#quay glasses

[yourcoffeeguru]

QUAY Australia FRENCH KISS Clear/Rose Mirrored Sunglasses || SWTradePost - ebay

[trivia-yandere]

visions

you’re convinced by your friends to go to a party and let go of the memories of your ex just for one night. unfortunately for you, jungkook doesn’t want to be let go.

@momnomnom @darkuni63 @sweetempathprunetree writer: quay (explicit-tae)

word count: 5.186

warning: yandere themes, smut, dark themes, cursing, manipulation, toxic relationships, non-con, reader is drugged, impregnation kink, spitting, nipple sucking, biting, dirty talking, blood, neck slitting,

Your eyes snap open when the loud and ringing noise of your alarm. You’re quick to yawn, body stretching before grasping your phone off the bedside table. The alarm is titled “work” and you silenced it with a groan.

Your eyes catch the day of the week. Friday. The time was 8 a.m - an hour before you had to be at work. You contemplated calling off, but understood that it would cause nothing but your boss to be petty and write you off the schedule for the next few days - so you decided against it. Your feet kick the covers off of your body and swing to touch the cold, wooden floor. You winced at the impact, sending shivers up your spine.

Your phone sounds suddenly. You furrow a brow and go to grab it, color draining for your face. You bite your lip at the unknown number displayed on the screen.

Hesitantly, you decline the call and quickly block the number. Unknowingly, you begin to feel uneasy as you make your way to your bathroom to wash up. You’re trembling as you wash your face and when you brush your teeth, you can feel just how terrified you are.

It’s only been a month, you note. You had no doubt in your mind that Jungkook was behind the phone call - he’s called nearly every morning since you broke up with him and quickly signed a restraining order. It was only a temporary one until the two of you went to court, but it was necessary to do so.

You met Jungkook nearly a year ago. You recall the way the man has entered your job - the one you had prior to having to quit because of a scene he caused - and smiling brightly at you. He asked various questions about the countless sweets and desserts you had displayed behind the glass and you answered the best you could.

Each day Jungkook returned, buying desserts such as iced cream, candy, cookies - anything. He would munch on it a bit while the both of you talked and laughed and before he left, he assured he’d leave a tip for you at the counter.

Day by day, you expected Jungkook’s arrival. It made your job less boring and you also found yourself willing to come to work more dolled up. You’d coat your lips with gloss that you knew Jungkook liked (he’d always flicker his eyes to them when you’d talk) and style your hair differently each time.

Your first date with Jungkook was at the very same shop you worked at. You came in on an off day to pick up something you forgot and just as you were leaving, Jungkook was entering. His eyes were wide upon witnessing you face to face  - this time you in casual clothing instead of a work uniform. 

By the third date, you and Jungkook were officially dating - him asking you once the movie you two watched at the cinema was over - you agreed without a thought.

By the second month of dating, you noticed a shift. Jungkook was sweet, sure. Caring. He offered you rides everywhere you needed to go, and when he couldn't he’d never felt comfortable with you going alone. You brushed it off with Jungkook just being a cautious person.

Month three was when he became vocal in how you dressed. He didn’t appreciate the way other men looked at you - his words exactly - and you were giving said men a show by wearing shorts or skirts that were too short. He changed your wardrobe with clothing that he deemed was “outside clothes” and some that were “indoor for his eyes only”. Again, you brushed it off. Jungkook was your boyfriend now and his opinions mattered.

By the sixth month, Jungkook began to isolate you from your friends. “Why do you always hang with them on the weekends?” he’d ask when you were invited to a gathering. “Why can’t I go? Are other guys going to be there?” he’d asked once, eyes glaring at you. “Your friends are single. You aren’t. Why do you need to go to a club where other single men would be at?!” he had hissed, hands in his hair as if he was seconds from pulling it out.

Jungkook was amazing at comforting you - or so you thought. “I know how men are, baby.” he murmured while stroking your hair in his embrace. “If able, they’ll take advantage of you. Your friends cannot protect you from a man willing to do you harm.”

But the man that had harmed you was Jungkook himself. 

Jungkook was never physically abusive. Sex with him was rough, yes, but you enjoyed it. 

Jungkook’s abuse was manipulative - often pinning you against your friends that you were no longer invited to places they’d be because you would either bring Jungkook, or the man would come unbeknownst to you. Jungkook would call you countless times until you picked up and asked when you’d be home - and if the answer wasn’t good enough for him, he’d insist on picking you up himself. “Why can’t I come?” Jungkook asked when you were hastily walking out the door to meet your friends. “You’re not going to see your friends. You’re cheating on me!” he’d hiss, eyes blown wide and neck veins pulsing. 

Last month, marking the eighth month, you decided to break up with Jungkook. You were nervous to say the least. You thought of several ways to break up with the man - you decided that in a public place would be best. You had more respect for him than to end the relationship over the phone. However, you also could not trust what he would do if you allowed him into your home. 

You invited Jungkook to meet you in a public area - a park where you and he walked hand in hand many times. You were a bunch of nerves, especially when Jungkook was strolling towards you with a wide grin and in his hands, sunflowers.

Your heart flutters when he offers them to you, and awkwardly, you take them in your hands. You and Jungkook sat at a bench and he talked about how much he missed you, peppering kisses along your cheeks before you managed to push yourself away.

“You’re…leaving me…?” Jungkook's voice was dangerously low and calm,  but his eyes were glaring daggers at you. You placed the flowers onto his lap and managed to get out of his embrace. His eyes are following you as you - slowly, so slowly - walk backwards, eyes apologizing while you remain silent.

The following week was Jungkook aggressively knocking at your door until you threatened to call the police. He would call nonstop and send multiple messages that you had to change your number to get him to stop - even if it never did, only slowed him down until he somehow found your number again. You had to change jobs more than once when he would show up at random times - you had no choice but to file a restraining order. You thought that maybe this would stop him - and for a moment it did.

Until today.

The unknown number calling you was no doubt Jungkook. You never answered any number that wasn’t familiar to you and instead blocked them. They left no voicemail after calling and each time, it was a different number displayed. 

You walk out of your bathroom and down the hall to your small kitchen. You didn’t have time to eat anything for breakfast outside of a quick muffin. You would be late if you cooked or even made coffee.

Your muffin jolts out of your hand when you hear sudden knocking at your door. Your blood runs cold at how powerful and rapid they’re coming. Your mind is on one person.

“Open the door, Y/N.”

Jungkook was behind the door.

Jungkook didn’t care for whatever petty restraining order you had against him. The constant calls told you so.

“I can hear you moving.”

You stiffen at his words. You didn’t know what to do. 

You weren’t once afraid of Jungkook - he has never hit you. But he was like another person when he was angered. He wasn’t the same man with the sweet smile and the soft eyes - it was as if a switch flipped and he was a completely different man.

“I just want…closure.”

Jungkook's words crack as he speaks and your heart betrays you. You were beginning to feel guilty for putting him through this. Your friends told you that it wasn’t your fault, that Jungkook was good at manipulating you. 

“Please, Y/N…baby.”

Your hand was on the door handle before you knew it and you cracked the door open. 

Jungkook’s eyes are wide when you do and he gives you a dazzling smile. He steps closer but stops himself from entering when you don’t open the door wider for him.

Jungkook’s smile falters. “You’re…”

“You can’t be here, Jungkook.” you manage to say without stuttering.

“You…are serious?”

You knit your brows. 

Were you serious?

You changed your number multiple times in a span of a month that it was insane. You blocked multiple numbers when changing yours became tiring. You got a restraining order against him.

Did Jungkook think this was just a simple misunderstanding and you needed to be “alone” before coming back to him?

“Yes. I’m serious, Jungkook. Please leave.” 

Jungkook doesn’t move. His eyes are searching yours for any hint that you were hesitant - but he found nothing.

You were serious.

You wanted nothing to do with him, Jungkook grunts.

You were willing to throw everything he offered you out the window because of what? A few disagreements? Arguments? Your single friends?

“So there’s nothing that is going to bring you back to me?” Jungkook tries one last time. He doesn’t want to blow up and demand you stop being the dumb bitch you were acting like now. He didn’t want to raise his voice and break down your door - because you would be frightened and close yourself off once more. He was trying but you were too selfish to see it.

“No.”

Jungkook’s heart shatters and he doesn’t say anything when you close your door. He hears you lock it but he decides that if you couldn’t allow yourself to accept his love - then others wouldn’t either. He was done with being nice to you - you didn’t deserve his kindness. If you were going to act like the damsel in distress, then he was going to give you something to be distressed about.

The music was far too loud to hear anyone who wasn’t speaking directly into your ear. The air was muggy and humid. It smelt of cheap cologne/perfume and several different types of alcohol - but you were just happy to be here. 

Well, as happy as you could be standing alone in the corner of the home while others danced, laughed and drank. You were invited by your friends to come to “let loose” and “get your mind off of your crazy ex”. You agreed - but now you were left to your own devices while they mingled elsewhere.

Speaking of your “crazy ex”, you haven’t heard from Jungkook in nearly two months. It was a sigh of relief, truly. You assumed he wanted closure in seeing you once last time to confirm that the relationship has indeed ended. There weren’t any random pops up at your home or work, no random phone calls or text messages from random numbers. Slowly, you were beginning to be less afraid of seeing the man out and about. 

“First time at a party?”

Your head whips around to a tall figure beside you. You can smell the alcohol in the cup he’s holding. He’s offering a small smile as he towers beside you/ He’s close to you just so he could speak loud enough for you to hear. 

“First time in a while.” you respond to him. You give a small smile in return. 

“Are you here alone?” the guy takes a sip of his drink. 

“No. My friends are…”

“...Around here somewhere?” the guy nods in agreement. “So are mine. Haven’t seen them in an hour.”

You laughed.

You and the tall guy - who’s name you learned was Dean - hit it off quickly. You and him stood together and talked the majority of the night - your friends and his never returning, but you aren’t surprised. You weren’t as outgoing and friendly as your friends were. You’re positive they’re playing a game of beer pong (and losing). 

As another hour rolls around, you were seated on a large leather couch that you’re surprised was vacant with Dean, your head began to hurt. You feel hot and stuffy and your vision is blurring. 

“Are you okay?” you hear Dean say. “Do you need some water?”

You nod your head, allowing Dean to pass you a bottle of water.

Jungkook - on the other hand - was livid. The nerve of you to break up with him just to come to a party and look for another man. And not just that - but to get drugged by said man and not even notice it. Jungkook lingered deep into the side lines that you would never see him - but luckily he was there watching over you. He witnessed Dean put a small pill into your drink while you were busy laughing at something he said - Jungkook clenched his fists. 

Jungkook isn’t far behind when you are being escorted out of the large sitting room, a sea of people not bothering to stop and see what Dean is doing with a groggily woman.

Jungkook’s breathing becomes heavy when you are pushed into a vacant room, the door closing behind them. 

Jungkook blamed your friends for leaving you alone in an environment that you didn’t belong to. No matter how hard he tried to tell you that you didn’t belong to a friend group such as this, you never listened. Now look - you were drugged by a man you didn’t know and about to get raped.

But luckily, Jungkook was here to save you.

Jungkook knocks aggressively onto the door, not stopping until the door swings open and an annoyed Dean surfaces. Jungkook doesn’t hesitate to draw back his fist and plant it right between the man's eyes.

And again.

And again.

And a few more times until Dean is a bloody mess, squirming away and out of the room. 

Jungkook shakes his head and closes the door, locking it behind him. You aren’t completely unconscious, but he’s positive you will be soon. Your shirt is off already, Dean wasting no time.

Your bra - a red lace - looks amazing against your skin. It makes his heart swell and a smile forms onto his lips. It was a gift from him that you kept.

“Y/N, baby.” Jungkook coos, hovering above you. He wraps his arms around your body, you groaning low when he does. “I missed you so much.”

Jungkook sends kisses down your neck, arms never wanting to leave you. Your smell is tainted with alcohol, but his nose catches on the faint smell of vanilla he adores on you. 

“I told you not to have such horrible friends.” Jungkook tsks. You are yet to be fully unconscious. You moan out an inaudible response and Jungkook only coos again.

“You’re so beautiful, baby.” Jungkook presses himself into you, hard length at the center of your clothed core. “Do you miss me as much as I missed you?”

You do, Jungkook concludes. He dips his hands beneath your jeans and finds how wet you truly are for him. Jungkook removes his hands and pops it into his mouth, shuddering at your taste. It’s been so long - too long. He’s angered that you went too far away from the relationship. A restraining order? Far too dramatic for his taste. But he’ll let it slide and choose to forgive you because here you lay, beautiful as ever. Wet for him and him only.

Jungkook doesn’t waste any more unnecessary time. He needs to feel your warm essence around him. He pulls your jeans down along with your underwear, eyes widening at the beauty that was your wet pussy. He feels the bulge in his own pants begin to tighten and he just cannot wait any longer.

Foreplay was your favorite when it came to Jungkook, he knows this. You would cum so hard against his tongue, squirming and begging for him to stop because of just how overstimulated you were, but Jungkook wouldn’t. He would let you cum over and over on his tongue, fingers, thigh - wherever you wanted to.

However, now he could not console himself. The need to be inside you was far greater than anything. Once you and he were back together than he would allow you to sit on his face where you belong.

Jungkook pumps his cock as he inches closer to you. He rubs the tip of it against your swollen clit and shudders once more. Goosebumps litter his arm and he can’t hold back anymore. He enters you with a high pitched groan, hands going to place themselves on your hips.

Jungkook hears your moans as he sinks in and out of you, the sound of his skin slapping echoing off the walls. You were so wet and tight that he’s proud - proud that you haven’t let another man touch what was his. That even when you were upset and the both of you went through this break, that you understood your role in the end.

“Fuck, baby.” Jungkook snaps his hips into you harder, left hand going to toy with your clit. It’s sensitive as he remembers it to be. His right hand snatches the lacy bra down so he could watch the way your breast bounce for him. “So beautiful and all mine.” he hisses, leaning down to suck a nipple into his mouth. 

Jungkook sucks onto it until it’s swollen and throbbing, and he proceeds to the next one. He could never get enough of you, littering bite marks around your breast and collar bone.

“Your pussy’s milking my cock so good, baby.” Jungkook grunts, his thrust becoming sloppy. You were so wet, pussy clenching around him while your juices ruined the sheets. 

Jungkook snaps his eyes shut, groaning loudly. A free hand slaps down harshly on your stomach as he pounds into you. He recalls the few times the two of you spoke of the future - of getting married and having children. He declared that he desired them to look exactly like you - you were just so perfect in his eyes. “I’m going to put a baby in you.” Jungkook feels himself about to cum. His hands don't remove from your stomach. It was soft and it drove him crazy just thinking about you round with his child - your breast enlarging with breast milk to feed his child. You would be an amazing mother and he would enjoy nothing more than for you to be at home while he provided for you and the child you both shared.

Jungkook cums inside of you, twitching. He’s humming slowly, trying to regain his breath. He places a deep kiss upon your lips, sweaty forehead placed against your own.

Your head is pounding. Your throat is sore and dry and your body aches. You try to rake your mind about what the hell is going on and what has happened to lead up to this. You blink your eyes open, hissing how bright the light shines above you.

Your wrist is aching and when you attempt to move, you notice you cannot. Your wrist appears to be detained and when your mind registers this, you begin to whimper. Your vision is blurry with tears, but you blink them away to attempt to see what the hell is going on.

“Baby!”

Your thrashing stiffens at the familiar voice. Your blood runs cold and your mind is screaming alarm bells.

“You’re awake.”

You blink away your tears rapidly to regain your vision. It takes you a few moments, but when you do you’re crying all over again.

Jungkook was before you, but it wasn’t just him before you that had you screaming and crying. It was the man, tall and smiling warmly, covered in blood. The irony smells hit your nostrils and your stomach churns. Your head whips around to your surroundings, unsure of just where the hell you’re at. Your wrist is bound behind you. You’re sitting on a wooden chair in a room unknown to you.

“I didn’t want you to see this but…” Jungkook sighs, trailing off. He steps away to show you what was behind him and the reason why he’s covered in blood. 

Your throat releases a horrified whimper, eyes wide with tears.

“I had to do it, baby.” Jungkook says with a shake of his head. “They weren’t real friends. They left you alone at a party where you were drugged!”

The lifeless body of both of your friends laid flat against the ground, blood covering their skin even more than it did Jungkook’s. You want to vomit at the horrifying scene but somehow manage not to.

“P-Please-”

“Don’t start with your shit!” Jungkook raises a bloody hand to silence you. “Listen to me.”

You flinch when Jungkook takes a step towards you, eyes closing ready for him to deliver the same fate as your friends.

Jungkooks eyes widen at the sight of you cowering before him.

“You think I would harm you?” Jungkook scoffs in disbelief. “Everything I have done has been…for you. For us.” Each word that releases from Jungkook’s mouth is a hiss. His eyes are wide and he appears utterly insane. “I saved you from being raped by that bastard! I got rid of the trash you call friends!” 

You jump when you hear banging coming from Jungkook, but you open your eyes to look. 

“You left me for what, Y/N? To be left alone at a party and drugged? These weren’t your friends.” Jungkook scoffs. He goes as far as to spit on the two girls you dare to call your friends. “You got a restraining order against me just for me to not be the bad guy.”

You scream when you feel a hand on your jaw. Jungkook shakes your head to force your eyes open. His hands feel wet and sticky, obviously with the blood of your friends. 

“I love you, Y/N.” Jungkook voice cracks as if he was the one that is hurting - as if you weren’t the one that had to witness the deceased body of your friends and an ex boyfriend declaring he did it for you. “Say it back….” Jungkook’s lips are soft when they kiss your cheeks. Your salty tears are warm against his lips. “...Say it back….” Jungkook continues.

“Fuck you!” you scream. You’re thrashing, kicking your feet to get Jungkook away from you. Your wrists are burning with your arms attempting to release them.

“Already did.” Jungkook laughs gleefully. He isn’t upset at your outburst. You’re a pure soul and he’s saddened that you had to see this - death of fake friends and learning the realization of your (almost) assault. “How could you not remember the way we made love, baby?”

Jungkook trails a hand on your covered stomach. You stopped your struggle at his words, eyes wide and tearful. 

“You were so wet for me, baby. You missed me just as much as I missed you.” Jungkook taps your stomach gently. “Soon the product of our love is going to grow.”

Jungkook’s eyes are shining with love - to you it was psychotic. Jungkook was insane. This wasn’t love - you heard him admit to raping you; there was no way you could consent while drugged. 

“No…” you shake your head at Jungkook’s words, but the man only nods. “...I hate you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I hate you.” you repeat.

“Stop.” Jungkook hisses, eyebrows knitting. “How could you say that after-” “I hate you!” you scream in his face - and you repeat it again, again and again. You repeat it until Jungkook’s hand tangles into your hair and yanks it back. 

“Say you love me, Y/N.” Jungkook demands. “Say you’ll stay with me.”

Jungkook was crazy - there was no well in hell you would remain with a murderer. If you thought Jungkook was bad before, your thoughts on him have worsened now.

“I’ll never love you.”

Jungkook's heart thumps rapidly. Your words make his heart ache.

“You don’t mean that.” Jungkook shakes his head. His hand tightens itself in your hair. “You’re just upset. This is my fault. I should’ve taken you home.”

“I’ll never love you!” you hiss at him. 

Jungkook’s heart thumps again. His eyes stare into your own. 

You weren’t lying.

You hated him.

You feared him.

Your eyes weren’t lying, nor were the words coming from your mouth.

“I see.” Jungkook murmurs, dropping his hand from your hair. He takes a step back, tilting his head at you. “You’ll never love me again.” he states, more to himself than you. “If I cannot have your love, Y/N, then there is no reason for either of us to live.”

Your breathing increases at Jungkook’s words. He reaches into his jacket pocket, removing a pocket knife.

“I love you.” Jungkook’s crying now as he speaks. “Everything I did was for you!”

“Jungkook-”

“Don’t speak now.” Jungkook interrupts, pointing the knife at your throat. “You’ll never love me and I’ve accepted that.” Jungkook drops to his knee. He leans down to your face. You’re whimpering - and even now, Jungkook thinks you’re beautiful. It saddens him that this is what you chose. “Maybe…if we’re reborn…you and I can raise the child we spoke about.”

“Jung-”

Jungkook places his lips on yours - a final kiss he tells himself. He places the pocket knife onto your throat and slits it. It’s deep and he feels the blood rush out and squirts onto him. You cough into the kiss, and Jungkook isn’t far behind. He slits his own throat just as deep. He’s coughing, placing his head onto your lap, desiring to be just as close to you in death as he desired in life.

Your eyes snap open and a scream erupts from your lungs right when the loud and ringing noise of your alarm. Your hands grip your neck, heart pumping outside your chest. 

You’re in your room.

A shaky hand grabs your phone that was laid on the bedside table and turn off the alarm. It was titled “work”.

Your eyes watch as your phone displays the day of the week.

Friday.

8 A.M.

An hour before you had to be at work.

Was everything that happened to you…

“A dream?” your voice is hoarse and low. There’s goosebumps littering your skin and you’re visibly shaking.

You were having deja vu.

No, you did this already - you’re sure of it. 

Your dream began with you waking up just as you were now. Friday at 8 A.M.

Your feet kick the covers off of your body and swing to touch the cold, wooden floor. You winced at the impact, sending shivers up your spine. You didn’t need to think what was going to happen next. 

Your phone sounds suddenly. Color drained from your face. You knew who was calling you without having to look at the screen. You were reliving your dream. Could you call it a dream or vision?

Were you given a second chance at life?

You recall the way you declined the unknown number and proceed in getting ready for work. Jungkook was knocking at your door. You recalled the party you were invited to, your friends, Dean.

You scurry down the hall to your bathroom just as your stomach churns. You release the vomit into the toilet, clenching the side of it.

“What’s going on…” you murmur to yourself, flushing the toilet. There was no way you were reliving what you had dreamt.

You began to brush your teeth and wash your face, hands trembling.

You don’t go to the kitchen like you would usually when you wake up. If your dream was correct, Jungkook would be-

A sudden knock makes you yelp. You’re stiff in your spot, eyes wide.

In your dream, you told Jungkook that you wanted nothing to do with him. That the relationship was over.

You told Jungkook you hated him as he stands before you, covered in blood.

You could feel the way the knife rips through your throat, unable to breath or help yourself.

“Open the door Y/N.”

Jungkook’s voice frightens you.

Your breathing becomes heavy.

Your dream was becoming a reality - if it was ever a dream. 

‘Maybe…if we’re reborn…you and I can raise the child we spoke about.’

Jungkook’s last words replay in your head while the hair on your skin raises. 

Before your mind thinks, your feet are moving. You slam the door open, eyes wide at Jungkook. He stands straighter at seeing you after a month.

“Y/N…are you okay?” Jungkook wants to hug you. You appear to be seconds away from crying and it causes his heart to thump.

“Jungkook…” you trail off, voice cracking.

“Y/N…baby…” Jungkook takes a step closer.

You wrap your arms around Jungkook, crashing into his chest. 

Jungkook’s distraught, but he doesn’t push you away. He wraps his arms around you and presses his nose into your hair, inhaling your sweet scent. 

Your hands clench his shirt, trembling. 

You didn’t want to die.

You didn’t want your friends to die.

“What’s wrong?” Jungkook murmurs after a sweet moment of having you in his arms. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” you sob.

 Your mind is screaming at you to run. To push him away. There was a possibility that you could do things right - not go to a party and meet Dean. You can just go to work and home.

However, you’re tired. You’re tired of the phone calls and having to constantly look over your shoulder. There was a possibility that you could face the same fate as the dream.

“P-Please s-stay with me.” you stutter out.

Jungkook's heart pounds with excitement. “Really?” he gently pushes you back to look at your face. You’re crying, tears streaming down your puffy cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. I love you.” he wipes your tears, a small smile on your lips. 

You nod your head at him. You step back and allow him to follow you in. 

Jungkook closes the door behind him. He leans down to kiss your lips. 

Jungkook sighs into the kiss. He missed your soft lips.

“I promise, baby, I’ll be better.” Jungkook murmurs against your lips. “I don’t want to lose you.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to lose you.” you murmur to him.

You’re unsure if this decision was the correct one, but you were far too frightened to see what an angered Jungkook would do to you in this reality if you denied him.

[ariseur]

hi!! could i request ignis with a reader who's super flirty? i just think iggy is so attractive and want to know how you think he'd react to being told that lol

the crickets around you chirped in tune with the inner melody playing in your head, a soft song muttered under your breath and a tap of your fingers left you satisfied while you watched ignis work. his back was facing you; his sleek, dark grey button-up hugging on him while he made another dish. after the day you guys had, he couldn’t help but make some more food per your request— especially since gladio and you had gathered some herbs nearby. observing the man in front of you some more, you stared at him with no shame. after all, it wasn’t everyday that ignis didn’t gel his hair.

the brown color of his hair now parted with an acacia orange as it accentuated even the tiniest strands of hair. pieces of it covered the back of his neck and what you presumed was the front of his face. silently, you prayed for some water to come his way so you’d see more of this side of him. he looked so content, ignis always did when he was cooking.

you couldn’t stop the next words tumbling from your mouth. “have i ever told you how pretty you look with your hair like that?” even through the distant crackling of the camp fire and the chattering of gladio and prompto talking about only astrals know what, your voice cleared its own pathway throughout the faint noises and wiggled its way into ignis’ head, hoping his soon heating cheeks would be covered with an excuse of the fire.

he still faced away from you, hand languidly stirring the pot in which contained a stew from whatever ingredients were able to be gathered in the seas surrounding the galdin quay, provided to you guys by noctis’ skilled fishing. ignis cleared his throat, swallowing thickly before responding, “thank you, although i wouldn’t have thought that ‘pretty’ was the right word to describe a man such as myself.”

getting up to help him clean up, you watched him out of the corner of your eye; his glasses glinting with the warm glow of the nearby fire. you hummed mindlessly, almost dismissing his claim. “nonsense, anybody can be labeled as pretty.” and to that, he chuckled—brushing off his pink ears. “i suppose.”

letting out a giggle, you made ignis’ heart flutter once more. his head turned towards you, an amused smile resting on his face. he admired the way the auburn flames lit up your face as it highlighted your features; he sunk in the way your eyes crinkled when you beamed, along with the way your shoulders shook with your soft laughter. looking back at him, you pointed at his face. you paused a bit, turning your attention back to cleaning the cutting boards and cutlery which had been used by the brute of food known as noctis. always such a messy eater, you recalled. even gladio ate cleaner than noct did.

blinking up at him, you huffed again, “c’mon iggy, you know it. you’re even heating up— at the truth, might i add.”

hearing the familiar nickname laced with your sweet tone of voice fall from your lips made his heart beat a little louder— ( even if he’s heard it plenty of times before from his friends, hearing it from you felt different. almost strange. )

he scoffed amusedly. “it’s quite hot out here if you haven’t noticed.” blaming his pink cheeks on the vennaugh haven you lot had made yourself comfortable in, he brushed off your comments as you rolled your eyes at him with a mumbled, “whatever you say, iggy.”

“don’t start with that now.”

“what? what’d i do this time?” you grinned, tilted your head at him with a tone intertwined with feigned coyness. he sighed, shaking his head. “oh,” you said, dragging out the vowel perhaps longer than you needed to, “you just don’t wanna give into my super charming character. i get it.” putting your hands up in a defensive manner, you pushed more. he groaned, eyes still focused on the pot. “yes, quite the charmer.”

you scoffed dramatically, “why did that sound sarcastic?” he hummed in denial, shaking his head at your silly questions. “admit it,” you said, “you’re just salty i made you blush.”

“you did not.”

“i did, too.”

and before you could keep going on with this foolish game of who’ll crack first, a voice cleared their throat behind you. the two of you turned your heads only to see noctis with a hand on his hip and cocked head. ignis and you exchanged a glance as you both paused your movements. noctis grinned lazily as he teased, “what’re you guys talking about?”

[myarmsaretoolong]

It took less than a week for the world to tear itself apart. For everything to turn on its head. For governments across the world to lose whatever trust they might have garnered. One week of fear and panic and terror, and of people promising it would be alright, just wait. Just wait because a doctor is on the way. A man in a blue box is coming–he always comes!–and he’ll put it right.

One week for Cardiff to gain a hole in its heart.

They never even got a real name for it. The news only called it the 456, some sort of government codename for the creature that tried to take their children from them.

Once the immediate threat was over, once those who stood up to the army when they raided houses and snatched children from their parents arms were processed and released without charge, information started leaking. Information that implied the government had a far bigger role with 456 than they let on. The government continued to deny it, which is when videos started emerging.

Meetings, top secret meetings where they discussed which children were disposable and made sure their own were safe and sound, played out on news channels across the country. Britain sat in horror as they watched, unable to believe what it was they were hearing. And once the leaks started, they poured.

Documents told of contracted killings, cover-ups from decades ago. Whispers of the name Torchwood became commonplace not just in Cardiff but across the country. 

Cardiff, where strange goings on were a part of everyday life. Where more people than anywhere else had tales of his man and his box. Where people had gaps in their memories and recollections of screams and growls they never remembered hearing. Cardiff, where the explosion that ripped apart the Plass suddenly had a firm reason behind it.

And then another video appeared, this one grainier than the rest. Like a recording of a recording, distant and blurred. The screen was split in two. One side showed a tank pumped full of smoke, vaguely glowing blue. The other side showed two men. Two men who stood up to the 456, told it that they wouldn’t give up a child–not one, single child–that they would fight until their last breath if it meant keeping them safe.

Two men who did just that. Two men who stood their ground when the rest of the building fled. The image of them splayed out on the floor, holding each other, fronted every paper, every news channel.

The Thames House incident was finally explained in full, all those lives lost. Bodies piled at the sealed doors.

One of the men was instantly recognisable from his coat alone. Jack Harkness who called himself Captain but never had the story to back it up, well known around Cardiff. He flirted with me once, one person said over a pint in a pub, and me, came the reply. They laughed, raised their glasses in honour.

A question mark hung over Jack. Everyone heard what he said to the other man. I can survive anything. In a world where aliens got a buzz of off children, a man who could survive that virus didn’t sound impossible. 

Out of everyone, it was the boy who’d worked at Jubilee Pizza after he left school who recognised the second man grainy, pixellated figure. Ianto Jones. The man who sat at the desk at the quay’s information centre and laughed when the delivery boy said he had pizzas for Torchwood. A joke his office liked to play, he’d explain. Get people thinking he was some kind of spy or something. The delivery boy would laugh too, laugh at the ridiculousness of this man being anything more than a sit-about pen-pusher.

He went out and told anyone who would listen. It’s Ianto Jones, to his mates in the pub, that bloke from the quay. Yeah, that’s the one. It is! See, look at the video, here.

The name spread through Cardiff like wildfire, and then beyond. Ianto Jones, one of the only people brave enough to stand up to the demands of the 456 and say no. Overnight, the forgotten information desk destroyed in the Plass explosion turned into a shrine. Flowers and cards and candles appeared. A vigil was held. People came from across the country–across the world–to thank the man, and perhaps men, that laid down their lives for the sake of the world’s children.

The hole at Cardiff’s heart became something else. The Plass was cleared up, the water tower rebuilt, and the shrine would stay for as long as there were people on Earth to visit it. The memory of Ianto Jones would be kept at the heart of the city forever.

He may not have had a box, might not have been a doctor. Might not have even been the person to stop the 456 but that didn’t matter. Not in the end. Because he was one of the only people who tried while those in power rolled over and showed their bellies. He stood up for what was right and what was good when no one else would.

It’s said if you walk the quay at night that you may just see a woman stood alongside a man with a recognisable coat. That she may lean her head on his arm, and he may give her hand a tight squeeze. And that you might catch the faint sound of tears mixed with soft laughter.

It's even said, in the far-off future, that the same man in the same coat still visits. Alone, now, as he was destined to be. He presses his fingers to his lips, then to the shrine–still meticulously maintained even though memory of the man and the events are long since forgotten–and tells him it was good.

[lisbeth-kk]

May Prompts (27) Jealousy

The Luckiest Girl in the World (chapter27)

Summary: Rosie and Timothy travel the Greek islands. An intriguing experience on Santorini, puzzles and irks Rosie immensely. When Timothy doesn't react to her liking, there's only one option on how to move forward.

Twenty-Seven Years Old

To celebrate my birthday and my new fulltime job as a political risk analyst, Timothy and I went island-hopping in Greece. Liwia and her girlfriend had done it last year, and it appealed to us both. Having nothing but the flights planned, made me feel a bit reckless but it was quite freeing as well.

The only thing we’d decided on was to stick to the Cyclades and we started our journey by taking a ferry to the small island Antiparos. Several people who let out rooms stood waiting on the quay as we disembarked. An elderly and friendly looking man caught our attention, and the room he had to offer was more than sufficient.

Our first breakfast is one I’ll remember forever. The small restaurant was situated by the seafront where the fishing boats came in with their catch. Faded coloured fishing nets hung to dry in the sun, the scent of salt weaving its way to our nostrils.

Freshly pressed orange juice and the fluffiest omelette I’d ever come across, ensured the perfect start of our day.

We hired a moped to explore a little. The trip took us through a landscape of olive trees and flowers we didn’t have in the UK. Our destination was the famous cave with stalagmites and stalactites. The stalagmite at the entrance is apparently 45 million years old, the oldest in Europe. 

We were warm and a bit sweaty after standing out in the sun, while we waited for our guide. The air inside was pleasantly chill and got even colder as we descended the 411 steps to the heart of the cave. It was a mesmerising sight, and knowing that this was the nature’s own doing, left me amazed and humble.

At a cosy taverna we ate the best Greek salad to date. The ripe tomatoes paired with the salty feta cheese, olives, onions, the rich olive oil and the homemade bread, almost made me religious for a moment.

The beach close to our quarters, was small, secluded and blessedly free of crowds. We had taken a boat to a famous beach the day before, but we’d barely found a free space to lay down our blankets, so this felt like paradise in comparison. 

Another short boat ride away was the bigger island Paros. We took the bus to the other side of the island. I don’t remember anything else from that trip than the hours we spent in Naoussa. Several boats painted in bright colours lay bobbing in the water close to the restaurants that encircled the bay. It may sound simple, but it was the most beautiful view, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. We sat there for hours, eating seafood and drinking Greek white wine. 

***

So far, it had been a “normal” vacation, or tedious as Papa would’ve called it. That all ended when we sat foot on Santorini. Getting a room was easy enough, and relieved of our heavy rucksacks we went for a stroll in the main street of Fira. Every other shop was a jewellery shop, and the necklaces displayed bore the resemblance to what pharaohs and Cleopatra wore. Heavy, massive and ridiculously expensive. For each shop they seemed to grow bigger and uglier. We had quite a laugh at that.

The most peculiar thing happened at the restaurant we had lunch. It was a terrace with a breathtaking view over the Aegean Sea. We’d decided to stay for a while and ordered more iced tea, making ourselves comfortable under the big parasol. We had both brought a book, and for a while we read in silence. A repetitive sound of paper being ripped, caught my attention.

An elderly woman had taken up residence at the table next to ours. She had short frizzy hair, more grey than brown now, her glasses were round with a white frame. The summer dress she wore had big patterns in green, red, white, and orange. On her feet were white flip-flops. 

“Stop staring,” Timothy whispered.

He startled me and I looked annoyed at him, but averted my eyes and took a sip of my drink. The moment the sound of ripped paper reached my ears again, my eyes were drawn to the spectacle at the other table.

The woman read a book too. A paperback. The curious thing I almost couldn’t fathom, was that whenever she finished a page, she ripped it out and placed it in a pile under her plate. Why would anyone want to do such a thing? What if you needed to go back some pages to look up something you’ve missed. It could never be read by another person, since she apparently left pages wherever she sat down to read. It bore no logic, and it irked me.

“Aren’t you curious about why she does it?” I whispered to Timothy.

“Not particularly. My book is far too interesting, and you won’t get an answer unless you ask her, and I guess you aren’t inclined to do that,” was his phlegmatic answer.

Timothy’s ability to turn off the world and disappear into his reading or writing, was admirable, but now it almost made me jealous of his book. I wanted to speculate with someone, solve this odd conundrum. There would be no more reading on my part after this, so I took out my phone instead.

Want to solve a mystery for me?

Pray tell! I’m bored to death and about to shoot the wall. P

Also available on AO3

Friendly warning: after 25 years the mystery is still unsolved. Don’t be shy about suggesting what the meaning of this appalling behaviour could be 🤭

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @raina-at

More tags in the replies

[thought-42]

Fictober day 4: No, we're not doing that

Critical Role, 776 words, Laerryn, Essek

Technically part of the Modern au, but all you need to know is 'generic modern au, Laerryn and Essek are queerplatonic hubris soulmates'

‘Knowing how to cast Fireball means never having to give a presentation to idiots,’ Laerryn posts to twitter, holding the phone in one hand while she brushes her teeth under the harsh light of the hotel bathroom.

She’d tranced for a grand total of ninety minutes, zoned out sitting on her bed with her tablet and her data-crunching laptop piled on her legs. Her head aches bright and sharp, but the barrier of caffeine from the bitter coffee in the single-serve machine on the desk makes it weirdly distant, easy to ignore.

She spits, splashes her face with cold water. The mirror is still fogged over with the steam from the shower, leaving her a blurry, smudged blob when she straightens up, flicking water droplets off her hair.

Her phone starts buzzing while she’s doing her eyeliner.

Essek has responded to her tweet with a fire emoji. Quay has texted ‘we talked about the arson. We’re not doing that.’ The president of the university has sent her a blank email with the subject line ‘I WILL take away your funding’, which is rich given most of her funding is external government contracts.

She deletes the email, sends Quay a picture of her blurred image in the mirror with no context, and messages Essek ‘where are you I need better caffeine and also for you to review my slides’

He responds instantly, because he is the use case for ‘young people and their phones these days’. ‘I was on a call with Verin. At the beach so he would be jealous. I am walking back to the hotel now.’

‘I’ll meet you,’ she tells him, and starts shoving computers into her bag.

It’s not that she needs him to review her slides, really. She’s leaps and bounds ahead of him in ley line mapping, mostly because New Avalir has some of the most advanced tech in the world and Xhorhas… doesn’t, and also because one of them got distracted by almost committing treason and one of them almost killed her best friend and surprisingly it’s the almost treason that interferes more significantly with your professional aspirations. Mostly she’s just feeling the usual discomfort of being in an unfamiliar environment with a bunch of people she doesn’t know but who still expect her to act a certain way. She’s not Essek. She can’t bring herself to play out the standard conference scripts. It’s why, the first day they’d met three years ago, she’d chosen to get drunk and argue with him, an actual stranger, in her hotel room for sixteen hours instead of hosting the abjuration mixer she’d signed up for.

Patia is on a dig and couldn’t be bothered to teleport over to Tal’Dorei for this conference, and Caleb still doesn’t attend academic events for fear of his mysterious past that she has only managed to pry bits and pieces of from Essek. She hasn’t even seen Essek yet, because his flight had been cancelled and he didn’t arrive until a few hours ago. She’d spent the previous day taking scathing notes on presentations and standing near the walls of the lobby and the ballroom and the restaurant clutching a glass of expensive whisky and not making eye contact with anyone and desperately wishing she did not have to be a person.

She’d texted Quay, but he’d been at his own thing, a charity gala hosted by one of the three-fucking-hundred Majesters, and his responses had all clearly been typed out under the veil of a table cloth. Evandrin was at the same gala as Quay, which meant he had even less time to spend on his phone.

—

She walks down the cobbled path leading from the hotel to the seawall for a good five minutes, mentally cursing her impractical shoes and taking pictures of the sunrise over the harbour for Zerxus, before she sees Essek trudging towards her. He’s not floating, but he’s not using his crutches, either, and his progress is slow and shaky. It sets off tiny alarm bells in her head which she quashes ruthlessly. It’s none of her business how he chooses to get around, and when she gets closer she can see he’s smiling a real smile, soft and almost peaceful. Rosohna and Zadash are both pretty landlocked. Living on an island sometimes she forgets that for a lot of people the ocean is something special.

“Hi,” she says, once he’s close enough.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, soft like it’s taken him by surprise.

He waits for her to hug him first. It feels like the first moment she’s been present in her body in three days.

[parchmentpaperandco]

2 Bluewater Quays

Refurbished and remodelled for 2024 by Parchment, Paper & Co.

As the name suggests, this was the second apartment block in the "Development that changed Bluewater Village" (from the 2016 brochure).

At the recent Reboot Launch (Press only), held on the sixth floor we were treated to a selection of prosciutto on hand-crafted rye crispbreads and a medium sized glass of rose from an unpronounceable vineyard that I'd not heard of, but onto the apartments.

Well if you're the loner type (these are only 1 bedroom) who is making good money in a modern field like Influencer, TikTok or Gamer then look no further. If on the other hand you're a decent hard-working type then look away now - these apartments start at 1,748.

On the plus side, the two young men who are overseeing the rentals are quite something. Kobi (no seriously) has a tan to die for and Eli is a dead ringer for a young Brad Pitt - I hardly new where to look when he bent over to pick up my man bag, that had slipped seductively off my shoulder whilst on a 1-2-1 show-around of the garden apartment.

Apartments at 2 Bluewater Quays are available now. Call the P,P&C hotline on the usual number or take a chance that one of the boys is on site and cold call!

[paracosmicparadox]

So, I'm falling back into the FFXV kick, and I have decided that I disapprove of how little complex character development Square Enix has given the guys?? Like where is the emotional depth beyond surface-level cutscene angst?? So I took matters into my own hands and have compiled a handy little list of headcanons / expanded canons that I think make sense.

Noctis: Has clinical insomnia and frequent lucid dreams (sorta a given, but bear w me bear w me)

Feels the weight of having to take so much on from such a young age much, much more than he lets on

Loves to argue

Would've been happier if he and Luna stayed as childhood best-buds rather than betrothed fiancés (controversial, ik, but it just didn't seem like he cared that much for her romantically to me?? Like he obviously cared about her, but it seemed like a really strong penpal vibe rather than a "We're-gonna-get-married-and-be-the-next-hotshot-couple" vibe. If you disagree, coolio, I'm not gonna debate w you on this one)

Has a natural sadness to his eyes regardless of what he's feeling

Went through an anime phase (possibly still in his anime phase, idk)

Social anxiety for the win

Severe RBF

Prefers tea over coffee (black tea is best---particularly lavender earl grey)

Can play the cello (practicing tho?? Don't know her)

Writes the most beautiful poetry when The Motivation™ strikes him (usually when he's home sick and half-delirious)

Prompto: Has ADHD and clinical anxiety, but is undiagnosed and doesn't take any meds for either of them.

Is legit like SO SMART, but can never focus, so not many people take any notice

Wears contact lenses (he had glasses as a child and I refuse to believe he had some high-tech corrective surgery to eliminate the need for them when lenses are cheaper and less risky)

Doesn't drink caffeine because it makes him jittery

Doesn't drive the Regalia when the guys are around because having other people in the car distracts him from the road. Also he tends to drive like a speed demon, which worries Ignis to no end.

Sunburns insanely easily

Could legit become a hitman if he wanted to with the amount of gun-knowledge he has. It doesn't matter what firearm you put in this boy's hand---pistol, SMG, sniper, rocket launcher, you name it. He can and will hit the target every single time.

Addicted to adrenaline

Pansexual

Has a lot of self-loathing (we see a bit of this in Ep. Prompto) and talks with an online therapist about it via text whenever his lows hit him. He's making great progress in learning how to heal and how to accept himself for who he is beyond the mask he wears for others

Ignis: More than a little bit of a control freak, and works very hard not to be too overbearing or critical about his friends' misgivings

Hypochondriac

Wants to protect everyone all the time and mentally kicks himself when he doesn't get there fast enough

Is SO PROUD of Noctis's journey and felt a stronger hatred towards Ardyn than anyone else in the group for what he forced Noct to go through (he stayed up at night sick to his stomach with hollow rage and baked nonstop to take his mind off of it)

Can verbally obliterate a man, but only rarely chooses to do so bc he's classy like that

After losing his eyes, he notices so much more beauty in the world than he used to (the sound of rain on the Regalia's roof, the specific gait of each of his friends, the smell of salt on the wind in Galdin Quay, the flawless feel of one specific silk tie he has in his repertoire, etc)

His internal compass is never wrong

Regularly takes antacids for his stomach

Has the straightest teeth you've ever seen

Demiromantic

Gladio: Hates being wrong: it's his way or the highway

Actually so much smarter than the musclehead jock front he puts up

A little vain and easily jealous (this man has a Jealous Face like no other)

Thunderstorms are his favorite; his ideal place to be is at a campsite, during a storm, with a well-worn book and a mug of Irish coffee in hand

Would throw himself in front of a bus for any one of his friends

Would beat up kids for the folks he cared about in middle school and spent the time he wasn't training to be a Crownsguard sitting in detention with the most unrepentant, smug, and-I'd-do-it-again look scrawled across his face

Can make a better smoothie than anyone (except maybe Iggy)

Spotify junkie

Had a dinosaur phase as a kid and can still name random facts about them whenever the opportunity presents itself

Avid technology-hater and only has a phone to make calls and join the others in playing King's Knight since they begged him so profoundly (he's sure the thing's going to be his downfall)

Gets most of Prompto's pop culture references

[searchingforserendipity25]

Hold His Own | on ao3.

Elros and his family, for @nolofinweanweek.

Elros left his children the tools and the means to commit all the mistakes of his forefathers, and new ones besides; and he was not sorry for it in the slightest. (All of them come to him in the dark once at least, crying and seasick, wanting to be held and sang to quietness. There was a wave, little Vardamir said it first; and his children after him, too, weeping and afraid as he had vowed they never would be. A wave, and it was angry, and it came for everything).

In his old age, Tar-Minyatur looked little older than his grandson's children. Silver was in his hair, and the silver of his eyes a little dulled; but his mind was sharp still, and eager. He walked the quays every day, and bent his back on harvesting seasons. 

Only his son's growing weakness kept him from venturing out on the fishing vessels that scoured Ulmo's realm for fat tunas and rich whales - and all his children and their children were raised more on tales of the first eventful seal-hunting expeditions up and down the shores of Númenor than on tales of Beleriand.

 Sirion, Doriath, Gondolin and Hithlum - those came later, when they learned their letters and their histories. His brother, in love with lore and the keeping of lore, would argue against it, and no doubt rear his children in the wisdom of Melian's line and the solemnity of eternal memory.

Elros was mortal. He raised his people to love themselves first of all, their cities and language and ways. They sang new songs every season, composed new and useless rhythms with dizzying speed - and the king of Elenna, who had grown among enemies, and made war on Melkor, delighted above all things in this speedy work, the restless pettiness of every day's effort.

The work of one's hands was rarely more beautiful than when it was raised up to protect against wind, hail and spray - than when towers were raised on strong foundations, and around them cities raised on beautiful lines.

He wrote his deeds and thoughts in treatises and decrees, the lore made to be read by lore masters in centuries to come. It was important to keep the past alive, and prepare for the future, study portents and ignore not foresight - Yet not, Elros wrote in the letters he tossed at the waves, Mithlond-bound, at the expense of this year's seaweed nurseries.

Vardamir was hungry enough to learn, and Tindómiel cared mostly for the business of the ships and the studies of the stars - Atanalcar went pearl-diving most of the summer, every summer of his life, and Manwendil liked riding best of all, and was a friend to the sea-birds that brought him small tokens of sea-glass and feathers.

Elros left his children the tools and the means to commit all the mistakes of his forefathers, and new ones besides; and he was not sorry for it in the slightest. 

(All of them come to him in the dark once at least, crying and seasick, wanting to be held and sang to quietness. There was a wave, little Vardamir said it first; and his children after him, too, weeping and afraid as he had vowed they never would be. A wave, and it was angry, and it came for everything).

He soothes them all. Lullabies, half-forgotten and half-improvised, sweet with Menegroth's lilting rhymes; a few tries at the harp, and their little heads rested trustingly on his shoulder, asleep without fear again.

Dreams were only dreams, in the morning. None of them saw bloodshed before their coming of age; none of them would shed blood unjustly, for greed.

Tar-Minyatur knew this, because they were his children. He knew also that their children were like to have children themselves, and for all the friendship of the sea, an island was only so large and plentiful as the number of its people allowed them to be.

The gulls brought gifts to him, too. Perhaps they would do so to his descendants, too, five or ten births down the line, if not twenty. Did birds lose the keenness of their memory, as old men did?

The king's windows were always open, to the fresh star-lit light of the evening, when the weather allowed. In his last years, his bones turned into tyrants even on warm nights, but Tar-Minyatur found time to evade his minders, to bring out his bowl of seaweed and dumplings to the parapets of his towers and speak to Gil-Estel all the same.

All the old people of the island did, when they were soon to die. That last bearing of witness, some of the Edain held, was what stars were for, and this one most of all.

They may choose to tear them down in time, and build them anew, wrote Tar-Minyatur, silver-haired and trembling with the cold of an open window, young still in a way his brother would never be again.

He had taken to reading old philosophical texts with his son's grandchildren, now that they were old enough to be interested in these things, to know death and be a little angry at it, and petulant about the old king's way of teasing them. They went off to complain to Vardamir, who explained everything a little better, a little more sensibly.

No one had called him Elros in many years. All the same, the king wrote: Let them be as they would! That will be their choice! But they shall choose, and choose to look onwards, not back into the unalterable past. The best gift I can give them is to give them some stone and soil to stand upon, and the will to go onwards as they would, with the years they have to live.

 Tar-Minyatur raised his children to know this. Great and terrible things came of that, and he foresaw many, if not most; but then, one must think of this day's effort most of all. The future would come, as certain as the tides and the summer storms. It was enough to leave behind strong foundations, and something of estel to pass onwards. All wise old men in Elenna knew this, and held it to be true.

[confessthysiins]

[ let go ] after holding onto receiver's hand for a while, sender finally, reluctantly releases their grip

THE ROMANCE OF HANDS & TOUCH. / OPEN.

It’s a short ride from the police station to the waterside where Oswald parks the car. They rode in a tense, pained silence, the rumble of the engine and the quiet song of crooners on the radio their only reprieve from it’s seeming eternity. He didn’t know what to say, and he warrants Miriam didn’t either.

He’d gotten the call around 1 A.M. “ I’m sorry, ” Miriam had answered through dry sobs. “ I didn’t know who else to call. ” She’d been found huddled at the back of a Corolla in an old dealership in the industrial district, a cold girl just looking to spend the night anywhere with a door, with a lock. So Oswald had thrown on his coat and left the comforts of sleep for the station. “ I’ll be right there, dear. Just give me a few minutes, ” he had said, voice uncharacteristically rough with the unexpected waking. He’d driven safely despite the web of feelings being spun in his gut as though by a great spider. He was worried, of course - they’d taken her in on trespassing charges, but surely she didn’t have any ID. Had they checked her bag and inevitably found drugs? Had they been rough with her, or at all uncouth? He found it hard to stomach the thought of her alone in a holding cell, her only crime having sought shelter in the frigid night.

He’d been at the station by 1:30 A.M. Only a few minutes after talking to the officer in charge they were already gone. Miriam hadn’t hugged him when she’d been released, hadn’t spoken at all while they remained inside. She’d been quiet, apologetic in her silence. She looked tired and hungry, like a lost child, or a martyr. The cops teased them about the fancy car. Oswald escorted her out with an arm around her shoulders.

“ How’d you do it? ” she had asked as he opened the passenger door of the Cadillac for her. “ What do you mean? ” He sat himself. “ Get me out, I mean. How’d you do it? ” “ I lied, ” he had answered so naturally. He didn’t tell her that he said he was her father.

They’d pulled up at a drive-through on the harbor ( “ You look like you’d eat me if I gave you the chance, ” he’d said, surely meaning to tease, but his tone was tired and she found it unnerving. ) For himself Oswald took only a black coffee. In the confessional darkness of the car, Miriam apologized again. “ I must have woken you up. ” “It’s alright, dear. I told you you could always call me if there was an emergency, after all. I’m just glad I could be there. ” He’d sighed as they drove away. He sounded exhausted. Did he resent her for this? Maybe he’d have her make it up to him, somehow. She wasn’t sure how to feel about the thought.

It’s almost 2 A.M. now. They’re parked by the waterside under the cold halide lamps, at a small quay where older locals liked to fish and younger ones liked to smoke weed and make out. The pavement is strewn with broken glass. A drunk had puked up his night’s excess at the very edge of the cement. It’s just the two of them now. Oswald turns the key and the engine’s purr dies with a hot sigh. He clears his throat as he exits the car, closing his black wool coat about himself. Miriam follows him, her demureness reminiscent of the quiet apologia that follows an argument. 

He leans against the front bumper of the car, a cigarette in one hand, the other roaming his pockets. When he sighs mist enshrouds him in gold, white hair yellowed by the streetlights. “ Here I am, ” he smiled, the ghost of impatience ruining his usual genuinity, “ up at 2 A.M., smoking by the bay like a teenager. I havn’t smoked in years, you know? ” he adds, the patting at his pockets growing frustrated. “ Say, Miriam, dear, have you got a light? ” That was what he said. But what she heard was, You always find a way to bring out the worst in me. She looks out to the water, star-specked with the cityscape’s myriad lights. She gives him the lighter anyway. “ Thanks, darling. ”

He offers her one before lighting his own cigarette up, takes a long drag, head thrown back in the pleasure of old habit. Miriam fiddles with her bag. “ Come, ” he tells her, and she obeys, though she dares not look into his eyes. He’s tired and resentful, and she’s just waiting for the thunder of his anger to strike. But it never does. When he leans in close to light her up she shivers like soft grass before lightning. A smoky exhale trails behind him as he redresses, but something holds him back. Miriam’s hand is closed on his, holding the lighter. She doesn’t care for the trinket. Wet eyes are fixed on him, puffy with dried tears. She tugs ever so lightly at him, soft fingers searching for his own, thin and bony. This is her begging: Please, my God, let me have this. Just a moment, let me have this. And then I will ask for nothing more.

“ Miriam… Oh, Miriam. ”

He looks sad, with his white hair falling on his sunken face, when his thumb moves to caress hers, a soft and lithe touch, the only kind he can afford himself lest he forgive reason and embrace her. Poor lonely Miriam, with no one in the world but him. Right there in her icy eyes, he can see it so clearly. Right there alone by the dark water and the shining city lights he’s all she has. In another life, he kisses her hard and fast. But in this one, he slowly unwraps her hand from his, pulls away from the closest they’ve ever been to breaking. He cannot be her everything, can’t afford to throw it all away for her, skinny girl with her beautiful gaze that chills like winter, for her fascinating black-hole desires and all consuming, all consummating love. But he can at least bear her hurts, for now. He steps away, cigarette burning between cold lips, sighs as his hands reluctantly quit hers to hide in his coat. He closes his eyes, face like a mask of death under the lights, as another smoke-heavy exhale hides him, if briefly, from her burning own. 

“ I have to make a call. Would you wait in the car for me? ”

When he sits next to her again in the darkness the well of emotions in her ragged throat is unbearable. Touch me, she thinks, do anything you want, but please don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me. In silence he puts in his key and the engine roars to life. She’s been good, she’s been obedient. Surely he’ll forgive her her small transgression, her tentative peek beyond the boundaries of their doctor-patient relationship. “ Where are we going? ” she asks sheepishly. When he answers he fails to hide a certain irritation in his tired voice. “ I have a conference tomorrow-” a flick of his wrist as he checks the time, “ four hours from now. Damned Europeans. I’d like to get at least a little bit of sleep until then. ” She feels guilty, but says nothing.

“ Don’t worry, ” he tells her as they roll up on the highway. “ I've found you somewhere for tonight. ” She doesn’t ask what will become of her. After what he did for her tonight, he’d still be a saint for leaving her on a street corner to wander till morning. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t talk any more, nor looks at her. He just drives home.

[sanddall-asy]

[Image Description: A drawing of Quays, an anthropomorphic cat incubus, and Dally, an anthropomorphic sheep, in a testing chamber in Aperture Science from Portal. Quays is standing halfway through a portal, with their legs on a light bridge up in the distance and their torso and head poking out of a portal and leaning towards Dally with a soft smile. Dally is standing with their back towards Quays and is grinning at them over xeir shoulder while xeir arm wearing an orange portal gun is pointed up at the wall that Quays’ legs are coming out of. Quays is a white cat with rainbow polka dots, short fluffy brown hair, wings, and small red demon horns, and they’re wearing a white tanktop over a blue tanktop, orange shorts, high-jump boots, a blue portal gun, glasses, and a red spiked collar with a bell. Dally has brown skin, dark teal fur, orange eyes, and four horns with a light teal to dark blue gradient on each, and is wearing a blue button-up t-shirt with the Aperture logo on it, orange pants, high-jump boots, an orange portal gun, and round glasses. End ID.]

Art from last year’s Art Fight of my and @nerdepic’s OCs!

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Sixteen

We talk for hours and hours as the light creeps across the floorboards and the sky takes on a lavender hue. Jude makes me laugh so much that my face hurts from it, and I’m hesitant to move, to get up to use the bathroom or to grab a glass of water in case I shift the vibe and he starts thinking about leaving, because I could sit here forever more and have him talk to me. 

My stomach ruins it in the end, by growling loud and long, and I clamp my hands over it as he raises his eyebrows. “Hungry?”

“We never had lunch.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Maybe we should get going.”

“Back to Dublin?”

“Unless you feel like eating the stale rice cakes in the kitchen cupboard.”

I would, if it meant I could stay, but saying things like that would make me seem far more desperate than I’d like to appear. 

“So what do you think, do you want to hit the road, or…” He trails off, leaving me with the impression that he has another option in mind. I raise my eyebrows. “Or?”

“Well, I’m not sure.” he says, drumming his fingers idly on his knee. “It’s just that it’s five now, and even when we leave we won’t be home until seven, and by then I’ll be much hungrier than I am now…”

“Yes and we can’t have that.”

“Right! You know how I get. I mean, we could always stop on the way and get a sad, miserable bag of chips from some dive by the side of the road.”

“Oh, miserable.” I echo.

“Or, you know, if you’re at all up for it I was thinking we could go and get something now, and then go back to Dublin after that.”

I rest my head on my fist and grin at him. “Had you a place in mind?”

“There’s this seafood restaurant that I used to go to with my parents every Friday night during our summers here, it’s not too far, maybe a half hour drive…”

“It’s nice?”

“Oh my God, Evie, like, so nice. You have to try it. Have you eaten lobster before?”

“Is that a joke?”

“No.”

I feel like I should bat him upside the head, but I restrain myself. “Of course I haven’t eaten lobster before. Are you cracked? I’m from a council estate.”

A smile splits across his face as he shrugs. “Well then it’s even more reason to try it, isn’t it.” I open my mouth, but he already knows what I’m going to say. “My treat.” He says. “All of it. I’m the reason we’re here anyway, and we’re celebrating… this house not being flattened by the storm.”  

“Yes, what a good reason.” 

“So what do you think?”

I squint at him. “Is this a date? Are you asking me to go on a date with you?”

He pretends to be surprised. “Well I never thought about it like that. Is that something you’d ever want to do?”

“Do you know how goofy you are? Just ask me.”

“How about a date, Evie? Let me take you to dinner. Whaddia say?” 

I roll my eyes and whack him in the bicep. “Obviously, you dope.”

We park the car by a trinket shop that overlooks a small spit of a beach, strewn with ribbons of slimy seaweed. In this little fishing village of whitewashed walls and thatched roofs, we are butted up right up against the south coast, overlooking the stretch of green, choppy water where the Irish Sea kisses the Atlantic. The wind is salty and crisp, and whips my hair away across my face and into my mouth and eyes so ferociously that I have to battle it out of my face. Jude takes me by the hand to guide me across the road, and I pretend that I’m too preoccupied with the hair in my mouth to notice, because if I think about the fact that we’re holding hands too hard I might start freaking out about it.

The seafood restaurant is a solid old building with the air of something that’s stood proud on this quay for decades. We duck inside its wooden panelled walls and I’m enveloped in the warm glow of a fire that blazes in the corner. The walls are stuffed with fishing paraphernalia, and faded buoys old nets drape from the ceiling. The final dregs of the evening sun passes through the lobster tank as our hostess leads us right past it and to our seat in a cosy corner beneath a display of old black and white photographs, newspaper clippings of this very restaurant, looking the very same as it does now over fifty years ago.

“Don’t look at the prices.” Jude warns me as we open our menus. “They’re irrelevant.”

“Well even if I wanted to, there’s no price on the lobster.” I comment, and he tells me it’s because they charge you based on the weight, but I think that even a ballpark estimate would have been useful. How are you supposed to know? But then again, maybe people who eat things like lobster just instinctively know what it’s worth. 

In the end I don’t risk it, it’d feel unfair to Jude’s wallet, so I order crab instead. He, however, decides on lobster, and when they bring one out on a silver tray to see if he wants it, and when I realise it’s still moving, I feel like I could jump out of my skin. 

“It’s fucked up that they’re going to go back to the kitchen and boil him alive.” I hiss across the table once they’ve taken it away, and Jude pulls a face. “Usually they stab it before throwing it in.”

“Oh, God.”

“Don’t think about it in those terms. They killed your crabs too. It’s just the nature of preparing meat.”

“I’m not taking a bite.” I declare, which is a lie, because forty minutes later when they bring out our food the first thing Jude does is hold a generous forkful of it to me and it looks and smells so delicious that I don’t even hesitate. He watches my expression carefully as though his ego depends on my enjoyment of this particular crustacean. 

“It’s very nice.” I concede. “But not as nice as it should be, considering the way things had to end for him.”

“If they sold me for food at 30 euros a pound I probably wouldn’t be that mad about it, honestly.” He says. 

“Thirty euros a pound?” I echo in shock. “That’s what it costs?”

“I can’t tell if you expected it to be more or less than that.”

“Well I don’t know.” I splutter. “Either way it’s becoming clear to me that eating lobster is completely egregious.”

“Yeah totally.” He says, and lazily feeds me another forkful while his ankles brush against mine with intention beneath the table in a way that’s outrageously flirtatious. “How is your crab?”

“Very nice.” I say guiltily. “But I’m sure the crab hasn’t suffered like the lobster.”

“You can tell yourself that if it makes you feel any better. Would you like wine?”

“Are you going to to drink some?”

“A little.”

“I’m trying not to drink that much.” I say. “I think I have a really bad relationship with alcohol.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, sometimes when I drink I think about my father, and the slippery slope that leads to the point that he’s at. I don’t want that to be me.”

“It doesn’t have to be you, you’re not the same as him.”

I shrug. “I suppose that’s true, I just don’t think I’ve ever had a normal relationship with drinking.”

“How so?”

“You know how in Spain and Italy and stuff, they buy these little dinky glasses of beer and sit out drinking them with dinner, sipping away and enjoying them for an hour or so, never with the intention of getting drunk, but just to enjoy the flavour?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Well I can’t relate to that. In my head alcohol has one purpose, and it’s to make me stop thinking about the things in my life that are bad, the things I don’t want to think about anymore, just for a few hours. It’s never just one. It’s four. At least, and then probably more, and once I get to that point it’s like, if someone starts buying rounds, or shots I just can’t stop myself.”

“Hm.” He says, and pushes his food around with his fork. “I get what you mean. I think that’s common.”

“It’s common but it’s not normal.”

“Yeah, maybe it isn’t, but you’ve told me before about how you used to go drinking in fields with your friends as a young teenager. I wonder if those early experiences shape your relationship with alcohol, you know, if your introduction to it is in that environment, where you just want to get as drunk as possible because everyone says it’s fun, it can be hard to shake those patterns.”

“Yeah maybe.”

“That’s another thing you have to thank Kelly for, I suppose.”

I frown. “Kelly?”

“Yeah, I mean, isn’t she the one that pressured you into all of those things early on? You said she was always making you do things you didn’t want to, like, kissing those horrible boys at the discos or getting into pubs with fake IDs.”

“Oh. Yeah she was, but the alcohol thing was me.”

He looks genuinely surprised. “Yeah?”

“Sure I was the one with a house full of it. My dad had so much lying around that he wouldn’t even notice it going missing. I was the first one to try it, to bring it out and make everyone else have it too.”

“Oh. I didn’t think that.”

“It doesn’t seem that way, does it?”

“It really doesn’t.”

“I’m a complicated woman, Jude.” I wink. “There’s so much you don’t know.”

“Yet.” He says with emphasis. “I’ll crack that head open and get it all out of you eventually.”

I grin, and go back to my food, not really sure how much of myself, the insides of my head I’ll ever be ready to share with him or anybody else. 

We leave the restaurant with full bellies a couple of hours later, and it’s dark now, and so cold, but with Jude I feel as though I’m enveloped in a warm, orange glow. He takes my hand on the way back to the car, and he’s not nervous, so neither am I, and it feels normal and right and easy. I lean into his shoulder and hold my free hand over my stomach. 

“I think maybe dessert was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t.”

“For you maybe.”

“I’d probably never call cheesecake a mistake.”

“Oof.” I say, and I lean against the bonnet of the car as I wait for him to unlock it. “I’m really not looking forward to this journey home.”

“Yeah, well too bad. We have to go.” A pause. “We should go, right?”

I look over at him as he spins the keys indecisively around his finger and I can’t help but smile. “Yes, we probably should.”

“Unless…”

“I mean, we don’t have to if we don’t want to.”

He looks a bit relieved that I’ve said it. “No.” He admits. “Can I be honest about that? I don’t want to go home.”

“Then let’s not go.” 

“You don’t need to?”

“Actually not at all. It kind of feels like the rest of the world doesn’t exist when I’m out here, and I wouldn’t mind keeping it that way for a while.”

“Yeah, exactly. I kind of want to stay away from things for a while. We can go in a few hours, don’t you think?” 

“Well I don’t mind, as long as you don’t mind driving when it’s late.”

“Luckily I don’t.”

“Let’s get back to the beach anyway, things are closing up around here.” I peer around us at shuttered gift shops, the owner of the fruit and vegetable stall on the corner bringing his crates inside. “Maybe it’s more lively there.”

“Lively is never a word I’d use to describe that village, but I think I might know somewhere we can go for a while.”

“Sounds good.”

“Let’s keep this party going.” He grins, and when I’m settled into the passenger seat behind him and he has the heat blasting over our cold skin, I tap out a message to Claire. 

Not coming home for a few hours. Don’t wait up xx

Omg Evie! Stay safe, girly. I mean it literally. This is why I keep telling you to go on the pill. 

It’s not like that! Don’t worry. 

Even though it potentially is like that. I’m not fully sure, honestly, but I try not to worry about it as we leave behind the street lamps of the tiny fishing village and coast onto pitch dark country roads. Jude feels me staring at him, and the way that the dashboard tosses a soft blue glow over his face. His mouth ticks up at the corner. 

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing at all. Zero.”

“Fair enough.” He switches on the radio, I rest my head against the glass, and watch hedges and trees, grass and ditches light up and disappear under the headlights all the way back to the beach. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

[elains]

✾ chapter 2  — magic

❧ Summary: The way Elain and Lucien discovered their mating bond was perhaps not ideal, and the road towards falling in love and accepting their feelings full of thorns — but throughout challenges and adversity, they have made it work. Now, eternity awaits them.

A series of connected ficlets for Elucien Week 2023, set post the end of the series when all villains are gone, following episodes of Elain and Lucien's sometimes quiet, sometimes agitated, life together.

For @elucienweekofficial

Read on Ao3! • Chapter one

 Built on the shores of a glistening turquoise sea, Haemera was a thing of beauty: the lower city rested on white sands like shells on a beach, painted in bright white colors and with gilded roofs. The quays of the rectangular harbor speared the calm, deep water of the sea, where ships from all over the world came to moor, seeking knowledge only the Day Court held. The libraries and the palace district themselves, as well as the Temple of the Risen Sun and the sprawling estates of the nobility, lay perched atop the cliffs, ever-haloed by the blazing sun.

Velaris was the City of Starlight, but Haemera was the City of Sunlight — the entire metropolis shimmered in different colors as the sun rose and set, yellow and orange and pink and purple. When the sun was at its brightest, the white paint seemed to reflect all the colors of the rainbow.

Yet, for all its beauty and bustling activity, Elain and Lucien had elected to move away from it. After years in court, they wanted their own private space, far from prying eyes. Phoebe and Helion had not been keen on the idea, discontent to part with their son and daughter-in-law, but eventually, the four of them came to an agreement.

So Helion gifted them ownership of the Red Palace and all its surrounding lands. It was located on the outskirts of Haemera, far enough that the city walls and its lights were no longer seen, but close enough as to be reached by winnowing once. The construction stood on the slope of a hill flanked by sprawling vineyards and olive trees, a ruby set against the verdant earth, its intricate mullioned windows and latticed walls making for an airy but intimate space.

And the courtyards. The Red Palace had more courtyards than Elain knew what to do with, fountains and pools of water with ivy climbing the elegant columns and archways. They were positioned strategically to allow sunlight and the salty breeze to sweep in, and she could not wait to make every one of them more beautiful than the next. 

She had, of course, immediately invited Nuan to see what mechanical improvements she could think of for the Palace's irrigation systems.

“This is insanity,” Nuan said with a shake of her head, taking a look at Elain's elegant handwritten scrawled all across the parchment. 

Elain huffed, shifting in her seat. “Well, no need to be so blunt. It's merely an idea.”

“An insane idea.” Nuan put down the parchment and removed her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It has been tried before, you know? In the continent, in the long lost fae city of Ashnan.”

“I do know the legend, thank you very much. Ashnan, the City of Pillars, whose fae dug too deep and too hungrily into the sands for water to feed their mighty projects and awakened something they should not, unleashing a maelstrom that dragged the city to a grave at the core of the world.” She waved a hand, wrinkling her nose. “We were told this story as babies as a cautionary tale of greed — ours and the fae's.”

“And even though you know how Ashnan ended, you still want to try and recreate its hanging gardens?”

“I don't want to recreate the hanging gardens of Ashnan, but rather something inspired by it.” Elain picked up her teacup and sipped the warm apple tea. “Besides, the Red Palace is hardly Ashnan. There's water aplenty, no need to dig so deep, and we are not trying to commit folly against the very laws of the world. Which, I believe, might have more to do with the city's downfall than the gardens proper. But most importantly, they didn't have you to think about the mechanics of it all.”

Nuan snorted. “This is madness.”

“Perhaps it is.”

“It will take years to be completed ”

“Most likely.”

“It will also be costly.”

“Not a problem. The treasury is overflowing.” 

“And it will require the brightest, most brilliant of inventors and crafters to pull it off.”

“Good thing then she's a friend of mine and is sitting right in front of me, isn't it?” Elain set down her cup, a smile breaking across her face. 

The other female let out a deep sigh and got up, leaning over the plans and Elain's annotations with furrowed brows.

“To recreate the work of the ancients into something everlasting…” She rubbed her chin with her thumb, biting her nail, thoughtful. The corner of her mouth lifted. “Yes, that is doable, I think.”

“You will do it then?” Elain asked, eyes lighting up.

“Elain, please. I made that decision the moment you first unveiled your plans.” She smirked at Elain, playful and mischievous, the gears in her head already turning, working full speed. “You will need my special kind of magic to pull this off. Why, someone else may get it wrong.”

༻ ❁ ༺

After Lucien and Elain were well settled in the palace and the main living areas properly redecorated and renovated, Helion and Phoebe invited themselves to stay the whole week. The Day Court, Helion said, wasn't so unstable and devoid of administrative talent so as not to handle one week without its High Lord and High Lady.

Elain woke just before dawn, when the sky was still that deep, fathomless blue darker than any black, broken only by the distant reds, oranges, and purples of daybreak. Soon the sun would rise and chase the shadows away.

She was a light sleeper, had always been, and their time living in the cottage had accustomed her to rising with the birds and the wildlife. In Velaris, Elain hadn't let go of her old habits, not in the least because the early morning was the only time of the day the Inner Circle wouldn't be around and she could enjoy some moments alone with her thoughts.

Seldom did she sleep the morning away, and even rarer did she stay awake late at night: that was reserved for when there were parties and revelries. 

Elain turned on the bed, coming face to face with her mate. Lucien was still soundly asleep, shirtless, his chest rising and falling with the tranquil rhythm of his heartbeat. Much like her, he was an early riser and a light sleeper, one forged by necessity, by a lifetime on high alert, expecting a blade between his ribs.

Though he probably wouldn't wake up anytime soon today, Elain reckoned with a chuckle. Lucien had tried — and utterly failed — to beat Helion in a drinking contest and had to be carried to bed like a baby. She ought to ask Feyre to paint two canvases of the scene so she could give one to Lucien and one to Helion.

With a contented sigh, she rose, pulling away the gossamer curtains that separated her dressing room from hers and Lucien's chambers. Her handmaids were nowhere to be seen, as Elain demanded they only start fussing over her after the sun was already up and high in the sky. Mother knew that if they tried to follow Elain's sleeping schedule, they'd get no rest at all.

She grabbed her pink silk robe from a hanger put it on, tying it around the waist with a ribbon. Then, she left the room through the side door, emerging directly in front of one of her moon gardens. The sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine and the newly bloomed rhododendrons clung to the air, carried by a tranquil breeze.

Elain crossed the garden, running her fingers over the marble edges of the fountain, coming to stand at a balcony overlooking a sheer drop in the hill. Down below, the laborers were already up, all set to start harvesting the ripe grapes. She leaned on the balustrade, resting her face on her hand, and closed her eyes. 

She stood like that for a while, listening to the nightingales sing, the wind whispering as it brushed through the vines, the rushing streams sneaking through the nearby woods. 

Footsteps echoed in the hallway and she opened her eyes, turning to where they were coming from.

Helion grinned at the sight of her, shining faintly on the half-light. She smiled back in response and moved aside, making way for him to stand beside her.

“That habit of yours remains?” He inquired, searching her face.

“It seems like I'm doomed to awake at dawn or in the early morning, no matter my best efforts.” Elain lifted her shoulders, long since resigned to her fate. “And what of you? Is the Lord of Day out to bring daylight for us fae or did you just not sleep?”

“You know quite well that telling the sun when to rise and set is far beyond my powers, though I might be able to light up the night for a time if I tried hard enough,” Helion answered with a chuckle. “No, my dear. As you are doomed to awake early, so am I doomed to sleepless nights. It has grown better with my Phoebe with me but… We all have our demons.”

Elain said nothing, staring at the horizon as the light blue color of the morning skies began to emerge and the sun hung over the land like a crown, allowing a companionable, deep silence to settle between them. She could never understand the depth of Helion’s scars, torn away from his mate for centuries and trapped beneath the darkness of the middle, watching helplessly as Amarantha slaughtered his kin. Lucien still had nightmares from it; she assumed Helion did, too.

“Sometimes when it is too dark and too quiet, I fear falling asleep,” she confessed, tightening her grip on the red stone. “I keep thinking that if I sleep, he will be back, waiting in my dreams with that terrible, terrible magic of his, playing with my sense of self until I can no longer distinguish what is real and what is not.”

“Is that why you closed yourself off to your visions?” Helion asked, the famous day court curiosity getting the better of him.

“In part,” Elain admitted, “but not solely because of it. The future is always in motion, always changing. Few things are set in stone. You pull a thread and suddenly, a whole other path opens. Some futures are dreadful, nightmares only. Others are the opposite. Still, constantly seeing ahead can become a burden, and I’m done living in what-ifs and could-have-been.”

Helion threw his head back with laughter. “Who needs those when we have this moment, this beautiful palace and our mates with us, a whole future ahead? I think we are quite well served, aren’t we, my dear?”

“Yes.” She stood on the tip of her toes and breathed in, releasing the balmy air with a chuckle. “And I wouldn't change it for nothing.”

Her father-in-law watched her carefully, with slightly narrowed eyes, calculating his words.

“I wasn't going to give you both this palace, you know,” he said slowly. “I planned to give you both the Sunburst House in the eastern district, where I resided in my younger years, before the war.”

Elain furrowed her brows, head askew. “And why didn't you?”

“Lucien asked for this place instead — he thought it was fitting. You should ask him yourself why he thought that, though. Perhaps there's a reason to it you do not yet know.”

༻ ❁ ༺

“Not that I’m complaining about waking up like this, love, but would you mind explaining?” Lucien asked, mirth dancing in his russet eye.

Elain lay above him, her knees beside his torso and her long, thin, callused fingers wrapped around his hands, pinning them to the mattress just beside his ears. Her hair fell over her shoulder in unbound waves, casting a shadow over the pale skin of her shoulder blades visible from her loose silk robe. 

She didn’t look very happy though, not with her squinting brown eyes and pink mouth twisted into an annoyed pout.

“Your father said you asked for this palace for us. Why?”

“Elain!” He gasped, faking outrage. “Gossiping with my father already? So early in the morning?”

“He isn’t the one keeping secrets from his mate!”

“That you know of, perhaps.” 

Elain gasped and sat on his belly, leaning down, a flush spreading across her cheeks as she brought her nose close to his. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Lucien chuckled, closing his metal eye and turning his head. “That is for you to figure out.”

“Lucien! That isn’t fair!”

“Neither is ambushing me like this, is it now?” She pressed down on him and he groaned, heat gathering between his tights. “Now you are just being mean.”

“I have a reason.” She said with a little smirk, seemingly satisfied with the reaction she elicited. “Now, the truth: why this place?”

“It has lovely gardens, it’s far enough from the city to allow us some privacy whilst being close enough to return for emergencies, the wine weather is excellent and it's a beautiful, historical building that is well suited to us.”

She rolled her eyes, clicking her tongue. “Well, yes, but I already know all this. Helion wouldn’t have mentioned it to me if there wasn’t more. So please, Lucien—” Elain let go of one of his hands, placing a finger on his lips. “— won’t you tell me?”

He closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, cursing his father inwards. Lucien had planned to tell Elain the whole story of the Red Palace eventually as a part of a grand romantic gesture to celebrate the anniversary of their mating. He still had a treasure trove of ideas for the date proper, but it would require some maneuvering and improvisation. Perhaps he ought to ask Nuan for — no, she would just murder him for the added commission in her already full agenda. Vassa and Elain’s sisters, then.

And his mother, if only so she could give Helion grief for ruining his carefully laid plans.

“I didn’t mean to keep it a secret,” he said, “but the right time to speak about it was never right. Not for me, in any case.” Lucien waited to see if she was going to say anything, but Elain only watched him with her honey gaze, patient and attentive. “Right. So, many centuries ago, long before the war, one of my ancestors, High Lord Hyperion, was arranged to marry a Princess from the continent, Nahida. Their partnership wasn’t a happy one at first. Nahida didn’t speak our dialect, nor did she know much about the Day Court and its traditions. No matter how much her husband tried, she felt like an outsider in what was supposed to be her new home.”

Elain gulped, lower lip trembling. Lucien raised his hand, tucking a stray strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Hyperion was an honorable man, determined to keep his vows to the Mother to love and cherish his wife. But how could he, when Nahida had wrapped herself so thoroughly in her own misery, not allowing anyone close? There had to be something he could do. Hyperion went to the Oracle of Mount Astreus, the highest of peaks between Day and Night, and asked how he could show his wife his sincerity? But you know how prophecy works.”

“A riddle wrapped inside an enigma encased in a question,” she agreed with a wet laugh. 

“Yes, and one even Hyperion, with all his libraries and knowledge under his domain, couldn’t unveil. It was not until he saw Nahida gazing wistfully at a desiccated lotus, the symbol of her homeland, that he understood that more than anything, his wife missed her home. He wrote to his sister-in-law, asking for her best architects and masons. Hyperion had the Red Palace built in secret and after it was done, he brought Nahida here.”

“And what did she say? What was her reaction?”

“By then, years had passed them by and Nahida had learned the language of her new home, if not perfectly. She was speechless, at first, staring at this little piece of her homeland nestled on the slope of the hill, but when Hyperion went to his knees before his knees and poured his heart out, Nahida broke down into sobs. She threw her arms around him and they both cried for all the time they had lost. Then, they decided to make the most of the years ahead, to fill this palace with happiness and laughter and joy. My family likes to say that the magic of their promise will cling to these walls until we are no more.”

“Oh Lucien,” Elain pressed her eyes close, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“I know you didn’t. I had a whole plan to tell you about it, or at least the beginnings of one.” He offered her a tremulous smile. 

“I would have liked to see it too.” She bit her lip and glanced at him from under her thick eyelashes. “Will you pretend you never told me this story and tell me again the way you planned? All your plans for the future, all your hopes, and dreams, all the magic in these halls — will you share it with me? ” 

“Only for you, Elain,” he whispered reverently against her lips, wiping away a tear with his thumb. “Only for you.” 

[weirdsatellites]

Update #163 from NROL-82 (ACCM) 1. Stained Glass Abacus Radar 2. Hellmouth of Carbon 3. Fireproof Quay

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

[ID: screenshot of i-can-even-burn-salad's reblog of dear-ao3's post of AO3 notes, reading: You, sitting in the comfort of your home, minding your own business. Me, scuttling out of the ceiling and dropping this chapter at your feet like a cat with a dead bird: :) i-can-even-burn-salad's tags read: that's how it feels like. :) *scuttles back into the ceiling* /end ID]

Now look here, you little shit. You can get back in the ceiling if you want but it won't stop me. Pulls out aerosol can and a lighter. Get out here so I can strangle you >:(

Chapter 48

Glass Shards

Warnings: Lady whump, broken ribs, punctured lung, suffocation, no anesthesia, beating, drowning (the water kind)

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Merridy tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids were too heavy. There was blood on her tongue, and a pain in her chest, familiar, and yet worse than ever before. 

“Stay with us. Hey, stay with us. Merry, is that right?”

She didn’t know that voice. It scared her. Merridy doubled her efforts to open her eyes, only to find a stranger looming over her. Deep black hair, and ice blue eyes, and a blue dress sprinkled with blood. That was strange. The woman didn’t seem to be bleeding.

Cold.

Merridy couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even scream as the cold crept deeper, numbing the pain in her chest and burning inside her at the same time. Nothing happened as she gasped for air, the bit she managed to suck in barely enough for a whimper. 

Damien.

Her hand twitched, empty save for the fabric under her fingertips. He wouldn’t leave her alone, would he? But he wasn’t here, the realization enough to momentarily drive off the fog that had settled over her thoughts.

She had promised to protect him. What if all her efforts had been in vain?

Her attempt to get up wasn’t more than a weak struggle. The woman put her hand on Merridy’s shoulder, not applying much pressure, but enough to hold her down.

“Don’t move. The healer is…” She broke off as the door sounded. “He’s here.” The relief was clear in her voice. “Everything will be fine now.”

How could everything be fine if Damien wasn’t here? Merridy was so tired, but she couldn’t sleep without knowing whether he was safe. If only it wasn’t so hard to keep her eyes open.

Muffled voices. Talking about her, not to her. About blood, and broken bones, and needing to be quick. A shimmer of auburn came into her field of vision. Merridy smiled. He hadn’t left her alone after all. He would watch over her while she slept.

She blinked, and it wasn’t Damien above her. His brother’s hair was too long, his beard too short, no hint of the familiar kindness in his eyes. Merridy was too weak to react to the panic flooding her as Damien’s brother grabbed her shoulder and hip. 

Where before his wife had been, now a stranger sat, his fingers all over her. It was like her nightmares, and just like in her nightmares, she couldn’t get away. Damien’s brother held her down while the stranger brought a blade to her skin. Merridy whimpered as the metal cut into her chest, blood running down her stomach, ice cold where it should have been warm. Fingers prodded her side, moving along the cut, slipping under her skin. Digging deeper.

Every bit of air her lungs held was put into a scream as her world turned black.

* * * 

Damien stumbled a step back, his foot almost slipping off the quay. The man followed, giving him no chance to get away from the edge.

“Should have stayed in whatever hole you were hiding in.”

Before Damien had time to catch his breath, a knee slammed into his stomach, so hard his legs buckled. He tried to catch himself, but his hand found nothing where the ground should be. In a desperate attempt to keep his balance, he threw himself forward, only to collide with a foot aiming for his shoulder. The kick shoved him over the edge, his shins scraping along the stone of the quay as he fell into the ocean.

Dark water closed over him. His scream turned into a stream of bubbles, taking precious air away from him, towards a surface that was out of reach. He had learned to swim, decades ago, but between his missing arm and his clothes rapidly soaking up the water, he sank like a rock.

Damien kicked his legs, the movements slowed by the weight of his clothes. It was barely enough to keep him from sinking further. As his lungs began to burn, his panic grew. He fought harder, kicking and thrashing, until his hand slammed against something. The shock of the impact let another series of air bubbles rise. The wall! 

The stones were slick and overgrown with algae, but they were also rough; rough enough for him to cling to it. His boots scraped over it as he pulled himself up, slowly, way too slowly. He was running out of time. Water filled his mouth, the taste of salt washing away the blood. His movements became erratic, kicking the wall, digging his nails into the crevices between the stones. 

So close, so close, so close so close so close.

The moment his head broke through the surface, he started to gasp. Water ran down his throat, making him cough and almost sink again. He clung to the wall, trying to catch his breath. The water left his vision blurry, but he didn’t need to see to know that the quay was too far above him. No chance of him climbing out, and he didn’t dare to call for help. If those men were still around, they might just decide to finish him quicker instead.

Despair filled him as his gaze cleared enough to look around. He was at last fifty steps away from shore. A distance that had seemed like nothing when walking, but now was insurmountable. He wouldn’t be able to swim that far.

Briefly, he toyed with the idea of using his magic. The risk of teleporting to a location he couldn’t see was preferable to straight up drowning, but he didn’t have the strength for it. The small spark of magic within him kept slipping away as he struggled to keep himself above the water. It wouldn’t be enough for something as difficult as a teleport. 

No. The only chance he had was to keep to the wall. The cold already sapped his strength, making his muscles stiff and his teeth chatter, but no matter how small his hope of success was, he had to try. He couldn’t give up.

The saltwater burned in his scrapes and cuts as he pushed himself forward, his head dipping underwater the moment he had to let go of the wall. He fought his way back to the surface, a tiny bit closer to safety, but still impossibly far away. 

Another push, another dip, and another, and another. Damien gasped for air, spitting out water. His fingers hurt, stiff from the cold and bleeding where the rocks had scratched them. His feet slipped off the algae, making the submerged parts of the wall slippery. Warm traces of water found their way down the coldness of his cheeks. 

Merry.

* * *

“Come on. Breathe.”

Merridy didn’t want to. It hurt too much. The fire in her lungs, and the ice in her chest, and the sand in her throat.

“Breathe, dammit.”

Someone pushed down on her chest, and she gasped involuntarily. Liquid filled her mouth and nose, dripping down her face. She coughed, struggling to breathe, unable to stop now that she had started. Everything tasted like blood. Smelled like blood. It clung to every breath she took, making her feel nauseous.

Hands were still all over her. Holding her. Touching her. Pushing her this way and that. Something tingled in her chest. People spoke in hushed voices. She didn’t bother trying to understand their words. With her face pressed against the cushions, she cried, wishing for it all to end. 

When the hands finally retreated, Merridy was completely exhausted. She had no strength left to draw back from the touch on her face. It was soft and gentle, but it wasn’t Damien. He wasn’t here. Why wasn’t he here?

A piece of cloth dabbed at her face, wiping away her blood and tears. Merridy finally opened her eyes, looking from the hand to the one it belonged to. It was the woman with the black hair. She grabbed Merridy’s shoulders, pulling her up and leaning her against the cushions.

“It’ll be easier to breathe if you sit.”

The woman. Valadan’s wife. Josephine.

“Here,” she said, offering Merridy a blanket. “You’re shaking.”

Merridy took the blanket with trembling hands, pulling it closer. Her limbs barely obeyed her will, so she didn’t wrap herself into it, only draped it over her bare chest. Hiding behind it. It did nothing to warm her.

“How do you feel?” Josephine asked.

Merridy didn’t reply.

“Your name is Merry, is that right?”

It wasn’t, but she didn’t reply to that, either. 

Josephine sighed. “You… one of your ribs broke. It punctured your lung. The healer—Elijah—fixed you up. Said you lost quite a bit of blood, and it will be sore for a few days, but the danger is over.” Her smile looked strained. “But Merry. He found traces of older injuries. Lots of bruises, and some older cuts, and…” She broke off, a mix of sadness and concern on her face. “Do you need help?”

The question didn’t make sense. Hadn’t they just healed her? 

A shadow fell over her, making her wince and cower deeper into the cushions. From the false safety of her blanket, she dared to look up. Valadan looked so much like Damien. The same auburn hair. The same hard lines around his mouth. The same purple eyes, fixed on her.

“Did my brother hurt you?” Valadan asked bluntly.

Merridy stared at him as if he had grown a second head. “W-what?” she finally stammered. “You… you attacked us.”

“That was… fuck.” He ran his hand through his hair. “It was an accident. I’m sorry.” 

An accident. He had hit Damien. Shoved him. Damien, who hadn’t even tried to fight back. The memory of that forlorn, hurt look on his face brought tears to her eyes. She knew she had tried to protect him, but everything afterwards was blurry.

“I mean before,” Valadan clarified. “Someone hurt you. Was it him?”

“He’d never hurt me. Where is he?” When no one replied, her tears spilled over, her stomach twisting in fear. “Please? Where… where’s Damien?”

“Calm down. I told him to stay away while I got the healer. I guess I’ll—” A knock on the door interrupted him. “Guess that’s him.”

While Valadan turned around, Josephine sat down next to Merridy. 

“Here. Some water.”

She handed her a glass. It was a fragile thing, with thin walls and a floral pattern. Merridy stared at the way it broke the light, wondering if in another life, Damien had made something like this.

The sip she took burned in her throat and tingled in her nose. Merridy lowered the glass as voices sounded from the entrance.

“You did what?”

Valadan’s shout made her flinch. In his anger, he sounded exactly like his brother, but unlike Damien, Merridy didn’t trust him. Her grip around the glass tightened, the water rippling as she trembled.

“It wasn’t… it was Peter! He pushed him off the quay. There was blood, and we thought… he thought… didn’t you—”

Whatever else the man stammered, it was drowned out by a slam as Valadan punched the wall. Merridy flinched, pressing herself into the corner of the sofa, a sob caught in her throat. 

Off the quay.

She didn’t even know if Damien knew how to swim! And even if he did, he was still weak, and wearing clothes, and… and…

The sob broke free, shaking her and making water spill over the blanket. Valadan looked back over his shoulder. In his eyes, Merridy saw the same fear that took her own breath away. It hit her that Damien had been wrong.

Valadan didn’t hate him. 

He turned away, pushing the man aside as he ran out the door.

“You should leave,” Josephine said, her tone as frosty as her touch had been.

Merridy looked up, but Josephine’s gaze rested on the man. He raised both hands in a defensive gesture as he backed off, pulling the door closed behind him. 

In the silence that followed, all Merridy could hear was the rushing in her ears. Her head spun, as if she couldn’t breathe again. Water dripped down her wrist. Water, and something warm. Merridy only felt the pain when Josephine reached for her hand, forcing it open. The glass was broken, shards embedded in her palm. Josephine pulled the shards out and wrapped a piece of cloth around Merridy’s bleeding hand. 

“It’s going to be okay,” she said as she pulled Merridy into her arms. “It’s going to be okay. He’ll save him.”

Merridy sank against her and started to cry.

And if THIS was a BTHB entry, it would be Punctured Lung <3

[ID: The top image is a banner covered in colorful glass shards. Across it is written the title of the story, glass shards, in a white to bright cyan gradient with a black outline. The font looks like written with a broad paintbrush. All other images in this post are purely ornamental lines. End ID.]

@dont-touch-my-soup @starrysky-whumpfics @kixngiggles @starlit-hopes-and-dream

[salantami]

My expedition into the world of balconies (10)

Nancy,France, the Maison Huot - 92, Claude-le-Lorrain Quay . Architect: Emile André. Art glass: Jacques Gruber 1904.