#he's still 'othered' but in a fresh new way

[siri-ike]

Stepping out of the plane was a breath of fresh air. Literally, Gothams air was discusting. His stay there hadn't exactly been the relaxing getaway it was meant to, but he was still refreshed by it.

The ride home was unusually peaceful, too. His parents just talked to each other the whole time. Kind of odd that they barely said a word to him after almost 3 months apart. But that just gave him more time to text Steph and Tim in one chat and Sam and Tucker in another. He must have looked too happy or something because right when they got home, his parents felt the need to ruin everything.

"A private school!?"

"It's a high-end academy. They have a very low exeptance rate."

"What, so, 3 months without me wasn't enough? You have to immediately send me away again!?"

"Sweetheart, this is a wonderful opportunity.  It could set you up for careers in almost anything."

"DO YOU JUST NOT LIKE HAVING ME AROUND? Is that it?!" Danny had to storm upstairs so no one would see the tears welling up in his eyes. Unfortunately, he left his bag downstairs, and there is no way he's going back for it. He'll just explain away the batarang if they snoop.

Danny throws himself dramatically onto his bed. It's a show for no one but himself. Amorpho would be proud.

*knock-knock*

"I DON'T wanna talk!" He yelled, mostly into his pillow.

"Heard the news then." Jazz's voice couldn't have been more welcome.

"They can't even let me be home for a full week before sending me away again." He wasn't crying. You're crying.

"It was Vlads idea."

"So I looked into it. On the surface, Hive looks legit."

"But?"

"Would a normal upstanding school call itself "Hive"? Or be recommended by Vlad? I couldn't find any information about the staff.  Since it was established 3 years ago, no one has graduated. They don't have a website. The only way to get in is through scholarship, and the scholarships are always by a random rich guy or some shady organization. And the students? Identities are kept completely seacret. The only one I was able to find was that Lex Luther supposedly sent his son there, who, by the way, has no prior record of existing." She had deffinetly been waiting to get that out.

Danny sat up in his bed, intrigued. "What about Vlads angle. What's he get out of this?"

"That's what bothers me. Does he just want you out of Amity? Or is it something else? Like some kind of... evil... brainwashing, uh, clone school," that last part got away from her. "What if you show up and it's just more Danny Phantom clones, all ready to learn how to be Danny Phantom?!"

"Jazz, he wasn't even able to make one stable clone." Danny mocked his enemy. "If I go and there are a bunch more of me, then they'd probably be robots or something. Rich people love robots." He 'reassured'.

The two went on, and their theories got wilder and less serious as the hours passed. Until they went to Nasty Burger to meet Sam and Tucker. Danny claimed to want a taste of home, but the others didn't particularly care for a burger so early in the morning. Of course, they had to throw their theories into the ring, haunted boarding school full of Pointdexter knockoffs. Zombies, alternate dimensions, walkers prison brought to the human realm, but soon they got lost in other topics.

Hours turned to days, and before they knew, it was time to say goodbye again.

Getting to the school was a blur. He literally could not remember how he got there, no matter how much he tried. It was a big purple building in the shape of an H. Anything that purple has to be evil. And what's the deal with putting it in the middle of the water? Trying to keep him in or something?

It was even worse inside. The walls, floors, ceilings, everything was yellow broken up into hexagons with thin black lines. Well, they're wrong if they think he'll be distracted by the beauty of nature's most perfect shape... anything this yellow has to be evil.

In the entrance hall stood a polite looking boy, maybe 17 or 18 years old. He wore a suit, no, not just a suit. Tails. The only time Danny had even seen a jacket like that was in cartoons.

"Good morning. Are you Danny?" Oh no, he was here for him.

"Good morning," Danny avoided eye contact. "Yes, I'm Danny."

"Great!" He's so cheerful. "I'm Blacksun, but you can call me Ethan."

"Ok, Ethan. Why are you dressed for the opera?" Danny snided.

Ethan looks down at his clothes. "It is a tailcoat. Appropriate for the most formal events. Such as important celebrations, and what's a greater celebration than starting a new semester of the finest educational institution?" He recited proudly. "Come now. The training hall awaits. This is your chance to show the panel your talents. We can drop off your luggage with Horace. He'll take it to your room. Is that what you wear in battle, or do you need to change?"

Oh-oh. Was he supposed to be prepared for something. Battle?! "I need to change." He panicked, rushing into the room Ethan pointed towards with nothing but the one duffel that he and his friends packed last minute like a bunch of morons.

He dumped the contents onto a large table in the middle of the locker room.

Cutesy of Jazz: two sets of extra clothes, a hazmat suit (each wrapped up for efficient use of storage), some fentonworks shower gels and cleaning chemicals, and a printed out article on how to make friends.

Tucker: a laptop (clearly assembled himself), somehow warm beef jerkey and ducktape.

From Sam: so many seed packets, a compact watering can, and a switchblade.

That's OK. He can work with this.

Danny walked out into a large, wide open room. Looking up, he could see a crowd of people watching him. Suffering spooks. That's what he is right now. Best case scenario, he gets expelled. Worst case, he gets exposed. And there's not exactly a lot of middle ground.

There was an announcer. A male voice saying something over the speakers. It was probably important. As soon as it stopped, the obvious trap door that Danny had been staring at opened up. Through it rose a robot on a platform, roughly twice Danny's height.

It swung at him, and Danny immediately hit the floor running as fast as he could. The good news is it was slower than him. He discreetly reached into his shoulder and retreated some seed packets. Opening them up and letting them fall on the ground wherever he stands. The audience laughs. By the time he's spilled his 5th packet, Danny has covered the distance back to the door where he entered. Now, all he has to do is somehow get to the other side of a giant hostile robot trying to kill him.

5. Danny stares it down. He had built precious seconds worth of distance. He got to a running position. 4. He grabbed Fenton weed killer out of his thigh. 3. He ran towards the bot. 2,1. The robot throws a punch, but Danny dodges, and it hists the ground instead. He climbs up its arm, onto its back, and jumps down. All in one fell swoop. He runs again, this time spraying the seed pods with the concoction. The smell is so nauseating that he has to cover his mouth and nose. The robot is able to run past the first patch before they sprout into their monstrous ghost forms, but the second slowes it down. Then, the third manages to break off an arm. It gets stuck in the fourth.

He had made it well past the fifth patch and would have kept running, were it not for the sound of cheering.

Maybe Danny Fenton can be a baddie, too.

guess which show I binged while sick…(can’t fucking watch anything without thinking up a dp au for it)

danny phantom teen titans crossover au idea

 Vlad tricks the Fentons into sending danny to Hive Academy (so he can learn to be his evil apprentice/son or some shit). maybe by saying that its a super prestigious school that anyone would kill to attend, or like, its a school that specializes in helping troubled youth and setting them up on the path to successes (yeah successful super villains), or some other vapid nonsense.  either way Jack and Maddie fall for it and decide to send Danny there.

Danny probably doesn’t know exactly what Hive Academy(H.A.) is about, but he knows enough to understand that he doesn’t want anything to do with the place. maybe cause Vlad said something to him, or he overheard Vlad talking to someone about him attending. but he doesn’t get a choose about going, cause Jack and Maddie think it’ll fix danny’s school problem.(it won’t, its just replacing 1 set of problems for another)

from there, there would be a lot of danny+sam+tucker freaking out about danny not being there to protect the town from ghosts(maybe Jazz and Valerie too) And them trying everything they can think of to get danny out of it. nothing works but they still try.

after that Im not really sure about the specific stuff. Danny would probably do really well at H.A. cause the whole point of the place is to teach super powered kids how to use those powers (even if the reason completely clashes with danny’s morals) And then maybe Danny meets another kid there that doesn’t want to be a villain so the 2 of them team up to… idk,  rat the school out to the heroes and shit happens from there.

[paladin--strait]

family skate - luke hughes

here's the oneshot from the poll! hope you all enjoy! 🫶

-

it felt like a scene from a movie, but in the best possible way. luke and i were standing at the edge of an outdoor stadium, the cool winter air biting at my cheeks, but somehow it felt perfect. we were in new jersey and the entire field had been transformed. a full hockey rink sat in the middle of the football field, with the bright stadium lights casting an almost surreal glow over the ice.

there were no fans, no cameras, just the team, their families, and a few close friends, all out here to skate before the big stadium series game tomorrow. it was intimate, private, and it felt like we were part of something special.

i could feel the excitement buzzing in luke beside me as we walked through the halls and made our way toward the rink. the lights above cast long shadows on the ice, and i could hear the faint sound of skates cutting through the frozen surface, mixed with the occasional laughter and shouts from the players and their families.

it was a completely different vibe than a normal game night. there was no pressure, no crowd to impress, just the team having fun before the real action started.

luke’s hand was warm in mine as we walked closer to the ice, and i could tell he was in his element. even though he was always calm, always collected, i could see how much this kind of moment meant to him. it was a break from the madness, a chance to just be himself with the people who mattered.

“you ready for this?” luke asked, glancing down at me with a soft smile, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“definitely,” i said, squeezing his hand. “this is so cool.”

we reached the rink, and it was incredible. big enough for the team to practice or skate around, but still small enough that it felt like we were in our own little bubble, isolated from the world. the ice glistened under the lights, and i could see the other guys skating around, already warming up.

there were no fans, no cameras snapping photos, it was just them, their families, and the people closest to them. it was as if they were in a world of their own, and i was lucky enough to be a part of it.

luke led me toward the ice where a few players were already skating around, taking laps and chatting. the air smelled like fresh snow, and the sound of skates slicing through the ice was oddly soothing. as we approached, a few of his teammates noticed us and waved over. jack hughes, his brother, was the first to spot us.

“hey! there she is,” jack called, skating over with that mischievous grin of his. “the girl that's got my brother smiling more than i’ve ever seen.”

“don’t listen to him,” luke said, rolling his eyes but clearly amused. “he’s just trying to make me look soft.”

jack smirked but turned to me with a friendly grin. “it’s okay, we all know he’s whipped.”

i laughed, feeling my cheeks warm a little. “you guys don’t waste any time, huh?”

“nah,” jack said, shaking his head like it was the most normal thing in the world. “we just like to mess with him. but seriously, nice to finally meet you.”

“you too!” i said, smiling back with a wave.

jack skated off, giving luke a playful shove as he passed. luke just shook his head, but i could tell he was enjoying himself. it was clear these guys were all close, their teasing and jokes so natural and effortless.

it made me feel like i was seeing a side of luke that wasn’t just the guy on the ice for the devils. here, he was just another guy messing around with his teammates, and i loved it.

as we made our way further onto the ice, luke grinned at me, like he was genuinely excited to have me join in. we skated a few laps together, and even though i wasn’t the best skater, i felt comfortable just being out there with him. it didn’t matter if i stumbled or wobbled on the ice, luke was right there to catch me every time. he made it look so effortless, gliding across the ice with that natural flow of his, but to me, it felt magical, like he was doing something special just for me.

“you okay?” luke asked, skating backward in front of me, his arms out to steady me as i tried to keep up.

“yeah, just trying not to fall on my ass...” i laughed, feeling a little clumsy.

“you’re doing great,” he said, his voice warm, making me feel a little more confident with each step.

we skated together for a while, looping around the rink, taking in the quiet of the night. it was amazing how peaceful it felt out here. no crowds, no noise, just the sound of our skates on the ice and the occasional laugh from one of the other players.

i loved the way luke’s face lit up when he was skating, how focused and relaxed he looked at the same time. it made me feel like i was seeing him in his element, but not the athlete that everyone else saw, the serious guy in front of thousands of fans. here he was just my boyfriend, enjoying a night on the ice with the people he cared about.

after a while, we slowed down and skated over to the edge of the rink, where some of the other players were taking a break. i felt a little nervous meeting more of his teammates, but luke was right there, making me feel like i belonged.

“this is so much fun,” i said, resting my hand on his arm as we sat on the boards.

“i’m glad you’re enjoying it,” luke said, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “this is one of my favorite things we do before a big game. no pressure, no fans, just the guys and their families.”

“i can see why,” i said, smiling up at him. “it’s nice to see you all just...being yourselves.”

“yeah, it’s good to take a break before the big day,” he said, glancing around at his teammates, who were chatting and laughing. “it’s not all about the game. it’s about moments like this.”

i leaned into him, feeling the cold air on my face but wrapped in the warmth of him next to me. the ice gleamed under the lights, and it felt like the perfect little pocket of time. just us and his teammates, no distractions, no expectations. the world outside the stadium didn’t exist for a little while, and i could see how much it meant to him to have these moments.

as the night went on, we skated a few more laps, and with each one, i felt more and more at ease. it wasn’t just about the game or the players, it was about the quiet moments between the chaos, about getting to know him and his teammates in a way i hadn’t before.

“you ready for tomorrow?” i asked, looking up at him as the night wound down.

“always,” luke said with a grin. “but tonight? i’m just happy you’re here.”

“me too,” i whispered back, leaning into him. the night was perfect, and no matter what happened tomorrow or the day after, nothing could take away this moment, this night with him, in this quiet, magical space, just us and his world.

[kumkaniudaku]

White Lies

Summary: Terry and Patrice work together to a little white lie.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 4,521

Warnings: Mentions of Pregnancy

Recommended Reading: Caught, Me and Your Mama

MASTERLIST

Something was���off. 

From the moment Patrice and Terry stepped into Marvin and Diedra's freshly renovated two-story home, which was primped and primed with all the luxury finishes one could ask for, Patrice could sense that their carefully crafted plan was in jeopardy. 

Terry's father was far too cheery. Diedra was always high energy, often smiling and hugging to celebrate a cloudless sky or the fresh sprouts of garlic cloves in her window sill garden, but Marvin was more even-keeled. In her teenage years, Patrice often questioned whether he liked her because of the lack of meaningful communication with her until she became a legal Richmond when he acknowledged her as something other than "the Ellis girl" at their wedding reception. In reality, Marvin carried immense respect for his daughter-in-love and regularly sang her praises in private despite carrying an exterior that felt more like casual indifference than familial affection. 

That's how Patrice knew their surprise announcement had been compromised. When Marvin greeted her with a hug so tight around her shoulders that she felt the bone pop from the pressure, her intuition perked up, sending red alerts to every corner of her brain. Still, Patrice kept quiet. No need to throw accusations when she couldn't prove her suspicion. 

Terry knew something was up when Rosalyn called him out of the blue to reiterate that she was excited to see them for dinner an hour before they arrived to share a feast from their collective favorite local soul food spot. Rosalyn rarely called him. If she needed to speak to Terry, she called Patrice and relayed a message through her daughter. If the situation was urgent, she'd send a text as a last-ditch effort. While he loved his mother-in-law dearly, finding himself in a 15-minute conversation about the weather felt strange. He hung up with the nagging feeling she knew more than what she was letting on. But he buried the thought to keep Patrice stress-free and excited about revealing their news to the grandparents-to-be. 

In the dining room, with an Aretha Franklin CD playing softly from Marvin's old standing radio system, the Ellis-Richmond clan conversed around a decorated maplewood dining table featuring all of their favorite Sunday dinner staples. They passed around Diedra's expensive glass bowls full of potato salad and pristine china platters of baked chicken between discussions of matters equally important and frivolous in nature. How was your vacation? Did you hear what so-and-so said about such-and-such? Your cousin is having a baby. Isn't that great?

That revelation made Terry pause as he spooned collard greens into his mouth. He chewed quickly to expedite a response to his mother. "Sure. Gerald has had a lot of kids, though, Mama. Ain't this number five?" 

Five that they knew of at least. 

"I know," Diedra sang after a sip of lemonade, a smile fighting its way past the neutral expression she'd been trying and miserably failing to maintain. "But a baby is a blessing every time. Especially when you're a grandparent getting to love on all those little ones. Sheila calls just to brag about them babies every weekend." 

Patrice rolled her eyes internally when Rosalyn added her two cents as if she didn't already know how her daughter felt about having a child one day. 

The older woman adjusted her black-rimmed glasses on her nose and hummed to signal her agreeance. "You know you get to treat your grandbabies different. Get 'em all hyped up on sugar and toys so they can go back home and be out of your hair until next time." 

"That's exactly what I plan on doin'," Leon laughed, the sound booming throughout the room. "Have fun with Pop-Pop, then go right on back to your mama 'nem." 

Terry tried to ease the annoyance emanating from Patrice's bouncing leg with a short chuckle and a soothing rub on her denim-covered knee under the table until she slowed to a halt. "If this is y'all's way of asking when we'll have children, I feel like I gotta remind everybody we just got married. Can't we enjoy some time alone for a little while? We haven't really dated, you know." 

"And I have shared my very detailed five year plan for us, which does not include trying for a baby until year three. Please, let's not rush my well-thought-out process, people!" 

Part of what Patrice said was true. Her laptop had a detailed five-year plan tucked neatly inside a folder labeled "Crack In Case I Marry That Man." She shared it with her mother a few weeks before Terry's surprise proposal, and there was a multi-page section on when and how they'd prep for parenthood after exactly three years of marriage. It was all there in 12-point Times New Roman and adequately disseminated to all interested parties to reference when the timeline called for them to reconvene. 

The lie was that they were still following said plan to the letter. 

Their parents exchanged knowing looks they assumed their children wouldn't understand. Terry and Patrice let them live in their bubble without calling attention to the many side eyes and allusions to pregnancy by frequently changing the subject but always ending right back at the starting line. 

Forks scraping against bright white porcelain signaled the end of their main course, just as an attempt to steer the conversation toward sports proved successful. 

Marvin waived his arms in a spirited attempt to direct Terry and Leon's attention toward an invisible clipboard of surefire inbounds plays for the Charlotte Hornets after another regular season loss. "See, this is why they didn't win the other day. The damn coach don't know what he doin'," he rambled without interruption. "Why the hell is Bridges inboundin' the ball with five seconds left? He oughta be in the paint waiting for the lob!" 

"Probably a decoy, Pop. Get 'em to inbound, then he cuts to the basket. They just botched the play because they're a bad team. Which you know. I'm not sure why you keep devoting your time to them." 

Marvin scoffed, miffed by the insinuation that his perpetually bottom-of-the-barrel team was ill-equipped to win. "Boy, I used to take you to Hornets games all the time." 

"I know. And they were bad then. Why do you think the tickets were so cheap," Terry laughed.

Terry's father shooed him away with a grin that slowly turned into a laugh, joining the small chorus around the room. "Yeah, well, at least they're exciting and bad this go 'round," Marvin countered before leaning back in his chair, full from the feast. "Better to watch LaMelo Ball get 50 in a blowout than sit through 48 minutes of Keith Bogans." 

"Hey, now. I had a Keith Bogans jersey!" 

"Because it was cheap," Marvin winked. 

More laughter filled the room, easily replacing the awkward tension marring their earlier interactions. Dinner was supposed to be fun and light-hearted to usher in big news for the year ahead. If conversations about the bleak future of their shared NBA team could offer a distraction, Terry and Patrice would watch every 40-point loss with glee.

Patrice cleaned the corners of her mouth and tossed her napkin on top of her clean plate in surrender to the indulgent meal. "I think some of my students are gonna sing Lift Every Voice at a game during Black History Month. We could go as a family. It'd be our first little mixed outing."

"You sure you'll feel up to it?" 

Chatter stopped. Terry swore he heard Aretha gasp before the final track faded into silence. The air in the room felt stagnant as if it were also holding its breath in anticipation of the fallout. Patrice blinked twice as her head tilted to one side in the confused look she sported right before she picked her victim apart for answers. It was the calm before an ugly storm.

Rosalyn wished she could've put the words back in her mouth and swallowed them whole so they'd never come forth again. The question was meant for her internal dialogue and a side conversation with her good friend and gossip partner, not the group discussion. 

She waited with the rest of the crew, breath drawn into tight lungs, praying that her daughter hadn't caught her innuendo. 

Patrice smiled a tight-lipped smile, the expression looking more like a grimace than an indicator of true happiness. "Why wouldn't I be up to it?" 

"Somethin' goin' on that day, Mrs. Ros?" When Terry said his vows, the part left in the margins was the commitment to join his wife in conflict, even if his parents were on the other side. They'd sort through the details later. And, honestly, he enjoyed a sprinkling of mess every once in a while.

Rosalyn released a cool titter to erase the lines creasing her forehead in worry. "I figured it'd be in the middle of the week. You know how P gets about her babies." Another slip to make Patrice's ears perk in curiosity. Leon wiped a large palm across his face to muffle a quiet groan. Diedra pretended to pick at sweet potatoes she had no intention to eat. Marvin nearly choked on a heavy gulp of water he didn't need. Rosalyn tripped over her words to clear up her mistake again. "She loves her students! Whew, is it warm in here, or am I having one of my personal summers?" 

"It is a little warm. Must be that oven," Diedra rushed to confirm. "Mo, can you turn the oven off? I'm sure the cobbler is done by now." 

"Leon and Ros, y'all ain't had my peach cobbler yet. Make sure you loosen up your belts and make some room by the time I get back." Marvin's deep baritone reverberating in uneasy laughter did little to lighten the mood. Everyone was in deep shit. 

An unholy mishmash of utensils clanging and plates stacking interrupted Leon's response as Patrice scrambled to collect dishes before Marvin could push away from the table. "We'll grab it!" she blurted while tugging Terry to his feet hard enough to make him force down a cube of ice he wasn't ready to swallow. "Come on, TJ. I need your help." 

"Shit," Terry hissed, rubbing his aching throat. "I'm comin', girl. Slow down."

Curses and grumbles about being far too rough with a pinch to the underside of his upper arm followed Terry and Patrice out of the dining room and into the sweltering kitchen across the narrow hallway. 

Patrice chucked spoons and forks into the dirty side of Dee Dee's farmhouse sink before reaching the counter and gripping for dear life with both hands, her arms shaking in rapidly rising fury.

"Rinse the dishes with me and turn your back," Patrice instructed the moment they were safely out of earshot. She waited impatiently for Terry to drag his feet toward the kitchen sink, already exhausted and ready to rip the bandaid off the whole ordeal if it meant he could get back home enough time to fall asleep on the couch with Troy Aikman commentating in the background. 

He sighed like he'd worked a full day's shift and reluctantly placed one of his mother's fancy ramekins under a steady stream of warm water. 

After Terry's long, lip-flapping huff, he and Patrice spoke at the same time. "They know." 

The pressing, the slips of the tongue, the looks across the table like there was a joke Terry and Patrice weren't in on – they knew. But when? And for how long? 

"Did you tell your sisters?" 

"No, I didn't tell my sisters. I know how to keep a secret." Terry answered, taking exception to the insinuation that he would be the one to blab despite their ironclad pact. 

Patrice kissed her teeth. "Oh, whatever. I asked you not to tell Robert Mitchell what I said about the senior formal, and not only did you tell, you punched him in the mouth!" 

"I did not tell him what you said. I punched him in the mouth first, then went to class. No words were exchanged." 

"You are a liar, Terrence James, but that is not the point." Patrice whisper-yelled as laughter swelled from the other room. "Think. Have your parents said anything weird since we got back?" 

Terry directed his eyes to the ceiling to rewind through the previous two weeks but came up empty save for an insignificant conversation the morning they got in from D.C. "My mom did ask if you felt okay. Something about not being able to smell like you used to." 

"I never told her that. The only person who knew I was having trouble with certain smells was –" 

"Your mom. When she called on Christmas Eve." 

Like the missing piece to a puzzle, an innocuous conversation unlocked the key to their Scooby-Doo mystery. The mention of cinnamon and its all-out assault on Patrice's senses must've been the first domino to fall. That's why her mother rushed off the phone when they'd typically spend no less than an additional 15 minutes pretending to hang up while sparking insignificant nuggets of conversation until someone broke the seal. That's why Terry received a call from his mother asking if Patrice was feeling sick. And that's why, despite supposedly being entirely in the dark about the reason for their first-ever Sunday dinner as a family, none of the older adults in the room could stop themselves from talking about babies and parenting. 

As the realization that their surprise was ruined long before it could take shape, fresh, hot tears began to cascade down Patrice's cheeks. Terry sprang into action, shutting off the water to softly catch the evidence of his wife's inner turmoil on his index finger's knuckle. "It's alright, baby. Come here." 

Faint cries joined shaking shoulders as Terry pulled Patrice into his chest by her elbow before peppering kisses at her crown. Her arms encircled his waist, squeezing tight while he ran his hands up and down the back of her oversized sweatshirt to soothe her second emotional outburst of the day. "Talk to me. What's the matter?" 

"It's all fucked up," Patrice heaved before muffling a short sob against Terry's body. "I want to go home. Fuck today! I don't care anymore!"

Assuming the role of reliable comforter didn't deter Terry from smiling down at Patrice with a plan that made his eyes twinkle like an excited child. "That's no fun, sailor," he cooed into her hairline before a quick kiss. "I planned to make this worthwhile, and I need those acting skills I love so much." 

"What's the plan?" Patrice sniffed as she looked up at her knight in shining armor to wait for his day-saving plan.

"Terrence James is a liar, remember?" Embers of mischief animated thick eyebrows wiggling on Terry's forehead, leaving Patrice silently begging for more context. He kissed her nose and held his lips in place to keep their plan confined to their bubble of solitude. "We're gonna lie, and I need you to follow my lead."

"You have to tell me something! Don't leave me in the dark."

Clamoring in the other room snapped their attention toward their parents, who were still waiting for the sweet treat they'd been promised. 

"What's goin' on in there?" 

"My sugar dropping, now! Stop all that kissin' and bring the cobbler before I pass out." 

"And make sure you wash your hands!" 

Minutes were dwindling into precious seconds, which required more spooning cold ice cream on top of warm dessert neatly packed into bowls for a room full of antsy elders. 

Terry quickly started an assembly line, with Patrice falling in line but still pressing for answers. He carefully pulled vanilla ice cream from the ice box, procured his Mama's good scoop, and hummed while he worked like the world around him hadn't capsized into chaos. That didn't stop Patrice from pestering him incessantly until he turned to briefly kiss her forehead in the process of preparing worthwhile servings. 

"Have I ever steered you wrong?" When she opened her mouth for a rebuttal, Terry cut her off with a rough finger on her pouty lips. "Don't answer that. What I'm saying is trust me. I got the three of us at all times. What I need from you, gorgeous, is to give me that winning smile, put some sweetness in your voice, and…" Terry held his final word as he plopped hefty round dollops of sweet vanilla ice cream onto three servings of cobbler then carefully balanced them on a serving tray with the needed utensils. "Follow my lead." 

"How will I know what to say, Terry?" 

Terry tapped her nose and gently pushed her toward the room's threshold before gathering three additional bowls in his hands. He winked as he walked past her. "Takes a liar to know a liar. Come on."

Patrice didn't refer to her truth stretching as lying. She preferred to view it as world-building, taking a page from her lesson plans to explore weaving exciting narratives together for entertainment's sake. And, sure, she was the only one who would derive any pleasure from falling into her elaborate storytelling, but so what? Plus, that part of her life was long gone. She was rusty, unprepared, and dreaded having to be the supporting actress to a leading man she hadn't seen in action since they were teenagers. 

A deep exhale helped Patrice's still racing thoughts and put on a believably happy face in enough time to shuffle behind Terry into the dining room. 

"Who wants cobbler?" Her chirping sounded too eager for someone who was shaking from rage moments earlier, but she was committed to the bit. It was too late to turn back. 

Various answers in the affirmative provided enough of a distraction for Terry to shoot Patrice a warning look. Calm down. His eyes said it all, and Patrice didn't need a second eyebrow raise to get the memo. 

They took their seats side by side, allowing their parents a few moments of unwitting happiness before Terry began his charade. 

"So…we have some news. We thought about calling on New Year's Eve but figured this was something better shared in person." Like children anticipating the arrival of Santa Claus by Christmas morning, Terry and Patrice's parents practically jumped from their seats to hear what they already knew. Chairs scraped against the polished hardwood to get closer to the table. Eating stopped. Bodies leaned forward in suspense. Terry had their attention in the palm of his hand left hand while he placed the palm of his right hand on Patrice's thigh to keep up the facade. 

"We're…moving." 

The words didn't quite register to anyone but Patrice as she sat there fighting to keep her eyes from squinting in uncontrollable laughter. Moving? Of all things, moving was Terry's grand plan to catch their parents off guard. But, as she watched the light of expectation slowly turn into confusion, she made a mental note to give her man his props. He'd successfully thrown a cartoonishly large wrench into their assumptions. 

Diedra cleared her throat and smoothed a hand over her auburn pixie cut. "I'm sorry, James, can you say that again? You two are –" 

"Moving," Terry reiterated plainly. "When we were in DC, we talked about finally getting out of here and startin' somewhere fresh, right, baby?" 

Patrice chimed in. "I disagreed with Terrence at first, but he convinced me. How amazing would it be to explore a new city together? And the DMV is perfect. There's government work for him…" 

"And teaching work for P. We'd live in the suburbs, so y'all wouldn't have to deal with the city noise when you visit. It's perfect." 

If they were ever asked to rate their improv for the afternoon, both Terry and Patrice would mark their performance at a solid seven and a half. There was room for improvement, but, dammit, they were a worthwhile team. Terry gave Patrice an appreciative squeeze, and she expertly played the role of sweet, innocent wife by wrapping her arms around his bicep while they waited for the shock on Rosalyn's face to transition into the only version of happiness she could muster. 

Patrice watched her mother's lips purse in a tight smile until she found enough wherewithal to respond kindly. "That's great, but what's so wrong with Fayetville? Don't you two want to be around your Mama and daddy?" 

"Exactly," Marvin chimed in. "Why now? What's there that you can't get here?" 

Perfect. Terry couldn't have concocted a more perfect scheme if he was given weeks to prepare. The spontaneity of it all made for air so thick that he could've cut into it and served a slice alongside his daddy's famous cobbler. 

Terry looked over at Patrice to defer, preferring to let her flex her strongest muscle. She seamlessly took on both questions without faltering. "New opportunities," Patrice exclaimed as if the answer was as clear as a summer day. "Fayetteville has been good to us, but imagine how we'll grow together in a new city. We love y'all dearly, but it's time for us to spread our wings as a couple. You understand, right, Daddy?" 

"Not really, baby girl." Leon shook his head in silent disbelief as he wrung his hands together. "Can't say I'm ready for you to leave yet. Feels like I just got you back from A&T, and here you are all grown up and trying to leave again." 

Crestfallen silence blanketed the room. In all her years, Patrice had only seen her father look so forlorn one other time. They'd just finished unpacking her freshman dorm. Once the sobering realization that he was leaving his only daughter behind to tackle new horizons, sadness overtook him faster than he could wish it away. Patrice could see him reliving that afternoon and so many more as he pushed bits of crust and peach chunks around in his bowl for a distraction.

"We'll miss y'all," Terry answered, still holding on to the lie for a few moments longer, hoping his mother would cave to set up their grand finale. Diedra tried to remain cheerful in the face of heartbreaking news. 

She clasped her hands together and smiled wide. "Well, I think that is incredible news! You know, I have a realtor friend out there who is still selling houses. Let me go in my purse and grab her card. We'll get you two set up with a down payment, make sure we coordinate a moving plan and tour with you to make sure you're getting the best available, and oh, it'll be wonderful! Let me go and grab my purse!" 

Mission accomplished. DeeDee had cracked like an egg, still trying to contain the runny yolk of suppressed feelings while the remains ran through her fingers and made a mess. 

"Mama," Terry called out. The show was over. Curtail closed. Time for the big reveal. When Diedra didn't stop rambling, Terry dialed up the volume. "Mom!" Dee Dee stopped in her tracks. Terry released an easy chuckle. "Sit down. We have one more thing to tell you." 

"Oh, hell. No more bad news, boy. It better be something worth hearing." 

Marvin's exasperation drew stilted laughter from Terry, and then Patrice, who joined him with her eyes closed and tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. A shared, all-out cackle they couldn't contain any longer helped further confuse the four sets of eyes looking back at them. 

Patrice tried to calm down with a deep breath, but a look at Terry's smiling face sent her back to the top of her guffaw. "Oh my goodness! I can't breathe. Baby, help!" 

"I can't stop until you stop!" They tried again several times over, waiting for the other to calm down until they could force the truth out between giggles. Terry wiped at his waterline, then chuckled through an answer. "We're not moving, y'all. It's all a joke." 

Rosalyn blinked back her bewilderment. "I don't get it." 

"That's not the news. We had to get y'all back for thinking you could know that we're our business before we knew our business and then laugh without us. How rude!" 

"So it's true," Diedra questioned, eye beginning to buck with newfound hope. "Are you…"

Patrice nodded and leaned into an already beaming Terry. "It is. You're gonna be a grandma alongside that lady over there," she confirmed, pointing at Rosalyn. 

"And y'all are going to be granddads. Or Pop-Pops. Whichever you prefer." 

Terry's additional barely registered over the sounds of hands slapping together in excited hi-fives and high-pitched squeals full of the kind of love only a baby boomer with dreams of cradling children born from their children could exude. 

Leon raised his hands to give the Lord a high-spirited thanks once he saw Patrice's grainy sonogram, which made the news all the more real. A grandchild was on the way, and not from his knucklehead of a son like he'd imagined—not yet. 

Marvin rushed in and out of the room, returning with a black and Carolina blue onesie filling once empty hands. Terry looked on in shock. Where had his father been hiding that? 

Rosalyn and Diedra immediately jumped into visions of floral arrangements for a garden party baby shower and talked about how their children could avoid childcare costs with both nearing retirement. 

The youngest Richmond couple found themselves ushered out of chairs and forced into a group hug, surrounded by unconditional love and bubbling excitement to meet a person still developing lungs. 

Patrice struggled to speak against their embrace. "I take it y'all are excited." 

"Over the moon, little girl." Rosalyn gushed. "The babies are havin' a baby. You're all grown up! Congratulations!" 

Terry used a little wiggle room to return his mother-in-law's excitement with a rub against her arm. "Thank you, Ms. Ros. We appreciate y'a– ouch! Mom! Let go!" 

With her pointer finger and thumb, Diedra tugged and twisted a new spot on Terry's inner arm as punishment for his earlier antics. She let go with another harsh pull before smacking his arm for good measure. "You might be grown, but not that grown. Don't play with me, boy!" 

"And don't think I forgot about you, Patrice Nicole!" 

"Sorry, Mama. It was Terry's idea!" 

Though things were changing, some remained the same. No matter how much Terry and Patrice grew and prepared to take on the responsibility of ushering their own child through the world, Terry and Patrice would never escape their parent's love or discipline.

———————————

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[writingforstraykids]

A place to call ours

Pairing: Minsung

Word Count: 5038

Summary: Finally in a dorm of their own Jisung worries if things will continue to go as well between Minho and him. Minho does nothing but prove him it will and Jisung tries to spend Minho just as much comfort whenever he needs it.

Warnings/Tags: fluff, comfort, Min pampers Jisung, mention of hate, smut tags: sub!min, softies

A/N: This fic is mostly a fluffy comfort fic. I will indicate the beginning of the smut part with the 18+ banner for everyone who prefers to keep it that way🖤🖤

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

Jisung's arms strained under the weight of the last box as he stepped into their new dorm. The sound of his footsteps on the tiled floor echoed faintly, the space still unfamiliar and empty. Minho, ahead of him, had just placed a box down on the desk by the window. He straightened up, brushing his hands together and taking a brief moment to glance around.

When Jisung didn’t move, Minho turned back, his brows furrowing slightly. "Jisung? You alright?"

Jisung stood frozen in the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the place that would soon be theirs. His chest rose and fell with a deep breath, the weight of the box in his arms seemingly forgotten. "This is it, huh?" he finally murmured, his voice carrying a mixture of wonder and unease.

Minho tilted his head, stepping toward him. He plucked the box from Jisung’s grip with ease and set it down near the others. His movements were calm and steady, a stark contrast to the turbulence Jisung felt inside. Minho’s hands then found Jisung’s, his touch gentle but grounding as he held them.

"Of course this is it," Minho said softly, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles. "It’s us. We’re gonna be fine."

Jisung’s eyes darted to the pile of boxes now scattered around the room, each one holding fragments of their lives. "But... what if we’re not? What if it’s harder than we thought? What if we-" He bit his lip, his voice cracking slightly. "What if we mess this up, Min?"

Minho blinked, his eyes softening. He squeezed Jisung’s hands gently before guiding him further into the room. "We won’t mess this up," he said firmly. "I promise you, Jisung. We’ll do just fine."

"But what if-" Jisung faltered again, his voice barely above a whisper now, "what if we can't manage without the other guys? What if-"

Minho let out a quiet chuckle, cutting him off. "We’ll still see them all the time, Jisungie. You know that." He let go of one of Jisung’s hands to cup his cheek instead, his thumb brushing softly along the curve of his jaw. "We’ll figure it out, just like we always do."

Jisung’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, but the crease in his brow remained. "What about... what about when we argue? Who am I supposed to run to if you’re mad at me?" The vulnerability in his voice made Minho’s heart ache, but he didn’t flinch or look away.

With his other hand, Minho gently cradled Jisung’s face, his touch as steady as his voice. "I’ll never go to bed angry with you," he said, his tone carrying a quiet conviction that left no room for doubt. "Not ever. I promise you, Jisung. I’ll take care of you. I’ll make sure you always feel loved and cherished, no matter what."

Jisung blinked rapidly, his eyes glistening. "You really mean that?"

"Of course I do." Minho’s hands dropped back to Jisung’s, threading their fingers together before giving a small tug. "Come here. Let me show you."

He led Jisung across the room to the corner where their shared bedroom awaited. It was small but cozy, the bed neatly made with the fresh linens Minho had insisted on. The sunlight streaming in through the window made the space feel warm, welcoming.

Minho paused at the doorway, turning to face Jisung. "I’ll make sure you get enough sleep," he said, his tone laced with fond determination. "Even if I have to drag you out of the studio at two in the morning. No more staying up all night and turning into a zombie, okay?"

Jisung laughed softly despite himself, the sound easing the tension in his chest. "Okay."

Minho smirked, tugging him along again. This time, they stopped in the small kitchen, where the boxes labeled *food* and *dishes* were stacked haphazardly in one corner. He gestured toward the space with a sweeping hand. "And here? I’ll cook for you. I’ll make sure you eat properly, not just instant ramen every other day. You’ll be healthy because I’ll make sure of it."

Jisung tilted his head, an amused grin tugging at his lips. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Both," Minho shot back with a playful glint in his eye. "Try me."

They moved again, this time to the bathroom, where Minho leaned casually against the doorframe. "And when you have rough days," he said, his voice softening, "I’ll cuddle you close, draw us a warm bath, and remind you that you’re safe with me. I’ll do everything I can to make sure you never feel alone."

The sincerity in his words struck a chord deep within Jisung. He swallowed hard, his throat tightening as emotions welled up inside him. A tear slipped free, and he quickly brushed it away, smiling up at Minho with watery eyes. "You’re making it really hard for me to argue with you, you know that?"

Minho reached out, his hand resting gently on Jisung’s shoulder before sliding up to cup his face once more. His thumb wiped away the lingering tear, his gaze unwavering. "Good," he said simply, his voice carrying a warmth that spread through Jisung like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Jisung sniffled, a small laugh escaping him. "But what am I supposed to do then? You’ve got all these plans to take care of me. What do I do?"

Minho’s smile widened, and he leaned in just a little closer, his eyes searching Jisung’s as if the answer was written there. "Just keep being you," he said, his voice a quiet murmur that wrapped around Jisung like a soft blanket. "That’s all I need. Because I love you, just the way you are."

Jisung’s laugh came easier this time, his chest feeling lighter as he reached up to cover Minho’s hands with his own. "You’re ridiculous, you know that?"

"Maybe," Minho admitted with a shrug, "but you love me anyway."

Jisung grinned, his cheeks flushed and his heart full. "Yeah, I guess I do."

Minho dropped his hands then, only to take Jisung’s in his own again. "Come on, love," he said, tugging him toward the boxes. "Let’s get this place unpacked. We’ve got a lot of memories to make here."

As they set to work, the room slowly began to transform around them. Books found their way onto shelves, photos were placed on desks and walls, and the once-empty space began to feel like home. And through it all, Jisung couldn’t stop smiling, the warmth of Minho’s promises still lingering in the air.

This was it, he realized. A new beginning. Their beginning. And for the first time, he felt truly ready for it.

Over the next three months, Minho began to notice subtle but significant changes in Jisung. It was in the little things-how Jisung woke up in the mornings, how he carried himself through the day, and how his laughter came easier, brighter.

Mornings used to be a battlefield. Jisung would cling to the covers, grumbling about getting up as Minho dragged him out of bed, sometimes with a playful flick to his forehead or a teasing remark. But now? Now Jisung stirred naturally, his arms seeking out Minho instead of the blanket. His face, still soft with sleep, lit up with a gentle smile as he nestled closer.

“Good morning,” Jisung murmured one morning, his voice raspy but warm.

Minho tilted his head to look at him, his lips curving into a fond smile. “Morning, beautiful. Sleep well?”

“Mmhm,” Jisung hummed, eyes still half-closed as he tucked his head against Minho’s chest. “Really well. You?”

“Better now,” Minho replied, his hand coming up to comb through Jisung’s messy hair. He couldn’t help but marvel at the change-how easily Jisung smiled now, how at ease he seemed. It wasn’t just the mornings either. It was in the way Jisung’s cheeks had grown fuller, the hollowness of late nights and skipped meals now replaced by a healthy glow. His eyes sparkled whenever Minho surprised him with a home-cooked meal, a look of pure delight lighting up his face.

“Min, you didn’t have to do this,” Jisung said one evening, staring wide-eyed at the steaming plate of japchae Minho placed before him.

“I wanted to,” Minho said simply, taking the seat across from him. “You’ve been working hard, and you deserve it.”

Jisung beamed, his grin wide enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” Minho teased, though his heart swelled at the sight of Jisung eating with such gusto. Every bite seemed to bring a little more light into Jisung’s eyes, and Minho couldn’t help but feel a quiet pride in knowing he was part of that.

-

It was a typical afternoon when Jisung stepped into the practice room where Minho was dancing with Felix and Hyunjin. The music echoed off the walls, and the trio moved in perfect synchrony, their movements sharp yet fluid. Jisung lingered by the door for a moment, watching Minho with quiet admiration.

When the music stopped, and Minho turned to grab his water bottle, he noticed Jisung standing there. “Hey, Jisungie,” he called, waving him over. “What’s up?”

Jisung hesitated for a moment before stepping inside, his expression softer than usual. “Can we talk for a minute?”

The request was quiet, almost timid, and it immediately caught Minho’s attention. He shared a quick glance with Felix and Hyunjin before nodding. “Yeah, of course.”

They stepped out into the hallway, where the hum of the music faded into the background. Minho leaned against the wall, his eyes scanning Jisung’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Jisung fidgeted with the hem of his hoodie, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m not feeling so great,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Channie said I should go home for the day.”

Minho straightened, his concern deepening. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“Just a stomachache,” Jisung said, finally looking up at him. “I think I just need some cuddles.”

Minho’s expression softened immediately, and he reached out to ruffle Jisung’s hair. “Alright. Let’s get you home.”

Back at their dorm, Minho wasted no time. He helped Jisung settle on the couch, tucking a blanket around him before heading to the kitchen. A quick scan of their pantry and fridge confirmed they had everything he needed to make chicken broth-a simple, soothing meal that would be easy on Jisung’s stomach.

As the broth simmered on the stove, Minho darted into the bathroom for a quick shower, not wanting to bring the sweat from practice into their quiet sanctuary. When he emerged, hair damp and dressed in fresh clothes, he carried a steaming bowl of broth to Jisung.

“Here we go,” Minho said, sitting beside him. “Eat up.”

Jisung blinked up at him, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You didn’t have to do all this, you know.”

“Of course I did,” Minho replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. He held out a spoonful of broth, waiting patiently until Jisung opened his mouth. “You’d do the same for me.”

They fell into a comfortable rhythm-Minho feeding Jisung small bites, his hand occasionally brushing against Jisung’s as he adjusted the blanket or reached for the bowl. The warmth of the broth seemed to ease some of the tension in Jisung’s frame, and by the time the bowl was empty, he looked a little more like himself.

“Feel better?” Minho asked, setting the bowl aside.

“Yeah,” Jisung murmured, leaning into Minho’s side. “Thanks, babe.”

Minho wrapped an arm around him, his hand settling against Jisung’s stomach. His palm was warm, grounding, as he began to hum softly-a familiar tune that lulled Jisung closer to sleep.

“You’re safe with me,” Minho whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of Jisung’s head. “Always.”

Jisung’s breathing slowed, his body relaxing completely as sleep claimed him. Minho stayed there, holding him close, his own heart full as he watched over the person he loved most in the world. It wasn’t just about making promises anymore-it was about keeping them, day by day, in every little moment that made their life together so much more than either of them could have imagined.

-

The noise of the practice room was usually a comforting buzz for Minho-a mix of music, chatter, and movement that made him feel alive. But today, it felt different. Every sound grated against his skin, every glance in his direction carried a weight he couldn't shake.

The hate comments had started a few days ago, spreading like wildfire across social media. Someone had taken an offhand comment he'd made during a livestream out of context, twisting it into something it wasn’t. The backlash was immediate and ruthless. Minho tried to ignore it at first-he’d dealt with hate before, after all-but this time, it dug deeper. The accusations swirled in his head, relentless and suffocating.

He tried to push through practice, but his movements felt clunky, his usual sharpness dulled by the storm inside him. Felix noticed first, nudging him gently during a break. “You okay, hyung?”

“I’m fine,” Minho replied quickly, too quickly, forcing a tight smile. Felix’s concern didn’t waver, but he let it go for the moment.

The teasing started during their next routine. Hyunjin, always quick with a joke, pointed out how Minho’s steps were slightly off. Normally, Minho would fire back with a playful jab of his own, but today he just nodded mutely, his jaw tight.

“Hey, Minho hyung, don’t tell me you’re losing your edge,” Seungmin joked, their tone light but cutting deeper than intended.

Minho didn’t respond, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, the walls of the practice room closing in. Jisung, who had been watching him closely, stepped in before anyone could say more.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Jisung said, his voice firm but not unkind. He walked over to Minho, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s call it a day, yeah?”

Minho wanted to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. He just nodded, letting Jisung lead him out of the room.

The drive home was quiet, the tension between them unspoken but heavy. Once they were inside, Jisung dropped his bag and immediately wrapped his arms around Minho, pulling him into a tight hug. Minho stiffened at first, but Jisung didn’t let go, his hands running soothingly up and down Minho’s back.

“It’s okay,” Jisung murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of Minho’s head. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Minho’s resolve cracked, and he buried his face in Jisung’s shoulder, his breath shaky. “I just… I don’t know what to do. They hate me.”

“They don’t,” Jisung said firmly, pulling back just enough to meet Minho’s eyes. “They don’t know you. Not the real you. And the people who do? We love you, Min.”

Minho blinked, his throat tight with emotion. He didn’t know how Jisung always seemed to know exactly what to say, but he was grateful for it.

“Come on,” Jisung said, his tone lighter now. “You sit down, and I’ll make us some dinner.”

Minho opened his mouth to protest-Jisung rarely cooked, and for good reason-but the younger man was already shooing him toward the couch. With a soft sigh, Minho did as he was told, sinking into the cushions and closing his eyes.

The smell of food soon filled the air, and Minho’s stomach rumbled despite the knot of anxiety still sitting there. Jisung emerged from the kitchen a short while later, carrying two plates. He set one down in front of Minho with a proud grin.

“Ta-da! Chef Jisung at your service.”

Minho chuckled softly, the sound weaker than usual but still genuine. “Thanks, Jisungie.”

He picked up his chopsticks and took a bite. The food was… salty. Very salty. Minho’s eyes watered slightly, but he forced a smile as he chewed, determined not to let Jisung see his reaction.

Jisung, however, caught on quickly. “Oh no,” he groaned, his face falling. “Is it bad? It’s bad, isn’t it?”

“It’s fine,” Minho said quickly, taking another bite to prove his point. “Really, it’s fine.”

Jisung pouted, his shoulders slumping. “I just wanted to do something nice for you…”

“You did,” Minho insisted, his voice softening. He reached across the table to squeeze Jisung’s hand. “You did, and that’s what matters. Thank you.” Jisung still looked unconvinced, so Minho added with a teasing grin, “Besides, I’ll eat every bite to honor your efforts.”

That earned a laugh from Jisung, and Minho felt a flicker of warmth amidst the cold weight in his chest.

After dinner, Jisung pulled Minho into the living room. He sat down on the couch and patted his lap. “Come here.”

“What are you doing?” Minho asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Just trust me,” Jisung said, his grin mischievous.

With a reluctant sigh, Minho climbed onto the couch, letting Jisung pull him into his lap. He leaned back against Jisung’s chest, his head resting on the younger man’s shoulder.

Jisung wrapped his arms around Minho, holding him close as he began to hum softly. Then, without warning, he launched into an improvised song, his voice light and playful.

“Minho, Minho, my perfect Minho,

You’re cooler than a flamingo!”

Minho couldn’t help it—he laughed. A real, full laugh that bubbled up from somewhere deep inside him.

Jisung grinned, encouraged by the sound. He kept going, his lyrics getting sillier and sillier.

“Oh Minho, you’re so divine,

Even when you say you’re fine,

But I know, deep down, you shine,

‘Cause you’re mine, mine, mine!”

Minho’s laughter shook his whole body now, and he buried his face in Jisung’s shoulder to muffle the sound. “You’re ridiculous,” he managed to say between giggles.

“And you love me for it,” Jisung shot back, his tone triumphant.

Minho pulled back just enough to look at him, his smile softening. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

Jisung pressed a kiss to his forehead, his hands gently cupping Minho’s face. “You’re going to be okay, Minho babe. I promise.”

-

Minho and Jisung stumbled through the door of their dorm, their laughter spilling into the quiet space like music. Their date night had been nothing short of perfect-a quiet dinner at their favorite little restaurant, a moonlit walk through the park, and Minho surprising Jisung with a bouquet of deep red roses, the kind that made Jisung’s cheeks flush as he buried his face in their soft petals.

“You didn’t have to get me these,” Jisung had said then, though the grin splitting his face betrayed just how much he loved them.

“I wanted to,” Minho had replied, simple and sincere. “You deserve beautiful things.”

Now, as Jisung placed the roses into a vase on their kitchen counter, his hands moved with a care that made Minho’s chest ache. He leaned against the doorway, watching Jisung arrange the flowers, his heart swelling at the sight of him so utterly content.

“Perfect,” Jisung said softly, stepping back to admire his work. He glanced over his shoulder, catching Minho’s gaze. “What?”

“Nothing,” Minho said, shaking his head with a small smile. “You’re just... really cute.”

Jisung rolled his eyes, though his grin didn’t waver. He turned to face Minho fully, his expression softening. “You always take care of me,” he said, stepping closer. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

Minho tilted his head, his brows lifting slightly. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see,” Jisung replied, his tone teasing but his eyes filled with affection. He took Minho’s hand and led him toward the bathroom, the warmth of his touch grounding Minho as they moved.

The bathroom was softly lit, the golden glow of the overhead light casting a cozy warmth over the space. Jisung turned on the tap, letting the water run to warm it up. He looked over at Minho, a playful yet tender smile tugging at his lips.

“Trust me?” he asked, his voice quiet.

“Always,” Minho replied without hesitation.

Jisung stepped closer, his hands finding the hem of Minho’s shirt. He tugged it upward slowly, his fingers brushing against Minho’s skin in a way that made him shiver. The shirt fell to the floor, and Jisung’s hands didn’t hesitate, roaming over Minho’s chest, his touch light but deliberate.

“You’re beautiful,” Jisung murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Minho’s shoulder.

Minho scoffed lightly, his cheeks tinged with pink. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me for it,” Jisung shot back, his grin widening.

He moved with deliberate care, peeling away each layer of clothing as though unwrapping a precious gift. For every inch of skin he revealed, he left a kiss in its place-soft, lingering, reverent. Minho’s breath hitched as Jisung’s lips traced a path along his collarbone, down his chest, over the curve of his hip.

“Jisung,” Minho breathed, his voice trembling slightly.

“Shh,” Jisung whispered, his hands steady as they slid down Minho’s arms. “Just let me take care of you.”

Once Minho was fully undressed, Jisung guided him toward the bathtub, which was now filled with warm water. The soft scent of lavender filled the air, and Minho felt himself relax as Jisung helped him in, the warmth enveloping him like a comforting embrace.

Jisung knelt by the tub, his hands trailing through the water as he began to wash Minho with the same gentle care he’d shown while undressing him. His touch was unhurried, deliberate, his fingers tracing patterns over Minho’s skin as though committing every detail to memory.

Minho leaned back, his eyes fluttering shut as he let himself surrender to the moment. It wasn’t often that he allowed himself to be on the receiving end of such attention, but with Jisung, it felt natural-right.

When the bath was over, Jisung helped Minho out, wrapping him in a soft towel and drying him off with a tenderness that made Minho’s chest ache. He led Minho to their bedroom, the sheets freshly changed and inviting.

Jisung guided Minho onto the bed, his hands never leaving his skin as he climbed up beside him. He started at Minho’s forehead, pressing a kiss there before working his way down. His lips brushed over Minho’s cheeks, his jawline, his neck. Each kiss was a promise, a declaration, a reminder of how deeply he cared.

Minho writhed beneath him, the sensations overwhelming in the best way. His hands gripped the sheets, his breath coming in uneven gasps as Jisung continued his slow, thorough exploration.

“Jisung,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m here,” Jisung replied, his lips ghosting over Minho’s chest. “I’ve got you.”

Minho felt himself melt under Jisung’s touch, the weight of the world slipping away as he focused solely on the love pouring out of the younger man. It was a side of Jisung he didn’t often see-calm, confident, and utterly devoted-and it left Minho breathless.

The air between them shifted, soft and electric, as they lay tangled in each other’s arms. Jisung’s fingers brushed gently along Minho’s jaw, his gaze searching the older man’s face for any hint of hesitation. What he found instead was warmth, trust, and a vulnerability that made his heart ache.

“Min,” Jisung whispered, his voice trembling slightly, “I want to make you feel how much I love you.”

Minho’s breath caught, his eyes widening briefly before softening. “You already do,” he murmured, his hand coming up to cup Jisung’s face. His thumb traced the curve of Jisung’s cheek, and his lips quirked into a small smile. “Every day I spend with you, you do.”

The words were simple, yet they carried a weight that made Jisung’s chest tighten. He leaned in, pressing their foreheads together as his hand slid down to rest against Minho’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “If it’s too much, you tell me. Promise?”

“I promise,” Minho replied, his voice steady despite the flutter in his stomach.

Jisung smiled then, soft and reassuring, before leaning in to kiss Minho again. It was slow, deliberate, a deepening of everything they’d shared so far. His lips moved against Minho’s with a tenderness that left no room for doubt, no question about how deeply he cared.

Jisung’s hands moved with reverence, rediscovering the planes of Minho’s body as though seeing him for the first time. Each touch was unhurried, deliberate, and Minho found himself melting under the attention, his usual guardedness slipping away.

Jisung trailed kisses down Minho’s neck, his lips ghosting over his collarbone and chest. He paused to look up at Minho, his eyes dark with affection and something deeper. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, the sincerity in his voice making Minho’s cheeks flush.

Minho huffed a quiet laugh, his head falling back against the pillows as his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. His fingers gripped the soft fabric beneath him, the tension in his body a mixture of anticipation and a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to feel. “I’m not sure I can handle this,” he admitted, his voice trembling with a rawness that surprised even himself.

Jisung, perched over him with a gentle smile tugging at his lips, brushed Minho’s hair back from his damp forehead. His touch was featherlight, his fingers trailing with a tenderness that sent shivers down Minho’s spine. “You can,” Jisung assured him softly, the quiet confidence in his tone steadying Minho in a way words alone couldn’t.

There was a flicker of mischief in Jisung’s eyes as his lips quirked into a grin, but his movements remained deliberate, every touch unhurried. He leaned down, pressing a series of kisses along Minho’s jawline, his breath warm and steady against the older man’s skin. His lips lingered, soft and purposeful, before traveling down to the hollow of Minho’s throat.

Minho’s breath hitched as Jisung kissed a spot just above his collarbone, his lips parting in a quiet gasp. “Hannie,” he murmured, his voice low and shaky.

“Shh,” Jisung whispered, his lips brushing against Minho’s skin as he spoke. “Just let me take care of you.”

The weight of those words settled over Minho, grounding him in the moment as Jisung’s hands continued their exploration. His fingers danced across Minho’s chest, his touch light but firm, tracing the curve of his ribs before settling at his waist. Each caress, each press of Jisung’s lips against his skin, felt like a silent vow—a promise that Minho was safe, loved, and cherished in ways that transcended words.

As the night deepened, the air between them grew heavier, filled with quiet gasps and the soft rustle of sheets. Jisung’s movements remained slow and intentional, his focus entirely on Minho. He paid attention to every reaction-the way Minho’s breath caught when his fingers brushed a sensitive spot, the way his hands tightened against Jisung’s shoulders when the sensations became overwhelming.

Minho’s head lolled to the side, his cheeks flushed and his lips parted as he tried to keep his composure. But Jisung, ever attuned to him, paused. He leaned up, resting his weight on his forearms as his gaze searched Minho’s face.

“Okay?” Jisung asked, his voice barely above a whisper, yet laced with concern.

Minho blinked up at him, his eyes shining with emotion. His hands slid up Jisung’s arms, his fingers curling gently around his biceps as he nodded. “More than okay,” he said, his voice thick with affection.

Jisung’s shoulders relaxed, and his lips curved into a soft smile. That reassurance, that trust, was all he needed. He leaned down, capturing Minho’s lips in another kiss, this one deeper, more passionate. The kiss was unhurried yet intense, their mouths moving together in perfect synchrony. Minho’s hands moved to Jisung’s back, his fingers splaying wide as he pulled him closer, needing to feel the warmth of him.

Their bodies moved together in a rhythm that felt both new and entirely natural, as if they’d been made for this moment. Every movement, every touch, was guided by a quiet understanding, a shared desire to express everything they felt for one another.

Minho’s breath came in uneven gasps as Jisung’s hands slid down his sides, his touch sending jolts of heat through his body. He arched beneath him, his head falling back against the pillows as Jisung hit his sweet spot, his movements steady and sure. “H-Hannie,” he moaned out, for once not worrying about anyone hearing them.

No one was about to interrupt them, no one would tell them to shut up for once, no one would come home early unannounced and have them stop in the middle of things. And something about the fact made Minho enjoy this even more.

“You're doing so well, my pretty baby,” Jisung moaned softly, littering the older's neck with fond kisses.

Minho's jaw dropped with another loud moan, fingers bruising Jisung's back with how tightly he was holding onto him. His toes curled, thighs shaking from the pleasure coursing through his body, eyes partly closed. “Right there, please~.”

Jisung kept up his rhythm, moaning sweetly. “Min, I'm close,” he warned him, never getting enough of the sight beneath him. As much as he loved it when their roles were reversed, there wasn't much that he found as beautiful as Minho falling apart beneath him.

Minho moaned something incoherent back, his orgasm crashing over him forcefully. His body shook beneath Jisung's, soft, relieved moans spilling from his lips freely as he tipped over the edge.

Jisung buried his face in his neck, crying out his name like a praise as he carried them through their high. Minho's head fell back weakly, soft pants leaving him, his body growing heavy.

When Jisung finally pulled back, his eyes met Minho’s, dark with affection and something deeper. “You’re perfect,” he said softly, his hand cupping Minho’s cheek. “You know that, right?”

Minho’s throat tightened, the words catching there for a moment before he could reply. “I don’t know about perfect,” he said, his voice thick, “but... I think I’m pretty lucky.”

Jisung grinned, leaning down to press one last kiss to Minho’s lips. “We both are.”

As they settled into each other’s arms, the room quiet except for the sound of their breathing, Minho felt a peace he hadn’t known he needed. In Jisung’s arms, he was home.

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[moo-blogging]

Hiiii moooo! I was wondering if you could write some headcannons of levi and a chubby reader??? xoxo

Hey anonymous, here's one for you.

CEO Levi x Chubby ready

You have always been chubby. In all of your childhood photoes, you were always 2 or 3 sizes larger than your siblings and cousins. It didn't really bother you as your family loves you as you are, but society is cruel and your learnt it the hard way since you started school. You have been called Fat Cow, Oink Oink, Sausage Roll and worse names. You had a fair share of crying and body anxiety. You went for lots of counselling and finally, you now feel better about yourself.

One beautiful morning when you reached your office building, you managed to catch the closing lift. "Wait!" You shouted as you ran toward the closing lift. You slammed the open button and the doors opened for you. You slipped into the crowded lift and the doors closed. You giggled to yourself, thinking that you made it on time.

The lift was dead quiet when someone scoffed and said, "I was hoping the lift would be overloaded. Guess someone isn't as heavy as it seems." You felt hot on your cheeks, but too embarrassed to turn around. You looked at your feet instead. Comments like this still hurts although you tried to convince yourself that you are healthy, you are working hard, you have some money and you are happy.

Just then, someone cleared his throat and said, "sir, apologise to her." You turned your head to the voice to find a small figure man with his back straight and his eyes sharp looking at the person who commented. His eyes hid under dark fringes. There was silence. The man was studying the commenter.

The commenter laughed nervously, "she didn't even say anything about it. Are you trying to be a hero here?" The small man stood straight, glaring at the commenter. "Apologise to her." He said again.

"Or else what? You're going to complain me to HR?" He scoffed, "I am HR!" He pulled his tag up and showed it to the man. The man pulled out his card from his inner coat pocket and whispered, "and I am the new CEO. Follow me to my office."

Your eyes widened in shock. But before you knew it, the lift arrived at your floor and the people behind you rushed out, pushing you forward. The next day, you met the CEO at the lift again. Plucking up your courage, you approached him.

"Mr Ackerman? Hi, I'm Y/n. And I want to thank you for yesterday." You gave him a small smile. He nodded back to you, "it's just a small matter." A moment of silence. "Call me Levi."

After that, you often greet each other in the office. Nodding heads, waving hellos or small talks while waiting for the lift together. You found that Levi always seemed so clean and fresh, although the eyebags said otherwise. You wondered a lot about him. But you were merely one of the hundreds of employees while he was the CEO. Who are you to ask?

One night after a company dinner, you found yourself alone with Levi at the corner of the table. You were relaxed and he was too. And you were talking about the little events that happened in the office before he joined.

He said you, "you know they talk about you, right?" You watched him for a while before replying, "yes, I know. They said I'm a cow who likes to dress up every morning." You swallowed, "I don't want people to see me as lazy or uncapable. Yes, I am fat. I'm large, but I want to live my lif-"

"You're beautiful." Levi cut in. You watched him watching you. His eyes the colour of a tranquil deep lake blue. You weren't sure what you heard was true. He swallowed, "I said you're beautiful. I think you're beautiful for living life so fully, so fiercely."

You felt your cheeks blushed and you looked down as you bit into your lower lip. Levi touched your chin and lifted your face to meet his. "Would you go out with me? Would you go out with me now?"

And you left with him, hand in hand. The monent your fingers interlaced, the worries you had in high school about boys being disgusted with your round fingers disappeared. His strong grip was so certain. It felt like he would never let go. The warmth of his palm against your skin, and the night was no longer cold.

[bcacstuff]

One of the US reviews for TCND:

These days, Sam Heughan is a fan-favorite presence on the small screen, but he wouldn't have garnered mainstream awareness if it hadn't been for his breakout role in the hit television adaptation of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander book series. Over the last decade, Heughan's performance as a swoony Scottish hero and self-professed wife guy on the Starz series has propelled him to certified heartthrob status — but with Outlander finally set to conclude with its eighth and final season at a date yet to be determined, it's no wonder Heughan has been taking other projects, perhaps in an effort to step out from the long shadow that Jamie Fraser still casts.

On paper, The Couple Next Door, Starz's six-part psychological thriller based on the Dutch series Nieuwe Buren, has a lot going for it, as messy relationship dynamics play out against the idyllic backdrop of suburbia — and at first, the show gives every indication that it's ramping up to an erotic, twisted climax. But despite best attempts from Heughan, along with his main co-stars Eleanor Tomlinson (Poldark), Jessica de Gouw (Arrow), and Alfred Enoch (How To Get Away With Murder), the series frustratingly pivots away from its most intriguing elements in favor of weaker B-plots, ultimately resulting in a hectic finale that relies too heavily on outdated, regressive tropes to drive its biggest conflicts.

What Is 'The Couple Next Door' About?

Primary school teacher Evie Greenwood (Tomlinson) and her partner, journalist Pete Thomas (Enoch), are looking for a fresh start in more ways than one. Moving to a small suburb in Leeds feels like the right next move for the young couple, especially once they run into their next-door neighbors, PC Danny Whitwell (Heughan) and his wife, yoga instructor Becka (de Gouw), while attempting to lug their belongings into the new house. Evie is drawn to the beautiful young couple from the start for a variety of reasons, the most obvious being her attraction to Danny. However, as someone who grew up in a very conservative, religious household, Evie's eyes are soon opened to her neighbors' more non-traditional lifestyle.

As the four spend more and more time together, Becka and Danny disclose the fact that they're non-monogamous, even if they make a point of always "playing" together with other couples. As Evie starts to entertain the idea of experimentation, Pete's reservations about opening up their relationship lead to rising tensions. Yet their drama isn't the only one that plays out within this seemingly sleepy community. As a somewhat lowly traffic cop with little authority and mounting bills to pay, Danny begins to accept late-night jobs that don't exactly fall on the legal side of things — right around the time that Pete starts digging into local corruption for his latest exposé. As for Becka, she's built a successful social media presence, but she's also attracted a creepy real-life stalker in the process, one who isn't willing to go away without throwing a wrench into her picture-perfect existence.

Over the first half of its eight episodes (all of which were provided for review), The Couple Next Door has a lot of promise, especially when it focuses on the evolving and tangled relationships between its main foursome. Yet the series is also majorly underserved by its pacing, as it spends a significant amount of time devoted to building up that tension and then ultimately fails at offering a more nuanced depiction of attraction and obsession given the sheer number of other characters and storylines that have to be juggled. The problem is that none of these secondary threads are even remotely as interesting as the main one; every scene spared for Becka's stalker, or Danny's off-the-books job, or any side character for that matter, feels like a missed opportunity to return to the emotional rollercoaster playing out between the two leading couples. Cutting at least one of these B-plots may also have resulted in a better lead-up to the finale, which climaxes in a way that feels extreme, even for these four.

Some characters are afforded better treatment — in many instances, de Gouw's Becka feels like one of the only mature adults in the room — but others seem to regress in increasingly drastic ways purely for the sake of drama. Unfortunately, The Couple Next Door joins recent films like Nightbitch and Babygirl in giving one of its female characters a backstory steeped in extreme, cult-like religion that feels perplexing at best and reductive at worst in justifying sexual exploration. Evie's ignorance about polyamory could've been filtered through a simpler, more straightforward premise of a woman embracing her innermost desires, and the blurred lines that result when she finds herself falling for the one person she shouldn't. But Tomlinson's character is done the biggest disservice over the course of the season; as Evie's fixation on Danny intensifies, she becomes even more of a caricature, with her later scenes devolving into stereotypical '80s erotic thriller territory — and not in a way that can be considered complimentary. The show's men don't fare any better; while he does have excellent chemistry with both Tomlinson and de Gouw in the scenes that call for it, Heughan is given very little to do other than handsomely brood. Meanwhile, Enoch, in welcome contrast, initially gets to play a more level-headed and less alpha presence, but, like Evie, Pete's characterization annoyingly falls prey to jealousy and rage.

In many ways, this show would have been better off solely revolving around these objectively attractive people and the palpable tension that stems from them debating whether they should all sleep together — and to a point, The Couple Next Door delivers on that front. But the season quickly becomes derailed by way of less intriguing subplots, disappointing character regression, and poor pacing that struggles to build to a satisfying finale. It'd be one thing if there was a promise for more at the end of it all, but with the show having already been renewed for a Season 2 featuring a completely new cast, there's no opportunity for this version of The Couple Next Door to continue. Given how it all wraps up, though, maybe that's for the best.

The Couple Next Door premieres January 17 on Starz.

[whosthere54]

Hey guys. It’s me. Ya boi. /ref/silly

I bring you a lil thing I wrote for my Royal AU and because I’m normal about Centross Mistvale rn so you get this. I might post it on Ao3 but it seems a bit short, even if it’s just a chapter of something.

(Writing below the cut)

There was something before this. He was sure of it. Something- family or friends. Something familiar other than the grip of the Reaver in his hands. Something before his work as Enderian’s trusted speaker- before his work as an assassin.

Something other than his skin tainted with blood (thick red or purple dripping off of the blade, glistening in the soft light the void provided).

The Reapers hands know nothing more than the swing, the smooth flow of the reaver easily crashing through skin and bone. The shape of his fists was instinct now, curling around the handle.

Some of his victims would flee- some would cry, some would scream. Some would look him in the eyes (and he would be too much of a coward to look back as he killed them too).

Squadrons, guards, armies all the same would try to fight back, he would have to give them credit for that. But he was more skilled. Stronger and faster than most, he would kill them in an instant, fleeing the sight in a flurry of a black cloak and creaking wings.

His name spread fast, word of mouth unexpectedly quick in a land of scattered islands. He would hear his name whispered as he walks through village streets, islands across islands his name was known.

The Violet Reaper

“I hear he is blessed by Enderian” people would whisper over flasks of whiskey. “What is he? Not man or Ender- still inhuman all the same.”

He became a thing of legends. A monster parents tell their kids about to keep them from going out after dark.

Rumors spread like wildfires- he would learn soon enough, when he couldn’t escape the sound of his own name.

“Y’know, I heard for the whole battle he would not stop laughing.”

“I hear he has smile so sinister that you would think the grim reaper himself smiles upon you. Maybe he is.”

“He has a reaver so sharp, it slices through you like paper- skin, bone, and all.”

“The Grim Reaper”

“The Violet Reaper”

Everywhere he went he would hear it. Every kingdom, every village, and every island. The legend spread across dimensions- a tale of the Violet Reaper, a man with bones for wings who has the skill of all of the overworld armies combined.

A man haunted by the souls of those he’s killed, voices in his head demanding more blood in the name of his goddess, a cycle to repeat many times more.

That is until it stops. The news slows after a while, no new fights, no new public massacres, and no new assignments.

The souls were impatient things, demanding a new target. Fresh blood to spill. But Centross Mistvale was nothing if not loyal.

He found ways to satiate them in the end. Finding himself often in golden fields of wheat, surprised when the act of farming seemed to quiet them.

After that, his home in the overworld was overgrown with wheat and berries, fields and orchards that he learned to take care of.

If the souls demanded blood, he would give it to them in the form of pigs or cows instead of people. The only thing red staining his hands anymore would be that of the crushed sweet berries he grew crushed under his fingers. (Sometimes, the man would find himself reaching for his blade in the comfort of his own home- hands curling around something not there.)

Soon enough, it had been years since he last heard his name spoken in villages. He wasn’t recognized here.

It was the closest he would ever get to leaving that title behind. (The necklace he wore (and eye of ender. Symbol of his loyalty that he couldn’t shake if he tried-) was still a heavy weight on his chest. The souls would tease him, but he couldn’t take it off. He was still her Speaker, after all. He will always be the Violet Reaper- no matter how much he shakes the acts and the name.)

—•=+=•—

Peace is a fickle thing.

As the Reaper, Centross almost didn’t believe in it.

But after years living in the sun, taking care of animals and crops with not a drop of human blood taken by his hand, he can feel it now.

But if course, as anything does, it didn’t last forever.

There was no fanfare to it, nothing but the crushing weight of the necklace against his chest when the book appears at his doorstep. Familiar purple and green leather and worn paper, twisted handwriting in that half cursive way Enderian writes.

Reaper,

Your next target is one Icarus Morningstar, prince and heir to the Gilded kingdom- and, my brothers child.

You are to find a way into the empty position of the prince’s bodyguard. I am making attempts to put your word in to my brother, but with how our relationship stands at the moment I am unsure he will trust a word I say.

The prince doesn’t care for their people, and cruel to others. They have killed a woman in cold blood. They have evaded a consequence for this long enough.

They are distrusting of my realm, and pose a threat to my people. If our negotiations of peace are going to last, they need to be taken care of.

I am hope to receive news of a successful mission, as you know- Violet Reaper- Failure is not an option.

I hope my trust in you is not misplaced.

- E

And just like that, his peace is gone.

He leaves for the Gilded kingdom the next morning, sun setting behind him and all too familiar weight of the reaver on his back and familiar roar of the souls reawakened in his ears.

He doesn’t look back. Nor does he think of the mug of coffee still sitting cold on the on the counter by the window, never to be drank or moved.

He doesn’t mourn the loss of peace, instead greeting the rush as an old friend.

(The weight on his chest feels more like a curse)

[everlastingdreams]

The Weeping Monk x Fem!Reader : Forged Of Fire Chapter 46

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Story Summary: Raised under the tiranny of your own family, and forced to steal to earn your keep, you struggle to survive. Born from a Fey mother, and a Manblood father who wanted only sons, you are forced to hide your Fey side. When you are ordered to steal from Father Carden by your half-brother, Cassian, your life spirals out of control and you find yourself at the mercy of the Weeping Monk. The life you knew changes drastically when Cassian betrays you in the cruelest of ways. A trade is made, a promise is broken, and a debt must be paid.

Chapter Title: Righting Wrongs

Notes: It's chapter 46 already and I am both relieved and very very sad about it. lol

Warnings: Angst. Hurt. Trauma bonding. Intrafamily violence. Depression. Self-harm. Suicidal thoughts. Violence. Torture. Gore. Pining. Trauma. Self-Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc. Lima/Stockholm syndrom-ish. Childhood trauma.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forced Marriage. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn. Found Familly-ish. Comfort. Fluff. !SMUT and SPICE!

Word count of this fic: +250K

Chapter:  46/47

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

In the dining hall, you had taken place beside Percival. During the meal you couldn’t help but look around the room, wondering if any of these new faces were to blame for the threat Goliath had faced. Lancelot had stayed with Goliath, allowing Arthur to calm him down. Everything was still so fragile, trust was so easily broken, you prayed it would get better. Next to you sat a woman of the Tusk clan and her sister, often you noticed them glance at you.

Finally she spoke, “What are you called?”

You saw her smile. “I’m y/n. And you?”

“I’m Myrtle, and this is my sister Aster.” She smiled brighter, glad to see a friendly face.

“What clan are you?” Myrtle asked.

“Uhm…” It was better not to lie. “I am Ash Folk, half-blood.”

“Ash Folk? Like him?” She let her eyes dart between you and her sister.

“Yes.”

“Do you know him?”

It was only a matter of time before they would all figure it out. “He’s my husband.”

The atmosphere shifted immediately, their smiles turned into grimaces. The Hidden’s whispers reached your ears, a warning. You saw the woman next to you move and were too late to realize why. She dumped her whole bowl of broth over your clothes, soaking them in the warm liquid.

Percival retaliated immediately by throwing his own broth over them and you had to hold him back for safety.

It was Gawain who grabbed hold of Percival to stop the fury raging inside the boy, “Calm down, boy!”

The women stood as well, throwing some profanities your way.

“That’s enough!” Gawain pointed at the women, silencing them. He turned to you, “Go and change, I’ll handle this. Are you alright?”

You could only nod, too shocked by how quick they had been to judge and act on their hatred. Gawain send Percival towards Kaze before fixing his attention on the women. It wasn’t until you had left the dining hall that you allowed yourself to let it fully sink in. Part of you wanted to cry, part of you refused to let that happen. Years others had spend making it feel as if you deserved to be treated badly, but now you knew better. It did not come as a surprise that they would react in such a manner, still it felt awful to be humiliated in front of so many people by being drenched in broth.

You were quick to reach your room and picked out some fresh clothes to wear. Broth… for them to spill a meal in times when food was scarce just added a whole other layer to their anger. As you were undoing the bodice, the door opened without warning and startled you. The audible gasp from your lungs alerted Lancelot.

“Gods, you still have not learned to knock…” you muttered a tad annoyed at how it had been enough to make you jump out of your skin.

He paused, then chuckled, realizing his presence had come unexpected. “I saw you rush in here.” His eyes fell upon your stained clothes. “What happened?”

You had to decide quickly what to answer, knowing he was still trying to keep himself under control after the threat to Goliath. This could make him lose the last bit of patience he had left for the day.

Your shrugged your shoulders, making it seem as if it was something trivial. “Just got some broth spilled on me.”

He couldn’t help but stare as you undid the bodice, his feet moved as if by their own volition and brought him to stand behind you. His fingers tentatively glided along your arm, letting his closeness be known, goosebumps formed on your skin as they trailed down over it.

He let his voice drop to a husk, “You made quite a mess.”

It scrambled your mind for a second, that tone he used… He reached around and aided in your task of taking off the stained bodice, but your mind was not where his was.

You took hold of his hand gently. “How is Goliath?”

It halted him for a moment. “He appears to be in good health. I do not think he ingested any of the yew.”

After what happened earlier, you no longer believed that the yew got near Goliath by accident. “I’m glad to hear it. I would hate to see him ill.”

He hummed in agreement and proceeded to brush his lips to the side of your neck. “Some of Red Spear’s crew are now tasked with watching over the horses.”

If someone went as far as poisoning his horse, how much further would they go? Should you be more cautious with what you ate or drank?

You took the bodice off, letting it drop to the floor. “Good. We can’t be too careful these days.”

He could tell something was off by the concerned look in your eyes and the small feigned smile seemingly just to appease him. Your body language told him you were distracted by something and when your eyes were not on him the smile fell quickly.

He spoke against your temple, “What is stealing your thoughts away? I can see that you are distracted.”

“Just the lack of sleep from last night.” you told him.

The answer made him turn you around to face him. “I know you well enough to know when you are lying to me. Something happened, what is it?”

Your heartbeat rose. “Lancelot, please-”

He frowned, suddenly realizing that you just did not wish for him to know and it only worried him even more. “This…” he touched your shirt, drawing your eyes to it, “…was an accident?”

You knew that if you made eye-contact, he would know the truth. “It’s not important.”

His jaw set. “It clearly is.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” You took a step away. “Now let me put some clean clothes on.”

He made no effort to avert his gaze when you went ahead and took off your shirt and put a clean one on. In his eyes you found a rather interesting mix of irritation and interest.

“Were you attacked?” His question was like an arrow shooting it’s way into you. Sharp, fast and demanding.

Your eyes must have given the truth away, because his own got into that state of focus he’d only have in battle. Within seconds you had physically blocked the door with your back to prevent him from seeking vengeance.

“Lancelot, don’t do it. Be calm.” your voice was calm with effort, hoping to calm the storm about to come down upon the fort.

“How can I be?!” His voice rose high above your own, “First Goliath, and now my wife!”

You tried to calm him, “Shhh…”

He shook his head, furious at the knowledge that his concerns had become reality.

They feared him. They were too cowardly to attack him so they rained their hatred down upon those he loved instead.

“No.” He reached around you for the door handle.

You pressed back harder against the door. “Violence will not help us. I know it is difficult but I need you to try and stay calm.”

He shook his head. “We should have left this place. Instead we let ourselves be surrounded by people who seek our destruction.”

“Lancelot-”

“We can still leave. We will take Percival and seek our own place to grow old together.”

It was painful to hear how damaged his trust was becoming. To leave this behind… to start over again… this had once been the home of the Ash Folk… his home. “I won’t leave.”

He did not like the answer. “It is not safe for us here!”

Your tone grew to match his confronting one. “This place was cursed before you arrived here! The Fey Fire burns and protects this castle, if you were not here no one would have been able to enter this place without your ancestors forcing them out! This castle is yours, no one has dared to say it out loud but everyone knows it!”

He scoffed as if the idea was ludicrous to him. “I see no reason to stay if the other inhabitants threaten those closest to me!”

It was clear he was too upset, too angry to truly think it all through. There was a layer of fear that caused him to make a rash decision.

Your eyes locked on his. “Your brother’s crib is only a few doors away, your parent’s painting hangs within these walls, do you really want to leave all that behind?!”

Finally, it had broken through some of the distress he was in, his lip twitched and betrayed his dismay over it.

You took in a deep breath, calming and steadying your voice. “Do not run, my love. They need you, even if they hate us they also need us.”

He cast his gaze down to his boots with a frown.

Your fingers laced themselves into his jerkin. “We are not alone in this. I have faith that the others will help put this situation to rest. We’ll talk to Gawain, then address the Fey together.”

He reached out, taking hold of your waist. “Forgive me.” A sigh. “I cannot stand knowing that you are being shunned because of what I did.”

You cupped his face. “I knew it could happen and I choose to be with you regardless, some broth will not change that.”

He let out a half-chuckle. “I will talk to Gawain. We will speak of this to all today. It is time I let them know me, instead of the person I once was.”

“Exactly.” You drew him in to speak close to his lips, “Show them the real Lancelot.”

He hummed agreeing, letting you steal a kiss. Those strong hands pushed you back against that door, trapping you.

His anger from before had faded and turned into passion. His mind finally caught up with how casually you had taken off your shirt in front of him just moments ago. No shame or hesitation, you simply did not mind if he saw.

He caressed your face, brushing his thumb near the corner of your mouth. “You were the first to see me…”

“I-”

His mouth collided with yours, a searing kiss that erased all else. Your back scuffled up against the door at the strength of it. He smiled against your lips when the surprised noise fell from them. A moment later he broke away, pleased with the result of his impulsiveness. Seeing you flustered brought him a sense of pride that nothing else could.

“I will go speak to Gawain and let you finish changing.” he said, a smirk forming. “Or I may delay you further.” He guided you away from the door and opened it. “Keep your weapons close, I do not want to learn that you refused to use them to protect yourself.”

You sighed. “I’m not killing someone over some broth.”

He let it slip, “That is where we have different opinions.”

“Lancelot.”

A dashing smile curved his lips, full of mischief and the warning of a wolf. He left the room before you could try to scold him for it.

    ~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

  Gawain’s idea of dealing with the situation included summoning everyone at the fort to gather in the large room of the forge. The green fire burned and it’s light reflected in the awe-filled eyes of the newcomers who had not seen it before. The tension grew palpably when Lancelot walked into the room and stopped a few paces away from Gawain, right in front of the fire pit.

He was calmer than one would expect him to be. A refound sense of control over himself that reminded greatly of how he once was with the paladins. “Someone tried to poison my horse, while others have cast down their hate upon my wife simply because she is wed to me.”

The newcomers grew uncomfortable, casting questioning and confused looks to each other. Gawain gave a discreet nod, telling him to continue.

“I know very well that my reputation earned me this treatment. And I know my presence here is not a welcome one.” Lancelot drew the mystical sword, the sound of the Hidden’s whispers filled the room instantly and announced their presence. “It is said that this sword chooses only those who are worthy of it.”

He held the sword near the Fey Fire and saw the symbols on the blade glow golden. Whispers came from those witnessing the sword’s magic.

“We fight the same enemy, we seek the same peace.” He turned his head to look at them. “But as things are now, the enemy will slaughter you.”

The newcomers looked startled by his cold approach, not expecting him to be so forward with his opinion.

He continued without apprehension, “None of you can survive in combat against a Trinity Guard. And only some will survive against the paladins. Whilst you waste your time on plotting against me, the Trinity Guard is training the paladins on how to butcher the Fey.”

You winced and nervously covered your mouth with your hand. He spoke to them in the tone he used on the paladins and you could only hope it would go down well.

He threw down the sword, it landed not far from the feet of an elder of the Faun clan. “Paladins burned what they found of the Fey. The Trinity Guard will burn down any city or village if they do not yield to the Church. This war is greater than just our survival. The Church will lay waste to everything and build their own world on the ashes.”

“How do you know this?” The elder Fey asked.

He turned to him. “I was raised among them. While I was not allowed to speak to those higher in rank, my silence allowed me to overhear their desires for the future.”

Realization set into the eyes of the Fey. With Father Carden gone the war was not over, it had simply evolved.

“None of us will survive unless we begin to work together.” Lancelot told them. He pointed at the fallen sword, “A sword will not save us! We cannot put our faith in magic and weapons that we barely know anything about! A war is fought by warriors!” He paced around a little. “I can show you how to fight in a way they will not expect. I can teach you how to move and leave your opponent to wonder how you did so whilst you strike them down.”

“He is right.” Gawain concluded. “Most of you lack the skill to fight. But if you allow us to teach you then you will not have to fear facing a paladin. Do you want to be able to protect and fight for our people?”

A lot of them nodded, making Arthur and Merlin smile.

Pym raised her hand and waited until Gawain nodded to her. “Women too?”

“Ay. Women too.” Gawain smiled, pleased to see that she had the fighting spirit in her.

Pym clutched her necklace and spoke something to the pendant softly, you could hear her mention the name ‘Dof’.

Lancelot picked up the sword again and approached a random young Tusk Folk woman. Arthur offered her his sword and made her step forward. She was quick to understand she had been chosen to take part in a demonstration to show the others.

“Be not afraid.” Lancelot saw the fear grow in her eyes. “Try to evade my sword.”

Even when he moved far slower than his normal speed, the poor woman still flinched heavily. He had to step beyond his own limits to be bold enough to show her how to hold the sword better. She looked so confused and fearful when he gently readjusted the way she had her hands on the sword.

“This way will protect your hands better and strengthen your grip.” he spoke so calmly, so very careful not to alarm her.

“I can’t…” She shook her head, having no faith in her ability to handle a sword.

“You can.” he said with not a speck of doubt. “Let the sword be an extension of you.”

She was still shaky when he urged her to try and block his sword again. On the second attempt she succeeded, the shaking in her arms lessened when she saw how she was able to use the sword to protect herself.

“Let me help you…” his voice dropped to a plea. “Let me aid your people.”

She corrected him, “Our people.”

Another came forward, a Sky Folk man a little older than her who wordlessly requested the sword from her. She handed it to him and he looked at Lancelot who gave a nod, it was an unspoken conversation between them.

“You don’t look as frightening as the stories make you out to be.” The man told him.

Lancelot looked at him. “As you do not look to be the sort of person to try and poison a horse, but looks can be deceiving.”

The man’s eyes widened and filled with guilt. “How did you-”

He made no secret anymore of his heightened senses, “Your scent lingered near my horse. And it was on the yew you placed in the stables. The cut on your finger left some of your blood on the yew when you must have plucked it.”

“I…” The man appeared to panic. “You can smell…”

“Yes.” Was all Lancelot answered to that.

Gawain spoke up, “Consider yourself fortunate we are forgiving. I personally detest those who find it in themselves to be cruel to animals. We are Fey, it is against our nature to harm them.”

The man cowered under the scrutinizing eyes of the others who heard of what he’d done.

“You tried to poison a horse, Reginald?” One of the elder Fey asked displeased.

The man dropped his gaze to the floor and admitted to it, “I wanted him to feel as haunted as he made us feel.”

“He already does.” The elder stated surprisingly.

Merlin spoke up, “This war between our kind must end if we wish to survive the one against the Church. Turning our backs on allies will bring us nothing but grief. This Ash Man knows how the enemy works, he knows their flaws. The Ash Folk’s ability to invoke Fey Fire has been lost for centuries until now, the return of Fey Fire is only the beginning of the old magic that can return if we join our forces.”

The looks aimed at Lancelot were different now, as if they finally began to see the man behind the Weeping Monk. You looked towards the woman who had thrown the broth over your clothes, seeing that even she was growing remorseful.

“You would teach us how to fight them?” the man asked him.

Lancelot gave a determined nod. “Yes.” He let some of his ego get the best of him, “I will show you how to win.”

That sure got a positive response from them. Even Gawain could see that they reacted more enthusiastic towards the Ash Man.

Lancelot tapped the sword in the man’s hand with the Sword of Power. “Let us see how well you do against a man instead of a horse.”

You could still hear that, even though he remained calm, he was still very angry over the danger the man had posed to Goliath.

Under the eyes of his fellow Feys, the man accepted the challenge. It soon became clear that the man was no match against Lancelot’s skill and the others saw it too. It wasn’t long before others stepped forward, wanting to learn what he was offering to teach. Gawain and Kaze were pleased with the result of this much needed confrontation. Time would heal the wounds, but some effort to speed it up would not go to waste.

It was rather interesting to see how Lancelot was more patient to teach them, while Gawain and Kaze were more harsh. Arthur spend his time showing the younger ones how to use the sword safely and ended up trying not to get too many cuts on his shins as the sword was a bit too heavy for the children to lift it well. Pym stood by with Gareth, ready to help if anyone would fall wounded.

You watched Lancelot interact with the newcomers and trying to find his way in the beginnings of conversation, he often threw you a look back for guidance. Only when you were certain that everything would remain calm, you left the room.

    ~~~♡~~~♡~~~♧~~~♡~~~♡~~~

  At dinner, Lancelot was quick to take seat beside you and talk rather enthusiastically about how it had went with the Fey earlier. You could hear the relief in his voice when he spoke, as if he finally dared to hope on a future here and with the Fey, it filled your heart with joy to see him smile.

He kept his voice low as he spoke to you and even then you could hear the small pitch of excitement in it, “They grow less frightened of me. After you left, even the children wished to match their skill with mine.”

You whispered back, “I saw the change in them after you and Gawain had spoken to them. I think they just needed to be confronted with the situation for it to be solved.”

He nodded. “I had not thought that a direct approach could work. The risk was worth it.”

The approach had been a bold one indeed. “You stayed calm and were honest about the situation we face, they appreciated that honesty.”

“I would not have made this effort if it were not for you.” he confessed. “You made me want to try again.”

He fished for your hand under the table, finding it and lacing his fingers through yours, a small gesture that made your heart flutter.

Boldly you made the decision to take his hand and put it on your thigh, squeezing it to signal that he could take hold if he wished for it. “You did so well today.”

The change in his expression was subtle, you did hear a noise that he swallowed down, a quiet hum.

He leaned in, his stubble grazing of your cheek as he whispered in your ear, “My little ember…”

“What’s that in your neck?” Pym suddenly said, sitting across from the two of you. She had to point to Lancelot when you looked at her confused. “Is that a stain?”

Lancelot let go of your hand and touched his neck. It took you a few seconds to realize they had seen the mark you had accidentally left on him last night.

Arthur overheard it, took one look at Lancelot’s neck and barely held back that cheeky smirk. “It’s not a stain. It’s a bruise.”

Pym arched her brow, seeing the stupid grin growing on Arthur’s face. “On his neck?”

Arthur spilled the truth, “The result of someone nibbling a bit too long and enthusiastically on his neck.”

Pym’s eyes widened when she understood what was being said to her. Lancelot had a similar response and almost looked at you but stopped himself just in time.

Your expression could not be more guilty, and the second they moved their attention away from him again you apologized for it. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to bruise you.”

He gave quite a look, brow arching. “Truly?”

You gasped. “I’d never do that on purpose-”

He took a sip of water, hiding his smile behind the tankard, voice dropping to a whisper, “I do indeed recall you being quite enthusiastic last night. Did you get carried away perhaps?”

Your face began to burn at his bold teasing. “Not at all.”

A hum. “No?”

“No.” You took a sip from your own tankard.

He enjoyed to hear the nervous pitch in your voice. “I beg to differ.”

You rolled your eyes at the smug tone. “Beg all you want.”

He started coughing after nearly choking on his water because of that retort, wiping down his chin with his hand. He leaned in a little, dropping his voice down to a whisper, “You are very alluring when you pretend to be unaffected by me.”

He liked that haughty look on your face, knowing he could so easily persuade you to yield to him.

The urge to smile was strong but you were able to fight it. “So were you when you pretended not to fancy me when you were still a monk.”

There was a tug at the corner of his lips. “Did you harbour such forbidden desires for me back then?”

Your eyes flickered to his, they flowed over him suggestively. “It was hard not to.”

It was oddly satisfying to hear how even then there had been attraction. The touch of danger involved in a forbidden romantic connection, the knowledge that you desired him even as a monk… His thirst and hunger for the meal in front of him was gone and replaced by a different sort after seeing the look you had given him. But had it just meant to be playful?

You were taking the last bites of your bread when suddenly feeling him place his hand on your lower back.

He sounded almost timid, as if he feared a negative response, “It is a warm evening, I doubt we will have many left. Would you like to go on a walk with me?”

That was unexpected. “A walk?”

He grew even more nervous. “I want to discuss something with you. In private.”

You nodded and let him steal you away from the table and out of the room. It wasn’t until you were in the courtyard under the light of the moon that he spoke again.

“I had hoped to speak to you about our wedding.” he quietly began.

“The one that was stolen from us?” It had slipped from your thoughts right out of your mouth and you regretted it instantly.

He tried not to let it show how much it still bothered him. “What if we rectified that?”

You halted at a bush that must have once held roses. “Meaning?”

After fidgeting with the sword at his side a little, he clarified, “I want to have a ceremony, I want us to share our vows.”

Once, Gawain had spoken of how much it haunted Lancelot that everything relating to the wedding had been stolen away. It appeared that even now he could not find peace with it.

“But… how?” you blurted it out.

He could see how rattled it had gotten you. “Say you will wed me again, by your own free will this time, and I will handle the rest.”

A certain strong nervousness settled into your bones. Ceremony? With others there to hear and see you speak vows that you would still need to come up with? Yes, it was a little overwhelming.

He became worried when you got silent. “I wanted to do it right. This was meant to be our moment, our promise to each other.”

You let him take your hand in his. “Lancelot…”

He knelt down, seeking your eyes as if he prayed to them in that moment. “Will you do me the honour of wedding me again?”

A playful smile grew on your lips. “Are you sure you want to do that? Have I not been too much for you?”

His left hand went to grab the side of your upper leg. “You are just what I need.”

He moved you closer until he could rest his forehead to your abdomen and hold your hips. How could you refuse him when he let himself be so vulnerable?

Your fingers raked through his hair. “I’d love to give you my vows.”

He tilted his head up at the sweet sound of your voice. “Yes?”

You smiled down at him. “Yes.”

He was up off the ground within the second, cupping your face with a smile that put the beauty of the stars to shame. Before you could even think to speak he was kissing you, unashamedly surrendering to the joy coursing through his veins. The surprised sound you let out only made him grin against your lips as he greedily claimed them.

“Yuck.” Percival’s voice sounded nearby.

While you fully intended to step back from Lancelot, he preferred to keep you close and ignore the child’s reaction to seeing it. Pym stood beside Percival, arms crossed over her chest.

“It’s just so odd.” She shook her head.

“I know right?” Percival agreed. “They’re always doing that.”

Surprisingly, Lancelot did not let it bother him this time. He told them exactly what had led to it, “She just agreed to wed me again so we can have a true wedding this time.”

“A joining.” Pym blurted out the correction. “Feys have joinings, not weddings.”

It caught his attention. “You have been to one of these joinings then?”

“I have.” she said.

“So have I.” Percival chimed in.

“Good.” Lancelot saw the opportunity arise. “We will need some guidance to prepare this ceremony.”

It took Pym a few seconds to understand what that meant, then she got nervous. “Wha- … wait. I never had to help, I was just a guest-”

Percival was smiling wildly at the idea of a feast where there was a possibility of delicious meals and sweets. “We’ll help!”

Pym started to stammer, “But Squirrel, we’d need elder Fey to help us. Only they can officiate a joining. And-”

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “It’ll be fine. We can do it.”

She looked into the expecting eyes of the child, then in the ones of the Ash Man. “I… ugh… fine. I’ll help. But no one gets to be angry if I mess it up.”

Lancelot laced some charm into his voice, “We have faith in you, Pym.”

She shrugged her shoulders a little, as if she didn’t care, but the pink flushing her cheeks told different.

Even though Lancelot had asked Percival to keep it a secret for a while, the boy had not truly understood how long that ‘while’ was supposed to be. And so it was that the news traveled from the boy to Gawain, from Gawain to Arthur, from Arthur to Red Spear…

Merlin learned of the planned ceremony all on his own and still was one of the first to know, proving how easily it was for him to obtain information. The sorcerer came to see you not many days later and offered to be the one to officiate the joining between the rare Ash Folk, and so you found the elder who would bind you in marriage by the tradition of the Fey.

Taglist:

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Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist of this story. Using this old list from the previous fic.

[aguinhac]

I drew berror a lucidia redesign, because I'm still sad he ain't a part of lucidia, I don't care if it makes sense or not, I am adding him to everything I can add him.

In retrospect I shouldn't have drawn him with this pose, consirering... You know, you can't see his glov-

Bonus:

look at him, he so silly.

B̵̖͎͕̞̪͐͗̏̔͊̈́́̒̌̕e̷̡͕̍͋r̸̨͕̭̹̟̓̈́̽̄́̒̈́͒͊͋͒̋̍͐̏̚͠͠r̷͇̞͓͍̫͚̩͎͍̫͇̊́̉́͊̽̃̓͋͐͒̋́̾̃̈́̚͠ȍ̵̧̙̦̗̪͕͈͑͋̂̔͊̆̽̀̔͆̓r̶̢̡̢̮͔͈̗̪̮̙̱̰̘̠̭͉̙̣͑̿̑͜͝ and lucidia by @loverofpiggies

⚠️ Warning ⚠️ Someone getting overly upset about spooky scary skeletons below 👇

Ok, first things first, before having the idea for this, I had no idea what “Lucidia” was, I literally though it was the name of the redesign, but then I found out it was a series, I simply though it was just an UT AU, read like two pages, thought “coming from crayon queen this AU must be huge” and decided to just read it later, cause that's something I do sometimes. (still trying to find some time to read fatal error lmao)

One day I was scrolling through ask error trying to find a specific panel for reference cause I was planning a comic, and there were some asks about Lucidia, I read those and found out Lucidia was actually something completely unrelated to Undertale, and that error and fresh would now be their own characters instead of Undertale AUs.

because I am a whiny bitch, that thought scared me and I didn't want to read it anymore, but the voices in my head told me, just cause they are now independent characters is not like they are gonna disappear, and for me to man up and read the thing, so I manned up, read the comic, and there was like 5 pages.

I told myself: there is NO WAY Lucidia is this short, and I decided to search more about it for two reasons: one I had the berror redesign ready cause I made it like a year ago for something else unrelated, but I was willing to change somethings about it, and by knowing more of Lucidia I was hoping I could it make the redesign better, and two, I was curious, I had read a little bit about it but I wanted to learn more, (maybe get some more info about errors?) so I started looking, so I read through some wikis and found- Almost nothing.

But I am a self proclaimed Dreamtale expert, I am used to going through wikis and finding almost jack-shit, so I instead I went directly on crayon queen’s blog, and I guess I found a little bit, but… when I did the Dreamtale comparison, I was not joking, searching Lucidia canon reminded me a lot searching for Dreamtale canon, the key differences being that when I searched for Dreamtale I knew that there was info, It was just scattered around, and I had some idea of what I was looking for because one of the first things you find in joku’s blog is character names, but when looking for Lucidia canon, I had no idea what I was looking for, or how much there was to look for, unlike Dreamtale that everything I learned helped me learn something new, in Lucidia everything I learned made me feel there was less to learn, if this makes any sense.

And even worst, there were moments where this fucking thing called me stupid, not joking, when I am reading through Dreamtale and don't understand something I can give the excuse “I don't speak Spanish” LUCIDIA in the other hand was all written in english, and I still wasn't understanding it, “I couldnt give the I don't speak the language” excuse anymore, it's laughtable the amount of times this series called me illiterate, Let me repeat, A SERIES called me DUMB, A SERIES THAT HASN'T BEEN UPDATED SINCE 2021, CALLED ME STUPID.

I can't say I haven't learned anything about it, I learned about spice named reapers, reaper ranking, proferror and circuit… and that's pretty much it.

Well, I might have wasted my time on an AU that I don't even know if it's canceled or not, and that in the end did not help me design the character, did not teach me about errors, and with such a small amount of info about it, didn't satisfied my curiosity, BUT, reaper x error (a ship that I do not like) became 10X times funnier, so there's that.

[theinheriteddutchess]

A Life Long

Pairing: Ivar the boneless x reader

Summary: You have a talent for storytelling, it caught the young prince's attention. It means your life isn't yours anymore.

Word count: 2135

Warnings: implied non-con, possessive behavior, Ivar's entitlement

Notes: my first online Ivar story, 🥹 hope you'll like it

Masterlist

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

You watched as other girls laughed and flirted with the handsome boys around you. Watched as they got married and carried a babe or two on their hips.

You sighed inside of yourself and continued down the market and purchased fresh vegetables and fruit for the day. Mundane tasks to keep yourself busy. Excuses to go outside. Away from Ivar.

How your life could have turned differently. As a small child you enjoyed telling stories. Your parents had told you plenty, and you always begged the travellers for new tales. And so, you were the one to entertain the others at play, or at the long feasts in the Great Hall.

And then Prince Ivar heard you speak. You must’ve not been older than nine.

Surrounded by the other children, you had started your tale, building up to the most exciting part, as he pushed his way through, crawling to the front.

You continued without distraction, looking each child in the eyes as you wove your tale and captured all the attention. As soon as you were finished, they had clapped and begged for another story. You declined, telling them to wait for another time, and skipped over to your parents seeing if any sweets were left for your hungry belly.

It wasn’t until a few days later when a servant of the Queen appeared at your hut, requesting you come with them. Queen Aslaugh has asked you to distract her son from the pain coursing through him, his legs failing him again.

You had heard him scream when you were guided to his personal quarters. You had heard of his temper and you had been frightened. The Queen assured you you’d be unharmed. Ivar was in great pain and he had begged her to bring you to him to tell him a story. Anything to focus on than the agony he was experiencing.

He looked dreadful, and hissed and slapped the thralls as he growled and screamed, while they tried anything to relieve the cramping. He tried to calm down once he spotted you, but you hesitantly took a seat nearby, as his eyes focussed on you.

You hadn’t known what else to do or say so you started your story immediately, picking one full of adventure and scariness, in hopes it would lessen his suffering a bit.

It was the start of many visits to try and help him through his episodes. It seemed harmless, but one day Queen Aslaugh visited your parents. Her request quickly laid down for you to live in her household. You would be treated well, dressed as royalty, if only you would be Ivar’s playmate. Help him through his sicknesses, his moods, be his friend.

It’s not like your parents had wanted to give you up so easily, but they were just common people, and Aslaugh did not want to hear no. She would do anything for her youngest son.

Your mother urged you to be nice, while she packed a bag with a few of your belongings. Strong. Be careful. She warned you of the prince’s temper, and wanted you to be safe.

“He might bore of you. Princes are fickle, once you’ve told him all your stories, once he’s older, I’m sure he will release you. Do not worry, daughter. We will see each other.”

She was right, partially. You saw them at feasts, at market, or sometimes on free days, as rare as they might be. 

But Ivar did not tire of you.

Years went by, and he never stopped requesting your presence. At his sickbed, at his table, when he wished to go to market himself.

He still requested your stories, no matter how many times he had heard them, and seemed to favor them over any new ones you had gathered.

“I like to hear you speak,” he had told you often. Your voice was soothing to him. Your way of storytelling still captured his attention fully. People often praised you for it, but none seemed to be as enraptured as him.

In fact, there seemed to be resentment in his eyes whenever another complimented you, even if it was shared with pride.

But his attachment came with a price.

Sure, you were dressed in fine clothes, fed the best food, and being the favourite of a prince brought safety from unwanted attention. Aslaugh insisted on teaching you alongside Ivar, or perhaps he had been the one to insist on it.

However, you had no freedom to make new friends, or spend much time with those who were. You barely had time to spend alone as his request for your attention and presence became more often and longer.

You had shown interest in a boy before, and it had resulted in him being accused of stealing and being whipped. You were sure Ivar was behind it. It had made you dread your future even more.

Ivar had asked you to share his room soon after, but Queen Aslaugh had put a stop to it. 

It did not go over easily.

He had raged, insisted you were saver nearby, not your room so far from his. Would it not be simpler if you were at beck and call immediately?

She was not fooled. It might’ve been the only time she had told him no. You didn’t understand why she showed pity. Or perhaps she hoped he would choose a woman of higher status? Still, it seemed her decision protected you. She looked at you with worry in her eyes. Suddenly she seemed more present during the time spent with Ivar. Much to his annoyance.

“I am not a child,mother. We have managed without you so far.”

“Don't deny me time with my son,” she had smiled tensely. “Besides, I would like to hear the stories of our Gods again. And you speak so well.”

That was addressed to you, accompanied with a kind smile.

It had been soon after that she approached you privately.

“It seems Ivar wants to bed you.”

You gulped and did not know how to react. You had feared it, secretly, but had not wanted to truly accept it.

“Soon he's the age of marriage. And I wish him to be happy. But I know he can be hasty in his decisions, and I did not see you return his feelings.”

“I-” you stumbled to find words. “I had wished to return to my family.”

She clearly now pitied you. “I am sorry, for I love my son too dearly to cause him pain. I can’t return you, but I will try to give you the freedom to choose. If you do not wish to marry, you will have my protection.”

You did not know what she told him, but Ivar, though clearly agitated, did not treat you with contempt afterwards. He grumbled about it when he thought you were none the wiser what he was talking about, but you managed to get some answers. He had been told you were a free woman, and Aslaugh had brought you here for friendship, not as a bedmate.You were not a thrall and she wished you to be ready for marriage and your own family in your own time. He seemed to believe she had scolded him, and was under the impression he only wanted to lay with you. That the decision was his mother's, not yours.

When he played with your hair, as you sat comfortably near the window and hummed to yourself as you were mending some of your older dresses to gift to your sisters, he spoke softly. “Like you'd be a whore to me,” He tsked. “My mother thinks she knows all. You are more to me than that.”

His touch put you on edge, but he never lowered his hands, or forced you to touch him. Perhaps he had truly respected your friendship, as he did not ask you to join his room again. You hesitantly felt saver.

That did not mean he got any less possessive, however. You were still not to spend any time with a man, if you did not wish to antagonize him, or risk the poor man to be harmed.

You still were expected to sit next to him at feasts. He still asked for your stories.

And then the unfortunate day came when Queen Aslaugh was killed.

Perhaps you were supposed to be relieved, you had regained your freedom. Ivar was gone, in need to prove he was a man. Was in England with his father to raid and gain respect. And despite all her flaws, the Queen had been kind to you. She had treated you like family. Not like a daughter, no, but something close to it.

Before Lagertha had appeared, she had put her hands on your cheeks, observed you and sighed, resigned. “He needs you. I want you to look after him. You will be content.”

Words that haunted you.

When the sons finally returned things were tense. But Ragnar’s death needed to be avenged, and Ivar…there was a darkness in him that not had the chance to properly thrive before. He looked hardened, his contempt showing more and his dislike for his brothers growing.

Being away from him felt like breathing and yet, sadness took you over at all he had to suffer. You could not help the urge to comfort him whenever your eyes crossed.

He did not go to you, though. He was planning. He wanted revenge. You understood. You were in the way right now. His future only revolved around punishing those that hurt him.

Lagertha set to improving Kattegat. You all worked hard. News was few and far between. You spend time with family, tightened friendship bonds. Lived life like any other. Unseen.

The day Ivar came back, it seemed like any other day. It was not.

The battle that followed seemed quickly done once his uncle joined. Ivar was King. Like he always wanted. 

A feast was given. You had expected it, but the servant giving you Ivar’s request - and had it ever been anything less than a demand?- of your presence in the Great Hall should not have come as a surprise, yet it still filled you with dread.

You were glad he was alive. You were even happy that he had chased Lagertha away, after she had so brutally killed Aslaugh. You still remembered the soffication his dominating presence gave you, however.

Yet, you had no choice.

As soon as you arrived you were guided to the throne.

And there he sat, like he had always belonged there.

He looked different. Older. His hair was longer and braided neatly. His posture was relaxed and proud. He seemed happy.

“Come. Sit,” he smiled at you, waving to the chair next to him.

You swallowed but obeyed, as you sat down on the chair meant for his Queen.

“You look tired,” he mentioned.

“I’ve been working hard,” You replied simply.

“Yes, Lagertha worked you hard. But you don’t have to worry about that anymore. You won’t have to work ever again. I will make sure of it.”

You didn’t know how to take thay, so you hummed, not keeping your eyes off of him. It was as if you had to keep watch of his every move. 

“I have missed you,” he suddenly confessed. “But I’m glad I’m back and you’ll never have to part from me again.”

As you worried.

“I know you were not allowed here, while that bitch took over, but you will have your room here of course. And everything you’ll ever wish for.”

You were supposed to be happy so you forced a small smile on your lips.

“I’m happy you’re well and alive, Pr - King Ivar,” you murmured. That, you did mean.

“Ivar, just Ivar for you,” he insisted. Then he offered you food. 

The whole night, it was a blur or drink, food and talk. Ivar watched the celebration from his seat, occasionally grabbing your hand to kiss it affectionately. You started being nervous and drank more than you normally would.

When you couldn't stay awake you requested to retreat. And as you were guided to your room, all you thought about was getting out of the fancy dress Ivar had gifted you, and sleeping until all your worries lessened.

As you fell into a light slumber, it seemed like hours had passed until you felt movement in your bed. You woke with a startle. Blinking to see in the darkness, you heard Ivar beside you speaking.

“Even if I had to wait for years, I always knew you were going to be mine. And now, finally, the time has come where nothing is stopping me.”

As his hands crawled over your skin, you realized you were never going to be free.

[anarchy-and-piglins]

Forever stuck in osmp era but specifically human!Techno and hybrid!everybody else that just hit different man

[bleaksqueak]

Insomnia is letting up off and on, but I'm still super jelly brained from it case in point, I want to continue back with posting WIPs for the aired pages, but I can't remember what page I left off on now lmao (guess I'll have to dig through my blog to check... eesh. at least it's decently organized by tags?) Not a result of goo brain, really, but equally "AUGH" is that I let my screen protector go for too long without replacing it and now it's slick as snot and I don't have a replacement handy to put on it. This isn't a resulting consequence of goo brain but it does mean I'm going to be trying to draw without any traction while I'm already loopy. Good times ahead!

[lem-argentum]

playing ff.xiv blind as a th.ancred fan from the beginning is so funny. “hmm i wonder where than is- WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE WAS POSSESSED BY ONE OF THE MOST POWERFUL BEINGS IN THE UNIVERSE….....” “hmm i wonder what happened to than after he was teleported from the- HIS ABILITY TO INTERACT WITH THE NATURAL ENERGY OF THE WORLD WAS SEVERED AND HE HAD TO FEND FOR HIMSELF FOR MONTHS IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE????” “yaay than gets to help us with planning our defenses :D- DID HE JUST DIEoh he’s not dead his soul was just RIPPED AWAY TO ANOTJEJR WORLD????!?!?” “ohh he gets to fight r.yne’s awful guardian figure i wonder what he’s gonna- DID HE JUST DIEoh he’s fine nevermind he gets to have resolved character development now :)” “aww okay we get to go to the end of the universe together, and he’s already gone through so much so clearly nothing bad will happen to hDID HE J

[sysig]

Identity issues run rampant, who could’ve guessed (Patreon)

[swiftfootedachilles]

Psst! What if Ian set Mickey on the kitchen counter and fed him sweets that he picked up from the bakery on the way home?

mickey would love that shit so much. yes husband feed me while i lounge here like a king. feeding each other is a common occurrence in the gallagher-milkovich household they dont even realize its happening that much until theyre getting dinner with the family and everyone (especially lip, hes never letting either of them live this down) is looking at them weird bc they keep sharing their food by feeding it to each other. gallavich being the most obnoxious codependent couple in all of human history 🫡🫡🫡🫡

[thinkingthingsthrough]

she really is the bravest soldier bc i don’t know how someone could a. release something so vulnerable and then b. go sing in front of thousands that same evening