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#Overnight points East
batshit-auspol · 4 months
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I just spent some time scrolling through this blog and am suffering from sever laughter. Thanks so much for collating the countries craziest moments. One of my favourites is when Scott Morrison was in Hawaii while the bushfires where burning.
December 2019: As Australia's east coast is engulfed in the worst bushfires in living memory, rumours begin to circulate that Australia's Prime Minister Scott Morrison may have secretly fucked off for a holiday in Hawaii.
Keep in mind, this is what is going down in Australia at the time:
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The Hawaii rumour is initially written off as a fringe conspiracy, because surely nobody could be that fuckin tonedeaf, and it was quickly forgotten about... until an Australian man visiting Hawaii UPLOADED A SELFIE ON THE BEACH WITH THE PM THROWING A SHAKA.
At which point all hell broke loose.
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Overnight the formerly popular "Scomo" became the most despised man in all of Australia. Think "firefighters shouting out of their windows to news cameras" level of despised.
After about two days of radio silence and pretending like he was still at home running the country, the Prime Minister's handlers finally dragged him onto call with an Australian radio station, where he pinky promised to return to Australia as fast as he could in an attempt to calm things down.
Unfortunately Scott's empathy consultant (a real job) then had to watch Scott pour more gasoline on the dumpster fire by uttering the now famous phrase "Look I don't hold a hose mate" when asked by the radio interviewer why the fucking fuck the fuckhead wasn't fucking in Australia doing his fucking job during a massive fucking crisis.
Testing just how much worse things could get, Scomo then proceeded to NOT rush back to Australia as promised, instead attempting to complete the rest of his holiday, a fact that was exposed when a passerby snapped a picture of him still lounging on the beach two days later.
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Eventually, holiday complete, Morrison did reluctantly slink back to Australia, and in an attempt to calm things down, he decided to pay a visit to a small town that had been destroyed by the fires.
Which was a big mistake.
Scomo still had not registered how absolutely and totally he had screwed the poodle with his Hawaiian beach vacation, and he walks into what is now taught in PR classes as one of the greatest examples of "what not do do in a crisis" in all of history.
Scotty from Marketing, as he is now dubbed by the nation, spends a painfully cringe-inducing hour wandering around a burned down town with TV news cameras in tow, having to FORCE PEOPLE TO SHAKE HIS HAND in what is some of the most awkward footage you will ever see.
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At this point it's probably also worth mentioning that, before becoming Prime Minister, Scott Morrison's biggest claim to fame in politics was being the guy that was so far up the coal lobby's arse that he literally brought coal into parliament and waved it around, claiming it doesn't hurt people.
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So when a protest was organised it turned out to be one big national fuck you to the Prime Minister, the likes of which the world has never seen before or since.
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Needless to say, at this point Scomo's career was dead in the water, but thanks to the rules brought in to stop Australian political parties from knifing their leader every two weeks (a popular Aussie passtime) Morrison basically couldn't get fired until after the next election.
And so, when the election rolled around in 2022, we decided that was an opportune time to travel over to Hawaii to erect this bad boy tribute to the Prime Minister, on the very beach where Scomo had sat and drank margaritas that one fateful week in December as Australia burned (thanks to @chaser for funding the ticket)
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eupheme · 1 month
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— are you mine?
joel miller x f!reader
rated t - 4.4k
tags: over-protective and soft jackson!joel, partners-to-lovers, mutual jealousy, secrets, miscommunication and rumors, light angst, valentine’s day
a little valentine’s day gift for the lovely @sweetercalypso - I was so thrilled to get you for the Space Sister’s exchange! I really hope you like it! 💌💕
A change in your usual patrol schedule, a dash of over-protectiveness, and a gossipy partner leads to you desperately wish you could turn back time.
Because how can you face Joel, after this?
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"I don't like it."
His voice comes from next to your shoulder. Rough and low - your eyes drifting over heavy, muddied boots, then up. Trying not to linger where his strong arms cross over a broad chest, the pull of fabric against skin where the sleeves are rolled up to elbows.
"Don't like what?" You ask, as your plate and mug join the pile of others in the bin to be washed. Finishing up a quick breakfast in the mess hall before your patrol shift begins.
A second lingers, before Joel answers.
"Don't like the thought of you out there without me."
His answer makes your stomach flip, butterflies already sprouting at the unexpected encounter. You hadn't thought you'd see Joel until later - an unexpected change in last night’s schedule. Sending him out from evening until dawn, and leaving you with a new partner for this morning.
"You're the one that swapped shifts." You point out, finally glancing his way. Seeing the pull of his brows, the shift as he leans against one of the heavy wooden support beams, "Anyways, I won't be alone. They have me with William."
The mark between his brows deepens, "Don't know if I like that, either."
Your own eyebrows raise, "What's wrong with William?"
He doesn't answer - the dark pull of his gaze breaking, as his eyes drop.
"Heard rumor there might be someone in the woods," Joel changes the subject, "Dirt kicked over the ashes, footsteps leading off to the east. No sign of anyone, but that don’t mean they ain’t hangin' around.”
He's worried, you think. Your hand reaches out, hovering for just a moment before you're clapping his bicep, instead of his bare forearm.
"Just because there was someone there, doesn't mean they're bad." The touch lingers for a moment, before your hand is dropping - shoving into your jacket pocket, "Besides, it’s daylight now. We'll be fine. Always are."
His look is dark, at your words.
An optimism lingering in you that has long been leached from his system. An uneasiness that lingers in his blood and bones - a shift of his his as he reaches to draw something out of his back pocket. Pressing it into your hand, when you reach for it without thinking.
"Know how to use this?"
It's a knife - his knife -  the folded handle fitting his broad hand but feeling more like a dagger in yours.  
“Joel, please-” You all but huff, torn between annoyed and touched. Reaching out to hand it back, but he’s shifting sideways to dodge you. 
“Humor me, alright?” He’s grumbling - but he's not done - fishing something else from his jacket pocket. Holding it out for you to take as well - heavy and plastic in your other hand.
You flip it over, seeing the small antenna fit above the speaker, the buttons worn bare and smooth beneath. 
"Ellie's got the other. I'll get it from her this morning." He explains, "Two-way radio. You need anything or run into anyone, I'll know."
It would be stifling, if it were anyone else.
Insulting, perhaps. 
But knowing that Ellie does this for Joel soothes you, teeth biting into your lip to hold back your smile.
And you can’t deny that you did feel a little uneasy, heading out without your partner.
"Fine.” You tell him, with a sigh.
“But just this once."
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The ground crunches beneath your feet, a frost and thin snow freezing and blanketing the green pokes of grass overnight. 
You’re already ready for spring, even though the world has just creeped into February. Missing the crunch of leaves instead of ice. Yearning for the daffodils and crocuses to pop up, as the earth thaws.
But for now - you’re content to concede that it’s easier to do your job, at least. The only damaged grass around you, the only marks in the dirt, are your own. 
Quiet, idle conversation with William passing as you take the usual route - your rucksack a familiar weight against your shoulders. Padded with the faded and patched feather-down of your coat as you weave between trees.
Checking traps for food, finding nothing. Not unusual when the rest of the world seems to be sleeping.
The sun is nearly overhead when you reach the watchtower, the spindly legs that hold the narrow room high in the sky. The rungs leading up are wide, but you still hold your breath as you climb. Only exhaling at the top, when both your feet are firmly on the metal platform - cold air sharp in your lungs with your inhale.
It's pretty up here. A clouded blue sky above, a suggestion of snow. A wistful hope that it will hold off until tomorrow, as your patrol partner unlocks the door - checking the inside before you follow.
Your rucksack lands with a thud just inside the door, which closes behind you. The windows are cracked, spider-webbing from the corners, but still holding firm enough that it shields you from some of the chill outside.
Looking out above some of the trees, giving you a peek of Jackson when you stand in the southern corner. 
Here, you can take a minute to breathe. To talk, while keeping watch and warm.
It's been a few weeks since you've been out with William. You didn't run in the same circles - he had a regular rotation of patrol partners. You had Joel, and sometimes Ellie, and you never found a reason to stray.
That thought, the change, had kept you busy on the patrol. Your mind wandered as your feet moved on your own, through well-known paths. Eyes seeing but your thoughts elsewhere.
He had seemed worried, at the mess hall.
Or - on edge, at least. Distracted.
There had been a quick rap on your door, a mumbled excuse about them needing him last night. Letting you know you'd be with someone else for your shift in the morning. A glance over his shoulder, nodding towards the figure that was waiting for him, before he was off.
And although he had made the switch, he sure didn't seem happy about it this morning.
William was friends with Jesse, who was friends with Ellie and Dina - you couldn't think of a reason for the ever-present mark that had deepened between his eyebrows.
You wonder why - because surely, a set of trained and fed partners would be more than a match for anyone drifting through the woods on their own. Even you weren't so nervous, and you didn't have the years and grit of someone like Joel.
And it wasn't like William was unprepared. He'd been doing patrols just as long as you had, maybe even a little longer.
It's here that you're drawn away, your companion’s voice breaking through your thoughts. His foot tapping yours, where you both sit on the old, wooden floor.
“Been a while, huh?”
You nod in agreement, offering the slightest lift of a smile, “Yeah. Been couple months, at least.”
“More than that. Bet it’s been close to a year.”
“Oh.” You blink, thinking back.
Wondering if that’s why his gaze has been on you so often this morning - that he’s nearly forgotten what you look like, “Guess I hadn’t noticed.”
You hadn’t realized it’s been that long. And at the same time, only that long.
Joel had drifted for a while in Jackson - untethered, but never far from the nearest door, the nearest wall. Content to watch from the fringes, to stay unnoticed. To slip out, when he’s had enough.
It still took a few months until he was rotated into the patrol. Until you met him, fully. Needling conversation out of him in these morning walks, or when the stars stretched out in the inky night.
Fully expecting him to trade out, when he could. Others often did - preferring a variety of company.
He never did. And neither did you. 
Things worked with Joel. And more than trust had bloomed in those lone hours together, something that had planted in your first days of seeing him. Carefully tended, nourished by the slivers of traded secrets and shared looks and moments where you had thought that just maybe…. maybe… you weren’t alone. 
"Don't know how you can stand patrolling with him. He’s a scary dude." William mutters, the sound low as you hunker down below the rim of the metal railing.
You frown. Joel's not scary. Not really. Not to you.
A grouch, for sure. All bark and bite, but it's never once been directed at you. 
“Joel?” You ask, clarifying.
“Yeah, Miller.” He gives you a sideways look, “You know he's killed people, right? Like, not just infected. People, people.”
The stories and rumors aren't new to you, they cling to him like ghosts. The whispers when he came into town had never stopped - but with time, they had lessened.
He had intimidated you, at first. A low voice and an angry look that would send anyone scurrying, but in the two years since he's been here, it's all faded at the edges. Gone soft. 
Looking back, knowing now how he looks after Ellie, looks after you - you’re not sure how you ever saw him that way. 
And you think, you hope, that deep down - he does care. That a part of him might feel the same.
It’s there in the way he sought you out this morning. More than a dislike in the change of his schedule - that wouldn’t have loosened the knife he carried.
It was there in your patrols. In the way you felt safe, with him - in how it flowed from outside those wooden walls to inside the town, inside his home. 
"We all have." You reply, with a sharp finality.
You didn't really remember the days before. Your life had been filled with spoken memories, but they weren't yours. The days of lawfulness are akin to fairy tales - merely stories, in your mind.
Who were you to judge, when your own hands were stained?
The infected weren’t the only monsters in this world. You’re sure he had his reasons, as did you.
William makes a sound of agreement, before dropping the subject. Content to watch the sparkle of snow, caught in the wind where it drifts down from tall branches.
That silence is broken a little later, with another question.
"You goin' to the dance later?"
Your legs stretch, toes wiggling in the chill of the room. Even enclosed, the cold seeps in through the cracks and thin panes of splintered glass.
"Of course."
Everyone would be.
The dances in Jackson were few and far between. Even more rare in these cold months - people preferring to stay warm, keep out of the snow that gathers in the alleys, the chill that whips down the rows of buildings. 
The day before had been spent decorating the church hall. There was an ache in your arms where you had helped Wendy roll out the dough for cookies - watching as the younger folks cut hearts out of recycled paper in the mess hall, to be strung along the walls. 
Underneath the stars above and in the glow of the lights, it would be beautiful.
There's a steadying breath next to you.
A moment, before he's asking, "You goin' with anyone?"
The rest comes in a rush, "I mean, do you wanna go with me?"
He turns your way, as you slowly go still. Too surprised to form an answer, trapped in his gaze with your wide eyes and parted lips.
"I-" You begin, and then falter.
William was nice. A little older than you. Showy, when he was with his friends, ready to do anything for a laugh.
Nice, but not Joel. No one was.
And deep down, you know that it's not like Joel thought of you that way. Returned those feelings, despite your wishes.
But you knew he'd be there. He'd go for Ellie, who would make sure she was there to see Dina.
And you'd go for Joel.
Even if just to see him, even if only for a moment.
The silence has stretched too long, an uneasy shifting next to you as he waits for an answer.
"There someone else?" The lilt of his voice has turned sharp, accusatory. Slicing through your thoughts, demanding your attention.
And again, you stumble. Still unable to form words, still too caught off guard - tongue twisted in knots. 
“There is, isn’t there?” Another verbal nudge, and it’s here that you find your voice. 
"There is... uh, someone." You manage - not ready to spill your guts, but there’s no chance you’ll agree to go with him.
"Yeah?" His eyebrow raises as he scoffs, "Who, Joel?"
He laughs at his own joke - and it's only now, as it's turned on you, that you notice how cruel it can sound. 
Your own eyes drop, head turning back towards the wall. 
And it’s here that your eyes snag on the cherry red gleam that peeks from the outside pocket of your rucksack. 
The radio. 
Forgotten entirely, in the long walk over. 
Panic courses through you.
Can he hear you, from here? Is he listening now?
You send up a silent wish, hoping that perhaps he's stepped out. That if you're lucky, the radio doesn't quite reach this far.
The silence gives you away, before you can brush it off - too caught up in the fear that twists in your stomach. A look had crossed your features that William had caught, the laughter dying as he pushes to his feet.
"You can't be serious." There's the mocking curl of his lip, a look of incredulity, "Miller? Are you out of your mind?"
There had been a flicker of thought - thinking that you could go over, switch it off. Or change the subject, tell Will to just shut up - but there’s something in his tone that distracts you - igniting your dread and embarrassment into anger and irritation. 
Making you slip up.
"So what if it is? It's none of your business-" You begin, but he cuts you off.
He’s fully turned your way now. The melting snow of his boots soaking into the hem of your jeans, with how he close he sits. Close enough that you can see the grit of his jaw, as he flings another barb at you. 
"You think he's going to treat you right? Do you even know where he was last night?”
It feels like a slap in the face - the way you flinch, cheeks burning.
“He… he was on patrol.” You stammer, unsure where this is headed.
“Could be. It’s easy to change logs when you got a brother out at the same time.” He shrugs, as if it’s nothing. As if your world hasn’t tilted on it’s axis, leaving you off-kilter.
Your heartbeat thunders behind your ribs, in your ears, “What do you mean?” 
“I mean… Fred said he saw him at Esther’s house. Last night and this morning.”
Rumors spread like wildfire in a town as close-knit as Jackson. It wasn’t hard to see where he was going, even if it pained you.
Esther, who tended the greenhouse.
Esther, who Joel had once been set up.
Esther, who split last month with her husband. 
Esther, who kept the house.
You’re frozen. As if the cold has sunken into your skin, bonded with your bones. An aching weight settling over your heart, stealing your breath.
Because in this moment, you truly realize how much you’d been thinking about him as yours. Suddenly realizing the depth of you feelings for Joel - how much he’s come to mean to you.
It’s devastating, thinking about him being someone else’s.
It just can’t be true.
But… 
But wouldn’t it explain his actions this morning?
Did you misread worry for guilt? Or secrecy?
“Look.” He says, after a pause. Giving you a pitying look, his hand reaching out to touch your shouler, “All I’m saying is that I’d never-”
It was all too much. 
You’ve had enough. 
"Can you just drop it?" You hiss, suddenly, "I'm not going with you."
The focus of his gaze still rests on you, as you push yourself to your feet. Grabbing for your bag - it's still a little early, but you're not about to stay stuck up in this tower with him.
"Where are you-" He's asking, as you shake your head - slipping past him, through the door.
"I'll see you back at Jackson."
Letting it slam shut behind you.
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It's stupid, to wander off by yourself. Even if you weren’t too far from home, no more than a thirty minute walk. 
The rifle left in William's possession, where it still rested against the railing. Joel's blade heavy and cold in your hand as you fish it from your jacket pocket.
Matching the stone-heavy weight of your heart, as you follow your footsteps back towards town. Your thoughts twisting, as you silently bargain with whoever might be listening.
Wishing foolishly that you could turn back time. 
Content with even just not knowing.
Because that’s the worst part, right? That you know he knows. And that he knows you do. That surely - he heard it all.
If you were alone, if you hadn’t taken that radio, you’d still have your secret.
Maybe Joel wouldn’t have his, but you’d try to bear it. Find a way to put the pieces of your heart together, and try to move on.
Cherish those few more days, weeks, before he would have told you. Maybe by then, you could’ve acted happy.
But now, you’re certain he won’t want anything to do with you. Certain that you’ve ruined a good thing - not just the patrols, but your partnership, and friendship.
Because who would want to stick around with a girl with a stupid little crush?
It leaves you feeling flayed open. Grateful for the whip of the wind, giving you an excuse for the tears that spring to your eyes. 
For a moment - in your embarrassment - it leaves you even thinking about running away.
You'd survived for this long. It would be harder, on the outside. But perhaps, you could start over.
With a sigh, you crumple the thought up, and toss it away. It's no more than wishful thinking. No different than hoping the world would crack beneath your feet, and swallow you whole.
No…
You would have to bear it.
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You're less than a mile from the wooden border around town, when you pick up the crunch of boots on snow. Fear prickles down your spine as the blade clicks open in your grasp, your pulse leaping beneath your skin.
The waver of a shadow, moving between the trees in front of you. You go still, squinting, tucking yourself behind one of the thick trunks.
They're alone.
It could be someone from town, but you'd heard there was only one set of boots near the fire they found, the night before. A quick glance over your shoulder - wishing you hadn't split off.
Wishing you had taken the rifle.
They move closer, and your breath catches as they call out.
Not just a greeting, but your name.
A wave of relief washes over you, you know that voice. This figure. The cock of his hip as he stands, the shoulders that slope when he sees you - a hand raised in greeting.
"Heard you leave. Shouldn't be out here by yourself."
The warm glow in your belly chills, at his words.
The acknowledgement that he had been listening souring your mood. It has you bristling at his tone, misreading his worry. 
"I'm fine." You wiggle his knife at him, the blade glinting in the afternoon sun, "Didn't have to come all this way."
In the path you take to skirt around him, you miss the pull of his brow - the frown that forms. The way he breaks into a jog to catch up behind you, staying a few steps back as he does a visual sweep of the woods behind you.
Your strides are long, focused on the crunch of grass beneath your feet. Eyes fixed ahead as he follows, until the tall wooden posts loom up ahead.
Above, and then through. 
If you can just make it home, you think that would be enough. The little house is only a few streets away from the edge.
Something that he hated - how it wasn’t safe enough.
Something that used to please you. 
He’s still following, your silent companion. Chivalrous, you suppose, to make sure you get home okay. Even after everything. 
You’re nearly there - feet taking you up the rickety steps for your porch - when that silence is finally broken.
“You know it ain’t true, right?
For as quiet as his voice is, it still seems to cut through the air, halting your step. Your eyes still fixed on the door ahead of you, but you find yourself stopping - waiting.
“There ain’t anybody else.”
There’s a weight in the way he says it. A confession, layered in the low pitch of his voice.
It has you turning. 
To where he stands, where your shadows meld together. And it’s only now that you see him - the intensity of his gaze. The mis-matched buttons on his coat, the cold that burns at his nose and cheeks until they’re pink. 
He’d been outside for a while.
Searching for you - leaving hat and gloves behind. 
“Where were you last night?” You ask - and he watches you like you’re about to bolt. Palms facing you where they hang at his sides, finger stretching out and then curling.
Reaching up now, to scrub through his hair in frustration - loosening dark, peppered-gray curls. 
“I was there.” Joel admits, and there’s the acid ache of jealousy welling up in your chest. Picturing him with her instead of with you - like in your wishes, your dreams.
“But-” His hands raise, when he sees your expression, “But I just stopped by. I was on patrol with Tommy, you can ask him.”
You want to believe him. But you know you’re both thinking the same thing - thoughts flickering back to William’s suggestion. 
“Or, you can ask Maria. You know she won’t cover for me.” He adds - and that softens you, just a little.
“Why did you trade?”
The moment hangs, where you’re left staring at each other. Your heart gallops in your chest, as he fights an internal battle - before his eyes slide across your cheek, over your shoulder. 
But then there’s the smallest, rueful smile. His dark eyes flipping up to yours.
“Didn’t think it’d be like this.” Joel sighs, moving closer - to the bottom step. Enough to where you could reach out and touch him. Enough to where you see the weariness etched in his face, from where he stayed up all morning to keep watch over you.
“Got some roses for you. They’re at the house.” The words come slowly, “Was gonna give ‘em to you tonight. Wanted to do this right.”
Wanted to do this right.
The words echo in your mind. Pieces of a puzzle starting to fit into place, but you still feel like you’re behind - forever out of step and catching up. 
“That’s why I was out last night. Esther is… rekindling things with her husband.” He manages, “Traded his shift last night for ‘em so they could be together. Went back to pick ‘em up this morning.”
“Roses.” You echo, “Why?”
“Why?” Joel frowns, as hands brace on his hips. Looking flustered, looking like he wishes you could just understand.
And suddenly, you do.
Your own words come slowly now, “For me? For Valentine’s Day?”
Relief crosses his features, those dark eyes going soft.
“Yeah, darlin’.” He smiles, “For you.”
Emotions swirl and surge through you. Relief yes, but also something stronger, something that flutters behind your ribs and threatens to burst free. 
“I didn’t-” You begin, and then stop. A tightness in your throat, as you gaze at him, “I was so worried that you heard what he said, that it was real-”
“I heard.” A dark look crossed Joel’s features, a grit of his jaw, “Heard what you said too. Made me hope, ‘til he opened his mouth again.”
He’s on the top step now, no more than a few feet away. Irritation prickling at him from the memory of you in that tower, tucked away with someone who wasn’t him.
Until his hand is scratching at the scruff of his beard, his look changing.
“But if I misread this-” Joel starts - almost hesitant, if a man like Joel could be.
It makes you want to laugh, after everything. Because you get it, now.
Just how foolish you both had been.
“You didn’t.” You’re quick to cut him off, “You... you heard right.”
There ain’t anybody else…. but you.
It’s always been him.
He kisses you under the eaves of your little porch. 
Stepping into you as your head tilts up - cold fingers tracing your chin, cupping your jaw just as his lips skim against yours.
The lightest brush, as something electric sparks - radiating from that point of contact, skittering down your spine. A soft moan that slips from your throat, before he’s pressing closer - before your hands are slipping, gripping onto his shoulders beneath the thick canvas of his coat.
Everything fades - growing hazy. He’s all you can feel, as your eyes close. Something finally clicking into place, as your lips part for the brush of his tongue. Another moan as he licks into your mouth - stumbling footsteps in both of your haste. 
Until your back is bumping against wood, and his arm is wrapping around you. Surrounding you, leaving you breathless as the frame of the door digs into your hip.
Finally sated, in your need for him. 
And yet more hungry, than you’ve ever been.
The grip of your fingers loosen, as you reach for the door knob. Fumbling for a second before it’s loosening, and you’re stepping back - bringing him with you, your other hand still fisted in the fabric of his coat. 
He groans into your mouth, a hand wrapping around your waist so you don’t stumble, as he follows you inside.
Then there’s low husk of his voice, the barest curve of a smile, “What about your dance, sweetheart?”
Teasing, in the way he spins you around. In the way you’re caged in against the door again, tucked away safely from the other side.
No prying eyes except for his. 
Your answer close to a whine, with the way his fingers find the zipper on your coat, drawing it down.
“I think…” You manage, distracted by the press of his lips against your neck. In the fingers that dip beneath your layers, seeking bare skin.
“I think we can be a little late.”
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happy valentine’s day, friends! 💌💕 and especially to elaine - these were such fun prompts! you are the sweetest and I hope you have such a good day!
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childeapologist · 2 years
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It doesn't matter how long I've been detached from supernatural and the fandom.. every time I am in Lawrence, Kansas I think about this
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theharddeck · 3 months
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start the new year right (jake seresin x f!reader)
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pairing: jake hangman seresin x fem!reader (no y/n)
synopsis: what could be worse than a delayed flight with lost luggage? driving back to san diego with your nemesis. and what could be worse than that? the car breaking down in the middle of the night, on new years eve. and of course, the motel couldn't have a 2BR room available...
word count: 8.2k
warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI: explicit PiV sex, oral sex (f!receiving), bc of who i am as a person overstimulation, not the BEST communication/consent, but everything is consensual! it's just implied; normally i'm better about explicitly asking and confirming
A/N: happy new year, friends! what would my year be, if not ending with me sitting down with a stanley of chamomile and writing more than i've written the whole previous month? hope this new year is gentle to y'all.
Natasha: Hey girl! Just got an alert that your transfer flight was delayed? Are you good?
You: ‘good’ as in ‘safe’, ya
You: ‘good’ as in ‘en route’, not so much. They overbooked the flight and the next one they have available is Wednesday morning
Natasha: nooooooo
You: At least my luggage is on its way to SAN… I’m considering renting a car and just making the drive from Vegas myself
Natasha: I love you and I trust you
Natasha: but an overnight drive by yourself after an already-long day is not the move
You: ugh I know, but i don’t know what else to do
Natasha: …mkay i have a solution but it’s not the one you want
You: let’s have it
Natasha: jake’s flight also rerouted through LAS
You: absolutely not
Nat: you didn’t even hear the actual plan!!
You: if it involves me and hangman, the answer is no
Natasha: it’s just a five hour drive, you can be adults/play nice with each other for five hours
You: when has Hangman ever been an adult about anything
Natasha: fair point
Natasha: but he is also currently texting me saying he’s stranded
Natasha: you know one-way car rentals are stupid expensive
Natasha: and he likes to drive so maybe you could sleep on the way
You: stop being logical
Natasha: i do not want to get a call from the nevada state police when you fall asleep behind the wheel on New Years Eve in the middle of the Mojave
You: good, add a guilt trip to the mix
Natasha: is it working
Me: …
You: it’s working
Natasha: (Ryan Gosling!Ken gif: SUBLIME!) 
You: lol
You: ugh okay text me his number
Natasha: can’t believe that after 8 months stationed at the same base you don’t have his number
Natasha: mkay just sent
Natasha: you have to promise not to kill each other
// 
Three hours later, you were really glad you hadn’t made any promises to Nat that you couldn’t keep. 
Because not only had Jake insisted on renting a truck (“I need the legroom!”), and that you didn’t need to stop in Barstow for gas (“trust me, sugar, I’m an Eagle Scout–I know we can make it to east LA”), the gas-guzzling monstrosity had fizzled out somewhere between exits along the 15.
Now the hood was smoking, there was no way you were getting your security deposit back, and you were just as stranded as you’d been when you first texted Natasha from the airport. 
Only now you were in the middle of the desert, and your phone was almost dead.
Four hours later, you had walked three miles back to the last exit and were checking into a truly shady motel, straight up refusing to talk to Jake because somehow, incomprehensibly, the only room available was one with one (1) king bed. 
Four and a half hours later, you were dripping wet, trying not to shiver because the shower you took to warm yourself up had backfired, since the motel towels were basically handkerchiefs and your wet skin made the room seem extra cold. You hadn’t wanted to wear your airport clothes to bed, but since your luggage was already in San Diego, that left you with just a cropped tee and boyshorts. 
“You okay in there?”
You glared at your reflection in the foggy mirror, since Jake was on the other side of the door.
The audacity of him.
When you’d first met Jake “Hangman” Seresin, you’d been determined to endear yourself to him.
He was a couple years older than you, and pretty close to infamous after that stunt he pulled in eastern Europe a few years ago. He was ruthless and reckless and good enough to get away with both, and you’d hoped that if you befriended him, he could teach you a thing or two during your own time at Top Gun. 
And he was ridiculously beautiful, which maybe – maybe – had your admiration veering slightly into crush territory. But you’d locked that down, determined to view him platonically, and not let that get in the way of any instruction he could give. 
Of course, the first words out of his mouth had been “Honey, you gotta know there’s easier ways to get your MRS degree than to become a naval aviator.”
Your crush and respect had evaporated on the North Island breeze, and it’d been downhill from there.  
You had no idea why, but he had been openly antagonistic at any given moment since then — doubting your competence but disguising it as care for your safety, and tagging a misogynistic “sweetheart” at the end of every condescending sentence. You’d ignored him as much as you could, hoping he’d get that he wasn’t in Dallas anymore, and that shit didn’t fly with you, but that had only egged him on. 
But now you were exhausted, cold, stranded in the middle of the desert, and practically naked to boot, and he had the gall to act like he cared if you lived or died. 
“I’m fine, Hangman,” you said, swinging open the bathroom door and beelining for the bed, hoping you could get to it fast enough that Jake wouldn’t make a comment.
Or before your tits froze off, at least. 
You didn’t look over at him as you dove under the covers, trying your hardest not to think about the last time these sheets had been washed, much less bleached.
Of course, the comforter was tucked into the foot of the bed, and you wrestled with it for a few moments before giving up, and hauling the topsheet up over your body. It was paper thin, but it was a semblance of covering, and you lay stock-still, closing your eyes and hoping sleep would magically deliver you away from this situation. 
A moment later, the bathroom door opened and shut again. 
You could hear the sounds of Jake brushing his teeth with the toothbrush and toothpaste you had bought from the “concierge” in the lobby (a relic of a man who looked like he did Civil War reenactments for fun, and seemed highly amused by your outrage at the available accommodations). 
You would’ve passed the time on your phone, but the last of your battery had given up the ghost while you were in the shower. 
A minute or two passed, and the bathroom door opened and closed. From behind your closed eyelids, you could hear Jake shuffle over to the lightswitch, and then he stopped. 
You waited. 
He didn’t move. 
“What do you need, Seresin?” you asked, tersely. 
“Are you cold?” 
Your eyes popped open, wincing at the brightness of the lights, still overhead. A quick glance down at your body made your skin heat – your tee was skin tight, and the thin topsheet did little to cover you; you crossed your arms over your chest, hiding your pebbled nipples, continuing to stare at the ceiling and avoid eye contact with Jake. 
“You could turn off the lights,” you muttered. 
Technically, the cold wasn’t his fault. 
But it was his stubbornness that got you here, so that had to count for something. 
“I was just asking–” Jake started, and you interrupted him.
“It’s the desert in December,” you snapped, “yet, for some reason, this motel has the AC on; of course I’m cold.”
As if on cue, the machine in the windowsill rumbled to life. 
You closed your eyes. “Please, just turn off the light.”
The light switch flicked off, and if it were anyone else, you’d have appreciated the immediacy of the response.
But it was Jake, and he didn’t merit any kind of gratitude, so you didn’t say ‘thank you’.
Silence stretched. 
You heard a rustling, and a moment later, you felt something land on your upper body. You flinched, pulling the material away from you on instinct, and identifying it by touch as Jake’s sweatshirt. 
You opened your eyes, peering through the shadows of the room. The curtains were thin (you were sensing a theme here), letting in lights from outdoors, and you found Jake still standing by the door. He was digging through his backpack, clad in a white tank and boxer shorts, apparently also not wanting to wear airport clothes to sleep, but that didn’t explain why he had chucked his sweatshirt at you. 
“What is this?” you asked.
He looked up, shrugged slightly, and went back to rifling through his bag. “I run warm.”
You pursed your lips. “Jake, I–”
“I had a jacket on over it at the airport, okay? Promise, it’s not dirty.”
That hadn’t been what you were going to ask, but you paused all the same. 
You appreciated that he was reassuring you, and you did remember that he’d been in a jean jacket at the airport. You’d noticed it against your better judgment, thinking he looked like an A-List actor as he walked through the airport towards you, all broad shoulders and smiles, like you were friends. 
“Can I have a pillow?” His question interrupted your recollection, and you frowned in his direction. 
You were clearly on half of the bed, Jake could see which pillows were for him to use. Did he expect you not to have one?
You pointed to the pillow you  weren’t using, confused, and he laughed quietly. 
It wasn’t a sound you heard much from him.
Normally Jake laughed like he was proud of himself, reclining in the golden light of the world around him, blessing you all with his presence. This was a different sound, less pretentious, somehow warmer. 
“Yes, I can see it,” he said, his voice still amused. “But I need it over here, for the couch.”
You blinked.
The couch was maybe three feet long, an atrociously patterned aberration that you’d tossed your carryon onto, and not looked twice at. Jake didn’t explain anything further, but there were still only two pillows on the bed, and you couldn’t understand why he seemed to think you didn’t need more context for why he wanted to decorate the couch with one of them. 
“Why?” you asked. 
Again, that quiet chuckle. 
“Because, sweetheart,” he said, and you bristled on instinct, “that’s where I’m sleeping.”
You couldn’t have heard that right. 
“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” you said.
“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” Jake said, stubbornly. 
“That was never up for debate,” you snorted. “Jake, we’re adults. We can share the bed. You’re not going to fit on the couch.”
“I’m an Eagle Scout,” he grumbled. “I can sleep anywhere.”
“Yes, loyal, brave, clean, etc, I’m sure,” you said. “But I’m not sure how helpful you’re going to be tomorrow, when you can’t drive that monstrosity of a truck due to your back spasming from being rolled up on that couch all night.”
You watched through the shadows as Jake stubbornly tried to wedge himself sideways on the couch. Sure enough, his knees were practically bent up to his navel, and even through the darkness, you could see the furrow in his brow. 
“You could drive it,” he said, too obstinate to accept defeat.
“I will not,” you returned, “drive a vehicle that ostentatious.”  
“Says the pilot,” he grumbled.
“Naval aviator,” you shot back. “Jake, it’s an enormous bed. Get over yourself, get into it, and the sooner you settle, the sooner it’ll be morning, and we can leave.”
He deliberated, the mulish man. 
But eventually he pushed himself off the couch, clambering across the room. The bed dipped as he slid into it, and reached down for the comforter, still wedged into the bottom of the bed. You tried not to be annoyed when he yanked it free easily. It was probably just momentum, or that you’d loosened it up for him. While he was rearranging the comforter, you pulled the sweatshirt over your head, and tried to be calm about the situation. 
His sweatshirt was somehow still warm. 
It smelled amazing, like cedar and fancy cologne.
And also sweat, which you tried damn hard to ignore.
It was cozy, and you snuggled into it, and a moment later, Jake settled. Thankfully, the bed was big enough that you didn’t have to touch each other, but that didn’t mean you could ignore that he was there. 
In bed. 
With you. 
You snorted, thinking how much of a dream this would’ve been to you eight months ago, before you met Jake, and he dashed your crush to pieces. 
“What?” Jake grumbled, and maybe it was the proximity, or maybe exhaustion from the day was setting in, because his voice sounded almost gentle. 
“Nothing,” you shook your head. “G’night.”
“Night,” Jake said. 
You rolled onto your side, pulling your feet up under you, and folding your hands under your face, so you didn’t have to touch your skin to the pillow. Of course, that brought the sleeve of the sweatshirt to just under your face, and you were surrounded by the delicious smell of it again. 
It distracted you for a moment. 
Just a moment. 
Then you had to acknowledge that, even with the sweatshirt and the newly-added comforter, your wet hair was no match for the chill of the room. Your legs felt exposed and the sheets felt like they were damp and wet, and you tried your best to ignore it, but soon you were shivering. 
You tried to be still, you did. 
But when you heard the bed shift as Jake turned towards you, you winced into the darkness, unsurprised. 
“Sweetheart…” he started, and you shook your head, refusing to look back over at him. 
“I’ll be fine, I just need to fall asleep.”
Jake let that statement hang for a moment, just long enough for your shivering to start up again. He cleared his throat. 
“Um,” he said, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think he sounded nervous, “I meant what I said earlier. About running warm.”
This time, you did turn over, trying to read his expression in the shadowy darkness. He looked…open. Like he really was altruistically suggesting sharing body warmth, nothing malicious and none of his normal teasing. 
You were suspicious, but not enough so that you could ignore that it was a better idea than freezing yourself to sleep. 
“You sure?” you asked, and Jake grunted, which you figured was as good a response as any. Actually, it was pretty damn good, because if he sounded eager, you’d be creeped out, and if he was uncertain, you’d feel guilty. But being matter-of-fact about it gave you the courage to scoot across the bed. 
“How do we do this?” you asked, and Jake reached for you. It was an easy movement, natural, enough so that it surprised you when he hesitated before touching you. 
“Can I…?” he trailed off. 
“Sure,” you shrugged, hoping you sounded half as unaffected as he did. This was fine, this was normal. Just a guy who was SO obnoxious that it made you forget how hot he was, suddenly not being obnoxious, and basically punching you in the face with his hotness.   
His hand settled on the small of your back and damn it, he was warm. His touch was soft, gentle, almost nervous, and he pulled you closer to him. You realized you’d expected him to turn you over, press your back to his front so that you’d be spooned, but instead he just wrapped you in his arms. He reached around you to tuck the comforter between you and the mattress, insulating you with his warmth. 
Your head was in his chest, and with his arms bracketed around you, your breath heated up the space between his tank and your face. He’d even managed to slot his arm under your head, so your face still wasn’t on the pillow. 
Cuddling with someone new was usually awkward, a tangle of limbs and expectations, but with Jake, it wasn’t. It was…damn it. It was pretty close to perfect.
“Good?” he asked, and he sounded different, with your cheek on his bicep, and your nose practically pressed against his chest. It was like you could feel his voice, rumbling around you, somehow more comforting for the proximity. 
You nodded, not wanting to hear anything new on your voice if you tried to respond. 
Jake hummed. 
A moment later, you realized his thumb was moving. Nothing major, just a small movement between your shoulder blades, a reassuring stroke. It was a comforting motion, gentle, and it wasn’t long before his warmth and his touch lulled you into a sweet sleep. 
You startled awake to the sound of guns. 
Not guns, fireworks. 
Damn it, it was New Year’s Eve; how had you forgotten? 
Jake stirred too, a deep breath expanding his chest, and leading you to realize his head was resting on top of yours, his chin tucked on top of the crown on your head.
“Is that–” he mumbled and how dare he, honestly, how very dare he, because he sounded great. Fuck him, for that, frankly. 
The situation washed over you, half asleep and fully cognizant of how random it was. You didn’t mean to start, but soon you were laughing, your shoulders shaking. 
“You okay?” Jake asked, a thread of concern in his voice, and that didn’t help any. 
“Just the universe’s sense of humor,” you said. 
You didn’t know how, but you knew he was confused and you should’ve been worried about how you knew that, how you weren’t cold at all, how if you looked up, you’d know what a  sleep-mussed Jake Seresin looked like, but all you could think was that this was so, so stupid. 
You took a long breath, starting to explain. 
“I just can’t believe this is how I’m starting the next year of my life,” you laughed. “Like, I’m fine, right? I’m doing alright on a career path I love, I call San Diego home, I have great friends and I’m doing as good with my family as anyone could be. And where am I on New Year’s? Stranded in a motel off an exit that’s literally not even town, cold enough that a guy who hates me is cuddling me so I can be still enough for him to go to sleep, with a dead phone so none of my friends or family can wish me a happy new year, and I–”
“Wait,” Jake pulled back, and you frowned at the interruption, “why do you think I hate you?”
You stared at him. “Are you serious?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jake said, having the gall to look confused.   
“Jake,” you said, disbelieving. “You’re literally constantly a jackass to me. You’re constantly undermining me, doubting or heckling. You throw in a – frankly overwhelming – amount of southern charm and expect that to distract from the fact that you’re being outrageously patronizing and—”
Jake kissed you.
You weren’t expecting it, and it was so sudden that it thoroughly cut off your train of thought. All you could do was comprehend fleeting sensations and emotions. Jake’s lips were soft, the pressure of them light and teasing against yours. His arms tightened around you, like he was steadying both of you. In the same way you’d sensed his confusion, now you sensed his apprehension, and an unfamiliar determination. 
Just as quickly, he pulled back. 
“I don’t–” his voice was rough, and he cleared his throat. “Christ, I don’t hate you.”
You licked your lips, annoyed that they had the audacity to tingle in response to him.
You wanted to ask what the hell that was. 
You wanted to ask why he was looking at you like that. 
You wanted to ask what that expression meant but more than anything, you wanted him to kiss you again. 
Your arms were curled up between the two of you, and it took so little effort to curl your fingers in the front of his tank and pull him to you. His mouth was on yours a breath later, and his hand was on your jaw, angling your face so he could kiss you properly. 
Of course he was a good kisser. 
Fucking of course he was, he had to be, but it was one thing to know it in an agnostic kind of way, and another to feel his lips pressing into yours. You shivered when his tongue swept over your bottom lip and when you mirrored the motion, something in his chest rumbled, and Jake parted his lips for you. 
He tasted faintly of toothpaste, and he had some kind of chapstick on his lips that was sweet, and you couldn’t get enough of him. His arms were still around you and he was so warm, so broad, and you couldn’t help but press yourself against him. When your arms wound around his neck, Jake broke away from you. You could feel his chest rising and falling quickly, and his hands fell from your back to your waist, as if holding you in place. He turned his head slightly, kissing lazily at the corner of your mouth, down your cheek, to your jawline. 
“That’s not how I wanted to tell you,” he murmured against your skin, and this time when you shivered, you knew it wasn’t from the cold. 
“You still haven’t told me,” you managed, eyelashes fluttering at the teasing brush of his lips, while you tried to look at him.  
To your astonishment and delight, Hangman blushed. 
Sheepish wasn’t an expression you were used to on him, not unlike bashful, but you thought it suited him. He looked like he was gearing up to say something and, curious though you were, you didn’t want to get into that right now. It was late, you were still exhausted, and just a few moments ago, you’d thought he hated you. 
If his expression now was any indication, you and Jake had very different conceptions of flirting. 
“Look,” you said, before he could say whatever he was hyping himself up to say, “this is probably a lot more complicated than either of us were prepared for. So, it’s the New Year…we could start it how we want the year to go.”
Jake’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he smiled softly, a sweet expression on his face. He turned his head to kiss the palm of the hand you had looped around his neck. 
“Cuddling,” he said, at the same time you announced, 
“Orgasms.”
You would never forget the expression on his face. 
Sweetness morphed into amazement, and then quickly into hunger. 
“I can pivot,” he said quickly, and you lifted your chin. 
“You sure?” you teased, “Don’t want to strongarm you into–”
Your sentence ended with a squeal when Jake turned quickly, flopping onto his back, and pulling you on top of him. Your knee was between his thighs and you couldn’t hold back your grin as you looked down at him. Just like with this kiss, he was letting you lead, but being so clear about what he wanted. 
And who were you, to decline?
Kissing him from on top of him felt different, felt amazing. 
You could appreciate how sturdy he was, and when you relaxed slightly, you found yourself straddling his thigh. You’d been a part of plenty of dogfight football scrimmages, and Jake was never one for longer board shorts; you knew exactly how strong his thighs were. But it was one thing to see them on display, and quite another to feel them flexing between your legs. 
One of Jake’s hands was inching under his sweatshirt that you wore, warm fingers spreading across your stomach as you moved over him. 
God, he felt so good, so few layers between his skin and your core, and the pressure of his thigh between your legs was so good. You kissed him again, tongues tangling and teeth clashing, as you ground against his leg. 
When you moved, you felt the hem of his boxers slide against your leg, and sue a girl, you were curious. You shifted slightly, moving your thigh higher, and when you rocked your hips, your thigh brushed against his cock. 
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Jake gritted as you moved against him, and you thought maybe you didn’t mind the petname, when he sounded like that. 
You braced yourself on the pillow behind him and moved again. 
It shouldn’t be this hot. 
But it was, he was, and you felt pleasure spooling through you, just from his leg between yours, and his gentle touch against your skin. How he reacted to you, how he moved under you, it was so good, like a promise. 
“Not gonna lie,” Jake said, his voice still rough, “I really like you in my sweatshirt.”
Your mouth fell open when he pushed his hips up to meet you. 
You both stifled a gasp at the motion, the sensation with so few layers between the two of you. Jake’s hands crept higher under your sweatshirt, almost tentative, and you leaned into his touch, encouraging. His hands cupped your breasts, and your head dipped to the side in relief. He made a sound of satisfaction, just enjoying their weight in his hand, then his wrists moved so his thumbs could brush over your nipples. He rolled them, and you felt it in your core, your thighs clenching. 
“Love you in my sweatshirt,” Jake repeated, sounding dazed, “but I wanna to see you without it.”
You leaned back immediately, pulling the sweatshirt over your head. 
You missed the warmth of it immediately, but Jake’s gaze was worth it. His expression bordered on reverence, and he actually licked his lips, looking up at you. You wiggled on his thigh, heat pulsing, needing something from him, your skin prickling under his gaze. 
Jake frowned, the lust in his eyes overtaken by concern. “Too cold?”
You certainly weren’t toasty, but you couldn’t say you cared.
“I would’ve thought you’d have a solution to keep me warm,” you teased, and Jake seemed to accept the challenge. 
The hands that had been on your breasts dropped to the back of your thighs, and a moment later he had pushed you back. You were on your back, feet in the air, and Jake turned you gently on the bed so you were resting on the pillows again. You settled in, expecting him to lower himself between your thighs, and were surprised when instead he reached back for the comforter. 
Maybe you had misunderstood, he didn’t actually want…
He pulled the comforter over his head, over your shoulders, and you blinked disbelieving at a Jake-shaped figure under the blanket, moving to the base of the bed, between your legs. 
You were fairly confident, but that was a lot to ask from someone on a first date, and this wasn’t even that, and you ducked under the comforter as well. 
“Jake, you don’t have to–” you protested, realizing belatedly that there was nowhere near enough light to be able to make meaningful eye contact. 
“You said orgasms, right?” Jake said, his voice full of a familiar smugness. 
He settled at the base of the bed, crouching, and through the darkness, you could tell he was looking in your direction. His hands were intentional on your legs, letting you know where he was, giving you time to tell him if you weren’t okay with something. 
If he was offering, you were beyond okay with this. 
“Right,” you said weakly. 
His hands trailed up your thigh, his warm touch light, and his fingers closed over the band over your boyshorts. You nodded, a sound he heard because your head rubbed against the comforter.  
He kissed your thigh. 
It was a feather light touch, a brush of his mouth against the sensitive skin, but it was so gentle that it reassured you. He kissed your other thigh, then higher, and one of his hands felt up to your stomach, and he pushed, an unsubtle prompt. You lay back against the mattress, nerves and desire warring within you as Jake kissed higher.
You felt a brush of his tongue when he reached the edge of your underwear and your breath caught. 
“Plural?” Jake asked, and it took you a minute to understand his question.  
His fingers pulled at the edge of your boyshorts, peeling them slowly down, his mouth pressing gentle kisses as he revealed more of your body. He was exploring by touch what he couldn’t see, so slow and perfect it was overwhelming. 
“There’s two of us,” you managed, back to his question. “Hence plural.”
Jake laughed, a soft exhale against your skin. He’d bared you to him, and you shifted, like you were seeking his touch. 
“I know this is new for us, sweetheart,” he mumbled, a kiss to your hipbone, then the opposite, “but that’s not how this is going to work.”
You bit your lip, nervous again.
You were new to this with him, and some guys thought oral sex was some kind of prerequisite – check the box, half ass it for thirty seconds, guarantee she’ll let you hit it – but something told you Jake would be different. 
You were panting, anticipation making you breathless. 
You whispered his name and it was like he was waiting for permission, because he leaned into you. His first kiss against your pussy was gentle, just as sweet as those kisses he’d trailed up your thighs. It was so sweet it made you squirm, and Jake chuckled, a sound you felt as his breath ghosted over you. He pulled back long enough to draw an audible breath, then his tongue licked over the whole of your cunt, a long, torturous swipe that had you trembling.  
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he said, muffled, and your hips bucked. “You’re already wet for me.”
You reached under the comforter, your hands tangling in his hair and Jake hummed his approval before following your prompting back to your pussy. He lapped at you, learning you, and when he trailed up to circle your clit with it, you couldn’t stop the cry that escaped you. 
“That right, honey?” he asked, sounding smug, and he circled your clit with his tongue. You felt a hand slip from your hip to your entrance, rubbing over you as his tongue played with your clit. He kissed you, teased you, and when he pushed a thick finger into you while his lips closed over your clit, you moaned. 
“Feels so good, Jake,” you cried, and you felt him shudder at your voice. 
You heard it too, how wrecked you sounded, and it was his fault. Your hips were pushing up into him, chasing the suction of his mouth, the pull of his fingers. He was only a knuckle or so into you, but his finger was so wide, thicker than your own, and you moaned at the unfamiliar intrusion. 
It was Jake between your legs, Jake’s wicked smile, sharp tongue, capable hands, Jake who was working you with his fingers and mouth. He felt so good, and your body felt like it was humming to a frequency he set. 
You trembled as he sheathed a finger in you, you moaned when he sucked your clit, and when his teeth brushed over your clit, the pleasure coursing through you snapped. Your fingers in his hair tightened, and Jake groaned when you pressed your pussy harder against his face. He groaned like he wanted it, like he craved that reaction, and you came hard.  
He coaxed you through it, gentle and steady as he’d been so far, and as you came down, you pulled slightly at his hair. 
“Jake, that was–” you gasped, and you felt him laugh again. 
“Honey, what part of ‘plural’ is so hard for you to understand?” he asked.
And he pushed another finger into you. 
Your back bowed off the mattress; you were so sensitive and it made everything Jake did to you feel so much more. 
His mouth traveled down to where his fingers were pressing into you, and he curled them into you. You heard an obscene slurping sound, and your eyes rolled back as you realized he was pulling your release out of you, tasting it from his own fingers. 
“Like honey from a honeycomb,” Jake mumbled, his voice thick, and you whimpered at how he sounded. 
A moment later, his lips closed over your clit again, and your head thrashed against the pillow. 
“Jake, I just–” you panted, but he sucked again and you broke off on a moan. “I can’t, I just – fuck, give me a second– oh, that feels so good.”
Jake either didn’t hear you or he wasn’t listening. 
He was following your body, the way your hips were pushing up into him, the way your cunt was clenching down on his fingers, and it was like he was drunk on the taste of you. He suckled on your clit, his tongue laving over you, stoking you higher again. He felt so good, and you were sure you were telling him, but you were fast losing confidence in your ability to form words. 
You lost track of time, there was just pleasure, and the heat from Jake, and the way he was working your body. 
“You gonna come for me again?” Jake coaxed, pulling back to blow a long stream of cool air over your clit. You flinched, you writhed, you would do whatever he wanted, as long as he didn’t stop. “I think you can do it, honey, it was so pretty the first time. This pussy is so good, doing such a beautiful job coming for me, tasting delicious and I bet you can do it again…”
Your legs felt limp as he licked over you again, tasting where his fingers fed into you, pumping them and pulling pleasure out of you. His tongue flicked over your clit, a maddening pattern, and when his lips closed, he sucked hard. It was so strong, so unreal, and you shook as you came again. 
“Ah, there it is…That’s so good, sweetheart,” Jake soothed, and you weren’t sure if he was talking to you or your pussy, and you certainly didn’t know which was hotter. 
He continued to stroke inside of you, his thick fingers pulling you through your orgasm, keeping you grounded, keeping your pleasure coming. 
You weren’t cold anymore. 
In fact, you were burning up, and Jake didn’t seem like he wanted to stop. The moment he felt coherency return to your posture, he dove back in. You genuinely didn’t think you could stand another orgasm from his mouth, and you let go of his hair – he wasn’t listening to you anyways – and flipped back the comforter. 
God damn, he was so hot. 
He looked up from between your thighs, the lower half of his face smeared with your arousal, and he fucking licked his lips, before smiling up at you. His hair was in complete disarray, and you could tell his whole upper body was flushed from overheating, and he looked so smug, so proud, and he had every right to be. 
“C’mere,” you asked, and it was enough. 
Grinning, Jake crawled up the bed, caging you with his arms again. 
He hesitated, unsure what you were okay with, but you kissed him hungrily. You could taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue, and you felt a sort of possessive pride that it’d chased away the cloying sweetness of his chapstick. 
Right now, Jake tasted like yours, and you were obsessed. 
When he realized he could, Jake returned the kiss with enthusiasm, his tongue sweeping into your mouth. 
Your hands smoothed over his back, curling in the hem of his tank and pulling it over his shoulders. Jake wouldn’t separate from your lips to let you pull it over his head and you giggled as he kissed you through it, like an infinity scarf. You felt up his back, hands delighting in the contours of muscles that you’d only admired from a distance, before you caught yourself. 
He was so strong. 
Warm and toned and big, intoxicating to think of him over you. Finally, he ducked his head to chuck off the shirt, and the motion lowered his hips to yours. You both groaned at the brush of his cock between your thighs, and then Jake was kissing you with fresh urgency. You hadn’t seen him yet, though he’d had his face in your pussy, and you reached between the two of you. 
You felt him over his boxers, and Jake broke off the kiss at your touch, his head dropping to your shoulder. It was like he couldn’t contain himself, and his hips pushed into your touch. You explored the shape of him through the thin cotton, your own hips rocking into him on instinct. 
Fuck, he felt big. 
You felt a small bit of wetness near the fat head of him, and you moaned as your thumb rolled over the leaking precum, rubbing his sensitive head. 
“I have a – shit,” Jake broke off, his hips rutting into your touch, and your head fell back. “I have a condom in my wallet.”
“Of course you do,” you teased, and it would’ve been more effective if you didn’t sound so needy about it. 
You turned your head to press a kiss to his cheek, then scooted out of the bed. 
The room felt freezing outside of the bed, but it was refreshing, as you darted over to his backpack. You found his wallet, and the condom inside it, and when you got back to the bed, Jake had only moved to push himself up. He was kneeling in the middle of the bed, and he shifted as he pulled off his boxers. 
“Holy shit, Seresin,” you whispered, not even caring that your voice sounded reverent. 
His cock was beautiful, thick between his thighs, bouncing parallel to the bed. Jake gripped the base of it loosely, like he had to do something while he watched you watching him, and you crawled back to the bed, still staring, kneeling so your knees almost touched his. 
“Can I?” you asked, holding up the condom. “Please, sweetheart,” Jake said, his voice so gruff and gorgeous. You licked your lips and ripped the foil, but hesitated before you pulled it out. 
“I’m clean,” you told him, sitting back on your thighs. “Um, we should still use this, but I just wanted you to know.”
Jake caught your chin between  his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head up to him. He kissed you quickly, short and sweet, and there was something unexpected in his eyes when he pulled back. 
“Me too, sugar,” he said, his voice deep. “Thank you.”
You couldn't be sure what he was thanking you for, but you felt like you should be thanking him. For making sure you felt good, for thinking of a condom, for making you feel so cared for. So you tilted your head, reached between you to where he was loosely fisting himself, and replaced his hand with yours. 
You pulled your hand loosely over him, obsessed with the warm feel of him, how thick he was in your hand, how heavy. Jake’s hands hovered like he wasn’t sure where you put them, and they settled on your upper arms, like he needed you to keep his balance. 
It didn’t stop you from leaning down and guiding his tip towards your mouth. 
Jake groaned, a beautiful, strangled sound, and it was lost to you when you first tasted him. 
This wasn’t the proper angle for a proper blow job, and you wanted to feel him, but you were curious, and your tongue lapped at him. His skin was scalding hot, and a pearl of precum beaded at the end of his cock, like an invitation. You licked it into your mouth, moaning at the salty, rich taste of him. 
Jake’s hand fell to the back of your head, not pushing, but like he needed to steady himself. You licked over him, acquainting yourself with him, learning the veins and sensitive spots, knowing you’d want to come back to them later. Too soon, Jake’s hand tightened in your hair. 
You looked up at him, hoping he’d like the picture of you from this angle. His jaw clenched and his eyes fluttered shut, if that was any indication. 
“Need to be inside you,” he ground out, and opened his eyes. “That mouth is so sweet, honey, gonna make this be over too soon. I want to feel that pussy.”
God, you wanted that too. 
You pushed yourself back up, pulled the condom out, and rolled it over his thick length. His thighs were shaking, you noticed, and it filled you with something like tenderness. That he’d get you there twice, then let you play with him, then say “please”, like fucking you was a privilege. 
When your hand reached the base of his dick, condom secured, he surged forward to kiss you. You swayed on the bed, kneeling in the middle of it, his hands cupping your face, yours on his waist. Both pulling, both needing to be closer, and when Jake lowered you back down, you followed his prompting eagerly. 
He settled you back against the pillows, back how you’d been when he’d driven you to the stars with his tongue, but this time his handsome face was right over you. When he settled over you, you closed your eyes against the intensity of the moment. You were both fully naked, and it felt so heavenly to have so much of his skin pressed against yours. He was warm, strong, all around you, and you needed him in you too. 
You spread your legs, letting him rest deeper between your thighs, and whimpering when his hot cock brushed against your stomach, then down. 
“Don’t know how slow I can take this,” Jake said, like he expected you to have a problem with that. 
“I want to feel you,” you told him, honestly. “Please.”
Jake kissed you again, pulling back to press his forehead to yours as he guided his dick between your thighs. 
You’d had two orgasms. 
You’d had his fingers and his tongue loosen you, you were plenty lubricated, but when Jake’s cock pressed against your entrance, you realized it hadn’t been enough. 
“Holy shit, Jake,” you gasped, as his fat head pressed against your pussy, waiting for resistance to melt. 
“Relax, baby,” he whispered hoarsely, “you can do it…You’re doing so good, just a little bit of give, come on…”
You whimpered at the new endearment, but there was no way. You felt needy, cloying. You could fit him, you knew it, but it felt—there.
He eased in, just a breath, and you felt like sobbing. It was so good, so overwhelming, so fucking tight, and you needed the rest of him. 
“Jesus, honey, you’re so tight,” Jake said, he sounded choked, and you loved it. 
“More,” you whimpered. “Please, Jake, want to feel you…you’re so big, I need more, please, please.”
“Honey, you can’t say things like that–” Jake gritted, your words driving his hips forward. 
You could tell he was trying to go slow, but the feeling of him forcing his cock into you had your legs shaking. You wanted it, needed it, and if begging was the way to get it, begging you could do. 
“Want to feel your thick cock, Jake,” you whispered, and he shivered. He was bracing himself against the headboard, and you could feel his arms shaking as he fought to keep from driving into you. “You feel so good, need to feel you so deep…want to come on your cock, please, Jake…come on and fuck me.”
He groaned like he was in pain, as he pressed deeper into you. 
He was trying to go slow, trying to be gentle, but you wanted to be mindless, you wanted your whole being centered around the deep push of his cock. You wiggled your hips, and sighed as he sunk deeper.  
“Thank you,” you breathed, and his hips punched forward again. 
“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, and you would’ve laughed, but you were too overwhelmed. 
This was what you wanted, this was what you knew he could give you. Your hands dropped from his shoulders to your breasts, squeezing and massaging your breasts as he sank into you. You turned your head to look up at him, and found him staring, slack jawed, down at you in awe. 
“You make me feel so good,” you coaxed him. “Please, Jake…fuck me.”
Jake growled, a sound that came from deep in his chest, and his hand fell between you to brush over your clit. 
You jolted at his touch, your hips opening impossibly wider, and a hotter, stronger arousal racing through you than the steady, heavy press of him. Your hips bucked up, and you tweaked your nipples, working yourself up onto his cock rather than pressing him into you. It took a couple more burning minutes, and you were both coated in sweat by the time he was seated in you. 
“Baby…” Jake breathed, his voice a dream and you had to resist the urge to purr. He was so warm, all around you, inside you, it felt like he was grounding you. 
Then he moved.
His first pump had your back arching, your knees jolting up, your eyes flying open. Fuck, how did he reach that part of you, how was there room, how were you–
Jake laughed, a deep, dark sound. 
“That's what you wanted, sweetheart?” he asked, and he moved again. You cried out, overwhelmed, perfect.
“This what you were begging for?” Jake grunted, between strokes, “This what you were asking so prettily for, and now you have me, and what’s that, baby, can’t find your words? What’s wrong?”
Nothing was wrong, not a damn thing, but you couldn’t summon the wherewithal to tell him. All you felt was pleasure, pounding and sweeping, full and as good as eternal. 
“This pussy is so fucking tight, sweetheart,” Jake swore, his head lowering to kiss down your neck. He sucked at the skin there savagely, needing a distraction, and you clenched around him, when his lips closed over your pulse point. “Pulling me in, so tight and warm. You look so good around my cock, honey, you wouldn’t believe… Like a dream, like a fucking wet dream, but you’re here, stretched around me, taking me so good…”
You moaned as he found a rhythm.
The headboard was banging against the wall with the strength of his thrusts, and he pounded into you. There was so much he hadn’t said, so much he couldn’t say, but he pushed it into your body, swore it to you. He soothed it over your clit with his thumb, he promised it with his thick, heavy cock inside of you, and you felt yourself falling into it. 
“Please, Jake,” you managed, begging again. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything other than take the harsh fucking he was giving you, and craving it, needing it. 
“What’d’ya need, honey,” Jake groaned. “You have me here, so fucking deep, never felt this good, this right—what do you need, baby, tell me, whatever you need.”
Had the room been dark? Surely it’d always been bright light, sparking, blinding. 
Pleasure was rolling over you, suffocating, live-giving and you shook your head, moaning with every thrust of Jake’s hips. The only words you could manage were his name, and please, and it seemed to spur Jake on further. His thumb pressed hard into your clit as his hips sped up, and you felt the wave inside you cresting. 
“You’re close, honey, I can feel it, can feel how hard this cunt wants to come. Are you gonna do it, baby? Milk this cock, make it even tighter around me, want to feel that, need to feel your pussy twitching around me, sugar, please come…”
Your orgasm shattered over you, blinding and perfect. Your throat felt hoarse from your moans, or your breathlessness, but everything heightened. You felt like you were breathing with Jake, felt every hitch and gasp and shudder as he coaxed you through it. You felt like you were suspended in space, like the only thing there was was Jake’s arms around you and his cock within you and you needed, you needed, him to come. 
“Come in me, baby,” you whispered, your voice watery. “Need to feel you, want to feel how you’d fuck me to fill me, please, Jake, it’ll feel so good.”
“Fuck,” Jake shouted hoarsely, his hips thrusting harshly into you. “Oh, sweetheart, you feel too good, you’re so tight around me… I need to come, need to feel– fuck –”
You could feel his thighs shaking, his back tensing, and you turned your head to kiss him as he came. He moaned into your mouth, his whole body jerking as he emptied into the condom. You felt how strong he came, felt how thoroughly it worked through him, and it filled you with pride and satisfaction as he collapsed over you. 
You knew he meant to push himself to your side, but you didn’t let him go. 
You were just as boneless. 
You both lay there, a sticky, sweaty, mess, panting. It was like a dream, a daydream crossed with a fantasy. You were warm, comforted, sated, and the room was still cheap, the motel was still sketchy, but you were suddenly quite alright with this start to the year.  
//
tag list: @cheekymcgrath @laracrofted @callsign-fangirl @bradshawsbitch @bradshawsbaby @withahappyrefrain @hangmanssunnies @callsignspark @lewmagoo @mxgyver @sebsxphia @daggerspare-standingby @ryebecca @teacupsandtopgun @hangmanbrainrot @sometimesanalice @wildbornsiren @whoeverineedtobe @clancycucumber230 @javihoney and i think a couple folks have changed their URLS, so please let me know if you still want to be tagged!
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fiercynn · 5 months
Text
let's talk about the palestinians in israeli prisons
content warning for discussion of police and military violence, torture, and murder of palestinians, including of children, though not in graphic detail
in just the past two weeks, israel’s genocidal ramp-up in violence and surveillance towards palestinian has led to the doubling of the population of palestinians incarcerated in israeli prisons. prior to october 7, 2023, there were approximately 5,200 palestinians incarcerated by israel; by october 21, that number had increased to over 10,000. around 4,000 are gazans who were working in israel with temporary labor permits, and another 1,070 are palestinians arrested in overnight army raids in the occupied west bank and east jerusalem.
imprisoned palestinians are being treated worse than ever; israeli forces and guards are assaulting them, starving them, preventing them from accessing healthcare, cutting off of their water and electricity, and prohibiting them from any contact from their families. the knesset (israeli parliament) even voted this past week to allow prisons to reduce the minimum living space allotted to each detainee because of the rising crush of prisoners, and to allow detainees to be imprisoned without a bed.
but this recent ramp-up in detention and increase in the dehumanization of palestinians should not overshadow the long history of oppression, torture, and murder of palestinians by israeli forces through the criminalization. for a good background and summary, rawan masri and fathi nemer’s piece imprisoning palestine: zionist colonialism through an abolitionist lens for scalawag magazine is an illuminating analysis of how israeli law, policing, and incarceration have worked together to advance zionist colonization of palestine and dispossess palestinians of their land, their rights, and their humanity.
as a result of this history, the following dynamics and outcomes have long existed in israeli policing and incarceration of palestinians:
prior to october 7, one in every five palestinians had been arrested and charged under israeli military occupation; that percentage has only gone up now. while the absolute numbers on incarceration are nowhere near a country like the u.s., the rates of incarceration for palestinians are massively higher even than those of black americans (which is not to downplay the latter; the rates of incarceration for black americans is also fucking ridiculous and horrifying.) for palestinian men, that incarceration rate was as high as 40%. the united nations estimates that approximately one million palestinians have been imprisoned since israel occupied the west bank and gaza in 1967, including tens of thousands of children.
the israeli criminal legal system is anti-black as well, particularly towards afro-palestinians, who are tireless in their fight for palestinian liberation. even black jewish people are impacted by carceral anti-blackness: 40% of minors in the israeli correction system are ethiopian israeli jewish people, although ethiopian israelis make up less than 2% of population. but the racism is even clearer for the tiny community of 350-400 afro-palestinians, who live in a neighborhood in jerusalem that is blockaded at both entrances by israeli police, where they are highly surveilled and face constant police harassment. the majority of their community has been arrested at one point or another, and those who are incarcerated, including youth, are subject to constant rearrests for flimsy reasons. for example, mohammed firawi, an afro-palestinian youth who had been arrested when he was in twelfth grade because he was accused of throwing stones at israeli police, was shuttled around nine israeli prisons before being released five years later. however, he was rearrested two days after his homecoming because he “defied Israeli orders to refrain from celebrating [his release].”
palestinians live under a different (and harsher) system of law than israelis – an inequality so profoundly unjust that it didn’t even exist in south africa’s apartheid system. in the occupied west bank, palestinians are tried under military law for the same crimes that israelis are tried under civilian law. teenagers and adults alike are tried in military courts, where simultaneous arabic interpretation is not provided, so palestinian defendants are only provided summaries at the end of proceedings that can leave out important details. virtually all military cases in the west bank end in convictions – 99.74%, to be exact.
the separate systems of law also mean that palestinians can be held without trial or even being charged. “administrative detention” allows the israeli military to hold prisoners indefinitely on secret information, and is applied almost exclusively to palestinians in the occupied west bank, east jerusalem, and gaza. prior to october 7, there were 1,264 administrative detainees out of the total 5,200 palestinian people incarcerated in israeli jails – almost 25%!
palestinian children detained by the israeli military are subject to physical and psychological torture. since the second intifada in 2000, more than 12,000 palestinian children have been detained by the israeli military, and between 500 and 1000 children are held every year. a save the children report from july 2023 found that 86% of palestinian children report being beaten in israeli military detention. 42% are injured at the point of arrest, and 69% report being strip-searched. they are often interrogated without the presence of a parent or lawyer, and potentially even in a language not understood to them. they are also charged according to their age at the time of sentencing instead of at the time of their alleged offense, allowing for higher charges simply because their trials take a long time.
palestinians are often murdered in prison by security forces, and the bodies of palestinians who die in detention can be kept by israeli forces for the remainder of their sentence. since 1967, approximately 237 palestinian detainees have reportedly been murdered with torture, medical negligence, or execution during arrest or an escape attempt. in late 2022 and early 2023, the united nations special rapporteur on the situation of human rights in the occupied palestinian territories learned that israeli authorities were holding 125 palestinian bodies, including 13 bodies of palestinians who had died in prison, “allegedly as they need to terminate the execution of the sentence”. the bodies of palestinians are even lost or visibly damaged by israeli authorities when they are returned to families.
palestinian prisoners often face exile to gaza even when they are released, regardless of where they were originally from. former prisoners are often separated from their families, who may have difficulty entering gaza, and who may also lose rights simply for being related to a former prisoner. for example, formerly incarcerated palestinian shuaib abu snina was exiled to gaza, and found that his wife and children in jerusalem were raided and arrested by israeli forces using him as as reason. shuaib was forced to divorce his wife because his eldest son was told that israeli forces “will not deal with your [family] as citizens with rights in jerusalem unless your father divorces your mother”.
but even in captivity, palestinians continue to resist and fight for their liberation. incarcerated palestinians engage in mass disobedience even when faced with beatings or solitary confinement from doing so. since at least the 1960s, palestinians have undergone mass and individual hunger strikes; on may 2, 2023, khader adnan, who was being held without trial in administration detention, was martyred after 80 days of hunger strike. incarcerated palestinians also support each other and have earned concessions through their protests, such as increased visitations, better conditions, access to books and political curriculum, and more – though many of these are clearly being violated by the current israeli acceleration in imprisonment.
as rawan masri and fathi nemer conclude for scalawag magazine:
Today, more than ever, it remains crucial to center any discussion about Palestinian liberation through the lens of abolition and a complete rejection of carcerality. In this context, Incarceration is not only related to prisons and prisoners, but touches upon every aspect of our life. From the moment of birth, Palestinians must contend with being criminalized for existing. We are surveilled and censored, our oppression normalized, and our bodies corralled into various open-air and closed prisons. Such tactics have always revealed more about the jailor than the prisoner, and the logics inherent to the carceral apparatus are shared between all oppressive forces. While the goal is to project strength and power, what it divulges instead is fear, insecurity, and self-doubt. Resorting to locking away the inconvenient reminders of a crooked system betrays its weakness, a society unable to function without constructed villains onto which the world's ills can be pinned. It is an attempt to cover the sun with a sieve. [x]
organizations to follow and support:
addameer prisoner support and human rights association
samidoun palestinian prisoner solidarity network
al-haq
adalah legal center for arab minority rights in israel
adalah justice project
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yunarim · 9 months
Note
Can I please request headcanons for the Scarabia boys, Leona, Idia, Rook and Vil finding out that the reader is fluent in their mother tongue (for example: Arabic for Kalim and Jamil, Swahili for Leona, Greek for Idia, French ofc for Rook and German for Vil)?
It lowkey would be funny if they found out by hearing the reader curse
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── ⋅⋅⋅ ATTENTION PLEASE | reader who is fluent in boys’ native languages
➷ gn reader, cultural references in some parts, reader is aware of the original fairytale in vil's part, slight cursing in vil's part ⤹ kalim al-asim, jamil viper, leona kingscholar, idia shroud, rook hunt, vil schoenheit
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You’re hanging out with KALIM AL-ASIM in the Light Music Club room watching him humming something while you’re helping him arrange stuff. Lilia and Cater are just about to arrive when Kalim starts singing a bit louder and you turn to him, smiling brightly. He has a nice voice, you wonder why the Club never performs on stage with songs. 
“Do you know the song that was popular like, hundreds of years ago? They say it was created when Sorcerer of the Sands existed!!”
“Oh?” You don’t stop polishing his drumsticks. “I don’t think so, given my transmigration. Another world, remember?”
“Ah, right~” Kalim replies playfully. “But it never hurts to try once, don’t you think?” 
“Hey,” you let out a little laugh. “You’re a musician here, not me.”
“Come on, just try! I bet you would do great! Listen, try repeating after me! When the wind’s from the east and the sun’s from the west…”
Kalim surely makes the song sound so beautifully and easy to sing but you find yourself struggling memorizing the lyrics, and let out a small sigh.
“Don’t worry, it’s okay!! It’s actually easy!”
“The one whose hand is in fire is not like the one whose hand is in water…”
You want to try singing again but see Kalim’s dumbfounded facial expression and ask him what’s wrong. When you realize you just let a popular saying in your native language slip out of your tongue, you just say a weak ‘oh’ and apologize. 
“Sorry, let me translate it real quick…”
“No need,” Kalim replies and you realize that even the sound of his voice has changed. 
“Wait…” You say, pointing at him, your smile widens instantly. “You speak Arabic?”
“I didn’t expect you to know Arabic too!” Kalim can’t help but suddenly throw himself on you with hugs. “You’re amazing!”
“As well as you are!”
When Lilia and Cater finally arrive, they can’t even get what is happening at the moment. You almost agree that now you would speak Arabic only like in a way of ciphering things but then you realize that Jamil and apparently half of Scarabia students can speak Arabic so it’s not very confidential but at least you two can gossip playfully around Lilia and Cater from now on. 
➤ اللي ايده في المية مش زي اللي ايده في النار -  Easier said than done.
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“What are we cooking today?" You ask JAMIL VIPER, washing your hands and tying the straps of the apron behind your back.
“Nothing complicated,” he says, taking eggs in one hand and vegetable oil in another. He then brings beans that he apparently soaked in water overnight, and starts boiling. “I could apologize for calling you out so early in the morning but you asked this yourself…”
“Sorry for seeing you online so early in the morning,” you replied with a cheeky grin.
Cooking with Jamil was always fun. The dishes he cooked reminded you of ones you were extremely familiar with back in your world. 
“Please would you prepare the bread? You need to place the bread cubes in— hey, are you perhaps following your intuition or something? I never told you the recipe.”
“Huh?” You turn to him when you put bread cubes into the boiling beans water and remove it immediately. “A-ah, right, sorry! I just… the ingredients choice reminded me of Bagila bil Dihin… I miss eating it while living in Ramshackle without any money to buy the ingredients, sadly… Oh, sorry, what was I saying? Tell me about the recipe, please.”
Jamil’s usual collected facade seems to shatter for a moment before you rush to him when onions start turning caramelized. 
“Sorry,” you repeat. “It just happened naturally…”
“Didn’t know you can cook Bagila bil Dihin.”
“Haah?!” Now it’s your turn to be surprised. “I didn’t know you could speak Arabic!” 
“You could have guessed with how many dishes we already cooked together.”
“Yeah maybe I could… But I couldn’t have guessed Arabic exists in Twisted Wonderland!”
“Well, you know now,” Jamil seems more relaxed around you as if he showed you a little bit more of the true side of himself. “Now, would you chop parsley? We can eat together before Kalim wakes up, if you will.”
“Sure!” You reply with a soft chuckle, feeling more energized. 
Jamil lets you try the dish first and suggests keeping it secret from Kalim for some time when he sees your smile. Would you let him fool around just a little? 
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“I don’t get your logic,” you say to LEONA KINGSCHOLAR who’s lying on your lap when you’re doing your homework. 
“I don’t get yours either, herbivore,” he yawned, closing his eyes. “You’re being too much of a perfectionist. Just go with the flow or something.”
You sigh, staring at your copybook absentmindedly. A comfortable warmth radiating from Leona’s body was lulling you to sleep but you had exams coming up.
“No, because how the hell does ancient magic even work here? I see spells are needed to be casted in some sort of a Latin equivalent with proper pronunciation. But then there’s a language I don’t know. Also can you cast ancient magic in your native language? Will it be the exact same spell or another one? Arghh…”
“First, calm down. Second, it is Latin.”
“Our worlds seem to be not so different after all,” you shrug. “Actually, demonstrate one harmless ancient spell to me. I won’t ask any questions if you do.”
“Ha!” Leona laughs, adjusting himself on your lap to get into a more comfortable position since you’ve started fidgeting in excitement. “Harmless, you say. The only harmless magic I can cast is to shut you up.”
“I don’t care, cast it.”
“Just stop asking stupid questions and let me sleep already, herbivore.”
Leona smirks proudly, guessing you went under impression and finally shutted up. But the next second he was proved drastically wrong. 
“You know, if that’s the real ancient magic, then I can cast it too. Say, did it work? I believe it did.”
Leona opens his eyes instantly, bright emeralds of his glare aimed at you. You chuckle, resting your hand on top of his head, letting your fingers play with his silky hair.
“I thought we’re over with secrets, herbivore. And now you speak Swahili?”
“Who knows what else I’ve got in my sleeve. Now cast something real already!”
“Don’t wanna,” Leona yawns again. “But keep on trying, maybe even you can cast something. Aloud.”
“If you want to hear me speaking Swahili, then just say so!.. And he’s asleep.”
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You’re playing a new detective adventure video game IDIA SHROUD just got. Even if Board Game Club basically is for board games only as it stated in the name, somehow nor Idia and Azul were against of playing a detective adventure PC game Idia just got… somewhere. 
“Hey,” you point at the game when an intro music starts playing. “It looks like it's from the Paleozoic era.”
“I have to agree,” Azul nods. “Looks quite interesting though.”
“Never thought you play for graphics only. What a drama… Wanna get kicked out of the Club?” Idia said quite dramatically when you roll your eyes.
The name says “Nancy Drxw”. You almost get deep into your thoughts when Idia starts playing and you see a kind of familiar gameplay system and setting. 
You get actually excited when the first 30 minutes pass. Mythology-based game turns out to be quite witty with its riddles and puzzles and while Idia is being a personification of an internet walkthrough and Azul hissing at him for dragging the spotlight on himself, you think the setting is extremely familiar to you.
“Let me handle this,” you say when you see a puzzle with 5 different names, tokens and letters of the Greek alphabet. 
You didn’t even know Greek existed here! 
“Ha! Even if I recognized you’re not a normie, there’s no way you can handle this,” Idia says, letting you try nevertheless.
“Ha, just look at him. It’s obvious that the playwright goes to Euripides and as for the token… theatre mask for sure, no doubt.”
Azul sitting at your left lets out a small ‘huh?’ unlike Idia who goes all broken, error 404 imprinting on his face at the moment.
“Excuse me—” Azul tries to ask you what was that just now but Idia interrupts him.
“Hey, move Sigma E to the center and the Mask to the inner red point!” 
You get excited as Idia leans a bit closer to you to show where to put certain elements on the screen and you don’t even get what’s wrong with Azul's expression when he finally breaks your idyll.
“What are you two even saying?”
“Ah, right.” You say, turning to Idia who seems just as confused as you. “How the hell do you know Greek?”
“I literally live in Hell—”
“Oh,” you say. “Right. The keeper of the Underworld and stuff. My bad.”
“One more intended pun and I’m not letting you solve the puzzles.”
“Drop your cipher, would you be oh so kind?” Azul sighs. 
“Nope!”
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The first time you hear ROOK HUNT saying random things in French makes you think he knows some words and does it for aesthetic purposes or something. 
You watch a theatre play on your phone which was airing yesterday but you’ve been preoccupied with too many things already so the only way to watch it was today, sitting during a little break under the tree in the school yard. 
You heard Epel nagging about this particular play because somehow it turned out that Vil wants the next project for Film Research Club to be inspired by this play. What does it have to do with you? Well, figuring out the right mood and being a shoulder to cry on because the amount of French was overwhelming and—
And hey, you’ve got to watch something in your native language for the first time in what felt like a year already!
You surely don’t hear Rook approach you until he bends over you and says. 
“What a wonderful afternoon, dear Trickster!” You switch your gaze to him for a few seconds to give him a nod and smile in a greeting way. “ I see you’ve been watching quite a masterpiece, have you not?”
“Yeah, Epel asked me to watch but it’s pretty interesting. Want to join? Though I assume you already saw it.”
“Right you are,” he says but sits beside you nevertheless. “Do you need some help with translations? There are quite a lot of incredibly charming French lines!”
You chuckle softly and turn to him.
“Really? What are your favorites? I can actually see you performing the main lead role on stage.”
You haven’t seen Rook reacting to Vil for the first time in his life, but if you have, you could have sworn that you exceeded all the expectations. Heart-eyed Rook grabs your hands in excitement and declares his everlasting appreciation of how French sounds from you. 
“Alright alright, no need to exaggerate,” you giggle. “I must say I’m impressed too.”
Epel next day: is impressed, too. But more terrified because now he’s got two friends speaking alien language and ending up never translating it to him. 
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VIL SCHOENHEIT asked you to help him out during Film Research Club activities. After doing some cleaning, you’re preparing decorations for the next scene.
Still holding a broom, you take a closer look at the stage and the decorations you need to arrange and how other students are adjusting the light. Wooden furniture, dust particles flying all around and glowing under soft sun rays penetrating from the old window; piles of utensils on the table. 
You giggle, making your way towards the centre, and use your broom. Somehow it reminds you of one particular scene from the Snow White movie, and you start singing softly when no one sees you. 
It’s not like anyone can speak your native language, so you don’t really care when you’re basically citing Snow White and whirl around, enjoying your little Dxney main character moment. 
Vil enters the room and wants to call for you but the closer he gets to the stage, the clearer he hears what you are saying exactly. He observes you for some good two-three minutes without you noticing him at all, and chuckles.
How peculiar.
“It won’t take long when there’s a song to help you set the pace,” you still sing, your body moves on its own. “And as you sweep the room, imagine that the broom…”
“Is someone that you love, and soon,” Vil interrupts you and you drop your broom that instant. 
“Ah shit, I got carried away,” you say, slapping yourself on the forehead and hear Vil sighing softly. 
“Language,” Vil says glaring at you with a hint of upcoming scolding, but he joins you on stage instead. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Your singing is quite decent, in fact. Never knew you could speak German, though, you never fail to impress me, hm?”
“Same here. In any case..!” You throw a quick anticipating glance at him and smile when he waves his hand and continues for you.
“You’ll find you’re dancing to the tune… Want to play this role? You would fit with how beautifully you speak.”
“Never expected you to say that to me.”
“Literally can someone translate what they’re saying?!” Epel, who was watching them from the very beginning, asked other students who were standing in the auditorium. “I can’t understand alien language, sorry.”
“Will be our little secret then.” Vil says to you before letting a little chuckle escape his tinted lips.
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death-threats · 9 months
Text
Head.
What it says on the package, friends. Blowies for some One Piece characters. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Eustass Kid, Portgas D. Ace, Roronoa Zoro x GN!Reader cw: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Oral sex (male receiving), gagging, hair pulling, dirty talk, dacryphilia, reader referred to as whore + slut, facefucking, semi-public in Zoro's???, cum swallowing
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Eustass Kid:
You couldn't help the tears that were rolling down your cheeks and the drool that was pouring out of your mouth as the fiery redhead used your mouth as a fucktoy. He was in one of his moods today and you agreed to let him take his frustrations out on you. It was a mutually beneficial situation you two were in; you'd behave and be a good little whore for him and he'd fuck the life out of you. Your jaw was starting to get sore but his thrusts weren't lightening up. The only time he'd slow up was when your nails would dig into the meat of his thighs nearly to the point of drawing blood. He withdrew himself from your mouth and took your chin in his hand, forcing you to look up at him. "What's th' matter? Can't be a good little slut for me anymore?" Kid rasped, his voice thick with need. Blinking the tears away, you shook your head. "T-too much." He huffed an incredulous laugh and rolled his eyes, weaving his hand into your hair and roughly pulling. "Fine. I'll let up a little. Don't you dare spill a drop of my come though, you understand?" He questioned, holding your jaw firmly. You nodded in response, too lust-addled to speak. "That's my baby. Be good for me, yeah?" He said, loosening up his grip on you to guide his swollen cock past your lips.
Portgas D. Ace:
The summer heat stuck to your bodies as you tried your best to keep quiet in your shared room in the inn. You finally had some time to yourselves on this quick overnight pit stop on some island in the East Blue. You ran yourselves ragged all morning and afternoon in order to gain some alone time this evening, and it was worth it. The orange lamplight reflected off of your puffy, saliva-soaked lips and your shining sex-blown eyes as you released Ace's cock with a wet pop. Your hand continued to work his shaft as you sucked and tugged on his balls just the way he liked. The sounds he was making was almost enough to get you off. "We have to be quiet, baby. Don't want everyone to be jealous of us." You murmured, placing light kisses to his flushed tip. Ace groaned and gripped the sheets that were bunched up on either side of him, his breathing sporadic. "Don't care. Let 'em all know how good you can suck me off." He said, an inclination of a smirk hidden in his tone of voice. You just grinned and raised a brow, returning that smirk of his in your actions. You took his impressive cock back into your mouth and his hips lifted off of the bed with the sluttiest moan you've heard him make to date. Yeah, the two of you will definitely be the butt of the crew's jokes come morning.
Roronoa Zoro:
You had offered to make drinks for everyone while Sanji worked on perfecting his plating and presentation out on the deck of the Sunny. It was a gorgeous day and everyone decided it would be a lovely idea to enjoy your lunch outside. You heard the kitchen door open and without turning around you announced, "I'm almost done, Sanji. Just have a few more drinks to go." Before you knew it, two large hands were on your waist and a pair of lips were on your neck. You nearly jumped out of your skin at the unexpected touch. "Guess again." A low voice said, one that you quickly recognized to be your lovers'. And that was how you ended up with the swordsman pressed against the counter with you perched on your knees in front of him, bobbing your head up and down on his dick. He wanted to fuck you properly but it was too risky so he suggested a blowjob, which you eagerly agreed to. Zoro weaved your hair through his fingers as he guided you up and down his length, hissing at the feeling of your tongue flattening against his shaft and teasing his weeping slit. You moaned against him, loving the taste of him. "That's my baby...fuck. Just like that." You two loved doing this in high risk places. It made your adrenaline flow like a sweet red wine. Zoro's breathing picked up in pace and you knew he was close. You'd done this enough times with each other that you picked up on one another's signs. His hand tightened ever so slightly in you hair and his hips stuttered a little as he emptied his thick load down your throat. You swallowed all he had to give you and stuck your tongue out afterward to show him. He grinned wickedly and lovingly smoothed your hair down. "That's my Y/N."
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silverwhittlingknife · 9 months
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snippet: post-Batman 654
(I was reading this and wanted to write the inevitable phone call with Dick afterward sfdsfds)
Tim's calling. Dick snatches up the phone. He's been waiting impatiently for this call. Please let Bruce not have screwed it up, please -
"Hey," Tim says, voice wry.
"Hey," Dick says. And he can't be absolutely sure, because Bruce has been so weirdly nervous about this and dragging his feet, but the warmth in Tim's voice is encouraging. "Any news?"
"Well," Tim says. "Bruce says you would like me to have your room. Even though there are, like, six thousand rooms in this place."
He has to laugh. "I told him - oh, God, never mind. Please tell me he managed to spit out the rest of it."
What Dick had actually said was, Well, offer him my room, then! Bruce, you can't let him live in the stable, come on. I thought you were gonna talk to him as soon as you got back to Gotham. And Bruce said stiffly, 'Stable' is a misnomer, I've had it converted into an apartment and professionally cleaned, and Dick said, I don't care, you have a house, and Bruce said, It's what he wanted, stiffer than ever, and Dick said, Did you actually ask him, or did you psych yourself out, and Bruce was silent.
At first, Bruce's complete inability to talk to Tim about something that Tim would obviously want had been a balm over the old wound of how long it had taken Bruce to offer adoption to Dick. But it had dragged on so long that Dick was torn between amusement and exasperation. It had been several months since the cruise, when Dick had awkwardly broached the subject in private and Bruce had said he was going to offer once they got back to Gotham. Dick had assumed he meant as soon as they got back to Gotham, so it had been baffling to hear from Tim that he'd moved into the stable (the stable!!!) and was apparently planning on staying there indefinitely. So Dick called Bruce, a few times actually, and every time Bruce said that he was planning on it.
"He offered to adopt me," Tim confirms, a smile in his voice. "I mean, he said a lot of other stuff trying to work his way around to it, but, uh, yeah. That was the general point. Spill. What did you say to him?"
"We weren't talking behind your back," Dick clarifies. "I mean, okay, only temporarily. I provided moral support. But somebody had to, Tim. I've never seen him dither so much, it's like he thought you were gonna shout at him."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
It's been eye-opening in terms of all the things that Bruce never asked Dick and should have, honestly. Tim used to insist that Bruce wanted to ask Dick to be Batman after the Bane thing, and that he only didn't because he thought Dick wouldn't say yes, and Dick was never entirely sure whether to take it at face-value. But he's been reassessing the possibility that the World's Greatest Detective is genuinely just thickheaded, at least in some situations.
"Explain the room thing," Tim says. "And, um. I mean. Are you sure? Because I'm seriously fine in the stable."
"Are you dissing my generous offer of my room?" Dick says. "I offer you my own personal housing, carefully decorated by a person of the best possible taste - that's me, by the way - and you prefer to live in a stable?"
It isn't, honestly, Dick's room in any meaningful sense. The house got rebuilt from the ground up after the earthquake. Same floor plan, none of the memories. But it's still the-room-where-Dick's-room-used-to-be, second floor at the end of a corridor on the east side, the best spot for sneaking out. Alfred repopulated it with some of Dick's stuff that survived the 'quake, and it's cozy, in its own way. Dick's stayed there overnight a few times, when he visits Gotham.
It's a nice thought, if he's honest with himself. Tim there. It doesn't really matter, Tim could pick a different room if he wanted to, there are tons of them. But. Tim likes hand-me-downs.
"I mean, I'm not dissing it," Tim says.
"Better not be. Don't make me come down there."
"Yeah, yeah." Tim hesitates. "But, like. You really don't mind?"
Oh man. "Tim Drake. I formally bequeath to you my room. By the power vested in me, etcetera. Please move out of the freaking stable."
Tim's laughing. "Okay, okay."
"Now, I do require that you maintain a certain standard of care -"
"Oh my god."
Dick relents. "I'm sure you can pick whatever room you want. I'm just saying. That room is objectively the best one. Also, you didn't hear it from me, but it used to be right next to a wiring hub, so if you open a small hole in the wall you can disable some of the perimeter sensors without having to go out in the hall."
"You make a good case," Tim concedes.
"So you're gonna move in, right?"
He holds his breath. The truth is, Bruce isn't the only one who's been tentative about this. Tim's been skittish, too. And... there's probably all kinds of reasons for that, and it's not exactly Dick's fault, but... he didn't handle it well, when Tim first mentioned the idea of adoption. They've talked about it since, and he's pretty sure Tim gets that he's supportive, but... It'd be good, to be able to offer something. Tim's such a little liar himself that it can be hard to reassure him with words. Dick doesn't really have anything concrete to offer on his own behalf, not like adoption. But ... Tim likes symbols, and this is a silly one but at least it's something.
"I... you're sure?"
"I need a caretaker, Timmy. Think of my poor room, languishing, abandoned -"
Tim's giggling. Victory. "Have you ever even actually stayed there?"
"I feel a profound emotional connection," Dick says. "My room's connection to me transcends space, time, the Richter scale, and Bruce's frankly awful decision to paint all the new walls in a different shade. We're spiritually bonded. I'm counting on you. Also, I ran into Clancy again, and if I have to tell her that my honorary little brother is living in a stable, I may physically expire from shame."
Actually, wait.
"My official little brother," Dick corrects.
Shit. He should've asked that first.
"It is gonna be official, right? Please tell me you said yes." Is that too pushy? "Unless you really don't want to, which I respect, I just-"
"Dick, relax!" But there's a note in Tim's voice that's something like relief. "I said yes."
Oh, thank God. "Good."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
They're quiet for a while. It is good, so good that it doesn't quite feel real yet. Dick's been waiting for this for a few months, but in a weird way, it feels like he's been waiting for it for years. And... it's been a hard year, it really has. But there have been good moments. This is definitely one of them.
"We gotta do something," Dick says, past the lump in his throat. "To celebrate. We can go camping or something. You like camping, right?"
This is an educated guess. Tim once talked his team into a camping trip and then way, way, way overprepared for it, which was probably at least partially anxiety but also seemed to involve a lot of enthusiasm. And Dick used to go camping with his Titans, too.
"I like camping," Tim confirms.
"So I'll take you to the Adirondacks. Tell Bruce. He's gotta get his celebrations scheduled in, because next weekend, you're gonna be gone on a camping trip." Hmm. "I mean, unless you'd like to invite him?"
"No," Tim says. "That sounds perfect. I..." A long silence. "I'm really grateful. I really am. I just... I'd like to do that, Dick, really."
They haven't talked about Jack Drake. But.
It's not like Dick can read Tim's mind or anything. And the situation is different. He knows that. He has to watch himself, and actually pay attention to Tim, and not just project on him. But... he does like to think he can read Tim pretty well. And it doesn't take an expert to guess that an official new brother might be a little easier to handle, to make peace with, than an official new father.
Adoption is the right thing for Tim, the obvious thing, Dick feels sure of it. He doesn't want Tim to be left guessing for ages, the way Dick used to feel, unsure if he was really part of the family or just an incidental ally. But just because it's the right thing doesn't mean it'll be easy all the way through. So maybe Dick can ease that transition, a bit.
Plus. Selfishly. It'll just be nice. To see Tim. To have a bit of time that's just for them.
Officially brothers. At last. For real.
"See you soon," he says.
"Thanks," Tim says. "Really. I'll tell Bruce." And then, a bit impish, "And on the trip, you can tell me about you and Clancy."
Ooh, so he caught that. The best defense is a good offense. "Sure. And you can tell me about your new study buddy. What did you say her name was? Zoanne?"
"Or I can catch you up on cases," Tim pivots.
Heh. "See you soon, Boy Wonder."
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captainkirkk · 2 months
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✩ WEEKLY FIC ROUND-UP ✩
All the fics I’ve read and really enjoyed in the past week-ish. Reminder: This list features any and all ratings and themes. Please look at tags and warnings on ao3 before reading.
Clone Wars/Star Wars
The Sun Swings East by kj_feybarn (+ podfic)
Over and over, Obi-Wan woke up and wished he hadn't.
Palpatine wouldn't stop until Obi-Wan had Fallen, wouldn't stop until Obi-Wan gave Palpatine a shattered galaxy in payment for his release.
He couldn't save himself, Obi-Wan had come to terms with that.
What he hadn't realized was that didn't mean there was no way to be saved.
broken surface by qigiined
"The water is not talking to you, Obi-Wan,” Feemor says without chastisement in his tone. “That’s the force you’re feeling, from the trees maybe.” The clippers turn back on. “Or a fish.” “Bones,” Obi-Wan says. The clippers turn off again. “Bones,” Obi-Wan repeats. “I want to be bones.” “You’re already bones. Where’d you get that idea?” Qui-Gon steps quietly closer to the door. “You’re scaring me, O’Ben,” Feemor says softly.
(Obi-Wan suffers from a genetic and force-based condition that makes him want to drown himself in a bog. And sometimes that bog is the shape of a sink.)
cultural ed by qigiined
PDS: so Kenobi would have been 23? 24? When the padawan came along?
WLF: so probably around 22 for conception. They need time to bake.
PDS: no one can make natborns that young.
FOX: I’m telling you all. Natborns are REALLY good at making other natborns that young. It’s their specialty.
(Cal is assigned to do some cultural education with Obi-Wan on board The Negotiator for a few days and Cody and his batch come to some understandable conclusions.)
and through the spaces of the dark by blackkat (+ podfic)
Jon's attempts to avoid a war he wants no part in are ended when Dark Woman drags him to Coruscant and straight to a posting with the Guard. He intends to keep his head down and do his work, but the mysteries around the Guard - and Fox - immediately have him in out of his depth and on uncertain ground/
Nine Worlds series (Victoria Goddard)
An Impossible Dream by SunInGlory
His Radiancy makes a proposal to his secretary. It probably isn't a real proposal...or is it?
an honorable and enviable role. by mage-pie (looselipssinksubs)
"Get up get up get up!” Something heavy landed on Varro’s stomach. He sat up just as Zerafin turned the lights on. “What?” Zerafin was grinning. The thing he’d thrown at Varro was a duffel bag. “We’re going on vacation! Get up, start packing, we’re leaving at dawn!”
That’s right, iiiiit’s… Vangavayen Vacation Time! Featuring our very favorite captive audience and peanut gallery, the highly trained and extremely professional innermost members of the Imperial Guard! Please give them your applause and moral support; they’re going to need it.
Privacy by Penguinity
Rhodin sipped his coffee. “Are us roommates cramping your style?”
“No,” Conju demurred, in a way which clearly meant yes. “I value you all deeply and am satisfied with a . . . laissez-faire . . . living situation in our retirement.”
Ludvic stirred his coffee. Rhodin peeled a banana in a desultory way. They waited.
Conju sighed. “It’s just–“ Ludvic and Rhodin leaned forward as Conju continued, “– why does he have to be underfoot all the time? Overnight?! I came down for a drink last week and nearly broke my neck tripping over a middle-aged aristocrat. It’s undignified."
Disobedience by alfgifu
You glanced down at the new paper with mild concern and felt your emotions congeal into cold terror.
It was not a standard Council paper, though it came with the usual cover slip.
It was a warrant for Cliopher’s execution.
A touch of home by alfgifu
I might have felt extremely boring coming back to the Palace through the front door in all our finery, but as Kip had pointed out, there was really no need to alarm the guards by climbing in a window when we could shock the world simply by showing up as ourselves.
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haggishlyhagging · 8 months
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On March 9, 1977, Francine Hughes returned from business college to her Dansville, Michigan, home and put a frozen dinner in the oven for her husband, James. He didn't like it. Francine, he said, should be at home preparing meals for him, not running off to school. He beat her up, as he had done many times before; and to drive home his point he tore up her schoolbooks and term papers and forced her to burn them in the trash barrel. Twelve-year-old Christy Hughes called the police, who came to the house long enough to calm James down but declined, as they had many times before, to arrest him. They left James, tired from beating Francine, asleep in his bedroom. Determined to "just drive away," Francine piled the children into the family car. "Let's not come back this time, Mommy," they said. She carried a gasoline can to the bedroom, poured the contents around the bed where James lay asleep, backed out of the room, and set a match to it The rust of flame sucked the door shut.
Francine Hughes drove immediately to the Ingham County sheriffs office, crying hysterically, "I did it. I did it." She was charged with first-degree murder.
Dansville adjoins East Lansing, home of Michigan State University and consequently of many social-action groups. Within two months feminists and other interested people in the Lansing area had formed the Francine Hughes Defense Committee to raise money and public awareness for her defense. They were careful to say that they neither advocated nor condoned murder, but they held that women confronted with violence have a right to defend themselves. They argued that "Francine Hughes—and many other women facing similar charges—should be free from the threat of punishment," for Francine Hughes was a battered woman.
At the time wife-beating was a growing feminist issue, following close on the heels of feminist attacks upon rape, a crime it resembles in many ways. Both rape and wife-beating are crimes of violence against women. Both are widespread, underreported, trivialized, and inadequately punished by the legal system. Both are acts of terrorism intended to keep all women in their place through intimidation. In fact, rape is often part of wife abuse, though so far only a few states acknowledge even the possibility of rape within marriage. The chief difference between the two crimes is that while the victim of nonmarital rape must live with a terrifying memory, the abused wife lives with her assailant. Rapists are, in Susan Brownmiller's phrase, the "shock troops" of male supremacy. Wife-beaters are the home guard.
American feminists took up the issue of wife-beating when they learned in 1971 of the work of Erin Pizzey, founder of Chiswick Women's Aid, the first shelter house in England exclusively for battered women and their children. Rainbow Retreat, the first American shelter for abused families of alcoholics opened in Phoenix, Arizona, on November 1, 1973; and in St. Paul, Minnesota, Women's Advocates, a collective that began with a phone service in 1972, opened Women's House to battered women and their children in October 1974. Rainbow Retreat, during its first two and a half years, sheltered more than six hundred women and children. In St. Paul the five-bedroom Women's House sheltered twenty-two women and fifteen children during its first month of operation; less than a year later Women's Advocates were negotiating to buy a second house. Across the country the shelter movement spread to Pasadena, San Francisco, Seattle, Boise, Albuquerque, Pittsburgh, Ann Arbor, Boston, New York. To open a shelter was to fill it beyond capacity almost overnight. Suddenly it seemed that battered women were everywhere.
While activists opened shelters, researchers and writers set about documenting the problem of wife-beating or, as it came to be called more euphemistically in the academic literature, "domestic violence." The records showed that 60 percent of night calls in Atlanta concerned domestic disputes. In Fairfax County, Virginia, one of the nation's wealthiest counties, police received 4,073 disturbance calls in 1974. During ten months in 1975-76 the Dade County Florida Citizens Dispute Settlement Center handled nearly 1,000 wife-beating cases. Seventy percent of all assault cases received in the emergency room at hospitals in Boston and Omaha were women who had been attacked in their homes. Eighty percent of divorce cases in Wayne County, Michigan, involved charges of abuse. Ninety-nine percent of female Legal Aid clients in Milwaukee were abused by men.
The FBI guessed that a million women each year—women of every race and social class—would be victims of wife-beating. Journalists Roger Langley and Richard C. Levy put the figure at more than 28 million. Some said that one in four women married to or cohabiting with a man would become a victim; others said one in three. In some areas the incidence seemed even greater. In California the experts said one of every two women would be beaten. And in Omaha, the Mayor's Commission on the Status of Women estimated that 95 percent of women would be abused at some time. There scarcely seemed need of additional evidence, so the same statistics began to turn up in every new account, but repetitious as they were, they showed all too clearly that wife-beating is a social problem of astounding dimensions.
-Ann Jones, Women Who Kill
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imagineteamfreewill · 3 months
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Gentle and Kind
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Title: Gentle and Kind
Pairing: Prince!Sam Winchester x Queen!Reader
Word Count: 14k
Warnings: Arranged marriage, Christmas, threats, angst, fluff, and mentions of death, wounds, war, violence, and sex (nothing happens)
Summary: Y/N’s kingdom has been at war for a long time, and when King John offers her respite in his castle for Christmas, she eagerly agrees.
A/N: This fulfills trope #21 on my 25 Days of Tropes list! It was honestly going to be a short one shot, but it got away from me and now I think it’s the longest thing I’ve written all year. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy and that you had a safe and happy holiday season!
Dividers by @firefly-graphics
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Your muscles ache from weeks of fighting with the knights in your first garrison, and the dried blood in your hair is not likely to come out on its own, but for the first time in a long time, you’re relaxed. The carriage is driving through safe territory—the safest you’ve been in since Crowley invaded your kingdom and declared war on you and your people. There’s no fear of being ambushed here.
When King John sent a messenger to your war camp, you had been surprised. He isn’t known for reaching out, and to send a personal, royal messenger straight into war territory is a dangerous move. Nonetheless, the King of Ashela had invited you for a short respite in his castle, just in time for Christmas. You’d accepted after much consultation with your closest advisor, Sir Robert.
You begin traveling east to Ashela four days before Christmas Eve. Your armies travel west, back to Athos. Newer, freshly trained knights had arrived a few hours before your departure to relieve your weary soldiers and allow them rest of their own, though Sir Robert had carefully selected four of them to travel with you as your personal guard for the journey. They ride horseback outside the carriage, and Sir Robert is in the second carriage with the gifts you’ve brought for the royal family.
Charlie is resting across the carriage from you. She’s abandoned the formal dress that you know King John will expect of her as your lady-in-waiting, but you don’t blame her, nor do you correct her. Wearing trousers is easier nowadays, and you’ve done the same. You’ve gotten into the habit of wearing the traditional captain’s uniform, or even a soldier’s armor, rather than the gowns you used to wear before the war. Even as the horses carry you down the tidy forest road that leads to Ashela, you’ve donned your armor. It's a habit to put it on each morning, and you wanted to display your strength and empathy for your men even as you left them behind on the battlefield. 
You let out a restless sigh and shift in your seat, and your armor clanks as you move. You wince when something bumps into a bruise on your back. A small part of you wishes you’d chosen to wear something else, but there’s no point in stopping to take the armor off when you’re already so far into the journey.
“Do you think I’ve made the right choice?” you ask when Charlie looks over at you, no doubt checking if there’s something she can do to ease your discomfort. She’s a good friend, and you’re often grateful that you chose her to be your closest lady-in-waiting. “Do you think that leaving my men during this time is the right thing to do?”
In response, Charlie offers you a tired smile. She’d journeyed overnight to your castle—Eryas Court—then back to the war camp, in order to collect the gifts for John Winchester and his two sons. Even if they were inviting you for respite during a war, you didn’t dare show up empty-handed.
“My lady, you can only do so much. You may be a queen, but you are also just a woman,” she replies.
You sigh again and look out the window at the stars as you mull over the most recent battle plans your captains had shown you before you’d left the camp. The Elciums have been encroaching slowly upon the village that surrounds Eryas Court, but you’ve been able to keep them at bay since winter began. You’ve even managed to take back some of the territory they’d taken over the hot summer months.
The carriage falls back into silence, except for the clatter of the wheels and the constant rhythm of the horses’ hooves against the packed dirt. After a while, you find yourself nodding off with your head against the sturdy carriage wall. You don’t fight it, and you let yourself be lulled to sleep for the remainder of the journey.
Charlie’s hand over yours wakes you. You startle, and she sits back in her seat as the carriage rocks with your movement. Your hand immediately flies to where your sword would be, but you’ve unstrapped it from your side for the journey. Sir Robert had said it wouldn’t be proper for you to show up dressed for battle, so you’d met him halfway. He would keep hold of your sword, at least for the trip to Ashela. Once you arrive, he’s to return it directly to you for safekeeping. It was your father’s sword before it became yours, and you don’t trust many with it.
“It’s okay,” Charlie soothes, and you stare wide-eyed at her, gasping slightly for air. “We’ve arrived in Ashela. You slept all night, and for most of the morning.”
Nodding, you close your eyes. It’s shocking that you weren’t plagued with nightmares. The last time you left the war camp, you struggled to sleep, even in the chambers where you’d spent every night since birth, at least until the Elciums invaded.
Your mouth is dry and you swallow a few times to try and get the sandy feeling to abate. You wish you had some water, or at least something to drink. There’s a knock on the carriage window and you flinch away, sliding toward the center of the bench.
You sense Charlie shifting in her seat. “It’s one of the guards,” she says a moment later. “Are you ready to meet King John?” 
You’ve never been to Ashela before, nor have you met John and his sons. They’ve been fine neighbors, however, and you have no complaints. You hear what others say about them—the Winchester sons are strong soldiers and scholars, and King John is exacting in everything he does. They’d be formidable foes, and you’re here to make sure that your kingdoms are allied, if only informally.
You nod again, and you open your eyes as Charlie pushes open the carriage door. You lift your chin as the sun immediately floods in through the opening.
Charlie exits first, and she helps clear a path for your exit. A strong hand is offered and you use it to climb from the carriage. Your legs are stiff from sitting so long, especially after months of fighting, and you have to bite back a groan as your muscles stretch.
“Your Majesty,” a deep voice greets.
The winter sun is practically blinding and it takes you a second to get your wits about you. Tall, lush evergreens stand in clusters around the castle, reaching toward the bright blue sky. They’re interspersed by dark green bushes and several boulders. A forest continues behind the clearing you stand in, and the trees grow so closely that light can’t reach through their branches. The darkness this creates is both intriguing and a bit terrifying.
Snow covers the grounds and all the trees surrounding it, except for a gray stone path that has been cleared for you. King John and his entourage stand on a larger patch of gray stone a few feet away, and you bow politely in his direction. He returns the gesture.
“King John,” you say. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”
“You’re very welcome, Queen Y/N. I expect your journey was a pleasant one?”
“As pleasant as can be expected.”
You can feel everyone’s eyes on you as Charlie adjusts the chainmail hood you’ve let fall from your head, revealing the blood caked in your hair and the healing cut that follows your hairline. There’s a sizable bruise on your temple as well, from when an Elcium knight hit you with his shield.
The man to John’s right clears his throat and steps forward with a small bow. “Your Majesty, I’m Prince Dean, head of Ashela’s royal guard. Please allow me to provide you with new armor while we repair yours, and your knights’,” he adds, gesturing to the four men standing near you.
Each man stands with one hand at his side and the other resting on the hilt of his sword, and though they hold their heads high, you recognize the weariness in their stance and in their taut expressions.
“That’s very generous, Prince Dean. Thank you.” You answer with a bow of your own, and he smiles kindly before you turn your eyes to the man on the other side of the king.
He’s tall, taller than any of the men in the King’s entourage and in your guard, and his hair just barely brushes over the collar of his jacket. It’s almost chestnut in the light. When he smiles at you, the urge to smile back is so strong that you can’t fight it. You meet his eyes, and you smile for the first time in a while.
“Prince Samuel, Your Majesty,” he says. He bows, short and sweet. “If you’re ready, I can show you and your lady to your chambers. I’m sure you’re eager to rest.”
You bow back, still smiling. “Thank you, Your Highness.” You nod politely to the King and to Prince Dean, then follow Prince Samuel toward the stone castle at the end of the cleared path. Two of your men travel with you, and Charlie is close behind you to the right, but the other two knights stay with Sir Robert. You realize only as you enter the castle that you’ve left your sword behind.
Samuel leads you through the halls of his home, explaining the history of various paintings and rooms, but you only catch bits and pieces. He walks quickly, and while your armor is protective, it’s made to help you fight on horseback, not take extensive walking tours through beautiful castles.
“Here are your chambers,” Samuel finally says, and you clatter to a stop.
Charlie bumps into you, and she grabs your arm for stability. You catch Samuel’s eyes flickering down to her hands on your arm before he collects himself. Your time on the battlefield has caused your decorum to slip just enough that you know you’re being much too informal for the occasion. Suddenly very conscious of your mistakes, you clear your throat and straighten your posture, fixing him with the most composed, diplomatic look you can muster.
“Thank you, Your Highness.” You allow one of the guards to enter after Samuel opens the door, leaving you feeling a little more exposed. You’ve grown used to being surrounded by people fighting for your kingdom—fighting for you. “Your father was very kind to invite me here. We’ve brought gifts for him, and for you and Prince Dean.” You gesture back the way you’d come. “I’m sure that Sir Robert, my advisor, has already passed them along.”
Samuel dips his head in thanks, smiling. “We’re happy to have you. We’ve been trying to show more diplomacy than in the past.”
You raise an eyebrow. Most kingdoms are not so open about their goals, at least in your experience.
The guard exits and nods his approval of the chambers you’ve been given, and Charlie takes that as a sign to enter and make sure the room is prepared to her standards as well. You don’t move.
“Ashela has always been diplomatic,” you carefully reply. You’re not sure what to make of his disclosure. 
“But not always welcoming. I’m trying to change that.”
“You? Not your father?”
Samuel lifts his chin slightly at the question. There’s a hint of pride in his expression, but none in his voice as he answers, “My father has put me in charge of our relationships with neighboring kingdoms. This is one of many steps I’m— we’re taking,” he corrects, “to strengthen those bonds.”
“I see.”
You glance through the open doorway, where Charlie is instructing a chambermaid how warm you like your rooms and how often to tend to the fire. Mentally, you file away the information that Sam has just given you, then turn your focus on more concrete matters.
“I suppose there are festivities I should like to attend?”
He nods, and you can feel his gaze still on your face, even as you watch your friend peek out the windows to see the view from your chambers. “Indeed. There’s a feast tonight, shortly after sundown. I can instruct someone to fetch you.”
“I would like that very much, Prince Samuel,” you say.
You turn back to him, and he takes that as a cue to take your hand and kiss the back of your knuckles, where the skin is rough and scarred from so much fighting. The gesture is simple, but it surprises you nonetheless. Prince Samuel is gentle and chivalrous. It’s been a long time since you’ve been treated that way. Your hand seems to tremble as you pull away, and your breath catches over a lump in your throat.
“Very well. I will see you tonight, Ma’am,” Samuel says. He bows low. It’s a sign of respect he’s not obligated to, and it makes you want to cry. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep over the past few weeks or maybe it’s something else, but to be treated like a queen—not just a captain—is something you didn’t know you’d missed.
“No need for titles,” you find yourself saying, your voice thick with sudden emotion. “You may call me Y/N, if you wish.”
If Sir Robert were here, he’d be interrupting and excusing away your brash actions, but you’re practically alone and the only remaining guard won’t speak up, even if he wanted to. It’s up to Sam to respond, and he only stops and stares at you for a long moment. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest as you wait, desperately hoping he won’t be cruel.
“Sam,” he finally replies. He offers you a small smile. “You may call me Sam.”
You nod and smile wide, glossy-eyed as Sam turns and heads further down the hallway, opposite the direction he’d first brought you. Once he’s around the corner, you step into the warmly lit chambers, where Charlie has moved onto the wardrobe of clothes that has been prepared for you. Clearly, they hadn’t expected you to show up with all of your finery, and you’re thankful that they had the forethought to provide something for you.
The other guard exits and closes the door behind him, allowing you privacy as the two knights take their places in the hallway. You stay close to the door, where you can see the whole space.
“The Prince seems very polite,” Charlie says after a few moments. Her back is to you as she sorts through the dresses.
“Very.” You don’t say anything more.
“And handsome, too,” she prods.
“Charlie,” you warn. “I have other, more important matters than a polite and handsome prince.”
She sighs and you can picture her rolling her eyes at you. Finally, she pulls a plain dress in your favorite color from the wardrobe, then turns and holds it up for you.
“This will do for now,” she decides. “But I’ll have to find you something else for the feast.”
You glance at her, not bothering to ask how she already knows about the feast, before turning in a circle to take in the enormous room that has been given to you for your respite. It’s bigger than the counsel tent at the war camp. The bed itself could fit the entire map table, and the size of the fireplace reminds you of the enormous bonfire that the men use to cook their meals. The walls and floor are made of the same tan stone as the rest of the castle, but the stone is so smooth that it reflects the light from the flickering flames. There’s a dark wood door in the corner, which you guess leads to a room for Charlie, if Ashelan castles are built like your own.
Everywhere you look, there are lavish curtains, tapestries, and paintings framed in gold. There’s a mound of pillows to lounge on by the fire, and several dark wood chairs standing behind them in a semicircle. Their carvings are so elaborate that you hesitate to sit in them. The bed is draped with soft, plush fabrics in deep greens, reds, and a creamy white that reminds you of the milk your nursemaid brought for you as a young girl. Evergreen boughs are wound around the posts of the bed, though they’re partially hidden by the fabric curtains that have been fastened against the wood. The whole room has been decorated with more sweet-smelling pine branches, as well as clumps of red berries that glisten in the light from the fire and the candles in the window. It’s amazing to you that the candles are already lit, given that it’s only midday, but Ashela has many customs that you’ve always found strange. For instance, Prince Dean was married several years ago in an arranged marriage. Your father had explained the ancient custom to you, explaining the benefits to each kingdom. You still remember that conversation so clearly, and even though your father has long since passed, his words are forever imprinted in your memory.
“Sometimes doing what’s best for your people isn’t immediately what’s best for you, Y/N, but if you’re lucky enough, the two will align.”
“It’s too much,” you murmur, and you escape back out into the hallway, leaving the door to your chambers wide open as you flee. Your heart is racing again and it feels like the walls are starting to close in around you. The panic is irrational. You know it is, but you can’t stop it as it pushes you forward down the hallway.
The guards give you worried looks, but you ignore them as you hurry around the corner where Sam had disappeared. You walk quickly, following the sound of loud voices until you reach an open-air chamber where Sam and his brother are lounging at a table. Two gold goblets sit in front of them, and a candlelit tree has been placed in the corner of the room. An enormous dark fur blankets the floor. The fireplace here is as big as the one in your guest chambers, if not bigger.
Both men stand as soon as they see you.
“Your Majesty,” Dean greets, and he frowns slightly when he looks at you properly. “Is everything alright?”
You clear your throat in an attempt to compose yourself. “I desire a moment alone,” and then you add, “With Sam.”
Dean raises an eyebrow and glances at his brother, who nods slightly but doesn’t say a word.
“Very well,” Dean says. He picks up his goblet and drinks the last of its contents, tilting his head back to get the last drops. “I’ll be in my study.” He nods politely at you before leaving through a passageway just to the right of the tree.
Sam waits until the sound of his brother’s footsteps has disappeared completely before he speaks up.
“Is everything alright?” he asks, and you shake your head.
“I apologize, but I must ask for new chambers.” Sam’s face twists in confusion and, predictably, he opens his mouth to ask why. You continue before he has the chance. “I have been fighting with my men for many moons, and the rooms you have given me are much too lavish. I’m afraid I simply won’t be comfortable in something so big, as foolish as it sounds.”
Though your words are composed and formal, you wring your hands in front of you, hoping Sam will ignore the way you can’t stop fidgeting. You feel so flighty that it makes you irritated even with yourself.
His expression turns sympathetic. “I see. There must be something I can do to convince you to stay, Y/N. Those chambers have been carefully prepared for you by some of our most trusted servants. If I were to request the change, I’m afraid they might take offense.”
“You care deeply for them,” you say, quieter now. Something about him and the sound of his voice calms you, and the anxiety you’d felt only moments before has started to diminish.
“I do,” he answers. “They work hard, and they deserve to be treated with respect.”
“I agree.” You nod and fall silent, looking down at your hands. Suddenly, you feel very foolish to have searched him out to ask for something so trivial. You’re a queen, after all. You should be used to nicer things than this. You shouldn’t be so overwhelmed by a room so similar to the ones from your childhood.
“It wouldn’t be offensive, however,” Sam begins, and you look up at him, holding your breath, “to only have one Ashelan maid to assist you.”
You exhale a small sigh of relief, as small as you can manage without being completely obvious. “I suppose one would be sufficient. She could help Charlie. Lady Charlie, I mean.”
He smiles. “I’m sure Lady Charlie will grow accustomed to our castle soon enough. She seems very intelligent.”
“Oh?” You can’t help but ask what he means. Charlie is smart, there’s no denying it, but many men have mistaken her for a frail, unassuming creature before. Sam would be one of the first to correctly identify her.
“She has the same look in her eyes as you. You are not one to be underestimated. I’ve heard about the way you fight on the battlefield.”
Before you can respond, there’s a noise in the hallway and you look over your shoulder to see what it is. One of your guards in the entrance. Your stomach sinks, knowing that he’s most likely been sent to retrieve you.
“I should allow you to get settled,” Sam says. He nods politely at the guard before looking back at you. “Though I hope you will tell us about your traditions in Athos at the feast. I am eager to learn more.”
You watch him for a moment, judging if he’s earnest in his request, and then you nod. Offering him a small smile, you follow the guard back to your guest chambers, where Charlie is waiting patiently for you, a warm bath already drawn.
The night is hard. After your bath and a meal brought up by the Ashelan maid, you try to rest before the feast, but the nightmares come quickly this time. You toss and turn, and you wake up screaming. The guards burst into your room as Charlie rushes to you from where she’s been inspecting your armor for what needs the most care and attention. 
Once it’s determined that you aren’t in any danger, she convinces the guards to withdraw. She holds you then, letting you cry in her arms as you tremble, remembering the horrors of the dream and the reality that shapes them. You cry yourself to sleep, and you’re certain that you only stay asleep because Charlie decides to stay with you. She tucks you back under the heavy blankets and drags one of the carved chairs over to your bedside. There, she curls up with one hand holding yours and the other propping her head up so she can rest as well. You have minimal nightmares after that, though her presence beside you is reassuring enough that the few times you do wake, you aren’t too afraid to fall back asleep.
You sleep through the feast, much to your dismay. John, Sam, and Dean are waiting for you when you enter the Great Hall to break your fast with them the next morning, however.
“I trust you slept well,” Dean says to you once you’re settled in the seat across from him. Charlie sits beside you, and Sir Robert is on your right, across from Prince Sam. John is at the head of the table. There’s another man across the table, opposite Charlie, and another on her left. You don’t recognize them, but you suspect that they’re friends of Sam and Dean, or that they’re the lords-in-waiting. John doesn’t seem to have an advisor with him, but there’s an empty seat at the far end of the table.
“As well as can be expected,” you reply. Your smile is strained, but you offer it anyway, then move your hands out of the way of the servant who comes to bring you your meal. “I apologize for missing the feast. I so badly wanted to come, but it was best that I stayed in my chambers last night.”
“We understand completely,” John tells you. “We are not strangers to war.”
You nod, and everyone goes back to eating. The Great Hall is silent. It’s a complete change from your meals in your tent at the war camp. Though you always dined with just Charlie and Sir Robert, you’d always been able to hear what was happening outside the tent walls. There’d be shouting and laughter, songs and teasing. Sometimes there was crying and men groaning through their injuries, but you ate those meals quickly.
As you eat, you look around the room. The Great Hall is decorated similarly to your chambers, with evergreen boughs, red berries, and candles that burn even in daylight, but there’s also an enormous tree at the far end of the hall. It’s lit with candles, just like the one you’d seen when you’d searched out Sam the day before. The tree stretches dozens of feet up, and you wonder how old it must be to have grown so tall. 
“We do not decorate like this in Athos,” you say, and all three Winchesters look at you in mild surprise. A bit embarrassed by their eyes on you, you falter slightly, but the interest on Sam’s face when you don’t continue spurs you on.
“You use plants here.” You gesture to the tree. “But we decorate with wooden carvings of our ancestors, and woven tapestries that we hang beside every door and window.”
“What are the tapestries?” Sam asks. His father and brother have gone back to eating, even though they still watch and listen, but he’s set down his fork and is now giving you his full attention.
“They’re different for each family. My family has tapestries that show the beginnings of our kingdom and the first king of Athos, and over the years, I have created many simple ones as gifts.”
“I’m sure they were wonderful,” Sam says. He holds your gaze for a moment before he smiles, and you smile back.
There’s a fluttering in your stomach. The clinking of John’s fork on the table makes you look away. There’s heat in your cheeks, much to your chagrin, and you exhale shakily. It’s strange to be so rattled. You’re not even sure why the conversation is affecting you so much. You’ve talked about Athoan traditions countless times before today with countless royals and monarchs. Something about Sam simply shakes you to your core.
John sips from his goblet, then gestures at Sam with the cup before he sets it back on the long table. “Samuel will show you the grounds today. I’m sure he can answer any questions you have about Ashela.”
Somewhat surprised that the King doesn’t plan to meet with you himself, you nod. It’s not atypical for kings to pass you off to one of their advisors, but you don’t mind it in this instance. You’re still weary from battle, and Sam is excellent company.
“Very well,” you reply, dipping your head just a little. You pick up your own goblet to take a sip. The drink is warm, thick, and rich, and you frown a little before peering inside the cup.
“Is everything alright?” Dean asks.
You nod and glance over at Lady Charlie. She picks up her own goblet and takes a sip as you set down yours. She pauses for a moment, her cup paused in midair, then smiles.
“Hot chocolate,” she murmurs. “It’s a traditional drink here.”
Raising an eyebrow at her, you whisper, “How do you know that?”
She gives you a sly smile and shakes her head. You know the look—she’ll tell you later.
You sit back in your seat and turn your attention to Dean, who’s still watching you. His father and Sam are both watching you now too, and Sam is frowning with obvious concern.
“Everything is fine,” you reassure them. “I’ve never had hot chocolate before. It’s delicious, John. You have fine cooks here in Ashela.”
He nods in response and stands. You stand as well, as does the rest of the table, and you watch as the King leaves through a door on one side of the Great Hall. 
Dean clears his throat. “I have duties to attend to, brother.” He claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Remember that Father said—”
Sam cuts him off. “I remember. Thank you, Dean.”
A moment later, Dean excuses himself, and you watch him leave, too. Sir Robert mumbles some excuse and bows to Sam before leaving as well, no doubt to study policies and look over ledgers in his own guest chambers. He’s always been a bit of a recluse, and there’s little privacy at the war camp. You suspect he’ll spend most of his time hidden away while you’re on respite.
You turn to Charlie. “You should rest,” you quietly tell her. “I know that you did not sleep much last night—”
“I’m fine,” she replies.
Shaking your head, you grab her hands and squeeze. “Please. I’ll feel better, even if you just relax by the fire. I feel awful that I’ve kept you up.”
Charlie nods, though you can tell she’s reluctant to leave you by the way her eyes cut to Sam. He’s pointedly staring at the candlelit evergreen and sipping his hot chocolate, giving you the semblance of privacy even though he’s mere feet away.
You squeeze her hands again and offer her an earnest smile. “I’m okay. I don’t mind being with him,” you say, soft enough that you’re certain Sam can’t hear from across the table. “He’s… nice.”
This makes her smile wide, and you can practically see all the possibilities she’s conjuring up in her head.
“Nice?” Charlie teases.
You playfully scoff and drop her hands, smoothing your skirt. Turning to Sam, you say, “I’m finished eating, if you’re ready to begin.”
Sam hums and sets his goblet down. “Will Lady Charlie be joining us?”
She takes that as her cue to shake her head and curtsy. After years of practice, the action is smooth, despite the fact that she hasn’t worn a formal gown in almost a year. She’d complained in private to you that morning that she wished the two of you could continue wearing trousers, and you’d agreed. The dresses that have been provided for you in Ashela are all too big, and you’d spent part of your morning being poked and prodded by the castle seamstress as she frantically altered the bodice to fit you. They might’ve fit before the war, but the fighting has given you more lean muscle than anything. Your own dresses back at Eryas Court will likely need altering when you finally return home.
“I have other things that require my attention, my Queen,” Charlie says, and she gracefully exits the Great Hall, though not before throwing you a meaningful look before the doors close behind her.
“Shall we?” Sam asks.
You jump, surprised to find that he’s come around to your side of the table and stopped alongside you while you watched your friend depart. He offers his arm and after a very brief moment of hesitation, you take it.
You and Sam traverse the grounds on foot, and he shows you the snow-covered gardens, the stables, the knights’ training field, and the arboretum where his mother is buried. Finally, he leads you to a frozen lake set far back from the castle. It’s surrounded by the same pine trees that seem to be everywhere in Ashela, and there’s a small wooden hut sheltered by the two largest. From inside, Sam pulls out sharpened blades with leather straps. It takes you a moment to realize that they’re for skating on the ice.
“Would you like to skate?” he asks.
“I’ve never been skating before,” you admit, and you look at the lake. It’s smooth and glossy, with few imperfections on its icy surface. You can’t help but wonder if it’s actually safe. Though ice skating has grown popular in Athos since the start of your reign, you’ve never allowed your court to participate. You’ve heard too many tales of the ice breaking under the skater’s weight. A small girl in the village had drowned just last winter.
“I’ll keep you safe, Y/N. You have my word.”
Scanning Sam’s face, you try to determine whether or not you can trust him, not just to lead you around and show you the castle grounds, but with your life. 
You place your hand in his after a long moment of deliberation. “You’ll have to show me how.”
He smiles, and it’s almost as bright as the sun on the snow. You let him lead you by the hand to the edge of the lake, where a downed tree has been positioned lengthwise. Sam helps you to sit, and then he very carefully kneels in the fresh, powdery snow to help attach the blades to your boots. The knees of his trousers are soaked with snow when he stands, but he doesn’t seem to care as he sits beside you and attaches the blades to his own boots. He helps you up with both hands, encouraging you as you wobble and sway in his grip.
“Move slowly,” he advises as he steps onto the lake, leading you onto the ice as he skates backwards.
It takes all your effort and concentration to stay upright at first, but with Sam’s encouragement and gentle guidance, you quickly get your bearings. You’re able to skate around the lake on your own after only an hour’s practice.
“You’re a natural!” Sam says as he skates beside you. His pace is surely slower than it would be on his own, and you smile over at him.
“Your assistance was a great help,” you tell him. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head a little. “I have the feeling that you would have been fine on your own.”
You fall into silence as you skate side by side, but a quarter hour later, you carefully stop a few feet away from the fallen tree. Sam stops as well and he holds his hands out to help you just in case something is wrong.
“Y/N?” he asks.
“You’ve been skating for a long time, haven’t you? For several years, at least?”
Though he seems confused by your sudden question, Sam nods. “Since I was a young boy.”
Smiling, you gesture with one hand toward the open expanse of the lake. “Show me what you can do, then. You must be very skilled.”
“I don’t know if “skilled” is the correct term…” He rubs the back of his neck with his dark green mittens, and you chuckle. His nose is pink, as are his ears from where they peek out from his furry hat.
“I’m not your queen, so I can’t command you, but I am your guest. Please show me?” you ask.
He’s smiling again. “Very well. Do you want to sit?” He gestures towards the tree, the other hand already reaching for your elbow.
You shake your head. “I will stand, thank you. Now go!” You shove at him, not enough to put him off-balance, but enough that he laughs and ducks his head before he skates away.
Sam is skilled. It only takes you a minute to figure out that he had been telling the truth—he’d been skating a long, long time. He moves with great ease over the ice, and you marvel at his speed. He flies by you three times before he slows, then stops sharply. A shower of ice flies up into the air before it rains down again. His breath comes out in heavy white puffs of fog and his chest heaves with exertion, but you’re smiling wide, giddy from the show.
You clap for him. “You underestimate yourself! You’re very fast!”
He laughs as he catches his breath. “Dean and I would race as children.” He points toward the far edge of the lake, where there’s a large gap between two trees. “There’s a river there, and we’d race from here to where it meets the forest road.” He pants for a second before looking back at you. “We should return. We’ve been out in the cold for a long time.”
Nodding in agreement, you let Sam lead you off the ice and back to the log, where you clumsily unstrap your skates. He takes them and puts them away while you fix your skirts, hat, and boots. When he returns, you stand and take his arm, and the two of you head back to the castle.
You eat a small meal when you return—mostly bread, cheese, and sausage—and it’s while you’re eating that you ask Sam for a second tour of the castle. He’s more than happy to oblige.
“All of these paintings,” you say as he escorts you down a long, decorated hallway, “They have similar styles, but the others you’ve shown me do not. Who painted these?”
“I did,” Sam replies.
You stop to stare at him. “You did?” You can’t hide your surprise, though you know it’s rude. “You painted them? All of them?” There must be at least two dozen in the hall.
He nods, and his cheeks are a little pink, though the castle is much too warm for it to be from the cold. “Yes, all of them.”
Turning back to the landscape he’d just named, you marvel at it. The colors are vibrant, matching the rest of the castle, and the gold details glimmer in the candlelight. Though the sun is going down outside and there’s little light coming in from the windows, you can still see everything clearly.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Would you like to see where I paint them?” he asks.
You look away from the painting to nod. “I would like that very much, yes.”
Sam smiles and offers you his arm again, and he begins to lead you down a narrow hallway that you hadn’t noticed before. You would have labeled it a servant’s passage had the lush carpet not continued down its length. There are wooden doors every few feet, but Sam ignores them and keeps walking.
After several minutes of walking, you come to the end of the hall and the last door, which is slightly higher than the rest. There are two steps leading up to it, but Sam needs neither to step into the room. You opt to take them, and he places a hand over your head so you don’t hit it against the wooden beams that border the opening.
Though the door is smaller than normal, the room is not. The ceiling stretches high up into one of the castle’s towers, and windows let light in even from high above. The wooden floor is swept clean, and an easel is set up near the largest of three windows at eye level. It’s big enough that you could sit in it and let your legs dangle outside of the tower. The window faces the arboretum, and if you squint, you can see the frozen lake in the distance.
A table with paints and brushes is set up beside the easel. Sam approaches it so naturally that you’re sure he must spend a lot of time in this room. 
“It reminds me of my study back home,” you quietly say, and Sam looks over at you as he picks up a brush and dips it into one of the pots of pigment.
“Do you like to paint?”
You shake your head with a small smile. “It’s not one of my talents. But I like to look at art. My castle is full of paintings, tapestries, and carvings.” You pause and watch as he adds brushstrokes to the painting on the easel, easily picking up where he’d left off. “You must paint something for my castle before I leave.”
“What would you like?” he asks.
You pause and look around the room as you think. There are several paintings leaning up against the rounded walls, along with piles of supplies that look like they might topple over any second.
“Could you paint the lake? In winter?” you finally request.
The room is quiet for a moment as Sam paints. When he doesn’t reply, you look over at him. He’s staring at the canvas in front of him with his brush in mid-air, but then he turns and meets your eyes, as if he can feel you watching him.
“Why not in summer, when the grass is green and the sunlight makes the water glow? Or in spring, when the wildflowers are blooming? Or in autumn, when the wind blows clouds through the sky?”
He describes the seasons so well that you can picture the paintings in your mind, but you shake your head, not looking away.
“No. I want the lake in winter, so I can remember skating for the first time,” you explain.
He stares at you, and you stare back. Your heart feels like it’s out of control and you have to force yourself to break eye contact. All the while, your thoughts are scattered and though you know in your head that you should be more composed and that you shouldn’t be alone with him in such a remote part of the castle where there are no guards, Sam makes you feel safe.
“We should prepare for dinner,” he finally murmurs, breaking the spell that had fallen over the room.
You glance up at the windows to find that the sun has disappeared from the horizon. Darkness is creeping in, and shadows are stretching across the floor of Sam’s tower. Have you truly been so distracted that the time flew by that quickly?
Nodding in agreement, you step back out into the hallway and make your way down the narrow passage. Once in the main hall, Sam escorts you to your room in silence. Charlie is waiting for you there, and she helps you change into a more formal gown for dinner. She doesn’t utter a single word about the strange expression on your face, nor does she mention the fact that you’ve been without a guard all day.
The dinner is less formal than you were anticipating, and you fall into comfortable conversation with the King. He knew your father before you were born, though the last time they’d met was when you were a young girl. He tells you story after story of their times together, and you’re learning about their last visit when one of the Ashelan guards posted outside the Great Hall bursts in.
“Your Majesty,” he greets, hurriedly bowing to the King. “A messenger has just arrived for Queen Y/N. It’s an urgent matter.”
“Send them in,” John replies. He gestures toward the door and you stand as a haggard soldier in your colors staggers through. He’s supported on one side by another Ashelan guard, and your blood runs cold at the frantic look in your soldier’s eyes.
“Your Majesty.” He starts to bow but loses his balance. He only remains upright thanks to the guard beside him. He’s gasping for air.
“Peace, soldier,” you tell him, though you feel anything but. Your heart is pounding in your chest again and your hand trembles as you place it on the back of your chair. You can feel everyone’s eyes on you. “What news do you bring me?”
“A m— message from King Crowley, Ma’am. He says that if you do not surrender by Christmas, he will take Eryas Court.”
You stare at him for a moment, then scoff. “He cannot so boldly assume I will surrender! Have our armies held the camp?” you ask.
“No, Ma’am,” the soldier replies, and it feels like the floor has fallen out from underneath you. Your stomach twists as the soldier continues, “His men slaughtered our armies, and they have infiltrated the village. They have surrounded Eryas. The men returning to their families are at the keep, and are holding it as best as they are able, but they are tired, Ma’am.”
Lady Charlie gasps beside you, and you lift your chin, silently sending up a prayer. Crowley has caught you off guard, but you can’t show it.
You turn to look at John. “Is there a room I can use to speak with Sir Robert and send word to my captains?”
John nods and stands, directing his attention to the first guard. “Prepare my study for Queen Y/N and Sir Robert. Escort them there once it is ready, and have one of the servants available to fulfill any requests she might have,” he orders.
The guard nods and bows before hurrying back out into the hallway.
“And you,” John continues, looking at the guard supporting your weary soldier. “Take him to see the doctor. Get him a meal and fresh clothes, and prepare him a place to sleep.”
The soldier still has his eyes on you, and you quickly cross to him before the Ashelan guard can take him away. His entire body is covered with blood, sweat, and grime, and he smells like the worst parts of the battlefield. His legs shake when he struggles to stand straighter as you approach.
“You can trust the people here,” you gently tell the man. “Thank you for what you have done. You have brought your people great honor. Now, rest.”
The man salutes you and you bow your head, then watch in silence as the guard leads him out of the Great Hall and towards the servant’s door you’d passed earlier that day on your tour. Once he’s out of sight, you turn and face Sir Robert, who has moved to stand at the end of the table closest to you.
“I apologize for cutting our dinner short, John,” you say. He nods once. “Can I ask that Lady Charlie be escorted back to my chambers once she is finished dining?”
Charlie stands from her seat. “I’m already finished, my Queen, and if it pleases you, I shall stay to assist you.”
You could cry at the loyalty and care from your friend, and you almost do. You catch yourself, however, and you swallow the lump that forms in your throat. John and Dean are talking in hushed tones, but Sam is watching you. His eyes are sad and you have to look away as soon as you notice. You’re barely holding it together as is, and you’re sure that he can tell.
The guard assigned by King John to escort you to his study appears in the doorway, and you quickly follow after him. He leads you down the main hallway and up a set of stairs to a dark wooden door that you’d glimpsed earlier. He opens it in silence, then closes it once you, Sir Robert, and Charlie are inside. 
Almost immediately, you brace your hands on the large table in the center of the room and hang your head. A sob escapes you and Charlie places a comforting hand on your back as you let out a few more. The tears run across your cheeks to the bridge of your nose, then drip onto the table beneath you as you cry.
Sir Robert stands in silence until you’re able to compose yourself a few minutes later. He’s watching the flames flicker in the fireplace with his back to you.
“How many men have we lost today?” you ask, dabbing at your face with the handkerchief Charlie has somehow produced.
“ There were 6,000 in the garrison when we left,” he answers. There’s no emotion in his voice and a small part of you feels ashamed for crying, but you push that thought away before it can fester.
“And how many do you think are defending the keep right now?”
Sir Robert turns. His expression is grave and the light and shadows from the fire deepen the wrinkles on his face. 
“Less than 5,000, if I had to guess.”
You sigh heavily and look back down at the table, then straighten until you’re standing tall again. You cross the room to stare out the window. From the King’s study, you can see the gardens, which means you’re on the opposite side of the castle from the tower where Sam paints. Silently, you start to pace the length of the large fur covering the floor between two shelves of ancient books. Lady Charlie sits at the table while Sir Robert remains by the fireplace, and both of them watch as you walk back and forth.
Nobody speaks until you stop, but there’s a knock at the door right before you can admit that you have no solution that won’t end in a sorrowful amount of bloodshed. You turn to look as the door opens, revealing King John.
“Y/N,” he greets. “I may have something that will assist you.”
You turn to face him fully. “What is it?”
He walks to an elaborately carved chest on the mantle and carefully removes a rolled parchment. It’s sealed with wax, but there are two seals. Curious, you meet John at the table. Charlie stands to make room for the two of you. It only takes a second for you to recognize the crests imprinted into the seals.
“What is this? Why does this hold my family’s crest?” you question.
“And mine,” he adds. “This decree was created and signed by your father and I during our last visit together. I promised to keep it safe until the right time had come.”
“The right time had come? For what, John? How come I’ve never heard of this?”
He glances at you, then breaks the seals and unrolls the parchment. It’s yellowed with time, but the words are written in black ink and they’re as clear as day.
“Let it be known that on this day, Y/N Y/L/N of Athos and Samuel Winchester of Ashela are betrothed in marriage. Upon agreement from both parties or in time of need, they shall be wed and the marriage shall be consummated within a fortnight,” John reads, and you feel yourself falter. Charlie places a hand on your back to help keep you upright.
“Athos shall be ruled by Y/N as the heir apparent, and any heirs produced by Y/N and Samuel shall become the next heirs. An alliance shall be formed between Athos and Ashela at the time of marriage. This betrothal can only be broken by death or upon act of God.”
At the bottom of the parchment, there are two signatures. Only one is familiar to you, and the world tilts around you for a moment when you see it.
“I beg your pardon,” you say, your mouth suddenly very dry. “But this cannot be true. I would know if I were already betrothed.”
John places the parchment on the table and it rolls up again. “Nonetheless, your father has signed it and stamped it with his royal seal. You are betrothed to my son, and in agreement with the decree, our kingdoms will be allied after your marriage is consummated.”
A dark shadow in the doorway makes you look up. Sam ducks into the room, his eyes immediately scanning the people in the study. When he sees the distress on your face, he frowns, but he answers to his father first.
“You called for me, Father?” he asks.
“I did.”
John picks up the parchment again and hands it to Sam, who unrolls it and reads it over. You watch his eyes scan the words once, twice, then three times before he looks up. He glances at you for a split-second.
“This must be false,” Sam finally says. “I would know if I was betrothed! You would have told me a long time ago!”
“Why do you think I never pressured you to marry, as I did your brother?” John asks.
Sam clearly doesn’t have an answer because he turns his attention to where you’re standing behind his father. “Did you know about this?” he asks.
You shake your head, hands clasped in front of you. “I did not. I’m just as shocked as you are.”
“I can’t believe that you are treating Y/N like this! She is in the middle of trying to save her people and you’re scheming!” Sam accuses. He’s glowering down at his father, even though he’s only a few inches taller.
John scoffs. “Samuel—”
“You say that this was created when we were children? And yet it has remained hidden from us until now? Why wouldn’t my father have told me about my own betrothal?” you ask, relieved that Sam is just as angry and surprised as you. It stings a little that he seems disinterested in marrying you, but you have more important problems than your feelings.
Sir Robert speaks up from where he still stands by the fireplace, and you whirl to face him when he says, “The betrothal is real. I witnessed the decree when it was written.” His expression softens when you meet his eyes, shocked at his revelation. “I had just been appointed as your father’s advisor. It was the first decree I helped him create.”
You can’t help but feel betrayed. “You helped him? All this time, you knew about this, and yet you never said a word?”
He nods, and there seems to be genuine regret in his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Why now?” Sam questions. “Of all the times, Father, why would you tell us now?”
John gestures to the parchment in Sam’s hands. “You’re to marry whenever you agree there’s an opportune time, or if there’s ever a time of great need. If you marry, an alliance will be formed between our kingdoms. I can send our armies to help defeat Elcium and save Y/N’s people. Your people, once the marriage is consummated. Your enemies will become my enemies.”
Torn between a mix of anger and humiliation, you turn your back on the men, taking a few steps away from the table to stare out the window. Has it really come to this? Will you really have to marry to save your people?
There’s a shuffling of papers behind you, and the crackle of the fire, but nobody dares to speak. You know that they’re all waiting for you to make the decision. Though you’ve only known him for a few days, you’re certain that Sam would never force you to marry him and follow through with the decree. 
“Would you form an alliance without marriage?” you finally ask, without turning around.
A beat passes, and then John answers, “Think over what I’ve said, Y/N. I will be in the Great Hall, awaiting news.”
He leaves after that, and you hear Sir Robert and Charlie excuse themselves as well, which leaves you alone with Sam. He keeps his distance from you as you continue to stare out the window with your arms wrapped around yourself. Despite the fire, you’re cold all the way down to your bones, and you shiver.
“What are you thinking?” Sam finally asks. His voice is gentle, hesitant even, in the silence of the study.
“I don’t know.” You shake your head. “This isn’t…”
“Did you dream of marrying someday?”
Surprised at the question, you have to stay quiet and mull it over. Then, after a few moments, you nod. “Yes,” you tell him, quieter than before. “Someday. I knew it was probably expected of me too, but then Crowley invaded…”
“And you had to put the needs of your people before your own desires,” Sam guesses.
“It’s my duty as queen.”
Your father’s words return to your head, ringing loud and clear as a bell.
“Sometimes doing what’s best for your people isn’t immediately what’s best for you, Y/N, but if you’re lucky enough, the two will align.”
Turning around, you smooth your skirt and meet Sam’s gaze. “As is marrying you,” you say.
“You’re not going to oppose the decree?” he asks. Sam sounds genuinely surprised, and he steps closer. He’s still in his dinner clothes, though you know he had time to change. 
“I don’t have a choice,” you admit. “If I don’t marry you, your father won’t aid my men, and my people will die. My kingdom will be taken and I’ll spend the rest of my life in prison or as a servant to Crowley, unless he decides to kill me, which is unlikely. Crowley is a ruthless king, and he tortures for sport.”
Something hardens in Sam’s eyes, and his jaw clenches. “You can stay here indefinitely as my guest. I wouldn’t let him do that to you.”
“And I wouldn’t live in hiding while my people suffer,” you counter. Closing the distance between you, you reach out and grasp Sam’s hands in yours. “I will understand if you choose not to marry me. It is your choice, and I will live with whatever decision is made.”
“Why wouldn’t I marry you?” he asks. 
“I don’t wish to force you—”
“You wouldn’t be,” Sam says, cutting you off. “Though I haven’t known you long, Y/N, I find you wonderful company. You’re kind, intelligent, brave, and you care deeply for your people. I could not ask for more in a wife, though I hope we can become friends first.”
You duck your head, caught off guard by his praise. Sam crooks one finger underneath your chin and lifts it until your eyes meet his again.
“You’re beautiful, too,” he murmurs. “Far more so than any woman I’ve ever met.”
“I… Don’t know what to say,” you admit. After months of fighting and living in the war camp, the tenderness in Sam’s voice and his touch is foreign to you.
“Say that you’ll marry me. Say that we’ll save your people before any more harm can be done.”
Silently, you nod. You don’t look away as Sam smiles wide, his eyes full of a joy so complete that it makes your chest ache just from witnessing it. He pulls you close, crushing you against him as he hugs you tightly, and you gasp in surprise.
“I’ll tell my father to make the necessary arrangements,” Sam says as he pulls away. “The sooner we are married, the sooner we can rescue your men.”
You nod again, a bit numb as Sam kisses you on the forehead, narrowly missing the bruise, and hurries out into the hallway. His footsteps are quick and the sound fades before you can even recognize that he’s truly left you alone in the study.
“Y/N?”
Charlie appears in the doorway and you turn to her, trembling hands clasped in front of you.
“Are you well?” she asks. She steps into the room and you can immediately tell that she’d heard the whole conversation between you and Sam. The walls and doors are thick here, but Charlie is an expert at eavesdropping.
“I— I’m getting married,” is all you can reply.
She gives you a knowing look and then carefully guides you to sit in one of the high-backed chairs near the fire. The warmth helps to soothe the shock from finding out your kingdom was most certainly doomed, then from finding out it would be safe once you were married. Your world is changing so quickly that you can hardly keep up.
“He’s a good man,” she tells you.
“I know he is,” you reply, staring at the fire. It makes your eyes water but you can’t look away. If you do, you might cry for real for the second time today. Your emotions have been twisted by so many things and people today that you’re unsure of how to feel.
“It’s okay to be scared.”
You turn your head just enough to show that you’re listening, but you don’t look away from the fire.
“You’ve been through so much, Y/N, and I know you believe that queens should not show their weakness, but you forget that you are also just a woman,” Charlie continues.
This time, you turn to look at her. “But I am not just a woman, Charlie.”
She gives you a gentle smile, then reaches out with one hand to squeeze yours. “When you’re with Prince Samuel, you are.”
“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admit, your voice breaking. You clutch her hand with both of yours when she moves to pull away, turning in your seat so you can better face her. “What if he expects me to spend more time being a wife than being a queen? I cannot afford to give up who I am because of a man.”
Charlie considers your question for several long moments before she sighs and collects your hands completely in hers. She holds your gaze as she says, “You are brave for doing this. I cannot tell you what to expect, but I can tell you that I have heard many things from the ladies and the servants here in Ashela. All of them, every single one, has told me that Prince Samuel is as wonderful as he seems. I do not think that you have very much to fear, but I will be by your side no matter what you face.”
You inhale deeply, closing your eyes, and then breathe out. Charlie waits patiently as you try to collect yourself, and her presence is enough reassurance that it doesn’t take you very long.
Finally, you nod and stand.
She does the same, dropping your hands. “Now, I need to get you ready!”
“Ready?” you ask, and Charlie laughs. She guides you out of the study and into the hallway.
“For your wedding! I can’t give you the prettiest dress, but I’ve asked around and we’ve come up with something that I think will work.”
A spark of excitement grows inside of you as she chatters on about her plans for the impromptu wedding. It’s amazing to you that she’s managed to work so quickly, but you don’t question it. Charlie has many ways of doing many things, some of which are better left unsaid.
Soon, you find yourself back in your guest chambers. Charlie helps you into a plain ivory dress, then fixes your hair. You sit quietly as she works, and when a handful of Ashelan maids and ladies start to swarm around you, you simply close your eyes. It’s been a long day, and exhaustion is starting to creep in.
“The Queen needs to rest before the ceremony,” Charlie announces, and you open your eyes just enough to see the women leaving. She starts to blow out the extra candles, until there’s only one remaining beside your bed.
“You only have an hour,” she murmurs as you carefully climb under the covers. She helps you arrange your dress so that it won’t become wrinkled.
Nodding tiredly, you rest your head back against the pillow she props up for you. “Thank you, Charlie. For everything.”
She smooths a hand over your hair and sits in the chair beside you, closing her eyes as well. She doesn’t have to say anything for you to know that she’s staying close to help you sleep. 
The ceremony is simple. You don’t expect much, but John rouses enough servants for there to be an arch of evergreen placed at the end of the Great Hall, and there’s a bouquet of branches and berries for you, as well. Sam dons his royal robes and a thin crown with vibrant gemstones that sparkle in the candlelight from the nearby tree. John and Dean change clothes too, and somehow Charlie finds a new dress just in the nick of time. Only you aren’t wearing something elaborate. It stings a little—you’d once imagined your wedding day as an occasion to remember, but now you could simply melt away into the background and it’s quite possible that nobody would even notice. It gives you a miserable feeling in the pit of your stomach, and when you pass by a mirror on the way to the Great Hall, you have to look away. Tears prick at your eyes before you can stop them. 
A priest marries you with little grandeur, and in only a few words, you find yourself bound to Sam in marriage. It’s not even dawn on Christmas Eve when he leads you by the arm back out of the Great Hall. Charlie stays behind with Sir Robert to help prepare the carriages for travel while he advises John on where to send his armies, and when you arrive at Sam's chambers, they’re empty. You’re alone with him for the first time as husband and wife.
“We should leave for Athos immediately,” Sam says, and you nod in silence. He lets go of your arm once the door shuts behind you, then hurries into a separate, adjoining room. You set your bouquet down on a nearby table.
Through the curtained archway, you can see a bed similar to the one in your guest chambers, as well as a writing desk and another easel. Sam’s sword is propped up against the wall near the fireplace, and a bow and arrow are laid haphazardly on a nearby dining table. The room is decorated for Christmas, just like the rest of the castle, though the greenery here is minimal. Where you would expect to see much of his personal belongings, there are empty spaces that leave you feeling strangely out of place. His chambers are practically bare except the furniture and the decorations.
Sam goes behind a dressing screen and you look away, heat in your cheeks at the thought of being alone with him while he undresses. It’s not the first time you’ve been alone with a man in a similar state of dress—you’ve lived in a camp full of soldiers, many of whom are careless—but it’s the first time where something could be expected of you.
“Sam?” you call out, staring at the candle on the window ledge nearest to you. Outside, the sun is just barely beginning to rise. Its rays are slowly stretching over the snowy landscape, revealing the hundreds of pine trees and the lake whose frozen surface glitters in the light.
“Yes?” You hear him pause and the room falls silent. When you don’t immediately answer, you hear some quick shuffling, and then he’s coming out from behind the screen and approaching you.
“Y/N?” he asks.
You turn, and Sam is standing before you in plain clothes. There’s no trace of the robes or the crown. The only thing that would give away his royal status is the signet ring on his left pinky. There’s a plain gold ring on the finger beside it, which matches the one he’d given you during the ceremony.
“Your father said our kingdoms would only be allied once our marriage was… consummated,” you say, deciding to use the same language as John, though you know there are easier ways to say what you mean.
“I do not expect anything of you,” Sam gently replies.
“But your father—”
Sam shakes his head. “He does not need to know what’s between you and I.”
You’re holding your breath; you can’t breathe a sigh of relief until you’re absolutely sure Sam will go along with the ruse. “You will lie to your own father? Your king?”
He’s quiet for only a moment before he answers, “He is not my king any longer. I am married to you. I am your husband, and you are my queen. I will tell him whatever I must to ensure that your people are safe.”
You gingerly take his hand and allow yourself to breathe again. “Our people, Sam.” You pause to look up at him, offering him a small, grateful smile. “Thank you.”
He nods and leans in to kiss you on the cheek. “We should leave. I am ready, if you are.”
“Don’t you want your things?” you ask, glancing around his chambers. 
Sam lets go of your hand, then walks around his room. He gathers his sword, a book from beside the bed, and a small wooden case from near the easel before he returns to your side. You take the book and the case from him so he can strap the sword around his waist, then hand them back to him.
“The servants have already brought many of my things to the carriage. The rest can be brought another time.”
Nodding, you take Sam’s arm and let him lead you out of his chambers, through the castle, and to the waiting carriages. There are three of them, two of which belong to you, and another that is clearly Ashelan. It rocks as the occupants move around.
John, Dean, and two of your guards are waiting at the open door of the middle carriage when you arrive. As you walk the gray stone path leading away from the castle, you catch a glimpse of Sir Robert as he climbs into the carriage at the front of the line.
“Y/N,” John greets. He nods politely to you, then to Sam. “My men are already on the way to Athos. Sir Robert has been helpful in ensuring they will be of sufficient help to you. I have also sent word to Crowley to inform him of our newly formed alliance. I suppose everything went well after you retired to Sam’s chambers?”
He raises an eyebrow at his son, who nods once. The implications of his words weigh heavily in the winter air, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other, trying not to look nervous or uncomfortable. You cannot give away the lie.
“All is well,” Sam replies. He smiles a little and places a hand over where yours rests on his arm. “She is ready to travel now.”
Dean hugs his brother goodbye, then leads you toward the carriage. He stops a few feet away and holds his hand out to one of your guards, who produces a familiar sword.
“I believe this is yours?” Dean asks.
You smile, relieved that you’re once reunited with your father’s blade. “Yes, thank you.”
Taking the sword, you fasten it around your waist. The weight is comfortable, and it bumps against your thigh as Dean helps you into the carriage.
Meanwhile, Sam talks quietly with John. You’re too anxious to eavesdrop once you’re alone, so you sit back on the seat and try to keep your breathing even as Sam finally climbs into the carriage and the door shuts behind him. He sits opposite you, where Charlie would normally sit. It feels strange to not travel with her by your side, but you remind yourself that she’s in the next carriage, and that you’ll see her again when you arrive in Athos.
Moments later, the horses lurch forward. You sway with the movement, and Sam reaches out to place a steadying hand on your arm. You offer him a small smile before you sit back once more.
The sun rises as you journey to Athos, just like it does every day, and you cling to that normalcy. Even as you wring your hands, your mind whirling with every possible outcome of the coming battle, the sun continues on its path. You find yourself glancing out the window at it more often than usual. The snow outside is beginning to melt and drip from the tree branches as the temperature warms from the light, and as the horses carry you closer to home, the snow starts to disappear entirely, replaced with mud and trampled grass left in the wake of tired soldiers and weary knights.
Suddenly, Sam shifts to sit beside you, and he takes your hand without a word. You stare at him, baffled by his strange actions, but he doesn’t say anything, nor does he look at you. Finally, you look back out the window. His thumb rubs over the dry, scarred skin of your hand, and though it’s foreign to hold hands with a man you barely know, there’s something comforting about his presence. It’s soothing enough that you doze off for a while, grasping at what little rest you’re allowed during the journey. He holds your hand the entire time.
After the half-day ride, the carriages arrive in the village that surrounds Eryas Court. You release Sam’s hand and sit forward on the bench to give yourself a better view through the window. 
The houses and shops that you’ve grown up around have been burnt and destroyed, and there’s rubble lining the cobblestone paths. Wooden stalls and stables have been smashed into splinters, and stone buildings have begun to cave in on themselves. Your breath hitches when you see blood staining a wall.
“Where are the people?” you ask, your voice cracking. “Where are my people?” The question is desperate, meant for nobody but the world, and you feel Sam pulling you away from the window a few seconds later.
“Let me go!” you bark at him.
He pulls you back a second time, and you twist in your seat, angry and aching with grief, but you stop when you see him.
Sam’s expression is grave. “We don’t know who’s out there. You are not dressed in your armor, and you are giving Crowley’s archers an easy shot. Until we know what’s happening, you need to stay hidden,” he advises.
You stare at him for a moment, then nod mutely. All the anger drains out of you, because he’s right, and you’re no use to your people if you’re dead.
While leaning back against the wall of the carriage, you can still see enough through the window to tell that the destruction starts to lessen as you near the keep. The pressure in your chest starts to ease when the noise of villagers and soldiers talking reaches you, and you exhale shakily when you hear someone call out,
“Make way! The Queen is here!”
There’s a commotion outside the carriage. Cheering erupts as soon as the first person spies you through the windows. Sam’s hand finds yours again. He squeezes, and you squeeze back even harder, clutching his hand as the carriage moves through the crowd and into the guarded castle.
When the carriage stops, you and Sam wait until the door is opened by guard. They help Sam out first, then you. You don’t know what to expect as you exit, but you’re relieved to find that most of your castle is still intact.
“Eryas Court lives on, Your Majesty,” someone says, and you turn to find Sir Robert walking from his own carriage. Charlie is close behind, and you start to smile.
“Indeed, Sir Robert,” you tell him. “It seems the battle was over before we even arrived.”
After a moment, you laugh and pull him into a hug. It’s improper, but you find tears brimming in your eyes when he murmurs in your ear, reminding you that your father would be proud of how you’d handled the invasion.
“Welcome to Athos, Your Majesty,” Charlie says.
You release Sir Robert and turn to where Sam and Charlie stand off to one side. He gives her a short bow as she dips into a curtsy. An Ashelan man is standing on the other side of Sam. You recognize him as one of the men from your breakfast the day before. There are several Ashelan servants helping yours unload the carriages, as well.
“It’s a beautiful kingdom,” Sam says to you. “How long has Eryas Court been standing?”
“Four generations,” you proudly reply. “Would you like a tour?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but the conversation is put to a halt when the captain of the guard approaches and bows in your direction. 
“Your Majesty,” he greets. He does the same for Sam before turning back to you. “I bring word from the fields.”
“How are my men?” you ask. Your expression grows serious as you focus on the matter at hand. Sam stays silent, allowing you to do your job without interference.
“We have lost many, but we have made it through the darkest nights. Elcium has retreated, and they have dropped their banners. They stand with white flags now.”
You raise your eyebrows, unable to keep your expression neutral. “They have surrendered?”
He nods. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“That’s very good news, Captain,” you tell him, smiling. “Tell them that we will negotiate terms after Christmas. I will expect a full report then, but I have other matters to attend to tonight. I will also expect to see your wounded, and I would like a full list of the dead. Please ensure that any news about the Ashelan soldiers is sent to King John, and also reported to King Sam.” You gesture to Sam without looking his way.
Your captain bows to both of you, then heads back the way he had come. Satisfied with the news, you turn back to Sam with a wide smile.
“Let me show you my home.”
Sam smiles back at you, then offers you his arm. Before you leave with him, you instruct Charlie to make sure everything is in order after the maids unpack your and Sam’s belongings in your chambers. She agrees with a smile brighter than you’d seen on her in a long time.
You and Sam walk the castle grounds most of the afternoon, stopping only to have tea. You show him your favorite spots, tell him stories of your childhood, and you show him the study you’d abandoned after inheriting your father’s. The windows there overlook the wildflower fields, and the river beyond. Though there’s no flowers in bloom now, he assures you that the frozen river is subject enough for his paintings.
As the sun begins to set, you and Sam retire to your chambers. They’re smaller than you remember, and it feels cramped as the two of you prepare for sleep. You’d never opted to take on your father’s chambers when he passed, instead choosing to stay in the rooms you’d had your whole life.
Charlie helps you change into a sleeping gown, and behind an opposite dressing screen, you hear Sam and the Ashelan lord—Castiel—talking quietly. When the two of you emerge, you share nervous smiles as Castiel and Charlie leave to go to their own quarters.
“I’m not quite ready to sleep,” you say after the door finally closes behind them. You keep your distance, unsure of how to act now that you’re alone.
Sam nods. “I’ll try to keep to myself, so there’s room when you are ready to retire.”
You glance at the bed, then back at him. “Perhaps I will go to bed early then.”
He frowns a little and searches your face for something, clearly trying to figure out why you’ve changed your plans. Truthfully, you don’t want him to have to try and make himself small. You’re already feeling too many emotions; you don’t want to add guilt into the mix. 
You smile as if you don’t know what he’s thinking, then head to the bed and climb under the covers on one side. Charlie has warmed the heavy blankets with irons, and the furs from last year’s hunts still provide you with plenty of warmth. 
Sam watches, still standing in place, until finally you let out a sigh.
“I’m perfectly okay sharing a bed with you,” you tell him. “We are husband and wife. If we don’t lie together, it will raise suspicions.”
“And I am prepared to face them.”
“Do you really not want to share a bed with me?” you ask, a little hurt by his resistance.
His eyes widen slightly and he shakes his head. “I do not want you to be afraid of me, nor of expectation that I might—”
“I am not afraid of you.” You sit up in the bed, suddenly aware of the nighttime chill in your chambers as the blankets fall from your chest. “I have fought in many battles, and I have seen many horrible things. Sharing a bed with a kind, gentle man who is now my husband is not a fear that I possess, Sam Winchester. Even so, I am capable of much more than you may realize, and I am not afraid of anything you could possibly do to me.”
He stares at you for a moment, and then a small smile appears on his face. “Very well.”
You lay back as Sam crosses the room and climbs into bed beside you. Both of you lay on your backs, staring up at the fabric canopy. You want to talk—you feel like you should, anyway—but the events of the past few days start to catch up with you, and you find your thoughts beginning to wander as Sam’s breathing grows slower on the other side of the bed. He falls asleep before you, but not by much.
When you wake, there’s a heavy weight over your waist and hot breath against the back of your neck. Your legs are intertwined with Sam’s and your back is pressed up against his chest. It’s not uncomfortable, but you lie and stare at the wall, trying to figure out how you and Sam have become so entangled. Surely, you would have kicked him during your nightmares.
“Are you awake?”
His question is barely a whisper, but then Sam shifts and you feel him raise himself up on his elbow to look down at you. He’s checking to see if you’re asleep, you realize.
You turn your head to meet his eyes in the darkness. “Yes,” you answer. “I’m awake.”
He sighs softly and lays back down, resuming the close contact from before. You wonder if you should push away. Is it improper to sleep like this if you don’t know each other, even if you’re married? Does it matter?
“Can I ask…” You finally begin, breaking the silence that had fallen over the room again. “When we went to sleep, we were not touching.”
“No,” Sam answers. His breath tickles the hairs at the nape of your neck and you fidget under the covers, but you don’t pull away. “You were dreaming. It was a nightmare.”
“Oh.”
You can imagine why he’s pulled you close now. Without Charlie sitting by your bedside, there had been some anxiety over if you’d sleep through the night, but Sam’s comforting touch seems to have soothed you. For the first time in weeks, you feel well-rested.
“It’s Christmas,” you say after another minute has passed.
Sam yawns and his thumb strokes against your stomach. His voice is drowsy in your ear.
“So it is,” he replies.
“Merry Christmas, Sam.”
“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”
You turn in his arms until you’re facing him, and you carefully place one hand on his chest. It feels natural to be this close and to lean against him, and Sam watches you with half-mast eyes as you get comfortable. When you do, however, you don’t know what to say. You stare at each other, listening to the castle stir awake. Finally, you lay your head down on him. He helps you get comfortable, and then you close your eyes. You can hear Sam’s heartbeat.
“We’re married,” you murmur.
He hums. “So we are.”
“What do we do now?”
“Celebrate Christmas, I suppose.”
You move your hand, unconsciously fidgeting with the tie on Sam’s sleep shirt. “Can we stay here for a while first?”
Sam presses a kiss to the top of your head and you smile to yourself, even though you know he could probably see.
“Yes, Y/N. We certainly can,” he answers.
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the-obnoxious-sibling · 3 months
Text
in which buggy doesn’t sleep well, missed breakfast food so much in prison, tells tall tales, and schedules a—not a date. a… day to catch up with an old… person. shanks. whatever.
the next part to this story, which is a follow-up to this one, which was itself a second take at—actually, here’s a tag for all of the near miss stories & related talk, go there if you want the context. (i’ve linked to the chronological order sorting of the tag, so you should see the “thinking about near misses in east blue” post first.)
Buggy was still mad at Galdino hours later, when he got fed up with his feet being tripped over in the dark and the rest of him (sitting up in the rigging, sulking hiding just sitting) had gotten cold.  But given the very limited space on the Red Force, it was either bunk with someone or sleep on the deck, and Buggy was not about to do that.  The men—ugh, now Galdino had him doing it!—were way too excited about following Buggy’s every move, he shuddered to think what they might do at night.  Assuming he could even get to sleep with all of them hovering like that.
So if he was bunking with someone, there was really only the one option: the only other guest on this ship who’d treated him like a human being.
But he wasn’t happy about it.
Galdino paid him no mind, using a borrowed mirror to inspect himself as he prepared for bed, applying a thin layer of wax along the edge of his hairline.  When he was done with the mirror, he silently held it up so Buggy could look himself over.  He used pretty long-lasting makeup, the better to survive bloody fistfights and brackish ocean spray—and some of it had even survived the sterilizing baths they dunked you in when you arrived at Impel Down!  Buggy would write to the brand, to tell them to use that fact in their advertising, but that degree of longevity probably wasn’t a huge selling point now that Ivankov and his ilk had escaped the prison.
Anyway, nothing had happened today that could really mess it up.  His face was fine.
…it could use a touch-up, though.  Just to solidify the linework on the crossbones, make the edge of his lip really crisp.  Buggy touched the corner of his lip, considering, and very much against his will recalled how it had felt for someone else to touch that part of his face.
It had been a long time.
Not so long that Shanks’ hand was the first to touch him since Shanks, mind you.  But a long time all the same.
He scowled, and threw himself into bed.  Touching up his makeup—and who, exactly, would he be doing that for?!  That kind of thinking could wait until morning.  When, hopefully, he would have recovered his sanity in full.
As he was drifting off, Buggy heard Galdino roll over and say, softly, “You may think of that guy as some dope you used to sail with, but fact is he’s an Emperor.  One who’s taken an interest in you.  I’m just trying to look out for you.”
“And who asked you to do that?” Buggy muttered into his pillow.
“No one,” Galdino acknowledged.  “But if I’m hitching my wagon to yours—and it sure looks like that’s what’s happening here—I want to make sure we aren’t about to ride off a cliff.”
With that grim visual in his head, Buggy sunk into an uneasy sleep.
The next day dawned warm and bright.  Buggy had thoughtlessly picked a bed that sat under the one small window in the room, right where an early morning sunbeam would shine in his face.  He groaned a protest, but unfortunately, once up he was up.  Leaving Galdino to sleep his fill, he stretched, grumbled, and made himself presentable.
(This did not involve touching up his makeup in any way.)
A handful of Red-Haired Pirates were also up and about, though Buggy couldn’t tell how many were early risers and how many had been on watch overnight.  A few nodded at him with the bleary eyes of hungover men.  Uneasy at the acknowledgement, however small, Buggy ducked into the mess, praying that there would be something hot to eat at this hour.
Prayers were answered in the form of the ever-grinning Lucky Roux, who was setting out large pans of a few types of porridge under warming lamps, with toppings (both savory and sweet) laid out in small bowls.  Buggy opted for oats with some dried fruit and syrup on top, something that would fill him up and leave a sweet aftertaste.  Though he might go back for the rice porridge later if he could get a soft-boiled egg to go with it… oh, eggs.  He’d missed eggs.
There were also two steaming pots of liquid sitting to one side, one a tisane that smelled oddly familiar—after a moment, Buggy remembered the hangover cure Rayleigh had sworn by, and had to bite back a nauseous stab of nostalgia.  He went for the other, not caring what it was so long as it was hot.  It turned out to be awfully bitter, so he stole a bit of the porridge syrup to sweeten it.
Loaded down with food and drink, Buggy set himself up next to the kitchen, facing the rest of the mess.  No one would be able to sneak up on him but Roux, and the day a man that size could—
“Any special requests?”
Biting back a shriek, Buggy spun to see Roux poking his head through a small window between the kitchen and mess.  “I’m no short-order cook,” he said with a grin, “but this early I’m happy to make people what they want, so long as I have the ingredients on hand.”
What Buggy really wanted was a hot dog.  Fuck, he missed bread.  And meat.  But he didn’t want a cheffy take on it, he wanted the greasy sausage and halfway stale bun you got when you bought a hot dog at a boardwalk.  Since that wasn't likely to happen… “Over-easy eggs and toast?  Oh, and ham, or bacon, whatever meat you’ve got.”
“That, I can do.”
Buggy dug into his oats, watching other men slowly creep into the mess in varying states of wakefulness and dress.  The most tired looking came straight to the kitchen, where Roux already had plates waiting—the night watch men, then, being rewarded for that unpleasant duty.  That was smart, Buggy thought, reluctant but firm in his admiration.  If he ever got a really top-tier chef in his crew, that’d be the way to get people to do the worst chores: give them good food after.
“Building Snake says we're making landfall this afternoon?” one of the night watch guys said to another.  Buggy tried to lean in without making it obvious that he was eavesdropping.  “Seriously, that soon?”
“We need to resupply if we're gonna keep housing these guys for much longer,” the other replied, glancing over at a cluster of Whitebeard Pirates around one table, Marco’s distinctive tuft of fiery orange hair poking out of the center.  “We buy goods today, give all of them shore leave so they aren't in the way while we load up tomorrow, and if the winds favor us we offload the clown and his troupe the next day.”
Buggy twitched.  What now?
“Oh, did Rockstar find the Buggy Pirates already?” Roux asked, handing the pair of men their plates.  “When’s he gonna learn he doesn't have to work so hard to impress us?”  The three of them shared a laugh over this overachiever who’d apparently found Buggy’s ship in under a day. (The hell were they doing so close to the Calm Belt?) Leaning down to hand Buggy his requested dish, Roux said, “Only three days from your crew!  That must be a relief, huh?”
Ignoring the startled looks on the night watch pair’s faces as they ran off—yes, Buggy had been here the whole time, so good of you to finally notice—Buggy grabbed the plate and breathed in deeply.  Eggs soft as silk, bacon just the far side of well-done, toast triangles gleaming with butter… god damn, but it was worth being awake at this hour to get quality food.  “It’ll be nice to be home,” he said around a mouthful, “but I’ll miss this.”
Roux burst into big, booming laughter.  “You guys!  Always so appreciative of good food.  I’d expected to rate higher than prison fare, but I’m flattered to hear I’m also better than your usual!”
In the middle of stabbing the yolks of his eggs with a sharp corner of toast , Buggy squinted suspiciously up at Roux.  “What do you mean by ‘you guys?’”
“I mean Roger Pirates, of course!”
Buggy blinked.
“Shanks is always happy to eat whatever, but he can’t hide how much happier he is when I make his favorites.  And that Silvers Rayleigh…” Roux shook his head.
Buggy nearly choked on an egg.  “You’ve met Rayleigh?!”
“Oh sure, about ten years back?  We’d barely been on the Grand Line six months, just hit Sabaody and were debating whether to move forward to the New World or stay in Paradise a little longer, and suddenly Shanks was running off to talk to this old man.  Of course I had to feed him, if just to prove to the guy that I deserved my job.  He really—”  Roux sniffed the air, spun around and yelped, and disappeared back into the kitchen.
So that was how they had Rayleigh’s hangover cure on this ship.  “Sabaody, huh…?”  Buggy wouldn't have thought he’d end up there, with how often world nobles visited the place.  Did Rayleigh have a death wish?  Or was he just old enough at this point to escape notice?  Buggy snorted.  Lucky him.
A storm of feet came thundering from out on the deck, drawing the attention of most of the room—until the mess door flung open to reveal a cluster of men in ragged Impel Down uniforms.  They spotted Buggy and cried out, “Captain Buggy!  There you are!”
This got eye rolls and looks of annoyance all around, which Buggy almost wanted to join in on.  Seriously, did these guys need their hands held on the way to the bathroom too?
“Here I am,” he said dryly, sipping at his drink.  “Don’t you people remember what mealtimes are?  Where else would I be at this hour?”  Ignoring their responses (“Of course!  Captain Buggy’s so smart!” “So logical!”), he edged a little closer to the wall, having a feeling he was about to get crushed.
The men did flock to his side the second they were able—attempting to offer choice bits of food to him, like he didn’t clearly already have something better on his plate—but their devotion was thankfully balanced by respect, and they didn’t sit so close he couldn’t breathe.
They were still totally incapable of keeping their mouths shut, though.
“Captain Buggy, will you tell us of another of your adventures?”
Buggy bit back a grimace as pirates less enamored with him gave his group a dirty look. Yeah, he wouldn’t want to be in tight quarters with them either, if he were hungover and not a Buggy fan. But how could he ignore their request? “Sure! Anything for you guys!”  What stories hadn’t he told yet…?  “Have I told you the story of… how my crew acquired our fiercest member, Richie the Lion?”
“A lion?!”  “No, Captain Buggy!”
“Alright, then.  It all started when my brave crew was exploring a jungle island, years ago…” The actual story of how they’d gotten Richie was nothing special—it was really the story of how he’d met Mohji, a mistreated performer in an East Blue circus where Buggy had hidden out until the first time someone mentioned his nose, at which point he wrecked the place.  But who here would know if he adapted the story of a day he’d spent on a jungle island with Captain Roger and Shanks? (…besides the obvious person, of course.) So he wove a tale of cleverness and might, of Captain Buggy spotting a dangerous beast that had a crying child trapped up in a tree and tricking it into pursuing him instead, only for the lion to be instantly tamed by his sheer power… and of course, Buggy being richly rewarded for the rescue.
“And that’s why we named him Richie,” Buggy concluded.  “After the riches and fortune he brought me that day.”
“How touching!”  “How bold!”  “How amazing!”
How exhausting.  “Now,” Buggy said, mopping up a smear of egg yolk with his last corner of toast, “are you satisfied for the moment, or do you need another—” Glancing up, he nearly choked on his bite.  Shanks was standing in the midst of the men, sipping from a steaming hot mug and watching Buggy with an amused smile on his face.  That fucker definitely remembered being stuck up a tree with a lion clawing at their feet.  “Shanks!  W-what do you want?”
“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” he said, glancing down at the man sitting across the table from Buggy.  It seemed the men had been so captivated by Buggy’s storytelling that they hadn’t noticed Shanks either; now that they had, they quickly moved to accommodate him.  Taking the suddenly empty seat, he set down his mug—Buggy’s nose wrinkled up, it was the hangover tisane—and leaned his chin on his fist.  “If you’re taking requests, how about when we first met Oden?  That’s a good story.”
“I—that—” Like hell Shanks just wanted a story.
Lucky Roux got Buggy’s attention, and held out a plate clearly meant for Shanks; it was the same kind of breakfast he’d favored as a child, down to the diced tomatoes perched atop the eggs—originally a deterrent to keep Buggy from stealing his food, at some point it had become a highlight of the dish for Shanks, the freak.
…maybe he did just want a story.  For all that he was an Emperor now, Shanks didn’t seem to have changed much as a person.  Buggy passed the plate along to Shanks, and tried to relax. “That is a good one.”
Turning to the men watching this exchange wide-eyed, Buggy barked out, “Now, who among you swabs recognizes the name of Kozuki Oden, once heir to the shogunate of Wano?!”  This got a couple of looks of recognition, but mostly confusion—except for, from the far side of the room, a few angry grumbles.  Buggy laughed.  “Don’t tell me the Whitebeards still hold a grudge?  Just because our crews fought for three days, and Oden chose to come with us in the end?”
This garnered a far more impressed reaction from the ex-prisoner crowd, and some narrow-eyed looks from the Whitebeards.  Oh, they definitely still held a grudge.  But Shanks was smiling ever so slightly, and that was enough to make Buggy smirk and say, “Well, feel free to offer corrections if you think I’m telling the story wrong.”
And then he told the most overblown, exaggerated version of events he possibly could.
Some of the Whitebeard Pirates threw out corrections—and insults against Buggy’s memory and honesty—but Buggy gave as good as he got, Shanks occasionally chimed in with falsely innocuous comments like “that’s not how I remember it” to their corrections, and the story was all the better for the pushback.  That was the thing with lying: the larger lie sounded more believable when someone objected to small details, because your audience assumed that everything that hadn’t been corrected must be true.
For all the insults and slander tossed around about dead men, the mood in the room was significantly lighter by the time Buggy finished the story.  Most of the Red-Haired Pirates had left, their duties for the morning calling, but the former prisoners and Whitebeard Pirates lingered to hear Buggy out until the end, with Oden and his family sailing off on the Oro Jackson, Whitebeard’s men calling out fond farewells and complaints at his disloyalty in equal measure.
Even Marco the Phoenix was convinced to speak up at that point, saying, “Pops never forgave Roger for that, yoi,” with a slight, sad smile.
“For stealing Oden?” Buggy snorted a laugh.  “If you wanted him to stick around, you should’ve gone to the last island yourselves!  That man wanted adventure, and we were going on the greatest one imaginable.”
Marco protested—Oden had been like family to Whitebeard, didn’t that mean something?—and with the story complete and the breakfast hour long passed, the crowd began to disperse. (They’d learned yesterday that people who lingered in the mess tended to get roped into dishwashing duty, whether they were crew aboard the Red Force or not.) A couple people still remained: Shanks, who’d spent so much time egging on the Whitebeards that he’d scarcely touched his food; Marco, going back for a third or fourth cup of the not-tisane; and a few especially devoted ex-prisoners, staring starry-eyed at Buggy.
“The last island…” One of them breathed.  “Captain Buggy, what’s it like?”
Buggy blinked.  “Laugh Tale?”  He glanced at Shanks, who was watching him with a perfectly neutral expression, then down at the bitter dregs left in his cup.  What to say? Buggy flushed.  He wouldn’t—couldn’t—lie about this.  “I, uh, I don’t know.”
“What?!”
“We didn’t go,” Shanks said, getting a grateful look from Buggy and surprise from the rest of the room.  “Buggy got sick, and I stayed behind to look after him.”  This won Shanks some undeserved admiration from Buggy’s fans—what a sacrifice he’d made, and for Captain Buggy’s sake!  Yeah, right.
…well.
Well.
What other reason could he have had, to stay behind?
Galdino’s (terrible, awful) words from yesterday popped up in Buggy’s head.  Gah, surely not that!  Surely he hadn’t—not back then.  Surely he didn’t now, for that matter!  Buggy grimaced.  It wasn’t like he could just ask, not around all these people.
Not around them.  But maybe…
“Shanks, I—”
“Listen, Buggy…”
They blinked, dumbfounded.  After a moment’s silence, Shanks gestured for Buggy to go ahead.
Buggy scratched at an itch along his jawline.  It would be nice to be back on the Big Top, where he could get something like a clean shave again.  But before that… if he could just get the question out.  He gritted his teeth.  Why was asking for things so hard?  “Yesterday, you said you’d like to sit down and catch up if you weren’t so busy. If you really meant that… I hear tomorrow’s gonna be a shore day, at least for people who don’t have a real role on your ship, so I was thinking…” Buggy shrugged.  “I dunno.  Maybe we could do that? Can you spare an hour for me?”
“Yeah!”  Shanks grinned, so wide and bright Buggy could hardly bear to look at it.  “Yeah, I’d love that.  But forget an hour, I can give you the whole day.”  When Buggy frowned, puzzled, Shanks explained, “I was about to ask you to spend time with me.”
Buggy laughed under his breath.  “Figures.” All those nerves for nothing!  If he’d just kept his mouth shut a few seconds longer, Shanks would’ve asked, and then Buggy could’ve looked like he was doing him a favor by giving him exactly what Buggy wanted. Oh, well.  Turning to the men hovering behind him, Buggy snapped, “You hear that?!  You boys are gonna have to find something else to do tomorrow, I’m gonna be too busy to hang around telling you stories of my greatness!”
“Yessir, Captain Buggy!” (“Wow!  An elite captain-to-captain meeting!”)
“And if any of you dare to follow or interrupt us, you’ll live to regret it!  Spread the word!”
The men disappeared obediently.  Buggy let himself bask for a moment—god, but it was nice to be listened to.  Even if they did take it to extremes.  And even if they only did it because they thought Buggy was a pirate on Captain Roger’s level, and not just a kid the guy had taken a liking to.  And even if… with a little sigh, Buggy turned back around.  Gathering up his dishes—even if he managed to avoid dishwashing duty today, clearing his place was the least he could do—Buggy glanced up at Shanks and froze at the look on his face.  That fond little smile… heat rushed to Buggy’s cheeks, and he groaned, shoving a hand in Shanks’ face.
“Don’t look at me like that!”
“Like what?” Shanks laughed, pushing Buggy’s hand out of the way, still looking at him like…
“Like—” Buggy remembered Galdino’s words and violently shoved the memory down.  He remembered a similar look on Shanks’ face, years ago, and violently shoved that memory down too.  Getting to his feet, he floated his stack of plates through the kitchen window and bolted.  “Just don’t!”
But even as he left, he knew Shanks’ expression hadn’t changed.  He was still looking at Buggy like he liked him.
And Buggy had just agreed to spend the day with him tomorrow.
What had he been thinking?
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pixel-chills · 5 months
Text
Dreamflower Original Story MASTER POST
This post is a collection of facts and information about my original story universe, "Dreamflower", and the main storyline soon to be published on AO3, titled "May I Love You".
The post will be divided into sections under the cut, first section includes the basic synopsis and facts about the main characters and the environment. After each published chapter, any new characters introduced will get their own little section and a possible visual sketch of their character.
Dreamflower universe is very loosely based on my FNAF Animutant AU, but many things are made and flexed out to be so much different that this is a completely original story at this point, despite the main characters sharing some similarities with Sun and Moon from FNAF-
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Synopsis of the story:
Humans have always been afraid of things they aren't familiar with. When a new type of subspecies of humans started to appear after the late 60's they were terrified. Theories of alien invasion or the devil's advocates taking over the earth slowly, members of this new species, Animutants, were denied regular human rights, and often forced to live outside major cities, or sometimes even killed as a form of funded euthanasia.  Solros Ellis is a young adult who, despite being a human, has never had an easy life. Growing up in extreme poverty, bullied until he dropped out of school, abused by his alcoholic father, Solros has only wished for freedom. One morning, Solros wakes up to a new reality: he has turned into an Animutant overnight!  Learning what could possibly happen to him if he stays in the city, Solros runs away from his old life and meets Luan Costello, a guy of his age who was born as an Animutant, denied basic human rights and lived his whole life feeling like a burden to those around him. With Luan's help and kindness, Solros is getting adjusted to his new life as an Animutant and healing those wounds his old life left on him.  Will the difficulties of being considered something less than a human bring Solros just another set of unfortunate events, or was his mutation written in the stars so he could meet with Luan?
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Plutonia:
The story takes place in a made-up country called Plutonia.
Plutonia is an island country. It has its own indepedence, but works as a constitutional monarchy under the English Crown, just like Canada. 
On the world it's located underneath Newfoundland island, close to the North-East coast of the US.
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Both Solros and Luan were born in Duskfort City. Solros lived there until his transformation. Luan's family lives up to the North in a small town called Bluebell. 
You can read more facts about the country from here.
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Main Characters:
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More info about Solros:
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More info about Luan:
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Side characters (Luan's family and Solros' parents):
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Other characters will go under the respective chapters they first appear in!
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Chapter 1:
Summary:
Luan Costello is an 18-year-old young man, who will soon graduate from high school, just waiting for his life to start. Except he has never gone to a normal school, has no real friends and is haunted by the fact he feels like a burden to his loving family. There's nothing wrong in his life, other than the fact he was born as an Animutant and denied a lot of basic rights in human society. Yet, he feels like something is still missing. An opportunity, maybe love; something that would make his life have a proper meaning. But he rarely leaves his house, doesn't spend time with people of his age, reads books and writes poems all day long. Is he really expecting his destiny just to walk up to his house and knock on his door? Well, guess what...
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universitypenguin · 1 year
Note
Aliceeeeee what do u think our Lloyd and princess would do for v-day? 💓💓 Would they actually celebrate with each other 🙊👀
Lloyd Hansen & the Valentine’s Day Campaign
Summary: Determined to top the efforts of any previous boyfriends Princess has celebrated Valentine’s Day with in the past, Lloyd launches a campaign of romance.
Masterlist
Word Count: roughly 1,900
Author’s Note: I loved this ask because I haven’t written anything that’s pure fluff in a while. Lloyd was so cute in this short story. 🥰
Warnings: Fluff. Lloyd is a sweetheart, but he’s a conniving sweetheart with a competitive streak.
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You roused slowly, drawn into consciousness by the stroke of Lloyd’s palm across your back. It was a much better way to wake up than to the blare of an alarm clock. With a groan, you stretched and rolled over to plaster yourself against him. Lloyd chuckled at your attempt to burrow into his chest and block out the bright light streaming in from the east facing window.
“Good morning, Princess.”
“Mmmmmff.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day…”
Lloyd’s words knocked the lingering drowsiness from your mind, bringing you to full awareness in a second.
“Valentine’s Day?”
Why, exactly, was Lloyd commenting on Valentine’s Day? You’d witnessed his reactions to the past three Valentine’s Days. He was anything but amused by the annual celebration of love and romance.
“Yes, I said ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’ because it’s Valentine’s Day,” he said.
You pushed off his chest, leaning back to put an arm’s length between you, examining him from a distance to see if he’d grown a second head overnight. Because the Lloyd Hansen you knew despised Valentine’s Day.
“It’s considered polite to respond to the greeting of “Happy Valentine's Day,” by repeating it back to the person who originally said it,” Lloyd said.
“Uh… sure, it is. But that only stands if the person saying it hasn’t made their hatred for the holiday perfectly clear in prior conversations.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t hate Valentine’s Day.”
“Allow me to replay some of your previous comments about the holiday…”
Lloyd groaned. “Princess! Give me a break.”
You held up a finger. “Two years ago you claimed Valentine’s Day was the greatest scam ever played on society. Last year you said Esther Howland was your personal hero for turning love into a multi-billion dollar industry. You’ve also claimed that if you could have dinner with any historical figure, it would be her, because only a true genius could turn a fake holiday into an absolute cash cow.”
Lloyd huffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! This is the day of love, and I’ve never said any different.”
Mimicking him, you lowered your voice. “Valentine’s Day is a brilliantly designed con by a Victorian spinster that’s poured billions into an otherwise sluggish retail month for more than a century! The candy makers and the floral industry should build her a monument.”
“That jogs my memory,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You said men benefit the most from Valentine’s Day because it reinforces societal expectations of marriage and romantic commitment.”
“Depending on the relationship, Valentine’s Day can turn into the male equivalent of buying an indulgence,” you said. “If you get her the right flowers, and make sure all her friends see them delivered, poof! The crap you pulled last week is forgotten.”
His expression turned sour and you laughed.
“Did you say those things because you meant them, or just to shut me up?” he asked.
“A little of both. Why?”
“Because, while I stand by my position on Valentine’s Day being a corporate scam, and I agree with your point that its’ a form of social control, this is also a day where I’m expected to perform-”
“Oh, really?” you giggled.
“Zip it, Princess… as I was saying. Because we’re lovers, and because I hate disappointing you, I’m officially celebrating my first Valentine’s Day. The dancing monkey routine starts now.”
Unable to hold onto your composure a moment longer, you dissolved into giggles.
Lloyd growled, snagging you by the waist and nipping at your ear. “Laugh all you want, but trust me. You’d better enjoy this. If you don’t, I will sulk.”
“I’m already having the best Valentine’s Day ever. That little presentation was a treat of its own.”
He perked up, a smug gleam coming into his eye. “Then we’re off to a good start. Now, go downstairs and find your first official treat of the day.”
Because it was Lloyd, and you knew he never did anything by half-measures, you bounded down the stairs. Had he sent you a dozen red roses? Two dozen?
In the foyer, the arrangement was waiting on the front table. You gasped at the sight of sixty long stemmed red roses, arranged in a cloud of baby’s breath. Then the absurdity of it, and the difficulty that must’ve gone into getting such a large bouquet at this time of year, made you laugh. You looked up at the sound of footsteps to find Lloyd behind you.
“You could have gotten away with far less, you know. I’m a pretty cheap date.”
“I know, but I have a reputation to uphold.”
He led you by the hand, into the kitchen, and you saw the dining table had been laid with fine china and a pristine white table cloth. The smell of freshly made French Toast and syrup was mouthwatering.
“Just wait,” Lloyd purred into your ear. “Today, I’ve got all the bases covered.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The comment he made about ‘having all the bases covered’ slipped by you, probably on account of the delicious French Toast.
But at the office, two hours later, during your morning meeting with the paralegal team, there was a knock on the door. The meeting was interrupted by the arrival of another bunch of flowers. This one was more modest, but the splendor of two dozen pink roses had all the girls gushing. Savannah snagged the card and you nearly panicked at the thought that Lloyd might have signed it. Instead, he’d written a cryptic note.
I know this bouquet is smaller than the one I sent this morning, but I wanted you to have something for your desk. Love, your dragon.
You couldn’t make eye contact with Jen, who undoubtedly knew who the sender was. The dragon was something she’d taken to calling Lloyd in response to his nickname for you. When you mustered up the courage to make eye contact, she was smirking, her eyes bright with barely contained laughter. As you carried your arrangement upstairs, she darted into the stairwell behind you.
“Today’s a stairs day, huh?”
“Yes, because if I take the stairs, you and your sprained ankle can’t follow me,” you said.
“It’s no big deal, I’m already in a boot.”
Jen bounded after you, her movements as agile as women half her age dreamed of being.
“So, what did he send to your apartment?”
“Jen…”
“Loosen up, I’m impressed. Lloyd hates Valentine’s Day with the kind of fervor turkeys hate Thanksgiving. Is he jealous or something?”
“No, there’s no one for him to be jealous of!”
Jen laughed. “Two floral arrangements in one day? He’s got a bee in his bonnet.”
“This morning he told me he’d covered all the bases. I guess this is what he meant.”
“Really?”
Her tone was intrigued. Now, if anyone came close to hating Valentine’s Day as much as Lloyd, it was Jen. The two were so similar they’d probably been cast from the same mold. The bubbling delight in her tone worried you.
“Yeah. Why? What are you thinking?”
“Well… If I wanted to prove something, I’d go a lot further than just flowers.”
You froze at the door to the fifth floor. “Further? What’s further than flowers?”
Jen cackled, holding the door open on account of your full hands, then turning to head back downstairs to her own office, giggling. You stared after her. She’d figured out what was in store for you, but clearly wasn’t sharing the insight.
Then it started.
A courier delivered a package to your desk at ten-thirty, and you unwrapped a set of pink diamond earrings, with a matching necklace and ring. Before lunch another delivery came. This time there was a package filled with so many chocolates you had to take them down to the paralegal’s room to share. Jen skipped in, grinning ear to ear. You grabbed her by the elbow.
“Did he coordinate this with you?”
“Oh, no. Coordinate would be too strong of a word. But I did call him and suggest the chocolates, including which package he should order. I had a craving, and since he’s in a spending mood…”
“Jen! I have the entire office talking! This is like twelve days of Christmas! I’m worried the next present will be a puppy or something!”
“It’s cute, he’s trying really hard.”
“Is it freaky friday or something? You just said something nice about Lloyd.”
“He bought me chocolate. Well, actually he bought you chocolate, but there’s like ten pounds of chocolate in the room with us, so I’m feeling generous.”
“Your friendship is so easily bought.”
“This chocolate arrangement costs more than your rent, Princess. I might be unscrupulous, but I am not cheap.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It went on like that. At the end of the day you had the bouquet, a set of pink diamond jewelry, enough chocolate to last the year (which you left with the paralegals, after taking a reasonable sized portion to your desk), a voucher for the day at the Waldorf Hotel Spa, and two bags of who-knew-what from a ladies boutique in Georgetown, which you didn’t dare open at work, because you’d bet your new diamond jewelry it was lingerie. Then, at four-thirty there was another knock at your office door.
A young man in a polo shirt stood there, with a visitor’s pass pinned to his front pocket.
“Is this Y/N’s office? I have a delivery.”
“Yes, that’s me. I can sign for it.”
“No need. Here you go.”
His grin revealed a gap toothed smile as he handed over what appeared to be a hat box. You waited until he left to undo the gossamer bow and crack the lid to peak inside. Gasping, you flipped it open, knocking the lid to the ground, and pulled out a large teddy bear. Overwhelmed by the cuteness, you squeezed it to your chest in a tight hug, your eyes misting with tears.
“So, this is the pièce de résistance of my Valentine’s Day campaign?”
Lloyd’s voice sounded from the door.
You looked up from the bear and rubbed your cheek against its soft head. He was grinning, enjoying your reaction, though the rest of his expression was confused.
“My Dad gets my Mom a new teddy bear for Valentine’s Day every year. She has a collection of like thirty at this point. He even built her a shelf to display them.”
The confusion in his eyes softened into delight as he watched you cuddle the bear.
“Well, I guess we’ve just started your collection.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The lesson for Lloyd on his first Valentine’s Day was that Jen could be bought.
She’d made it clear her generosity was only due to his extreme efforts to make this a special day for Princess. He’d only had to upgrade the quantity of chocolate on his order, and then Jen came through with a win, divulging the secret of your parent’s teddy bear tradition. He couldn’t wrap his head around how thousands of dollars in lavish gifts could be upstaged by a fifty dollar stuffed animal, but who was he to question the sanctity of a family tradition?
Women were strange creatures, and Valentine’s Day enhanced their peculiarities in the most unexpected ways.
Perhaps he could renew this tenuous alliance with Jen next February.
- - -
The End
- - -
Masterlist
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1863-project · 7 months
Text
Okay, was thinking about it and I remembered a lot of you were very young or not even alive for this, so:
When 9/11 happened I was 12 and had just started 7th grade. I grew up in a suburb of New York City. 12 people from my town died, including a firefighter whose son was in my younger brother's CCD group.
Things changed SO fast. Practically overnight. Suddenly, we were all hypervigilant, and after the immediate response of assistance from around the world, the prejudice was oozing from nearly everywhere. In northern New Jersey, we had and still have a large west (Middle East) and south Asian population. They were hit the hardest.
People freaked out just because a mosque was going to be built in lower Manhattan within several blocks of Ground Zero at one point. It was ridiculous and the Islamophobia was so fucking awful and infuriating. It still is. It didn't go away. For the most part, New Yorkers are usually good to each other because there's literally someone from everywhere here, but this was legitimately terrifying. People would even attack Sikhs - who weren't Muslim, Sikhism is its own thing - because they saw the turbans and made a decision based on racism (i.e. bin Laden had a turban so these people must be like him).
The "patriotism" was miserable. "Freedom fries" happened because people were mad that France didn't want to go into Iraq with Bush in 2003. We all thought it was stupid then too.
The Chicks (formerly known as the Dixie Chicks) got blackballed because they came out against said war. They were one of the biggest country acts in the world at the time. In general, country music went through a massive tonal shift post-9/11 and became far more "patriotic" and conservative. Johnny Cash wouldn't have recognized it.
The Flash movies that inevitably popped up satirizing politics were...something. You can find most of them archived on YouTube these days. But that was how the internet tended to cope back then.
The shift from happiness to paranoia was so fucking fast. I went from a world where my biggest concern was pre-ordering the GameCube to being worried about politics and death all the time. All the news showed was footage of people dying for weeks. Politicians started using the footage in commercials. You just had to keep reliving the trauma of it over and over again. I stopped watching the news.
It was, looking back on it, a huge galvanizing point for the American right. Politicians started using 9/11 to justify so many things. This was where I began to see as a young teenager that you could use people's prejudices to get a grip on power and get what you wanted. I didn't like it.
People started drawing memorial art almost immediately. The phenomenon of memorial art being done decades later with cartoon characters still persists on deviantART to this day, but when it started, it was mostly people doing vent art because it's really upsetting to be a kid and see death on that scale on the news.
It took me 15 years to go back to the site after 9/11. I'd been as a kid in 1997 and I went up in the South Tower with my family. I didn't set foot there again until 2016, 15 years after the attacks. I found the name of the firefighter whose son was in my brother's CCD class. It was surreal.
This chapter of American history arguably closed for many people in 2011, when bin Laden was killed in a raid. I remember watching the Mets play the Phillies that night. Daniel Murphy, who I'd named a cat after two years earlier, was at bat, and suddenly the crowd started chanting "USA." I used my Blackberry to check the news and that was how I found out. I was a senior in college, about to graduate. I don't even remember how I felt, just that the way I found out was so fucking weird.
It was a really stressful, bizarre climate to grow up in. In the time between my 12th and my 22nd birthday, I saw my entire world get turned upside down overnight, massive waves of prejudice, unnecessary wars that killed even more innocent people, literal war crimes (tw: rape, murder, prisoner torture, every other bad thing you can think of under the sun), and the rise of false patriotism and nationalism, which you can still see the right wing harnessing today.
If you're going to mock something here, mock the false patriotism. Mock "Freedom Fries." Mock George W. Bush. Just...don't mock the actual moments where people died. Too many innocent people died from the attacks themselves, the Islamophobia afterwards, and the wars that followed. That shit isn't funny.
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gumnut-logic · 1 month
Text
Óen (Part 7)
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Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7
Thunderbirds Are Go and HTTYD crossover.
I finally managed to write some more of this. A scene popped into my head and here we are :D Plotline is evolving and I'm feeling more positive.
Many thanks to @onereyofstarlight and @idontknowreallywhy for the read throughs and support :D And to all those who dare to join me in this insanity.
Have a little Virg and Hiccup. I hope you enjoy.
-o-o-o-
Virgil had a huge dragon.
She was a shifting iridescent green, red and gold, and taller at the shoulder than Hiccup standing twice over and all muscle. Toothless appeared tiny beside her, even Óen was dwarfed.
A massive single horn arched out of her snout, while two more branched into a giant V over her head. Her neck and shoulders were protected by plates of glistening armour.
She glittered as she moved.
They were standing on a high cliff above the sea to the east of the settlement. Virgil claimed that a glide off a high point would be much kinder to Toothless’ wings than a launch from flat ground.
Hiccup agreed, so they had slogged all the way up here immediately after breakfast.
The wind was bitterly cold…but that was nothing new.
“Can I?” Hiccup held up a hand, gesturing for permission to reach out to the large dragon.
Virgil arched an eyebrow. “Dá is strong, but she’s gentle.” A small smirk. “She loves a scratch under her chin.”
The smith was securing an intricate saddle, lined with contraptions that fascinated Hiccup almost as much as the dragon it was strapped to.
But Dá was eyeing Hiccup and he had to respond.
He approached carefully, arm partly outstretched, hand open.
Golden eyes followed his every move.
Toothless warbled at the behemoth and Dá snuffled back, rolling her shoulders, much to protest from Virgil. “Hold still, there, lovely. Toothpick is harmless.”
Oh, great, he was never going to live that one down.
Hiccup took another step closer and offered his hand.
A deep rumble and smooth horn touch his palm.
Hiccup opened eyes he hadn’t realised he had closed to find those golden eyes adoring him.
Toothless rolled his eyes and grumbled.
Tentatively, Hiccup let his fingers slide across her snout and down under her chin. A gentle rub and the great dragon started purring.
Like distant thunder.
“She likes you.” Virgil stood next to her, watching Hiccup’s ministrations.
“She’s beautiful.”
“Aye, she is, and she knows it.” Virgil reached in between her first two plates of armour and did something that set her thunder crackling. One of her back legs started pawing at the ground. “She would sit here all day being admired and petted if she could. Wouldn’t you, lovely?”
That earned both of them a huff with enough warm breath to flap Hiccup’s jacket.
“Yes, yes, I know you want to fly, but I have to check on our patient first.” He retrieved his hand and turned to Toothless. “Now, young one, let’s check those wings of yours.”
To Hiccup’s surprise, Toothless immediately lifted and unfolded his right wing. The smith examined it, working gentle fingers down the length of the wing bone, testing muscle and movement. “You’ve rested well overnight.” He turned to Toothless’ left wing and did the same. “You are looking better, but you are not to strain yourself today. No aerobatics. You’re not my first night fury patient and Dá and I will intervene if you threaten your health or your rider’s”
“Hey!”
Toothless’ grumble echoed Hiccup’s protest.
Virgil turned to Hiccup. “And that goes for you, too. I will not have any hotshot flyboy actions today. Your dragon is injured and needs care.”
“I would never harm Toothless!”
“Eh, you’re a night fury rider. From my experience, there are tendencies to forget that slow and easy wins the race.” Virgil peered down at him. “Love does not negate stupidity. Don’t do anything stupid or Dá and I will pull you from the sky.”
Hiccup’s eyes narrowed. They could try. They would have to catch Toothless first…
And the thought brought him up short. Toothless was injured.
And Hiccup was stupid.
Virgil was eyeing him. “Are we agreed?”
Hiccup straightened and nodded.
“Good.” Virgil turned back to his dragon. “It will be interesting to see your prosthetics in action. I’m impressed with their design.”
“You are?” The words fell from Hiccup’s mouth without thought.
The smith turned back to look at him. “Of course, the work is excellent. Your’s, I presume?”
Hiccup nodded.
“I thought so. Hiram will want to speak to you.”
“Hiram?”
But Virgil had climbed aboard Dá and was securing himself with safety lines to his thick wide belt. The belt was a green that echoed Dá’s brilliance. The smith had swapped out his loose red shirt for what he called flying leathers. A mix of blues and green, similar to those Scott had been wearing when he saved them the day before.
Virgil also had a helmet like the Flaith, but his hinged at his temple and he had it open, flipped above his brow. Green was slicked down its sides.
He patted Da and the great dragon turned towards the cliff edge.
Toothless growled and butted Hiccup…who had frozen in thought, apparently. “Alright, alright, don’t burn your tonsils.”
It was Toothless’ turn to huff.
Hiccup ignored him and climbed onto his shoulders, securing himself. “You ready, bud.”
The dragon scoffed and trotted the both of them to stand beside Virgil and Da.
“I will go first. You follow slowly and carefully.” Virgil looked down at Toothless. “Coic will be watching, young one.”
Toothless barked up at the smith, but Virgil slammed his helmet closed, Da let off a roar, and they launched effortlessly off the cliff.
Toothless spread his wings. “Okay, bud, take it easy.” He patted his friend’s black scales.
The night fury snorted and grumbled, but trotted off the edge into the sky.
And the wind caught them.
It was like letting out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding.
Black wings sailed them in a gentle curve upwards, recovering from their initial dip and catching the winds pushing up the steep rock.
Oh, yes, it had only been a day, but a day of worry and strangeness and here they were together again, flying.
“Keep it simple. Flat turns. Minimise climbing.” Stern instructions bounced across all the blue. Da’s wings were as vast as her body was massive. Hiccup had no doubt the dragon could grab or lift anything she felt like. The pair were circling Hiccup and Toothless at a respectable distance - enough to give them room to manoeuvre but close enough to use those massive dragon muscles should they need to.
But there was no need. Toothless behaved himself and soon they were gliding above the ocean with smooth and gentle strokes, far slower than their usual pace, but still flying.
The ocean blurred beyond the roar in his ears and the chill of the sky welcomed them.
After their meeting of diplomatic words yesterday, Virgil had excused both Hiccup and Toothless on health grounds bringing the virtual game of maces and talons to a close.
These people were on a mission. They were not relaxed. There was no ale beside the evening fire. There was drink, yes, but no stories or song. the evening had been tense with worry. There was something being unsaid in Hiccup’s presence. He could feel it.
Surprisingly, he didn’t feel threatened. Whatever had the village on edge, it wasn’t Hiccup or Toothless - that was unusual in their experience, a night fury tended to put the average person more over the cliff than on edge.
None of the brothers showed any animosity towards Hiccup or Toothless. In fact, they treated them as welcome guests.
And yes, they were brothers, Scott, Virgil, the mysterious John, and Alan admitted to the relationship. There was even mention of a fifth brother who did not make an appearance last night.
The food was plain, but the company was welcoming and kind. Even Virgil’s stern words appeared to come from a perspective of caring about Hiccup and Toothless rather than any threat.
It was becoming easier to trust these people.
Alan had kept Hiccup company for most of the night. He chattered a lot, mostly about dragons. He was fascinated with Toothless, but admitted that Scott had yet to allow him a dragon of his own. That was followed by blatant sibling complaints despite the fact he obviously idolised the Flaith, Oen, John and Coic…and yes, Alan was very talkative.
Hiccup was grateful for it. While there was enthusiasm, Alan was not clueless. They talked about navigation, how high a dragon could fly and, of all things, mathematics.
There was a possibility that the two of them could become friends - a rare and precious find for Hiccup.
But first there were the politics of the situation.
Hiccup sighed.
Toothless warbled a query.
“It’s okay, bud, just stuff.” Focus. “You feeling okay?”
His dragon warbled a positive.
“Shall we scoot a little closer to Dá? I want some answers.”
Toothless snorted, but between him and Hiccup’s control, they darted sideways, swooping easily into a parallel flight path with the green dragon.
That helmeted head tilted slightly in their direction. “You’re doing well.”
Hiccup dipped his head in acknowledgement.
He swallowed. “Virgil, what is the Commitment?” Alan had mentioned the term several times last night. Something to do with dragons and an oath. But while Alan could talk the winter coat off a yak’s rear end, he was obviously not dumb and changed the topic each time Hiccup asked the question.
He didn’t know whether it was a secret or Alan just didn’t want to talk about it.
So Hiccup asked Virgil.
The smith didn’t immediately answer and for a moment Hiccup thought he was going to be ignored. But then…
“The fight for life. The effort to save what the gods attempt to take, human, dragon, whatever. Our family has drawn a line and chose to fight to save those we can.”
Hiccup blinked. “Why?”
“Why not? So much is taken without protest, some given at the whim of a weapon of war. We have chosen to battle against the loss, to prevent, to save what we can.”
“With dragons?”
“With or without.”
“And Cóic?”
“Cóic is our matriarch.”
“Matriarch?”
“That is all you need to know.” A pause. “It is time to return.  We will fly again tonight.” He patted Dá’s side and the great dragon banked away from the conversation.
Obvious avoidance.
Hiccup sighed as he clicked his foot into the right configuration to let Toothless follow the pair. No wonder Dad was grumpy after diplomatic meetings.
The thought of his father brought him up short. Hiccup hadn’t even managed to work out how far he was away from Berk, yet. His father was likely beside himself with worry and driving everyone insane with it.
Astrid…
The Isle swelled below them, Dá landing smoothly on the Arctic thin grass far beneath them.
Toothless spiralled down into a landing with a determined Viking on his back.
Hiccup needed some answers.
Now.
-o-o-o-
TBC
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