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niemernuet · 2 months

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5 Times Arnaud Wanted to Kiss Franjo

And 1 Time Franjo Took Matters In His Own Hands

Rating: M pairing: Arnaud Boisset/Franjo von Allmen characters: Arnaud Boisset, Franjo v. Allmen, Alexis Monney, Elian Lehto, Gilles Roulin, Marco Kohler, Ralph Weber, Lars Rösti, Tanguy Nef, Justin Murisier, Loïc Meillard words: 7'500 tw for: emetophobia (skip part 2 in that case. the parts are mostly stand-alone anyway)

Lodgings for the second groups, with the athletes not part of the national team yet, usually have to do with less.

“But this is a new low,” Arnaud mutters to himself as he leans deep into the closet, one of the shelves wedged between his foot and the wall, and pulls at the rusty bracket. The musty smell that lingers in the entire room fills his nose to the brim in there, and he can feel the dust bunnies under his fingers as they press against the wood.

“FUCK!” he yells when he slips off the bracket again. He pulls out his head, and inspects the damage to his skin. A short knock to the door is the only warning he gets before it bursts open, and a mountain of bags tumble inside.

“Sorry, this stuff is killing me,” the guy following behind pants as he pushes through the door, and drops his things at the foot of Arnaud’s bed. He puts his hands on his hips to catch his breath. A few strands of his long bangs cling to his sweaty forehead.

“Third floor without a bloody elevator, are you kidding me? We really have to make it into the national team this season, this is unacceptable. Hi, I’m Franjo.” His eyes turn into two narrow crescents as a big smile spreads over his face. He holds out his hand, and Arnaud only has to extend his because the room is not big enough to keep a reasonable distance anyway.

“Arnaud,” Arnaud says after a moment that is just a tad too long.

“I know,” Franjo says, still smiling, and begins to kick his suitcase and bags towards the other bed.

Arnaud blinks at him. He is wearing shorts, and the shirt with their organisation’s logo has wrinkles where the backpack pulled it up.

“I’m sorry, I thought I’d be with Lars again?”

Franjo looks over his shoulder. “There was…a change of plans…as I understand it.”

Arnaud frowns, and Franjo rolls his eyes.

“Don’t tell him I told you but he doesn’t want to bunk with you anymore because you talk too much. He’d rather be with Ralph because he says he talks a lot too but only to his phone…or the kids in his phone, I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Arnaud snorts. It is as good an excuse as any. He wonders how much Franjo really knows.

“Though I can’t say that you do, at least so far.”

Arnaud blinks again. “You’ve been in here one minute.”.

Franjo stops kicking his bags, and opens the zipper of the biggest one. “True, I give you that,” he concedes. “Also I’ve heard you yell ‘fuck’ out in the hallway so I guess I’ve interrupted at a very inconvenient time. Sorry about that.”

“I did not…,” Arnaud exclaims, sputtering indignantly until he realises that Franjo is laughing.

“Very funny,” he mutters, and hopes that the ancient, unsightly drapes keep enough of the sunlight out so his burning cheeks are not too visible. His hopes at his embarrassment staying hidden shatter though when Franjo turns around, and steps right next to him.

“Thanks,” he smiles, and takes in the large gap between the shelves in the closet. “Is there something wrong with it?”

The faint smell of his aftershave cuts through the mustiness emanating from the closet, and it takes all of Arnaud’s self-control to answer within a socially acceptable time. “It wobbles and tilts back as soon as I put a stack of clothes on it. I think the brackets aren’t on the same height but I can’t get them out.” He looks at the superficial scratches along his index finger, and the small scab that is already forming over it.

“Oh no, what happened to your dainty fingers?” Franjo asks, and again Arnaud sucks in air before he recognises the wide grin on Franjo’s face. “Let me try, this looks like a job for a pro.”

“Of course, as soon as I find one,” Arnaud snorts, though he does take a step back until he bumps against the nightstand.

“Ha ha,” Franjo says, his head stuck into the closet. “I’ll have you know you’re…come on you little bugger…aha!” With a triumphant laugh he stands up straight again, and holds up the rusty piece of metal that used to carry one corner of the shelf for the last few decades.

“See?” he says, and holds out his hand towards Arnaud. “That’s why you need a carpenter for a job like this. Though I don’t think we can put this back in, it is totally rusted…” He sticks his head back into the wardrobe, and examines the other three brackets. “I’m sure one of the service men will have a pair of pliers to get the rest out. And the supermarket’s still open, if we’re lucky they’re carrying a box of those…and if not we could go to Sion tomorrow after the training…”

“You really are one?”

Franjo break off, and tilts his head until he can look at Arnaud from the inside of the closet. The hair on top of his head is longer than the rest, and falls over his eyes.

“A carpenter?” Arnaud adds.

“Of course,” Franjo answers. “And what are you? Other than a fast skier.”

Arnaud shrugs, and awkwardly crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I work in a bank in spring and summer.”

“A banker?” Franjo laughs, and takes a step back. “That’s good, you can calculate the depreciation of the new brackets, and whether they fit in our budget while we go to the supermarket.”

Arnaud laughs, staring at the rusty piece of metal in Franjo’s palm. For a second he wonders what it would feel like if he put his own hand in his, and again takes too long to realise that Franjo is staring at him.

“Unless you want to stay here?” Franjo asks. “But it’s not like we have to be anywhere until dinner.”

“No, no!” Arnaud hurries to say. “I’d love to come along.”

With a grin, Franjo turns around, and tears the door open. “Cool.”

The journey from their house to the top of the only mountain where they can practice halfway decently during the summer months is not only long but made even more arduous by the baggage and the masses of tourists slowly waking up for the day. The three pairs of skis slowly slip out of Franjo’s grasp as he waits for the man ahead of him to untangle his photography equipment from the bars of the turnstiles. Arnaud catches up to him just as the path clears, and can just barely hold him back by the shoulder.

“Don’t sit on the opposite side of Elian in the next gondola,” he mutters in his ear before he pushes him forwards. Franjo does not even have time to look at him, the barrage of people pressing against them is simply too strong, and all he can do is go with the current. It is the very last stretch of the journey, and they watch as the giant gondolas file in and out of the station one after the other. The snow is close now, already visible through the gap in the building where the gondolas enter and leave. Arnaud does not know whether he even understood him, and when the time comes, he pushes past Franjo, and deftly loads both their skis into the quivers attached to the outside of the door. Franjo has no time to thank him as he is pulled inside, and jostled across the wobbling cabin so he lands on the bench across from Arnaud, the small space between them filled with their heavy backpacks. Arnaud stares at the small bead of sweat rolling down Franjo’s temple, his face almost as red as his jacket but Franjo’s attention is only on the three other people piling into the cabin. There would be space for more but both Ralph and Marco wait as the gondola ambles out of their reach, using their equipment as defense against the onslaught of the tourists behind them. Their grinning faces are the last thing Arnaud sees before the doors shut, and the cabin tumbles out of the building into the early morning. For a while nobody says anything as Gilles and Alexis sort their limbs and bags while next to them, Elian sits with his eyes closed, his face almost as white as the snow. Franjo throws a glance at Arnaud who answers with a barely visible shrug and a lopsided smile.

“Is everything…okay?” Franjo eventually asks when he can no longer hold back.

Elian snorts. “Obviously! Everything’s peachy.” There is no joy in his words, and certainly none of the good humor he showed yesterday during their first dinner.

“It’s just the first two days,” Alexis says, softly patting Elian’s leg. “And we already went up yesterday, so really it’s only today and then it’ll be okay.”

“Moose sometimes have trouble with heights,” Gilles adds, and laughs as Elian’s weak kicks miss his shins. His laughter dies though when Elian stops abruptly, and shoots up.

“Shit!” Alexis mutters when the colour of Elian’s face changes to an unhealthy grey, and his shoulders start to heave.

“Keep it back another second!” he yells as he pulls a plastic bag out of a pocket somewhere and holds it under Elian’s chin just in time.

Franjo’s eyes have the size of saucers, and his shoulder is pressed flush against the glass of the gondola as if he wanted to pop it out of the frame. When his helpless gaze lands on Arnaud, he cannot hold back any longer.

“Oh, chill it!” Arnaud giggles when Gilles’ warning look lands on him. “You have to admit it’s pretty funny.”

“Can’t stop laughing,” Elian pants, hunched over and resting his elbows on his thighs, his head wedged between his and Gilles’ legs with the drooping plastic bag dangling underneath.

Gilles rolls his eyes but a fond smile washes over his face, and he strokes calming circles over Elian’s arched back.

“Happens every time we come back from the summer break,” Arnaud explains to Franjo who still looks like his mother abandoned him in the queue to the checkout at the supermarket.

“It’s my second year with you losers,” Elian mumbles into the plastic bag. “Get out of here with your ‘every time’!”

“And I can’t wait for the next one,” Arnaud smiles, and his heart skips a beat when Franjo bursts out laughing.

“Sorry,” Franjo mutters as all eyes land on him, even Elian’s who turns his head up to glare at him. “I’m sure that sucks…or, pukes.”

Again Arnaud howls with laughter, and he is only saved by the gondola shooting into the mountain station and everyone scrambling to get out before the doors close again. They take a little bit of pity on Elian, at least, and lug his things through the turnstiles while he ties the handles of the bag together in a knot and shoves it into the nearest bin.

The air outside is crips from the cold, and a sharp wind shoots around the corners of the building. Arnaud is the fastest, and he leans on his poles, his head feeling light from the thin air up here while he waits for the rest to get ready. In his back, a pair of skis slowly glides over the icy surface, and comes to a halt just underneath him. Franjo also stands on a pair of short slats, far from the usual length they use to practice downhill. Today they will only do free skiing to get accustomed to the height and the feeling of the snow under their feet.

“You’re my guardian angel,” Franjo grins, his eyes once again two crescents. “I would have walked right into the trap.”

Arnaud laughs at him. They are the only ones around, with the rest of the team still getting dressed in the shade of the building, and the coaches halfway down the first turn. Franjo’s head reaches just to Arnaud’s shoulder, and all he would have to do was bend his knees slightly…

“I owe you one,” Franjo adds, and pushes away from Arnaud with his poles.

“Absolutely, you do!” Arnaud yells after him, and follows as fast as his trembling fingers and beating heart allow. “I know a place.”

“Uh-uh!” Franjo shouts back. “No place around here has the stuff you deserve.”

“It’s Zermatt!” Arnaud laughs. “You can find everything here!”

“Everything except my specialty!” Franjo says, and with one last wink disappears around the first bend.

What turns their daily commute into an intensive workout, the elevated site of their house at the very edge of the town, becomes an invaluable gain once the sun starts to set behind the mountains and douses the valley below them into the warmest red.

“The guys in Chile had a steak the size of their thighs yesterday but I think we win with our homemade smoked sausages,” Marco says from the depths of a worn-out lawn chair.

“It will go away soon,” Lars snaps, and tries to wave away the billowing clouds rising up from the rickety barbecue with the tongs.

“Yeah, because the neighbours are going to call the fire brigade,” Elian says as he drops another beer in Alexis’ lap, and wraps him in a hug from behind.

Alexis’ deep laugh rumbles into the kitchen where Arnaud is almost done chopping another carrot into the giant plastic bowl of pasta salad.

“And?” he asks, and throws a glance over his shoulder. “What’s the judgment of your first week in the new team?”

Franjo purses his lips. He closes the fridge, and dumps the bag of tomatoes into the sink. “Survivable,” he says, and begins to wash one after the other.

Arnaud laughs, and Franjo throws him a grin, his bangs falling over his eyes, and Arnaud hastily turns his attention to the next carrot.

“I think I got quite the hang of it,” Franjo adds. “Well…mostly.” He grabs a knife, and begins to dice the first tomato. For a while he chews on his lower lip, deeply lost in thoughts.

“The thing between Alexis, Elian and Gilles is a bit…confusing?”

Arnaud snorts. “Right.”

“And of course I’d totally get it if you wanted to swap rooms once the season begins…maybe with Marco or Ralph, or someone from the world cup team. But all in all I’m sure it’ll be great.”

Arnaud pauses in his chopping. He frowns. “Why would I want to swap rooms?”

Franjo shrugs, his gaze pinned on the half-diced tomato on the chopping board in front of him. “I know why Lars jumped at the chance to switch…though, if things were fair you’d have to room with neither of us.”

Arnaud shakes his head. “Don’t be daft! The past is in the past, and I’m fine with both of you, really. You barely snore at all.”

Franjo laughs, and Arnaud drops the last carrot into the bowl. He grabs a tomato from the sink next, cuts it in half, and is almost done with it before he realises that Franjo’s eyes are resting on him.

His shoulders slump. “Okay, maybe I do think about the past…sometimes. But I mean, it wasn’t his decision. And I would have done the same.” If the head coach were from Valais, he adds in his head. But he is not, he is from Berne like Lars, and gave him a starting place in Wengen last year even though Arnaud had beaten him in the tryouts.

Franjo puts his knife down. “This time you’ll start,” he says, and raises his fist. “We both will.”

Arnaud smiles, and bumps his fist against Franjo’s. “Fuck yeah we will!”

The bowl is almost full now, and Arnaud begins to mix the vegetables with the pasta. Next to him, Franjo has put his knife down, and stares out into the garden. Elian and Alexis are still cuddling, Marco is typing away on his phone, and Gilles has joined Lars at the barbecue.

“Have you seen Ralph?” Franjo asks, and cranes his head.

“Probably videocalling his kids again,” Arnaud answers. “Why?”

His breath hitches when Franjo grabs him by the wrist, and pulls him further down the kitchen until they are out of view of the window.

“Because I don’t want anyone to see this,” Franjo whispers, his face suddenly so close that Arnaud can see the thin lines around his mouth that were carved there by his smile.

“Wha…see?” Arnaud babbles, cold showers racing up and down his spine.

Before he can move, Franjo opens one of the cupboards, and retrieves a small bottle filled with a bright blue liquid from behind a stack of chipped soup plates. He grabs two glasses, both milky from the many scratches acquired over the years, and with a beam hands one of them to Arnaud.

“Don’t think I forgot my promise from the first day on snow,” he says, and fills two fingers’ breadth into the glasses. “But I was just waiting for the right time.”

With a bright smile he waits expectantly as Arnaud eyes his glass, and takes a sniff.

“Minty,” he coughs. “And…uh, strong.”

“I invented it myself,” Franjo explains, and Arnaud bursts out laughing at the sight of his proud smile. He waits while Franjo hides the bottle again.

“Of course I’ll let the others have some too…eventually. But I wanted you to have it first.” He clinks his glass against Arnaud’s, and it takes all of Arnaud’s self-restraint not to lean over and close the last gap between them.

“I appreciate the honour,” he smiles instead, and throws the drink back.

Franjo giggles while Arnaud fights for composure and against the next coughing fit. They stand still close, so close Arnaud can observe Franjo’s cheeks blush from the alcohol once the burning sensation in his throat has died down, and the fluttering lashes as his gaze darts between Arnaud’s eyes and lips. Time stops, or maybe only Arnaud’s breath, and picks up again when Marco’s voice booms through the kitchen.

“Sausages are almost done!”

They shoot apart in opposite directions, and Arnaud is back at the bowl and Franjo by the fridge when a shock of brown hair pokes through the open door.

“And by done I mean burnt,” Marco adds. Then, he pauses, and a frown washes over his face. “What?”

Arnaud glares at him, distinctly aware of his burning cheeks, and picks up the pasta salad. “What what?” he snaps back. “Not used to seeing people work?”

“Work, huh?” Marco grins, and hurries out of Arnaud’s reach.

In the brochures on the counter at the reception, every picture of Val Gardena is shot from high above, with the sun shining down on the snow-white peaks and dark green forests. The truth is that a sizable part of the valley, mostly the inhabited one, spends most of the winter in the icy shadow of said peaks, with parts of the town never seeing one ray of sunshine between November and March. Arnaud bears the inspection as best as he can, his entire face hidden behind ski goggles and a scarf to fight the cold, barely listening as the coach explains the turns and how to best move over the frozen solid snow. His ears only start to burn when one of the assistant coaches realises that he is there too, and tries to give him helpful advice for the Super-G tomorrow. The others from the team barely register him, too focused on the upcoming race, only Franjo glances at him from time to time as they slowly make their way through the blue shadow of the steep mountain. Arnaud makes sure he stays close to the other Romands and on the opposite side of the track as Franjo, and once they reach the finish area he hands his skis over to his service man, and slips away unseen. Only Meillard almost walks into Arnaud when he makes his way across the lobby in a tracksuit but luckily he is too focused on the camera in his hands to recognise him. Arnaud spends the rest of the morning trying to forget that he is the only athlete not nominated for the downhill by first running on the treadmill until his lungs threaten to give out and then by cooking himself to death in the sauna. Neither works, and after a lonely lunch he ends up in the small library of the hotel, shielded from the prying eyes of everyone going through the lobby by a row of bookshelves. He does not check his phone but of course he cannot evade the results of the race as they get discussed and commented by patrons and staff passing by, from Odermatt’s splendid run to Kilde’s that is just a hair’s breadth better and then the great upset when Bennett passes both of them from behind. The crime novel he picked from the nearest shelf barely holds Arnaud’s attention but he does not put it down once the team trickles back. First arrive the ones who missed the points, most audible of all Justin who gripes at his bad luck and the unfortunate circumstances to someone Arnaud cannot hear. The coaches follow later, their loud voices carrying through the cracks in the shelves as they discuss tomorrow’s plans. Odermatt is last, arriving with the last stragglers and the rest of the staff. Zoé’s high voice floats above all the others, listing his schedule for the evening with a long list of papers and tv stations. Arnaud is turning the page to the third-last chapter, with the protagonist coming closer to the murderer that Arnaud has known for the last 75 pages, when a new voice stops him in his tracks. It also hovers above the constant hum in the lobby, as clear as if he was standing next to Arnaud’s armchair.

“Did you see Arnaud anywhere?” Franjo asks. “He’s not in our room.”

Gilles answers, his voice too soft to reach the library.

“Okay,” Franjo says. “If you see him, tell him…” His voice dies down and disappears, only to return a few pages later.

“Hey, Loïc! Sorry, Gino told me I’d probably find you here. Do you know where Arnaud is?”

“No idea, I didn’t meet him,” Loïc answers. “I was out all afternoon to catch the light. It was just perfect for a few pictures.”

Franjo’s answer is delayed, as if he first has to dodge a camera put in front of his nose. “Cool. But if you see him, could you tell him I’m looking for him?”

“Sure. Have you checked the gym?”

“I did, he’s not there.”

“How about the sauna? Or the pool?”

Whatever Franjo answers does not make it to Arnaud’s corner. He reads the next few pages, and is almost at the reveal when all of a sudden, someone rounds the corner, and stops in front of him.

Justin puts his hands on his hips, and stares at him with an accusing glare. “What are you doing here?”

Arnaud blinks up at him. “I know you’re not the…scholarly type but even you must recognise this,” he says, and waves with the book in his hands. Laughter erupts from somewhere around Justin’s hip.

“Is that coming from your pocket?”

With a sigh, Justin raises his phone, and reveals the head of Tanguy on the screen.

“I was asking myself, where would I hide if I was a pouting nerd, and when I couldn’t think of anything I called one,” Justin explains, and falls down in the other armchair.

“I’m not pouting!” Arnaud sighs the same moment that Tanguy erupts in protests.

“You didn’t answer my texts either,” Tanguy says, his voice full of accusation. “All afternoon long.”

“The book was very interesting,” Arnaud answers defensively, and Tanguy laughs again.

“But you must have heard the abandoned puppy looking for you in the entire hotel,” Justin says.

“Not the entire hotel, obviously,” Arnaud mutters, and tries to go back to his book. Before he can open it fully though, Justin picks it out of his hands.

“Don’t do this, man!” Tanguy says. “You can’t get bitter, not today of all days when you finally get your chance.”

“I’m not bitter!” Arnaud lies, and realises how silly he looks as soon as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. He still leaves them there.

“You don’t need to be nervous then,” Justin adds. “You’ve got this, and you know it!”

With a heavy sigh, Arnaud drops his head against the back of the overpadded armchair. Three pairs of expecting eyes stare at him, waiting for him to say something.

“I just wanted to be alone for one afternoon,” he eventually says. “Is that forbidden?”

“It is if you’re hiding,” Justin says.

“Especially hiding from someone in particular,” Tanguy adds.

“I’m not hiding from anyone!” Arnaud protests, emphasising each word.

“Right,” Tanguy laughs. “That’s not what a little birdie told me.”

Arnaud stares at him with a dumbfounded look before he turns his attention on Justin. “What the hell are you gossipping? You don’t know anything!”

“Of course I do!” Justin shoots back. “I also have my little birdie. Technically it told the news to his best friend but I was sitting on the same branch and…” He shrugs, and grins at him.

“Marco…,” Arnaud snarls, and to his friends: “If you spent as much time practicing as you waste on gossip you’d both have three globes by now.”

“We’re versatile,” Tanguy answers light-heartedly. “Justin says he’s cute?”

Arnaud jumps out of his chair. “Sorry, we have to go to dinner,” he announces.

Justin laughs, and stands up too. “He is,” he says to his phone. “And we do have to go.”

“Come on, I need details!" Tanguy yells out of the phone. It is the last thing Arnaud hears from him as he walks away. Justin follows slowly, his focus fully on his phone, unaware of the turmoil he caused in Arnaud. The dinner only just started, with the buffet only halfway assembled and the hall almost completely empty. Usually, Arnaud would never eat that early, and he hesitates in the door, pondering where he should go. He does not get to decide.

“There you are!” Franjo laughs, and runs the last stretch between the stairs and the hall. Arnaud’s heart skips a beat when Franjo pulls him into a short hug.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he says, and punches Arnaud lightly in the arm. “Where the hell were you?”

“I was reading in the library,” Arnaud answers. In Franjo’s back, Justin walks towards the elevators and winks at him with his dirtiest grin. Arnaud hastily puts his arm around Franjo, and pulls him into the hall.

“I was all alone today, what was I supposed to do? Watch the race?”

“For example!” Franjo laughs. “You missed a real doozy.”

They grab a plate, and slowly amble along the buffet tables as servers bring out the last steaming pots and bowls. Luckily, Franjo is more than willing to recap the race, and spare Arnaud from talking. He is too busy to talk anyway, staring at Franjo between piling spoons full of food on his plate, at the long strands of hair almost hiding his beaming eyes, and the red cheeks still flushed from the biting cold outside.

“At first I was annoyed,” Franjo confesses when they reach the salad bar, and piles two bread buns on top of his noodles. “But in other races I’d be like twentieth with today’s margin, so it wasn’t too bad either. It was just really tight today.”

“You’ve still got tomorrow,” Arnaud says. “And the day after tomorrow.”

“Exactly!”

The older coaches file into the hall as they take their seats at a free table but still no trace of their colleagues. Slowly, Franjo’s monologue dies down, and Arnaud is wiping up the last remains on his plate with a piece of bread before he speaks again.

“I know why you hid.”

“I wasn’t hiding,” Arnaud retorts quickly without looking up from his plate.

“Justin said you are,” Franjo continues unperturbed. “He said he’d find you. But I don’t think he gets it.”

Arnaud pauses, and looks up. He is no longer smiling, and Franjo’s laughter seems a bit lopsided too.

“I saw your post. From back in Beaver Creek, I mean. I guess it doesn’t sound like much unless you…know from experience.”

Arnaud has put down the remains of his bun but now picks them up again, and starts to soak up the last drops of the salad sauce.

“I get it,” Franjo adds. “Sometimes you just want to be alone.”

Arnaud attempts a nod that ends in a half-shrug, and between bites of his bread throws a quick glance over the table. The irony is not lost on him that he can write about his father where the whole world can see it but not manage one word to the one who understands him most. Franjo’s shoulders are slumped. He looks too young without the laugh lines carved around his cheeks.

“I know he would be proud,” he says softly. “Really.”

Arnaud swallows the last piece of his bread. Maybe time plays a role too. Maybe in a few years he can talk about it like Franjo. Now, though, all he wants to do is lean over the table and melt into his touch again, even for only a second.

The moment passes before Arnaud can move.

“Don’t tell me you already ate!” Elian exclaims as he steps to their table. “Jesus, guys, you are spending way too much time with Grandpa Ralph. I hope the prostate’s not bothering you too much. Can I bring you a decaf before bed?”

Suddenly, Arnaud can bear Franjo’s eyes again. They grin at each other.

“We’re just getting a headstart for the dessert,” he says, and throws his crumpled napkin at Elian.

Through the artfully wavy glass separating the dinner hall from the reception, Arnaud watches as the distorted silhouettes of the GS team walk towards the exit. Nobody else at the table is looking up from their meal, their own thoughts too heavy to perceive much of the rest of the world. Arnaud wonders whether the mood in the other team sometimes is the same. That is, Justin's and Gino's mood; Odermatt of course does not have much in his life to be moody about. He glances down the table. Elian throws in a remark from time to time but other than a weak smile from Alexis he barely elicits a response, and Arnaud has learnt over the past year that his sarcasm is not well received in times like this.

Franjo always manages to lift the atmosphere but his thoughts are still up at the Hausbergkante where he missed the gate, and is of no help. Warm fondness spreads through Arnaud's chest as he looks at Franjo's scowl, the deep crease between his brows and the glare at his cutlery as if it was responsible for his misery. Eventually, Arnaud cannot contain himself any longer.

"Ow! What the hell?" Franjo flinches and bends over to rub his shin while glaring at Arnaud.

"Stop being such a sourpuss," Arnaud says.

Franjo keeps staring at Arnaud, one shoulder still almost touching the edge of the table, his mouth hanging open as if he is still struggling to grasp what just happened. Usually, they do not touch, the big exception being the short hug last year in Val Gardena, half a season and lifetime ago. Franjo probably regretted that outburst, or at least Arnaud assumes that he did because he has made sure to keep the appropriate distance since. If Tanguy were here he would probably laugh at Arnaud, maybe compare him to a boy pulling a girl's pigtails. Arnaud counts himself lucky that the slalom coach called a last meeting before the race tomorrow. Marco would for sure tell them to get a room, if he were here and not in the hospital tending to his broken knee.

"'m not a sourpuss," Franjo grumbles, and spears another piece of meat on his fork.

"Well you're not exactly spreading cheer either."

"There's not much to cheer about."

Arnaud sighs. "You can't win shit without taking a risk. Today it didn't pay off but next time it will."

Franjo snorts, shakes his head. "Great, thanks. I'll keep that in mind for the coming year."

"You'll be plenty of times on the Streif," Arnaud retorts, "but I'm not talking about that. I mean the next race."

Further down the table, Ralph laughs joylessly. "Right. Enough time for another chance, and another, and another…,” he mutters.

Arnaud grimaces as the temperature in the hall instantly drops a few degrees. Franjo stares at his plate as if it was the most fascinating thing on earth all of a sudden.

"Just always another chance, 'ok, this time you get a pass but I need to see results', and another chance, and another reason to be grateful…"

"But he has!" Gilles interrupts Ralph, his tone sharper than anything Arnaud has ever heard from him. The warning is unmistakable. "He's not an oldie like us. He has more than enough time, and every right to try again."

Ralph's shoulders slump, his entire form seemingly withering under Gilles' glare. After a second he pushes his shoulders back, grabs his empty plate, and stands up.

"Who do I have to fellate to get a fucking beer around here?" he mutters, and trudges away.

His leave prompts a frenzied bustling around the table, as the others grab their things, and prepare to leave. Arnaud keeps still, staring at a speck of dirt on the table, and only looks up when Franjo leans over. His eyebrows disappear underneath his bangs hanging over his forehead. He washed his hair before coming to dinner and forgot to put gel in it. Arnaud grabs the fork from his empty plate to fill his hand with something.

His voice is barely louder than a whisper, only intended for Arnaud. "You mean Garmisch?"

The heavy embarrassment lifts from Arnaud's chest. He smiles. "Exactly."

A soft grin spreads over Franjo's face. "And what makes you so sure?"

Arnaud shrugs. "I just know. Next weekend, podium for Franjo von Allmen."

Franjo laughs softly. They are alone now, Alexis being the last who leaves with a little wave.

"Well, if I do, prepare to get it all back."

"All?"

"Your kick!"

"That was one little nudge!"

Franjo giggles at Arnaud's exaggerated outrage, and Arnaud's heart picks up a little bit of speed.

"Just be prepared," Franjo warns, and starts to stack up the empty plates.

He has all but forgotten about Franjo’s promise, the week full with practice and preparations. The first race is too warm, the snow in Germany too soft but over night the cold returned. Arnaud is jumping up and down, his hands hidden inside the sleeves of his jacket, when Niels crosses the finish line as the thirtieth racer and everyone realises that the podium is as good as settled. Franjo’s laugh appears on the giant screens overlooking the arena, his narrow crescent-eyes and glowing cheeks competing with Odermatt’s beam. They pose for another slew of pictures and shots before the intermission ends, and the race picks up for the next set of starters when Franjo finally walks towards the baggage area. Arnaud’s heart starts beating even more furiously when the laugh lands on him and Franjo falls into a jog, and stops beating at once when he recognises that he is spreading his arms. At the last second though he dodges to Arnaud’s left, and delivers a punch to his arm that makes him double over.

“What the fuck!” Arnaud groans, clutching his upper arm with his right hand, barely audible over the murmur springing up around them.

“Umm…everything okay?” Loïc pipes up in his back.

“He probably deserves it,” Justin says.

“See?” Franjo laughs, and bends over so he can look in Arnaud’s face. “I told you I’d get you back for that kick in Kitzbühel.”

“But did it have to be that side?” Arnaud gasps as he blinks away tears.

Franjo flinches, and drops to his knee. “Oh fuck!” he breathes as the realisation hits him like a truck. “Oh god! I am so sorry! Fuck!”

Arnaud bursts out laughing, or maybe sobbing, he is not quite sure himself. Slowly, the shooting pain in the bone that he broke last season when he clipped a gate at a hundred kilometres per hour simmers down to the well-known throbbing ache that used to follow him for months.

“It’s okay,” he says, mostly because Franjo’s hands rest on his shoulders, and Franjo’s worried face is right in front of him as he slowly rises from the ground and he can see the anguish in his hazel eyes and he needs it to go away right this moment.

“I’m such an idiot!” Franjo babbles, “I completely forgot about your arm, I’m so sorry.”

Before Arnaud can assure him that he will not die quite yet, Zoé suddenly materialises by their side, and practically throws herself in the tiny gap between Arnaud and Franjo.

“You stop that at once! Guys, what the hell?” she scolds them, and shoves Franjo back with her shoulder. “I expect better of you! This will…”

Franjo and Arnaud stare at her with blank looks, and it is Loïc who interrupts her tirade. “They’re not fighting, love! Well, not for real, at least.”

Zoé stops, and glares between the two of them. “Oh?”

Arnaud nods. “Really! It’s just fun,” he assures, though Franjo’s contrite face does not seem to convince her yet.

“From back there it looked as if it was serious. If it is, I expect you to behave yourself like adults! We can solve this tonight, whatever you…”

“It’s nothing!” Arnaud says. “I swear, I deserved it.”

“Told you!” Justin sings.

Zoé rolls her eyes. “Well, can you please keep it down? I don’t want to spend the evening squashing rumours about the atmosphere in the team.”

“Sorry,” Franjo mutters, and Arnaud nods.

She stares at them for a moment longer and finally, her expression softens. “Fine, then. But you better get a move on, Franjo. They need you for interviews.”

She waits by his side, her foot tapping, while Franjo hastily packs all the things he needs to hold into the camera, and follows her towards the media corner. Arnaud’s fingers have started to go numb again, and he starts to jump on his feet again to stay warm.

Justin’s breath is revoltingly close when his head suddenly peaks over his shoulder. “So, you two like to touch each other?” he asks innocently. “And before you do anything remember that Zoé said we’re supposed to play nice.”

Arnaud lowers his elbow. “It’s fine, I’ll postpone it until the club championships.”

Justin grins. “Can’t wait.”

+1:

Arnaud’s heart beats in his throat, both from the number flashing up on the screen and the bumpy ride through the heavy snow of Saalbach. The searing pain in his thighs and calves slowly dies down as he comes to a halt in front of the rubber fences. Before he can fully comprehend the meaning of the numbers on the screen the image changes and now broadcasts a full-body shot of himself staring up into the air. He turns around just to come face to face with the camera man who tapes every awkward movement of Arnaud as he tries to gather his things with trembling fingers. Sheepishly he waves, and staggers out of the arena. People talk at him from all sides, somebody takes his skis out of his hands and leaves him with nothing but his poles. Loïc is still catching his breath when he pulls him into a hug, and still Arnaud does not understand.

“Well done,” Loïc mutters.

He is still hanging over the railing fencing in the victor’s chair and gasping for air when Rogentin crosses the finish line, and takes Loïc’s spot. Slowly he begins to peel out of his sweaty race suit, and he laughs when Zoé urges him to hurry up.

“They need you for interviews in the tv break,” she says, and is halfway across the grandstands before he can remind her that only the three guys on the podium have to step in front of the cameras.

He is closing the zipper of his backpack when Franjo shoots across the finish line, and Arnaud blinks in amazement when he sees the number flash up.

“But he didn’t make any mistake,” he says to himself, and both Loïc and Rogentin burst out laughing.

“It’s not about mistakes now,” Stefan answers, and throws his arm around his shoulder. “You better get comfortable here.”

Arnaud stares at him, then back towards the race course, and ever so slowly the reality settles in his chest.

“Fuck…,” he mutters to himself.

“Exactly,” Rogentin says.

His heart keeps beating an insane rhythm, and almost jumps out of his chest whenever another racer crosses the finish line, or when Franjo eventually approaches, his poles dangling from his wrists.

“You did it!” he pants, and underlines his hug with two rough pats on Arnaud’s back.

“Not yet,” Arnaud answers, and it takes all of his composure to let go of him again.

Franjo laughs. “You’ll see,” he says, and leaves.

Odermatt’s expression is rather surly when he comes to a halt and recognises the unusually high number flashing up on the screen. Arnaud sinks against Rogentin’s chair but flinches when someone grabs his hand all of a sudden.

Franjo is leaning over the railing. This time he is halfway out of his race suit and in sneakers instead of the unwieldy ski boots. His bangs are glued to his forehead by the sweat, and his cheeks are still glowing from the run across the wet snow of Saalbach.

“Come! I need to show you something!” he urges, and waves at Arnaud to follow him. Arnaud throws a glance across the arena; Zoé is distracted with the radio, and does not realise that one third of her charge is suddenly missing from the most important spot in this entire place. The medical tent is abandoned, the medic following the race outside in the sun. Arnaud laughs when he slips through the flaps and joins Franjo. It is hot inside, though only a few rays of sunshine manage to shine through the gaps and illuminate the small cot waiting for an injured athlete.

“Let me guess: your specialty,” Arnaud grins. “I’m not sure I should have some of that before the last interv…”

He cannot finish his sentence, only just realises that Franjo’s hands are completely empty when he closes the gap between him and Arnaud, and pulls him in a lingering kiss. The world slows down, and for a moment there are only Franjo’s lips on Arnaud’s, and his calloused fingers on Arnaud’s cheeks. The typical smell of Franjo, aftershave and sunblocker and something Arnaud has not identified yet even after all these months together, that has lingered faintly in every hotel room of the past season, suddenly is all around him; almost more tangible than Franjo himself. He breaks the kiss first, leans back and stares wide-eyed at Arnaud. His eyes are round, not the usual crescents, searching for a reaction across Arnaud’s stunned expression. Arnaud only finds out of his stupor once his body forces new breath into his lungs, and like a drowning man he throws his arms around Franjo, and kisses him again. Franjo mewls, sinking easily into Arnaud’s touch. Arnaud cannot keep his hands from wandering all over Franjo, not after the barrier has finally broken down, stroking through his hair the way he has wanted to all these months, feeling his muscles underneath the tight undershirt.

This time they only break apart to catch their breath. “I’ve promised myself I’d do it before the end of the season,” Franjo whispers against Arnaud’s lips. “I wanted to do it after Kitzbühel but…”

Arnaud snorts. “And then that…unfair retribution got in the way?”

Franjo laughs against Arnaud’s cheek. “I felt really bad and…kinda didn’t dare anymore.”

“You should have kissed it better.”

Franjo’s laughter rumbles through his chest, and Arnaud gasps when he licks and kisses a trail down his throat and across his clavicle. Franjo’s hands are dangerously low now, moving over his hips and the button of his ski trousers.

Zoé’s bright voice pulls Arnaud back to reality, and with a pained groan he pulls away from Franjo.

“Has anyone seen Arnaud? God damn it, where did he go now?”

Franjo grins, his hazel eyes sparkling even in the dim twilight of the tent. “Tonight,” he whispers.

#not quite the rhythm i wanted but we move #text #rpf #alpine skiing #franjo von allmen #arnaud boisset #mine

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emilysbrazilianlitblog · 9 months

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Non-fictions books from Brazil

1-The life that no one sees by Eliane Brum

A reporter in search of events that don't make the news and people who aren't celebrities. A chronicler searching for the extraordinary contained in each anonymous life. A writer who delves into everyday life to prove that there are no ordinary lives. The beggar who never asked for anything. The airport baggage handler who never flew. The monkey who, after escaping from his cage, went to the bar to drink a beer. The thrown-in-the-trash photo album that begins with a family girl and ends with a chorus girl. The man who ate glass but was only hurt by invisibility.(goodreads.com)

2- Bruno: Conversations with a Brazilian Drug Dealer by Robert Gay

In the 1980s a poor farmer's son from Recife, Brazil, joined the Brazilian navy and began selling cocaine. After his arrest in Rio de Janeiro he spent the next eight years in prison, where he joined the Comando Vermelho criminal faction and eventually became one of its leaders. Robert Gay tells this young man's dramatic and captivating story in Bruno . In his shockingly candid interviews with Gay, Bruno provides many insights into the criminal world in which he details of day-to-day prison life; the inner workings of the Brazilian drug trade; the structure of criminal factions; and the complexities of the relationships and links between the prisons, drug trade, gangs, police, and favelas. And most stunningly, Bruno's story suggests that Brazilian mismanagement of the prison system directly led to the Comando Vermelho and other criminal factions' expansion into Rio's favelas, where their turf wars and battles with police have terrorized the city for over two decades. (goodreads.com)

3- Bossa Nova by Ruy Castro

Bossa nova is one of the most popular musical genres in the world. Songs such as "The Girl from Ipanema" (the fifth most frequently played song in the world), "The Waters of March" and "Desafinado" are known around the world. Bossa Nova, a number-one bestseller when originally published in Brazil as Chega de saudade, is a definitive history of this seductive music. Based on extensive interviews with Antonio Carlos Jobim, Joao Gilberto, and all the major musicians and their friends, Bossa Nova explains how a handful of Rio de Janeiro teenagers changed the face of popular culture around the world. Now, in this outstanding translation, the full flavor of Ruy Castro wisecracking, chatty Portuguese comes through in a feast of detail. Along the way he introduces a cast of unforgettable characters who turned Gilberto's singular vision into the sound of a generation. (goodreads.com)

4-Dump room by Carolina Maria de Jesus

The diary of paper collector Carolina Maria de Jesus gave rise to this book, which recounts the sad and cruel daily life of life in the favela. The simple but blunt language moves the reader with its realism and sensitive look when telling what she saw, lived and felt during the years she lived in the community of Canindé, in São Paulo, with three children. (goodreads.com)

5- We aim for love and hit loneliness by Ana Suy

Love, loneliness and psychoanalysis for today.

We can read that love contains loneliness within it, because at the heart of love there is always loneliness, and that's why those who can't stand loneliness also can't stand love." Written from dialogues, We aim at love and get it right in solitude, emerged from experiences lived by the author in classrooms, in analysis sessions (as an analysand or analyst), with friends, in readings of theoretical research. In this book, psychoanalyst and professor Ana Suy wants, above all, to continue this conversation with you, the reader, without the intention, however, of being a manual or an academic treatise on the topic. (goodreads.com)

#english literature

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islaricci · 3 months

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Full Name: Isla Leonora Ricci

Nickname(s): Isla. She hates being called Leonora, only the people close to her even knows it is her middle name.

Date of Birth: 12th of April

Hometown: Kismet Harbor, Oregon

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/Her

Orientation: Bisexual

Relationship Status: In a relationship with @elianxbrowne

Occupation: Store Owner of Della Moda

Living Arrangements: Studio flat Downtown

Language(s) Spoken: English, some Italian

Label: The Vixen

Positive Traits: Confident - Loyal - Honest

Negative Traits: Insecure - Sensitive - Jealous

Isla was born and raised in Kismet Harbor. She is the middle child with one younger and one older sibling.

In high school she was in with the popular crowd and got on well with the older kids within it as well. Always having been a social butterfly, she loved to attend parties, be social and in general just hang out more than she enjoyed studying. She was on the cheerleader team and made captain her senior year.

Isla has always had big dreams for the future, and one of them was to leave the small town of Kismet Harbor and move to the big city. Despite her average grades, the brunette managed to get into college in non other than New York where she ended up enrolling to study business management.

However, school has never been the woman's strong suit and she was easily influenced by her older room mate who was not the most focused on college themselves, so she soon after adopted a party life style, spending the majority of her time enjoying the night life in the big apple and whatever it had to offer. This naturally impacted her grades, and she ended up failing her course. As a result, Isla was asked to leave due to her poor attendance.

As she was too embarrassed about the outcome of her collage to return home, when her room mate told her about the side business she was doing to get herself through college, she was intrigued and not hard to persuade to join. Isla then signed up with an escorting agency and ended up living in the big city until long after graduation, telling her family she had managed to land a big corporate job and had no plans to return home any time soon.

Working as an escort allowed Isla to live a comfortable life in luxury, treating herself to luxury items from the payments she made as well as fancy dinners. It wasn’t until she experienced a very uncomfortable situation with one of her regular clients, she packed up her bags and moved back home to Kismet Harbor.

After moving back, she excused herself to her parents that she wasn't planning on sticking around forever, so she took a receptionist job at the local therapy clinic, even though she knew she was lucky to even be able to land that job with her grades from high school.

Although she didn’t plan on sticking around town for longer than necessary, her plans soon changed after she ran into her childhood friend and long term unrequited crush, Elian Browne. Despite leaving things on a sour note when she revealed she was leaving town originally, the two slowly reconnected, and eventually it felt as if no time had passed between them at all.

It also came as no surprise that the feelings for her friend that she had long buried, or at least tried to, resurfaced with the time the two started to spend together. However, Isla had always been too scared to say anything to him in fears that she would end up loosing him completely. It wasn’t until Elian caught Isla on a date and admitted his feelings for her, that she eventually managed to get up her courage and reveal her long standing affection for him in return.

The two have been dating ever since, and in all honesty Isla hasn't as much as looked at another man in the same way ever since. Her heart truly belongs to Elian only, and she is his for as long as he would like to have her. At one point in their relationship, right before Valentines day in 2024, Elian started behaving suspiciously, which obviously led Isla to believe the man was having an affair. After confronting him about it, he revealed that he had secretly been working on a location the two had visited prior when she aired the idea that she was looking to open up a shop in town, seeing she was now sticking around.

That was how her long standing dream, alongside the kind investment from the Hawthorn brothers, became a reality and how Della Moda came to be. With a focus on sustainable fashion in addition to wanting to assist any local artists in terms of their own business with items that she can sell in her shop, Isla has taken a leap of faith and is ready to take on a new challenge as a business woman.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

Childhood Friend (Potential love interest) - The two would have been as thick as thieves when they were younger, all the way throughout high school. Even though they were never romantically involved, people always joked that the two of them would end up getting married one day. The two would have just laughed it off, even though maybe low key they had a crush on one another, or maybe it was even just one sided? Regardless, they never acted on their potential feelings towards one another. When Isla left town (or them depending if they are older or not) they lost contact.

Former clients 2/2

Best friend(s)

High School Rival

Friends

Older brother 0/1 (One is a NPC)

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radicalrascals · 5 months

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@saudadexmses for Sacrifices Sentence Starters

❛ run! i'll hold them off for as long as i can. ❜ Val and Elian

"I can stand my ground!," Valentine refused, his angered response came almost instantly, no thought behind it, only his pride talking.

The sad truth was, that he could not. The sun was rising and he needed to get to safety quick, where the hunters couldn't follow. Rationality dictated that he'd run, run as fast as his feet could carry him. Even his pride had to yield his survival instinct. But something stronger made him hesitate no less:

"What will become of you? You will be alright, old friend? Promise me! Swear to me, you'll be alright!"

#Elian and Valentine #saudadexmses

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midwintermasque · 7 months

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Storyline: Odilia's Memory

Odilia slowly set Gustav’s letter down on her desk. Her fingers trembled. Her heart was beating a hummingbird’s wing rhythm in her chest. Her fingertip slowly traced the ink of his name, feeling the faint scratch of the quill nib against the parchment, where his hand had shaped his name after he had poured his heart onto the page, pouring it out for her. All of this for her. It was a thought that plagued her often since the sangoire cloak had been stolen years ago. All of this—the theft, the unrest, the embargo, maybe even the push for him to choose a queen—all because of her. And because she had thought she could have a prince as hers. Because he had only been a prince when he had come to Dahlia House the first time. Young and fresh-faced like the dawn, the next generation of hope for the kingdom now reached manhood. Responsibility on his shoulders, and still he glowed with Elua’s Grace. Something was blurring her vision. Something hot welling in her eyes. She tried to cling to her pride, tried to keep the granite walls around her heart from cracking. She missed him, too. That night, the night that he called the start of his joy, she hadn’t known how deeply she would be changed by it. By him. ~ Several Years Ago “The young Duc L’Envers is handling the arrangements,” Adept Clarine said. The adepts lounged about the salon of Dahlia House. The morning meal finished, they had some time to themselves before the salon opened for the evening, and all any of the adepts could discuss was the legendary celebration that the Duc L’Envers was putting together for the young Prince Gustav de la Courcel. “All of the arrangements?” Helyan lounged across his chaise, blond hair strewn in a silken curtain across the cushion, “He’s planning all fourteen nights? I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.” The prince was celebrating his coming of age. Starting with the night of his natality, he was spending one night at every House on Mont Nuit to sample all the pleasures of the Night-Blooming Flowers, before the last night where he chose for himself where he would go to spend his final night. Of course, they had begun with Cereus House, but the Dahlia adepts couldn’t fault them for that, since it just gave them the chance to shine, despite what the delicate Cereus adepts would have presented to the young prince. “Fourteen nights is rather spectacular,” Eliane said as she fussed with the candelabras, making sure they were at just the perfect angle to have the candlelight gleam on the marble and gild of the salon. “Traditionally it’s only one night.” “The boy’s only the second son and will likely never inherit the throne,” Clarine said, her pure white fur wrapped around her shoulders contrasting with the inky black of her hair. “I’d say he deserves every one of these nights and more.” “Make a good impression,” Helyan teased, “and he might keep coming back to Dahlia for all of those future nights.” And wasn’t that, at its core, what all the adepts on the Mont were hoping for? That they could catch the eye of the prince and enjoy him as a patron? A long-standing patron was the goal of all the courtesans of the Night Court. A royal patron was even better. “What do you think, Odilia?” Helyan craned his neck to look at where the young brunette sat on the window bench. “Do you think Dahlia has a chance of dazzling this debutant?” Her head turned from where she was looking out at the gardens and she smiled. “I think there’s always a chance.” The carriage pulled up right as the sun kissed the horizon, and the guards in Dahlia livery stepped forward to help the guests down. The two young men looked up at the Dahlia mansion, taking in the lanterns glimmering gold, the windows thrown open to let the night breeze stir the curtains like slashes of jewels against the pale stone. The taller young man clapped his companion on the shoulder, a sparkle in his eye as he led the way up the steps to the entry where the doors, each bearing a stained glass window in the shape of a perfect dahlia, opened for the two of them. Cloaks were taken by fresh-faced youths, and they were shown to the entrance of the salon. A tall, elegant blonde greeted them at the doors, “My lords, welcome to Dahlia House. You are welcome here at our salon for the evening.” “Yes, we are quite looking forward to the famous pride of your House,” the taller gentleman said, his eyes scanning the salon where the adepts were positioned quite casually, seemingly in no rush to greet them. “We have been anticipating your visit, Your Grace,” the blonde said, having easily identified him as the Duc Sebastien L’Envers. “I have every confidence that Dahlia will make a lasting impression upon you. And upon you.” She turned her attention to the second young man in the Duc’s shadow. “We welcome you here tonight and any future night you wish to return, Your Highness.” As one, the adepts rose and turned towards the gentlemen, bowing or curtsying together to greet Prince Gustav de la Courcel. He tried not to blush. The new levels of attention people gave him now that he had reached majority were still slightly uncomfortable, but he managed it well with a return of the courtesy. “Thank you for your welcome. I am sure this evening will be very enjoyable.” “Certainly,” the blonde said with a smile before clapping her hands. “Music! Let us do our part to celebrate our prince’s natality!” The musicians struck up a tune from their place at the side of the salon, and a servant offered the gentlemen glasses of Serenissiman sparkling wine. Sebastien took his glass with a warm smile for the servant, taking a sip and murmuring to his friend, “at least they’re not swarming.” “No,” Gustav agreed under his breath. “They’re just waiting, and watching.” That was worse. But they were welcomed warmly enough with conversation and music, and Jocaste watched from her place before gauging the temperature of the room. A few of the adepts danced together, nothing to rival the tumbling and skill of Eglantine, but they certainly would have shone among the royal court for their skill at the court dances. There was roast peacock and slices of exotic fruits, sallets of edible flowers along with slivers of raw meats marinated in spices and drizzled with sauces. Nothing too heavy, no grand banquet with twenty courses, but light and expensive foods that were brought around on trays, easily portioned to eat with one’s fingers. Something the Dahlia adepts did flawlessly, while Gustav was terrified to dripping something on his clothing. Jocaste approached the gentlemen again, taking a seat with them on their couch with a smile. “Perhaps not the level of spectacle you have seen thus far on your birthday tour, but nevertheless I hope you are enjoying your time here at Dahlia. My philosophy is that Dahlia is the House of the most independence. Our words are Upright and Unbending, that is the core of who we are, but that also allows us our own agency and our own voices. No one will fawn over you or press themselves upon you, Your Highness. You are free to choose how to spend your time here, in any and all things.” “Thank you,” he said, holding his wine glass in both hands so he didn’t tremble too badly. “It is a beautiful salon and your adepts are very skilled at conversation. Among plenty of other things, I am sure!” “Thank you for saying so.” She accepted what he felt was a horribly awkward compliment with effortless grace. And she continued, “truly, the gem of our salon isn’t in conversation or music, though they are important. No, our greatest entertainment is in our chessboard.” Sebastien let out a little gasp, grinning. “Yes! The legendary chessboard!” Gustav glanced between them. “Is it…made of gold?” “No, Prince Gustav,” Jocaste said, rising to her feet with a smile. “Let us show you.” She signaled for silence, and the salon quieted in an expectant hush. She smiled and said, “the time draws nigh. The Game is afoot.” A ripple of laughter among the adepts. Jocaste’s eyes scanned the salon, searching for the adept she knew would do this best. “Odilia.” The prince followed the turning of heads to where a young woman with dark hair and dark eyes had looked up from where she had been adjusting one of the flower arrangements on the low tables. Jocaste smiled at her. “Will you play?” A dark brow rose. “Who is my opponent?” The blonde returned her attention to the two guests with her, and Gustav immediately said, “oh, no, I’m not very good. Um, Sebastien?” The young Duc L’Envers let out a laugh. “Very well! I will oppose the lady.” The Adept Odilia stood, a rustle of emerald green silk. “Then I accept.” Jocaste clapped her hands. “Pieces! To your places!” She reached down to wind her arm with the prince’s, drawing him up to his feet as she said, “this, Your Highness…This is where Dahlia shines.” He watched as the adepts and novices moved to prearranged places, and he only just now processed that the grand dance floor in the center of the salon was black and white squares, a chessboard built into the very floor. And clearly this had all been arranged, the living pieces had been assigned and wore the chemises appropriate for their side, white versus black. Sebastien let one of the novices show him to his place behind the white side lines, and Odilia took her place behind the black side. Together, the pieces bowed or curtsied to each other, Sebastien following a moment later once he relapsed. “The guest has the first move,” Odilia said. Gustav stared at her. She was so composed, so confident and sure in herself as she stood there, patient and poised. Sebastien finished his glass of wine and said lazily, “E2 to E4.” The novice playing the corresponding white pawn moved, and the game began. Jocaste led the prince slowly around the chessboard, letting him see all angles of the game in play. She saw how bright his eyes were, how focused he was on the game, and she asked him quietly, “a thrilling game, isn’t it, Your Highness?” “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said truthfully. “The board and pieces we have in the royal palace seem to pale in comparison to a living game.” “Chess is the King’s Game,” Jocaste said as they strolled, “Many forget that it is also a strategy game, designed to help leaders train their minds for war. It can be played for leisure, as His Grace seems to favor. But his opponent is very much a strategist.” Gustav watched the brunette pace back and forth behind her side of the board, her dark eyes intent on the white pieces moving. “She seems more a general than anything.” “At Dahlia House, we say Naamah bestowed herself like a queen to the King of Persis,” Jocaste said, bringing them to a stop at the corner of the black side, her head tilting as she also observed Odilia’s focus. “What is a queen but a general for her people in their time of need?” The game did not last very long. Sebastien was distracted by the male adept flirting with him and had no interest in taking this seriously. This was merely another celebration for his friend’s majority! He was determined to have a wonderful time tonight for both of them. So when Odilia flashed her smile of triumph and called, “checkmate!” Sebastien accepted his loss with a rakish smile and a wave of his hand, saying, “so it is. Well played, Lady Dahlia! Here, a victor’s token!” He pulled an emerald and gold ring from his finger and handed it to his defeated king, “There, offer that to the victor as her prize.” The adept crossed the board and knelt before Odilia, offering the ring to her. She glanced down at it and held it up to examine before sliding it onto her thumb, “I accept your suit for peace, Your Grace, and will withdraw my armies from your lands.” Another ripple of laughter around the salon, and servants offered both players fresh wine so that they might toast to each other without fear of hard feelings. Sebastien let himself be pulled away to the window alcove by Helyan, and Odilia knew he would be crowing about the Duc’s attention for a week at least. She took a sip of her sparkling wine and turned to return to her chaise only to find her way blocked. “Your Highness,” she said softly, looking him in the eye. She did not curtsy. “Did you enjoy the game?” “I thought it a fascinating exploration of your House canon,” he said, the trace of a flush on his cheeks as he stood before her. “I wonder if I might…that is, may I walk with you, Odilia?” “You may,” she said, glancing down only once to where he offered his hand. “Shall we to the balcony? The evening air is clear, and it will be quieter there.” He smiled at her, feeling something flutter in his chest. “I would like that.” ~ Odilia sighed, leaning back in her chair and pressing his letter to her chest. They had spoken that night about everything and nothing. About their childhoods, how similar and how different, about their ambitions and anxieties. He had chosen her for the night, but all they had done was talk, him asking her counsel and confiding in her his worries now that he was a man of the royal family. The demands of court were not the same as the responsibility of running a House, but they both faced choices in their paths. A crown would likely never come to him but that did not change the pressures even on a second son, and Jocaste had already told Odilia of her intention to lift her up as Second when Jocaste rose to Dowayne. And on the fourteenth night of his celebrations, when he could choose for himself where he wanted to go, what House he wanted to return to, he came right back to Dahlia and to her arms. She remembered the young man he had been, her heart quickening at the memory of the long nights they had spent talking, entwined in each other’s arms. He had been fresh and honest, so eager to learn, so humble as he asked her for advice. He had been filled with ideas, she had helped him shape them into plans, ways that he could use his position as the second son to better Terre D’Ange. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t the Dauphin, everyone had the power to change the country if they were driven enough. And he had promised her so many wonderful things, showering her in gifts as he let himself fall in love with her. Something she hadn’t stopped. She had loved him then, with the heart of a younger woman, before she had known how things could change, and how dangerous love was. “Oh, my Coeur Courcel,” she whispered to no one, “what has happened to us?” Read the full article

#characters #dahlia #fanfic #fantasy #GustavdelaCourcel #nightcourt #odilia #roleplay #storyline

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luxmaeastra · 1 year

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//Soft things!!!//

Einar grinned and jumped backward as Elian lunged and tackled him to the ground. He laughed wrestling with his brother. He hissed as Elian bit him before he could stand he felt Hawke slam into him to.

He twisted trying to throw of them off.

Narcissus sipped at his coffee watching his boys impassively. He exhaled and looked to where Lira, Kahlia, Poppy were watching excitedly. He rolled his eyes and went to find Amarantha.

"The girls I think are putting bets on their brothers again."

“At least they are keeping themselves entertained?” She countered as she lowered the reports she was reading. Her lips curled at the corners, her eyes focused upon him as she tilted her head slightly.

It was moments like this that she enjoyed, watching their children together and the two of them just able to relax. No demands, no arguments.

She rose from where she sat, her hand reached out to adjust the lapel of his jacket. “We could be entertaining ourselves.”

#Muse | Amarantha

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livingprophecy · 2 years

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@fateviled ) baz & callum. (original character starter call)

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 a point in his life that baz thought he’d be here — leaning against the countertop with a cup of coffee in his hand, at peace and, though he’s afraid to jinx it, happy. the kids have just run off to go do god knows what, and callum was still putting together breakfast for the two of them, and baz wishes he could live in this moment forever. mug is placed down, a warm smile on his face, unlike his normal demeanor. “you know she’s been calling you dad?” he says quietly, mimicking the sign to himself as he says the words. aurora hasn’t reached a point where she’s happy being verbal, and baz certainly isn’t pushing, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care; he watches over the kids more than they realize. he stands upright then, making his way to behind callum at the stove. “don’t think she meant for me to see it. she was talking to elian.” he’s less focused on what he’s saying though, and more focused on wrapping his arms around the chest of the man he loved, that he was finally LETTING HIMSELF ADMIT HE LOVED. pressing a gentle kiss to the back of callum’s neck, baz hums softly, resting his chin against his shoulder then. “i don’t know how you did it. i didn’t think i’d ever see either of them smile this much.” he didn’t ever think he would smile this much too: callum had done the impossible, making him feel like a better person.

#fateviled #the other starter is angst so i thought i'd give you some soft too .#i simply think. the domesticity .#baz behind him kissing his neck and hugging him and talking about the kids that he loves too #i just . i'm gonna break down eza i really am.#good luck with this one bestie.#fateviled ) baz & callum.#&. 𝐒𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀 ) who hasn’t ever wondered: am i a monster or is this what it means to be a person?#q.

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separatist-apologist · 3 years

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Could you do one where Lucien finds out about what happened on solstice but he and Elian isn’t speaking to him yet? I’m curious to see your take!

Look. I absolutely CANNOT help myself. If I had written that scene (and I am free, SJM), it would have gone down a little like this.

She doesn’t want him.

Azriel’s words rang through Lucien’s head, over and over on a constant loop, one he didn’t think he’d ever get out. He hadn’t wantedto overhear that whole conversation and, in doing so, was reminded why he never came to this fucking city to start with. He scrubbed a hand down his face, slung his bag over his shoulder, and slipped from his room. Feyre would be disappointed he left without saying goodbye but no one else would miss him. He could always make his excuses in a letter when he was far from Velaris.

I’d defeat him easily.

Lucien flinched beneath the weight of such casual violence. Azriel would love Autumn Court, if that was his first thought when it came to a blood duel. Lucien had no intention of calling one, not for Elain. He barely knew her and yet Lucien didn’t think she’d find the whole, bloody mess endearing.

He certainly had no intention of dying over a female that seemed to loathe his existence. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing Azriel’s voice to remove itself.

He doesn’t deserve her.

What would Lucien know about that, he thought miserably, his feet touching the first-floor landing. It wasn’t like he’d asked for her. If he’d it his way, the cauldron would given Elain to Azriel and the spymaster could spend eternity bound to a female that wanted nothing to do with their kind. He might have found it funny, the notion that Azriel thought she’d fall into his arms when Elain had made it abundantly clear she hated the mating bond.

Maybe he’d have a shot, then. Lucien stepped past the drawing room they’d exchanged gifts in when he caught a flash of that honey-colored hair all the Archeron’s shared. Feyre was up. Well fuck. He’d never be forgiven if he snuck right past her. He sighed and turned.

“Knock, knock,” he said before looking in. “Feyre, I thought I’d…” His words died in his throat when Elain looked back, her hands wrapped around her throat. “Never mind.” He wasn’t touching the red eyes and blotchy skin of the softly crying Elain with a ten-foot pole. He turned on his heel when something physically stopped him.

The fucking mating bond snarled in his chest, a physical beast that demanded he care for his mate. Fuck me, he thought furiously, keeping himself exactly where he was. He turned again, wary of the female that had caused so much drama. He wondered if she knew. Elain’s hands were still wrapped around her neck as a set of fresh tears slid down her cheeks.

“Are you alright?” He asked, every inch of him rebelling at the thought of comforting her through the rejection of another male.

Elain’s whole body seemed to tremble while Lucien warred with the bond, demanding it let him leave.

She doesn’t want him.

Lucien sighed and offered her a mocking bow while even the mating bond conceded. He turned for the third time, reshouldering his bag, and stepped out of the drawing room. Ten steps and he’d be at the door.

“Wait!” She called. Lucien’s whole body went taut as he closed his eyes and tilted his head towards the sky.

Have I displeased you? He silently asked the mother, walking back to the drawing room. He knew she could tell he did not want to be there, that he’d been trying to make his escape judging by the expression on her face. Was she planning to torture him a little, on her way out?

“Can you help me?” She asked, removing her hands from her throat. A red rosebud hung from her pale throat on a silver chain, and it was clear she’d been trying to remove it when he walked in on her.

Lucien dropped his bag to the floor and walked to her, her scent a punch to the gut. Honey and jasmine and something warm, like a breeze over a sunlit sky. All of that was mingled with fear and the better part of him wanted to tell her no and demand she tell him why she was so scared. He didn’t. What good was upsetting an already crying female?

She swept thick, honey-colored curls over one shoulder and it was Lucien’s turn to tremble, his stomach bottoming out. Had he ever touched her? He couldn’t remember a time. He reached for the tiny clasp, his fingers brushing over the nape of her neck. He swallowed hard as the chain was freed, sliding away into her waiting hands.

“Thank you,” she murmured as Lucien immediately put distance between them. His entire body was too aware of her and though he was angry, he didn’t know that he could stop himself from touching her again if he remained close. He wanted to guard her, to put his body in front of hers and snap and snarl until every male in Prythian was aware that she was his mate.

He reached for his bag. “Are you leaving?” She asked again and it occurred to Lucien she had asked him two questions and he had said nothing in response. He flexed his jaw, his back turned to her, and slid the strap of the bag back over his shoulder.

“I am,” he replied carefully. Elain wiped her cheeks with the palm of her hand and Lucien thought she was still so heartbreakingly beautiful, despite her hurt. Elain nodded, looking down at her feet and he wondered if he ought to just say goodbye.

“Will you be back?” She asked, her words nearly a whisper.

“Would you like me to return?” He asked, emphasizing her part heavily. Their eyes met again and Elain hesitated.

No.

He turned then, his anger cascading over him, intending to leave her in the drawing room. She didn’t owe him anything but neither did he. At least he was trying. If she didn’t want him around, he didn’t need to come any more than was necessary and he certainly didn’t need to see her.

“Lucien!” Elain breathed from behind him. He stopped again, cursing himself and the tether that bound them. “Lucien I didn’t…I uh…”

“I get it,” he said, his words clipped, turning to face her again. He shoved down his instincts demanding he treat her with care. Maybe someone should tell her to get fucked, even once instead of the constant handholding she was subjected to. “I’m the wrong male. That’s fine, Elain. I don’t want to be in your way.”

His hand reached for the doorknob when she surged forward, her brown eyes still sparkling with tears. “What does that mean?” She demanded.

He laughed dryly. “I guess you didn’t hear the little reprimand the High Lord gave Azriel regarding you?”

Her face paled.

“Don’t let me get in the way of true love,” he commented sarcastically. “I wish you and the bat nothing but the best.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not in love with him,” she half-whispers.

“You understand that’s worse, right?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. She looked him up and down.

“I don’t belong to you,” she began but Lucien rolled his eyes.

“When did I ever say you did?” He asked, raising his eyebrows. “You’ve made a lot of assumptions about someone you don’t even know.”

“Would you even be here if it weren’t for this?” Elain asked in return, one finger gesturing between their bodies.

“Would Feyre?” He snapped back. Elain hesitated and Lucien could see she hadn’t considered that. Something sparked in her gaze and Lucien waited to see if she was going to soften.

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“Great,” Lucien replied, yanking on the door handle. “I don’t owe you shit, either.”

He stepped into the cold, strangely pleased when she followed him out.

“What does that mean?” She asked, the door snapping behind her. She immediately wrapped her arms around her body and, cursing himself, Lucien began unbuttoning his jacket.

“Why do you think I ought to stand here trying when you don’t believe you owe me anything?” He demanded even as he handed her the emerald-colored jacket. She snatched it out of his hands and threw it to the ground like a petulant child.

“You wanted this—”

“The hell I did!” He interrupted. “Do you imagine I am having a good time, watching you desperately try to avoid me? Because let me assure you, this is not my idea of fun.”

“Then why do you keep coming around?!”

“Because you haven’t rejected the bond!” He replied, letting some of his desperation leech into his words. “And until you do, I’ll keep coming to Solstice and waiting, my entire life hinging on a choice you seem duty bound to ignore. Have you ever considered, for even a moment of your now immortal life, that you do owe me something?”

“I don’t owe you shit,” she whispered in response, all rebellion. Lucien couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of his throat, causing her to jump. Of all the things he might have imagined, her repeating his own words back to him was not one of them. He shook his head, meaning to turn and winnow away but Elain was watching him and he thought her lips curved upwards just enough to seem as though she were suppressing a smile.

Lucien offered her the same mocking bow he’d once given her sister, bending deeply at the waist, arms thrown out, so she knew it was not courtly in the slightest.

“Enjoy your night, Elain.”

“Lucien!” She snapped, very clearly exasperated. He shivered and it had nothing to do with the cold, which he barely felt. He took a step between them, hooking the lip of his jacket on his boot and tossing it into the air where he caught it and draped it over his arm.

“What?”

Her eyes glanced back at his jacket, arms tightening around her body and for the second time that night, Lucien handed her the jacket. She didn’t budge and he sighed.

“Take the damn jacket, Elain.” “You’re rude,” she accused, snatching it out of his grip. And though Lucien was irritated with her, some of his anger washed away at the sight of her buttoning herself into his jacket.

“Yeah? Well you’re spoiled.”

Real mature.

She paused and then she smiled, as if he’d told her she was beautiful. “No one has ever said that to me before.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m all out of sonnets.”

She laughed that time. “You’re so mean.”

Lucien hesitated. Did she like it? He took a step towards her and Elain, to her credit, held her ground. All traces of tears were gone, replaced by the open rebellion staring him in the face.

“You like it,” he accused. Elain didn’t deny it. Instead she took the tiniest step towards him, so close Lucien could touch her face. He reached between them, taking a fat curl between his fingers, knuckles brushing over her cheek.

“I’m not a doll,” she murmured, eyes wide as she held her ground. “I can handle it.”

Of that, Lucien didn’t doubt. He knew she felt his agreement, shimmering down their shared connection.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted me to stick around.” “Good thing you know better,” she shot back, all teasing. Lucien, unable to resist testing his luck, dropped his hand and made to turn.

She grabbed his hand and his blood sang at the contact, the instinct to grab her and take her away from this place nearly overwhelming.

“Stay,” she breathed. “Get some sleep…you look terrible.”

He smiled, looking down at her hand clasping his own. “At least we share that commonality.”

Her mouth dropped open, eyes sparkling. “How very cruel of you. Will I see you in the morning?”

“If you’re lucky,” he replied, smirking. All his confidence died the moment she brought his hand to her mouth, pressing a kiss to his palm.

“If you’re lucky, you mean,” she replied, letting go. Elain turned, flouncing back into the house without so much as a glance backwards while Lucien stood beneath the fae lights flickering on Feyre’s porch, hand burning. He tried to figure out what had happened and how they’d gone from crying and yelling to…insults and a kiss.

Still, he did as she asked and came back into the house and walked back to his room…where Feyre waited, a smile playing on her lips.

“Good night?” She asked him, making it plain she’d heard at least part of what went down between him and Elain.

“Shut up,” he replied.

#elucien #elucien prompt #elucien fanfic #elain x lucien #lucien x elain #im not gonna add to luciens misery #its happy endings or NOTHING #also mean elain is my favorite thing #still no smut #i think maybe the next one is smutty?#dont be afraid to send me your smutty prompts #i will answer them in the order they are recieved

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oldbay-on-apples · 3 years

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Dystopian Larry Fic Rec

Inspired by some of the lovely people and fic recers on here, I’ve decided to start making my own fic recs. If you’d like, you can request recs in my inbox and I’ll see what I can do <3!

Please read the ratings and tags to these fics (because some of them are dark or have dark themes) and enjoy!

You Try To Be Everything (I Need) by lululawrence - @lululawrence (NR, 36k)

Wars, and rumours of wars, were nothing new for the world in the twenty-fourth century. The fighting had evolved over the years, and rarely did it involve traditional weapons. A group most widely known as the Southern Powers gained strength amongst portions of the western European continent and spread quickly. There was a fight the Southern Powers didn’t expect coming from the north of England, though. Resistance came in the form of an organised underground; a group comprised of people with the Touch that did the best they could to enforce a line that would not be crossed. Slowly, that line was moved from the Channel to boundaries further and further north. It seemed only a matter of time before the Southern Powers took over everywhere. Until that time, people did the best they could to live their lives in some semblance of normality. For Louis Tomlinson, that sense of normality was about to change when his best friend, Harry Styles, goes missing. Louis embarks on the journey of a lifetime where he uses his newly developed abilities to search for his friend, even when it takes him to places he never thought he would see while surmounting trials he never could have imagined. -

I loved the way the magic and technology in this fic intersected in such a unique way and the way the world was built was extraordinary!

red hands by reveries_passions - @dystopianharry (T, 132k)

I’ve never told anyone,” Harry murmurs, voice so soft no one else would be able to hear, if it wasn’t just the two of them. “But you’ve told someone,” Louis says firmly. “And that’s not gonna fucking happen around here. You don’t speak a word of it, or someone’s going to kill you, and we can’t let that happen.” * a dystopian au in which harry, an ex-soldier who’s escaped from his government run camp, accidentally stumbles across the biggest rebel movement in the country, and louis, one of the rebellion’s mysterious leaders who appears to hate him, seems to simultaneously have an obsession with keeping him alive. or: harry is wanted for treason, niall hasn’t changed in four years, liam is always smiling, and louis is angry. like, really angry.

- The plot of this is just *chef’s kiss* in so many ways! I love the way the characters interact with each other and I’m weak for Niall and Harry’s friendship in this.

Love After the End of the World by writing_practice - @mercurial-madhouse (E 158k)

“Wait. Just so I’m clear in me fucking noggin,” Niall says. “An international worldwide takeover is well under way and the only thing standing between having hot showers and a second end of the world is us five fuckers?” ----- Society shattered when all electricity suddenly cut off across the globe, plunging the world into darkness. Now, Prometheus Industries is the sole remaining supply of power, a saving grace to those who survived Lights Out. As fugitives in no-man’s land struggling to break into Prometheus HQ, death lurks around every corner for Louis and Zayn. Things get complicated when a routine recon falls apart and Louis collides with Harry and his mates Niall and Liam, survivors with their own agenda. When staying alive is already a constant battle, the deadliest weakness is to be in love. For Harry and Louis, finding each other sits on top of the endless list of What Else Could Go Wrong.

This just came out in the most recent Big Bang (that’s still on going so you should definitely check that out) and this fic is so amazing! I think it does a great job of just really immersing you in the world the characters exist in. Love After the End of the World is also a Soulmate AU and I love the way those parts come together. It also has an amazing prologue called PROMETHEUS RISING (M 5k) that I enjoyed immensely set in the same world!

at last, at last by suspendrs - @suspendrs (NR 41k) Locked

“Come with us,” Tommo says, stopping at the other end of the gymnasium, near the doors. “Don’t let them make you suffer any longer. Come with us, and be human.”

Before Harry has even finished thinking it through, he’s on his feet, gaining the attention of every single person in the gymnasium. What has he got to lose, anyway?

Or, Harry is born into a cult in a post-apocalyptic world, and Louis is the leader of the rebel group tasked with the mission of shutting them down. Together, they make a rather effective team.

This fic does a great job of making you feel like you’re experiencing with the characters, like I could practically smell what the characters were smelling! The world it’s set in is so cool and the entire fic feels so well thought out and everything is so consistent!

my love will never leave you by we_are_the_same @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed (T 10k)

In a world where memories are used as currency, Louis will do anything it takes for Harry to get better.

I loved the idea behind this. Like the entire world is so brilliantly done! And it was all based on ONE word (because of the wordplay challenge). Even though it’s set in a different world everything feels so grounded and realistic and I really really like that about it.

a prayer for which no words exist by Eliane (M 34k) Locked

"Louis is a few seconds away from blowing up a rather important section of the New York subway when he sees Harry for the first time."

In this fic the characters motivations are so clear (to the reader) and I love how it goes from Louis accidentally sort of, kind of, kidnapping Harry to them becoming friends then more. I also love how no matter where they are the fic has a real sense of place. This is part 1 of landscapes of war. The entire series is really good!

Who Painted the Moon Black by throughthedark (E 95k) Locked

“People died,” Harry whispers so quietly Louis strains to hear. “People died, and I killed some of them. How does life just go on after something like that?”

Louis shakes his head. “I don't know. It just does.”

Hunger Games AU where Louis Tomlinson is district six's victor from the 69th Hunger Games and Harry Styles is district seven's victor from the 72nd Hunger Games.

This fic is a hunger games AU that both people who have and haven't read/watched the Hunger Games can enjoy. I like how it explores the world of the Hunger Games in a way that isn’t explored in the Hunger Games canon. It’s really intense (like the E is for the darker themes and violence) and I enjoy it a lot. There is a happy ending (as the author assures in the tags) and I really enjoy all the struggles that the characters go through.

Nobody Marks You by graceling_in_a_suit @graceling-in-a-suit (T 33k)

“The plan is: we’re gonna put on a play. Now, I see some doubtful faces–” Louis looked around and found zero doubtful faces. Liam looked intrigued, Zayn looked bored, and Harry looked scarily blank. “But this is what’s happening. We’re gonna do some fucking acting, we’re gonna perform our hearts out, and we’re not going to think about anything else. The past, the future; none of it. All we’re going to think about is... “ Niall trailed off, eyeing the bookshelf to his left. He closed his eyes and reached a hand out towards it, running his fingers over the covers before pulling a book out at random. “William Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing.”

AU: Five assholes stuck in a bunker put on a play.

This is one of my absolute favorite fics. I just love the way the characters interact and they way the story is told. It’s nonlinear so you jump around in time and it shows the way the character's relationships change throughout. I’m a sucker for Much Ado About Nothing and though you don’t need to read it to fully appreciate the fic I think the use of the play throughout is genius.

@1dfanfictionbookcovers has a really cool cover for the fic as well HERE

With a whimper by kitundercover @kitundercover (M 132k)

Dystopian AU. Louis has been alone for too long to remember how not to be, and Harry has too much to worry about to deal with a scrawny, wild, stranger.

---

The man grips his arm tightly. “You’re not going to say anything.” It’s not a question.

Louis shakes his head, his body twitching.

“Fine.” Large green eyes survey him before letting go. “It’s cold. Take this. Wear it.”

Louis can’t help another flinch as the man’s long scarf is wrapped around his tender neck, it’s still warm. He touches the soft material. “Thank you.”

The man bears his teeth. “Don’t thank me. Don’t ever thank me.”

The thing this fic does really does is showing emotional reactions. Louis’ inner monologue is so well done and I really like the plot of the story.

these bountiful silences by tommoandbambi (T 123k)

they live in a world where they can only say four words per day. harry meets some people that don't want to live that way.

I really, really, really, like this plot and the story! The world that the characters exist in is so interesting and I just love the way in which it is a dystopia.

#my fic recs #Dystopian Larry fic rec #Larry Fic Recs #Dystopian Fic Recs #fic recs

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im-moreofa-dogperson · 3 years

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Continuation for To Kill A Kingdom

Summary: Set directly after Lira’s POV and before Elian’s at end of novel.

Warning: Vivid description of blood, minor changes to the rules of TKAK universe, mild fluff

Words: 1410

POV: (second person) Reader as Lira

**MAJOR SPOILERS** For To Kill A Kingdom by Alexandra Christo (Enemies to Lovers book, 10/10 highly recommend).

masterlist

______________________________________________

When the Sea Queen melts away until all that’s left are broken shards of ice in her place, Elian and you are still embracing. The warmth of his hold makes you feel as though you might just melt alongside your mother and you laugh at the thought of it.

Elian finally pulls back and smirks, “What’s so funny”?

You smile at him, and shake your head, “nothing.” He traces his thumb across your cheek, pushing the wet strands of hair from your face.

A small part of you tells yourself you should find no joy in this and rather be feeling remorse. Or guilt. Or grief. Something that a daughter should feel when her mother, no matter how cruel and heartless, departs from this world.

But you don’t. In fact, you feel just the opposite as your heart is full only of relief. Relief that your mother’s tyrannical ways have been forever ceased. Relief that your cousin Khalia and the remaining surviving sirens kept or shifted their allegiances to you. And you felt especially relieved that Elian is safe beside you, and that his crew is mostly intact.

As if reading your mind, Elian, still crouched beside you, begins surveying the frost-covered battle ground, no doubt even more hardened than he was before by the souls now lost, both human and other. While he inspects all the worn faces, you suddenly feel a sharp pain course through your shoulder.

You grimace and Elian immediately returns his focus to you, placing his gloved hands on your forearms, gently forcing you to face him. It’s then you both remember the wound graciously left for you by the Flesh-Eater.

Your entire right arm is now stained as crimson red as your hair. Even with your familiarity to both receiving and inflicting pain, you still weren’t used to seeing this much blood pooling around you the way it did given that you’d spent the majority of your life underwater.

Even after you’d been shot, at least the wound had been far more controlled. A term Flesh-Eater didn’t seem to understand. Meanwhile, the relief washes away just as quickly as the pain increases as it was all you were able to think about now.

You gasp as Elian suddenly scoops you into his arms, drooping only for a second by the unexpected weight of your fin, and rushes to his medic whose other title of mechanical engineer fits just a bit better.

While clinging to his neck, you wished you understood more of the power that the eye of Keto granted, or that the invincibility of being Sea Queen was brought about after the old one passes on rather than when your skin once again reunites with that of the Diavolos Sea. Then you were sure you could just fix yourself and be done with it. Not have to involve a medic who could be aiding anyone else injured in such a merciless battle.

You don’t mention these qualms to Elian, however, already knowing he’d refuse to hear any of that, and would instead tell you to just be quiet.

When you reach the medic, it takes him a moment to place where the blood is coming from given the mess of crimson hair and liquid spilling all over your side. Elian gently places you beside him, seamlessly webbing his fingers with yours and shifting your weight so that the left side of your back was on his chest and you weren’t lying awkwardly on your side.

Madrid and Kye soon rush over both sporting various minor injuries, but all in all mostly unscathed. At least unbothered by their inflicted wounds.

As the medic gets to work on stitching you up, keeping his gloves on so as not to come in contact with the acidity of your blood, you begin eliciting subtle winces and hisses. Your face fluctuates between human and beast, vulnerability versus ferocity.

However prominent the two depicted emotions you expressed were, you still felt as though the human in you as well as the siren had merged into one. That you were now an equal part of both land and sea. This new revelation, however, didn’t subside the pain you still felt.

Hissing out a string of curses in Psariin, you tighten your grip on Elian’s hand who doesn’t even flinch at the added pressure of your newfound strength.

Kye crouches down on the other side of Elian with Madrid standing behind him placing her hand on his shoulder. They both see you as a member of the Saad’s crew now, therefore were once again desperate that you hadn’t lost too much blood and would be alright.

Being that you were a long way away from the Diavolos Sea and you didn’t possess the powers quite yet accompanying your being the Sea Queen, you were right there beside Kye and Madrid’s worries, hoping you’d have enough strength to make it back.

“So, what happens now?” Elian asks, no doubt attempting to relieve some of the tension that yet again clouded around a monstrous wound of yours.

You peer up at him and say with as much composure as you could muster, “Well I suppose your ship’s head engineer either strings me back together, or I’ll wither away like half of your brain cells.”

He chuckles and replies, “You know that loss is a result of conversing with you.”

You laugh in response and so he continues, “I meant after that.”

Rather than responding, you gaze out at the carnage left behind and begin pondering what you should do. Though the atmosphere had somewhat improved in lieu of recent events, the sirens still wore expressions of restlessness. Now that you were the Sea Queen, it was your responsibility to safely them back home.

You remembered the way your mother had spilled a pathway through the water, allowing the underwater folk a portal-like mode of transport from the Sea all the way to the Cloud Mountains. You lift up your good arm, Eye of Keto in hand, and close your eyes.

Willing the water to do your bidding no matter how far away you were from any real sea, you feel the push of the tides and muster what little strength you had left to pull back.

Opening your eyes, you notice the water begin to swirl hypnotically. You attempt to block out the pain emitting from your right shoulder and instead focus your attention on widening the doorway through the crystal-like waters.

The merfolk begin to take notice of the portal you’ve created and without barking an order at them to go through, they dive back in one by one. The number of sirens quickly dwindles as they return back home.

After the last siren dives through in a blur of blonde hair and sunset scales, you drop your arm and huff out a breath of relief. The water splashes back into place, rippling back out through the lake.

You collapse back on Elian’s shoulder in exhaustion just as the medic had finished stitching you back together as best as he could. The pain of your skin being threaded had subsided. Now you simply felt drained.

“Not going back just yet, huh?” Elian asks smirking, already knowing the answer.

“Did you want me to?” You respond.

“No”, he states. You smile at each other, grateful to be on the same page until Kye interrupts the moment, “If you two are done making love, can we start making plans to get the hell off this mountain?”

Madrid laughs and although at first you feel like joining her, you feel a slight twinge of guilt. You were so focused on freeing your own kind from this frozen wasteland, you’d forgotten all about the treacherous terrains that awaits the humans.

After some mild bantering and eventually coming to the conclusion that Elian’s crew were still too weary to travel back down the mountain today, you all begin making your way back into the palace to rest and revive, you in Elian’s arms.

You figure once your shoulder has had time to heal, you’d be strong enough to use the Eye to transform yourself into human to accompany the crew on their journey back before returning to the Diavolos.

Though the repercussions of the battle were not minimal, the war had still been won and you wanted to relish in that with the people who helped you to find that it was a war worth ending.

____________________________________________

#to kill a kingdom #enemies to lovers #siren reader

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tears-and-lilies · 2 years

Text

Chapter 44 - The fear that hangs over the city, pt. 2

Here's a reminder that I will (try to) post a Glorien chapter every Tuesday! Currently I have content for the next 4 weeks or so :D

Tag: @whumpfigure @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @green-eyed-whumpster @liliability @sideblogformindtrash @starnight-whump @milk-carton-whump @abitefullofwhump @unicornscotty @myst-in-the-mirror @neverthelass @dont-touch-my-soup

CW: failed escape attempt (not really but tagging in case), talk of murder, captivity mention, low self esteem, implied family issues, mentioned murder of woman

***

They had entered a tavern. It was empty, the owner had already cleaned up the tables and gone to sleep. The stench of alcohol mixed with warm meat still hung in the air. As they walked towards a door behind the counter, Glorien dared to ask: ‘Why is this place closed?’

‘Oh, that’s a new law’, Chaïra responded. ‘All taverns must be closed after sunset. You need a permit if you want to keep yours open.’

That was different from what Glorien remembered. He used to notice the laughing and light coming from taverns as he returned home late at night. They gave the city it’s charm when the sun had gone.

The other person that had spoken to Glorien - a woman named Elian, Chaïra’s second in command, as she had introduced herself - took out a key and opened the door.

‘Loui knows about organisations like us, so he wants to shelter the people. But tavern owners lose a giant piece of their income this way’, she mumbled angrily.

‘Well yeah, if you attack defenseless people in the dark…’, Glorien said.

He flinched as Chaïra grabbed his shoulder. ‘I must teach you a few things, before you embarrass yourself more.’ They pushed him inside the room.

He sat down on one of the chairs around the wooden table. Chaïra’s henchmen lighted some oil lamps, then left as their leader dismissed them. Only Elian stayed with them.

Chaïra plopped down onto the chair opposite of Glorien’s. They leaned forward.

‘So, you’ve really been locked up in the palace all these years, haven’t you?’

‘Yes’, he said, shame rising to his face.

‘How despicable’, they spat. ‘Elian, did you find a new tapestry with that Vasri’s face on it? We gotta practice on your knife throwing later.’

Elian grinned at that, nodding to confirm.

Chaïra turned back to Glorien. ‘You must hate them. I know I certainly do.’

He clenched his hands into fists on his lap. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘You’re not alone.’

He looked up.

‘When the war ended, Vasri punished Darren’s legions severely. And not even once has Vasri looked back at them. They won back the Plain, yet he doesn’t give a damn about them. And Loui tries to keep them under control by sending his own generals to command them, but really, all it takes is one person to come along and guide the soldiers and BAM!’

They slammed their hand on the table, making it wobble dangerously.

‘Just like that, they’ll dispose of those poisonous maggots of Loui’s and take their justice!’

Glorien was dumbfounded. Were there really still people who held onto his father’s legacy?

‘That’s where you come into play’, Chaïra said. ‘We can take you to the south, and you can lead the legions against Vasri. You’ve had sufficient military training, and you’re Darren’s son, so it’s only a matter of time before they stand behind-’

‘Hold on’, he interrupted. ‘You want me to… lead them?’

‘Yeah. What’s holding you back? I’ve been planning this for years. I studied the situation of all the legions of the Koian Empire, and I know what’s needed to win. All you have to do is stand before them and lead them. I can help with strategy, if you need it.’

He shook his head. ‘B-but, I can’t…’ Quickly he recovered himself. ‘I don’t even know you! You claim to be family, but they killed papa’s family in Houssaia and mama’s family died as well.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. I mean, yes, your aunt did die. She was my mother, you know.’

‘But…’

‘My half-sister died. Sad, I guess. I never met her’, they said.

‘Who’s your father then?’

They shrugged. ‘Does it matter? Like I said, I’m a bastard. And that may offend you, but I feel a very strong connection to your family - our family.’

Glorien thought. Chaïra couldn’t be older than him, so if they really were his aunt’s child, he must have been around to see them, even if he could have been very young at that time.

He remembered the birth of his cousin. They had held a party at his aunt’s house. There were a lot of people there, since she was the head priestess of the city. It had been the first time he’d seen his cousin. A tiny bundle smiling as he offered his finger to play with. Crying late at night, the sort of high-pitched whining only babies could do, after the party was over, while the adults were hurriedly discussing something. They were… his father, for sure, since he was looking for his father that night. And his mother, and his aunt. His aunt had been screaming, her voice cutting through his chest, yelling at a fourth person. A friend of his father’s. He had started crying too, covering his ears with his little hands.

He watched as Chaïra played with their knife, absent-mindedly. It was Elian who spoke.

‘People say bastards taint the family bloodline, and they don’t want anything to do with them. The elite especially makes a drama out of it.’ She threw Glorien a scornful look. ‘Even if you’ve lived as a simple dancer for so long, you still take on their misguided beliefs. Would you really reject your own family?’

‘I’ve seen time and time again that not everyone is who they claim to be. Marsi, Jeremi, Lazulan, Berar, Tymos, and even Loui… they claimed to be my father’s friends, yet now they’ve let him down completely.’ Glorien lifted his chin. ‘So why would I believe some random person?’

‘Because I admire Darren’, Chaïra responded. They put the knife down. ‘Even as a twelve-year-old kid, I wanted to be like him. And why would I lie about that? It’s treacherous to say these things, but I don’t care.’

They had a point. And the way they reacted when they realised who he was… it would be weird to lie about that too.

He examined Chaïra. They weren’t particularly tall or short, but they clearly had been training on their arm muscles and upper body. They had brown skin like him, and black wavy hair like he once had. Their eyes stood just as dark, and their mouth was as low as his. Their nose was low too, and flat. Their brown and black leather clothes looked cheap and uncomfortable, and were covered in stains of mud and another dark liquid Glorien didn’t want to think about - the kind of clothes he wouldn’t choose to wear even if his life depended on it. They were used to messing around in the city streets.

‘Why are you here then, and not in the army?’, he asked.

Chaïra bit on their lip - just like him. 'Do you really want to know? I was raised on the streets, after my mother abandoned me. This is my home.’ They spread their arms.

‘I’m the leader of this gang. We call ourselves Gilanim, “the Fallen”. We’re a family. And how can I pick the army led by Grandest General Loui yet-another-public-execution over them?’

‘So why leave them now?’

Chaïra laughed. ‘You’re my family too. And I’d fight if you were the general. You see, I’m honestly very relieved that you’re alive. So many people told me it wasn’t possible, that surely Vasri didn’t keep his promise and killed you as soon as you entered the palace with him. And I always said they were wrong, that somehow, you were alive. Attacking Lazulan had been a dangerous bet, but she did tell me the truth - that you were at the palace, all those years.’

Glorien felt his chest fill with a strange warmth. They… believed in me?

‘Oh, actually’, Chaïra suddenly said, sitting upright on their chair. ‘Where is Lazulan? She was kinda making a show out of being secretive and presenting you to me… I’m surprised she didn’t come. Thought it would feed her ego.’

‘Ah…’ He looked down, his mind racing to come up with an explanation. ‘She… died.’

‘What?!’, Elian exclaimed. Chaïra’s mouth fell open.

‘Yeah.’

‘How?!’

He fumbled with his fingers. He had no idea what excuses he should come up with. Frankly he didn’t even want to think about her death.

Chaïra stood up, leaned forward and slammed their hands on the table. With a piercing gaze they stared at Glorien. ‘You killed her.’

For a moment, he stopped breathing.

‘He…’, Elian said. ‘But… how? Why?’

‘Tell me. Tell me everything’, Chaïra urged.

They kept surprising him. Their eyes were filled with interest and admiration. It felt uncomfortable. He didn't remember anyone ever looking at him like that.

But in his head, a sudden fit of rage had taken over. Yes, I killed her. I hated her. She betrayed me, she deserved to die.

A ringing sounded in his ears. Tiny silver bells. The bells he had dropped in panic.

He swallowed. ‘I… I think I should go.’

He shoved back the chair and quickly rose. With quick steps he hastened towards the door.

‘Hold on! Hold on!’

Elian blocked the door.

‘I should go’, he repeated. He was exhausted.

‘Go? To the palace?’ Chaïra walked up behind him. ‘Why would you go back?’

‘I…’ Yeah, why would he go back?

‘You can stay here! If you don’t feel safe in the city, we’ll make sure to pack and leave as fast as possible, so you can present yourself to the legions in the south.’

He clenched his hands and turned around. ‘I don’t want to.’

They froze. ‘What?’

‘I said, I don’t want to. I can’t. I- I-’ He was too ashamed. Just earlier he had danced for his enemy, and kissed someone’s feet. ‘How could a person like me lead an army?!’

‘A person like you? You’re Darren’s son!’

Tears filled his eyes. ‘And that’s why they tortured me for six years! Every day they dress me up to look pretty so they can laugh at me when I dance for them, and if I speak out of turn they tie me up in the most uncomfortable position they can think of, or make me clean the floor, or starve me until I can barely get out of bed, and then they make me beg for their mercy all over again, and it’s made me so weak! I’m weak, I’m scared… I am nothing but a stain on my father’s name!’

Chaïra looked stoic as he broke down crying and trembling in front of them.

‘It can still be salvaged…’

He sobbed, covering his ears with his hands. Suddenly, he realised something. Slowly, he dropped his arms.

That night… how could he have been small after his cousin was born?

There was no time to explore that thought, as the door slammed open, hitting a cursing Elian.

‘Commander! The private guards of the Beheader are looking for Glorien!’, a henchman said. They put a hand over their mouth when they saw Elian clutching her head, her eyes spitting fire at them.

‘Ah, so they found out you are missing’, Chaïra said calmly. ‘But, why the Beheader’s guards? Hasn’t Loui sent guards as well?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen any of them.’

‘Who’s- the Beheader?’ Glorien’s voice cracked when he spoke.

‘Heh. It’s the nickname us city outcasts give to the current Keeper of the City.’

Glorien didn’t ask further. He was surprised that Feyros was looking for him. And… relieved.

‘I have to go with him’, he said, attempting to walk past Elian and the henchman.

‘Why?’

‘He’s… I…’ He looked Chaïra in the eyes. They looked worried, they didn’t understand. He wasn’t sure if he even understood it himself. But this had all been too much. He didn’t even feel home in his own city anymore, and there was no way he could present himself to the soldiers that had once been under his father’s command.

And he wanted peace more than anything.

‘I… I will kill him.’

Their eyes widened. Slowly, their lips formed a sadistic smile.

‘Is that so?’

He gestured at the door. ‘Can I go?’

Chaïra and Elian exchanged glances. Glorien could see the worry in Elian’s eyes, even if it only lasted a moment. She then nodded and stepped aside.

‘How can I contact you?’, Chaïra asked.

He quickly thought about it. ‘I am allowed two hours outside. Come see me at the flower arch that leads to the palace, somewhere around two hours after noon.’

‘Alright…’

He rushed past Elian through the door, into the tavern.

#whump #medieval whump #failed escape attempt #talk of murder #plans for murder #low self esteem tw #my writing #oc #glorien #chaïra #elian

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