#maria would be the only solace he would have

[noncrush]

☀︎☁︎ — MILES MILLER: druxy

(“It's winter. You ask me about love and I tell you about violence. I'm sorry. I thought that that's what love was.” — Katie Maria, ‘I used to be a hole in the ground’.)

miles miller x reader | 8k | mentions of death&guns, angst, fluff, yearning, very introspective, lots of backstory, MDNI 18+.

⤷  when you get hired at the el royale, you don’t imagine you’ll be staying there long. you don’t imagine you’ll find the love of your life, either. as it turns out, you’re wrong two for two.

here is my submission for “quiet winter nights” with miles miller in @lewmagoo’s wonderful holiday celebration!!! enjoy this monster (that i blacked out for most of! this is perhaps not the best prompt fulfillment lol) tis the season of yearning everybody :)

Druxy — (adj.) something whole on the outside, but rotten inside; of timber, having decay in the heartwood.

i.

Working at the El Royale used to be easy. When you were still starry-eyed and bright, still oblivious to how that horrid hotel could suffocate, sharpen, devour one whole. The hotel’s putrid waves of sin not quite apparent to you—not yet. 

After your first (rough) week delivering rounds of bronze booze and burnt sienna spirits with the El Royale-issue shaker, you spoke to your (one and only) coworker for the first time: Miles, a skittish, seedy man who looked younger than his twenty-some years—but completed his housekeeping duties with the minute precision of a professional four decades his senior. Armed with nimble fingers and persistent patience, nothing was missed by Miles’ keen eye. 

You would ask a question, he would answer. Back and forth repertoire, almost, if not for how he stuttered through inquiries and fumbled answers like hanging his dirty laundry out to dry. As though his personal opinion was something to disregard, something he expected to be rebuffed; Miles would say a word too quiet or too weird and he’d abandon the sentence entirely, retreat and go still. 

In return, you’d shoot him a small smile. A quirk of the lips, nothing overbearing nor patronizing, just a reassuring grin born from the understanding that all you could do to smooth over his mistake was by replying like nothing had happened at all. 

Thankfully, the smile is well received: his tawny brows unfurl from their anxiously high perch, and he asks another question. You give another answer, “This job is just a stepping stone, that’s all,” you’d explained, absently wiping down the epoxy bar with a rag during a rare lull in bar-activity. 

Miles’, “What are you doing working here?” was meek and mumbled, drawn out in shaky syllables between soft lips. You easily misconstrued the behaviour as his shy demeanour—but it was actually his concern. 

He knew first hand how easily your hopeful words would unravel: he was the same once upon a time, grateful to have a job at all after discharge, before the hotel made quick work of him. Swallowed whole by the El Royale; swept in the roiling wave of its never-ending patrons, sins, secrets. A noxious fate Miles wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. 

But it was impossible to warn you, not without… explaining. Not without revealing the true nature of his job—an ordeal which he knew would end in you quitting, or worse: revolting at the sin he condoned, forced to perpetrate. Recoiling at him. 

It’d been a long time since anyone looked at Miles like he was more than his work. Or his time in Vietnam. Or his learned, habitual addiction, which lay like a parasite bloodthirsty in his weak veins. It’s hard to give that up—he doesn’t want to give that solace up. But he should, and so he does. He’s heading into the lobby the very next day to lay it all bare, warn you before Management weaves (traps) you into standard procedure—when he sees you, not at your familiar bar, but at his clerk desk with the management phone flush to your ear. 

Lips just shy of a grimace, pointer finger tracing anxious circles along the rotary dial, gaze dull and distracted even as the telephone coil snags around your wrist into the kind of annoying knot you always undo. 

And just like that, you’re the El Royale’s to own. 

There were so many things Miles lost the chance to say, the truth always intertwined with his guilt and shame, lying fearfully in the notch of his throat. And, god, he hates himself for it. Later he’ll tell you so; and later, you’ll hold him close and tell him you could never hate him for it.

Just a stepping stone becomes multi-use for you. A prayer, a promise, a mantra. Said staring up at the ceiling during fruitless nights in your even-more-fruitless shoebox apartment; your view being the popcorn ceiling, swelling water damage indicative of a negligent neighbour. Those early days at the hotel had you reluctantly settling into a seedy building a few blocks from work, unable to afford much else.

The first vermiculite teardrop falls onto your cheek and you give up, grabbing a pillow and falling asleep in the bathroom just hours before dawn. The decrepit state of your new home felt like foreshadowing in the tapestry of your life, as though trying to ward you off without saying so directly; believing that the waterlogged mass growing above your bed symbolized how hard it’d be to keep your head above water the longer you worked at the hotel. 

Your hopeful, near manifest mantra is repeated again, and again. Heard beneath the din of a busy bar-night, collecting the pieces of your shattered morale off the wooden epoxy bar top after a customer yelled at you for giving him too little ice. 

Said in a dank backroom corridor, after you caught Miles stumbling around with a heavy Vidicon tripod. “That’s it, isn’t it? What we actually do here?” Told just enough to keep you tethered here, but not enough to be scared away. Management eases the fall, makes rock bottom look like the only safe place to go—but it’s a fall nonetheless, a hundred feet deep. 

“I… I…” An attempt at explanation tears through Miles chattering teeth. His feet pace circles into the carpet, burdened shoulders growing ever heavier: guilt is a full force which exists in Miles for all eternity, only lulled into remission by the dulling of time. Remembering his failure to warn you makes the shame gush and overflow. 

But some sudden shimmer of pity overtakes you, too. “Miles-- Miles, it's okay.” Trying to convince him—but really trying to convince yourself. If this is what happened to him after working here, what will happen to you?

Said one last time, after you parsed Miles' calendar at the clerk's desk and caught a glimpse of the date. The heel of your palm dug into the nasal bone: “It’s November,” realizing all at once that your life still hadn’t picked up the slack; digesting the fact, only now, that your life had grown fatigued and slumped the day you entered the El Royale. Your job inquiries were left unreplied because they were buried beneath the unsavoury status of your current employment: you were doomed from the beginning. 

“I have an address. I-- have an entire year's worth of paystubs. I have everything they could possibly ask for.”

“Did--did you tell them you worked here? B’cause… the El Royale’s been losing its prestige day by day, and—Management’s sayin’ we’re lucky we still get our cheques.”

At last letting “just a stepping stone” die on your tongue when rent was jacked up, and the thin string of normalcy in your life went frayed. You made little as a bartender at an understaffed hotel, just enough to pay the current rate, and the increase would quickly make your wallet grow ugly and barren. Suddenly, you had found yourself forced to choose between the hotel or your apartment block’s curb; meagre belongings packed up and trailing behind, head growing dizzy with smothering waves of shame clawing up your throat. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to ask, but I--“ Shoulders wilt. Head hung low. The hotel lobby light flickers above you; once, twice, a spark cinders. “I have nowhere to go.”

His mouth, slightly ajar. What could crawl out of there, you wonder: a laugh, an apology, an insult? “California is full, and- er, Nevada’s under renovation.” 

A rejection. Beads of sweat trickled down your trembling spine. Heart sinking into the pit of your stomach; nowhere to go, nowhere to be, nowhere to exist—

“B-but I have a room. In the back. If… if y’don’t mind sharing.” 

Kindness, in a place as consuming as this. You thought every dreg of it had long since been digested, surrendering to the dreary structure of the ogee pattern walls. The fact it existed in the heart of Miles, however minuscule, made your own flicker with light. Hope stirring, unafraid despite how brutally it was beaten down; it was always so stubborn, ceaseless, almost Sisyphean.

However, uncovering Miles’ poor living conditions while shuffling into that one untouched room in the entire hotel made your lips pull into a tight line. You were left completely aghast, as you realized he had not simply been leaving early before you could say goodbye, but had been ducking behind doors and slinking into his closet home. Esteem quickly overtook you: for that shy man, who was awkward, but just as well sensitive, gentle and compassionate to the very bone. Who offered his room up for you, sacrificing a part of his life for the hundredth time without remorse, because it was kind. 

You lay elbow to elbow with Miles that first night, not looking at each other but just speaking, letting the low timbre of tones fill the air. A figurative ball dance: persuading information out of one another and testing the boundaries–akin only to seeing how low you’d let him drag his palm against your back in that imaginary hall, how tight to ischemia he’d let your hand squeeze his own. 

Him, warning you of the worst aspects of the job; giving you an out, because taping others in the privacy of their rooms weighed like lead. “It’s a sinful thing,” said Miles, the words mumbled and scraped off the backs of his teeth, stuck to the enamel like taffy shame. “To reveal other people like this, even if they’re helpless. Even when my meddlin’ realizes the worst consequences.” Consumed with fear his soul would only grow darker by tainting your own. “Those tapes… those tapes are never pretty. Sometimes they’re downright… ugly.”

You, knowing for a fact it was dirty and invasive— but also that you were really very small and very poor, a wretch whose dreams would be out of reach for eternity. A wide-eyed housekeep and a listless bartender having to band together to maintain the El Royale’s realm of order after the other staff left sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. However, choice was a privilege you no longer possessed–you were there entirely out of necessity: “Who else will hire me? Certainly nobody in this town, nor the next one over.”

Two sets of drooping eyes drifting across his clean ceiling, so unlike the swelling, waterlogged one back in your apartment. There's something here, you thought then, something to be said about having an odd heart-to-heart with the man you’ve had less than five full conversations with in an entire year. All the while feeling an odd comfort at the faint cracks littering his ceiling tiles—like pockmarks had existed, once upon a time, but were cared for and repaired with a familiar gentle precision.

Alas, duty continued, and Management swiftly utilized you—now trusted, for you were thought to be living and breathing the El Royale just as Miles did. But being implicated in the true nature of the hotel's existence, via the increase of sordid dignitaries — fortuitous in their decision to stay at the hotel, but brusque and oddly knowing in such a way you knew the El Royales’ name was being recommended in dangerous places — made the job so very hard. You became thoroughly equipped with the all-consuming fear you could spend another lifetime being good, scrubbing yourself clean of the hotel, and still have your fingers stomped on trying to reach the pearly gates. 

As though you could spend mere hours in there and come out thinking a decade had gone by, time in that decrepit hotel served as a mere suggestion. Perhaps, that’s why moving into the hotel seemed to make so much time alone with Miles. It seemed more impossible for a connection not to foster: that quiet night sent your relationship journeying from an acquaintance, to coworker, to dear friend. Shyly circling one another’s empty orbits before growing inseparable. A lifetime of affinity condensed into years, compacted by common sin and mutual memory. A bond that grew ever proximate, stunned by having someone just like you, right there—just as tormented, just as unfulfilled. 

A friendship of comforting one another in the dark: Miles tenderly coaxing you out like a feral animal unused to attention that didn’t quickly follow with a beating, or your attentive fingers gently working the self-imposed restraint out of his muscles, unthreading traumatic memories from beneath his skin. (“You don’t have to say sorry, Miles—I know you don’t have a mean bone in your body.” “Shh, shh, just listen to the sound of my voice. The thunderstorm’s din has nothing on me.” “When you have a nightmare, tell me—I don’t mind, promise.”) Understanding the fear that gripped you at the sensitive scruff, why you woke up floundering beside him in the middle of the night like the weight of your unfulfilled life was pressing itself on the nape of your neck. Uncovering Miles' extent, and what set him off—what made him dig his fingernails into the bed of his palm or bite his sharp canine into his lower lip. Settling your head onto Miles’ left pillow at bed— your pillow, finding that you knew his heart betterthan your own. Fondly remembering the time spent winding the words out of him until your palm recognized him like it did scars marring your skin. 

Naturally, you grew protective of him. How Miles’ remained so tender is a mystery – it felt impossible to live there for so long and not come out the other end worse off; chewed up, spat out, torn into two and put back together all wrong – but that very kindness had invited you into his home, and you worked to protect it like nothing else. Only ever manning the bar when the need was immediate, more content to linger close behind Miles when he checked in customers. Learning to bare your teeth, going from, “My complete apologies for any offence I’ve caused,” to “The El Royale provides poor patience toward guests who threaten the welfare of our establishment.” 

Slowly, the thought bleeding through the air, you began to worry your love for Miles would die in this black hole. Extinguished in the very same place it was first lit, unable to survive the hotel’s suffocation. Nondescript was your relationship, blurred lines wavering between romantic and platonic at every turn—but love nonetheless. For days on end did a familiar chill wrack your spine: some primal, precognitive feeling of guilt, of dread, that something bad was going to happen and you would never be free of it. How your ears pounded, blood rushing because it felt like if you didn’t leave now you’d rot in that hotel’s hollow, refrained to the point of murder or madness. 

You desperately tried to quell that feeling, chalking it up to years spent with your guard up. Thought you’d merely turned spiked and jagged; rough around the edges, making others jerk away at the gentlest touch. The way a Venus flytrap withers and dies, because nobody is brave enough to care for something so biting. Several severe years turned you into the serrated rim of a broken carafe glass—like the chipped Blendo one Miles kept in his room for safekeeping, after you sold off all the other expensive china just to keep the hotel lights on for another exhausting day. Just… paranoid, your fear of losing Miles — and being completely alone again as a result — merely growing insistent and anxious. 

But the last straw was in December of ‘68; a frigid winter, practically turning the hotel subnivean with its wet and heavy blizzards; snowing the place in deep. A night at the El Royale and a quiet night in general, the kind with long, exhaustive hours– a shift that never seemed to end, despite the small number of customers (a group of skiers on the Nevadan side and a family on the Californian) before finally resigning away from the clerk desk at a bleak four in the morning. You’d long since shooed Miles off, “You first, or I’ll take all the blankets in my sleep,” content to man the place on his behalf. He’d gone so long without support, persevering through fatigue and illness with no choice, it was the least you could do,--and you would always rather he woke up with light eyebags. 

You were locking up, stashing the bell in the desk cavity with your neck craned low—when you felt the trained gaze of another over you. You pressed back up to meet eyes with a customer, his horn-rimmed glasses decorated with slow melting flurries: “If you would be so kind to check me out for a back-cabin along tha’ trails, that’d just about make my night, kid.”

“Unfortunately, sir, the bungalows are unserviced and unavailable in the off-season. Our frontward facing lodges, however, are wholly available—“

“You mean to tell me they’re off limits? Why, I jus’ saw someone leavin’ one of those cabins.”

A shiver traipsed down the column of your vertebrae. No door was open to let in a draft, and no winter winds hit your form; it was pure intuition making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The week before last, Management thrust a sudden assignment onto you two— Nevada room 7, tenured professor travelling across state lines for a conference, democratic and incredibly vocal about it— and Miles’ was supposed to develop the tape yesterday, mail it off this morning. But Miles didn’t develop the tape yesterday, no, there’d been a burst pipe in the casino bar instead, and the two of you spent lunch till early dawn fixing it. 

The man shot you a discomfiting smile. Stretched wide across his plain, glib face. “Say,” and he leaned in just as your heel planted you an inch back, gesturing to the photographs of celebrities strewn around, “September ‘63. Sinatra owned this place, and let politicians mingle with Hollywood’s leading ladies. You know anythin’ ‘bout that?”

Anxiety dragged upon your skin. Where was he going with this? “I didn’t-- work here in 1963, sir. Suffice to say I didn’t know much at all about the comings and goings of the El Royale yet.”

He studied carefully; mandible still tilted into that barren smile, but eyes set and stony behind the thin frame of glasses you weren’t even sure were real. The customer set his suitcase down with one hand and his briefcase down with the other, before patting down the wrinkled fabric of his suit—intentionally, or unintentionally, flashing the hilt of a Black Eagle Ruger slung low on a belt holster. It wasn’t uncommon for customers to be sporting some kind of self-defence, especially in dark hotels such as these–but still.  “Your associate, then?” 

“What?” Your blood ran cold, freezing into thin slivers like icicles hanging from the roof outside; like the one that pricked you in the shoulder, and made Miles aid and soothe the wound. 

Miles entered through the front door of the lobby, hair silken with powder-soft snow, murmuring to himself as he dragged his work-issue loafers in. The man jutted his thumb unceremoniously toward him, a calculating sheen lighting his green eyes. 

“Hey, you—“ and he waved Miles over like he were cattle or a dog, “d’you remember any blonde Hollywood Ingenue’s rooming here in September ‘63? You’d know her—hell, she’d have you stumblin’ over so bad you couldn’t just forget her.”

The look on Miles’ face — wide-eyed and perturbed, tired steps creaking to a stuttered stop at the digestion of the man’s words — made the pit of your gut swelter: how cruel to make him flounder, for Miles was skittish. You’d learned to slow your movements and keep steady to ease him, but this would surely frighten him. “Sir? I-I don’t know what you’re…”

You swallowed thickly. “He didn’t— he didn’t work here yet either. Alright? I mean, look at him—he’d barely be out of school.”

The customer’s stubborn smile dropped into thin-lipped obscurity. “Well, it was wortha’ try. Made a bet with some of my buds who heard I was stayin’ here– those sonsabitches thought some kinda tape existed.” He regarded you suddenly with a plain look: acknowledging, bored, seeking your professionalism rather than your conversation.

His look sobered you, making the tremouring buzz of your thoughts (get miles get out of here something bad is going to happen) go quiet. You snapped back into smooth, managerial tones, swiftly checking the man in and handing him the logbook. He hoisted his luggage and left just as suddenly as he’d arrived, leaving you in possession of one odd Laramie Seymour Sullivan signature in cursive. There was something… off about that salesman—be it the thin, almost prescription-less distortion of his lenses, or his odd accented twang of no particular origin—and you hoped his stay in the Nevada room was short-lived.

“Miles?” your gaze snapped up from the logbook you were inspecting to find Miles gone. Fortunately, not out into the thick pillowy avenues of snow from which he came, but forwards: his thin loafers tracking wet stains onto the floor. You set a mental reminder to mop that melt before morning, but Miles’ panic took precedence. He had the habit of scampering away in the face of danger, like a rabbit through dry autumn leaves–and you would never let him deal with it alone.

Finally, you traced your dear friend's prints to the maintenance room you shared; slightly ajar, warm lamp light filling the room, his soaked shoes haphazardly strewn by the doorway. There, you saw him crumpled upon the threadbare cot: on his knees lying down, almost in prayer with his silver rosary wrapped tight around the dry skin of his knuckles. It shone like the glimmer of the sun under that incandescent bulb, and you could hear a panicked recital of scripture along his tongue.

“Hey, hey,” you slide past the door gently, descending onto all fours so as not to box him in or raise the height of his fight-or-flight response. “C’mere, hold my hand,” you crawled over and laced his free fingers into yours, settling into a criss-cross apple-sauce position; knee bumping into the ankle that never healed right after he sprained it gardening last summer.

“Just listen to my voice, okay? Remember what we were doing last winter? Remember when every customer had left two evenings before to make it home in time for Christmas? We were sitting here, reading a book together. You told me the print company made a mistake after you saw a thread pop out of the inner hinge’s book bind. I was massaging your crown, then… I miss your long hair sometimes. The radio was playing, too–an auditory rerun of that musical you like so much. “A Christmas Carol” for "Shower of Stars", was it…”

You were fully equipped to spend the rest of the night coaxing Miles’ out of his panic, soothing tones drowning out the tantamount alarm running circles in his mind–but then, he lifted his head from the clothed caps of his knees and brought your intertwined fingers up to his warm cheek. “That man.. the-the- tape, he was talking about a ta-tape with- with…”

Your hand squeezed his in time with the patterned buzz of his pulse, pressed along your own wrist; thump-squeeze, thump-thump-squeeze… “It’s just you and me, Miles. Take your time.”

A shaky breath. Then another; better, easier. “The tape he’s talking about. It’s, it-t’s real. B-but nobody was ever-- supposed’t know it exists-- how did he know about it, how?”

“Miles… a tape? He knows about what you sent to management?”

“No, no, I never sent it! I never did, I kept it… I kept it because he was kind, and-- and…” And Miles is letting go of your palm, instead wrapping his lanky arms around the circumference of your waist, collapsing in your lap. He’s murmuring still, mere vibrations lost to the human capacity of Hertz, as your mind spun: once upon a time, Miles confessed to you a certain 60s starlet coupled up in Nevada 5 with one of the most influential and married politicians of that decade, before their deaths in– 

That was the tape?

Your heart hammered in your ears. Miles’ sobs simmered down into stammering breaths; his ever-softening palms gripping the fabric of your shirt between his fingers in some sort of self-soothing measure. Has your heart swapped with your brain? Is that why you’re so suddenly remembering how cruel it'd been for Miles: how he’d been at the El Royale so much longer than you, been beaten down so much smaller, was much closer to the edge? That Miles was crumpling atop you now with the rumblings of great, inescapable despair because the weight of these corrupt secrets was toppling him over?

It was then that you pet him, the man your heart swelled far past capacity for, fingernails tracing over the splattering of freckles along his neck–and then, that your survival instincts overtook.

“Miles, Miles, it’s okay. Don’t say sorry, s’not a problem. We can… well, we can… leave. Take the tape with us; burn it, destroy it, whatever you want. But we leave.” Deciding at last that enough was enough because you could either leave now or suffocate in silence forevermore. Curl into yourselves, like far neglected flora, until one of you dies and the other quickly follows.

In the hours before dawn, you’d suddenly pieced together a jilted, desperate plan of escape. You’d head an innocuous journey from the El Royale to Reno, wandering eccentrically so as not to leave a tangible trail. In that tawdry tourist town, you’d gather yourselves and map another path out again: to a smaller, quieter place, like Waterford, or Dunsmuir, where you could build yourselves a life anew. It would be hard, and frightening, and cold, and unkind—but above all it would be worth it.

Above all, this chapter would draw a close, and you could have the rest of the pages in your life to be selfish. The thought made your stomach flutter and clench with the foggiest of dreams, fluffy fox-tailed feelings beginning to run through the dim corridors of your heart: ideas of being free, of coming into your own, of maintaining a gentle realm together without the enduring pressure of the hotel. Of being able to sleep in and graze over the bony ridges of Miles' spine like you were allowed to—like you were supposed to, and would never be struck down for it.

That glassy night in late December of ‘68 was your final one in the hotel. You barely remember it: just the important stuff, the why and the how and the coaxing of two lonely souls who occupied the El Royale like ghosts from out of the shadows. You can’t remember the few days after very well either, not with the fear still so deeply imprinted on your souls– and certainly not with the anxious hush that fell over you: a silly vow of silence, to keep yourselves from revealing too much to potentially dangerous strangers. Words were chalk in the mouth then; you barely got them out before you were coughing, gasping, heaving for soothed breath-- then quieting, swallowing, holding back your voice in the crevice of your cords.

You did, however, remember the generous days that came after the fleeing and the hiding… and, understandably so: why allow your memory to remain preoccupied with the same dread you’d digested for years when you could keep space for the rest of your life to arrive? 

You sat atop that beat mattress in Miles’ drab room with him in your arms, halfway through dreaming up the rest of your life away from the hotel… and soon, sooner than you could’ve ever thought, you blinked and opened your eyes to find yourself living that merciful existence. Like the colour television channels Miles’ would always call you over to watch: you got a sparse glimpse once a year, the kind of magic you always swore you’d catch up to, but were always so busy with the bar (and the gardening and the kitchen and the–) to see. The hotel had the all-consuming quality to draw you away from any fulfilling aspects of life: friends, a better career, happiness, and like some sick inside joke, colour television.

Now, you were living the sweet life NTSC colour system shows portrayed—and were able to watch colour television whenever your heart damn well pleased. 

No longer did you let the days twist and swell around you without recognition, no– you allowed yourself the selfish possibility of listening to the day's whistle by, drinking in every peaking pitch: the dull flutter of Miles’ steps along your oak floor, your kitchen laminate, your soft bathroom rugs. The wispy rustle of crinkled grocery lists, checking through them in your kitchen on an early Sunday—shopping right when the supermarket opened, because the both of you cringed at the sight of busy aisles and overworked lanes. (The raspy, sniffled laughter of the elderly lady who ran the store, remarking, “Still in the honeymoon phase, huh?” as she checked you out. The squeak in Miles’ throat when you played along, pressing a peck to his cheek in mock confirmation.)

The stream of water from the creaky yard hose, sometimes pressurized to the point of injuring Miles’ poor petunias, and other times so frail you had to lug out his otter-shaped turret sprinkler to keep them healthy instead. The howling wind against your house walls on autumn nights, bouncing along the window sills as though ghosts roamed your halls. (Having to build a fort in the living room with Miles, after a “ghost” had spooked him on his nightly tread for a glass of water. He refused to brave the hallway to your bedroom again, and you refused to leave him there.)

The gentle snip-snap of scissors along Miles’ delicate head, telling him, “I’m not going as short as last time, even if you ask me to, ‘cause you’ll get cold and snag my earmuffs again.”  The sleepy purr of Miles’ in the morning, wrapping a lithe arm around your waist and greedily tugging you back to bed; grown spoiled with the days that go by so sweetly, used to having you all to himself. 

Drinking in these little moments, appreciating the mundanity of it all. How you simper, when doing laundry with Miles, sorting whites from colours as you regale him on the time you mixed in a blue sock by accident; is that why my button-up turned blue? When gardening side by side in the spring, Miles cooing to perennial flora as he packs down healthy fertilizer nearby; grazing a gentle finger over an unfurling petal and promising, you’ll grow up nice and strong when m’done with you. When sitting on the counter and watching Miles bustle about, trying to perfect his Tunnel of Fudge in time for the holidays and handing you the battered whisk; honey, you know I don’t care that there’s raw egg. 

Going through the motions of this post-hotel life, practically epilogic, with the relationship’s lines of platonic and romantic ever wavering. Ever thinning. Warbled by the merciful existences you reap: why focus on the status of your relationship when you could focus on the love itself, focus on your now-uninhibited freedom to love? 

But a rubber band snaps eventually. The lack of labels stretched wide and narrow around your intimate forms; never relieved, never named—never agreed upon, therefore just as well never reciprocated. Years after the hotel faded into a mere memory, just a faint speckle among the colourful mosaic of your existence, you wake with a pit drowning in your gut. Love burns in the bottom of your belly: no longer that comfortable love that rested so sweetly in the smiling swell of your cheeks, but more so a love that swallowed you whole—sudden, voracious, terrifying. You loved Miles, and you had for years… but just now did you realize you were in love with him. 

The distinction makes your heart hammer against its cage, starving for any kind of answer. The two of you never acknowledged it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there—it was always there, always lingering, providing the very allowance to be so intimate, be so loving. You’ve slept in one another’s bed for more than half a decade, for Christ's sake: tenderness is all you’ve ever known of each other. A deathly nerve deep within your gut strikes, begging for either reciprocation or rejection, not this limbo you’ve been living in. Imploring a tangible answer, an exacting label you can build the rest of your life upon.

Because the thought of staying trapped like this forever? Never fully friends and never fully lovers? That mortified you. It could all fall between the gaps of your fingers, even after decades, because none of it had ever been said aloud. 

The realization of being in love, and not just loving was kept under tightly wound wraps as best as you could. But Miles notices the little things over time: how you draw away easier, hugs growing brisk and polite rather than long and hearty. The tension in your shoulders, and how you no longer accept his tender offers to massage familiar knots out—even when you both know he can map out your problem areas just like that. Brushing off touchier advances, resolve greatly disturbed by Miles’ ever-constant need to hold hands, cling to your hip, hang onto you at all. He’s funny about that kind of thing: somewhere along the way, between the farm he grew up on, Vietnam, and the El Royale, to now, he picked up the miraculous ability to tune into moods at the drop of a hat. 

It gets worse as the week goes on, however. Not that you’d been very inconspicuous about your gloom—you sat up the fourth day quietly strained, trudging to the bathroom like a wet t-shirt that’d been wrung out and hung to dry in all the wrong ways. Misshapen, wrinkled, too burdened for the clothesline to hold up; the briefest of winter winds trickles past the window Miles forgot to close last night, and makes you shiver as you step in. But he doesn’t get the chance to intervene, not when you were heading off to work (there were so many things Miles lost the chance to say, and later he’ll tell you he hates himself for it–), and the two of you only see each other again when you’re back home. 

His first instinct when he sees you, mumbling your arrival in the frostbitten doorway, is to take your coat and set it on the wooden hanger; shuffle your fur-lined boots onto the shoe rack beside his own tassel loafers; dust the flurries off your clothes. Clean and take care of you, because that’s what he knows best. You half expect him to extend his arm out and point down either side of the hall, “Warmth and sunshine to the west, or hope and opportunity to the east,” on the tip of his tongue.

“Hi,” mumbles Miles, lip quivering as some semblance of a nervous smile inches across his face. “Um, welcome home.” 

That man is far too sweet for his own good. His greeting is the product of an offhand comment all those years ago, “It’s always the sweetest thing when the husband comes home and his wife welcomes him back.” Winter nights in the hotel when there were so few customers, management would skimp on paying the bills, and you’d huddle chest to chest with Miles to conserve heat. Breath visible, palms splayed beneath one another’s shirts to extinguish the chill racking through you. A random channel on his old RCA Victor Sportable playing a Brigitte Bardot special, if just to distract yourself from the very real, very harrowing possibility that you could fall asleep and never wake up.

“Miles,” out comes a dull whisper, scratchy and unreal in your own throat. You’ve tried all week to make a habit out of biting back too-sweet words, letting your blatant adoration die in your lungs. Speaking to him should be an activity gone stale, lest you forget yourself and allow you two to fall back headfirst into that exhausting will-they-won’t-they purgatory. 

But then you notice his clothes–an old cream cable knit and dress trousers, his Sunday best for weekly visits and the obligatory holiday ones–and his hair, neatly coiffed along the smooth crown of his head. You raise a brow–it’s incredibly unlike the pajamas and chestnut bedhead he usually sports; mussed and ruffled with the telltale stylistic edge of blankets and cotton pillowcases. Had he gone out, or is he going out now? 

That thought makes your heart thump and clench in its cavity: of Miles being swept off his feet by someone other than yourself and having to accept it with a choked nod, because you’re dancing around asking him “What are we?”, in paralyzing fear that you are the only one truly head over heels. You resign yourself to asking, “Going somewhere?” whilst gesturing to his unusually formal state of dress.

His rounded cheeks flush. Cobalts widen in tune with the sandy brows along his forehead rising. Your gaze hasn’t made it there yet, but you can bet his lips have slid ajar into a tiny “O” shape-- and there it is. His delicate expression of surprise is the same as it has been for years (and you fear how easily you predict it. You know him too well, and it’s never the one who knows another too well whose heart remains unbroken. But then again: between Miles’ delicate heart and your own… you’d rather you devastated.)

“Yes, well-- I’m going out with someone.”

“You’re going on a—“ How interesting. “…O-kay.”

Your offset okay has the tips of Miles’ lips twinging upward into a tiny, knowing smile. Smug, almost, if you pretended it wasn’t how Miles simply looked when content. It makes you frown instead. “Oh,” you mumbled, wincing as you brushed past him, hearing just how monotone; crestfallen; stupid you sounded. “Have fun, then.”

Your own cheeks burn, your harried footsteps clattering against hallway hickory wood: he was taking someone out? Miles’ had been venturing out on his own more often — your heart preened prideful praise at this, as he’d downright avoided public outings like the plague since his discharge all those years ago — so you knew it wasn’t at all unlikely he’d caught someone’s wandering eye. Miles was rather handsome, too (even downright pretty, which he rarely let you say aloud, since it made steam practically fume out of his ears) with the gentle brush of his blond lashes, framing the brilliant sheen of blue eyes, and that captivating curve of his nose, sloping high and elegant. 

But for however proud you were, the hurt still made your throat swell in its tender column. Suddenly, you realize it’s never going to be you who accompanies Miles in that way: because you are slow and cowardly. You are the decay that would make Miles’ heartwood go druxy– and for his sake, it cannot be you that accompanies him. Like understanding a language but never being taught to speak it, you can spot love easily even when it’s unspoken and barely there, but you cannot replicate it aloud. I love you is an unintelligible language twisted wryly on your tongue; you miss accents and mess up grammar, and before you know it those words as old as myth have gone sour. 

You’ll hurt him worse than rejection hurts you. But rejection, any kind of it, is still a quiet, burning thing that overtakes you like the wash of high tide. Digging its claws into the rapid flesh of your palpitating heart, you can’t help but desperately seek isolation. The balls of your feet practically jump over the threshold where the hall and your shared room meet… but he’s quick to follow.

Miles’ sock-swaddled thumping is slow at first, before speeding up and careening to a stop at the door of the bedroom. His fingers (originally rough with domestic work but grown soft in the simple life you’ve built around each other) cling shyly to the side jamb: “Are…” and his words warble at a pitchy high, like they’re curling around a pitiful lump balling up in his throat, “are you mad at me?”

“Of course not,” your reassurance is fast, uttered quicker than you can think or blink or even turn. But because your back still faces him, he asks again, are you mad at me? Murmurs, I’m sorry, a moment later, polyester-padded steps inching over the sill. Miles continues closer, appearing in the background of your mirror while you shed your outside clothes off; practically undergoing chrysalis into your pyjamas.

His words are childish, almost, and you have half a mind to shoo him out of the room for privacy–but you know Miles. Though his words are uttered gingerly, the nervous apology of a scolded child, he isn’t any less desperate, any less earnest; he’s genuine, and that genuinity has no bounds. 

The bed creaks behind you, and your mind buries the consuming temptation to look. Desire calls out your name, supplying imaginary images of cranberry Christmas sheets straining beneath Miles’ pretty, slow crawl. And the apology is part way through stumbling out of Miles’ mouth yet again when you finally turn to meet him: slim torso folded along the long edge of the bed, knees planted on the hardwood. Looking up at you with an impossible expression that pleads, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Are you mad at me? Please. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m– 

His sweet head buries itself into the clothed cushion, and you can hear him sniffle; holding back a worried sob, are you mad at me? filling the ridges of his tongue. It’s so hard to seek solitude, to want to soothe yourself at all, when Miles is falling apart in front of you; fingers curling possessively into the sheets like he usually would your clothes. 

The tear that escapes the corner of Miles' eye dribbles into your bed. It makes your obstinacy waver. And then, you’re descending onto the bed too, scooping his weeping form into your arms, gently soothing him with shapes drawn into his cheek. Coaxing the tears away with a low hum cooed into the shell of his ear, shh, shh. M’not mad, just surprised. Just tired. 

Cries that finally dwindle into stuttered sniffles and tiny pecks along your inner wrist. The drag of his bottom lip on the ulna bone makes a ribbon of warmth run through you, and you cringe—you should be normal about this kind of thing because he’s perpetually starved for touch. This intimacy is nothing special, and you just happen to always be there. But it starts to feel less than normal: kisses growing hungry and adventurous, desperate to litter your skin with his presence… eventually reaching up to the top of your shoulder, just so gaining the confidence to sink his canines into your skin…

“Miles!” You yelp, squeezing at the nape of his neck and peeling his rebellious teeth from your side like you would a puppy. You bring him face to face, grip sliding to the mandible; his eyes half-lidded, lips wet with a doggish, slobbery sheen of saliva, brows knitted tensely in the middle. You meant to comfort him, rid the alarm from muscles that held memory so tightly. Instead, an entirely different neediness is roused out of him: he’s crawled halfway up your body, rigid knees subconsciously brushing between your thighs, pressing you to the mattress with the thick weight of his utterly relaxed lower body. 

He begins to slowly blink, as if coming out of a feverish daze, going ever-scarlet in realization. “Sorry, I– didn’t mean to…ah, just missed you so much, that’s all—” squirming to hide and bury his face into the pillows again, whining when you stop him with another squeeze of his cherubic cheeks.  

“What,” You’re breathless, and you reckon your pulse is beating as fast as Miles' is beneath your fingertips: rapid, floundering, like a marathon has been run four times over. “What was that, sweetheart?”

The nickname makes Miles shiver atop you; his head swivelling low to rest upon you, his everything pinning you down. Your huff of gentle (confused, frustrated, coy) air breezes along his brow bone, and he looks up to peer puppyish up at you. 

“Wanted to make you feel better,” he supplies, head tilting to rest the side of his face upon your skin too. “You-- you've been t-tense—and don’t lie, I can tell. So, so I was tryin’ to ask you on a date in the doorway… but then y-you stormed off on me! I thought you— I thought, maybe you don’t want thatkinda relief, so… so…”

“Oh, Miles.” you melt, hand cradling his face gently, thumb brushing against his lower lip, crooking the bed of your palm closer when he turns in to provide a chaste kiss. “I… didn’t realize you were trying to ask me on a date,” and your gaze darts away shyly, voice dropping to a ginger murmur, “in all honesty, I thought you were going out on one.”

“Me?” he asks, head tilting again in pure confusion. Cobalt blue eyes glistening with a disbelieving curiosity–like he couldn’t entertain the prospect logically in his mind long enough for it to make sense. “Who would I be going on a date with but you?”

Who would he be going on a date with but you? 

The silence of the room rings swirls in the junction of your ear. You think you hear a pin drop, but it might very well be your heart; trudging up the shaky interior of your ribcage, softly parsing through the meaning of his words… and finding it to be completely genuine. No sarcasm, and nothing of rhetoric: a true, confused question, uttered from those gentle lips. Who would I be going on a date with but you?as if the very notion was impossible. Like you just told him you’d reached up and plucked the sun for his garden. Like you just said, I miss the hotel.

For some odd, unknown reason, that is what makes your heart roar to life again. Makes your stomach churn with the familiar achings of hope. Those simple words, that glaring confusion, twist your entireviewpoint. How blatantly he says it: that there's nobody on this planet Miles’ would rather be with but you. This may not be very clear right now, but the path to it is, and one thing remains certain: you’ll be loving each other, no matter which way.

A small laugh tumbles out of your mouth, transforming your solemn features into something of silly belief. How foolish were you to think otherwise? That this gentle man, who offered his tiny room to you all those years ago, would suddenly let you slip out from his fingers at the prospect of someone else? Just as there's never been anyone else for you, there's never been anyone else at all for him but you.

How slow your realization was, too: you had been shying from Miles for days, worrying deep in your gut that he’d eventually disappear at the drop of the hat. Whereas, he had been entertaining big dreams of spending the rest of his life curled into your corner; cheering you on for all the world to see. Completely understanding that nobody better could be found; could be loved, could be known than you. 

Your laugh seems to make Miles’ smile twitch up too, and you can’t help but snicker a little louder when you catch his murmur: what are we laughing about now? Because that’s the kind of man Miles is, and always has been: a gentle lover, but fiercely loyal, tender to the very bone; happy to ask the silly, stupid questions when you don’t want to. 

“Nothing,” you shush him, letting your cold, fresh-from-work feet dip beneath the edge of Miles’ soft trousers, toe trailing along his bare Achilles and making him wince. 

“Y’cold,” he whines but doesn’t push you away. Miles doesn’t think he could ever push you away; even through a bout of worrying, self-imposed distance that made panic rise in his heart this week, because Miles’ knows you better than that. You know one another far better than that—and one thing you taught him, bits and pieces of philosophical advice littered into your early conversations, rings true now. Never stop trying. You never stopped trying to fulfill yourself at that trepid, consuming hotel– and you came out the other side with the love of your life tucked gently into your side. So Miles learned never to stop trying for anything at all– and certainly not for you. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. But you’re not for very long, especially when he sidles up real close to you, ducking his head right into your Plender gap and breathing you in.

You don’t know where the years went, but love peeled the layers back from Miles so quickly: paring away his skittish demeanour from back then, when he’d been afraid to leave any mess at all, afraid to give into his mild intrigue of you, to even stir the air with the gentlest inhale of his breath. Continuing to unravel him, until he was the greedy man caging you in now, unabashedly needy and unafraid to stake claim on what’s his. Wanting you by his side has never changed, and never will. 

Slowly, the two of you shift, roll, twitch and tug until the sheets are furrowed, comforter wrapped oddly around your legs-- but also until you’re comfortably in one another's arms, foreheads grazing every time one of you breathes. It gives you the most explicit look of his face, into those cobalt blues, through the brush of lashes you so admiringly yawp about when he puts lotion on his face — to the point Miles has to shut the bathroom door on you in the bedroom, just to continue his bedtime routine without melting out into a stammering pile of goop — and of the faint dustings of freckles you noted all that time ago.

Barely noticing the window Miles’ has the terribly endearing habit of keeping open—even on this quiet winter night—because in the summer it coaxed you to sleep and you thanked him for it the next morning. Eyes resting as you focused on the comforting murmur of Miles’ familiar breathing pattern, wrapped in silence so thick it was almost palpable—making you two feel like the only real things in the entire world.

You may have thought your love was nondescript and barely there — imperceptible if not for the top notes of intimacy and adoration lingering on the pulse points of your skin like perfumed oil — but it’s always been noticeable. Always been rich and heady, forever dabbled on the dip of your neck where he lies his head; a fervent scent of pure love blooming, caught on the hem of yourself like you sprayed a pump too much. And nothing, not even Miles’ cries or your own misunderstanding, would ever change that. 

[ghostmisworld]

so this is a build of lf of a previous post (the ghost king consort one if it isn't obvious)

What if that's how Hades finds out Nico and Will are engaged (because trust me, bro, this is worth waiting for them to get married). Like Hades is doing boring paperwork and overhears ghosts talking about the ghost king and is like, that's my son, I wanna know what he's up to. so he calls them over, and their either like all wise and shit like "ahh yes, his royal highness king of ghosts, Niccolò Maria Di Angelo, has proposed to his beloved, William Andrew Solace" or how I would react "OMG YOU DONT KNOW DO YOU LIVE UNDER A ROCK (no offense plz don't smite me) HE PROPOSED THEY'RE GETTING MARRIED I THOUGHT IT WOULD NEVER HAPPEN (I knew it would happen it was just taking more than 5 seconds) OMG DO YOU THINK THEY'LL INVITE ME!!!..." and Hades is like my sons getting married and he didn't tell me 😞. So he calls up nico(via iris message because demigod) and Nico unused to adult(-ier idk they're like 18 because demigods don't be living long, so they gotta get married quick) taking interest is stuff like that is like "yea one of us had to propose it's part of getting married" and Hades is slightly offended his son didn't think to consult him but he persevered. he talks Nico out of having a small wedding and turns it into a grand royal wedding because not only is Nico ghost king, he's the prince of the underworld (the bedroom says it ALL), so he has to have a big wedding because tradition or sum. Hades goes all out because Nico is his baby, and he deserves the best wedding; he even puts up with apollo (more on that later) during the planning. He invites Will's dead siblings he does the thing he does at the end of tsats, so Bianca and Maria can come. AND ITS BEAUTIFUL GUYS, STUNNING CHILLING EVEN. NOT A DRY EYE I THE ENTIRE RELM. CERBERUS CRIES. (Maybe I should write bout how I think the wedding goes??)

the original post i made

finding out apollo's ver

[shisasan]

Picking a single favourite quote might be an impossible task so which quote (or quotes) do you seem to come back to more often than others?

Picking a single favorite quote might truly be an impossible task because there are so many brilliant writers out there whose words have deeply influenced my life. These extraordinary souls have breathed new life into me when I was ready to give up on everything. Without any particular order, these quotes are not intended to enlighten or educate anyone but offer a brief insight into the words I turn to for comfort, inspiration, or understanding when I'm not at my highest self.

I'll begin with my most dearest Hermann Hesse, whom I like to call my Alpha and Omega. He transformed my life from a young age, opening mysterious portals to other worlds and making me feel deeply understood, embraced, with a true sense of belonging. His writing not only awakened my mind to new realms of thought and emotion but also offered immense solace and companionship through his exploration of the human spirit:

"A wild longing for strong emotions and sensations seethes in me, a rage against this toneless, flat, normal, and sterile life."

"I have always thirsted for knowledge, I have always been full of questions."

"We have to stumble through so much dirt and humbug before we reach home. And we have no one to guide us. Our only guide is our homesickness."

Rainer Maria Rilke, a beautiful and tender infinite soul, whose writings deeply resonate with the complexities of the human condition and the relentless quest for understanding:

"I am dark, I am forest."

"I grow strong in the beauty you behold. And with the silence of stars, I enfold your cities made by time."

"Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer."

Novalis, who occupies a cherished place in my heart for his poetic and deeply insightful exploration of life and love.

"We are eternal because we love each other."

"I often feel, and ever more deeply I realize, that fate and character are the same conception."

"Sometimes with the most intense pain a paralysis of sensibility occurs. The soul disintegrates—hence the deadly frost—the free power of the mind—the shattering, ceaseless wit of this kind of despair. There is no inclination for anything anymore—the person is alone, like a baleful power—as he has no connection with the rest of the world he consumes himself gradually—and in accordance with his own principle he is—misanthropic and misotheos."

Egon Schiele, whose intense and raw portrayal of human emotion and beauty has deeply moved me, revealing the unfiltered essence of the human experience.

"I must see new things and investigate them. I want to taste dark water and see crackling trees and wild winds. I want to gaze with astonishment at moldy garden fences, I want to experience them all, to hear young birch plantations and trembling leaves, to see light and sun, enjoy wet, green-blue valleys in the evening, sense goldfish glinting, see white clouds building up in the sky, to speak to flowers. I want to look intently at grasses and pink people, old venerable churches, to know what little cathedrals say, to run without stopping along curving meadowy slopes across vast plains, kiss the earth and smell soft warm marshland flowers. And then I shall shape things so beautifully: fields of colour…"

Anaïs Nin, a force of nature and embodiment of feminine strength, whose deep exploration of inner life and boundless creativity has left an indelible impression on me. Her work continues to inspire and challenge me to embrace the fullness of my inner world:

"She was colour, brilliance, strangeness."

"I have the power to multiply myself. I am not one woman."

"Ordinary life does not interest me. I seek only the high moments. I am in accord with the surrealists, searching for the marvelous."

"I can only connect deeply, or not at all."

Carl Gustav Jung, one of the most brilliant psychiatrists, psychologists, psychotherapists, and empiricists in history. Jung's exploration of the collective unconscious and shadow self has offered me invaluable tools for self-awareness and personal development. His legacy continues to inspire and guide those seeking to understand the depths of the mind and the path to self-discovery.

"A man who has not passed through the inferno of his passions has never overcome them. As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being. Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves."

"People will do anything, no matter how absurd, in order to avoid facing their own souls. One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious."

"The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are."

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, the maddening genius with profound understanding of human nature and morality:

"If you want to overcome the whole world, overcome yourself."

"People speak sometimes about the 'bestial' cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts, no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel."

"People. People. Endless noise. And I am so tired. And I would like to sleep under trees; red ones, blue ones, swirling passionate ones."

"I exist. In thousands of agonies—I exist."

"If there is no God, everything is permitted."

Virginia Woolf, a literary giant whose deep introspection and exploration of the human condition have left an indelible mark:

"No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself."

"What is the meaning of life? That was all—a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead, there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark; here was one."

"I want to raise up the magic world all around me and live strongly and quietly there."

"Reality? Reality has never been enough for me."

Mikhail Bulgakov, a masterful writer and playwright, another troubled soul who faced censorship and persecution in his lifetime, with immense talent and a deep soul, fascinated me with his imaginary worlds that blend reality with fantastical elements, feeling both familiar and boundlessly expansive:

"But would you kindly ponder this question: What would your good do if evil didn't exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared? After all, shadows are cast by things and people. Here is the shadow of my sword. But shadows also come from trees and living beings. Do you want to strip the earth of all trees and living things just because of your fantasy of enjoying naked light?"

"Kindness. The only possible method when dealing with a living creature. You'll get nowhere with an animal if you use terror, no matter what its level of development may be. That I have maintained, do maintain and always will maintain. People who think you can use terror are quite wrong. No, no, terror is useless, whatever its colour – white, red or even brown! Terror completely paralyses the nervous system."

"Everything passes away - suffering, pain, blood, hunger, pestilence. The sword will pass away too, but the stars will remain when the shadows of our presence and our deeds have vanished from the Earth. There is no man who does not know that. Why, then, will we not turn our eyes toward the stars? Why?"

"There are no evil people in the world, only unhappiness disguised as evil."

And then there is indispensable Franz Kafka. Although I have shifted away from his writing in recent years and no longer resonate with it as much, he was a dear friend and frequent company during my darkest, loneliest, and most challenging times. His work, full of raw honesty and insight, offered a kind of companionship that felt both intimate and enduring:

"The way he can risk everything and risks nothing, because there is nothing but truth in him already, a truth that even in the face of the contradictory impressions of the moment will justify itself as such when the crucial time arrives. The calm self-possession. The slow pace that neglects nothing. The immediate readiness, when it is needed, not sooner, for long in advance he sees everything that is coming."

"I, for the most part silent, had nothing to say; among such people the war doesn’t call forth in me the slightest opinion worth expressing."

"You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet." Of course, there are many more authors who deserve to be on this list, but I chose these because they have touched my life in ways that are both unique and deeply personal. I hope that at least some of you will read to the end and find a bit of inspiration and insight in these quotes, just as they have given me. If you’ve made it this far, thank you. 🌹

[jreads]

Not sure if this is where we submit requests, but i’d kill for a fic where reader’s having debilitating anxiety attack in Jackson (like where your vision blacks at the edges and you can’t breathe) and suddenly a strong force is keeping you up and you look up and it’s Joel; and he’s concerned bc he relates (but you don’t know each other) and you take a fistful of his shirt and suddenly they feel the symptoms retreating - and that’s how you meet, and you’ve found comfort in each other since. :’)

Sorry if that made no sense it’s word vomit LOL

Also sidebar: unexpected constellations will stay w me forever thank you:’)

Of Memories and Mealtimes (Joel Miller x F!Reader)

Word count: 2.5K

Warnings: Mentions of blood, Mentions of anxiety and panic attacks, Mentions of death, Foul language

A/N: this prompt was so cute, I hope I did it justice!

It’s been getting colder recently. No snow, not yet, but the breeze has a certain nip to it, blowing burnt orange leaves to rest on the ground like a natural carpet. The days are grey, and the nights are long, and that creeping feeling has been looming ever closer recently. You’ve found solace in the comfort of the kitchen. The air here is warm and humid and smells of frying garlic and onion. You perform repetitive, menial tasks and it staves off—to some extent—the ever-present penetrating feeling of loneliness. 

Since arriving in Jackson, you’ve struggled to find a place, a sense of belonging. You’re coming to the conclusion that maybe you never will. You thought you had one… but that was a while ago. 

It’s selfish to think you’re the only one in this town with a painful past; it’s clear that everyone is trying just as hard to find reasons to get through each day. You’re not alone. But you do feel like it. Often.

Maria has taken pity on you, stationing you in the kitchens because she knows you like it there. Knows you like to watch the people sitting at tables and soak up sounds of laughter in an attempt to steal a moment of second-hand happiness.

It’s late now, pitch black outside, and your shift is almost over. You’re cutting fruits and veggies for omelettes in the morning: spinach, olives, tomatoes. There are maybe five people still sitting, a table of three, one woman at a booth, and a man sitting alone at the bar. Sometimes, you like to eavesdrop.

The trio are talking about their old lives. They seem to have found something in common, street racing. Moding their cars, evading the cops… back when you could just drive into a gas station for petrol.  One used to have an old Charger, stolen in the looting. He reminisces over how the purr of the engine felt, how the lights of the highway would turn to a blur as he accelerated. From the corner of your eye, you see the man from the bar get up to leave, dropping some coin on the counter. You used to like to drive fast too. When it was for leisure and not for survival.

“I’m scared.”

The familiar voice sears through you like a branding iron, bringing with it flashing images of memory. Fuck. No, no, no. Not now. 

The freeway is peppered with stationary cars, and you’re swerving, as fast as humanly possible, trying desperately to navigate the mess. The Jeep behind you is gaining, and the little boy in your passenger seat is rigid in fear. If you can just make it through the overpass, it clears out after that. Their car is good offroad, but yours is faster. You upshift.

There’s gunfire, and your rear window shatters. He screams. You use your right hand to push his head down. He needs to stay low. You’re almost there.

Another gunshot. You try to ignore the popping of the rear tire; try not to think about what it means. The vehicle swerves and you fight against it by correcting the wheel. It’s no use. You clip the side of an abandoned car, and your own flips. You’re thrown through the windscreen. It’s the last thing you remember before your vision goes dark.

There’s pain. But not from the onslaught of old memories. You’ve slipped with the knife in your distraction, cutting a deep line into the side of your thumb. It’s dripping down, coating your fingers in a slick red. Your heart is pounding out of your chest, lungs constricting so hard you can barely get a breath in.

“Could I take five?” you manage to gasp to the other lady. But you don’t even wait for her reply before dropping the knife with a clatter and banging gracelessly through the back service doors. Your vision is blurring, darkening at the edges and your head is spinning. It feels as if you might die. You’re going to die.

Your hand is now coated in blood and—with little thought—you try to brush it off with your right, only succeeding in spreading the scarlet until it’s all you can see.

You wake in a ravine. How long have you been out? There’s pain in your cheek and you reach up to pluck a piece of glass from it. The crash. The kid. Oh, no. Oh, god. You call his name, voice hoarse. No reply. Your legs are too weak to support the weight of your own body, so you scramble up from the ditch, back onto the freeway. The car lies a few meters away on its side. Scraped and destoyed. And beyond it, a small body. No.

You crawl to him, sobbing at the bones bent in unnatural angles. And the bullet wound through his chest. You scream. You wail. His lifeless form is so small in your arms, leaking blood over your palms. You were supposed to protect him. You were supposed to—

His body is going cold. Limp and lifeless. But you can’t let go. Maybe, if you just hold on tight enough, the force of your love can breathe life back into his lungs.

You’re covered in his bood, figuratively, literally, it’s everywhere. Stumbling as if you’re drunk, you cry so hard that the tears only blur your vision further. It’s been a while since you’ve had one this bad. If you could just get back to your house. God, why did it have to happen in public? You can’t see where you’re going, so it’s no surprise when you run into something.

No, someone. There are hands on your shoulders and a comforting voice, gravelly Texan accent. What is he saying? You can’t tell. You’re going to be sick.

Something blocks out the lights of the streetlamp. There’s a body beside you.

A fragile body, broken and empty. Leaking life onto cracked pavement.

No, but this body is warm. Strong and gentle. A calloused palm cradling your head into a broad chest, a steady heartbeat. Alive. This body is alive. You clutch onto the fabric of his shirt with desperate hands, forgetting for a moment that your own blood will stain the fabric. He’s speaking words, low whispers, but the sound of them vibrates through him and into you. He’s telling you to calm down.

But you can’t. How do you tell him you can’t? You’re choking on air, hiccupping in a way that hurts.

“Come on now, breathe with me.” He smells nice, like cedar and whiskey. You can feel him smoothing circles onto your back, the rise and fall of his chest as he inhales and exhales. You try to copy him, lungs spasming with the effort. “That’s it. Keep going.” You’re heaving loud, ugly, uneven breaths, but it’s all you can manage. Past and present are flashing before you, your own blood, someone else’s, unseeing eyes and dead silence, a thumping pulse and soothing voice. It’s getting easier; you’re synchronizing your breaths to his own. But as you lean into the comedown, that exhaustion starts to creep up behind you. You melt into him in relief, but he doesn’t shy away. “There you go. I got you.”

Pieces of your surroundings start to fade back into view. You’re under the awning by the barn, shrouded in shadow. He’s practically holding you up by himself, and you feel a sudden deep stab of embarrassment. You can’t look this stranger in the eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his shirt.

He doesn’t loosen his hold. “You got nothing to apologize for.”

“Probably got… blood on your shirt.” It’s taking effort to even form the words.

He laughs lightly and the sound is like warm caramel. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

The nausea is ebbing, but you find you don’t want to leave. Caught in his arms, you feel the safest you’ve felt in a long while.

“You should probably get that finger bandaged.” He steps away, pulling your arm into the light to examine the cut and you almost sob once more at the loss of contact. “I got supplies back at my place, if that’s alright by you?”

“Okay,” you say because you feel too weak to walk back to your own house alone right now. And also because in the glow of the streetlamp, you can see the rugged handsomeness of his face, etched with sweet worry, dark curls interspersed with shots of grey. You’ve seen him before. The man at the bar, so often alone. 

You’re shaking now, visceral, wracking shudders. He sheds his coat and swings it over your shoulders before leading you down the laneway.

His house is not far, a five-minute walk at most. He ushers you up the front porch, opening the door to a dim-lit living area.

“Joel?” A shrill voice calls down from above. 

Joel Miller? This is Joel Miller?

“Yeah Ellie, it’s me.”

A little girl comes bounding down the stairs, dark hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She stops dead when she sees you, noting the jacket around your shoulders, the blood on your hand.

“What happened?” she says, with a kind of fascinated wonder that comes naturally to kids. Oh god, she reminds you of—

“Kitchen accident.” Joel replies smoothly. “You mind getting the med kit, kiddo?”

Her big eyes blink once, twice. “Oh, yeah.” Then she’s running right back up the staircase.

Joel sits you on the couch, grasping your wrist with a tender motion so at odds with all the things you’ve heard about him. Then again, you never knew he had a kid.

“Is she yours?”

He doesn’t look up from your palm. “In the ways that count.”

The girl, Ellie, is back down in record time with a worn first aid kit that she extends to Joel. When he takes it, she looks again at you with blatant curiosity. You feel guilty for barging into the warmth of their home like this.

“Ellie, why don’t you go boil some water for coffee.”

“Can I have hot chocolate?” she asks, and the hopeful joy in her voice is enough to finally make you smile.

Joel does too. “Sure.” And she’s off once more, rounding the corner to where you assume the kitchen lies. “But don’t go putting extra sugar in it,” he calls after her. The soft domesticity makes you ache with loss.

“Well, good news is you won’t be needing stiches.” He pulls an array of supplies from the box: disinfectant, gauze, a bandage. “But you should tell Maria to take you off kitchen schedule for a couple days.”

“How’d you know I was on kitchen schedule?” 

“Lucky guess,” he replies easily, but you swear there’s pink travelling across his cheeks. 

The disinfectant stings and you hiss. He falls into silent work, and you find yourself watching him, trying to understand how the man in front of you is the very same that garnered such a ruthless and cold reputation. 

He breaks the silence first. “I don’t mean to pry but…” Joel fastens the bandage securely around your finger. “…if you want to talk about what happened…”

You don’t. Not now, maybe not ever.

When you don’t reply, he nods his head. “I get it.” You watch him cast a glance toward the sound of a boiling kettle, to where Ellie is. “Trust me, I do.” 

You sit with him and Ellie—quiet with a warm cup of coffee—until late into the night. Ellie makes a face at the smell of it and quips back and forth with Joel about how he can ‘drink that piss.’ The girl has a mouth on her. She’s clever, sharp-witted, and the banter between her and him seems to dig a needle and thread into your gaping heart and sew one single stitch into it.

Past midnight, despite your repeated refusal, Joel insists he walk you home. Seeing your own house, cold and devoid of light makes your shoulders slump and heart race anew. Joel seems to note the behaviour.

“You’re always welcome at ours.” You know you’ll never take him up on the invitation. From the sadness in his eyes, you think he knows it too.

There are miles between you. “Thank you.” He only nods. You leave him standing on the lawn.

From behind the safety of the porch window, you can see that he waits for the light to turn on in your living room before walking back down the street.

Maria has insisted you take a few days off. Damn it. Joel must have said something. You try to busy yourself in the garden instead, but the gloves fit awkwardly over your bandage. You don’t last long anyway. The sound of school children heading home hits your ears around 3:00PM, and within minutes, a small shadow blocks where the sun hits your face.

“What’re you doing?”

Just seeing her face is enough to put a small smile on your own. “I’m planting basil.”

“What’s basil?”

You laugh. Actually laugh. “You want to try some?” You offer her a leaf and she chews it thoughtfully. Gives it an approving face. A thumbs up.

“You should bring some for Joel.” The forwardness of her suggestion is almost shocking, but she seems like the type of kid who says whatever comes to mind. You like that about her. “His cooking is pretty bland.”

Two laughs in one day. This kid is like medicine. “You think so?”

“Mhm. You could come over now. I think he’s on patrol, but he’ll be back soon.”

You think about turning her down, just on reflex. But you like how it feels to laugh, just the way you liked how you had felt in Joel’s arms the other night. So you agree. Her smile is brilliant. 

Minutes later, when she loops her arm through your own, she says, “Hey but don’t tell Joel what I said about his cooking, okay?”

You promise.

Around 7:00PM, he comes through the door, a weary sigh giving him away. “Ellie,” he calls.

“In here!” She’s excited. You’ve prepared a meal: pasta, sundried tomatoes, and the basil plucked from the garden. She’s been picking at the penne with her fingers, unable to wait until he arrives.

Seeing the surprised look on his face when he rounds the corner makes you feel suddenly shy. “I wanted to do something to thank you for last night and, well… Ellie found me in the—”

“Joel, it’s so fucking good.” At this point the muscles in your face are starting to hurt from smiling. 

Over dinner, you actually start to engage in the conversation, and somehow you seem to get along like you’ve known each other for years. In tandem, they work to bring you out of your shell. Your voice is hoarse and face warm by the time you go to leave, but Joel stops you at the door.

“Let me walk you back again.” Your selfish streak is only getting worse. You say yes. You think you see Ellie’s face in the top window as the two of you leave, a devious grin on her face.

Conversation flows on the way, about food, wine, Ellie. It’s comfortable, familiar, but there’s something… 

A yearning, buried under layers of friendly formality. He walks you up your porch and you think, for just a moment, about inviting him inside.

But you’re not quite ready for that just yet. So, you rise up to kiss him on the cheek instead, relishing the stunned look on his face.

Shy again, you back away across the threshold. “Good night, Joel.”

He says it back, and the way your name rolls of his tongue ignites something long dormant within you. You think he might be looking at your lips.

When the door closes, you let out a shuddering breath. And for what seems like the thousandth time that night, you smile.

[holylulusworld]

Flowers (5) - Honeysuckle

Summary: Honeysuckle flowers represent true happiness, romantic love, good fortune, and sweetness towards one another.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: angry Bucky, fluff, love confessions

Flowers (4) - Daisy

Flowers masterlist

For the next few days, you barely left your apartment. Bucky and you spent the time talking about all the things you never dared to bring up.

Your relationship, his feelings for you, and the woman almost ruining your relationship. Dolores. 

At first, you wanted to go ballistic and beat the shit out of that woman. Bucky had to hold you back and calm you. He promised over and over again that Dolores didn’t stand a chance.

You are the only woman he wants, and the one he needs. He confessed his love and sniffled when you confessed your feelings for him.

One week later you finally leave the apartment to grab a few things for your upcoming trip to your uncle’s cabin. You want to get out of the tower for a while to spend some well-needed alone time with Bucky.

“You look pretty today, doll,” he complimented while holding your hand in his gloved one. “I mean…uh—you always look pretty. But today, you glow.”

“Aw, someone wants to get laid,” you giggled and pecked his cheek. “I thought last night was enough to tame the python in your pants, Sergeant Barnes.”

“You know how I get when you are close,” he smirked. “I lose all control and need to get my hands on you, doll.”

“You’re insatiable,” you retorted, but mirrored his smirk. “Maybe after our shopping trip. We will take my car today.”

“No bike,” he sighed and looked at the list in your hands. “I bet I can store everything on my bike.”

“I bet you’ll lose half of the things we will need, and there is no space left for me,” you pointed out, sticking your tongue out.

“Fine, no bike today.”

“We should go to Maria first. I want to tell her that she can pair me up with you for missions again. And,” you cleared your throat, “to make sure she knows that we won’t work with that red-haired bitch.”

“Did I hear my name?” Natasha poked her head around the corner, one brow furrowed.

“Nope,” you grinned at the redhead. “There is only one red-haired bitch I hate. And that’s not you.”

She winked at you and chuckled. “So, you’re good? No more fighting or rom-com drama?” 

“Shut up,” you grinned at her. “We had the best reunion sex ever.” You narrowed your eyes the moment Dot stepped out of one of the offices. “We almost broke the bed, the couch, and the shower.”

“Do you want me to hate you?” Natasha sighed deeply. It’s been too long since she had animalistic and crazy sex. “You win. I’m jealous.”

“Sergeant Barnes,” Dolores cooed, acting like she didn’t lie to you to steal your boyfriend. “How have you been? We have missed you during training.”

“He had better things to do than listening to your lies,” you bit back, and gritted your teeth. 

She chuckled, still believing there was a chance Bucky would leave you for good and find solace in her arms. “I asked Sergeant Barnes, not you.”

“Careful,” Bucky’s features darkened, and her disrespectful tone. “You caused enough trouble. Don’t believe for one second I will forget that you lied to me.”

“I-I don’t know what you are talking about, Sergeant,” she tried to smile her way out of the situation. 

“I’m not the man I used to be,” Bucky let go of your hand for a moment to tower over Dolores. She shrank into herself. No one faces the former Winter Soldier and doesn’t pee their pants. “But don’t think for one second that I will let you get in between me and my girlfriend. Get it in your head,” he pointed his index finger at Dolores, “I only love her.”

He slung one arm around your shoulders and guided you away from Dolores and her boring looks. “Buck, I think you made her pee her pants.”

“Good.” He said. “She deserves that much and more.”

“What is that?” You pointed at the cat Bucky carried in his jacket. He wanted to grab more things for your trip, only to bring nothing but a small white furball home. “Bucky?”

“That punk kinda followed me,” he sheepishly said. “It began to snow, and I had to stop my bike. I got off my bike, to wait for the snowfall to stop and then,” he looked at the cat poking its head out of his jacket, “I heard this guy meow loudly.”

“Where did you find him?” You pat the cat’s head. “Bucky?” You looked him in the eyes. “You didn’t steal the cat, right?”

“What? No! Someone locked him in a box and threw it in a dumpster. I fished the box out and freed him,” Bucky pleadingly looked at you. “Can we keep him?”

You looked at the cat, and then at your smiling boyfriend, already knowing the answer. 

“Do you already have a name for him?” You laughed as Bucky nodded eagerly. “How’d you name the poor cat? I hope it’s not snowball.”

“Alpine,” he said while patting the cat’s head. “He’s a fighter. A survivor and…he’s white.” Bucky wouldn’t stop smiling. He allowed you to carefully take the cat out of his jacket but followed you hot on your heels to keep an eye on Alpine.

“We will need cat food, and toys, a bed, a toilet,” you hummed to yourself. “Maybe we can cancel the trip? We need to take care of him first.”

“You sure?” Bucky asked while watching you play with the cat on your shared bed. “I guess there is a new man in town, huh?”

“We should order all the things we will need for Alpine online.” You watched the cat curl into a ball on the bed. He was still shivering, but he meowed happily when Bucky sat down on the bed. 

“Hey punk,” Bucky patted the cat’s head, but his eyes were glued to you moving closer to sit next to him. “How do you feel?”

“We can ask a vet to check on him,” you put your hand on Bucky’s lightly squeezing it. “I guess we now have a kid, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Maybe we can work on putting on into you too?” He smirked at your shocked expression. “Or at least try? I like trying…”

The End...

Tags in reblog.

[sunnycanvas]

As Life Fades, Sibylla remembers Baldwin IV

Warning: Implication of sexual violence and strong implications of internalised misogyny

Note: Although inspired by heavily historical events the fiction is still historically inaccurate. So please take everything here as a grain of salt

From former queen of Jerusalem

Sibylla

Sibylla signed the letter with a heavy heart, her hand trembling as she sealed it. She ordered her servants to deliver it to Conrad de Montferrat, though she knew deep down that it was likely in vain. Already stricken with illness, Sibylla mourned in the camp alongside her relatives, where the epidemic had ravaged their lives. The loss of her daughters, Alix and Maria, who had succumbed to the epidemic just days earlier, weighed heavily on her soul. As she lay in her tent, waiting for Conrad's reply, a sense of foreboding settled over her. Death was closing in, and though the thought of reuniting with her children in the afterlife brought her some solace, she couldn’t shake the sorrow for her kingdom. Why had God been so cruel to her? Had she not been the obedient wife she was required to be? Had she not remained silent when it was demanded of her? What had she done to deserve this fate? Why would God allow the kingdom to fall into Saracen hands? Her troubled thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a servant, holding a letter from Conrad. Sibylla’s heart raced as she demanded impatiently, "What does it say?" Despite her worries for the kingdom, her desire to reunite with her children in the afterlife was overwhelming. She wondered what her sons and daughters would be like in heaven, confident that she had earned her place there. The servant hesitated, nervously clutching the letter as he fidgeted with his fingers. "Well...?" Sibylla pressed, her voice sharp with anticipation. Finally, the servant unfolded the letter and began to read aloud, "I shall maintain the succession rule established by the former King of Jerusalem, King Baldwin IV." Sibylla's eyes widened as memories of her late brother flooded back. The atmosphere in the tent grew tense, as the other servants and maids fell silent at the mention of Baldwin’s name. She could see the grief in their eyes, a reflection of the loss they still felt for their king. Sibylla, too, missed her brother, but after the death of her son, she had scarcely had time to think of him. A maid, her voice filled with nostalgia, remarked, "Our kingdom flourished both spiritually and economically under his rule." Sibylla’s cheeks flushed with shame at the reminder of her own failures. Before she could dwell on it, her health took a sudden turn for the worse, and she collapsed to the floor. To her shock, none of the servant neither the maids nor the male messenger standing by the tent’s entrance moved to help her. One maid, her voice dripping with venom, spat out, "We were wrong to think our kingdom was cursed because of our leprous king. No, it was cursed because of you. You are the reason why our women are being violated, why we lost Ascalon to save your husband. We lost our lives and dignity because of you, and I pray God gives you the judgment you deserve for your sins." Sibylla wanted to protest, to defend herself, but she was too weak. Her life was slipping away, and the last thing she heard was another maid scolding the one who had spoken so harshly. As darkness closed in, her final thoughts were of her brother Baldwin, wondering how he would have reacted if he were alive to see the fall of Jerusalem.

Sibylla awoke, feeling groggy and disoriented. As she looked around, she found herself in a dark, desolate place. The only things visible were trees, their branches bare and charred as if they had been burned. The oppressive darkness weighed heavily on her, and she struggled to recall anything her name, her family, or where she had come from but her mind was blank. With no memory and no sense of direction, Sibylla began to walk, her feet sinking into the wet, murky ground. She wandered aimlessly, unsure of where she was headed, until she noticed a faint glimmer of light in the distance. Desperate for a sign of hope, she pressed on toward it. As she drew closer, the ground beneath her feet became warm and dry, and she found herself surrounded by clouds, a stark contrast to the darkness she had just left behind. Sibylla sighed in relief and continued walking, hoping to find someone who could help her make sense of her situation. Soon, she spotted a blonde, bearded man crouched down, playfully interacting with two little girls. He looked cheerful, chuckling as he gently pulled the girls' cheeks, his eyes filled with warmth. Sibylla felt a surge of hope and hurried toward them, eager to ask for help."Excuse me, Sir," she called out. "I find myself in a strange situation where I can't remember my name or where I come from. Do you happen to know how to help me?"

The man's smile vanished the moment he heard her voice. He stood up slowly, his demeanor shifting from warmth to a stern, almost detached expression. "Sibylla," he said confidently, addressing her by name.Sibylla stared at him in confusion, the name sounding familiar yet distant. The two little girls turned toward her, their innocent voices calling out, "Mommy?" Her confusion deepened as she looked at them, unable to comprehend what was happening. The man's gaze remained fixed on her, his expression now tinged with frustration and disappointment. He closed his eyes halfway, his tone sharp as he spoke."You seem as lost as we were when we first arrived here," he said. "But it's okay, you’ll remember soon enough... 'Dear Sister'."

Sibylla’s confusion quickly turned to frustration. Unable to contain herself, she yelled at the blonde man, "I came here looking for answers, but you've only made things worse! Help me if you can, or leave me alone! Why do you insist on complicating my life?" As the words left her mouth, a sudden wave of déjà vu washed over her. Baldwin, hearing her outburst, chuckled bitterly and shook his head. "Still the same," he muttered, his voice tinged with a resigned bitterness. Sibylla noticed how tired he looked, as though her reaction was something he had seen too many times before. It was clear he knew her far too well for a stranger, and that only deepened her frustration. "You look like you were expecting me to say that," she protested. With a weary sigh, the man replied, "This time, yes. I only wish I’d expected it back when I was alive." He paused, then added in a strained voice, "Sister." The word struck Sibylla, silencing her. The déjà vu grew stronger, and suddenly, flashes of memory began to surface, fragments of a past she had forgotten starting to come back to her.

"Annul your marriage. It’s what's best for our kingdom," the king insisted. Sibylla clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Don't you see that what I’m doing is for the best?" The king looked at her, shocked, as if she had just grown a second head. "No, you can’t rule not that you’ve ever shown any interest in ruling, anyway." Sibylla hummed, a slight smirk on her lips. "You’re right, brother. As a woman, I’m supposed to have no voice, only to be a devoted wife and mother." Frustrated, the king snapped back, "And yet you disrespect your king by disobeying his orders in front of everyone! What about your duty to me and our kingdom? You and your husband humiliated me before the entire court and the common people by refusing to appear when summoned, and by questioning my authority when I personally came to see him." He paused, the weight of his position evident in his voice as he continued, "I’m trying to stabilize the kingdom, but you and your husband seem determined to tear it apart. People are already questioning my authority because I chose Guy de Lusignan as my successor. It’s hard enough to stay on the throne as a leper, especially after our parents' marriage was annulled. They see Guy as a weakness, one that can be exploited against me." His tone softened, now vulnerable, as he added, "Can’t you show the same love and devotion to me, your brother?" Sibylla smiled, her tone almost patronizing. "Brother, God cursed you because of our parents’ annulment. I’m doing everything right, fulfilling what’s expected of me as a woman. You should be here helping me, not arguing against me. Why do you have to make everything so complicated?" The king, exhausted, sighed deeply. "There’s no point in arguing any further. I’ve made my decision—I am disinheriting you."

Sibylla blinked as tears welled up in her eyes. "Baldwin?" she whispered. Baldwin nodded, confirming her suspicions. Sibylla looked down, her voice trembling as she asked, "Alix and Maria?". The two girls beamed with joy. "Mommy!" they exclaimed, rushing forward to embrace her. Sibylla felt a surge of joy as she held her daughters, overwhelmed to finally be reunited with them. As she looked up, she noticed Baldwin’s attention had shifted to his nieces. His expression was warm and affectionate as he gazed at them, a tenderness that pierced Sibylla’s heart. She realized, with a pang of sorrow, that Baldwin had never shown her the same love since she arrived here.

Baldwin knelt down and gently called to his nieces, "Do you remember your promise? Now that you’ve seen your mommy, it’s time for you to go to the place where you truly belong."

The girls giggled and replied, "Okay," before hugging their uncle one last time. Baldwin welcomed their affection with open arms, ruffling their hair and kissing each of them on the forehead. "Go," he said, though his voice wavered, betraying his vulnerability. Fortunately, the girls didn’t notice and left .

Sibylla’s heart shattered as she watched her daughters walk away. Driven by an instinct to follow them, she started to move, but Baldwin gently caught her hand, stopping her in her tracks. She turned to him, about to question his actions, but Baldwin spoke first. “They had to go; they’d stayed longer than they should have,” he explained softly. “Children aren’t meant to linger in the afterlife like we adults are. Besides, I wanted some time alone with you.”

Sibylla composed herself, knowing she couldn’t question the workings of the afterlife. Yet, she couldn’t resist asking, “How are my son and mother?” Baldwin’s response was sharp and filled with anger. “Do you think anyone would want to see you after what you’ve done?” His sudden outburst made Sibylla flinch; Baldwin had never spoken to her like that before. Her eyes welled up with tears as she struggled to hold back her emotions. Sensing her distress, Baldwin pressed on, his voice cold and demanding. “I can’t help but wonder… Why did you do all of it? Why did you betray me and our kingdom like that? Was it because I was a leper?” Tears streamed down Sibylla’s face as she protested, “How could you say that? You’re my brother; I could never hate you.” But Baldwin shook his head, refusing to listen. “You said you didn’t wish to rule, and I accepted that,” he continued. “All I asked in return was respect, but you undermined my authority by refusing to come to court. Your husband publicly insulted me in front of both commoners and nobles when he refused to answer me, even when I was carried on my litter to ask why he disobeyed his king. I was already blind, my limbs barely functioning, yet I got up from that litter and knocked on his door. He ignored me ignored his king in front of everyone, showing them all how weak I was in controlling my own vassal.” Sibylla shook her head, now openly weeping. “That’s not true, brother. I thought I shouldn’t meddle in men’s affairs. Besides, my husband said you would separate us.” Baldwin, however, was unmoved by her tears. “If it were that easy, I could have eliminated my brother-in-law and forced you to marry someone else. Sister, you’re not naive or submissive, because if you were, you wouldn’t have tricked the council into making Guy de Lusignan king.” Sibylla’s eyes widened in shock as she stared at her brother. Baldwin met her gaze and continued, “Yes, I saw everything from above. I saw how you abdicated the throne in your husband’s name. You knew exactly what was happening; otherwise, you wouldn’t have been able to deceive the council. I watched as you dismantled my kingdom so easily after my death, as if my words and choices meant nothing to you. You knew how much I despised him, yet you went ahead and did everything I expressly didn’t want. Did I do something so terrible to deserve such disrespect from you?”

Sibylla tried to justify herself, but Baldwin had no interest in her excuses. “I tried to understand your actions, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t. How could I, a leper cursed by God, earn the respect of both my enemies and allies, yet fail to earn my own sister’s respect? You never stood up for me against your husband, not even when it came to my health. Back when my condition wasn’t as severe, I needed Tyre for medical reasons.” Baldwin paused, a bitter smirk crossing his lips. “Remember?”

Sibylla swallowed hard as the memory came rushing back.

Baldwin dismounted from his horse and approached the residence of Guy de Lusignan. He signaled the guards to come closer. "Tell your lord I wish to exchange Jerusalem for Tyre," he instructed. The guard bowed and departed. It wasn’t long before the guard returned, his expression clearly indicating that the news was unfavorable. Bowing again, he reported, "The Lord refuses to exchange the city, stating that it is of no benefit to grant such a favor to yourself." Baldwin was deeply offended by Guy’s dismissive response but decided to try once more. "Tell him that Tyre is essential for my health and that I am willing to trade it for the holy city of Jerusalem," he said firmly. The guard, visibly anxious, left to deliver the message again. When the guard returned, he brought another scathing reply from Guy. The people around Baldwin were astonished by the continued rudeness. The guard, fearful of Baldwin’s reaction, attempted to excuse Guy’s behavior by saying, "The Lord is not very skilled at communication," but it was too late. The insult had already been delivered, and the damage was done. In the twelfth century, such disrespect was intolerable for any king, and Baldwin left the encounter in evident displeasure.

Sibylla smiled as she reminisced, saying, "You could still walk back then." Baldwin was uncertain whether Sibylla was being nostalgic or attempting to humor him. His frustration flared as he replied, "The coastal climate of Tyre was beneficial for my condition, which is why I was willing to exchange the holy city of Jerusalem for it. Yet, despite how Guy treated me, you repeatedly took his side. Why did you persist in supporting him after everything he did to me?" Sibylla, trembling with pain, responded, "I didn’t understand back then. I loved him too much to question him." Baldwin raised an eyebrow and pressed, "Love? Or was it something else? Did you harbor a personal grudge against me?" "I am sure the man who you loved, for whom you fought against your family and gave up MY kingdom wouldn't even personally mourn your death but mourn the claim he lost through you" In her fearful state, Sibylla defended herself, "Please brother, don't talk to me like that, it hurts" "I listened to you when you advised me to marry William Longsword, and I also obeyed when you instructed me to marry Guy de Lusignan, despite not knowing him well. Just as I obeyed you, I obeyed my husband." Baldwin sneered, "Imagine if Father had refused to annul his marriage out of love. He would have been seen as a fool. You, however, have the advantage of being a woman here. Nobody would have questioned you, but they would have questioned me if I choose my decisions emotionally" "They had already questioned me when I failed to appoint a proper successor. I could have been ruthless, but I loved you too much to do anything that would deeply hurt you and therefore now I look ike a fool in front of everyone" He paused, his laughter fading into a sigh of exhaustion. "Honestly, I find it hard to believe you were so naive. If you were truly that submissive, you would have married someone else when I asked. Jerusalem might have survived longer." Sibylla looked horrified. "How could I annul my marriage with a living husband and marry someone else while he was still alive? I couldn't jeopardize the kingdom by angering God. I cared for the kingdom enough to call for the Third Crusade."

Baldwin retorted, "Our kingdom wouldn’t have suffered so if you hadn't crowned Guy as king again. Your husband surrendered the birthplace of our Lord because he lacked both the skills of a king and a general. Jerusalem wouldn't have fallen so quickly if it weren’t for Guy. Your husband’s incompetence led to the city's fall and the suffering of its people. We had our enemies boasting about their atrocities especially r**pe committed against women. Everyone knew Jerusalem would fall if Guy continued to rule. I publicly dismissed him while I was alive, yet you disregarded my authority as king by not appearing in court when summoned. You crowned Guy again despite the pleas of the entire nobility. Even our enemies were baffled by your choice. You went to Ascalon with your daughters to defend the city, only to surrender it to Saladin in exchange for Guy's release, but the sultan kept him imprisoned anyway."

Baldwin's voice grew weary as he expressed his frustrations. Baldwin walked away from Sibylla, standing at the edge of the clouds, his posture reflecting a profound sense of brokenness. Sibylla felt a surge of fear as she saw him like this, a sight that reminded her of the last time she had witnessed him so shattered after Guy's massacre of the Bedouin.Just when Sibylla thought things couldn’t get worse, she heard Baldwin whisper words she wished she had never heard: "At the cost of my life." The whisper brought back painful memories she struggled to forget.

Bedouin were a nomadic tribe under royal family's protection. They provided information about the Egyptians' movements. Guy's massacre of the Bedouin of the royal fief of Darum, who were under royal protection of Baldwin shocked him. She had first time seen him so broken and suffering from severe anxiety from at that time. He shortly suffered from fever and died. Sometimes Sibylla wondered if Guy's action indirectly caused his death. Sibylla felt immense guilt feeling in her bones now that her suspicion in proved to be true. Baldwin generally keeps falling ill all the time with new diseases. Sibylla believed that she was overthinking when she felt somehow her husband was related to it. Alas, her suspicion has been proved true. She really never wished to know about it."Jerusalem, the place for which I sacrificed my body and soul," Baldwin said with a wistful smile, reminiscing about his past. "I remember when I was a child, surrounded by physicians who rubbed oils on my body and performed bloodletting. I could sense something was terribly wrong, which led to my isolation. I lost all my childhood friends, and I came to realize that my condition was the reason for this separation. When I finally understood my disease, I accepted it, believing I was cursed. Defending Jerusalem was not just a duty but a way to escape the torment of my condition." Baldwin paused, looking at his hands. "I loved being a king and not just a helpless leper. Jerusalem reminded me that I could still be a king despite my curse." He continued, smiling once more, "I did everything for Jerusalem, the designated birthplace of our Lord, even at the cost of my health. Despite being advised to rest and relinquish my office, I refused." The smile faded from his face as he spoke sadly. "To have those very places taken away, as if my sacrifices meant nothing," he said, turning to Sibylla with a face full of pain. "I waited for you to seek answers so that I could finally move on peacefully. Everyone I met in the afterlife told me to let go. They advised me to accept that I had earned my place in heaven and it was time to leave. I could go if I wanted, but I truly needed an answer: Why did you do all that?" Sibylla began to beg, tears streaming down her face. "Please, brother, no more. I can't bear to hear any more. I was blinded by love. I thought I was making things right by following my husband's commands. I believed he was the best choice to rule the kingdom. Please forgive me. It hurts so much." Baldwin pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Is love the only justification for everything? Even at the expense of my health? I endured more anxiety from your husband's actions than I did in the Battle of Montgisard. How could you be so naive? You could have ruled alone, with no one threatening your power, unlike our grandmother, Queen Melisende." Baldwin’s expression grew calm as he faced his sister. "If you truly loved me, you would never have given up Jerusalem the place I protected with my life. I had hoped for a different answer, Sibylla, but I must accept that you loved your husband more than you loved me."

With that, Baldwin turned away from Sibylla, his back turned to her. Desperate to end their conversation on a more positive note, Sibylla ran after him. "Brother, please wait," she pleaded as she chased him. Baldwin began to slowly fade into the clouds, and Sibylla felt herself slipping away as well. As her final moments flickered before her eyes, tears streamed down her face until, with one last, anguished cry, she too vanished.

Meanwhile in Acre:

"So the queen is dead". Muttered an elderly knight. Another knight complimented the queen "She was a good devoted wife who shed tears when her husband was held hostage". All the others nodded their head in agreement.

"So what happens to Jerusalem then" questioned another knight. The question laid heavy in the air. Which was answered by solem reply

"I don't know"

[sugarplumkneecaps]

Sips of Solace & Soft Spines

Shadow & Sonic Slow Burn

C/W: none A/N: thank you so much for the love for this fic <3 It truly means a lot! I want to let you know that I won't be updating here, in this format, after this chapter. It has caused a great deal of stress that I wasn't expecting. So sorry! I will keep posting updates on my AO3 every Friday though <3 You can view the work here.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 (HERE)

Chapter 5: Teacups & Crusades

☾ ⋆･ﾟ:⋆･ﾟ☆。。☆。✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

The polished look of the espresso machine steam spout brought Shadow a great deal of pride. He had worked the rag on it until it shone like glass, a distorted reflection of himself staring back at him as Amy and Rouge chattered behind him. It had been a couple weeks since Shadow’s housewarming party and work at the Mean Bean cafe had been going quite well. It brought him a sense of belonging where he was able to focus on each task at hand with minimal deviation from the routine he had established.

Each morning, Rouge would accompany him on his way to work, talking about various subjects from her questionable interest in Knuckles to planned get togethers she had not bothered Shadow with to new vinyl being released. He had learned that vinyl had made a comeback after losing its popularity some years ago, which for once seemed to be rather lucky for him. Over the weeks, he had gone through the selection chosen for him at his apartment, fine tuning his own taste in music which he found was not much different from Maria’s. Melodies filled his apartment during a majority of his waking hours instead of the silence he once thought he would have preferred.

His days off were spent either going to the cooking class with Sonic, followed by their long training sessions (no longer cut short by surprise parties but rather ending naturally when the moon peeked its head above the trees) or reading. Tails had shown him the town library where Shadow was able to collect a small hoard of books each week that he would spend his evenings reading. Most of his selection came from the historical section, finding that he enjoyed catching up on events that happened during his absence in stasis. The routine was somewhat mundane compared to what he had grown so used to before, but it was not unwelcome.

Rolling his shoulder back, Shadow let out a soft groan as Rouge placed a slip of paper next to him with an order scribbled onto it. “Rough session with Sonic, huh?” She had propped herself up with her hand placed along the counter, the other on her popped hip.

“He’s an adequate training partner,” the muscles in his arm screamed as the stretch deepened, causing him to wince slightly. Picking up the order, he went to work placing the grounds in the machine before it let out a small hiss and spat the coffee into a small cup. He plated the drink on the pick up counter, hitting the small service bell to alert the customer of their completed order.

Rouge hadn’t moved, raising an eyebrow at his indifferent response. “Uh huh. I know you won’t listen to me when I say this, but try to not over do it. You’re not the only one using him as a punching bag.” The scene of their training grounds came into view within Shadow’s mind, the number of smashed trees growing each week. He knew not all of them were because of him, but he did recall Sonic’s comment about Knuckles using the same space to train, as well. He hadn’t quite considered that Sonic was making an effort to train with Knuckles on days he wasn’t training with Shadow. He acknowledged Rouge’s request with a curt nod, going back to business.

The bell above the door chimed as a familiar blue figure entered the cafe. Shadow turned his attention to Sonic, stepping forward to take Amy’s usual place at the register as she was on break.

“Hey Shadow! I didn’t realize you worked here with Amy!” he flashed a toothy grin at Shadow, waving to the bat behind him. “Hiya Rouge!”

“Hi Sonic,” she called, joining Shadow’s side before giving him a soft nudge. “I’m headed to take my break. You got this, handsome?”

Shadow gave another nod as she headed toward the door. He placed one hand on the counter, glancing at the touchscreen in front of him, greeting Sonic with a deadpan tone, “what can I get you.” An awkward chuckle escaped the hedgehog stood before him before he mirrored Shadow’s stance.

“Get me whatever you like, Shadow!”

Shifting his eyes up, he gave Sonic a slow once over. “No.”

“What? Why not?!”

“You don’t need caffeine.”

“What are you, my mother?”

The dark hedgehog let out a tired sigh. This was one of the rare moments that he silently begged for a rush of customers to swarm the place, giving him enough of an excuse to hurry along this pained interaction. However, this was Green Hills and the town’s idea of rush hour was tame enough that Shadow could handle it alone without issue. In a rare moment, the universe had found in its heart to be forgiving of his plight as Amy returned from break before Shadow had to continue to explain himself. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Sonic, “oh hey Sonic! What a surprise to see you here!”

Sonic’s determination was unwavering however, his foot tapping at an increasingly rapid speed. The pink hedgehog took notice, her demeanor shifting to one of understanding and then annoyance. Her lips thinned into a straight line as she stated, “decaf.”

“WHAT?” throwing his hands up in an exasperated manner, Sonic nearly fell over from shock at the joint refusal of both Shadow and Amy. Without another word, Shadow returned to his post and began making up a cup for Sonic. “Wha- I don’t get to have a say at all in this? What happened to the customer’s always right or whatever?”

“Not in this case!” Amy beamed, high fiving Shadow before punching in the order on the touchscreen. Sonic crossed his arms in a pout, taking a seat by one of the windows as he waited for his drink. Gliding across the seating area over to him, Shadow placed the cup of decaf coffee in front of him along with a small selection of creams and sugar.

“Black, decaf coffee. Similar to what I like.” Shadow bent down close to Sonic’s face. “But I brought cream just in case.”

Sonic’s peach muzzle shifted to that of a light pink before he turned his attention away, rubbing his nose in silence. The door opened once more, relieving Sonic of the unexpected intrusion of his space as Shadow lifted himself to return behind the counter. Rouge reemerged from outside, walking in tandem with a small rabbit. Amy immediately recognized her little friend, Cream, and ran to greet her.

“Cream! Oh my goodness, how have you been?” Amy squealed with delight as she pulled the rabbit into a hug. Cream giggled as she returned the embrace eagerly. Shadow peered over the counter at the display, still moving about to place used dishes in the sink. He had only interacted with Cream a handful of times, but it was enough for him to develop a bit of a soft spot for her. Many of her antics reminded him of Maria and he had a hard time turning down anything she had asked of him. She was adored by Amy and her entire friend group, so they found themselves to be in a similar predicament whenever she inquired anything of them.

“I ran into her outside, she mentioned having something for all of us,” Rouge commented as she returned behind the counter alongside Shadow.

“I do!” Cream beamed. She pulled at the small bag slung over her shoulder, taking note of each person present within the cafe. Once her count was finished, she pulled out four pastel colored envelopes, each decorated with stickers and glittery handwriting. She cleared her throat before stepping back to present Amy with the first one, “I am cordially inviting you all to my tea party!”

Amy accepted the envelope gingerly, buzzing with excitement. Cream made her way to each person, approaching Shadow last. An earnest expression working her features, her eyes furrowed in her own attempt to match his own usual glare. She held the envelope out to him, “Mister Shadow, I cordially invite you to my tea party!” Shadow let out a small chortle as he accepted the outstretched invitation.

“I’ll be there.”

Her expression immediately shifted to one of joy, moving forward swiftly to hug him. With that, she skipped toward the front door, only turning back to wave and exclaim, “I expect to see you all Saturday!”

With Cream out of ear shot, all eyes were on Shadow as he put the envelope into the pocket of his apron with a great amount of care. Rouge was the first to break the silence, a teasing grin stretched along her face, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you accept a party invitation so fast in my life. What gives?”

Shadow shrugged as he filled the sink behind the counter with soapy water, submerging the dishes completely. Unsatisfied with the lack of an answer, Amy pressed as well. “Yeah Shadow, I’m even a bit surprised.”

“And any of you would tell her no?” his tone flat as he got to work, moving the freshly washed dishes to the drying rack above the sink. His question was met with silence, only confirming his suspicion and saving him the need to justify himself. Sonic finally braved a small sip from the cup in front of him, trying to hide his reaction of disgust before adding a mix of creams that Shadow had brought him.

“It makes sense,” he pondered aloud, sipping at the coffee once more, satisfied with his additions to the cup. “Shadow may be cold, but he isn’t heartless.”

The compliment caught Shadow off guard, his ear twitching involuntarily before he tried to resume his task. Amy mumbled in agreement, apologizing to him for the insinuation on her part. Rouge watched Shadow in silence, her cheeky grin only growing as she took note of his subtle reaction.

Shadow slammed his hand down on his beeping alarm clock, shutting off the annoying alert to roust him. The day of the tea party quickly arrived and Shadow admittedly felt ill prepared. While he was among one of many that did not have to heart to decline such an earnest invitation from Cream, he still felt out of place. Swinging his legs over the side of his bed, he rummaged through his dresser to pull together a modest outfit, checking his phone as he did.

As if on cue, a text from Rouge lit up his phone.

> Rouge: Seems I won’t be able to make it today :’( give Cream my best!

That sly bat. He locked his phone and left it on the bed, irritated that his social anchor wouldn’t be present. The thought of her plotting this from the start crossed his mind; it wouldn’t be unlike her. If there was one thing he had learned from her over the years (and especially over the past few weeks) was that sudden unavailability seemed to be more socially accepted as opposed to having conflicting plans. She knew how to game the system and it just so happened that this particular instance had left him out to dry.

Trying to shake the frustration that had begun to set it, he pulled a dark sweater over his head, smoothing out its wrinkles and his own quills before heading to the kitchen. Working at the cafe had made him appreciate the different ways one could utilize coffee beans. Had his preferred method of consumption changed? No, he still enjoyed the efficiency of eating the beans straight from the bag. But he had learned to appreciate the aroma and act of sitting down with a cup of brewed coffee in order to savor the bitter notes. Making the coffee this way also seemed to make it last a bit longer, which gave him little reason to complain.

Having finished getting ready and preparing himself to face the music, he exited his apartment and headed downstairs. The invitation in hand read that the party was at a national park some ways away, which was no issue for him. A crude map featuring a simple picture of Green Hills with a line leading to a pink circle containing a large body of water was drawn on the page. It wasn’t much to go off of, but he recognized the curve of the river. He engaged his air shoes, shoving the colored paper into his quills for safe keeping as he made his way to the park.

Even with the somewhat unreliable map provided on the invitation, it would have been hard to miss where the party was to take place. Balloons and colored streamers hung from the tree branches leading to a picnic area which was equally as done up for the occasion. A long blanket lay atop one of the tables, an assortment of small sandwiches and various snack items filling the center with lines of teacups and cutlery placed at each seat. There were little name cards accompanying each set, the names scribbled down unreadable from afar. At the head of the table sat little Cream, dawning a glittery dress and a small tiara. Shadow felt a bit underdressed by comparison.

By Cream’s side was Blaze, who was instructing her on something Shadow couldn’t quite make out. However, she had Cream completely captivated as the cat would hold each bit of cutlery up, speak for a short while, and then move onto the next. Amy soon emerged from the wood line, some kind of kettle in hand as Tails trotted along behind her with a portable generator. Placing it on the table, she caught a glimpse of Shadow and called to him. “Shadow! There you are! It’s so nice to see you!”

No point in waiting by the sidelines, he supposed.

Approaching with a bit of reluctance, he watched as Tails set up the generator, plugging the cord from the base of the kettle into it. Shadow hadn’t given much thought to the intricacies of hosting a tea party out in the woods, but this crew always seemed to find some way to pull off even the most outlandish ideas. Cream took notice of everyone gathering, Shadow catching her attention immediately. “Hiya Mister Shadow!” she hopped from her seat, running over to give him a practiced curtsy. Shadow chuckled a bit before indulging the rabbit, giving her a slight bow.

“Where’s Rouge?” Amy asked, giving the dark hedgehog a quizzical look. Standing straight up again, he fished his phone out to show her the text from their coworker. Her face scrunched up, doing very little to hide the aggravation caused by Rouge’s no-show. “Of course she found a way out of this.” Shadow shrugged, returning his phone back to where it was before as he scanned the area looking for something, or someone. Rouge’s stunt only irritated him since he was usually able to cling to her at these social events. Now he had to find someone else to attach himself to. He had worked with Amy for a little while now, so using her as a temporary social anchor wasn’t a bad idea. However, they had never seemed to get around to small talk and he only overheard bits and pieces of conversation between her and Rouge. Most of their banter involved Amy pining over Sonic or her continually coming up with new events to host at her home. Shadow started to wonder if she actually enjoyed hosting all the time or if she was only doing it in an effort to get close to her love interest. Given who she got her dating advice from, it was most likely the latter.

That left Shadow with one other option, one that left him questioning his sanity for even considering it. Seeking someone like Sonic out was an insane notion, as he was obnoxious to a degree that was almost impressive. He always had something smart to say in response to any serious bit of conversation. One had to enter into every interaction with the blue blur with the patience of a saint... or be willing to punch him a few times to relieve some of the building tension caused by him. Shadow was personally quite fond of the latter, but in this instance he had found himself inadvertently searching for his rival for reasons completely devoid of violence. Amy was a good, safe anchor, but Sonic was predictable. As if to only prove Shadow’s subconscious line of reasoning, the blue hedgehog appeared in a flash, causing the blanket laid atop the table to flap about wildly.

“Sorry I’m late, Cream!” he huffed, an apologetic grin on his face. Knuckles followed closely behind, carrying what Shadow could only guess were more party supplies. For someone who claimed to be the fastest thing alive, Sonic seemed to have a regular habit of being tardy.

The small rabbit made no issue calling him out on it either, “you better have a good excuse!”

Looking rather alarmed and scrambling to respond, all Sonic could manage was to motion toward Knuckles as he approached the table, setting down the armful of stuff. “What about Knuckles?! He’s late, too!”

“I was here earlier this morning to help the rabbit set up. Do not pin your guilt on me, hedgehog,” Knuckles retorted, causing Sonic to drop his head in comical defeat.

No longer interested in Sonic’s attempt at an excuse, Cream dug through the pile placed on the table, pulling a wooden toy sword out and above her head. “Ah ha! Blaze! He brought it!” The cat moved to her side gracefully, studying the sword for a moment before giving Cream an approving nod.

“I believe this will do nicely,” she began, placing her hand on the rabbit’s shoulder and turning her away from the table. “Now, to do a proper knighting, do as I do.”

Shadow watched as Blaze continued her instruction, crossing his arms over his chest and doing his best to ignore Sonic’s approach. The blue hedgehog cleared his throat before nudging Shadow’s arm with his elbow. “You really showed! I’m almost surprised.” The dark hedgehog let out a small scoff, keeping his eyes fixed on Cream and Blaze.

“I’m not heartless,” he said plainly, quoting what Sonic had said earlier in the week.

“Ah- you’re right. Yeah.”

An awkward pause fell between them as Blaze finished her instruction, Cream’s wooden sword tapping either of her shoulders as the cat kneeled before her. “I now pronounce you Sir... Percival!” The rabbit giggled a bit as Blaze stood tall once more, giving Cream a bow as thanks. “Everyone gather around! I need to give you your titles!”

The group huddled around the small rabbit with varying looks of curiosity and glee, each taking a turn kneeling before Cream just as Blaze had as they were given their titles.

“Knuckles, I pronounce you Sir Gawain!”

“Tails, you are my trusty Blacksmith!”

“Shadow, I pronounce you Sir Lancelot!”

“Amy, I pronounce you- uh...” Cream looked around, eyes growing wide as they landed on the large body of water near the picnic area. “Lady of the Lake!”

Each member found their way to the table, the nametags at each seat coming into view as they approached. Cream had written each of their given titles on the slips of paper in the same glittery font used on the invitations. As Shadow found his seat, he took note of the nametags placed on either side of him. One, that read “Lady of Bats (Rouge)” and the other...

“What about me, Cream?” Sonic inquired, getting ready to kneel before her as the others had. The small rabbit hemmed and hawed for a short time before shrugging and giving him a wide smile, “you’re just ‘Sonic’, Sonic.”

The group stifled a joint laugh as Cream skipped over to her place at the table, leaving Sonic with his mouth hanging open and his stance frozen in a mid kneeling position. Shadow let out a rather hearty chuckle, having foreseen his rival’s lack of title based on the plain “Sonic” nametag placed next to him. The blue blur found his way to his seat and pouted for a time as the festivities kicked off. Without thinking, Shadow returned Sonic’s earlier gesture by nudging his arm and offering, “maybe you don’t need a fancy title.”

Too dejected to truly appreciate the effort from Shadow, Sonic shoved a lackluster hand towards the tag placed in front of his dark companion. “She even thought of one for you- no offense. But you don’t even like going to these types of things...”

“What makes you say that?”

Sonic thumped his head onto the table, rubbing his face about until he could turn to look up at Shadow, “oh c’mon now.” A gloved hand appeared between the two hedgehogs, fingers raising one by one as the blue hedgehog recalled each instance. “You had no interest in sticking out our D&D one shot, that I wrote specifically for you by the way. You practically ran away from me at Amy’s. Even at your own housewarming party you snuck off to brood!” Each memory tossed at him caused Shadow to wince and bare his teeth bit by bit. As much as he hated to admit it, Sonic was more perceptive than he gave him credit for. The only activity Shadow willingly participated in at this point was the combination cooking class, sparring match agreement with Sonic.

“The only thing you seem to actually like doing is beating me up every week!”

Yep, Shadow was a fool if he thought that Sonic was going to leave that bit out. Deciding it wasn’t worth it to engage with Sonic’s completely justified recounts, he took a moment to regain his cool, inhaled deeply and reached toward the center of the table to grab some of the snacks placed there. Placing a sandwich on his own plate as well as one on Sonic’s, he then placed a tea bag in either of their cups. Much of this went without any sort of acknowledgement from his brighter counterpart as the counting hand flopped onto the table with an audible thud.

“Tea?” he finally asked, hoping to get Sonic to sit up properly. Blaze was shooting daggers their way as she glared at the display and Shadow was in no mood to deal with her wrath. The gesture worked as the blue hedgehog fixed his posture to at least that of a slouch, finally taking note of the food on his plate and the tea bag in his cup, which he lifted to his face to sniff at.

“What did you put in there?” he said, the amount of disdain in his voice unfitting for his usual demeanor. Shadow placed a gentle hand atop the teacup to bring it back down to the table before pouring hot water into it. The water quickly swirled to a light shade of brown, the earthy aroma from it rising along with the steam that dissipated into the forest air. Whatever bickering Sonic had left in him was silenced as he bit into the small sandwich, no longer having the energy to continue to outwardly pout at his title-less tag.

Amy had been watching the two intently, ignoring the snacks and treats on her own plate as the two rivals interacted. She was used to Sonic’s theatrics, but Shadow’s seemingly gentle acts inspired numerous unspoken questions.

The party came to a close as Tails remarked on the time. Cream’s mother, Vanilla, was strict about the small rabbit’s bedtime, and the festivities had continued dangerously close to it. Amy shooed everyone off, insisting that they escort Cream home. “Leave the decorations to me!” she called. Shadow stayed behind to help pack up the remaining supplies, pausing as he held the “Sir Lancelot (Shadow)” tag in his hand.

“Cream really put a lot of thought into this,” Amy commented softly as she reached his side and started to get to work gathering items up into the tote that had been hidden underneath the table. He nodded, placing the nametag within his quills for safekeeping. Without a verbal response from Shadow, the pink hedgehog continued, “it’s nice to see you and Sonic getting along!”

The notion evoked a loud humph from him, his pace quickening to establish some space between him and her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She stopped dead in her tracks, placing a hand on her hip and scowling over at him. “You can pull that kind of crap with Sonic, but you can’t keep dodging everything everyone says to you.” The sudden abrasiveness from Amy caught Shadow off guard completely, throwing him off his rhythm of cleaning up. Dishes clanked together in a clumsy fashion as his grip on them wavered.

Seeing his slight fumble, Amy sighed as she relaxed her pose and brought her voice back to a neutral tone, “He looks up to you a lot, Shadow. And he’ll never say it, but I know he’s been enjoying the time he’s been getting with you, as much as you can’t stand it.” The last bit was an obvious jab, one that cut through his thick skin.

“It’s not that...” he hesitated, his voice coming out much quieter than he intended. “It’s not that I can’t stand him.”

Amy’s ears perked up, her attention fully on him now. “What is it then?”

Words failed him as he searched for the right ones to describe exactly what it was. Sonic drove him absolutely mad, that was for sure. Each cooking class they took together, the blue blur had an air of confidence about him that translated to gentle instruction as he went through the motions with Shadow. The silent, thoughtful gestures confused him to an annoying degree, so much so that he had to put it out of his mind completely to stay focused on the actual cooking. Then, each time they would race to the training grounds, Sonic kept up with each and every blow that was exchanged, stopping every now and again to offer Shadow water and then again to call it a night. He was annoying, stubborn, but more than anything...

“He’s reliable,” Shadow slipped out, his gaze elsewhere as his racing thoughts finally tossed together an acceptable conclusion.

A conclusion that even Amy was happy with. She smiled sweetly, grabbing the last bits of tableware from Shadow’s grasp. “That’s such a typical response, coming from you.” She sighed dreamily, “but I’d have to agree with you. My Sonic always makes an effort to be dependable!”

[zal-cryptid]

how would are main 8 friends/family's react to there toyfolk form

Most of them would freak out. Talking, living toys isn't exactly a normal thing, and in fact can be quite creepy. But here's the ones I know for sure would transpire if they happened:

Eleanor's step-daughter received the best Christmas gift she ever got in her young life that night. Catharsis. She would have shattered her even more had Krampus not stepped in and taken her away.

Sue... oh, Sue...💔

Paul's little sister would have cared for him, I think. She would have been the only one he could have found solace and refuge with. His old man would have had a heart attack, I think.

Jen...do you remember what happens to Chucky at the end of Child's Play? Yeah. I imagine her parents doing that out of fear.

Maria's mother would have locked her "son" in a box, thinking "he" was possessed or cursed. Maybe give him away to a priest or something to get the whole Annabelle treatment.

[bey0nd-1he-stars]

You owe me at least three days of rest in the infirmary - Solangelo

Masterlists

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Pairing: Nico di Angelo x Will Solace

Warnings: nightmares, think that's it

Word count: 1233

Summary: The three says in the infirmary with some change.

SEVEN | NICO

- I like being alone 

but I hate being lonely -

Nico woke up in the infirmary in the worst way possible. The 4 hours of sleep he'd gotten had been filled with nightmares and flashbacks of the worst parts of his life. The walls of Tartarus and all of the things that had bruised him down there, both physically and mentally. The claustrophobic walls of being locked up in the jar, Persephone turning him into a dandelion. The last memory of Bianca flashing in front of his eyes, Percy coming back with the statue of Hades, telling him how his sister was gone. The soft eyes of Maria di Angelo looking down at him as they walked through Venice. Camping with Minos along the river Styx and Cupid manipulating him in his cave with Jason. He still hadn't told anyone about that. Jason and himself were the only ones who knew what really happened there.

With gasp Nico sat up straight in the hospital bed. Cold sweat was running down his face and his hair was damp and messy. A few tears ran down his cheeks and he furiously whipped them away with the back of his hand. His breathing was uneven and his throat felt sore. A gentle hand on his shoulder made him jump and Will immediately took it away, looking a bit offended. He offered Nico a glass water which he gladly took and gulped down the cold, calming liquid. Definitely better than liquid fire from the River Phlegethon. He mumbled a weak 'thank you' as Will softly took the empty glass from Nico's hand. The soft thud from the glass made him jump again. Everything felt off. Nico was more tense than usual and he was easily frightened which he definitely usually wasn't.

"You okay, Nico?" Will asked and squatted down beside the bed, resting his arms on top of the mattress. Will's eyes were worried when they met Nico's and judging by the worry in his voice and the wrinkles between his furrowed eyebrows the son of Apollo was very worried.

"I'm fine, Will," Nico snapped at him and turned away. The dark hair hiding his glossy eyes.

"I can see that you're not. You can talk to me, Nico," Will said softly, reaching out to push away the dark hair from Nico's face but he moved out of the way. Will let his hand fall and Nico could sense the disappointment and worry in the air.

"Please... Just, just leave me alone," he stuttered and turned away from Will. He was still wearing Will's too big clothes but Nico didn't have much of a choice. They were comforting and still reminding him that Will wanted to help even if Nico wouldn't let him. The soft material smelled sunshine just like Will and as Nico breathed in the sent he calmed down. The thought of Will's sent calming him down irritated him but couldn't help but feeling a bit graceful for his kind gestures.

"Okay... Tell me if you need anything," Will answered quietly and then he stood up from the floor and walked over to his desk again, leaving Nico to himself. Nico looked up, shocked that he'd done as he asked. Will was stubborn and Nico was shocked that he'd left without so much of one single argument. He shook it off. Nico reached for the glass again only to realize it was already empty. His head was full of things and it made him lose concentration on every little thing and that annoyed him. He was always on point, ready for everything and anything. Now he couldn't even remember how he'd swept down his water just minutes earlier. Nico placed the glass on the table again and when he looked over he saw the drawing of Bianca lying there. Will had given it to him at 5 am and it was the most beautiful drawing Nico's ever seen.

He was thankful for it and would probably even ask Annabeth for a frame for it later, when he got out of here. This was his last day and Will had promised to let him go in the afternoon at 6 pm. Now the clock was standing at almost 9 am so he still had a few hours left here.

"You want anything to eat, di Angelo?" Will asked. He was standing in the door, resting against the doorframe. The sun shone behind him, making him look like he was glowing himself. Nico couldn't say something, his eyes stuck on the son of Apollo. He managed to look away and a faint blush came to his cheeks.

"It would be nice with some fruit or pasta," he mumbled. Will nodded and walked out, leaving Nico alone in the infirmary. The silence gave him time to think clearly again. He'd pushed Will away again. The trust, friendliness and care was okay but when things like this happened, when his past haunted him in his dreams. He couldn't lean on Will with all that. He'd gone through Tartarus alone; he could manage through this alone too.

The sound of the door opening made him cut his thought and meet the gaze of Will Solace. He had brought a plate of pasta and a bowl of fruit to the infirmary. Nico smiled softly. Will placed it all on a small table and placed it beside Nico's bed. Out of habit, Nico jumped back a little to make place for Will on his bed. They'd eaten every meal like this, in Nico's bed facing each other. And Nico enjoyed it. Having this little thing with Will they always seemed to do. Will looked shocked at the gesture though. Nico had pushed him away, not even meeting his eyes honestly. Now he wanted Will to accompany him while they ate. But he still smiled at the gesture and placed himself on the end of Nico's bed.

"Sorry," Nico started and looked down. "I didn't mean to push you away but... it seemed easier that way. To not let you in and have you deal with all the stuff that runs my mind. It's not very pretty, if I do say so."

Will softened and reached out to take Nico's hand in his and this time he didn't pull away. He didn't know why but it felt right.

"It's okay Nico, I understand, I get it. But I want to help you. I want you to know that I'm here for you. No matter what it's about, I'm here. You can talk to me or not talk to me, that's up to you. But I'm here," the blond boy smiled softly and Nico felt a bit more at ease in his chest. The anxiety from his dreams was still there but it seemed to lighten up at Will's words. Once again he had to thank the boy in front of him. He pulled a hand through his dark curls.

"Thank you, Will," Nico pulled his hand from Will's but kept a small smile on his lips. He reached for the pasta Will had brought him and stuck a fork in it. Will shook his head at Nico but smiled with him. The tension in the room eased and Nico seemed quite happy with himself. Another thing to thank Will for, he thought and put the pasta in his mouth with a smile.

[pls-let-me-out]

The Selection AU- 11th time’s the charm

Everybody knows Maria di Angelo. Everybody loves Maria di Angelo. And Nico, the only heir to all her messes, is sure he will forever live in her shadow.

When people look at Nico, they see Maria di Angelo’s son. And truly, there’s not much else to see. He sings beautiful songs, but hers were better-written. He does ballet, but her on-stage persona is impossible to replicate. He leads a lonely life, and people don’t know hers wasn’t much different.

Nico isn’t surprised when he’s called for Prince Will’s Selection. He half-expected it. So he goes to the Golden Palace where the Solaces live, and enters with his head held high. People don’t know who he is yet, all the feedback he’s received comes from the Academy of Arts, where he’s spent the last ten years of his life. He’s twenty now, and he will graduate in June. When he’s honest to himself, he admits to feeling scared of the future.

He isn’t the only student of the Academy who’s taking part in the Selection. There’s also Drew Tanaka, who used to be Nico’s best friend, in a time that feels very far away. They — Nico and Drew — aren’t the only students who had submitted to the process of the Selection, but they’re the only ones who have been chosen. It’s the Small Council who chooses the participant of the Selection, taking people from all across North America, which is partly ex-Canada and ex-US.

Nico sighs as he’s lead to his room. He feels weighted down, like someone’s placed an enormous rock over his shoulders. He should have known better than to let the Academy Headmistress, Alecto, submit him. His whole past will be brought up, he will be scrutinised in the worst of ways in front of the whole country.

Before he left the Academy — where he won’t return until Prince Will sends him home, or until the Selection finishes — Alecto gave him a letter from his father. Sitting on his bed, he turns it in his hands, without opening it. He hasn’t talked to Hades in almost a year, since his father went and moved to the Republic of Athens, on the other side of the world.

At the end, he doesn’t find the courage to open the letter. He places it in the nightstand and decides to undo his luggage. He’s doing great, until there’s a knock to the door. When it opens, a guy about as tall as Nico and with curly, brown hair stares back at him. He has brown skin, and a loopsided smile.

“Hi,” the boy says. “I’m Leo Valdez. It seems we’re suite-mates. I checked the other rooms, we’re the first to arrive.”

Nico gives the other a small smile. “I’m Nico.”

Leo raises an eyebrow, entering the room and closing the door behind himself. “Just Nico? I thought you’d have a surname. Are you a lord or something? You look kind of regal.”

Nico laughs. “I’m not. Di Angelo, by the way. That’s my surname.”

It’s the first time Nico has to introduce himself. Everybody knew who he was at the Academy, the same way as he knew everybody else.

Now, Leo raises both eyebrows. He has an expressive face. “As in Nico di Angelo the son of Maria di Angelo?” He lets out a low whistle. “That’s impressive.”

Nico shrugs, putting away one of his shirts. He had to buy clothes before coming, at the Academy he only ever wore his uniform and his dance-clothes.

“We’ll be meeting more impressive people,” he says.

Leo concedes. “True. What do you think he’ll be like? The prince, I mean. He always seems kind on the tv.”

Maria also seemed kind on the tv, and maybe she was, but Nico would always remember her screaming when Hades had to return to Persephone, his actual wife. Nico looks away. He can’t bear Leo’s hopeful eyes.

“I hope he will be,” Nico says.

On Sunday, all the contestants have arrived. Boys and girls alike, as per the prince’s preference. They are placed in the Tower of Dawn, in the east wing of the palace. At the ground-floor, there are the breakfast room, the music room and the relax hall, where they can simply spend their time doing whatever they prefer. There’s also a piano, which Nico approaches. He doesn’t have the time to brush his fingers on the keys, before Drew sweeps behind him.

“Di Angelo, spare me!” She says. “Not one of your depressed ballads again.”

A few people — who seem to have befriended Drew — snicker. A few others stare shocked after the revelation of his surname.

It’s not that Nico is ashamed of being a di Angelo. He just doesn’t go around telling everybody he is. But tonight, when they are presented at North America’s News with Piper McLean, the whole nation will know.

“You’re right, your sex-anthems are much better,” he replies.

Drew rolls her eyes. Truth is, Nico doesn’t mind Drew’s songs. He likes a few of them. Granted, none have been officially released, but the Academy is a small school, and everybody knows everybody’s work. Alecto even wants them to collaborate on something before they graduate.

“Don’t be a bigot,” Drew says, bringing Nico back to reality.

“So, you two know each other,” a girl named Annabeth will later tell Nico, once they’re having supper.

Nico almost scoffs. Know is too little a word to describe their relationship. Nico feels Drew like he feels his limbs, she’s been apart of him for the last ten years of his life. And Nico managed to throw it all away with a harsh decision.

“We go to the same school,” he replies instead.

Leo whistles, something he seems keen on doing, though it goes against palace etiquette. He probably doesn’t know, as Nico reasons.

“I bet her teenage years were a handful,” Leo says.

Nico grimaces. “So were mine. But it was fun.”

Partly fun, as he reminds himself. His teenage years are the ones in which he’s lost the most. He lost his Bianca. But they were also the years in which he ran up and down the halls of the Academy with Drew on one side and Rachel on the other, gossiping and sharing their deepest secrets and fears. Rachel is still friends with Drew, they’re still close. Nico wonders what they say about him.

A clap of hands, clearly to attract everybody’s attention. It works. Nico turns to the head of the table, to see a man on a wheelchair staring back at him, if only for a split second. Nico has a feeling he knows the man, thought he can’t place him.

“Good evening everybody,” the man says. “I am Chiron, and I will be your supervisor during your stay. Should you need anything, you come to me. I’m sure you’ve heard the rules already, but I will repeat the most important ones. If you abstain, you will be sent home. Number one: no getting physical with other contestants. By that I mean both fighting and having sexual intercourses.”

Nico blushes at Chiron’s words, looking away. He catches Drew’s eyes, who mouth at him, ‘Prude’. He clenches his fists, and brings his eyes back to Chiron.

“Number two: no relationship is allowed with the staff. By that I mean you cannot have physical or emotional attachments to any of the palace staff, guards included. Number three: what the prince wants, the prince gets. If what he wants is to send you home, you will be sent home. If he wishes to keep you here, you will be kept here. If he wishes to have time alone with you, he will have it.”

Nico’s ears start ringing. He’s sure Chiron lists other rules and explains how they will have to behave at the interview, but he’s not listening anymore. He can only think of rule number three: what the prince wants, the prince gets. Nico has never been put in a place where he couldn’t deny himself, but now he feels he’s faced with the harsh reality of life. Sometimes, there is simply no way out.

Dinner resumes, and dessert is brought to the table. Nico exists the room, leaving his new acquittances very confused. He needs air. He can’t breathe, and this damn shirt he’s wearing is too tight on the neck.

Finally, he reaches the glass doors to the gardens, but before he can even phantom what’s happening, his path is blocked by guards.

“You can’t go out at this time of the night, sir,” one says. He’s an Asian man, and for a moment Nico thinks of his father’s bodyguard, Frank.

“I need air—” Nico tries to explain. His voice is raspy, his eyes glassy. He doesn’t know how much longer he can resist.

“What you need is none of our problem,” the other guard, a woman, says. “We need to protect you. And that is what we’re doing.”

Nico opens his mouth again, but only a pained sound comes out.

“Let him through,” a voice comes from behind. “I order it.”

In his daze, Nico turns and vaguely recognises the figure he sees as Prince Will. He doesn’t care much, however.

The doors are pulled open and Nico steps outside. His lungs fill with air, more than he thought they could contain.

“I hope you’re doing better,” Prince Will says, evidently having followed Nico outside.

Nico startles. “I am. Your Highness. Thank you.”

His words come out robotic, but he means them. Without the prince, he would have probably ended up in the infirmary.

“You are the first contestant I meet,” the prince says, stepping closer.

Nico takes a step back, but all too soon his back meets a column’s marble. He’s trapped, and what the prince wants, the prince gets.

“Am I?” Nico says, more to himself than to anybody.

“Yes, I was wondering whether the quarters were of your—”

That is when Prince Will commits a mistake. He gets too close, too friendly, and Nico isn’t used to it. Alecto always told him: people will want to be you, or they will want to bed you. And Nico doesn’t want that at the moment, and there’s no other way out really. So he does the only logical thing: he knees Prince Will right between his legs.

[mantis-dea]

When a Good Deed Causes a Series of Unexpected Events - Chapter 1 - The Encounter

As a general rule in a large city, you should MYOB - Mind Your Own Business. Of course, who would've thought calling a man an ambulance and giving him your umbrella would leave to something called Stands. Definitely not you.

My first Tumblr post! My blog will be fanfics, mostly JoJo's Bizarre Adventure and maybe Overwatch. Not sure if I will take requests yet.

For this story, I don't know how fast chapters will be coming out, nor do I know how many chapters it will have. I do want to say that, so far, this story in progress has over 10k words.

It's my first fanfic I'll be publishing, and a lot of it is just me going with the flow. I'll let you know if previous chapters have changed and what changed. Feedback is welcomed!

As you stand inside the old brick building, you watch pellets of water race down the glass windows, creating a blurry kaleidoscope of colors. You hear a distant low rumble of thunder, a reminder of the powerful storm raging outside. It’s been three days since you last caught a glimpse of the moon, hidden behind the thick veil of clouds that have been crying down on the city. This relentless downpour had transformed the streets into shallow rivers, and it seemed like the storm had no intention of relenting.

But you were grateful for the shelter of the building. It's a familiar haven from the relentless rain—a place where you've found solace amid the chaos of Lapalton's changing seasons. You decide not to think too much about the storm and to enjoy the soothing sound of the rain tapping against the windows. It's a comforting backdrop to the cacophony of voices and clinking glasses that fill the bar tonight.

“Why?” The drunkard’s wording slurred, “Why? Why did she leave me?”

You continue to clean a wine glass with a towel, your focus on your task. Such outbursts are common among the last-call patrons, and you’ve learned not to take it personally. But when he places a crinkled hand on top of yours and starts rubbing, you feel a surge of discomfort. You try to pull away, but he tightens his grip.

“Sir, please let go,” you say calmly, unsure if he’ll even pay heed to your comment.

Instead, he starts mumbling about how he can’t find someone like you who’s good at “care.” You raise an eyebrow at his words, having not a clue on what he’s even muttering about.

When he finally notices the deafening silence, he releases your hand and stands up. “You’re too fat for my taste anyways,” he mutters, stumbling towards the door, leaving no tip.

No. Tip.

Bartending for the rich is great, they said. It pays well, they said. High end bar, my ass. I’m barely pulling $10 a night in tips.

Several months back, you used to work at a small hotel. Checking people in, reserving rooms, and even sometimes cleaning the questionably wet bed sheets. There, you overheard your coworkers gossiping about Maria, a coworker who quit her job and became a high-class bartender, making six figures. The words “six figures” were all you needed to hear. You quit all your jobs without two weeks’ notice once you surprisingly got a job at SPW, a high-end bar in one of the biggest cities in America.

That hype immediately faded on day three.

Sure, your salary did increase, but it surely was not the six figures you were promised. You know what did increase? Your hatred for the wealthy. They constantly brag about being rich, but they can’t spare you a few dollars? The rare time you do get tipped fairly is if they bring a party with them; they only tip as a power move to show just how wealthy and considerate they are to their group.

After cleaning up the bar, you grab your things, open your umbrella, and lock the doors. Unfortunately for you, buses run less frequently past midnight, and it is currently two-thirty in the morning. So, your options are to either take the thirty-two-minute walk or wait an hour at the bus stop that is about two blocks away where drug addicts hang out.

You trudge through the pouring rain.

Walking home in this fucking sucks.

You do love rain, just not when you have to walk through it at two-thirty in the morning after a twelve-hour shift.

Surprisingly, you reach your block five minutes faster than usual. The motivation to make it home made you walk faster. All you wanted to do was sleep.

In the distance, you spot a familiar sight – an unconscious man leaning against the aged brick walls, slumping over. You live on the less fortunate side of the city, near the slums. The disoriented drug addicts, wandering drunkards, and the frequent thievery and robberies make this area one of the worse areas to live, but the inexpensive rent of a decently size apartment is a major selling point for you. Luckily, all the crazies you’ve encountered so far have been relatively harmless. Still, you’re always on edge whenever you pass one.

If people were amidst a drug exchange or passed out drunk, you’d wait it out; unless they overdosed, they typically don’t stay for more than half an hour. However, tonight, you don’t care. You don’t feel like waiting for this one to get up and go. The weather is abhorred, and you’re drenched, cold, dirty, and exhausted. A steaming hot shower and a good night’s rest sounds like heaven right about now.

You proceed with caution and approach. You were planning to just ignore him. However, your bafflement got the best of you. You halt and squat down to stare at the young man before you. Despite the alleyway being dimly lit, the man’s golden, disheveled hair shines like a polished gold bar. He looks around to be your age – early 20s. His expensive-looking black suit and pants consist of many cuts and scuffs; it seems as though he got into a fight with someone.

 You lean forward and take a whiff.

“Well, he’s not drunk.”

You put a hand to his nose; you feel a light puff of air. Then, you pull up both his tattered sleeves. No track marks. No injuries.

Your eyebrows furrow. This man is mysterious and sketchy. Mysterious because he’s hot and looks innocent. Sketchy because he’s in a not-so-good area in this awful weather, unconscious of all things. He looks like he got into a fight, but he’s completely uninjured.

I bet he’s part of an Italian mafia. Like that movie, Godfather.

You shot up and stumble back when you hear a small grumble from him. You stay deathly still for a minute, readying to bounce if need be. However, the man eyes never opened.

You let out a small sigh of relief. You feel terrible as he sits knocked out in a dirty alleyway in the rain. You truly do want to help him. However, you don’t know him. You don’t know who’s after him. Why he ended up here in the first place. It’s too dangerous to assume he’s a good person. Still, you did not want to leave him like this. You place an umbrella over the man and call for an ambulance before heading in the direction of your apartment.

Your apartment complex is unique – there is no main indoor lobby where you could chat with the landlord and take an elevator up to your floor. No, instead, you must walk up a flight of questionably rusty metal stairs to get to the door of your apartment. Fortunately, you are only on the 3rd floor and not the 13th floor.

You unlock the door to your apartment. The exterior would fool anyone into believing that the old building is rack and ruined. It may or may not potentially fail a building inspection, but the apartments - well at least yours - are very clean. The complex is a bit expensive for the area, but much cheaper compared to the inner city, meaning there are more people like you and less addicts living within the flats. Though, the smell of weed does pass by from time to time.

When you step into your apartment, a familiar, rubber, black mat greets you. You bend down to untie your dress shoes and place them neatly in the small compartment beside you. Your studio apartment is spacious. Hidden in some parts of your white walling are large storage compartments. You had a white sliding door that disconnects and reconnects the kitchen area from the rest of the living room. A black metal staircase to the left leads you to your bed. Very spacious indeed, but dark. Your only window is the one next to the entry door; though, at least it’s a large window. Another feature located to the left of your door is the bathroom that harbors a washer and dryer.

Turning the handle of your bathroom door, you hear the familiar click as it opens. You reach for the shower handle and, after a few moments of finicking, water streams down from the showerhead. As you shed your clothes and step into the shower, the hot water soothes your tired body, and a contented sigh escapes your lips. Thoughts of your job as a bartender, with its challenges posed by wealthy patrons, linger in your mind. Being a bartender has its moments of fun, but it's also filled with frustrations, and you can't help but think about the high turnover rate in your line of work. People can be demanding, and the pay is barely above the minimum yearly salary.

You dry yourself off, slip on a pair of warm pajamas, and head to bed. Usually, you would sit down and do at least an hour of assignments for your classes, but you are not in the mood today.

Your eyes flutter open. Stifling a groan, you sit up and pull out your flip phone from under your pillow.

9:42 a.m.

March 11th, 2008.

Normally, you’d sleep for a few more hours. However, your kitchen is starving; you have not gone grocery shopping for the past two weeks because you’ve been so caught up with work. Your boss proposed higher pay if you willingly worked from opening to closing this entire week. Of course, you outright rejected. Then, he countered with time-and-a-half. There was no hesitation when you told him, “Bet.”

Even with your 5’2” stature, the loft area of your apartment is too petite for a proper stretch. You slowly climb down your ladder to prepare for the day ahead.

After eating an instant mac-and-cheese microwave bowl, you put on your shoes, and head out. As you walk down the metal staircase, you notice the absence of the young man from last night. A pang of guilt courses through you as you think of the condition you left him in. You’re hopeful an ambulance came to give him the care he needs.

As you tread by where the young man was, you suddenly catch sight of something. Something that smitten you instantly. Amidst the dark, dank alley, something in the distance shines with an otherworldly brilliance, beckoning you closer. There is no resistance; you mindlessly walk towards the light, until you’re standing right in front it. Your head tilts. It’s still unclear as to what it is; the intense shine blocks the view. You reach out towards the light.

A sudden, searing pain has you screeching at the top of your lungs. You’re quick to clasp a hand over your mouth to muffle your screams of agony. Your body suddenly felt heavy, and you began to sweat excessively. The world seems to be spinning around you at a rapid pace. Something is not right, you thought, just as your legs buckle. You crumble to the ground.

[journal-of-janus]

I just reread tsats. I HAVE THOUGHTS.

First off. Wills care bear beam, now I might be pulling a 'What do the red drapes mean' here, but if a power of his is shooting out so much light that it can harm things, is that a reference to how he's copping with excessive positivity?

"Offer him your darkness" that. That line I feel shaped Wills growth. Through his trauma, he's coped by being a source of positivity for others. So naturally he tried doing the same for Nico. But obviously, it wasn't working. Why? Because Nico wasn't wanting to give up the darkness. He embraces it, but he also grew past it. Will spent so long being a source of light, that when the one he loves doesn't want all that light? He needs to learn to bring down his own walls and share his darkness.

Three cheers for learning what happened in tartarus when Nico first went down there! I find it interesting why Nyxs domain is bugs. I think it might be because the bugs in question, moths, cicadas, that sort, tend to show up at night???

Nemesis being portrayed so differently somewhat ticked me off until I realized that she truly is the embodiment of ballance. Of course when the scales are tipped one way, she becomes the equalizer. Ballance is never in one form.

The prophecy was also somewhat underwhelming. But then i saw it was Hades who wrote it, and now I picture him hunched over a desk sobbing over a rhyme.

PERSEPHONEEEEEEEEE!!!!! ALL HAIL. Honestly, she probably set Wills arc in motion. Also I like how she seems to be trying to be better to her step kids. And the fucking flower thing. "Only blooms in darkness" and it blooming in Wills hand. Honestly, no one is perfect.

It was also weirdly refreshing to see Will not so perfect. Like, he has insecurities. Regrets. Pains and trauma. Wounds he will never heal, he tries to be positive but if tartarus strips you down to raw form? That insecure self doubting kid is what's underneath that stable facade.

I love how Nico is able to sympathize with Nyx in a weird way. She was born from chaos, that would mess up even the most resilient of God's. So of course she's obsessed with some form of order. And her getting rejected by the river Acheron for refusing to change? Sick.

MARIA AND BIANCAAAA. I didn't understand how it was happening, but then I saw that it was meant to be their rawest essence, and to see how much they love him. It shows how much Nico has progressed. A few years ago, he would have fought to keep them. But now, he's let them go. He's said his piece, and went on. Of course he grieves, but he's moving on.

WILL. SOLACE. WITH. PLAUGE. POWERS. Apollo is the god of light, driver of the sun, archery, music, poetry, truth, prophecy, education, healing, male youthfulness, ect. BUT, he's also the god of disease and plauge. So it's nice symbolism that Will, someone who copes with excessive light, hides away his darkness, therefore has that darker aspect to him. Also, I might he over thinking it, but if Will can shoot really hot blasts of light, could that show that too much of it is bad?

COCOA PUFFSSSSSSSS The fact is, they're a part of Nico. They always will be. But it's what he chose to do with them that makes them so important.

JUST- AHHHHDHDJRQKTHYSTJSKTSMTSKTSJTZJTTKDKYDSI5SKTUGLLUGDK5SJTMYDSJ5UW4I5RKYFRJWRRU23STEJTWI5KYEKTE5WUWJTSIKDTKYDKD5TWUSTUEIYID5I5EDITDIT4SJ5DKTYMDYKRK5EQHH4QKYRL7TK6EKRY

[aylacavebear]

She Thought She was Normal

Story Summary: Maria really thought she was normal, for most of her life. It was normal for people to have natural talent, she would tell herself the older she got. Many things came easy for her, and that was probably how their rivalry began when she was five and he was seven and she met the Winchesters. Little did either of them know that it wouldn't stay like that forever, both having a far larger destiny than they could imagine

Word Count: 2131

Please don't take my work. I'll post warnings for each chapter. Will eventually be 18+!

Warnings: Alcoholism, Hustling Pool, Injuries

----------------------------------------- Chapter 9

Maria spent the next three years traveling across the country, torturing numerous demons trying to get any information on the yellow-eyed demon that had taken her parents from her, but not one of them gave anything up.

Maria had changed the paint job on her father’s truck, her truck, to all black, wanting it to blend in as much as possible. She’d also given it a few upgrades over the years; better gas mileage and tweaked it so that it could go faster than it used to. She’d also installed a lock box in the bed of the truck where she kept her hunting supplies, as well as other supplies like spare clothes.

The nightmares had mostly stopped at this point, as had her grief. She hadn’t coped with it in the healthiest of ways, killing every monster she came across and finding solace at the bottom of a bottle most nights, whiskey her choice of numbing poison. Maria found that she had a knack for playing pool as well, eventually getting good enough to win games and become quite the pool shark. She used the money for motel rooms when she felt the need for a bed and a hot shower.

She’d found herself back in Sioux Falls, South Dakota one day in late August, driving with no particular destination in mind at the time. When she saw the familiar buildings from a life that seemed to have almost been a dream, she sighed as she turned down a side street, mindlessly heading to her Uncles, more muscle memory than anything. 

His place looked the same as she’d remembered it as she pulled into the driveway, turning off the engine. She hadn’t spoken to him since that night they’d burned her father’s body, the memory played in her mind for a moment of the night she’d driven away. A heavy sigh left her lips as she got out of her truck.

“Maria?” a voice asked from the doorway of his house.

She’d been looking at the ground, moving somewhat slowly when she heard his voice, “Hey Uncle Bobby,” she said with a small smile as she looked up at him.

For a moment all he could do was stare at her, relief, shock, anger, and curiosity all mixed in his expression. She was an adult now, twenty, and her birthday was only a few months away. She was in front of him, embracing him in a hug before he could even speak, “Sorry I never called,” she told him quietly.

“I’m just glad you’re okay, kid,” he told her, hugging her back before the two went inside, “How you been?” he asked.

They sat in his living room, spending the next several hours catching each other up on their lives over the time she’d been gone. He didn’t even mind her having a couple of beers while he drank whiskey. When she excused herself, he called John, asking him to pass along to the boys that she had shown up at his place and was okay. It was the least he could do, knowing they’d been just as worried as he had been. John thanked him and agreed before the two hung up. Bobby debated asking her about the book she’d taken out of his safe but chose not to. He had also chosen to keep the package that had shown up at his doorstep four months after she disappeared, a secret as well. The instructions stated not to give it to her until she was twenty-one.

“So, you get a new number?” he asked when she returned.

“Yeah. I’ll leave it with you before I head out tonight,” she replied, sitting down on the couch and getting comfortable again.

“You’re not staying?” he asked, sighing.

“No. Heard about a werewolf a couple states over,” she replied casually, sipping her beer.

“Can you make me a promise kid?” he asked, looking over at her.

“What’s that?” she said, tilting her head a bit.

“Will you at least stop by again, for your next birthday? You’ll be twenty-one. Least I can do is get you something,” he replied with a small smile.

“I don’t see why not,” she chuckled.

“Wish you were staying longer,” he sighed.

“I’ll try not to be such a stranger,” she replied, looking out into the room at nothing in particular.

“You still didn’t promise,” he told her, raising an eyebrow.

She looked over at him and rolled her eyes, “Fine, Uncle Bobby, I promise I’ll be here on my twenty-first birthday,” she said, slightly sarcastically, but had meant it.

That had at least made Bobby feel better. He knew she’d keep her word, or at least hoped she would. She stopped drinking once her beer was gone though, needing to sober up before she headed out in a couple hours. Maria enjoyed getting to catch up with her Uncle and was thankful none of the Winchesters were there, wanting to leave before they had a chance to show up, even if they had no intentions to. 

The two bid each other farewell before she drove away while Bobby watched her from the driveway. He could tell she had shut her emotions away and had pulled away from everyone she’d known, even after three years. She’d left out how she’d turned to whiskey most nights, drowning out the memories and the pain just so she could sleep without the nightmares of that week. She hadn’t wanted him to worry but had no idea he saw through the facade she had put on in his presence. He didn’t know the details, but he’d been through enough grief in his life to have an idea of how she was coping with it. 

She took care of the werewolf, barely breaking a sweat, but was glad she’d gotten a motel room for the night. It had been an easy enough kill but the blood splatter required a shower and a change of clothes. As she sat on the bed, brushing her damp hair, her mind wandered to Sammy and Dean for a moment. She hadn’t thought about them since that night. Her gaze fell on nothing as she remembered the two of them, briefly curious as to what they were up to. A small smile came to her face, thankful she hadn’t asked her Uncle for their numbers. 

“Another day, another dead monster,” she said quietly before heading to bed for the night.

Over the next several months, past the holidays and into the new year, she was still interrogating demons for any clue on the yellow-eyed demon. She wanted to know not only who he was but what he was, knowing he wasn’t a normal demon. Maria also took care of random cases along the way. Her phone though, had gotten destroyed on the last case she took, and that wasn’t the only thing that had taken a bit of a beating. 

She groaned as she pulled off her flannel, then her shirt, barely able to raise her arm high enough to get it off after fixing her other dislocated shoulder against the motel wall. Her other arm had a gash four inches long on it. Thankfully it wasn’t deep. She went to the bathroom to clean up her wounds. As she glanced in the mirror she noticed the bruise forming on her cheek and her split lip.

“Stupid demon,” she grumbled as she turned on the warm water and grabbed a washcloth.

Maria cleaned up her wounds before bandaging her arm. Her whole body was sore after that fight and all she wanted to do was sleep, not even having the energy to drink that night. 

Again, she’d lost track of time, completely forgetting her promise to her Uncle, following yet another lead on the yellow-eyed demon. Before she knew it, another almost two years had passed. She was twenty-three, only a couple of months before her twenty-fourth birthday, and found herself in Palo Alto, California. The drive she had been on had been a long one so she got a motel room for the night before heading to the local bar near the college. 

It was a Friday night and the place was packed with college kids, most of them around her age. She wasn’t paying much attention to any of them when she heard a voice to her left, “Sis?’

She felt goosebumps run down her body hearing that word before she turned to look at the man who had spoken to her. His hair was short, but also with a little length to it, and even with his age, she saw that little twelve-year-old boy in his eyes, “Little brother?” she asked, wanting to make sure.

He smiled and fought back tears at seeing her. There was no mistaking that jet-black hair of hers, even if it was longer now, laying over a red flannel, even if it wasn’t the same one from their childhood, “How have you been?” he asked, pulling her up and into a hug. 

She was a bit shocked at his strength and his height. He was almost a foot taller than she was now when he’d always been shorter than her before.

“Who’s this?” a female voice said before Maria could answer his question.

Sam let her go, and wiped away the couple of tears near his eyes as he put his arm around the woman who was now next to him, “Jessica, this is Maria, my little sister,” he told her.

Jessica smiled at her, “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she told Maria before she pulled her into a hug.

Maria was surprised but hugged the woman back, “Uh, nice to meet you,” Maria replied, before she pulled away from the hug, fighting all the emotions that had begun to surface.

Sam kissed Jessica on the cheek as Maria just watched the two of them curiously for a moment before the woman walked over to a group of people a few tables away, “So, how you been sis?” Sam asked her again as he sat down at her table.

“Uh, good…” she replied before she too sat down across from him and looked up at him.

“What brings you to Cali?” he asked her, sipping the beer he’d brought over with him.

“Honestly, not sure really. I was just driving and needed to stop for the night,” she replied, and glanced around the bar, looking for his brother and father.

“They’re not here,” he told her, figuring out quickly who she was looking for.

She looked back at him and tilted her head a bit, confused, “You’re hunting alone?” she asked.

Sam laughed a bit at that one, “I stopped hunting. I’m going to college to be a lawyer,” he told her, “Jess is the love of my life,” he added, looking over at the woman and smiling.

Maria glanced at her before looking back at Sam, “Well, you’re smart enough for it,” she chuckled.

Jessica gave the two space for the night as they caught up on each other’s lives. Sam explained that he and John had gotten into numerous fights over the last few years when it came to Sam wanting to go to college and stop hunting. It had eventually boiled over to where John had told him that if he left, he wasn’t to come back, and he hadn’t looked back, especially after he’d met Jessica, whom he called Jess.

Maria stayed in town over the weekend, hanging out with both Sam and Jess. It was a feeling of family she hadn’t had in a long time and the two easily slipped back into their routine of being siblings. Sam had explained that he hadn’t even spoken to his brother or father since he left. That had made her feel a little more comfortable about staying the weekend. Jess had taken several pictures with her phone of the two of them, and even some with the three of them. Sunday night had come too quickly for the three of them as they said their goodbyes. Sam made sure to write his number down for her and hide it in her glove box, even if she had programmed it into her phone.

“Hey, come back by around Halloween. I’m taking my tests next semester and it’d be nice to see you again,” Sam told her while she sat in the driver's seat of her truck.

“I’ll do my best, but I’m not making any promises,” she replied, chuckling a little.

“And next time, you can stay with me and Jess. She adores you,” he chuckled.

She rolled her eyes, “We’ll see, okay?” she replied.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” he said before she drove off, heading who knew where to fight god only knew what.

----------------------------------------- Chapter 10

Tag List: @deans-spinster-witch @kazsrm67

Link to the master list for this story.

[imhereandexist]

Chapter 2: unamed Sonic a.u pt 1

Maria ended up being right. Sonic and Tails both got lots of therapy. In the lab, they were stuck with physical therapy for at least a few hours a day as a start. They focused on getting balance back, then walking…and just in general motor skills a child already knew. If they weren't dealing with Physical Therapy, then it was talking to a therapist about what had happened. Well, more drawing out what happened. He was told they couldn't tell anyone what was talked or drawn between them. Not even Shadow or Amy would be told. And if they weren't doing that, then it was the exhausting vocal exercises to get their speech back.

It was just that and after months of enduring the physical therapy sessions and managing to walk and do things on their own. It was over, for the time being. Maria had a wheel built for them to run on if they ever got too much energy. So that helped with the running therapy. As for the vocal therapy, neither liked it. They would have opted out, but it was apparently something the king and queen wanted them to go through.

When they were cleared to leave the lab and get their own rooms. Tails took the workshop in the castle that had been built for him. Sonic took the room next door. He did note that Amy and Shadow looked upset about his choice. They gave a smile, but it never reached their eyes. Tails seemed to regain some lost knowledge from the past they lost. He made the wall between their rooms into a bedroom. It had a window and their beds on either side with the doors that would slide in and out of the wall. They could sleep separately again, but didn't feel safe being in the open.

It was apparently another thing that bothered Amy and Shadow. They would go to his room at night but never found the bed or him. The morning came and they found him with Tails. The fox was always working on things that no one would notice. He would just be sleeping in the window. Neither did anything to warrant attention. He was aware most of the servants here knew that and talked.

He caught wind of a conversation while getting a meal for him and Tails. Two servants commented that they never heard the two new residents speak. They were always out of the way, out of sight and out of everyone’s mind until the therapists showed up. Afterwards, it was eerily quiet in the room.

It was when the castle fell silent, that he and Tails spoke. Never indoors though. They used their bedroom window to leave and head far off the castle grounds. Evading guards with ease and finding solace in the forest around them. They talked freely there. Or just finally relaxed and let nature be the only sound for them. If anything, it felt as if they were taken from an iron cage and stuck inside a gilded cage. The difference was the door was open. Neither dared to make a peep or move a single pace out of line. Not until the night fell. No eyes were awake then.

This morning was no different. After performing the vocal exercises with Tails and being told that they needed to start actually talking. Otherwise, these exercises were pointless. The therapist left Tails's workshop and closed the door. The two looked at one another. They knew they had to, but did they risk it?

“Do…we break the silence?” Tails whispered, getting closer to him. “If we do, will we get in trouble?”

Sonic shrugged, “I've no idea.” He looked at the door. “But we talk in the forest.”

“True, they don't know that part though.” The fox looked at his project. “Also, I managed to make those inhibitors you asked for.”

He set two golden bracelets down and a strange pair of golden foot gear for him. He pulled the gear closer and looked at Tails. The feet inhibitors looked like sandals that wrapped around his legs. His confusion was clear as day. His brother smiled and showed how he had to put them on. He did as Tails said. He didn't have these to control the chaos energy. It was to make sure the thing inside him never broke loose. It helped manage the energy that built up when he was severely stressed out. Once that energy built up enough then he would see the changes and start to lose himself. These would take that energy and store it to ensure he would never let it happen again.

“And don't worry about the energy build up. When you run, these will give partial energy to you instead of taking it.” Tails told him. “That way, you can always have space to store the extra energy that builds up.”

Sonic went to thank him, but they heard steps coming and went silent. Tails was back to working on the project from before the inhibitors. He moved to the window and looked out. Pretending to relax. The door opening had his ears listen closely. It was Shadow and Amy. They said hello to Tails, then moved on to him. He looked at them and nodded his head to them. They were the ones in charge.

He was taken at some point to their room and given an extremely extravagant outfit. Black Silk plants, some red silk that had gold tassels with a gold, garnet encrusted belt that was used to keep it all on him. There was even a thick gold chain that hung over the right leg with a garnet attached to another tassel made from silk. It was already a lot, but then Shadow and Amy added two arm cuffs that had rubies this time hanging from them. There was a golden neckpiece he had to wear to keep the red silk on his shoulders, otherwise it would fall off. The only piece he found somewhat okay was the golden headband. It was just two thick golden bands that had some flower with a ruby at the center.

“I'm glad you like the outfit. We were worried you'd never wear it.” Amy saw the inhibitors. “Oh, you even added some gold pieces.”

Tails and Sonic exchanged a quick glance. The fox looked proud that the disguise was actually working. It was so good that it fooled a queen. Sonic felt Shadow touch one and saw him nod.

“They look good on you,” He smiled, caressing his wrist. “Gold suits you.”

“We came to tell you good news. We finally found some teachers that can give you lessons!” Amy put her hands on his shoulders. “You'll learn Manners, Etiquette, Good Posture…and in general, how to be a Queen, like me!”

“I know it'll be hard, but I know you'll pass with flying colors.” Shadow crossed his arms. “I would have married you right away, but these are the rules we follow.”

“Don't worry. Sonic will not only pass, but when he throws an event to showcase all he learned. He'll be more than ready to be at our side.” Amy pulled her hands off him. “And then, we can go on a date~”

Sonic looked between them and then at Tails for a quick moment. He then looked back at the two before him.

“I look forward to when you finish your lessons, Sonic.” Shadow smiled at him. “Don't keep us waiting too long.”

They left Tail's workshop. Once the door shut, Tails looked at him. Sonic looked back at him. The silence spoke loud. That was good news? The good news was him getting more things to do during the day? On top of Vocal, Emotional and Mental Therapy, they were going to add Royalty Lessons?! He knew the contract of marriage between him and Shadow existed. He could recall feeling the emotional desire and love from when they were kids to when he was a prisoner. However, that was before Eggman broke him. He didn't know how he felt anymore. It was hard to know when intense emotion awoke that thing inside him.

Tails walked over and sat by him, “What do we do?”

“There is no going back on a contract my parents signed,” Sonic whispered, looking at Tails. “I'll go through with it, but they are asking because they think I’ll revert back to who I was originally or at least, don't care who I am and just want to be with me.” He looked out the window at the forest that lay beyond the wall. “I like them back, but I don't know if I can return those feelings anymore for Shadow, let alone for Amy properly.”

“Well, our therapist said to tell people how we feel. Maybe…we should?”

“And have them throw us out?” Sonic whispered, getting closer. “If we aren't good, we run the risk that they will get mad and we'll be…taken back there.”

The fox shuddered and looked at the door. Sonic’s eyes followed his brothers. Both waiting in silence. No one came, but the two looked at one another. They knew that it was probably the PTSD talking. Shadow wouldn't have thrown them out. Instead, he would just assure them that they just needed more time to heal. The voices of the past though that had them believe Eggman was the same as Shadow. The same voice that wanted to trust that they would be spared also didn't trust those with power. Power corrupted others. Even if they knew it wasn't true for Shadow and Amy. The voice wouldn't shut up.

“I guess…we have no choice.” The fox whispered. “We have to be good, be silent and do nothing…”

“Until night falls,” Sonic finished and let his brother get back to work.

He was just going to stay where he was until his new schedule started tomorrow. The rest of his day progressed the same. Until the sunset. He and Tails could hear everyone turn in and once more. They went to their bedroom and closed the walls in. They were out through the window and in the woods. Free from the walls, free from prying eyes and ears. Sonic let Tails sleep first. He stayed awake to make sure they were always safe. They just wanted air and he was sure that this would be the only time they would ever be given the chance to just process everything at their pace.

Sonic knew everyone in the castle wanted what was best for them. They wanted to help them, which is why they had them in therapy. It's why they had them eating hearty meals three times a day. It was clear through their actions how much they wanted to help. They just didn't know how far that help would go and if they would get too frustrated with them one day and give up on them. Time flew by and the sky turned blue. A sign that they had to get back. He ran back and tucked Tails into bed. Then he turned in. Not for long. When the sun completely rose, a loud knock woke him up. Another and a voice saying it was time for his lessons got him up.

He walked out onto his side of the combined rooms. The door opened and soon a bunch of well dressed scholarly line up of teachers walked in. A woman in a dress with a corset so tight around her waist that she looked thinner than he did. Her glasses didn't hide the judgemental expression she wore while looking him over. A man in a suit walked over and around him. Eyeing him entirely before scoffing as he returned to stand by the woman. Another guy walked over to him and also eyed him as he circled him. Thin, with a suit most would see at a formal dance. The group looked the entire same and dressed in dark colors. Shadow and Amy walked in and proudly walked over to his side.

“Sonic, meet your teachers for your lessons,” Amy said. “Everyone, this is Sonic. We hope you can help him achieve the success that you helped me obtain.”

“No offense, your majesty, but…I feel as if I am looking at an animal.” One said, scowling at Sonic. “One who doesn't seem to understand what indecency is. Does he not cover his chest?”

“Sonic will learn from you what it means. That's why we hired you.” Shadow crossed his arms. “Be aware that he is still in therapy for trauma and PTSD.”

“Yes your majesty,” They bowed.

Once Shadow and Amy left. Most of the teachers left to prepare the lessons. All except the woman in the tight corset dress.

“We will start with properly dressing yourself,” She walked over and forced his head. “And keep your back straight, with your head up. Confidence is the key when appearing before those of high standing.”

Sonic heard Tails waking up and wished he could honestly just disappear. Sadly, he had a full day with people that were clearly sticklers for rules and regulations. He knew they would be a part of this all, but he wasn't sure if he could mentally handle it right now. It felt too soon. She walked around him and scowled at the tail.

“Well, I suppose I can't do much about…your fur. We'll make do. Now to dress you appropriately. Come!”

He jumped but followed. He just had to be good and silent. Then he'd pass, make her happy, make Shadow and Amy happy and by proxy; everyone else. Then at night, he could be himself. Then no one would ever be disappointed. That's all he had to do. It would be easy too. The second he was told to do something, he did it. It made her happy. That was what he did all day with them all. Including the Vocal Therapist. He did as told to ensure that He could stay with his brother. When the day was done, he hit the bed and layed still and quiet. Tails joined him.

“Want to go for a run?” Tails whispered.

Sonic shook his head and pulled him into a hug, “we just have to follow the rules for the next few days. I'll be busy and too tired afterwards.” He whispered back. “Sorry.”

“No, it's okay.” Tails hugged back and snuggled in. “We'll just do what we always do.”

They did just that for the next few weeks. Tails would work in his shop and attend Therapy with Sonic. Sonic would attend therapy and Royalty Lessons. The only time they ever saw one another until bedtime. The only good thing about the days that went by for them? Sonic was passing each lesson so well that the teachers stopped pushing him. He was ignoring the therapist telling him to be himself and putting on a mask. He wore it during the lessons so well that he fooled Shadow and Amy into thinking he was better. He only took off the mask during therapy or when night fell. He needed to plan and host an event to show he actually learned all of it. They also had to approve of each step he made, chose or did. Which was easy for him to do. There were no mistakes they could mark him on. They once again praised him for changing their opinion on him.

Tails didn't understand half of what he had to do, but he did his best to help when he could. Sonic wouldn't give those ideas to the teachers. He had to actually start setting up and send invites and then host it. All he could do was hope he could wear that mask long enough to end the event and then hope it all worked out. The entire time he did wear that mask when around Shadow and Amy felt cruel. They were always so happy to see that persona of him. Always thinking that they could plan a wedding with him. Sonic didn't have the heart to remove the mask even for a second to show that he was just being what they wanted him to be.

He wanted to be himself around those two. They had feelings for a curated version of him. He fell for them as they were, but he probably only knew the curated version of themselves as well. When he was done with gaining the approval of the teachers for the event. He actually had to set it up. Oh boy, was that fun for him to endure. The eyes of his teachers, plus Shadow and Amy watching every move he made, his tone, his posture, how he walked and talked. Every detail was taken in and while he didn't get corrected by any of them, he was waiting for any of them to just speak up. No one did. Until the day of the event. A knock had him look over at the door.

“Can we come in?” Amy opened it and walked in.

He wore the mask as always and got a hug. Not that he wanted one, but he let her. Shadow walked over to him.

“You did such a great job,” Shadow hugged him as well.

With them not looking, his mask fell off for a mere second. He put it back on when they leaned back and let go.

“Once it's done and you get your passing grade, we can plan our wedding!” Amy cheered, daydreaming about the big day. “I know it might be a little far off still, but it's already closer!”

“Easy Amy. We need to plan things with his input,” Shadow tried to calm her down.

“I know that, but I can be excited. Our big day is coming. Tonight just proves that we get to watch Handsome~ over there to show off.” Amy winked at him. “I can't wait to see you show how charming you can be.”

Sonic felt his cheeks heat up as she leaned towards him. He didn't lean away, but he looked away.

“I have been dying to see how you are in..” Amy was cut off by Shadow covering her mouth.

“And with that, we will go and get ready.” He said, pulling her backwards. “We'll let you get dressed. See you soon.”

The door to his room was closed, but he could still hear them.

“Don't flirt with him so openly yet,” Shadow said.

“What? Don't tell you haven't imagined him in that beastly form, pinning you onto the bed…having his-”

“I…have had moments, but now is not the time.”

He felt his cheeks turn completely red. They were walking away, those words weren't going to leave him anytime soon. Sonic looked at the wall when it opened and saw Tails just pointing at the door. He just held up his hands to show he didn't want to talk about what they just overheard. Tails was dressed nicely. Sonic was finished and just hoped he could get through this. They walked out of his room and closed the door. Tails chose to stay by him as they went to the ballroom where the event was.

They didn't say anything, at first. Sonic knew he had to though. His teachers would be arriving to watch. Again. He had some tell him what was going on or made sure they were doing it correctly as planned. Just in time for them all to arrive and judge. He chose to keep going just to appease them. Tails did what he always did. Stayed out of sight. When he seemed to gain their approval, he could finally greet guests and let them judge from the crowd. Since he wasn't crowned yet, he had to have all nobles and then Shadow and Amy introduced. It all started well. Now it was just to last until they all got bored and left.

Tails kept by him for support. The teachers finally said that he was doing great and that he passed. The guests were already complimenting him so there was no need to wait. They were impressed and said they'd now leave and let him be. Mentally, he was screaming for joy. On the outside, he nodded and faked a grin so well that they returned it. They left and then after hours enduring pointless talk with people who didn't know what he had to go through left. Sonic was allowed to go back to his room for a break. Only for that to end and have Amy and Shadow in his room.

“You did it!” Amy pulled him into a hug. “You passed! I knew you could do it! We can marry you now!”

“Amy, he is probably exhausted. He'll have to also move his room to ours…” Shadow's voice faded at that.

He had to move rooms? He had to leave the space he and his brother built? Why? Shadow must have seen him drop the act because suddenly he was in his face.

“Do you not want that?” Shadow asked, grabbing his hand. “We've been planning how to make space for you. Even when we can…y'know…”

Sonic put on a fake grin and held a thumbs up. Play along and he'd be left alone. Play along and he could still leave at night. It worked and Amy and Shadow kissed him on the cheeks. The two looked at his room. It was pretty bare, but he liked it. They looked upset? worried? It was hard to tell.

“Do you not…have anything to move?” Amy let go and looked around his space. “Sonic, you have money you can spend on yourself. It's your right.”

“Amy is right. You are the queen. You can get whatever you desire. Whatever you wish for is yours to have.” Shadow looked at him. “I mean…you aren't queen yet, but you are a queen to be.”

Sonic shook his head, “I'm okay.”

“No, you should get everything you wish for. To show your status.” Amy said and then grabbed his hand. “I know. We should change out your jewels! Oh and maybe add silver to some of your attire. Oh, this will be fun! Shadow wears a mix of whatever we wear anyways. Shows it off even.”

“I married two gorgeous people. I need to show off the metal they wear.” Shadow posed proudly to show off the mix of gold and silver already. “Once Sonic is by our side. I'll add green to the mix of pink.”

“Me too.” Amy leaned against Sonic. “Oh, this will be wonderful. We can finally be together!”

[mrslittletall]

Violence for 1 and 7? =D

I chose violence

You didn't specify a fandom, so I guess I have to answer it for all of them? ^^ 1) the character everyone gets wrong In Dark Souls I don't really see much character discourse. But I think people give Gwyn too much flak. Yes, he is technically the villain but you also to take in account that he tried to let his people prosper. Nobody in the game is it told that people that came from the light sould can continue to exist in the age of dark. I actually think it is pretty safe to say that they would lose their immortality or long lifespan and start dropping dead left and right. It makes a lot more sense why Gwyn acted this way then outside of he simply wanted power. Yes, he is afraid of dying and that is not a good thing but I wish people would not paint him as someone who prolonged his age for only his own good and nobody else. In Bloodborne I could make it easy for me and say Gehrman, but I will choose Micolash. Not everyone gets him wrong, of course, but I see him softened too much. Far too much. I wish people would lean more into him being someone who does horrible experiments because he is madly curious. Someone who lost his mind by delving too deep into the Eldritch knowledge. Someone who is more than elated to be able to get a Hunter into his grasp and mocks and runs away from them until they finally get him. He may not always be like that but Micolash clearly went down an arc where he became a villain and I want to see more of it. In Elden Ring I have to say Mohg. Because either people make him into a secretly super soft guy who planned to let rule Miquella his empire from the get-go (he is calling himself the Lord of Blood, PLEASE) or they put him as completely black villain who has no nuance. Mohg is a rather grey character in my book. He coped horribly with his parental neglect and in a way that is rebellious against the Golden Order and finding solace in what he is. That doesn't mean that he cannot do bad things however. The guy canonically did kidnap a bunch of people. Oh how I love to write Varre in mad love with him despite knowing deep inside himself how fucked up this is. In Hollow Knight it is the Pale King. People see the dead baby pit and deem his a irredeemable without even thinking about the why. First, he is a Higher Being with completely different morals than humans. Second, he considered the vessels lifeless mutations. Third, he actually did love the Pure Vessel and messed the whole plan up. Fourth, he is not a colonizer, he simply won the battle for followers, stop saying he is a colonizer or that he genocided the moths! Please just read my fic Off Balance for my take on him.

7. what character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because how how the fandom acts about them? I try to not hate characters. It is more common with ships for me that I start to dislike them but they are easier to avoid than whole characters. I can just say that I tend to avoid fans of certain characters. I don't avoid fans of Dark Souls characters. I think they are generally fine. In Bloodborne I am very wary of Lady Maria fans. Most of the time they are Gehrman haters and flip their shit if you headcanon her to not be a butch lesbian. My blog title is actually from such a hater. They said I wanted Lady Maria to be a tradwife simply for stating that she might have worn dresses when she was done with the hunts. Sophie from Sinclair Lore even told me that the doll's clothing might have been Maria's clothes that she wore in the research hall, so yeah, if even a lore expert agrees with me, I cannot be wrong. In Elden Ring I don't specifically like fans of soft Mohg but that has to do with my own interpretation. They can do what they want. I just am bored by Mohg as someone who does not do atrocities. He is more fun as a war criminal. In Hollow Knight... I don't know. Some Radiance fans can be really annoying because of how they dunk on PK while acting like Radi is the innocent victim which is... not the case and is clear to anyone who played Hollow Knight until the end. Alright, I think that was it. Thank you for the ask!

[abbatoirablaze]

Surrogate Luna, Chapter 14

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings:  angst, mentions of death, a/b/o dynamics, smut

“Luna please-“

“Maria…Sarah…where-“

“It’s just us, Luna,” Wanda whimpered while half dragging her Luna along with her while she carried the toddler on her hip.  It was obvious that she was struggling, and the omega beside her was trying in vain to use the wall beside herself as another means of keeping her own body weight not entirely on Wanda, “please…you have to carry more of your own weight.  I can’t keep pulling you and carry Stevie…”

“Momma-“

The words seemed to catch the wolf’s attention, the caution in the toddler’s voice making something inside of her snap.

Her pup needed her to be strong. 

Her more human side was on the brink of collapsing, but her wolf was snapped to attention, hearing the need in her pup’s voice.  She forced her eyes open and pushed herself away from the wall, “S-Stevie…it’s okay, pup…”

“Momma…” the little boy repeated, reaching out to his mother. 

Wanda’s heart ached as she dragged her Luna along, past the wall of the packhouse.  They were so close to the woods.  They were so close to getting distance between themselves and Sharon’s pack.  But she needed to keep them moving.

“You need to shift, Luna…” Wanda begged as she dropped to her knees.  Not far off, she could hear the howling from the packhouse.  Worry doused the trio as Wanda’s scent turned unbelievably bitter. 

It was so bitter that Cinna’s nose twitched, alerting her to just how serious the situation was. 

“Luna please!” she begged, “please…you need to shift and heal in your wolf form.  I-I’ll make sure Stevie is safe for the next few days…but you need to do this to heal properly.  And when you’re okay you can meet us.  You can come to the safe place…”

“By the water…” Cinna recalled.  Wanda nodded.  She looked to her son and reached out, caressing his soft cheek, “Baby…momma has to heal…but Wanda will keep you safe.”

“Run momma…” the little boy encouraged, knowing the ways of his own kind.  She sighed to herself.  Her pup was far too much like his father.  She pushed the sandy blonde hair out of his face and he comforted her, rubbing his cheek against her.  She leaned forward and gave him a soft kiss before her wolf took over, and her shift began.

“I love you, baby,” she whispered softly, before her eyes met Wanda, “thank you, Wanda…you truly are a loyal friend!”

Steve could hardly believe his eyes. 

It had been months since Maria was murdered in front of him. 

Months since Sharon had started her regime of terror, where a vast majority of his own pack ran, abandoning their homes.

Sure it had made him feel like a worthless alpha.  An alpha who couldn’t lead his pack.  But deep down, he knew that there wasn’t wrong with anything that any of them had done.  He didn’t even fault them.  Because he knew that they were just doing what was best for themselves and their families. 

Something that he hadn’t had the strength to do for his true mate and pup.

The night of the full moon, Sharon had ordered that anyone who dared shift needed to search for Cinna, Stevie, and Wanda, calling them traitors to her pack and what they stood for. 

So, when most of them didn’t return, he knew. 

He was alone.

His only solace was the fact that Sam stayed by his side.

Sam hadn’t shifted that night, but rather took Steve back up to his quarters and took care of the broken alpha.

Sam was his only remaining comfort. 

It was Sam that had suggested he shift and clear his head earlier, which made him run so deep into the forest, that he’d run through the night and clear into the early morning hours. 

Ever since that night, Sharon hadn’t kept much of an eye on Steve.  She knew that now that she had shown her true hand, and that his pack had abandoned him, he would be far too fearful to abandon her. 

Which would only strengthen her even more, knowing that every once in a while the broken-down alpha would come crawling back to her door, because of the bond. 

He hated himself for it.  But because of that, she didn’t bother keeping an eye on him; so it wasn’t uncommon for him to disappear days at a time.

He’d always come back to her. 

But he hadn’t ever done this.  He hadn’t run through the night, ending up on the edge of his pack lands, only to end up at a river.

And that’s where he saw her. 

Her bright red hair shimmered in the sunlight that managed to get through the branches.  Her form looked healthier than he’d last seen. 

She almost looked like how she had when he’d first met her. 

His wolf howled internally at the sight of her.  He was going wild at the scent that blended in with the wilderness, but made him nearly feral.  His eyes fluttered closed momentarily as he allowed himself to soak it in. 

But then they snapped open.

He was far too afraid that she was just a mirage. 

But there she stood, her breasts were fuller, and her hips were a little wider, but he knew that was from the birth of their child. 

But she was real.  She was bathing in the water, as though he didn’t exist; as though she hadn’t been on the run. 

His heart thrashed in his chest, and it felt like it was the first time he was meeting her all over again.  Images flashed through his mind of when she had been in his family den, and how his wolf nearly burst forth because of his demands and need to ravish her.  How he’d made love to her in the bath, how they created a nest in the bed; staying their until Steve was sure that they’d conceived. 

The first time he’d heard his son’s heartbeat joining that of his mothers while he was still in the womb made his heart soar. 

They’d created something together. 

The two mates had made something beautiful out of their instinctual love for one another without barely knowing more than one another’s names.    

And it was that instinct that made him took a step forward, admiring her.  The pads of his feet brushed along the dirt floor and rocks at the edge of the water.  His tail flicked around, catching on a low-hanging branch. 

Her eyes snapped in his direction when the branch’s leaves whipped back, the branch snapping from the impact of Steve’s excitement.

And before he’d known what was going on, she was out of the water, already shifting into her wolf form, and running away from him.

He knew that she couldn’t have known who he was.  Not in this form.  She’d never seen his wolf form. 

But she ran, because she was still on his lands.  The lands that Sharon had claimed. And he knew that deep in his heart, she would never really run from him, and must have assumed that she was one of Sharon’s pack. 

Without a second thought he bolted after her.  The water splashed his coat as he made his way to the other side, and over the hill.  Off in the distance, he spotted her.  She had the advantage of a little more ground on him, but he knew that he was far faster than she was.

At least he thought he had been. 

It felt like it was taking him far too long to catch up to her.  Something he knew was occurring because of his connection to Sharon.  Her mark on him had not only made her stronger, but had made him weaker. 

Every time he bobbed, she weaved, and despite being an omega, she was making it hard to catch him.  His size and speed advantage hardly felt like one in comparison to her ability to dodge. 

But then she turned, going around a hill and towards another mountain, and he made his play. 

His body collided with hers, and the two wolves went rolling in an instant.  Not wanting her to get hurt, he used his own frame to catch them, but the second they came to a stop, he was on top of her, his large frame covering her own. 

He growled, nipping at her neck and she froze, his scent finally catching up with him. 

Beneath him, she shifted, her frame covered in a layer of dirt as her eyes met his wolf over her shoulder, “S-Steve?”

He gave her a sad look and leaned down, licking her face, before he too began to shift.  Catching himself once more, his naked form hovered over her own.  She gasped softly, surprised at the fact that the two had found one another purely by accident. 

The pair was breathing heavily, gazing at one another; all of the emotions they’d held back bubbling up against the surface; creating new tension.  She turned around, her back pressing to the forest floor and their eyes connected head on.  Steve felt a shiver run down his spine; their two wolves just below the surface, waiting to be freed.

“Cinna…”

“H-how did you find me?” she asked nervously.

“By chance,” he admitted, reaching out to stroke her cheek, “Cinna-I-I never wanted any of this to happen the way that it did.  You have to know that.  I-“

“Shut up!” she ordered softly.

“Wh-“

But his words stopped in an instant when her hands captured his face, and her lips caught his in a feverish kiss.  Steve’s eyes fluttered shut once more as he gave in to the emotions he so desperately missed. 

In the arms of his true mate, he began to feel hypersensitive.  He felt more powerful than he had in years. 

With Cinna’s lips on his, her body reacting to him, he felt alive. 

A growl tore itself from the back of his throat as he caught the scent of her arousal.  His wolf howled happily as his cock hardened in an instant.  One of her hands was gripping him in an instant, and he hissed in pleasure as she needily pumped him. 

“Mega…”

The growl was a warning one.  One that let her know that if she pushed any further he truly would not be in control of his actions.  But she didn’t care.  She had missed him far too much to give a damn.

“Don’t say anything alpha,” she begged, breaking off from the kiss only to turn in his arms and press her backside against his erection.  Steve shuddered as she presented for him, urging him to instinctually take her.  He could feel her arousal coating the tip of his cock as she gave him another sensual look, “I need you, alpha…I don’t care about the consequences…I need to feel you!”

Chapter 15

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