#god its been ages since i drew her

[ultimafranfan]

sigh i miss her

#the arcana nadia #nadia satrinava #countess nadia #nadia the arcana #the arcana #my beloved we've been married for almost 5 years #last time i drew her was ages ago back in early 2020 its been far too long #have been lurking in the fandom ever since i kinda drifted away #mb i should get back to it #fanart #i forgot to draw the part where her outfit thing wraps around her neck god and the. pearls on her head oh

[peachesofteal]

The Acheron

An Ichor Veil (of Flower Kings) masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 10.6k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Modern retelling - Greek mythology AU. Hades and Persephone. Two Kings of the Underworld. Abuse (by reader's mother). Bad BDSM etiquette. Dom Simon Riley. Switch John MacTavish. Impact play, spanking. Ichor (blood) play. Non-con voyeurism. Kidnapping. Submissive reader. Reader is named Persephone but has no physical characteristics. Alcohol. Praise kink. Biting. Anal play. Subspace. Dubious consent. First they're sour, then they're sweet, then... they're sour. Tags are for your health, not mine. .A meeting, a trick, a meal.

Hebe’s is humming.

You nod to her through the crowd, a gaggle of mortals waiting at the counter, the line of them moving swiftly as they order their pastry-coffee duo for this dreary, rain slogged morning.

Her perpetually young face lights with exuberance once she spots you, and you can’t help the smile that fights into place at the sight of her. Hebe is a cherub. Soft, curved for ages, like she had been sculpted by her father himself. Today, she’s dolled up in tones of pink; pink lipstick, fuchsia stained cheeks, magenta streaks in her otherwise dark, tightly coiled hair that sits at her shoulders.

For a while, before you were brazenly corrected, you wondered if maybe your mother wanted Hebe as a daughter, instead of you. A perfect picture of untouched purity and power, an eternal cupbearer, worshipped as the goddess of Mercy. She was sweet, like her famous Portokalopita, orange syrup cake that drew a group of wanting mortals at the door every morning. She’s a stunner. A mountain of sunshine, a ray of positivity.

Sometimes, you hate her for it, even if she is one of your best friends. 

Something about her cheerful demeanor can dig at you, scrape along the sticky matter of your brain, gnaw at the soft bits that you’re still trying to protect, tender pieces that match your heart.

You follow the hall to the back room, where bookshelves taper off and large floor to ceiling windows flank the east and west sides to allow as much light in as possible. There are others here, a few mortals curled in overstuffed armchairs, books and cappuccinos in hand, light jazz soothing the atmosphere through a few hidden speakers. Healthy clematis blooms along the stair rail, purple blossoms disappearing into the second floor, where more reading rooms wait, books and plants boundless inside Hebe’s.

A place for everyone. 

You feed the clematis a little spark of magic, enough that the vine stretches, shivering and sprouting more flowers. “Aren’t you stunning this morning?” The plant curls around your fingers eagerly, imbued with the essence of power, drinking up the magic drops you encourage into its cell structure. “So healthy and strong, you’ve recovered so well.”

“Good morning.” A wraith of a voice whispers, and you catch the iridescent flicker of a cloud, of Nephele. The clematis will need pruning soon, probably next week, or maybe you can make time in the next few days, you don’t really have too much going on, just your birthday, and that delivery to Hera- 

Ghostly fingers stroke the inside of your elbow, and the cloud nymph regards you with an insightful expression. “Earth to Seph.”

“Sorry.” Your apology is meek, and she shrugs.

“I asked what you’re doing tonight?” Oh.

“Dinner… with my mom.” She nods, and says nothing, jaw clenching, apologetic grimace lining her lips.

“And Friday… Aselgeia?” The club. Your muscles tighten. It’s been over a year since you’ve been to Aselgeia, the club of many vices, the ones where mortals and creatures and gods all mix interchangeably, chasing their own pleasure. The memory of last time heats your spine: A private room. A black chair. A stranger swinging a paddle towards your bare-

Nephele coughs.  

“Yeah, definitely.” You put the box down that you’re carrying, twelve small pots containing strings of pearls, all crossbred to produce different colors, emboldened by their proximity to you in the Greenhouse for these past few months. They’ll sell well, you have no doubt. “I’ve got a few more boxes to bring inside. Don’t supposed you could do something about this slag weather we’re having?” You gesture, and she snorts.

“Hebe says they’re fighting. Probably looking at weeks of storms.”

“They’re always fighting.” You whisper it, even though most know the truth. Zeus and Hera were explosive. Tumultuous. Which is fine, you suppose, for a private life. A public life, however, one that belongs to the Golden King and Queen, should probably be a bit more… restrained.

After all, why should you and everyone else have to suffer because Hebe’s mom and dad can’t get along? 

“I’ve got a lot of cataloging to do, so I’ll catch you around. Text me after dinner tonight, if you need to talk.” She finishes quietly, kindly, but without encroaching, and you squeeze her hand with affection.

“Thanks, Nell.”

The final two boxes stack comfortably for your dash inside. You're eager to get all the plants settled so you can get back to the Greenhouse, slink away to your personal temple, your place of refuge, somewhere quiet to prepare for your dreaded birthday dinner in peace.

“Hello.” A male voice calls, accented so strangely it’s impossible to place. He waves, trying to flag you down.

“Hello?” You turn, nearly stumbling back at the sight of him.

Who is this? 

He’s stunning. Brilliant blue eyes study you from a mountaintop, taller than you by more than a head or two. His hair is short on the sides, but long in the middle, a fashion of mohawk you’re unfamiliar with except for in Hoplites, warriors who sacrifice themselves for the sanctity of the state. He’s broad, built like there’s a Herculean amount of muscle underneath his immaculately tailored midnight black suit, and his cheekbones complement the razor edge of his jaw, framing a full set of dark, plush lips.

He looks like a dream you’ve never had. A fantasy that failed fruition.

Fairer than Adonis. Brighter than Apollo. 

Butterflies kick up a fluttering frenzied in your belly.  

“Sorry to bother ye, I’m looking for Hebe’s?” Ah. You smile.

“You’ve found it. This is just the backside. Front door is around the walk to the left.” He steps closer, and you’re about to introduce yourself when you hear the whinny of a screech owl’s tremolo, a tinned melody that whistles past your ears.

Olympus tilts. Axis trembles. And so do you.

The stranger is keen, and glances around. 

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I um… it’s just that owl, I swear I saw the same one a few days ago… I didn’t think they were too common around here.”

“Dinnae think they are.” His eyes twinkle, celestial light that has you drifting, floating through time and space into starlit irises. The air turns heavy, hot- fresh fired bricks weighing down your chest, and everything spins, day turning to night, night molting black, deep hues of purple and blues streaking past your vision, spinning like moon, twisting you up until your balance is faltering, and you sway. “Whoa, hey.” Fingers fold over your arm, surprisingly cool, chilled, and it pulls you back into your body, spine uncurling, brow smoothing.

“Sorry, I…”

“Ye alright?” He’s still holding your arm, directing you to a bench, relieving you of your box in a swift motion.

“Yeah, sorry… I… I skipped breakfast.” There’s no other explanation, right? The handsome stranger tsks.

“Can I get ye somethin’? Maybe from inside?”

“No!” You blurt, horrified. Hebe would have a cow if she thought you were feeling faint or had skipped a meal. She takes caring for her loved ones far too seriously. “No, I’m almost done, and then I’ll be on my way home. I’ll eat there.” He raises an eyebrow, completely skeptical. “I swear.”

“Alright then. Let me help ye with the rest at least?” He’s standing with a hand extended, and you track the veins on the inside of his wrist until they disappear beneath his t-shirt, golden, tawny skin just barely allowing them to be seen. You wonder if it’s mortal blood that catapults through his body, or the rich, golden ichor that also spills from yours.

“Sure.” He lifts the box, gesturing for you to grab the other.

 “I’m John, by the way.” John. It simmers in the front of your mind, stitching itself into the fabric of your magic.

“Persephone. My friends call me Seph.” Bold. Too bold. 

“Ye’re Demeter’s daughter.” He comments, and you blink, fresh wave of regret curdling the sourness of your stomach.

“Yes.” Fool. Give your name to a stranger, and this is what will come. “Do you know-“

“Only in passing, dinnae worry.”

“Who said I was worried?”

“Ye wear yer emotions plainly.” Your cheeks burn, embarrassed at the blatancy of his statement. “It’s refreshing. So many of us, we play too many games, hide our true selves.” Us. Golden ones. Gods. 

“You’re Cloaking.” You intend it to be a statement, an observation, but with a tight jaw and frowning brow, it’s an accusation.

“Aye. Wouldnae want to scare ye away, would I?” What? Your steps slow, gait pausing in concern. “Sorry, ah. Bad joke.”

“Oh, that’s alright.” He carries the boxes to the door, setting them down carefully, and then rising back to his full height. You swallow the lump in the back of your throat.

“Well, John,” you say it with a hint of sarcasm, and it conveys your doubt. That’s not your real name, is it? “It was nice to meet you.” You extend your hand, expecting a shake, but he holds it with both of his, back bowing, lips softly pressing the skin of your knuckles, tender touch making your knees weak, your heart swooping and swooning.

“The pleasure was mine, Persephone.”

“Have you given anymore thought to your role in the coming year? Your presence at harvest, or planting, would do-”

“I haven’t.” The wine is too oaky, so earthy it takes like dirt, the opus of your mother’s existence, and you swallow it down in silence.

“Persephone.” She chides, like she has a million times before. “If you just tried, a little harder-“

“I am Spring, mother. Life. Rebirth. Fertility.” You ignore her wince. “But that doesn’t mean I’m well suited for crops, and grain, and harvests.”

“It means exactly that. Otherwise, the Greenhouse would not exist.” Her knife slices into a bloody piece of meat, red dripping down the sterling to her fingertips. “Why must you fight your destiny?” Your mind wanders to your visitors the other day, the sisters. The Moirai. Does she know? Is that why she’s saying this? Did she send them? “You spend so much time actively trying to deny me, holed up with your flowers and silly little house plants-“

“It is you who denied me.” Her eyes narrow. “You who didn’t want me to become a fertility goddess, who wanted me to be some weapon of green light, to be the spitting image of you. You raised me to be a threat!”

“Is it so wrong, that I did not wish for my daughter to become a common whore? That I had hoped to prevent her becoming such a failure? That I dreamed of her becoming so much more than… what sits before me now?” The words do not shock you anymore. You’ve grown to expect them.

That does not mean they do not sting.

“It is wrong that you kept me locked in this house, away from the world, until I was too strong for you to control.” You spit, fork clattering against your plate. Rage sears white at the edge of your vision, overflowing bouquet of flowers in the center of the table blooming into massive blossoms, edges of petals beginning to curl inward.

“Control yourself.” She warns. “Or I will do it for you.” Your pulse thunders. The air in the dining room crackles.

You do not relent. Rationally, you know you should. You know this will only end one way, that this will sever another tie to your past, to your mother, one you won’t be able to repair… but you can’t stop. The magic itches under your skin, screaming.

The ivy that covers the outside brick shatters a windowpane above her head, springing through the opening like a virus seeking a host, sticking to the inside wall. Glass falls to the floor, rain pelts the roof.  

“Persephone.” Shining silver spools, churning across the table, through the air until it takes form-

The Whip.

Your mother’s favorite.

It licks your skin, your fingertips, your knuckles. A different touch, from the reverent kiss you received only hours ago. It cracks through the air like the lightning.

“That’s enough.” She vows.  

You will not cry. You won’t. You won’t let her get to you like this anymore. You’re a woman now. An adult. You’re not a child, you’re not, you’re not- 

She sighs. Your fingers clench the stem of the wine glass so firmly you think it might shatter.  

You finish your meal in stiff silence. Its heaviness droops all around you, blanketing the entire table, your fork, the distance between you and your own mother. It’s an eon. A millisecond. Never enough because you always crave more. More space. More time. More distance. Her eyes spark, anger burning hot behind them, but she says nothing.

When she’s finished, she rises from the table without another word, disappearing down the hall.

Happy Birthday, you guess.

In the middle of the night, the Greenhouse is quiet.

Even the plants slumber, most of the daylight seekers, pistils, stamens, all covered by their petals, lying in wait. In the back, you pad along the floor of moss, allowing the tiny tendrils of green to skim along your bare skin, pulling opulent, indulgent specks of power into themselves. Wisteria lines the walls, tiny blooms of purple and white falling like curtains of stars, only parting for the archway that leads to the spring, a small freshwater lagoon that spills from the crust of the earth as hot as tea, bubbling eternally, waiting for you.

Tonight, the water is ethereal. Steam rises from the pool, slicking its stone home, and you bask in it, muscle and bone turning languid, supple in the roiling spring. It’s nearly sublime, almost perfect.

Your mother’s voice still echoes. Even now, hours later, you can hear her.

A failure. A disappointment. 

Your knuckles sting from the salt of the Whip, the silver crust that slices so effortlessly, just as it has since you were a child.

You cried a lot, then.

Now, it’s few and far between. You’ve grown, rebelled, retaliated. You’ve become a lost cause.

Ungovernable Persephone. 

The pain still sits so heavily in the bottom of your soul, a wretched, tangible thing that sprouts blackened vine from the earth and a whole manner of other things.

You eye the marble encasement, the walls that harbor the spring. They too, are black. Born from your rage, your sorrow. Your uncontrollable, ungovernable power that grew from the depths of your despair and built you a temple.

The Greenhouse. Your home.

Everyone called it a wonder. A feat, proof of your power. Trees and vines and branches all twisted together, building a harbor, solidifying your presence, your Golden light.

You took your first offering in this place, the glass for the windows and the roof, the final piece of your shelter from the storm, the first stake of your life as a goddess, your life of freedom.

You left your mother’s house that day, only returning now on occasions. You never looked back.

Though, you can still feel the Whip, can still hear it whirl through the wind against your supine form. Can still feel the ridges of scar tissue that never fully healed.

You could have called Nell. Or Hebe. Or Melia. Anyone of them would be here for you. Would listen. Understand. 

Outside the window, an owl hoots.

You sink beneath the water line, magma rushing over every inch of your body, washing you clean of her, of the Whip, of the wounds on your knuckles.

A trembling fawn. Still to this day. 

A wicked daughter to have, they tell her. A vengeful soul. Rotted to the core. 

Ungovernable Persephone. 

Olympus is buzzing, even on its ninth day of rain. It’s a vibration that all manner of beings can feel, creatures, gods, even humans. The ground rattles like there’s a lightning bolt shoved into the center of the rail system, electrifying the wires and tracks, zinging from pole to pole between the buildings and above the streets where cars putter alongside those who walk to their destinations.

When you were a child, the name of the city was almost dirty. It made your mother’s nose turn skyward, disgust and disdain clear as the day on her delicate features. “The golden city is anything but.” She promised, on her knees before you, gentle hand at your back. “Those who live there are heathens, and naught else. They would seek to destroy you if they knew the truth.”

For many, many years, you never step foot here.

Not until University. Once you graduated, the rope around your neck, the bit in your mouth began to loosen, and you had already lost your taste for the expanse of metropolis, more interested in your own space outside city limits where you could feel your connection to the earth, where you could indulge your power in privacy.

“It’s not the city she fears.” Melia told you one night. “But Aphrodite. Demeter’s worried ‘Di will knock you right off the whole bloody planet.” She peered over your shoulder, catching the gleam of Apollo, his bright eyes tracking her from across a crowded bar. “Trust me. She’s a jealous bitch.” 

Tonight, the city is waterlogged, soaked to the bone, raindrops splashing as you slide from the car to the black door tucked inside a black wall, a soft faced Harpy standing in front of the passage.

“Hebe. Persephone.” She greets, turning to your other companions. “Nephelle. Melia.” You pull your power through the earth that sits beneath cracked concrete and heavy asphalt, spinning your Cloak up and over your body, adjusting your appearance just so. Your mask slips into place, obscuring nearly all your face, both Nell and Melia pulling together something similar.

“Ocypete.” Hebe pauses. “Is there a riddle tonight?” The Harpy grins, flashing rows of too sharp teeth, fine points that can cut the flesh from bone in a clean bite.

“No riddle.” The door creaks wide, and she steps aside. “Enjoy your evening.”

You don’t notice the way her eyes linger after you’ve passed.

Aselegia is one of the safest places in the Olympus. Here, Golden ones must be Cloaked, mortals must be masked, and creatures must go to great lengths to hide their identity. All intermingle with one another, safe in the anonymity. Gods and Goddesses usually choose to mask as well, a practice, you believe, stemming from common occurrences of violent jealousy, an effort to prevent becoming the target of one’s wrath.

The club itself is big enough to get lost in. The first floor houses the lobby, and a set of elevators. The walls are covered in shiny waxed mahogany, red wine rich carpet covering the floor, and it smells different, sweet and smoky, cigars and finely spun sugar. Intoxicating.

The elevators will take you anywhere you have access, and most can visit three floors. There’s a dancefloor on the main level, with a giant bar, private rooms in the wings, bottle service, tables. Very standard. Other floors have gambling tables, quieter music, even a dimly lit pool and sauna.

It isn’t until you get above level three that things change. Endorsements or sponsors are required. Waivers need to be signed. Negotiations begin.

Pick your poison. 

You start on the main level tonight. Melia insists, and you agree, grateful to the Oceanid for suggesting starting slow, the low rumble of nerves still present in your magic, your body. The music thumps, high to low song and symphony synthesized into something electronic, and it draws you into a sway, shoulders against shoulders, hips moving in time with the melody.

“Shots?” Hebe brightens, waving over a cocktail waitress, a pretty thing who eagerly does her bidding, enraptured with the way she moves in the skintight, cornflower blue dress. Her Cloak has disguised her well enough that no one would know who she is, but she does not ever manipulate her body. A cherished rule of her own, you’ve learned.

“You’re beautiful.” The girl coos, and Hebe nods, singing over the explosion of Nephelle’s laughter.

“I know, sweetheart.”

A slick sheen of sweat coats the space between Melia’s breasts. You’re both on the dancefloor, moving with the music, Melia perfectly in time, like she was born to it, and you pull her close, slinging an arm over her neck to whisper in her ear.

“He’s here.” A god’s dark eyes glint in the night, between the passages of writing bodies. He wears a white mask, stitched with the threads of glowing sun, but his obsessive gaze gives him away. He’s transfixed, focused solely on the Oceanid in the middle of the dance floor, and she giggles, turning so that her ass is pressed against your pelvis, her head tipped back on your shoulder.

Her hand extends, an invitation. A request.

He’s by her side within a second.

“Apollo.” You nod, and he barely spares you a glance, too busy cradling his Oceanid’s face.

“You have been ignoring my calls.”

“I’ve been busy.” He tenses.

“You’re still angry with me.”

“Of course, I am.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re here for Sephy’s birthday, not this.” He peeks towards you, sliver of regret flashing across his face.

“I’m sorry, Persephone.” You wave him off, not wanting to be in the middle of… this.

“It’s fine, we’re just… out. It’s not for anything special.” You look away from them, casually glancing around. You look, but you do not see. Not until…

There’s a male, wearing a pitch-black suit. A god? A mortal? He’s taller than anyone else in the room, broadest shoulders and proud posture, everything about him drawing you in, like blood in the water.

The room stands still. Silent. Empty, save for two.

Tempered water like glass, undisturbed. An undertow vicious beneath the surface, unknown to all.

“Hello.” The pitch of his voice is familiar, almost dreamlike, something that’s never been real, yet startling all the same.

“H-hi.” You stammer. His hand reaches, a magnetic force pulling yours from where it’s clawed against your thigh, and he grasps it like he’s cupping a dahlia bloom, a fragile collection of so many petals that make up an entire beautiful blossom, a universe unto itself.

Black leather caresses your skin. Clear, golden-brown eyes pin you in place, anthracite spiking around his pupils in a halo. You cannot see his face, or his skin, only what’s barely visible of his eyelids and dark spun lashes.

Still… 

His beauty is terror. It’s the throat of a lamb, freshly cut. The mutilated carcass of a doe, feeding a forest. Dark. Dangerous. A wolf, circling a kill.

It drags you out into a river, where your feet no longer touch the bottom. It sings to you from the depths.

You cannot tear yourself away.

He does not let go. Even when that same voice fills your mind.

“My darling. You shall rule all that lives and moves, you shall have the greatest rights among the deathless gods: those who defraud you and do not appease your power with offerings, reverently performing rites and paying fit gifts, shall be punished for evermore.” *

Warmth slips from your hand, sand flitting through your fingers, a fleeting touch of comfort and confusion fading into the night.

My darling. 

My darling… 

When the light comes back to you, the male is nowhere to be found. Only Apollo and Melia stand to your side, still in their own world.

“Will you let me take you upstairs then?” He croons, and your heart dances, nerves and anticipation all spiraling together like a sailor’s knot. You know what comes next.

“Only if the girls can come.”

You try to forget the strange encounter on the main level and focus on your needs instead; you’ll know what you’re looking for when you see it, and you say the same to Hebe, too, when she disappears with a male who seemed much too large to not be the son of a giant, leaving you alone on a small, velvet couch, Nell and Melia already long gone. Your second martini sits untouched, and you keep yourself from looking at any one being too closely, lest you get caught staring.

That’s when you see him.

Light blue eyes. Handsomely styled mohawk. Even with a Cloak and mask, he’s hard to forget.

John.

His mask is a red skull, covering nearly all his face, the sculpted brow severe, almost angry.

His eyes glow behind it, locked on yours.

Oh. Shit. You vibrate like a live wire, hanging onto yourself for dear life.

“Hello.” Your mouth doesn’t work. “I’m Soap.” He extends his hand, and you blink. Oh, right. The alias. Because what is the point in all this, if you give your real name?

“K-kore.” You manage to stammer, and the corner of his eyes crease.

“Why are ye here?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What are ye looking for, little goddess?” He still has not dropped your gaze, and you can almost taste him on your tongue, feel him in your mind, your body.

Myself.

Your teeth dig downward, pressing hard before you whisper the truth.

“Pain.” His eyes flash, and then he tugs.

John- Soap, takes you to a private room. You follow, numbly, shivering with a million emotions, stumbling through the chances, the possibilities of seeing him twice, when before he was a stranger.

A coincidence, you decide, putting it out of your mind. You’re dwelling on it too much, picking it apart, riling yourself up… over nothing. Over a handsome god, existing in the Golden city? Like you’ve never seen those before… like it’s so unbelievable.  

“Are ye alright?” He murmurs, stepping up to your back. You can feel the heat of him, his warmth bleeding from beneath the suit to your exposed skin, the dress you chose wholly exposing your spine, your skin.

Your nipples tighten. Your heart races, and your thighs press together inadvertently.

“Yes.”

“Dinnae lie.” He’s gentle in the reminder, and you fill your lungs.

“I’m just… nervous.”

“Ye’ve done this before?” He’s assuming. You nod, quickly, and he motions to a very comfortable looking lounge chair, where you perch on the edge of the cushion. “What would make ye happy tonight?” Anxiety unsettles your posture, and you choke down the embarrassment that tries to claw its way up your throat.

“A… a spanking.” You whisper, pushing flimsy confidence forward. Far away, a piece of your mind, your magic, pleads. It cries, it begs for release. It urges you forward, and you lift your face to his, seeking approval. Comfort.

Reassurance.

The cold hand of doubt rears. It snickers at you. It laughs.

Reassurance from someone, anyone but yourself? Comfort? 

No. 

“Do ye-“

“My safe word is flower.” You spit, motioning to the stool that waits between you.

It’s an act. A song and a dance, something fake and forced. But he doesn’t know that.

He freezes. Thick tension runs the gamut, heavy and exhausting, and you smother yourself, your emotions, your reactions to this very moment.

Pain. The desire burns. It pushes you to the zenith, until you’re down on your knees, folding yourself forward.

Pain, to turn it off. Pain, to make it all stop.

Pain, to release you into yourself. 

What matter of creature are you, that you can only feel whole, when parts of you are carved away? 

“Up.” John commands, and you lean back, confused. “Ye’ll do this over my knee.” He bends you, with grace, back towards the soft cushion, laying comfortably, your palms flat.

A hand coasts over the swell of your ass.

“Ye’ll count.” His voice has shifted. Gone is the feather’s edge, now replaced by steel. His accent still rings true, but there’s a firmness to it, a finality. Dominance.

“Yes.”

“Ye’ll tell me yer name, and today’s date, when asked. If ye cannae answer, we’ll stop. Immediately.”

“Okay.”

“I need a yes.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll go to ten, then.” We.

“I can take more.”

“We’ll decide what ye can take, when we get there.” You acquiesce, fingers digging down into the cushion before forcibly relaxing. “Big breath.” He coaches, and then-

The first slap stuns you. Only with his hand, and yet still so much stronger than last time with a paddle. It punches air from your lungs, the noise that rockets out of your throat a mix between a scream and a moan.

“F-fuck.” You croak. “One.” He doesn’t hesitate and rains the next one down on your opposite cheek. Again, it robs you of oxygen. “Two.”

“Good girl.” The praise is very small flame at the bottom of the darkest well. It barely lights the path ahead, desperately trying to catch, to grow, but it’s too easily snuffed out. His palm rubs the base of your spine to the tops of your thighs.

Crack. 

The sting sizzles outward from impact, and you gasp. “Three-“ Another, same cheek. “Four!” The whistle of the swing alerts you a second before the next, and when you shout “Five!” it sounds off kilter.

“What’s yer name?”

“Seph-Persephone.” Raw warmth simmers beneath your dress and underwear, and the fire at the bottom of the well starts to rage, growing larger, eating what it’s been given, hungry, seeking, trying to build momentum. He asks you the date, satisfied at the lack of delay, and swings so high, you can see the shine of his palm from the corner of his eye. Your toes curl.

Whack. Two, too quickly.

“Six!” A choked cry. “Seven.” Your face is wet, saltwater tracing the plush swell towards your mouth and chin. You sniffle.

“I know, I know. Ye poor thing.” He bunches the fabric of your dress, scratching it across your scorched cheeks. “Ye’re doin’ so well, almost there.” The words barely register, only the sentiment cuts through the haze. Your thighs are pressed so tightly together, slick dripping from your cunt, the aching throb of your clit rubbing against your panties. You’re desperate… to be touched, to be hurt, to be whole. You need it. Crave it more than anything else.

He delivers two more strong, healthy, swift blows. Eight. Nine. They enflame you completely, fire burning in the pit of your soul, encasing you in a coffin where no one can hear you, or see you. Safe and tucked away, floating into a dark cocoon of eternal night.

At the tenth, the room changes. The air grows colder, nearly frigid, shadows clinging to the walls, and you barely register being moved, held like a child, tucked into a chest. There’s talking, somewhere, in your mind or maybe behind you, two pitches at war, a dance of wills.

“Beautifully done, darling.” Somewhere far, far away, in the last sliver of your sane mind, you realize it’s a different voice, a voice echoed in gemstones, ruby and emerald and pearl, before that too, slips into space, and you drift deeper inside the luxurious praise. A warm bath. A sunlit meadow with thousands of Narcissus dotting the hill, soaking up every ray. A golden fawn, taking her first steps to freedom.

John’s face looms into your line of sight, maskless, no Cloak.

“We need a yes.” He murmurs, cupping your cheek. “Persephone.”

“Hmmm?”

“Need ye to say yes, so we can take ye home, take care of ye.” The words don’t match. They don’t click, they catch, they bump against each other, trying to lock into place, failing over and over.

“Supposed to go… home with my friends but-“ Your tongue is heavy, weighted beneath a giant sequoia, and you shiver. The chest that your head bobbles on catches, an arm securing you in place. It’s warm, and firm, heavier than a tree. Who…

“Little goddess.” He prompts, and you sigh, already wistfully unaware.

“’kay, yeah. Yes.”

You’re already slipping away when the world goes dark.

Your eyes open to a strange place.

You don’t recognize any of it, from the massive four poster bed with lithe, gauzy curtains drawn closed on three sides, to a fireplace the size of a giant, roaring, sizzling flame burning endlessly in its hearth. You don’t recognize the room, the black marble floors, polished to a brilliant gleam, one that you can nearly see your reflection in, or the vanity, dark oak housing a hand carved mirror. You’ve never seen the ornate stained glass window before, stretching from floor to ceiling, the size of ten men. You don’t know the bed, sized for a king, emerald silk sheets and a matching duvet, with a million pillows that were just cradling your head. The robe you’re wearing matches, the green only a shade lighter, and you tuck it tight across your body, realizing you’re fully nude.

The fire pops. It pushes a gasp from you, caught off guard, and at the sound, another being in the room stirs from the plush rug just beneath the bed.

A three headed dog.

It, they, stare at you, tongues wagging, eyes wide. Jet black fur, darker than midnight, white teeth so sharp they could rip your throat free in an instant.

You’ve seen this dog before… in pictures. Schoolbooks. You know their name.

Cerberus.

Panic races through your veins, ratcheting your heart rate higher and higher, your body and mind separating, all synapses dizzy with fear.

Oh gods. Where… where are you? What happened? You were just… you were just having some fun, at Aselegia, with John… weren’t you? Where…

Are you dead?  

You reach for your power, digging deep, trying to drag as much as you could to the surface-

Nothing.

You bleat, a scared lamb, in panic. It’s a cry. A scream. An awful sound. You need your rage now, but all you find is fear. You cannot reach your power. There is a blackened lock around it, a casing that holds it away from you, out of reach.

Cerberus whines. They hold their position, tail swishing back and forth, and you scramble towards the middle of the bed. Your ass protests, skin warm and tender against silk. Your knees tuck to your chest, and you force your eyes closed, trying to take long, measured breaths without success.

You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re-

The door clicks. John appears, two palms out, hesitant, and cautious. Your voice shakes, no matter how hard you try to reinforce it with iron will. “G-get away from me.”

“Ye’re alright, Persephone. We’d never hurt ye.” We?

“We need a yes.”

“Need ye to say yes, so we can take ye home, take care of ye.”

Something flickers behind him. A figure, a shape of shadow, shifting.

Dark. Dangerous. A wolf, circling a kill.

The male from the dance floor. He wears no mask now, but the feel of him, the threat of his power, is unmistakable… and familiar. You sputter on it, choking on him and John, the threat of their power combined looming, suffocating. “Oh gods.” You clutch the robe tighter. “Wh-where am I?”

“You know where you are, darling.” The other one says, and you moan.

“N-no. I… I can’t be. I can’t dead. I can’t be here… I-“

“You’re not dead, Persephone.” He cautions. “You’re very much alive.” And shaking, alive and trembling so vigorously you can hear your teeth chattering, chest heaving up and down, desperately trying to suck air inward. Cerberus whines again, and he rubs a thumb behind one of their ears. “Easy, Cerberus. She’s alright.”

“I ca-can’t be here. I have to… I have to go home.” The room seems wet, dollops of tears falling from your lashes, sticking to your skin and the sheets. Reality slams forward, rushing right up against your nonsensical mind.

It takes one gentle pulse of their power, to realize the truth. 

Hades. They’re… Hades. They’re Hades and you’re… you’re in the Underworld. 

Beg. Beg them for mercy. Whatever it is you’ve done, you must try. 

“I’m s-sorry. I don’t know… I don’t know what I did but I swear, I’m sorry, I-“ John tries to reach, seeking your hand, but you curl up into a tighter ball.

“Shhh. Ye hae nae done anythin’ wrong, sweet Persephone. Ye’re alright. Ye’re safe.” Safe? Safe in the Underworld? With them? 

Oh gods. You let Hades spank you. 

“You… you tricked me.” You whisper, raw betrayal and pain weeping profoundly in your heart. You trusted him and…

You are a fool. 

“We did what was necessary.” The wolf-like one says solemnly, gaze heavy.

“Necessary?” You squeak. “What’s… necessary about this?”

“We will explain everything, after we’ve eaten. Or maybe had some more rest? It’s the middle of the night, for you.” What? 

“No… I can’t… I can’t stay here. I have to-“

“Go home? So, you can hide away in your temple, kept company only by your plants and the occasional friend you let inside?” You blink, stunned, mouth dropping open.

“How do you... have you been watching me?” The stained-glass window on the far side of the room shifts, drawing your attention, morphing slowly from a tawny blur to a… screech owl.

“Oh, my gods. Oh…” The room shudders. “You can’t keep me here, I have to go…” Wolves circle, flanking where you sit, precarious and hopeless, a hand in front of your body like it will save you. “Please.”

“It’s alright, darling.” The dark one moves, blurred in shadow, magic blanketing you in a warm, comforting hold, heating your bones, encouraging your eyes to slowly shut.

The last thing you see is the ceiling, your body cradled in the embrace of a stranger.

Morning comes slow.

At first, you don’t open your eyes, even though you’ve been long awake.

If you open them, your fear will be real. It will be valid.

So, you keep them closed. Keep them shut long enough you drift in and out of twilight, until someone clears their throat.

Fuck. 

“Are you going to open your eyes?” His voice is ruby and velvet. You shudder.

“Hades.”

“Technically. One half of a whole, but my loved ones call me Simon.” Your brow flexes at that, and there’s a soft chuckle in response. “Will you wake? It’s well past morning now.”

“Are you going to render me unconscious again?” you hiss, cracking an eyelid. He’s sitting in a posh armchair, oiled black leather beneath his black suit, eyes steady on yours. His face is a map of scars, but instead of seeming rough, or out of place, they naturally suit him, complementing his broad jaw, severe expression, perfectly sculpted bone structure. His nose is crooked, like it had been smashed and rearranged once or twice, but still sits as if it was meant to be, and you wonder how anyone could do anything of the like to Hades.

He's handsome, in a way you expect to die from. 

“Only if you cannot behave.”

“Perhaps I could show you how I behave.” You smile with a full set of teeth, words ending in a snarl, and he huffs another gentle laugh.

“I have seen the victims of your wrath, Persephone. I have no doubt you’d strike me down if you could.” You swallow the nausea in your stomach. Your magic. 

“I want my magic back.” You blurt the demand, not even pausing to consider a more tactful way.

“We did not take it, only… bound it, for the time being. It’s still within you, we would never separate you from your power.” He sighs, a golden pearl rocking in his palm, glinting in the fireplace’s gleam. “Contrary to popular belief, we are not a monster.”

“Then let me go home, if you’re not as they say you are.” His eyes harden, face twisting sour, and then… sad.

“I’ll give you some privacy. There are clothes in the closet. Johnny and I expect you for breakfast, and then a tour… if you’re good. Cerberus will show you the way when you’re ready.”

If you’re good.

Cerberus leads you through a maze of decadent marble and arches.

You follow behind them hesitantly, cautious, and they mind you, slowing when you’ve lagged too far behind.

You can’t help it. You’re mystified.

You expected the Underworld to be dark, and dingy. And while maybe it is on the dark side, with glossy, polished marble, giant onyx columns that blot of the sky, and black stone everywhere… when you peek out the windows, you’re gob smacked.

Beneath wherever you are, which you’re beginning to suspect is Hades’ palace, is lush greenery. A verdant, fertile field lays to the south and the east, wrapping around to the edge of a forest, where you can just barely make out a large variety of deciduous trees. To the North, a river winds, separating the palace from a large meadow and… a town? You shake your head, as if to clear your addled mind and cloudy vision. Is that truly… a town? 

“Asphodel Meadows.” Someone says from behind you, nearly jumping you from your skin.

“Fuck.” You gasp, hand clutching your chest. It’s a man, not John, or Simon, but a stranger, clad in all black.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s… okay. I- what did you say?”

“The town. It’s Asphodel Meadows. A place for mortal’s souls.” He bows. “I’m Thanatos.”

“I’m… Persephone.” He smiles, just slightly.

“I know who you are, my lady.” My lady?

“What do you…” words nearly fail as you grapple. “What do you do here?”

“I am a child of Nyx. The god of Death.”

“I thought Hades…”

“They are the Kings of the Underworld. I am the personification, the embodiment of Death.” Oh.

“You reap.” You whisper. His jaw tightens, and then smooths.

“Your escort is impatient. I think he’s probably ready for his bacon.” He eyes Cerberus, who whines, tapdancing on slick marble.

“Bacon?”

“Yes. He’s very spoiled. Eats better than the Kings themselves.” He motions down the hall. “It’s just that way. Lovely to meet you, my lady.” He gives you another bow, and then turns down a corridor, one that had not been there before, leaving you and Cerberus alone in the empty hall.

“I- you too.”

The Kings, as Thanatos called them, are both seated when you push the incredibly heavy door open. At the sound, John rises, Simon behind him, and the three of you stare at one another for a minute, until Cerberus barks.

“Please, sit.” John motions to the only other place set, a third chair between them. You swallow.

“Uh…”

“We don’t bite.”

“Not unless ye want us to.” John smiles, sinfully handsome in the morning light. It streams into the surprisingly cozy dining room through a group of five windows, all facing east, capturing the light of… a sun?

“Is that a sun?”

“It’s a sun of sorts.” Simon offers. “We have a sky, weather. A sun, a moon. Clouds. Everything that exists in Olympus.”

“Are ye hungry?” You hesitantly lower yourself into the chair, surprised at the array of food displayed. “We ah, weren’t sure what ye liked so, got a bit of everything.” Meats, yogurts, sweets, cereal, fruit, anything you could want laid out in front of you, but it’s something so near to your heart that catches your eye. Portokalopita.

“They are Hebe’s.” Simon murmurs.

This is a trick. They kidnapped you. They’re holding you hostage. You have to convince them to let you go. The warning resounds, and your stomach thrashes.

“I want to go home.” You push the plate of orange cakes away, disappointment flickering across John’s face, exasperation on Simon’s. “Please. I… I appreciate your hospitality and you… you bringing me home for… aftercare,” you grit the word, shame rocketing up your spine. This is what happens when you trust. You let Hades spank you, for fucks sake. And then they abducted you. “but I need to go home. The plants, they need me. My friends-“

“Your friends are used to going days on end without contact from you.” Simon cuts you off, and the blood drains from your face. “Are they not?”

“N-no. They’ll know I’m missing, they will.” Lie. He knows. You know they both know, just by the way the regard you. Half pity. Half amusement. It makes your blood boil. “Fuck you.” You hiss, shooting up in the chair.

“Seph-“ John tries to soothe you, calm you, using your nickname like he knows you, and it only makes you more irate.

“Don’t call me that.” You whirl on him. “I trusted you! I don’t even know you and I let you-“

“That is the nature of Aselegia, is it not?” He counters, cutting you off. You gape like a fish. “The anonymity. Dinnae turn it on me now.” His tone melts from ice to warmth, sympathy bleeding from his irises. “I assure ye, we are more than trustworthy. We would never, ever hurt ye. We would never let anythin’ happen to ye. Ye’ll see.”

“Then let me go home.” He shakes his head sadly but says nothing, and rage snaps in your heart like the drawback of a rubber band, stinging and sharp. “What do you want from me?” John opens his mouth, and then abruptly closing it, deferring to Simon.

“You are our guest. We’d like to get to know you. I promise, just as before, you will not be harmed in our care. We will never hurt you."

"How do I know that?" You’re incredulous. “You expect me to take you at your word?”

“Let us strike a deal then.” He declares, and John nods supportively.

Don’t, your good sense screams. Don’t be an idiot.

“What kind of deal?”

“You will stay here for two days, forty-eight hours exactly. We will show you this realm and get to know one another in that time, and at the end, we will reveal the doorway that leads back to Olympus.” You raise an eyebrow.

“Two days? And then I can go home?”

“Two days.” John echoes. Sapphire eyes gleam, and you carefully, quickly, try to pick apart every word in the proposal.

“My magic.” You demand, and they both answer immediately with a resounding,

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Your power is wild, Persephone.” Simon tells you, not unkindly. “We do not know how the Underworld will react to it, and we must think of our residents, all the souls we care for here. We cannot let something upset the balance that is so delicate.” Your mouth goes a little dry. You were expecting more of an answer about control, domineering you, your magic, keeping you contained. Not… care for souls.

“Yer mother raised ye to be her weapon.” John says softly, kneeling before the chair where you sit. His hand rests on the cushion, and you wonder if he means to touch you. “We dinnae regard ye as such, but until we understand ye better, we need to protect-“

“I understand.” You cut him off. You don’t need some forced sympathy, pity, thrust upon you by Hades, of all gods. They exchange a long glance, one that gives you a small peek into their lives, layers on layers of words and sentiment, communicated with a single glance.

Simon reaches for John, pulling him to his feet and into his body, chest to back.

“Do you agree?” Two days. Two days and you can leave. You can do two days of anything. You certainly cannot fight them, or your way out. What choice do you have? 

“Sure.”

“We need a yes, darling.” Darling. The pet name makes your toes curl. You take a big breath.

“Yes.”

The valley outside of Asphodel Meadows is one of the most stunning places you’ve ever been. It’s lush and lively, covered in Narcissus and Asphodelus, like a meadow one could only dream of. You're not sure why it feels so familiar, like the cusp of another life, or a nightmare, but it takes root inside you. You lay in the field of flowers, letting them cover your body, wishing so desperately to touch your magic, so you could truly feel them, the grass and the dirt and the stems here, all things that seem like they’re so full of life, so opposite your expectations of the Underworld.

“Shall we continue?” Cerberus perks up at the sound of their master’s voice, head popping over the flowers to spot both Kings standing on the path, a good distance away. They peek at you, heads tilted, and you sigh. It seems you’ve been assigned a minder, in the form of a three headed dog.

You join them on the road before long, walking silently, sullenly, John sneaking glances at you nearly every chance he gets, and you can pinpoint the heat of his gaze every time, the throbbing intensity of his focused power nearly bowling you over.

“So, there are two of you?” What are you supposed to talk to the Kings of the Underworld about, anyway? 

“Aye. It’s a little-known secret. One realm, two gods to rule.” You frown, perplexed.

“But… you haven’t always been that way?”

“No.” Simon answers. “We were once Golden brothers in battle, long before your time, before becoming this. When we fell in love, our souls split. They merged with our magic, tied us together eternally. Now, we rule as one.”

“So, you’re married.” You deduce.

“In the most permanent way you can think of.” They stop short of a bridge, one that crests high over a roaring river, and Simon gestures broadly. “Persephone, this is the Acheron.”

The Underworld is a place of rivers, you learn. Waterways that hold power, that possess the ability to cleanse you, free you, burn you, punish you. There is a river of fire, a river of weeping, a river to forget.

The Acheron is the river of woe.

Fitting, you think, standing on the bridge. Below, bright turquoise water rushes by, crashing into rock and boulder, each sound more akin to a scream than the thunder of a tributary. Mouths, long and full of despair, wail beneath the current, wraith like creatures with bone white skin and eyes skimming along the top.

You get lost in them. Lost in the irreversible cycle of woe, desolation creeping up inside your own self as you peer down into the depths. Are you not like them? Despondent. Bleak. Isolated. Is that not what you’ve made with your life, what was chosen for you? Hidden away, sharpened like an axe never to be used. Are you not alone, like them? Trapped, like them? 

You don’t even realize you’re leaning forward until pressure rests at your back. “Easy. Dinnae want ye fallin’ in.” John murmurs, stepping away the edge, bringing you with him. Your limbs feel shaky, and you wonder if it’s because you just almost went over… or because you didn’t eat earlier.

“Sorry. I uh-“ you don’t know how to explain it, that feeling. The agony that bubbles up in the back of your throat.

“We know.” Simon regards you with empathy, understanding, and you shake the attention loose, pushing ahead of them, down the bridge and into town, into Asphodel Meadows itself, eager to leave the river and its woe behind.

In town, the Kings are well received. It surprises you, to watch them in the street, welcomed by the souls who live there. They take you on a tour, introducing you to residents, explaining the structure, the magic and the infrastructure that makes it all work. Souls take their preferred form in Asphodel Meadows, allowed to choose for themselves, whatever they feel most comfortable in, and you’re shocked that such benevolence would be bestowed upon anyone in the Underworld.

Why are they showing you this? Why go to such great lengths? What is the purpose? 

“Hi.” A small voice breaks you from your confusion, and you find a small girl at your feet, bouquet of Narcissus clutched in her tiny hands. You crouch.

“Hello.”

“I’m Phoebe.” She giggles, cheeks round and rosy.

“I’m Persephone.” You incline your head. “Phoebe is a beautiful name.” Your heart pangs. She’s so small, so… fragile. How did she die? Where is her family? Is she here alone?

“Thank you, my lady.” She tries to bow, and you rush to stop her, stilling her with a hand.

“Are those for me?”

“They are. Johnny said they’re your favorites.” Johnny? You glance over to where they stand, both turned your way, something unreadable in their reflections.

“Well, thank you. They’re lovely.” She wishes you well, skipping off in another direction, and you meander across the street, unable to hide your quizzical expression.

“Johnny? Not Hades?”

“Ach. The kids they’re… they’re usually a wee bit scared, first thing. It’s better for them, if we’re friends.” He shrugs, but Simon watches him in reverence, pure love and light beaming from his gaze, adoration in every slow blink.

Your heart skips.  

Fuck. 

“Are you not hungry?” Simon muses, walking beside you and John in the castle. Your shoes tap along the way, echoing, and Cerberus barks. John glares at them.

“I… I am afraid to eat here.” They both stop short.

“Why?”

“I have always heard… a myth. That if you somehow find yourself here and you eat, you’ll become trapped, stuck here forever.” Simon chuckles, dry and warm.

“No, darling. Please, we do not wish for you to starve.”

“The legend isnae true. Only by eating whole pomegranate seeds that ye pluck from the flesh of the fruit yerself, can ye become bound to the land. And we dinnae serve those.” He winks, stepping a little closer. “Ye can eat, little goddess. Please. Join us for dinner, we insist.”

“Okay.”

Simon is not at dinner.

John makes no mention of it, and only when you’re halfway done does he offer an explanation, something important that needed to be tended to.

“Ye look stunning.” He hums, and you have half the decency to smile. You chose a dress from the never-ending closet, black to match their suits, for fun. Its back is open, and the front offers a generous view of your breasts, but not quite enough.

You felt like sin. Johnny has been staring like you are. And maybe, you didn’t want sex, but you did want to punish them for their treachery. If only a little bit.

For making you a fool. 

“So, no Simon?” He swallows a mouthful of red wine.

“He apologizes. Somethin’ came up.”

“That’s alright.” You shift, legs crossing. The transition is unintentional, but it draws Johnny’s eyes to your knees, and up. You lift your glass, the largest goblet of red wine you’ve seen, and allow a small river of red to run from the corner of your mouth to your neck. It traces the valley between your breasts, and Johnny growls.

“Persephone.”

“What?” You ask, innocently.

“Ye’re playing with fire.” He grits, the gleam in his eyes one of a predator.

“I’m not playing with anything,” you hiss, slamming the glass down. It shatters, it sloshes, it spills onto the table and into your lap. “You’re the ones playing with me. Kidnapping me, holding me hostage.” Your anger builds, overflowing inside your soul, clawing at the locked box of your magic. Cerberus whines, galloping across the floor and out the main door, but you hardly notice, too focused on spitting as much fire and venom at your captor as you can. “Touring me around the Underworld, making yourselves look like some benevolent, beloved rulers when really all you are… are gods of death and decay.” John stares at you, wild eyed. Your chair clatters to the ground as you stand, fury rocketing through every vein in your body, ichor pulsing beneath your skin. You’re so, so close to your power; you can taste it. Can feel the way it screams, how it howls to you, churning in the depths of your being, rattling the cage it’s trapped inside.

Trapped. You’re trapped. Like always. 

Your vision blurs, and you take a step towards John. It all happens so fast, so lightning quick that it doesn’t even register until your hand is swinging through the air and across his face.

He does nothing. You feel the rumble of his power, pushing and pulling at the seams of your very being, waiting to tear your apart, but he holds himself at bay.

Only watches you with cold, wrathful eyes.

The air chills.

“That’s enough.” Simon stands between your bodies. Power, so potent, so strong, wraps tight, shoving your wrists together, Golden cuffs immobilizing you, holding you still. “You want to be a disobedient little brat, is that it?”

“YOU STOLE ME!” You scream it, raw and agonized. It tries to burst through your skin. Tries to explode your vessels. Your very heart. Your chest heaves, eyes wide, and John flanks you, coming closer and closer until you can feel his heat against your side.

He’s hard.

“What did ye think ye were doin, sweet Persephone? Did ye really think you could strike me?”

You don’t have an answer. Words die on your tongue. Guilt burns. Did you want to hurt him? 

Did you?

The cuffs yank you forward. They singe your skin, dragging you to the table. “What’re you doing?” They drag you across the food until you're climbing on top, until your whole body is prone, feet dangling above the floor, bent at the waist.

“Is this what you wanted?” Simon mocks. Hands grip your hips, and your traitorous body clenches. “This what you need, little goddess? Need to be punished?” Your dress is shoved up around your waist, exposing your skin to the frigid air, and you force away a small moan. “You need your pain, darling?” Yes. Fingers pinch the back of your neck. “Answer me.”

“Yes.” You snap, darting daggers with your eyes over your shoulder. His answer is a chuckle.

“Turn your head.” He hisses, hand on the back of your skull. When you do, you come face to face with Johnny’s hips, the length of his cock freed from his suit pants and bobbing right in front of your mouth.

Oh, gods. 

He strokes it slowly, the pink- nearly red tip oozing pre-cum, long and thick in his fist, his size enough to make your thighs press together, cunt throbbing with delight. Traitor.

“Open, darling.” He smears it against your lips. You tuck them in tight, trying to keep them closed, and he looks over, to the god who stands at the curve of your ass.

Simon takes a handful each of your cheeks, spreading you wide. He kicks your feet too, knocking your legs into an A-frame, fully exposing your weeping cunt.

“She’s dripping.” He announces, a finger sliding through your folds, body jolting with his touch. He circles your clit, barely, not enough, and you whine indignantly. It’s enough to loosen your lips, enough for Johnny to grasp your jaw, shove the tip of his thumb between your teeth, and then pry you open.

Once he gets the tip of his cock against your tongue, it’s over. Salt and earth dab along your tastebuds, and you drool on the table, trying to breathe through his rhythm, trying to focus as Simon tucks a finger into your hole, slowly pumping in and out, occasionally pulling free to swirl it around your untouched rim.

One finger inside you is enough to burn, heat rising through your belly, walls clenching tight, and John groans, pressing into the back of your throat, cutting off your airway.

“So good, all day.” Simon grits, stroking your clit in tiny circles. “Sweet Persephone, and now,” he’s building you closer, so close to the precipice, to the top of the mountain where you’ll hope he’ll throw you off.

But it’s not enough. 

“I know darling, don’t worry. I’ll give you your pain.” He croons. John thrusts hard, drives into you vigorously, head thrown back. There’s a sheen of sweat on his neck, and you watch a slow rivulet dip beneath his collar. He’s so… they’re so…

A hand cracks across the tender skin of your ass, rippling out like a shockwave. You choke.

You clench. The tide rises.

“Fuck. There you go.” Light dances in front of your eyes, small pinpricks of stars, and you gurgle on the dick that shoves down your throat. Another strike, the same side, and you cry out, gasping for air. The tip of his finger gently pushes against your rim, and then it’s replaced with a mouth, a hot, intrepid tongue, swirling around as your hips buck and he plays with your clit.

You’re going to die. You’re going to explode. You need more. 

You try to tell him, try to choke it out around John’s shaft, but it’s like he knows, like he’s reading your mind, and he pulls away to dig his teeth into the plump swell of your ass, biting down so hard you think you’re bleeding.

No. You are. 

You scream.

Rivers of ichor paint your skin. The next spank comes directly over the puncture wounds, and instead of screaming in pain, you moan in pleasure, head held in Johnny’s hands, your face a tool for him to fuck, your pussy squeezing down around the single finger stroking in and out of your body. He swings again, and again, fire lighting behind your eyes, explosions going off one by one, your orgasm cresting, rising in the swell of an enormous wave, and just as you’re about to come, Simon plunges a finger deep into your ass, shoving you off the mountain.

To where they catch you below.

The rest is a blur. John finishes down your throat, salt and sweat and tears all mixing in your mouth, and he moans your name as he gives you a belly full of seed.

You’re limp, floating, drifting higher and farther than you ever have before, not in your body, not even in your own mind. Hardly cognizant when you’re picked up, tucked away in the shelter of a chest and carried down the hall. You close your eyes.

You come back a little bit when you’re placed in shallow hot water, a steaming, rocky pool, your face settled in Johnny’s neck. Cloth and deft fingers rub your shoulders, your waist, anywhere you might feel sore, even the bottoms of your feet.

All the while, they talk.

It starts simply, sweet words that fills you up until you can’t take anymore. “Did so well, darling. So good for us.” John murmurs in hushed tones as Simon shifts you, turning you on your belly to run the cloth between your legs and over your ass. It stings, and you hiss, but you’re soothed with an apology, gentle kisses down your spine, each one pressed with praise.

It’s not long before you’re tucked into bed, turned over on your side, some sort of magic and salve being applied to the bite in your skin. You’re gone now, barely aware, barely awake, but with it enough to catch the little bits here and there.

“-talk about it tomorrow.”

“If they’re from Demeter, I’ll-“ No. Not this. Anything but this. Distress catches in your chest, and fingers stroke your cheek.

“Shhh, sweet one. Rest now.” There’s a little touch of magic, a barely there pulse of power, and you let it take you into the soft comfort of sleep, bedded down like a fawn, cradled between two Kings.

*Hymn 2 to Demeter, line 347

#peaches writes #ghoap x reader #ghost x soap x reader #simon riley x reader #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mactavish #simon riley #ghost x soap #soap x reader x ghost #AIV #ghost x reader #hades and persephone #AIV(OFK) #modern retelling

[joelslegalwhre]

My Riduur

I put translation for the Mando‘a words at the end, so you don‘t get confused but I also have the link to the dictionary right here

Took me long enough to write this 😮‍💨 Thank god my exam is over (and I stressed for nothing, it was actually really easy), so here you go with my first ever din fic, I hope you like it x

pairing // Din Djarin x fem!reader

word count // 1.6k

summary // Mando didn't like it at all that some boy thought he could get close to his wife. He couldn't show with actions that you were his, the helmet prevented that, but he had his own way to show it.

warnings // jealous Din (let‘s still call him Din okay, thanks), pda, established relationship, lovesick puppy energy, protective!din, allusions to smut, Din and reader speaking Mando’a, me having absolutely no clue about Mando‘a grammar, taking the helmet off if you’re married is okay here, okay? Thanks (did I miss something?)

Masterlist// Mando‘a dictionary I used // my kofi 🩷

It felt strange to be sitting here, in a bar on Mos Eisley, surrounded by all kinds of people, droids, and even a few bounty hunters.

It wasn't the feeling of sitting in a cantina that was weird. No, it was more the feeling of not having to accept a job. You were not here to look for one. In the last months you had almost had no break, and now you could finally lean back a little. The thought, of picking out a nice place with Mando for the three of you for the next few days, pleased you.

But before you did that, you just had to have the ship repaired a bit, after it had taken quite some damage.

Mando was still at Peli Motto's place, busy showing her the ship and checking the price for the repair. You had been looking around the bar ever since he left, hoping he'd be back soon. The jobs of the last weeks had been unique, the wages you had collected for them were easily enough to sit back and relax for a few days, even after getting the razor crest repaired.

You were sitting at a free spot at the bar of the cantina and watched the people and other beings talking to each other. Some argued, some laughed with each other.

You wondered how long it would take for Mando to-

"Hey there, gorgeous." someone sat down next to you, interrupting your thoughts.

You looked at the stranger for a moment, eyeing him. He had to be your age, a few strands of his dark hair fell into his face, and his eyes were not only gleaming with a deep blue, but with an extreme amount of confidence. "I didn't expect to see an angel today." he smirked in a way that almost made you laugh. He didn't lack any confidence, that was for sure.

You drew your brows together, and tilted your head slightly as you looked at him.

"Say, does that work on any woman?"

At his next sentence, you were sure he definitely had a drink too much or just a little too much self-confidence to flirt so shamelessly.

"You're not any woman." he winked.

You raised your eyebrows and nodded with an amused smile. "Oh, is that so?" you chuckled lightly.

"You're here with someone?" he asked, leaning closer. You immediately brought some more space between the two of you again, "I am, actually."

"Well, then where are they?" he asked with a grin that told you he didn't believe you. "Right here." you could hear Mando's deep, modulated voice. Your heart made a little jump when you turned your head and saw him walking straight towards you.

If looks could kill, this wannabe bounty hunter would be six feet underground by now. Mando's jaw had clenched when he saw the stranger talk to you. His jealousy stewing at the mere thought of another man looking at you this way. He’d been ready to stomp up to him and place a good, hard punch right at this fool's flirtatious face.

"Me'bana?" Mando asked, looking at you. His hand naturally found its place on your waist.

"Nothing," you leaned a little closer to him, "Kaysh mirsh solus."

Mando's light, breathy laugh made you almost turn into a puddle. 'He's an idiot.' you'd told him in Mando's native tongue, so the stranger in front of you wouldn't understand.

You had learned it when you started to accompany Mando. He was confused at first, to say at least, as to why you'd wanted to actually learn the language. But you wanted to get to know Mando, that included his native tongue. And besides, it was fun, sitting in the razor crest next to him, Grogu on your lap, learning to speak and read the extraordinary language of your Mandalorian.

"Hey, just so you know," said one started again, "Unalike that tin can there, I can show my face whenever, my lips too." he smirked. His obvious confusion about the two of you speaking in a language he'd never heard but knew must've been Mando'a.

You politely declined his request, slowly getting annoyed. "Thank you very much, but I actually really like the tin can right here."

Mando wanted to kiss you so bad, show you off as his, but he couldn't. That's just how it was, he couldn't take off his helmet. He was proud of his religion, it was part of him. You'd probably wouldn't even let him take it off, even if he tried. That was one of the many reasons he loved you so deeply. You respected his religion, tried to understand and learn about it.

And he could always take it off when the two of you were back in the privacy of the razor crest. He loved the curious look on your face every time he did, as if it was the first time you've seen his face.

But the truth was, that you were enamored with his features, the patchy beard paired with the mustache, his brown eyes and the brown curls… You could just never get enough of him.

Even before you two were married, you always loved to play with the ends of his fluffy hair, whenever it was getting longer once again. It was never much, but enough.

He had other ways to make sure everyone, especially the fool in front of you, knew you belonged to him.

"We need to look for our child." he was well aware that people believed he meant a human child when he referred to Grogu as "child" or "kid".

The look on the boy's face made a smug smile appear on Din's face, carefully hidden by the beskar helmet. He was so satisfied with himself, you could practically feel it spill over, and you didn't even need to see his face for it. You just chuckled quietly.

"Next time," Mando said, "watch who you talk to. My wife is off limits, understand?" his voice cold, almost threatening.

The eyes of the stranger widened, hearing the title.

You took Mando's gloved hand from where it was still firmly placed on your waist, and intertwined your fingers with his.

"C'mon, let's go," you smiled up at your riduur. You turned back around to address the guy, trying to sound nice, "It was nice meeting you."

With that, you left him sitting there, Mando‘s grip on your hand tightening in a protective manner, as you left the cantina.

When you were back at the ship, you could see Grogu fast asleep in his pod, "He's the most adorable thing I've ever seen." you say to Mando, looking at the little being with a look of pure love. Mando‘s heart warmed at the sight of you and Grogu. His little odd family.

"Even more than you getting all jealous of that guy back in the cantina." you grinned at him teasingly.

Mando stepped closer to you, his hands on your hips once again. You slung your arms around his neck.

"I wasn‘t-" but he interrupted himself, he was jealous, so much so that he would've loved to take his blaster out of the holster, even if it was just for show. "I was protecting my aliit." Family. You could barely get your fastening heartbeat under control, no matter how many times he'd say it. "I'm all yours, Din."

"Good." he said, and lowered his head. You could feel the cold beskar of his helmet touch your forehead. A Mandalorian kiss. You loved when he showed you his love that way. You closed your eyes, just soaking up the moment. You couldn‘t see it, but Mando had also closed his eyes, his hands still on your waist, he tried to memorize every little detail about this, about you.

After some time, spent taking the other in, after savoring the intimacy, you could hear a content sigh voice through his modulator.

"I'll look after you, always." His hand wandered to your cheek and cupped it gently. “And trust me,” he huffed, "I won't let anyone flirt with my wife like that, cyar'ika." 

You grinned up at him. You couldn't wait to be all alone with him, leaving Grogu in the cockpit to sleep, and kiss him. Oh, how badly you just wanted to give his lips a little peck. You settled for wrapping your arms tightly around his armored middle, pressing yourself against his chest. 

Mando's arms around your shoulders, he leaned his helmet against your hair. Even if all you could feel was his armor, it was still him. Your Mandalorian. Your husband. "I love you, mesh'la." the modulator had barely picked it up. He'd whispered it into your hair, like he couldn't believe that you were his. That he had the privilege to be the one to hold you… to love you. And to be loved by you. 

"You know," you started smiling at him innocently, „since the baby's asleep, I thought you could show me how much. I mean, just so I know-"

"Haav." he interrupted you, his voice low, "Now." This was no plead, no, a demand. You chuckled and started walking to the makeshift bed you shared with him.

Behind you, you could hear him taking off his helmet, and you could barely hold in your excitement to finally see his face again. You had really missed it, although you've just seen him this morning before getting up. His armor followed next, a second later you could feel his arms wrap themselves around you. "Too many clothes." he whispered into your ear, his voice clear without the modulator. It gave you goosebumps all over your body, "Take them off then.".

Mando‘a translations:

ner = my, mine

riduur = partner, spouse, husband, wife

Me‘bana? = What‘s happening? What happened?

Kaysh mirsh solus = He‘s an idiot (lit. His brain cell is lonely)

cyar‘ika = darling, sweetheart

mesh‘la = beautiful

aliit = clan name, identity, family

haav = bed

🩶taglist: @alexxavicry @kittenlittle24 @hereforfics124 @Snow30285 @cl16version

#the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian reader insert #the mandalorian x f!reader #the mandalorian #grogu my beloved #star wars #star wars fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x reader #jealousy #pedro pascal #fluff #em's masterlist

[talonabraxas]

The Goddess Sophia Talon Abraxas

“Allegory of Divine Wisdom”

In Gnosticism, the “Fall” didn’t occur through Adam and Eve – it happened before the world’s creation, through a mistake made by a heavenly being called Sophia (whose name is Greek for “Wisdom.”

The story of Sophia’s fall (which was part of the Gnostic creation myth) is told slightly differently in the many Gnostic texts that discuss it, but the various versions of the tale all share the basics in common.

Sophia was one of the “aeons” – divine entities who were descended from God the Father and who were roughly equivalent to angels. Of the many aeons, Sophia was the last to arise from God.

Like the other aeons, Sophia was the child of a male-female pair of aeons that had come before her, who had given birth with the Father’s blessing. Sophia and the rest of the aeons formed the “Pleroma” (Greek for “Fullness”), the Gnostic name for Heaven.

Sophia wanted to have a child, too. But she went about it in the wrong way: she conceived without the involvement of her male partner or the approval of the Father. Her child was the “demiurge,” a misshapen, belligerent creature that was utterly unlike the other heavenly beings.

Sophia immediately realized her horrible mistake and cast her child out of the Pleroma. The demiurge, now alone, believed that he was the only being who had ever existed, and created the material world out of his ignorance, foolishness, and malevolence, trapping sparks of divinity within Adam and Eve along the way.

Because of her fall and its dire consequences, Sophia became a flawed being. Her deficiency rendered her unable to remain in the perfect “Fullness” of the Pleroma, so she was placed just outside of the Pleroma, in a realm above that of her malevolent son. In anguish, Sophia repented, and the Father agreed to bring her back to the Pleroma once what had become lacking in her was restored to its natural fullness.

Precedents for Sophia in Jewish Literature

In the genre of Jewish (“Old Testament”) writing known as “wisdom literature,” Wisdom (Hokma in Hebrew was personified, and she gave monologues describing her great deeds and articulating her perspective on the world. Since Hokma, like the Greek Sophia, is a feminine noun, Wisdom was cast as a female figure. In the words of Nicola Denzey Lewis, Wisdom is “God’s active feminine principle, at once a part of God but also separate from God,” as in Proverbs 8, Job 28, and Sirach 24. In this regard, she’s much like the Gnostic aeons, who are also semi-independent extensions of God. They act, whereas God himself simply is.

Here’s an example of one of Wisdom’s monologues, Proverbs 8:22-31:

The Lord created me at the beginning of his work, the first of his acts of long ago. Ages ago I was set up, at the first, before the beginning of the earth. When there were no depths I was brought forth, when there were no springs abounding with water. Before the mountains had been shaped, before the hills, I was brought forth— when he had not yet made earth and fields, or the world’s first bits of soil. When he established the heavens, I was there, when he drew a circle on the face of the deep, when he made firm the skies above, when he established the fountains of the deep, when he assigned to the sea its limit, so that the waters might not transgress his command, when he marked out the foundations of the earth, then I was beside him, like a master worker; and I was daily his delight, rejoicing before him always, rejoicing in his inhabited world and delighting in the human race.

The Gnostic depiction of Sophia was surely heavily influenced by this earlier Jewish depiction of Wisdom, both directly and indirectly through the works of thinkers such as Philo of Alexandria, a first-century Jewish intellectual who worked personified Wisdom into a rationalized cosmological system that sought to synthesize and harmonize the Jewish scriptures with the works of Plato, another importance influence on the Gnostics and early Christians more generally.

Sophia and Non-Gnostic Christians

Some texts from the Valentinian school of Gnosticism connect the story of Sophia’s fall to the fate of non-Gnostic Christians – that is, Christians who have the baseline Christian virtue of faith but not the higher mystical insight of gnosis, the root of the word Gnostic.

For these Valentinians, those with gnosis will ascend to the Pleroma after their deaths to partake of its perfect “Fullness.” Christians without gnosis will still be saved, but will have to spend some time in the place where Sophia was put after her fall, so that they, like her, can continue to advance in perfection until they’re worthy of being admitted to the Pleroma. You could say that Sophia’s realm is much like Purgatory in this view.

The existence of Sophia’s celestial waiting room of sorts enabled these Valentinians to have their cake and eat it, too: to preserve the special privilege that they believed gnosis imparted to them, while nevertheless being able to reassure other Christians that they, too, would ultimately be saved. This was surely a socially advantageous view, since it placed the Valentinians within the wider Christian fold rather than apart from it.

[creature-wizard]

May I ask how Blavatsky's New Age movement is culturally Christian despite her hating Christianity?

Yup!

So, being culturally Christian isn't about agreeing with Christianity's beliefs. It's about living within and internalizing elements of Christian culture.

For example, many of our swear words/phrases are related to Christianity - EG, hell, damn, Jesus Fucking Christ, Christ on a cracker, etc.

The word "goodbye" derives from "god be with ye." We often say "bless you" after people sneeze, which comes from "God bless you," which again, has Christian origins.

Christmas being a federal holiday is an example of cultural Christianity. And if you're an atheist celebrating Christmas because you see it as being about family, you're still participating in cultural Christianity.

Now of course, none of these things are inherently bad. In fact, most of cultural Christianity isn't bad. Most of it's pretty neutral. Most of it.

Cultural Christianity also shapes our ideas of what religion looks like, how it functions, and what its purpose is. For example, many western antitheists just assume that all religions want to aggressively spread themselves, all claim to have ultimate truth, and threaten nonbelievers with punishment. Meanwhile, many of these atheists go about their atheism the same way many Christians go about Christianity - treating it as something that needs to be far and wide to save the world and usher in the utopia.

And this brings us to our next point - Christianity shapes how many of us expect the future to unfold. Specifically, a lot of us just sort of think that a utopia is just around the corner (or just imagine that as a thing that can happen if we try hard enough) thanks to Christian millennialism.

Blavatsky's concept of a New Age is basically informed by Christian millennialism. Her whole idea that the spiritually unevolved would be wiped out and a new race of spiritually superior people would take over isn't exactly Christian belief, but it's definitely informed by it.

Now some of you might be thinking, "okay, but Blavatsky drew inspiration from many religions." And you'd be right. But the thing is, she looked at and interpreted these other religions from the perspective of one who was culturally Christian. Additionally, she was taking a perennialist approach to religion, which is a thing Christians have been doing since the early days of Christianity, basically trying to claim that proof of Jesus was found in their own spiritual beliefs and religious traditions. Blavatsky, of course, wasn't looking for proof of Jesus, but she was looking for validation of her own beliefs. Hell, like many Christians before her, she even tries to claim Kabbalah validates her beliefs.

Additionally, she values the Christian Bible as a holy text with spiritual truths that she and everyone should be concerned about. Even if she disagrees with more orthodox interpretations, the fact that she thinks this is a book she needs to concern herself with at all is because of her cultural Christianity. She was informed and influenced by Christian modes of occultism and esotericism.

Ultimately, being culturally Christian has nothing to do with whether you embrace or even like Christianity's spiritual doctrines. It's about living in a Christianized society and conforming to any of its Christianity-derived assumptions, mores, and customs, regardless of what they have to do with any official church doctrine.

#blavatsky #helena blavatsky #new age #cultural christianity #christianity

[stesierra]

Since I'm trying to share something every day to motivate myself to write again, here's the first chapter of one of my adult fantasy books. At one point I loved it but I had a critique partner read the whole thing and now it embarrasses me. So this is probably terrible but give it a chance maybe? Trigger warning: magical seizures.

Please tell me if you want to be removed from the taglist. Or added, I guess.

Stitches and Memories

(WHY DID I PICK SUCH A TERRIBLE TITLE?)

Chapter One

The 4th Day of Spring, 502 King's Rule

Antea didn't spend her thirtieth birthday celebrating with the few people who called her acquaintance. She spent it dying. Again.

A normal woman wouldn't be on the floor of her bathroom, occasionally spasming hard enough to slam her head into the wooden tub. All she was doing was reliving her first kiss at age seventeen. It was just a memory. It was just a memory, brain, get it together.

But her brain did not get it together. It flooded her with memories of the boy's pink lips -- too wet and too large -- at the same time as it slammed a pickax through her eyes over and over again. She'd blacked out too much to see the room around her, but she felt it when her legs spiked straight and slammed her into the wall. She came away with splinters in her arm and cheek.

"Shut up over there!" her neighbor bellowed from the next apartment over. "Keep pounding on the walls and I'll report this to the constables!"

He probably would, too, the bastard.

In her mind, the boy drew back and beamed at her. The memory ended there, but the pickax didn't stop for another twenty minutes.

When the agony died down, she dragged herself over to the chamber pot and threw up.

When she finally eased her eyes open, a partly digested pasty stared up at her. The pounding on her door registered then. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound raised dread in her heart. Only one type of person knocked like that in Drazen. With that terrible implacability.

When she wrenched the door open, hinges squealing, a broad man in green stared down at her over his posh black mustache. Some seamstress had embroidered his doublet with the king's symbol, a golden lion biting its tail. The gold thread was real, which meant she'd gotten an up-city constable somehow, which was deeply unfair since she lived in the slums.

He frowned at her. She could guess what he was seeing: a barefoot, brown-skinned woman who had just grown out of being pretty, wearing a dress that had been mended too many times. Her golden hair was mashed in a nest on one side of her head. She smelled of a few days of sweat and dirt.

Her black hair had turned metallic gold when she was eighteen. No, she didn't know why. There was a lot about being eighteen that she didn't know.

She bowed deeply. "May I help you, sir?"

He said, "I've had a noise complaint here. Pounding on the walls. Disrupting the peace."

"I had a fit of convulsions in my bathroom."

He frowned at her, his whole face drooping. "We have had a lot of complaints about these convulsions."

Antea resisted the urge to wrap her hands around his fat neck. "Yes. That's because it's a medical condition." And it was true, even if they weren't the normal sort of fits, not normal at all. As far as she understood it, normal people with convulsions thrashed around less and passed out and sometimes forgot the whole thing. She wasn't normal. She was awake through the fire in her head and every twitch and spasm, and she remembered everything.

The constable leaned in close. "Have you been praying for healing?"

"Yes."

"If I go and check your records, will I find you tithing regularly to at least one of the gods?"

"Yes," she lied.

"Because if I check and you haven't, then you aren't really trying to be healed, and you will be held wholly responsible for remaining ill."

"Which entails?"

He sniffed. "After all this commotion, I would think eviction, at least."

Her rentals always ended in eviction, but she had hoped this one would last out the year. "Sir, the Stag God teaches mercy to the infirm and poor. Seeing as I'm both, I would be most grateful for your understanding."

"There are many such deserving citizens in Drazen. But with your extensive record--"

"Of what? Running into walls in the night? That's not even a crime."

The man straightened to his full height, towering over her like the Eagle God over his foes. "If a constable of the law says you have committed a crime, then you have. Gather your things if you have any. I will speak with your landlord, and it will go poorly for you if you are still here tonight."

Antea sagged against the doorframe. "Yes, sir."

He smiled at her, wide and smug. "Oh, and remember the curfew."

It took all her willpower not to punch him. She turned sharply instead and shut the door in his face.

She didn't have much to gather. Her ragged haversack weighed nothing when she slung it over her shoulder. Her leather shoes were hiding under the bed. Even though the seams on the sides were giving way, they covered her toes at least. One change of clothes and a wool blanket lay on the mattress. The blanket served as a blanket, but her extra dress was her only pillow. She wrapped one inside the other and tied them to the bottom of her haversack.

One last thing remained. A letter. When she'd moved in, she had shoved it under the mattress where she wouldn't have to look at it. She pulled it out now and thought about throwing it on the fire. It would burst into flames, burning fast and hot, the dry paper shrinking into black curls before they crumbled away into white ash. If she burnt the letter, she would never have to read those words again. The pain in her head might always be with her, but that pain she could leave behind.

She read the letter. It said:

"My beloved daughter, I write this for my own sake, for you will never read it. Forgive me. What I tore from your mind was necessary, but with that wound, I know that I have killed you. May the gods have mercy on my soul."

She ran her fingertips over his signature. Then she put the letter in her bag and walked out of the tenement never to return.

--

It was two hours before the doleful tones of the curfew bell would ring across the city, two hours for Antea to find shelter for the night. She didn't have the coin for an inn. She had just paid the damn landlord the next month's rent money, not that he would ever consider a refund. If she asked he would laugh in her face, and the law would be on his side, too, like it always was.

With no other option, she headed for the nice part of the city. Not the nicest because that was up near the royal castle and the queen's spire, and people like her weren't allowed there. No, she went to the parts frequented by merchants and the new rich, where no one would care that she was there.

In the dimming light, the nice quarter was all faded stone edges and empty streets. Even the rich had to follow curfew. But even in the twilight, the library stood out as the biggest building in the district. Pilgrims that followed the Crow God visited from all over Ritalia. Its marble facade was hidden under red leather prayer offerings. When it rained the entire building stank like a wet dog.

She slipped between the leaving patrons and headed for the front desk. Zoren, the head librarian, raised his eyebrows at her. He was a pleasantly overweight man in a long black robe, with large spectacles sitting on top of his bulbous nose. The blue mage light beside him shone off his bald head. "Antea? This is quite the departure from the norm. What's going on, then?"

She flushed and hiked her haversack higher on her shoulder. "I got evicted. I was wondering--

"If you can sleep in one of the back rooms tonight?"

She nodded.

The librarian's voice was gentle but unyielding. "If we were caught housing people in a building not zoned for it, we could get into a great deal of trouble with the constables."

"That's a no?"

"I'm sorry, Antea. Good luck finding shelter tonight."

She bowed to him and slumped out of the library. But she stopped on the front steps and straightened up. She wasn't giving up that easily. The constable who had evicted her thought he'd catch her for breaking curfew, and that he'd see her locked up and the key thrown away. But Antea had planned for this, even if she had hoped the day would never come.

All her worldly possessions on her shoulder, she walked half a mile to the Shrine of the Gods.

The Shrine of the Gods was not one shrine but many, all marked by white marble columns that thrust up from the city streets. At its base, each pillar bore the painted statue of one of the gods. When you approached a statue, you were isolated from the others by head-high circular walls around each column. They carved out a little bubble of space so that it was just you and whatever god you had chosen, and anyone else who wanted to pray had to wait in line. Those lines sometimes stretched out for miles, but at this time of night, every statue she passed was alone.

An overnight vigil was the one thing the constables couldn't complain about. She wouldn't get any sleep that night, but she wouldn't end up in jail.

Antea paced around, refreshing her memory about which god's statue stood where. There were thirty-two gods to choose from. Some of them were so minor no one worshipped them, but the Shrine represented all gods. Leaving one out just because they were as popular as moldy cheese was unthinkable.

Antea picked the Dog Goddess because she'd always been fond of bitches, and who didn't need a little guidance in their lives? She sat cross-legged on the braided wool mat spread out before the goddess's marble toes. The Dog Goddess stood in two forms next to herself. One was a rearing limer with floppy ears, painted black and brown, the other a small-breasted naked woman, painted with dark skin and white hair. The woman's hand was outstretched in benediction. It shone white at the tips, the details of her fingers worn smooth from the touch of too many worshipers.

Antea leaned close and said, "Hi."

The goddess did not reply.

"It's been a while since I talked to one of you gods. I'm not very pious, I know."

The dog statue of the goddess had its head tilted as if Antea had done something peculiar.

Antea drew her knees up to her chest. "It's funny, you know. I used to be very pious. Ready to do anything any god asked of me. Thirteen years ago." Thirteen years ago, she'd been a lot of things.

In the twilight, the goddess's expression looked sympathetic, but Antea had had twelve years to learn how little the gods cared.

She said, "I think I'm supposed to ask you for a gift. It's traditional, or something."

Someone passed by outside, and Antea forced herself to stay relaxed. Go away. She was communing with her god, like a good little citizen. Go away.

She stayed silent until the footsteps had faded. Then she said, "So, demanding things. I can't think of what I want. I mean, I want to be healed. But you've all said no to that." Thousands upon thousands of prayers, all unanswered. She'd even tried the gods no one prayed to anymore. And nothing.

Beyond the shelter of the shrine walls, the constables were ringing curfew. They'd start searching the streets soon, looking for beggars and troublemakers and other unwanteds. People like her who hadn't been smart enough to hide out at the Shrine. She needed to look prayerful, but it was early enough spring that the nights were still cold. Surely it couldn't hurt to pull out her blanket and cover her lap. The devout didn't have to freeze, did they?

"I'll ask for food and a place to sleep. That's nice and humble, right?" She undid the ties at the bottom of her haversack and yanked her blanket loose. When her spare dress clung to it, she stuffed it in the bag. And the letter fell out and fluttered to the stones.

Antea froze. She stared down at where it lay, heavy with its words. When she sat back down, blanket hugged against her chest, her movement bumped the letter a few inches away, but it didn't disappear.

She buried her face in wool and said, "You can't be serious. That's not a reasonable suggestion."

It wasn't, but the Dog Goddess wasn't suggesting anything. Antea was just talking to herself again. If the goddess had actually been present, the statue would have lit up with bright light, perfectly white the way mage lights never managed. Antea had seen the gods answer petitioners before. She used to watch her father-- Never mind. Forget it.

But she didn't forget it in time. Stabbing pains made her squeeze her eyes shut.

Someone cleared his throat behind her. She spun around, and the headache and the motion nearly made her vomit.

A Shrine worker stood there in his modest tunic and apron, both glowing white. He bowed his curly head and said, "You're here very late, daughter."

Antea kept her head high and clasped her hands together on her lap. "I'm keeping a vigil."

"I thought that perhaps that was the case. We do permit vigils, despite the curfew, but I must ask what you pray for tonight. The constabulary has us keep records, you see."

Of course they did. And if she didn't tell him something worthy of a goddess's guidance, he would call the constables. And she couldn't say she was asking for healing because the Dog Goddess wasn't a healer.

The letter lay innocently on the stone beside her. She picked it up and held it in her hand. Words flowed from her lips as if someone else was doing the talking. "My father hurt me and left me for dead, twelve years ago. I don't know what happened to him after that. He never came back to the city."

The worker's brows lifted, and his lips pursed as he took a step towards her. "That is... troubling. What guidance do you hope the Dog Goddess will grant you?"

Antea slumped, letting the letter trail against the ground. "I just... I need to know why. Why he did it. But he's the only one who knows, and there's no way I could afford a passport to even leave the city, much less to go to all the places he might be. That's why I've never found him."

The Shrine worker nodded. "That is a difficult problem, and one I fear I cannot help you with. But keep your vigil, daughter, and perhaps the goddess will grant you her wisdom." He swept his hands in a sign of blessing, and he walked on.

Antea let her breath out in a rush. She shoved the letter back in her haversack with shaky hands and wrapped herself up in the blanket.

"Close one, huh?" she said to the goddess's statue. "Maybe give me some guidance if you feel like it. Because I would like to know what he ruined my life for."

The goddess's statues stayed dark. If the goddess intended to guide her, it wouldn't be directly.

She sighed and rocked back and forth. "I know I'm very stupid. What am I hoping for? To remember? Trying to remember makes it worse." Even remembering something near to that day threatened to tear her mind apart.

The cloudy heavens overhead split and spilled out a thousand stars, winking and sparkling like candlelight seen from far away. Her brain throbbing with its usual rhythm, Antea sank down in her blanket, shut her mouth, and closed her eyes.

@anonymousfoz

@moremysteriesthantragedies

@elizababie

@sm-writes-chaos

@bellascarousel

@palebdot

@Hyba

#writeblr #writing #writing community #creative writing #fantasy #this is terrible #why am i even posting this #Stitches and Memories

[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Fifteen

Tom Bennett x OFC

[Masterlist]

Warnings: Language, World on Fire spoilers

Word Count: 5K

Notes: We’ve got Tom, a little of Douglas and Bess, and lot of Tom again. A little worried about this chapter because obviously from here I’m going to be filling in the gaps that the show left out and going beyond. Also, for the sake of the timeline of my story, I’ve brought the Blitz forward to June rather than September. In the TV show, I think Tom spent longer in the hospital judging by the weather and Manchester’s preparation for the Blitz. On with the chapter.

June 1940

Tom glanced at the pile of clothes on the bed. Jacques, the doctor who had tried to restrain him a few days previous, stood guarding the door.

“Put it on, now.”

Tom shrugged off the loose-fitting shirt he had been given, the one that probably belonged to some poor bastard long since six feet under, and pulled on the green shirt and scratchy trousers left for him on the bed.

“What the fuck do you call this outfit?” Jacques ignored him. “This your revenge?” Still Jacques said nothing, and Tom winced as he pulled the braces over his injured shoulder. “I know you speak English, you understood full well when I was calling you a coward.”

Despite himself, Jacques smiled. Through the bravado and arrogance, it was impossible not to like Tom Bennett. He looked over his shoulder to see Tom adjusting his jacket. The Englishman approached the door but Jacques stopped him and held a finger to his lips.

“Come,” He beckoned Tom back to the bed, where he withdrew a sheet and indicated for Tom to lie down.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Jacques shook his head. “Jesus,” Tom swung his legs and lay down as Jacques drew the sheet over him.

“Off to the morgue, my friend,” Tom could hear the smile in Jacques’ voice. He held his palm to his thigh, and the photograph of Bess he had snuck into the pocket there. The things he was doing to get back to her. He smiled, thinking of how she would laugh. Above him, Jacques whispered, “Here we go,” and Tom felt the trolley pushed through the ward doors. Through the sheet, he watched the flicker of muted light as he passed along the corridor. For what felt like ages, Jacques rattled the trolley through the makeshift hospital.

“You, sir!” Fuck. Jacques halted the trolley bearing Tom.

“Yes, my German friend. How may I help you?” Jacques’ voice was muffled above him, and Tom’s heartbeat thundered in his ears. He steeled himself as Jacques and the German spoke. Tom was certain this wouldn’t be the first time he’d encounter Nazis on his escape, but it would be just his luck to get scuppered now. His palms started to sweat. Unable to take a deep breath, for fear of being seen, Tom did the only thing he could to relax. He thought of Bess. He wondered what she would be doing now. At the hospital? On a date with James? God he hoped that bastard made her happy. In truth, Tom couldn’t imagine Bess with another man than him, and for once it wasn’t his selfishness speaking. Bess let very few people know her, and he counted himself one of those lucky few. He was certainly the only man anyway, aside from perhaps her father and Albie. Maybe she was making something for a client, those elegant fingers dancing over the fabric. His heart rate quickened. Don’t think about her fingers. She could be at the piano, or Belle Vue with the girls. He imagined her dragging Roberta to the carousel; Hattie and Jude would have jumped on willingly. Would she tell them about him winning the coconut for her, or would she keep him a secret too?

The light above him darkened and Tom held his breath as the shadow of a hand passed over his face. This was it. He’d never see Bess again.

“How did he die?”

“Hard to tell,” Jacques’ voice was quick, and the shadow disappeared. “Hardly anything of him left.”

There was a moment’s pause, and Tom felt his chest burning with the need for oxygen. Footsteps passed by, and the trolley resumed its journey. Tom’s exhale was slow, but his mind raced. Surely they were almost there. As if on queue, he felt the trolley hit another set of doors and the light darkened. The white sheet was ripped off him and Jacques and Webster towered over him. They were in a storage cupboard.

“You’re gonna lie low here until the evening. When our contact arrives, we’ll come get you.” Webster said as Tom hopped of the bed. He looked around at the cleaning materials and cobwebs.

“Couldn’t have found me a comfier spot? Don’t think much of the way you take care of your dead, mate.”

Jacques smiled as Webster sighed. “Sit tight. It won’t be long.” The door shut behind the doctors, and Tom was left alone with the spiders and his thoughts of home, and Bess.

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

The day was unusually chill for June, and Bess was heading home from her day shift at the hospital. A blanket of cloud covered the sky yet there was no threat of rain, just a light breeze as the bus trundled from the centre of the city to her home on its suburban outskirts. She caught a man looking at her legs, and she surveyed him in turn. He was fairly handsome in an old-fashioned way, with his moustache and neat hair however, the double-breasted suit he wore looked like a smoking jacket and Bess sniggered. Taking this gesture as a flirtatious advance, the man smiled and sat next to her. Bess sighed. The man said nothing and Bess rolled her eyes. Turning to face him, she saw him staring at her legs once more. Caught in the act, his eyes flashed to her face. Up close, he looked nearer middle age than she had initially thought. She also noticed the wedding ring he wore as he smoothed his hair. Just then, the bus went over a pothole and the book she had on her lap slipped. The pair both went to pick it up but the gentlemen got there first. Bess held out her hand for it.

“I’ll hold it for you.” Ah, so he was one of those posh buggers up from London on war work. The ones who always seemed so smug about their part in the war effort. Nice and tidy, making orders for other people to dirty their hands with.

“I can hold it myself, thank you.” Bess’ hand didn’t move, and the stranger placed the book there. He said nothing for a few more moments, and Bess was about to remark on what a miracle it was he had a wife with such poor game when he spoke again.

“Where are you heading?”

“Longsight.”

“God,” The man scoffed. “What on earth for?”

Bess looked at him with a small smile and batted her eyelashes. The gentleman leant closer. “I’m from Longsight.” She stared with prideful amusement as panic flashed across the man’s face. He vacated his seat and stood at back of the bus until his stop. He didn’t look at Bess’ legs again.

When she got off in Longsight, a few teenage boys whistled as they cycled past the remnants of a bombed-out church. Bess shooed them good naturedly. That was yet another thing Tom knew about her that no-one else did. He had said so during their argument; she liked the attention of men. Something about being the one that now held power of them rather, as it had been growing up, the other way around. There was even a fraction of time on the bus when she angled her legs so the stranger could get a better look. Despite the fact, these small flickers of attention were all she could stand these days. Since Tom’s disappearance, the thought of another man made her queasy. Her dates with James had ceased; their night at the picture house stalled due to Albie’s death and Bess’ mind with him and Tom only. In the café of Manchester Art Gallery, she gently broke it off with the solider. He took it well, kissing her hand as she wished him well and asked that he write to her. Bess doubted he would, but her care for the man was still there, if not deep affection.

She turned into their street and stopped. Even from the end of the road, Bess could still make out the black ribbon still tied to her father’s door. It waved at her in the wind, and Bess chose to walk on the opposite side of the street, delaying seeing her family until the evening. Arriving at her destination, she looked through the window and felt her heart constrict. Douglas was alone at the kitchen table, magnifying glass in hand as he poured over a stack of newspapers. She sighed and knocked on the door. The faraway stare that Douglas gave her when he opened it told her that his mind was still in France with his son.

“Hello,”

“Alright, Bess love?” Douglas wiped his hands on his trousers agitatedly and tried desperately to smile at her.

“I just thought,” Bess suddenly felt enormous, as though the attention of everyone in the street was on her. Why had she thought it a good idea to come and bear over Douglas’ anxiety? She cleared her throat. “I just thought, I haven’t seen much of you recently, and was missing your company.”

That did it. Douglas seemed to come round and his face softened. Though his mouth didn’t move, his eyes smiled and he stepped aside to let her in. “You missed Lois, I’m afraid,” He seemed bashful that Bess would want to spend time with him. “She’s off singing with Connie at the RAF base.”

“Ah, I wonder if she’s seen our Roger-”

“’Our Roger’, is he?” Douglas smiled and set about making tea. “Are we to have some happy news at last?”

“God, I hope so.”

Bess glanced about the table. Newspapers of all publishers were scattered about, scribbles in the margins and photographs circled. A notepad lay open next to her and Bess snuck a look at it. A timeline of the Dunkirk invasion, from what Douglas had gleaned from the news.

HMS KEITH SINKS

Bess swallowed thickly and averted her eyes as they began to water. If he’d been on the ship, they’d surely know his fate for certain.

“Here you are,” Douglas passed her a cup of tea and sat in his rocking chair by the hearth. Bess sat in the armchair opposite him, and they spent an hour talking quietly about all that had happened since she moved to Manchester. They spoke lovingly of dear little Jan and giggled at Mrs Chase, though Bess sensed that Douglas held a quiet regard for her. Bess told him about her nursing, and he held her hand as the subject turned to Albie and her family.

“Been keeping an eye on your dad,” Douglas said quietly.

“Thank you,” Bess whispered.

“I think your Cora and Dot are more than capable, but, well, you know…” His voice trailed off and Bess knew he was inferring her father’s temper when beer and whisky were involved. Douglas sighed. “No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to do right by Lois, and Tom-Tom-“ He sighed again. “I have all this love inside me, and nowhere to put it. At least your Dot and Cora and dad can have it.”

He scrunched his nose, as though trying to retract what he had just said. It was exactly what Tom would have done, and she grinned. Bess didn’t know what came over her, but Douglas was so like his son in that moment, she leant across their entwined hands and placed a kiss on his lips.

They froze. Douglas looked at her, utterly stunned. Heat flushed Bess’ cheeks.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” She stood quickly and covered her face. “Oh my God-”

She span in a circle, not knowing what to do.

“Bess, love-”

“I’m so sorry, Douglas. Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me-” Tears were pricking her eyes.

“Bess, love,” Douglas laughed. “Bess! It’s alright,” He stood and pulled her hands from her face so that he could look at her. “It’s alright, come on.” He sat her back in the armchair.

“It’s just-” Bess dried her eyes with shaking hands, still embarrassed by her actions and Douglas’ kindness. “I don’t know who I am anymore. My head is all over the place, and just then, you were so like Tom-” She stopped. Shit. Douglas watched her pensively and Bess wanted to run away.

“It’s the one thing people always overlook about us quiet folks,” he said after a few moments. “We’re not speaking, but we’re always observing. I knew my Tom was keen on you, has been for years. He’s never committed to much but I’ve seen the ways he skitters about after you.” Bess let out a watery laugh. “And here you are, just as keen on him.”

That was all it took. Bess leant her head in her hands and let her tears for Tom come break free. “I miss him so much,”

“I know, love, I do too.” He took Bess’ hand again. “I should have told him I loved him.”

“Me too.”

✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼　 　✼

Tom walked through the hallways of the reception. Webster had come by only a minute before. The contact was here. Shaking out his hands and loosening his shoulders, he squared himself, ready for anything. Confrontation, a fight, running away, death. He touched the photograph in his pocket.

“Come on, Tom Bennett, you can do this.” He jogged down the stairs, eying everyone in the foyer. They went about their business. “Come on.” He reached the foot of the stairs and made for the door when a hand stopped him. A girl. She nodded and beckoned that he follow. She couldn’t have been much older than Dot and, with her hair tied in a headscarf and her wide-legged slacks, he thought deliciously of Bess. A long-lost Vaughn sister.

“I was expecting a man,” Tom said lowly in her ear as they walked briskly down the dark Paris street.

“So was I,” she retorted. God, she was exactly like Bess. Tom smiled looked over his injured shoulder. “Security in that place is mad. It’s a miracle I only died once.” The girl ignored him. Perhaps it was too much to hope that she would be like Bess in and listen to his attempts at humour.

“Take my hand,”

“What?” She was certainly more forward than the Longsight girls, Queenie Warren aside.

“Take my hand. If we look like lovers, we are less likely to attract attention.”

He couldn’t help himself. Adventure was on the horizon and he was going home. Something of pre-war Tom peaked out from its hiding place. “If there’s anything else you want me to do to look like your lover, you know, just say.”

The girl rolled her eyes and tugged at his hand a little harder. He hissed.

“Careful of the shoulder,”

“Ssh!” Her voice was urgent. “Don’t let on that you’re injured.”

“Well don’t try and pull my arm off,” he whispered back. Once more, she rolled her eyes and led him away from the hospital. For at least an hour, they walked down backstreets, cut through nightclubs and hid in bushes to avoid Nazi checkpoints. The French woman said nothing to him, only marched him towards freedom. When at last they were free of the city’s centre, Tom asked her name.

“Claudette.”

“Claudette..?”

“Just Claudette.”

“Right,” She was a damn sight more annoying than the Vaughn girls. “Well, I’m Tom-”

“I know, but only for a few more hours.”

Tom was about to ask her what this meant when she came to a sudden stop outside a small apartment complex. She knocked on the door and it opened immediately. Tom watched as Claudette spoke in hushed whispers to the gentleman on the other side of the door. He eyed Tom suspiciously but let them in. Immediately, Claudette hurried up the spiralling stairway and it was an effort for Tom to keep up. When he was at her side, Claudette knocked on a dark door adorned with the number three. Beside the number, a small symbol had been scratched into the wood. Again, she spoke in a hushed voice to whoever was on the other side before they were allowed in.

It took a moment for Tom’s eyes to adjust, for the room was lit with covered lamps. A few people looked up their position at a table in the centre of the room. They were punching the keys of their typewriters frantically and did not say hello. Through another door they went, and Tom surmised that this had been the kitchen before the flat it was converted into a rescue base. A scrawny man was hunched over some paper, tweezers in hand. Next to him was a pot and paintbrush. The man picked it up and coated a small, stamp sized piece of paper in a whiteish liquid before placing it on the larger sheet in front of him with the tweezers. It dawned on Tom what they were doing. Forging papers.

“Ouch!” He yelled in pain as yet another stranger grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the wall.

“They shot him,” Claudette said lazily. The man who grabbed Tom hmphed and placed him in front of a white screen.

“Stand there,” he raised a camera in Tom’s face and it clicked. The flash was bright, and before he could regain his sight, Tom was buffeted out of the kitchen and told to sit on one of the many chairs scattered around the lounge. The man hurried away with the camera.

“They’ve turned the bathroom into a darkroom,” Claudette said, noticing Tom’s confusion as his eyes followed the man. “Your papers will be ready in a few hours. Get some sleep, we have a long day tomorrow.” With that, she left to speak to her friends typing in the foyer. Tom sat where he was left as people worked around him. Not once did they look at him, or say hello, and the reality of what he was doing sank in. He was the first on a long list of people they were going to help escape. They had to get this right. Sprawling across three chairs, he took out the picture of Bess and traced her face. The dark curls, the rosebud lips, the steely eyes. Whatever sleep he had that night was fitful, but always full of her.

The next day, they left before dawn. A sea of fearful faces watched on as Tom and Claudette left the apartment; he shook hands with the forger and waved adieux as they hurried down the stairs and into the dark light of sleeping Paris. He was no longer Tom Bennett, but Laurent Proulx. At least, that’s what his ration card and passport said. The aim was to get to the earliest train out of Paris in order to avoid the checkpoints. Together, he and Claudette would travel to Bayonne by train and from there to Urrugne by any means possible.

The journey, as it turned out, was easier than Tom anticipated. By that evening, he and Claudette were in Bayonne, sleeping in an abandoned barn. He’d have preferred a bed, but evaders can’t be choosers. Someone along the Comet Line, for that was the name the resistance planned to give it, had left food for them under a bucket. Cheese, bread and half a bottle of wine. He spent the night gazing at the stars beyond the dilapidated roof, clutching the photograph and thinking of Bess.

Claudette woke him with a start, already dressed and offering a crust of bread.

“We have a long day ahead. You’ll need your energy and your wits.”

Blackbirds were bleating beyond the barn, and Tom saw the first rays of dawn inching through the roof. As he told Webster he would, they followed the coast. After seven hours on foot, avoiding the roads and checkpoints, they came to rest beyond a pine forest clearing near Urrugne. From the pack upon her back, Claudette produced tomatoes, ham, a flagon of water, and half a loaf of stale bread. She ate hastily, ripping into the bread and humming a little. At her feet, a map lay open and she studied it. Tom leant against one of the trees, savouring every mouthful. What he would give for one of Lois or Cora’s roast dinners. Had he ever had any of Bess’ cooking? A few cakes at parties, but she normally made do with helping Cora. He took out the photograph and looked at it fondly. Sadly.

“Who is she?”

Tom was lost in Bess and only vaguely registered Claudette’s voice. “Hm?” he said through a mouthful of bread. Claudette pointed to the photograph in his hand.

“The woman in the picture, who is she? I’ve given up counting how many times I’ve seen you staring at her.”

Tom smiled boyishly to himself, and tucked Bess into the pocket of his shirt.

“Bess,” he said, watching as Claudette considered the name. “We grew up together.”

“And, is she waiting for you at home?”

Tom’s bottom lip quirked. “I don’t know.” I hope so. Claudette seemed to read his mind.

“She gave you a photograph, didn’t she?” Tom smiled at her. After he reached his freedom, he would never see Claudette again. What was the harm in telling her? Again, she knew what he was thinking. “I know you want to tell me about her.”

“And you know that curiosity killed the cat,”

“But satisfaction brought it back!” Tom laughed at her. “Come on, Monsieur Proulx, you’ve got eight lives left. Tell me about this one you share with Bess.”

Tom thought a moment. The history of Tom Bennett and Bess Vaughn was a long one, and the right moment had to be chosen to begin their story.

“We both lost our mothers when we were young. My mam was Marie, and hers was Etta. They were thick as thieves, that means best friends in England. Anyway, Bess didn’t really talk about her mam after she died. The only time she did was when I found her crying by the bins behind the house. That’s the thing about Bess. She never says anything, but she does everything. When I was about sixteen, I had a massive argument with my dad and went to the cemetery to chat to mam. Bess and her sisters used to take picnics down to Etta’s grave and spend the day with her, and they’d just convinced me of how calming it can be. So, I went down to chat to mam. And I’m a Manchester lad, see, I don’t chat about my feelings. But I’d been there an hour or so when a tin can landed next to me. I looked up and saw Bess was walking along with her own tin can attached to a bit of string. Right across the graveyard it spread. She sat by Etta’s grave and, connected by those two tin cans and a piece of string, she let me know that she understood. I didn’t have to talk to her, I didn’t have to tell her how I felt, she was just letting me know that she knew.”

He paused to rest his head against the tree. Claudette said nothing, just waited for him to continue.

“You’d be thick as thieves and all. Not many people can put up with me, but you’ve both managed. She only wears make up when she wants to feel strong, normally when we go dancing-”

“I love dancing,”

“See! You’d love each other. It’s one of the few times she wears dresses too. Loves a good pair of trousers. She’s a seamstress by trade, trained at a posh outfitter in Manchester and makes clothes for her family. Best dressed girls in the north.”

“What are her sisters called?”

“Cora is the eldest, had to grow up before her time, like my sister Lois. She’ll always have your back. She’s a classic. Elegant and kind. The younger one is Dot, a real firecracker. Eats men for breakfast and never lacks energy. Bess is in the middle with Albie, their brother. I was friends with Albie first as he’s only a year younger than me. Then I met his sister. Really, the only thing we have in common is our stubbornness.” Tom sat up, well into his story of Bess. “She used to follow my dad around, he’s dead quiet too, always asking him questions about the world. I think it was her curiosity about everything that attracted the bullying. Their dad, Fergal, is Irish and that combined with her quietness made her a target. Cora and Dot have red hair, and Bess’ is much darker. Everything makes her stand out. Some boys at school used to call her a witch and one day poured milk on her head. Something snapped and I sort of became her protector after that. In turn, she always listened to me when dad and Lois couldn’t cope. Then she went away to Manchester. God, Claudette, when she came back it was like staring at the sun.” He took the photo from his pocket and showed it to her. “She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. She walks like she owns the ground, so full of attitude, absolutely terrifies the lads that used to bully her. Lois always says that Bess is a real woman’s woman. And let me tell you the men line up to dance with her.”

He stopped again, thinking about the night he first kissed her. That red dress she wore to the dance. Fuck.

“So why didn’t you snap her up?”

“Eh?”

“Well, you said you didn’t know if she’d be waiting for you,”

“I fucked it up. I kept her a secret because I was ashamed of who I was and wanted to make sure I didn’t ruin the only good thing I had. And I ruined it anyway. That’s not to say she didn’t play her part.” He huffed a laugh, remembering the heat of their argument. “She’s jealous and insecure. Takes the slightest offence at anything, so bloody hot-headed.”

“And stubborn,”

“And stubborn.” Despite himself, Tom smiled. She thought he wanted to keep her secret, but the reality was, he wouldn’t change her for anything.

Claudette smiled too. “You must love her very much. To see her faults and love her as you do,”

“You what?” Tom spluttered as he made to sip the flagon of water. “I-what? I mean, Christ-”

“Falling in love is easy,” Claudette continued. “People do it all the time. But staying in love, that’s a choice. The more we know someone, the more we see their faults. To want them despite that, that’s real love.”

Tom stared at her, open mouthed. A tidal wave of realisation slapped him into sense and he stood abruptly. “We have to get going.”

Claudette laughed at his awkwardness and stood too. “That’s the spirit! Bess awaits!” And within five minutes the food was packed and the pair were making their way through the pines towards Spain, whispering lowly to each other as they did. It was just three hours later that the trees began to thin. Ahead, in a clearing of long grass, two men approached. Fear ran up Tom’s neck.

“What do we do now?” Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Claudette stopped and turned to him.

“We say goodbye.”

“What?” His fear subsided, if only a little, and made way for confusion.

“We are in Spain now, these men will get you to Gibraltar.”

“What?” Tom looked around in amazement. What he had expected, he didn’t know. Blazing sun and gorgeous women to appear at the compass point between France and Spain? “When did we cross the border?”

“I’d say, and hour ago?” Claudette grinned.

“Why didn’t you tell me? We could have celebrated in the way only a man and a woman can.” He sidled up to her teasingly and she smacked him away.

“Save it for your darling,” She prodded a finger into the pocket where the photograph of Bess lay. “Well, this is my job done, I’ll hand you over and go home.”

“Really?” Despite his annoyance at her, she had helped save his life. “Don’t you want to come with me?”

Claudette laughed as she strolled towards the two men. “More people to save!”

Tom glanced back over his shoulder before hurrying after her.

“Claudette. Claudette!” She turned round to be enveloped in his arms. “Thank you, stay safe.”

“You too, Monsieur Proulx.”

Notes: I did a fair amount of research on how evaders would have escaped from Paris and based Tom’s route on a real-life account of an English pilot. Not much of that research will come into play, but it’s good to know considering this is where we left Tom at the end of the series. I’ve also changed his interaction with Claudette a little, just to make it fit where Tom is at this point in my story. A lot of people that helped evaders and escapees used codenames, so I’m assuming that is the same for Claudette. See you soon!

Tags: @aemonds-wifey @multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234 @babyblue711 @anditsmywholeheart @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandomprompts @allthefandomtherapy @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol @beiigegalx @skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools @aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring

#ewan mitchell #tom bennett #tom bennett x reader #world on fire #ewan mitchell x reader #the seamstress & the sailor

[dim-paper-lanterns]

on annabeth and rachel in pjo

maybe it's the aromantic in me, but I never realized that annabeth's and rachel's whole feud was over percy. to me, I always figured it was centered around annabeth's own isolation away from the mortal world.

ok, here me out. i always read annabeth's and rachel's relationship as annabeth's jealousy not over percy, but rather her demigod world. i mean, she was practically born knowing of the gods, and even if she didn't, we know that from a very young age (earlier than 7), she was introduced to the worst aspects of it. (I don't remember if she knew that athena was her mother pre-camp, but it doesn't really matter) so here you have this child, and she's scared and angry and no one in the mortal world believes her when she talks about spiders and dreams. its not hard to imagine that she would form some sort of bitterness towards the mortal world, especially since she left it (became a year-round camper w no contact w the mortal/outside world) at a very young and impressionable age.

"My dad’s resented me from the day I was born, Percy. He never wanted a baby. When he got me, he asked Athena to take me back and raise me on Olympus because he was too busy with his work."

and then she meets luke and thalia. for the first time in her life, she's respected, and protected and loved. and they believe her, about everything. they are older than her but they take her seriously and they promise her family. they left their mortal 'families' as well, they know exactly the terrors she has been facing. they are the exact kind of different she is, the same kind her father sighs at and her step-mother scoffs at. so now we have annabeth, and she is young and impressionable and the line between the demigod world and the mortal world has become firmly drawn.

camp half blood comes like a savior land. safety, respect, understanding, friendship. thalia's gone, annabeth becomes a year-rounder, she is surrounded by magic and powers and monsters. but this is her world, this is her camp, this is her domain. she tries, she really does try to reconnect with her mortal family by it doesn't work out and she is sent right back to camp. that's fine, all she needs is camp. she's going to make something of herself, she's going to become counselor, she's going to win every capture-the-flag, she's going to be chiron's best student, she's going to get a quest. she is going to be great.

“I tried to go home for that school year, but my stepmom was the same as ever. She didn’t want her kids put in danger by living with a freak. Monsters attacked. We argued. Monsters attacked. We argued. I didn’t even make it through winter break. I called Chiron and came right back to Camp Half-Blood.”

annabeth is 12 and full of fragile pride. percy enters camp and annabeth gets a friend, a chance and a crush all in one. everything is working out, but tensions are rising between the gods and tensions are rising in camp- its fine. annabeth is going to be great.

things are not going great. luke has betrayed them, has betrayed her. she seems to be in constant danger, by monsters and gods alike- even her summers are now filled with dangerous quests and battles. they go through the sea of monsters, they bear the titans curse. clarisse has her battle will, percy has his sea powers, grover has his saytr magic. drew has charmspeak, beckendorf has a dragon, nico is the son of the death god. thalia is back with her storm powers, lee has his magic, katie has hers, and annabeth is a strategist. but it's fine. she is not going to feel inferior, or weak, or lesser than. this has been her world since birth, this belongs to her. she doesn't need any mortal in it. not her father, not her step-mother, not her step-brothers, not her school 'friends'.

and then rachel arrives. she's pretty, she's sharp, she's funny. she's quick on her feet and she can see through the mist.

she is mortal.

and she keeps reappearing. she becomes friends with percy, which, hello? that's annabeth's partner. she goes with them into the labyrinth, annabeth's quest. she is a mortal.

this is what i made out of annabeth's feud with rachel. it wasn't jealously over a boy, it was because this mortal could come into annabeth's world, and take over everything annabeth has ever known. she cut herself off from the mortal world when she was 7, and here comes this mortal girl constantly tagging along with them, messing up her plans, taking over her missions.

annabeth is prideful. she is proud of her life, of everything she has created, free of mortals.

kronos's army arrives in new york. annabeth's friends are either dead, on luke's side, or fighting a losing battle protecting camp. they go on more and more missions, the gods aren't being helpful. its a hit or miss on if the new demigods can even make it past thalia's tree due to all the new monsters attacking them- annabeth buries children.

and throughout all of this, percy is off with some mortal?

the battle of manhattan arrives and call annabeth selfish or apathetic, but she revels in it. all of her efforts, her skill and strategy and struggle has been made worth it. she leads her campers into battle with victory in her eyes.

and then the mortal comes crashing out of the sky in a helicopter.

annabeth saves her, of course. but now she's got a mortal involved in what is quickly turning out to be a bloodbath, and rachel is talking on about paintings while annabeth's siblings die outside. its easy to hate her when she is constantly in annabeth's way.

LOL ANYWAYS

all this to say was that i misread annabeth's whole grudge against rachel so badly whoops. love her though

#annabeth chase #rachel elizabeth dare #the battle of the labyrinth #the last olympian #pjo fandom #character analysis #annabeth headcanons #i miss ao3 tagging system #tumblr wtf is this #percy jackon and the olympians #pjo #pjo series

[k3nnysh0utt]

Ever since the start of empires s2 ive been thinking about what terraria bosses each member would be and im still unsure about some but i think i got most of them

Starting with Gem i went with Golem. Queen bee or Empress Of Light would have worked but i think golem works best since the whole jungle temple and golems drops are related to the sun.

For Kathrine i went with Empress Of Light, Queen Slime could have worked aswell. Even though Empress Of Light is harder to fight during the day i still think it fits.

Joey Graceffa is Duke Fishron its very similar he has an ocean themed empire i could have gone with the flying Dutchman because i am including mini bosses but bht duke fishron just fits better, plus i get to draw him as a cool ass fuckin pig fish.

Scott would probably be the Lunatic Cultist and i dont have any actual reason i just think he'd look cool as em also no other boss would fit him. Thsi does kinda make it seem like he worships Joel(because i made him Mood Lord) but eh.

Falsesymmetry would be Skeleton Prime maybe a steampunk version of it? I remember seeing a terraria mod that added a steampunk hardmode version for the rest of the prehardmode bosses. The four arms could either be the exact same as skeleton primes or they could just have hands.

Lizzie's one is the one im really unsure about i picked Queen Bee but it doesn't really fit and its the only animal themed boss.

Sausage i picked the Pumpking i could have gone with one of the tree mini bosses but do you think i wanna give him a mini boss named morning wood? But ya Pumpking would work because you know nature n shit.

Shelby's one doesn't make too much sense, i went with Plantera mainly because of the pink flowers in her mc skin but thats kinda it, the only other thing i could have gone with are the goblin  summoner but that doesn't really count as a mini boss. I might switch Sausages and Shelbys around because either one will fit them.

If i included modded bosses then Jimmy would have been the Desert Scourge(calamity mod) or The Grand Thunder Bird(thorium mod) but im not including modded bosses so im going with Skeleton, the dungeon usually spawns near the ocean so its the closest we get to a desert/mesa boss. The old sheriff could also be the old man that spawns at the surface of the dungeon.

Fwhip would be the eater of worlds it just makes sense, The Eater Of Worlds is(usually) spawned underground AND it burrows through the ground.

Oli being Betsy doesn't fit too much but there isn't any other boss taht would fit, i originally had the pillers as him but didn't think they'd fit and also his child Gregory the dragon egg would fit with him being Betsy(i made the list of what terraria boss each empires member would be at ages ago, before Oli's final lmao)

Joel is just the Moon Lord its the closest thing in terraria to a god thats the only reason i picked that boss for him. now if you drew him as the Moon Lord would you draw him with or without his legs?

Pixlriffs is The Brain Of Cthulhu i love The Brain Of Cthulhu and when you think of a brain you think of being smart n shit so i gave them to pixlriffs

And bonus Hermes would be one of the pillers id say either the vortex piller or the nebula piller

#empires s2 #empires smp #falsesymmetry #joey graceffa #shubble #ldshadowlady #smallishbeans #fwhip #geminitay #katherine elizabeth #pixlriffs #solidaritygaming #scott smajor #theorionsound #mythicalsausage #terraria #good god the tags #i am so cringe #i also fuvkibg love terraria so fuvking much and im also never doing this again #if this makes 0 sense im so sorry i am horrible at explaining shit #there's probably so many misspellings im so sorry #also i might just randomly delete it if i find it too cringe later lmao aaaaaa

[sadhours]

Wicked Sensation

part eighteen // billy hargrove x f!reader

find all chapters here

tag list: @blue-eyed-lion @bbyhargrove @sweet-villain @actuallyspencerreid @trapistani @sierrahhh @likeanimagepassingby2

a/n: sorry this one is kind of short!! I’m working on the next chapter as we speak. my requests are open!! send me some angst and fluff 😘

word count: 3.8k

warnings: 18+ minors dni, I think the only warning I need to give is a Neil mention

“I can’t believe you haven’t asked her yet,” Drew shakes his head as he’s helping Billy empty the oil from the bottom of a Buick.

The bit is stripped and Billy’s prepped a new one to take its place. He’s frustrated already from the extra work he has to do and the question only makes it worse, he fumbles with the ratchet extra hard and it feels it give, raising his hand to unscrew the cap and oil spills all over his hand. He used to be able to do it without making a mess but all this pressure to propose to you has turned Billy into a bumbling, clumsy idiot.

“God damnit,” he curses, tossing the stripped bit in the trash and reaching for the cloth to clean off his hand.

Your dad just had to tell everyone that Billy was going to ask you to marry him. He likes Drew, he’s been the one guy Billy’s gotten close to these past four months. He would’ve told him on his own. Drew was close to Billy’s age and they usually got the same shifts, doing the same duties. They’d started hanging out outside of work, Billy going over to his house to watch sports and drink a few beers. It’s the first time Billy’s had a male friend he didn’t feel like he had to impress all the time or compete with in some way.

Billy watches as the almost completely black oil drips out of the car, cringing at the thought of going so long without changing his Camaro’s oil, “I’m just waiting for the right moment.”

Drew chuckles, “That’s the thing, you have to make the right moment. If you keep waiting then she’s gonna already have popped the baby out. You better hurry, Dale’s starting to think you’ve changed your mind.”

Billy hadn’t, and he had. He kept going back in fourth and that’s why he’d had the ring for a month now. Especially since you’d insisted on hanging out with Eddie more frequently now and Billy knows that’s stupid and you’ve been friends your entire lives but he’s possessive and unfortunately is threatened by any man. He knows he needs to work on that and he’s trying.

Marriage scared him but he couldn’t fathom being with any other woman for the rest of his life so he knew he had to marry you. He felt a bit stupid for not asking already, but whenever he was about to, something always interrupted it. Billy was literally about to this morning after you sucked his dick but then his alarm went off and he took it as a sign not to. Which he knew was dumb, you looked so pretty in between his legs and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, smiling up at him.

“I’m gonna do it soon,” he mumbled, grabbing the replacement cap and tightening back on the car. “Ready for ya!” he called up to let the guys upstairs know they could get started on the new oil.

He glances to the clock and then sees you with your dad walking down the stairs.

“Do it now,” Drew suggests, his voice low.

“I don’t have the ring with me,” Billy replies sheepishly, which was a lie. He kept it in his pocket everyday, waiting for the right moment.

Drew points to his pants, “So you’re just happy to see me then? You have a box shaped dick. How am I the single one?”

“Shut up,” Billy groans, blushing hard as he walks over to the sink to wash his hands.

Once they’re clean he meets you and your dad at the bottom of the stairs. He looks down at his dirty uniform and then up at your pretty white dress. He grimaces and settles for grabbing your hand and leaning in to kiss you.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks, smiling wide.

You look over at him, confused and then up at your dad, “My dad said you wanted to take me to lunch, you asked him to call home?”

Dale grins from ear and to ear and Billy has to hold back the roll of his eyes. Everyone keeps pushing and pushing him.

“Take an extended lunch,” your dad says as Billy grabs your hand and leads you back upstairs.

“Everyone’s acting so weird,” you complain.

“Tell me about it,” he sighs as he walks you to his Camaro.

You smile as he opens your door, “You know something I don’t?”

Yes, Will you marry me? He thinks but instead shakes his head.

And he still doesn’t ask you, he brings you to a diner and you talk about work. You’d gotten a receptionist job at a salon and Billy listens as you complain about customers and a few of the hairdressers. He complains about the stripped bolt but he can’t ask you to marry him and he doesn’t know why. He gets sick to his stomach every time he reaches in his pocket and grasps the box.

When he gets back to the shop after dropping you off, your dad and Drew look at him hopeful but he shrugs.

“No dice,” he groans, “You guys are making me too nervous.”

Drew rolls his eyes, “You know she’s going to say yes.”

Your dad sighs, “Better sooner than later. Five months isn’t a long time to plan a wedding, ya know.”

-

When he finally does ask, it’s because he has no choice. He’s taking off his pants to get into bed and you’re standing behind him, already changed into your nightgown as you’re taking off your earrings, when you see the box tumble out of his pocket and onto the floor.

“What’s that?” you ask, nonchalantly.

Billy heaves a sigh and kicks his pants the rest of the way off, he reaches down for the box and then gets down on one knee. You feel your body light up, stomach rising like you’re about to drop on a roller coaster. He displays the box to you and pops it open, it’s a very simple ring with a small diamond. You gasp, dropping your earring to the floor and cover your mouth.

“I didn’t want to do this without my pants on, but uh, here we are,” he mumbles and you notice how red his cheeks are and you can see the vein in his temple that you only see when he’s nervous or angry. “Will you marry me?”

“Oh, my god…” you whisper, tears rolling down your cheeks before you realize they’re there.

You don’t answer him quick enough and Billy squeezes his eyes shut, closing the box and is about to push himself back up.

“Wait!” you squeal, reaching your hand out to him, “Yes! Of course I will!”

“Oh thank Jesus,” he lets out a breath and opens the box again, “God, you scared me.”

He takes the ring out and slides it onto your left ring finger. As soon as it’s on there, you’re pulling him up and kissing him. He wraps his arms around your waist and lifts you up, you cling onto his shoulders and wrap your legs around his waist.

“You thought I would say no?” you ask him, dumbfounded between kisses.

Billy looks into your eyes, “It crossed my mind.”

Fate, he thinks, he was waiting for a moment like this when he had no other option but to ask you and maybe it’s not the biggest gesture, but he figures it’ll make a good story.

“How long have you been waiting?” you wonder aloud, squeezing him as tight as you can.

Billy sets you back down but holds your hands, “I bought the ring a month ago.”

“That’s why everyone’s been so weird,” you realize, “Especially you.”

Billy laughs, “I have not been weird.”

“You looked like you’re about to puke every five minutes whenever you’re around me,” you argue, pulling him to the bed and laying back on it. Billy lays beside you and holds your hip.

“You have no idea how anxious I’ve been. And everyone’s been bugging me about it too,” he mumbles, his lips ghosting against your chin.

He feels so warm, you curl into him. The baby bump has taken some adjusting, you’re always freaked out you’re gonna accidentally hurt the baby by laying the wrong way.

“Oh, my appointment changed,” you remember, “It’s Friday now.”

“Okay, I’ll switch the days around for work,” Billy mumbles but he knows your dad doesn’t care about scheduling when it comes to the baby. “It’s gonna be a boy, ya know.”

You roll your eyes, holding his hand and looking down at the pretty ring on your finger. It feels surreal, like you shouldn’t be having such a normal conversation after you’ve just got engaged. That’s what it was like with Billy, though. Easy. It felt like you could just let things happen.

You press your lips into his, letting go of his hand to grab his shirt and pull him even closer. It’s lazy but sweet, stroking each other where you can while placing sleepy kisses on each others lips.

-

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Billy screams from behind the wheel of his Camaro, stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. Which is pretty odd for this time of day on this particular road in Hawkin’s.

“Hey,” you purr, rubbing his thigh, “It’s okay. They’ll still see us if we’re a little late.”

Billy knows it’s true but he feels like it’s his fault that you two will be late. He had to stop for cigarettes and gas this morning because he was too exhausted to do it on his way home last night. Billy doesn’t like being late, a side effect of being raised by Neil, who instilled in him that punctuality is one of the most important traits you can have. So whenever he finds himself running a few minutes late it fills him with immense anxiety. Your hand on his thigh kind of helps it, but a cigarette might help more. He’d tried to stop smoking in the car with you but since your doctor recommended you didn’t quit smoking and just cut back, he figures it’s fine and lights one up. The rush of nicotine helps, but he’s still rubbernecking to figure out the cause of the traffic.

As it picks up and Billy is able to start inching forward, he lets out a hearty laugh.

“Harrington wrecked his daddy’s BMW,” he announces with another cackle.

You sit up, “Is he okay?”

Billy looks to you, a little peeved that you care, “Yeah, he’s fucking fine. He’s just an idiot.”

“Billy,” you sigh, but are afraid to push further given the history.

As you pass, you see Steve standing outside his car, looking down at the smashed front end of his car. He sees Billy’s car, it’s hard not to and sees you sitting in the front seat with him. Steve had figured you two had gotten back together since your trip and because he hadn’t heard from you since before it. Billy wonders if Steve knows your pregnant, wants to scream it out the window at him like it’s some competition he’s won. Steve lifts a hand and waves awkwardly, catching the pair of eyes in the Camaro staring back at him. Yours look concerned while Billy’s look sadistically amused, smirk smeared across his lips to match.

“Nice job, Harrington,” Billy calls out of the window as you pass and you lean over to smack his bicep.

“Knock it off,” you tell him, crossing your arms.

Billy scoffs, flicking his cigarette out the window as the road opens up and he can speed like he wants to.

Any animosity between the two of you dissolves as you sit in the exam room. You’re laid on your back with your shirt pulled up to expose your growing belly, Billy sat in the chair beside you with his hand in yours. He smiles warmly down at you as the doctor smears that jelly stuff on your stomach and begins the ultrasound.

“Everything’s looking good so far,” she confirms. She carries through the exam as usual, it’s like any other appointment you’ve had in the past month but this one is special for a specific reason.

“So,” Billy starts, “It’s a boy, right?”

The doctor laughs softly, maneuvering the handle on the machine to see the baby at a different angle. If Billy’s honest, it looks like an alien’s inside you but hey, it’s his alien in there so he still thinks it’s cute.

“Bad news, dad,” the doctor teases, glancing up at Billy and then you.

“It’s a girl?!” you ask excitedly.

“Sure is,” the doctor smiles, pointing her pinky up to show the two of you.

Billy’s excited anyways. He didn’t really care too much about the gender. With each appointment, he gets more and more thrilled about becoming a father and starting this family with you. He squeezes your hand and smiles at you, silently expressing how he’s feeling. He wasn’t great at talking about it, especially around strangers.

He keeps his arm wrapped around your shoulder as you walk to the car, planting kisses on your cheek and neck. He lets you know how excited he is without words.

“Wanna grab some lunch?” he asks, “Before I take you back to work?”

You nod, turning to him as he opens the passenger door for you. He looks into your eyes and places his knuckle under your chin, pressing his lips to yours in a chaste kiss.

As the two of you walk into the small restaurant, you see Stephanie before Billy does and she sees Billy before she sees you. You’ve got your left arm intertwined with his, your fingers laced and your right hand holding his bicep but still, Stephanie somehow doesn’t notice you as she perks up.

“Billy! I haven’t seen you in so long!” she gushes, “Hi!”

“Oh, I didn’t know you worked here,” he says, sounding a little flustered as he looks down at you but you just grin up at him. If he could still have beef with Steve then you don’t see why you can’t keep your little feud with Stephanie going.

“Yeah! Here, sit in my section!” she sounds excited and then her eyes follow Billy’s, seeing you standing next to him and her eyes fall to your pregnant belly on full display. “Oh, my god. You guys got back together… and you’re pregnant.”

You smile as sickly sweet as you can, lifting your left hand to display your engagement ring, “And we’re getting married.”

You swear you hear Billy chuckle, watching as Stephanie’s smile turns the opposite direction. Still, she leads you to a booth, putting on her best customer service voice.

“Can I get you anything to drink?”

You wonder why she doesn’t just pawn you off on another server. Perhaps she’s too proud. Perhaps she just wants to take the opportunity to be a bitch and maybe you’re a little immature because as you sit there with a ring on your finger and Billy’s baby in you, you feel like you’ve won this competition. You got what she presumably wanted.

“Just water,” you smile up at her, hooking your ankles with Billy’s under the table.

“Yeah, waters fine,” Billy nods and reaches over the table to grab your hands, stroking his thumb along your knuckles.

“Have you been thinking about any names?” he asks, grinning up at you. You see Stephanie roll her eyes before walking away.

“I haven’t,” you admit, “The way you all were hoping for a boy kind of stunted that process a bit, I’ve been thinking of boy names.”

Billy laughs, “I’m happy either way, I was just messing around. I think your brother sincerely wanted a boy, though.”

You nod, agreeing with him. Your brother will surely be disappointed with the news.

“Well we’ve got some time to brainstorm,” he points out.

“Yeah, we should probably be planning the wedding,” you say with a heavy sigh. The date was a month away and while you’d already had all the big stuff planned, there was still so much to do. You’d wanted to shop for wedding dresses but you were scared you’d suddenly get really huge the day before the wedding. It was irrational. You’d only be five months along but you didn’t exactly know how any of this pregnancy stuff worked. Everyday you were learning. You’d experienced some morning sickness in the early months but nothing too extreme since. Except you were exhausted all the time and you found yourself getting super frustrated when Billy couldn’t read your mind. You just wanted him to know what you needed and exactly when you needed it. The other night, you kicked him when he didn’t understand that you wanted him to rub your feet.

His patience with you was incredibly shocking. At first, you’d figured it was because he hadn’t been around his dad in months but you slowly realized it was because he actually cared about you and was willing to put up with anything to make you happy. It was sweet and you’d have to find a way to show him how grateful you are.

“I feel like we should just show up,” Billy smirks, raising his brows, “I mean, that’s pretty much what I’m doing.”

You roll your eyes, “I can’t. Mary is having a very fun time but she wants to pretend it’s me doing all the planning. I just wanna plan the honeymoon.”

“Honeymoon?” Billy replies in surprise, “Are we having one of those?”

His surprise is because the both of you know it’s not exactly in the budget. Every penny you had saved was supposed to get you guys into a place together but you also had to start buying things for the baby. Billy got paid well at the shop but your receptionist gig didn’t help all that much. You’re lucky you’re dad hadn’t kicked you off the insurance and once you were married, you’d be switched over to the coverage Billy was offered. It still feels surreal, that you’ll be married to this gorgeous blonde sitting across from you.

“I mean, I want to,” you say, “Even if it’s something quick and cheap, I need to get away for a few days.”

Billy nods slowly, his brain turning over places you could go. Perhaps a weekend in a nice hotel in Indianapolis. He’s bringing your fingers up to his lips when Stephanie returns with the waters and to take your food order. During the rest of lunch, she’s making sweet comments to Billy and touching his shoulder every single time she gets to your table. You find it amusing more than anything, even though a small part of you worries this will be a constant occurrence throughout your marriage.

-

When Billy makes it back home after dropping you back at work, he’s surprised to find Max sitting at the kitchen table with Mary. He raises an eyebrow as he sets his keys down on the counter, “What’re you doing here?”

“What? I can’t check in on my step brother?” she replies, feigning innocence but Billy’s smarter than that.

“What does he want?”

Max scoffs, knowing that Billy would immediately see through the facade. She does care about him and she’s wanted desperately to see how he’s doing and get away from Neil too.

“He wanted me to come get information,” she admits and then crosses her arm, “but I also wanted to see how you were.”

“I’m better now that I’m not there,” Billy confesses, leaning against the counter and nodding to Mary as she squeezes his arm before leaving the two of them alone. “What’s he want to know?”

Max shrugs, “It was a long list, I don’t remember most of it. He thinks you’re going to run off to California.”

“If I could afford it, I would,” Billy sighs and sits at the table across from his step sister. Max gives him a sympathetic smile, she wants to go back too and maybe one day, she will. Neil was really quiet at first, in fact, he pretended he didn’t even have a son but as time passed, he nonstop talked about Billy. He rarely said nice things but Max could tell he missed his son. She’s sure Billy’s a lot better off at your house, your dad and Mary are nice and when Max stepped inside, it felt like a home. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time, she’s sure it’s been even longer for Billy.

“I know I’m supposed to find out if you’re getting married and if we’re invited,” she mumbles, drawing shapes in the table with her finger.

“We are but I don’t know if I want him there. I want you there,” he says with a smile, “How have you been, Max?”

Billy’s been worried sick that without him being the punching bag, Neil’s wrath has turned towards Susan or Max. He’s been guilty about it, knowing he wants to protect Max as best as he could.

“He doesn’t hurt us,” Max assures him, somehow seeing in his eyes that that’s what the question hidden underneath really was. Billy nods curtly, feeling a little lighter at the information but also bad about himself. His dad just didn’t like him or his mother, it wasn’t that he just couldn’t help himself.

“He talks about you constantly,” Max informs him after taking a deep breath. “I don’t blame you if you don’t care but I think he misses you.”

Billy’s conflicted. On one hand, that’s his dad and he loves him but on the other hand, his dad never showed him love or affection. He wants him to feel guilty, wants him to regret how he raised his son. These past months have been blissful. While he had stress, he didn’t have fear. He could spend his time doing whatever he wanted and no one said anything to him. Your dad and Mary were genuinely interested in getting to know him. He didn’t ever feel judged anymore.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” he sighs, “I don’t think I’m ready to see him again and maybe I won’t ever be.”

Max nods and then moves to stand up but Billy says, “Hey, you don’t have to go. You can hang out. We can hang out. I’m sure Mary already told you, you’re always welcome but I mean it, Max. Whenever you want to come over here to get away from them, you can. And when we move, you can come hang out there. Maybe I can get some free babysitting out of you.”

Max laughs at that, “Thanks, Billy. I’ve got to go now, though. Plans with Lucas.”

Billy stands up and opens his arms, Max looks at him like he’s grown another head. They’ve never hugged before but she finds herself in his arms and hugs back, tightly.

#billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove x you #billy hargrove x female reader #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove fluff #billy hargrove fanfiction #wicked sensation

[fullcry]

@theaba12: Prompt maybe for the LP&G fic um i Sufi at these but maybe Meryl writing being seen by vash or I don’t know would she share her writings?

A/N: This one also got away from me, lol. But I hope you enjoy! Set in the universe of Love and Peace and Gunsmoke.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

He stared at the door, wide smile still in place, her half-eaten plate of eggs and toast sitting on the table opposite him. He waited a moment to see if she came back—forgot something, had something else to add to her long list of meticulous instructions. But when her footsteps down the stairs fell into silence he let his smile fall and his shoulders relax.

He ran a hand over his face, letting out a heavy sigh.

Well. Here he was. In Meryl’s apartment. She let him come with her, just like he’d asked.

God, what was he thinking?

He pushed his chair out of the table and stood, moving into the small adjoining living room where he looked around, taking in a life well lived. She had a worn two seater couch, an armchair, an oval coffee table littered with knitted coasters sitting atop a ratty rug, the edges of which were beginning to fray.

Along the walls hung photographs, some of which he recognized from their travels: Jeneora Rock, before its destruction. Enora Ravine. Rostrum.

But there were others he didn’t recognize.

A photo of a city skyline–December, maybe? A long shot of a modest plant array, all the bulbs clean and healthy. Then there was one that really drew his attention, at the far end of the wall near the window.

It was a large photo in a decorative frame of Meryl holding an award wearing a fancy blue dress. Milly was holding her tight around the shoulders, face split in a grin, the photo taken close up but far enough away to see the plaque Meryl held up next to them. It read, in large gold letters:

Meryl Stryfe November Journalist Society Journalist of the Year

She looked different: her dark hair was long and thick, cascading over her shoulders in gentle waves. There was a glow about her face, though he supposed that could simply have been due to the cause for the occasion.

But unlike Milly, she wore a sad smile, at odds with the happy scene.

He frowned, uncertain for a moment when in the timeline of his absence this could have been. When realization hit him he sucked in a sharp breath and agonized, once again, over everything he had missed.

He turned to the opposite wall, deciding instead to investigate her bookcase and hoping it had fewer unintentional guilt traps waiting for him. The shelf was small, but filled to the brim with books and journals and magazines and old newspapers. To his delight there was a whole row of aging dime novels and he plucked one off the shelf, grinning widely when he saw the author’s name at the bottom.

C.C. James.

He jumped onto the couch and settled with his head over one armrest, legs dangling over the other, eagerly flipping it open. He hadn’t read a dime novel in ages, but he knew all of hers by heart. He’d been a fan since long before he found out she had written them.

To this day he still didn’t know what she was so embarrassed about.

He glanced quickly at the clock in the kitchen, noting the time. He had about an hour—plenty of time to read through one short story. With a smile, he turned to the first page, and began to read.

#fanfiction #prompt fic #drabble #vash the stampede #meryl stryfe #VashMeryl #Vash x Meryl #Mash #Love and Peace and Gunsmoke #Trigun #Trigun Stampede #TriStamp

[jetsteelyourheart]

Vampire Academy Book 4: Blood Promise by Richelle Mead

Listen, I'm a Dragoway truther, and I support Rose, Lissa & Christian as a Polycule. But Ship literally whatever you wanna ship in this series, its silly and fun, and anyway my OTP of all time is Sydrian - speaking of, shout out to my first ever attempt at a Sydney -- hilarious to me now because I changed her whole design pretty much completely.

Anyway, here's a book 4 group shot before I put those in an actual setting with real visuals.

Excerpt from the end of Blood Promise, Chapter 30

Adrian had said seeing me in dreams couldn't compare to seeing me in person. The same was true with Lissa. Being in her head was nothing like being near her in reality. The door opened, and it was like an apparition materializing before me, some sort of heavenly messenger descended from above. I'd never been away from her for this long, and after all this time, part of me wondered if I was imagining this.

Her hand went to her mouth, and she stared at me wide-eyed. I think she felt the same way -- and she hadn't even had warning of my visit. She'd just been told I was coming "soon." No doubt I seemed like a phantom to her too.

And with that reunion... it was like I was emerging from a cave - one I'd been in for almost five weeks - into the bright light of day. When Dimitri had turned, I'd felt like I'd lost part of my soul. When I'd left Lissa, another piece had gone. Now, seeing her... I began to think maybe my soul might be able to heal. Maybe I could go on after all. I didn't feel 100 percent whole yet, but her presence filled up that missing part of me. I felt more like myself than I had in ages.

A world of questions and confusion hung in the silence between us. In spite of everything we'd been through with Avery, there was still a lot of unresolved business from when I had first left the school. For the first time since I'd set foot on the Academy's grounds, I felt afraid. Afraid that Lissa would reject me or scream at me for what I'd done.

Instead, she drew me into a giant hug. "I knew it," she said. She was already choking on her sobs. "I knew you'd come back."

"Of course," I murmured into her shoulder. "I said I would."

I mean, come on, there's murmuring for god's sake. How are they not cannon??????

#vampire academy #rose hathaway #lissa dragomir #mia renaldi #christian ozera #jill mastrano #adrian ivashkov #eddie castile #dimitri belikov #sydney sage #posts by me #bookclub #fan art #my art #richelle mead #blood promise #illustrating Vampire Academy #dragoway #rose x lissa

[thedragonqueensblog]

The Hope Of The Mikaelson Family Part One

Summary: Klaus Mikaelson and Hayley Marshall had a daughter, but she got taken away even if it's been years, both Klaus and Hayley haven't lost hope of seeing their daughter again Neither has the Mikaelson siblings they all have hope that she's still alive and that she's living in Mystic falls or New Orleans

You are in your room painting a picture that you drew of your sister when she walked in as you quickly hide your project, she raised an eyebrow you smiled at her and she smiles back

"Let's go, we're going shopping with Elena and Bonnie." Caroline says

"Can I get some Acrylic paint as well, I'm running out of them?" You asked

Caroline smiles "of course kid the reason you're running out is because you paint every single day."

"I know I just love painting, it's been my favorite hobby since I was just two years old".you tell your sister

"You did start painting at a young age, you remind me of a person who loves painting as well." Caroline remembered a original hybrid that loves painting

"Is he your boyfriend." You teased

"Y/n?" Caroline gaped

"What?"

"You're still too young to know about boyfriends and girlfriends." She tells you

"So is he still your boyfriend?" You teased again

"Y/N what did I just say?" Caroline crossed her arms

"Ok, fine." You stopped with the teasing

"Now let's go the girls are waiting for us."

You were running away from your sister who was chasing after you screaming to stop and you bump into a person "careful there love." a man said as he picked you up to carry you

"Thank God you caught her, she's a runner." Caroline said from far away

"no problem miss." He smile getting close to her. "Caroline"?

"Klaus?" Caroline gave him a confused look "what are you doing here? I thought you were back in New Orleans."

"I was but I'm here still looking for some clues or see if anyone knows something about the disappearance of my daughter." Klaus sighed

"I know how much it's hurting your family and you not knowing nothing about your daughter, but I know one day you will find her."

"We still have hope into finding her wherever she is we will find her an that's a promise that I won't break, he smiled and looked at you "so who's this beautiful little girl".

Caroline smiled "she's my little sister."

"How come I haven't seen her around?" Klaus wondered

"She's been in New York with some family My Mother and I wanted her to be safe and away from drama but we were missing her so much that we decided to bring her here." Caroline answers

"What's your name little one?" Klaus grinned

"My name is Y/n and I'm fives years old." You grinned back

Klaus gave you a sad and a shock look Caroline noticed how he was looking at you she saw that he had some tears falling down his cheek

"Are you ok?" Caroline asks, worry as she sees his face

"Yes My daughter's name was also Y/n and she's also five years old." Klaus sniffled

"are you the boyfriend of my sister." You giggle

Caroline gaped "Y/n what did I say about your too young to know about dating."

"are we still going shopping? I still want my acrylic paint and we're taking forever."

Klaus exclaimed "painting?"

"she loves painting just like you."

"Do you love painting?"

"Yes love I love painting, maybe one day we can paint together."

"Yes could we paint nature things i love nature so much."

"Of course love anything that you want."

"are your siblings here too? or is it just you?"

"No, it's just Marcel and me my siblings and Hayley stayed in New Orleans to see if anyone knows something and they are also looking for some clues."

"Sister can he come with us and plus he could help me pick out some new acrylic paint so you can go clothes shopping with your friends."

"Honey Klaus is busy at the moment."

"Its ok Caroline I'm not busy I could go with her to pick out some acrylic paint besides I also need some new acrylic paint."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes of course I don't mind having her around plus I want to get to know more about the painter forbes."

Klaus and you went to the painting store while your sister went shopping with Elena and Bonnie Klaus was holding your hand so you wouldn't be running

"So are you the boyfriend of my sister?"

"Love your too young to know about dating."

"Hey Klaus." a male voice made klaus and you stop walking

"Marcel."

Marcel looked at you "who's she? please tell me that you didn't kidnap her just because you lost your daughter doesn't mean that you can kidnap a kid."

"Marcel I didn't kidnap her I'm not a kidnapper."

Marcel gave Klaus a look and which Klaus replies "I'm not a kidnapper of kids."

"So who's this little kid? and why are you with her?"

"She's Caroline's sister, I'm going to take her to the store to get some acrylic paint since Caroline went shopping with her friends."

"Caroline has a sister? and I can't believe she trusted you with her."

"I know I was a bad person, but I changed for my daughter, but she ended up getting taken away, it's hurting us so much not having her around

"She's going to be found trust me one day you will be able to hug her to love her and Many things."

"And you know what hurts me the most."

"What?"

He nods to you "her name is also Y/n and she's five years old just like my daughter."

#the vampire diaries #the vampires diaries x reader #the vampire diaries x y/n #the vampire diaries x you #tvd #klaus mikaelson x you #caroline forbes #Caroline Forbes x sister!reader #the originals #the originals x reader #the originals x y/n #the originals x you #Klaus mikaelson x forbes!reader

[queenie-blackthorn]

50% into kotlc, here are some thoughts ive had since the 25% mark :D

@aylin-hijabi @that-multi-fandom-hijabi sorry for tagging yall a lot lmao

first thing that comes to mind thats plot-related n not character-related is prentice. he was exiled 12 years ago, same age as sophie. its so obviously not a coincidence. tho i wonder whats up w him n tiergan (idk how to spell lmao i feel like thats wrong)

also, i wonder just how strong sophie is. like, the way she knocked fitz into the wall ??? thats her not knowing the full extent of her powers. i have a feeling shes always gonna be one of those main characters whos extremely powerful but constantly throughout the series she finds new abilities she has. kinda like percy jackson

im also realizing how stupid ill seem if im just overanalysing everything and my guesses are too far-fetched or too deeply thought out to really mean anything lololol

moving to character-related, i adore dex. he seems kinda spiteful tho ??? esp towards fitz. thats prolly bc the vacker family is apparently rlly famous n shit n meanwhile dexs parents were a bad match. still dont rlly get what that means. i feel like theres more to him. also his crush on sophie is adorable

KEEFE. nothing, just... keefe. havent seen much but from what i HAVE seen, hes hilarious. i remember aylin mentioning that hes like leo valdez in that theyre both hot, funny, and traumatized... still waiting on the 'traumatized' part. she also said hes less major in this book n more major in the second book, so maybe ill find out then

midterms are gonna go wrong just wait i just know it

biana seems acc genuine in wanting to be friends w sophie. but there was one point when she was talking to sophie n there was smth like a glare for a moment ?? idk kinda sus to me. maybe im overthinking it cause i cant think of a possible motive

marella seems cool. in the art, shes absolutely gorgeous, but so is everyone in this goddamn book. also notable that the first time i saw her name i misread it as 'redneck' 💀💀💀

stina is a bitch. nothing else to say, except that she looks terrifyingly like me? except different eye color n i wear glasses loll. i hope to see some character development cause i personally hate the trope of "token mean girl" in books (like drew tanaka or zoya nazyalensky) cause theyre so one dimensional n boring (although zoya does become majorly more likeable throughout the grishaverse books, im hoping to see the same in stina)

irrelevant but the amount of times sophie is ending up in the infirmary reminds me of a roleplay w my friends from like three years ago oml the nostalgia (cause there would at all times be at least one character in the infirmary injured or nearly dead bc we needed that drama to keep the rp going LMAO)

overall, theres not as much to say as there was at the 25% mark. (i feel like theres more i wanna say but i cant think of anything.) prolly cause since then, the book has mainly been abt learning abt the elves' world n culture. i think by the 75% point im gonna have a lot more to say, n then ill post the final update thingie when im 100% done w the book

ill be 75% done in 89 pages, but the last day of midterm is tomorrow, so god knows how long thatll take me :') i promise to try thooo

oh also galvins a bitch but i feel like she has trauma fsr idk shes just giving

#kotlc thoughts #kotlc #first time read

[occasionaltouhou]

updated refs for a character you guys have seen before (rumia but a big deal) and one i’ve drawn before but haven’t posted here (miss iwanagahime)

one of my goals for this year is to update some of my old ocs -- though technically speaking both of these are canon characters in one way or another -- and so, y’know, i thought i’d make a strong start

summaries under cut. if you want

Shinguro Ryumiya (新黒 竜宮)

Capable of manipulating darkness

Ryumiya was born from, well, the joke of Rumia. The idea that a youkai of darkness was meant to be intimidating, but ended up being just a weakling. But, you know, darkness used to be a lot scarier than it is now -- if anything, with all the electric light pollution, perhaps we don’t have enough darkness.

So that got me thinking; what if Rumia wasn’t always a weakling? What if she used to be really strong? What if -- and bear with me -- she used to be one of those really strong youkai who helped build the Barrier, but she did it too late, and ended up reduced to little more than a feral beast?

More than that, what if, by storing a little bit of her power in that charm in her hair, just enough to keep a bit of what she used to be around, and with a little bit of scheming, she could get it all back?

Then I turned those ideas into a very rough draft for a fangame with her as the final boss, got through about a route and a half, and got distracted. That’s the same game as those two fish I reblogged ages back without context, actually.

But she’s here now! The concept of Ryumiya is that she tied her idea of darkness to more unknown, abyssal darknesses, like deep space and the ocean floor and even stuff like eldritch gods and the like in order to make herself into something that humans still don’t understand and thus fear.

She’s much more powerful than she was even for a long time before raising the Barrier; in addition to her traditional powers of darkness manipulation, she gained the ability to create youkai from the ocean depths (there could be anything down there, after all) and she gained the ability to create pseudo-black holes from deep space (not that she can control them once she creates them, though, so they usually pop pretty quickly). Of course, having spent a full century as a weakling, she’s still kind of a loser, but that’s her charm point.

-----

Iwanaga Yatsugi (岩長 弥継)

Capable of manipulating volcanic activity

Yatsugi comes from... I think specifically it was talking about a character belonging to someone in the occasional discord who was tied to Youkai Mountain that made me think about its other resident kami, but truthfully I’d been thinking about her since I first read that one chapter of CiLR. After that, it was really just a matter of, well, making my own claim of the identity of the Hakurei Kami.

Because like, despite only being mentioned twice, Iwanagahime is kind of important to Gensokyo, right? She’s the kami of eternity, so she’s who Akyuu prays to; and she’s the kami of Yatsugatake -- that is, Youkai Mountain -- so presumably she was involved in the negotiations surrounding Gensokyo’s location.

Probably? I mean, I don’t think ZUN really thinks about this bit of lore so much, but at the same time I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped something in the next chapter of CoLA that totally contradicts this idea. But that’s why she looks like Reimu.

Until then, though: Iwanaga Yatsugi. Not a Sage (she’d honestly be amused to be regarded as such), but rather the foremost representative and the greatest beneficiary of the establishment of Gensokyo. Honestly, I feel like she’s probably not a hugely active character, unlikely to cause or resolve an incident, but probably shows up to parties a lot. Mostly acts like a retired old person who doesn’t have to work and spends all their time doing a relaxing hobby (in her case, using heat and pressure to create precious gems).

I drew her with Reimu as a point of comparison, but obviously canon says Reimu doesn’t know who the Hakurei Kami is -- but then again, Reimu’s never been the most observant...

Unlike Ryumiya, I never really had plans for Yatsugi beyond making her, but she exists now. They both exist. I might put them in a piece of writing at some point (sooner if anyone requests. wink wink) but until then. Please enjoy responsibly

#touhou #occasional art #my ocs #ryumiya shinguro #yatsugi iwanaga #rumia (touhou) #after i posted ryumiya this time someone brought up ex rumia. i don't know what that. i don't know what that is. this is someone else. #ryumiya is probably cooler anyway ex rumia sounds like some weird edgy stuff from 2006. mine has deepsea fish. anyway #ANYWAY these are my funny old women. they do a variety of crimes and i like them a lot #at some point it'd be nice to finish the fangame script and do SOMETHING with that but. coding is hard. and boring #and i should work out something to do with yatsugi too... but tragically ideas are ALSO hard. Sad! #oh well. hope you like em. if you don't then. tough

[chthonicgodling]

Does Neo straighten their hair?

I was sO DELIGHTED TO RECEIVE THIS ASK as this is a yes or no question that I will be answering with paragraphs lmfao. OOPS!

Nope, she doesn’t straighten it - Neo’s hair is naturally straight! “But april,” you may be saying, “wtf I’ve seen art of neo when she was younger and she had VERY curly hair so what are you talking about??”

(Uhhh????

??????

weeeellll!! Neo’s hair WAS also naturally curly, from birth until age 13. As we know, Neo’s been the Fated goddess of Gentle Death since.,, well. conception (Thanatos’ cosmic replacement teehee). though Tory and Maci had always wanted Neo to begin training into her realm at the age of 15, after Neo ended up with her scythe at 10 yo and caused inadvertent turmoil amongst the palace, the culmination of all that was a compromise agreement that Neo could begin her death goddess training two years early with olympian Ares, (death god adjacent).

And during her very first reaping, there was a moment, after Neo severed the soul of this dying mortal from its body. She took its hand, and that simple grasp triggered her eternally Fated Realm, her powers as Gentle Death Incarnate, Grim Reaper, Death Itself, to rush all in and activate the beginning of her full power. Before Tory and Ares’ stunned eyes, all of Neo’s curls unraveled right then and there, never to return. I ACTUALLY DREW THIS HERE WHEN IT HAPPENED BACK IN 2020!

Her hair is pin straight forever now and absolutely will not hold a curl or any sort of style haha it just cosmically falls out. In fact she can barely part her hair OUT of her pigtails! her hair melts into the hood of her traditional grim reaper garb when she shifts (NOTE: in canon Neo has NOT yet realized she has an entire grim reaper form she can shift into - but she will! actually! seen here! GASPSSspspss) and that’s why it’s the way that it is lmao. Fate designated pigtails….

fun fact though!!!. Baby Neo’s very curly hair - and also the very curly hair of her younger brothers Celos & Pyralis, AND her younger half sisters Skiophoros & Korakinos - is actually all from Tory. Tory straightens HIS hair and his hair IS naturally that curly. shh! (I’m realizing now I’ve literally never drawn that….. One day.)

ANYWAYY thank you for asking hahahhh The elysiumverse has been around for so long that when Neo was BORN over a decade ago, curly baby, Fenixe and I had plotted her hair transformation literally that long ago. and it was so exciting to get there after waiting literally that many years. THE PAYOFFFFFF

#asks #oc talk #Neo tag #??do I have a Neo tag. idk. #dethdvncer #Elysium essays