#every dry scraping of fingers on paper | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mandoalorian · 11 months

Text

tolerate it [javi peña x gn!reader]

“I made you my temple, my mural, my sky…”

Warnings: this is not nice, I'm sorry. This is pure, unadulterated angst. Based on the song tolerate it and You’re Losing Me by Miss Swift herself. Word count: 2000approx. Author’s note: one thing about me is I come back every 6 months, drop a one-shot, and then leave again. Was feeling a bit of seasonal depression today. I don’t enjoy fall as much as the rest of the world, it seems, but here is an autumnal fic to get your spirits going. Masterlist Ko-fi

Fall.

Two take-out cups of piping hot Colombian ground coffee warming up your bare hands, because you thought it was too early for gloves, and the trees standing naked and tall with crusty red leaves blanketing the damp ground beneath your chunky boots. Holding the newspaper in the crook of your elbow, you sigh as you feel rain begin to fall from the grey clouds above. You pick up the pace, striding through the swarms of busy people doing their seasonal shopping, just wanting to get back home dry.

Your wishes weren’t commanded and you stumbled through the front door of your townhouse sopping wet, hair stuck to your face and mascara now three inches down your cheeks. You put the coffee cups on the dining room table along with the newspaper and took off your coat. At some point, Javier came in and sat down at the table. His fingers pinched at the corners of the paper. The pages were ripped and wet and the ink was bleeding into an incoherent smudge on the front page. Javier opened the lid of his coffee and took a sip before immediately scrunching up his face and putting it back on the table. You turned to face your partner, only to be met with his lips curled into a frown and his brows furrowed together in disdain. You looked at him, helpless and apologetic.

“What’s wrong now?” You huffed, searching for answers in his empty brown eyes. You were tired of asking the question.

“It’s cold,” He muttered, his eyes not leaving yours as he awaited an explanation like he was owed it. His words are blunt and sharp but you have no choice other than to take his indiscretions on your shoulder.

But instead, you offered him nothing short of a scoff as you emptied the pools of water from your boots. The storm outside was loud and persisted with long wails and cries. In silence, you sat next to Javier at the table, and in spite, drank your cold coffee.

After a few moments, you smiled to yourself, wanting to lighten the mood and remembering something that you had seen on television a few days ago. “You know, in California, iced coffee is a thing? Yeah, that’s how they prefer to drink it over there.”

Javier grunted in acknowledgement, leaning back on his chair and folding his arms over his chest.

Your eyes flicked between the oak wood dining table, and the way you had set it so beautifully with your fancy China and centrepiece. The empty vase waiting for a fresh bunch of flowers stood tall and was gleaming after you’d spent a good chunk of your day cleaning and polishing it. A single, pumpkin-scented candle flickered in between you and Javier, your gaze fixated on the dancing ember. Finally, you looked back at Javier, who was taking shallow breaths as he awaited you to pay him attention.

When you fail to do so, it causes a problem. “I have to get to the office,” he announced after a few minutes of silence.

“But it’s a Saturday,” you replied. Ever since Javier got his big promotion, it meant he could do fewer hours and stop working weekends. He hadn’t gone to the office on a Saturday in nearly two years. Javier stood up and put on his leather jacket, the same one he’d kept from the 70s. He still rocked it, of course, but in this climate, it just wasn’t smart. “You’re going to need something warmer than that jacket, you’ll freeze to death.”

You stood up, your chair scraping against the floor, and went to walk to the bedroom, finding a coat for Javier to wear. You picked one out that you knew he hated. It was long and plaid and not his style at all, too ‘modern’, he called it, but it was the only thing that would stop him from catching a cold. You grabbed a pair of gloves and a scarf and walked back out, following him into the hallway. He waited for you and stood leaning against the door frame, looking at the outside world ahead of him.

Sure enough, the storm had cleared up in a matter of minutes and golden rays of sunlight peeked through the now white clouds. Your heart fell, deflated when Javier refused to wear the coat and the scarf you’d picked out for him.

“The gloves, at least,” you begged him, your eyes wide and glazed with unshed tears that you didn’t realise you were holding back. The air was thick with flaws and indecisions. Javier felt a pang of guilt in his heart when he read your expression and took the gloves from you, shoving them in his jacket pocket, a silent promise that he might just put them on later if he remembered.

“Will you be home for dinner?” You asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” you nodded. Javier placed a chaste kiss atop your head. “I love you.” You promised him, but the words were lost on him.

“See you later,” he replied, before pulling away and walking over to his truck.

You’d normally watch him get in and drive away but this time, you shut the door before he even stepped off the patio and sauntered into the living room where you slouched onto the couch, hung your head low and closed your eyes. Darkness. You wondered how long you could keep fighting this. You were so tired of giving your all, only to be met with so little appreciation back. What was once the richest of love had turned cold and empty. You gave him endless empathy and he was killing you.

Javier pulled up outside of Luna Azul, his favourite bar. He hated this. He didn’t like lying to you, but he just needed to get away. He pulled out a cigarette and rested it between his lips, pushing the front door open and immediately taking a seat at the bar. Lighting the cigarette, he took a deep inhale of the nicotine, letting it sting his throat before exhaling. He loved you, he really did. He didn’t remember a point in time when things shifted, he didn’t understand why things had changed so much. You were still his person, his soulmate, he knew he’d never find anyone else like you, but there was just something missing.

“Hey Javi, why the sad face?” Elza, the barmaid asked, already pouring him a whiskey on the rocks, his usual order. “Did someone die?”

Javier feigned a smile before downing his drink. “Rough day.”

“Ah,” Elza said softly. “Trouble in paradise?”

The words made Javier wince. He gestured for another drink, of which Elza promptly poured him. “I guess.”

“I’m sorry to hear that Javi,” Elza frowned. “You deserve better.”

Javi’s frown deepened. He swirled the whiskey as he processed Elza’s words. He really didn’t believe that he deserved better, Hell, he barely believed that he deserved you, and you were more than good enough. You were perfect.

And suddenly, for Javier, it all made sense. He was damaged goods. All those years in the DEA, fighting in a war… that’s what had changed Javier. The years of trauma that he’d never confronted… never got help for. He had hidden his feelings, fought his nightmares and pretended like they didn’t bother him. He’d come this far, he wasn’t scared… he couldn’t be scared, he wasn’t allowed to be scared. He had to be strong, brave, get over it. Javier downed his second whiskey, his skin getting white hot as realization gushed over him. Elza filled his glass up with a third, watching the agent intently.

You weren’t the one who changed, he was, and it took him this long to realise. It was all becoming so clear now, how hard you had been trying and how he hadn’t even said ‘I love you’ in six months. Javier’s stomach was in knots, he didn’t know how or why you’d stayed this long when he had given you nothing in return for your efforts. Impulsively, Javier downed the third whiskey.

Something had to change. He had to change—get better. He knew now that was the only thing that would fix the relationship he’d been taking for granted. He had to go home and apologise. He had to make things right before it was too late. Javier stubbed out the butt of the cigarette and stood up abruptly, only to be met with ruby-red lips crashing down on his hard. Teeth biting down on Javier’s lower lip, Javier let out a small groan. He hadn’t been kissed in so long. But these weren’t your soft, sweet lips. Javier pulled away, eyes widening when he saw Elza standing in front of him with a smirk.

Javier rubbed at his lips in an attempt to wipe away any traces of infidelity. This is not what he wanted or needed right now. He had to get home and fast. Without sparing a single word to Elza, Javier dived out the door and jumped into his pickup truck.

Grey clouds gathered outside as Javier jogged up the driveway, an indication of another storm. You were cooking when Javier arrived home. You were so surprised to hear the front door open as he’d only been gone for half an hour or so. You’d been thinking hard and decided that if tonight wasn’t any different than previous nights then that would be it. You'd be out the door. The thought of it was soul-crushing because you wanted to marry this man. But you couldn’t take it anymore. Fighting with all your strength and might only to be ignored.

“Hermosa,” Javier greeted, exasperated and breathless. If your eyes weren’t immediately drawn to the remnants of red lipstick on his lips, you might have noticed his tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes. He’d been crying all the way home, crying for being so stupid and reckless for all these months, for not taking care of himself, but most importantly, not taking care of you.

Your heart plummeted in your chest and you dropped the wooden spoon that was in your hands. It clattered on the floor, the noise making Javier jump, but you stood there, still and unwavering. Silent tears began to stream down your cheeks and you couldn’t strain your gaze away from your boyfriend who was smelling thick of alcohol and had another woman’s lipstick on his face. That was it.

He had dealt his final blow.

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

its been years since I've redone my masterlist so im starting again from scratch. if you see this and want to be added, let me know.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #javier peña #javi peña #javier peña x reader #narcos #jose pedro balmaceda pascal

160 notes · View notes

imaprettygirl · 5 months

Text

The night has a thousand eyes

(Al Haitham x Rtawahist reader)

Those eyes...

Those which you were familiar with: small specks of dust sprinkled onto the canvas of the night, clustering together to form constellations which unravel your fate. The stars shine ever so effulgently as if the truth of this world was right in front of your nose- but is it really? Or was it just a facade to blind the prying eyes of the mortals gazing from below to cover up the forbidden secret it holds?

An amalgam of thoughts brew in your head. The chilly night breeze waltzed around the Razan garden- with each sway making your front bangs sweep back as if it were beckoning the strands of your hair to dance along. It was as if someone was running their fingers through your hair. But that night, you felt as if those same fingers carry a heavy weight- a feeling of premonition that ran chills down your spine. Suddenly, you felt exposed, vulnerable and even watched.

You looked over your shoulder, trying to find any signs of a person nearby. But you were met with no answers: in front of you only lies the beautiful lush scenery of the garden.

Loathing the feeling of paranoia, you shrugged it off with an exhale of a breath you didn't realize you were holding. Afterall, it was nearly midnight so that meant little to no presence of people. Even if there were a scholar, it would be a Rtawahist like you and would hang around places which spreads out the view of the night sky clearly. You let out a shaky breath and continued flipping the pages of your book, trying to scrape off the vestigial feeling of suspicion.

Perhaps you should have looked around carefully...

Blending in the shadows behind a tree, there lay a pair of turquoise color eyes staring at you from the distance.

Those eyes...

Those which were akin to stars: Intense dark feelings brewing beneath the captivating surface. Those eyes belong to none other than Alhaitham- the Akademiya's Scribe. He knows how to shape eccentricity and enigma into a crown and oh, he does wear it well.

Unlike the stoic countenance he puts up front, he had no ill intentions to harm you. Come to think about it, what kind of man would hurt his beloved? Even if he were to start manslaughter (which may/may not be out of his comfort zone), he would burn everything down to ashes but you would be left unstained from the blood in his hands. He wanted to strip down everything you loved and could ever love from you so that he would be your only shelter.

But atlas, Alhaitham could hope that Celestia helps the fool who falls in love. He had tried forcing a transient smile on his face to get you two closer which seemed to slowly break down the fortress you had built. Every time Alhaitham sees a soft smile gracing your features, butterflies in his stomach flutter uncontrollably. Soon, the only reason his lips kept tugging into a small smile was in hopes for you to warm up to him and reciprocate his feelings. But inside, he wanted you to love him the way he is. He knew he could love you more than a normal person could without having the need to smile. But first, he needed to have you notice this side of him. ______________________________________________________________

Your neck was strained from having to look up at the sky constantly. It was tiring yet not futile. It was past midnight and the call of sleep was getting louder. Finally, you gave into your desires and stood up to go to your dorm. Coincidentally, the moment you stood up, you heard a rustle of paper. Having heard the dry crumple of a paper, you looked around only to find a letter at your feet. It was a white envelope with brown edges and a neat plain wax stamp with the color red stamped on the opening of the envelope. You slowly opened it, eyes twinkling with curiosity in the letter's contents:

"My dear beloved,

The night has a thousand eyes, doesn't it? But next time, do look carefully dear. The stars aren't the only one which have been watching you. Who knows, you might find a pair of turquoise eyes staring at you too?

-A"

#alhaitham x reader #alhaitham #alhaitham x you #Never in my life have I ever used my brain on a writing piece this much #IreneCallista #genshin impact alhaitham #Genshin impact #Yandere #yandere alhaitham #yandere genshin impact

88 notes · View notes

bloodybigwardrobe · 2 years

Text

it’s a cruel fate, to be a child-yet not-but still. a fate of mounting dread, of hurdles long passed, of body prisons and cracking voices. a fate worse than death, in their eyes.

the first time lucy feels herself well up over something her true self had long since moved above, she freezes, then sobs for hours. “we’re not just trapped,” she cries into peter’s chest, her hands too small where they bunch in his entirely wrong clothes. “it’s not just a cage. it’s torture.” it leaves her bereft, stuck with overflowing eyes and a voice that can no longer carry the songs of her heart like it ought to. it wavers, veers off course like the leaves that wilt above her head. to be a child once more, without her hard-won maturity, without long-honed control of emotions and their display. it aches. to be kicked out and left with growing pains one thought long past.

she doesn’t hide it from the others, holds on tight to keep them together as the world spins them dry. it stains her hands with salt water and ash, but edmund clings right back to bury his head in her shoulder and reach out a helping hand in turn. it hurts to look at him, to look at all of them so far from what they should be, but she keeps her eyes open defiantly.

edmund falls down the stairs and stares at his bruised knee with unknowing eyes. there are no scars that reach up to his knee, no long line of white marking his shin. just a scrape and red skin, marring unblemished skin as though only starting its history now. it jars him, opens the deep well of wrong that he pushed aside in favour of readjustment. he looks down on a blank page, empty of the memories pushing against his skull every hour of the day. there is no proof, he thinks with shaking hands, no proof of the life they lived. a truth he had known already, somewhere, but never sunk in to this extent. he is a book unwritten, with ink trying to push through paper from the inside without success.

they’ve been robbed of not just their bodies, but their history, so he sits down with gritted teeth to capture what they’ve lost in words, if nothing else. susan looks at him with eyes slowly losing their gentle smile and his pen scrapes illegible lines on empty pages.

susan finds herself with her forehead down on her papers, her hands pulled up against her chest as she breathes through the itching need for tears. The ink is misshapen below her, letters looping all wrong. Her hands shake with unlearned skills, uncalloused, unwilling to help her keep their true home between her fingers. It’s cruel, she pleads silently, to not just drop them back into a country that no longer understands them, that their minds no longer fit, but take everything they’ve learned and gone through along with it—returned to clothes and skin far too small, without memories of all they had become. she fears to test the strength of her grip, of her arms, loathes to find a weak back unused to carrying responsibility or drawing a bow. to find herself truly without all that brought her joy.

she curls her hair the same way, even when the strands fall strangely and her hands tremble through it all. it looks nothing like it ought to, but she will find a way. behind her, she watches peter leaning too-thin shoulders against the notches on the doorframe, his too-round jaw set in anger. susan’s hair feels empty in her unmarred hands.

peter doesn’t remember what it was that set him off, but here he is, curled up in the bathroom with a kitchen knife clattering to the floor as he pulls at his own hair. he knows he can’t use the knife, that this is an impulse born out of the horrible itching wish to dig through this ill-fitting child body to find himself again, to find where it all had gone. his voice cracks when he curses and it only makes things worse, to find himself without the roar, without the rumble in his chest. there is no king to find within the pulpy mess inside his ribs, no hand to grasp and pull himself inside out so that the world may be right once more. there is no labyrinth or pit to unearth a now unlived life from, no golden age hidden behind his rushing blood. he can’t fix this.

when lucy picks the lock and his siblings pile in, peter can feel a thin trickle of blood make its way into his brow. susan cradles his hands in hers and sighs at his bloodied nails. edmund looks at him with understanding and deep, purpling bags under his eyes that make peter sob all over again. it’s all wrong, he tells them through his tears, he should have been able to protect them from the horror their lives have become.

lucy, the discarded knife now in hand, tells him with a teary smile that he is not all gone, the complex of a hero king still alive every time he speaks. it’s bleak comfort for them all, but they take it where they can.

#narnia #chronicles of narnia #the pevensies #lucy pevensie #edmund pevensie #susan pevensie #peter pevensie #mywriting #so im back on my usual rambles :3

696 notes · View notes

batmanisagatewaydrug · 9 months

Note

Hello!

I went into my Gyno today, it’s my second only visit ever, first one was two years ago to get a Pap smear

(I thought I was getting one again today, but guidelines if you don’t have sex, which for me yes never, is every three years now; would’ve waited another year if I knew that)

And today she performed a quick visual exam with the speculum, and then physical with a finger in my vagina very quickly

My Pap smear two years ago went better, I’ve read your advice and came in with a lot of “hey hey hey I never have sex I don’t put things up there because it’s Tight and Does Not Feel Good, go slow and use the smallest instrument possible”

Today went not as well, she did remember who I was, and I thought she’d look into patient notes and see that last time I was like “Small Please”

And I’m not sure that carried over to today

It was quick but also Painful, and I wasn’t vocal at the time because I wanted to get it over with

I started bleeding shortly after, and every time I’ve gone to the rest room I’ve felt blood drip out, and wiped and had blood on the toilet paper, there’s not much on my underwear, but my underwear is black so… hard to tell

For context of time, had this done at 9am and it’s almost 8pm now

From the advice you’ve give I’ve seen you say there can be tearing during sex and other activities, but I was wondering if there’s much I can do for this? Other than like, keep everything clean and don’t fuck around with anything

hi anon,

I'm so sorry that happened :/ unfortunately receiving appropriate care is something that can require constant communication and reminders. even healthcare providers that remember you tend to be working with a lot of patients, and aren't always going to be 100% on top of the accommodations you've needed before unless you say something about it.

so long as you're not losing enough blood to make you lightheaded or nauseous, this is a fairly regular - albeit annoying and uncomfortable! - situation. your vagina is very good at patching up little scrapes and tears by itself, but you can help it out by avoiding further vaginal irritation. it sounds like you don't do much penetration to begin with, but just in case: no tampons and no penetrative sex (including masturbation) while you're bleeding. also make sure to keep your vulva clean to help avoid infection - regular bathing does the trick, as do ordinary body wash and water - and make sure to pat the skin of your vulva dry gently afterward.

if you feel worried about it it's always a good idea to call back into your gynecologist's office and check to see if they'd like you to come back in to have a look!

#sex edventures 2023

65 notes · View notes

yiga-hellhole · 6 months

Text

TFTK BONUS CHAPTER 5: DEPICTION OF THE DEMON LORD

sorry for the hold-up! i totally forgot to make a teaser illustration. anyway, a little bonus chapter to keep you all company while i work on the behemoth that is chapter 20. this one takes place between the events of chapters 11 and 13. say, didn't yuga promise a little someone else he'd get a portrait too..? the descriptions in this chapter are based on this BEAUTIFUL portrait by @renthehuman . keep it in mind as you read!!

thanks again to @bulgariansumo and @orfeoarte for betareading!!!

ao3 mirror

Potent jealousy was festering in the Demon Lord since the portrait of his co-lieutenant was finished. It was beautiful, indeed, but he hadn’t missed one crucial detail. When first meeting Yuga, it was him she flocked to instantly, singing praises of his beauty, and urging for him to be painted. And though indeed, he was the first to be sketched, the first full-fledged painting was not in his honor.

Nevertheless, this affront was soothed most thoroughly by the spoiling he received after. Zant’s portrait had hardly been framed or manicured fingers were already rapping on his door, urging him to join him in his workspace for his next masterpiece. Yuga felt the urge to paint like she did hunger or fatigue and to be deprived of it turned her jittery and ravenous.

Of course, Ghirahim did not keep him waiting. He spent hours under the watchful, yet manic eye of the Lorian sorcerer, his form dancing across pages upon pages of sketching paper. After feeling like they had become properly acquainted (though, really, it felt far more like an excuse to spend more time ogling), Yuga set up her backdrop, and the two sussed out their composition.

Said brainstorming did not take long. Yuga wanted, most wholeheartedly, to capture beauty. In her eyes, beauty had uncountable forms. Pertaining to himself, Ghirahim thoroughly agreed with his definitions, but often, Yuga’s judgment over beauty and hideosity seemed… Haphazard. Loosey-goosey, if one would. Her fussiness over their backdrop was most apparent in this. They would only be stationed here in clear skies when the heavens were a vast, clear blue.

Deciding on a subject was not particularly difficult. His reputation as a warrior was thoroughly known, in the flesh and through legend. In fact, it was all his previous portraiture, crude as it was, would focus on. Truly, the carnage he caused was beautiful, but his being – be it his sword or his scabbard, could not be excluded from this pride. Never had it been done justice before. In this portrait, the sensual, perfect form of Demon Lord Ghirahim, would be clear as day.

Perhaps a little too clear. Motivated partially by the desert heat, but mostly a drive to accentuate every fold of fat or muscle he had, they decided he would be depicted without even a shred of clothing.

There he lay, splayed alluringly on a fainting couch crowded by cushions, the dry desert heat wafting past his skin through the window behind him. Across him in the atelier was Yuga, half-seated on a wooden stool behind her canvas, her pencil scraping delicately, yet decisively, on parchment and canvas.

Just as the gentle sounds of graphite lulled him into a bit of comforting system maintenance, Yuga pulled him out of his haze with a clear of the throat. “So…”

Ghirahim turned his head to look at her, but quickly adjusted, remembering he was posing. “So?”

“I do hope you did not expect to spend the next few hours simply sitting in silence. Do you happen to be in the vein for a bit of a chat?”

Ghirahim met the playful smirk that peeked past the canvas with a cock of his brow. “You intend to wring information from a demon? Bold. I’ll have you know, I could have your soul for that.”

Yuga rolled her eyes in response, slinking back behind the easel. “Then, say, you do snatch my soul from me. Who will paint you?”

Such an air of light bantering was impossible to pass on. He knew it well from his time at this court, and precisely how fine the line was between playful snipping and a threat upon one’s life. A line he fondly trampled. But with a woman like Yuga, whose well-groomed talons were as blood-drenched as his own, true peerdom nestled comfortably.

He could say whatever the Hell he wanted. “I suppose I can afford to spare you until it’s finished.”

Shrieking laughter emitted from the Lorian. “Oh, wonderful! I’m being held hostage. Hanging around you lot becomes more and more quaint by the day!”

Ghirahim joined her in her amusement. Taking a moment to fiddle with the pearls ‘round his neck, he considered Yuga’s offer. He had a fickle generosity with his candor, preferring to either keep still or prattle on and on about the endless intrigue he’s accumulated in his many years of wandering the Surface. With those he had no ulterior motives for, he preferred to be silent. Still, he mused on. Wouldn’t it be boring to simply lay here for hours? He did plenty of that with their other lieutenant.

Yuga wasn’t the most trustworthy person, but… “Alright, then. I’ll bite. How can I sate your curiosities?”

“Ah, yes. I did not expect your secrecy to win over your ever-so-vain self, and I adore you this way!” Her face emerged from the side of the canvas once more, wagging the blunt end of her pencil at him in emphasis. “If you’ll allow me to ask, Demon Lord. It is precisely the matters related to your title that interest me. The Demon King you served before our Master, what was your life under him like? Anywhere near as luxurious as your current dwellings?”

Ghirahim squinted. Indeed, Gerudo Palace was a comfortable, sophisticated place. Yet, he felt a stab concealed in Yuga’s question. Did she assume that, millennia in the past, Demise’s dwelling was less grandiose? Forbid it all, did she insinuate she thought them primitive? “I don’t like the implications your question carries.”

Yuga gasped, waving a panicked hand under the canvas. “Forgive me! None were intended.”

His eyes wandered as his temper fizzled out. The atelier was as cluttered and stamp full of colors as he imagined the inside of Yuga’s mind to be. He took the new awkward silence as meditative and traced the colorful patterns on the ceiling frescoes, marking complete and total perfection. Not a single tile was off-size. How very typical.

Though painting was the Lorian’s forte – a practice by all means best done in silence – Ghirahim could tell the quiet was making her anxious. He decided to shake his grievances off. “Let me reminisce, nonetheless. Hmm…” A smirk returned to his face as he saw a curl-framed face peep excitedly at him. “Though loyal to my King I may be, I can’t really speak on His rule beyond the rift. I am strictly a Surface demon, you see. The Palace built above the rift through which we entered was grand, for certain. Oh, how it eclipsed the sun from every angle! Though lacking in the pointless, indulgent little comforts I have now, life there was truly paradise.”

It was then that Yuga rose, quietly hovering toward him to assess him from up close. Ghirahim’s eyes fluttered shut as soft, well-groomed hands found his chin, turning his face to marvel at his angles. He allowed her.

“My Master left me to my whims, to go wherever I pleased, do as I pleased, so long as I returned to His hand when the time for battle came. Perhaps I didn’t have the world in silks and jewels, nor an artisan to paint my portrait,” he smiled, peeking past his lashes to the woman hovering over him in close inspection. Nails scraped past his skin when Yuga’s hand retracted. “But I could truly be myself under His rule. After He fell… Oh, it was below me, truly. How many thousands of years I spent wandering, trying to keep patchwork tribes from tearing each other apart! Though I grew used to such a bare lifestyle, never did I enjoy it. Yes, this indulgence is a welcome change.”

In his wallowing, Yuga returned to her place, gliding graphite past her canvas. Sharp eyes met, and his painter pressed the end of her brush on a sore spot. “There remains something you miss, doesn’t there?”

“Of course. I am a Blade, Yuga. I am meant to be wielded. And now I am not.”

The lines of her brows raised, Yuga spoke in praise, gesturing to his form across her. “Yet you’ve made quite the image for yourself, standing here as a man!”

“I know, my friend,” he spoke with a sigh, rubbing his legs together in a bit of a tic. “I can only afford to show myself as pure perfection. But this scabbard is a mere hobby compared to my true self. I do wish Master could show you soon, the true glory of me, my edges carving through sunbeams and veins alike.”

Hands clasped together, Yuga smiled with delight. Her eyes then shot back open, besieged by another burst of energy that she immediately directed to her canvas. “Oh! I can hardly wait.”

Another day was reserved for the careful study of his facial features, as he’d done with Zant. Eyes bored into him stiffly enough to make the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. Somewhere, he suspected this session was less about actual study, and moreso to tingle the Sorcerer’s endless appetite for otherworldly beauty. Hylian physiques must have started to bore him.

Yuga sat in front of him atop a footstool, hunched over a sketchbook with a curvature to his spine inadvisable for anyone his age (and decades younger, for that matter). Ghirahim would have found his sheer concentration offputting, were he not well and truly drunk on the delicacy of admiration.

For both their sakes, though, he ought to snap the Lorian out of it before he lost his marbles. Taking advantage of a break where Yuga was more fixated on his sketches than his model, Ghirahim spoke. “You say I am to sit still for this part, but surely, I can lend an ear.”

Roused immediately by the lilt of his silvery voice, Yuga looked up to him with a playful grimace. “Devilish thing. Is it safe for me to impart more than simple small-talk on you?”

Ghirahim scoffed. Was more persuasion truly in order? “I told you of life at my own Court. Won’t you share some of yours?”

Having lost some of his feverish drive, Yuga lowered his gaze to his sketchbook, scribbling away. “Oh, I suppose it’s harmless enough.”

His eyes calmly lidded, Yuga settled into a more lighthearted pace. Juggling the weaving of a tale and sketching a model seemingly lulled him into a more pleasant mood. Or, perhaps, a smothered one, only staving off an inevitable explosion of creative impulse. Whether his delight to talk about himself would keep that mess at bay remained to be seen – but, Ghirahim knew, their egos were of nigh equal size. He had an idea that it would hold.

So, Yuga recollected his life’s tale, for as far as he wished to share it.“My usurpation was a slow one… If it was one at all. I thought to stretch out my time as an advisor until little Hilda rose to the throne, and I am thoroughly satisfied with my decision.”

Ghirahim made a further inquiry with a glance and a subtle rise of the brow, but even movement so small got him a scolding. One flick on his sitter’s bare skin later, Yuga resumed his tale. “It’s not like my home in Sakusa was lacking in any way, but it was less… Indulgent. And by far more egalitarian! A world where your every need is accounted for by servants was fully alien to me, and I took to it readily. I do so enjoy to preen, and be preened, as you know.”

Ghirahim responded with a loaded hum, bringing a smile to Yuga’s face. “Times were drastic, with monsters running rampant and more and more pieces of our land falling to the void. But the Court was a realm all of its own, where I could mingle with courtiers, advisors, and scholars all I pleased. It was hard work, certainly – I juggled jobs from royal portraiture to the young Lady’s education, but tasks outside my contract took far more of my time, I reckon. Gossip is never mere gossip in a Palace, as you know. It is veritable politics!”

Chewing oh-so-undignified, absentmindedly on the blunt end of his pencil, Yuga hummed, mulling on his earlier confidence. “No, I took to simply enjoying my time until the ruling King and Queen, so fortunately, passed on early. My poor, beautiful Hilda, only fourteen winters she’d lived before her orphaning. Of course, a ruler so young needed a regent… How lucky I was! I hadn’t even plotted their demise, yet I benefited from it, all the more,” Yuga cackled to himself, before a more manic spark lit in his eye. Graphite crumbled under the pressure of his pushing against the canvas. Each wild stroke of his pencil rushed forebodingly against the paper, interrupted only by the grating squeaks of scrawling. “And how satisfying it was to gaze down at those who glared at me with judging eyes. One so lowly, marshes-born, now puppeteering their Princess at the throne.”

Paper wore underneath the unrelenting push of his straining, bony hands, and Yuga snapped back to focus with a gasp. “... Oh, look at me! I’ve gotten your jawline all wrong. I’ll need another page…”

For once, the lamentless Lorian seemed embarrassed about his burst of anger, in how hastily he cowered by his supply cabinet. After the rustling of paper died out, Ghirahim addressed him carefully. “I take it your fortune, too, did not last, then.”

“No, it did not,” Yuga sighed, again taking his seat beside him. His expression softened, then, an overcast sky clearing out into white puffy clouds, the sun concealed behind them. “But under this King… I don’t know, Ghirahim. I have a good feeling. Apart we may be, though it pains me, I feel just as confident by his side.”

Apart. Yuga had not divulged the full details, but his bond with the Master was a peculiar one, in his time. A soul-bond, not unlike his own with Demise… And though he could see it pained Yuga to cast its possibility aside, he made peace with it, somehow. A bond he once lived for, now reduced to a nostalgic daydream, and compromised through mere company. Ghirahim was perplexed. How could anyone manage such a thing?

Surely, he would not have to.

That following day was once again one of scolding. A crackled bruise, perilously just barely concealed by the strap of his top, besmirched his collarbone. Of course, he could rid himself of such petty ailments in an instant, but he had a bit of a weak spot for such souvenirs of affection.

Yuga did not share the sentiment. The second he laid his bare body on the swooning couch, the Lorian let out a scandalized cry and demanded he get rid of it. Ghirahim obeyed his request, mostly because he feared the bulging vein at his painter’s neck would burst if he didn’t.

With everything once again perfectly going according to Yuga’s wishes, their usual lighthearted chatter resumed. Ghirahim shimmied comfortably into the pillows. Frankly, Yuga wasn’t the only one intently studying an object of interest. With so much eye contact, Ghirahim took the opportunity to get a good look at his painter. He was aged, certainly, but not thoroughly so. Careful maintenance of his skin resulted in a rich sheen, but even that could not stave off the tellings of papery wrinkles at his eyes and nose. Above all, Yuga was excessively flashy, adorning himself with different colors each day. Today, a fresh gradient of lime-green and blue seemed to be his idea of ‘tasteful’.

Something else caught his eye, though. A little something that has irked him nearly every time they met. “You know, Yuga, something has been bothering me.”

Yuga laughed, his words dripping with sarcasm. “Have mercy, no!”

“It concerns your choice of accessories,” Ghirahim replied, snagging his curious gaze with a squint of his eyes. “I daresay, either I’m as much of a trendsetter as I expected to be, or you think to steal my thunder.”

For a moment, Yuga seemed confused. His eyes similarly squinted, bringing more and more of those flashy cosmetics on his lids to light. Realization struck, and he exclaimed a laugh. “The earrings, you mean? I thought it was a funny coincidence myself,” he snickered, prodding at the cyan gem dangling from his earlobe. “I assure you, I’ve owned these years before meeting your lovely acquaintance.”

Ghirahim puckered his lips, pondering. “And yet, I don’t consider the two of us close enough companions to start matching our looks.”

Yuga quickly retreated behind his canvas. “Don’t be so drastic, dear boy,” he chimed, waving a clawed hand past the canvas to pacify him. “Besides, they’re not entirely similar. Yours are perfect diamonds, whereas mine are more teardrop-shaped.”

“Not everyone has your painter’s eye, Yuga, the layfolk won’t notice such details,” Ghirahim sighed, now more playful than making any serious demands. Really, he just wanted to confirm the coincidence… But Yuga always had a habit of running away with his every word, out of sheer fondness of his company. At least, he could only assume. Still. in that fondness, blunders arose. Ghirahim wanted this one corrected post-haste. “Speaking of. You seem to be making quite a few assumptions about my age.”

Yuga’s hiding was quickly cut short. Red curls bounced into view as he quickly peeked past the canvas, his mouth tight with embarrassment. “Am I? You must beg my pardon, but if you are my senior, then I must ask you to refer me to whoever blends your cosmetics.”

Ghirahim hummed, idly observing his pearlescent nails. He truly did prefer being in control of the conversation! “I assume you are no older than… Give or take, fifteen-thousand. Are you?” He drawled, cocking his brow with a smirk.

Yuga’s eyes widened, a gasp escaping him as he hurried back to his painting. If the revealing of his age seemed to motivate him into a burst of inspiration… Well, it was a worrying idea. Ever-astounded, Yuga continued to babble. “My! Demon lifespans, of course. No, I regret to say I’ve not even walked this life for a century. I must seem positively juvenile to you!”

Dropping back into his practiced pose, Ghirahim let out a laugh. “No comment,” he said at last, bullying his companion into an effective silence.

With the campaign for Death Mountain on the horizon, their free hours grew fewer and fewer, as did the opportunities to meet up during Yuga’s preferred hours of lighting. That day was one of rare fortune where they had three hours to spend under the bright afternoon sun – and not a minute more. Major qualms arose that day when Ghirahim made a last-minute adjustment to his accessory; a gift, he claimed. Yuga cared absolutely none for it. He was too proud of the rendering on his trademark blue diamond earring and refused to paint over it for simple pearls and larimars.

And so, the sword spirit lay there huffing and grumbling, leaving his portraitist to work on everything except the insufferable pout he was giving him.

To make matters worse, Ghirahim interjected with another inconvenience. “Ah, yes. My apologies, I forgot to tell you. I’ve gotten a little tangled up and double-booked. Zant might drop by for a visit.”

Not looking up from his canvas, Yuga smeared more purples together on his palette. “So long as you stay still, you can invite the whole palace over, for all I care.”

As foretold, an hour into their appointment, a knock at the door caught them both by surprise. After the chime of Yuga’s response, the door opened, and Zant slipped through.

… Who immediately gasped in scandal over the scene before him. “Ghirahim,” he exclaimed, approaching the canvas timidly to hide from him, finding his depiction easier to shelter with. “I understood that you were to model for your portrait, but… A nude!? ”

“Indeed,” Ghirahim laughed, tilting his head coquettishly. “Yuga and I decided extravagant clothing would only distract from my features. This form is far more representative of me, no?”

Zant seemingly mustered up the courage to face him, as he stepped out into the open. What a calf! They’ve bedded before, what was the issue now? “Well! Such a portrait is made to be viewed, is it not? Would you have yourself displayed in such a way, for others to see?”

Ghirahim was now more amused by his bugging than annoyed. This was no standard prudishness, there was a weakness somewhere. A soft underbelly just begging to be jabbed into. “If I did not, I wouldn’t be lying here as we speak. I have the feeling you have an issue with it, though.”

And there was the reaction he hoped for! Zant’s cheeks flushed instantly, a stammer rising from his throat. His hands retreated quickly in his sleeves, a tassel or two yanked inside each for nervous fingers to fiddle with. “Issues? No, no strict objections! I simply… If you were to, say, bare yourself, before those outside of me, I would at least wish to hear about it beforehand!”

Unimpressed, but committed to his bullying, Ghirahim cocked a brow. “Mm. And, were I to tell you, would you forbid me from doing as I wish? Do you demand such strict monogamy from me?”

“You are too hasty! Now, of course, as your companion, I would have certain… Inhibitions, about,” Zant rambled anxiously, until he suddenly remembered his whereabouts. His helmet quickly clattered to cover his face. “Must we do this in front of Yuga?”

Yuga responded with great nonchalance, perfectly masking his intrigue with the carefree dapping of his brush. “Oh, pretend I’m not here.”

Immediately Zant whipped around, highly agitated. “As if! Gossiping fiend you are, Lord of Lorule!” Crossing his arms with a huff, Zant seemed to take a moment to cool down. Perhaps the sun bothered him – it was noon, after all, and the room far too bright for his Twilit complexion. “Fine. Paint away, it is no concern of mine. Ghira and I will resume this conversation at a later time.”

Ghirahim smirked, endeared by the nickname that slipped his tongue. “I have all the time in the world now.”

His tranquility from seconds ago faded very quickly. “Your distaste for privacy never fails to baffle me!”

Feeling victorious, Ghirahim finally released him from his teasing and sunk back comfortably into the sofa. “Of course. Well, what did you need me for, anyway?”

With a bit of a whine, Zant composed himself. His arms dropped back down to his sides in an effort to seem calm, and he approached. “I was hoping to pen myself into your schedule – We’ll need an entire day, after all. And, well, I will be more than happy to enjoy your company after we settle this…”

Yuga hummed with great intrigue. “Planning something big, now, are you?”

Ghirahim leaned his head to try and peep past the canvas blocking the Lorian from his view. “Whatever happened to ‘not being here’, Lord Yuga?”

Pretending that exchange never happened, Zant continued. “As I said. I shall have my preparations done by to-morrow. Would the day after suit your schedule?”

His inner calendar visualized behind his eyelids, Ghirahim pondered. “Not a chance, I’m afraid,” Ghirahim shook his head. “Captain Imanu requested my presence on the training fields that noon.”

Their squabble to find a single day they could spend was challenging. The available dates were, after all, incredibly limited, and their time was short. In the end, he would have to shuffle around a few appointments to clear this single day… But none of his underlings would dare lift a finger to disagree with him, either way. Less enthused he was about divulging his agenda to both of them at once.

Zant seemed pleased by the end of it, though. Invigorated by the chance to show his forte, his confidence returned to him. Spinning on his heels, he turned to the mass of painting behind him. “With that out of the way… Yuga, you would not mind I have a proper glance at your work, would you? I am most curious.”

Engrossed in his work, Yuga scoffed, his brush halting for not even a second. Grasping its chewed end between his ring and pinky finger, he momentarily removed the spare brush held in his mouth to speak. “My permission matters little, I believe. You’d sneak a peek either way. It’s hardly a subtle canvas.”

Taking his defeated tone as a ‘yes’, Zant eagerly cantered over to join Yuga’s side behind the canvas, leaving nothing visible but his black trousers and gaudy slippers. He gasped, cooed, and hummed, watching his machinations intently. “Words escape me, Yuga. You truly depict him well.” The Lorian’s reply was one of smug satisfaction, but soon, cahoots bloomed. A bit more hushed, Zant leaned closer and pulled him along in his schemes. “But you must not forget to sculpt the bridge of his nose more delicately. It is one of his finer features, in his words and mine, after all.”

Yuga took to this bout of accolades with great enthusiasm. Words of praise poured from him with the same ease as he breathed. Zant was more discreet, then, taking to admiring him through the proxy of his portrait. But Ghirahim knew his intentions, and he struggled to conceal the flush it brought to his cheeks. To be admired so thoroughly by two at once, both with drastically different intentions… How intoxicating! How addictive! He was beauty incarnate, he was a lover. Moonbeam, stars, and sun; pearls and silver shimmers in the heat of the desert. He was art . The next hour-and-a-half would be torture on his composure, he could see it already.

Days flew by, hours to paint snuck between sessions of diplomacy and military training. Just when Ghirahim thought the painting to be finished, it seemed last-minute adjustments were in order. Yuga announced his displeasure with a shrill grunt, steam nearly spouting from his nostrils. “I have made up my mind!”

Never did Ghirahim think he could tire of lounging in such a comfortable pose. Thus he refused to do so, sitting straight in his usual spot. Arms folded, he watched Yuga lug around vase after vase to place them wherever he desired. “Whatever could be buzzing about in that skull of yours this time?”

Petals caught in his curls, Yuga looked disheveled as if he’d gotten caught in a rose bush. “Flowers! I need more of them. Far more!”

Oh, if only that clown could decide on where he wanted those vases already. The grinding of stone on stone was starting to grate Ghirahim’s ears. “Am I to develop a pollen allergy?”

Yuga snapped at him, dropping another armful of bouquets into a brass ewer. “I’ll make you develop rust if you don’t keep your snide little comments to yourself. Just let me work! ”

Wreathed in the cloud penstemons and marigolds, Ghirahim luxuriated for his final sitting. No matter if those flowers were like chains keeping him tied to this sofa. Yuga simply wasn’t the type of man you said no to. For now, he’d amuse himself with the gaunt shape hunched by the supply closet, mumbling and grumbling about running low on red pigments…

At long last, the painting was finished. His physique was intricately captured in warm tones, a picture so vivid the desert sun could be felt from its canvas alone, even in the chill of evening. Candles flickered against the just-dried varnish, the golden glow disturbed only by the shadows of the two men before it. Ghirahim had thrown his arms around Yuga’s shoulder in a side-hug, giddy as he was about the massive stroking of his ego. Even now, Yuga stood cooing and complimenting him, fiddling with his hair and rubbing over his gloves.

Yet he unlatched himself very quickly when the door creaked open, an unlikely, massive form ducking through. King Ganondorf Dragmire stood at the doorway, his expression gruff, but with a light spark of intrigue.

“I heard tell of another portrait,” he said, causing Ghirahim’s core to drop heavily in his chest.

Yuga, on the other hand, was nothing but excessively fair-tempered. “Ah, Milord! Perfect timing. I just had it framed!”

“Master Ganondorf,” he stammered. Ghirahim found a sudden heat rise in his chest. Embarrassed, he could never be, but suddenly, he found himself worried about such a depiction. Already he was uncertain how the Demon King would approve of such a vain subject as portraiture… But one so revealing? Among the audience of his form, displayed so lavishly, he hadn’t expected his Master. At least, not until he could estimate his reaction!

The redness in his cheeks made his life that much more miserable when, concealed behind Ganondorf’s massive form, Zant slipped into the atelier, his hands folded at his back. Ghirahim gritted his teeth, pointedly avoiding the Twili’s gaze. He could still turn this around! “How honored I am to meet you at this unveiling! It’s a gorgeous painting, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed,” Ganondorf rumbled, marching over to stand by his side. The first hints of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips as his eyes explored the painting, drinking in its sandy yellows and warm purples. With one blink of heavy lids, his eyes turned to the blade beside him. “It suits you, Ghirahim.”

It suited him. That it did! But how intimately did his Master understand? How his sensuality was within his reach, if only he would call upon it? His head turned to a misty whirlpool all on its own, swimming with thoughts of past affections and potential ones in the future. Now Ganondorf not only acknowledged but praised this side of him. They viewed this masterpiece in joint silence, and Ghirahim thought to keep it that way, lest he fumbled any future chances at intimacy.

A clear of the throat immediately snapped Ghirahim back to reality. His co-lieutenants seemed similarly affected. Though Ganondorf’s expression darkened, it looked almost like compensation… Did he imagine the darkened red over his ears and nose? A trick of the candlelight? No, Master. You cannot hide any temperature rises from this sword.

Yet any smugness was quickly stifled by the Demon King’s words. “I am aware Lord Yuga performs his best when I leave him to vent his creative pursuits. However, Blade, do not let me notice this… Side project, burdening the upcoming campaign.”

Ghirahim quickly shook his head, appeasing him with a bow. “I would not dream of it, Master.”

Ganondorf seemed satisfied with the answer. He took one last look at the painting, then at the men responsible for it, and with a curt nod, turned to make his leave.

They stood in a polite line before the painting, all half-bowing to salute their King farewell. With Ganondorf now halfway down the hall, the concept of decorum became entirely alien to Ghirahim. He yanked Zant down by the sleeve, prompting him to shriek, as he hissed with equal ire and mirth into his ear. “You brought him here, didn’t you, you villain?”

Zant’s fear quickly turned to amusement. “What a mischief-maker you take me for! I only mentioned off-handedly that your portrait was finished, and his curiosity took him for a walk on his own accord!”

“Mmmh… How convenient that would be for me!” Ghirahim snarled, baring his teeth. Zant yelped once more when his ear was tugged. “Such praise and interest from my Master, unprovoked? You try to sell dreams to me.”

Shaking himself free, Zant responded to his ramblings with a grin, his teeth like spikes jutting out from his gums with a meaty shk. He loomed toward him, pressing his lips to where Ghirahim’s hair draped between his ear and his temple and crooned. “I could pinch you, and see if you wake…”

A subtle gesture of his head toward Yuga served to remind Zant they were not alone, his irrepressible affections once again making him forget all about his sense of honor. The shrill laughter that followed almost drowned out the mechanical whirring of a helmet, hastily assembled over a flushing face.

Almost.

#ghirahim #yuga #zant #yuga albw #hyrule warriors #ghirazant #<- its subtle but in there #ganondorf #tftk #bearwrites #beararts #doodlies

34 notes · View notes

chcrryade · 2 months

Text

⠀⠀˚⠀PROMISE ME YOU’LL RUN⠀ ┉ ┉ ⠀Yijun’s not one to make friends. But as it seems, there’s always room for enemies.

INCLUDING ⁺⠀qiao yijun, qwak yunseo. TIMESTAMP ⁺⠀BACKSTAGE INKIGAYO, 8 AUGUST 2021. WARNINGS ⁺⠀swearing, arguments. WORD COUNT ⁺⠀2.1K NOTE ⁺⠀find yunseo here. oh yiseven beef i missed you.. i still think this is cringe but we ball

Sweat was drying uncomfortably on the back of Yijun’s neck. The makeup plastered all over his face felt cakey, unnatural. The lights were too bright and his shoes were too big and with every step he took down the corridor he felt irritation dancing along his skin, sparks flickering and waiting for the final little inconvenience to tip him over the edge, ignite him completely.

He wanted to go. Where, he wasn’t exactly sure, but he knew was that he wanted to be somewhere else. Outside. A bar. The dorms—and not the new ones, in the new apartment the company had set the rest of the newcomers up with and shoved a room in for him too—the original ones. With Hyeonmin. And Ilwoo. And fuck, he’d even be happy to see Jiyeol’s perpetually dead-eyed stare looking back at him when he opened the door. Back home, in their flat. His mother had probably ripped out every memory he’d made in his childhood bedroom to replace it with some minimalistic decor and some fake potted plants and an exercise bike by now, since the last time he’d spoken to her on the phone she’d been waxing lyrical about her ‘new health goals’ for the year.

Anywhere other than the Inkigayo backstage corridors sounded like a dream. He’d take a locked and bolted room with completely blank walls and no-one for company other than Jaehee over a minute longer here.

His fingers crept up the sleeve of the jacket he was wearing and his nails scraped long trails up and down his arms, touch cool to the overheated skin. The sound of it was muffled, and everything felt a little far away. Like he was drifting underwater, wading around under the surface without any real direction—like now, and how he was pacing up and down the corridors in hopes that something would relieve the itching feeling crawling around just under his skin, jumping from nerve ending to nerve ending.

He didn’t have to search for any longer. The faint pressure closing in on him popped all at once, leaving him gasping for air. Or rather—left him slamming hard into someone’s shoulder as he passed them a little too carelessly, head lost in the clouds and deep underwater simultaneously. He swivelled on the heel of his too-big shoes, his lips poised and ready to toss out a half-hearted apology before going on his way, but then Yijun saw the look he gave him.

It wasn’t outright disgust. However much you hated someone in this business, you’d never let them know. It’d stay hidden in the creases of paper-thin smiles and the palms of clenched fists. The look was more.. Reproachful. A drag sideways to the arm Yijun had hit, a hand coming up to brush it off, and then flicking back over to meet the rapper’s eyes. The stranger’s lip curled up at the corner, half a sneer on his face, and that was the flame that started the fire. That was all it took. An expression that lasted less than a second, gone faster than it had appeared, and Yijun was gritting his teeth, and turning to face him fully, and trying his best to push the burn of all his vitriol into a singular look.

“Surely it didn’t hurt that much. There’s no need for you to give me that face.”

That only served to make the look worse. The sneer was full-force, now, and the stranger’s hand dropped from his arm to thud uselessly against his side in a way that seemed far too loud for the quiet of the hallway, even if it was still populated by the distant chatter from other dressing rooms and constant buzz of the aircon.

“And who are you to tell me how much it hurt? There’s no need to be rude.”

The words fell distorted on unhearing ears, static filling them to the brim instead. Who are you? It wasn’t what he meant, wasn’t at all what was being said—but his mind twisted it that way anyway. Who are you? Reporters at the door. Eyes on his back. A tap on the shoulder, a look of realisation. You’re that.. That Yijun kid, aren’t you? From that group. Whatever they’re called. There’s a new one, now. The other.. Well. I guess you would know what happened to them. From one failed group to another that no-one knew the fate of, from headline to headline and scandal to scandal, and he was still a nobody. Who are you?

He glared right back once he’d snapped himself out of his frozen state, pushing forward to lean closer, leering at the stranger even if he had to raise his gaze to do so. Anger was filling up his head again, leaking out of his ears and pooling onto the floor around the shoes that still didn’t fit. His words were growing in volume, hands clenching and unclenching by his sides and nails leaving crescent moons indented in his palms.

“Rude, my ass. I was just saying.”

Realistically, he knew he should’ve walked away before it went any further. He should’ve turned and retreated, kept it to judging looks when they passed on end-of-show stages and quiet eyerolls when no-one else was looking. But he didn’t, so he couldn’t. Especially when the still-stranger pushed blood-red strands of hair that had come loose from its styling out of his eyes and smiled, the expression stretched thin across his face. Yijun wanted to scream, and he himself didn’t really know why.

“I think I’ve been in this business long enough to know what being rude looks like. What I don’t know is why you think I have a problem with you—I don’t even know who you are.”

His nails bit into his skin so hard it broke. The stranger kept on going.

“I must’ve missed your performance earlier. Or maybe it just wasn’t all that to begin with? Anyway, like I said—I don’t know you.”

You’ll know me in a minute, he thought. His head was pounding, the lights above him boring into his retinas. Because I'll rip your teeth out and carve my name into your arm. Maybe then he’d be remembered. The freak who attacked a fellow idol, a jealous psycho so desperate to be known he’d hurt and tear and dig his teeth in for it. Better than nothing, he supposed.

But he didn’t say that. He bit his tongue, tried to school his face into one of indifference rather than one that would show how affected he was from the comment, and said something else instead. “Do you want a medal? I don’t know who the fuck you are, either. And I doubt you and your own little group of no-names were much better than us.”

That was what seemed to crack him. The smile melted off of his face, the façade having slipped, and Yijun let a grin of his own spread over his lips wide enough to show his teeth. If that was all it took, then—well. He would’ve done it a lot earlier.

The stranger opened his mouth again, brow furrowed and likely ready to fire back, until a voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Yunnie-yah! Where the hell are you?”

Yijun stifled a snicker at the nickname, grinning wider when ‘Yunnie-yah’ only glared harder. A taller man came up from behind but stopped in his tracks at the sight of Yijun, hand almost immediately coming up to rest on the red-haired stranger’s shoulder.

“What’s up? Who’s your friend?”

He laughed again, louder this time. He couldn’t help it. Even ‘Yunnie’ rolled his eyes at the term.

“Far from a friend. Just—I don’t know.”

The taller stranger’s eyes narrowed, hand tightening slightly in its place. “Is there a problem?”

Yijun kept his eyes on the redhead, daring him to speak up. Go on. Snitch. Make a scene. You know you want to.

The redhead said nothing, scoffing and turning away. Despite this, his friend piped up anyway.

“You shouldn’t go around talking shit. It’s not a good look.”

His arms were itching again. His hands uncurled from where they’d been squeezed tightly shut, and he wiped the bleeding crescent moons clean on his sleeves, watched as the red stained the fabric, vaguely thankful it was already dark and he wouldn’t get too harshly reprimanded for the damage. “You shouldn’t accuse people of things you don’t know they’ve done. That doesn’t paint you in a very good light, either.”

The taller one was quicker to anger than the redhead, it seemed. He started forward even if nothing Yijun said had been particularly provocative, gently pushing the shorter to stand behind him. His vision was suddenly too full of dyed hair and narrowed eyes, the conflicting smells of sweat and cologne clouding his senses until he was drowning in it all over again. This was how he was going to be remembered, then. A victim, beaten black and blue after a few misplaced words and a misunderstanding. Again—better than nothing. He’d probably get more money out of that.

Alas, the punch he was waiting for never came. A third voice arose instead. Weren’t they crowding the corridor, now? More shoes thudded down the hallway, splashing in the remnants of his anger, his desperation. Like children on a rainy day, getting their feet wet but not caring until the cold seeped in.

“I sent you off to find him, not hang arou—what the fuck? What are you doing?”

It was getting repetitive. Maybe if it went on for long enough there’d be twenty men piled up in the corridor opposite him. Maybe one of his own members would turn up next. He tried to tune everything out for a moment and when he came back found that he was less angry, and more.. Tired. Over it. The taller one was yanked away, and Yijun pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He felt like he was drifting again, lost to the raising voices of whatever the trio were going back-and-forth about. Snippets bled through the haze, drifting into one ear and out the other. Can’t you leave well enough alone? He started it. I don’t care. The last thing you need is another hiatus. Fuck you.

When the darkness from his closed eyes morphed into spirals and colours and static, he reopened them to find all three pairs of eyes trained on his figure. A glare, a sneer, a wary look.

“I’m really sorry about this, uh..” the newest arrival of the three stepped forward to apologise, bowing his head and trailing off as he waited for the Yijun to supply his name.

“Yijun.”

“Yijun-ssi. It won’t happen again.”

It could, for all he cared. He’d argue and fight and trade blows all day if it gave him something to do. The apology was paper-thin anyway, hardly counting for much. Still, he nodded along and pasted on a smile as sweet as he could manage.

“It’s alright, sunbaenim.”

Silence fell again. The tallest was the first to clear his throat and stand up straighter, giving him one last look before turning on his heel. He paused and looked back when he realised only the one who had arrived last was following him, but the redhead cut him off before he could say a word, and waved him off.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

They were back to their stalemate. The glare against the grin. By now the blood on Yijun’s sleeve had dried, and he could feel a blister coming on from the back of his too-big shoes.

“What’s up, Yunnie-yah?”

The sound of him gritting his teeth was audible. Yijun watched the muscles in his jaw tighten, amusement poorly hidden on his face.

“It’s Yunseo. Or nothing at all, if it’s coming from you.”

“Right.”

He hoped his disinterest was discernible, easily distinguished. From the answering look on the redhead’s face, it had come through just fine.

The quiet was back, until Yunnie—Yunseo—shattered it with a stilted cough, glare lessening in its potency, if only for a moment.

“I guess I’ll have to expect seeing you around.”

Nothing sounded worse, in Yijun’s opinion. The aircon buzzed somewhere above his head, and the distant chatter carried on.

“I hope not.”

The redhead scoffed. Yijun couldn't see what look he had on his face, because he’d turned and carried on walking on his original—long-forgotten, but original—path.

His makeup still felt cakey on his face, and the lights were still too bright. But, at the very least, all the irritation that had been coursing through his bloodstream was more or less gone. Pissing people off was something of an outlet, it seemed.

#⠀Ꮺ◞⠀CLUB CLASSIC!⠀⠀⸻⠀⠀writing.#they call me the i need to empty my draftsinator.. cringe writing piece edition #kpop oc #fictional kpop group #fictional idol community #idol oc #fictional idol group

13 notes · View notes

dandorime · 6 months

Text

"Tell me a bedtime story."

"Agent?"

He was cold and wet. The generator was dead. The oxygen was running low, and the carbon dioxide was running high. Agent Phoenix had the headache and tunnel vision to prove it.

His handler's voice, ringing sharply in his ear, cut through the fog in his brain like an axe.

"Agent Phoenix, respond!"

"Still here."

"Status report!" the voice demanded. "Is the engine running?"

"...the engine's underwater."

Phoenix heard a muffled oath and the shuffling of papers over his tiny radio earpiece.

He had never met his handler -- had never seen his face, nor even learned his name -- but he knew the man had an office somewhere in the same Agency building as he did. He could vaguely imagine a figure sitting hunched over a desk somewhere, wearing thickly-padded headphones and leaning in close to his microphone.

"Look around you carefully now," the voice advised. "First thing's first, get that cabin dry. There must be a manual pump somewhere. Find it."

Agent Phoenix stared dolefully into the seawater rising around his chest, slick with fuel oil. Even though he was beginning to float, his body felt impossibly heavy.

His handler wasn't wrong; there WAS an emergency pump somewhere down there.

He had already made use of it 204 times.

The porthole windows, etched with cracks from every angle like layer upon layer of spiderwebs, were somehow still holding up against the mounting pressure. Phoenix let his eyes unfocus as he watched the cracks expand with short, sharp popping sounds.

"AGENT, are you even listening?!"

"No," Phoenix replied honestly. He hadn't meant to say it out loud. He wasn't trying to be abrasive.

He was just very, very tired.

The voice on the other end of the radio fell silent. The only sound in the failing escape pod was the soft swish of water infiltrating through the various breaches in its hull, deep below the surface. The pressure had nearly equalized against the air trapped in the upper third of the capsule, slowing the rise of the surface to an indiscernible crawl.

The water was up to Phoenix's shoulders when the voice finally returned to his ear.

"Agent, you must keep trying, I need you to understand: rescue is too far from your position. If you don't get that pod to the surface before your air runs out, there's absolutely nothing the Agency can do to save you."

If only he knew how long Phoenix had been trying. He'd pumped the capsule dry 204 times and started the motor 197 times. He'd purged the air in the pod and replaced the oxygen 191 and one-half times, the half being when he was rudely interrupted by a window imploding. How many times had he caught and disarmed the grenade in the engine box? He'd lost count -- it was all muscle memory now.

After so many tries -- so many lives -- he was simply too tired to try again.

"Agent Phoenix?"

Phoenix felt for the radio in his ear with trembling, wrinkled fingers. He thought about taking it out. About destroying it, along with the microphone, to put an end to the conversation...

"Agent Phoenix, please respond."

...but he didn't want to. He genuinely didn't want to shut off that voice, as useless and distant as it may have been. It felt comforting, somehow, to know he wasn't altogether alone.

"Agent," the voice asked grimly, "are you still there?"

"Not for much longer," Phoenix replied, his voice husky from the tainted air.

There was more paper-shuffling in his ear, the sound of wooden chair legs scraping over the floor, and a bit of static. Phoenix was sure his unfortunate handler was white-knuckling his microphone, preparing himself for the inevitable. He still felt a twinge of guilt every time he had to drag the poor guy through it with him, even after hundreds of deaths...

"Agent, please state your intentions."

Those weren't his handler's choice of words, Phoenix knew. That was a line directly from the protocols for closing communications on a failed mission.

"I've got a request," Phoenix coughed.

They both knew he meant a last request.

"Proceed." The voice in his ear was especially somber now.

Agent Phoenix took a deep breath to find enough oxygen.

"Tell me a bedtime story."

He'd meant it as a joke. He wanted to give his handler one final laugh, a sort of parting shot to ease the pain.

Truthfully, though, he did want to hear that voice for a while longer, or at least for as long as he had left; as the stale air lulled him to sleep, and the cold ocean filled his lungs.

To his surprise, his handler didn't hesitate to oblige.

"I understand. Yes, I will certainly tell you a story. Um... let's see now..."

...and the story began.

"When I was a young man, I lived on an estate in Cambridgeshire, a ways into the countryside..."

As the tale unfolded, Phoenix's consciousness wavered. He let himself sink down into the water as far as he dared, taking care only to keep the radio in his ear dry. Eventually a knot gave way in his chest, and the compound stress of trying to succeed, trying to escape, trying to survive, all seemed to dissolve into the dark water around him.

Agent Phoenix fell asleep peacefully.

(a bedtime story)

#ieytd #i expect you to die #agent phoenix #reginald crane #still writing

24 notes · View notes

najia-cooks · 1 year

Text

[ID: A close-up of a piece of flatbread topped with green olives and onions. End ID]

Arugula flatbread with date-basil tapenade

This thin, chewy, yeasted flatbread is topped with wilted arugula, caremelized onions, golden raisins, and a tapenade made with dates, basil, and green olives. An intermingling of bitter, sweet, salty, and tangy flavors.

Recipe under the cut!

Patreon | Tip jar

Makes two 9 x 6" flatbreads; serves 3-4.

Ingredients:

For the dough:

2 cups (240g) all-purpose flour

1 tsp active dry yeast

1 tsp table salt

1/2 tsp granulated sugar

2 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil

About 3/4 cup (180mL) lukewarm water

For the toppings:

1 large yellow onion

1 Tbsp non-dairy margarine

1 cup arugula, packed

2 Tbsp golden raisins (sultanas), optional

2 Tbsp green olives, halved and pitted

For the tapenade:

6 dried dates (70g), or 3 Tbsp date paste

1/4 cup (tightly packed; or 5g) fresh basil

3 Tbsp balsamic vinegar

3 Tbsp green olives

2 Tbsp pine nuts, walnuts, or peanuts

pinch salt

Instructions:

For the dough:

1. Measure flour into a large bowl by weight, or by gently spooning into a dry measuring cup and levelling off. Add yeast, salt, and sugar and mix well.

2. Add olive oil and stir to combine. Gradually add water until you get a soft, cohesive, slightly tacky dough.

3. Knead by hand on a lightly floured surface, or in a stand mixer on medium-low, for 5-8 minutes until very smooth and elastic (slowly rises back when pressed down with a finger). If the dough sticks to your hands or to the sides of the stand mixer, add additional flour 1 Tbsp at a time.

4. Place the dough in a lightly oiled bowl covered with plastic wrap or a damp kitchen towel. Allow to rise at room temperature for 45 minutes to an hour, until noticeably puffy. You can also prepare the dough ahead of time and allow it to rise in the refrigerator overnight.

For the toppings:

1. Meanwhile, prepare your toppings. Cut off the stem end of the onion and halve it through the root. Lay it on a cutting board cut-side-down, and make 1/2" (1cm) thick vertical slices (perpendicular to the root) slightly angled toward the center of the onion. Cut off the root end to allow the slices to come apart.

2. Melt margarine (or heat olive oil) in a large skillet on medium or medium low. Add onions and allow to cook, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes.

3. Add a pinch of salt and lower heat to low. Cook onions, stirring and scraping the bottom of the pan every few minutes, until a rich golden brown and very tender, about an hour. Add a couple teaspoons of water any time you notice the onions threatening to dry out or burn.

4. Sauté sultanas in a drizzle of oil or a little margarine (the same pan you used for the onions is fine), stirring often, until they have puffed up and look noticeably rounder.

For the tapenade:

1. While caremelizing the onions, make the tapenade. Pound pitted dates, basil, olives, and nuts one at a time in a mortar and pestle to your desired texture (either a smooth paste, or leave the nuts roughly crushed) and stir to combine. Add the salt and balsamic vinegar and stir. Taste and adjust salt and vinegar; if the tapenade is too thick, add cool water one teaspoon at a time.

Alternatively, pulse nuts in a food processor; then add dates and olives and pulse another several times; then add herbs, salt, and vinegar and process until smooth.

To assemble:

1. Preheat the oven to 475 °F (245 °C). If using a pizza peel, preheat the oven with a baking sheet or pizza stone inside.

2. On a lightly floured surface, roll dough out into two 9” x 6” (22 x 15cm) ovals (they should be about 1/4" (1/2 cm) thick). They don't need to be perfectly shaped. Transfer flatbreads to a large baking sheet covered with parchment paper, or to a pizza peel dusted with cornmeal or semolina flour.

3. Dapple the flatbreads by pressing in lightly with your fingers to create many small divots. Brush each flatbread lightly with olive oil.

4. Once the oven is preheated, transfer the flatbread to the pizza stone or baking sheet, or put the baking sheet with the flatbreads on it into the oven. Parbake for 10-15 minutes, until the edges of the flatbreads are lightly golden brown.

5. Add topping olives, golden raisins, and argula and continue to bake for another 5 minutes, until the arugala is wilted.

6. Top the flatbread with onions and dollops of tapenade and serve warm.

#vegan cooking #vegan recipe #vegetarian recipes #cooking #green olives #basil #arugala #golden raisins

64 notes · View notes

fayeandknight · 4 months

Text

Buying a car is bullshit

I am very seriously trying to buy a new (to me) car.

I need a bigger car to fit crates in since that will allow me to transport more dogs for boarding. I have opted to go the used route for a number of reasons.

After much research, input from some super helpful dogblr folks as well as coworkers, and some dragging my feet - I'm ready. I'm looking to buy a 2018 Toyota RAV4 XLE.

I found one being sold at a fair price given the low mileage and went to see it last Saturday. It was a trade in at a BMW dealership. When they brought it out I was a little taken back because it's pretty dinged up. Not to the point of hindering functionally but there are dents and scrapes on every panel and fixing it would $1000 in body work easily, if not more.

Honestly, I don't give a shit about cosmetics. This car is for hauling dogs around. But it would be silly to pretend it doesn't change the value of the car.

I noticed that the front tires were different from the rear tires and asked about it. Sales dude tells me they replaced the front ones because the originals were dry rotted. I asked if the mechanic measured the new vs the old because AWD can be sensitive and different widths can fuck it up. Sales dude tells yes, it's all on paper. Cool.

I take it for a test drive and notice the brakes are a little rough. I ask if the brake pads were inspected to see how worn they are. Sales dude assures me yes, the car passed inspection and they're fine. Am told, again, it's all on paper.

Once we're back at the dealership I ask him to please get me the info on the tires and brakes cause I'm ready to make a deal and buy the car. Sales dude asks for my price and I tell him my offer is contingent on the information so please get it. Guy comes back with a manager and oops, they don't actually have that info.

Which honestly really pissed me off. You lied to my face and what? Didn't think you'd get caught not having the very specific information I'm asking for? I don't know why I expected slightly less car sales bullshit from a higher end dealership but the jokes on me.

I leave with the agreement that on Monday (today) they'll have the mechanic get the info and call me promptly at X time. An hour and a half later, I ended up leaving them a voicemail.

Finally got on the phone with them, tires are fine but the brake pads are just this side of passing and I'll need to change them fairly quickly. Fine. Given the body work and brakes, not to mention all the fluid changes I'll need to do, I put in my offer - a little less than $1000 off listed price. This puts the car at just my side of a good deal rather than fair, but honestly not by much.

They eventually accept my offer. Awesome. I am ready to pay over the phone. No. They won't take the payment over the phone or even a deposit. I have to come buy it in person.

In an ideal world, I'd go Thursday morning and get it done before work since that's my late day. But I'm concerned about the time wasting tactics dealerships use to try to get people to "upgrade" packages. I am trialing Friday and Saturday.

That leaves my only actual day with time to spare next Monday. During the in between they will not hold the car for me or pull it from their listings.

It so fucking frustrating that a high end, fancy ass BMW dealership is giving me the run around for a busted up six year old Toyota that I am willing to pay for right now!

So, fingers crossed it's still there next week and I'm able to buy it. If not, oh well I guess. There's really not anything else I can do at this point. It's just annoying because if they had the information they said they did I'd have bought the car right then.

Anyway, let this be your reminder to not take car sales folks word for anything and make them show you on paper. They will lie right to your face and blame you for holding up the sale.

#car woes #car buying guide #car buying nonsense #the car sales industry is fucking awful #but it is what it is #i genuinely dont know #how this person thought they could lie to my face about information being on paper #and then give me the shocked Pikachu face when i asked to see said paper #to be very clear #i am not looking to get this car for a steal #I'm asking for somehere vrry close between good and fair

10 notes · View notes

youlikefanficdontyousquidward · 1 year

Text

Born to kill

Summary: Lyle thinks about his tattoo

Idea from Me and @thevanityofthefox chatting!

Lyle lovers come get yalls pain! 〒▽〒

Born to kill

He had this tattoo over his heart, bold type face, black ink, simple. He bore it through war-zones, spraying hot lead into the dust, praying he'd hit something, someone. Watching friends and enemies alike succumb to the machine of war. He barely remembered the burn, the needle jabbing in and out in a foreign tattoo parlor that smelled of stale alcohol. Maybe it was just him, the nights whisky still clinging to his tongue as his brothers in arms cheered him on. Then again burning on his chest as he watched them torn to shreds in oncoming fire.

Then he was home. Cold in the grey smog that clung to the buildings, the shaded streets bellow. The run down paint chipped bar had offered him a place behind its sticky counter. The closest thing to honor his service got him. Nightly patrons chatting loudly, throwing away what scraps they earned for whatever he was pouring. He barely made enough to keep a roof over his head but he was happier than he'd ever remembered being. He was happy because he had them.

His girls. A beautiful, sharp, hard working woman, who never failed to make him glad he survived till now. Even when they spat venom at one another. Her touch soothing his soul, her kiss that made him thankful for the cramped flat they shared. Just meant she was always near, just in arms reach to be tugged into his arms.

Then there was his daughter. A wild little thing, with ever messy hair struggling to stay tied up. Her hands always sticky and her face always caked in something. Brilliant eyes shining brighter than any jewel and a big gaped tooth smile that took up half her face or more.

Right now she was stained in pen ink. He'd scraped every penny of tips up all month and got her them. They weren't great, streaking dry ink that smelled too chemically but she didn't care, they marked the paper well enough. Old bank statement, overdrafts and red inked notices, made to blue and purple grassed fields with smiling moons.

In all his years he'd never seen real nature like it, neither had she but her school had shown her pictures of Pandora. Lyle had insisted it was a necessary expense. He'd never gone and she was just so bright, already learning her letters. He'd been almost 12 before he'd had a handle on them, his brother a harsh and inattentive teacher.

His wife grumbled, trying her hardest the convince herself the money was needed elsewhere. Lyle could see in her face though, how their daughter's delight meant more to her. She pecked her nest of hair before kissing Lyle where he rested on the battered couch.

"Please brush her hair before you go to bed." She smiled wearily before going to get ready for her night shift. Lyle scooped his squirming child up into his lap, tickling her sides as she squealed in delight.

"We gonna get your hair all nice before Mummy leaves right?" He chirped fighting the weight of his eyelids. She nodded emphatically playing with his dog tags as he teased out the knots.

She stood in his lap fingers playing against his chest. Lyle took note of the tickling feelings, peering down at her tiny finger nails. They followed the letters over his heart and he felt it freeze. Her stained cheeks hallowed as she silently sounded it out. O, R, N.

Lyle felt shame build in him. How could explain to her what he'd done, who he'd been. She was too young, her bright eyes hadn't seen what he had. He couldn't bare them glassing over, her hopeful shine dimming even a fraction.

She tapped from foot to foot on his leg, never aware of the weight of her feet. The pain as she stomped down briefly distracted Lyle. How many years out in war zones and he'd been felled by a 4 year old.

In her tiny fist she brandished her pen, scribbling over the last word. Lyle couldn't tilt his chin low enough to see but he felt her movements. Scraping over then smoothly as her shaking hand would allow she penned something new, engraving it with force.

"What've you written there buttercup?" He cooed, scooping her up under one arm when her hand stopped. She squealed in laughter under his arm as he carried like that to the mirror. In the warping plastic he saw her work-

Born to kill HUG

Scribbled in wobbling letters. He stilled at the sight. His tired eyes, loose comfortable joggers and a little glitter from something still on his bare softening chest. Then his laughing child still kicking under his arm. He pulled her up, letting her sit against his side swiping hair off her face. He smiled at her through the mirror, both admiring her work.

"Honey come see my new tattoo!" He smiled as his daughter wriggled and laughed into his neck.

"Babes I told you we don't have money for-" She paused in the door frame, hands still in her hair tying it. She barked a sudden laugh, snorting and grabbing the door frame. Lyle's chest feels so full, warm and light as he laughs with her.

She takes their daughter into her arms, kissing her cheeks.

"Oh baby it's lovely! Maybe we've got a little artist one our hands!" She jokes, pressing more pecks into her hair and she laughs.

Lyle's alone now, tracing the tattoo in the dark. He came here for them. The recruiter had set it all up, every pay cheque made it home to them. He'd smiled at his daughter's growing form, just a few more years then he'd be back he kept telling himself. He'd see her graduate and grow up, fall in love, everything, just next rotation.

There was no next rotation now. His large blue body shifted in bed, his hand clutching at his chest. Tracing over the words written there, trying to claw new ones. In his mind he could still feel her fingers tracing, even as he screamed inside. Begged the memory to warm him instead of leaving him so cold.

He still felt the pit in his stomach, the sinking feeling as they explained what was happening. There'd been such a huge payout when he died, surely that'd been enough to see them through? He felt numb lying in the small bed, his eyes raw. Lyle couldn't know for sure if they were okay and there was no going home now.

#lyle wainfleet #avatar imagine #the way of water #my fics

86 notes · View notes

luminoustico · 9 months

Text

his smile hides a lie, v

the man in the iron mask (1998) AU: chapter one | chapter two| chapter three || chapter four [[story also available on AO3]]

CHAPTER FIVE: i hope what's left will last all summer

Summary: Benjamin adjusts to life outside his mask. Rey is introduced to a new dynamic.

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

Supper was a silent affair. Scrapes of cutlery against porcelain filled the air, each one feeling like whispers of a forbidden conversation.

For Rey, time passed with the vision of what she had seen upstairs. However much she tried to push it away, she kept seeing him. His eyes, which carried the weight of years of wondering and questioning, endured by one man who – judging by eye – could not be more than thirty. And if that were true, then that would mean he had been locked away when he was fifteen.

A child of Jakku had cried for her parents, while in a prison tower, another child had cried for his freedom.

On the other side of the table, Han was in his usual mood, slowly running his forefinger across the top of his goblet. His shoulders were slumped. His eyes were downcast. He didn’t seem plagued by thoughts as such but by memories. Perhaps he was playing out the other great adventures he’d undertaken with his former comrades—and how it had all resulted in a prisoner whimpering before a lit hearth.

Maz broke the silence.

“Well, he’s not the King. So who is he?”

Solemn as a priest, Luke stood, his chair scraping against the floor. He placed the key with which he’d bestowed freedom on the table. It glinted and glowed before the flames roaring in the grate.

“His name is Benjamin. When he was born, he was taken to live in the region of Ahch-To. It was as far as the old King could get him from the palace without involving other countries in his secret. The first fifteen years of his life were peaceful. He was cared for by a blind scholar and a mute governess. He was educated and raised as a gentleman. But he had guards at every door, and no friends his age. No-one could know of his existence.”

“I see it, kiddo. I see it well and true.” Lando leaned back in his chair, running his forefinger across his bottom lip. He looked sad, yet his eyes twinkled with astonishment. “You want to swap one for the other.”

Rey glanced at Maz; she was saying nothing, but her opinion on the matter was clear.

Han shook his head. “You always had too much ambition, Luke.”

Rey swallowed, but her throat still felt dry. She took another gulp of wine.

“You said he was raised as a gentleman. How did he end up in the mask?” Rose asked.

Luke sighed and ran his left hand through his hair. “It was Kylo’s first command after his ascension,” he growled.

“His own brother…” Lando’s astonishment faded, leaving only sadness and a growing fury. “Tell me what needs to be done, Luke. We’ll do it,” he said, glancing at his son. Finn affirmed his father’s promise with a nod. He took Rose’s hand, interlinking his fingers with hers. She nodded too as he kissed her hair.

Luke swallowed. He pushed aside any surprise, any relief, and carried nothing but grim determination. “My plan will take time,” he said, in a firm tone. “You all have to be prepared to wait.”

Rey felt her lips twitch with a sardonic smile.

“I’m good at waiting,” she declared.

Luke nodded once. He turned to his old friend. “Han?”

“I think… No.” Han furrowed his brow, shoving his hand through his silvery hair. (He and Luke were so similar, in so many ways.) His fingers trembled as he tried to drink from his goblet. “Everything’s fine.”

Without another word, he stood and left the room.

“He’ll be fine,” Maz said, with an easy air that didn’t take. Rey’s eyes focused on the empty chair and the door, left swinging in Han’s wake. All of them had promised revolution… and yet it still felt like a fantasy.

That was why, when dawn came the next morning, Rey wasn’t surprised when she found Han’s horse missing and met Luke in the yard, reading from a scrap of paper. He passed it over to Rey with no words. The hand was spiky, the ink blotted. Written in a hurry.

“I’m sorry, kid.” Luke recited the note in a soft voice. “But may the Gods be with you. One for all…”

Rey looked out over the horizon. The dawn sky was slashes of oranges and pinks, casting a glow over the distant paddocks and hay fields. She crossed her arms, hugging herself.

Bile climbed in her throat. “He’s a coward.”

A furious look came across Luke’s wrinkled features. When he spoke, it was like she was a child, being scolded by the father she’d never known. “Han is the bravest man I’ve ever known. Of all of us, I think he is the only one who knew true courage.”

Rey scoffed. “And what’s that?”

The weight of the world was in his answer. “One day, I hope to find out.”

=======================================

Breakfast was an equally morose affair as supper. The empty spot at the table had been filled by Ben, who—for all his height and broadness in the shoulder—was remarkably adept at shrinking into the corner, wordlessly bringing meagre amounts of his supper to his mouth, and quietly chewing. Luke would glance at him at intermittent moments and give him nods or smiles of encouragement. It was the first time that Rey had seen the great old Musketeer look truly sorry for anyone.

As soon as supper was finished, Rose and Finn made their excuses and took a walk around the grounds. Lando too, made his excuses, claiming a need to speak to a man about a dog. Maz was the last to leave but she made certain to smile at Ben before she left and wish him a good day.

Rey pushed her chair out to depart, but as soon as her chair scraped against the stone flag floor, Ben spoke.

“Stay, please.” It was an order said like a plea. Turning in Han’s chair, he tilted his head up at Rey. His dark eyes were soft, lit by the morning, and his hair, cut and washed by a barber, was dark and thick, falling just above his brow. He reached out with his long fingers towards her, but, at the last, pulled away.

Rey took shallow breaths. She could hear her heart beating in her ears.

Ben bowed his head and looked at Luke.

“I have something to confess to you, sir,” he murmured. He continued and his eyes flicked back to Rey. Their gazes locked, and she missed a breath. “I would request a friend to hear me too.”

Rey stood there for a moment, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. At last, she pulled herself together. “I am that.”

Luke’s eyes darted between them, his eyebrows knitted together, as Rey returned to her seat. She avoided his scrutiny—paranoid old man, there was nothing to scrutinise—and focused on the painting above the fireplace. It was a nondescript portrait of an ancestor, whose eyes gleamed with usual pride over his estate, and soon her attention fell back to Ben and Luke.

Ben swallowed, the lump in his throat bobbing with the force of it. “It is my fault that Han left last night. I couldn’t sleep, and I decided to explore the house. I found the library – he was in there, reading by candlelight. We got to talking. I can’t remember much of what we spoke of. Only that he asked if I ever thought of my parents. He asked if I thought of my mother.”

Ben closed his eyes. His shoulders sank with a silent sigh. Rey swallowed, glancing down at her hands and then Ben’s. His left was tucked against his waist—as if he were trying to hug himself. His right hand was hanging limply by his side. He needed strength—would need strength—if he were to be the key that Luke needed him to be. Rey glanced towards the old Musketeer. He was still leaning back in his chair, listening and yet not at all; he was too busy factoring this new information into his grand plan.

Within a moment, Rey was white-hot with anger towards the old man, and in defiance to his plans—his scheming, his plotting—she reached forwards and grasped Ben’s right hand, tightly interlinking their fingers despite their difference in size.

Almost immediately she realised what she’d done. She stammered out an apology, trying to pull her hand away. Ben, however, did not let her go. Instead, he retook her hand and placed it on his knee.

“Thank you,” he whispered as the sun passed over the room. Rey blinked, taken aback. There was a growing lightness in Ben’s eyes, which danced in the sunlight. She swallowed a smile and bowed her head.

“You’re welcome,” she mumbled.

Luke gave a hard cough. “Let’s get back to the story.”

“There isn’t much left.” Ben seemed perturbed to have been alerted to Luke’s presence. “I never had parents to remember.”

Luke drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. “Did you tell that to Han?”

“I think so.”

“Hm.” Luke gave a nod. “You have parents now.”

“I know I’m the brother of the King. You want to swap us. Make me King instead.”

Rey studied Ben. He looked to her, as he straightened his spine and looked Luke in the eyes, less like the boy lost without a mask, but a man.

“Are you willing? It will mean training. For this to work,” Luke leaned forward, suddenly eager, “you will need to be not just a gentleman – you will need to be a King. You must possess arrogance, conceit. You must believe that this position was given to you by the gods.”

Ben was silent for a long moment. He tilted his head at Luke. “How old am I?”

Luke’s cheek twitched. He pressed his lips together into a thin line as if trying to hold back some uncouth curse. “Nine and twenty.”

Ben shook his head. “You misunderstand me. How old is my brother?”

A laugh tripped out under Rey’s tongue. She quickly covered it with a cough, but Luke still side-eyed her, his mouth downturned into a glare, until he registered Ben’s question. He chuckled, but more at his own delayed understanding.

“Your brother was born fifteen minutes after you.”

“A year for every minute,” Ben remarked dryly. His meaning was clear. Below the table, her hand warm on his knee, Rey gave the rightful King’s hand a reassuring squeeze.

===========================================

The next day, Ben’s training began in earnest. Over the next month, the morning at Naboo began to resemble what Rey assumed a finishing school to be. Under Luke’s watchful eye, Ben learned the etiquette of being a king; military strategy, how to walk, how to eat, even how to speak. During those hours, Rey had been left to fend for herself. She found herself often in the library, surrounded by tomes she had never read.

The library itself was a small to medium-sized room, with heavy oak shelves lining the left, right and far oak-panelled walls. A stone fireplace stood in the centre of the right wall, but the iron grate was unlit. The stone flag floors were covered with the usual rushes, swallowing the footsteps of anyone browsing the shelves. Red velvet cushions made seats out of the window sills. A circular pillow, stuffed to the edges, provided readers with additional comfort. Two larger seats, high-backed and wooden, were positioned in the room’s right corner. An ornate table was situated between them, but it wore its age with marks and scratches.

At first, Rey used the sumptuously domestic room simply as a place to think, curled up on the window seats with the hot sun on her cheeks.

However, the books contained more power than she’d first thought. She had never quite thought herself to be a book lover; her first love had been—would always be, so she assumed—fencing. But those leather-bound books would catch the light and just like a man’s dark eyes, they became something she couldn’t just dismiss out of hand.

Her first go at choosing a tome hadn’t been successful. A dry textbook on fencing. She thought it could’ve given her some tips; an extra advantage when she was next practising with Finn, perhaps. She put together enough, though, after thumbing through its thick pages, to realise in the end that she knew almost all the tricks—plus a few the author hadn’t yet discovered. That’s my advantage, she thought proudly as she put the text back on its shelf and pulled out another. I learned from a Musketeer.

Her second choice had been an adventure, filled with heroes, betrayal, and revenge. She sat in one of the high-backed chairs and she pored over the words, trying to commit their shape to memory and losing herself in the cities and islands depicted on the page. It became as if she’d stepped onto the ink itself and was now descending into the luscious dark, head spinning as the words quickly enveloped her in their new world.

“I didn’t take you for a reader.”

Rey jumped to her feet, the adventure falling out of her hands and onto the floor with a decisive thump.

“I’m not.”

“You’re lying.”

Rey stepped in front of the open book, covering it with her skirt. Ben’s expression did not change, but his disbelief filled the silence. Rey huffed. “I am not.”

Ben straightened himself up and placed his hands behind his back. Looking down his nose, he arched an imperial brow.

“Tell me what you were doing,” he said, every syllable velvet smooth, “and tell me now.”

Her heart constricted, her head seized in an instant with the memory of green and the King’s fingers wrapped around the ribbon of a diamond. Until Ben broke the illusion with a lopsided grin, and his eyes sparkled once again. Rey relaxed. She revealed the book with one gentle pull of her skirt. Ben leaned down and picked it up, the large tome fitting easily into his hand.

“I mostly come in here to think.”

Ben nodded and thumbed through the chosen tome.

“You’re teaching yourself to read?” he asked, without judgment.

For a beat, Rey searched for a reason, a lie, but finally, she had to settle on the truth. “I…” she glanced helplessly at the books, their power at all inexplicable. “I felt like it.”

“Do you need help? I could help.” Then, as if trying to correct a mistake only he’d seen, Ben hurriedly blurted out: “I want to help you.”

Rey blinked. “You want to help me?”

“It would give me an excuse to read,” Ben replied, avoiding her eyes and his answer by perusing the book again. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and far away. “I know now my brother hid my face, but he didn’t hide my mind. I held onto that, on the nights when I knew for certain that I was destined to die there, among the screams and the blood. I told myself, that whoever put me in the mask… my thoughts weren’t beholden to them. They never would be.”

He looked to her for a reaction. Rey could say nothing at first. Her astonishment stilled her mouth. This horrendous thing done to him, for so long—and yet. He was still so defiant.

A man like that could defy the stars. Could defy the gods.

“My offer still stands,” Ben coaxed, leaning into her. She could practically taste his voice; it was like sweet honey.

She began to speak, sketching out the start of a polite refusal. She liked to master things on her own. A stutter entered her speech. He was drinking her in. In what felt now to be another life, those same eyes had burned and demanded to take.

These eyes didn’t roar like a fire out of control. Ben’s gaze was calm and steady—despite everything he had been through—and unhurried. It was the gaze of a leader, willing to hear. Was this what it was to look into the eyes of a rightful king? Rey’s head swam. She opened and closed her mouth, then shook her head, trying to shake off her silence.

“It’s very kind of you monsieur,” she managed at last, though the words came out in a rush. The corners of Ben’s mouth tipped up with an amused smile, and he handed her back the book.

“It was just an offer.”

“I want to take it!” she burst out, making his already retreating frame stop. He turned on his heel and cocked his head. Rey oscillated left and right, fixed to her spot. She dropped her gaze, worrying her bottom lip. “If you can find the time, sir.”

“Ben. Never ‘sir’.” Then, with a softness she somehow knew in her heart was just for her, he murmured a soft, “Please.”

“Thank you. Ben.”

He tipped his head in thanks and left the room.

=========================================

Rose fell onto her back, stared up at the worn beams of the barn, and cursed. Her husband entered her line of sight. Wearing a lopsided grin, he tilted his head at her.

“Best of three?”

“You copied my move,” she huffed. Finn’s shoulders shook with a stifled laugh. Rose nudged his leg with the tip of her boot. “Don’t deny it.”

Her husband gave a theatrical bow. “I admit it, madame.”

Madame. She liked that form of address more every time she heard it. She especially liked it when her husband said it. Reaching up, Rose grasped his shirt in her fist. He moved with her, letting himself fall into the hay beside her. He scooped bits of straw out of her fringe as she rolled on top of him, embracing him and dropping kisses on his cheek, temple, and forehead.

Their peace was interrupted by a bellow. No—not a bellow, but a screech.

“Bastard!” Rose jumped to her feet, Finn following suit, just as the barn door swung open. Rey thundered in, sword drawn, and her eyes darting wildly. She grabbed Finn’s sword and threw it to her friend. She settled into a duelling stance. When Finn remained where he stood, she growled.

“Fight me. I need to fight something.”

Finn’s look was stony. “I am not your villain.”

“If I don’t fight someone, I swear to the Gods that I’ll kill him! The leader of our grand revolution.” Rey spat on the ground. Rose looked again at her friend. Her hand was trembling, and her sword shook, but her eyes were black with fury.

It was no idle threat.

Finn was his father’s son. He knew how to size up an opponent. It was for Rey’s sake that he engaged. A mess of forward thrusts, parries and blocks followed. Rey spun and spat curses to Luke’s name but left herself open one too many times; Finn easily disarmed her, and her sword swung from her hand, landing with a clatter on the stone flag floor.

Before she could grab it, Finn stepped forward and tucked the tip of his sword just underneath Rey’s chin. Rey’s following look could cut glass—but so could Finn’s. The silence echoed across the barn, filling the air until you could feel the stillness in the very rafters.

“He’s making me go back.” Rey’s voice was thick. She swallowed, her throat bobbing with the force of it. Her gimlet eyes glistened with unshed tears. “To Chandrila.”

Finn swiftly disengaged. Rey stepped forward, but her legs were wobbly—Rose swooped forward, and caught her weight. Rey’s heavy, hard sobs were hot on her cheek as she guided her outside and sat her at the base of a tree. The orchard surrounded them, blossoming with nearly ripe cherries, wrapped in white linen which was stained red from where the birds had pecked at the sweet fruits.

Rey pulled her knees to her chest and hugged herself, her head hung low as the last of her sobs faded away.

“I won’t do it,” she declared, dragging the back of her hand against her cheeks and chin. It was as if she was embarrassed that she’d cried. Her declaration, her mini rebellion, faded into the breeze that passed through the trees. The pink-white blossom leaves fell around them, landing on the forest-green grass, in their laps and in their hair.

“But I have to,” she said, soft now; soft and small. Rose drew her close.

“Tell me.”

“There’s a ball in three weeks. Luke wants someone on the inside, to get all of us – all of you—” Rey amended, a bitter snarl entering her monotone recital of Luke’s grand scheme, “into the palace. He said that only Kylo’s mistresses get to roam the castle as freely as the king. If he was to send a spy in as a guard or a courtier, they’d be asked questions. The revolution would be over before it began.”

Rose cuddled her friend close and gently pushed her hair out of her eyes.

“Is it the only way?” she murmured. She felt the prickle of growing tears in her eyes as Rey fell silent.

In the long quiet, Rey idly scooped blossom petals into her palms and let them fall from her hands, watching them dance briefly in the breeze before they fell to the ground. The three of them stared out at the horizon, and the manor drenched in sunlight. Finn dropped to his knees, and cuddled his wife and his friend tight, encapsulating them in his natural warmth.

The sun reflected in Rey’s watery eyes. With a sigh, she at last admitted what they all knew: “It is.”

#reylo #reylo fanfic #reylo au #rey x kylo #rey x ben #star wars #eleanorwrites #hi hello i cannot stick to a schedule for the life of me #i have made my peace with this #so i won't promise a firm date for the next chapter #but i can promise that it isn't abandoned

10 notes · View notes

thewidowsghost · 1 year

Text

Daughter of the Sea (Annabeth Chase x Jackson!Reader) - Chapter 4

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

I have weird dreams full of barnyard animals and horiffic flashes of golden light.

I must've woken several times, but what I hear and see makes no sense, so I just pass out again. I remember lying in a soft bed, being spoonfed something that tastes like popcorn, only it's pudding. The pretty girl with the curly blonde hair hovers over me, smirking as she scrapes drips off my chin with the spoon.

When she sees my eyes open, she asks, "What will happen at the summer solstice?"

"What?" I manage to croak.

Annabeth - I presumed - looks around, as if afraid someone would overhear. "What's going on? What was stolen? We've only got a few weeks!"

"I'm sorry," I mumble. "I don't . . ."

Someone knocks on the door, and the girl quickly fills my mouth with the pudding.

. . .

The next time I wake, the blonde girl is gone.

A husky blonde dude, like a surfer, stands in the corner of the bedroom keeping watch over me. He has blue eyes - at least a dozen of them - on his cheeks, his forehead, the backs of his hands.

. . .

When I finally come around for good, there is nothing weird about my surroundings, except that They're nicer than I'm used to. I am sitting in a deck chair on a huge porch, gazing across a meadow at green hills in the distance. The breeze smells like strawberries. There is a blanket over my legs, a pillow behind my neck. All that is great, but my mouth feels like a scorpion had been using it for a nest. My tongue is dry and nasty and every one of my teeth hurts.

On the table next to me is a tall drink. It looks like iced apple juice, with a green straw, and a paper parasol sticks through a maraschingo cherry.

My hand is so weak I almost drop the glass once I get my fingers around it.

"Careful," says a voice.

Grover is leaning against a porch railing, looking as though he hadn't slept in a week and his eyes are clouded with grief. Under one arm, Grover cradles a shoe box. He is wearing blue jeans, Converse hi-tops and a bright orange t-shirt that says Camp Half-Blood.

Maybe I'd had a nightmare. Maybe Mom and Percy are okay. We're on vacation and we'd stopped here at this big house for some reason. And . . .

"You saved my life," Grover says. "I...well, the least I could do...I went back to the hill. I thought you might want this."

Reverently, Grover places the shoe box in my lap.

Inside is a black-and-white bull's horn, the base jagged from being broken off, the tip splattered with dried blood.

It hadn't been a nightmare.

"I -" I falter, looking at the horn.

Grover shifts uncomfortably. "You've been out for two days. How much do you remember?" he asks.

"Mom. Percy. Are they really . . ."

Grover looks down.

I stare across the meadow. There are grovers of trees, a winding stream, acres of strawberries spreading out under the blue sky. The valley is surrounded by rolling hills, and the tallest one, directly in front of us, is the one with the hige pine tree on top; even that looks beautiful in the sunlight.

My family is gone, nothing should be beautiful. Everything should be black and cold.

"I'm sorry," Grover sniffles. "I'm a failure. I'm - I'm the worst saytr in the world." He moans, stomping his foot so hard that the Converse hi-tops come off. The inside of the who was filled with Styrofoam, except for a hoof-shaped hole. "Oh, Styx!" he mumbles.

Thunder rolls across the clear sky.

As Grover struggles to get his hoof back in the fake foot, I think, Well, that settles it.

Grover is a saytr. I am ready to bet that if I shaved his curly brown hair, I'd find tiny horns on his head. But I was too miserable to care that saytrs exist, or even minotaurs.

All that meant was that my mom and brother had been squeezed into nothingness, dissolved into yellow light.

I'm alone.

Grover is still sniffling, and my grief subsides for a heartbeat.

I say softly, "It wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was. I was supposed to protect Per-" the saytr's voice falters.

"Did my mother ask you to protect him?" I ask.

"No. But that's my job. I'm a keeper. At least...I was."

"But why..." I suddenly feel dizzy, my vision swimming.

"Don't strain yourself," Grover says gently. "Here." The saytr helps me hold my glass and puts the straw to my lips.

I almost recoil at the the taste, because I am expecting iced apple juice, but it's not that at all. It's chocolate-chip cookies. Mom's cookies - homemade blue chocolate-chip cookies, buttery and hot, with teh chips still melting. Drinking it, my entire body feels good and warm, full of energy. My grief doesn't go away, but I feel as if my mom had just brushed her hand against my cheek or a bruise from my stepfather, and given me a cookie the way she'd always used to. She would always tell me everything was going to be okay.

Before I know it, I'd drained the glass. I stare into it, sure I'd just had a warm drink, but the ice cubes hadn't even melted.

"Was it good?" Grover asks.

I nod.

"What did it taste like?" Grover sounds so wistful that I feel guilty.

"Sorry," I apologize. "I should've let you taste."

His eyes got wide. "No! That's not what I meant. I just...wondered."

"Chocolate-chip cookies," I reply. "My mom's. Homemade."

He sighs. "And how do you feel?"

"Like I could throw my stepfather a hundred yards."

"That's good," he says. "That's good. I don't think you could risk drinking any more of that stuff."

"What do you mean?"

Grover takes the empty glass from me gingerly, as if it's dynamite, and sets it back on the table. "Come on. Chiron and Mr. D are waiting."

. . .

The porch wrapped all the way around a farmhouse.

My legs feel wobbly, trying to walk that far; Grover offers to carry the Minotaur horn, but I hold on to it. I'd paid for that souvenir the hard way. I couldn't let it go.

As we come around teh opposite end of the house, I catch my breath.

We must've been on teh north shore of Long Island, because on this side of the house, the valley marches all the way up to the water, which glitters beautifully about a mile in the distance. Between here and there, I can't comprehend what I'm seeing. The landscape is dotted with buildings that look like the ancient Greek architecture I'd struggled to read about in books through my dyslexia - an open-air pavilion, and amphitheater, a circular arena - except that they all look brand new, their whie marble columns sparkling in the glittering sun. IN a nearby sandpit, a dozen high school-age kids and saytrs played volleyball. Canoes glide across a small lake. Kids in bright orange t-shirts like Grover's are chasing each other around a cluster of cabins nestled in the woods. SOme shoot targets at an archery range. Others ride horses down a wooded trail, and, unless I was still deleriouus, some of their horses had wings.

Down at the end of the porch, two men sit across from each other at a card table. The blond-haired girl - Annabeth - who'd spoonfed me the popcorn-flavored pudding is leaning against the porch rail next to them.

I study the blond girl for a moment, and, as if she felt my eyes on her, she looks at me, amused. I feel my cheeks darken a little, and I turn to study the two other men.

The man facing me is small, but porky. He has a red nose, big watery eyes, and curly hair so black that it's almost purple. He looks like those paintings of baby angels - cherubs. He wears a tiger-pattern Hawaiian shirt, and he could've fit right in at one of Gabe's poker parties, except I get the feeling that this guy could've out-gambled even my stepfather.

"That's Mr. D," Grover mutters to me. "He's the camp director. Be polite. The girl, that's Annabeth Chase. She's just a camper, but she's been here longer than just about anybody. And that's Chiron." He points at the guy whose back is to me.

I recognize the tweek jacket, the thinning brown hair, and the scraggly beard that Percy had described to me.

"I suppose you must be my brother's Latin teacher?" I ask, and the man turns to me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. It seemed like the glint a teacher might have when he pulled a pop quiz and made all the multiple choice answers the same letter. Through the mischievous glint, I catch the pain and grief in his eyes.

"Ah, good, (Y/n)," Mr. Brunner says, and I catch Annabeth studying me, as if she herself had felt the pang of grief that had pierced my heart when I'd mentioned my brother. "Now we have four for pinochle."

Mr. Brunner offers me a chair to the right of Mr. D, who looks at me with bloodshot eyes and heaves a great sigh. "Oh, I suppose I must say it. Welcome to Camp Half-Blood. There. Now, don't expect me to be glad to see you."

"Uh, thanks," I reply. I scoot a little farther away from him because if there was one think I'd learned from my stepfather, it's now to tell when an adult had been hitting alcohol.

"Annabeth?" Mr. Brunner calls to the blond girl.

Annabeth steps forward and Mr. Brunner introduces us. "This young lady nursed you back to health, Per -." He frowns apologetically, his expression softening. "Annabeth, my dear, why don't you go check on (Y/n)'s ," he puts emphasis on the name, "bunk? We'll be putting her in Cabin Eleven for now."

Annabeth replies, "Sure, Chiron."

Annabeth looks probably my age, maybe a couple of inches taller, and a whole lot more athletic looking. With her deep tan and her curly hair, she is almost exactly what I think a stereotypical California girl would look like, but her eyes ruined the image. They are startling gray, like stormy clouds; pretty, but intimidating, too, as if she is analyzing the best way to take me down in a fight.

Annabeth glances at the Minotaur horn in my hands, then back at me. Then she says, "You drool in your sleep."

Then she sprints off down the lawn, her blond hair flying behind her.

"So," I say, anxious to change the subject. "You, uh, work here too, Mr. Brunner?"

"Not Mr. Brunner," the ex–Mr. Brunner corrects. "I'm afraid that was a pseudonym. You may call me Chiron."

"Okay." Slightly confused, I look at teh director. "And Mr. D, sir . . ." I pause. "I suppose that stands for something as well?"

Mr. D stops shuffling the cards, studying me as if I'd surprised him. "Yes, it does stand for something. But you don't go around using them for no reason."

"Right. Sorry, sir," I reply, and Mr. D looks at me again for a moment. I pause for another minute. "Chiron, sir. What is this place? What am I doing here?"

Grover, who had sat down at the card table, flinches every time a card lands in his pile.

Chiron smiles sympathetically at me.

"(Y/n)," he says. "Did your mother tell you nothing?" he asks.

"She said . . ." I remember, with a pang, Mom's sad eyes looking out over the sea. "She told me that she was afraid to send me here, even though ou - even though my father had warned her to. She said that once I was here, I probably couldn't leave. She wanted to keep me close to her."

"Typical," Mr. D says. "That's usually how they get killed." I flinch. "Young girl, are you bidding or not?"

"What?" I ask politely.

He explains how you bid in pinochle, and so I do.

"I'm afraid there's too much to tell," Chiron says. "I'm afraid our usual orientation film won't be sufficient."

"Orientation film?" I question.

"No," Chiron decides. "You know that Grover is a satyr. You know" - Chiron points to the horn in the shoe box - "that you have killed the Minotaur. No small feat, either, my dear. What you may not know is that great powersat work in your life. Gods - the forces you call the Greek gods - are very much alive."

I take a moment to think about the former Latin teacher's words.

"I suppose that makes sense," I reply hesitantly.

Chiron looks at me expectantly. "Percy always said you were smart, (Y/n)," the man says with a glimmer of appreciation. "What else do you know?" he asks.

"Well," I think for a moment. "I suppose that, if it is true, then the gods would move with western civilization.

Mr. D looks at me and sweeps into the farmhouse, Grover trailing behind him.

"Is there a palace on Mount Olympus?" I ask Chiron.

"Well now, there's Mount Olympus in Greece. And then there's the home of the gods, the convergence point of their powers, which did indeed used to be on Mount Olympus. It's still called Mount Olympus, out of respect to the old ways, but the palace moves, (Y/n)."

I shift slightly in my seat. "Who am I, Chiron?" I ask. I pause, "Who are you?" I add hastily, " If you don't mind answering."

Chiron smiles gently. He shifts his weight as if he was going to get out of his wheelchair.

"Who are you?" he muses. "Well, that's the question we all want answered, isn't it?" But for now, we should get you a bunk in Cabin Eleven. There will be new friends to meet, and plenty of time for lessons tomorrow. Besides, there will be s'mores at the campfire tonight, and I simply adore chocolate."

Then, Chiron does rise from his wheelchair, but there is something odd about the way he does it. His blanket falls away from his legs, but the legs don't move. His waist keeps getting longer, rising above the belt. At first, I wonder if he was wearing very long, white velvet underwear, but as he keeps rising out of the chair, taller than any man, I realize that the underwear isn't underwear; it is the front of an animal, muscle and sinew under coarse white fur. And the wheelchair isn't a chair, it's a box, and it must've been magic, because there was no way that a wheelchair could have contained all of him. A leg comes out, long and knobbly-kneed, with a polished hoof. Then another leg, then hindquarters, and then the box is empty, nothing but a metal shell with a couple of fake human legs attached.

I stare at the horse that had just sprung from the wheelchair; a huge white stallion. Where the horse's neck should be, the upper body of the teacher is smoothly grafted to the horse's trunk.

"What a relief," the centaur says, stretching. "I'd been cooped up in there for so long, my fetlocks had fallen asleep. Now, come, (Y/n) Jackson. Let's meet the other campers."

Word Count: 2532 words

#annabeth chase x reader #annabeth chase x fem reader #annabeth chase x female reader

44 notes · View notes