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darby-rowe · 5 months

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PILEDRIVER !

sejanus plinth x fem!District 2!reader summary when you and sejanus get the opportunity to relive your days of amateur backyard wrestling while growing up in district two, things get... well, compromising.

word count 2.5k cw childhood best friends to lovers, the inherent eroticism of wrestling, awkward boner, reader makes the first move, first kiss, cunnilingus, confident sej, p in v, unprotected sex, sej has a big dick, petnames, dirty talk, flexible reader, piledriver position, y/n usage, pulling out, not proofread notes based off of my personal headcanon that district two quickly became filled to the brim with underground fighting/wrestling rings after it was named panem's newest military hotspot after district 13 got its shit obliterated. and i was always obsessed with the idea of a district two character who was heavily involved with these rings, so i decided to "soften" up the idea a little bit by just making reader the type of child who wrestled w/ her family and friends as a little girl. thought this concept was super cute and i hope yall do too! also for anyone who's wondering, sej and reader are supposed to be doing catch wrestling, but i also combined moves from collegiate wrestling and pro wrestling :) so yeah!!

Growing up in District 2, you swiftly grew familiar with back alley tussling as your home district quickly became Panem’s military hotspot after the first rebellion. It seemed as if your entire childhood consisted of backyard amateur wrestling and secret underground fighting rings in which you constantly found yourself getting wound up in.

By the time your family bought themselves a place within the Capitol, you already had a well rounded history of getting broken and bruised by friends, family, and complete strangers. And the thing was that you loved it. You loved stepping inside a poorly made ring and roughin’ it out with your siblings or cousins.

And your parents sure could afford the medical bills after all your broken bones!

So when you were forced to pack up and leave for the Capitol, you were heartbroken to have to transition into a life of high class uppity scumbags – with the exception of your best friend, Sejanus Plinth, whom you felt was your only source of comfort among the sea of self-important snakes.

One late night, Sejanus came to you with bright eyes and grinning lips, eager to show you what he had found. “Oh, and make sure you bring a sports bra, gym shorts, and some good shoes,” he had said before you two went off. Of course you didn’t object to a tiny adventure with your best friend, so you followed him through the quiet streets of the Capitol towards a run-down building that smelled of mold and old rubber. When you stepped inside, your heart swelled with nostalgic joy, and your eyes nearly overflowed with tears.

“Sej,” you gasped as your eyes fell upon the abandoned gym. Sure, it was a fixer-upper, but it was more than perfect for just the two of you. All of the punching bags and weight-racks were right where they were left, but the most important thing in the room were the big circles in the middle of the room.

You looked back at Sejanus with a look of pure gratitude. “How’d you find this place?”

He shrugged his shoulders, his brown doe eyes sparkling with delight. “I may or may not have pulled a few strings,” he teased. God bless Strabo and Ma Plinth, you thought. “Now, enough talk – you up for some old fashioned catch-as-catch-can?”

•❅───✧❅✦❅✧───❅•

The amount of time this gym must have been abandoned concerned you a bit, making you feel that if you took a big enough breath you’d be a walking incarnate of tuberculosis for the next year. But the two of you didn’t plan on staying long, as trespassing could land you a good few nights in jail. And you and Sejanus being district, that was the last thing you two needed to be added to your permanent records.

You made sure to stretch your body, making sure all your muscles were warmed up deeply before locking up with Sejanus. And him, with his big strong arms, you realized that your body was the only thing warmed up tonight.

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Sejanus teased, wounding up his arms in large circles. “I’ll make sure to go easy on you, darling,”

“You think I can’t take you down, big boy?” you challenged, cracking your neck and knuckles. “I’ve done it before, remember?”

“Yeah, when we were five,” Sejanus countered, adding a small chuckle to his words.

There wasn’t a referee, nor a bell or a whistle, so you two shook hands and squatted down as you circled each other. The fingers of your hands slightly ghosted each other, teasing each other at the same time of who was going to grapple who first. The two of you then locked up in a collar and elbow tie-up, your hand grasping the back of his neck as you pulled him in for a standing headlock. You tightly secured Sejanus’s head into the pocket of your forearm as his hands felt around your waist. His strength overtook yours as he pushed himself out of the lock, and you couldn’t help yourself but lightly gasp as he pulls in for a standing headlock of his own and takes you down to the ground with a takeover. The feeling of your body flipping forwards onto your back makes you dizzy for just a second, opening your eyes to see Sejanus’s smiling face looking down straight at you.

“Thought you were gonna go easy on me,” you teased, panting from the combination of sudden movements.

Sejanus still has his arms wrapped around your head, also panting. “Change of heart, I guess,”

You huffed out a puff of air out of your mouth in a chuckle. “What a gentleman,” you locked your hands around his torso and pushed yourself into a bridge, using your strength to roll him over onto his stomach to lay him out prone. You let out embarrassingly loud grunts of effort as Sejanus was larger than you, which made him start laughing as you now laid over his body, hands still wrapped around him. “Shut up, Sej,”

“What? It’s cute,” he responded from under you.

You slowly released your hands from around his already clammy torso and stood back up on your feet, stretching your body once more to prepare for round two. “You didn’t even pin me,” Sejanus said with a tinge of confusion in his voice.

“It’s not like we’re actually doing a match together,” you told him. “What? You wanna do one for real this time?”

Sejanus twisted his body at the waist, knocking out all the kinks in his muscles. “I thought we were doing it for real?”

“Well now we can, grizzly bear,” your voice was almost a purr as you stretched out your arms at the ready. Grizzly bear? The nickname confused him, so you took the momentary distraction to two-step into a double-leg takedown. When he was on his back, you flipped your body over in a jackknife pin, but the sheer swiftness of Sejanus betrayed you.

Sejanus used the strength of his legs to roll you onto the backs of your shoulders, your arms pinned down by his legs, and knees hooked on his shoulders. You were unable to kick out by the time the three seconds were up.

“Nice,” you commented, panting as you looked up at his sweaty face from your compromising position.

“Should say the same to you,” he responded, letting you roll yourself backwards onto your knees. “Another round, darling?”

You got up onto your feet, but before you could agree to another round, you found yourself being tackled onto the ground below and folded in half. Sejanus had your arms pinned down over your head, and your knees were basically parallel with your cheeks.

And you felt the unmistakable feeling of Sejanus’s hard erection pressed against your ass.

Sejanus had you pinned down for more than the 3-second count, and he still hadn’t let you go. You blushed, eyes scanning over his sweaty form dominating over you. What do you even say in a situation like this?

You always thought Sejanus was cute. You watched him grow up alongside you and turn into an extremely handsome young man. He grew into his muscular stature, his brown curls became more defined, his brown doe eyes only grew dreamier.

And now here you were, folded in half like a damn pretzel, and he was hard.

“You’re, um…” you wet your lips awkwardly. “You–... you’re hard, Sej,”

You felt guilt well up inside your chest as Sejanus’s face seemed to drop with embarrassment. Fuck, now you felt like an asshole. “Oh… oh, Y/N, I’m so sorry–”

“Hey, hey, no,” you cooed, trying to put his worries at ease. You reached up and brushed a stray curl from his sweaty face. “No apologies, Sej. Don’t worry,”

Sejanus crawled away from on top of you, letting your body unfold itself, giving your ribcage and your other internal organs a break. You pulled yourself up into a sitting position where Sejanus had one knee folded up towards his chest and his other leg flat on the dusty wrestling mat.

You sat there in silence, thinking of what your next move could possibly be. Should you apologize for pointing out Sejanus’s erection? It seemed as if no matter what you chose to say, it was only going to make the situation worse.

So instead, you said fuck it, and chose not to say anything at all as you grabbed Sejanus’s face and pulled him in for a kiss. You felt his big hands find purchase on your shoulders, as if the initial shock was going to make him fall over.

The taste of his plump, warm lips slotting themselves against yours sent goosebumps down your back, and when you pulled away for a breather, only a few words were exchanged before you two went back at it.

“Are you sure?” Sejanus mumbled against your lips.

“Please,” you whispered. And that was all that needed to be said.

It didn’t take long before you had Sejanus trailing open-mouthed kisses down your stomach and down towards the waistline of your shorts, hooking his fingers beneath the waistband and pulling them down to reveal your plain, cotton panties. Even in the darkness of the abandoned gym, he could still pinpoint the dark spot of your wetness, teasingly circling his thumb on the area. You inhaled sharply. You were already so sensitive. You blamed it on the previous exertion of energy you shared with Sejanus and, well, also the fact that Sejanus’s face was mere inches away from your pussy.

He swiftly pulled off your panties and leaned down to deliver one kitten lick to your clit, making you gasp softly. You could tell that your reaction made the boy smirk, adding to his confidence.

In a matter of seconds you were reduced to a mewling, moaning mess as the curly-haired boy devoured your clit – licking, sucking, slurping up your juices like a man who had been starving for days. The sheer sound of Sejanus’s mouth sucking at your pussy made you blush, and admittedly, you were even a little embarrassed at how wet you were.

You whined at the feeling of his mouth’s absence from your pussy, only to feel his hand lightly grab your face to force you to look at him.

“Wanna see your pretty face, please?” he cooed, and you nodded obediently, earning you his mouth back on your swollen clit. You cried out with delight, placing both of your hands on your breasts and squeezing them.

“So good…” you mewled, your legs beginning to squirm from your increasing pleasure. The knot in your stomach neared its unraveling, until you were once again folded in half, your pussy hovering above you at a near 90-degree angle.

Sejanus’s mouth never left your clit as he lifted your body over itself. Your fingernails dug deep into the mat, your eyes focused solely on Sejanus’s mouth and tongue on your lips and bud. But before you could finally arrive at your orgasm, he stopped abruptly.

You pouted pathetically up at him, whimpering. “Sej,”

He reached a hand down to softly caress the side of your face, his thumb tracing circles on your flushed cheeks. You could see the way his wet mouth shined in the dim light of the gym, licking his lips to taste the remnants of your essence.

“I wanna fuck you so bad, baby,” The way Sejanus was practically begging you had your stomach doing backflips. “Please? Please?”

In what world would you ever say no?

You pawed at Sejanus’s big arms as you nodded up at him, mumbling phrases like, “Please fuck me,” and “Want you inside me, baby,”

Your mouth watered as he freed his hard cock from his shorts, eyes widening at how big he was. Sejanus most likely caught on to your worried face as he quickly made sure to ease your worries. “I’ll be gentle, darling, don’t worry,” he murmured, slipping his cock in between your wet pussy lips. You gasped at his teasing, biting your lip as the tip of his cock pushed against your clit so well. “Breathe, baby,” he sighed, positioning the head of his dick at your tight, wet entrance and slowly lowering himself into you.

You inhaled sharply as the thickness of his cock stretched you open, the two of you groaning simultaneously at the new sensations. Sejanus was slow and cautious at first, but you could tell he wanted so badly to thrust himself inside of you and pound into the mat.

“So big…” you whispered, earning another low groan from the boy above you. When your walls finally stopped resisting against his size, Sejanus began to slowly lift himself up and back down inside you, earning beautiful melodic moans from your mouth.

You hooked your arms around your legs to keep you in this rather compromising position, but the way the curly-haired boy looked two seconds away from pistoning his cock inside you had you salivating. You looked up at him, batting your eyelashes and mumbling how good he felt, how big he was, how pretty he looked. You relished in the sight of him blushing at your dirty praises.

Sejanus’s hands found their place on your thighs to help him quicken his thrusts, and the faster he moved inside you, the louder your moans became. You felt his balls slap against your ass, the skin of his thighs colliding with yours, and his moans – ugh, his moans – you couldn’t get enough of his sounds of pure ecstasy.

“Your pussy feels so good,” he panted, looking down at your blissed out face. And for a moment, you two smiled at each other, just happy to be in this moment together.

Your hands reached up to grab at his forearms as you felt the knot in your stomach near its unraveling once more. “Gonna cum, baby,” you moaned. “Gonna cum all over your cock,”

Sejanus expedited the arrival of your orgasm by taking his thumb and circling your clit, and in a matter of moments you were crying and babbling your way as your walls tightened and pulsated around his dick. The sheer explosion of pleasure had you seeing spots behind your eyelids, gritting your teeth and growling as the boy above you didn’t slow down his thrusts.

As your high came down, Sejanus’s high was approaching as he quickly lifted himself out of you and swiftly started stroking his cock until he was spurting thick, white ropes all over your pussy. You closed your eyes dreamily as you listened to the beautiful sounds of his groans as his cock shot out large amounts of cum all over you.

You unfolded your body and brought your hand up to your chest to feel your heartbeat, breathing heavily as the intensity of your activities wound down. You felt Sejanus lay his large body on top of you, and you instinctively wrapped your arms around him and held him close, kissing the top of his head.

And in a last ditch effort to be the comedian of the moment, Sejanus said one last thing before the two of you cleaned yourselves up and headed home.

“Good hustle,” he mumbled, earning a wheeze from you and a tiny slap to his bicep.

“Shut the fuck up, Sej,”

tagging @spideyhexx — a late bday gift from me to you. ♡

dividers by cafekitsune

#sejanus plinth x reader #sejanus plinth x you #sejanus plinth imagine #sejanus plinth fanfiction #sejanus plint smut #the hunger games the ballad of songbirds & snakes #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #tbosas #darbyrowe.doc

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0bticeo · 6 months

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may the odds be in your favour | coriolanus snow/fem!reader.

summary:

“stop playing pretend,” he murmurs, voice like a knife against your throat. “you want something from me.”

you lick your lips and watch as his gaze subconsciously trails down to your mouth. such a pretty mouth, bitten red to mimic the bold shades the likes of clemensia dovecote dons. such a lethal one.

“let's work together, coriolanus snow.”

or: your family has fallen from grace and you need the money from the plinth prize to survive. the catch? coriolanus snow needs it too. may the odds be in your favour.

part one. part two. part three. part four. part five.

cw: mild gore, unresolved sexual tension, manipulation, coriolanus snow himself.

wc: 1940.

you know the bottomless pits of hunger all too well. this country’s name may be panem, but you haven’t seen a glimpse of bread in weeks - nor anything that resembles a decent meal. not really. you’re six years old and the last one standing of the proud ash dynasty. ashes to ashes - most of your family’s dead, the capitol’s been blown to smithereens and you’re watching a man sever your father’s arm.

here goes: those are the darkest days of the capitol, and hunger drives people mad. you’ve seen bodies litter the streets, clothes and limbs torn to shreds. you’ve watched the imprints of teeth in the skin and looked up to your father - is that normal? can people really be driven that far?

they can. man - an animal gifted with reason, but an animal, still. man, draping himself in ornate clothes and heady perfumes and intricate social codes. man, reduced to a starved beast, self preservation kicking in to ensure his survival.

so you watch, barely hidden behind the column of a ruined building, as your father’s corpse gets desecrated before your very eyes. you think you might’ve screamed. you think you might’ve collapsed, fallen to your knees, tender skin splitting open under the asphalt beneath. the man-beast above your father’s corpse startles and looks at you. even from this distance, you see an abyss gaping at you.

then, there are hands upon you. then a hand grasps your wrist and tugs , urging you to stand, to run.

this is the first time you meet tigris and coriolanus snow. it won’t be the last.

***

in the dark of the night, you look at the many, many cracks of your ceiling and wonder what the best course of action would be. the end of the year creeps by, closer and closer, inevitable. with it, the plinth prize. enough money to get you and your mother food. enough money to get her a proper treatment.

you hear her coughing from her room and grimace. tuberculosis eats away at her. you fear you might not have enough time to save you both.

you press your palms against your eyes. think. focus. the hours tick by, the night darkens, deepens. should you fail to get the damn prize, your mother would die - that you cannot let happen. you will not let it happen, not after everything you’ve been through, not after you had to recover your father’s mutilated corpse weeks after his death. sometimes, you can still smell it, the foul stench of rot eating away at who was once one of the most powerful men of the capitol.

“there’s only power,” you mutter in the cold darkness of your room, your breath drawing a soft plume of white. it’s cold. you don’t feel it biting at your skin. the knowledge of your family’s downfall has frozen what was left of your innocence, the cold hard enough to shatter it.

cold. snow. it always comes back to him, in the end. coriolanus snow and his cold, cold gaze. you have a feeling he’s not as cold as he thinks he is. he hides it well. well enough to be on top of your class - a place you regularly snatch from him with a pretty smile.

coriolanus snow, the one whose silhouette you see etched in the back of your mind, tall, arrogant, shoulders squared up in defiance, all lean muscles and carefully studied poise. doesn’t have one curl out of place, and if he does, it’s deliberate.

you sit up in your bed, covers pooling at your waist. you have half a mind to wrap them around your shoulders. the cold’s getting to you. snow always lands on top.

until it melts.

as of now, there’s not enough fire in you to burn him. it wouldn’t be in your best interests to do so. he’s bloody brilliant, perhaps more than you. what neither of you have in riches, you make up for in wits and charisma and pretty, pretty silver lies.

you sigh and fall back on the bed.

better strike a temporary alliance until you deem it necessary to end than to directly oppose him.

***

the next time you see him, there’s a heavy weight in your satchel and he hasn’t eaten in a day and a half. oh, he hides it well enough for the rich kids of your entourage. what do they know of hunger, those spoiled little brats? those with enough money to afford wasting away entire steaks?

so there he is, the proud coriolanus snow, leaning against the wall, arms crossed before his chest. blessedly alone. you make your move.

“hungering for something other than power?”

his eyes widen by a fraction, the movement near imperceptible. a quick glance around the hallway - you’re both alone.

“what do you want?”

his gaze is withering, scorching hot as you make your way towards him, fingers dipping in your satchel. as you come closer, you allow yourself to take him in. something deep in you purrs in contentment when you see his jaw tick. oh, you’ve caught him off-guard, and he loathes it. with an imperceptible start, you realise this is the closest you’ve come to get a read on him. you’re quick to press the wrapped loaf of bread in his arms.

“don’t fall just yet.”

he doesn’t mention it, after. but you catch his gaze lingering on you. studying you. watching you. who you talk to, how you talk. how you carry yourself, the way you stretch your sore neck after pouring over your assigned anatomy volume for biology class. the way your fingers trace the bones, barely pressing on the page. he watches the way you lean back with the shadow of a smile after countering plinth’s arguments in rhetoric class.

he watches and watches, and you feel the weight of his gaze on your back.

you watch him, too. study him the way he studies you, carefully, subtly.

you find there are many things you have in common with coriolanus snow. a proud name. cunning. ambition. families fallen far, far below capitol’s standards, struggling to make do with what little’s left of your dignity. putting together scraps of past glory and playing pretend because you cannot afford to show weakness. you’re short on money, after all. only a miracle could save you.

(you’ve stopped thinking there was a benevolent entity above and resorted to only trusting in yourself. no miracle will get you and your mother out of the pit of misery the war threw you in. the plinth prize? that is something within reach. that is something within the realm of your abilities.)

here’s the catch - you’re one and the same, two sides of the same chipped coin. your family’s estate is close to his - close enough for the both of you to be able to take a glimpse through each other’s life with a simple glimpse through your respective windows. close enough for you to see dear tigris collect tiles from the bathroom walls. you’ll recognize the motif on the buttons of snow’s shirt come morning.

he sees you, too. sees how your fingers dig into your arm whenever food’s on display, how you press your thumb ever so subtly against your stomach to muffle its growls. sees how your gaze lingers on the infirmary’s mahogany door - your mother’s sick, and the cure is one you cannot afford. sees how your gaze goes from one piece of decadent riches to the next, cold and calculating.

“what is your game?” he asks you, one cold january morning, voice like silk against your ear.

to your credit, you don’t shiver upon feeling his breath against the fine hairs of your neck. your face is as cold and emotionless as the marble statue you’ve focused your attention on. icarus reaching for the sun. from this close, you think his features bear a striking resemblance to snow’s.

you turn towards him, a half smile on your lips.

he looks back, abysmal. you see the beast beneath, the one that yearns for power.

you glance around the hallways. you’re alone.

“you’re smart enough to figure it out, snow.”

his eyes narrow by a fraction. there’s fire in those eyes, a devouring ambition. miscalculate and snow will burn you. would you rise from your ashes?

he leans in closer, until each inhale fills you with the heady scent of his cologne. if it takes everything in you not to lean into him, you will never tell. his hand is on you, then. he’s reaching out, seizing your chin and tilting back your head.

“stop playing pretend,” he murmurs, voice like a knife against your throat. “you want something from me.”

you lick your lips and watch as his gaze subconsciously trails down to your mouth. such a pretty mouth, bitten red to mimic the bold shades the likes of clemensia dovecote dons. such a lethal one.

“let's work together, coriolanus snow.”

something flashes in his eyes. his grip tightens on your chin. you don’t hide your pain. a soft noise escapes from your throat. from where you stand, a breath apart from each other, you can almost feel the sharp lines of his jaw. your fingers twitch, eager- eager for what?

“why should i work with you ?”

his gaze pins you down, rare butterfly to be studied, treasured, tucked away in a secluded collection. (his?) it trails down the silver necklace resting against your collarbones, down to the small pendant - a bird, wings spread wide.

you close the distance, lips brushing against his jaw. you feel his other hand raise and press against your hip, steadying you.

“because it heightens our chances of getting what we want.”

that damn plinth prize. his lip quirks, torn between scowl and smile.

when he releases you, you find yourself missing his touch.

careful.

***

the morning after, you kiss your mother goodbye and open the door to… coriolanus snow. he’s there, waiting, one hand behind his back, the other extending a rose. it’s a white rose, as pure as snow. before you know it, before you can scramble to pick up the bits of your ruined composure, you blurt out:

“what are you doing here?”

here, in your waste of a home. here, where only a door separates him from the evidence of how far you’ve fallen. here, in your home-

he’s stepping forward, gently tucking the rose in your breast pocket, nimble fingers slowly, carefully easing themselves between the layers of fabric. you still, breath hitching in your throat. his hand is warm. you can feel it, even under the thick expanse of your winter uniform. before you know it, he pulls back a little and smiles, sharp edges hidden behind the pleasant curve of his lips.

“ much better.”

you blink. his eyes are of the deadliest shade of blue you’ve ever seen, shimmering away to lure you in. to meet his gaze is to throw yourself to the sharks willingly. you’d like to think you’re not as foolish as to do so. that you wouldn��t be taken aback by the inevitable betrayal.

what you didn’t expect is that you would be the one betraying yourself so quickly.

that night, when you come back from the academy, after having been escorted home by an exceedingly pleasant snow, you lay in bed and try desperately not to think of the way his hand had felt against your breast. of how quick you were to lean into his touch.

you fail, and bite your lips until you taste blood on your tongue.

foolish.

the next morning, you keep the rose in your breast pocket.

#obticeo writes #coriolanus snow #tbosas #coriolanus snow x reader #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games #thg #hunger games

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ichijager13 · 8 months

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Back to You

Pairing: Eren Jäger x Reader

Audience: general.

CW: None.

Tags: Historical, WWI, German Eren, Older and long-haired Eren, Married couple, Established relationship.

Summary: Shortly before the end of WWI and the armistice, reader received a letter informing her of her husband's death. Months gone by and one day, she received another letter.

WC: 1,6k-ish

A/N: Hi, hi, been a while since I last wrote and posted something. I hope you enjoy this story.

Banner by @cafekitsune

Standing in the middle of the backyard of your house, ready to chop a couple chairs, you prayed those were going to be the last ones. Shifting the axe you sharpened a few days ago from one hand to another, you were about to start the unpleasant task when you spotted the mailman’s curved silhouette. You put down the tool before wrapping a shawl around you.

March was already here, but you could still feel the sting of Bavaria’s harsh and cold winter. Massaging your lethargic, sore, and calloused hands—those same hands Eren, your beloved, used to kiss and compliment—you made your way toward the middle-aged man.

“Guten tag, Frau Jäger. I’ve got mail for you.” He smiled kindly at you, handing you an envelope with multiple stamps of all shapes and colors. Afraid the rain that had been drizzling since the morning would ruin it, you thanked him and pocketed the letter.

He was about to leave when you heard Frau Braun talking. Both standing near the broken and rusted gate leading to the farmhouse, you silently watched the neighbor embrace her husband, Reiner, and her son, who had come back from the west front. Her voice was heavy with emotion as she bombarded them with all sorts of questions.

The mailman’s pale blue eyes traveled back and forth between them and your tired and frail figure. The past year was particularly hard, and the armistice the government signed made it even harder.

He gave you a tight-lip, empathic smile before touching the tip of his discolored hat and leaving.

Back in the backyard, you picked up the axe and were about to resume work. You could still hear the Braun’s muffled voices as they made their way home. Feeling overwhelmed, you let the axe fall and tightly hugged yourself, hoping it would stop your body from shaking. Frau Braun was a considerate and caring woman. She had always been here for you during the four years the war lasted, especially after what happened. You were sincerely happy for her. She deserved to be happy after losing two kids to tuberculosis. You were genuinely happy for all those who managed to escape the shadows death cast over Europe during the past four years, but...

The abundant tears traveling down your face burned against your cheeks and blue-colored quivering lips. Falling to your knees, you pressed your trembling hands to your ears, hoping to be shielded from their happiness. Happiness that you couldn’t share since, unlike your neighbor and many other families around, you had no one to wait for. Unlike Reiner and their son, your husband, Eren, wasn’t coming back home.

You inhaled deeply, trying to calm down, but all you could think of was that doomed day. That doomed letter the same mailman delivered to you a year ago, announcing Eren’s death in the east front.

Letter…

You suddenly remembered the one you received minutes ago. You quickly tore the envelope and waited until your vision was clear enough. With shaking hands, you scanned the piece of paper you were holding in your hand.

“Dearest wife,

I apologize for not being able to write to you and respond to your letters. I apologize for this long absence and the tormenting silence I imposed on you, my love.

"This... this can’t be,” you mumbled, checking the envelope once again as you took a seat.

I spent the past year in a Russian camp, and unfortunately, we weren’t’ authorized to write to our families and beloveds.

It took the German and Austro-Hungarian empires a while to convince the Russian government to release their POWs.

You tried to contain your sobs and conjure yourself to calm down and breathe, but couldn’t. How could you get a hold of yourself when the words, ‘ But it’s all over now. I’m coming back home to you, my love.’ danced in front of your tear-filled eyes. “He’s not dead,” you repeated, like a broken record, as if you were trying to convince someone that your husband is still alive. “He’s alive. Eren is live.”

I’m currently sitting on the train on my way to you, my love, while writing this letter. I’m going to post it at the next stop in hopes it will reach you before my arrival.

I have tried in previous drafts to describe how much I long for you. How I miss the tone of your soothing voice and the echo of your contagious laugh. Not a single day passed by without me craving your soft touch and dreaming of taking you in my arms. Every night, I close my eyes and go back to that day—the day you said yes. You looked dazzling in that cream-colored dress your cousin lent you. There are not enough words to describe how lonely the past year felt without your letter. I spent most of my nights rereading the ones I had received before until I learned them by heart. Reading your letters, I could picture you sitting near the fireplace or under that big spruce tree in the backyard of our house.

You stared at the spots of faded ink your teardrops created as you read the letter over and over.

I owe my survival to your kind words.

That line made you burst into tears as you hugged the letter.

I’m trying not to think about the humiliation the German army and people are enduring after our defeat. I’m trying not to think of all those not coming back home—those who lost a leg, an arm, or an eye. I’m trying not to think about homeless and hungry people. I’m blocking all of these thoughts and focusing only on one thing. the feeling of my lovely wife’s body pressed against mine and the taste of your lips against mine. It would be selfish to celebrate coming back home when I have nothing to offer you, when people are still dying and suffering from the sequels of war and disease.

You had no idea what you were doing here. But something inside told you you must run to the train station, and you chose not to question or second guess your instinct. Out of breath, you stood in the middle of the crowded station’s platform, your eyes wandering and scanning hollowed faces and heavy eyes surrounded by dark circles. Lost, and panting, you studied those stepping out of the train, searching for a particular face. One that you fell in love with seven years ago.

Today and during this journey back home, the only thing I’m thinking about is you and all the stories I want to share with you. The only thing I have in mind is your delicate and beautiful hands running along my hair as your soft voice lulls me to sleep.

You elbowed and passed by people reunited with their sons, brothers, fathers, partners, and lovers. You gradually made your way into a sea of unknown faces, hoping this wasn’t a dream.

I hope that even after all these years apart, you will still be able to recognize me. I’m sincerely praying to God, or whoever was willing to listen, that when you look into my eyes, you’ll still be able to see and recognize the man who fell in love with you. I hope that war hasn’t stolen the light behind your eyes. And I hope that the distance between us and the nights I spent away didn’t tear us apart.

Feeling disoriented and lost, you pressed both palms against your beating heart and prayed.

I hope the spark that ignited our love the first time our gazes locked near that bookstore downtown is still alive.

And there he was, standing on the other side of the railing, looking at you. He looked different, but the instant your eyes met, you knew it was him. the only man you loved, the man you vowed to remain by his side until death tore you apart, the man you spent months praying for.

My love, I want you to know that the time I spent away from home made that fire burn brighter and the love I have for you grow deeper.

He jumped and came running to you.

I believe in our love and that we are meant to be, and I’m positive that together we will be able to overcome all the obstacles and hardships. With you by my side, my love, I can do everything.

Without second thought, you threw yourself into his arms, burying your face in the crook of his neck. His arms looped around you, pressing your small body against his. A minute passed by before you pulled away, inspecting his face. He had lost a lot of weight and his emerald eyes had lost their gleam. You ran your hands through his soft chestnut hair before you commented, laughing, “A shoelace? Really?”

“Is that all you have to say to your husband?” He taunted you before your lips met. The kiss was soft but passionate, loving but impatient. Just like you, every cell of his body was aching for you, missing you. Your lips were still sealed; you both lost track of time and forgot the world ever existed.

“I missed you,” you breathed, resting your forehead against his as your tears ran down your cheek.

“It’s over now, my love. I’m here.” He pecked your temple before chasing away your tears. “Let’s go back home.”

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gilgamish · 10 months

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WIP Wednesday - Tides

Tagged by the wonderful: @thequeenofthewinter , @mareenavee , @dirty-bosmer , and @kookaburra1701 thank you friends

Tagging: @tallmatcha , @paraparadigm , @nuwanders , and all other mutuals. no pressure if people are not up to it this week. i didn't want to leave people out.

Summary: On the brink of losing his mind, Kaidan, trapped in the abandoned prison without currently no way out, discovers he has a new charge.

(it's some of chapter 1 from Kaidan's POV)

word count: 1.2k

cw: dissociation, aftermath of torture, and descriptions of terminal illness (tuberculosis)

The other man sagged to the floor, landing on his side, chest heaving. The catch of his breathing was strained, ragged, dying. Kaidan froze from where he watched, unbelieving. Now? Right now? The man convulsed with a painful jerk of his frame. Runny spittle leaked from his mouth onto the stones. Kaidan rasped out, “Why are you shaking? What’s wrong?” His own voice had never sounded so distant and weak.

The man’s flat, empty gaze landed on him. “Sick. Tired.”More spittle leaked out. His body gave another jerk, and he curled into a ball, shaking. He’s dying. His mind had outright refused to wrap around that word. He’s going to die. The glass bottle in his hands had grown warm; the surface was sticky from the blood on his hands. These were his hands, he decided. Flexing the motion in one sent sharp pains up his fingers. Right, his fingernails were gone. He repeated the motion, testing it out, but it still felt mechanical.

Small beads of blood trickled out from the wounds where the nails had been ripped out, one by painstaking one. It happened somewhere, that was all his mind could configure. To someone. A someone who might be you. Kaidan blinked that away. Maybe this was where it all fell apart and he would wake up again chained to that wall and then they would come in and they would have their tools and their questions and their gloved hands to grab his face and rip out chunks of his hair. You will tell me who sent you to intercept us. You will break. Kaidan blinked again. On the floor, there was the man, fighting for each gasp of air. He was likely to die. No, he was going to die. Kaidan grabbed the collar of his shirt, hissed at the sharp, bracing pain shooting from his fingertips, and dragged the man over.

“C’mon.” His bleeding hands smeared on the man’s neck and clothes as he pulled him into his arms. The man looked up at him, eyes glazed over. “You need one too.” Kaidan vaguely remembered the bottle in his other hand and brought it up for him to drink. The man didn’t take it, maybe too far gone. Pressing the bottle to his lips, Kaidan tipped the bottle back. A bright, vibrant red liquid poured out, and much of it slid past the man’s mouth, pooling at his neck, and what he swallowed, he choked on. Kaidan sucked in a sharp breath. His throat was raw, cracking with pain. “C’mon, you can do it. Please.” At that plea, the man covered his own mouth with a hand. A loud gulp. He slid out of Kaidan’s arms onto the floor and shut his eyes. Out of old habit, Kaidan rolled him onto his side.

A prudent decision, as not much later, the real sickness struck the other man. The convulsions and shakes were worse; he nearly drowned in his own vomit, and the fever that followed refused to break. Sweat cloaked his frame that got thinner and thinner by the day. The first night, Kaidan found himself consoling the man through the shakes, and thought of Marianne, the duke’s daughter that he had been sweet on for a summer and only a summer. She had taken him into her bed for the pure, creature comfort of having someone to hold her. Sometimes in an embrace, sometimes so she could sob into his chest. Her mother was dying, she had explained. Slowly. Her betrothed wouldn’t understand. But he could understand; he could speak to it.

One afternoon, Marianne led him by the hand into her mother’s drawing room. Sheer cloth drapes enclosed the room, the albumen concealing a quiet, soft world. Eloise had all of Marianne’s features, the scarlet fever ravaging her body only sharpened them to fine edge. It made her face elfin and angular, casting her skin in silver, and gave her lips a bluish tint. But when she greeted them, her words were watery and garbled. Upon greeting, Eloise had raised her hand to him, and he had taken it, marveling at how small and fragile she felt. Her fingertips turning blue, they reminded him of the delicate blown glass the merchants sold down in Sentinel, and how they sculpted, heated, contorted, dyed, and coaxed the glass into becoming rare flowers, birds, and glyphs. When they left to walk alongside the beach, Marianne tearfully confessed she found her mother more beautiful than herself, especially in that state, and she didn’t hold it against him when he agreed with her.

They agreed again on how macabre it was, to find beauty in something so terrible. Kaidan wasn’t sure when he started looking for beauty in places like this, or if he could find it anywhere else. Just as he found that beauty again in Rosalind, he found it again now.

Sleeping, the man’s face was flushed with color, hot to the touch. His cheekbones were sharp, and the hard line of his jaw and crest of his Imperial nose were more prominent. His was to be that of kings, of emperors, of saints, but but he didn’t have the stern, resigned face that marked those figures. His eyelashes were too long, fluttering when his eyes moved underneath their lids. Pulled away from his face, his hair pillowed his head.

Blond like Rosalind, he thought and just as quickly squashed the idea. It was a much richer shade and thick like an Altmer’s. The man turned in his sleep, body facing towards Kaidan now. Sighing a breath, his lips were slightly parted. Kaidan soaked the rag in cold water again and laid it across on his forehead, murmuring, “You’re going to live,” as he hung his own survival on the draw and catch of the other man’s breathing, treasuring each rise and fall of his chest. Kaidan wouldn’t remember how long he sat there next to the other man while his own wounds ached, the elixir slow to take effect, but he would remember the silence. And if there was one thing that could have truly broken him, it was that.

In the prison block, there was that familiar darkness, something that he would let close over his head and swallow him, like a fish swimming up to lap at the flies teeming above the water’s still surface, to drag him down into the depths. That was darkness. Smothering, merciful darkness that he hoped death would be like.

Silence was worse. It was Oblivion. It was gnawing absence that picked and picked away at his sanity. Insatiable. It was an obsidian knife to cut him open, to flay him, and to hollow him out, drawing every thought and every memory from him, laying them out bare before a cruel, scrutinizing sun. Eventually, there would be nothing left of him but a husk for the wind to carry off. That was silence. Fingers digging into each corner of his mind until it cracked open and fell apart.

But that hadn’t happened yet. There was the draw and catch of the other man’s breathing. Kaidan checked him over again. “You’re going to live,” he repeated the words softly, tantamount to a prayer. He didn’t trust himself to speak without his voice breaking. A dam broke; tears fell. The universe had granted him another opportunity at life, and that providence had arrived in the form of the other man. Kaidan wrapped himself around that idea so tightly: If this strange man lived, if Kaidan could keep him alive and protect him, then maybe, it would be alright for him to live too. He clung to it.

He had to.

totally normal amount of devotion and adjustment i'm sure.

if u got this far,,,, thank u

#wip wednesday #tes fic #kaidan skyrim #it's still wednesday i swear #skyrim fic #skyrim fanfiction #fanficblr #tesblr #oc: felix

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evita-shelby · 7 months

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Shooting Stars

Cw: mentions of attempted murder, miscarriage, blood, death, visions of death, illness, a lot of angst

Mostly Diane in her aged up version, with some Tom Bennett x Diane at the end.

She’s always known when there’s shooting stars, ever since her parents would take them to the woods and sleep underneath the stars.

The first wish she ever made was for a sister when she was four going on five and they went to the Canary Islands. Her parents had shared a look between them and right before Easter, Diane knew her wish had come true.

Shh, don’t tell anyone yet, her mother had whispered with a wink as she put on the sapphire as large as a Diane’s fist around her neck.

Diane had not kept her secret, lost in the euphoria of having her wish come true she told everyone who listened to her.

That same evening, her mother was shot at a charity gala and the shock and injury had made her lose the baby.

From then on, Diane Elizabeth Shelby learned wishes don’t come true if they aren’t secret.

----

Diane was six years old when she Uncle John dying in Aunt Esme’s arms during one of those secret visits she and her mother did to them.

And just like that time in the villa in Tenerife, she felt the rush of excitement of a star falling from heaven.

This time she didn’t pray for a sister or a brother or a new pony, this time she wished for uncle john to live.

For extra measure she didn’t tell a soul.

And sure enough on Christmas Day, they get a call from a frantic Esme telling them of the ambush by the Changrettas and John Shelby surviving to tell the tale.

Wishes only came true if they were secret.

----

She is ten years old and dressed up as Marie Antoinette complete with a wig as big as she and period accurate undergarments.

Versailles wishes it could be this great, her dad said as she danced standing on his toes.

Her mother had drawn a blood red line and fake stitches to make it look as if her head had been sewed back on.

Her mama can barely stand waltzes, her eyes grow wide with horror and her skin turns into gooseflesh before she runs off to scream or cry as her past rushes back into her head.

Diane had never understood that, she only knows that its like the shovels her daddy hears some nights.

Its as he spins her one last time that she understands why.

Aunt Polly’s laugh triggers a vision so strong Diane screams like she’s never done before.

A knife in the dark, Polly struggling and then choking on her own blood as her throat is slit.

That night Diane holds the Black Madonna she gave her and prayed her aunt polly never dies.

And yet the morning after her father tried to kill himself in the empty field, her body and that of Barney Thompson and her fiance, Aberama Gold are dumped on their doorstep.

It was then that Diane learned not all wishes come true.

----

Diane is fifteen. She has had her quinceanera, she is to debut in society on her fifteenth birthday as her mother did and most girls in Mexico do.

Life returns slowly to the Shelbys after Polly’s murder. Her father no longer drinks, her uncles do their best to keep themselves clean and no one speaks to Michael because he blames them for his mother’s death.

Her father for his plot to assassinate Mosley, her mother for not stopping it.

Diane gets comes down with the same cold her best friend from school, Cathy, does around December. Both had been friends since grammar school when the teacher assigned them together because Cathy needed to grow out of her shell and Diane needed to be mindful of others.

When they move Christmas up so they can go to Boston with daddy, the young witch finds herself so sick she could stay standing after coughing so terribly her handkerchief comes away with splatters of blood.

Diane is fifteen when she is diagnosed with tuberculosis.

She is given the best of care in an institution built up by her father because his first love died of consumption and what better way to honor her by making sure no one has to die like she did.

He refuses to leave her side no matter what the doctors try. They talk to pass the time, he does mainly because he knows she’s dying.

Diane tells him about the shooting stars as she starts to feel the tingling of one about to a fall.

And because Thomas Shelby would do anything for his family, he picks her up from her bed and both make a wish on a shooting star as they watch it fall to its death from her hospital window.

On Christmas Day, Diane is carried out of the institution by her parents alive while Cathy’s carry her out dead.

Sometimes magic comes with a price, she can hear her Aunt Polly say.

-----

Diane is twenty when she meets the love of her life.

He is charming, carefree and makes her heart sing as if he himself were a shooting star.

Thomas Bennett doesn’t even know her name and yet both feel as if they have known each other before. Perhaps in a past life, she thinks as they dance to his sister’s song like all young lovers do.

She has known desire before but not so strongly. It was like a thousand shooting stars had begun to fall around them.

He is so much more than he appears, insightful and caring and so unlike others see him.

“Haven’t seen a shooting star in years. Used to make wishes on them.” He mentions as they stop and see the streak of light that has the young witch almost vibrating from the heady feel of her connection with Tom and the meteorite burning to nothing in the heavens.

“So did I, well, I still do.” Diane admitted quietly and found herself wishing for the boy standing right beside her.

“Are you free tomorrow?” he asks holding out his hand and she takes it while keeping her wish and her last name a secret…for now.

#eva smith shelby #tommy shelby x oc #diane shelby #diane shelby x tom bennett #tom bennett x oc #tom bennett world on fire #world on fire peaky blinders crossover #november writing prompts

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quietly-by-myself · 1 year

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Advice from the Devil's Mouth - The Dark Side of the Sun Drabble

Masterlist

Wow this was unexpected. Shout out to @whumpsday for their amazing writing. Their most recent chapter is getting me into writing again. No King Myndill here, but I hope it's still engaging!

Enjoy!

CW: whumper-turned-whumpee, whumpee-turned-caretaker, torture, tuberculosis, orphans/children without parents, parental death mention, moving on from abuse and forgiveness, whumpee seeks out advice from whumper, past psychological abuse, nonhuman caretaker, human whumpee

===

The threads were unsettled that night. No matter how hard Hakon tried, no matter how many times he ran his hands through the threads, the visions were blurry.

It happened sometimes, like that night, where the memory of Cassius played over and over in his head again. Hakon had to remind himself that he was powerful, he wasn’t that kid anymore. He wasn’t pathetic. He wasn’t-

He was giving in. He was acknowledging what Cassius said as debatable. It wasn’t. There was no truth to his words, so there was nothing to debate. There was no need to deny it. Right? That was what King Myndill always told him.

Though Hakon had told Cassius that he wasn’t Hakon’s maker, it was only a half-truth, the debatable type. Hakon’s self-doubt, his self-hatred, it all came from Cassius. Though Cassius’ experiments had failed, his tortures had not. Hakon wouldn’t tell Cassius that, though. He was too afraid that Cassius would torture another poor soul, many more, in hopes of creating a Tainted.

“I can’t do it tonight, Alfie.”

Why were there tears in his eyes as Alfie approached him to pick up the threads? He did, indeed, feel pathetic. Pathetic. One of those words that Cassius loved to throw in his face to insult him.

Alfie looked at him with palpable concern in their eyes. “Are you okay? It’s the second night in a row.”

Hakon nodded. “There’s… a lot on my mind.”

“Cassius?”

Hearing his name spoken aloud was jarring. Hakon never got used to it. “Yes.”

The two of them were quiet for a little while. Hakon forced himself to hold back his tears. Alfie looked out to the side quietly, pretending not to see.

Eventually, they broke the silence. “Do what you have to, Hakon.”

Hakon nodded. He took a deep breath. “Can you have the cooks make me some tea?”

—

Hakon repeated what he would say to Cassius over and over again in his head in a never ending loop. He just needed to get it done and over with.

Cassius looked at him with surprise that quickly turned into a mocking smile. “Are you coming for a little tea time with your old pal? Perhaps a picnic?”

Hakon watched Cassius with bored, careful eyes. “A peace offering, perhaps. Not a picnic.”

Curiosity washed over Cassius’ face. “What need is there for peace? Your kind is violent.”

“I wouldn’t say all alchemists are violent because you are. You should give the Tainted the same respect.”

“It’s different. I’m actively being tortured here, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Hakon felt that familiar bitterness, that bitterness that was like the bitterness of over-brewed tea - sometimes unpleasant in the moment, but always left you wishing for more. He’d allowed the thoughts to linger for too long, again. “I came to ask you something.”

Cassius’ eyebrows creased in confusion. “What in the world could you possibly ask me that you can’t find out through your threads?”

Hakon was quiet for a little while. He handed Cassius the tea. Cassius took a quiet sip as he stared at Hakon, Cassius’ gaze digging under Hakon’s skin like thousands of crawling, biting bugs tearing him apart.

“You told me once that, after your family were all killed by Tainted, that the people were crueler than in the times where I was an orphan.” Hakon’s voice shook a bit. “You called me - a consumption-ridden orphan - lucky because I didn’t have to hear what you did every day.”

Cassius, for a fleeting moment that passed as quickly as the wind, looked surprised. “I told you that? About my family?”

“You were very drunk.”

Cassius went quiet for a moment. Hakon had never told Cassius that he knew about his family. It was a secret he kept because he was too afraid of being beaten for knowing that Cassius was, indeed, fallible.

Of course, being so drunk that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut was erroneous too.

“Should’ve beaten you over the head with a bottle to have you forget.” Cassius smirked. “You little bastard. You still keep your secrets well.”

“When you see as much as I do, you have to.”

Hakon couldn’t help but be surprised. Why wasn’t Cassius more upset? Why wasn’t Hakon down on the ground, being beaten by Cassius? Head banged over and over again to get him to forget. Alchemy could be so much more primitive than magecraft.

“So, what is it you wanted to ask, you little bastard?”

It all clicked into place. Cassius already knew. He was one step ahead of Hakon. Cassius knew that Hakon had come to him for advice. That stroke to his pride would, of course, override any resentment Cassius might’ve felt, if he could even feel such a human emotion.

“How do you remain so confident? How do you block out what they said?”

Cassius was quiet, but of course, not for long. “What they said about me was wrong. I’ve proven as much.” Cassius took a sip of his tea. “If someone’s wrong about, say, your hair color, what weight do you give that? Does it bother you for years? No. Of course not. It’s the same about who you are.”

Hakon wasn’t expecting such a genuine answer.

In fact, he fully expected that Cassius would mock him for even thinking to ask.

It caught Hakon so off guard that he couldn’t think. Was Cassius saying that he’d proven himself? Was Cassius saying that he wasn’t pathetic?

Gods, Hakon knew that Cassius could be cryptic, but it felt entirely different when Cassius was giving advice.

Hakon stood up abruptly. “I need to go read my threads.”

It was a half-truth, one of many he’d told Cassius. Yet, Cassius said nothing.

Just as Hakon was about to open the door to leave the dungeon, Cassius gave a deep, throaty laugh. “You’re flustered, Hakon, you poor thing.”

Flustered.

That was the word. Overwhelmed and flustered.

He wanted to shout at Cassius for mocking him in his moment of vulnerability. However, Hakon, as usual, couldn’t find it within himself. That wasn’t who he was. Cassius and Hakon both knew it. Hakon was a dog that wouldn’t bite back.

So, instead of saying anything, Hakon slammed the door and went to his room.

The next day, when he tried again for the threads, they were clear, but not because Hakon’s head was clear. In fact, his head felt full of cotton balls and he couldn’t focus.

Maybe he had proven himself. Maybe he wasn’t that kid anymore. Maybe, just maybe, Cassius saw that in him.

Somehow, that didn’t sit well with Hakon.

===

@i-can-even-burn-salad, @whumpsday, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @whumpwillow, @annablogsposts, @no-terms-and-conditions-apply, @whither-wander-whump

#the dark side of the sun #whumper turned whumpee #whumpee turned caretaker #tuberculosis #torture #parental death #past psychological abuse #whump #whump writing #whump fic #whump drabble

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bumblebeerror · 11 months

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Cw John green is the funniest tag I’ve ever seen

What’s to warn for. Local man retired from writing YA novels has OCD and a hyperfixation on tuberculosis, was run off tumblr by anons sending him his own address for *checks notes* answering asks about his novels

#i promise I am only poking fun if the person who tagged that sees this #I am teasing you gently #John Green is just some guy who helps run a bunch of charities #like he’s not a saint or anything and he’s weird but like. who isn’t weird and imperfect

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kiraspirayukimuras · 5 months

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⋆ yusei yagi, 27, cis man,he/him — did you see liege orion de vere walking down main street ? the tabloids say that the vampire (fledgling) is known to be friendly and forgetful , but who knows if that’s true. the liege/inventor seems to fit the vibe of new ideas sprawled all over the floor, half eaten food at the edge of the table as someone rushes out the poor, the splay of sticky notes reminding you of an important events, broken googles you use to try to make something work⁑

Content warnings: discussion of illnesses brief mentions of blood, the triggering bullet points have warnings but just a head ups

Character Chart

Character’s full name: Orion de Vere

Reason or meaning of name: Orion was the reinstated name, Peter was boring

Character’s nickname: Ori,

Birth Name: “Peter Brown”

Birth date: 10/27/1997

Physical appearance

Age: 27

Faceclaim: Yagi Yusei

Height: 5’11

Eye color: brown, tinged red when hungry

Distinguishing marks: uneven nostrils, slight cleft lip, bunny lines

Predominant features: fangs and changing sclera

Hair color: Black but would dye it lighter to blonde to be spontaneous

Usual fashion of dress: dresses nice when expected to be is often found with business casual sleeves rolled up and apron, also sports goggles

Personality

Good personality traits: Friendly, Inquisitive, curious, steadfast, empathetic

Bad personality traits: forgetful, gullible, absent-minded, implusive

Character’s greatest fear: becoming a recluse and never seeing the world

Past

Hometown: St. Paul’s Orphanage, Ontario, Canada

Type of childhood: Bleak not bad but not particularly good just bleak

Education: St Paul’s Seminary

Religion: Roman Catholic

Present

Current location: House of Astaurus

Currently living with: Christian de Vere (brother, sire), Jaehyun de vere (Brother in law)

Religion: Agnostic

Occupation: Liege, Tinkerer of sorts, occasional translator

Finances: Comfortable

Habits

Hobbies: Water Color Painting, Calligraphy, Reading

Mannerisms: Touching his lip before he talks, having a blank look on his face when deep in thought

Peculiarities: The constant need to write the name after introduction, the intense studying of a friends face as if they will disappear

The Story of Peter to Orion: Cw illness mention and blood

“Peter Brown” was left on the doorsteps of an orphanage in 1997

“Peter” stood out from the other orphans as he grew up, with an eye of wonder and asking questions

The type of child who would be perceived as arrogant and obnoxious l by potential adopters

Peter longed accepted his fate, counting down the days when he could leave reading the latin texts whenhe was alone. Not bothering seeing the changing faces

(illness tw) Peter on the eye of his 18th birthday had caught something the doctors described as tuberculosis but more potent, he wouldn’t live to see 21 (illness tw)

Peter still resumed to count down the days and read the latin books

There was a day he never forgot, when Christian de Vere walking into his life.

It was the first time he looked at a potential person who would have adopted him dead in the eye, despite his sickly form

There was an offer he couldn’t refuse, to leave and become a de vere. Vampiric in nature

Peter looked in confusion and fear, everything that he was taught against this man was offering. There was a strong clutch on his cross as Christian was talking. There was a look on his face as if to say “Is your current life any better?”

A note by the door to contact him and he did.

There was a rumination before Peter ripped the cross on his neck and walked out of the orphanage with the last of his strength and left. A defiant and sickly look on his visage.

(major blood tw) He met with Christian with a steadfast look before coughing up blood and fainting (major blood tw)

When he awoken he was something different. He wanted to be call something better then Better. Looking at the Sky he decided on Orion

And like a star in the sky he knew he would shine in the House of Astaurus

Connections

Friends

Rivals

Fellow Vamps

People needing some translations in old romantic text

Painting buddies

Hookups (because he probably did the years after since he was bored and curious)

People who recognize his as Peter (he probably traveled a bit to see a doctor when he had the illness tm)

His Bethrothed: Wanted Connection

Whose curious about fledglings

Will add later

#chq.intro #illness tw #blood tw

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libraryofjoy · 11 months

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Books read in June 2023:

Queer City by Peter Ackroyd. Nonfiction. This book traces evidence of queer people in London from the Roman period to the present day. Since a lot of the available evidence is legal records, many of the narratives in this book are violent or tragic. CW: explicit sexual content, including sexual assault.

Born Again This Way by Rachel Gilson. Nonfiction. This book is one part memoir, one part spiritual advice. I was planning to read a lot of books relating to Christianity & homosexuality this month, but I got kinda burnt out. Gilson tells her life story as a woman who considered herself a lesbian, then had to rethink her sexuality after becoming a Christian, and eventually married a man; though despite her own story, Gilson is not in favor of conversion therapy. I found myself feeling critical of her sometimes muddled theological statements (there have to be 2 binary sexes because it's... like the Trinity??). This book could use more consideration toward the needs of transgender and gender dysphoric Christians. But it was interesting to see a conservative, complementarian Christian grapple with sexual ethics in an effort to make the church less hostile toward sexual minorities.

Light From Uncommon Stars by Ryka Aoki. Fiction: fantasy/scifi. This story involves a violin teacher who has to sell her student's soul to a devil, suspiciously good doughnuts, and a family of refugees from a galactic war. This was a lovely queer found family narrative in an Asian-American centered California setting, and the knowing details about playing violin were really believable. CW: explicit sexual content, including sexual assault.

This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone. Fiction: scifi romance. Two agents on opposite sides of a time war write letters and grow dangerously fond of one another. I'd picked this book up months ago and liked it but wasn't able to finish it. I'm glad I came back to it because it really was well worth reading.

Illness as Metaphor and AIDS and Its Metaphors by Susan Sontag. Nonfiction: cultural commentary & literary theory. Susan Sontag traces the narratives by which cancer and AIDS have been represented in literature and conversation, in contrast to diseases like tuberculosis. This book made me want to read more of Sontag's writing. You know that post about how it's good sometimes to read books that are a little too smart for you? Yeah.

The Nameless Restaurant by Tao Wong. Fiction. This is a cozy little story about a magical restaurant. The dominant food culture in the restaurant tends to be pan-Asian, but the guests are from a worldwide variety of cultures & mythologies. Content warning for occasional adult humor.

La caída de la casa de Usher by Edgar Allan Poe. Fiction. I've been meaning to try more audiobooks in Spanish to practice my listening skills, and this one was available and not too long. I never really got this story in English and I also didn't really get it in Spanish, but I think I did okay at the sentence level! I can't encounter this story without thinking of the musical Ghost Quartet.

Fiction: 4

Nonfiction: 3

Total fiction this year:16

Total nonfiction this year:25

#books read in 2023 #gab tag

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