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popopretty · 3 years

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Storm Bringer Spoiler (7)

I am not sure if anyone has translated it yet but many people asked me about the relationship between Verlaine and Rimbaud so I hope these excerpts from Rimbaud’s memoirs will help. These are from two different parts of CODE;04 of the novel.

Please feel free to re-translate it if you want. Just understand that I do make mistakes because I don’t speak either Japanese or English as my first language. So sometimes I will change or update this translation without prior notices.

Day xx

General Directorate for Special Services, Operations Department, Special Forces Group, Agent

Fine weather - Evening - Waning Moon

The mice are running, black in the gray of the evening.

A mouse lady is running, gray in the black of the darkness.

I look at the moon, holding the pipe in my mouth. Doing nothing can be fun too. Let’s go when the fire from the pipe goes out.

After I run, behind the dry sound of my shoes, there will be nothing but death and corpses and blood and aguish and misery.

Day xx

General Directorate for Special Services, Operations Department, Special Forces Group, Agent

Rainy day - Midnight - Waning Moon

I am writing this after crawling out of the rat hole. I am staying at a leaky inn. There is the sound of the rain leaking somewhere. The lamp on my bedside is too dark I can’t even see the bottle of wine on my desk clearly. This handwriting definitely looks bad too. But for the time being, it doesn’t matter.

Because I want to write down what happened right away.

Until just two hours ago, I was in the secret cellar of the anti-government forced called “May of the Revolution”. It is all over. The outcomes are superb. In the eyes of the higher-ups.

But for me, I can’t bring myself to think that the operation was a success.

When I stepped in, all the members were at the celler. And ultimately, “he” is dead.

I wrote “he” here because this organization only has one single member.

The mastermind behind the anti-government movement is a skill user commonly known as “Faunus” (*TN: The original Japanese words is 牧神, which means the God of Shepherds. He is called Faunus in Roman mythology and Pan in Greek mythology. I just picked Faunus because I like the name). I fought him once. He was strong. On top of that, he has a secret weapon. He by himself has created a skilled artificial lifeform, the “Black No.12”. That’s a monster that can manipulate gravity at his will and nullify any physical attacks. “Faunus” used an instruction system to freely control that lifeform.

But this time, our Intelligence Department has done an amazing job (how nice it would be if they could do that every time). They managed to figure out in advanced that the input of the instruction system could be done by letting the lifeform breathe in some kind of special metal powder. That’s why all I had to do was to destroy that metal powder generator.

Freed from the instructional system, “Black No.12″ regained his consciousness as though he had just been released from brainwashing and turned to attack his creator, “Faunus”. That was a chilling sight. With just a squeeze of “Black No.12″ ‘s palm, half of the facility was blown away, together with Faunus’ upper body.

After that, I carried the unconscious “Black No.12″ outside. Now he is sleeping in this cheap inn.

What will happen to him now? Will he be executed by the government?

It’s terribly cold. The fire from the fireplace feels so far away.

Day xx

General Directorate for Special Services, Operations Department, Special Forces Group, Agent

Bright day - Noon - Strong wind from the East

I am writing this wearing a thick coat, earmuffs, fur gloves and thermal underclothes.

I was talking to the liaison officer in the café earlier, and was told about “Black No. 12″ ‘s treatment. It was so unexpected that I had to ask again three times.

The government seems to consider “Black No. 12″ a valuable collaborator. Because as “Faunus” ‘s watchdog, the information about the anti-government network has been hammered into his head. We will train him, and make him a spy. And it seems that the education and supervision tasks have been left to me.

Education? Me?

Can I really do such a thing?

I don’t have any connections with others because of this job. Because friends and families can become a spy’s weaknesses. Both my parents and my former lover thought that I had died in jail.

Can someone like me teach someone and guide them the way?

I don’t know. But what if I can?

Someone like me, who had thrown away his past and his name to be called by merely a code name, now can do something for someone else, for my country, and for my newly-born friend. The thought of that made me more excited than I could imagine.

My life, and my death probably won’t be passed on to the future generations. What will be given to me after my death will be nothing but a broken, nameless tombstone. But I am okay with that. As long as before I die, I can leave behind something for someone.

My first task is to give “Black No.12″ a new code name.

I have decided it already. Paul Verlaine.

The real name that my parents gave me long ago.

Paul. One day you will read this memoir and know the secret about yourself. I pray that that moment will be a time of blessing for you.

Day xx

General Directorate for Special Services, Operations Department, Special Forces Group, Agent

Cloudy sky - Midnight - Can’t see the moon

I can’t believe it. We have successfully deciphered the “Secret of the Gentle Forest”. The worst beast of all is sleeping there. That’s where Verlaine’s

(The page was torn from here, unreadable)

....

Day xx

General Directorate for Special Services, Operations Department, Special Forces Group, Agent

Fine weather - Before dawn - New moon

It’s the day before my infiltration mission into a military base of an enemy country, so I am leaving a slightly longer record today. There will be no support for that mission. No rear backup either. No collaborator from inside.

The target to be captured is a new type of skilled weapon. It takes the shape of a little boy, but is actually a disaster that has the power to destroy the world.

It’s a dangerous mission. I might not make it out alive.

But if there is anyone who can successfully carry out this mission to take the world’s disaster from the hand of the enemy country, it can’t be anyone other than me and my partner, Paul Verlaine.

I have been thinking about it for a long time. About what I can do for my reliable partner Verlaine. I couldn’t come up with an answer until yesterday.

I will celebrate his birthday.

Of course, he doesn’t have an exact birthday. But I considered yesterday his birthday. On the same day four years ago, Verlaine killed Faunus and gained his freedom.

I ordered a small pudding from a confectioner in Paris and headed to Verlaine’s hideout with a bottle of wine under my arm. Verlaine looked more doubtful than surprised. So I explained to him.

Celebrating one’s birthday implies a very simple fact. In other words, it carries the message that “the fact that you were born is worth celebrating”. No matter what anyone says, your birth has a value.

And then there is one thing that can’t be missed when celebrating a birthday. A birthday without it is like the night sky without the moon.

A birthday present.

What I gave him was a black hat.

A brimmed bowler hat. It is neither particularly expensive, nor something made by a famous hatter.

However, the cloth of the sweat-absorbing band that goes around the inside of the hat was made of a very special material.

A rainbow-colored metal made from 10% platinum, 10% titan, and gold as the central material of the rest. It carries “Faunus” ‘s skill. It was the thing that was almost completed in his lab, but I modified it into the shape of a hat.

When you put your head inside, the cloth of the hat will serve as a coil, and prevent the external instruction system from interfering with the mind. On the other hand, the instruction system can be controlled from the inside, or in other words, the will of the one who wears this hat.

If Verlaine has this black hat, he will be one step closer to becoming a “human with free will”.

His reaction was pretty strange. He was neither happy nor surprised. He just said “I will take it for now.” with his calm eyes. He didn’t say anything after that. We drank the wine, said good night to each other then parted.

Even now, after one day has passed, I still don’t know if that was the right thing to do. Verlaine’s eyes were freezing and as far as beyond the North Pole.

But we will know the answer soon.

Tomorrow, at the enemy’s base.

If it is for the sake of my partner, I will gladly conquer any hell.

As long as I have my God in the sky above, the bonds in my heart, and the future in my reach.

(This is the last sentence of the memoir. Nothing was written after this.)

....

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #storm bringer #spoilers #bsd spoilers #paul verlaine #arthur rimbaud

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pjo-whore · 3 years

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Percy Jackson At Hogwarts

Chapter 1: Wizards Are What Now?

Look, Percy never wanted to be half-blood.

Being a half-blood – the child of a mortal human and a god – was dangerous. It was scary. Most of the time, on top of having neglectful parents and a dysfunctional and incestuous family that wanted you dead for petty reasons, it got you killed in other painful, nasty ways.

There wasn’t a day that went by where Percy didn’t feel envious of the kids who didn’t have to deal with the mythological world.

Percy Jackson was seventeen years old. Until a month ago, he was fighting a war against a Greek primoradial, the Earth Mother incarnate, Gaea – also known as his great grandmother. Before that, he fought in a war against his grandfather, Kronos, Greek Titan of Time, who wanted to overthrow the Olympian gods and take over the world and the Empire State Building. Somewhere in between he also found time to spend a month in literal Greek hell, Tartarus, who also happened to be his great grandfather, and who also tried to murder him on sight.

Was Percy a troubled kid?

Yeah. You could say that.

And right now, he was still trying to clean up the mess from the Second Giant War.

Now that there wasn’t a war looming overhead, the gods’ recent exploits were coming to light, and new demigods were popping up everywhere, everyday. The number of demigods skyrocketed now that they were actively searching and not waiting for them to stumble into Camp on their own.

But that also meant there were new kids to train, more demigods for the gods to claim, and less time to recoup from the recent war.

Less than a month had passed since Gaea’s defeat.

The days were filled with helping each other get back on their feet, rebuilding the camps, and trying to keep the fragile peace in order.

There was still a lot to sort out, and the gods weren’t as hands-on as most would like. There was conflict building up. News spread about how the gods helped the seven demigods of the prophecy fight the giants, because a giant couldn’t be killed by a mortal alone, and this made many jealous and angry. The gods could pop in for a single battle when it was their own ass on the line, but not when a group of their own literal kids needed to rebuild their home that was dedicated to the gods?

Besides Chiron and Dionysus, the only god to physically stay at Camp Half-Blood following the battle against Gaea due to his punishment from Zeus, there were no other adults. The oldest demigods were barely twenty. Despite age, most, if not all, the demigods looked to the prophecy demigods for guidance and leadership.

Annabeth, Jason, Percy, Piper, and Nico.

The brunt of the responsibility fell on the daughter of Athena, and the son of Poseidon. They led their Camp through the Second Titan War, and now they were survivors of another war.

Things weren’t easy for a long time.

The Camp was completely ravaged.

During Gaea’s seize of the Greek demigod Camp, the cabins were burned by the monsters and toppled by Gaea’s massive earthquakes. Not even the Big House – the staple of Camp Half-Blood, the oldest building on the lot – survived the attack.

Camp Jupiter didn’t fare any better, but their buildings had been more structurally sound, thicker and built of material that didn’t burn and crumble. Enough buildings were still standing well enough to inhabit.

Everything had to be rebuilt for Camp Half-Blood.

Nobody could be sent home – to their mortal homes, with mortal parents, and a mortal life, mortal being the slang for “normal” among the mythological world – despite the new lack of residency at Camp Half-Blood. Kids needed to heal. There were nightmares and PTSD. Trauma and concussions. People to be counted, bodies missing, some so mauled they were impossible to identify. Several bodies were unearthed from the ground, sucked in by Gaea’s attack and suffocated beneath the dirt.

Shrouds were made for those who could be identified, the unknown buried in unmarked graves to be remembered. Those who were missing were given honorary shrouds, unknowing if they were in one of the unmarked graves. The Romans were unable to do their traditional funeral rituals, transporting the bodies all the way to Camp Jupiter, and were burned in shrouds alongside the Greeks.

Mortal parents simply couldn’t help.

They couldn’t fathom their children being in a war.

There were fears that demigods would be taken away from Camp Half-Blood by their mortal parents, horrified at what their kids were put through. Chiron especially worried about demigods who would be kept from Camp by parents, forcing them to live alone without any mythological world support, to defend against monsters on their own, without any magic or special weapons.

So, among the remaining able-bodied demigods, Greeks alongside Romans worked together to erect the new Big House. Tents from the Romans’ siege on Camp Half-Blood were gifted to the Greeks to provide residency until the new cabins were built, while the Romans started to march back home.

During all the chaos, Percy didn’t have any time to sit down and process all that happened.

The whole Camp looked up to him as a leader, but Percy didn’t feel very strong or wise.

He only felt bitter.

There were some who walked by and whispered “lucky” and “prophecy.”

Some who stopped talking as soon as he walked into the room.

Those who acted like he wasn’t even human, just some untouchable hero; but they ostracized him.

Percy was aware that he was one of the so-called “lucky” campers; lucky being compared, because at least he walked away with all his limbs intact.

It didn’t feel like he was lucky.

He wasn’t unscathed. He bore many scars, visible and not. His time in Tartarus was an impossible nightmare on bad nights, and a shadow on good days.

Percy was learning that he had triggers.

He was learning Annabeth did, too.

Neither liked using elevators.

Annabeth’s expression went tight when Percy used his powers around her. She turned away, sometimes completely leaving the area.

She got antsy in the dark, a childhood fear resurfaced.

There were other little things; at night when she had nightmares she would toss and turn in bed, sweating through her clothes and sheets, despite the breeze being cold. Sometimes Annabeth would completely avoid Percy, acting snappish, always coming back and apologizing in the end, and they would hold each other like they were hanging over the chasm again.

Annabeth refused to talk about what she saw in her nightmares, and Percy never pushed. He was one of the only people who could understand what she was going through.

Sometimes all they could do was sit and try to drown out the memories of The Pit.

Percy’s triggers were different.

He developed a deep-seated hatred for empousai. The moment he saw one, his body started to shake with adrenaline and nerves, fire flashing before his eyes.

Percy could no longer look at the stars without feeling a deep loss, tears pricking at his eyes.

He prayed to his father, Poseidon, more often, as if trying to re-establish his connection to the sea, to re-establish his connection to the Overworld, as if that could cleanse him of what happened in The Pit. As if he could wash away the touch of The Pit.

Percy’s nightmares were always blurry and violent. He wouldn’t snap awake like others. He didn’t startle or jerk upright. He didn’t make a single noise. He would wake silently, and lay there in bed, eyes open and unseeing, that shattered glass feeling he always dreaded at the bottom of his stomach. After he could never go back to sleep, and he would get up and sit on the tile in his cabin for hours and look in the mirror and wait for the image to change. He would wait for it to reflect what he feared, though it never did.

“Okay, so, how big is the situation? Is it like, ‘Aphrodite lost her hairbrush again’ big? Or is it ‘Gaea has risen again’ big?”

Annabeth frowned. “I don’t know. All Chiron said was that a god needed our help – and I don’t know about you, but I don’t like the sound of that.” She chewed her bottom lip in thought as they headed toward the Big House. They had been asked to attend a private meeting with Chiron, outside of the camp counselor meeting. “He sounded serious, too. Whichever god it is must be an asshole to seek help so soon after the war.”

She wasn’t wrong, Percy thought.

Jason was appointed Pontifex Maximus in Camp Jupiter, and as such he was responsible of advising the praetors, ruling over the Camp Jupiter counsel, and overseeing the work and prayers to the minor gods. His promise to Kymopoleia to bring worship and awareness for all minor gods became his fulltime job, and it was ruled that most gods must go through Jason to request help from either demigod camp.

A god asking for help directly after a full-scale war? Using Chiron as their connection? It was a hit below the belt, and it made Percy frustrated.

A few demigods raised their heads in greeting as Percy and Annabeth passed by the arts and crafts center. Conner and Travis Stoll, who were trying to build bombs with bits and pieces from the forge, took one look at Percy, then at Annabeth, and wiggled their brows suggestively. Percy unsubtly stuck them the bird, and they started to laugh their assess off.

The Big House was smaller now, after being rebuilt.

What could be scavenged from the attic was saved, but most of it was lost. Magical artifacts and ancient texts were burned and crushed. Now the Big House served mostly as the infirmary, aside from the drop-by medicinal tent near the Apollo cabin, where more medical supplies were. The Apollo and Hephaestus cabins had been the first to be rebuilt because they gave needed services.

Aside from the infirmary, the Big House had a commons area for meetings, and housed a kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom.

Checking in the commons area, Chiron was in his wheelchair. Nico was sitting at the beloved ping pong table, which had somehow survived the siege on Camp, and Thalia was sitting backwards on a chair by the new counselor table, which no one ever used.

Percy sat next to Nico and twirled the ping pong paddle between his hands, Annabeth taking her usual seat during counsel meetings.

Chiron looked tense.

“Now, I know that only a month has passed since the end of the Second Giant War, but –”

The air practically sparked with the collective tension that built.

“– a new quest has been issued.”

Annabeth leaned forward in her seat, interested. “Chiron, you can’t have an official quest without a prophecy. And the last time I checked; the Oracle of Delphi wasn’t working right now.”

“Well, it’s a good thing this isn’t a quest from the Greek pantheon, then.”

Percy cocked a brow and shared a look with Annabeth.

“The Roman pantheon doesn’t have an oracle, and their last augur exploded himself, so –”

“It’s a friend of Lady Hecate, the Triple Goddess.”

Dead silence.

“The Triple Goddess?” Percy parroted. “I don’t follow.”

“The Triple Goddess is of the Old Religion, once practiced in Europe hundreds of years ago by the druids and magic users in general. It belonged to Albion, a land of five kingdoms, before it split into the United Kingdom and Ireland.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Nico said.

“All those years ago, in the middle ages, after the golden age of the Greek pantheon, the Old Religion became very popular in Albion. Magic was something that anyone could practice even if they weren’t born with the innate talent, with the proper training. Through the ages, though, the religion declined, and the New Religion rose and became the staple. While the Old Religion relied on the magic of the land, sea, and sky; the New Religion relied on your inner magical core, and so not everyone could do this new magic.”

Chiron shifted in his wheelchair and pulled out a small stack of photos, but when he tossed them onto the ping pong table, the demigods saw that they held moving pictures.

In one photo, it showed a person standing over a boiling cauldron, on the wooden table beside them, old parchment with a quill that moved by itself, writing on the paper. The picture moved slightly, the character stirring the cauldron. Then the animated picture reset and repeated.

In another photo, two persons stood facing each other, holding purposefully shaped wooden sticks, pointing them at each other. Bright lights exploded from the tips of the sticks, and their robes and hair swayed with strong winds.

In the last photo, a person was wearing a uniform of sorts, with a helmet and pads on their knees and elbows. They held an old broomstick between their knees, and metal hinges held on the back close to the bristles, like a hitch for the feet. In the picture, the person grabbed onto the end of the broomstick and shot into the air, like magic. It gave image to the stereotype of witches flying on brooms in the night.

“The Old Religion died out because the land lost its magic. Only select spots held magical creatures and natural magic. Magic was only preserved through the New Religion, and those who practiced the New Religion became witches and wizards. The lot of them went into hiding and created their own society – the wizarding world.”

“In today’s day and age, magic is passed down through genetics. And sometimes, those with magic cores can be born to those with no magic at all. The population of magic users stays stable, and there is balance in the world of magic …” Chiron winced. “Mostly.”

“But these people have lost contact with the Triple Goddess. They no longer worship or prayer to her. They rely solely on their own magic, not what comes naturally from the land, like in the Old Religion. And recently, war has passed for them. The Second Wizarding War ended four months ago. And this has severely depleted their resources and magic. There is a school for the magic users, used as the stronghold during the war, and now the wizarding world’s hero is returning to finish his studies.”

“His moniker is ‘The Boy Who Lived,’ and he’s called Harry Potter. But he was only a child – is only a child. He and his peers are children who have been used to fight a war that they shouldn’t have had to fight.” Chiron looked very grim.

Percy bitterly sank back in his seat.

“We were kids, too.”

Chiron sighed. “This war has thrown the balance of magic out of whack. The natural magic has been depleted for too long, and there are those who are actively tipping the balance to sabotage the magic for their own gain. It’s suspected that the dark forces from the war – Death Eaters – are still operating in the shadows. It is because of this that the Triple Goddess has called upon you as heroes to help restore the wizarding world and save magic.”

“You would only be obligated to attend the school of Hogwarts until you uncovered the source of oppression over magic, so the Death Eaters can be caught and restrained. If you choose to accept, of course.”

Percy eyed him sharply. “You say that as if we have a choice.”

Chiron pursed his lips. “Despite what you think, yes, you do.”

“But this is from a whole other pantheon,” Nico said. “A group of magical people who don’t even believe in the goddess who brought about their magic. Why do we have to fix this?”

More silence.

Chiron looked down on them unapologetically.

Percy shifted uncomfortably, looking over at Annabeth. Chiron seriously expected them to just up and leave Camp for this quest. Barely a month had passed since their own war, and they were getting by as they were. Percy didn’t believe Camp Half-Blood could afford to lose any support or cabin counselors, even for a short period of time.

“So, let me get this straight,” Percy said. “Basically – if I just ignore the little prologue, you gave there – you want us to go to this magical school, on orders of a goddess that’s almost faded, stalk a kid, and watch out for people who like to try to rob the world of magic – magic, which they use themselves.”

Chiron looked pained. “No, I don’t believe they’re purposefully robbing the world of magic.”

“Oh, well that clears everything up.” Percy threw his hands in the air.

“Regardless, you understand what’s being asked. This is a quest, technically coming from Hecate, as a favour for the Triple Goddess. It’s valid as a hero’s quest. It was decided it would be best that you go undercover as transfer students and secretly watch over Harry Potter, the target for most Death Eaters. Your goal is to prevent trouble before it gets serious, though I doubt that will be hard, as trouble always manages to find you –”

“Wait, hold on,” Percy said, still hung-up on the quest. “How are we supposed to fit in at a school for the magically gifted? None of us are wizards.”

“Oh, that is something that can easily be fixed,” Chiron said, dismissing the problem.

“Excuse me?!” Thalia said.

“Hecate considered this quest from the Triple Goddess for a long time before coming to me.”

Percy rolled his eyes. Out of everyone in the room, he had the least faith in the gods. They never gave him anything to have faith in.

Annabeth narrowed her eyes at the camp director. “And how exactly does Hecate plan on ‘fixing’ the problem? I don’t see any obvious solutions. We’re demigods, not wizards.”

Chiron shifted awkwardly. “She has not shared that with me. I have only gotten the request that you undertake this quest for the Old Religion, and that she will visit to prepare you.”

Percy felt like grinding his teeth. “Oh, so she just expected us to accept the quest. She never considered us refusing? Why can’t the wizards fix their own problem?” Chiron said nothing. “Camp is still in shambles – we don’t even have all the cabins rebuilt yet! We can’t leave, not now. There’s still too much work to do here, and too many new demigods to watch over and protect. And have you even considered that maybe we don’t want to go on this quest? That maybe we want a break? My entire childhood was prophecy after prophecy, quest after quest, serving the gods. We’re under no obligation to do this. You can tell Hecate that she can stick her magic wands up –”

He didn’t get the chance to finish because Annabeth had already taken a ping pong paddle and smashed a ping pong ball in his direction, the mutual action used to keep order in camp counselor meetings.

“BALL!” Annabeth yelled, slamming her paddle across the table.

Percy scowled and took his seat again.

“Now, Percy,” she said sweetly, leaning over the table. “Where did you say Hecate could put those wands?”

“Nowhere,” he muttered.

Annabeth acquiesced and put the paddle down.

“Where is this school anyway?” Nico asked. He frowned. “And Hogwarts? What kind of name is that?”

“It resides in Scotland, its exact location unknown and hidden by powerful magic. Outside of the school, which is an ancient and famous monument for the wizarding world, there are other magical establishments. One place you will be required to visit is Diagon Alley, a wizarding market. That’s where you’ll collect your resources for going undercover at school.”

“Again, you’re saying all this like we’ve agreed to go,” Percy mumbled.

He was ignored. Thalia raised her hand, her features etched with confusion. “Okay, I hate to be the one to say it – but how are we supposed to blend in with wizards and witches? We can’t use magic, and we know nothing about their world.”

Chiron admitted he didn’t know how Hecate would find ways around the problems. “She has informed me that, only once the quest is accepted, will she come and discuss the details. In fact, she should be arriving any moment –”

What happened next could not have been anymore dramatic.

There was a blinding flash of light – the glow filling the entire room – and it forced the demigods to cover their eyes lest they go blind from laying eyes upon a god’s true form.

All eyes landed on the goddess, technically titaness.

Hecate appeared as a tall, thin woman. Her dark brown hair was tied up in a kekryphalos, the shining coil twisting and adorned with intricate gems and metals. Loose strands of hair framed her sickly pale face, which held sharp chartreuse yellow eyes. She wore a dark chiton robe that draped over her thin figure, and it seemed to ripple like a heat hallucination, like ink spilling off to the ground.

At her feet, she was accompanied by a black Labrador retriever and a polecat.

The demigods all stood as one and politely bowed, as was common for all gods. Percy glared up through his bow as he followed reluctantly.

“Rise, my young heroes.” The goddess’ voice was smooth and rich. She sounded monotone. “You have done more than enough to prove your worth to me, and for that, I know that I can trust you. I have called you four here on special request from the Triple Goddess, who has observed your acts of heroics. She believes you can save the wizarding world, her beloved kin, and magics.”

“You will use the ways of the Old Religion to learn magics and go undercover. As demigods, you already have magical cores. They just need to be trained; refined.”

Percy scowled.

“And will the oh-so-gracious Triple Goddess be visiting us herself?”

Annabeth shot him a scathing look.

“Percy!” She hissed.

Hecate eyed Percy again, as if reappraising him. “No,” she said, after a tense silence. “You will be sent to get your wands from one who still practices the Old Religion and can pair you with an appropriate wand. Your cover stories are fabricated and with the wandmaker. The Triple Goddess does not appear without dire need.”

“Her entire world being in trouble seems pretty dire to me,” Percy muttered under his breath.

Annabeth elbowed him harshly.

Hecate narrowed her eyes.

“This,” she said, pulling a laminated piece of paper out of thin air, “is called a portkey. It is an enchanted item; when touched by the intended people, or random persons, it can magically teleport you to a predetermined location.”

She held it out to demigods.

On it, in fancy letters, it read: Littletree Farms, Dorchester, Boston, Massachusetts.

“Touch this, all at once, and you will have accepted the quest.”

Chiron gave them an encouraging nod. The demigods all shared exchanged looks.

“Our responsibilities …” Thalia started, subconsciously reaching up to grab at her lieutenant circlet, from the Hunters of Artemis.

“Will be forgiven for the time while on quest,” Hecate assured. “The Triple Goddess does not ask favours lightly. This has the potential to spill into the real world; to affect our pantheon. The Old Religion is younger than the Greek pantheon, but its reach goes far and wide. The Triple Goddess is powerful; no harm will befall your precious little Camp while you are away.”

Nico hesitated, but was the first to reach for the paper. “If this is really that important … why ask for us specifically? A larger group, organized and planned, could do better.”

“The Triple Goddess has observed you, and believes you are the right heroes to help save magic.”

“But right now? This instant? Can’t we have time?”

“You will come back to your little Camp before you leave for Europe.”

Annabeth pursed her lips, then also reached for it. “Okay.”

Percy looked at her, askance. “Okay? Just like that?”

Annabeth shrugged. “A quest is a quest, and someone needs help. We are in peace right now and have no threats. I don’t see why not.”

“Fine,” Percy said, tone short. He looked over at the laminated paper. “So, this will take us where? What’s in Boston that could be so magical?”

“A wand wood farm,” Hecate said, smiling thinly. “And your quest starts now.”

Percy’s eyes snapped to the paper, where Hecate had pushed it into their collective hands unwillingly. Then the world began to spin, and there was a sharp tug in his gut, yanking him out of time and space.

#pjo #hp #percy jackson #harry potter #pjo x hp #crossover #percy #annabeth #nico #thalia #part 1 #magic percy

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seancekitsch · 3 years

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Powerplay: a Marko x Reader fic

part 3 of 3, previous part here

Warnings: harassment, vamp typical shit, cursing, death/killing, smut mentions, reference to the book

Marko was a good boyfriend, it turned out, except for when he wasn’t. You liked the sweet little kisses, the teasing way he snaps his jaw at you when you catch him staring, the way he holds you while you’re falling asleep even though he doesn’t have to.You like that he listens, more than your friends do. You rang another friend the other day, and were left waiting with the endless ringing again. You want to be upset, but they weren't as close as you were hoping they’d be. Your close friends were back in New York, three thousand miles and a year of working behind you. And they were Marko and his brothers now.

You love the way he keeps you safe, your protector being probably the deadliest thing you could encounter. You love the way he laughs, always joking and jovial. You always thought his smile hid a joke like some mystery, but now you're in on it too, and it's the funniest thing. There is no secret joke, just Marko seeing the world with eyes full of humor. He sees the little things, and now he shows them to you. You love the way you can speak without speaking. Silence followed by heavy laughter, kisses, and understanding.

You even love that week you were on your period and every night he ate you out until you screamed yourself hoarse.

“Marko,” you’d say, “lets ride.”

And he would obey, letting you hop on the back of his bike, always after work, always too fast. You'd like to imagine him crashing as the wind whips your hair, stings your face. What that would be like, huh. It's what you assume he feels like when he flies, free and wild in the night. He caters to your every whim, makes you feel the happiest, as long as the sun has set.

He was less a good boyfriend when he was hungry, brooding and refusing to get close to you. He would be irritable, pick fights, silent treatment. He would purposely leave you in silence, but he wouldn't ask for a taste, despite your offering. He respected you enough not to try that. Other times, he would make sure that you could hear every thought in his head. His thoughts sounded like shouts, always telling you to get the fuck away, always reminding you how vulnerable you were, how easy to kill you’d be. It's almost maddening. You never knew which nights he would be the silent ones, or which ones would be the loud ones.

“Marko,” you’d say, “This is just temporary.”

You don't even have to think the words for him to know what you mean. Or those moments during the day when it's highlighted just how different he was, would always be. He would always be twenty and handsome and having fun, with a guaranteed group of friends. With a family he belonged with. You would always age, you would have to find something else to do eventually, and you would probably have to leave Santa Carla, because he wouldn't. You could always bore him, with Marko one day realizing you can't keep up anymore. You would always be weaker, and no matter how often Marko puts you first, he always holds the power. You’re only the decision maker because he lets you be. He could always take that power back. Find someone new when you get old and he stays the same age. He will always be this way, and you will always change.

It's those nights you think of pulling away from him, and you hope he never hears those thoughts. You love him, but he’ll always say it's not temporary. It's not true.

You love Marko today.

The jingling of the bell snaps you from your thoughts, head rising only to be face to face with one of the surf nazis. Huh, guess the boys didn’t clear all of them out. This one was tall, a skinhead with an upturned pug-like nose, wearing a lot of denim with eyes alight with mayhem in his agenda. Oh, please don’t fucking break anything.

“Hey Baby,” he sneers. God, his voice was even worse than his looks and his smell.

“Not your baby,” you deadpan, wishing desperately for him and his friends to leave without stealing or breaking anything forcing a sickeningly sweet customer service tone, “But what can I help with?”

Maybe good customer service will get them in-and-out quicker.

“That hot little body of yours could help me out,” his tone is outright mocking. God, is this how dudes like these think they can pull? You can’t even hide your grimace as you flinch at the words. If there was anyone else, just one other person working tonight, this wouldn’t be happening. You know this. Working nights alone practically invited this brand of harassment.

fuckfuckfuck. It’s way too early for Marko to be sniffing around, and if you can get them to leave the next four hours of your shift will be miserable. The man laughs, and it makes your blood run cold. He leans over the counter, past the little curtain of incense haze; breaching your only barrier of safety.

“I bet it could. Couldn’t it, baby?”

His large arms press against the glass of the counter and your eyes immediately flicker from them to the back room, where your knife is. He straightens up.

“Cat got your tongue?”

You frown, meeting his eyes now.

“Do you plan on buying anything we sell?” The Bauhaus record you have playing over the speaker skips, and you almost jump. It's just enough to break the tension, the rising bile in your throat clearing.

“I come in here for you, girlie,” and he affirms what you already know. Now that half of the surf nazis were gone, they were struggling to maintain their turf on the boardwalk. So harassment and torture at their hands were on the rise. Many people over the past few weeks had been dodging them in the stores around here, and now apparently they had caught wise to that. Done with it, you take a step back, leaning yourself against the back shelf to retreat further into the curtain of nag champa.

“You can fuck off,” you offer, gaining confidence as you realize the bong behind your head was more than affordable, and if you broke it over his head, you could cover it.

He opens his mouth to respond, but-

The bell on the door jingles again. A familiar smile fades into a scowl. Marko looks like one of those greek heroes tonight, maybe if only because his presence saves you from the gross comments (or anything worse) of the shaved head across the counter. He immediately distracts the surfer from you.

“Why don’t you get outta here, buddy? Me and the lady were just discussing me trying her out later,” the man spits, and you almost gag at the mental image of that.

Marko laughs, that high pitched full body laugh you love so much.

“That’s funny, buddy,” He throws the man’s nickname back at him, “Cause that’s my old lady right there.”

You loved and hated when he called you that. Technically, you are a year older than the year he turned. The first time you all realized that, Paul gave himself a stomach ache laughing over the ‘older woman’ Marko brought home. Tonight though, the nickname brings the biggest smile to your lips.

“Damn right I am,” you chime in, “and you couldn’t take the hint.”

Marko seals the deal by striding over to where you are and pulling you into a kiss over the counter. It doesn't take much more for the surf nazi to leave, the jingling of the door opening announcing his departure.

“I’m gonna make sure we kill the rest of them before the week is out.”

He waits the three hours it takes for you to be able to lock up behind the counter with you, loosely holding your hips and following you around, only moving away from you to pick out new records when one ends.

Come over tonight, Marko thinks, and you know it isn't a suggestion. You kiss him hard on the mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him to press against you. His arms automatically find themselves around your waist, squeezing you as he eagerly returns the kiss. This wouldn’t be your first time at their dilapidated hotel, with sprawling caves and chandeliers and beautiful spray painted murals on the walls. The first time you were there, he brought you there while the others were hunting. He fucked you on any surface not covered with knick knacks they'd collected or takeout containers, leaving you to sheepishly blush while he proudly talked to the others when they returned, deep red hickies and a bite mark on your collarbone you couldn't hide. The next time, the boys and Star and Laddie welcomed you in with booze and a feast and a fun night where you had to crawl out of the cave at dawn looking like a mess. Either way, he waits for you to agree before he leads you to his motorcycle.

“Star, Why don't you just become one of us already?” Paul whined, holding his half eaten eggroll like a cigar, “You're already living with us, Mama. We just want to be friends forever.”

She scrunches her nose, smoothing the long hair of Laddie’s head in her lap. The boy was tired, their unofficial little brother or not, he was still an eight year old.

“Or maybe,” David starts, dropping down from the rim of the check in counter of the hotel, “Star can just have some fun with them and we don’t even have to do what Max wants.”

The boys all laugh, Dwayne’s shoulders turning inward, while Paul smacks Marko in the chest behind you. Whoever Max was, he was someone that could give the boys orders; something you didnt think possible besides their own little group hierarchy. You'd figured out pretty quickly that David was the leader, Marko was his right hand, Dwayne was the left hand; with Marko enforcing, playful and impulsive, and Dwayne being the level head, logical and the one who often kept the boys from fighting and made them all remember why they loved each other so much. Paul was the baby. Both literally and figuratively. He was the messiest, the most likely to slip up;. He was also the one turned last. So when Star decides to be one of them, she’ll be the new baby. Then Laddie.

“No,” Star affirms, “No, I can’t do that to Michael.”

“Michael,” David tests the name on his lips, tongue darting out to lick them after he says it. The curly haired brunette on the boardwalk had a name. Then his eyes flick to you. There's a sharpness to them that feels so different from Marko’s. David is trying to stare through you, not to look inside of your head, to look past it, to see any weakness. A challenge.

“Who’s Max?” you speak up from your spot on Marko’s lap. You can feel him tense under you, but David smiles.

“You don't know about Max? Marko, you didn’t tell her about Max?”

Marko’s hand wraps around your wrist as David continues.

“Max knows all about you, y/n. There’s a reason you're here.”

Here as in, still alive in a vampire den, or here tonight specifically?

Mind thing? You think, and Marko leans his head down against your shoulder as he nods.

“So he knows Marko and I are X-men? Is he Professor X?”

You hear Dwayne and Paul chuckle from the other side of the circle, and Dwayne mutters, “Yeah something like that,” as he swats his hand at Paul’s mesh-covered chest.

“He sired us,” David clarifies.

“You feel it right?” changing the subject, “You feel like you need to be near Marko?”

Marko squeezes your wrist in encouragement, and you nod.

“He’s my boyfriend.”

“That's not what I mean.”

You know what he means. It's the way you feel Marko before you see him, the way you can never sneak up on him.

You nod again.

“That’s what Max wanted to know. Marko, do you wanna tell her, or should I?”

What does he mean? You think and the man below you perks up.

Come with me. His palms grip your hips and gently push you to stand, and he follows suit before taking the lead.

He leads you towards the mouth of the cave, where you enter and away from any listening ears.

“So you know how David is dating Star?” he asks, voice low and close to you in the shadows.

“If that’s what they’re doing,” you joke, and he laughs along with you.

“Well, he thought they had what we have, and that's why she’s with us.” He reaches for your hands to hold them, dropping any playfulness from before.

“I’m supposed to turn you, Max thinks. He’s a lot older than us, and he says some vampires have mates or something similar to that. Others they have some deep mental connection with. The guys… we can hear each other sometimes if we try hard, because we’re a pack. I don't have to try with you and that's why Max thinks it's different.”

Turn you? Like, capital T- Turn you? Into one of them? If he turned you, you’d never see the sun again; never feel its warmth. You’d have to drink blood, and human blood at that. You’d become a killer, and you’d have to keep killing. While you aren’t innocent, killing kind of seems like it would be a stretch for you. Some of their victims had to be innocent, but would your hunger corrupt your morals one day?

It's like he can see the wheels turning in your head, ability to hear your thoughts or not.

“Y/n, you don't have to. Fuck, this was dumb to bring up. David thought you were ready, but if you don't want to I won't make you…” He trails off, visibly a little more deflated.

But if you did, you would be on the same level as Marko. All of the insecurities you have about your relationship would just… stop existing. Your relationship’s expiration date would disappear, your fears about having to leave him or him leaving you would disappear. You'd have people and a place to belong and lover and guaranteed group of friends to be a new family.

“How does it work, Marko?” your voice surprises him, and in honesty, he brought you to the mouth of the cave to give you an out. If you wanted to leave here, leave him specifically, he was going to let you.

“You gotta drink, uh, vampire blood.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

You shrug.

“Are you sure? There's no take backs for this,” Marko’s voice is stern, unlike you ever heard it before.

Deadly sure, Marko.

He smiles, slowly like the moon rising in the night before it crescendos into the wide toothy grin you're so used to seeing.

Marko leads you back into the den of the cave where the others are hanging out.

Dwayne is the first to approach the two of you.

“Everything okay?”

You nod thankfully, offering him a smile.

Paul swoops in next.

“You better be tellin’ me you're joining the fam, chica!”

He tries to drape his arm around your shoulder, but Marko pushes him away playfully, both of the boys smiling.

“Let’s get this girl a drink!” Marko shouts, and the guys start up hollering and laughing.

Marko leads you back to where you had originally been sitting, his designated folding chair. He gestures to you to sit down, while he looks to David for something. Over his shoulder, you can see Star frowning as she watches on.

“Glad you got to talk it out,” David remarks as he hands a bottle of wine to Marko. Maybe you’ll be able to get used to his mannerisms in half a century. Marko hands off the bottle of wine to you, and your hands dip with the weight of it.

The wine bottle is bejeweled, another do it yourself project that the guys seem to love so much. It's heavy in your hands, dark and unseeing down the neck of it, but full. Marko crouches down between your legs, palms flat against your thighs as everyone waits with bated breath. You uncork the bottle, noticing the dark red staining on the cork, and knowing exactly what’s in it now. Two shaky hands bring the bottle to your lips, tilting your head back as you let the contents flow into your mouth, filling it. The ‘wine’ is thick, warm and salty but feels like it's already intoxicating you from just being in your mouth.

“That’s all Marko’s blood, you know,” David remarks, and you swallow deeply. All Marko. He drained his blood for you, weakened himself for you. Your eyes flicker to him, and he smiles up at you from his spot between your legs.

You smile back at him, widely, teeth stained with blood.

#my work #marko lost boys x reader #marko lost boys #marko x reader

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goldentournesol · 4 years

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The Receptionist and The Profiler (Three)

Chapter Three: Minimal Loss

(Spencer Reid x f!Reader)

Series Masterlist

General Masterlist

A/N: as a heads up, a large part of this chapter is a flashback, separated by ~~~. angst of minimal loss, buckle up y’all it’s getting serious!

Some cases don’t require the whole team to go investigate. Sometimes a few members go out to consult on something and come right back. Apparently, a 911 call had been received from a 15 year old girl saying that a man was sexually assaulting her and other girls her age. The call came from inside a cult’s base and now Spencer and Emily were sent to the ranch to investigate the leader, Benjamin Cyrus. Y/N selfishly wanted to tell Hotch to send someone else in place of him, but she knew Spencer was the least intimidating of the bunch and so it made sense for him to go undercover as a child victim interview expert alongside Emily.

Y/N watched as JJ zoomed straight past her desk and stood behind Derek’s desk, “Morgan.” she said, flicking the volume button of the TV across the room, panic fighting its way through her voice.

Morgan and Y/N’s attention went straight to the news reporter on the TV, “--what is reportedly being called a routine questions and answers meeting by Colorado child services has turned into a violent and deadly standoff between Colorado authorities and a French religious group known as Separtatian sect. The raid--”

“JJ, that’s not the ranch Prentiss and Reid--” Morgan said, standing from his desk.

“They’re still inside.” JJ informed.

“HOTCH!” Morgan yelled across from the bullpen, sending panic and goosebumps to every nerve ending in Y/N’s body. All she could think was, not again, please, God, not again.

Suddenly, all the phones of the bullpen began ringing. Y/N was absolutely frozen in her seat, not even aware of the phone on her desk ringing its wire off. It was like the air was heavy and she couldn’t breathe. She was vaguely aware of JJ’s outline as she approached her and placed her hands on her shoulders.

“Y/N. Y/N!” JJ called out as if she’d been calling her name for hours already, for all she knew, she had. Y/N unexpectedly felt a salty bead of water enter her mouth through her lips, she was crying.

“JJ...not again, JJ.” She practically whimpered, shaking her head in disbelief. The blonde’s heart wrenched in her chest as she thought back to the events of Georgia.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. We’re on our way to him right now. We’re going to do our best to get them out. I need you to stay strong for me now, alright? The phone’s going to be ringing a lot, we need you here.” JJ attempted to comfort her and Y/N was quick to compose herself, nodding.

“Yes, yes, I know. I’ve got it.” She sniffled, rubbing her cheeks. JJ pulled her into a quick tight hug, well, as tight as she could with her growing belly between them. Y/N squeezed her tight, “You get him back to me safely, JJ.” She whispered and the blonde nodded before taking off with the rest of the team.

“Is she okay?” Morgan muttered to JJ as they speed walked out of the building, secretly wondering if that’s how friends should react to hostage situations.

“I’m not sure.” JJ answered honestly and the two shared a pointed look.

It was no secret that there was something going on between Y/N and Reid, they knew they held intense feelings for each other, however the team decided to stay out of it...for the most part. Derek, on the other hand, was very good at not missing opportunities to mess with Reid and tease the hell out of him.

It took Spencer a while to get back on his feet, especially after Gideon had departed, but Y/N helped him every step of the way. She drove him to NA meetings whenever she could. She helped him take his mind of things when he was having cravings. She finally, finally agreed to learn how to play chess, even though she was positive she was destined to lose. She’ll never forget how excited he got when she’d offered.

~~~

“Wait--what?” Spencer stopped mid-sip from his morning coffee. The team hadn’t filed in yet, but he was hanging around her desk like he usually did when she told him.

“Yup, you heard me. I’ll let you finally teach me how to play.” Her eyes twinkled with playfulness and he could have sworn his heart swelled twice its size. He was aware that he was gaping at her, but for some reason he couldn’t stop. The thought of sitting across from her so closely and for so long as he tried to teach her the moves was enough to make him forget his words.

“Hello? Earth to Spencer?” She laughed, waving a hand in front of his face. He snapped out of it, blushing.

“Yes! Yes, I’ll teach you! We’re going to have so much fun!” He exclaimed, his face practically splitting in half from his grin. She was about to make a comment about how it wouldn’t be so fun to lose to him (the whole point of not wanting to learn it in the first place), but she decided the genuine excitement on his face was worth more than winning ever would be.

~~~

She also remembered him practically fangirling to her over David Rossi’s books. He was so excited when the other founder of the BAU joined the team in place of Gideon. Of course, Spencer had read all his books and was more than ready to recite them to her if she wanted him to but she preferred to keep the crime and the gore at a minimum, preferring to hear about Victorian love stories and obscure children’s stories that are told in African villages she’d never heard of before. Rossi was a fairly nice man, much warmer than Gideon but was still somewhat cagey upon joining the team. She didn’t really blame him, he’d left the job only to come back to it years later and find a bunch of younger hotshot agents in the unit he created. At least Rossi took the time to learn her name and smile at her in the mornings.

Sometimes he’d sit and watch the two interact from his office. He’d assumed they were together when he’d first joined the team, almost a year ago now. Seeing how they leaned into each other when they spoke and maintained such intense eye contact, it just made sense to him. That and the fact that he’d noticed the way Reid was so much more comfortable around her than he was with his team mates. He’d note the not-so-subtle lingering hand touches on arms and the way they chose not to move their knees away from each other if they bumped. But, most of all, what he thought was a dead giveaway, was the way they smiled at each other; they smiled with their whole faces. Spencer’s mood seemed to brighten around her and even though he hadn’t known the young genius for long, he knew that that was a good sign. If he hadn’t seen Y/N and Anderson getting in the same car together, he’d never have guessed that they were together, much less engaged. You don’t need to be a profiler to know what the longing glances across the bullpen meant, though. Or the sad eyes she gave him every time he left for a case. Or the hug she gave that was obviously tighter than anyone else’s when they came back.

Hopefully, he’ll come back this time.

Y/N was practically a mess at her desk after they all left. She was glad that Anderson was currently not around, then she remembered she should be wanting his presence. That is...assuming he brought her comfort. He didn’t. She took calls to try and distract herself from her panic but she found herself freaking out in between them. Her eyes traveled to the far corner of her desk where the book she was currently reading sat. She smiled as she saw the tassel fall from in between the pages of the book. The book felt heavy as she opened it, she slipped the bookmark from in between the pages, and pushed the book aside. The raised letters of her favorite poem felt familiar as her fingertips touched them. She touched the words as if they could seep into her bloodstream and finally calm her. She remembered the day he gave her the bookmark.

~~~

After years and years of participating in the office Secret Santa, Spencer finally got Y/N. He was overjoyed, in fact, he couldn’t wait to give her her gift. He had it meticulously planned out. He was ready. He poured out his heart and soul in a letter first (this took the longest). Turns out, confessing your undying love for someone wasn’t as easy as it looked on screen. With all the letters he’d written in his lifetime, he was positive this one would be no different. But, man, he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Then, he made the bookmark. Store bought would never impress her. He struggled with finding the right kind of paper and the right kind of string for the tassel, but thankfully Garcia had his back. She even helped him laminate it so it could last, for years and years. The way he wanted to last with her. He printed the words of her favorite poem. One that he’d never forget, and not even because of his eidetic memory. He chose a shiny gold string to represent the strings of fate. He had told her once the ancient Greek myth of the Moirai, the three women responsible for fate. Although he’d gone in way too great of detail, she hung onto every word. He knew she’d remember the story whenever she saw the gold string. He hoped she might pick up on what he was trying to say.

That fate would always bring them together.

That he knew that she was it for him, but if he wasn’t it for her, that’d be okay, too.

She’d also complained all too often about the nasty coffee at work, claiming that she wished she never tasted the “vile bean juice”. It was enough to shift her off of coffee completely, unless it was from the coffee shop on the corner of Spencer’s street (he took her there a lot and he liked to bring her her favorite drink in the mornings when he wasn’t rushing in). But she’d recently gotten into teas, and was annoyed at her teapot at home because she said it just tasted weird. So of course, he researched the best kind of teapot possible and hunted every single kitchenware store in DC down until he found it. She’s gonna love it.

To top it all off, he decided to get her a necklace. While looking for the teapot, a small silver necklace caught his eye in one of the shops. A small birthstone hung by two chains, he recognized it as her own, and it was perfect.

He placed the gifts and the letter inside the teapot carefully and placed two pieces of tape to ensure the top doesn’t come off in the box before making his way to Garcia’s apartment. It was really no surprise she decided to host the Christmas party, considering her love of all things Christmas. He was buzzing with nervous energy as he set the gift box under the tree. He was the first to arrive, which meant he had to endure Garcia’s endless questions about the finished gift. She pried it all out of him, even the letter. Garcia was practically jumping up and down as he told her about the contents of the letter. He didn’t know he and Y/N were such a hot topic around the office. A few minutes later, the team flowed in, one by one. Y/N and Anderson were the last to arrive.

But something felt different as they entered the apartment. Her smile was brighter than usual and she seemed extra comfortable around her fiance. He thought maybe he was reading into it too much, but then even Emily noticed.

“Woah, Y/N! You look literally radiant, what’s going on?” She asked as the couple struggled to find places to sit. Anderson found a seat on the couch and offered her his lap. Spencer watched as she blushed and pursed her lips shyly, leaning into her fiancé as he wrapped his arms around her waist. Spencer practically had a nervous ugly green creature growing inside of him. He’s decided to name him Carl. Might as well name him, you know, since he seemed to be around a lot lately. He shifted in his seat a little, which made Morgan glance over at him.

“Well, we were going to wait until later to tell everyone, but I guess that’s the downside to being friends with profilers.” She laughed and shared a look with Anderson, whose hand was grasped tightly in hers.

Spencer noticed her change in vocabulary, she said ‘we’ instead of ‘I’. He grew more and more nervous as the pause lengthened. He had to physically put his hands on his knees to keep them from bouncing.

“We finally set the date! Next August!” She exclaimed and Spencer’s heart absolutely combusted in the same exact moment.

He immediately drowned out the cheers of congratulations and kisses on cheeks. The sinking feeling in his chest seemed to strive for more. More destruction.

He was vaguely aware of Morgan grabbing his shoulder and giving him a pointed look, reminding him of his silence. Morgan felt bad for the kid, but didn’t want to embarrass Y/N. Spencer snapped out of his trance and swallowed heavily.

“Congratulations, guys.” He mustered a smile and she beamed at him.

“Thanks, Spence!” He barely registered it.

It was finally happening.

The wedding.

And he’d have to go.

And see her.

And smile at her like his heart hadn’t been ripped from his chest and placed at the altar for everyone to see as it beat for absolutely no reason.

Seriously, what was the point of his heart beating if it wasn’t beating for her?

Except, he knew it’ll always beat for her, even if she didn’t want it.

He’d have to watch her marry another man.

Watch as she walked away from him rather than toward him.

Everyone pretended not to look at Spencer but he could feel the glances anyway.

Oh no.

The letter.

The letter that was in the teapot under the tree!

Spencer didn’t know his heart was capable of beating as fast as it was. He sent a panicked look to Penelope, hoping she’d get the message, but she was too busy coming up with wedding ideas. Spencer could feel panic oozing out of the pores of his skin. Morgan took him aside and into the kitchen.

“Kid, you alright?” Morgan asked, watching as his younger teammate squirmed in the kitchen.

“This is bad, Morgan. This is bad.” Spencer paced around the kitchen, hands in his hair.

“I know, kid, I know. But you need to calm down.” Morgan tried to reason with him.

“No, Morgan! You don’t understand!” Spencer whisper-yelled as he gripped his shoulders and Morgan saw his wild eyes, “You don’t understand! The letter!”

Morgan steadied Spencer, “Reid, breathe. What letter?”

“I’m her secret Santa. I wrote her a letter, Morgan. I wrote her a letter, a letter which contains very sensitive information that she cannot read right now--o-or ever!” Spencer’s hands flew to his hair again and Morgan had to think quickly.

“Okay, okay. I’ll help you, we need to think of a way to get the letter out of the box.”

“Morgan, it’s inside the teapot-- which is taped shut by the way-- inside the box, under the tree!” He flailed around nervously.

“Damn, man. Okay, just follow my lead. When she opens her gift, I’ll distract her and Anderson and you have to get that letter out.”

Spencer nodded and when they joined the rest of them outside, people were already opening their gifts, one by one. Spencer waited anxiously as she began to unwrap her gift.

“Oooh, I’m excited!” She said, carefully unwrapping the wrapping paper and opening the box, still seated on Anderson’s lap. She gasped, “It’s a teapot!”

Spencer grimaced as he watched Morgan fake a trip and spill his drink all over Anderson’s shirt, getting some on Y/N’s back.

“Shit, man! I’m so sorry!” Morgan glanced at Spencer and Spencer jumped into action as the couple were distracted by the spilled drink. He quickly unstuck the tape on the teapot and lifted the lid enough to squeeze his hand through to remove the letter. He stashed it away in the pocket of his cardigan. In fact, he planned on burning it when he got home. He successfully restored the gift to how it was before they returned from the bathroom.

“No one says a word.” Reid warned the rest of the group, who were watching the whole debacle like it was a spectacle. They all undoubtedly figured out what was written in that letter, therefore they understood and nodded.

“Not a peep.” Garcia said, locking her lips with an imaginary key.

“Anyway! Now that that’s all sorted out. Back to the teapot.” Y/N came back to her gift and her seating arrangement.

“Um, you should...you should look inside. There’s um, bonus gifts.” Spencer was absolutely beet-red in the face.

But Y/N knew the gift was from Spencer the second she saw the wrapping paper, which was full of adorable snowmen dressed in Christmas clothing. She grinned, remembering the argument between them which started by her telling him how cute she thought snowmen wearing clothes was and him getting frustrated trying to explain to her how snowmen wouldn’t need protection from the cold. She opened up the teapot and pulled out the bookmark. Spencer watched her eyes soften as they roamed over the words of her favorite poem. She toyed with the gold string of the bookmark as she reached into the pot again and pulled out the small pouch that contained the necklace. She pulled it out and gasped.

“Oh, Spencer, it’s all so perfect. Thank you.” She moved the gifts aside and wrapped him in a hug. Spencer stopped listening to the persistent ache in his chest as he hugged her back. He let all his senses be consumed by her, just temporarily. He found peace in that moment and he tried his hardest to hold onto that peace as he watched her fiancé clip the necklace onto her neck.

Oh, what he’d give to be in Anderson’s place.

~~~

She smiled at the memory the bookmark brought. She found her fingers weaving themselves through the gold strings gingerly. That seemed to calm her nerves enough for now. Garcia had convinced her to go home finally after promising to call her and let her know if anything changed.

2 days.

It was 2 days before she heard any news. She had been cooped up with Garcia in her batcave for emotional support. Also she wanted to know about any advancements as soon as possible. Garcia and Y/N were currently watching a live feed from some news channel.

“Damn, how did he know there were FBI agents in there? Word travels--” Garcia began but the explosion on screen cut her off. Y/N stood up from her seat abruptly.

“What was that?! Garcia, was that the ranch?!” Y/N all but screamed with panic, “Penelope! Answer me!” Garcia’s stunned face was paired with teary eyes as she turned to look at Y/N. Garcia frantically called Hotch and Rossi, but no one answered.

“No, no, no. NO! This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening, Penelope. Are we sure Spencer and Emily were still inside?” Y/N’s voice wavered as she held her hands to her chest in disbelief. Garcia shrugged honestly and wordlessly.

“NO!” She began sobbing uncontrollably, falling to her knees, mumbling nearly incoherently, “I never got to tell him...I never got to tell him.”

Garcia fell to the floor, holding the sobbing woman as best as she could without falling apart herself. Y/N gripped her tight as she felt the walls closing in on her. Her chest felt tight and she suddenly felt as if the air was ripped from her lungs. She could hear strangled sobs, but wasn’t even registering that they were her own.

It was too late.

She’d never see his smiling hazel eyes again. She’d never hear his hearty laugh once more. She never told him. She never told him how deeply her love for him ran. What was she waiting for? She’d waited too long. How utterly stupid of her. And now there’s no chance. He’s gone...he’s pulverized into bits and pieces--

The phone rang and Garcia leapt to it ungracefully, “Sir?! Reid and Prentiss--”

“They’re okay, Garcia. They made it out in time. With Morgan.” Hotch said sternly.

“Morgan was in there?!” Garcia screamed into the phone.

“Yeah, but I’m alright, babygirl, don’t you worry ‘bout me.” Morgan’s silky voice was heard from farther away. Garcia was about to reply when Y/N snatched the phone from her.

“Spencer?! Spence, are you there? Are you okay?!” She half-sobbed into the phone, not wanting her voice to give her away completely.

“Yes, yeah, I’m here. I’m alive.” Spencer choked out, relief flooding her system as she heard his voice. He was very much still alive and breathing, albeit with difficulty. Y/N didn’t register the rest of the conversation between Hotch and Garcia. She lay back in her seat and buried her face in her hands, trying to control her breathing. Garcia hung up and rested a kind hand onto her shoulder.

“Whew, that was a close one.” She said with a small smile. Y/N took her hands off her face and met with her warm eyes, “You know you’ll have to tell him eventually.” Y/N froze in her place again. She suddenly avoided her friend’s gaze. She was really hoping she hadn’t caught onto that. “It’s okay, pumpkin, we can all see it.”

She was right, oh my God, she was right.

“No, I don’t--I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re wrong, whatever you think you know, you’re wrong.” Y/N felt bad saying those words but there was nothing else she could do to protect herself. Garcia stayed silent, but gave her a look that shook Y/N at her very core.

Later, on the jet, Morgan took a seat next to Reid and stared at him intently before speaking.

“So, a little birdie tells me your girl was pretty heartbroken…” He trailed off, but not without an obvious wiggle of his dark brows.

“Morgan, for the last time, she is not ‘my girl’, she is engaged. She is very much someone else’s girl.” Reid rolled his eyes, attention going back to his book, although he tried to ignore the way his heart fluttered at the thought. He didn’t know if his heart was fluttering because of what Morgan called her, or because she was so torn up about the thought of him dying. He knew he shouldn’t ever feel good about someone else’s pain, but what did her pain mean?

“So what? Engaged ain’t married, pretty boy.” Morgan shrugged, saying it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Spencer shook his head at his friend.

Back in the bullpen, Y/N waited for their arrival ever so anxiously by the glass doors across from the elevator. She was rolling onto the balls of her feet and bouncing with anticipation. It didn’t even matter that it was half past 3 in the morning. She had to see him.

The ding of the elevator was the most comforting noise she’d heard in about a week. There he was, way in the back of the elevator, lifting his gaze from the floor to meet with hers. They both broke into the largest grins they’ve ever seen. She practically pushed Morgan out of her speedy way as he stepped off the elevator and slammed into Spencer with enough force to knock the air out of the both of their chests. Spencer caught her gladly and spun her around, laughing.

“I thought I lost you.” Y/N whispered into the embrace.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Spencer replied softly into her hair.

The team all watched the reunion, adoration clear on their faces.

Emily was caught mumbling, “Damn, I wish I had someone to greet me like that after almost dying.” This, of course, resulted in a full blown bear hug from Garcia.

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chilling-in-the-dark · 4 years

Text

The Batboys As Vampires: Part 1 Bruce Wayne

This is a yandere story; it mentions elements of obsession, possessiveness, death, and it hints at noncon If any of this is triggering for you, I understand, and you don’t have to read it.

Bruce had been given another name when he was ten days old, but he had forgotten it long ago, as was often the case with those of his kind, as they took on new names to blend in often they would forget the ones they were born with.

Bruce’s father had been from a long line of purebred vampires, but he’d veered off tradition when he’d fallen in love with a woman from the Greek village he’d been visiting. Themis (Thomas as Bruce would refer to him much later in life) had been so sure about his love that he’d turned her the night they’d meet, and after a century together, they’d had a son. Bruce was born in Pompeii just eight years before the volcano erupted.

The small family had been happy, that is until the day the volcano blew erupted, his father having been quite old knew what was going to happen as soon as he felt the ground rumble below his feet. They’d sent Bruce on ahead because, at the time, he was still young enough to travel in daylight. After all, the magic in his blood wouldn’t truly sink in until he was older. Typically it was somewhere around age twenty, but Bruce was a bit of a late bloomer and hadn’t turned until he was thirty-five.

Nearly two millennia passed before he’d meet you, Alfred had been by his side for almost all of that time, though seeing as Alfred was one of the first vampires, he chose to serve him. Bruce wasn’t under any illusions the man before him was more powerful the Bruce could ever hope to be, the only reason Alfred listened to Bruce was that he’d chosen to.

Though you didn’t know anything about the dynamics of vampires when you came to be a maid in the Wayne household, it was not the first manor house you’d served in after being born in Victorian London, there had been no other choice for your lot in life. You were the illegitimate daughter of a nobleman, one who couldn’t let your birth sully his good name, so he’d done everything in his power to see that the only place your mother could go was the workhouse. Luckily by the time you were old enough to be put to work, they’d started sending children out to smaller homes where they could be trained in a trade.

For the girls of the workhouse, that meant becoming a domestic servant, while the boy’s learned to be all manner of things, such as tailors and carpenters, among other things you couldn’t quite remember. Having tried your best to suppress all memories of that place, of the cruelty you’d faced there, and of the night’s, you couldn’t sleep because you’d longed for a mother you’d only seen in passing.

You learned quickly why Lord Wayne couldn’t get his servants from the nearby village, some of the more superstitious locals whispered things about him secretly being a monster, but you’d never really believed in things like that. People were monsters enough on their own.

Things had gone well enough for the first year of your service to Lord Wayne, even if it’d taken you a while to get used to doing your job at night, because of Lord Wayne’s apparent allergy to sunlight. He wasn’t the harshest Master you’d ever had; in fact, when it came to his servant’s, he was one of the least strict you’d ever seen, though that isn’t to say he’d tolerate laziness or jobs half done. Still, if a servant finished their work early and did their job well, they were more then welcome to spend their extra time however they liked.

You favored wandering the grounds, though your preferred spot was the pond out back, its calm clear waters mirrored the heavens in such a way that it almost looked like they had fallen to earth. It was there that you spoke Lord Wayne for the first time, sure you’d seen him in passing while doing your work but had never had a conversation with him. Lord Wayne had been sweet and charming, but something about him made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Bruce had fallen for you fast, and hard it seemed because, after that first meeting, he’d found himself drawn to you when he’d told this to Alfred the old vampire just smiled. Bruce knew you were meant to be his, and he’d tried to court you the normal way, but it seemed that you were immune to his charms.

It was time for Bruce to move on anyways because the Locals were growing more and more suspicious of him as time went on, so Bruce devised a plan, one that would kill two birds with one stone.

It was a few months later that Bruce informed his staff that he was going to America where he intended to be the founder of a new city, Gotham, he’d planned on calling it. Lord Wayne had written all of his staff recommendations, nearly everyone except for you. You watched as your colleges found new employment and left one by one until you were the only member of staff left. Well, there was Alfred, but Lord Wayne intended to take with him to America.

You made you your mind to confront him about it as soon as you finished your duty’s today, only you never got the chance to because Lord Wayne appeared before you in the familiar servants’ quarters, just as you were getting ready to start your work. Your face turned beet red when you looked over at him and found that he was naked as the day he was born.

“My Lord, what are you doing?” you squeaked and tried to turn away from the scene only for Bruce to grab your chin with near bruising force and make you look into his eyes. The vibrant blue of his eyes seemed to be replaced by a glowing purple, which you found yourself praying was just the moonlight playing tricks on your eyes, because the rumors around town about him being some sort of demon couldn’t possibly be true, could they?

You didn’t get long to linger that thought; as a second later, you had much bigger things to worry about, like the fact you couldn’t even control your own body. You stood there frozen in place until Lord Wayne took your hand and started to lead you down the stairs and through the main door, all the while your mind was screaming at you. Why was this happing to you? This was just a bad dream right, any moment now, you’d wake up in a cold sweat and let yourself have a laugh about allowing the rumors get in your head.

After what seemed like an eternity, you stopped before the small pond where you’d first spoken to Bruce. Tonight, it seemed as if someone had scattered an entire kitchens worth of herbs across its typically mirror-like surface, but you didn’t have long to take it in as Bruce removed your cap and unpinned your hair. When he was satisfied he’d gotten all the pins out, Bruce grabbed your bodice and tore it clean in half shift, corset and all leaving your upper body exposed to him while the lower half was still mercifully covered by your petticoats.

If you could move, you’d be shivering, and not only from to chill that always seemed to invade the air around your Master. Though you could still cry, it seemed as tears started to stream down your face as he removed the last of your garments. This was worse than anything you’d ever been forced to endure.

Satisfied with his work Bruce turned his attention back to the pond, he used his fangs to draw a single drop of his own blood, letting it fall into the water, watching as it died the whole pond red. He smiled with satisfaction, but if you could move, you’d be trembling with fear.

Satisfied with the condition of the water, Bruce turned to look at you and produced another drop of blood using the same method as before; he was old enough that a single drop of blood is all it’d take. Vampires had to be at least two hundred before they gained the power to turn another, but the older they were, the more potent their blood would become, and the less it would take.

Still not knowing what was happing, you found your mouth opening against your will so that Bruce could force his blood into your mouth. It tasted acidic, and it burned as it went down your throat. The second the blood settled in your stomach, you could feel that something was wrong, but you couldn’t tell what.

Bruce smiled, knowing that in a few days’ time, you’d be fully turned and by his side forever. Bruce took you by the hand and lead you into the water, where he’d perform the ritual that would tie your souls together for all eternity.

That night you lost everything, your innocence, your hope, and worst of all, your humanity.

Tags:

@yanderepeterparker

@idkmanicantenglish

@prettyafghan

@neon-phosphorecsent

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crash-cinematic-universe · 4 years

Text

a sickly satisfaction (ch.1)

pairing: jason dean/reader

summary: high school sucks. jason dean makes it a little better.

warnings: uuhhhh murder, language, suicide discussion

notes: i have every chapter of this written out already, so every wednesday I’ll release a new one <3 in total the story is 7,800 words! but there are some parts that are kind of short, forgive me for those.

Eyes down. Walk fast. Stay out of their way. Three simple steps to get through the day. They had an iron grip on the school, their perfectly manicured nails digging into the oily skin of the entire student body. High School was a bloody battlefield in the war that is life. However, the epitome of cruelty, the ultimate teenage angst inducing, self-esteem crushing, happiness shattering war machine came in the form of three girls and their weak-willed sidekick. That’s right; my biggest threat in high school is Heather Chandler, Heather McNamara, Heather Duke, and Veronica Sawyer. Veronica at least has some semblance of regret and empathy-- she’s just doing what she needs to survive. Unfortunately, that means the rest of us have to struggle to keep our heads above water.

Thankfully, I have a sanctuary. A refrigerator heaven filled with endless isles of roadtrip snacks and hangover remedies. Of course, this junk food Garden of Eden also happens to contain my best friend, Tommy Geller. Tommy is 18, emo, and gay, so naturally we got along pretty well. He sits behind the register and lets me hang around until closing. It’s actually pretty nice-- sometimes he lets me do busywork around the store. Sure, it’s sort of pathetic that Snappy Snack Shack is my main source of serotonin, but you know what? There are worse places to be.

“Pop open a bottle of champagne, Tommy, because today is a special day!” I cry, pushing open the small class doors. To my delight, the store is empty. There are no irritating customers there to make me keep my voice down.

“Oh? And why is that?” Tommy inquires, his jet black hair falling in front of his eyes. He’s tired-- and bored-- and I’m the perfect remedy for that.

“Today marks exactly six months since I first stepped foot in this town,” I grin. Tommy’s eyebrows perk up.

“Really? Congrats, kid,” He’s humoring me a bit, but there is a genuine reaction beneath his sarcastic remarks.

“Thanks, Tommy. Y’know, that’s twice as long as my time in New Jersey and three times as long as my run in Nebraska. I have a feeling dear old aunt Maria might actually stay here for good,” I hop over the counter before grabbing a can of Coke out of the fridge. I prop me feet up on the counter, but Tommy knocks them down.

“You know the rules, kid, no stompy boots on the counter.” I roll my eyes. He wipes off the place where my shoes were before organizing the lotto tickets. “Anything interesting happen at school today?”

“Eh, same old same old. The Heathers were bitches, Veronica was desperately trying to keep up, and I got tripped in the hallway,” Tommy frowns.

“God, those girls really need to get humbled,” He spits.

“You don’t need to tell me. They constantly act so… self-superior, as if their power doesn’t depend solely on whether or not everyone else hates themselves to believe they’re inferior to three teenage girls who are the definition of ‘peaked in high school’,” I squeeze the soda can in my hand, the metal crunching under the pressure. “They need to be more than humbled. The Heathers deserve to be dealt as much pain as they served,”

“Watch it, kid, you’re sounding a bit homicidal,” Tommy jokes. If only he knew.

“It wouldn’t matter anyway. I don’t think they can die-- they’re like a Hydra. If you kill one of the Heathers, three more will grow in her place,” I sigh. Tommy looks concerned.

“Y/n, you don’t actually want to kill them, right?” I hesitate. The silence makes Tommy worry.

“I wouldn’t exactly lose sleep if one of them did die,” I reply nonchalantly. “It would be like a public service. Similar to killing the black mold that grows in the girl’s showers,” Tommy looks at me for a second, his expression unreadable, before turning back to his counter.

“That’s morbid,” he says. “You know that? You sound like a killer in the making.”

“Sometimes bad people deserve bad things.”

“You’re absolutely not helping your case,” Tommy laughs. I can feel someone watching me. It’s an odd feeling, but I brush it off.

“New topic?” I ask. Tommy nods.

A mischievous grin grows on his face. “You got a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Partner? All of the above?” he asks hopefully.

“No, Tommy, and don’t get your hopes up,” I chuckle, before standing up and admiring the neon sign outside.

“Oh come on, there has to be someone. You can’t possibly go to that hellhole every day and not see at least one hot person!” Tommy groans.

“Everyone at Westerburg is either evil or boring. No one interests me and I’m not interesting to anyone. Plus, my attention is mainly focused on getting through the day in one piece, not getting laid.” I neglect to mention the stranger I saw in the Cafe yesterday. He was pretty hot, and didn’t seem to be a douchebag-- in fact, he shot two of the douchiest douchebags with blank bullets. A real rarity at Westerburg.

“God, you need to get out more. I see some pretty people pass through here occasionally, I’m going to start pawning you off,” he jokes.

“Oh, god, no,” I joined in on his laughter.

“Yup, I’m going to give every hot person your photo and your address until you finally score yourself some arm candy,” Tommy can barely form sentences through his laughter.

“I’m gonna to get murdered if you do that, Tom,” I giggle.

“ And that would be damn shame,” A voice calls from across the counter. I look up to see the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It’s the same guy from the Cafe-- although in the bright convenience store lighting he looks more like a ghost than a man. His jawline looked sharp enough to slice me in half, his cheekbones high and defined. His hair was gorgeous and his teeth were really, really nice.

“Uh, yeah, that would totally s-suck,” I choked. Tommy shot me the most horrified look I’ve ever seen. “I’ve, uh, seen you around. That stunt you pulled in the Cafe was wicked, man, seriously.”

“Hey, it was a public service,” He smirked. Tommy gave me a ‘holy-shit-I’ll-leave-you-two-alone’ look before disappearing in the isles across the room. I could see him peeking through the cereal boxes. “I’m Jason Dean, but most people call me JD.” He offers his hand for me to shake.

“Y/n, Y/n Ln,” I grip his hand firmly and try not to have a breakdown over the contact. “Y’know, there are much less extreme ways to get people to fuck off than, well, shooting them.”

“The extreme always seems to make an impression, though, doesn’t it?” His voice was a little bit lower and he leaned in a little bit closer. Tommy was freaking out across the aisle, his eyes wide as his hand raked through his greasy hair.

“That it does,” I grin. “There are quite a few people in that school that deserve certain... extremities,”

“I think you’re right,” Jason smirked once again. I kept my composure as best I could. “Speaking of extremities, I saw you and Kurt in the hallway last week,” My face is lit ablaze as I recall the incident. Kurt had been continuously pestering me the entire day, and eventually I reached my limit.

“I guess they aren’t joking when they say the chin is the knockout button,” Jason seems impressed, although I can’t really tell because looking him in the eyes seems like a death sentence. “Landed me three days detention, though. That sucked. Although I guess it can’t compare to whatever they’re dealing you,” At this point, one of the regulars began approaching the front doors. Tommy sprinted out before they got in, seemingly explaining that my entire love life depends on whether or not I can play it cool.

“Eh, what can I say. I sort of dug myself a grave there,” I spoke without thinking.

“The only graves that should’ve been dug are Kurt and Ram’s. My one critique? Use real bullets next time,” I froze. Why the fuck would I say that? I mean, I’m not wrong but I doubt JD would stick around after--

“I like the way you think,” JD laughs, his ears tinted pink. Jason looks at me, and for a moment, I look right back. There’s something behind his eyes, something festering and enticing. I wonder if my eyes communicate anything. “I’ll see you around, Y/n L/n,”

“And I’ll see you, Jason Dean,” With that he winked at me, spun on his heel, and walked out the front door. Tommy practically sprinted across the room as I released every muscle I’d been tensing. I slowly melted onto the floor. Laying on the tile with my eyes trained on the bright lights overhead.

“Oh my god,” Tommy breathed. “Oh my fucking god that was-- oh my god.”

“I know,”

“Did you see him? He’s like a greek god,”

“I know,”

“And he was totally into you, like, totally,”

“I should’ve given him my address. I wouldn’t mind getting murdered by him.” I say breathlessly. Tommy sits on the counter and looks down at me.

“I think I need to teach you how to talk to boys,” Tommy sighs, shock still lingering on his face.

“Pssh, I can talk to boys just fine,” I retort.

“You almost collapsed when you saw him,” he says flatly.

“That was--”

“I thought you were going to pass out when he told you his name,”

“But I--”

“I genuinely believed you were going to vomit when he shook your hand,”

“Alright! I give! I can’t talk to boys! You caught me! Lock me up and never let me embarrass myself like that again!” I surrendered, throwing my arms in the air before letting them collapse over my face. “He probably thinks I’m a freak,”

“Are you joking? He was more smitten than you were!” This caught my attention, and I tore my arms away from my eyes.

“Huh? Elaborate!” I snapped.

“You seriously didn’t notice? He’d been staring at you since you stepped foot in here, didn’t you see him? At first I thought it was weird, but then I realized he was smoking hot so I decided I’d let it slide,” “Comforting,” Sarcasm drips from my words. “Y’know serial killers and stalkers can be hot, too.” I rolled my eyes.

“ I seem to recall you saying something along the lines of ‘I wouldn’t mind getting mur--’,”

“Alright, Tommy, we get it.” I cut him off in embarrassment. “Please continue.”

“He comes in here a lot, so I knew he was alright. He was beet red the entire time you were talking. Didn’t you see the way he was in a perpetual state of stupid smiling? Dude, he was definitely into you and really bad at hiding it,” Tommy concluded.

I smiled a big, dumb smile. I didn’t notice the fact that he was nervous, so he probably didn’t notice that I was dying, right?

“Tommy, I think we might have a keeper.”

“Thank god, I don’t think I could stand to see you go to Prom alone. That would be too depressing, even for me,” Tommy enthused. I propped my feet against the edge of the counter, staring at the tips of my boots. For the first time in a long time, Tommy is silent. I can’t get his eyes out of my head. Then again, I don’t know if I want to.

_________

#jason dean #heathers #jason dean x reader #a sickly satisfaction series #irl dont look #irl don't look #veronica sawyer #heather mcnamara #heather chandler #heather duke

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cozycryptidcorner · 4 years

Photo

Potamoi (Greek River God) x Reader (sfw)

A commission for the wonderful and kind @atalantaroars! She wanted a meet-cute with the monster match I wrote for her awhile ago. Hope you all enjoy the hunky water boi as much as I did creating him!

There are two options for you today: hike a trail, or go one more week in the stifling silence of your house and go absolutely insane. It doesn’t take much mental convincing to pack up a little backpack with snacks and water, waking up while the sun is barely more than a hint in the sky. This might not be your usual mode of operation, to drop everything and spend time out in nature despite whatever responsibilities you still have at home, but you’ve been pushed to the fucking brink lately and need to spice things up.

There’s an unmistakable scent of growth the moment you step out of your car, one that calls your body forward as if you say welcome home. You take in a few long, deep breaths, trying to let the cold morning air medicate your soul in the only way nature can, a deep sense of relaxation overcoming your mind and body as you try to clear your worries away. Only when you feel mentally ready to take on the hike, do you approach the entrance of the nature reserve.

A large, wooden board is painted with the many different trails you can take, all winding around the mountain range, labeled with various symbols that indicate difficulty levels. While you don’t think you could manage one of the more difficult ones, you also think you might not find much fulfillment in one of the easier paths, so you settle for one a bit in the middle. This trail should wrap around one of the valleys, following the main river that brings life to a neighboring town, one fed by the melting snow from the tips of the higher peaks.

Everything is quiet, peaceful, you don’t see anyone else as you begin to walk the trail, basking in the sunlight before it’s drowned out by the towering trees. Birds chirp as you continue on, sticking close to the side of the matted dirt, right where vegetation dares to attempt growing. Wildflowers dot the side of the hill as the earth swells upward, white, light blue, and yellow smattering color amidst the green. The air is almost shockingly different from what you’re used to, your body is trying to compensate for the freshness, but it doesn’t quite know how yet.

When you take a break, the sun is already high in the sky, sweat now beading down your forehead. The water you carelessly packed tastes divine, you have to be careful not to drink too much or too fast, saving most of it for later. You even eat your lunch when you get to a pile of rocks that work as a table and seat, the flat, elevated surface perfect for tossing your food onto without worrying about it falling off.

Once you are satisfied that you’ve explored the trail as long as you desire, you decide that it’s about time to head back. Even though your path into the forest seemed straightforward and easy to remember, there are suddenly several branching paths that you didn’t even realize you passed just moments before… which isn’t good, to say the least. Biting your bottom lip hard enough to taste blood, you try to logic yourself into taking the one that seems like it blends seamlessly into the trail you’re walking.

Or maybe it would be best to keep going in the direction you were already heading, after all, the trails are supposed to loop around and head back to the parking lot, the keyword here being eventually. Some of them are supposed to take a seasoned hiker a full day, and you don’t remember how long this certain one is going to take because you had decided previously that you would turn back anyways.

Letting out a breath, you decide that it might be a better option to take the more straightforward path instead of risk getting lost, so you tighten the straps of your backpack and keep walking. As you go, you think about how best to ration what’s left of your water, in case you’re in for a much longer hike than you initially anticipated because you’re not sure if you can realistically make it.

You take another well-needed rest after a long while, trying to close your eyes and chill out, trying to find the same solace in nature that you felt earlier in the morning. Instead of that same, peaceful aura that settled around your body in a soft, gentle wave, you only feel more tense and anxious as you did before. The sounds of the forest are no longer warm and inviting, the screech of cicada is now like a hard, ugly accusation, the occasional snapping of twigs don’t fill your heart up with the thought of life, and the sky’s tone seems to turn almost a hateful gray as the sun makes an almost hasty descent.

Up ahead, there’s a river, and if you remember correctly, civilization is often downstream. Letting out a breath, crossing your arms over your chest, you look down at the water, internally fighting over what you should do. After a long moment of contemplation, you decide to stick to the trail, but just as you take a step on the crunching gravel, you spot someone over by the water. To say you almost tripped over yourself to get to them wouldn’t be an understatement; you almost bite the dust before you were able to catch your balance.

After regaining your stability and taking a second look, you realize with no small amount of shock that the man appears to not only be petting a deer but also… talking to it? You can hear the voice he uses on it, soft, soothing tones, clearly offering comfort of some kind. Whatever he is doing must be working, because the deer slowly stops thrashing about, it’s squeaking cries slowly dissipating as it seems to melt back into a state of calm.

Even though his back is towards you, he seems to sense your presence, because there’s an underlying tenseness in his body posture. Once the deer doesn’t seem too anxious anymore, he says, without so much as turning around, “I know you’re out there, at least do me the service of showing your face.”

“Um,” you say, after a moment unsure of what else to do, but introduce yourself, “hi. I’m very lost right now.”

When he doesn’t immediately respond, you wonder if he maybe was referencing some other person that is also hiding in the woods?

“I suspected,” he pets at a deer you hadn’t noticed prior, glancing up at you only after he manages to calm the creature down from its initial panic, “we don’t get a lot of your kind out this deep in the forest.”

“Er,” you look over at the deer, who seems to be regarding you with the utmost suspicion, “yeah, I wasn’t really planning on coming this deep into the forest, either. But, like, if you could point me in the direction of the parking lot, or literally any major highway, that would be absolutely fantastic.”

It takes you a moment to realize that he’s a massive, as in, you knew he was large for a man when you approached him, but you’re just now processing it all. He very well could be some kind of action movie star, his muscles, face shape, and stature all suggest that he’s very, very important, and you should pay attention to everything he says. As you watch him, he seems to look upwards at the sky, brow furrowed as though doing many mental calculations, then sighs.

“You won’t be able to leave this pocket of the forest until morning,” he says, releasing his steady hand on the deer’s flank.

“Um, what?” You aren’t sure if you heard him correctly, but you’re pretty certain he did not tell you that you can’t leave. “How is that even supposed to work? I came in through the main trail, surely there’s a way back.”

“Not once the sun is no longer in the sky.” He picks up a stick from the nearby banks, and now you realize that while his lower half is in the water, it’s not… it’s not human colors, more like… a kaleidoscope of some kind? Like he’s wearing those fancy mermaid tails, the kind you can buy off the internet, except what reason could he possibly have to wear one in the middle of a forest? “You will have to wait for night to run its course before you can return.”

“No, I��m pretty sure that’s not how basic geography works,” you say, tensing at the thought of spending however many hours the sun is gone out in the wilderness.

“It has nothing to do with basic geography, and you will do well to heed my words,” the man almost snaps, only marginally restraining himself from sounding rude. “This part of the forest encloses once the sun sinks below the horizon, and opens when it returns. It is this way to protect what little of Gaia’s children are left from your kind.”

You swallow nervously, not believing him in the slightest, so you think over your options in the meantime. There isn’t a lot for you to work with, your phone has no signal, and using your flashlight will eat up the battery fast than you might be able to find your way back to the main trail. Still, you’d rather be apart from him, even though he hasn’t given you any weird vibes beyond the obvious, you don’t want to be stuck here with him overnight.

So you do what you think is best, turning around and heading back for the trail, except there isn’t any trail. And by that, even though you were just walking on a gravel pathway barely more than five minutes ago, and you know it was in this direction, it’s nowhere to be found. Sucking in your breath, you close your eyes and count to ten, then whirl around and march back to where the man still lounges, halfway in the stream.

Trying to keep your voice from wobbling, you ask, “can you please point me to the regular trail? I think I… um, misplaced it.”

He pokes the water with the stick without looking at you, “you won’t find it until sunrise.”

Swallowing thickly, you try to say without trembling, “I don’t understand.”

With a sigh, he turns to the sandy banks, using the stick to draw a rudimentary chart, and in the dying light of dusk, you can manage to make out what he’s trying to convey. “This is the land of Gaia,” he draws out a circle, “which is the world you are familiar with. It is the physical plane at its most fundamental levels, meat and bone and blood grow and churn within the earth mother and her offspring. This land- this forest, is not a part of Gaia’s form,” here, her draws another bubble, halfway in the larger circle, halfway out, “halfway physical, but able to separate as it needs to. Do you understand?”

“Not really,” you say, trying to be truthful, and still just as anxious and frightened as ever.

He lets out a frustrated breath and tries to reiterate, “this separate pocket of world that can be hidden away or entirely separated on its own, and closes itself off once the sun sets. You must have stumbled over the boundaries while you were wandering, did you end up seeming to go around in circles on paths that don’t make any sense?”

Oh, god. “I- yes.”

“Exactly what I thought.” There’s a shimmering glimmer in your periphery, and you realize that his lower half is, in fact, a tail. “I’m sorry to inform you that you’re just going to be stuck here overnight.”

You feel absolutely defeated, miserable, broken, because how the hell are you supposed to be handling this now? Apparently, you’re trapped in some sort of fucking pocket dimension, and you can’t do anything about it, and the only other person here to help you is some sort of merman who seems less than pleased to be in your presence.

“So I just… wait here?” You’re doing your best to not cry, goddamnit. No fucking tears. In the meantime, you’re digging around your backpack for your can of bear spray, of which should completely wreck the man should he try to make the wrong move.

“I suppose,” he softens, just a bit, “you can stay here with me, because there are things roaming these woods that wouldn’t dare approach you so long as I am here.”

Oh, wonderful. “That would be nice,” you mumble, plopping yourself onto a rock, folding your legs up and making yourself seem small.

The woods are never really silent, so even though the two of you share no conversation, there is a background filled to the brim with dozens of different noises. Nocturnal creatures begin to creep out of their homes, an owl hooting just close enough for you to make out its specific call, crickets still chirping despite the descent of the sun, and the crunching of stray twigs and leaves upon the ground suggests a silent stalker. You’re suddenly thrilled to have accepted this odd man’s offer to stay by his side for the night.

The stars blink down, twinkling in the sky, almost like each individual eyes staring down at you from above. You remember that Ancient Greeks believe that each cluster used to be a living thing- Caster and Pollux, Cassiopea, Orion, and so on, people who died and then ascended into the sky to watch the earth below. You wonder if they are like guardians, keeping the inhabitants of the ground safe from anything that lurks in the depths of the void above, or if they are merely passing observers to whatever happens around them, trapped in time.

“So,” you swallow almost painfully, trying to make some conversation, “how do you know so much about the way this, um, pocket dimension thing works?”

“I told you that Gaia herself is protecting her children,” he says, not impatiently, nor unkindly. “The last effort to keep Prometheus’ biggest mistake at bay.”

“Right, of course,” you say, not believing him in the very slightest. “And you live here, then? With the blessings of Gaia?”

“Of course,” he says it like there’s no other possibility, “she looks after her children.”

“And I’m just a spawn of Prometheus?” You say it with some amount of humor, poking at his weird explanations, but he takes it seriously.

“Even if there are those here who would have you killed, just to chew your bones between their teeth and taste your blood. I will not allow that to happen.”

“Oh,” you say, trying not to sound awkward about it, “thank you.”

Silence follows, and you hear some crunching of leaves accompanying the water trickling through its creek. Still, you’d rather not spend the night in awkward silence, so you chew your bottom lip and try to quickly come up with something else to talk about. Anything. You wonder if he might know about modern devices, or if he would even care, but you need to reassure yourself now that it’s too dark to see that he’s still there.

As though reading your thoughts, he speaks first. “Tell me about your home.”

Relief fills your veins, so you do. You spill your guts like you’re at a confessional and it’s your death day, opening up every single crevice of your life back in reality and letting it pour out of your mouth like a broken dam. Where you were born, where you lived, where you moved, school, the people who went to school, friends, families, enemies. Not necessarily in that order, the night goes so shockingly fast that you barely keep track of what you’ve already said. You tell him about cities, about corporations, about countries, about charities. Humanity at both its best and its worst, and even what happens in between.

He’s a good listener, too, offering questions here and there, following your train of thought even though sometimes it doesn’t even make sense to you. He seems to be able to pick up on any gaps of logic you’ve forgotten to say, asking for clarification on some things, wishing for more detail on others, even requesting information about kingdoms you know haven’t existed for hundreds of years. And… better yet, he seems to enjoy talking to you.

“So,” you say, putting on your jacket to fight the biting night chill, “does this part of the forest happen every single night?”

“Yes,” he says, and you may be imagining it, but you think there might be some kind of tone of relief in his voice. “Yes, the forests merge every day, only to part during the night.”

“Theoretically, then,” you fan your fingers out, folding them together, “I could come back. To… like, visit, or something.”

“If you wanted to, then yes, you most certainly could.”

You close your eyes tight, shutting out the stars and the moon. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose or anything, but like, if you’d want to know more about the modern human world, I could come back prepared. With like, an iPad and a PowerPoint ready.”

“Would you?” He sounds a bit mystified, and you realize you probably didn’t cover those two things during your talks. As he mulls it over, the first element of daytime bashfully pokes out from the trees, the sky lighting just enough to swallow up the stars.

“If you wanted my company.”

“Yes,” he says very firmly, “you’re…. Fascinating, a very fascinating specimen of your species. I do not sense any bloodlust that I’ve heard is so very common in your kind.”

That’s the nicest thing he’s said about you, and you find your chest thundering in response. “Tha-thank you, I guess.”

“And I would also like to see this iPad and PowerPoint.”

You feel your cheeks redden slightly. “Okay. It’s a deal.”

#exophilia #greek god #deity x reader #deity/reader #greek god/reader

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seasonsofeverlark · 4 years

Text

Menorah Lights, Blessing of Life

Author: @alliswell21

Prompt: I would LOVE to see some Everlark Hanukkah fluff there’s way to little out there right now. [submitted by anonymous]

Rating: T - for non-explicit: adult situations, childbirth description, and breastfeeding.

Canon typical violence. Vague reference to a war zone/conflict.

This work contains religious and cultural imagery and traditions. There’s also some use of the Yiddish language, as well as some Hebrew. There will be a glossary and more in-depth commentary at the end of the fic, when this piece gets cross posted to AO3 in a few days. Peeta makes a quick reference to 1 Samuel 1:27 towards the end part of the fic.

Author’s Note: Thank you, Anon, for this prompt. I have to be honest, and disclose I’ve never witnessed a Hanukkah celebration personally, and most of the events depicted in this story concerning the festival is a product of hours of research. I apologize for any inaccuracies or if I’ve inadvertently misrepresented any cultural or religious aspect of the holiday.

Extensive thanks to @rosefyrefyre, who was kind enough to beta read, spell check my Hebrew, direct me to some great sites to aid my research, and serve as the best resource for Judaism accuracy I could’ve asked for! Rose, I always learn something from my interactions with you. I’m grateful for your willingness to share your knowledge.

***Hannah: Hebrew origin. Means: ‘grace’/‘favor’; attributed meaning: ‘He (God) has favoured me with a child’.***

Happy Hanukkah to those celebrating the holiday!

————-

The house is reverently quiet, despite being crammed to the gills with all our family and friends.

Peeta checks his watch nervously for the fifth time in ten minutes. He’s so rigid, I know his leg will bother him so much tonight, he’ll take hours to fall asleep.

I smile at him, making a mental note to warm some lavender infused oils to massage the stump of his leg. It’s the least I can do for my husband.

Peeta lost his lower leg protecting me from shrapnel during an attack while deployed to the Middle East some 16 years ago. I was rendered deaf in my left ear on the same attack…we are a perfect match, my husband and I; he has to wear a prosthetic leg to get around, I have to wear a hearing aid, and that doesn’t even begin to cover the burn marks and other scars we sustained in the service.

“I think we should…” he says quietly, motioning to the small table we placed by the window earlier.

I turn to my cousin, Johanna, and nod.

Jo winks at Peeta and shuts the lights off, while I pull back the curtains from the windows and tie them up, revealing a waning sunset over the rooftops of our neighborhood.

Peeta stands a pace behind me, transfixed by the slim line of flaming orange in the horizon being swallowed by deep purples and indigos of the falling night. It’s Peeta’s favorite color.

“Almost time, Katniss!” he whispers, giddy, placing a match box on the table at the foot of the menorah.

There’s a soft buzz behind us, which means everybody is shuffling closer to the window. Outside, the world is busy with cars driving by, splashing the dirty slosh of melted snow accumulated on the ground from days ago; a dog barks somewhere in the distance, and a couple of people hustle home; but the thing that really catches my eyes, is that in a few houses down the street, candlelights start to flicker to life on windows and front porches, announcing the start of Hanukkah.

“Should—should we do it?” Peeta asks leaning closer to the window pane, clearly seeing the other houses already lighting their candles.

“There’s still a sliver of sun. They just can’t see it because they’re facing our way, against it.” I mutter back.

This is Peeta’s first Hanukkah as a host, so he’s a little eager. In fact, my beautiful husband was beside himself when everything fell into place for us to host tonight’s celebration. If he could’ve gotten his way, we’d have everyone over to light the menorah the whole eight days of the festival. But, we are expecting the arrival of our very own little miracle any day now, so hosting the first day was a very generous compromise with our family.

The thought warms me inside, and I caress my protruding stomach absentmindedly, staring at the darkening sky.

The sun finally sinks. “Now!” I grin at my other half.

Peeta grins back, handing me the candles. Two of them, to be precise; long and blue. If my Tatte —my father— were here, he would’ve insisted we used olive oil and wicks instead, but it’s only Peeta’s first Hanukkah leading, and he’s so nervous about the whole thing already…candles are perfectly acceptable.

First, I place the shamash— “Shamash means helper candle, Katniss,” Tatte would explain— in the middle peg of our menorah, so it sits higher than the rest. Then, I place the one other candle in the rightmost holder, to signify today is the first night of the Festival of Lights.

Peeta passes me the matches, and I light the shamash. I smile at him, encouragingly, and mouth the words: “Your turn,”

He takes a deep breath, wiggling his fingers at his sides, and then starts reciting the first blessing: “Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melech ha-olam, Asher kid-shanu bi-mitzvo-tav vi-tzee-vanu, Li-had-leek ner shel Chanukah.”

His Hebrew isn’t perfect, but he recites the whole prayer exactly as we practiced.

My mother, who’s standing with Peeta’s family, translates quietly, to not disrupt too much, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to kindle the Chanukah light.”

Peeta waits a moment, and then recites the second prayer: “Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melech ha-olam, Shi-asa nee-seem la-avo-teinu, Ba-ya-meem ha-haim baz-man ha-zeh.”

Again, my mother translates, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who performed miracles for our forefathers in those days, at this time.”

Peeta’s blue eyes shine joyfully in the dim of night.

“Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melech ha-olam, Sheh-he-che-yanu vi-kee-yimanu vi-hee-gee-yanu laz-man ha-zeh.”

He finishes the third blessing, which we only say on the first night, with utmost reverence, and holds my gaze for only a second.

My mother translates this prayer as well, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this occasion.” She explains this one we only say once, during the first day, but the first two, we recite every night.

I take the shamash from its holder and tip the flame into the wick of today’s candle, so it starts the mitzvah of the night. After the light has been kindled, we —the ones in attendance who speak Hebrew— sing Ha-nerot Halalu together.

When we finish, my sister, Primrose, starts singing Maoz Tzur, and Peeta turns puppy-dog eyes on me, because he loves my singing.

I chuckle ruefully before opening my mouth and letting the lyrics spill like second nature. The rest of the attendees join in singing, and suddenly everyone is participating in some way. When the song ends, another one starts, and the atmosphere grows animated and joyful the longer it goes. As it should!

Peeta’s brothers came with their families, so he goes to them to chat. My mother has been sitting with them, explaining the proceedings, since it’s the first time they’ve joined us for Hanukkah.

The candlelight flickers from the menorah, the only light in the room, just as we finish another song, and then Uncle Haymitch staggers into the middle of the floor, shoving his hands into his pockets. The children peer up with interest, because most of them have known Haymitch long enough to guess what’s to come.

Haymitch moves his arms just a fraction, and all the kids slip out of their seats like an exhale, and then, the paunchy, ol’ grump is throwing small, shiny, gold disks up towards the ceiling, crowing: “Gelt! Gelt! Gelt for everyone!”

“I think he believes he’s some kinda middle-aged, Jewish Oprah!” Blight, Johanna’s husband, cackles somewhere behind me, as the children descend like locusts on the chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil scattered all over the room.

Peeta encourages his younger nephews to get in on the fun.

Between all three of our siblings, Peeta and I have seven nephews— two of them are teenagers— and one niece.

The adults shake their heads and smile from the sidelines, watching the children in merriment.

When all the gelt has been collected from the floor, Peeta asks the children if they would rather: eat, play dreidel, or hear a story. Since the oldest child in attendance is 8½, the kids settle on a story pretty quick.

I sink into the cushions of our plushest chair to watch my husband corral the little ones onto the rug for their story; one of my hands rests lazily on my heavily pregnant belly, while I hold a half eaten sugar cookie in the other one.

“So…who can tell me what we’re celebrating for the next eight days?” Peeta starts.

There’s a soft chorus of kiddy voices calling “Hanukkah!”

“That is right!” Peeta agrees, his eyes are wide, excited, merry, “and Hanukkah is a very important party, because it reminds us of the Miracle of Lights and the victory of the Sons of Israel over the mean ol’ gentiles—“

“Mamme says gentiles aren’t ‘all’ bad!” cries out Bekka, Johanna and Blight’s little girl, who looks like a carbon copy of her mother, except with long, wavy hair.

“Um…you’re right, I should’ve said ‘Greek invaders’ instead of gentiles…my bad—”

“Uncle Peeta…” one of our nephews— on Peeta’s side— blinks owlishly at him, “What’s a gentile?”

“Non-Jewish people,” says Asher, one of Prim’s twins.

“Oh…like Muggles are non-magic folk?” asks another of the Mellark boys.

“I guess so,” answers the other twin, Aspen.

“I don’t think we are Jewish,” comments one of Peeta’s nephews, turning inquisitive blue eyes to my husband and then to his own parents, “Are we?”

“No, buddy, you aren’t a Jew—“

“Uncle Haymitch says gentiles are helpless,” interrupts Aspen, shaking his head sadly, “He says the goyish thing gentiles do is putting mayo in their pastrami sammiches! So, if neither of you don’t put mayo in your pastrami, then you’re alright. You’re mishpachah, Bran!”

“Um…what does that mean?” asks Bran.

“We’re your mishpachah, right, Mamme?” inquires Asher.

“It means ‘family’,” explains Prim, making the Mellark boys look relieved, and even proud.

“Are you a gentile too, Uncle Peeta?” asks Asher, “Uncle Haymitch says you used to be his favorite Shabbos Goy of all times before you married Auntie Katniss.”

I almost choke on my cookie.

Peeta wheezes out a tiny chuckle, but is interrupted by my enraged sister.

“Boys!” Prim rushes from her chair, her daughter half asleep in her lap; she dumps the toddler into her husband’s arms to stand in front of the twins with her hands on her hips. “That is not nice! What have I said about repeating all the mishegas Uncle Haymitch says?”

“Not to…” the twins mumble contritely.

“Oy! I’m sitting right here, Sunshine!” Haymitch calls out. “Plus, kinder wisdom,” he pronounces it the Yiddish way, like the start of kindergarten, “it’s still wisdom!”

The twins are 7, but they can be a menace and clever to boot.

Haymitch continues, “Everybody knows the Boy used to be pretty helpful back in the day. I was almost sad when Sweetheart finally snatched him up, despite it being the smartest thing she’s ever done,”

“Haymitch…” I ground a low warning.

It’s a well known fact I kept digging my heels in against Peeta’s subtle advances for years, despite having feelings for him myself; I’m grateful my beautiful husband persevered though, because looking at him now, I can confidently say that our marriage, our family, would’ve happened anyway, despite my deep seated fears, the physical and mental toll being in a war zone took on us both, and all the heartbreak in between…

Unlike my mother, Peeta did not convert to Judaism in order to marry me. He did that on his own, way before I agreed to make our odd relationship official. I tried to persuade him from converting though— he does love Christmas and bacon— but again, he was committed to our faith with an iron will only the grave can quell.

“Eh!” Haymitch waves me off, “Nobody can win with you girls. Not even kvelling about one of your husbands!”

I sink deeper into my chair, sufficiently mollified. The old man can gush all about Peeta all he wants, as long as he doesn’t comment on me.

But Haymitch has a big mouth; he used to give me a hard time for my apparent ‘prickly personality’, often telling me I was so surly, I was practically gornisht helfn—beyond help—and once, he even said, I was as charming as a slug. I retorted he was probably looking at a mirror, and that was the end of that.

When Peeta started hinting at wanting more out of the casual arrangement we’ve had since the Army, and to my chagrin, two more suitors sprung out of nowhere, Haymitch had the gall to tell me that before Peeta, I was as romantic as dirt. Peeta gave him an earful for that one, though. It was glorious seeing Haymitch properly chastised by his favorite Shabbos Goy.

I giggle at the memory.

I finally relented a couple of years ago, letting my fears go. Haymitch was the first to congratulate me when I announced I was dating Peeta, like a normal couple. My uncle fixed me with a stare that said he expected me to really try, because this boy was a true catch, or as he called him then, “a mensch if he ever saw one.”

I happen to agree.

I sigh, massaging my ribs where the baby is digging its tuchis in.

Haymitch gets away with a great deal of things on the simple account that he was the only person who actually accepted, and welcomed our mother into our family, when she married our father. Everyone else called her an opinionated shiksa behind my parents’ backs, probably thanks to my Bubbe…dear old Grandma really disliked the idea of my father marrying a gentile girl, despite being clear as day how much they loved each other.

My sister glares at Haymitch too, then turns to her sons, “It’s the first day of Chanukah, nu?” The boys nod in affirmative, “Then be good, so Uncle Peeta can finish the story—“

“But, Mamme…we know the story!”

Prim gives them The Look and shuts them up right away. “Bannock, Graham, and Bran don’t know the story. They’re our guests, and we are called to be hospitable to everyone, right?”

I stare at Prim with mild amusement. She’s such a MOM!

“Yes, Mamme.”

I wonder if I’ll be able to master ‘the stare’ as well as my baby sister has?

Prim told me once, that everything she knows about mothering, she learned from the years in which I took care of her, after our father died, and our mother fell into a debilitating depression that almost killed us all from starvation and hebetude.

I have mixed feelings about that assessment, first, because: At first I was just trying to keep our situation hidden from others, so I made sure Prim and I were clean and presentable for school, that all homework was made on time, that we studied our Torah lessons, and that we attended Hebrew school without missing a class. I made sure Prim ate at least once a day, even if that meant I went without.

There were things I couldn’t provide for my sister, simply because I didn’t know how, and when the pantry was empty, I started secretly raiding the trash containers behind the stores in our neighborhood.

I was 11 then.

That’s when the first and only interaction with Peeta— or as I knew him then: the baker’s son— occurred before the Army.

Peeta had been watching me steadily lose weight and figured something wasn’t right. Then he saw how I dove out of his folks’ bakery’s garbage container and emerged empty handed, because trash had already been collected.

Instead of sneering, bullying me or calling the police, Peeta gave me two, fresh loaves of bread— the chiefest of foods in our culture— and thanks to his generosity, I figured out how to keep Prim, mother and myself fed when money was tight, hunting squirrels and little birds, long enough for my mother to find the strength to get the help she needed to get better.

Secondly, in my adult life, I’ve learned to appreciate our mother’s position. She had a really hard time with life in general. Her family turned their back on her when she converted to Judaism, yet people in our community mistrusted her because of my grandma’s own prejudice, the fact that my mother was a nurse and every now and then her hospital wouldn’t (or couldn’t) honor her religious freedom to observe the Shabbat didn’t help her case. People started trusting her after they saw her care for the sick in the community, often paying from her own pocket for their treatments.

Peeta never struggled fitting in with my family. Then again, he’s so sweet and friendly with anyone, always so happy and ready to lend a hand…why everyone in our community loves him, and welcomed him with open arms as one of us. Sometimes it’s almost impossible to picture my loving, sweet husband as a seasoned Army veteran, who’s seen his share of destruction and death…then again, maybe it is because he’s seen humanity at its worst that he makes the extra effort to stay a pacifist and he chooses to show The Lord’s love unto others.

“Sorry, Peeta, please continue with the story. You’re doing a lovely job!” says my sister.

I chance a glance at my husband, and see the mirth in his bright, blue eyes.

“Thank you Prim,” he says, turning back to the boys, with wonder in his voice. “But, I was thinking, and this might be the best idea I ever had! What if we let the boys tell the story of Hanukkah tonight, since it’s true, they know it better than I do? They are incredibly smart young men!”

“Avadeh!” exclaims Haymitch from his spot.

The twins wiggle with excitement, and both of them turn eager, hazel eyes to their mother, seeking approval.

Prim takes a deep breath and nods.

Both boys turn their bronze haired heads back to Peeta, enthusiastically.

“Alright, go on then, tells us what happened!” Peeta encourages.

Asher starts, “The brave heroes, called the Maccabees, kicked out the Greek gentiles that wanted to make the people of Israel pray to their gentile gods! Then the priests came to ‘re-medicate’ the Holy Temple—“

“Rededicate!” Thom, Prim’s husband, corrects from the back of the room, but the boys are on a roll now.

“‘Redadecate’ the Holy Temple, by lighting the menorah. So, they looked all over the place, but found only one jar of ‘puridified’ oil—“

“Purified!”

“Yes, what Tatte said! They only found enough of the good oil, to light the menorah for one day!”

Asher pauses for effect, while all the adults react to the suspense accordingly, gasping and murmuring.

Aspen continues the narration after a second.

“At first, the priests thought: oh no! We don’t want to light the menorah for only one day, it needs to burn all the time to clean all the filth the Greeks left behind, so we can praise Adonai again!”

Hushed voices comment their approval.

The other twin picks up the story. “But they decided, that even one day, was better than none at all, so they used that little bit of oil, and fired up the lamp, and the lights burned for eight times straight!”

“Eight days…” corrects Thom.

“Eight days straight!”

“It was a miracle!”

Everyone claps, excitedly.

“The priests had time to…” Asher cranes his neck, seeking his father in the crowded living room, and then smiles, enunciating his word with precision, “‘purify’ more olive oil, to add to the menorah from then on!”

“That’s why we celebrate Hanukkah every year! To remember how our people defended their freedom,”

“And won back the Holy Temple,”

“And The Lord accepted their effort with a miracle of lights!”

The whole room erupts in cheers and song. Everybody hugs each other in celebration.

After a moment, our auntie Effie calls out, “Oh what wonderful storytelling, Tattelles!” She rushes over to the twins and smacks loud, wet kisses, on both of the boys’ cheeks, leaving red lipstick all over their wincing faces.

The twins wipe their cheeks with the backs of their hands, and Prim just sighs, hugging her sons to her chest. “Well done, Asher. Well done, Aspen.”

Peeta pats them both on the head, and ever the attentive host, directs everyone to help themselves to the many treats he made.

“Is everything fried?” asks one of Peeta’s sisters-in-law.

“For the most part,” I hear my mother say, fondly. “To commemorate the miracle of the oil, traditionally, Hanukkah food is fried.” She explains, patiently. “Everything is delicious, and Peeta and Katniss made quite the spread.”

My mother busies herself, setting up a stack of napkins on the table where we placed all the food; she then serves latkes to the Mellarks.

Haymitch grabs her hand and pulls her to sit by me. “Come rest, sit with your daughter, enjoy the lights. I’ll shmooze the bakers now, nu!”

My mother comes to sit next to me. She smiles tiredly, “How are you feeling, zeeskeit?”

I grin, she’s using the same term of endearment Tatte used to call us. It means ‘sweetheart’.

“I’m alright. Just a little tired. My back is killing me and I think I have gas, ‘cause my belly keeps rumbling and tensing up.”

My mother arches a dark blonde eyebrow, “Maybe the baby is on the way?”

“I suppose that could be a possibility,” I shrug. I’m 6 days shy of my due date, but the doctor says I’m healthy, and he expects no complications, whatsoever, plus first time mothers can be early.

Thom brings out a dreidel to play with the children.

My toddler niece rubs her eyes grumpily— she’s got gray eyes, like my father did. Like mine. Mother and Prim are blonde and blue eyed, but I favored my father in appearance…I wonder who my child will like? I hope it’s a little of both Peeta and I— the girl clings to her father’s arm, watching her brothers and cousins spin the top, suspiciously. Once she realizes gelt is involved in the game, she perks up a little, and tries to spin the dreidel to mixed results.

Everyone sits around the children, eating latkes dipped in applesauce or sour cream; Peeta decided not to serve any meat tonight, so we could eat dairy products. Effie is dipping hers in salsa…what an odd woman!

Johanna is eating an entire block of cheese, noshing on it like a mouse.

Peeta brings me and my mother sufganiyot; he smiles sheepishly. “These were a hit.” He says, “they’ve already disappeared from the tray.”

I stare at him with wide eyes. “Why does that surprise you, babe? Your cooking is amazing!”

Peeta rubs the back of his head, bashful. “Eh, it would be embarrassing if the baker couldn’t handle jelly filled donuts, nu?” he whispers, kneeling in front of my chair.

“Nonsense,” I say equally quietly, “you are the most talented person I know.” I kiss him on the forehead, after pushing back the ashy waves of hair falling into his eyes.

I hope our child has wavy hair like Peeta does! Mine is boring…not so much the dark as ink color, but the way it’s so thick and straight, the only way to keep it up is in braid.

Peeta gazes at me with so much love, my heart skips a beat.

“Have I told you recently, just how grateful I am to have you as my wife, lover and partner in life?” He reaches up to caress my face, and suddenly the hubbub of the party fades, leaving us in a bubble of our own.

“I’m grateful too!” I say, curling my sugar coated fingers around his, cupping my cheek.

It’s a veritable miracle that Peeta and I are here today, married and with a child on the way.

We grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, and frequented the same places; yet, despite crossing each other’s paths often, and outside the lone time with the bread when we were eleven, we never truly interacted with each other until we found ourselves deployed to the same base overseas.

Peeta enlisted in the Army fresh out of high school. I enlisted much later, when it became glaringly obvious that if I was going to pursue any higher education, it would have to be paid for by the military, since every penny Mother and I made, went straight into Prim’s Med school fund.

Prim took a couple of breaks from school while building her family, but she’s a pediatrician now, beloved by her patients and their parents.

Thom is in the field as well, as a Physical Therapist. He was Peeta’s PT for a while; that’s how him and my sister met. They married years before we did.

Call it chance or providence, Peeta and I had no idea we were in the same camp, until our names got chosen for some grunt duty I can no longer remember. We recognized one another instantly, and became very close friends while in the service. Close enough to share cots and knock boots when the itch was too unbearable to ignore. We discovered we had more in common than just our hometown, and then…the worst day of our lives happened, cementing our dependence on the other, like only tragedy can.

While on a mission, our unit got attacked. Our Commander, a burly man named Boggs, called for extraction while we ran for cover from a volley of bullets raining on us. In the confusion, Boggs stepped on a landmine that blew off both his feet.

I rushed to him, pulling him back to safety. I didn’t think of the shrapnel flying everywhere, but Peeta— who had located me a second earlier— did. He made it to me somehow, and shielded my body with his own, earning a mangled leg full of lead for his troubles.

Boggs was beyond medical help; the poor man bled to death in my arms in the transport back to base. Peeta was badly hurt, losing blood quicker than anyone in the transport could stomach. I tried to help him as best I could, wishing I had my mother’s touch or Prim’s cleverness; I placed a tourniquet on Peeta’s thigh. It saved his life, but cost him his leg.

It wasn’t until we arrived back in camp, and the adrenaline and terror left my body, that I was able to feel my own wounds. I had second degree burns in several places of my body; the fire and heat miraculously spared my face. Then, I noticed the ringing in my left ear wouldn’t go away, and when it did, no other sounds came in.

I was honorably discharged for my damaged ear, but I requested to stay close to my buddy, Peeta Mellark, until he was stable enough to go back home. When questioned about this, I simply replied, “We protect each other. Is what we do.”

Peeta was discharged too shortly after. We got shipped back home to America together, which is how we’ve been ever since.

Peeta and I survived against the odds.

It took us months and lots of counseling to be able to sleep through the night without waking up screaming.

It took him years to convince me it was okay to let my guard down around my heart. I was always so scared I’d lose him to some unseen danger, and like my mother, fall into such a deep depression I could harm any potential children we had together, because in my heart of hearts I knew Peeta was it for me.

It took us five, ten, fifteen years to be where we are at, and that in itself is a miracle I’m grateful for.

“Peeta, darling, the candles are almost out,” says Effie, who apparently is eager to turn the lights back on.

“Alright, let’s see…” I stand up to check just how consumed those candles really are, and as soon as I do, my incompetent bladder releases all the pee I have in my body, and then some. “Feh!”

My mother gasps and pushes Peeta back, who was still kneeling close by. “Katniss, your water just broke!”

“What?! Already? Whatdowedo?!” Peeta is frantic, practically jogging in place, hands hovering uselessly around my belly.

Effie screeches in a very uncharacteristic fashion. “Oh! What a big, big, big day this is, darlings! Katniss, doll, you might get to hold your very own bundle of joy in your arms on the first day of Hanukkah! What a blessing!”

“Well, first things first,” says my mother, going into nurse mode. “Everyone, calm down! This child is not about to drop just yet. Second, Katniss needs to get out of these clothes and into clean ones. Then we need to get you packed and ready to go to the hospital. Peeta, dear, you need to call the doctor, and let them know your wife’s water broke, and you’re heading to the hospital soon.”

“Okay! Yeah…on it!” says Peeta chewing nervously on his lower lip.

He reluctantly steps aside to make the call. By then, my sister is moving people around to get me through the room.

Delly, Peeta’s sister-in-law, comes from who-knows-where with an armful of towels to mop up the floor.

“Thank you,” I offer embarrassedly.

Delly waves me off, “Oh no, honey, don’t you worry about it. I know how these things go. You have more important stuff to think of right now. We will clean this place up, and probably call on grandma and grandpa Mellark, to let them know.”

I give her a hug, because she’s the nicest person I know, and barely hold back an ugly sob.

Peeta comes back from calling the doctor just as my mother is helping me into a pair of baggy sweatpants. Prim’s going through my bag triple checking what I packed, despite my protests that both Peeta and I have been checking on it every day for the last week.

“Everything is ready, Katniss. The doctor is on the way to the hospital. There’s a triage nurse already waiting for you, our paperwork is being processed as we speak, so all we have to do is sign it when we arrive, and Effie and Haymitch are taking over hosting duties from us.”

“Oh great!” I sigh, “you can say goodbye to all the wine in the house if those two are in charge,”

“Is that sarcasm I detect? That means the contractions aren’t even painful yet…” says Prim dryly. Then she and my mother giggle.

I glare at them, rubbing the back of my hips, my bones back there kind of burn.

Peeta seems confused and wisely keeps his mouth shut. He grabs the hospital bag I packed for me and the baby, a week ago, and shoulders a backpack for himself, he packed almost a month ago.

My mother rides with us to the hospital, and since everyone knows her and my sister there, I get extra pampered by the nursing staff.

My obstetrician, Dr. Aurelius, checks on me as soon as I’m put in the hospital gown; he’s a little concerned about my blood pressure, so the nurses keep an even closer eye on me. At 32 I’m not at any greater risk of things going wrong than any other mother-to-be, but this is my first child, so I endure their over prodding gratefully.

Labor itself goes quickly, only a couple of hours from the water breaking to the crowning. Peeta holds my hand through it all; he tends to me lovingly, feeding me ice chips, blotting sweat from my face and neck, whispering sweet nothings and encouragement into my ear, and when he’s not talking to me or the medical staff, he prays.

After surviving a war zone, second degree burns and a few broken bones, I think that giving birth is perhaps the least painful experience of all. Not in the literal sense of course— giving birth physically hurts like a mother!— but in the psychological-emotional sense. I’m going through this trial for love, with the expectation of meeting someone amazing in the end.

But when it’s time to push, a fear older than time itself chokes me up. “I can’t do this! Let the baby stay in my belly…I can keep the child safe here, please!”

“Sweetheart, look at me,” says Peeta cupping my face in his hands, “You are the bravest, most selfless person I know. I’m not denying how scary this is, bringing an innocent into the world, but you’re not alone…we have each other, and we will face this fear like we’ve faced any other fear, and we’ll beat it into dust!”

“Together?” My voice wavers.

“Together!” he vows.

“Katniss…the baby’s crowning,” says Dr. Aurelius, “This is it! On your next contraction, I need you to push real hard, alright?”

I nod, exhausted; Peeta squeezes my hand in his, and I squeeze right back.

“Here it comes!” I bear down with all my might and growl all the breath out of my lungs, and suddenly, the best sound in the world fills the delivery room: the meowling of my newborn reaches my ears.

“It’s a girl!” calls the doctor from between the stirrups holding my legs up.

The man holds the screeching child up, so we can see her, and my whole world shrinks to her tiny shape.

Peeta is crying.

I’m crying too!

My mother is somewhere in the background singing something I can’t quite catch, and everyone around is bustling to get my brand new baby girl cleaned up and measured. Then finally she’s placed on my chest, and my husband and I can’t stop staring and caressing her.

“Shalom, sheifale,” I sigh in contentment, kissing my baby’s forehead.

“Welcome, little one!” Peeta murmurs. Our daughter wraps her whole hand around her father’s index finger and holds fast to it.

Again, it feels like we are in this hermetic bubble, where only Peeta, myself, and now our newborn, exist. Meanwhile the doctor and nurses are still working on me, but that doesn’t matter. My family is finally whole, and that too is a miracle full of light!

“Mazel Tov, my dears!” says my mother, smiling at Peeta and me. “I’ll go tell the people in the waiting room the good news…do you have a name picked out already?” she asks tentatively, her face lit with happiness and relief.

“Hannah!” says Peeta right away. “For I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted my plea.” Peeta’s eyes widen, then he looks down at me sheepishly, “unless, you have something else in mind?”

“No!” I laugh, “Hannah is perfect!” I hold the babe higher on my bosom, and tilt her head towards my mother, “Hannah, say hello to Bubbie Lily, she’s my Mamme, and I am yours!”

My mother giggles, “Happy birthday, Hannah Mellark, and happy Hanukkah, zeeskeit.” My mother leans closer, and gives Hannah’s head a peck. “Next time I see you, there will be others with me…your mishpachah, who are eager to meet you, sheifale!”

“We’re almost done here, and you can see some of your family. But be mindful of visiting hours!” says Dr. Aurelius, pushing back from the instrument table.

We all say our thanks to the staff, and my mother goes to talk to our family in the waiting room. Peeta’s led to the nursery, to give Hannah her first bath. Once the baby is dressed and swaddled into a hospital blanket, Peeta snaps a couple of pictures of her with his smart phone and sends it to everyone one we know. The caption reads: “Hannah Mellark, because G-d favored us with a child!”

The nurse helping Peeta, takes two of those thin hats they give all the newborns, and fashions it into a single hat with a big bow on the front. Our daughter’s head will be warm and stylish.

Back in the room, Hannah latches onto my breast easily enough, and to our surprise opens her eyes, to show deep blue peepers, like her father’s!

“Look, Daddy, she’s got your eyes!“ I exclaim.

“Can she call me Tatte?” Peeta asks quietly, as if asking permission.

I nod, “Hannah, your Tatte gives the best hugs in the world!”

The visitors file in. My mother-in-law falls in love with Hannah, her first and only granddaughter. Peeta’s father tears up a little bit, and hugs his son, kissing his temple. I’ve never seen the Mellarks so happy and moved. A baby would do that, I guess.

After our siblings come to visit, Effie and Haymitch make a quick appearance. Haymitch holds Hannah the longest; he sings her a song in Hebrew, then says a blessing over her.

Effie pulls Peeta aside, “What we discussed…” she says demurely, smiling softly, and hands him a bag.

Since she already gave us practically half of Buy Buy Baby at our shower, I have no idea what else she could’ve gotten, but my husband’s entire demeanor lights up like fireworks when he peeks in the bag. He hugs Effie and thanks her profusely.

I fall asleep after a while.

When I wake up again, the room’s mostly dark, except for a soft, flickering light.

Hannah is not in her bassinet, so I sit up with a start, only to find the most wonderful scene in front of me: Peeta’s holding the babe by the window looking down the road. The blinds are open, and on the sill sits a child size menorah. The shamash is lit, but the day one candle is not.

“Peeta?” I call softly.

My husband turns, smiling, “You’re awake! We didn’t want to disturb you. You had a hard, busy day, but…” he shrugs, “It’s Hannah’s first Hanukkah, and I figured you wouldn’t wanna miss it,”

No, I wouldn’t.

I get up, gingerly, and shuffle towards my family.

I cock my head and study the candelabra, which looks suspiciously like the kind business owners put in their offices along their Christmas trees and other wintry decor to show how inclusive they are. This one is smaller than regular menorahs, made of plastic, with a cord sticking from the side which is plugged into the wall besides the window. The flickering light I thought at first to be a real flame, is just a small bulb with a candlelight effect.

“Where did you get an electric menorah?” I ask skeptically.

“Effie,” my husband blushes. “She said it was okay, as long as we lit a kosher menorah, which we did at home,” he says a little defensively, with a lot of pleading generously sprinkled in between.

My father would’ve frowned at the decidedly un-kosher menorah.

Reading my expression, my sneaky husband harrumps, “This is a hospital, Katniss. I don’t think they’ll be thrilled to find there’s an open flame in a room housing a newborn, no matter what holiday you’re celebrating.”

I sigh. He’s right. Safety protocols should be observed, and we did light a traditional menorah already; plus, this one is practically a toy for the baby…technically a Hanukkah gift.

I relax my stance. I wasn’t aware that my shoulders were so tense during that exchange.

“Fine,” I acquiesce, “show me how does the thing work?”

Peeta grins, looking at ease holding our daughter in one arm like a pro. No wonder he’s always our nephews’ and niece’s favorite uncle.

He pulls a couple of bulbs from his pants pocket, and holds them on his palm for me to peruse. “All you do is screw these in the small sockets, just like placing the candles in a regular menorah. Then, you press this button, and it lights up!” He points at a small button at the base of the toy.

I nod, accepting his explanation.

Hannah wiggles a bit in her father’s arm, then makes an aggravated noise. Peeta adjusts the child against his chest, and looks at me, expectantly.

“Hannah’s waiting, and she’s probably getting hungry. I should know, I’m her Tatte!”

I snort a reluctant laugh. The man can drive me crazy, in an endearing sort of way. How can I deny my family anything?!

We say the blessings together, then Peeta whispers all the ceremonial rules on lighting the candles to our baby.

Hannah has her fist wrapped around his finger again, so he picks up the pretend shamash with the same hand, and touches the tip of the bulb into the opening, so— according to him— Hannah is lighting the day one candle herself…symbolically.

He screws the bulbs in their right places, and switches the candlelight on.

I must admit, it’s not as tacky as I feared it would be. I make a mental note to let Peeta know I’m glad he thought of this, later…probably tomorrow.

We sing quietly, not to disturb anyone else on our floor. After the ceremony of the candles is done, we hold onto each other, watching the flickering lights, while Peeta narrates the story of the Maccabees to Hannah.

Everything is quiet after that; Hannah fusses once, so I take her into my arms, and sing a lullaby.

Peeta has been staring at me all night like I hung the moon in the sky. He gazes at our daughter like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen, and I’m sure my eyes reflect the same feelings as his.

“I wish I could freeze this moment, right now, and live in it forever.”

I smile up at him, who in turn is gazing at our daughter and me with adoration; my heart fills to bursting!

“I do too!” I stand on tiptoes, and kiss his cheek. “Happy Hanukkah, Peeta. Happy Hanukkah, Hannah.”

“Same to you too, sweetheart, and thank you Lord, for blessing our family with the miracle of life.”

#everlark #everlark fanfiction #winter #winter 2020 #alliswell21 #submission #prompt

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kikikittykis · 4 years

Text

Firebender, Swords and Demigods

Summary: I don’t even know where this came from

Fandom: ATLA and PJO

Pairing: Gaang x reader

Characters: Sokka, Toph, Katara, Aang, Zuko and Y/N

Genre: No idea

Warnings: None

Wordcount: 1105

Note:

Masterlist

“Your a what”

“Yes I’m a Firebender, and no i’m not a damned spy I want the Fire Nation stopped as much as you guys do”

“How do we know that your telling the truth”

“You don’t but she does” you said looking at Toph

“Toph is she lying”

“No she is not lying”

“What cool things can you do” Aang asked

“I can do this” you said and concentrated creating a small dancing lady which turned into a dragon and flew around the group.

“Can you actually fight or is it just sparkles” Katara asked

“Well then let’s see” you said “Sokka come at me with your sword”

“With my sword”

“Of course with your sword” you reached behind you and unsheathed your sword which appeared into their eyes. It glinted bronze as you parried each strike that Sokka came at you with. You saw that his stance was wobbly so you took your leg and tripped him just the slightest as you quickly disarmed him. Holding your sword at his neck you let him go.

“Where did you learn that”

“Summer Camp”

“What kind of summer camp teaches that”

“The kind that I went to” you said

“That was killer and your a firebender too” Aang said “Can you be my Firebending teacher”

“Sorry Aang I can’t teach you because I don’t use the stances for my bending”

“Oh, well then welcome to Team Avatar”

“Happy to help, and I will protect the Avatar my sword is yours” you said kneeling with your sword

“Why is your sword mine”

“It means that I will protect you and help you until you dismiss me and my services” you said and get up from kneeling in front of Aang and put your sword back into your belt inside of it’s minimised form.

“How did you just do that”

“Mist”

“What is Mist?”

“It’s a powerful substance hides the unnatural, from mortal eyes”

“Why did you say Mortal”

“I didn’t say Mortal”

“Yes you did”

“No I didn’t”

“Yes you definitely did”

“Fine okay I did”

“Why?”

“Because you guys I’m not mortal”

“Prove it” Katara said

“Follow me” you said they looked at each other and then made your way through the forest. You followed the scent of the sea to find the ocean where you could show them your powers and control over the sea.

“Where the heck are we going?” Sokka said, getting a face full of leaves as they trekked throughout the forest. You felt the ocean being nearby where you were at your strongest. You pushed through the last of the bushes coming to a beautiful beach.

“Why are we at the Ocean”

“This is why” you said and pulled the ocean up behind you

“How are you doing that?” Katara asked “Your not a waterbender, and you can’t be the Avatar Aang is the Avatar”

“Like I said, I am not Mortal I am a demigod I am the daughter of Poseidon”

“Then what’s with the fire bending”

“It’s not true Firebending, I was cursed to have these powers”

“Who taught you”

“An older Firebender, that I met after I ran away from camp”

“So the camp that you spoke about is it for Demigods”

“The children of the Gods have never been safe, so we go to Camp Half-Blood” “It is one of the only safe places for Demigods”

“Do you have any other cool powers”

“I can talk to sea creatures since my dad is the God of the sea”

“This is so freaking cool” Sokka said to you.

“Are there others like you?”

“Oh yes an entire camp I only have one brother though”

“What’s his name?”

“His name is Percy Jackson”

“Can we meet him”

“Oh i’m sorry but he’s too busy saving the world from our great grandmother” “She’s a psychotic bitch, you know the earth mother”

“Really she’s evil”

“Haven’t you heard the legends, Wait ah damn you know different gods and entities than me”

“Wait there are others than the Moon and Ocean spirits”

“Yup Greek, Roman, Egyptian Norse their all real of course they are in a different reality”

“Wait a reality, Do they have good food”

“Yes you can have anything for dinner there”

“Let’s go”

“I don’t know you guys, I’m not sure if Chiron and Mr. D would allow it”

“Who are they”

“They run camp together”

“Mr.D he’s a god named Dionysus””

“Well can we meet them”

“No it would be dangerous they are in a war”

“So are we”

“Their war is different were talking about gods here not a crazy lord with fire powers”

“Can you though?”

“I could but i’m not going too I will not let my friends get killed”

“We can protect ourselves, you know” Katara said

“I don’t know Katara Maybe she’s right this is dangerous”

“What can they do to us we’re Team Avatar”

“We are talking about gods here, Immortals that can’t be killed”

“Oh I guess so”

“What’s your dad like?”

“He was never there the only family that I had was Percy”

“He’s your father he should’ve been there”

“It’s the rules they aren’t allowed to be there”

“Why is it a rule”

“I don’t know why alright but he still tried to be there after the Titan war”

“Titan wars”

“Yes when Kronos rose up and tried to take over the world”

“Did you stop him”

“Luke did and he sacrificed himself for the world” “I have an idea”

“What?”

“Follow me” you said and walked closer to the surf and let out some noise trying to attract Dolphins. There was some squeaking as a pod of dolphins came near. You waded into the water and had a quick conversation with them asking if they could give your friends a ride “Come on” you said as The Gaang slowly waded into the water “Come on Toph” you said to Toph who was sitting on the sand not getting into the water.

“I’m good” she said and you had a smirk on your face as you picked her up with the water and placed her down on a dolphin.

“Hold on” you said as everyone was situated on the dolphins

“Why?”

“This is why” you said and let out a squeak signaling for the dolphins to take off.

“This is amazing” Sokka said there was a small island in the distance.

“Where are we?” Katara asked “This place is beautiful”

“Welcome to the bridge between my world and yours” and then the group a girl yell “Do not call me Sunshine”

“Calypso has another boy” you said

#avatar zuko #team avatar #gaang x reader #sokka x reader #zuko x reader #katara x reader #aang x reader #avatar imagine #percy jackson #percy jackson imagine

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maggotmouth · 3 years

Text

hello, it’s nora again…. hitting u with another child (i cnt resist). this is rory, a he/they local indie softboi who is the definition of tender. has a burner phone and doesn’t use social media. does techno dj sets. plays the synth loudly through the night if u live in port apartments his room always sounds like a space ship just landed. deals weed around the seafront on his rollerskates (high five gays and gals). hates that he can’t get new light up wheels on ebay because ana coto made rollerskating cool again. as is tradition, here’s the pinterest board. this intro is recycled?? so if there’s mistakes, idc sue me??? and be sure to like and subscribe for more unboxing content x

CLICK ANYWHERE ON THIS SETENCE FOR SEXI GOOGLE DOC VERSION!!!

application.

* TIMOTHEE CHALAMET, DEMI-BOY / GENDERFLUID + HE / THEY | you know RORY BERGSTRÖM, right? they’re TWENTY-THREE, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, TWO YEARS? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to STAR WARS THEME / CANTINA BAND (12″ DISCO MIX) BY MECO like, a million times this year, which makes sense ‘cause they’ve got that whole BED HAIR FROM A PERMANENT STATE OF SLUMBER, CALLOUSED FINGERTIPS FROM STRUMMING BASS INTO THE EARLY HOURS AND DJING INTO THE BLACKLIT NIGHT, SELF-HELP BOOKS THUMBED ONCE AND THROWN BENEATH YOUR BED, thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is MARCH 5TH, so they’re a PISCES, which is unsurprising, all things considered. ( nora, 25, gmt, she/her )

aesthetics.

bed hair from a permanent state of slumber, calloused fingertips from strumming bass into the early hours and djing into the blacklit night, self-help books thumbed once and thrown beneath your bed, battered copies of choose your own adventure books, spliffs passed half-arsed across rooftops while light pollution obscures low-hanging stars, marxist literature in stacks against your bedroom walls, a burner phone twice-shattered and a stash of replacement sim cards.

tw ocd, anxiety, drugs

half-swedish, half-british. the swedish is on his mother’s side. he’s bilingual but thinks in english. only really speaks swedish around his mother. only child, and kinda put a lot of pressure on himself to be the perfect kid when he was young, but his parents are honestly, quite decent? and just want him to have a nice life, they don’t care if he isn’t successful or rich or anything, they’re honestly rather solid. (wow imagine having nice parents, a first for all my characters, im literally this meme)

grew up in peckham, a suburb of london. growing up, his mum was a model / actress / waitress who later retrained as a speech therapist and his dad worked in her majesty’s service at buckingham palace. his dad wasn’t allowed to tell his family what his job entailed but rory suspects it’s probably very boring and just involves a lot of…. logistics n security.

was bullied a lot at school. [cole sprouse voice] he didn’t fit in and he didn’t want to fit in. unironically wore a trenchcoat covered in badge pins to school every day of his life. spent most of his lunchtimes in the library because it was his safe space. as a result he knows…. loads of useless information because 30% of his school years were spent reading anthologies on space and the vikings etc. would be good on a game show. obsessively recorded every episode of university challenge as a child.

rory is obsessed with greek mythology (queer allies, i hear u and appreciate you)

middle-class and lowkey quite wealthy but rarely talks about money, one of those well-off people who still wears really old shitty shoes and only spends money if they absolutely have to

into star wars, not into the big bang theory. feminist. can’t watch horror movies

favourite film is where the wild things are. also loves the florida project. thinks kids are the sweetest thing and can’t wait to be a dad to some. right now is dad to one cat, whose name changes on a daily basis (identity is constantly shifting, duuuuude), but they were originally named ‘wheezer’. currently the cat is called thomas o’malley after the alley cat in the aristocats / rory’s first crush

rory's been musical for as long as they can remember. first picked up guitar because he thought it would make this girl esther who he was in love with like him, but he just ended up falling in love with music instead.

formulated several different bands as a kid but ultimately had to give it up cos he was quite controlling and got fixated on making a certain sound so it wasn’t really fun for the others. got into electronic music because it was something he could do basically on his own and keep tweaking until he got it perfect

always drumming their fingers or strumming invisible guitar strings. tends to avoid parties bc he has quite has specific tastes when it comes to music and doesn’t like listening to r&b for eight hours while people throw up into plastic cups.

a techno connoisseur. has been making electronic music since he was about twelve.

after his parents divorce, when he was fourteen, rory & his mother moved to run-down suburban neighbourhood, pittsfield, massachussets.

big into photography. he mostly uses a canon 35mm camera, but occasionally uses disposable ones when he wants that more rustic feel.

moving to the states, their photography became more focused on suburban neighborhoods and are often quite dark and cinematic (think gregory crewsden). here are some shots of pittsfield i really like which rory has on his wall [1] [2] [3]

falls in love 12 times a day. never had a girlfriend or boyfriend. gets sweaty when someone cute looks at him. flirting?? what?? would prefer to idealise them from a distance

gender??? hm. rory doesn’t really know where they fit just yet, sometimes rory feels like a guy and sometimes they dont feel like anything at all. identifies as genderfluid / non-binary but pronouns within that shift a lot. isn’t really bothered, cos they think it’s a social construct anyway. uses he/they pronouns interchangeably, but feels like ‘he’ is more fitting. won’t necessarily pull anyone up on it cos he knows having an identity that’s constantly…. in flux.. can be annoying for others … and doesn’t want to be a burden even tho it isn’t at all?? rory internalises guilt

everything is socially constructed. mirrors let you move through time. the whole thing’s a metaphor. he thinks he’s got free will but really he’s trapped in a maze. in a system. all he can do is consume. people think it’s a happy game. it’s not a happy game — it’s a fucking nightmare world, and the worst thing is, it’s real and we live in it

has ocd. tries to let it affect his life as little as possible, but obviously it’s incredibly hard to control a compulsive disorder. was teased for it at school when other kids started to notice. he was obsessed with the number five, would wash his hands five times, count stairs i groups of five, he could only use the corridors in one direction and always had to keep his hands busy. it manifests itself in hyper-fixations (trains when he was a child – specifically steam engines – then later he became obsessed with space and the patterns of constellations, and now he’s obsessed with synthesizers) and repetitive behaviours like counting stairs. doesn’t really affect his social life at all, he can jst get a bit locked-on n hyper-focused sometimes.

has insomnia. barely ever sleeps. finds it hard to switch off from work / writing / gaming / whatever’s preoccupying him in that moment. he’s always awake at 5am and quite often sleeps in late so you’ll see him on the way to get groceries at 12pm still in pyjamas

secretly a small-scale drug dealer, only does weed n some party pills. rollerskates around irving dealing cos they dnt have a car

likes: techno, the webpage cats on synthesizers in space, allen ginsberg, vintage gramophones, floating points, lcd soundsystem, marijuana, soft dogs that let you pet them, late-night strolls talking about the universe, independent films, cigarettes, herbal tea, gallows humour, long showers, brown eyes, tchaikovsky, dr. seuss, constellations, photography, late night jazz, vintage game boys and girls who could rip his still-beating heart out of his chest and use it as an ashtray. dislikes: weddings, funerals, formality, button-up shirts that people actually button-up, bananas, hot coffee, social media, people who watch and play sports, rap music – especially of the misogynistic variety, indie wankers in wire-framed glasses that play ed sheeran songs at open mic nights.

plot ! with ! me ! i’d say all the usual “exes fwb hookups spiel” but rory… is very tender and tame… i feel like a deer in the headlights of love……. so give me

skate gang skate gang m*therf*ckin skate gang - rory is tryna get better at skateboarding but basically moved to irving for the beach skating scene

rory’s only been here 2 years they moved after they dropped out of art school but i think they’d have some friends, maybe the friend who originally persuaded them to come to irving cos rory’d just dropped out and was feeling shitty n they were like hey dude come chill on the beach with me

people who are also into techno and are music snobs about it,

people who love all kinds of music,

people who are in bands that maybe rory’s recorded and produced stuff for,

people he actually jams with (he plays bass and synth)

ok so rory used to have this band called dogs die in hot cars, he was the bassist, there was also a lead vocals /guitarist and a drummer. this is super lame but i made a playlist of the kinda songs they’d make a few years back, u can listen to it here, if ur character is musical and they’d vibe with that and u think they’d be a good fit hmu x

honestly i want some nerdy as fuck DND campaign group. maybe he even used to LARP and now tries to hide that part of himself to be ‘cool rory’

an anime comic book group or some shit

people rory knows from open mic nights and gigs n they literally don’t even know each other they just nod and say hey buddy how’s it hanging and that’s the extent of their relationship

library girlfriends / boyfriends that he stares at longingly while paging through leatherbound volumes

gamers !!! social recluses !!! hermits !!

people he deals weed to on his rollerskates (why r all my characters obsessed with rollerskates)

hm i used to say NO HOOK UPS but now that rory has !Evolved! ig we can do hook up plots if u want but he’s not tht good at divorcing sex from emotion?? like he hooked up w teddy once (rip) n felt hopelessly in love so..... if u want soft plots b prepared for crippling sadness.......

discord me for plots u know the drill. rip diana babycakes you would’ve loved the disco remix of star wars theme cantina band x

#irvingintro #dj play kill your local indie softboi xxxx #muses.

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bisexualdaemon · 4 years

Text

mad woman (nessian)

a/n: In which Nesta copes and Feyre interjects

hello! again, new here ☺️ this kind of just...happened? the idea came upon me late talking with @harryandmolly idk anyways hope you enjoy! if you don’t like modern AUs then this probably isn’t for you, but if you’re into that sort of thing and all the warnings that go with it then I would love to hear what you think!

tw: angst, coping with death, sex work, language

original art by the incomparable charlie bowater

Things were great until they weren’t.

Nesta Archeron had been engaged. She had a father who loved her and a sister she adored. Until the plane crash. Until a faulty navigational system sent her fiancé, her father, and her sister into the side of a mountain on the way to her destination wedding.

She had gone to Hybern early, to get settled and calm her nerves, to plan around the security that Feyre had hired so that Rhys could attend the wedding. Nesta had told her not to bother, Rhys could stay in Velaris for all she cared. She’d gone and set it all up anyway. But it had all exploded when Nesta got the call that her world had ended and all she had left was a sister she resented and a brother-in-law with too high a profile. She was a tragic headline. A fucking media circus.

High Lord Rhysand’s sister-in-law left at the altar in tragic plane crash.

The press camped outside her Velaris studio for weeks. They’d only left when she had thrown a maelstrom of empty glass bottles out of her windows at them. Empty because she’d come back to Velaris and crawled inside a whiskey bottle and stayed there. She might be more whiskey than person now. The days were passing at a rate she couldn’t gauge anymore. Had it been hours or days or months since she’d picked up the phone in the middle of placing name cards on tables in the reception hall? She didn’t particularly care. Everyone who mattered was dead and being drunk was better than counting the minutes since her future had evaporated.

A knock sounded at the door.

Nesta removed the eye mask she was wearing and squinted at her phone. 7:15 AM. She’d been up all night again, had just laid down to try and sleep. Who the fuck was at her door at this hour?

She knew but she opened the door anyway.

Feyre Archeron, High Lady of the Night Court, was in the hallway looking worried. Well, Nesta assumed she was looking worried. She could only see Feyre’s furrowed eyebrows between the oversized sunglasses and the wide-brimmed sun hat. She had wrapped her red-gold hair, twin to Nesta’s own color, into a low chignon to hide it away from prying eyes. A disguise. Nesta snorted. Feyre Archeron could be noticed in this city by a blind man a hundred yards down a busy avenue. It was the way she carried herself, the easy confidence. No one could mistake her for anyone but their High Lady.

“What do you want?” Nesta crossed her arms over her chest, blocking the view into her apartment.

“Well, to start, a little respect for the person who has been footing your liquor bill for the last eight months.” Her red lips were turned down at the corners, tight. She angled her head past Nesta’s shoulder and crinkled her nose, “God, I don’t even need to see in there to know what it must look like. I can smell it from here. And I can see you.”

Nesta kept her face a mask of annoyance but considered how she must look. Compared to Feyre’s heavy cream sweater and perfectly tailored tan pants, anyone would look slovenly but Nesta knew she'd let herself go.

A while ago, she’d taken to wearing Tomas’ shirts to bed. Then eventually she wasn’t getting out of bed so it was all the time, changing only when she found the strength to shower. Today’s shirt—more like this week’s shirt if she was being honest with herself—was an old striped dress shirt, one Tomas had maybe worn twice with a suit. It now had several stains from whiskey and whatever takeout she had ordered last night. She couldn’t quite remember. Chinese? Greek?

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Her marriage was supposed to be one of convenience. They had been friends, had both gotten older and then tossed in the towel on dating. Tomas needed a cover for a lifestyle his parents forbade and Nesta...well Nesta wanted to be comfortable. Nesta wanted her sister to stop meddling and leave her alone. At least, she thought she did.

But, no one had known. No one except Elain.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

Her hair hadn’t been washed in days, it was matted in some places, stuck to her face in others. She knew her eyes were hollow, sunken in and lacking that fire people saw when they looked at her. She’d been avoiding her own reflection for weeks, had even covered the mirror by the door. Months ago, apparently. Eight months.

Had it really been that long? Had she really been moving from bottle to bottle, takeout container to takeout container, for eight whole months? She’d barely left the apartment, had lost her job, happy to exploit Feyre’s seemingly unending pity. Pity she guessed had run out.

Today.

She didn’t care about that either.

“Come all this way to chide me, dear sister?” Nesta curled her lips as she moved aside to let Feyre through. Might as well let her see.

“Thank you.” Her sister breezed into the little sitting area and stopped dead.

Her eyes scanned the room, marking the recycling bin first, overflowing with empty glass bottles. All different labels. Whatever Nesta could find quickest. Then the kitchen counters, filled with boxes of crackers and empty ramen noodle packages, cans of tuna and an open jar of peanut butter, anything that could be quickly consumed with minimal effort. She didn’t want to die, but she hadn’t exactly been concerned with living either.

At last her eyes darted to the corner, over by the window, where a white dress hung from a hunting knife that had been punched through the wall. Straight through the center of the sweetheart neckline. Nesta had lost count of the weeks it had been there. A reminder. A memorial. Little circular burns littered the fishtail skirt, remnants of late nights with too much booze and an ashtray full of half-smoked blunts still on the windowsill.

“Oh, Nesta.” Feyre’s hand came up to cup her mouth. Nesta raised her chin, refusing to feel reprimanded. “I’m sending Alis this afternoon.”

“I can look after myself,” Nesta hissed through her teeth.

“Clearly,” Feyre threw her arms wide and turned in a circle, “you cannot. You know I came here hoping you were getting better. I gave you space, knew you blamed me for what happened. At least partially. But it’s time, Nesta. I lost them too. But I don’t have the luxury of drinking and smoking my way into oblivion on my sister’s dime.”

“Is this just about the money?” Nesta asked incredulously, “I’ll fucking pay you back if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, no,” Feyre brushed a lock of hair out of her face, frustrated, “it’s not the money. I don’t care about the money. Neither does Rhys. We just want you to come back to the land of the living.”

“Ah, yes. The royal We.” Nesta sat abruptly on her sunken couch and leaned forward, not caring that she was just wearing a pair of underwear beneath the oversized shirt, “how is dearest Rhys? High Lording as well as ever I presume. Now with better reasons than ever to hate me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” she said too quickly, wringing her fingers for a moment before she whispered, “we...we missed you at the funerals.”

Nesta’s blood ran cold. Her eyes swam with tears that wouldn’t fall.

“I know why you didn’t show,” Feyre couldn’t look at her, “I almost understand it...but we still missed you. Father was interred with full honors of the Night Court. I’m having a garden planted for Elain up at the estate. You should come see it when you’re ready.”

Nesta really needed a drink. Feyre needed to leave. She couldn’t do this. Not now. Not today. Not ever.

“Get out.”

“Nesta—”

“Get out.” Nesta’s voice was low, lethal.

“Fine,” the High Lady voice was back in full force, “I only really came to give you this.” She pulled out what looked like a business card from her freshly pressed pant pocket, “this might seem...forward. But, I think it might help you. Rhys and I use the service sometimes when we’re looking for something different. I know you won’t go see someone. This might be a different kind of therapy. Tell her I sent you, she’ll know what to do.”

“Fine, fine,” Nesta took the card from her, hoping it would get her to leave faster, “get out.”

“Nesta,” Feyre stopped and took a breath, her hand wrapped around the doorknob, “please do be discrete.”

Nesta furrowed her brow, but nodded. She had been, for the most part. Except on nights she was too blitzed to remember her own name, let alone that her sister was High Lady of this region.

“I’m still sending Alis,” Feyre wrinkled her nose again as she opened the door and strolled out. And that was that. No goodbye. They hadn’t ever been good at those.

Nesta blinked at the door, the apartment suddenly feeling small and cramped. She turned over the card in her hand. It had only a name and a number. AMREN. 202-555-0187. She flicked it onto the table. Whatever, she thought as she sauntered over to the kitchen and took a swig from the nearest whiskey bottle.

↞↠

“Ms. Archeron.”

“Yes?” The tone of the man’s voice made her drop the place card she had been holding.

“There’s been an accident. A plane crash,” he hesitated. Her eyes stopped seeing. Her body shivered with a bone-rattling chill despite the summer sun streaming into the room through the open windows. They couldn’t be—

“Say it.” Her voice was a breath on the wind.

“There were no survivors.”

She didn’t hear the rest. Someone was screaming. A crash, glass breaking, warmth sliding down her leg. A sharp, metallic smell in the air. She couldn’t hear them calling her name, couldn’t feel their fingers gripping her skin, feel the pressure of the towel collecting the blood from the gash in her leg.

A plane crash, he’d said. No survivors.

Tomas was dead.

Her father was dead.

Elain…she had just planted flowers for spring.

A fresh scream ripped from her throat.

↞↠

She woke up with it echoing in her ears, heart pounding. Wrenching the fresh sheets off her clammy skin, she felt for the scar on her thigh, catapulting her back into the present. Nesta hadn’t let them stitch it for days, had wanted to remember. It had almost festered. Feyre had held her down while they numbed and sutured. Most of those days were lost now, either to shock or sleep, she didn’t know. It hadn’t taken long for the drinking to start.

Her head was pounding. Alis had stormed the apartment hours earlier, tut-tutting about the stale stench, throwing open every window. Nesta actually appreciated the fresh air. She didn’t appreciate the old woman’s silent appraisal of her ruined wedding dress.

“Don’t touch it,” Nesta had snapped. Alis had tut-tutted some more, cleaning as she went, but she left the dress alone.

Now, with a clean apartment and nothing to keep her company but her own self-pity, she laid spread-eagle in her bed that felt too big in clothes that felt too clean. Nothing matched her insides anymore. The small, decrepit thing inside of her that shrivelled that day and rejected everything still living. Even herself. She had never been a particularly warm person, but Elain, sweet and beautiful Elain, had made her care about something outside of herself.

She got up to find something to dull her head. A bottle of ibuprofen sat on the coffee table, next to a decanter of scotch. She washed the pills down with the brown liquor and sat on the edge of the sofa, her head in her hands.

The silence pressed her on her eardrums. An oppressive lack of sound, only the barest of sounds audible on the street. Too quiet. For the first time in months it was too quiet. Her head shot up and focused, eyes darting to the card neatly placed in the corner of the table.

Amren.

What had Feyre meant, “a different kind of therapy”? Hell would have to freeze over before Nesta crawled onto a couch to talk about her feelings, Feyre had admitted as much. So what was this?

She picked up the card and flipped it over. Simple, white, just the number in embossed black. The curiosity was going to kill her if she didn’t just call the number. She reached for her phone, hauled out from between the couch cushions by Alis earlier. It had been dead for weeks. She’d given up on ignoring the condolences calls and just let the battery drain. Probably why Feyre had shown up yesterday unannounced. She swiped past all of the missed call and voicemail notifications and pulled up the keypad.

It only rang once.

“Yes?” A clipped, cold voice answered the phone.

“Uhh, is this Amren?”

“Speaking,” her voice didn’t soften, “can I help you?”

“My sister gave me your card,” Nesta didn’t like this woman. She wracked her brain to think of how this person could help her, especially when she didn’t particularly want anyone’s help.

“And who, my dear,” Nesta could hear the snide smile in Amren’s voice, “is your sister?”

“Feyre,” Nesta huffed, “Feyre Archeron.”

“Oh, Feyre darling! Why didn’t you say so?” Amren warmed immediately. Well, at least to a level above stone cold. “Yes, Feyre told me about you.”

“You must have read—”

“I don't read the news, dear girl,” Amren said, flippant. “I have someone perfect for you. I will send him. Already have your address.”

God, she really needed to have a conversation with Feyre about boundaries. Who is she sending?

“Who are you sending?” Nesta had not been sober long enough for this. Her brain wasn’t firing quick enough to deal with whoever this person was sending to her apartment.

“His name is Cassian. He’ll be at your apartment in two hours.”

Two hours?!

“I can’t have anyone in my apartment in two hours! What is this??”

“We call it therapy,” just like Feyre had, “you don’t need to do anything to prepare.”

“But I don’t even—” The line went dead.

Nesta stared at her phone. How could I prepare if I don’t know what to prepare for?

↞↠

Two hours later, Nesta was pacing. Nervous. She was rarely nervous but she was also rarely unprepared. This felt like a bad omen, like suspense in a horror film. Like this Cassian might jump out of the shadows at any moment from some secret portal.

She had washed her hair but no makeup. She had put on leggings but no real pants. There were concessions she was willing to make and others she wasn’t. It didn’t matter that they were only concessions to her own pride. Feyre got one opportunity to meddle in Nesta’s life, one opportunity to try and control how she coped with losing everything. Nesta would endure it in her own home, in her bare feet, or she wouldn’t endure it at all.

An assertive knock at the door made her jump.

Her heart thundered. She hadn’t talked to a man in months, let alone been in a small space with one. Now there was one at her door. She padded across her expensive rug, smoothing her hair as she went. Her hand gripped the doorknob, giving herself a second to stop shaking. Breathe in, breathe out. She jerked the door open only to be left utterly speechless.

The most beautiful man she’d ever seen was leaning on the door frame, forearms crossed over his massive chest.

“Nesta?” one corner of his full mouth curved upward. He inclined his head behind her left shoulder after she nodded. “Gonna let me in?”

“Why should I?” She challenged, angling her chin up at him.

“Because,” his shoulder length black hair slid into his face as his towering frame looked down at her. He came closer and held her chin between his rough fingers, “you’re at least a little curious about what I’m doing here.”

Nesta ripped her face from his hands and took a step away from him. His hazel eyes stripped her bare. How does he do that? He appraised her frankly, taking in her sloppily thrown together appearance. The baby hairs that clung to the side of her face, unable to stay in her top knot. Her soft curves that the oversized t-shirt she wore only hinted at. All the way down to her toes, the cracked polish left over from her wedding manicure, just a couple of splotches of color left.

His gaze sent a warmth through her. She tried to will it away, send it back to the hell she belonged in. Shaking her head, she stuck him with a glare.

“Fine,” she stepped aside, “come in and tell me what you’re doing here so I can tell you to get out.”

He walked in smoothly, his gray slacks gripping his toned thighs with each stride. Too casual, Nesta thought, for a therapist, especially with his white shirt open at the collar and rolled to his elbows. Not that she actually believed whatever this was even approached therapy.

He stopped in the center of Nesta’s living room and turned, giving the place as detailed a once-over as he had given her. His eyes only paused briefly on the wedding dress still hanging in the corner, but he faced her again as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

“So,” he took up so much space as he spoke, too big, too much life for this apartment that had only contained her hollow soul for so long, “everyone up to this point has referred to this appointment as therapy, correct?”

“Yes,” Nesta replied, curt. “But you’re no therapist, are you, Cassian?”

He snorted, a challenge to her fire temper. She didn’t like to be mocked and somehow he knew that. “No, I’m no therapist.”

“I’m what is referred to in the circles you run in as an escort, a friend, of sorts.” He looked her dead in the eye. No shame, no fear. Just a professional. “We call it therapy, first and foremost for discretion, but also because I’m here to make you feel better. Feel alive again. In whatever form that might take.”

Nesta stiffened. Her mouth dropped open. No. “My sister sent me a hooker? You’re telling me that, my sister, the High Lady of the Night Court, sent me a hooker?!”

She could barely keep up with the 100 mile an hour thoughts racing through her head. It wasn’t long before the pacing started again. Feyre said she uses the service sometimes...with Rhys?! She maybe could have guessed that her sister and her ass of a husband were freaky but prostitutes?! Couldn’t they just ask someone?

Nesta, please do be discrete, she’d said as she walked out the door. She guessed paying for silence was easier than risking a secret. Money is always the best form of currency.

Well, I guess I fucking know why. And she set this up for me?! What in hell’s fire did she think she was doing?

Cassian just stood there while her brain worked, while it exploded with all of this new information. So still, a statue compared to her frantic pacing. He must deal with this a lot. But wait, don’t people usually know what they’re asking for?!

“You’ve never–“ she couldn’t finish the question out loud. Sharing was something foreign to Nesta even when she wasn’t talking about sexual partners.

“No,” he shook his head, “Amren wouldn’t have sent me here if I had. She just told me the context of the visit.”

“So, you’re here,” Nesta stopped in front of him, “to have sex with me?” The words came out a whisper. They sounded so foreign, so ridiculous.

“I’m here to help you.” He took a step toward her. The walls came down fast.

“And why do you think you can help me?” The words cut through the space like a knife. Accusatory, incredulous, they almost stung passing over her vocal cords.

“Because, dear Nesta,” he took another step toward her, and another, “I’m very good at helping people.”

The warmth in her blood returned and warred with the acid coursing through her veins, the hate. It came raging back from this morning, from the past months, from ten minutes ago when this cocky prick knocked on her door. He was staring again, close enough to have to look down at her, just an inch or two from touching.

“I don’t need help from a high-dollar whore,” she spat. The only sign that she’d hit her mark was a faint twitch in his eyebrow.

“I’ve been called worse, sweetheart,” he drawled. “But let’s get one thing straight. I think you need help more than you’d ever admit. I don’t think you’ve taken a breath since then. I read the papers. A beloved dead sister. Absent from the funerals. You blame yourself for not being there, for not dying with them. The guilt warms your bed at night while you lie awake, as much a part of you as the alcohol that twinges your breath. It’s become so familiar you don’t remember what it’s like without it. Who would Nesta Archeron be without that dark stain on her conscience following her like a storm cloud? Will all those liquor bottles I saw outside answer that question for you? Will that tattered wedding dress?”

“How dare–“ she felt the door press against her back, unconsciously moving with him while he lashed at her burning soul, fire for fire.

“Oh, I dare,” he continued, planting his hands on the door behind her, trapping her with his eyes. “Because take it from someone who knows, when you decide to wake up and live with what you have left instead of existing with everything you’ve lost, there may not be anything left to live with. And trust me, guilt makes a very lonely bedfellow.”

Nesta had barely blinked this whole time, refusing to let him have that victory. Even if everything he’d said had hit home. Even if everything he’d said had flayed her open and raked her insides across the coals. She still burned with that unyielding rage.

“Is that what you say to all the girls that pay for your time?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. She was close enough to smell him, the warm spice of clove and sandalwood with a distinctly male musk. It was intoxicating. It was infuriating.

“Some. Some of the men, too. I’m an equal opportunity tough lover.”

She swallowed hard. He was close enough that if she moved an inch his hair might brush her cheek. “Is that what this is? Tough love? For someone you just met?”

“It’s the truth,” his breath tickled her face, the tension crackling like static electricity around them, “isn’t it?”

He sounded tentative for the first time, like maybe he’d overstepped. Is it really so obvious?

“Did Feyre pay you to say those things?” Or were they just written so plainly on her face?

“Nooo,” he said, lower than before, gentler, raising one of his hands like he might stroke her cheek. She cursed herself silently for hoping. He came closer then, his lips a hair’s breadth away from her ear, “Feyre paid me to fuck you senseless.”

Goddamn him. Fire shot into her veins. Not the simmering fury of her anger but something deeper, hotter, pooling in her core. Her breath caught in a little gasp and he smiled. A wide, full grin with teeth that made him look more predator than man.

Her body was a traitor, but it made no difference. She was already burning in hell.

Cassian held still, letting her make the next move. Part of her wanted to make him stand there forever, punish him for what he said, what he knew about her, daring to say what no one else would with just one look. A different part of her wanted to rip him apart.

“Come on, Nesta,” a prince of cats toying with his prey, “show me that fi–“

Her lips crashed against his. God, he was big. She reached around him, fingers tensed to claw at his back, and savored the muscles and sinews that made up the terrain. He pressed her into the door. His hands cupped her face, so gentle for a kiss that was anything but. Flames licked her skin everywhere he touched, at every point their bodies connected through clothing.

He leaned and gripped and suddenly she was taller than him, her legs wrapped around his middle, his fingers pressed into the curve of her ass. She gripped the sides of his face and guided him to the side, forcing herself deeper, her tongue brazenly exploring his mouth. He even tasted wild, like fresh mint and adrenaline. Her heart beat in her ears, deafening over the silence of the apartment. He moaned, so deep it vibrated in her chest.

Nesta broke first, pupils blown and breath ragged.

“Finally shut you up?” she asked, sagging back against the door, her head falling against the wood with a low thud.

He….well, he growled. There was no other word for the sound that rippled through his whole body and found a home between her legs. Her toes curled and she thanked every god that he couldn’t see.

“Pretty little acid tongue,” he pushed them off the door and walked her toward the bed, almost tripping twice over the plush rug. Nesta didn’t notice. She was too busy tearing at the buttons down Cassian’s chest. Each one revealed inch after inch of smooth golden skin. Licks of black ink stretched from his shoulders, mostly hidden by more shirt. She huffed, trying to shove it off, but instead caught his nipple by accident with her nails.

His nostrils flared as he hissed and dropped her unceremoniously on the mattress. She bounced, breathless. Dangerously close to a giggle. Traitor. She schooled her features back to bored disdain. The only hint of lust was the glassy haze in her vision, honed in on Cassian’s bare chest.

He had removed his shirt while she had been distracted by her traitorous body, discarded it somewhere above her. The black inked lines Nesta had seen stretched around his shoulders and down his arms in dark whorls and spirals. The tattoo was almost feminine in its pure decoration, a stark contrast to his cut biceps. It was beautiful.

He was beautiful.

“Careful, Nesta,” he chided, “someone might think you like what you see.”

She gave him a filthy gesture. A deep, rumbling laugh escaped him as he took a step closer, his fingers grazing the outer seams of her leggings. From her ankle to her knee, where he stopped to make circles. He curved around her knee and gripped her legs, tugging her to the edge of the bed. The palms of his hands burned her skin straight through her leggings. He hadn’t tried to remove her clothes. She couldn’t decide if it was a tease or an insult. Probably both.

“Are you just going to talk?” she cocked an eyebrow at him, “or are you going to do something productive with that mouth?”

His eyes narrowed, “are you sure that’s what you want?”

She wanted him. Damn her, she wanted him so bad she could barely stand to look at him. The guilt roiled in her stomach, that she should take pleasure while everyone she’d loved could no longer. He’d offered her help, but it would be her damnation. No, this was just a distraction. No amount of distraction could bring back Tomas, or her father, or Elain.

Light from the city outside shifted and spread into the corner drawing her eye. The dress. Her wedding dress. In the night shadows, the blunt burns looked like angry, gaping voids. They whispered to her as she stared. Traitor, traitor, traitor.

I’m here to help you. His words were poison. Bred from a kind of hope only Feyre, with her perfect life, could ever have again after what they had lost. Her want for Cassian’s body burned her from the inside, stoked the fires of the self-inflicted hell she’d cast herself into. Nothing more than a catalyst. She could take his body and burn for doing so, but she would not accept his help.

“Cassian,” Nesta’s voice didn’t belong to her. She pulled her t-shirt up to just below her breasts, exposing her flat stomach and drawing his eyes to her waistband. “just do what you came to do.”

The air chilled as he stiffened. Her heart raced, waiting for him, fingers teasing her bare skin. He didn’t move. She lifted a bare foot and ran it along his pant leg, coaxing him to touch her. He nodded, as if making some decision Nesta wasn’t privy to. His face, lit so beautifully by the moonlight, hardened into a mask. A smooth, smiling mask. Prince of cats no more.

“Cassian?”

“Dear Nesta, I do believe our time is up,” he leaned down and reached over her, his chest just grazing her belly, the only skin to skin contact they’d had. She swore she felt him shudder, but it was over in an instant. He quickly retrieved his shirt from behind her and pulled it on.

She gaped at him, “what do you mean our time is up?”

“I mean,” his eyes shot right through her with cool confidence, “it’s getting late and I do need my beauty sleep. I must be going.”

“But–“ she didn’t understand. Isn’t this what he wanted? Isn’t this how he gets paid? How can he leave?

He buttoned up his shirt, swift and efficient. Little feeling or warmth. Nesta wasn’t sure what to do. Confusion quickly gave way to anger, boiling in her veins, flushing her skin.

“So, you’re not just a whore,” she hissed, “you’re a bastard whore that can’t even finish the job.”

“So lovely meeting you, dear Nesta,” he turned with a sweet smile and opened the door, sending any tension between them out into the hallway. He breezed through the door, clicking it shut behind him so gently he might have been a phantom.

Nesta slammed her head against the mattress and let out a frustrated scream so loud she had no doubt the bastard whore heard it.

taglist: @sleeping-and-books @greerlunna @sjmships @cupcakey00 @queenestarcheron

Cassian’s POV is next ❤️

#acotar #acotar fic #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #acotar au #acomaf #acowar #sarah j maas #sjm #my writing

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x0401x · 4 years

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Jeweler Richard Fanbook Short Story #3

Feel free to message me about possible corrections, and please consider supporting the creators by purchasing digital copies of the official releases: Novel || Manga || Fanbook. In case anyone is feeling generous: Ko-fi | PayPal. ( ╹◡╹)っ’･*

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T/N: Okay, so, this is one of those chapters where the author makes mistakes in linguistics (but she’s trying, guys, she’s trying!). She writes “prasinon” as “prase” for some reason, and I took the liberty to fix it myself when translating.

Connecting Chrysoprase

Jewelry Etranger sat inconspicuously at Ginza 7-choume. The store owner, Richard, was the possessor of a beauty that you couldn’t think was from this world, but no matter how beautiful he was, once half a year had passed, you would get used to it. And as I got used to him, the questions also surfaced.

“Hey, Richard, don’t you have any favorite foods other than sweets? Do you eat ramen or anything like that?”

Mr. Richard Ranashinha de Vulpian looked at me with scrutinizing blue eyes. Sitting on the red sofa, he had been observing the contents of a large jewel box, holding them up over his head against the morning light shining in from the window.

“I find difficult to figure the aim of the question. Why ramen? I have had meals with you numerous times. I eat anything without likes or dislikes.”

“I know. It’s not like it’s limited to just ramen, but you don’t eat that kind of stuff much, do you?”

Like chives. Or garlic. Or grilled meat dripping with juices.

I knew that this didn’t suit his image. He was a man whose features seemed to have accidentally come out of a dream world. If he told me that he could live off eating department store sweets and pink roses, he could probably have me seriously convinced up to about 70%. That was exactly why I would feel like searching for a gap.

As I was about to ask if he understood this logic, Richard replied curtly with a clay doll-like face, “What ill intentions.”

That was true. I wasn’t some obsessive follower of an idol’s personal life or anything. Richard hit bull’s-eye with the deduction that I “probably ate ramen yesterday”. For some reason, things got awkward. I was in a position where it was better to retreat for a while. Time to change the subject.

“What stone is that? Looks like candy and it’s pretty cute.”

“A type of chalcedony. They are in the same category as crystals. In particular, this one with a milky apple-green color is called chrysoprase.

“Ah~...”

What Richard was pinching with his bare hands - because it was safer to touch it with bare skin rather than wearing gloves, he said, as it wouldn’t cause any damage - was a pale green, round stone. It had low transparency, was cut en cabochon and looked like an old-style candy.

“W-What was it again? The name. Chry...?”

“‘Chrysoprase’,” Richard repeated for me.

How many times had something like this happened? The stone’s name was in a Western language. Basically, all of them were in katakana. My ears did register it, but I couldn’t memorize it in one go at all. Richard was a helpful person, so there were times when he wrote down the names in romaji and explained them to me, but I honestly couldn’t keep up with him. There were countless stones in this world.

“Chryso... aah, no good. It’s hard to memorize.”

“‘Chrysoprase’. It is said to be a stone that helps to harmonize and integrate personalities. Medieval European literature also mentions it as a stone that Alexander the Great loved.”

Alexander the Great. A person I had learned about in high school. Even I knew that name. The fact that a stone adored by a warlord who had long passed away was still loved by people of the current times was thought-provoking. The range of the gemstone world was broad. But, well, leaving that as that.

“How d’you memorize stones’ names? It’s not like you’ve got some test to do like in a history class...”

“Do you think anyone would buy goods from a trader who cannot even say their names?”

“I don’t, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s hard. There’s lots of types and they sound like magic spells. Like ‘Sri Jayawardenepura Kotte’. It wouldn’t be weird if you felt like cheating without a care in the world. You got any trick for memorizing them?”

“My compliments to you for being able to pronounce the official name of Sri Lanka’s capital. But I cannot praise the part about carelessly deceiving people. Once your reputation falls to earth, it does not recover so easily. To begin with, your perception of business in general is too lax for someone enrolled in the Faculty of Economics. I know you have the aspiration, but if you do not pair it to practical abilities and skills, you will be running idle. Shouldn’t you try to improve these skills once again so that you can avoid unnecessary hardships in the future? Instead of obsessing over finding out something unexpected about the shopkeeper from your part-time job.”

The arguments were so spot-on that I was at a loss for words. Even so, still with a slightly exasperated face, Richard continued to speak. Most likely, it was his gentle side’s turn from here on out.

“Still, you are right, I do have a trick. If I were to use the capital as an example, ‘Sri Jayawardenepura Kotte’ had its original name ‘Kotte’ being embellished with the title of ‘President Jayawardene’s Sacred City’. When you know the origin of it, doesn’t this line-up of katakana letters that only appears in magic spells turn into meaningful words?”

“So it had that kind of meaning? I see...”

“Is this time to be impressed? Do the same and discover the relatedness of all kinds of matters in your daily life. If you direct your eyes to the depths of your history without sticking to the surface, I guarantee that your world will broaden much more richly.”

“Then what about the chrysoprase of just now?”

As I took a stab at arousing his enthusiasm, the volubly beautiful shop owner smiled gorgeously. I felt that this guy would stay in a good mood forever just as long as I gave him sweets and let him talk about gems. And I liked Richard’s face the most when he was in his best mood.

“This word is taken from the Greek language. It consists of two separate words, ‘chrysos’ and ‘prasinon’. The meaning of chrysos is ‘gold’. The bright golden that can be seen showing through within the green was associated with gold. Prasinon means...”

What happened? His enunciation suddenly got bad.

When I urged him to continue, Richard looked down at the stone in his hand with a dull look and sighed a little. “The meaning of prasinon... comes close to plants such as chives or green onions.”

“Ooh—!”

As I clapped my hands together with an “all paths lead to ramen”, Richard made a face like he had just woken up from a nightmare. What is it? Please laugh.

“In any case, the mental attitude of trying to master something is commendable. I pray that your efforts will bear fruit.”

“Thanks, thanks. Well, will you eat ramen after all?”

Mr. Richard, the jeweler, looked at me with an awfully sharp gaze. What was that face? His facial expression looked like the usual nuance that he was growing fond of my foolishness had increased to about 30%. Did he intend to poke fun on me?

“Yes, yes, I will.”

“What do you prefer? Like miso or soy sauce?”

“A large helping of green onions and garlic. And even then, it is good to grate raw garlic and put in it.”

“That’s a pretty hardcore taste for someone who works with close-contact service business.”

“Which is why this is not something I can eat whenever. I eat it carefully by myself when I do not have to meet anyone the next day.”

As my eyes widened, the beautiful storekeeper raised his chin arrogantly. Did he want to say that this didn’t suit his image or had it just unfolded anew?

“How was it, did you enjoy the so-called ‘gap’?”

“No, it’s not like that’s the main goal.”

“Hah?”

“I can’t invite anyone for a French cuisine restaurant or a high-class sweets store, but if it’s a ramen shop, there’s lots of them near my university. If you like, why don’t we go eat together next time? They’re mostly shops that seem better to drop by wearing a t-shirt rather than a suit, but I wanna try chatting with you while eating this kind of junky stuff every now and then.”

“For you to discover a new unexpected thing about me, you mean?”

“I just wanna get along with you better.”

For an instant, Richard’s facial expression strained hard. What was up? His face looked like he hadn’t known better and bit a sour pickled plum or something. As I furrowed my brows, his blue eyes narrowed, looking glum, while he closed the jewel box with a click and stood up.

“Ah, show me more. It wasn’t nearly enough—”

“The chrysoprase is said to have the power to put the balance of mind and body in order, as well as make it spring up comfortably. Perhaps because its fresh grass color is a reminder of spring. Isn’t this stone unnecessary for you, since you are always in a festive mood?”

“Why’re you angry?”

“I am not.”

“Shouldn’t you take a better look at the chrysoprase?”

“Thank you for the unnecessary meddling.”

Leaving me with things to say, Richard disappeared into the back room. Was it that bad to invite him to a ramen shop? It wasn’t a good idea to let him stay angry, so I voluntarily prepared two cups of royal milk tea in the kitchenette. Having come out into the reception room, Richard said nothing more than the expected as he drank a tea that had a little more sugar in it than usual.

After the customer of that morning had gone home, Richard showed me the chrysoprase once again. Upon a better look, I understood the meaning of that naming, which I couldn’t think of as anything more than a mystery at first. Didn’t the people of ancient times think that this was a plant born from gold? The uneven surface was smooth and wavy like an organic body. Chrysoprase. Gold and green onions. Even though there were several gems in this world, I would probably never forget the name of this one. If I ever got to eat ramen with Richard someday, I would definitely bring up this stone.

“Do you remember that talk?” I would ask.

#jeweler richard #housekishou richard shi no nazo kantei #nakata seigi #the case files of jeweler richard #richard ranashinha de vulpian #tsujimura nanako #yukihiro utako #novel #my translation #fanbook #jr short story collection

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darthkvznblogs · 3 years

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From His Vantage Upon the Moon #1

Thor, Doctor Strange, and the Olympians

(MCU x Percy Jackson and the Olympians x Supergiant Games' Hades)

It's rather bad form for a visiting god not to check in with the local deities; Thor's already missed two visits, so he really oughta visit Mount Olympus - though in his defense, being cast out by Odin really shouldn't count. Fortunately, Doctor Strange is willing to play mediator between the typically fickle pantheons.

(From His Vantage upon the Moon is a collection of one-shot stories set in the Kryptonverse, an MCU based crossover universe including over 16 franchises so far. You can find the original work here, but I'll also be posting each short story here on Tumblr, too! If you like what I do, and would like to support me, you can find me on Ko-fi!)

“Are you entirely certain you wish to accompany me, Sorcerer?” –Thor asks, raising an eyebrow as they stand just outside the Empire State Building. Despite the fact that they’re in street clothes, Thor’s outrageously chiseled physique keeps drawing quite a few lascivious gazes, much to Stephen’s chagrin.

“Were it truly up to me, I’d be happy to let you make a fool of yourself.” –he drawls. “My duties, however, require me to mediate your reunion.”

Thor hums. “I don’t recall requiring a mediator during my last visit.” –he grouses. “The Lords of Olympus were quite amenable to our brief presence on Midgard back then.”

“That was then, and this is now. Earth has changed quite a bit in your absence.” –Strange argues. “The Olympians and their demigod children, in particular, have suffered through quite a bit of turmoil in the past few decades – particularly so in the last five years. Compounded with the thinning of the Mist, they’re bound to be wary of anyone outside their immediate circle of trust. Even if you were a friend.”

“Ah. I see.” –Thor mutters. “Strange, is it not? Their own troubles, Loki’s betrayal and the bandit rampage throughout the Nine Realms...we’ve had centuries of peace, and now this. So much has happened in so little time.”

Strange sighs. “I’m afraid this could just be the beginning. But this isn’t the time for that.” –he says. “Let’s hurry along. You have an invasion to repel.”

The god and the sorcerer walk into the building. A security guard stands beside the elevator – less a person and more a magical security measure meant to dissuade mortals (and even some demigods) from entering the gods’ abode. The guard recognizes Strange, though, and merely waves him into the elevator – though not before shooting Thor a vaguely hostile look.

“Odd custom, this.” –Thor notes, as Strange punches in their destination – floor 600. “Moving their home around so often – seems rather a hassle. What’s wrong with the original Mount Olympus?”

“The Olympians like to chase the most powerful nations around, eager for worship as they are. Right now, America’s at the top of the food chain.” –Strange retorts. “Though I hear they’re considering moving back to Greece as part of their big PR strategy. This part of the world is getting rather crowded, rather fast – and Greece could certainlyuse the tourism it’d bring, once they reveal themselves to the world.”

“I remember their strange worship-sustenance, yes.” –Thor recalls as he raises an eyebrow. “Have the mortals truly forgotten us?”

Strange shakes his head. “It’s not like that. Your kind may have become myths, but we still retell them in many forms. That being said, very few people believe in the gods – and I’m not entirely certain that they think of you as you truly are. You and your kin, in particular, have drawn some rather nastyfollowers in the past century or so.”

Thor winces. “Jane mentioned as much, during my brief stay. Something about ‘perfect Arian men’.” –he mutters, disheartened. “Hatred and fear twist the minds of gods and mortals alike. Such it has been as long as I’ve lived.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for. It’s up to us to set the record straight.” –Stephen says.

Thor nods as the elevator dings, opening to the golden gates and pristine marble of Olympus. “Aye, that we are.”

The duo make their way forth, magically changing into their mystical regalia. Lesser gods and nature spirits look on in surprise and curiosity as Thor cheerfully greets them, giggling nymphs and naiads huddling into gossiping circles. The throne room sits atop a small cliff, like the Parthenon in Athens, overlooking the entire realm and the hazy mortal world, barely visible below.

When they enter, Strange can’t help but be surprised; it’s been maybe a month since he was last on Olympus, and yet he can barely recognize the figures sat on each of the thirteen thrones, each of them at least thirty feet tall – the only exception being the hooded figure of Hestia, placidly sat within the flames of the hearth in the middle of the room.

“Venerable Lords and Ladies of Olympus.” –Stephen half bows. “The Mighty Thor, Firstborn of Odin, God of Thunder, Strength, and Fertility, would request an audience of you.”

The god at the head of the Pantheon leans forward. King Zeus looks very different – his skin is a few shades darker than Strange remembers, closer to the olive tones of the Greek, and his more or less sensible black hair and beard have dramatically changed to become cloud-like in appearance, billowing in the ever-present wind of the divine mountaintop. Gone, too, is his perfectly tailored suit – he is clad in a golden toga, accented in white, and a plethora of rings adorn his hands, one of which casually holds the Master Bolt. A crown of stylized lightning sits atop his head. “Master Sorcerer.” –he greets, his voice booming like distant thunder. “And the Lord Thor. Welcome to Olympus.”

“Do forgive the lack of appropriate fanfare in your reception.” –Queen Hera says, beside him, snow-white robes adorned with a golden belt and peacock feathers, sprouting like a corona behind her head. “Dragging our family together for such an impromptu visit proved a more difficult endeavor than we anticipated.”

The thirteenth god scoffs, at Zeus’ left. Lord Hades crosses his arms, ashen-skinned, bushy-bearded, and much more muscular than Strange remembers him – perhaps the most visually different of them all. A crown of burning laurels, matching his flaming feet, compliments his blood-colored chiton, and precious stones of all kinds adorn his hands and arms. “Then perhaps you should have done with the few of you who were already present, Sister Hera. Blood and Darkness, but this is a waste of my time.” –he curses, leering at their guests with black and red eyes. “Curse the day your spawn so nobly decided to include me in these affairs, Poseidon.”

Poseidon, at least, Stephen recognizes. Physically, Percy’s father looks the same as before, for some reason – even though his clothes have also regressed to what must’ve been his ancient looks. He smirks at his older brother. “We won’t keep you from your lovely family for long, Brother.” –he says, trying to placate the wrathful Lord of the Underworld. “But this is important.”

“Loathe as I am to agree with Lord Poseidon, rekindling our bonds with King Odin and his kin upon Asgard is paramount among our short-term priorities, Lord Hades.” –Athena grudgingly admits. Hades scoffs, sulking back into his throne. The virgin Goddess of Wisdom and War turns to Thor. “And I sense Lord Thor is eager to make amends for his unannounced visit and battle, earlier this year.”

Thor grins. “Indeed, Lady Athena. Though the mortals bid us worship once, Asgard recognizes Olympus’ sovereignty upon Midgard. King Odin sends his regards – and his firstborn, to aid in the protection of your world in whatever way you deem necessary.” –he says.

Zeus and Hades share a knowing look that has Strange wincing internally – they must know something about Thor that the Asgardian himself doesn’t. “There is no transgression to apologize for. And you’re allowed free transit in our domains, fellow Thunderer.” –Zeus declares, amiably enough. “Though grateful for the All-Father’s offer, we do not hold you to our service. You’ve decided to shoulder enoughresponsibilities to humanity already.”

“Your brother, I assume he is no longer a threat?” –Athena asks, narrowing her stormy grey eyes.

Thor’s smile falters. “No, he isn’t. I come fresh off his sentencing – he will live out his many, many days in our dungeons. This, I feel, does require an apology.”

“Family is a difficult matter at the best of times, Thor.” –Lady Demeter says, glaring coldly at the King of Olympus. “You have our condolences for Loki’s turn to madness.”

“Thank you, Lady Demeter.” –Thor bows. Stephen worries, despite himself, at the hint of pain in his voice.

“Madness or not, I envied your ability to challenge it alongside the mortal champions, unbound by our ancient laws as you are. Will you go join them now, in the bloodshed about to unfurl?” –Ares wonders, blood-red irises keen to see the Asgardian in action.

Thor nods curtly, his jaw set. “Indeed, Lord Ares. I do not mean to cut our meeting short, but I must aid my brothers and sisters in battle.”

“Oh, how boring.” –Aphrodite laments. Hers is the most eye-turning makeover of all – if only because she’s fully nude, pink-skinned as the day she rose from Ouranos’...remains. Only her flowing, rosy Godiva hair allows her any modesty – and even then, it’s tremendously inconsistent. Intentionally, Strange must assume. “It’s all doing battle with you warrior types. Here I thought you’d come back to see that pretty little mortal you fancied.”

Thor clears his throat. “That, uh...that is a bonus, yes.” –he admits. “But protecting the world takes priority.”

Zeus nods, approvingly – a little bit hypocritically, Strange feels, considering how hands-off the Olympians can be. “So it does, Odinson. Go with our blessing – and do join us for a spot of Nectar and Ambrosia soon. We have a few thousand years of history to catch up on, after all.”

#from his vantage upon the moon #kryptonverse #fanfiction #fanfic #crossover #hades game #percy jackson #pjo series #marvel cinematic universe #marvel #thor #doctor strange #ko fi link #ko fi

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