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ohheyitsokay · 3 years

Text

trust

pairing: Ezra (Prospect) x reader

wordcount: 1.6k

warnings: none, pining, fluff fluff fluff

summary: the inherent intimacy of sharing space

Entering your ship was a strange experience for Ezra. He rarely entered other people’s pods at all, much less because he was invited. And really, how you managed to get a even a small one all to yourself was beyond him. It felt personal - intimate, and indeed, it was not something you would allow without tremendous trust.

He was silent, as the hatch released and he climbed in after you. Out of respect or… something else, you did not know. You felt vulnerable. The darkness of his lashes under the glow of your lights made it all the more obvious that he wasn’t missing a single detail about it, about you.

You had taken care to disguise it, with a carefully faked outer shell that no one would give a second glance. Even more care went to the maintenance, and he was sure there were secrets hidden away that even he couldn’t see. After a few weeks of your unlikely partnership, he was not surprised. It was particular, to feel safe in such a place, in such a time, but he did. This was certainly not a ship that would torch and tremble its way into disarray, and nothing was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand against the humidity.

Ezra’s favorite part, though, was by far the little things you’d collected and placed around. There weren't many, but it made him feel strangely happy inside - to see hints of you that you’d permitted, despite the temporary nature of these things. Little things stuck to the wall, a chest tucked under what he could only assume was your bed, and a small mountain of blankets.

Words began to drip from his mouth, falling and floating and filling the small space.

“Moonlight,” his nickname for you was music on your ears. “I must say that it is a genuine pleasure to be welcome in this establishment.” Ezra’s words were fast, first because he was nervous and then because he was excited. People always thought he spoke with eloquent articulation, because the words were as sweet and dark as good honey, but with you they’d always been different. They tumbled over each other as he tried to fit too many into too small of a space, almost desperate to communicate everything going on in his brain, and maybe even his heart, all at once.

More than happy to listen, you nodded, and gently slid up behind him, as he turned in circles around the main room. Dodging his arm, which was gesturing as his topic of interest switched from your pod to you, you gently began to tug at his suit.

It was another intimate moment – removing the filter from it, undoing the clasps and wordlessly asking him to slough off a layer for you.

His strung out sentences stuttered before they picked up again, cautiously flirtatious.

It wasn’t as though the two of you hadn’t grown close, these past few weeks, but neither of you had been in such a position. Self preservation was always the first instinct of anyone who wanted to live another day without poison in their lungs or thrower shots making holes in their body. It felt foreign, but natural, and it took no time at all for him to return the favor, albeit with a touch more insistence.

Dark eyes raked over your underclothes, lingering on the skin he could see, as if it was his first time seeing you like this. Maybe it was, in it’s own way. The air of your ship was clean, filtered, and you had found decent lights recently, making it a distinct improvement over the debris filled fog of most of this forsaken planet. So you understood, as your drank in his form, too: the roughness of his skin and the form of his muscles beneath his clothes. The urge to swallow came before you could stop it, and his eyes followed the movement in your throat, undoubtedly aware that he was the cause of the extra saliva in your mouth.

He had moved close, but not as close as you might’ve thought. No closer than the quiet moments in his tent when you sat by his side, bent over maps and tools, and sharing supplies. No closer than when he pretended to press his hand over your mouth and the corners of his eyes crinkled with laughter as you both hid from a hostile party. Certainly no closer than when you were walking through a particularly beautiful area, and he had tucked your glove into his elbow as best he could, shocking you as it made him all but defenseless, and the helmets of your suits had bumped into each other.

Ezra was close, but then he was moving away, asking you where he could place the things for safety or cleaning or recharging. You showed him, explaining as much about your ship as you could, wanting him to know it, as he already knew you.

When your hands brushed, over the control unit, a shudder went through you. Being the man he was, he gave you a slow, salacious grin, but his eyes betrayed something softer. You returned the look, before turning away, compelled to open your chest and show him what was inside.

Or some of it, anyway.

You held a worn book out to him, and Ezra eyes glazed over, appreciating it to the full volume that you intended. It was old, worn, but still in common, and he grasped it reverently. You averted your eyes as he tried to find a position where he could use his single hand to devour the words, fully aware of his pride. There was plenty to do, anyway, and… you hadn’t discussed sleeping arrangements, so shifting some of the blankets onto the floor was more than necessary.

He watched you, though.

The prospect of the passages on the pages betwixt his palms was moot in comparison to your form. To Ezra, you were ethereal. His Moonlight. The drape of the cloth between your fingers and the glow of the lights illuminating the fine hairs on your skin was enchanting. Part of him wanted to tell you to stop, to leave the blankets so the two of you could burrow in, together, and he could feel your breath on his skin before his eyes even opened in the morning. But the other parts were still stuck in longing, and soaking in the domesticity of your movements.

“What’s on your mind, Ezra?”

You’d caught him dreaming.

“Lovely one, I was just reflecting on a story I heard awhile ago, that I think your beauty would quite belong in,” he started, more than excited by the image his mind was overlaying. Marble columns and sweeping stairs and arched windows that reached to the heavens replaced the metal and wires and knobs, and it was blissful, before it came crashing down.

Shy wasn’t a word that usually suited him, but it was the only one that fit in this moment. His head ducked, shoulders hunched as he glanced resentfully at the knotted fabric where his arm would be. There were many things his words could transform, dreamlike worlds he could – would – create for you but there was a part of him that did not fit.

When it had first been lost, being alive was more than enough. And usually, that remained true. Ezra considered himself more than lucky to be alive to walk in the glow you cast, to be graced with your smile but…

Your own head tilted, watching him as you waited, mind searching, sorting through the stories he’d recited to you over the long harvest walks.

He was still looking for the words, the right ones, anyway, as you moved gently.

The click brought him back to reality, and the music made it worth it. It was a rickety old thing, but the player did it’s job just fine, for a moment like this.

In a trance, still shy but increasingly eager, he stood his full height, placing the book gently away before reaching for you. The self doubt ebbed out of him the closer you got, the trust in your eyes making him feel more worthy than the strength of his limbs ever did.

The words caught in his throat as your hands slid around his neck, as he felt hyperaware of every nerve that connected with your skin.

Your eyes held his like gravity until his hand touched your hip, and the heat on your face made you duck away. There was space between your bodies and he gently began to guide you round and round.

It was strange, the feeling inside of him, how good this little moment was, but he was intoxicated by it, by you. When his arm slid to your lower back and asked you closer, you melted into his chest and he was sure nothing had ever felt quite so heavenly. You fit into him, adding on to his soul effortlessly as you molded together and he couldn’t stop himself.

Ezra spoke into the space, so close that your hair trembled under his breath, having split between his desire just to feel you, and his need to tell you how grateful he was for this moment. The ghost of you lips on his skin was more than he had ever hoped for, but made him hungry for more of you, to steal more of these moments and elicit more of these feelings.

In turn, you felt encompassed by him, and something grew inside of you for the first time since you’d ventured out in the dangerous time and space, all alone.

“Ez,” you whispered. The words tripped, but continued, and you almost wondered if he was too excited to finish his story to stop them from pushing out.

“Ezra,” you tried again and he stopped, both talking and swaying, almost frozen as he cradled you.

“Thank you,” for what specifically, you weren't sure, but you felt like you had to say it. For all of it, everything he was.

He began to sway again, his fingers curling ever so slightly into the cloth on your back. The music lilted through the air, and there was a long moment before he picked up, compelled to finish what he started. You didn’t mind.

Neither of you ever slept as peacefully as you did that night.

taglist:

@fangirl-316 @scribbledghost

#no one asked for this but heres the thing #when I watched prospect me and the rest of the fandom had very different expereinces #i think #ezra #ezra x reader #ezra x you #prospect

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extremelyblackandwhite · 4 years

Text

exile

pairing: carter baizen x reader

warnings: angst & smut (18+)

a/n: this one has been in the working for a while. enjoy.

based off “exile” by taylor swift and “tightrope” from the greatest showman

I think I’ve seen this film before and i didn’t like the ending, you’re not my hometown anymore so what I’m defending now? You were my town now i’m in exile seeing you out. I think I’ve seen this film before ...

The music was softly loud in a manner that one could only describe as annoying for conversation starts. Women dressed in the newest gowns straight of the catwalk and men tied up into various shades of suits. People walked around carrying trays of expensive champagne and every corner of the room seemed to have an ice sculpture everywhere. Everything was splendid and wondrous but Carter was much more interested in the figure leaned against the marbled column. Hair pulled up and held by several golden pins, skin decorated in white ruffled fabric descending up to her knees, matching heels on her feet as a key shaped necklace hanged from her neck. She was like a vision of time, an hallucination of a memory that was long, long gone. She was gone but near and Carter couldn’t help but feel all his pride slowly slip away from him.

If there was a woman who could say she had held his heart, it was Y/N. She was the daughter of one of his father’s friends, a partner and share owner in most of the law firms around New York, and a French socialite. She carried herself with the elegance and innocence that no Upper East Sider had and Carter had been hopelessly enamoured with her. How could he not? He could still close his eyes and see her, he could the very first time he met her, his mother surrounded by other ladies at tea laughing about new founded gossip but there she was, sat in the chair swirling the platinum spoon on the warm liquid of her tea cup.

She always found a way to make him laugh, she could always find a way to make him feel like he wasn’t as shallow as he thought he was. Carter loved her the way he could love no other woman but he had to let her go. Her father clearly wasn’t found of having his only child, his precious daughter, dating an ex gambling addict with a bad reputation, and as such he sent her away. She had asked him to help her, she didn’t want to go somewhere alone but he didn’t. At the end of the day he knew he would eventually break her heart. He had tried writing her but every letter he wrote her came back, unopened. He wondered why she was back, out of all places she had decided to go to Columbia. She hated New York, she always hated the fake plastered smiles and the ambitions her parents had for her, she hated the noise and would much enjoy to run away to the Hamptons during Autumn and Winter. Carter still remembers driving down to the Hamptons near twilight to find her laying on top of an old blanket. It was tattooed on his brain, the serene look on her face as she pulled onto the worn out sleeves of a sweatshirt she had purposely bought oversized. Sadly, alongside with that memory was the memory of him driving away from her home, leaving before she could even notice.

- Carter. - he turned around at the mention of his name, an old lady stood in front of him whom he could swore was Y/N’s grandmother. Or, at least, the one she enjoyed to speak about. - I didn’t know you were in town.

- Sister’s getting married.

- My congratulations to Caroline. - she smiled. - Oh, have you met my granddaughter? She should be here somewhere here.

Carter was going to refuse meeting a granddaughter he already knew a bit too well, at least better than her father would’ve liked, but the woman had a death like grip on his tailor velvet black suit and was already walking him Y/N’s way. His throat ran dry and he felt his body fill with static like feelings as she turned around at her grandmother’s request. There, at the sight of her face beautifully and delicately preserved in time with little to no signs of time pulling on the skin, he felt like he was the old type of man, ready to drop everything at the belief that someone was made just for him. She stared at him as if she had seen a ghost, a dead being which had never left her but that she was only noticing now.

Second, third, and hundredth chances, balancin' on breaking branches. Those eyes add insult to injury. I think I've seen this film before and I didn't like the ending. I'm not your problem anymore so who am I offending now? You were my crown now I'm in exile seein' you out. I think I've seen this film before so I'm leavin' out the side door

The parties were always the same no matter how much time had passed. The glittering chandeliers and fake smiles for seeing someone whom they hadn’t seen in ages and could barely remember the name. Lily van der Woodsen had been the one to host the party, insisting to Y/N’s mother she should attend as a way to get to know some of Columbia’s students but there was no one that Y/N didn’t already know. She had gone to Constance for a few years until her father decided she was clearly going through a dark path. A dark path named Carter Baizen.

Last she’d heard of him he was doing some humanitarian documentary work but others perceived him as more of a intense gambler rather than the portrait of humanitarian. Other than that, she’d never seen him since she was 17 going on 18 on his car listening to his favourite bands and discussing running away. After her father sent her to Connecticut for boarding school for her companies with the eldest Baizen child, she didn’t hear from him ever again.

As she sipped on her second glass of champagne, she heard her grandmother’s voice booming which made her turn around to see the last person she’d ever expect to see. Once again, she was merely a young girl waited on the steps of her apartment, constantly checking the watch for a man that never came. Things were never clear but looking at him, looking into those eyes only added salt to a wound which had never healed and was instead covered through layers and layers of “You’ll be alright”.

- This is my Y/N. She’s gonna be a human rights lawyer, we’re so proud of her. - her grandmother poured out love and pride in her voice, something Carter definitely didn’t use to hear from her own mother. - Y/N, this is Carter Baizen. He’s Caroline’s brother, you two went together to Constance. Do you remember?

- We’ve met before. - there was a sort of icy softness to her voice, no longer the honeyed, happy sound she used to speak in whenever they would walk down the Upper East. No, this was cold, almost as if she had surrounded herself by walls yet soft as if she was still able to show the cracks in her armour. Heaviness settled in him, looking at her, looking at the one he would dub as the one who got away. She didn’t get away, he went away.

- I should go check on the other guests. - her grandmother excused herself leaving the ex almost lovers staring at each other through mirrors of past distorted memories.

- I didn’t know you were at Columbia. - he grabbed one of the passing glasses of champagne, not entirely sure of what to say. He never knew what to say near her but this time, this time he knew nothing he could say would made up for what he did.

- Brown isn’t what I had in mind so I transferred after I finished my first year. Dad thought Columbia would be a good fit. - she stood too far from him, further than he’d like. She used to always be so close, so close he could smell her vanilla and honey perfume, so close he could feel the fabric of her clothing against his hands. Close enough to consider kissing her but that was no longer the case, she was far and her heart was locked. - What about you Carter? Last I heard you were in Machu Picchu.

- My uncle got me an chief financial officer job at his company in London. Been spending some time with Serena but I’m mostly here for Carolines’ wedding.

- Serena? She was at the same boarding school as me. Didn’t know you two were close.

- I guess you could say we are close. On and off.

Her curious facade fell as the corner of her lips almost falling into a frown. She didn’t know what to feel if anger or sadness but as a tray passed by, she set down her half full glass on the silver tray before mumbling “excuse me”. She moved through the crowds of people with her hand in front of her eyes, strangled cry in her throat.

- Y/N, wait. - he followed her, he followed her like he should’ve done years ago. He chase her up the stairs of the van der Woodsen residence, knowing it like the palm of his hand, however she was still faster than him and rushed over to the small balcony on their guest bedroom, stomach hitting the metal railings which adorned the small outside place. - Y/N!

So step right out, there is no amount of cryin' I can do for you. All this time, we always walked a very thin line. You didn't even hear me out (you didn't even hear me out), you never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs). All this time I never learned to read your mind (never learned to read my mind). I couldn't turn things around (you never turned things around) 'cause you never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) ...

- I really don’t want to speak to you. - she let the tears flow down her face in silence, regretting how her mind seemed to show her images of the times when things were clearer. Times when they would just be kids joking around in central park or times when she would purposely let her hand wander, hoping he would grab it but he never did. The times she would look him into the eyes for longer than usual, hoping he would try to kiss her, but he never did.

- C’mon, dove. - he walking up to her but she moved away.

- Don’t call me that. - she punctuated every single word as if he had offended her.

- Why are you upset?

- Why am I upset? - she lifted her head, streaks of black mascara rushing down her face. She’d been here before, she’d been disappointed before and she didn’t like it so why was she here again? Why didn’t she just ignore him and went back into the carefully constructed world she had built for herself. - You always told me you were afraid of commitments, that you didn’t want to be shackled down to anyone and I understood it. I understood it and stood by you and waited, waited for things to change and you ... you just weren’t worth it. You wasted my time only to get on a relationship with Serena out of all people. You just weren’t worth it.

It stung, it stung worse than anything he’d ever felt before. He wasn’t worth it, he just wasn’t worth it and he knew it. What he didn’t know and was still processing as if he was living some twisted dream was her words. She waited, he knew she had waited for him but he didn’t know what else she had waited for. Suddenly all those fall nights in the beach where she would fall asleep on his shoulder, trying to pull her out of revision sessions after she started crying due to stress, her pretending to let him win whenever they played poker. She had waited and she was right he wasn’t worth it.

- Why Serena? - she questioned, heart heavy with emotions too ugly for her to even let unfold.

- I don’t know.

- Do you wanna know how long I waited for you on those stairs? - he wanted to say no, he didn’t want to remember it, he didn’t want to think of it. - I waited for 5 hours, I waited as long as I could until my parents shoved me on that train because of you. You didn’t write or ...

- I wrote you everyday. - he still had those letters, stacked on top of his wardrobe in England wrapped in the red string she used to wear around her hair like a headband and had left in his drawer during a particular cold day. He thought he should’ve burn them years and years ago, let it go but something stopped him. The mere thought of her just touching the letters stopped him from discarding them, from burning the only thing which was still hers. - You sent back each and every letter.

- I never got any letter from you. - she wanted to scream at him for using his lines, his tricks on her. - Stop lying to me.

- I wrote to you everyday for two years. - he grabbed her arm, impeding her from leaving this time. As if this simple act could make up the biggest mistake of his life. - I wrote to you every day and when I stopped having any words I wrote down all your favourite love letters. After two years, I thought ... I thought you probably had someone and I didn’t want to ruin that for you.

- You wrote to me? - she softened, almost as if she couldn’t believe his words. Her mother definitely would’ve told her not to believe him, “the Baizen’s have a way with words, no wonder they have a publicity and ad agency” and her father would send her straight to Brown if he even dared to dream his precious and only daughter was back with the man he had sent her away from. Her inhibitions fell like a castle of cards and blew away as she stared at the man whom she had loved since she was fifteen and had last seen at seventeen years old. She should know better, she was three years older, no longer innocently in love with the older boy from St. Judes. She should know better, she should know better but she didn’t and looking into his eyes and then his lips she decided to do something she shouldn’t.

Placing on herself on her tippy toes, she held his shoulders and leaned her lips against his. Carter immediately grabbed her, afraid she would slip away or that she was some fragment of his drunk imagination but no, she was here. As he held her close to his body, lips moving in such a synch it could be describe as symphony like, he could feel her, he could feel her warmth, the ruffles of her dress against his fingers. No, she was here. She was here.

The two of them stumbled backwards into the guest bedroom, too heated in their minds to care about the fact the door was unlocked. His hands came up to the straps which held her dress to her body, ripping it off her and leaving her in a probably too expensive white lacy lingerie with a tiny jewel in the middle of her chest. He was too worried to feel her, to kiss her to even look at her racy form, ever so beautifully revealing. Her finger danced over his jacket, pushing it off him. He helped her discard of the jacket, throwing it somewhere in the room and thus interrupting the kiss. She laid against the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets, and that’s when he first took a good look at her. The lingerie looked tailor made, almost glued like a second skin, enhancing her bossom which he only wanted to lay his face on. His lips were partially open, hair broken open from its confines and sprawled all over the white sheets. Fuck, she was a vision.

He climbed atop her, eyes fully darkened with lust as he stood over her before leaning to kiss her again, hand pushing on the back her knee and caressing the skin of her thigh. His other hand came to her back, releasing the strap which held the garment in place. He was just a simple pull away from seeing it, from seeing her in what he only dreamed off in drunk nights. He didn’t want to pull it away just yet, he wanted to look at her and look he did. There was so many things he wanted to do to her but right now he just wanted to bask in her intimacy but she was not interested in that, trembling hands coming to unbutton his white shirt, pushing it down his arms. His once soft skin was now defined, no longer the 18 year old he was but someone whom she would thought to be out a men’s health magazine. Her hands moved through his chest, feeling the ridges and scars of time that had laid there before they lowered to the zipper of his trousers.

- No, dove. - he grabbed her hands in his, putting them above her head and holding them there. - No, let me take care of you.

He started to kiss her neck, starting at right at the end of her ear down to her collarbones and up to the start of her breast where skin meet the lace of her lingerie. Slowly, he pushed the garment off her, mouth lowering to take her nipple in between his lips. The girl let out a soft moan, hand tangling in his polished hair as changed attentions to her other breast sucking hard enough to leave marks. She wanted his marks. She wanted to bare them, to do the wrong thing. He moved from her chest down to her navel, making her moan at the lack of teasing until he got too close to her mound. He looked up to her, devilish spark in his eyes.

- Tell me, dove. How well did they fuck you in boarding school?

- I will if you tell me how well you fucked Serena.

- Oh, dove ... are you jealous? - his eyes flickered with a sense of wild pride he couldn’t explain. Her moved up, licking his lips before kissing her jaw. - Don’t be jealous, my little dove. I thought of you every time I fucked her.

His fingers moved inside of her all her making her hold onto his neck, pushing him onto the space between her neck and shoulder. He smiled, biting onto the plump skin while he pressed his fingers deeper into her heat. His fingers moved in and out of her, slowly, teasingly, pushing sweet yet pornographic sounds from her as he hit that perfect spot. His thumb rubbed abstract-like figures on her hardening clit, putting her in a hypnotising-like state which made her reply to each and every move he had.

- Fuck ... coming here to the Upper East in that little cocktail of yours. You’re all grown up aren’t you, dove? Fuck, I missed you. - he pressed his thumb harder on her climb, kissing from the spot he had just bitten to her shoulder, only to bite it too. That sure would leave a mark her daddy would love to see, oh he surely would love to. - Are you close, dove?

- Carter ... - she moaned in want, feeling that familiar knot only she could cause herself starting to tighten.

- You’re so fucking stunning. - he rose his head from her shoulder, crashing his lips against hers and his fingers keep moving in and out at a now faster pace. She breathed in and out, letting out sounds which only incentivised him to keep going, small smile on his lips as he keep kissing her, teeth grazing at her bottom lip. She could feel the knot tighten until it suddenly released, having her moan against his lips as the sound turned into pure static energy. - Aren’t you a stunner? Don’t fall asleep on me just yet, dove.

She could barely move her head, still recovering from her orgasm as he left her lips to pull down her zipper. Looking up as well as she could, she watched him remove his formal trousers along with his underwear revealing his sizeable member. Mindlessly, she bite her lip, smirking through her daze as he pumped himself a couple of times, pre-cum gathering at the red tip of his member.

- You’re not a good girl at all, are you dove? - he questioned in a teasing manner before returning to top her, grabbing her hands once more and holding them tight above her head. He ran the tip of his member up and down her slit, collecting the wetness from her former orgasm. - Come on, dove. Tell me, tell me you’re mine.

- I ... I’m y...yours. - she spoke through the breathlessness that he seemed to naturally caused in her not expecting the harsh thrusting to begin as soon as those words exited her mouth. He held her hands thightly, thrusting into her in and out with little to no gentleness. He couldn’t do gentle and she didn’t want him to do so, relishing as he seemed to hit her g-spot which sent her eyes rolling to the back of her head. - Carter, I’m yours.

- I fucking know, dove. I know. - he said through his teeth, growling at the way her pussy milked him in such a way he needed more self control than ever. He continued with no relent, free hand coming to rub her nub which made her lose whatever inhibitions she had left. She was putty in his hands, moaning mindlessly without a care in the world.

- I’m gonna cum. - she cried out, turning her head to the side as he leaned to kiss her neck, noticing how hard it was becoming to ignore how she was milking him. Few more thrusts and she came crashing from the high she had been in since the start, moaning his name out loud as he growled before collapsing to her side, not wanting to hurt her. She let out a shaky breathe, feeling him cum drip out of her and onto the sheets. This surely was no house guest etiquette but she really wasn’t in the mood to care.

He turned his head to look at her, sweat dripping from her forehead and gluing the hairs close to it to her skin as her chest went up and down trying to calm down her heart rate. She was surely a sight. He carefully threw an arm over her, pushing her flush with his body before kissing the top of her head.

- I’m so sorry. - he blurted out, not sure what to say, how to apologise for things that were long gone. - I’m so sorry.

- Just stay this time. - she kissed the palm of his hand. - Just stay.

- I will, dove. I promise.

#sebastian stan #sebastian stan/reader #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan/you #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan/y/n #sebastian stan x y/n #sebastian stan au #carter baizen #carter baizen x reader #carter baizen/reader #carter baizen x you #carter baizen/you #carter baizen x y/n #carter baizen/y/n #carter baizen smut #carter baizen imagine #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan smut

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phykios · 4 years

Text

honesty and promise me, part 4 [co-written with @darkmagyk] [read on ao3]

July twelfth dawns like any other day, Annabeth wrapped up in Percy’s sheets. She’s spent significantly more nights in his bed than she’s spent in her own apartment over the last two months, but who could blame her? This bed is literally to die for. Therapeutic mattress for the fucking win.

Percy, to her greatest confusion and chagrin, is a morning person. Well, actually, what he is is someone who runs on very little sleep for three weeks at a time, before crashing headfirst into his bed for thirteen hours. It is a decidedly unhealthy way to live, but it means that Annabeth is used to waking up alone. The nights where she gets to wake up with Percy are the nicer ones, sure, but his presence is suffused in every corner of the room, his smell wafting from every piece of sweaty clothing tossed haphazardly about the floor, so much so that she never feels like she is truly waking up alone.

Gross? A little. But the smell is oddly sexy, too, especially after he’s just come home from a run, all wet and glistening and flushed, panting hard--

Ahem.

The point is, when Annabeth rolls out of bed in one of Percy’s shirts (the one that says “Do You Even Lift, Bro?” with an image of a male dancer raising his partner, courtesy of one Jason Grace) and stumbles into the kitchen for one of Percy’s patented brunch specials, it’s a pretty normal morning. What catches her off guard is the spread: eggs and bacon, obviously, with fruit and granola and yogurt, but also an enormous tray of delicious, flaky croissants, perfectly crescent shaped, with little bowls of every condiment imaginable, multiple flavors of jams and preserves and Nutellas.

“Bounjour, mademoiselle!” Percy says cheerfully from the oven, perfectly accented, bending over to take out a tray. “Ça va bien?”

“Um… bonjour…” She pokes a croissant experimentally, and is equally delighted and dismayed to find that it is just as flaky as advertised.

“Take a seat, these ones just need to cool for a bit and then we can get started.”

Spring in his step, he opens the refrigerator, taking out the most beautiful cake Annabeth has ever seen in her entire life. Perfectly round, paper white, with little blue borders piped around the edge, but it’s got Annabeth feeling like she’s just been doused in cold water. “How the hell did you know it was my birthday?”

Immediately, she knows it was the exact wrong thing to say. His eyes go wide as the saucers on the table, mouth open in shock. “It’s your birthday?”

Goddammit. “Um.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Because birthdays were inherently a dumb concept? Because her father had to be reminded of her birthday more often than not? Because her mother had stopped sending her birthday cards after she turned thirteen, calling them a waste of money and resources? “I don’t know,” she shrugs, dipping her finger into the strawberry jam. “I guess I just didn’t think it was a big deal. Ooh, does this have rosemary in it?”

“Annabeeeeth,” he whines, plopping the cake onto the kitchen island. “I can’t believe you! I love birthdays.”

“Well,” she flounders, attempting to duck his sudden attention, “what were you originally celebrating? I don’t usually think of cake as a brunch option.”

He raises an eyebrow, not at all impressed with her attempts to change the topic, but he answers dutifully, “Originally, we were celebrating me being one month cig-free--”

“Percy!” Annabeth gasps, clapping her hands delightedly, and a little exaggeratedly. “That’s great!”

“But,” he continues, “now we’re definitely celebrating your birthday instead.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Nuh uh,” he chides, grabbing his phone and beginning to type something, “I am asking Nico to pick you up a birthday card as we speak.”

Oh. “Nico’s coming?”

“Well, this is his apartment. Part of the deal is that I make him breakfast. I think he’s bringing his boyfriend.”

“Is… anyone else coming?”

“Just a couple of people, my friends Frank, Grover, Rachel… I invited Hazel and Thalia, too, but I think Hazel told me she was busy, and you know Thalia. If it’s not at a crappy dive bar then the odds of her showing up are virtually none.” Percy pauses in his text, fixing her with an odd look. “You really don’t want anyone to know, do you?”

How easily he reads her is a little disconcerting, and also a thought that she just can’t handle right now. “I just don’t like people making a big deal out of it. You know, it’s just another day. I’d much rather celebrate you quitting.”

He holds her gaze for a beat, before smiling, finishing typing out whatever he was doing on his phone. “Yes, I am officially quitting. Cigarettes are terrible for you, and I do not have the money to keep up the habit. So, I swear,” he holds up a hand, “No cigarettes, no weed, no vaping. Not that I ever vaped before.”

“Oh, never?” Annabeth teases.

“Not ever.” He leans in, grinning that devastating grin that is seriously detrimental to her health. “You could not pay me enough.”

“Good.” She goes to meet him, pressing her mouth to his, sweetly and chastely, but swiftly turning deeper, almost against their higher brain functions, like they only exist to be here in this moment, lips against lips, tongue and tongue. She’s always hated the taste of cigarettes, she prefers edibles to blunts, and anyone who vapes is automatically dropped from her list of potential partners… but she’s never minded the taste of ash on Percy’s tongue. It was just another part of him, another facet of the whole sexy package.

Now, though, she has the full taste of him, unfettered and unfiltered, his morning coffee and his morning breath. It is disgusting, but again, oddly thrilling. This is Percy, stripped down and divested of all the trappings of blue lipstick and tight pants. She wonders what he thinks when he sees her like this, messy haired, face and ears empty of metal, last night’s mascara smudged all around her eyes. Given the way that he deliberately threads her hair through his fingers, winding the frizzy curls around him, pulling her close enough that the pristine cake is in danger from some serious smushing, she thinks he likes it just as much.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on which perspective, either Percy’s, Annabeth’s, Nico’s, or the cake’s, their little impromptu makeout session has cold water dumped on it before they can end up doing it on the kitchen island. The sound of someone unlocking the front door is almost comically loud, and they break apart, equally red and flushing.

“Gross,” says Nico di Angelo. “No heterosexuality allowed in my kitchen.”

“Take that back, you biphobic ass,” Percy says. “I have never been heterosexual in my life.”

“I’m not biphobic, I just don’t want to see you getting it on on my marble countertops.”

“Speak for yourself,” chimes in Will, setting down a grocery bag right on the spot which would have been ground zero. “Hi, Annabeth.”

“Hey, Will.”

“Nice of you to join us today,” he says, as though he doesn’t see her here all the time.

She offers her assistance in cooking or setting up, knowing full well that she will be firmly rebuffed--domestics are not her strong suit, by any stretch of the imagination--and is sent away with an iced coffee that Will has so thoughtfully bought for her instead of the birthday card she was dreading.

Soon after, the party is in full swing.

Well, she uses the term party loosely. It is fairly intimate, even with Nico’s enormous apartment making everything smaller. They have assembled an odd amalgamation of people: “You already know Nico,” Percy says, indicating the goth prince next to, “and Will,” his boyfriend, the perpetually cheery med student, next to, “and this is Frank,” a large, physically imposing man with a shy smile, next to, “Rachel,” a red-headed girl who looked like she just walked out of a paint shower, all making space for, “and my buddy Grover,” the guy in crutches who had immediately dropped into the single, out-of-decor, but extremely comfortable-looking loveseat Nico had placed nearest to the bathroom. All told, they look like the brochure for a community college who really, really wants to publicize how diverse their student body is, but with a kind of natural chemistry and camaraderie that those kids on that brochure could only dream of. “Everyone, this is Annabeth.”

They greet her, each giving a limp wave.

Then Percy leaves to attend to his brunch spread, but not before giving her a quick peck on the cheek. She can feel all eyes on them, hot and burning.

Silence.

“So,” Annabeth says, as awkward as a freshman in an orientation mixer. “What’s up?”

“Your hair is amazing,” says Rachel.

Hers is crusted with paint, a deep red that turns pink against the orange in the light, a close cousin to Annabeth’s, which is in dire need of a touchup, curls thrown in disarray by Percy’s grasping fingers. “Thanks, I--”

“So how do you two know each other?”

Annabeth blinks. “Friend of Thalia’s,” she says. “You?”

“Used to do ballet together,” Rachel says, brusque, efficient. “Frank, too.”

Frank waves again.

A beat passes.

Annabeth looks to Grover, who watches, bemused. “You, too, I take it?”

Another second. Then he laughs, weird, but hearty, a joyful bleat. “Oh, sure,” he says. “I’m a regular Baryshnikov.”

She can almost feel the room relaxing, heaving a sigh after holding its breath.

“Are you with NYCB, too?” she turns to Frank, shoving her hands in her pockets, fingers curling around the fabric there.

Shaking his head, he swallows his orange juice. “I mostly do modern and hip hop, now, music videos and stuff.”

Objectively, she knows that you don’t have to be skinny as a rake or bodybuilding champion to dance, but Frank is neither of these, a huge, sweet-faced guy with a healthy layer of fat around his face and torso--a strict counterpart to Percy, who could give the Belvedere Apollo a run for its money. “Have I seen you in anything?” Not that she really watches music videos, but she figures it’s the polite thing to ask.

“Um, maybe,” he shrugs, embarrassed. “I’ve been lucky enough to work with some really big people.” Though he offers no further details.

“Working on anything cool?” She asks, doing her best not to cajole.

He nods. “Percy and I have a thing coming out probably in the next month or so, with--ah, well. Can’t say.”

“Tease,” Rachel grumbles, tossing back her mimosa. “I’ve been trying to get the secret out of him for months.”

Frank smiles, secretive and a little smug. “Sorry. You’ll find out along with everyone else.”

“Do you work together a lot?” Annabeth asks. She had thought that Percy was strictly ballet--though, she supposes dancers do crossover work more often these days, if only for the money.

“Not as much as we used to, sadly,” he replies. “We actually lived together in Paris for a few years while he was contracted with the opera before I decided to come back home. Vancouver,” he adds at her unspoken question.

“Bit of a hike, from Vancouver to New York,” says Grover.

Frank shrugs. “I was in town anyway, and I haven’t seen Percy in about a year.”

Annabeth frowns, doing some mental math. If Frank hadn’t seen him in two years, then that meant… that Percy had been alone in Paris all that time. The man thrives off of friendship and social interaction; no wonder he was jonesing to come back to America.

“Remind me again how long you two were together?” Rachel asks, red hair bouncing as she cocks her head. A jolt goes down Annabeth’s spine, appraising Frank in an entirely new light.

“On and off for about two years,” says Frank, thoughtful. “But I just lived with him to save money. The rent in Paris sucks.”

“And you were the best roommate I ever had,” Percy says, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Clean, good cook, better kisser--”

Frank shoves him away.

“You’ve only ever had one other roommate, other than Nico or your mom,” Grover points out. “That one guy when you first moved overseas--Frodo? Fedora?”

“Fyodor,” Percy corrects. “He was terrible. I didn’t know any Russian, he didn’t know any English, and our French wasn’t good enough to actually hash it out, so he just gave me a permanent cold shoulder.”

“Kind of a low bar, don’t you think?”

“And there was my roommate in Boston.”

Sharply, she turns her head. “You lived in Boston?”

“Yeah, for like a year. I told you I was with Boston Ballet for a little bit, didn’t I?”

Pretty sure he didn’t. She almost opens her mouth to retort, to ask when and compare notes, to mention that she lived in Boston, too, before remembering who she is with, swallowing her words.

“Fyodor hated you,” Frank hums, reentering the circle. He’d wandered away and returned with a croissant, dipped in chocolate.

“Trust, me, the feeling was mutual.”

“It must have been,” Frank says, “because I saw your new apartment after he kicked you out--that place made a shoebox look luxurious.”

Something in Percy’s face almost falls when Frank says that. Annabeth is sure there is a story there.

But Rachel laughs. “Annabeth, you have no idea. It was a Chambre de bonne ,” she says, exaggerating the accent, “which might sound super fancy and French and cool, but trust me, it wasn’t at all. It was this size.” She slaps the kitchen island, a little too hard, her third mimosa making her loose-limbed and loud. “When I visited for Thanksgiving that year I had to pay for the heating bill, because Percy basically refused.”

“It was cozy,” Percy mutters, suddenly very preoccupied with the half a croissant on his plate.

“It was not.” Rachel says. “It was sad and cold and small.”

Nico looks interested, but not nearly as boisterous as Rachel or Frank, “Was that the place…”

“Ye,” Percy cuts him off, “Yes it was.” He smiles, Stepford-strained. “But, then Frank came to town, and so did his grandmother’s money.” He slaps Frank on the back. “And I got a bathtub.”

“I still can’t believe that a ballet dancer lived anywhere for two years without a place to soak,” Frank says, shuddering.

“I can’t believe you waited until Frank got to Paris to get yourself a sugar daddy,” Grover quips. Percy throws a grape at him. Grover, to her immense surprise, manages to catch it in his mouth.

Annabeth can’t really be impressed. This is the second time someone has brought up Percy and Frank having a history. Something hot and angry curls in her stomach. But Percy is laughing.

Rachel laughs too. “Oh, he didn’t wait,” she says. “He had a bevy of sugar mommies for trips to Ibiza and Moscow and Beijing.”

“It was Tokyo,” Percy says, “and they weren’t my Sugar Mamas.” He turns to Annabeth, sheepish, but not actually shameful. “They weren’t. Honestly.”

“Uh huh.”

“They were mostly Kym’s friends, and sometimes we’d go out when they were in town, and if we had fun, they’d invite me wherever they were going next. And if I didn’t have to work, I’d go with.”

“I have heard rumors,” Will says, popping his head in, Nico attached to his hip, “of Percy Jackson, boy toy of the rich and famous of Europe. Is it true?”

“Yes,” Grover and Rachel say at once.

“Do you want to hear about that, Will?” Percy asks, “Or would you rather hear about the summer Nico came to stay with me and Frank before he started college, and slept with every single dancer in Europe except Frank?”

Nico waves him off. “Only because you were already sleeping with him, cause he was your sugar daddy. Not like I needed the money.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Frank says.

“And now that we’ve aired all of my dirty laundry,” says Percy, “I need to borrow Annabeth for a second.” Gently, but with force, he tugs her arm, his other hand around her waist, directing her where to go like she’s one of his dance partners. Usually, she minds--a lot. She’s not about to let anyone, let alone a man, tell her where to go--but, you know, it’s Percy. Alone time with him is never a bad thing.

He pulls her into the hallway, shoving his hand into his pocket. “What’s up?” she asks.

“So.” Mouth open, he pauses for a moment, just… looking at her. His eyes are soft, warm like the first day of spring.

“What?”

“Uh, nothing,” he shakes himself a little, pulling his hand out. “Sorry, I just--I know you said you didn’t want anyone making a big deal out of your birthday…”

Oh, no. She braces herself for the worst.

Uncurling his fingers, he reveals his present for her.

“It’s… a pin?”

“Yeah,” he smiles. “Remember when I took my sister to the Met a few weeks ago? They were having that thing on Egyptian jewelry? Well, of course we had to stop in the gift shop, and I saw this and just--you know, thought of you.”

It is a pin--one of those lapel pins that more often than not are added to a collection usually displayed on a backpack. This pin is a silhouette she recognizes instantly: the Parthenon, its columns and angles rendered in sterling silver, little grooves dug into the metal in an approximation of the fluting.

“Wow,” she breathes. “Thank you.”

“It was nothing.” His ears are pink. “Happy birthday.”

And then he hugs her.

After a moment, she hugs him back.

It’s amazing how she can have had sex with someone so many times, but feel so awkward giving them a hug.

“I didn’t, um, tell anyone else,” he says, pulling back. His hands linger on her shoulders, thumb tapping at the base of her neck. “But, I kept meaning to give this to you, so, you know, now was as good a time as any, yeah?”

“I love it,” she says, honestly. Which surprises her. “Thank you.”

She slips it into her own pocket, not even minding the sharp corners.

When they return, Nico has already cut into the cake. “You were taking too long,” he snips.

It really is delicious. Much, much later, Percy sends her home with a sweet, soft kiss, and one of the last remaining slices, rather than staying for dinner.

Percy is the kind of boy who goes to his mother’s for dinner every week. She had been invited, but also threatened with the promise of another cake, and his ten year old sister, who would “love to make you a present.”

It sounded nice, but Annabeth knew when she wasn’t really wanted, and so she demurred, citing a need for some solo downtime.

She hasn’t heard from Thalia in, like, four days, which meant she had probably gotten a short-term gig. (“You’re lucky, she’s had Jason paying for her phone the whole time you’ve known her. Before that, she was almost impossible to get ahold of.”) Piper would take her out to dinner tomorrow, “just because.” But they would both know it wasn’t true.

So, to refresh and relax after a long, harrowing day of socializing, Annabeth goes home.

Or at least to her apartment.

It doesn’t have a doorman, or the views, or the room, like Nico’s place. Nor does it have any of the people, the energy, the joy. Her furniture doesn’t fill it up. The most appetizing thing in her kitchen are the granola bars Percy had made the week before, or maybe the brownies he made four days ago. She sets her to-go bag of cake and croissants down next to them, a smorgasboard of Percy’s culinary prowess.

Despite the long hours, her clothes still smell a little like last night’s bar, and her skin has a faint patina of dried sex sweat, and smudged makeup.

She doesn’t want to start leaving things at Percy’s place--don’t want him to get the wrong idea--but she also occasionally needs to be able to touch up her eyeliner. She’s either going to have to find a bag that isn’t embarrassing to carry, or surreptitiously shove some eyeliner and lipstick next to the condoms in Percy’s nightstand next time they have a sleepover. Or raid Nico’s bathroom.

Regardless, she needs a wash something bad.

As she scrubs down, she does her best to focus on the lemon scent of her body wash, and not Percy’s perfect form, dripping with water. She tries to visualize her last trip to Sephora, not blowing him under the hot water.

It doesn’t really work, so she gets herself clean and gets herself off and considers just spending the rest of the day naked, in case the mood strikes her again. But it's only 5PM, and she doesn’t have Percy to cook her some dinner tonight, so she sucks it up and puts on some pants.

When she had visited Boston for work a couple of months back, Alex had insisted on taking her shopping, complaining that her sister and her friend Mallory didn’t understand Versace quite like Annabeth did, and that Blitz sucked all the fun out of fashion, anyway. Then, she had bullied Annabeth into buying a set of sweats, claiming it was because of the Grecian patterns, but probably because she thought Annabeth in that much purple would be funny.

But eventually, she had wheedled, cajoled, and threatened Annabeth into buying a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. After deciding to forgo a bra, because that is just one more area she has always fallen short in, she shoves on a School of Architecture underneath them. The crimson clashes terribly with the lavender and seafoam, but she kind of likes it. Piper would call it “artfully nauseating,” or something.

Besides, no one is going to see her but her delivery guy. And if someone did see her, someone like Thalia or Percy, well, the clashing colors would be the least of her worries.

She is folded into her couch, wedged into the corner, very much not looking up Paris Ballet clips from the past few years, trying to spot Percy in the background, when there is a knock on her door.

Not for the first time, she curses her lack of doorman--and then frowns. Who even knows where she lives?

Piper and Leo? Magnus and Alex?

Has she already ordered food and just forgotten?

Is memory loss a side effect of a SK-II mask no one had warned her about?

Tentatively, she creeps towards the door, opening it slowly. If this were a horror movie, the door would creak open, revealing the villain cast in the shadows of the hallway, holding his weapon of choice.

She sighs.

The man is only a few inches taller than her, and dressed impeccably in a t-shirt and jeans that probably cost half a year of her rent-- a big critique coming from her, since she wears a month of her own rent as sweats. His blond hair is impeccably combed, his tennis shoes impeccably white, and his smile the most charming thing you can find this side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Happy birthday, girly,” he says, giving her an awkward, one-armed hug, trying to avoid getting any of her facemask on his shirt.

“What are you doing here?”

“It's your birthday,” he reminds her, holding up the bag. “I told you I’d stop by last week.”

Had he? Maybe, and she’d just been too drunk or hung over to really process it. But maybe he’d also meant to, and then failed to follow through. Luke has a bit of a nasty habit of treating his intentions as the same as his actions. His intentions are good, usually, but it means that he often ignored the actual actions. Like how his intention was to support his mother in the best nursing home in the northeast, but his action was to work with Saturn, a very shady hedge fund, to facilitate it. Or how his intention was to have someone at a stuffy party to talk to, but his action was dressing up Annabeth as his arm candy because none of Piper’s models would call him back anymore. He hasn’t asked her to do that since, like, February though, thankfully.

“Sorry,” Annabeth says. “I just… you know I don’t like my birthday.”

He also has a bit of a habit of ignoring her distaste in a really blatant way.

He’s a little like Percy that way, actually.

She’d only ever told Luke about her birthday back in those embarrassing freshman days, when she’d thought he looked as good on paper as any Harvard MBA student possibly could, with a devastating smile to match. She’d been so convinced that he would be the right boyfriend that might finally get her mother’s approval, and she figured that her future husband should know her birthday.

“Come in,” she says, reaching for the bag, but he shakes his head and brushes past her, dumping his black back on the coffee table. Graciously, he doesn’t look at her as he starts to empty out its contents, giving her an opportunity to dart back to her bathroom and peel off her facemask. Luke would forgive designer sweats, but they aren't at the “just chilling in a facemask” level of a relationship.

When she returns, there is a small assembly line arranged on her coffee table: a stack of paper plates, a carton of Haagen Daas, forks and spoons, and a Milk Bar cake, all wrapped in its box.

“Is Milk Bar still the ‘it’ thing?” she asks. “With locations all over the country, I figured it would be passé by now.”

“I know it’s your favorite,” Luke says. “I don’t always have to choose the most popular thing.”

Milk Bar had been her favorite, that is true, right up until she’d started fucking Percy Jackson, and eating his food.

“Thanks,” she says, cutting herself a slice, and scooping herself some ice cream.

“That’s all you’re going to get?” he asks, cutting himself a sliver.

“I have had so much cake today,” she says. Milk Bar really isn’t as good as Percy's, but it reminds her of birthdays in high school, waiting for her mother to visit, sneaking out when she inevitably didn’t, convincing the local bad boy to buy her some alcohol. She eats it, eagerly.

Luke’s jaw drops. “You had a birthday cake? By choice? On your birthday?”

She shakes her head, swallowing. “No, I was at a party with some friends. They didn’t even know it was my birthday,” Until she had stupidly revealed it. Whatever. She just has to make sure he’s been excised from her life by this time next year. And maybe freeze some of his baked goods beforehand.

Luke doesn’t let her go through with her evening plans, which consisted basically of watching Legally Blonde for the gazillionth time while she slurped down some pierogies, but he capitulates to Roman Holiday , helping her put away the leftover cake and ice cream. “Thanks,” she says, when the movie was done. “I’m glad you came over. “

No one ever comes over. Thalia is her best friend, but Thalia would have questions about how she could afford the place, Piper never understood why she’d moved out here at all, and Percy… Percy was irrelevant. There is no reason for him to come here.

“I always like to see my best girl.” He smiles at her, charming and rogueish.

“If all those models you keep trying to date know that your best girl is an architect who lives in Brooklyn who you actually feed, that’s probably why they don’t want to date you back.”

Luke laughs, leaning over and knocking his shoulder against her own. “None of those girls could hold a candle to you.”

“God, you must be a terrible boyfriend.”

“Probably,” he agrees, sitting up and stretching, before reaching back to the bag he brought the cake in. “After all, you are the one I bring all the nice presents. But I think I’m a pretty good friend.”

He takes out a box, burnt orange, a black ribbon wrapped around it, because Luke is nothing if not predictable.

Annabeth sighs internally, quietly reminding herself that money is how Luke shows his love. And that she is wearing Versace sweats.

“Herm é s,” she says, pulling off the ribbon. “This box looks too small for a Birkin.”

“Do you want a Birkin?” he asks. “I can get you a Birkin.”

“I probably don’t need a Birkin,” she admits. Though maybe it would be nice to have one in her closet, if her mom ever calls her up for lunch again. She could show up with a Birkin and an eyebrow ring. Sweet revenge.

Luke waves a hand. “It doesn't matter if you need one, just if you want one.”

Inside the box is a scarf, the silk soft and smooth between her fingers, a pleasing gradient of oranges and reds and pinks and corals. When she unfolds it, laying it out before her, she finds a sharp, geometric design, columns stacked together like skyscrapers. Luke obviously had her in mind when he picked it out.

“Thanks,” she says. It’s pretty--perfect for an ambitious young architect with two degrees from Harvard who had moved to New York City with an offer from one of the best architecture firms in the world. And Annabeth has no idea where she could possibly want or need to wear it.

“Hey,” Luke says, suddenly soft, “don’t cry.”

Shocked, she reaches her hand up to her face. It’s wet.

Luke is probably the only person she will let herself cry in front of. She’d spent three years doing that in college. He’d seen her through heartbreak and hangovers, guiding her through it all like an aloof big brother.

“I’m okay,” she hiccups, wiping her nose.

He hands her a napkin.

Annabeth blows her nose, wet and gross. “I’m sorry, I promise I’m alright.”

“You sure?” He sounds sincere, but she catches him glancing down at his wrist.

“Do you have a date?”

“I…” At least he has the decency to look sheepish. “Just some guys at work. You can come, if you want.”

It could be fun. Hanging out with Luke can be fun. Get a little lit, take a business bro home, screw his brains out, send him on his way. But there’s an unspoken dress code to these things, and Annabeth just doesn’t wear Louboutins anymore. And the idea of fucking a business bro just… doesn’t hold any appeal right now.

“No thanks,” she nods, using the clean edge of the napkin to wipe her eyes. “I am going to watch The Search For Elle Woods , and you're going to strike out with some models, and everyone is going to be happy.”

“You really are so mean to me.” Luke complains, as she walks him to the door, before giving her another hug. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

“I am.” She is different and new, but Luke is still her friend. She had survived. It would be okay.

“Well, call me if you need something.” He kisses her cheek, sweetly, without any heat. Perfectly platonic. “I love you very much. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” she says, “I’ll see you around.”

“Always.” And he is gone.

She folds the scarf, going to put it in the dresser in her room, shoving it among a handful of accessories, gathering dust. She realizes, with a start, that she’s left a week’s worth of clothes all over her room on the way to the shower, and, with a sigh of adulthood, and the knowledge that if she doesn’t follow the ADHD gods and pick them up now, they’ll be there for weeks, languishing on her floor and stinking up the place, she goes to at least move them into her hamper. She rifles through ripped jeans and band t-shirts and black socks as she goes, checking each for anything like discarded change or a bus pass she doesn’t want to wash.

She shakes out the pants she’d worn out the night before, and therefore the entire day until she’d gotten home. There is a rather unfortunate stain on the knee that she can’t quite parse--ketchup? Chocolate?

Then she reaches into the pockets, touching metal, and she suddenly remembers her other birthday present for the day.

Pulling out the pin, she feels strange, hot in the face, funny in the belly, tossing the jeans haphazardly in with the dirty laundry. It's small and shiny, cheap metal for mass market production, and yet, she walks it over to the dresser, laying it down on the silk scarf like it's the diamond broach her aunt gave her for her sixteenth birthday.

She really is beyond Hermès scarves now. But that pin? Well, you never really can get more Annabeth--the middle school know-it-all, teenage debutante, college perfectionist, New York yuppy, or barfly and punk princess--than one of the greatest architectural achievements in human history.

She is still a little shocked by how much she loves it. How much it means to her that Percy saw that it was perfect for her.

And like so many times when she is confronted with an emotion she doesn’t like, she slams the door closed, and goes and watches a favorite movie from high school.

She does order dinner, eventually, setting out her meal in between texting Piper about brunch tomorrow. It's a whole thing, pretending that they’re not going out for her birthday, but eventually they agree on a time and a place, and she can eat her sausage and watch everyone practice the Bend and Snap in peace.

So she is very annoyed when her phone buzzes again.

Maybe the reservation fell through. Or maybe she doesn’t want Annabeth to show up in ripped fishnets, even though that only happened once.

Her stomach sinks when she checks her phone. It isn’t Piper.

Hello Dear, Happy Birthday. We miss you. Please call anytime. Love Dad, Mary, and the boys.

Below the text is a link, leading to a gift certificate for $200 to Sephora, which has Mary’s name written all over it. Aunt Natalie would have suggested Bergdorf Goodman.

Her hand clenches, momentarily overcome with the urge to hurl her phone against the wall. But there is no one around, so there wouldn’t be any point to it.

She stabs at a pierogi with a chopstick, and watches the girls dance on screen, humming along.

She passes out on the couch after midnight.

Her mother never called.

#my fic #darkmagyk #pjo #percabeth #the rivalry ends here #ballet au #slightly douchey big brother luke castellan ftw!!!!!

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galaxysedginess · 4 years

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Crossroads

Ao3 link

Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze

3415 words

Sun glittered through the multicolored stained glass windows, creating long rainbow patterns that danced across the marble floor with heated consistency. There was no clock in the master bedroom, as strange as that may be, but Obi-Wan knew from the rising positioning of these reflections that mid-morning was approaching and as was the remainder of his life.

It sounded dramatic, but after months of denial following a few months of repressing that truth, but there were two diverging paths for Obi-Wan Kenobi. There was the path that was sculpted for him ever since he was recruited on the planet Stewjon at age 3. On it, he would become a Jedi knight and later a master, with time, patience, and training. He’d hope to train a padawan of his own someday and continue to serve and protect the galaxy. There was also the matter that he’d grown up a Jedi and knew nothing else but pushing towards that goal. He wanted to see the entire galaxy and do so along with his friends and family, who weren’t related to him by blood, but by purpose and destiny.

It was an honorable path and consisted of everything he ever knew and loved.

A soft snuffle startled him from his sleepless reverie. He glanced down to where Satine still lay with her head on his bare chest, fingers trailing aimlessly, caught somewhere between reality and dream. The bed beneath them was larger than he’d ever seen and significantly softer than anything they’d slept on over the past year, but still she curled against his side- even if the time to preserve warmth or ensure safety was over. However, Obi-Wan would never complain about being close to her.

The Jedi path contained almost everything he ever knew and loved.

The second path, at first, was not as clear as the other. He knew now with certainty that this was not because it was deemed less than in the grand scope of the force, but because it was one he had to open himself up to understanding. In his time with Satine, he’d discovered parts of himself that he never believed to exist. She evoked a range of emotions that he otherwise never would have experienced simply by her very existence. The primary facet of course being love, which he’d all but said to her the previous night.

He’d shown her rather than spoke of his love, as the final tennant of his code forbade it. That was not to say that the Jedi council would approve of the means at which he’d shown it, but he was resolute in his decision the moment they left her coronation banquet together. She’d been sure to ask him in between tangled silk sheets and seering kisses if what they were doing was okay.

They’d kissed in secret plenty of times during their year together. Most were chaste and quick, but others did drift well beyond the edges of propriety, but Obi-Wan (despite a panging sense of want that he’d never experienced before) never allowed them to go as far as he’d wanted because of the threat that always loomed around the corner. Even still, Satine never pushed. For as much as she questioned and debated the Jedi’s ideals and ethics, she always acknowledged their importance to Obi-Wan.

Something about her consideration and respect to his code only kindled the fire brighter within him and he’d answered with the only declaration he could give in clear conscience:

“Tonight, I’m yours.”

As someone who’d always been strongly encouraged against forming attachments and had been warned of the lustful temptations that could plague him in his youth, Obi-Wan expected to feel some level of guilt after his dalliance with the Duchess. Even after their glazed skin cooled from the embers of passion and Satine, herself, drifted into a peaceful sleep, he could only find contentment.

He feared this second path was one fully of self-fulfilled desire- that he would be ignoring a greater duty to the galaxy. Qui-Gon, while not privy to the more intimate details of his evolved relationship outside of the Jedi code, had still sensed his troubled thoughts.

“Meditate on your troubles, Obi-Wan. Only the force has the true answers of where and who we must be.” Qui-Gon sagely told him that morning.

So, before the coronation ball that required them for their final acts of service in regards to the Duchess, which was purely for show of gratitude more than anything, Obi-Wan spent several hours cross-legged and giving himself over to the serene flow of the force. During which, he felt as though he was in a spiritual tug of war. He could feel the weight of this crossroad and the effect it could have on the galaxy as a whole.

He was not so narcissistic to believe that the most fantastical events revolved around his choices, but he did understand that even the smallest of moments could hinder or transform a sequence of events. He sensed the potential of great purpose, of course, which was a Jedi’s truest call to action. While vague, it was obvious he would do much good in the galaxy as a Jedi, even if the overall emotion he sensed down that path was… Loss. However, there was also balance in that loss. Yes, the force sung with rightness when he leaned in this direction, promising a difficult life, but an influential and worthy one. It was a lot for one young padawan to take in all at once.

When he considered his second choice, he was surprised to find the same importance of duty as his Jedi path. He supposed this made sense, given should he be offered a stay on Mandalore, he would likely assist in rebuilding and strengthening their people. And yet, despite a localized sector, it seemed this good would be useful for more than just Mandalore and would outstretch to a galaxy of influence. Warmth flowed through him as he felt rather than saw, a montage of possibilities: peace, prosperity and… Children? He tried not to linger too long on them, but the image of Satine holding a baby in her arms flickered across his mind’s eye before he could even try and stop it.

He would forge a family should he stay. With Satine. Such possibilities held so much curiosity and wonder for him, for someone who never even blinked at the concept of parenthood before, that he briefly had to consider if he would be capable of such a task.

And yet, while overwhelming, he knew he would give his soul for them. They didn’t have names, faces, or heartbeats yet, but he understood in his bones that he would gladly give himself over entirely.

He’d exhaled deeply, determined not to let emotion guide his choice, and centered himself to align with what the force believed of such a path. To his shock, a wave of calm and peace flushed through him at once, giving off the belief that yes, this path was also correct. He would and could do good on Mandalore, beyond self-serving desires such as pursuing love.

Which meant, it was simply up to him.

At the time, Obi-Wan had scowled, resigned to the realization that this decision had not been made for him, before fluttering his eyes open to see none other than Satine staring down at him. He had been flustered, of course, having not heard her come in, and had instantly scrambled to his feet to meet her.

“I just came to inquire if you needed anything to wear for tonight,” She asked, even if they both knew she could have sent a servant to do so, “I managed to convince Qui-Gon to dress up, so if you choose not to, you will stick out.”

“What’s wrong with my robes?” He’d taken the bait as he always did.

“Would you like me to exclude mention of the blaster fire burns? I feel that might be too much of a low hanging fruit, if you ask me.”

This ignited a brief argument between the two of them that inevitably led to Obi-Wan giving in to whatever ensemble she’d surely already had picked out and Satine smiling broadly at his verbal defeat in a way that made his heart feel it might burst. She’d kissed him on the cheek then, swiftly but expertly, as she’d done so for the past couple of months, and then left him reeling on his own yet again with a terrifying thought for a Jedi.

I would leave for you.

Or, it should have been terrifying. The fact of the matter, was Obi-Wan only felt peace at the idea. He would say yes if she wanted him. It would be hard saying goodbye to his life as he knew it, but despite having only known her for a year, that same aching pull reflected in the thought of leaving her. And as the morning sun rose higher into the sky, dangerously approaching its peak, Obi-Wan felt that crossroad thrust upon him as he realized time was running out.

They were due to leave today. The council had commed Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon regarding an uprising in the mid rim that could benefit from Jedi mediation. When Qui-Gon announced their planned departure to Satine, she hadn’t so much as flinched, but did insist on seeing them off to part them with a proper Mandalorian farewell tribute.

As he regarded their discarded clothes on the floor, a small part of him resisted the idea of making a snarky comment on how other systems could truly start bidding goodbyes like Mandalorians. However, he was stopped at the thought that this might truly be goodbye.

He took in all of the details of her face for good measure- her smooth alabaster skin with pink undertones near her cheeks, the straight slope of her nose, thin pink lips drawn into a slight pout in sleep. Behind closed eyes he could picture visions of blue sea glass staring back at him with an intensity that would scare a weaker man back into space, but only strengthened Obi-Wan captivation with the Duchess.

As if she could sense she was being watched, Satine stirred slightly and peaked one eye open to test out the brightness of the room. Upon seeing him first, she nuzzled his chest and closed her eyes again, making a soft sound in the back of her throat.

“Good morning.” He said against her hair. He’d be a liar to say he didn’t relish in how sweetly she smelled like lilies.

“Why do I get the feeling you didn’t sleep?” She mused sleepily.

He didn’t, but even after falling into bed with her and having several hours afterwards to ruminate on his life going forward, Obi-Wan was not tired. If anything, he’d never been more alert.

Not wanting to put a damper on her day so early, he merely shrugged, “Need I remind you that I’m a Jedi and we don’t require the same amount of sleep?”

A half-truth.

“Last I checked, you were a padawan .” She still hadn’t opened her eyes fully, but tapped her fingers across his chest, “Much left to learn.”

“Hm,” He ran a hand up her spine, relishing in the shiver she tried to suppress, “I don’t recall you complaining much last night about my learning level.”

She snorted, but he could feel the flutter of her heart and she snuggled closer, “I didn’t say you weren’t a fast learner.”

He laughed, because she was never without a retort to one of his own rebukes, but couldn’t help noticing how painfully normal this warm scene felt. Satine felt it too, because he could sense her still beneath him, sudden melancholy and longing filling her heart.

She answered this growing sadness with a kiss- infused with as many feelings as she could express without words and he responded in kind and deepened the embrace. Despite the calm that had infused him with his careful consideration over the future, emotions bubbled and boiled to the surface- threatening to make their way to surface if not for the way Satine expertly kept his tongue quite busy.

It was only the hard knock at her large double doors that broke them apart accompanied by the announcement that the Jedi would be departing within the hour.

Reality could be delayed no longer.

It seemed it didn’t matter how many katas he practiced or how many walls he jumped, no exercise would prepare him properly for the act of kissing Satine. He wouldn’t admit it, but he quite liked that she exhausted him the way she did.

“Qui-Gon will come looking for me.” Obi-Wan breathed heavily.

“Yes, me as well.” She admitted without taking her eyes off of his. “Where will you go?”

“Haidoral Prime.” He said and leaned back on his forearms.

“And then?”

“I’m not sure.” He answered honestly, “Truthfully, Duchess, I’m having a difficult time processing any time lapsing beyond this moment.”

“Me neither,” She whispered and fondly tugged on his padawan braid. There was so much conflict in her eyes as she considered him in full, “You saved me, my heroic Jedi knight. Time and time again.”

His heart felt like it was plundering in his stomach. So, this would be their goodbye. He was confident they would have another one, under scrutinizing eyes and the masks they wore so well when they weren’t alone with each other. Obi-Wan wasn’t sure how it would fit after a night like the previous one.

He laced their fingers together and kissed them, “The pleasure was all mine, my dear.”

At the second knock on the door, which was truthfully quite kind for her guards, they forced themselves to crawl out of bed and slip on their clothes. Obi-Wan did the respectful thing and prepared to climb out the window to spare them the lingering stares down the hall from any passerbys. Before he could even step a leg out, Satine grabbed him from the front of his tunics and kissed him again, this time almost pleadingly, and he once again saw that crossroad splitting just before him saying it was now or never.

Just then, clearer than ever, he saw crystalline glimpses of his two futures. One, where he was alone and old staring at a horizon with twin suns, a worn frown on his face as he gazed at a small farm with promising hope.

The other, he was somehow older than the first, but not alone. He was dancing with a woman, who smelled of lilies and sounded like the sweetest tune he’d ever heard, even while mocking his dance steps.

There was peace and purpose in both, but he knew just then what he wanted and perhaps, that had been the lesson at the core, that so long as he wasn’t rejecting or ignoring the greater purpose for the galaxy, that his own accounts and wants were valid too. So long as he served the force as the higher power that it was, that he could have… Peace.

And with that, he realized she would never ask him to stay, not unprompted, but not because she didn't want him, but because she loved him too much to ever do such a thing. He realized then that he loved her too much to make her ask.

“You wouldn’t happen to be in the market for a long-term protector, would you?” He asked, trying to inflict his on-brand sense of levity, but could still hear the vulnerability in his voice.

She startled, “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” He breathed, “I love you and if you’ll have me,” And his heart sped up despite knowing with certainty where her feelings lay, “I would like to stay here with you.”

Her eyes widened in nearly comical shock as she stared back at him in disbelief. The longer she didn’t answer, the more he felt himself slowly crumbling apart. He would leave for her, without hesitation, but going back after a blatant rejection would be incredibly difficult for him, especially if he’d somehow misjudged this entire situation.

“But- the Jedi?” She spluttered and leaned back from him.

Her guards knocked a third time, “Duchess-”

“-Yes, one moment, please.” She answered firmly in a tone she’d practiced over the months to read, do not bother me again, thank you. And she turned back to Obi-Wan with doubt and confusion in her eyes, “You’re a Jedi.”

“Padawan.” He corrected, “You’ve certainly pointed that out enough.”

“But… Attachments.” She floundered.

“Jedi cannot have attachments.” He shifted in his feet, “And I respect that code, but should I stay, I would not be a Jedi any longer.”

She gaped, “I thought… You have dreams! And hopes! I can’t take you away from those. It would be selfish.”

“And it turns out,” He felt his cheeks reddening, “I can have many different dreams.”

“Obi-Wan, I need you to be logical. I mean, this is a huge decision.” She said adamantly, “One that if I have your order pegged correctly, you cannot go back on.”

“I assure you, it’s a choice that hasn’t been made lightly,” He swallowed, “And one that requires your sole agreement. I will not cross boundaries where I am unwanted. It’s not only against the Jedi way, but simply my way.”

“Of course I want you!” Her voice raised dramatically, echoing a bit off the walls and she paused, glancing back towards the doors where her guards and likely at this point, Qui-Gon, stood. Obi-Wan found he no longer cared for being judged. “I’ve been holding back because I know how much being a Jedi means to you and how much your code means to you. If this is solely about last night-”

“-It’s about last night and all the other nights before it.” He said, growing heated, “It’s about every night I’ve spent alongside you for the past year- whether it be huddling for warmth in the rain or sleeping back to back in the sweltering heat. Arguing in the middle of an onslaught or kissing wounds in secret. So, I assure you, Duchess, while last night was quite pleasant, it did not put me under a hypnotic spell that would knock me from my senses.”

“You sure know how to charm a girl,” She rolled her eyes, “Even in the midst of what is supposed to be a romantic moment, I’m guessing.”

“And what other way would you have it, Cyar’ika?” He sighed heavily, “If I could bestow you with a ring, I would.”

“Okay, if anyone is proposing marriage around here, it’s me!” She pointed at herself aggressively in a way that Obi-Wan found equal parts frustrating and extremely attractive.

“Then do it if you so please!” He said and then sagged a bit, “Or please notify me otherwise.”

“ Oh, Be’ni.” She said reverently, taking his face in her hands and fixing him with her most loving stare that he used to shy away from but only nuzzled closer to.

The one to whom I belong; the one who belongs to me.

He didn’t doubt for a minute that this was the derivation of her private nickname for him, though he’d never heard her formally admit it until now. He raised their joint hands and kissed her fingers again, never once breaking eye contact as he did his best to ebb away any of her doubts, to assure her that this was what he wanted, that she was enough for him to walk away from all of it, if she said so.

And that he’d be happy here.

“I want all of it.” He said resolutely, “And I am prepared to sacrifice what it is necessary to do so. I could never regret you.”

She gasped a little at that and leaned into his touch and in that moment, he didn’t see paths or visions or vague futures, but just her and the warm aura that surrounded her. The confidence, snarkiness, idealism that made up the person he loved dearly.

“I could never regret you either.” Tears were running down her cheeks when she nodded quickly and pressed her forehead to his: “ Stay with me, love me, Marry me.”

“Yes.” He brought his lips to hers, feeling quite emotional himself as the other path that he’d edged towards for so long faded away along with the future it held. He didn’t doubt there would be plenty of horizons to behold with Satine in his arms.

#obitine #Obi-Wan Kenobi #satine kryze #The Clone Wars #Star Wars #au canon divergence #myfics #excuse my shitty mando'a

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gardenofkore · 4 years

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“As you enter the church your eyes will be at once be attracted to the figure of the Madonna Nera and Child dominating the nave from their angel-born throne above the High Altar. The wooden statue, above 1 m high, with Nigra sum Sed formosa inscribed underneath, shows a great resembling between Mother and Child, both sumptuously crowned and robed in white and gold. Her face recalls that of a gypsy or a good witch, not dissimilar to her sisters of Dijon and Guadalupe.Her legend is as follows: She was brought from the east on a ship forced to seek safe heaven in the bay, which was once the splendid ancient harbour of Tyndaris.After the storm the ship would not move until the sailors disembarked the image in the place the Madonna had chosen. She was carried up the hill to the small church that had been built on the ruins of the Temple of Cybele, since when her cult has never ceased to flourish.”

Ean C. M. Begg, The Cult of the Black Virgin, p. 277-278

----

“When we review the attributes of the goddesses, from the early civilization of Sumer to the highly artistic civilizations of Greece and Rome, we discover that the characteristics they [Virgin Mary and Mary Magdalene] shared were physical beauty, virginity, association with the moon and the tragic death, or deliberate sacrifice, of a sonlover.With this in mind, consider the image of Mary, mother of Jesus. She is worshiped as the Virgin Mary. Indeed, it is her virginity (the state of being chaste, not the original meaning of the word) which sets her apart from other women. Mary is also associated with the cosmos, often being called Queen of Heaven. To depict her heavenly beauty, she is frequently pictured enthroned on the moon. Her primary association is with her son, who is sacrificed; Mary's role as a wife is negligible. Despite these parallels with the image of the goddess, Mary is conventionally associated solely with the maternal aspect of the feminine—static and protective. The dynamic, transforming aspect, related to the passion, sexuality and fertility of the love goddesses, is conspicuously lacking.

However, there are other correlations between Mary and the ancient chthonic goddesses which, though not commonly known, are operative in collective consciousness. In a small number of cathedrals throughout Europe, both in popular and isolated places, a black madonna is venerated. She is not the more familiar, angelic madonna in the blue cloak, but one as black as the earth itself. She belongs to the lower world, not the heavenly realm.From prehistoric times, as early as thirty thousand years before the beginning of the Christian era, comes the Black Venus of Lespugue, carved from a mammoth tusk, now preserved in the Musée de l'Homme in Paris. As she predates a time when any knowledge of agriculture existed, she is more than earth; she is Life itself. Other black feminine images, symbolic of the chthonic life force, have been worshiped throughout the ages.

In Tindari, on the coast of Mediterranean in eastern Sicily, a black statue of the madonna bears the inscription, nigra sum sed formosa -”I am black, but comely”- from the Song of Solomon 1:5. Christian scholars interpret this passage as referring to a bride, the Virgin Mary as Ecclesia, uniting in marriage with the bridegroom, her son Christ. It appears to be founded in the sacred marriage rite of Ishtar and Tammuz, since there are many parallers between the ancient cuneiform tablets and this Old Testament text. Could not this “black and comely” madonna be a product of the far more ancient image of the goddess?

[...]

When women adapted to the religious tenets of the patriarchy, they also accepted man's image of his anima as an accurate reflection of feminine nature. They thereby lost their connection to the genuine feminine, including the chthonic aspects represented by the black madonna.Many black madonnas are currently valued as religious symbols, but far more numerous are images of the conventional "blue" madonnna. The latter, as anima, inspired men to build impressive cathedrals and create beautiful works of art, but she lacks a crucial dimension of feminine nature. The black madonna, associated with both the earth and fertility, is an image of the divine feminine reflecting the ancient connection between women's nature and the goddess of love. Through her, the Great Goddess still lives in Christianity.”

Nancy Qualls-Corbett, The sacred prostitute: eternal aspect of the feminine, p. 152-154

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“According to the legendary arrival of the Black Madonna of Tindari, the ship that was carrying her image was forced to take anchor in the Bay of Tindari in a storm, and was not allowed to sail until her image was taken from the ship, where it was then carried to the former temple site of the Goddess Cybele.

[...]

The sanctuary of Tindari sits on a high bluff on the northern shore of Sicily. A woman from a far-away country had come to fulfill a vow to the Madonna of Tindari for saving her little girl's life. When the woman reached the sanctuary, after a long journey, she openly expressed her disillusionment upon seeing that the Madonna's face was black. The moment she expressed her irreverence, her little girl, who had wandered away from her mother, fell from a cliff. The woman called upon the Madonna to again save her child's life. But the miracle had already happened - the sea had withdrawn so the girl could fall on soft sand. The woman now believed in the divine powers of the Madonna she had mocked and the sea stayed at a distance permanently as a reminder of what had happened.

[...]

Sometimes the versions of a story of a punishing miracle varied, with important details missing. Only one of several sources mentioned the punishment by the Madonna of Tindari,for example. Carroll also cites a case in which a modern account of a miracle leaves out the harmful details included in older accounts.This leads me to wonder whether elements of other stories have been dropped over time. Considering the patterns in the body of above miracles, at one time there may have been a full cycle of the Madonna's anger, punishment, forgiveness and healing in more of them. Perhaps, like the alteration of the dark color of the images that other scholars and I have found, elimination of the details of the stories is a kind of "emotional whitening," a gradual removal of the Madonna's "full" range of power, including those we might consider to be negative.I must state that I never got a sense at any of the dozens of Black Madonna sanctuaries I visited that these most powerful Madonnas were feared. On the contrary they appeared to be greatly beloved. The fervor and devotion was palpable. I observed the utter closeness of the people to the Madonna. The Black Madonnas of Montevergine, Somma Vesuviana, and Napoli are all addressed as Mamma, a clearly familiar form of address. Songs and prayers use familiar (rather than formal) pronouns and indicate an endearing and close relationship. Chiseled in marble above the area where the painting of the Black Madonna of Montevergine once hung are the words which translate "You Are Black And Beautiful, My Friend."

The Black Madonna's devotees may feel reassurance from her ferocity, like the women in southern India who believe the fierce goddess Kali's power is there to protect them. Perhaps the severe punishment that was attributed to the Madonna's power was a way for the women to ensure the rules were respected, that the sacred was preserved, and to emphasize that the great honor due the Madonna must never be violated.”

Mary Beth Moser, Blood Relics: Menstrual Roots of Miraculous Black Madonnas in Italy, p. 6; 9-11

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“It is a well known fact that sanctuaries dedicated to Mary were often built on sites that were originally used for the veneration of pagan goddesses. The same development could have happened in regard to statues, particularly when the statue of the Virgin is black in color. Shrines of earthgoddesses were scattered all over Europe, as are venerated statues of the "Black Madonna," which can be found in great numbers from Great Britain to Hungary and Poland. In none of them with which I am familiar can negroid features be detected; therefore, they are not black because of their race. In some cases the material from which they are made is black; in other cases, it is claimed that accumulated dirt and soot may account for their color. This explanation, usually given by Roman Catholic scholars, does not explain why the whole body of the statue turned black, even under the clothing, and not just the face and hands. And what about those to which none of these arguments apply? One answer lies at hand: they are black because they represent earth, the mother of all. That Christians could so easily think of Mary as black should not be surprising. Not only was the relationship between Mary and the virgin earth long established, from quite early the Song of Songs was interpreted in the church in a Marian way. This love song was explained as referring to the relationship between Christ and the church, his bride; since the church was identified with Mary, the song could be also be applied to the love of God and Mary; and the female lover in the Song of Songs is black: "I am black but beautiful, Ο daughters of Jeruselem."

Thus nothing stands in the way of seeing in the veneration of the Black Madonnas a continuation of the popular piety with which the great mystery of earth was honored. In some areas of Europe the roots of this piety, such as that of the Celts, may go back to pre-Roman times. It may have been Artemis or Isis who inspired the cult. In Tindari, Sicily, the Madonna Nera is in a church erected on the site of a former sanctuary of Cybele.”

Stephen Benko, The Virgin Goddess: Studies in the Pagan and Christian Roots of Mariology, p. 213-214

#women #history #women in history #historical women #history of women #tindari #culture #religion #province of messina #myedit #virgin mary

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powerstrangerdacre · 6 years

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Summary: “I… I can’t. You’re… wild.” Is all he could say.

“So… if I wasn’t wild, if I fit the mold of what you think the perfect woman would be for you, then it would be different?”

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Warning: alcohol consumption, swearing, Luke being an astronomical asshole, angst with a fluffly ending

Word Count: 7000+

AN: Ello! I’m back!! I know I’ve been gone for so long (I’m sowwy), but I’ve had this in my ‘unedited’ pile for so long and I just couldn’t wait to post it. (It’s still unedited.. so... sorry.)

Thanks so much @theoneanna for pre-reading this for me and seeing if it made any sense haha! Love ya girly!

The moment she opened the door she was met with silence. The kind of silence that made her ears ring, her stomach drop and her head hurt. Though if she thought about it better, the pounding headache that she was experiencing might’ve been the result of one too many champagne glasses. Her bare feet skipped over the cold marble flooring, her expensive Louboutins forgotten by the door. Her dress slipped off her shoulder with one push, falling into a heap on the floor of her overly large kitchen. Soft locks of hair slowly fell on her shoulders as she pulled the last pin from her up-do. She searched the fridge for something that could soothe the harsh burning feeling that moved up and down her throat. Definitely too much champagne.

She made her way to her bedroom, where her king-sized bed waited for her. Her shoulders slumped as she opened the door to see the huge room bathed in soft light from the one lamp that she always kept on. She hated the dark, but she loved being alone. She told herself that it was times like these that made everything worth it. That those short moments where she was alone, were what made all the drama and gossip that came with being ‘Y/N Y/L/N’ worth it.

She threw herself onto the silk covers, relishing in the cold feeling. Sleep soon overtook her.

Her house smelled of money. Large and fancy, everything a normal person would ever dream of. It had everything she needed and more, and yet it somehow made her feel empty, because as much as she told herself that she liked being alone, the moment her eyes opened the next morning, she felt as though the walls were way too big, way too white. The bed was soft and warm where she laid, but shivers overtook her as soon as she moved an inch. Cold. Her room was pretty much empty, except for her bed and her night-stand. It felt foreign. It didn’t feel like her room, even though she knew she had bought the house with her own hard-earned money.

She felt just like her bed, cold and somehow lonely. She hated feeling lonely.

The only thing that made her feel at home was the picture that she still kept close to her, hidden under her pillow. It was old and faded, but it was the thing she held dearest. The only thing that she wouldn’t give up even if all hell broke loose or the sky fell down. She can see it before her eyes, the small smile on his face, the huge grin on hers, the reds and oranges as the sun set behind them. As soon as she pulls it out, she notices the wrinkles and the little ripped corner on the once glossy piece of paper. The reds and oranges aren’t as visible as they used to be. His eyes aren’t as blue as she remembers, but his smile is just as it was imprinted in her memories. Small and bashful, the corners of his lips pushing his cheeks up and making the skin next to his eyes wrinkle. His face looks younger, but not any less handsome than she knows it did last night.

She never imagined seeing him at one of those parties, the ones where all the so-called ‘youngsters’ and ‘trouble-makers’ were invited to. She would’ve never imagined that he would’ve showed up, even if he had been invited, but she could only assume that that one blond friend had dragged him to the celebration.

Of course, those kinds of junctions were her thing. She just loved the loud music and the smell of the alcohol. She just loved the feeling of letting go and not worrying. Who cared about the articles that would most likely pop up the next day? ‘Tom would.’ her mind told her.

She didn’t know how they had drifted so far apart. How they had become so different from each-other when they were literally two peas in a pod only years earlier.

They had met during college, through mutual friends, and they instantly clicked. For a while it was as if nothing could break them apart. They were friends, best friends even, always coming to each-other with joy and sorrow alike. For a while, she thought that he would never leave her. For a while, she imagined herself as an old lady on the porch of a small cottage with him by her side. And for a while, everything seemed to be alright.

They grew closer, long hugs becoming cuddles in the middle of the night while they whispered to each-other. The smiles they shared turned into small kisses at the top of her head, and she relished in the feeling of his lips on her hair. She loved the way his arms felt around her waist. She always felt warm and loved while he was around. So she never bothered to even wonder about what kind of relationship they had formed. It surely didn’t feel like they were friends, but she was sure that they weren’t exactly lovers.

She was young. She was stupid. She expected too much from someone who could give too little.

Tom had always had commitment issues. He was late to everywhere and everything. He would choose one book to read, only to switch to the next in less than a second. He would even have problems picking something to eat. How Y/N had been so blind to it for so long, she didn’t know. But she slowly figured it out when she started seeing him with another girl every week. Of course, it broke her heart to know that her feelings were only one-sided, and her mind and heart kicked into ‘self-preserve’ mode.

She couldn’t exactly pin-point the moment when they stopped talking to each-other, but if she were to try and put some kind of sense as to why, she would say that that’s when it started. She would try and see him less and less, at one point even walking away when she saw Tom on campus. Their cuddles turned into hugs, the kisses on her head to smiles. Their so-called relationship turned to friendship, and then to nothing.

Their lives took different turns as soon as they both graduated.

She loved and hated that picture of them, snuggled so close together with his head atop hers. It showed weakness, and weakness was something that she wouldn’t allow herself to feel anymore. Weakness had no place in her line of work, because if you showed even the least bit of it, the media would feed into it and cause a frenzy. And while she didn’t mind being seen as a ‘wild-child’, she did not like it when people thought she was weak.

So she kept her memories locked inside her mind and heart, just like that picture that was hidden behind the closed doors of her so-called home.

The moment Tom laid his eyes on her, he couldn’t believe it. The party Chris had dragged him to was in full swing, music blaring through the dark room and cigarette smoke wafting through the air. And there she stood, in the middle of it all, champagne glass held high as she whooped with the other half-drunk actors and actresses. He hadn’t seen her in ages, but she looked exactly how he remembered, young and full of life, nothing like his closed-off, tired self.

He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t exactly pin-point the moment he forgot about her. How he could’ve forgotten that warm smile and those kind eyes was beyond him, but he somehow managed to bury the memory of her far in the back of his mind.

His eyes moved over her and he could feel himself growing more and more disgusted with himself for some reason. He didn’t know why, but his stomach churned and turned as he watched her dance with one of her friends. He thought the guy was too close to her. He thought she was way too smiley and happy as she turned around to snake her hands around that assholes neck. He thought he would be a more appropriate dance partner for someone like Y/N.

“Tom? Hiddles!” Chris’s voice pulled Tom from his thoughts as his head whipped into his co-stars direction.

“Sorry. What did you say?” Tom asked, sipping on his glass that had been placed in front of him while he was too busy staring at her.

“It’s alright.” Chris chuckled. “What’s gotten you so entranced?” Tom’s eyes moved in Y/N’s direction unwillingly, allowing Chris to follow his gaze and land on the drunk woman. Chris’s eyes widened with recognition, before turning to look at his friend like he had just grown another head. Chris knew that Tom had a thing for girls that were known to mean trouble, but this was way over his head.

“Really? Y/N?” Chris asked, shaking his head. The girl had a reputation to her, and it wasn’t a good one. No, Y/N wasn’t the best for anyone’s image, and Chris knew that Tom had an image to upkeep.

“It’s nothing,” Tom said, taking another gulp from his glass. Chris sure hoped it was nothing, but he knew Tom way too well to believe him. He knew that look, and it didn’t mean anything good.

Tom thought there would be no way to meet her again. They had managed to stay out of each-others way for so long, why would now be any different?

He opened the door to his new home, headphones in his ears blasting whatever song came next on his Spotify playlist. He stretched his legs and arms before pushing off the ground and slowly building up his pace into a somewhat slow jog.

His eyes were unfocused, his mind racing with thoughts of her. She didn’t seem to notice him. Maybe she had forgotten all about him. Maybe she was as busy if not busier than him, so who could blame her for not remembering an old friend?

It was as if his body had a mind of its own, suddenly scoffing at the thought he planted in his head. An old friend. Yeah right. She hates your guts and you know it.

He could remember it clearly, the way she looked whenever he would show up on campus with a new girl. He knew he was breaking her heart. He knew her feelings, and he knew his feelings, but didn’t do anything about it. She was too wild for him, even back then. He was so sure that there was no way in hell that whatever she wanted to start would end well. So he did what he did best and ended it before it even started.

His mind raced on and on, and soon he was tripping and on his way to have a not-so-comfortable meeting with the ground. A hand grasped his and he was pulled in the other direction, only to have the other person fall on their ass with an ‘Oomph’.

“God, I’m so sorry! Are you alright?” Tom asked, only to be met with a pair of Y/E/C eyes.

Y/N and Tom stayed in that position, him crouching over her.

Her eyes studied his face. His eyes as wide as saucers, mouth dropped open in a small ‘o’. She couldn’t stop the giggle that fell from her lips. “Are you going to help me stand, or…?”

His face unfroze at the sound of her voice. It seemed so long since he last heard it, but it still made him feel exhilarated. His lips pulled into a smile and he offered her his hand, pulling her on her feet easily. She hissed as her left foot made contact with the floor, and worry was once again etched on his features.

“Are you okay? Should I take you to the hospital? Wait… I’ll call an ambulance.” One hand was holding her, his other already in his pocket, fishing for his phone when she once again giggled.

“Ever the worrisome one, huh Hiddleston?” Y/N shook her head, remembering all the times he had nursed her back to health after a night of college partying.

His eyes fell back on her figure, and he couldn’t help but scoff. “One of us has to be, Y/L/N,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his every word.

They both fell silent. Y/N had always imagined what she would say to him when and if they would ever meet again. But now all of those speeches were forgotten - words caught in her throat, unwilling to make their way past her lips. She just watched Tom, he watched her and all of a sudden they both fell into a chuckle. Then that chuckle turned to laughter and it all seemed to fall back to when they were in college. They both felt like those two fools who didn’t know anything about anything and just had each-other as a back-up.

“You want to go get tea?” he asked.

Her lips pulled into a tight line. Tea with none other than Tom Hiddleston meant more publicity: good for her, bad for him. And as much as she wanted to say yes, she couldn’t. “I don’t think that’s a great idea…”

Y/N expected him to nod, to understand where she was coming from – that she wasn’t good company. But Tom only watched as her eyes fell to the ground. He shook his head. “Let’s go,” he said, startling her into walking with him.

And they walked and talked about all the time they had lost. Tom could see her clearer now, clearer than how he had seen her last night. Her eyes sparkled in the morning light, just like he remembered, but they seemed tired. Tired and somehow lost. He remembers how she used to look at him, with love and adoration. Now she seemed to want to look anywhere but at him. Her eyes wandered through the café, lingering on everything and everyone but him. It annoyed him to no ends, but he knew that he was to blame.

“So I heard about the Loki series. Congratulations.” She smiled as she dared a look at him, her eyes as careful as the sip she took from her steaming cup of tea.

“Thank you, but honestly it’s nothing compared to you. I heard they’re planning another sequel to your movie,” he grinned, “How many has it been now? Three? Four?”

“Actually,” she stopped for a second, sighing tiredly, “I won’t be acting in this one.”

His eyes widened, mind unable to comprehend why she would let such an opportunity go. “I understand if you don’t want to tell me, but why not?”

She shook her head. “I just… felt trapped in that role. I’ve been wanting to try something else and this movie wouldn’t allow for that. I would be playing the same scared heroine waiting for her man to come and save her, and I…” I don’t want to wait for someone to come a swoop me off my feet. “I got bored.”

“Oh…” Tom answered, shaking his head and chuckling slightly.

“What?” she asked.

“It’s just, that’s how you’ve always been. Always so strong and… how do I put it… decided?” He winced at how wrong that sounded.

“You mean hot-headed?” She smirked.

Tom bit his lip, nodding slightly in understanding. Hot-headed suited her. Always walking head first into a situation and worrying about the consequences later. She simply didn’t care about the future, always choosing to live in the present and deal with trouble wherever it came from. “Yeah… hot-headed.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr. I’m-too-careful-for-my-own-good.”

“Hey!”

“What?! It’s the truth!” She shrugged.

“Yeah…”

Thick silence enveloped them, making her feel awfully awkward as she stared down at her lap. Maybe it wasn’t her place anymore to make those jokes. Maybe she had gone one step too far, or one step too little. It felt like they were in college while they were talking, just two friends catching up and messing around, but maybe it wasn’t like that anymore. It was clear that they weren’t as comfortable with each-other as they used to be.

Tom didn’t know what to think or what to say. She was right there. She sat in front of him and he simply couldn’t find the words. Should he be sorry for what happened during college? Should he regret pushing her away? He knew he shouldn’t, it had been the right thing do to. Right?

After a week, Tom wasn’t so sure of himself anymore. He wasn’t sure about anything he did anymore. Everything seemed so fake and forced. He slowly felt like he was being, simply put, a phony.

Except when he was around her.

They both knew that it was a bit awkward when they were both in the same room, but it slowly dissipated. He didn’t have to think about what would be the proper thing to say or do when she was around, because she knew him. He knew she knew him, the real him that wasn’t always a polite gentleman. She knew the guy that liked to mess around. The guy who wasn’t always perfect. The guy who wasn’t a “celebrity”. And he knew the girl that she used to be, and still was, but as they met more and more often, she seemed to get more and more lively. She seemed to care even less about reputation and more about the guy who was her friend.

What Tom didn’t expect was how fast his heart was beating every time she hugged or just simply touched him. He didn’t expect to see her with the same eyes that his college self used to. It was like all he had worked so hard to ignore for so long just simply rushed back with a touch of her fingers and a look in his eyes.

He didn’t expect that to happen. And he sure as hell hadn’t planned for it, but now that dreaded feeling was there and he couldn’t get a grip on himself.

“Have you seen this?” Luke entered Tom’s office, throwing a magazine in front of him with a huff.

“It’s good to see you too, Luke,” Tom joked with a light chuckle, not even glancing at what he knew to be another scandal, caused most likely by his late-night drive to a bar with Y/N and Chris.

“Yeah, yeah… Good to see you yada, yada… Now, have you seen this?” Luke placed both hands on Tom’s desk, his face something between a scowl and a look of disappointment.

Tom glanced down and sure as hell, there it was in big bold letters: ‘Eligible bachelor Tom Hiddleston not as eligible as we might have thought?’ A picture of him and Y/N doing shots by the bar was plastered all over the front page. “Yeah, I’ve seen it. What’s wrong with it?” Tom asked.

“What’s wrong with it?!” Luke yelped, trying to control his anger, “Tom, they’re saying that you have an alcohol problem! They’re saying that you’re dating that… that mess, Y/N!” Tom glared up at Luke from where he was still seated, not having it when his publicist talked bad about his friend. But Luke wasn’t having it. “Do you have any idea what she could do to your reputation? She could ruin you in a matter of seconds!” Luke snapped his fingers, as if that would make everything clearer in Tom’s mind. “Like that.” Snap. “And your career and fans would be gone.”

Now, that sentence scared Tom, but not in the way that Luke had meant it. He wasn’t scared of losing acting jobs, because to him those jobs were just that, jobs. He had lost his passion for acting long ago and was doing it because… Why was he still doing it? He didn’t know. Y/N wouldn’t even bother doing something if she wasn’t passionate about it anymore. He shook his head.

Tom wasn’t scared of losing his fans either, because he knew that they were the strongest and most passionate ones out there. Maybe that’s why he was still doing this, for the fans. He was passionate about them, not wanting to disappoint or fail them. Y/N would care about that. He nodded.

Luke watched baffled as Tom was having a discussion with himself, it was clear that the man was slowly going crazy over this girl. “Look, you know I usually don’t care much about who your newest… acquisition is, as long as you keep it private,” Luke sighed, “But this,” he pointed to the magazine laid in front of Tom, “this is not good for you Tom.”

Tom stood up, already annoyed to no ends by the way Luke spoke of him. His newest acquisition? Y/N was not something that he could just… acquire, as much as he wished he could. He had burned that bridge long ago. “Okay Luke, I get it.” Tom sighed.

“No, Tom. You don’t! She’s always seen drunk! She yells at the paparazzi!” Luke said, exasperated. “She might look good, but she doesn’t care about her image.”

That’s exactly why I like her.

“She’s always seen with a new guy! Every damn week! She’s changing you Tom, and it’s not for the better!” Luke finished his monologue, chest heaving and breathing loud. He watched as Tom’s eyes slowly lifted from the magazine, the heartbreak as clear in his eyes as the color of his irises.

“Ok, Luke… I get it. She’s fucked up. She’s emotionally deranged. She’s a whore,” Tom said, eyes angry. “I’ll take care of this, but get out of here before I throw you out,” he snarled.

Luke walked out the door with a sigh, closing it, not expecting what was behind it. She stood there, eyes wild and angry. Y/N shook her head as he scoffed at her, passing by as she simply stuck a foot out, tripping him. Luke fell flat on his stomach, his hands not reacting quickly enough as his nose hit the ground. She knew it was childish. She knew it was just another scandal waiting to happen. She didn’t care.

“You fucking manipulative son of a bitch,” she snarled, shaking her head and walking away from the whole ordeal. Walking away from the building that she now knew as well as the back of her hand. Walking away from two assholes that obviously hit it off just a little too well.

Fucking jackass.

The moment she opened the door she was met with silence. The kind of silence that made her ears ring, her stomach drop and her head hurt. Though if she thought about it better, the pounding headache that she was experiencing might’ve been the result of one too many tears. Her bare feet skipped over the cold marble flooring, her Nikes forgotten by the door. His jacket slipped off her shoulders with one push, falling into a heap on the floor of her overly large kitchen. Soft locks of hair slowly fell on her face as she braced the marble countertop, eyes looking directly to her feet. Her throat itched with the dryness brought by another ridiculously heart-broken cry. She could see the small droplets of water that had made their way from her eyes to the floor. Definitely too many tears.

She made her way to door, a knock pulling her out of her misery, only to be pulled right back in as she saw who was the one knocking.

“What do you want, Hiddleston?” Y/N asked, looking anywhere but at him.

Tom watched as she rubbed the tears away from her face, his face falling instead. “Love, what happened?” He had come here with the decision of telling her that they couldn’t meet anymore, but that was all thrown out of the window as worry for the girl fogged his mind. He hadn’t seen her cry since college.

She looked up at him, lower lip trembling and eyes filling with tears once again. “You wanna know what’s wrong?” she asked and he nodded. “I fucking trusted you! I trusted you to believe in who I am and to not judge me like so many others! I trusted you to not talk behind my back!” She took a deep breath, her chest feeling as though it was being ripped apart. “You wanna know what’s wrong?” Her voice was but a whisper. “I’m fucked up. I’m emotionally deranged. And apparently a whore!”

Tom’s eyes widened. He was the reason she looked so broken. He was, once again the reason why she cried. “I… I…” He had no excuse. He had said all those things. He couldn’t blame it on Luke, it was his mouth that those words had come out of.

“You what, Tom? You’re sorry? You didn’t seem to be sorry back there!” She sniffled, walking backwards as he stepped in and closed the door. “Ever the careful one, huh Hiddleston? Are you scared that they’re gonna see me make a scene? Are you scared that you’ll end up in tomorrow’s gossip magazine? Are you scared that your good name will be tarnished?!” Her voice got louder and louder, her mind racing. “You’re such a fake! Your image is fake! The way you act towards me is fake! Is there anything even remotely true about you anymore?” She sighed. “And to think that I fucking fell for it again. I can’t fucking believe that I’m reliving college right now.”

Tom just stood and took it all in. All her anger and her spiteful words, they hurt, but what hurt most is that she thought he was being fake when he was around her, the only time when he actually felt like himself. “You… you what?” he asked, reaching a hand out to her.

She glared at his hand angrily before slapping it away with a loud smack. “You fucking heard me! I loved you back then! And now I love a fake! God… I’m in love with a phony… I fell for it just like everybody else.” Y/N shook her head, as if not believing the words that just came out of her mouth. “This is just like last time…”

Tom watched her, expression full of surprise and anger. He couldn’t believe it. “You were the one who put space between us! You’re the one who walked away!”

“And what was I supposed to do? Huh, Tom?!” She let the tears flow freely down her face this time, not bothering to stop them. “Stay and watch my heart break as you walked around with another girl?! Did you expect me to do that?! Don’t put all the blame on me, you’re just as much to blame.”

“You… you didn’t say anything…” Tom was astounded by how she put everything out there. She would never have the courage to do that, were they still in college.

“You know… back then I thought that we… I don’t know… understood each-other. I thought you needed me as much as I needed you. I thought that maybe I meant something to you…” Her voice was void of anger, her eyes just seemed sad. “I thought that maybe you would at least try to follow me when I left… But no, of course not!” She scoffed. “As soon as I stopped putting effort towards whatever it was that we had, you stopped caring…”

Tom watched as her body shuddered with every gasp of air that she took. He had broken her. This was what he was scared of… that one of them would break the other. “Of-of course I would… I thought you didn’t care about me anymore. I thought you gave up.”

Her eyes suddenly filled with rage. “Oh I cared! Don’t fucking say I didn’t! I tried and tried but you just didn’t see me!” He couldn’t look at her anymore. It was too hard. “I thought I was stupid to just leave before I said anything about… about my feelings.” A sickeningly broken laugh fell from her lips, the sound making Tom’s skin crawl. “You were stupid,” Tom whispered. He couldn’t help but think that maybe things would’ve gone differently if she had said something back then. Maybe they wouldn’t have been in this position. Or maybe he would’ve just done what he did back then, because that was for the best, right? He didn’t know anymore. His mind was all over the place.

Y/N didn’t hear his whisper, she had no reason to question herself. “But look at me now! Feelings spoken out and still in the same position as I was seven years ago. Still stupid. Still fucking in love with an asshat that won’t even dare try because he’s too afraid.”

“I… I can’t. You’re… wild.” Is all he could say.

“So… if I wasn’t wild, if I fit the mold of what you think the perfect woman would be for you, then it would be different?”

“I… I… no. I can’t return your feelings,” Tom said, his eyes stuck counting the lines in the marble flooring.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because… it would be bad for my image.”

Her breath hitched as he simply contradicted himself. He couldn’t because she was wild, but if she were different then he still didn’t return her feeling because she was bad for his image. They were going in a loop, a broken record playing on repeat again and again and again. He wouldn’t tell her anything. He wouldn’t let her in.

“Okay… I get it. I’m wild and I’m reckless and I’m stupid,” her words caught in her throat, but she forced them out. He needed to hear this. She needed to tell him this or else she would go blaming herself again. “But at least I’m not afraid to show who I really am, at least to the people who obviously care about me! At least I’m not afraid of those fake scandals or the bullshit because whatever happens, I still know who I am! The people I care about know who I am!” she sighed, trying her best to calm herself down, “I thought you knew that too. I thought you were one of those people, Tom. But you aren’t. You’d rather believe your goddamn publicist or what those damn assholes write about me. And you know what? That’s fine by me.” Her eyes cleared and she finally saw it. He looked at her like he was broken. Just as broken as she was, but that wasn’t going to stop her. She would burn this bridge, whether he wanted to or not. “Just… remember. I’m not the one who was afraid. You were.” She stabbed her finger in his chest, looking up at him. “Leave.” Don’t go. Fight. For once, fight. She could feel the burn as he turned around and walked out of the front door. He had made his choice.

He could feel it all, the anger, the disappointment, but most of all he felt the last bridge burn. She had said all that was to be said. She didn’t want anything to do with him anymore.

He nursed the glass of whiskey in his hand, feeling foreign in the bar that had become their hang-out.

“What are you doing here?” Chris’s voice came out of nowhere, startling the half-drunk Tom to the point that he almost fell off his bar-stool.

“Nothing,” Tom said, finishing his tenth glass with a tip of his chin.

Chris noticed the bad state Tom was in, he had a feeling why it was happening.

“Where’s Y/N?” he asked.

“Gone,” Tom answered with a hiss, as though the word itself was a knife stuck in his chest.

“Why?”

“Because that’s what I wanted.”

Chris’s mouth dropped open so wide that he could’ve been mistaken for the screamer. Tom would’ve found it funny, but he wasn’t exactly in the mood for laughing.

“What?! Why?”

“She was changing me… and I…” Tom whimpered slightly at the words, “I couldn’t allow for that to happen.”

“Oh…” Chris finally took a seat next to his friend, motioning for the bartender to get him a drink. “And she just… gave up?”

“She said she loves me. She told me she was in love with me ever since college. I…” Tom shook his head, “I can’t return those feelings.”

Chris laughed. He laughed as though that was the funniest joke he had heard in years. Tom watched him, simply waiting for him to finish so he could get an explanation.

“You’re either the most idiotic guy I know, or you’re terribly blind, mate.” Tom watched Chris with a questioning gaze, eyes slightly glazed over from how much alcohol was in his system. If only Luke would see him now. “Tom, Y/N… she apparently went through a lot with you. You broke her heart once and she still tired. She’s the one girl that didn’t leave you. The only girl that tried to help you. The only girl that would never break your heart unless you asked her to… sorry mate, but you fucked everything up.”

“She changed me,” Tom stated simply.

“No… she didn’t. You were the one who let loose. You were the one who didn’t put on a face for the press. You were the one who didn’t give two shits and giggles anymore. Sure, she was around you, but you were the one who made those changes. You were the one who changed. Was it all for her?”

No. I was tired. I was tired of hiding.

“No! It was for yourself! Whenever she was around you were like a different man, and I think that that’s who the real Tom is. Not that proper, British ass that wouldn’t let anyone get too close to him.”

“I… I couldn’t tell her that…” I love her. The words just couldn’t form on his lips. “I didn’t want to hurt her. I just… it would end badly.”

“Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t, Tom?” Chris asked, taking a sip from his glass. When Tom didn’t answer, he answered for him. “It’s clear that you love the girl! She loves you! Who the hell cares about ‘if’s and ‘maybe’s? Now go do something about it! Don’t fucking mess this up a third time or I swear to God I’ll kick your ass all the way back to England.”

Tom stood up, eyes widening. Chris was right. He… He loved her. He was in fucking love with her and he just couldn’t fucking get over it. It scared him shitless but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to be scared anymore.

He shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a hundred dollar bill, slamming it on the bar. “I have to go. Thanks, mate!” Tom yelled to Chris as he ran towards the exit. It was quiet and far away, but he was sure that he heard Chris say “Whatever man, I expect to get an invitation to the wedding.”

Y/N was sure that she hated feeling lonely, because if she felt lonely then it meant that she was weak. She hated being weak, but as the days past she wanted nothing to do with her friends or the parties they invited her to. She never thought it would be easy, but God was it hard getting over the one guy who she had managed to fall in love with, twice.

Her closed phone laid on her nightstand, the battery long dead since she hadn’t bothered charging it. She hated herself for it, but right now she loved the feeling of loneliness. Sleep soon overtook her.

Her doorbell rang, jolting her out of her light sleep. She looked at the watch, noticing it was three in the morning. With a jolt and a rapidly beating heart, she made her way to the door. She looked at the display that showed her doorstep, seeing him. Her heart and mind stopped racing, but her hand moved on its own accord, opening the door.

Tom sighed watching as she looked at him with tired eyes. Her hair was a mess and she lacked pants, but he could only think that she looked the most gorgeous he had ever seen, one of his shirts hanging loosely from her shoulders.

“Y/N, thank God,” he slurred.

“What are you doing here, Tom?” she asked. She could pick up the light scent of whiskey drifting towards her from him, her nose wrinkled in disgust. She couldn’t even think about ever drinking another drop of alcohol, since it felt like it was the reason for him not reciprocating her feelings.

“Thank God you’re okay. I was so scared.”

Y/N’s eyebrows shifted together into a small frown. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

He watched her with happy, glossy eyes. He was just happy to see her, even though her words still made his heart heavy, even in his inebriated state. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I was such an idiot. I pushed you away, thinking that it would spare us. Thinking that that way I wouldn’t lose you. Guess I was the stupid one though, since in the end I still lost you.” Once the words started running out of his mouth, he couldn’t stop. He was vomiting every last bit of his feelings, finally letting her in. “I… I love you. Fuck… I’m so in love with you that I don’t know what to do with myself.”

To say that she was taken by surprise by his words would be an understatement. She was shocked, astonished even, but happiness slowly crept its way in her heart, until “What about your “image”? Aren’t you scared that they would say that your girlfriend’s fucked up? Emotionally deranged? Wouldn’t they say that you’re dating a whore?” she asked with a hiss to the tone of her voice.

Tom squeezed his eyes together. “I’m sorry about that. I could say that Luke kind of coerced those words out of me, but I still said them. I was just… scared. I knew I had fallen for you, again, and I didn’t think you would feel the same. I guess… I was just trying to find a way to stop myself from hurting… But please believe me when I say that I never wanted to hurt you. I never meant for any of this to happen. I was an asshole, a jackass, a fucking idiot. But I love…”

Her lips caught his words as they pressed harshly against his, the kiss seven years in waiting. She didn’t care anymore. She didn’t care that he was drunk. She didn’t care about what he had said, she knew from the beginning that he didn’t mean it. She knew that he loved her just as much as she loved him.

He was caught by surprise by the force behind the kiss, lightly stumbling backwards before he steadied himself as his arms wrapped around her frame. God, this felt so right. His hands cupped her cheeks, pulling her closer, deepening the kiss. She tasted like candy, mixed with the whiskey that he had drunk. There was nothing more delicious than the bitter sweetness they shared. She wrapped her hands around his shoulders, pushing herself on her toes, trying to mold herself into him. They were still on her porch, but neither of them cared. That moment was perfect, even when they pulled away and their breaths mingled.

“You’ve got bed-head,” Tom snickered.

“You’ve got whiskey-breath,” Y/N smirked.

“You’re wearing my shirt.”

“It’s laundry day.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The paparazzi might’ve gotten pictures of them, both looking like literal messes. There might be a scandal the next day, but they didn’t care. They had each-other, and once again Y/N didn’t bother asking what they were, because she knew. She was his and he was hers.

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primal-screamer-blog1 · 5 years

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#motley crue #the dirt #nikki sixx #fan fiction #fanfic #fan fic #motley crue fan fiction #motleycruefanfiction #douglas booth #tommy lee #mick mars #vince neil #colson baker #mgk #machine gun kelly #iwan rheon #daniel webber #80s #80s metal

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officialleehadan · 6 years

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Red Palace

Tusca wasn’t really sure what was going to happen next.

On the one hand, the pirates who were after them, and their apparently-stolen-very-illegal-and-also-valuable cargo.

If they made it out of this, he was gonna kill Kongee. Sky-damned bottom-feeder either sold them out or lied to his face when Tusca asked about the ‘just a few crates’ that the barely-legal businessman wanted them to move.

The Imperial Carrier Pacifica. The flagship of the Human Galactic Empire, and the home of their royal family. It was the largest human ship ever created, and was so big it didn’t need artificial gravity. Rumor had it that it was created by a dragon, a djinn, and a god all working together, but no one knew for sure.

How was this his life?

The hanger Luka flew them to was luxurious in a way that spoke of truly extravagant taste. The floors were white polished stone, and it was utterly sleek. Here and there, a few uniformed officers went about their work, but they ignored the Wavedancer, despite the flickering glances that betrayed their curiosity.

“What do we do, here?” Do’ was the one to ask the obvious question in the room as Luka set them down and began extracting himself from the ship’s wiring. “Luka-boy, this is… a lot.”

“Don’t worry,” Luka reassured her with a smile, and carefully closed up his cerebral socket. “I might have run away from home, but that doesn’t mean I stopped being the Heir. The only person on this ship who outranks me is my father.”

“You mean his Imperial Majesty?” Right pointed out incredulously, and leaned on his twin’s chair. Left looked as stunned as Tusca felt. “The emperor of the Human Galactic Empire? The most powerful person in the galaxy?”

“He likes caramels and old-earth movies, and onions give him gas so bad it should count as a weapon of war,” Luka said irreverently and startled a laugh out of everyone. He cracked a grin. “And yes, he’s all those things too, but right now, the only person he’s likely to be angry at is me, and probably he won’t be too angry.”

“Reassuring,” Graat muttered from the navigation console, and looked over at Tusca. “Captain, shall I have the crew come out?”

“Might as well,” Tusca sighed, and pushed himself out of his chair, still somewhat rattled from their abrupt, albeit short, tussle with pirates, and Luka’s surprising start as a Red Baron. “Have everyone meet down in the hold.”

“You know you’re not getting arrested, right?” Luka asked as he walked beside Tusca. The rest of the crew filtered out of their rooms, and Tusca felt the startling lack of Roja and Carlito sharply. “And if you were, I would make sure Father pardoned you.”

“Nice to know,” Tusca said dryly. “What should we expect?”

“Father will be disappointed at me. One or two of the Consul may shout a little. Duke-Lord Holland may see if he can get me disinherited. He doesn’t like me much.”

“Imperial politics.” Tusca wanted none of this. “Any chance you can get us clear of this carrier and out of here before we have to deal with any of that?”

He was half-joking, but if Luka really could…

But no. the young prince shook his head wryly.

“I could,” he confessed, and rubbed the back of his neck before peeking at Tuska out of the corner of his eye. “But well… the politics are bad, but my mother’s on this ship, and if I don’t at least say hello while I’m here…”

Ah.

Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Tatiana Viktoria Maria, was a force to be reckoned with. A powerful voice for any cause she believed in, the Empress was one of the most outspoken Royal women in centuries, and her children clearly took after her.

“I feel like we should dress fancy,” Do’ muttered, and leaned on her husband’s arm. Alejandro smiled faintly, but when he glanced over, Tusca nodded a slight reassurance. Alejandro was quarter-ogre and one of the least human people on the ship. Fortunately, ogres were heavily family-oriented, and tended to do well in a small crew, especially as crew-protectors. “Meetin’ all these important people.”

“Wouldn’t help,” Silvie muttered, although she probably didn’t have much to worry about. Luka’s counterpart, she was their cook, and also a specialist in botany. The crew never ate so well until she joined and turned the mess-hall and her room into greenhouses for fresh produce. Her hair was green under the harsh ship lights, but Tusca never felt the need to ask what type of Other she was. Probably fae or elvish. Dryad maybe. It didn’t matter unless she tried to eat someone. “They won’t care how we look. We’re space rats. No one cares about rats.”

“Rat is good eating,” Left protested, and Right snorted a laugh. It figured, really. They were good-old home-grown human, but they were also former street-kids themselves. “Don’t knock rat.”

“I don’t want to be eaten, please,” Graat said faintly. He was the only actual alien on the ship, and sometimes felt it keenly. Fortunately, pretty much everyone adored him, and his confusion was frankly adorable. “Being eaten is unpleasant and messy.”

“No one is getting eaten,” Luka said, or tried to through his snickers. Tusca took a moment to look him over. Barely eighteen, Luka was tall for his age, and had the beginnings of good muscle, thanks to the twins training him in combat, and his eyes were bright with intelligence. “Father does not eat human meat, and Blaec probably is not on board.”

“Oh sure, no big,” Do’ said incredulously and reached over to smack the back of Luka’s head. The prince yelped and ducked, but Do’ was a good shot. “Oh, do not worry everybody, the great Lord Petros, who I happen to be on first name basis with, probably will not eat you because he is not here today. Probably. You are not reassuring!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Luka said, but everyone was laughing a little as the ramp began to lower and white light spilled into their small, banged-up ship. “I promise no one will get eaten, alright?”

“That is an ambitious promise, my son.”

The voice was regal, female, and very amused.

Empress Tatiana was stunningly beautiful. Her hair was pure silver despite her relatively young age, and coiled around her head like a crown. Her clothes were simple, but made of the very best materials available. Her cape alone was worth more than the Wavedancer. Her necklace would buy a dozen brand new Imperial Destroyers.

But her smile was warm, and when she opened her arms, Luka flew into them.

The contrast between them was sharp. The empress in her dark blue and silver gown, and her son in ratty, but clean, hand-me-down clothes. Luka was quite a but taller than his mother and lifted her off the ground as she laughed and held onto him.

“Put me down!” she demanded, and Luka did, although he also bent and pressed a kiss to her cheek when she presented it for kissing. “Darling, you have grown so much. I hardly recognized you when your transmission came to us.”

“Good living,” Luka told her, and tucked her hand into his arm, unconsciously reverting to the manners he was brought up with. Tusca fought the urge to fall on his face in front of the Empress, and did bow with the rest of his crew when Luka walked her over to them. “Mother, may I present Captain Tusca Pelegrine and the crew of the Wavedancer. Dorinda and Alejandro Duardo, Josias and Edin Armon- we call them Left and Right- Graat of Ha’Reet, and Silvie Fashavel.”

“Please be welcome to the Pacifica,” the Empress said when everyone was introduced, and reached out to take Dorinda’s hands in hers. Do’ looked somewhat stunned and unsure of herself. “Please, there is no need for formality. You are the people caring for my son when I could not. I thank you, deeply.”

“It was our pleasure, ma’am,” Tusca spoke for the crew because he was the captain, and also because he was probably the only one who could manage actual words right now. The Empress nodded him on as she led them out of the hanger bay and through the halls. He wondered how she could possibly find her way around the huge ship, and supposed it was mostly practice. “You raised up a good boy. We’re glad to have him.”

Empress Tatiana only smiled and showed them into a sitting room that, while fancy, was significantly more comfortable than the sleek, polished hanger and the corridors outside.

Of course, the flooring was sheets of Old Earth marble- the real stuff- and gold glittered on door handles and hangings. The paintings on the walls were of people Tusca recognized out of text books, and the buttery-soft leather of the chairs was probably valuable enough to buy a mansion in a good city on a good planet.

When they were settled, uncomfortable and shy, but at least sitting down, servants buzzed around them, bringing drinks and food. Luka served his mother almost automatically, and she kissed his cheek when he handed her a fine porcelain cup of tea.

“How long will you be here?” she asked. Tusca hid a wince. Empress she might be, but this woman had missed her son.

“At least until I have had a chance to see him.”

Luka closed his mouth on his reply as everyone scrambled to their feet at the commanding voice from the door.

Emperor Nelius Hector Gaius was a tall, strongly-built man. His hair was grey-streaked black, and there were small lines around his eyes that only added to the sense of power about him. Luka was his spitting image, although the teen looked decidedly unfinished next to his Emperor-father.

“Father,” Luka said, and let his father wrap him in a quick, tight hug. The sight of the affection helped ease Tusca’s mind somewhat. Royalty they might be, but they were parents too, and somehow preserved a small family in the midst of the overwhelming pressure of who they were. “I am sorry to cause any difficulty. As you can imagine, our position was… not good.”

“Yes,” the emperor replied dryly, and turned his gaze on the crew. Tusca felt the immediate urge to sink thorough the floor and not come back. “We saw the last of it. Should I ask who precisely thought it was a good idea for you to learn to fly like that?”

Silence filled the room, their recent losses suddenly very sharp. Tuska looked down at his hands, and heard Do’ sniffle into her husband’s shirt quietly.

“We… had some trouble earlier,” Luka spoke up. Tusca was proud, and glad. The knot of sadness in his throat was still too big to speak around. “A business deal went bad. Very bad. Several of the crew were captured and- and did not come back. One of them was Red Baron, Roja Cortez. The other was Carlito Duado, Do and Alejandra’s nephew. They died to give us the chance to get out.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Empress Tatiana said gently, and rested her hand on Do’s shoulder comfortingly. “They will have memorials with every honor and grace they are due.”

“That’s real kind of you, Ma’am,” Do said, and shared a small, sad smile with the Empress. “We all know the Black is dangerous. Sometimes that danger gets the best of us. I need to call Carlito’s mama, but she’ll be real proud when she hears how brave he was.”

“Would you like to use my personal line to call her?” Empress Tatiana asked genuinely, and lifted a hand in invitation after a quick glance at her husband, who nodded gravely. “I understand that your ship is in the hanger for repairs. I insist you use one of mine to see your family, or bring them here if you prefer.”

She guided them out of the room and Tusca felt a little weight lift off his shoulders.

This was going far better than he expected.

“Now,” the emperor said and seated himself so everyone else could sit as well. “Tell me the story, from start to finish.”

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HGE - Learn to Fly, Learn to Breathe:

Red Sun

Red Baron

Red Prince

Red Sky

Red Heart

Red Ship

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twofifthsofmaria · 5 years

Text

What They Don’t Tell You About the Future

summary: In a society where everyone has a predetermined role, people who don't fit into a category are considered Glitches. They can be fixed, of course, but after one fateful night Alabaster Craine realises that maybe he doesn't need to change himself; he just needs to find a place to fit in.

Dedication: While reading up on the infinite amount of fiction nowadays, and even old fiction, I realised something quite sad. In science fiction, all kinds of fiction really, there is a trend in which the men in the books have precisely three types of personality. They are either the stoic asshat (also known as the "Bad Boy"), the manipulative villain, or the goody two shoes.

That's it. There are no more personality types for boys.

Where are my soft boys? Where are my nerdy boys? My cute boys? Boys with weird interests and varying personalities? Why is it that there is this image on the media in which the only acceptable hero is the stoic man with a dark background?

I realised that there are also thousands of young women out there (like me!) writing fiction and representing us in the media with their head held high and ready to put up a fight in our name. And for them, I am very, very, grateful. However, I also feel that if we, as authors, want to change the representation of women in the media, we also have an obligation to revise the portrayal of men.

We owe it to the little boys with dreams of being a princess or a clothing designer. Who have been told that they can't dance ballet because they are boys, and who always have to put up with all the shit that the world throws at them through the media. Because, yeah Batman is cool, but we are forcing them to look at pieces of media with toxic masculinity and bland personalities, then trying to justify that character by giving them a dark past.

Our boys deserve better. Our boys deserve kind and caring heroes who are not afraid to back down from a fight because they have to take a break. Our boys deserve human beings as role models, who show them that crying is alright and that they don't have to take thirteen bullets and keep fighting to be a man. Our boys deserve characters that show them they don't have to hide and change to fit into a role in society.

So yes, my book doesn't have girls as the main characters. That is what my sisters are taking care off. For now, I'm giving you lot another type of underrepresented heroes. The boys who don't need to be macho men to win a war.

This goes for all of you, I hope you see yourself in these pages.

—Love, Maria.

Chapter I

Alabaster Craine always found that on the days were the world seemed to be caving in on him, his sister was the best way to get rid of all his worries. All it took was for him to haul her dainty form onto the roof of their house, place a guitar on her lap, and listen to her fingers strum out the chords of her latest composition for his mind to be completely at peace.

He didn’t need a long and luxurious bath like his mother did. Or a session at the gymnasium hitting a punching bag like his brother before him. He just needed his sister, her soft features, and her long and skilled fingers. On several occasions he joined her, when the mood was right and when he knew that there was no one around to make him sing if he didn’t wish to sing. But he tried to, knowing that Claire was always delighted seconds after he finished. Talking excitedly about how his voice was probably the loveliest voice in town. How his Gift was probably singing.

He tried to agree with her as much as he could, not trying to get on her bad side knowing that once the fight started she wouldn’t back down until he accepted his defeat. Which knowing him, and knowing her, was going to take a long time. He didn’t want to receive the silent treatment from his Angel, so he settled for agreeing with her instead.

But that night, as all stories usually start, was different than the others. He sat close to Claire, tracing patterns on her tight and hoping she wouldn’t get annoyed at the subconscious action, and listened to her play and sing. The city beyond them glittered like a thousand diamonds, the wind bringing in the sweet scent of the carnival that roared through the streets, and the weight bound to settle on Al’s chest.

People all over the city were rejoicing. He could see them. He could hear them. The tension and anticipation in the atmosphere was strong enough to make the hair’s on his arms stand up. Yet the feeling that filled him was not one of joy, but rather he felt like dread was weighing him down.

The strings on his sister’s guitar faltered just as a loud cheer came from the street behind them, and she gave a long sigh, “Okay, I’m done. What’s up with you?”

Al avoided looking at her, “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” she grumbled, “and I’m a terrible guitar player. Come on, Al. I know something is wrong with you.”

“Very humble of you to acknowledge you are crap at playing guitar.”

“Thank you, Allie,” she replied, as she placed the guitar behind her back, “Now spill. What’s got your panties in a twist? Are you scared about tomorrow?”

When Al decided not to answer, more out of self preservation than out of not actually knowing what to say, Claire turned her body to face him.

“Are you scared they’re going to tell you you are going to be an accountant?”

The comment made him look at his sister with a frown on his face, “What? Why would I be scared of that?”

She shrugged, “You’re often scared of silly things, Allie. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

He rolled his eyes, placing his elbows over his knees and resting his head on the palms of his hands. For a few seconds he watched as the city rejoiced. He could see the parade going on down at Main Street, were all of the other people with parents that were a little less strict than his were dancing along to the music. Parading around in ridiculous outfits and getting ready to receive Naming Day in full swing.

“You know that you’ll make Mom and Dad proud regardless of what they tell you tomorrow, right?”

He turned to look at her, in the warm city lights his sister looked like one of the Persian princesses from his mother’s old books. Long, black, hair, plump lips, marble like skin and deep brown eyes. The only thing she seemed to be missing was a crown. “You know that’s not what I’m scared of, Moon.”

“You’ll have a Gift,” she was sure of it.

“And what if I don’t?” He asked, “What will we do if I don’t have a Gift.”

“Then we will help you get one.”

At that he scoffed. The party moved up one street from where it had been a few minutes ago. The procession of carnival carts, dancers, and drunk teenagers advancing from the outskirts of town into the Center. As it did every year when the time came around. Al reckoned that all of the people down there were probably having a blast, even if there were bound to be a few, like him, who knew their destiny before they even took the godawful test.

They, unlike Alabaster, weren’t going to let a Glitch stop them from partying.

“We can get other jobs, you know?” Claire tried again, “We have the qualifications. We could just— I don’t know. Work on the clothing store down the street. Or help Miss Hannigan with the bakery.”

“Oh yes, wonderful idea,” he spat out bitterly, “Get the girl in a wheelchair to sweep the floor.”

There was a second of silence in which Al instantly regretted ever opening his mouth. Then Claire sighed, “I’m going to allow that, just because I know you are very stressed and probably didn’t mean it.”

“I swear, I didn’t.”

“I know,” Claire shifted her body so that their shoulders were touching, “that’s why I’m allowing it.”

There was another beat of silence in which he allowed for the sound of the party all around them to drift into his ears. There were squeals of laughter, screams of people who were incredibly drunk, and the cheers of people who knew they were safe. Either because they had a Gift that was very strong, or because they had been working their ass off to get somewhere. Neither of those cases were his.

“I’m scared, Moon.”

She placed her calloused hand on his cheek, and he leaned into it, “I know you are.”

“What are we going to do if I Glitch?”

He watched attentively as she sighed, and scanned every inch of his face with her kind eyes. As if he contained the answers, “I don’t know.”

He felt the panic rising from the pit of his stomach, clawing its way out through his throat in the form of a small sob. But the cry was stopped short by the sound of the door to their house slamming open and their mother walking over to a spot in which she could see them both, “Dinner is ready. Get down here before it goes cold.”

Claire dropped her hand, and Al cleared his throat before his mother could hear the sound he was about to make. Conversation forgotten, he climbed down the boxes and reached for the guitar. Making sure to place it inside the house before climbing back up to get Claire. She wrapped her hands around his neck, and he tangled her legs around his waist, then slowly lowered them to the ground. Once down he was able to place her back on her wheelchair and push her inside of the house.

The house’s radio was turned on and soft Jazz music was flowing through the air. The table was set, the food was steaming in piles at the center, and the only thing that was missing were the three people destined to eat it. He placed his sister on her open spot, and walked over to the kitchen to help his mother with the last of their meal.

“Oh no, I’m almost done,” she said as she placed some the rice on a serving plate, “just make sure the table is ready.”

“Perfect, as always, Mae.”

She hummed in satisfaction, “Is your sister there?”

“Yep,” he grabbed the plate from her hands, making way to the other room, “she’s waiting for us.”

His mother followed, looking around the room for someone she knew wasn’t going to be there, “Do you think I should—?”

He looked in the direction of his father’s study room, and shook his head, “I tried this afternoon. He shooed me away.”

“He needs to eat.”

Claire waved her fork, trying to call his mother’s attention, “He will, someday.”

His mother sighed, sitting down in the head of the table and beckoning her child to sit down beside her. She gave a quick prayer, to what or who Al didn’t know. His mother was a religious woman, always thanking the thousand and one spirits that she swore walked the earth and protected all of her children.

Then she gave them the thumbs up, and Al watched as his sister thanked their mother for praying in their name. Then they started to eat.

Okay! This is Chapter 1 of my Original Work. I have it planned out, it’s ready toi go and ready to be written. I hope you like it. If any of you are interested in getting tagged for updates, don’t hesitate to ask me!

Kudos, Reblogs, and Feedback are more than apreciated.

This is Crossposted on AO3, Wattpad, and NaNoWriMo! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this as much as I do!

#my work #My writing #what they don't tell you about the future #OCs

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hela-of-ren · 7 years

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My Chosen

I’ve seen The Mummy (2017) twice now because I absolutely love Ahmanet and her bad ass power and Tom Cruise can suck it. A re-occurring thing in the movie was when the mummy would call Nick her ‘chosen’ and I had thoughts swirling in my head about doing a drabble for mummy!Kylo with chosen!reader. It’s a bit short and I may make a series out of it, but let me know what you all think! Enjoy! <3

Your face was finally beginning to ache from all the smiling you were doing, never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d stumble upon anything this big. Your squadron was one of the most renown archeology departments on Naboo and served closely with the queen.

Your current task had been to excavate any remaining artifacts from the ancient empire only known as ‘The First.’ The heat was beginning to make you and your team slightly woozy when you came across something odd.

The decaying ruins of a once illustrious city yielded an abundance of hidden treasures, but one in particular had you utterly and entirely enthralled. After moving aside piles of rubble and cleaning endless waves of dust, the inner walls revealed what seemed to be hieroglyphs that continued down the dark hallway.

Your eyes scanned the images as you attempted to make sense of the faded bits, your fingers tracing the scene in front of you. The hieroglyphs seemed to speak of the legend of a once great prince named Kylo Ren who was the next in line to rule the galaxy. Odd, you’d never heard of him before in any of your readings or research.

He seemed to be of great strength and intelligence, gaining the love and trust of those around him and using it as knowledge that he would soon be worshiped as if a god in human form. His loyal protectors known as...what was that word...oh yes, The Knights of Ren were constantly at his beck and call and made sure his fighting skills lacked for nothing.

You rolled your eyes at the thought of how pampered this guy was.

‘A god in human form, a little extra don’t you think?’ You thought with a chuckle.

Your eyes skipped more down the wall as your feet carried you deeper down the corridor. It seemed that Ren’s Emperor, Emperor Vader, had found a more promising subject in the form of Ren’s cousin known as Rey.

Well this was interesting, it was always a well known fact that the princess known as Rey was to be the next in line to rule the galaxy all those centuries ago, but Kylo Ren was seemingly something that had been erased from history.

Your brow furrowed as your eyes scanned on, a gasp leaving your mouth in shock. If what the hieroglyphs were conveying what you thought, Ren had made a deal with a dark force only known as ‘Snoke’ in order to achieve his goals.

In exchange for the power to eliminate all who would take his future, Ren swore allegiance to the dark being without thought;stealing away into the night and murdering his cousin in her sleep. When he went to attempt the same with Emperor Vader, the ruler thwarted the Prince and his dark master with a curse.

Ren would indeed reap the benefits of endless dark power, but he would suffer for eternity under Snoke’s rule; never able to rest in death or rule successfully in life unless he earned his redemption through what could only be described as ‘the star.’

After dispatching the Emperor, Ren and his Knights were caught and brought forth before the gods; their fates decided by their crimes. Ren and any of his followers were to be mummified alive without any proper steps taken to ensure their passage into the after life. Ren had his tongue cut out and his eyes gouged so that none of his power would do him any good no matter what spirits he encountered in the after life.

After that, the images were ruined as if someone had etched out a crucial part of the story. By the time your eyes left the wall you realized just how deep underground you had wandered. You had ended up in a round chamber of sorts that held nothing but a stone pedestal in the center, a dark object resting on top of it.

You cautiously came closer only to realize that the object was in fact the hilt of a light saber, a very old light saber. The make was like nothing you’d ever seen before, but it was undeniably a saber. Something about the object pulled you in and held your attention, whispers and warmth swirling in your head in a coaxing manner. As if in a trance your hand reached out slowly, fingers just in reach when a voice jolted you.

“Y/N wait, don’t touch-” Your head turned, but your fingers had already grazed the hilt. Your assistant, Poe, stood with a horrified expression as your hand lay on the saber, the room beginning to rumble and shift; stone giving way to ancient machinery.

You snatched your hand back as the saber began to vibrate and the walls seemed to...liquefy into a smooth silver sheen that held no rust or decay. The saber levitated from the pedestal as it descended into the now metal floor, a red glow surrounding the hilt that quickly shot ahead of you into the final layers of stone.

The red light spread through the cracks of the wall, creating a pattern of swirls and lines until the stone split in half and dissipated into the metal work. The sight before you took every breath and nerve you had left; a perfectly preserved tomb that held what seemed to be a sarcophagus.

Poe’s mouth gaped at the transformation, his eyes taking in his surroundings as he walked up to you.

“Y/N...do you understand what this is?” His voice was breathless yet held a hint of caution. You nodded your head in awe.

“This has to be a tomb for royalty, everything is so precise and far too grand to be anything else.” Your eyes took in the elegant shapes and hieroglyphs that decorated the tomb, all leading up to the-

“Wait, why is the sarcophagus trapped like that?” Your brow furrowed as you noticed that the architecture wrapped around the ancient coffin as if it was an octopus trapping prey, the sleek metal wrapping around the dark stone with an etching of a screaming demon as its face.

Poe followed behind you at a slower pace and eyed the box cautiously, something wasn’t right here. Sure, the architecture was obviously made for royalty, but most of any royal line was buried together in a joint tomb that yielded treasures and provisions for the next life.

This tomb was barren except for the architecture and etchings, the only actual object was the sarcophagus made of black stone. That and the fact that it had a creepy face didn’t help his feeling. He began to read the etchings in the metal, not paying any attention to you or what you wee doing.

Your feet led you up to the sarcophagus until you could touch it with ease. Your fingers traced the metal wrapped around it, cool silver tingling your finger tips in small waves as your hand moved. Your fingers made their way up to the face of the sarcophagus, stroking just under the wide yet terrified eye gently.

“Wait...imprisoned for all time...living curse upon all...shit, Y/N this isn’t a tomb...” Poe’s voice filtered in and out as your attention remained glued on the artifact in front of you.

A presence seemed to draw you in further as if you were being embraced, your eyes staring directly into those of dark stone. Your body felt lighter than air as the feeling of phantom arms wrapping about your waist dizzied you.

“...Ren...this was meant to imprison Kylo Ren!” Poe’s voice grew frantic when your vision flashed a bright white, your eyes closing tightly. At the feeling of a warm breeze swaying through your hair, your eyes opened to reveal a view of the decayed city.

Except the city was now thriving and beautiful, bustling with life and activity from all corners. You stood on what seemed to be a grand balcony that overlooked all, white marble gleaming under your feet and finger tips. Hearing gentle foot steps approaching from behind, you turned and nearly gasped.

The man coming towards you was quite possibly the most beautiful being you had ever seen. His dark hair was wild and falling just at his shoulders with a few small gold beads decorated into thick strands, his already dark eyes were smudged with black coal and a small smattering of blue in the inner corners, he wore a long, flowing, black skirt with embellishments of gold made of silk that billowed as he walked, and his bare yet pale chest held small black markings that seemed to be painted on.

His lips curved into a gentle smirk the closer he got until he was chest to chest with you. His large hand came up to brush the hair from your face, skin tingling from his touch.

“My Chosen...” The ancient language rolled off his tongue yet you understood it as clear as day. His other hand skimmed slowly up your side, fingers catching skin just under your blouse and making your breath hitch. The warmth of the sun was nothing compared to the heat blossoming in your body.

Both hands met on either side of your face, holding you as if you were something infinitely precious.

“My Chosen... my Star,” His voice held all the wonder of the world, “You’ve come for me, at last.” His words barely registered to you as he brought his plush lips gently onto yours in a loving kiss.

Your eyes closed in bliss and another white light over took you until you were once again looking at the stone sarcophagus. You blinked your eyes in shock and brought your hand up to your lips only to feel what definitely was not skin.

You looked down at your hand to see the light saber clutched tightly in your fingers.

When the bloody hell had that happened?

You shook your head and clutched tighter to the saber before addressing Poe.

“Get the rest of the team,” You glanced again at the light saber and held your composure as it ignited in front of the sarcophagus, “We’re getting this back to the palace.” The metal surrounding the stone seemed to melt under the red glow of the saber until the sarcophagus was lowered fully to the ground.

“Hello, Kylo.” You whispered as Poe raced back to the rest of the team.

He really didn’t like this, not at all.

#kylo x reader #kylo ren x reader #star wars #mummy!kylo #the mummy #reader insert #kylo ren

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namjoonchronicles · 7 years

Text

Amulet: Resurrect - [EXO] Baekhyun!Au

[A/N] Was listening to Everything Changes by Staind. /highly recommended/ Remember Amulet, and Amulet: Levitate, where Baekhyun is a modern day fortune reader with the power to read futures?

Sweats beading on your forehead, you were fisting the bed sheet underneath you. Whimpering, biting your lips, and clenching your eyes shut, your screams were muffled as you undergo a yet another horrifying nightmare it seems. At the same time, Baekhyun was dashing up the stairs, climbing as fast as he could, panting hard.

He went straight to your apartment, sliding at the corners, a worried look on his face. He slips at your doorstep, punching in the codes he remembers well, and bursted through the door. He hastily took off his shoes and sprinted to your bedroom that was left unlocked.He saw you tormented in his sleep and his heart literally drops. Baekhyun couldn’t hug you awake so he dove in your dream through his sights. He focuses on your soul, with his eyes shut and then re-opened them in a silvery glare. He set his palm at the state of you and see what you were dreaming of.

You blasted your eyes open. And sat in the middle of your bed, running your finger through your hair, trying to stabilize your breathing. You placed your hand on your heart, to calm it down. “You okay?” You heard Baekhyun’s calm voice from the wall next to your bed. He was hugging his leg, and leaning his head on the wall as he stuck his gaze on you. You didn’t have to look at him, because he had come to save you once more. Ever since being in a relationship with him, you were getting a lot of strange dreams. And it often more lucid than it should be. It becomes so real that you were getting fairly exhausted at every end of it.

Once in your dream, you were strangled by a she-ghost that repeatedly tells you that she will kill you. It turns out to be a spirit that has been struggling to get Baekhyun’s attention on her. Baekhyun overlooked her when he and his family started a ghostly feast on a full moon, last March. Because your presence were too strong for her to ignore, she was using up your energy to appear in the ghastly look of any ghost should be having. Baekhyun apologizes repeatedly to you for having to go through this nightmare as long as you were with him. But his father says, the gift will ripen on its on, so you had to do was wait. But waiting, was ageing you. You catch him smiling from the tip of his gorgeous lips.

You pressed your lips together and averted your eyes away as you squeaked, “...Did you...saw what. I was dreaming about?”

Baekhyun smiled to the floor, nodding once. He turns his attention to his beautiful nails, picking them as he muttered low, and emotionlessly, “...It was a very interesting dream.” Baekhyun blinked to the floor next to him. Here he was, awfully awake two hours before he should be, sensing danger from your soul. He heard you whimpering cries, muffled moans, fisting a sheet, and he thought, you were probably having a nightmare. Turns out, you weren’t.

You hated yourself. Of all times, this probably was the most embarrassing moment in history. You had your fortune-teller/ future-seeing/ ghost-capturing boyfriend see the most vulnerable part of you.

“...so girls have wet dreams too.” Baekhyun pursed his lips, trying to hide a smug smile and, “...I wonder what contributed to that.”

You dropped your face in your hands and groaned. “Why did you have to see that… my privacy has been invaded. Can I file a lawsuit?” Your voice was muffled by your hands and Baekhyun moved next to your bed, kneeling and smiling at your state. She’s a adorable.

“Hello. My privacy has been invaded too, okay? You just imagined an obscenity with me. My pride is hurt.” He gathers his lips into an O-shape. You dropped your hands to your lap. “You want to know what contributed to this?” You started.

Baekhyun’s damned lips. His damned laughs. The little giggles he had. The non-sexual moans that gives you an unexplainable wetness. The way he eye-fucked you. The subtle whisper when he calls. The whines, the groans, the lip bites. He wore a loose shirt one day, and it showed of his delicious collarbone. Oh what you were willing to do to get a little taste of that. You walked on him undressing one night when you were staying at his friends because it was raining heavily outside. And the image of his bare back seeps into your mind the most nastiest way. You were tormented in your sleep and in your wake.

You huffed at the end of your cute complaints, blowing hot air to your forehead. Baekhyun rested his chin on his forearm, just observing you like you were the only star in the night sky. “...So, will you please stop being so attractive all the time. I’ll find a way to differentiate between a wet dream and an actual nightmare, but pleasure is also pain, that’s why it always gets awfully misled and I’m actually sorry, but not too sorry about that.” You crossed your arm. You turned your head to the side, “I can’t even touch my boyfriend, and it hurts that I want him so bad, and he’s even in my head when he’s not suppose to mind-read me.” You glared at him and Baekhyun looks away, immediately.

“It’s not like I can choose what I want to have as a dream. And this was the only ‘good’ dream I ever had since the nightmares coming from the set of a vengeful virgin ghosts trying to get you attention but turns to me instead, to ruin my life.” You continued to huff angrily. Baekhyun dropped his eyes to your bare knee. If only you could spend one night with him, just one. One whole day to be able to hold him like you always imagined, to kiss, to make out, to sit on his laps like all the other couple do. You would be forever grateful.

“What if I tell you,” he drags his eyes to yours, in a hooded gaze, “...that there might be a solution.” “Explain.” You shot.

He never told you, but he went home to his grandfather’s village when you were out of town, doing research studies for your final year, he came to talk to his grandmother. His grandmother did not have divinities but she spends time with his late grandfather and because of it, she was quite knowledgeable in a few areas. “A strong energy?” She asked as she served tea on the folded table. Jades and marbles decorated the house, preserving energy within the location. Baekhyun could feel himself replenishing, recharging in his own way. On the wall, there was a picture of his grandfather, his father, his older brother, and a Goryeo direct relatives in a drawing who looks awfully like Baekhyun. Especially around the jaw area.

“Yes. She accepted the fact that she and I couldn’t touch. She almost killed me, the last time she did.” Baekhyun shyly smiled. “Well that’s just unfortunate.” Grandmother commented, before light bulbs light up in her head as she gets a memory of something, “There’s a story just like this.” She said, and stood up. She heads to grandfather’s huge library, three storeys high in this village mansion.

You looked at him, arching an eyebrow. “Might?” Baekhyun flashes you a toothy grin.

From that encounter, you come to him every now and then, giving him plausible ideas that enables you to touch him.

“Gloves?”

He shook his head, “...Your energy is too powerful even with a sheath.” He said one time when you two were at a laundry station.

“Leather suit.” You dinged, passing him a tray at the cafeteria in college, the other day. “Hot,” he freezes and agrees, “But leather is animal skin, anything with a living past has the probability of me fainting.”

Then, in the car, today. “Maybe you should be a tad, stronger.” You hissed. Baekhyun smirks as he flips his pages and you left. “You have no idea how strong I am.” “What’s that?” You popped up next to him and he gasped. “What do you mean by, no idea how ‘strong’ you are,?”

You eyed him accusingly. “Have you...done it?” Baekhyun was aimlessly driving, through the city with you on the front passenger seat. “Haven’t you?” He darted.

“I asked first.” You crossed your arm and glared at the street before you. His grips on the steering wheel tightens as he clears his throat. And then you widened your eyes at him, concluding that he must have done it with someone else before you.

The nerve. So the rumors were true. The rumors your dorm mate has been telling you. That he sleeps around with girls he likes.

He stammered, “What. I know I can’t have sex with you.” His eyes drawn uneasy. “I could touch you right now and kill you with my bare hands, Byun Baekhyun. Don’t test me.” You grumbled.

Baekhyun swallowed his saliva, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as you glare at him. “What was I supposed to do…” He sang. “You should have hold it in like a champ.” You shot. Baekhyun gave a lopsided smile. And then it was silence, for awhile. “You know. A good thing came out of this.” Baekhyun commented and you rolled your eyes back. “At least, I know your love is true to me and not bounded by sexual attractions.” There he goes, flaunting his romantic side again. “That way, we’ll always be together despite not being able to be ‘together-together’,” he winked at you as he drives. “I will punch you square in the face if you don’t stop talking.” You hissed.

Twenty minutes had passed and you’ve been on the phone, scrolling, while Baekhyun was growing bored as he drives, accompanied by the radio. “What are you doing, talk to me, I’m bored.” He mewled. You blinked. “Porn.” You darted. Baekhyun slammed on the brakes and you jolted a bit from your seat. Scowling at him, your eyes demanded explanation as to why he did such stupid thing. A young, tall, and attractive men crossed the road and bowed as he got up from the street. Baekhyun got out of the car in a hurry and you followed after. “Are you hurt, should we take you to the hospital?” You panted while Baekhyun growled, “It was already green light, you idiot!”

You looked through this victim’s bangs as he stood up, towering you. He was at least six feet tall. He rubbed the back of his neck, guilt, written all over his beautiful face. “Wow you’re so handsome.” You blurted without thinking, eyes boring into this attractive figure before you. Baekhyun bit his bottom lip, hissing at you. “Eyes over here, sweetie.” Baekhyun grumbled and resumed, “Are you hurt anywhere?” Darting his fiery eyes at this human lamp post. “You got a name?” Baekhyun digging his phone out from the back pocket. “Chanyeol. Park Chanyeol.” He hesitantly smiled. His eyes looked a little tired, and he had a surprisingly low voice compared to his cute appearance. “Chanyeol…” You breathed his name, totally bewitched. Baekhyun snaps his fingers at you.

And you responded by glaring back at him. “I’m sorry.” Chanyeol started, “...I was just being stupid.” He dropped his head down and he sniffs, throwing his head back. He looks upset.

“You want to talk about it?” And when you said this, Baekhyun’s eyes grew larger and his mouth was shaped into an O, “We’re heading to a cafe…” You continued and Baekhyun tilt his head at you, “It’s nearby…” Baekhyun gasped loudly. “And you’re not invited.” Baekhyun shot at Chanyeol. Pulling him over to the side so the traffic resumes.

You touched Chanyeol’s arm, rubbing it up and down, to ease him and Baekhyun wants to swat your hands away but because of this stupid no-touch thing going on in your relationship, he could just let the steam off by turning away and yelled, fisting both his hands on each side. “I just need a moment.” Chanyeol softly say. And long story short, he joined your date with Baekhyun. When the waiter came with a menu, he and Baekhyun reached at the same time and Baekhyun saw Chanyeol’s entire life in a flash.

Chanyeol was on a ferry, ready to jump off the back, to the sea down below. An unidentified female telling Chanyeol, that it was over. Then it flashes to Chanyeol kneeling next to a body, a hanging body from the ceiling as he cried uncontrollably. Chanyeol was standing on a busy road, just like the one before, before being ran over by a car. And that was how Chanyeol should have died. Baekhyun repelled from Chanyeol’s hand. He, then passed the menu to you. You touched Chanyeol’s wrist so gently, saying, “The red bean paste here is really good.” And Baekhyun couldn’t shake his envious stares from you. He dug for his phone and starts typing a message to you.

“How could you do this to me.” - Baby Byun. “I am the honorary boyfriend here!” - Baby Byun. “Stop looking at him! Don’t look at him!” - Baby Byun. “The restaurant hallway. Now.” - Baby Byun.

You glared at your noisy phone. “Hold on a sec, my rent is due today this week and this landlord aunty doesn’t leave me alone.” You lied and smiled grimly. You glide your eyes to the side and threw the napkin from your lap to the desk and stood up without looking at Baekhyun. Baekhyun glared at Chanyeol and moved after you. You readily crossed your arm as he approached. “Are you seriously going to be like this.” It was a trick question. You pressed your tongue to your cheek. “You are obviously flirting with him. You’ve never done this before.” He rested his palm next to your ear, on the wall behind you. “That's because, I thought you were a virgin....” You hissed.

Baekhyun snorted, looking away with that awfully gorgeous smile of his, like what am I listening to right now?

“With this face? Seriously?” Baekhyun sounded snobbish. There he is. The Baekhyun you initially knew. The one that’s rude. The one that won’t give you peace. You widened your eyes at him. “I will kill you.” You glared and your words stumble in his head and had him reconsider his life choices. Your thoughts are even scarier than your words. Why in the world is his soulmate, this horrifically attractive. “Whatever you’re doing, I’m not happy about it. I want it to stop.” Baekhyun’s voice stopped being forceful, to being sweet and purposeful. Pleading, even. “Why should I, I’m halfway there.” You shot. Baekhyun’s face contorted. “...I’m doing exactly what you’re thinking right now. I’m doing it. If you can do it with other girls. I can do it with other boys too.” You walked away. Stormed.

Was she serious? She’s my soulmate, do I let her go? This fate thing is very confusing.

#exo #byun baekhyun #exo baekhyun #exo k #exo fanfic #byun baekhyun fanfic #fanfic #kpop fanfic #exo imagines #baekhyun imagines #imagines #scenarios #baekhyun #amulet

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peachhpunch-blog · 7 years

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I Owe You Nothing

There she was and there he was and past him was an eluvian standing tall, slim, and shining. Surrounding them were broken stones and whispers of waterfalls, moss and grass and wind, and beyond that, down below in a shallow valley, was a massive fortress full of vines, columns, statues, buttresses, and trees pushing through white marble. Mountains pressed against them all, piercing the pink and orange sky and the ribbons of clouds passing overhead, but Salonna pushed the colors away, the images of a world she had never known. She ignored the dirt between her toes and the birds chirping in the distance because anger was a tunnel vision and all she saw was Solas.

Throughout her journey here, she had done nothing else but think of what she might say or do to him once they had finally met face to face. Would she let her rage get the better of her? Fill her magic into flames and ice until a shard pierced his heart like he had shattered hers? Would she scream and stomp with hot thick tears trailing down her red cheeks? Or would she stand in front of him and let him look at what had become of her, what state he had left her in?

Salonna blinked one eye, the other, an empty socket, hidden under a patch of black leather.

Look Solas. Look what Corypheus took from me.

But before she could say anything, the mark, sick and pulsing, flared against the skin of her hand. It spread wider, pressing against bone and muscle. Fire licked at her nerves all the way up her shoulder as she cried out and buckled under the violent pain. For a heartbeat, she saw nothing but white until, as suddenly as it had come, the pain eased away back down her shoulder into the palm of her hand.

“That should give us more time,” said Solas.

He looked down at her.

Her frown deepened. After all this time, he stilled looked down at her. Her people. Her vallaslin. Her culture. Had she not been so blinded by his strange charm and knowledge, maybe she would not have fallen for him so easily.

She hated it. She recruited and she judged and she ruled just as her advisors, as Cassandra and Dorian and Vivienne had taught her. Salonna was no longer the frightened, stuttering child she once was, the timid, spineless little girl who had let the Inquisition lead her and not the other way around. But now, she was the Inquisition. Salonna put a foot beneath her and stood.

“I suspect you have questions,” he said, and he had the nerve to look sympathetic.

Why, she almost asked, but she was pushed into memories she would rather forget:

Her, confused and shaken by Solas’ sudden anger.

“I begged you not to drink from the Well! Why could you not have listened?”

“W-W-Why are you an-angry, Solas?” she had asked in that soft voice she once had.

“You gave yourself into the service of an ancient elven god!” His nostrils had flared, the way they always had when emotion tried to push through composure.

“W-would you have liked Morr--igan to drink from it instead?”

His shoulders had slumped a fraction. “It would not have been much better that way. She cannot be trusted.”

“Th--en why, Solas?” she had asked again.

Why, why, why.

His expression had softened, lines disappearing between his brows and around his mouth. People yelling had made her nervous, and being nervous had made her stuttering worse.

“Because then,” he had begun, taking her thin shoulders in his hands, “she would have been at Mythal’s every whim, and you would have been free.”

Her, standing in the middle of jagged walls of stone and stag statues a mile high, rushing water to her back and Solas in front of her. It had been the middle of the night then, fireflies dancing beneath the stars, the smell of spindleweed and dirt and the beginning of morning dew surrounding them, a place that felt like it had been lost in time.

Her skin had tingled when he had kissed her. He had pulled her close and she had hummed into his lips until he had tilted his head away. Eyes still closed, lips still buzzing -- she had wanted more.

“And I am sorry,” he had said. “I distracted you from your duty. It will never happen again.”

Her mind had, had trouble catching up. She had blinked once, twice, until she had fully understood his meaning.

Her voice had broke, heart throbbing in her throat. “Why?”

Other memories sailed before her eyes -- looking up at a sketch of a fresco smudged into the wall and asking why he had chosen yellow, offering him a sip of her tea and asking why he hated the stuff, laying her head in his lap with his fingers in her hair and breath at her ear and asking why she couldn’t stay in the Fade for the rest of her life.

Why, why, why.

So instead, she said, “You’re Fen’Harel. You’re the Dread Wolf.”

Solas nodded his head. “Well done.” He clasped his hands behind his back and stepped forward. Salonna took a step back. A frown twitched at the ends of his mouth, but he stayed put. “The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies... Not unlike Inquisitor I suppose.”

“I am nothing like you,” Salonna spat, throat tight and eye blazing. “Your pride has blinded you, Solas.”

His eyes narrowed, but somewhere deep she could see the pity there. “I am well aware... Well, now you know. What is the old Dalish curse? ‘May the Dread Wolf take you’?”

“Ma harel lasa!” she shouted, losing the little control she had. Anger bubbled in the pit of her stomach. She could feel her body trembling.

“Only by omission,” he tried to explain, tired.

This time, she as the one to step forward, close enough to smell the fur over his shoulder and the iron encasing him. “Ma lasa banal’ghilana! You used me!”

“I only used the Inquisition.”

“I AM THE INQUISITION.”

He flinched, but he tried to pretend like he hadn’t. Salonna had never raised her voice before. Not like this. “What would you have had me say? That I was the great adversary in your people’s mythology?”

“I would have had you trust me!” she practically snarled.

Now she tingled all over like ice melting on her skin. She saw the bend in Solas’s shoulders, how he leaned a fraction towards her, neck twisting around a swallow, and eyes darting around her face. He wanted to kiss her. It was all right there in his posture and expression, wanting to take something he could never have again. But Salonna would rather eat a corpse’s heart than let Solas touch her lips. She met his eyes.

Try it. See what happens.

“I sought to set me people free from slavery to would-be gods,” he said, walking away from her. “I broke the chains of all who wished to join me. The false gods called me Fen’Harel, and when they finally went too far, I formed the Veil and banished them forever. Thus I freed the elven people and, in so doing, destroyed their world.”

Salonna followed behind him, keeping several paces between them. Her eyes followed every movement, every step; she knew Solas could feel her glare on him. Her nails bit into the skin of her palms at the sight of his back to her.

Do not turn your back on me, she thought. Do not underestimate me. Not now when her fists twitched for ice from the Fade.

He stopped at the edge of a cliff where the world fell away into the shallow valley. The marble castle before them was all pointed arches and sharp towers. Some walls had crumbled throughout the ages. Windows had been shattered and stone steps led nowhere. Even surrounded by mountains, it was a ruin that demanded attention. Salonna wondered if it had once been his.

“How did the Veil destroy the world?” she asked.

Solas turned to her. “You saw the remains of Vir Dirthara. The Library was intrinsically tied to the Fade, and the Veil destroyed it.”

“You mean you destroyed it.”

For a heartbeat, something clouded his expression. “Yes.”

Tears burned the corners of her eyes, hot and swollen. But she would not let them fall. She would not let Solas see them. Instead, she reached behind her and gripped her staff tight in her hand. The wood squeaked in her fist. “You destroyed Vir Dirthara. You destroyed any hope for the Dalish to learn our heritage, where we came from. And yet you looked down on us! You scolded us, insulted us! And everything we got wrong was because of YOU!”

“Your legends are half-right. We were immortal. The vallaslin were meant to honor the gods. For everything that was lost to the elves, the Dalish have preserved far more than I could have imagined.”

Salonna spun around with staff in hand, her white blonde hair whipping against her cheek. The anger, again, boiled. Her vision swam with a pounding between her brows. She had to keep control. Her power was no match for the Dread Wolf, she knew, as she looked around at the garden of Qunari statues. The inquisitor took a deep breath. And then another... and then another. Her staff laid limp in her hands.

Finally, she turned to him and said, “So what about the future?”

Solas looked towards the eluvian, its surface swimming and glistening in the pink and orange dusk. “I lay in dark and dreaming sleep while countless wars and ages passed. I woke st--”

“Save me the poetics, Solas,” she interrupted with a sharp sweep of her hand. “Tell me your intentions.”

He faced her then, chin high and shoulders square. He was regal and perfect and dangerous, and at that moment, Salonna knew he must be destroyed. He looked down on her with narrow eyes and a hard frown. Something flipped in her stomach -- something frigid and bitter.

Fear. I’m afraid of him. Who wouldn’t be?

“I will save the elven people, even if it means this world must die.”

For some reason, Salonna was not surprised to hear him say this. “I will stop you.”

Solas paused. “I know you will try.”

Her gut turned a sharp cold like a shard of ice. “You underestimate me, Solas. You will not have this world. Not while I am alive. Not whi-”

The anchor flared again. She felt the Fade pull for it, raise her arm above her head and tug her up as her boots dragged against pebbles and moss. Her staff toppled to the ground with a thud. The world went white, then, suddenly, she was on the ground again. When had she fallen? The pain pushed her veins against her skin, searing her nerves, rattling her bones. She cried out, a wet noise that filled the space around them and echoed down the valley. Frightened birds took flight, the mark grew and the Fade jerked, her skin tingled. The Veil was thin and it wanted to devour her.

“The mark will eventually kill you,” said Solas. He was too calm, too polite. He knelt down beside her. “Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you... at least for now.”

Wrapping her hand around her swollen wrist, she could feel her pulse pounding against the pain. She grit her teeth, but she had to let him know. He had to know. “If... I live,” she grunted. “I’m going... to stop... you.”

The Dread Wolf stood up, swift and proud, then took her left hand and said, “I know.”

With a pull of his hand, he manipulated the Fade, yanked it from the mark. The pain subsided, reduce to a dull throb at the center of her palm. Air rushed into lungs as she gasped. Her fingers tips felt numb and green energy still swirled around her arm like wisps of lightening, but Solas had taken her pain away. After everything, he had still shown her the kindness she remembered in Haven, in Skyhold, in Halamshiral and the Dales.

His kindness had shown in the most unexpected ways. The way he had waited patiently for her to finish her broken stuttering sentences. How he had held her hand in caves when she felt suffocated. Giving her nods of encouragement when she had sat on her throne. Holding her tight when she had slept and whispering elven endearments in her ear. He had ushered her into his world with an outstretched hand and a tiny smile and she had been surrounded by everything him -- his spirits and his Fade and his frescos, his brushes and pelts, the tiny ideas scrawled in elvish at the side of his sketches. He had filled her life with him and she had let him, and it had never occurred to her, until just now, that even though she despised him, she was still letting the Dread Wolf control her world.

“I owe you nothing for this,” she hiss.

“And I ask for nothing,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and walking towards the Eluvian. “Live well, while the time remains.”

Solas disappeared into the rippling mirror, and Salonna was left alone with a boiling rage, a scream in her mouth, and one less arm.

#fanfiction #fanfic #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dai #solas #lavellan #solavellan #kinda lol #writelr #writeblr #inquisitor #inquisitor lavellan #trespasser #trespasser dlc #angst #lol #angry little elf

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monicaoakwood · 7 years

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The Echos of Rome

On my second day in Europe my mother and I went on a tour of the colosseum and Roman Forum. Walking into the massive amphitheater one could almost hear the deafening roars of the crowd from over a thousand years ago. The mighty and proud arches standing tall against the sky you can almost feel the palpable excitement of what it was like when a roman would set foot into such a place all those years ago. Our tour guide, Laura, was so very nice and smart. She was happy to answer all sorts of my ridiculous questions like “What was the colosseum used for during the black plague?” and “Was it expected that senators bring their wives to the games or were they more expected to stay at home for such matters while the men spectated?” Admittedly I did geek out quite a bit to her and gushed just how much I loved the Romans. When in middle school and high school I studied Latin and, while I was never that good at it, I always had a love for the culture and monuments the Romans had left behind for us. Walking along the steps, bearing witness to the symbol of Roman gladiator fights was something unlike I had ever seen. Looking down into what once was the gladiator barracks one could only imagine the fresh hell that it was like down there. The darkness only illuminated by a few burning oil lamps. The screaming of animals and the wounded. The thought and images bring so many festering questions to my head. I could only wish and imagine what it was like to be there, standing within the giant establishment all those years ago. And while I could stay there forever, looking on at the centuries old brick and marble eventually the tour group had to move on.

While we were walking towards the forum from the colosseum something interesting dawned on me. In Rome there are two things that are always a constant no matter where you go. Those things are: Life and art. What I mean by this is no matter where you go in Rome you will find both these things even when you least expect it. In the streets of the city there is always some sort of restaurant, market, or piazza that you can stumble upon that will be buzzing in the most unusual places. All one needs to do is look and you will find within that life, art. It could be a graffiti on a closed shop door that catches your eyes, it could be a picture of the virgin mary watching over you as you walk along the road, it could be a keystone above a door that remain from the ancients that used to walk the very same cobblestones, it could be the terraces bubbling to the brim with fresh herbs and flowers, it could be a fountain that you never saw before, it could be a new color you never knew buildings could be, the lists goes on and on. No matter where you go in Rome you will find the two come hand in hand. Even in the most preserved and treasured places. Walking towards the forum you will see collapsed columns from buildings long ago crumbled laying among the grass where wildflowers sway in the breeze without a care, some still retaining the carvings, some not so much. The names of countless people etched into the bricks of the colosseum to tell future generations “We were here”, the awe and wonder of the face when people step into the forum and the colosseum for the first time. No matter where you look there is life and beauty even in the places you least expect it. Life and art. Art and life. They are one and the same here.

#benji goes to europe #travel #personal #me #rome #italy #day two

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voidsettle · 6 years

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Roman Holiday

September 2018

I didn't plan Rome, it just happened. I was actually going to Venice in October, alone, to celebrate my birthday away from my crowd, cura te ipsum. And then I wanted a practice trip to get (morally) prepared for traveling on my own. I was anxious about everything, from my hotel and language to sightseeing and lack of support. I could never imagine I would fall madly in love.

Tempio dei Dioscuri, Roman Forum

Each, in its own way, was unforgettable. It would be difficult to— Rome! By all means, Rome. I will cherish my visit here in memory as long as I live (c) Roman Holiday

I bought tickets to Rome almost by accident. I (almost never an impulsive buyer) was preparing for my Venice trip, buying tickets, booking hotel, and then I saw - Rome. And decided to take a look at the tickets. And ended up buying one.

Ave Caesar, Morituri Te Salutant!

The predictions for the trip were not looking bright. First I got a rejection from the first hotel I booked because I was arriving pretty late at night (around midnight). I booked another one and, looking at some reviews, found out this hotel was not really a good choice. And so anxiety ensued.

I didn't know how to get from the airport to my hotel. Taxi'd cost me nearly 70 euros, ouch. The trains stopped running around the time I landed, but I still had to go through the customs. Internet research not only gave no answers but actually increased my nervousness: buses didn't route 24/7, crime (pickpockets mostly) was high, Wi-Fi in cafes was only accessible for locals with Italian cards (something-something anti-terrorism ad nauseam), and mobile companies would try to trick you into spending more. I felt devastated.

But as soon as I set foot in Rome, it all vanished in a cloud of smoke. The great city welcomed me with summer warmth, lively, happily oblivious crowds and small streets with equally small, smart cars. I was captivated instantly - the feeling that'd linger in me for months to come.

Felix culpa, truly.

Veni, Vidi, Vici

Colosseo, Rome. Asians are truly great photographers - I got the shot from a trio of Malaysian girls

I didn't have a plan. I've done my homework, surely - some books on Michelangelo, a couple of movies featuring Rome, bits of research here and there. Ex nihilo nihil fit, the lesson you learn after so many trips. I knew about Places, had a must-see list, a maybe-visit list, and even a in-case-I'm-bored-and-have-free-time list. But for my first morning in Rome, I decided to just stroll down the hill from Roma Termini, where my hotel was, to the foremost Roman attraction, the Colosseum.

That morning - and each one afterwards - I woke up at 7 (a rare feat for me, a devoted late-sleeper) to the chime of bells. An authentic experience, when surrounded by churches - not unlike Istanbul, where you wake up to a muezzin call. It's quite convenient: I never once needed an alarm clock. Although people with weaker psyche probably would be disgruntled.

But I wanted a cup of coffee first. The thing about coffee in Rome (and the rest of Italy, really) is that it's great. Unlike many of the European countries, Italians do know what coffee is: I never had bad - nay, even mediocre coffee in Italy. Here, coffee is not just a breakfast, a legal drug or a communication vehicle; it's a tradition.

Do not sit down for coffee - the price of the order will double the moment you pick a table. Drink it at the bar, standing up, with a piece of fresh pastry and chatting with the bartender and other clients.

This is the best way to adapt to mornings. By day two, I learned to order my coffee in Italian, as locals do; by day three, nearly passed as one.

Moses by Michelangelo, San Pietro in Vincoli

The thing about Rome is: you should not ignore the opportunities. If you see something curious, do not pass by. I discovered the first of Michelangelo's works by chance, ascending the stairs of the random vine-draped arched passage and finding myself facing the church of St Peter in Chains.

Fortunately, I have a sweet habit of walking inside the churches I see, no matter how famous they are - they always give comfort to the tired feet and eyes, allow to rest and might feature something curious.

Mood altered after recognizing the hand of the great master, I strolled down the street that opened the view of the Colosseo.

Get a ticket at the Roman Forum - you get to see Colosseo as well, but no need to wait in lines.

At the entrance, I got acquainted with a couple from Frankfurt, who met in Vilnius, but were originally from Ukraine. What a small world.

Roman Forum is a place of history so deep that it was dizzying. I don't remember much specifically for this reason: ancient places tend to have so much meaning one has troubles stacking it all up into their mind and worldview.

Palatine Hill. Sun, pines and cicadas

So the first vivid and distinct impression I caught was on top of Palatine Hill, and had nothing to do with history but everything with pure sensations.

High dark pines (that specific Roman kind with flat crowns), unbearably loud, suffocating cicadas, bitter fir-tree air, slightly moist and trembling with heat, tasting of stone and sand, scorching sun pouring over the crown of my head down the shoulders with viscous glutinous beads.

This simple, thick and fragrant flavor will always be the first thing that pops into my mind whenever I think of Rome. And thus I fell.

Palatine Hill is more of a park than a museum (like Roman Forum). Colosseo is neither; it's a site of tourism, of people, covered under the multilingual crowds to the point of being completely extinguished under the feet and voices.

The lines are formidable (you don't want to be caught in one of those, trust me). Even with a ticket, I spent nearly 20 minutes waiting for the security check. Inside, there is even more people: they are sitting on the fallen columns, ruined walls, on the sandy ground. They are taking photos, laughing, greedily drinking, fainting from heat, and chatting, talking, shouting! Most eerie feeling when you're alone.

Colosseo, Rome

Also, the place is ginormous. Who could've thought that Rome featured an even bigger arena, Circus Maximus that could fit more than double-sized crowd of the Colosseum. Unfortunately, not even ruins remained.

Whatever city I visit, I manage to get lost at least once, walking away from tourist routes and off into the jungles of the city. This result in all kinds of hilarious and wondrous discoveries; in Rome, it gifted me with Giardino degli Aranci and its smaller version Giardino di Sant'Alessio.

These cozy little pools of greenery in the midst of churches and ruins give off the vibe of a luxurious garden of a Roman Republic villa - emerald-green, piny, shadowy and tart. The specific feeling that mostly locals visit the area persists: Italians are sitting on the many benches, enjoying the cool patchwork shadows of the orange trees, books lazily sprawled in their laps, hats thrown back to the napes, spots of sun dancing over their calm, slumbered expressions. The far end of the garden opens into a spectacular vista of the left bank of Rome and Vatican's San Pietro in the distance framed by the hot, smooth and almost soft marble of the parapet.

Oranges underfoot are aplenty but, unfortunately, inedible: too bitter and acerbic. Not that the tourists don't try: some of the fruits are actually peeled and half-eaten.

There's yet another place worth visiting once near the gardens - the Hole of Rome, a keyhole that opens a view to the three countries of Italy, Vatican (the Dome of San Pietro is barely visible) and Malta (represented by the Maltese Embassy). For me, it's a tell-tale determinant of human nature: heat hammering down people's heads, at least 20-minute long line and a tiny keyhole to witness the symbolic combo. I ignored the keyhole but thoroughly enjoyed the human nature instead: the motivation (when I asked a boy standing almost at the front of the long line) was 'because there is a hole you can look through'. Isn't that just so hilariously wonderful?

Observing the vista from the panoramic gardens, I was seduced by the Tiber quay at the foot of the hill. Seeing a lot, tired and hungry, I was still enraptured by the image that came to denote older Italy for me. Fine squarish cobblestones, light-clad plane trees with mottled, scaly barks and round prickly fruits. Restless, tumultuous Tiber, covered in humpback bridges, chained in taut rangy walls, smooth and weathered. Wide rough-stone parapet of the quay built for resting your elbows (or, if you're capable, sitting) on, enjoying the unhurried serenity - something I will be chasing after in every other Italian town.

A short detour along the quay of Tiber and through Isola Tiberina on my way to seeking dinner at the foot of the Capitoline Hill

Rome is full of romantic experiences, whether one's wandering through the labyrinth of Roman streets or witnessing solis occasum at Castel Sant'Angelo. In September, sun strings itself directly on the spiel of Duomo San Pietro, and pours pinkish light over the crowns of the high planes, diffusing their somberly greens into soft oranges and flooding the city in mysterious glimmering haze of dusk.

Naturally, being this close to Vatican, I couldn't pass on the opportunity. San Pietro bathed in twilight is enthralling, when the warm orange spots of the slim street lights mix with the deepening blue sky and the vanishing yellow of the clouds.

I always had rather lethargic sense of self-preservation when it came to odd people. This got me in a number of situations that my friends afterwards deemed weird and/or dangerous while incredulously staring at me. Near one of the Vatican fountains, I chanced upon a small Italian man with a flaming passion for Roman history and a foot fetish.

So I found myself in the middle of Piazza San Pietro, barefoot, enjoying the lukewarm marble under my feet, very solid and incredibly smooth. Walking around downtown, I also got an unexpected tour from this local guide slipping in some trivia while enjoying the crowded spaces of piazza Navona and fountain Trevi.

I barely got to the hotel that day, feet searing in tired heat. By chance found a great cure: rubbing the soles and toes forcefully with a wet, preferably rough towel. Feels gorgeous.

Homo Sum Humani a Me Nihil Alienum Puto

The two greatest things about Roman streets are gelato and marble stairs - and they're this much better when combined, and made alive by people

People in Rome are great - despite their oddities. Probably one of the reasons I adored this crazy city so much was because of all the weird encounters I had. Within the first 24 hours, I've met people from all over the world. A girl from India, with whom we exchanged photos in Colosseum. A girl from Hungary that got lost in the circular passages of Castel Sant'Angelo with me. Two couples from Toronto who dined at the table nearby in a cafe on one of the pedestrian streets near piazza Venezia - they got all chatty, brightening up my solitary lunch. One of them just happened to be a writer and recommended me a British publishing agency (along with promising me a copy of his freshly published book).

Germany, Nepal, South Africa, the US, Peru - at some point, I stopped keeping track, instead basking in the multicultural melting pot of colors and languages.

And then there were mindless wanderings, ruins on every corner (literally; there are some well-known and others that are barely fenced from the omnipresent tourists), churches literally everywhere, and streets wide and narrow, flavored by delicious cuisine. Traditionally Roman pasta on a checkered tablecloth, homemade wine and street performers combine into a experiences you see in the movies but never assume to be possible in reality.

Trajan Forum, piazza Venezia

When you think Rome, think water fountains, marble stairs and churches.

Walking down the streets of Rome, I promised to make a pledge of love to Roman fountains: they were what got me though the day. You rarely sit in Rome (and when you do, it's either marble stairs of whatever building you pass or inside a church; or on the marble stairs of the church). You don't feel your feet by the end of the day, and that's when fountains give you at least a tiny bit of relief to get to your destination (commonly the next fountain).

Don't leave your hat and sunscreen behind. Have an empty water bottle - the water fountains with drinkable water are scattered throughout Rome; a life-saving mechanism.

Piazza del Popolo full of men blowing rainbow-filled soap bubbles, street artists providing soundtrack on the background and laughing, frolicking children and parents

My second day in Rome was the day of piazzas. I started at piazza Venezia and the nearby Capitoline museums (wonderfully cool, coherent and immersive, not to mention the exciting hunt of the passage from Palazzo dei Conservatri to Palazzo Nuovo, which appeared to be under Palazzo Senatorio, offering an apropos panoramic view of the Roman Forum). Altare della Patria, towering over the piazza, built of cool marble and pure magnanimous giantism served as the observing deck to plan the route.

Next, after an hour of contemplative silence in Pantheon's dome, it was time for piazza Navona with its aquatically-themes fountains and the baroque art of chiesa di Sant'Agnese in Agone.

With a gelato from Grom (Italian gelateria chain) in hand and determination in heart, I walked under the planes' rustling leaves of the Tiber quay to piazza del Popolo, where I had another half an hour sitting and listening to classical pieces by Chopin, Shubert and Albinoni in chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli.

Before the final stop at piazza di Spagna, I delighted in the view from the Balconata del Pincio at the western border of Borghese gardens. This part of Rome inside Aurelian Walls is where the locals spend their weekends, public park zones and family entertainments aplenty.

Sunset over Rome, view from the top of Spanish stairs

Vialle della Trinita dei Monti leads way along the gardens, opening to the vista of Rome on the right side. The street opens to the top of Spanish steps, where I camped for the next couple of hours under the double bell-towers of chiesa di Trinita dei Monti. Families, friends, dates appointed and met, street vendors selling paintings, roses and cheap toys, hats and umbrellas, sunglasses and various small merchandise - the place is a wonderful spot to savor the life of Rome.

Carpe Diem, Carpe Noctem

Colosseo and Via dei Fori Imperiali at night

Nightfall brings relief and freshness, and also lights. Suddenly, Rome wears different colors; blues and greens dissipate into the dark corners, but yellows pull a warm cover over the city. Rome at night is gorgeous.

Do see the lights of Colosseum, this one is gorgeous. Roman Forum, on the other hand, was quite disappointing.

I was knackered after the museum run and the circle stroll around half the Rome. Still - hic manebimus optime - I followed through with the plan, and was rewarded with a magnificent view and, more importantly, atmosphere.

Besides, it's not only the major sights you want to see; Rome at night breathes a different air. Couples of all ages stroll up and down the streets, yellow lights over their heads. Fountains are bathed in white lights, and you find random statues of gods and heroes scattered on city corners, hidden and on display. Downtown is busy, bustling and crowded; the rest of Rome falls asleep and offers a chance to get to know the streets that are not flooded with tourists. It's a different city - but definitely one you'd want to meet.

Imperium in Imperio

View of Rome and St Peter's Square from the top of the Dome of St Peter's Basilica, Vatican

While still at home, getting prepared for the trip, I wasn't very fond of the idea to see the Vatican museums. Travel connoisseurs were complaining at the stuffiness, extreme lines and crowds that don't really allow you to see anything. And, well, they were right.

If there is a possibility to dodge the visit to Vatican museums, it's a decision that'll save time, money and mood.

Of course, it's exciting to see Stanze di Raffaello (School of Athens is obviously my favorite) and Michelangelo's work on Sistine Chapel. Yet the crowds of Vatican are no brutum fulmen, a force to be reckoned with. Besides, I did spent nearly 2 hours in line - it was a good thing I caught a company of another unlucky tourist, who was able to chat my boredom away.

San Pietro, on the other hand, was captivating. The imposing luxury, the solid gilding, the voluminous ornaments of different styles (and complete lack of seats to rest your spent limbs). I massively enjoyed the Dome and the pontifical tombs, especially as I used the latter to finally lose my company from the museums, mea culpa.

Surely, I had to send a couple of postcards from the post office of Vatican, the smallest country in the world (with the best post office; they still came only a month later).

Semper Fidelis

View of panorama of Rome and Altare della Patria from Giardino degli Aranci

Rome is a cosmopolitan and extremely democratic city. You can see the most of it for free. Aside from piazzas (Venezia, Navona, di Spagna, del Popolo and San Pietro), churches (at the very least Pantheon, Basilica di San Pietro and San Pietro in Vincoli) and numerous fountains (Trevi obviously the most significant of them), there are Altare della Patria, Garden of Oranges, Isola Tiberina and Spanish Stairs. If satisfied with a view from above and further away, you can also have a thorough look at Roman Forum from Capitoline Hill and at Colosseo from Via dei Fori Imperiali.

But most importantly, the feel of Rome. Tiny cars and coffee. Churches and ruins at every turn. Somberly green pines with high flat crowns and planes shedding skin in white flakes. Enrapturing Tiber, muddy and relentless in its chains. Ancient, worn out marble stairs. Friendly and happy people from most different corners of the world. Rapidly melting gelato covering you hands in sweet drops. Fountains with refreshing cool water. What's there not to like?

I don't know how to say goodbye (c) Roman Holiday

I was leaving from Roma Termini to Fiumicino airport on this pompously advertised Leonardo express train but cannot say anything in its favor except for its speed. Unlike the bus that actually drives past Colosseum, it quickly flashes past the city and into half-rural landscapes. Cui bono? If you want the last glimpse of Rome, take the bus.

Amor Vincit Omnia

Palazzo si Giustizia at dusk

Soundtrack is important for any trip. In Ye Olde Europe I commonly find myself immersed in the unobtrusive warmth of Kaleo's Vor i Voglaskogi, best suited for the moist softness of Baltic countries and jovial sobriety of the Eastern regions.

For Rome, nothing is better than Puccini's Tosca. Standing outside palazzo Farnese (currently French embassy in Rome) I was listening on loop to Tosca's aria Vissi d'Arte performed by unparalleled Maria Kallas. In Castel Sant'Angelo, E Lucevan le Stelle - Placido Domingo's aria of Cavaradossi - and its life-reassuring, heart-breaking, breath-taking meaning is perfect to make the sense of sombre stone passages and elevated open-air decks.

In Vatican, I switched to Miserere, a piece specifically written by Gregorio Allegri to be performed in the Sistine Chapel. The polyphonic harmony of voices combines in sublime, somber and tranquil melody, repetitive, exalted and pure. It gives the feeling of a lofty Gothic Catholic cathedral with warm sun breaking through its high-and-tall lancet windows, stalling in the upper tiers and airily patching the gray granite floor with the spots of warm glow. The daylight gradually fades into tenebrae, until the candles are extinguished one by one until the single one is left to dispel the darkness.

Panem et Circenses

Finding real Italian trattorias is important - touristy cafes are too pricey and - much more importantly! - have poor food. For Italian places, look out for the signs:

traditional menus (not laminated two-sided paper ones)

menus mostly in Italian

no barkers trying to hoard you in

no sites and attractions nearby

acceptable prices

Italian clientele

In vino veritas (what to eat):

Carbonara (bacon and egg pasta)

Cacio e pepe (cheese and pepper pasta)

Amatriciana (bacon, onion and tomato sauce pasta)

saltimbocca alla romana (veal with ham and sage)

abbacchio alla scottadito (lamb cutlets)

coda alla vaccinara (oxtail stew)

puntarelle (chicory - contorni, side dish)

pizza capricciosa

pizza salame/salsiccia piccante

pizza prosciutto e fichi

porchetta (full-roasted pig)

guanciale (pork jowl)

tiramisu (traditional dessert)

gelato (local ice-cream)

Sicilian pastry

local wines (reds or whites; what matters is that you drink them)

E pluribus unum (what to see):

San Pietro in Vincoli (Michelangelo's Moses)

Colosseo

Arch of Constantine

Roman Forum

Palatine Hill

Castel Sant'Angelo

Trevi fountain

Pantheon

Piazza Navona

palazzo Farnese

Campo de' Fiori

Piazza di Spagna and Spanish steps

Borghese museum and gardens

Piazza del Popolo

Chiesa di Santa Maria dei Miracoli

Sacro Cuore del Suffragio

Piazza Venezia

Trajan's Forum and Column

Altare della Patria

Capitoline Hill and museums

Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore

Isola Tiberina

Giardino degli Aranci

Circus Maximus

Bocca della Verita (Mouth of Truth)

Pyramid of Cestius

Church of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva

Baths of Caracalla

Archbasilica of St John Lateran

Porta San Sebastiano

Chiesa del Domine Quo Vadis

Catacombs of Saint Calixt

Catacombe di San Sebastiano

Circus of Maxentius

Mausoleum of Caecilia Metella

Basilica of Saint Paul Outside the Walls

Vatican:

St Peter's Square

St Peter's Basilica (including Pauline Chapel for Michelangelo's frescoes and Pieta, Dome and catacombs with the tombs of Popes)

Vatican museums

Sistine Chapel

Ipse Dixit

Roman Forum and Palatine Hill

I might be biased in favor of Rome - Tosca, Call Me By Your Name, Roman Holiday; Punic Wars, Michelangelo and Julius II, Alexander III and the Borgias. They say it's the Eternal City. Cannot argue with that. I don't care what is mainstream, argumentum ad populum (tu quoque, huh): I love Rome.

#rome #italy #vatican

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moon-ruled-rising · 4 years

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as the rain hides the stars

Read the full story on ao3...

and Wattpad, if you so wish...

vi: the damsels are depressed

American stories, faded before me.

I’m feeling hopless,

the damsels are depressed.

Boys will be boys, the, where are the wise men?

Darling, I’m scared.

-Taylor Swift, “Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince”

The hairdresser lowered the silver tiara on top of Dany’s silk curls. Most of the tiaras in the Targaryen collection were intricate floral patterns dotted with diamonds but Dany’s was special.

Her tiara was geometric. A band of silver with a large pear shaped diamond set into it, surrounded by hundreds of smaller ones from the mines of Valyria. The pressure from the cataclysmic collapse of the Targaryen homeland a millennia ago created the most beautiful diamonds on the planet. The Targaryen royalty made it tradition to have the gems in all of their crown jewels. Dany was no exception.

It was the opposite of all things a princess was supposed to be. Angular, intimidating, and cold. The tiara was commissioned for her sixteenth nameday, her official debut into society. The gala she planned for it was a testament to her excellent taste. All the best people, dressed in the best designers, and dancing to moody music in low lighting.

The Annual Charity Gala was nothing like that. It was outdated courtiers dressed in antiquated fashion with nothing better to do than gossip about each other. All milling around under harsh lights and awaiting Rhaegar’s speech, indulging themselves in the expensive alcohol.

She jutted her chin and pouted her lower lip, checking her lipstick in the giant mirror before her. It was bad taste to wear a red lip with a red dress, she knew, but she couldn’t resist, especially with the honored guests they were receiving. She needed a power move to show that even after her slight, she still demanded respect. Even from stuffy Northerners.

Missandei entered the boudoir dressed in one of Elia’s old gowns the seamstress did quick alterations on. Yellow, off-the-shoulder, the train of the dress extending from under her shoulders. Her curls framed her face, highlighting her gorgeous complexion. All of Dany’s old gowns were in soft, pastel hues and could never do Missy justice.

“You look stunning!” Dany cheered, wrapping her friend in another hug.

“Thank you. Elia has good taste.”

“It’s too bad we can’t put you in a tiara.”

Tiaras were for royalty only and they were only worn at evening functions or important state events. Like important speeches, coronations, and weddings.To put Missandei in even a small one would cause the poor old patrons of the court to keel over where they stood.

The two girls laughed. Elia knocked at the door, stepping in cautiously when Dany called to her.

She was wearing a pale sunset orange, the frothy chiffon embroidered with the stylized sun of House Martell. A tiara composed of the same golden suns was nestled in her long curls. She glittered in the low light of the room.

“You two look beautiful,” she complimented, reaching up to adjust Dany’s tiara.

Elia looked at her with soft eyes, resting her hands on Dany’s bare shoulders.

“Thank you,” Dany smiled

“Rheagar wants to speak with you.”

“Now? But the gala’s-”

“He’s in his office. It’s very important so, please, don’t keep him waiting.”

Dany gave a sorry look to Missandei, “Duty calls.”

“I’ll keep our lovely guest company until you get back,” Elia promised.

She traveled down the hall, the lavish rug muffling the click of her heels. Dany’s apartments were on the north end of the palace, with Rhaenys’ rooms and the main guest rooms. Because Dany was still living in King’s Landing at the time of Aegon’s birth, his rooms were prepared at the south end of the complex; closer to Elia and Rhaegar’s apartments. She was surprised when she returned home and they hadn’t moved her to the family guest suites on the opposite side of the palace.

The long hallway to Rheagar’s study had a wall of windows on one side and mirrors on the other. The interior designers wanted the unusually small walkway to feel as wide and grand as the others.

She watched her reflection as she passed. A dangerous and proud woman ready to face the world. Ready to face her brother. She took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders back, lifting her chin for good measure.

The impressive door was open but she made sure to close it when she entered. From the way he didn’t look up from the papers on his desk, Dany knew he wasn’t excited about having her home.

“Dany, thank you for coming. It’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back.”

She spotted the tray of liquor on a table and made her way over. She needed to be a little buzzed before the party started and Rheagar kept the best scotch in his office for his important guests. Well, I am nothing if not important, she reminded herself with a pleased smile.

“How as Braavos?”

“Wonderful,” she deadpanned, pouring herself a glass of the potent alcohol.

“Would you like water, Dany?”

The jab at her recent liquor fueled exploits didn’t go unnoticed.

“No, I much prefer a good glass of scotch. They don’t have this fine stuff in Braavos. Although, they do have a strong liquor from Lorath called vodka. It’s knocked me off my ass quite a few times.”

“I didn’t ask you here to talk about your drinking habits while abroad.”

“Then why did you ask me here?”

Dany lowered herself into the wingback chair in front of his impressive desk. The same desk Dany hid under during games of hide and seek with Viserys. Rhaegar never played with them, he was always too busy with lessons.

It was strange how much Rhaegar looked like their father, poised behind the antique desk. He had silver hair like all of the Targaryens but his violet eyes were much darker.

“Galazza Galare contacted Baelish earlier today and told him that your little slip up was the work of photoshop. You got lucky this time but it’s not likely to change people’s minds.”

Dany couldn’t celebrate the news of her accident being manufactured. Not with Rhaegar staring her down. If anything, she held her breath in anticipation of what he would berate her for next.

“There’s still the fact that you were hanging on this… Daario Naharis. Do you have any idea what people will say?”

“You don’t have to worry about Daario. He’s just a fling. Nothing like the last time.”

“Dany, we can’t have you acting like this. The public will assume you’ve gone down the same path as Viserys. You had your freedom but it’s time to reign it in.”

Being compared to Viserys hurt and the tone of Rhaegar’s voice reinforced the image of their father. She’d never been the victim of one of his lectures on reputation but Rhaegar was subjected to them all the time. The need to protect the Targaryen name was ingrained in his brain like a bad tattoo.

“I think you’re forgetting that I spent my time between semesters in Slaver’s Bay helping with the human trafficking crsis.”

“No, I didn’t forget that, but the negative aspects of your personality have taken the spotlight over all of your good deeds.”

Dany considered for a minute with a long drink. Other people said scotch burned on its way down but Dany only felt a tickle. Targaryen’s knew how to hold their alcohol. The last drop slid from the glass and into her mouth. She set the cut crystal down with an indignant sound and traced her finger around the edge.

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Dany,” Rhaegar sighed.

“You called me home for a reason and it’s bigger than my reputation. So, spill it.”

Rheagar opened a desk drawer and pulled out an official looking manilla folder with the state seal printed on the front. It was a variation of the old Targaryen sigil. A single dragon with three heads, each representing a branch of the state intelligence agency, and a set of scales and a longsword grasped in its talons.

“A couple of months ago we received a message from King Eddard Stark of the North. He seeks an alliance.”

“An alliance?”

“Yes. He said the North suffered a low harvest and needs men to man the Wall before winter comes.”

Dany raised an eyebrow at him. Rhaegar was never good at getting to the point, a habit he learned from their father. He met her eyes and cleared his throat.

“I see this as a way to finally secure the North and eliminate the threat of war.”

“Okay…”

“So I offered him a marriage contract between our house and his.”

Dany’s hand tightened around her glass, dreading the next words out of Rhaegar’s mouth. “Between you and his heir.”

The expensive glass hurtled at his head. Rhaegar ducked in time but the cut crystal shattered against the ornate marble mantle behind him. She couldn’t stop herself. Part of the reason she always got into so much trouble was because she didn’t know when to stop.

“And you didn’t think to talk to me about it first,” she yelled.

There was no doubt her voice carried through the halls. She wasn’t known for holding her tongue and always vocalizing her distaste. The palace staff were used to her outbursts.

“Dany, please, sit down- “No! You can’t expect me to go through with this!”

Rheagar sighed and rubbed his temples, “I expect you to do what is right and put your family before yourself. When Aegon conquered Westeros he didn’t do it because of a silly whim, he did it to save his family. The same family that you and I are now tasked with preserving.”

“The Northmen pose no threat to us. And even if they did, we outnumber their forces.”

“I’m afraid they might be a greater concern than we originally thought.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The North is sparsely populated, which makes filling the ranks hard, but one of the great houses have been steadily building up their forces for some time. If the situation is as dire as King Eddard claims, we could expect him to utilize these forces to attack our borders for resources.”

“I will not be your pawn.”

“Have you ever stopped to consider that there are some things bigger than you!” he slammed his palms on the desk. “Monarchy is dying, Daenerys. Everyday more people turn against us and you make it worse by acting like a common whore. Do you know what they say about us?”

For once in her life she was too stunned to speak. Rhaegar never lashed out like this. But she wouldn’t let him get to her.

“Oh, let me guess! Those Targaryens are an outdated, a symbol of the old world! We’d be better off without them. And that Daenerys, she’s the worst of all, the filthy whore,” Dany spat.

She was in Rhaegar’s face, leaning over the desk. The tears burned and her throat was tight. Daenerys Targaryen does not cry, she assured herself as she inhaled a shaking breath. Her hands balled into fists, fingernails digging into her palms. She needed to punch something or someone, she needed to run.

“This isn’t a foreign policy matter. It’s punishment for my behavior. Do you honestly think selling me off to a foreign country is going to silence the rumors about me?

Rhaegar’s eyes softened with the realization of what he’d implied and he sunk into his chair.

“I don’t expect you to understand the delicacy of this situation but you need to acknowledge that you are a member of House Targaryen. The same regal house that has ruled over these kingdoms for hundreds of years. We do not let our personal feelings get in the way of duty.”

“That is so-”

“Like it or not, you belong to the Crown and when it calls, you answer.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“I wouldn’t advise that.”

“Why not?”

He took a deep breath, clasped his hands, and looked her dead in the eyes, “I’ll disown you.”

She laughed but the stoic look on her brother’s face said it all.

“Oh, you’re serious. You’re going to disown me because I want to be viewed as a human being instead of a political bargaining chip?”

“It’s not an easy decision but if that’s what it takes.”

She clenched her jaw.

Rheagar held the folder out. Dany scowled at her brother as she snatched it and retreated from his extravagant office in a huff, her red dress added to the dramatism of her exit.

He never apologized. Never. ‘It’s not a King’s job to apologize’, their father would say.

She found Elia and Missy in her boudoir, giggling over something on a phone.

“Did you know about this?” Dany demanded of Elia.

Elia’s dark brows furrowed in confusion.

“Did you know that Rhaegar sold me off for some alliance we don’t need?”

Elia sighed, “He asked me not to tell you. He knew you would react like this.”

“Wait, what’s happening?” Missy questioned from the ottoman.

“I’m engaged.”

“Excuse me? You’re getting married and you didn’t tell me.”

“As the bride, I only found out minutes ago.”

Missandei balked, Dany’s same reaction. The tension in her limbs was back and the familiar urge to hit something burned in her.

“Political business, I’m afraid,” Elia confirmed.

Dany handed the dossier to Missy, watching her face as she laid eyes on the official portrait of Prince Jon.

“Oh, he’s hot!”

Elia hummed in agreement, “He’s the Heir to the North. His country seeks an alliance with the United Kingdoms of Westeros. And he is handsome, you could do a lot worse.”

“So your brother arranged a marriage contract without your consent?”

“Yes and I will not be going through with it.” Dany took the file back so she wouldn’t have to hear anymore about her fiance’s looks.

Her fiance. The word made her want to vomit. No, he wasn't her fiance, he wasn’t even a suitor. He was a minor inconvenience she needed to weed out.

She flipped through it unceremoniously before taking the official portrait from the paper clip and tossing the rest onto her bed. Elia reclaimed the papers.

“Three brothers, two sisters. He’s served in the military and was very successful in school,” she recited.

“And he’s hot,” Missy singsonged.

Dany considered the photo again. Despite his military time, his face still held the softness of youth. Arrogant and buoyant.

“He’s a legitimized bastard.” Elia pointed to the specific line.

Dany looked up from the photo, “That’s hardly appropriate. I’m the Princess Royal of the United Kingdoms of Westeros! I can’t marry a bastard, even a legitimized one.”

“He’s going to be a King,” Elia stressed, “Give the guy a chance.”

“I’ve spent six years in Slaver’s Bay making change, real change. And not by holding fancy galas and bullshit fundraisers but by getting my hands dirty. If I marry him, all of that goes away. I can’t go where I want, when I want…”

“Dany,” Missy spoke, “I agree with Elia, um- Her Majesty. You did all of that work, but only as a Princess. If you were a queen, you could do so much more. I’m sure they’d let you go to Slaver’s Bay and do your work.”

“But I’ll have so much security, my work would hardly be impactful. And I don’t know anything about their customs. I’ll just embarrass myself-”

“So? You’ll learn. You’re forgetting that Rhaegar and I’s marriage was arranged. I survived and you will too.”

“Not if I have anything to do about it!”

“Like it or not, this is life as a member of the royal family. You could abdicate but you know Rhaegar would never allow it and nobody likes a disgraced royal.”

Dany glanced back at the photo, still clutched in her hand. She hadn’t noticed how tight her grip was and relaxed her hand. Even with the crinkles in the photo she could see what Elia and Missy saw. She wasn’t blind. In his military uniform he looked dignified and strong. He looked worthy of a woman like Dany.

Unfortunately, looks didn’t determine a successful marriage. She would need to get him alone to determine if he was really worth the risk.

“What do you think, Dany?” Missy prompted.

“Fine. I’ll give him a chance, but I’m expecting your help.”

Elia gave her a smile.

“What do we need to do?” Missy asked, excitement and mischief in her voice.

“Be my agents. Talk to him, gather more information, report back to me. I’ll make my move when I feel it’s right.”

An assistant poked their head into the room and reminded them that they needed to get into place for the gala. Missy had to leave with the assistant to go through the secret side entrance since she wasn’t an aristocrat.

Elia and Dany found Rhaegar waiting for them, checking his watch. When he smiled at them, Dany could only scowl back.

“It’s about time you two showed up.” he planted a kiss on Elia’s cheek.

He placed his hands firmly on Dany’s bare shoulders, “Please, remember to smile.”

She shoved his hands off and he sighed.

Elia swooped her into a tight hug and whispered, “I’m so proud of you, no matter what.”

When she pulled back she had the mom look on her face. The same one she gave Dany when she got into university or when Aegon took his first steps.

Rhaegar and Elia entered to monstrous applause but when Dany entered, she faced dead silence. Despite the number of people in the Grand Hall, the whispers echoed. And that Daenerys, she’s the worst of all of them, the filthy whore, she couldn’t stop the thought from coming back. She shook it off. She was the blood of the dragon, dragons do not care about the opinions of sheep. She didn’t need their approval. They were all jealous and petty.

Dany paused at the top of the stairs to survey the court. She spotted the newcomers immediately, situated in the furthest corner by a window. Her eyes caught on the eldest daughter’s hair before she saw the eldest brother and finally, her fiance.

Her breath caught in her throat as she realized he was a real person. And the situation she was so sure she could get herself out of, felt even more impossible.

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