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the-paris-of-people · 2 months

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Blue Brownies and Finding Nemo, Part 4: BOTL

Summary:

“So how did you do it then? How did you forgive your mom?”

“I didn’t,” Annabeth shakes her head. “I don’t think I ever will. I just have to hope that I’m better for my future family.”

Percy cocks his head, his eyes light with wonder. “You think about that stuff?”

A chapter post-BOTL where Percy and Annabeth finally get to go on that movie date, featuring Rachel Elizabeth Dare angst, complex feelings towards Frederick Chase, fantasies of future Percabeth, and as it turns out, no movie at all?

Tagging: @yojeannie@angelthearsonist@m-cliffords-not-real-wife@that-chick-103@queerynotfound@thefabulousfab-3@montygreen@moonlightredfern @flamingbisexual08

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The person in the mirror at the back of the Delphi Strawberry Service van is a stranger to Annabeth.

Inside, she feels like she’s fought a million battles. The constant cycle of pouring over Daedulus’ laptop and crying herself to sleep has stretched her thin. Her hair has withered away from the stress of almost losing Percy, then actually losing Luke. The person she sees now looks like the face that launched a thousand ships. Silena had ambushed her outside the Athena cabin, covered the bags under her eyes with a magical shade-match foundation, and woven her hair with golden thread, just like she had it on Circe’s island.

“Trust me, I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” Silena reassured after charming Annabeth to vent to her about her date with Percy. She tapped her brush against her compact mirror and swirled it across her cheeks as she continued to comfort her, “There’s no need to worry about this Rachel girl.”

She wasn’t sure about that. She saw the way Percy’s eyes flitted towards Rachel in the Labyrinth, the way they spoke to each other with ease, nothing like the way she and Percy interacted. Yes, she and Percy had gone to the 4th of July fireworks this summer, but she’d also tried to tell him how she felt about him before he left for camp and… nothing. Annabeth had felt so stupid. For reasons including and not about Rachel at all, she was holding onto this movie date like it would be their last.

“Annabeth,” Percy flusters when he sees her hop out of the van on the corner of 72nd street. He’s wearing his nicest green jacket, blushing so red he nearly looks like one of Apollo’s cattles. “You-you look nice,” He finally manages after struggling through his words like he was reading Lord of the Flies in English.

“Thank you,” Annabeth tucks a strand of her braids behind her ear. She notices the shift in Percy’s expression. He knows something is wrong. Normally she would flick a smile his way and tease, but she’s so worn out by the nightmares about Luke and Kronos that she can’t even summon her pride to be vain about her looks. “So, are we going to see this steel man movie or not?”

Percy opens his mouth to correct her, then shakes his head and opens the door for her.

“Do you want any popcorn or something?” Percy gestures to the snack bar. “Tyson and I used to get a giant tub and share it with my mom. They make it pretty buttery here.”

“No need,” Annabeth smirks and opens the purse Silena gave her. “I have everything we need.”

“I’m confused,” Percy studies the empty lining of Annabeth’s purse. “Is this some kind of Mary Poppins situation?”

“Covered the snacks with the invisibility cap,” Annabeth zips up the bag and slugs it over her shoulder as she heads towards the escalator to the theater. “It’s not just useful for sneaking up on monsters. Plus I snuck some extra M and Ms in the cargo pants pockets.”

“And somehow Mrs. O’Leary didn’t follow you from camp?” Percy asks as they both climb onto the escalator, impressed.

“I fed her some blue gummies before I left.”

“Hellhounds can eat blue gummies? And those giant boar things hate egg salad? Seriously, why doesn’t Chiron just host courses on random picnic foods for monsters before each quest. Then I could get out of archery practice.”

‘Hey, you’re almost getting better,” Annabeth punches him lightly in the shoulder. “Last time you almost hit the target.”

“Haha, very funny,” Percy rolls his eyes, even though he knows it’s true. He’s as bad at archery as Annabeth is at gardening with the Demeter cabin. “Now come on. I want to show you something.”

Electricity sparks through Annabeth’s veins as Percy takes her wrist and leads her down a regal hallway. The hum from her heart is so loud it nearly drowns out her observations as she hurries past the red velvet carpet and black, marble Grecian pillars. She would have to make a note of that later when they were walking back from the theater. With Percy’s fierce urgency, Annabeth expects Percy to be leading towards some kind of secret tomb with rubies and emeralds, but instead, he takes her to a plaque outside the last theatre in the hall.

“These are what I was telling you about. Each of these theaters is designed after a movie palace from the twenties, a lot of them are still all around New York, decorated in a different architectural style. This one is from-”

“Art Deco!” Annabeth exclaims gleefully. She marvels at the style of the theater in the photo. “See? You can tell by the horizontal design elements on the marquee and doorways, alluding to Streamline Moderne style.”

“Horizontal elements? Because being vertical was too old school for the modern style?”

“Actually, you’re not too far off, Seaweed Brain,” Annabeth rolls her eyes, but a hint of a smile plays at the corner of her lips. “Horizontal lines gave an impression of sleekness and modernity in the 1930s, which I assume is when the original theater was built. See?” Annabeth turns back and skims through the plaque first, absorbing the most important ideas and key words. Then she rereads through it again, more slowly, imagining the construction of the arch and statues…

“How do you do that?” Percy asks, breaking her concentration for a moment. She quickly refocuses back on the photo of the theater, picking out structural details of the facade that were expanded upon in her reading.

“Do what?”

“I can barely spell my own name and you can speed read that entire passage in like, five seconds.”

“I can barely spell my own name too. I don’t know… being dyslexic, I just got my hands on whatever I could read when I was younger. My dad’s old house had a giant library when I was little, so I tried to read everything in there, and then when I got to camp, I had a lot of free time on my hands in the winter,” Annabeth turns back to Percy, and that’s when she notices how his eyes lay across hers, soft and full of wonder. She remembers how he pulled her in in the Athena cabin, when she had him all to herself at the beginning of the summer, before everything turned sour, how she tasted the sweet, salty taste of his lips even after it had been days since they had entered the Labyrinth. Suddenly, heightened nerves arrest Annabeth. Her heart rate quickens as she speeds through her explanation, doubting Percy notices the uncharacteristic tremble in her voice. “Chiron gave me a book on the Parthenon when I was 9, and then I just couldn’t stop reading, even though it’s still hard for me.”

“That’s really cool,” Percy’s voice is steeped in awe. It’s the same tone he used when Rachel had gotten them that car in New Mexico, and Annabeth can’t help but to feel proud of herself. “You know, I don’t know if I could ever become good at something that’s that challenging to me.”

Annabeth frowns. Sometimes Percy was so self-deprecating, it frustrated her. He was totally unaware of his own strengths. “Please, remember when you first started sword-fighting?”

“Hey, I thought you said I wasn’t bad.”

“You weren’t,” Annabeth remembers with a glint in her eye. “But you’re even better now.”

“But I didn’t even train that much, I just accidentally kind of… got better as I fought.”

“Percy,” Annabeth sighs, bowing her head in exasperation. “You’re a talented guy, but you can’t take a compliment to save your life.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment? Because I honestly can’t tell.” Percy replies back dryly.

Annabeth scoffs, but they’ve known each other for so long she and Percy both know it’s free of malice. They both know this is one of the moments in the script they tease each other, but underneath all eye rolls and barbs is a deep understanding and respect of the other. They hold each other’s gaze and both wordlessly break out into smiles, realizing they’ve fallen back into their usual routine after a summer that threw a wrench in everyone’s schedule. Annabeth’s skin buzzes with excitement. She has a glimmer of hope that maybe this is a date, whether Seaweed Brain realized it or not. Yes, this was how they typically interacted, but there was something different in the way they spoke to each other as well, something she saw in Beckendorf and Silena interactions, new sweetness balancing out the usual sour tang.

“You know, it’s a compliment, Seaweed Brain. So just take it and acknowledge you’re a talented guy. Now come on, I want to read the other plaques before the previews start,” She leads the way towards the next plaque even though she’s never been to the theater and has no idea where she’s going, Percy groaning as he trails behind.

“All the plaques?” Percy questions, his blonde curls rattling as he shakes his head. “I swear, you and Rachel are just like each other. She wanted to read all the plaques when she came here too.”

Annabeth freezes in her tracks like snowboots caught in old snow. She turns to Percy slowly, her face crumpled.

“You’ve been here with Rachel before?”

Percy flinches a little at her tone: demanding, hurt, seething with rage. Still, he remains oblivious as he answers her question,

“Yeah, a couple times. She invited me to see a Matrix movie marathon a few weeks ago.”

He came here with Rachel multiple times since he came back from camp. Since he had come back from camp, he’d been hanging out with her, even though he’d asked Annabeth on a date months ago, even though he comforted her and let her hold his hand in the dark and shared his blanket with her as they watched the fireworks.

“Annabeth?” Percy’s voice is drenched in worry at Annabeth’s non-reaction. “Annabeth? Are you okay?”

“Excuse me,” Annabeth says quietly as she rushes towards the sign for the bathroom. She claims the unisex stall and hunches over the sink. For the first time that day, she finally sees the withered little girl she feels inside.

The tears come not as an eruption, but as a quiet trickle of disappointment in herself and everything her life had turned out to be. She wanted catharsis and a good cry, and yet, still she’s disappointed herself on that front.

She had no right to be angry and rude. Rachel was as talented as a child of Athena, as brave as a certain son of Poseidon, and as pretty as a daughter of Aphrodite. She glowed in the darkness of the Labyrinth and even as a statue in the middle of Times Square. She was smart and knowledgeable about art and Annabeth could’ve spoken with her about Jacque-Louis David for hours and hours. She could see why Percy liked her.

So why did it hurt so much that another person she loved left her for someone else, once again?

As Annabeth wipes her tears with the pack of tissues she’s stored under her invisibility cap, a sheepish knock taps at the door.

“Annabeth? Can I come in?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Annabeth calls with a slight bite to her voice. She brushes her tears off her face again, thankful for the magical smudge-free makeup of the Aphrodite cabin, for once.

The door creaks as an apprehensive Percy walks over and stands next to her over the sink. She averts her eyes down, knowing she’ll start to cry more if she meets his eyes.

“Hey, I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”

The softness of his apology splits Annabeth once again, and she feels guilty all over again for feeling so uncontrollably possessive and jealous over someone who was never hers.

“No,” She shakes her head, still fixated at the white marble of the sink. “No, you did nothing wrong.”

“Oh, okay, then uhhhh, do you want to check out the other plaques? I think we still have some time before the previews to read a couple more.”

“Can we just go to the park?” Annabeth sniffles, finally turning back to Percy. “Riverside?”

Percy winces as he watches her dab away at the last of her tears. He knows Percy expected her to ask to go to MET or the Morgan Library. She’s never told him, but being by the water is special for her, too. “Yeah, sure, of course.”

****

The kiss of summer sunshine brightens the scent of the grass so much, it almost smells like Camp Half Blood strawberry fields. The walkway winds around gated playgrounds, filled with children swinging their arms across the monkey bars as their parents lean against each other on a chipped park bench and watch them from afar. The Hudson glitters like the mischievous twinkle in Percy’s eyes, deep blue with flecks of silver and gold, and the thought of it makes her blush, realizing she’s thinking this while she’s standing right next to Percy. She’s thankful all over again for Silena’s makeup, causing her to wonder if she should start wearing blush more around him.

She and Percy match each other’s long, slow strides, the air between them thick with tension of all the things left unsaid, then thinned out again with the comfort and ease that’s existed between them for years. Annabeth looks back out onto the water and thinks about the stories her dad regaled her with before her stepmother came into the picture. Every so often, he would tell Annabeth how she came to be the most precious gift in his life, how he met the most beautiful, intelligent woman while studying at a magical place called Harvard, how they used to study together at Reading Room on the top floor, with paneled rooftop windows that ushered light that fell onto their faces. They talked in the library for hours, and when they needed a break, walked along Cambridge Harbor with ice cream cones that spilled onto their hands in a sticky mess. Whenever Annabeth was by a body of water, she thought of them happily together all those years ago, then of an alternate reality where they stayed together and the three of them were walking together, too.

If you loved each other so much, why isn’t she here with us? Annabeth had asked once, and her father’s face crumbled like a wrecking ball taken to a safehouse. Even though she grew older, and logically, she knew her mother couldn’t be with them, she couldn’t help but feel angry and sad that she never tried. Even though Annabeth and her step-family got along now, she couldn’t help feeling like she did before she ran away. If she couldn’t have her mom, why couldn’t she have her dad all to herself, instead of having to share his scattered brain with three other people?

“Hey,” Percy nudges her arm as Annnabeth descends further and further into her imaginary fantasy. “Thinking about your dad?”

Annabeth realizes she’s subconsciously touching her dad’s ring and drops her hand. She wonders how much she should tell Percy, how ridiculous it seems, but she stares back at him and knows he would understand her.

“You know why I wanted to come here?” She twists the ring in between her thumb and index finger and stares back out at Hoboken, across the river. “The summer my parents met, they used to take walks together by the Charles River. The way my dad talks about it…” Annabeth’s eyes get misty again, but she wills herself to push them away. “I can tell he really loved her. And sometimes when I walk along a body of water, I imagine that they’re still together and we’re a family. I know, it’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not stupid.” Percy reassures, with that sweet, genuine tone he uses to comfort her. He pauses for a moment then admits, “Actually, I uh, saw your vision at Siren Bay. I just didn’t bring it up because well,” Percy scratches the back of his head. “I think about my parents getting back together too.”

“Really?” Annabeth had discussed with her siblings how much they hated having one parent around, but she’d never felt secure enough to broach the topic of wanting her family back together.

“Yeah. I was actually just thinking about them now, even though we’re not in Montauk,” Percy flicks his eyes down for a moment, then towards the kids on the playground. “Did I tell you though that Paul wants to propose to my mom? He told me at my birthday party a few days ago, before my dad showed up.”

Annabeth is taken back. She knew about Poseidon showing up, but not Paul Blofis proposing. “How do you feel about that?”

“I’m happy,” Percy sounds upbeat, but she senses his voice falter, just the tiniest bit. That was Percy, always trying to accommodate everyone without thinking of himself. “I mean my mom was miserable for so long with Gabe. She deserves to be happy..”

“Dude,” Annabeth scolds, softly enough to coax him into admission.

“And….” Percy hesitates, because he can’t say a bad thing about anyone he cares about, even if it’s devouring him alive. “It does make me a little sad too, and I’m angry at my Dad for not getting it together and being with us too.”

“I know the feeling,” Annabeth murmurs. A gust of wind blows and whips her braids across her hair.

“So how did you do it then? How did you forgive your mom?”

“I didn’t,” Annabeth shakes her head. “I don’t think I ever will. I just have to hope that I’m better for my future family.”

Percy cocks his head, his eyes light with wonder. “You think about that stuff?”

“Sometimes,” Annabeth flushes hot. She’s never admitted that to anyone, because it’s embarrassing and illogical and stupid. She knows the rules of their world, but she can’t help but dream. “I know demigods don’t live past 16, but sometimes I picture myself as a famous architect, maybe a professor giving lectures across the world, and sometimes… I imagine myself with a family, too.”

Percy purses his lips together and thinks to himself for a moment. “You know, I’ve never thought about it too much before, but a family would be nice.”

And there he is, holding his gaze with hers again. Annabeth swallows and begins to fidget furiously with her fingers. A building can only be supported with a solid foundation, she realizes, and she never imagined herself with a family until she met Percy. Her heart leaps as she watches the golden light trickle through the tree branches and onto his cheeks. The way he stood was so easy, so relaxed, he slouched without thinking and his fingers always curled casually at the ends, like he didn’t think about what to do with his hands. Annabeth was deliberate in every movement, she overthought everything, and he just.. was. Even when it hurt to be around him, it was easy to be around him.

“Listen,” Percy breaks the silence with a hoarse whisper. “I’m sorry about Rachel.”

Annabeth stiffens at the mention of her name.

“Whatever.”

“Okay,” Percy says slowly. “Well it seems like you really don’t like it when I hang out with her, and I don’t know why.”

He really did have a thick skull.

“No seriously, I don’t care.” Annabeth crosses her arms. “You can hang out with whoever you want.”

“Well, okay then,” Percy dismisses, annoyed, before turning sincere again. “I just… I know things have been weird between us this past summer, and I just don’t want to be so distant from you.”

It really was hard to stay mad at him when he was so sweet, even when he was being an obtuse idiot.

“Well, unfortunately you’re stuck with me,” Annabeth brushes him off with a sarcastic comment to avoid the skip in her heart. “If we go down, we’re going down together, remember?”

“Okay,” A slow smile curls across Percy’s mouth, and the sunshine lit behind him makes it look like a halo with his smile and golden curls.“Good to know you’re still in on that.”

“Always,” Annabeth says with an eye roll, but she casts one last look at him in the light before turning to pretend to look at the river again instead of his handsome eyes. She curls her hands into fists to suppress the urge to reach out and hold his hand.

“On that note, let’s go get some ice cream,” He leads the way before Annabeth can object. “I’m buying.”

#percabeth fic #percabeth #percy jackson #pjo #annabeth chase #frederick chase #athena #mine

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depressedbagpipe · 5 months

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A Heartrender's Fire: ch. I

Tolya Yul-Bataar x Lantsov!ofc

Words: 3846 Warnings: tolya x tamar x irina being a chaotic trio, also sturmhond being sturmhond. canon-typical violence, mentions of alcohol and drunk people, brief mention of SA at the end A/N: again, idk what this is, but this is helping me get back into writing after so many months, so enjoy!

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I: No shelter but me

Very few times had Irina Lantsov wished she had actually followed her brother’s advice and stayed at the ship. This was one of those.

She ducked before the drunken soldier could slash her neck open, forcefully kicking his legs and making him fall back, accidentally smashing into a table that broke into a thousand wooden pieces, and left the man unmoving on the ground.

Irina grimaced at the sight, but couldn’t dwell on it much before yet another man was hurled at her. She was used to the constant bar-fighting, bottle-smashing, and table-breaking, but it didn’t mean she liked it. Even though she was perfectly capable of standing on her own, the fire in her veins always called to her, begging to be used, and it always took a toll on her when she couldn’t let herself go completely. She was used to it, anyway. And this was just another bar fight.

The princess caught her twin companions with her eye, both of them on opposite ends of the bar, with fearsome looks on their faces and shining eyes as they too dodged and avoided the weak blows coming their way. The girl didn’t even need her axes; one look and the surrounding men cowered away. The boy was left alone in an instant too, his height too high and imposing that made even the drunkest know they would never be a match for the giant.

Irina expertly punched and smashed her way out of the tavern, avoiding the fallen traders, merchants, and sailors who had, unknowingly, chosen their fates as soon as they decided to launch themselves at the three Grisha.

“Well, that was fun,” grinned Tamar, once they had found refuge at the end of the street.

“So much for not bringing attention,” Tolya breathed out, not in exhaustion but in reprimand.

“For the record, he started it,” Irina defended herself.

Tolya counter-argued. “I don’t think Sturmhond will care about that, Ainthe.”

“Well, Sturmhond’s not here, is he?” Irina had a certain spark in her eyes as she spoke that made Tamar grin.

“And there’s no way he would know. Because we’re not gonna say anything, right, brother?” her gaze was lethal as both girls stared at the giant.

Tolya sighed in defeat, but eventually nodded his head. “Let’s just leave before they arrest us. One less bar we’ll be welcomed at.”

The girls grinned as they walked away in the other direction, leaving behind a mess of First Army officers and confused Zemeni citizens as they tried to explain how the entire tavern had ended up in shambles in a matter of minutes.

Irina took a deep breath as she looked at the street, with all the merchants and traders expertly scamming the many visitors the busy city received every day.

“It still baffles me how you don’t manage to gag every time you breathe here. The docks are nasty,” Tamar commented after eyeing the younger girl.

“It’s the smell of adventure, Tamar. I wouldn’t trade the taste of freedom for anything,” she replied.

“‘Let us appreciate life, for it only graces our fingers before it’s lost forever’,” Tolya recited, looking up at the clouds, a hand over his tender heart.

“Saints, not again,” Tamar groaned as Irina laughed, loving the little interactions she had with the twins.

“Always so delicate, Tamar,” Irina laughed, and even Tolya couldn’t help the smile on his lips.

“As much as I’d love to continue this conversation, we should go back,” Tolya’s statement was met with groans.

Irina complained. “Already?”

Tamar backed her up. “But it hasn’t even been three hours!”

“Sturmhond will kill us if he finds out what we did,” he reminded them.

Irina frowned. “You’re bigger than him.”

Tamar nodded. “You could take him.”

Tolya groaned. “Nobody’s gonna take anybody, alright?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Irina replied.

Tolya rolled his eyes. “The fun is that we all get to live another day, okay?”

Irina grinned, despite the constant bickering. As much as she liked traveling around new places, she ultimately loved the sea. Any excuse to go back to the Volkvolny, she’d take it.

It was only after they arrived at the harbor that they saw the First Army ship, unloading a bunch of boxes that would most likely contain weaponry. It wasn’t unusual for the presence of soldiers around the harbor and nearby taverns, but an entire legion?

The twins continued their bickering about bars and Fjerdans when a conversation between a First Army lieutenant and his soldiers made them stop in their tracks.

“Right, soldiers, listen up. Our fugitives are loose, but I have men blocking the roads, so their only way out is passage here, on a ship, in this harbor. We turn her in, and split the reward. But only if we stop them before they get on a boat. Is that understood?”

The officers yelled a chorus of ‘Yes, sir,’ before they disbanded, with the lieutenant walking back to presumably repeat the same orders to the smaller groups of soldiers perched around the harbor. Their uniforms were neat and put together, and the young faces of the soldiers almost made Irina shiver.

Tamar looked at her friends. “Sounds important… or dangerous. I can never tell the difference.”

She had one of her axes in her hand already, looking at it with care and mischief.

Tolya nodded, ignoring the sarcasm in her sister. “Definitely important. Come on.”

He grabbed his sister and pulled her back, knowing she was already going to pose some opposition.

“But–”

“No.”

Irina chuckled behind them, casting one last look at the army ship, hoping her disguise would be enough, and trailed after the twins.

–·–

Night had finally fallen over Novyi Zem when everybody was back at the Volkvolny. The harbor was empty, per Sturmhond’s request, and it was only a matter of time before a certain magic girl made its willing way up the ramp.

“I sure hope she falls for it,” Irina muttered under her breath. She was perched on the balustrade of the ship, looking at the crew as they loaded some of the boxes they had definitely not stolen from the First Army soldiers. “And how much longer is it gonna take? Weddle isn’t that big.”

“Maybe if you helped you wouldn’t be so bored,” Tolya pointed at her.

“Cute, but the second-in-command doesn’t load weapons; she uses them,” but their conversation was interrupted by Tamar.

“They’re here.”

Irina frowned. “They?”

And right on cue, a young couple appeared out of thin air and ran to their ship. The girl ran a bit forward.

“Hey, stop!” the crew looked at her. “We need a charter out of here immediately.”

Tolya and Tamar stood at the ramp, both receiving the girl and guarding the ship. Irina didn’t move from her place, but was looking down at the newcomers curiously, analyzing their every detail, just as her brother had taught her. The twins shared a look that Irina knew was a satisfactory one but waited for the couple to talk.

“I can pay,” said the girl again, bringing her hand to a small pouch by her hip and pulling out a beautiful hairpiece, one Irina recognized all too well. “It’s gold.”

Tamar took in her hand, feigning dubiousness, even bringing the object to her mouth and biting it to test its falsehood. With a shrug, she gave it to Tolya.

“That’ll do,” she said casually.

“Come on then, hurry up. I’ll take you to the captain,” he said after inspecting the hairpiece too, with another playful smirk on his lips.

The couple were quick to stand on the ramp, and Tolya was about to follow when the same lieutenant the trio had seen in the afternoon called after them.

“You, stop!” he was pointing at the couple.

Irina sat straighter in her place, her eyes dancing between the soldiers, counting in her head how many were pointing their rifles at them. Her hands stood close, ready to summon if she had to, but made no other move. Tamar and Tolya didn’t even budge. She grabbed one of her axes and spun it in her hand, taking dangerous steps towards the officer.

“You want to fight, Ravka? Hey?” her axe stood inches away from the lieutenant’s neck.

He recoiled and took a step back, fear evident in his eyes, pointing at the man whose hand had protectively grabbed the girl’s arm. Irina noticed that, because of course she did.

“That man is a deserter of the First Army. He belongs in our custody.”

But Tamar hadn’t come to play. By that point, the entire crew was staring at them, waiting for the next move. “Is that so? All right then.” She turned, looking up at Irina. “Ravka wants a fight!” with her shout, everybody stood, dropping whatever they were doing and getting into position. Irina, regardless, kept being seated down, knowing that Tamar alone could do as much damage as an entire army.

“I don’t want to escalate the fight with Shu Han.”

At this, Tolya grabbed his katana and walked beside his sister. “We’re not with Shu Han. We’re independent.”

“Maybe you save your bullets for the war, old man?” Tamar mocked him. Even though the tension was escalating quickly, everybody knew, they were no match for the crew of the Volkvolny. They had the higher ground. “First Army needs to know its place.”

Everything that happened later was a blur. The soldiers left, with a generous tip on behalf of the ship’s captain, and they were all soon on their merry way.

Irina and Tolya had taken the couple below deck, with the giant chatting happily about the majestic ship they all stood on and effectively distracting them of the speed the Volkvolny was sailing at away from Novyi Zem, and with Irina still looking at the newcomers with interest.

Opening the door to Sturmhond’s cabin, Tolya spoke.

“Request for charter, Captain.”

Irina also walked into the room, sharing a knowing look and a nod with her brother, before standing beside him on the other side of his desk, full of maps, papers, and a huge picture of the Darkling and the Sun Summoner, hand in hand, as the most wanted people in Ravka.

The boy walked inside decisively. “Immediate charter.”

The girl trailed after him. “He means we need to leave right now.”

Sturmhond fixed his blue coat, adopting the imposing posture he was known for. And went straight for the kill.

“Let’s be clear about two things. I don’t take orders in my own ship. And we’re already underway,” he pointed to one of the portholes on his right. “I’m glad you’ve joined us. Now, maybe you’d be so kind as to give the room a little light. After all, you are Alina Starkov,” he fixed his eyes on the girl. “A 20-million-kruge Saint.”

He grabbed his pistol and forcefully dropped it on the poster, with the canon staring directly at the young couple, every moment carefully planned out to let his guests know he hadn’t come to play, and that he had the upmost upper hand in the situation.

“Dead or alive.”

The silence that filled the cabin almost sent a shiver up Irina’s spine. The air was thick with tension, especially coming from Miss Starkov and her friend.

“No point in denying it, Miss Starkov. You are the Sun Summoner.”

She stood straighter at the mention of her title. “You’re right.”

She was quick to summon light with her hands, creating two smalls of pure sun that she held in her palms. Both Tolya and Irina tried to keep their composure, but they too believed in Saints. And they were standing right in front of one, who was coincidentally threatening Irina’s brother. Luckily for him, his too-clever fox face didn’t show any slight change. He whistled, still sat in his chair, lounging comfortably as if he was simply catching up with some old friends.

“Impressive. And it’s not often I say that.” To the untrained ear, his words would come out as sarcastic, almost venomous. But Irina knew better.

Alina’s words were quiet but stern. “Let us go. Or you’ll be out 20 million kruge and a ship.”

The captain stood once again, chuckling lightly. “While I’m well aware you could consign us all to the watery deep, you should really consider how far from the docks we are.” He casually poured some kvas into a couple of glasses. “Besides, I’m not handing you over to the Fjerdans,” he took both glasses and handed one over to his sister, who had made herself comfortable at the only empty corner of his desk.

Irina gladly accepted the glass, downing half of the beverage, still looking at the couple.

Alina frowned. “You’re not?” She even searched Irina’s face, searching for confirmation.

“Saints, no,” he stopped, checking with his guests. “Sorry, is it offensive to say that in the presence of a living Saint?”

Even Tolya shifted his weight at the captain’s words. The boy rolled his eyes, unnerved, and Irina shared a look with Sturmhond, both of them thinking the situation the most fun they’d ever had.

The captain sat back down, which made the boy follow his lead and sit on one of the chairs Sturmhond had on the other side of the desk. Alina stood behind him, only now Irina couldn’t tell who was protecting whom. Tolya kept guard by the door, frustrating Alina’s plan of escaping.

“Okay. What do you want with us then?” the boy tried to bargain.

Sturmhond wasn’t finished.

“With you? Nothing.” He eyed him down. “Honestly, I’m not even sure who you are.” Irina had to stifle the laugh that threatened to escape her lips. “But the Sun Summoner…” he pointed at the girl, looking at her as one would eye their prey. Because to Sturmhond, that’s what she was. “Well, you have to know you’re quite valuable.”

The boy leaned forward. “You just said you wouldn’t turn her in for a bounty, pirate.”

“Privateer.”

Irina rolled her eyes, being a little too used to listening to that conversation.

“Oh.” The boy humored him.

“And what I said was I wouldn’t hand her into the Fjerdans. I said nothing of the Kerch or Shu.” He loved playing with his food before eating it. “I paid a small fortune to empty the dock and make sure you got on my ship. And, frankly, I think the Fjerdans are severely undervaluing you.”

Alina nodded, with a flash of determination. “You’re right. They are.” She walked closer to the desk and leaned on it, having the upper hand. Or so she thought. “Because you’ll be able to ask the King of Ravka for twice as much.”

Both Irina and Sturmhond froze in place. Their looks weren’t taunting anymore; they were cold and unforgiving. But none of them let it show.

“You know the King?” the captain asked Alina, who fired back.

“I’m the Sun Summoner.”

Tolya was greatly enjoying the conversation at the back of the cabin, analyzing closely Irina’s reactions. She was rather shocked at Alina’s words but liked that someone else was trying to put her brother into place as if he wasn’t already running ten steps ahead of everyone.

“By all accounts, the First Army have now turned their sights on Grisha. Thanks to what you and your conspirator did in the Fold,” he looked down briefly at the paper.

Sturmhond’s sharp tongue had suddenly become poisonous.

Alina drew back. “The Darkling and I were not partners. You may believe otherwise, but once I tear down the Fold and reunite Ravka, the world will see I am not his ally.” Her voice almost broke. Even Tolya noticed it. And he knew she was telling the truth. “Help us and you’ll be rewarded.”

The Ravkan siblings were staring at her as if she had suddenly grown two heads. The prospect seemed impossible, but then again, a living Saint stood before them. They had seen stranger things.

“To tear down the Fold?” Sturmhond scoffed, but Irina still detected the hope that was now running through his brother’s mind. “And how do you plan on doing that exactly?”

Alina raised her head. “By hunting Morozova’s Sea Whip.”

“Alina.” The boy warned her, but she stopped him with her hand.

Instinctively, both siblings raised their kvas glass and took a long sip, mulling over their words. Sturmhond eyed Irina briefly.

“Well, I suppose if the Stag existed, the Sea Whip and the Firebird might as well,” he thought out loud, his gears turning. His eyes were glimmering. “You couldn’t do it with one amplifier, but two…”

“Unburdened by General Kirigan, under my own power,” Alina continued, also feeling the hope in the captain’s eyes. He leaned forward on the chair, looking down at his feet, the last traces of his plan finally coming together. “Will you help us or not?”

Sturmhond stood up again, never able to sit still for too long. He looked at his sister, who wore a similar face to him, her consent being the only other thing he needed to embark on the journey of the Sun Summoner.

“There’s adventure, danger, money? Now you’re speaking my language.”

The siblings downed their glasses at the same time on opposite ends of the desk, finalizing the deal with a bright smile.

– · –

“What is the difference between a privateer and a pirate?” Mal, Alina’s friend, whispered to her, but not low enough not to be heard by Irina, who walked behind them.

Sturmhond led the way, stopping occasionally to acknowledge the crew.

“Hey, Ainthe, need a light over here!” Irina quietly made her way to a fellow sailor who couldn’t seem to light the candle, and thankfully for her, her brother called everyone’s attention, which allowed her to blend into the crowd for a second.

Her fingers danced, and a light flame suddenly lit up the lamp the sailor needed. She retreated with a smile, knowing her brother was about to give a speech.

“All right, listen up, everyone! We have guests! The Sun Summoner and,” he turned to Mal, in the mood to mess with Alina’s grumpy companion. “Uh… You are?”

“Malyen–”

“A guest of the Sun Summoner!” Sturmhond interrupted him, much to Mal’s annoyance. “I expect you’ll treat them with all the respect I’ve come to know from you pack of liars and thieves.” The crew laughed at his words. Irina shook her head. He motioned them forward. “Come along, my darlings, come on, come on. Now, you can have the two in the back, it’s the most private suit we have.”

Sturmhond referred to the two fabrics arranged as hammocks, at the far end of the room and next to the stairs that led to the deck. It wasn’t cozy by any means; the room smelled of sweaty pirates, it was noisy and poorly lit, yet the siblings had grown accustomed to it, even if they slept at a different cabin. There was something about the mess that they could call home.

Alina eyed him wearily as she walked past him, leaving her things on a nearby table, under Mal’s attentive gaze.

“See you in the morning, Miss Starkov,” Sturmhond said with a leisure bow, quickly leaving them to their fates.

“Sweet dreams,” Irina finally spoke, sending them a smile in a much kinder way than her brother had done, and trailed after him.

– · –

“I hope you know what you’re playing at,” Irina frowned as she looked at her brother.

“You caused a bar fight?” he stormed at her.

“We have the Sun Summoner and now what? The Darkling and the entire First Army will be after us, Nikolai, and we’ll have no way of escaping then,” she crossed her arms.

“An officer could have seen you, Irina! Your face could now be printed in the papers! So much for having a fake identity!” Sturmhond threw his hands in the air as he walked around his cabin.

“The entire country is tracking her. We’re supposed to be under the radar and now you want to shelter the most wanted person in Ravka? And not only that but what will happen when we go back?” she went on.

“You can break as many necks as you want when there’s nobody around who could get you into trouble!

“We are gonna be in so much trouble regardless!”

“Can you both stop having two separate conversations at once, please?” Tamar interrupted.

Both siblings turned to look at her, who wore a bored face. Tolya stood behind her, with a simple grin, enjoying the fight between the princes. The four of them stood at the captain’s cabin, away from prying ears, going over the details of their next steps.

“Tamar, back me up on this,” Irina implored her closest friend.

Tamar sighed. “It is risky, Sturmhond. I stood guard until we left the harbor behind and didn’t see any other ship sailing around, but those two are hiding something.”

“Of course they’d feel weary around us; they’d be stupid not to,” Tolya released a breath.

Irina took in one. “Why does this feel like it’s the beginning of the end?” she asked no one in particular. “And how did you even know about the bar fight?” she asked her brother, but quickly turned to glare at Tolya. “Was it you?”

Tolya raised his arms in surrender. “Not me.”

“You forget I have ears everywhere,” Sturmhond took another sip of his glass, raising his eyebrows in mystery. The two of them had almost finished an entire bottle by that point of the night.

“You saw us didn’t you?” Irina squinted his eyes at him.

Sturmhond scoffed. “No, I didn’t!”

“He’s lying,” Tamar interjected.

“Okay, yeah, I saw you. The bar was just around the corner as I walked back. Which is how I bribed everyone into forgetting you three were ever there,” he confessed. “And again, Ainthe, you can’t start fights with everyone who crosses you!”

“He touched my ass, Sturmhond, you can’t expect me to stand there and do nothing!”

“He what?!”

Tolya suddenly appeared between them. “Alright, it’s best we stop. We’re all alive and well. And we’ll get to see another day for now, so let us sleep and rest and continue the fight tomorrow, okay?”

Nikolai and Irina shared a glance, a silent agreement both of them were too accustomed to. A silent way of communicating both of them had perfected over the years, which promised that they wouldn’t bring it back tomorrow. They knew they were too stubborn to allow the other to win, which would cause yet another endless source of bickering.

“Better be back on deck, then. We might need some fire,” Irina commented, taking one last sip of her kvas. “See you all in the morning.”

“Remember, just a spark, Fireball, not a whole bonfire,” Sturmhond called after her.

“Can’t make any promises!” Irina laughed one last time, before closing the door behind her, leaving an equally smiling Nikolai Lantsov on the other side.

Next chapter

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bits-and-babs · 1 year

Note

🗝️

Old west gunfighter Mills aesthetic because I hat would be seriously hot. Thank you!

⋆ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐊𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐒

pairing: Gunslinger!Mills x Ladyof theNight!Reader

word count: 3.5k

warnings: dark themes. Religious imagery, prostitution, violence, mild gore, mentions of bodies and death. Pining. Intimidating scenes. Oral (f receiving), fingering. Stoic Mills. 18+, ya friggin’ nasties. Not proof read, my ADHD is solid at the moment.

summary: In a tiny cowtown in The West, reckoning is found down the barrel of a gun.

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Crucifixes litter the wooden walls of the local Tavern, imposing a sense of omnipresence over your local cowtown. The local preacher had been particularly pushing an agenda of following the ‘Golden Rule’ - Do unto others as you would have others unto you. In a town as illicit as this, his sermons frequently fell on deaf ears.

Despite the looming County Courthouse that cast a shadow over the settlement, deliverance on these dusty roads lay solely in the hands of a local man, one who embodied the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit and Justice all at once- an unholy quadrilateral.

As a Lady of the Night, your Golden Rule wasn’t quite as obtuse as the dogmatic missionary that screamed from the bell tower of the local church. The singular pillar of your line of work boiled down to a simple directive: never judge your client’s preferences.

That was harder said than done when it came to your most regular visitor.

Mills doesn’t live in town. The vigilante slipped into the tiny village whenever he heard of any trouble, hulking frame and huge black horse sticking out like a sore thumb against the population just shy of a thousand. He’d work against the clock, battling the County Courthouse to deliver justice before they were shipped out to one of the larger cities to face jail time.

One time, he shot a woman-beater right between the eyes on the witness stand, sneaking the barrel of his gun through the crack of an open window.

But, until the deed is done, he sleeps beside you. Your most aloof client, Mills, had entered the saloon on a rare, stormy evening. The air had crackled, charged for a lightning strike when the doors swung behind him, the locals occupying the stools at the bar slowly slinking their hands to the pistols on their hips.

“A Lady of the Night,” he had ordered. Settled across the lap of the local sheriff, you’d raised a brow in question, noting his familiar face. Deliverance or not, you’d treat him no different than the rest.

“I’m taken,” you’d stated, turning your head back to the rather smug-looking officer before hearing the loud crack of a heavy coin purse hitting the table before you. The thud of his boots approaching you across the rickety wooden floor sounded like powder kegs going off in the silent bar.

“$20 for an evening,” he’d nodded to the coin purse on the beer-soaked tabletop.

Choke on the cock of this sheriff, who smells of fermented beer and cigars, or spend the evening with a handsome stranger for two months' pay? It was a no-brainer— until you discovered what he actually wanted.

You’d expected him to launch at you the moment the bedroom door closed, rip your clothes and have you how he wanted against the mattress. Instead, he’d cradled you close on the bed, head settled against your bosom and swallowing your frame with his naked arms, his chemise discarded on the rocking chair in the corner.

It was the same every time, returning from the desert plains and throwing you mind-boggling sums of gold to listen to the thrum of your heart as he slept before returning to the sands in the morning. Months would pass between his visits, but your bed always lay waiting.

For three years, on and off, he would lay above you. Quite simply, you had gotten used to the strain of your bed frame with his mounted pressure atop, and had grown to appreciate the tickle of his long, ebony hair as it grazed your skin. It’s almost terrifying to admit, but you begin to realise the desperate need to lay awake with him. The constricting pain in your heart when you saw the first rays of sunlight meant more than simply appreciating his company.

You lived for it.

His life is a mystery to you. You question his availability, lamenting over the impossibility of such a handsome man being without a wife- though you note his finger lacks a golden band.

In the cold, silver moonlight that bleeds through the opaque curtains one evening, you brave the leap of faith and whisper the words you had considered to be blasphemous in these sacred, tranquil moments. A query no Lady of the Night should mutter.

“Do you… Belong?”

The question is vague, and open to interpretation. In the low lighting, your eyes strain to watch Mills’ expression, scanning the shadows of his face for any sign of disapproval in your frankly immoral utterance.

His large palms, sand-stripped and rough from years of pulling reigns and triggers alike, sweep down the form of your waist. They squeeze gently, feeling out the curves of your body as his breath steadily breezes across the contours of your breasts. Mills doesn’t lift his head, brow, or eyelids.

“No,” he whispers, voice so quiet it could carry away on the desert winds, “I do not belong to anyone.”

Winter crawls along on the wind that rattles the shutters and howls in the night. It creeps up on the town, microdosing the air with its earlier sunsets and slow-falling temperatures. In the daylight, the dark wooden chariots parked on the dirt tracks of the town still singe your palms when you touch them. But the frost bites at your window panes in the evening, crystallising in the corners like an unspoken threat.

You lay awake at night, heart bludgeoning your sternum as you listen out for the saloon door’s telltale creek. The hinges hadn’t been oiled in months, squealing beneath the strain of their own weight when a customer waltzes in, asking for a bourbon to take the edge off the cold.

He’s here.

The body of the young girl killed in cold blood on the white steps of the Courthouse played the part of the homing beacon. Another mistress; she had worked the room across the hall from you at the tavern and offered kind smiles of understanding when you sent a gentleman packing for being anything but.

Her blood pooled at the base of her skull, dripping down the crystal-white stairway and freezing overnight. She hadn’t been looted of her belongings, her expensive topaz necklace still hanging from her neck. It was a cold-blooded slaughter.

Then, other Ladies started disappearing, only for their corpses to appear posed and mutilated. Always political, always targeting their line of work. One was found in the pews of the local church.

The preacher had a field day, blessing the building with incense.

He’d arrived in town the following day, mahogany eyes drifting over the dried, crusty maroon flakes that stained the floor. Apparently, it was all he had needed, turning on his heel and disappearing into the heat ripples of the landscape.

No one in town had seen him in days. You hadn’t slept, refused to take on clients, and didn’t eat. It was unlike him to be in the area and not crawl into your bed. It felt particularly empty tonight, the weight of his head on your chest absent.

Splaying your palm across your chest, you feel for your own pulsation. It ticks against the crease of your lifeline, indicating its mechanisms were satisfactory despite the ache that strained against its chambers. Did he not want to see you? Had he found another to share his bed with? A wife?

In the pitch blackness, your candle still faintly smoking after being smothered, you hear a quiet ‘creek’. It’s faint, a whisper on the slight breeze that carries the dust from the saloon up the stairs.

Lurching in your chest, your pulse gallops against your ribs. You hadn’t heard the tell-tale clop of his horses’ hooves against the decking outside, the beast always tied by its leather reigns against the fencing. Hesitation glues you to the bed, a creeping suspicion needling the edge of your nerves as you strain to listen to the figure moving through the Saloon.

The footsteps are slow and tentative as they creep across the wooden planks that creak beneath their weight. Mills’ pace was deliberate, indifferent to the noise he made as he marched up the stairs towards your room. A chilling sense of alarm begins to take over, raising goosebumps on your arm as you reach between the pillows for your pistol.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hear the leather soles begin their ascent into the rickety wooden stairs. It’s all wrong. The pace with which the intruder ascends the stairs makes your blood freeze in your veins, frostbite burning the edges of your nerves with the cold. Mills would practically stomp up the stairs, the clink of gold coins in his purse rattling as he skipped two steps at a time with his giant stride.

Panic begins to urge you from your spot, feeling as though the springs of the mattress had twisted around your limbs and tied them to the sheets. Your fumbling fingers check that the hammer is cocked back, ready to spring, when your finger choked the trigger.

One, two, three… The gentle squeaks of the aged wood are, now, your only indication that someone is here. The prowling shadow was careful with its next steps, laying them across the planned floor so carefully that you almost didn’t catch that he’s made it to the first floor.

At this point, you aim. It’s wholly unstable, arms trembling under the weight of the pistol and the pressure of the patience you are forced to display.

“Don’t overthink it,” Mills had told you when he handed the gun over to you, his golden eyes heavy with a demand that was so unlike him. “If anyone threatens you, raise this. Do not hesitate.”

The quivering barrel points at the wooden pane of your bedroom door, in turn threatening the trespasser as they approach. You have to guess, have to predict where he is, as the sounds cut off once he reaches the woven carpet.

The wind howls outside like a rabid dog, scratching at the oak with the sand grains it carries to get inside. Still, above the din, the creaks in the boards toll like bells, indicating your impending doom— until they suddenly stop outside of your door.

Repetitive clicking noises ricochet off your bedroom walls, the doorknob turning forcing a whimper of fear to bubble past your lips. You slap an open palm over your mouth, smothering the sound as you hear the deadbolt settle into the wood. It’s open.

Crack.

The booming sound of a flintstock pistol blasts behind the door, the loud bang causing a repetitive ringing to settle between your ears. It dizzies you, the sound knocking your equilibrium. A soft thud bounces off the floorboards in the hallway, and the wooden frame of your door swings open slowly.

You can’t see much of the intruder behind the gaps in your fingers that you peer through. A bloodied hand stretches across the threshold, fingers twitching slightly. Above him stands Mills, his gilded eyes wide and wild as they drag across the room in search of you. His pistol in his palm smokes like a cigar, and you can taste the gunpowder in the air, but you’ve never been so relieved to see him.

“Mills-“ you choke out. He doesn’t even give you an opportunity to reach for him, kicking the jerking limb out of his way and storming across the small distance between you to scoop you into his arms.

It may be freezing outside, the frost on the windows encroaching on the room, but Mills is red hot. His palms dwarf your cheeks as he cradles them. You gaze up at him through your wet lashes, his eyes searching yours to check you’re okay. ‘Did he hurt you? Was I too late?’ You can see the questions run through his mind, reflected back in the sheer terror in his pupils that slowly melt away when you lean into his touch, a sob wracking its way through your chest.

“Fuck,” he whispers, a softly-spoken yet crude attempt to say grace. Mill’s irises cast up to the ceiling, squeezing your body close and releasing a weak chuckle of relief. He’s crushing you, pushing the oxygen from your lungs in a strained sigh.

“Fuck,” Mills repeats himself, his sand-calloused palm settling on your throat to hold your head up as he stifles your shocked sobs with a kiss. It all blurs, almost as fast as the whizz of a bullet, but his nose crushes into your cheek, and his teeth knock yours, and you can’t help but think he’s kissing you.

Neglecting your standard procedure of asking for the gold before taking part in the act, you thread your fingers through the ebony strands of hair that fall into his eyes, loosened from the bun in the wind. You moan softly, melting into his affections as he winds an arm around your waist in what seems to be an impossible attempt to pull you closer to him. You’d dreamt of this moment, imagining what it would be like when he slept against you.

There is a moment, a static, charged instant, where the kiss is delicate. His lips are chapped, beaten by the elements, yet pressed to yours with such a tender caress that the harsh surface of the skin feels feather soft. You feel it, the subdued energy of something far more affectionate than crackling, carnal attraction.

It appears to spark its own lustful connection, Mills’ hands suddenly dragging over your frame as his kiss intensifies. It’s heavier, hungrier. His tongue delves into your mouth, tracing against your own while his fingers tug at the cotton fabric of your nightgown. Without your usual attire, as scandalous and lecherous as it is, you feel vulnerable, and gasp into Mill’s mouth when he rips the neckline of it open to expose your cleavage.

“Darlin’,” he whispers to you, voice as thick as the cigar smoke that clings to the ceiling of the Saloon bar. Embers settle in the pit of your stomach, fanned by his breath as it brushes the flesh of your cheeks. A warm chill licks up your spine, covering your exposed flesh in goosebumps as the pad of Mills’ thumb circles your nipple with the same reverence he extends to the trigger of his pistol. Soft, delicate, yet understanding the detonation he could spawn if he pulled just right-

“Please-“ you breathe, and it comes out much needier than you intend. It lilts, the single syllable, creeps up into a high-pitched whine when he gently pinches the peak of the tender flesh.

“I can see it,” he whispers, his voice falling to impossible depths within you and coaxing that craving within you that calls for him. It’s like he’s your opium, your whiskey that you drown yourself in until you can’t stand. “I can see how much you need me, how badly you want me.”

You shudder in his hold, squeezing your thighs together when you feel his lips brushing against yours. “I’ll give you what you want. I want to give it to you.”

The blood still leaks from the corpse at the entrance to your room, but the involuntary whimper that slips from your tongue is the only answer he needs.

He crowds you onto your mattress, your feet stumbling over the flat surface of the floor until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Mills descends with you, palms easily dragging the hem of your nightgown skirt over your knees and hips. The air is so cold, but you’re stifling, the simple sensation of the soft wear-worn fabric dragging across your sensitive skin, breeding a heavy arousal between your thighs.

You watch, entranced, as the town’s deliverance sinks to his knees beneath you, palms settling into your thighs and hoisting your body back to him with an ease that leaves you breathless. Your thighs are heavy on his shoulders, dead weight with how your arousal coats your muscles and renders them useless. Mills doesn’t complain once, burying his head between your knees and pressing delicate kisses against the soft flesh beside your knees.

It’s not right, you think. No man had ever asked for your services only to focus his attentions on you. The query, however, dies between synapses as Mills blows a gentle stream of cool air against your soaked cunt. You yelp softly, overwhelmed as the flat of his tongue glides through the seam of your sex and settles against your clit.

“Oh- Oh God-“ you choke out, hips jerking against his face despite your attempts to smother the involuntary action. You swear you can feel him smile against you, but again he hauls the thought from the depths of your mind when the tip of his tongue circles your clit. Mills leans the weight of his upper body into his palms, his hands holding the backs of your thighs to push your knees on either side of your chest. The exposure would be mortifying, if not for the overwhelming sensation of your muscles contracting in bliss with each swipe of his tongue.

“M-Mills,” you pant, fingers once again threading through his hair to seek purchase. It grounds you, pulling on the raven strands when something viscous lurches inside of you and threatens to overwhelm your trembling body.

“Ohh- hnnngggfuck-“ you curse, and it tastes like ash on your tongue in what feels like such a hallowed moment. Your arousal smears Mills face where you buck against him, nose and lips gleaming in the faint moonlight and his fingers slowly bury themselves in your cunt with little resistance, but it all feels so sacred. Like the crazy preacher from the bell tower would bless you both for discovering the feeling that ensnares your heart when you look at him.

Mills’ eyelids flutter, looking through his lashes at you. The honey of his irises are devoured by his pupils, watching you tremble beneath his lips. You’re sure that you must look ridiculous, eyebrows pulled up to brace against the impending release that teases at the edges of your body.

“H-hohhh-“ you wail pathetically. You want to say something. Want to thank him, want to praise him for saving you, will him on, tell him that you love him— but his now silky lips wrap around your clit and suck on the bundle of nerves, the pad of his finger brushing up against something earth-shattering within you. It slams against you, forcing your hips to drag across Mills’ mouth.

“Come on,” he whispers, lips moving against your clit. His mouth barely manages to expel the first syllable of his order before your building orgasm crashes around you, pulling up tight and crumbling like the goldmines beyond your city. The pad of Mills’ fingers inside of you continue to bear down on that mind-numbing place inside of you, and you scream something that slurs between a curse and his name.

Your ears ring again when you come down from the high he launched you to, eyes reeling in your skull as you encase them with your heavy eyelids. Despite the heaving of your chest, Mills appears comfortable when he settles his face against your cleavage. His weight pins you to the bed and roots you back down to earth after he’d catapulted you to the stars.

Of course, he waits. He waits for the dying light of your orgasm to dwindle until your lungs stop greedily stealing oxygen until the cramps of your muscles dissipate. His kisses coax you into the conversation, affections easing you despite the topic.

“I’d been trackin’ him for days, Darlin’. M’sorry he got so close to you.” An apology he didn’t need to offer— though it’s not an offer at all. It’s as though he shoves the regret into your hands like a cherry-bomb with a lit wick, anticipating his late arrival would blow up in his face.

You swallow, only just realising that the use of your muscles has returned to your shaken body. Sweeping your hands over his head, you settle his obvious discomfort with the simple, yet familiar, affection. Mills accepts it gratefully, and you feel his lashes flutter closed when they tickle your skin.

“You-… You don’t have to pay me. For that- you…” The words feel too big for your mouth, hesitation creeping between the syllables. “You didn’t complete- you shouldn’t have to pay.”

Mills pauses, eyes still firmly shut and head nestled against your chest. He doesn’t move, but you feel the way his breath stills as he contemplates his following words. Of course, he maintains his outward steel, emotions impossible to read on his flat, immovable expression.

“The only gold you will be receivin’ from me will go on your left hand. You hear?”

You do. Loud and clear. Though, of course, you don’t bother to remind him that a marriage officiant via the County Courthouse would be an almost impossible task given his proclivity for reckoning.

A trip outside of this tiny town seemed like a brilliant idea, away from the whispers, the cigar smoke of the saloon and the crazy ramblings of the preacher in the walls of the bell tower.

“… Yes, Sheriff.”

END

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peachjagiya · 22 days

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Yes to talking about the dynamics between the individual members and the company. I was started thinking about this again because of Bam's insta, actually, haha.

I agree that I think JK and Tae have a different relationship with the company, as opposed to other members like Namjoon or Jimin. And I definitely think there are similarities between Jk and Tae's approach -- and I think that is based on their own personalities as well as their closeness/influence on each other. Probably a better way to put it but I think they understand their responsibilities when it comes to the company but they have both decided to trust themselves first and foremost. I think about JK's "I'd never do something that everyone thought was wrong but when there are multiple ways, I'm going to do it my way" (paraphrased) and Tae's point about "being free" and his definition of free being different than others.

I think one of the similarities between JK and Tae is their comfort doing "non idol" things.

So the pup-stagram lead in. JK deleting his very popular instagram right before his solo launch simply because he didn't want to have it anymore (and sure, he's using weverse which benefits the company but seriously what doesn't). How does he spend his time on the social media: dance challenges, tipsy midnight lives and, now, managing an instagram for his dog. Carefully curated social media presence. My man said, Imma do me, thankyouverymuch. And let's not forget Tae. THE visual of K-pop. The face that launched a thousand ships. World's most handsome man. He goes to literally anything and grown men for miles lose their minds. What does he do with his anticipated solo launch? A close up of Yeontan. BRILLIANT. They both have different tastes and sounds (yet still have shared playlists!) but both so clearly have decided they are doing to redefine "idol" in a way that works for them.

Obviously there are differences. The company has goals (take over the western world!) and JK is central to that. And that supports his goals. So he benefits more directly from the company than Tae. I cannot articulate how much I love Tae's album strategy - from the sound, the visual, the vibes and the choice not to use the same in house team that has overlooked and undervalued him for 10 years.

I also agree with the point about Jin and Yoongi. I think they maintain a slightly more distanced or level perspective. I think it comes from age/maturity. When they started, they were young but not children. It's also interesting to think about how personal confidence and insecurity plays into it. I think Yoongi was confident in his abilities (he had been working on music prior) but had insecurities/anger about what it meant to be doing this in a k-pop space. Jin may have been insecure about his dancing or singing but he immediately stepped into the role of (handsome) hyung and knew it was needed of him (Yoongi's chicken blender meal, ew). I also think it comes from Jin having some security in his family background and him taking the role of hyung very seriously (more so than "idol"). Yoongi's relationship I think has evolved as he has gotten older, less angry and more successful. I think he has seen it for what it is and understood what needed to be done but that he also understand that changes as they literally built that company into what it is today.

Jimin and Hobi (until this documentary) are interesting because I'm not sure we ever really see them outside of idol mode. JM has acknowledged that even at the beginning he was hyper focused on roles and responsibilities. Maybe because they are performers and dancers. Namjoon used to be more that like that too -- the weight of being the leader - but I think we started to see that shift once he got to released Indigo. In fact, I think their solo careers are really how we can sort of tell so much about not only their tastes but their approach. Ok, this is getting too long. sorry for the rambling.

All of this, yes.

Their solo careers really did show much more authentic sides of themselves. I am so here for who Namjoon became in lives last year. Just a bit more free. When he has so much pressure on him to lead and maintain, I really enjoyed seeing him talking openly and standing up for himself.

Here's a thing I'm pondering: I wonder if they'll find it hard going back into a group setting. I think these guys love each other so much on a personal level but their different professional approaches could create... Hmm, not tension as such...

Maybe just a tiny bit of the awkward initially? Or you might start to see these differences a bit more clearly? This is all just supposition though and they're veterans by now.

It's interesting to think about how they'll navigate this after a period where they've been separated for a long time though. Naturally you'd fall into a routine with each other if you spend most days together but the seven of them are distinctly separate now and did a lot of growing professionally last year. Obviously they all still talk but they're not spending a lot of time working together.

Clear subunits have developed and matured over this period too. JK and Tae, Jimin and Yoongi. But then Jimin and JK are going to have a shared experience, Joonie and Tae too. Yoongi has a very different experience from the other six. And some things might be exactly the same: maknae line still a natural trio (thinking of Jeju), Jin still everyone's mummy, Jimin and Hobi still super close, everyone still holds Namjoon to the highest regard.

The dynamics will be super interesting.

I have a hunch - and honestly I'm just thinking out loud, these aren't hard and fast opinions as such - that JK might be key. He's interesting to me because I think his age and role in the hierarchy of the band has made him at times compliant with the requirements of being an idol and recognises how the company aligns with his goals and yet sometimes he seems extremely weary of it. He seems the most conflicted, maybe. I wonder what 2025 will be like for him most of all.

(the delulu in me says his conflict is very heart versus head but... Let's leave that out of this post for now.)

I'm really intrigued and excited to see. Whether they slip back into full group or if a solo-but-together approach helps them out. I personally would love a tour to include their solo stuff.

Now I'm getting rambly. Thanks anon, this is so interesting to think about 💜

#my asks #truthbending

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dailyadventureprompts · 2 years

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Monsterhunt: Ne’thalsh, the Cresting Dread

Surf’s up

Coastal settlements have many things to worry about: Pirates, Storms, riptides the sublime terror of the deep, but perhaps the two greatest of those worries are tsunamis and seamonsters, each of which is more than capable of destroying a settlement if not properly diverted.

How dreadful then that Ne’Thalsh exists, a kaiju with the ability to control water and summon torrential tidalwaves, a sorcerous talent she has nurtured for centuries in the deep, using it to defeat greater leviathans for territory and feeding grounds growing larger with each victory.

Eclipsing many of it’s kin and in search of new territories to claim , the great kraken Ne’Thalsh has heeded the call of a powerhungry pirate cult that now uses the creature as their attack dog, directing her towards ships and ports that refuse to pay them tribute.

Introducing Ne’thalsh into your game signals a change from swashbuckling flippantly into real stakes, as any appearance by the kaiju is likely to result in hundreds or perhaps thousands of deaths, and a danger the party will have to reckon with for the rest of the campaign.

Hooks:

If you want to make best use of Ne’Thalsh’s attack on a settlement, consider launching it while the patter is scattered across town during some kind of downtime. This means that different characters can face challenges that match up with their different strengths of weaknesses, as they are faced with a gauntlet of panicking individuals, rushing crowds, and fighting their way out of structures that’ve been toppled over by the force of the water.

For her part Ne’thalsh is happy to be saved the trouble of actually hunting for new prey, and though her intelligence bears no resemblance to that of a human, she understands that the tiny, noisy things that summoned her from the deep need her far more than she needs them, leading to hear becoming increasingly spoiled and indolent over time. The party is likely to encounter the cult as they scour the land and sea for a means of controlling their allied leviathan, delving ruined temples and shrines of sea gods in the hopes of finding something to aid them.

Moving inland may make our heroes think they’re safe, but herein lies the most dangerous part of Ne’Thalsh’s hydrokinetic magic: the ability to take the tsunami with her, moving it overland like a translucent mountain. The Kracken can can surge up waterways and attack settlements far beyond the reach of the sea, meaning that if the party wants to face her without her aqueous arsenal they’ll need to lure her to some area where they can dam up the flow at either side, starving Ne’thalsh of her primary weapon.

#seaside #seamonster #kaiju #pirates #Cultists #disaster #high level #BossFight #town #city #monster hunt

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theshampyon · 1 year

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Holy shit, more Glass Onion thoughts that I have to purge from my brain. Some of these are things I saw others commenting on on other sites. Some are Shower Thoughts. (Can't believe I didn't notice the first one.) Possible SPOILERS ahead...

When we first see Miles Bron he's playing Blackbird on a white guitar. He says it's the guitar Paul McCartney wrote the song on. The guitar is right-handed. Paul McCartney plays left handed.

I think this is one of a bunch of things in the film Bron paid big money for, never knowing he was being ripped off. Blanc solves Gillian Flynn's Murder Mystery before it even begins because it's not hidden very well, but Bron isn't smart enough to realise it. The Puzzle Box features, in Blanc's words, "Children's puzzles", because the puzzle maker knew Bron wouldn't recognise a proper adult puzzle if he saw one. (So who knows, maybe that wasn't really the Mona Lisa after all.)

Everyone calls the chess puzzle an "endgame." It's not an endgame. It's a move called "The Fool's Mate," so called because it can only be achieved if the White player royally fucks up. Basically, it's the dumbest way to achieve mate. It's also not strictly speaking an endgame. But people who don't actually know chess (like myself, I confess) wouldn't know that.

The Fool's Mate is solved by... the fool's mates.

Back to Benoit calling the puzzles "children's games". They really are. None of require analytical thinking or deductive reasoning. Just recognising patterns that are familiar to their friend group and social class. Not riddles, just references.

The first being the most obvious - a Magic Eye, which some people are physically incapable of seeing and thus could never solve. And even those who can see them do not need wit or reasoning to solve it, just the ability to kinda cross their eyes a bit. In the 1990s, when these characters were teens, Magic Eye puzzles were literally sold as a child's puzzle.

And even then, they needed help. Without Duke's mother, none of them would have solved the boxes. Not even head Bron's main technology department head Lionel, who sure as shit should be able to recognise a Fibonacci sequence when he sees one. It's the kind of thing taught in High School. Yet none of these Special People, these brilliant Disruptors, saw an answer that a very pointedly normal older lady did. Because the movie is telling us right from the beginning that they're not special. All of then are in their positions due to Bron's money and influence, not their actual intellect and skill.

But Benoit didn't necessarily know that about the boxes at the time. He'd never seen the box intact, and he didn't realise Bron is actually an idiot until much later. Which makes me think Benoit said it purely to get Bron off balance. (Also, he may not have been able to solve the box if he had one intact, precisely because it's stupid. Benoit admits such simple puzzles are his Achilles' Heel, which is why he loses the Among Us game in the bathtub!)

This is all also why working class Helen can't solve them. She's smart - a better lateral thinker and riddle solver than any of the Shitheads - but she's not part of their social class. She doesn't know their rote cultural signifiers. (But I bet she would have solved the Fibonacci one.)

So she, in keeping with the Greek theme, cuts the Gordian Knot. Presented with the puzzle as barrier to a prize, most assume the solution is to solve it. Like Alexander the Great, she thinks outside the assumed constraints and simply removes the barrier.

The Greek theme, of course, including the naming of the characters. Andy a.k.a. Cassandra, who foresaw great peril but was not believed. Her sister Helen, whose coming brought about the end of an empire - "the face launched a thousand ships" (or in this case, a fleet of police boats).

I gotta rewatch this. There's bound to be a thousand more little details that I didn't catch the first time around.

#glass onion

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heliads · 1 year

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So, Before You Go Chapter Six: One More Body to Burn

Hellas is gone; so too is your life as a cartographer. You and the Darkling must quell Alina Starkov’s attempt at an uprising in order to protect the Grisha of Ravka. However, your gods are not as dead as they seem, and that which you have taken for granted will soon prove to be quite unpredictable indeed.

previous / series masterlist / next

Many centuries ago, a hero and prince named Theseus defeated a monster named the Minotaur and fought his way out of a massive labyrinth with the help of his lover, Ariadne. Although he swore to his father that he would put up white sails on ship during his return voyage to signify that he had survived the encounter, the task slipped his mind and his ship bore back black sails. Distraught, the king threw himself off a cliff, not knowing his son was alive. Sometimes, we can kill our own forefathers not through direct action, but by forgetting what we owe them.

Aleksander is waiting, you know. He is waiting for you to make a choice. You’re waiting too, actually. There is no telling where you go from here. A thousand crossroads stretch in every direction, all promising you outcomes that could be yours if you would just so much as make up your mind about where to go. The first step is always the hardest. After that, you’re too caught up in your own string of Fate to have any sort of control. Every move from there on out is a cascade of inevitabilities.

So you must make up your mind, then, and do it fast. Time is steadily running away from you on cloud-light footsteps, and before you know it, Aleksander is talking about launching another strike on Alina’s forces. You slaughtered a good number of them back at the Spinning Wheel, which makes her weak. If you manage to pin her down before she can rally more support, you’ll be able to end this once and for all.

The one thing you need before you can strike again, though, is information. Alina is remarkably good at hiding, perhaps due to the fact that your greatest informant, the elder Lantsov brother, Vasily, is an armless corpse somewhere in the Spinning Wheel. She’s up to something, anyone can tell that, but you don’t plan on walking into a trap if you can avoid it.

That means that Aleksander will need to visit her in another vision, just to be sure. You accepted this when he brought it up, even asserted that this was the best possible option. Do you believe it? Unclear. Still, it was an olive branch extended, and he took it as you knew he would.

You weren’t lying, though. You need to know where Alina is, and there’s no better way than to literally appear in her head. Aleksander departs to his study, and you can tell by the sudden magic into the room that he’s there again, back with her. Funny how they always seem to end up together.

A desperate need to escape floods your veins, and you turn and exit the building. Aleksander will find you when he has what he needs, there’s no need for you to wait for his every move or word. The air is crisp on your face, the cool air bringing some sort of sense to your mind. It is exhausting, this hiding and guessing. You want nothing more than for this war to be over, for your reign to begin. Once you can reassert the power of Grisha, when no one has to die and no one has to run, it will all be better. Of that you are certain.

Until then, though– until then, you are sure that you shall be driven mad by the utter force of it all. You fought Aleksander under a false banner until you realized the truth of him, but now that you have him back again, it feels like all you can do is try to find reasons to run again.

It reminds you of a story your mother told you of the god of the Underworld and his queen. Hades kidnapped Persephone from her home above the ground to his world of death beneath the surface. Under his watchful eye, she ate six pomegranate seeds, and so she was condemned to stay with him for half the year, and spend the remaining six months in the land above so that the world could carry on and stay alive.

You had always wondered why Persephone would allow herself to be taken from her husband for that long, but it almost makes sense to you now. Without the separation, without the urge to fight to be with him again, he becomes the villain, and you the enemy he must fight alongside the rest.

You love him, truly you do, but this constant battle to stay under the radar is gnawing at you. If it were just the two of you working in the public view to keep Grisha safe and maintain the Little Palace, you know it would be better. Alina is getting in your head, though, just as she’s getting in his.

Far enough away from your hideaway that none of your Grisha nor Aleksander can hear you, you give in to the tumultuous emotions twisting through your head and let out a bloodcurdling scream. The sound rips through the air, carrying with it all of your pain, your anger, your helplessness.

This is what love is in the end, you decide. It cuts you worse than a blade, it saves you like a miracle. Aleksander would save your life a thousand times, and in return, you would join his cause, rescue his people because you have none more of your own and his family is as good as yours. He would manipulate you just like the rest to count your power as his, and you would second-guess his every intention after so many centuries of never knowing quite what page he’s on.

He is yours, though, and you are his. At the end of the day, there is nothing more to it. You gather your self-control back around your shoulders like a cloak and begin the walk back to the hideaway. This is the fate you were destined to follow, the same path you will run until the end of time. You will leave and come back, separate yourself only to return again and again. It is a terrible cycle, and it is your cycle, and you will gladly complete it for all eternity. Perhaps you shall, if this endeavor to restore Grisha to the power they deserve is successful.

You slip back inside, and it’s like you never left. Aleksander is still locked in his vision, but on second thought, perhaps something has changed after all. The air is sharper than it was before. Maybe Alina is fighting back, or something else, because the magic surrounding him seems to have doubled. You can feel it pressing against your skin the closer you walk to him, invisible hands tearing at your clothes, your eyes, your spirit. Something is here, with him. Something that wants to reach over to his side instead of just Aleksander being the one to travel to Alina.

It makes you shiver. You close the door of his study firmly behind you; this is not a time in which you want the other Grisha overlooking whatever is going on here, and study him more closely. Aleksander’s brow is furrowed, and he seems gripped in the throes of some sort of battle. This should not be happening at all. A shudder runs over the back of your spine as you take an involuntary step away from him. This is not what either of you planned, you can tell that much. Magic splits the air, and then his eyes flash open and you were right, it is worse than before.

For when he comes back– when he comes back, he is wrong. You can tell that instantly. The air crackles with some sort of emotion that hadn’t been there before, a sharp knife of agony. The scent of blood chases this realization seconds later, but it isn’t until the light shifts and you see the body in Aleksander’s arms that you truly know what is going on.

Your breath catches in your throat. This is not Alina’s silhouette, this is not a coup already won before the battle even began. No, you recognize that silver hair, the harsh countenance even when wracked with pain. This is Baghra, and Aleksander has killed her.

It was not on purpose, you think. Already, he is reciting panicked mantras about how he didn’t want this, he didn’t mean to do this. Baghra cuts him off, says what’s done is done, and then she is gone, disappearing in a moment. Aleksander is left clutching at empty air, tears coursing down his face.

Slowly, surely, he looks up at you. “Fix this,” he says unsteadily, “Bring her back. You know the guardians of the Underworld. Stop them from letting her cross.”

You shake your head once. “She will not go to my Underworld, Aleksander. You know that. Baghra was Grisha, and she must return to the making at the heart of the world. She is beyond our reach now.”

Saying the words is awful. Baghra knew you almost as long as Aleksander, and certainly far longer than anyone else. A thousand memories flash through your head, a journey of every moment, every interaction, you’ve ever had with the woman. How she’d greeted you when Aleksander first brought you back to his camp, back before you knew he had created the Shadow Fold, back when you had just known him for an hour or two but already decided to trust him with your life because he’d trusted you with his.

She’d regarded you suspiciously at first, hesitant of outsiders who could betray her in a heartbeat, but once you proved yourself ready to lay your life on the line for the Grisha, she welcomed you as warmly as her permanent glower would allow her. You remember training sessions, years that went by, how she never said directly that she approved of your relationship with her son but how she would show it anyway. When you faked your death the first time to escape Aleksander, you regretted not being able to tell her the truth. You never knew how she responded, but you guessed enough at her grief the next time you saw her.

Yes, then, at the Little Palace under the guise of an oprichniki. Baghra is not particularly given to wild bouts of emotion, but you can still picture the satisfied smile on her face when you’d revealed yourself to her as Hecari. The centuries are impossible to bear without someone you trust, and she had trusted you. She had been willing to hide you from Aleksander for as long as it took, because at the end of the day, you were already halfway to being a daughter to her anyway.

You had wondered if you would regret letting Baghra escape with Genya, if that would spell the end of your conquest to destroy Alina. Right now, though, you would not change a thing. There had been a moment when you had directed Genya to run, when you had looked at her on the outskirts of the forest and seen Baghra’s expression shift to something almost like pride. She was proud of you, you think. Proud that you were not wholly a monster. Proud that although you fought for Grisha in a different way than her, you were still willing to protect her just as she protected you.

Aleksander doesn’t seem to grasp the fact that this is over, that all that exists of Baghra now are memories and nothing more. “This cannot happen. I need her back.”

Something about seeing him there on the floor, nursing a bloodied stump instead of a hand (wonder when that happened) makes something in you snap. “Then you shouldn’t have killed her.”

Aleksander flinches as if you have struck him. “I did not mean for this to happen,” he repeats.

Your voice is cold and high. “But it did. Can’t you see that? This is because of you. By the Gods, I cannot believe you. Do you think I do not know what it is like to lose a parent, your last surviving family? I mourn Hecate every single hour of every single day. That is not a grief you forget. I saw her murdered, that is the difference between you and I. You killed her. You did this, not Alina. You.”

Every single one of your words seems to burn like a brand. “She was fighting me,” he protests, “she severed my hand, for the Saints’ sake. Do you think I attacked her out of nowhere? She–”

You cut him off. “What, she started it? You could have ended it differently. You have all of this power, all of this pride, and you cannot stop a fight without death? Don’t be ridiculous. You know what role you had to play. She was your mother. Do not cry. You do not deserve the right to grieve. Stand up and face what you have done.”

Contrary to what you’ve told him, you are weeping by the end. Baghra was his mother, yes, but you knew her for so long that, for a few years there, she was almost yours. It is a rash and terrible claim, but you cannot help but make it.

Aleksander rises to his feet, and his face is such a storm of ruin that for one terrible moment you have absolutely no idea what he will do next. Then he takes one deep inhale and exhales, and when he looks at you again, he is calm.

“I know the identity of the third amplifier.”

It’s a wonderful bone to throw, and both of you know it. You are not so heartless that you would not recognize this peace offering for what he is. At the moment, he is a boy wracked by the most unutterable grief he has ever felt, and despite his hand in all of this, you will not repeat the argument. You’ve already said what you needed. He will deal with it accordingly.

“Where is it? Within easy travel, or on the other side of the Fold?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not a thing or an animal, it’s a person. The tracker.”

You feel as if you’ve been shot straight through the heart. “What?”

Aleksander repeats himself, but that doesn’t make the news any easier to understand. “Alina’s tracker. The Morozova bloodline runs through him. Ilya Morozova made the third and final amplifier in the blood of his other daughter.”

This news is so absurd that you would almost want to laugh were it not for the complete focus on Aleksander’s face. This is what he learned, then, what Baghra would have fought him over. This is the fate of the war.

“Mal is the firebird?”

“Yes.”

A beat. “She will have to kill him, then.”

A wave of grief and pity hits you, even more so than before. Sorrow for the woman Baghra was to Alina; one less source of support and help in this crisis. Regret that the girl who never wanted this sort of life, only to exist alongside her tracker in a quiet aftermath, will have to murder him to achieve any sort of victory over the Shadow Fold. How horrendous, that when she finally learns enough to win, the answer is her worst fear?

Aleksander is staring at you, waiting for you to say anything more. At last, you tilt your head and speak again. “We will have to end her quickly. Before she can make any mistakes.”

It would be a mercy, you think. Stopping Alina once and for all will mean that she will not have to ever stomach the thought of killing Mal again. You don’t know that she would see it that way, but surely she has at least guessed at it.

When you dare look at him again, Aleksander is transfixed, his expression running clean with relief. He was afraid that you would doubt him again, you think, but your restatement of your commitment to his cause has changed his mind.

“Yes,” he whispers, “we shall.”

He extends an arm to you and you take it, folding into his embrace. You can still feel the grief pouring from him like shadow, but underneath it all, the cold steel of resolve hardens itself around his heart. The only way for all of this to be over is to end it, and end it you shall. Alina Starkov will die. The last remaining question is how much time she has before you come to collect her corpse.

series tag list: @britishbassett, @rogueanschel, @hotleaf-juice, @mxltifxnd0m, @kaqua, @nemesis729, @imma-too-many-fandoms, @cleverzonkwombatsludge, @yourabbymoore, @nemtodd-barnes1923, @heyyitsreign, @ponyboys-sunsets, @slytherinsssss, @fruitymoonbeams-blog, @lakeli, @darlinggbrekker, @rosesberose, @w1shes43, @fairyeunji, @cryinghotmess, @rainbowgoblinfan

grishaverse tag list: @deadreaderssociety, @cameronsails, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @thatfangirl42, @amortensie, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy, @auggie2000

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pridepages · 11 months

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Philatos: The Song of Achilles

I just finished The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller. I have thoughts...

Here there be spoilers!

Madeline Miller’s The Song of Achilles is a classic in more than one sense. Any baby gay or ally looking for gateway LGBTQIA+ literature will inevitably find this book on every list (quite likely near the top). Its source material is classical greek poetry, and one of the most famous love stories of the mythology: that of Achilles and Patroclus. You’ve probably heard of Achilles and his infamous heel, Aristos Achaion, best of the Greeks. A demigod hero who felled mighty Trojan Prince Hector in the war for Helen--the face who launched a thousand ships and the tale of a war sung down the centuries.

You might be less familiar with Patroclus. He was, by his time’s standards, a nobody. Son of a lesser king who was exiled from his home, fully human and a shadowy figure who barely appears in the pages of Homer...but whose love changed the course of Achilles’s life.

It is said that only the love of Patroclus, and grief for his death, could spur Achilles to meet his destiny.

But there’s the debate: what kind of love was it exactly?

It seems strange after the success of Miller’s novel in popular culture that this is up for debate...but it technically still is. Search “Patroclus” in scholarly articles and you’ll find him identified as Achilles’s...friend.

His buddy. His pal.

Fucking. Yikes.

Some may say my insistence that their love is queer comes from my belief that everything is better gay. (Which...okay, yes, and I’m right!) But I’m gonna push back and point to one word:

Philatos.

This is a Greek word that Miller applies in her novel. One that was used between men in the ancient world. It means: ‘Most Beloved.’

It’s a loaded word, particularly when we consider homosexuality in the classical world which was...complicated.

People like to believe that history is as simple as: ‘the ancients were chill about homosexuality, it was only with the rise of certain religions--side-eying Christianity--that it became criminal.’

To which I answer: um...not quite.

Let’s be clear: it’s totally true that the immortal philosopher Plato set forth models that classified different kinds of love. And that one of them, eros, was desire so strong that it was akin to a force of nature. Plato theorized that eros could be harnessed and leveraged as a way to strengthen the bonds between soldiers, giving them better motivation to fight and thus making them more effective.

For example, the Sacred Band of Thebes. You probably know them as the 300, but historians know them as 150 pairs of lovers! The best part? It worked! (At least for a while...but that’s another story.)

And how about Alexander the Great, who conquered most of his neighboring countries and amassed an empire of over two million miles? He had Hephaestion, his constant companion, of whom Alexander said: ‘He is me. I am him.’ So make of that what you will. (I’m gonna go with: gays get shit done!)

That sounds pretty straight-forward (so to speak), so what’s the problem?

Miller actually puts her finger on it in Song. As Patroclus tells us, “Our men like conquest; they did not trust a man who was conquered himself.” Let’s rephrase: being gay is chill...if you’re the top. If you’re not, then you’re the lowest of the low: Feminine. Weak. Disgraced.

I repeat: Fucking. Yikes.

So there were people then and now who would be perfectly ready to handwave away the bond between Achilles and Patroclus. They cry: why it gotta be gay? Why can’t the love of friends be enough? Why do you have to shove it down our throats?!

(I invite you to picture my eyes rolling all the way back.)

Let’s put this argument to bed: there’s nothing wrong with a love that is neither sexual nor romantic. (I see all my sibs under the aro-ace umbrella, y’all are valid!) The problem is when the existence of said love is weaponized to erase or deny other forms of queer love and make them lesser or shameful.

Because that’s what it comes down to: Honor. Reputation was everything to the ancients, and queerness put your reputation on thin ice. So much so that in Song, Patroclus even offers to hide their relationship so as not to endanger Achilles’s legacy: “Your honor could be darkened by it.” But Achilles won’t have it: “Then it is darkened. They are fools if they let my glory rise or fall on this.”

Miller saw this quiet, ever-present bond between Achilles and Patroclus in the pages of ancient texts. And she saw the unsung eros between them, the kind that drove the Sacred Band of Thebes to fight and Alexander to forge an empire. She saw how historians scoffed and dismissed it in a couple of lines to focus on the violent, tragic triumph of Achilles.

Rather than try and recast the great hero, she decided to tackle this relationship from another angle...she gave voice to Patroclus.

It’s a powerful choice to draw him from the shadows. Patroclus figures very little in the myth, and the one time he really does is when he’s disguising himself as someone else: he dies donning Achilles’s armor to rally the Greeks and rout the Trojans with the illusion that Aristos Achaion has returned to the field. One brave deed for an otherwise unremarkable life.

But was it?

Miller’s Patroclus is in many ways an everyman. He’s a mediocre swordsman, but a better healer. He’s the kind of guy who will remember your name and ask about your family, and make sure you have a comfortable place by the fire.

He’s perfectly content with his lot in life. All he really wants to do is tell you how much he loves his boyfriend.

It sounds like the stuff of ‘homeric fanfiction,’ as one boyfriend apparently scoffed at Miller’s work. (I hope she dumped him for it!) But it’s a pretty brave take for a spin on the myths. While Patroclus has respect for honor and glory, and would convince us that Achilles is the better man...that’s not the impression we are left with.

This isn’t a story of heroism by war. This is a story of the heroism of love.

Whether in a palace or on the battlefield, Patroclus’s life is defined by love. Of Achilles, of Briseis, of Chiron, of his homes, of his work, of his world.

This Patroclus says: Plato got it right. Love is what makes all of this--no matter how we live and die--a worthy endeavor.

And I think that’s what makes The Song of Achilles the philatos of queer lit. It both honors its roots, reading with prose that fits the poetic sensibilities of the Iliad, and challenges them.

Ancient people and modern historians have something in common: an ongoing struggle to genuinely accept queer people and queer love. The Song of Achilles is a necessary book. One that bridges past and present. One that speaks softly but clearly, uncompromising in its demand that we allow gay people to be seen and honored in cultural memory.

In the words of another spin on the myths: “It’s a love song / It’s an old song / We’re gonna sing it even so!”

#the song of achilles #tsoa #mlm #gay #madeline miller #lgbtqia #pride #lgbt reads #queer lit #patroclus

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m4gp13 · 11 months

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Ethan Nakamura was very handsome, like all the children of Nemesis.

This is my headcanon — all the children of Nemesis are at least very attractive.

Seriously these guys are related с Helen of Troy, whose face launched a thousand ships.

[And naturally they don't pay any attention to their beauty — they still have the myth of Narcissus by heart and they have a minimum of mirror surfaces, no one wants to be cursed and turned into a flower by mom].

Ethan and Damien's canonical relation to Helen of Troy is genuinely so underutilized especially with the Illiad references in TLO. The other demigods (*cough cough* Alabaster and Chiara *cough cough*) would have given them so much shit for it. And yes the Nemesis kids (Ethan in particular) definitely would have developed a complex about being the children of the Goddess known for punishing heroes who succumb to hubris. They're probably terrified of their mother perceiving them as getting ahead of themselves so they overcorrect by simply not allowing themselves to feel proud of themselves at all. (Self-esteem who?)

like imagine a scenario where they're deathly afraid of growing the slightest hint of an ego that every time someone tries to compliment them it just ends up like:-

Random person: I don't know why you're so self-conscious, you know, you're actually really attracti-

Ethan, flying over a table to shush them: You'll summon her

#ask answered #Q

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banapsha · 2 months

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Unleash the Power of Storytelling: Crafting the Ultimate Character Profile 101

Welcome, fellow storytellers and aspiring novelists! So, what's up? You have made a decision to grace the world of literature with your masterpiece, and now you're faced with that super challenging task of creating characters.

Fear not, my friend! I've got you covered with the ultimate guide to help you try to somehow navigate through the crazy labyrinth of character development. Buckle up, grab your much-needed favorite coffee(s) or energy drink(s), and let's dive into the truly intricate world of character creation!!

Basic Stats: Because It's Not Just Name, Rank, and Serial Number

Let's kick off with the basics, shall we? Name, role, sex, gender, age (because apparently, age is super crucial), race, ethnicity, culture – basically, the whole shebang. Don't forget to throw in some physical appearance details like height, body type, and whether they've got a face that could launch a thousand ships! Oh, and where are they from? No, not just their current residence, but the place they call home sweet home. Are they living large, scraping by, or just coasting through life? You, the creator, must have all deets!

Relationships: It's Not Just Complicated Facebook

Now, let's spill the tea on relationships. Family dynamics? Check ✓. Friends? Double check ✓. What's the deal with their family? Are they besties or mortal enemies? And don't skimp out on the juicy details – you (don't we all?) want to know about the love life, dating disasters, and whether they've ever had their heart broken. What's their love language? Because, you know, sometimes words of affirmation are all the jazz! Mainly focus on the MC's Relationship Drama because this is what drives your story forward. Dive deeply into the MC's relationships with others. Describe them in a few words, spill the tea on complicated conflicts, reveal their secrets, and dish out the juicy details on how they met. How will their relationships evolve as the story unfolds? And why? It's like a soap opera, but with even more character development.

Sexy Stuff: Attraction, Baby!

Let's talk sexy stuff – because it's more important than you think. Orientation, specific attractions (we're talking eyes, abs, feet…? 🤨🫥 and everything in between), and the nitty-gritty of their romantic escapades. Get those butterflies fluttering for sure!

Skills: Move Over, Jack of All Trades

Skills time! What are they good at? Did they master the art of ninja kicks through schooling or on the mean streets? Occupation, hobbies – spill it all out. You want to know what makes them a pro, or at least a decently good amateur.

Personality and Character: More Than Just Introvert vs. Extrovert

Time to psychoanalyze your character. Introvert, extrovert, ambivert – you need to know where they fall on the social spectrum. What are their strengths, weaknesses, fatal flaws, and personality types? Any internal conflicts brewing? Goals, dreams, fears, insecurities – lay it all out. And what's their go-to attire? Are they rocking the latest fashion or stuck in a time warp? And why?

Keys to Good Characters: Makes 'em Active, Not Couch Potatoes

Remember, we're crafting active characters who actually participate in the making of the story, rather than passive observers who just let the story happen to them. They should be the ones driving the story, not just tag along for the ride. Remember to give them fatal flaws, internal conflicts, and clear goals – the holy trinity of compelling characters!

Don't Stop Here: Keep the Creative Juices Flowing. Have fun with it. There is a lot more. Write useless facts about your characters, because the more you know them the better. Get into their heads and just rip 'em apart!

And there you have it – a roadmap to crafting characters that like kind of jump off the page,… sort of. Bonus tips: Write in the first person, spill the all-important details in detail, and be very intentional with your (aka your character's) choices. Don't be very afraid to tweak this template to fit your kind of story, and organize it efficiently based on all your narrative needs.

Go forth, my fellow wordsmiths, and create characters that will live rent-free in your readers' heads. Happy writing!

#writing a book #on writing #writing #writerscorner #writers on tumblr #authors of tumblr #writerscommunity #writer #female writers #writeblr

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sweetjuniperandboiledsatan · 1 year

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Chapter 26 - Shady Belle

Full story here: Not a Doctor, Not an Angel Either

Word count: 34,472 Chapters: 26/41

Rating: M Pairing: John Marston x F!Reader; Javier Escuella x F!Reader

Warnings: Sexual content, mention of alcohol and cigarettes

You didn't really think that running away was the answer, did you? That it would bring back their son and magically fix everything? Of course not, but that didn't mean you weren't contemplating it. In fact, the idea struck you when Pinkerton agents unexpectedly made an appearance at Clemens Point, prompting Dutch to order everyone to start packing and moving fast.

This was it, your opportunity, you told yourself as your eyes fixated on your suitcase. It was just sitting there, unassuming and waiting for you to make your next move. You've played it in your head a few times - pick up your suitcase while no one's looking, bring your horse right behind the wagons and carriages, strap it up, and when you're ready, make a run for it. You knew your dad still had some money in the bank, and this new campsite was in close proximity to St. Denis. From there, you could board a ship that could take you away, maybe far east – away from all of this, away from Abigail, away from John.

John wasn't there; he was with Arthur and Dutch. The three of them had set out for St. Denis to look for Angelo Bronte, hoping to shed more light on Jack's whereabouts. The others who remained hustled about, unloading supplies from the wagons, pitching tents, and repairing the walls and floorboards of the derelict house that was to be the Van der Linde gang's new hideout.

You felt a sense of restlessness and unease in your chest when you finally decided to act. With mechanical grace, you picked up your suitcase, thinking it must have weighed a thousand times more than it actually did before approaching your horse. You moved carefully so as not to draw any attention to yourself and let anyone know what you intended to do. Thankfully, the wagons and carriages provided cover that helped keep you hidden from view. With practised ease, you mounted your horse and adjusted your suitcase, making sure it was securely fastened. Taking a deep breath, you urged your horse forward.

You looked back once more, and you saw your life and home for the past year growing smaller and smaller. You turned your head back on the road ahead, leaning forward and urging the animal to go faster. Maybe if you rode fast enough, you could outrun the guilt and shame that consumed you. Leaving them was the last thing you wanted, but you couldn't bring yourself to face Abigail and John again, not after everything that had happened when you broke the news to them.

You were still disoriented from the injury you sustained to your head, frantically searching for words to explain to them what had happened to their son. Abigail's face grew pale and twisted with horror, then rage. She started screaming and spewing curses at you and John. She had made herself explicitly clear that she never wanted you near her son, and John had betrayed her.

You could still hear her screams ringing in your ears as you recalled how she launched herself at you with her fists balled tightly and arms swinging wildly. You instinctively flinched and shut your eyes tight, bracing yourself for impact, only to feel the rush of air as she missed you by mere inches. When you opened your eyes, you saw John standing between the two of you, his hands holding a firm grip on her. You wondered if you would still be alive had John and the others not intervened and if Dutch hadn't been able to pacify her that day.

As you neared Caliga Hall in the eastern part of Scarlett Meadows, you could hear another horse gaining speed towards your direction. The hoofbeats sounded different but not entirely unfamiliar. It was unmistakably Boaz's. You turned your head and saw Javier riding swiftly behind you. He was a much better rider than you, and it didn't take him long to finally catch up to you. With skillful maneuvering, he was able to block your path effectively, causing you and your horse to swerve to the side.

"Where do you think you're going?" His eyes, filled with alarm and concern, flicked from your suitcase and then to you. Javier had noticed your absence among the commotion at Shady Belle earlier, and when he realised your horse was missing too, he immediately headed out in search of you.

"Out of the way, Javier, please!" Your voice quavered as you implored him to move.

"You can't just leave like this." He tightened his grip on the reins, keeping his horse steady. Your horse whinnied in protest as you attempted to guide it around him, but Boaz was too strong.

You shook your head. "You don't understand. I can't stay. I can't face Abigail… and John. That little boy, Javier, I just can't!"

"Think about what you're doing, [Y/N]." Javier's voice was firm but gentle, begging you to find some reason amidst all of this.

Gritting your teeth, you dug your heels into your horse's sides, but it refused to budge. Javier's horse edged closer, causing your horse to sidestep and your suitcase to jostle behind you.

"You think that's what John needs right now? He's out there, at his wit's end, looking for Jack."

"Have you even thought about what it'll do to him when he comes home and finds you gone?" He gestured with his arm in frustration.

"What happened to Jack, that wasn't your fault, [Y/N]." He added, his voice finally softening.

Warm tears started streaming down your sun-kissed face, and the weight of your decision suddenly felt unbearable. You realised how foolish and selfish you had been, and you were this close to leaving everything and everyone that mattered to you, including John.

You knew you had to go back. You took a deep breath and finally looked at Javier, who was patiently waiting for your response. You nodded, a silent acknowledgment of your defeat.

With his reassuring nod and a smile, Javier led his horse to ride alongside yours. The two of you made your way back to Shady Belle in comfortable silence. You thought how grateful you were for his company and, most importantly, for showing you the way back home.

As the afternoon faded into evening, the sounds of the swamp grew louder. The deep and guttural croaking of the bullfrogs echoed in the distance, and the incessant buzzing of mosquitoes and other insects hummed in the background. Every so often, the occasional splash of water could be heard from the swamp, creating an ominous and foreboding atmosphere that seemed to seep into everyone's mood.

Dutch's voice boomed, breaking the tension and unease in the air. "We're here!" he shouted, "And we've brought Jack back!" The camp erupted into a frenzy of cheers and relief, and the fear and apprehension that had gripped the gang dissipated.

No one was more relieved and overjoyed to see little Jack again than his mother. Abigail ran toward her baby boy, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. She thanked Dutch and Arthur for bringing her boy back, her gaze meeting John's before leading the little boy back into the fold, where they were greeted with singing and celebration. Javier led with his guitar, and the gang broke into a chorus, his beautiful voice carrying above the others.

As the celebration carried on into the night, you found yourself standing alongside Reverend Swanson and Kieran, taking in the scene of the party from a safe distance. Even Sadie, who had been distant and withdrawn since Horseshoe Overlook, appeared to be in better spirits.

"I don't want to ruin it," the Reverend answered ruefully when you asked him why he wasn't joining the festivities. You reminded him not to be too hard on himself, offering advice you thought you could certainly use as well.

Your eyes wandered over the group by the campfire, lingering for a moment on John as he sat with Abigail and Jack. A faint and familiar feeling tugged in your chest as you watched them by the campfire. You tore your gaze away in hopes of distracting yourself from it. You shifted your attention back to Reverend Swanson, who had started telling you the story about the ghost of a young woman that haunted the grounds of Shady Belle. The sunken hollows beneath his eyes only seemed to deepen as he spoke, casting an eerie shadow over his already haunted tale.

As Swanson's story drew to a close, Arthur made his way over. Noticing your reserved demeanour, he placed the comforting weight of his hand on your shoulder and offered you a drink. You accepted and felt the warmth of his touch still lingering on the cup, sensing that he had somehow read and understood everything that was going on in your mind. You looked up at Arthur and thanked him for the gesture, the liquid burning down your throat as you did. His eyes held a silent inquiry, and for a moment, you considered confiding in him, but words eluded you.

As the night progressed, the singing and drinking gradually died down, and the group that had gathered around the campfire earlier dispersed into smaller clusters. Javier's music continued, providing a soothing backdrop to the conversation between Arthur, Hosea, and Dutch, who were discussing what they’ve recently learned about Angelo Bronte.

You must've been on your third or fourth refill, all courtesy of Miss Jones, when John found you sitting by the fountain, lost in your own thoughts. Without a word, he sat beside you and raised his bottle in a silent toast. A few moments later, Jack joined you with a cheerful greeting, seemingly unmarred by the recent events.

You returned the little boy’s greeting with a warm smile, but your expression quickly turned serious as you noticed Abigail approaching you and John. Your heart raced, and you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, hoping to avoid another confrontation with her.

"I feel like I can breathe again," Abigail said, finally breaking the ice. She paused for a moment before continuing, "I'm sorry if I was...well, I was just really worried sick." Her words were sincere, and a sense of relief washed over you as you accepted her apology.

After bidding the two of you goodnight and taking Jack with her, Abigail left you and John alone once more. You savoured the last sips of your drink, basking in the peace and calm of the night. John remained quiet, his tiredness apparent in his eyes. You knew he needed a good night's sleep after all he had been through, and you decided it was best not to burden him with the knowledge of what you were up to that day.

With a soft sigh, he stood up and looked at you with such tenderness and longing, a silent invitation to call it a night. Without hesitation, you rose to your feet and took his rough, calloused hand in yours. Together, you made your way back to your quarters, leaving behind the warmth of the fire and the memories of turmoil and disquiet of the past few days.

***

#john marston #john marston x you #red dead redemption 2 #javier escuella #javier escuella x reader

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