughter had stood. “She’s been ready to enter the WNBA since her freshman year, but she compromised because we wanted her to have that college experience we never got. She’s done that and more, LeBron.” She made her way down the porch and over to her husband. “Now, if you can give me a good reason why Sasha shouldn’t enter, I’ll support your decision—no further questions asked. But you can’t say she’s not ready when we both know she’s more than ready.” She gently placed her palms on his chest, looking up to meet his eyes.

“I see and read about these powerhouse women basketball players having to march up to the league commissioner’s office, asking for what they deserve. The benefits, the salary, the promotion... And you know what those corporate people tell them, Savannah?” LeBron finally lifted his head to make eye contact. “They tell them no. They tell them their seats aren’t filling up like the men’s league, that the quality of the game isn’t marketable, that they don’t deserve equal pay to the NBA rookies because no one is watching. I don’t want to go to practice one day and see Sasha marching to the commissioner’s office, begging for what she’s worth, only to be shut down. I can’t handle, as a father, watching my daughter be told she’s not worthy when she puts in the most work. I won’t do it, Savannah.” He shook his head, lowering it again.

“And as a father, you’re forgetting who your daughter is.” Savannah lifted his head again. “Your daughter is Sasha Bianca James, ‘The Assassin,’ and she’s number one. Everyone’s been watching her since we took her to her first basketball game. And as for the issues within the league... Sasha knows about them, and she’s been fighting to change the mindset. She’s not just a player, LeBron; she’s an advocate. She’s our daughter, and we raised her to stand up for change. Her goal isn’t what yours was when you were first drafted—chasing a fast life of basketball, money, and escaping struggle. She doesn’t have the struggles we had, so that’s not her goal. Her goal is to change how the world views women in sports. She doesn’t care about the money or the fame. She cares about her love for the game, as a young woman.” Savannah straightened her posture, her gaze firm. “So either get with the plan or be left behind, because my baby is entering the draft. She will be the number one pick and play for the Sparks.” Savannah’s determined tone, filled with motherly authority, aimed to lighten the darkened mood. “Now come on, we’ve got to drop the girls back off at college in Connecticut.”

[dont-offend-the-bees]

WIP Wednesday

I was tagged by @justafandomfollower - cheers, m'dears!

Posting a lil sneak peek of my fic for day one of Painland Week! It's gonna undergo some re-writing/editing before the whole thing's ready to post but this is 600 rough words of a uhhhhh 4k-ish fic. No idea if I'm gonna manage fics for every day since I'm having a big pain flare-up right now but I can at least polish up the three drafts I have so far! So here you go, some sweet nonsexual dom/sub therapy for Charles for day one, love languages💛

I'm gonna tag @kieren-fucking-walker, @firstaudrina, @coloursflyaway and @theflirtmeister, plus anyone else who feels like sharing some WIP sneak peeks, consider yourself tagged!

~~

“Charles,” said Edwin again, softer this time. It was important not to go on the offensive; in his current condition, Charles was liable to take any careless word as keenly as a knife in the back. “Please tell me what’s on your mind.” After a moment’s consideration, he added: “I promise I won’t be angry.”

It felt like utter nonsense to say out loud, a patronising placation as one might give to a child. But Charles, in Edwin’s experience, responded well to directness. His panic thrived in the mires of ambiguity. 

Releasing a ragged breath, Charles rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. “Just… dunno what to do sometimes. When you two go off at each other.” He peered at Edwin with his uncovered eye, and tried for a smirk. It fell decidedly short of the carefree, playful expression it was aiming for. “Dunno what side to pick, do I?”

He voiced it like a joke, but Edwin was listening carefully and he knew an incomplete sentence when he heard it. He stepped closer and, slowly, giving him time to step back, took Charles’ free hand and squeezed the fingers. 

Charles closed his eyes, dragging his hand down his face. “Can’t keep you both happy,” he admitted on a low mumble, like it was a shameful secret. 

Guilt sank sour and heavy in Edwin’s stomach, but he carefully kept it from his face. Any indication that Charles had made him feel bad was liable to make him shut down further. “It should not be your duty to keep the peace,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I will speak to Crystal later, clear the air.”

Charles nodded, but he still stood propped against the desk and hunched unhappily in on himself. Edwin could see his brain turning itself over and over in miserable little spirals — wondering if he should have stepped in earlier, said something else, wondering what he could have done differently to make everything better. To make everyone happy. 

Edwin swallowed tightly, and placed his hand upon Charles’ shoulder. “Charles. Look at me, please.”

He did so, without question or hesitation. Responding as easily to the polite command as if it had come from his own consciousness. 

Edwin, with great care, hooked a finger through the gold chain aroudn Charles' neck, and tugged.

The effect was instantaneous. Charles’ wide, hunted eyes softened, slackened, his lined eyelids drooping. His lips parted around a quiet sigh, smoother than his last ragged exhalation, and his shoulders slumped as if a great weight had been dropped from them.

Charles was an ever-unfolding and expanding area of study; but to Edwin’s expert eye, on occasion, his needs were remarkably simple to interpret.

Meeting his now somewhat unfocused gaze, Edwin leaned in. “Put Crystal out of your mind for now,” he said, quietly commanding. “In fact, put everything out of your mind.”

“She’s upset,” Charles mumbled in protest.

“Yes — and she will continue to be so for a while longer, regardless of what you or I could say.” Edwin smoothed the collar of Charles’ polo. “When the dust has settled I will find her and smooth things over. I promise. For the time being, you’ll do none of us any good with your overthinking.”

Charles snorted. “Overthinking? Me?” he joked.

With another gentle, recriminating tug of the chain, Charles gasped and quieted.

Edwin sighed and leaned close, ‘til his nose grazed across Charles’ cheekbone. “Granted, your tendency to underthink before making dangerous choices borders on the pathological,” he teased. “But I strongly suspect you're thinking a lot of very unkind thoughts about yourself right now, and I'd like for you to stop. Please.”

Breath shuddering, Charles’ hands lifted, fisting in the front of Edwin's shirt. 

“That what you want?” He asked, his voice a small and broken thing. For all his strength of body and character, he felt as vulnerable in Edwin's hands as a baby bird.

“How about I tell you exactly what I want for a while,” Edwin offered, breathing it across the shell of Charles’ ear. “And then all you have to do is listen." He delivered a swift, dry kiss to Charles' cheekbone. "No detective work required."

~~

Full fic coming to a blog near you on August 5th! Go check out the Painland Week blog and also lmk if you wanna collab on anything, assuming I get pain flareups under control I'm hoping to write lots and lots! Already got a little collab lined up for day 2 which I'm soooo excited about 💛

[fandxmslxt69]

Cute Library Boys

Steven Grant x f!Reader

Warnings: Steven being too goddamn cute and fluff!! Some swearing, absolutely tooth rotting dorky-ness.

A/N: Oh my god this has been sitting in drafts for so long but I finally finished editing ahahah. Idk how I feel about it ngl, its cute and has me giggling but !!!! idk. Anyway this IS inspired by a prompt: "Going for the same book at the library" taken from @creativepromptsforwriting (Mona sent me a prompt list literally like 2 months ago thank you @whatthefishh you are too cute for this world.) ANYWAY I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY this is a peace offering before I pour my heart out into the most gut wrenching angst and coochie killing smut <3

-Clem

Synopsis: All you wanted was to have a quiet day browsing books in the library. Who knew you'd manage to find the cutest man to spend your day with right there in the history aisle?

Word count: 3541 (omg.)

Walking through the library, you gently ran your finger over the spines of the book, feeling worn out paper and leather on your fingertips. It was always relaxing, being surrounded by so many stories, real or not, lives and adventures. You skimmed through a history section, looking for a book that might be of interest, and your eyes landed on one just up ahead, with a pretty spine and a title written in gold. Your fingers jumped to it, but bumped with another hand outstretched to grab it.  “Oh sorry, love! Didn’t see you there,”  “Oh no it’s alright!” You grinned up to the cute man with the cute British accent. “You can have the book, I don’t mind,” “Oh no,” He shook his head.  “Really, you can take it,”  “No it’s fine, really, I can just order another from the system,” He grabbed the book off the shelf, handing it to you. “Love, please. I’ve already read it anyway. It’s all yours,” He smiled, a bright breathtaking smile that lit up his whole face.  You hesitated but took the book from his hand, adding it to the (very heavy) bag you carried. “Memorised and all?” He chuckled. “I wish,”  You grinned at him, and an awkward silence fell as you scanned the rest of the shelf. “Uh,” You cleared your throat. “Anyway. Thank you, a lot, for-” “The book,” He finished. “Yes! The book. Thank you,”  He nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing.  “Alright well uh…I’ll, go, thank you, again,” You rushed to say before quickly dashing off, trying not to think about how pretty he was, or how soft his eyes looked, or his beautiful curls, his soft yet clear features…

No. 

You weren’t sure what the hell urged you to turn right back around and down the aisle again, but your feet carried you there anyway, and you found yourself standing right in front of the gorgeous stranger again. “Um. Hi.” You mumbled. Maybe he didn’t hear, maybe you could run be- “Hi! You’re back,” He grinned and you could feel the sunshine radiating off of him.  “Yeah. Um..I don’t know I just…yknow…You seem to know your books,” You gestured to the growing pile by his feet. “So I was just..wondering if you had any recommendations? I’m in a bit of a slump, so I wanted to try something new. I mean only if you’re cool with it, if I’m bothering you I’ll just go-”  He laughed, a quiet small chuckle that put a huge ass sappy smile on your face. It was contagious, his bubbly energy and cute laughs and smiles. “No it’s alright love, I’d be more than happy to give you a few suggestions, though it might just turn out to be a big ramble,” You shrugged. “Nothing beats a good book ramble,” “Wholeheartedly agree. Now,” He turned to the shelves, his soft eyes scanning the spines of the dozens of books, and he just started rambling- exactly like he said he would. On and on and on, grabbing a few books at a time and talking about them all at once, he looked over the moon to share all this knowledge with someone, you didn’t have the heart to tell him that you could barely keep up with him. You just stood there watching him, probably grinning like an idiot, adding every book he put down to the growing pile in your bag. Whether the book was actually interesting or not, you didn’t care. When a cute man excitedly tells you about his favourite books in an aisle in the library, you grab every damn one of those books and you take them home. 

By the time he finished going through at least a dozen books, he paused, biting his lower lip to hide a shy smile. “Sorry. Got carried away there,” 

Ah shit.

“No no! It’s okay, no apology needed at all. You- it’s cute. You’re cute. When…you do the ramble thing. Cute. Yeah.” You cleared your throat, feeling your cheeks heat up.  There was a beat of silence, before he blurted out, “Steven.” “Sorry?”  “Steven…my name. Is Steven. Grant. Steven Grant. It kind of just hit me that I didn’t introduce myself,”  “Oh. Oh! Oh right. Oh my god.” You fumbled with your bag, trying to get yourself back in control. “This is embarrassing. I’m so sorry. I’m Y/N. It’s very nice to meet you Steven,” He laughed again. “It’s very nice to meet you too,”  You nodded. How many times are you going to nod. Quit it.  “So…um,” you cleared your throat, wondering if it was too late to ask for a hole to open up and swallow you whole. “Yknow..there’s um…this cafe, right down the street, and it’s really nice and they’ve got pretty decent coffee and food. I was wondering if…you know, if you’re free anyway, and not too busy or if you have something better to do I totally get it-” “I’d very much like to go to the cafe down the street with you,” Steven interrupted, and you stared at him, jaw hanging open slightly as you took in his shy smile and the light rose of his cheeks.  “I mean, if that’s what you’re asking-” He rambled quickly to add. “Yes! Ah, uh, yes, that is what I’m asking,” You grinned widely, cheeks starting to hurt from how damn much you were smiling at this cute stranger in the history aisle of your local library.  “Great! Wonderful, amazing. I- uh…I’ll…go check out my books? Get settled while you do yours and…” “...we can meet by the front doors?” You finished for him. He nodded quickly, his hair bouncing with each bob of his head. You nodded too, fiddling with the strap of your bag. “Okay. Okay cool. I’ll…go do my thing. And I’ll see you soon?” “Yes, absolutely, 100% yeah,”  You chuckled, a few butterflies taking flight through your stomach with all his nervous blabbering.

He’s cute. Real cute, with the nicest warm eyes and a precious crooked smile, and the cutest mop of curls on his head that you desperately wanted to play with. Not to mention his adorable outfit..the cute earth brown pants and the soft sweater that definitely hugged his body in a comfy yet pleasing way. 

Screwed. Absolutely, royally screwed. 

After awkwardly staring (analysing) him for a solid minute as he grabbed the rest of his books, you turned and dashed to the check out desks, fumbling and mumbling about stupid cute library boys the entire way through the checkout process. 

*                                           *                                          *

As you both left the library, a light silence falling between you, he couldn’t help but take a few glances at you, his heart picking up pace, a giddy laugh building up in his throat- this was new. All of it was so new yet welcomed. He’d be damned if he let it go to waste, whether it be a chance to make a friend, or maybe a little more. 

By the time you had reached the shop, his shoulder ached from carrying his bag of books, and you looked ready to drop dead on your feet. 

“I can carry your bag if it’s getting you tired,” Steven suggested softly as you entered the cafe. You frowned, hugging your bag tightly to you. “What, no. It’s okay, I like carrying my bag. Makes me feel close to my books,” You pointed to a table by the window. “Here?” He laughed, then nodded. “Yeah this works,” He took a seat, lifting his bag off of him and placing down beside him. “What do you like to read anyway?” “Oooh,” You slid into the seat, you could feel the ache in your lower back start to build. Who even had back problems at this age. “I like a good fantasy novel, and I am guilty of reading way too much romance. I also like poetry. Not a very big person in non fiction though.” “Romance huh?” He raised an eyebrow, a playful smile on his lips. “Scandalous romance?” You laughed, shrugging. “What, a woman has her needs, and those needs happen to be pretty men with cute accents,”  “Ah right,” He nodded again, then paused. “Wait. I have an accent,” You chuckled, smiling widely. “Yes you do. A cute one too. And you’re cute. Pretty, dare I say,” His eyes widened, a blush creeping up his neck and his ears started turning red too as he looked away, averting his eyes and biting at his lower lip. Your heart did a little flip at how cute he looked when he was flustered.  “What kinda books do you like, Mr. Grant?”  “Hmm,” He flipped aimlessly through the menu, his eyes scanning the millions of different ways they make frappuccinos and espressos. He didn’t even drink coffee that much, he was more of a tea guy. “I like history, big fan of mythologies and stuff,”  You sat up, grinning widely. “I love mythology. I was a huge sucker for them in middle school. Still kinda am, honestly,” His heart did a little thing. “Really? What kind of mythology?” You shrugged. “I was really into the Greeks, they were pretty fun and it was a good time. I like the Romans a bit too, but they’re a little boring, yknow? The Norse are wack too, which makes it funny,” You grinned. “I was just a bit obsessed. I had an Egypt phase too for quite a bit,”  You could see the way his face lit up, how his eyes widened and a big smile started spreading across his face. “Egypt huh? That’s cool.” He nodded, deciding not to make a further comment lest it come off as too strong. You raised an eyebrow. “Cool? Oh come on, you totally had an Egypt phase,” “Did not!” “You so did. C’mon, tell me. I promise I won’t judge! I never could, I had attachments to those guys. You definitely know a thing or two,” He waved you off. “No..I mean, a little maybe. I’ve studied their mythologies and tales, aspects of culture and society, that’s sorta stuff, it’s not interesting really,” “Not interesting?” You scoffed. “Well I find them interesting. C’monnnn,” You nudged his leg under the table. “Who’s your favourite god?” He shook his head, a playful smile on his face. “I’m fond of Taweret. Hippo goddess, resides in the underworld and stuff. She’s nice,”  “Yeah? Know her personally?” “Oh yeah, obviously. We have chat over tea all the time,”  No way he was this funny. “Really? Wait, hang on,” You leaned in, “if she resides in the underworld, does that mean you’ve died before, Steven Grant?”

He liked it, he decided. The way you said his name, how it rolled off your tongue and out of your mouth so easily, and not the sarcastic way everyone else said it. Heaven, at least you remembered his name, not when half the staff at the old museum couldn’t even get Steven right.  He scrunched up his face, thinking deeply. “Hmm. Let’s see. I think I might have, yeah. A few times now actually,” There it was again, the laugh that filled the entire cafe, as your shoulders shook and you threw your head back in joy. “No way, you did not,” You finally said.  “I absolutely did! It’s not a good experience obviously, but yknow, an adventure,”  “So you’ve like- met Osiris and stuff?” He shrugged. “Maybe,” “Oh come on. Tell me! I’ve always liked him. Given, I always like every death god, so it’s no different,” “He’s alright. Very stiff though, no personality at all, he’s all business serious,” “Well duh, he’s a king,” Steven rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t mean he’s got to be so boring,”  You chuckled again, shaking your head in disbelief as you went back to the menu. “Any other gods you’ve met?” “Hmm.” He tapped his chin a few times, and brushed a curl of hair out of his eye. “I’ve met some night gods. They look like big ugly birds, with a big temper and zero compassion or kindness. Dress in old rags and stuff,”  “You’re lying, I swear you’re lying,” “I am not! It’s true. I see one quite often actually, he’s a pain in the ass, right psycho.”  “Yeah? He your best friend?” He snorted. “Absolutely not.”  You tsked. “Aw, that’s so sad,” “No it’s not. I told you, he’s not right in his mind,”  “Yeah but isn’t that all gods?” Steven sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Okay, you make an excellent point, but I’m telling you, this one is bloody psycho. Murderous and whatnot.” He smiled, a big goofy smile that showed his cute dimples.  You shook your head again, trying to fight back a stupid sappy grin. “You’re too funny,” “Too funny? Is that bad?” He frowned. “No! No, absolutely not. It’s nice, your jokes are actual..well, yknow, jokes. And it’s kind of nerdy.” “Oi!” He leaned in, pointing a finger at you with an air of amusement. “You just said nerdy was cute,” “It is!! It’s very cute!”  “Bloody right. ‘Cause if you came for sports jokes, I’m not your guy,” You laughed. “Nope, no sports jokes for me. I just like an extra side of nerdiness,”  He narrowed his eyes, fighting back a smile. “You are horrible,”  “Horribly cute, yeah, definitely,” He exploded with laughter, his face all happy smile lines and precious dimples. You smiled widely, your heart doing a little skip with how gorgeous he looks, so full of laughter. 

Thankfully though, before he caught you grinning like an idiot at him and trying to memorise his face, a waiter came to your table, and you managed to order your drinks without acting crazy or too dorky. 

*                                                         *                                                                *

“What about Bastet? You know her?” 

Okay so maybe you were still a little dorky. 

“The cat lady? I mean you see her everywhere don’t you? In all the nice cat ladies by your flat or in the market!” “Okay fine Mr. Poetic, I’m asking about the goddess,” 

He grinned, fiddling with the strap of his bag as you both made your way to a bus stop. “I haven’t met her, no. But I know of her,” 

“Right, of course,” You weren’t sure why you humoured this idea; the possibility of divinity walking amongst man. But the ease of pretending, of imagining with him, with Steven, was something you came to realise you enjoyed too much to give up.  “What about Zeus?” He frowned. “Wrong civilization,”  “Oh come on, so you’re telling me you can believe the idea of gods with bird heads from the times of pyramids, but you can’t humour me with the idea of wackoo’s living on top of a mountain?”  “I just don’t like them. Too chaotic,”  “That’s exactly why everyone likes them,”  “Okay fine, I just stay in my territory,” You shook your head, shrugging your bag back into place on your shoulder. “Okay, that’s fair, they probably don’t like each other anyway,”  “Nope, definitely don’t,” 

You both fell into a silence after, continuing your walk to the bus stop. “You don’t have to go all the way with me to the bus stop yknow-” You started but he just shook his head.  “I don’t mind, love. Really, it’s a nice day out for a walk,”  You nodded. “Okay.”

Silence fell again, and you couldn’t help but look up a little to look at him. Him with his pretty eyes and flushed cheeks. Him with his easy going smile on those nice lips. Him with the nice jawline and cheekbones that are just the right amount of sharp you just want to run your finger over it. 

By the time the both of you had made it to the bus station, you had made up your mind; You were going to ask him for his number. 

Only problem is…how do you ask a cute guy for his number?

You could feel the nerves start to set in as the minutes tick by, and more people pile around the bus stop. It was going to be here soon, and you’ll hop on, and probably never get his number and-

Okay calm down. You fiddled with your bag as the minutes passed, occasional small glances and nervous chuckles with Steven as he waited too, and it felt like the weight of the world was on your shoulders just to ask for a series of stupid numerals.  When you glanced back up at Steven for what had to be the millionth time so far, you noticed in the far distance that the bus was heading this way. Steven turns the other way then too, noticing you staring and he sighed softly. “Ah, there’s your bus,”  “Yup,” He looked back at you, a soft smile on his lips. He picked at his nails, a feeling of anxiety bubbling inside of him. “So…” “So…” You continued for him, and you both laughed awkwardly.  “Can I-” “Can-” You stopped, chuckling awkwardly as Steven shook his head.  “Sorry love- didn’t mean to speak over you-” “No no it’s okay! My bad,” You reassured him. “Go ahead,”  “No really-” He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling. “You start,” “Steven-” You started to protest (why were you even doing that) but he set you with a firm look and you sighed. “Okay. I was…yknow…going to ask. If-” You trailed off. “Yknow…” “If…? Unfortunately love, I’m very bad at guessing games. You’ll have to specify,” You sighed, rubbing a hand down my face. You took a deep breath and right as the bus stopped at your station, you blurted quickly, “Can I have your number?!” It came out in one breath, a quick sentence and Steven’s browns furrowed. You panicked, thinking maybe you had read this wrong? What if he doesn’t want to give you his number? 

But then his face exploded in a wide smile, and his eyes lit up adorably and his cheeks filled with a soft blush. “Oh. My number!” He laughed, soft and clearly full of anxiety. “Yes- right yes, of course you can. Sorry it took a minute there-” He muttered, quickly digging through his bag and pulling out his phone. “Right then, quick quick before you miss your bus-” 

“It’s okay,” You mumbled quickly, steering him away from the growing bus line so you could plug in his number. You did it painfully slowly, double checking each number and going over the series at least 5 times. By the time you finished exaggerating and actually putting the number into your contacts, Steven was tapping his foot anxiously on the ground as he watched the last person board the bus.  “You have to hurry it’s going to close, love,” You looked up and glanced at the bus. “Oh crap-” You quickly fumbled to put your phone away and return his, but by the time you took a step towards the bus, it dinged and the door closed as it slowly started back up to drive away.  "Shit,” Steven tugged at his curls. “Oh god love, I’m really sorry- maybe if we run we could catch its next stop?” Didn’t people always say make the best out of a bad situation? The bus is gone, another won’t be coming for probably another half hour, and you were not running. 

But maybe…maybe this was a good thing? 

You shrugged, trying to sound as upset as you could possibly gather, but even to your own ears it sounded fake. “Oh no….the bus is gone. This is horrible. What do I do now?”  Steven started to say something, but then stopped, frowning a little, before his eyes widened and a smile grew across his face. “Hang on-” He stepped closer to you, his eyes glittered with humour. “You planned that, didn't you?” You gasped. “What? Me? Why would I ever want to miss my bus?”  “Hmm….” He tapped a finger to his chin, thinking loudly. He leaned down then his face barely inches away from your face. “Maybe because you wanted to spend more time with me?” He has no right being cute and nervous one second and then sexy  and all mischief the next.  Your eyes widened, you felt your skin heat and your cheeks flush pink with how close he was. His eyes looked even prettier up close, and his lips looked so kissable.  “Really?” You managed to breathe out. “You think I’m that captivated by you?” He shrugged. “Maybe.” He paused, biting his lower lip. 

Fuck. 

“Are you? Captivated by me?” He asked.  “Hmm. Let’s see…I think your nerdiness and awkward attitude and shy personality has definitely captivated me, Mr. Grant,”  His face explodes into a bright and beautiful smile. “Really? So if I asked to go on a walk right now, you’d say yes?” I hum, pretending to think it over. “I think…yes, I would absolutely say yes,” The look on his face made it seem as if he just experienced heaven. Your heart fluttered, and you knew then that you’d never ever get tired of seeing him this happy. “Brilliant. Great, alright then um..” He stood up straight again, looking around. “Let’s go?” 

You smiled, gesturing to the roads bustling with people. “Lead the way,” 

[percheduphere]

people saying, oh it wasn't intended from the beginning so it wasn't intentional thus has to stay fanfiction bug me. like, shows can develop organically based on chemistry. they can surprise you and take you in a direction that wasn't planned but now just works. like, fucking, chandler and monica wasn't planned from the beginning! but the actors had chemistry and the writers tried it out and it became iconic. you don't throw something away just because it surprised you instead of being pre-planned; you cultivate whatever gold you find!

With Hollywood entertainment in particular, I think there is a lot of ignorance regarding how the creative process, production process, post-production process, and business all work. It is readily apparent that in Hollywood, there are many hands in the kitchen when it comes to creating a movie, documentary, or show. The "Original Intent" argument is weakest when it comes to Hollywood art, and in fact fails to be a viable argument in multiple areas. I will discuss how the "Original Intent" argument fails in Hollywood in more depth under the read more, using what I know from having worked in the industry myself as a writer. And to be honest, the fact I have to pull my private professional history out online, just to prove I'm not being delulu when it comes to the importance of queer subtext in film, pisses me the fuck off.

To be clear, since this whole discourse mess on my Tumblr is likely the result of someone thinking I'm an anti-sylki: I AM NOT AN ANTI. I have an extensive analysis on Sylvie as an integral character to the Loki series, Sylki in canon, and her relationship with Mobius here.

I agree with you: a lot of amazing art deviates from the original intention, especially writing. If deviating from original intent in the writing process did not exist, we would not have DRAFT REVISIONS, we would not have IMPROV, we would not have EDITORS (whose entire job hinges on giving the writer not only grammar corrections, but feedback on how to IMPROVE character, plot, and pacing, which inherently means making changes from the original intent!). This is to say nothing of the thousands, if not tens or hundreds of thousands, of media scholars--with actual PhDs--who spend years of their lives performing meta-analysis to write academic papers on subject matters like this. Papers that become formal publications and contribute to how queer history is taught in universities! This is no different than academic scholars analyzing women and race representation and resistance in film. Why should analyzing queer representation and resistance in film be treated any less?

LET'S TALK ABOUT ORIGINAL CREATIVE INTENT VS POWER HIEARCHY & POLITICS IN HOLLYWOOD

For context with respect to this ask, a different Tumblr user critiqued against queer subtext in one of my posts using the "original intent" argument for the Loki series and Lokius specifically. By this logic, if original intent is always honored, then the original script for Loki's S2E5 (written by Eric Martin) would not have been NUKED by the executive powers that be at Marvel. [source] But no, the original intent was not honored, it was rejected. So how does one square the primacy of original intent with original intent being rejected by people who are not the artist but the people who manage Disney's finances?

In television, "Executive Producer" (i.e. Tom Hiddleston, Michael Waldron, Eric Martin, etc.) is a title that can be given to a writer or actor who has more creative say in the execution of a story than a regular staff writer or actor on crew. It also indicates that the writer or actor is in a much higher salary range compared to their professional peers. It does NOT mean the same thing as a CORPORATE "Producer" of Kevin Feige's level, who ultimately has the FINAL SAY on what does NOT end up on the cutting room floor. The corporate Producer must take into account the wishes of corporate's shareholders and board of directors, who are often multi-million if not multi-billion global investors who need the distribution of the product to succeed internationally in countries like China, which is very anti-LGBTQAI+. This is how a script like Eric Martin's S2E5 can be nuked and the writer can be contractually gagged from talking about its specific contents by Disney, lest they be SUED TO HELL for breaking their non-disclosure agreements (NDAs).

This doesn't even take into account politics.

In 2020, Ike Perlmutter, Chair of Marvel, "gave $575,000 to Trump For Victory, $35,500 to the Republican National Committee in April, $5600 for Texans For Ronny Jackson in February. 2019 saw him donate $248,000 to the Republican National Committee, $466,100 to Trump For Victory, $5,600 to Donald Trump For President." His wife, Laura, mirrored those donations. "In late 2016, he also gave $5,000,000 to the Great America PAC." [source] Ike was only recently laid off from his position in March 2023 [source]. Perlmutter was in a power-struggle at Marvel with Kevin Feige for years. Feige was promoted to Chief Creative Officer in 2019, which brought the power struggle to a head, ultimately contributing to Perlmutter's departure.

There is also Bob Iger, CEO of Disney, who was famously quoted during the Writers Guild of America strike for saying, “It’s very disturbing to me. We’ve talked about disruptive forces on this business and all the challenges we’re facing, the recovery from COVID which is ongoing, it’s not completely back. This is the worst time in the world to add to that disruption”

This is the worst time in the world to negotiate to pay your writers, YOUR CREATIVE LABOR FORCE, who entertained millions of people while they were stuck in their homes for 2 years, fairly?

And these are just two men in executive power at Marvel and Disney. We're not even talking about all the other board members and shareholders. You think Tom Hiddleston, Michael Waldron, and Eric Martin have any real power compared to these guys? They do not. They are peons by comparison. And these artists (despite their "Executive Producer" title) are always at odds with the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers (AMPTP), who are ultimately not artists but FINANCIERS.

Here's another quote from a studio executive that occurred during the writer's strike:

"Receiving positive feedback from Wall Street since the WGA went on strike May 2, Warner Bros Discovery, Apple, Netflix, Amazon, Disney, Paramount and others have become determined to “break the WGA,” as one studio exec blatantly put it.  

To do so, the studios and the AMPTP believe that by October most writers will be running out of money after five months on the picket lines and no work.

“The endgame is to allow things to drag on until union members start losing their apartments and losing their houses,” a studio executive told Deadline. Acknowledging the cold-as-ice approach, several other sources reiterated the statement. One insider called it “a cruel but necessary evil.”" [source 1] [source 2]

Fortunately, this negative press and the WGA members' solidarity led to the WGA getting everything they demanded. I still have friends in the industry, specifically in the WGA and MPEG. A lot of them were indeed starved out. My friend who's a film editor is still unemployed because pre-production has only recently started to ramp up again and her profession is all in post. She has to wait for production to catch-up and finish in order to get work.

If the AMPTP is willing to use clearly unethical tactics to underpay their writers and actors (don't forget the SAG-AFTRA strike that joined later), do we really think members of the AMPTP (the studio execs) are willing to honor artists' original intent if the original intent may be "offensive to some viewers" and therefore can potentially cut into their financial bottom line?

We're not naive. We know the answer to this.

OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH, KILLING EVE, AND GOOD OMENS

But what about OFMD, KE, and GO? These shows are on MAX, BBC, and Amazon Prime respectively. These corporations have a different branding image than Disney. Disney touts itself as "family friendly"; (read: on-screen LGBTQAI+ affection between two lead characters is "not family friendly"). MAX and BBC's branding type also affords them the luxury of creating content for niche audiences. Disney, on the other hand, makes additional revenue through using their plethora of licenses to make toys, additions to their theme parks, and other merch. If a parent is offended that a canonically queer character like Loki has romantic love not just for Sylvie but also for Mobius (a same-sex relationship), what are the odds of parents like them not buying Disney's merchandise? We can apply this same question to Star Wars, Pixar, and any of Disney-branded animation or live action movies. How deeply can audience offense potentially cut into Disney's bottom line? If there were no discrimination taking place, we would have LGBTQAI+ representation through a lead character in any one of their licenses already. We do not, and that is a huge red flag.

In addition, these entertainment corporations (who do not tout themselves as "family friendly") generate other sources of revenue elsewhere. Netflix generates international revenue through the production of international programming like "Squid Game" and other K-dramas such as "The Glory" or Mexican shows including, "The Surrogacy" and "Haunted: Latin America". MAX is struggling. They were bought out for that reason. With AppleTV and Hulu, their target audiences are more diverse, they offer a variety of media product, and their business strategy is ultimately different from Disney. All of this grants them more freedom in what kind of characters they choose to represent, including LGBTQAI+ characters.

Remember House and Wilson from House M.D.? That show was on FOX. We know the political alignment of FOX. Dean and Castiel from Supernatural? WB Television. Both shows came out before streaming became dominant, and thus, these shows had to cater to anyone who might happen to land on their channels. When the market demands that you cater to the widest possible audience in order to generate the largest revenue, the creatives are forced to create relatively conservative artistic product. Hence, creative censorship and our long history of queer subtext.

At Nickelodeon, the artists actually had the support of corporate to move forward with Korrasami because the final season Legend of Korra was only available online. It did not air on their channel. If that had not been the case, corporate would not have approved Korrasami. However, that approval was contingent upon the artists being subtle subtle about Korra and Asami's relationship. Even in this canon ship, the animators relied on subtext for queer romance.

Not helping Disney's case is the cancellation of "The Owl House". Why was "The Owl House" canceled? It didn't fit Disney's "brand". [source]

THE FAILURES OF THE "ORIGINAL INTENT" ARGUMENT IN HOLLYWOOD

The "Original Intent" argument fails when it comes to art in Hollywood because:

Original Intent can change, and often does change, during the creative process. This applies to all forms of art, not just Hollywood.

Multiple artists are involved in pre-production, production, and post-production. At any point in this 3-part process of filmmaking, original intent can be changed for a variety of reasons.

Studio Executives, Boards of Directors, and Corporate Shareholders have more power than the artists in Hollywood. If they think a product will not make money, they will order changes accordingly.

Disney specifically touts itself as "family friendly". Its lack of a lead character (in ANY of its live-action licenses) being in an openly queer relationship with someone who presents as the same sex, is the direct result of not wanting to lose conservative audiences.

Non-Disclosure Agreements (NDAs) are common in Hollywood and prevent artists from providing specifics regarding original intent. This is done not only to safeguard corporate's intellectual property (IP), but to also safeguard their public relations image.

THE ORIGINAL INTENT ARGUMENT WEAPONIZED

The "original intent" mindset can be either very naive or very cynical, depending on the thinker's motives for choosing this belief. Naive, in that thinking creative purity actually exists (it does not) or that oppression does not still occur in Hollywood (it does). Cynical, in that either the thinker doesn't believe in artists intentionally finding ways around mass produced arts' media censorship, which has in turn created our rich history of queer subtext in film, OR the thinker wants the "original intent" argument to invalidate a change they do not like.

The last motive is the same strategy used by fans who reject Miles Morales as being a real Spider-Man. The same strategy fans use to deny that Shuri is indeed the new Black Panther. Both are tactics used to mask racism and sexism beneath the veneer of "creative purity". Fans who have internalized racism, sexism, or queer-phobia may also use this tactic at a subconscious level to protect themselves emotionally from disappointment. Finally, there are fans who use this argument to invalidate another ship, usually a queer ship that cannot be formally canonized because of corporate studio power.

Regardless of the reasoning, using this argument is frequently insidious because it perpetuates straight white male dominance in media representation.

PERSONAL LIVED EXPERIENCE

I'm an old poc queer and have worked in Hollywood long enough to know that the writers' original vision rarely ever--IF EVER--pans out as originally intended. If you ever sit through a movie and wonder why the story feels so weird in certain parts, I can guarantee you that about 2/5ths of the time, a corporate producer stepped in and messed with the original story in post-production (usually in an poor, over-worked editor's dark editing bay) and ordered reshoots the director may not have agreed with.

I've also worked in the industry long enough to know that it is an absolutely toxic work environment in which women, people of color, and queer people still struggle to get a creative foothold anywhere. My first experience pitching a script to a prospective agent involved being asked to meet at a hotel for drinks. We didn't talk about my writing at all. What I thought would be a pitch meeting was actually the writer's version of the "Hollywood casting couch". Yes, I was propositioned. No, nothing happened to me. I walked out. This happened to me in June 2008. It was not my last experience. The "Me Too" movement that came years later in 2017 was in response to situations I have encountered like this.

Those of us who succeed are very rare, and 97% of the time, the executive staff is very, very white and male. There is absolutely oppression and exploitation of all sorts still happening in Hollywood. I fucking lived it and continue to have nightmares about it.

QUEER SUBTEXT STILL EXISTS

Thus, to deny queer subtext's validity as an art form and to only accept the words of those who are either in power or limited in what they can say because of those in power, undermines not only the artists' efforts to tell the story they want to tell but cannot tell explicitly, it also undermines queer joy and queer resistance in cinema. And yes, sometimes those artists are cis straight white male allies who want to tell these stories because they simply make sense for the characters. These people are the artists, not the financiers.

It's more mature to embrace, or at least leave alone, the loud joy others experience from shipping and performing meta-analysis instead of publicly pissing on them with the profoundly weak and ignorant argument of "original intent". Don't mess with me on this. The number of scripts I have worked on that completely warped from what I wanted, and then to have my writing credit removed or stolen, still makes me sick. Yes, I'm bitter, but I'm also glad I left.

[rosys-fans-fics]

just thinking about gortash and his bf/pet dragonborn durge. gort thinks of durge as a stray that slinks in whenever he likes, though the disgusting sewage pipes or through his window at the top of wyrms rock, with mysterious dagger sized holes thoughout the fortresses' walls. while he doesnt appreciate the body parts lovingly strewn around his office of various nobles(that hes probably slept with), he warms up to the scaled tail curling around his shoulders. with enough praising words against their face and his gauntlet trailing against them, gortash is able to once in a while specify their next target

Durge is definitely the local street cat who's claimed Gortash's house as theirs! I have a little fic that's been sitting in my drafts for too long so this is the perfect opportunity to post it!

tw for dead body and bone breaking.

Gortash left the mansion of one of his many lovers in the upper city to begin his long walk back home in the lower city. The lady had given him one of her family rings, a beautiful gold band decorated with a rainbow of precious gems. The ring was worth more than her entire mansion but Gortash was great at getting what he wanted from his lovers.

As he approached his house, he noticed the window to his room was ajar. A clear sign that his little assassin was here and wanted him to know it. He sighed as he walked up to his room, prepared for whatever horrors his little Bhaalspawn had to discuss. Gortash pushed his door open only for it to be stopped by a large object. He looked down and saw through the slit of the door that a body was laying on his floor. Gortash groaned at the thought of scrubbing blood from the wood. He pushed against the door harder, moving the body back just enough for him to slip inside.

The Dragonborn sat atop his desk, their knife delicately removing any remaining flesh from a large bone. Their head was lowered, too engrossed in their ghoulish work to notice him or, more likely, feigning ignorance of his presence. Gortash cleared his throat, and their head darted up to look at him. Their eyes were filled with pure contempt as they glared at him.

“What do I owe the pleasure and the present,” Gortash nudged the dead body with his foot, “to, my dear assassin?” Gortash looked down at the body to see who they'd dragged into his room. It took a moment to recognize the woman through all the blood and guts spilled, but he realized it was the noblewoman he had just spent the evening with. Gortash looked back at his little assassin and quirked a brow, “bit of a waste of an ally.”

That seemed to get to them. They gripped the bone tightly in both hands, breaking it with the ease a child breaks a stick.

"Ally? Is that what she is? What does her alliance bring you, Banite?" the bone fell from their claws, striking the floor with a deafening thud. The Dragonborn stood to their full height. Their delicately arched horns just scrapped the ceiling. Despite their impressive size, each footstep was silent. They towered over Gortash, their piercing eyes staring into his soul, laying him bare and devouring everything he could offer them.

"Her family has deep pockets. I make more spending a night in her bed than I do smuggling weapons," Gortash raised his hand with the elaborate gold ring, "it was an easy arrangement. Hard to find someone so willing to drop family heirlooms."

"I want to amend our alliance." the Dragonborn said.

Gortash quirked a brow, "What do you have in mind?"

The dragonborn pressed the tip of a claw into Gortash's chest. He wondered if they could feel his racing heartbeat. "Your alliances with nobles are for political gain alone," they turned the claw around to point at themselves, "Our alliance will now include funding. Understood?"

Gortash chuckled, "Is my dear Bhaalspawn jealous of my bed warmers?"

The jab did nothing to their stony exterior, not even a flicker of their intense eyes. The Bhaalspawn reached behind them into their pouch and pulled out a handful of jewels. Gortash recognized them immediately, he had just earlier that night persuaded his companion to part with one of her many accessories. The dragonborn held centuries of conquest, politics, and success in their claws.

Enver reached out to touch one of the pieces only for the Bhaalspawn to grip his wrist with their spare hand. "Do you swear to our new alliance Enver Gortash, Chosen of Bane?"

Gods, they were magnificent, "I do, I swear to you, Chosen and Child of Bhaal" They placed the priceless treasure into Enver's hand. Their touch lingered as they guided his hands to tightly hold the jewels.

The Dragonborn quickly stepped away from Gortash, causing the floor to squeak. They grabbed the mangled corpse that was at their feet and threw it over their shoulder. Without another word or glance in his direction, they left.

Enver placed the jewels on his desk and laid down in his bed. His heart raced but he wouldn't say if it was from seeing the corpse, the incalculable amount of wealth, or the Dragonborn offering so much for so little.

[moniairis]

Waltz of the liars

Warning: Mention of alcohol, slight stalking -more like derived watching duty. Borderline soft yandere. Female reader. Intrusive thought of undressing Childe. Reader is probably too detailled for a xReader. Might be OCC.

Note: I am very late for the birthday boy, but this one is in my draft for six months, I promised myself it would be my first post, and I still found things to change last minute. Hope you will enjoy it ! It was fun to write.

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The winter solstice, one of the most important events in Snezhnaya. You can easily imagine the townsfolks running and laughing in the festival in town. It is one of the rare events where peoples go out of their house to affront the harsh start of the winter together. The lights of the cities, the scent of grilled meat, the hot drinks to warm bodies, the simple chit-chat to warm the heart. What a beautiful sight it must be there. But this is something you can only daydream. Because for today, as a noble, you are attending the solstice’s annual bal. The fanciest rendezvous of the year where all high society is personally invited to Zapolyarny palace.

Archons. What would you not give to have a bottle of Fire-Water in your hand right now. It would make the whole night more bearable.

Usually, you find ways to avoid social gatherings. But for tonight’s event, no excuse. Your absence would be noticed. And your father would die of shame if he had to explain you are not at THE event of the year because you preferred drink strong alcohol with commoners.

Violin’s plays in harmony with piano and flutes to create delicate melodies. Noble’s families of all the region are present, mixed with the bourgeois, all wearing false smiles and expensive clothes to expose their wealth and hide their flaws. The ballroom is gorgeous. An immense room bathing in golden light, decorated with beautiful wall paintings, each counting forgotten stories of old times. Gold and silver ornaments, pure white marble pillars, collections of unpriceable objects of all times exposed like simple goods. Everything here shows who is the wealthier of all people gathered here, of Snezhnaya. Under the enchanting waltzes, numerous guests already started to dance. Others are engaged in deep hypocrite praises, hiding their snarky comments under gentle smiles. Others are just trying to create connections, to look well and enter in the good graces of more influential than themself. And above all of them, looking down from her throne, the Tsaritsa quietly observe the crowd.

What does the Cryo Archon must think of this masquerade? The answer is one only she has, because to all guests, she just arbor a usual frozen expression on her face. Like the ice traps a body for centuries, her feelings are hidden deep behind her cold non-revealing gaze.

“Lady (Y/s), are you okay? You are very quiet since the start of the night” note a voice taking you out of your thoughts.

You immediately put a sweet smile on your face, hiding the true annoyance you face in company of these ladies. This one in particular, is leading the conversation for more than twenty minutes.

���Everything is perfect, I am deeply thankful for your concern Lady Balakin. I am more of a listener than a talker personally. But please continue I enjoy our talk”

It was a lie. Big. Fat. Lie. You do enjoy when she talks because her speech does not require much concentration to be followed unlike other, so you can daydream in peace while hearing stories and gathering information. She has a simple mind for a noble -perhaps she isn’t good at reading social cues, she doesn’t seem to have much ulterior motive after all. But she sure enjoys talking about everything and anything. You decide to encourage her in her previous subject.

“I heard your father new jewel business in Liyue is very promising. Is the Shivada Jade on your pendant comes from there? The crystal is cleaner than anything I ever saw and the deep shades of clear blue reminds me of the pure ice of our homeland. I am sure they would be greatly coveting in the noble’s circles when they will be available on the Snezhnaya market”

Being able to daydream while still following a conversation is a common skill in noble of your rank, and you are grateful you inherited it from your father. The lady was enchanted by the praise and started on a rant about her father businesses and the expected date of the first sell in the country, while the others listened with false admiration. You note to yourself to talk to your father about it. The quality of these stones seems to be no joke. He would like to have a look before the Regrator completely take on the business leashes -like most of the new profitable business here.

Thinking about you father, he sure is busy tonight. A glance to his side and you see him in deep talk with men of his age and rank -surprisingly, only those with non-engaged son. Here is another reason why you could not escape this ball. Your father was set on getting you married. Between him and your brother -talking to his single male friend- both are more than ever ready to find you a fiancé tonight. You were never engaged until now, and always found a way to slow down the process. But now is the limit of your single life it seems. A pain. Really. For what? You are not sure. Your family probably have an interest to it.

You finish the cup of champagne in your hand -not the first of the night, but not enough to handle this joke. You seriously start regretting not running away from home. You could have gone to the festival. Find a random guy to hook up with. Cause some big scandal in the family. Being disowned. And go live as a commoner. You sure you can find a job somewhere. A teacher, a secretary…something like that. Worst case scenario you could enroll in the military. The Fatui are known to teach their recruits different tasks, and your experience dealing with social gatherings give you some point. But you are here. With these ladies only able to talk about their family’s business or spit venom disguised as honey. Between nobles and bourgeois and their little war of ego. Trying to keep your best poker face while your own family will sell you off to a stranger before the end of the night. You really need something exciting in your life now, before you just start to be silly and engage in rumors talk.

“Excuse me my lady, would you mind to give me this dance?”

You turn to the voice. A young man is here, bowing his back before you, offering you his gloved hand. The first thing you see is that he has wild ginger hair -not the most common thing for a noble. But his clothes are fancy. Simple compared to the extravagant costumes of some, but sure expensive. The quality seems to be great, and your eyes aren’t easily fooled. The glowing hydro vision at his waist isn’t a joke either. His posture is straight but respectful. He has a cheeky smirk. And you are sure, he is challenging you. “Are you going to accept?” is the sentence wrote on his face. The kind of wild and bold attitude you could see in the middle child of a big family. He wants attention. And he knows how to attract it from others. Your quick analysis makes you think he is either a countryside noble, or a new bourgeois, even if some details are bothering you. You do not know him. His face or feature are not familiar at all, which is strange as you made sure to learn the list of the guests before coming.

You would not even think to accept this kind of bold proposal usually. But you cannot mutter a word for what feels like an eternity. You can just look at his eyes. His blue eyes are empty. Like a deep dark ocean where many were drowned. That is not the kind of look you can see in your typical wild and cheeky middle child. The ladies by your side were speechless too. The audacity of such a proposal must have made them lose their words. You give a little glance on your father and brother side. Your brother eyes and mouth are wide open, he looks like a fish, first time you see him like this. While your father, surprised at first, make you signs to refuse. It is written on his face there is a problem. You shall not accept this proposal at any cost.

But his blue eyes. These two gems without any spark. Why such a look? Who he is? What does he want? What did he live to have such a look at this young age? And hey, Archons heard your prayer. They sure sent you something a little interesting when you asked.

You extend him a gentle smile and takes his hands. Instead of engaging in rumors talk, it seems you will be the center of them for some time.

“With pleasure, mister”

Aaaaah, seems like you will be a bad girl tonight. But this is perhaps the last time of your single life.

He guides you to the ballroom, and you can’t help but feel the pressure of people looks. Such a scandal for so little. Or perhaps it is something else? A last look to your father, and he seems astonished by your actions. Like if death just came to knock at his door. You will be scolded later for sure.

“Lady, may I have your attention for this dance?” asked the young man. You smiled, looking at him.

“I suppose”

He returns the smile. You accepted his challenge. So he is accepting yours. One of his hands still in your own, the other on your shoulder, and the music starts, announcing the beginning your own battle.

“May I ask your name, mister?” you begin.

“You may call me Childe, lady” You may call me he said. You suppose it is not his real name then. An alias perhaps. Shady.

“Y/N” You respond. “For a dance I suppose we can give up the honorifics, “Childe” ”

“Great. You seem more approachable than what I thought”

You are not sure if it must be taken as a compliment or as an insult. After a spin, you realize his shoulder is harder than it should be. He does not seem like it, but his grip is strong, and his muscles are well-developed. You can even feel the callosity on his hands behind both his and your gloves. And you connect the dots. He is not a noble, either a bourgeois. He is a warrior. A soldier. This is why you did not know him. He is no guest; he is the one watching them.

He is a Fatui. And a high ranking one if he can freely walk without a mask on his face -great for you, his face is pleasant to look at. But what you do not like, is that his intentions are not clear. He is dancing with you, hands on your body (your dress and gloves, but still), and make you spin left and right without a care in the world, and with this strange cheeky smile.

“Well, Childe. I was curious. What made you ask me for a dance?” You will at least try to dig into this.

“Do I need a reason to ask a lady for a dance?”

“Yes. Soldiers do not usually do that without ulterior motives.”

His eyes widened, confusion showing on his face. Funny. His expression is clear as the day. Perhaps it was intentional. But his face honestly says “Wait. I thought you did not know who I was. How do you know?” so, as he is a good dancer, you oblige an answer.

“Your hands and body. You are trained. And use weapon regularly. The conclusion is obvious”

“Sharp” He laugh. “Fine. You seemed tired of the other ladies. And it was your seventh cup of champagne of the night. I found it funny. So I wanted to see how you would react to a little push. See it as generously helping a damsel in distress”

So, the man had his eyes on you before the banquet officially started. You indeed had seven cups. The first one was taken discreetly before the starting speech was even made. Great. It seems you have a secret admirer.

“And? What do you think, now?” The question came by itself. And he smirked a little, taking your body closer in a move. His breath is warm. Too warm. Too close.

“I found someone interesting” was the sweet mutter he gave to your ear.

It was bad. And you knew. You knew when you took his hand. But now you are in his arms, closer than you should be. The waltz just started. And -as weird as it sounds- you begin to find him a little more interesting too. You tightened the grip of your hand in his, and take him in a spin he did not see coming. You went closer, your face nearly brushing his, widen your smile, and discreetly slide your hand from his shoulder to the skin of his neck.

“Perfect. I don’t like being boring"

It was bold. Too bold. You start regretting as his cheeks took some shades of red. What are you doing now, (Y/N) (Y/S), flirting with a shady soldier before all high society eyes. But he is quick to take back the lead. His moves are smooth, his steps are clear, and his smile is flawless. He must be used to deal with unexpected situation. Shame. He would be the most wanted husband-to-be of the noble’s society if he had the blood right, and was not a soldier. Childe, Childe, Childe…. the name really tells you nothing. Perhaps he just made a name on the spot. You are not knowledgeable in military matter, the fact you do not go in many social events do not help, but you are not totally ignorant in Fatui’s affairs either. If the man is a high-rank in the Fatui, you should have heard of him and have basic information. Perhaps you know him on another alias.

“You became really silent lady Y/N, am I the one leaving you speechless?” he whispers in a new spin, as you raise you head again.

“You are, Childe. I do not remember this name in the ones I know. Have you been recently promoted?”

You could drown in his blue eyes, trying to discover what he hides. Decency and basic selfcare are what keeps your curiosity tame. But if it was not for them, you would have already been blunter. Who are you? The question burns your lip. Why are you like this, what took the light off your eyes? He is charming. He has this enchanting energy of something broken and lost for too long. He chuckles at your question -or at your face perhaps, as you forgot to control your expression.

“It is way better if you don’t know this name. Those who knows it are generally not happy to see me. It also been a while since my last promotion. I will surely never have a higher position than the one I currently hold.”

“I am sure you are underestimating yourself” it came naturally, the kind of automatic praises you give in high society. He chuckles again, and guide you in yet another spin.

“I think you are the one underestimating me, lady (Y/N)”

A chill went down your spine. He still smiles, but his whole being does not. You frown, you don’t like the tone he used. Did he try to scare you on purpose? Or give the bad boy vibes thinking it will make you more docile? Is he the kind who thinks their pretty face can allow them everything? As a response, you try to step on his feet, a move he predicted and avoided with grace.

“My, my” he said laughingly “Be aware of your step lady (Y/N). Perhaps this seventh cup of champagne was a bit too much for you”

You give him a glare -he seems to like it. Are soldiers all so fussy and cheeky? This boyish attitude gave him a sort of charm. But he needs to correct it before you start to also act silly. Your eighth cup of champagne might accidentally end in his cute ginger hair.

“I wouldn’t dare to call myself a Snezhnayan if I couldn’t even hold my liquor” you scoff “But perhaps you should learn you cannot rely on your pretty face to excuse poor behavior”

“I have a pretty face?” Someone ends your misery. You will not give him the satisfaction of an answer, or even a displeased look. He sure is good at this kind of game. But your pride wants to prove him you are better.

“I have seen better” More lies. The man is gorgeous. Your type, you might say. And as much as the secret behind his eyes, you are curious about what his clothes hides. Your hands slowly undoing the button of his shirt, revealing his bare chest. How will he react if you were to gently kiss his exposed skin while only the two of you are in a room, alone, bathing in the weak moonlight? In the novel you read, this type of cheeky men are either wild or shy when intimate. What kind he would be? Just thinking about his reddish face as you are confirming him he has a pretty face is-

Archons what are you thinking? He is just here! That’s not the moment to think about undressing him! Oh archons, perhaps this champagne has an effect on you after all.

His eyes are still on you, looking right into your soul, tracking trace of a lie. He smiles. He must have understood your answer was more out of spite than sincerity. You are being petty, that was his smile says. You do not like being read like this. You are usually the one reading, and the other is feeling undressed. It’s uncomfortable being the other way around. Suddenly, “Childe” stops. You are stopping too, your expression asking what does he wants to say now.

“The music ended” he said. You didn’t notice. You didn’t even remember what was the melody. That’s a first. Slowly, he takes your gloved hand to take it to his lips, giving a chaste kiss on the back of your hand. “It was a pleasure to dance with you, Lady (Y/n). I do hope you will give me this honor more often”

“If we see each other again” you add.

“Believe me, I’m sure we are far from our last meeting” he laughs, giving you a lovely smile and a little wink. He turns his back on you, starting to take a few steps, before stopping, raising his index like he needs to ask something to a waiter, and turning again.

“Do you like flowers, lady (Y/N)?”

“Flowers? Yes, I suppose?” The questions startled you. You answered before thinking more deeply. Flowers? Did he hope to send you some when the better season comes? He -and so you too- will have to wait a lot before seeing them. No flowers -except Cryo Whoopperflowers- will bloom in Snezhnaya before the end of May.

He had a last little smile, and finally left, leaving you speechless after his last words. What a weirdo. But his company was pleasant at least. Shame you don’t have the time to think much more about it, as your brother comes to you in a hurry.

“Y/N!” he exclaims silently, grabbing your arm and taking you out of the center of the ballroom “Are you crazy? Why did you dance with this guy? Are you okay? He did not threaten you, right?!”

Your brother is incoherent, asking so much question at the time. He struggles to breath, looking behind him like a hunted bunny. He was raised as the heir. Even with his flaws, he had never lost his composure so easily before.

“No, he didn’t. He asked me for a dance and I accepted because I was a bit bored….but why are you acting like this? Do you know who he is?”

At your words, your brother went pale and started to rub his face like if he was in an impossible situation. He signed deeply, out of worry and frustration.

“You must be the only one in this room who doesn’t know this man! He wasn’t here for the two previous winter’s solstices because he was sent out of the homeland. But he was not supposed to be back so early this year too! What does he want? Oh, Archons, how are we going to deal with this, I hope you did not anger him”

“Brother” you try to keep him with you “Answer me. Who.is.he?” Your brother takes a deep breath, still trying to find someone in the crowd, your father you presume.

“This man was Tartaglia. He is the Eleventh. A Fatui Harbinger.”

You froze. A Harbinger? This young man with messy hair? He must not have more than 22 years old. And perhaps you are aging him too much even like that. The Eleventh...the youngest. A little wild, but quickly acknowledged. The Roster has his back. Often sent in different countries, no a permanent stationary like the Knave. Great fighters, master of many weapons. Rumors calls him excentric, but he is competent in many ways. With this information, everything takes another meaning. The conversations you two had. The alias people do not like to know. The promotion that will never be higher…archons. You really need a bottle of Fire-Water now.

He was right. Childe, no, Tartaglia was right. You were underestimating him from the start.

Because as soon as the sun raised on Snezhnaya the following day, a letter with the seal of the Eleventh Harbinger was on your father’s desk with a whole bouquet. Blooming roses with different shades of deep red, coming with the request of the start of a correspondence between you two and the setting of a date at a famous restaurant of the capital for next week.

You may need to think twice before asking for something exciting in your life next time.

But, with the sweet scent of the roses, came a lovely card. “I hope they are at your taste. Do not hesitate to mention what kinds of flowers you like before our next meeting. Waiting for your answer -Childe”

Between your anxious brother and confused father, you had to use the bouquet to hide your smile. It’s a bit unfair, this game he played with you. It’s like playing chess with someone who do not know the rules. You underestimated him once, that’s on you. But you are not planning to call it a lose without a fight. The game just begun. Does he want to make you fall? Or does he have another agenda? It doesn’t matter. He will learn to be aware of his own steps. You shall not waste any more time to send a reply.

Something interesting is finally happening in high society. It would be a shame to not entertain it, right?

[jgmartin]

Subject 21

In light of Spooky Season, I thought I'd share the updated draft of Subject 21: a horror story about a bunker at the end of the world, and the terrifying entity contained within it.

I watch the sunset bleed.

Its outer edges drip like molten gold, and I hear the hiss of steam before I ever see the clouds rising from the arctic snow.

“Told you,” Raens says. He stops short of me, slings his rifle over his shoulder and folds his arms. He surveys the sunset like it’s a regular occurrence – an everyday thing. “There’s a reason this place is under lockdown.”

“So it’s true,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “No one’s left for three years.”

“Not a soul.”

I look back at the sun and a pit of unease grows in my stomach. The shape of it is all wrong. It’s pulsing, throbbing like a living thing, like some monster born of science fiction. “What about the guy I replaced?” I ask. “They let him leave, didn’t they?”

“Lentley?” Raens scratches the stubble along his jaw. “Suppose so. Flew him out last week, airlifted the kid home in a body bag.”

I wait for the punchline, for Raens to crack a smile and slap me on the back, maybe chide me for being so gullible, but instead he sighs, gazes out across the white expanse. “Got a wife?” he asks me.

“Not yet.”

He nods to himself, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

“You’re cut from the same cloth as him,” Raens says, words sharp as the arctic wind. “You’re an extra in your own story. No loose ends. No one to raise hell if you vanish. Same as Lentley. Same as the rest of us.”

“I mean, I’ve got family,” I protest.

“Sure,” he chuckles. “We all got family. The question is, do they give a damn about you?”

The question stings. It stings because I know the answer, but I can’t bring myself to put it into words. It’s enough to strangle our conversation before it ever gets a chance to breathe, and we spend the next hour standing silent in the fading glare of the sunset.

This is my life now, I realize. Watching over a compound at the end of the world, trading small talk with a sergeant twice my age.

“So,” Raens says, clearing his throat. “How much did they tell you about the bunker?”

I swivel my gaze, squinting through the gathering dusk toward a concrete sarcophagus rising from the snow. There’s a door in the center of it. Its blackened steel is covered in thick gashes painted in shades of rust.

“Not much,” I admit. “Just that it was off limits, and that I'd get court-martialed if I so much as stepped within a hundred yards.”

He smirks. “Figures.”

“Guess I'll go ahead and ask the obvious – any idea what's down there?”

Raens scrunches his brow, lips parting as if he’s about to speak but can’t quite find the words. It takes him a moment. When he finally finds his voice, it’s distant, hollow – somehow even emptier than the gray of his eyes. “Nightmares,” he murmurs. “That’s what they’re hiding down there. Weapons more terrible than you can imagine.”

My stomach twists as Raens’ looks to the bleeding, molten sunset. The implication is clear.

“Jesus,” I breathe. “Is this… Are we doing this to the sun, then?”

He shakes his head, thumbing toward the bunker. “No. Not us. That’ll be Dr. Cornel Thales, Chief of Research and Engineering on this frigid rock.”

I know the name. I'd heard it mentioned by the pilots when they shipped me out to this winter paradise. Thales was a genius apparently. Not your garden-variety savant, but the kind old comic books warned us about.

“I don’t get it. How'd he manage to weaponize the sun?”

"That ain't the real sun," Raens explains, looking toward the darkening sky. "The real one’s somewhere beyond those clouds. It’s later than you think.”

I tilt my head, studying the pulsating weapon on the horizon. “How's he build something like this, though? It’s incredible.”

“Theories float around. They always do. Some of the troops think Thales made a deal with the devil, others think he ain’t properly human.”

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Raens slips a pack of smokes from his parka, slides one between his lips. “I don’t get paid to think. You smoke?”

“Not lately.”

“Smarter than you look.”

He lights up, and for the first time, I’m realizing how ancient the man looks. His eyes are bloodshot, his face lined like a roadmap to exhaustion. I figure the last time he got a decent sleep was somewhere between the invention of the wheel and the fall of Rome.

“Never used to smoke,” he tells me, pocketing his lighter. “Bad habit with no real upsides, but then I got posted here and it was like I needed something – anything to look forward to.” He breathes out a plume, sucks it back through his nostrils. “Cigarettes became my breath of fresh air. Ain’t that funny?”

My mouth dips into a frown, unsure if any of this is funny.

We stand like that for a while longer, gazing across a white glacier shimmering beneath a molten sky.

“So, this is it,” I say, breath fogging the air in front of me. “You and I are just what – guarding some mad scientist until they ship us out in our own body bags, then?”

Raens’ lips twist into a smile. “Nah. We ain’t bodyguards. We’re tripwires for what Thales has down in that bunker.”

“Another weapon?”

He shakes his head, a haunted expression creeping onto his face. “Weapons are tools. You point ‘em at bad guys and the bad guys disappear, but what Thales has is different. You can’t aim it. Can’t control it. It doesn’t answer to us, and I doubt it ever will.”

A shiver crawls up my neck. “You’re talking about this thing like it’s alive.”

He shrugs. “Maybe it is. I’m not sure concepts like life or death even apply to it, though. What I can say is that it’s powerful. Powerful in a way that’s damn near impossible to describe.”

“If it’s so great, then why doesn’t it just break itself out?”

“Figure it doesn’t want to.”

“Huh.” The wind howls past us, carrying a haze of snowflakes toward the bunker. “This thing got a name?” I ask.

“Subject 21,” he says simply. “Word is, it’s practically catatonic. Never makes a fuss about anything. Barely even moves. Just stands in its cell and stares holes in the wall – sometimes literally, if you trust the radio chatter.”

What he’s describing sounds so absurd, like something out of a sci-fi novel. "Does it even breathe?” I say, half-joking. “Or is it beyond that, too?”

The sergeant ashes his cigarette with a tap of his finger. “If it feels like breathing, I suppose it could manage it. That’s the thing about S21 – what makes it so terrifying. It doesn’t have to do anything. It has no rules because it makes the rules, and all of us are just toys in its sandbox, ready to be played with whenever it pleases.”

I swallow. “The hell is Thales doing with this thing?”

“Killing it,” Raens tells me. “Or at least, trying to. He figures S21 is just sleeping, but he’s convinced it’ll wake up one day, and when that happens, we’ll all be royally fucked.”

Ice slithers through my veins.

“Imagine the Big Bang in reverse," Raens continues grimly. "Everything that ever was, wiped clean, with not even ashes left to mark our graves. That's what Thales believes is waiting for us on the other side of S21’s catnap.”

My chest tightens. The thought of this unfathomable creature being less than a mile away, locked up in a bunker beneath the ice feels surreal. Incomprehensible.

“So let me get this straight,” I say, thinking aloud. “This thing is powerful beyond all measure, liable to wipe out humanity the second it wakes up, and we don’t have the first idea how to stop it. What the hell is it? The damn devil?”

Raens grins. “If only. Probably be easier to deal with I’d wager.”

“You’re kidding. What’s worse than the devil?”

Raens squints toward the horizon, a far-away glint in his eyes. “You ever wonder what happened to God?”

“God…?”

“Sure. Jesus takes one for the team, then God just ups and vanishes, doesn’t he? There’s no sequel to the Bible, not even after a few thousand years. Strange, ain’t it?”

“Haven’t given it much thought,” I admit. “Always saw religion as more of a metaphor than literal history.”

“Well,” Raens says, his voice heavy with finality. “Now you know better.”

He steps off, trudging over the hill.

It takes a second for my mind to catch up, and then I’m scrambling after him, moving as gracefully as a newborn giraffe under my six layers of winter kit. “Hold up – are you saying Subject 21 is fucking God?”

The old man gives a noncommittal grunt. “That’s the troops’ theory, but they’d tell you the moon was made of cheese if it made for decent conversation. Anything to pass the time.”

“And what do you—” I catch myself, the words freezing on my tongue. “Right. You don’t get paid to think.”

Raens taps his temple, a wry smirk playing on his lips. "Quick study. And I might not get paid to think, but I still sneak in a little here and there – off the clock, of course." He winks, and it might be the most human he’s ever looked. “There have been... incidents. Might lend some credence to the gossip around the barracks. It all started when—”

A clarion cry rings out, stealing Raens’ attention. He scowls, pulling back the sleeve of his parka to check the watch on his wrist.

“Something wrong?” I ask, peering warily across the snowdrifts.

“Not yet,” he says through gritted teeth.

“That’s not exactly reassuring.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

Raens catches the worry in my face, and he sighs. Claps a hand on my shoulder. "Listen, kid. This is your first day on the job, so I won’t rush things. Not like I did with Lentley. Just try to enjoy the ignorance while it lasts."

I open my mouth to protest but he cuts me off.

"Trust me,” he says, and the words fall from his lips like a judge's gavel.

We keep moving. Our boots crunch through the snow as we make our way toward the watch-turnover location: a crooked radio tower a mile out, its steel frame glinting in the glare of the false sun.

“So, these weapons,” I press, still hungry for answers. “Have any of them of so much as put a dent in S21?”

“They aren’t for S21.”

“Then who—”

A bone-rattling screech tears through the air. Before I can wheel around, Raens is already tackling me to the snow, shoving my head to the powdery cold. “Shh!” he hisses. “They’re coming …” He scans the darkening sky as if searching for enemy aircraft. “How’s your shooting?” he whispers.

"Damn good.”

I reach for my rifle, but he grabs my wrist.

"Keep it on safe. Last thing I need is you punching me full of holes. Still got half a pack of smokes to finish.”

“I’m a marksman, Raens. I ain’t gonna panic.”

He chortles. “Yeah, you and every other asshole here. Shooting a bullseye through a dick hair doesn’t mean squat though, not when you’re—”

His words drown in a cacophony of noise. It crashes down from above us, roaring with the fury of creation itself. I roll over, hands clamped to my ears as pressure builds in my skull like a kettle ready to shriek.

Raens staggers to his knees next to me, tears streaking his wrinkled face. He’s pale. Trembling. Yet despite it all, he's grinning in a rictus of ecstasy – the sonuvabitch is laughing. “Heads up!” he bellows.

Light explodes through the clouds.

All at once, the world ignites, burning brighter than a solar flare. A host of winged creatures descend from above, wreathed in emerald starfire, blowing trumpets that could shatter mountains. I raise my rifle on instinct.

Too slow.

They blitz past us like avenging comets, hellbent for the bunker.

“What’s our play?” I shout over the din.

Raens holds his tongue. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, and my heart seizes. Thales’ false sun has risen high, pulsing with cosmic rage. Molten rays tear away from its surface, hurtling toward the winged host like the spears of wrathful gods.

The creatures try to evade.

They dip and weave faster than lightning, but it’s no use. The arrows snap through the air like guided missiles, finding their marks and engulfing them in screaming flames.

One by one, the creatures fall.

It's like watching a meteor shower, and I can't help but marvel at Thales' brutal brilliance. It only takes the weapon a handful of minutes to clear the sky; to render the invaders little more than cinders in the wind.

As the last of them dies, I’m left shaking in a snowfall of ash.

“Those things …” I choke out, my voice strangled by awe and horror.

“Looked familiar, didn't they?" Raens answers, and somehow, it's like he's discussing the weather. “The one’s with all the eyes tend to throw folks for a loop, but they’re all part of the same host.”

I swallow hard, tasting char and infinity. “Are you saying they were …” The word sticks in my throat, feeling almost too blasphemous, too dizzying to speak.

“Angels,” Raens confirms, joints popping like gunshots as he gets to his feet. “That’s our best guess, at any rate. They’ve been making the rounds every couple weeks, back since Thales got his hands on Subject 21. Tricky things. Never fall for the same weapon twice.” Raens says the last bit as if he’s giving them some kind of begrudging respect.

“Angels …” My voice creaks like timber. “We just slaughtered a hundred angels?”

Raens snorts. “Wouldn’t bet on it.”

He nods at the field before us, covered in white feathers stained black with soot. To my shock, the feathers begin to quiver, pulsing with inner light. They rise slowly as one, hanging for a heartbeat before rocketing skyward, piercing the clouds and leaving pillars of radiance in their wake.

As the last of them vanish, Thales’ bleeding sun shrinks back beneath the horizon, blanketing us in the shroud of night.

Raens helps me to my feet. "You alright?”

“… I’m alive.”

"Not what I asked. Lentley was alive too, right up 'til he wasn't.” The old sergeant pats snow and soot from my sleeves. “Look, this job's a mindfuck, I know that – we all do, but it's still the job. You okay or not?”

My pulse is rushing so fast it hurts, goosebumps the size of dimes are peppering my skin, I'm drowning in existential dread, baptized in cosmic horror, and my ears are ringing like church bells, and …

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

He claps my shoulders, squeezing with rough compassion. “Kid, I might not be the brightest of the bunch, but I know my troops. And you? You're a long way from fine.”

I take a breath, and it feels like my first in years. “This just a nightmare, right, Raens? Some Sunday School trauma clawing its way out of my system?”

He pays me a mournful smile, and it tells me everything I need to know.

“Christ,” I breathe, anxiety seizing me. “We just cremated half of heaven back there …”

“Told you already, those angels ain’t dead.”

“Does it matter?” I sputter. “We’ve probably got front row seats in hell thanks to that shitshow. I mean, you can’t just torch angels, Raens. There’s gotta be rules about that and … and …”

I trail off. Fear’s got me by the throat, the weight of what we’ve done crushing my last coherent thought.

We’re damned. All of us, irredeemably damned.

But Raens doesn’t seem to care.

He pulls a fresh cigarette from his pack, lights it on fire. “Thought you didn't buy into all that religious stuff?”

“Guess I’ve just had a spiritual awakening.”

Raens looks me over: at my mess of hair, my desperate eyes and my shaking knees. He looks at all of this and he laughs. It’s the first time I’ve seen him do it – throw back his head, crinkle his eyes and howl with amusement. Showcase genuine joy.

Somehow, I hate it. It’s like this whole thing is a joke to him, some cosmic hazing ritual for the new guy.

“What’s so funny?” I demand.

“You are,” he says, giving me a light punch on the arm. “Spiritual awakening? Fuck me. Lentley fed me the same line, and it killed me then, too. You two really are cut from the same cloth.”

The way he’s beaming at me, I wonder if this is the first time he’s felt happy in ages, and it seems wrong to derail all that – to take it from him, but I need to know.

“I never asked… but how was it that Lentley died?”

The sergeant’s smile fades. He turns away from me, wipes something from the edge of his eye and starts carving a path toward the radio tower. “Same as any of us do,” he says with a rattling breath. “Slowly over the years, then all at once and far too soon.”

“That ain’t much of an answer,” I say, following after him.

“Maybe not, but it’s all you’re getting.”

Moonlight seeps through the clouds, stretching our shadows as we trudge through the snow. When we make it to the tower, Raens unslings his rifle with an exhausted sigh before sparking a fresh stick of nicotine. I slump down next to him.

“I got one more question,” I tell him.

“Shoot.”

“Thales. What’s his angle on hating God? He some kind of militant atheist or something?”

Raens grins, amused. “That’s funny. Thales might be the most God-fearing Christian you’ll ever meet, now that you mention it.”

“How’s that work?” I say with a frown.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what’s a Christian doing trying to murder God?”

“Ah.” Raens takes a moment to consider the question, his wrinkled face lit up red beneath the tower, cigarette smoldering between his calloused fingertips. “Guess he’s doing it for the same reason any true believer does anything,” he says, lifting the smoke to his lips. “…Cause God told him to.”

The arctic wind kisses my cheeks, ruffles my hair, but all I can feel is the machine-gun rhythm of my heart pounding against my ribs.

I watch Raens tap ash onto the snow, watch him take another drag and I’m stunned by how calm he is. How relaxed. A thousand questions are pinballing around my skull, but for him this is just another Tuesday.

My eyes find my gloves, still blackened with soot, still stained with the cremains of heaven itself, and all I can think about is how much I wish I could stop thinking.

“Something on your mind, kid?”

I glance up at the sergeant, throat dry. “Yeah,” I croak. “I think… I think maybe I’ll take you up on that cigarette after all, Raens.”

He gives me a knowing smile, weary eyes twinkling beneath the starlit sky. “Figured you would,” he says, reaching into his parka with a sigh. “Folks typically do.”