#dark river icons

[orpheusismefr]

[tilbageidanmark]

Born in the USA, photographed by Annie Leibovitz.

[zeezeebum]

I'm not afraid of dying. I'm afraid I haven't been alive enough.

[tragedy-of-commons]

HOMECOMING.

── dan heng x gn!reader

summary: Your boyfriend invites you to spend Christmas break with him and his eccentric (but lovable all the same) family. You oblige.

contains: modern and university au, established relationship, comedy and tooth-rotting fluff, christmas shopping, the astral express fam all make appearances (pre-2.7), setting is very american-inspired (sorry), cringefail exuberant reader, one hurt/comfort scene

word count: 11.4k oops

taglist: @singularity-sam, @mitsvriii, @tetrachrxmacy, @bladism, @mikashisus

notes: for @azuresaqua, written for the @/stellaronhvnters secret santa 🎄 this took all month, but i hope you like it crys!! also this totally looks fine on dark mode. if you think otherwise then ummm SHHH. dividers by @/cafekitsune!

Your phone blares with its usual grating ringtone, startling you out of your reverie.

Scrambling to pick the device up, you’re pleasantly surprised. So much so that you drop the sweatshirt in your free hand mid-fold. The caller ID reads Dan Heng, lighting up your homescreen with his contact icon.

A warmth buzzes in your chest as you look it over, a giggle erupting from your throat. The selfie is of you and him, with Dan Heng looking particularly spacey in the midst of the bustling street.

You’re now considerably less bored. You’ve been looking for an excuse to procrastinate doing your laundry all day, and it just so happens to entail talking with your lovely partner. Not waiting any longer, you clear your throat, tap the green accept button, and press the speaker to your ear.

“Hi, darling!” you chirp, shifting to sit more comfortably, “I miss you. How’re you holding up? Still in the library studying the day away?”

The other line crackles with life. “Hello. I feel the same,” Dan Heng informs you matter-of-factly, his cadence clear as a river. “And no, I’m not there anymore. It was… too crowded for my liking.”

That’s no surprise. Finals are upon the whole campus in a few days, and it shows. There is a distinct, depressing atmospheric pressure that weighs upon your fellow students. 

The scourge of exams, the final boss of the semester, the enemy of mental fortitude and peace. Though Dan Heng loves your university’s expansive library, you can imagine he’d be less enthralled when a hundred tired young adults are populating it to cram.

“Yeah, I can imagine,” you wince. “Well, look on the bright side. We’re almost done, yeah? Soon enough, the library will be solely your domain once again, and you can be a doll and skim the archives in my stead.”

His voice takes on a sarcastic lilt, affection hidden underneath the words like a hard-won reward. You think it’s an indulgence for him. “If my memory serves correctly, I had to smooth things over with the librarian on your behalf. I don’t think it’s a wise idea for you to loiter there any longer, as energetic as you are.”

How cheeky! Honestly, you’re not even that loud. Sometimes you laugh a little too hard at benign things (like the way some book titles sound out of context), or react too vibrantly at the wrong times (like exclaiming profanities after tripping over your own feet), but those aren’t crimes.

Even now, ruminating over this reasoning, you still don't understand how you got banned from the library. Unreal.

“Hey, come on now! I don’t even loiter… I just want to spend time with you, even if studying isn’t something I burden myself with. That guy has it out for me,” you insist, growing smile threatening to split your face in two. “Anyway, I’m not saying this to be rude, but…”

“But?” Dan Heng asks cautiously.

“You normally don’t call first. Is everything okay?”

You mean it when you ask. Though you love your boyfriend, he isn’t the best at initiating longform communication. Sometimes you’ll get a text with a link to a video he found interesting, or he’ll update you with life (mostly just classes and endless papers), and then you’ll respond by quadruple-texting and then maybe calling him. For hours. And then asking to come over to his dorm. And then falling asleep with him. All at your request, which he doesn’t seem to mind.

That being said, it’s atypical that he takes up the mantle, which makes you worry. And if you worry, Dan Heng feels guilty. Trying not to be patronizing, you patiently wait for him to speak on his own terms, humming to yourself idly. You could, y’know, do your laundry, but you’re not gonna do that. Free will is so cool and awesome.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” he assures, words measured. “I just have something I’d like to run by you, but I didn’t want to interrupt if you were busy.”

“I’m never busy! Spill!” Extremely curious, you pluck your phone from your ear and put Dan Heng on speaker. While you’re at it, you also stand up and pace the short length from your bed to the door of your suite, clothes abandoned on the floor. 

“It’s about this winter break. We haven’t conferred on plans yet, but I was planning to ask you if you’d meet my… my family. Of course, it all depends on your availability - don’t feel too rushed to answer, I’d just like to know in advance so I can get things in order on my end.”

Woah, what just happened? You stop walking to think, gears spinning and grinding and pushing all sorts of implications. His family. 

Dan Heng has one, yes, he divulges details every once in a while and elaborates on his mishmash of a homelife when you ask, but you’ve never heard him refer to these mystical figures as family. They’ve always been referred to as my friend, followed by their name. You know them well, committing each to memory despite not having met them yet: March, Caelus, Welt, and Himeko. 

Of course, you pester your boyfriend about them. Nothing too invasive, just remembering the important details. Asking for updates about March’s creative ventures or inquiring if Himeko’s coffee has gotten any more palatable, to name a few. 

In turn, Dan Heng would make a comment about how they also pester him about you. It’s like a big game of telephone - this indirect communication is what you’re used to. It’s kind of surreal to think about actually meeting them after all this time.

Then the joy comes. He wants to share this part of his life with you. Is this the natural next step in your relationship, like all seasoned married couples fondly reflect back on? Dan Heng wants to spend three and half weeks with you, uninterrupted, at home. His home.

Tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them away, grinning like an absolute fool. Does he really think you’ll say no? You’d already do anything to make him happy. Despite being several buildings and crosswalks away from him right now, your hearts feel impossibly close together.

(It’s not like you have anything else planned.)

That thought is pushed away as quickly as it comes. No time for you to be bitter when it’s the season of giving and all things cheerful! This opportunity is nothing short of a blessing… you’re saved from being cramped up inside the inevitably deserted hall for the entirety of break. You’re saved from having to admit to Dan Heng that I have nowhere to go and nothing to do like everyone else. 

Shock, joy, relief. 

“Oh my god,” you laugh, breathy. With a repressed-young-man-trained-ear, you catch a soft sigh of relief dissipating on the other line. “Yes, of course I want to meet them! Dude, this is so exciting! What if I died? What if I blew up the entirety of campus in my merriment? What then?”

He is far too used to your theatrics to react too strongly to them at this point. “...I wouldn’t put it past you. But I’m glad you said yes. There’s just the issue of details to work out.”

Dan Heng proposes different times on different days to leave. Well, he probably went more in depth than that - he likes to schedule and plan for the future, even if he doesn’t always stick to those self-imposed regulations in the end - probably droning on about the cost of gas or something. But you’re way too shell-shocked to respond coherently, muffling squeals and noncommittal hums that give away exactly how much you’re not paying attention.

Digesting about half of the information, you bring up what you have left to do before winter break after he does the same: registration for next semester’s classes, turning in textbooks for certain courses (thank the stars renting is affordable here), and the remaining days riddled with finals. 

Despite how daunting these tasks are for others, you find yourself enjoying the denouement. Guessing on scantrons has gotten you pretty far, and the other obligations can be swiftly eliminated through sheer will and lots of Christmas music. Your Spotify listening history must look like some kind of tinsel-festooned warzone.

This will be your first ever Christmas with Dan Heng. He’s never been extremely festive by any means, but you cajoled him into a matching Halloween costume a month ago, and he is fond of horror movies despite how silly they can be, offering little bits of trivia or his critiques on the film’s score. 

You think this holiday, spent at his home, in his hometown - will be the source of many happy memories. It’ll also, hopefully, be another endless source of teasing. 

Images flit through your mind, the most notable of which being your stoic boyfriend in a truly hideous red and green sweater. You snicker to yourself until your amusement is disturbed by Dan Heng promptly clearing his throat. 

He says your name in that soft way that makes you weak in the knees. You’re under his spell just as much as he is under yours. You should take to reminding him of that more often. “Just to be clear, is this alright with you?”

It’s so much more than alright, you think. Winter, for all of its bitter cold and unforgiving responsibilities, still teems with life as the leaves die. For every day you’ve spent alone during the last two Christmases, you’ll be repaid with one in kind spent with Dan Heng and the people he trusts most.

You’re blessed with the sweet thought that you’re now a part of those treasured, trustworthy few as well. 

You know you’ve been treasured for a long time, but feeling it actualized, solidified in action, is as homey and warm as a burning hearth.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I am, darling. I’m so excited that I think I’m shaking!”

You tighten your grip on your phone, almost leaving indents in the shitty case, attempting to still your vibrating fingers. His response is a mumble along the lines of you should probably eat something, and I’m glad. Dan Heng can be a little awkward, especially over the phone, but that just speaks of his sincerity. He’s glad you’re coming. 

You scuttle over to the window beside your bed, yanking the blinds askew to peek outside. A glimpse of the first frost coating the student parking lot promises something more. Something magical and childlike.

Joy. You have a feeling you’re going to be extremely insufferable to any and all scrooges (people rightfully sick of dealing with your chipper attitude) in the coming days. Oh well, they can suck it up because it’s the most wonderful time of the year, and you’re in love with the most amazing person in the world. 

You tell him not to worry, which he sighs at, and then the brunt of the conversation is over. The following silence is calm but electric, dragging on for just the right amount of time. A well-deserved respite, you think. 

“I love you,” you confess.

“...I love you too. Touch base soon.”

With that, the call ends abruptly. Your cheeks feel hot and you’re reinvigorated, daydreaming of Dan Heng’s expressions obscured by distance - you want nothing more than to see him, but you know your partner well enough to realize when he needs a break; to realize when he needs his alone time. You would never begrudge him for it.

That was a fucking whirlwind.

You shove your phone in your pocket after nudging the blinds back in place. There’s so much to do, and you’re definitely gonna need another run-down of the schedule (preferably in person), but for now, you’ll let yourself be over the moon and overrun with task paralysis. 

Triumphantly, you turn to flip off your abandoned pile of laundry. Free will is so cool and awesome.

“We are so back!”

You’re so impatient that you’ve started counting the hours.

The final stretch is a lot more boring than you thought it was going to be. Picking a time to check out of your dorm, fixing up any scuffs on the walls from your shitty posters before room inspection, actually passing your classes. The normal stuff. 

Both you and Dan Heng decided that you would leave at around three in the morning on the first day of break. It sounded bewildering at first, and you had levelled him with a look that made him hurriedly elaborate.

“In order to get there at a reasonable time, it’s the best way to go,” he’d said over coffee. “The drive isn’t more than a few hours, but if we leave right after routine inspection, we’d be arriving in the middle of the night.”

Though the mental image of showing up on a quaint little home’s doorstep in your pajamas and waking up the whole neighborhood with your knocking is funny, it’s not funny enough to quell your nerves. 

You’ve noticed, usually in the midst of trying to be productive, that the excitement is weighing heavily on your heart. Your hands are perpetually shaky, you’re sweating disgusting buckets, and you’re sure you look as if you’ve lost your marbles to any soul brave enough to strike up conversation.

That last part came to your attention when Bronya, your desk neighbor in your Interpersonal Communications class, dared ask you if she could borrow a pencil. She barely got the question out before she asked if you were alright. And if Bronya asks you if you’re alright, it means that you must look terrible. 

Sure enough, you are getting less and less sleep, and you’ve been prone to twitching. In retrospect, you probably had that wild look in your eye that screamed I am at rock bottom and it’s in the public’s best interest that I’m contained.

But you’re not at rock bottom! You’re just nervous, and it’s weird when you’re nervous, because such an occurrence is as rare as a blue moon. You’re going to be meeting Dan Heng’s family in a matter of days, and you’re expected to behave as a normal, functioning member of society. Unbelievable. Even the love of your life has noticed the difference in your behavior - he seems disturbed but respectful. 

You recall him asking if you were ill, which you had vehemently denied. Then he kissed you under the thin covers of his bed, and everything was fine for a moment.

But you think you’re feeling better on this day in particular. To distract yourself from the anxiety, you’ve sunk deeper into the holiday cheer. With Dan Heng at your side, you’ve blown off classes for the day to go gift shopping. The outlet mall near your university is always bustling, but during this time of year, you’d think there’s an overpopulation crisis wreaking havoc on your city.

Escalators are crammed with excited children dragging their parents along, there are decorations painstakingly put up in every nook and cranny, and you have a mission to see through.

“Thanks for ditching to help me out,” you preface. “It’d be way too difficult to shop for your family on my own. Just the idea of stress-buying things they may not even like… ugh. Also, wow! I realized you haven’t told me jack shit about them! I’m actually clueless.”

Dan Heng is not amused, but he doesn’t outright refute your assertion. “I suppose you have a point. And I didn’t ditch class,” he emphasizes, ears red. “Psychology got canceled.”

Here, among the sea of people, Dan Heng looks his least confident. While you, the person known for befriending every stray cat you meet, look your best.

The juxtaposition makes you feel fuzzy, and you know in your heart that he would've helped you anyway, even if he had class. He can be so obvious but so subtle at the same time. You tug on the sleeve of his sweatshirt once, purely affectionate. 

“Right. Uh, where do we start? Who’s the easiest to shop for?” you wonder aloud, crossing the stretches of marble and doing your best to peer down the massive store-lined strip. “We could start with March. She’s into crafty stuff, right?”

Your boyfriend tames a cowlick in his dark hair. “Yes. You seem to have a plan figured out already, but she uses up heaps of film while taking photos. An arts and crafts store would likely have the 600 type for her Polaroid. That’s what I had in mind in terms of a gift she’d appreciate.”

“We seem to be on the same page, but that just sounds so… impersonal! Bit of a safe choice, don’t you think? Let’s play it by ear and see what they have. I’m sure she’d also appreciate something handmade. I think I have enough time to DIY a gift; they probably have kits for all sorts of stuff.”

Dan Heng is starting off in the direction of the correct storefront. The display window is easily spotted, plastered with all kinds of paper mache ornaments. “You don’t need to fret. Knowing her, she’ll love anything that comes from you.”

You blink, grinning. “Really? Didn’t know I was so popular.”

“You have no idea,” sighs Dan Heng.

Warmly titled Make n’ Create, the door chimes, signifying your entry. Immediately, you’re assaulted by the smell of candles - a few hundred thousand, you hazard. 

Scents of vanilla and evergreen paired with cinnamon burn your nostrils as you survey the aisles of winding shelves overflowing with endless possibilities. Almost forgetting to return the greeting of the woman behind the counter, you snap out of your stupor and drag your boyfriend along.

Everything looks enticing… your savings account is telling you to be responsible, but your heart is telling you to snatch up and squirrel away any item of interest just in case. You wander the marble floor under the bright fluorescents, humming under your breath. “Hey, we can probably save some time and split up. Could you go look for the film? We’ll definitely get that along with whatever catches my eye.”

Relieved to have something to do, Dan Heng nods and disembarks from your side, perilously weaving between other shoppers buzzing with excitement. He mentioned that he deliberately put off Christmas shopping since you insisted on doing it together, the thought alone satisfying. 

The prospect of scrawling both of your names on the same box, passed off into eager hands. The words will read From: Dan Heng and his partner.

Rounding a corner, the pottery and ceramics section calls to you like a siren. There are stocks upon stocks of white, unpainted Christmas trees and wreaths, advertised as blank canvases to decorate as your own - paint included. Those are cute, but something relevant year-round would probably be received better. 

Impressions, impressions. Your gaze drops lower, dutifully searching…

Aha!

Ceramic jewelry dishes. Same gimmick as the trees and wreaths, but not necessarily seasonal. There are a few different types among the kits - heart-shaped, some with hinges that open and close, even some with music box elements with heftier price tags. 

Your intuition slaps you across the face multiple times. March will love one of these, you just know it! Cautious, you spare a shifty glance from left to right before squealing to yourself. The package in your hand is crisp and promising as you check over the price and instructions.

Dan Heng returns to witness your perfect find. You know this because you recognize the soft padding of his footsteps anywhere (which is not creepy). You turn to see him and the fond look in his eye - and the aforementioned packages of film he’s clutching. 

“Hey, you,” you chuckle. “You found it, great! Anyway, look what I stumbled upon. Do you think she’ll--�� “Yes,” he breathes, suddenly decisive. “She will. Especially the heart one.”

Quickly heeding the ever-rare suggestion from Dan Heng, you discard the now inferior package and seize the heart-shaped one. “I trust your judgment. She has good taste, honestly. Thanks for your help, love, I appreciate it. I know for a fact she likes pink, and though my hands are a little clumsy… I’ll make a masterpiece outta this, trust me.”

He exhales through his nose. That’s a laugh if you’ve ever heard one. “You sound so resolute…”

“Duty-bound, if you will,” you grin. “We can move on to the next place if you’d like. Didn’t expect to be done here so fast.”

“...wait.”

You tilt your head, following his line of sight back to the shelves. He seems transfixed on something else there, and a few seconds go by in silence as you’re left to figure out what it is on your lonesome. 

Dan Heng has gotten better at speaking his mind - he was never bad at it, but sometimes words get tangled up in his reticent hesitation. You understand this well. So, you try to determine what’s caught his eye. The understanding you come to is a nice one. The lowest rung of the shelf, almost overshadowed, are more ceramics - no surprise there. But it feels like fate the way that they’re displayed; two sturdy coffee cups with intricate handles, then a miniature raccoon forever inlaid with a devilish expression, practically commanding a paintbrush to make its mischievous grin come to life with color. 

Himeko, Welt, Caelus.

You laugh, loud and bright, grabbing your boyfriend’s hand with a conspiratorial grin. “Four birds with one stone, huh? We’re gonna need a cart!”

Dan Heng is blushing. It’s subtle, not at all burning or obvious to any nosy bystanders, but it’s enough to make your heart sing with delight. You take it he’s glad that you picked up on his thoughts so wordlessly. 

He excuses himself after muttering something about going to get the cart while you smile like an idiot. A lovestruck idiot. A lovestruck idiot with a soon-to-be overdrawn bank account.

…well, not exactly. After you gather everything and go to check out, he insists on paying for all of it. You make sure to argue with him in front of the very amused cashier, reaching a compromise in no time at all thanks to your amazing negotiation skills. He’ll pay for this load (whatever), and you’ll pay for any remaining splurges today. It’s only natural you need to stop by a few more places, considering March has two gifts while the others only have one. 

By the time Dan Heng’s social battery is drained and yours is frayed, you have everything. An apparel outlet that you would’ve never stepped foot in normally now has your patronage; a golden brooch in the shape of a rose (that’s surprisingly affordable) for Himeko, a classy but patterned tie for Welt, and a trendy jacket for Caelus.

You think you’re the most jealous of that last one - it has many pockets and takes up enough space to suffocate a small orphan.

Hauling the bags into the icy parking lot, you suddenly stop in your tracks, feeling the generous weight of your spending in the process. “Hold on.”

Your tired but loving partner heeds your command. “What? Is something the matter?”

“We forgot to shop for each other,” you point out, sheepish and breathy. Seems you’ve both been so caught up in the tradewinds that you forgot. “Should we go back inside?”

“No,” he blurts, “I’ve already acquired your gift.”

Gobsmacked, you almost drop your share of the bags. He’s been holding out on you?! The surprise quickly fades into mushy limerence before it dulls. “Huh? When did you do that? Oh shit, I haven’t gotten you anything yet… dude, I’m sorry, I’ll head back inside, all secret mission-esque and find you something while you wait in the car--” 

Dan Heng shakes his head. “You… you don’t have to.”

The hell? Does he even know how Christmas works? “Of course I do, come on,” you push forward. Knowing you’ve already forgotten where you’ve parked, he strides out in front of you and leads the way, preparing to argue his case. “We’ll put these in the back, and I’ll find you an amazing gift, you’ll see.”

You both reach his little beat-up sedan (which you’ve aptly named Granny), while he fumbles for his keys. He sighs, rolling the frigid joints in his shoulders as he opens the driver’s seat to unlock the trunk. Setting the bags down on the gross pavement is unfortunately inevitable. You throw the thing open, already loading. 

Dan Heng’s rebuttal is almost startling.

“I don’t need an ‘amazing gift’. I have you.”

You freeze. Where did he pull that from? Are you hallucinating again? Is this like the time you stayed up for two days straight to half-ass a dozen unfinished assignments? Or maybe it’s selective hearing… such a line is probably from an old romcom that you’re mentally regurgitating and then projecting onto him.

But you don’t tease or ask him to repeat it. Instead, you choose to fully believe and embrace that compliment, warming your heart and your cheeks. His expression is obscured from your position, but he probably looks the same.

“I’m… really glad you think so, Dan Heng,” you almost whisper.

Before he can say anything else that’ll ruin the moment, you decide that’s your job! and slam the trunk closed, deafeningly loud. 

“But that’s unacceptable! I’ll find you something perfect in the coming days no matter what!”

You hear him sigh before you hear his approaching footsteps. “Try not to stress too hard about it. Also, open that back up, there are more bags.”

“Oops,” you giggle. “Why not ask me nicely, like in that Romeo way you did five seconds ago?”

Your other half rightfully elects to ignore you.

As you finish wrapping up with him at your side, the subsequent ride back to campus is in comfortable silence. The buzz of what’s to come lingers on your mind as you stare out of the passenger window at the familiar scenery. You’ll find time to squeeze in finding a gift for Dan Heng, you’ll make sure of it. 

But for now, what to pack for the impending trip…?

You wake to the sound of your blaring alarm. Scrambling for your phone to make the thing shut up, you’re blinded by the time. It’s 2:30 in the morning, you’re disoriented, and you desperately want to go back to sleep. But when you really come to a minute later after hitting snooze, it all sinks in. 

Your room inspection is over with, your finals have been taken (you didn’t fail any of them, yay), and you have to leave campus with Dan Heng in about thirty minutes. Surreal that you’re awake at this hour, you go about getting ready - this includes texting the man of the hour to make sure he didn’t oversleep.

To your satisfaction, he responds swiftly. To your horror, he mentions that he’s ready and waiting. Unfair, in your opinion - why is he always punctual, and why are you always late?

You look in the mirror at your haphazard reflection. Not too shabby; just a leisure t-shirt and some sweatpants, pulled together by the thickest jacket you have since it’s grown even colder out. Your bags are already packed and practically bursting at the seams, loaded with your essentials, and of course the presents for Dan Heng’s family. 

You spent all of your free time crammed between everything else painting the ceramics while he wrapped and made everything else look pretty.

(You almost got crudely mixed pink paint on your dorm wall - well, you did just a little bit. Luckily it came off without the need to go sprinting to the nearest hardware store in pursuit of a cover-up job. That would have been bad. Very bad. Also, you left the primary suite door open to ventilate, and at least three students walking down the hallway witnessed your perfectionism-driven breakdown. Also, your suitemate hates you now.)

All of that’s over, though. Making sure you have everything once, then twice, then three whole times - you decide it’s finally time to go. You lug everything out of your dorm, down the hallway, into the elevator, and wait as it descends.

You check your phone, updating your boyfriend as the cabin grinds to a halt on the ground floor. Outside is nothing short of beautiful, if not hypothermic.

Snow falls in tiny flurries that make the dark cement purgatory look like a dream. The floodlights leave some corners of the parking lot shadowed, but illuminate Dan Heng just right. You spot him and his old ass car smack dab in the middle of all the empty spaces, just about everyone having vacated already.

“Hi, darling,” your breath syncs with the air as a wispy cloud. You kiss his cheek. “You ready?”

“I have been for the better part of an hour,” he informs you, perhaps a little grumpy from waking up so early - or it could just be that wry sarcasm rearing its head.

You find that Dan Heng is neither an early bird nor a night owl, oscillating between the two like nobody’s business. He’s up when he needs to be, including now, softened under the touch of your lips. 

And so, without much fanfare, the road trip commences. It’s notably different than the other times he’s chauffeured you around - so silent and grave. It kind of puts a damper on the Christmas spirit you’ve so painstakingly adopted, but you think twice about cranking the radio. He is the one driving, after all.  

You offered to switch with him halfway, and to his credit, he thought about it. But then Dan Heng politely shook his head and muttered something about bad weather and hydroplaning. Whatever a hydroplane is, you aren’t sure what it has to do with you being untrustworthy behind the wheel. 

The pleasant blast of the heater, the occasional robotic warbling from the GPS app, and the noise of the light drizzle outside are your more talkative companions. You’re getting antsy; you feel it in the bouncing of your leg and how you mindlessly chew on the dead skin of your bottom lip. 

Should you try to ignore it? Put on your headphones and tune out? The thought is appealing. 

Instead, you pipe up a few minutes before you’re due to turn on the interstate.

“Wanna get coffee?” you singsong. “I mean, you especially are going to need the caffeine to keep awake. Sleep deprivation is, like, the number three reason people get into car crashes.”

Dan Heng huffs in amusement. You’re glad that got some kind of reaction out of him, glad that the stoney silence has been broken. But if you’re being completely honest with yourself (which you really hate doing), this detour suggestion is just an excuse to delay the inevitable. For all of your joy, lingering anxiety chips away at your trademark smirk. 

You decide to bribe him just a little. “I’m buying.”

He turns into the nearest place without any further prodding. The coffee, which you have successfully paid for by the way, is nice. The searing light of the menu options, clambering over Dan Heng to place your orders as loud as you can because you know it’s hard for them to hear anything - fleeting memories of taking orders at your high school part-time job and all that. 

As you take the cup holder tray from your partner, ferried through the drive thru window, he speaks up, much to your chagrin.

“You’re nervous,” he says, leaving no room for doubt. You continue to situate the drinks and glance into the side view mirror, taking a sudden rapt interest in the line forming behind you.

You decide to lie. Maybe he’ll be merciful and let you work this one out on your own. “Me? Nervous? Whatever gives you that impression? Perhaps you needed the coffee more than I thought… poor Dan Heng, so tired that he’s hallucinating…” you whistle.

Gaslighting, unfortunately, doesn’t work. Persuasion check must’ve rolled off. Dan Heng says your name, soft but stilted in a way that makes your heart ache. He rolls out of the drive thru after checking the rearview mirror, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. They gain their color back after he realizes you’re staring at them.

“I’m nervous too. Extremely.” You’re back on the highway, and you fiddle with the GPS to get yourself back en route, taking in his words as they come. Dan Heng is being candid with you; encouraging. “Going back home is always an… ordeal.”

You deflate a bit, conflict warring on your face. Considering how flustered he gets when you dote on him, albeit within his limits, you can’t imagine how exhausting being fussed at from all angles would be. Not like he’s a kid, but that he’s returning home after another semester of being independent.

“Yeah, um, I can imagine. I don’t know much about that stuff, but it’ll probably be amplified with me coming with you. We’ll get through it together and have a great time.”

You say it to convince yourself more than him, but it works. Perhaps that was his plan all along?

“Yes,” agrees Dan Heng. “We will.”

The interstate stretch, predictably, is the most sizable chunk of the trip. Temptation whispers in your ears tantalizingly, the idea of a nap or two at the forefront of your sleep-addled mind. The soft pitter-patter of the rain against the windshield battling with the snow makes it even harder to resist.

So, you doze soundly in your reclined seat, nice and warm. You think you feel a hand, cold and calloused, brushing against your cheek, but fighting it would require waking up to demand he focus on the road! It retracts, and you’re out for a good long while.

You know that for a fact, because when you wake up, dawn is encroaching. The stars are still visible against the bleeding horizon. You feel much better, even if Dan Heng suppresses a smile at your expense - you seriously must look wrecked from a few simple hours of rest. Geez.

You yawn, waking up to chat. Your boyfriend looks unruffled, cool eyes scanning road signs for a place to apparently fuel up.

He tells you that there’s only about an hour or so left, the ETA checking out. Nerves flood your system, but after a deep breath and stepping out to stretch your legs, you feel better.

“Who knew you were so good at pep talks,” you tease, if not to hide the fact you’re completely enamored with him. You fill up the tank after he cuts the engine, purposefully yelling so he can hear your words through the rolled up windows. “My man, the motivator!”

You hear his ensuing groan, claiming mental victory as the pump dings. Easy. 

Staring at the signs of his hometown, a foreign sense of wonder engulfs you as you split from the interstate. Has that diner been there since Dan Heng was a kid? Did he even spend all of his childhood in one place? Should you ask, or is that too invasive? 

The trees lining the grassy outcrops are tiny and thin, likely just having been planted by the city. How much has changed since you’ve started monopolizing his time?

Your questions spill out, and he does his best to answer them - but he also seems nostalgic, wistful and pained. Your earlier revelation rings true; you don’t know much about Dan Heng’s past.

That’s slowly changing as he tells you some stories, though his words are messy and create a muddled image in your head. You don’t push too far, chattering his ear off in response to keep things lighthearted. 

(Maybe you’ll be more open about yourself too. Maybe.)

Then you careen into a residential area. It’s more suburban than you expected for a city-town hybrid of this size, streets of apartment units and then gated communities of houses. You whistle because you’re almost there, you can feel it!

“Which one is it, huh?” you pester, practically pressing your face against the glass. “Come on, pick up the pace a little!”

“I am not keen on getting a ticket this far in. A few more turns.”

True to his word, a row of townhouses come into view. They’re not massive, but the few you see are brimming with character. Full, decadent awnings and aged brick matched with just the right colors to make your brain happy. They look lived in, filled with memories that you’re eager to digest and, hopefully, be a part of.

Dan Heng pulls into the driveway of the oldest-looking one and parks. The GPS drones on, informing you of your arrival. Your anxiety has almost entirely abated at this point, thank the heavens and stars, and it’s near time to face the music with open arms.

“What a nice place! I guess we should greet them, and then start unloading?”

He nods. It’s still cold out, but less so than at school. Stepping out onto the pavement gives you a little thrill, and you trail behind Dan Heng, stuffing your hands into your jacket pockets as you stare at the front door.

It has a little brass knocker in lieu of a doorbell, and you reach out to grasp it on instinct. Your hand brushes his that had reached out at the same time.

You wiggle your eyebrows at him. 

He sighs and finally knocks after you reel your grubby hand back. It all comes down to this - kind of anticlimactic from someone else’s perspective, but paramount from yours. Who will answer the door?

The answer is immediate: Welt. The thing creaks open, revealing a tall, older man with graying brown hair and glasses. He’s utilizing a cane and looks exactly like you imagined, distinguished and fitting right into the scene with his creme turtleneck and kind eyes. He regards you both, first Dan Heng, then you. 

“You’re here early. Welcome back - and I see you’ve brought them, as promised,” Welt’s voice is warm, and you get the feeling the small smile he’s wearing is quite rare. “Come in, we’ve been waiting on you two. It’s an honor to meet Dan Heng’s esteemed partner.”

You’re utterly awestruck, responses forming on your tongue only to dissolve into garbled nothings. As you robotically follow inside, you watch as Dan Heng falls into an awkward-looking side hug with Welt - quickly averting your eyes so they can have a moment. Then, you can’t contain it anymore, speaking to your heart’s content.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too. I’ve heard a lot - well, not a lot, but enough,” you ramble unapologetically, taking in the decor of the foyer, “and I’m really excited to be here, you have no idea. Are those Ray Bans? You have a lovely home!”

Your boyfriend, wetting his chapped lips, communicates silently with Welt. You think it’s something like a greeting, a familial synergy you can’t quite grasp yet. Maybe it’s a warning: I am dating an idiot chatterbox, please be nice to them. 

That seems unlikely; necessitates further observation. This is just like Animal Planet. 

“Thank you, I recognize your sincerity. It’s a rare trait, these days,” he mutters mostly to himself, probably reminiscing on some mysterious past. He goes on to curtly answer your more frivolous questions while leading the two of you deeper inside. Dan Heng squeezes your hand and you share your own telepathic glance with him. 

This is going well!

The interior of the living room is striking, bearing the marks of age and care. You recognize most of the furniture as antiques - leather couches and loveseats with beautiful upholstery, a sage grandfather clock standing tall near the stone fireplace, and overflowing bookshelves that’d satiate even the most voracious of readers.

Paintings adorn every wall, not a square inch left blank. The mantle boasts many trinkets and baubles of various cultures, some of which you recognize - and some of which you don’t. Those could definitely be a great conversation starter! 

So charming, so quaint, so rich in history! You’d wax poetic and stare at each nifty little thing until your eyes bled if you could.

“Darling, I didn’t know you were so well-off! Maybe I should start calling you Mr. Old Money.” “...please don’t.”

Welt hides a chuckle in his gloved hand before surveying the room. “It seems everyone is doing their own thing. I’ll go get Himeko, she must be in her study,” he throws a look over his shoulder, uttering your name with just the right amount of phlegm. “Welcome. Don’t be afraid to make yourself at home.”

And you’re left alone to breathe for a short minute. You run your thumb over Dan Heng’s knuckles reverently, pondering aloud. “He’s so cool! He’s an animator, right? I’ve heard you mention something like that before.”

He nods. “Indeed. He’s worked on various pitch bibles for all kinds of IPs, but he’s more content on assuming quieter roles in the industry, or so he’s told us. His passion is what carries him, not the spotlight.”

“...that’s a great way to live,” you marvel. The air feels vulnerable after that, the nature of something as intangible as family running through the undercurrents of the house. “Do you think he’s right for being so humble?”

“It is not my place to comment, but… I can say that I look up to him,” he admits, giving your hand a shy squeeze. “Himeko is similar. She’s--” “--enthralled to finally meet your acquaintance?” 

A new voice cuts in. Himeko is also a vision, donning a winter shawl that wraps around a sepia-colored dress with tights, topped off with a beret. She looks absolutely stunning, and you’re overwhelmed with the urge to compliment her profusely. She stands at a comparable height to Welt, expression softened with mirth.

“It’s long since overdue,” Himeko extends a handshake which you take. Your jaw must be scraping the floor, which Welt and Dan Heng see fit to ignore.

She whips a ruby curl out of her face to scrutinize you - shit, you probably should’ve worn something nicer. First impressions and all that!

She greets Dan Heng with a hardy embrace after letting your hand go. He stands rigid.

“I was beginning to think he was making you up,” she teases. “When you both settle in, we have a lot to catch up on. Can we help you with your bags?”

You grin at your boyfriend, nudging him with your elbow. “Whaddya say, huh?”

He nods, shoulders slumping as if he’s made it past some great obstacle. 

“Great,” Welt interjects, heading back towards the front door with Himeko in tow. Dan Heng turns to you, voice akin to a whisper.

“March and Caelus are probably in their bedrooms or,” he sighs, “conspiring elsewhere. If you’d like, you can go on and look around while we deal with the luggage. It’s a lot to get used to, and you’re better off getting your curiosity out of your system.”

You gasp, splaying a hand over your heart. “You say that like I’m some unruly child! I’m not going to break anything…”

Dan Heng gives you a look.

“...this time,” you begrudgingly add.

Before he can hurry after them though, you gingerly (roughly) grab him by the collar and give him a smooch. It’s over as quick as it began, and you barely get a glimpse of his scandalized visage before you set off to explore. 

The adjoining hallway leading you out of the living room is painted stark white, all kinds of framed photographs hanging on display. Most of them are noir shots of famous people; movie stars, historical figures and the like. You stop in your tracks to look each of them over.

Some aren’t so impersonal. For example, there’s one of Himeko standing in a train station, posing on the platform with a massive and austere steam locomotive behind her. There is also a gray-haired dude at her side, pointing at the train with an exaggerated expression of shock. Caelus. And the photo’s signature - March 7th. 

Right on time, before you can continue snooping, you hear the distinct noise of bickering further down the hallway. You grin, sensing drama like a blood-sniffing shark. 

The muffled racket becomes clearer as you approach what is probably a bedroom door, and you hesitate for only a second before not-rudely throwing it open. You can deal with the consequences later. After all, this sounds more like banter than a serious argument - you would know!

The first thing you see are two figures with their backs turned to you. Pink and gray hair hunched over a desk - Caelus sitting and clicking furiously with March pointing at the one of the three flashing monitors, posing a threat to this hell of a gamer setup.

“You actually suck at this! Log off already, Dan Heng and his guest are going to be here soon,” she chastises as Caelus huffs, him dying moments later (in Pac-Man of all things). “Seriously, this is as boring as watching paint dry. I don’t know how you have so many viewers…”

You blink, scrutinizing the monitors again. Yes, there’s Pac-Man, but there’s also a live chat that seems to be going crazy, dozens of messages burying even more dozens of messages. There’s a facecam too, framing all three of you - wait, three? 

Oops. You’re live on Twitch.

“March is just a grade-A hater,” Caelus declares to his audience, “always betting against me. I’ll have all of you know that I, Whisperer of Dumpsters, Toilet Destroyer--”

A groan. “Not this again.”

They seem oblivious to the fact that you’re here, and you clamp a hand over your mouth to suppress a laugh. Clippers must be going nuts right about now…

Dan Heng never mentioned that Caelus took this career path - but then again, you can imagine he was trying to avoid the headache of you pestering him with stream references. Either way, you’re here now, and you’ll be damned if you pass up an opportunity this golden.

“They’ve been keeping me in the basement for three years!” you yell, causing both of them to jump and turn in bewilderment, “They’re frauds, kidnappers, liars--”

“We’ve been what?!” March shrieks. She’s either 1.) quickly adjusting to your improv and playing along or 2.) now wholeheartedly convinced that you’ve been held captive here under the floorboards.

The chat lags from how fast messages are coming in, and Caelus cackles maniacally before mashing a shortcut on his keyboard to switch to a Be Right Back screen. What a performance, and you also burst out in laughter, not unlike his. 

“Well, you certainly uh… made an entrance,” March grimaces, looking only slightly mortified. That sourness fades into a friendly smile as she scratches the back of her head. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. Oh my god, c’mere!”

Caelus stares at you with beady eyes as she bounds towards your form in the doorway, engulfing you in a giant hug. You feel like crying again. This was supposed to be unserious, but you can’t help but already feel at home. 

“It’s nice to meet you too. Your hair clips are so cute!” 

You exchange pleasantries for a moment before you hear creaking. Caelus has stood up now, an unreadable expression on his face as he approaches slowly - like molasses slowly. One menacing stomp in front of the other like he’s trying to intimidate a bear. You tilt your head curiously while March spins around to look at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Group hug. Bring it in,” he answers cryptically.

March wrinkles her nose. “Why do you sound like that? You’ll creep them out!”

Caelus turns to you, looking for confirmation. Immediately, you understand what you must do. This chemistry you share with this kindred spirit should be studied in a lab under a microscope.

“Collective embrace,” you parrot. “Bring it in.”

“...so you’re both weird, huh? Just great.”

You respond by smushing both of them in a crushing hug, a chorus of giggles echoing off the walls, all three of you being the perpetrators. 

This year’s holidays are off to a great start.

Things surprisingly don’t drag on. 

What that means is a little hard to quantify; nebulous like carbon monoxide. You can’t see it, you can’t taste it, but it certainly takes its toll. 

The first day comes to a close after a shared dinner, a feast, really - you’d never seen so much food in your life and you scarfed it down like a starving man in between conversation on every topic under the sun. You’ve fallen into the swing of things so naturally, and while that’s good, it’s a little too good.

You’ve never considered anxiety to be a formidable foe in your life. You carry conversation, pass the cornbread, spice up everyone’s lives (sometimes at the detriment of your reputation), and most importantly, you do it with a smile.

But after a night or two spent in Dan Heng’s almost spartan bedroom, tossing and turning, you’re starting to believe you’re in more trouble than you thought previously.

The nerves are easy to suppress when you’re bouncing energy off someone else, lost in the moment, because you do truly enjoy the socializing - but that feeling lingers.

And when you’re left with nothing to do, staring at the ceiling with a vengeance on the third night of your stay, all of the doubt catches up. It gains ground until your heart thunders in your chest.

You’ve learned that Himeko is buddy-buddy with the department of transportation, doubling as an engineer and cartographer. She’s even had a part in restoring defunct trains to their former glory, spearheading many vacations along the way. 

(You don’t deserve to be privy to such a meaningful story.) 

Caelus can’t ride a bike. Neither can you. Upon coming to this seismic revelation, he offered to take the plunge with you in an attempt to learn if you were interested. You agreed before he could even get the full sentence out. 

(You’re only good at goofing around.)

March insisted that you be a temporary proofreader for her own university essays, most of which being on topics you could never wrap your head around in a million years.

Shenanigans ensued until you ended up denouncing higher education as a whole, choosing to believe in her own freestyle structure rather than whatever hellish rubric was being peddled. 

(You’re too airheaded to help in a normal way.)

You’ve even grown closer with Welt. You two listened to the crackling of the old gramophone in his respective study, chiming in with your own thoughts on his archaic but classic music taste. There was a little bit of discussion on media preservation, your earnest passion pairing well with his own. 

(You’re coming off too strong.)

But you feel the worst about the man sleeping next to you. 

You’re supposed to be in your highest spirits, but Dan Heng has gotten good at spotting your tells. The tightness of your smile comes off as overjoyed to your new friends, but strained to him. The guilt of possibly ruining it all is unforgiving, tightened about your neck like an evil scarf.

He knows something’s up, and you know that he knows. It’s on you for not being forward about your struggles - hell, you’ve scolded him countless times about how he clams up about feelings and all that mess. You’re just a little bit of a hypocrite, then. What would you even say on the subject?

Sorry I’m such a buzzkill? Sorry I haven’t been more open with you? Sorry that I’m the actual wors--

You muffle a sob, burying your face in Dan Heng’s pillow. You just need to calm down, even if that means getting snot on his nice shams. You hiccup, and to your muted horror, the mattress creaks with movement.

Voice rough with sleep and alarm, Dan Heng calls out to you. You tense but otherwise refuse to lift your head up from your comfy sanctuary, chest rising and falling in snappy bursts.

You can’t face him like this, so tangled in everything you feel. You feel so unbelievably guilty, even if a more sensible part of you knows you’re just overthinking.

“Please look at me.”

If you’re making comparisons, Dan Heng must be the wind. Gentle and mild like a calming gale, never a torrent eager to knock you off your feet. No, he is sobering like a wayward breeze. His plea is so soft, and you only hate yourself a little bit for giving in and meeting his eyes.

His hair is sticking up in every direction just like yours. It’s not a foreign sight - you’ve slept in the same bed at least a hundred times, but the worried frown tugging at his lips is new. You sniffle and wipe your face, words a jumble of nonsense.

“Try to breathe. It’s going to be alright,” he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’ll wait.”

That last part might sound impatient in some other context, but right now, it’s resolute - it’s a promise. He’ll wait until you’re ready, however long that will take.

You crumble, shakily inhaling and exhaling until you sit up to mirror his stance. You fumble to embrace him, which he accepts readily - not unused to your spontaneous acts of affection. 

However, there’s a stutter in his movements. He’s not used to seeing you so put out, you hazard, unable to even produce coherent speech.

“I love you so much,” you gasp.

“...is that what this is about? Or is there more?”

Dan Heng strokes your hair through your tearful explanation. You know you don’t make a lot of sense right now, but it’s all you can manage. He still listens with scholarly attention to detail, not doting or prying. He’s here. He’s here for you, just like you are for him.

The dam has burst. “Have I ever told you about my family?”

“No,” he admits. “Do you want to?”

So you tell him enough. You only paint a vague picture; recounting endless disagreements and fighting, being kicked to the curb and ostracized, scrambling to pick up the pieces of your barely adult life before being thrusted into college all alone with no one to watch out for you. You’ve only dropped hints beforehand - after all, who wants to reopen old wounds? 

Silence can be just as powerful of a response as spoken words. Dan Heng understands, you know that already, but the way he holds you is compelling evidence alone.

Dan Heng’s family is wonderful; being part of it makes you feel a little sick inside, somehow made worse by his ministrations. “It may be unfair of me to say, but… I think I know how you feel. My life before I came to live and travel with everyone was lonely. Lonely and painful, and you don’t deserve to feel that way. Ever.”

When you don’t respond, he continues. 

“But I’m now content to call them my cherished companions. And you,” Dan Heng emphasizes, syllables unsure despite his best efforts, “are one of them as well. We haven’t pried too much into what is painful, but I’ve always felt like we’ve never needed to. That was my mistake.”

He makes a point of thumbing the residue of your episode away, an apology in and of itself. Of course he blames solely himself, you muse, biting back a playful reprimand that wouldn’t land well right now. Your breathing regains a semblance of normalcy as you muster up enough gusto to respond. 

“No, don’t be silly. I want to talk to you more about our lives before each other, I think. Together, y’know? I-Isn’t that just so romantic? Being emotionally constipated doesn’t do either of us any favors.” 

Your tone has lightened, enough for him to notice and furrow his brows in concern. Given, you rebound at the speed of light, never wishing to linger on the bad - partially because sadness is unpleasant and uncommon, but mostly because you feel like you’re unable to. That’s just how you are. However, the way he looks at you is encouragement enough to move forward.

You feel better, you do, but your eyes are still red and puffy. The night outside is still cold and unpredictable.

“Whatever you need,” Dan Heng nods. He can only be so sworn in his promises - so determined - before you crack a smile.

“Alright, easy on the white knight talk,” you chuckle. Realizing how close you actually are, there’s a pause. You can smell the mint of his shampoo, and your arms are tangled with his in some kind of human knot that’d have Houdini sweating. “It’s weird…”

He stares at you, unimpressed. “I thought you wanted me to talk to you in a ‘Romeo’ way.”

You only huff, unable to come up with a retort for once, which is fine. You wipe your face again and drag him down with you back onto the bed, which he allows, because Dan Heng is too good for you and also happens to be a complete pushover. At least you can use your frazzled, unstable emotional state to get what you want.

Case in point: you spoon him. The covers assume their original position after you wrangle them to behave, holding him close from behind. A little part of you does this so he can’t see if you start up the waterworks again, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“It’ll be alright,” Dan Heng reminds, surrendering to your whims as always.

The dust settles and you’re inclined to believe him. There is still much time left, with Christmas day being the focal point of your visit, and you’re starting to get sleepy again. That’s always a good sign; sleepy, relaxed, and with a head drained of pressing worries - at least for the present moment.

Your eyes close, bereft of tears as you murmur your agreement.

To your surprise and horror, this house didn’t have a Christmas tree. It’s not like it mattered that much, but it was still shocking nonetheless. With a building exploding with life, there wasn't an evergreen decked out in ornaments or a pine covered in lights to tie the room together.

Honestly, where were they going to put their presents? 

However, you forgave this transgression a day or two later under the condition that you would be allowed to pick one out. Everyone seemed to be fine with it, with you offering to cover the cost this close to the 25th - and your determined expression that would’ve been pointless to argue with. Santa Claus works hard but you work harder.

Caelus and March jumped to go with you, much to the others’ relief, and that was more than enough hands on deck for you to hop in Caelus’s car and drive to the nearest tree farm in the dead of winter, borrowing some mittens and a cute knitted hat from March so you wouldn’t become a human popsicle before your 30s.

Uh, you did get a bit lost. You had to interrogate the shit out of the GPS and one poor local to get there; the latter was not your fault by the way! Caelus just so happened to be carrying a bat and had a concerning look in his eye. That put you in good enough standing to make it there, even if the selection of trees were picked over, leaving only the runts on sale.

All three of you turned away with your hands empty, opting to make a last minute shopping trip to the mall to buy a fake one. You were against it, but your suggestion to buy three small trees and place them really close together was vetoed. “Majority rules” is totes unfair…

But the mall trip turned into a lot more when you actually got there. Both of them ganged up on you with a reminder that you haven’t gotten Dan Heng a gift yet! Honestly, you could say you regret confessing that to them earlier, but you totally needed to hear it.

Imagine you, waking up on Christmas morning with nothing to give the love of your life! Deplorable, unforgivable, and tragically heartbreaking. 

And you had a council there to help you; people that know Dan Heng just as well as you do. 

“He’s so hard to shop for,” March had groaned, flicking through racks of clothes with a dark aura surrounding her. “Trust me, I’ve tried in the past. He always says he’s fine with anything, giving me zero hints…”

“Maybe get him nothing,” Caelus suggested after, more occupied with trying to steal coins from the nearby wishing fountain. Like one does. “You could run him over and he’d thank you politely.”

Similar experiences there. He’s always been more attuned to your wants than his own, which you’ve been trying to get him to work on at his own pace. Unfortunately, the place was about to close for the night since you already spent the day gallivanting around.

The burly mall security guard looked dangerously close to kicking your trio out, with at least one of you kicking and screaming, so you had to leave empty handed again. 

The others assured you that you’d find a present in time. You decided to go with the flow and hope that the heavens above would drop one into your lap by the day of.

Spoiler alert: they didn’t! Because Christmas day is now here, and it all seems hopeless. Well, aside from the fact that you’re all settled around the coffee table and a big, burning fire is roaring in the fireplace. 

There’s still a smile on your face as Welt and Himeko tear open their presents with wise, softened gazes. You can’t let your own mistakes ruin the moment, after all.

“Truly, thank you both,” Himeko croons, looking over her respective mug and brooch with awe. “I was prepared to perhaps play up the excitement a bit, but… I’m very impressed. Dan Heng, you’ve picked well.”

He flushes. “They helped me,” he nods to you.

“No,” she laughs, “I meant you picked a good partner.”

Before you can stammer out a reply, Welt chimes in. He’s inspecting the quality of his tie with muted gratitude - his new mug seems to only serve as a reminder that he has to drink Himeko’s coffee out of it. Hey, at least your heart was in the right place!

“I have to agree. Both of you must have collaborated seamlessly to shop for our preferences.” 

Caelus, wearing his big ass jacket that you and Dan Heng bought him, sprawls out across one of the couches like a housecat. “This is a lot better than what you got me last year, Cold Dragon Young.”

Dan Heng bristles and you burst out laughing at the expression he’s making. “Cold Dragon what?”

“Ignore them,” he pleads, lips twitching upward just a smidge; a ghost of a smile. Dan Heng really does like the teasing more than he lets on. 

March was almost reduced to tears by the jewelry dish you painted for her - which is more of a jewelry box at this point - but she recovers from her reverie and endless thank yous to giggle at your partner’s expense, something that’s swiftly turning into a group effort. “One time, we all got roped into fistfighting these bad guys in a club, and after Dan Heng took care of them--”

“I was left with no other choice--”

“--then that became his ring name. Cold Dragon Young!” she finishes. 

Himeko and Welt exchange an exhausted look. You immediately decide that the moniker is going to become his contact name in your phone until the end of time. You also start wheezing (and also kind of blushing) at the idea of Dan Heng, the near-pacifist, duking it out with someone. “S-Sounds like you guys have been everywhere…”

“...we have,” your boyfriend clears his throat. You sense a topic change, or even a segue, drawing your attention. You sit up a little straighter and wipe the comically-induced hysteria from your eyes. 

He’s looking at you expectantly with some of the earlier heat coloring the tips of his ears. The room lulls into silence as he makes his way over to the tree to retrieve a box from underneath the branches, wrapped in pastel yellow with no bow.

Dan Heng hands it over, and when your skin brushes against his for a fleeting second, you feel the clamminess of his palms.

“Oh, me next?” you blink. Shaking the thing a bit too aggressively, listening for any indication of a bomb (just in case), you get a good feel of its weight. Light and mysterious. You’re too busy making mental guesses that you don’t notice Welt shepherding the others out of the room.

“Yes. I hope you like it,” he watches as you tear open the wrapping paper and the box itself. Dan Heng is so beautiful it’s almost criminal, unintentionally batting his lashes in a way that has you swallowing drool.

You scoff. “Of course I will!”

Inside the box rests… two tickets? Your mind jumps to movie tickets first and foremost, but that’s obviously not the case; the ones here are golden with faded ridges and accented with red, sparkling as you fawn over them. Then you read the printed text lining the bottom of the thin cardstock.

The Astral Express. They’re two boarding passes.

“No way,” It’s the name of the restored steam locomotive in the picture, the very same one that Himeko told you about working on during the height of her career. “Does this mean…?”

Dan Heng drinks in the surprised part of your lips, scratching at his neck. “You mentioned that you wanted to travel. I, and the rest of us, thought you’d like to accompany us on a trip. If you don’t want to, that’s perfectly fine,” he promises. “I can get refunded, and we’ll all stay. But it’s scheduled to start the day after tomorrow and last until the new year.”

You don’t want to cry again, even if they’re happy tears, so you launch yourself into his arms as a welcome distraction. You may be imagining it, but you think you feel him slump in relief. Again. How long will it take to get it through his thick skull that he could never disappoint you?

“Duh, of course I want to! Darling, what kind of jerk would I be if I said no and made everyone cancel their plans? Oh my god, oh my god--”

“You m-may want to breathe.”

His concern is so genuine - that’s not even meant to be teasing. You scream into his shoulder, already thinking of nights spent in velvet cabins and days spent watching the cross-country scenery go by on the silver rail. With good food. Lots of it. 

“I’m breathing,” you huff, in fact, short of breath. “Thank you, Dan Heng. I love it so much.”

You pull back, box and tickets still safe in your grasp despite your earlier flailing. The magical moment fizzles, your joy stunted as guilt emerges. “But I… I didn’t get you anything. I’m so sorry, we shopped all over, and everything’s been so hectic…”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I meant what I said.”

“Huh?”

“When we were shopping all that time ago,” he clarifies. “I don’t need anything but you. And with the others coming along,” Dan Heng gestures to the tickets, everyone else’s likely stowed away somewhere safe, “It’s the best gift I could ask for, more than I could ever want.”

You don’t rebut him this time.

The guilt has all but vanished, and you pull Dan Heng into a tender kiss. This has, no joke, probably been the best break of your life so far. Not to mention you have a whole new trip to look forward to, with a whole new family at your side.

Just as you think this perfect moment is unshakable, hoots and jeers break out from behind you. You whip around, dazed, and Caelus is cheering both of you on like his life depends on it.

“Wooooo! I told you they’d like it, dude! May your love burn bright for years to co--”

…then March clamps a hand over his mouth and hauls him away. 

Dan Heng is so embarrassed that he chokes on a laugh. You make sure to join him in kind, the present moment also holding the infinite possibilities of the future.

thank you for reading! it means the world to me 🎅🎁 on ao3

[kivira]

Draw you favorite Warriors _____

Yep, that's me with a new warriors challenge

So, here I'll post the reasons why

Mother & kit

So, Ivypool and Bristlefrost are not the most important and well written relationships, but I like to headcanon them, and just preying for writers not to make Bristle come back in her mother's novel

Siblings

I adore how Stonefur and Mistyfoot had their own calm River Clan live, before the big drama of first series. Also a great idea is their similar design. Just not so popular but rather iconic duo

GAY ship

Okay, okay. I know that here is usually Tall×Jake or Raven×Barley, but I really like relationships of Talltail and Barkface. I mean a brown medicine cat was earlier to see beauty in Tall and they are so cute

Father & kit

Just Tree and Rootspring. Those relationships exist, they are not toxic and work so well in first 3 books of the Broken Code. And just the way they acted together is so nice

Friendship

So neat. Jayfeather and Briarlight are awesome. They are really happy and funny. Just they remind me of something from past. Something from childhood.

HETERO ship

At this point I don't know who likes Oakheart more, or Bluestar. OK just kidding. Although I still think that it's the best forbidden romance in WC. Cause it was one of first ant rather plot relevant.

Grandparent & grandkit

There is no that much of those relationships, but I think Tawnypelt and Shadowsight are just adorable together.

Mentor & apprentice

Ohhh, here they are! A nightmare of Thunder Clan. I like how Tigerpaw and Thistleclaw had their dark and cruel story together. And even though they are really not positive characters they were happy to make some shenanigans

LESBIAN ship

Alright. Before Whistlepaw and Frostpaw I didn't have any favorite girl gay pair, bit now I truly adore those girls. Just, I think, most creative ships are all about medicine cats. But I prefer for Mothwing to be AroAce so no Moth×Pool for me.

[judesmoonbeauty]

Jude Jazza's PV Dissection ☾.

Beneath the cut for event and other suitor's route spoilers. This is just for fun, and please feel free to kindly share what you think! To be honest, I don't think I have anything interesting to add, but here goes it...

My First Thought: Let’s just state the obvious and say that Jude’s route is going to be ANGSTY and WILD!!! That much is definite by watching the PV, and that’s pretty much what we see in his events as well. The animation was beautiful. There’s a A LOT of recycled CGs, and majority of his lines come from his gacha cards and bond stories, but it gets the job done.

However, I feel like Jude is still very much under wraps. His PV barely gave us anything to go on that we don’t already know about, or haven't theorized. I’ve watched it like 15 times. I counted the number of hands on the clocks to see if there were 13 (there’s not), and paused to search the outline of Big Ben, and things like the shadows to see if something was hinted or hidden, but nothing.

Of course, that doesn’t mean it didn’t give us anything at all, but before we get into that, let’s just recap the premise of Act 2:

In Act 2, Kate has already been the fairytale keeper for one full week, and that’s when Vogel enters the picture with the claim that they want to be “friends” with Crown. Harrison knows that they’re lying about something, and Darius, as we learn, is looking for “family members.”

Now…..

Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick - The ticking clock is very prominent in his trailer, and that makes sense because Jude’s fairytale curse is associated with time. His icon is an hourglass, and he is very cognizant in events/routes about wasting time. Additionally, it’s interesting to note that several of Jude’s events often mention specific lengths of years that have passed, such as, Dark IF, GHR, Island Lust, and a bond story.

As far as the PV goes, I think it may be hinting that Jude is running out of time in the sense of accomplishing a goal, which will in turn fulfill a promise. Our average life span today is about 80 years, but back then it was much shorter, and I feel like Jude needs a lot of time to accomplish what he is doing. It could be that a single lifetime is not enough for him to accomplish it, but he is going to try anyway. Such as? Him traveling to the moon. I feel like the PV points to this at the outset with that giant full moon behind Big Ben. I think this may be a CG we get.

Conversely, it could be that he is running out of time in the sense that he is dying of an illness. We know for a fact that he suffers from seasonal asthma (which is triggered with enclosed spaces filled with smoke), he smokes himself, but he also suffered from childhood malnutrition, and that can cause a lot of issues. Still, I don’t know how strong of a theory this is as Jude has no problem with physical exertion or activity……not looking at that one other gut I love in IkePri.

Additionally, a part of me feels like he’s just tired and he wants to die. To be honest, all these guys have some kind of death wish in one form or another, but in terms of Jude, Ellis said that he looked like he was going to fall into the river as he looked at the moon while chain smoking, and Roger said Jude looked like he was vacantly staring at the moon as if he had given up on something.

Notably, in Roger’s past records, we learn that Jude uses cigarettes to fuel his rage to keep him living, and Kate also mentioned in his Cruise Liner event that anger is a great motivator.

So, for all intents and purposes, Jude is being kept alive by his own rage, cigarettes, the promise he made, and Roger. THANK YOU ROGER! That’s what I feel at least.

Rewinds/Record Scratches: I think glitchy rewind/record-scratching sound is being cleverly used to note the different tones we are going to see in his route, like I mentioned before, it’s going to be angsty and wild (that’s what I feel anyway).

However, I will say that a part of me feels like it’s a nod to all the times he says things like, ‘once you’ve lost something, you can’t get it back.' How many of us wish we could rewind and do things over or see someone we’ve lost again, even if it were just for a minute?

Jude said in Roger’s route that once someone is gone those left behind are stuck feeling a void, and I think he’d do whatever he could to rewind time if that were in his power. However, cue that jazzy music and we find ourselves in the interior of a…..

Warehouse: No doubt by the docks that Jude frequents for deliveries, and while it’s nothing major, it does indicate one of the settings we will likely be at. Although, this is pretty obvious to most of us because in both his first event and his one year anniversary event, they are at the warehouses by the docks.

Personally, I loved the detail of the seagulls, not that is important in anyway, but I just got excited to see a visual of it instead of just imagining it. However, I am hoping to see something different in terms of what we’ve already seen in both of those events. Kate getting caught by someone who broke their contract with Jude or is after Jude, and she is caught in the middle. Is that too much to ask?

Papers: We quickly shift to an office like space, whether this is located at Raven or at Crown, there is something very important to note in this scene, and that’s not only the rows of books behind our clever mobster, but the bulletin board that has notes stuck all over them.

At first, I thought that this could be business plans, product information or designs, business targets, or information about the personal lives of those whom Jude makes contracts with. Ultimately, I think that these are engineering designs and research papers that he’s written and/or reviewed for……moon travel. If you look closely, one paper in particular has a definite design on it.

Why am I so hellbent on this? Because Jude says himself in his bond levels that he’s trying to nab all the researches and scientists that he can as quickly as possible, and that he was going to have Ellis look into the authors who wrote the papers he had been reading. On a random note, I don’t think this would be his office space at Raven, but his personal office or room at Crown.

About that Bridge Scene: You know, the one where he looks completely over this shit as he smokes a cigarette? Then all of a sudden he shoots you that look like he’s gonna tear you up because he’s annoyed, and you’re like: Impregnate me, please? That one. So, the night that Ellis met Jude, Ellis said that he was standing on the bridge looking like he was about to fall into the river.

I believe this may be the second CG we may get of Jude in his route, and I want to know why he goes to the bridge? Is there special meaning to it? Did he visit that place with his loved one? Was a promise made under the moon? Is this were he wants….things to end? And forgive this last bit, but I can’t help but think of the song ‘Moon River’ when he’s at that bridge.

Ah, to hell with it, It’s too pretty not have posted again:

How long: When we get to the scene of Jude and Kate in a somewhat awkward rain scene (I agree with my friends, her sprite looks out of place), he asks Kate how long she is planning to stick next to him. Here again, we have a form of time being hinted at, and Kate’s time with Crown should end in three weeks time.

Still, we don’t know how far along we are in his route when he asks her this question, so it’s difficult to say how much time Kate has remaining with him at this point. What we can guess is that she’s been at Crown long enough to have seen Jude do horrendous things - all of Crown - for that matter.

Additionally, she will have seen the filthy underbelly of England at that point, perhaps in the form of drugs, SA, human-trafficking and the like, if his events are any indication of that. Not to mention his cruel attempts to force her to give up on being fairytale keeper. So, how do you think Kate will answer, and will her answer disrupt his plans??

Unhinged, Possessive, Obsessive Jude: Is he really though? I think so. This is what I think will be the third CG - belonging to his Mad Love End. Did you all see those eyes??? He is UNHINGED, and I am HERE for it. I think it really drives home the point too that he is going to make her pay for placing a curse on him for the rest of her life - that’s Judese for - I’ll make you pay for making me love you for as long as you live.

Seeing him that expression in his eyes and the way he plays with her hair, (this is also a thing Jude does in his events), really exemplifies the phrase that he also uses in that their being together is madness.

Thinking about it, it really wasn’t until the Island Lust story that we started to see a small glimmer of Mr. Jazza’s jealousy, and that’s because Jude is often cold and controls any emotions that could be linked to her romantically. But we slowly start to see this change with Island lust, I gushed how he didn’t like Kate thinking about the other Crown members when he was near her, and in effect, ignoring him.

In the Jude vs. Nica event, we got even more of his jelly side when he learned that Kate and Nica are on a first name basis, even though they just met. CUTEST THING EVER.

And finally, in his Dark Mafia card, Jude is ready to commit murder over the guys who are looking at Kate. So, I’m really looking forward to seeing how jealous or possessive he may get once he gives into his feelings.

Pocket Watch: The time shows at 10:10 pm. Is this significant? I can’t say for sure, but there is nothing odd about the pocket watch itself. The only thing I noticed is that the hands on the pocket watch aren’t moving.

That doesn't necessarily mean anything, but let’s throw out a random idea I had about the watch actually being broken. It doesn’t work. The time stopped at exactly 10:10 pm, perhaps some incident happened during that time when it stopped, and Jude wears it as a memento. Ultimately, I don’t place too much stock in this because there's really no basis for it, but let's say we've covered our bases with this and move on to the last, but certainly not least...

My Evil (or sin), is an unfulfilled promise: His tag line at the end….I don’t believe this is related to Jude’s fated demise. I have an inkling that Cybird may go the Disney route for his fate, but that can be a discussion for another day….maybe. What I do believe is that this emphasizes Jude’s compellation to pay back an unfulfilled promise (essentially what amounts to a betrayal).

I don’t feel that he MUST pay back betrayals that others experience, but if he is involved in a case in some manner of speaking (like for missions), Jude has been known to carry out revenge, such as he does to Anne’s father in GHR. Also, in the "Evil Behind the Scenes" event, Jude allows the husband of the wife who was unfaithful take care of things behind closed doors (it said it was supposed to be talking, but Ellis was in the room too, and who knows what the husband did). It’s interesting, because Jude mentions that while he has no interest in harming women, betrayal must be repaid, so whatever happened happened.

This would make sense as to why Jude does everything he can to fulfill his own promises. But, what if he fails to keep his own promise……what happens then? Hope to find out soon.

That's all I could dig up. They really gave us nothing, but everything at the same time?

Honorable Mention: No eye Kate...please stop treating my girl this way cybird!

[platinumshawnn]

Bound by Blood and Fire | Benjicot Blackwood -- pt vi

Synopsis:

Two days to the wedding and the risk of more bloodshed looms at the boundaries between Brackens and Blackwoods as the council encounter a bump following Benjicot’s actions.

Serra begins to hear rumors around the castle of the impending battle and word from King’s Landing regarding an army of Aegon’s that is making its way along the western shore and targeting the houses on his behalf. Serra approaches her father again regarding the matter amidst finalizing wedding plans and finds comfort and friendship in another Blackwood.

masterlist | playlist | backwards | forward

A/N: hi!!! popping in from the queue, i threw in a slightly suggestive scene at the end plus some bi-icon alysanne/blackwood siblings serving cvnt <333 I also have chapter seven coming this Friday at 9:01am EST which will be the wedding finally. i want to preface that the next chapter will contain smut, for anyone who is not comfortable with that, anyways!!

Content Warning(s): MDNI — 18+, adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexually suggestive content, mild depictions of family based violence, implied suicide ideation.

Word count: 10.1k

He could still see his face when he slept. 

Benjicot spent a better part of his youth in the woods beyond Raventree on hunting trips and generally just wandering; mapping out every corner of their land on the days he had off from duties, such as training or shadowing his father’s council meetings as a boy. It was a place of comfort for him, where he had never experienced trouble finding sleep whenever he found himself camped there, and yet for the past two nights, he had been lucky to even find an hour of sleep without being startled awake. Suddenly, it felt like every chirp of a cricket or snap of a twig from a deer that calmly strolled through the trees in the distance had him on edge and jumping awake and frozen in fear; worried that it was the Brackens coming for him or his father to drag him back to their home. It did not bring him any relief to know that Emrys had been suspended from patrolling the lands in the meantime, since returning and word reaching Raventree of Rodrik’s death, leaving the grounds nearly unguarded beyond a couple of young boys whom Benjicot knew could barely hold a sword. 

Emrys could only sneak to him once a night, creeping out after dark once he knew that Samwell was asleep — even then, doing so involved bribes to sneak out with the boys. 

Even when he had managed to find sleep, it was plagued by nightmares of Rodrik’s face -- his eyes, wide and dead as he laid face down in the mud after landing with a thud that echoed in his mind. Benjicot had been covered in Bracken blood as he, Emrys, and Davos dragged him back over the boundaries into their land, whilst Benjicot had nearly been swept away by the river, choking on mouthfuls of water that threatened to take him away in its angry grasp, his vision blurred. They had nearly lost Rodrik in the midst, slipping on mud and grunting with exertion as they dragged his body from the waters and back to dry land. He could still hear Emrys’ complaint as he was dragged through the grass, “This bloody boy weighs a ton.” 

Benjicot had insisted that they at least provide him the decency of rolling him onto his back, rather than face down, earning a confused glare from Davos, who was beyond exhausted at that point. It was then that he had seen the damage he had done. Sliced from collarbone to pelvis, a large gash from his throat and down his belly, his house colours torn down the front. Benjicot had fumbled to undo his cloak and cover him, leaving his face exposed for once someone came in search of him — he knew it would only be a matter of time. 

Davos had grabbed his House pin from his body as they had begun to leave and pressed it into Ben’s hand as he brushed past him to retreat to Blackwood land, muttering something about a ‘trophy’, as if he should be proud but Benjicot was anything but proud of himself. He hadn’t returned the pin to its owner, though. The pin had remained in his tent, finding himself staring at it every so often, whenever he woke up from his nightmares or whenever it caught the light in the corner of his eye which felt like every couple of hours. It was a reminder of what he had done.

Benjicot had jolted awake again after falling asleep after supper, nodding off only because he was so exhausted, it physically pained him. Again, Rodrik’s face was there behind his eyelids, that horrified expression on his face as he fell, choking on his blood—  this time, he was haunted by the image of his sister behind him, screaming and sobbing as she watched on, unable to do anything, her hands at her belly as she cried into the grass. He had tripped out of his makeshift bed on the ground, bolting out of his tent and hardly making it outside before he had fallen to his knees, hunched over on all fours as he threw up the fish and water he had barely managed to stomach earlier; coughing as he choked up the contents. His fingers dug into the grass, red-faced and panting as he dry heaved for a few moments, his body convulsing with effort as he leaned into an elbow; caring little if he got any on him. 

He had hardly noticed Emrys approaching, standing a few feet behind him, “You look like shit.” 

He weakly turned to glance behind him, eyes slowly coming to look up at his cousin who stood near the edge of his tent, a hand on the bag that hung at his waist; head tilted and watching him. He spit into the grass, the taste lingering on his tongue, and coughing one last time as he pushed himself up to his knees, “How did you get out here so early?” 

“I asked to go out for errands with Henry,” He said, opening the bag and pulling an extra shirt from it to toss at him. “I had to promise to cover for him tonight to sneak off with some…servant girl.” He explained, waving dismissively. 

Benjicot used his sleeve to wipe his mouth, slowly moving to pull down the straps of his breeches and pull off the soiled shirt. He let out a breathless scoff, “That sounds nice.” He replied, delirious from exhaustion as he tossed the shirt beside him. He took the clean shirt and pulled it over his head, stumbling to his feet and nearly toppling forward, prompting Emrys to rush forward and catch him by his elbow in an attempt to steady him. 

“Have you eaten anything?” Emrys asked. 

Benjicot gestured to where he had thrown up with his chin, a hand raking through his hair. His cousin glanced to where he pointed, grimacing in disgust and releasing him, “Tried to.” He grumbled.

“Come. I was able to bring you something.” He sighed, his face still pinched up in disgust as Benjicot turned to follow him. The two men entered the tent, Emrys’ hand out and ready to catch Benjicot in case he tripped again; the eldest of the two sitting in his blankets. 

The blonde sat across from him, sliding the bag from his shoulders and placing it down in front of his cousin, allowing him to open it and though Ben’s stomach was still churning, he couldn’t deny the grumble as he opened it and began to dig through it. With dirty hands, he pulled out a bun and let out a sigh, euphoric as he bit into it and paused to relish in the much-needed change of things—  after two days of leaf, grain, and the odd thin fish he had been lucky to catch with his hands, bread seemed like a commodity that Ben had never thought to be grateful for. 

As he chewed, tearing bites from the bun, his hand continued to rummage through the bag; holding the bun momentarily between his teeth as he pulled out a cloth, unwrapping it. He fought the urge to groan aloud at the sight of a small roast duck, the smell wafting through the tent as he set the bun aside and tore off a piece with his hands, ravenous and feral as he ate, “Gods be good, slow down-- you look disgusting, you know that?” Emrys said, though his tone was laced with a light sense of humour as he moved to unsheath something from his waist.

Ben let out a grunt, hardly containing himself as he bit into the duck, his eyes lifting briefly. He watched as his cousin presented a leather flask from his side, opening it and extending it to his cousin, whose hands practically trembled as he took it from him. He lifted the flask to his mouth, greeted by the sweet, bitter taste of wine from home that melted any remaining tension from his shoulders as he gulped down two mouthfuls before placing it down on the ground beside him. 

The two men sat in silence, besides the sound of Benjicot eating, birds chirping with the day -- if not for the circumstances, Ben would have found it all peaceful and calming. 

After a few moments, Benjicot spoke through a full mouth, “Has there been any news?” He asked, taking another swig from the flask and finishing what little remained. 

Emrys hesitated, staring at him, “Nothing new, Amos sent ravens to Grover Tully and your father.” He said, shifting to pull his knees up to his chest and resting his elbows over them. “They know about Rodrik. They know of your hand in it. Our plan wasn’t successful.” He quietly added. 

Benjicot raised his eyebrows, sniffling a bitter laugh, “As I suspected.” He said, returning the lid to the flask and tossing it back to his cousin who caught it and swiftly attached it to his belt. 

“It was a good idea.” 

“And you thought you would outsmart Samwell Blackwood, with your boyish plans, aye?” He asked, pausing his eating to look at him. “You thought he wouldn’t see through your stupid little—“ Benjicot snapped. 

“Oi, I get you're angry, but don’t take it out on me.” Emrys bit back. 

He settled, falling silent briefly, “Sorry.” 

They fell into silence again, Benjicot’s stomach-churning once again at the thought of his father’s reaction when he received the raven. He resorted to picking at the duck, his eyes down, “He’s furious, right?” 

Emrys snorted, but the sound did not possess any trace of humour, “He was ready to burn down everything in sight in search of you, he almost came out here and dragged you back himself.” 

He looked up, “Why didn’t he?” 

His cousin shifted uncomfortably, shrugging his shoulders.

“Kermit insisted he be the one to bring you back and pleaded on your behalf. He knows you will return eventually,” He explained. “Your father has given him until the end of the day to bring you back.” The younger man admitted. 

“Did he now?” He rhetorically questioned. 

Emrys let out a hum, quiet as he looked down at his shoes, “Elmo has suggested they break off the terms of your engagement, too.” 

Benjicot stilled, looking at him for a moment before he set down the rest of the duck back into the cloth, wiping his hands off on his pants. His mouth opened, hardly able to hear over the sound of blood thundering in his ears as he spoke, “Why?” He asked, mouth dry. If his father wasn’t already furious over the unnecessary bloodshed, this would have tipped him over the edge, blinded by rage — Benjicot could picture his room a mess, tearing through it and shouting as he threw whatever his hands could find. 

Emrys glanced out through the entrance into the tent, partially ajar as a breeze blew through the fields, “He doesn’t trust you.” He admitted, looking at him. “He feels you have broken your promise to keep Serra safe from harm, and rather, have placed her directly in its path. It has brought into question your loyalties.” 

Benjicot averted his gaze, looking at the roof of his tent as his breathing quickened. He swallowed, trying to organise his thoughts, “I did not…” He stuttered, looking down again. He was reminded of the pin that hid in a pile of his belongings in the corner, suddenly regretting not leaving it in the fields with Rodrik where it should have been. His nausea had returned, fighting down the urge to retch as he let out a choked sound, “I did not mean for it to happen this way. I did not mean to kill him, you believe me, right?” He asked, his words coming quick with panic as he looked at him again. 

Emrys' shoulders dropped, his expression softening, “I know.” 

“Then you know I would never do anything to jeopardise our alliance with the Tullys and sabotage our agreement.” He stated.

Emrys hesitated, looking down at his hands, “Emrys, please…” Benjicot begged, his cousin still avoiding his eyes. “I…I lost my temper, I did not want any of this. I have made a lot of mistakes in my life, both in my name and in our houses, but I never meant for things to turn out like this. You have to believe me.” He pleaded, breathless. 

“Did you do it?” He asked suddenly. 

Benjicot looked at him, confused by his words. Of course, Emrys knew that he had been responsible for Rodrik’s death — he had been there to witness it and had helped move the body from their land, but the edge in his voice suggested more, “His sister— did you bed his sister?” He asked, tone harsher as though he was losing his patience. 

He stammered, unsure how to answer, his thoughts going a thousand miles an hour. He had forgotten that he had been present for that too, bearing witness not just to his death, but the accusation as well, “Did you father a bastard with a Bracken?” He asked finally. It seemed to click into place why the accusation had even come up, or how Rodrik had come to know of their affair and his comment, sitting back on his knees in defeat. He felt his face drain of colour, his mouth snapping shut and swallowing, “Those mongrels have done nothing but steal from us and treat us like shit on their boots. They have killed our men for hundreds of years, and you would father a bastard with one?” 

“I did not mean to.” He quietly answered, his voice cracking. “I cared for her at one time. It’s a mistake that I am forced to live with every day, one that I wish I could undo but I…I cannot deny that it is a possibility.” 

“You cared for her?” He asked with a bitter laugh. 

His face dropped, pausing before he replied, “Yes.” 

Emrys, in his inexperience with love, could not quite make sense of the coupling but the look on Benjicot’s face caused him to hesitate. He looked at him, the frown on his face frozen there as he processed the confession, clenching his jaw and letting out a breath, “And what of Serra?” 

Benjicot hesitated, “It is complicated…this was before her.” 

“Do you care for her?” He asked, correcting himself, his voice stern. “Is she where your loyalties lie now?” 

He hesitated again, pondering the question, “Yes.” He breathed out. 

He could see his cousin’s expression soften, averting his eyes as he looked down briefly and sighed. Emrys moved, rolling forward and pushing to stand up in front of him, Benjicot’s eyes following his movements; hanging in a place of anxiety and worry that he had not said or done enough. Emrys bent to collect his bag, replacing it around his shoulders and beginning to exit the tent just as he quickly stumbled after him, clamouring to his knees and rushing out behind him, “Emrys, wait.” 

The blonde paused, stopping abruptly in front of him and looking up towards the sky with a squint, “Do you forgive me?” He asked. 

His cousin paused, shoulders dropping with another sigh, “Yes.” He said after a moment, “And I think the gods will too, in time. You’re a good man, Benjicot, I have never doubted that. I just wish…” He said, turning to him. 

“I wish you would forgive yourself, too.” He said, reaching out to clasp his shoulder, “Come back. Let us face it together. We will figure it out.” 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Serra had always been taught as a girl to not concern herself with a man’s business—  that men had their separate duties to that of a woman. Men prioritised the political matters of the house and women did the rest—  bearing children, taking care of the house, supporting their husbands, and being loyal, dutiful wives and mothers, just as her mother had been. But it did not contain the curiosity that piqued in her every so often whenever she saw her father and brothers disappear to their meetings, followed by councilmen who were loyal to them only and hanging on to their every word like it was gospel. To be heard and valued, Serra had always wondered what that felt like to possess such power. 

It didn’t stop her from listening from outside the hall whenever they gathered for the day, eavesdropping in the hallways, and listening carefully to the gossip of the staff of the house —  in her ten-and-eight years, she found that listening to the staff served useful and provided her with intel on topics her father would otherwise dismiss her of whenever she tried to ask at dinner. 

Today had been no different, as she sat on the bottom step, her hands in her lap and picking at her nails as she listened to the intense arguing happening from within the great hall, where she had watched her family disappear early that morning. Despite his gentle protests, Alistair stood opposite of her, perched in a corner as she listened. 

“Amos’ letter claims that your son was at the borders that night,” Elmo’s voice echoed from within the room. “He claims that his men hold Benjicot responsible for Rodrik’s death—  I had only assumed with your restraint, Benjicot might take after you in such ways, but I am starting to question whether you have any control over your son.”

“Benjicot is an impulsive boy,” Samwell replied, his irritation evident in his voice. “You have known this since he was young.” 

“And yet I expected with your guidance, he would outgrow it. I was wrong, it appears.” 

“I cannot be held responsible for every stupid thing he does,” Samwell argued. 

“This is not a stupid thing, Samwell -- do you know how poorly this reflects on our house? I have never questioned your house’s loyalty, but I feel the need to begin.”

Her father sounded angry and disappointed -- from her place on the stairs, she could picture the furrow of his brow, angry as he leaned over the table, “Not only does your son insult our house by slaughtering Amos’ nephew, but to further add insult to the wound, he has also fathered a bastard according to Amos Bracken's letter!” 

“My son would do no such thing.” Samwell barked, interrupting any further accusations. “My son may be impulsive and stupid, but to accuse him of fathering a child with a Bracken-- ” 

“Amos says otherwise.” 

The revelation caused Serra to snap her head upright, wide-eyed, and lean towards the door as she could faintly make out the sound of hushed mutters, angry and going back and forth. Her eyes darted to Alistair who purposely avoided her eyes, his gaze fixed on the wall and unwavering as she slowly stood, inching towards the door and crouching to press her ear to it, “I don’t ask for much, other than you declare your loyalty to House Tully-- have I not been generous these past months?” 

There is a mutter, “You have.”

“And have I not only also asked that Benjicot care for and protect my only daughter?” 

“Yes, my lord.”

It was an odd sound coming from Lord Blackwood, to be small and quiet to a voice of authority that was not his own; but it was not often that her father used that voice. She struggled to envision what it looked like to sit in and witness him, submissive to her father as he was stern and flipping the roles.  

“You know, Lord Grover did not want this betrothal. He, even from his deathbed, fights and pleads that I do not go forward with it-- he cautioned me against it actually,” Her father ranted, exasperated. “But I pushed back. I defended you, I defended your son. I fought for him to see reason, that you have one of the largest armies within the Riverlands… that you are a fierce warrior and leader with experience and insight that could be beneficial to House Tully. All that despite your history of impulsivity and your temper-- which I see, Benjicot has taken after instead.” Elmo spat. 

“My Lord…” 

“I am starting to realise he may have been right! As senile as he might be,” Elmo spluttered a bitter laugh. 

“We can still fix this.” 

It was then, amidst the hushed mutters, that Serra could make out the soft voice of a woman -- her words were quiet, not quite reaching her ears as she shifted her stance. 

“And how do you plan to do that? You cannot bring his nephew back from the dead, you cannot rid the child from his niece’s womb! I should have accepted the offer for Serra to wed Aeron Bracken, you know that?” Elmo shouted, a clatter of silverware echoing from the room. The room fell back into silence, as though the room had frozen in time, only broken by her father’s annoyed sigh as footsteps echoed, coming towards the door. Serra launched up to her feet and turned, ready to rush up the stairs and out of sight as she assumed her father had called an early end to the meeting and would come out any moment however she hardly made it three steps before the doors opened as she expected, her hand reaching out for the wall as she nearly tripped over the hem of her dress. 

“Serra Tully.” The voice was surprisingly smooth and feminine, causing her to whip around towards the voice. 

Her eyes found a thin woman who resembled the men of her house — striking in appearance, with dark hair and eyes that bore into her with such intensity, that it pinned her to her very spot. Her gaze absentmindedly scanned her frame, finding riding gear in place of the expected gowns of red and black; tall and slender, as she stood halfway in the doorway and watched her. Serra’s eyes darted back to her face, mouth once ajar now clenching shut. She could have recognised her anywhere, recalling the few memories she had of her in their youth, being that she was so close in age to them; she always seemed to be in the yard, engulfed in her training, but Serra had encountered her a handful of times — her voice, though lower and softer than it had been as children, still held its familiar edge that brought back memories of warning her nephew whenever he stepped out of line. She seemed to be the only force that could keep him grounded, regardless of how rowdy and wild he could become. 

“Lady Alysanne.” 

Her eyes cast to her left in the direction of the room of men that remained uncharacteristically quiet, before stepping further into the hallway and in the direction of the stairs -- Serra could faintly see the hint of a smile on her face, “You have grown much since I last saw you.” 

“It has been many years.” Serra politely replied, her voice quiet as though she was worried her father would overhear her. She had already overstepped and been caught eavesdropping, she did not need to make things worse. 

“Indeed it has,” Alysanne nodded, pausing. “Come, join us.” 

Confusion arose in Serra at her invitation, her head tilting as she opened her mouth to protest, “Oh- I…I don’t know anything about the matters of council.” 

Alysanne’s smile widened, “Now seems as good a time to learn then. You have thoughts and opinions, don’t you?” She asked. 

“Of course, but none that possess any value at a table of men,” Serra replied. 

“That is plenty enough. It is not a suggestion, Serra.” Alysanne quickly added, ceasing any further protests she could muster. She extended an expectant hand to her, the young girl’s gaze dropping to it. Serra was slow in descending the stairs, back towards the doors, and meeting the Blackwood at the bottom of the steps at which point she felt a hand come between her shoulders to guide her inside.

The room turned to watch as they entered, side by side, all eyes focused on her. The urge arose to turn and flee, uncomfortable under the eyes of the several men who sat around the table; her father stood at the head of it, with his face screwed up into a look of disapproval but she was forced forward by Alysanne—  she wasn’t convinced that if she did try, she would allow her to get far, and would just drag her right back. Her hand led her towards a seat across from Samwell, two open chairs awaiting them, timidly finding herself to one. Alysanne soon sat beside her, a hand coming up to give her elbow a reassuring squeeze. 

Her father finally sat down, his eyes never leaving her as a few moments passed; the tension in the room was palpable enough to slice through as she slowly lifted her gaze to scan the room. She soon met the familiar eyes of Oscar, who sat only a few seats down from her, his gaze possessing an evident uncertainty. 

“Oh, this is just absurd!” A councilman, Robard Mooton, cried. “She is just a girl, what does she know that could serve this council? Let us not waste any more time and…”

“She knows more than she lets on.” Alysanne interrupted, her tone calm. “Doesn’t she?” She pointedly questioned. 

Serra felt her eyes on her, hers lowering to the table. 

“What do you know of recent events, Serra?” Her father asked, sighing and dropping a hand from his mouth onto the table. She turned to look at him, her hands balling in her lap as he nodded encouragingly. 

She hesitated, “I know of Benjicot’s involvement in the death of Rodrik Bracken.” She replied, her voice small amidst the room. “Amos Bracken has made several accusations against House Blackwood and its heir.” 

“She listened from outside the door, how does this help?” Robard continued, losing patience. 

“Criston Cole has allegedly called for men to march west.” She admitted. 

Her father inhaled, leaning back in his chair, “And you understand the position this puts us in.” 

She slowly nodded, watching him carefully for any sign that she was wrong and overstepped, “You also know your grandfather means to break off your engagement to Lord Benjicot Blackwood for his hand in his death, too.” Aldric Vance spoke up, her eyes darting to find him -- an older man her father’s age, his eyes kind as he stared at her; awaiting a response. Serra nodded again. 

“We would like your insight on the matters,” Her father said, leaning forward against the table and resting his elbows atop the wood, holding a hand out to her. Serra tensed, blinking a couple of times before she reluctantly offered him a hand that he took, his eyes searching her face.

“Why?” She asked, her voice small. 

“Because it is your betrothal in question, my dove.” He softly replied. “I will not force your hand if it is not what you desire, I only mean to protect you from further ruin.” 

Serra recognised the hypocrisy of the situation, considering that it had been him who had pressured her into this position, to begin with. She lowered her eyes again, staring at their hands, quiet as she pondered his offer to end things, “Should you say the word, we can return to Riverrun in the morrow.” He quietly stated. 

She sucked in a breath, unsure how to answer. The silence stretched on as she weighed the option —  she admittedly missed the comfort of her childhood rooms, Riverrun, and its familiar sounds and sights. 

“She’s just a nosy girl,” Robard snapped. “I told you she was of no use to this table. Let us just end this engagement and be done with this grotesque misalliance-- we will extend an offer of peace to Amos Bracken, and if he is merciful enough, he will reconsider a marriage between his nephew and Serra.” He rambled. 

“Give the girl a moment.” Alysanne snapped, her gaze fixated on the man who stood. “You are too invested in ending this engagement, I feel it necessary to remind you, that you are not the one who will be expected to bed him.” She spat, her eyes narrowing. 

Serra looked between the two with wide eyes, “Though I am beginning to wonder if that is your preference for bedding young boys,” Alysanne continued, taunting the man who now seethed from his place down the table. “I suppose I am not one to judge, however, considering your earlier accusations, Lord Robard.” 

“You wretched cunt!” He finally exploded, rushing to lunge across the table towards Alysanne, a mild level of pandemonium ensuing as men clattered to grab the Lord Mooton, pulling him back. Serra’s attention was drawn to a quiet snort across the table, finding Samwell with his head down and a small smile on his face, his gaze fixed down on his lap as he appeared to fidget with something there. His gaze lifted, looking around the table and watching as Lord Robard was yanked back towards his seat, briefly finding Serra and his younger sister who sat beside her. 

“That is enough!” Elmo bellowed, his voice loud and thundering, “I demand a level of decorum be maintained while we try to figure out what is to happen! Lady Alysanne, Lord Robard, return to your seats!” 

The room quieted, Serra’s eyes watching as the council slowly found themselves back to their spots around the table, a hum of mutters and grumbles filling the room, “Samwell, I would ask that you remind your bitch sister that she is a guest here at this council.” Lord Robard spat. 

“Lord Robard, enough!” Elmo snapped, releasing Serra’s hand. “I will have no more insults at this table today.” 

Alysanne dropped back into her seat, letting out a scoff as she leaned back in her chair. Serra watched the look exchanged between the two Blackwood siblings, Samwell’s expression a look of pride and amusement as he looked back down quickly, a lopsided grin on Alysanne’s face as she rolled her eyes. 

Her father allowed for a moment of silence as the rest of the table settled back into their seats, whatever conversation that lingered soon ceasing, even Lord Robard finally quieting; despite the scowl on his face, his gaze still watching the raven-haired woman to her left. Elmo finally looked back to Serra, sighing, “Serra. Any thoughts?”

She hesitated, heart racing as she was yet again placed on the spot, “I…” She stuttered, swallowing. She scanned the table again, briefly meeting Samwell’s gaze as he continued his fidgeting -- she could now see what had previously held his attention underneath the table; his hands absentmindedly twirling a dagger as he watched her, its blade catching a glimmer of light as it moved between his right and left. She looked at her father, “House Tully has always been a house of their word…and I suppose Lord Benjicot has never given us any other reason to doubt his loyalties, otherwise. I do not see any reason to not see our agreement through.” She quietly explained, trying to feign some level of confidence as she sat up straight, squaring her shoulders. 

Her father paused, mouth opening as if he wanted to say something. Instead, he nodded, “It is settled then,” He muttered. “House Blackwood and Benjicot will be expected to fix this mess. We will see to it our end of the prior agreement—  that will be all for this afternoon.” He sighed, dismissively waving a hand. 

Despite his dismissal, the table did not yet move. Instead, they stared at him for a moment longer, sharing looks before they slowly began to stand; Serra finding a hand wrapping again around her elbow and gently squeezing. Her eyes found Alysanne looking at her, who offered her a small smile that she reciprocated with a forced, tight smile that dropped quickly, eager to get out of there as she pushed up from her chair. She moved with her head down as she gathered her skirts in her hands with a tight grip and shoved by the men who were slow to leave, a hushed whisper over the room. 

As she reemerged into the hallway, she was met by Alistair who waited for her; his head bowing as she approached. He was close on her heels as she hurried towards the stairs, wanting to put as much space between herself and the great hall as she could, and not look back -- she didn’t feel confident in her choice, but there would be no turning back now. She would be married in two days to Benjicot Blackwood. 

She wasn’t sure if she was nauseous with regret, but her hands felt clammy as they wiped against her bodice, her eyes focused straight ahead as she walked. She had barely made it two steps before she tripped over one of the stairs, catching herself with her hands against another step, her ribs colliding with the marble stairs as she tumbled forward and felt the air knocked from her lungs as she clung to the step; cold against her palms that screamed in agony as the dirt and stone embed itself into her hands, her face hot and red as she choked for air, “My Lady.” Alistair gasped, rushing forward. 

She felt his hands on her shoulders, hearing a rush of footsteps as Oscar appeared at her side, “Serra?” 

She shook her head, waving their hands away as Alistair withdrew his hands quickly; Oscar resting one against her spine, “I’m fine-- I am okay.” She breathed out, still trying to catch her breath as she awkwardly hurried back onto her feet. Her brother’s hands remained close, despite her words, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“Should I call for the maester?” Alistair asked.

Oscar held her elbow as she wiped her hands off on her dress, scraped and red, but otherwise unharmed; her hair falling into her face as she smoothed out her clothing. She quickly shook her head, “Are you all right?” Oscar asked. 

“I am fine, I just…” She breathed. “It’s just been a long day, I am tired. It was a mistake.” She insisted. 

“Do you want us to get Maester Edric?” He asked. 

“No, I am fine. I just need rest.” Serra insisted. “Do not bother him, it was just a slip.” 

Oscar’s eyebrow rose, “Are you sure?” 

“I just want to go back to my room,” She pleaded. Her brother hesitantly nodded, waving Alistair back down as he laced her arm through his, beginning to lead her up the stairs; relief washing over her as she used her free hand to lift and brush back her hair when a shout echoed from the yard. 

“Fight back, you fucking coward!” Kermit screamed. 

Her wide-eyed gaze looked at her younger brother, his arm withdrawing from hers as he turned to look towards the front doors that sat open; the sound of shouting continued from the yard, “Alistair, take Serra to her rooms.” 

“What is that?” She asked. 

“Go to your room,” Her brother instructed. 

“No, wait—  let me come,” She begged, watching as he turned and bolted from the stairs. The men who had gathered in the foyer all appeared to hear the commotion too, turning to crane their heads towards the noise as they piled towards the yard, her father and Samwell shoving through them to rush outside along with Oscar. Her head was spinning, but she hurried down the stairs and past the men, using her elbows to shove through the mass; her cheeks burning as she felt Alistair reach for her to pull her away. 

“My lady!” 

She ran into her father’s back as he held out an arm to catch her, preventing her from going too far as she reached the front steps; her eyes over his shoulder, his hand grabbing her wrist and pinning her against his side. She had to lean around him, half stepping to the side and craning her head to watch as Kermit stood over Benjicot; several other men surrounding them on their horses and watching as Kermit struck the young Lord, whilst Benjicot knelt before him and visibly defeated as he took the hit. His head snapped to the side with such force it caused her to cringe, hair falling into his face and covering his eyes as he spit into the grass -- his nose was already pouring blood, staining the front of his shirt as her eldest brother circled him. 

“I said fight me, dammit!” 

Kermit’s foot rose, slamming into his shoulders from behind and knocking him forward into the grass. She let out a gasp, watching as Benjicot painfully writhed against the ground, struggling to push up onto his knees -- her brother panted, face screwed up in a rage, “Stop him!” Serra quietly cried out, desperately looking up at her father. He avoided her eyes, mouth ajar. Kermit stomped on Benjicot’s wrist, circling him again to stand before him.

“Get the fuck up!” Kermit screamed, bent over as he yelled. 

“He’s going to kill him.” Serra pleaded, gripping her father’s shoulder as she tried to shove past him, being pulled back by his arm again. 

“Wait.” Elmo insisted, his eyes still focused on the two boys. 

Benjicot’s head hung low as he brought a hand over his chest, gasping for air as he avoided lifting his eyes as he let out a weak, “No.”

She could see Kermit’s eyes widen, staring at him, dumbfounded, “You dishonour my sister, my house-- and now you won’t even fight me?” He asked.

“I will not fight ... my friend,” He panted, looking up at him. “I am innocent, I have done nothing to dishonour your house.” 

Her brother froze, shoulders tensing. His hand suddenly shot towards his hip, hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword and tearing it from its sheath to bring its sharp tip to his throat, forcing his chin upwards, “Liar!” 

“Kermit, that is enough!” Elmo finally ordered, releasing Serra and stepping down the stairs. 

Her brother stopped, his lunge cut short as he stared at Benjicot, holding each other’s gaze. Slowly, his eyes drifted towards the crowd that watched, his hand clenching so tight around the sword, his knuckles turned white as his hand shook, “Sheath your sword.” Their father instructed. 

Kermit hesitated, but did not yet lower his weapon, "Put it away." Elmo repeated, firmer this time. His mouth twitched, looking back and forth between his father and the Blackwood in front of him. The blade dropped quickly, Benjicot flinching as the tip nicked him as it dropped, his shoulders slumping whilst Kermit returned the sword to his sheath. There was a hushed series of whispers from the council, "Where have you been, boy?"

Benjicot collected himself before responding, his eyes moving with Kermit as he stormed away from him and towards his father, “The woods, my lord.” He admitted. 

“For the past two days?” Elmo asked.

Serra waited, her eyes on Kermit as he went to stand in front of her before she rushed forward, her feet dragging her toward Benjicot. She could feel the eyes on her back as she found herself at his side, kneeling beside him and immediately beginning to assess the small cut at his throat; the rich shade of blood oozing from the edges. Her head ducked, taking his chin into her hand, “Yes.” Benjicot breathlessly answered. 

“What has brought you back?” Her father asked. 

She glanced over her shoulder, meeting Kermit’s discontent stare as his hand remained at the sword on his hip. She looked back at Benjicot, finding his eyes as she quickly reached for the scarf that she had given him two days prior, tucked in his belt and hurrying to bring it to his throat against the wound.

“I have come to declare my innocence and clear my name.” He replied, his eyes tearing away from her. 

Elmo paused, “Speak, boy.” 

Benjicot pushed her hand away from his neck, visibly wincing as he shifted his weight to his left knee, "My lords, before you, I swear on the Old Gods and the New that I am innocent of these vile accusations that bind my name to Myrna Bracken. By the gods above and the earth below, I have not dishonoured my betrothed, Lady Serra, nor sullied my family’s honour with such treachery."

He paused, his breath laboured but his resolve unbroken. "Rodrik Bracken met his end by my hand, but it was no premeditated act of malice. It was in defence of the honour of House Blackwood and House Tully when he hurled false accusations and sought to drag Serra and I’s union. I struck him down in the heat of the moment, driven not by hatred, but by the duty to protect what is sacred—our families, our honour."

Benjicot's voice grew firmer as he continued, "But if there is doubt in your hearts, if my words are not enough, then let me prove my innocence by the blade. I stand here ready to offer my life, to face trial by combat, and to fight for the truth that lies within my soul. Should I fall, let it be known that I did so with loyalty to Serra and to House Tully, willing to sacrifice all to uphold the bonds that unite us."

His gaze swept over the assembly, his tone resolute. "I stand before you, not as a man seeking mercy, but as one committed to the truth. I will go to battle, and if need be, I will lay down my life to prove that my honour, my loyalty, and my dedication for Serra remain untainted and true."

Serra’s gaze had been fixed on him the entire time he spoke, hanging onto his every word; her heart pounding beneath her ribs and holding her breath. Once he was done speaking, her eyes shifted to look towards her father who watched him with narrowed eyes, his jaw clenching and scanning the boy in front of him from head to toe; weighing his words. 

“That will not be necessary for now,” Elmo finally replied after what felt like hours. It did not fall on deaf ears as Kermit scoffed and shoved his way back inside, finding Lord Robard scowling too at her father as he watched him from the corner of his eye, “Heed my warning, though, should you misstep again; I will have your head.” 

Benjicot nodded, a meek gesture as he slumped forward, visibly relieved as he fell into Serra’s side. Her hand came up to his chest, buried among the fabric of his clothing and becoming sticky with blood that dampened his shirts, holding him up as he let out a breath. She did not want to rush him to his feet as he wiped his nose which continued to bleed. 

Her father found her eyes, but he quickly averted them and turned away from her to head back inside. With the last of the men trickling in behind him, Serra sought Alistair, finding him by the doorway and already coming towards her, “Alistair, please help me-- help me bring him inside.” She pleaded as her arm slid under his and wrapped around his ribs. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“You do not have to mother me, Serra.” He sighed, wincing as she turned him by the cheek to dab a cloth against his cheekbone; swollen with a bruise that was already beginning to form. 

Her eyes remained on his face, focused and frowning as she uttered a soft ‘sh’. His nose had ceased bleeding finally after pinching it by the bridge, tender under her touch when they had returned to her room; ushering Alistair to the door. She knew it was risky to bring him to her room, but she felt there were no other options right now -- the councilmen still lingered, and her family hovered, eager to tear her away from him. She needed space to work away from prying eyes, refusing any further help she deemed unnecessary. 

She stood between his knees, with Benjicot planted on the edge of her bed and a cloth between his hands as his cloak had been tossed behind him. His eyes screwed shut, letting out a frustrated sigh as she wiped the blood from his face, a bowl of water nearby on a stool that she had pulled to her feet from in front of the fireplace that was lit. He had fared better than she worried besides a small cut to his face from where Kermit’s ring had made contact, bruised; a bloody nose, and the nick under his chin that she had since cleaned up to inspect. It, too, had already begun to clot and slow. However, she couldn’t help but wonder what lay underneath his clothing -- an idea that while not intended as sexual, still felt shameful and dirty to even cross her mind. She could only imagine the boot prints that littered his skin from where her brother kicked him similar to the one against his sword hand, not brave enough to even consider asking to check; but she knew he was tender and bruised beneath his clothing, having listened to him wince and cry out when she and Alistair dragged him up the stairs and down the halls to her room. 

“Stay still,” She quietly ordered, bringing the edge of the cloth to the angry red imprint just shy of his eye. 

Benjicot let out a hiss, flinching as his hand shot up to catch her by the wrist, “It’s fine.” He insisted. 

She huffed, dropping her hand to her side. Her hand blindly extended to dip into the bowl, ringing and squeezing out any excess water, “It’s not fine.” She replied, her eyes scanning his face. “You could have at least fought back. If you had just stayed and not gone to the borders, none of this would have happened. I told you no good would come of this.” 

“I couldn’t,” He said, looking up at her. “You know I couldn’t.” 

“And you think you were better off letting my brother nearly beat you to death? Going to the borders and making a mess of things? Are things not worse than they were?” She asked, scoffing. 

“He wouldn’t have killed me,” Benjicot replied, withdrawing when she attempted to bring the cloth back to his face -- she sighed and dropped her hand, shooting him a warning look. “He only did what I deserved. I had to go, you know that.” He said. 

He barely had time to react as her hand came up behind him, grabbing him by the nape and forcing his head forward, the cloth coming up to his nose to dab at some dried blood at the edge of his nostril, “You think you deserve death?” She asked, her voice hardly above a mutter. 

“Maybe,” He admitted. 

“I doubt that.” 

“You don’t know what I did.” 

She hesitated, her eyes briefly meeting his, “I know enough.” She said, resuming her actions. They were both quiet for a moment, her touch delicate as she gently scrubbed him clean, “What did he even do to provoke such violence?” She finally asked. 

The thought of violence always felt unnecessary to her -- it never seemed warranted, unless there was some threat that was life or death. It had been a thought that lingered in the back of her head since the news had reached Raventree, but she never quite dared to ask. But something about their isolated presence, away from the noise of councilmen and the watchful eye of her father, left her with just enough to finally ask now that they were alone.

“You know enough,” He replied, throwing her words back in her face. She pressed against his nose, deliberate and annoyed, earning a hiss. “Don’t be like that.” He warned, attempting to withdraw from her again. 

“I am just trying to understand you, Benjicot.” She shot back, ceasing her actions. “Did it have anything to do with his sister?” 

He looked up at her, hesitating, “He said something about how you were to be married to Aeron and some other stupid shit.” He said, dismissing the topic. Serra was not oblivious to how he avoided the question. 

“What of it?” She asked. 

“What?” 

“Aeron and I.” She calmly asked, gesturing him forward again. He was reluctant, relenting with a sigh and letting her turn his face from one side to the next, moving his hair out of the way to scan for any other marks, “What of it?”

“I don’t know.” He answered. “Is it true?” 

“Yes.” 

He looked at her, his right eye twitching as he appeared visibly confused by her honesty, “It was long before the prospect of you and me when I was ten-and-five.” She explained, voice softening. “My father only meant to get me away from Riverrun after my mother had passed, he wanted to protect me from his grief. I spent weeks begging him not to, and to let me stay.” 

“And he changed his mind?” 

She smiled, a small half-smile that did not quite reach her eyes as she looked down at him, “No. Kermit convinced him to reconsider. I was not ready to leave Riverrun and he knew that better than anyone.” 

Her hand dropped from his face, the hand at his nape finding rest on his shoulder, “Did you ever wish things turned out differently and that you had married him?” He asked. 

Her smile faltered, “Yes, at one point.” She admitted, causing his eyebrows to shoot up. Her shoulders shook with a laugh as her smile returned, “You have not exactly been the…easiest man to warm up to.” 

His mouth opened, tempted to challenge her but he knew she was right -- there was no denying that he had been difficult and terrible since she had arrived. How she overlooked it baffled him. He let out a short laugh, a choked sound as he rolled his eyes, “And now? Do you think you would have been happier with him?” He asked after a moment. 

“Mm,” She hummed. “I’m not sure. If it had been by my choice, I would have been happy living in a small, modest home in the woods, away from the chaos of politics and men.” She said, her voice lilting with humour. 

She brought her hand back up, touching the cloth to his eye one last time. He grabbed her wrist again, stopping her, “I’m serious.” He said, searching her eyes.

She blinked, gaze averting towards the writing table that had been shoved against the wall. She seemed to think about it, narrowing her eyes for half a second before her eyes returned to him, “I would not change anything.” Serra softly answered. “I think I have come to accept it and be happy with things as they are-- good and bad, I am content.” 

Benjicot felt a sense of relief at her words, nodding slowly. 

 She set down the cloth back into its bowl of water, the liquid now pink with blood, as she eyed his face; observing the bruises and wounds of her brother. She had yet to step back from her place between his legs, but there seemed to be an invisible string that held her there, tethered to him and lifting a hand to touch just below the wound beneath his eye with a light thumb that still elicited a wince of pain as his eyebrows furrowed whilst his eyes shut briefly. He sucked in a breath through his nose, his face turning away from her, "Sorry." She softly said, withdrawing her hand quickly.

“No, it’s okay,” he said, voice quiet amidst the room. His eyes slowly opened, squinting as he looked up at her, finding her gaze still on his face, “thank you.” 

“For?” She replied. 

“For being so kind to me. I know I don’t deserve it.” He admitted, a hand coming up to rest on her hip. Her gaze lowered towards the small bit of space between them. 

“I think you’ve been handed enough cruelty in your life, Benjicot.” She softly said, her left hand rising boldly to touch his forehead, brushing back the overgrown hair that hung there in his face as she found his eyes again. Her hand dropped, fingers tracing along the shape of his face and outlining his cheekbone; Benjicot’s gaze remained on her. A flush of colour spread across his cheeks, mouth parting as though he wanted to speak, but rendered silent as his eyes closed, inhaling deeply and embracing the warmth of her touch. There were very few things in the realm that could silence him, but something about the gentleness of her hand accomplished it as he leaned into it, face turning towards her palm and letting out a sigh. Her hand fully cupped his cheek, her other hand lifting to mirror it and holding his face between them as her thumbs skimmed over the skin beneath them. 

Up close, she finally had an opportunity to observe him for all that he was — though it had only been two days since she had seen him, she felt he was changed; both in the way he carried himself and his appearance. The boyish, clean-shaven appearance having been abandoned in the woods, and returning a man-grown, the facial hair that peppered his chin and spread across his upper lip alluded to maturity. Her right thumb brushed his cheek, prickled by stubble as the pad of the digit glided across the skin. Up close, she admired the imperfections that made Benjicot the man he was. From the scar that stretched from his upper lip to nose, his crooked nose — and the eyes, striking and green in the light as they opened to look up at her, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. 

He stood suddenly, towering over her and nearly driving her back into the stool that held the bowl of bloodied water, his hands lifting to hold her waist — his hold was loose, and bordering cautious as though he was trying to be as delicate with her as possible. His gaze never left her face as he moved, her left hand moving to absentmindedly rest against his bicep as she stared up at him, her eyebrows furrowing and using her other hand to plant against his shoulder. She watched in silence as his gaze scanned her face, slow and taking in every feature with such intensity, that it felt almost too intimate a moment for an unwed couple to share — the whole situation could appear questionable should anyone have barged in at that moment, the pair of them clinging to one another, alone and heavy breathing. One hand rose to cup her face, drawing her closer to him until his breath fanned hot across her lips, her ribs pressed against his as she sucked in a deep breath. 

His mouth pressed to hers with such force it caused her to stumble back a step, only steadied by his hands as his kiss practically sucked the air from her lungs, the hand at his shoulder finding the nape of his neck. Serra was half dragged onto the balls of her feet, falling into him as her fingers dug themselves into the root of his hair, desperate to ground herself somehow as she clutched onto him as if her life depended on it — the actions earned a carnal moan that reverberated from deep within his chest, his hands creeping up to the small of her back. She felt the way he pulled her into him, like he was trying to embed her in his skin, desperate for closeness whilst she melted in his hands as his mouth found her throat. The foreign sensation set her skin ablaze, her mouth falling agape as his lips trailed down her throat and claimed her like he had any right, his hands tugging at her skirts and manhandling her. She let out a soft sigh as the cool air that permeated her room tickled the back of her thighs, her dress being tugged upwards when Benjicot stepped forward with his knee pressing between her legs, his fingers rough against the soft skin of her thighs, calloused and desperate. 

A knock echoed through the room, causing the two of them to jump, Serra breaking away from him first. She shoved his hands off her thighs, pushing her skirt back down and smoothing over the fabric as Alistair spoke up, “My lady?” He called from outside the door. 

There was a pause as she stared at Benjicot, wide-eyed and red-faced, with heavy breathing and flushed cheeks as she stumbled back and away from him. Benjicot was visibly dishevelled as he withdrew, leaning into her bed and mouth agape, sucking in air as he caught his breath, “Yes, Alistair?” Serra asked, breathless as she smoothed out her clothing and reached for the cloth that had been abandoned in the bowl. 

The door slowly opened, revealing the guard who had spent the past several days at her heel, his eyes immediately finding her and hesitating — he glanced at Benjicot who avoided his eyes by looking down at the floor, “I…have given you as much time as I can spare.” Ser Alistair said, looking back at her. “It is getting late. Lord Blackwood should be getting back to his chambers before anyone begins to question his absence.” He quietly explained, his gaze still fixed on the young Lord, who finally dared to look up; his mouth twitching, darting to glance up at Serra who let out a breath. 

She nodded, “Of course.” 

Benjicot stood, turning to collect his cloak that sat on her bed and taking it with him, “We were all done here, anyways,” He said, brushing past her and not giving her another glance as he made his way towards the door. “Thank you, Alistair.” He quietly said as he passed him and exited the room. The guard nodded, his eyes following him out the door as Serra dropped the rag back into the bowl of water and wiped her hands off on her dress. 

Alistair blinked a couple of times, unmoving but silent as she gathered the bowl and took a deep breath, sighing aloud as she approached him, “Could you discard this for me? I must be getting ready for bed.” She said, struggling to find his eyes. 

He took the bowl from her, his face creasing with a purse of his mouth and furrowing his brows, “My lady, if I may…speak plainly.” He quietly spoke. 

She paused, eyeing his face, “Yes, of course.” 

He avoided her eyes for a moment, clearing his throat, “I would advise you to be careful with…the time you spend alone with Lord Blackwood.” He slowly said. Serra felt the colour drain from her face as she frowned, “It could appear improper, is what I mean to say— should anyone question it.”

He knew.  Serra felt stupid enough to think he wouldn’t know or figure it out somehow. 

“Are you going to mention tonight to anyone?” She asked, her voice small with worry.

Alistair eyed her, his eyes finding hers. His features softened, “No. But it cannot happen again, I cannot guarantee I can protect you a second time should your father or brothers ask.”

Serra finally let out a sigh of relief, withdrawing and wiping her hands against her skirt again, though she radiated anxiety as she nodded, “Thank you.” 

Alistair’s head bowed, “Of course, my lady.” 

She watched as he turned and left, leaving her alone finally in her room and overcome with worry. Despite his words, she still felt a sense of unease as the door closed and turned to retreat towards her bed. She turned slowly, leaning back to sit down and flop into the bed, her arms at her side — though the action was disturbed by something pressing into her leg. She reached down, her hand blindly searching the blankets for a moment before her fingers met the cool metal; bringing it up into view and turning it in the light. Her eyes scanned the pin used to fasten a man’s cloak, recognizing the Bracken sigil as she turned it in between her fingers. She sat up from the bed, her feet planted against the ground as she pulled herself from the comfort of her blankets; her feet guiding her towards the fireplace. 

Her eyes turned towards the door momentarily as she stopped in front of the fire, warming her skin; listening for any sign of life beyond her room. When she was confident in the silence that she found, she looked back, her eyes on the flames as her hand propelled forward to toss the pin in; allowing the fire to engulf it.

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[omgthatdress]

According to legend, Marsha P. Johnson was the one who threw the first shot glass at the Stonewall Riot. Marsha would later say that wasn't true, that she only showed up to the riot hours after it began. While the story may not be true, her impact on lgbt and especially transgender rights is that tremendous.

(Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera)

After Stonewall, Marsha was a founding member of the Gay Liberation Front, and along with close friend and fellow activist Sylvia Rivera, they founded Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries (S.T.A.R.) that advocated for the homeless trans people who were considered to be at the bottom of LGBT society.

In 1974, when "drag queens" were banned from marching in a gay pride parade because of the "bad reputation," she, Rivera, and other trans people marched in front of the parade in protest. When asked why she was there, she told a reporter, "Darling, I want my gay rights now!"

When asked what the P in her name stood for, her answer was "pay it no mind," a philosophy that buoyed her through immensely dark places. She spent much of her life homeless and engaged in sex work to survive. She was arrested over 100 times, and had numerous stints in psychiatric institutions.

(Marsha P. Johnson in a demonstration outside Belleview Psychiatric Hospital)

On top of all her tireless activism, she was a celebrated drag performer with the troupe Hot Peaches.

In 2017 the documentary The Death and Life of Marsha P. Johnson came out and got mainstream distribution on Netflix. In 2018, The New York times honored Marsha with a much overdue obituary that recognized her for her work. In 2021, Youtuber NikkieTutorials honored Marsha with a look at the Met Gala, bringing in one of the best looks of the night (and one of the few to honor the "In America" theme in an interesting in creative way). In 2020, East River State Park in New York City was re-named Marsha P. Johnson State Park, and in 2023, a floral archway was installed.

I honestly had a really hard time writing about Marsha. I first learned about her when she was honored on an episode of RuPaul's Drag Race in 2012. Back then, there was little information about her available online, so coming to understand this icon Ru talked about so lovingly was difficult to do. Ever since then, it's been remarkable to see Marsha's name and renown grow.

[power-chords]

The Doves Type legend is one of the most enduring in typographic history and probably the most infamous. It’s the story of a typeface and a bitter feud between the two partners of Hammersmith’s celebrated Doves Press, Thomas James Cobden-Sanderson and Emery Walker, leading to the protracted disposal of their unique metal type into London’s River Thames. Starting in 1913 with the initial dumping of the punches and matrices, by the end of January 1917 an increasingly frail Cobden-Sanderson had made hundreds of clandestine trips under cover of darkness to Hammersmith Bridge and systematically thrown 12lb parcels of metal type into the murky depths below. As one person so aptly commented on Twitter recently, this notorious tale bears all the hallmarks of a story by Edgar Allan Poe.

The original Doves Type was crafted by master punchcutter Edward Prince, based on drawings produced by Percy Tiffin of Nicolas Jenson’s pioneering 15th-century Venetian type. William Morris, founder of the Kelmscott Press, had actually developed his own ‘Golden’ type some years before The Doves Press came into being but Doves is held by experts as being more faithful to the original Venetian letterforms.

The Doves Type was commissioned in 1899 and created solely by Prince in 16 pt; it was used in all of the press’s publications including their iconic edition of the King James Bible. Each Doves Press book was beautifully bound and, notes Green, noticeably “stripped of decorative borders and illustration, the elegantly clear & legible type acting alone as visual siren-song.”

By 1908, despite successful Milton prints and the aforementioned Bible, the Press was in dire financial difficulty. Subscribers began melting away after Walker had effectively left in 1906 as the bitter & acrimonious dispute took hold between the partners. On finally dissolving their partnership in 1909, Cobden-Sanderson began attempts to wriggle out of an earlier promise that, should the partnership cease, Walker would receive a fount of type ‘for his own use’. Walker retaliated, issuing a writ insisting that the Press shut down completely and he receive 50% of remaining assets. In 1909, the Press’s only valuable asset was the type.

A compromise was reached, brokered by their exasperated friend Sir Sydney Cockerell, which allowed Cobden-Sanderson uncontrolled use of the type for as long as he lived, at which time it would pass to Emery Walker, if he did not die first.

The thought of ‘his’ typeface being used by anyone else, and in a manner beyond his control, prompted Cobden-Sanderson’s now infamous course of action. Only the Doves Press, run exclusively by him, could be bestowed the honour of printing his type. And so the mission to destroy it, beginning with the punches and matrices on Good Friday 1913, began. On an almost nightly basis from August 1916 the ailing septuagenarian dumped the type into the Thames, wrapped in paper parcels and tied with string; “bequeathed to the river” as he put it in his personal diary. Every piece of this beautiful typeface, more than a ton of metal, was destroyed in a prolonged ritual sacrifice.

—Raised from the dead: The Doves Type story, 2013

After working on a revised digital facsimile Robert Green decided that he would try and find some of the original metal type. Using the sources available, including Cobden-Sanderson's published journals, Mr Green worked out where he thought the type was thrown from the bridge into the Thames.

At low tide, and with a mudlarkers licence, he scoured the Thames foreshore and found three pieces of the original type.

Due to the dangerous nature of the Thames currents and tides a team of professional divers from the Port of London Authority then spent two days looking for more type and a total of 150 pieces were recovered.

—One man's obsession with rediscovering a lost typeface, BBC News, 2015

[animereaderinsertwriter]

to fuck a god

tags/warnings: smut, ares x nymph!reader, erwin smith x reader, ancient greece au for a hot minute

a/n: this fic is a gift for the lovely, wonderful @bluebellhairpin whom i adore (and is responsible for my schmexy icon!!!!)

There is shouting in the distance.

Your nose wrinkles, your eyes tighten. Darkness, warm and weighted, presses against you, smothering wakefulness. Peace lulls you back to slumber.

Moments later, there is a scream—  you hear it past the darkness, past the weight. It is the lonely, abandoned cry of a wounded soldier. Your heart lurches, your eyes flutter.

Still you sleep. It has been too long since last you had rest.

It is a crash that finally wakes you. Pain blossoms in your abdomen as a bridge collapses, a crushing pressure that forces air from your lungs. You rise, hot, raging, vengeful; your waters churn, boiling wine-dark with the blood of mortal men. Battle has come to your riverbank, unbidden and unwanted. 

The men do not— cannot— see your body as you emerge from foaming rapids, but that does not lessen the doom they face by the outstretching of your hand. This is your river. The silt and sand beneath their feet, the water in their noses and lungs belong to you; they will not savage it without price

They pay with their lives by the dozen. You extract it from them mercilessly, plunging them beneath the water's surface. As your rapids rage, one man reaches, lunging to gouge another with his spear; even in your wrath, you mark the act as strange. What manner of beast is man that even in the throes of his own death, he seeks to cause another's? You find it too foolish to fathom.

 “For Athens!” cries one man just before you fill his lungs with water. “For the noble House of—”

He does not finish. You smother his battle cry with watery death. Athens could burn for all you cared, along with every noble house and home along the way. You cared little for irreverent man; would that the gods would send you power enough to flood them all.

 “Such fury from one so small. Would that I could inspire like rage in even fifty men.”

The voice, though gruff and deep, was quiet, bemused. In your distraction, you allow a man to escape your clutches and crawl back to shore, gagging and sputtering as he went. Furious, you turn and find the true object of your ire lounging beneath the shade of a fig tree, a scroll in hand. Once, it might have amused you to find the god of war reading, of all things— but you were accustomed now to his all-too-frequent visits, and the oddity had worn off its charm.

“Restless vagabond,” you spit, feet slapping as you walked from your place in the water to the shore next to his tree. “Go back to Sparta, Ares—you're not wanted here.”

So saying, you fold your arms, waiting for a response. When the god doesn’t deign to reply, you flick water from the tips of your fingers in his direction. Shiny droplets land in his dark hair, glistening like dew; a single shimmer of water races down the thick bridge of his nose, then dives off the blunt tip of it to land on his scroll.

“Woman.” 

The word is spoken lowly— a warning— but has no real bite. Your words, however, are far from toothless, heedless of how great and terrible is the power that he wields.

“I am no mere woman— no more than you are mere man.”

Dark-bright eyes look up at you, their russet brown edging on red as they sparkle with mischief. As his gaze follows the curves and plains of your body, Ares smiles— the very definition of crude and lascivious.

“You are a woman in all the ways that count.”

That, you supposed, was true enough.

“Why have you come?”

He nods towards the chaos of your river.

“The men brought me.”

“As if mortal man makes his own war.” Your face contorts into a scowl. “I ask again: Why have you come? Why come you to savage my banks, pollute my waters with foul man-blood and stinking mortal shit?”

“I told you the truth, pretty one.” Ares rolled his scroll gently. It crackled under his huge hands, but did not bend. “The men wage war, and whithersoever they wage, there I must be also.”

“Pretty one,” you grumble, angry at how well the compliment pleased you. “Better wrathful one, or vengeful one.”

“Those too, if it pleases you.”

He stands, brushing grass from his toga. The clothing in question, made of crimson fabric, falls just shy of halfway down his bulging, golden thigh, revealing softly curving muscle. The hulking mass of him throws a shadow long enough to cast doubt and fear into your very bones, even more so as he approaches you— but then he is close, so very close, and murmuring sweetly just for you to hear.

“Come, my Lady Wrath, my Darling Vengeance— does my presence really disturb you so greatly?”

You can smell the battle on him. His scent is metallic, like blood, and salty like sweat— and yet there is also the clean scent of the field, the spice of victory wine, and the smoke of burning bodies. Ares is and always has been a study in opposites, both animal magnetism and soft, reasonable attraction.

"Yes," you admit, striving for exasperation and hitting nearer to tremulous want. "You do disturb me." 

A large, warm hand grips your hip. You suddenly become aware of the bareness of your skin, the cool damp of you against the warm heat of him. The contact brings a flush to your cheeks. Your body responds as his hand flexes, squeezing; you can't help but search his gaze, wondering, as ever, what he's thinking. 

"I love that you're naked," he says, at once soft and sharp. "Your form pleases me, lady nymph. Your kind are never shy, but you are the only river-sprite I know that dares brave land baring all."

He touches you further, that large, rough hand sliding up the curve of your waist. He spreads his warmth from your hip to your ribcage to your neck, gently exploring. The touch is electric, yet strangely innocent. He is a god admiring Creation. Admiring you.

As before, you allow it— and how could you not? 

Who were you to say no to the attention and affection of a god?

"The men are dying in my waters," you say as his fingertips trace your jaw. "I'll fall ill, Ares."

"You shall not. I shall send another of my kin to cleanse you, as I did before."

You have nothing to say in return. As if sensing this, he kisses you, busying your mouth with the more pressing business of his want. Both of his hands are on you now, one on your neck, one at the swell of your ass; as he pulls you close, you can feel the hot, hard length of him against you, protected only by the thin fabric of his toga. The sensation is heady, and you pride yourself on keeping your feet through the ordeal. 

"Will you let me have you once more?" he asks against your lips. "What say you, my nymph of rage?"

You consider for a moment. Always, he gives you the choice. You know he needn't— he is stronger, more powerful, and could and had easily taken what he wanted before. It makes you wonder if giving you the choice, allowing you to choose him, is a way for him to conquer you. In the end, it doesn't matter. There was only ever one answer. 

"Yes." Your breath comes quick as a calloused thumb brushes over your nipple. "Yes, Lord Ares. I will have you." 

In the end, there is no shame. Even Aphrodite herself had been unable to say no to the wiles of the war god. As conqueror, it was not in his nature to be refused. 

Having gained your assent, Ares does not waste precious time. Instead, he kisses up your neck, to your ear, taking the lobe of it between his teeth and scraping gently. The act sends goosebumps racing down your flesh, and you shiver. Ares kisses lower, down to the hollow of your throat and the plain of your chest, his hands wandering to hardened, sensitive nipple and gently curving breast. He touches you, explores you, holds you like you are precious, and your body opens to him.

"Spread your legs," he says against your neck. "I want to taste you."

So saying, he lowers himself to his knees, bringing himself of a height with your sex. Filthy and impossible, he noses at the apex of your thighs, nudges your legs apart with his hands; it is everything you can do to remain standing as he begins a great and terrible onslaught against your dignity. It is so much. It is not enough. Your hands move to his hair, pulling the soft strands as a long, thick finger finds your entrance, and he groans as he finds that his finger slips easily inside. Still, he does not budge from his task until you're trembling, quaking above him as your orgasm nears— and even then, it is only to look up at you with glistening mouth and fuck-me eyes and say,

"Kneel."

You can do nothing but obey. You kneel before Ares, and he kisses you, letting you taste your own pleasure from his mouth. It's filthy and perverse and everything you've ever wanted as he lowers you gently to the earth, wrapping your legs around his wide hips. You look up at him, awestruck. In this moment, he is soft, beautiful. He is nothing like you would have imagined War to be. 

Ares takes a moment to toss aside his clothing. His sex is even larger than you remember it— or, perhaps his form alters according to his godly will, and he is striving to impress. In any case, your sexes are now aligned— his tip to the very opening of your body— and all that remains is one push before he is fully seated. 

Despite all, you find yourself anxious for that push. 

"Do it," you urge, smothering that feeling. "Fuck me, Ares."

You can tell it pleases him to hear his name from your mouth. Even so, he does not acquiesce immediately, which both frustrates and endears him to you. 

"I'll go slowly," he says. "It is no small thing to fuck a god. I thought you'd have learned that by now."

You have no reply— not when his cockhead is pushing slowly into you, making way for the rest of his large, heavy cock. It is nearly a religious experience, being filled by him. You cry out as he's finally seated deeply within you, and all at once you can no longer tell where you end and he begins. 

"Yes," you tell him as he withdraws to begin another slow thrust. "Yes, yes, yes."

The word becomes a song as he picks up the pace. It is a song of moans and cries and deepest feeling— he kisses you as you keen, and the hot, hard length of him slows to an agonizing pace.

"Are you alright?" he asks, as though you are breakable. "Should I slow down?"

It infuriates you. 

With all your power, you shove at his chest. At first, be doesn't seem to understand, taken aback by your newfound aggression— but eventually, when you use the force of your hips to indicate your desire, he goes easily backwards, landing with a gentle thump on his back so that you can straddle his hips, impaling yourself on his length. Hands braced on the warm softness of his chest, you begin to grind, pushing him ever deeper into you until both of your breaths come heavy and your time is near. 

"You were made to be abed with War," Ares tells you, smiling madly up as you move above him. "Indomitable, you are, and ruthless— I have no doubt that a thousand lives could not separate us."

You barely hear him.

"Lovely creature. I would make you my queen, if I could." His voice pitches upward in a moan of pleasure as you use his body. "I would make you heir to my kingdom of ash and broken bone, would burn worlds for you."

Cogent thought is lost to pleasure, but you feel the meaning of his words. It pushes you closer, so close, so close—

"Come, pretty one," he says, "Awake, destroyer of man. I will catch you if you fall, in this life or the next."

You jerk awake. 

A warm hand rests on your shoulder. You turn, groggy with sleep, and find a pair of shining blue eyes peering into your own. Erwin Smith—your husband and commander— has never looked more handsome than now, with chest bare above pajama pants that fall a little too short at his ankle. 

"Are you alright, love?" he asks you, tender, gentle. "A nightmare?"

The wetness between your legs indicates otherwise. You guide his large, calloused hand there, wordlessly allowing him to feel your answer, and he smiles. 

"In that case, I'm sorry for waking you." He presses a kiss to your temple, a finger pressing into your folds. "You don't get enough downtime as it is."

You hum in agreement and run your hands along the solid, curving lines of his biceps. 

"You could always order me on bed rest, commander," you tease as he shifts, placing himself exactly as Ares had in your dream— between your thighs, your legs wrapped around his hips. 

"If I did that, nothing would ever get done."

"No? Am I that big of a help, then, that the Scouts couldn't function without me?"

"No," Erwin grinned, mischievous, "It's because if I put you on bed rest, I'd never leave your bed."

You smile, then gasp as he presses against you, cock straining against the thin fabric of his pajamas. The feeling is startlingly familiar, and all at once, Ares' words come back to you. 

"You were made to be abed with War. Indomitable, you are, and ruthless— I have no doubt that a thousand lives could not separate us."

You wonder if the dream was entirely that. It felt so raw, so real— and, though Erwin and the Ares of your dream shared little physical similarity, you suspected that they were made of the same parts. Only the paint was different. Ares was bronze and dark where Erwin was pale and blond, but in their hearts— in their dark, violent hearts, capable of more and deeper love than a mortal could imagine— they were the same. They were men made of war, bathed in the blood of innocents.

And they both wanted you. 

"Lay back," you tell your husband, pushing at the soft muscle of his chest. "I want to ride you."

Erwin grins. 

"I thought you'd never ask."

[thicctails]

I absolutely LOVE your Mythology Falls AU designs, but I’m curious on why you chose the ones that you did.

I'm so happy you like it! Let's go down the list, shall we?

Dipper: I love the Sphinx!Dipper from Nightrizer's take on Monster Falls, but I didn't want to go that route since these are supposed to be an original take on idea of everyone becoming creatures of myth and legend. The first reason I chose a Gryphon for our beloved Pine Tree because they represent traits like bravery, wisdom, and power. Obviously, Dipper isn't the strongest character in Gravity Falls, but when the chips are down, he isn't afraid to start beating the hell out of whatever is terrorizing him, no matter how much stronger they may be.

The second reason is because I wanted to do something with owls and cheetahs for Dipper. I chose the barn owl because their feathers actually do kinda resemble the colours I chose for Dipper's feathers, and also because they're my favourite species of owl. Both owls and cheetahs are nervous creatures with high pitched calls, which I think fits Dipper very well haha.

Mabel: While I like the idea of Mabel being some kind of water creature, I think her being a mermaid would cause quite a few issues with mobility. I went with a selkie because not only are baby seals fricken adorable (especially harp seals, which is what her coat is based on), but it also allows her to keep her iconic sweater look! Now she can be fashionable on land, and utterly adorable in the water. There's also the added risk of someone trying to take her coat, but when one of your Grunkle's is a dragon, and the other is a kelpie, most people get the hint not to try anything.

Grunkle Stan:

Haha, come on, you see it, right?

Really, though, while Stan may love money, and everyone assumes that he would be hoarding crisp dollar bills, his real horde is actually his house and all those within it. He loves his family more than life itself, and anyone who brings them harm is going to be getting a face full of flames. He's big, grumpy, and looks like he'd be nothing more than a dumb brute, but in reality he's a big softie who could outsmart most anyone who crossed him.

Ford: Kelpies look beautiful, friendly, and enticing, promising fun and adventure, if you only would come closer and climb atop their back. However, this is only a farce, and now you're being dragged down into the dark depths of a lake or river. While Ford wasn't drowning anyone as a human, he certainly dragged McGucket down a dark path, often bringing him into dangerous situations, and he almost did the same to Dipper, although not intentionally. However, they are not always bad, and if you can slip a bridle over a Kelpie's head and tame it for a time, they'll tirelessly help you with whatever you need.

They were also said to be shapeshifters, often taking the form of a man. Whether or not Ford will figure this out remains to be seen (hopefully no one sticks him in a cage and threatens to freeze him!)

Soos: The world's most perfect man deserves a nobel and revered creature. Qilins are gentle, benevolent protectors, and unlike unicorns, they really can see into someone's heart! I wanted Soos to have an overwhelmingly friendly and loved mythological form, so a Qilin seemed like a natural fit.

Wendy & McGucket: two North American cryptids, neither one having much to go on. I chose a Splintercat for Wendy, both because its a lumberjack legend, and because this lynx-like beast topples whole trees with ease by smashing into them which reminded me of Manly Dan, who is also a Splinter Cat.

As for poor old Fiddleford, I made him into a Glawackus because 1. tell me that name isn't something he'd say.

and 2. Glawackuses are said to have the ability to erase the memories of anyone who looks into their eyes. I made it so that the eye that is covered by his green eyeglass is safe to look into, while the other will cause memory loss.

[onefleshonepod]

ID: A digital collage of "The High Priestess” tarot card as the Body from the Locked Tomb series. The card depicts the Body as a ghostly figure with both arms raised, dressed in a diaphanous blue-white robe, standing on a large crescent. In her left hand is a sword. In her right hand is a scroll. She is crowned with the headdress of the Egyptian goddess Hathor, a red sun disc with cow horns. At the top is another representation of the Body reaching out of a river, from Mermaids by Arthur Rackham. In the background is the Bird and Pomegranate pattern by William Morris. Behind that, providing the abstract landscape, is Avignon by Ralph Hotere, an influential Māori artist. The image of the Body is from Allegory with a Woman by Luděk Marold. The left side of the card shows the upright meaning of The High Priestess and reads, “Inner Voice | Unconscious | Intuition | Mystery | Spiritual Insight in all caps. The right side of the card shows the reversed reading and reads “Repressed Feelings | Secrets | Hidden Motives | Cognitive Dissonance” in all caps. The base of the card reads "The High Priestess | The Body” in a retro 1970s-style font.

My goal with these tarot cards was to choose characters who embody the meanings of the cards when you think of them, to make the cards intuitive to grasp for Locked Tomb fans who might not be very familiar with tarot. Discussion below:

The Body haunting Harrow is quite literally an inner voice and a representation of Harrow’s subconscious. She’s the perfect figure for the High Priestess card. It’s hard to represent spiritual insight better than with. well. um. a spirit who is a religious figure who also provides insights. The nature of the Body is also one of the central mysteries of Harrow the Ninth.

Regarding the reversed meanings, the Body is also emblematic of Harrow’s secret which is hidden even from herself. My personal interpretation (along with many others') is that Harrow sublimated her forgotten and repressed feelings for Gideon onto the Body throughout Harrow the Ninth.

With my visual interpretation of this card, I tried to preserve or nod to some elements of the Rider-Waite-Smith High Priestess card. As a disclaimer, the hodge-podge orientalist imagery of the RWS deck is a shameful product of its time, but the illustrations are iconic and well known, so I wanted to acknowledge them. I also wanted to use images which evoked the dark wet ghost imagery of pre-Nona art and fanon of the Body.

The RWS High Priestess, and mine, presides over two pillars, representing the balance between them. The RWS pillars can be seen as multiple different dualities (such as good and evil), but are often called are the Pillar of Establishment and the Pillar of Strength. I interpreted the left side (with the scroll) as Harrow’s path of completing the process of Lyctorhood and becoming a fully functional tool of the empire. The right side, where the Body is holding a sword, represents Wake, Gideon, and the path of heresy. Just as the High Priestess’ role is to mediate between the two extremes, the Body’s role seems to be to help Harrow on her own chosen path.

The crescent moon at the Body’s feet, in the same place as in the RWS card, is seen also in many depictions of the Virgin Mary. This is meaningful because (as has been more thoroughly discussed elsewhere) the Ninth House’s worship of the Body and the way this is viewed as heretical and idolatrous by the other Houses can be seen as a parallel to Catholics’ veneration of Mary. I tried to continue the Marian imagery from the RWS card with a subtle blue tint to the figure’s robes.

The pomegranates in the background, also a detail preserved from the RWS card, are a symbol of — well, what aren’t they a symbol of. Many things that resonate in the Locked Tomb series. Death, eternal life, Hell, being torn between two realities… I used the William Morris pomegranates because I love his prints.

Finally, the RWS High Priestess wears the headdress of the Egyptian goddess Hathor, which I kept specifically because the cow horns are perfect: the Body being the Earth and wearing the symbol of John’s first transgression against the Earth while also trying to save it. Hathor’s domain was to help souls transition to the afterlife, and she was often depicted as a cow.

[lurkinglilyrice]

No one asked me to, but I’m expanding off my previous post that Sarcean from Dark Rise/Heir gives me Yiling Patriarch (Wei Wuxian) from mdzs vibes. I apologize for gushing about these two characters from fandoms that have nothing to do with one another (aside from being mlm).

To get the obvious comparisons out of the way: they’re both societally infamous, morally gray bi icons with long black hair, a dark aesthetic, a bit of arrogance, and powers of some degree to raise people from the dead.

**spoilers for dark heir/rise and mdzs ahead**

Now past that, there is deeper a connection in how Sarcean’s and Wei Wuxian’s (in his Yiling Patriarch era) powers were labeled as “dark” or “demonic,” yet simultaneously perceived as useful when used in a manner aligned with the “light/good” side.

In the beginning, they both work for the good side while standing out as the black sheep. For Sarcean, the scene in particular that highlights this is the procession with the Sun King where everyone is described as a “river of sunlight, all those riding with the king dressed in shimmering white and gold,” until it cuts to, “All but one. With his long black hair and garments, Sarcean was like a crow among birds of paradise.”

This depiction is shockingly similar to Wei Wuxian amongst the other cultivators during the Sun Shot campaign. They both have this aura of darkness and have shockingly unique powers compared to the other “respectable” magic users that they work with. And this uniqueness was only tolerated as long as they toed the line of what the “good” side approved of.

Now, both of their pasts bring up the questions—exactly what magic is respectable and what magic is ethical? The stewards had no qualms about using the Dark King’s (Sarcean’s) chalice to gain their powers, but that was only after they denounced him. Likewise, years after the Yiling patriarch’s death, the cultivators continued to use his inventions and tried to recreate his yin tiger tally in private. It isn’t that the light/good side thinks that their dark powers are bad, they only think they’re bad if Sarcean or Wei Wuxian have control of them. It comes down to power, jealousy, and possession. On the surface the “good” side labels them as heretics and a threat to their traditional principles, yet this is only because they secretly covet their powers.

The Yiling Patriach isn’t a true villain, but he also does unarguably villainous things. And is that not exactly the same for Sarcean as the “Dark King”? The light side pushed both of these characters into the dark by making them out to be the villain, and as a result, obviously they do unequivocally bad things.

And both of these characters are reborn and get to evaluate their past actions, as well as the actions of the “good” side.

So yes I love my precious dark bicons with luscious long hair and morally gray pasts.

[zeezeebum]

Selenophile

(n.) a person who loves the moon

[gingergofastboatsmojito]

Jeremy and the minorities he loves to represent and apparently was born to

This post by @freedelusionshere cracked open a pattern that was right there in front of me for a while now and I hadn't really been paying attention to:

Jeremy Allen White's career choices

I won't go over every single role he ever played but overall his taste is quite distinctive and particular, he's into the marginalized, the anti-heroes, and the minorities.

He's not afraid of having to dive deep into his dark side to play addicts, disabled, depressed, suicidal, and traumatized human beings who struggle with mental health issues and don't always win their battles or are elegant about it.

His most famous roles are Lip Gallagher and Carmy Berzatto

Both addicts, the product of a traumatic upbringing with abusive parents and absent parental figures, with older siblings who played roles in his characters' lives that they shouldn't have due to the dysfunctional family dynamic they lived in.

He also played Kerry Von Erich, who lost his battle with addiction and a part of his leg as well and whose whole family was part of the problem, no matter how much they loved him. Kerry Von Erich was a fatal victim of his toxic environment and upbringing.

More about Carmy and Kerry's parallels here:

In Cornflower (short-film) Jeremy played the big half-brother of this little girl whose mother killed herself and he was in charge of "protecting" his baby sister from the news and sending her away

He's the Boss, the chef, the champ, the protector in his own fucked up way, but not really because he plays the shadow aspects of all those characters, otherwise, he's just not interested.

Jeremy once said (for GQ magazine) that if he played the romantic lead in a rom-com it would also have to be very sad.

And now, when he steps into The Boss' shoes leather jacket he doesn't play the idol, the icon, but one of his darkest moments.

Deliver me from nowhere

The movie tells The Boss' story during a time of his life that he described himself as dark and challenging, filled with isolation and loneliness.

I read Warren Zanes' novel a few months ago when I found out that JAW had been cast as the lead and LOVED IT. He also wrote Tom Petty's bio, which I haven't read yet (but definitely will because I love Petty) and served as VP of the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, back when I still gave a fuck about it.

Zanes' Deliver Me from Nowhere captures that feeling completely. No wonder JAW felt compelled to play that part.

Nebraska, Springsteen's album (1982) was his 6th studio album and followed the widely successful and critically acclaimed album: The River and it was off-beat compared to its predecessors because it contained darker and more solemn lyrics but most importantly because The Boss lived up to his nickname and fought his Record label at the time (Columbia Records) refusing to tour to promote it. As a result the album only reached number 3 in both USA and the UK.

Bruce was going through a lot and having a hard time coping with fame and struggling to balance his personal life with his career, re-defining what the concept of "success" meant for him.

The book goes over that struggle and inner turmoil, it says it got to the point where the album was recorded by a Springsteen who literally couldn't get outta bed to do it. It was recorded in his bedroom.

The author says:

"Nebraska is the recording that matters the most in Bruce Springsteen's career. But not because of the hits it contains or it's renowned or because of its generation of young people played it on repeat while they searched for themselves in bedroom mirrors. It needs a different measure. Springsteen made the record when he was the object of tremendous expectations. (...) They were waiting for Born in the USA and that's not what they got, the truth was that Springsteen was a little lost."

Again, no wonder JAW got cast for this role.

I wish nothing but the best for him and I expect nothing but the best from his performance. I'm sure that it must be terrifying for him having to sing for the first time but the way I see it only 2 outcomes can come outta that: either he rocks or he's dubbed by The Boss himself who rocks even harder, so I'm cool.

This is the beast JAW has to tame (And make it relatable, moving, and hopefully award-winning):

The album's reverb-laden vocals and mood combined with dark lyrical content have been described by music critic William Ruhlmann as "one of the most challenging albums ever released by a major star on a major record label"

Source: Wikipedia.

I'm positive he can do it and I'll be there, watching and crying as he does.

Remember to follow my tag #Gingerpovs 💋

[mariacallous]

On a sunny Wednesday in Paris, the city’s mayor inches down a ladder into the blue-brown water of the river Seine, one cautious step at a time. After a few seconds, once Anne Hidalgo’s wet suit is completely submerged, she dons small dark goggles and dunks her face underwater—proving to the photographers and TV cameras following her by boat that she believes this water is clean.

This is a historic moment for Paris, which many people believed was not going to happen. Swimming in the Seine has been banned for the past century, and a river clean enough for a political photo op has long been an ambition among French lawmakers.

This cleanup operation has become the centerpiece of what Paris is calling “the Greenest Ever Games,” and the legacy of this effort is expected to last. After Hidalgo dries off, the Seine will stage several Olympic swimming events; three public bathing areas will open in the Games’ aftermath.

But the €1.4 billion ($1.5 billion) cleanup operation is not really about swimming. The ability to bathe in the Seine is simply a sideshow—payback to Parisians for the use of massive public funds to complete such an ambitious river restoration project. Instead, the real goal is to protect a source of drinking water and help life return to the river, so fish—such as the famous Parisian catfish—can continue to thrive.

The promise of swimming is intended to guard against the kind of criticism that pits environmental projects against the needs of ordinary people. Online accounts have already pledged to poop in the Seine en masse under the hashtag #JeChieDansLaSeine, or #IPooInTheSeine, to protest the amount of money spent on the project, as ordinary people struggle with the cost of living. (There is no evidence anyone actually has done this, and whoever set up the original website did not reply to WIRED’s request for comment.)

“Having this totemic goal of swimming in the river is something that really helps politically … because it’s very expensive,” says Caroline Whalley, a water pollution expert at the European Environment Agency. “It's a way to get public support, because they can see the benefit. There's something in it for them.”

The Seine started to die at the onset of the 20th century. For 50 years, raw sewage was released into the river, prompting the city to put an end to idyllic scenes of families cavorting in the water and rule bathing in the water (mostly) illegal from 1923. In the years that followed, the Seine became a grim symbol of industrialization.

“There was no life in the river Seine during these 50 years,” says Jean-Marie Mouchel, a professor at the Sorbonne University, who has been studying the river since the '80s. The sewage sapped the water of oxygen and created obstacles for river traffic. “There was so much sediment and deposits from the sewers that [they created] mountains of deposits on the bottom [of the river],” says Mouchel, “so boats couldn't even pass through.”

It wasn’t until the 1960s that restoring the river began to attract political attention, first with the establishment of the French water agency, and later with a pledge by then mayor of Paris (later Prime Minister) Jacques Chirac. “I will bathe in the Seine in front of witnesses to prove that the Seine has become a clean river,” he declared in 1988, promising to complete the stunt by the early '90s. Chirac, who died in 2019, never did take that public plunge. But his idea would live on in French politics, and the Olympics created a new deadline to complete the cleanup.

Macron has repeated his pledge. “I’ll do it,” he told reporters in March, refusing to be pinned down on a date. Both he and Hidalgo, however, were beaten into the water by sports minister Amélie Oudéa-Castéra, who plunged into the Seine with an ungraceful flop on Saturday. Her office did not reply to WIRED’s questions asking whether she was feeling fine after her swim.

Without the promise of swimming in the Seine, what Parisians get for the $1.5 billion cleanup operation is not immediately obvious. It is not actually possible to clean the river. Instead, the operation is focused on preventing new, raw sewage from entering in the first place. The city cracked down on houseboats and apartments with questionable plumbing, which had been dumping sewage straight into the Seine. Then officials started to tackle the problem being caused by intense rainstorms, which cause water to flow from the street into the city’s drains, swelling the amount of liquid in the sewers underneath. Too much rain means the city has a choice: Either let raw sewage back up through people’s toilets and flood bathrooms across the capital, or release untreated waste into the river to create space, regardless of the consequences.

To prevent this from happening, Paris built a giant storage tank near Austerlitz metro station, capable of holding 20 Olympic swimming pools of dirty water. “The idea of this is to be a buffer, so when it rains a lot, instead of the sewage network immediately overflowing, we have a basin that fills up,” says Dan Angelescu, founder and CEO of Fluidion, a company that tracks levels of E. coli in the Seine and had worked with the city on the cleanup project until last year. The basin created a “drastic” improvement of the water quality during small amounts of rain, says Angelescu, yet a rainstorm last week still caused levels of E. coli to peak above the level of 1,000 E. coli per 100 milliliters considered safe for the Olympics. “There is a limit to everything,” says Angelescu when asked about the basin’s effectiveness.

Recent heavy downpours have created lingering uncertainty around whether the Seine will be judged ready in time for the Games, and if it is, whether swimmers will be able to descend into the water without getting sick. Hidalgo may already have taken the plunge, but the real guinea pigs will be the Olympic athletes signed up to take part in the open water and triathlon events scheduled in the Seine, as long as the water analysis comes back safe.

Among them is a slightly nervous Daniel Wiffen, a world record holder who is set to compete in the Seine, representing Ireland. Paris will be the 23-year-old’s first “big race” in open waters, and he is worried about the water quality. “It’s a big issue,” he says. Ideally, he’d like to take a trial run in the Seine to better understand the currents, and he’s been asking fellow athletes whether they think it’s worth the gamble. “Do you risk two days before your race, getting in the Seine and getting ill the day before your race?” he says.

Yet he’s still hoping the race goes ahead. The idea of swimming in the iconic Paris river spurred him to sign up. “I want to swim beside the Eiffel Tower,” he told WIRED. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”