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k-howlett · 1 month

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Prey | Jason Todd X gn!reader [PLATONIC]

TW: Character Death (Jason Todd), Mentions of hospital Equipment, Smoking & Drinking, light catholic mockery

Rating: Teen+, Implied Violence, Mild Descriptions of Gore, Smoking & Alcohol Use, Gender Nonspecific, Angst (With A Happy Ending)

A/N:

A songfic to hopefully get you guys excited for my(@/k-howlett) September Playlist Challenge (Which will be a 30 day writing activity (Songfics) that you’re all welcome to participate in! I will drop the list of songs and characters (specific to my account) sometime this month!)

Thank you for the continued love on my series (Breaking and Entering), I am very much in a DC mood as a convention is coming up soon, though I have a residual rush of Deadpool and Wolverine overload so expect lots of superhero fanfics in the coming weeks!!

as always,

with love and healing

-Lark(ly)

♬⋆.˚

prey - the neighbourhood

⇄ ◁◁ I I ▷▷ ↻

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ. ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

As long as,

you notice,

I’m hoping,

That you’ll keep your heart open

(keep your heart open)

I’ll keep mine open too

(I’ll keep mine open too)

♬⋆.˚

“They say some secret society runs the upper echelons of Gotham, y’know?” Y/N chimes in from where they lay on the roof of a beat-up Cadillac shell. The windows are busted out, and the paint is worn thin by Gotham’s relentless weather.

Jason tilts his head back, his expression a mix of amusement and skepticism. “Like the Illuminati? You gettin’ into conspiracies again, Y/NN?” His lanky frame is propped up against the car’s torn-off panel, his eyes flicking from the dark sky to Y/N’s silhouette, illuminated by the cold moonlight.

They were waiting for the fireworks to start, a rare spectacle that both of them, despite their tough exteriors, had always looked forward to.

“No, not the Illuminati. It’s much worse,” they insist, leaning over the roof to peer down at him, their face earnest, almost grave. The two of them, alley kids by definition, had always found solace in each other at the Gotham City scrap-yard. It was near the docks and dodgy as hell, but neither seemed to mind. They knew how to be careful—the needles that littered the ground were easy to avoid if you paid attention, and the dilapidated buildings surrounding the chain-link fences were just part of the landscape, nothing more.

Jason’s grin widens, that trademark smirk of his playing at the corners of his mouth. “Uh-huh. And I suppose you think the moon landing was fake too?”

“Oh, c’mon! Is it really that hard to believe? Think about it. The rich get rich, and the poor get poorer. Ain’t that what the saying is? Someone’s gotta be corrupt at the top, pullin’ the strings. How do you think Joker breaks out all the time? Or how GCPD’s incompetence hasn’t been talked about outside this city? Hm? And they say it’s hard to leave, too! Once you’re here, you’re stuck, ’cause they don’t want people like us to be free. To be like them,” they argue, their city accent thick with conviction, as if they’ve spent hours turning this theory over in their mind.

Jason chuckles, a low, throaty sound that vibrates through the night air. “You’ve been spending too much time listening to the old timers down at the docks. Next thing you know, you’ll be telling me the Bat’s in on it too.”

Y/N rolls their eyes, exasperated but not defeated. “Ah, whateva. One day you’ll see. Just how fucked this place truly is.” They cross their arms behind their head and lie back down as the first burst of fireworks lights up the sky.

For a moment, the world is silent, save for the crackle of fireworks high above. New Year’s Eve in Gotham was a strange paradox—celebratory and bleak all at once. The fireworks painted the night in bright colors, but the streets below remained as grim as ever. Jason glances over at Y/N, their face softening in the glow of the display. He couldn’t help but admire their fire, their passion for things he often brushed off with a laugh.

There was a time when Jason himself had that kind of fire, the belief that something better was possible, even in a place like Gotham. But as they lay there together, watching the fireworks, a small part of him wondered if Y/N was right. Maybe Gotham was more than just a city—it was a trap, a cage, and no matter how hard you fought, you were bound to lose.

But for now, he lets the thought slip away, pushing it down with all the other doubts and fears that plagued him. Tonight was about the fireworks, about the rare moments of peace they found in this chaotic city. He wouldn’t let anything ruin that.

As the final burst of light faded from the sky, Y/N nudged Jason’s shoulder. “Next year’s gonna be better. You’ll see.”

Jason looked at them, his smirk softer now, almost wistful. “Yeah… we’ll see.”

♬⋆.˚

If you don’t ask,

I won’t tell

Just know that,

Just know that

It all hurts,

it all hurts just the same

♬⋆.˚

Y/N sits at the base of the headstone, laughter spilling out in bitter, uneven bursts. The years had worn them down, every laugh wracking their frame with a painful shake.

“You know, it’s comical, really,” they mutter, voice dripping with venom. “You ditch me, go play house with your new family, and now look where you’ve wound up.” They take a deep drag from the cigarette, the smoke curling from their cracked lips into a wry smile. “Look what they fuckin’ did to you,” they say, exhaling slowly. “What a cruel joke.”

Jason’s eyes narrow, his stance tense as he watches them. He expected something—anger, maybe even tears—but this? It cuts deeper than he’d anticipated. “Hey, cut that shit out,” he snaps, his tone edged with irritation. “Not here.”

“What, smoking outside?” Y/N laughs, the sound quickly turning into a hacking cough.

Jason steps closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. “It’s disrespectful, Y/N. Knock it off.”

They grind the cigarette into the concrete, but not before taking one last drag. “You don’t mind, do ya, pal?” they sneer. “I mean, it’s not like you’re even really six feet under.”

Jason’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He crouches down beside them, his voice cold but tinged with something darker—pain, maybe, or regret. “Yeah, I do mind. This place is for people to rest, not for you to play out your bullshit. You used to hate smoking—your old man would blow that crap in your face, and you’d go ballistic. Where’s that Y/N, huh?”

“Don’t tell me how to process my emotions, Todd,” they spit, their voice raw with anger. “What’s it matter now, huh? Why show up after all this time? You’ve been prowling around the streets of Gotham for what, a year? And now you want to make a grand entrance? What’s your angle? You gonna pretend you’re not the same lowlife Mafia bosses we used to mock?”Their eyes bore into him, full of accusation and pain.

Jason’s jaw tightens, his eyes cold and hard. He takes a step forward, his voice a gravelly snarl. “You think I wanted this? To become the monster we used to laugh about? Gotham doesn’t give a damn about redemption. It chews you up and spits you out. I had to adapt, or die trying.”

He leans in, his gaze intense. “You’re pissed off? Good. You’ve got every right to be. But don’t act like you know a damn thing about what I’ve been through. You think you’re the only one who’s lost?”

Jason steps back, his voice unwavering and edged with steel. “Go ahead, hate me. But don’t act like you don’t understand. Gotham changes everyone. Even you.”

Y/N’s eyes flash with defiance. “I changed because I lost you, so don’t get it twisted. Gotham’s not the reason you’re like this. You’re on some vendetta trip. I’ve seen the headlines—throwing the Bat into a brick wall in front of the little bird? Talk about a temper. I thought I had a short fuse.”

They let out a bitter chuckle, the amusement in their voice sharp. “Guess I underestimated you. Always thought you had more control. But now? You’re just another angry soul tearing through Gotham like it’s personal. Maybe it is.”

Jason’s gaze hardens, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “You think you know what this is? You think you’ve got me all figured out? You don’t have a clue what I’ve been through or why I do what I do.”

Y/N’s smile fades, replaced by a look of steely resolve. “Maybe not. But don’t kid yourself into thinking you’re the only one who’s suffered. We all deal with our pain in different ways. You’re just louder about it.”

Jason turns away slightly, the tension palpable. “Maybe so. But at least I’m fighting to make a difference. Even if it means getting my hands dirty.”

♬⋆.˚

something is wrong,

I can’t explain

Everything changed when the birds came,

You’ll never know,

What they might do,

If they catch you too early

♬⋆.˚

“So, what was it like then?” Y/N asks softly, holding a beer bottle, their legs dangling off the edge of the rooftop.

Jason exhales sharply, his gaze fixed on the city below. “Shitty,” he responds with blunt honesty.

Y/N nods, their voice carrying a dry tone. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Jason’s expression turns somber, his voice carrying the weight of his regret. “For the record, I would’ve come sooner. If I’d known… if I hadn’t been so damn ashamed, I would’ve found you first.”

Y/N looks away, a hard edge to their voice. “But you didn’t.”

Jason’s shoulders slump slightly, a resigned acceptance in his tone. “No, I didn’t.”

A moment of silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken words. The city lights below seem to fade into the background, irrelevant compared to their shared pain.

♬⋆.˚

we need to fly ourselves,

before someone else,

tells us how

something is off,

I feel like prey,

I feel like praying

♬⋆.˚

“You keep a rosary in your car? Since when?” Jason’s disbelief is evident as he looks at the symbol.

Y/N’s voice drops to a softer, almost defensive tone. “Since your funeral service,” they reply, the memory clearly still raw.

Jason’s eyes widen in surprise. “Seriously? You’re not messing with me?”

Y/N shrugs, their expression a mix of resignation and irritation. “Yeah, seriously. The church preys on people when they’re down… and I was down.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “So you turned to Catholicism?”

Y/N’s gaze is steady but weary. “God doesn’t come looking for you. You go looking for Him.”

Jason’s face shows a mixture of skepticism and cynicism. “Wow, they really did a number on you. You’re all in, huh?”

Y/N’s patience wears thin. “Can we just drop it? I don’t want to get into this with you.”

Jason’s tone turns more challenging. “Oh, come on. You really think if there was a God, He’d let this city of sinners last?”

Y/N’s eyes meet his, a flicker of wry humor in their gaze. “Maybe He’s trying to flood it. That’s why it rains all the time.” They lock eyes, the serious moment breaking into shared laughter. The tension easing ever so slightly.

♬⋆.˚

so, so I’ll probably,

take you aside

And tell you whats on my mind,

But you, you’ll just keep it inside,

probably tell me that you’re alright

♬⋆.˚

“What the hell happened to you!?” Y/N’s voice is filled with shock and concern as they watch Jason stumble through the door, bloodied and barely conscious.

Jason collapses against the wall, gasping for breath. “You remember when we were kids?” he rasps, wincing in pain.

“Yeah, I remember,” Y/N replies tersely, their hands already working to remove his torn and blood-soaked clothes. “I lived through it.”

Jason coughs, cringing as Y/N begins to clean the gash on his side. “Remember how you used to say Gotham was run by some secret cabal?”

“I didn’t say that” Y/N corrects sharply, applying pressure to the wound. “I said the upper echelons were corrupt.”

Jason grimaces, his face contorted with pain. “Well, you were right.”

Y/N’s hands still for a moment, their eyes meeting his with a mix of disbelief and concern. “Yeah?”

Jason nods weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah…”

Y/N’s expression shifts from anger to a deep sadness, their gaze lingering on Jason’s battered form. They finish tending to his wounds with a gentler touch, their emotions raw and conflicted. The weight of his admission hangs heavy in the air, the reality of Gotham’s corruption and its toll on Jason becoming painfully clear.

“And?” Y/N prompts, their tone a mix of frustration and curiosity as they continue tending to Jason’s injuries.

Jason winces, his voice strained. “And that’s all.”

Y/N’s eyebrows raise in disbelief. “You givin’ me my ‘I told you so’ moment?”

Jason nods weakly, a small, pained smile playing at his lips. “Mmhm.”

Y/N’s expression shifts to a wry grin, a hint of triumph in their voice despite the grim circumstances. “Ha! Well, I guess that makes me right then. I told you so!”

Jason lets out a strained chuckle, his eyes showing a flicker of reluctant admiration. “Yeah, yeah. You were right. Just… don’t let it go to your head.”

♬⋆.˚

if I run,

If I run away, I’ll never know

What you want

And if you go then I’ll never grow,

I’m undone,

let me slip,

let me slide

♬⋆.˚

“You’re teaming up with the Bat to track down John Wycliffe—who’s at the heart of Gotham’s corruption and causing problems in neighbouring cities—and subsequently the entire court of owls—and you don’t even know if you’re coming back?” Y/N exclaims, their hands gesturing in frustration. “Why? I just got you back—”

“I have to, Y/N,” Jason replies, his tone firm but strained.

“You don’t have to,” Y/N argues, their voice filled with desperation. “You don’t owe Gotham anything. This place is falling apart—it can burn for all I care. We could leave, get out of here. Just come with me. Please.”

Jason’s expression is resolute. “I can’t. This is bigger than me. I have to see it through.”

Y/N’s voice cracks as they struggle to keep their composure. “Don’t do this. Not again. I can’t handle losing you a second time.”

Jason looks at Y/N with a mix of sorrow and determination. “I need to do this. It’s not just about Gotham—it’s about making sure things don’t get worse.” Jason gives a final glance over his shoulder, a grim acknowledgment of their concern, before disappearing into the night.

♬⋆.˚

Something is off, I can’t explain

You know what I mean,

don’t you?

Something I saw,

Or something I did,

It made me like this,

could you help me?

♬⋆.˚

“Bruce,” Y/N says with a formal, measured tone.

“Y/N,” Bruce acknowledges with a slight tilt of his head, his demeanor guarded.

“Are you still banning me from seeing him?” Y/N’s question is direct, their voice carrying a note of frustration barely masked by formality.

Bruce’s gaze remains steady. “Are you going to be calm this time? He needs rest, not another argument.”

Y/N takes a deep breath, their expression composed but tense. “I’m completely calm.”

Bruce studies them for a moment, assessing their sincerity. “Good. He’s in there. You can see him now.”

Bruce steps aside, allowing Y/N to enter the room. The tension between them lingers as Y/N walks past, their shoulders tense with a mix of worry and determination.

“I don’t want to fight,” Y/N says softly as they enter, hands raised in a gesture of peace.

Jason, looking exhausted with an IV drip attached, raises his hands in a similar gesture. “Yeah, I don’t want to fight.”

Y/N gestures to where Bruce had previously been “I heard you took a bullet for him. Quite the change from when you were on the news trying to kill him.”

Jason winces, but his expression remains guarded. “Yeah, well… it wasn’t on purpose.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow. “Not from what I’ve heard. Seems like you’ve grown a soft spot for your messed-up hero family.” Y/N glances at him and the card on the table from Dick—His older adoptive brother.

Jason manages a tired smile. “Maybe just a bit.”

Y/N picks up the card and looks it over. “That makes you part of the team too, you know.”

“A hero? Not quite,” Jason says, shaking his head.

“More like an anti-hero,” Y/N replies with a smirk. “But definitely not a lowlife mafia boss or a villain.”

Jason chuckles, a weary but genuine smile on his face. “Yeah, guess you’re right.”

“Get some sleep,” Y/N says, adjusting the blinds to block out the sunlight. “I’ll be here when you wake up. Though, with your track record, who knows if you’ll be here after you do.”

Jason groans. “Can you cut it out? I nearly died, Y/N.”

“You did die,” Y/N says gently. “But you’re here now.”

They share a brief laugh. Jason pulls a pillow over his head to shield himself from the light as Y/N makes the room more comfortable, tugging on the blinds to hide the rare Gotham sunshine.

“I’m glad you made it out this time, Jay.”

♬⋆.˚

I don’t want to fight,

I don’t want to fight

♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚

Approx. Word Count: 2,806

J.T. One-Shot (Songfic)

♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚ ♬⋆.˚

Status Page: Here

Prompt/Character Requests: Open

#batman #bruce wayne #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #gender neutral y/n #angst #angst with a happy ending #platonic relationships #red hood #dc comics #dcau #court of owls #songfic #hurt/comfort #khowls_songfic_challenge

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jessajoydimaano · 10 months

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Good day, tourists! I’m Jessa Joy Dimaano, your tour guide for today, and now we're going to explore and see the beauty of the Marian Orchard in Malabanan Balete, Batangas.

First, I want to read you a short history of Marian Orchard, a pilgrimage site for Roman Catholics that promotes the religion through the propagation of Marian devotion and other religious activities. The place was started by Lazaro L. Katigbak in 1988 after he acquired the land.

The Marian Orchard is a beautiful and welcoming place that offers a warm welcome despite the rainy weather. The Sacred Heart Tower, a tower that opens its arms, is a sight to behold. The chapel, which holds mass on Sundays at 4:00 PM, provides peace. The flowers are not yet in full bloom, making the place a favorite spot for visitors.

As we walk down the chapel, we encounter a tunnel with bougainvillas. The cemented pathway leads to a Last Supper scene, but we choose to walk the other way to the "calvary mountain," where Jesus Christ was nailed upon the cross and died. Despite the slippery soil, we climb up to touch the statues.

The path is steep and exhausting, but it leads to a souvenir shop that resembles ruins in Corregidor. Inside, we buy rosaries and t-shirts, and there is also a comfort room in the same building. Other attractions inside the orchard include the Garden of Saints, Mama Mary Shrine, Chimes of Mary, and a store for snacks and water. The Chapel of St. Enterrio, or Dead Christ, is also a must-see.

If you have a question or need clarification, you can call or email the address indicated here.

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aloraundomiel · 3 years

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O Magnum Mysterium

A very belated Christmas gift for the dear Flower, who adores this pairing as much as I do. Sorry it’s so incredibly late! <3

A big thank you to queerapostate for the excellent beta.

NOTES: This is a time stamp from a Winnix universe I haven’t published the first establishing fic yet for, so I hope it’s not too confusing. xD The short points are they leave New Jersey, they get a rundown farmhouse, grow some livestock feed, Dick battles with his PTSD, Lew battles his alcoholism and there’s both strife and happiness. Once I get the other story finished, I’ll rope them all into a series.

Also! The choral piece mentioned is Morten Lauridsen’s “O Magnum Mysterium.” It’s my very favorite and the sole catalyst for this fic. Here’s a link to the best version (in my opinion.)

https://open.spotify.com/track/31zjVEWfYxkeuuSnUHyUz3?si=3tlZhoH3R1ux1ydHAX2uSw

There are six Catholic churches in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

Dick Winters visits five of them, his irritation and worry compounding with each crossed threshold, before he finds what he’s looking for.

It’s dark outside by the time he makes it to St. Mary’s. The temperature is rapidly dropping and the coat he threw on in the rush from the house does little to prevent the wind from snatching at his torso. He shivers, blowing into his hands before tugging at the iron latch handle of the entrance. The chime of bells at the top of the hour serve a melodic welcome as he shuts the thick door behind him, and with it the cold. The candlelight is dim enough that his eyes take a blinking moment to recalibrate after being in the snow-bright landscape outside.

At first, he’s taken aback by the splendor of the architecture and art within. It’s an unfamiliar style of worship, looming and lousy with decoration at every turn. Dick is used to a more humble religion. One without gold and marble. One that can be practiced in the lonely forests of Belgium by unlearned men in holes in the ground. A common man’s worship in a common tongue.

In the warmth of a thousand candles and the sacrament of the scenes painted on the walls, he can pick out nuances he knows and stories he cherishes and bridge the gap between the sects. He can look past the ceremony and see a place where a mosaic of people from different backgrounds and ages might gather to pray and serve.

Behind an altar crowned with poinsettias and greenery, the apostles and saints reach towards the gates of Heaven in a baroque style triptych. The frescoes on the dome are cracking in places, the oil and tempera separating from the plaster, but it ends up serving as a compliment to the historic brick and marble.

This place is old. The aura is old. The prayers that are patinated in layers on the friezes are old and the devotion resonating within these walls are an echo that can be felt rather than heard. So many souls have stopped here before, seeking something as he does. Surely some found what they were after. He hopes his luck sides with them.

Dick’s guard drops a hair and though it holds all the awkwardness of waving to a dear friend only to find out it’s a look-alike stranger, he crosses himself before making his way into the sanctuary.

He gives the crossing a scan, eyes darting to the handful of heads meandering along the altar or scattered amongst random pews. None of them are the person he seeks and with a grimace, he’s just about to turn on his heel and make for the final unchecked church across town, when the slightest movement draws his eye to the left.

There – shielded behind a line of towering columns. He’s sitting in the middle of the nave, on the farthest side of the aisle, closest to a magnificent pieta statue surrounded by red candles. Sprawled over the back of the pew like it’s a personal lounge chair. The darker side of the church, the long shadows cast by the flames shift and sway like an organic thing, softening the stone and somehow making the grandeur more domestic. A nook in which sinners can burrow and avoid their penance being on display.

It makes sense. Lewis Nixon would never willingly venture into a house of God unless there was a decent hiding spot.

Dick makes his way over to where he sits, taking great care to walk as softly as possible to avoid making a clatter of footfall on the stone. He slides into the pew behind Nixon, who makes no indication he’s noticed his arrival. He perches on the edge of the bench, elbows propped just to Nixon’s left.

“What are you doing here,” Dick whispers testily into his ear.

Nixon doesn’t startle. Instead, he wings a brow and flashes a smirk over his shoulder that suggests the answer should be obvious. He points up to the altar where the priest has just ceased communion for the evening and then to the choir shuffling in to assemble along the tabernacle for rehearsal.

“Thought it’d be nice to have dinner and a show,” he says, sounding pleased with himself.

Dick’s mouth goes pinched and he grits his teeth. His ire is too potent at the moment for Nix’s characteristic glibness to be charming. He has half a mind to drag him out into the street by his ear like an unruly child.

“I’ve been looking for you for hours . The house isn’t fit for guests, the cow and horses didn’t get brought in, and your sister arrives on the 8 o’clock train. Not to mention the active war zone you left of the kitchen.”

Nix’s sigh is dramatic and world-weary. “A man can’t make pies from scratch without a creative process.”

“You didn’t leave a note, Nix. I had to telephone Isabella Burris to find out where you’d gone.”

Nixon hums in false sympathy and slouches further down, somehow taking up more space than before. “And you said having a stalker wouldn’t come in handy.”

Dick leans forward on the edge of his seat, his grip on the wood at Nix’s shoulder groaning in warning from the pressure.

“Lewis,” he says, measuredly, each syllable given its own weighted pause. “It’s time to come home. It’s Christmas Eve.”

Nix ignores him, squinting up at the Madonna that casts a watchful eye on their scene from up on her pedestal.

“What do you think went through her mind when the angels told her, Dick? That her baby boy was doomed to become a sacrificial lamb.”

With a sigh, Dick drags a hand down his face, circling back up to press at the tension headache that’s gearing up behind his eye sockets.

“Nix–“

“Do you think she would have turned the job offer down if she’d known how it would end? Hell, would any of us have said yes to death if we’d known?”

“Nix, where’s the bottle?”

Nixon grins over his shoulder again, and pulls his coat lapels open to flash the inner pockets. Then he throws his hands wide, as if inviting Dick to pat him down.

“There isn’t one,” he promises. “This is genuine, all natural Nixon existential rumination.”

He has no reason to doubt Nix. Shameless creature that he is, he’s never lied about his drinking before. Or the relapses. It’s taken almost three years, countless tribulations and a brief fracturing of their relationship, but the sobriety streak is finally starting to hold. Nix has found other ways to overpower the demons in his head and Dick has never been prouder of him. Determined to be as supportive a partner as he can be, he’s learned to read the warning signs, the little flags that are raised when Nix’s will is in danger of collapsing. There have been no flags recently. He’s on good terms with his sister again and though his mother’s illness is a stressor, he’s been coping well. The fall harvest was more bountiful than they’d anticipated so the money is alright for a while and the furnace on the back of the farmhouse is holding steady from Nix’s most recent repairs. There is no external reason he can see for diving back into a bottle today. Still, there’s a nagging of guilt at having to interrogate him, and Dick ducks his head.

“I had to ask,” he says, in way of an apology.

There’s no sarcasm in Nix’s smile. Just a forgiving fondness. “I know.”

It occurs to Dick then; Nix has sought the sanctity of an unfamiliar Catholic church on Christmas Eve, sober and in sound mind, with a necessity strong enough to abandon his hosting responsibilities. He’s left Dick to fret about his whereabouts in order to meditate alone in the shadows.

There’s a reason. Nix doesn’t do whimsies. He doesn’t make Dick worry anymore without justification.

He stands and circumnavigates the end of the pew to slide into the spot next to Nix, readjusting the ends of his scarf into his lap with a gentle clearing of his throat. The impending and formidable list of remaining chores to do before day breaks is pushed outside the boundaries of the space they occupy, momentarily unimportant. Dick glances briefly at Nix, who doesn’t acknowledge his new position, then raises a parallel gaze to the Madonna.

They wait.

After a few bars of warm up, the choir picks up a gentle, harmonic piece that starts soft and raises in dynamic like undulating waves. The acoustics blend and twirl their sound into something much grander than their eight member count suggests. Something ethereal and angelic.

Dick rations his breathing, allowing the weight of preparing the farmhouse for Christmas on schedule to get carried away into the dulcet overtones. It’s easy. To ground himself and sit down for a change, to let his mind slowly switch into observation mode instead of action. It’s a setting so rarely used. Too many things to keep the farm and the business and the relationship working and never enough hours in the day.

He can’t recall the last time he sat down to breathe deeply. To invite music into his consciousness instead of stress.

“Oh great mystery and wonderful sacrament,” Nix translates softly, tilting his head to catch the elongated vowels of the next sung phrase. “That the animals should see the newborn Lord storytelling? Trifling? Shit, hold on. Iacentem in context. Ah! Lying. Lying in a manger.”

“You speak Latin?” He shouldn’t be surprised at this point that Nix can still surprise him.

Nix flashes him a smirk that could be considered flirty. “Only enough to be abysmal at it.” He waggles his heavy brows. “My tongue is much better suited for other things.”

Despite the inevitable start of a flush at the innuendo, Dick frowns, shoulders stiffening. He cuts a quick check of the perimeter to double check for potential eavesdroppers. “We are in a church, Lew.”

Nix gestures up and down the length of his reclining figure. “The Lord knows what He made when He made it, Dick. I make no apologies.”

“So it’s a nativity hymn,” says Dick, attempting to steer the conversation back into neutral territory.

Sensing a potential spike in Dick’s hard earned requiescence, Nix backs off, ducks his head in a half-hearted nod.

“More or less,” he tells him. “This is more of a Gregorian mimic than a true chant. It’s sort of splicing where the admiration is aimed, between mother and child. The subject narrative is messy. But their intonation is good – as far as I can tell.”

He forgets sometimes, that Nixon is not only ivy-league educated, but well versed in categories rarely mentioned. He’s heard him pick out complicated Rachmaninoff compositions on charred, out-of-tune pianos in bombed out buildings, has seen him tinker tractor engines back to wholeness after complete dissection. Nix knows the steps to three forms of waltzes and can hold his own against politicians in discussions of economic merit. He’s bored with the daily crossword puzzles in the newspaper and can recite Shakespearean sonnets from memory if the subject being mocked is worth the joke.

The Lew he knows is whip-smart and clever to a fault, his intelligence the cause of a good many daily struggles, including his penchant for laziness and the need to drown his claptrap memory with booze.

It’s easy to forget he is also the more sensitive of the two of them.

Guilt suddenly gnaws at Dick’s repose and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He’s missed something. Something small and perhaps vital lost to the hustle and bustle of trying to perfect a false image of what happy holidays should look like, instead of paying attention to what was in front of his face.

He wants to ask, to demand what the oversight is so he can correct it quickly and not fall victim to his shortcomings as a partner until after Christmas has passed. But Nixon’s posture, sprawled and feline as it is, is distant. Something tells him it would be the wrong choice. Instead he twists at the waist to face Nix, using body language to telegraph what he should have opened with as soon as he laid eyes on him in the pew.

I’m here now, Lew. I’m listening.

It takes Nixon until the second chorus to speak again. He’s still staring up at the Madonna, like she might drop down to offer some insight if he squints hard enough.

“You remember that night in Rachamps?” he asks.

How can he not remember in a place like this? “Sure.”

“You told me you didn’t want to be Battalion anymore.”

“I remember.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Making Battalion? Or wanting out of it?”

“Either.”

Dick reflects for a moment, hands in his lap. He draws up the harsh mental image of Foy’s snowscape, the white soiled with angry, viscous red. He thinks of the men, slumped and drained in pews similar to these, the candlelight doing no favors to the deep lines etched in their blank faces. He thinks of the ghosts he brought back home with him instead of the bodies he left.

It had been the only time he’d confessed his doubts of being a leader out loud. Nix had sat vigil with him until the candles had died and the first break of dawn had started to stream through the stained glass, sacrificing sleep to bemoan the heavy weight of responsibility with Dick instead.

“It doesn’t really matter what I said, Nix,” he sighs at last. “It was war and it happened and I did the job.”

Nix fixes him with a shrewd, victorious look. The one Dick hates, the one that suggests he might as well be made of glass for how well Nix can see through him.

“That what you tell God?”

Dick refuses to meet his eye, annoyed at being led into a trap. “You know it isn’t,” he says softly.

Nixon falls silent again, but there’s a lean to his posture in Dick’s direction now. Immeasurable and small. Dick is encouraged nevertheless.

“What happened?” he risks asking in the same low tone.

Without a word, Nix reaches into his coat pocket, fishing around for a moment with something that's jammed against the seam. He pulls out a Christmas card, tastefully ornate and crumpled slightly around the edges, and drops it unceremoniously into Dick’s lap.

Dick flips open the card and gives the cheerful well wishes within a perfunctory scan. The handwriting is feminine and unfamiliar.

“Who’s Betty Ann Rollins?”

Nix grins again, but this time it’s the grim one that suggests he’s skirting the frayed edge of his cool.

“Oh, the sister of one of those kids who died in Operation Varsity. I wrote her a letter wishing her condolences for her brother getting blown to smithereens for his country and she wrote back to wish me a Merry Christmas. Same as last year. And the year before that.”

He can see it now, the way Nix’s dimples wobble just for a millisecond, the way his throat bobs as he struggles to swallow. Little tells leak through that betray his cavalier exterior and let the heartbreak he doesn’t let anyone but Dick glimpse at. The heartbreak he’s tried for years to poison and drown.

Sitting alone in the church pew, without the defense of liquor, all on his own, Nix suddenly seems so small and vulnerable. Dick has the strangest urge to tuck him into the tails of his coat, to bolster up his defenses with an extra layer of wool in case it might help. But though the nave is sparsely populated, they’re still in public and Dick has never resented a church building so much as he does in this exact moment.

He risks overlapping his pinkie with Nix’s, the smallest touch to bridge the distance between them. Nix blinks quickly a few times but offers no other reaction. Nothing to draw attention to them. Pragmatic, even in the face of his grief.

He’d been so upset that day. Operation Varsity: the only time Dick had been left behind and unable to plummet with him into hell. He can still recall Nixon’s drawn face in perfect clarity. He’d been so worried, had wanted nothing more than to take Nix up in his arms the moment he laid eyes on his intact form, the rush of relief at seeing him whole and hearty making him dizzy. But Nix had changed that day. Something small and fundamental had cracked and even after all this time, Dick has never managed to patch it quite right. His normal cocky confidence was rattled, his eyes black with anger and husky voice dripping heart blood with each short word.

He’d asked Dick’s opinion on how to phrase that letter, worried not a tick for his own demotion but only about crafting a letter that might save his soul if worded just right. Dick had been so furious with him, his weakness, too exhausted and worried and sick of the waste himself to have much empathy left. He hadn’t handled the situation well, letting Nix drink himself unconscious rather than deal with his fractured resolve. He’d been drowning at the time too. Instead of throwing him a life preserver, Dick had simply turned the other way. For all intents and purposes pouring the remnants of a whiskey bottle over Nix’s choking, gasping mouth on the way out the door. It still plagues him now and then, when Nix’s nightmares so violently interrupt their shared bed and leave them both sleepless with memory.

He’s so much older than he was then. Maybe the years might argue but he feels it in his mind, in his threadbare soul.

He hopes he cherishes Nix better now.

The choir dips into a melancholy, hushed segment of the hymn that seems written only to accompany Nixon’s mourning. The alto’s dissonant chord strikes something painful and bittersweet behind Dick’s ribs and he wraps the entirety of his digit around the place a wedding band would sit on Nix’s finger if he made the rules.

Then he tucks the card carefully into his own coat pocket with his free hand and sits back with deep breath. He holds it, squinting pensively up at the nearby altar, and then exhales slowly through his nose.

“I think,” he starts slowly, “Mary might have been strong enough to choose love.”

Nixon turns to him then, his beautiful dark eyes haunted and glassy. His brow furrows a fraction in question.

Dick lifts a shoulder carefully. “Well. I imagine, no matter how profound her sorrow was, the love she had for her child would trump it. That no matter what it costs her, she would choose the same outcome for that reason. That she might eventually come to see her sacrifice as a strength, the way the rest of us do.”

Nixon scoffs, the noise wet and undignified, and turns his head away so his bone structure is in stark profile and his devastation half hidden. His tongue darts out to lick at his chapped lips, one after the other.

“How the hell is that a strength?”

“Those who can mourn the dead are always the strongest, Lew,” Dick answers softly. “There’s no pain in paradise. Only in surviving here and remembering.”

He’ll outlive Lew. He can feel it in his bones. The way old timers with arthritis pocking their joints can feel when rain is nigh. One day he will carry Lew out of their lives together in a heavy box and wake up the next morning alone. Remaining but lacking. Shot back into the pallid, monotone world without Lewis Nixon’s color.

He likes to think he won’t regret it all when that time comes. That he’ll still carry such a strong torch for this brilliant, perceptive, titanically flawed man to the end of his days and count his life blessed. Perhaps that’s just purposefully calloused thinking. He’s not sure. He’s never done this before.

For the moment, Nix accepts his answer and shirks back into his own fortress of thoughts. Dick withdraws his hand and they part organically, still close enough for comfort without being intrusive.

“Tell me more about this Heaven with no pain,” Nix says.

“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes,” Dick recites diligently, his voice a murmur and almost inaudible over the swelling of the choir. “And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.”

“Former things, huh?”

“Yep. That’s all they are now.”

Nix is staring up at the Virgin again, but his glare has lost some of its harshness. There’s something wistful, some hint of childlike wonder, to his reflection. “Sounds promising.”

“I’ve always thought so.”

“So you still think I’ll make the cut?”

He’s always hated having to defend his stance on this with Nix. Especially since his relationship with God has been through an upheaval in the past few years and the foundation of his beliefs shifting and evolving the way natural things under immense pressure shift and evolve rather than crumble. He doesn’t know how to convince a good man to grant himself amnesty. He’s still fighting that battle on his own. And he might never win.

“Well finally attending Church certainly gives you some points,” Dick tells him, flashing the lopsided smile he saves just for him.

Nix snorts and Dick relaxes a fraction, glad to break through his somber mood, if only for a little while.

The choir reaches its pinnacle, the climax of the soprano rising to the arched ceilings to shatter gently like a million points of light. It falls like rain to join the flickering candles and for one brief moment, the whole church is illuminated with radiant ringing gold. Something swells in Dick’s chest, making everything tight and as the harmonies slide gracefully into a major chord resolution, there’s a great release that feels as close to absolution as he’s ever been. As if the song itself could flood out and touch them with a gilded hand, baptizing them just for one night.

Nix sucks in a ragged breath and when Dick glances over at him, his eyes are misty.

“Damn,” he breathes, enraptured. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Dick is not watching the choir. His gaze is trained on Nix’s face.

“Yes it is,” he agrees.

“What does your heaven look like, Dick?”

Dick watches the candlelight flicker in Nixon’s wide, shining eyes, highlighting the wild peaks of his dark hair, the Christmas lights back lighting his silhouette like a halo, and the luminous harmony of a choir wreathed around him. Watches as he succumbs to the magnetic pull of Dick’s offered support and leans into his personal space like he’s got a right to, in view of the priest and patrons and Christ Himself. Watches as he’s moved to tears by a dead language praising a God Dick loves so dearly, the same one Nix can’t bring himself to forgive. Watches him fall in love against his own will with the concept of an eternity that’s peaceful.

There is not the shame there once was in thinking he’ll go to no Heaven where this man can’t follow. Only a serene sort of resolution.

“Something like this,” Dick murmurs to himself.

“How’s that?” Nix leans in to hear him better. Close enough to bump their shoulders together.

“I said I’m not sure,” clarifies Dick, a bit louder.

The song dies down, its last whisper-soft notes lingering sweetly in the air and leaving behind a sense of glowing warmth that seeps into the bones. Lightens the load of the weary and serves as a brace for venturing back out into the cold. The few gatherers who rise sporadically from the pews do so with happy sighs, their faith threaded back together and their hearts filled with sonorous gold.

Dick waits until they’ve cleared and then puts a gentle hand to Nix’s knee, shaking him out of his reverie and back into the present.

“Come on, Lew,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

Nix gives his head a shake, clearing the last remnants of the music’s spell from his ears and uncurling from his seat to start at the buttons of his coat. He stands and slides out of the pew, waiting for Dick with eyes clearer than before.

In his distraction, he’s missed the closures on a few buttons and with a chuckle, Dick beckons him closer. Starts to erase the mistake one button at a time.

Nix winces and shies away as his fingers graze his neck. “Your hands are cold,” he complains. “Why aren’t you wearing your gloves?” He waves Dick away with a disgruntled face and takes over the task himself.

“Sorry,” says Dick.

Nix gives him that smile again, the one too fond to be completely teasing and it produces the same warm buzz inside Dick’s chest that hymns do.

“That’s alright,” Nix tells him. “I’ll just have to warm you up in the car. Can’t have you botching your perfect wrap job on the presents due to numb fingers, can we?”

There are six Catholic churches in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

But there’s only one Dick Winters returns to every December, just long enough to stop in and hear the choir rehearse a motet about Mary’s quiet joy and sorrow at being brave enough to bear the burden of love and everything that comes with it.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/36341782

Leave me comments/emojis/just random noises on my ao3 please and thank you! :D

#winnix #my fic #richard winters #lewis nixon #dick winters #band of brothers #religious conversion #soft fic #music inspired art #lewis nixon x dick winters #christmas #christmas fic #i made dis #And I am actually proud of it

21 notes · View notes

howwelldoyouknowyourmoon · 3 years

Text

Blessed Child podcast by Renrobot. The BITE model parts 3 and 4, and a story from Africa.

https://anchor.fm/blessed-child2/episodes/Thought-Control-Explained-e10jbrh

May 10 Thought Control Explained! (1:25:32) During this Instagram live Renrobot deconstructed thought control in the Unification Church through her own experiences while talking and sharing with others. People from all over the world chimed in and created a very rich dialogue of deconstruction. Also, the murder mentioned happened in 2002. _______________________

https://anchor.fm/blessed-child2/episodes/Emotional-Control-Explained-e10pabf

May 13 Emotional Control Explained (1:01:29) And we are at the end of the BITE model of authoritarian control. Time to move forward to deconstruct other aspects of the cult. Thank you so much for listening and following this journey. Much love to my listeners, I hope you feel empowered. Remember every time a moonie escapes the cult, a fairy gets its wings. _______________________

https://anchor.fm/blessed-child2/episodes/Labor-trafficking-in-Africa-e10qprl

May 13 Labor trafficking in Africa (45:06) During this LIVE Instagram was able to connect with a former Unification Church member in Africa. We share the similarities and the differences of our experience in the Unification Church. She also shares insight of what the UC is doing in Africa, in her own experience. We discuss the origins of the UC/FFWPU’s labor trafficking fast food joint Burger Hut and Heaven' G burger. Unknown if they are paying members decent salaries but they are a non-profit fast food restaurant... whatever that is 🤔 _______________________

Blessed Child podcast by Renrobot. Welcome and BITE model parts 1 and 2.

The BITE model developed by Steven Hassan, PhD.

Robert Jay Lifton’s Eight Conditions of Thought Reform (1963)

Sensibly Speaking Podcast: Terror, Love and Brainwashing ft. Alexandra Stein

_______________________

James (Jin Sung) Park’s VEEMA scam

FTC Acts to Halt Vemma as Alleged Pyramid Scheme

Rolling Stone magazine: Selling the Bro Dream: Are Frat Boys Peddling Vemma Suckers?  Vemma, the wildly popular energy drink company, may or may not be a pyramid scheme, but it’ll definitely be on your college campus soon

John Oliver, pyramid schemes and James (Jin Sung) Park’s VEEMA

Complaints about James (Jin Sung Moon) Park’s VEEMA visit to Northern California in 2011

_______________________

South America

“The Unification Church is truly anti-Christian” and produces “a species of material and spiritual slavery.” Catholic Bishops in Honduras

Brazil Federal Authorities raid offices linked to Sun Myung Moon

Sun Myung Moon:  “From today on, if you meet anybody around you who criticizes or judges True Family because of what is happening right now, you can hit them in the mouth. If anyone writes a wrong letter to True Family you can break their arm.”  February 24, 1996, Sao Paolo, Brazil

The Unification Church and the KCIA – ‘Privatizing’ covert action: the case of the UC

Sun Myung Moon’s Drug Paradise

Sun Myung Moon: Emperor of the Universe Transcript and VIDEO

Labor Trafficking by the Unification Church: In South America young members are being offered the chance of a university education, and are then being put on fundraising teams for 2 or 3 years. Rev Kang – the Korean continental director for youth education – is organizing this. About one percent do get to university. Many of the young members of Peru are being enticed. In the words of the Unification Church leader who told me this a few days ago – this is “deception.” The young people eventually get home and they are angry, and their families feel cheated. Somebody just wants the money. They don't care about the hearts of the young people at all. I have further details on this. I think someone is trying to set up MFTs in Brazil to make it another source of cash, since things are getting difficult in Japan, and Brazil has a growing economy. (unknown date)

In 1985 the Washington Times sponsored a fund for the Contras in Nicaragua who committed atrocities, and trafficked drugs to the US

In Bolivia, Moon disciple Tom Ward and the former Hitler SS Officer, Klaus Barbie were often seen together

How Sun Myung Moon’s organization helped to establish Bolivia as South America’s first narco-state.

FFWPU President of IAPP Prosecuted for Money Laundering and Drug Smuggling in US Court; may be connected to UC / FFWPU Leadership

CAUSA and Three South American Terror Generals

“In Korea, one even senses a fear, like one induced by the Mafia, among the opposition, and … outspoken opponents speak of death threats.” Prof. Sontag, 1976

Moon’s followers poured a pot of urine and feces on the head of a Seoul University Professor of Religion.

“WHY did you disobey my order?” … Mr. Yoshizumi hit me and pushed me twice … against a sharp, protruding corner…

Hyun-Jin Preston Moon violence at the New Yorker Hotel

____________________________________

Purity Culture discussion with Faith Y3n – on Ren’s ‘Blessed Child’ podcast

https://anchor.fm/blessed-child2/episodes/Faith-Y3n-on-Purity-Culture-e12pe3t

June 15, 2021 1:30:37

Faith Y3n on Purity Culture  I found myself deconstructing purity culture on IG live at 1am, when the illustrious Faith Y3n joined in for this complex deconstruction. The conversation has been edited to respect the privacy of other people’s stories and add some info in places. Thanks for joining us. Ren

________________________________

La Secta Moon – español ________________________________  La Secte Moon – français :  

J’ai arraché mes enfants à Moon – Nansook Hong

#Renrobot #Moonies #cult #abuse #Sun Myung Moon #Hak Ja Han #Unification Church #emotional abuse #FFWPU

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himbowelsh · 4 years

Note

18 with winnix for the kiss prompts please!

sha-la-la-la my oh my, looks like the boy’s too shy 💋 (accepting!) 18. kisses where one person is sitting in the other’s lap

this definitely... escalated far past where you wanted/needed it to go, and turned into more of an exploration of their post-war relationship, when winters joins nix in new jersey... i had fun with it, but oof, did it ever kinda spiral. there’s definitely kissing towards the end, though, so i hope you enjoy!!

To be fair, Nix never promised him an enjoyable night.

His first pitch was “a party”. Dick, who’s had enough experience with the sort of parties that go on in Nixon, New Jersey, replied that he had paperwork to catch up on. It was a good excuse because it wasn’t a lie. Nix brooded for a solid thirty seconds before popping back up, smile bright, to declare, “an evening affair, then, and you’re my date. You have to be, since I need one, and I haven’t got anyone else.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “What about that girl, the one with the — the red hair —?”

“Hah,” replied Nix, in a flat tone that suggested his redheaded girlfriend was ancient history.

“One of the lobby girls, then.”

“Hah.”

“Blanche?”

“Hah!”

“I’m sure your mother would be honored to go with you.”

Nix had to grip the edge of the table to keep from falling down, laughing.

By the time he regained his composure, Dick was pretty much resigned to accompanying him for the evening. He’s never been able to say no to Nix anyways, even during the war. Being home — Nix’s home — and seeing him in his element — for better or worse — just makes it harder. Something about Nix in the bustling atmosphere of the New Jersey social scene is beguiling, electric, and a bit haunted. Like watching a film noir, Dick can never look away.

He doesn’t expect to have a good time. Nix’s parties are not designed to be good times for people who don’t smoke, drink, or gamble. Nix was kind enough not to remark on the novel tucked into the inside pocket of Dick’s suit jacket as they strode up the walkway towards the roaring party. Loud music blared from open windows; lights and laughter twinkled from beyond the spacious French doorways. It was only nine o’clock, but Dick could feel exhaustion creeping up on him already.

“Come on,” Nix encouraged, guiding him into the townhouse with a proud hand on his elbow. “Let’s set you up on a nice sofa and find a Shirley Temple. Extra cherries, just for you.”

The one thing Dick will credit Lewis Nixon’s parties for — they’re never stingy with the cherries.

Now, three hours into the affair, he sets aside his most recent soda and scans the crowd. As the hours wind away, the raucous group has started to thin out. Either the partiers are headed somewhere else, or all have appointments to keep in the morning, because they show no signs of lingering into the early hours. Dick can be grateful for that much, at least. Those types of parties typically end with him dozing on a stranger’s sofa until he has to steer a very drunk Nix into the back of the waiting car at 3am. Dick has suffered through enough late evenings to never want to see another one again — though, time after time, he ends up coming out for Nix.

It seems like a quiet one tonight, though, thank goodness. The music has faded to a lull, someone thrumming out a thoughtful tune on the piano. The rowdiest partiers have taken leave, and all that’s left are Nix’s regular companions— the home’s owner, another Ivy League man Nix knows well, along with several of his mistresses; a few other Nixon Nitration folks Dick vaguely recognizes, and their dates; Nix’s sister Blanche, leaning languidly over the piano in a shimmering silver dress; and Nix, sprawled in a chair, top buttons of his shirt undone and hair disheveled.

He looks utterly debauched, and something about it thrills Dick. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, of course, but Nix in his sanguine element is magnetic. He’s like a panther — sleek and relaxed, dangerous under a veneer of nobility. No matter how much he’s had to drink, Nix’s dark gaze is always piercing; he always seems to know something the rest of the room doesn’t, and sometimes it plays on his lips like a hidden treasure.

He’s smirking like that now, and the smirk’s trained directly on Dick… and he can’t look away. It’s impossible. Even if he wanted to, Nix reels him in with that penetrating gaze. It’s all Dick can do to sit up straighter, pretending he is comfortable in this rakish crowd, the only one sober and the only one out of place.

“Speaking of saints,” Nix says at once — loud enough to cut in on whatever theological ramble his Yale buddy was in the middle of, “here’s one now. Sitting in front of us. Dick, come here. Show these fellows what a true Saint Augustine looks like.”

Dick would rather do anything else… but he’d cross a mountain for Lewis Nixon. Crossing the length of a trashed ballroom is only a bit more challenging. He comes to stand at Nix’s side, clearly uncomfortable, while Nix’s friends take him in as though seeing him for the first time this evening.

“You know I’m not Catholic, Lew,” he tries to quip, to break the tense mood. Nix’s hand catches his, squeezing lightly, and Dick’s own unease only grows.

“Neither am I, but we’re pretending for tonight. Gives all the sinning a bit more zest, you know?”

“Sure.” Dick’s hand comes to rest on the back of Nix’s chair, unconsciously craving something to do. One of the host’s mistresses, with bright red lips and sharp eyes, doesn’t miss it.

“Ohh,” she hums, like the word is a wave she must ride to the shore. “Don't say it, Lewis. This is your handsome date?”

Something about the way she says it has Dick’s shoulders tensing in instinctual alarm. Maybe Nix has had far too much to drink, or can read this crowd too well; he doesn’t even flinch at the implication.

“Afraid so,” he replies, a hand creeping up Dick’s sleeve. “Nice enough to hang around all night, even though he’d rather be back home pouring over... productivity reports. Employee reviews? Staff... surveys?”

“Something like that,” Dick says.

“Something like that.” Nix’s hand runs up and down Dick’s arm, blatantly fond. It takes everything in Dick’s power not to tense up.

None of the assembled crowd seems bothered by such a display, however. Nix’s friends exchange knowing looks, smirking around lit cigarettes or crystal glasses. One woman languidly kicks her heels onto her date’s laugh, shaking her head. From the piano, Blanche runs a hand over her glossy hair, gaze sharp on her brother and his companion. “He’s out of your league, Lewis,” she chimes. Her smirk is catlike, voice like molasses dripping onto spring grass. At times, she looks dangerously like her brother, and Dick isn’t sure how to handle either of them.

Nix’s grip settles around Dick’s upper arm. “Isn’t that the truth?”

When Dick looks down, Nix is looking up. Something about his whiskey-bright gaze knocks the breath from his lungs. It’s too… soft, too tender. Too intimate for this party, to exist among strangers. Nix’s grip on his bicep is firm, and Dick has no desire to pull away. He doesn’t get the chance to question — not even a flicker of uncertainty, a breathless what's he doing — before Nix gives a tug, and Dick all but tumbles into his lap.

He regains his balance like a newborn colt, to the bubbling laughter of Nix’s audience. His cheeks flare, bright red; Nix’s touches, usually so welcome, now linger on his skin like a hot iron. He’s straddling his best friend’s knees, Nix’s arm wrapped around his to steady him, and it’s all Dick can do not to leap back to his feet to salvage whatever slim slice of dignity remains.

“Nix,” he says, voice low in warning.

“Relax, Dick,” he answers, equally softspoken. “It’s all a game. Don’t you see? None of it really matters.”

It matters to me, he wants to say... because Nix has never held him without it mattering, has never caressed him without every sensation engraving itself permanently into Dick’s memory. Nix has never… not mattered to him. Some part of Dick, an small yet insidious murmur, wonders when he became insignificant to him.

The way Nix caresses his face is anything but meaningless, though… as is the way his dark gaze lingers on his lips, simmering for so long that Dick can feel its heat. Nix’s thumb grazes the corner of his mouth, and instinctively Dick draws back.

Something hurt flashes in Nix’s eyes. Dick cannot feel guilty. He doesn’t want this — can’t Nix understand that? Not here, not now, not putting on a show for an audience. Not when Nix is whiskey-soaked and careless, so far gone that Dick could get drunk off the taste of him. If this is a game, Dick doesn’t want to play.

“Father isn’t around for you to give a coronary, Lewis.” Blanche’s voice echoes as though from the other side of a tunnel, practically bored. “Save it for the next family dinner, at least.”

Gradually, Nix’s grip on Dick’s waist loosens. His touch pulls away from his face, finding Dick’s hand instead. He raises it to his mouth and lets it linger there — a sweet mockery of a kiss — before releasing Dick entirely.

Dick pulls away, regaining his posture and his dignity. The eyes of the room are all on him now, as surely as they were on the jazz singer earlier in the night. He can’t take their weight, or their curiosity. Keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead, he brushes himself down and murmurs an excuse to Nix. “Just going to get some air.”

Nix doesn’t try to stop him.

Stepping out into the cool night is like being released from prison. Dick braces himself against the stone railing of the townhouse’s balcony, gazing at the gravel drive only a few feet below. He could jump it, if he really wanted to — easier that than going back inside and leaving out the front door, wrangling Nix away from his clan. They’re not so far from home — he could walk it, in an hour or so. The fresh air would do his head good. At least in the dark, no one would be able to see him, to wonder and scrutinize…

His mind has gone to a strange place now, and is twisting itself in tangles. Recognizing his own impossible daydream, Dick sighs, slumping forward. A hand finds his hair, rumbling it. For a long moment, he only breathes, focusing on the autumn air filling his lungs and the crickets chirping in the night, to drown out the storm raging inside.

His nerves are too taut not to notice when someone comes up behind him… but the scent of perfume is familiar, so he doesn’t jump. She sidles up alongside him, inhaling softly in the night air; she blows out the same way Nix does, from deep within her chest. When Dick raises his head, Blanche is not focused on him at all, but looking ahead down the driveway.

“Planning your escape?” she asks lightly. Her mulberry lips curl upwards, without the chore of looking at him. “I don’t blame you. That was painful, in there.”

Dick arches an eyebrow. “You felt it too?”

She has a drink in her hand, but the glass is empty. As Blanche’s attention drifts to it, she seized upon the olive, still speared and languishing inside the glass. With delicate, manicured fingers, she plucks it out and scrutinizes the tiny fruit.

“You can’t let him bully you, Dick,” she says after a moment. The scent of wine may be heavy on her breath, but her words are perfectly sober. “He doesn’t mean to, but it’s instinct around these people. They all like to show off, and he’s proud of you.”

Dick’s brows furrow. He’s not some brand new car, or a gold-plated watch. “Why?”

“Because you’re nothing like them.” Blanche’s dark gaze flickers up to him; for the first time tonight, Dick feels entirely seen. Her lips purse, like she’s fighting back a smile, but something in her eyes reminds him of loneliness. “You don’t belong in this set… and that’s nothing against you, darling, only what you know as well as us. My brother prizes you so highly; he’s proud that you’re here, that you’re with him, that you give him your time and agree to accompany him to these parties, even though you’d much rather be doing anything else.”

Dick’s lips purse. Blanche waits a moment, as though expecting him to protest… but he has nothing to say.

“Rich little boys love their toys. You need to remind him that you aren’t one.” Her fingers drum against the rim of her glass; each clink-clink-clink pierces Dick’s nerves like shrapnel wounds.

“He doesn’t mean anything wrong by it,” he protests, because he knows Nix well enough to understand that.

“Of course not. If he didn’t care about you…” Blanche’s words trail off, along with her gaze. She drifts back out to the driveway, painted lips pursing like she’s considering something far away. After another silent moment, she glances at Dick once more. “Last chance to run.”

Dick smirks. “I’m considering it.”

Blanche sighs into the night, pushing her folded arms off the railing and stepping back. Dick no longer feels inclined to stand out in the darkness, alone. As she steps back into the well-lit hallway, he follows her.

When they reenter the lounge, Nix is holding court, in the middle of an animated story Dick’s heard before. “— of course, I couldn’t have known there was a cat involved, otherwise I’d never have set foot in the apartment. So I sit down on the couch and the damned thing launches at me, yowling like a bat out of hell —“ He cuts off, mid-flail, gaze landing on his sister and companion. “Ah. Was wondering where you too made off to.”

“Nothing untoward,” Blanche drawls, slinking back towards the bar. “I offered, but Dick’s too upstanding.”

Nix locks onto Dick, and again, his gaze is painfully warm. Dick feels the same way, like a furnace is burning under his collar. Uneasily, he lowers himself onto a settee at the far edge of the room, back to the door so he won’t be tempted. So long as he’s in Nix’s sightline, his presence counts… but he doesn’t have to make himself the object of a crowd’s fascination again.

Nix understands, in that easy way of his. His lips curl up in the slightest smile, before he turns back to his audience. “As I was saying…”

His story winds on for a little while longer, before he grows bored with it. By then, the crowd has grown equally bored with its malingering, but still too languid to get up and do something about it. One of the women slips behind the piano and tries to start up a dancing tune, but no one bites. Her song devolves into something slower, more thoughtful. The host pours himself another drink from the bar, and doesn’t offer to serve anyone else; his mistresses chatter in an undertone, lipstick stained crystal glasses sitting beside them. Nix reclines back in his chair, perfectly debauched. His hair is a ruffled mess, bow-tie undone and hanging loosely around his neck. The top of his shirt is still open, carelessly displaying his collarbones and a flash of dark hair across his chest.

You’ll catch a chill, a voice in Dick’s head that sounds too much like his mother chides. He’s seized briefly with the inexplicable, intense urge to cross the room and lean over Nix to close the shirt himself. It passes, of course, and he politely averts his gaze.

Perhaps he’s doing too good of a job not looking at him. “Dick,” Nix finally says, from right behind him. “Ready to go?”

A wave of relief washes over him. He hasn’t wanted anything so badly since his discharge papers. “Let’s go,” he replies, rising to his feet.

They pay polite goodbyes to their host; Blanche waves them off with an eyeroll for Nix and a blown kiss for Dick. Then, finally, they leave through the front door, and slip into the night.

While they drove here themselves, Nix is in no state to command the car. Dick is already prepared to take the wheel, when the valet steps up with keys in hand. “Do you require a ride home, Mr. Nixon?”

Dick’s surprised gaze swivels towards Nix, as if to ask do we? (He’s still so unused to the world of chauffeurs and butlers, and every encounter leaves a foreign, coppery taste in his mouth.) Nix dwells on the offer for a moment with lazy-eyed disinterest, before shrugging and gesturing the valet towards his car. “Why not? Roy likes to be generous. Let him do us a favor for once, huh?”

Dick, who has never personally done Nix’s friend Roy a single favor, just nods.

Nix’s car is sleek and expensive, a top of the line Plymouth Deluxe in glossy black paint and felt seating. Dick has sat in the passenger’s seat enough times that sliding into the back feels like a mistake, something to double back and correct before he manages to embarrass himself. Nix slides in right behind him, not giving him the chance. The scent of car freshener can’t disguise the stuffy air in the back of the car; there’s not much separating the back from the front, but the forward row of seats stretch up, practically creating a barrier to separate both ends of the car in half. Dick hears the driver slide in up front, but in the darkness, it’s hard to see.

“Turn on the radio, will you?” Nix requests as the car stirs to life. Obligingly, the driver turns a few knobs; what threatens to become an awkward silence immediately finds itself drowned out by a staticky love ballad.

“And when I kissed you, darling It was more than just a thrill for me It was the promise, darling Of the things that fate had willed for me…”

The timing is astonishingly poor. Dick slumps back against the seat, all but defeated. At his side, Nix chuckles.

When Dick looks over, it's impossible to catch his eye. The night is too dark, and these roads aren’t well-lit; shrouded by shadows, Nix’s eyes are two black holes, drawing all trace of light into them and holding it hostage. Dick catches a flash of something pearly, which must be the jagged cut of Nix’s smile; the silhouetted shoulders rise up and down, in what isn’t quite laughter.

After a moment, Nix goes still. Dick can’t see, but he knows he’s being watched.

“Well?” Nix finally says. “When are you going to tell me what an idiot I am?”

Dick turns his head, looking out the window nearest to him. “Never occurred to me, Nix.”

“Maybe not to say it, but you were thinking it. Come on, Dick.” A smooth-palmed hand finds his in the darkness. Dick allows it. “I knew I screwed up the moment you pulled away. Knew it as soon as I saw your face, really, but damn me if I know how to stop… come on, that’s what I bring you to these things for. To keep a leash on me.”

Dick thinks Nix’s social circle picked up on that, at least.

He doesn’t realize how tense he’s gone until Nix’s thumb strokes along the back of his knuckles; his hand, Dick realizes, has gone stiff as a corpse’s, gnarled with tension. When he looks down, he’s suddenly ashamed. He tries to pull away, but Nix holds fast.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sudden and sincere.

“You didn’t do anything,” Dick replies. “If I didn’t want to be there —“

“You don’t want to be there. You come to these awful things for me, even though you can’t stand it, and you’re a fish out of water the whole time. I’m being cruel to you. Downright uncharitable! And you know the reason why.”

Dick’s gaze is drawn back to him again. This time, as a flash of light passes through the car, he glimpses Nix’s face — eyes bright with drink, devastatingly earnest, his lips curled downwards and jaw tense. He’s handsome without trying… and cruel, too. More careless than he realizes.

Blanche’s words echo in his ears: rich little boys love their toys.

“It might be a game to you, Nix,” Dick says softly, “but it isn’t to me. Whatever show you were putting on in there… I don’t want to be part of it anymore.”

Nix is silent for a long moment. The air between them is thick as curdled cream. “I understand,” he finally says. “I… I get it, Dick, christ. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Of course he knows. Doesn’t Nix realize he doesn’t have to put on a show for anyone, just do Dick will stand by his side? Doesn’t he realize the whole reason Dick goes to these parties, time and time again, is for him? Because he’d shatter the entire world and piece it back together, fragment by microscopic fragment, just to make Lewis Nixon happy?

“It’s never been a game to me, Nix,” he says softly.

In the darkness, Nix’s hand finds his again. This time, Dick squeezes tight.

He doesn’t know exactly how they come together, what magnetism pulls them or the way their bodies fit together. His shoulder presses up against Nix’s; his fingers find the threads of Nix’s hair; Nix’s thigh is a solid weight as it drapes over his own, his skin is warm, and suddenly Nix is practically in his lap.

It felt better this way. Dick likes the cover of darkness, is painfully grateful for it, just as he is of the way his hand fits over Nix’s hip. He likes holding him so much more than he likes being held… and something in the sigh Nix breathes against his lips suggests he likes it this way too.

“It’s not a game to me either, Dick,” he murmurs. “You matter too damn much”

The distance between them closes on its own will. Nix tastes like whiskey and coffee and August twilight; his lips are smooth, gliding over Dick’s own as though he’s wet them a dozen times since their conversation began. Their embrace is tender, but the hand gripping Dick’s shoulder is desperate. When Dick sighs against Nix’s lips, he utters a soft noise, almost like a whine. Dick’s fingers run along his scalp, soothing the dissatisfaction away.

“I much prefer this,” Dick mutters. “It suits us both better… privacy.”

“If it suits you,” Nix replies, “that’s all I need to know.”

It’s not perfect, and it’s not quite laid to rest… but they make it home at a reasonable hour, and Dick holds Nix in the privacy of their own home. He couldn’t ask for anything more.

#winnix #my writing #richard winters #lewis nixon #blanche nixon

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phykios · 4 years

Text

the marble king, part 8 [read on ao3] [rated M for adult situations]

Percy wakes to the feeling of a blonde curl in his mouth, and though the taste is unpleasant, he still smiles.

Spitting it out of his mouth, he turns on his side to better face his wife, and grasps at her, but not before pausing to rub at her glowing belly. "Good morning, my love," he says, voice still rough with sleep.

Softly, serenely, she flutters her eyes open, revealing the stunning stormcloud which he so adores. "Good morning, my husband," Annabeth replies, her returning smile, while small, still bright enough to light up the entire North on its own, the Bifrost distilled in her joy.

Though he has just woken up, he feels a bit restless, but the threat of the freezing air outside of the warm blankets stops him from rising from his bed. Additionally, Annabeth has slung her arm around his side and pulled him close, and he cannot bear to be parted from her. Oh, how he loves the feeling of his wife laying next to him.

The blankets securely wrapped around him, he turns further into her, leaning over and kissing her, long and hard and deep as possible.

"Darling," she murmurs against his lips, "you know I am already with child, yes? You cannot make me pregnant again at the moment."

"Oh, I am aware," he says, caressing the swell of her stomach. "I can imagine a hundred reasons to kiss you," he kisses her lips, "to touch you," he traces the bones of her clavicle, enjoying as she shivers in response, "to make love to you, that have nothing to do with making children."

She giggles, a sweet, chiming bell, a sound which puts him in mind of the carefree girl she was never able to be, but one that he dreamed they have created together.

Out of the warmth, he reaches up his hand, brushing her hair out of her face. Normally covered, as is appropriate of a woman wed, her hair lies wild against her pillow. He strokes the soft locks and imagines their child, their little girl, all blonde curls and brilliance.

"What is on your mind, phykios ?" Anja asks.

"You," he says. "Our child. Our life. How happy I am, and how much I love you, how much I love this."

"Even in the frozen wasteland of Svealand?" she teases, her lips curling.

"Even here," he promises. "Anywhere you are, that is where I wish to be."

However, rather than reward him with another kiss, as is her wont, she frowns. "Do you smell that?"

"It is merely the fire," he comments, though when he casts a glance towards the hearth, he sees that it is cold and empty. How strange; typically one of the servants will come in and make it up each morning before they awake.

He strains his ears, attempting to catch the subtle sounds of the house as it wakes up around them. The floor creaks, the walls shift, and everything feels foggy, as though their bed has somehow sailed out into the morning sea. It all seems so close, closer than it should be, closed off in his own world with Anja.

And what is that blasted scratching?

He awoke with a start, sitting up just in time to see the blaze of the fire going up.

The maid, a woman a few years younger than him with bright, bright hair, jumped as he moved, startled.

She murmured something that he did not quite understand, but recognized as an apology. "It is alright," he said as best he could manage, the syllables of Swedish not fitting so well inside of his mouth. Alejandra had laughed at his accent the other day, but at least she was kind enough to attempt to teach him some of this strange northern tongue so he could not be so abominably rude. Annabeth--Ana Zab--Anja Elisab--whoever--had either been unable or unwilling to spare the time to assist him, and nor had her father. Alejandra was then the only other person in the manor with whom he shared a language.

He had thought it to be a trio of Latin speakers; himself, Lord Magnus' wife Doña Alejandra, and her brother, the similarly named Don Alejandro, who had both studied Latin as youths, and if their Latin failed them, Spanish itself was not so different from Italian that the two could not understand each other when spoken slowly. Percy had been terribly embarrassed that it had taken him near on six weeks in the household to put together the fact that Alejandra and Alejandro were, in fact, the same person, a Norse demigod with shapeshifting powers that could rival even Franko's. As she had explained it to him, at times she lived as a woman, and at others he lived as a man, but still remained the same person within, and Magnus not only knew, but considered it no significant difficulty. For Percy, who had seen a cow with the tail of a fish, this was not so strange.

The maid scurried away, leaving the fire to try its best to warm the frigid room.

It was freezing. It was always freezing here.

Percy, a man of the warm middle sea, was decidedly not pleased by this constant chill.

His room was well appointed, the best guest room in the manor--a Swedish monarch, Kristoffer av Bayern , himself had once slept here, as Fredrik had told him. A servant came in to tend the fire, another came in to clean. It was, short of a god's palace, perhaps the most luxurious place he had ever rested his head. Fredrik and Magnus graciously provided him with warm clothing, finer than anything he'd left behind in Constantinople. Despite the winter, food was plentiful, and he joined the noble family for every meal.

One would argue that, as an honored guest in a noble household, his every comfort seen to, surely that would have made for a happier time than trekking through the Labyrinth, or facing a Cyclops, or holding the sky, no? And yet, he was not sure if he'd ever been more miserable in his life.

He was cold and lonely and cold. He dressed as warmly as he could, in several more layers than anyone else, and still he shivered. Fredrik spoke Greek, but he had much to attend to around the manor, and spent the bulk of his free time reacquainting his daughter with the goings-on and politics of the North.

At least Annabeth was settling in well. It was hard to deny how well she fit the bitter climate. She looked beautiful against the snow and the dark wood, wrapped in fine furs. Her cheeks flushed in the cold, her blonde curls sneaking out below caps and shawls, her pale skin glowing in the warm firelight, all lovely.

She no longer resembled the legendary Theotokos, but she seemed happier than she had been in months.

Dressed in lovely garments, rich fabrics of green and red and blue, she walked through the halls of her family with her head held high, as though it were her very own palace. She was a noble lady, come home after a long, torturous absence. A princess.

It suited her.

Annabeth would have made a wonderful lady of the house--shoring up the family and all that. The marital politics of aristocrats somewhat escaped him, but it seemed the sort of thing that they would do, marrying your beautiful, intelligent cousin in order to keep your lands and titles more firmly within the family.

He knew that Magnus loved his wife, and that marrying a foreign woman had caused some local controversy, even without the general knowledge of Alejandra's alternate days as Alejandro. She had told him herself, too, that just as Percy and Annabeth had gone on a great many adventures together, so had Magnus and his partner, along that rainbow bridge that Percy could only barely see. But when he saw the cousins together, so alike in their appearance, so clearly happy to be reunited, Percy could not help but wonder if Magnus regretted his marriage at all.

Percy almost felt guilty to think of it, and not only because Alejandra was his only true friend he had here. He would never dream of disrupting their marriage. But he did not know how anyone, presented with the missed opportunity of Annabeth, could not regret his choices.

Lukas had died for that regret.

He wondered what his own regret would be, once he left this place, once he left Annabeth.

Shivering as he left his very comfortable bed, he decided to take one of the rugs with him, keeping it wrapped around him as he got dressed for the day as he did each day, feeling foolish with every layer he added. His daily routines were sparse, spending his days puttering round the manor, alternately avoiding and being avoided by the denizens of the house. He could not even go down to the lake and sit by the water, as it was simply far too cold. At the very least, none of the family had made a move to have him removed; on the contrary, he'd been informed that, in the winter, such a trip could prove to be fatal. But one day Spring would return, and he would not stay in the best guest bedroom of Annabeth's cousin's house forever.

He shuddered again as he stepped into the hall. Malaka , but he hated it here. But Annabeth was here, and he found he did not wish to be anywhere else.

It had been well over two months by now, and Percy at least knew his way to the dining hall, where the mid-day meal was served each day. As he set off, he tried to time his shivers to only when he was alone, when no other member of the household, born and bred in this bitter, bitter cold, could judge the strange foreign man who had, perhaps, outstayed his welcome.

Annabeth and Magnus were already seated at the table when he arrived, and she cast him a smile as he entered and sat down beside her. He nodded, smiling in return, feeling warm from the inside out.

Then the cousins resumed their conversation, which was quite beyond his comprehension.

Frowning, Percy took some salted fish onto his plate, and ate in silence, as he had no other option.

Alejandro arrived a few minutes after Percy, a man today, judging by his clothing and his own statement. At the very least, he had the good manners to speak to Percy over his bread.

"You are of the Eastern rites, yes?" he was saying. "Soon you shall experience a proper Catholic Christmas."

"It is much too early for Christmas, is it not?" Percy asked, frowning. Had he missed the turning of the year already? He had not thought he was so unaware of the passage of time that he had missed December entirely.

Annabeth and Magnus both frowned at them as though they spoke in secret code, as Annabeth's Latin was less than passable, and Magnus' nonexistent. Given that everyone around Percy was constantly speaking a tongue he could not understand, he did not find himself with much sympathy to spare.

"St. Lucy's feast is but three days away," Alejandra said, "and then the Christmas month shall begin."

At Percy's confused expression, he laughed; it was not exactly kind, but Percy had come to learn that the relentless teasing was how Alejandro demonstrated friendship.

He turned to Magnus, perhaps translating for his husband, and Annabeth responded in Swedish, her face contemplative. Then Alejandro said something presumably quite amusing, for they all burst into peals of laughter. Annabeth's laugh was musical, as always, bright and sparkling as a bell.

He wished he knew what the joke had been.

Shoving a slice of bread in his mouth, he prayed that it would hide the disappointment on his face from being cut out again.

"Anja," Alejandro explained, "had mentioned that the last time she had been present for St. Lucy's day, she had dressed up as the saint herself--I then volunteered to assume the role of a small, blonde girl, if no other one could be located in time."

Percy smiled, partly in thanks, but it was not the same. He had no idea what St. Lucy's day was supposed to involve, nor why Annabeth had costumed herself so, nor how it was somehow already time for Christmas--and he was not about to ask his present company.

After the meal, he and Alejandro went down to the manor's stables, as they often did. "You know," he said, as they walked across the frozen ground, "I have a half-brother who is a horse."

"I as well," Percy replied. "Two, actually, I believe."

Small talk for demigods was always something of a unique experience, and this cross-pantheon relation-building was particularly interesting. Loki could also cause earthquakes, as Percy discovered. He was glad he had found a kindred spirit, even all the way up here.

The horses were quite nice, but Percy was distracted somewhat by a group of young stablehands who simultaneously politely ignored them, while hanging on their every word and gesture from around the corners.

"What game do you think they are playing?" asked Percy absently, though whether to the horses or to Alejandro, he was not sure.

"They are watching you, my friend," Alejandro said. "They are all desperate for a glimpse, for a juicy slice of gossip to share with their friends."

Percy made a face. "Whatever for? I am not that interesting."

Laughing, Alejandro clapped him on the shoulder. "Oh, you've arrived from far away, and that is plenty interesting on its own. When I arrived with Magnus, I was stared at and gawked over for months, and no one believed I was the heir to a fallen empire."

It took Percy several moments to fully understand the extent of Alejandro's implication.

"Do people truly believe that I have some claim to the throne of Constantinople?" Such a fantasy was--laughable, at very best. "Everyone thinks so?"

"No, not everyone," Alejandro grinned. "I know perfectly well that, son of a god or not, the heir apparent of an empire could not have escaped half as well as you did." Then he paused, looking Percy up and down in a manner that felt not entirely unlike an appraisal. "But merely a minor prince, well..." Alejandro trailed off, raising an eyebrow in question.

Ruthlessly he quashed the bubbling, hysterical laughter that threatened its way up from his stomach. Someone as cunning and well-traveled as Alejandro, someone who'd spent so much time with him, thought him to be a porphyrogenitus? "That's ridiculous," he said, for it was one of the silliest things he had ever heard.

Alejandro's face fell. "No, do not say such things," he complained. "I so wanted to be right. Magnus had insisted you were merely a boring old nobleman, and I would hate to lose the bet."

Percy swallowed, suddenly overcome with anxiety over what Annabeth may have told her family about him. They knew he was a demigod of the Hellenes, of course, but perhaps she had obscured certain facts about his mortal life.

No, not perhaps. Anja Elisabet Fredriksdotter, whose family had played host to the king of Sweden in their ancient manor, she could not imply that her traveling companion was only a fisherman turned foot soldier in a failed army. What might that say about her, or her reputation?

"Well, I would hate to cause marital strife by proving anyone correct," he said with a painful smile, holding his tongue. Surely, if Annabeth had chosen not to share such information, she had had a reason, and he would not make her out to be a liar, not to her own family.

Eventually, he was able to get a straight answer regarding the Christmas season. The western Christians celebrated the birth of their god much, much earlier than those in the East, and in the cold, dark winters of Svealand, they had an additional holiday, that of the festival of light, held on December 13th, the Feast of St. Lucy that had been discussed earlier.

Alejandra stood next to her husband, smiling wistfully at the stream of little girls who walked past, garlands and candles on their heads. Percy could imagine, in his mind's eye, a little Annabeth leading the procession, blonde curls and steel eyes, so smart, so determined to seek the life that she wanted for herself. One day, perhaps sooner rather than later, her own daughter might join in the parade--another little blonde girl. A perfect child.

And Percy wanted...

No. No, he would not think on that. Already he was a shameful secret of his hostess. What would she think of him, if she knew that he dreamt of fathering her children? He could not risk her ire; should she order him to leave, he had nowhere else to go.

The lights streamed on past him, and Percy wished desperately for spring.

Christmas proved to be unremarkable, though the illicit Yule, celebrated in highest secrecy by Annabeth's family, was far more intimate. This holiday honored Odin, a godly king of the same rank and power and a little of the same personality as Zeus, but who apparently got on considerably better with Magnus and Alejandra than the lord of Olympus had with any of his mortal nieces and nephews.

He spent very little time with Annabeth these days, save for a few hours on the solstice, where they had sat together in an alcove, out of the way of the rest of the house, and did not discuss the winter council of the gods.

Neither did Percy have much taste for a Saturnalia, after the war.

Then the Epiphany was upon them, and the year had turned anew.

Percy began to spend some serious thought to what he might do when the spring came, as it inevitably would, when he could leave this place without fear of freezing from too long spent out of doors. He hoped by then, he would have learned how to cope with the knowledge that, once he departed, he would never again see Annabeth.

He had never broached the subject of payment for his services to her--he did not wish for a reward, as every moment by her side a gift. Keeping her safe had been an honor, not a chore. Yet he would need at least a little money to book passage on a ship, or to purchase a horse and some supplies. Perhaps he could speed up his departure by performing some manual labor for a local townsperson.

Percy had just begun to muster the courage to bring it up to Alejandra, hoping that she would be able to provide him some direction, when he received a summons, not from Lord Magnus, but from his uncle.

Sir Fredrik had called him to his study to discuss something that evening, and Percy prayed that he did not look too nervous. Perhaps the rumors of his birth had reached the lord of the household, and they wished to discuss the business of transferring a power which Percy did not possess. Or perhaps the truth of the circumstances of his station had finally come out, and Lord Magnus had chosen to send him away from their home. He was not certain which he would have preferred.

“Ah, Percy, come in!” said Fredrik, ushering him into the room. “Do sit down. Something to drink?”

“Oh,” he said, sliding into the chair which had been positioned in front of Fredrik’s desk. “No, thank you.” But the man had already sent along orders with a servant. What bizarre concoction would it be this time, Percy wondered. The soup made from rose flowers? The thin, foul-smelling ale which tasted of rotten bread?

While Percy waited at Fredrik’s leisure, the man in question continued to putter about his office, shuffling papers and muttering to himself in Swedish. He waited for so long, he began to wonder if Fredrik had forgotten him entirely, until a manservant reentered with two steaming mugs of… something. Percy attempted to thank the man as he handed him his drink, only to receive a rather condescending look from the corner of the man’s eye.

Cowed, he sipped his drink, preparing himself for the worst.

Yet--oh, what a pleasant surprise! The drink was hot, but sweet, with a splash of spices and a softness which hid the bitterness of the alcohol that ran through it. The sharp smell reminded him of the trees which surrounded the manor, fruit on a cold winter’s morning.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but what is this beverage?”

“That, my boy, is a cider,” Fredrik replied, settling down at his desk. “I take it you prefer this to ale, yes?”

Indeed. Rather than answer, he took another deep, deep drink, letting it warm him all the way to the tips of his toes.

“Now, then,” said Fredrik. “There are several things I wish to discuss with you.”

Percy straightened. “Yes, sir.”

Tapping his fingers against his desk, he peered at Percy over the rim of his glasses. “Over the past few months I have had the opportunity to observe you and your character, and you seem to me to be a good, upstanding young man. Now, I must be truthful; I recognize that we have perhaps, ahem, sped things up quite a bit more than one usually would in situations such as these, but as time is of the essence, I shall be brief, and speak plainly: would you, Perseus, be amenable,” he asked, “to marrying my daughter?”

Uh.

Oh.

Well.

“I… beg your pardon?”

Nonplussed, Fredrik rearranged several papers. “I have previously discussed it with her, and she has agreed to the proposition. She was quite insistent that we consulted you before any decision was made, of course.”

It seemed that the cold had frozen all of his mental faculties, bringing his thoughts to a grinding, stuttering halt.

Percy had come up against a wide, wide range of peculiar situations in his short life. He had been stared down by gods, monsters, and all manner of supernatural entities, most of which wished him fatal injury. He had been accused of, among other things, stealing the most powerful weapon in history, then a mere four years later, had been offered the gods’ rarest, most precious gift. He had witnessed, firsthand, the passing of an age and the end of the greatest empire known to man.

Absolutely none of it had prepared him for this moment.

“I…” He did not even know where to begin with such a request. “I… think, sir, there may be some confusion.”

“Nonsense,” Fredrik scoffed, reminding Percy eerily of his daughter. “What confusion could there be?”

What confusion? What of the fact that Percy was entirely unfit to be anyone’s husband, let alone Annabeth’s? “I am aware,” he said, slowly, “that some people have… perhaps loftier impressions of myself and my station than what may be accurate. Whatever you may have heard, unfortunately, I carry no blood claim to the Palaiologoi .”

Fredrik blinked, taken aback. “I had not heard such a rumor,” he said. “I do apologize if anyone has treated you strangely due to such misinformation.”

“I carry no claim to any sort of titles at all, truly,” Percy said, pressing the truth of the matter. “I am no prince nor royal bastard, no lord nor duke, but merely a fisherman and a foot soldier of the allagion .”

“And a son of Poseidon,” Fredrik added. “Lords and dukes can only dream of a peerage such as yours, my boy.”

As flattering as that was, Percy felt it was somewhat beyond the point. “What I mean to say, sir, is that there is not much I could offer your daughter by way of marriage.” Naught but his heart, a devotion and passion equal to the power of a thousand suns, but such things were immaterial, and not usually considered in terms of a marriage contract. “I have no titles nor lands, no family--I haven’t even a lira to my name.”

“You need not concern yourself with the finances,” Fredrik said. “Anja herself possesses a considerable dowry--one or two tracts of land granted to her by my late brother which can be cultivated or exchanged as the two of you see fit.”

“I--be that as it may,” he stammered, floundering for some sort of purchase in this odd dream into which he had entered, “it was my understanding that Annabeth did not, precisely, wish to be married.” He kept the “ to me ” quiet, unsaid.

Not only had she certainly not been the greatest devotee of Hera, patroness of marriage, but the only time she had ever brought the topic up in conversation had been in reference to making herself Empress. Why on Earth would she agree to such a contract with Percy?

Fredrik sighed, removing his glasses and placing them on his desk. “How much has Anja spoken of our relationship?”

“Only the broadest strokes,” he said, a trifle embarrassed. He did not wish to divulge the deepest secrets of her unhappy childhood to the man responsible for much of it.

“Tell me, Perseus,” said Fredrik. “Do you have any children yourself?”

“No, sir,” Percy said, unsure of the direction of this conversation. “Not to my knowledge.”

Frowning, thoughtful, Fredrik held Percy in place with his keen eyes, so like his daughter’s. “While I love my sons, I would be remiss if I did not confess my numerous sins regarding the health and well-being of my first child. When the lady Athena gifted me with Anja, I had just returned from my stay at an English monastery, where I had been consulting with several of the monks there. I was a young man, not so much older than yourself, and in a similar financial predicament. My brother did not approve of my scholastic desires, and so provided me with little assistance. My union with Mary was, in part, an attempt to provide Anja with certain things she had never known before: namely, a mother, someone to whom she could turn whilst I was otherwise occupied. Unfortunately, as you well know, that is not how she saw it. And so, in my negligence and ignorance, what I thought was the right choice for her was merely the impetus she finally required in order to make an attempt for freedom.”

Somehow, Percy could not imagine Fredrik as a young man, so weighed down by years and years of regret and sorrow.

“I never imagined I would see her again; my Anja. I had presumed that she was lost to me forever, and then, once word of the defeat of Constantinople had reached us… Well, I had resigned myself to the fact of her death. It was a near inevitability. And then, you presented me with a miracle: Anja returned to me, and with forgiveness in her heart.” Then he smiled, and the years seemed to fade from his face. “I love my daughter, and I swore I would never do anything to lose her goodwill ever again. Unfortunately, as you and I well know, though she certainly would be able to live well and peacefully on her own, it can be rather difficult for an unmarried woman to make a name for herself. It can be done, and it has, but the presence of a husband can grease certain wheels, give her access to social circles in which I know she shall thrive. And there are other things to consider as well.” Shuffling the papers on his desk, he pulled one forth, squinting at it. “My wife has informed me that several young men in Uppsala have expressed their interest in marriage with Anja. The politics are long and tedious, so I shall not bore you with them, but you and I can both agree that she deserves to be more than a bargaining chip in a bloody conflict.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, for what else could he say? Percy would give her the world, if she but asked him to.

“I intend to remove her from the conflict entirely,” Fredrik went on. “And for that, we have agreed, there is no one better suited to the position than you: a friend and ally, and someone who will not press her to do anything which she does not want for herself.”

Even seated, his hackles rose at the thought.

As he fought valiantly to keep hold of his father’s legendary temper, Fredrik must have mistaken his silence for reluctance. “This arrangement is not agreeable to you?” he asked, concerned.

“Oh--no, sir, not at all--it is very agreeable, yes,” he rushed to assure him. How could he possibly explain that the man had just offered him his wildest, most precious dream, wrapped sweetly in a perfect little package? Every inch of him screamed to accept it. “I merely… do not know what to say.”

He wanted to say yes. Oh, how he wanted . He wished to wake up to her hair in his mouth, to her blinding smile in his bed, to take her in his arms and demonstrate the extent of his affection and passion for her. He wished for her every waking moment, every hour and minute of her presence, even if just to bask in the simple fact that he shared it with her. A lifetime with Annabeth, spent in the frozen North of Svealand--a better reward than anything any god had ever offered him.

“I…”

Yet, he faltered.

“If… if possible, sir, I should like to speak to Annabeth before any arrangements are finalized.”

Frowning lightly, Fredrik nodded. “I understand, though I do urge you not to linger too long on this decision. There are more things here at stake than perhaps you or I realize.”

If he had not spent so much of his adolescence as a demigod, he thought, such a vaguely ominous warning would have caused some concern. But it could not bother him now.

“I will speak with her today or tomorrow, sir.” Percy promised, though it was all he could do not to accept his offer right at this moment, to run from this room, find her, and kiss her. “As soon as possible. I merely wish to discuss with her directly regarding her expectations.”

At that, Fredrik grinned a little, humor peeking out from behind his stern exterior. “Good man,” he said. “With that attitude, I am certain you will go far as a husband.”

In something of a daze, Percy wandered his way back to his sleeping quarters, his thoughts racing faster than Apollo’s chariot, turning every word of his conversation with Fredrik over in his mind, digging for any possible double-meanings. And yet, the meaning seemed perfectly clear: Annabeth and her father had discussed her prospects, and had come to the conclusion that marrying Percy was the proper course of action.

In his experience, such a boon never came without a price. It was something Annabeth herself had told him, once upon a time: there was no such offer so duplicitous as a free meal.

When he entered his room, he found the subject of his contemplations waiting on him there. “So,” Annabeth said, keen eyes piercing straight through to the heart of him, “I take it my father spoke with you?”

Wonderful; he did not need to catch her up to the situation at hand. “I did,” he said, an inexplicable irritation surging through him. “Though perhaps ‘ambushed’ may be a better term for it.”

She pursed her lips, but said nothing.

He knew, in his soul, that he should not speak to her like this, that he was more than capable of carrying out such a conversation with logic and reason--but month after month of freezing weather, strange food, and being stared at like an animal cage had taken its toll, and he found his patience had worn a bit thin. “Had I realized you were so keen on marriage,” he said, “I would have endeavored to bring you home sooner. Your father tells me there are several gentlemen all vying for your hand.”

“My step-mother’s doing, no doubt,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Were it my decision, I would not be in this predicament, I assure you.”

As he had suspected. “Well, then I suppose I should be grateful that, if you ever deigned to marry, I would be amongst the preferred candidates.”

Her mouth twisted, no doubt a clever retort just about to trip off the tongue, but, clenching her jaw, she wrangled it in. “I know it is in our nature to quarrel with each other,” she said, “but I would have your cooperation in this. If you agree, we shall be married; if you do not, we shall not. Surely it is within our power to make it so simple?”

There were many, many things he wished to say to her, beginning with how he did not appreciate being put on the spot in that manner, and ending with how marrying her would be the greatest achievement of his lifetime, but, curse of the demigods, his mind raced far ahead of his mouth, and all that came out was a statement only tangentially related. “I am not a farmer,” he blurted.

She raised her brows. “Beg pardon?”

“I--” he rubbed a hand over his face, attempting to pluck the words from the typhoon of his thoughts and feelings, “you know that I am only a foot soldier, yes? A foot soldier and a fisherman. Yes, I can claim the mantle of a hero, but what good does that do beyond the confines of the agoge ? What could I possibly bring to the table? I do not know how to work the land, or manage assets, or--or be a husband.” And therein lay the truth, that he could not be the type of husband she would deserve. He could be a friend, an ally, and a traveling companion, and there their paths would branch off, leading them down two very different destinies.

No matter how fervently he desired otherwise.

Annabeth let out a breath. There was raw, naked pity on her face, as though she had not considered he could feel this way. “You will not have to do any farming yourself,” she said, slowly. “There are people we could hire, help that we could bring in to manage all the things that we have no knowledge of. We could sell the land and use the money for something else entirely. And as for being a husband,” she bit her lip, shaking her head minutely, “you have been the most stalwart, steadfast friend a person could ever have. I imagine that a husband would require much the same qualities.”

That much was true, yes. Percy had experienced for himself two very different kinds of husbands, the ill-tempered and devoted, the creature of harsh words and the man of warmth and comfort, the monster of Percy’s childhood and his mother’s second husband. He thought of Paul, his easy understanding and his willingness to believe the wild yarn his wife had spun for him. To be a man like that, Percy felt that was a task he could manage, yet there were other things Paul had provided his wife… things that Percy did not know if Annabeth wanted from him.

Swallowing, she tilted her chin up. Her eyes were glassy, shining in the candlelight. “I know this must not be what you had envisioned,” she said, speaking slowly as though she were choosing every word after much deliberation, “but there is… of the options provided, there is no one else to whom I would rather be married. I know you would treat me kindly, would be my friend and confidante; what more could any wife wish for?”

Ah. Now he understood.

“Very well.” Percy held out his hand to her. “I formally accept your proposal.”

Percy was her tether to freedom. Presented with the inevitability of marriage, Annabeth had chosen the least undesirable path, a man who would, at the very least, not forcibly tie her to the hearth and home.

Well, if that was the only service he was to provide for her, then provide it he could.

With only a moment’s hesitation, she took his hand, and they shook on it.

***

Several weeks later, they were married.

Percy had volunteered his services as best man to several of his fellow soldiers in Constantinople; it felt very strange to be on the other side of the festivities. Still, the ceremony itself was quite similar to the ones he had witnessed before. Considerably less icons, however. Given how the Eastern Romans had fought tooth and nail for their icons, to be married without them felt nearly like a betrayal, even though he put no stock in such things.

Notice of their wedding had been posted on the church door of the little town nearby, in order to give people time enough to find reasons to object, should there be any. “Sometimes,” Alejandra had explained, “a man or a woman will have a number of wedded partners in a number of different towns; this gives a jilted lover the chance to come forward and name the philanderer publicly. Usually, though, it is to confirm that the two who are to be wedded are not so close in blood.”

Percy cast a thought to his convoluted family tree, and decided not to think on it further.

He had nearly laughed, though, when the priest had asked him if there were any sins he wished to confess before he was wed. His sins against the church were varied and extensive, as were Annabeth’s; in all ways, save the most obvious, one could say that the two of them lived in sin together. He could not truly tell, but he thought he may have seen her suppress a smile out of the corner of his eye.

She looked lovely that day--as she did all on days--but on her wedding day, she had arrived in a royal blue dress that made his heart pound and his palms sweat, nearly the same darkness as the shawl he had gifted her, dark against her pale skin. Her hair had grown much longer since her ill-fated cut, and had been cleaned and maintained by her maid, looking even softer and more golden than it usually did, falling down over her shoulders, a garland placed on her head.

There, in front of the gathered assembly, he vowed to honor, obey, have and hold until death, and slid a ring onto her finger. The priest conferred unto him a kiss of peace, and bade him to do the same to his wife. To Percy’s credit, he restrained himself from pulling her into his arms, and merely placed the absolute chastest of kisses on her lips. After the appropriate amount of time, Annabeth pulled back, her face a pristine mask, and Percy prayed that he had the same amount of composure.

The celebratory feast, unfortunately, would prove to be much more difficult.

Alejandro, merry on spiced wine and in his volunteer function as best man, had corralled the guests into a little wedding game which came from Anglia. The cooks had made enough buns and spice cakes to feed a small army, and, in a fit of insanity, the assembled party decided to stack them on top of each other, creating a sizable tower of buns, nearly as tall as Annabeth. “There we are, lovebirds!” he crowed in Spanish, as he was too inebriated for Latin, slinging his arm around Percy’s neck. “Here are the rules: you must kiss one another over the tower, and if it does not fall, your union will certainly be blessed!”

The crowd, having finished their construction, took up the call, cheering them on, Alejandro physically dragging Percy up out of his seat, and pushing him towards the tower. Magnus was doing much the same to Annabeth, steering her to the other side.

“Alejandro, I--I cannot--”

But whatever excuse he tried to invent was lost over the approving jeers and cheers of their audience. Though he could not understand their words, he knew precisely what was required of him here.

Across the tower, Annabeth was flushed, with drink or embarrassment or cold, he could not tell, but she looked on him with expectant eyes, and he knew she was smart enough to have come to the same conclusion. To refuse to take part in this little game would be foolhardy, at best.

Up close, the tower of baked goods was not nearly so tall as it had seemed, and it was easy for him to lean down without disturbing the construction of food. On her side, Annabeth had closed her eyes, her lips parted, waiting for his to fall on her.

By his count, this was now their third kiss. Perhaps it was to be their last. He would savor it then, he told himself, commit to memory the softness of her lips and the redness of her cheeks, her long, golden eyelashes resting against her skin.

A great, raucous cheer went up from the crowd, and they pulled apart, greeting their audience with bashful smiles.

Percy turned, ready to apologize to Annabeth for all of this. But he held his tongue when he saw the bright smile on her face. He knew her fake and forced smiles, this was not it. She was happy. And he could pretend, at least for a moment, that it was because of him, and not because of the clever situation she’s managed to get herself into.

Eventually, the celebration ended, and they had to retire to bed. Percy had started down the hallway to retire to the guest quarters, until Annabeth had looked at him oddly, and he was suddenly reminded--of course, they were now married. They would be sharing a bed from now on.

The very thought sent a shiver down his spine.

They had shared beds before, hundreds of times. On this journey alone, they had shared the bed of many an inn, simply to save money. For some reason, this time felt different.

Annabeth’s room was not so different to his own; a little larger, perhaps. Fredrik, Magnus, and Alejandro saw them off, Fredrik embracing his daughter and kissing her forehead. He whispered something to her in Swedish, and she nodded into his chest, sweetly. Then he looked at Percy, gave him a solemn nod, and departed.

Now they were alone.

The fire in the hearth had already been lit--and had been for a while, judging by the size and heat of the flame. That must have been why Percy suddenly felt hot beneath all his clothing.

“Well,” he said, wandering to the other side of the bed. The room had no echo; it made it feel smaller, somehow. “I imagine that was not how you had envisioned your wedding, yes?”

She did not respond.

The heat of the room was bordering on suffocating. How odd, since he had only ever known the climate to be perpetually frozen. To alleviate this, he removed the outermost layer of his clothing. “Certainly it is not what I thought mine would be. In truth,” Percy said, filling the silence with his babble, “I had not thought that I would ever marry. Not because I detested the very idea, mind you,” he rushed to confirm, “but, you know how few of us reach the marriageable age in our line of work. It always felt like some sort of far-off dream to me. Yet, here we are! How amusing, yes?”

Still nothing.

He turned to her, then yelped. “Oh, forgive me! I had not realized--”

“It is fine, Percy,” she said, lowly. “We are married now; it is no sin to look at me undressed.”

While he was not looking, she had shed her clothes as well, folding her dress neatly for someone to claim later. Her underclothes were white, made of thick, sturdy material, perfect for cold, winter days.

“Still,” he said. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You have not.” From behind, he watched her shoulders rise and fall as she sighed. “When I thought of my wedding,” she said, after a moment’s silence, “I did not think it would have so many Catholics.”

Percy laughed, a sound startled right out of his chest. “I as well!”

She chortled, too, causing the fabric of her dress to ripple. “If you must know,” then she turned to him, her hands deftly winding her hair into a braid, “I used to dream about being married in the ways of the shieldmaidens.”

Sense memory, he remembered the feel of her stiff, bloody hair in his hands, gently twisting it this way and that. His fingers twitched. “What,” he coughed, “what did the ways of the shieldmaidens entail?”

He wondered for a moment, given the story she had told him of Katya and Clarice, if that was what she had meant by the ways of shieldmaidens, and if she had dreamed of that, when she had not dreamed of Lukas instead.

“Sacrifices, ritual baths--what one might expect from a wedding.” She tied the end of her hair off with a length of leather cord, the braid coming to rest over her shoulder, the tip of it tickling the neckline of her dress. “When the bride and the groom met in ceremony, they would exchange their weapons with one another.”

He nearly laughed, it seemed so in line with all that he had learned about the northern raiders. "Quite befitting a warrior’s culture," he mused.

Nodding, she stepped closer towards the bed, though she made no move to lie down upon it, instead leaning against a bedpost. “The groom would present the sword of his ancestors which he had unearthed from the family tomb; in turn, the bride would gift him a weapon as well.” Weakly, she attempted a smile, though it looked to be more of a grimace to Percy’s eyes. “My father once told me that he had gifted my mother a weapon such as this. Unfortunately, she was not so familiar with the custom, and so would not accept it.”

Her lips turned downwards, her whole posture sagging with a muted sorrow.

Oh, why not. “We both have our own ancestral weapons,” he said. “If you are amenable, we could exchange them now.”

She flicked her eyes up to him.

“It is no trouble for me.” If it would make her smile, he would take Anaklusmos and toss it into the hearth itself. Lending her his sword for a while was nothing.

She studied him, her lips thin as they pressed against each other. “You truly would not mind?” she asked. “I know it is a silly tradition.”

Rather than answer, he pulled his sword from his belt. The magical item, when not in use, took the form of a key, for ease of portability. Whispering its name, a powerful summons, it grew into the long, leaf-bladed xiphos his father had gifted him, and he held it out to her, hilt-first.

“Anja Elisabet Fredriksdotter,” he said, these strange syllables finally at home on his tongue, “I offer you my sword.” He did not know if the words were correct, but he prayed that they would suffice.

Across the bed, her large, grey eyes shone in the firelight. Her mouth quivered with furiously checked emotion, and she had to turn to hide her face, snatching something out of the bundle of clothing she had discarded. When she turned back, she had not regained her composure--not one bit. “Perseus thalassinos ,” she murmured, holding out her knife towards him, hilt-first, just as she had so many months ago, in the middle of nowhere with dead men at their feet, the highest act of trust she could muster. “I offer you my sword.”

Over the bed, they exchanged their weapons.

Taking the bronze knife in his hand, he felt different, somehow. He felt as though he had passed through a door of some kind, had crossed over into a newer, stranger world, and yet, he felt no danger, for he had a partner at his side, one who would see him through all senses of conflict.

Brandishing his weapon, Annabeth took one look at it, then promptly burst into tears.

Percy dropped the knife. It clattered against the cold stones, forgotten. “Annabeth,” he asked, rushing to her side, “Annabeth, what is wrong?”

Drawing in a shuddering breath, she shook her head, her whole body trembling as a tree caught in a mighty storm. Fearful that she would accidentally hurt herself, he plucked the sword from her grasp, tossing it carelessly aside, and gently wrapped his hands around her upper arms.

“Annabeth, what is it?”

She grasped him in return. Her grip was always strong, and now her fingers dug into his muscles, squeezing him tight. “I--” she sobbed, “I--” Her chest was seized with hysterical breaths, her eyes shut tightly. “This is--I--it was not supposed to be like this,” she gasped. Tears flowed freely from beneath her eyelids, glittering like crystals in the firelight.

“I know,” he breathed. “I know, and I am sorry.” Sorry that she was stuck with the likes of him. She could have had her pick of the world--lords and emperors and whoever else--and somehow, she had the misfortune of being tied to him.

“No, it is not--” she wept. “Silena, we had al-always spoken of--and you have been so kind and--and understanding, but I--we--and I dragged you halfw-way across the world, but I know you h-hate it here--”

“I do not hate it here,” he protested, even though it was true.

“I had thought m-my wedding would be held at the camp.” Were he not listening so intently, he would not have heard her words, warbled and warped as they were by her heaving sobs. “On the b-beaches of Troia , and my m-mother would be there, but she is gone , and camp is gone, and--I--I just--”

“I am here,” he murmured, squeezing her shoulders. “Oh, Annabeth, I am here.”

She opened her eyes, grey storm clouds glinting with lightning.

“It is alright,” he told her. He understood her feelings well; not a day had gone by without a thought to the whereabouts of their friends, of their family. But here they were, together, and that was all that mattered. “You are not alone,” he swore . “I will stick by you, I promise.”

With a trembling sigh, she threw her arms around him. He pressed her close, his arms coming up to circle her torso, holding her to his chest. “I am sorry,” she gasped, “I am so sorry.”

“It is alright,” he said, a hand coming up to the bottom of her neck to better support her. “You do yourself no disservice.”

“N-no, it is not--” she shuddered, a localized earthquake within his arms. “The marriage,” she said, “it is not--not legal unless we--we--”

He knew precisely what she was going to say, and though his heart surged at the idea--and he was certain she could feel it, pressed so close to him as she was--his mind, thankfully, was in control for the time being. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Not tonight.”

That seemed to shock her out of her panic. She stilled in his arms, her wails subsiding.

Poor thing, she must have been so worried that whoever she married would attempt to force her to fulfill the marriage contract. Once again, he cursed the whole damnable institution; he knew so often that women had so little say in matters of the flesh. Well, Percy was not like other men, and he would not take something which she was not prepared to give. He would not do that to any woman, let alone one whom he loved so deeply.

She pulled back. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. “It is our wedding night,” she said, dumbly.

“Yes,” Percy agreed, “but we do not have to do anything that you do not want to do.”

“But it is our wedding night,” she insisted.

“I know.”

“Our marriage is not legal if we do not.”

“I understand.”

“But…” she blinked, casting about for her words. “But…”

“We can claim that the festivities left us too exhausted to do naught but sleep,” Percy said. “Or we can claim that we consummated the marriage anyway. Surely your father will not check your sheets for blood.”

Dumbfounded, she gaped at him, her mouth opening and closing around nothing. Percy had grown to rather enjoy rendering her speechless, though this time around, it left something of a bad taste in his mouth.

“I do not think we should do anything tonight,” he said. “To take advantage of you… of anyone this way, would be a most unforgivable sin.”

He had thought she would agree. Surely he had assuaged her worries.

Instead, her eyes narrowed. “On the contrary,” she said, her voice still thick with tears. “I believe we should consummate the marriage tonight.”

“Annabeth--”

“You think I am too weak to fulfill the marital contract.”

“Of course not,” he scoffed.

“Then there is no reason to delay,” she said. “And, moreover, I…”

Trailing off, her cheeks filled with blood. Percy’s heart throbbed in his chest, deafening.

“I… I want it,” she said, a whisper on a breeze.

Helpless, he could only watch as her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

“Do you… do you not?”

Beneath his vision, he could just barely see her bosom as it moved in time with her breathing. Oh, Anja, he wanted nothing more in the world than you at this moment!

She shuttered her eyes closed again, as though she were in pain. “I am sorry,” she repeated--for what, though, he could not imagine. “But I am afraid that… that if we do not… then some would see our union as--as invalid.”

The bubble of fantasy burst, and reality set in.

Of course. Politics and power-broking. To save herself, she would give herself to him. To protect her, he had to let this happen.

It was the easiest choice he ever made.

Bending his neck, he leaned down, and he kissed her.

As a flower in the dawn, she opened herself to him.

Her mouth was warm against his, her lips soft. Through the fabric of her dress, he could feel every muscle as she pressed up against him, could feel her breath hitch as he laid her down on the bed, as his hands pushed the hemline of her nightclothes up her thighs.

It felt as though every choice he had ever made, every path he had ever taken and every one he had ever shunned, had led to this moment, to Annabeth, panting and hot beneath him. Percy had been lucky enough to be the paramour of goddesses, disciple and student both, and now he had a chance to demonstrate what he had learned. If she were to be tied to him in this way, if this were his only chance to show her how he truly felt, then tonight, he vowed, he would make it worth her while.

She tasted just as sweet as he had dreamt she would. Her cries of passion, more beautiful than any music he had ever known.

And when he entered her, her scrunched face and wrinkled nose relaxing into slack pleasure, he held himself still, gazing on it, committing every single detail to his deepest, most sacred memory.

They moved together. Over and over again, they moved together, her legs slowly traveling up the backs of his thighs, ticklish and feathery. “Percy,” she gasped, one of his hands coming up to cup her breast, the other hard at work at the apex of her thighs. “Percy!”

“Anja,” he murmured into her neck. “Anja.”

With a wail, she tossed her head back, her braid loose and messy against the pillows, her legs tightening about his waist.

He could not stop himself even if he wanted to. And he did not want to.

Close behind, he followed her over the edge, hissing through his teeth as they took the plunge together.

It could have been days until Percy came back to his senses, days spent in the Elysium of Annabeth’s embrace. Her heartbeat was as ragged as his, and they beat in twain, a call and an answer.

Then she shifted beneath him. “Percy.”

“Oh.” He untangled himself from her, his limbs suddenly so awkward and gangly, pulling himself out and away, then lay down next to her, his hot, sweaty skin suddenly freezing in the cold air.

And there it was. Something of a lifelong dream, fulfilled.

Now if only he could discover why he felt so empty.

After a while, Annabeth threw back the sheets, and got out of bed. Percy tried not to linger too much on her bare form, even as he marveled how she was able to withstand the cold without so much as a protective shift. Then she bent over, picking something up from the floor, and Percy, only a mortal man, he could not resist.

Gods above, she was truly the most stunning creature ever to walk this earth. Every inch of her seemed to be perfectly crafted to send him into a frenzy of passion. So intent was he on taking in the whole beautiful picture that he nearly missed the trickle of something down the inside of her legs, belatedly realizing what it was.

He had to physically tear himself away, flopping himself back down on the sheets, to put that thought to bed. Demonic harpies , he chanted to himself. Stymphalian birdsong. Lord Dionysus in a pankration . Anything which would stop his baser instincts from manifesting themselves.

So focused on his own body was he, he did not notice what Annabeth was doing until it was much too late. “Annabeth,” he gasped, “what--”

But she had already used her knife to cut her hand, letting dark blood drip onto the white sheets. “There,” she said. “Now no one will have cause for doubt.”

He moved to leave the bed himself. “Let me see your hand--”

“It is fine,” she stopped him, already wrapping it up in a length of cloth she had ripped from her underclothes. “It shall cease to bleed by morning.”

“I am sorry,” he said, though he was not certain which sin required her forgiveness. “I did not mean to…” To what? Break her heart? Plant his seed? Fall in love? He had not meant to do any of these things, yet still, they had been done, and could not be undone. But, there was one thing for which he could apologize. “I am sorry that you must bear this burden,” he said. “It is not fair to you.”

“As I said,” Annabeth replied, slipping back beneath the covers, turning away from him. “It is fine. Good night, Perseus.”

Then silence reigned in the bedroom.

Percy could not fall asleep for a long, long time.

#my fic #the marble king #percabeth #pjo #the rivalry ends here #darkmagyk #another doozy

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herondaleholly31 · 5 years

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That’s My Girl Chris Evans X Reader

Overview: You and Chris are going to see your daughter perform in her first talent show. Chris helped with her performance and its a little different from what you would’ve expected...

AN: Another Chris one for you guys! Now that Knives Out is coming out, I’ve had people desperate for more Chris, and this idea melted my heart. This is inspired by a scene from one of my favourite TV shows if you know it message me ;) Thank you for the support as always!

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Word count:2300

"nononono" you panicked as you felt you ankle wobble dangerously. Running on cobblestones In heels was dangerous, and a broken ankle was the last thing you needed right now. You slowed down to an uncomfortable fast walk-jog, willing for your ankles to not snap like sticks. It had started to snow, the first time this winter, and you buried your chin into your scarf so to keep your teeth from chattering. The clock in the local church chimed 7:30 causing your head to whip up in alarm and your heel to skid across a particularly icy cobble. You felt your whole body move back and that gut-wrenching shot of panic flashed through your brain as you saved yourself at the last minute from falling. You felt your phone buzz in your pocket, the third time in the past half an hour. You fished it out and shoved it between your ear and shoulder, rounding the corner to beams of saturated yellow light "I'm here, I'm literally outside…… I'm fine love…..yes there was an issue at work that I had to stay for, but I'm here now……okay……I'll see you in a second."

Oak-field catholic school came looming out the darkness, brightly lit up with banners already hanging limply from the steady fall of snow. You skidded up the steps, taking two at a time, to almost trip and fall on the last one. You bag swung around on your shoulder and almost took out a grandfather walking behind you.

"I am SO sorry, Sir!" You gasped "Honestly If I've hurt you-"

"Swinging for the elderly?" A voice joked "I thought we said you wouldn't do that anymore." Chris was standing by the open door, smiling. He walked over, apologised once more to the old man and his wife, before turning back to you, shaking his head. He was wrapped up in a dark jacket over his favourite blue shirt, and his shoes had been cleaned, so they gleamed; he had obviously dressed up the occasion. His hair was still a little messy from a day of running his hands through it, and the sight alone caused you to sigh with joy.

"I'm an addict I couldn't help it," You joked. "Hi."

"Hello." He grinned. He pulled you in for a quick hug, planting a soft kiss by your ear. "How was your day?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Duly noted. Come on," Chris kept his arm hooked around your waist as you both walked into the school "the show hasn't started yet."

"I thought I was going to miss her."

"And that would've made you a terrible parent."

"It would've." It was good to relax and joke around after the day you'd just had, you could already feel the knot in your shoulders start to loosen. You said hi to Lina's mum as you passed and nodded to Sister Margret, who jerked curtly back. The pair of you was just quickly catching up about to head into the hall when a small voice could be heard just behind to you.

"Dad?"

Connie had poked her head out the backstage door. She looked like she was going to be sick; pale skin, sweaty forehead, her nails bitten down to the surface. Her eyes were wide and desperate, and this caused Chris to run over and lean down on one knee. You watched from a distance; Connie didn't like being nervous in front of you because she knew it caused you to become overprotective. You saw Connie shake her head and the words "I can't do it," be said before Chris lightly put a hand over her mouth. He shook his head and spoke soft words, moving the hand to then to bring her head forward so he could kiss the top of her head. Chris said something that caused your daughter to laugh weakly before she said something that caused a belt of laughter from him. He then pulled her in briefly, their cheeks squishing together as he hugged her tight before chivying her lightly towards the door. One last high five and then she slipped backstage again, leaving her Dad to run back over to you smiling.

"Everything okay?"

"yea she's fine. Last-minute nerves. We've been rehearsing all day though so she knows what she's doing."

"I'm just looking forward to FINALLY seeing this secret performance," you said as you entered the auditorium where rows of creaky chairs were set up facing the stage. The sound of a generic TV show single was on a loop through the speakers on either side of the stage, buzzing slightly with the increase of base every few seconds. The air of you headed to two seats in the third row on the inside end, meaning you had the perfect view without having to crane your necks. There was a pause while you both flicked through the programme and said hi to parents of friends and to say hi to that one hysterical fan (there was always one) before you couldn't resist any more.

"Are you going to give me ANY hints about what she's doing."

"Nope."

'Nothing at all?"

"It's a surprise."

"Should I film it?"

"Oh absolutely," there was a glint in your husband's eye that for some reason caused you to become suspicious "we're never going to want to forget this."

You wanted to ask more, but then the lights went down and a thunder of applause. One of the sisters was standing just by the stage with a microphone in one hand and a notebook in the other, from which she read out "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Oak-field's Talent Extravaganza. Now, please put your hands together for Alice and her jumping juggling friends."

*******

"She's next, she's next!" You squired in your seat with impatience, excitement starting to bubble in your chest. Chris handed you his phone, and you set up the camera, propping it up on your bag so the performance could be filmed. "I'm nervous, why am I nervous she's doing the show not me. Oh gosh, I'm panicking-"

"Hon she's going to be fine!" But he still reached out and grabbed your hand, squeezing it in reassurance. His jiggling knee also gave it away that he too was feeling a little nervous, and that oddly calmed you a little.

The lights went down once more, and there was a smattering of polite applause. Lina walked out first, her smile full and confident, strutting over to her spot with rehearsed purpose before standing with her hand on her hip, poised. Connie, with her smaller physique and her curly hair already coming loose from her ponytail, gave the image of someone who was more reserved and shy. You watched her eyes rake the crowd before she caught your eye. You gave her a small wave; Chris lifted his arm so his thumbs up could be seen over the group. This reassurance caused Connie to nod in determination, before gripping her hand onto her hip, smiling widely. A click of the stereo and the slightly tinny sound of an old Judy Garland song started to play. This granted a nod of approval from Sister Margret. A very devout woman of the church who before the show had sent a list of songs and artists that were "recognised as inappropriate and would therefore not be tolerated." She was also a massive Judy Garland fan and had, therefore, lacked hesitation when putting the girls into the show. The CD stuttered, then the tinny backing track to "somewhere over the rainbow" rang out through the old speakers. The girls started their routine, slowly swaying back and forth, little voices sweet and nervous but to you the loveliest sound. You beamed widely, tears already clogging your eyes and pride burst through your chest. Everyone else saw the charm in it too; the grandparents in front of you cooed at each other about how cute she was. You wanted she lean over and say "she's my daughter," but that would distract you from the show.

A couple lines in, however, the music scratched, stuttered, and then stopped. The hall was silent. Both girls stood in stage, looking at each other and then back out into the audience. Your heart lept into your mouth. You tried to catch Connie's eye, but this was causing you to panic more. "We have to do something," you hissed to Chris.

"Just wait."

BAM! Bass blasted out of the speakers, shuddering the ground. Both girls grinned widely before throwing off the big jumpers they both wore, to reveal t-shirts decorated with flashing stars to match the socks they both pulled up to their knees. Horrified, you heard the lyrics to an all too familiar song.

'I was like

Good gracious- ass is bodacious

Flirting to show my patience

I'm waiting for the right time to shoot my steez….'

And without hesitation, both girls started dancing perfectly in time, jumping, sliding and turning, never missing a note as they lip-synced along. There was a roar of noise from the audience, a mixed response of anger and howling laughter. You turned to Chris, who was roaring with laughter, rolling back and forth on his chair, clapping loudly.

"You taught our daughter the lyrics to Hot in Here by NELLY?"

"But," Chris had to collect himself for a second he was laughing so hard "but doesn't she look great!"

"CHRISTOPHER!"

"It's a great song! Look, they're just coming up to the chorus." You turned back in time to see you, daughter, mouth the lyrics I am getting so hot right now, imma take my clothes off before throwing herself into a cartwheel. You were so shocked you burst out laughing, and then you couldn't stop. It was brilliant, they'd obviously spent hours on it. The audience was loving it too, most of their classmates cheering them in next to their slightly shell shocked but amused parents. The Sisters, on the other hand, looked horrified, Sister Margret was shaking in her seat, her face so stern it looked as if her forehead was about to crack in two. She started to feverishly whisper to the sister next to her. She jumped out of her seat and scurried behind the speakers, desperately trying to unplug them. Connie and Lina kept going, never missing any lyrics or steps. The speakers were eventually cut off, and the hall erupted into thundering applause. Chris stood up, whopping and pointing proudly at his daughter. "That's my girl! That's my daughter!" You laughed at his yells of pride and stood up with him, clapping widely. The lights went up, and Connie's eyes went straight to the pair of you. She was blushing, but when she saw you, she beamed and waved. A sister grabbed both of them by the shoulder and frog-marched them off stage to a waiting Sister Margaret. She beckoned Chris over too, and for the first time, Chris's jubilation faltered.

"I think I'm about to get told off."

********

"Again," Chris said for the fourth time "I am so sorry for getting you into trouble honey." Connie poked her head up from her giant bowl of ice cream.

"It's only a week of no break times Dad. Besides, it gives us time to learn our next dance."

"Next dance?" You frowned.

"Lina's older sister wants us to do another dance for her birthday, to a song called s&m?" Connie shrugged "should be fun."

Chris's eyes widened, but you shook your head. Maybe not tonight. Instead, he went up and refilled all your ice cream pots, putting on so many reeses pieces the ice cream was lost. It was Connie's favourite though, and she squealed in delight before tucking in once more.

"But I'm proud of you." Chris threw his arm over his daughter and brought her into his side, her head barely reaching his shoulder. He kissed her head and smiled proudly towards you "didn't she do amazing?"

"You did amazing," you smiled.

Connie blushed once more. "Lina was better at the dancing than me."

"Are you kidding? You got moves, kid! Just like your mother," Chris winked, this time causing your cheeks to tinge pink. Praise and jokes were exchanged until it was time for them to go, the streets cold and icy with snow. Although she was nearly 9, Chris hooked Connie by her armpits and swung her onto his shoulders, one hand holding onto her wriggling foot, so she didn't fall off. The other handheld yours, making sure he kept close to you as you gingerly walked in your heels to the car. The snow was still falling in from the sky, and it stuck to your coat and to Chris's beard and made Connie look like a little old woman, her hair was so white. She squealed in delight not caring, sticking her little pink tongue out, trying to catch any snowflakes. It was the perfect image, and you feel your heart warm, seeing your small family together.

'I haven't done something yet today," Chris suddenly said.

"What?"

Chris stopped you for a second to lean in and give you a quick kiss, his lips warm and slightly cracked. He broke then there was another, and then he brought your intertwined hands up to his lips to kiss your hand, where your matching wedding bands knocked against each other. There were flecks of white clinging to his eyelashes, and his eyes glittered from the string of lights everywhere. "I love you both so much."

"I love you too."

"Love you three times !" Connie smiled. You both chuckled and continued to walk towards the car "Love you four times" Chris retorted.

"Love you five times."

"Six times."

"Ten times."

"A hundred times."

"One Gazillion and three!" Connie yelled, her smile triumphant.

"Wow. One Gazillion and three," Chris smiled to you "we're pretty damn lucky."

You squeezed his hand. "We really are."

#chris evans x reader #chris evans x #chris evans imagine #Chris Evans #chris #imagine #chris evans x y/n #Chris Evans x you #chris Evans x reader #chris evans x ofc #Steve Rogers #steve x reader #steve rodgers x reader #captain america #fluffy #cute #fanfiction #love

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musicalhistory · 4 years

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Hi! I really liked your post about the Newsies’ views on gay rights, and I was wondering if you have any information about the views of the characters of Bandstand on it. Like, I know there was a cut scene where Jimmy comes out and Donny seems at least somewhat accepting; how do you think the other characters of Bandstand would react to Jimmy coming out, and gay rights in general? I love your blog by the way!

Thank you so much! I’m always happy to hear that people like my blog and that the posts I make are helpful and informative.

So, much like with the Newsies post I made on this topic (which can be found here for anyone who hasn’t read it yet and would like to) this is a complicated question that there is no one easy answer to. However, I will do my best to examine as many angles as possible when answering this to provide you with as clear a picture as possible of how history relates to the show canon in regards to LGBTQ+ people and their rights.

The LGBTQ+ community in the 1940s was still a long way away from being accepted by most of society. Being gay was illegal, and would remain so until the 1960s when individual states began to legalize it (although being gay was not legalized in all 50 states until 2003). However, some strides forward were being made in the name of gay rights at the time.

In 1924, The Society for Human Rights was founded by Henry Gerber in Chicago. It was the first documented gay rights organization in the United States and marked a big step forward for the LGBTQ+ community as a whole. By the 1940s, many cities had gay bars and thriving (if hidden) gay communities were beginning to take shape. Cleveland’s first gay bar, The Cadillac Lounge, was opened in the 1940s. These bars were subjected to frequent raids, and so were by no means perfectly safe, but the fact that they existed in relatively large numbers across the country is a testament to the slowly changing opinions of people at the time.

World War II marked even more changes within the LGBTQ+ community. Due to a variety of factors, a community of gay people began to take shape under the surface of the US military. At one point during the war the Women’s Army Corps contained such a large number of lesbians that when the army tried to kick them out, they found that doing so would result in the majority of their staff being fired and so were forced to back down (you can read more about that remarkable instance here). This is probably one of the main reasons why Donny seems so accepting of Jimmy in the cut scene you referenced- as a member of the US Amry during WWII it’s highly likely that he came into contact with a least a couple of gay people before meeting Jimmy (he could also be some form of LGBTQ+ himself, although that, of course, depends on your own personal headcanons).

With that very brief history out of the way, let’s now get into what the other members of the Donny Nova Band might have thought about gay rights and gay people in the 1940s. Please note, however, that this is all pure conjecture on my part and that you can really headcanon anything you want in regards to this (one of the perks of Bandstand being a fictional show).

As I said before, Donny, Johnny, Nick, Wayne, and Davy would have probably met at least one or two gay people before during their service (and possibly in their civilian lives as well), and so Jimmy being gay wouldn’t be as big a shock for them as it might be for someone else. This doesn’t necessarily mean that they would be completely accepting of Jimmy, of course, but it does make it a bit more likely that they would be. In my personal opinion, homophobia usually comes from a place of ignorance, and the guys in the band wouldn’t be as ignorant about the LGBTQ+ community as some other people at the time might have been.

This brings us to Julia. She would probably be to most sheltered and ignorant of LGBTQ+ people, given that she never served and grew up Catholic (and as I’m sure many people know, the Catholic church doesn’t exactly have a favorable opinion of LGBTQ+ people, even today). Taking this into consideration, it would probably be the hardest for her to come to terms with Jimmy being gay at first. That being said, she clearly does eventually come to terms with it in some way since she writes and sings as openly as she can about him and the trauma he experienced related to his boyfriend being killed in the song Welcome Home, and I doubt she would have done that had she been harboring any kind of ill-will towards Jimmy with regards to his sexuality.

To summarize my very long-winded response (I’m oftentimes incapable of giving short answers, my apologies): Based on both historical facts and the musical canon, it is very likely that Jimmy would face homophobia from the outside world, but not from the members of the band themselves. This isn’t to say that the members would be perfectly understanding of him at all times, but rather that they clearly value him as a person regardless of his sexuality and are willing to look past whatever homophobic values they might have been raised with in order to accept him.

I hope that this answered your question! Again, this is a hard topic to talk about in any kind of definitive way, and so I welcome anyone else to chime in with their own opinions on this.

Sources:

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/LGBT_in_the_United_States#

https://www.cnn.com/2015/06/19/us/lgbt-rights-milestones-fast-facts/index.html

https://www.nationalww2museum.org/war/articles/gay-and-lesbian-service-members

#ask #anonymous #bandstand #bandstand fanfiction #donny nova band #jimmy campbell #lgbtq+ history #lgbtq+ rights #history #military history #wwii history #1940s #donny novitski #julia trojan

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elodiegarner · 4 years

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ELODIE CAMILLE GARNER ⁏ thirty-three ○ investigative journalist for crystal city times ○ mystic point.

❝ WATCH YOUR TOUNGE AROUND HER. SHE WILL BEAR HER FANGS AND TEAR YOU APART WITH ALL THE GRACE OF A QUEEN. ❞

⇨ aesthetics ⍮ dresses of black lace and velvet, the scent of chanel perfume lingering in the air as she floats past, blood-red fingertips coiled around the grip of a fountain pen, red-bottomed heels clicking against marble floors, rose gold highlighter shimmering along the height of prominent cheekbones, a svelte frame that is shrouded in an air of mystery and intrigue, peach roses in a vase on the window sill, a sense of freedom and carelessness when dancing, deft fingers stained with charcoal and oil paint, the melodic chime of piano keys, delicate digits adorned with moonstone gem rings, a coy smile spread across full rose lips, long chocolate locks blowing in the cool breeze of a summer’s evening, battered books with dog-eared pages, the silvery glint of old scar tissue, ripped leather jackets and worn jeans, & ribbed turtlenecks.

HEYOOO !! s’up buttercups ?? ‘tis i, your friendly neighbourhood loser chrissie, and i’m super duper excited to be here among all you fab human beings !! this here is my precious bby angel elodie and i adore her with my whole entire being. she’s a rather feisty, sassy ball of curiosity and mild rage, oop ?? excuse her blunt nature ; she’s a genuine softy deep down inside. she’s sassy, classy and a lil badassy. also beauty, grace, will punch you in the face. plot-wise, i’m 100% down for literally anything and everything so come at me with whatcha got !! i’m always diggity down to spit ball ideas and form some dope connections so pls feel free to invade my ims or discord ( chrissie.#9606 ) to brainstorm. if ya wanna, go ahead and light up that lil grey heart and i’ll shimmy my irish butt into your ims to discuss plots and all that good stuff. anywho, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty, shall we ??

FUNDAMENTALS.

full name. elodie camille garner.

nicknames. el / els.

current age. thirty-three.

birthday. february 6th, 1987.

gender. cisgender female.

pronouns. she / her.

nationality. french.

religion. catholic.

hometown. paris, france.

past residences. marseille, france, & manhattan, nyc, united states.

current residence. mystic point, crystal city, united states.

sexual orientation. heterosexual.

romantic orientation. demiromantic.

education. journalism degree obtained from nyu.

occupation. investigative journalist at crystal city times.

CONNECTIONS.

birth mother. adelaide garner. †

birth father. edward garner. †

full blood siblings. louis garner.

maternal grandmother. celeste dupont. †

maternal grandfather. alexandre dupont.

paternal grandmother. stephanie garner.

paternal grandfather. gary garner. †

maternal aunts. amelie dupont.

paternal aunts. rebecca garner.

maternal uncles. raphael dupont.

paternal uncles. n/a.

significant other. gabriel bonneville. †

children. n/a.

pets. n/a.

PROFICIENCIES.

spoken languages. english, french, spanish, italian, & german.

negative traits. flighty, obstinate, assertive, brazen, & destructive.

positive traits. sagacious, alluring, headstrong, elegant, & vehement.

strengths. etiquette, resourcefulness, knowledgeable, quick-thinker, original, brainstorming, charismatic, & energetic.

weaknesses. argumentative, insensitive, intolerant, finds it difficult to focus, & dislikes practical matters.

skills. memory recall, investigating, physical stamina, able to use initiative, & excellent problem-solving abilities.

talents. violin, piano, languages, writing, & photographic memory.

APPEARANCE.

eye colour. light brown with hazel flecks.

hair colour. natural, dark, chocolate brown.

height. five feet, seven inches.

weight. 57 kg.

build. she is considered slightly above average height for a female and is both slender and toned, with slight curvature.

scars. a rather noticeable one across her clavicle and a few others in less visible places.

tattoos. n/a.

piercings. earlobes.

glasses. yes, but usually wears contacts.

prominent feature. full, plump lips.

MISCELLANEOUS.

zodiac. aquarius.

element. air.

house. ravenclaw.

myers briggs type. entp-a.

alignment. chaotic good.

enneagram. type eight.

temperament. choleric.

intelligence type. interpersonal.

character label. the orphic.

past mental disorders. acute stress disorder, depression, & anxiety.

current mental disorders. undiagnosed.

addictions. tobacco, & alcohol.

vices. lust, greed, & wrath.

virtues. temperance, kindness, & humility.

allergies. penicillin.

diet. vegetarian.

accent. french with an undertone of american.

dominant hand. ambidextrous.

blood type. o negative.

felonies. n/a.

vehicle. red 1966 shelby 427 cobra.

BACKGROUND.

TRIGGERS. childbirth death, child abuse, infertility, domestic violence, poison, murder, & death.

Born in the winter of 1987, an innocent baby girl entered the capital of France to a French mother and an English father. Though she’d come into this world placid and silent, her birth was far from being an ode to her future. Instead of the welcoming arms and loving smile of her mother, the first sight Elodie witnessed was the weeping of her father. It wasn’t long until his tears turned into angry fists and hatred shining in dark eyes. This was the only form of her father that Elodie knew — he only element of him she could recall. From the instant she was old enough to figure it out, she knew that her father despised her just as she knew her mother had died giving birth to her.

Despite leading an obscenely lavish and excessive lifestyle, Elodie was a lonely child; starved of love from her father or even companionship from her brother. As a result of her father’s hatred toward her, Elodie spent her days alone — roaming around the vast house, occupying her childish mind with simple games of hide and seek. Except, she knew no one would ever look for her. Elodie was an outcast in her own family and often wished she had died in place of her mother. She’d spent her entire childhood into her teenage years aiming to please her father. She could play various instruments, speak a handful of languages fluently, recite every Victor Hugo poem word for word. Yet, still, she went unnoticed and neglected by him. All Elodie had ever wanted was to find her place, to fit in, to be cared for. Instead, all she’d got was left behind, disregarded and deemed a burden.

By the time Elodie turned thirteen, she had begun to develop a deep-rooted hatred and resentment for her father. A loathing so strong that bubbled up deep inside her following years upon years of unfair treatment. Soon, she started acting out — going against her father’s wishes, rebelling and causing trouble. If he was to hate her for no reason, then she would give him a reason. It was through the girl’s behaviour that she found herself shipped off to Marseille to live with her aunt and uncle. It was during this time that within a blink of an eye that Elodie turned hostile and indifferent. As if she had transformed into the polar opposite version of what she’d always been; converting into an alternate version of her former self.

Comparatively, Elodie’s life with her uncle had been no different to her life with her father. Her time in Marseille had been no walk in the park. Her aunt was a vain, unfeeling woman, unable to conceive a child of her own. Her uncle: an angry, offhand man who often resorted to acts of violence toward his wife, and, eventually, Elodie. From no age, all the girl had known was neglect, hatred and the feeling of being unwanted. Naturally, this was all it had taken for Elodie to turn into a cold, less vibrant girl who became void of emotion and attachment. At least, until she’d turned twenty and had fallen in love with a young accountant named Gabriel.

At first, their relationship had been innocent and genuine. Gabriel had been the first person to show Elodie an ounce of affection and admiration. Most importantly, he respected her. Without a shadow of a doubt, it was Gabriel’s kindness that had reeled her in; rendering her unable to see the change in his behaviour until it was too late. They married quite quickly — both twenty-two at the time. For the first few months of their marriage, things had been as tranquil as they’d ever been. Gabriel had showered Elodie with love and gifts; treated her the best that she’d ever been treated in her entire life. Then, suddenly, and swiftly, things had taken a nosedive and soon, Gabriel had turned cruel and merciless. He’d hurt her then he’d be the one to shed the tears — claiming his sincere apologies and promising never to lay a finger upon her ever again.

Fast forward, two more years and countless beatings later, Gabriel had failed to maintain his promises. If anything, his actions had grown much more violent and ruthless. Then twenty-four and having suffered years of her husband’s abuse, Elodie had grown weary and slowly — that deep-seated rage began to boil inside her. It was only a matter of time before she retaliated. Whilst Gabriel left for a while on a business trip, Elodie managed to breathe a sigh of relief at her husband’s absence until a week later when he arrived back in her life. And in that same instance, so was her brother, Louis, with news of their father’s passing.

Since the death of their father, Elodie’s brother had taken over their family business and out of their father’s clutches, Louis sought his sister out; soon realising the abuse she had been enduring. In fact, it had been her very brother who gave Elodie the poison that she would later use to kill her husband. Concocting a plan to murder Gabriel with the aid of the ricin her brother had provided her with, Elodie had taken action a couple of weeks later. Lacing a glass of red wine with the toxin, Elodie sat back and watched her husband guzzle the liquid down; hours later falling into a severe illness of which she offered to nurse him through all the while knowing that his impending death was inevitable.

Rendered unable to lash out, Gabriel slowly but surely declined in health until finally, his lungs and kidneys reached failure — resulting in his imminent death. But before this had taken place, Elodie’s brother had helped her flee France mere days before her husband drew his last breath. In fear of falling under any kind of suspicion should Gabriel’s poisoning become uncovered, Elodie wound up in New York City where she laid low for the first few months. For the first year of her residing in the city, Elodie worked as a barmaid whilst attending university, studying a journalism degree.

After she graduated, Elodie wound up moving to Mystic Point where she moved into a home near the water; working as an investigative journalist at Crystal City Times. Luckily, her secret has remained undiscovered thus far and for obvious reasons, Elodie would prefer to keep her wrongdoing under wraps. Her life might not be ideal but it has given her a second chance, offering her the security and monetary gain she’d lacked throughout her life in Paris. Although she’s been through a lot of adversities, Elodie doesn’t let any of the incidents from her past define her or hold her back. Throughout it all, she learned to look out for herself, to stand up for herself and how to continue surviving even if she was going through hell. She’ll never call herself a victim or bend to anybody’s will ever again.

WANTED PLOTS.

give me all of the connections from friends, frenemies, enemies, hookups, exes, rivals and everything else in between. added bonus if there’s angst or drama. if you have anything in mind feel free to throw it at me, i’m open to the majority of things and have zero triggers so come at me bro !! below you can find some connections i’d love for my bby :

when friends become enemies. maybe this person and elodie were friends from paris that she hung around with and got involved in reckless behaviour with. or maybe this person was someone elodie befriended during her university years. or they could be someone that elodie met when she moved to crystal city. under whichever circumstance they met, one fact remains: the two are no longer on friendly terms. they were once close and trusted each other with anything but now, there is obvious hostility. perhaps there was a betrayal, blackmail, a breach of trust, lack of communication, a simple misunderstanding. whatever it was that cracked this relationship is set in stone and is unlikely to ever go back to how it once was. some things are just too broken to be mended.

you’re in my veins. elodie has always had bad habits. has always gravitated to toxicity like a moth to a flame. thus, it would be safe to assume that 90% of her relationships have also been bad for her. the broken element inside her always found itself magnetised to the darkness in people. more especially, attracted to people she knew were no good for her. though, in the end, elodie would always manage to break free and leave these people behind. however, there was always this one person she couldn’t seem to stay away from. she met them when she moved to crystal city and instantly she knew they would break her heart yet it didn’t deter her from continuing to crawl back to him. these two have what can only be described as a toxic relationship. neither is good for the other yet neither can seem to walk away.

if you don’t have enemies, you don’t have character. of course, it goes without saying that elodie is the kind of woman who could make enemies for herself very easily. due to her sarcastic and distant nature, it would be safe to assume she has quite a few enemies and rivals. though this particular person would be the enemy of all enemies. somebody that she cannot abide and someone who cannot abide her either. they can’t stand the sight of each other and refuse to share the same space unless absolutely necessary. otherwise, there’s a massive chance of a fight outbreaking between them. there could be a history between them that has brought about their hostile nature toward each other. or they could simply dislike each other for no real known reason other than a sense they get from the other. bonus points if they’re crime affiliated!

#childbirth death /#child abuse /#infertility /#domestic violence /#poison /#murder /#death /

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fiery-assassin-arc · 3 years

Text

Bare Yourself - Iris’ POV

tw nudity mention, tw abuse mention

The chiming of the bells coming from St. Auodeon’s Church is enough to bring chills to me, even though it’s a nice spring day. Memories from Catholic school hit me like a train, thinking of Yvette almost. I wonder how she fares—not that it matters.

She made her choice when she wouldn’t even help me anymore, and I’m the fool for trusting her still.

My hands go to the cross necklace I decided to wear today, the cold metal unfamiliar since it has never remained on my neck until after school. I look over at the nuns, bowing in respect to the people who are entering, seeking a familiar face.

“Father Daniel.” I announce his name, walking over to him. The nuns look up and smile. Of course they remember me.

He turns, gives me a soft smile. “Ah, Iris. What a pleasure to see you on holy grounds again. It’s been what, a few months?”

“Just one month, Father. I heard the bake sale was a success.” I look over at the nuns. “Sister Harriet, you look lovely as ever.”

“Oh stop it dearie. I remember when you were just a wee little girl, scared of the ruler. And now look at you, all confident and strong.” She reaches for my wrist and I retract slowly.

“I was hoping if you weren’t too busy Father, I would like to speak to you.” I whisper the last seven words softly so only he could hear.

He nods. I don’t tell Father Daniel much. Mainly the nightmares that never wish to cease their orchestra in my skull. And for some of the acts I’ve committed. I couldn’t stop myself from crying when I told him I killed someone, but he never turned me in. Just told me to find some way for forgiveness to seek absolution. Strangely, in the world we live in, we accept it.

And this church was now polytheistic.

He takes me to the confessional booth, sitting on the side so he can appear aloof. Once I sit down, my hand goes to my cross. Rubbing the metal until it hurts my fingertips.

“Father I have felt plagued by the past.” I start off, lean my head against the chair. “For two weeks now, I have gotten nightmares involving . . .” I exhale slowly, thinking if I say his name, he’d appear like Bloody Mary. My finger goes over the rosary beads that were conveniently placed beside me, inhaling deeply. He’s not here. He won’t get me here. He won’t he won’t— “Remington, someone who had wronged me in the past.”

He hums. “What about him that plagues you?”

“I think he’s back.” I breathe the words out. “He attached me in the woods, I know he did. And my family thinks that I’m imagining it.” As the priest remains silent, I sit back and continue. “You know it’s been over three years since he died?”

“I remember that day, you had come into my church that following night. Still in your gown. Be grateful it was so dark no one recognized you.” He looks up to the sky, probably apologizing to the Gods.

“Yeah, thanks for that.” Almost three years ago, after the wedding was off the air of television due to a electrical circuit being cut, I drove the wedding limo towards this very church. When I made it here, still stained with blood, ready to confess my sins, Father Daniel welcomed me inside.

“Do you believe his spirit is unrestful, due to the nature of his death?”

“I don’t know.” Every time I think of the alternative than what I have experienced, it gives me a headache. “But due to a random Titan bringing people back, if you haven’t heard, anything is possible.”

“It frightens you, the idea of him back in your life?”

It makes me sick. He takes my silence as confirmation.

“I’ve also had dreams… memories of us. I’m not sure, but they feel like they happened. Showing me what he really was.” He’s silent the whole time. Something wet hits my hand, my fingers are burning from the rubbing of the rosary beads.

The dreams have started last year on my birthday, showing me glimpses, through motion or a whole movie-length. It’s either our happiest moments, or signs of his abuse I didn’t speak out on. That lunch scene genuinely frightened me.

And I have no idea if it was real, or he’s fabricated it years ago. My heart rattles inside my ribs, hurting me. How deep did his influence run?

“That is something I don’t think I could help with,” Father Daniel leaves his side of the booth and walks for a moment. Then he opens my door, his green eyes soft with concern. Hands me a tissue. “I think that we are done for today.”

I let go of the beads, see the paint is rubbed onto my skin, a rich brown. I must look a mess in front of him. Shaking, crying. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Breathe, child. It is natural to let go of your emotions.” Father Daniel takes my hand, helps me out of the booth. We go out to the back of the courtyard. “There are things even I cannot assist with. Hearing one confess, hear their problems, but at their own mental expense, I feel it would be too much for their soul.” He gingerly places a hand on my shoulder, smiling at me.

“Of course, Father. What should I do?”

“I would suggest talking to someone with knowledge of the mind. Perhaps they can help.” I grimace, but he doesn’t notice, or he did. “Or journal, do something to find ways of what it means.” He inhales, continues. “Sometimes God doesn’t have the answer for it all. I hope you find peace, in what you are going through, Iris.”

I nod, hear a distant clap of thunder over on the east side. It vibrates within my skin. Hot tears slide down my face. “Thank you.”

Perhaps it’s because I was born in water, or maybe my zodiac sign, but I love the feeling of it. The floating, the light twinkling through the glassy ceiling of blue. Submerged ten feet underwater in my pool with flowers floating above, I feel a sense of peace. My hand slowly moves in the water, my eyes open. It doesn’t burn.

My body twists and glides effortlessly, hair tickling my skin. Finding peace through swimming, ballet. Things I used to do before— they can help me. Sure, I could take Father Daniel’s suggestion of seeing a therapist. But not now. Not until I get him out. Out of the physical realm and my mind.

And these damned memories. Why are they resurfacing? And are they real?

I swim back up to the surface, pushing my hair back. All that I hear is my breaths, the muffled sounds from my music, and the water moving with me in tandem. I’ve sent the servants home, and I usually pay them while having them every six months. It’s better being alone. No one hears my screams from my nightmares. No one has to see my battle.

I’ve had one person to see my vulnerable side like that, and she’s in a crypt in the frozen tundra. Per my demand. I wasn’t going to let him turn her to rubble. I trusted him.

I pull myself out of the water, pulling my hair to the side to wring it out of excess liquid. Maybe I could cook something, get my mind off of today. “Radio, off.” I command, and the radio silences, leaving me in quiet. It’s fine. I can make it one day in silence.

I wrap the towel around myself and exit out the pool room, making my way to the bathroom, and turn on the shower, nice and hot. I strip myself of my swimsuit and get in. Wash the chlorine from my hair and skin, ignoring the sting of soap in my eyes. I blink it away, scrub it out.

I don’t want to close my eyes. I don’t want to see the darkness.

I wash my back, the scars showing lines where I was hurt. Can’t believe it’s been six years since that day. As I look, I notice some look older, a bit more darker than the others. As if I had these scars before my kidnapping.

Couldn’t be my wings giving the scars. It’s a weird sense of anatomy how they come out, but never resulted in my back bleeding.

And I remember the pain of each whip, but on some parts, it hurt worse. Hitting something that was there prior.

I shake off whatever idea I have, despite the chill and continue to shower. Wanting it out of my system. Maybe… Maybe Dad was right. Maybe it was just because of his anniversary of his death that I imagined it. No. It sounded stupid as soon as I thought of it. Dad can be right on many things, but not this.

Definitely not this.

I change into some sweatpants and a big shirt once I’m done, splash some cold water on my face before walking out to the living room. I bend to the fireplace and start it up with some wood and a flame. The sounds of the ember popping a comfort to me. When I exhale, I notice how cold it is.

“Nick?” I say into the silence, before groaning. “Not in the mood for this, big brother. Next time use a lock.”

“You’re not as aware of your surroundings as you used to be.”

My instincts are quick, grabbing the fire poker and pointing it straight at the intruder in my home. He stands at the front door, arms behind his back. Clad in blue, the symbol of our clan proud in the center of his headband. A soft smile. Sad, but soft nonetheless. It’s been four months since I’ve seen the man in front of me. Four months since I almost killed him in revenge.

Not since the funeral of our friends, clan, of Frost.

“Hi, Sub-Zero.”

#long post #{{ TADAAAAAAAA #tw nudity mention #tw abuse mention

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mulcahy4077 · 3 years

Photo

There was a swift knock on the door before it swung open to admit Colonel Blake and the camp’s chaplain, now only recognizable by the crosses on his lapels. The priest’s eyes immediately went to Jack’s and he gave a warm smile as Henry spoke. “Captain Peterson, I thought I’d come by and make sure you were getting settled in alright. This is our Catholic chaplain, Father Mulcahy. His tent is just right across the way from here on the end if you have matters of a spiritual nature. My tent is next to the main office, you can’t miss it. You’ll be taking over Major Burns’ shift, but when we’ve got days like this…well, let’s just say you’ll have more work than you can ask for.”

“Or want.” Trapper added.

“Care for a drink, Henry?” Hawkeye asked as he tinkered with the still.

“Oh, no, I’ve got…work to do.”

“Mmhm.” Duke muttered knowingly behind the rim of his glass. Henry cast a quick glare in his direction.

“Anyhow, if you’ve got any questions, feel free to ask. You’ve met Vollmer, of course. Radar O’Reilly is my company clerk, you’ll get to know him quick enough.”

“Where is Radar?” Hawkeye asked, having just realized he hadn’t seen the boy all day.

“I sent him up to Seoul to pick up a package from HQ. I didn’t want to take a chance of it getting lost in a supply raid.”

“But you’ll take the chance of it getting kifed off one lone kid in a jeep in the middle of a warzone. Good thinking, Henry.”

“Can it, Pierce. “ Blake groused. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my tent.”

The chaplain stepped aside to let the colonel out and Hawkeye turned his attention on him. “How’s about you, Dago? Care to join us?”

“Oh, sure. But just a taste, please. I’m praying later.”

The three other men laughed gently as if the chaplain had been kidding and Jack watched the man sit on the edge of Hawkeye’s bunk next to the surgeon, who poured him a drink and passed it over. Dago Red, Jacked noted, was shorter than himself, probably standing somewhere around 5’10, maybe 5’11, and lean. He had thick reddish brown hair that seemed to naturally part just shy of his right temple and toppled over just above his brow. He was a moderately handsome man, Jack thought, and had a gentle, approachable air about him. His olive drab fatigues seemed a size too large on his frame, and Jack noticed that the priest had either intentionally or unintentionally trapped a section of the fine-link chain bearing his cross behind one his shirt buttons.

“I’m glad to see you survived your first day,” the chaplain was saying, drawing Jack’s gaze up from the middle of the man’s torso. “I don’t think anyone ever appreciates the phrase ‘thrown to the wolves’ until they’ve had a run in the OR here.”

“Amen.” Duke asserted from his bunk, lifting his glass towards the priest.

“I’m just glad you said this isn’t an everyday thing,” Jack said with a soft smile.

“Nah,” Duke chimed in again. “If it was, we’d all be buckin’ for a Section 8.”

“So, Father—”

“Call him Dago,” Hawkeye interrupted. “The rest of us do. I think he prefers it.”

“I do not prefer it,” Dago argued evenly, his gaze tracking the other man as Hawkeye sat next to him on his bunk. “I’ve simply become accustomed to it. And it’s fewer syllables.”

Hawkeye grinned at him.

“Where did you come up with the nickname?” Jack asked.

“Oh,” Mulcahy gave a short laugh, then indicated his head in the direction of the three other doctors. “These yucks christened me ‘Dago Red’ in appreciation of my attempt to befriend them.”

“How’s that?”

“Dago was here before any of us,” Trapper supplied, eating an olive. “Anytime someone new comes along, he makes it his business to get to know them.”

“Yeah, so watch out. He’s actually got an ulterior motive for sitting here with us now.” Hawkeye warned.

“That’s not true,” Dago argued again. “I enjoy your company...usually.”

Hawkeye snorted a laugh, but waved him off as he continued Trapper’s tale. “When Duke and I first got here, we kind of snubbed Dago a bit because I’m not religious in any sense of the word and Duke’s not a fan of…”

“Bead jigglers.” Duke supplied as Hawkeye struggled for a polite description of Catholics.

“Yeah, that... Long story short, the three of us never really had much need to speak since he knew where we stood religiously—”

“You intimidated me,” Dago admitted, looking at Hawkeye as he told the tale. “I thought at the very least we could be friendly, but you two were just plain cruel at times!”

“Which we’ve since apologized for,” Hawkeye pointed out in a tone that suggested they’d had this conversation before. Jack found himself wondering how the doctors had been cruel to the priest, but continued to listen as Dago picked up the story.

“It wasn’t until shortly after Trapper’s arrival that Hawkeye lost his first patient. We’d lost boys before, but he’d never been the one working on them. The loss really hit him hard, and that’s when I decided that I had to do everything in my power as chaplain to offer some sort of comfort to him.”

“I remember when you came in here asking if there was anything you could do; Hawkeye took one look at you and told you that unless you had a bottle of whiskey, to get the hell out and don’t let the door hit you in the ass.” Trapper reflected, laughing. “We didn’t think you’d actually come back.”

“Yes, well, never underestimate a priest on a mission.” Dago replied. “I didn’t have any whiskey, but I did have some cognac that had been given to me, so I got it from my tent and brought it back over for a peace offering. I guess Hawkeye was impressed, or just placated, but he let me stay so long as I kept conversation away from religiosity.”

“And on the condition that you continued drinking with us.” Trapper added.

Hawkeye took back over. “We drank the whole bottle of cognac, the contents of the still, and some of Duke’s Georgia moonshine. I wasn’t done yet, but there wasn’t a drop of alcohol left in the tent, so Dago went back to his tent and brought us a bottle of the wine he uses for mass—Dago Red wine. Before we polished off that bottle, Dago completely passed out.”

“It’s a miracle I didn’t die from alcohol poisoning,” Dago quipped, sipping his martini.

“You could have stopped at any time, babe,” Hawkeye pointed out. “It’s not my fault you didn’t know when to quit. Besides, Trap and I made sure you were still breathing.”

“Was that before or after you mummified me to the bunk with gauze and surgical tape?”

The three doctors erupted into laughter, practically falling over in hysterics as Jack watched the exchange, trying to imagine the scene in his mind.

“You should have seen it,” Hawkeye said, wiping tears of mirth from his face. “We hung a sign out front that said ‘See a Pickled Priest, 5¢.’”

“Henry was livid with you three.”

“And I wasn’t even there!” Duke asserted.

“That’s how I got my name, though. From then on, every time they saw me, they called me Dago Red, since that’s ultimately what did me in. The rest of the camp caught onto it pretty quickly and now the only people who call me by any other name are Colonel Blake, Radar, and Vollmer.”

“What would you prefer I call you?” Jack asked sincerely.

The chaplain smiled softly and shrugged. “Dago is fine. Like I said, I’m used to it.”

Jack felt an immediate affinity for the chaplain and watched him take another drink of the dry martini as Duke started to talk about which nurses were open to a casual fling and which ones were strictly off limits. The priest quickly drained the rest of his glass and held it out to Hawkeye.

“That’s my cue.” He announced as he stood up. “Behave yourselves, boys. Jack, in case it hasn’t been said, welcome to the Double Natural.”

#a snippet of a fic I wrote several years ago #Jack is one of my OCs #trying to rework some of my old writing to revamp and make it better #M*A*S*H #Dago Red Mulcahy

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daphner20 · 4 years

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Aaron Roberts

Prologue It’s 2:45 pm sighed Aaron, there was a staff meeting for everyone in the Ballroom at 4pm. The rumors were swinging like a pendulum: we were being sold; we were having mass layoffs, we are closing our doors, and it went on and on. As Aaron, looked out of his office window, which overlooked one of the most beautiful beaches in the world ( don’t take his word, it is ranked in the top five of every Tourist/Travel magazine), he took a short walk down memory lane. He has been with The Kingdom, for the last 10 years, and he has no regrets. By the time he was 22, he had a bachelor’s in Accounting, A Master in Accounting, and a MBA. He had also sat the CPA exams and pass all sections on his first attempt. He worked at, CPDG, one of the largest accounting firms in the world, for 3 years, and he hated every minute of it. His salvation came, when his frat brother, told him about The Kingdom, the name alone piqued his interest. And 10 years later at 35, I was the youngest CFO at a major hotel resort. Yeah!!

The chime of his alarm, brought him back to reality, it’s 3:40. Time to make his way to the Ballroom. It will only take 10 minutes, but Aaron was a stickler for time. 'Good afternoon, every one, thank you for coming, said Mr Keith O’brien, (General Manager). First let me address the rumors, there will be no layoffs and we are not selling the hotel. I will retire at the end of the month. I will stay on for an additional 2 months so that there will be a smooth transition. So without further delay, the next General Manager of The Kingdom is Mr. Aaron Roberts. What the #$&%?

Chapter 1 It’s has been 3 months now, since that incredulous announcement was made. I didn’t expect it. To be honest that promotion was the last thing on my mind. I think I ambitious as the next person. But to be appointed as General Manager/CFO is a feat. Yes I retain my position as Chief Financial Officer as well. The Kingdom is a 700 room 5 star hotel, on an island in The Bahamas. With a staff compliment of 2000. We all live on the island. We are the sole employer as well. So my responsibility, is not limited only to the hotel, but the entire island. From the airport, staff quarters, beaches, etc. Not bad for that skinny, shy altar boy Yeah!! My family were so elated, when they heard the news, I think my mom is still crying, and my priest Father John Cooper, (who was also my math teacher in high school) and the entire parish family is still sending congratulations. Am I proud of myself? I think I am thankful and grateful to God. I remembered as a child in CCD, Sister Marva, constantly said, all good and perfect gifts comes from heaven above. Am I overwhelmed? No, I have a great team. We have nearly 100 % occupancy year round. But there is a feeling I can’t put my finger on I Am Lost!!! Chapter 2 I am the way, the truth and life, no one comes to the Father except through me. What does that mean, wondered Aaron. He keeps hearing it in his heart, whether awake or sleeping, those words are there. On top of that he felt lost. I don’t lost is the right word. I have a good job, a great family, am in excellent health, am single (I see it as a plus, so I can focus on my career). What more is there? I was about to find out. A few weeks later, during an executive meeting, the Director of Sales, Shelby Robinson, said “that we have a group, that wants to book our entire hotel all 700 and meeting rooms for one week”. Wow, everyone exclaimed, awesome. We’ve had groups before, but never on the scale. It was a religious group. It was a Pastor of a mega church in New York, a membership of 50,000 . It is considered an evangelical non-denominational Christian Church. I don’t know what that means. I was born and raised Catholic. My parents are Catholic, I was an altar boy, from the age of 8 – 18. I attended only Catholic schools and universities. We are the true Christian Church. Yeah!! Chapter 3 The hotel is a frenzy, in good way. After months of negotiating, the day of the big arrival had come. The negotiating had been relentless, they had so many demands. We’re used to that. But they had some non-negotiable items. No alcohol, no secular music, limit Internet access (block all ungodly sights). The list was exhausting!! After calculations, the revenue which was in the millions it was worth it. We will be in the black for years. Every meeting space and restaurant will be utilized. This was considered a conference for men. There were bishops, deacons, men's ministry and lay members. We had a total of 5,000 men descending on The Kingdom, it felt like another Kingdom was invading The Kingdom! On my career side my life was awesome, we were able to negotiate a deal of a life time. However, in my personal life. It was the tale of two cities. Some days I am overwhelmed by this emptiness, that I am feeling, that I can’t sleep or eat! Thank God, I have been able to conceal it with work, nobody seems to be the wiser. I have taken praying the Rosary even more. ( My mother will considered that a dream come true). What is “ I am the way the truth and the life, no one comes to the Father, except through me.” Lord, I cried out “ if you are real, what does this mean.” Help me please!! Mr. Roberts, they are here! Chapter 4 It is not a custom for the General Manager to meet hotel guests, but this was an exception and necessary. Arriving first Apostle Dylan Freeman, he was the Senior Pastor of Greater Cathedral of Brooklyn, New York. He looked like any ordinary man, I think because he had such a large congregation, that he would look ‘holy’. That’s just the Catholic in me talking. I have never meet a modern day Apostle before. The ones that I knew of , were Jesus disciples in the bible. “It is a pleasure to welcome you Apostle Freeman, to The Kingdom,” said Aaron. “I have come to The Kingdom, for such a time as this,” replied Apostle Freeman. His entourage laughed heartly . I didn’t get it, maybe it was Christian lingo or some inside joke. I escorted him to his suite which is on the 69th Floor. The Kingdom has 70 floors. The 70th Floor is our major Ballroom, which is called ‘The Great Hall.’ This is where there will be a welcome cocktail reception. ( Minus the cocktails) at 7pm. I hate cocktail receptions, but duty calls. It’s 6:30 pm. Most of the guests are here, taking in the breath taking view of the island. The Great Hall, has a panaramic view of the entire island. So, there were a lot of selfies. Apostle Freeman, arrived precisely at 7pm. My goal was to make light chit chat, then make my escape. Finally, he was alone, I eventually got to him, before I had a chance to say a word, he said “ I have a word for you.” “ You want a word with me? “ I asked. He looked at me, and just starting laughing. What was so funny I thought. He must have read my mind. Because he stopped abruptly. ‘ Forgive me, we pastor's believe everyone understands what we are saying, he said apologetically. “ I have a word for you, from the Lord,” he said somberly. I felt like I just got suckered punch, my insides felt like jelly. I didn’t know to say. I thought I was speechless for hours. But he graciously said to me, “ Don’t worry, everything you have been experiencing these last several months, will be made clear to you. And just like that he was throng again, by the other guests. For the next several days, I was eager to have an audience with the Apostle, but with his schedule, I know that was impossible. It was the last day, I knew that it will be hectic, so my daily morning jog on the beach was imperative. As I was about to begin, Apostle Freeman suddenly appeared. “I am the way, the truth and the life, no one comes to the father, except through me”, he said to me. “ Do you know what that means? I just shake my head weakly, saying no. Thus says the Lord, this emptiness you are feeling, it is your soul yearning for the one true God. And you can only have that with Jesus as your Savior. “Do you want to make Jesus Christ you personal Savior?” asked Apostle “Yes, “ I was openly crying now. Repeat after me: Lord Jesus, I know that I am a sinner, and I ask for your forgiveness. I believe You died for my sins and rose from the dead. I turn from my sins and invite You to come into my heart and life. I confess You as my personal Lord and Savior. In Jesus name I pray Amen. As I prayed those word, the Peace of God flooded my soul, and the emptiness vanished. Thank you Jesus. As I looked on that beautiful water, I knew what I wanted more than anything. “Will you baptize me, Apostle”, I asked. As Apostle Freeman, baptize me in the Name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, I knew that I was truly alive and Jesus had given me a new life. Later that morning, while I was escorting Apostle to his car. He said this, “ I have two things to things to say to you. “ Jesus loves you and see you next year. Yeah!! THE END

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staytruetonorthch · 4 years

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Perfect Ch. 1

A/N: I’m super anxious but here is my first official post. It’s just a single chapter around 4.5k. I plan on this being a pretty detailed, long-form story so if you like it, hang in there. I promise it’ll speed up once we get past exposition. I’m also highly aware of the switches from past/present tense, but I’m too tired to fix it and I’ve been so hesitant to post it’s either a now or never. I hope you guys enjoy <3

Football!Calum x Dancer!OC

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"Don't make me come over there!" It may have looked like I was yelling into the racks of clothing and shoes in my closet, and to be honest, I might as well be.

"You worry too much, Celley." I can hear the smile on my best friend, Brynn's face from my bed in the other room.

"I do, but only because you don't give a fuck, B and I know those boys don't," I said, counting each person out on my fingers. "That's four people in, and not a single fuck is being given. Someone's got to, or nothing would get done."

"You've got a point. The delivery was a little aggressive, but I'm moved nonetheless," Ash spoke up through Brynn's phone.

"I'm cleaning as we speak, Cel. It's gonna be fine," Luke chimed in from the boys' side of the phone.

"I can hear you lads playing FIFA," I said with an exasperated sigh.

We have a party planned at the boy's house tonight. A party I only had five hours to prepare, but that's the beauty of university, right? Spontaneity. All precautions to the wind. Everything that I never could be in high school and am still afraid to do today after a whole month of coursework. Don't ask me what I think might happen. Spontaneous combustion? Instantaneous death? A party that no one has fun at because I didn't have time to make an updated playlist or look up the actual rules for any drinking games?

"Brynn, are you ready to go?" I ask, peeking my head out of my closet to look at her sprawled out across my bed. I can hardly see her underneath the excessive number of decorative pillows and thick white down cover.

"I just got so comfortable. I was actually contemplating taking a nap."

"Please," I plead, batting my lashes over large dewy eyes. It’s a trick I picked up after so many lyrical dances over the years. Direct eye contact with these watery eyes always left judges speechless.

"Ugh… fine, but I'm getting wasted tonight and sleeping in this wonderful bed. Have your asses in gear by the time we get there," she said, hanging up on the boys and throwing pillows haphazardly across the floor. I cringed at every one as it landed in the thick white carpet. I don't bother telling her that I hadn't expected the night to end any other way. I pull myself back into the closet, eyeing my options once more. I could either go with a red gingham top, or I could tie my white vogue tee shirt in the front for a more casual look. Both require a bra sadly.

"The red is trying too hard," Brynn said, leaning against the doorframe. "You can't pull out picnic bitch chic at a party."

"I guess you're right." I pull the tee over my head careful to avoid touching the thin white fabric to my made-up face. Once I had a knot secured at the base of my rib cage, I fluffed my hair as if it could get any bigger and smoothed out my denim skirt. "Shoe's and I'm good. What about you?" I said eyeing her in the reflection of my full-length mirror. She wore a white hoodie underneath black overalls and black high-top converse. Splitting her hair in half, she tied it up into multicolored space buns on top of her head. Brynn is the kind of girl who could put on mascara and chapstick five minutes before she left, and she’s effortlessly beautiful. Her freckles do most of the work across her nose and cheeks, making her insanely adorable.

"Done. Let's hit the road, Jack," she said, walking towards the door to my studio flat. I quickly replace the pillows back on the bed and turned off all the lights before joining her. She grabbed the keys to my Jeep, knowing I’m too preoccupied to drive us.

"Are we stopping at the store on the way or coming back out?"

"Stopping on the way. We just need paper towels, red cups, more ping pong balls because Mikey lost three of the last four, and snacks. I also found this recipe for a cool looking pink drink, but the boys are all stocked on beer."

"I almost hate the fact that I can't use my fake here. I spent good money and almost got arrested for something that's legal here." I smile, scrolling through my checklist one more time to make sure I didn't forget anything.

"Well that's your fault for not doing a simple google search before you came to uni in Aus."

"I'm just saying, in America, I would be a plug." She turned wide out into the street, speeding past every car. She has a bit of a lead foot.

"That one's lost on me, love." I try to keep up with her American slang, but I wasn't able to watch a lot of American shows or anything growing up, so I'm a little behind to put it gently.

She said she has a southern accent, but I can't tell any difference. Everything she says just sounds brutal to me. Shit slams, anything can pop off apparently, and a lot of good things burn. At least that's what I gather when she uses 'fire' and 'flames' as adjectives.

I met Brynn at new student orientation. She seemed to be the only other one unamused by the school's welcoming parade meant to encourage school spirit, so as soon as our parents left, we left campus to explore the surrounding area locating the nearest shops and eating places. She was unlike any friend I had ever made swearing and speaking in riddles. I went to an all-girls catholic school filled to the brim with carbon copies of perfect people. We were second to none in both academics and clubs, which my parents loved, and Brynn was the absolute antithesis of that. She was a self- proclaimed 'thick' queen who was a pleasant deviance to the bird thin girls I was usually surrounded by. Her hair couldn't choose a color after multiple self- dye jobs. Even her mixed Mexican and Jamaican heritage were new to me. She said what she wanted and smiled wide at everything. I'm just happy she saw something in me to stick around even if it was the fact that I kidnapped her on the first day, keeping her from someone better.

I grab the frame of the car as she whips into the car park stopping short of a disgruntled gentleman in the crosswalk. She cursed loudly, causing my face to heat up. I contemplate jumping out of the car seeing as how the doors to the Jeep are safely kept in my garage. It’ll be a quick getaway, but I may need to make sure she makes it into a spot that isn't already occupied with this lovely gentlemen's car.

We soon found a spot and made quick work of the shopping, splitting the list I organized by section right down the middle. We’re back on the road in no time, heading closer to the edge of campus where the boys lived.

Ashton was actually the first person to befriend Brynn. They met at a summer fellowship program that put them in parts of Australia that don't have service for a hundred miles. They have that rugged woodsman thing in common. It kept them in touch through their final year in high school before she 'coincidentally' got accepted into the same university as him an entire ocean's length away. They were equally as smiley; she was just a little more… brash at times which is hard to believe. She didn't want to admit that she was nervous when he invited her to the house, he shared with two of his best mates, so I didn't mention anything when she asked me along. As the male version of Brynn, I immediately got on with Ashton. Mikey was chirpy and so sweet despite his punk persona. His other mate Luke was quiet only offering his very corny, yet intriguing commentary. He seems to be the closest thing I have to the friends I'm used to at home despite his lip ring. We formed a group of sorts meeting up in the library to study during the week and finding anything else but coursework to do on the weekends.

Our first kickback was just a barbeque featuring the five of us until Ash invited a few friends he made throughout the week with his open and boyish charm. Brynn had a few of her own, and Mikey wanted to join in on the fun, so he found a few friends to join. Luke and I were just fine meeting people as they were brought to us. Before we knew it, there was a group chat of about fifteen of us with more and more ideas of who to invite to the weekend shenanigans.

The boys had felt the pressure of expectation early this morning before Michael was a functioning human being. He shooed everyone off with a 'ya sure' before hanging up and going back to sleep. Brynn called me with our invite not only to attend the party but to host it at about 5:00 and of course, I freaked out. I plan everything, including some of the most successful events of my college career, if I do say so myself, so I took the praise for last week's party in stride. The difference is, I didn't spend my week planning out this event down to the second hand, so anything can happen. I wouldn't feel all the way like expelling my insides if it hadn't been confirmed that the first-year football players were going to be in attendance after today's match.

This confirmation came directly to Ash from another one of his mates from college, Calum Hood. Not only the best first year but the best player on the whole bloody team. He's also the hottest. The first time I saw him, he was leaving the classroom I was walking into. He opened the door just as I turned the handle, pushing me backward and almost to the floor.

"My fault, mate," he said distractedly, zipping his bag and flipping it over his shoulder. He was obviously sponsored by Nike dressed top to bottom in their slate grey gear, the school's emblem attached to every piece. The only thing I could tell wasn't sponsored was the gray beanie he had pulled down over his ears covering his hair. When he finally looked up a smirk graced his pink lips.

"You alright, doll?"

I couldn't tell if my reaction showed on my face because I didn't expect him to be so adorable with the brute force, he opened the door with. I just nodded my head taking deep breaths, trying to keep my face still. His tan skin was smooth and warm, complimenting the heat in his eyes that was slowly melting my resolve.

"Right. Well you're late, so you might want to…" he trailed off, nodding over his shoulder into the classroom.

"Right," I replied, hoping my hair was doing that cool thing it does when the wind pushes it back. It's either doing that, or the curls are fighting themselves on top of my head. It's so thick I can never really tell without a mirror, but let's be honest. My hair tells me what it wants to do, I rarely have any say in the matter. Instead of walking out of the door, he extended his arm, acting as a human door frame for me to walk under. When I turned my head to look again, he was gone.

I showed up a little earlier to class the next day to see if I could catch him again. Then I was late again and right on time before I decided to be outside the room before his class even ended. He was still nowhere to be found. I had practiced redeeming myself with a smile or maybe even words. Anything but how cringe-worthy I had been the first time, but to no avail. I didn't see him again until the boys dragged us to the first football game.

I don't mind sports at all. I grew up going to my older brother's rugby matches, so I'm not entirely clueless. Brynn, on the other hand, sat unmoving and quiet for the first time in our friendship. I think she concerned Ashton the most, as he asked her if she was ok every time the ball stopped moving.

"Someone tell me why I chose the guitar over football again," Luke said, pulling his hands down his face. "I was just as good as him, but now he's got fans and his face on posters."

"If that was true, I'm sure you'd be out there, dude," Mikey said, patting his shoulder. Michael wasn't interested in playing sports unless it was FIFA on the Xbox, but he was supportive nonetheless. Luke wrapped an arm around me, pulling me closer, so he could point out the center forward dribbling through two defenders.

"That's my best mate, or at least he was before he got club offers," he said, taking a swig of his beer.

"I'm surprised he even came to university. He could've just gone pro," Ash said before he cursed the refs loudly. The boy Luke had been pointing out was quick with powerful legs and defined arms. His jaw was clenched, making it sharp enough to cut through glass. Thick curly hair was pushed out of his face with a thin gauzy headband, a gold streak shone prominently in the surrounding darkness of his curls. As he made quick work of the remaining defender, there was only himself and the goalkeeper who looked menacing. Making a sharp left jab, he caused the goalie's weight to shift, giving him the perfect opportunity to use his nondominant foot for a goal.

I jumped out of the way as the boys leaped up, hugging each other, and spilling beer. The entire crowd erupted in shouts, holding on to one another as if the world depended on it.

"CALUM! CALUM! CALUM!" the entire stadium roared. He smirked up at the crowd with a small wave. I gasped, grabbing onto Brynn's arm in surprise.

"Calum?" I asked incredulously. Oh boy what did I miss out on being dumbstruck? Not only is he incredibly attractive, but he's a football king? My parents would love him, I would literally win my family if I could've snagged him, but I'm stupid. So incredibly stupid.

This is why tonight is so stressful and important. If I can not only get a football player, but the best football player here and he looks that good, I can get my parents off my back. My mum went to university solely to get a husband, which she found in my dad. She worked as a primary school teacher until he could support them at his father's law firm, and before you know it, he was running the place. They pop out a few kids, dad runs for Parliament, and the rest is unfortunately history. Mum loved teaching, but she loved being a mum more. She just raised the 'perfect children' she liked to say to anyone who would listen. My too perfect to be true brother Cleo and her wannabe prima ballerina Celeste, me. So tonight, I have to look perfect, and everything has to be perfect, but I don't have time to bustle around and host. This party has to go on autopilot, so I can set my focus on Calum.

"It could be worse, Celley," Brynn shrugged as she set the grocery bags down on the counter of the boys' home. She's right, it could be. I didn't expect it to be this clean actually, but there were no discarded clothes in sight, no pizza boxes on the counters, and no beer cans all over the place. At first glance the place looks fine, I just have to get the dishes out of the sink and out of sight, so they're not broken. A quick vacuum run and the place would work out just fine. I relaxed a little letting my shoulders pull forward.

"Thank you, Lukey," I said, starting the water in the sink. I knew he was the only person who really did any cleaning around here. As much as they were all messy, he couldn't live in filth for too long.

"No problem," he replied sitting on the island watching me work.

"Hey, I picked up my own stuff," Michael complained looking through the bags we brought in pulling out various things.

"You picked up the underwear that your mum wrote your name in and sat back down." Ash always laughs when he chastises, never letting you know if he’s serious or not.

"Exactly. I picked up MY stuff. You guys never listen to me." He shook his head, disapprovingly.

"Thank you too, Mikey, but start throwing those balls around this kitchen, and I will cut yours off as a replacement," I said sweetly. His eyes went wide as he set the ping pong balls back in the bag he got them out of.

"So, what's the vibe going to be tonight?" Brynn asked, putting chips in bowls and swatting the boys’ hands away.

"Well I accidentally invited like twenty people this morning."

"And those people invited people," Ash added.

"And word got around so looks like we've got ourselves a rager," Luke said, rubbing his hands together with a devilish grin. "You've got to admit, we're becoming the best party house for first years."

"Calm down. We're just the only first-years who don't live in dorms where you can't party," Ashton said, punching Luke in the arm. Not many groups of friends stay together long enough or get into the same university for their parents to go in thirds on the house. It worked out to be less expensive than staying in dorms.

"We've got the fucking football team coming, Ash, I think we're doing pretty well." I listened to their banter silently as I cleaned and set things exactly where I had imagined them. The first guest started to arrive a few hours later after I had time to add a few extra touches and have my first glass of the wine Brynn and I had hidden in the fridge. Neither of us is too keen on liquor or beer.

Boys are scattered around the living room, passing around joints and playing FIFA. Girls talk around them, mingling on the patio. There’s a very competitive game of beer pong going on in the dining room that somehow consists of all four corners of the table instead of teams on halves. I was content for the first few hours refilling bowls and dancing with friends I had made at past parties. I even had time to play wingman for Michael and a blue-haired girl in the corner, but soon I got anxious. It was reaching the first hour of the new day. I found myself sitting on the floor between Luke's long legs watching him play Super Smash and stealing hits of the joint he had held between his fingers. I gave up on being cute at about two, smoking enough for my eyes to be as red as Luke's, and my shoes had long been discarded in one of the boy's rooms. I didn't know, nor did I care who's it was.

There were just about the maximum amount of people possible crammed into this small house, and I didn't bother saying excuse me as I got up to make my way to the bathroom. At one point there were so many people taller than me I felt I was walking through a forest. I tried slipping past one particularly muscular redhead boy caging a giggling blonde against the wall. I did my best to slip behind him, but he decided it was the perfect time to do the douche stretch and flex hitting me with the red cup in his hand. The pink sticky drink that was delicious if I do say so myself covered me from neck to foot. My skin went hot, and I'm pretty sure the blonde's giggles were going to cause me to evaporate the liquid from my skin with embarrassment alone. Where was my snarky American friend when I needed her to tongue-lash someone?

"I'm sorry, love," the boy said, failing to conceal his laughter. I tried to avoid his face at all costs burning a hole through his chest with my eyes. The school's emblem was stitched into his slate grey shirt, but I couldn't quite remember where I had seen this exact shirt before. I didn't have time to worry about it with my shirt becoming more see-through by the second and my head spinning in circles.

"Just let me by please," I said. Redhead stepped closer to the girl who was giving me a snarky look over his shoulder. "Stay in your lane, honey," I said, trying out one of Brynn's colloquialisms on my own tongue. My glare was enough to split the crowd like the red sea as I stormed past. Just as I reached the bathroom and twisted the handle, it swung open forcefully, revealing a disheveled brunette with smeared makeup and haunting blue eyes.

"What the fuck happened to you?" she said with an amused smile playing at the corner of her lips.

"I could ask you the same thing," I said, pushing my hair out of my face. "Are you finished in there, so I can get cleaned up or?" She just smirked sauntering out with a wink. I shook my head, entering the bathroom and shutting the door behind me. I looked in the mirror at my hair that was slowly but surely frizzing out, and my shirt may as well have been a window into my soul for how see-through it was. My mascara was smudged in the corners of my eyes and my lips had lost their shine ages ago.

"Are you alright?" I was startled by a voice coming from the toilet.

"Oh my goodness, I didn't know anyone was in here," I said, covering my eyes. "I thought that girl was the only one and she left and--"

"It's fine. I'm not doing anything but looking at my phone." I peeked through the cracks of my fingers to see a boy was sat on the toilet cover searching diligently through his phone. I scanned him from head to toe. Black Vans, faded black skinny jeans, a cut-up muscle shirt that was barely attached at his hips, exposing his defined torso and arms. His warm skin, his dark hair with a single gold streak running up the front. I gulped, hoping I would take my own advice and just spontaneously combust.

"I'm gonna just go," I said quietly, reaching for the door behind me. I had forgotten how quick he was on the field because he scared me shitless when his hand captured my shoulder stopping me from leaving.

"No, I'll go," he said quickly. "I don't think I'm going to find what I'm looking for anyways. Unless… do you happen to know whose party this is?"

"It's my mate's house actually," I said, quirking an eyebrow in confusion. He should know. He invited himself and the whole team this morning.

"So you know all the lads? Michael, Ashton…"

"And Luke," I finished for him.

"I've been trying to reach Ashton and I just barely caught Mikey before he went down to the beach with some girl. He let me in, but there's so much going on I never made it past the kitchen. Do you know where Luke is?"

"Uh… couch." I pushed my hair out of my face taking a deep breath. I may as well just give up at this point. I'm in no position to charm anyone, and I can see the remnants of that girl's lip gloss on his lips. It was kind of cute on his pink pout, but I shook my head to clear the thought. He's not looking at me like that, and he probably never will.

I turned the faucet on testing the temp before grabbing a washcloth from the cupboard and washing the stickiness from my neck and exposed stomach. I expected him to leave, but he just sat back on the toilet cover, fiddling with his thumbs. He looked forlorn, his eyes longing.

"You ok?" I asked undoing the tie at the front of my shirt and attempting to wring it out to no avail. I glanced at the sad boy in the mirror and shrugged before pulling the wet material over my head and rinsing it out underneath the water. It's not like anything was left to the imagination with it on.

"Have you ever heard Luke say anything about me?" he asked quietly.

"Kinda," I tilted my head slightly as if it would help me think harder. "He did say you used to be his best mate when we went to one of your matches."

"He did?" he asked, perking up like a puppy.

"Yeah, watches every match. About loses his mind with pride every time you score, which you do quite often, good on you," I said, fixated with the faint pink water swirling around the drain. Maybe it wouldn't be a lost cause to put this in the wash. I'm so high and sleepy it probably won't make it tonight. "Well, I'm gonna go. If you work it up in you to go see Lu, tell him I've gone back to my flat. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to see you."

"I'll do that," he said, standing up assuredly. "I'm Calum, by the way."

"I gathered that," I said with a small grin. "I'm Celeste." When I opened the door, I didn't imagine how bad it might look with me leaving sans shirt, with the school's football star following close behind me. I decided to start caring in the morning when I had Brynn to complain to. I'm a person who knows how to quit while they're ahead. My perfect night shouldn't be able to get any worse, and I'm not going to give the universe the time to try.

#5sos fanfic #5sos #Calum Hood #calum hood fanfiction #Calum Hood fanfic #Luke Hemmings #michael clifford #Ashton Irwin #First fic #Perfect Ch. 1 #five seconds of summer #football!Calum

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