#troy sting

[thekylemeredith]

This week on Kyle Meredith With..., my guests are Don't Move's Kelsey Asbille & Finn Wittrock, Kate Siegel, & Sting!

And on 91.9 WFPK, I'll be hanging with Duran Duran's Simon Le Bon, Living Colour's Vernon Reid, the cast of Its Whats Inside, Mastodon's Troy Sanders, & Johnny Marr.

Pic: greetings from The Integratron

[themareverine]

Top Eight | worst!Logan x namelessfem!OC

warnings: mentions of sex, body insecurity, weightloss, confidence issues, domestic bliss and fluff, namelessOC has blue eyes.

a/n: in celebration of me discovering I've dropped eleven frickin' pounds off the BMI chart, I decided to share the news with Logan, and yourself. please enjoy my domestic fantasy. this really isn’t a drabble but I’m classifying it as such.

There’s little better God has created in the world than coming home to a house alive with music, laughs, and the thick swirl of joy chasing the air. Fall hangs out the window in a tapestry of orange leaves, skittering to the ground on chill winds, cluttering the sidewalk like ill-fitting, everyone’s-a-little-different puzzle pieces.

Blankets of fog have hung in the air every morning. Leaves and grass are wet, burdened with thick, cold mud that stings—the type of cold that sinks all the way down to bone, should you be standing between it. And Logan tries to remember a time when, as a child, he didn’t care about the frigid mud between his toes—didn’t mind the mess, innocence of childhood wrapped up in exploration and whimsy.

Simpler times. Suburban life greets him at the door of what, at one point in his life, would be knife’s edge unfathomable—a duplex. Butter yellow with little white trim around the windows. Big oaks in the front and back yard, primly divided by white privacy fences so tall they challenge heaven. Summer had proudly boasted a colorful troop of flowers in that window box facing the street, the one that allows for the smallest peek into his small kingdom, if you looked hard enough. Prepared for winter, adirondack chairs have been swept away into the garage, all traces of outside living shut up for the Goliath of winter that looms with each passing day. 

The corner of his mouth tips up at the arrangement proudly displayed on the front door. It’s Fall Y’all! hangs in his face, all domesticity. Glitter and pumpkins, a cute little red-and-white-pickup. Evidence of a woman’s touch, more and more. Bearing down on his life like Egyptians chariots forcing Moses against the sea, every day he approaches the house— there’s a little more charm. A little more whimsy, order. More color and life and more her, all things he never in his longest, maddest dreams would begin thinking were missing from him. But now they are so familiar, such welcome soldiers to his little army of living, that he can’t imagine going without. 

And Logan will never not love the fact he doesn’t have to knock on this door. He opens it, twisting the knob that’s cool against the thick callouse of his hand. Jacket heavily draped over his arm, habit knocks his boots against the doorframe, adding to the collection of scuffs already there from the hundred other times he’s done this same thing. And it is the same come-home routine, but he doesn’t mind. Shake his head at whatever seasonal decor greets him on the door. Slip in, knock his boots. Hang his jacket on the hook behind the door, with his keys–next to hers. Because she’s been home all day, working on that frickin’ computer, making her little creative world run in the little ways she does that he’ll never understand. 

About to shed his vest, Logan pauses. Claws on wooden floors from the 50s flick his attention down, to his feet. The ménage à trois of three scampering sets of paws tip up the corner of his mouth into a small smirk, watching the troop of hair, wagging tail and slobber all bull rushing him like cannonballs. And they are not small creatures, by any stretch—a bloodhound. St. Bernard. Doberman, all looking at him with bright eyes as if he’s the best thing they’ve seen all day. 

Which is the farthest thing from true, because she’s been here. Locked up in his Fort Knox all hours of sunshine, doing all the things he’d give his right arm to spend his days doing with her. Domestic bliss. It’s sick, really—kinda insane. For a man who has prided himself the last 200 years on destruction, a man who has traveled through time to claim a world that isn’t his, it’s disturbing that this idea of life is so…saccharine. Perfect. Eden. 

Scratching behind each set of ears, movement in the heart of the house triggers his gaze up. Down the corridor to the kitchen, where he cal all but taste what’s for dinner. It floods him with a warmth he can’t quite put a finger on, rousts something in his guts that is good. Fire that’s delicious, heat that promises. Standing, he manages off his boots, all three canines looking at him. Expressions cocked, they wait. Expectantly. 

“Where is she, fellas? Mama ‘round somewhere, huh?” A flick of his hand beyond them sends the troop off like a shot—slipping and sliding on the pretty rugs she’s laid out in the foyer, sending them against the walls in fat piles of fabric that makes his eyes roll. On socked feet, he fixes them. She likes them pretty and neat, and if she likes it, well—whatever his girlie wants, she gets. 

About to call for her, he doesn’t expect the slingshot of curl that attacks him from the front room, “Hi, babe!” Out the french doors like a racehorse, her girlish smile and bright eyes assault him less than seriously, bouncing laughter loud and fresh and strong, like mountains on an open-sky day. Very suddenly the events of his day are improved, work all but forgotten as she wraps her arms around his middle. Rests her chin against his chest, looking up at him with the full weight of the universe hanging in her eyes. In heartbeats, she manages to change another Thursday into the Thursday—the Thursday to challenge all others even known to his existence.  

And since he’s known her, that’s what she is–changing. A fresh wind, moving clouds and rearranging the sky. Rivers that carry him away to faraway lands, anywhere that isn’t the onyx abyss of his memories, which are so black and white and unalive without her. His hand moves to run fingers through curl, which are still damp from a late-afternoon shower. Color that lingers on her cheeks matches that barely-there smattering of that vanilla protein powder she loves on her lips when he kisses her. Means one thing, his favorite thing—the thing they’d been doing for nearly six months. 

Greeting her with a smile and a, “Hey, baby,” will never tire to infinity. Leaning back against his arms cradled around her midsection, pressing her close, Logan all but craves the sparkle of sapphire hanging out in her eyes. They catch his, holding him hostage—every day he has to rediscover how to breathe. Think, move past the ache in his cock that she somehow manages to produce at a subliminally level just by existing. 

And his lips part to ask her about her day, another part of this thing they call life. Until she reaches around to the back pocket of her jeans, her favorites, the one’s she won’t stop wearing and has at least three extras squirreled-away to that spot in the closet they don’t speak of. That spot next to the neon-colored heels he knows she thrifted but hasn’t ever shared, the lingerie she’s holding onto that’s been driving him itchin’ mad since he’d peeked at it. And while he adores everything about her, her ability to wait for just the right moment to share things she’s excited about has to be one of his favorite things on the planet. 

“So, before you speak,” her finger comes to press against the seal of his lips, other hand proudly producing a folded square of paperwork between her index and middle finger, “I have amazing news. The biggest news–the best news of the whole week.” Her brows bounce, emphasizing her excitement as her low lip curls in. Logan watches her bite the inside of her cheek, thinks it’s just about the sexiest thing in the world aside from the little scrunch of her nose, how her glasses sit a little lopsided from where she’s rested her forehead against his chest. 

Really all he could use right now is another taste of her to make his week, but, he plays the adjective game. “Oh yeah?” A chuckle rattles the adamantium of his ribs as she steps out of his arms, takes his hand to guide him into the kitchen. She releases him only when her socked feet hit the wooden floor, making a show of sliding to a stop opposite the island from him. 

Babytalking the dogs at her feet, his sweet little thing of a girl backs up against the sink, her tongue teasing the front of her bottom teeth as she unfolds the paper. It’s like magnetism, the way he wants her–he’s drawn, like creatures to fire, around the island. To her side. Touching her, breathing in her closeness. And he prays to God it will always be like this—he’ll always want her, she’ll always look at him like he has been carved from bronze. That this little life in Hoboken, New Jersey, never says die. 

“I had a doctor’s appointment today,” the little lilt in her tone is so clear, they’d hear it from Mars if anyone had the brains to listen, “and, I just have to say this, Logan—really. This has to be like, a top eight life moment for me, what I’m about to tell you.” Playing with a dog-eared corner of the paper, her eyes flick up to hold his in limbo, again. Smiling eyes have all but chiseled away any remaining stone of his heart, and he’d gladly carve whatever may remain out of his own ribs and give it to her, should she ask, “And I’ll say this as a warning. If you aren’t nearly as excited about this as me, well—I’ll be forced to divorce you and move in with Wade and Althea.” 

And he laughs at her. His single favorite quality of life since running into what’s-his-face-pool and saving this realm has been the rediscovery of laughing, of feeling beyond the numbness. She made him laugh the day he found her, discovered her like some fool digging around the dirt of the everyday, and she hadn’t stopped. And Logan Howlett has never taken pride in being a hardass, but—his ass is a little less hard, these days. How could it be. Her standing there, looking like she does? Wanting him, seeking him? Him? The damn Wolverine—the worst Wolverine. 

His brow pops to attention. “Is that right?” His finger crooks one of her belthoops, tugging her hip against his gently, “a little harsh, but, I accept your terms, taskmaster.” Her eyes roll to the ceiling and his chin gestures to the paper. After a second of weighing her words, he snags her chin between his fingers and gives her a Really? expression. “Hold the fuckin’ phone—a top eight? You have a top eight list of life events?” He snorts, “And I didn’t know about it?” 

Her eyes flash with brazen darkness enough to shame the witching hour. A firm nod, even between his fingers. Her hip pops out, just a little. “Mhm, eight.” Still holding the paper, she offers a blatantly over dramatic look of desire, her head tipping back just a little as she brushes close. Done-up nails gently graze through his facial hair, before she flashes him eight—a palm, thumb and index finger somehow still managing to hold the paper keeping him in suspense. 

Beginning to tick off fingers, he listens with amusement. Driver’s license, college. Her first publication as a freelancer. Her first car payment. Paying off her student debt, meeting her idol, Charles Xavier, a man who’s work on mutant and human coalitions she’d been devouring since forever. Meeting him, marrying him and buying a house. Technically that was nine, but, she explained—a bunch of life events landed under the Logan tab, which made him chuckle and shake his head. 

“Finished?” He nods to the paper again. “You gonna tell me this life changing, top-eight news or what?” For a second his heart does an all-stop as she nods, the corner of her lip tucking in under her teeth.

From here Logan can taste the adrenaline in her blood, the joy—the buzz of something pumping through her like a pistoning locomotive, charting new territories. And before he can think, before he can bridle his own wagging tongue, “You pregnant, darlin’?” punches off his tongue like a cage fighter.  

Two things he should’ve known off the shot—pregnancy announcements usually involved a piss stick, not paper. Two, that something so mountainous would not have waited for him to breeze through the door. Not her style, not by a country mile—she’d stopped off at his job site with lunch just to announce the last payment on her student debt, complete with cheesecake and those cute little pocket bottles of Jack Daniels. She made a big deal out of everything, and he wouldn’t have –could not survive– it any other damn way. 

Slackjaw, for a second he thinks the hinge of her jaw might start swinging before she hauls off to slap his shoulder, the rings on her fingers passing by in a blur of turquoises, yellows, oranges and silvers as a squealing, “Logan!” shoots out of her like the fountain of youth—makes him laugh, again, as he grabs her hand in his and hauls to his lips. Presses a kiss to the heel of her palm, “No, Wolvie—haven’t managed to knocked me up quite yet, thanking you.” And that name—it punches the wind right out of his lungs, sends every ounce of mutant fucking blood right to his cock, all at once. 

It’s not a serious thanks, he knows. Been off-the-cuff talking about getting pregant for a handful of months, tossing the idea back and forth. It was the reason behind the duplex, family planning—and he hadn’t fought the idea of redoing the spare room. Shoving her office into the corner of their suite. It’d been a year, she was thirty, now, had been ringing off these walls like a canyon echo. Biological clock ticking off the walls of her womb, apparently, even though she didn’t fucking age—thanks to mutation, his mutation left behind in her blood a lifetime ago. 

Source of one too many arguments back and forth, they hadn’t quite decided to make an effort not to get pregnant. An ugly IUD hung between them like unscalable Mount Olympus. Hands up in surrender, he tries not to chuckle as she plants the paper in between them, in both hands. Sapphire blues cast down to it, triggering his attention downward as well. A heartbeat before her head pops back up, all smiles and piglet pink cheeks. 

“Guess who just knocked eleven points off the BMI chart?” And there it is.

Certainly a different tone of subject than the one before, Logan can’t help the look of surprise that smacks across his face—she is all but giddy. Pressing the paper to her chest, she rising on toes and begins to bounce, like a rabbit, up and down in a way that springs her hair every direction. Her shrieks of excitement are loud enough to wake the dead, but, he’d have a better time freezing hell over, if he’d wanted to. Spinning in a exuberant circle, the ruckus sends all three of their dogs into the kitchen, bouncing around her like she’s deserving of worship. A goddess. His goddess. 

She’d only been killing herself in their garage gym since they’d bought the place a little over a year ago. Plagued with one of those New Year’s resolutions, she’d committed to exercise like a duck commits to water—and Logan hadn’t ever seen someone try to hard, not in a long time. Never one really faced with the issue of having to maintain physical maintenance, thanks to genetic mutation, a workout regiment hadn’t really ever crossed his mind—natural circumstances kept him lean. He’d been alive for 200 years, could abuse his body any way he wanted, and it just–was. A lucky son of a bitch, but, he’d never paused to consider that it wasn’t that way for everyone else. 

So when she’d all but pleaded for a home gym, he’d folded fast. Like a bad hand. Her body had certainly never been an issue between them—he worshiped every curve, could build monuments how often his mind drifted to just fucking her within an inch of sanity. Each scar, every single solitary divot, right down to the pores on her face. Not magazine beautiful or classically Hollywood, her own admission had almost gutted him. 

A girl-next-door, down-to-earth pretty sent him to pieces in ways that Logan would sooner carve out his open spine than share—she ravaged him. Like a dog, licking at the marrow of his bones. The weight of her eyes alone, cutting through his misgivings, trailblazing his insecurities as a man. She was perfect in every phenomena, every realm and bend of time. Designed for him, by Christ Himself—the most gorgeous fucking thing on two legs, he didn’t need billboards or Vogue or the silver screen to set standard yet untenable to the majority. Determined long ago that there’d never be another for him, that he could never love any other soul–worship anatomy—quite like he did her. 

He’d never complained. Hell thrived with such foolishness. He bought the gym equipment, though, mostly because he knew in the long run, it would be better. If not for him, then for her—he was happy. HEr happiness may as well have been the air his body craved. He’d set up the gym on a weekend, learned to park his Jeep outside. Had learned to help her bandage injuries and balance proteins and carbs, listened to her cry over numbers on a tiny scale that didn’t really matter. But, never complained. 

And Logan had noticed the change about her anatomy—the little definitions of curve, the way she moved. She didn’t always, but he knew—when he held her close, made love to her. Difference, even in its smallest form, was still changing. Lighter on her feet, stronger when it came to helping do whatever it was she determined to assist with. Her clothes fit a little differently, the line of her jaw a little sharper. But, skies above that was her confidence. 

Always had opposed his reserved and calculated stoicism, a spicy little firecracker of a thing that took what she wanted and could talk to fenceposts. But, she’d always sparkled differently. It was like weighing the moon against the sun—she just sparkled better. Moved a little sexier, blazes a little hotter. Not quite the North Star, but a close second—somewhere in his guts he feared she’d wake up one morning, realize she was hot as sin, and leave his ass for what’s-his-face from the Greatest Showman or someone on television. 

Her fingers curl into his arms as she bounces a little more on her toes, pride all but beaming from the pink dusting across the bridge of her nose. “Me, it’s me!” Childlike laughter bubbles out of her like a brook, hot and alive, and he can’t help the swell of pride. “After eight fricking months, it’s me,” she blows out a breath, rolling her eyes to the ceiling, “y’know, honestly, I didn’t think any of it was actually doing all that much—i’ve only dropped thirty pounds on the scale, which doesn’t seem like a lot in eight months, but–you were right, Lo! It turned to muscle, you were right!” 

He nods, smile growing to a painful wide that he isn’t sure is amusement, or pride. “‘Course I was right,” he stresses, his tone low as he dips his head to brush his nose against the end of hers. Smiling into the kiss she presses to his mouth, he lifts an arm into flex before grabbing her chin between his fingers and taking her full attention, “Don’t get definition like this not knowin’ what you’re talking about, baby.” Lies. Teasing lies. He hadn’t so much as thought of a fucking dumbbell since that time before some God-forsaken war. 

Pouty lips pull her eyes back to his, and he can see the muscle in her jaw tick with the effort not to grin. Heartbeats, and his arms snake around her middle again, fingers teasing the hem of her shirt. “I’m proud of you, kid,” and he hasn’t called her that since God knew, likes the way it darkens the little flush on her cheeks. “Guess I’d better work a little harder keeping you close to home. Can’t have you skippin’ out on this whole little domestic thing we’ve got going,” he shrugs a shoulder, “what would the dogs do without you?”

Giggling again, her shoulders pop up and down in a little happy shift, he takes her arms and guides them around his neck, “The dogs, huh? Is that right?” Her nose scrunches up again, eyes snapping to life as she steps onto his toes, enough for him to shuffle them out of the kitchen, towards the living space, “You think I’d leave you just because I get sexy?” It’s not a serious question, the flutter of low lashes testifies as he stops them in the middle of the living room, toes curling into the plush carpet as her head cants to the side, like a curious puppy. “And lose my bet with Wade? Don’t know me at all, do you, Wolverine?” 

God only wishes. He knew parts of her the world would never. And he smiles, snorting a little at the thought of their entire relationship hinging on a bet with Wilson, the fucking idiot he is. That feels like a lifetime ago, riding life out in a dingy apartment. Blind Al as company, Wilson as a fucking landlord. If he counted back every red cent he’d paid in rent, it wouldn’t be enough for a grocery run—small mercies. Lifting a hand between them, he crooks a finger, chuckling as she eyeballs it for a second, weighing her options. 

“I like to think I do,” and he does. She’s given him everything. And if she hasn’t—well. He can fix that. “You don’t got any secrets left, do you, darlin’? You’ve already seen my soul—only fair you let me see yours.” Tipping her chin up, he kisses her slowly. Angles his head for whatever depth he can pull her from, keens a little when her breathy moan chases the heat lighting up his adamantium skeleton like an inferno. Tasting the trace of that fucking protein mess on her tongue nearly brings him to his knees, fingers carding through her hair for as much purchase and possession he can find. 

“I do have one,” she manages, a little breathless between nipping at his bottom lip and fighting with the buckle of his belt. With a Jezebel shove of her hand, she sends him down to the cushions of the couch—it protests, accepting his weight.

From beneath low lashes, her ocean blues trace the details of his face as she knees onto the couch, swings a leg over him. Pelvis to pelvis, her weight is divine. Lights him up like a damn electric wire. He can feel heat in his chest chasing after the adrenaline in his blood, can taste her, even from here. 

Grabbing the front of her t-shirt between two fingers, he tugs her a little closer. 

“What’s that?” 

She chuckles, shifting a flirty shoulder. “My IUD? Gone,” she snaps her fingers, biting the corner of her lower lip. Eyes cutting to his mouth, she doesn’t hesitate–a heartbeat and she’s kissing him deeply, milking every little ache and moan creeping up the back of his throat. She sighs a little when his hand presses against her womb, thumb tracing the gentle spot beneath her belly button. “How’s that make you feel, Wolvie honey?” A light, flustered chuckle as he tucks hair behind her ear, rubs a curl between his fingers.

“Think you can handle a mini you making a mess of the world?” 

Knocking his head back over the edge of the couch, his hands find her waist. Stills her before he closes his eyes, relishes the way she lathes her tongue along his pulse. And he’ll never know how it really makes him feel, because feeling is all but a rush of adrenaline when it comes to her—everything and nothing, a floating abyss of pleasure and home that, from the beginning of time, man has tried to describe. It’s all wrapped up in limbo, though–limbo and his ribs, jeans and a pretty face. 

 “Not sure,” his hand tucks behind her head and he flips them, forcing her into the couch before she can protest—before she and her eleven-points-off-the-chart can challenge any idea other than what he’s about to do to her.

“”Think we should find out, darlin’.”

tags: @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @fandomxo00

[kisses-for-you]

Preference: They accidentally hurt you

Titans Characters X Fem!Reader

Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Gar Logan, Conner Kent, Kory Anders, Donna Troy & Hank Hall.

Dick Grayson:

You and Dick had gotten into an argument and it was getting heated. He was risking the team's life by making stupid and reckless decisions, or at least that's what they were in your opinion.

Without thinking, you yell, "You don't have to risk everyone's lives just because Jason died and you think it's your fault!"

SLAP!

Dick's hand makes contact with your face as he slaps you in a fit of rage. The room seems to freeze as Dick's eyes widen with horror at the realisation of what he's just done. Your hand instinctively reaches to your cheek, the hurt in your eyes making your boyfriend feel even more guilty.

Dick immediately recoils, his expression shifting from anger to deep regret. "Fuck. Y/N, I... I didn't mean to," he stammers, his voice filled with remorse. He takes a step back, grappling with the weight of his actions. His eyes search yours, pleading for forgiveness, but the pain in your gaze is palpable.

Dick takes a hesitant step forward. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Y/N, I'm so fucking sorry," he murmurs, regret etched across his face. He reaches out to cup your cheek, however, fear grips you, and you instinctively shrink back, avoiding his touch.

"I need some space," you finally manage to say, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and sadness. He nods solemnly, understanding he fucked up badly.

-

Jason Todd:

You and Jason were training and since you were still fairly new to the team, you thought it'd be nice to train with Jason as you're the closest with him.

You're meant to block his hits but as the bo staff heads your way, you hesitate for some reason and react too late, resulting in Jason accidentally hurting you as the staff strikes you. It's just a small mistake and it doesn't hurt too badly but he immediately rushes to your side.

"Shit. Babe, are you okay?" His concerned expression mirrors his regret. You give him a small, reassuring smile, saying, "Yeah, I'm fine. It's probably just a small bruise anyway. Let's just get back to training."

He shakes his head, still looking guilty even though it wasn't his fault. "No, let's just finish here. You shouldn't keep training if you're hurt. We can always train tomorrow," Jason insists, genuine concern in his eyes. You know there's no point in arguing with him, so you just sigh and nod.

-

Gar Logan:

You and Gar were alone in the Titans Tower, where Gar was struggling to stay in his human form. He was incredibly upset (you didn't know why) and his intense emotions were causing him to shapeshift into an animal, which he was trying to prevent.

"Y/N.. You need to.. go," he whispers, his voice strained as he tries to fight against the transformation. Concern etched across your face, you refuse to leave his side. You assure him, "Gar, I'm not leaving you alone like this."

You try to reach out to touch his trembling hand, but before you can make contact, Gar involuntarily shifts into a green tiger. In his tiger form, Gar loses control and accidentally swipes at you with his claws. The scratch isn't too deep, but it's enough to draw blood and sting, causing you to step back in shock. Gar, now more distressed, manages to regain control, turning back into his human form as he apologizes frantically.

"Fuck, Y/N, I'm so sorry. I- I lost control. I didn't mean to hurt you," he stammered, rushing to your side, panic etched across his face.

You assess the scratch on your arm, trying to downplay the pain, not wanting to make him feel worse. "Gar, it's okay. It wasn't your fault. Besides, it doesn't even hurt that bad."

Gar, tormented by guilt, searches for a first aid kit in the Tower. As he tends to your wound, you insist that it wasn't his fault, attempting to calm him in his distressed state. While Gar is patching up your wound, you notice a mixture of guilt and fear in his eyes. You gently take his hand and reassure him, "Gar, accidents happen. Don't blame yourself." Despite your comforting words, Gar remains visibly distraught, haunted by the fear of potentially causing you harm again.

-

Conner Kent:

Conner had just returned from a mission with the Titans. He looked exhausted but relieved as he walked through the door. You greeted him with a warm smile, knowing how tiring his superhero responsibilities could be.

As Conner hugged you, his thoughts wandered to what happened during the mission. He started to get lost in his thoughts, and his strength momentarily slipped out of his control. He squeezed you too tightly, causing you to wince as the force of the hug became too much. You were left in a little pain, and probably with a bruise. Conner looked concerned as you pulled away, realising what he had just done.

"I'm so sorry, Y/N. I don't know what happened. I started thinking about the mission and then I just..." Conner rambled, trying to explain and apologize to you. But you interrupted him and said, "Conner, it's okay. I know you didn't mean to. Don't worry about it." No matter how much you try to reassure Conner, however, he still feels guilty and blames himself for hurting you, even if it was accidental.

For the next couple of weeks, he's extra careful around you and way more gentle. He also tries to find ways to make it up to you; he doesn't need to though because you know he didn't mean to do what he did.

-

Hank Hall:

You and Hank had been watching a football match on TV together, enjoying the rare day off. As Hank headed to the kitchen to grab you both a drink and some snacks, an idea sparked in your mind. You decided you were going to scare him; it was a fairly innocent idea.

Within a couple of seconds, you start to tiptoe after him, planning to playfully surprise him. You just wanted to see his reaction so you could make fun of him if he screamed like a girl (you never know, he might). As you reach the kitchen door, you take a deep breath, preparing to unleash your surprise.

However, as you sneak up behind him and scream, Hank's reflexes kick in. In an instant, he spins around, his combat instincts taking over. Before either of you can even realise what's happening, his hand shoots out and strikes you right in the face. A gasp escapes your lips as you feel the sudden impact.

Time seems to freeze for a moment as you both register what just happened. Hank's eyes widen in shock and horror as he sees you wince from the unintentional blow. Concern fills Hank's eyes as he drops whatever he is holding in his hands, rushing to your side. "Oh fuck, babe, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" he blurts out, panic evident in his voice.

You hold your nose, pretty sure you have a nosebleed. "I'm... okay." As the initial shock wears off, you can't help but let out a nervous laugh. "At least now we know that your instincts are top-notch," you quip, trying to lighten the mood despite the pain you're feeling. You move your hand away from your face, revealing a trickle of blood from your nose. Hank winces, guilt written all over his face.

He quickly grabs a tissue from the nearby counter, handing it to you with a mix of concern and remorse in his eyes. "I didn't mean to... I just thought..." Hank stammers, struggling to find the right words to express his regret. You take the tissue and give him a reassuring smile, realizing it was just an unfortunate accident.

"It's okay, Hank. It was my idea to scare you like that so if anything, it's my fault," you say, dabbing at your nose. Despite the pain, you can't help but appreciate the genuine worry in his eyes.

-

Kory Anders:

You and the Titans were preparing for another battle against an intimidating villain who was threatening the city of San Francisco. You were standing by Kory's side, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and excitement. Tonight, the stakes were higher than ever before. The villain, known as Mother Mayhem, was ready to unleash chaos upon the city. Kory's eyes were glowing with determination as she walked towards the impending threat. You followed closely, aware of the danger that awaited you.

As the confrontation continues, Mother Mayhem launches a devastating attack that catches both you and Kory off guard. In a moment of panic, Kory's powers surge uncontrollably, and a burst of energy erupts from her, unintentionally striking you. The impact sends you flying to the ground and pain radiates through your body.

Kory's eyes widen in horror as she realises what just happened. She rushes to your side, leaving the rest of the Titans to deal with the threat. Her concern is evident in every step. "I-I'm so sorry," she stammered, kneeling beside you. "I didn't mean to hurt you." Despite the pain, you manage a weak smile, reaching out to reassure her. "It's okay, Kory. Accidents happen. Besides, we have a more important matter at hand," you say, referring to the villain you're currently fighting.

"I promise, I'll control my powers better next time," she vows, gently cradling you in her arms. She then stops to think, unsure of whether you should get back to the fight in your condition. "Are you sure you want to fight? I don't think that's the best idea for you right now, Y/N."

You nod, determination flickering in your eyes despite the pain. "I'll be fine, Kory. Just a little shaken, but I can still help. We need to stop her before things get worse." Reluctantly, Kory lets you go, her worry etched across her face. She stands up, taking a moment to make sure you're stable before rejoining the battle. 

-

Donna Troy:

You and Donna were strolling through through the dimly lit alleyways of the city. As you turned a corner, a group of menacing thugs emerged from the shadows, surrounding you both. Donna's grip on your hand tightened instinctively as she stepped forward, ready to defend you from the impending threat.

Donna's eyes narrow, her instincts kicking in. She swiftly reaches for her lasso, the golden glow illuminating the dark alley. But you find yourself in the line of fire without even noticing. A sudden movement from one of the thugs causes you to stumble, and in an attempt to protect you, Donna swings her lasso with lightning speed. However, the unexpected jolt of the situation results in her accidentally striking you instead of the intended target.

Time seems to slow as the golden rope wraps around you, the energy coursing through your body. A surge of pain shoots through your veins, and you gasp as the unexpected impact takes you by surprise. Donna's eyes widen in horror as she realises her mistake, immediately releasing the lasso. The thugs seem to take this as a chance to run and escape. Stunned and in pain, you stagger backwards, clutching the area where the lasso struck you. Donna rushes to your side, her concern evident in her eyes. "Fuck. Y/N, I'm so sorry," she murmurs, her voice filled with regret.

As Donna checks on you, you assure her that you're okay, though the pain still lingers. The two of you decide to go back to her apartment to assess the situation and tend to your injuries. Donna's guilt is palpable, but you understand it was an accident in the heat of the moment. Together, you make your way back, Donna keeping a protective arm around you.

-

[fanfics4all]

Temperature Play

Request: Yes / No Kinktober Day 1!

Don’t be shy, request things! <3 Have a nice day/night

Troy Otto x Fem!Reader 

Word count: 1797

Warnings: SMUT!

Summary: When it's way too hot to sleep in the apocalypse and there's no power to be found. Your boyfriend, Troy Otto wakes to find you not able to sleep and figures out how to help.

PLEASE DO NOT STEAL MY WORK, I WORK HARD ON MY FICS AND IT’S NOT COOL TO STEAL SOMEONE ELSE’S WORK! 

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(Not my photo, credit to whoever made it!)

It was way too hot out. My skin was melting and my brain was boiling. We had to be in a heatwave. For the past two days the heat has been unbearable and in a normal world we’d be able to turn on the air conditioning, but we were in the fucking apocalypse! We were just stuck in the horrible heat with limited supplies. 

It was dark out, the window in Tory’s room at the Otto house was open. I was desperately trying to circulate some air, but it did next to nothing. I couldn’t even sleep if I wanted to. I had kicked off the covers, leaving my naked body exposed. Oh, how I missed the icy air of the air conditioners. Troy was sleeping next to me, or I assumed he was asleep. He wasn’t moving and was turned on his side, he didn’t bother wearing clothes either. All I wanted to do was sleep, we had to be up in a few hours to start the day. I knew the longer I was up sweating, the more irritable I was going to be. I sighed, feeling frustrated tears sting my eyes. I just wanted to sleep… 

“Still up?” Troy asked, his voice thick with sleep. 

“Yeah.” I hissed miserably. He rolled over to face me. The covers were bunched around his legs with just one above the blanket. His skin was glistening in the moonlight, probably just like mine. His hand touched my cheek lightly.

“Babe…” He sighed. His cold fingers felt so nice against my flushed cheeks that I couldn’t help but moan. He smiled and trailed his fingers down my cheekbone and across my lips. My heated skin quickly warmed his fingers and I was once against too hot and sweaty. I sat up frustrated, burying my head in my hands. Troy sat up and moved closer to me. I could tell he wanted to hold and cuddle me back to sleep, but touching would just make us both hotter. 

“Maybe I should just go jump in the lake, it’ll cool me off for a little while…” I mumbled, dreading the idea of going outside where it was probably hotter. Troy slipped out of bed and put on his discarded boxers. He came to my side of the bed and kissed my forehead. 

“I’ll be right back.” He said, his voice exited as he headed out the door. I heard him quietly walk down the stairs and out the door. I shook my head and sighed. I had no idea how the hell he could be happy right now. It wasn’t long before I heard his footsteps return and head up the stairs. 

“Close your eyes.” He said from the other side of the door. I sighed but did as he asked. I felt him coming towards me, but I couldn’t fight the smile that appeared on my lips. I felt something against my mouth, amazingly cold and numbing that I gasped. My eyes snapped open and Troy was kneeling before me, a small bowl of ice next to him. He was sliding an ice cube against my bottom lip, the cool water dripping down my chin as it melted. 

“Oh Troy…” I moaned slightly. 

“I’m gonna help you cool down.” He said with a smirk. 

“But, won’t your parents be pissed that you took the ice?” I asked and he rolled his eyes. 

“Nah, Jake might but who cares? Now, lay down.” He said, gently pushing me down. 

My back hit the sheets, already feeling a bit of relief from the ice that he was sliding down my neck. Goosebumps appeared as he went. Watching the ice melt quickly against my burning skin. The tension that’s been building over the past two days slowly releasing. 

Once the cube melted completely he laid his icy, wet fingers on my stomach. He grabbed the next ice cube with his mouth, grabbing the ice between his teeth. He dragged it up my shin, water dripping down my calf as he went. A content moan slipped back my lips as I watched him. My hands found their way into his hair as my nails dragged against his scalp. 

“Troy!” I moaned. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I happily groaned out. The ice in his mouth was nearly melted and he sucked it in quickly. He kissed my hip, making me arch up slightly. 

This time he grabbed one cube with his mouth and another between his fingers. He held the cube to my lips, which I quickly began to suck. He chuckled slightly and dipped his head down to my collarbone. He slid the ice against the bone and up my neck. My moans grew shaky, feeling a new form of stimulation. His fingers pushed the ice between my lips. My lips wrapped around his index and thumb, sliding my tongue where the ice had melted. He trailed the ice in his mouth between my breasts, my nipples quickly hardening. His free hand wrapped around my right boob and brought the ice to circle it. I whimpered around his fingers. Troy smiled like a wolf that just caught his prey. My back arched off the mattress as he circled my nipples. 

“They’re melting faster than I can replace them.” He said with a smirk. 

“Feeling any cooler?” He asked and I nodded helplessly. 

He moved back up to my face, kissing me desperately. His tongue explored every part of my mouth, chilled saliva mixing with hot breaths. I reached down, trying to grab the waistband of his boxers and push them away, but he was taller than me. I blindly grasped between our bodies, whimpering against his lips. 

“Take them off baby, please. I need you so bad.” I begged against his lips. My chest arched into his own and my hands grabbed his back. I needed him so bad. He already helped so much, but now my mind was foggy. Troy chuckled at my desperate pleas. 

“You need some help, babe?” He asked as he slid his tongue against mine again so I couldn’t answer. 

“You need me to take care of you, is that it?” He asked with a cocky smirk. I nodded again, hoping he would just fuck me already. 

“Say it.” He ordered. 

“Troooy, please… it’s too hot… please.” I begged. 

“No, not until you say it.” He said, continuing to kiss against my chin and neck. My body was already starting to get hot again. 

“Troy please, I need you so bad! Please help me.” I gave in. Troy quickly shed his underwear and kissed me again. This kiss was deeper and harder, his teeth clinking against mine. He couldn’t hold back anymore. My hands flew to his neck, pulling him closer. I hooked my legs on his hips and released him for just a moment so he could align himself with my entrance. His eyes met mine and I watched them turn darker as he pushed himself inside. It felt like forever as he penetrated me, pushing against my cervix. He angled upwards to kiss that one spot inside of me that had me seeing stars. He let out a low-grown, eyes rolling to the back of his head and his hands bruising my hips as he bottomed out. 

“Fuck… he cursed against my neck. I whined and turned my head to allow him more access to my neck. I loved the feeling of his kisses and biting me. My neck was so sensitive, his teeth just barely scraping against my skin. He pulled my thighs up higher on my hips, allowing him to thrust deeper into me. The sound of his balls slapping against my ass mixed with his low groans and my whimpers. My walls clenched around him and he shuddered. 

“Fuck babe, I’m gonna cum if you don’t stop that.” His voice broke as his hips jerked into me uncontrollably. 

“I need you to cum.” I said as I arched off the bed again. 

“Please cum inside me baby… You feel so good.” I moaned. He filled me up completely like he always had. He moved one of his hands to mine, bringing it to his mouth and kissed my fingers. He regained control over his thrusts and his breathing quickly. His other hand moved over to my knee on his hip and down my thigh and brought his thumb to my throbbing clit. I let out a shaky moan and my jaw dropped. 

“Now you’ll cum for me.” He said as he circled my clit perfectly. He always knew my body better than I did. My eyes fluttered closed as my orgasm quickly approached. My hands gripped his shoulders, feeling his muscles under my trembling fingers. His name was the only thing leaving my lips. 

“Babe, I- Oh fuck…” He was already on the edge of another climax. 

“I know me too. I love you.” I said as I pulled his face down and pressed my forehead to his. His thrusts became slower and more direct against my G-spot. His thumb continued to rub my clit, my orgasm building up inside me. 

“Kiss me.” I whispered and he instantly connected our lips. That was the thing we both needed to push us over the edge. He pumped two more times before once again painting my insides with his cum. I fluttered around him as our lips kept connected. He stayed inside me, making sure to keep his cum as deep as he could. 

“I love you too.” He breathed out, making me giggle. I clenched around him again as he pulled out. 

“Don’t tease, unless you wanna be screaming.” He smirked. I blushed and shook my head, making him chuckle. He laid down beside me and pulled me into his side. 

“Feeling a little cooler?” He asked and I nodded. 

“A little, but way more sweaty.” I giggled. He rolled his eyes and reached over to the bowl of now mostly melted ice that was on the nightstand. He grabbed it and dumped it over my body. I shrieked and jumped out of the bed. 

“Troy!” I shouted. He chuckled and then someone slammed their fist against the wall. 

“Keep it down! Some of us are trying to sleep!” Jake shouted and Troy laughed harder. I groaned and moved to Troy’s side of the bed. 

“You can sleep on the icy cold side.” I said and he smiled. 

“Fine.” He said and moved to the other side. I watched him shiver a bit and smirked. 

“Now we can sleep.” I said, happily snuggling into Troy’s side of the bed. He wrapped his arm around my waist and kissed my shoulder. 

“Goodnight babe.” He whispered and I smiled as I finally drifted off to sleep.

Tag list: @les-bio-lie @tashy-bear @ashwarren32 @hollie-blogs @lover-of-books-and-teas @nerdygaloresposts @teenwolfbitches2 @kmc1989 @drw0301bieber @lady-of-lies @ravenmoore14 @ravenempress101 @cillianchamp @rowanthomasknapp @rachelxwayne @ready-4-fanfiction

[perseabeth]

The Promise of the Wild Sea

< this is not an official fic yet, i had this AU in my mind for a while, and now i got the time to write few parts of it. if the story was to your liking, i might get encouraged to make it an official fic. i’d like to remind you that i do not own any of the characters, as they all belong to the original myths and Rick Riordan. except for the oc Callista. however, i made some alternation in the myths that could benefit my story. i hope you like these changes. also this is a fem!percy version. enjoy reading >

- 1184 BCE, The fallen city of Troy -

Apollo stood in front of Callista’s pyre, the flames not yet lit, his gaze fixed on her lifeless face. Her once radiant beauty now drained, her cheeks no longer flushed with the color of life. Her hair, dark as the starless night, framed a visage that seemed at peace, a peace she had found only in death. Yet, she had stolen his peace with her departure, leaving him hollow and bereft.

With painstaking care, he had smoothed away every bruise, every mark of the cruelty she had endured, wishing to present her to the underworld in the full splendor of her glory. His Callista, his heart. He clutched the two drachmas in his hand, the coins a symbol of her final journey, but to him, they were a cruel reminder of his eternal separation from her. How could he consign her to the underworld, knowing he would be condemned to an eternity without her by his side?

His soul ached with a grief that seemed too vast to contain. With a trembling breath, he placed the drachmas on her closed eyes, sealing her fate, preparing her for her voyage to the underworld. She deserved a realm free from the sorrows of war and the sting of death, a place of peace and light. He swore on his immortal soul that she would find solace in Elysium.

Apollo leaned down, his tears falling like rain upon her serene face, pressing a final kiss to her cold, unresponsive forehead.

“Farewell, my Callista... until we meet again, my angel.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun god cradled her cheeks in his trembling hands, his soy blue eyes filled with the agony of days spent pleading with his uncle, the merciless lord of death, for this moment. She was there in his embrace, radiant as the true princess she was, her beauty untouched by the shadows of the underworld. Her black hair cascaded down her back like the soft night sky, a dark tapestry embroidered with stars in silken threads. Her eyes, those mesmerizing sea-green eyes, gazed up at him—the very eyes he had yearned to kiss open one last time before cruel fate tore her away.

But nothing unfolded as he had hoped.

"My lord," Callista whispered, her eyes shining with boundless love for the man before her. She wore a white, elegant chiton that clung to her form with an ethereal grace, adorned with a delicate laurel crown—a vision of Trojan royalty. Apollo shook his head, refusing to accept the words forming on her lips. "No, you are coming with me," he implored, tears welling up in his sky-blue eyes, each drop a testament to his anguish. He was begging, pleading for her to return with him to the world of the living.

The princess before him shook her head gently, her gaze unwavering. "No, my lord, I am dead. I am happy here," she said softly. She took his palm, still cradling her cheek, and pressed a tender kiss upon it, as if sealing their fates with that simple, heartbreaking act. "You must respect the rules of death, my love. You must go on and find happiness in the lands of the living."

Her words stabbed his heart, despite the delicateness of her voice, despite the sweetness of her words, and despite the loveliness of her eyes. She was pushing him away, each word like a dagger twisting deeper.

Callista looked at him again, her gaze filled with a sorrowful resolve. "I'm with my family, and you should be with yours. Lord Zeus will not be tolerable when he hears that you brought me back from death."

Apollo tried to reason with her, desperation lacing his voice. "But Uncle Hades has already accepted," he argued, only to be met with another tender kiss on his palm from Callista.

"I'm not letting you get into an argument with your father," she replied softly. She lifted her hand and gently caressed the strand of his hair falling on his forehead. Her melodic voice continued, soothing yet heartbreaking. "You will live on. You will find happiness again, I'm sure."

"My happiness is with you only," he insisted, his voice breaking.

But Callista only shook her head with a sad smile. "That's what you're saying now, because the pain is so new. But trust me, my love... time will go on, life will go on." She looked into his eyes, her determination unyielding. He knew there was no way to change her heart. She gave him a beautiful smile that could have brightened his days if not for their situation. "You did all you could. You made sure I found my final rest in a beautiful place. Now it's your turn to let go... to move on."

Apollo's tears threatened to fall, threatening to drown his eyes. He did the only thing he could do in that moment; he planted a soft, small kiss on her lips, a goodbye kiss filled with all the sorrow of a love that could never be. It was a kiss that spoke of unending longing and the crushing weight of farewell.

He would never force her to do anything. If she was happy, he would be happy, even if it meant an immortal lifetime of his heart shattering every day he remembered that she wasn't waking up next to him.

His time in the underworld was ticking away, leaving him with precious few moments to spare in the arms of his beloved. How cruel fate is, he thought, that even time refuses to grant him a longer respite to find peace in her embrace one last time.

He kissed her forehead once more, a goodbye kiss—the same kiss he had planted on her brow the day of her pyre, the day they consigned her body to the flames in a solemn ritual of farewell. He looked into those beautiful eyes one last time. "I swear to you, I’ll always find you in the stars, in the calm oceans, in the beautiful sunlight, in the warm flames, and in the serene mountains. You will always haunt me, forever haunt my life, Callista."

This earned him a sad smile from her beloved face, and he realized he loved all her smiles except this one. "Who knows, maybe someday you will find me again, amidst the moors or maybe in the wild sea."

He nodded, a silent nod, as a single tear traced a path down his cheek. He kissed her hands one last time and turned his back, leaving his beloved, leaving his heart, leaving the bane of his soul in Elysium, where she belonged. Before he stepped away, he turned to her one last time. "Someday, I’ll find you in the wild sea."

With that, Apollo left the underworld, each step a testament to the immortal lifetime of sorrow that awaited him, a sorrow he would bear for the love he could never truly hold again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

- December, 2007. New York City-

"And now, sis. Transportation for the Hunters, you say? Good timing. I was just about ready to roll.

"These demigods will also need a ride," Artemis said, pointing to us. "Some of Chiron's campers."

"No problem!" Apollo checked us out. "Let's see... Thalia, right? I've heard all about you."

Thalia blushed. "Hi, Lord Apollo."

"Zeus's girl, yes? Makes you my half sister. Used to be a tree, didn't you? Glad you're back. I hate it when pretty girls turn into trees. Man, I remember one time—"

"Brother," Artemis said. "You should get going."

"Oh, right." Then his gaze landed on me, and his eyes widened with a mixture of shock and recognition, as if he had glimpsed a long-lost memory. The once vibrant blue of his eyes now bore golden freckles, a haunting reminder of his divine nature. "Callista?"

I met his gaze, my heart pounding with confusion and uncertainty. Was he mistaking me for someone else, someone from his past? “No. I mean... no, sir."

Calling a teenager "sir" felt awkward, but I knew better than to offend an immortal. They were known to have volatile tempers, and tended to get offended easily. Then they blew stuff up. and now Apollo seems to be on verge of blowing things up, or me perhaps.

His silence stretched on, his eyes still fixed on me, probing and searching. It was as if he was peering into my soul, unraveling the layers of my being with each passing moment.

Eventually, his gaze shifted to his sister, Artemis, who offered him a subtle shake of her head. Their silent exchange felt like a wordless, deep conversation, conveying a depth of understanding that transcended spoken words. Apollo cleared his throat, breaking the tension that hung in the air, before turning his attention back to me.

His gaze shifted abruptly from sheer confusion to a myriad of emotions I couldn't quite pinpoint. It reminded me of the way my mom once described my reaction to blue cookies or a serene beach—a mix of wonder and longing. Yet, as he looked at me, I saw something more. His eyes, now a crystal-clear sky blue, brimmed with an affection that seemed to encompass the entire world. It was a strange sensation, one that left me feeling oddly nervous, knowing that he was a god who could unleash his power at any moment. If it were anyone else, I might have blushed under their gaze. But facing a god for the first time, unsure if he was friend or foe, left me feeling unsettled rather than flustered.

"Percy Jackson," Apollo's voice cut through the tense silence like a blade. For a moment, it felt as though time itself had frozen, as if I were caught in a web of his penetrating gaze. I nodded silently. Then, without a word, he turned away, his attention shifting back to the group. The weight of his gaze that seemed to convey the burden of centuries, left me unsettled.

"Well!" he exclaimed in a cheerful voice again, as if the past few moments were nothing, breaking the silence. "We'd better load up, huh? The ride only goes one way—west. And if you miss it, you miss it."

—

i’d love to hear your opinion about this.

[sloubs]

ignorez-moi mais ça fait trois jours que j'y pense

astier il est tellement chiant il serait capable de créer un perso saxon qui s'appelle roxan juste pour faire une ref à sting

[juiceboxezz]

If Astyanax didn't get yeeted

little AU if Ody didn't Just A Man Astyanax

this has been bugging me for like a week I had to write it I might write the journey home I might not who knows

“The blood on your hands is something you won’t lose, all you can choose is whose.”

Who knew Zeus could be poetic.

Lightning rips through the sky, a flash of yellowish-white illuminating the room for less than a second. The overwhelming pressure dissipated, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to stand up.

I lingered there, on my knees, facing the window. Thoughts reeled in my mind, the King of the Gods’ order replaying and repeating in my ears like a broken record, his deep voice like the crack of thunder.

A coo derailed my train of thought.

I dragged myself up to my feet, moving to the crib by the wall. I looked down at the infant, and in return the boy giggled and reached his little grabby hands up at me.

My hands reached down to pick the little guy up, cradling the child in my arms just as I had done ten years ago, with my own son.

I felt my eyes sting at the thought. Oh, my boy.

“Hello, little one,” I heard myself say. I shouldn’t be with the infant, I shouldn’t be talking to the infant, hell, I shouldn’t be holding the boy like my own.

In response, the infant made a spit bubble.

Damn it.

I closed my eyes for a moment, and they flashed in my mind. Penelope… Telemachus…

I shook my head. Now wasn’t the time for that. This boy in my arms wasn’t mine, this boy was the son of Prince Hector, not King Odysseus. A boy that would grow up and destroy everything I hold dear…

I held the boy close to my chest, as my feet took me to the balcony of Troy’s palace.

“Close your eyes, little one,” I spoke softly, as I watched the aftermath of the invasion.

Fires burned around the ruins of the city, smoke curling to the night sky in thick, black tendrils. The air reeked of ash and blood, heavy with the stench of death. The bodies of warriors — Achaean and Trojan alike — lay lifeless, scattered acrossed what used to be the most formidable city in all of Greece. Trojan women, their faces pale and tear-streaked, were herded like cattle, their wrists bound with rough chains as Greek soldiers barked orders. Around them, the victors roared with laughter, voices carrying over the crackle of fire and the cries of the defeated, as if the lives of their comrades meant nothing to them. Not in the face of victory.

It’s understandable, I supposed. Ten years of war, and today we finally won.

And yet…

I looked down at the babbling infant. I swallowed thickly, clenching my eyes hard as I forced my hands to pull the child away from my chest, holding the boy at arm’s length.

I held the boy over the railing.

“I’m just a man…” I muttered, my voice raw even to my own ears, and—

No.

I pulled the boy back to my chest.

I had crossed a lot of lines before, but killing a child? An infant? To end the life of a boy that hasn’t lived a life yet? That was a line I refused to cross.

I turned sharply on my heel, moving through the halls I’d never been in with ease. Blood tainted the walls, snapped spears littered the ground, and men that were meant to protect their palace were merely meat on the ground, crimson pooling around their bodies.

I ignored the celebrating soldiers around me, and their questioning looks. I was vaguely aware of Diomedes’ voice to my left but I simply waved a dismissive hand in his direction and continued to my fleet.

I was, however, acutely aware of the sudden stillness of the world around me. The sounds of victory, the laughter, the clinking of glasses — all ceased into a muffled cacophony. I brought my eyes up, glancing around me, and everyone had, in fact, frozen.

“Odysseus.”

Her voice was clear, commanding, completely slicing through the still tension that hung in the air. I stiffened ever so slightly as I turned, meeting the eyes of the Goddess of Wisdom. Ah, I thought. I forgot about that.

“Athena,” I muttered, my grip on the boy tightening ever so slightly.

“Have you forgotten the lessons I taught you?” Her voice was chiding, sharp. Her expression was unreadable behind her helmet, her arms crossed firmly over her chest. The tapping of her fingers against her arm was the only sound in the oppressive silence, as if she was waiting for me to respond, to explain myself.

I steadied my breath. “What good would killing this boy do?” I retorted. I could feel my eyes begin to sting again but I refused to let the tears fall. Not in front of Athena. Never in front of Athena.

I shook my head slowly. “I will not murder a child,” I said firmly. Disobeying a goddess? Probably not the brightest idea I’ve had, but my words rang true.

“He will destroy everything you’ve built,” Athena argued, her tone cold as ice. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly.

“I’ll figure it out, I always do — it’s what you taught me, isn’t it?” The words came out more forcefully than intended.

“I taught you to not be soft.”

“Mercy—”

“Sometimes mercy has a price, Odysseus.”

I shook my head once more. “No.”

“He is a threat.”

“He is a boy!” I snapped.

A beat of silence.

“I am not murdering a child,” I repeated.

Her eyes seemed to narrow behind her helmet. The tension crackled, one could practically cut it with a butter knife. “Then this is where we part ways.”

I faltered for a moment, before hardening. “Fine!” I bit back, keeping the infant close to my chest, and turning my back to her (haha). “Close the door!” I agreed sharply.

“One day, one day, you’ll hear what I’m saying,” I heard her say, before the world returned to normal, to its twisted, chaotic dance.

I lingered there for a moment, my eyes drifting down to the infant in my arms, ignoring the glances of my men. His soft cooed softly, little fingers grasping at the air as if the world wasn’t crumbling around him. He giggled, completely and blissfully unaware of the ruins of Troy or the blood staining its streets — the city he might have inherited, had fate been kinder.

“Captain,” a deep voice broke my thoughts. Was it don’t-let-Odysseus-think day?

“Eurylochus,” I acknowledged, nodding to my second-in-command. His eyes flitted between the child and my face, raising an eyebrow.

“The son of Prince Hector,” I answered his silent question… before realizing how that sounded. “I’m not killing an infant,” I clarified.

Gods, maybe I was the broken record.

“I can help,” another voice called out to my left. Perimedes. He was a strange one.

“What— no!” I snapped quickly, holding the infant impossibly closer to my chest. He shrugged.

“Captain,” Eurylochus called once again with furrowed eyebrows. He took a step closer, his arms over his chest, oddly similar to Athena. “Are you sure about this? He’s—”

“Yes, I’m sure, brother,” I said, my voice firmer than intended.

What was with everyone and killing children?

Then, my eyes caught sight of my best friend, and before I even realized it, my lips curved into a smile that mirrored the one on his face. Finally, I thought, someone who doesn’t want to kill an infant.

“Cap!” Polites called out, moonlight bouncing off the man’s glasses. He looked down at the child in my arms, and his grin somehow grew wider. “Who’s this?”

“Ah, the son of Price Hector.”

Polites stared at me for a moment, before shrugging and walking up to us. “What’s his name?”

Good question.

I thought about the boy’s room. There had been a name inscribed into the wood of the crib, I recalled. I stayed silent for a moment, before speaking, “Astyanax.”

Polites hummed. “Hey, little guy,” he spoke softly, grinning at the former (?) Prince of Troy.

As he interacted with the boy, I looked at Eurylochus. The taller still had a skeptical look on his face, as he did with most things but I brushed it off this once.

“Ready the ships,” I told him. “We’re going home.”

[lordvonbunnyv]

List of names dowager Hatt Called the Engines

Thomas: Theodore, Timmy, thibault, Tabitha, Tyler, Tyus, tucker, Thaddeus, Tobias, Tony, Tommy.

Edward: Edwin, Erwin, Ezekiel, Ethan, Egbert, Everett, Emmett, Eric, Elliot, that train that once pushed that other train up a hill.

Gordon: Gregory, Geoffrey, George, Grayson, Godfrey, Gustav, Giuseppe, Graig, big train. Flying Scott’s brother cousin or something.

Henry: Harry, Hudson, Hitler, Hunter, green fat engine, hector, Hendricks, Hayden, Hyde, Hans, Hansel, Holmes.

James: Jon, Joe, Amos, Alma, Jesus, Jacob, bee sting train, Jerry, Judas. Jeff.

Percy: Paul, pasta, pea, Pedro, Perry, Pete, Pablo, diablo.

Toby: Troy, tony, Tobias, Tyler, Otis

Duck: Montgomery, Mona, Monty, Mussolini, bird train, Duke, Drake, (refused to call Duck as Duck because she thought it was too degrading)

Donald: Douglas

Douglas: Donald

Oliver: …. Which one are you again? Who are you again? Ozzy, Oscar, Otto, Octavius. Olivia,

Emily: Eleanore, Esmeralda, Esme, Erica, Emma, Evangelina, emerald, Ellen, Eva, Eve,

Diesel: Doris, Dennis, Daniel, Dan, David, you, who named you? The Deisel with no name.

Bill: Prince Buddy bear Xxavier Dijonny Nevah cash cash III (Bill told Dowager Hatt that was his full name when they met)

Ben: Sir Jermastesty Brexicalishrika Llallañalamopolisistyck Billy Bob Robert jones brother son XXVIII (also told Dowager hatt that was his name.)

[murdockiplier]

community characters as jellyfish (this is purely based on looks because i can't find any videos on jellyfish behaviors)

abed nadir - west african stinging nettle jellyfish

reason: favourite jellyfish, favourite character, plus look at them side by side, they're the same !!

troy barnes: moon jelly

reason: my 2nd favourite jellyfish and 2nd favourite character, but very close to abed and his jellyfish. also they are the same thing fr !!!

annie edison: mushroom cap jelly

reason: frilly and cute but passive aggressive

britta perry: white spotted jellyfish

reason: this one was purely off of vibes

jeff winger: pink meanie jellyfish

reason: he looks fine, inviting almost but he has deadly defenses to keep things at a distance

[insom-nom-nom-niatic]

2 Of A Kind Ch. 3

CHARACTERS: Troy Otto X Fem Reader

WARNINGS: It's made for FTWD so you should know the basics. +SMUT (read at your own risk. I'm nobody's mom) +Fem receiving

There may or may not be a part 4... need to see how people feel about it. ALSO! Shoutout to all the GIF makers out there for giving me so many options and I love you all... I still feel the need to use the same one repeatedly, but you all help me fight that urge!

This is made for THIS anon request!

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

“Can I help you with that?”

Troy’s eyes grew dark, feeling his senses begin to tunnel into her and her alone. The woman merely smiled, adjusting herself under the blanket to the side. Her cheeks burned with a fury of confusion and anticipation as she stared back into the blue eyes watching her. “I mean-” Troy shuffled his feet lazily towards the right side of the mattress, closest to the woman. “You helped me so it’s only polite of me to offer my assistance. That is - if you want me to help. Not to be frank but, I could do a bit better than what you were doing.” Troy cocked his head to the side with a crooked smile when the woman scoffed exaggeratingly at his remark. It had been some time, if ever, that anyone had made him feel like this.

Powerful.

“Come’er,” She whispered to him, a voice sending shivers down his spine, but Troy followed her order. The mattress slunk down from his weight, dipping the two into one pothole in the middle. Her fingers ghosted over his hand, the wound on it open to the warm air. His eyes flinched at the sting that rang up his extremity as she placed the hand to her lips, gently kissing the inflamed skin while looking up at him through dark eyelashes. with a twist of his hand, Troy caressed the woman’s cheek, feeling the heat radiate from her dewy skin. Their eyes never broke until Troy lowered his gaze to her lips, softer than he thought they’d be, swiping one calloused digit across the delicate flesh.

With a smooth lick of his lips, Troy initiated the kiss. Pressing his flesh upon her own, feeling her warmth and hearing the ever-so-silent moan that escaped her lips against his. He thought about going slow. He thought about taking it easy with her and not being so forceful, but the sound she made turned him into something more than he thought he was. Deepening the kiss, Troy licked at her bottom lip begging for permission.

Denied.

He could feel her lips pull at the sides, smirking against his touch. This was a game.

A hand found its way to the base of her neck, his fingers dancing along her spine until she felt his way into her hair. Troy took a handful of lush locks, pulling it into a fist. Her body began to arch as her neck pulled back just enough to gain his awaiting tongue entry. His body began to barrel over her as she was lost in the feelings. She wasn’t one to ever relinquish control… yet, here she was. Allowing a stranger control over her body, and she liked it.

As Troy’s tongue ventured into the walls of her mouth, his free hand found its way up her chest, burning fingerprints into the skin he began to expose. With one final nip to her bottom lip, Troy backed away, his lips at least. His eyes regained control again, watching her once-hardened eyes turn soft and needy. The look she gave him through those dark eyelashes gave him the feeling of warmth… possessive… needed.

Fully collapsing into the soft sheet below, the woman gave up her fight. His touch felt too good to push away.

Watching his head dip below her chin, she felt his lips once again burn into her skin, just below her collarbone. His tongue swirled with small suctions traveling lower and lower. His nimble fingers pulled the blanket she was hiding under exposing both breasts to his full view. Troy glanced up, his fingers pinching the sensitive skin of her nipples.

He wanted to see her face as she let him do everything he wanted.

He wanted to see her vulnerable. He wanted to see her as his.

After a little while, he couldn’t take it any longer. Seeing her skin raised in goosebumps and her nipples formed into full points, Troy replaced his fingers with his lips. He hadn’t thought he had an oral fixation before, but the way his cock begged for his lips to have her, any part of her, was beginning to make the brunette re-think that. Her voice jumped when he sucked in a breath against her, biting harder than he had before. Her fingers weaved through the curly locks on Troy’s scalp, tugging ever so much with each moan that escaped her. Troy hadn’t realized that his hand had already found her most sensitive region until she shook under his grasp.

“Wait-wait-wait-wait!” She exclaimed, her fingers lifting his chin to look back at her. “If you’re going there, then I need something other than ‘fuck-boy’ to scream. So what’ll it be?”

Troy smirked, a devilish smirk, with one arm under his weight to keep him raised above her form. The hand that was at her core swiped the saliva from his lips before ghosting down her body, once more resting where he could see a glint of her slick dripping from. His eyes watched her skin react to his touch the entire time, her scars rough and coarse before his fingertips met more soft skin. He thought about toying with her, prolonging her wait for any form of identity of him, but he wanted to hear his name echo on those walls just as bad as she wanted sweet release.

“I’m Troy.”

As soon as he spoke, Troy delved two fingers into her core. Her hands fisted into his hair as he did so. He watched as her entire body arched from the mattress and her lips enchanted the delight of moaning his name. Enjoying the sight before him, Troy watched as she came to orgasm. His digits glided in and out of her sodden core, stretching the walls of her pussy farther with each spasm she had. As she began to clamp down, his thumb rubbed circles through her clit, only causing even more mess as she finally climaxed with a squirt of fluids soaking the bedding below her sweat-slickened skin.

She was a mess, a hot uncontrollable mess as she came back down from her high. She had completely forgotten she was even in company until she felt one strong arm tighten over her belly and soft curls itch across her cheeks. Troy knew she needed a little time, so kept himself busy making bruises to last her a few days on her neck. Once he felt her heart rate slow against his touch, he pulled back to look upon the magnificent work he had done. One arm, again held him up as the other moved slickened hair from the woman’s face. His eyes peered over her lips as he sucked his bottom lip between his teeth to keep from dazing before meeting her watchful gaze.

“I suppose I should thank you.” She spoke quietly, much softer than normal. Her mouth upturned into a shy smile before turning to look at the ceiling. Troy chuckled tenderly. This woman wasn’t at all who he thought she would be as he peeled back layer after layer.

“There’s no need, I’m here to help, ma’am.”

Troy rolled over to the edge of the mattress, swinging his legs over the side. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome so he figured it was off to the couch for another night. Then, a soft touch wrapped around his wrist.

“Why are you leaving? Did I-”

“I didn’t want to overstay or put you in a position to ask me to leave.”

Troy looked back at the woman from over his shoulder. She sat where he had left her, trying to hide her modesty behind entwined arms and legs. The look she returned was not one that he had assumed he would get. Her coy smile beckoned his feet to not move. Her eyes were like a siren making any thought he had of leaving melt away.

“I’m grateful, I truly am -” her hand that was on his wrist weaved through a belt loop, tugging at the fabric, “- I need more, Troy. And given by how tight those pants have gotten, I think you need more too.”

[after-witch]

All That Is Real is Reasonable  [Yandere Tserriednich x Reader]

Title: All That Is Real is Reasonable  [Yandere Tserriednich x Reader]

Synopsis: You were looking to read a rare artist’s manuscript, and found your luck when the employee of a wealthy collector offers to let you read the real deal in his hotel room. What could go wrong? 

Word Count: 2000ish

Notes: yandere themes, implied fate worse than death for people (not reader); art pretentiousness; link to the painting referenced in the fic

“I’m sorry, but that collection isn’t available to the general public.”

You press your lips together, a desperate attempt at a smile. The man in front of you does not look impressed. “But if I could just--”

“Ma’am,” the man interrupts, holding the side of his glasses to get a better look at you--or to intimidate you, like some sort of predator staring down its prey. You couldn’t decide which. “I’ve already informed you that it’s simply impossible for you to read the manuscript. Our collection is only open to certain academic institutions, and your credentials simply don’t suffice.”

The sting of his not-so-thinly veiled insult is quickly washed over with a heavy, overpowering disappointment. All this way. You came all this way for nothing. 

“Okay.” Your voice cracks, and you clear it. You’re an adult. Adults don’t cry because they were told they aren’t allowed to see a copy of the personal letters, do they?

You turn around as quickly as you can, heading back towards the atrium of the museum. Your cheeks burn hot and you can feel your chest constricting. Don’t cry, you think--not until you get back to your car. 

“Ah… miss?”

You freeze, almost stumbling over your feet due to the sudden stop. You hear footsteps from behind you, and turn slightly to see a man in a crisp black suit walking up to you. It looks like he followed you out of the library section. But why?

“I hope you don’t mind my eavesdropping,” the man continues. You said you were looking to read the museum’s transcript of Jean-François de Troy, yes?”

The man straightens up, as if he’s proud of what he’s going to tell you. “My employer is currently in possession of the real manuscript. He sent me here to arrange an appointment with the museum today to discuss donating the real papers to the collection--for preservation, of course. But perhaps… well, perhaps you would like to come see them first? My employer is an avid lover of the arts, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind assisting a student in their research.”

Your eyes must look wide enough to set a teacup on, because the man lets out a short, easygoing laugh. You stutter out something like assent, and he only shakes his head in a good-humored way that puts you right at ease.

“Follow me.”

--

The hotel you follow the man into is swankier than anything you’ve ever seen in your life. Even the elevators are fancy, complete with an elevator attendant who politely asks the man which floor and holds the door open while you exit to avoid any unwanted auto-closures.

And if the hotel itself looked swanky, the room--or rooms, as this is not simply some dinky hotel room but a series of elegant suites--is practically a palace. Tapestries and paintings, bookshelves, antiques… 

And then there is a man, sitting on a high-backed chair reading a book, who rises when the two of you enter.  He looks at the man with something that seems to slide between them, silent but sure. A question, or confirmation of something. You can’t quite discern any of it, and the man next to you is merely dismissed with a nod of his head. He doesn’t even say goodbye. 

The strangeness of the moment makes your skin prickle but all of that gets washed over by the sheer magnitude of the art surrounding you. And one painting in particular has you aimlessly walking towards it, eyes wide. It’s by the very artist you sought out at the museum. It’s a painting of a woman in an elegant blue gown reading in a window. One you had seen in picture books, but in person? It was bought by a private collector ages ago, and presumed lost… 

“Do you think it’s pretty?”

Your body jerks, and you feel a little dumb for not realizing the man--Tserriednich, the man from the museum had said, but it’s best not to call him that unless he gives you permission--had walked right up to you while you gaped. 

His voice has a touch of a sneer in it. Not enough to be rude, just enough to pick up on, especially given your already frayed nerves. You’re used enough to that--being dismissed in  your field is nothing new. 

“I… well… it’s… ” What do you say to someone with a hotel room stuffed with treasures worth millions--no--billions? When you glance at the man, you see a look, almost too subtle to be noticed, of annoyance. That you’re wasting his time and might as well leave. You can’t blame him. You sound ridiculous, stuttering over yourself. 

“It doesn’t matter if it’s pretty,” you finally say, rushing out the words and feeling like your tongue has unstuck from your roof for the first time today. 

Tserriednich raises his eyebrow. “No?”

Your gaze turns back to the painting, and you continue. “Well, no.” Your hand goes up to the painting, not touching, but gesturing towards the book in the woman’s hands. “See how the light in the painting is directed towards the pages? We’re meant to focus on the act of reading, not the woman herself.” 

He stares at you, and it’s strange to say, but even the way he blinks feels judgemental. As if he wants you to notice the slow timing of each blink, the way his eyes seem to say: You are a silly thing. But you’re over-analyzing his body language, aren’t you? You’re being a stereotype of an art student, really.

He lifts his own hand, gesturing to the woman’s exposed back. “And yet he took the time to position the woman so that her shoulders, neck and upper back were displayed to the viewer, almost in the same highlighting as the book.” 

You shake your head, a smile, a little laugh in  your voice.

“You’re wrong.” 

You’ve never seen someone visibly bristle before, but there’s no other way to describe the way that his back straightens up, or the way that his mouth sets itself in an impatient frown as you continue, jumping into something you’ve already argued about with professors and one not-so-patient teacher’s assistant.

“He highlights the shoulders, yes. But I think de Troy was tempting us--well, by us I mean his contemporaries who would have viewed the painting--for focusing too much on the implied sensuality of a woman being viewed in such an intimate moment.”

You take a quick breath, and you can’t help but get a little excited, voice rising, as you spill out the contents of your latest thesis on his work. 

“Yes, her neck and shoulders are exposed, and yes the light plays on them…” 

Your hands gesture over the left side of the painting. 

“But look at how her dress and these curtains are almost the same color, like she’s being swallowed up by them. She doesn’t matter… It's the act of reading, the pursuit of knowledge, that we should be focusing on. If you focus on her prettiness, well. You’re wrong. Or… no,” you nod your head, affirming your thoughts to yourself. “Not wrong. But you’re missing the point--looking at the painting via the surface only.”

There is a heavy silence that follows. And you know you’ve spoken out of turn, and you wait for him to ask you to leave for being rude and combative. 

Because Tserriednich is looking very seriously at the painting. Studying it. And then he is looking down at you, and something shifts in his expression. It’s so subtle, that if you weren’t always hyper aware of little details, you might have missed it. He looked at the painting with reverence, analysis, with a keen eye--and now he looks at you like a particularly troublesome thing that doesn’t quite fit. Did you talk too much? Too little? Or maybe you just came on too strong. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, eyes downcast. “I get a little carried away sometimes when it comes to art.”

“Art is your passion,” he says, and it’s not exactly a question. He’s looking you up and down in a way that feels too familiar. It makes you feel like the woman in the painting. You wish you didn’t leave your cardigan in your car--your shoulders feel exposed. 

He huffs out a sigh, and whatever heaviness was there seems to lighten a little. 

“The manuscript, then?” He nods in the direction of an open doorway to your left, and you follow him, eyes darting here and there to take in more of the art in the room.  “What do you plan to do with your degree?”

“I want to publish,” you tell him. “I’ve got so many thoughts I want to share with the world.” You look around the library you’ve been led into, and it’s hard not to gape here, too. More art, shelves and shelves of books… and doors. Including a rather  unusual door with a hefty electronic lock on the side. Something even more priceless than the paintings on the walls, perhaps?

While he heads off to a shelf, presumably to grab the manuscript you came all this way to see, you can’t help but take a peek at the book laid out on an ornate desk near the window. 

“The Phenomenology of Spirit?”

He returns from the shelves, and there’s nothing in his hands, but you’re too distracted to really give it much thought. He has something like amusement on his face, and you know it all too well. He thinks you don’t know what you’re looking at and he will condescendingly explain it--in big or short words, time will only tell--to you. 

“It’s by--”

“Hegel,” you interrupt. “I know. I’ve read it.”

This time, when his eyebrows raise, there is no annoyance but something much simpler. Curiosity mingled with a bit of disbelief. 

You find that you like it. Who doesn’t love surprising someone arrogant, after all?

Your fingers trace over the cover--and you can see him bristle, out of the corner of your eye, and it’s only your inherent good nature that wills you to take your hands off his book.

“The spirit is never at rest but always engaged in ever progressive motion, in giving itself a new form.”

“And?” You can’t shake the feeling, when he looks at you, that he’s sizing you up. Maybe it’s a test to see if you’re worthy of reading the manuscript or something ridiculous like that. 

You shrug. “I prefer Rousseau.” You don’t wait for him to respond to continue, reciting one of your favorite Rousseau lines. “Life is not breath, but action, the use of our senses, our mind, our faculties, every part of ourselves which makes us conscious of our being.”

He hums, and perhaps there’s something akin to approval in it, but doesn’t say anything more. And then he turns, gesturing towards the myriad of art pieces around you.

“What do you think of my collection?” 

Honesty is not always the best policy, and you’d hate to be rude. His collection is expensive, sure. But that doesn’t mean it’s something you find particularly worthwhile. 

“It’s… nice.”

“Nice?” He scoffs, and there’s another moment where you think he’s going to tell you to leave. But instead he looks down on you again, disdain mingled with seemingly genuine interest. “Explain.” 

“I... can't say I see the appeal,” you offer. You don’t want him to make you leave, but--you get the feeling lying would be somewhere worse. You glance at the works, and think about the ones you saw in the other room.

“Most of them are so lofty, big, symbolic. Famous events.” You shrug, and try to meet his eyes, but something about him makes you want to look away. He’s too analytical. Like you’re an object or painting yourself, and he’s not sure if he finds you artistic enough to frame or deems you better left in storage. 

“I find works depicting ordinary life to be far more worthwhile. Anyone can paint a scene from mythology, but…” You think back to the woman reading, to your favorite paintings depicting simple scenes. “Life's little moments? I find them more valuable than anything. The promise or disappointments of life, captured on canvas.”

You expect him to look angry when you’re finished, but instead he looks amused. He smiles.

“That’s cute. You don’t see the bigger picture in any of it, do you?”

It’s your turn to bristle now. “Excuse me?”

“It can’t be helped.” He’s too close to you now, and his hand reaches out and catches your chin. You find yourself blushing, terrified, and flattered at once. “It’s not in your nature to see the big picture. It’s simply impossible.. Not without someone superior instructing you, although even then, I’m not sure you'll be able to do more than parrot what I tell you...” 

He turns your head from side to side, like you’re some sort of prize at the market. Finally, he speaks with a sense of decision. Only you don’t know what decision he’s made, and it makes your stomach turn. “Yes. I want to see more from you. I think you’ll be… transcendent.” 

You get the nerve to jerk away just as he lets go of your chin. His words barely register with your heart hammering in your chest. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He ignores you. Instead, he turns, and walks toward that elegant door with the strange combination lock on it. “I have another collection.” There’s a thickness to his voice--a terrible anticipation. “I want your opinion on it.”

Your feet refuse to move. You know, somehow, that whatever is behind that door is not something you want to see. So you’ll decline. Easy as that, right? This really was a silly decision, to come here, to some eccentric art collector’s hotel room. 

“I… think I’ll pass.” You swallow hard and tight. “In fact, I think I’ll get going.”  Your legs seemingly gain the ability to move again, and you take a step backward. “I’ll try my chances at the museum again. I don’t want to waste your time. But thank you--”

He turns--just turns, a little, and stares at you with an expression that pins you to the floor. 

He leans his head back a little, staring at the ceiling and cracking a smile. “It’s inevitable. It’s not like you can help it, right?  You are what you are, even if you aren’t a complete waste.” 

He finally does cross the room, and grips your upper arm with an ease that leaves you gasping. 

“What--” Your legs do find the will to move, but you can’t get anywhere. Struggling doesn’t even budge him, and it’s like you can feel a hole burning in your stomach as uncertainty and realization of a bad situation flood into your senses all at once. You force your voice to stay steady, force your breath to come in slow. “I-I’d like to go, please.” 

He doesn’t let you go. All he does is sigh and shake his head. 

“Lucky you. That degree isn’t entirely useless. You’re much better than the others from this city.” A frown, to himself more than to you. He mumbles something, you can’t be sure what--you only hear the words shoulders and books and Rousseau. “But you need to be corrected on some things before I can be sure what to do with you.” 

You think, as he pulls you toward the room with the combination lock, that you’d have been better off staying at the museum.

[takingstockofwhatmattersmost]

"Tragedies and Triumphs"

they say love is like a Greek tragedy where passion and pain dance like lovers who meet in the shadow of fate an Oedipus kiss...blind to the truth but never to the sting it’s the tragedy of Icarus, flying too close his wings of wax his heart of hope burnt by the very thing that gave him flight falling, falling, falling down to the abyss of might-have-beens

but here’s the contrast...the paradox of it all love, undeniable as the sun’s rise yet denied like the dawn delayed by night it’s the triumph of heroes who return from war but find their home is not the same ...anymore

Helen, they say, was the face that launched a thousand ships but was it love or just a trick of desire? a Trojan War fought over a glance a whispered promise that crumbled like Troy’s walls...in the end it’s the tragedy of unspoken words of the “i love you's” lost in the noise of life where the chorus sings of what could have been and the audience watches tears unshed for an act they know too well

yet love is a triumph too like Odysseus...battered and worn returning home to the arms of Penelope a victory not in war but in the enduring heart but even then the journey scars and the victory tastes of bittersweet

and so...we stand on the stage of our own epic tales where love is the voice singing both the highs and the lows where something so undeniable is also denied like a hero’s destiny...written in the stars yet questioned at every step taken it’s the story of Orpheus who dared to look back to see if the love he believed in was real only to lose it in that fleeting glance a tragedy not of love

...but of doubt

then there’s the triumph the Achilles heel where even in our weaknesses...we find strength where love, despite the scars, stands tall like a pillar of ancient marble weathered but unbroken it’s the story of all of us tangled in our own myths where love is both tragedy and triumph undeniable yet denied fought for, lost, and found again in the echoes of ancient halls and in the quiet moments when we dare to love despite it all

so...here’s to the tragedies and triumphs to the stories we write in the hearts of others to love that is undeniable yet denied and to the hope that in the end ...we’ll find our way home

[katerinaaqu]

The Will to Die The Need to Survive

WARNING: THEMES OF SA AND SUICIDE

He had forgotten how it felt being happy. It was as if gladness and happiness were drained from his world; covered with a thick, black curtain of suffering. That was what Odysseus was thinking as he was slowly stirring awake. He had somehow fallen half-asleep, leaning against the rock at the beach. It was his small hideout, where he would sit and cry, looking towards the waves of the sea. He was once more exhausted by the tears that never seemed to drain from his eyes. He looked over to the horizon to see the dusk had arrived. He sighed as he moved his pained neck feeling it cracking. His eyes watered anew as he came back to contact with reality.

“I am awake…again…” he thought, “I thought…this time I wouldn’t…”

It was what he hoped now. His previous will seemed totally lost under the burn marks to the edge of his eyelids caused from his very own tears. His onyx eyes that used to burn with the fire of survival; like a wild beast in a cage that would growl and move about its prison, constantly trying to find an opening; a change to its situation, now those eyes of his were dead like scratched and faded glass, which aimlessly decorated an old, abandoned piece of jewelry buried under the ground to needlessly decorate the neck of a casted body. His cheeks had sunken to their bones; his eyes in their sockets. He looked more dead than alive now…

“Six years…” he thought, feeling his throat burn and his shoulders shake, “Six…long years…”

He was closing six, almost seven years in the seclusion of that island… He buried his face to his embrace and sobbed anew.

“Why gods! Why…! Why…! Just…release me already! I paid all years of Troy with years of my life! No more…please…!”

The wrinkles around his eyes could only get deeper by the day; his hair whiter by the week. His youth was long gone…his fortitude run out. Now Odysseus of Ithaca was a walking dead among the living. He had contemplating death…many times. His age over 50 now…

“Gods! Men of my age die…! Why! Why! Just let me die…let me be done with this! I don’t care anymore how…just finish it already!”

As usual his silent prayer fell in silent ears. Never before his arduous trip had he felt more abandoned, more alone, than what he was feeling now… He was like a rock that was constantly whipped by the ocean; every passing day losing a piece and yet the rock was still there; beaten, destroyed, being eaten away…but still there. He watched the last traces of the sun setting beyond the horizon. He sighed and slowly struggled back to his feet, feeling pain all over his body. The move was mechanical at this point. He no longer thought about it. He no longer wondered what he would find or what would find him; he no longer thought of shame or sadness. These were just part of him now; a permanent burn scar that would sting him constantly, so much so that it seemed like the only reality. He half-staggered back to the grotto which now was lit up from the lamps inside. The familiar scent of food made his stomach growl and his mind feel once again the needs of his human nature that were forcing his legs every day to go back to the cage. Like a trained sheep, trained to follow the shepherd’s whistle back to the barn where it would be slaughtered. He slowly climbed the stone stairs of the grotto, getting into the familiar environment. He faced the tall woman with the dark skin and the beautiful hair who always smelt of the best ethereal oils and perfumes, decorated with gold and pearls, was embroidering intricate patterns upon a regal shirt while her handmaids, her immortal nymphs, were preparing the wine and dinner. She looked up feeling his steps to the entrance and her face lit up with a smile. She left her work at the side and got up to greet him.

“Welcome back, my love!” she greeted him

Her dreadful yet soft hands touched his cheeks and then her lips followed upon one of them; burning him almost completely. His arms were hanging limb. He no longer tried to resist her affectionate greeting; the greeting of a wife to her husband who was coming back from the field.

“It has become rather chilly!” Calypso whispered again, taking his hands and gently pulling him towards the heath, “Come, my love, come near the fire to get warm… By gods, your hands are frozen…”

They sat to the bench together. She took his wounded hands (wounded by time, wind and aimless mourning) in hers and raised them to her lips, blowing softly warm air on them. His look was dead; defeated. She raised the shirt she was making before, lifting it close to him; measuring him.

“It is coming out quite nicely” she said, “You need new, warmer clothes, my love. Winter is upon us”

Odysseus didn’t even take his eyes off the fire.

“Yes…” he only whispered mechanically

Calypso snapped her fingers and a maid came to take the half-finished cloth from her hands. Her dreadful arms wrapped around him, soothing him and then her lips landed upon his head. Her hands caressed his hair lovingly; soothing the curls that cascaded down his shoulders.

“We must do something about your hair, my love, they are rather tangled today. Too much salt from the sea…”

“Yes…” Odysseus whispered again

“Maybe get your beard a nice trim. What do you think?”

“Yes…”

Calypso stopped her loving touches for one second and sighed. His mood was getting harder and harder to comprehend, she realized. The past weeks he would come back more and more exhausted. Despite the fact she tried to relieve him off many things, he seemed to be withering away. He didn’t seem sick or ill. Just sad.

“My maids told me that you refused to eat again today when they brought you food at the beach…” she said again trying to make him talk and start a conversation, “Why, my darling? If you refuse to eat all day except for now, you will get sick. I do not want my dear husband to fall ill…”

Odysseus sighed. He squinted his eyes fighting his tears back.

“So today I ordered for your favorite to be made. It will be ready soon so you can eat it warm”

“Yes…”

Calypso sighed again. It was one of those days that he wasn’t in a talkative mood. His nostalgia for his home didn’t seem to wither away despite the fact that her island could offer the same and much more to him.

“Honestly, Odysseus, please don’t be like that!” she exclaimed, “Please… Stop withering away like that… I understand that you miss your home, who wouldn’t, but at this point you know that it will only hurt you more.”

Just let me go….Odysseus was thinking. I don’t even care if I survive the trip anymore! Just let me go! Let me go! Let me go… However his mouth said nothing. His eyes burnt with tears again and this time they almost fell again. It was as if the years he spent had even broken his previous stone state during the night. He was way beyond that now…

“My love really you need to understand that after all those years no one would even remember you! All probably think you were dead long time ago… Your son never knew you and your wife probably has already forgotten about you! The lifetime of a mortal is so small. You were a lifetime away my love no matter what you would say and-…”

Odysseus stopped her the only way he could think of at that moment without offending her or angering further; with his lips upon hers. As fast as he could he cupped her cheeks and landed his lips upon hers. He kissed her like he hadn’t kissed her before; as deeply as he could, putting in action everything she forcefully taught him night after night of torture.

“Anything…! I’ll do anything as long as you shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Stop badmouthing my home…my wife and son… Please no more…! Stop it! Or rather, be silent altogether! I don’t want to hear your voice anymore! No! Not anymore…!”

And he was right; Calypso was too surprised to go any further with her accusations. She immediately kissed him back, massaging his lips with hers. Her hand buried itself to his hair and the other held against his that was still on her cheek. He pulled back and his eyes locked with her honey ones for the first time that night.

“Please…” he whispered firmly, “Stop talking…”

Calypso looked at him curiously but then smiled softly; sadly one could say. She slowly curled up on his knees, like a girl in love. She often did that.

“You’re right…” she whispered, “Let’s not talk about it anymore…”

Her hand slid in his shirt and felt his bushy chest. Odysseus hardly flinched.

“Yes….” She repeated, “Let’s stop talking…”

“Do what you want to do…” Odysseus whispered defeated

Yes, he thought, do what you want… He slowly opened his shirt further, here, I’ll help you as well…just stop talking! Stop talking! Stop talking! Calypso smiled and lifted his shirt over his head, throwing it somewhere in the room. Her hands trailed his body and her lips claimed his. He kissed her back mechanically; like he was trained to do. He didn’t even care if her nymphs would watch or not. He no longer felt anything that a human was supposed to feel; shame and dignity. His fist grasped upon her dress at the back, seeking some sort of support as she felt her hands trailing him.

“Yes…this torture is better… This is better…than hearing you talking…than hearing you drilling these into my brain… This madness is better than that! This closure… This ‘comfort’ that you offer… Anything is better than what you say!”

He only sighed feeling her hands trailing his body and the now familiar sensations that were rushing in him. He no longer was surprised. In fact this seemed almost like a routine now, like he had forgotten how it felt without it. Calypso trailed his neck with loving kisses and then softly and affectionately gave his earlobe a small bite.

“Let’s go, my love…” she whispered to his ear, “Let’s go to our bed…”

Odysseus wrapped his arms around her; one around her shoulders and one behind her knees; like he was trained to do.

“Yes…” he whispered again

He slowly carried her away.

*

He raised himself from the bed when the moon was already at the middle of the sky. One or two fresh bruises were already forming to his forearms and one scratch mark was decorating his shoulder blade. Calypso was particularly passionate that night. She probably hadn’t realized yet that she had lost control of her strength again. She would probably notice the day after and apologize anew… His body felt heavy as if made of lead but his heard couldn’t even compare! He sobbed silently.

“Gods…what have I done…! What am I even doing…!” he thought

He had initiated it. Usually he would just walk in, allowing her to do whatever she wanted and he would just respond weakly. This time he had started it…so that he would make her stop! So that she wouldn’t speak again on how his wife was probably remarried and probably with a new child…his worst fear that seemed all the more a reality; that his son never knew him and he would be a grown man now at almost 20 years… He had chosen selling himself so that his ears wouldn’t hear anymore! He realized that her abuse didn’t even bother him anymore; it was a natural thing at that point. Almost seven years could do that to a tormented soul. He realized he would prefer her forceful seduction; her lovemaking and intercourse over the gloom thoughts that kept swirling in his head; over the worm of Nostos that had pretty much eaten him hollow till that point! He realized that he almost hoped for the night to come…so that the thoughts he was torturing himself with every day would stop as he would sink to the reactions of his flesh and black out. The dreadful price of pain and loneliness it was too high to pay! He was being used every day and he realized he preferred being used over his brain being violated by doubts she wanted to plant and sadness that wouldn’t leave him in peace!

“Gods…just let me go already! Can’t I die having some dignity of a human being? Must I lose every bit of my sanity…? Must I really lose every bit of dignity I have? Must I really get lost…? Why can’t I just die already?”

He slowly staggered away from the bed and climbed up to the top. He felt the cold night air on his naked skin as he got out to that dreadful pavilion; it was where everything had started! It was here when Calypso got him drunk and forced his heart to the surface! It was here where she forced his secret pain out of him and ever since used it to torment and eat him away! He slowly walked to the edge and looked down. The tide was high and the dark sea; looking black under the night sky, was hitting against the grotto several dozens of meters below; forming wild foam. The sound of the sea that called him away from home seemed to be calling him now. He stood there and looked down longer than what he should. How easy it would be! Gravity would claim him; the fall would be quick and death quicker!

“Make it so he never sees his homeland again!”

Polyphemus’s strong voice was echoing in his brain. Almost seven years he spent in that prison and nothing had changed. There seemed no salvation for him. The worst had happened. In his sadness he had hoped, in a monstrous inhumane way, that now that his companions had perished that he would at least go back home, after pains and sorrows…to face whatever pain and sorrow he had to face (and at this point he feared the pain he would find would be his wife with someone else, his son never knowing him…be it out of need or out of coercion it didn’t matter). However the first three years he hoped…the other three he began to fear… Now he seemed certain. His companions died for nothing. The first part of the curse was fulfilled. He would never see his home again. He would wither away in sorrow and torture on the island or lose his mind completely. For a second he remembered Ajax…his madness and his total insanity. Now he saw the same future for himself and he shivered in dread.

“One step…that’s what I need…one more step and it will be over…”

And yet the fall terrified him. His body was resisting what his soul was crying for. His soul and broken heart craved for death yet his body needed survival! His heart was flattering in fear, imagining himself falling. Courage! He was telling to himself, women of Troy killed themselves to regain their dignity! You can do it! Don’t be a coward! And yet he couldn’t. Survivor till the end it seemed…contemplating yet never fulfilling…

“Odysseus!” a voice distracted him, “What are you doing?”

He didn’t expect it. He jumped out of his skin and then he slipped close to the edge. His heart leaped out of his mouth in surprise and shock. His arms moved frantically to stop himself! So that gravity wouldn’t claim him! And then he grabbed the first thing he could to save himself; it was steady, strong and warm…

Her arm.

Calypso pulled him strongly back to safety with her usual inhuman strength and Odysseus found himself grabbing onto her like he grabbed upon the keel and the mast when he was drowning; breath hissing to his throat and heart literally hammering against his ribs!

“You were gonna fall, silly!” Calypso also rasped out

Her arms embraced him and her silken robes she had hastily thrown about her body were flowing around them; hand caressing the back of his head like a mother that just saved her child from falling off the cliff. Odysseus held onto her almost as if he were that child. He looked behind. He had nearly fallen off! And his body had doubled over in fear! His knees were still shaking; cold sweat adorned his forehead. Cursed instinct! Cursed need to live! How pitiful living beings were! He hadn’t been so close to death for years before and this was such a sudden experience! How strange! He had faced so many cases where he faced death and yet now he was totally breaking down! He cried. He couldn’t form that stone mask around him anymore; it was long broken. He buried his face in her stomach and cried, kneeling on the ground; his skin hammered by the night wind.

“Gods! Why! Why! Why! Let me go already!”

“Let me go…” he mumbled in his tears, “Please let me go…let me go…let me go…”

He didn’t know what he was saying. Was he asking to be released from her embrace, even if he was the one holding her now? Was he begging her to let him go about his way? Was he begging her to let him die? He no longer knew. His soul and heart were screaming; why did you save me! Why didn’t you let me fall! And yet his body was saying; thank all gods she caught me! Thank gods I didn’t fall… The emotions were too much for him to bear…

“P-Please…” he heard himself whispering through his sobs; voice muffled by the cloth around her body, “…p-please k-…ki…ki…”

She didn’t let him finish. Her lips landed upon his forehead, kissing him tenderly; soothingly even.

“I will always try to kiss your pain away, my darling…” she whispered

“No…” Odysseus whispered, “That’s not what I…”

He couldn’t even speak. Calypso slowly let him lay on the ground and catch his breath. She leaned over him like a predator; like a cat watching her favorite pet mouse struggle. She covered him with her tall body as if she aimed to warm him up with her clothes and flesh. Despite the fact that indeed Odysseus had stopped shivering from the night autumn wind, he felt even colder than before in his soul. Calypso kissed his head, his forehead and his lips; small pecks that burnt him like ice. He was saved by her again! It was as if every move she made was bounding him even more!

“Silly, thoughtless man!” she scolded him so softly, “I understand the night is beautiful but you must not wander about in the dark! You could have fallen! I can’t let that happen, my love!”

Her hand caressed his cheek; her thumb touched his lips.

“I can’t lose you like this! You are everything to me, my love! Don’t do this to me again! Please…don’t be so reckless…”

 As her lips sealed his again; as if she was trying to calm him down with her forced affection. He thought on saying something; push her off him screaming...maybe released all accumulated anger inside him all the years he bottled up. Perhaps he would enrage her enough to make her push him off the edge herself…maybe… But his body again cried for survival. He remained silent. He was helped to sit up once more as she opened her robe to embrace him with it, rubbing his arm to transfer some warmth in his body.

“Let’s go back inside, darling” Calypso cooed at him, “You’re freezing”

Taking raspy breaths to finally calm his heart, Odysseus did what he was told; like a trained hound that at command of his master would let go of the bird it caught despite the delicious blood filling its taste buds, Odysseus followed Calypso inside the grotto.

*

The next day it was a downpour. The skies were gray and rain was falling like a curtain. Flashes of thunder often would appear within the clouds. Odysseus was running. He ran to the beach already soaked to the bone. He stood there under the pouring rain. Here his tears didn’t matter anymore…just like that fateful day almost a decade prior when he had lost all his companions…

“GODS!” he yelled to the heavens, “PLEASE! JUST TAKE MY LIFE ALREADY!”

His voice was being once more carried away by the winds.

“ATHENA! HERMES! ZEUS! Someone! SOMEONE! Please!”

He collapsed on his knees sobbing.

“Someone…I beg of you end me already! Take my life! Please…!”

He held his head with both hands; forehead almost touching the sand.

“Poseidon…” he sobbed, “Enough already…please…! Please spare me…! Take my life…!”

He chocked in his own words.

“…for I couldn’t do it myself…! Please…!”

Water was streaming down his face…hair plastered against his forehead… It was just like that day indeed… The cold rain was whipping his face like a million needles and the waves of the sea were rumbling. He remembered the last cries of his companions before being swept away by the sea. I have to survive for them, he had thought then, to honor their memory…

“I can’t…” he mumbled, “I can’t anymore…how…how can a person take so much?”

He looked over at the horizon. He remembered how many times he had been tempted to end his life… When the sack of Aeolus was one. He had stopped himself then. It was as if his instincts to survive had stopped him. Circe’s misadventure had also led him there but again the voice inside him had stopped him. Then he lost his companions and the wine-dark sea was calling him. He had resisted then too. And now this…

“Woe is me…” he mumbled in realization, “My soul that wishes release is trapped in a body that needs to survive!”

~~~

Around a year ago I created a fanfiction for my friend @artsofmetamoor involving our OC Diego who stands at the edge of a bridge, hoping to give an end to his life not being able to take the torment of waiting (recently posted a little something here too). I remember how ECSTATIC I was to explore the broken spirit of a war veteran there so kinda I will make an anniversary here with this post! ^_^ First of September today as well! With the recent love for that part of the song of Epic (and FINALLY one part I could relate out of all saga) so I thought it was about time I showed a small Odyssey WIP of mine that was working in my brain for some time now and finally connected the dots the way I wanted! Hopefully it will be enjoyed by both fans

Alight guys more heartache here! Sorry since I am also kinda down here so I can only produce this type of tales now!

In Rhapsody 1 of Odyssey and later is implied that Odysseus was wishing for death while crying on the beach but it was never implied that he made an attempt against his life. Likewise when Odysseus tells his tale, he often speaks on his thoughts of ending his life but he never really seems to finally make a leap towards it. So in my mind he contemplates it but I think his will to survive would be much stronger than that so he wouldn't be actually able to make a serious attempt against his life.

Also Calypso's denial that they are perfectly happy in Rhapsody 5 of Odyssey makes me think that Odysseus wouldn't have made a suicide attempt so blantant so that she wouldn't know so yeah here is what I came up with!

And so from this delicious dilemma this idea came out. What if Odysseus desired nothing more than end his torment but all his being was screaming against it? What if his contemplation was perceived as an accident by Calypso who is also in denial already? So yeah this scene came to my mind!

So technically this is the continuation of the afternote at Part 3 of my story "Survivor's Guilt and Survivor's Duty".

The Pavilion is also mentioned to Part 2 of that story while the storm is memorized in Part 1 as well as Odysseus thinking of letting go.

Odysseus often repeats things many times here. In many classical pieces even operas they use a lot the psychological trate that someone who has regrets or is in psychological stress often repeats things many times. Also the number 3 is used a lot in Homer in general and for Odysseus in particular. For instance Odysseus calls for help 3 times in the Iliad and tries 3 times to embrace his dead mother's spirit etc

I was heavily inspired by songs like Evanessence "Tourniquet" and Spirit the Stallion Soundtrack "Sound the Bugle"

So yeah this is my little interpretation based on the texts of the Odyssey! ^_^

Also keep your eyes open for more projects with my dear friend @artsofmetamoor !!

[edgarapoecolouredglasses]

Little mastermind part four

Pairing: Troy Otto/Reader

Summary: Tracy asks y/n quite an awkward question about her relationship with Troy, it ultimately gets them in quite a bit of trouble

Part: 4/?

Mature themes: Alcohol abuse, child neglect and abuse, gore

Masterlist

————————————-

In the days following Tracy’s asthma attack, she continued to seek me out as usual. With Olive, the new teacher, taking on most of the children’s education, I found myself with more time to spend with Tracy.

Today, we were taking a walk outside the compound, wandering through the nearby woods and fields. I always kept my bow with me, and as expected, a walker stumbled out from behind the trees, its guttural groans alerting us to its presence. Without hesitation, I nocked an arrow and let it fly, the walker dropping to the ground with a satisfying thud.

I grabbed Tracy’s hand and pulled her closer. “Come on,” I muttered, keeping my eyes alert for more. Once I was sure we were in the clear, I relaxed a bit, bending down to show Tracy some plants along the way.

“See this one?” I pointed to a small plant with delicate white flowers. “That’s chamomile. It helps with anxiety or if you’re feeling stressed.” We walked for a few minutes more, coming across a house with a small overgrown greenhouse “And this is yaupon, for energy. Helps keep you awake if you’re tired.”

Tracy was paying close attention, nodding along as I spoke. I broke off a piece of sugarcane and handed it to her. “You can chew on this. It’s sweet, and it keeps your mind off hunger.”

She popped the sugarcane into her mouth, chewing on it thoughtfully. But then, out of nowhere, she hit me with a question that almost made me choke on my own piece.

“Do you think my Dad is in love with you?”

I coughed so hard I nearly lost my balance. Tracy, without missing a beat, started slapping her hand between my shoulder blades, exactly the way I’d taught her to in situations like this.

I spat out the piece of sugarcane, wide-eyed, and turned to face her with a frown. “What—what did you just say?”

Before I could fully process her question, a low growling sound came from deeper in the woods. My coughing must have drawn more walkers.

I didn’t have time to think, much less answer her and I also really didn’t want to. Grabbing her hand tightly, I whispered, “Run!” and we took off, sprinting through the trees and over hedges, the ominous groaning growing louder behind us.

We made a beeline for the compound, dodging low-hanging branches and roots as I kept my ears tuned to the sounds of the walkers behind us. “Faster, Tracy!” I urged, my heart pounding. I picked her up and started running with her in my arms.

As we stumbled through the gates of the compound and the adrenaline faded, I felt a sharp sting on my arm. Looking down, I saw a deep cut, blood streaming from it, a jagged tear with a piece of barbed wire sticking out of it. My vision swayed, and I felt a wave of dizziness wash over me.

“Tracy, stay back.” I managed to call out as I fumbled to grab a cloth from my pack. I pressed it against the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it was flowing too heavily.

I could feel my strength waning, my legs growing weak. My hands trembled as I tried to keep pressure on the cloth, but it was no use. The edges of my vision began to blur, and I could hear the distant shouts of the guards, their worried voices growing louder.

“Call Debra!” I croaked out, my voice barely more than a whisper. I could see a couple of guards running towards me, their faces etched with concern.

The last thing I remember before everything went dark was the sensation of collapsing into one of the guards’ arms.

At least I brought her to safety, I thought with a fading sense of relief. If I couldn’t manage anything else, at least she was out of harm’s way. As my consciousness slipped away, I clung to that small comfort, hoping Debra would arrive in time.

-change of point of view-

Troy returned from his run, a small book on herbology tucked under his arm. He had picked it up for Y/n, knowing how much she enjoyed researching plants and their uses in what little free time she had. He was eager to surprise her with the gift.

As he approached the compound, he noticed Russell hurrying toward him, his face pale and lined with worry. Troy’s heart skipped a beat; Russell’s urgent demeanor was never a good sign.

“Troy,” Peter called out breathlessly, catching up with him. “There’s been an incident.”

Troy’s stomach dropped. “What happened?”

Peter took a deep breath, his expression grave. “It’s y/n and Tracy. They were out in the woods, and there was horde. They managed to get back, but… y/n got injured. It’s pretty bad.”

Troy felt a cold wave of fear and anger surge through him. “Injured how?”

Peter glanced around, clearly distressed. “She cut her arm badly on some barbed wire. She was losing a lot of blood. She told the guards to call Debra before she—” He swallowed hard. “—before she collapsed.”

Troy’s grip tightened around the book, his knuckles white. “And Tracy?”

Peter nodded quickly. “Tracy is safe. She made it back with the guards, but she was understandably shaken.”

Troy’s heart ached at the thought of both girls he held dear to his heart being in danger. He turned and walked towards the med bay, his mind racing with fear and frustration. He tried to look so calm and collected as possible.

As he entered the med bay, he saw Debra already tending to y/n, who was lying on one of the makeshift beds, her face pale and unconscious. The sight of her in such a state was almost too much to bear.

“Debra!” Troy’s voice cracked with urgency. “How is she?”

Debra looked up, her face grim. “She’s lost a lot of blood. I’m doing what I can, but we need to stabilize her and get her cleaned up properly.”

As Troy was about to join Debra to offer whatever help he could, he was abruptly halted by the sound of Tracy’s muffled sobs. He turned and saw her sitting alone in a corner, a blanket wrapped around her and her small shoulders shaking with each sob. Concerned, he crouched down beside her.

“Tracy, what’s wrong?” he asked gently, his voice laced with worry.

Through her tears, Tracy choked out, “It’s my fault. The walkers—they came because of me.”

Troy’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean it’s your fault?”

Tracy hesitated, her eyes darting between him and the commotion in the med bay. “It was because of what I said. I said something that made y/n choke on her food and cough, and the walkers heard us. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, but it’s my fault.”

Troy was taken aback. “Tracy, listen to me. It’s not your fault. Sometimes things happen that we can’t control, and we can’t predict every outcome.” He pulled her into a comforting hug. “We’ll talk about it more when y/n is stable. For now, you need to know that no one is blaming you.”

Tracy clung to him, still crying but seeming somewhat reassured by his words. Troy held her close, whispering soothing words until her sobs quieted.

He then stood up and took off his jacket, rolling up his sleeves. He grabbed a bottle of alcohol from a nearby shelf and poured it liberally over his hands, scrubbing them vigorously to sanitize them. He hated the smell. He hated it so much, it reminded him of his mother. How she’d drink and then beat him, or lock him in a closet.

Y/n made the alcohol from grains she found laying around, using it every time she tended to someone’s wounds. Sometimes her clothes would smell of it and he was briefly taken back to being a boy of all but 14 years old, cleaning his mother’s vomit from the floor as she cursed at him.

He shook off the feeling before approaching Debra.

He could see Debra working diligently over y/n, her focused expression a mix of concentration and concern. Troy stepped in to help where he could, his mind still partially occupied with Tracy’s distress and the overwhelming fear for y/n’s recovery.

——————————

Masterlist

@aldenenjoyer

[themuseinthewoods]

Troy 2004 quotes again because nobody has confiscated the genarator......hehehe

everyone still gets a long because I find it funny. features y/n. and brief interruptions from me aka, Muse. because if I could join these characters I would

(anyone else want me to insert them into a fandom, just give me your nickname and three words to describe yourself and if there is a character you wanna be shipped with and a fandom from my list, if you want me there and i'll have fun)

part four ig?

Achilles: So anyways have y'all seen Y/n? Patroclus: I think they went in Paris's room 'studying'. Odysseus: Doubt that. I heard groans there. Meanwhile in Paris's room Y/n & Paris, fighting:

Odysseus: I’ve become a bread crumb dealer to four crows at the lake. They pay me with a bit of everything. Like shiny things, fabric, or pens. But recently they paid me with a 20 dollar bill they found somewhere. So I decided to buy them some more expensive bread. They loved it. So they understand what to do. Give me money. I’ve probably racked up about 200 dollars at this point. Is it morally wrong though, I mean. They’re the ones who steal the money from others. Or perhaps they just have a big pile laying somewhere. Should I keep on doing this? Hector: You sound like the start of a Batman villain.

Patroclus: Are you busy? Odysseus: Yes. Patroclus: Cool, listen to this.

Hector, to Odysseus: If you see Y/n, give them this message makes a neutral face Hector: They'll know what it means. later Odysseus: oh, and Hector said to give you a message. Odysseus: makes a neutral face Y/n: Oh no. The neutral face of displeasure.

Hector: Achilles, I sense hostility. Achilles: Good, because I hate you.

(why the fuck is the above so accurate)

Y/n: You look good in that hoodie. Hector: You know where else I'd look good? Y/n, zero hesitation: My bed. Hector, at the same time: By your side- wait, what?

talking about Achilles Y/n: They are beauty. Paris: They are grace. Muse, runnning into the room: THEY CAN DESTROY THE HUMAN RACE!

Paris: I wish I could control wasps and bees to sting my enemies. Hector: You’re too young to have enemies. Paris: You don’t even know.

Patroclus: What’s something you guys are better than Muse at? Y/n: Mario Kart. Odysseus: Yeah, video games. Achilles: Emotional vulnerability.

ty for reading!

[magknightidv]

Borderlands #1 - Losing You

Scenario: The Calypso Twins (Separate) open a vault but don't realise the danger they put you in.

Characters: Tyreen Calypso, Troy Calypso

Warnings: angst, mentions of gore, mentions of blood, mentions of death, guilt

Masterlist

My Ko-fi

----------------------

TYREEN CALYPSO

They finally opened a vault without the vault thiefs getting in their way.

Troy had been stood beside her to her right and you to her left. You looked to her as if she had placed the stars in the sky, so much pride and hope. All for her.

And she had mimicked these looks back at you.

Until it wasn't there, and instead replaced with fear, hurt, disappointment. Until the light drained from your eyes. Until you were gone.

The Vault monster's claws sheathed within your ribcage while your intestines pour out from the lower slices through you.

She leeches the Vault monster without a single word spoken. Her anger is silent and quickly subsides when she sees your corpse hit to floor finally

Troy wasn't close to you but he respectfully bows his head, the cov followers do the same. Tyreen grits her teeth and stands up away from you.

"Let's go. We have what we need."

And then she leaves. Without you. Without what she actually needed.

TROY CALYPSO

You came with him to the Jakobs Estate, Aurelia tried to put the moves on him but you weren't letting that slide. Unless you could join.

He ran off after the last Jakobs and you ran to make sure the Vault Thiefs didn't get you.

But they did.

A little before getting to Aurelia.

Troy found you in the gardens, bullet wounds all over. Blood seeping past your lips. Skin pale. Eyes faded. Jaw bruised.

He yells out in anguish and rushes to you. He drops to his knees.

Nobody is around to help you, no cult members, no Tyreen, nobody.

He gathers you up into his arms and sobs into your chest. Tears flowing freely and eventually into your wounds, but you do not feel the stinging that you would normally feel from salty tears entering a wound.

You're already gone.

You were what grounded him. Kept him from snapping at Tyreen. Kept him from hurting important members of the cult. You protected him when he needed it. You gave him praise for simply being himself.

He loved--no. He loves you. He'll continue loving you until the day he dies. In fact, he can't wait.

He wants your smile, your laughter, your warmth. But all he receives is a cadaver as cold as Windshear Waste.

"I'm sorry, Y/n. I love you I love you I love you..." His babbling is all that can be heard for the rest of the night in the Jakobs Garden.