#one is the like... semi-trying with occasional historical words in it

[softgrungeprophet]

debating if I should allow myself modern dialogue and have ben say ''oh shit'' in this pseudo-medieval fantasy setting lmfaoo

i should probably at least try to be pretentious and not do that, though 😂

[unabashegirl]

entangled 1 | one shot

Y/N, punished by her gang leader for a failed mission, meets Harry, a rival gang member, at a club. Their encounter turns intense and passionate.

Author's note: Hello everyone! I hope you are all doing well! Here is another one shot. This one was posted almost a month ago on Patreon. They've already gotten a chance to read it. The second part will be posted here and it contains smut.

warnings: violence, cursing, and more

check out my patreon and get full access to the second part (+4K words) and much more :) thank you beforehand!

if you would like to leave your request for the next one shot. do it here :)

masterlist

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The rain drummed steadily against the cobblestone streets of London, casting a sheen over the historic architecture. A heavy fog rolled through the city, shrouding the narrow alleyways and dimly lit corners in a ghostly haze. The occasional flash of neon signs reflected off the wet pavement, creating a kaleidoscope of colors that danced erratically in the puddles.

In the heart of this misty labyrinth lay a particularly desolate alley, where the rain seemed to fall harder, as if refusing to touch anything but the cold ground. Here, the sound of the downpour was a constant, rhythmic roar, drowning out the distant hum of traffic and the occasional wail of sirens. The alley was lined with old, weather-beaten buildings, their brick facades slick with rain and grime.

Y/N moved stealthily through the darkness, her footsteps muffled by the soggy pavement. Her breath formed small clouds in the chilly air, mingling with the fog that clung to the alley walls. The tension of the night was palpable, a sharp contrast to the usually vibrant London nightlife. She was deep within enemy territory, her senses heightened and her mind alert to every sound.

As she rounded a corner, the streetlamp’s flickering light revealed a shadowy figure ahead. Y/N’s pulse quickened, both from the adrenaline of being caught and the undeniable anticipation of their inevitable confrontation. The fog parted slightly, revealing Harry Styles, his silhouette a stark contrast against the faint glow of the lamp. He stood still, his posture rigid, his eyes scanning the alley as if he could see right through the mist.

Harry stepped forward, the lamplight catching the glint in his eyes. His lips curled into a smirk as he took in Y/N's determined stance. "I knew you couldn't resist" he drawled, his voice low and mocking. "Slumming it in our territory again, are we?”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, refusing to show any sign of intimidation. "Keeping tabs on me, Styles? Didn’t know I was that important to you."

Harry chuckled darkly, taking another step closer. "Important? Hardly. But you're predictable. Meeting with our clients, trying to undercut our deals...it’s pathetic, really."

Before Y/N could retort, three figures emerged from the shadows behind Harry. His men, loyal and watchful, forming a semi-circle around them. Their presence was a silent threat, a reminder of the precariousness of her situation.

Y/N tilted her chin up defiantly. “You need back up to deal with little old me?”

One of Harry’s men, a burly guy with a scar running down his cheek, snorted. “Can’t have him wasting time on someone who’s not worth it.”

Harry raised a hand, silencing his man with a single gesture. "Don’t worry, I can handle her," he said, his eyes never leaving Y/N’s. "Besides, this is entertaining."

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, but she refused to let her fear show. "Entertaining, huh? Look up," she said, pointing to the roof above her.

Harry's eyes flicked upward, his smirk faltering slightly as he saw a figure perched on the edge of the building. The sniper, a man with a confident grin, waved down at Harry and his men.

"A little insurance policy, I see." Harry muttered, his tone darkening as he turned his gaze back to Y/N.

Y/N shrugged, her expression cool. "Can't be too careful. Figured you might try something stupid."

The burly man with the scar took a step forward, but Harry raised a hand to stop him. "Stand down," he ordered, his eyes locked on Y/N. "So, this is your game? Bringing snipers to a knife fight?"

"Just leveling the playing field," Y/N replied. "Or maybe you’re not as confident as you pretend to be, Styles."

Harry's smirk returned, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Oh, I'm confident enough. But I have to admit, you've surprised me tonight." Harry took a step closer, his voice low and dangerous.

"Glad to hear it," Y/N said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "But if you think a few threats and some muscle are going to scare me off, you’re in for a disappointment."

Harry's demeanor shifted, his eyes narrowing. "Cut the crap, Y/N. What are you really doing here territory? Who sent you?"

Y/N's smile didn't waver. "You think I'm here on someone else's orders? Please. I'm here because I choose to be."

Harry stepped closer, his voice low and menacing. "There’s a treaty, Y/N. Your gang stays in your territory, mine stays in ours. Or have you forgotten what it was like before we had that agreement? The bloodbath, the chaos?"

Y/N's expression hardened. "I remember. But treaties don't mean much when people are starving and desperate. Sometimes, you have to bend the rules to survive."

Harry’s eyes flashed with something between anger and grudging respect. "Survival. Is that what you call it? Sneaking into my territory, undercutting my deals?"

"Call it what you want," Y/N replied coolly. "But I’m not here to play by your rules, Harry. Not anymore."

Harry’s men shifted uneasily, sensing the rising tension. Harry glanced up at the sniper, then back at Y/N. "This ends now, Y/N. You tell your people to stay out of my territory, or next time, treaty or no treaty, there will be consequences."

Y/N stepped closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “I’m not backing down. Not for you, not for anyone.”

For a moment, they stood there, inches apart, the rain pouring down around them, the fog swirling at their feet. The memories of the bloodbath they both wanted to avoid loomed over their confrontation, a silent reminder of what was at stake.

Harry’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked on hers. "I warned you. Next time, I won't be so lenient."

With that, he turned sharply, signaling his men to follow. They melted back into the shadows, leaving Y/N standing alone in the alley, her heart racing but her resolve stronger than ever. The rain continued to fall, washing away the tension but not the memory of their encounter. She knew this was just the beginning, and the next time they faced off, the stakes would be even higher.

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Y/N made her way through the rain-soaked streets, the adrenaline from her encounter with Harry still coursing through her veins. She navigated the labyrinthine alleyways of her territory until she reached a nondescript warehouse. Inside, the dim lighting and the smell of damp concrete provided a stark contrast to the chaos outside.

The warehouse was bustling with activity. Men and women moved purposefully, sorting through shipments, counting cash, and packaging drugs for distribution. The hum of machinery and the murmur of low conversations filled the air. Victor’s operation was large and well-organized, a testament to his cold, calculating leadership.

At the far end of the warehouse, a man sat behind a cluttered desk, his presence commanding despite his unassuming appearance. He was older than Y/N by nearly twenty years, with a cold, calculating demeanor that had earned him respect and fear alike. His name was Victor, and he had a reputation for being as ruthless as he was strategic.

As Y/N approached, Victor looked up from his paperwork, his piercing gaze settling on her. "You're late," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth.

Y/N nodded, shaking off the rain. "I ran into some trouble, but it's handled."

Victor's eyes narrowed slightly. "Did you make the deal with Sean?"

Y/N took a deep breath, recounting the details of her encounter. "I met with Sean. He’s fed up with Harry's control and wants out. He's one of their biggest distributors, and he’s willing to work with us if we can offer better terms."

Victor leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "And what did Harry have to say about this?"

Y/N hesitated, knowing that the next part of her report would not please him. "Harry knew I was there. He confronted me, tried to intimidate me. But I held my ground. He has no idea about Sean's intentions."

Victor's fingers drummed lightly on the desk, his eyes narrowing to slits. "You took a risk, going into his territory without backup. You could have jeopardized everything."

Y/N met his gaze unflinchingly. "I had backup," she replied, thinking of the sniper. "And it was worth the risk. Sean is valuable. If we can secure his loyalty, we weaken Harry significantly."

Victor considered her words, his expression remaining stern. "And you believe Sean is trustworthy? He reached out to us, but that could be a ploy."

"I trust him," Y/N said firmly. "He’s desperate, and desperate people can be useful. Besides, we’re offering him a way out. He has no reason to betray us."

Victor was silent for a long moment, his eyes studying her intently. “I hope you haven’t misplaced your trust this time."

"I haven’t," Y/N replied confidently. "This is our chance to hit Harry where it hurts."

Victor nodded slowly, a cold smile creeping onto his lips. "Very well. Continue working with Sean. But be careful. Harry won’t take this lightly, and he’s not someone we can afford to underestimate."

Y/N nodded, feeling a sense of determination. "’ll handle it."

Victor leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "Good. And Y/N?"

“Remember, loyalty is everything”.

Y/N's heart skipped a beat, but she kept her expression neutral. "I won’t."

Victor dismissed her with a curt nod, returning to his paperwork. As Y/N left the warehouse, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the lines between duty and desire were becoming increasingly blurred. The rain had lessened to a drizzle, but the storm brewing was far from over.

They had met when they were just kids, newly initiated and eager to prove themselves. They hadn’t even turned eighteen yet, and the world of crime and rivalry was still new and intoxicating. The first time she saw Harry, he was standing in a grimy alley, his youthful face set with a determination that matched her own.

From the very first day, they were pinned against one another. Victor had always made sure to poison Y/N's mind, filling her with stories of Harry's ruthlessness and the cruelty of his gang. He painted Harry as the embodiment of their enemy, someone to be despised and defeated at all costs.

But despite the animosity Victor instilled in her, Y/N couldn’t help but notice the fire in Harry’s eyes. There was a spark there, a drive that mirrored her own. They clashed often, their encounters fierce and unyielding. But beneath the surface of their rivalry, there was an unspoken understanding, a recognition of kindred spirits.

Back then, Harry’s boss was a different man—cruel, ruthless, and feared by all. He ruled with an iron fist, and Harry was his protégé, learning the ways of their world under his harsh tutelage. The man was a constant presence in their lives, a looming shadow that dictated their every move.

Years passed, and the battles between their gangs grew bloodier. The streets were painted with the consequences of their rivalry. The turning point came when Harry's boss was killed in a brutal skirmish. In the chaos that followed, Harry emerged as the new leader, taking over with a resolve that was both feared and respected.

Victor had always kept Y/N close, grooming her to be one of his most trusted members. He continued to feed her a steady diet of distrust and hatred for Harry. "Never forget what he stands for," Victor would say. "He's our enemy. Always has been, always will be."

Despite the indoctrination, Y/N couldn’t shake the memories of their shared past. She remembered the way Harry had looked at her during their first encounter. It was a connection that neither of them could deny, even as they stood on opposite sides of a deadly divide.

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Y/N made her way to the hospital, after securing her payment and leaving the warehouse. The familiar ache of longing and love filled her chest as she approached the sterile, imposing building. This visit, a ritual she never missed, was the one thing that brought light to her otherwise shadowed existence.

Y/N hadn’t joined a gang at sixteen out of a desire for power or excitement. It had been a desperate measure, a necessary evil to secure the funds needed for her sister’s treatment. Her sister, Emily, was just ten years old and battling a relentless illness. The money Y/N earned through her dangerous work was the only thing keeping Emily’s hope for a future alive.

As Y/N walked through the hospital corridors, the stark white walls and the scent of antiseptic did little to soothe her. She navigated her way to Emily's room, her footsteps quickening as she neared the door. She took a deep breath before pushing it open, her heart lifting at the sight of her little sister.

Emily lay in a bed surrounded by beeping monitors and IV drips. Her face lit up with a bright smile as soon as she saw Y/N. "Y/N!" she exclaimed, her voice weak but filled with joy.

Y/N forced a smile, trying to mask the turmoil inside her. "Hey there, sunshine," she said, approaching the bed and gently brushing a strand of hair from Emily's forehead. "How are you feeling today?"

Emily shrugged, her smile never wavering. "A bit tired, but I’m okay. The doctors say I’m doing better."

"That’s great news," Y/N said, her voice soft. She sat down beside the bed, holding Emily’s small hand in hers. "I brought you something." She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, wrapped package. "Open it."

Emily’s eyes widened with excitement as she unwrapped the gift. Inside was a sketchbook and a set of colored pencils. "These are perfect!"

Y/N’s heart warmed at her sister’s happiness. "I thought you might like them. You can draw all the things you are going to do when you leave the hospital”.

Emily nodded enthusiastically, already flipping through the pages of the sketchbook. "The beach, the park, maybe even you and me together."

Y/N’s smile faltered for a moment, the weight of her choices pressing down on her. She quickly pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the present. "I can’t wait to see your drawings."

They spent the next hour talking and laughing, the bleakness of the hospital room fading away in the light of Emily’s joy. For a little while, Y/N could forget about the dangerous world she was entangled in, finding solace in her sister’s company.

As visiting hours came to an end, Y/N reluctantly stood up. "I have to go now, Em. But I’ll be back soon, okay?"

Emily nodded, her smile unwavering. "Promise?"

"Promise," Y/N said, leaning down to kiss her sister’s forehead. "You just keep getting better, and we’ll have all the time in the world."

With one last look at Emily, Y/N turned and left the room, the weight of her double life settling back onto her shoulders.

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The air was thick with anticipation as Y/N and her crew gathered in a dimly lit alleyway. Victor had received intel that Harry’s gang was making a move to reclaim and prevent Sean from selling for Y/N’s gang. Harry’s gang planned to kidnap Sean, ensuring he couldn’t betray them. Y/N’s orders were clear: protect Sean at all costs.

The clash began in the shadows, a chaotic melee of fists, knives, and gunfire. The alleyway turned into a battleground, the sound of fighting echoing off the walls. Y/N moved with practiced precision, taking down opponents with a cold efficiency. Her senses were heightened, every sound and movement sharp and clear in her mind.

In the midst of the chaos, she spotted Harry, his presence unmistakable even in the dim light. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the world around them faded away. The fire in Harry’s eyes was as fierce as ever, matching the determination in Y/N’s.

“Y/N!” Harry shouted over the noise, his voice a mix of anger and something else she couldn’t quite place. “This ends now!”

Without another word, they lunged at each other. Their fight was intense, a blur of swift movements and exchanged blows. Harry’s strength was matched by Y/N’s agility, each anticipating the other’s moves with an almost instinctual familiarity.

Harry threw a punch that Y/N barely dodged, countering with a swift kick that caught him off guard. He stumbled back but quickly regained his footing, his eyes never leaving hers. The rain-soaked ground made their footing precarious, but neither wavered.

“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that,” Harry growled, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip.

“Balls aren’t enough to survive in this world,” Y/N shot back, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

They continued to fight, each trying to gain the upper hand. Harry managed to pin Y/N against a wall, his grip strong and unyielding. “Why are you doing this, Y/N? Sean isn’t for you to take!”

Y/N glared at him, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. “This has nothing to do about Sean. I was given orders and I have to obey”.

Their fight resumed with renewed intensity, neither willing to back down. Around them, the battle raged on, the sounds of struggle blending into a chaotic symphony. Y/N and Harry were locked in their own private war, each move a testament to their skills and their conflicting desires.

Y/N swiftly drew the small knife she always carried with her. Realizing that the only way to take him down was to stab him, she knew she had to act fast. He was much bigger than her. She was strong, but not strong enough to overpower him without the blade.

Before she could make her move, Harry’s reflexes kicked in. He drew his own knife in a flash, and before Y/N could react, he had nicked her arm. A sharp pain shot through her as blood began to seep from the wound, staining her sleeve.

“You think you can take me down that easily?” Harry sneered, his eyes cold and calculating. “You’ve got a lot to learn.”

Y/N gritted her teeth, refusing to show any sign of weakness. She adjusted her grip on the knife, her mind racing for a strategy. The pain in her arm was a stark reminder of the danger she faced, but it also fueled her determination.

They circled each other, both on high alert. The rain continued to fall, making the ground slippery and adding to the tension in the air. Harry lunged forward, aiming for another strike, but Y/N anticipated his move, sidestepping just in time and slashing at him with her own blade.

Y/N’s arm throbbed, but she pushed the pain to the back of her mind, focusing on the fight. She managed to land a shallow cut on Harry’s side, drawing blood. He hissed in pain, his eyes narrowing with fury.

“Don’t make me hurt you.” Something had changed within Harry, and Y/N couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He looked deadlier, his eyes colder and more ruthless than ever before.

Harry was quick to land a blow on Y/N, knocking her to the ground. He wasted no time in picking her up, his strong hand gripping her neck as he pressed his knife against her throat.

Y/N’s heart raced with a mixture of fear and something else entirely. The pressure of his massive hand around her neck sent a thrill through her, mingling with her worry. She stared into his eyes, defiance and a flicker of excitement burning within her.

“Styles! Stop!” yelled one of Y/N’s most trusted men, his hands raised in a gesture of mercy. He noticed that Y/N’s feet weren’t touching the floor, suspended by Harry’s grip on her throat. “We’ll leave. Don’t kill her.”

Y/N’s face turned red as she struggled for breath. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to give up, the pressure making her feel like her eyes were about to burst from their sockets.

Harry’s grip tightened momentarily before he loosened his hold just enough for Y/N to gasp for air. His eyes remained fixed on her, cold and unyielding.

“Don’t test me, darlin' "

Part 2

[animasolaoriginal]

(7) I n n o c e n c e L o s t

He finds her in a brothel of all places. A chance encounter, but one that will change his life – and hers – forever. – or: A story about a cowboy who falls in love with a prostitute, who happens to be so much more than that.

GENERAL TAGS: NSFW! Explicit! Size difference, age gap, slow burn romance. Cowboys, outlaws, prostitutes. Historical inaccuracy. Horses, guns, violence.

Chapter 1▫️2▫️3▫️4▫️5▫️6▫️7▫️8▫️9▫️10▫️11▫️12▫️13 ...

Chapter 7: The Dimple

m!OC x f!OC -- WORDS: 4.2k -- READ ON AO3

when temptations present themselves

Chapter 6 -- Chapter 8

7

What now? he wonders, as he leans against the wall next to the door, his eyes wandering along the trees surrounding the cabin. Nebbia's tucked into the blanket, sleeping soundly. Thunder stands quietly in the night, occasionally huffing a deep breath. And Ben is caught in his own mind, unable to find peace.

He hasn't really planned this through, like so many things in his life so far. The last unplanned thing (“I'm gonna take you with me!”) has brought him right here, on the run from the people he stole this girl from. Damn Daniels. He's had run-ins with that family too many times to count at this point, and every time he slipped out of their grip, he thought it'd be the last time.

They are far more spread than he has thought. Owning the same fucking brothel he's decided to frequent after his own gang's successful stage coach heist. He's been so stupid. He should have known their influence would surpass state lines.

But would he have left Nebbia there if he'd known it beforehand? No. Definitely not. Whatever the circumstances, they would have always ended up here, or at least together, in safety, more or less. He's still stupid, running off with her like this. Without telling anyone. He's been with those people for a long time, especially Mitch and Ginny, and to leave, without a warning, is without a doubt a good addition to his list of Reasons Why He's Stupid.

He hopes they're all okay, that the Daniels didn't ambush them after all. Sending two scouts to their camp was a bold move, and seeing Joe sleeping by the gate when he should have been keeping watch was just another little itch he just can't scratch. A strange coincidence.

There have been a lot of strange coincidences actually, in these last two nights. From finding her in that room, from convincing her to come with him (and her actually coming along without any hesitation), from finding out who he's taken her from, to breaking Bill's nose on a whim (now it feels like it, in the moment it was all justified), to leaving Nebbia alone for five minutes... He's sure by now that it was Bill who assaulted her, getting his revenge, trying to at least.

He still wonders what he should do to that bastard. There are too many ideas in his head, one more gruesome than the next. But he can't focus on that now. They've left the camp, and he has no idea when they'll return, if they'll return. But where else should they go?

Sighing deeply he pushes off the wall and walks back into the cabin, trying to be quiet as he approaches the girl curled up under the blanket. Her long hair has fallen over her face again, and she's so small, just a ball of limbs, and he's still amazed how that can be a comfortable position to sleep. Slowly he kneels down beside her, reaching out to gently tuck a strand of silky soft hair behind her ear. She stirs slightly, but doesn't wake.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” he whispers into the darkness of the room, leaning back on his knees, watching her.

There's still one very loud thought inside his head, one that's even overpowering the urges to grab her and kiss her and do other deranged things to her. One that scares him the most. That fucking dimple.

Without looking away from her sleeping form, he fingers the Wanted poster out of his chest pocket, slowly unfolds it, before he looks down at it in the semi-darkness of the room. Morning is right around the corner, the moon glowing to keep the upper hand, and there's enough light for him to see the face looking up at him from the crinkled paper.

Keira.

That he would find her daughter, the spitting image of her, in a brothel of all places, is like a stab in the back. He would never have thought that Keira, his first love, his partner in crime, would be capable of doing that, leaving her there, to her own devices, to a life full of degradation. Was she forced to leave? Bribed away? Blackmailed away? But why did she never come back to get her?

He would have tried anything to get her back if she'd been his daughter. The thought makes him pause. His daughter. The words have a strange ring to them. They crawl right beneath his skin, letting goosebumps ripple along his spine, like ants running up and down his limbs. She can't be, right? It's been longer than eighteen years (and nine months) since he last saw Keira, right? It has to be!

She left him in that cell and vanished. Never to be seen again. Did she really end up working in a brothel, got knocked up by a random stranger and left right after giving birth – or did Madam Claire lie to Nebbia? The leaving part sounds like her, but working as a prostitute? She'd always had a high libido, but would she actually make men pay for her? Maybe the thought isn't as absurd after all. She'd do almost anything for money.

And she needed the money to leave the country. She'd told him very early on. To get to Europe. See Italy. Did she make it? Was she on the other side of the pond while her daughter had to endure a life of servitude?

Keira had been opportunistic, but not that selfish.

Ben tilts his head as he folds the poster back together and slips it into his pocket, watching the bundle in front of him. How can she even breathe curled up like that? He's tempted to lie down behind her and pull her against his chest, hold her close, curl his body around hers, feel her soft breaths... Fuck. He's doing it again. And the thought is back. He leans in with a sigh and traces his fingertip over her cheek, just the right one, where he's seen it. That fucking dimple.

Many people have dimples, it's not that uncommon, or so he tries to tell himself. But what are the odds of his ex-lover's daughter having the same fucking dimple as him? What are the odds that it was him who found her, who saved her, who she feels safe with?

They have a strange connection, a chemistry he's never experienced before, not even with Keira. Nebbia trusts him, just like that, almost unconditionally, despite everything she knows about him (which isn't even much, but enough that she should want to stay away from him, which she doesn't). How easy it is for her to touch him, to be close to him, how comfortable she is around him, not even ashamed to be naked.

But he can't be her father, he just can't, it doesn't add up. Right? Many men have dimples. And he feels close to her because she looks like Keira. Nothing more. And he wouldn't be thinking all these dirty things about her if he were, would he? Or is he just that fucked-up after all?

He lets out a groan and leans back on his arms, stretching his long legs out in front of him, his eyes glued to the girl on the floor. She stirs again, squirming under the blanket. A little whimper escapes her, causing him to shiver. Maybe she's dreaming. Though it does sound more like a nightmare... And of course it would be, the universe doesn't seem to give this girl a break.

For a moment he just watches her, when more and more whimpers and little gasps fall from her lips, but then he's had enough and leans in, slipping his hands under her coiled up body and pulls her closer, until she's curled up in his lap, head resting on his thigh. He crosses his legs and cages her in, holding her close, giving her the warmth and comfort she needs. She relaxes slowly, her breaths calming down, the whimpers turning into quiet mewls, then peaceful, deep breaths.

His fingers slip into her soft hair, down her neck, over the curve of her spine to the swell of her hip where he rests his hand, warm and comforting against the many layers she's wrapped in, showing her he's here. And isn't that what matters in the end, no matter who he is to her? As long as he's here for her?

He'll focus on that. No longer looking back, remembering a woman he hasn't seen in almost two decades. Keira is gone, wherever she may be. But Nebbia is right here, in his embrace. And he'll give the choice to her. If she wants to be close to him, he will let her, and he won't feel bad about wanting the same thing. And if she doesn't, he'll live with it, watching her from afar, imagining the things she's too shy and innocent to admit to.

And no fucking dimple will ever change that.

He fell asleep somehow, and now he's sprawled out on his back while the girl is still curled up between his legs, warm and comforting against him. And of course he's hard because of it. Stirring slightly, he stares up at the ceiling of the cabin, blinking that last dream away, while the dazzling sunlight floods the dusty place, burning away all shadows, all doubts, all deranged thoughts.

Groaning, he wipes at his face, pushes a hand through his messy hair, rolls his stiff neck. He doesn't feel rested, but it doesn't matter. It never does, at least he woke up to a new morning, to –

A sudden jolt rushes through his spine, a warm touch to a sensitive place, and he's quick to sit up on his elbows and looks down, seeing a small hand rubbing along the length of his cock over the fabric of his jeans. “What are you doing?” he grunts out, voice low and hoarse with sleep.

Green eyes meet his, the bundle of blankets, hair and limbs stirring between his legs. Her cheek rests on his thigh while her hand still works on what lies heavy on the other. “You've been so tense,” she whispers, her voice like a hum in the air, sweet like honey, words full of temptation.

“You... don't have to...” he groans as she keeps palming him, expertly he wants to say, but the revelation of that sits thick in his throat.

“I want to,” she replies quietly, as her fingertips trail the outline of the bulge in his pants, curious fingers pressing down with the same little strength as her palm. Moving up and down, teasing the base, poking at the tip. Not even the thick fabric of his jeans can dampen the sensations of her ministrations.

He shivers, swallows hard. “Don't,” he tries again, tempted to grab her wrist and pull her hand away. But he's also tempted to undo his belt, open his buttons, free his erection, and let her work. He's conflicted, so he does nothing but lie back down, crosses his arms behind his head, closes his eyes, leans into her touches.

She shifts between his legs, her free hand resting on his other thigh as she sits up, then it moves to the waistband of his pants, and he sees her doing what he has wanted her to do without even looking down. It's all there behind his eyelids, a fantasy he's had since he first met her.

Her full lips strained around his cock. Flushed cheeks hollowing, a tongue pressing warm and wet against the underside, a deep suck, saliva coating his skin, her big eyes on him as she takes him deeper, deeper, into her little throat until there are tears streaming down her face, and he feels her tightness, he –

He sits up with a grunt and grabs her hand before it can finish unbuttoning his jeans. She yelps at the harsh grip, and he lets go immediately, cursing under his breath. Without looking at her, he scrambles to his feet, breathing heavily, his heart thundering inside his chest. He can't. He shouldn't.

Adjusting himself as he walks, he buckles his belt again, steps out of the stuffy cabin into the bright sunlight, hoping it'll burn away his thoughts. There are shuffling footsteps behind him, then a small, timid hand on his back. He flinches, but doesn't turn around. He hears a little sound akin to a sob, braces himself, and then her arms snake around his stomach from behind as she throws herself against him, a shuddering little thing clinging to him with her face pressing into the curve of his back.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers into him, the hum vibrating through his tense body. He inhales deeply, then puts his hands on her arms, gently rubbing them, while her small body tries to crawl closer to his.

For a moment he just stands there, listening to her shaky breaths, but then it's getting too much, and he carefully pries her hands away from his stomach and turns around, looks down at the girl still wrapped in the blanket, meeting her large innocent green eyes. He crouches down in front of her and holds her hands in his, cradling them gently as he looks up at her.

“I should be sorry,” he says hoarsely. “And I am, I didn't mean to be that harsh...”

She shakes her head, a few wavy strands of hair flying about as she does. “You said no, I should have stopped...” she whispers, biting her lip.

His hands move up to cup her face, so small between his large palms, frail and innocent. He scoots a little closer, leans up on his knees to meet her eye level, holding her gaze. His thumbs caress the corners of her mouth. “Nebbia,” he starts, trying to make sense of the conflicting emotions inside his heart, trying to convey his conflicts to her, “I –”

She interrupts him by putting her own small hands on his bearded cheeks, so small, so fragile, her touch warm but surprisingly strong, confident, wanting. Her breath ghosts his dry lips. She leans closer, tilting her head, moving in, eyes half-lidded, fingertips grazing his ears, slipping into his hair, thumbs scraping over his beard.

He's frozen in place, just looking at her, waiting, wanting, but also not, and when her little nose brushes against his, he stiffens even more, holding her face tightly, almost too tightly, but she keeps going, inch by inch she comes closer, and then –

It's him who closes the distance. A little tug of his hands, a little jerk of his chin towards her, and his lips collide with hers, a desperate smack that makes her gasp, that makes his heart flutter and his stomach churn. One hand on her jaw, thumb on her chin, the other slipping to the back of her neck, both of them guiding her into the kiss. The fire within roars to life.

He can't stop himself anymore, he moves his lips against hers, slowly at first, carefully, still waiting for her to mirror his movements, and when she finally does, when there's the tiniest pressure back, he groans against her, kissing her firmer, more demanding, his hand splayed over the back of her head, holding her, pushing her closer.

Her fingers sink to his neck, holding onto his shoulders as she staggers slightly against him, heavy little puffs of air coming from her as his lips press against...close around...nibble on hers, and oh, that sharp little inhale when the tip of his tongue moves against her bottom lip, licks along it, using the little gasp to move between her now parted lips.

But before he can push it in further, taste her fully, feel her own pressing back at him, he lets out a grunt and leans back abruptly before he rests his forehead heavy on her shoulder, his hands moving along her body as he wraps his arms around her, holding her in his tight embrace, feeling her shivers and shudders. Her small, frail body, overwhelmed by his urges...

“Ben?” she whispers, her hands coming up to rub at his back, teasing his nape.

He huffs another grunt, inhaling deeply, feeling his lips tingling, warm and wet and almost a little swollen. And he imagines how hers must look, probably even redder, maybe a little irritated from his beard scraping over sensitive skin. Her eyes wide, glistening, not understanding a thing, not seeing his turmoil.

“Are you okay?” she asks, and he barks a quiet laugh into her collarbone, growling in response. He inhales deeply, taking in her sweet scent, sleep still hanging over her, warm and comforting, filling his lungs.

“M'sorry, baby,” he mutters, slowly leaning back, loosening his grip around her.

When he looks at her, her eyes are narrowed in confusion, a little tilt to her head, and her lips, full lips, are indeed very red and slightly trembling. He leans back on his knees and raises a hand to cup her face, wipe his thumb over her bottom lip.

“I can't do this,” he whispers, staring at her mouth.

“Can't do what?” she replies in a breathy puff of air, almost sounding a little pouty. “What are you so afraid of?” she adds, voice shaking slightly.

He looks up then, meeting her hard gaze (as hard as a cute little girl can look, it's even more adorable that she's trying to appear tough, fighting her own emotions). His finger traces her cheek, rough fingertip scraping over soft skin. He watches her, memorizes the details of her face with his eyes, ignores her question. “Smile for me,” he whispers, leaning a little closer again.

She frowns, straining her features into the exact opposite direction. “What?”

“Smile for me,” he repeats with a soft smile of his own. She stares at him, blinks, but the corners of her mouth twitch, even more so when his smile widens, and she mimics it, and there it is.

He moves quickly, one hand on her nape as he guides her head towards him, then presses his lips to her cheek, parts them, lets the tip of his tongue dip into that barely there indent. He can feel it, taste her skin, the fucking dimple.

Breathing heavily against her, he closes his eyes, can't look at it. Can't look at her. His hands leave her body completely, resting on his thighs as he sits back on his knees in front of her, shaking his head in defeat.

The clap of her palms against his cheeks is loud as she cups his face with force. His eyes fly open, meeting hers. “What's wrong with you?” she whispers, sounding more confused than angry as she stares down at him.

Her words cut deep, but for a different reason than she intended. Yes, what is wrong with him... thinking these things about her... about his –

“Come on, Ben, talk to me! Why are you acting so strange?” she urges, holding his large head with her tiny hands.

“We have the same dimple,” he then confesses, letting it out, revealing the turmoil.

She looks even more confused. “What? Huh?” Her lips quiver as she opens her mouth and closes it again repeatedly, her eyes narrowed, a deep crease between her eyebrows. “So?”

He inhales deeply, then sighs. “I... I'm afraid I could be... your...” He can't say it, his voice strained, rough, a low tremble in his throat.

“What?” she breathes in exasperation.

“Father,” he finally says, quietly, a word like a ton of bricks burying him alive.

The tension in her face relaxes, turns into wide eyes, eyebrows moving up towards her hairline, lips parting into a silent O. A deep red blush creeps up her pale cheeks. He sees the cogs working inside her brain as she stares at him, the grip of her hands around his face loosening.

He just watches her, face tense under her soft palms, lips pressed into a thin line. She's slipping away, he can feel it, appalled, disturbed, irritated, angry? Disappointed? Her eyes move over his face, a frantic little twitch of green orbs moving back and forth, as she processes what he said. Her hands land on his shoulders, a barely there pressure.

But then she raises one again, extends a finger, traces his cheek, scrapes it over his beard, looking for the dimple that is hidden in the tension of his face. She finds it nevertheless, the little bit of skin barely visible between the thickness of his facial hair. Her eyes move back to his.

“So we have the same dimple,” she whispers, shrugging slightly. “So what? Is that all it takes to confirm that you're my... my... that I'm your...”

She can't say it either, apparently, and he sees the conflict in her gaze, the same as his. They seem clearly attracted to each other, their chemistry is there, the connection, a mirror image of his own desires, albeit probably less graphic. And yet –

“I've been with your mother, about twenty years ago, maybe a little less, I can't remember to be perfectly honest,” he says quietly. “It's possible...”

She shakes her head, slowly at first, then more agitated. “No!” she exclaims, her hands back on his face as she leans closer. He stays still, immobile, stiff, forcing himself not to give in to the temptations. “Madam Claire said –”

“What if she lied? What if your mother came to them already pregnant?” he whispers.

She keeps shaking her head, and he sees her eyes glistening slightly. Her breaths are frantic little huffs. “No,” she says again, barely audible. Her jaw clenches, her eyebrows furrow, she looks as if she's about to cry, and it's killing him.

“Baby,” he breathes, his hands itching to reach up and comfort her.

She swallows. “Do you... want to be my... father?” she then asks, blinking away the first tear.

His answer comes quick, almost harshly so. “No,” he says, seeing her flinch. “I want to be there for you, I want to protect you, but I also want to –” He inhales deeply, slowly moving up on his knees, getting closer, his hand finding its way to her waist. “Kiss you... and... touch you...”

She licks her lips, watching him, inching closer, meeting his motion. “Then... you're not... n-not my f-father,” she stammers, her lips quivering. “There's no proof... it doesn't m-matter...” Her thumbs wipe over the corners of his mouth, her eyes pleading.

He looks at her, his fingers digging gently into her skin. His other hand moves around her, up her back, to her nape, a gentle pressure as he pulls her even closer. “Nebbia...”

“It doesn't matter, Ben,” she whispers, her eyes boring into his.

And then she moves in, and her trembling lips meet his. Her kiss is shaky, uncertain, inexperienced. He lets her, just stays still, holds her. She moves her lips over his, purses them slightly, presses them to the corner of his mouth, to his upper lip, his bottom lip, a shiver running through her small frame. Her eyelids flutter, but she doesn't close them.

After a moment she leans back just enough that there's about an inch between them. Her warm breath ghosts his skin, her hands a little clammy against his cheeks. The tiniest sob escapes her, but he catches it before it can grow, before it gets worse. Catches it with his mouth. She gasps, but immediately kisses him back as he moves his lips against hers, even opens her mouth for him, darts her tongue out, meets his, lets them move against each other slowly, wet and warm and comforting.

Her taste is overwhelming.

He groans, she hums, his hand firmly on her neck, her fingers digging into his hair, gripping it as the kiss deepens. The hand on her waist drags her towards him, and she stumbles slightly until she's suddenly sitting on his thighs, straddling him, the blanket finally falling off her shoulders. He wraps an arm around her, pulls her close, leans back on his knees, gives her space that she immediately fills, while their tongues still wrestle, their lips still slide against each other, their noises a soft hum in the atmosphere, drowning out any doubts.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't...

Doesn't matter.

She is panting against him, her hands gripping his hair while he holds her, arms crossed over her back, fingers curling around her sides, her small body pressed against him, so close, so warm, squirming on his lap, rubbing against him. He groans into her mouth as his stomach tightens. Her needy little whimpers like music in his ears. She is obviously breathless, her lungs probably burning, but she doesn't stop, doesn't give her tongue or lips a break, as if she needs him more than air – and just as much as he needs her.

He takes the choice from her by turning his head slightly, inhaling deeply, and her lips keep moving over his cheek, to his jaw, down his neck, her little tongue sliding over his pulse causing him to shiver. She's insatiable, but he holds her close, moves one hand into her hair, stilling her against the crook of his neck, forcing her to breathe. Her chest rises and falls against his rapidly, her heart hammering against her ribs, vibrating through him as he presses his thumb against her jugular.

For a long moment they're just sitting like this, holding onto each other, savoring the aftermath of their kiss, each of them stewing in their own thoughts, if they are any due to lack of oxygen. His own are a low, nagging rumble in the back of his mind, and he tries his best to ignore them and to focus on the girl on his lap instead. She squirms slightly, the pressure of her pelvis against his groin sending little sparks through his nerves.

He noses at her hair, taking in her scent, hoping to drown in it. In his mind he is back at the brothel, cornering the lady of the house, forcing her to give him proof. It doesn't matter. But he needs proof. She could hold the answer, and even if it would confirm his suspicions, it wouldn't change anything. It doesn't matter. But he would know.

He needs to know.

Chapter 6 -- Chapter 8

End notes: I don't know about you, but I loved (writing) this chapter! So much drama, passion, angst and fluff and ahhh so good! Take this, slow burn! We've got contact! And a revelation that might bit a little off-putting for some... BUT before you leave because ew incest, hear me out: without spoiling anything: IF this becomes a reality or not (you'll have to stick with me here to find out, sorry), remember this is a piece of fiction! Just two people with a connection. A fluffy little love story (with eventual smut, just putting it out there). (Also historically speaking, well, the west was wild, right?)

I really hope you're more intrigued than you are appalled, because we're just getting started here! The drama continues! Please stay tuned!

Credits to the respective owners of those pictures. I don't own anything. I gathered these from all around tumblr. If you see your picture and would like to have it removed, please tell me!

Thanks for reading! Next chapter on Friday!

AO3 -- MASTERLIST -- INSPIRATION POSTS

[phykios]

this one is dedicated to mi amor mari @perseannabeth, who is a beautiful bird and a wonderful friend and i am v v vvvvv grateful to have crossed the airwaves with her :”)

Today Was A Fairytale [read on ao3] T, modern royalty, fun at disneyland!

She stares at him. 

He stares back. “What?”

“Really?”

“What?”

“You really think this is going to be enough?” Annabeth points at her head, the blue Yankees cap squishing her curls. 

“Of course! It’s the Clark Kent effect.” As if to underline his point, Percy slips on his fake hipster glasses, except that stupid grin of his is too bright not to draw attention. 

“That’s not a real thing.”

“Sure it is. Studies show that glasses are actually good enough to alter your appearance if someone doesn’t know you well.”

“Then why didn’t you bring a pair of glasses for me?”

“Because your hair is definitely the prettiest thing about you,” he says, automatically tugging an unruly curl which peeks out from under the brim, a gesture so practiced she almost doesn’t register it--until he blinks, dropping his hand, blushing lightly. “I mean--the most noticeable thing. You know. A hat should be fine.”

He looks away. Heat rises to her face, too. Because it’s so hot out, obviously. 

“Anyway,” he mumbles, “um. No--no one’s going to give you a second look if your hair is hidden.”

Chewing her lip, Annabeth can’t help but worry. Percy’s face is extremely well-known, possibly more than hers, and they’ve both spent the better part of three weeks with their faces plastered all over the media on their diplomatic trip. This is probably a really, really bad idea. Then, a thought occurs to her. “How about,” she says, perking up, “you give me your glasses, and I’ll give you mine.” From her backpack, she fishes out a pair of sunglasses, big and nondescript. He’ll practically be wearing a superhero mask with these.

Percy smiles again, and Annabeth thinks she might fly. “Perfect.”

Which is how Her Royal Highness Anna Elisabeth Ingrid Irene of Sweden and His Serene Highness Perseus Alexandros Ioannis of Thera play hooky from their day of boring meetings, insufferable dignitaries, and stuffy security guards, to go see the eighth wonder of the world: Disneyland Resort in California.

And how Annabeth eats her words as they make it past the security gate unchecked. “Eh?” He beams, nudging her with his elbow. “Eh?”

Rolling her eyes, she shoves him back. “Shut up.”

***

[description: a tiktok video which depicts a line at Disneyland. the op, a black girl with braids, covers her mouth and looking into the camera, turning the camera to focus on the two people behind her. one is a tall boy with black hair and sunglasses, and the other is a blonde girl with a yankees hat and glasses. both are white. video text reads: “p sure the people behind me are prince percy and princess annabeth??? um?????”. background audio is a dubstep remix of the fight theme from undertale. end ID]

***

Maybe it’s a little weird, on account of her being actual royalty and all, but Annabeth has always been interested in princesses, both as a matter of historical record (history is awesome) and in the general sense. Like millions of other people, she, too, was raised on Disney movies and tales of princesses and true love, and she was just as captivated as the rest of them. She and Percy used to watch the Disney catalogue whenever their families held state visits for each other, staying up into the small hours of the morning, sharing some popcorn and singing along. 

Luckily for Annabeth, her favorite princess is holding a meet and greet at the Royal Hall.

“Excuse me,” Percy says, approaching Princess Ariel. Well, her cast member, anyway. “Could I get a photo for my friend?”

“Of course!” she trills, her blue eyes sparkling. “It would be my pleasure.” Holding her hand out, perfectly poised and graceful in a way that would impress even Annabeth’s stodgy etiquette instructor, she smiles, warm and welcoming, pivoting to bring Annabeth in for one of those weird, semi-awkward half-hugs. “What’s your name?”

“Anna,” says Annabeth. Hey, it’s not untrue. She’s a little leery of using any of her names, but Anna is common enough. Annabeth? Not so much. Even with her glasses and hat disguise, a little paranoia is justified, she thinks.

“It’s so wonderful to meet you, Anna,” she says, cheerful, with all the grace and charm of someone who doesn’t spend hours saying the same thing over and over again to excitable, temperamental children. What a trooper, she thinks.

“Don’t you recognize a fellow princess when you see one, your highness?” Percy says, grinning that stupid, smarmy grin of his. 

Annabeth glares. Oh, he thinks he’s so damn clever. 

“Oh, of course,” says Ariel, smoothly. “How could I have thought otherwise? Your highness.” And she curtsies to Annabeth, a short dip, her hand placed delicately against her chest. “Perhaps I can introduce you to my friend Anna, princess of Arendelle?”

Still smirking, Percy takes some more pictures, trapping Annabeth into smiling for the camera. She can’t be glaring daggers in her pictures, nor can there be video evidence of her kicking him--no matter how much she wants to.

And she definitely doesn’t miss the way Ariel not-so-subtly checks Percy out, eyeing him up and down.

“You fucking asshole,” she hisses as they leave the photo area, swatting him lightly, and he giggles. 

“Sorry, sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

“Ugh, I hate you so much.”

It’s hard to stay mad at him, though she definitely tries as they enter back out into the park proper, giving him just the barest hint of a cold shoulder. 

“Aw, come on,” Percy says. “I was just teasing.”

“You shouldn’t go around tempting fate like that,” Annabeth says. “Do you want to cause another international incident?”

Percy winces, no doubt remembering the Gateway Arch incident of 2008. 

“If someone recognizes us, we don’t have Zoe or any of her team to protect us,” Annabeth goes on. “Not that I think anyone here would try to hurt us, but…” But it’s a little nerve-wracking, being on her own like this. She hasn’t been alone like this for a really long time.

Wincing, Percy rubs the back of his head. “I guess I forgot you’re a little higher profile than me. Sorry.”

She doesn’t like to think about it, but it’s true. Percy, by his nature as the younger son of a largely defunct royal house, doesn’t have quite the same number of… issues… that someone like Annabeth might have.

Deflating, she uncrosses her arms. “It’s okay.”

“I should have asked you first.”

“It’s really okay,” she says. “No harm no foul.”

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks, entirely serious. “I can call someone up.”

She knows just how long they’ve planned this, how many favors he’s called in and policies he’s sidestepped. Backing out now would just be a waste of a day. She shakes her head. “It’s fine,” she says. “I’m just… feeling a little exposed, I guess. But, I don’t want to ruin all our plans. Let’s keep going.” She grabs his hand, squeezing a little.

“...Okay,” Percy says. “But say the word, and we’ll call it a day. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Like he doesn’t have any other expression today, he smiles at her again.

It hits her, suddenly. He’s so much taller than she remembers. Once upon a time she used to be taller than him; now, he’s basically a whole head above her. 

It’s annoying. But also… not.

Spying something over her shoulder, his eyes light up, and he practically gasps. “Cinderella!” he points with his free hand, like a five-year old. “Come on!” And he takes off to one of the park corners, dragging Annabeth along with him. 

He has to wait in line behind a pair of twin girls, six or seven years old by the looks of it, in identical Cinderella dresses for a photo, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, and when it’s finally his turn, he nearly trips over himself to go up and ask for a photo. 

Cinderella agrees, and now Annabeth is relegated to the job of cameraperson. Percy slides in next to the princess, his hand on her waist, but, ever the respectful gentleman, loosely held, so the cast member can slide out of his grasp without any difficulty at all.

Taking a few shots, it does look kind of strange to have Cinderella’s beautiful, shining face, and Percy’s enormous sunglasses blocking his. “Take off your glasses?” she says, lowering her phone for a second. 

Dutifully, Percy slips them off, smiling again for the camera. 

Cinderella’s smile doesn’t falter, a credit to her professionalism, but Annabeth can see her eyes widen, just a touch.

Annabeth snaps off a few more photos, “Got ‘em!” and Percy once again gushes over the princess, thanking her for her time. Grabbing Annabeth’s hand again, he practically skips off, leading them in the direction of a nearby candy shop. 

***

me: IM SHAKING GUESS WHO I JUST TOOK A PICTURE WITH????

sis: prince percy?

me: HOW TF DID YOU KNOW

sis: its on twitter already

***

They’re walking along, Annabeth slurping up a Dole whip, when she suddenly stops in her tracks, outside of one of the many, many gift shops. “Wait up a second.”

“Hm?” Percy says, around the giant lollipop in his mouth. 

“I want to get some Mickey ears.” 

Very quickly they get lost in the sea of Disney merchandise, walking the labyrinth of Star Wars and Marvel and Pixar goods. There’s a surprising amount of black for the so-called happiest place on Earth, but things do brighten up when Annabeth finally turns a corner and finds the enormous selection of Mickey ears. It’s a wash of sparkles, flowers, bows, and occasionally characters, for children and adults alike. Annabeth eyes a pair designed like Baby Yoda, eyes wide and ears adorably huge, before she fingers a pair of white Mickey ears that have a bridal veil attached to them, contemplating its counterpart, the black ears for the groom, each ear emblazoned with a sparkling silver “Happily Ever After.”

She looks around. Where did Percy wander off to, anyway? 

Well, wherever he is, hopefully he hasn’t gotten mobbed by a horde of excitable fangirls. Given that she can’t hear any screaming--well, any unusual, non-Disneyland-relevant screaming--that’s probably a good sign. 

Running her fingers over the ear selections, she finally picks out a pair of silver sequined earrings with a shiny gold bow, a tiny, rhinestone Cinderella’s castle placed delicately in the middle. 

Yeah. This one. 

Percy finds her as she is paying for her ears, a pair of his own already on his head, red balloons inside of plastic circles. The sunglasses, she notes with a tinge of nervousness, are tucked in his shirt, and not on his face, protecting his identity. “Oh, check mine out--they light up!” he says, giddy, pressing the button on the side, not that she can tell in the brightly lit shop.

“That’s not why I was looking.”

Walking out of the store, ears firmly in her possession, she looks around again. Percy’s face is out there for the world to see, and no one is giving them a hard time. 

And her hat is really sweaty. 

Ah, fuck it.

She removes the Yankees cap, shaking out her sweaty curls, sliding the ears on in its place.

And the glasses, for good measure.

“Cinderella?” Percy asks.

“I thought you’d approve.”

Outside the shop, next to a corn dog cart, Percy pulls her aside, out of the way of a whole classroom’s worth of children, holding up a plastic plag. “So, confession.”

“Percy…” He didn’t. “We said no gifts!” They had agreed to it that morning!

“Well, see,” he says, fumbling around in the bag, pulling out a black t-shirt. “I saw this, and I thought--I thought you might like it.”

He unfolds it, and Annabeth frowns at the shirt design. 

It’s… a drawing of a man in a purple mask against a solid black background, glaring at the viewer. Circling him, in distressed, white-grey military font, are the words “BARON ZEMO,” and the logo for the show he must star in, Marvel’s The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. She doesn’t really watch superhero shows, though, and she’s pretty sure Percy doesn’t, either. Maybe he’s started this one and he really likes it? “Thanks,” she says, confusion coloring her voice despite her best efforts. 

But he doesn’t look too disappointed. “I was looking through their pride merch, and they didn’t have any stuff with the ace flag, which totally sucks, but then I thought that maybe you might like something a little more subtle? So, yeah.” He shakes it. “Ace pride!”

Oh. Oh, this boy. 

She remembers, so vividly, visiting his father’s summer home on Kalymnos, a few years ago, the summer she turned nineteen, waking up to a banging in the kitchen, noisy pots and pans making a real racket. Granted, it had been one in the afternoon, and Annabeth probably should have been awake sooner, but she had stumbled out of the guest room into the kitchen, rubbing sleep out of her eyes, to the sight of Percy wrestling with the standmixer, making bright, neon purple frosting. The night before, sometime around three or four AM, that weird, liminal hour where the shadow of night just starts to recede, the sky a sweet, soft, dusky blue, she had come out as demisexual to her best friend, saying the words aloud for the first time ever. Loopy from lack of sleep, the moment had passed without much fanfare.

But Percy, dark-circled and still yawning, had woken up early to make her a chocolate cake. By the time she had woken up, he had baked the cake, chilled it, and made two out of the three frosting colors, a beautiful, moist, dark chocolate cake which ended up being frosted with a marbled mix of purple, black, and white, all folding into each other into a kind of colorless, grey sugar. 

Here, now, in Disneyland, she throws herself at him, wrapping his arms around his neck. His arms automatically come up to circle her, hugging her tight. 

She had been worried it had been some kind of defense mechanism. A young girl with an alarmingly high profile, Annabeth had been the subject of intense scrutiny with regards to any romantic entanglements, with critics, tabloid reporters, and fans alike attempting to invent gossip-worthy relationships with every boy she ever talked to--most usually Percy. They did grow up in the public eye together, attending all kinds of events and functions together over the last fifteen or so years. And they did tweet at each other. Like, a lot. They even had their own portmanteau hashtag. But no relationship ever materialized.

She thought maybe she was just being stubborn, unwilling to play the media game. But it hadn’t been stubbornness. It wasn’t about shyness or inexperience. It was real, and it was her.

And Percy hadn’t even blinked.

“I love it,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he says, swaying her from side to side, just a little. “It was my pleasure.”

***

What’s happening: #percabeth (Entertainment • trending)

@kndrck__ STREAM CHROMATICA: um @TheraUS @SwedenRoyals i think i found your sick royals? #percabeth #disneyland

@wasabiviking: omg werent they supposed to be at some hospital opening today #percabeth

@ChampionSno brando he/him: LMAOOO NOT #PERCABETH PLAYING HOOKY LIKE IT’S ROMAN HOLIDAY

***

“Holy shit,” Percy moans, his mouth full of food. “Oh my God. Dear God in Heaven.”

Annabeth kicks his ankle under the table. “Don’t be rude.”

He swallows, eyes fluttering. “Oh my God, Annabeth. Holy shit. This is the best damn sandwich I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

“A monte cristo?”

“A deep-fried monte cristo! In sweet batter!” Taking another bite, he moans again, just this side of indecent. “Oh my God I love Americans. They are absolute culinary geniuses.”

“Better than Bistrot Chez Rémy?” They had both been to Disneyland Paris, separately, sadly, and Percy had recommended the restaurant to her with great enthusiasm for her upcoming trip. As usual, he was spot on with his food recs. 

He nods, eyes closed in rapture. “By a mile.”

“You’ll have to learn to make your own when we get back home, then.”

He jolts, straightening up, cheeks full of food. Roughly, he swallows. “You’re right! I need to take notes.” And he takes out his phone, hurriedly typing down whatever scent and flavor notes he must be able to discern. “This is definitely challah…”

Plucking another piece of chicken with her fork out of her jambalaya, Annabeth lets her attention wander a little, content to watch the passengers on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride as they float on beside them, down in the artificially constructed bayou river. 

Truth be told, she’s kind of tired. They’ve been walking around all day, and even with the brief reprieve of rides, her shoes really aren’t the kind that deal well with huge amounts of walking. She can already tell that she’s going to crash, and crash hard, whenever they get back to their hotel. You know, if their security detail doesn’t eviscerate them first. 

When Percy had first presented his idea to her, she had agreed without hesitation. They had had a long, dense schedule of public appearances planned for their excursions to the states, and the days had begun to seriously wear them out. Together, they had worked out the kinks, coming up with contingencies, negotiating things to do, all over Discord so no one else would get wind of what they were doing. Prior to this trip, she hadn’t seen him in… probably almost a year. She knows his father had been keeping him close to home for whatever reason, and Annabeth had had a handful of official functions to deal with. Their paths just never managed to cross, up until now. 

She hadn’t realized how much she had missed him. 

It’s lonely, growing up in the public eye. It’s cliche, but it’s true. And while Annabeth is afforded a metric ton of various intersecting privileges, she thinks she’d probably give it up in a heartbeat. It kind of sucks being a living, breathing tourist attraction. 

Growing up, she had her cousin Magnus, and a handful of other assorted children to play with, but she would never say that she had a best friend, or even a good friend, until she’d met Percy. Her mother and his father, famous for their mutual dislike, had put aside their differences to host some kind of charitable dinner for the disgustingly wealthy, and had trotted out their respective children in all their finery. Annabeth, being all of twelve years old, hadn’t really grasped the gravity of the event, and had gotten into an itty bitty little food fight with the then-unknown Prince Perseus, the result of an extramarital affair whom his father had so graciously decided to acknowledge and adopt. 

After that night, they became fast friends, and she decided that, if she ever left the royal life, she’d make sure to take Percy with her. He’s one of the few things that makes her life bearable. 

She thinks about it, sometimes. Renouncing her title. It wouldn’t exactly be hard. There was Magnus, just in line behind her. And it’s not like her family held any executive power anyway. They’re just fancy, historically interesting celebrities. 

Would Percy give up his, she wonders?

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

He looks at her oddly over their dessert, two vanilla-bourbon creme brulees. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Just tired. Long day.”

“You want to call it a night?”

She frowns. “What’s left?”

“Well, we did Space Mountain, Rise of the Resistance, Haunted Mansion, Pirates of the Caribbean, a few others,” he counts off his fingers, “saw the princesses, got Mickey ears, ate at Blue Bayou… I guess all that’s left is walking around the pier, if you want.”

“Sounds like you two had a full day.”

As one, they almost leap out of their seats, Annabeth choking on her spit. “Jesus, Zoe,” Percy pants, his hand over his chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Oh?” says Zoe Nightshade, the head of their security detail, who had just apparently materialized out of thin air. “Funny. I could say the same about you, sir.”

Coughing, Annabeth eventually manages to get her air back. “Hey, Zoe,” she wheezes. “How was your day?”

“Eventful. Let me tell you about it in the car.”

Annabeth glances at Percy, who’s looking a little bit like a deer in headlights. Honestly, she’s surprised they even made it this far without one of their own tracking them down. Still, it looks like their game is up. 

...Or is it?

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a large tour group, approaching on the horizon.

“Sure,” Annabeth says, getting up. Luckily, they’ve already paid, so they can just head out; they don’t need to wait for another big group of people to cross their paths. “Will you let us go to the bathroom, first?”

Zoe squints. She’s always been able to see through Annabeth’s bullshit. But Annabeth has her best, Percy-patented baby seal eyes on, perfectly innocent. Surely, Zoe wouldn’t deny them a physical need such as relieving themselves?

After a moment, she nods. “Make it quick, if you please.”

“Of course,” Annabeth says, looking over at Percy, hoping he gets the message. He stands up, slow and stiff, eyes darting between the two of them. “We’ll be right back.”

They wander through tables and chairs towards the bathroom, her eyes always on the tour group as it just starts to pass by. Reaching out, Annabeth grabs Percy’s hand, and with a turn that would make her track coach proud, sprints out of the restaurant, using the throng of people as cover. 

She thinks she hears Zoe yelling behind them, but maybe it’s just her own laughter. “Come on!” she shrieks, breathless, as Percy’s long legs keep pace with her. “To California Adventure!”

***

darthbingus said: the monarchy are fucking parasites but percabeth is pretty cute i guess :/

ladyofsandwiches reblogged and said: it’s obviously a publicity thing lmao, also prince Percy is gay???

eowynning reblogged and said: he’s dating rachel dare, right? he can’t be gay 

ladyofsandwiches reblogged and said: That was a publicity thing too obvs, and Annabeth hasn’t ever been linked to a guy. The king of thera is hardline greek orthodox, there’s no way he’d let his son come out publicly. They’re both gay and pretending to date because homophobia

lardoftheprks reblogged and said: people can be bi and ace and pan and all sorts of things you know

batgirlcock reblogged and said: can you animals leave them alone fr

***

Zoe only spots them after the ferris wheel starts moving. Sprinting over to them, they’re still a full forty feet off the ground by the time she reaches the operator. “Sorry!” she yells down to her, hands cupping her mouth. “We’ll be down in ten minutes!”

“Ananbeth!” he chokes, giggles still escaping him. 

“What?” she laughs. 

“We’re in enough trouble as it is!”

“Exactly,” she says, settling back on the ride. “You’ll probably be grounded for life.”

“Me?” he squawks, playfully offended. “What about you?”

She scoffs. “Please. I’ll just pin it all on you.”

Leaning back, he pouts, arms crossed. “Wow. I plan this amazing day, violate a few embassorial rules, and probably put both of our countries on a massive red alert, and this is the thanks I get?”

“I helped plan it, too.” But he does have a point. “Thank you,” she says. “I had a lot of fun today.”

He turns his head to her, a grin stretching across his face. “Me too.” 

His voice is so soft, so fond. They share a look, a moment, no words between them, only the silence of a true, deep companionship. They don’t need to say anything else, because they already know what the other would say. 

As one, they break away, looking back out into the California evening. 

They don’t talk much as the ferris wheel climbs higher and higher. Honestly, Annabeth is kind of impressed with how well he’s handling himself--she knows heights are a bit of a weakness of his. He grabs the edges of their gondola every once in a while as it drops a few feet, knuckles white and face a little green, but he manages to keep his dinner down, even as the ferris wheel grinds to a halt, Percy and Annabeth at the top of the world. The swing back and forth a little, hot faces against the cool evening breeze. 

And they stay there. 

And stay there. 

And… stay there. 

Annabeth checks her watch. How long have they been up here?

Percy taps his feet, a little too frantic just to be ADHD. 

Finally, there’s a burst of noise from below them, garbled and static. “Uh, yes, excuse me--” the voice says, amplified through a megaphone. “Yeah, um, it appears we are having some… uh, technical difficulties with the Pixar Pal-A-Round. Please remain calm, as we have our best technicians on it, and we are working on evacuating the ride in a calm and efficient manner.” Then the voice cuts out. 

Annabeth glances towards Percy. He has his hands in his lap, fists clenching and unclenching, over and over again. “Uh… you okay?”

“Hm? Oh, sure,” Percy says, “just fine. Peachy keen.” He squeezes his eyes shut, slowly blowing out his breath through his mouth. 

“Hey.” She reaches over, and takes one of his hands in hers, lacing their fingers together. After a long day of holding hands, somehow it still manages to surprise her, how well they fit together, how her skin tingles as she rubs her thumb against his finger. “It’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna be just fine. They’re going to get us off this ride, and then we’ll fly home and be grounded for life.”

“I thought,” he wheezes, “you’d blame it all on me?”

“As if you could come up with a plan as genius as hiding from our guard in It's A Small World.”

He nods, shakily. “Right. All you. Definitely not my idea. Everyone knows I’d have looped back to Pirates of the Caribbean.”

“Definitely.” She squeezes his hand, scooting a little closer. “Just breathe with me a little, okay?”

They breathe together, slowly and evenly. At some point, Percy takes her hand in both of his, running his thumbs over her palm, tracing her lifelines like a map. His hands are big, and warm, and it seems to calm him down a little, so she doesn’t mind all that much. 

Twilight darkens, stars twinkling against the grey, dusky sky, and still they are holding hands. Eventually, Percy relaxes, slumping against his seat.

“You good?” 

He nods. He still doesn’t let go. “Yeah. Just…” he sighs, stretching his arms up, taking Annabeth’s hand with him. “Not super looking forward to the dressing down I’m going to get.”

She winces. Annabeth’s dad is a little more flexible than Percy’s when it comes to breaches of protocol. The king of Thera is somewhat famous for his paranoia. “I hope it was worth it.”

He whips his head to her, eyes wide. “Of course it was worth it!” he says, as though the opposite were even fathomable. “You kidding? This was the best day of my life.”

“Better than your sixteenth?” His father had officially acknowledged him that day. Annabeth had spotted him in a deserted hallway with his mother, the two of them fighting off a few happy tears. She knows just how special that day was for him. 

“Not even close.” Squeezing her hand, he smiles again, that smile she knows almost better than her own by now. That smile she grew up with, a quiet oasis in a whirlwind of ancient tradition and modern media coverage. That smile is safety, familiarity. That smile was there to greet her when her mother chose to leave her family, when her uncle died without heirs, thrusting the position of heiress on her, whenever she had a rotten day or a bad grade or a lonely night, just on the other end of a phone, or down the hall, or in the kitchen. 

Whatever happens, she knows, Percy will be her best friend. Her anchor. 

Her…

She swallows. “Thank you,” she says again. “I needed this.” A day without an agenda. A day just for them. 

His eyes are dark, and soft, like the water beneath them. One hundred and fifty feet in the air in a broken ferris wheel, there’s nowhere safer she can be. “Me too.”

So she’s not really surprised at herself when she says, “I’d really like to kiss you now.”

Eyes widening, just a hair, he opens his mouth, momentarily speechless. “You--are you sure?”

She nods, maybe a little too enthusiastically.

“Cool. Uh, me too.”

“Cool.”

Neither of them move. 

“So, do--do you want to--”

Annabeth leans in, her other hand cupping his cheek, and kisses him. 

His lips are soft. His mouth tastes like vanilla and bourbon. They are trapped in a metal box, one hundred and fifty feet off the ground, about to get the punishment of their lives when they get down, and it is absolutely, utterly perfect. 

And when Annabeth pulls back, there are fireworks. 

Quite literally.

Percy’s face glows with pink and green and purple, and a little fire in his eyes that’s all him. The pops of the fireworks, loud and brassy, and muted, completely overshadowed by the pounding of her heart in her chest. 

They rest their heads against each other, breathing each other’s air, quiet and intimate, the calm before the storm that is surely coming. But that’s fine. Let it come, she thinks. She’ll be safe with Percy.

When the park technicians eventually get the ferris wheel moving again, Percy and Annabeth disembark from the gondola like nothing’s even gone wrong, waving to the crowd of people, fans, and reporters alike, who have swarmed the pier, phones and cameras held aloft in a constellation of light, before being quickly hurried away by Zoe and her crew, ushered to the end of the pier where Annabeth’s embassy’s car is waiting. 

Percy doesn’t let go of her hand once. 

***

KALYMNOS, GREECE--Prince Percy has arrived on the island for his family’s annual summer retreat, bringing his girlfriend, Princess Annabeth of Sweden, with him for the fifth year in a row, and the third as his official partner. Lifelong friends, the couple were most recently seen at Disneyland Tokyo, continuing something of a tradition for the two royals where they visit Disneyland parks across the globe. Our sources inside the castle are hinting that the family is planning something big this year. Could we see a proposal by the end of summer? Be sure to subscribe for more updates!

[meirmakesstuff]

1/2 Hi Meir! I saw your answer on WWC, and since you mentioned you're professionals, I figured I'd ask directly: I'm writing a second world fantasy with a jewish coded people. I want to be clear in the coding but avoid the "if there's no egypt, how can there be passover?" so I called them Canaanites. I thought I was being clever by hinting in the naming that the whole region does exist, but I've since read that it might've been a slur in fact? Do you have any advice on this?

2/2 I did consider calling the group in question Jewish, but aside from how deeply Judaism is connected to the history of the Israelites, I haven't used any present-day real-world names for any other group, (I did use some historic names like Nubia). I feel like calling only one group of people by their currently used name would be othering rather than inclusive? Or am I overthinking this?

Okay so I want to start out with some disclaimers, first that although WWC recently reblogged an addition of mine to one of their posts, I am not affiliated with @writingwithcolor​, and second that the nature of trying to answer a question like this is “two Jews, three opinions,” so what I have to say about this is my own opinion(s) only. Last disclaimer: this is a hard question to address, so this answer is going to be long. Buckle up.

First, I would say that you’re right to not label the group in question “Jewish” (I’ll get to the exception eventually), and you’re also right in realizing that you should not call them “Canaanites.” In Jewish scripture, Canaanites are the people we fought against, not ourselves, so that wouldn’t feel like representation but like assigning our identity to someone else, which is a particular kind of historical violence Jews continue to experience today. I’ll get back to the specific question of naming in a moment, but because this is my blog and not WWC, and you asked me to speak to this as an educator, we’re going to take a detour into Jewish history and literary structure before we get back to the question you actually asked.

To my mind there are three main ways to have Jews in second-world fantasy and they are:

People who practice in ways similar to modern real-world Jews, despite having developed in a different universe,

People who practice in ways similar to ancient Hebrews, because the things that changed us to modern Jewish practice didn’t occur, and

People who practice in a way that shows how your world would influence the development of a people who started out practicing like ancient Hebrews and have developed according to the world they’re in. 

The first one is what we see in @shiraglassman​‘s Mangoverse series: there is no Egypt yet her characters hold a seder; the country coded Persian seems to bear no relation to their observance of Purim, and there is no indication of exile or diaspora in the fact that Jews exist in multiple countries and cultures, and speak multiple languages including Yiddish, a language that developed through a mixture of Hebrew and German. Her characters’ observance lines up approximately with contemporary Reform Jewish expectations, without the indication of there ever having been a different practice to branch off from. She ignores the entire question of how Jews in her universe became what they are, and her books are lyrical and sweet and allow us to imagine the confidence that could belong to a Jewish people who weren’t always afraid.

Shira is able to pull this off, frankly, because her books are not lore-heavy. I say this without disrespect--Shira often refers to them as “fluffy”--but because the deeper you get into the background of your world and its development, the trickier this is going to be to justify, unless you’re just going to just parallel every historical development in Jewish History, including exile and diaspora across the various nations of your world, including occasional near-equal treatment and frequent persecution, infused with a longing for a homeland lost, or a homeland recently re-established in the absolutely most disappointing of ways.

Without that loss of homeland or a Mangoverse-style handwaving, we have the second and third options. In the second option, you could show your Jewish-coded culture having never been exiled from its homeland, living divided into tribes each with their own territory, still practicing animal, grain, and oil sacrifice at a single central Temple at the center of their nation, overseen by a tribe that lacks territory of their own and being supported by the sacrifices offered by the populace.

If you’re going to do that, research it very carefully. A lot of information about this period is drawn from scriptural and post-scriptural sources or from archaeological record, but there’s also a lot of Christian nonsense out there assigning weird meanings and motivations to it, because the Christian Bible takes place during this period and they chose to cast our practices from this time as evil and corrupt in order to magnify the goodness of their main character. In any portrayal of a Jewish-coded people it’s important to avoid making them corrupt, greedy, bigoted, bloodthirsty, or stubbornly unwilling to see some kind of greater or kinder truth about the world, but especially if you go with this version. 

The last option, my favorite but possibly the hardest to do, is to imagine how the people in the second option would develop given the influences of the world they’re in. Do you know why Chanukah is referred to as a “minor” holiday? The major holidays are the ones for which the Torah specifies that we “do not work:” Rosh Hashannah, Yom Kippur, and the pilgrimage holidays of Sukkot, Passover, and Shavuot. Chanukah developed as a holiday because the central temple, the one we made those pilgrimages to, was desecrated by the invading Assyrian Greeks and we drove them out and were able to re-establish the temple. That time. Eventually, the Temple was razed and we were scattered across the Roman Empire, developing the distinct Jewish cultures we see today. The Greeks and Romans aren’t a semi-mythologized ancient people, the way the Canaanites have been (though there’s increasing amounts of archaeology shedding light on what they actually might have been like), we have historical records about them, from them. The majority of modern Jewish practice developed from the ruins of our ancient practices later than the first century CE. In the timeline of Jewish identity, that’s modern.

The rabbinic period and the Temple period overlap somewhat, but we’re not getting into a full-scale history lesson here. Suffice it to say that it was following the loss of the sacrificial system at the central Temple that Judaism coalesced an identity around verbal prayer services offered at the times of day when we would previously have offered sacrifices, led each community by its own learned individual who became known as a rabbi. We continued to develop in relationship with the rest of the world, making steps toward gender equality in the 1970s and LGBT equality in the 2000s, shifting the meaning of holidays like Tu Bishvat to address climate change, debating rulings on whether one may drive a car on Shabbat for the sake of being with one’s community, and then pivoting to holding prayer services daily via Zoom.

The history of the Jews is the history of the world.  Our iconic Kol Nidrei prayer, the centerpiece of the holiest day of the year, that reduces us to tears every year at its first words, was composed in response to the Spanish Inquisition. The two commentators who inform our understanding of scripture--the ones we couldn’t discuss Torah without referencing even if we tried--wrote in the 11th and 12th centuries in France and Spain/Egypt. Jewish theology and practice schismed into Orthodox and Reform (and later many others) because that’s the kind of discussion people were into in the 19th century. Sephardim light Chanukah candles in an outdoor lamp while Ashkenazim light Chanukah candles in an indoor candelabrum because Sephardim developed their traditions in the Middle East and North Africa and the Ashkenazim developed our traditions in freezing Europe. There are works currently becoming codified into liturgy whose writers died in 2000 and 2011. 

So what are the historical events that would change how your Jewish-coded culture practices, if they don’t involve loss of homeland and cultural unity? What major events have affected your world? If there was an exile that precipitated an abandonment of the sacrificial system, was there a return to their land, or are they still scattered? Priority one for us historically has been maintaining our identity and priority two maintaining our practices, so what have they had to shift or create in order to keep being a distinct group? Is there a major worldwide event in your world? If so, how did this people cope?

If you do go this route, be careful not to fall into tropes of modern or historical antisemitism: don’t have your culture adopt a worldview that has their deity split into mlutiple identities (especially not three). Don’t have an oppressive government that doesn’t represent its people rise up to oppress outsiders within its borders (this is not the first time this has occurred in reality, but because the outside world reacts differently to this political phenomenon when it’s us than when it’s anyone else, it’s a portrayal that makes real-life Jews more vulnerable). And don’t portray the people as having developed into a dark and mysterious cult of ugly, law-citing men and beautiful tearstreaked women, but it doesn’t sound as if you were planning to go there.

So with all that said, it’s time to get back to the question of names. All the above information builds to this: how you name this culture depends on how you’ve handled their practice and identity. 

Part of why Shira Glassman’s handwaving of the question of how modern Jewish practice ended up in Perach works is that she never gives a name to the religion of her characters. Instead, she names the regions they come from. Perach, in particular, the country where most of the action takes place, translates to “Flower.” In this case, her Jewish-coded characters who come from Perach are Perachis, and characters from other places who are also Jewish are described as “they worship as Perachis do despite their different language” or something along those lines (forgive me, Shira, for half-remembering).

So that’s method one: find an attribute of your country that you’d like to highlight, translate it into actual Hebrew, and use that as your name.

Method two is the opposite: find a name that’s been used to identify our people or places (we’ve had a bunch), find out what it means or might mean in English, and then jiggle that around until it sounds right for your setting. You could end up with the nation of the Godfighters, or Children of Praise, The Wanderers (if they’re not localized in a homeland), The Passed-Over, Those From Across The River, or perhaps the people of the City of Peace.

Last, and possibly easiest, pick a physical attribute of their territory and just call them that in English. Are they from a mountainous region? Now they’re the Mountain People. Does their land have a big magical crater in the middle? Craterfolk. Ethereal floating forests of twinkling lights? It’s your world.

The second option is the only one that uses the name to overtly establish Jewish coding. The first option is something Jews might pick up on, especially if they speak Hebrew, but non-Jews would miss. The third avoids the question and puts the weight of conveying that you’re trying to code them as Jewish on their habits and actions.

There’s one other option that can work in certain types of second-world fantasy, and that’s a world that has developed from real-world individuals who went through some kind of portal. That seems to me the only situation in which using a real-world name like Jews, Hebrews, or Israelites would make sense. Jim Butcher does this with the Romans in the Codex Alera series, and Katharine Kerr does it with Celts in the Deverry cycle. That kind of thing has to be baked into the world-building, though, so it probably doesn’t help with this particular situation. 

This is a roundabout route to what I imagine you were hoping would be an easier answer. The tension you identified about how to incorporate Jewishness into a world that doesn’t have the same history is real, and was the topic of a discussion I recently held with a high school age group around issues of Jewish representation in the media they consume and hope to create. Good luck in your work of adding to the discussion.

[unknownwriting]

Summary: Hc binging a series

Characters: Trafalgar Water D. Law, Usopp, Nico Robin

Warnings: none :)

Notes: school is really getting in the way and I wanna cry so expect these semi-rushed hc :))

Trafalgar Water D. Law

Definitely Mostly watches superhero series: Gotham- yes, Superman- yup, any of the marvel shows- probably knows all the theories. This man is lowkey a huge fanboy and there’s no denying it.

Lowkey probably into Grey’s Anantony. He’ll make comments like ‘that’s so stupid’, ‘they did that all wrong’, ‘so much drama’, ‘they could’ve saved him another way.’ Although he watches it he still a doctor and can’t help but point it all out.

He’s not to big on snacks. He’ll have like only a drink and maybe a small bag of chips but that pretty much it.

In all honesty I can see Law liking tv series more than movies for many reasons: 1- he gets to spend more time with you whether it’s talking about therioes, ranting about something, or just cuddling and 2- he feel like they have more to them, like more mysteries, action, and times where the 2 of you have to think to figure out what’s gonna happen next, though, most of the time your doing all the thinking bc law figured it all out. But to save time, mostly do to his job, he sticks to movies.

Like I said before this man is into series that make you think, maybe even to the point your brain hurts but no matter what your thinking. I would give examples but my poor brain would be fried if I watched those series alone. But still this man needs something to keep in mind busy, and why not think. With that in mind, psychology or thrill is probably up his ally. Along with superheroes. Omg and when the 2 of you watch superheroes, you find it so cute when he fan boys. Ajhfsdjhdf you can’t tell me he is not cute.

Although, Law likes the keep his mind working bc this man is like hella smart occasionally he’ll watch some romance movie with you. Now of course don’t think you’ll get away wraith watching something like the Kissing Booth, he won’t have it. When it comes to romance your have 2 options, either an old romance like the note book or some superhero, like Wonder Woman.

But even if the 2 of you watch a fiancé movie it never last long anyways. Watching romance also ends in one thing: you 2 in bed :) You try to tell him that you just wanna watch he movie but Law is a surprisingly romantic person so he’s gonna wanna also show that he loves you. Kinda thinks the reasons you like the romance is because he’s not showinf you enough love but you didn’t here then from me.

Definitely the best person to talk to when it comes to theories and all that.

Because his crazy work schedule does tend to get in the away quite a lot, when the 2 of you do get to spend time with each other, you both make sure it’s to the fullest.

Usopp 

Usopp will watch almost anything with you, it might take some time but even horror

Hands down Usopp is one of the best people to watch a series with for many reasons. 1- he’ll watch almost anything 2- he’ll watch a series all the way through in one sitting but will only stop when one of you can’t sit still anymore or th sires has ended, duh. It doesn’t matter if it’s long or short, the 2 of you will watch until you eyes turn red.

If one of you end up falling asleep the other will always turn off the series no mater where you are at. Action just started but you fell asleep, usopp doesn’t even hesaite. Just found out the mystery behind the main characters dad is but Usopp fell asleep, you don’t even give it a 2nd thought and turn it off. 

The whole reason the 2 of you watch series together is to have someone to share the exsperance with and to have someone to talk to, rant, to, and cry with so if either of you watch ahead and/or spoil it, it defeats the whole purpose.

And finally the 3rd reasons is: Usopp knows how to binge. He’ll bring snakes, blankets, drinks, and all of it. And with that being said, it’s a know fact that the 2 of y’all will easily become couch potato partners, rarely even moving.

Like before, Usopp doesn’t really care what y’all watch, he just wants to be with you. But if he had a choice, I feel like he would prefer anime. Just because he can find like so many more options.

He’s also not really one for like thinking. So he’ll try to stay away from shows that Law might watch.

Sadly, although I’ve been talking like the 2 of y’all don’t have a life and just sit around and watching tv all the time, y’all do have a life. So there are some times where y’all won’t be able to watch tv and it might be a while till y’all do so. But, bc I wrote these hc with the idea that y’all are in college, y’all live together so when it’s a lot easier to watch tv shows together.

Robin

Robin’s not to big on tv shows or movies in the first place. She’s rather snuggle up with a book and a cup of coffee. However, she knows that you enjoy watching movies and tv shows together. So she doesn’t mind sitting down and enjoying a few shows/movies with you.

The only ‘rule’ she has when it comes to watching shows/movies is that she won’t watch movies and shows that are based on books. She won’t watch them at all, she’d rather read the book to get all the information and the full story

Besides that, she’s pretty open when it comes to shows/movies. She doesn’t mind watching what ever you wanna watch. She might not pay attention but she’ll watch it with you.

Like Law, for Robin to pay attention it would have to be a show with a lot of historical value that makes you think a bit. She loves discussing theories and ideas with you.

She’s also not to big on snacks, it could get messy and distracting so she tries to avoid them. Although, Robin doesn’t mind having a drink with her, like an ice tea, coffee or maybe something with alcohol in it.

With that being said, Robins not to big on snuggling up in blankets, either. Now that doesn’t mean she doesn’t enjoy to cuddle, she just wants to be under and light blanket that is easy to get in and out from.

Robins also not one to spend the whole day watching shows either, she would prefer to do it at night and only watch maybe around 3-5 depending on the show. She also prefers to read so there aren’t many times where the 2 of can watch shows together but she never said she wouldn’t read while you watch the show.

Bc y’all’s daily schedules can vary with Robin working as an archaeologists, its not surprising when the 2 of y’all can’t really sit back and relax with each, so watching those shows/movies is a nice way for y’all to relax without exchanging any words and just enjoying each other’s company 

[razieltwelve]

Origins of the Dia (Final Rose)

The Dia Clan are perhaps the most mysterious of the Clans since nobody really knows where they came from. That’s not a joke. They literally just showed up one day.

According to the Yun, the Dia were first spotted on a spring afternoon building a village in the forest of Oerba. The Dia welcomed the Yun rangers and asked if they were from around there. Dumbfounded, the Yun explained that they’d been living in the area for years.

The Dia then asked if they were trespassing since they’d rather not have to fight anybody. The rangers explained that, technically, the Dia weren’t trespassing. The Yun had yet to lay claim to the entire region although they warned the Dia that Oerba and its immediate surroundings were theirs, as were the Yun Mountains.

The Dia agreed and asked if perhaps a map could be given to them that showed where they were allowed to settle. The rangers replied that they would have to consult with their leaders.

The ranger went back to Oerba and explained the situation. The chieftain at the time was bemused by the whole thing. From what the scouts said, the Dia appeared to be mostly traders, merchants, and craftsmen. Moreover, they seemed friendly enough, and he could see the benefit in having them around. Simply put, the Yun were not numerous enough to hold all of Oerba. Having other people around would give them allies against the Grimm and potentially other clans.

The rangers returned with a suitable map only to find that the ‘village’ the Dia had been building now resembled a fortress. In a remarkably short period of time, the Dia had succeeded in fortifying the location and were busy setting up kilns, looms, and other devices for manufacturing goods for sale.

The rangers immediately told the chieftain about this. This, of course, worried him. It spoke to a great level of technological advancement, beyond that of the Yun. Even so, the chieftain went to speak with the leader of the Dia. To his surprise, the Dia leader was elected rather than hereditary.

After several discussions, the Dia agreed to terms regarding the split of territory and so forth. This agreement would hold for decades as both the Yun and the Dia continued to expand their territory and grow their populations. The two were friendly enough, but not especially close. They were like neighbours greeting each other over a fence and having the occasional conversation.

However, a massive Grimm incursion would see the Dia forced to flee into Yun lands. That same Grimm horde would assail the walls of Oerba and eventually sack the city for the second time (the first timed occurred when Father of the Yun died). With their backs to the wall, the Dia would fight alongside the Yun, taking horrendous casualties as well.

From that day forward, though, the Dia were no longer viewed as neighbours to be treated with courtesy but as brothers and sisters in arms. The old treaty was torn up, and a new, more favourable one written. The two Clans would instead share their territory and settlements. Since that day, the Yun and the Dia have been inseparable. Where one clan goes, the other inevitably follows. The first settlement built by the Dia is still there. It’s name, as translated, from Ancient Dia means ‘Stop Arguing’ because they chose it after lots of arguing about where they should build their first settlement.

Attempts to track the journey of the Dia have never had much success. Historical evidence can be used to track the journey of the Yun from across the continent to Oerba although there remain disputes about the historical accuracy of some of the feats involved. However, this difficult with the Dia can be explained by the records kept by the Dia themselves.

According to the Dia, there was no Dia Clan. Instead, their ‘Clan’ was made up of random people who bumped into each other while looking for somewhere less awful to live. The majority of these people were merchants, craftsmen, scholars, artists, and so on who had managed to survive the destruction of other lands. Travelling together, the people spoke dozens of different languages before making their own by haphazardly combining different languages over the course of decades.

Since the Dia weren’t much good at fighting initially, they were forced out of various places, unable to secure and hold territory of their own. This struggle did make them better at fighting, though, and by the time they arrived in Oerba, they could fight well enough. However, their true skill lay in their advanced technology. Since they were constantly on the move, their lives were difficult. To make them easier, they grew adept at rapid construction and in the development of technologies (e.g., better looms and portable kilns) that would make their lives easier.

The ‘Dia Clan’ was the result of multiple semi-independent migrations of unrelated peoples who had all heard about other like-minded people trying to find somewhere better. Unlike the Yun, who were unified by a single great leader, the Dia Clan was instead put together in patchwork fashion. Their name comes from an Ancient Dia word. In Ancient Dia, the word ‘Dia’ means ‘those who wander but are not lost’. In other words, they viewed themselves as wanderers, but they did not view themselves as lost because they always believed that they would find their place in the world.

So, basically, the Dia are a bunch of people who showed up one day because they believed there was something better out there. They didn’t have a leader at first. They elected one once it became obvious there were too many people involved to just keep doing things without a leader. They have continued to retain that same spirit of innovation and adventure ever since with the Dia producing a disproportionate number of geniuses and prodigies in intellectual areas, the most famous of which is Vanille. It’s also why the Dia have a soft spot for misfits and strange people... they are the misfits and strange people. Notably, the Dia have always been the clan most favourable toward the Al Bhed, who continue to wander the world.

[queenbirbs]

the open door | Ethan x MC

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x MC

Warnings: swearing, some brief mentions of corpses and body horror, spooks and possible spectres 

Word count: 7.7k

Premise: Bryce invites Sloane, Sienna, and Aurora on a tour of a haunted estate on the night before Halloween. What could go wrong?  

Notes: I’m super bummed that we didn’t get a Halloween-themed chapter for this book, especially since it’s my favorite holiday. Takes place post chapter 11, though I’ve played with the timeline a bit to include Halloween. Re-post because it fell out of the tag, as posts seem to want to do as of late. 

Taglist: @maurine07 @caseyvalentineramsey

 ------

“You are aware there’s no such thing as witches, right?” 

“Well, yeah,” Bryce scoffs. “Maybe. Besides, I said she was rumored to be a witch. That’s a whole different thing.”

“Oh, right, of course it is.” In the backseat, Aurora rolls her eyes. “Just tell that to all the people killed during the Salem witch trials due to mass hysteria.”

“Hey, now -- it’s not like she was killed for being a witch.”

“Right. She pulled a classic Rose for Emily,” Sloane mutters while Sienna makes a gagging noise.

“What?” Bryce asks. 

“It’s a short story by Faulkner.”

“Oh.” There’s a brief pause. Sloane wonders if he even knows who that is. Then: “Is he the dude that had a hard-on for the Civil War?”

“Yeah,” Aurora snorts. “Basically.” 

“Yeah, never read any of his stuff. I think I used SparkNotes for one of his books in undergrad.”

“Same,” Sloane admits, to which Bryce shoots her a look of faux-surprise. “Yeah, yeah, we all had to skate by sometimes.” 

“Well, well, well,” he crows. “Looks like the ‘next generation of medicine’ isn’t so high and mighty after all, huh?” 

“Wait, how did you--”

“Ramsey was four drinks deep at Donahue’s the other day, and one of the interns came up and bothered him about a possible spot on the team. Which meant we all overheard the twenty-minute spiel about what a great doctor you are.” He snickers as she puts a hand over her face and groans. “Yeah, it was real sweet. Real obvious, but sweet.”

She’s saved by the GPS on her phone, cutting through the music playing over the car speakers; Bryce takes the next exit as instructed. The off-ramp spits them out onto a two-lane county road.  Posted across from the solitary stop sign, the blue services sign offers nothing but blank, white squares. 

“There’s a bathroom, right?” Sienna asks. “Because I’m not seeing a gas station.”

“It’s a house, you guys,” Bryce scoffs, “not a cave.” 

“A haunted house,” she clarifies. 

“Well, I mean, I don’t think the toilets are haunted.”

For several miles, there’s nothing but sweeping woodlands and the occasional passing car. Long squiggles of tar decorate the asphalt, snaking across the empty, leaf-strewn road. The setting sun casts a golden hue over everything, spears of light cutting through the tree trunks. It would be a nice, evening drive if it weren’t for where they were headed. 

Forty minutes north of Boston lies the small, nondescript town of Angler. Even under the cover of dusk, Sloane can tell that it’s one of those towns. Pretty Tudors line the main street, their porches decorated with smiling scarecrows sitting on bales of hay; banners along the telephone poles advertise the annual apple festival. The bank and the post office and the dry cleaners are all tucked together in the refurbished general store. It’s the stereotypical, pleasant, all-American town. Which means that it’s the perfect place to hide a dark stain of history. 

Why Bryce signed up for such a thing and how he won the tickets is beyond her. When he asked them all to join him for a haunted house, Sloane expected the typical theme: some dingy warehouse refurbished enough to meet modern building codes, full of tight mazes and masked actors with chainsaws.

“Nah, guys, this is the real deal,” he gloated over lunch the previous afternoon. “Back in the 1800s, this woman -- uhh Margaret, or Maggie, I think, yeah Maggie Angler -- she was one of the Boston Brahmins, owned this estate out in the country, blah blah blah. No one knows a whole lot about her because she was a little weird and she kept to herself. At some point, this dude woos her and they get married. But then, a few years later, he dies. Neighbors drop by to offer casseroles or whatever, but she won’t answer the door, so they give up and leave her alone. A few months go by, and suddenly this dude from town goes missing. Then a year, and another goes missing. This continues for several years and--” 

“So, what, she’s some kind of black widow?” Elijah asked. 

“No, this isn’t one of those Marvel--” Bryce’s brow furrowed and then lifted, realization striking his handsome face. “--oh, heh, yeah, sorry. But yeah, sort of. It wasn’t until word got around that the latest dude was seen talking to Maggie at the store that people got suspicious of her. So, they gather up some people and storm the house, where they find a Satanic Bible and other spooky shit. But that’s not the only thing they find.”

They all glance around at each other, waiting to see who will encourage Bryce to break his silence and finish the damn story. “They also find... the missing dudes.”

“What, buried in the backyard?” Sloane asked, and frowned when Bryce shook his head. 

“No, not buried. She killed them and then kept them in the house. Supposedly, they were posed at the table or sitting on the couch, rotting away.”

 Sienna made a show of pushing her plate away. “That’s disgusting.”

“I know there’s a group of people in Indonesia that keep their dead relatives at home,” Aurora said, “but they’re preserved and cared for. This doesn’t sound like that.”

“Nope.” Elijah shook his head. “Definitely not the same thing.”

“What happened to the woman?” Sloane asked.

“No idea -- get this: they never found her.” Bryce lifted his eyebrows for dramatic effect. “But the story goes that she still haunts the place, searching for her lost lovers, and maybe… trying to get some new ones.”  

Jackie, who had been busy scrolling away on her phone through the tale, snorted into her salad. 

“And you want us to come with you to some evil witch’s house on the night before Halloween to go ghost hunting? I may not believe in any of this shit, but no fucking way.” 

“Yeah,” Elijah sighed, cringing at the crestfallen look on Bryce’s face. “Sorry dude, but I’ll pass. My idea of fun is a John Carpenter movie marathon, not a tour around Jane the Ripper’s house.” 

“Okay, understood.” With that, Bryce looked to the remaining three and turned on the charm, draping his arm across Sloane’s shoulders. “C’mon, ladies, whaddaya say? Hard to pass up the prospect of touring a bona fide haunted mansion with one of the most handsome men you know -- second only to Elijah here.”  

Tapping at her chin, Sienna nodded and grinned. “Sounds fun. I like scary things.” 

Aurora, on the other hand, shot him a skeptical look. “Are you going to shout at the air and act like you’re possessed, like I’ve seen that one ghost hunter do on TV? The one with the spiky hair?” she demanded to know. 

“Uhhh no to all of those things, but especially to the spiky hair.”  

“Okay, then,” she shrugged, “I’ll go.” 

Every eye at the table turned to Sloane; Bryce squeezed her shoulder in encouragement. 

“Alright,” she agreed. “It’d be fun to get spooked, I guess. I’m down.”

Which is how she comes to be in the passenger seat of Bryce’s car, leaning forward onto the dashboard as they take the final turn onto a hidden lane. A thick tunnel of trees swallows them up as they drive deeper into the woods. After several miles, there’s a break in the pines, and then: sprawled atop a hill, looming above them, is the house. Even if she hadn’t heard the backstory, Sloane feels like the place would still give her the creeps. With its filmy lace curtains and its tall windows glowing yellow in the approaching darkness, the house looks like it’s been pulled from an Edward Hopper painting. Worn pavers lead from the semi-circular driveway and up to the front porch. Framing either side of the steps, thin, brittle blades of tufted hairgrass shift in the wind. Two people turn from the front door and raise a hand in greeting.

Bryce kills the engine and twists around in his seat to grin at his compatriots. 

“You guys ready to get scaaaared?”

Sienna wraps her hands around Sloane’s seat and leans forward, her eyes wide as she stares out the windshield. 

“Why does it look like The Amityville Horror house?” 

“Is this a bad time to mention that the Blair Witch Project’s producers used this place as inspiration?”

“Yeah,” she hisses, “definitely a bad time.”

Shouldering open her door, Sloane lets in the cool October air in an attempt to corral their attention. It works; the rest of them pile out of the car with her and approach the couple. 

As the current owners of the property, Jack and Nancy Bell guide them through the main floor of the house, pointing out spots of reported activity. The interior is lovely -- one of those Sloane would see in a Pictagram post of a wedding venue, with all those carved banisters and original wainscoting. Her brother, a successful carpenter in the Twin Cities, would have a field day in here. Most of the furniture is original to the house, as well, and in surprisingly good condition.  

The only aspect setting the house apart from any other on the historical registry are the props. In the front hall, a bulletin board hosts an array of newspaper clippings. The earlier articles blame a serial killer, dubbed the ‘Butcher of Angler,’ for the mens’ disappearances. Then, starting on October 28th, 1892, the headlines change to the ‘Wicked Witch of Winthrope County.’ In the drawing room sits an Ouija board, surrounded by melted candles. A cauldron and a Satanic Bible share space on the kitchen counter; corked bottles of what look like cooking spices and herbs clutter the open cabinets. Mannequins lounge at the dining table or on the sofa, dressed in dusty clothes, their jaws slack, their painted eyes still and dull. Beside them, framed in cheap plastic, are the grainy photographs of the corpses as they were found. To Sloane, it all feels hokey, like a regular haunted house with the strobe lights turned off. 

There’s something else, though, something underneath the fine layer of dust and the creaking floorboards and the shrouded furniture. It skitters across her neck and down her back, making her shiver, which she discounts as a wayward draft in the old house. 

It’s the distinct feeling of being watched.  

“Aside from the big house, there’s a carriage house to the left there. We rent it out in the summer and fall for overnight stays.” Jack gestures to the east as they step out onto the back veranda, where, just beyond the slope of lawn, a smaller house sits with a solitary porch light glowing. “And back down the path there will lead you to the lake. When we bought the place, the deed stated that there was a cabin out near the state park line, but we’ve never been able to find evidence of it.”

“Maggie’s been seen down by the lake, too,” Nancy chimes in. “People say they see her there, inside the boathouse, or walking along the shore with her head down, as if she’s searching for something.” 

“We’ve got lanterns here if you want to use them as you go about the grounds, though you’re welcome to use your flashlights.” Jack nudges a neat row of antique lanterns with his sneaker. “For the optimal experience, though, we recommend turning off all the inside lights and using secondary light sources instead.” He chuckles when Sienna makes a throaty noise of dissent. 

The couple leads them back through the house and into the front hall to finish the tour. While Jack goes over the various rules, Nancy motions for Sloane to follow her out onto the front porch. 

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of your friends,” she starts off in a whisper, “but I wanted to talk to you about our son, Ben.”

For a fleeting moment, Sloane thinks that she’s going to get questioned about his bowel movements or a mysterious rash, that Bryce must have told them he was bringing along his doctor friends. “When he was seven, he nearly--” Nancy cuts herself off, pressing a hand to her heart, “--he drowned when we were at the beach in Florida. I did CPR until the EMTs got there, and they were able to resuscitate him, thank God.”

“I’m sorry,” Sloane murmurs, “that must’ve been awful.”

“It was. But I’m -- the reason I’m telling you all this is because, after that, Ben seems to be more… open. More open than the rest of us.”

“I’m sorry,” Sloane says again, though this time out of confusion, “but I don’t--”

With a huff, Nancy shakes her head and waves her hands. “No, no, I apologize. I must sound crazy. I just wanted to warn you that, due to what happened to you, you might see things or experience things that your friends can’t. That’s all, dear.” 

Sloane opens her mouth to question her further, but they’re interrupted by the rest of the gang filing out beside them. “We’ll be back at one a.m. to lock up behind you,” Nancy says as she follows her husband down to their car. 

With a cheery honk, the little Subaru rumbles down the winding driveway and disappears. The sun having set during the tour, the landscape before them is now draped with the heavy blanket of night. The moon peeks at them from just above the treetops, as if still deciding on whether or not to come out. The only lights are far-off, unmoving: porch lights of the houses back in town; cell towers with their red stars blinking lazily against the dark. A cold wind moves through the trees, rustling the leaves and scattering them across the front walk, the dried edges hissing along the brick. 

“Can you believe he said no alcohol?” Bryce breaks the silence with a whine. “I read about this fun séance thing you do with tequila shots and--” 

“No séances!” Sienna declares. “And definitely no tequila!” 

“Can we argue about this where it’s warmer?” Aurora suggests and steps back into the house. 

As she and Sienna wander off into the drawing room, Sloane wraps a hand around Bryce’s arm and pulls him back. 

“Did you tell her about me?”

His nose scrunches up to meet his furrowed brows. “Tell who about what?” 

“The-- Nancy, did you tell her about what happened to me? With… with the senator, and…” it’s embarrassing how much of a struggle it is to get the words out, even now, even after three weeks and two therapy appointments. 

His face falls from confusion to concern. Bryce reaches up and lays his hand over her own. 

“Slo, I didn’t tell them, I swear. I would never,” he promises. “Did she say something to you?”      

She loosens her hold, frustrated at herself that she even considered he would do such a thing. He’s one of her best friends, the man who handed over the reins to a cutting-edge surgery just to be by her side. 

“Yeah, no, listen: it’s fine,” she stumbles through a paltry reassurance. “She was probably trying to scare me, that’s all.” 

He gives her a quick once-over, lips twisting into a frown as he debates on whether or not to push. She bites back a breath of relief when he relents, his hand releasing hers.

“Okay,” he says, and nudges her into the house ahead of him. “C’mon. Between the two of us, I think we can convince them to turn off the lights.”

------

Although he puts up a good fight, Bryce loses on the no-lights front. 

Which is just as well, because by the time they reach the second floor, Sloane is glad for the light from the antique lamps. To be fair, nothing actually happens: no spooks, no spectres, and no signs from the former resident. Nothing she can point to with any amount of certainty. Whatever it is hovers out of reach, just on the tip of her tongue, but she can’t seem to give it a name. Maybe it lies -- like any good, scary movie -- in the setting. For as grand as the house is, time and dereliction have taken its fine features hostage. Thick, gray dust coats the wooden spindles and curled handrails of the antique staircase. The corridors are tight, the shadows gathering in the space where the lights can’t seem to reach. Small curls of peeling wallpaper look like fingers reaching out from the wall, backlit by the sconces. The cloying scent of wood rot and mold fills the air, like a pile of papers left to curl and yellow with age. The rooms are small, cluttered with furniture and trinkets and artwork. 

Sloane stares at such a portrait in the master bedroom, where a couple stares down at her from above the fireplace. The man sits in a chair, the woman standing beside him with her hand on his shoulder. It would be any other family portrait, if it weren’t for the unsettling glaze over the man’s sunken eyes. 

“Bryce, please don’t-- aaaand he’s sitting on the bed.” 

“You do know that’s where they found her husband, right?” Sienna points out. “That’s why there’s a mannequin on it. And a picture of his dead body on the nightstand.”

“Maybe Maggie will see what a catch I am if I’m laid out for her. I’ve never met a woman over the age of sixty who could resist my charms.” Bryce waggles his eyebrows as he bounces once, then twice on the mattress before stretching out. “What’s up, bro?” he asks the mannequin beside him before doing a double-take. “Hey, it’s Annie!”

He snatches off the ugly wig and fake beard, and lo and behold, an old CPR dummy gapes up at them all. Sloane snorts and shakes her head. 

“Looks like the years haven’t been kind to her.”   

“Probably saddled with student loans just like the rest of us,” Aurora mutters as she wanders over to inspect the photograph. “Had to get a second job here.”

“Hey, that was a joke!” Bryce commends. “And a pretty good one at that.”

“I do jokes.”

“You so do not.” 

A muffled bang from somewhere in the house stops their banter. Everyone glances at each other, verifying that everyone in their group is indeed in the room. 

“What was that?” Sienna whispers. 

“Probably the pipes,” Aurora says. “It is an old house.” 

As if on cue, the lights flicker once, then switch off, sinking them into complete darkness. There’s a flurry of noise as everyone digs out their phones; the bedroom seems even creepier, now, under the white glow of their flashlights.  

“What do we do?” Sienna hisses, scurrying from the window to latch onto Aurora.  

“We could always search for the breaker,” she suggests. 

“Which would be where?”

“In the basement, most likely.”

“Um, no,” Sienna balks. “Hell no.”  

“Are you guys serious right now?” Bryce hops down from the bed and pokes his head out the open doorway. “This is so cool! Who wants to go downstairs with me and grab the Ouija board?”

“If you bring that thing near me, I will break it in half.”

He grimaces at Sienna’s threat. 

“You’re not really supposed to do that with them. It’ll keep the door open for the spirits to come in.”

“It’s a toy made by Hasbro,” Aurora scoffs. “It’s not going to ‘let in’ anything. And the planchette doesn’t actually move on its own. That’s due to the ideomotor effect.”

Moving over to the window, Sloane presses her temple against the pane’s edge and squints. Just past the eastern wing, she spots a faint halo of yellow light on the lawn. 

“Hey,” she raises her voice over their bickering. “It looks like the carriage house still has power.” 

“Great!” Sienna squeaks and pulls Aurora with her towards the door. “Let’s check it out. I… love carriage houses.” 

They push past Bryce and start back down the hall. Turning from the doorway, a coy smile spreads across his face, a single eyebrow lifting at his wordless request. 

“Oh, no.” Sloane shakes her head as she crosses the room. “I’m not staying up here so you can play Twenty Questions with a ghost.”

She ignores his good-natured grumbling and leads him to the staircase, where Aurora and Sienna are waiting on the landing. Aimed at the ground, their flashlights slice at the hand-carved walls; dustmotes dance in the twin beams, kicked up by their feet. The air feels heavier, mustier here, too, like breathing through wet wool. They tromp down the stairs and across the first floor to the kitchen. Being at the back of the group, Sloane can’t help but glance back now and again at the shadowed recesses, searching for the source of her uneasiness. That she finds nothing amiss doesn’t seem to curb her anxiety. 

The sensation wanes when she closes the door behind them, sealing up the house once more. 

“How is it warmer outside than in there?” Sienna asks as they start cutting across the lawn for the carriage house.  

Bryce zips up his coat and shrugs. “I’ve heard that ghosts tend to suck the energy out of a room, creating cold spots when they mani--”

“Please stop talking,” she begs. “At least until we’re somewhere with electricity that actually works.” 

“Aw, come on, you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’ve seen enough scary movies in your life to know that we’re safe if we travel together. Besides, everyone knows the funny guy goes first.”  

“I think that honor belongs to people of color, now, sorry.” Aurora chuckles when he spins around to wince at her. 

“Yeah, fair point.” 

Coated in fallen leaves, the ground crunches loud underneath their shoes, blocking out the night sounds as the four of them approach the smaller house. “But for real, I don’t think we have much to worry about from Maggie here. I mean, almost all ghost stories are about little white girls from Victorian times named Sally or Sarah or Kate.”

“That’s because of the spiritualism boom in the late nineteenth century,” Aurora answers.

Bryce sighs and quickly changes the subject, uninterested in a history lesson. 

Converted into a proper guest house sometime after the turn of the twentieth century, the carriage house lacks the severe decay of the main house. Though not as grand, the wallpaper here is intact, the dust not as heavy. It might just be the comforts of amenities such as central heating and electricity, but the inside of the house feels much more benign. As they complete a loop around the building, though, Sloane realizes that the feeling of being watched still remains, growing stronger when she passes or glances out one of the windows. With the glare of the lights, though, it’s hard to see much of anything past the panes. None of the others seem to be frightened -- or if they do, they keep quiet. The same can’t be said when Sienna flips the light on in the parlor.  

Toddler-size dolls lean against the walls, their porcelain hands cupped around their faces. Each wears a pretty, pastel dress trimmed in white lace, their hair falling down their backs in long, springy ringlets of dark brown, cherry red, and honey gold. Bryce makes a noise of disgust when he spins one around, its face blank: no eyes, no nose, no mouth. Time-out dolls, Sloane tells them, remembering her grandmother’s friend who owned several back in the early nineties -- though hers were all dressed as clowns. 

“People actually rent this place out? They pay money to stay here?” Sienna shudders. “I’d rather sleep in the other house, even with all the cobwebs and mannequins.”

“And the ghosts,” Bryce adds. 

“Ghosts don’t exist,” Aurora says. 

“Okay, Scully, that’s enough out of you.”

------

As the clock ticks closer to ten, Bryce votes to go check out the lake. Aurora and Sienna, however, vote to stay in the warm, well-lit kitchen. The plan is decided to split up and then meet back at the main house in time for midnight. 

“You know,” Bryce explains as he and Sloane make their way across the lawn, “because it’s the witching hour.”

“I thought it was three a.m.” 

“It is if you’re taking into account REM cycles and all that, but I’m not. All the legends I’ve read say…” he trails off, frowning as he jogs up the main house’s back steps. “Hey, you shut the door when we left, right?”

Her phone’s flashlight sweeps up the French doors; one of them is ajar, standing open several inches. She reaches for the handle and shuts it, listening for the snick of the latch.  

“I guess I didn’t pull it closed enough.”   

“Or,” he taunts as he grabs two of the lanterns from the porch, “something else opened it.” Ignoring her scoff, he pockets his phone and hands one of the lanterns to her. “These are nice. Do you think they’re original?”

“Bryce, they bought these from a Cracker Barrel. And besides, they’re battery-powered.” 

“Oh.” 

The back of the estate has been left to run wild. Overgrown swath rolls along the ground like dunes, snagging dead leaves between the dry blades. Thickets of barren shrubs creep out from the distant tree line. The path to the lake is marked by an old fence post, tied with a tattered ribbon. They make their way across the wide expanse of lawn, the trees ahead towering higher and higher the closer they get to the forest. Sloane can’t help but check over her shoulder. The house is just as they left it, though the moonlight is too weak to see if the door is still closed. 

Gravel crunches under their feet as they step onto the trail. The quiet night is broken by a ding from her phone. 

How goes the ghost hunting? 

She hooks the lantern in the crook of her arm and taps out her reply: Fun so far, lights went off by themselves. Very spooky 10/10

Ethan: What do fractions have to do with what you’re doing?

Sloane: Nvm 

Ethan: This isn’t 2002. You do have a full keyboard under your fingertips. 

Sloane: so?

Ethan: So there’s no excuse for using T9 acronyms.       

Sloane: Never thought I’d see the day you reprimand me for texting 

Ethan: I’ll spare you the lecture and let you get back to your witch hunt. Text me when you get home, please, so I know you returned safely. 

She hits send on the next message. Several seconds later, a red bubble appears beside her will do!, informing her that it refused to send. A quick glance at the top of the screen shows the one measly bar of service her phone is clinging onto. With a sigh, she tucks it away.   

“How’s Dr. Ramsey?” Bryce asks.

“Preparing a TEDtalk on prehistoric cell phone etiquette.” 

His nose scrunches up. “What?”

“Nothing,” she chuckles, exhaling through her mouth just to see her foggy breath. 

The light from the lanterns casts an eerie, yellow glow across the tree trunks and underbrush. Creaks and knocks echo up out of the dark -- branches smacking against each other as a cold wind sweeps through the area. The last vestiges of October skitter along the ground; the leaves almost sound like footsteps, dragging across the dirt behind them. The trail tightens as it winds down a small embankment and into a hollow. Their pace seems to pick up, though neither of them mention it. Sloane burrows into her scarf at the sudden dip in temperature.   

“How’s Keiki?” she asks, more so out of need to make conversation than actual curiosity.  

“Probably eating her way into a food coma with the pizza money I left for her, and beating all my high scores on Need for Speed.” He’s grinning as he says it, though, which Sloane finds encouraging. “I invited her to go with us, but she said no.” 

She doesn’t miss the crestfallen expression that crosses his face for a moment. 

“Trust me when I say this, because I speak from the experience of having a younger sibling, but she didn’t say no because she doesn’t like you or anything. It’s because she thinks you and your friends are dorks.” 

He sputters at the insult. “I’m not a dork!”

“You so totally are.”  

“Am not.” 

“Are too!” she argues. “Ethan thinks I’m bad, but you -- you come in on your days off and you like it.”

“That’s called dedication to the craft.” 

“That’s called being a dork.” 

What little she can see of the path ahead is more winding turns, more endless seas of bark and brushwood. But just when she thinks that they’ll never reach the end, that they’ll wind up stumbling upon Elly Kedward’s house -- there’s a small dot of light and then a break in the trees, where the path spits them out onto a rocky shore. The lake glints under their lanterns, the pearlescent gleam of the moon dancing on its surface. 

“Oh, hey, that was nice of them.”

Sloane’s gaze tracks along the shore and over to where he’s gestured. A solitary lantern sits in front of an old boathouse, illuminating the weathered cedar shake.  

“Too bad they can’t install lights along the path,” she mutters as they make their way to the structure. 

“What part of ‘bona fide haunted mansion’ did you not understand? This is the thrill of it!” 

Bryce shoulders open the door to a dim room with a half-sunken rowboat in the center. 

“Thrilling,” she drones, side-stepping his attempt to whack her arm. “Right.” 

They poke through the dirty raincoats and rusted tackle boxes. The wooden planks under their feet jostle and flex. Everything smells of wet and mold, the walls slick with grime. “I can think of several better places to haunt.” 

Bryce hums his agreement as he prods at a stack of old hunting magazines, the pages sealed together. Sloane steps over to look down at the boat, where minnows dart underneath the oars to escape her light. 

“Watch where you step,” she tells him as she crosses to the starboard side. “Some of these boards are really falling apa--”

The rest is lost to her shriek as the floor underneath her snaps. Her foot goes through the wood. She drops the lantern and scrambles to stay upright. The soggy planks slip from her grasp as she falls backwards, and then: water, the icy rush of it closing over her head. 

She fights back a gasp at the sudden cold. With her knee trapped in the joists, she can’t get her feet under her to kick to the surface. Her hands sweep out, flailing desperately. Something hard slams against her neck. She twists at the waist; the sunken lantern illuminates the long shadow of the boat. She digs her fingers into the wood. The cold saps at what strength she has, her muscles refusing to work as she tries to push herself out of the water. Her lungs ache; her heartbeat thuds inside her skull. Down in the murky depths below, a long shadow reaches towards her. Fingers, then hands seize her waist; her skin hits the cold air. Sloane blinks away the muddy haze that coats her eyes and sucks in a lungful of blessed oxygen. 

“Sloane!” Bryce shouts, as if he was expecting to pull out someone else. He ropes an arm around her back and helps her up out of the water. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of--” the rest of his words are lost to an undignified oof as Sloane wraps her arms around his neck. 

“Thanks.”

His hands come up to rest along her back, gently rubbing there to warm her frozen skin.

“I would say don’t mention it, but please do. The notoriety of me saving your life needs to make its way back to the hospital, so Rahul will finally go on a date with me.” 

She fights the urge to roll her eyes. 

“You would be concerned about getting a leg over while mine is still stuck.”

“Oh, whoops. Sorry, here, I’ll...” Sitting back on his heels, he steadies her against him and helps her shimmy out of the hole she’s made. Despite how saturated the planks are, her jeans are torn along her knee, where blood wells across several scratches. “Ouch,” he hisses. 

“Nothing a few bandages and a tetanus shot won’t fix,” she assures. Wobbling as she stands, Sloane limps over to the storage chest in the corner. The blanket she finds is tattered and smells of mold, but it’s better than braving the night’s chill in just her soaked sweater. “Alright, I want out of this place like yesterday.”

Bryce picks up his lantern and nods, following her out onto the shore and back onto the path. 

------

“And, I don’t know, he’s also distant with me sometimes, ya know? He’s hot, then he’s cold. He’ll flirt with me and agree to a date, but then he bails at the last second.”

“I get you.”

“That’s why I’m coming to you, oh wise one,” Bryce says with a grin. “Teach me your ways of dealing with difficult guys.”

Sloane laughs, the sound echoing through the quiet forest. Tucking the blanket tighter around her shoulders, she shakes her head. 

“Trust me, if I knew how to, I wouldn’t have such problems with my own.”

The cell phone in her pocket burns at the reminder of Ethan -- not that she could contact him if she wanted, given that the freezing water had zapped the last of its battery. 

“Yeah, but you could at least give me some pointers on how to wear him down.”

“Oh, my god, Bryce--”

“Okay, okay, not… ‘wear him down’... more, like, encouraging than that, I guess....” he trails off with a shrug. 

Humming as she thinks over her plan of attack, Sloane slows her pace to drop behind Bryce to skirt around a fallen tree -- until she can see it no more. “Fuck!” Bryce curses from in front of her, rattling the lantern as if abuse will bring it back to life. “Batteries must be dead. Let me…” There’s a rustling of clothes, a brief, hopeful inhale, then: “Fuck. Phone’s dead too. Must be the cold or something.” 

Sloane closes her eyes and opens them again, hoping that they will have miraculously adjusted to the dark -- but no such luck. With what little moonlight seeps through the canopy and the dusting of fog that’s rolled in, it’s hard to see farther than a few feet ahead. It will make this slow-going trek of theirs even slower. She scans the woods surrounding them and stops when she sees a pinprick of light back down the trail.

“I have an idea,” she says, “but you’re not going to like it.”

He does not, in fact, like her idea. But even he can’t argue against it. Besides, they’d only made it about a half-mile up the path, and the boathouse wasn’t that far back. 

Which is how Sloane comes to be sitting on the log, trying her best to ignore the darkness pressing in on her from all sides. If Aurora were here, she would be explaining that being afraid of the dark is just a concept carried over from early hominid days. Then again, if Aurora were here, she wouldn’t have had to send Bryce back for the other lantern, and they’d be back at the house by now. Sloane knows she should keep moving to stay warm, but she’s cold and wet and her knee is throbbing something awful. 

She’s uncertain of how much time passes before that silly bundle of nerves in her stomach morphs into the proper weight of worry. Bryce should be back by now. She knows he made it to the boathouse because the light through the trees is gone now. Her eyes have since adjusted to the night, which means it’s been at least thirty minutes. Maybe that lantern died, too, she reasons. Sloane listens for his familiar cursing, or his footsteps on the path -- but there’s nothing. The nighttime noises of the forest are gone: no animals, no birds, no wind. The stillness is nothing short of eerie, especially when she feels that now-familiar sensation of being watched.   

“Bryce?” she chances. 

From out of the black, she can hear someone walking down the path.  

“Bryce!” she shouts, struggling to her feet. “Sienna? Aurora? Is that you?” 

Whoever it is doesn’t respond. She starts down the trail towards them, cursing when she nearly trips over a rock. “Seriously, guys, I’m not in the mood--”

An awful sound echoes out of the dark, like a high-pitched whistle played over radio static. 

She freezes, pebbles and twigs skidding across the dirt at her sudden halt. Every hair on her body stands on-end, her muscles locked as adrenaline races through her. Sloane swallows and clenches her blanket tighter.  

The high-low tone of the whistle sounds again. Whatever’s out there is just beyond the reach of her vision. Sloane wheels around, her gaze darting across the shadows, as if she’ll be able to even see-- a light. It’s several hundred feet out in the forest, back in the direction of the house. It’s too far away to make out who’s holding it. It has to be Bryce, though -- playing a prank on her, as if she’d find this sort of thing funny in the state she’s in. 

She bites back a curse and hurries after him as best she can, keeping low to the ground in an effort to hide from whatever animal is out here with them. The trail becomes rougher, more overgrown as she trudges through the leaves and shoves away sticker bushes. Forced to waste precious time watching where she’s going, she glances up only to keep track of the light that grows closer every second. 

The whistle comes again -- louder, closer now. Whatever it is, it’s still following her. Sloane pushes through a thicket and stumbles into a clearing. Tucked between a small grove of pines in the center is a cabin. With the caved-in roof, sagging porch, and front steps that form nothing more than a woodpile, it’s obvious the place has long stood abandoned. Sitting on the porch and casting a glow into the open doorway is a lantern -- the same make as the others. Approaching the steps, she slowly leans up and snatches the lantern from the porch.  

“No fucking way,” she mutters to herself. “I don’t care if it is a bobcat out here, I’m not hiding in the Evil-Dead-looking-ass cabin.” 

The dark silhouettes of the trees rustle under the cold wind that blows through the glade. Carried with it is a different sound: voices, all slurred together, but forming one syllable. She steps away from the cabin and back towards the forest, straining to make it out. Her name, she realizes with relief. They’re calling her name.        

She sucks in a breath to yell back when movement catches her eye. Something dark curls away from the tree line, only to dart into the tall grass when she swings the lantern in its direction. Sloane squints at the underbrush it disappeared into, waiting for it to appear again. For a few, blessed moments, she thinks it’s run off, that it’s finally given up.   

Until a black shadow crawls out of the underbrush towards her, shrieking, braying like an animal in pain. It’s an ear-splitting cry, echoing across the clearing. Sloane tightens her grip on the lantern and bolts. Ducking back into the trees, she heads in a single direction, knowing that she’ll either hit the lake or the house -- of, if she runs far enough, the town. 

Shoving through low-hanging branches, she glances over her shoulder to see the shadow chasing her, peeling itself out of the shadows as it moves between the trees, somehow darker than the black surrounding them. Her foot hits a patch of wet leaves and she slips, skidding down the hillside and tumbling out onto a stretch of asphalt. She grits her teeth against the pain in her leg and crawls forward into the middle of the road. With no time for hesitating, she pushes to her feet and runs, hoping she’s picked the right direction. 

It wails again, in the trees to her left, scurrying across the hillside after her.   

“Fuck off!” she screams.

Another noise comes roaring out of the dark, drowning out her cry. Lights -- searing, blinding -- swing around the curve. Brakes squeal as the car swerves, narrowly missing her; glass shatters as Sloane staggers to the roadside, her lantern cracking as it hits the pavement and rolls off into the grass. The guard rail is like ice beneath her palm where she clutches it, using it to stay upright as her heart threatens to vacate her body through her throat. The hillside is drenched in red from the car’s tail lights. 

“Sloane!” 

Ethan -- it’s him, his car, he’s here, but he should be in Boston, shouldn’t he? He was when he texted her and that was only an hour ago so why is he here and how did he-- all of her panicked thoughts cease when he folds her into his arms and hugs her tight. The night around them is still, save for the purr of the engine and the soft dinging of the door ajar warning. 

“What the hell were you thinking, standing in the middle of the road like that?” he hisses, pulling her back to pin her down with his glare. “You could’ve-- I could’ve killed you.”

“You’re here,” she whispers. 

Her lips are numb from the cold and shock. She reaches up for the blanket, then realizes that she must’ve lost it somewhere along the way.

“Of course I’m here. You really need to stop scaring the hell out of me, you know that.” His brow furrows as he frowns, taking in the state of her. He slips off his own coat and bundles it around her. “Honey, you’re freezing. Let me--”

“We have to go,” she urges, remembering what’s waiting for her, out in the forest. Grabbing hold of his hand, she starts tugging him towards the car. “There’s -- in the woods, there was -- I don’t know, this thing, and it kept screaming, it was horrible--”

Ethan shushes her rambling and guides her into the car, buckling her seatbelt when her hands won’t stop shaking. She tucks her nose into the collar of his coat, breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he backs the car up and turns back towards the estate. With one hand on the wheel, the other finds hers and holds tight. 

“Your friends called me when they couldn’t find you, wanted to know if I’d heard from you, in case you’d made it to somewhere with a working phone. I called you-- well, more than I’d care to admit, though it was obvious your phone was dead.” 

“How did you get here so fast?” she wonders aloud. 

“I got here around twelve-thirty, did a sweep of the woods. Around one I started driving around, hoping that I’d come across you in case you made it to the road.” He gives her a worried glance before returning to the road. “The others have been out with the sheriff’s office and the owners, searching the woods.” 

“But I… that doesn’t make any sense,” she tells him with a shake of her head. “It wasn’t even midnight when me and Bryce started back, and he was gone for twenty, maybe thirty minutes. And then I saw him-- well, not him, but at the time I thought it was him being an asshole-- and then that… thing chased after me and I got turned around, sure. But it couldn’t have been more than an hour.”

“Sloane, it’s nearly three in the morning.”

Her immediate reaction is to protest, but the concern in his tone and the clock on his dash render her mute. Which is for the best, she realizes later after pulling up to the house and seeing the driveway choked with cars: Bryce’s, the Bell’s, and several police cruisers. Modern floodlights tucked below the eaves turn the dark house into a bright beacon. Blue and red lights of the cruisers swirl across the lawn. As soon as they pull up, her friends race over to the car and wrap her into a hug. One of the cops takes her statement, ignoring Ethan’s insistence about getting her home and taking it over the phone instead. 

“Must’ve been a coyote,” the cop tells her after she’s finished. “We get a lot of reports of them out here, being so close to the state park.”

“A coyote,” Sloane repeats. 

“Well, sure,” he says with a shrug. “Unless you think it was something else?” 

She doesn’t have an answer for that. Having dealt with her fair share of wildlife coming down from the mountains and into her backyard growing up, she can’t remember ever hearing anything similar. Even her grandfather’s tales about the Wampus cat, her favorite spooky story as a kid, didn’t hold a candle to… to whatever was out there. 

After the cops leave and the Bells lock up, her friends pile into Bryce’s car for the ride home. Though not before Bryce shares with her his own experience with the mysterious shadow. However, he’d gotten a good look with the lantern. 

“It wasn’t an animal,” he whispers to her. “It was her. It was Maggie, I swear it.” 

Sloane didn’t know what to say to that. So she hadn’t said anything, just squeezed his hand and hugged him goodbye. Returning to Ethan’s car, she settled into the passenger seat, thankful for the change of clothes he had in the trunk -- and the first aid kit, of course.  

With the classical music floating out of the speakers and the warmth of his hand in hers again, it would’ve been easy for Sloane to close her eyes. She can’t help it, though, when they back out of the drive. She looks up to the long row of windows. It could be a trick of the headlights, but something watches them from around the lace curtains. As they start to pull away, it slinks back into the shadows of the house. 

------   

Author’s notes and what-have-yous: 

The inspiration for the Angler Estate is the abandoned Uplands Mansion in Baltimore, MD. If you like urbex stuff, I highly recommend looking up some videos of it on YouTube. It’s a gorgeous place, despite all the vandalism. The owners’ surname being Bell is a fun nod to the Bell Witch Cave, my state’s claim to supernatural fame. The mention of The Evil Dead cabin is another poke, since the 1981 original was filmed an hour away from where I live. 

The “watch where you step” line is pulled directly from Uncharted: Drake’s Fortune. 

[luninosity]

fanfic writers tag game!

I was tagged by the marvelous @musette22 for this lovely fanfiction tag game that was devised by the clearly very brilliant @thewaythatwerust, to discuss some of the fics I’ve written over time! Thanks so much! 💖

Let’s see, I shall tag... @thebestpersonherelovesbucky @turtletotem @gerec @whtaft and @ninemoons42 <3

Which of your fics…

* Did you think would get a bigger reaction/audience than it got:

Ah, a tricky one! I feel like I never really have expectations - I just write words because I can’t not! But maybe lines of light, which was my Steve/Bucky Fake Character Death Trope fic - it’s sort of a weird little fic, but I wanted more of that trope, but maybe that’s just me!

* Got a better reaction than you expected:

Oh, goodness - just about all of them! I remember being so shy and so nervous to share any of my writing, years ago, and now I write things that people seem to like...I think probably never mind the why and wherefore surprised me most, though! That’s my TJ Hammond/Johnny Storm fic, and when I started writing it mine was literally the third fic on AO3 for that pairing, and for that small a fandom, I’ve just been amazed.

Also, of course: I’m constantly amazed by how much people love Like Sugar! It was the biggest thing I’d ever tried to write, and it made me a better writer along the way, and I suspect it’s the Evanstan fic/series people might remember most, from my fics? (Also also, if original-fic-inspired-by-an-Evanstan-drabble counts: the love for Character Bleed has been overwhelming!)

* Is your funniest:

...am I funny? I don’t know! *waves hands about* I feel like I never set out to “write something funny,” but then again I like terrible puns and wordplay, so there’re probably funny lines in most fics? I hope?

Honestly maybe every inch of north and south, which has the Chris-turned-into-a-puppy plot, or Now That I’ve Found You, Stay, because giant patriotic dildos, or some of the banter in just a couple lovebirds, because I love Chris and Seb in that one. Or some of Bucky’s pulp fiction stories in tales to astonish. Or all the TERRIBLE autumn-related puns in the current Evanstan fic, A Place Not Far Away!

Or we could go REAL old-school and pull out the McFassy semi-crack fic in which James gets magically cursed to turn into a kitten. There’s that.

* Is your darkest/angstiest:

Ahahahaha. Um. *stares in Characters Having Emotions*

Okay, okay, um... Aside from certain specific chapters of Like Sugar and Amateur Cartography, it’s either The Tones That Tremble Down Your Spine (Bucky needs all the softness, after this! of course so does Steve...) (sometimes I think about adding a chapter, because it ends a little abruptly, but I also wanted it to - not everything’s 100% resolved, but it’s clearly on a healing trajectory!) ...

...or, over in Cherik-land, I hope we rise to the occasion, which does have a hopeful ending but is painful, or the balancing act stories (also Cherik) which were...personal in many ways (also originally written over on Livejournal, because I’m old).

* Is your absolute favourite:

Impossible! *laughs* It’s always the current story I’m (actively) writing. Which at the moment is the Evanstan autumn fluff-with-porn A Place Not Far Away. I don’t know if it’s my favorite-favorite, but it’s nice to get back to Evanstan and I love fall.

* Is your least favourite:

Also impossible! There’re things I love about all my stories. If I have to...maybe It’s Time To Bring This Ship Into The Shore, mostly because Michael’s such a dick to James for a lot of it. Which is also true in Loving Days (why was that a plot point in a few of my McFassy fics?) but I think I did a better job with his redemption in that one, and showing how much he changed and tried harder. And with Ship & Shore I wasn’t super-knowledgeable about the soul-bond trope (it was a request-fic) so I never felt quite sure I’d done it well enough!

* Was the easiest to write:

Amusingly, considering how epic and glorious and long the whole series became, I’d say Like O, Like H - the first Like Sugar Evanstan story. It just flowed. It knew what it wanted to be, and I tried to keep up. (Lovebirds was also one of those, as was the TJ/Johnny fic, never mind the why and wherefore.)

* Was the hardest to write:

the sound of rain on tin. It’s been the fic I’ve had the hardest time with ever. It’s my own fault for trying to do too much in terms of plot - sort of AU, an Evanstan-Stucky crossover, Lovecraftian elements - and then starting to post before I had it all properly sorted. I do know how it ends in general terms, I promise! but resolving plot/action has never been one of my strengths, and we’ve hit the point where I actually have to figure out How To Fix The Magic Portal-Thing, and I don’t feel like I’ve got it worked out well enough.

I mean if you all just want me to write the emotional Sebastian talking to Steve Rogers (and maybe a little curious kissing) and Chris talking to Bucky, and then *poof* suddenly Seb and Bucky are back in their respective universes and we get Emotional Reconciliation Scenes and Love Confessions, that part’s easy. I’ve had stray bits of those scenes done for years.

* Have you re-read the most:

Like Sugar, in part for continuity as I worked on later stories and in part because I’m really kind of proud of it.

* Would you recommend to someone reading your work for the first time:

Depends on what genres they like! I’m probably best known for - if anything - Like Sugar, and I think it’s pretty representative of my writing in terms of loving tender kink-with-emotions! But the person would have to not mind Evanstan RPF and soft Dom/sub kink and arranged (sort of) marriage tropes.

Other than that, for Evanstan, maybe Sweet Disposition (the third version of the clothes-sharing fic!); or (baby won’t you please), which is the Chris And Seb Go To A Sex Club For Research For a Role fic, or tempt me, tease me, which is...Sebastian leaves an unsatisfactory date with someone else (brief and random) to go pick Chris up from a bar, and then there’re lots of revelations about Feelings, and also porn-with-emotions. Those last two ‘feel’ similar in my head for some reason - mood, maybe, or story arcs about revelation and discovery.

...for Stucky, maybe when and where our eyes meet (Bucky falling asleep! soft blankets!)...or tales to astonish, because it’s such fun!

...if you want to go a bit older, I have weird affection for my first-ever Cherik fic, Know That It’s True, which is a Cerebro hurt/comfort fic, and then I love the slow development of the McFassy in No Wonder, No Wonder, which I occasionally still think about trying to revise as original, but it’s so character-driven that it’d be hard, but I love the feel of it, the hints of magic and the setting...

* Are you most proud of:

Like Sugar! At the time it was the biggest story I’d ever tried to write, both in terms of length and in terms of world-building and planning and characters growing closer together. Character Bleed got more complicated in terms of needing multiple outlines and plot, eventually, but I couldn’t’ve done that if I hadn’t done Like Sugar first.

* Has your favourite line/exchange/paragraph (share it):

Too hard to pick! There are so many! 

I sometimes say it’s this one, from tempt me, tease me, though not always:

“If you’d like,” Sebastian offers, “we can even tell them I borrowed your key and lost it, if you don’t mind asserting small untruths to hotel personnel.” Big blue half-plastered Captain America eyes stare at him some more. “…Chris?” “You…” One hand waves, a partial gesture, pulled back at the last second. As if Chris has meant to reach out, and thought better of that. “You really would? You wouldn’t, y’know, mind?” Sebastian half-smiles. Thinks of cars with broken-glass windows in Romanian capital-city streets, thinks of students waving flags and cheering with feral glee, thinks of saucer-eyed childhood memories and songs of revolutionary fervor and desperate upheavals of optimism like birthing-pains. Chris Evans is beautiful and genuine and real, and Sebastian would do far worse things, would splinter his body and perjure his soul, to give Chris one more day in which to eat pizza and laugh and clap friends on the shoulder with a broad happy hand. “No,” he says, “I wouldn’t mind.”

Or, from the WIP - the next chapter of A Place Not Far Away - because my favorite is often what I’m currently working on, there’s this! Enjoy? <3

They both watch Sebastian for a second; he’s nodding, jotting down a quote, hair bouncing with the motion. His fingers are quick and tanned, gathering notes; his jacket’s casually open, and dirt’s left a scuff on his right boot.

 He’s a New York City reporter in a black leather jacket and a stylish sweater, but he’s also a reporter who doesn’t mind getting dirty and will run through a corn maze and helped set out signs the first day Chris ever met him.

 Carly pats Chris’s shoulder, says, “Enjoy yourself,” and heads off to supervise some historical blacksmith demonstrations. The sky shimmers in clouds and satin and magic and unfallen rain.

 Sebastian bounces back over. “That’ll be fantastic, she was so excited, she’s already thinking about next year, which is so perfect for a pull quote, and it’ll get people thinking ahead about coming here then!”

 Would you come back, Chris doesn’t say. Would you come back next year, next month, next week, even if your story’s done? Would you stay and not leave?

 He can’t ask that. This is Sebastian’s job.

 He says, “That’s awesome. You want lunch?”

 “Absolutely. I haven’t eaten my way through your menu yet. Recommendations?”

 “Classic Oktoberfest? The whole German sausage, potato, onion thing? That one’s popular. And, um, baked apples. In maple cream sauce.” Food. He can talk about food. Promoting their menu. Not getting down on both knees and promising to bring home every pumpkin Sebastian likes, if that’ll make those happy eyes stay at his side.

 “Sounds good.” Sebastian’s eyebrows go up, beckoning Chris into the joke. “And I do like sausage.”

 “I like your sausage,” Chris tells him, and Sebastian’s laugh is a splash of sunshine through clouds and cold and tree-branches that stretch to the sky.

[spicycreativity]

A Place Where I Can Breathe - Ch 1

Chapter: 1/7 Rating: T (for language) Content Warnings: Canon-typical Remus behavior. This chapter only: "delusional" used as an insult Characters: All Pairings: N/A Additional Tags: Canon divergence, post-AA, retcon (name reveals, outfits, etc), all characters sympathetic, misunderstandings, Virgil is trying his best, Dark Sides are friends dammit, gratuitous references to Cats the Musical Summary: After Virgil is accepted by the Light Sides, he hopes to use his newfound position to bring Janus and Remus up with him. Hurt by his perceived betrayal, they push him away before he even has the chance to try. Virgil does his best to adjust to life without his oldest friends, but misunderstandings abound, and he soon finds himself going behind the Light Sides' backs in attempt to keep them safe from what he fears is a wicked revenge plot orchestrated by Janus.

It was hard to breathe in the basement. The air was heavy, thick with tension, and Virgil’s breaths came in uneven gasps and shallow paroxysms that made his lungs ache. He sat, paralyzed, on the couch with his legs drawn up to his chest, his eyes glued to his phone.

Janus’ snide congratulation still echoed in his head, the way his voice had dripped with jealousy: “Congratulations on your newfound acceptance, Virgil. You earned it.”

Virgil resented the way Janus’ words had implied that his decision to duck out had been nothing more than a successful attempt at manipulating the ‘Light’ Sides, as they called themselves, when they both very well knew that Virgil’s actions had been in earnest. Virgil’s unhappiness with his role had always been a point of contention between them. It wasn’t just about having his voice heard, no matter how hard Janus tried to pretend that was it; Virgil had grown to genuinely care for Roman, Logan, and Patton, and he wanted to spend time with them that didn’t involve antagonizing and scaring them.

Of course, Remus found that nearly intolerable, but he was far more direct than Janus could ever be. He teased Virgil and demanded assurances that Remus was his favorite Creativity and always would be, and Virgil gladly gave him what he wanted. But lately, the teasing had grown more intense and less enjoyable, and Janus’ remarks grew more cutting and bitter with every additional hour that Virgil spent upstairs. He had taken to avoiding the topic altogether in the hopes of somehow skating past the unpleasantness, hoping that Remus and Janus would eventually get used to Virgil’s new habits.

The sound of knocking pierced the silence and kicked Virgil’s pulse into overdrive. He was in motion before he even registered what was happening, vaulting off the couch toward the stairs. His mind caught up with his body just before his hand touched the doorknob and he made a concentrated effort to calm himself down. Three semi-deep breaths. One hand smoothing down his hair. Then he opened the door.

On the other side stood Logan, wearing his usual neutral expression. Earlier in their relationship, Virgil had mistaken it for perpetual boredom, but he knew better now. Logan was always thinking, and spared little energy on social graces.

“Hello, Virgil,” he said, nodding shortly. No trace of eyeshadow lingered on his face, but Virgil couldn’t help the guilt that twisted in his stomach at the memory. Maybe Logan was here to end their friendship.

“Hey, Logan.” Virgil glanced over his shoulder in case Janus or Remus had come to interfere. He saw no sign of either of them, but that only meant that they weren’t going to meddle. It certainly didn’t mean they weren’t listening. “You good?”

Logan paused before answering, thinking back to his flashcards. “Yes, Virgil. I’m gucci.” Virgil clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter and Logan continued, unperturbed, “I’m here to invite you to dinner.”

“Really?” Virgil asked,

“Yes. Is that surprising?”

“Unexpected,” Virgil said, unsure if he was agreeing or disagreeing. “Now?”

“Yes. Unless you have something you need to attend to.”

Virgil spared one last glance over his shoulder. It wasn’t like he was planning on eating with Janus and Remus tonight anyway; Janus was totally-not-sulking and Remus was… Well, Virgil didn’t know the details, but the bangs and the haunted-house shrieks emanating from Remus’ room indicated that he was definitely unavailable. “Now’s fine.”

“Excellent.” Logan smiled at Virgil. “Shall we?”

Virgil nodded and followed Logan into the living room, letting the door slam shut behind him.

While the living room and the kitchen were technically common areas, Virgil hadn’t spent much time in either of them. The basement had a kitchenette, a TV, and a couch, and all its inhabitants vastly preferred that over the idea of a strained ceasefire with the Lights. Of the three of them, only Virgil had been able to let go of his resentment and insert himself into the Lights’ regular meetings on Thomas’ conduct and decisions. Still, he didn’t exactly feel at ease as he crossed the threshold into the kitchen.

Patton’s joyous salutations and Roman’s begrudging regards were enough to pull Virgil out of his own head. He let Roman pull up a chair for him and nodded hesitantly when Patton offered to serve him.

He heaped an unreasonable amount of tuna casserole on Virgil’s plate and beamed at him. “So, uh Anxiety.” His smile wavered a bit. “We just wanted to apologize again for being so…”

“Put off by your off-putting demeanor,” Roman supplied before he could stop himself. Everyone looked at him and he almost doubled down before catching himself. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Go on, Patton.”

“Well, for being so harsh,” Patton said. “We didn’t realize how important you were to Thomas’ functioning.”

“I did,” Logan said under his breath. Roman flicked a pea at him.

Patton only had eyes for Virgil. “Um, anyway, we’re sorry. We value you a lot and we’d absolutely love it if you spent more time with us!”

Virgil nodded, thinking about the display of monitors and VHS tapes in his room. Much like the others, his mere presence was usually enough to keep Thomas on track, but sometimes he utilized the cameras to allow him to focus on specific aspects of Thomas’ surroundings to keep an eye out for danger. And sometimes , when he was feeling bored or unheard, he would pop “ Cringe Compilation: 7th Grade Edition” into his VHS player. They all had power focuses that linked inherently to their function, allowing them to magnify it as necessary. But when the Lights felt that Virgil’s function was impeding their own to an unacceptable degree, they would push back, and Virgil’s monitors would go black as all the lights dimmed. It was the same for Janus' and Remus' focuses and it hurt . “So does this mean you’re going to stop repressing me?” Virgil asked. The Lights didn't know the extent of the damage they did, and Virgil was determined not to be the one to break the news.

Patton nodded. “We’ll try to help you work through your feelings instead.”

“Wow.” Virgil’s cheeks ached with a smile he was fighting hard to suppress. Maybe there was hope for Remus and Janus too. “What about Dec--”

“Anyway!” Patton said, pretending he hadn’t heard Virgil speak. “We were thinking about watching a movie after this! We do weekly movie nights. Do you want to join?”

“Oh, um.” Virgil tapped the nail of his middle finger against the pad of his thumb. He wanted to push for acceptance for Janus and Remus, but what if that made Patton and the others angry? What if they kicked him out? Then he would be right back to square one. Maybe if he played it smart , if he was patient and good, then he could help his friends out too. “Sure, that sounds great.”

“Yay!” Patton clapped his hands. “We already decided to watch Anastasia tonight, but we should let you pick the next one!”

Logan launched into an explanation of the historical context of Anastasia, punctuated by the occasional interruption from Roman. Virgil was content enough to sit back and listen to the bickering, interjecting every now and again to take Roman down a peg.

--

When it came time to say goodnight, Roman cornered Virgil in front of the basement door wearing an unusually serious expression.

“I need to talk to you.”

Virgil leaned against the wall, taking pains to sound more nonchalant than he felt. “Gee, Princey, I’d have thought you’d be better at love confessions.”

“Oh, spare me,” Roman said, sticking out his tongue. “This is important.”

“Well, don’t keep me waiting.”

“Patton wants you to move upstairs.”

“Oh,” Virgil said, taken aback. “ Oh.” He swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. “I-- Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I know Patton won’t,” Roman said, impatient. Virgil hooked his thumbnail under one of his canine teeth and bit down, thinking. He wasn’t sure how to say no without stepping out of line. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to say no. Roman continued, “And I… Well, I--” he ran hand through his hair-- “I see your value now.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Virgil sneered, hoping that Roman would pick up on his teasing.

But to Virgil’s surprise, Roman blushed. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I think you’re pretty alright, Anxiety. I want you to move upstairs, too.”

Virgil took a deep breath, screaming internally all the while. What was he supposed to do? He didn’t want to leave Janus and Remus, but he didn’t want to turn down Roman’s offer, either. He couldn’t have it both ways. What was the middle ground here? He stared right through Roman, panic wiping his mind blank.

“You do want to, don’t you?” Roman asked. He hated how unsure his voice sounded, even to his own ears. Surely Virgil didn’t enjoy living with that two-faced snake and Remus.

“Of course I do!” Virgil hissed, trying to shout without actually raising his voice.

“Then what’s the problem? Say yes!”

“It’s not that simple!”

“Seems plenty simple to me. We’re extending a hand to you, Anxiety, the least you could do is take it.”

“I need to think about it,” Virgil said. Surely Janus and Remus would understand if he just explained himself. Janus might even approve . It wasn’t as sneaky and duplicitous as Janus’ plans usually were, but Virgil wasn’t Deceit. And he was working with the tools at hand. They had to understand that.

Roman threw his hands up. “Fine. I don’t know what there is to think about, but I suppose overthinking comes naturally to you.” He sighed and shook his head. “I guess that’s it, then. Good night, Anxiety.”

“Night, Roman.” Virgil heaved a sigh of his own and opened the door to the basement. The air was cool and still. Virgil ordinarily found it pleasant, but tonight the chill went bone-deep and made him shudder. He zipped his hoodie as high as it would go and shoved his hands into the pockets. He watched his feet as he descended the stairs and remained so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn’t even notice Janus and Remus on the couch until Janus cleared his throat.

Both Remus and Janus were glowering. Virgil ducked his head like a guilty teenager, trepidation closing like a fist around his stomach. He knew a trap when he saw one, and the fact that Janus wasn’t even trying to be subtle about it meant that he was well and truly furious.

Virgil sat down in the armchair lateral to the couch and glowered right back. “What?”

“I have to say I’m impressed with you, Virgil,” Janus said in his usual silken drawl, aiming straight for Virgil's heart. “I knew fear was part of your function, but you’ve reached a truly unprecedented level of cowardice.”

Virgil exhaled slowly through his nose. “You don’t mean that.”

“And how can you be so sure? Because friends don’t turn on each other ad libitum?"

“I’m not turning on you!” Virgil insisted. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I have a plan?”

“You told Roman you wanted to move upstairs,” Remus said once he’d unclenched his jaw. They all knew Virgil abhorred lying both morally and from a practical perspective; it made him almost too anxious to function. “You’d choose them over us.”

“They’re listening to me now!” Virgil tried to explain. He could forgive Janus his judgement, forgive Remus his anger even now if they would just listen . It was all a misunderstanding. “They even said they’d leave my cameras alone. Maybe I can get them to do the same for you.” Vigil scratched at the fabric of his jeans. “I thought-- Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same, Janus. I know you would.”

“If I could tolerate the presence of those delusional do-gooders in concentrated doses, maybe so,” Janus said. “With one key difference. Even if I could forgive them for what they did to me, I could never forgive them for what they did to you and Remus. Every smile, every last moment of camaraderie would be. an. artifice.”

“We’re supposed to be family, Virgil,” Remus added. “And now you want to leave us for… what, a chance for a roll in the royal hay with Roman? Patton?”

“So what, you want me to be just as petty and miserable as you two for the rest of my life?” Virgil demanded, heat rising in his chest. “Forget it. I’m trying to do something nice for you, the thing you’ve been fighting for since you got branded as ‘Dark’ Sides. If you can’t recognize that, that’s your own fault. I’m going to bed.” He got up and strode out of the room without another word.

“Traitor!” Remus called after him.

Silence fell. The refrigerator started to hum.

“He’s going to get hurt,” Janus muttered, tapping his knuckles against his bottom lip.

[secret-engima]

So the Demons Verse is inhabited by fantastical races, yes? Not, I assume, JUST humans and daemons? What other races are there, and does each kingdom have it’s own main race? ie. demons for the Night Kingdom, humans for Lucis, such and such. (Maybe merpeople for Altissia, can we please have merfolk in Altissia??) And how do these other kingdoms react to the new Accursed?

Yes actually! Lucis is actually the most mixed kingdom for Historical Reasons my brain is too tired to make up on the spot rn. The original population was primarily Human, but that was back in like- Somnus’s time. By now everyone in Lucis is so used to seeing Elves, Dwarves, Fairies, hybrids, and the occasional Mer that no one bats an eye. That said, the other kingdoms are more heavily biased toward one fantasy race or other, even if the other races are scattered throughout.

Yes, Accordo is a kingdom of Mer. Altissia, the capital, is their only above-water city, meant to facilitate trade and communications. The canals are their primary roads but there are all sorts of waterpark style lanes and pools and things on the level of the stone streets so people can chat and be eye level.

Tenebrae is a kingdom of Fairies, deceptively delicate looking beings who are about the height of a human (not teeny thank you) and with razor sharp teeth. The Oracle is a Fairy Queen btw.

Niflheim is an Elven run kingdom, because I said so and because having humans be the evil empire dudes is boring. Of course, because of all the territory they’ve conquered, there are a LOT of other members from different races in there (barring merfolk, because the Niflheim continent is traditionally Desert and that was before they managed to tick off the Glacian and get cursed to nigh-on eternal winter).

Then of course, because fantasy world, there are other kingdoms that weren’t there in canon. Galahd is it’s own kingdom for one (inhabited by humans who hoard the magic art of skin-changing to themselves) that is a long-standing ally with Lucis, if an aloof one. There’s also a teeny kingdom up around the Rock of Ravatogh primarily inhabited by dwarves. Supposedly because they’re too stubborn to leave despite the semi-active volcano right outside their capital but mostly it’s because nobody ELSE wants to come near the semi-active volcano and they like their privacy and the lack of invasion risk this gives them.

Up in Niflheim, mostly by the shores or way up in the mountains, there are still human-run kingdoms btw. Niflheim leaves those scattered kingdoms alone (for now) because frankly all of those humans stubborn enough to live in first a desert and then a SNOW covered desert (and/or near the choppy waters of the ocean) is a bit too stubborn to be worth crushing (yet). Nobody is entirely expecting the uneasy non-aggression treaty to last up there, since the new and young (by elf standards) Emperor Aldercapt is not the relatively reasonable type his father was.

Also there’s a kingdom of humans who claim to be Solheim survivors by the way. Not sure where, probably way up past Vesperpool where you can’t get to in FFXV.

Nobody likes to talk about them.

They’re arrogant and nuts and only leave everyone else alone because the Night King’s kingdom would be right on their doorstep if they caused any trouble.

Speaking of, Insomnia’s kingdom isn’t just the city, it’s the entire island on which the city is founded and also a little bit of the mainland besides.

Anyway, on your other question: FICLET TIME. 

Word of the new Accursed spreads ... slowly. Most don’t believe it, only notice something is up because the daemon attacks have stopped (daemons can travel through shadows all around the world barring warded areas like cities and Havens, they just don’t LIKE to, apparently it makes them feel slimy and tired, but the original Accursed made them do it so the attacks were worldwide things). At first they think like Mors did, that something is Up and everyone privately bids a sigh of relief that Lucis is the next door neighbor to the Accursed and not them (Barring Galahd, who is the oceanic next door neighbor, they all begin battening down the proverbial hatches).

Only the Oracle suspects something drastic and unseen has changed, because she ... she FELT something. Unexpectedly in the night, as if the entire world had cried out in surprised relief. She had woken up with a start and all of Tenebrae had woken up with her to gawk as their magically grown, softly glowing trees and flowers all lit up until it was as bright as day and then just as quickly faded back to their normal soft glow. But she has no idea WHAT happened, just that it was after that the daemon attacks stopped.

And then stay stopped.

For a year. And then a year and several months. No sound, no sight, no word, no whispers of black magic trying to build in the dark places to form the cursed Night Clouds that let daemons roam free in the day (note: daemons in this world will not die if subjected to sunlight, but OH BOY will they get sunburn and will get sick from it. Moon, starlight, and greatly diffused sunlight is okay, but cloudless/mostly cloudless days? Not even the Accursed could force them out of their homes then).

And then, just when everyone’s nerves are at their tightest-.

Lucis is overthrown.

Oh, OFFICIALLY it is fine, King Mors still reigns, there weren’t even any casualties, but all the spies and witness reports and shaky letters to family in other kingdoms say the same thing. The Accursed marched on Insomnia with a horde of daemons that were incalculable, Night Clouds rolling out all the way to the capital of Lucis, covering the city sky as if the wards meant to prevent that exact event meant NOTHING. Then, just as quickly, the horde turned and left and the clouds retreated.

They took the Crown Prince of Lucis with them.

Ohhhhh boy the gossip and panic. The disbelief and fear, because what has happened, what has changed to give the Accursed that much power? Surely something MUST have changed or else he would have done that and more long ago. Even the Empire quails from the implications, ceasing its tentative pokes at it’s sister continent for fear of stirring Insomnia.

But four more years go by and the attacks never resume. Hunters and travelers report daemons spotted at night, wandering by doing who knows what, but they ... are non-violent. They do not attack travelers or try to chase down caravans, they just go about their night as if they had never had a bloodthirsty thought in their lives (until someone attacks, and then suddenly the bloodlust is back and the offender is torn to shreds). People learn fast to just leave the daemons alone and be left alone in turn, but it Freaks People Out.

Finally, FINALLY, the tension cannot be born, and Queen Sylva herself leaves to investigate, her husband in place as regent and her daughter safe and sound, a new Oracle in case ... she ... well. Hopefully that won’t happen.

She flies alone, hidden from view with magic, and lands respectfully at the border of the Night Kingdom. Her magic flares, not enough to be anything like an assault, but enough to be noticed. A greeting of sorts. No Oracle has done this since ... centuries at least, more perhaps, but legends speak of this ritual, of a date and time and way for the Oracle to meet with the Accursed and be let free afterward (for amusement, not honor, but everyone knows the Accursed likes “playing by the rules” just to prove that the rules cannot stop him from winning). She hopes the legends are right.

An hour later, her escort arrives. She holds her head high as the daemons lead her into the dark.

The city is not anything like she imagined. It is dark, yes, but not nighttime black. This is the dull light of dusk and twilight, sunlight filtering through the clouds just enough to support the curling greenery reclaiming the ruins of the ancient city, not enough to burn the skin of the inhabitants. Foreign magic weaves through the air and ground, but it does not reek like the black arts Sylva has encountered in the wake of the unseen Accursed. This feels different. Old and wild and ... calm. Dangerous, incredibly so, but passive. A predator watching her pass by, too relaxed to bother tearing her apart.

More than the magic, the city is ... ALIVE. Daemons flit to and fro, not screaming and bloodthirsty like she has always seen, but calm. They chatter and warble in a tongue she doesn’t know, haggling in marketplaces and gossiping as she and her escort pass by. A few small ones that could only be called children scamper by, pausing to blink at her in awe and Sylva feels just as surprised. She didn’t know ... she didn’t know daemons even HAD children. No one did. Most assumed the Accursed just ... created them when he needed more using his black magic.

Then she sees the human and the world stops. She jerks to a halt without thinking and her escort stop with her, growling angrily at her pause but she does not care. Her wings flick out from her back in an expression of shock before settling.

The human looks just as surprised. He gapes at her, clean and well dressed and healthy, if pale from such low light. Then, to her increasing shock, he bows and falls in step with the escort, bossily pushing a daemon out of step to take its place with a low, inhuman chatter noise that sounds like a coarse imitation of the daemon’s tongue. He tentatively smiles at her after taking his spot in the escort and she cannot think of how to react. Especially when she spots MORE humans lurking in the streets alongside the daemons, talking and haggling and pausing to stare at her.

What are ... what are humans doing here? The Accursed hated all the races, but the fairies and the humans were easily the ones he hated most. How had they survived?

She does not get a chance to ask, because by now they are approaching what must be the Accursed’s home, a towering building untouched by the ruin of the others. She is led inside and straight to a throne room that fits all her expectations (dark, ominous, with furs and trophy racks lining the walls, lit with will o’wisps) save for the inhabitants. Especially its king.

The Accursed is nothing like she expected. He is human. Physically he looks only about ... oh perhaps his late twenties or thirties, only a little older than her little Luna, who is only just now learning the rites and spells of Oracle magic. His hair is black and neatly kept, his clothes are fine, if a bit worn, and his skin is pale, but not unhealthily so. More strangely, she sees none of the signs of black magic she knew she should have been. His skin is not bloodless white, there are no patches of thick black stones from where the evil magic has managed to break free of his body and crystalize and a hundred other symptoms that are all ... not there. She thinks it’s an illusion until he straightens up on his throne and meets her eyes. They are blue, blue and clear as a summer sky. There is no hint of acidic yellow, no smoky swirls of black-grey where whites should be, no slitted pupils. His eyes ... are normal.

No black mage, no matter how skilled or old or cursed, could cast an illusion on their eyes. That was the price for using that magic. That was an unbreakable rule of magic itself. Magic had its colors, and those colors effected the eyes of the wielder and those effects could NOT be hidden (especially not while using spells, but even just passively. It was why Lucis Caelums always had blue eyes, and Oracles always had white-blue).

She stops, barely notices the daemon guards calmly filing out, as if she was not even a threat to be watched anymore, and tries to understand what she is seeing.

There is movement at the Night King’s side and she is startled to see Prince Regis, King Mors’ missing son, the one captured and dragged away as the price for Lucis’s continued existence. He is not a tormented, enslaved wreck she would have expected, he is dressed well, his face is unmarred by pain, his eyes, too, are clear of any curse or enthrallment as he bends down to whisper something in the Night King’s ear, almost like an ... advisor of some kind?

She reaches out with her magic, just a tiny tendril, out of sheer disbelief, looking for the spell that must be placed on the human prince no matter what her eyes are telling her. Before the magic can reach the prince, the Accursed’s gaze sharpens and his own magic snaps out. But instead of the biting pain of black magic meeting white and both burning the other in a flare of agony, her magic is given the equivalent of a light, scolding rap on the knuckles. A teacher warning a child to mind their manners and Not Touch and her wings flick as she tastes the unmistakable ozone-rainy texture of crystal magic on her tongue. Old and deep and far more powerful than she’s ever known it, not since the original rites and spells for it were lost, more powerful than any in written history even, but unmistakable.

The man on the throne is a Lucis Caelum.

“You have journeyed far,” says the Night King, the impossibility, on his throne as his magic settles down again, his lips twitching in a gentle sort of amusement she cannot comprehend, “to grace us with your presence, Queen Oracle. You come alone, as well. Are you not afraid?”

“Have I need to be?” She asks cautiously in return, “Has the hospitality of the Night King on this honored day and night, upheld since the times of the Fall, been rescinded?”

It is not her Oracle senses, or even her Queen sensibilities that spot the flicker of surprise and lost confusion on the man’s face, but those of a mother who is used to seeing her children pretend to be wiser and more mature than they are to impress her, only to stumble when they encounter something unknown. Another whisper from Prince Regis and the expression clears and his eyes light with understanding that is so innocent and fascinated that she cannot stop or shake the new, terrifying and fascinating, realization from her bones.

“It has not,” says the Night King smoothly, “yet I must ask, for what reason do you come?”

“I come,” she says slowly, “to greet the newly crowned Night King, and, if it pleases His Majesty, to receive answers to some questions.”

There is a frozen silence where the humans lurking in the shadows all gape at her. Then-.

Laughter. Soft and short and weary, but honest and not unkind, “I was wondering,” says the man (boy, for although age clings to his bones like a heavy cloak, she does not think he is a man by Immortal standards, not yet, or at least he shouldn’t but is, just like all children forced to grow up too fast) as he stands up and begins limping (limping and what blow could permanently injure an Immortal? Those who survive even burning to ash on the wind? She can think of only one answer, and the surety of her realization grows) down the stairs to meet her on even ground, “if anyone on the outside would figure it out.”

He stops before her, amusement mixed with only a thread of wariness in his eyes, a human too old to be natural, an Immortal too young to be ruling, “What gave me away?”

She stares into his eyes and feels the ancient power of her bloodline, the intuition that marked them as seers, stir. For a moment she tastes memory and pain, a curse willingly taken to spare the lives of others, a price willingly paid as blood weeps free of should-be mortal wounds. For a moment memory not her own whispers poisonously in her ears “The throne sits only one.” and in her blood another voice responds, “Off my chair, Jester, the King sits there.” She pushes it away, those are not her memories to keep or her burdens to bear. Those belong to the young Night King standing before her, looking at her without fear, but instead nostalgic fondness, as if he looks at her and sees the ghost of another at her shoulder (one of her ancestors perhaps, and the thought gives her pause).

“Your eyes,” she settles on finally, “the original Accursed had yellow eyes.” She has never seen him to know of course, but all practitioners of the Black Arts got them before the poisonous magic killed its own wielder, and the Accursed would have been no different despite his stubborn survival in the face of the death curse Black Magic gave all its wielders.

There is a flicker of surprise, then sadness, “Yes,” he agrees with a knowing that comes from experience, “they were.” He blinks as if to banish a memory, then dips his chin in greeting and gestures a hand toward one of the side doors of the Throne Room, “It is far too early for dinner,” he says politely, “but I am certain Ignis would be able to make something light to help you relax from your journey. Will you talk with me over tea?”

Feeling off balance and aware he could tell despite her calm facade, she dips her chin and flicks her wings in a return greeting, one monarch to another, “I would be honored.”

[mintchocohip]

pegging sub!bts︱all members

▬     𝙧𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙 ➤ headcanons for pegging the OT7!

▬     pairing: member x reader ︱ rating: explicit ︱ genre​: smut

cr▹

┃ other kinks can be found with each member, when applicable.

        𝙏𝘼𝙀𝙃𝙔𝙐𝙉𝙂  

▬   A double-sided strap provides the connection Taehyung craves. He wants to work up to something the size of his own cock, or bigger━occasional bouts of humble-bragging insecurity over being too big means he wants to know what it’s like for his partners. The realization that he just loves feeling full up and filled deep follows naturally. 

▬   Aesthetics aren’t an afterthought. The material and colors of the harness and toys do need to suit Taehyung’s mood, and they do need to suit the aesthetics of his favorite immersive historical roleplays.

▬   Even when it’s a low-key session with a medium-sized, soft toy that can curve nice and gently, lube flows like a waterfall. The huge bottle of lube is there less because Taehyung needs it, and more because you both love the slick, crisp sounds. 

▬   Taehyung’s mood is crystal-clear in how he asks for a pegging. If he’s in a good mood, it’s silent body language. When he’s in a bad mood, it’s demands of “fuck me, fuck me, please, right now, just fuck me.” When he’s in a really bad mood, bending Taehyung over the nearest flat surface gets the job done in a few knee-shaking minutes━no lube necessary. Taehyung’s romantic moods means he can’t ask for it. He wants you to know. There’s a certain soft look in his eyes, though, and a certain way he licks his lips, that makes you cusp a hand against the side of his face and ask “Is that what you want?”

▬   Experimenting with the temperature of the toy in the harness gets surprisingly exhilarated results. A warmed-up ceramic dildo is especially popular.

        𝙔𝙊𝙊𝙉𝙂𝙄   other kinks: gangbang, sounding  

▬   When the harness comes out, the comfort of a prostate massager or the intimacy of fingers and tongues is abandoned. The cold, calculated and invasive make Yoongi’s heart patter, and flush him into the kind of mindlessness that can only be released through trust. 

▬   Big, thick, small, thin━what goes in the harness doesn’t matter, as long as it’s pushed into him rough. Yoongi’s mouth is especially eager to take the strap, but indulging his desire to get facefucked is usually reserved for a treat, or a little decompression during aftercare. Within the boundaries of a scene, not letting Yoongi get what he wants is key.

▬   When he’s getting fucked within an inch of passing out, Yoongi’s exhibitionist streak becomes a jetstream. There’s nothing intimate about these moments, so he’s not shy about sharing them. Play parties, clubs, and private shows with strangers make Yoongi woozy with pride over how well he can take it, and equally humiliate him until his cheeks are a beautiful cherry red. Sometimes you start the train; sometimes it’s a friend, and sometimes it’s whoever volunteers to buckle into the harness next to Yoongi’s bound and blindfolded body. 

▬   All of Yoongi’s holes are fuckable, in one way or another. Pale legs have been frogtied up with medical tape. His knees are in his armpits. A metal rod is slowly sliding down his lube-glistening cock, and the stainless steel dildo is slowly pushing up his slicked ass. Dueling sensations streaked through Yoongi’s body by your hand and your hips mean a sensitive prostate is getting squeezed from two sides━the blanked-out expression and utter motionlessness beneath you are relying on you to listen, and watch carefully for signs of a failed attempt to mouth the safeword. Yoongi is also relying on you to understand he’s far from delicate. There’s a muscle in Yoongi’s thigh you only ever see twitching when he’s about to have a shoved-all-the-way-in-there orgasm, and right now, it’s almost vibrating.    

▬   Yoongi doesn’t like the strap being treated as an extension of his partner’s self. The appeal of toys rests on their depersonalization. It’s a thing being put inside of him.

        𝙅𝙐𝙉𝙂𝙆𝙊𝙊𝙆   other kinks: sub training       

▬   Jungkook will try anything in the harness once. Once. The trusty masturbation egg he’s been using for years has survived thanks to regular, attentive cleaning. When it comes to dildos, though, Jungkook goes through them like tissues. Packages constantly show up in his mailbox containing the latest squishy squirting jelly dildo he saw online, or the glittery fuchsia piece shaped like a tentacle. Shyness about experimentation held Jungkook back in the past, and now, his curiosity is spilling out. 

▬   Mixing up unusual, surprising colors into faux-cum creampies keeps things fresh, but, ultimately, most of Jungkook’s rainbow-colored collection fall out of rotation and end up as stress toys for him to squeeze and pick at when he’s bored.

▬   Any position that makes Jungkook uncomfortable turns gears in his brain that pool drool into his mouth. Sucking something hard and tasteless often looks like foreplay, but it feels like a main event. Getting fucked in a piledriver sets those gears into overdrive. Jungkook loves being able to see the strap push into him, and he’ll stare between his legs wide-eyed, flutter his eyelids, squeeze his eyes shut, and wheel through such a beautiful series of expressions and keening, muscle-twitching whimpers that it looks and sounds like he’s going to come untouched at any second━when a rope of come does shoot down onto his shaking chest, it always means keep going. Hands in Jungkook’s hair, fingernails clawing at his legs until they’re pink and red; streaking and pinching come over his nipples, and pushing out a few more orgasms until Junkook’s running dry━it’s the only way to make sure he emerges from the other side of aftercare satisfied.

▬   The thought of his ass and mouth being available to you 24/7 makes Jungkook shiver. Practicality and boundaries mean fantasy stays fantasy. On one special day a week, though, you both get a slice of that dream. By the time you’ve trained him to keep the buttplug in all day, Jungkook can fall asleep with your fingers playfully turning the base.

▬   Building up tiers of length and thickness means switching toys out regularly during long, long pegging sessions. Giving memorable names to the collection of toys available to Jungkook means he can ask for a specific toy simply, or beg for it with a single word.

        𝙃𝙊𝙎𝙀𝙊𝙆   other kinks: roleplay, degredation, bondage, public/semi-public, filming

▬   He insists he can take more. Overwhelming Hoseok into spilling the safeword into his rolling, hiccuping moans is shockingly easy. Even if Hoseok wants to work up to bigger things, getting fucked is a precarious balance between accepting that it won’t all be luxury and trying to stop himself from teetering off a cliff he can’t climb back up on his own. For now, toys are average sized and simple shapes, and lube glistens on Hoseok’s ass like a second skin. 

▬   During gentler sessions, a reach-around with a fleshlight turns Hoseok’s moans into eye-fluttering silence.

▬   Roleplay loosens up Hoseok’s internal restraints. It doesn’t matter how hard he gets fucked, and it doesn’t matter if it hurts━he wants it to hurt. Punishment play, degradation, and your self-assured dirty talk about how much he just needed to get that attitude fucked out of him erase Hoseok’s thoughts, and replace them with sparks and blobs of blissful numbness. The roles are often classics, and the positions that accompany them are classics, too. The man caught jerking off in the library; and the frustrated librarian who’s had enough of his shit━it gets replay. Doggy style and fade down, ass up means he can just shut off his brain, and take it. Other times, faux-impromptu bondage ties him up in precariously exposed positions, and leaves him there when the deed is finished. Breaking Hoseok down is easy, and he’s so cheerful once the binds come off, it almost seems like he wasn’t just shaking like a leaf.

▬   Traveling with Hoseok means racking up unique, increasingly precarious places where he’s been pegged. Bringing him back down from the urge to take the strap in the middle of a bustling plaza means exploring that craving with a camera, some mood lighting, and constant refreshes to see how many hits the video has gotten so far.

▬   The visuals of the harness and toy don’t seem too important, at first. When you introduce a strappy black leather harness and a bright red dildo, Hoseok is swallowing and flushing so much he doesn’t even want to look at it directly. Again━the classics have their appeal.

        𝙅𝙄𝙈𝙄𝙉   ​other kinks: praise/degredation, filming  

▬   Long, thick, and hard. Knowing what Jimin wants is simple.

▬   Jimin’s ass is magical, and it deserves the praise of a good fuck. Praise laced with degradation heightens that fuck into an experience stripping Jimin to his core. Soft words in his ear fill Jimin up with that heady mixture as much as the reverent, demeaning movements of hips━”Perfect. All flushed and fucked like this. Do you understand, Jimin? The way you love it so much━ you’re made for this. As soon as it’s up in there, you’re amazing. You’re glowing. This is who you are.” Dirty talk in his ear while he’s fucked from behind and hands play with his nipples and grope his chest and abs and squeeze the head of his cute little cock means Jimin can curl up in the sheets and shake and squirm as much as he needs to. Ricocheting gasps, high-pitched squeals, and random bouts of stunned laughter mean Jimin loves it. 

▬   Jimin needs to love it. If he isn’t enjoying himself, he will let you know. Bitterness seeps into the vocal brattiness he shoots over his shoulder. If he can’t form those coherent sentences, you’re doing something right.

▬   Pegging Jimin often becomes an exercise in service topping. If you don’t get off, though, he takes it as a personal offense. When he’s not too blown out to need immediate aftercare, the reason Jimin prefers open-crotched harnesses becomes obvious in a flash of skilled fingers slipping into your cunt, and slicking you off the edge that’s been building since your fingers made those same motions in Jimin’s ass fifteen minutes prior.

▬   The simplistic USB necklace keys into whatever outfit you wear on dates with Jimin. If you slid out the compatible connector and pushed it into his phone, dozens of stills of Jimin getting fucked would tile up in neat rows. Some star you; some star whoever consented to recording. The reminder was your idea, but Jimin fell head over heels for it.

        𝙉𝘼𝙈𝙅𝙊𝙊𝙉   other kinks: crossdressing  

▬   Lacy harnesses match Namjoon’s jewel-toned lingerie. A sleek black harness compliments his mesh bodysuit, the matching black collar on his throat, and the jingling black harnesses on his wrists and ankles. You know how to choose outfits that compliment Namjoon’s tan skin and streamlined body━it always makes Namjoon almost giddy with attempts to mute his joy when you surprise him with some shopping, and choose what he’s going to wear tonight.

▬   Namjoon loves dressing up, and he loves getting fucked right. Simple, medium-sized toys or prostate massagers slot into the harness. When Namjoon takes something he can’t relax around instantly, discomfort stops him cold. Thirteen centimeters draw out nothing but delighted shivers and shakes. The gentle care and pleasure pushed in by ten centimeters make Namjoon flush into automatic gasps, and make him leak automatic drips of thick, glossy precome.

▬   One taste was all it took for Namjoon to become addicted. It means a lot to him. Feeling desirable for what his cock can do is fine, but knowing somebody wants him this way is deeply flattering, liberating, and relieving. It’s romantic.

▬   Namjoon wants to show you what his body can do. His stomach sucks in and twists; his shoulders pull back, his chest spreads out and his hips rotate and twist and press down on your lap━hard. Every time Namjoon pushes down hard, the buzz on your clit pushes down, hard. Lights tingle and sparkle over your eyes━keeping your eyes open through the stars Namjoon is putting in them means you must look in awe. You are in awe. When you can move, you’re stroking Namjoon all over, jerking him off, sucking on his chest, groping his ass, and whispering quiet words to the man giving you the best lapdance you’ve ever received━”You’re beautiful. You’re so beautiful.”

▬   Letting Namjoon lead once the pegging session starts is vital. Otherwise, he becomes a little too flustered to properly function.

        𝙎𝙀𝙊𝙆𝙅𝙄𝙉   other kinks: bondage, degradation

        warning:  elements of rape roleplay

▬   Studded leather and an unforgiving strap make Seokjin almost sick with anticipation, on nights when a jockey whip taps against the wall on its way to his ass spread out over the spanking table. A lacy pink harness and a short, soft pastel pink cock put Seokjin at ease, on nights when he wants to be the little spoon, have one of his thighs pushed over the other, and get cuddlefucked into loving oblivion.

▬   “Please!” “No…” “please, stop, please, I can’t take anymore━” and babbling nonsense sounds are Seokjin’s leitmotifs. Getting a feel for Seokjin’s sounds means knowing what it means when the words are soft━faster, harder━and knowing what it means when there’s an edge to them━I’m serious, slow down, but… make it work in the scene. Condescend to me, make fun of me, tell me how pathetic I am for not being able to take more... A taste for hands on his throat and getting jostled around like he isn’t a tall, solid guy means Seokjin needs to trust his partner. While he can enjoy a pegging with somebody he doesn’t know very well, even a casual pegging means outlining parameters of play, and establishing his tics. The relief of a familiar pair of hips in the harness means Seokjin doesn’t have to hold back the things that flow naturally. 

▬   It isn’t a disappointment if Seokjin goes soft during a pegging. His senses have flown into his ass, and the rest of his body can’t keep up. A prostate orgasm while his nipples get a tad too much attention is far more intense than anything his cock could provide, anyways.

▬   Nothing matches the kick you and Seokjin get out of eating his elaborately prepared dinner with a dildo on the table. The second Seokjin tries to start washing the dishes, you're distracting him, until he’s conceding to getting bent over the sink and fucked with tender thankfulness for an amazing meal. 

[ancientbooshartifacts]

Pantomime

Author: BeansidheBaby

Year: 2008

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Howince

It was easy to forget that Vince had been raised in the forest these days. He never stopped to speak to animals any more, or told stories about Bryan Ferry and his childhood adventures. He had lost the slightly naïve wonder he used to regard the whole world with. Now he smirked and swaggered (well, minced really) with an arrogant grace, that was completely divorced from the awkwardly gangly teenager Howard had lured away from the vacuum that was state education with promises of adventure and millet rotas. Howard was shocked then, to discover that Vince had never heard of Cinderella. Later he realised that there was no logical way that he would have known. Leopards are not known for their knowledge of the collected works of the Grimm's Brothers and Bryan was more the lullaby than the bed time story type. “Howard,” Vince bounded up excitedly “What?” Howard muttered barely looking up from his copy of Global Explorer “Can we see this?” he held up a poster, “It looks well trendy. It's about a girl who gets made a princess because she had great shoes. Imagine that!” Howard looked more carefully at the poster. “Vince, this is for the panto. It's for kids,” he said flatly, “Besides you already know what happens in the end, so what's the point paying twenty quid to see some sad collection out of work soap actors and and has-been pop stars torture us with two hours of double entendres and dodgy slapstick?” “Why, what happens? Does she win X-factor?” Vince asked with sincerity shining from his eyes. Howard eyed him suspiciously. “Are you trying to say that you never heard the story of Cinderella?” he asked incredulously, “You know the words to every Gary Numan song ever written and you don't know what happens at the end of Cinderella?” “Yeah,” said Vince churlishly, “So are we going or what?” “I'll book the tickets,” Howard sighed. He had forgotten how loud it was. Even as a child he had found it all very unnecessary and tedious. It was worth it though, to see Vince staring at the play wide-eyed, whooping for the good guys and hissing at the bad guys. Howard had been ready to tackle any and all questions about girls playing boys and middle aged men playing old women, with historical background notes on the theatre prepared in bullet points, but Vince had taken it all in his stride. Typical. At the moment he was admiring the actress who played Button's tight knee length trousers. “Those are genius! Do you think that the Victorian butler look could be coming back?” he asked in Howard's general direction. Howard chose to see this as a rhetorical question, as Vince would hardly ask him his opinion on fashion trends in dead earnest. During the interval, Vince bought a bag of liquorish all sorts “to share” (translation: he ate them and picked out the plain black ones for Howard) “Thanks for taking me Howard,” he said with his cheeks full of sweets, looking more childlike than he had in years. His free hand rested on Howard's armrest, his long fingers plucking at the worn nap of the velvet. The lights dimmed and the curtains reopened. The second act was beginning. Vince impulsively grabbed Howard's hand and rested his head on his friend's shoulder. Ooh that's low, thought Howard, wait until I can't make a fuss. It didn't actually bother him very much really. But it did worry him that it didn't. He nervously reached out an arm and placed it self consciously around Vince.

Vince was quieter during the second act, not heckling the dumber heckers any more or throwing all-sorts at the people in the stacks. He just sat slumped against Howard's shoulder and fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve. Howard sat as stiff as a board with his arm mechanically around his friend's waist, trying so hard to be nonchalant. Vince shifted and his cheek came into contact with Howard's neck. Howard flinched slightly, but tightened his grip on Vince. He spent the rest of the performance focusing solely on Vince's hot breath against his throat. When the curtain finally fell after three curtain calls (three too many, thought Howard) they rose to their feet awkwardly. Howard shifted away from Vince and looked steadfastly at the ground but, made no move to take his arm away. They walked towards the exit holding on to each other loosely but closely, bumping hips and legs together occasionally. I missed this, Howard realised abruptly. Doing stupid things with Vince that neither of them would ever normally do. Vince touching him. He told Vince not to touch him so man times that apparently he'd stopped trying. “What I don't understand is,” Vince said tiredly, “why did Cinderella marry the prince?” “Fitted the shoe. If the shoe fits, wear it,” Howard replied “No, I mean why did she want to marry him not how did she manage it. And I'm not even going to go into how unlikely it is that one person would have a different shoe size to everyone else in the country and still be able to find fab shoes” “Why wouldn't she marry him? He's the prince. That's how stories go” “But what about Buttons?” Vince insisted. How did bloody chocolate come into it? “Buttons loved her and she liked him better than anyone else she knew. Why does she drop him?” Oh that Buttons. “Button's being in love with Cinderella is supposed to be a joke. She didn't see him like that even as a possibility,” Honestly a footman who was a very ineffectively disguised girl over the heir to the thrown? “That's bullshit,” said Vince vehemently, “No one falls in love with people they hook up with at parties. You wake up, you find your clothes, you go home and never call them and they never call you. Those are the rules!” “You're absolutely right Vince. We should write a letter to Disney immediately and tell them that they're perpetuating a falsehood about the 'rules' as regards classic fairy tales,” Howard said with a sarcastic wave of his hand “Don't get shirty with me. I'd rather marry my best mate who loved me rather than some pouf that fancied me for my shoes!” Vince snapped back “Stories aren't supposed to be realistic, Vince. It's supposed to be an escape,” Howard said quietly “Haven't they seen 'When Harry Met Sally'?” Vince was patently sulking now. Howard sighed and pulled him closer and ruffled his hair. “Here don't get upset, little man. It's only a story, yeah?” “Yeah,” Vince muttered against Howard's coat. It was only forty five minutes later, when they were home and Howard was folding his clothes for the next day onto the end of his bed, that he remembered exactly what Vince had said. I'd marry my best mate who loved me rather than some pouf who fancied me for my shoes He put his shirt down carefully and sat down on the bed. Had Vince meant that literally or was he talking about some hypothetical best mate that he'd marry. Who he'd marry?! Howard decided suddenly that he didn't care if he looked like a fool and Vince teased him about this for a year. He walked towards the door quickly, gaining speed as he made his way to Vince's room. He burst into the room and just as suddenly realised exactly how embarrassing this would be if he'd gotten it wrong. And how stupid it looks to burst into a room sheepishly. Vince was semi undressed and sitting on his bed. “Took you long enough. I thought you were supposed to be the clever one?” he said casually but with a delicate tremor in his voice that was only just noticeable. “So what now?” he asked plucking at his shirt in a way that was equal parts sultry and nervous fiddling. “Vince I-” Howard coughed and blushed before looking up, “I think traditionally I would produce a white charger from somewhere and we'd ride off into the sunset” “Nah, that's princes you're thinking of,” smiled Vince, “you're my narky little butler who adores me from afar and then gives me up the second a jazzy village wench walks by” “So what now?” Howard echoed Vince's earlier question, feeling slightly hurt by the reference to his birthday party. Vince sashayed across the room until he was a foot away from Howard. He then shuffled closer until they were nose to nose (nose to chin to be completely accurate). He stood up onto his tippy toes and looked into his friend's eyes before pressing a gentle kiss against the corner of his mouth. “Vince-” Vince shushed him and laced their fingers together before resting their foreheads together. “Do you know what friends with benefits are Howard?” Oh shit, thought Howard. Vince continued without asking for an answer. “We've been sort of married without benefits for ten years now.” Hang on, what? “I want to be with you. Just you. And really with you. You know?” Was Vince actually nervous? Howard wrapped his arms around Vince and kissed him firmly. “Why me?” he asked incredulously. “Because you love me and I love you. That's usually a good reason,” Vince smirked cheekily. “I'm not. I've never,” Howard stammered, becoming increasingly aware of his friends erection pressing into his thigh. “Don't worry, I'll fix that.”

Howard shuffled anxiously while Vince's cocky grin flickered. “We don't have to do anything you don't like,” he said quietly, all traces of his earlier confidence gone. “I do want to have done it. It's just doing it makes me feel a bit funny,” Howard admitted. How did it work anyway? He knew only the theoretical aspects of how to do it with a girl, was it different with men? Obviously it was different but, how different? Did Vince want to bum him? He had somewhat mixed feelings about that and he had been sure that his feelings on being bummed had been clear and to the point yesterday. Not that he thought of it much. Hardly ever. It was scarcely his fault that Vince insisted on wearing those tight trousers that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Which unfortunately only made his imagination competitive. It was impossible to look at him and not wonder what being fucked by him would be like. It would be like going to a race track and ignoring the cars. Vince's face froze slightly. Howard realised his mistake. “Just take it slow. I'm new to all this,” he said sheepishly. This made Vince smile again, though more affectionately condescending than arrogantly this time. “Nice and slow,” he agreed and pulled Howard into a gut wrenchingly slow, sensuous kiss. Their lips slid across each other in a lazy fight for dominance. Howard captured Vince's tongue in his mouth and gave it an experimental suck. Vince groaned and muttered, “Oh Howard” into his mouth. Not with the intonation that those words usually received either, like he was a puppy that had shamed itself in the middle of the kitchen floor. No, this “Oh Howard” was a creature far removed from the “Oh Howard” of old. This “Oh Howard” was doing something very, very right. Emboldened by this success he nipped at his friend's lower lip and teased it between his teeth. That went down quite well, with Vince making a small noise in the back of his throat and pressing himself closer to Howard's body and pulling their hips together suddenly. They were both hard and straining against their flies. Howard yelped girlishly and jumped at the pressure causing Vince to break away and look up worriedly, “Too fast?” he asked nervously “No, no just right,” Howard said breathlessly. Vince flashed an impish grin before cupping the bulge in the taller man's trousers and squeezing. “Too much!” Howard squeaked. “Seriously?” Vince asked, “Sorry. Maybe we should lie down for a bit” “Ho ho, Vince. I'm not that bad,” snapped Howard. Vince waved his hands hurriedly “No, no. Look like this,” he said, grabbing Howard's hands and lay back on the bed, pulling Howard on top of him. He spread his legs and settled Howard between them before grinding upwards with his hips. He guided Howard's hand above their heads before wrapping his arms around his neck. “That good?” he asked sounding a bit winded. “Aren't I too heavy?” Howard asked concerned “Naw, I'm not made of glass. If Naboo can support a fully grown primate, I think you n' me'll manage.” Howard looked as though he was going to ask for an elaboration on what Vince had just said but, he soon forgot everything about tiny shamen and what they got up to on business trips with their familiars, when he felt Vince's sharp incisors against his jugular vein. It felt very nice and then very painful. For about ten seconds he was sure Vince actually was the vampire of Shoreditch and had seduced him so he could drink of his virgin's blood. Or something like that. And then he got used to the pain and wet suction and it was very, very nice again. Vince might be mistaken for a women with startling frequency, but from this position there was no denying that he was a man. His stubbly cheek was scraping the delicate skin on Howard's neck, there was a taut if spare manly musculature writhing underneath his body and if any doubt could still remain on the topic, the hard cock digging into his groin put it firmly to rest. Abandoning the neck, the thinner man kissed up the whiskery jaw and nibbled at a fleshy ear lobe. “We're going to have to lose the clothes, Howard. That bloody corduroy monstrosity is a mood killer if I ever saw one,” Vince muttered a wet explosion into the shell of Howard's ear. Without asking permission he instantly got to work on the practical belt buckle that was responsible for the restraint of said corduroys. “And the less said about the shirt the better,” he went on, his voice was shaking slightly from the effort of unfastening the buckle. Rather than throw a strop, Howard decided to concede this sartorial victory to Vince and started to unbutton his shirt, blunt fingers fumbling with the tiny buttons. Two warm little white hands batted his away impatiently and wrenched the garment off, sending the buttons flying in every direction. “I've wanted to do that for years,” Vince said with a voice husky with lust. Howard toyed with the idea of asking him if he meant destroy his shirt or ravage him but decided neither answer would be totally satisfying. It was better to retain some degree of mystery in a relationship. Vince wiggled out from underneath him and started undressing. There was no question of helping him. True love or not, no one manhandled Vince's wardrobe. Suddenly Vince was completely naked and Howard was down to his socks and underpants. Vince smiled at him ironically and went down on one knee taking one of Howard's feet in his hands. He hooked his fingers around the elastic and eased the sock down the foot , pausing to kiss the Achilles heel, the instep, the ankle. When the sock fell to the ground he gently sucked each of Howard's toes in turn like tiny fat phalluses. Howard was thinking in a small part of his mind that he was glad that he'd washed and cut his toenails recently. The rest of him was not thinking much at all. When Vince released the big toe with an audible pop, he kissed his way back up Howard's leg, rubbing his cheek against his inner thighs like a pet cat and licking and nipping gently upwards. Howard held onto his shoulders, more to ground himself than to try to control Vince, and whimpered. Vince's face was in the hallow where his thighs met and his breath was coming in warm gusts that Howard felt through his pants. There was a slim hand on his stomach with a dexterous thumb stroking above the top of his undergarments. No matter how he tried to angle hips, that thumb stayed where it was. “Please, Vince,” Howard begged pitifully “Please what?” asked Vince with faux innocence, “Tell me what you want” “Want you,” Howard gasped “I'm right here. Tell me what to do,” Vince stroked, stroked, stroked. Please there! “I don't know but do it soon, please!” Please, please, please. “Howard-” “Please touch me!” Oh god, that was embarrassing. Howard tried to look away, but couldn't escape Vince's smiling eyes. “As you wish,” he said and pulled off the underpants in one smooth motion, pausing only for Howard to raise his hips. He moved fluidly, taking the head of Howard's purpling cock in his mouth, pumping the shaft with one hand and cupping his testicles with the other. Howard watched the dark head bob between his legs with astonished fascination. Then, Vince looked up and the sight of his engorged penis slipping in and out of that familiar mouth was almost too much. “Stop, too much,” he gasped. Vince stopped and looked up. “Are you freaking out up there?” he asked, “Do you need to stop, stop?” “No, not that. I just don't want to, you know, not yet,” he looked away blushing. You would think that it would get easier to say these things to someone who had been moments ago sucking you off. Apparently not. “Alright,” said Vince hoisting himself up and slithering up Howard's torso like a snake or a professional slitherer. “Can I still kiss you, or is that weird after what I just did,” he asked two inches from Howard's face. Howard grabbed him by the back of his neck and tasted his own precome on those sweet lips. Salty, but not as bad as he thought it would taste. Vince smiled against his lips and opened his mouth hungrily. He began to rock and grind against Howard, who tentatively bucked back. They found a rhythm and ground against each other, erections digging into hips, lips on necks, ears, noses. Howard reached between their heaving bodies and grabbed their cocks together in his large hand. “Wank me off, Howard,” Vince whispered in his ear urgently. Cock against cock, they both fucked Howard's tight fist desperately. Howard felt a tell tale tingle in his lower belly spreading downwards rapidly. He let go of the cocks and gripped his friend's shoulders. “Vince, I'm going to- I'm, I'm,” overcome with sensation and modesty he hid his face in the crook of Vince's shoulder and bit down on the tendon. “I'm going to too,” Vince said and screwed up his face before they came moments apart. The electro boy collapsed bonelessly on top of his jazz maverick. “That was really good,” he said into the pillow. “Really? I mean I thought it was but you've had more-” Howard spluttered slightly hysterically “Howard,” Vince turned his face off of the pillow, “You were the best” “Don't mock me,” Howard scowled. “I mean it. And now I know you've been holding out on me, I'm never ever letting you go,” Vince snuggled closer limpet-like, hooking his legs around Howard's. “Do you really mean that? You're not toying with me?” “Well it was a bit of a lie,” Vince said thoughtfully, “I'd still never let you go even if you were rubbish and I had to teach you everything. Go to sleep.” “I would but I've got a disenfranchised princess on me,” Howard said and tickled Vince playfully. “Gerroff you northern idiot.” Vince squealed and rolled off and to the side of Howard, where he latched onto him again and hummed contentedly. They lay twined together sticky and naked until the next morning when a surprisingly nonchalant Naboo casually informed them that shops didn't open themselves and would they mind terribly to take a moment out of their busy schedule to do their bloody job before they were out on their ears. “Yes stepmother,” groaned Vince reluctantly detaching himself from his new lover.

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #256

song lyrics here.

Would you date someone who still lived with their parents? Well considering I still live with my mother, I'd be quite the hypocrite if otherwise. Are you a generous person? I personally think so. Do you have a close relationship with your family? With my mom, extremely. Do you think there is life on other planets? Well, define "life," I suppose. Bacteria, stuff like that that science defines as life, yes. Complex life, I don't know. Would you enjoy a night of playing video games? Fuck yeah. Are you sexually attracted to any inanimate objects? ???? No. Would you watch a porno with your partner? UH NO I'm personally not at all interested in porn, and I feel it'd be awkward anyway? Have you ever stolen from your work? No. How much does intelligence turn you on? I guess like your average person that finds intelligence attractive. Do you ask someone out or wait for them to ask you? History shows it varies. Do you own any sex toys? No. Do you talk about your sex life with either of your parents? Well I don't have one now, but historically, I very timidly have with my mom about something. Generally though, I don't. I keep that very private. Do you search someone on the Internet before a first date? No. How often do you use Facebook at work? I'm unemployed. Do you enjoy television or movies better? That's hard, but maybe movies. I don't really watch either, but movies, when they have a good plot, are usually more enjoyable. Would you consider donating your body to science after you die? Sure thing. I personally want to donate my organs and have the rest cremated, though. Are you a romantic person? Yeah. Would you be okay with your partner hanging with their ex as friends? It would seriously depend on the depth of their relationship, where they're hanging out, how long... that kind of stuff. I am very serious about letting your partner have friends, including w/ the gender they're interested in, so I try to be open-minded here. Are you careful with your money? It's hard to even say with how seldom I have any. Do you like to be friends with someone before dating them? Absolutely. Do you like soccer? No. Is it more fun to go out just with your date or on a group date? Depends. I'd say I USUALLY prefer uhhh... single dates? How often do you go dancing/clubbing? Never. Is marriage a necessity for two people who love each other? Uh, no. Do you meditate? No. Have you ever been fired from a job? No. Is there anything you think science will never be able to explain? The soul. Do you cook fancy meals for dates? I don't cook. You don't want me to. Is intoxication ever an acceptable excuse for acting stupid? Fuck no. Do you believe in an afterlife? Probably. Do you litter? NO. Would you have sex with someone hot who you hated? nO????????????? Do you have a career plan? Kinda, but who knows when the fuck that's coming true. Do you mostly cook your own meals? Well, I mostly microwave stuff. I never use the stove or oven. Could you live with someone who was really messy? To a certain degree, no. Do you believe in fate or destiny? No. Have you ever had sex with someone you worked with? No. Would you date someone just for the sex? Nope. Have you ever had a one night stand? No. Have you ever lied about the number of sexual partners you’ve had? No. Are sex and intimacy the same thing? "Sex is just one example of intimacy. There’s other ways to be intimate, including ones that don’t involve being sexual at all." <<<< Exactly this. Have you ever played strip poker? No. How often do you get angry? "I’m someone who gets irritated, moody, upset, and frustrated often, but not angry." <<<< Also this. Do you consider yourself an emotional person? VERY MUCH SO. Is work important to you? Considering how harshly I shit on myself for not having a job, most certainly. Have you had cosmetic surgery? No. On a first date do you pay or do they? In every experience but with Sara, they did. I only paid on Sara's and my first date out of trickery lmao. Do you only date people who have jobs or are full-time students? No. Could you date someone who does drugs? Nope. Medical marijuana is fine, though. Have you ever been to a sex shop? No. Have you ever had a threesome? Nah. Do you enjoy discussing politics? Noooo. Would you do a striptease for your partner? WHOA I would feel WAY too awkward gd. Would you date someone who doesn’t have a car? Yeah. Is it wrong to watch porn if you’re in a relationship? That depends on the people in it. Some mind, some don't. Idk how I'd feel it if was my partner. Do you think men should pay for everything on dates? Hi, it's 2020. Women don't need to be "taken care of." Would you tie up a partner if they asked you to do so? Yeah. Have you ever had sex in a public place? No. Would you date someone twice your age? No. Should a child caught masturbating be punished? It'd be weird at a certain age, but no. It's normal to explore sexuality and what you like, and perhaps even more importantly, it's way better for you to let your sexual urges out privately versus... you know. Being forceful on others. Do you tell your friends you love them? Of course!! Maybe it's just how I was brought up, but I've always gotten kinda confused when (particularly good) friends don't. Love is platonic just as much as it is romantic, and you should let people know! Do you like playing tic-tac-toe? I mean, I guess? What about hangman? It's more fun than the former. Did you play hopscotch when you were younger? Yeah. Did your older sibling ever tell you freaky stories that you believed? I remember at least one. Do you have a yahoo account? It exists, but I haven't touched it in an eternity. I don't even remember the password. Are you a violent person? Definitely not. Do your siblings dye their hair? Not really. They occasionally get highlights, though. Do you still have any of your exes’ stuff? Besides gifted stuff, no. I think. Who can you best relate to in the last book you read? That I finished, Clay. Because he's dumb and hungry. Are you indecisive? Unbelievably. Do you collect anything? What? Meerkat and Silent Hill stuff. What are you listening to? An Emzotic video. I'm like,,, hooked on her stuff. I've been on a MASSIVE animals video binge lately, and she's a FUCKING MOOD. What was the last compliment someone gave you? Idr. What are your pets’ names? Roman and Venus. Gah, I need more bbz. What did your first best friend look like? Last I've seen a picture of her, she was a somewhat bigger person with long, curly brown hair, and she's always been very tan. Did you have a role model growing up? Steve Irwin. If you could learn how to play one instrument, what would it be? Guitar. Is your best friend dating anyone? Do you like them? No. Do you want to move? Very badly, and we probably are soon. Do you have a big family? My extended family is giant. Do you want more or less siblings? I'm happy with what I have. What is your idea of perfect happiness? Great contentment in all I do. Surrounded by love, changing the world in even tiny ways, etc. What is the trait you most deplore (dislike) in yourself? I realized it semi-recently and honestly don't want to share it. Only my old therapist knows, I think. Besides that one, the fact I'm very impulsive with words when I'm upset, probably. What is your greatest extravagance? I'm really creative and passionate. What do you consider the most overrated virtue? Probably the glorification of virginity. I would know. It was a MASSIVE DEAL for most of my teenage years. On what occasion do you lie? When it's a thing where I feel it's just better to not be honest. Now I honor honesty a lot, so I avoid it as much as possible, but no, I don't believe it's always the best policy. What do you most dislike about your appearance? My weight. Which living person do you most despise? I don't know about one specific person. The traumatized part of me says Jason's friend that encouraged him to break up with me, but I know I rightfully shouldn't even dislike him, save for the fact he was pretty arrogant. What or who is the greatest love of your life? I don't know. When and where were you the happiest? Well, it depends. If you mean in a specific moment of most intense happiness, lots of times with Jason. An extended period of happiness, early into recovery when I lived with Colleen. What do you consider your greatest achievement? Recovering from the breakup. If you were to die and come back as a person or a thing, what would it be? A house cat. Seems like a pretty good life. What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? At least from my experiences, harsh rejection when you try your best to please that person. What do you value most in your friends? As far as a sweeping characteristic they all share, the will to listen and just be there for me in times I really need companionship. Who are your favorite writers? I don't really have favorites. Who is your hero of fiction? Hm, I dunno. Which historical figure do you most identify with? Uhhhh I also don't really know. I'm not enough of a history buff for this. Who are your heroes in real life? I answer this enough. What are your favorite names? Alessandra and Severin. Do you like watching reruns? No. What do you think is worth waiting for? Deep relationships. Should parenting classes be mandatory for new parents? No. What is the number one thing people are always asking you for help with? English/writing. What movie did you love the original but hated the sequel to? I remember the Ghost Rider sequel was nothing compared to the original. It was okay, but. Are you more talk and less action or vice versa? More talk. Have you ever given someone a handmade present? Yeah, especially as a kid. What type of person angers you the most? Probably those who can't put their pride aside for anything. What do you think should be a wonder of the world that currently isn’t? I don't even know what they all are to get a proper grasp on the question. What comforts you on bad days? My mom and Sara, sleep, YouTube, sometimes regrettably food, etc. Do you treat yourself and your body with respect? Not very well. Something you eat that other people would find gross. *shrugs* Nothing that's too weird. Have you ever broken the law and didn’t get caught, if so how? Yeah, and obviously by not screaming it to the world, but also because none are massive. Something you fear might change you. The aftermath of heartbreak. It still affects me today and makes me see less hope in love. What personality trait in people raises a red flag with you? Volatility. Have you ever resented someone, if so what for? "Stealing" Jason, and the other person for accusing me something of so fucking selfish and vile I don't even like saying it, especially when she was my damn therapist that I loved and trusted. How old do you think is too old to have a baby? "Old enough that getting pregnant would cause significant harm to you or the baby." <<<< How have you changed over the last five years? I've definitely become wiser and more open-minded. Have you ever painted a house? Nope. Have you ever had a surprise party (that was an actual surprise)? No. What makes you feel miserable? Eating badly (particularly too much sugar makes me feel shitty), doing nothing/extended boredom. What’s the best costume you’ve ever worn? Don't have a clue. What’s been the hardest loss you’ve had to take? Jason. A loss without actual death is, wow, awful. I mean death is too, but holy shit it hurts when that person chooses to leave you. Do you like sunny days or rainy days more? Depends on the temperature and my mood. Who is your favorite movie director and what’s your favorite movie from them? Tim Burton, of course. Alice In Wonderland. What is the furthest you’ve ever got a paper airplane to fly? Not very far. Nothing impressive. Do you like the person you are becoming? It depends on the context. Honestly, by this point, not really. What’s the highest you’ve ever jumped into the water from? Not high at all. What inspires your ideas? More than anything, music. Just a single lyric, sometimes one word, spawns a sometimes very complex concept. Have you ever assembled furniture by yourself? No. Have you ever bolstered your resume to get a job you really wanted? No. I have a really, really hard time lying for a job. Have you ever had an internship, if not what would be your dream intern job? No. Do you prefer chicken, beef, or seafood? Chicken. Have you ever had a health scare? Yes. What do or did you hate the most about dating or the dating process? Opening up again. What do you frown upon when it comes to raising kids? Spanking. Have you ever been professionally photographed? Yeah. Do you influence people more than they influence you? I very much doubt that. If you could ask one person, alive or dead, only one question, what would you ask? If he regrets me. Do you buy anything organic, if so, what is it? I don't think so? What was the name of the first album you ever bought and who was it by? I believe it was You're Awful, I Love You by Ludo. Do you have any prejudices you’ve admitted to yourself? No. Who is the very first friend you ever remember making and how old were you? Brianna; I was two. What makes you lose sleep? Stress. Anxiety. PTSD. Do you floss or use a toothpick when food gets stuck in your teeth? I floss. Have you ever made out in a bathroom? Pretty sure that's a negative. Ever physically fought with member of the opposite sex? YIKES no. Well, besides playfighting. Ever walked in on your friends having sex? No. Ever kissed a friend’s crush? No. Has anyone ever called cops on you? No. Do you swallow gum when you’re finished? Noooo that's so uncomf. Ever tackled someone to the ground? Not in a way that was a harsh fall. More like a crumbling to the floor. Where was the last place you fell asleep other than your bed? Hm. Maybe in the school library, but I doubt that, really. I don't think I ever actually fell asleep. Did the last person you kiss have piercings? No. Did your parents spoil you as a child? No. Have you ever had alcohol poisoning? No. Ever thrown up in public? Yes. Has anyone laid on your bed besides you? Yes. What bothers you more, when people lie or when people complain? Depends on the severity. I think lying is more hurtful, though. How many bracelets do you have on your wrists right now? Three. Who took your profile picture on Facebook? Me. Do you sleep on a certain side of the bed? More towards the left. Has anyone ever drunk called/texted you? No. Would you ever date anyone your parents disapproved of? Yeah. I'd consider their reasonings, of course, but it's my decision.

[iohourtime]

Moeyo Ken (Burn! O Sword!) - Novel Recap 1

One good thing about a book/manga adaptation is that you can read the story right away, spend the next few months contemplating how certain scenes will be adapted, getting hyped while reading about people saying how the casting is all wrong, and then hopefully not be disappointed when the movie inevitably end up being different from your imagination!

Moeyo Ken, a 2-volume historical novel about Hijikata Toshizo and the Shinsengumi, written by Shiba Ryotaro1 will be adapted into a 2020 movie directed by Harada Masato. They only announced the cast for 5 key characters as of end of April 2019:

Hijikata Toshizo (Okada Junichi) - “Demon” Vice Commander. Originally from Hino, near Edo (Tokyo's former name).

Oyuki (Shibasaki Kou) - Hijikata’s one true love; a widow from Edo who followed her late (unnamed) husband to Kyoto.

Kondo Isami (Suzuki Ryohei) - Commander and Hijikata’s childhood friend.

Okita Souji (Yamada Ryosuke) - Captain of the First Unit and kind of like Hijikata and Kondo’s little brother. (Also Hijikata & Okita are rather popular ships. They are HijiOki.)

Serizawa Kamo (Ito Hideaki) - The original Commander of the Shinsengumi.

Harada also adapted and directed2 Sekigahara (2017), another Shiba novel about the rise of the Tokugawa shogunate. I watched that movie and ended up spending a good hour on Wikipedia trying to make sense who's who 😅. So while the Shinsengumi story is more straightforward, it might be helpful to have some background before watching Moeyo Ken.

I split this into two posts. The first is a brief background of the era, including some details of the story itself. In order to keep the spoilers to a minimum, the plot I did include might be a bit vague. The second talks about the main characters, specifically the trio. There are major spoilers on what happened to them. (Or you can look at Wikipedia. 😅) While there are other interesting characters in the Shinsengumi, they were more like background characters in the novel. Moeyo Ken is predominantly about Hijikata3, with Kondo and Okita as major secondary characters. Anyway, you can decide if you want to skip any parts. (If you just want to read about Okita, click the link here and skip to the end. 😅)

The movie officially cranked up on April 27. Suzuki Ryohei posted some location shots (just scenery) on his blog here. I guess if you want to visit the filming locations, you can use this as the guide.

The World of Moeyo Ken

Disclaimer: I don't know much about Japanese history. This is more of the worldview of the novel. Shiba definitely took some liberties and included some fictional elements.

Moeyo Ken was set in the Bakumatsu4 period and the story spanned most of the decade of 1860. Although there was an emperor at that time, the military power belonged to the Bakufu (the shogunate), which was led by the Tokugawa family for almost 300 years. Due to corruption within the Bakufu and a fear of foreigners, a group of rebels, the Ishin Shishi, or more commonly the Tobaku faction, tried to bring down the Bakufu and restore military power to the Emperor. As the Ishin Shishi (many were from the Choshu samurai clan5) were causing trouble, the Bakufu decided to do an open recruitment for a “roshigumi”, or ronin squad. Ronin (wanderers) were simply warriors who didn't serve a master. They could be ex Samurai or just regular folks.

Back in those days, you could only become a Samurai if you had the right lineage. Even if you were a superb swordsman, if you weren't born with the right connections, you were out of luck. So when the Bakufu opened up the recruitment to everyone, guys like Hijikata jumped at the chance to become a “real bushi (warrior)”. At the same time, people saw them as wannabes.

Hijikata was the youngest son in a relatively wealthy family that made medicine in Hino, near Edo. While he tried his hands at various jobs, at the beginning of the novel, his main job was to peddle his family’s secret formula, sometimes in exchange for one or two martial arts moves. He spent his spare time studying kenjutsu and hanging out with his best friend, Kondo, who was the heir of the Tennen Rishin-ryū (“TRR”) dojo. He eventually taught full time at the dojo with Kondo and Okita. Life was simple, other than the occasional (i.e semi-regular) duels to defend the territory. For that reason, the dojo also "employer" a number of outside martial artists by providing them with room and board. Approximately 1/6th of the novel dealt with the Hino arc, although I don’t know if Harada plan to adapt much of this. I actually liked this arc the most.

Due to a plague that devastated the villages and decimated the dojo’s business, plus an intention to do something for the government, Kondo took his group of 9 to join the roshigumi. In addition to the core 3, the gang included:

Inoue Genzaburō

Nagakura Shinpachi

Saitō Hajime

Harada Sanosuke (unlike the others, he used a spear)

Tōdō Heisuke

Yamanami Keisuke6 Looking back, the Bakufu was weak and corrupt while the Tobaku side represented hope and progress, so why did our guys align with them? At that time, the seat of power was in Kyoto, so the regular folks from Kanto tended to be less politically savvy. Furthermore, Hino’s region benefited greatly from the Tokugawa shogunate, so the guys joined the ronin squad partly out of loyalty. Of course there were other reasons why they stuck with the Bakufu after. I digressed.

When the TRR group joined the roshigumi, as they came from some backwater dojo, they were not valued by the leader at all. They also found out the leader was using the recruitment as a front to build his own army of nationalists, which was not what they signed up for. Kondo's faction joined forces with Serizawa Kamo's faction to form the Mibu Roshigumi (named after their base at Mibu Dera), which was affiliated with the Bakufu but not quite. As Serizawa had connections, he was installed as the first commander. Unfortunately, Serizawa’s gang was corrupt and went around bullying businesses and residents of Kyoto to pay them protection money, so his reign over Mibu Roshigumi didn't last long. Kondo became the next commander, Hijikata became the infamous “Demon Vice Commander”, and the group changed its name to the Shinsengumi. In its short history, there were power struggles, assassinations, betrayals etc. Yes, this squad lasted only about 5 years, culminating in a battle in Hakodate, Hokkaido.

Although the Shinsengumi was a police squad protecting the residents of Kyoto on paper, their real mission was to kill those any suspected Ishin Shishi. The Choshu samurai clan, in particular, was loved by the residents of Kyoto, so Kyoto itself was already somewhat sympathetic to the Tobaku side. So back in the days, the Shinsengumi was viewed as a bloodthirsty gang of wannabes, lapdogs of the Bakufu, and more like thugs hired by one of the pro-Bakufu Samurai clans. People actually called them the Wolves of Mibu. This changed with the Ikedaya Incident, in that people no longer called them that to their faces.

When Yamazaki Susumu, the resident spy in Shinsengumi, got word that the Ishin Shishi were planning something, the Bakufu tasked the group to arrest or kill the rebels. They learned from one of the rebels (through days of pretty graphic torture 😱) that they planned to set fire in Kyoto and used the confusion to kidnap the Emperor. The Shinsengumi was deployed. While 30+ Shinsengumi members took part in this mission, they actually split into 2 groups, so only 5 of them led by Kondo were at Ikedaya taking out 30+ opponents. As you can see, after the incident, people stopped dismissing the group. At least they were very effective and tactical!

Shinsengumi was not kind to its own people either. During Serizawa's reign, the organization was really no better than gangsters. So after Kondo took control, Hijikata created the (in)famous code with 5 articles (trimmed down from about 50):

Do not deviate from the bushido (Warrior's way)

Do not leave the Shinsengumi

Do not engage in private fundraising (more like coerced “fundraising”)

Do not part in others' litigation, and

Do not engage in private fights.

These rules were intended to get the members to fall in line, so while they were still bloodthirsty 😅, at least they were honorable! The punishment for breaking any of the 5 rules was death. You might be given the honour to commit seppuku*, beheaded, or assassinated. 😧 The Shinsengumi weren't very nice, right?

* Seppuku is a ritual suicide used by a samurai either to avoid surrendering or to atone for his sins. The samurai basically sliced himself across the abdomen. If he had the chance, he could nominate a person as his “second” to chop his head off and end the pain earlier. Once a samurai commit seppuku, he was viewed as having died honourably.

After Ikedaya, the Bakufu elevated the status of the Shinsengumi by making them an official branch. That was probably the peak of the group. Shortly after, Ito Kashitaro, who was very well educated and Tobaku, joined the Shinsengumi with the intention to steal the group away from Kondo. Hijikata hated his guts but Kondo loved and relied on him. At first anyway. Ito became very popular among the members. When Ito realized Kondo was all in with the Bakufu, he staged a coup (ish) and coerced Kondo and Hijikata into letting him leave with his faction. It was “resolved” in the Aburano Koji incident.

There was no time to breathe though. The Shinsengumi was immediately sent to fight against the Tobaku in the Toba-Fushimi battle during the Boshin War. Well, Bakumatsu literally means the end of Bakufu, so how do you think it went? 😅 Eventually Tokugawa gave up his military power, ending the shogunate’s 300 years of military rule. After the final battle in Hakodate, a new era begun - the Meiji Restoration period.

Early in the Meiji Restoration period, the Bakufu and Shinsengumi were vilified. But perhaps due to the charismatic and/or oddball characters of the squad, or perhaps they were like the ultimate underdogs, people started to view them in a different light over time7. Although Shiba never set out to show the Shinsengumi as nice people, his novels romanticized their escapades and brought new fans to the squad. The Shinsengumi has been pop culture fixtures, spawning numerous tv shows, movies, manga about their exploits and the brotherhood*. Even in defeat, the Shinsengumi were forged into the exquisite swords of Bakumatsu, and their lives burned with such intensity that nobody could ignore.

Next Post

*Then there was Gohatto (Taboo), based on one of the short stories in Shiba's Shinsengumi Keppuroku, which explored the gay relationships within the squad. According to surviving letters written by Kondo to his family, homosexuality was quite widely practiced.

Notes

A well-known author of Japanese historical novels. ↩︎

Harada is a big Shiba fan, based on his extremely long comment on the movie webpage. He said that there were 3 incidents that shaped Japan's history: The battle of Sekigahara, Bakumatsu, and WWII. He has been hoping to adapt Moeyo Ken for a while. He apparently loved the HijiOki banter. Hopefully he kept most of them. ↩︎

Shiba’s other novel, Shinsengumi Keppuroku, actually delve more into the non-Hijikata characters. I do wonder how much of the other novel will Harada incorporate into the movie. ↩︎

Although the protagonists and antagonists had different agendas, they were all purportedly protectionists. It was a bit ironic later on when both sides relied on Western armory to fight their civil war. ↩︎

There were many Samurai clans across Japan and they each had difference allegiances and agendas. ↩︎

The names sound familiar, right? The Shinsengumi in Gintama was based on the historical characters, but they may not have the same personalities. Some characters appeared in Rurouni Kenshin too. ↩︎

I read online that there may have been BL fanfiction written about Hijikata and Okita as well as Hijikata and Kondo in the early 20th century. Apparently, someone found them in his or her grandmother’s belonging. 😅 ↩︎

[uncookspaget]

Canadian Small Town Gothic

It’s usually raining or cloudy. You try to remember when it was like have the warmth of the sun on your skin. You can’t.

People who move in from out of town, and try to open a shop, leave around six months in. Their shops empty and not quite quiet, almost as if the ghosts of the owners are waiting for you to come in to buy something. The only thing left is the sign still fresh looking. It’s a few months before anyone else opens a shop each time the store are open less than the one before.

You don’t look too long for fear of what might happen if you do. You used to bring it up but you learnt to not question it. No one does. Newcomers always leave, without a word. No one knows where they go. Or if they left town at all. All we know is they’re gone.

You’re with a friend a strange man smiles and says nice day isn’t it? You both smile back and agree, you share a look with your friend, she also knows how weird that was. You don’t say anything to each other and pretend it didn’t happen. You don’t bring it up. You know not to. You’ve never seen that man before, and never will again.

There’s lots of creepy people in your town, hoodies and hats always cover their face. They’re always men. They only come out when the sun goes down. They’re out to take things. Don’t acknowledge that they exist, don’t even glance their way. One look in their eyes and you’ll know you shouldn’t have even looked their way. Even if they aren’t looking, they have eyes in the back of their head and they are watching. Always watching. You can’t tell who’s paranoid you or them. Maybe both.

You live in an apartment, you never see your neighbours in the halls, if you do they’re always leaving never coming. Sometimes you see them getting mail. You greet them and they mumble something you just smile. You didn’t hear what they said. At least not in a human language you didn’t.

All you’re neighbours are old, except a few. But you almost never ever see them, the younger ones. Sometimes you hear their loud music or loud voices but then there’s always quiet. Well you saw one of your younger neighbours, she lives next door. But the look in her eyes scared you, even when she smiles. And she always does.

There’s a field behind the apartment . It was used to be a house from the forties left abandoned since I moved to this town. Even I don’t know why I’ve been here so long, maybe it was because me and my sister were fresh meat, only being 2 and 3 at the time. I’m nineteen now and I can’t leave. I don’t want to even when I do.

One night at 3 in the morning it burned down to the grown I didn’t hear it or even see it. I slept soundly in my bed. Mom asks me the next morning didn’t you hear it last night I reply no I was asleep. When something happens in my town it’s always at night and I’m asleep. I’m always asleep. I was fourteen when it happened. Even though I have trouble sleeping and am awake most of the night or constantly wake up for no reason, I’m always sleeping when these things happen. Like the town doesn’t want me to be conscious when the bad things happen.

Last summer a house that’s over a hundred years old that I have actually been inside, a block away from my house had a murder two days after it burned down. Not even a week later two blocks in the other direction from my building had a shooting. It’s never on the news. And people stop talking about what happened in a week but tell you to not walk by yourself for the rest of the summer. They remind you to never be alone in the daylight. You bring it up to people, all they say is yeah, with this look on their face, like they know something you don’t. It’s not brought up again.

I was always asleep when it happened. Two months ago two streets over from my house across from my friends old house a house caught fire, the top floor gone. This was only time I wasn’t asleep when something and it happened in the late afternoon, when the sun was still out.

The elementary school you went to is behind your apartment across the street. And beside it a funeral home. When you were a kid it never seemed to never be empty. But now it always seems empty and dark. Sometimes it’s full for a funeral, less than once a month. You asked a few times why they put it beside your over a hundred year old school, everyone is as confused as you. You can see them both from your living room window. One time you smelt barbecue it smelt so good. You looked and it was funeral home. Now you wonder when you go for burgers what’s in them. But when the cremate there’s no funeral after they burn a body. If it even is a body.

Onetime a semi truck was parked for three days in front of the field across from the funeral home. No one knows where it went or why it was there. No one saw it come. And no one saw it go.

Most of the people in my town don’t make eye contact with you, and for good reason. You don’t want your secrets out.

Sometimes people give a half smile and you give one back and you’ll think about it all day and smile every time you think of it. Until it happens more than four more times in a day. Each time the smile gets bigger. And you think why’d it happen that many times it never happens that often. The more think about the more you are confused. It happened a month ago and you still can’t forget the way they looked at you. Animals bare their teeth as a warning and you start to wonder maybe it was one. Sometimes the wolf’s live among us in sheep’s clothing. You laugh at that thought, don’t be silly that’s ridiculous. But you still can’t stop thinking about it. How sharp their teeth seemed. Don’t be silly.

Your town is quiet all the time. Except for the rain or the occasional screeching of tires. Cars never pass by, unless at night. Sometimes you forget how a car sounds. And if you’re outside don’t look into the windows, if you don’t want to go missing. But you shouldn’t be out at night. Bad things come out at night. Everyone here knows that you don’t go out at night.

In the summer you are hanging out with you’re friends and mid laugh you’ll all hear screaming you look at you’re friends and you all make eye contact. There’s fear in all of your eyes, you all laugh and then there’s a pause. You try to continue your conversation, but you’ve forgotten what you were talking about. What were you talking about? What’s the date again? When was the last time you saw someone else outside? Or the last time you told you’re loved ones you loved them? It’s so hot when was the last time I ate? Am I even hungry? I don’t remember. I can’t remember. I’m afraid to both remember and forget.

They’ve been tearing down old historic buildings. And rebuild new ones. Its starting not look like you’re town anymore. It makes you very confused. The buildings before we’re fine why destroy them. No one has an answer.

You don’t know You wonder when you’ll leave. You hate it here. Will you move though? Your friends are here. And they aren’t leaving. Why move? Why not stay?