#tell me how capitalism itself is at fault

[libertyybellls]

I DON'T KNOW WHY I BITE ?

pairing; finnick odair x f!reader

summary; few years after winning his games, finnick endures the trials of being a victor and all he needs is a helping hand.

contains; ANGST, comfort, descriptions of forced prostitution, descriptions of gore, murder, typical hunger games mortality etc etc. not proofread… ever

☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩

the room once filled with a bond you could not quite replace, is now empty, gray. it lacks the golden boy who brings light to every aspect of your life- and it has been for two months now.

you know where he is, what he’s doing, and who he’s with. you know the light of his soul will be snuffed away by the calloused deceiving hands of the capitol- their everlasting appetite to claim their control over citizens and victors alike.

you almost dread the sound of your front door unlocking. your mind manifesting his misery would be long gone- begging to a higher power that he will be okay- that the pillars of his body are not crumbling in on itself.

nevertheless, as you near the front door- you see it in his eyes. he almost looks like the same 14 year old that got thrown into a death match and came out with two legs and two arms- but this time his legs can’t carry him any longer, his arms are practically hanging off his tired body.

the door is still open behind him, the chilled air seeping its way into your once warm home. his shoulders are slumped, there is no light in his eyes- only that small tinge he adorns when he is with you.

you want to pull him into your arms, to kiss the disgust off of his features, to show him he is unworthy of this muck treatment, that he is the only light that cannot be choked out, the anchor that is not misplaced, he is right where he needs to be now.

there’s a silent understanding, you can see the falter in his steps as he tries to walk towards you- so close to disintegration you can almost see his seams falling apart one by one.

you meet him halfway- pulling him into you- now you must be his pillar. you must cover his ears, quiet his thoughts.

his tears coat your shirt, your fingers run through his scalp. he wants to crawl out of his skin. he can still feel a touch that isn’t yours- it sets his nerves alight.

why won’t you leave me. his mind screams- but his voice can’t carry these words. leave me here, let me rot.

you can feel him self destruct, his knees fail and now you are kneeling infront of his vulnerable frame. you want him to look at you, to see what you see, but who are you to ask for more?

but all he sees is grief, blood from kids his age- even younger, he feels hands all along his chest- his back, he smells roses- luxury- a scent that isn’t home, he tastes metallic blood from his lips- gnawing from anxiety, he hears the praises- he hears that he’s special, that he’s so humble, what a handsome young man he is.

“i wish i could be good.”

you can’t see his face, you are glad in a way- you don’t think you’d be able to take it. “you are good finnick,” your own tears fall. “if anything you are good.”

you want to yell these words, scream them at him. so inconsiderate of you- but how dare he not see this is not his fault? a puppet has no control over his own arms.

finnicks mind screams more at the capital than himself now. your tactics have worked. you have taken every last bit of my innocence away. you control me. he begs to be left alone, he begs to be so pure and unsuspecting again.

you both know his fate, you know where he’ll be in a few years. you know that your love alone cannot keep him here- however strong. every inhale feels like poison- but he listens to you murmur as you rub his back, telling him to breath.

you see his eyes now, he tries to drink in your gaze- he wants it to be the last thing he sees, except less concerned, less worn, less worried. despite his thoughts only ever consumed by you, he looked pained- he looks as though he is elsewhere in his mind.

“nothings gonna hurt you now” sanity is a sheltered lie but you would rather surrender your wits than your boy. your fingers dance up and down his back now- erasing the sinful marks left laying in his mind.

-

so short so technically a blurb but wtv….

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Man 10

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Lloyd Hansen

Summary: a demanding customer complicates more than your work life.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Gah. You hate the taste. It doesn’t get any better and it feels worse on your skin. There’s something unnatural about human biology. Should that be so slimy?  

You’re not a prude, not mentally, only experientially. The act itself, yeah, it’s kind of hot, but the finale. That’s too much. Not to mention, it wasn’t exactly mutual. None of this is. 

It’s weird, actually. The more you think of it, sat naked under a desk, in the mess of his excitement, you can’t help but analyse the situation you find yourself in. This man articulated a strategic destruction of your life; he messed with your rent, your bank, your job, and now you’re sitting her in his house, perched on your heels like an orphan begging for more gruel. 

You frown as you rub your chin again. Despite the single tissue he offered, you still felt the residue clinging to your skin. You need a shower. Or maybe some clothes. That would be nice. You scrunch up your nose and sneer. 

“What the hell is that face for?” Floyd—Lloyd snips and you look up to meet his gaze through the glass top of the desk, his keyboard blocking out all but one of his blue eyes. Hey, he has nice eyes for a meanie. You’d never tell him because he’s not a very good listener. 

“Nothing, I just...” you shrug and his eye flicks down to the jiggle of your chest. You cross your arms and tilt your head to the side, “can I go wash off or something?” 

“Why?” He challenges. 

Your lips part and a puff of air shoots out. Is he serious? 

“I... I’m not saying it’s your fault or anything but semen smells and I smell like semen, so going by a very basic formula--” 

“Oh my god, you don’t stop. Why can’t you just say anything straight out? Why’s it this nonsense?” He growls. 

“Fair enough, but I’m still hoping to see a sink or maybe a washcloth--” 

He rolls his eyes and closes them. He sits back and puts his hands to either side of his nose and exhales heavily. He clucks as he drops his arms and considers you as he leans against the leather cushioning. 

“You don’t make the rules. Stay.” 

He rolls back up to the desk and starts typing again. You look at the bottom of the sleek keyboard. He’s definitely an Apple guy, the iMac isn’t even the biggest giveaway. He just has that essence to him. He’s one of those guys who claims to be all about the best of everything but really he’s just buying into capitalism. He’s basic; mainstream. 

What is he even doing? Typing, clicking, scowling at the screen. Is he working? What on earth does he even do? Well, if you account for the mustache, the tacky clothes, and shoes without socks, you might assume he’s some sort of salesman. Used cars if you were to go by looks alone and yet his house would suggest more than that.  

He doesn’t look like a lawyer. He could be a tech bro, again, Apple everything. Still, the way he types doesn’t really seem savvy. He’s got the whole chicken peck down pat, jabbing each key with his index finger. So you’re at a loss. What the hell do rich people do? How do they even get rich? 

“Would you stop staring at me like that?” He stops again, another glare through the glass. 

You swallow and shake your head, shifting on your knees as you keep your arms across your chest. 

“Sir, Mr. Jansen--” 

“Hansen,” he grits dangerously. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hansen, sir, please, it’s cold in here, can I get a sweater or maybe you could turn off the air? This time of day, the rate must be ridiculous.” 

His lashes flutter and his forehead lines. His hand closes to a fist then opens. His chest rises and he squares his jaw. 

“You’re distracting me. I’m trying to work.” 

“So maybe I could go somewhere else. It’s a big house--” 

“My house,” he insists. 

“A very nice house,” you offer, “I mean I’m sitting down here, my knees are killing me, I’m shivering, I can’t sit still. You’re not gonna get anything done. I’m agreeing with you. One hundred percent. I’m annoying. A real nuisance so let the leash go a little bit. Promise, I won’t touch a thing--” 

He squints then his eyes flick up as he thinks. His lips thin and he huffs. He brings his fingertips together, elbows planted on the glass desk, and taps them as he hums. 

“You’re lucky you can make me cum,” he grumbles. 

“Ah, but sir, don’t give me all the credit. You’re a very good cummer. An expert, it seems.” 

His nose crinkles and his mouth falls open, for just a second. His cheek dimples and he shakes it away, “what on earth are you fucking on about?” 

“I’m just saying, sir, I don’t know much about the old sausage link but I’m comparing it to the hub--” 

“The hub?” 

“PornHub, I’m sure you know it.” 

He lets out cluck but says nothing else. 

“Anyway, you got what they would call girth,” you gesture with your hands. “Good job, although, maybe it’s more a genetic type thing. Not really something you did...” 

He stares at you for a moment the pushes his knees wide. He takes a breath and slides slightly forward in his chair. You are keenly aware of the twitch beneath his pants. Please, not again. Are their calories in cum? 

“You watch a lot of porn?” He asks, a genuine hint of interest in his voice. The furthest from spite you’ve heard from him. 

“Eh, not as much as some people, I'm sure. I get curious,” you say. “but within discretion. Never wanna go too far down the rabbit hole.” 

He taps his toe and gives a thoughtful angle of his chin, twining his fingers between each other, “what kinds?” 

“Mm, well, I dunno. Usually, I just click something on the front page that doesn’t look too wild. Like creampie is pretty standard, I guess. Doggystyle is usually all over, but the stepdaughter stuff, ick. Not for me, sir. No way.” 

He makes a clicking noise in his throat and slowly reclines in his chair, “you are way too honest for your own good.” 

“Maybe, I guess. In this situation though, what do I get from lying? Besides, I see the stache,” you shoot him with a fingergun then quickly holster it. “You definitely are trawling around. RedTube? Xvideos?” 

“You said you’re curious,” he ignores your question, “you don’t... do anything while you watch?” 

You feel a subtle tickle in your thighs. The casual air turns thick. You’re starting to get worked up. 

“Eh, well, you know... the fingers find a way,” you look away and giggle nervously. “I go on these women’s forums. They say you should know yourself best before you try with a partner. Obviously, I haven’t found my number two yet but I know my way around my captain's chair. I can get to warp speed.” 

His lips curve slowly as you look back to him and you gulp. You’ve said too much. Again. The very reason you fell head first into this predicament. 

“Sir, why are you looking at me like that?” You squeak. 

He chuckles and brushes his fingertips over his bristly mustache, “well, sweet lips, show me the way.” 

“Huh?” Your eyes round. 

“Show me around your captain's chair, as you so eloquently put it,” he demands and wiggles two fingers at you. 

[arowyn-m]

Why Viktor Could Die in S2

“They won’t kill a champion because—“ okay just pause for a second and humor me. I’ve made a lot of arguments in the past about why every Arcane character is fair game but that’s not what I’m arguing here—I’m arguing from a narrative standpoint.

Viktor’s my favorite character in Arcane, but I believe him dying in the series finale is the most likely conclusion to his arc. Here’s why:

Viktor’s whole arc is about life and death as a concept—what really constitutes “living”? (Posed by the scenes with Rio) Why is a human life inherently valuable? (Posed by capitalizing on his aggressive need to leave a legacy) Which is more important—a person’s effect on the world around them or their effect on their loved ones? (Viktor realizing too late that Sky valued him not just for his output but for who he is)

There’s also a ton of foreshadowing to Viktor’s demise coming about by a fault in his technology or by the careless way he relates technology to human life (usually himself but not always), and it’s often disguised as humor (the “of course not” scene) or hidden behind false foreshadowing for death by illness (basically everything to do with the Hexcore in eps 5 and 6)

I’ve theorized about it on here before, but I believe at the end of the series the Hexcore will be destroyed (probably by Jayce, specifically to call back to the promise he made to Viktor), effectively ending the threat of the Void overtaking Piltover. Viktor will be so connected to the Hexcore by the finale that destroying it will kill him. He reaches his Glorious Evolution, yes, but it destroys him in the end.

And yeah there is merit to the “how can you live with yourself” kind of approach to ending a character’s story, but that conclusion has the strongest impact if the character’s arc is about learning to live with your mistakes. Most of the character arcs in this show pose that question, but Viktor’s arc really doesn’t?

As far as we can tell with Viktor so far, there’s very little grappling with that concept up until his last 5 or so minutes of screentime, and even then it’s more of a blip that resolves itself (“In pursuit of great, we failed to do good. We have to make it right.”) If Viktor’s story is about defining the respective values of “life” and “humanity” then the most bittersweet ending to his story would be by letting him die after briefly coming back to his humanity.

At the same time, in Ep 5 of BtR Alex Yee says this when talking through writing the script for S2:

“It’s, like, die or accept some things being imperfect. That would be the way that they could go back to humanity.”

So if we assume he’s talking about Viktor covertly here (he very well could be talking about some other character, but yk “going back to humanity” is a very Viktor-coded issue) we could also speculate that they may try to end Viktor’s arc with him accepting the Glorious Evolution just…doesn’t work. I hope that’s not the case because that kind of kills his whole shtick but anything’s possible lol.

To round off this thought by comparison—there’s no chance Jinx dies by the series finale because her whole character arc will inevitably move from “Am I Powder or am I Jinx?” to “Okay, I’m Jinx. How do I live in that identity with the knowledge of my past mistakes?” Her dying at the end of the series would be an unsatisfying conclusion to that question. Same thing with Vi. Vi’s arc was about trying to “fix” things. She just wanted things to go back to the way they were, and they just can’t. Her arc is probably going to be centered around her grappling with grief over losing Powder AGAIN and learning to accept things will never go back to how they were before. Caitlyn’s arc is going to be her exacting revenge and maybe living with regret and bitterness. None of those character arcs logically conclude with “and though they found the answer to their life’s question, they died.”

Viktor’s probably will.

Also here’s a link to a longer more in-depth theory I had a while ago—kind of a adjacent to this thought (for some reason it won’t work as an embedded link) https://www.tumblr.com/arowyn-m/755893249865039872/jayceviktorhexcore-situation-in-s2?source=share

[vaguely-concerned]

listen I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore but on this playthrough of DA2 I found myself once more entranced and heartbroken to see hawke reenact their relationship with their mother with the entire cursed city of kirkwall. you can never do enough for leandra, and you can never do enough for kirkwall. leandra is proud of you, and kirkwall uplifts its champion, but no matter how hard you try for them you can't fix everything there that's broken, no one could, and even the fact that anyone would feel the burning responsibility to take that task on is a huge warning sign on its own. leandra will easily allow you to sacrifice yourself on the altar of the family's continued well-being again and again, even when she'll beg you to spare the twins from the same thing. it's such a sad, painfully realistic thing because I truly don't think leandra meant to fuck up her kids, and yet she primed her oldest for an abusive toxic codependent relationship with an entire ongoing dumpster fire of a city state better than she ever could have if she had meant to.

I think what leandra actually, deep down wants from you is something you can never ever give her and that is cruel to ask of anyone, but especially your kid -- to bring her back to a time when she was happy. to reclaim when you were all happy, when nothing was broken that couldn't be fixed, before malcolm died, before you had to leave behind bethany or carver's broken body on the ground. to get her childhood back from where she left it and found it all gone and in ruins when she returned. 'this is all your fault'. this is the tragedy of parenthood sometimes I think, that capacity to define a life: she said that once, in a moment of profound pain, and she probably wouldn't have said it under other circumstances and she apologizes later, but now hawke has to live with that forever. leandra can't bear her own emotions without letting them spill over onto someone else so she won't have to hold the discomfort of them anymore, and hawke is left to shoulder that burden and responsibility again and again, handed the impossible task of making it all okay again, somehow -- of stopping anything bad from ever happening again in the Nr 1 Bad Things Constantly Happening capital of thedas.

and then at the same time there's the mirror of how varric's whole family wants orzammar back (and to him orzammar is just a ghost he's seen in their eyes -- there's something in his voice when he says 'That stupid plate was the whole city of Orzammar to him' that gets me every time, how much he understands that he doesn't understand and how lonely that makes him among them, and on top of it all he's frustrated and ashamed and sad that he just doesn't get it and can't meet them on it -- like it's a betrayal that he actually belongs up here, when varric wants so badly to be loyal), just as the hawkes want happiness back. (I don't think it's Lothering in itself that longing is for, it's for being together. Lothering was just the place they stayed the longest.) they're all in exile, even as they try to make a new home out of that exile.

(varric and hawke's real 🤝 quality across all personalities, affinities and choices is 'parentified child' lmao. so much of varric's character makes perfect sense once you know he grew up supporting a mother who was an emotionally volatile alcoholic, honestly. between varric, the hawkes, isabela, seb if you have him and merrill's whole Situation with marethari I feel like DA2 covertly is to mommy issues what ME2 is to daddy issues fjsdjfa)

basically I think I'm trying to pick apart exactly why the fact that leandra is clearly proud of hawke and tells them so several times doesn't feel like it helps at all, almost feels more like a cage even though it's clearly meant well? and what I'm getting is that it's because my sense of what hawke actually needs, in general but especially from a parent, isn't admiration or approval but to be loved and supported and understood. I don't believe leandra ever quite understands them, and it scares her because it makes her think she maybe never even understood malcolm. (that's the subtext of a lot of what leandra will say about him in legacy, at least. he's slipping away from her as the years pass after his death and she fears she never really had him in the first place, if he had secrets like these.) she consistently treats her oldest more like a partner or peer than as her child, which considering hawke is always described as being very similar to their father… I mean I totally see how that could be easy to slip into for her after he died especially, but it doesn't make it any less fucked up or unfair.

the real leandra in legacy is. she is SO absurdly self-centered, if you really pay attention. I don't want to keep dunking on her because I don't think she's like this on purpose, but it boggles my mind. if you do the quest in act 1 she gets so upset and overwhelmed that the kids just sort of sit there like :( at the end, which adds to the trend that through the game you constantly see hawke comforting leandra, and you pretty much never see leandra comforting hawke, beyond some light vaguely encouraging comments in passing. if you do legacy in act 2 while she's still alive hawke comes to her, tentatively asking if malcolm ever spoke to her about any of it -- clearly requesting some sort of emotional support or help to make sense of it. she then expresses her side of it, but never once does she say anything to the effect of 'hey that was a lot to go through, are you okay after all that?'.

instead she essentially hands them the responsibility of having a good life, to repay what malcolm did for all of them. and in theory that's not the worst takeaway I suppose, malcolm probably would want them all to be happy, but in the moment it only feels like more expectation heaped upon you somehow? especially since you don't really get to express anything about how it made you feel before she goes to the 'ah no use complaining' zone (after SHE got to express her grief at feeling like she's losing more and more of that old life, and hawke barely got to say anything fhsfalkjfs). in general she really doesn't do much like. parenting, does she haha. there is so much love there in that relationship, and yet so little comfort. Oh, those days. All of us, in that simple place. Well, that's neither here nor there, is it. This life, we have to make the best of it. And thanks to you, and him, I will. Oh well, mum, I'm uh. I'm glad you feel better after that, at least. Nice to be of service.

it's varric's ghost-leandra who actually acknowledges what a burden hawke has taken on, that shows an understanding of why they're doing it, acknowledges the loss they've been through and also reassures them in their sense of belonging that still can't be taken from them, despite it all -- The best of him is still with you. The best of all of us. It's what makes you try so hard. You'll always have that. We'll always be family. (you can't take 'loved' away, huh.) you get a bit more of a reconciliation/reconnection between hawke and their dad's memory by being reminded he got like this too, you know (implicitly you're not alone). varric through leandra is the one who tells them what they probably would have wanted and needed to hear from a parent right then -- It's going to be alright. that's what Hawke, The Champion means to everyone else, and for once they get to be the one to hear it. except only in a kind dream that never really happened. I. it. hmmmmmm. crushing. that is crushing. but also so incredibly tender from varric's side, and so moving to me that he's seen all this stuff and so desperately wants to give them that comfort. anyway DA2 is about love in some of the realest and thus messiest and most human ways I've ever seen and it makes my brain go wild it's my favorite game of all time goodnight

[hello-kuni]

𝐵𝐸 𝑀𝑌 𝑂𝑁𝐶𝐸 𝐼𝑁 𝐴 𝐿𝐼𝐹𝐸𝑇𝐼𝑀𝐸 - diluc ragnvindr

body worship : masterlist

syn : after many set backs on your journey, you had no choice but to stay the night at a small inn. that cramped space did no favors for years of infatuation. how long can he last before he shows you his long kept secret?

length : 3.1k

warnings : 18+ minors do not interact, princess!reader, knight!diluc, some angst (i'm so sorry it wrote itself i swear), virgin reader (and virgin diluc but he won't tell you that until years later), body worship but it's kinda subtle? unintentionally, pussy eating, raw sex, breast play, one minor instance of power imbalance

notes : this turned out kinda soft instead of kinky, but that's okay but it'll get worse this month

as the moon rose higher and the sun sank lower, diluc made the decision to stop at the nearest inn. if it had just been him it wouldn’t have been an issue to press on the rest of the way. but with you in his care, he couldn’t bear to risk your safety. 

however, so far from the capital, the cities grew further and further apart. a suitable inn would be like finding an oasis in a desert. and he was right. the inn was tiny enough to barely qualify. it would have to make do. you didn’t much mind it, though. not when you were finally outside the stuffy palace walls. not when you got to be alone with diluc.

the two of you grew up together. always at each other's side. but lately, it felt like you saw less of him with each passing day. he was supposed to be your personal guard but there was always someone new each week. part of you felt that he was avoiding you. every time that thought crossed your mind it rose such hideous emotions you fought hard to keep at bay. when it was announced you were to pay a visit to a duke in the north on official business, you jumped at the opportunity to appoint him as the head of your detail. 

diluc did not oppose, but he also said nothing. 

outside the inn, diluc ordered the other guards to stay outside, where they would camp for the night. the innkeeper apologized profusely about the lack of space and made up for it with a hefty amount of food. despite your protests. it wasn’t his fault such a large party ended up there. 

with your one suitcase in hand, you headed into the small room with diluc in tow. he was grumbling about something you chose not to hear. 

“it’s cute,” you said of the room as you set the suitcase on the floor. 

“it’s small,” he remarked, though not with derision. 

“well, we can’t expect much so far between cities.” you turned around and sighed. he’d already disappeared into the bathroom. the sound of running water met your ears. when he emerged a few minutes later, you asked, “is something bothering you? you’ve been short with me all day.”

“it’s been a long day, your highness,” he sighed. he never addressed you like that. you knew not to press an issue when he got like that, so you let it go. “you should bathe now before the water goes cold.”

that final statement left you no room to argue. funny how a knight could make you feel so small. with a huff, you grabbed your clothes and went into the bathroom. it was the least relaxing bath you’d ever had. this trip up north was supposed to mend the broken bridge between the two of you. but he just kept widening the distance. 

you tried--and failed--to scrub away the frustration. for years something bloomed in your chest every time you looked at him. when you caught a glimpse of his smile, the concentrated look when he was on the training grounds, or the softness of his features as he napped in the garden when only you were around. he was stern and often cold to others, even when he acted in good faith. but he was vulnerable when it was just the two of you. as were you. how many nights had either of you spent consoling the other? how many traded tears did you keep bottled in your hearts? 

despite your title, you dared to dream of a life where you got to be with him. happily. forever. 

with a heavy heart, you dragged yourself out of the shallow tub. with the hem of the silk nightgown brushing your calves, you walked back into the room only to find diluc sitting against the wall opposite the bed. he cracked his eyes open only wide enough to peer at you before closing them again. 

nothing was said as you climbed into bed. you stared at the dark ceiling, unable to fall asleep. 

“you don’t really plan to sleep down there, do you?” you asked. “there’s plenty of room on the bed.” 

that wasn’t true. the bed would barely be able to fit him and you side by side. but you couldn’t bear the suffocating weight that hung in the air. 

“it would be inappropriate if i did, your highness.” 

there it was again: that formal title. you sat up. before you knew what you were doing, you crawled to the end of the bed. all the bottled up the emotions poured out. you bit your bottom lip to keep the welling tears from falling over. your voice sounded strained as you spoke. “what did i do to drive you away?”

diluc’s head snapped forward. even in the dark, his red hair still glowed like a beacon leading you home. feeling like this, lost and confused, all you wanted was his warm embrace. the same as all those other nights. the idea of never having that again filled you with such sorrow. 

“what are you talking about?”

a sob broke free. “you used to always be at my side, but now i’m always lonely. for you to put such a distance between us, i must have done something. tell me what it is. i’ll fix it.”

you had crawled off the bed and towards him. it took everything in you not to reach out to him. 

he took a slow, shaky breath. he took your hands in his, the grip loose but steady unlike his voice as he spoke. “i knew that if i didn’t distance myself from you, i wouldn’t be able to keep my feelings at bay.”

“your feelings?”

“i love you in a way i’m not allowed to.”

“diluc, i--”

“don’t,” he cut you off, turning his face away. “you don’t understand how i feel about you, or for how long. if i told you all the things i want to do to you, you would have me thrown in the dungeons. please, princess, just let me be.”

he let go of your hands, simultaneously pushing you away. 

you couldn’t let this be the end. not when he was so close. finally so close after so long. you leaned forward, planting your hands on either side of his face and forcing him to look at you. pain twisted his features. longing filled his eyes. and something much more intense lay beneath it all. there were no words you could find to perfectly express yourself, so you settled for gently pressing your lips against his own. 

diluc stiffened under your touch. but he didn’t pull away. he couldn’t bring himself to do so. the kiss he’d always dreamed of finally happened, and he could do nothing about it. only knowing that he wanted more. 

as the initial shock wore off, diluc’s body relaxed and he pulled you in for another kiss. this time laced with years worth of desire. he pushed you back, lip-locked, and you had barely the mind to put your hands back and catch yourself. 

when he finally pulled away, air rushed back into your lungs. he huffed as he searched your eyes for any hint of unsurety. you were more sure of this moment than you’d ever been of anything in your life before. 

he froze above you. something like regret or terror flashed in his eyes. once more, he pulled away, backing against the wall. 

“if i order you to, will that change anything?” you asked.

“you know well that i can’t go against your word, and i know well you would never use your power like that.”

he was right. you sat on your knees, tired of this hot-and-cold game. “anything,” you said. hoping against all odds that this would be a better approach. he needn’t hold back anymore. “you can do anything. i want it. more than you can possibly know.” 

he shook his head, wisps of red hair dancing over his cheeks. “i’ve already done more than i should. i’m satisfied.” 

“i’m not.” the words came out a half shout. “how could one kiss ever be enough? i want a lifetime.”

“and i want to give you a lifetime,” he bit out. his eyes were fiery as he met your gaze in the dark. “but we both know i can’t give you that.”

“then give it to me now, if only for one night.” one night would never be enough, but it would be better than regretting having had nothing. you could see in his eyes he thought the same. 

“there’s no undoing it,” he said. 

“i don’t want it to be undone. not with you. never with you.”

a thin stream of moonlight filtered into the room, highlighting the bob of his throat as he swallowed hard. he stood and pulled you up with him. his body firm against yours. the rapid beat of his heart a twin to yours. what was about to happen could not be undone. if anyone found out, you would be ruined. he would lose his position and his family’s favor of the royal family for laying such hands on the kingdom’s beloved princess. why did something so pure have to feel so selfish? if only you’d been born in a lower station or he in a higher station. then perhaps this love wouldn’t be so complicated. so hidden and buried. 

his fingertips ghosted down your jaw, lightly gripping your chin. he stared at your lips. you waited with bated breath. finally, he leaned down and caught your lips in a gentle kiss. if he was going to do this, he wouldn’t rush it. he’d take all night if he had to. and cherish every second while he could. 

one step and then another. he walked you back towards the bed all while keeping your lips connected. he guided you carefully onto the bed, taking a brief moment to catch your breath. light kisses trailed up your jaw and back down. kisses landed anywhere he could touch. he met your gaze, steady and alight with a mix of emotions. 

“i want to show you the depths of my love. i want you to feel every bit of how much i adore you.” 

his words met you squarely. this one and only chance and he wanted to make the most of it. just as you did. it would be a waste of a night to not. he trailed his lips down the contours of your body, over the silk nightgown hugging every curve. he stopped where the hem met your calves. warm breath taunted burning skin. never had you wanted anything more than to feel his lips on your leg, to feel them make their way higher and higher. 

his teeth dug into the plump flesh of your thigh. not hard enough to break skin, but enough to elicit a hiss of breath followed by a shaky moan. your heart raced the closer he got to your aching pussy. 

propped against the pillows and your nightgown bunched around your waist, you had a clear view of diluc as his lips met yours. the first lick of his tongue had your head pressing deeply into the pillow. it was a foreign feeling. one that possibly only he could elicit. the only one you wanted to make you feel this way. 

he brought his hands up under your ass, pulling you against his mouth. he moaned into you. the feeling, the taste, the reality. all of it melted together on his tongue. 

“so good, princess,” he murmured. “so good.”

the bed rocked subtly as he ground his hips against the mattress. any friction was good enough, just to sate him a while longer. 

your toes curled. thighs clenching tighter with each swipe and swirl of his tongue. but the worst—or best—part was each gentle suck of your clit. every earlier worry washed away, forgotten in the depths of your mind. the only thing you could focus on was his touch. each point you bodies connected, however lightly, set your skin aflame. blissfully so. 

he was unhurried. taking his time as he drew you ever nearer to the peak of pleasure. his nose pressing into you clit as his tongue prodding at your sopping hole. your back arched off the bed, hands fisting the sheets. you fought hard to keep the noises budding in your throat from spilling out, lest the other knights outside begin to make assumptions. but it was a futile effort. 

his name fell from your mouth amid a moan as your legs trembled with the sheer force of your orgasm. he never stopped, never slowed. he didn’t seem to care how tightly your legs closed around his head, or how harshly your hands pulled on his hair—where they had subconsciously found their way. 

none of that mattered to him. not now. not ever. 

it took a long moment for you to come back down. chest heaving and legs twitching. only then did he part from you. he looked up at you from his place between your legs. 

“i wish you could see how beautiful you look right now,” he said, lips glistening with the evidence of your orgasm.

the thought was far too embarrassing. being so exposed in front of someone was already an ordeal of its own, to think about how you looked to him was unfathomable. 

he tore you from your thoughts as he littered kisses across your belly, working his way up to your breasts, still hidden beneath silk. his lips lingered just below your collarbone as he tugged your nightgown down, enough to free your breasts. 

his lips wrapped around a nipple, sucking gently. one hand came up to play with other, carefully rolling and pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. he’d be lying if he said in the years of late he hadn’t thought about this. quietly undressing you in his mind, imagining the way your breasts would look in his hands. it still seemed so unreal to him. that he was here. with you under him. time your greatest enemy. and your dear friend. 

you told him he could do anything he wanted and you meant it. but he was the epitome of chivalry. never would he treat you in a way unbecoming of a princess. his touch was delicate. carefully unwrapping you with the utmost care. you could tell he was holding back, however, no amount of reassurance would make him act his deepest desires. 

perhaps what that was what attracted you to him. 

his devotion to his code as a knight. beyond ensuring your safety from those who may wish to do you harm. 

despite loving the feeling of his mouth on your nipple, you pulled him away. you wanted his lips on yours. you didn’t want to wait any longer, not with the night slipping away. you wanted to feel him. all of him. 

he seemed to understand through the touch of your lips alone. his forehead dropped against your own. “are you ready?” he whispered, breath tickling your nose. 

propped on his elbows above you, his hair created a red curtain around you. encapsulating you in a world only you two belonged. where this night would never end and loving each other wouldn’t have to be a shameful secret. 

you wanted to stay there forever.

“yes,” you said with what may have been too enthusiastic of a nod. your hands rested on the nape of his neck, threading through the hair there. his eyes searched yours for any hint of doubt. but your gaze was steady, unwavering. 

diluc reached between your bodies to align the tip of his cock with your awaiting entrance. he sank into you slowly with a single push until his hips were flush with yours. 

you winced at the stretch, nails digging into the backs of his shoulders. the pain didn’t faze him. you could draw blood and he wouldn’t bat an eye. 

he kissed your cheek. “if it’s too much, we can stop.”

“no, no.” you took a deep breath and pushed your hips up. “keep going.” 

he hesitated, not wanting to put your through something uncomfortable. he’d spent his whole life ensuring you were never hurt, and now he was the one causing you pain. but he trusted you. so he continued. 

the first roll of his hips was short. no more than a test. the next one was longer, slower. the knot between your brows loosened with each tender thrust. your legs wrapped around his waist, nails dragging down his back. 

his head fell into the crook of your neck, lips attaching to your skin. you’d heard about this feeling in conversation with other court ladies, some disagreeing with other, but you never knew how wonderful it would feel. or if it ever would again. 

each long drag of his cock against your sensitive walls plucked a moan from you. the initial pain gave way to pleasure you had only ever felt in dreams that had you blushing for a whole day. you’d blush every day for months after this. 

your nails decorated his back. 

he spoke your name into your shoulder. not “princess” as he had always called you, but your name. you held him tighter, your pussy tightening around him with that one word. 

“i’m gonna—” you were cut off by a sudden moan at the feeling of his tip hitting a spot you didn’t know could elicit such a feeling. 

“just a little longer,” he said. his thrusts had grown erratic, nearing then end you were already at. little moans spilled from your lips as you came around him, back arching and breasts pressing against his chest. 

he bit down on your shoulder to keep himself quiet as he came inside you. he gave a few slow, shallow rolls of his hips. your chest heaved with the effort to catch your breath. 

diluc rolled over with you in his arms, not yet pulling out. if only to relish in the feeling of being in you. he stared at the ceiling and traced light shapes on your back. your head lay on his chest, his rapid heartbeat echoing in your ear. 

“tell me it doesn’t have to end,” he said. 

you propped yourself up on his chest, looking at him intently. “i’m not giving up on you, diluc. whatever doubts or reservations you may have for the future, i won’t give up.”

after tonight, how could you ever fathom spending your life with another man? he was the only one you dreamed of a lifetime with. and you would have that. 

[dinoburger]

let me just get my thoughts down for a moment after a light perusal of the Mouthwashing tag -

I don't think The Point of Mouthwashing is "who is and isn't a bad person" with a backdrop of "capitalism bad"

the story is explicitly about the exploitative, hierarchical conditioning capitalism enforces, that creates situations like what unfolds in the Tulpar

I think to say "this is the fault of [this or that character]" is to miss the forest for the trees.

to view what happens as a series of random, unfortunate events that just happen coincidentally to the moral inclinations of the characters is missing the very palpable deprivation that all of them feel when it comes to how much control they have over the situation they've found themselves in.

I'll try to break this down a little more:

Curly is definitely one of the more contentious characters when it comes to morality and I think what people miss is... he has far too much control. As captain, he has the first and last say in everything.

There's no possible way he could understand exactly how to handle every situation appropriately. Nobody could. It weighs on him a lot. To the point where his fear of messing things up is exactly what blinds him to the chain of events that initiates Mouthwashing as we know it.

He tries to smooth things over. Because of course he would.

The problem is that he is set up to fail from the start.

Breaching just about any condition on the ship can get the pay of his poor subordinates docked. He has to obey the company rules to protect them, too. The omnipresent horse keeps all of them "in check". He can't afford to take a moral high-ground, because most of them can't afford it either. He's trying to keep the house of cards together.

The most telling line to me is when Anya points out the lock on the medical room door that's absent from the sleeping quarters.

The company puts more value on the expensive equipment on board than the human lives. It tries to cut as many corners as possible. It undermines their livelihoods to maintain itself - in vain, ultimately.

The cargo of mouthwash is more valuable to the company than they are.

You can see also in each of them, the kinds of people capitalism makes.

Swansea tried to fix up his life and do everything right. He tried to become a good worker for the sake of his family. But is he much better off than when he was an alcoholic? He says the best part of his life is still when the only troubles he had was the bottom of an empty bottle - nevermind his family, his sobriety and becoming a "correct" person in capitalist society.

His existential crisis grips me because it does raise questions about if living the way you're "supposed to" is worth it.

Daisuke wants to prove his worth in his capabilities. Daisuke is still trying to prove himself as valuable to the system, even at his own expense. Swansea laments this, because he just knows there's no point where you become valuable or worthy enough in the system.

Anya, as the only woman on board, takes the blunt of the lack of autonomy enforced by the system.

Jim... Jim is exactly the kind of person this system breeds, too. He's entitled. He's hungry for more power, but he can only see it by wrestling it off his coworkers and enacting interpersonal violence. He sees himself as a temporary victim of circumstance, who has a right to the power Curly has.

He is the exact sort of person who might have been a captain on some of the other cargo ships. Can you imagine if he'd had that much power from the start? The company doesn't give a shit, so long as the cargo gets there in one piece. The toll of the psychological trauma taken on the staff will never outweigh the value of the goods being shipped.

Even if it's just mouthwash.

I think you could maybe also read Jim's affinity for the cartoon horse as a metaphor for his hunger for power, too. It's something he both desires and dreads. He wants to have his cake and eat it too, he doesn't want the consequences that follow. It's the carrot and stick. He'll take as much power as he can before the axe finally drops and he has to face the music, even if it means making everything so, so much worse in the process.

[phykios]

Kiss Me Where You Bruise Me Percy Jackson is fated to die on his twenty-first birthday, after a lifetime of battling monsters. Annabeth Chase is doing her hardest not to get attached, but towards the end of the war, emotions are running high, and she can only resist her feelings--and his kiss--for so long. (Aged up/stretchy canon au of PJO, rated E for smut) read on ao3

Annabeth could sense the dark mood which smothered the camp even from all the way inside the attic of the Big House. With an angry huff, she slammed her heavy book shut, a cloud of dust bursting from the pages, before sliding it back on the shelf. Wasn’t like she was going to get any work done now, anyway. 

Sure enough, her suspicions were confirmed as soon as she came down the ladder, and was nearly bowled over by Will Solace as he half-dragged, half-carried Charlie Beckendorf to the infirmary. “Sorry,” she said, scooching back against the wall. “Rough quest?” 

Beckendorf, to his credit, flashed a smile at her. “Nah,” he croaked, “walk in the park.” 

Beneath his hand, which was pressed to his side, a red stain slowly grew on the orange fabric. She raised an eyebrow.

“It’s better than it looks,” Beckendorf protested as Will forced him down onto an infirmary bed. “Honest!” 

Will snorted. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.” 

“You just did.” 

“Tell me what happened,” Annabeth said, pointedly. She did not have time for banter.

Beckendorf hissed as Will pulled his shirt back, revealing three long, thin, wet stripes. “Remember how we said it was supposed to be a recon mission?” 

Oh for gods’ sake–“What did he do this time?” 

“In his defense, this time it was my fault.” 

She stared at him.

“Honest!” 

“I’m sure.” 

“It actually was my fault this time–I accidentally tripped a wire, and then our recon turned into a–”

“A shit-show?” 

He swallowed his gasp as Will pressed on the claw marks on his body. “Something like that.” 

Annabeth pinched the bridge of her nose. “And let me guess. Instead of retreating, and salvaging the recon as much as he could, Percy decided that the best course of action would be to try and wipe the camp out, so the enemy wouldn’t know their location had been compromised.” 

“...Well, yeah.” 

“And did he?” 

“Of course.” 

“All of them this time?” 

His silence spoke volumes. 

She sighed again, headache already beginning to manifest. “And where is he now?” 

“Where do you think?” 

“You,” said Will, gently shoving Annabeth towards the door, “out. This could get messy.” 

Annabeth had a strong stomach, but Beckendorf was turning green, and since Will hadn’t asked for support, it was probably something he could handle on his own. In any case, she did not want to be in the line of fire if something went sideways. 

Besides, she had a son of Poseidon to find. 

Not that he was hard to find. He was exactly where he always was. 

The arena was empty, save him. That was not in and of itself surprising. General swordsmanship class had been indefinitely suspended as of last summer, so the kids had to get in their practice whenever they could, with whomever was around. And most of the camp was too smart to go toe-to-toe with their best fighter whenever he got into one of his moods. Even his flock of obsessive, simpering groupies were missing, instead of peeking around the corner to watch him as he worked, giggling between their fingers, putting the collective gossip machine of Ten to shame.

She heard him before she saw him, the smack of metal on straw punctuated with a grunt, or a growl. He looked as if he hadn’t even showered or changed after returning to camp, just dumped Beck at the infirmary and made a beeline for the arena, armor and all. Typical. Gone was the sweet, if sarcastic boy who had welcomed her to camp, and in his place was a scowling, broody, capital-W-warrior. 

Recently, he had really begun to lean into something of a role here at camp–the prophecy child, the son of Poseidon. He walked around with an albatross so heavy around his neck, you could almost see the slump in his shoulders. He sat with his back turned to the rest of the camp at mealtimes, picking at his food, often leaving with a huff halfway through. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him at a sing-along, or a capture-the-flag game, or even just hanging around the camp, playing basketball and shooting the shit. 

No, he had chosen to devote himself entirely to the war effort. Which, fine, whatever, it wasn’t like they couldn’t use it. She wanted to do the same thing, but she had siblings to look after. But he practically lived in the arena, training constantly. The piles of laundry and trash never moved, always the same shape and size from week to week–some of the other counselors were beginning to think that he slept there, too. 

While the demigod in question was engrossed with mutilating the straw dummy like it had insulted his mother, Annabeth chose to take a seat on the bleachers instead, and wait until he had tired himself out enough for him to take a break. She had made the mistake of interrupting him during a set before, and would like to walk away from this without his sword in her face. 

The minutes stretched on, and he kept slashing. She was sure that he had registered her presence at some point. But he kept on fighting. 

Annabeth sighed, resting her head on her knees. 

Even after all this time, after all the quests they had done together, he could still confuse the living crap out of her. 

Percy Jackson. The strongest demigod of his age. And he knew it. Which was half the problem. 

He had been at camp longer than anyone else here. Annabeth, who had arrived at fourteen, escorted by a satyr who had picked her up in Richmond, had been as awed as anyone when she first heard about him. And who wouldn’t be? He had gutted the Minotaur with its own horn at age ten. He had bested Luke Castellan in swordsmanship at twelve. Annabeth hadn’t been there when he and Thalia had been placed on opposite capture-the-flag teams, but she’d heard about it afterwards–and had seen the overturned trees around the flooded creek. 

Despite the rumors, their first meeting had been thoroughly unimpressive. After all the talk of his talent and his prowess and his preference for being alone, she had clocked him, not entirely incorrectly, as mostly bark and very little bite, using his power and his sarcasm to keep people at bay. But she was able to match him snark for snark, and in no time at all, they were fast friends, a bond only made stronger by the life-threatening quests they had undertaken together. 

She’d seen him at his best–training with the pegasi, commanding a great war ship through a dangerous sea, holding aloft a blue flag after successfully executing her flawless capture-the-flag plan. And she’d seen him at his worst–shivering after holding the sky, squeaking incessantly as a guinea pig, tied to Procrustes’ mattress. He’d faced more monsters than anyone else at camp. Probably more than any other demigod in a long, long time. And it had made him… well, not pig-headed, not really. Percy was, at his core, too humble to be truly arrogant. 

But something had definitely changed over the last few years. He had become sullen, withdrawn, quicker to anger. Then one night, he would show up at the campfire, and it would be like nothing had changed. Like the sweet kid had become a kind leader, offering encouragement to his peers and comfort to the younger ones. And then the next morning, he would saunter out of his cabin, hair a mess, a glazed, satisfied look in his eyes, and all of Cabin Ten would be abuzz, trying to piece together what had happened. 

Then by lunch, he’d be in a bad mood once again. And on and on and on. 

Twenty years old and a living legend, with the weight of the cosmos on your shoulders. Annabeth could sympathize. But she couldn’t even imagine.

How could he walk around with that weight all the time? 

A hoarse yell and a clang snapped her out of her thoughts, and she lifted her head to a familiar scene.

Percy stood, fists clenched, shoulders tight, over what was left of the dummy, now sliced and diced into stringy bits, no more useful than a pile of pegasus hay. His sword–not his precious Riptide, oh no, just one of their few good training weapons left–was on the other side of the arena, its blade bent nearly at a forty-five degree angle. Annabeth stood up, hands on her hips. “Hey! Seaweed brain!”

He turned to face her. She could see the arrogant arch of his brow from across the room.

“Easy on the equipment!” She stomped down the steps, resisting the urge to shoulder check him as she went to get the sword. “We only have so many of these.” 

Percy shrugged. “And how is that my problem?” 

“I thought you were supposed to be good at this.” She picked up the weapon, examining the bent blade. Oof. That was ugly. “Not damaging the weapons is rule number two.” 

He only shrugged again, turning away to kick the remains of the dummy into something of a pile. Annabeth felt her eye twitch. “Again, how is that my problem? Just get someone from Nine to deal with it.” 

“And who do you think is going to fix this?” She asked, brandishing it at his back. “Jake? He’s busy with the warship? Nyssa? Supply run. And now Beck’s not in any kind of shape to do anything–”

Whirling around, he bared his teeth at her. “Don’t,” he hissed, “bring him up.” 

“Oh, I’m gonna.” Gripping the leather so hard it hurt, she stepped toward him. “Easy in and out,  you said. No fights. No attention. Just stealth. And now, I’ve got Beckendorf in the infirmary, just barely keeping his guts from falling out.” 

“I got us out of there,” he said, “and I took care of the monsters. That’s all that matters.” 

“That’s all that matters?” She was aware, distantly, that she was only a few steps away from yelling at him. Already. They’d barely started talking. Something about him just drove her fucking crazy. “Are you serious?” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, General Chase,” he mocked, rolling his eyes at her. “I’ll just do all my missions solo from now on. No more dead weight.” 

Anger rose from her stomach, hot and ugly. “Is that a joke?” she repeated. “Those are our friends that are getting hurt trying to keep you from doing something stupid!”

His jaw rounded out, stubborn. “I didn’t ask for him to do that. I don’t need your help.”

“We’re fighting a war, Percy,” she said. “We have to help each other. That’s what it means to be on the same team.”

“I don’t care about your stupid team.”

“That’s why you’re in here, breaking our last good weapons? Because you don’t care?” 

“Look,” he nearly spat, drawing himself up to his full height, looking down at her. “I have one job –to be the hero of the prophecy. To defeat Kronos. Everything else–that’s your business, not mine.” 

And then he turned. To walk away. From her. 

He didn’t get more than ten steps before Annabeth had hurled the sword at him. It bounced off his armor, harmlessly, but it got his attention. 

“Hey! You could have–”

“Hurt you?” She marched up to him, poking him in the chest with her finger. It had about as much effect as the sword. “How? You’re the big hero, after all. You’re untouchable!” And then she shoved him. 

He stumbled back, tripping over his foot before righting himself. “I’m not–”

“Not what? Not the hero?” She shoved him again, but he was ready this time. “That’s funny. You’ve only been preparing for it your entire life, right? That’s why we’re all here, isn’t it?” 

“Annabeth–” 

“Every quest, every monster, every fight, they’ve all been so you can have your precious glory,” she snarled. “You and your destiny! Doesn’t matter how many of us get hurt in the process, does it, as long as you get to be remembered–”

“That’s not fair–” He started, face coloring with indignation. 

But she wouldn't hear it. Sick of his face and his attitude and his destiny, she moved to shove him one more time–and he grabbed her wrist. 

“Don’t,” he warned, voice as hard as a crashing wave, “do that again.” 

His gaze bored down on her, and she stood as firmly as stone against it. She could feel his heartbeat through the press of his fingers on her wrist. 

“Or what?” she asked. “Next time it’ll be me instead of Beckendorf?” 

His eyes widened, then narrowed, and with a snarl, he released her arm, uncapping his sword in one smooth, clean move. 

This, Annabeth understood. She and Percy weren’t always on the same page, but this? She could work with this. 

In response, she drew her knife. 

Percy didn’t even wait before launching himself at her. 

His opening salvo had all the force of a tsunami crashing to shore, and if Annabeth had been any slower, it would have slammed into her, knocking her off her feet. She side-stepped it easily, following it up with a quick jab to his center. He dodged it, of course. They had sparred with each other too often to not recognize the other’s signature moves. 

Usually, when he got like this, it took someone on his level to knock some sense back into him. Thalia was best at it, but wasn’t around enough to be reliable. Nico worked in a pinch, though there was enough bad blood between them that parts of camp tended to get leveled by the end of it. If it was an emergency, Clarisse could step in and hold him off for long enough until he tired himself out. 

But no one else was here. It was just Annabeth. 

Fortunately for her, she’d had almost her whole life to study Percy Jackson. 

He lunged, and in a move that Luke Castellan had taught them both, she feinted out of the way at the last second, before diving in towards him behind the reach of his blade, where she grabbed his arm, and flipped him over her shoulder. He landed with a satisfying thud, the breath knocked out of him.

There. “Now, are you going to–” 

He swiped wildly at her feet, and she jumped back. 

Swifter than she thought he could be, he scrambled to his feet. He advanced on her, bringing his sword down in an overhead arc, which she handily blocked. “Please,” she scoffed, light on her feet as she shifted to his side. “I know how you fight. I know you.” 

Eyes narrowed, he twisted, bringing his sword down towards her leg, where her blade was already waiting. Block, block, block, each ringing clang of their weapons sounded in a rhythm Cabin Seven would be proud of as Annabeth fended them all off. Because she did know him. He might drive her crazy, he might hiss and growl and glare, but they had fought alongside each other too long to not know each other, down to their cores. 

Of course, that meant that he knew her, too. And he knew very well that her fatal flaw was pride. 

So sure of herself, she hadn’t noticed that he had steadily closed the distance between them. With a flash of bared teeth, right in her face, he caught her wrist in his left hand, pinning her in place. “You don’t know a thing about me,” he hissed. 

In the dim light of the arena, his already sharp features sharpened even further, eyes glinting with fury. Mouth open, he was panting, his shoulders heaving with the effort of having to keep up with her. Good. 

“You’re right,” she said, knifelike. “Maybe I don’t know you. Because I always thought you considered us your friends, instead of just your cannon-fodder!” 

He roared, shoving her forward, and she skidded across the grass, nearly tripping over her feet. Distantly, she noted that her wrist was throbbing. 

Percy swung his sword, building up his energy, and holding it aloft, he charged towards her, every inch of him radiating near-deadly intent. 

There was no way she could block this strike. 

So she decided to take a page out of Percy’s book. 

Dropping her knife, she charged right back at him, aiming low. 

She caught him around the middle, and their opposite forces sent them both tumbling to the ground. They rolled, limbs flailing as they fought for the upper hand, like two waves crashing into each other. 

But he wouldn’t be taken off guard a second time. Using the new momentum, he rolled so he was on top of her, his big hands pinning her wrists to the ground. Annabeth fought like a woman possessed–a soft grunt from above indicating that she got in a good hit or two–but he was simply too strong for her to throw him off. 

“I guess you really don’t know me at all,” he spat. His lip had split at some point, a single drop of dark blood lingering at the swell of it. “Because anyone I consider to be my friend would know that I would never think that.” 

“Could have fooled me,” she growled, pulling her legs up behind him. If she could just get the right leverage, maybe she could twist them and–

Anticipating her move, he shimmied down, dropping his hips over her thighs. She tried to lift her arm–to punch him or shove him or something–but he slammed them back down towards the ground. 

She wasn’t going anywhere. And he knew it.

But she had one last secret weapon. 

“At least you bothered to bring him back with you,” she said, unkindly–and a little undeservedly, if she was being honest. “If I had been on that mission instead of Beck, would you have left me behind?” 

“Never,” he swore. “I would never.” 

“Oh yeah? Prove it.” 

Percy glared at her, with all the fury of a volcano. She swallowed, worried, for a moment, that she had gone too far. That it was actually true. That maybe he could leave her behind, especially after everything she just said. That maybe she really didn’t know him after all. 

And then he did something that she wasn’t expecting. In retrospect, though, she shouldn’t have been surprised. She had done the same thing to him, after all.  

He kissed her. 

Turns out, he had a secret weapon, too. 

His mouth was hot on top of hers, the bead of blood from his lips falling to her tongue. She gasped, and he invited himself in further, his hand coming up to cup her face. Freeing her arms.  

She could have pushed him off. Told him to go kick rocks. Instead, she buried her hands in his hair, and brought him closer. 

How long they lay there, making out, she didn’t know. All she knew was that it was entirely too short–one moment, he licked at her lips, pressing her further into the dirt, and she whined, high in her throat, and in the next, he was standing a respectable distance away, hands over his mouth, eyes wild. Annabeth blinked, momentarily stunned. Had she hallucinated the whole thing? 

“I–” he stammered, uncharacteristically nervous. “I–I’m sorry, I–” 

Annabeth scrambled upright. Oh no he fucking didn’t– “Don’t you fucking dare–don’t you run away again.”

From the way he had put his weight on his back foot, he was about to do just that. “Excuse me?” he asked, gaping at her. 

“You heard me.” 

“Me? Run away?”

“Yes, you,” she said, gripping the grass hard enough to rip. “You’re a coward, Percy Jackson.” Here he was. Kissing her, and running off again. Last time, it had been to Calypso and Ogygia. Who might he choose over Annabeth now. Or maybe he’d choose a new god or goddess, perhaps. Romance Thetis or fuck Ganymede while Annabeth trained for his war. And pined away for his kiss. 

“Go fuck yourself,” he said, wiping the blood from his split lip, made wet and shiny with her spit. 

She threw a piece of grass at him, like it would do something. “Fuck me yourself” she snarled, blood racing hot. Not Calypso or Thetis or Ganymede or Aphrodite, but her, who was here and desperate and was fated to be screwed up forever by his kiss. By the memory of his hand, cupping her cheek, of his hair between her fingers, of his blood in her mouth. 

The grass, predictably, did nothing. But her words, apparently, did. 

He turned to stare at her, two sword lengths apart. Both of their weapons were on the ground now. But it felt like they were up and at the ready, pointed at each other’s chests. Because what else could this tense, coiled feeling in her stomach be? 

His chest heaved from exertion, a faint sheen of sweat gathered at the line of his thick, black hair, and she couldn’t help herself from tracing a drop as it ran over his brow, to his nose, to his lips, and finally his tongue, poking out from his lips to lick it up. A swell of jealousy rose in her, her tongue pressing against the back of her teeth, like it was trying to get to him. She clenched her jaw and looked away, digging her nails into the dirt floor to try to anchor her back to earth. 

“...What did you say?” 

“Nothing,” she muttered. “You won. Whatever.” 

In the corner of her vision, she saw his hand, outstretched and extended, and she took it, allowing him to pull her up off the ground. His long fingers, perfect for curling around the hilt of a sword, wrapped around her palm, his thumb inadvertently swiping over the bruise where he had grabbed her, and she suppressed a wince. 

“You okay?” 

Not well enough, it seemed. “Fine.” 

His hand in hers, he brought it to his face, inspecting the purple spot. She could feel his breath on her fingers, so soft and gentle, an unexpected counterpoint to his firm, steady grip. “I’m sorry,” he said, unable to meet her eyes. 

“It’s okay.” It didn’t actually hurt that bad. It’d probably be gone by tomorrow morning. 

He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes dark and stormy. Looking into her own, their hands still clasped together.

And then he leaned forward and she met him halfway.

The last time anyone had ever kissed Annabeth Chase was at a party after the Harvard-Yale game her freshman year, before she’d decided she had to take a leave of absence to be a full-time demigod. (Even her dad agreed that if the world ended, there would not be a lot of use for BS in Architecture. But neither of them were happy about it.) The guy had smelled like beer, and had half his face painted crimson. She’d also been a little drunk. Mostly because the tequila shots her roommate had provided had ended up stronger than camp strawberry wine, which had always been her go to drink of choice. Before that had been Noah from her freshman seminar. Which had been one long exercise in disappointment. After disappointment. After disappointment. 

He pulled away, breaking off with a quiet gasp. “Did you mean what you said?” he asked.

“What?” She had said a lot of things. And her brain was a little bit scrambled from the kiss. 

“You told me to…” He trailed off, flushing. Then, like he was about to face a monster, she saw him swallow, square his shoulders, and look her in the eye again. “About fucking you.” 

She blinked. “What?” And this wasn’t happening. She could not be interpreting this correctly. Percy Jackson, hero of Olympus, greatest demigod alive, who could have any mortal and likely any immortal woman he wanted–Percy Jackson, who was going to die in just over a month, on his twenty-first birthday–was not asking her this. 

“You told me to fuck you,” he said, unflinching, having apparently gathered his strength. “Do you mean it?”

There had to be a way to save face with this. To not come off as one of his little groupies. To not set herself up for the inevitable heartbreak at the end of the summer. 

She could deflect quickly, accuse him of spending too much time at camp if he didn’t know a simple figure of speech. Make a joke about him being too forward. Make a joke about his dad and him being too easy. Ask if he was just worried about dying a virgin. (A stupid thought. He was too handsome, too powerful, too good to not have girls around camp throwing themselves at him. She’d seen it. And he was kind, and sweet, and good. But he wasn’t that good.)

She was the smartest person in the camp. She could get out of this. She was the smartest person at camp. She knew it meant men like Percy Jackson didn’t want to sleep with her. 

But from behind his stormy gaze was something else–desperation, from a young man doomed to die. He needed this… and maybe she did, too. 

She nodded. “Yes. I do.” 

He blinked, like he was taking a moment to process what she had said. “Okay. Come on, then.”  Turning, he led her away from the arena, never letting go of her hand. 

Outside, darkness was settling in. She thought he might be taking her to the infirmary, which she thought was a little bit extra for what was a minor bruise at best, but he took them in a different direction. She could have pulled away, kicked him in the balls, or flipped him into the dirt again. But she didn’t. 

Together, they made their way in silence to the halo of cabins, their shadows stretching and melting across the grass in the last few rays of daylight. Annabeth’s slowly deteriorating rational brain couldn’t even spare a thought to worry about someone possibly seeing them–though, apparently, that wasn’t an issue at all tonight, as Camp was practically deserted, almost deafening in its silence. In lieu of chatter and sword clangs and laughter, there were owls, the gentle waves on the beach, and her heartbeat, loud enough to drown it all out. 

Still holding her hand, he led her to his cabin, making quick work of unlocking the door. Most of the cabins didn’t have locks, but she knew there had been a few… incidents… of kids hoping to filch a souvenir from the mysterious lair of Percy Jackson. After the third decoy pen had disappeared, Beck had pitched in to help. 

But a lair it was not. It looked exactly like it had the last time she’d been there–a pile of laundry here, scattered candy wrappers there, the Minotaur horn still proudly displayed on the wall, gleaming darkly in the low light. Annabeth hadn’t been inside n months, ever since the last inspection ended up with her stubbing her toe no less than three times on a couple of loose nails which Percy had sworn up and down hadn’t been there five minutes ago, but she would have remembered seeing the giant fountain which now stood in the corner of the room. So it must have been new. 

“Redecorated recently?” she said, intending it to be a little harsher than it came out. 

“Gift from dad,” he replied, closing the door behind them. 

“Oh.” She could have guessed. The water pouring out must have been warm, a spray of mist ringing the edge of the basin, but she shivered anyway. 

The hand which had held hers moved to her arm now, gently turning her to face him. The fight was over. The walk back to the cabins wasn’t exactly difficult. And yet, he was still breathing hard. Like he just couldn’t catch it. 

The cabin was warm, sweet but not suffocating, but for a moment, she was thrown back to a dark cavern in the heart of a volcano, searing heat all around her, his t-shirt in her grip, her mouth against his. Her pulse skipped a beat as he brought his hand up to her hair, threading his fingers through her curls, and then he kissed her again. 

But “kiss” wasn’t really strong enough to describe what he was doing to her. 

In one moment, he held her like she was made of glass, and in the next, he had her crushed to his chest, lips pressed against her own. His arm had snaked around her waist, firm like iron, and somehow he had managed to slip his even firmer thigh between her own.

Wiggling a hand between their bodies, she gripped his shoulder, using the leverage to pull her mouth away, catching her breath. “Well,” she chuckled, a little light-headed, ��someone’s excited–”

He cut her off, capturing her lips again, pulling her even tighter to him. His mouth felt hotter than any volcano. The hand in her hair pulled, ever so slightly, a calculated move to open her mouth so he could properly plunder it with his tongue. Clever. She didn’t think he’d had it in him. 

She could appreciate a good strategy. But she wouldn’t be taken down so quickly. 

The hand in her hair drifted sideways, gently turning her head so he could move his attack to her neck. And as she stood there, wrapped up in his embrace, she realized that she had made a grave miscalculation. 

Percy Jackson was not, apparently, worried he would die a virgin. He knew exactly what he was doing. Even when he pulled back, cradling her jaw, his thigh between hers the only thing keeping her from following. “Tell me again,” he said. “One more time.”

She blinked, uncomprehendingly. “Excuse me?” 

“Do you want to do this?” 

“You’re really asking that with your knee on my crotch?” 

At least he had the decency to blush, peach dusting the tips of his ears. “It’s like with the fighting. I’m asking because I’ve been told I can get a little… intense.” 

A sickly feeling went through her stomach, sharp as a knife. “By who?” 

Stone-faced, he looked away, his jaw snapping shut. 

Names and faces of potential culprits flashed through her mind: Drew, Katie, Miranda. All potential candidates. But if they had managed to bag Percy Jackson, everyone at camp would have heard about it before breakfast. There was Rachel, obviously, even if she didn’t want to admit it. But if it had been her, he would have been more embarrassed. He knew how Annabeth felt about her. 

Then she remembered–he had been missing for a month after he exploded the mountain. Lost beyond the reach of mortals. And when he had returned, he was different. Older, somehow, and maybe sadder. Like something had been lost. 

He released her, and she shivered at the sudden touch of air against her skin. “Go ahead and hop in the shower,” he said. “I’ll lock up and join you in a minute.” 

“Shower?” 

He raised an eyebrow. “We are a little smelly from earlier.” 

On cue, the stench of cooling sweat hit her all at once, and she blushed. 

Percy snorted, then kissed her cheek. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll just be a second.” And off he went, picking up a spare shirt and a couple of candy wrappers. How thoughtful of him. 

Showering was thoughtful, too, but it also seemed pretty silly to her. Like, they were only going to get sweatier in just a little bit, so what was even the point? 

Still, she had to admit, it was a nice shower. She was always fighting with her cabin mates for shower times, and they had instituted a strict, five-minute limit on water usage. Perks of living by yourself, she supposed–unlimited access to the bathroom. 

And perks of living in Cabin Three, apparently–the shower turned on immediately, a wave of gentle, consistent pressure which already started pumping out warm water. Had he paid his cyclops brother to gut the plumbing and redo the whole thing? 

Spoiled, supercilious ass.

Shoes and socks kicked off and haphazardly discarded in the corner, she stripped off her camp shirt and shorts, piling them on top of the closed toilet seat, before hesitating as she went to remove her bra. Which was stupid. How was she supposed to shower and have sex with someone while wearing her underwear? And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to take it off, her fingers stayed by some invisible force as they rested on the straps. On the other side of the wall, she could hear Percy humming to himself, tuneless, his footsteps soft against the wooden floor. 

She was being stupid. 

She swallowed her pride, and shucked off her bra and underwear, laying them gently across the rest of her clothes. 

The water ran hot, pleasantly so, steam filling the bathroom and fogging the shower. Shaking out her hair from its wispy, half-undone ponytail, she decided against letting it run free, putting it back up in a bun instead. She still had a day or two left in her shampoo rotation, no need to mess with it now. 

She sighed as she stepped in, the water pummeling her stiff shoulders, forcing them to relax, and she considered the merits of using what she presumed to be Percy’s soap, which rested on the corner shelf. Picking it up the bar, she sniffed it, carefully. Instead of gross boy smell, she got whiffs of salt, lavender, and sandalwood. It was nice. 

“You can use my soap if you want.” 

Only her many years of battle training kept her from jumping, slipping on the wet floor, and banging her head on the wall as she went down. As it was, she only flinched–barely–whipping her head around to glare at him. 

Of course, her carefully constructed insult withered away in her mouth as she got her first look at his naked body. His perfectly formed, perfectly shaped body. Fuck. Look at him. What the fuck. 

His lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile. For a moment, she was stunned. When was the last time she had seen him without a scowl? “Can I come in?” 

“S–” she coughed, dryly, and he raised an eyebrow. Cracking her head open might have been preferable. “Sure. Yeah. Your shower.” 

And he slipped into the shower with her. 

“May I?” he said, holding his hand out. 

She stared, uncomprehending, until he flicked his eyes to the soap. Wordlessly, she handed it over. 

“Turn around,” he murmured. “I’ll do your back.” 

And wordlessly, she did. 

His hands were the same temperature as the water, but she still flinched as he put them on her, one on her shoulder and one on her hip. “Easy,” he said, and she hated the way his tone made her flush. 

Slowly, carefully, he began to wash her with his soap. His hands skimmed over her skin, hypnotic, and despite her best efforts, she relaxed even further. She didn’t even jump when he stepped closer to her, his warm breath softly puffing against her neck, then the press of his lips to her ear even softer. She sighed, and he hummed, kissing the spot again. 

Annabeth stood there, submitting to Percy’s attentions, and her nerves slipped away with the water. It wasn’t very long until she was fully leaning into him, her back pressed right up against his firm chest, his hands wandering over her hips and thighs and stomach. Distantly, she recognized the brilliance of the soap trick–it was an easy way for him to get his hands on her, and boy was it working. 

And boy was she not bothered by it.

“So,” she asked, after a while, “is this a thing for you?”

He hummed, a wordless question. 

“Washing people. Is it a kink?” 

He snorted. “Hardly. We’re just sweaty.” 

“So it’s the shower, then.” 

This time, he actually laughed. “I’m not a shower sex person, no.” 

She turned her head to look at him, frowning. “Seriously?” 

Shrugging, he drew the bar of soap behind her ear, and she had to clench her teeth to stop herself from moaning. “Most of my previous partners aren’t much for showering.”

Wait, what? “Are you sneaking off to some hippy commune on off days?” She couldn’t help but ask.

“Nah, too much effort. The lake’s right there.” 

“...You’ve lost me.” 

He shot her a look, slanted, eyebrow raised.

She frowned, mind racing. He hadn’t slept with anyone from camp. He didn’t go off into the mortal world. The lake was right there. Who would… Oh. “The naiads? Really?” 

“Who else am I going to hook up with here? If I slept with another camper, everyone would hear about it by breakfast the next morning.” 

And yet, here she was, in the shower of Cabin Three. Clearly, he didn’t mind the gossip if it was about her. Heat pooled in her stomach, zipping through her veins. 

“I guess that makes sense,” she said, turning back to face forward. She couldn’t look at his bare chest for too long without getting weak in the knees. She couldn’t think about his perfect body pressed up against the inhumanly beautiful water spirits without wanting to be sick. “They always were incorrigible flirts.” 

“Yeah, well.” His hand now clean, he began wiping the soap off her body, taking care to cover every dip and curve. “I don’t really think it was me they were interested in.” 

She swallowed, her stomach twinging unpleasantly. 

The naiads were incorrigible flirts, with everyone, but they were especially aggressive with Percy. Even when he was a boy, she would always spy them blowing him kisses from under the water, or spot them leaving him little gifts of braided duckweed crowns outside his cabin, or at his table in the dining pavilion. That a flirtation might escalate to something… more… didn’t exactly surprise her. 

But it did piss her off. 

And the thought of Percy, handsome, kind Percy, in the hands of an inhumanly beautiful spirit… well that just pissed her off more. 

Lost in her thoughts and the feeling of his hands, it took her a minute to put together just what his fingers were tracking on her stomach, which twinged again, for an entirely different reason. 

“What’s wrong?” Percy asked. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she ground out, cheeks hot. “It’s nothing.” 

She felt his breathing, measured his calm, and could almost hear his incredulity when he asked, “You’re not ashamed of your scars, are you?” 

“Well…” 

Annabeth could almost picture the furrow in his brow as he parsed her words. She could turn around to see it, too, if she wanted, but she found herself frozen in place, held still by the trace of his fingertips over the white, jagged lines which hadn’t come from a weapon or claw. 

“The stretch marks?” he asked, after a moment. “Seriously?” 

“You literally just told me that you like to hook up with the naiads,” she grumbled, her attempt at crossing her arms aborted by the fact that they were trapped under Percy’s. “Excuse me for being a normal girl with body issues.” 

“What for?” 

She turned back to look at him. His face was just as she had pictured it. “Seriously?” she echoed. 

“Seriously. You’re…” He trailed off, still frowning, but she could see the wheels turning in his head. At least he was thinking about what to say, rather than just blurting out some silly, basic, uninspired ‘beautiful’ and calling it a day. 

When he didn’t follow up, she wondered if he had something critical to say instead.

But no, he only turned her around, pressing her up against him once again. Cupping her face, he leaned down, pressing another deep kiss into her, and she couldn’t help but lean into it, too, wrapping her arms about his neck, standing up on her toes. His hands, now free to roam, covered as much ground as they could, stroking her neck, her back, her sides, and lower, and lower. Warm hands moved from her shoulder blades to her ass, cupping the swell of it, holding her there. Waiting. 

For what? Should she jump into his arms? She wouldn’t necessarily mind that. Was he an “up against the wall” kind of guy? How would that have worked underwater, anyway? 

He broke away from her mouth, panting, and he gasped, “You think too much.” 

Without realizing it, she had been rendered breathless as well. Too well, maybe. She wasn’t thinking at all, at the moment. “What?”

“I can feel your brain working.” He kissed her again, one hand traveling back up to her hip, and she actually whimpered into his mouth. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.” 

Ah. “So I’m all brains, no beauty, then?” 

He pulled back, frowning again. “That’s not what I meant.” 

“It’s not exactly an insult,” she said, leaning up for another kiss. And it wasn’t. The long-simmering tensions between Six and Ten were common knowledge. Athena’s children prioritized one over the other, and it wasn’t the one that would put her in league with the pretty water spirits. 

He let her, but not for very long. “You’re both.”

“It’s really okay–” 

“It’s really not.” He kissed her this time, and hard. Harder than before, Her toes curled, and suddenly she was very grateful for the hand on her ass which didn’t let her fall. “You’ve always been both.” 

Her response was quashed by his tongue in her mouth, swallowed up by the nip of his teeth on her lips, snuffed out by the squeeze of his hand on her hip. 

“You,” kiss, bite, gasp, “are,” he moved to her jaw, then her neck, then her shoulder, planting hot kisses on each inch of skin, hotter than the water which pooled around their feet, “beautiful.” 

“Okay,” she said, fighting through the moan which threatened to burst from her chest, “now you’re laying it on a bit thick.” 

His only response was to drag his teeth across her jugular, soothing the trail of fire with his tongue. He kissed across the line of her collarbone, his lips pressing hot burns into her skin, and she shuddered as he reached her sternum. His hands traveled up her sides, but she had no time to mourn the loss, especially as his fingers came to rest just beneath her breasts. 

Flicking his eyes, wine-dark, up to hers, he rested his mouth just above her skin, one eyebrow raised, a silent question, seeking confirmation. Even the hot puffs of air over her chest were enough to make her tremble, and she had to bite her tongue to keep her eyes from fluttering closed. 

“Seriously,” she said, latching onto the last bits of sanity she had left, “you’ve already got me naked in your shower. You don’t have to flatter me into your bed. I know I’m not as hot as your immortal harem, it’s fine.” 

It was. And she was almost comfortable with that. She might have been, if it were all a question of abstractions, and not the knowledge that whatever sweet words he whispered, Percy Jackson would, inevitably, compare her to them. She might have been, if she could ever hope to measure up to them. 

Annabeth was only a mortal. How could she ever compare to such inhuman beauty? 

“Stop that.” His thumbs, ever so slightly, tilted up towards her breasts. 

“Stop what?” 

“Comparing yourself to them.” Lowering his head, his eyes never left hers, as deep and inexorable as a whirlpool. “Especially when this is so much better.” 

And he brought down his lips and teeth around a nipple. 

She jumped–into him, and he smirked. 

He kept her pinned there for a while, groping and grasping at her, and all the while, he feasted himself upon her. There was no other word for it. He covered every inch of skin with his mouth, moving from breast to breast and shoulder to shoulder, dragging his tongue over her, hot enough to burn. She let her head fall back, making room for his hungry mouth which peppered kisses up and down her neck.

So close to him, she felt his dark chuckle vibrate into her bones, skittering down her spine, scratching that most perfect itch, and she groaned, her hips stuttering as she faltered. Thank the gods for his leg, her shaking knees only stabilized by the thrust of his firm thigh between hers. He brought his hands around, roughly grasping her other breast, and she nearly jumped again. “W–what–” A squeeze, hot and hungry, and her thighs trembled. “What are you talking about?” 

In lieu of an answer, he bit her again. His teeth clamped over the pulse point in her neck, and he sucked. Hard. 

Someone should have informed Annabeth’s body that the neck wasn’t an erogenous zone, but it clearly hadn’t gotten the message–with every suck, every nip, every burning press of his lips, the ache between her legs only grew hotter and hotter. She clutched him to her, digging her fingers into the muscle of his shoulder, and felt his laugh all the way into her blood. 

Eventually, he released her, with one final swipe of his tongue across the newly growing bruise. “Gods,” he hissed, staring at her neck. “Look at you.” 

She swallowed, feeling the throb of her broken skin almost inside of her. A good, omen, hopefully. 

“Your neck.” He dipped down to kiss it again, before moving south. “Your skin.” His hand ghosted beneath the swell of her breast, fingertips leaving burning trails. “Look.” 

She did. She couldn’t not. 

The hot steam of the shower had turned her skin pink. Old scar tissue, years of mostly victorious battles, criss-crossed her body, the lines now nearly white. Percy traced them with his fingers, kissed his way across the map of her body, from breast to stomach to hips. “Perfect,” he murmured, getting down on his knees. 

Flushing, as hot as the water, Annabeth looked up at the ceiling, lip between her teeth. She couldn’t look at him. Not like that. Not with his eyes shining, dark and hungry. Not with the way his hands cradled her hips, firmly but gently. 

And then, he smacked her ass. 

She yelped, hopping up onto her toes. “The hell–!”

“I’ve wanted to do that forever,” he said, that slanted grin making her melt. “I always wondered what color you’d turn if I spanked you.” He flicked his gaze up at her, eyes so blown out they were nearly black, and he smacked her again. And again. “Oh yeah,” he grinned. “That’s a nice red.” 

Presumably, her face was just as red as her ass was now. “Good for you.” 

Good for her, too. 

“Annabeth,” he called from below. “Look at me.” 

Her eyes fluttered open, and she did. He knelt before her, and she saw his hands along her thighs, his mouth parted, lips and tongue wet–and his cock. Hard. Red. Painfully at attention.

“You don’t know how much I thought about you,” he murmured, taking one leg and draping it over his shoulder. “How I used to dream about you.” He pressed a kiss to her thigh, and Annabeth, embarrassingly, moaned, a long, deep, drawn-out thing, which only served to make him grin. “About this.” 

It was impossible to mistake his intentions here. He had telegraphed it every step of the way. And yet, even with him on his knees, his mouth between her legs, and hunger in his eyes, it still surprised her when he put his tongue to her cunt. 

She gripped his hair, spine bending, and felt his lips curve against her skin. 

Okay. Definitely not a virgin. 

Hot breath puffed against her thigh, and he dragged the flat of his tongue over her folds, wet, slow, and obscene, over and over again, so loud she could hear it, even over the roar of the shower. One hand came up to brace her against him, splayed out over the small of her back, while the other dug crescents into her skin, little sparks stoking the fire ever hotter. 

Annabeth had given head maybe once or twice, but she’d never gotten it. She’d endured a few finger fumbles from less-than-skilled practitioners in the heat of the moment, and decided that she didn’t want their faces anywhere near her vagina. And to hear it from the girls around camp, a lot of guys, both mortal and demigod, weren’t exactly enthusiastic about the whole cunnilingus thing. 

Not so with Percy. He knelt beneath her, sturdy as a statue, his onslaught against her showing no signs of stopping. Before long, he had abandoned the flat of his tongue, trading wide coverage for a more concentrated area of attack. As smoothly as he used his sword, he slid his tongue between the folds of her cunt, the sharp edge opening her up, little by little, the point flickering along her clit, sending tiny shocks all up into her. 

Blood roared in her ears, fighting with the heavy spray of water, the wet smack of his lips, the rhythmic grunts of pleasure she only realized came from her when he pulled back, grinning up at her, and said only one word: “Louder.” 

Suddenly she was very grateful for the sounds of the shower spray. 

She was even more grateful when he moved from merely licking along the seam of her cunt to sticking his tongue right inside it. A moan broke through her throat, punching out of her almost painfully, and she curled over Percy’s head, gripping his hair even tighter, which only had the added effect of pushing her hips further into his mouth. 

Seizing on the sudden change in her center of gravity, he readjusted her leg to put more weight on his shoulder, freeing up the hand on her back for a much more important task–slipping his finger inside of her. 

“Fuck,” she moaned, clenching around the thick slide of it. “Percy.” 

His smirk burned against her thigh, and he pulled her even closer, locking her into his embrace, lips and tongue and teeth and hand sending her ever closer towards the edge at an alarming rate. Annabeth had never gotten so close to orgasm with anyone so quickly before in her life. 

Hell, she’d never gotten so close to orgasm so quickly, period. 

She wanted to tell him to stop, or slow down. If this was to be their only night together, then she wanted to enjoy it, not fumble through as quickly as possible. Rhythmically, she flexed her fingers in his thick hair, attempting to hold on to the few functional brain cells she had so she could tell him something fun and sexy, like, Why the rush, or It’s not a race, until he pressed the mound of his palm up against her clit, and her brain shorted out entirely. 

And when he licked it, wrapping his lips around and sucking, it was all over. 

She came, hard, curling over his head, moaning so wantonly it would make Eros blush. If Percy hadn’t been beneath her, holding her trembling body, she might have fallen over entirely. She must have missed a few seconds, because suddenly, Percy had slithered out from under her, and had gathered her up in his arms again, kissing her so fiercely she could taste herself on him. 

“Annabeth,” he moaned, his breath as hot as his hands. She could feel him against her, as hard as bronze. 

She would have responded, if he hadn’t rendered her completely useless. Her tongue felt numb in her mouth, battered by his, a slick, wet, heavy onslaught that she never wanted to end. A siege she desperately hoped would never be broken. 

Eventually, though, after she had been kissed thoroughly stupid, he let up, pulling back more than two inches away from her face. “Okay?” he ground out, his voice rough and gravelly, wrecked like he was the one who had been doing the screaming. 

“Hng,” she responded, eloquently. 

It was only the smallest shred of lingering pride which let her walk out of that shower on her own two feet, rather than have Percy carry her to his bed, like she was some kind of blushing bride. The thought brought her, a bit cruelly, back into herself, and she shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the sudden absence of the warm water as Percy shut off the shower. “Okay?” he asked again, his hand on her waist, and she nodded, swallowing at the feel of gooseflesh which ran through her body. 

She nodded, running her tongue over her lips, a pleasant spark bursting inside her as she watched his eyes track it. “I thought,” she said, the taunt lightly undercut by the audible sigh in her voice, “that you were going to fuck me.” 

His eyes darkened, trench-deep, and he moved his hand to entwine it with hers, entirely too gentle for the way he growled out his next words: “If you wanted a good fucking, all you had to do was ask.” 

“Isn’t that why you dragged me into your lair?” she asked, leading him to the bed. She needed to sit down or her legs might give out. “To give me a good fucking?” 

Before she could sit down, though, he pulled her to him again, fastening his lips to her neck. “I think,” he whispered into her skin, “that you should ask me for it.” 

“What?” 

“You heard me.” And then he nipped at her jugular, lightly, and she gasped, twitching in his arms. “Ask me to fuck you.” 

“Percy–” she tried, half-heartedly, to squirm out of his embrace, but he wouldn’t budge. 

“Mm?” He licked her ear, and she squeaked. “What was that?” 

Annabeth pushed at his chest. 

In response, he blew a raspberry on her. 

Shrieking, she managed to twist her way out of his arms, and shoved him lightly onto the bed. Percy made it easier, laughing too hard to hold onto her. “Asshole.” 

He leaned back, resting on his elbows, a smooth, fluid motion, the dim lights of his cabin casting his chest and stomach in sinful shadow. “Aw, let me have my fun,” he chuckled. “First time I tried that on a naiad, she thought it was some kind of mysterious, human wedding rite.” 

Something in Annabeth’s chest grew hot. She wasn’t sure what was worse–the reminder that Percy had slept with the naiads, the idea that he had tried something human with them and they had misunderstood it, or the use of the w-word. Wedding. She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “How would you like it if someone sprang that on you?” 

He grinned, sharklike. “I think I’d like that very much.” 

It hit her, then, what position they’d ended up in. Sprawled out before her, Percy had let his legs fall open, a twitch away from bracketing her between them. And there, staring her in the face, was his cock. Hard. Pointed at her. 

She swallowed, her mouth filling with saliva. Which was a new experience. 

Nothing about her previous sexual encounters had ever inspired her to try fellatio before. She’d given a couple of handjobs, sure, but this was uncharted territory. In theory, the idea had always sounded… decidedly unappealing. Penises were gross, as were often the guys attached to them.

But there was Percy’s cock. It didn’t look gross at all. 

It looked perfect, and purple, and so, so fucking pretty.

Only the creak of her knees as she knelt down was able to snap her out of her trance. She wasn’t exactly the most graceful person–she guessed she should be thankful she had managed to get down here without collapsing in an embarrassing heap. She tried not to picture the naiads, creatures of otherworldly grace and poise, slithering down to kneel before their lord’s son. 

And then she realized his cock was at eye-level, and all other thoughts went out the window. 

“Hey.” Percy’s hand was on her cheek, and he tilted her face towards him. His eyes were soft as he looked at her, the heat of the moment not quite as intense as before. “You don’t have to,” he said, even as his fingers skated beneath her chin. His thumb hovered before her lips, twitching. 

“You don’t want me to?” She asked. Experimentally, she flicked out her tongue, making contact. 

“I… don’t know how to answer that question,” he said, hoarse. 

“You don’t?” She looked again to his cock, and breathed on his thumb, her breath as hot and wet as she could make it. 

It twitched. He hissed, like he had been shocked. 

In response, she laughed, deep in her throat. “Seems like you just did.” 

And then, in what might have been the most brazen thing she had ever done, including inviting the son of Poseidon to fuck her out of nowhere, she reached forward, and took his thumb into her mouth. She drew her tongue against the skin, licking the clean taste of him, and hollowed her cheeks in an exaggerated suck. 

Spots of red appeared on his cheeks, and his jaw dropped open. “Gods,” he growled, a tone of voice she had never heard out of his mouth before. Something deep inside her pulsed, and she decided to do it again. 

“Gods,” he said again, eyes as black as a sea storm. 

Dragging her tongue along the line of his thumb, she let her eyes flutter close, lips curling as she heard him groan, wrecked like a ship on shore. 

“Gods,” he said a third time, his fingers delicately cradling her face, and a thrill went through her. “The fucking mouth on you.”

Releasing his thumb with an obscene pop, she pressed forward, ready to put that mouth to use. And she wanted to. She wanted to hear her name as it spilled from his lips, in choked, bitten-off gasps, or long, loud moans. She wanted to send his eyes rolling, to have him tangle his fingers in her hair, bending over her as she brought him to ever higher heights. She wanted to make him feel as amazing, as wanted, as he did for her. 

But he had other ideas, evidently. “C’mere,” he murmured, pulling her back up to him. He wasted no time, kissing her senseless, occupying her mouth in other ways. Hungry hands gripped at her hips, her tits, her chin and her cheeks, and she just let it all happen. 

Well, almost. “I thought,” she said, panting just a little, “you wanted me to–”

He cut her off with a kiss. “Not tonight,” he said, softly, before going back for more. 

But she pulled back, confused. “What do you mean?” Tonight was all they had. He was going to die soon. She’d never get the chance to suck his dick if not tonight. She’d never get the chance to do anything else with him if not tonight.

Slowly, achingly tender, he tucked a curl behind her ear, all passion deserting him for the moment. “I don’t…” he swallowed, then, suddenly shy, before bringing her in closer, enveloping her in an embrace. 

After a second of shock, she returned it, wrapping her arms around him. Even with a girl naked and in his lap, perched on top of his hard cock, nevertheless he held her far more gently than she ever imagined he could be capable of. He buried his nose in her neck, his breath hot against her skin, and if she hadn’t been so close, she never would have heard his next words. 

“I don’t want you like that,” he said, barely audible. 

She was proud of how little her voice betrayed the sudden, cold shock that came over her, like she had been dumped in the lake. “Oh.” 

“No, I mean–” He shook his head, nose against her skin. “Not at my feet.” 

Not at–...ah. Of course. The naiads. 

I don’t really think it was me they were interested in.

She pressed her lips to his hair, already bone dry even after their shower. “Okay,” she promised. “Okay, I won’t.” 

He nodded into her neck, and just held her for a little while longer. 

“Besides,” he said, after a moment. “I like this just fine.” 

She tilted her head back, giving him more access. “Like what?” 

“You.” Kiss. “Here.” Another, lower on her neck. “Smelling like me.” 

Cheeks red, she let him pepper kisses all over her skin, fingertips tapping scattered rhythms against his shoulders. Any time she tried to pull away, he dug his fingers in deeper, hands tightening about her waist, a quick nip to her neck to keep her in place, and she just let him. Let him explore her body like the seas they sailed through and the labyrinths they’d traversed together. His hands traced a path from top to bottom, from neck to spine to stomach to clit, as sure and confident as though he had Ariadne’s thread, and she couldn’t help but sigh at every burning touch and scorching kiss. With every stroke and every bite, he pulled a moan from her, playing her as skillfully as any musician. 

“That’s it,” he growled, leaning down to kiss between her breasts. “Don’t hold back–I want to hear your moans.” 

Oh, he did, did he? 

Tipping her head back so she could look down her nose at him, she met his eyes, and shut her jaw with an audible clack. 

He raised an eyebrow at her. 

Annabeth raised hers back, a silent challenge.

“Oh, we’re being shy now, are we? What happened to the girl who basically fellated my thumb?” He bent his head towards her breast, grazing his teeth across the skin, running his tongue around her nipple. 

She had to chew on her lips to keep her mouth shut. A squeak still managed to escape, but he had just given a sharp bite to her nipple, so she thought that was allowed. Soothed by the swipe of a tongue, Annabeth swallowed her moans as best she could, which meant that it had to come out in other ways. She tightened her legs around his, squirming on top of his lap, gratified by the hiss that came from beneath. 

Grinning, Percy took up the cause with vigor, slipping his fingers inside of her. 

Was she so turned on it hurt? Yes. Was it getting harder and harder to keep her noises in? Absolutely. But she wasn’t going to sit there and just take what he was giving her. She wasn’t one of the simpering naiads who only treated him as an extension of his father. 

She was Annabeth, and she refused to make it easy for him. 

And judging from the gleeful glint in his eyes, he was certainly enjoying it. 

In one smooth motion, he turned them over, laying her down on his bed. She grabbed him before he could pull back, bringing him down with her for another blisteringly hot kiss, and he went with no resistance to speak of. Not content to confine her hands to his hair, she let them wander all over the expanse of his body, paying him back in kind as much as she could. His arms, his shoulders, his back, his ass–oh dear gods, his ass, how in any of the nine realms could anyone have an ass that perfect–until eventually, she reached his cock, which jumped as she wrapped her fingers around it, giving it a few slow, languid pumps. In her arms, he shuddered, moaning so deep in his chest she felt it vibrate through her body. He shifted, and his hips accidentally rocked up against hers in the most perfect angle. 

It was enough to break her self-imposed silence, and she gasped, sharp and broken. 

When he did it again, she realized it was no accident. 

“You motherf–”

Percy kissed the curse out of her mouth, leaving her breathless. Like a man possessed, he threw himself back down onto her body, kissing and licking and sucking and touching a path towards her cunt, and she was almost paralyzed at the pleasure of it all. 

When he reached her stomach, she finally had collected enough oxygen to ask, “So, how am I doing?” 

He lifted his head, blinking at her uncomprehendingly. “Huh?” 

“In bed. How am I doing? How do I measure up to the nai–”

A bite, and she gasped. “What did I say about comparing yourself to them?” he asked, and followed it up with another bite, this time on her thigh. “It's really not fair to them.”

“What?” she gasped. She almost hadn’t heard him over the ringing in her ears.  

He pulled back, and looked up at her. And she felt more then watched as one of his sword calloused fingers moved to trace along her knee, where she had a scar. It wasn’t a battle scar. Not even from training. When she had been little, she’d fallen down while ice skating and ended up cutting her knee on a branch resting on the lake. 

“Have you ever had sex with a nature spirit?” 

She blinked at him, the gears furiously turning in her head at this break in sensation. Annabeth was a person who could count her sexual experiences on one hand, and reached a peak exactly none of those times. It was fairly well known that water and plant spirits tended towards women, especially around camp. Though she might have been closer to bi than straight, Percy Jackson didn’t know that. She didn’t exactly want to share all of this with him, either. So she shook her head. 

He sat a little further back, which was not really the action she wanted him to do, but she was more desperate for him to explain than she was to complain. 

“They’re so perfect,” was the only answer he gave her, looking at her face, and then back at the scar on her knee, brushing it with his fingers, and then petting a little lower down her leg. 

With an unsexy twist to her stomach, she realized he was looking at the leg hair. “Sorry.” 

He looked up at her again, frowning, before placing a kiss on the scar. “You’re not listening,” he said again. “They’re perfect. They’re some sort of weird ideal. Everything is smooth and perfect, like it was carved from marble based on some platonic ideal of a woman.”

“Because that’s so reassuring.” 

Percy placed another kiss on her thigh. “And fucking marble is like fucking anything platonically.” He sighed, just the barest shade of world-weariness peeking out from behind his careful facade. “There's nothing there. Not really. No flaw. No evidence of fighting. No humanity.” He grasped at her thigh, where another set of stretch marks lay. “They can't have anything like this. Because they can’t grow and change. “ He smirked at her, and the world settled back into balance a little. “Their asses certainly don’t turn red when I give them a good smack.” 

You could probably power a small country with the heat coming off her face. She should talk to Jake about developing a new, renewable energy source out of this. But still, something nagged at her. 

Apparently, he could tell. “What’s wrong?” he asked, frowning.

“I know you’ve…” She swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat, blocking the words from coming out. 

He sat back on his haunches, hands gently resting above her knees. “What is it?” 

“I’m…” 

Some kind of understanding flickered in his eyes, and he pulled his hands back. “Okay. We don’t have to do anything–” 

“Percy.” She shot her hand out and grabbed his before he could get too far away. “That’s not what I want.” 

“Look, if you’re feeling weird about this, we can stop right now–” 

Shaking her vehemently, she tugged on his arm to bring him back to her, but he wouldn’t budge. “I’m not feeling weird, I promise. I mean,” she tilted her head, considering, “I am, but not about–about you.”  

He softened, just a hair. “Then what is it?” 

Sighing, she looked down at his hand, twining their fingers together. “You’ve done this a lot, right?” 

A pause. “Well, yeah. I mean, mostly with the naiads. But yeah. I’ve… done it a few times,” he said, sheepish. 

“Okay, well, I haven’t.”

His eyes widened. “Never?” 

“Not never,” she clarified. “Maybe once or twice. But never with someone I actually…” 

The air grew tense, like a wave about to hit. Percy spoke, hushed, like they were in a temple, instead of his bed. “Someone you actually…?” 

Swallowing again, she flicked her eyes back up to him. He was still, like a shark, poised and ready to strike. In the dim light, he looked even more handsome, his black hair thrown into disarray by her fingers, his lips swollen and kiss-bruised, his thumb gently stroking against her palm. 

“Someone I actually like,” she finished, barely more than a puff of hair. 

His eyes fluttered closed, and he bent over, laying his head on her stomach. “You don’t even know,” he said into her skin, voice strained almost to breaking. “You don’t even know what you do to me, do you?” 

Before she could even begin to parse what he had just said, he returned to his earlier task of learning her body with his mouth, but with a renewed vigor. Or maybe a new frenzy would be a better way to put it. He held her hips firmly with his hands, shoving them down every time she so much as twitched as he attacked her cunt with lips, teeth, and tongue, feasting on her like she was his last meal. Overcome by this sudden onslaught, she could do little more than hang on for dear life, fisting her hands in his sheets, and soon, she found herself racing perilously close to the edge again. 

“Per–” she gasped as he sucked on her, “Percy, I–” 

But he would not be stopped. Fastening his lips to her labia, he lavished stroke upon stroke upon her, his nose bumping up against her clit in a way that made stars burst in her eyes, and then, all of a sudden, she had tipped over the cliff. 

The cabins were supposed to be pretty soundproofed, but there was no way the whole camp didn’t just hear her scream like that. Hopefully they thought it was just a harpy or something. 

Panting, almost dizzy, she lay there, attempting to gather her bearings, while Percy kissed his way back up her body, stopping at every waymark he had left on her skin, each bite and nip and freckle, pulling her down from the heavens until she fell back into her body, trembling from the force of her orgasm. There was something in her ear, and it took her a few extra seconds to put together that Percy was speaking to her. 

“You’re so amazing, so beautiful, so hot,” he babbled, kissing up and down her neck, “you are the most amazing woman, I can’t believe I finally get to have this, gods, Annabeth–” 

Turning her head with only a little difficulty, she cut him off, her lips apparently proving too tempting for him to not kiss. 

She couldn’t stand hearing those words coming out of his mouth. Not from someone who, in just a month, would in all likelihood be–

His knuckles brushed over her sensitive clit, and she jumped, about to refuse, because she simply could not handle a third mind-bending fingering tonight, but he just grunted in apology. Instead of his hands, then, she felt the soft, smooth tip of his cock, bumping up against her opening. She shivered, breath stuttering in her chest. “Please,” she mumbled, “please, please, please–” 

He slipped in, a smooth, agonizing motion, which sent her eyes rolling into the back of her head. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the skin, and it took her a moment to realize that the high, keening sound she heard was coming from her. 

His arms pulled her in even tighter, and with a sigh, he began to move. 

Annabeth had had sex before. Both times before had been lackluster, uninspiring events, where the guy had clearly learned all of his techniques from porn, jackhammering away at her vagina without really knowing what he was doing. She figured being with Percy, with his long and storied history, would probably make for a much more notable experience. But she was completely unprepared for just how much better it could be. 

He rocked her like the tide, a slow, steady, insistent movement which set her nerves sparking from top to bottom. Pleasure lapped at her from every side, washing over her in waves, while Percy’s body kept her anchored, one hand against her back, the other curling about her neck. She could feel as he dug his knees into the mattress, could feel the corded muscles in his thighs as he moved in her, traced the shifting muscles of his back with her fingertips, and she couldn’t help but let out a long, broken moan. “Percy,” she gasped, “I–I–oh–” 

He didn’t respond, only kissed the corner of her lips, open-mouthed and sloppy. Then he pulled away, and she almost whined at the loss of contact. 

“So, how is it?” He asked her, with barely more than a puff of air. 

“What?” She had no idea what he could mean. Why was he asking her questions at a time like this, if the answer was anything other than “more”?

He grinned. “Having sex with someone you actually like?”

She rolled her eyes. Or she would have, if he hadn’t given her a particularly satisfying thrust that made her legs twitch. It was hard to think straight, because, really, it was amazing, but she shot back anyway, “How is it having sex with someone actually human?”

“I told you,” he said, and his grin dropped, just a little, “you are so much better than a thousand naiads together could hope to be.” He let out a breath, and then grasped her torso, and with a force she definitely knew he had but hadn’t seen outside of the training grounds, rolled them over, leaving her on top. A position she’d never tried before. “And now,” he said, twirling a curl around his finger, “I want to see it from a different angle.”

Momentarily, she was overcome by the sudden shift in sensation. Under him, it hadn’t been bad, of course, but compared to the fingering of a lifetime, it hadn’t quite measured up as of yet. Now, she needed a second to get used to the feeling of him inside of her all over again. From this vantage point, he seemed bigger somehow, filling her every nook and cranny, the intensity crashing on her like a wave. 

Below her, he smirked, somehow reading her mind. “Good?”

Well, if he wanted to be like that, fine. She could wipe that stupid grin off his face. 

Her own face was bright red, she was sure, but she was determined not to lose this rematch. What was the point of core workouts and leg days anyways if she never put them to some use?

Gritting her teeth, she tightened her legs around him, pleased at the stutter in his breath. She rose up, hissing at the slick slide of his cock inside her, the drag of sparks which shot up through her spine, and her fingers trembled on his shoulders as she lowered herself back down. Then she did it again. And again. And again. Beneath her, Percy’s chest moved with the controlled force of his breath, his hands flexing on her hips. Biting her lip, she shifted forward an inch–and cried out as the new angle made it so he pressed up against a spot which made her eyes cross.

“Oh, gods,” he groaned, head thrown back. “Oh, fuck–Annabeth, gods.” 

She liked that. She liked that very much. 

And this, she thought as she began to ride him. She liked this very much, too. 

Over and over, she struck down on that spot inside her, and eventually, she couldn’t stay silent. Each thrust down startled a moan out of her, climbing higher and higher until you could practically keep time with it. Percy writhed below her, panting, his stomach flexing rhythmically, until he could no longer stand it and surged up, crushing her to his chest, and set about to fucking her. 

His cock stabbed up into her at the same, torturous pace, making her see stars, her moans swallowed up by the press of his mouth on hers. She could feel the muscles of his strong arms bulging, burning like brands across her back. Tearing his lips away, he kissed a meandering path to her ear, and asked, mumbling, “Is this–unh–is this good? Is this what you wanted?” 

“Yes,” she gasped, jolting as he nibbled on her earlobe. “Yes, Percy!” 

“Tell me.”

“Fuck, it’s so good–ah…” 

“Tell me you want me–please.” He kissed her jaw, slurring the word into her skin, the movement of his hips sloppier and sloppier.

There was no cockiness in his tone, no jokes. No self-satisfied smugness. Only desperation. A desperation to please her. 

“I–want–Percy–touch me–”

And like a seasoned sailor navigating the stars, his fingers found her clit–and she was done. 

Boneless, she flopped in his arms, her arms around his neck the only thing keeping her from toppling off him as he chased the last of his pleasure within her. With a broken, wrecked noise, he squeezed her impossibly tighter, his hips stuttering beneath her as he buried his face into her shoulder, gasping for air. He shook, his body seizing around her and in her, and she couldn’t help but echo his cry at it, the current of feeling dragging her back down into the depths. Submerged in it, surrounded by it, she clutched at his shoulders, riding the last lingering shockwaves of electric pleasure that skittered through her body. 

Slowly, agonizingly, he relaxed around her, a gradual release of pressure. But he didn’t release her, falling back instead with her still in his arms. 

“Damn.” She felt him more than heard him, a soft sigh which vibrated under his sternum and into her. “Damn.” 

She grunted in agreement. 

Time slipped away as she lay there, sprawled out on the bed of his body, resting her head on his chest, keeping the minutes only by the furious pounding of his heart against her ear as it slowed down, as they both came down from the skies together. Apparently unable to keep his hands off her even after sex, he twirled her hair around his finger, the gentle tug keeping her grounded. It could have been hours until she managed to scrape together the energy to raise her head to look at him. He was looking at her, a soft, shiny glow behind his eyes. “That was nice,” she said, hoarse. 

The corner of his lips quirked up. “Oh yeah? We should do this again sometime.” 

Laughter bubbled up out of her, and he followed suit, the movement jostling her body. “Ugh,” she winced, gently pulling off of him. “I’m going to feel that in the morning.” 

“In a good way or a bad way?” 

She flopped down beside him, sending him a grin. “I’ll let you decide.” 

“Come back,” he pouted. “I want to cuddle.” 

“Never would have pegged you for a cuddler.” She shifted into him with little hesitation, humming as his hands took up residence in her hair again. “Doesn’t that kind of ruin your heartbreaker reputation?” 

“I love cuddling.” He brushed his knee up against hers, sliding his arm beneath her head. “And I don’t get to nearly as often as I would like.” 

“Naiads aren’t big on post-coital snuggles?” The thought made her inexplicably happy. 

“Imagine trying to cuddle a person-shaped jellyfish.” 

She frowned. “Wriggly? Squishy?” 

“Hard to hold. The sea doesn’t like to be restrained, you know.” 

“Or the lake, in this case.” 

He huffed a laugh. “I guess.” 

She could have responded, but there wasn’t much she could say that wasn’t horribly rude to the water spirits, so she let them fall into companionable silence instead. And it was companionable. Percy gently carded his fingers through her hair, and she drew aimless patterns on his chest with her finger, lines and angles which slowly formed themselves into letters: alpha, nu, alpha, beta, epsilon–

Percy stilled beneath her. “Oh, shit.” 

“What? What is it?” 

He sat bolt upright, staring down at her. “You don’t…” he swallowed, color rising to his face. “You don’t happen to be on birth control, do you?” 

“...Excuse me?” 

Groaning, he fell back, hands over his face. “We didn’t use any protection.”

“...Oh, shit.” You know, she did feel damper than usual down there. 

Without thinking, she snaked a hand down, swiping a finger through herself, and brought it back up, observing. 

Yup. That was definitely semen. 

Well. 

She was pretty sure Will had some Plan B squirreled away somewhere in their stores. 

Suddenly, she was very aware of Percy looking at her. 

Studiously ignoring his gaze, she popped her finger in her mouth, licking it clean, and he made a noise like he had been stabbed. 

“Di immortales,” he wheezed. “You’re trying to kill me.” 

Pleasure stirred in her, purring like a cat, but she decided to ignore it. For now. “So, are you always this lax with protection with the naiads, too? Are we going to see an influx of little Percys in nine months?” 

“There better not be.” 

“Would a condom even work with a naiad?” she wondered aloud, more to herself than anything, but Percy shook his head. 

“It wouldn’t. But there won’t be any mini-mes running around.” 

“How do you know?” 

He gulped, audibly. “I, uh… I made them swear not to have my children.” 

Raising an eyebrow, she shot him a look. “You made them promise? Really?” Like that would do anything. Nature spirits were flighty and impulsive by nature. So kind of like demigods, really. 

“No, I mean…” His gaze turned up, suddenly very interested in the wooden ceiling beams. “I made them swear on the Styx.” 

“...Oh.” 

“Yeah. I didn’t–I didn’t want…” He trailed off. Annabeth’s mind rushed to fill in the blanks. The responsibility? The burden? The hope? “I didn’t want to leave someone behind. Who didn’t know their father.”

Annabeth couldn’t respond. Her heartbeats ticked by like seconds, counting down to his birthday. 

He coughed. “Um, yeah.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And–and also, I wouldn’t want them to use any potential kid of mine as a bargaining chip, either. You would not believe how complex undersea politics can get.”

A bargaining chip? “For what?”

He shrugged. “Power. Bragging rights. Marriage.”

Her brain short-circuited. “Is… that something you want?”

He looked at her for several long moments. “Not with a Naiad from the camp lake who settled for Poseidon’s son when she would rather fuck Poseidon instead.” He looked at her. And somehow there was more to it than when he had been inside her. “But I’m not opposed. To the concept of marriage. In general.”

She couldn’t–she couldn’t think about that. “Well, clearly that’s not what I’m here for.”

He raised a dark eyebrow, the edges of his devil-may-care smirk pulling on his lips. “Oh?”

“Come on,” she said, lightly shoving him. “You think I’d be interested in marrying you?” 

The words dropped between them, as heavy as a stone in water. 

She cleared her throat. “I mean, I didn’t fuck you to have your baby, either.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“I mean, I don’t want to fuck or marry your dad!”

“I think your mom would disown you if you did.” 

“Stop being a seaweed brain,” she said, “I’m trying to say something nice.”

“By all means.” He was smirking again. Right this second, maybe it wasn’t annoying, maybe it made him look roguish and handsome.

“I like you. And not because you're the son of Poseidon. But because you’re Percy Jackson.”

It was true that the power he held, the strength and skill, flowed from the same source as his father. But it wasn’t Percy’s ability to control the waves that enchanted her. It was that he had that power, and he used it. But he also helped little twelve year old campers with sword stances, and made messy evil eye charms in the arts and crafts tent to give to homesick kids. He could be both.

And that gentleness, that caring nature, was not something she saw reflected in Poseidon.

“Oh.” He said again, but he looked a little less cocksure, “So… what…”

“I mean… It's not like all that power isn’t hot. But lots of people have power. You know when to use it,” she said. “And when to be kind. Or take a step back.” Or let her have her say. Let her offer her opinion, and then take it into consideration. It was so much hotter than just having strength.

He grinned, slanted and shit-eating, even if it was a little shaky. “Hotter, really?”

Fuck, she hadn’t meant to say that part out loud.

“Really,” she said, trying to keep the embarrassment off her face. At this point, it was probably already too late, though.

Apparently satisfied, he let the topic drop, sparing her the humiliation of explaining herself further. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty tired, and it’s getting pretty late…” He trailed off, meaningfully.

Oh. Well. She supposed that was her cue. Sitting up, she swung her legs over the side, only for Percy to reach out and grab her hand. 

“Where are you going?” 

“To my cabin? You just said it was late–”

“I was trying to imply that you should stay. Here.” He turned those eyes on her, brimming with equal amounts hope and apprehension. “With me.” 

Oh. That was… “That’s against the rules,” she said, carefully. Guarded. Gauging.

“...Yeah.” His shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. “Yeah, I guess it is.” 

Still. “...Maybe we could… meet up tomorrow? I mean,” she forced a laugh, “I still owe you a blowjob, right?” 

For a long, drawn out moment, he didn’t answer her, only rubbing his thumb against the side of her palm. And then, softly, muted, like he was speaking underwater, he said, “Right. Yeah. We can–we can meet up tomorrow.” 

He didn’t sound very confident. But he let her go all the same.

In short order, she had slipped into the bathroom, quickly re-dressing herself, and now lingered at the door to his cabin, wondering how best to say goodbye. It seemed as though he hadn’t moved at all, still lounging nude on his sheets, his perfect bronzed form exposed to the open air, arms drawn up and behind his head, his brooding gaze fixed firmly somewhere above him. “Well,” she said, entirely out of words. “Good night.” 

“Night.” 

She waited a heartbeat more, then slipped out the door, shutting it quietly behind her. 

They’d see each other tomorrow. They’d both agreed to it. 

If she had her way, they’d see each other every day for the rest of their lives. But they didn’t have the rest of their lives. She only had until the end of the war. Only the rest of his life.

Eyes suddenly hot, she swiped at them furiously, and began making her way back to her cabin. 

Tomorrow, then. She’d make tomorrow count. 

…And she would make sure to stop by the infirmary tomorrow morning, too.

[froggyfics]

The Deadliest Poisons Are The Sweetest - 4

You meet someone new.

(09/15/23) Note: If you have read this series before this date, please note that I have combined chapters 1 and 2 together. This may seem confusing, but I have decided that as a creative approach, I would like the chapters to be longer. This chapter and beyond are up to date.

Also, please let me know if the dialogue is too much or too weird. This chapter was a bit of a challenge for me because of it.

Feedback is always appreciated. Feel free to message me privately or comment below to let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcome!

Word Count: 3,853

The air is stifling and stale within the banquet hall. It’s a familiar sight that you have seen before – servants pouring drinks until cups runneth over, men leering at both married and unmarried women, people stuffing their mouths with fatty meats. 

People are similar everywhere, you realize. The sight before you is akin to what you witnessed as a child growing up in the banquet hall of your father’s home. For some reason though, you thought that the people in the capital were more refined and distinguished than those in your birthplace. However, your experience in Gotham so far has proved you severely wrong. 

In fact, it seemed as though the richer people are, the more repulsive. It left a terrible taste in your mouth. The city was absolutely beautiful – with ancient architecture to depict its rich history and bustling streets filled to capacity with cultures and ideas from all over.

It was the upper echelon of the city however, that left you wary. Every interaction with the highest members of society was enjoyable on the surface, but there was a distinct undercurrent of greed and jealousy beneath the gritted smiles and half-hearted waves that people gave you.

It made you feel out of place, as if you didn’t already know that you don’t belong here. 

The liquid in your cup sloshes out and coats your hands after your shoulder is violently jerked.

“My sincere apologies, my Lady,” a man near you says. 

You grumble, but manage to scrounge up a small smile for the man. After all, it was simply an accident that he bumped into you. 

However, the vulgar stare that follows his apology tells you otherwise. He smirks at you while walking backwards, practically undressing you with his eyes. 

Your face reddens and your stomach coils uncomfortably. You’ve been pasted to the wall nearly all night, but you take the man’s indomitable stare as a sign to venture out and seek out Damian. 

You’ve barely seen him, let alone talked to him, since you’ve arrived in Gotham. In fact, it almost seemed like he was avoiding you since that fateful reunion in the garden. You were in such high spirits after that day, but now, you find yourself replaying your interaction with him obsessively. 

In your recollection, it didn’t seem like you said or did anything to upset him. Presumably, there would no reason as to why he steered clear of you, but you can’t help but wonder if it’s your fault.

“You will live and breathe for the House of Al Ghul after your marriage,” Talia said to you over breakfast a few days ago. 

You nearly choked on your bread in response. The timing of her statement, and her statement itself, were quite absurd. She rarely spoke more than a few words to you since your arrival and when she did speak to you, the conversation was shallow. All of a sudden, here she was, in front of you with the most apathetic look upon her face. 

“Certainly, Lady Al Ghul.” Your mother sat beside you and answered in your stead. “My daughter will become the property of her husband, and the House of Al Ghul, after her marriage takes place.”

How were you to “live and breathe for the House of Al Ghul” if you couldn’t even find the person you were theoretically supposed to exist for – your future husband?

You wade through the throng of people in the hall. They all pause their conversations to greet you as you pass by. It still startles you today just as much as it did the first day you arrived in Gotham. You politely greet them all back, but quicken your step nonetheless. 

Damian was certainly in the banquet hall. After all, this betrothal dinner was being held in honor of you and Damian. However, it was becoming increasingly difficult to find him. You spot him in the crowd with his head poking above the wave of people, but as soon as you near him, he inexplicably disappears. 

It’s overwhelming for your senses. Anxiety courses through your veins. You’re trapped in a space filled with strangers, new and old. Your family was busy socializing with people that they never thought they would mingle with – never considering your isolating plight. R’as and Talia avoided you like the plague, as if you weren’t about to become a part of their family. Talia assigned several ladies-in-waiting to be employed by your household, but even they excluded you from their conversations. Damian was the one person that you wanted to seek comfort from, but he seemed intent on dodging you. 

You stand in the middle of the banquet hall with people all around you, but you have never felt so unseen and lonely. A hand firmly seizes your shoulder and for a moment, you panic. You slowly turn around, hoping that the man that oogled you earlier was not behind you.

Instead, you meet the steely blue eyes of your future father-in-law, Bruce Wayne. You wondered how a gentle soul like him managed to tolerate someone like Talia long enough to produce an heir.

He seemed to be the polar opposite of her. Though he was a man of few words, he always spoke kindly to you since the day you were introduced. His eyes were bright blue like the sky, which contrasted the signature mossy greens of the Al Ghul’s. 

You sigh in relief and curtsy politely. “My Lord.”

He holds his hand up to quiet you. “Please, call me Bruce. You are to be my daughter by law. You are…” He wrinkles his face for a moment to think. “…to be my family soon enough.”

“Thank you – Bruce. For making me feel welcome. I look forward to marrying into your family and –”

“Father,” Damian curtly acknowledges, interrupting your conversation. He greets you as well, but barely looks at you. “Mother is kindly asking for your presence. Something to do with wedding preparations.”

Bruce nods his head and gives you quick goodbye. He begins to walk again, with Damian leading him, until you grab onto Damian’s arm.

“Wait,” you start.

Both Damian and Bruce turn to face you while your face reddens with embarrassment. You know what you want to say, but you struggle with getting the words out. 

“Hello,” you squeak. “Damian, erm, how are you this evening?”

Damian shifts awkwardly, never quite meeting your eyes. Bruce inquisitively looks between the two of you and excuses himself.

“I’ll let the two of you talk. I’ll…speak with Talia on my own.” He grimaces before walking away.

Damian longingly gazes in the direction that Bruce walked in. You notice his uneasiness, which only amplifies your own. What had you done wrong?

“Damian,” you call out again.

He turns to face you, but his eyes don’t meet your own. It’s like they see through you, rather than at you.  

You can’t even bare to look him in the face any longer out of mortification. “I have not been blessed by your presence recently,” you murmur.

Damian breathes deeply. “Yes, I…suppose it has been some time.”

Silence falls between the two of you, yet the party rages on. You look down and play with your dress, the same shyness that enveloped you the day you arrived in Gotham has returned. It’s green, black, and gold – the colors that represented House Al Ghul. It truly is a stunning dress, a testament to the skillful hands of the Gothamite tailors, but you don’t feel beautiful in it at all. Not when the one person you want to impress seems so thoroughly unimpressed with you. You gullibly thought to wear this particular garb tonight in the hopes that he would perhaps throw a compliment in your direction. 

You think back to the day in the garden just a few days prior. It felt like a hallucination, but the red carnation that Damian gave you reminded you that this was, in fact, reality. When you returned to your quarters that day, you excitedly dried and preserved the carnation and stowed it away in your jewelry box. You wanted to save it as a memento to the start of your love story with Damian. 

Although, your love story seemed to be a far-fetched dream at this point.   

“Would you like to walk with me in the garden? Like we did not too long ago?” you reminded.

Damian rubs the back of his neck nervously. “I’m afraid that I cannot.” He looks in the direction that Bruce left in. “I really should go. My parents…they do not have a civil relationship. I really should be with them to mediate.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” You want to melt into the floor and drip into the soil beneath the castle. 

“Right.” Damian stretches his mouth uncomfortably into a smile, and then promptly leaves. Funnily enough, he travels in the direction opposite to where his father went. 

You want to cry, but what is there to cry for? It’s not like you’re in love with Damian – you’ve only just met him. Yes, you had a chance encounter with him many years prior, but besides that initial meeting and the walk in the garden, you’ve barely interacted with him. 

It’s just that you felt a connection with him like no other. You would be lying to yourself if you said that you weren’t attracted to him. He was the epitome of handsome, and you oftentimes found yourself wondering what he looked like underneath all his armor. However, your connection to him was more than just your attraction to his physical appearance. You were swept away by how charming he was that day in the garden. You also wanted to peel back the multiple layers of his personality. He was the obedient son – the responsible heir to the throne – but he was simultaneously a romantic person who had a soft spot for animals. 

You felt yourself drawn outside to the garden. If Damian didn’t want to come with you, then you should still enjoy it for yourself. You twitch as you look back at the raucous party. Everyone was thoroughly enjoying themselves. Except for you. Despite the fact that the banquet was being held in your honor, no one tried to stop you as walk out. 

The outside air serves as a reprieve from the stickiness of the banquet hall. You feel like you can finally breathe again outside the confines of the party. You can still hear the boisterous crowd of people from within, but the sound of it is considerably reduced in the garden. 

The moonlight strikes the flowers in a unique, but utterly beautiful way. The petals now have grayish undertones, but their beauty still shines through. The perfume of the flowers engulfs your senses. You take a deep breath in – you can almost forget your worries in the aroma. 

A melancholic sigh distracts you from your thoughts. The sound startles you, as you assumed everyone else was still inside enjoying the festivity. 

Curiosity overwhelms your better judgement, and you slowly creep towards where you heard the sound. You’re met with a downcast figure sitting on bench. Coincidentally, the bench is situated next to the bush of red carnations – the same carnations that supposedly symbolize deep love and affection. 

Black hair with a tinge of violet hues. Gray-ish skin. A sharp widow’s peak. And most strikingly – a red jewel on forehead.

She looks up at you when you accidentally bristle against some branches. Her eyes are a gorgeous shade of violet. A dark cloud surrounds her aura.

She’s…beautiful. Ethereal.

“Oh, my!” She stands up from her seat. “I apologize. I did not expect anyone else to be within the garden.”

“No, no!” You shake your hands fervently at her. “Please, I should apologize for the intrusion.” You look over your shoulder in the direction of the party. The lively atmosphere could still be heard meters away. “I just needed a moment away from…everything and everyone.”

“I understand.” Her dark blue cloak drags across the pavement as she glides towards the red carnations near her. She plucks a flower out, longingly staring at it. “I also needed a moment of reprieve.”

She plays with the petals of the carnation for a moment before crushing them in the palm of her hand. “Rachel. Rachel Roth of House Azarath.”

You begin to bend your knees into a curtsy until a realization dawns upon you. While your family is from humble beginnings, you are about to become a princess. The House of Azarath is an old, respectable, and wealthy dynasty, but the House of Al Ghul supersedes it. You hurriedly stand upright once more while Rachel’s back is towards you. 

Rachel’s head whips around when you introduce yourself. “My Lady!’ she exclaims. “Please forgive me for my ill manners.” She curtsies in respect. “If I had known I was speaking to you, I would have immediately –”

“Please, no,” you interrupt. You softly grab her arms to stand her into the upright position. Ironic how you always dreamed of being a princess as a child and have people bow to you, but these past few days have revealed your chagrin to people’s mannerisms towards royalty. “Be comfortable around me. I beg of you.” Your voice is laced with sincerity. 

Rachel timidly nods her head. “Yes, my Lady.”

You roll your eyes at her politeness. “And please, I implore you not to call me that.”

You exhale loudly and shames roils within you at your sudden temper. “I apologize Lady Roth. You are not the subject of my anger, so it is unfair of me to burden you with it.” You bitterly glare at the carnations with a scowl on your face and sit down on the bench with a humph. 

Rachel slowly sits on the opposite side of the bench, leaving the middle vacant. 

“Why are you not inside enjoying the festivities?” you ask, breaking the silence.

Rachel is silent, and you almost believe that she didn’t hear you until she responds abruptly. 

“I hate weddings,” she admits. The look upon your face at her admission must have been bizarre because she meets your gaze with a soft laugh. “Allow me to rephrase that – I do not hate weddings.” A deep sigh escapes her lips. “I suppose I hate the idea of it.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Your body leans in towards her ever so slightly. 

Rachel observes your face with a mysterious look upon her face. It’s almost like her violet eyes can see right through to your soul, scooping out the innermost parts of you for her to analyze.

“Well, if you insist. Simply put, weddings are public business transactions. Akin to how you purchase bread from your local baker for a few coins, weddings are a way to signal a purchase. In your case for example, the baker would be the House of Al Ghul and Wayne, the bread would be Prince Damian – long may he live –, your dowry would be the coins, and you and your family are the customers.”

Your eyebrows scrunch in thought. Her analogy made perfect sense, but it also left a bad taste in your mouth.

“I suppose so,” you muse. “However, I would not go as far as to call it a ‘business transaction’. Weddings are so much more than that.” You start to move your hands to emphasis your point. “Prince Damian cannot be compared to – to bread and I do not feel like I purchased him.”

“Ahh, but that is exactly what you did. Your dowry ensured your betrothal to him. It may not have been in coins, but you certainly did purchase him.”

“Well, I suppose you think weddings are useless in the eyes of the law, then.”

“Yes, that’s precisely what I think.”

Your head shoots up and your eyes nearly bulge out of your head. “No, weddings are absolutely necessary,” you stammer. “Weddings signify the joining of two people who will share…quite practically their entire lives together. They signify the start of a new generation. They signify family and unity.”

“My dear.” Rachel grabs one of your flailing hands into her own. The warmth of her contact immediately plateaus your ever increasing volitivity. “Weddings symbolize whatever you want them to symbolize. For you, it’s obvious that they represent love and some sort of girlish romance. But for others, weddings are the end of their lives as they know it. The beginning of a prison sentence. The end of youth.”

“That’s so…morbid.” You giggle at the absurdness of it all. “Surely, you want to get married one day yourself.”

“I do not care for marriage,” she sharply replies. “There is nothing that it could provide for me that I cannot obtain on my own.”

“What about…children?” You want to hide in the bushes at the mention. You learned quite recently that despite the fairytales your grandmother yammered on about in your youth, the act of producing an heir was rather…procedural. You furiously blush as you recall your mother sitting you down a few days prior to inform you of what would happen on your wedding night.

“Children?” Rachel scoffs. She adjusts herself on the bench, so that she faces you entirely. “You do not need to be married to have children.”

You open your mouth to reply, but immediately close it. Your posture slumps in defeat. Rachel was right.

The disturbing heat of shame creeps into your body. You feel utterly foolish. It should have been obvious to you that children could be born out of wedlock – Damian would be a prime example of such an event. Still, it felt unnerving to you that procreation was taught to you under the context of marriage. It seemed as though there were certain unspoken rules that you had to follow, but others did not. 

“Well, it is more…respectable for a person to get married. Is it not?” You triumphantly straighten your shoulders back, hoping this would make Rachel stumble. 

“Respectable.” She repeats the word slowly, as if tasting it as she spoke it. She scoots closer to you, so close in fact that your foreheads nearly bump into one another. “May I be frank with you?” Your nod gives her permission to continue. “You will soon learn that Gotham lacks respectable people. Being respectable implies that you think outside of yourself, which will be hard to find in this city.” She stares deeply into your eyes. “Everyone is out for themselves, and it is only fair that I warn you of this now.”

Rachel’s words leave you with a mixture of confusion and intrigue. It’s obvious that Rachel understands the innerworkings of the Gothamites, as she was raised here. You can’t help but agree with her rational – your own experiences within Gotham showcased a city rotten with false pretenses. 

You also wonder what secrets – and whose secrets – she must know about. 

“Rachel, I must say our conversation has been…refreshing.” You half-heartedly chuckle in an effort to dissipate the sudden tenseness. “Honestly, it comes as quite a surprise. You are likely the only person since I’ve arrived in the capital to speak to me so openly – so honestly.” You place your hands on top of hers and squeeze. “It truly means so much to me.”

Her honesty was what you’ve been craving ever since you arrived in Gotham. Rachel was correct – people in Gotham were inherently selfish. Perhaps, you’ll come to understand the culture of the city the longer you’re in it. Back in your humble hometown, the aristocrats and countryfolk alike were welcoming, gracious, and outgoing. Here in Gotham, it seemed like every comment was thinly veiled with a backstory that you were unaware of. 

Everyone already had their own circles, and no one seemed to want you in theirs. Not even Damian.

A sudden idea popped into your head. “I know we have only just met, but you have made such an impression on me. I’m so inconsolably lonely, Rachel.” Your admittance brought tears to your eyes. Your heart wrenched as the feeling of loneliness enveloped it.  “My family will return home after the wedding. All I will have is my dear servant Alice, but that is all! It would truly mean the world to me if you joined my household staff. To be my lady-in-waiting.”

You look at Rachel hopefully. Tears threaten to escape your waterline, especially as she rescinds her hands from your grasp and stands up.

“I do not think this is a wise idea,” she whispers.

“Why not?” You stand in front of her and place your hands on her shoulders. 

Rachel does her absolute best to avoid your gaze. “Lady Talia has already appointed ladies-in-waiting for you. I saw the flock of them inside.”

You shake your head wildly. “Yes, yes, I know. However, who says there is a limit to how many I can have? Besides, they have barely even looked in my direction since we’ve met. Rachel…” You bend your knees so that your face can meet her eyes. “I have no one here. No one on my side. Lady Talia abhors me. King R’as avoids me. My own family ignores me in favor of flattering people that would not have even breathed in their direction just a few months ago. And Prince Damian is –”

You suddenly screech to a halt at the remembrance of Damian. Rachel nudges you when you become silent. 

“What about Prince Damian?” she asks.

Your hands slide off her shoulders, so that you could wrap your arms around yourself. The act provided you little comfort against the pang within your heart. “I suppose what you said about weddings earlier was. Weddings can symbolize many things, including the start of a prison sentence.” You smile at the red carnations to your side. The meaning behind them is tucked far away in the back of your head. “I fear that is what Prince Damian is thinking. I naively thought this union would be like a fairytale, but alas, I’m still a girl with much to learn.”

You can’t help but sniffle as you try to control the onslaught of tears. How embarrassing would it be for Rachel to witness you cry on the first night you meet! Your stomach twists at the sight of pity in her eyes. How pathetic you must look. How pathetic, yet you can’t help it. You wanted her to save you. You desperately needed her guidance.

“You give me no choice, my Lady. I suppose I must accept my new position at once.” 

Rachel breaks out into an infectious smile. You breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, a sliver of hope cracks through the dark gloomy Gotham clouds. Rachel may not be a friend yet, but for now, she is your only ally. She is the only dependable connection you’ve developed outside the influence of the Al Ghul household.                                                      

You were to be a princess within a week’s time, but a pretty crown would not distract from the fact that you were still an outsider – to Talia, to R’as, to the citizens of Gotham, and to Damian. 

[messed-up-stargazer]

Political Rant Incoming

I’m not usually one to talk about my own personal politics but after today. I cant keep this inside. If you’re looking for something positive, resources to help people, this is not the place. I am angry, I’m feeling hopeless,and I need to let it out in order to be strong again.

If you are not President Biden, then you can skip this if you need to. Or stay, I don’t really care. We need to take care of our mental health to prepare, so make the right choice for yourself.

Note: nothing in this letter is threatening, secret service. Not only am I against violence in itself, but I wouldn’t be stupid enough to post my threats to the actual president on a fucking tumblr post. I’m not like the fucking rioters who posted all about them invading the capital like the fucking traitors they are. They can protest that name, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.

Dear President Biden:

You’ve damned us. You’ve damned this country. You made a promise to this country and you betrayed us. Your ego was more important than every single person in this country, every man, woman, genderqueer person, every single one of us. You promised us you would be a one term president. You promised us. We didn’t want you, but we sucked it up for the country because you won the primary for reasons I don’t even know at this point. you appealed to old people, and they’re the most consistent voting block, because they’ve got nothing else to fucking do. So we voted you in in order to save our country. And look what you’ve done to us.

Every trans person’s death that comes from his presidency is on your soul. Every family that dies from poverty, every woman who loses everything or even dies from the lack of abortion services, every Palestinian’s death, they’re going to stain your soul and send you down to Hell, Mr. President. You have damned this country, you have damned the world, and while I don’t believe in Hell, you fucking do and you’re fucking going there. You failed the world, Mr. President. Not just Americans, but the world. The world was watching as we just did the stupidest thing in our country’s history, and it’s all because of you.

You may be saying Star, I wasn’t even the nominee. How could I be responsible for so many deaths that he is going to cause with his disastrous policies? Let me tell you. You didn’t give the country a chance. While I liked Kamala Harris’s policies, you forced her onto the country. She needed to run her own race. It is entirely, 100% your fault that we didn’t have an actual primary because you decided to break your promise. We could’ve chosen someone who had a much better shot at winning than the Black, Indian woman. I wanted so badly for her to win, it’s about fucking time that a woman be elected president, but she was never going to convince the moderate republicans just because she’s all three of those things. They do not think women can run the country, and as much as they’re wrong, we needed them to sit out or vote for us. And you didn’t give anyone else the chance to be a better candidate for them. Because as much as we hate it, because of the goddamn electoral college, we need to get the moderates on our side, because the moderates decide elections. The people who don’t pay attention to politics, the people who don’t remember what the last administration was like, they decided the election. And you didn’t give us a chance to win those people older.

You never should’ve ran for a second term. It was your ego, your desire for power that had you thinking you could run again, after you promised you wouldn’t! You’re already the oldest president we’ve ever had, we can see you declining, we could see it for years, and you still fucking ran again! It was your choice and your choice alone. Every harm that is felt during the next administration is going to be entirely on you. I hope you feel every death, every sob of the people who are forced to become homeless, every scream as a child has to carry her rapists baby to term, every soul as despair sets in when they realize they don’t have enough money to live because of the inevitable recession he’s going to cause. Because you are the reason it will happen. There is no one else to blame but you. You stayed far too long in the race, and then to add insult to injury, right at the end, you pulled a fucking ���basket of deplorables”. You tripped the country at the finish line, and every hurt that comes from the injuries that our country, that our world endures is on you. You made choice after choice, and you’ve damned us!

I won’t say I hated the Biden administration. Some of what you did was great, some of what you did was really progressive. And it’s all ruined now because he’s going to undo every single thing, just like he did with Obama. Every good thing you did for the country will now be erased and you will have no lasting positive legacy on this country. Your legacy will forever be “he gave us a second trump term.” When history books write about you, they will treat you like Neville Chamberlain. As a failure. As a weakling. Except you’ll also be labeled egoistic and maybe even narcissistic because you refused to put your ego aside and let the democratic voters choose a candidate we wanted.

Since I know you’re Catholic, when you die (which I hope isn’t soon, I could never wish death on anyone truly) you believe you’ll meet God. When he shows you your lasting legacy of pain and devastation and he asks you, “why didn’t you keep your promise to the people of America and step down gracefully? Why did you run again and not give the American people a chance? You knew how dangerous he was, how dangerous his policies would be.” I doubt your answer of “I still wanted to be president.” Will be good enough for him!

Signed,

A lesbian who is absolutely terrified of what’s going to happen to her and her country

PS- And to those of you who voted for Russian plant Jill Stein (seen with fucking Putin, no regular American citizen is ever seen with him!) you did exactly as Russia wanted you to. You did exactly what we said you would. We told you if you voted for Jill Stein, the votes would go to trump, and we were right. Especially those of you who live in swing states. For all of you single issue voters who claimed that you couldn’t vote for Kamala because of Palestine, I hope you can live with what you’ve done because he’s said he wants to wipe Palestine off the map. He wants to put his hotels and golf courses on Palestinian land, and when he starts selling weapons to Israel again, as he said he would!, they’re going to give him the opportunity to do just that. And their blood will be on your hands too. I hope that moral superiority feels good now. I hope you fucking choke on it.

[rametarin]

Angry about something

Please, please, please, let movements be horrible on their own without saying, "The're the [previous thing] of [subject]"

We don't say the Nazis were the modern Napoleonic Imperialists. We don't say the Napoleonic Imperialists were their day's Golden Horde of Genghis Khan. We don't say Muslim pirates and abductors from Tripoli cruising Europe for slaves and conquests were "totally Trans Atlantic Slave Trading it." Muslims were abducting Europeans for slave applications for centuries before Europeans did it for

And when people talk about modern day Intersectional Feminists, capital P Progressives and oldschool TERF-flavor feminists get nasty in accordance with their values all over a pasttime, a hobby, or a group of people that enjoys something and tells them they're doing it wrong thanks to a VERY unreliably narrated assessment of what they are and why they are, they tend to treat their behavior as if it's the same stock mindset of previous experience related to Christian puritainism and religious evangelism.

Don't fucking do this. Their values are not the same. They come from a different place, and you doing this helps them do something they SPECIFICALLY like to do. First, muck around acting like assholes in self-righteous quests to control how people interpret reality and see things, and when called out for it, have their own controlled mea culpa where they apologize because, "that's just the old Christian White Supremacist in me, the feminism part of me isn't like that and can't be like that because feminism is just good and can't be bad. I'm sowwy. :C"

No. Fucking no. Do NOT fucking allow that to happen. Feminism is not a simple act of seeing women as equal, it's an entire dogmatic baggage that necessitates Class Struggle Theory, the willful adoption of the idea the only thing that matters in sexual politics is that "Women Are Oppressed (TM)" even when circumstances and culture are entirely equal and even handed with them, and that society owes them something to compensate for this inherent oppression- at the expense of men. And that Society is the third wheel in their relationship, automatically there to redistribute from the man.

Feminism bills itself as simply a phenomenon of 'equality'... for women.. but it is no more this than Christianity is synonymous with The Good(tm). It certainly is a shitty way to see the world, but it is not the definition of seeing the world. It boils down to making some very very intensely specific logical leaps and shortcuts out of convenience and then dogmatically insisting these values are immutable and unquestionable.

From that position, we come to the other little black box in the equation. The idea that something that exists in culture that represents an icon or concept, oppresses and exploits that icon, object or group, and that it is specifically wrong to objectify that, but only if it's a woman, a group that is "oppressed." (it's however perfectly justifiable to objectify an 'oppressor.' See how that works.) Right before they say some apologetics like, "It's not MY fault cisheterosexual Judeo-Christian Patriarchy is sexually binary! Maybe if you agreed in more options we wouldn't be having this conversation!"

And it's because of this shitty point of view, they argue that even having big booby fictional characters that are female, boobily boobing down the stairs for the appreciation of the audience, they jump to the next facet of their belief system. Male Gaze Theory.

Built off their idea that Classes Struggle (tm) and Women Are the Obligate Oppressed Class(tm), and that any reference or participation by women is inherently an act of an oppressed political group in bondage to and beholden to their oppressive captors, AND that works of fiction and literature are part of culture, these facets of culture give groups their marching orders, programming and ideas on what they are, mean and even their existence. They believe, uncompromisingly, that your very perception and understanding of reality is built solely upon what books written by the state have to say about what is real and what isn't. That if society writes books about a murderer and don't go out of their way to omnipotently, omnipresently dictate with no ambiguity that, "Murder is bad, ackshully," that you endorse a society where murder happens. And, no joke, this is how they imagine murder, theft and antisocial behavior happening. Because it exists in that cultural bubble like evil waves of energy, just going unneutralized to warp the minds of unprepared people who haven't been told what is right and wrong by society, making them rapists, murderers and exploiters of those weaker than them (and they only care when the person exploits someone weaker than them.)

So they see sexy drawn women as depictions of an oppressed minority being reveled over by a slavemaster class, exploiting their image and the idea of that group for profit (which they also despise) and believe the women should also be profitting off their "exploitation" in fiction, and some sort of state council should exist that oversees the expression or interpretation of women in fiction, or else abolish the work from existing for not fitting their moral and social view of how literature and culture are "allowed" to see women. Seeing this very dour, extreme interpretation about how all men depicting women is exploitation, and by default society is meant for a male, oppressor perspective, is called, "Male Gaze Theory."

At no point in this equation did their greviance or conceptual principles cross over with Puritainism or Christians. They are their own totalitarian beasts, and like the Nazis are not Napoleonics are not The Mongol Horde, FUCKING TELL IT LIKE IT IS AND ACCEPT RADICAL FEMINISM IS JUST LIKE THIS.

You can somehow see one radical conservative and condemn the entire conservative or right-wing party as inherently racist, white supremacist and homophobic, but you can't acknowledge that radical feminism has more Ls to its name and more bad ideas and more bad values than rejecting the idea that trans men and women aren't men and women. All their ideological supremacism, all their logical leaps, all of their antagonistic marching into any fandom and demanding the fandom most conform to their ideas of what is mentally, emotionally an socially healthy, are their own. They are not Puritans, they're fucking radical feminists. Do not use the bad behavior of past groups as an ablative shield when you fucking mean what you mean.

"Well complaining about feminism makes me sound like some kind of CHUD..."

That's a you problem. In the past, complaining about the Church when it was synonymous with power would've made you a "pagan" or an "unbeliever." And before the T in LGBT got traction, it was just "anti-feminist" for a biological man to argue with a woman, giving them infinite instant Ls, even if they did identify as a woman. It starts somewhere.

Call it like it is and just realize radical feminism is rotten from the top windows of the attic to the foundations.

[alpaca-clouds]

Revolution in the Media

The Mageseeker game is coming out in two days – and I kinda want to talk about it. About Sylas and about Demacia. Because holy fuck, I hate the Demacia storyline in League of Legends. Like, some of the other storylines have their faults (big faults at time, let’s face it, the entire Noxus thing is not that much better), but Demacia? Demacia will tell you: “Are Nazis really so much worse than the people fighting against them?”

And this is… sadly a problem that American media has in general. Especially during the last… ten or so years. And I want to talk about it.

The Demacia Storyline

Other folks have talked about this before, but let me make this once again clear: The Demacian regime in League of Legends is fascist. Let’s face it. It is basically fascist. They have literal concentration camps, have an underclass, who are held in those concentration camps just for the way they have been born… And if we were going through Ecco’s “traits of ur-fascism” we would find a lot of the traits in Demacia one way or another.

In itself it would not be a problem. A lot of media does have fascist bad guys, but of course League of Legends does not have Demacia as the bad guys. Instead, well, we have several champions in the storyline, who can be played by the players of the main game. And who of course do not want to be reminded of “You are playing the bad guy”. So, all characters within the Demacia storyline are treated the same. Sylas is as good and as bad as Garen.

This is something we have seen especially in the entire Lux comic. Which so clearly shows Sylas as bad and manipulative and you should not side with him within the story, that so clearly says: “The only good side in this is neither.”

And just… No. For one: Sylas is the victim of the Demacian regime. A victim who managed to escape what is effectively a concentration camp. He is a rebel, who tries to bring the regime down. No, he is not as bad as the Demacians. Him killing the king and rebelling the way he is, is basically the same, as a Jew escaping a Nazi concentration camp and then going on to kill Hitler.

This is not a case of “good people on both sides”, but a case of “fascists on one side, those who fight them on the other”. There is no equivalence.

But of course this is not the first time – and probably not the last time – this happens in American media.

The Daisy Fitzroy thing

Remember Bioshock Infinite? That third Bioshock game, that was quite different than the other two that had come before?

Now, let’s put it bluntly: Bioshock has always kinda suffered moral relativism. The old games basically go like: “Laissez-faire Objectivist Capitalism is bad, but the other alternatives are not that much better (if at all!)” Which is just blatantly wrong, though obviously it is just a very American way about depicting it, given that… well, we know how Americans cling to their “freedom economics” and it being the “only right economic system”. Because Freedom!

But then… Well, then came Bioshock Infinite. Instead of in Rapture, we play in Columbia. A religious pseudo-fascist place, with a regime that is build very much on the suppression of BI_POC, especially Black and Irish people, who are used as a servant class and outright slaves. Obviously with a lot of iconography mirroring the South under slavery and later Jim Crow.

In that game, we have a group of rebels, though. The Vox Populi. Rebels fighting against the system, which to the credit of the maker is shown to be unquestioningly bad. The rebels are under the lead of a Black woman named Daisy Fitzroy, who gets involved with the protagonist, by forcing him to get her weapons to fight the regime… But then comes the big twist, when Daisy Fitzroy tries to kill a kid of the oppressing class and your NPC companion Elizabeth kills Daisy Fitzroy in turn. After which you are going to fight the Vox Populi as much as the folks of the regime, with the only difference between the enemy types being the color schemes.

In that moment, when Daisy Fitzroy tries to kill the white kid, the game is taking your hand and pointing at her: “See, people fighting against white supremacy are just as bad as the white supremacists themselves! Don’t you agree?” Which is, of course… like a really bad conclusion to draw from it.

Because, let’s be very clear: Even if she had killed that child… Someone trying to free themselves from oppression through radical means will never be as bad as the oppressor, who did the same horrible acts without any reason other than “you look different, hence you are less human than me and I can treat you that way”.

But, of course, there is another screaming example of this…

The MCU and the faulty status quo

Honestly, to me right now there is no bigger offender in this than the MCU and within the MCU there is no offender as bad as The Falcon and the Winter Soldier.

Now, let me preface this with: Yes, as much as I love Black Panther, that movie very much is very much at fault for this, too. At fault for the entire: “Oh, yeah, the guy who wants to do something about systemic racism is as bad if not worse than systemic racism.” But at least that movie ended on a change to the faulty status quo. (A change, mind you, that was undone by later installments of the MCU because the MCU just cannot have the status quo change too much, obviously.) It also clearly came down on the side of “the thing the good guys fought for originally was real bad”, with T’Challa outright confronting his ancestors on it.

No such thing, however, happened in The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, which obviously features our main characters going up against first and foremost the Flagsmashers. And now lets be very clear: The Flagsmashers are anarchists! Which is very much on the very tailend of “wanting to change the status quo”. (Note: I am an anarchist.) Their reasoning is a good one, though. They say: “Yeah. The entire Snap made it that people could move without borders. That was good. Now we are displaced and the organization that is supposed to take care of our needs cares more about enriching themselves than making other lives livable.” Which is something that is actually shown to be right. We know they are right.

Now, for once, of course, the entire thing with them turning towards violence comes kinda out of nowhere and is not really set up. But… We also need to talk about how violence is a valid means of fighting an oppressive system. And this system is very much oppressive. Again: The series SHOWS US THAT IT IS! That people oppressed in this system die of neglect! The system, as it stands, is a form of oppressive violence. That it kills through neglect rather than through active means does not make the killings less horrible or less deadly.

Yet, the Flagsmashers all die in the end. All those, who were enriching themselves through the system get no narrative punishment, with Falcon (now Captain America) holding them a nice speech. And the literal fascist getting a last minute redemption arc.

And that is just… horrible. I cannot put it any other way. It is horrible. It is a horrible end for that story.

The myth about the peaceful revolution

What all of this calls back upon is the myth about the peaceful revolution. The myth, that a peaceful revolution will be the only successful revolution and that violent revolutions are destined to fail and are – in fact – as bad the oppression they fight against. This, obviously, does completely ignore the fact that… most revolutions that were successful were either violent or had a violent revolutionary group cooperate with a peaceful revolutionary group. Just that again and again the violent groups will get erased from history.

The example most probably know about, is the Black Panthers, who served as an aligned group to MLK’s peaceful civil rights movement. Here, too, it often gets erased that the Black Panthers were closely aligned with MLK and were not a completely different group. Just as it is often erased from history, how the Black Panthers for example also helped feed and educate other underserved communities, including the poor white people.

We see the same again and again in the way we speak about history. A good example is decolonization (a process, mind you, that long has not ended). We kinda never go into how that happened. The usual narrative is: “Oh, yeah, western forces realized it was bad, so decolonialization happened.” Maybe we are talking about Ghandi, the peaceful revolutionary in India, and maybe we actually get told: “After WWII the western forces had no money left to uphold colonialism.” But, oh, what is that? No money left? But wasn’t one of the main things about colonialism that it was meant to extract value from the colonies? So should this not be a reason to hold up colonialism?

Yeah, no. Because here is the thing. In almost all colonies there were constant violent revolutions happening. And those had to be fought down with military power. Which was a costly endeavor. So costly, in fact, that in the end the colonies cost the western forces more money, than it brought them. But again, this gets erased from history. (Let’s face it, we do not speak about the ills of colonialism enough either way.)

But they (those who hold power) want us all to believe that it happened all through peaceful means. Because this way, we do believe that we, too, should rebel peacefully against the system that oppresses us and that destroys our environment. To put it frankly: They would not allow a form of protest, that actually worked.

And media? Well, media serves to uphold this myth as well. By telling us again and again that those rebelling and revolting through violent means are as bad, as those who uphold an oppressive and often directly or indirectly violent regime.

We need to make better Media

Something I see this in as well, is the reception of media and the lack of understanding of tropes and storylines, that might put you into the shoes of violent revolutionaries, who end up harming some innocent bystanders as well – at times a lot of them. Heck, even those trying to change the system that has oppressed them in a way that they are no longer oppressed, without a care for others get often judged as harshly, if not harsher, than the actual oppressors.

My two main fandoms are kinda an example of this. Both Arcane and Castlevania has this issue.

In Arcane the main issue is, that we have an obvious example of oppression of the poor. Piltover oppresses Zaun. And while the series kinda shows this, it also asks us to be very much on the side of Zaun, given that from the main characters only Ekko is exclusively aligned with Zaun, while everyone else is either at least partly aligned with Piltover or a bad guy. And sure, we do see that under Silco the poor suffer even more because of how he pushes his drugs. But… Well, he originally was a revolutionary and while Vander has given up the revolution he is the one to fight for Zaun independence, but yet… He is very much the bad guy, other than all those other characters who uphold the oppression. Which is… Not good.

I talked about the issue in Castlevania once again. Isaac. Here the issue is not as much with how the series is written, because for once the series actually has a somewhat good and understanding take. But… fandom has the issue here. Now, Isaac has been enslaved before. He ran away, after which he again and again was attacked and assaulted for either the color of his skin (this is after all the time that the first Europeans came up with the idea that Black people are less human than white people) or his religion. Given that this was all he had ever known, he at some point decided that it was how humanity had been – and hence that humanity should be extinguished. Which, if you have just a droplet of empathy, is kind of understandable. Not right, mind you, but understandable. Yet, a lot of folks have a lot more empathy for either Dracula or Hector, who partook in the genocide as much as Isaac did, than they have for Isaac.

This really… Is just not a good look.

And of course, all of this we see again and again in real life. Not only from the fascists themselves, who will claim there were “good people on both sides”, but even from more left-leaning folks. When marginalized folks get angry with their oppressors, they quickly get labeled as “as bad” as the oppressors. See Tone Policing. As a trans person I have been told several times by people, who identify as “left leaning”, that I am as bad as JKR and her posy, because I say that folks who support Rowling and her conservative fantasy shit are not really leftist and are definitely not queer allies.

So, yeah. Really. Fuck this thinking. Threating oppressed people rising up as the same as the oppressors is just shitty. And I just wish media finally let go of this shitty trope.

[notsomassiveblackhole]

Lucifer’s Lemonade

Lucifer’s decided to open a lemonade stand, but they’re tragically not receiving any business. After throwing a petite temper tantrum, however, they inexplicably run into a customer brought to them by pure serendipity—for more reasons than one.

On a sweltering Sunday afternoon, Lucifer sat at their new lemonade stand with the most defeated pout of the century tugging at their lips. They had spent a whopping two hours making other demons assemble, paint, and decorate their stand while they semi-attentively supervised parts of the process, and this was their reward? Not a single customer in five minutes? Absolutely unbelievable!

Lucifer dug their nails into the side of the lemonade stand until it splintered as they waited “patiently” for their first customer. Would there even be a first customer at all? If there wasn’t, Lucifer decided, then they would incinerate every demon involved with the creation of this godforsaken lemonade stand.

Several more minutes passed by, and Lucifer toppled all of their cups over before stacking them again just to make it seem like they were being productive. They picked up the tip jar and set it back down, they stirred the already homogenous lemonade, and they even briefly stood up to inspect the sign.

“Lucifer’s Lemonade!” it screamed in capitalized letters. “One century of service per glass! No discounts available.” Lucifer put their hands on their hips and frowned. Could it be that the refusal of any potential discounts was driving everyone away? They grabbed a permanent marker out of their pocket and furiously crossed out the “no,” making the sign seem as if discounts were practically a promise. What a pathetic way to reel customers in, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Lucifer plopped back into their seat with a dissatisfied huff and crossed their arms. Mazikeen stepped outside, glancing between Lucifer and their untouched jug of lemonade. “Had any luck yet?” she asked.

“Evidently not.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault.” Suddenly, Lucifer perked up. “Oh! Would you like a glass of lemonade, by any chance?” Mazikeen grimaced.

“Not particularly.” Lucifer shot up from their chair and scowled as their heart pounded in their chest.

“Why is that, Mazikeen? Is it the price? Is it the lemonade itself? Is it me?”

“No! No, it’s none of those things.”

“Then tell me what it is, or I’m never helping you with your morning crosswords again!” Mazikeen shrugged.

“I’ve just never particularly cared for lemonade.” Lucifer stalked closer to Mazikeen and lowered their voice.

“That’s it,” they hissed. “Get out of my sight.”

“All I said was that I’m not overly fond of it!”

“And I didn’t like what I heard.” Lucifer aggressively pointed towards their palace. “Now, out. No more crossword assistance for you.” Mazikeen hung her head and pitifully trudged away.

“You were never very good at those crosswords, anyway,” she muttered.

“Let’s see how good you are at withstanding the torture I have planned, and then maybe I’ll allow you to make snide comments like that.” Mazikeen said nothing and simply continued her agonizing walk. Lucifer groaned, storming over to the lemonade stand and letting out a gasp.

They had a customer.

It was as if time froze completely at that moment. Lucifer’s peripheral vision became a flurry of sparkles, hearts, and soft lights as they focused in on their hero—and then the magic subsided almost immediately.

“Dream?” Lucifer managed to croak out.

“Hello there, Lightbringer.” Of course. Of course Lucifer’s mystical first customer had to be that insufferable creature with the spiky hair and the strangely close relationships with ravens.

“What are you doing here, Morpheus?” Dream silently gestured to the lemonade stand’s sign. “You can’t be serious. What does the lord of dreams need lemonade for?”

“A refreshing beverage.”

“And you’re willing to give me a century of service?”

“I thought that discounts were available.” Lucifer reread the sign and grinned.

“Ah, yes! You thought correctly.” They enthusiastically poured Dream one glass of lemonade, holding it out to him before abruptly yanking it away. “Wait! I forgot the sugar!”

“Isn’t there sugar in the lemonade already?” Lucifer plastered on a smile.

“No.” They knelt on the ground beside their sugar container and scooped a heap of it into their hand. “You are failure,” they whispered into the sugar like a maniac. “You are disappointment, you are devastation, and you are most certainly not conducive to the existence of dreams.” Lucifer leaned even closer to the sugar. “In fact, you’re the very antithesis of dreams and everything that they mean.”

“I wasn’t aware that adding sugar to my lemonade was such a complex process, Lucifer Morningstar,” Dream said from above. Lucifer dramatically rolled their eyes and hopped back up to their feet with their fortified sugar in hand.

“My sincerest apologies for the wait. Do you not realize how difficult it is for me not to accidentally caramelize the sugar with how downright infuriating you are?”

“Excuse me?”

“Hm? What?” Dream sighed exasperatedly.

“Maybe you could avoid that issue if you didn’t touch the sugar with your bare hands.”

“It’s too late now, isn’t it?”

“Just offering a suggestion.”

“A suggestion that I reject, yes.”

“But your lemonade stand is a major hygiene concern!”

“Don’t worry, Morpheus. I wash my hands regularly.”

Truthfully, Lucifer only cleaned their hands once every thousand years, but they had cleverly neglected to mention that “regularly” did not mean “frequently.” So, with their delightfully grimy hands, they dumped the catalyst for Dream’s downfall into his unsuspecting Solo cup of lemonade. The absolute filthiness of Lucifer’s hands would be the least of Dream’s worries in about thirty seconds.

“Here you are,” Lucifer said sweetly, passing Dream his lemonade.

“Well? What’s the discount?”

“Oh, forget about it. The lemonade’s free.” Dream raised his eyebrows.

“How come?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m quite impressed by the way you bested me the other day, Dream. Hope—what a stroke of genius that was. I still can’t conjure anything up to defeat it with.” At that, Dream did the impossible: he smiled.

“You flatter me, Lightbringer.” He took a sip of his lemonade, and Lucifer fought the urge to squirm around like a giddy child winning at a game of tag. Dream of the Endless wouldn’t be endless for much longer.

Dream gazed off into the distance pensively for a moment before slowly beginning to nod. “You know what, Lucifer Morningstar? This lemonade’s actually pretty—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Dream disintegrated into nothing but a pile of ash with a red Solo cup resting neatly on top of it. Lucifer stared blankly at his remains, cocking their head. “That worked?” Their face lit up, and they started to twirl in circles with their wings fluttering behind them. “It worked! It actually worked!”

“What’s all this ruckus about?” Mazikeen asked as she approached the side of the lemonade stand. Lucifer whipped their head around and beamed.

“Mazikeen!” They leapt over to her and wrapped her in a crushing hug, squeezing their eyes shut. “Mazikeen, I finally got my first customer!”

And he had finally gotten his last cup of lemonade.

[vitaminwaterreviews]

Billlie - Of All We Have Lost

This was an excellent little album. This is my first real foray into Billlie’s discography, I think I had like 4 other Billlie songs on my playlist before this album. Now I have … 4+6. 10. And it would be funny if I gave it 10 points, but it wasn’t perfect. A lot of the songs were a bit too safe. Trampoline and Remembrance Candy were both really fun, they both did some interesting things, but the next few songs were all kinda safe, and the final song in particular really needed a good house drop/instrumental break. I appreciate their vocals a lot, I love the production in general. I’m not sure who Billlie’s CEO/producer is, but they do a very good job with concept and musical direction. I don’t know much Billlie, but this album sounds very much like the Billlie that I know, and I like that sound a lot. It’s kinda Red Velvety, but it’s still distinct, and in some ways better. Average score of 8.0, and that’s about right. Good and solid, definitely worth a listen.

- Remembrance Candy

Woah okay, love this intro, really fun

Do you hear that bass?

The guitar is really nice too

Their vocals do sound very Red Velvet

THERE IT IS

IN THE CHORUS

THAT SIGNATURE BILLLIE RHYTHMIC WEIRDNESS

Lol

This is nice, this is really nice

I’m not paying too much attention to the MV, but it does appear to have like a plot and things

Yeah, I’m a fan of this, this is good

Nice, really good bridge, nice

Haha wait the MV outro, is this part of the song? This is super fun too

I’m gonna metagame a bit here. I already know Trampoline, and I want to give them both 8.5’s, but I don’t give fractional scores for songs. So I’ll give this one:

9/10

Trampoline

Currently my 19th most listened-to song of the past month, which isn’t bad considering it came out a week ago

I just love their voices in the chorus. I don’t even know how to express it, this song is pure ear candy

I once said that f(x) - Milk is ear candy to me, and someone downvoted that, which is ridiculous in my humble opinion

This song sounds way better with headphones

Anyway, an 8 is too low for this song, but a 9 is too high, so like I mentioned previously:

8/10

Bluerose

Mkay, I vibe, it’s hovering just a bit close to 1st gen slow jam territory but we’ll see where it goes

You can totally tell that it’s a contemporary song though, the production quality is top notch

I am losing interest in this song

Through no fault of the song itself; this just isn’t my genre

I do appreciate what it’s doing though

Ohhhh the rap section though, mmm

Y’know, fine, it gets points just for the last minute

8/10

BTTB (Back to the Basics)

Rock vibes

The bass is doing something though

Also we’re rapping which is neat

The synths in the chorus go hard

Haha the tongue/lips rolling in the second verse

8/10, but a low 8

shame

The vocal processing is saying one thing, but the rhythm section is saying something completely different

Ohhh ok it’s not about being ashamed, it’s about being Honest

I can get behind that

Idk why but this chorus sounds kinda Japanese to me

Catchy song, but nothing special

7/10

dream diary ~ etching mémoires of midnight rêverie

It wouldn’t be Billlie without

Hmm okay, tropical house maybe?

Definitely some sort of house, based on the verse here

Yep, here’s the buildup

Oh that was cool, whatever they did with the melody in the first line of the chorus

Like the fall in their voices

I want a good instrumental break here

But yeah, they won’t give it to me, that’s not the kpop way

She sounds kinda like Seulgi

Yoooo if they give us an instrumental break after the bridge I’ll forgive it all

Of course not :(

8/10, this song was so close to greatness but it just didn’t capitalize on what it had

[icaruskey]

can i ask you something? i dont know how to word it without coming off offensive however i am curious as to what trans men think about manhood as a concept. i consider myself to be pro-trans rights but as I've learned more about gender and sex, I've started to interpret male/female binaries as being inherently rape culture compliant (not the individuals who partake in gender/sex as a construct, just the construct itself like as a concept). my question is i understand the whole concept of positive masculinity but also i genuinely cannot come up with any set of qualities that are inherently and only masculine (also have the same problem with feminine qualities). like every man (not just trans, cis too) who wants to deconstruct masculinity ends up sounding a little sexist to me because i just do not know how something like idk "protectiveness" can be seen as only masculine. the way i view gender (and sex) honestly is mostly as a relic of the past but i dont know if this line of thinking is transphobic or not. bcuz i dont want trans people to not exist or not be trans, i welcome it while humanity is in this transitional period but i also think that gender neutrality is/should be the norm. i hope this wasnt offensive or anything, you dont have to respond or anything i just would like to know more i guess and understand better.

Well, luckily I'm able to read things in good faith, regardless of the actual words used. It's hard to discuss things sometimes without coming across as a dolt, especially if you're struggling with a concept as complex as gender identity.

I've been going back and forth on how to reply to this because I could like. Respond with a detailed breakdown but I'm not sure it'll help you, not really.

Because look at how you write. You're coming at this from like this inherent idea that men as the villains. Rape culture is a particular tell, as rape culture focuses on women as victims and minimizes/erases male victims. Meanwhile, since 2008, when I first became truly aware of how often women are victims of assault and harassment, the statistics on male victims have been slowly creeping up to meet female statistics. Rape culture is also a phrase I personally find adjacent to SWERF rhetoric, as they have this idea that all sex work is inherently rape, regardless of the actual autonomy of the women (never the men) in the situation.

You also focus on how masculinity and men deconstructing gender come across as sexist, with little thought to how women are just as sexist when it comes down to it. There are a lot of problems within feminism, and it's something we see clearly as they constantly have to redefine what a woman is as they acknowledge (or refuse to acknowledge) the different experiences of womanhood.

I'm not blaming you for this. Feminism makes dissecting womanhood and villainizing manhood the default for almost all discussion, and there's been a lot of work done to allow for a diverse array of women to exist in the world. Masculinity and manhood though, it's hard to pull it apart from the villainization that's been done to it. Because honestly, it's easier to demonize men than it is to deal with the fact the reality that the true villain is the very societal framework we exist in (capitalism).

I realize I'm probably not making all that much sense right now. But while I largely agree with you that we are heading down the long and arduous path of decoupling the idea of gender entirely from existence, becoming something we may choose for ourselves rather than something given to us at birth, I disagree with how your thought patterns betray your current biases.

Trans men, and indeed men at large, are not a monolith, nor are women or nonbinary people or agender or genderqueer identities. We are all at the faults of whatever framework we approach it from, and largely the group I am part of speaks from a very Western idea of gender. The fun part, though, is deciding what your gender means to you. Which is why I do see myself as a protector, very stereotypical, but I love glitter and silly and goofy bright musicals and magical girl stuff. I don't wear skirts or dresses, but maybe I'll pick a romper. And I work very very hard to see more than just my side of a story and don't try to make a list of "what is wo/man" cause honestly, I don't see the point.

This is my positive masculinity. I wonder what my followers see as theirs.

[taihua]

What’s your honest opinion on the tgcf revision? Has it enhanced the story? What are the major differences? Any changes that you dislike or found it redundant? Take your time

So I was going to sit on this ask for a while until I read more of the revised edition, but my motivation to keep reading it is honestly kind of small, which I decided was an answer in itself and so I should just answer now! Part of that is because reading MTL translations + changing it back to Chinese that's above my reading level is headache inducing and it would take me a million years to read all 200 chapters, which isn't the fault of the revisions, but I'd probably be willing to do it, except--

The majority of the revisions are focused on Hualian. Which is great for the Hualian mains, and I know they're the main focus of the story and I do love them and their relationship, but... I also didn't feel that their story needed revising. They had well developed character arcs and plenty of beautiful scenes together in the original, so I didn't put the book down feeling like I needed to read more about them. I believe they get some nsfw scenes in the revisions, which is nice and I'm happy for them and their fans!

I know there's at least one plot arc that I wanted to be cleaned up in the revisions that actually was just cut out entirely--Mu Qing meeting Jian Lan and Cuocuo didn't make sense in the original version and I was hoping that MXTX would explain when, how, and why he met them. Instead, she cut that subplot entirely. Which... on one hand, I think it makes the Jian Lan & Cuocuo subplot a lot neater, and it also makes some of Mu Qing's scenes neater as well because he doesn't have an unexplained crime hanging over his head, but I'm also sad that it was cut because I thought it had some interesting potential.

Two things I really like about the revisions: first, Lang Qianqiu's backstory is hugely expanded! There's an excellent addition about how he was haunted by a ghost as a child and it made him weak and sickly until he finally was brave enough to fight back. I need to take a closer look at these chapters and the implications for Qi Rong, but I also remember seeing somewhere that he gets the credit for exorcising the ghosts out of the Xianle capital, which makes a lot more sense for him vs. Mu Qing based on the timeline--and I also think it fits his character arc better. Clearing resentment out of Xianle has a better thematic payoff for Qianqiu than it does for Mu Qing, imo.

The other thing I noticed is that MXTX's descriptive writing improved in the revisions--it's noticeable in the Mt. Yujun Hualian meeting, but you can tell she went back in and added a lot more sensory details. The lack thereof has always been one of my main complaints about TGCF, so it's nice to see some improvement in that regard.

Anyway, eventually I'll get around to reading it in full; I'd love to have an official release of the revisions just for ease of reading, but I'll suffer through MTL if I absolutely must. Eventually. Maybe not in the near future, but someday.

[katyspersonal]

How did you let Shabiri gaslight you?

Oh, to be honest, gaslight is not a right term here! It specifically means manipulation that makes another doubt their own memories and perception, but I have a bad habit of also using it when the person got a (generally) right idea about something and someone makes them doubt this idea in favor of a way more detrimental one. The idea, not one's own ability to analyze and perceive! With that being said, what I mean is that Shabriri pushed me more to the 'bad' side of permanent existential dilemma. His words, and "philosophy" of Frenzied Flame in general, appeals both to the brand of despair contained within Soulsborne games and to my own despair.

We spend a lot of Elden Ring seeing suffering and oppression, consequences of "all that divides and distinguishes". The world is broken fundamentally. Greater Will doesn't know what it wants to do, but sought mortal plane to allow them to give it purpose and order. But no matter who takes up so much power, it will all just eventually lead to more misery and need to be destroyed and replaced with the new thing.. and that thing will also eventually collapse. And so on, and so on.

Yeah, Shabriri is the bad guy, sure. It is said that the FF sickness started with him, and now the world is cursed with the condition where if you get reasonably depressed you get linked with the mindless power that wants to undo the existence itself. But why Shabriri had the power to slander the Nomads to begin with? Who set the oppressive system that punished the "heretics" with being buried alive in motion? Certainly not Shabriri. His crime is a symptom of "all that divides and distinguishes", not the cause of it. And the world would've still be broken even if FF was never unleashed. Other endings are still questionable. Age of Fracture is just keeping the world broken as it is. Age of Duskborn and Age of Despair are effectively "swinging the pendulum the other side" and we all know it is pretty bad resolution, no matter how justified or expected. Age of Stars and Age of Perfecf Order remove the 'authority' over cosmic horrors that took the form of gold-colored magic in this world: Ranni removes it from anyone's reach and Goldmask makes it accessible to everyone equally. The problem is-

Yes, exactly lol Thank you, Brador! Who is to tell that now in this sort of anarchy, people won't again battle each other until new leader, new oppressive system arises and new kind of suffering and injustice is created? In the end, it didn't solve anything. People suffer under a leader, people suffer without a leader.

As for my personal experience? I am just thinking about this stuff a lot. ALL the time. As a neurodivergent person I've been experiencing the sense of any society I enter trying to remove me like a tumor on an otherwise healthy body early. Children and teens are naturally cruel to the 'odd ones', that's true, but did things really improve in adulthood, or just became more elusive, buried under layers of pretenses and lies? However, is not it reasonable?

Are social animals, ALL of them and not just humans, at fault for trying to preserve definition and customs of their community by excluding those that don't fit in it? We often claim that animals are innocent, but social ones do the same thing: they are not kind to those who are weaker, "useless" or just break the "rules". Nature itself is very ruthless: you are born with something off or lose it for reasons you could not control and you will not survive. Humans developed the ways to help disabled to adapt and survive, but somehow trapped themselves in the system where helping everyone is "not efficient". The opposite way to build the society, on the other hand, leads to stagnation and a different sort of oppression. Both capitalism and communism are built to get rid of those that don't fit into it, just different criteria of not fitting, and yet you can't trust humanity with anarchy.

But are those born different at fault for being this way? But hey, why do we live in the world where if someone could choose what way to be born as, they'd be inclined to fit the norm just to avoid more misery? But how community is preserved if there is no bar for who can belong in it? No matter how you are born - different or normal - both options are bad because you either suffer or cause suffering with your very existence. But don't normies also suffer when we "ruin" their experiences, systems and traditions by existing, but don't we cause suffering with our own existence? Trying to accommodate to everyone leaves world in stagnation and suffering and eventually some people get fed up and off to declare and exterminate the "enemy", NOT trying to do that causes misery, loneliness and deaths. Again, with people trying to overthrow it but all it does is makes pendulum swing. Happiness can only exist atop of neglecting and oppressing others, and if you ARE oppressed, your own way to happiness only lays through committing atrocities and learning TO oppress so is it worth it?

The problem is in how mind and feelings of everyone that lives work. There is some fundamental error in them, because they seek to harm each other and self, because freedom is dangerous but all control becomes too rotten and brings too many victims in the end. No matter who you are, being born into this world is on itself a curse. You'd think that civilisation and education would improve things, but have they? So far most of what I've seen humans do with knowledge about justice, decency, 'red flags' and abuse, bigotry and morality is to distort and misuse it to no end. They just invent new enemies and eat their own, there is never enough victims. Bigotry and evil is not rooted in ignorance, but in nature of life. Idiots do not become smarter when given knowledge, they just become dangerous idiots. So, is not evolving and not seeking knowledge and meaning better? But we already figured that animalistic drives are pretty evil and brutal too.

I respect Soulsborne for having all this, and much more, seen. I don't feel satisfied with the answers to this problem I tend to get from people, and I definitely don't believe that God who cursed humans for slipping under 100% control and threatens people with even more pain if they don't offer him their love is anything good to fall back on. But hey, the guy who rebelled against him doesn't have humanity's best interests in mind either! He is just waiting to pry on us, and humanity got no one. Being oppressed with fear or being a food for demons or wandering aimlessly without purpose? Choose your poison, there is no mercy except for death, and death is the one and only thing that makes everyone equal! Neither side cares for us, and not even we ourselves care for us. I am talking about both the games and real thing here, because Soulsborne is basically a big real world reference x)

I can only laugh it all off as "edgy teenager angst" for so long, but I am thinking about things like this every day. This post is just a tip of the iceberg because I can't spill my whole heart even if I want to, there is just.. too much stuff. More than all words in all languages could encapsulate. "Destroy all that divides and distinguishes, may Chaos take the world" however, is a good way to express the sentiment. It feels cathartic to say. Why not just end it all, if it's fundamentally broken? If the world is just a farm of suffering but deceptive with many beautiful things to hide its true ugly meaning? Although there were other characters delivering meaning of FF, Shabriri felt like the real manifestation of it, and fed that despair I already struggled it into winning.

Like I said, the whole 'picking FF ending to save Melina xD' flew completely over my head. For me it was about being convinced that just returning everything into primordial state of Chaos and singularity was better. And, again, conversation with Melina was so meaningful for this reason. Because there are enough of people that still agree to live in this world, even if wretched, and experience whatever they can. I'd argue that maybe wish to live itself is just something programmed in us to not let us avoid our given purpose to suffer and struggle, or cause suffering and struggle.. Still, I don't know that. Whatever I am looking for is not something logic or heart can help me with, because both comprehension and nature are insidious, fundamentally broken to turn on other humans and yourself. It is something that can't be identified and thus reproduced and shared, but whatever Melina said must have been connected with it if it made me stop believing in FF as the good thing. It could be about finding your own way, that can't be shared with others, but this means everyone else has the capacity to find their own way. In the end, no one has the right to take that chance away from them; not to spite God, not to end endless suffering, not for anything.