#polish monarch

[royalty-nobility]

Portrait of Stanislaus Augustus Poniatowski in Coronation Robes

Artist: Marcello Bacciarelli  (Italian, 1731–1818) 

Genre: Portrait

Date: About 1790

Medium: Oil on Canvas

Collection: National Museum in Krakow

Description

Stanisław August (Stanislaus Augustus) Poniatowski was elected king of Poland in 1764. Especially at the beginning of his reign, he was neither very popular with the nobility nor as influential as his rich family, the Czartoryski Familia. Therefore, he needed a formal portrait emphasizing the special significance of his person as the king of Poland and strengthening the conviction about the lawfulness of his rule, actually assumed with the considerable support of Russia.

“Portrait in Coronation Robes” earned Bacciarelli enormous success. The artist became the court painter, and it seems that it was mainly thanks to this work that he was raised to the nobility in 1768. The portrait became the model for a painting hung in 1771 in the Marble Room of the Royal Castle in Warsaw.

[brightlightsdeancity]

[j0rbits-art]

breaking in my new tablet with dr my wife 💛❤️

[squishsquishy]

>> nailartbysig

[plushievash]

its my fave professors birthday today so i put together a little gift of rocks and flower seeds for her and it makes me feel like a toddler but shes literally a geologist and the seeds are of native flowers

[m4g0rtz]

Today's posh is bright. Like Bright. Like BRIGHT BRIGHT. 😎 It has a blue shimmer in there but does it even matter? If you squint REAL hard you might make out some black glitters. Who cares? I love this neon polish to bits and I hope I get a chance to wear it again in the summer. Wearing it put a huge smile on my face. This is Truth or Dare from a new-to-me brand, Monarch Lacquer.

[suetravelblog]

Wieliczka Salt Mine Poland

[scarlett-bitch69]

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A post shared by Jeanette Flores (@nailartbyjen)

[elbiotipo]

I'm always criticizing eurocentric fantasy worldbuilding, but one thing I think it's underused are city-states and trade republics and leagues. Not that they don't exist, but they're often in the background, the fantasy genre is so focused on monarchies and dynasties and noble drama, while those systems have so much room for intrigue and stuff without getting into "who's the TRUE heir of the super magical monarch" (yes, I know they had aristocratic families that ruled almost as monarchs, but trust me, Medici drama is another beast from regular feudal stuff)

Venice with its stupidly complex election system and their eternal rivals in Genoa, Florence home of the Rennaissance, the Hanseatic League, and lesser known examples like Novgorod, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, the Taifa of Córdoba, the Consolat de Mar (technically not a republic but kind of an Iberian Hansa) and if we go farther back, the leagues of city states of antiquity... you know what, I'm bored of feudalism. Next time I do a fantasy setting, it will all be city states and republics. Fuck feudalism.

[p0orbaby]

The Lion in the Jungle Shows No Shame

summary: you go into labour

warnings: some minor mention of contractions but that’s it

a/n: rich!reader is me; not the rich part, but the so over everyone part

word count: 1.7k

-

The boardroom at the training ground is frigid, an oppressive sort of sterile, painted in a corporate beige so calculatedly devoid of warmth it borders on offensive. The colour has clearly been chosen by a committee, signed off by no less than five department heads, all with the express goal of sapping any ounce of levity from the room. The walls bear only the club’s logo in gleaming gold, catching the light like a freshly polished trophy, austere and daunting. You’re seated at the head of the table in a chair meant to look sleek and modern but which you’ve always thought resembles a throne, albeit a minimalist, joyless one. You take pride in this spot, preferring the vantage point of a monarch observing her court, where each word, each glance can be read as an unspoken directive. A panel of finance officers sits to your left, expressionless and obedient, while the marketing strategists and department heads to your right wait, perched on the edge of their seats, eager to impress, or perhaps, not be dismissed. You’ve made your mind up on all of their fates already, but they don’t need to know that.

You sit back, legs crossed, and let your gaze drift to the person currently holding court��a sponsorship officer droning on about a potential partnership with an energy drink. The whole affair is tedious, but you feign interest, allowing only a flicker of annoyance to register as you twist the cap of your Montblanc in slow, deliberate turns, a small, repetitive comfort amidst the boredom. The sponsorship officer is yammering on about margins and high-profile market share. You nod, keeping your expression intentionally neutral, a carefully cultivated mask of polite detachment.

Nine months pregnant isn’t ideal, but that doesn’t mean anyone gets a pass. If you’re still here, they have no excuse for underperforming. You’ve kept every meeting, every review, every grueling evaluation on schedule, so there’s no room for them to slip up. Your presence is a reminder that leadership doesn’t come with compromises or concessions—not even now. Alexia might have opinions about it, but she knows better than to question your commitment. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Then, there’s a twinge—a faint prickling in your lower back. You tell yourself it’s nothing, just the sort of trivial discomfort you’ve brushed off for weeks now. You shift slightly, adjusting in your seat. Subtle, hardly noticeable. But someone—some unfortunate junior in marketing, possibly fresh out of his MBA programme and clearly untrained in discretion—glances over. He catches it, the flicker of discomfort. There’s the faintest suggestion of concern on his face, a furrowed brow, a hesitant question half-formed before he thinks better of it.

Good.

You meet his gaze and reward him with a smile—half genuine, mostly a warning. He gulps, as if he’s swallowed something sharp, and turns his attention back to his notes.

Then the pain intensifies, sharper this time. It tightens low and fierce, radiating like an overstretched muscle, and you have to will your expression to remain steady, blank, entirely unaffected. Your eyes fixate on the PowerPoint slide, as if by staring hard enough you can dissolve the discomfort into the soulless white glow of the projector. But no, it’s there, settling in like an uninvited guest who intends to stay.

The marketing intern glances up again. This time, he actually manages a look of pity. He’s hardly subtle about it. You almost laugh—almost—except the contraction twists hard enough to force you to hold your breath, and your fingers press a touch too hard against the table.

The finance officer drones on, oblivious, his voice a steady monotone against the quiet hum of the air conditioning. Someone in the corner clears their throat. The sound cuts through the room like a scalpel.

“Ma’am,” he says, hesitant, looking anywhere but at you. “If you’d like to take a break—”

You wave him off with a flick of your wrist. “I’m perfectly fine. Let’s keep this moving, please.” Your words are clipped, precise, the kind that leave no room for doubt. You feel the weight of the room’s collective discomfort settle around you, like fog gathering, thick and stifling. The intern looks at you again, wide-eyed, uncertain, and you catch his gaze with a look so cold he almost recoils.

“Of course,” he mumbles, fumbling with his laptop, frantically tapping keys as if the sheer speed of his typing will save him from your wrath.

The next contraction slams into you with a ferocity that makes your breath hitch. A sharper, hotter pain spirals down your spine, and you grip the edge of the table, harder this time. The finance officer is rambling about revenue share and high-growth potential, but his words are disintegrating, merging into the mechanical hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, until they’re nothing but a dull, meaningless drone.

“Ma’am?” The intern speaks again, tentatively. “Are you sure you’re… alright?”

You turn to him with a look that could shatter glass. “Do I look unwell to you?”

His face drains of colour. “No, of course not,” he stammers. “Just… checking”

There it is again, that shift. It’s slight but palpable, a crack in the air. Power slipping. The assistant to your left, normally so silent and obedient, dares to glance your way with what might be concern. Another staffer coughs, hiding his expression in a notebook, though you can see his eyes darting nervously across the table. They’re all shifting now, uncomfortable, glancing at each other in a silent exchange, a web of tension growing thicker with each stolen glance.

You grit your teeth, willing the pain to dissipate, willing them all to get back to their work and stop—just stop looking at you like you’re some fragile artefact about to shatter.

Then, your assistant, Julian, a man so dependable you’d have trusted him with your life savings, makes the first move. He stands, smoothing his tie, clearing his throat in a way that’s maddeningly self-assured. “I think we need to get someone,” he says, his voice gentle but insistent, like a fatherly reprimand. “Just… in case”

Your eyes narrow into slits. “Sit down,” you say, your voice a low, dangerous murmur. “Now”

He hesitates, and the silence stretches, taut as a wire. Then, inexplicably, he defies you. “I’m calling Alexia,” he says. His voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the silence like a blade.

The shock is visceral, immediate. You can feel it rippling through the room, see it in the furtive glances darting across the table. You, the unassailable chief, suddenly vulnerable, and worse, defied. You hear murmurs, soft but unmissable, as if they’re collectively holding their breath, waiting for you to explode.

Alexia. Coming here. The idea sends a fresh wave of mortification rolling through you, sharper and hotter than any contraction. Alexia, with her bluntness, her inability to mince words. She’ll walk in here, she’ll see you, and she’ll say exactly what she’s thinking, in front of everyone.

The finance officer clears his throat again, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Maybe we should… reconvene another time?” He avoids your gaze, wisely. His voice is tentative, as though he’s testing the air for danger.

“Absolutely not,” you bite out, voice like ice. “We’re finishing this meeting. Right now”

But it’s too late. The tension is too thick, the unease in the room too palpable to ignore. You can feel their eyes on you, hesitant, searching, a quiet mutiny blooming under their skin, as though you’re something fragile, a rare beast they don’t quite know how to handle. You grip the edge of the table again, willing the pain to subside, to vanish, anything to regain control of the situation.

Then, the door swings open, and there she is: Alexia, in her training kit, her hair damp with sweat, her eyes blazing with a fury so palpable it sends a ripple of shock through the room. She locks eyes with you, her expression a lethal blend of exasperation and concern. The silence deepens, everyone watching with barely concealed curiosity.

“You’re still here,” she says, each word clipped and loaded, a statement more than a question. It lands like a slap.

You force a smile, though it’s tight and strained. “I’m fine”

She sweeps a gaze across the room, her eyes taking in the faces of your subordinates, each one frozen in various states of unease and fascination. When she looks back at you, her expression is a mix of incredulity and… pity. She almost smirks, as if to say, Look at you now.

“You’re in labour,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear, her voice filled with a quiet, unmistakable fury. “And you’re… what? Leading a meeting?”

You can feel the weight of their stares, the barely-concealed smirks, the disbelief. You, their fearless leader, brought low, bossed around by your own spouse in front of them. You can already hear the whispers, the knowing chuckles that will ripple through the ranks for weeks, the stories that will morph and grow.

“I really don’t think this is necessary,” you manage, but your voice is weak, a mere shadow of its usual authority.

“Necessary?” Alexia repeats, crossing her arms. “You think it’s not necessary to go to the hospital when you’re about to give birth?”

Someone stifles a laugh—an intern, no less. You shoot him a look that promises retribution, but it’s lost amidst the pain that surges again, more intense, unrelenting. Then, Alexia’s arm is around you, firm yet gentle, steering you toward the door with a resolve that’s unyielding.

You give one last, desperate protest. “There’s no need to make a fuss. Really, I—”

“Enough,” she says, and her voice is a balm, a force, something that both steadies and infuriates you. Her arm around you is warm, grounding, and for a moment, your frustration melts, replaced by something softer, something you won’t allow yourself to name.

As Alexia guides you out, you catch a final glimpse of the boardroom, your staff looking back at you with expressions ranging from bemused pity to unspoken amusement. You know, with chilling certainty, that this will be the story of the month, if not the year. But with Alexia’s arm wrapped around you, her presence beside you, that irritation begins to fade.

The door closes, sealing you from their whispers, from their smirks. Just this once, you let it go.

[hiddenincommand]

The Precision of Gloves: Tools of Power, Symbols of Authority

Gloves are not mere accessories; they are the ultimate extension of control. Sleek, commanding, and unyielding, they embody the precision, discipline, and authority of a true Alpha male. From their historical use as symbols of status and refinement to their practical role in exerting dominance, gloves have long represented a unique blend of elegance and power.

In the hands of an Alpha, gloves transcend their practical purpose, becoming instruments of control, punishment, and psychological conditioning. This essay explores the history, symbolism, and applications of gloves as tools of command and tools of submission.

Gloves as Historical Symbols of Authority

The wearing of gloves has long been associated with power and prestige. In medieval Europe, gloves were gifts bestowed upon knights and lords, symbolizing trust and the authority to lead. Monarchs wore gloves to signify their divine right to rule, their hands shielded not just from the elements, but from the imperfections of the mortal world.

In aristocratic circles, gloves represented refinement. White gloves, in particular, signified purity, discipline, and status, often worn during ceremonies or formal gatherings. For the military, leather gloves became an essential part of the uniform, protecting hands while emphasizing precision and control.

Throughout history, the donning of gloves has been more than an act of utility—it has been a deliberate declaration of authority. To wear gloves is to separate oneself from the common and to wield power with precision.

The Physical Power of Gloves

Gloves, especially leather ones, amplify the physical presence of the Alpha. They cover the hand in strength and finesse, allowing for calculated actions that command attention and enforce discipline. The sound of leather tightening over knuckles or snapping against the wrist is itself an assertion of dominance.

Uses in Dominance:

• Punishment: A gloved hand delivers a sharper, more defined impact, whether in a slap across the face or a blow to the body. The glove enhances the sensation of control and leaves an impression of authority.

• Humiliation: Forcing a submissive to kiss, clean, or hold a gloved hand is an act of degradation, a reminder of their place beneath the Alpha.

• Precision: Gloves allow for calculated movements, whether directing a riding crop, delivering commands, or guiding the submissive’s actions.

Gloves as Psychological Weapons

The presence of gloves is a constant reminder of control. The gleam of polished leather or the pristine white of formal gloves evokes discipline, perfection, and unyielding authority. Submissives learn to associate gloves with the Alpha’s touch—both the pain it inflicts and the command it enforces.

The act of donning gloves itself is a ritual of dominance. The slow pull of leather over fingers, the deliberate adjustment of fit, and the sharp snap of the cuff signal readiness. For the submissive, it is a moment of anticipation—an unspoken warning that control is about to be asserted.

Psychological Impact:

• The sight of gloves evokes feelings of fear, awe, or reverence, depending on the dynamic.

• The Alpha’s gloved hand becomes a symbol of unreachable perfection, emphasizing the submissive’s inferiority.

• Even the absence of gloves, after being removed with deliberate care, can heighten a submissive’s awareness of the Alpha’s power.

The Sadistic Potential of Gloves

In the hands of an Alpha, gloves become tools of sadistic refinement. Their strength enhances every act of dominance, turning gestures into statements of power. Whether through their weight, their texture, or their deliberate application, gloves leave both physical and psychological marks.

Applications in Sadistic Dominance:

• Impact Play: A gloved hand creates a sharper, more focused sting during slaps or strikes, delivering both pain and precision.

• Degradation: The submissive may be made to lick or polish the gloves, an act that reinforces their submission and the Alpha’s superiority.

• Marking Territory: The imprint of a gloved hand on skin—whether through pressure or impact—becomes a signature of ownership, a mark of the Alpha’s control.

The Alpha’s Signature: Gloves as an Extension of His Will

For the true Alpha, gloves are not just an accessory—they are an extension of his will. Every movement becomes deliberate, every gesture calculated. The gloves represent discipline, perfection, and the unrelenting pursuit of control.

When an Alpha removes his gloves, it is a statement in itself: an intentional shift from precision to raw power. To wear gloves is to embody authority; to remove them is to remind all that the Alpha’s dominance transcends even the symbols he wields.

Sir Cedric’s Reflection

Gloves, to me, are the embodiment of precision and command. When I slide my hands into a pair of fine leather gloves, I feel an immediate sense of control. They are not merely a covering—they are an extension of my authority, a tool that amplifies my power in every interaction.

Each motion of a gloved hand is deliberate. The sound of leather against leather as I adjust my grip, the weight of my hand as it strikes, the firm pressure of a gloved palm against submissive skin—all of these are reminders of who holds dominion.

[a-mythologynerd]

The thing about Darlington is at first glance he seems so much more tame and straight laced in comparison to Alex, and, like he is to an extent, but its all about the packaging. (And isn't that the thing between these two anyways from the very start?) I just always get reminded how many of his character traits aren't some dignified or morally superior dichotomy to Alex and her ruthlessness. The thing is, Darlington is just as ruthless and ambitious, he just didn't have to confront it until Hell. The desperate, starving, consumption motif is so clear from Alex's very first chapter but it's not til later that you realize Darlington is the exact same way, just about things other than the extreme level of survival Alex had to endure. Instead, Darlington was able to scrap by and keep the legacy going, serving something and keep the roof over his head. It makes it less obvious then that he is also a survivor and has that same drive.

You can especially see it in the way he tries to prep himself (the exercises, the learning, the training) for the long awaited "grand adventure," the way he treats his study of the arcane (I mean seriously, you cannot paint that boy as the lawful good archetype if he decided to devote himself into brewing a mythic possibly fake archaic drink that might MIGHT let him see the great beyond just because he had to believe there was more to this life, he had nothing left to lose, and he just had to find out and couldn't be satisfied with only some instead of all), and even more clearly, the dream vision he is granted in Hell. Dawes gets a dream of academic success, Turner professional success, Darlington has a dream where his house is never empty and there is always more people, knowledge, and he finally knows the secrets of every mystery in the world. He just hides all this better. He has the polish, the East Coast rich vs LA rich, and the austere Puritanical upbringing that makes him seem as Alex puts it, "expensive." But the reason these two work (and the reason I am insane about it) is because of this shared character trait of never being satisfied and always wanting more (what's really interesting is Alex seems to want more comfort and security and Darlington wants more risk and adventure and that's what drives the conflict). I'm drawn to the parallel someone on here once said about how Darlington is a sword and Alex is a cannonball. Same effect just different methods. Different packaging. Add in the questions of who is the rabid dog, who is the soldier, the servant, the monarch, Dante, Virigil, Beatrice, Orpheus, and Eurydice? I just love how these two characters seem SO diametrically opposed at first glance but are actually so alike in childhood, character, and ambition.

[leonw4nter]

The Lady And Her Gentleman

Husband!RE6!Leon x F!Reader

Soft fingers curled around the brown leather of the sword’s grip, lifting it from its velvet box. Golden light beaming in from the cathedral windows hit the polished blade of the weapon, creating a momentary flash of white-gold. The sword felt cumbersome and stocky in your untrained hand yet you held it with great pride as you descended down the colored marble stairs of the altar. Each step was electrifying, anticipation weighing heavily on everyone inside. You stop in front of the kneeling knight, his head downcast and his hands placed in prayer position in front of him; his armor shone bright, not a single scratch or dent in sight but not nearly as bright as your eyes, ablaze with admiration for the gallant knight in his knees. You raise the sword before tapping the flat of the blade against his shoulders, reciting your speech as you do the act.

“I dub thee, Sir Leon. Receive now your spurs, your right to suitable arms, and take this, my sword to your side to serve and defend me well. Arise, Sir Knight,” ending it with the customary gentle tap of the blade to his cheek before handing him the sword, your palms in direct contact with the cold steel. Leon takes the sword from your palms and sheaths it in the scabbard that hung on his hip. He gives you the first curtsy he takes as the newly knighted captain of the guards, barely restrained smiles on both your lips before you give your curtsy to him. When you meet his gaze again you practically tackle him with a hug, silk-clad arms wrapped around his neck.

“I’m so proud of you,” you tenderly whisper. “So proud.”

You can hear gasps of surprise and others in slight shock. It’s not customary for the queen to practically fling herself towards her knight but then again, he’s not just any knight; he’s also your husband. You shut your eyes in immense contentment as you feel his hands close in around the small of your back and pull you closer, his head buried in the nook of your neck; you can feel him press a feather-like kiss to your skin, his lips still curled skyward. You pull away, lovingly gazing at him with glassy eyes and a lovelorn grin on your face. He brings a calloused palm to your cheek, his thumb stroking your pliant skin before he pulls you in for a delicate kiss, the eruption of celebratory cheers and clapping echoing throughout the walls of the gothic cathedral.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

“My love, I’m afraid you must stay awake for this play,” Leon softly urges you. Despite him being your husband and the masses approving of your relationship, you two still had to keep up with the queen-knight appearance which meant that despite his status as the spouse of the seated monarch, he would still be somehow below her, which he didn’t mind as long as he stayed close to you. He stood behind your seat, placing a hand on your shoulder and giving you a gentle squeeze.

“I wish to head back home,” you quietly groan before hiding your yawn behind an ivory handkerchief. “I am falling drowsy.”

He lets himself grin when he sees the handkerchief you brought along; it was the handkerchief that he embroidered, dainty stitches of small yellow flowers adorning the corner of the cloth. He isn’t that great at threading needles or creating a perfect french knot but for you he tries his best, consulting books and your guidance. You are a lot better than he is at this but he still decides to do it like the good husband he is for his queen.

“Honey, it won’t take much longer. Keep those pretty lids open for a little longer and then we can head back,” he reassures you. Though you don’t exactly sound very happy to be doing that, you still try to stay awake and look pleased until the end.

You fall deeply asleep on the carriage ride back home, your head resting on Leon’s strong shoulder. He tries to keep himself from swaying along with the movements of the carriage so your temple doesn’t bump against him or disturb your beauty rest, seeing how you’ve been fighting it off since earlier. He takes your hand and twines your fingers with his, admiring the golden band wrapped around your ring finger. Slightly parting the silk curtain, he keeps his gaze trained outside on the ride home.

As soon as you arrive home, he wakes you up and tries to get you to your chambers immediately to be able to have you fall back asleep again. He helps you out of your jewelry and dresses before getting into the bath, preparing your nightgowns before he sets your side of the bed up for the night. After a quick bath and change of clothing, you slide back in bed and promptly fall asleep while Leon watches on. He isn’t that drowsy yet so he decides to practice his embroidery, practicing on one of your socks this time.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

The day is lazy, almost everyone spending it idly by either reading or taking a walk in one of the gardens. Leon is still engrossed in his embroidery, proud of the first perfect chain stitch he made of a tree branch and is bent on making some more for you. He finished working on your socks from last night and moved on to another one of your handkerchiefs but now he’s working on your satin opera gloves, particularly the hem of the gloves. He’s maximizing the free time he has since he has to go on a patrol around the castle before moving on to managing the protection at kingdom borders, which might take him all night.

“You’re doing a lot of practicing, honey,” you comment with a cheeky grin.

“It seems a lot more soothing than I initially thought,” he responds while still having his attention glued to his work.

“Well, you will be embroidering more things in the nearer future so I highly suggest perfecting this craft.”

“What do you mean by that?”

You giggle, just shrugging your shoulders before turning your attention back to the book you were reading, a giddy smile crossing your lips. Leon gets up from his chair and sets his work down, walking over to you and wrapping you in his arms whilst pressing tickly kisses on your neck. His stubble gently scratches against your neck, making you even more tickly when he nuzzles into your neck and breathes in your scent deeply.

“What do you mean by that, honey? Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Maybe.”

He presses even more tickly kisses, his fingers gently prodding at spots that are most ticklish which causes you to thrash under him and shoot up, trying to run away while giggling.

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────

You decide to have a nice walk with Leon, frolicking in a beautiful field of pinks and purples. He decided to bring his steed along instead of another carriage, since he wanted this to be more intimate and private. You excitedly jump down from the horse, not even waiting for Leon to help you down when you finally get there; his heart swells a little when he sees you running towards the ocean of pinks and purples, underneath a canvas of blue and orange. Your hair is not tied up into a bun or pinned back and you look a lot more jovial, especially without the powders and tints on your face. He joins you and you two run around amidst the flowers, giggling and squealing without a care in the world. Eventually, you two get tired and resort to laying in a bed of greens to admire the beautiful open scene beside each other. Leon somehow still has the energy to move around, gathering some flowers before sitting right beside you and weaving the flowers together while engaging in idle conversation with you. You didn’t exactly pay attention to his actions so you were caught off guard when he gently crowns you with a flower crown. He smiles brightly, adjusting it to your head and making sure that the best-looking flowers were displayed at the front.

“You look very pretty with this,” he mumbles to himself. “I should make some more.”

“Yeah, you definitely should make some more,” you softly tell him.

“On it.”

He gets up again and gathers more flowers, ready to weave another flower crown. He comes back with more flowers but he takes a daisy and places it behind your ear before giving you a kiss to the cheek, proceeding to make the next crown.

“Make that one much smaller than mine,” you suggest. “A lot like this,” you add as you make a circle with both your hands.

“A matching bracelet?” He asks and you nod, giggling.

After a few moments, he’s finally done making the second flower crown.

“Give me your wrist, my love.”

You give him your wrist and let him slide the crown in. It looks good on you, complimenting your skin color but it’s best worn for another way.

“It’s actually not a bracelet, my dear.”

He looks a little confused, laying back and resting his weight on his shoulders.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It’s for our baby. I’m expecting.”

He stays silent for a bit before turning to you, briskly sitting up and his eyes going wide, his lips following suit. He nears you, taking your hands in his as he looks at you with a piercing intensity.

“Is this real, my love?” He asks in a hushed voice.

You nod. “Yes. Yes, it is very much real. We’ll be parents.”

He pulls you up and into a crushing hug, practically lifting you up and spinning you around. The world turns into a beautiful blur of the different shades of pinks and oranges as the sun closes a beautiful day. Leon finally sets you down and presses a passionate kiss to your lips, setting a promise to protect his wife and his future child in stone.

NOTE - This fic is a little shorter than my usual fics because I put off writing this and planned on making it a drabble instead but because for some reason I insisted on writing a fic instead of a drabble, we ended up with this fic that is just a buncha ideas thrown in 😭 Also one of my guy classmates is like... subtly making backhanded comments about me and my RE hyperfixation which is... it's interesting and a little funny so let's see where this leads 😭😭 Also my kitten shat inside my house and now it absolutely STANKS and my other cat jumped on me and now I've got scratches all over 😭😭😭 I also took a math quiz that I did not review for and NEARLY failed a quiz in science that I thought I'd do good at 💀 Anyways, that's it and TYSMM for reading my fics!!!!!!!! I <3 UUUUU!!!!!!!

The floral dividers are from @saradika , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

[faetima]

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫 . .

. . maybe you and alhaitham were just never meant to be.

// tws ; blood ! possible alluding to reader’s death? ; gn reader ; modern & high school au, hanahaki au 

a/n: stan twice

unrequited.

you��knew your love was of that nature, yet you couldn’t help but yearn for it.

for the delicate and feathery touch of the scribe’s love.

pining after him was no use, you knew. but, alas, what could you do?

he was the prestigious scribe, whilst you were a nobody, too meek to speak up to others, always uttering a small, “yes” to everything asked of you.

too shy to talk to people — terrified that you would embarrass yourself or leave a bad impression, or that you would wind up being the center of attention.

but, if you were so scared, why did you crave his attention?

every time you glanced around the classroom, fleeting gaze eventually landing on his soft grey and teal tufts of hair, and his turquoise eyes, flecked with specks of orange, you couldn’t help but wish as you stared at him, a stoic and indifferent expression plastered onto his stupidly pretty face —

wish that he could love you.

wish that he could hold you.

wish that he could look at you.

wish that he could know you.

but luck was never on your side, was it? for, you wholeheartedly expected your wishes not to be heard (and they weren’t), but lady luck had decided to make your life miserable — making the decision that having an obviously unreciprocated wasn’t enough.

and so she gave you hanahaki.

every day, as your gaze landed unconsciously on him, the vines curled around your lungs, gripping them.

flowers — fuchsia azaleas — tickled the back of your throat, being lodged there, making you cough a little.

and, alhaitham’s head turned towards the noise of coughing.

you froze, quickly collecting the petals in your hand, stuffing them into your pocket. your gaze instantly shot downwards, glued onto your notebook as your hand rapidly scribbled something down, pretending to be taking notes or writing or just doing something.

and, as you wrote, you felt monarchs fluttering in your stomach, heat rising up to your neck and face.

who knew that agony could be a little fun? 

—

but, as the days grew, your heart made it clear that it did not desire “fun”.

oh, no.

the only thing it wanted was alhaitham.

and that was made evident by the way you were now crouched on the bathroom floor, on your hands and knees, coughing out bouts of the hot pink flowers to remove the giant lump in your throat and the tickling of petals in the back of it.

the azaleas hit the previously porcelain white and neatly polished floor with a disgustingly wet noise, and, as you opened your eyes the tiniest bit, you laid your eyes on the flower.

a seemingly freshly bloomed azalea, coated with your own blood, slick with your own mucus. it laid there, some of the burgundy blood dripping down and pooling around it, coloring the dove-white floor with a splash of red.

you sat there, blankly staring at the barbie azaleas flopped on the floor. they were still covered in blood for your throat. they’re the hundredth flowers you’d coughed up today, and you had a strange mixture of apathy and horror coursing through you.

the lump in your throat felt like a knife, and the petals tickle and tickle, causing you to cough and wheeze. it was getting harder and harder to breathe. you were exhausted — from both coughing up the flowers and also from feeling this fucking unreciprocated love. but, of course, the hanahaki wouldn’t let you stop suffering until your love is returned.

if only alhaitham would look at you, talk to you, acknowledge your existence in any way.

if only you would talk to him. 

but, god, if it wasn’t hard to build up the courage.

he wouldn’t just come up and talk with you. why would you even wish that? why were you so stupid?

you hated yourself for it, wishing he would talk to you whilst not even interacting with him.

the truth was that the scribe intimidated you quite a bit, being stoic and indifferent, curt and formal to nearly anybody.

you tried to take a deep breath, but it hurt.

it hurt so, so much. 

the fuchsia azaleas covered the piece of floor in front of you almost entirely, a horrific reminder of the disease that's destroying you from the inside.

while you had been thinking, the stupidly pleasant smell of the azaleas — a dainty and delicate blend of floral honeysuckle notes— mixed with the tinged irony odor of blood, wafted upwards toward you, giving you a whiff of a smell that made you want to wretch.

you should’ve gotten the surgery when you could — now it was far too late, you were going to die for sure.

you were beyond the point of saving.

—

you stared blankly at the sheet of paper which sat before you, trying to concentrate on the lecture your teacher was giving, but your mind kept drifting off.

you kept glancing upwards, and every time you did so you saw the lightest shade of grey there could be, like a thrush’s delicate feathers, mixed with sage green, perfectly complementing the scribes clothes.

yeah, maybe you should keep your eyes on the paper. looking at him made you watch to rip your throat out and cough your lungs out.

—

you sat in your bed, curled in a small ball, fluffy white blanket bunched up around you.

the bright screen of your computer, extremely so, illuminated your face. 

you didn’t particularly want to write this essay, and what would be the point? the stupid azaleas would choke you to death eitehr way, using you as a human flower pot.

you closed the screen with a harsh thud!, drowning yourself in complete and utter darkness as the abnormally bright light emitted from the computer was sucked away.

you hastily put the computer away, curling into a tight ball on your bed.

you awaited death, hot pink azaleas tickling your throat and dreaming about the scribe, his perfectness almost alien, like the condition deteriorating you from the inside out, like a withering flower.

[kryp-does-random-stuff]

Storytime.

While I doubt it was intentional from the directors of Supernatural (or whoever),

i find it being a cute coincidence, that it was G a b r i e l, who was given the scene with >>Hungarian reference<< of all things, especially as a rebuttal to the p*rn lady's question "Polish?"( WHILE delivering hungarian sausage mind you).

So hear me out.

Hungary happen to have a legend with Archangel Gabriel (Hartvik-legend), where, according to the story, he appears in a dream to Pope Sylvester the II.

The watered down version is, that the pope was about to give a crown and benediction and all that jazz to the polish monarch at the time, Miesko, but the night before the emissary arrived, Gabriel appeared in his dream to tell him about another, foreign candidate (the prince of Hungary) that will arrive early in the following day, and will ask for the crown and blessings.

And that the Pope should just do what the hungarian envoy asks and give the hungarian prince the crown instead of the Polish one.

And he did.

And thus, the now baptized Kingdom of Hungary was born in 1001 AD.

Oh and so, in Budapest, there is a big ass statue (beautiful af imho) on Heroes Square depicting Gabriel delivering the Crown and the apostolic cross. That's the last 2 pics.

And this is why i felt the need to draw this mashup.

My mind is a weird place folks....

[paingoes]

Aegean Seas

Destroyer AU

long awaited roleswap AU. featuring royal delta and (defective!) living weapon paris

delta still has some psychic ability in this AU, but only a moderate amount. its nothing to write home about.

paris doesn’t have any powers, just an incredible capacity for violence. 

(Content: living weapon whumpee, royal whumper, carewhumper vibes, institutionalized slavery, blood, biting, choking, electrocution, choking, suggestive language, background lady whump, clowns, hidden injury, past abuse, past trauma, PTSD triggers, emotional whump, scars, body image issues, war mention, alcohol, non-con touching (nonsexual), conditioning, magical exhaustion, seizure, kinda fluffy?)

“You don’t have to look so upset about it.” Delta twirling the pearl earring around within the pierced fin. The golden bangles of his wrist clicked together lightly at the motion — and all the silver and sea-glass ornaments he wore jingled in time with the movement of the airship. He hadn’t been looking at Paris when he said it, and they were not the only ones in the cabin, but he understood it was meant for him.

“I’m not upset,” Paris said. At least, not as much as he could’ve been. 

Far below, the cerulean sea reflected the sun so that the water itself was blinding. Foam was gathering along the coast — a sure sign of rough waters. On the horizon, the embassy building jutted out from the cape.

~

The ship lowered itself in a hover just by the surface of the beach. Paris slid the exterior door open. He hopped the remaining few feet onto the sand right before the craft finally landed. By way of reflex, he extended one hand back to Delta, who took it without thanks as he stepped down.

The other members of the court soon followed, a handful of advisors and scribes sent to keep the time. With a home advantage, all support had been reduced to a skeleton crew. Paris shifted carefully in between them, eventually settling a few steps behind Delta and a bit off to the right, which he knew was the best sightline he’d get without drawing too much attention to himself.

The path up to the embassy was lined with basalt — and a pretty long walk uphill, considering how many of its visitors were geriatric. At the peak, he again pulled the entrance doors open, taking a cautious look in through the entryway. He felt the familiar weight of the blade tucked up into his sleeve, though he had no real expectation of using it. He held the door open for Delta alone, but deigned to let the rest of the congregation pass through in the same way. He stole a last glance out at the countryside before he pulled the door shut tight.

At the front, Delta’s eyes flitted up in the same clouded concentration he always fell into before the meetings. He refused to take notes, so dedicated to committing absolutely everything to memory. He played all the information back like rolls of film. He waved vaguely at the prompting of his advisors, but it was clear he was somewhere else. 

He only came to when they reached the center. It was a large room, polished, and most everything in it was the soft color of sandalwood. The painted monarch sat perched within the straight-backed chair. His own court spread out in a half-moon around him, all their papers all ready to go. Paris only caught a glimpse of them through the doorway, but the glimpse alone was enough to make him spiteful.

“Watch the entrance,” Delta whispered to him just before they passed through the entryway. Paris nodded and stepped off to the side of the door. 

Soon he was alone in the large hallway. The building was old and its halls were echoing, though not quite as bad as the castle. He leaned back against the wall, wishing he’d brought the cigarettes with him. He passed the butterfly knife idly in between his hands, having no better way to occupy the time. He’d gotten good enough at it that he didn’t even need to look while he did. His eyes still scanned the corridors in the way they’d been trained, sizing up each impotent official or underpaid clerk whose heels tapped down the linoleum tiles. There was no real threat. Nothing ever happened.

The jingling bells warned of her approach before she came into view. He sighed, slipped the knife back into hiding. Jo popped out from the doorway. She was quicker than he would’ve thought, skipping out a few paces before she even turned to see him. When she did, her painted face contorted into an express of unadulterated mirth. She giggled — and the bells of her hat jingled again as she flipped over to stand on her head.

“I was wondering where they were keeping you this time.” Her voice was raised in faux cheeriness. 

Paris watched her carefully — he couldn’t not. The rapid movements set all his nerves on edge. He was sure she knew that. He was sure it was why she did it. He didn’t answer.

She rolled over into a backbend and let her hands guide her up. When she was upright, she was not more than a few inches from his face. She was shorter than him, the difference exaggerated by the heels of his boots and the flatness of her stupid pointy shoes. She rose up on tiptoes to meet his eyes. He could see the glitter against her sclera. 

“No dogs in the house of law, eh?” She stretched one leg up over her head. Her movements continued so fluid and so completely uninfluenced by anything she was saying, as if they were completely different hemispheres of her brain.

“I heard that when the neophytes drop out, they give ‘em a new name and put ‘em out on the street. Painted silver! They spend the rest of their days doing tricks for spare change. Is that true?”

No one ever dropped out. He didn’t answer. She did a back walkover, her speech uninterrupted.

“Or I heard what they’re really doing now is selling all the new grads to Crimson’s West Front,” she paused for dramatic effect, “There’s a famine there, you know. They need new meat!”

She cackled. He stiffened slightly, because that part was probably true. Even if they weren’t getting eaten, a lot of the kids did get bought out for the war effort, and were given no arms when they arrived. They were getting pushed into the meat grinder, literally or figuratively.

She seemed disappointed with his lack of outward reaction. As she rolled onto the floor again, she laid there on her stomach for a second, kicking her legs back and forth.

“You don’t have to worry about that though. I bet he’s nice to you,” She grinned impishly, pushing herself up into another handstand. “I hear he’s nice to everyone.”

She erupted into a laughing fit at that. His eye twitched. He felt the weight of the blade in his sleeve. She looked over to see his expression and her smile widened. She cartwheeled towards him, again landing only inches apart from him.

“People on High Street got a name for him. What was it again? The something wonder? You’ve heard it before, right? You had to. You spend enough time with that whore to-“

He threw her into the ground before she could finish, the last synapse snapping within him. 

The sudden violence got a forced, clipped laugh from her. She did a back roll before he could strike again, sitting up on her knees before she swept one of his legs out. He dropped, but it didn’t slow him down. Nothing could have. He still drove his fist full force into her jaw, once, twice, about as many times as it would take to break it off. 

She didn’t let him get that far. Jo was stronger than she looked and just as quick as he was. She was not downed easily. When he pinned her, she slipped. When her nails reached up to scratch out his eyes, he bit down upon her fingers hard enough to break them. Her blood gushed into his mouth. It was familiar. He didn’t even stop to spit it out.

She elbowed him in the face at the same time she drove her knee up into his stomach — all sharp angles. It was hard enough to knock him off of her and onto his side. Blood poured from his nose. It splattered on the floor right beside her own. She crawled forward on her bloodied fingers, trying to get even. He forced himself back upwards, lunging at her again. He became vaguely aware of a commotion behind him.

“Stop,” Delta said tiredly.

Paris did not stop. No fucking chance. Not now. She was still moving, still breathing, still fucking laughing. His hands closed around the undulations of her throat. 

“Stop,” Delta repeated.

Blood dripped thick and hot from the both of them. Johanna twisted beneath him, her eyes shining like stars. He wanted them barren. He wanted her to stop moving.

“Stop,” Delta said it with no more emphasis than the first two times, but he’d closed the distance between them now. The prongs of the choke collar dug into Paris’s neck, cutting off his oxygen. 

He backed up on his knees, leaning backwards into the touch, the only way he could loosen the chain. But for all the slack the proximity created, Delta only pulled it higher, tighter. No air reached him, even when he’d stopped, even when he had stilled. It kept going. The panic gripped him immediately, tempered only by experienced. Delta wouldn’t kill him. He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t, and as soon as he started to think that he would, the chain released. Paris gasped shakily, collapsed down onto his hands and knees. One hand pawed desperately at his throat. Small beads of blood had formed there in the collar’s outline.

He felt the pressure of the chain being picked up and winced, but it did not tighten again.

“Sorry about him.” Delta frowned. “And…sorry about your…clown.”

“Oh, don’t worry about her. She’s had worse.”

And sure enough, Jo sat up again, the wounds he’d given her already half-healed. Her stupid fucking hat jingled as she shook her head clear. The sound was enough to re-trigger the prey drive. He lunged.

Sharp and course electricity ran straight through his body, aborting the attack before it could even begin. All his muscles locked up. He’d built up a tolerance for the dryer sparks, but being tased was rare. It was a different story. He knew the shock only lasted a few seconds, but those seconds dragged out like years. Delta didn’t even say anything, the tips of his fingers retreating from the raw skin of his neck. 

“Here girl,” the monarch snapped their fingers. 

The clown stood up in her wet clothes, skipping happily back into the employ. Paris kept his eyes trained on the empty space in front of him, the blood spots on the floor. He heard their footsteps retreating. The hallway was silent. One of Delta’s fingers was still hooked around the circle of his collar.

“Clean it up,” he said. Paris nodded. The chain went slack and he was alone in the hall once again.

~

“She started it-“

“She is a jester,” Delta cut him off. “She was doing her job. If she didn’t have that healing factor, you would have killed her.”

His eye twitched. Killed her. Kill her. It flared up within him again, without any target. He dug his nails into his wrist to keep from something worse. The anger burning so hot inside of him he thought he might just be sick from it. She’d done it on purpose. She’d got him on purpose, but it shouldn’t have worked. 

“You weren’t there,” he said, the ache of defensiveness rising in his voice. “You don’t know what she was doing.”

“Did she draw on you?” Delta asked, sounding bored. He already knew the answer.

Paris’s face flushed anyway. He gave no reply.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Some small satisfaction crept into his voice, then faded quickly into irritation. “You didn’t have any impetus. Nobody was in any danger until you snapped. And now they know that if they so much as wave a flag in front of you, you act like a rabid fucking animal.”

“I was defending you, you ungrateful fuck!” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Delta looked up in shock.

“I’m sorry,” Paris amended quickly, retaining at least some sense of self-preservation. He covered his mouth with his hand in a a belated effort to silence himself. It wasn’t enough. He’d been on thin ice before, but that could not be tolerated. They both knew it.

“Why are you like this?” Delta asked. He didn’t say it as an insult. He asked like he really wanted to know.

That only made it worse.

~

The inner courtyard of the Aegean palace was dense with marble and wildflowers. He always thought the statues looked out of place among the foliage, the vines creeping up the legs of the gods as if they’d already been forgotten. The last of the day’s light was held up in the violet clouds. Beneath them, the walls were doused in the cool blue of dusk. The air was warm and wet.

Paris went without prompting, without needing to be forced. He pulled the shirt off of his back, shivering a bit as the scars that already laid there were exposed to the open air. He knelt down by the post. The guard shackled his wrists to the side of it. He rested his forehead against the wood, curling and uncurling his fingers. It made it more tolerable.

He heard the whip crack against the ground as the guard made practice shots. Delta sat off to the side, one elbow propped up against the aluminum garden table, watching without much interest. He’d never get his hands dirty doing it himself. He wouldn’t even know how. 

That idiot guard didn’t know much better. The first strike came down unpracticed, landing diagonally along his shoulder and against the old scars. He pressed his head further into the post, preferring the pressure he felt there to the hot pain that was forming along his back.

It only grew. It layered. It would’ve layered already, in just a single beating, but his body had years worth of them just waiting to be reignited. The whip dredged up the old pain easily. It didn’t split the skin, but he could remember when it had. The thought alone made him dizzy. The pain quickly became all he could focus on. It kept going.

“Please stop,” he said, beginning to get truly nervous now. It’d been going on too long and was pushing up against the bounds of what he could tolerate. His hands turned over anxiously in the solid iron of the manacles. He couldn’t have gotten out even if he tried.

Delta held a hand up. The whip temporarily ceased. He stood up from the table, electrifying the air as he got closer. 

He shouldn’t have said anything. 

“Hm?” Delta asked, leaning down a little, “Stop?”

He could tell that he was feeling vindictive. Delta’s voice took on that soft, too-patient tone it always had when he was furious. 

“Paris, when I told you to stop, what did you do?” he chided.

“…Kept doing it,” he muttered miserably into the post. He hated when he got like this.

“So you do understand.”

“It hurts.” He kept his voice soft, somewhat whiny. It was calculated, but he didn’t have to force it. It didhurt.

“It’s supposed to. I wouldn’t have to do this if you would just listen the first time. You don’t have anyone to blame for this but yourself.”

There was no making him understand. Delta had no concept of what hurt meant — of how much was too much. His own body was unblemished. He’d never bled for anything. 

For as long as he was standing there, the punishment couldn’t continue. They wouldn’t dare swing the whip when Delta was in line of it, god forbid. He took the break for what it was, a few needed seconds for him to catch his breath. Delta seemed to catch onto what he was doing, taking a few steps back. He turned back to the guard.

“Finish up. Gag him if he talks again. He knows better,” he instructed. 

He paced out of the courtyard, retreating back inside the castle walks. He never liked to see the aftermath, either.

~

Delta had been sixteen years old on the eve of his first and only assassination attempt. It had been a failure, in the sense that he had not died from it. It had also been a failure in the sense that the assailant had not even gotten close. 36,000 volts ran straight through his circulatory system before the knife could even fall.

Delta had been uninjured — and in the end, unshaken. The King and Queen were not. They had no other heir.

Paris came as a knee-jerk reaction, dredged up out of whatever trench they’d found him in. He could play nice, when he needed to. He knew exactly what was on the line.

He was passable. The King bought him alone and unannounced. He’d complain for years afterwards that he’d been ripped off.

Paris had glanced up when he was first made to kneel in the throne room. His first impression was that Delta looked awfully calm for someone who had just survived an assassination attempt.

Delta was unimpressed by it, and had been unimpressed by everything since.

~

Almost everything. Kitty glowed blue in the light of the lounge. It was Delta’s favorite room. in the palace. It had been even since he was little. The walls were all made of glass, with thousands of gallons of seawater lying just behind them. Whole shoals of fish reflected silver onto the dark floor. The sequins of Kitty’s slit dress had the same effect.

She was wearing a collar. He didn’t know why he found this so funny. He guessed it could be considered a choker, if he wanted to be generous, but with the ears and the tail, “collar” was the first word that came to mind.

Hers wouldn’t choke her. If he wanted her to, he’d have to do it himself.

She draped herself over the arm of his chair. Kitty was growing into herself so beautifully. Her eyes still lit up at the sight of the fish swimming, just the way they had when they were kids, and he knew she wanted nothing more than to break straight through the glass to get at them. But everything else about her now shone with such a honed sophistication. 

“You’re bleeding,” she said, her eyes widening with concern.

“What?” He blinked. He hadn’t meant to.

But sure enough, a thin stream of blood trickled from his nose just as soon as she got close to him. Delta blushed, a pale blue hue rising up beneath his freckles. It came as a betrayal.

“You’re so predictable.” She almost smiled, pressing a pink handkerchief to his face before the blood could drip onto the soft sheen of his clothes.

The air around him crackled so badly both their hair stood on end.

~

Apollo tread into the kitchen with the golden fringes of his clothing catching all the light. He dragged the kitchen chair out and fell lightly into the seat. He made a soft sound of surprise  as he found Paris leaning back against the edge of the counter. 

“You have to stay up as long as he does?” Apollo asked. He leaned forward against the marble table, rocking the chair from side to side.

“I’m not supposed to sleep at all,” Paris responded flatly, only half joking. It was a bad look for him to be sleeping while Delta was awake, in the same way it was a bad look for him to be sleeping in. That left a very small window for him to get any rest at all. 

Apollo grimaced in sympathy. He placed the empty glass down on the counter. Wordlessly, Paris took it to refill.

“Oh, I didn’t- Is that even your job?” Apollo asked, a blush rising to his face.

Paris shrugged, pouring the last of the bottle out into the glass. He slid it back across the table. 

“You should let me fix that for you,” Apollo offered.

Paris yanked his hand back as violently as if he’d been burned. He thought it was invisible. It hadn’t healed that wrong. It still worked. It wasn’t an impediment. He clutched it to his chest protectively, shielding his wrist with his other hand.

Apollo gave him a knowing look. He stirred the drink idly. The ice made a soft noise as it clattered against the edges of the glass.

“They didn’t splint that for you in training?” He tilted his head.

Paris looked down. He tentatively loosened the grip on his wrist. It’d just been a fall. He’d gotten knocked backwards and he’d needed to stop himself from cracking his skull onto the floor. He’d done it wrong. The wrist had taken the brunt of the impact. He kept it in a splint at night — and when he was alone — but he couldn’t ever wear it around the trainers. He made use with the bandages instead, prayed everyday that medical didn’t come see him. In time, the bones had stitched themselves back together. Not enough, apparently.

Apollo was still staring at him.

“…It’s disqualifying,” he said softly.

“Ah,” Apollo leaned his elbow on the counter. He pressed one finger up against his lips. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Paris looked at him gratefully. Apollo took another sip of the drink, seeming to study the swirling patterns of the table’s surface. After a while, he added:

“He wouldn’t mind, though.”

Paris frowned. He didn’t think so either. That wasn’t the point. He couldn’t have his wrist be unusable for a full six weeks. He could not stand to be any more unusable than he already was.

He couldn’t bring himself to say it. He never would. The silence endured. Apollo shrugged, taking the drink back with him as he ducked out of the bright kitchen. Paris drew the sleeve of his shirt all the way past his fingertips.

~

ponyboy: heyyyyy

headrooms: holy shit

headrooms: i thought you fucking died

ponyboy: nope :-)

ponyboy: just busy yk how it is

headrooms: fuck

headrooms: dont scare me like that

ponyboy: sorryyyyy

ponyboy: how have you been

headrooms: im chill

headrooms: i got beat up by a jester last week

ponyboy: lmfao

ponyboy: dude shut up your job is cushy as shit

ponyboy: you wanna know what they had me doing last week????

headrooms: uphill both ways in the snow

ponyboy: i was pushing whole barrels full of petroleum and poison uphill in the coldest day of winter. they didnt even give me gloves until my fingers were already falling off!!!

ponyboy: hey fuck you

headrooms: lol

headrooms: are you good though like actually 

ponyboy: ya i mean

ponyboy: its definitely heating up here but we’re still holding a good position 

ponyboy: they kinda treat me like shit but they also dont want to lose me so im not being sent for the real suicide missions yet <3

headrooms: thats good i guess

headrooms: is vi chill

ponyboy: omg no shes been on her fuckin period lately 

ponyboy: bitch mode

headrooms: lmfao mine too

headrooms: i swear its the full moon

ponyboy: IT LITERALLY IS IDK WHAT HER PROBLEM IS

ponyboy: ughhhhhh

headrooms: i miss you

headrooms: like

headrooms: all the time

ponyboy: i miss you too !

ponyboy: ill let you know if im ever in your corner of the galaxy! i want to see you again so badly <3

Paris winced. If her people ever ended up in his corner of the galaxy, that was a bad, bad sign. Selfishly, he wished for it anyway.

He heard footsteps approaching and quickly slid the phone back into his pocket. He was not quick enough to get rid of the cigarette. Delta paced out onto the balcony in a whirlwind. Little bouts of lighting lit up by his eyes.

He plucked the cigarette straight out of his mouth. His other hand smacked hard against the side of Paris’s skull. 

“Ow,” Paris winced, though it didn’t really hurt. Because he wanted Delta to feel bad. Or because he knew he wanted to hear it. Whichever it was that day. Whichever worked.

��Those are my fucking lungs,” he hissed. The guilt trip hadn’t worked. Paris shrugged.

“Sorry.”

The apology worked better. Delta’s body language relaxed some as he snubbed the cigarette out on the palace wall. He didn’t ask for the rest of the pack. Smoking was fair game, really. It was getting caught doing it that was the issue. 

“Who were you texting?” he asked mildly.

He hadn’t hid the phone quick enough. He tried to play it off.

“Just Lorry.” He looked down. 

“Oh.” Delta’s expression seemed to soften, almost imperceptibly. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah,” he answered automatically. His heart quickened right after. “…Why? Did you-“

“No,” Delta cut off that train of thought before it could really begin. “No news. I was just wondering.”

“She’s fine, then,” he confirmed. As much as she could be.

It was only then that Delta actually looked guilty. He didn’t have to. It wasn’t his fault. Lorelai had been purchased months before Paris had. It was a miracle he was even allowed to stay in touch with her. He knew most of the program’s graduates weren’t half as lucky.

He still wanted the cigarette. He leaned back against the wall, unsure what to do with his hands or his mouth when it was gone. Delta didn’t leave after that, the way he’d expected him to. He pulled himself up onto the railing with a kind of stupid abandon.

The air carried the scent of salt from over the ocean. Down on the beach, two kids flew a white kite right above the waves, blissfully unaware of the peacetime’s fragility.

~

“Keep?” Paris asked, holding up the alligator skin boots. They’d been dyed a shade of ruby red.

“Absolutely not.” Delta shook his head frantically, “Toss. Don’t even tell anyone I had those.”

“I thought they were nice,” Paris muttered. 

He tossed them into the trash pile anyway. He crossed back over the length of the massive closet, pulling another bag off the shelf. This was absolutely, definitely not his job. But it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. He liked anything that did not make him feel like a total waste of space.

His knees hit the ground before he really knew what he was doing. It was a better instinct, though, probably the least harmful out of all the ones he could not control. Delta looked up in surprise, only realizing what had just happened as the King stepped in through the doorway. Delta’s attention recentered on his father. They both acted as like he wasn’t even there.

“Don’t you have a dispatch to be filling out?” Ulysses leaned against the doorway, surprisingly casual in the company of his only son. It was a reprimand, but his tone was still playful.

“I’m fuckin’ working on it, jeez,” Delta snapped. 

“Doesn’t look like it,” the King glanced around the room. Paris flinched a bit as his gaze passed over him, but it didn’t linger long.

“Oh!” The queen Andromeda appeared in the entrance before Delta could even respond, looking excitedly at the gown Delta held in one hand. “I’ve always loved that dress! You never wear it!” 

“Oh my god,” Delta said, “Can you leave me alone.”

She rushed forward anyway, squishing his face with one hand as she kissed his cheek.

“Mom!” He blushed terribly.

She smiled, knowing exactly how much she was embarrassing him. He shoved her lightly back towards the door and shut it quickly before either of them could protest. He slammed his head against it once it was closed.

“You can get up,” Delta rolled his eyes. Paris did, rigidly so, in the same mechanical way as when he’d gone down. He blinked a few times, trying to bring himself back to the present.

“They’re so fucking annoying,” Delta muttered to no one in particular, wiping his face off.

“Your parents are nice,” Paris protested weakly in their defense.

“He beat you with a 2x4,” Delta reminded him.

Paris shrugged. The King could’ve done much worse. He’d snapped at Delta that time — not on purpose. Never on purpose. It was only the nerves firing wrong, the signals getting twisted. He couldn’t help it. But it’d been grounds for immediate termination. Paris got off easy, and had moved on from it fairly quickly. Delta still held a grudge against his father for it. 

“Keep?” Delta asked this time, desperate to change the subject. Paris guessed he was glad, too. Something in him ached awfully whenever they were around.

“Keep,” he affirmed.

~

It was awful. They had to hold court later, had to hold it in ten fucking minutes, and his heart felt like it was about to explode if he didn’t kill something. He paced uncontrollably, snapping at the air no matter how hard he tried to stop it. Delta watched idly from the throne. Not angry. Just visibly unpleased with it all.

“Come here,” he called finally. 

Paris flinched. It was not a request. He tried anyway.

“I don’t…want you to…” he protested weakly.

“I didn’t ask if you wanted it.”

Paris reluctantly approached, kneeling beside the throne. Delta tilted his head, the tiara slipping down a bit as he did so. A soft blush rose to Paris’s face. He pulled his shirt off, then lowered further onto the floor, laying down flat on his stomach. He rested his head against his arm, burying his face. He heard Delta rising up from the throne and settling cross-legged onto the floor beside him.

Delta made that same soft, dissatisfied noise he always did when he saw the old whip scars all along his back. Not his work. The lashes he gave didn’t leave a mark. He didn’t like it when they did. Paris winced.

They were ugly. Paris knew that if the King had caught a single look at the lattice, he’d have never been bought in the first place. Because it was defacement. Because they were ugly. The thought echoed in Paris’s brain every time he caught a glimpse. It was pure vanity. He was a weapon, he knew it didn’t matter, he shouldn’t have even cared about that kind of thing. But he did. He hated them. 

“So tense,” Delta murmured from above him. His hands kneaded into the ridges along Paris’s spine – that strange, analgesic touch. Paris could feel his muscles softening involuntarily, the tension in them forcefully removed.

The urchin spine slid into the center of his shoulder blades. He bit his arm to keep from gasping.

It wasn’t the toxin alone that did it. He knew that because he’d pricked himself with it once, just out of curiosity, and he had felt almost nothing at all. It was the way he used it. 

He didn’t always hate it; sometimes it was almost nice. It was nicer when they did it alone, when he wasn’t forced to take it, exposed on the floor of the throne room. It was viscerally unpleasant to experience against his will. He did not like Delta having that much control over his body. He didn’t want to calm down.

The spine entered again, and he calmed anyway.

It went on like that until all the rigid tension seeped out through his skin like poison, then a while afterwards too. It was gentle, despite everything. He could’ve cried.

“Better?” 

He nodded, though he really just felt hazy. He didn’t think he could even hold a sword anymore. The calm felt intrusive. He was sure he couldn’t move at all, almost limp in the aftermath. He didn’t need to, though. Delta pulled him up a little, trying to straighten him out. He found his position again, on his knees. 

He pulled the shirt back on, roughly. His arms had gone numb; it took so much more effort than it had to take off. He shifted, readjusting so that he was facing the rest of the room this time. It took so much effort just to sit upright then. He felt high.

“Good boy,” Delta said, about a half second before the doors opened. He was only saying it to be mean, but in the moment, Paris couldn’t bring himself to care.

~

Delta yanked his hand away from his face just before Paris could snap it off. Paris hissed in frustration, falling abruptly to the ground. He pounded his fists against the tile. It was all he could do to not fucking kill him. 

“Why the fuck would you do that?” He hissed out through gritted teeth. It was wrong. He was making it worse for himself. He had no fucking right to be talking to him like that. 

He couldn’t help it. He felt like he was going to scream.

Delta watched impassively.

“It’s getting worse,” Delta said. There was real concern in his voice. 

Paris pressed his forehead to the ground, curling up. Anything else. 

“I know it’s getting worse,” he growled.

Delta started to bend down, which was the worst thing he could’ve done.

“Get away,” Paris warned. For fucking once, Delta actually listened, taking a few cautious steps back.

It took ten whole minutes for him to get back to a state where the prey drive wasn’t waiting two inches beneath the surface. He sat up wearily. Exhausted. Fucking embarrassed.

Delta’s eyes were wide, but then, they always were. The rest of his expression revealed nothing at all.

“You need to figure that out,” he announced quietly.

“I’m not doing it on purpose.” Paris buried his face in his hands. “You know I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“That isn’t going to matter to them and you know it.” His voice was soft. Almost sympathetic. “And don’t talk to me like that,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“Delta…” Paris whined into his hands. It was an undisguised plea. As if the way he was talking was what mattered right now.

“I’m serious. Don’t.” The plea went unanswered. If anything, his voice hardened. Paris watched with some small horror as all the patience seemed to bleed out of him. As if he could afford to lose a single ally.

“Sorry,” he muttered. 

“Figure it out,” Delta said with such sincere urgency that it seemed like now was his turn to beg. He stormed off, unwilling to let anyone else get the last word in.

Paris picked himself up off the ground and put his fist through the nearest wall.

~

No matter what happened that day, he still came crying in the night like a little kid. 

Paris flinched a bit as he was awoken, but not for very long. He guessed he should’ve been used to it by now. Delta stood over him, tugging at his sleeve impatiently, wordless. His eyes shone like beacons in the darkness of the bedroom. His hair was down. He looked so young when he was like this. His look was all pleading.

Paris sighed, letting himself be roused from the bed. He just barely had time to grab the sword before he was dragged out into the hallway. He followed Delta all the way up the stairs, all the way up to his bedroom. He could hear the water trickling well before he entered.

His parents really did spoil him. Delta’s room was probably the most expensive part of the entire palace. Water rushed down from the ceiling in an artificial waterfall, landing into the koi pond that took up a whole quarter of the room. All the rest of the room was crystalline, opalescent. Absolutely cluttered with anything that would shine.

Paris didn’t roll his eyes at the giant seashell that held Delta’s mattress. He’d seen it enough times that it had lost its novelty. He didn’t expect anything less.

“Watch the door,” he begged.

Paris nodded. He knew the drill. He sat down on the floor by Delta’s bed while the sheathed sword rested in his lap. He wouldn’t need it. He knew he wouldn’t need it. Delta was just scared.

Delta crawled up into the bed, arranging himself carefully for the meditation. The low drone of electricity began to fill the room. Channeling again. All the stars had aligned for it.

“παρακαλῶ,” Delta muttered beneath his breath. “παρακαλῶ, παρακαλῶ, παρακαλῶ…”

The incantation began shortly after that. The hair on the back of Paris’s neck stood up. He kept his eyes on the door. He didn’t like to watch.

He’d learned to tune out the rambling, for the most past. He knew Delta didn’t like it when people overheard — and he only let Paris do it out of necessity. It was fine. He didn’t understand any of the Greek. It was only the rapid, manic way he spoke that really scared him. Hushed and quick and ancient. It felt right to avert his eyes for it. It was something he had no business witnessing.

His eye twitched a little bit as he realized just how loud the incantation was growing behind him. The room was getting brighter. He got the awful feeling he always did when he felt lightning was about to strike. It was getting bad this time. It was getting worse than he could ever remember it being.

He turned around.

It was about as bad as he imagined. The light burned and radiated off of him, bright enough to be blinding. Delta was definitely seizing beneath it all. His eyes were shut tight like the power was painful. His hands clutched at the blanket. Paris realized with horror that the bedding was turning blue from all the blood that then dripped from his mouth and his eyes. 

“Fuck,” Paris muttered beneath his breath. 

He should have known better than to wake a sleepwalker.

He regretted it as soon as he touched him. For a minute, he thought he’d really gone blind. The pain exploded in his arm as he was thrown back against the wall. His own body seized with the residual electricity. He gasped, crumbling down into a heap onto the soft floor.

“What the fuck did you do?” Delta coughed up blood onto the floor. Blood or tears poured from his eyes. In all likelihood, it was both. He wiped at them idly, not seeming to be in any particular hurry. It wasn’t like he’d be able to get all of it off with his hands.

He stumbled up from the bed — and immediately fell onto the floor. He crawled the rest of the way over to the koi pond, scooping the water up with his hands to remove the rest of the blood. 

“Why the fuck did you do that?” he repeated, even angrier now.

“You were seizing.” Paris gasped. His arm hurt badly enough that he thought it might be broken. He couldn’t tell. He was still mostly blind.

“I told you not to interrupt,” Delta pressed his forehead onto the stone. He couldn’t even stand.

“You’re pushing it too far,” Paris said. It was all he said. It was all he needed to.

“Shut up,” Delta warned.

“You’re pushing it too far,” he repeated, sing-song.

“Shut the fuck up!” Delta stood up again. Paris knew he meant to hit him, meant to fight him, and suddenly that was what was happening. 

“Oh god damn it, you fucking moron.” Paris blocked his fists with his arms. It hurt a little bit, but not nearly enough to incapacitate. He pushed Delta off with zero effort, which only seemed to piss him off more.

Delta growled, stumbling to his feet. He marched over to the bedside table, pulled out what Paris recognized belatedly as a fucking muzzle.

“Wait.” He tensed up, still not having risen off the floor. “Wait, wait, wait, chill-“

Delta fell messily to his knees, trying to secure it onto him. This time, Paris actually did fight. He caught his wrists. He hated that thing so much. It was the middle of the fucking night, he’d never be able to sleep with it on. He didn’t deserve it. He’d been trying to help.

“Stop,” he pleaded while he still had the ability to. “Come on. Stop. Please.”

Delta sighed in defeat. He dropped the muzzle to the floor — and let himself fall to it a few seconds later. He mumbled something in Greek.

“I’m tired,” he muttered into the carpet. His mouth was still bleeding.

Paris stood up, with a lot of effort, but he was still in better shape that Delta was. He picked him up with his uninjured arm. It wasn’t difficult. Delta was light. He wouldn’t have won the fight he’d tried to start. Paris pushed him back onto the bed, letting him collapse there.

“On your side,” Paris reminded him. Delta readjusted onto his side so that the blood wouldn’t asphyxiate him.

“Fucking goodnight, I guess,” Paris muttered, picking his sword back up from the ground. He picked the muzzle up too, placing it back in the drawer. Should’ve just thrown the damn thing out.

“Stay?” Delta asked.

“Yeah, think I’m good on that.” Paris started to walk out the door. 

“Stay.” It was an entreaty, now. Paris groaned. He walked back, collapsing onto the other side of the bed.

“Not all night. You cry in your sleep. I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you this.”

“So do you,” Delta muttered in reply, already half-asleep.

Paris shrugged. The waterfall was quiet and reassuring. He could stay for that, if nothing else. 

~~~

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