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humanityinahandbag · 11 months

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Steddie: Wayne the Matchmaker (Part 1?)

Wayne wasn't born yesterday.

He knows full well that his nephew, his boy, is far gone for the Harrington kid. Knows it in the way he sighs, the way he drapes himself over the couch. Knows it in the way lyrics pour out of Eddie's room while he tries to write songs (just last Tuesday he heard Eddie muttering goddammit what rhymes with chest hair from behind his bedroom door).

So it isn't much of a surprise to see Eddie swooning quietly by the front door as he shoves his feet into ratty sneakers, a red car waiting in the driveway. Government hush money had been enough for Wayne to take less shifts, to put some away for Eddie's future, and to buy a modest one floor ranch house on a tree lined street closer to his boy's new friends.

Including the one currently walking carefully around the newly planted posies towards the front door.

"You seein' that Harrington boy again?" he asks.

Eddie's face went pink, and he ducked down pretending to look through his backpack for something. "Yeah," he says behind a curtain of hair. "We're going to the movies."

"S'nice. What are you seein'?"

"Uh, the new David Bowie thing. Labyrinth."

Wayne ignores how Eddie phrases it, like he hadn't been bouncing off the walls to see that little David Bowie Thing when the posters first showed up outside Melvalds. "Doesn't much seem his taste. He choose it?"

"Yeah, he-" Eddie stops and looks up. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't do that," Eddie says, fixing his Uncle with a frosty stare. "I know what you're doing, and we're just- we're friends. He's- he likes his ex. You should see them, honestly. They're like, perfect together. Dream couple." As if Wayne didn't hear the sorrow behind his tone.

"Mmmhm," says Wayne. "You sure?"

Eddie didn't get a chance to rebuttal when the door was knocked. Wayne opens it before he could.

"Hi, sir." Always polite this one. Steve's wearing a polo shirt and light wash jeans. It all looks newly pressed. And if he breathes in- yup. That's definitely cologne. "Uh, I'm here for Eddie?"

"Yeah, he's here. You wanna come in-"

"He doesn't." Eddie pops out from behind the door, glaring over his shoulder at Wayne. "C'mon, Stevie! We'll miss the previews!"

"Bye, Mr. Munson!" Steve calls over his shoulder. He grabs Eddie by the back of the collar, tugging him backwards, laughing and racing him to the car.

And well. This just wouldn't do.

Wayne never pretended to know a whole lot about love. He'd had his flings back in the day, but life had given him more curveballs than he'd been able to catch at once.

Not that he was complaining. Eddie was one of the best things that had ever happened to him.

But dammit if he didn't want the kid falling down the same hole he had.

Eddie deserves love. And Wayne figures that a few gentle nudges wouldn't hurt.

It starts with simple suggestion.

The next time Steve is at the front door, Wayne makes sure to distract Eddie with a well timed, "fix your hair," that had him scrambling for the bathroom, leaving Wayne alone with the Harrington boy.

"Steve," he says.

"Mr. Munson! Nice to see you. Um, we're just going to the arcade-"

"He likes sticky hands."

Steve blinks. "Sorry?"

"If you're gonna win him anything, get him one'a those sticky hands. It'll be hell on me, but he loves'm."

Steve nods, like it was precious information, perking up when Eddie breaks out of the bathroom.

When they get back, Eddie is considerably pinker, slapping everything around the house with a stupid pink sticky hand on a string.

"Steve won it for me," he says, as if daring Wayne to take it away.

Wayne only cracks another beer.

(He tells himself over and over that this is for the pursuit of love, even when he wants to shove Eddie out a window the fourth time a very sticky hand thwacks him on the back of his bald head.)

"He likes sunflowers," Wayne says the next time he sees Steve, which just so happens to be a week before graduation. Steve had arrived with a cake. A cake he baked. From scratch. Eddie had run to get his camera to take a picture and that was when Wayne got his chance.

Steve looks up at Wayne owlishly. "Sorry?"

"Sunflowers," Wayne repeats. "If you get him flowers for graduation, that's what he likes."

Steve nods seriously, brow drawn in thought. "Cool," he says finally. "Sunflowers."

Eddie gets sunflowers for graduation. He presses one of the petals between the pages of The Hobbit.

"Still think he's just a friend?" Wayne asks from the doorway.

Eddie traces the petal and closes the book. "It's enough," he says.

Wayne gives his nephew a long look. "You're allowed to like him."

"I know."

"No. You're allowed to like him," Wayne says again. "Like him like you like him."

Eddie stares at the petal. "I know," he says. And then; "I love him."

"I know," says Wayne and bundles Eddie into a hug.

Wayne gets to a point where he could gnaw through the walls of their new home, which he won't do, because Claudia Henderson chose the wallpaper and chewing on furniture is mostly frowned upon. But by god does he want to.

Wherever Eddie is, Steve follows. He appears at their front door to take Eddie on hikes. When he heard Eddie never learned to swim, he takes him to the quarry and Eddie comes back damp and flushed and Wayne guesses it has something to do with the shirtless boy in the driveway.

And yet through it all, Eddie doesn't see.

He doesn't see the long looks or the careful touches. Doesn't grasp the meaning behind Steve appearing one night with a bag of groceries and a smile and an announcement of I'm cooking you dinner! before making the best damn lasagne Wayne's ever had.

Instead, Eddie fawns and sighs and does everything he can to make Steve happy. Dotes and compliments and builds him up until Steve is red and spluttering and beaming.

Eddie is a good boy. Wayne raised a good boy, who loves fiercely and wholly, but somehow didn't think he was worth the same trouble.

And. Well. That just wouldn't do.

Wayne wants time to come up with some kind of a plan, but fate was a sporadic fucking asshole and chose for him. Which is how Wayne finds himself answering the phone on a Thursday to hear Steve's voice on the other line.

"Mr. Munson?"

"Steve. Eddie ain't home. He's at band practice."

"Oh," Steve says. "Right, uh. Can you tell him that I called?"

Wayne thinks a moment. "I can," he says, slowly. "But first, I'd like to talk to you."

A long pause. He can practically hear Steve sweating on the other line. "Me?"

"You," says Wayne. "S'only that you've been here an awful lot lately. Eddie's taken a real shine to you. You know that?"

"He's one of my closest friends, Mr. Munson."

"Mmmhm. An' I'm glad for him. But I don't mean like that."

He hears Steve suck in a breath on the other end. "Oh."

"Not that it's any of my business, an' maybe these old eyes are seein' things, but I catch you lookin' from time to time. Then again, I'm just an' old man-"

"You're not that old," Steve says. "And. Your eyes work great. Probably better than mine."

Good first step. Buttering up the parents.

"So. Just so we're on the same page, Mr. Munson. Eddie told me that you know about him. That he likes. Um. Yunno."

"Men."

"Yeah," says Steve, relieved. "Yeah, men, right. And so I was thinking the other day that I'm a man!"

"So you are," says Wayne.

"And it came to my attention a few months ago that people can like both. Which is- which is crazy. But I guess it's not so crazy. I used to work in an ice cream store and people would order the weirdest combos. Like... strawberry and pistachio? And I'd say, you can't like both! But then Robin told me I could."

"Steve."

"Right. So anyway. I've been spending all this time with Eddie. But I wasn't really sure. I mean, he can like men. But that doesn't mean he'd like my type of man. That I am. Man-wise."

Wayne hums. "And if I told you he did like your type of man? Man wise?"

"I'd probably ask if he liked Italian or Chinese, sir."

Outside Wayne can hear Eddie's van rolling back down the street. "He likes lo mein. No onions."

"Okay," breathes Steve.

"And even if he looks like an angry alley cat, the boy likes romance. You hear me, son? Candles, flowers, showin' up at windows."

"I can do that," says Steve. "I'm great at romance."

Eddie's car rolls into the driveway and Wayne looks out the window, waving to Eddie as he cuts the engine and the music and steps out. His boy stops to carefully step over the flowers first, waving back.

His good boy, who pours love out until he's empty and never complains. He deserves to have it poured back.

"You're welcome anytime, Steve," says Wayne earnestly. "Anyone who makes my boy as happy as he is- you're welcome anytime."

Eddie walks in as Wayne hangs up. "Who was that?"

Wayne tugs him into a hug. "No one," he says. And then, "go shower. You smell like Gareth's garage."

"Like a goddamn rockstar, you mean?" Eddie ducks away from a swat and laughs, running down the hall.

Like a kid in love, Wayne thinks, and turns on the game.

With ao3 being down (pour one out, I'm donating my life savings once they're back up) I got feral enough to write a one shot on here. I can't update my other Wayne Matchmaker fic. So. Yunno. This will have to do for now.

Does this need a part 2? You tell me.

LONGER, EDITED VERSION NOW ON AO3!

(IF I POST A PART 2 IT WILL BE THERE :D)

#steddie #steddie fanfic #steddie oneshot #boys in love #eddie munson #steve henderson #uncle wayne #wayne munson #good uncle wayne #eddie munson the gremlin #pour one out for ao3 #we miss you #we'll never take you for granted again #my god i'm feral #sticky hands

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jester-lover · 5 months

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Congrats for the 450 :)

May I request Idia x reader, in which Idia confesses his feelings for the reader and maybe some of the crushing process?

Fluff ❤️

Thank you anon! I couldn’t have gotten here without your support! Also, thank you for reminding me how much I love shy guys like Idia.

First of all, Idia is terrible at reading signals. You could be sitting on his lap hand feeding him grapes like a Roman emperor, and he’ll still assume it’s just a ‘friendly’ action. He is so deep in his pit of self loathing, that he thinks you’re incomprehensibly out of his league.

🫐 Idia would only ask you out with help from his brother, who would go along and survey you about your desired traits in a partner. He would then make several attempts to invite you to his room when you’re done with whatever tasks you have for the day.

🫐 While he had a whole complicated speech planned out, his courage falters when he sees you. Idia stumbles over his planned words as he hands you a bowl of carefully plucked pomegranate seeds.

“I hope-um- if you have the time-maybe we could watch a movie together?”

#you will take the ‘Idia offers pomegranates to his lover’ trope out of my COLD DEAD HANDS #reader insert #fanfic #fanfiction #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #headcanons #twisted wonderland #twst #idia shroud x reader #idia shroud #twst idia

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factorialsotherfandoms · 7 months

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"Do you think Philza's okay?"

Fit rolls over to look at Pac, his roommate staring up at the ceiling. He reaches over, cautiously offering his hand. Pac, of course, takes it just as hesitantly.

"Cell's back, maybe after you, and you're worried about Phil?" Okay, so Fit is worried too, but his point is well made. Pac had only told him some of the situation, in whispered tones and terrified whimpers a few hours ago, and he was worrying about someone who was at least safe?

Pac turns his head, and looks Fit dead in the eye. "You're with me. I know you won't let anyone hurt me. But who's with him?"

"He's safe enough," Fit says. "Physically at least."

"He just didn't seem, ah," Pac struggles with his words for a moment. "Well?"

"It's not really my place to say," he replies. "But he's Philza. He'll be fine."

"Will he?" Pac asks, fretting already. "If the Federation is inside his head, making him see things..."

It's a worry Fit has too, one he really doesn't want to think about. He wants to pretend that his old friend is fine, that going and murdering blazes and magma cubes will have fixed everything. He needs to believe it, because the alternative... The alternative is there's nothing he can do.

"Do you really believe him?" Pac asks. "That there was a book there."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Fit sighs, and sits up. He turns on the lamp and stretches, looking around his room of missing texture flooring and ugly walls - the safest place he could think to bring Pac when he heard the news.

"It's not the first time," Fit says. "Phil... He swears it was a dream, that he was just sleeping. He wasn't. Tubbo and me? We checked every corner of his house. He wasn't there. Then he takes us to where he thought he was taken and he swears there's nothing weird about it? But it's full of parrots - they shouldn't have spawned there. Tubbo even found an avocado sapling."

"Philza has a lot of avocados," Pac agrees. "You think the Federation took him?"

"I'm not sure, it's not their usual behaviour," Fit frowns. "But I don't know who else it would be?"

"The codes?"

"Maybe." Fit cracks his head to the side. "But I know Phil. Whatever he saw? It terrified him. And anything that scares Philza Minecraft is nothing you ever want to see."

"Should we ask him if we can visit?" Pac has a calculating look on his face. "I can cry scared all over again, I just need to remember why. And his bunker is very safe. They might look for me in your house, but they'd never think of his."

"Why? Is my company not good enough for you?" Fit is mostly teasing.

Mostly.

"No! No, no, no," Pac waves his hands in a desperate attempt to be understood. "I just... I'm worried, you know?"

"Yeah..." Fit sighs. "Yeah, I'm worried too... I'll ask him."

Pac nods, and Fit types.

You whisper to Ph1LzA: Can I bring Pac over? We might need to stay the night.

Ph1LzA whispers to you: sure mate

Ph1LzA whispers to you: is everything okay?

You whisper to Ph1LzA: We'll explain when we get there

That's the end of that; Fit shows his communicator to Pac, who agrees.

"I'm not really faking the tears," Pac promises, already tearing up. "I just don't think about it, and then it isn't real."

Pac's not the only one acting like that, Fit presumes; Philza's constant denials even with evidence in front of him... Whatever the fuck happened in that forest, it's nothing good. Something so terrible believing his memory is at fault is somehow better.

"To Phil and Missa," Fit reminds Pac, not really needing it.

They warp together, and at the same time.

---

Philza is waiting at the top of the hatch when the pair arrive. To most people he would look entirely normal, but Fit can see the way his eyes flitter as he waves. Pac waves back, while Fit gives his traditional "oi!!!"

Philza laughs, and leads them down into the basement.

"What's up?" he asks the two of them. "Need more toast or something? I thought you were both asleep."

"No, um," Fit looks to Pac, realising they didn't quite work out what to say.

"Bagi told me more about the murders," is what Pac says, his voice dropping very quiet as he does. "She thinks... We think someone from my past is on the island."

"Shit," Philza closes his eyes for a moment. "How bad is it?"

"Last time I saw him," Pac's pace picks up; Fit squeezes his shoulder as he sees panic come in. "Last time... He nearly killed me. And the messages..." Pac grabs the hand on his shoulder and squeezes it back. "Some of them might be addressed to me."

Philza doesn't ask questions, he just glances around his children's bedroom, then looks at Fit. Fit meets his eyes.

Philza sighs, and caves.

"Alright," he says. "Do you want to sleep in Chayanne's room? I can adjust the door to just the three of us, Missa, and my eggs for now."

Fit knows it isn't for Pac's sake that Philza is changing the doors, he knows it for sure.

They get their beds set up, tucked behind the chests where a casual observer cannot see. Philza doesn't have a bed, but Fit makes them for him and Pac, placing them tucked away.

"Would you stay with us?" Fit asks, before his old friend can slip away.

Philza looks genuinely surprised by the request, "why, mate? I'll just be in the eggs' room."

"Safety in numbers, right?" Pac asks, glancing between the two. "I would... Feel safer if you were here too."

Fit knows its a manipulation tactic to convince Philza to stay, to make sure the old crow is not alone. It still rings so very true - and so very against everything ingrained within Fit's soul.

It's fine. For a few nights he can manage it, if its what his two closest friends need.

"Alright," Philza hesitates, but comes over and sits on the edge of Pac's bed. He takes off his backpack, and leans his scythe just in reach. Pac and Fit take the opportunity to remove their prosthetics, hastily reattached to travel over here, and stretch.

When Philza stands again, both of them can see how unstable he looks.

"Let's push our beds together," Fit says. "If we put Pac between us, there isn't an angle they can get him from."

Philza looks at Fit, and knows exactly what he's doing. Still, Philza crafts up a third bed, and squishes it between the two.

He nearly falls as he walks around to do it; Fit catches him, helps him steady, but is brushed off before he can say a word.

"Alright," Philza says. "Pac in the middle then. You won't get too warm, will you?"

"I'm Brazilian," Pac says. "It's always too cold here now Mike is gone."

They both see how heavily Philza drops to the bed, curling himself back to Pac and defensively ready. Fit, on his side, curls close to Pac - his one arm over him.

It's not really a surprise how quickly Pac falls asleep, with the sheer trauma and strain of the day on his back. He quickly falls into dreams, and Fit can only hope they are kind.

"Phil," he asks, once he knows Pac is asleep. "Won't you sleep?"

"You needed a guard," Philza says.

"You know we don't. You and I? We'll wake if anything so much as tests the hatch."

It's true, and they both know it.

Philza, however, doesn't speak.

At least, not for a long time; Fit considers conversation a lost cause and is about to give up and call this good enough when he hears Philza again, voice broken just like it was in the garden.

"If I sleep, will I wake?" is what Philza asks, whispered almost silently. "How will I know when the world is real again? What will I see this time?"

"I'll make sure you wake up," Fit promises, because he can. "And I'll do something to make you absolutely certain its really me."

"Promise?"

Philza sounds so weak, so small like this. Fit... Fit cannot stand it, not at all. He reaches a little further, and manages to put his hand on Phil's shoulder.

Philza's own hand reaches over, clinging to it.

"I promise," Fit says. "We'll wake you if we leave. We won't let anything weird happen, its just sleep."

Philza turns, and his eyes do not seem to trust Fit. But they are also exhausted, and desperate, and terrified.

"Go to sleep, Phil. I won't until you do."

"I'm sorry," Philza whispers, sounding absolutely broken. "Thank you. Both of you. I know... I'm sorry."

Fit squeezes his shoulder again.

"It'll be alright," Fit replies. "I've got you. I've got both of you. It's going to be okay."

Nothing else is said before they eventually fall asleep.

#qsmp fanfic #qsmp philza #qsmp fit #qsmp pac #this is what I actually wanted to write today but working out the stuff with Bagi as well was hard #coping mechanism: worry about someone else instead of yourself #none of them are okay and they all need a hug #they got one in canon!#this is some more #and now my hands are completely dead #fuck three minifics in a day ow #brain really is just on nyoom today #it will not shut up #ao3 might take a bit see hand complaints #i'd like to get it up before bed but we'll see if I can handle the mouse #else it'll be... sometime tomorrow I have meetings

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mikkomeeches · 4 months

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my physical copies of Dirty Laundry came in!! i’m absolutely in love with it. def not 100% perfect, but i’m just so happy that i get to hold this story in my hands for the first time. (it’s hard cover with a jacket if anyone’s wondering :) )

(all credit goes to Gibslythe))

NOTE: i am NOT selling this!! feel free to ask on how to make you’re own fanfic, but please don’t ask to buy these copies lmao. this is only for personal use because the author does not want this story to be distributed. 100% going to respect that. (i have two bcus they’re for me n my friend)

( also had to include The Secret Life of Bees)) iykyk 🤧

thank you and goodnight. 🙇‍♀️

#lance mcclain #vld lance #vld keith #vld klance #vld #keith kogane #voltron #klance #dirty laundry #i CRIED when i held it in my hands for the first time #NOT MY STORY I AM TAKING NO CREDIT FOR THIS STORY #voltron legendary defender #stand by me #fanfic #SO DARLING DARLING STAAANDDD BY MEE OHHHHHH STAND BY ME #keith gyeong #lance sanchez #klance dirty laundry

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the-lonelybarricade · 3 months

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Take My Hand, Wreck My Plans - Chapter 3

Summary: Fresh after her third, and final, breakup with Tamlin, Feyre decides a one night stand is exactly what she needs to get him out of her system. Except, her one night stand with a violet-eyed stranger ends up being far more than she bargained for.

Or; the one where Feysand gets pregnant from a one night stand

Read on AO3 ・Masterlist・Previous Chapter

“So—you still haven’t told him.”

Feyre kept her eyes held wide, careful to avoid stabbing them with her mascara wand, as she flitted her pupils to the corner of the vanity mirror and met her roommate’s disapproving stare.

Alis was leaning against the open doorway, arms crossed. Some evenings she neglected to leave the stern teacher role in her classroom, and over the last two weeks Feyre had begun to feel increasingly like one of her misbehaving students.

“There hasn’t been a good time,” Feyre said, returning to the delicate task of swiping the wand over her eyelashes.

“Mmhmm.”

Feyre grip tightened on the tube of mascara. A slew of defensive words rushed to the back of her tongue, but she held them, enduring another of Alis’s incredulous hums as she stepped into the room. She wasn’t one of Alis’s guilty students and she wasn’t going to act like one, even as Alis began surveying the diamond-studded hairpins Feyre had spent the better part of the morning arranging, the dissected makeup bag that hadn’t been touched in weeks, the elegant dress laid on the bed.

That was where Alis ended her inspection. The midnight gown was still in its protective casing from the dry cleaners, a new addition to Feyre’s closet. Alis pulled at it, and the plastic hissed as it slid over the bed—as if warning, begging Alis not to venture any further.

“And the art show this evening hasn’t had any influence on your decision?”

Feyre capped the mascara and whirled to face Alis, who held up the dress the way a lawyer might present a piece of incriminating evidence in court. Both the dress and the art show were a gift from Tamlin—an apology and a peace offering in one. It was his way of showing that he was ready to take her art career more seriously. Or at least, that was what he’d told her at the cafe, when she’d suddenly lost all nerve to tell him the truth.

“I’m not using him for the art show, if that’s what you’re trying to imply,” Feyre snapped. “It’s just…” her shoulders slackened. “He was so excited for this, Alis. He’d already paid for the venue and invited his colleagues. I couldn’t tell him no and I couldn’t… I couldn’t stand to start another fight.”

Feyre faced the mirror and it took all her self control not to cringe. The concealer had covered up the worst of the dark circles, but it couldn’t hide the exhaustion glazing over her eyes. Maybe it was all the changes in her body, but recently she’d just felt so… heavy.

With a sigh, Alis dropped the dress back onto the bed and approached Feyre from behind. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Feyre at last saw behind the mask of the stern teacher, to the concerned friend who clasped her on the shoulder and whispered, “I’m worried about you, Feyre.”

“I’m okay,” she said, but her voice scraped along the cusp of breaking. She swore that even her own reflection winced at the lie.

Alis clucked her tongue. “You’re trying to handle all of this by yourself.” When Feyre said nothing, Alis added, almost desperately, “Let us help you. If not me, then someone else.”

Besides Feyre and Alis, there were only two people who knew of her pregnancy. Two people that she had been admittedly avoiding since she’d blurted the truth to them outside the cafe. In a typical Mor fashion, Feyre had been bombarded with texts over the last two weeks, each of them cheerfully dancing around the pea-sized elephant in her stomach.

All but one.

I respect you and my cousin enough not to meddle. This baby stuff is between you and him and no matter what happens, I support you unequivocally. I just want to say one thing, then I promise I’ll never bring it up again:

Rhys is a really good guy, Feyre. You can trust him.

Anyway, you want to grab brunch this weekend? Bottomless virgin mimosas?

Feyre was fairly certain that a virgin mimosa was just orange juice, but it made her heart feel light enough that she’d pulled up Rhysand’s contact details and nearly sent him a message. But once it was typed out, her thumb waivered above the keyboard, and regardless of how hopelessly she willed herself to press send, her body resisted.

She’d only met Rhysand twice now, but each meeting had felt more akin to a collision, knocking her violently off her predetermined path, leaving her unmoored. Unsettled. It was too soon to see him again, when she was still barely keeping afloat the wreckage of their last encounter.

And if—when—she told Tamlin, he would almost certainly take issue with Feyre and Rhysand having any kind of relationship, no matter how platonic. In the long run, it was better to keep him at arm's length. Wasn��t it?

“I have my first midwife appointment tomorrow,” Feyre said, because she thought that might appease Alis enough to let this go. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Alis beamed and squeezed Feyre’s shoulder, hard enough that Feyre had to swallow a yelp, but that was Alis—unrestrained and a little heavy-handed, even in her affection. “I would love that.”

Feyre forced a smile. She’d never liked going to the doctors, and in truth simply making the appointment had been a nerve-wracking experience. There was no bump on her stomach yet, and besides the morning bouts of nausea and the wearing exhaustion, she could almost pretend she was the same Feyre she’d been eight weeks ago.

But an appointment made it real.

Bearing all of that to Alis felt impossible. She wished she could do this alone, so that no one would feel burdened by the weight she was carrying, heavier and heavier each day.

“You know,” Alis said, tone a little too casual. “They might want to know about the baby’s father tomorrow—his medical history, what his involvement will look like. It might be worth reaching out to him to make sure you have those details.”

Fuck.

“Right. Thanks for reminding me. I’ll, uh, try to call him later.”

Alis took enough pity to leave Feyre alone after that. But her words lingered, and Feyre spent the next hour staring blankly at Rhysand’s phone number, the sequence of numbers now so familiar she might have been able to recite them from memory. When she finally willed her thumbs to move, they tapped the letters out slowly, every word foreign. She repeated each sentence back, deleting the one that sounded awkward or clumsy or too inviting.

Hey, she eventually settled with. This is Feyre. I’m having an art show tonight at Brush and Chisel. 8 pm. Would you and Mor like to come?

Feyre hit send before she could think about how absurd it would be to have Rhys and Tamlin in the same room. But there was no taking it back. The message was read almost immediately, and Feyre’s panic set in when a small typing bubble popped up with little hesitation.

Rhysand: Sounds wonderful. We’ll be there.

Feyre: Please don’t say anything to Tamlin about… you know

Rhysand: He doesn’t know?

Feyre: Do you want me to revoke your invitation?

Rhysand: No need—my lips are sealed. Looking forward to seeing you again, Feyre darling.

Feyre: No calling me that, either.

Rhysand: No? What would you like me to call you, then?

It was close enough to the flirting they’d exchanged at Rita’s that Feyre thought he was doing it on purpose. Maybe he was trying to wind her up by forcing her to recall the different things he’d called her that night. Feyre darling… Baby… Good girl. The memory of them was making her cheeks feel warm, a sign she might have made a terrible mistake inviting him.

Feyre: Just call me Feyre.

Rhysand: Is that what your friends call you?

Feyre: I wouldn’t say we’re friends yet.

Rhysand: Well in that case, would you prefer I call you something more formal? Miss Archeron?

Feyre: Feyre is fine.

Rhysand: That she most certainly is.

Feyre groaned and resisted the urge to chuck her phone away. This was the man that Mor vouched for as a really good guy? One who couldn’t even control himself for five minutes?

Feyre: If you can’t behave yourself tonight, then I don’t want you there.

Rhysand: I assure you, I will be on my best behavior.

Somehow, that wasn’t very reassuring to her.

“Are you feeling nervous, Feyre?”

“Hmm?”

Feyre drew her eyes away from the double glass doors that comprised the venue’s entrance. She’d been staring absently at their reflection, but realized that Tamlin was leaning into her, his hand positioned supportively against her back—his touch was searing now that she was aware of it, though she couldn’t say how long it had been placed there.

He smiled, as though her response were answer enough. “I think it’s normal to be nervous. This is a lot more people looking at your art than you’re used to.”

That wasn’t empirically true. Outside of her instagram account—which had enough traction to keep her regularly commissioned—Feyre displayed her art fairly regularly in street art shows on the Rainbow. This was her first time displaying her art in a proper gallery, however, and perhaps two months ago she would have been nervous.

Presently, Feyre’s bandwidth on things to be nervous about was running low. There were only so many fears that could plague her mind at any given time, and occupying most of that real estate was the itty-bitty issue of her pregnancy and the baby daddy she’d so stupidly invited to the art show.

By comparison, what Tamlin’s business associates thought of her art was of trivial concern, particularly when they didn't even bother to speak to her. It was clear, by the firm handshakes and tactical segues into business deals, that most of the people in attendance were here to impress Tamlin.

“But hey,” Tamlin said, gliding his hand across her back until she was completely folded into his arm. “Hart was just telling me how much he loved that mountain piece. I think he might make an offer.”

Before she’d tuned out of the conversation, Hart had also been telling Tamlin how keen he was to get his investment proposal signed off. Conveniently, the mountain piece was also the only one in eyesight, and Feyre felt more like a corporate gift basket than a respectable artist.

Feyre didn’t say that, though. She smiled and said, “I love that piece.”

Tamlin hummed, as if he agreed. “Why don’t we go get a drink to calm your nerves?”

“Oh, no. I’m okay—”

“Come on, we’re celebrating!” Tamlin used his arm to urge her forward, guiding them both towards the open bar near the front entrance.

The bar was strategically placed, Tamlin claimed, because people were more likely to make impulsive purchases with a drink in their hand. Feyre couldn’t fault his logic, though she’d prefer for her art to be sold of its own merit and not because the buyer was drunk and trying to impress his boss.

“Really Tamlin. I’m not in the mood to drink.”

“You’re so tense, Feyre. A drink will help.”

Across the room, Feyre met eyes with Alis, who quirked a black brow when she saw where the two of them were headed. She took a step towards them, then stalled, and Feyre thought for a horrific moment that Alis was going to let her get buried alive in this hole she’d dug herself.

“Feyre!” Squealed a familiar voice.

Mor didn’t wait for Tamlin to step out of the way before she became a blur of red and gold, barreling towards her Feyre as if this was the first time they were reuniting in years.

She was squeezing so tight that Feyre’s responding, hi Mor, came out a little breathless.

“Mor,” Tamlin said. He’d taken a step away, either to give them space to reconnect or simply because he didn’t want to risk brushing arms with Mor. “Good to see you again.”

“Tamlin.”

Mor, by virtue of being her college roommate, was once privy to every fight and minor frustration between Feyre and Tamlin. As a result, she never tried to hide her dislike of Tamlin, nor did he give much effort to do the same in return. A polite cough behind Mor’s back prompted the tall blonde to peel herself away from Feyre and pivot to reveal Rhysand, who was withdrawing his hands from the pockets of his formal black trousers to extend one of them outward. Towards her.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said.

“This is my cousin,” Mor filled in, brown eyes twinkling. “Rhys.”

Tamlin chose that moment to turn to the bar and order two double vodka tonics. Feyre wasn’t sure which struck her with greater panic—how to evade drinking without raising Tamlin’s suspicion, or how to shake Rhysand’s hand without feeling like her whole world was shaking with it.

“Feyre,” she said. Her tongue felt like sandpaper. “It’s good to meet you, too. Thank you for coming.”

Rhys continued holding her hand a beat too long. “Thank you for inviting us. I’ve heard you’re a very talented artist.”

Drinks now in hand, Tamlin shouldered himself back into the conversation, pointedly holding a glass towards Feyre so that she was forced to let go of Rhysand’s hand. She accepted the drink with an exaggerated smile.

“Tamlin,” he said gruffly to Rhys, not extending a hand. He slid a possessive arm around Feyre’s shoulders—a statement that none of them misunderstood. “Feyre’s boyfriend.”

“Well met,” Rhys said cordially. If he was intimidated by Tamlin’s slow and evidently unimpressed assessment, he did an excellent job at hiding it.

Seeing it was her job to play mediator and hostess, Feyre saw her chance to kill two birds with one stone. “Can I get the two of you a drink?”

Mor’s answer was an immediate chirp of, “Wine, please.”

“She means a bottle,” Rhysand clarified.

Feyre laughed. “Oh, I remember. We’ll start with a glass for now, but I assure you there’s plenty more where that came from. What about you… Rhys?”

It was only his name, she told herself. Why did speaking it feel so intimate? She could still feel its shape on her lips from when she’d panted it into his skin, RhysRhysRhys—

Did he remember it too? Is that why he studied her for a moment, eyes turning a shade darker, before he cleared his throat and said, “I’m the designated driver, so it’s going to be sparkling water for me.” He glanced down at the vodka in her hands. “But do me a favor and ask them to put a lime wedge in it? I like to blend in.”

“Sure,” Feyre said, taking a step towards the bar. This was her chance to untangle herself from Tamlin and trade out her vodka for a sparkling water, too.

Or—that was the plan. Until Tamlin decided to follow, grabbing her elbow and seizing the opportunity to whisper in her ear, “He gives me a bad vibe.”

“You just met him,” she whispered back, irritated and not trying to hide it.

“I work in business,” he deflected. “You get good at reading people quickly.”

Feyre resisted the urge to roll her eyes as they came up to the bar. She repeated Rhys and Mor’s orders, noting with frustration that when the drinks were finished, Tamlin was the one who insisted on carrying Rhysand’s. She reminded herself that his fears weren’t unfounded—she had slept with Rhys after all, and she couldn’t deny that there was chemistry between them, even now.

Fortunately Rhys was unruffled, and he accepted the drink from Tamlin with a gracious thank you that really sounded like I’m the bigger man and I know it. Tamlin’s posture went rigid, and Rhys’s lips quirked, all smug satisfaction for getting under her boyfriend’s skin. Gods, what had she been thinking putting them in the same room together?

“Tam!” Lucien called, turning away from a small group of Spring Corp executives midway across the room. He made a gesturing motion with his hand. “Come here, Andras just came up with a brilliant new pitch for the Hybern deal.”

Tamlin pressed his lips together, surveying his present company like he didn’t trust leaving Feyre alone with them. And yet, he decided that was preferable to dragging Feyre along to whatever ad hoc business meeting was taking place at her art show.

“I’ll be just one moment,” he said, pressing a kiss to Feyre’s temple before he joined the group of well dressed men. The reprieve from his surveillance was short lived, however, given that he positioned himself at just the right angle to keep Rhys and Mor in his periphery.

It would have been less mortifying if she didn’t glance over to Rhys and see the way his smile flattened, having observed the same.

“He seems charming,” Rhys said.

“He…” Feyre struggled for an explanation that could possibly justify his behavior. “He’s just a little stressed. He really wants tonight to go well.”

“Funny,” Rhys said, leaning his shoulder closer. She found herself leaning in too, nervous he was about to say something she didn’t want anyone to overhear. “I would think that at an art exhibit, the artist would be the one worried about the night going well.”

“I…” Feyre didn’t know what to say. “I do want tonight to go well.��

Rhys raised his hand, fingers brushing over her white-knuckle grip on the vodka tonic. Heat jolted through her, and she resisted the urge to snap her hand back. Any sudden movement would surely draw Tamlin’s attention.

He pitched his voice into a whisper. “How do you feel it’s going so far?”

That was when his hand slid around the glass, gently easing it from her grip. And before she could summon any protest, or speculate as to why he’d decided to pry her drink away, he smoothly pressed his sparkling water into her vacant palm.

It all happened in the space of a second. Feyre was blinking, still processing what had happened, as Rhys leaned back and took a sip of the vodka tonic with a remarkably straight face. Between the lime wedge and the small, carbonated bubbles, their drinks looked identical. He winked, and she knew that he’d planned it this way. From the moment he’d overheard Tamlin’s order.

Feyre could have slumped in relief, were she not hyper-aware of the jade green eyes on her not ten feet away. She ducked her face into the glass of sparkling water to hide the laughter threatening to burst from her lips—it was the first genuine smile she’d managed all evening. All week, really.

“It’s starting to look up,” she said, once she managed to regain her composure.

She meant it, too, though she wasn’t quite ready to unpack the implications of that. Was she a horrible person, inviting him here? The list of things she was lying to Tamlin about was beginning to feel ever-growing. Insurmountable. Her mood quickly soured as she glanced down at the glass in her hand and realized it was just another deception. Someone had come to bail her out this time, but how long could she keep digging this hole until it buried her alive?

“Good,” Rhys said.

His eyes were dancing with a mirth that didn’t feel touchable any longer. Even if his grin was the infectious, wicked sort. The kind that could persuade a saint to deal with the devil. His gaze flicked over her shoulder, skimming the pieces on the back wall.

He jerked his chin towards the displays. “Which one’s your favorite?”

Feyre turned to consider them, though she already knew the answer. “Guess.”

A challenge. One he looked delighted to accept. As a group, the three of them drifted closer towards the art so that Rhys could study each of them with the intensity of a student expecting to be quizzed on their meaning.

Tamlin didn’t return until they reached the final piece. His expression was tight, though Feyre couldn't tell if that was the result of the conversation with his colleagues, or the fact that Feyre had wandered outside his line of vision. Knowing her boyfriend, it was likely the latter.

“What have I missed?” He asked.

“We’re trying to guess Feyre’s favorite piece.”

It was Mor who answered him, given that her cousin was far too busy studying the landscape before him—a hazy clearing of snow and skeletal trees and nothing else besides a curious pair of wolf-like eyes watching from the shadows.

“Oh, that’s easy,” Tamlin said, pointing two pieces down to a hand scooping incandescent water from a pond. The one she’d titled The Pool of Starlight. “That one’s her favorite.”

Feyre elbowed him for ruining the game. She might have done so more gently, if he’d actually guessed correctly. Tamlin offered her an exasperated look that said, What did I do wrong this time? Her tongue burned with the urge to correct him, but she said nothing, suffering the glance Mor and Rhys exchanged with each other. A shared disappointment of a game ruined, and something more. Something that left embarrassment itching up her neck.

Rhys glanced towards her alleged favorite painting and nodded good naturedly. “I understand why. It’s a beautiful painting, Feyre.”

Again, Tamlin’s arm fell over her shoulders. And he said, “That one’s not for sale.”

“Tam.”

He ignored her, continuing, “Feyre painted it as a gift for our four year anniversary.”

Mor muttered under breath, “Four years my ass.”

Tamlin narrowed his eyes. “Pardon?”

The whole room quieted for a stagnant beat, as Mor contemplated her response. Feyre widened her eyes, trying to silently plead with Mor to let it go. It didn’t matter that in those four years, they’d spent as much time broken up as they had in a relationship. What mattered was surviving the night, the week, the year ahead.

Mor tipped her chin, and as her red lips curled into a flat smirk, Feyre felt her stomach plummet.

“I said—”

A waitress stepped towards them, brandishing a platter full of mini quiches in offering. She was staring at Rhys, expectant. As if he’d been the one to call her over. He offered her a broad smile as he plucked one from the tray and promptly handed it to Mor.

Then he innocently looked towards Feyre and Tamlin. “Quiche?”

The smell of cooked eggs and salmon invaded her senses as the waitress swiveled the tray towards them. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and Feyre tried her best to swallow it as she politely shook her head.

“No thanks,” Tamlin said, his voice flat.

The waitress stepped away, wafting the smell under Feyre’s nose a second time. Nausea lurched violently in her stomach, refusing to be ignored.

Even Tam noticed the look on her face. He leaned towards her with a frown, pressing his palm into her shoulder. “Fey? Are you alright?”

Feyre feared that if she tried to speak, her stomach would upheave itself right then and there. She pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking her head before she turned and dashed for the bathroom.

The gallery became a blur of color and ambient sound. She thought she might have heard her name being called. Guests lobbed curious glances towards her as she brushed past, heels clinking urgently against the smooth concrete. The bathroom door swung open beneath her palms, and she didn’t spare the time to lock it before her knees slammed to the floor in front of the toilet.

She hated this. The puking. The way her eyes watered and her body trembled and the sounds of her retching bounced endlessly off the walls. If anyone was waiting outside, they’d doubtlessly hear it.

Feyre panted as the first wave subsided. She knew that wasn’t the end, could already feel her stomach turning in preparation for the next unforgiving torrent of nausea. Was this how it felt to be at sea, so lost and unsteady, with nothing to anchor her besides the cool press of the filthy bathroom floor?

She hunched as the next onslaught began, grasping onto the porcelain bowl, already imagining the bath she was going to take in disinfectant once she got home. Over the stomach-curdling noise, she heard the bathroom door creak open.

Feyre’s hair was pulled away from her face a moment later.

“It’s okay,” Mor soothed. “I’ve got you.”

She traced a delicate hand along Feyre’s spine, up and down. Feyre shut her eyes as she heaved into the toilet, grateful that it was Mor who had come, and not Tamlin. Or worse—Rhysand.

“It’s like we’re in college again,” Mor teased.

Feyre felt too wrung out to laugh. But when the nausea finally ebbed, she managed a shaky smile over her shoulder. “Usually I was holding your hair back.”

“Glad I get to return the favor.”

The memory ached. Three years wasn’t a long time, comparatively, but the Feyre who’d once sat drunk and giggling in public restrooms with Mor felt like a completely different person to the one she was now. It was more than time that separated them—more than motherhood, too. Back then, she had been so carefree, so full of light. And now…

She was trembling like a newly born fawn trying to rise to her feet. Mor slid a supportive hand beneath her elbow, her other hand still holding Feyre’s hair away from her face as they shuffled towards the sink.

Everything that was once simple now felt like a million steps. Twist the faucet. Pump the soap. Lather her hands… Over her shoulder, Mor watched it all with a pinched expression. She didn’t need to say anything; Feyre could still hear Alis in the back of her mind. I’m worried about you, Feyre.

Noticing she’d been caught, Mor took to coyly searching through her clutch, murmuring, “I think I have a pack of gum somewhere…”

The tap stopped running. Feyre stared at her friend in the mirror, how her blonde brows pinched together as she feigned an intensive search. And then Feyre looked at her own reflection. At her wide eyes, gleaming with unshed tears. And she finally admitted the truth to Mor, to herself.

“I’m scared.”

Mor’s mouth popped open. “Oh, Feyre,” she whispered, pulling her into a bone-crushing hug.

A great, gasping breath shuddered through Feyre, the final resistance before her foundation cracked, and every wall crumbled to dust. The next thing she knew, she was sobbing into her friend’s shoulder while Mor held tight, the only thing keeping her tethered.

Now that she’d let the words loose, she couldn’t stop. “I’m going to be a mom.”

“You are,” Mor whispered, swaying them back and forth. “You’re going to be a great one.”

“I don't know anything about being a parent.”

“No one does. It’s the kind of thing you learn on the job. And you—Feyre, you have always been exceptional at adapting to everything life throws at you. Even this.”

Her lower lip trembled. The question came tumbling out of her, broken and small. “Did I make the right choice?”

“There was no right choice,” Mor said. “There’s just the choice you made, and the one you didn’t.”

Mor leaned back to swipe her thumb along Feyre’s cheek, chasing away the tear tracks and smeared mascara as best she could.

“Though, you know what I think?” Mor’s brown eyes shined under the fluorescents as she held Feyre’s gaze. “I think that one day, you’re going to look back on this moment, and you’re going to be so happy that you decided to become a mom.”

Feyre sniffled, pressing a palm to her stomach as she attempted to imagine a future Feyre who was confident about this choice. Happy. “And Rhys?” She ventured. “Does he really mean it, about wanting to be involved?”

Mor didn’t hesitate, not for one second. “He does.”

Her eyes drifted towards the door. Tamlin and Rhys would be waiting on the other side. She didn’t know whether to laugh or feel mortified by the thought of the two of them together, stewing in hostile silence. If she was lucky, Tamlin had already dismissed this whole ordeal as female dramatics and was entertaining more of his colleagues without paying any mind to her absence.

Luck wasn’t exactly playing in her favor recently. Feyre’s eyes shifted to the hopper windows on the back wall, contemplating if she could squeeze her body through one. “What do you think my chances are of sneaking out?”

Mor followed Feyre’s gaze and pursed her lips, assessing the windows like she were truly calculating the feasibility of such an escape. “I don’t think those windows open all the way.” Her eyes slid coyly back to Feyre. “So… Tamlin—”

“Don’t start.”

She couldn’t handle another lecture about telling him the truth—not now.

But where Alis clicked her tongue and gave disapproving looks, Mor only laughed and patted Feyre on the shoulder. “Fine, fine. Just let me handle this.”

Mor didn’t give her an option to refuse. Which was just as well, because Feyre would have spent the entire night holed up in the bathroom if Mor didn’t pull her by the wrist.

“Wait!” Feyre dug her heels, trying to slow the too fast approach towards the bathroom door. “My makeup—”

“You look beautiful.”

A lie. Feyre looked like a trainwreck in a pretty dress. Not that Mor gave her time to do anything about it as she pushed the door open and announced to the two men standing on the other side, “Feyre has food poisoning. I’m taking her home.”

“I’ll grab our coats,” Rhys said.

At the same moment, Tamlin said, “I’ll take her home.”

He shifted, trying to peer at Feyre where she stood at Mor’s back, but her friend stepped into Tamlin’s line of vision. Her voice was flat. Unyielding. “You’ve been drinking.”

“So what? I’ll call us a cab.”

Feyre took a deep breath and stepped around Mor. “Tam.” Those bright eyes pinned her in place, seeing far too much. She knew it was obvious that she’d been crying, and his jaw tightened as he processed the lie, and the way she silently begged him not to push. Not yet, not here. “I need someone to stay here and make sure the art show isn’t a complete disaster.”

He contemplated this for a moment, a muscle feathering in his jaw as he looked to Mor, then to Rhys. He released a heavy sigh. “I’ll come by once it’s over.”

It was like standing on a frozen lake and watching it crack beneath them.

“Okay,” she whispered.

They both knew what was coming. It had always been precarious, this thing between them. Never simple, never clean.

Mor looped her elbow through Feyre’s. “Come on,” she urged, rushing them towards the front entrance before Tamlin could change his mind.

The stares of Tamlin’s colleagues followed them as they went. Rhys peeled off to collect their coats, allowing Mor and Feyre to make a swift exit into the liberating embrace of Autumn. The cool breeze pressed against her flushed skin, and Feyre drank it greedily, feeling the air cut a path all the way to her lungs. Finally, she could breathe again.

Rhysand emerged a moment later, two coats hanging off his arm. And Mor chose that moment to look up from her phone and say, “Rhys, you go ahead and take Feyre home. The night’s still young for me.”

“Mor!” Feyre whispered, horrified at the prospect of being alone with him. So much for not meddling.

“What?” She asked innocently, though the look she exchanged with Rhys was nothing short of conspiratorial. “Between my wine and Rhys’s vodka, I have the perfect pre-Rita’s buzz.”

Rhys didn’t seem at all surprised by this news, nor did he seem the least bit phased by the prospect of being alone in a car with Feyre. He simply walked Feyre to his car and opened the passenger door. As she slid into the leather seat, he called to Mor, “Do you want me to at least drop you off?”

“No.” The blue light of her phone lit her grin, and she giggled, looking down at the screen as she said, “I have a ride.”

“Emerie?” Rhys asked, raising a brow.

Mor bit her lip, offering no confirmation one way or the other. With a shrug, Rhys shut the passenger door, leaving Feyre briefly alone in his immaculate car, which smelled vaguely of leather and plastic and… and—him. It had been eight weeks, and Feyre still couldn’t get over the way he smelled.

She took a moment to compose herself, to prepare for being alone with him for the full twenty minute drive to her apartment. Whatever further words he exchanged with Mor, she couldn’t hear. But she could see the way he was smiling, and when he glanced at the car over his shoulder, she had a feeling they were talking about her.

Oh god.

The driver's door opened, suctioning all of the air and replacing it with the site of his obscenely handsome face. “Looks like it’s just the two of us, Feyre darling.”

She was majorly fucked.

#Take My Hand Wreck My Plans #feysand #feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhys #Rhysand x Feyre #Feyre x Rhysand

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itsmoonpeaches · 4 months

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Title: Storge

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial

Word count: 1,004

Rating: G

Summary: As the quest concludes and the war ends, Poseidon is left with the truth and the realization that Percy means more to him than he knew.

Also available on ao3.

Camp Half-Blood celebrated. The night sky bloomed with multicolored fireworks. And amid the cacophony, the gods discovered the truth.

At Zeus’s command, Athena had called for a meeting with the whole council to end the war between him and Poseidon. But now Olympus shuddered with war’s echoes once again.

“So much for a swift and crushing victory, eh dad?” sneered Ares. He leaned back on his throne, the ancient stone pressed against the back of his leather trench coat.

“Silence,” Zeus ordered with a scowl. Thunder rumbled above them. “Your role in this has not been forgotten.” His irises swirled with storm clouds. He propped himself up, resting his arms on the circular marble table that the Olympians sat around. “We must decide what to do with Luke Castellan.”

Poseidon watched the proceedings with feigned indifference. He clenched his fists beneath the table and felt the leftover prickle of electricity dance across his fingertips. Even for a god as prominent as he, stopping Zeus’s Master Bolt with his bare hands was a harrowing experience. It was not often that gods held onto another’s symbol of power.

Across from him, Hermes twitched. His face shuttered.

“He is lost to us,” answered Athena with the authoritative tone he always recognized. She looked like that girl who went on the quest with Perseus except she was taller with narrower, more angular features. She had the same dark curls, but never wore her hair down. It was slicked back into a tight knot and accentuated her calculating gray eyes. “He eludes us with the power of his sword, and that puts him under Kronos’s protection. It is inadvisable to deduce where the portals will take him with so little information.”

Zeus frowned.

Athena clicked her tongue. “We must decide what to do with the other one…Poseidon’s spawn. Perseus Jackson.”

Poseidon straightened. The quake inside his chest threatened to release the force he held back. Long Island’s shores were bombarded with waves. “Enough,” he growled. He unclenched his fists. His trident crackled in its sheath attached to his throne.

The council quieted. Athena narrowed her eyes.

Zeus grunted, folding his arms as he glared. “I will not renege on the prize I have awarded the boy if he does not cause a disturbance,” he said. “I refuse to be indebted to a half-blood.” He lifted the Master Bolt. Its energy reverberated from the floors to the Corinthian columns that enclosed them. “He has returned what is mine. For now, we watch him.”

Poseidon thought to relax, but that was before Apollo with his sunny grin and even sunnier disposition, decided to interrupt.

“My Oracle spoke,” Apollo started with a singsong tune that grated on Poseidon’s nerves. “This may be the Prophecy. We must prepare soon.”

Poseidon sucked in a steadying breath. A new squall formed near Australia’s Shipwreck Coast.

Artemis rolled her eyes. “Not everything needs to be said in haiku, brother,” she admonished. The silver in her hair gleamed like the moon.

Poseidon sighed. The tension in his shoulders never lessened. “Perseus is not yet sixteen,” he said. “Leave him be.”

“We will get nothing done talking in circles. I have duties to attend to,” Zeus added. He nodded to Athena. “Finish this.”

The meeting adjourned. The gods flashed away, vanishing to tend to their domains. But Poseidon lingered. He had not moved. He stared at a pearl he rolled in his palm.

“Do you ever dream about mom?”

His son’s voice rushed into his head like an endless current. Perseus’s eyes were so much like his own, so much more than he had imagined. Poseidon had not answered his question. He had not forgotten.

He clutched the pearl tight and stood, trident in hand.

“He is your weakness, the boy.” Someone disrupted the silence.

Poseidon turned.

Athena observed him from the pathway that led to the rest of Olympus’s sprawling city. “If you are not careful, he will become a liability to you.”

He inclined his head. “What's this?” he asked with a sardonic smirk. “The goddess of wisdom and battle strategy giving me advice?”

“It is simply an observation.”

“An observation I do not crave.”

Athena scoffed. “You surrendered for him,” she replied. “You lost the war for that boy. He is nothing more than a blip in our eternity. What will happen in the future when there is more at stake? What will you choose, your son or the Fifth Age?”

He parted his lips, but no answer came. Athena departed down the path. He was alone.

He walked to the edge of the council room, intent on watching what remained of the fireworks below. Even from here, he could see them. If he concentrated, he could hear the laughter of the demigods and smell their offerings scraped into the bonfire. Most of them did not know what had transpired yet.

He only wished Perseus was spared betrayal.

The hearth that occupied the edge of the room snapped. Out of the warmth appeared the form of a little girl in drab robes.

“Hestia,” he said with a slight bow. “I am sorry to disturb you. I will soon depart.”

“You are lost,” she remarked. She always sounded so much younger than she was. “You are thinking of him…of your family.”

“You are my family,” he countered.

She smiled and offered her right hand. “Take my hand.”

With caution, he took it.

As soon as they touched, images flooded his mind. He saw Sally Jackson. She pressed her forehead to their son’s. The sunlight dappled the rivulets of her hair and brightened Perseus’s blue eyes.

He saw Perseus in his cabin at camp, running his fingers along the water in the fountain, a pensive look on his face. On his neck, he wore a new bead on the necklace Chiron had given him. Painted against black was a delicate sea-green trident.

When Poseidon remembered himself, Hestia was gone. The visions tucked away inside him.

“Yes,” he whispered into nothing. “I do dream of you.”

#pjo #pjo tv show #pjo tv show spoilers #poseidon #percy #sally jackson #percy jackson #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson and the olympians #itsmoonpeaches fanfic #flash fiction friday #fff238 #take my hand #pjo series #posally

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sulfies · 2 months

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this been in my doc for a while decided to just put it here, Its a bit edgy lol and tbh Im just not that into this kind of dynamic to build upon it. I don't even know what I did w Desmond in my head the apple kinda put him in this restart/reboot stage where it will take a while for him to come back (if he ever does). also didn't rlly re-read or edit this so probably there are some typos :D enjoyyy I wont ever finish it

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“You cannot keep him here Ezio!”

“And where else? Don't suggest jail because I already told you he is of no danger to us!”

A Hand slammed on the table “How would you know! He has only been here for a week, It is not hard to keep up an act of mental handicap that long!”

“Machiavelli! Are you crazy-”

The door muffling the conversation slammed open with a boom of voices “Crazy?! The only crazy ones here is him and YOU for not getting rid of him, Ezio!”

The shouting figure pointed at him.

Desmond blinked slowly from where he was sitting.

“I know you are not as dumb as you talk to be Ezio , so please! This screams enemy spy all over the situation, please don't let the whole brotherhood be compromised for… him?”

Ezio sighed, he of course knew Machiavelli was right to be worried but he just did not understand it. He looked at Desmond's silent sitting form, as doll-like as ever. Barely blinking.

“I… listen if anything… anything happens it's on me okay Machiavelli?”

The other scoffed as he turned his back to exit “as if at any point of this I had a crumb of fault in on it, of course it's on you. Always is. Will bring the collapse of this branch just as you built it!”

He stopped at the open door.

“When this goes all down, and you and I know both that it will, I will not help you clean it.”

Ezio smiled after him “You are the best…”

His reply was a slammed shut door.

“I swear he is nicer once he gets to know you” He turned to Desmond who stood exactly as he was left a moment ago. Ezio’s smile stood on his face.

“And he will come around… he just doesn’t get it but how can he?”

Walking next to him, his hand squeezed Desmond's knee.

“He doesn’t have what we share does he?”

His free hand clasped at the back of his neck and they stood there a bit with their foreheads touching as Ezio inhaled deeply.

“Let's get you ready for sleep”

He straightened up and pulled Desmond softly with him. He knew he could but Ezio was kind of glad he didn't need to carry him everywhere.

Desmond followed him silently as he was led through the hideouts halls and through the open door. Stopping only once the figure in the front did.

“There we are… was a busy day huh”

Ezio turned toward him, tugging at his hand delicately as he led him to sit down on the bed.

It was silent as Desmond got readied. Ezio took his time as he went over their now nighttime routine.

His shirt and pants were peeled off of his skin, bearing the gold markings that covered his body onto night air. The origin points of the strange lines decorating his tan skin started from Desmond's left hand.

Ezio's finger gave a butterfly touch to one on his neck then pulled over a nightshirt to cover the man's whole form.

Next, his face was cleaned as Ezio wiped it with a damp warm cloth slowly, as if cleaning a beloved hand painted figurine. His fingers raked through his short curls giving them a brush they did not really need.

Few more extra steps and Ezio stepped back with a satisfied gaze. “My, now you look ready”

He lifted the blanket and patted for Desmond to get in “Time for sleep”

Desmond followed, laying down on the bed on his back, letting Ezio drape and tuck the blanket over him. Ezio hummed happily.

“Good night Desmond, go to sleep now”

Desmond's blank eyes stared back at him for a few more moments, his brown eyes gave a short low hum of golden glow before his eyelids closed over them.

Ezio squatted down near the bed and looked at Desmonds sleeping form for few minutes, listening to the mans almost dead silent breaths.

Satisfied, Ezio grunted in a job well done and stretched his back as he got up. Walking upto the couch facing the bed he plopped down face first onto it. Arranging himself to better see Desmond he got comfortable. It didnt take long for him to fall asleep with all the watching rather than keeping watch he did.

#assassin's creed #desmond miles #ezio auditore #fanfic #ezio doesnt rlly know who desmond is still just knows its him and they are important #if u wanna build upon it take it from my hands lol #im just not too into possessive kinda romance or plot

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graveyardgremlins · 11 months

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Ok, so. I was on tiktok and saw a comment of someone mentioning danny fenton/jason todd. And it made me go absolutely feral because I love Jason and I love Danny Phantom. So I decided to read some fanfics and I started to get invested in the ship. But none of them had the stuff I was looking for so... I decided to do it myself lol

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc fanfic #danny fenton #dead on main #jason todd #batfam #i had to take matter into my own hands #i love stuff that doest take itself too seriously #but someone had to make it serious #and that someone is me #tsdloo

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skyward-floored · 8 months

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Whumptober Day 16: Flatline

Okay so I picked “flatline” but it’s not... EXACTLY flatlining. His heart’s kinda still going, so it only sort of counts but who cares anyway I got inspired by that one so that’s what it’s about—

...this one’s a little heavy.

(Also thanks @silvrash-797 for some help with ideas :)

Read on ao3

Warnings: serious injury, mention of broken bones, CPR is necessary

————————————————————

It happened so fast that even when he looked back on it later, Four still wasn’t entirely sure what happened.

Their group was standing at the top of a cliff, discussing how best to climb down and studying the long fall below. Wild jumped out with his paraglider and was making lazy circles in the air while he studied the cliff, pointing out what looked like a less steep area for them to climb down.

They’d all just decided it was the safest way when something caught Four’s eye, something small and fast zipping over their heads—

An arrow?

...headed directly for Wild.

“Champion!” he shouted, but Wild hadn’t seen the arrow, and couldn’t turn fast enough to do anything.

It flew straight at him, slitting a hole right across Wild’s paraglider and catching it at the perfect angle to rip the top nearly in two.

Four watched almost in slow motion as Wild let out a single shocked yelp, the arrow embedding in his arm, then dropped like a stone through the air. He fell out of sight into the trees below them, but only seconds went by before Sky and Wind were already leaping down after him, their faces white as they snapped open their own gliders.

Four shook himself out of his shock and began frantically searching for the best way down the cliff, Twilight slamming a mask over his eyes and shooting an arrow into the forest behind them.

Four registered a scream from a monster as he began to go down the less steep side Wild had spotted only moments ago, and seconds later Twilight was beside him, his face drawn with worry. The others stayed back to fight the monsters that were running out of the woods, but Four knew they had the small group handled.

Wild was their priority.

They reached the bottom and Twilight turned into a wolf, nose in the air already sniffing. His ears perked, and Four hopped on his back before he tore off into the woods, paws pounding against the ground.

Four’s heart was in his throat as they ran, heart beating almost as loudly as Twilight’s pawsteps. He’s fine, surely he’s fine, he can survive a fall from that height, it’s not likely but it’s possible oh Goddesses please let him be okay—

Twilight nearly skidded to a stop, and Four had to clutch him in order not to be flung. He jumped off at Twilight’s nudge, and the wolf turned towards a particularly thick section of bushes, shoving his way through with Four following.

And on the other side was Wild, snapped twigs scattered all around him, lying in a small smear of blood.

Twilight practically threw himself forward, changing into a hylian as he moved, and Four ran up beside him in horror. Wild lay crumpled in a heap among the bushes, blood trickling from his nose, his arms both at odd angles. The offending arrow stuck up out of his shoulder, but Four barely noticed, his gaze stuck on the rest of him.

“Wild— Champion, can you hear me?” Twilight said frantically, fluttering his hands overtop of him, unsure of what to do. Four took a slow step closer, unable to look away from Wild, eyes glued to his chest.

Wild was still.

Too still.

“Link, come on,” Twilight choked out, and Four dropped to his knees beside him, still staring at his chest.

“He’s not breathing,” Four said suddenly, the realization like a splash of cold water. “Twi he’s not—”

Twilight made a choked noise and Four lurched forward, carefully setting his head over Wild’s chest.

A thin, thready beat met him.

“He’s not gone yet,” Four gasped, and looked at Twilight, his face twisted in horror, eyes shiny. “We don’t have any fairies, we need Hyrule, you gotta go get him.”

Twilight stared between him and Wild with an agonized expression, but then he bolted back into the woods, shifting into a wolf as he went.

Four turned back to Wild, and breathed out, panic threatening to overwhelm him.

Not right now, you need to get him breathing again! his brain shrieked, and Four quickly moved to make sure Wild was in a good enough position.

Then he started rhythmically pressing on Wild’s chest, trying to remember the exact technique to get him breathing.

It had been a long time since part of him had read that medical book, but he still remembered most of what to do. Up and down in a regular beat on the chest, then breathing air back into the person’s lungs, back and forth to get their breathing going.

He just hoped it would be enough until Twilight came back.

Distantly he heard Sky and Wind run up, heard their gasps of horror, saw in the corner of his eyes as they kneeled at his side, but his focus was on Wild, and trying to get him to breathe.

Push down hard, but not too hard, stop and breathe into his lungs, start the compressions again—

More footsteps pounded next to him, and a hand suddenly pulled at his shoulder, despite how Four tried to throw it off.

He couldn’t stop, he had to keep going or Wild would be in an even worse state when Twilight came back, he might not even be able to be saved—

“Four, we have Hyrule, you need to let him work!” a voice shouted, and Four stopped pushing, letting the hands tug him backwards.

He watched almost dazedly as Hyrule moved to where he’d been kneeling, hands glowing a bright, intense blue. Warriors was next to him, saying something as he felt along Wild’s neck and shoulders, but Four could only watch in silence, blood roaring in his ears.

Please let it have been enough please let it have been enough please—

Wild jerked slightly, and Four heard a gasp of relief beside him, Legend pulling a shaking Hyrule back from Wild. The traveler began to argue, but Legend didn’t budge, and when Hyrule nearly fell over, the veteran pulled him further out of the way.

Four could only watch as Wild slowly stirred, Warriors working to make sure Hyrule had done what he’d needed. Wild’s eyes flickered uncertainly, and blood still trickled from his nose, but he was already trying to sit up, Warriors firmly stopping him from moving.

“He’s breathing, he’s okay, you and Hyrule did it Four,” Twilight breathed from next to him, and Four could only nod, still watching Wild.

The champion couldn’t even keep his eyes open all the way, and Time knelt next to him then, helping Warriors with the arrow Hyrule had accidentally healed into Wild’s arm. Four watched as Twilight moved to grab Wild’s hand, and the champion’s eyes closed again, face creased with pain.

Four swallowed. He’s fine, he’s fine he’s fine he’s fine he’s fine.

Sky gave him a concerned look from where he was kneeled, and moved closer to him, a hand settling over his.

“Are you all right Smithy?” he asked, and Four nodded yet again, reaching up to rub at his cheek.

His hand came back damp.

Four blinked in surprise, staring at the tears on his fingers and wondering when exactly he’d started crying. Why was he even crying at all? He wasn’t hurt, and Wild was okay now, breathing and being tended to by the others. There wasn’t any reason...

A wet hiccup suddenly escaped him, and Sky moved forward and pulled him into his arms, rubbing his back when a sound more like a sob came out.

“You did it Four, he’s alive, he’s okay,” Sky said a bit shakily, and Four swallowed, trying not to utterly break down in Sky’s arms.

He wasn’t usually one for hugging, at least not all the time. But under the current circumstances, the memory of Wild’s motionless body still sharp in his mind...

He sank further into Sky’s arms, and didn’t resist when he pulled his sailcloth over him, a hand running through his hair.

“He’s okay,” Sky repeated quietly, and Four clung to those words like a drowning man.

He’s okay.

#I have so many concerning tabs open right now #linkeduniverse #linked universe #lu four #lu wild #linked universe fanfic #whumptober 2023 #day 16 #flatline #tw cpr #tw injury #ask to tag #writing from the floor #my hands are so cold typing this is tricky grrr #anyway I’m not cpr certified or anything but I did my best #don’t take this as medical fact or anything

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