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sayoneee · 8 months

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☆ AND I KNOW IT’S OVER (STILL I CLING)

percy jackson, who never seems to know when to quit, keeps coming back. (2.9k)

contains: percy jackson x daughter of minor god! reader. post tlo (alt universe - everyone lives). book percy descriptions. apollo (derogatory).

kashaf’s note: book percy descriptions bc that was my first love. (sry if i get some of the words wrong, english isnt my first language pls be patient!!)

SUMMER BURNS. at camp half-blood, the scorching heat has dwindled to soft caresses, from the heat of the fire during sing-alongs where your cabin joins hands and toasts marshmallows to the cool breeze balming the sun’s glare at its zenith in the sprawling strawberry fields. at home, the scorching heat leaves marks — the biker with flames for pupils who clutched an openly bleeding wound as he thrust a first-aid kit at you, and the girl not much older than yourself with tears marring her face as she handed you a pregnancy test to ring up, avoiding your curious (sympathetic) gaze.

however, despite it all — you stand infallible, much like your grandfather’s part convenience store and part pharmacy, a poor man’s family heirloom.

you stand idly, flipping through an edition of seventeen when the rusty door swings open to admit a familiar face — with unruly black hair and an equally reckless grin (you know exactly who it is from the ba-dum of your heartbeat), the infamous son of poseidon (with the same smile as shawn hunter from boy meets world) is easily recognizable.

you glance at the crimson blooming around the crevices of his knuckles, tightly gripping a faded and worn-out skateboard, his scruffy converse squeaking across the tiled floor, raising an eyebrow as you coolly say, “band-aids are in the back, on the right.”

jackson laughs, an all-consuming sound (the wind-blown half-blood hill where apollo seemed to smile down at you, the laughter, like the memory, evanescent), “thanks, doc.”

you discreetly watch him perusing the aisles, before stopping in front of the ancient fridge — your grandfather’s store was something of an 80s pompeii with the peeling posters of back to the future and motley crue and the antiquated maroon and cream color scheme — and pulling out an arizona green tea.

when he finally goes to look for band-aids, you attempt to fix your attention back on the magazine in your hands, but like a moth driven to a flame, percy jackson was unbelievably hard to look away from (a magnet among mortals and immortals alike).

jackson’s hands are on his hips, his tupac t-shirt creasing, thick brows furrowed as he decides between different types of candy with the same intensity as a single mother with two children and a nine-to-five (even in the mortal world, there is something else entirely about him, something that made it so that you could never truly write him off).

when he approaches the register again, it’s hard not to look up and watch his ascent. when he finally does come to a stop in front of you, he looks the same as he did the last summer, though the tiny silver trident earring is new, the camp beads resting peacefully atop his collarbones aren’t.

you ring up his items: a box of band-aids, the arizona green tea, and a pack of blue gummy sharks, looking away from him all the while.

“good to see ya, doc,” jackson says, a wry grin on his face, and his eyes are so green — as green as they were at twelve.

“it’s never good to see you, jackson,” you snark back, reciting his total, “four ninety-five, by the way.”

he laughs again (your heart goes ba-dum again), and hands you a five dollar bill, shoving his things into the seemingly bottomless pockets of his baggy jeans, with a salute on his way out (his turning back was a sight far more innocuous than the last time).

the next time jackson breaks whatever tacit agreement lies between the two of you, your hands are similarly stained. reds and purples line your palms, much like the burgundy seemingly permanently staining your grandmother’s fingertips; the culprit (the bowl of pomegranate seeds) sits innocently beside you.

“back again?” you say, glancing at the familiar scarlet stains adorning jackson’s hands (a familiar blue friendship bracelet sits on his wrist, edges frayed with five years of wear, and there’s a lump in your throat).

“why, did you miss me?” jackson asks, again with that wry grin of his, skateboard in hand.

“you’re the one who came back,” you say, crossing your arms across your chest, willing the constricting feeling to disappear.

“doc, i’m sorry to have to be the one that has to break this to you,” he sighs sympathetically, putting a bleeding hand over his heart, “but the sun doesn’t revolve around you.”

“actually, jackson, the sun kind of does revolve around me, ‘cause y’know apollo, the sun god apollo? my grandpa apollo? my grandpa, the sun god, apollo?”

“going by your logic, that would mean time revolves around me, ‘cause y’know kronos, the time titan kronos? my grandpa kronos? my grandpa, the time titan, kronos?” jackson says, a shit-eating grin on his face as he sets down another band-aid box, an arizona green tea, and a pack of blue gummy sharks on the counter.

“y’know, if you cared this much, you might’ve passed greek,” you say, referring to the progress report cards you were handed at the end of summer.

he shrugged, handing you another five dollar bill, and proceeding to shove everything into his black holes of jean pockets, “yeah, well — wait, are those pomegranates?”

“yeah,” you say, “i peeled them myself — do you want some?”

(your father liked these, your grandmother had said earlier this afternoon, your mother liked to peel them for him, as i peeled them for her, and your grandfather.)

jackson suddenly looked bashful, fidgeting with the hem of his a tribe called quest t-shirt, “i’ve never had pomegranates before,” he confessed.

you blinked, taken aback, “you’re seventeen years old and you’ve never eaten a pomegranate before?” you pushed the china bowl toward him, “now you have to eat it.”

“my mom liked telling me the myths when i was younger,” he begins, setting down his skateboard, and reaching for the spoon before halting, like he was shocked, “she told me about persephone —”

“jackson,” you say, sardonically, leaning over the register to look him in the eye (there was always a storm brewing in his eyes), “i promise you, hades won’t come out of the ground and drag you to the underworld if you eat the pomegranate seeds i peeled.”

“i know what my next sleep paralysis demon is gonna be — thanks to you,” jackson says, looking down at the bowl and its floral blue pattern around the edges, playing with the spoon, and shifting the seeds from side to side.

“percy jackson, i swear to asclepius, you’re missing out on pomegranates,” you say, coming out from behind the register, and looking percy in the eye again, and there is something so earnest, so raw about your next sentence that his breath catches, “and, i swear on the styx, if hades does somehow come out of the ground to drag you down to the underworld, i’ll come down myself to drag you out, even if it’s tartarus.”

a rumble of thunder can be heard overhead despite the clear sky and scalding sun; percy blinks, before breaking out into a slow grin (your stomach seems to grow wings of its own, on the verge of flight.)

“invoking your dad, huh, doc? these pomegranates must be serious,” percy says, finally taking a bite — stepping around the bomb you just dropped.

you watch him intently, studying him as you studied tennyson and homer, “they are that serious.” there is something innocent about the way he eats, starved like every other teenage boy with black holes for stomachs.

“y’know, i can put that into a tupperware container and you can take it with you, right?” you offer.

“really?” percy asks through a mouthful of seeds, looking up from the bowl at you, “won’t you think i’ll steal it or something?”

“not really,” you shrugged, “i trust ms. jackson.”

percy nods solemnly — sally jackson is sally jackson after all, a queen among women, and an achilles of sorts, with her soft smile and steely eyes.

steeling your nerves, this is already the longest conversation you’ve had (ignoring the forever-ago late-night debriefs under a firmament of stars), you step up to the plate and take a swing, “how is she, by the way, haven’t seen her in a while.”

percy swallowed, eyebrows furrowing, “great — oh, wait, did i tell you she was seeing someone new now?”

“no way, really? good for her, honestly. i know, poseidon’s a god and all, but like, she’s always deserved just, so much more.” (you manage to make contact with the change-up thrown your way.)

there is something so sincere about your words, that percy can’t help but grin back, finally reaching the depths of his sea-green eyes, and there is something still so boyish about him, that you can hardly believe any time has passed at all, and that somewhere within this demigod who successfully defeated kronos, while saving luke, there is still a semblance of your percy.

“yeah, the guy, paul blofis, he’s an english teacher — absolutely worships the ground she walks on.”

“sounds perfect for her.”

“you should come over some time — see her, meet paul, y’know,” percy offers, still funneling spoonfuls of pomegranates, meeting your gaze head-on (this is the home run you were waiting on).

you grinned, a slow smile overtaking your face, pushing your hands in the pockets of your jeans, “might just take you up on that, before you change your mind.” (you’re leaving the ball in his hands now; it’s up to him to tag you out or let you reach home base safely.)

“nah, i won’t change my mind, unlike someone else i know.”

you ignore the jab (a smaller, suppressed part of you itches to shoot a reply back), instead choosing to focus on the hesitant hand of friendship being offered — as your father liked to say, keep moving forward.

you shrugged, and you swear, for a second you think the intensity of his gaze has lessened, almost as if disappointed. almost as if mentally shaking it off, percy hands you the china bowl back, empty, running a hand through his shaggy hair with a sheepish grin.

you smiled wryly, glancing down at the bowl and back to his face. “fatass,” you say, affectionately, and then almost freezing, wondering if you somehow overstepped the invisible lines constricting you.

percy laughs — a green light.

“lucky for you, though,” you say, disappearing behind the register for a moment before reappearing with a tupperware container filled with peeled pomegranates, “i peeled more.”

you hold it out to him, and he glances down at your outstretched hand, then at your face, before seemingly making up his mind, and accepting the olive branch, “you’re really committed to seeing my mom, huh?”

“well, obviously — the other alternative would be seeing you, wouldn’t it?”

“aw, c’mon, doc, i know you missed me,” percy says, a bit smug, picking up his skateboard, the tupperware container in his other hand (the one he still wears your bracelet on).

“in your dreams, jackson.” there is a peal of odd laughter in your voice as if you were unused to this kind of jocularity when fumbling over his name.

“in my dreams, we do more than just argue,” percy says, with one last smug smile and salute, before walking out the door, leaving you behind in the worst state of confusion you’ve possibly suffered (percy jackson: 1, you: 0).

(your grandmother admonishes you later that evening as you stand beside her stooped figure at your kitchen counter, peeling pomegranates, you gave the rest of it to that boy, didn’t you? her voice is not scolding, but you feel like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar once more. your immortal grandfather, the nuisance that he is, stands in the doorway, hands in an 80s leather jacket and matching sunglasses, waiting to be welcomed in. in contrast, his son — your father — brushes past him, grumbling, and takes on your grandmother’s burden.)

the analog clock reads ten fifty-five as you start mopping the floor, yawning when the front door swings open with a jingling bell, and a sharp metallic smell wafts into the store.

you whirl around, gripping the mop in your hand as a baseball bat, immediately alert as your demigod reflexes come into play. you physically relax at the sight of percy clutching his side, crimson pooling on the edges of his white t-shirt.

“of course you would attack a man when he’s injured,” percy says with a grin, blood dripping from a gash over his eye (luke had returned to camp some years ago, with a similar scar), and a split lip, collecting like rust on his t-shirt collar.

you scowled, dropping the mop and immediately rushing toward him, your healing instincts kicking in. lifting one of his arms and letting it curl around you, you shouldered him to the register, cringing with every audible wince percy let out.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” you asked, as you sat him on your stool, reaching for the ambrosia and nectar you kept hidden under the counter for emergencies (one could never be too careful).

percy grinned — it came out more of a grimace, “what isn’t wrong with me — that’s the question you should be asking, doc.” he nodded to himself, and then immediately cringed at the action.

you glared at him, shoving an ambrosia square in his mouth, before turning away from him to put antiseptic on cotton pads. “does ms. jackson know you’re here?”

“no?” percy says. you walk over to the fridge, grab a water bottle, unscrew the cap, and drench the part of his t-shirt covered in blood.

“ow? in case you forgot, i’m still injured here, doc?” percy clutches at his side.

“you dumbfuck, your mom is probably worried out of her mind right now,” you say, scowling, stepping closer to percy (he still towers over you, even when sitting down).

“i iris messaged her,” he shrugs, looking at you as you shift even closer to him, cotton pad in your hand, “she just knows i’m with you — pretty relieved at that, dunno why.”

reaching out to grasp his jaw in your hand, you begin dabbing at the bruises on his cheekbones, his eyes fluttering shut as you try to ignore the way his hot breath is fanning across your face right now. “you didn’t tell her what happened?”

percy opened his eyes, staring at you. “no, how could i?” he says, slowly, “you were her favorite — still are, by the way.”

you don’t say anything for a moment — after all, how could you? (sally jackson’s homemade cookies drift to the front of your treacherous mind — the sunny afternoons with her kind voice, and percy’s loutish laughter.)

“you didn’t come to see her,” percy says, the statement not accusatory, his eyes fluttering shut again (you try not to let the way his eyelashes sit so prettily distract you) as you dab at the gash over his eye.

“i didn’t think i was welcome,” you say gruffly, turning away to grab bandages. “after everything.”

while the deeper wounds have eased into far easier, superficial ones, you still make sure to wrap and bandage everything — percy had a penchant for getting into trouble (one that you knew all too well), so it was the least you could do.

“i just told you that you were welcome, last time i was here, didn’t i?” percy says, an accusation.

“yeah, well, it was hardly an invitation was it?” you say, turning away from him, packing your supplies up.

“doc, you didn’t even come to take your tupperware back.”

you ignore him, moving to walk away when his hand is enclosed around your wrist (the hand that wears your blue friendship bracelet), tugging you around to face him.

percy’s standing up now, his green eyes looking more like a swirling storm with each passing second — he still hasn’t let your wrist go.

“what do you want from me?” you ask, trying to snatch your hand back from him, to no avail — his grip is ironclad.

“i can’t let you walk away with your back turned to me again,” he says (the dim, lantern-lit night comes back into focus, and you wonder if you were too consumed by your own pride, if you had just turned around, if you had just stayed).

you realize too late that tears are pricking in the corners of your eyes, and you manage to successfully wrench your hand out of his grasp, a watery, sarcastic laugh escaping, “you’re a couple years too late, asshole.”

“i know that,” percy says, earnest, reaching out to cup your cheek, and wipe a stray tear (the action stuns you into paralysis), “but i miss you, and my mom misses you, and she hasn’t gotten off my case about you, yet.”

the thought of tender-hearted sally jackson scolding percy is an amusing one, and draws a laugh out of you against your will (percy’s smile grows a little brighter, and asclepius knows you’ve never been able to resist that smile of his), “i’ll come over for ms. jackson, not you.”

percy’s smile is even wider now (his hand is still ghosting your cheek), “same thing.”

“shut up,” you say swatting at his shoulder, trying to duck out from under his arms.

percy avoids your attempts to escape him, instead latching onto your hand, and pulling you out of the store. “c’mon, she’s expecting us for dinner.”

you let out an incredulous laugh, and let yourself be dragged out anyway (you would follow this boy anywhere, even to the depths of tartarus).

(your grandmother watches from the apartment window above the store, a soft smile gracing her lined features.)

#percy jackson x reader #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo x reader #percy jackson imagines #percy jackson fluff #percy jackson and the olympians #woc friendly #percy jackson x you #percy jackson x yn #percy jackson x y/n #percy jackson oneshot #percy jackson one-shot #percy jackson imagine #percy jackson series #percy jackson x fem! reader #percy jackson oneshots #kashaf ki likhai

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alluralater · 1 year

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reminder to fellow writers to remove your work from google docs. there are new AI programs being integrated -as well as human employees- that will effectively scrape your documents and WIPs for subject matter. oddly enough this seems to coincide with the writer’s strike so they’re most likely going to try their hand at AI generated tv shows, movies, books, etc. and you will not receive ANY compensation for them stealing your work. thankfully i only have work on there from years ago bc i use word. but regardless i won’t have some dumbass greedy corporations stealing my work because hollywood won’t pay writers fair wages. google is officially nasty. here’s a list of a few other programs i know of to use as alternatives <3

Libre Office - free

Apache Open Office - free

Novlr - subscription based

please feel free to add other options in the reblogs!!

they might allow you to opt out of AI training but there’s really no telling when they’ll decide to just change their terms and conditions and say our work is scraped at their discretion. there’s really nothing more wild than companies that are sued for theft, putting systems into place to effectively steal from customers, then telling them it’s all cool for now - until it isn’t

fuck these stupid corporate assholes! don’t let them steal your work! (AND DONT CONSUME AI CONTENT)

edit for those who want to willfully misinterpret (literally only 2 people out of over 200 but it’s annoying already): this is a call to be cautious about google docs going forward.

see: “until it isn’t” + “there’s no telling when they might change their terms and conditions”

if you think this is too wild for you to understand go ahead and take a look at your snapchat T&C or your discord or almost any other big companies that collect your data at large. check out the authors who are currently suing for their work being stolen. look at the thousands of illustrators whose work has already been stolen. check out ao3 authors whose work has been stolen. it’s not a matter of right now and that’s not what the conversation is about. it’s about the inevitable and profitable changes that will most likely occur

#sstexts #writing #google #google docs #writerscommunity #writers strike #WIP #writing tips #tired of having to drag people through critical thinking skills online

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tadpoles-and-daydreams · 2 months

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A witchcraft basics doc; update, resource call, interest check, and a possible second doc

Bet most of you didn't even know I was working on this >:D

Yes this is a huge post. It's a lot of things.

So, one of my first posts ever on this blog was me mentioning that a friend of mine had NO clue what they were signing up for when asking for the basics of witchcraft. The google doc I wrote took on a life of its own, and the post did as well when people started asking for it. I still plan to tag said people when I post it, assuming they haven't deactivated. The thing is, this doc had become a proper project, and it took a long time for me to have the motivation to work on it again. Now, though, it seems to me like a damn good way to reconnect to my craft after a rut! (which, by the way, is why I've been offline.)

So, my first post back is for a couple of reasons. For one, if you have any resources you'd think would be useful for beginner witches, feel free to shoot me an ask, DM, or comment/reblog on this post! I'll have a list of things I'm putting in the doc (taking recommendations there as well) at the bottom of this post.

The other thing is that I might end up making a second doc, one that's a little less "101" in vibe. It would have a MAJOR MAJOR UPG warning on it, first off, and I'm not sure whether or not I would be marking any UPG either since this would essentially be a second Grimoire/Book of Shadows for me that would be public to others for the sake of sharing information! I can't say I'd call it "advanced witchcraft" by any means, I'm not very fancy lol, but I don't want the basics doc to get too overwhelming. I do, however, want to scream about random witchcraft topics that interest me. So this is also a bit of an interest check for that, as well as the basics doc.

FINAL NOTE: I fully plan on posting this basics doc before it's done. Some sections will be unwritten or unfinished, because if I wait until I find it "finished" I'll never post it. It's going to be added onto whenever I can, but I feel as though getting it out is the best course of action.

A list of stuff in the doc that I'd take resources on (AKA everything planned in it) with * by anything that will be left unwritten/unfinished on purpose until I know more. I will take resources and recommendations on EVERYTHING though. This is in no particular order:

grounding and centering

VOCAB (intention, intuition, UPG/SPG/VPG, appropriation. probably others I'm forgetting.

candle, plant, crystals and safety* (as well as any other tools one might need safety tips for. This is left completely unwritten as I use very few tools of this type.)

deity work* (the whole debate surrounding when to start, as well as information about it. Will include smth about house rules/boundaries. My work is very casual, I'd love to see different POV's of this! This is by nature left unfinished because deity work is so unique to the witch.)

grimoire/book of shadows

tools of the craft* (common tools and how to use them consumerism in witchcraft, etc.)

cleansing

appropriation* (I don't know near enough about this, I just check what's in my own practice. I would like this to include a list of commonly appropriated closed practices, a definition of appropriation and why it shouldn't be done, open pantheons, and common open practices.)

spellwork*

meditation

where someone could go from here* (including sigils, tarot, crystals bc my friend likes rocks lol, maybe astrology but oh god I have nothing about that it makes my brain hurt just looking at an astrology chart /pos. I will probably make a list of stuff that I could add in this section.)

casual/daily/quick/low energy practices and witchcraft

paganism and witchcraft; overlap, what they are individually, why one might be for you rather than the other, etc.*

there'd be a credit section for anyone who wants to be credited for links/resources at the end! If you send me resources plz specify if you want to be included in that or not.

Things I might include in the second doc if I make it:

the craft and mental health and my experiences with it

things commonly touched on in the community (your deities don't hate you, cycles of inactivity and burnout, other things I'm forgetting rn)

deity-specific things, more specific topics of the craft, etc. yet another reminder that this would all include UPG, possibly unmarked, because it would basically be primarily used to give me motivation to research more.

#witchblr #witchcraft #paganism #pagan witch #witch community #witch blog #deity work #paganblr #eclectic pagan #pagan #beginner witch #baby witch #witch tips #witchy

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menlove · 1 month

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now i'm curious .. why do you think john was gay?

disclaimer: this is not bi erasure & if anyone tries to start discourse w me about that i do not careeeee sorry. i care deeply abt bi erasure but he never labeled his own sexuality & as a figure of the past it's more than fair to speculate that when he talked abt his attraction to women it was from the pov of a gay man dealing w comphet. if he were alive today and saying he was bisexual i'd leave it alone but he's not so i'm not. sexuality can absolutely be fluid! and he very well may have been bisexual! this is just my personal theory & interpretation of things he's said through the lens of viewing him as a gay man. MOVING ON.

i need you to imagine all of this to the benny hill theme. let's go

with the beatles by alistair taylor pg. 98 (at least in the pdf copy i have- there's no actual page numbers so it might not match up exactly if you have the print copy)

and from the same book like a paragraph down- this one is not AS crazy bc there's a million explanations but also not being able to get it up for the one woman you've fantasized about forever...... oh brother

in a description of an auctioned off audio tape:

this :|

this from JOOOOAN BAEZ. JOAN BAEZ.

(source)

"It’s a plus, it’s not a minus. The plus is that your best friend, also, can hold you without… I mean, I’m not a homosexual, or we could have had a homosexual relationship and maybe that would have satisfied it, with working with other male artists."

this infamous quote (source from the wonderful @amoralto who is a great resource for beatles archiving)

"He was completely open and uninhibited with her, as she learned to be with him, owning up to his deepest sexual fantasies—like one of making love to a woman in her eighties, or even older, whose veined and wrinkled hands would be covered in diamonds. Over time, she became accustomed to his particular style of backhanded compliment. 'Do you know why I like you?' he remarked on one occasion. 'It’s because you look like a bloke in drag. You’re like a mate.' Yoko laughingly replied that she thought he must be 'a closet fag.'"

john lennon: the life by philip norman (take him w a grain of salt. also the doc i have for this one is html so i truly would have 0 clue on what page number this would be) BUT this is also corroborated by a yoko quote herself in a 1981 new york magazine interview

no, no, no by yoko ono which. what do i even need to say.

"I remember it, vaguely. I was out of me mind with drink – when you get down to the point where you drink all the empty glasses, that drunk. And he was saying, 'Well, come on, John, tell us,' something like that, 'Tell me about you and Brian, we all know,' like that. And obviously, I must have been un– uh, f– frightened of the fag in me to get so angry at that. You know, when you’re twenty-one, you want to be a man, and all that. And for the first time I thought, 'I could kill this guy.' I just saw it, like on a screen, that if I hit him once more, I – that’s gonna be it."

this other infamous quote uploaded in an audio by @amoralto (source)

"John believed in my work as an artist wasn’t accepted in part because I am a woman. He got angry when people said about me, 'She’s not a woman, she’s a female impersonator.' John said to me, 'If I had been gay and gotten together with a guy who was talented like you, after ten years that guy would have become famous as an artist in his own right. Maybe we should come out and say, 'Actually, Yoko is a guy.' Maybe that will do it!' That made him laugh a lot. John learned about women’s oppression from me, but I learned a lot about men’s vulnerability from him. He expressed his vulnerability, unlike a lot of other men. I learned that it’s not just men oppressing women. Men also suffer, they feel fear and guilt. For example, I thought the fact that men buy prostitutes was terrible. It filled me with indignation. But John explained it differently. 'It’s humiliating for a guy to buy a whore,' he told me. 'It’s proof that he’s rejected, he’s just so desperate.' I had never thought of that: for me who go to prostitutes, sex is connected to being rejected and humiliated. I always hated people who committed sex crimes, but through John I tuned in to their pain. John told me that it was unfortunate for the poor guy whose sexual preference was a crime and something to be feared. John’s perspective was, 'I’m lucky I’m normal.'"

yoko interview with jon wiener in come together: john lennon in his time. just..... whatever the hell is going on here.

interview w lisa robinson in hit parader "a conversation with john lennon" 1975

"With his four months’ greater experience, Sheridan was an ideal guide to the Reeperbahn’s more exotic diversions, like the Schwülen laden. Stu Sutcliffe later wrote home in amazement that the transvestites were 'all harmless and very young' and it was actually possible to speak to one 'without shuddering.' Though raised amid the same homophobia as his companions, John seemed totally unshocked by St. Pauli’s abundant drag scene; indeed, he often seemed actively to seek it out. 'There was one particular club he used to like,' Tony Sheridan remembers, 'full of these big guys with hairy hands, deep voices—and breasts. But they used to make an effort to talk English. There was something about the place that seemed to make John feel at home.'"

another from john lennon: the life so take it w a grain of salt

so many excerpts from skywriting by word of mouth

and more!

and thats all i'm hunting down for now but he also like Continuously went on and on and and on and ON about how his relationship w yoko worked bc she was so much like a man/mate/what have you

#the first whisper of discourse on this and we're shutting it down but JFASJFSDFJ GAY JOHN COMPILATION LETS GO

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forlorn-crows · 7 months

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𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆

just a lil something i tortured @divine-misfortune with last night after he shared this post with me and said "Now hear me out Zeph/aeth and or omega bc they won’t slow down fr a damn second "

and thus i started a doc lovingly called "zephyr/omega go to sleep ya old man"

1263 words of omega misusing quintessence in order to (lovingly i swear) force zephyr to get some rest. yes zephyr will be mad at him later. yes omega is being a lil bit of a bastard. yes i am indulging in my (our) hypnokink, just go with it.

“You’re a stubborn old thing, you know that?”

Zephyr rolls their eyes before side-eyeing the quintessence ghoul, making a face. “Care to elaborate?”

“Been spending a lot of time with those new ghoulettes. When was the last time you slept?” Omega puts a hand on the back of the leather armchair Zephyr is currently seated in, where they were, up until now, engrossed in a text about ancient languages.

They bite their tongue against the urge to correct him on Cirrus and Cumulus’ names. “I slept last night, there’s no need for your concern.”

“Oh, last night, hm? So that wasn’t the organ I was hearing in the wee hours of the morning?”

“You are as old as this building, Omega, surely you’re aware of the noises that aged pipes make when all else is silent.”

He tuts. “Far too melodic for old plumbing, Zeph.”

Zephyr grumbles and makes to return back to their book without replying. Omega chuckles, and suddenly his hands are resting on their shoulders, thumbs heavy over the strained tendons on the back of their neck.

“Why don’t you let me help?”

The air ghoul grumbles again. Slots their small stack of notes along the book’s binding as a makeshift bookmark and snaps the thing shut. They place it onto the table and stare at the fire in the hearth.

“And why should I let you?” they say to the fading embers.

Omega hums. “Because you need your rest, you cranky ghoul.”

“I am plenty rested.”

“These knots in your shoulders say otherwise.”

Zephyr closes their eyes and sighs like an exasperated teacher. “And you claim that I am the stubborn one?”

“Come on,” Omega goads them. Telltale magick crackling to life beneath his fingertips. “Doesn’t have to be much.”

Before Zephyr can so much as think about scurrying away with their book, warm quintessence seeps into their bones, the tension held there unraveling from the inside out. Their eyelids flutter, shoulders slumping. Some undignified noise bubbles up from their throat, and they can barely catch their chin from hitting their chest as their head lolls forward.

“You . . .” They try to protest, tongue too heavy in their mouth to form its usual elegant timbre. Their hands can’t even grip the arms of the chair anymore, cementing them into place and thwarting any chance they had of escaping Omega’s nagging.

Said quintessence ghoul shushes him, self-satisfied and certainly not even close to genuinely comforting. “There you go. See? Knew you were tired.”

“Hn . . .’m not—”

“You are, look at that sleepy face.” Omega brushes a few strands of hair back behind their horns, their head leaning into his touch without their permission. Zephyr’s eyes are drooping, rolling with the effort of trying to keep them open. Maybe they are more tired than they thought, he didn’t give them that much magick, did he?

Omega coos at them, running his thumb along the base of their horn. “Just close your eyes,” he whispers.

Zephyr just groans, something close to uh uh, but it doesn’t sound very disagreeing. They’re falling asleep sitting up, and his warm hand against the side of their face does nothing but drag them closer to unconsciousness. Suddenly, they don’t want to get away from him. Magick swirls all syrupy in their veins, and, really, it’s getting harder and harder to have any opinions on the situation.

Behind them, Omega shakes his head and loops around to the front of the chair, still cradling their head as he kneels between their parted legs. The hands at their sides, having slid off the arms of the chair, twitch towards him. Zephyr watches Omega’s other hand as it comes to hold the other side of their face, eyes slow and delayed as they track its movement.

“You’d do well to listen to me, you tired old hen,” Omega chides them. He wiggles their head a little, not unlike a chiropractor looking for sore spots. Ensuring they’re close to limp and loose.

Zephyr just lets him. Has no choice, really. They’d call him a plethora of names later—bastard, unwelcome imp, meddling hypnotist spawn—but the thought of remembering to do so slides away like rain on glass.

He must sense the fleeting thought behind Zephyr’s glassy eyes, because he adjusts their head again, tightening his grip almost imperceptibly.

“None of that; you’re being so good, aren’t you? I’m only helping, aren’t I? Little bit of magick to get rid of all those pesky cobwebs between your ears. I know, you’re so tired underneath all those stubborn thoughts. Just takes a nice, kind ghoul like me to help you relax, doesn’t it?” On and on he drones, the words going in one ear and out the other, washing away their own internal monologue and replacing it with his own. They are tired, and an afternoon nap isn’t so terrible, they aren’t really busy. And Omega’s helping them.

Definitely not using his magick in some smug, actually selfish way, rendering the normally uptight ghoul completely powerless in less than a second. No, it’s completely selfless—a show of his care and concern for Zephyr’s wellbeing. Absolutely not a vehicle to win any kind of argument, not at all.

Their breathing is slowing now, neck nearly limp in Omega’s hands. Sinking deeper into the fuzzy embrace of sleep.

“That’s it,” he lilts. “You’re gonna feel so much better, and I won’t even say ‘I told you so.’ How does that sound?”

Zephyr responds with a long exhale through parted lips, left thigh twitching randomly as the pleasant numbness settles in.

Omega smirks. “Good.” With one last push of quintessence, he tilts their head just so and watches as their eyes unfocus and fall shut, jaw dropping open with the softest noise as they drift asleep in his hands. The quiet snores follow just seconds later, Omega’s hands the only thing keeping them upright.

He waits until he’s sure they’re asleep, warming his back against the dying flames while Zephyr slumps in their chair. Only then does he pull back the tendrils of his magick, letting it seep down towards the floorboards as slow as molasses so as not to accidentally rouse them. Thankfully, the library is empty this time of day. Nothing to interrupt the air ghoul’s much needed sleep.

They’re lax and peaceful now, but Omega’s sure he’ll hear about it when they wake. He laughs to himself at the plethora of elegant insults that come to mind. For now, he takes satisfaction in the way Zephyr’s head lolls back against the chair with the gentlest press of his pointer finger, drool making its way out of the corner of their mouth already.

“Cute,” the quintessence ghoul comments, smoothing out the wrinkles in his button-down. And then, as a wicked afterthought, he presses the pad of his finger to the middle of their forehead again, sneaking in a cheeky suggestion of a dream wrapped in plumes of balsam and petrichor. Snickering to himself when Zephyr whines quietly and their tail kinks up at the end. “Enjoy,” he whispers, making his exit.

Omega knows he won’t get any thanks for that—a pity, really, considering it was quite a nice little fantasy—nor will he get any thanks for helping (forcing) Zephyr to get some rest. At the very least, he’ll get a very disgruntled and haughty air ghoul glaring at him for the remainder of the day.

Omega’s fine with being berated for misuse of magick if it means the poor thing won’t be sleep deprived. Until then, he files away Zephyr’s reaction to it for later.

#author is not sorry for pushing the hypnokink agenda onto the masses #ficlet #the band ghost #the band ghost fanfic #ghost fanfic #fanfic #zephyr ghoul #omega ghoul #omega x zephyr #zephyr x omega #zephyr/omega #omega/zephyr #cw: hypno kink #no i didnt proofread this #quintessence as hypnosis #wheres that anon here i wrote more pspspspsps #dont think about this serious bitch being reduced to an absolute puddle under...other circumstances #yes omega is being a bastard. can you blame him.

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motheryves · 1 year

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Ao3 down still, so here are some alts !!!

a job : you can live out that coffee shop slow burn strangers to lover fluff 50k fanfic irl. just manifest or sumn. if you alr got one... idk, beat up ur boss.

grass : lay in it, roll around, eat it, touch it, sleep in it, smoke it. idc. just touch it. pretend the grass is an angst fanfic. pick up some of the grass and play out ur fav fanfic scene like ur playing with barbies. you may look weird but it's okay bc we're going through a crisis

an actual book : i scared some of y'all when I said that. "imma read me a book to get away from fanfics," that book has been collecting DUST. the termites is chewing the shit up as we speak. open that book and read it (e-books count too).

google docs : this is for the writers. yeah, go finish that fanfic. the shit been sitting in ur drafts for weeks now, unfinished asf. one word at a time, drink some water pookie.

outside : scared y'all again. go for a walk, talk to somebody, breathe some fresh, get some bitches, idk. if ur ace, get some platonic bitches.

#this doesnt apply to me bc im a silly teenage girl 💪🏿#im a kpop stan so automatically i hiss at grass like how vampires hiss at garlic #this is a joke btw #i love ao3 #im sad too bc im a writer & reader #like i dont wanna go back to wattpad #archive of our own #ao3 #fanfics #fanfiction #dw imma actually give yall alts lol

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lucky-clover-gazette · 4 months

Text

prince's gambit highlights & annotations

chapters 5 & 6

indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!

also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!

i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.

this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.

Laurent glanced at their surroundings, and said, ‘It’s the wrong terrain for an ambush.’ ‘The town isn’t,’ said Damen. For good measure, he took hold of Laurent’s horse’s bridle. ‘Consider alternatives. Can you entrust the task to someone else?’ ‘No,’ said Laurent. He said it as a calm statement of fact. Damen forced down his frustration, reminded himself that Laurent was in possession of an able mind, and that therefore his, ‘No,’ had a reason behind it other than pure stubbornness. Probably.

i love this entire passage! damen taking control of laurent's horse is great

‘This doesn’t suit me,’ he said, meaning that it didn’t suit him to wear them. ‘No. It doesn’t. You look like one of us,’ said Laurent.

well this definitely helps laurent with his evolving self-delusion and cognitive dissonance. also i like how damen's pov specifies that he is not calling himself unfit for the clothing physically, bc he's hot enough to wear anything, it's more of a figurative unfitness

‘The Prince has business away from the camp,’ said Damen. ‘He plans to return mid-morning. He wants you to captain the men as usual while he’s gone.’ ‘Whatever he needs. How many men is he taking with him?’ ‘One,’ said Damen. ‘Good luck,’ was all Jord said.

jord, immediately assuming that the one man is damen:

Vistas of endless ridiculousness opened up before him.

Laurent was considering the women. He was far from wide-eyed, but there was a certain quality to his gaze. For Laurent, Damen realised, this experience was wholly new and highly illicit. Compounding Damen’s sense of the ridiculous was the sudden acute awareness that he was accompanying the chaste Crown Prince of Vere to his first brothel. From elsewhere in the house, you could hear the sound of fucking.

damen you’ve seen the court of vere, why the fuck do you think laurent would be flustered by this. is it the heterosexuality?

You’re sitting so far away,’ said the blonde. ‘Then get up,’ said Laurent. She got up. The brunette rose too, and made for Laurent. The blonde came to sit beside Damen.

not the blonde going to damen and the brunette going to laurent 😭

‘Unlace his jacket,’ said Laurent. The blonde looked from Damen to Laurent. Damen looked at him too. Laurent had dispensed with his own woman wordlessly, perhaps with a single dismissive flick of his fingers. Elegant and relaxed, he was regarding them without urgency. It was familiar. Damen felt the moment when his pulse kicked in, remembering the love seat in the garden bower, and Laurent’s cool voice giving explicit instructions: suck it, and, tongue the slit. Damen caught the blonde’s wrist. There was not going to be a repeat performance.

“do it yourself coward”

it is interesting, to get some insight re: how damen feels about the garden scene. he seems to regard it as less of a personal violation, and more of an insult or annoyance. it might even be something he’s intentionally avoiding BECAUSE he knows how much laurent’s instruction turns him on.

the use of “performance” is interesting here, too. damen’s reactions in the garden had been real, and he knows they would be real here again. but he seems to assume that to laurent, it’s all just an act. which at this point, i think it pretty much is, although… i’m not quite sure what this specific gesture would have gotten laurent, if damen had allowed it. is it possible that laurent genuinely wanted to do damen a favor by getting him laid? or was he just “yes, and”-ing the situation on damen’s behalf, for fun?

‘The plaster’s old,’ said Damen. ‘Here.’ He took hold of the grille, and gave it a tug. Bits of plaster rained down from the edges of the window, but it wasn’t enough to detach the grille from the frame. He changed his grip, braced his stance and put his shoulder into it. On the third attempt, the whole grille came away from the window. It was surprisingly heavy. He placed it carefully on the floor. The thick carpet muffled any sound, as it had done when he had moved the chest. ‘After you,’ he said to Laurent, who was staring at him. Laurent almost looked as though he was going to speak, but then he just nodded, pulled himself through the window and dropped soundlessly into the alley behind the brothel.

another rare early instance of obvious laurent attraction. i think he is smitten by damen’s irreverent blunt efficiency, as well as the display of raw strength. seeing this, laurent might be thinking to himself, “he could have snapped me in half this whole time, but he hasn’t.” kind of foreshadowing of the “i could have done this...” line in book 3.

anyway, laurent’s attraction here seems to consist of 1) respect for damen’s competence, 2) intrigue regarding his usual restraint, and 3) physical attraction to big hot strong guy. #3 is the one i personally have the most trouble analyzing, and i’d bet laurent would be equally confused by that aspect of his own reaction. but he’s definitely feeling Something here, whether or not he’s able to understand or verbalize it. he can’t even manage to make the expected snarky comment!

‘Here. Take this,’ said Laurent when they were half the town away, tossing Damen his coin purse. ‘It’s better if we’re not recognised. And you should do up the collar on your jacket.’

when exactly do you think laurent came up with the role reversal plan? was it before or after damen ripped a metal grate off a wall with his bare hands?

whatever the case, he’s preparing for it now. damen will just have to play along.

Anyone seeing a young blond man of noble birth is going to guess it’s you.’ ‘I brought a disguise,’ said Laurent. ‘A disguise,’ said Damen.

did he only make this specific disguise plan after damen agreed to come with him? if not, was he just going to pretend to be an unaccompanied pet????

After no more than a brief, dismissive glance at Laurent, the innkeeper gave Damen his full attention, greeting him respectfully. ‘Welcome, my lord. Will you and your pet require lodgings for the evening?’

(the noise i made when i read this for the first time…)

every single uncomfortable, indulgent detail about veretian pets in book 1 justifies itself in this moment.

some disorganized thoughts:

from the moment they left, laurent knew this is where they were heading. and he intentionally did not inform damen of the role he would have to play. there might have been a slight strategic advantage to keep damen in the dark, but i also think laurent just figured it would be funny to make it a surprise. a little treat, to get himself through the horrors.

if laurent was asked to examine WHY this specific arrangement is a fun treat, he’d probably jump out of a window to escape the question. (damen, too, but for different reasons.)

like, there… really is no strategic reason for laurent to be a pet here. he could have disguised himself and damen in plenty of other ways, but laurent chose this specific bit for them both. interesting.

i'd like to think that laurent would eventually unpack this choice. i’m sure there’s plenty of fic exploring the idea of him roleplaying as a pet, relinquishing his authority, and reclaiming his sexual identity in a controlled environment. maybe he and damen can do it on purpose, without the high-stakes mission to justify the act.

craft note: this subversion is incredible, in terms of characterization, plot, romance, and sexual tension. the perfect payoff to nicaise’s earring, the focus on pets in book 1, and laurent’s affinity for “performance.”

as i begin close-reading chapter 6 of prince’s gambit, i remind myself that this is meant to be rational and eloquent literary analysis.

'I want your best room,’ said Laurent, ‘with a big bed and a private bath, and if you send up the house boy, you’ll find out the hard way that I don’t like sharing.’ He delivered the innkeeper a long, cool look. ‘He’s expensive,’ said Damen to the innkeeper, by way of apology.

And then watched as the innkeeper sized up the cost of Laurent’s clothes, and his sapphire earring—a royal gift to a favourite—and the likely cost of Laurent himself, the face, the body. Damen realised that he was about to be charged three times the going rate for everything. He decided with good humour that he didn’t mind being generous with Laurent’s coin.

i’m obsessed with how quickly damen commits to the bit with good humor. i wonder if it surprises laurent, even delights him to have such a willing scene partner

Why don’t you find us a table. Pet.’ Enjoying the moment. And the sobriquet.

“A sobriquet is a descriptive nickname, sometimes assumed, but often given by another. A sobriquet is distinct from a pseudonym in that it is typically a familiar name used in place of a real name without the need for explanation; it may become more familiar than the original name.” (Wiktionary)

damen is enjoying the sobriquiet. he is enjoying calling laurent “pet.”

craft note: i can’t do this. i don’t know. something something, role reversals and subversion. there.

Being the best table, it was occupied. Laurent emptied it with what appeared to be a glance, or a word, or the simple fact of his approach.

okay so what do we think this was. like, he’s not using his prince privileges here. he’s being perceived as essentially a very expensive prostitute. it happens quickly, it couldn’t have been a long con. what did laurent say or do, subtly enough that damen couldn’t make it out, to empty an entire table of people???

The earring was not a discreet disguise. Every man in the common room of the inn was taking the time to have a good look at Laurent. Pet. Laurent’s cool-eyed arrogance proclaimed that no one could touch him. The earring said that one man could. It transformed him from unattainable to exclusive, an elite pleasure no one here could afford.

has anyone ever drawn laurent in the “i am a luxury few can afford” sweater

But that was an illusion. Damen sat down across the table from Laurent on one of the long benches. ‘What now?’ said Damen. ‘Now we wait,’ said Laurent.

previous line “… no one could afford.” there’s a sort of double meaning here, i think, when damen says this is an illusion. what he means, consciously, is that laurent’s entire act is an illusion. but what i can imply, from the following action and dialogue, is that damen IS that one person who can touch laurent—the real laurent, behind the disguise. damen sits with him unceremoniously and speaks to him like an ally, not a pet.

their dynamic drives me fucking insaneeeeeee

Then Laurent rose and made his way around the table, sitting himself beside Damen, close as a lover. ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Verisimilitude,’ said Laurent. The earring winked at him.

nothing sexier than vocab

‘I’m glad I brought you along. I wasn’t expecting to have to tear things out of walls. Do you visit brothels often?’

i ask again: was laurent planning to do the pet thing without damen???

‘Not brothels. Camp followers?’ said Laurent. And then: ‘Slaves.’ And then, after the satisfaction of a pause: ‘Akielos, the garden of delights. So you enjoy slavery in others. Just not in yourself.’

get his ass laurent

Damen shifted on the long bench, and regarded him. ‘Don’t strain yourself,’ said Laurent. ‘You talk more,’ said Damen, ‘when you’re uncomfortable.’

i love this moment so much. damen is not giving laurent the satisfaction of his attempted blindsiding. if he's going to join laurent in this, they are going to commit to the bit as equals. laurent teases damen for his discomfort and damen teases him right back.

between the brothel and this scene, damen is correcting the dynamic he and laurent shared in the court and gardens of arles. it’s not that he refuses to play the game—but now, he insists upon playing with equal advantage.

(also: “you talk more when you’re uncomfortable” is a very true observation, and they both know it! after a few chapters of laurent being a boss ass bitch, it’s good to see him slightly humbled. especially when it’s damen doing the humbling.)

‘We’ll try to entertain ourselves. Who’s that?’ said Laurent.

kid in a candy shop behavior

Laurent was watching Volo with the same expression with which he had regarded the women in the brothel.

it’s like he’s playing the sims. like he took his self-made “laurent ofvere” sim to the club in a cunty outfit and now he’s trying to figure out what kinds of entertaining Situations he can provoke.

‘All right. Give me some coin. I want to play that man at cards.’ Laurent rose, leaning his weight against the table. Damen reached for the purse, then paused. ‘Aren’t you supposed to earn gifts with service?’ Laurent said, ‘Is there something you want?’ His voice was sinuous with promise; his gaze was steady as a cat’s. Damen, who preferred not to be eviscerated, tossed Laurent the purse. Laurent caught it in one hand, and took for himself a handful of copper and silver. He tossed the purse back to Damen as he made his way across the inn floor, seating himself opposite Volo.

I LOVE THEMMMM

Charls trusted the Prince to stand firm in negotiations with the bastard Akielon King more than he trusted the Regent uncle.

charls knows what he’s talking about

The Crown Prince was camped at Nesson this very minute, on his way to the border to stand up to Akielos. He was a young man serious about his responsibilities, Charls said. Damen had to make an effort not to look over at Laurent, gambling, when he said it.

incredible writing. 10/10

Laurent took the drink and picked his way back across the room, where he put it, untouched, in front of Damen. ‘Spoils of someone else’s victory.’

thoughtful <3 like when a cat brings its owner something it’s killed <3

Damen said, ‘If you wanted a drink and an old hat that badly, you could have just bought them from him. Cheaper and quicker.’ ‘It’s the game I like,’ said Laurent.

character-defining quote! laurent takes pleasure and pride in the chaos of improvisation. if everything was made simple for him, he wouldn’t be having any fun.

laurent has spent the last seven years of his life starved for enrichment in his enclosure. but he’s not in arles anymore—still a captive prince figuratively, but he’s finally having some fun >:)

He reached over and appropriated another coin out of the purse Damen carried, then palmed it. ‘Look, I’ve learned a new trick.’ When he opened his hand, it was empty, as if by magic. A second later, the coin dropped out of his sleeve onto the floor. Laurent frowned at it. ‘Well, I don’t have it quite yet.’ ‘If the trick is making coins disappear, I think you do have it, actually.’

they’d have this interaction in literally any au. modern, role reversal, whatever. just a cringefail theater nerd and his affectionately teasing prep-jock boyfriend.

(yes, damen is a prep. i’m sorry. look inside your heart and you’ll know it to be true.)

‘What’s the food like?’ said Laurent, his eyes on the table. Damen tore off a piece of bread, and held it like a treat to a house cat. ‘Try it.’ Laurent looked at the bread, and then he looked at the men by the fire, and then he looked at Damen, a long, cool look that would have been difficult to hold if Damen had not had, by now, a great deal of practice. And then he said, ‘All right.’ It took a moment for those words to penetrate. By the time they did, Laurent had settled next to him on the long bench. Laurent straddled it, facing Damen. Laurent was really going to do it. Pets in Vere made a teasing production out of this, flirting and making love to their masters’ hands. Laurent, when Damen brought the mouthful of bread to his lips, did none of those things. He maintained an essential fastidiousness. There was almost nothing of pet and master about it at all, except that Damen felt, just for an instant, the warmth of Laurent’s breath against his fingertips. Verisimilitude, thought Damen.

Laurent ate the bread. It was like feeding a predator, the same feeling. Laurent was so close that it would be easy to wrap a hand around the back of his neck and draw him closer. He remembered the feel of Laurent’s hair, his skin, and fought the urge to press against Laurent’s lips with the pads of his fingers. It was the earring. Laurent was always so austere. The earring reframed him. It gave the appearance of a sensual side, sophisticated and subtle. But that side didn’t exist. The glint of sapphires was dangerous. As Nicaise had been dangerous. Nothing in Vere was as it seemed. Another piece of bread. Laurent’s lips brushed against his fingertips. It was brief and soft. This wasn’t what he’d intended when he picked up the bread. He had some sense that his plans had been overturned, that Laurent knew exactly what he was doing. The touch resembled the first brush of lips in the kind of sensual kiss that begins as a series of smaller kisses, and then, slowly, deepens. Damen felt his breathing change.

He reminded himself forcefully of who this was. Laurent, his captor. He made himself recall the fall of each lash on his back, but thanks to some misfiring of the brain, found himself instead in the memory of Laurent’s wet skin in the baths, the way his limbs fitted together like a hilt fitted to the blade of a balanced sword. Laurent finished the morsel, then rested a hand on Damen’s thigh, and slowly slid it upward. ‘Control yourself,’ said Laurent. And shifted in, until, facing one another on the straddled bench, they were almost chest to chest. Laurent’s hair tickled against Damen’s cheek as he brought his lips to Damen’s ear. ‘You and I are almost the last ones here,’ Laurent murmured. ‘And so?’ The next murmur slid softly into Damen’s ear, so that he felt the shape of each word, made of lips and breath. ‘And so, take me upstairs,’ said Laurent. ‘Don’t you think we’ve waited long enough?’

craft… note…

i said i was going to analyze scenes like this in order to understand how they work and improve my own writing. like laurent, i take pride in committing to the bit.

overall, the eroticism here is in the improv. i’m sorry, but it’s true. "yes, and” is basically dirty talk in lamen. the long pauses, the mutual unspoken challenge, the suggestive performance… it all builds tension towards something exciting and unknown. damen and laurent’s connection, in this scene and the majority of the book, is like a string that they’re both pulling taut—and neither of them has any idea what will happen when it finally snaps.

i think it’s helpful to compare this moment with the garden scene from book 1. that erotic interaction was instructive and detached—laurent was completely in control, and ancel was there, doing something, probably. but here, damen and laurent are both actively and exclusively partaking, and encouraging each other to take it just a little bit further. they are close in a way they’ve never been before, figuratively and literally. they are exploring the space of the unfamiliar scene with good humor, mutual investment, and (from damen at least) unsubtle attraction.

if they weren’t so attracted to each other, it could truly just be an act. a performance. something they can put on to accomplish their mission, but drop as soon as it’s done. but here, i think, is when it becomes clear to damen that he and laurent can’t DO that. this territory is both unpredictable and too close for comfort, whether they’re approaching it ironically or earnestly. there’s no way for them to perform eroticism and remain instructive and detached. they are playing with fire.

damen realizes, when he feels laurent’s breath against his fingertips, that he can’t be normal about this. and he continues to think that, as i recall, for the remainder of the series.

laurent, meanwhile, will take much longer to have a similar realization, because that would mean inescapable attachment—something damen has never feared, but laurent fears more than anything else. like… emotional captivity, almost. (am i suggesting that attachment is emotional captivity? i think i am. hm, okay. anyway.)

with the way that this scene is written, we can see that things between damen and laurent are real. they’ve always been real, and they will continue to be real. the eroticism is in the improv, and we want them to continue “yes,and”-ing each other into a satisfying resolution. but, of course, the story is going to make us wait. and that just makes this scene even hotter.

from my breakdown of the book 1 garden scene:

i think what i like here, is that… yeah, it’s horny. it’s indulgent, easily the most blatant instance of kink we’ve seen so far. but it’s not really what i think frequent readers of this kink genre would expect, or even want to read—it is a subversion, with laurent completely disrupting the basic scenario that everyone else (but damen) in the scene wants to mindlessly enjoy.

how can i replicate this? set up a thing that follows expectations. don’t actually do the thing. do something significantly more insane than the expected thing. do not elaborate on the insane thing, leaving more questions than answers, and move on as if it wasn’t insane at all.

set up a thing that follows expectations = damen is playing master and laurent is playing pet. i think most people would expect damen’s archetype to exercise power over laurent’s archetype in that sort of situation, especially since he’s been denied the opportunity to assert his dominance in previous circumstances. i don’t know a lot about common dynamics in this specific kink space, but i do kind of assume that people would want to see laurent submit, both because of his characterization and physical appearance. and this would be an ideal place to indulge that expectation, characterization and plot be damned, since it can be called an act and stripped of actual consequences.

don’t actually do the thing = pacat doesn’t give an inch of her characterization to provide easy fanservice. the scene is erotic simply by suggestion, and laurent is almost entirely in charge—the instigator and the star of the show. damen, meanwhile, is physically passive and deeply confused by his own feelings and reactions. this is all consistent with their characterization in non-erotic scenes so far. they are acting here, but not as a “normal” master and pet. i don’t think they could be normal, even if they tried.

do something significantly more insane than the expected thing = check. see analysis above.

do not elaborate on the insane thing, leaving more questions than answers, and move on as if it wasn’t insane at all = check. yaoi break’s over, back to the secret mission.

The lobe of Laurent’s ear was pierced through with the ornament of his uncle’s child-lover. It suited him, in the mundane sense that it matched his colouring.

this happens during the bread scene, but i wanted it quarantined. way to harsh the vibe, damen

And there was a man of about thirty with a dark, closely trimmed beard sitting on the bed, who propelled himself off it and onto one knee when he saw Laurent. Damen sat down rather heavily on the chair by the door.

laurent launching into a clandestine business meeting while damen is still trying desperately to fight off the horny. lmao

The man drew a piece of sealed parchment from inside his jacket. Laurent took it, broke the seal, and read the contents. He read it slowly. From the glimpse Damen caught, it looked like it was written in a cipher. When he was done, he dropped the parchment into the fire, where it curled up and blacked over.

context: fuck, i don’t remember what this is. i don’t know. it doesn’t matter. like damen, i'm still thinking about the bread scene

‘I’m the type who takes a great deal of pleasure in small victories,’ Laurent said.

Laurent unpinned the earring. ‘I think we’ll be safe on the road in the morning. The men who followed us seemed more interested in finding him than harming me. They didn’t attack us when they had the chance tonight.’ And then, ‘Does that door lead to the bath?’ And then, halfway to the door, ‘Don’t worry, your services aren’t required.’

laurent drops the act so quickly. at a loss for any logical conclusion about what the fuck just happened, i think damen just decides to pretend he’s equally unaffected

i do wonder how laurent acted as soon as he shut the door and got some priavcy, though. hm.

When he was gone, Damen wordlessly picked up an armful of bedding and dumped it on the floor by the hearth. Then there was nothing to do. He went downstairs. The only patrons now remaining were Volo and the house boy, who weren’t paying any attention to anyone else. The house boy’s sand-coloured hair was a tousled mess. He went all the way outside the inn and stood for a moment; the cool night air was calming. The street was empty. The messenger was gone. It was very late. It was peaceful here. He couldn’t stay out here all night. Recalling that Laurent had eaten nothing but a few fraught mouthfuls of bread, he stopped by the kitchens on his way back upstairs and requisitioned a plate of bread and meats. When he went back into the room, Laurent had emerged from the bath and was half clothed and sitting drying his damp hair by the fire, taking up the majority of the space on Damen’s impromptu bed. ‘Here,’ said Damen, and passed him the plate.

okay, so here’s my read of this entire sequence: damen tries to get some space from his own recently-realized attraction to laurent. he remarks that it is peaceful outside, where he manages to get himself that space. and THEN he immediately tells himself to go back inside, because he can’t stay out there all night—can’t leave laurent alone for too long. he picks up food specifically for laurent on his way back up, sets things up nicely for them both, and greets him as if he never even left at all.

this is a parallel, i think, to the scene where damen abandons laurent in book 1. i just want to get that easy part of the analysis out of the way.

what i really find interesting here, is that it’s almost like… damen’s decision to accept his own attachment to laurent. he accepted his attraction to laurent during the bread scene, but attraction is a passive response. attachment is an active choice.

if attachment is emotional captivity, then this interlude is damen admitting to himself that he doesn’t want to be free. he knows what his heart wants—and unlike laurent, damen isn’t afraid to trust others with his heart. he doesn’t yet believe that laurent would treat his heart gently, which is exactly why he doesn’t give it to him. but privately, i think this is when damen finally admits to himself that his feelings are not only real, but also worth pursuing.

so he “yes, and”s the feeling, goes back inside, and fully commits to the bit, making sure that laurent is well-fed and cared for. if he’s going to do this, he might as well do it right.

‘Thank you,’ said Laurent, looking at the plate with a blink. ‘The bath is free. If you like.’

laurent’s little blink is very cute. and then he tells damen to go take a bath, so he (laurent) can privately process whatever the hell this is all supposed to mean

He told himself that this was no different from two dozen nights together inside of a warfield tent.

… but he knew that he was totally lyinggggggg

When he returned, Laurent had carefully eaten half of everything on the plate, and had placed it on the chest where Damen could get at it if he wanted it. Damen, who had eaten his fill downstairs and who didn’t think Laurent should be able to take over his bed when he had left untouched the vast comfort of his own, ignored the plate and came to stake his claim beside Laurent, on the blankets by the hearth.

head in my fucking hands. i love them so much. no thoughts, just domestic comfort. and they were roommates.

‘I thought that Volo was your contact,’ said Damen. ‘I just wanted to play him at cards,’ said Laurent.

great exchange. damen assumes that laurent does everything for a strategic reason. laurent just wanted to have fun. they’re breaking down their preconceived notions of each other, finally.

After a moment, Laurent said, ‘I don’t think I would have arrived here without your help, at least not without being followed. I am glad you came. I meant that. You were right. I’m not used to . . .’ He broke off.

from chapter 5: “You’re too used to doing everything on your own.” :’)

‘You’re in a strange mood,’ said Damen. ‘Stranger than usual.’ ‘I’d say I’m in a good mood.’ ‘A good mood.’ ‘Well, not as good a mood as Volo,’ said Laurent. ‘But the food’s decent, the fire’s warm, and no one’s tried to kill me in the last three hours. Why not?’

‘I’ve seen your court,’ Damen reminded him gently. ‘You’ve seen my uncle’s court,’ said Laurent.

excellent response for both damen and the reader to chew on

Would yours be any different? He didn’t say it. Maybe he didn’t need to know the answer. The king that Laurent would be, he was becoming with every passing day, but the future was another life. Laurent would not then be leaning back on his hands, lazily drying his hair before an inn-room fire, or climbing in and out of brothel windows. Nor would Damen.

a kingdom or this?

so far, damen has been able to tell himself that helping laurent is a way for him to help akielos—that he will leave laurent, as soon as he feels that his country is safe.

it’s going to get harder and harder for him to believe that, though, from now on. he did not just go back inside for akielos. if he had, he wouldn’t have stopped to find laurent a meal.

the lives in damen and laurent’s futures are just as real as their ruse downstairs. as in, only as real as they choose for them to be. so far, they’ve both assumed their own eventual choices, and each other’s, to be very set in stone. after this outing, i think damen at least begins to reconsider.

‘What really happened to make Kastor send you here? I know it was not a lover’s quarrel,’ said Laurent.

context reminder: he is asking this, fully knowing that damen is damianos. this definitely threatens his own cognitive dissonance. but he still asks, because he is vulnerable and relaxed.

I don’t know what I did to make him hate me as much as this. Why we couldn’t go as brothers to mourn— —our father—

i love damen as a character so much. beneath his determination to conflate niceness with goodness, is the crushing despair of knowing deep down that he can't trust people to treat him in the honorable way he treats them. he’s not angry or spiteful about this, even though he has every reason to be—just confused, and sad, and betrayed.

a younger laurent must have felt this way after his brother’s death and during his uncle’s abuse. but then came anger and spite, because he had no one to trust.

these characters were literally made for each other, like on a construction/craft level, and you can tell. it is really, really well-done.

‘My honourable barbarian. I wouldn’t have picked that as your type.’ ‘Type?’ ‘A pretty face, a devious mind and a ruthless nature.’

i love the mild anachronism of “type” here. also, lol. a rare moment of laurent not realizing his own dramatic irony, because there’s no way in hell he thinks at this point that damen genuinely likes him. also, i’m not sure if laurent sees himself as ruthless at all. he is pragmatic, but i don’t think he considers himself merciless or cruel.

‘Perhaps I . . . I knew she was ruled by her mind, not her heart. I knew she was ambitious, and, yes, at times ruthless. I admit there was something . . . attractive about it. But I never guessed that she would betray me for Kastor. That I learned too late.’ ‘Auguste was like you,’ said Laurent. ‘He had no instinct for deception; it meant he couldn’t recognise it in other people.’

i love it when my previous analysis is further reinforced by the text

And what about you?’ said Damen, after a difficult breath. ‘I have a highly developed instinct for deception.’ ‘No, I meant—’ ‘I know what you meant.’

when he’s relaxed, laurent talks like a total nerd. awkward attempts at irony, defensive self-awareness, and an obvious desire to be the most clever person in the room.

Now, after a night of earrings and brothels, he thought: Why not ask him about it? Laurent didn’t look uncomfortable.

the fact that damen has not only noticed laurent’s discomfort with the topic of sex, but is also considerate and thoughtful about it, makes my heart ache

‘I wondered,’ Damen said, carefully, ‘if you reserved your love for women.’ ‘No, I—’ Laurent sounded surprised. Then he seemed to realise that his surprise gave something fundamental away, and he looked away with a muttered breath; when he looked back at Damen there was a wry smile on his lips, but he said, steadily, ‘No.’

i’m guessing laurent’s thought process went something like this:

me, straight? lmfao i’ve had sex with a man

but that man was [redacted]. shit.

but damen doesn’t know about [redacted], so why does he assume i’m straight?

oh, i’ve got it. in my culture heterosexuality is taboo with the nobility, so damen would assume that i’m secretly straight and hiding it. dumbass. (smiles, because now he gets to call damen a dumbass)

‘It’s not my fault that no one in your country can think in a straight line,’ said Damen, frowning a touch defensively.

not the veretian homonormativity 😭

‘That isn’t why. She would have chosen him even if you’d had royal blood in your veins, even if you’d had the same blood as Kastor. You don’t understand the way a mind like that thinks. I do. If I were Jokaste and a king maker, I’d have chosen Kastor over you too.’

i’m pretty sure laurent means this as both a comfort and compliment. it also helps to reinforce his own cognitive dissonance between damen and damianos.

‘Because a king maker would always choose the weaker man. The weaker the man, the easier he is to control.’ Damen felt the shock of surprise, and looked at Laurent only to find Laurent gazing back at him without rancour. The moment stretched out. It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t what he had expected Laurent to say. As he gazed at Laurent, the words moved through him in unexpected ways, and he felt them touch something jagged-edged within him, felt them shift it a first, tiny fraction, something lodged hard and deep, that he had thought immovable. He said: ‘What makes you think Kastor is the weaker man? You don’t know him.’ ‘But I’m coming to know you,’ said Laurent.

this pulls everything between the lines of this chapter together beautifully. the mutual re-evaluation, the undeniable reality of their connection, a kingdom or this. i would love to know just how many drafts and editing passes this specific chapter went through, to achieve this degree of excellence.

also, a theme from book 1: "there is no honor in obedience."

#this one is very long #nothing but the best for my beloved bread scene <3 #jokes aside i've really proud of the analysis here #capri #sam reads capri #captive prince #prince's gambit #laurent of vere #damen of akielos #lamen

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crossedsabers10s · 26 days

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what’s the latest wip in saberland??

uhhhhhh a bunch of bouncing back and forth between things rn. There's one fic i've been poking at that is ACoTaR and is more world building than anything, but the vague timeline is making me want to rip out my computer keys so rn it's mostly just vibes. Haven't quite decided on a title for that one but it's under fierce spear-bearer (loyal hearth-guard) for now. I'm tryingggg to get some more rumor has it stuff done, mostly pre-canon background, but it's in pieces that are slowly being put together. And I really need to rewatch S3 of TVD bc im tired of opening my wip doc for Apathy and just... being like I have IDEAS but no idea how to get em down. or connect them to the stuff I do have written. Then there's the. Half dozen mini fics I have half-written and cluttering up my drive. Plus like. I really want to get some Missed Me stuff done but everytime I sit down to do it the words flee from me.

Excerpts, if anyone wants 'em:

A Court of Thorns and Roses:

fierce spear-bearer (loyal hearth-guard)

“Argos,” Eris says seriously, dragging a finger across the pages of the thick tome he has open. He’s sitting at a desk, feet dangling from the tall backed chair.

They are ensconced in a reading nook in the library, that place of oaken bookshelves that tower like the trees they’d once been, filled with tomes older than they. It is no Day Court’s Great Library, to be sure, but Autumn is old, and its lord is no slouch at gathering knowledge.

“Pumpkin,” Erin suggests. She’s sitting on the plush carpet of the library floor, right at the edge where carpet meets the flagstone in front of the fireplace. Nestled amongst the ashes of the fireplace, nearly blending in, is a small gray pup curled into a crescent shape on its back, paws in the air and snoring with little puppy breaths.

Eris doesn’t spare her so much a look. “Demios.”

“Applesauce.”

“Cú.”

Erin pauses from where she’d been flicking stray ashes. The pup’s paw twitches. “You’re going to get in trouble with Priestess Mara if you use that one.”

Legendary names from the Continent are one thing. Legends closer to home another entirely.

Eris waves a hand in a passable imitation of their father’s gesture of dismissal. It has a range of meanings from more ale all the way to to the dungeons with you. “Priestess Mara should be reminded that the temple doesn’t rule, Vanserras do. The old stories are not banned.”

“Yet,” Erin supplies knowingly, having overheard gossip suggesting that the lord of Rocky Shore is throwing his vote behind the latest attempt to ban every mention of the gods and heroes that don’t quite align with worshiping the Mother. Or, rather, the ones that don’t worship her in her aspect of the Mother.

It’s not a popular stance, not in Autumn, but it has been gaining momentum in the past half century. Especially as tensions between the humans and fae rise.

“Yet isn’t now.” But Eris obviously reconsiders using a name that may indicate taking one side over the other. Heir to Autumn that he is, even too young to sit on Council, either side would love to have his ear.

Erin, who loves the old stories and has spent at least a few years worth of time in this very library reading them, frowns before running a finger through the ashes on the flagstone. “Cider.”

Eris’ sigh sounds exactly like their mother’s. The way he carefully closes the tome is similar as well. “Is this you trying to tell me you’re ready for lunch?”

She sprawls to the side, eyes still on the snoozing pup. “Syrup.”

Finally deigning to weigh in, the pup snorts itself awake, blinking blearily at its surroundings. When it spots the faerie sitting on the rug, it scrambles to its oversized paws and launches itself into her lap. Skirts covered in ashy paw prints and the sounds of delighted giggling mixed with equally delighted yipping fill the otherwise quiet space. Erin begins to enthusiastically pet the little pup. Eris abandons his book to join them on the floor, doing his best to restore some order to the situation, even as he starts giggling just like his twin.

“I think Syrup and I will be good friends,” Erin decides, face smudged with ash.

Done with its self-imposed job of licking the two fae youth’s faces, the pup shakes, form briefly flickering around the edges, pearly gray fur blurring and shifting into wisps before settling back into solid shape.

“That is a smoke hound, fearsome companions and ruthless hunters, they are not friends—!“ Eris tries to rub a smear of ash off his face with a sleeve, but only succeeds in further dirtying both. “We are not calling him Syrup!”

“Syrup!” Erin croons. “Sweet boy, you’ll be the fiercest hound in the kennel!”

fierce spear-bearer (loyal hearth-guard)

Her brother, light where she is dark, dark where she is light, they are less mirror images and more complimentary ones. She has their father’s coloring, he their mother’s. As a child, she’d desperately wanted her mother’s auburn instead of the brown she’d inherited. She’d grown out of that eventually, though there are still days she’d wish the reflection in her mirror was less stern-faced familiar.

She’s her father’s eyes, she’s been told time and time again. She hates it more with every telling.

“Was it impressive as they say?”

“Tamlin ripped her to shreds,” Eris says, satisfaction in the curl of his lips.

“Good,” Erin says, just as much savagery underneath her own polite mask. Unlike their appearance, they match there, always. She sends her twin a sideways look. “But no. The girl. Spring’s human champion. She faced a Midgard Wyrm. So I heard.” She’d heard more than that, but that is one event that stands out. Less so, perhaps, than their littlest brother nearly dying twice over, and less so than Amarantha’s death, but it had been no small feat.

Wyrms had been native to Hybern, but had been brought over from the smaller island more than once. There’s a few that pop up throughout Prythian’s history, some more famed than others; Coward’s Bane comes to mind, a legendarily giant Wyrm that had carved tunnels three body lengths wide into a rocky area of the Middle. They called it Coward’s Bane because if you’d walked over top of its rocky home, you lived. If you broke and ran, it sensed you and burst from the ground to swallow you whole.

Amarantha, forever coming up with ways to make people’s lives worse, had bred them, set them loose into unprepared, unprotected Courts.

The juveniles were less dangerous than the adults, but worse in different ways. Small as the young offspring could be—no bigger than any mundane earthworm—they were difficult to track. Easier to kill, but hard to find. Easier, but not easy. They’d lost a patrol or two to a nest. Once. Or twice. Maybe twice, because one had disappeared in the same area a month prior, but there had been no remains of the first when they’d excavated the nest.

“She was covered in mud and shit. Broken, bleeding, and full of human-weakness.” His sneer drops. Very quietly, lips scarcely moving, “Yes.”

She nods, then drops the subject.

But Eris keeps at it. “Prythian’s Savior is held in high esteem across the lands, higher still in two Courts. How interesting she’s remained cloistered in Spring. Not a Court would dare turn her away.” He snorts softly. “Or not. Tamlin no doubt wishes his new-Made lover protected instead of leveraging that debt.”

“Two?” Spring is obvious….

“Night.”

Erin takes a sip of her drink. The wine is a good one, unearthed from some lord or another’s stores. A deep red, it is too thin to be blood. For all that it suddenly tastes of it. Copper overpowers its previous floral notes. “Night? I have heard….”

She lets the sentence trail off, letting her lips twist just slightly to display the displeasure at what she’d weaseled out of those who’d returned from Under the Mountain.

“He dressed her in war-paint.” Eris lifts his glass to his lips, but doesn’t drink. “Night after night, the kinds of scraps you’d expect from noble patronized whore houses and Illyrian war-paint.”

She does not ask him if he is sure. They once had cause to research Night’s admittedly shrouded culture and customs—even the scant-written, bloody history of Illyria. Eris had never gotten his star-hewn bride, but those days are not so distant that the hastily inked figures depicted have been forgotten. The drawings had been rushed, for certain. Detail and accuracy abandoned for speed and feeling, as though the artist was recreating a scene from terror-tinged memory. But the black ink stretched into wide, strong wings—the sprawling swirls and runes across bare skin, the sketched sword point as sharp and hungry on page as it must have been in truth….

It had evoked the same beauty a forest fire does. Destructive. Terrible. Awe-inspiring. Erin has never seen an Illyrian war band on wing—during the last war with Hybern, she’d remained in Autumn’s borders instead of following her High Lord into battle as Eris did, as a last line of defense—but they are compared to storms more than once, in the older manuscripts. Sudden and fierce, striking quick and devastating before disappearing just as swiftly as they came.

Summer storm, silent death,

the battle-born, the blood-drinkers.

Carrion crows follow wing-ed kin.

He gave her the only armor he could, she does not suggest. Instead, she snorts softly. “Heh. Whore paint.”

Eris is too court trained to groan. Just as she is too court trained to grin. “The lowest form of humor.”

“Just high enough for you to grasp, then, brother.”

TVD:

rumor has it 'verse

“—starts going left, which was the exact opposite way the man had needed to turn. He always did have a knack for doing exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time. Bloody good at poker, though, honestly, I think he’d the devil’s own luck. Better than mine, for sure. Better than your’s too, eh? Maggie says I’d been cursed at birth, or that I must’ve played dominos in a mirror shop as a child—worst luck she’s ever seen, she says. Which is why she picks the lottery numbers and I get stuck driving down snow covered roads at three in the bloody morning searching for daft fuckers who can’t tell left from—”

“Do you ever shut up?”

Enzo shuts up.

The voice had been raspy. Words slurred, as though the mouth that formed them was unused to it. There had been a pause between shut and up, as if the sentence was nearly too long to complete.

Silence takes the cell for a single moment, before—

“No,” he says, unable to iron out all the amusement. First time his cellmate’s made a noise other than groans or snarls and it’s to tell him to shut up? Maggie’d laugh her ass off. Hell, she still might, when he sees her again and tells her.

After he gets out of here.

It’s been nearly a week already and he hasn’t seen so much a ray of sunlight for just as long.

If he’s taken to trying to distract himself from the walls closing in, then, well. Until now, no one had made a complaint.

Apathy is Wound to the Soul

Yes, Finn is covered in mud and pine straw and a more general kind of forest floor litter.

No, they will not be taking questions.

Especially not about them having lost a fight with a tree.

“Have you two been burying each other again?” Rebekah asks, somehow flippant and genuinely curious all out once, overlaid with some annoyed patina of exasperation.

Finn will be taking one question. Finn will be asking questions. “No?”

Why is this a conclusion she’s come to. Why is Kol smirking? Did she say again?

til morning comes

Handsome, one part notices, even as instinct whispers: a problem.

His eyes are too sharp, even if he’s trying to appear casual, taking in them and the room in a way that she recognizes. How far from the door? From the window? Who in this room is an enemy? Who isn’t? Who will be able to be pushed one way or another with the right words?

Katherine says nothing to give away what she sees. Just arranges her face into surprise, muddling it with caution. If he’s a stranger, then it’s justified. Even if not, Stefan is tense beside her. And she’d just been caught kissing Elena’s ex. Shock and dismay are appropriate reactions. She doesn’t know this man. But Elena might’ve. In this moment, she needs context clues, some kind of lead to follow.

“Oh, good,” the man says, smiling closed-mouthed. British accent. “This is the right room.”

“Enzo?” Stefan says, sounding stunned.

Enzo? Damon’s ex-cell mate Enzo? Finally able to put a face to the name in Elena’s diary, Katherine keeps the surprised expression on her face as she studies the ex-science project.

“Do you know another?” Enzo asks him, seemingly interested.

There’s a noise from down and hall. Nearly too quickly for Katherine to track in Elena’s pathetic baby-vampire body, Enzo’s head snaps to the side. Without looking back at them, he raises a finger and says, “Hold that thought,” before blurring out of the doorway.

The door gapes open, frame now empty.

She meets Stefan’s eyes for half a second, catalogs worry and shock and an unwelcome tinge of shame.

Annoyance floods through her, even as she is sure to project nothing but a mirror of his emotions, just with a touch of defiance because it’s not her fault that Enzo has the worst timing known to man.

And what an interruption. Stefan’s not going to kiss her anytime soon now, not with him here. Not when it’s likely Damon isn’t far behind.

Ugh, and here she thought she’d managed to get rid of him. Guess the clinginess overcame the rejection.

#fanfic #reply #the writers block is real #also trying to do some general background research for fic + i also just Like History #oh! and i have like a few hundred words of this other thing but uhhhhhhhhh ahahaahahahaaa

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