#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

[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.

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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

[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.”

[annarobszombies]

Something I wrote for university about Penelope waiting for Odysseus

@vega-theythem @defenestratehumanity

“Word came today, of Troy.” 

Penelope halts in her movements, head turning just enough to show she was fully listening to the girl at her side. 

“The city has been sacked, and the men are returning. Our King is on his way home.”

The queen lets out a long breath, chest a contradicting mix of tight and loose at the same time. Odysseus would be home within days, surely, and then he would be at her side again. Telemachus would finally have his father to show him how to live and breathe like the man the boy so desperately already wants to be. And yet, this news of his return left an ominous taste to the air, drying her tongue. 

“We must begin preparations for my husband,” She says in a low voice. “We shall be ready for when he lands on our shores.” 

The palace is a rush of movement. Grapes are plucked and made into wine, fresh bread baked, and meat readied for feasting. A great storm blows over the ocean, one that leaves the air tasting salty and metallic. Godlike, and spiteful. Days passed, becoming weeks, then months, then a year, and beyond. People whispered, palace slaves shared silent glances, and Telemachus waited daily by the doors for his absent father while other boys and men started to drift into the halls, the people of Ithaca murmuring about the sure death of their king.

“He will come today,” Telemachus speaks aloud, a mere thirteen years old. 

Penelope doesn’t respond to his pitiful hopefulness. While she, too, hopes for his return, fear stirs in her heart. That storm, the day Odysseus was sure to return, left an irremovable bad taste in her throat. The Gods had been angry that day. Posideon had been angry that day. For what reason, she surely could not know, but it was more than likely the old God had taken Odysseus, her husband, king, and dearest friend, and spirited him away, perhaps even to the Underworld. 

But Telemachus was too young, still, to understand, though one day he will. 

“You should attend your lessons, boy,” She tells him. He huffs and pouts, stomping his feet as he leaves her to her work.

The thread of the shroud rubs her fingertips nearly raw, as she rakes her hands through, destroying most of the work she had done on it just the day before. She had to leave some progress, so that no one got too suspicious, but this would not fool the men and boys taking up more and more space in her home much longer. It was a miracle it had worked for this long as it was, but soon enough, someone would catch on that she had no intention of finishing this project, not any time soon. 

She just had to hold on until Telemachus was old enough, then she would have him marry, and take his father’s place on the throne, where he belonged. She would not rob him of his birthright before he even had the chance to make a grab for it. She would protect him, no matter the cost, until he was ready. That was her duty, not just as queen, but his mother. 

Tears burn her eyes, but not from the stinging pain in her sore hands. Her heart aches. She hates to think these things, to have to make such underhanded plots. Odysseus was the tricky one, he was the one who could both talk his way into, and out of, all kinds of trouble. All with a wicked grin, no doubt inherited from his godly great grandfather. 

Penelope was clever, sure, but she wasn’t fit for tricks and lies, and there were plenty that knew that. 

“I can help with that, wife of my blood.”

The voice startles her, her hands pulling away from the shroud so quickly she hits herself hard in the chest. She stands and turns, searching for the man who had just spoken, who had entered her private rooms unbidden.

He flits about her space curiously, feet lifted from the ground as if he’d never once even touched grass or stone with his heels. He looks over her bed, built by Odysseus to be a part of the olive tree that grew beautifully there. She watches him dance through the air, taking in every bit of her personal space as he could before deigning to give her his proper attention. 

He drops himself onto her bed, pulling his petasos from his head and letting it hang on one of the low branches of the tree before raking a hand lazily through his curled dark hair. And for a moment, a real, firm moment, Penelope was sure she was looking at her husband, and it’s now that she sees just where he inherited his beauty. 

The God Hermes smiles at her, waiting patiently for her to be able to breathe. 

She gasps, lungs burning, falling to her knees in awe of him. He snickers at her, grinning Odysseus’ grin and watching her with swirling golden eyes, flecks of red and green making his irises sparkle even more. Looking at him is almost painful, his resemblance to her husband making her feel ill, and she wonders if he’s doing it on purpose, if his image is a mere projection in order to move her heart, and listen to what he has to say.

“I can help,” He repeats, his voice strange, accented with every voice, every language, his words feeling oddly out of Time, as if he’d pulled his vocabulary from the men who had come before, and would come after. “If you want.” 

“H-help?” She asks, silently cursing how her voice trembles in the wake of this seemingly benevolent God. 

“Mm. Ody’s mine, through and through, so it’s right that I keep you all taken care of, yeah? You ‘n the little guy.” 

The tears that had been threatening her lashes finally start to fall, soaking her cheeks in a matter of seconds. The Gods had not given up on them, they weren’t being abandoned just yet. 

“Please,” She sobs. “Please tell me what to do.”

Hermes grins, eyes sharp and mischievous.

“You’ll have to be strong,” He says, standing tall, dark hair glittering with the same gold as his wild eyes. “Stronger than you ever have been before.”

-

“Mother!” Telemachus’ voice rattles her, though she doesn’t dare to show it. The boy looks and sounds more and more like his father every day, so much so that sometimes she can’t bear to even look at him. 

“I’m here,” She says from her spot resting on her bed, though she knows he’s already storming closer, his footfalls loud enough to shake the walls. 

“Are you sending notes to the suitors downstairs?” He asks, voice shaky with anger and pain. 

“They’re guests, my love. We must show them good hospitality,” She says softly, already bracing for his anger. 

“They’re trying to take you away! They’re eating us out of house, home, and wealth! And you’re encouraging it!” 

“Telemachus, please!” She lurches to her feet, moving to stand in front of him and take his soft, scarless face between her hands. “When you’re grown, you’ll understand better.”

He scoffs at her. At eighteen, he’s well grown enough, at least in his eyes. But without a father figure of any kind without Odysseus, he doesn’t truly know what he believes he does. Penelope sighs, eyes red and swollen from hours of crying, though if anyone looked closer, they’d see that she looked more calm than distressed, face too smooth for how many tears she’s shed. 

“My son, my precious prince, your father is most likely dead and those men down there know this. You must know this by now. You should start looking for a wife. You know your father and I were married by your age-”

Her son’s face goes red with rage and embarrassment, and he snaps at her to shut up, before shoving her away, turning on his heels, and nearly running out of the room. His words and tone wound her in a way that she’s not sure she’ll ever truly recover from, but she swallows her pain like she hopes one day he will swallow his. She forces herself to think of good memories, on days long past but never forgotten.

Odysseus had always been beautiful, just like the son they made.

They had been fifteen when he first approached her, all those years ago. He’d had the same strong nose and firm brow as Telemachus. His skin had been kissed by sunlight, and he blushed redder than any fruit or flower when he tripped over his own feet in front of her. 

In her mind, he was always glowing. He had the favor of Athena, and carried in him the blood of Hermes. The Gods loved him, and everyone knew it. 

And he loved her. 

He had bright eyes and a wide grin, and he always challenged her to word puzzles. He liked that she was so clever, that she could not only keep up with him, but in some cases even beat him. They spent their early days attached at the hip. Wherever she went, he followed, pattering after her like a duckling, quacking his questions and ideas. 

He’d gotten on his knees and begged her father to let him marry her. He’d given gifts, made grand gestures, and swore an oath to never even glance at anyone else. He needn't do any of it, as her father had loved him from the moment he saw how Odysseus looked at her, so it had been an easy decision. 

They married the same day, her good husband too excited to wait for propriety. It had been a secret, a quiet wedding with just them, and the Gods. They’d had a “real” wedding not long after, but they both considered that first night their true anniversary.

“Oh Aphrodite,” Penelope whispers into the wind. “Let my son find happiness in love, one day. He deserves at least that much for all his hardships.”

-

Penelope couldn’t bear to think of Eurycleia as truly traitorous, but even still. She had let her son, her soft-hearted boy board a ship and sail into the sea without any consideration for how such news could affect her. The woman had looked after Telemachus for such a long time, and was well trusted in the palace, and yet she had betrayed her mistress, the woman who had allowed her to hold and love Telemachus as a second mother. 

She had betrayed her, then told her not to cry lest she spoil her beauty. As if that was truly worth anything when there was now an even higher chance for her to lose everything she’s spent all these past years fighting to cling to. The woman should consider herself lucky if she ends up merely sold somewhere else, rather than beheaded should Telemachus not return.

The Gods had given her good dreams that night, wishing for Penelope to find peace and calm, yet she woke to find her heart was still filled with stormy anger and wretched pain. Her husband was already lost at sea, what was she to do if sweet Telemachus also didn’t return? Did he even realize what kind of situation he had put his mother in? 

If Telemachus dies, she no longer has any kind of protection from the men haunting the hallways, waiting for their chance to snatch her. If he’d only listened, if he’d cared to think, to look past himself for just a breath…

The sound of a bowstring snapping makes her jump, a gasp mixing with a yelp as she freezes her panicked pacing and whirls around, fearfully searching for the mysterious assailant. Who she finds is beautifully familiar and unknown all at once, feet unburdened by the ground.

“Great Hermes,” She wheezes, finding it a miracle in itself that she can even bring herself to speak to him after he’d startled her so thoroughly. “Telemachus is now also gone to the seas. He vanished days ago”

“Yeah, I know.” He says, completely unbothered. He plucks the great bow he’d been toying with off the wall and weighs it in his hands, his feet folding into a criss cross under him, his feathered sandals flittering to keep him afloat. His uncaring tone makes her chest fill with ache and pain, more wretched tears dripping from her eyes without permission.

“Ah, no, don’t do that,” He makes an audible tsk sound, turning and wagging his finger at her like a parent scolding a child. “I worked hard to keep you from ruining your face by giving you false tears, don’t screw it all up now by crying for real.”

His words dry her tears, as if he’d cast some kind of spell over her. Her breaths come calmer, and her shoulders lose some of their stiffness. His voice is warm and thick like honey, soothing her burning heart. He stretches his legs back out and moves closer, somehow growing even taller. He looms over her, though his face remains friendly. He bends at the waist, lowering himself to look her in the eye, shining, godly golden irises mixed with green and red, meeting her more human brown.

“Both my husband and son have left, vanished into the horizon and I don’t know if either will return,” She says softly, hypnotized by his gaze.

“Tele is with Athena, he’s fine.” There is so little care in his words, as if what he says is mere fact that Penelope should have already known. 

“And what of Odysseus, who has been gone for so long now? Have the other Gods truly abandoned him for fresher flesh?”

“Things aren’t that simple, pretty Penelope. Odysseus has a price he must pay before he can return. Damages he must remedy, fathers he must seek forgiveness from. Nothing I can do ‘bout it.”

His words make her dizzy, his language both familiar and strange. In and out of Time.

“So he is alive?” She asks. She can’t stop herself from grabbing her godly visitor by the shoulders, nails digging into surprisingly soft skin. He smiles at her, entirely unbothered by her actions, but he doesn’t answer her question.

“Please, good Hermes, I am begging you. Bring him home. I cannot handle all this alone, anymore. I need him. Telemachus needs him.” She says, voice warbling as tears once again threaten her lashes. Hermes tilts his head slightly, looking horribly, beautifully like Odysseus. He finally lets his feet plant themselves on the cool stone floor. She stares up in awe as he stands so tall the tops of his hair brush the ceiling of her rooms. His face curls, twisting in a mischievous expression.

“Let’s play a game.” He says, grinning like a cat staring down at his prey.

“A…a game?”

“Mmmhmm. I can’t just go giving you all the answers, that wouldn’t be much fun. If you want to know what I do, you gotta win.”

Penelope gapes up at him, eyes wide and unsure. Just what exactly did he mean by game? Surely it wasn’t going to be anything simple, and she doubted she’d get a real answer either way. But even still, if he was offering, she had no choice but to accept. 

“Very well, I will play,” She says, hoping to put on a brave face. 

“Atta girl, very nice!” Hermes is clearly pleased. “The rules are simple, solve all of my riddles, then I’ll spill the beans. Sound good?” 

She can’t help the way her lips turn upward, perhaps a bit over confidently. Odysseus loved riddles, loved playing word games with her. She could do this, she had to. 

“Alright, I’m ready.”

The God hums, eyes glittering with amusement and wickedness all at once. 

“Tell me, what can you miss only when you’re away?” He asks. Odysseus had told her this one before, surely Hermes must know that?

“Home.”

“Good, good. Now…what pushes men to strive for the top spot?” 

He’s jesting, he had to be.

“A…competition?” 

Hermes beams at her, nodding a bit too enthusiastically, before his face takes on that wicked look once again. He leans forward, lowering his voice so far that Penelope also has to lean in to hear his final question.

“A cunning king with a wandering heart, who braves the seas, a hero apart. Who am I?” 

It takes her but a moment, a small gasp escaping her at the revelation. She looks up at him, at Odysseus’ face, borrowed by Hermes for a painfully short moment-gone again when she dares to blink. She starts to answer, but the beautiful God straightens his spine, holding up a hand to silence her. He knew she knew, and no longer wished to hear what she had to say. Instead, with a wave of his hand, the great unused bow flies to meet him. 

As perfectly carved wood meets godly flesh, an unexpected bout of lightning shatters the silence.

Pressing the bow into her hands, his lips part to speak, but another unnatural rumble and cracking from the sky drowns out whatever he means to say. Rain starts dropping outside the windows, and the God of Travel, Thieves, and Trickery pats Penelope on the head like a father would his daughter, and is gone in a flash of angry lightning. She stares blankly at the space he once occupied, lips slightly parted as her mind comprehends what little bit of his words she understood.

“You have everything you need.”

Without its string, the bow couldn’t be drawn or fired, but even then, it had been gifted by Eurytus, the grandson of Apollo. No man living other than her husband should be able to handle the incredible draw strength. Her fingers tighten around the bow, her hand and mind steady as she comes to a decision. 

“Ares, grant me the courage to do what I must,” She whispers aloud.

“My lady,” The voice in her doorway makes her jump. “Will you join the men in their feasting downstairs tonight?”

“I shall,” She says. “But before I do, I need someone to gather some things for me.” 

“Of course, tell me what you need and I shall have it fetched for you.” 

“String. I need bowstring, and axes. Twelve of them should do.” 

“What will you do with it all?” 

“It’s time we rid ourselves of those who have long overstayed their welcome. I have decided to propose a contest. A test of strength and wills, that only a true king may complete.”

[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.

[darlingweareatragedy]

these violent delights have violent ends

Warnings: Dark Peter Parker, Unrequited Love, Obsession, Toxic Relationship

Summary: History crowned him golden. And buried her beneath her warnings. But fate remembers. And fate has no mercy.......not even for gods or heroes

The sun burned high over Delphi, the day she first defied him.

Back then, he had been Apollo, god of light, prophecy, healing. He watched mortal lives flicker and fade like candle smoke. But her, Cassandra, she burned.

She was not like the others.

She looked him in the eye, fear buried beneath defiance, and said, “I am not yours to claim.”

And something inside him fractured.

He could have broken her. Bent her. Taken what she would never give.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he cursed her.

Not out of cruelty. Not out of vengeance. Not even out of love.

But out of obsession. Out of the unbearable truth that she would never be his.

He gifted her prophecy, and made it a prison. She would see the future, and no one would believe her. She would scream into silence, watch the fall of Troy, and be called mad.

And the world would forget his part in her unraveling.

History crowned him golden. And buried her beneath her warnings.

But fate remembers.

And fate has no mercy.......not even for gods or heroes.

Because you came back.

Born again. And again. And again.

A mortal girl with storms in her eyes and ruin in her voice. You didn’t remember Delphi. Didn’t remember the curse.

But you felt it. The ache of being right too early. The weight of truth no one wanted. The sting of knowing, and being dismissed for it.

And Peter?

Peter was Apollo reborn.

Not a god anymore, but something close. A savior. An avenger. And that made him dangerous.

Because in every timeline, he loves you. And in every timeline, you don’t love him back. And in every timeline, he cannot accept that.

He believes he deserves you.

He calls it love. But it isn’t.

It’s obsession. It’s worship. It’s the kind of devotion that sinks its teeth into your soul and refuses to let go.

He tells himself it’s protection. But it’s control. It’s desperation wrapped in tenderness. It’s fear disguised as passion.

He tells you, “I’d burn the world before I let you go.”

And you whisper, “That’s the problem.”

Because Peter doesn’t understand. Because Apollo never did.

You didn’t reject him out of cruelty. Cassandra didn’t reject Apollo out of cruelty. She rejected him because she knew.

She saw the fire for what it was. Not passion. Not love. But annihilation.

And you?

You saw it too.

You saw Peter unraveling. The blood on his hands. The cracks in his smile.

The way the world praised him as a hero, yet you were the only one who saw what he was really becoming.

You tried to tell them. Tried to warn them.

But they only saw a golden boy. And you were just the girl who ran from him.

Just like before, they called you mad. Just like before, no one listened.

He didn’t love you with a human heart. He loved you with a god’s hunger - and it was tearing you apart.

So you ran, you used his gift ,his curse of prophecy, of foresight to outrun him, to escape his traps. Again. You outran his love. Escaped the fire.

And just like before, he couldn’t take it.

Because when you escaped, He didn’t just curse the sky.

He burned it.

You read the headlines. Heard the screams. Watch cities get swallowed in flames.

The boy who was supposed to save them, Now the one they run from.

And you knew. You’d always known.

“He’ll destroy everything just to make you his .”

And you were right.

Because this was never about love. It was about possession. About fear. About a boy who never learned how to lose.

And in the end?

He loses you.

Again. Just like he always does. Just like he always will.

Because in every lifetime, every universe, every thread of fate,

You are the one who sees the fire. And he is the one who lights the match.

And when you vanish into the smoke, just like the prophecy foretold.

He finally understands the truth of the curse.

That it was not just yours.

It was his.

His punishment.

He was never made to love you. He was made to lose you.

And you?

You were made to run.

[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

[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.

[hyacinth-sims]

La Campanella

Summary: A character study of Tybalt Capp as he reflects upon his relationship with his late mother and his place in the Capp family. 

Warning: None, VERY SAD :(

Pairings: None, Implied Past Tybalt Capp/Mercutio Monty

Word Count: 1.8k

Author’s Note: The formatting/style is a little messy since I really just let everything go and wrote what I thought of Tybalt and who he is in the moment. I’m really happy with what I came up with but also quite sad because he really needs a hug :( Also link for a piano rendition of La Campanella I think it really ties everything together 😁

His mother began to teach him piano before he could form a coherent sentence. She would sit on the bench and invite him next to her, his bright eyes watching intently as her slender fingers danced across the keys. He would attempt to imitate her whenever he could, his little hands smashing down on the ivory keys in an attempt to make music. Instead of scolding him for the awful slam of notes he let out, his mother would simply laugh and wrap her arms around him—stroking her fingers through his red hair as she whispered the nickname she’d called him until her very last breath. 

“My sweet boy.” 

Tybalt was 9 years old when he had his first piano recital. He was set to play Für Elise, the only classical piece he knew by heart. He cried and cried backstage until the tears had run dry, only leaving heaving sobs and stinging eyes. Performing in front of his grandfather’s coworkers was one thing; performing in front of an entire auditorium full of people was something else entirely. But even from a young age, Tybalt did as a Capp always would, wiped the wet streaks from his cheeks, and walked onto that menacing stage.

He played as if nothing bothered him, refusing to let anyone see him sweat. His sisters like to say that he changed the day their parents died, but the stubborn boy desperately seeking approval always existed under the surface. Once finished with his performance, he stood up from his bench before taking a bow. His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands as he clenched his fists behind his back, an anxious response as he desperately searched for his grandfather in the crowd. He was there, seated with an unchanging expression as his hands quietly clapped together in the sea of applause. 

Grandfather had told him that one day, he would be the man of the family. It meant both a lot yet very little in a matriarchal hierarchy, as his role in the family would never be to take over—but rather protect his sisters as they would eventually find suitors of their own to bring into the Capp family. However, even if Tybalt was married off to a woman of riches and good social standing, even if his last name was stripped of him, he wanted to make his grandfather proud until the very end. 

It was a point of contention between his mother and his grandfather. While Grandfather had many expectations of who Tybalt would eventually become within their family, his mother wanted him to follow his own path. She never wanted him to marry for money or power, and even as a child, she made him promise he would marry somebody he loved. He never knew it as a child, but marriages for love were uncommon in his family. His parents were the exception, not the rule. 

His mother and father had met as young adults, he was in attendance of a piano performance of her own. They were both students of an arts university, with his father being an aspiring stage actor who’d attended the recital on a whim. She gushed that he was captivated by her rendition of Nocturne No. 8, finding her after the show to commend her on her beauty and piano skills—and to ask her on a date. Grandfather and grandmother were not happy about this, seeing as though they had already planned a potential husband for her to marry once she was out of university. 

They eventually found his father to be suitable enough for their heiress, although it meant that the Troy family was guaranteed to marry into the family the following generation—which meant Juliette. 

It wasn’t set in stone until their parents had passed, as the importance placed on true love and the happiness that came with it faded with them. As long as grandfather remained alive, Juliette’s hand was guaranteed to the young heir of the Troy family and it had become Tybalt’s job to make sure all went well. It also meant that his happiness would forever take the back burner, although it wasn’t as if that meant much.

Once his parents died and his grandparents had taken in himself and his sisters, his happiness very quickly revolved around what use he could provide for the family. If it meant marrying a woman he could never love, he would do it. If it meant automatically hating anyone who had ever possibly slighted his family, he would do it. If it meant killing that little boy who listened intently to his mother’s stories of love and what it meant to be happy…

He’d do it without much thought at all. 

His grandfather seemed to be the opposite of his mother, as his advice to Tybalt was that love is the destruction of man. He said love could make even the strongest man alive crumble down without much effort. Tybalt had asked how he remained standing and was not given much of an answer other than a glance that told what words couldn’t. It was then, at age 13, that Tybalt learned his grandparents had not loved each other—at least not in the traditional sense. 

Certainly, those premonitions had to come from somewhere, but Tybalt just wasn’t sure where. 

What his mother would likely find heartbreaking if she had been alive is the fact that Tybalt understood his grandfather’s words. He had never been in love, it would be silly to call a childhood infatuation love. He was 7 years old, standing off to the side as the other children played on the playground. He didn’t want to get his uniform dirty; his grandmother hated it whenever he did. A boy came up to him with a monarch butterfly resting on the tip of his finger, a grin on his face that was missing a few teeth. In fact, he had just watched one fall out only the week before. His friend had dared him to bite into a rather large jawbreaker—of course, that did not end well. The boy told him that the orange hue of the small creature reminded him of Tybalt’s hair. 

It was nice to fantasize for a few years, to tell his mother that he was following her stories, to insist he was in love as she responded with cooing and warm hugs. But everything came to a halt after that fire, not only in his life but for the entire town. His grandfather insisted on the theory that the rivaling Montys had caused it—and tore apart his already battered heart in the process.

That anxious yet curious little boy was laid to rest with his parents on that day, leaving only the hardened shell carefully curated to guarantee he would never hurt like that again. At least, that was what Tybalt told himself—a mantra repeated to convince himself that there were no feelings left to feel other than vengeance and rage. As always, though, the truth lay somewhere in the middle. Tybalt would never be the same as he once was; that much was very true. He could never listen with wide eyes and a bright smile to fantastical fairytales of happiness or flush and stammer in response to something as stupid as a butterfly. 

But deep inside, there was still a desperate vying for approval from his family. There was still a craving, a need for someone to simply say they were proud of him. There was still a part of him that wanted to be loved, to be told that everything was going to be okay in the end. Tybalt hated that part of himself, it would never see the light of day if he had anything to do with it. 

He’d abandoned his mother’s stories, her gentleness, her wish for her children to have something better than feuds and arranged marriages. All he could keep of her memory was the grand piano that had been in the family for generations; it had become his sole comfort when repression and denial failed. 

The sheet music of La Campanella had sat on the music shelf in front of him for nearly a month. He’d turned it around this time, only allowing his eyes to see the blank back of the thick paper. He wanted to completely memorize it before his grandfather’s next party for his business associates and where he would likely meet the girl he was set to marry once he completed his education. He hoped she would at least be decent company, somehow his grandparents seemed to enjoy their time spent with one another—perhaps he could have the same. 

Oh, his mother would be aghast to hear of that. The argument between his mother and grandfather would be one for the ages, he had to get his temper from somewhere after all. Perhaps she would understand if she was here to see the worsening tensions throughout town. Even if he was going to eventually be part of another family, he wanted to ensure that the lineage of the Capps was secured. 

The palms of his hands began to sweat as he could feel his grandfather’s narrowed eyes watching him—waiting for him to make a mistake. Tybalt could only furrow his brow and stare down at the keys in front of him, watching as his fingers rapidly pressed against them as the song sped up. He wanted to make his grandfather proud more than anything, he was all he had left after all. He wanted to make sure everything was perfect for this party—including his own musical rendition. He needed it to be perfect. There was nothing else he could do for his family, he was one of few men born into the name after all. All he could do was ensure his sisters were perfect, their marriages were perfect, and he needed to be perfect—

One of his fingers slipped as he was nearing the end of the song, an off-tune note ringing out through the air as his grandfather softly shook his head. Tybalt stopped in his tracks immediately, a final slam of the keys before bringing his hands back to his side. The older man leaned forward in the living room chair that they’d all referred to as his chair. He picked up the handle of his teacup and his newspaper from the coffee table before leaning back once again. “What a shame,” His grandfather commented before taking a sip of his tea and putting the cup back down on the table, “You were doing so well too.”

Tybalt could do nothing but stare down at his lap, clenching his fists until he could feel the pain of his sharp nails in the middle of his palms—a habit he’d never quite broken. He took a deep breath in, releasing his hands as he put them up to the keys again as he shakily breathed out. He played and played until his fingers began to cramp and every note was ingrained in his head. He finished the song on his 8th try, but to himself—it still wasn’t good enough.

It would never be good enough.

[ftwdb]

Don't Say Go.

Chapter 8.

Summary: Soulmates find each other through what is known as The Pull. A sense within a persons body that their soulmate is within reach that guides them to find them. You find yourself following this Pull, guided by vague dreams of a man you can't quite see, until you collapse in the wild and are found by Troy, your soulmate, who has been following the same feeling toward you for days.

Once connected soulmates are able to share emotions through their bond, as well as being able to sense where the other is. But how this force works is very much a mystery still, it can vary from soulmate to soulmate, and just sometimes a connection too deep can lead twist a bond from something beautiful to, well...

Warnings: Dark themes, sexual content, violence, non-graphic description/implications of SA, child abuse and domestic violence. References to addiction. Unhealthy love/obsession/relationships. Soulmate AU. Eventual smut.

The shower in the bunk house was basic and the water luke-warm but to you it felt like heaven. Troy told you the water was limited so not to take all day, to which you’d rather naively asked if he was going to shower too.

You’d seen the redness of his skin spread down his neck and his exposed chest at the top of his shirt.

“I meant after-”

You’d said quickly, then realised you didn’t want him to get the wrong idea again.

“I just mean… I know we’re soulmates and everything but…”

Troy had managed an easy smile and bowed his head toward you in what you’d come to see as a reassuring motion, as if he were trying to make himself physically smaller - a difficult feat since he towered over you.

“I get it. I think it’s probably best we get used to being able to touch hands first before… anything else.”

You smiled shyly, hating the coyness you felt. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t had lovers. You weren’t some blushing virgin.

“You feel it too?” you asked.

Troy took in a long whistling breath through his teeth.

“You mean the way my whole body sets on fire when you touch me?”

You froze as heat coursed through you at the huskiness in his voice . Your heart began to beat as blood pumped dizzyingly fast into every part of your body. You forced yourself to breathe slowly.

Yeah, you knew exactly what he meant.

“Is that normal?” he asked, “I’ve lived on the ranch since I was a kid. Never really learned much about this stuff except for what Jake told me.”

You couldn’t think straight and searched wildly in your head for a change of subject, something to distract you from the way Troy’s eyes were boring into you.

“Is what your father said true? Did your brother’s soulmate die?”

Troy nodded solemnly before finally breaking your gaze, looking at his feet as he kicked at some dry leaves that had blown in.

“And I was an asshole about it too. I didn’t know… I didn’t understand what it felt like.”

“And… what does it feel like? For you?”

Again Troy’s eyes fixed on your face, his blue eyes darkening as he seemed to be looking right into you.

“Like nothing I could have imagined.” he told you. “You?”

Your smiled widened.

“The same.”

The smile on Troy’s face was more reserved, as if it were something he wasn’t quite used to doing in front of people.

“Okay then. I’ll uh, go find us something to eat. There must be leftovers from the canteen. I’ll find you something clean to wear too.”

Your stomach growled embarrassingly loudly and you heard Troy chuckle as he closed the door to the bunk house behind him.

You showered, basking in the warmth of the water and the smell of soup as wondered how many washes it would take for your hair to feel clean again. You ignored the way your skin felt tight over your hips and ribs, allowing you to feel the bones as you rinsed the soap from your body. Your eyes drifted over the cuts and bruises you’d collected as if they weren’t there, refusing to acknowledge the way they began to sting as you scrubbed at the filth away. The finger sized markings around your arms and the larger bruises on your thighs had begun to turn from red to a bluish purple. You knew soon they’d turn yellow and fade entirely, and you forced yourself to remember the ones who had put them there would never be able to do so again.

Between you and Troy, you’d made sure of that.

You wondered if you should feel something for what you had done. The shock and the adrenaline of the night had faded, so where was the guilt? The revulsion from having killed a person?

Not a person, you told yourself. Just another monster. Like the dead. Worse even.

You finished your shower, eager to get dressed again.

The towels left in the shower-room were stiff and scratchy but you wouldn’t complain. You called out for Troy, hoping he might be back with something to wear so you wouldn’t have to put on your filthy clothes again.

A voice answered, but it wasn’t Troy’s.

“Name’s Mike.” The voice said, and you felt your blood ran cold.

You were naked and alone in a room with no lock on the door… and a strange man standing on the other side.

“Where’s Troy?” You asked, trying not to sound panicked.

“He’s back?” The voice - Mike - said.

Your heart thundered as you felt a wave of nausea overtake you.

Don’t pass out, you told yourself. Whatever you do, don’t. pass. out.

You pulled the scratchy towel tighter around yourself with one hand and placed the other on the door. Logically you knew if he wanted to get in you wouldn’t be able to hold it closed against him. You weren’t particularly strong before the world ended and now whilst exhausted and malnourished you had even less hope.

“He’ll be back any second,” you told him, hoping the stranger would hear the warning in your voice.

“Good. I’ll wait then.”

The ice in your veins was steadily growing hot, turning into frustration. Was this person stupid? Or where they just messing with you?

You didn’t have time to find out since the heat in your veins became almost unbearable until a loud crash, the sound of wood breaking, made you gasp and jump back from the door.

It wasn’t the man trying to break in like your first instinct told you. No, you realised what it was when you heard Troy’s furious voice begin to shout.

“Mike! What the fuck are you doing in here?”

“Looking for you! Jesus what’s got up your ass?”

Your legs almost collapsed as you sagged against the door and willed your beating heart to slow.

“You can’t be in here.” Troy said bluntly. “Get out.”

There was a moment of silence before you heard the sound of springs. Mike must have been sat on one of the bunks.

You heard the sound of the door being closed with a bang, and then footsteps drawing closer. You stumbled toward the door and flung it open, almost missing Troy’s wide eyed expression as he dropped his hand from where it was about to knock as you threw yourself face first against his chest.

Your body trembled. From fear, relief… from everything that had happen over the last twenty-fours hours, hell the last few weeks of your life! You’d had to be so strong all by yourself for so long, with no one to trust or to rely on for help.

Troy seemed to hesitate at first, unsure of how to comfort you. He settled for lightly placing his palms on your back over the the towel and waited awkwardly for your response.

As you fisted your hands into his shirt you breathed deeply, smelling the dirt and the blood and sweat of the night before. For some reason this comforted you, allowed your racing pulse to ease as Troy started making small circles on your back. His chin had dropped so his lips were pressed against your damp hair as you realised he’d begun to whisper gently soothing words to you.

“I shouldn’t have left you alone.” He said a little once you’d managed to stop shaking.

You shook your head against him, not wanting him to blame himself for your fear.

“I felt it. Felt you…” Troy then added, his voice pained. You lifted your head then to face him.

His expression made your heart break. He looked so lost, so sorrowful, that you had needed him and he hadnt been there, again.

You shook your head once more, not sure how you knew these were his thoughts but they were as clear to you as if they were your own.

“You can’t blame yourself because I left. For what they almost did…” you told him gently, willing him to believe it too.

Troy stopped rubbing circles on your back but didn’t move in the slightest to let you go.

“It was my fault. If I had just explained… or stayed away that night…”

“You were there when I needed you. When it mattered. You came for me.”

Your words did little to ease his guilt but Troy tried to smile down at you.

“Sorry about Mike. He’s kind of never got personal boundaries but he’s harmless.”

You tried not to let your unease show.

“He’s your friend?”

Troy nodded. “Since we were kids, before I was taken out of school.”

You frowned, confused. Troy’s smile faltered.

“We can talk about all that after you’ve had something to eat and some rest. I want Jake to give you a check over too - I’ll stay, if you want me to.” He said quickly as he felt you stiffen in his arms. “And then, well, we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.”

You tried to let that sink in. Time. It was something that had felt like it was slipping away from you since the outbreak. How much time until you found a safe place? How much time until you lost it? How long had you been hungry, thirsty… how much time did you have left to survive?

Troy indicated the bag he had dropped on the floor by the door which you saw did indeed have a crack in it where he’d pushed it open so violently.

“I’ll wait outside while you dress.”

You wanted to say it was okay for him to stay, but you knew you weren’t ready for that yet.

How strange the intimacy you shared by being able to feel each others most powerful emotions, practically reading the others thoughts at a glance… and yet this was where you hesitated.

But Troy’s eyes told you he understood. That it was ok. That anything you needed would be okay with him.

He stepped outside and pulled the door shut. You could him standing with his back to the door as if on guard through the flimsy cover over the small window. You smiled to yourself.

You clumsily pulled on the clothes he’d left you, blushing when your hands opened the brand new packet of underwear. There were a few pairs of clean socks and two basic sports bras which fit well enough to be comfortable. You wondered if Troy had picked it all for you or if he’d asked one of the women on the ranch for help. You were too embarrassed to ask.

Finally you slid your aching legs into a pair of faded jeans, having to tighten the belt to make them fit your emaciated waist. The plain, light cotton t-shirt was a little baggy but you didn’t mind.

There were no new boots or shoes but you were sure Troy just hadn’t known your size. Once you were dressed you stood awkwardly in the empty room, your fingers tugging at your damp hair to work out the knots a hairbrush just wouldn’t get through. For some reason you suddenly felt self conscious about your appearance, which was ridiculous since Troy had seen you at your worst… although there was still a small voice in your head wondering if he’d be disappointed with his soulmate now you didn’t have the excuse of being half-dead in the wild for your ragged appearance.

Drawing in a deep breath you moved to open the door and let Troy back in. He turned his head to peer at you over his shoulder.

“Feeling better?” He asked.

You nodded, “I feel human again. I've missed soap so much… and clean socks.”

“Yeah they’re like fucking gold-dust now,” Troy said as he stepped inside.

Again you stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure of what was supposed to happen next until you realised Troy still hadn’t a chance to clean up. Your stomach also growled loudly again and Troy frowned.

“Eat,” he said, grabbing the bag and taking it to the table in the corner of the room. He spread out the contents as you dropped into one of the wooden chairs. As your eyes fell upon the meal you felt dizzy at the thought of a real, freshly made meal. Or as fresh as leftovers could be. Right then it looked like a banquet fit for royalty. You glanced at Troy as he sat down beside you, waiting for him to take his share.

His frown deepened as you sat unmoving.

“Something wrong?”

Your voice was thin, tired. “Aren’t you going to eat too?”

Troy’s mouth quirked up on one side, an almost smile as he shook his head.

“You first. You’re practically all bones.”

You blushed as your earlier worries came back to mind, but troy’s smile was encouraging. You knew he wasn’t intentionally poking fun at you so without further hesitation you began to tuck in.

“Not too fast,” Troy told you as you swallowed your first mouthful embarrassingly loudly. You understood why when your stomach began to clench. It had been so long since you’d eaten a decent meal your body wasn’t used to it.

You ate what could, sipping at the water bottle between bites, and once you felt satiated you realised you could barely keep your eyes open.

Troy shook out the sheets of one of the bunks, flipping the mattress as somewhere in the back your mind you pictured spiders and all sorts of creepy critters that would usually make your skin crawl. Deeming the bed he made you suitable Troy offered you his hand, helping you walk over to the bunk until you practically collapsed onto the sheets. You were vaguely aware of a pillow being placed beneath your cheek and the covers being tightened over you.

Troy paused as your eyes fluttered.

“Do you want me to go?”

You barely had the strength to speak but you managed to mumble against the softness of the pillow.

“Don’t go.”

Sleep overcame you, pulling you under a shroud of darkness so fast you were only half sure Troy had heard you. But for the first night since the dead had started walking and life had been turned into a living nightmare, you gave into sleep knowing you’d be safe

Because Troy was with you.

[liestookmydoubts]

Bedside Conversations.

Contrary to the popular saying of the eyes feasting first, it was the ears that knew of the terrible news first.

Her hand shakes.

She feels a sting in the corners of her eyes as an ache makes itself known between her third and fourth rib.

The walls had fallen.

It is silent within the palace.

Outside, the fire rages.

How long has it been? It changes nothing to know.

The repetition of apologies feels like a futile prayer, offering no redemption. Her apologies long exhausted, now linger as ash in her mouth, leaving the bitter taste of wrongness on her tongue, circulating through her veins like the flaming arrows of Phoebus in a shallow grave.

A grave she made by her own hand admidst the chaos of the fires.

Anger and shame, had driven her to curses of death, but never had she actually meant for it to come to this, kneeling by his arrow-pierced body after some Trojan soldiers had managed to drag it inside the palace.

She didn't know their names- they'd be dead soon enough.

Kneeling next to the bringer of war, as Hektor had so eloquently put it; unskilled and cowardly.

Some would call him Alexandros, defender of men, and yet, ironically, his only accomplishments are in the art of escape- still, as she traced with her hand the contour of that face lacking in robust physicality, as if even war itself has treated him kindly, she found herself longing to see those eyes, those utopian eyes—the caged window that traps in a sun on the verge of supernova- if only to close them again herself. Her own flutter like a cautious butterfly's wings as the pads of her fingers come to rest on the pale lips that used to kiss her to sleep.

She should be screaming as she embraced the beloved body, pulling her hair and desperately clutching and bruising her own upper arms which were not deserving of such treatment- and yet, there was nothing. She wasn't a musician grieving the death of their muse, and neither was she enraged as that young Phthian prince had been- All was silent, and the world seemed to blur as clouds cast overhead, the westward wind breaking the air in periodic gusts.

His death made her realise her sense of self is in shambles- and that it had been ever since people started calling her Helen of Troy- she sees that there's no one left who knows what her real name is; Helen of the lovely hair, they call her. White-armed Helen. Helen, queen among women. Hateful Helen. Never just Helen of Sparta. Even Paris, whose infatuation had lead them all down this path, never called her by her given; always his darling, never just herself. Even hearing someone say 'Helen' made her feel as if it no longer belonged to her. It was but a distant concept of the woman she left behind in the hollow and broken countryside of Sparta; wholly unworthy.

Briefly, her mind wanders to what may have become of her sister- word had reached her of Iphigenia, of what the Achaeans had done to appease the gods, and her heart seemed to dissolve to ash in her mouth. The world tints red at the edges, though shame set in quick to chase the storm. It was her fault, wasn't it? Even her cousin has had to feel the consequences of her foolishness; while she hid beyond the walls of Troy, Penelope had to wait patiently as her husband(an ever cunning man, she must admit) fought alongside her own to siege the city.

She'd seen him, Odysseus, for how could she not? The reigning king of Ithaca had stood out like a lost dog amongst the suitors- and not only because of the scarred tissue that wrapped around his calf and crept up his innerthigh like a snake. She had found herself observing the way the subtle lines glistened and bend on his face as another scheme materialized behind those mismatched eyes. Watched him, as he climbed onto Penelope's balcony the night after Tyndareus had called upon all who ruled the lands. She wondered if Penelope still weaved tapestries the way she had so loved to do, even as time graded on her hopes to spend her life with the man she had foolishly given her heart to.

Maybe Menelaus would allow her to visit. Maybe.

.----. --. --- -.. ... --..-- / ... .- ...- . / -- -.-- / ... --- ..- .-.. .-.-.- .----.

[thesweetnessofspring]

Oak had not once wished her free that he might marry her himself—had not once said, “I could wait for you as well as he.” That was the insect sting. Not that she would have listened to any such hypothesis. O no—for wasn’t she saying all the time that such thoughts of the future were improper, and wasn’t Gabriel far too poor a man to speak sentiment to her? Yet he might have just hinted about that old love of his, and asked, in a playful off-hand way, if he might speak of it. It would have seemed pretty and sweet, if no more; and then she would have shown how kind and inoffensive a woman’s “No” can sometimes be. But to give such cool advice—the very advice she had asked for—it ruffled our heroine all the afternoon.

Bathsheba's too "conflicted" to realize it, but she's fallen for the guy who she set boundaries with and actually listened. Bathsheba once very nearly said yes to Gabriel, gave him almost as much hope as she had Boldwood, but when she changed her mind he didn't push it after. She didn't want to marry him and he cut her free entirely. After all of the tumultuous events between Troy and Boldwood, Bathsheba is craving for her wishes, her denial, to not stir up conflict and pain. Gabriel is the only man she can trust with this, though because she can trust him with it, he'll never do it again without her expressly showing romantic interest.