#look at this cacophony of clashing patterns

[moonselune]

Eyooo was wandering if u could do the ladies reacting to a gn Tav using their entire body to shield the women from a fireball blast? Like they hear the spellcaster going for it and they just engulf the ladies in what is essentially a bear hug that fully covers the ladies so they don't get affected by the blast please?

Icl all I thought about whilst writing this was the Sean Paul 'Fireball' song, hence why this came out less angsty lmao

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach:

The battlefield was chaos, a cacophony of clashing steel and arcane energy. Amidst the fray, you spotted the enemy spellcaster, their hands already weaving the intricate patterns of a fireball spell. Your heart lurched as you realized the blast was aimed directly at Karlach, her back turned as she fought off a group of gnolls.

Without a second thought, you surged forward, throwing yourself between Karlach and the impending explosion. Wrapping her in a tight embrace, you used your entire body to shield her from the blast, feeling the heat and force of the fireball scorch your back. The pain was immediate and intense, but you held on, determined to protect her.

As the fireball dissipated, you slumped to the ground, your body charred and smoking. Karlach spun around, her eyes wide with horror and fury.

"Are you out of your mind?" she roared, her voice a mix of anger and concern. "I’m literally fire resistant, you idiot! I'm basically on fire 24/7. Why did you do that?"

You managed a weak smile, your voice barely a whisper. "Couldn't risk it… didn't want you to get hurt."

Karlach knelt beside you, her hands shaking as she tried to assess your injuries. "You're a damn fool," she muttered, her tone softening as she saw the extent of your burns. "But you're my damn fool."

Shadowheart arrived, her face set in a mask of concentration as she began to cast healing spells. Karlach stayed by your side, her anger giving way to a fierce protectiveness.

"You're not doing that again, you hear me?" Karlach said, her voice choked with emotion. "You can't keep risking yourself like this."

Despite the pain, you reached up to touch her cheek. "I'll always protect you, Karlach. Always."

Her eyes softened, and she leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. "And I'll always protect you, too. So no more heroics, okay?"

You nodded weakly, comforted by her presence and the knowledge that, and despite your recklessness, Karlach would always be there for you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara:

The din of battle was deafening, and amidst the chaos, you heard the ominous chanting of a fireball spell. Your heart raced as you saw it aimed straight at Minthara. Without hesitation, you sprinted towards her, your body moving on instinct.

"Get down!" you shouted, throwing yourself around her in a protective bear hug.

"What are you—" Minthara began, but her words were cut off as the fireball erupted against your back.

The intense heat seared your flesh, the pain nearly unbearable. You grit your teeth, holding Minthara tightly to shield her from the worst of the blast. The flames licked around you, but you refused to let go until the fire had passed.

When the magic finally dissipated, you crumpled to the ground, your body charred and smoking. Minthara immediately knelt beside you, her eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and worry.

"You fool!" she snapped, her voice trembling. "There was no need for this. I could have taken the hit."

You coughed weakly, managing a small, pained smile. "Couldn't risk it," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Had to protect you."

Minthara's expression softened ever so slightly, but she still looked furious. "You reckless idiot," she muttered, her hands moving to cast a healing spell over you. Divine energy flowed from her fingers, mending your burnt flesh and easing your pain.

As she worked, Minthara glanced over her shoulder and barked, "Shadowheart, tend to Gale. He's likely to get himself killed without supervision."

Shadowheart nodded and moved to attend to Gale, leaving Minthara to focus on you. She continued to channel healing energy, her touch surprisingly gentle.

"You should not have done that," Minthara said quietly, her anger giving way to a more vulnerable tone. "Your life is just as important as mine."

You reached up, your hand trembling, to touch her cheek. "I couldn't let anything happen to you," you murmured. "Not while I could still do something about it."

Minthara sighed, her eyes closing briefly as she leaned into your touch. "You are a stubborn one," she said softly. "But I suppose I cannot fault you for your loyalty."

She finished her healing spell, the light fading as she helped you sit up. "Just promise me you won't throw yourself into danger so recklessly again," she said, her eyes locking onto yours with a mixture of sternness and concern.

"I'll try," you said, knowing full well that it was a promise easier said than done. Minthara shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"You're impossible," she murmured, but there was a warmth in her gaze as she helped you to your feet.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Lae'zel:

The battlefield was a chaotic clashing of weapons and arcane spells. Amidst it all, you fought alongside Lae'zel, your heart pounding with the rhythm of combat. Suddenly, a sinister voice rang out from the enemy ranks, casting a familiar and dreaded incantation. Ignis.

Your instincts took over. You saw the spellcaster hurling a bead of intense flame towards your group, its trajectory set to engulf Lae'zel. Without a second thought, you lunged towards her, wrapping your arms around her in a protective embrace. Your larger frame enveloped hers completely, creating a shield with your body.

The explosion was deafening. Heat seared through your clothes, burning your skin, but you held firm, refusing to let go. The pain was a distant sensation compared to your determination to protect Lae'zel. When the flames finally dissipated, you collapsed to the ground, smoke rising from your charred body.Lae'zel disentangled herself from your embrace, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and fury.

"Why did you do that, you fool?" she demanded, her voice trembling despite its harshness. "I am a warrior, stronger and more resilient than you. Sacrificing yourself was unnecessary!"

You managed a weak smile, your voice raspy from the pain. "Lae'zel, I love you… but you need to shut up and go get Shadowheart. Now."

For a moment, she seemed to struggle with her emotions, her grip tightening on her weapon. Then, with a frustrated growl, she nodded and sprinted towards the camp.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Shadowheart:

The battle was fierce, with spells and steel clashing in a chaotic dance of death. You and Shadowheart were in the thick of it, fighting side by side against a band of ruthless mercenaries. The enemy, seeing the tide turning against them, began chanting the incantation for a fireball, the air around him crackling with arcane energy.

You heard the familiar and dreaded sound of the spell being prepared and saw the fiery orb forming in the enemy's hands. Your eyes darted to Shadowheart, who was focused on healing an injured companion, her back turned to the imminent danger.

Without a second thought, you launched yourself towards her, engulfing her in a protective embrace. Your arms wrapped around her tightly, and you spun around, placing your body between her and the incoming fireball. The moment seemed to stretch into an eternity as the world around you slowed down.

"What are you—" Shadowheart started to protest, but her words were cut off by the deafening roar of the explosion.

The fireball hit, and the searing heat and force of the blast tore through you. Pain unlike anything you had ever felt surged through your body, but you held on, using every ounce of your strength to shield Shadowheart from the brunt of the attack. The flames licked at your skin, burning and blistering, but you refused to let go. Your only thought was to keep her safe.

When the flames finally subsided, you collapsed to the ground, your body charred and smoking. Shadowheart, unharmed but wide-eyed with shock, immediately pushed herself up and turned to you.

“Y/N!” she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of anger and worry. “What were you thinking? That was so stupid, you idiot!”

You managed a pained smile, your voice weak but filled with determination. “There was no sense in the healer getting hurt,” you croaked. “We need you to keep everyone else alive.”

Shadowheart’s expression softened, though her eyes still blazed with a mix of emotions. She knelt beside you, her hands already glowing with the healing magic of Selûne. “You reckless fool,” she muttered, but there was a tenderness in her tone. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” you replied, wincing as the healing energy began to mend your burns. “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”

Her hands moved over your wounds, the light of her healing magic soothing the pain and repairing the damage. She worked quickly and efficiently, but her touch was gentle, almost reverent. “Next time, let me handle the danger,” she scolded, though her voice was soft. “You’re too important to risk like that.”

“I’ll try,” you said with a faint smile, feeling the pain ebb away as her magic did its work. “But no promises. I’d do anything to protect you.”

Shadowheart sighed, a small, reluctant smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You’re impossible,” she murmured, finishing her healing spell. She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “But I suppose that’s one of the reasons I love you.”

“I love you too, Shadowheart,” you whispered. You reached up, your fingers lightly brushing her cheek, then with a final surge of healing energy, she restored your strength, the burns on your skin fading away.

“There,” she said, helping you to your feet. “Try not to get yourself killed, alright?”

“I’ll do my best,”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Jaheira:

The skirmish was intense, the air thick with the scent of ozone and blood. You fought side by side with Jaheira, her movements a graceful dance of deadly precision. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw an enemy mage chanting, his hands weaving an ominous pattern in the air. One you recognised as 'Fireball'.

Your heart lurched. You knew the spell well and its devastating potential. Without hesitation, you threw yourself towards Jaheira, wrapping her in a bear hug that used your body as a shield. The world exploded in a torrent of flame, pain scorching every nerve ending as you took the full brunt of the blast.

When the flames subsided, you fell to the ground, your body smoking and charred. Jaheira gently extricated herself from your grip, her eyes filled with concern and something deeper.

"Why?" she asked softly, kneeling beside you. "Why would you take such a risk?"

You managed a pained chuckle, wincing at the effort. "Because, Jaheira, your ancient bones are just too flammable."

A spark of amusement flickered in her eyes, though it was tempered by worry. "If you weren't already burnt to a crisp, I would hit you."

You smiled weakly. "Just get Shadowheart. I might not be able to take another one of those for your brittle bones,"

Jaheira squeezed your hand briefly, her expression softening with tenderness. "Stay strong, my dearest," she murmured, before hurrying off to find Shadowheart.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

What do we think about adding Jaheira to the main roster of BG3 ladies, pls lmk because I may start adding her - Seluney xox

[crookeddefendorbanana]

Respite in the Storm

Autistic Vergil x Female Reader

Requested by anonymous!

Notes: He has autism i consider it as canon

The moon hung low in the sky, casting an ethereal glow over the city below. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the trees, creating a soothing symphony of nature's whispers. In the heart of this tranquil night, you found yourself in the company of the enigmatic Vergil, a man as complex as the shadows that danced around him.

Vergil had always been distant, a lone wolf who rarely sought solace in the presence of others. However, you had managed to forge a connection with him that transcended words. As a fellow warrior, you understood the weight he carried on his shoulders, the battles he fought both internally and externally. But tonight was different. Tonight, Vergil was vulnerable, caught in the throes of a sensory overload that threatened to shatter his carefully constructed facade.

It had started innocently enough—a simple mission to eliminate a demonic threat that had surfaced in the city. But as the battle unfolded, the cacophony of screams, clashing weapons, and the surge of demonic energy became overwhelming. For someone like Vergil, who experienced the world with heightened senses, it was a maelstrom of torment.

You had fought side by side, your movements synchronized as if you could read each other's thoughts. But when the last demon fell, it was clear that something was amiss. Vergil's shoulders were tense, his breaths coming in short gasps. His usually stoic expression was marred by a hint of distress.

"Vergil, are you okay?" you asked, concern lacing your voice.

He nodded, his jaw clenched. "I'm fine. Let's return."

You weren't convinced, but you respected his need for space. As you made your way back, the city's lights seemed harsher, the sounds more jarring. Vergil's steps faltered, his hand reaching out to steady himself against a wall.

"Vergil, wait." You gently placed a hand on his arm, concern etched into your features. "You're not fine. It's okay to admit that."

He turned to you, his eyes searching your face for something he might not even understand himself. "I… It's too much."

Without a word, you guided him to a secluded park nearby. The moon's glow filtered through the leaves, creating dappled patterns on the ground. You eased Vergil down onto a bench, his shoulders slumping in relief as the stimuli lessened.

Sitting beside him, you let the silence envelop you both. No words were needed; your presence was enough. Carefully, you reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. He didn't resist, a small gesture that spoke volumes.

"I've never been good at this," Vergil admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"At what?" you asked softly.

"Allowing myself… weakness."

"Vergil, being vulnerable doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."

He looked at you, his stormy eyes filled with a mixture of doubt and longing. "I'm not like others. My senses are a curse."

You squeezed his hand gently. "Your senses are what make you unique. They're a part of you, just like your strength and determination."

He sighed, his shoulders relaxing further. "I never thought I'd find respite in the midst of a storm."

You smiled, leaning closer to him. "Sometimes, all we need is someone who understands. Someone who can weather the storm with us."

Vergil's gaze softened, and for a moment, the weight of his burdens seemed to lift. You stayed there, by his side, as the night continued to weave its magic around you. The moon hung lower in the sky, its gentle light a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there was always a glimmer of hope.

As the hours passed, Vergil's breathing steadied, his grip on your hand relaxing. The sensory overload that had once threatened to consume him was now held at bay by your presence. In the silence of the park, beneath the watchful eyes of the moon and stars, two souls found solace in each other's company.

[eccentricmya]

The Fated One

Amrod wonders if this is what his name had foretold.

Umbarto.

The first kinslaying eldar.

He hadn't meant to. But he'd been the one standing on the edge of the pier, closest to the boats they'd been trying to claim for themselves. The one too eager to prove himself to their father that when the arguments between their factions had escalated, he'd spat one too many insults at the Teleri blocking his way himself. It was inevitable that a few of those hit their mark—for if in nothing else, Amrod took after Fëanor in this, his creativity with barbs. Thus it was highly probable that a Teleri sailor would lose his temper, Amrod had been counting on it, to provoke them into offence. But that which Amrod had not calculated, yet Fate did, was the presence of a drawn sword in their tight corner.

'It is for intimidation', Fëanor had told them, more a general commanding his soldiers than a father assuring his sons. 'Our swords will do half the negotiating for us.'

Amrod, never fond of bandying words when fists would do with his brothers, had decided to let his naked blade do most of the talking—a sentiment shared by the brother who had taught him hunting. Yet it turned out that their swords held even lesser sway than reminders of friendship over the Teleri. Until.

Until a silver-haired sailor, outraged at Amrod's audacious mouth, had charged at the Fëanorion, intending to throw him over the low railing of the pier and into the sea. Amrod, surprised, had brought his hand up to block him, forgetting the unsheathed sword in his hand (much like he had forgotten his name).

It had ended with blood twisting into rivulets down the nameless Teler's throat, staining Amrod's hand. He had watched it drip onto his clothes, down his sleeve—the pattern too deliberate to his disbelieving eyes. 'Kinslayer' it painted.

Kinslayer.

Kinslayer.

No. That is the Teleri shouting. Condemning him for drawing first blood.

More voices join in the cacophony of chaos, Noldorin voices.

Amrod looks up. They have moved far beyond first blood now. He's not the only kinslayer anymore.

The noise of the clashes around him blend into one never-ending choked-off gasp of the dying. Or maybe that's the last breath of the Teler lying at his feet echoing in his ears.

It never returns to their bloody corner, the fight. So Amrod is left standing guard over the body of the only kin he would ever slay. This he knows. For the prophecy of his name has been fulfilled.

Fated he is no more.

Hated he would remain forever more.

Umbarto—the first kinslayer.

[goosetheluce]

We've both had so much happen to us. I lean back in the cheap plastic chair reminiscent of daycare. Freezing air washes out from the industrial sized ceiling fans over my skin. Echoes of washing machines, dryers, coins dispensing in and out of payment slots; the patter of tapping feet and impatient fingers against scratched tables; murmured conversations of how to pay bills and languages well beyond my ability to decipher. One loud cacophony of the shitty laundromat we use to wash our clothes. We're too broke to afford an actual washer-dryer set, so we settled for this place. I turn my eyes to focus on the tumbling suds of our wardrobe. Eyeing the pattern in which they spin. Clockwise. Counterclockwise. A sudden stop. A sudden start. The cycle repeats, stripping away the grime and sweat and miseries of the past week. Your reflection catches my eye in the glass of the machine. You're just on your phone, you're just existing, breathing the same crappy detergent-pungent air that I am. I rip my gaze away from the reflected surface to look at you. My love. The one thing keeping me going. No matter how fucked up life gets, you were always there right next to me. Braving the impossible with your scorching fingers clashing against my frozen digits. The perfect mix. I snap back to reality when I feel your hot skin grazing against mine. I look up. I look up and see your gentle eyes and your constellation. I look up and forget everything around me before letting my surroundings seep back in. I don't care where I am, as long as I'm with you. I think to myself, waiting for you was the best decision I ever made. I let the bright smile crack through my rough and cold exterior, just for you.

-----

A special thanks to my close friend Elia for peer pressuring me into downloading tumblr <3 definitely check out her work!! love you so much <33

@mad-elia

[tieflingfingers]

Dried, Pressed, and Powdered

What and who: Karlach takes care of an owlbear cub. Astarion feels threatened by the Gur, Thomasin tries to diffuse. Wyll feels conflicted. Summary: On their way back from the goblin camp, taking a different route leads to an encounter with Gandrel, a Gur monster hunter. Thomasin tries to calm the situation with her knowledge of nature and ability to feign feminine ignorance, but knows Astarion has his own ideas. Warning/Content: 18+, Reimagining of Gandrel and Astarion's encounter in Act 1. Altercation that leads to violence and mentions of all the anxious/trauma that leads to it. Word Count: 3,355 Ao3 Link

Skittering claws and soft pads. An owlbear cub romped beside their adoptive tiefling mother with a promising pep in their step. Karlach ruffled their feathers to the best of her ability, resisting the urge to use her claws deeper than the surface of her companion’s fluff. Even the mild affection earned chirps that clicked from its beak, belly full and following down the narrow path of where its young roots would now grow.

The original route from camp now hung heavy with an afternoon sun at its peak. Wyll traced his finger along a map to get back to the cavern, following dotted lines and chicken scratch he collected from the grove. A scroll where half the effort was spent deciphering vagaries crafted from word of mouth. Elturel’s fallen had collected anecdotes, symbols, and notes sprawled across its page, now condensed into amateur cartography.

After hours of thick dust and goblin practices, a scenic route proved more than a literal fresh breath of air. Trees intertwined with one another like a canopy and slivers of sunlight chopped through its branches, creating patterns along the clearing. Light carved into the ground in sharp shapes the cub often pounced upon for entertainment.

Their trail was one well-traveled. Embraced by shrubbery and wild flora at their flanks, its length winded and parted into multi-level terrain. Picturesque in the way clovers bled into an ecosystem of territorial plants that covered the steep decline at their side. A mesh of woven thistle, vine, and moss-covered boulders shook where critters tunneled throughout. 

As they walked, each considered how nature zigged and zagged downward. The descent of soft earth under their feet that looked to transition into a wetland off in the distance. It was bizarre. An odd cacophony of senses beyond had them fixated.

These hidden wetlands were in a full bloom uncharacteristic to the rest of the forest. Everything grew in high contrast shades that one could forget existed in nature. They pondered if it was lit by the same sun that beat upon their shoulders. Its sun looked warm, inviting even. The type of scene only created by studied artists. Meticulous shadows and highlights sculpted into a painting that was mapped out before its creation.

The first to be torn from this awe was Astarion. His pointed ears twitched at the sound of crunching leaves. He searched for signs of life despite no others in their vicinity, but couldn’t deny an impending stranger. Squeaks and straining joints sounded of something rickety. One whose body clunked about with garlands of probable potions and herbs. As it grew closer, he identified wheels lugging themselves along the natural cut stone path. Unmaintained wood that trampled plants yearning to grow despite frequent traffic.

The elf gently tapped Thomasin upon the shoulder to snap her trance-induced awe, introducing a man heading their direction. She blinked, refocusing her eyes and shifting the blurred figure into something recognizable. 

He looked to be an older gentleman, human with skin of olive undertones. His facial hair sat between coiffed yet unyielding. The kind of frizz that occurred when manicuring was immediately wrought by nature and its lacking nurture. The closer he got, the stronger the odors from his cart picked up in the wind. Metallics clashing with sickening simple syrups. Herbal greens mixing with breeds and onion and garlic. A bed of offensive scents that all shared an undertone of warmed dirt, presumably from root vegetables.

The two assessed him in silence until it became evident they were spotted. An action that prompted Thomasin’s most sheepish facade. The traveler's hand shaded him from the sun before lifting one in greeting.

“Everyone in these woods either attacks on sight or is the most callow creature in existence,” Astarion mumbled under his breath. “How is he still alive? We should fix that.”

Thomasin had lifted her head high and returned the stranger’s niceties with her own plastered smile. The corner of her lips lifted further as a laugh huffed from her nose, prompting her to pinch at Astarion’s arm. Not for misbehaving, but rather to quell breaking character. Either way, the elf scoffed at her, opting to revel in his half-jest.

Once she recognized the threat's genial approach, Thomasin melted into feminine pliancy. The half-elf would embody nothing more than charismatic oblivion with dainty ideas. A damsel of a leader dragging brute force behind her. “Hello!” she shouted to accommodate their distance. A cornflower blue handkerchief slipped from her pocket and waved in the air as if implying surrender. “It looks like you’ve got quite the spread there! Wouldn’t want to interrupt your trade path!” 

The older man let out a friendly guffaw, pushing his cart at a slightly faster pace. As any woman toe-to-toe with strange men, she used those valuable seconds to survey for tell-tale signs of danger. Although, from the look of it, it seemed all for not. His weathered vest wore an aftermath of years in the sun as did the wrinkles creasing his eyelids. His hands were of similar leather, toughened by what she figured were shovel handles and tree bark.

“Hello there!” he returned.  He settled his cart to a squeaking stop between them. A healthy gap, perhaps signaling benign intentions. “Apologies for the smells. I’ve gone nose blind to them, but I’m sure they can be an assault on the senses.”

As if on cue, Thomasin heard Karlach and Wyll suppress a groan as they noticed it. Its timing proved comedic enough that the half-elf could take a moment to sift through her mental catalogue of plants. The contents of his wares, their origins, why they were used. She spotted jarred iron vine ground into fine powder. Bundles of fennel and ginseng tied with thin ropes. The garlands of dried wolfsbane hung from a short canopy, once bright petals now curling toward bulbs of garlic that continued to sway at full stop.

He had the air of any other herbalist she’d encountered selling their wares. Nothing out of the ordinary. That was, until she remembered which chapters these sorts of plants fell under. They were forms of repellents, as she could recount. Sourced from areas all over. Whatever his business was, the collection alone was impressive.

“I’m sure that’s a common occurrence for an herbalist such as yourself. A vendor, I presume?” Thomasin asked in an octave creeping above her natural speech. A lilt that sat upon her spine at the nape of her neck for easy access.

The man placed a hand atop his chest in a humble gesture. “Well, I do sell my wares from time to time, but usually I am a simple wanderer. A monster hunter when the time calls. The name’s Gandrel.”

Astarion’s nerves stirred. Nothing to alert suspicion beside a quirk in his brow and the balling of his fist. “A monster hunter? You’re part of the Gur. Ha, thought you were all vagrant cut throats.”

Thomasin’s eyes darted between the two, awaiting to see if they’d meet with hostility or dismissive mirth. The half-elf knew of the Gur since cavorting within and around Baldur’s Gate. Although her curiosity never delved deeper than casual late night smoke breaks or transactional bliss. They were a traveling sort. People whose rumored tales had painted them as bad luck. Stories told with such normalcy that she often assumed they were probable slander.

“Ah, yes,” Gandrel began with theatrics. “We’re a mystical and dangerous people. Stealing chicken, cursing crops, seducing your daughters and taking them off to far lands. Your friend has heard it all, I’m sure.” He laughed, mimicking the casting of spells with his hands. “If only I had half the power folks think I possess. The iron vine is just for protection, an old hunter’s trick.”

“An old hunter’s trick?” Wyll pondered. “The ways of herbalism have always gone over my head, but perhaps that’s a good one to put in my arsenal.”

“So, what terrifying creature are you hunting?” Astarion cut in. “Dragons? Cyclops? A spectator? Someone’s got to rid of the gnolls running rampant around here. Disgusting creatures.”

Wyll breathed with a heft from his nose.

“Nothing so dramatic, have you ever encountered a vampire spawn before?” Gandrel asked, his gaze now wandering idle over the wetlands. A beacon of aid if he was lucky. He studied the destination and continued the details of his bounty. “His name is Astarion, but I fear he’s gone underground. I’m hoping the hag residing in these lands can help me flush them out.”

Thomasin leveraged Gandrel’s distraction to check on Astarion. The elf had become stone-still. She traced her fingers lightly along his shoulder to assess the stress he concealed, learning his ticks and tells. It seemed his back had stiffened to sheetrock. Paranoia had locked his muscles into place, shivering in suppression. An acidic worry she imagined infiltrated his thoughts.

Thomasin’s own nervous system fired up in sympathetic vigor. The feeling seeped into her throat, only to be swallowed down and eaten away by bile. She took a couple steps forward and positioned herself beside the hunter. Eyes level with his shoulder, hands on her hips, and a feigned interest for this blood pact he was planning. An uncertain hum buzzed from her throat.

“I’m not sure I have. I wouldn’t have a clue how to even slay such a creature. Or what one looks like in person, truly.” She squinted as if the eye strain would spot a hag wandering about the glittering pools below. “When you find him, will he be killed?”

“No, no. If he is captured easily, I won’t have to cause too much harm. Although I won’t hesitate if it’s needed.” He chuckled. “Then half the battle is transporting him to Baldur’s Gate. But, alas, those are my orders and where many of my people wait for my return.”

Thomasin felt herself veer further into preservation. Her words came out as budding, amicable, innocent ignorance at full bloom. “But he’s only a spawn? I can’t imagine he’s such a threat. They’re not fully evolved vampires, right?”

“Don’t be silly, dear,” Astarion chimed in. The layer of disdain dripping from his lips would’ve been an obvious tell if the other hadn’t offset such energy. “Spawn strike just as much fear as in the city, I hear. I’m sure one could still rip out the man’s throat if he wasn’t careful.”

Gandrel nodded, only turning his head in agreement before gazing back into the distance. “He’s right, unfortunately. They’re only weak compared to their masters. Thankfully, during the day we have the advantage, but at night, you won't find a more deadly quarry.” He cleared his throat. “I won’t give details on the matter, but know you’ll be safer once he’s taken back to once he came.”

Karlach and Wyll exchanged looks at one another. They watched as Astarion’s hand slunk to his hip with quiet precision. Subtle and pre-emptive. The elf's fingers wrapped around a dagger handle and the two spent those few seconds contemplating ethics. Bemused as their faces described the back and forth determining who was most in the wrong.

“So this ‘Astarion’ is a real threat?” Thomasin asked with a titter. “This far from his home, I can't imagine he didn't succumb to his own death elsewhere.”

Gandrel took her hopeful comment with jest. After such prolonged lonely travel, any spark of optimism was well welcomed to lift his spirits. It was noticeable how his tone rang into light-hearted banter. But, the sounds of his niceties began to warble and drown out into the ether.

Thomasin found herself moved by the seething building up within Astarion. She watched as his chest rose, fell, and the irregular beating against his cavity where anxieties begged to push free. Tendons pulled tight and visibly threatened to unravel like a fiddle bound to snap at its neck.

Her mind flashed through every possibility in rapid succession. The consequences and rationality of violence. How murder was always an option, even when it shouldn’t be. When murder was the best option, but disregarded by reluctance. The conflicting thoughts had no bearing on what was true in her eyes. When backed into a corner, there was only one. 

Astarion’s eyes flicked over to Thomasin. He watched as she mouthed an inaudible support. Approval, the one thing he was waiting for, implicit in her breath. Worry on her brows. It wasn’t long before he used her as an excuse to spring forward. 

“Cazador can writhe,” Astarion spit, lunging in a split second. Any form of communication muffled within the tunnel of his vision. The ugly clutches of vampirism contorted the elf in a feral stance. His lips pulled to expose teeth. Rationality seemed to erode in the face of little thought and deserving prey.  

At this critical juncture, the elf was to move with efficiency. The two shuffled and struggled until Gandrel’s lack of preparedness had him pinned. The human’s back hit the floor in a flurry of dust. Every tactic he had planned knocked off-kilter and scattered before them. A series of fragmented thoughts, once encyclopedic, now dissolving at the strike of his windpipe. Never had he expected an end where his arms were crushed by the weight of Astarion’s knees.

Gandrel searched around for potential weapons, only to see his arrows rolling downhill or out of reach. He knew the point of a blade was propped under his chin, but its sting was delayed. The deeper the blade dug, the more he considered where he left weak points. How he tossed aside his strict and practiced safety precautions under the guise of a sunny evening’s rays.

He stared at Astarion's slack jaw for answers he could no longer utter, himself, for each syllable had begun to drown from a punctured jugular. A steady flow that soaked Gandrel’s tongue like a sponge and outlined the arches where teeth met gums. In a last ditch effort, the human shimmied under vampirism’s monstrous clutches and managed to gather every ounce of strength left within him.

With a labored hoist, he swung momentum forward and bashed his forehead into the elf’s.

“Bastard!” Astarion cried. “Know death is as unforgiving and cold as you expect.”

The elf yanked his blade from where it had been halfway plunged, breaking the dam loose. Blood rushed like rivers bottle-necked during a flooding storm. It blanketed Astarion’s hands and spilled down into a puddle of catharsis. The closest he could get to revenge, even if multiple degrees away from the man at the top of his hierarchy. 

Adrenaline engulfed everything. Astarion couldn't feel the splitting of his lip and scrapes digging into his skin. No pain, no distress, only the instinct to latch onto Gandrel’s neck. His jaw locked into place like the rabid animals he spent decades wishing he was better than. Trying to forget times like these, where he could only claim humanity the further and further from his own body he pulled.

Wyll looked over to Thomasin. Thomasin looked to Karlach. Karlach watched Astarion from the position of her motherly duties. Although it wasn't all too efficient, the tiefling crouched to block the owlbear, its wild tendencies still not all understood. She snapped her fingers, whistled little tweets, and occupied their attention until she found the secret that was wiggling her fingers in their face.

“Yeesh, bad day for him," Karlach said, finally looking over her shoulder and then back at her companions. “I wonder if his blood tastes like those combined blacksmith and butcher joints. Do they have those here? Where you eat steak cut on the same anvil you get your axe sharpened?” 

Thomasin snorted and whipped her head aside like a child laughing in temple. A hand even set upon Wyll's shoulder as if to excuse her. He watched her body language loosen into a hunch and tried it, himself. He, too, understood the worn sigh of finding amusement despite the stench of wounds among them. Yet another story traumatic to some, while a routine journal entry for others.

“I-I don't think I've encountered one," Thomasin said, watching him feed. "At least Astarion is expanding his palate, I suppose.” 

Astarion's posture eventually straightened, although with straining effort, as if his body found the predatory most natural. Still straddling the corpse, the elf pat each of Gandrel's pockets for any cloth not yet sullied. Something to wipe away the ruddy stain still wet across his face. He found an old washcloth, toughened by the minerals of river water, and exfoliated his skin clean.

Bumped, bruised, and revitalized, he stood up and examined the mess he had created. His tongue sucked against his teeth. Tsk, tsk. And with little respect for the dead, he propped his foot firm upon the corpse's hip. The sole of his boot knocked into the bone with a thud and sent Gandrel's body rolling down the vine riddled decline. For what it was worth, the elf considered this a service.

“Oh, don’t judge me,” Astarion whined, his surroundings and company all coming back into focus. His flushed cheek beamed with a sense of self-satisfaction. "You're the ones telling me to enjoy nature. He'll make excellent fertilizer if the birds don't peck at him first."

He rolled his shoulders, feeling a buzz of blood rushing through his body but practicing the restraint he did every time he fed. He licked his bottom lip, feeling the unraveling of a genuine smile as Gandrel’s body continued to tumble down multiple levels of terrain and settled within the a nest of thorns and bushes below. 

Thomasin got closer to peek at where the body had landed.

“Looks kinda peaceful down there," she said, hugging her shoulders.

”Well, I’m definitely at peace with it,” Astarion laughed. "There's no use in eulogies, think about the fact you all still get to enjoy my presence. A gift to you all." He shook an unidentified organ off the toe of his shoe.

As much as the altercation happened in a flash, it didn't take them long to continue their journey back to camp. The others dealt with demonic pacts, infernal mechanics, and drowic revenge. Truths appeared when needed and judgements were hard to place when time was sparse. They all had to look over their shoulders in the same fashion.

They asked questions about how the Gur were connected to someone so high profile in Baldur’s Gate. Where these theories came from and if there was any merit. If his death might’ve been a mistake. Naturally, Astarion gave them the condensed story they were owed. 

Despite reeling with confidence fueled by endorphins and a hearty meal, it became clearer that the elf didn’t have an exact understanding of how his future would play out. The hunter was slain and the idea of Cazador unleashing lackeys grew from theory to probable reality. It was a realm of eating first before you could be eaten.

But, the truth of the matter was that Gandrel no longer was on his tail. Exhuming Astarion’s past was met with assured dismissive laughs and absolutes. Unburdened shrugs when the concept of failure was brought up. This wasn’t going to harsh the streak of good nights he’d had. ‘Good’ was a relative term, but any freedom was worth drinking wine and spilling ones thoughts over.

It wasn’t long that he shoved their conversation to other means. How Wyll needed to wash his leather pants correctly. Where Karlach had a chip in her weaponry she hadn’t noticed. Which areas had the best acoustics for Thomasin’s violin playing. He found other topics far from his demise much more entertaining, anyhow.

Astarion thanked his brain for mustering up another hour of masking as they walked down the pathway. For the time being, he side-stepped negative thoughts and tip-toed around them like broken eggshells. The anger and rage would be stowed away in glass bottles with thick opaque glass deep inside his mind as he often did.

Although camp couldn’t come faster, feeling the urge to cradle into his tent.

The place where he’d be able to drop the weight of his existence in private quarters.

[juliet-caramelmacchiato]

HOUSE OF CARDS

PAIRING: Kim Namjoon / fem oc

GENRE: mystery/fantasy/investigation

SUMMARY: Who destroyed the garden of the King of clubs?

Who caused the death of the Queen of spades?

Who broke the fragile order of the world, putting at risk the life of not one, but two sovereigns?

In a situation were anyone could be involved, the only one able to judge is too blinded by his own grief to be rational. The last remaining solution, then, seems to look for help from the outside. From someone who could determine once and for all the real culprit.

WORD COUNT: 2.OK

****************************************************

CHAPTER 3

-Hyung?

The human looked at the silhouette of the back of the man who was facing a sea of cinder that reached the horizon in a never ending expanse, as a hint of bitterness took possession of her heart. She wondered how magnificent that garden must have once been. If it was a chaotic ensemble of different flowers that meddled and clashed in a joyous cacophony of colours or if instead it was divided in methodical sections based on species and variety.

The crownless king didn't answer. The King of diamonds then, swallowing a grimace, slowly stepped forward, inviting her to follow him while the rest of the company stayed at the threshold of the French window to silently observe the scene. When the two reached the silver bench on which the man was sitting, the woman finally had the opportunity to catch a glimpse of his lineaments. The sight, however, made the bitterness in her heart even more burning. The elegant profile of the masculine face with plump lips and a subtle nose, fair skin and full cheeks, was disfigured by a large cinereous blemish resembling charred wood and crossed by deep fissures that nearly reached the healthy skin. The entirety of the right cheek of the sovereign up until the corner of the eye was contaminated by the gash, that ran down the long neck and dipped under the double breasted jacket with floral patterns.

-Seokjin-hyung, can I introduce you to someone?- asked the King of diamonds with the most delicate tone that the woman had ever heard from him. The man, in the end, seemed to snap out of the trance in which he was immersed and slowly turned towards them.

-Yoongi?

Lost eyes gazed at the young man standing as if he was a ghost, as if they could see through his figure and could project their vision beyond, far away from that desolated place. The King of diamonds, at that, sat next to the sovereign, inviting the woman to do the same.

-Hi hyung. How are you today?

The man with lost eyes had placed his gaze back on the ashy field, staring insistently as if looking for something that wasn't there.

-Yoongi... what happened to my garden?

An embarrassed silence diffused in the air, while the golden king tightened his lips like he was restraining himself.

-Hyung, do you remember what happened?- he asked instead, with a calm and condescending tone in his hoarse voice. The silver king furrowed his brows slightly.

-I remember... that I was pruning the peonies. I was late, but if I hurried I could fix them before they could wither.

Yoongi, gulping, seemed to hold a sigh as his eyes lowered to the ground littered with ash. Then, turning to the human, he schooled his face in a neutral expression.

-Is there something that you wish to know?

The woman placed her gaze on the outline of the crownless man, who kept on staring at the ghost of his precious creature as if he still couldn't see what had become of it. When she brought her eyes back on the golden king, then, she shook her head. That poor man had suffered enough. She didn't want to add pain to his already fragile psyche by digging into memories that he had obviously removed in order to protect himself.

When they reached the rest of the attendants at the french window, though, the young woman was still empty-handed.

-He doesn't remember a thing about what happened. He has completely deleted that day from his mind, hence why we can't even know where he was located at the moment of the fire.

An obnoxious cough followed Yoongi's statement, which brought the attention of the entire group on the scarlet king.

-Actually, I do know where he was. I even know the culprit but no one wants to listen to me- chirped the King of hearts, pouting his lips and folding his arms on his chest. As a couple of exasperated sighs and protesting cries raised from the group, the human tilted her head.

-Really?- she asked with sincere curiosity, staring at the man. The latter, frivolously batting his eyelids, smiled widely and took her hand.

-Follow me!

The man dragged her inside the palace, leading her in a big hall that faced the ashy garden with walls entirely covered in silver which melted in dense floral patterns that reached the ceiling. At the centre of the room, was a silver throne with black trims. The sovereign, though, stopped only when he was facing a tall mirror that took the right wall to the throne and that was as big as one of the windows.

-As you already know, I have dominion over mirrors. And amongst my many wonderful powers, there is one that allows me to see the images captured by every mirror of the world!- enthusiastically explained the man, pointing at the object encased in a precious black frame with a blatant gesture of his hand. The human, contemplating it, turned to the crimson king.

-So you are able to show who was here, in this room, the day of the fire?

The sovereign winked at her, emphasising his elegant cheekbones.

-Exactly.

The human brought her eyes on her reflection, a woman dressed in a large white chemise tucked into high-waisted jeans, touched by the tips of her long raven hair. That reflection, then, started floating like the circles that form on the surface of a pond that is perturbed by a pebble, until it morphed into the figure of the King of clubs. He had his crown on, covered in shiny silver and topped by peaks of onyx, and was wearing a silver cape on which was pinned the brooch with his coat-of-arms. His face, however, was distraught by an emotion that resembled pure madness.

-No! You are wrong! You are all wrong! You are just a witch with no authority here! Go away!

The voice dripping contempt of the sovereign escaped the glass in pieces and, even if it wasn't possible to see who he was directing his anger at, the hem of a black skirt appeared at the corner of the mirror.

-I said go away!

The shouts of the man had become even the more violent and his raging face looked around himself, pupils dilated like a wild beast, before going out of the frame and coming back with a chandelier in his hand.

-Go!

And the king exited the scene for good as the weak flames of the candles animated his face with a soft orange. The glass, then, went back to showing the reflection of the young woman with her face closed in a thoughtful grimace.

-So, according to this... it would have been the King of clubs himself?- she asked, raising an eyebrow. An outraged grunt made her turn towards the raven king, who up until that moment had yet to pronounce a word.

-Oh please! We all know that Jimin can manipulate the pictures in the mirrors! It's obvious that this is his doing! Seokjin-Hyung would have never hurt a fly!- growled the sovereign, pointing his accusatory finger against the King of hearts. The latter, faking an expression of pure indignation, blatantly touched his chest.

-How could you accuse me of something like this? Me, manipulating a reflection in order to place the blame on Seokjin! What an absurdity!

-Then why don't you even have the grace to use honourifics when talking about the oldest amongst us?- menacingly whispered Namjoon, who had reached the crimson king with long strides and who had gripped his precious jacket in order to near their faces.

-Don't be so stern now! You are all important to my eyes, the entire world is at the same level!- theatrically exclaimed Jimin, widening his arms.

-We are kings, all four of us! We are all equals, right?- he added, softening his voice in an innocent tone, before lowering his chin and staring straight in the eyes of the fuming sovereign, opening in a malicious smile.

-But you would believe nothing that I say, isn't it... Namjoon-ie?- murmured the crimson king a breath away from the grinding lips of the man. The human, observing the scene, tightened her mouth.

No, something wasn't right.

Even opening her mind to all possible scenarios, it seemed improbable that the King of clubs would damage his own dominion, causing such a great loss to himself. But she needed confirmation.

-For what reason does the King of clubs not have a Jack?

The attendants moved their attention from the conflict between the two men to the human who was looking at them with determination. It was the King of diamonds who spoke first, throwing a weary look at the sovereign who was gripping with his nails Jimin's jacket.

-When we came to existence, there were seven of us: four kings and three jacks. It was destiny, hence, that one of us had to be left without a Jack and Seokjin-hyung offered to make this sacrifice. He said he didn't need one. He had never wanted weapons in his territory and neither a private militia. In general, he was the one who kept the best relationship with all of us, even when conflicts arised among the other kingdoms.

The woman nodded raising her head to the ceiling, before bringing her gaze back on the mirror that was showing her reflection.

-I don't think he was the one who started the fire either. A peaceful individual, who had never showed an inclination towards violence, what reason would have had to turn against the queen and destroy his own dominion? It doesn't make sense. And neither does a sudden burst of madness. I think the culprit is someone else- she concluded, turning to the attendants who carefully stared at her. It was only then that, finally, the King of spades released his grip from the jacket of the scarlet king, throwing him an accusatory look.

-It is apparent, then, that someone is trying to hide something- Namjoon said harshly, bringing Jimin to curl his lips in an elegant growl.

-Are you accusing me, perhaps?

The eyes of the woman darted from one individual to the other, contemplating the palpable tension that seemed to animate their bodies and their burning gazes.

-I don't know, Jimin. You tell me- spat  with a cavernous tone the raven king, clenching his jaw. The human, then, turned to the golden sovereign, who studied the scene with increasing worry.

-Is there any way to verify if he is telling the truth?

Yoongi observed her for a few moments, before glancing at Jimin.

-There would be the Ace of hearts, but only his king can make it work- he claimed, compelling the mentioned to let out a loud snort.

-The Ace is quite unruly these days, even I can't make it work- he said, lifting his shoulders with nonchalance.

-Quite convenient- murmured the King of spades, staring at Jimin.

-What's the Ace of hearts?

Yoongi brought his gaze back on the human.

-Every sovereign has an object that represents the key and the essence of his power itself. The Ace of hearts is the Mirror of truth. It can't be altered and it can't show anything but the pure and simple reality. Furthermore, it is connected to every mirror in our world, so it can connect to every corner where a reflecting surface exists.

The young woman, with eyes widened by surprise, contemplated the new informations. Kings with supernatural powers, mirrors of truth... that world was definitely far more bizarre than what she had predicted.

-May I ask for your collaboration to use your Ace, your majesty? It would be a prime tool to reach the solution of this mystery- she then demanded, turning to the ethereal figure behind her. Him, after a moment of silence closed in an unreadable expression, opened in a seducing smirk.

-If you ask with such grace, my beautiful petal, how can I refuse you?

[parasitebeans]

New hair! And, for the first time, contact lenses! Though I prefer to wear my glasses, I’m glad to have the option to wear contacts....for cosplay and whatnot, lol. Actually...this whole new look is specifically for a Dirk Gently cosplay o|-<

Xena has Opinions.

[kookiessugababy]

My Sweet Girl (Min Yoongi) // 18+ nsfw!!

Warnings🚨- slapping (minimal) // out of relationship// fingering// teasing//hickies

-> scenario: you’re both deeply in it for one another- you’re just waiting for the right time. A needy, lustful breakfast after a cosy night at Yoongis apartment leads to your feelings only firing.

Hope you enjoy <3

*****************************************************

The absence of his arms woke you at 8:30, instead finding yourself wrapped in a warm duvet and surrounded by the sweet aroma of pancakes. Clattering pans and cutlery echoed from the neighbouring room, apartment walls shaking with every step the boy took. He almost conveyed the impression of frustration, with the unnatural business for such time in the morning most likely getting to him. Curious, you brushed the quilt to the floor before covering up with a stray shirt residing by the bed. Your hair was messy and eyes screaming with oscitation and with little effort made, you wandered through the dim corridor to the kitchen.

Drawing closer the aforementioned cacophony was met with a juxtaposing hum of soft music, a small voice murmuring lyrics. The door was agar allowing sweet smells to escape the warmth, taunting you through as you tasted the cloyingly sweet air. On the opposing side of the busy counter that was occupied by fine China plates and delicate glasses filled with freshly squeezed orange juice, your eyes were met with the frame of a shirtless Yoongi, leaning with his back to you over the stove. Leaking light sauntered through the gaps of the apartment windows, tickling his pale complexion with sparkles of morning dew- delicately drawing patterns down his spine. His skin looked soft and untouched, toned arms reaching for condiments as he remained oblivious to your gaze. Floppy silver hair fell to the boys face in a lazy manner, complementing his nape - broad shoulders holding stretching with every move. “And what is this, Mr Yoongi?” you playfully tittered after minutes of taking in the sight. Before resting against the doorframe, you folded your arms at your chest as he span around on his heels, raising an eyebrow to sportively taunt him with disbelief. When he came to facing, flaunting his husky figure- underwear sitting low on his waist, you found your stare uncontrollable. Obvious gawking permissed him to smirk slightly as his eyebrows relaxed- curled lips inviting you closer as he swiped them with his tongue. “Breakfast, my sweet girl” he replies, pushing a plate in your direction over the islands surface, taking a fork in your hand as you sat in the mustard leather seat. The modern room was airy and colourful, matching the theme of the rest of Yoongi apartment. Stacked pancakes coated in sugar and fruit were presented to you as he stalked you closely, taking in your appreciative smile while you abstained from running your eyes further then his face. His gummy grin made you giggle, cheeks heating as he leered at you flirtatiously, sipping his juice while his eyes never left yours.

Despite the serenity you felt at this moment, the two of you had a muddled relationship. Inseparable was often used to describe your liaison- all of your belongings sat in his flat, you slept in his bed, you attended every single of the boys concerts, yet neither of you had ever asked each other to commit officially. Both of you were deeply affectionate for one another; blatantly in love- yet both felt this to such an extent the idea of rejection was worse than imaginable. Most nights were filled with long chats and movie marathons- others passionate sex or a frolicking at the beach. Min Yoongi never tolerated a dull moment when you were intertwined in his company, his affection almost felt abysmal with never ending ways to make you feel adored: and this morning was one of them.

Scratches of the fork echoed around the room as you emptied your plate, watching the boy caper to the radio in a zestful grace. “hmmm, my sweet girl, I must leave you today…practice with the boys at the studio but angel we shall do whatever you would like tonight” he announced, sounding much more sensitive than his usual self. Finding disappointment settle slightly, you agreed with a forceful grin: “you’ll need to make it up to me though Mr Yoongi” you replied, dismaying the lemon tone in an attempt to alleviate any sense of awkwardness. “Is that so?” he teased in return, pacing his way behind the stool, arms floating around you as he rested his chin on your shoulders. Bevelling your head back slightly, you relaxed against his rising chest- hearts beating in unison as he gently kissed the plush of your skin. You hummed as you moved further to give him access to your neck, his chapped lips cursing your name as he tickled your collarbones with pecks. “How about i make it up to you now?”

Patience grew thin as his fingers tugged your hair lightly, the kisses turning to pinches as he made his way to your shoulder. Every movement were sensual and planned, finding your hairs standing on edges skin as he traced his mouth along nerves. Before you could speak, he spun the chair to face himself, watching over as you glanced- eyes meeting. His stare was tantalising, tempting you closer and leaving you needy after he had barely handled you. Inhaling, his pouting lips parted, fixating on your blushing cheeks as you began to heat under his glare. Pushing your thighs together abruptly, you avoided diverting his attention to your gratuitous state. Like an eagle, his eyes flew to your thighs- large hands clasping them and pulling them apart. Coyly leering, his shining rings pressed cold against your skin as he rubbed circles lewdly, hungry hands running to your inner thigh. Here, his fingers snaked to your undressed clit- admitting your state with a growl at the wetness of your heat. His index finger extended and faintly paced your slit, impelling you to buck your hips slightly in the chair. Again, a devious smirk plastered Yoongis face as he inspected your reaction, your oversensitivity riling as he administered his power.

“Y-Yoongi” you moaned, his finger circling around your hole as he marked your jawline with raw red hickies. The shirt you wore was almost see through due to its pearly pigment, the harsh light showcasing your breasts through the fabric- Yoongi eying them as his finger moved from your heat. Taking it to his mouth, he sucked his fingers while keeping your attention- groaning at the sweet tasting the juices collected on his now soaked fingers. “My sweet girl, you taste so fucking good.” he praised, making your stomach turn at the validation you craved. Suddenly, he slapped your thigh and kneaded it with his other hand- the lubricated index now making its way into your head. You moved to hold his shoulders as he pushed it into you, curling it to hit tight walls. Roughly, he moved his finger in and out repeatedly, hair falling to his face as he slipped another one in. The forcefulness of his hands alone made your breasts bounce, moans slipping out of your mouth as the sound of your arousal bounce of the walls- the wet squelches worsening after every move. Despite your embarrassment for how pathetically turned on you were, you continued to focus watching his hand vigorously move at your heat- whining at the feeling. “Mm-more Yoongi” you pleaded, hips now rocking in the stool to gain more friction against his long digits and yet you couldn’t help but crave something more. “Oh goodness me kitten, is somebody after cock?” he playfully chimed, although he seemed somewhat breathless. Without slowing down, he pulled out his fingers completely- the cool air stinging your dripping heat as you fussed desperately.

Seconds later, his boxers were discarded to the floor- his long member standing erect. He held it in his hand, signalling you to spread your legs yet again for him. “That’s it baby, nice and wide for my big cock” he cooed, precum running to his fluid coated fingers. Swiftly, he grabbed your leg and moved it over his shoulder- forcing you to lean back in the stool against the counter. Facing him you could watch as he glanced at your dampened thighs, biting his lip as took in every visible part of you. The shirt covered your modesty in a way that turned him on more- he knew exactly what was under there as he’d seen it so many times before- and yet only his imagination could picture your breasts jumping as he pounded you and the reddening chest in provocation. “Such a pretty girl.” he muttered instantly as his swelling cock tore through your heat, your moans uncontrollable as his hips thrusted you. The clashing of skin peaked around the room, his cock filling you in a way you’d never felt before. The angle he had perceived from raising your leg allowed him to repeatedly hit your g spot, driving into you harder and harder each time. Continuing at this pace, his spare hand reached to your clit, fondling it in quick circles. The pace of it all was almost unbearable, your breathe hitching at the immediacy of it all.

“Fuck- mmm” Yoongi groaned, reaching further and further into you as he pulled your leg up more. Your head tilted back under the inability to hold it up- words slurred and vision blurry with tears as your eyes streamed. Sweat poured from the boys head as a result of the repetition- hair sticking to his face as his parted lips announced his pleasure. The stool rocked against the counter as he failed to give in, his cock twitching as he felt your walls clench. Moving his hand from your swollen clit, he held your breasts tightly as his final thrusts slowed down, hips slapping against yours as he buried himself deep. Tightening stomachs and burning faces led you both to a moaning mess, your insides clenching as you felt yourself reaching your orgasm. “I- cum.. Yoongi I need to-“ struggling to offer a sentence, you pleaded for a release as your walls tightened around his spilling cock. “Cum” he demanded breathlessly, his face flushed and coated in a layer of sweat. Before you could reply, a blackness held your body as you twisted in pleasure- the warmth of his seed filling you as you came around his cock simultaneously. Your nails dug into his back as you gasped in pleasure- profanities bleeding from Yoongis lips as he felt your climax around himself. Answering to exhaustion, his movements turned sloppy as he let down your leg, allowing time for you to adjust to the release. He rode out both of your highs- slightly hissing at the dripping of your cunt as he pulled out. Your thighs were messy with arousal, your pussy dripping with his load. Grinning, he pulled your large shirt down slightly to dab up the mess- kissing you softly on the forehead in return.

Each breath was still heavy as he pulled back up his boxers, your heat sore from the keenness of it all. He chuckled slightly and your bewildered state; slightly hair slightly messy, tear stained eyes and your shirt now soaked. Pecking your lips lightly, he touched his nose against yours, smiling a gummy smile that calmed your heaving. “I’d better be off to dress, my sweet girl. Thankyou for making my morning wonderful” he whispered against your cheek, tightly hugging you in a warm embrace. Giggling, you nodded- permissing him leave with a soft kiss on the cheek.

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

[daggxrsanddrxamers]

blue eyes and rainbow flags

i wrote a FirstPrince fic

umm so first time writing for this fandom, hope y'all enjoy!! Henry and Alex attend their first pride together!! that's it, that's the fic

Word count- 1102 words of fluff

not tagging anyone...but tell me if you wanna be tagged in any future fics

Morning at the brownstone were sometimes lazy, Henry with his sleepy eyes and mussed hair, Alex with a cup of coffee glued to one hand and his phone in the other, blearily scrolling through his news alerts, kisses traded between two joined souls as they made their way through their daily routines. Other days, it was rushed, beeping alarms and text messages from Zahra, telling them to get their asses to the gala, or trans-atlantic flights and hurried kisses before one of them runs out the door, and then doubles back for one last kiss.

This morning, though, it was different, there was such excitement and nervousness in the air. It was the day of the famed NYC pride parade, Henry’s and Alex’s first pride and also their first pride together. Pez, June and Nora would be here anytime to go with them.

Alex makes his way downstairs to the kitchen where Henry was making their morning drinks, he was caught up in the glorious sight that was Henry, the way only he ever got to see him, all rumpled clothes and blond hair catching the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. He stood there for a second taking in the gloriousness that was Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor. And then Henry was turning towards him and smiling, that godsdamned glorious smile that still made his heart stop, and Alex was crowding him against the kitchen counter, kissing the living daylights out of him.

“Excited for your first pride parade?” Alex mumbled against his lips, trying not to break away from him.

“Yes, of course” was Henry’s answer, before he went back to kissing him.

Alex, in his years of planning, had never thought that this would be his life. Making out with Henry in their little brownstone kitchen, getting ready for their first pride parade, kissing him whenever he wants to, being happy and confident and for the first time feeling something slot into his heart.

The bell rings, pulling him out of his thoughts. Henry slips away from between him and the counter and backwalks to the door with a wink, Alex’s laughter following him out of the kitchen and to the door.

Voices spill from the entryway, June, Nora and Pez, they argue their way into the kitchen talking over one another. Henry laughs at something Pez says and Alex feels so so happy. He probably has a dopey smile stuck on his face but he hardly cares. June comes up to him and hugs him.

“Long time, no see, baby bro.”

“That’s because you’re so busy writing that book of yours, how’s it going? Have you written anything amazing about me yet?”

June hits him on the shoulder and laughs, “I don’t need to help you grow that big head of yours, anymore!”

They dissolve in laughter, and the brownstone kitchen is filled with friends, laughter and the sounds of love. In seconds, Pez’s voice cuts over the cacophony, “Come on kids, Auntie Pezza’s gonna give you a pride make over” he says with a dangerous twinkle in his eyes.

Nora brings out her phone in a flash and snaps a picture of the gang, all bright smiles and twinkling eyes. Alex will later print out the picture and use it as a bookmark, but right then his eyes find Henry’s and the brilliant smile on his face almost knocks him off his feet. The only person missing right then was Bea, but she hadn’t been able to come, they’d placated her last night with promises of a gazillion pictures and at least one embarrassing video.

And then Pez drags them away and sits them down on the assorted furniture in the living room, and attacks them with colourful paints for an hour straight, by the end Alex has the bi colours smeared across his cheeks in a messy pattern, and Henry has the gay flag neatly coloured in on one of his cheekbones. Alex is half tempted, to kiss him on the flag and maybe make it messier, but the glare Pez shoots him at his look is enough to turn his thoughts away from Henry and his cheekbones.

They video call Bea, and all of them scream something unintelligible at each other, before they calm down and then Bea has them cat walking down the hallway in their outfits, showing off their flags and colours.

The bright colours and glitter and paint is everywhere, and so is the laughter and the love and right then, if the world stopped spinning, Alex would be very very happy.

They somehow finally make their way out of the brownstone, pride flags trailing behind them like capes and heads held high, and feeling invincible in a world that feels like it was made just for them. Like some kind of modern gods in their own world, the sun streaming down on their faces and arms around each other, ready to celebrate their love in a Dionysian parade across the streets of one of the world’s most famous cities.

Nora’s continuously clicking pictures as if anyone can ever encompass what they feel into a couple of square inches of the phone screen, and then June grabs the phone right out of Nora’s hands and kisses her, while simultaneously snapping a selfie. Alex yells at them to take their PDA elsewhere and Nora just sticks her tongue out at him.

And then there’s more selfies, and more laughter and finally, finally they reach the parade, and it’s an explosion of bright colours, loud sounds and gorgeous smiles. Alex buys a bi pin and tacks it onto his shirt with a wide grin on his face, Henry puts on a weird wide brimmed rainbow at Pez’s insistence, and June immortalizes the moment in a picture.

Nora drags June off to get more merch, and Pez goes to get a few flags, and Alex is left with Henry. Henry pulls him in by his belt loops and kisses him hard under the shade of the tallest buildings, they’re smiling too much, it’s more of a clash of teeth than a proper kiss, but right then it doesn’t matter.

“We broke down that wall, didn’t we?” Henry says in his soft voice, the one reserved only for him, and Alex’s mind flies back to a crumpled note in Henry’s handwriting that he’d found, professing their love to be a tragedy.

“Yes we did, baby” Alex says onto his lips and slips his arms around him and holds him tight.

People come up to them and tell them that their story has inspired them to be themselves, and Henry, for the first time, doesn't mind the attention. Alex sees the way he’s relaxed, even though there are people taking pictures of them, and he can’t help but feel as if he’s on fucking cloud 9.

The day’s perfect, streaming colours and happy faces and later when Alex looks through the photos, he’ll see one taken by Pez, one of Henry kissing him with the rainbow flag surrounding them like a blanket of safety, and he’ll smile, and then save it as his lock screen, ready to fight all the injustices of the world as long as he has his perfect piece of heaven in that cozy brownstone.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

If you like bold, maximalist decor, you’ll love designer Lily Sawyer’s home. Lily says to plan ahead & make a mood board. She’d rather shop at flea markets whenever she can. 

Another tip- embrace pattern & texture clash. Don’t worry if things match, if you like them, put them together.

Think about how you want the room to feel. Do you want it calm? Cozy? Relaxed? (Nah.)

I’ve heard this tip before- don’t be afraid to go dark in a small space. I think dark blue actually makes her small kitchen look bigger.

She says she originally painted this hall a lighter gray all they way up and hated it for 3 yrs. Now that she finally painted it darker, and loves it.

Her bedroom is called a visual cacophony. 

Her daughter must like her style, too, b/c she has the same lamp & neon on her nightstand.

Adorable, happy, son’s room.

Another sweet girl’s room.

She didn’t want the bathroom to look new, when they redid it, and the vintage style tub and tile look beautiful. 

https://inkifi.com/blog/how-to-create-an-eclectic-maximalist-interior.html

[scorchviox]

Your Touch [ShigarakixOC]: Chapter 3

Chapter Index

Sunday had finally rolled by and Souseiki laid in bed scrolling through her phone. It had been three days since she had the encounter with the significantly unknown villain. She had made it her mission to look him up and see if he ever made the news, but nothing came up. He had no social media account and seemed to not exist in any school roster she looked up online. He had to be enrolled in a school since he was around her age, right? All fifteen-year-olds are in their second year at least, but he was nowhere to be found. “This is pissing me off,” she muttered to herself as she dropped her phone onto her pillow and kicked off her covers.

   She made her way to the restroom in order to start her day. Once refreshed she changed into a mere white blouse with a floral pattern and denim shorts. Souseiki walked out to the living room where she found her mother. “Good morning, you,” her mother chirped as she looked away from the television screen. Her mom’s hair was up in a bun and her hands were tightly wrapped around a mug that had steam rising from it.

   “Good morning,” replied Souseiki as she walked to the front door to put her shoes on. “I'm going to get the paper,” she said walking out.

   The weather was clear and sunny as she stepped out of her home. She smiled and stretched her arms out. It felt peaceful until she heard children bickering. “Move it, quirk-less!” Sounded a voice. The girl’s face soon turned sour as she looked out beyond her fence to see her neighbor, Bakugou, harassing one of his friends once again. Since she could remember he had always been on Midoriya’s case after he found out he didn’t have a quirk.

   “Ka-chan, I didn’t-” trembled the green-haired boy’s voice.

   Before Midoriya could finish a sentence the rabid boy, that is Bakugou, lifted his hand and screamed, “Die!” But nothing happened. Seeing this outcome, Bakugou’s head snapped in the direction of the Yabe residence. There, at the fence, stood Souseiki waving at the two with the day’s newspaper in hand. “Get out of here, you useless trash! Can’t you see I’m dealing with something?”

   The girl gave a smirk as she stared at the two, “Good morning to you too,” her attention then shifted to Midoriya as he slowly backed up towards her. “Morning, Midoriya,” she greeted, “What’s going on today?”

   The stuttering mess of a boy replied with, “I accidentally bumped into him. It was an accident.”

   With a nod she looked back to Bakugou, “It was an accident, ya hear? Stop being an ass,” she remarked as the blonde began throwing profanities left and right at the two.

   “I wouldn’t act so tough when you have such a lame quirk!” He said loudly.

   Souseiki laughed as she looked at her heated neighbor and inquired, “What about you? Right now you don’t have one at all!” With that being said the boy went on an entire tangent about how he was better than the two, but he was ignored. A large lightbulb went off as she turned to Midoriya. “Hey, you like studying quirks, right?” She smiled remembering he always carried a book with Pro Heroes’ quirks and their techniques.

   “Yeah, I do,” he beamed smiling at her.

   “This is going to sound odd, but have you heard of any pros fighting someone with a quirk that decays?”

   Midoriya stood there with a pensive look on his face. “Not that I know of,” he said shaking his head, “Why?”

   Souseiki shrugged, “Just thought I saw someone with a quirk like that, but maybe I was just seeing things,” she lied. “I’ll see you two around. Bye, nerd!” She said waving to the blonde as she made her way back into the house. Her eyes scanned the paper for more news on her new friend, but once again there was nothing but talk of the explosions she had been caught up in. They had been caused by a villain with a quirk that allowed him to project bombs and he had used this in order to flee a robbery attempt. Souseiki sucked her teeth at the lack of information and tossed the paper beside her mom.

   “Why so fussy?” Questioned Mrs. Yabe as she looked back at her daughter. “You should go out and train. At least learn how to fight properly,” She said nonchalantly. “Your brothers are already in internships. The least you could do is train and try to get into a good profession.”

   Such unsolicited remarks made the teen’s blood boil. Souseiki eyed her mother with her lips pulled down in a frown. “Sure,” she muttered. The young brunette knew it was useless to bicker with someone so unmoving. “I’m going out then,” with that response she trudged back out the door.    

   The day was peaceful so far, but all she did was walk aimlessly. The training wasn’t in her plans at all. Souseiki had a pretty good idea that she wouldn’t become a hero from the second she took the entrance exam to enter the UA hero course. She failed and here she was now as a normal student at a normal school. What would have been the point in putting in extra work? No hero agency would bother taking in someone who wasn’t groomed by UA. Besides, an erasing quirk? It was like having no quirk in her opinion.

   Just thinking about it riled her up. From having such a simple quirk to being forced to try and enter some prestigious hero academy. It was irritating. “Assholes,” she muttered cursing her parents. They tried hard to get the girl to become an honorable hero, but it just wasn’t meant to be.

   During her aimless walk, Souseiki managed to arrive at the mall courtyard. Her brown eyes scanned the stores’ window displays before stopping at a particular shop. She walked closer and eyed a table full of cute home decoration. A small, pale pink elephant caught her eye. With delicate hands, she picked it up and awed at its beauty in the sunlight. This would make a beautiful addition to her desk. Maybe it would have if a bast hadn’t hit her.

   Without warning, she flew back as an incredible force racked her entire body. The momentum of the attack had her rolling until she clashed with patio furniture in the courtyard. “Told you it would work!” Cackled a masculine voice from afar.

   Souseiki whimpered in her spot on the ground. Her sore arms tried to push herself up, but with each effort, she slipped to the ground. “Fuck,” she whimpered as tears threatened to spill. Pain surged through her limbs as she looked up to see a man alongside a girl staring straight at her. The girl’s lips were curled back in a wicked smile as she stomped a foot on the pavement.

   Another strong, invisible force of energy attacked the brunette and sent her flying once again. The two began walking closer towards her as the civilians that were close by screamed for a hero. “You’re the hero Flux’s daughter, aren’tcha?!” Spat the man with the deepest hatred.

   Hearing the hero name, Souseiki shook, but couldn’t reply. Her head was bowed to the pavement as tears fell. Every inch of her body burned from the impact. She turned her head and through the curtain of hair, she eyed the two. That was her father they named.

   Closer. She needed them to come closer. Why weren’t these idiots coming closer? Where were the heroes?

   “You know what Flux did?” Questioned the lilac-haired girl with psionic blasts. “He’s a hero, he’s supposed to save people-” Souseiki groaned, but this time it was out of annoyance rather than pain. This woman’s words seemed endless as she described the job heroes were supposed to perform. “Flux killed my..”

   “I don’t care,” muttered Souseiki quietly.

   The female stopped her monologuing. The two stared at her with glares that could kill. Their brows knitted and their lips pulled down into a frown. “Are you mocking us? You’re going to die! You should be begging, you and your useless quirk should be begging for your life!”

   From her spot on the ground, the brunette remained silent at the remark. Her mother’s words ran through her head about training and not to worry about villains, yet here she lay being unable to move. It was comical.

   “Tch, fuck this,” cursed the man as he held out his hand. Souseiki closed her eyes as she saw a colorful light charge at the palm of his hand. A cacophony sounded, but no pain reached her body this time around. A broad spectrum of colors destroyed the building structure to her left. From the looks of it, the attack was redirected.

   “Satoru! You fucking missed!” Roared the female’s voice. “She was right the-” her voice then cut off before a shriek filled the air, then that too was cut short.

   Due to the destruction, the area was now filled with smoke and debris. Large fragments of the mall were resting around her. By some miracle, not one managed to crush her during the wreckage. After hernia little to no bickering from the avenging fools, Souseiki peered up at the damage. Ahead of her, she saw two dark figures approaching. “Took you heroes long enough,” she quipped with a ghost of a smirk.

   “Guess again,” rasped a voice.

Next

[thosemintcookies]

In the absence of Rihanna can we take a moment to appreciate my (me) personal favourite MET gala looks because why the fuck not

So this this year's theme is 'Camp: Notes on Fashion' and as such, I want to say that some people look great but really miss what camp is about. Camp is one of my favourite things in the world. Its performativity, extravagance, decadence, colour, irreverence and sensuality. Its deconstructed theatrics. (Essentially, I must say, its drag). Its visible strings holding up a gaudy angel on stage. It's running, cakey makeup by intermission. Its feather boas and trailing glitter as the lights hit the stage and illuminates constructed bodies moving like no one does in real life. Fuck, I love camp.

I mean I know its overstated but billy porter leisurely riding in on the shoulders of six shirtless men is just that. Head to toe glimmering gold. Fucking wings. That head piece. 100000% love.

Janelle monae really playing up the aspects of deconstructed theatricality. It's on such another level and none of the other Half-and-half looks even come close because they play it so straight. That wayward lapel, that burlesque tit lash. 4 entire hats. This outfit is an entire show by itself, she doesnt even have to start dancing.

I mean yeah the vogue guy. Hamish bowles, of course he gets it. But every last fucking detail is so good. Hes got on like 5 different textures, clashing patterns, a train behind him, cut out culottes, and patterned neon stockings but it's still cohesive enough that it doesnt make me want to scream. Along with that bowtie and that dance-ready heel? It's the feeling of being backstage, you can practically smell the rancid knock off chanel perfume. But elevated. Oh my God I'm crying.

Gaga's four entire looks this evening! Because nothing is more heartstopping than a surprise quick change!

Some notable mentions that I liked, even though they weren't quite as extra:

Darren criss and that immaculate coat, paired with that huge velvet (?) bow. I've been watching his work since he was harry freaking potter so I know he can feel this theme. and I so appreciate creative make up. The rest of the look is kind of subdued tho.

Serena Williams isnt even known primarily as an entertainer. But she went ham with this neon. Shes present and demands attention. And shes in fucking nikes! I dont know if she wanted me to read into it so much but that's so fucking camp right there. The extravagance as illusory. The normalcy behind the mystique. Like suspending disbelief when stage royalty dons plastic jewelry and converse. A mixing of the low and high brow. Beautiful work, but the neon yellow is a little much for me.

Lena Waithe. The outfit isnt particularly camp itself (but those shoulder pads...unf) but you just know she knows. Love a bold statement piece.

Some looks that are kinda shit:

Kimye. What the fuck is this? I cannot do another fucking nude dress and black suit. The suit isnt even fancy. You have one chance to elevate and choose colours and textures and absolute, unattainable kitsch and you come up with normal ass bead dress and a track suit?? Clowns.

Harry styles. I'm sorry my man, but I dont think you understand camp. This is just kinda boring androgynous goth. Black absorbs light, the sheer fabric is the opposite of loud. Wheres the noise? The cacophony? The sweaty, kinky sexuality? Next.

Benedict Cumberbatch and sophie hunter. Where is the camp?? The artistic use of contrast? Colour?? Horny energy??? You choose the year with the camp theme to wear full white and soft lavender? To straight up dress as the bourgeoisie??where is the fucking intrigue??? This isnt fucking prom or dinner with the queen!!! Please exit the premises until you at least get fun pants or a headpiece that doesnt remind me of, like colonization

[weartirondad]

Let In Light (At Christmas Time) 12/12

A (belated) MERRY CHRISTMAS to all of you!  Thank you for tagging along on the ride, your feedback and reblogs and likes. Have a Happy New Year!

FF.net I ao3 I masterpost

Monday, December 24th: gift giving

The days leading up to Christmas have been a bit of a mess with ups and downs and more emotions one Tony Stark can usually handle at a time. What they didn’t know, though, is that the real mess is what they encounter on Christmas.

Their Christmas is five family’s Christmas traditions crammed into one single day and then some.

It’s loud arguments about what is considered a Christmas carol and what is just a song and why one is worth more than the other – or is it?

It’s jabs and not-so-thinly veiled insults during charade and a Stark-Parker victory dance once it’s over.

It’s too much food, personalized Christmas hats and guessing gifts before unwrapping them.

It’s the most beautiful Christmas any of them have had in a while.

 The mood on Christmas morning is probably best described as ambivalent.

The obvious excitement over their plans is clashing with a feeling of uncertainty and tentativeness. The hesitancy in fully embracing this new step that might very well morph into a new tradition is palpable in the lingering-a-little-longer-than-necessary kiss Pepper presses to Tony’s cheek when she rolls over in bed and in the tighter-than-usual good morning hug the billionaire wakes Peter up with.

It’s still there when they file into the kitchen for breakfast one after the other after getting ready, more anxious about their interaction than they were the night before and moving more slowly, scared to be the one to break the spirit and ruin the day.

That is until Peter tries to move out of the way of Pepper taking the eggs out of the fridge a little too hastily and ends up stumbling and almost hitting the kitchen counter in disorientation hadn’t Tony pulled him away and flush against his chest.

For a moment none of them makes a sound, holding breaths and biting tongues.

Pepper is blinking, tired brain still catching up with what just happened, Tony’s heart is racing as he wraps his arms around the kid more tightly and Peter’s cheeks are flush with embarrassment but he makes no move to leave his mentor’s embrace.

“Ya know,” the teenager’s voice drifts through the room, a little breathless, a little muffled into a Black Sabbath t-shirt, “As much as I love morning cuddles, it’s kinda getting hard to breathe in here.”

Almost instantly the veil of reluctance is being lifted as if Peter’s words are the key they’ve all been waiting for, the signal they need to get back to the version of normal they have worked so hard to obtain.

Relief is flooding the room when Tony barks out a laugh and pushes the Spiderling away, dark eyes twinkling with fondness as he cards his hand through the mess of curls and says, “Menace,” in the tenderest voice he owns. Peter beams at the endearment.

After that the rest of the morning passes in a flurry of activity.

Last minute adjustments are made to decorations, clothes and food preparations, the last plans are finalized and rechecked and, in the midst of it all, two handful cookies find their way into a certain teenager’s hands (and, consequently, into his mouth).

 “May just called. Happy and her need another fifteen minutes. They’re stuck in traffic,” Peter yells from the ceiling, where he’s adjusting another string of fairy lights, to Tony who’s in the middle of setting up the Christmas crib, a big ceramic version of the nativity scene that his mom got from his grandmother for his first Christmas.

The billionaire nods absentmindedly as he pulls out the Christ Child from the box ever so tentatively. His mind is someplace else, curiously tiptoeing around the edges of a trauma he has not yet overcome. “Hey Pete, think you were ever this small?”

The teenager looks down at what he’s holding, still dangling from above head first and, taking only a second to identify the nostalgic-close-to-sad look on his mentor’s face, quickly quips, “Nah, I was born this grown-up and sticky.”

Just like that, Tony’s features brighten and he shakes his head at his mess of a kid as he snarks back, chest a little lighter, stance more at ease.

They do this a lot nowadays – figuring out each other’s triggers and where their mind is currently at, quickly intervening before they would start spiraling into the vicious cycle they both know too well.

 “Hey Tones, I got the pie where do you want me to put it?”

“Rhodey-bear,” Tony grins up from the floor where he’s sitting proudly in front of the now finished crib and holds a hand out for his friend to pull him up with, “I thought we were celebrating Christmas not Thanksgiving.”

He pats down his casual denim for any dust and lint but takes the offered pie anyway, leading the newcomer into the festively decorated kitchen courtesy of Pepper. Over his shoulder he calls out, “Pete, make sure to get down, you know how your brain feels when it gets too much blood from your upside-down-shenanigans.”

Rhodey laughs, eyes twinkling with mirth at the matter-of-fact way of the exchange. “How long’s he been hanging like that?”

“About 21 and half a minute, give or take,” Tony replies promptly, glaring at the other man when he starts cackling, “You try taking care of the superkid and then come talk to me again.”

“It’s not like you let anyone else take care of your superkid, Tony,” an amused voice tunes in from behind the open fridge door. A strawberry- red shock of hair is peeking out to the side, a lively contrast to the metallic gray surface.

“Really, Pep? You too?” He sighs dramatically, putting the pie down on the counter that’s already stacked with a variety of delicacies such as roast duck, dumplings, pasta, Christmas cookies and all ingredients for hot chocolate because, apparently, there’s no Christmas without hot chocolate and Tony is quite obviously not able to decline Peter Parker anything.

Pepper is about to reply – something classy but hurtful, most likely – when a high-pitched squeal and loud thump from the living room makes them whirl around, bodies on high alert as their minds immediately wander to all worst possible scenarios. That is, until they can make out the Parker family greeting somewhere in the odd cacophony of noises.

“You brought the hats!” Peter is screeching excitedly and from how his voice is faint and out of breath they can guess he’s still in his aunt’s embrace like the human octopus that he is. “Mister Stark, Mister Rhodey, Miss Potts! You gotta see this!”

‘This’ turns out to be personalized Santa hats. Everyone gets one.

“This one’s for Miss Potts.” The teenager hands out the red and white hats, reading the stitched names out loud with so much childlike joy that no one can decline putting it on right away. Not even Happy who looks ridiculous, glaring sourly at them with his ‘Happy’ Santa hat on or Rhodey who hasn’t stopped laughing about his ‘Mister Rhodey’ hat.

Tony wears his hat with a sense of pride.

He knows that it’s a Parker family tradition and he knows how much it hurt Peter the first time he only had to pull out two hats instead of three. Now there are six Santas walking around, going about their business in getting everything ready and when the billionaire catches the kid watching them all a little wistfully he rubs his neck and pats his head, pushing the hat down until its covering his eyes.

The move earns him an upset shout but also a thank you, hidden in a bump of shoulders and a tentative smile.

You’re welcome, he beams back without words and says, “We’re a team for charade, right? Gotta make use of all those inside jokes.”

“’Course, Mister Stark, we’ll be a great team.”

And they are. They are essentially unbeatable teamed up with May and every attempt at victory from Pepper, Happy and Rhodey is quickly over turned by yet another immaculate performance because that’s just how they roll.

Most importantly, though, it’s a game that doesn’t have heavy memories and loss clinging to it. It’s a game, full of laughter and ease and not-taking-yourself-too-seriously. They make fools out of themselves, entirely at peace in each other’s company and it’s a relief, really, to do something that doesn’t require deep thought during a time when seemingly everything has to mean something.

This doesn’t mean anything and that’s why it means the world to them.

 It’s May who makes them watch Christmas mass on TV.

They’re all sitting close together, spread over two couches, limbs overlapping and fitting together like six parts of a whole. Like various pieces of the same puzzle. Like a family coming together for the holiday.

May has her feet curled up underneath her, one hand holding a pillow that rests on her stomach, the other rubbing random patterns on Peter’s legs that are stretched out in her lap. The teenager’s head is safely tucked under Tony’s chin who has his legs stretched out on a cushioned stool in front of him. The arm that is not carding through Peter’s curls is hanging loosely around Pepper’s shoulder, caressing her arms every once in a while.

Pepper lays sprawled out on two couches, back resting against her fiancé and head propped up on his shoulder with her legs coming up on the next couch’s armrest, resting on Rhodey’s thighs who has his legs stretched out on the same stool as Tony. Happy sits next to him, upper body propped up on the other arm rest and feet resting in the other man’s lap as well.

It looks ridiculously domestic the way they’re sprawled out in the living room, halfway laying on top each other but no one comments on it, no one dares to poke fun at it, everyone too happy in their respective positions.

Tony’s hand pauses its carding motions in Peter’s hair when the priest starts his sermon speaking of stars, specifically the star of Bethlehem.

It’s a guiding star, he says, that lead the Kings of East and nearby shepherds to an unremarkable stable to find something exceptional. A king, a savior, God.

They’re both thinking of a different guiding star, a different destination but no less extraordinary. Somehow, without much understanding for the spiritual or much trust in a higher power, they find themselves and their own long-winded way home in the story.

Peter wipes a tear from the corner of his eye with a barely disguised sniff and buries deeper into his mentor’s side. Like clockwork Tony’s arm wraps around him more tightly, grounding him in a silent ‘I know, me too.’

 The mood lifts tremendously when Happy, Santa hat sitting slightly crooked on his head, insists on singing carols before exchanging gifts and Peter, lo and behold, gets Tony to accompany them on the piano.

Everyone’s clutching their mugs with steaming hot chocolate, in quiet awe of the soft piano music trailing through the room. Only until they start singing, though, six people managing to find at least five different keys to sing in, and doing so loudly and convinced and horribly askew.

The laughter that follows is freeing after the emotional sermon and it takes the edge off once more before they start moving over to the tree – presents already stacked neatly underneath.

“Oh no,” Rhodey stops them before anyone can rip open their gift, “You gotta guess first.” Apparently that’s a thing now, too.

 “Uh – it’s from Tony, right?” Pepper asks rhetorically upon finding her name in neat handwriting pushed into the top left corner, weighing the slim rectangular package in her hands, “It’s probably either some new tech or jewelry and –“ she meets the billionaire’s eyes briefly, biting her lower lip before declaring, “I’m gonna go with jewelry probably fitting something I already have.”

“Nice guess, honey, but there’s more,” Tony grins when she rips it open to find a beautiful box with a necklace perfectly fitting the sparkling engagement ring on her hand. There’s a small slip in the box, too, that she unfolds with a frown.

“Dinner reservations for January?” she laughs, the jab waiting on the tip of her tongue disappearing and morphing into something softer when she reads on. “In New Haven?”

“I know you don’t see your family that often,” her fiancé admits rather sheepishly, hands fidgeting in his lap, “And, the last few weeks have taught me how important family and appreciating them while you can is. So, I’d like to take you to Connecticut for a long weekend if you’re up for it.”

Pepper smiles up at him, tear shimmering in her eyes when her gaze briefly finds Peter who’s sitting on the floor like all of them, back propped up against the couch and legs resting comfortably in May’s lap, before settling on Tony. “Thank you,” she says earnestly and then, more quietly, “I love you.”

“You are all a bunch of big saps,” Rhodey laughs good-heartedly before shoving two packages onto May and Tony. “Open mine. You’re getting the same thing because you’re both in dire need of it.”

Both parents roll their eyes in unison.

“So it’s something to do with cooking then,” Tony states matter-of-factly, hands running over the edges of the package as if it could tell him anything at all. Rhodey nods, rubbing his hands together like a child on, well, Christmas, and waits for May’s input.

“It’s probably not any kind of utensil, right? Mmh, I’m going with ingredient of some sort,” she guesses.

Sure enough, they get a seasoning pack so “The Super-Kid can get something for his enhanced taste buds” with only a slight difference in their two packages.

Tony frowns, “You got me marjoram but not pepper?” – “Eh, I figured you already got your Pepper.” – “Hilarious, platypus. I’m falling over in laughter.”

Happy gets a cookbook, because Rhodey visited a whooping single shop shopping for presents, his very own personalized sports car from Tony and Pepper and a voucher to make him his favorite pie from May. He’s overly excited over the pie, leaving Tony to sulk into his hot chocolate for a good three minutes.

Pepper gets a girls spa day, a frying pan (“If need be it’s a great weapon against stupid fiancés I’ve been told” – “Rhodey, you’re uninvited from every Christmas ever to come in this household.” – “Awh, Tony, but it’s a great pan, don’t you think?” – “Sure, Pep, whatever you say. Did I mention I love you?”) and a diary that is apparently exactly the one she always gets, though how Happy figured that out Tony has no idea.

“Rhodey’s not getting presents because he’s being a little f –“ he stares at Peter, eyes wide as if he just realized there’s a child present, panicked, “- fairy. He’s being a little fairy.”

Peter is cackling. “Awh, but Mister Stark,” he giggles, “We all know you got him tickets for –“

“A- a- a,” he stops the teenager with a hand on his mouth, “Nope. He’s not getting those until he’s apologized.”

“It’s tickets to Elton John’s Farewell Tour, isn’t it?” – “How…?” – “Come on, Tones, I literally taught you how to tie your shoelaces.” – “Fine, be that way, but I got us the VIP lounge. And also front row groupie tickets so you can feel young again for once.”

On top of that Rhodey gets a self-knitted scarf and hat (“I have never in my life owned anything this warm. I’m never taking them off ever again.”), a cookbook (“At least it’s not the same one, Hogan, that woulda been embarrassing.”) and two new sci-fi novels.

When it’s May’s turn to open Pepper’s and Tony’s present she regards the man with a long searching look.

“I swear I was only marginally involved. All my original ideas were vetoed,” the billionaire raises his hands innocently, “I just lent my expertise to –“

She looks at him over the rim of an artfully manufactured glass. “Wine glasses. You got me wine glasses?”

Tony grins. “And wine, don’t forget the wine. I think that was actually more expensive. We spent like an hour choosing the perfect one.” Then, more seriously and a little unsure, “Do you like it?”

That puts a smile on the woman’s face and she nods at both of them. “I really do. Thank you. Guess we’ll be drinking wine from new fancy glasses tomorrow!”

Happy’s present to her is a milk frother which Peter claims almost immediately (“Honestly, thank you but what do you think my kitchen looks like?” – “At least you didn’t get a pan, May.”) and when Peter hands her his, she beams at him, pressing a kiss to his forehead before even starting to unwrap the flat parcel.

It’s a DIY- calendar with pictures from the past year just like the one he gets her every year. Only this time in March an image of Spider-Man swinging through Downtown has snuck its way in there and in August there’s one from the annual Science Fair, featuring a certain eccentric billionaire, looking into the camera with an uncharacteristically soft smile.

There’s a silent understanding in the look they’re sharing that the following year would feature some more people. People who’re currently talking across one another with their Santa hats on and fingers sticky from the hot chocolate that is not the one Uncle Ben used to make.

Okay? ask Peter’s eyes – Perfect, says May’s smile.

 “Nu-uh, Peter goes first,” Tony tries to object when the next present is shoved into his chest but somehow they have all silently agreed to leave the kid’s presents for last and so he doesn’t have much of a choice but weigh the unshapely package in his hands.

“I have no clue what that’s supposed to be,” he frowns in displeasure. He hates not knowing with a passion. “Something soft, pretty big, a little squishy and a weird ass shape. What the hell, May?” The woman in question simply shrugs and grins innocently. “Okay, final guess: a weirdly shaped body pillow.”

It is, in fact, not a weirdly shaped body pillow but a huge stuffed lioness looking a lot like the one they saw on their trip to the Christmas market last week.

He remembers how they walked past the booth with the stuffed animals and how Peter pointed out his favorites and he remembers staring at the lioness a little longer than the rest and apparently, without knowing the back story, May figured out that it would be his Christmas present.

“It was my mum’s favorite animal,” he tells her, clearing his throat and patting the toy’s head in an attempt to not get too emotional. What he wants to tell her is that she shouldn’t have spent so much money on him and that Peter is probably going to be cuddling with it a lot more than he is. He wants to say that he doesn’t need presents when he’s got friends – no, family – like this but he doesn’t because he can see how excited she is, how excited they all are.

So, Tony Stark does something unprecedented and accepts the gift.

“Thank you,” he says, leaning over to wrap May into a hug, and he whispers only for her and the enhanced teenager to hear, “for everything. I’m glad to be able to call you my family.”

Happy gets him a pajama (“I’ve been wanting to get him those for years but he’s never accepted gifts before. I’m tired of having to bully you out of bed in your underwear, boss.”) and Pepper a potted plant for the lab which feels a little anticlimactic to everyone else but puts a huge smile on Tony’s face who sheepishly informs them of his never-lived-out-love for gardening.

“Now yours, kiddo. I know you’ve been trying to hide from my watchful gaze ever since we started this kindergarten.” His voice is casual but his eyes are softly inquiring.

Peter looks embarrassed, clutching the parcel Rhodey has seen him put underneath the tree a few days ago tightly to his chest. “Yeah, but, uh –“ he breaks off because he’s not sure exactly what he’s scared of.

He looks past Tony and meets Rhodey’s eyes who’s leaning against the couch and gives him a reassuring nod.

Without further ado he pushes the present into the billionaire’s waiting arms and then scrambles a few feet away, hugging his knees to his chest anxiously. He thinks Tony is going to start unwrapping right away but he doesn’t even deign to look at the gift, his eyes solely focused on Peter, a tiny frown sitting between his eyebrows.

Gently he puts the package down and leans forward, elbows coming to rest on his thighs, never breaking eye contact. “I don’t have to open it here or at all if you don’t feel comfortable with it.”

“No, no,” he’s quickly to deny, picking it up again and handing it back to the older man, grateful when no one interrupts them, “I am, I am. I’m just – uh, just open it, please. You’ll never guess it anyway.” It’s a challenge and a safe path to the shore.

“Oh?” There’s a mischievous glint in Tony’s eyes as he takes the present and starts squishing it thoughtfully, mind going a mile a minute.

“Some kind of fabric,” he settles on finally, “And because it’s pretty big I’m guessing it’s something warm so it’s either a blanket, a jacket or one of those blanket scarfs but, mmh –“ He observes the kid for a good minute. “I’m going with blanket.”

With that he rips the neatly wrapped thing open and finds –

“Well, it is fabric and it is something warm.”

“Do you like it?”

“Like it?” He laughs, grin ridiculously wide on his face. “I love it. I’m putting it on if you are, too.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Tony’s smiles tenderly when he throws him one of the hoodies. “Can’t be an Iron Dad without my Spider Son, am I right guys?”

Happy, Pepper and Rhodey are toppling over in good-hearted laughter while May tries to take a reasonable picture of the pair. (It’s definitely going on the shortlist for next year’s calendar.)

Peter is tucked into Tony’s side like he always is nowadays, his Santa hat slightly askew and covering his left eye, he’s grinning sheepishly. His mentor, on the other hand, is beaming at the camera, proudly wearing both his ‘Mister Stark’ Santa hat and his brand new ‘Iron Dad’ hoodie that’s matching Peter’s ‘Spider Son’ one complete with arc reactor and spider web on both of them.

“Thank you, kiddo,” he tells him quietly when May is satisfied with the picture she has taken and shows everyone else. “This is my new favorite hoodie.”

“It’s your only hoodie, Mister Stark,” the kid points out not unkindly, cheeks flushed with the warmth of the room and the hoodie and the feared embarrassment. “But I’m glad you liked it.”

“Love it,” he corrects gently and reaches out to ruffle his hair in habit but only manages to shift the hat so it’s covering half his face. He laughs. “Almost as much as I love you.”

“So you’d call it menace, too?” Peter quips but buries his face into Tony’s neck in a tight hug. “I love you, too, Mister Stark.”

“Alright, Mister Parent, sir”, Rhodey breaks them up, “We’re all very excited about your newfound parenthood but I’ve been looking forward to Peter’s presents all evening.”

The teenager grins brightly when a relatively big box is shoved into his chest but pouts when he has to let go of his mentor to unwrap it. May’s behind him, though, rubbing his shoulder blades so he relaxes into the touch of his other parental figure happily.

“Let me guess, you got me a value pack of spatulas.” – “Eh, give me some credit, it’s a little bit cooler.” – “Oh my god! You got me an ice cream maker? May, look! Can we make ice cream tomorrow?”

Happy’s present to him is a new pair of Bluetooth headphones (“I should be annoyed that you’re just giving me these so I don’t talk to you as much but they’re really cool so I’m going to thank you.”) and Pepper’s is an Astrology Guide for beginners complete with self-luminous celestial map. She winks at Tony over the mess of curls when Peter barrels into her in a hug.

“It’s a backpack,” Peter declares before even putting a hand on May’s present to him and, sure enough, he’s right. It’s a bright red backpack adorned with various iron-ons but mostly they’re of Spider-Man and Iron-Man shooting across the sky together. The teenager beams as he sails into his aunt’s waiting arms.

“I haven’t lost one in at least half a year!” he tells her proudly to which she just shrugs and presses a kiss to his temple. “I’m sure that means the next one is due soon.”

“So, Mister Stark, what’d you get me?” Peter asks rhetorically, weighing the last present in his hands carefully. It’s a small, plain rectangular parcel and relatively light. “Some tech?”

Tony shrugs non-commitedly, arms crossed in front of his chest, “Before you open it I’d like to say that I had much cooler ideas but Rhodey said that’s  wrong so I’m going to blame it on him. Unless you like it, in which case this was all my idea.”

“Sooo,” Peter cocks his head to the side, “Sappy tech?”

Which is honestly the best description for the digital photo frame he’s getting.

It’s powered by a tiny version of his own arc reactor in the left corner of the frame that illuminates the whole thing in a pleasantly blue light not unlike the one the superhero gives out himself when he’s wearing his nanotech. He knows there are days that Peter has trouble falling asleep in the dark so, besides being a reminder of how loved he is it also works as a night light for harsh nights.

“Like it?”

Peter nods but doesn’t look up, eyes glued to the series of pictures flickering past them.

It’s a callback to the last few weeks that they’ve spent with each other, figuring out how to celebrate the feast of love in a world full of tragic and loss. They’re just pictures but they tell a story of how broken people can come together, damaged fragments fitting together to make a new whole without forgetting where they came from.

A picture of their blanket fort follows a long shot of the living room. The room is dark, the lights from outside the only source of light and Tony has wrapped a mask-less Spider-Man into a dark green blanket. They’re both asleep but Tony’s hand is still in Peter’s hair and he looks like he’s guarding the teenager even in his sleep.

There’s a photo of the hot cocoa that Peter spilled on the coffee table, of their improvised snow ball fight arena and one with May, all of them bundled up and nursing their steaming mugs of punch. Behind them the Christmas market is alight with the Christmas spirit and it’s reflecting in their eyes, too.

Peter laughs quietly at the one of him wearing the Iron-Man suit, face plate retracted, showing off his face splitting grin as he presents the star he’s about to deposit on top of the tree.

It follows a picture of Rhodey and him, sat in the same exact space they’re currently all huddled together in, talking and looking down at the two hoodies still wrapped in the red and blue wrapping paper Peter has chosen.

There’s an image of their snowman on its own, a selfie of all three of them together, at least five different ones from the ice skating rink and a literal ton of pictures from yesterday alone. They’re cute, hilarious, ridiculously and cavity-inducingly sweet.

They’re not even halfway through all of them when Peter wraps his mentor into another bone crushing hug and pulls everyone else into it, too. They stay like this, huddled together in a group hug for almost twenty minutes until the slide show starts anew.

The pictures tell a story. Their story.

It’s a story of hope and love and family.

It’s the story of Tony Stark and Peter Parker and the first Christmas that wasn’t all that bad.

[halcyon-wra-blog]

Operation: Endgame

“Alright boys.. this is it.” Volran's voice crackled through the comms, barely audible over the choppy waves and clanking, metallic gears of their transports. “We all know our orders. If we fail here today, our Crusade won't live long enough to regret it. Stick to the plan, follow your Captain's' orders, and you just might make it out of this alive. Teach these Forsaken a lesson they won't forget, Halcyon, and may the Light be with you.” With that, the comm clicked off.. and they were on their own, waiting in their bulky, armored, gnomish transport ships for landfall. With every churning wave, the ship “jumped,” its gears and cogs whirring and whining to compensate, water lapping over the lip of the vessel's raised metal flanks, sloshing down into the crew pit below. It was an uncomfortable, compact mess, with soldiers packed like sardines rather than warriors.. but perhaps that was the point. After all, their transport was just one of two dozen, and-

“-KA-BOOM!-”

A cannon shot rang out from behind them. Just one of the few several hundred – no, thousand? - they'd heard that day from their fleet, hammering into the towering walls of the Forsaken coastal fortifications, providing cover, both in the form of large smoke clouds and heavy shelling, for the transports to head inland.

At least, that was the hope. Before they'd even escaped the shadow of the Halcyon's fleet, the cannon fire had been matched with a second thunderous cry: The Forsaken's artillery. The Undead had more than just the small blight “grenades” they'd used on the Kingfish. They had cannonballs fit to bursting with blight, and for every shell the Halcyon threw at their sea wall, they fired two towards the transports. Some of them tried to escape, but they only succeeded in drowning themselves with their heavy armor. By the time they neared the beach, their two dozen transports had been trimmed down to a light seventeen.

Their transports jerked, bucked, and stopped at the shore. Outside their sardine cans, the guttural, vitriolic spat of Gutterspeak roared over the din of cannon fire. The Forsaken were preparing themselves. Horses whinnied, dogs barked and snapped.. and then.. silence. A sickly, still silence that seemed to go on for an eternity. This, perhaps, was what some might call “The Soldier's Minute,” where time all but stops and coalesces at once in one euphoric cacophony. Their last minute sane; whole; alive. After their loading ramp opened.. there was nothing but death.

The craft's pilot stood up, toying with his communicator, “T-Minus, five..” he counted, “Four… Three.. two.. one.” With the tug of a lever, their door janked, clanked, groaned, and released itself from its holdings. It flew down into the beach below, clouds of sand rising high into the air, revealing the absolute nightmare that awaited them: A battle line of Forsaken Dread Guards, dressed in royal red, replete with plague hounds and warhorses, ready to meet the invaders head on. Scores of barbed wire and entrenched pikes stabbed towards the transports, and short, quick fix defensive walls loomed near the back.

Their pilot turned towards them, gesticulating wildly towards the open bay ramp, “Go! Go! G-!” An arrow, shot from an archer behind the walls, landed squarely in the pilot's neck, his breath catching in his throat, blood already staining his white armor. He staggered, slumped, spasmed, and fell dead on their transport's floor. But there was no time for sentimentality. Already, the battle cries from the other transports rose like a hymn, the sounds of boots, paws, hooves and wings rising to meet the song of cannon shot. To either side of this concerted Hellhole, the battlements and towers of the Forsaken's sea wall rose high along the craggy Hillsbrad cliffs, the plague cannons still firing relentlessly at the fleet, just off the coast.

Arrows went wide, pinging far into the hillside as Forsaken were bashed in their fetid heads by Holy Hammers. Undead gurgled and fell into the sand as magic blasted through them, rotten gore and decayed ichor splattering across the beach. As their guts and entrails smattered the beach, Forsaken sinew turned into catalysts for explosions that rocked the entire seaboard, sand flying in chunks in every direction. An overzealous Crusader stepped forwards, and at a moment's notice, his armored form was nothing but paste, at least five of his fellows joining him in the afterlife.

A shrill cry rang out over the hills. Then came a snapping, a howling, and from behind the Forsaken line a horde of rancid plague hounds sprang out, skittering and pawing their way through the barbed fences, arrow shot and mines. They scampered, mouths slavering hungrily, and descended upon the Halcyon like a wave. They bit with cruel intent, their teeth lined with bile and etched with blight. They bit, ripped and tore, eliciting pleading screams and terrified cries from the more unlucky Crusaders.

The Forsaken assault was relentless. Wave after wave of hounds lashed out from behind the wall, the mounted dread guards all too content to wait the conflict out and let the living exhaust themselves on their pets. Overhead, the Forsaken engineers kept dutifully loading their cannons with blight bombs, their shots thundering out into the evening sky. Yet, the plague hounds were overzealous in their work, and they had accidentally triggered at least a quarter of the Forsaken mines in their charge.

The hills were covered in Undead flying and rolling down it in droves, tumbling down to the base in craggy heaps. At the top, two death guards holding tight to plaguehound leashes, were there to greet them. The dogs snapped, barked, and finally, the death guards simply let them fly. They bore down on the Halcyon, jumping and chomping at plate like it was aluminum foil. They thrashed, their necks jerking side to side, wrestling like they were in a death spiral.

Just as the Forsaken charged, a giant ball of Light flew headlong at their cannon. It shot through the air with a burning light, hissing, fizzing, sparking like a Fourth of July firework. It screeched headlong into the cannon, hitting it square with a thunderous "BOOM!" that rivaled any of their ship's cannon shots. The metal apparatus bent, groaned, and sloughed off the battlements, tumbling in a giant pile into the choppy seas below. The death guards were blown far and away, screaming as they were rocketed into the aether.

A cannon lost, the Forsaken rallied, their plague hounds retreated at their masters' whistles, scampering back behind the defensive walls. The mounted Death Guards took up their positions, blades drawn, shields ready for a charge.. and another ear piercing screech rang out across the hills, the very air taking on an icy mist, the Halcyon Crusaders' breath going cold.

The line of royal deathguards tightened, forming an inhuman wall in front of the archer line as the Halcyon's ragged line of crusaders charged towards them. Arrows nocked, bow strings drew back, "Ready!" A high, silky voice called over the din. It wasn't gutterspeak. Thalassian? "Aim!" A pause, waiting until their prey had run -right- into their line of fire. There was a glint of red, furious eyes, shrouded by a black hood. A dark ranger! "LOOSE!" With a twang, a snap, a clap, a volley of tight-knit, white feathered arrows sprang towards the oncoming charge.

"READY!" The voice called again, only to be drowned out by the clash of steel on steel. The battle had been joined, just in front of their line. The royal red of the dead guards' cloaks rising like a tide to meet the white of the Halcyon, sword against sword, axe against axe. The hounds converged, sensing weakened prey.

The death guards on top of the hill stepped forward to meet a crew of soldiers, their blades drawn.. and quickly lost to the ground as their heads fell from their shoulders from the onslaught of Halcyon soldiers. The engineers about the cannon gave each other terrified looks, and without a second thought, both rose their hands up in surrender. The cannon was silent.

"BANG!" "BANG!" "BANG!" "CLANG!" The cannon snapped, groaned, cracked and bent under a soldier’s merciless assault. By the time he was done with it, it indeed looked more like a smouldering, singed soda can than anything that could ever have been used for artillery. "Whoever did that is getting a damn -MEDAL,-" Volran's labored voice crackled over the comms, resisting the urge to let out a cheering laugh. "Excellent work, boys! -Excellent!- Reinforcements are coming in hot. I repeat: reinforcements are coming in!" And almost on cue, should any of the Halcyon look behind them, they might spy the armada of skiffs departing the motherships, trundling through the ocean towards their landing site.

A shrill scream rang out across the hills, crackling directly into the Halcyon's ears. The comm abruptly went silent, and from beyond a far hill, on some other beach along the coastline, the terrified, roaring screams of an entire regiment of the Halcyon's best and brightest rising to meet the screech. The chilly mist around the valley grew. The shrill, shuddering cry over the hills reached a crescendo, a trio of ghastly, flying revanents rounded on them. They were robed all in black, tattered robes, each clutching a scythe in hand. They swooped low, their mangled, scarecrow-esque faces contorting into wide, hungry maws as they sighted their next targets.

The death guards staggered, their lines breaking. They folded inwards, the onslaught of the Halcyon and their reinforcements all too much for them to bear. They fell in droves, regal armor clattering in dusty heaps in the sand. Archers shrieked, their arrows flying in disorganized waves as undead monstrosities ate their fill of rotten flesh. It was a slaughter, and a slaughter the Halcyon were winning.

From the pits of her fallen comrades, the dark ranger leapt up, her bowstring snapping in rapidfire patterns, neat, feathered pinpricks embedding themselves in the foreheads of those unsuspecting. She landed with a roll, interjecting herself into the sea of Crusaders, her bow discarded in lieu of two sharp cutlasses. They sang a siren's song, snapping side to side, slicing, chopping, cutting through the thinly-chained necks of crusaders before they could even reckon what had come. And not only that, but those three monstrous revenants were bearing down on them from behind.

With one voice, they let out an ear piercing roar, burning, icy breath blasting from their gaping maws, coating the back lines of the Halcyon's forces. Soldiers froze solid where they stood, looking more like popsicles than soldiers. The revenants were merciless, their shrill, freezing cries rattling across the valley, turning sand to crystalline silica, bodies into frigid cadavers, and soldiers into statues. One by one, the Dark Ranger followed up on each of their conquests, her cutlasses slicing clean through frozen flesh, coagulated blood oozing from every cut. Wait.. how was she not freezing? There, around her neck! A bright, orange glowing orb clanged against her leather armor, bouncing free from her cloak with every pirouette, every twist.

Finally, their freezing breath over with, the revenants descended to flank the Ranger, their scythes in hand, dead, empty eyes staring at their handiwork. With one body, one mind, they marched forwards, hands gripping about their scythes. Scythes rose and fell, chopping through the remaining cadre of Crusaders, harvesting them like wheat. The revenant on the left made its slow, careful march forwards. Its scythe raised, and with one cruel, downward swing, it acted to snuff the faint heartbeat out of those in his wake permanently.

The center revenant stepped forwards, spindly, boney fingers wrapped about its scythe, and trudged forwards. Unlike its brethren, it made no move to slice her or cleave. Instead, its ghastly, haunted maw opened wide, wider than any jaw would allow, and the beginnings of a concerted gust of frost coiled about its charred and cracked lips.

The revenant on the right turned, marching forwards with its brothers, dead eyes locked forward. It descended, scythe raising.. and then, from the inside out, its icy exterior went golden. Its eyes flashed, mouth agape as it let out a low, shuddering vibrato roar that rose up to a tenor, then a falsetto, until the creature practically -POPPED- from a Light overload cast by one of the Halcyon’s Knight-Captains.

The ranger yowled, recoiling away from the pain of the Light inflicted by the Halcyon’s Paladins. She scampered away, rolling her shoulder, shaking the pain off. Her red eyes flicked from the Halcyon to the revenants, then back again. "I let you get away once, pigs. I'm not about to make the same mistake twice." She dashed away, her light footfalls padding against the sand.. only to feel the flat end of a blade slap against her ankles.

Her arms threw out in front of her, her entire body sailing forwards with an 'Uhnf!' of effort, and she landed face first in the blood soaked sand, staggering, trying to regain her balance. She rolled hurriedly up onto her back, red eyes blazing furiously at the offending paladin and runic knight. With a snarl that showed teeth, she leapt up to her feet, drawing her swords once more, spinning, pirouetting, one slicing toward the rune-knight, another towards the Paladin.

"When will you humans LEARN?" She snarled, her legs kicking out, attempting to bash against plate, "This is our home, not yours! NEVER yours!"

The revenant on the right was violently shunted, sending the gigantic beast staggering to the left. They stumbled, colliding with one another, their frozen breath cracking against one another, snap-freezing them together. They were trapped. They couldn't move! They..! ACORN! In unison their heads looked up, and saw the small, teensy tiny little thing fall between them. Within the span of two seconds, the haunting creatures had been replaced by a giant oaken tree, their wizened, craggy faces jutting out from the bark, their scythes sticking out at odd angles.

The ranger let out a huffing a breath as soldiers charged into her, sending her sprawling onto the ground.. and then again, just as she'd tried to regain her composure, another came to knock her down. Swords went flying in either direction, arms going wide to either side, her body "puff"ing into the soft sand beneath her. Swords, bird pecks, punches, nails.. it was all she could do to bring up her arms to try and ward off the blows.

She felt a sword descend upon her neck, driving clean through her pendant.. and straight into her heart. Then slowly, almost peacefully, her arms fell to her side, no longer even deigning to resist. Instead, her red eyes gazed peacefully up at the paladin, druid, crusader and she smiled.

"We.. will.. never.. surrender," she blurbed, congealed, black blood oozing from her lips. "We will fight you.. wherever is needed. We will.. kill you.. we will.. never.. give up.. our homes.." Gingerly, sickly, her left hand reached to the pendant, which began to crack and splinter around the sword, glowing a bright, rich amber color.

"Glory to the Forsaken.. Glory.. to.. Sylvanas.." Her eyes widened with manic glee, and the pendant began to let out a soft chiming. The light growing more and more intense, the noise ringing in their ears. "We will.. never.. be.. slaves-" The pendant blasted the ranger to smithereens, and, hopefully for her, might just take some of them with her. Yet, the Halcyon prevailed. They had won. They now had their foothold in Hillsbrad, and it was only a matter of time before they expanded further inland.

[paopuofhearts]

CLEOPATRA If it be love indeed, tell me how much. MARK ANTONY There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd. CLEOPATRA I'll set a bourn how far to be beloved. MARK ANTONY Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

For the Halloween Prompt:

Should Percival be Antony or Julius Caesar to Credence’s Cleopatra? Alternately, Credence is Antony.

[Warning: minor scene of Credence/Grindelwald attempted noncon, defined as a creepy pass of pressuring.]

Grad school is kicking my ass so I’ve literally only managed to push all this out. It’s completely unedited and unrevised, so I apologize – but I’m way past the deadline so I feel like I need to get something out to you! I’ll probably go back over this during winter break [hopefully by then I’ll be able to focus on all this writing instead of thesis and platform and portfolio writings instead].

Annual Humanities Division Halloween Haunt!

The garish orange was blinding against the dark black background of the gaudy poster and made his eyes hurt. Furry brown bat cut outs clashed against the construction paper, fluttering off the sides as a silver cauldron of green bubbles frothed and spilled along the bottom edge. It was a horrifying eye sore – with several others posted up and down the corridor, garish pieces slathered together as if an embodiment of the holiday itself threw up all over the walls of the hallway. He had spotted a few others in the other buildings as well, dangling off community boards and hanging precariously next to unsuspecting classroom doors. He had even caught a glimpse of similar atrocities draped in the café he visited on his morning coffee run – how anything managed to make its way through the hidden labyrinths to the sacred depths of the hallowed Arts basement was anyone’s guess. No doubt there were more littering the upper levels of the Literature department as well.

But it did its job, at the very least – it pulled focus, enticing the grad students suffering through the mid semester slog of research to take a break and join the holiday festivities. It was exactly why Modesty had done up his face with a flourish of glittery makeup and shoved him out the door before taking off to her own undergraduate party with friends from her OChem class.

Friends.

Apparently he needed those.

Dress code: Recognizable historic / literary figures!

None of those awful stereotypes! No appropriation allowed!

Be creative, not boring!

The encouragement had been tacked on underneath the poster, pinned to the door of the large house across from the library on campus – a mindful afterthought that hadn’t managed to make its way to the other posters. The vivid exclamation points made his heart shudder in his chest, turning the blood in his veins to ice as his palms began to sweat.

Go as Cleopatra, snag yourself a king, Chastity suggested. She had forced him into an awful thing: a white jumpsuit made to imitate layers of linen – a “modern take” on the Prince Of Egypt adaption the Theater department had developed into an experimental straight play. He hadn’t been able to see it, but the outfits Chastity had worked on were nothing short of amazing. How she snuck one back from the mysterious void of the storage rooms, he would rather not know.

[“I made them. It’s only fair.”]

Modesty had straightened his hair, setting a golden circlet in the shape of a snake upon his brow and settling half a dozen wiry gold bracelets across his arms and wrists. She had even gone the extra mile to paint his eyes – deep, shadowy kohl and bright, vibrant blue. He was pretty sure the design was based on Elizabeth Taylor, not actual hieroglyphics. Someone was bound to tell him off – if not for the improper design, then at the very least for the fact that he was some pale pasty white kid decked out in ridiculously vague allusions to ancient Egyptian attire.

It was a nightmare, and he hadn’t even stepped through the doors yet.

But it was too late. A loud and rambunctious group of students rambled up, hands blindly reaching for the door as they raucously giggled at each other. Shrinking away, he couldn’t avoid being jumbled up into the widespread wall of costumed bodies, tossed out into the fray of the party inside. The music was blaring, a cacophony of stilted techno thumping against the walls as a woman droned in a shouted monotone. It was dark, the only lights coming from glow-in-the-dark stickers flung across the sparse bits of furniture and glow-in-the-dark paint splattered across the walls, dim purple UV lights strung up against the crown molding of the ceiling seams. It was tacky and disorienting. Trying not to stumble into some sanctimonious argument of Dracula vs. Lestat and the merits of the Cullen family, he quickly stepped into the next room.

This room was a bit brighter, though just as awkwardly decorated. Several table lamps were placed strategically in the corners and beside cheap beige chenille couches, covered in gauzy red scarves that threw the room into a bloody shade of red. Speakers were hidden beneath the tables, droning out strange atmospheric noises of wallowing and wails, reedy whistling of a nonexistent wind eerily pressing around the room. The Poe atmosphere was effective, but it had to be a fire hazard of sorts – though none of the occupants seemed to care. There was a heavy scent of smoky incense, curling wisps creeping against the darkened corners. He attempted to hide within such an alcove, tentatively sidestepping toward one such area to get a better view of the room, when a hand shot out to grab his wrist.

“Are you Cleopatra?” He spun around, coming face to face with a sturdy young woman assessing him curiously. Her short hair was done in a thick braid that barely reached her shoulders, and a plastic bow was slung unevenly across her back, the string pressing against her chest.

“Yes?” he answered warily. This was it – he was going to get yelled at, he was going to get kicked out, he was going to get –

“Great! We’ve been looking for a Cleopatra. I’m Tina – History department.” She grabbed his hand without warning, dragging him toward a corner by a tall bookshelf. “You?”

“Credence,” he said faintly, wondering why she of all people would need a Cleopatra. “Literature.”

“Even better! That’s his department too!” Before he could ask for clarification he was being welcomed into a small circle of loitering students huddled together over a book. Of course.

“It’s Minimalism. Its short, its ordinary, its mundane. The man is on an escalator for the entirety of the story,” the shorter man groused, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff.

“Its Maximalist! It’s a long rambling piece of nonsense full of digressive dribble!” a chubbier man exclaimed, waving his hands about enthusiastically. The first rolled his eyes.

“You aren’t even studying modern literature – “

“Post modern literature, Percy!” an energetic redhead crowed, easily slinging an arm over his shoulders. “And anyway, who cares? Where’s the fun in being stuck on an elevator? Now being stuck in Croatia – “

“Teeny!” A blonde woman shoved her way between the two, pretending she hadn’t interrupted such an important discussion as she pulled the strange woman that had kidnapped him to the other side of the circle. “Oh! You found one!”

Credence glanced at them nervously.

“Hello!” another redhead piped up. “That’s a wonderful outfit – a male Cleopatra, brilliant idea!”

“Thank you?”

“Perfect for our Marc Antony!” They pointed to The Minimalist, dressed in a deep brown leather chest plate – supple and buttery, shining smoothly as it hugged his form in all the right places. Gold paint swirled in intricate patterns threading between the golden rivets piercing the pieces together, matching the red wrist guards clasped on his arms and the thick red pteruges strips layered against his thighs, strands of golden fringe flickering as he moved. He wasn’t a history major, so he couldn’t judge the accuracy, but it was an impressive outfit that lovingly emphasizes the wonderfully sculpted ripples of muscle outlining his body.

“Percival Graves,” The Minimalist introduced himself, offering a hand.

“Credence Barebone,” he replied, allowing his hand to be taken into a gentle but firm handshake.

“This is Tina, Newt, and Theseus as our local Katniss, Peeta, and Gale,” the blonde woman continued. “My name is Queenie, and this is Jacob – “

“Hephaestus and Aphrodite,” the cheerful man cut in adoringly, grinning up at her like a lovestruck fool.

“Nice to meet you.”

“So what are you studying?” Newt asked curiously.

“Reformation literature.” Credence shifted, unsure of their reaction.

“Like – religious stuff? All that Milton and Pilgrim’s Progress?” Theseus prompted.

“I – well, technically.” Credence shrugged. “I study Reformation comedies. Like – the Country Wife. It’s a – little more – controversial.”

“Is that code for raunchy and promiscuous?” Theseus teased, waggling his eyebrows and laughing loudly as Jacob snorted. His brother – at least, Credence presumed they were related, given their matching appearance – elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

“Play nice,” Tina reprimanded with a frown, before turning her attention back to him. “My sister and I study modern history. I study counter cultural movements in America during the 1970s and 1980s, and my sister studies the impact of ethnic studies in education.”

“They’re with us!” Newt clarified. “I study the effects of nature on city development, and my brother here is studying the Balkan Wars.”

“I tried to convince Percy to join me, but he stuck with his boring post modern literature,” Theseus lamented.

“Modern literature,” Percival corrected. Theseus waved him off.

“What’s your opinion on it?”

“I – “ Credence flustered, unsure how to answer such a vague question correctly without disappointing any of them.

“Ignore him. He isn’t worth it,” Percival insisted, slipping his hand against Credence’s elbow. “Why don’t we go grab a bite to eat – let him gather his manners?”

Percival threw a reprimanding glare at the man, who cackled in response. Credence could feel the heat of Percival’s hand drifting to press against his lower back, carefully maneuvering him toward what he could only presume was a kitchen. It was comforting, if a bit embarrassing. He felt a shiver trailing down his spine.

The kitchen itself was a travesty that also made him shudder – fluffy white clouds of fake spider webbing cascading across the dining table in billowing curtains, plastic spiders dangling precariously in squished upon droves. Punch bowls and jello molds upon the table held all sorts of mismatched creepy crawlers – worms, octopus’, skeletons. Chain link centipedes were plastered to the cupboards, preschool levels of artwork sloppily thrown together. Cheap junk food haphazardly thrown into grotesque displays were crammed to cover every inch of available counter space. The Art department would have a field day with such an eyesore.

At least it smelled clean – the sharp scent of fake pine and a lingering undertone of bleach creeping through the atmosphere.

“What would you like – pretzels and chips?” Percival asked dryly, raising an eyebrow at the sad excuse for food as he peered over the offerings. He leaned over a gelatin mold, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “You think they would get a little creative with the goods.”

“Picquery set up the good stuff in the upstairs office room,” someone called out behind them. They turned to see a young man in a bright blue sweater and dull orange pants grimacing as he tried to pluck a lego Cthulhu from his scoop of jello. “Abecedarians!”

“Think you should have gone with Captain Haddock if you’re using such language, Abernathy,” Percival tutted, twining his fingers with Credence’s and leading him out of the room. “Of course Sera set up her own area – come on then, she knows what she’s doing, most of the time.”

They weaved in and out of the crowd, clambering up the stairs to the second floor. There were no Halloween decorations, though there was quite a bit of commotion coming from the last room. They quickly made their way in.

Credence was pleasantly surprised to find far more tasteful decorations and treats displayed. Carved pumpkins sat grinning on either end of the lace covered table, smaller painted ones lining the tops of bookshelves. Fairy lights shaped like bats hung in loops along the walls, while a colony of paper ones spread in flight across the ceiling Fake candles were placed between books on shelves and cascaded from corners, illuminating white skulls and gray gargoyles peeking out of the shadows. The corner seams were filled with thin, knotty sticks and black vines, black roses artfully tacked onto them. Even the food was themed – a chocolate cake set like a graveyard with marshmellow skeletons, hot dogs wrapped in crisped biscuits like mummies, chocolate cookies slathered in icing with finely cut strawberries and blueberries set to look like eyes. There were so many twisted and grotesque foods Credence could hardly keep track.

“Percival, how nice of you to show up.” A tall woman slid up next to them, draped in deep red and white folds of a dress, a copper sword strapped to her back. He hair was wrapped in a shimmering metallic scarf to match. She stood proud and regal, scrutinizing Credence with a keen eye.

“Abernathy was singing your praises downstairs,” Percival said with nonchalance, pulling Credence to his side. He slung an arm around his shoulders – made slightly problematic, given the height difference neither had noticed. “Your department has outdone itself yet again.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Graves. Who’s your lovely Cleopatra?”

“Credence Barebone, English department – Reformation period. Who are you supposed to be tonight?”

“Oya, Yoruba goddess of storms. Does Credence Barebone know how to answer for himself?” she shot back, eyeing Percival with disdain. Credence settled himself, ducking his head in a way that gave an appearance of submission, but tilting it in a way that could also imply a challenge. He had plenty of practice in meek deference, but refused to waver under some stranger’s judgment.

“What do you study?” he asked – an innocent enough question, on the surface. She lifted her head, catching his game, a faint smile gracing her face as she turned her attention back to him.

“Remixed classical art. My current thesis is on the impact of Kehinde Wiley and Harmonia Rosales have on the interpretation of traditional pieces in a modern context of racial perspective. Have you heard of them?”

“Ah – no,” Credence admitted, shifting uncomfortably. She flashed her teeth, a wide smile too sharp and dangerous to be friendly. Like lightning – beautiful, but able to shred a man to pieces.

“Shame.” She turned back to Percival. “Do try the werewolf brains – the paper mache was quite an effort.”

Credence kept his head down as he watched her leave, a swirling hurricane of wild force that commanded the room. A trio of girls in the doorway parted for her like the Red Sea, giggling in awe as she strode past. A friend of Percival’s and a force to be reckoned with, and he had just blundered the whole first impression away.

“Never mind her,” his Antony said, nonchalant as he snagged a plate from the edge of the table. “We were going to open up a law firm together, once upon a time. She’s still a bit bitter we didn’t pass our LSAT.”

“We?”

“Theseus too. And Tina.” He picked at the food, taking small scoop of gelatinous brain, red food coloring dripping from the spoon. “Speaking of Theseus and Tina, what should we bring back to them?”

Credence tilted his head, nitpicking at the edge of his own plate.

“The – um – spider crackers?”

“No, come on – pick something you actually want. And please don’t say the caprese eyeballs.”

Credence studied the array on spread before them, a feast of holiday goods for the taking. His gaze settled upon a collection of cookies, dark chocolate brownies cut into circles, a dollop of sprinkle covered crème upon it, a coned chocolate kiss settled gently on top.

“The witch hats.” Percival shot him a crooked grin, wryly amused.

“A good choice.” Credence watched as Percival piled food upon the plate, bits and pieces of everything stacked high. Rather than following suit, he quietly left his plate on the corner. “Ready to head back down?”

“I need to find a bathroom.” They started back out the door, Credence trailing behind. He watched others pass by, laughing and nudging each other as they walked up and down the stairwell.

“Bathroom should be on your left.” He was pointed down a long side hallway, where several people lingered. “Come find us again when you’re done.”

The line was taking forever. He shuffled from foot to foot, beginning to grow impatient as he waited. Perhaps it would have been better to have simply gone back to the corner with his new found friends. Could they be considered friends yet? At the rate it took to get into the bathroom, perhaps they would think he had ditched them. It would have been better if only he had stayed –

A hand fell upon his shoulder, squeezing tightly.

“Well aren’t you a cute little thing.” Credence turned around, shrinking away. Before him stood a tall man with pale hair and paler eyes, decked in a toga and crowned with laurel. A Caesar – what were the odds of that?

“My apologies, where are my manners. Gellert Grindelwald – assistant professor for the modern literature department.” The man took Credence’s hand, bowing as he placed a kiss upon his knuckles. Old fashioned and uncomfortable, to say the least. “And to whom do I owe the pleasure of such a beautiful Cleopatra?”

He squirmed away, twisting out of Gellert’s grip.

“Credence,” he answered reluctantly, not wanting to be impolite. Yet his hand continued to roam, tracing across his shoulder and down his back.

“Credence. A lovely name for a lovely face. What’s a beautiful thing like you doing at a party like this, hm? Who did you come with?”

“No one.” He could feel the bottom of his stomach drop at the honest admission. The hand clawed at his belt, eager and excited.

“Oh? Perhaps you’d like some company then?”

“I’d rather not,” Credence admitted, still trying to move away. Gellert just moved closer, crowding into his space.

“A pity. Does that mean you have company here?”

“Yes, actually.”

“I can promise you I am much more entertaining than anyone else you’d meet here.”

Credence fidgeted, unsure what to do. Gellert continued to croon, attempting to convince him to leave. Several moments later, with panic flooding his veins and pulsing beneath his skin, itching to get away, he caught the eyes of his knight – his gladiator, his Antony. Gellert turned to track his line of sight, displeased at such a distraction. His face contorted with fury and disgust when he realized who was headed their way. With a sneer, he grasped the collar of Credence’s outfit, the strain on the outfit almost enough to tear it apart.

“I could ruin him,” Gellert hissed harshly into his ear. “I could ruin all of you. Now play along like a good little boy.”

The two wandered over, Percival standing tall and menacing and in need of a dramatic flair of a cape, while Theseus brooded behind with a sharp glare.

“Credence. We were wondering where you’d had gotten off to,” Percival started, leveling a cold tone as he stared unblinkingly at Gellert.

“Didn’t realize you got stuck with this asshole,” Theseus started, crossing his arms over his chest.

“He isn’t – that bad,” Credence attempted.

“He’s a fucking asshole who gets off on torture porn,” Percival growled, glaring furiously at Gellert.

“Now Percy darling, just because I didn’t invite you back to my little dungeon last Christmas – “ Gellert drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Fuck off, you prick,” Theseus interrupted loudly, shoving Percival to the side. “Leave the kid alone.”

Credence felt Gellert’s fingers dig into his back, nails scratching through the fabric. The hand clawed at his skin tightly – painfully. Credence stood as still as he possibly could, thinking of the cold marble statues outside the library, tall and unfeeling.

“He’s hardly a child,” Gellert pointed out. “What do you think, Credence – would you rather be off with these foolhardy Neanderthals, or continue our lovely conversation, hm?”

His body was frozen, heavy like lead, unable to move. He stared unblinking at the floor, wishing to be anywhere else. A beat of silence, and Theseus huffed in annoyance, nudging Percival as he turned and left. Percival frowned, but followed after, figuring it to be a lost cause. He glanced back once more, dark eyes piercing through the dim light, but Credence held his head down. Perhaps if he stayed quiet, Gellert would get bored –

“See, what did I tell you?” Gellert trailed his hand down, soft and gentle as it caressed the thin fabric of his outfit. Gellert’s face drifted closer, voice dropping several octaves into a whisper. “Now, where were we? I do believe you were about to tell me of this young Margery – “

His body blocked the hallway, and Credence shrunk back, plastering himself against the wall. Another hand found its way to his waist, a hand settling against it and sweeping downward.

In a fit of panic, Credence lashed out. His mind blanked, nerves firing too fast to keep up. Within seconds, he had shoved Gellert into the wall, pinning him there with a hand wrapped around the man’s neck. He felt wild with the adrenaline rushing through his veins as an overwhelming tempest of fear and rage tore through his bloodstream. His hand twitched and tightened against the pale column of Gellert’s throat.

“Come now, Credence,” Gellert rasped, both hands wrapping around Credence’s wrist. “Control yourself.”

“I don’t think I want to,” Credence growled, pushing harder against him. He could still feel the creeping tremors twisting against his skin, an unsettling film of disgust plastered against his body, seeping beneath his costume and into his bones.

“Mr. Barebone.” His head snapped to the side, locking eyes with none other than Seraphina Picquery herself. Her face was stone still as she took in the scene, mouth a firm line. “Perhaps it’s time you take your leave.”

Anger burned through him, a fierce spark of vengefulness blazing into a firestorm against his ribs. In a burst of blinding fury, he slammed Gellert’s head back into the wall, releasing him as he crumpled to the ground, clawing at his throat as he gasped for breath. Credence shuddered, face twisting as he snarled before shoving past Seraphina, a dark cloud bolting for the door. She watched him go, then turned her attention back to Gellert. The man smirked, chuckling under his breath.

“He’s a miracle, isn’t he?”

“Get out before I call the cops on you,” she sneered, rounding her shoulders back as she turned to the main room. “Everyone out! This party is over.”

Credence made his way to the library, the cold air biting through the whirlwind of his emotions and leaving him feeling like a naked, helpless child. Horror slithered across his skin, twined in the breeze that slid through the thin white linen hanging off of him. He stumbled into the bushes, heaving as he dropped to his knees. He blindly fumbled for his phone, dragging his body up against the brick wall of the library. His shoulder pressed against the rough stone, part of his outfit snagging against it.

Hey Cree. Chastity picked me up and took me to some haunted house they’re doing. We’re staying with Eve and the crew tonight. Hope you had fun!

He leaned heavily against the wall, swallowing hard. If he went home, he would be alone – the very last thing he wanted to be. But it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go. He didn’t have friends, didn’t have pets, didn’t have anyone waiting for him to keep the vivid memory of hands creeping up his thigh and words whispered in his ear as the world closed in on him in the darkness –

“Credence?”

His head snapped up, eyes widening as he spotted none other than Percival, stopped on the walkway before him. He craned his head and saw the others making their way across the square on the other side of the street, laughing obnoxiously as Tina and Queenie burst into song. It looked as though they had taken their leave as well – the party dying down as the clock struck midnight, as it were. Which meant that Gellert –

Another wave of nausea had him doubling over, though his body seemed to be done with even attempting to dry heave. A bout of dizziness struck him, his hands gone clammy, body shaking apart. The next thing he knew was a distorted shuffling as a pair of sandals made their way into his view.

“Credence, are you alright?” A hand made its way toward his shoulder, and he flinched.

“Alright, it’s okay,” Percival assured, taking a step back. “Take your time. Here, try to match your breathing with my counting, alright?”

His mind was whirling far too fast, skipping over the numbers being listed as he tried to think of what to do. One, Percival was here, trying to calm him down, three, but why, he had left Percival, five, had gone off with Gellert, surely Percival hated him, eight, thought less of him, ten, wanted nothing to do with him, eleven, but maybe he could redeem himself, twelve, that’s why Percival was here for him, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

Slowly, Credence managed to come back to himself. Percival watched with a careful eye as the young man brought himself back from hyperventilating, steadily regaining his awareness. After a few more moments, once Percival had calmly made his way to thirty, Credence straightened himself, though he still refused to look up.

“Thanks,” he whispered, voice rough from – whatever had happened.

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” Percival prompted, not bothering to skirt around the issue. He was worried, of course, and wanted to know – so he wasn’t going to ignore it. Better to be blunt. But if Credence didn’t want to talk, he wouldn’t push.

“It was – “ Credence glanced up from behind his fringe of hair, wary like a caged animal.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Percival assured with a shrug. There was a beat of silence as Credence assessed the situation.

“Gellert tried to – do things.” Percival frowned, gritting his teeth as he surveyed the area in hopes to find the man walking by. What he wouldn’t do to punch that smug bastards face in –

“It’s my fault. I – I should have listened to you.”

Percival placed his hand upon his back, a solid weight and comforting warmth that guided him back to the walkway.

“Do you live with anyone?” he asked. He bit his lip, shaking his head. “I’m going to give you some options, alright? Would you like me to walk you home and stay with you, or would you like to come to my place?”

“My sisters – if they – I don’t know how they would react to someone being there,” he managed to say. Percival nodded understandingly.

“Would you like to stay with me tonight?”

“But I – “

“It’s not a problem, that’s why I’m offering,” he cut in calmly. He thought of his options, before finally caving in with a nod. “Let me call a cab then.”

The ride was a blur of lamplights flashing against his eyelids and the soothing hum of the taxi sailing down empty streets. Percival kept his distance, but let his hand rest between them, palm opened upward if Credence so chose to take it. So far, he was more content to huddle against the cool plastic of the door, leaning his head against the window pane.

Percival’s face was washed with a pale white light, brightened like a spotlight as he gazed down at his phone with furrowed brow. His fingers struck the screen in quick succession, pounding out rhetoric toward Seraphina, skipping words like stones on a lake of ice in an attempt to crack through her tight-lipped wall of excuses to figure out what truly happened. His face twisted in fury, and he finally flung the phone to the floor, unable to contain his ire.

The noise made Credence jump, head turning to see what had happened.

“It’s nothing.” Percival crossed his arms, straightening his back as he leaned against the seat. He looked almost regal – Credence could almost picture it, shifting the world away and painting in the crushed velvet and glittering gold of a palanquin, enshrining Percival in a mystic abyss of light curtains, sun shining through to offer but the glimpse of his strong silhouette peering through.

“You’re a very good Marc Antony,” he said, tilting his head to the side. The picture changed, warping in on itself, swirling into an arena. A sword as firm as his stance, solid and steady, face set in determination. Shoulders down and back, ready for whatever the world would throw at him. A soldier, a gladiator, a knight as it were – brave and steadfast in heart and mind.

[“You are a child unworthy of the grace of the Lord.”]

“Credence?” Percival’s hand came into view, gently brushing against his own in the space between them. “You’re shaking.”

“I – “ There was a moment, standing on the brink of something overwhelming, the edge of a cliff into the unknown. Terror pressed against his heart, squeezing tightly and shrinking his ribs, wrapping around his lungs so he could hardly breathe.

They slid as the cab turned a corner sharply. The moment collapsed, tension exiting is a rush.

It was over. Credence turned back to the window, watching the streetlights pass them by.

“It’s nothing.”

The corners of Percival’s mouth dragged downward, but he made no move to speak into the silence. Instead, he simply pressed his fingers into the spaces between Credence’s, filling the gaps and holding tightly. Credence bit his lip, but let himself be held. It was – nice. Too nice, perhaps. But – nice. Percival’s hands were nothing special – just as warm as his own, just as soft in the hidden places, just as rough in the calloused pads and knuckles. They were smaller, but wider – complimentary to his own, in a way.

They stayed like that, in comforting quiet, to the point where Credence began to lull off, nodding against the window as his eyes fluttered shut. But eventually, their journey came to an end. Just as he was about to dive into sleep, the car pulled to a stop.

“We’re here,” Percival muttered, clutching his hand before letting go to get out. Reluctantly, Credence did the same, managing to maneuver himself out of the car to sidle over to Percival’s side. Percival took his arm gently, carefully guiding him up the driveway and into the house. It was a nice home, to be sure – the typical American dream of a white picket fence and a small white porch.

Credence didn’t pay much attention, instead letting his mind drift.

“Are you hungry?” He shrugged, uncaring. “Alright. Well, here – sit down. I’ll grab you a blanket.”

Percival disappeared into the depths of the other rooms, leaving Credence standing awkwardly in front of a pristine leather couch. It looked far too expensive to even glance at, never mind touch and rest upon. Hesitantly, Credence ran a finger along the sewn seam of the side. It was smooth as silk, dipping beneath his fingertip – gaudy and ostentatious as a black leather couch was, it was also quite beautiful.

“It won’t bite, you know.” Percival stepped toward him, sandals shuffling against the wood floors. He carried a large pillow in his arms, a thick blanket tucked beneath it. “You can sit, it’s fine.”

Credence obediently did as told, sliding onto the seat as Percival took his place beside him.

“Do you want to talk, or just sleep?” As much as Credence wished to stay up, filling the space between them with poetry, waxing lyric on language and literature, delving into the depths of their respective fields – he was exhausted after the events he suffered through, and could feel sleep pulling at his eyes, tugging at his mind, dragging him away.

“Sleep, I think.”

“Lay down then.”

Percival gazed at Credence’s face, watching as the moonlight pouring through the curtains graced his pale face. The young man was quite beautiful, bathed in silver, curled up under soft black blankets.

He would put Cleopatra herself to shame.

Someday…

Okay first off apologies; I took this prompt while I was teaching abroad this summer, and when I got back I started grad school and realized I’d need more than one job to pay for it, so I have been absolutely swamped with work. I didn’t finish everything I wanted with this – but I wanted to post something out here, just to get it out here, so that the prompt was filled before Thanksgiving season. I’m so sorry I’m late with it.

Anyway! Gosh this prompt hit on all my academic enjoyments so I probably went way overboard on that instead of, you know, focusing on the Anthony / Cleopatra / Caesar bit in a more direct way. Like, overall I kind of followed the general plotline of how Plutarch wrote that mess of a threesome, with a hefty dose of Shakespeare’s classic tragedy take thrown in – Cleopatra gets all hung up on Anthony, tries to appease Caesar so Caesar stops going after Anthony, Anthony thinks she doesn’t love him, Cleopatra realizes mistakes were made. And then I tried to make the ending a bit happier, where they come back together and Caesar kind of just disappears. Probably too much influence and reference to cram into what I tried to keep as a light and abstract outline, so it probably ended up seeming more like it was just “woo Halloween costumes and some sad pathetic plot”, so. Apologies.

I also got really into the whole academia setting and spent way too much time dreaming up headcanons for that [wherein Seraphina, Percival, Tina, and Theseus were all Law focused undergrads who ended up failing their LSATs, so they went into grad school research with things they enjoyed most from their undergrad work, hoping to find work through that. Queenie and Newt kind of just followed their siblings along, though they’re the ones who got into grad school because they’re actually paid for their research, and then they met Jacob, who’s been doing research studies for far too many years, and foreign exchange student Gellert, who’s just all sorts of red flag levels of creepy. Credence took up grad school in hopes of getting funding to publish a textbook on Reformation literature so he can support his two sisters in their undergrad schooling, though Modesty will likely be the big breadwinner out of all of them since she’s the one going into Med school, but that’s also pretty expensive, so].

Anyway. It was my first attempt at any sort of holiday prompt type thing [the only other time I filled out a prompt was as an Anon on some Kink Meme way back in the LJ days; either way, I’m not much in on this practice]. Hopefully it wasn’t too terrible and did something for you. Woo.

[mollymauk-teafleak]

Who wants some romantic Philgeorges, huh?? Been in a real mood for these two boys recently, thanks to my amazing girlfriend’s amazing head canons ( @childofdustandashes) but also thanks to the truly beautiful and inspired art of @lauwurens whose fantastic art motivated me to actually get this down 

On Ao3 | My ko-fi

Philip loved to travel, he’d always known that. He loved new places, he loved seeing the stars in slightly different arrangements that he’d ever seen them before, he loved new smells of the air, for the chatter and words around him to be in a different language than what he was used to, to feel that drifting, dreamy buzz of being somewhere completely new, of having somewhere he’d only ever read about in books, theoretical and imaginary, become real. Like he was the one who’d joined it in a looser, sunnier, more colourful half reality, rather than it coming to him.

He loved taking his poetry to places it seemed to have fit more than it ever had back in New York, back where it had felt weak and watery and insincere anywhere outside the pages of his journal. In the places he went these days, the endless summer it felt like they were chasing, Philip found his words growing and spiralling beyond even his control, into something more beautiful than he could have imagined coming from his own hands. Something that felt like it was describing himself.

Philip knew that was thanks to all this, to the travelling around Europe according to their work and their whims, the way his work and he himself had grown and changed. He was so different from the kid who’d grown up surrounded by concrete and noise, now his restless heart felt more soothed and focused, driven towards something rather than rattling around in his ribcage with no direction. Of course, he missed America, he missed New York, he missed his family so desperately sometimes it felt like he was choking on it. But that was just life. That was a price he was okay with paying, something he could deal with in his low moments and keep it there.

It was like his mama said, when Philip had been fretting and dithering over all of this, whether to choose familiarity, even if it was suffocating, or freedom, even if it meant putting a whole ocean between himself and the warm smile of his Pops, the hugs from his mama that always seemed to come at just the right time, the jokes and tackles from his siblings that had pulled him out of every dark mood he’d ever been in.

Eliza had put her hands on either side of his face, that gesture she always did when she meant listen, this is important, she’d kissed his forehead and smiled through her building tears and murmured, “Pip, the world deserves to know you. It deserves to hear you.”

Pip had promised then to make her proud and he felt like he was making a good attempt, thanks to the wavering, shifting path he’d chosen back when he was eighteen, the one that ran across a whole continent.

And, of course, thanks to Georges. Though Pip would never have words for everything the man he loved, the man who’d made him brave, had done for him, no matter how many new places he visited. He was just going to have to rely on the kisses he pressed against his boyfriend’s hairline when he came back from his morning run to wake him up, the way he playfully slipped his hands under the waistband of Georges’ shorts whenever he pressed his front to perfectly match the curve of his back like two carefully moulded puzzle pieces fitting just right, the way he would sing for him on the evenings when he was in the mood, while Georges lazily played guitar, his long fingers dancing and flexing effortlessly to coax almost any song Pip could think of out of the battered aging instrument, their movement and careless, effortless skill until he wanted them inside him so much he couldn’t think and forgot the lyrics he was supposed to be singing.

When even Pip’s vast, almost ethereal command of words failed to describe some things, like the depth and metier of his love for the tall French boy who’d taken his hand and found him a life where he felt more like himself than he ever had, where he liked being himself more than he ever had. Some things would just have to speak for themselves.

As much as he adored travelling, seeing the world with Georges, relying on little more than a handful of shirts and a single pair of jeans, a pocketful of euros, their art and their love, he had to admit to the moments he really, sincerely missed home.

It was strange that now was one of those times however, less than an hour before the opening of his Georges’ first proper art show, something he’d been dreaming of since he’d decided he wanted to make a living as a painter, a whole exhibition right in the heart of one of the most respected art galleries in Paris, a place where he and Pip had been lots of times on dates, where Georges had stroked the marble columns outside the foyer, taken deep lungsful of the clean climate controlled air and promised with starry eyes that one day, a painting with his name would be hanging there. And now there were going to be twenty, in their own room, all his best work, years of studying and late nights squinting in the low light at easels taller than even Georges himself, of picking himself up when things didn’t go right and colours wouldn’t mix and people at parties gave him That Look when he said he wanted to be a professional artist, hanging these for the best of Paris to come and gaze at and see Georges’ brilliance as much as Pip did. Since the morning Georges had got the email, dragged his lover out of the shower to show him, sobbed with happiness in his arms, all of this had felt like some dream, the apex of everything they’d been working towards. Payback for every time the heating had gone out and they hadn’t had the money that week to fix it, every evening eating dry, slightly stale cereal out of the box because Pip’s paycheque for his part time job as a waiter at the café across the street didn’t come in for another week, every winter of pushing their bed (still without a frame after the last one had broken during some…extracurricular activities, Pip was absolutely not having another awkward conversation with the guy at the store asking how the wood had splintered into quite that many pieces) across the room to be closer to the bonfire of their discarded notebook pages and spare posters advertising their shows. All that felt worth it.

So why did Pip suddenly feel like he’d sell his right foot to be back at home? What was wrong with him?

For Philip and Georges, home was a tiny apartment sitting rather lopsided on top of a flower shop on the outskirts of Paris, like a rather moth-eaten hat perched rakishly on the bouffant of a debonair old lady. The floorboards and the pipes seemed to get together to form an amateur jazz band after dark, there was a good chance that the oven didn’t even work, given that they never used it; why would they, when there were six amazing restaurants all within walking distance? Their furniture, what little they had, somehow clashed and matched at the same time, a cacophony of different patterns and textures that somehow synthesised into a general oaky red colour that always made Pip feel safe and protected, held. The stairs were uneven and splintered so walking up them drunk (as Pip and Georges often did) was tantamount to doing a particularly dangerous obstacle course with a blindfold on. The paint on the windowsill was so chipped neither of them were really sure what colour they’d been in the first place, the glass in the windows rattled so much when the wind picked up that Philip sometimes jolted awake, still sort of dreaming, scared that the whole place was coming down around them, the wallpaper was some kind of psychedelic repeating pattern that could leave the boys feeling a little seasick sometimes. Especially on the (not so) rare occasions they spent entire weekends smoking joints and eating pastries, playing gentle, lilting music on the frankly insanely huge gramophone Georges had pulled from the antique store nearby, making lazy, greedy, grasping love on every flat surface in the apartment like they were never, ever going to willingly be two separate bodies again.

The place was sparse, wonky, all at odd angles and ill fitting, clashing colours and mismatched fabrics, holes in the flowing lace curtains, mugs that were all nicked and stained with paint from being used by Georges to wash his brushes, ink stains on the desk and puddles of dried wax from Pip’s all nighters working out a particularly knotty poem, piles of laundry still not done, barely lived in and slightly strange, the kind of place you’d immediately guess two starving artists lived in when they weren’t couch surfing across Europe.

But it was home. It was their home, the place they’d built for themselves. It was the smell of lavender and lily pollen and roses drifting up from the flower shop when the day was warm or a new delivery came in, making them both sleepy and feeling like they were lying in a meadow. It was dancing together across the wooden floors in various stages of undress whenever a song they liked came on the gramophone or the tinny, battered radio covered in band stickers that hung off the towel rack. It was their cat, Matisse, waving her black feather duster of a tail under Philip’s nose to get his attention, walking in Georges’ paints and tracking sky blue or yellow ochre paw prints across the apartment, with her one remaining ear and one cloudy, useless eye and funny, lopsided way of walking that meant she fell over every time she sneezed, purring lovingly as she spread-eagled across their laps. It was wearing Georges’ enormous, baggy sweaters that came down around Philip’s knees, it was painting each other’s nails, it was kisses and caresses and falling asleep in each other’s arms and Georges sketching Pip when he had just woken up because that was when he looked most beautiful, it was Pip writing down his most achingly lovely scraps of poetry right after sex, having to use Georges’ back as a rest for his paper. It was saying I love you over and over at every opportunity because it was true and always would be true and that was what kept them going.

It was where Philip wanted to be right now, not here, leaning against the wall in an eerily empty art gallery waiting for the opening party to start, pulling at the slightly too tight collar of his shirt, scuffing his dress shoes against the floor. What was up with him? After waiting so long for this night, what it represented for Georges and his work, why was the part of him he never really felt like he could control being so goddamn difficult?

He sighed a little, hoping the sound echoing through the darkened, empty foyer would give a sense of finality, a bookend to this bad mood. He straightened up and smoothed down his tie, tugging his jacket so it sat more smoothly around his hips, trying in vain to neaten the wild tangle of his hair back into its bun. He was proud of his Georges, this was his big night and he wasn’t about to spend it being sour.

Though he wasn’t the only one acting strange.

Georges was rarely anything but relaxed and calm and placid, one of those people Pip admired for the fact that they always seemed so content, hardly ever getting worked up or bent out of shape or restless the way he did at the slightest little hiccup. Who seemed blessed with this kind of foresight, an unshakeable faith that things were always going to work out fine and, if they weren’t okay right now, they soon would be. It was one part of the many reasons Pip loved his boyfriend; he could sometimes infect him with his easy calmness, putting his hands on either side of his head, his warm brown eyes finding his, pressing their chests together so Pip could feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat, telling him that there was no need to worry, he was his and he loved him, the world was still turning, everything would be okay. Philip’s restless, anxious heart had been looking for that kind of peace for a very long time.

But tonight, ever since they’d left their hotel, Pip was starting to wonder if the two of them hadn’t somehow swapped personalities. His boyfriend had been acting odd all day, bouncing his leg- something he never did- messing with his hair, fidgeting nervously, fretting over every last detail, nearly losing his mind when their taxi was five minutes late despite the fact that they were arriving at the gallery an hour early anyway, given that it was his name on the door and all. And as soon as they’d arrived, he’d shot off into the building with some hurried, obviously thin excuse that he needed to check on a last few things , could mon chou wait here, it’d just take two minutes, he wanted to make sure everything was perfect before he saw it? Apparently forgetting that Philip had been with him just last week arranging the paintings, he’d been the one who suggested that maybe the abstract of the Lafayette family home should go against the back wall, so it was the first thing people saw when they turned the corner and they’d feel immediately transported to the rolling green expanses of Georges’ world, the place he’d grew up, the place the two of them had fallen in love. But apparently he needed two more minutes?

And twenty minutes later, Pip was still waiting, daydreaming about going home and curling up with some of the really good tomato soup the kind old ladies who ran the café across the street made for them, his cat and his boyfriend. Or anywhere, really, as long as he got his Georges back.

Sure, he could understand that he was a little nervous, a lot had been riding on this, a lot proven by what he’d achieved here, though most of it was to Georges himself, imaginary disappointments at the life choices he’d made to wipe away by becoming a recognized artist. Philip and Georges both knew that their parents supported what they did, were endlessly proud of what they created with each other. But the only son of the Marquis de Lafayette had some doubts in his chest that weren’t going to go away as easily as he’d like to believe, not when he got so many daily reminders that he was living a life very, very different from what history and tradition demanded of him. And maybe every step closer he took, every time people could walk in to a gallery like this one and see his work, those voices would get a little quieter.

But surely the nerves had been for before that email arrived congratulating Georges, telling him that one of the best galleries in the community wanted to show his work after he’d sent them his portfolio (after weeks and weeks of Pip gently pressing him, cajoling him, encouraging him). The previews were glowing, the pieces he’d chosen were some of Philip’s favourites, hard work and hard nights were finally paying off. Tonight’s party was just about celebration, reward, taking a breath.

Or at least it was supposed to be. Pip frowned as he paced across the foyer, remarking with a creeping shiver how places built specifically to be full of people became such a void as soon as they were empty. How they became filled instead with a sense of mildly nauseating wrongness once they became the total opposite of what they were supposed to be.

A little like a certain artist boyfriend who really needed a drink or to get laid, at least. Well, the latter would have to wait until they got back to the hotel but at least in an hour, there would be expensive wine and champagne to take care of the former. Fancy galas like this did have their perks.

One of those being getting to see Georges dressed up. Pip’s eyes were pulled upwards by the sound of someone else’s boot heels rapping against the tiled floor, echoing and reverberating around the space. Almost immediately, his mouth curved upwards in an appreciative smile, his bad mood recoiled, unable to stand against seeing Georges coming towards him.

Some of his younger sister Ginnie’s fashion sense had rubbed off on Georges over the years, much to her sincere relief (she was still working on Philip, insisting that he was messing up all her pictures of them), he was dressed impeccably, a tight suit inlaid with embroidered flowers, his thin dreadlocks pulled back and tied away from his sharply angled face with a ribbon, looking so effortlessly beautiful, like he wasn’t even aware of the affect he had on Pip. As he strode towards him in the low light, that smile on his face, he conjured up images in Philip’s mind of personifications of the moon, of a flower adorned Hades come for his Persephone, of strength and safety. He noticed he still had that flower in his buttonhole, the one Pip had plucked from a shrub as they’d waited for their taxi and tucked in there, saying that it matched his eyes perfectly earning a smile.

He loved him so much.

“Two minutes, you said,” Pip called, playfully accusatory, what sounded like another hundred Pip’s asking the same teasing question as it echoed through the space between them, “Don’t think you can get away with keeping me waiting just because you look hot.”

“I am very sorry,” Georges answered smoothly, though he was grinning like a cat as his long, purposeful strides closed the gap, his large yet delicate hands came to cup Philip’s face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones where the freckles were densest, “And don’t play. You love it when I keep you waiting.”

Philip reddened considerably, “Not in everyday contexts…”

Georges gave a low chuckle that Pip could feel the vibrations of through his boyfriend’s palms before something flickered behind his eyes, what looked like an errant thought remembered, and the mood he’d been in all night resurfaced, ruining the calm surface of his expression, “I am sorry. I just had to…some things needed…um, the lighting…”

Philip gently placed his palms against Georges’ chest, a simple gesture that brought his nervous chatter to a stop. He raised up on his tiptoes to press a kiss against Georges’ cheek, “It’s okay, don’t worry about it. This is your night, you’re allowed to be a little nervous.”

Georges softened, a little more than he normally would for one of Philip’s usual affectionate gestures that he handed out freely and willingly, looking as if his boyfriend had just given a Shakespearean soliloquy declaring his undying and eternal love rather than just a quick kiss, “Thank you, mon chou. This night is…really important to me.”

Pip smiled crookedly, rapping his fingertips against Georges’ collarbone, “I know, baby, I know. It’s gonna go great, you’ll see, everyone’s going to know just how amazing you are by the end of this. Just like me!”

Georges snorted, rubbing the back of his neck coyly but he stood a little straighter once his lover’s words sank in, “Come on…shameless flatterer…”

“Damn right,” Pip smirked, a classic Hamilton grin on his face until it flowed into something tender, something gentle, “You know whatever happens tonight, I’m stupidly, crazily, insanely proud of you, right?”

Georges’ lower lip wobbled slightly until he had to bite down on it, ever the overemotional Lafayette Philip adored, “I do. I did. But thanks for saying it, all the same.”

“You’re welcome, you big goofball,” Pip giggled, not wanting tonight to get too emotional too fast or they’d both start crying and be worse than useless, “Now come on, am I allowed to see it now?”

“Yeah,” Georges nodded after a deep breath, “Come and see.”

Philip had lost count of the amount of times he’d found himself in a situation just like this. All museums and galleries and such were the same species, he’d realised, with the same feel to them, the same scent, the same aura of calm and itch they sparked in his chest to see everything, know everything, soak in every fact and oddity and date all laid out for him to devour. They all held the same chance to feel so connected, to history, to the rest of the world, to the rest of nature. To come away knowing more than you did when you went in, to feel like you’d grown a little. Philip had always adored that feeling, there was a reason he knew the Natural History Museum over in New York like the back of his hand, had done since he was five, a reason the boys’ first date was to a tiny independent art gallery near the Lafayette house, a reason he and Georges always made a point of finding a museum whatever corner of the continent they found themselves in, walking through it with their hands tightly clasped, taking their time and absorbing everything, learning together. No matter how far they were from their bed, how long it had been since they petted their kitten, since they’d shared a glass of dangerously strong coffee on their balcony, they’d feel like they’d found something familiar, a piece of home. A part of themselves.

Pip smiled and wound his arm around Georges’ waist as they walked through the empty exhibition rooms, dark except for just the lights illuminating each piece, making the modern sculpture pieces look like sacred totems of some beautiful, slightly alien culture, the paintings look like windows to other worlds, the whole place feel so eerily beautiful. They could go to a million different museums and Pip would still want to go to a million more.

He laughed delightedly when they came to the room that had Georges’ generous handful of names etched into the wall, “Look, they managed to fit them all on!”

“Shut up,” Georges smirked, shoving him lightly, “Some of us are cursed with fathers that have a weird obsession with giving everything six names.”

Philip snorted, “Well, forgive me, but I’d rather die than call my boyfriend the same name as my dad’s boss…whose basically my grandpa…”

“You’re forgiven,” he answered quickly, shaking his head, playfully rueful, “Just Georges is fine.”

“As if you could ever be just anything…” Philip laughed as he took his boyfriend’s hands in his own, pulling him past the towering glass doors and into his exhibit, “I mean, look at this!”

Philip had seen these paintings all before, they’d been living in his apartment, taking up floor space, tripping him up on the way back from the bathroom, occupying his boyfriend’s attention at times he would rather have had it all to himself. But there was no denying they were beautiful, he’d thought it then, even with his bruised shins and ego, and it was only more apparent now in the stark, triumphant light of the gallery. He’d seen all these unfamiliar interpretations of familiar places, these collections of shapes and colours that somehow evoked exactly what Pip felt when he ran his fingers through Georges’ hair, these carefully inked landscapes that mimicked perfectly but were somehow even more beautiful than the originals he’d actually stood in amongst, he’d seen them taking shape under Georges’ hands, over long nights and lazy weekends. Each one held not just what paint or chalk or charcoal or printed card was on the canvas, for Philip there were memories lifting each one beyond what was only physically there.

There was their first night in their own place, in the charcoal sketch of the view from their balcony, when Pip had burst into tears without really knowing why when it first sunk in that he could see the skeletal shadow of the Eiffel Tower from their apartment and Georges had rocked him and kissed the tears from his cheeks, tenderly bemused. There was their first anniversary, when they’d driven out to the countryside, drank and smoked and made out under the stars and Georges had commented warmly that he’d never seen the sky look so beautiful. There was the bouquet of flowers Georges had gone and gotten for Pip the time he was sick, rendered in achingly beautiful pastels. There was their cat, their grumpy and beloved Matisse, immortalised in her favourite place on the back of the sofa. There was the sunlight that came in through their windows at just the right time on just the right day in the spring, there was their relationship, their lives together put together like some wonderful scrapbook.

“It looks pretty good, doesn’t it?” Georges hummed, hopefully, his eyes fixed not on the art but on Philip’s face as he took it all in.

“Pretty good?” Pip yelped in mock indignance, eyes wide and bright with the wonder and excitement Georges found so endearing, whirling out of his grip and around the space, arms out and hair flying, “This is unbelievable! I’m sleeping with the best artist in the frickin’ universe!”

“And I’m sleeping with the biggest idiot!” Georges laughed, going bright red, “Behave!”

“Behave yourself! Wait…” Pip suddenly ground to a halt, almost toppling right over onto his ass as something caught his eye, something that hadn’t been here last week when he and Georges were standing on stepladders and risking their necks, deciding what would go where to give the best impression, “What’s those?”

There were small white cards next to each piece, ones other to the title cards put there by the museum. These were all handwritten, a script Philip knew well and immediately because it was his. When he went closer, feeling Georges’ warm, knowing gaze at his back, he saw that each one was a poem of his, something he’d written, something stolen from his notebook. Most of them, he hadn’t even published yet. And each one perfectly tied to the artwork it, like the emotions Georges said in pictures, he said in metaphors, working together perfectly, on the same wavelength exactly even with two completely different mediums, on the same path, understanding each other even when what was being described was so ethereal.

A lot like Philip and Georges.

He was so lost in wandering around the room, taking in every poem and every piece in tandem, he wasn’t aware of the minutes slipping by until Georges’ hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“Sorry I kept it from you but I though the surprise would be nicer?” he murmured hopefully, “Do you mind? I can take them down before we open if you don’t like it but I thought just for us…”

“Don’t you dare,” Philip breathed, moving in a sudden rush after being paralysed with emotion, throwing his arms around Georges’ neck even when that left him dangling off the floor, “I love it! I can’t believe you did this for me, this was supposed to be…hey!”

He suddenly jerked out of his arms, smacking him on the shoulder, shock and surprise making his limbs a little disconnected from his brain, acting of their own accord or, at least, to the whims of the electricity running through them, “This was supposed to be your night! Your big break! You didn’t have to…you shouldn’t have…”

“Hey, hey,” Georges chuckled, catching his fists, silencing him with a kiss to the forehead, “I wanted to. They asked me to put a little bit about what inspired me with each piece and, well…my answer for each one was the same. You. So, I simplified things.”

Philip flushed, so much so that his multitudes of freckles disappeared in the rosy tide across his face, so shaken that all the great poet could manage was a soft, “Oh. That’s…that’s okay then…”

Georges grinned, suddenly taking a deep breath like a man on the edge of a bungee jump, “Um, the poems aren’t the only new thing I added tonight while you weren’t looking.”

“Huh?” Pip tilted his head like a confused puppy, “You changed something else?”

“For the better,” Georges insisted hurriedly, “Well, I hope…here, just come see it.”

“Oh? Is this what’s been putting ants in your pants all night?” Pip mused as Georges took him to turn the corner of the L shaped gallery room.

“My what now!?” Georges said in alarm, looking down at his trousers.

“Oh, no, it’s an expression,” Pip smiled a little, “Never mind.” They still had their hiccups, with four languages between them.

The tall French boy rolled his eyes, swallowing hard just before he let Pip turn the corner and see whatever it was that had occupied half of his brain function that night, “Just... just look. Tell me what you think.”

Philip had what he thought prepared and packaged and ready to go, something supportive and gushing and glowing, what could Georges possibly have done that he wouldn’t adore? After turning his first exhibition into something joint, a living expression of their love, what could be left?

But once Philip saw exactly what he’d done, the words dissipated when they were halfway out of his mouth as his eyes snapped open and his jaw slackened until it hit his chest. Up on the wall was an enormous painting he’d never seen before, not once, and he remembered every single one of his boyfriend’s paintings, even the ones that got junked. And if he’d seen this one before, he was damn sure he’d remember it.

It was of the two of them, on their backs and gazing at each other, in amongst wildflowers so dense the grass was barely visible, until they looked like they were physically holding them up, weaving into Georges’ hair and around their joined hands, making them dryads, something luminous, something otherworldly. Georges had never painted himself before, recoiled at the idea. But now, Philip couldn’t understand why. It was as if he’d painted not what was in the mirror but who Philip had always seen when he looked at the young man who’d stolen his heart, someone achingly beautiful, strong, wise, someone who looked as if he could hang the sun in the sky. Someone who could take Philip’s hand, tell him he was good and brave and talented and worth the effort and he’d actually believe him. The painted Philip was carefully, lovingly done, though he’d seen himself in his lover’s work more times than he could count, he always looked beautiful when seen through Georges’ eyes.

But seeing the two of them together, looking like they belonged that way, had always belonged that way, Philip just couldn’t breathe.

“Oh…oh god, baby, it’s amazing…” Philip croaked, hating that he couldn’t think of anything more than that though the tears sliding down his face in long diamond tracks across his sunset skin probably took over sufficiently where his brain failed.

“Huh?” Georges made a show of shuffling his fee, looking down, “The painting? I mean, it’s pretty good, I’m proud of it. But what I really wanted your opinion on was the title.”

“The…what…” Pip dragged his sleeve over his streaming eyes, vaguely glad somewhere in the back of his mind that Ginnie wasn’t around to slap him, moving closer to the neatly printed card by the frame, only one this time, no poem…

“Read it out loud?” he heard Georges ask gently.

“Uh, okay? I guess…” Philip frowned in confusion, not entirely sure where he was going with this. Georges always came up with great titles, Pip was the one who sucked at it and had a million poems titled just with numbers.

And then he understood.

“Will You…Will You Marry Me…”

When Philip turned, Georges was down on one knee, ring in hand, tears in his own eyes to match Philip’s. Clearly there was one thing he was willing to spend his family’s money on; the ring was beautiful.

Not a single word passed between the two of them, just a frantic nod, a hug that knocked Georges right off his knees, a kiss that tasted of salt and a future. One with more travelling, more new stars, more nights spend lying on cool grass, the heavy, cream thick scent of joint smoke, their arms around each other, more cities and languages to muddle their way through. More days of taking their home with them wherever they went but always being so relieved when they found themselves back in their leaking, draughty apartment. More nights trading sleep for making love until there were tears in their eyes and the sweetest ache in their muscles. More whispered declarations of love and foreheads resting against each other and hands wandering and mapping and still discovering new things. And so many teasing jabs back and forth, so many breathless, sighing exclamations at the sight of each other, so many murmurs and yelps and laughs and whispers.

But, for now, there were no words.