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leviathansshadycorner · 7 days

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Rope Him In ( Cato x District 10! Reader x slight! Marvel) Pt. 6

Summary: Interview

A/n: Sorry for any inconsistencies and spelling errors, enjoyyyyyy!

Pt.5 Pt.4 Pt.3 Pt.2 Pt.1

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Chapter 6: Interview

The games were Tomorrow. Today was your last day of peace and possibly life. Most of the time today was supposed to be spent preparing for the interview, however, Dolly and Rasmey gave you two or three hours of bliss before having to prepare.

You were positive Buckley was out in the rose garden with Dolly. It was only natural for him to want to be outside instead of cooped in like you. Ramsey had come in to check on you twice but eventually stopped when he assumed you were sleeping. In reality, you were crying. Crying the whole two hours mourning the fact that you’d never get to see the faces of your family again.

You remembered Amaranto and how the two of you would’ve been having breakfast together at this time. Or how you would have packed your Pa a lunch to take to work. You thought about those Sunday afternoons spent sitting on the dry grass with a blanket, just the three of you talking about life and reminiscing about your mother, occasionally eating something special when they’d work overtime.

You thought about the times you spent with Clarabell in the angry rivers, scared out of your mind that a peacekeeper would come and hurt you both, but having so much fun in the water that you forgot that they even existed in the first place.

Your mind went to Buckley. It was crazy how you went from greeting each other in the morning at school to being with each other every day. He looked out of place in the Capitol, and so did you. It was odd seeing someone from home on the screen, but you guessed that’s how he felt about you too. The two of you had grown closer than you would have ever at home. That’s when you started realizing that you should’ve appreciated everything you had at home instead of slowly isolating yourself as you grew up.

Wiping the snot from your nose you decided to get up and wash your face. The clock read 12, and that meant it was time for your mentors to get you interview-ready. The actual interview itself was to start at 6 pm. However, you still had to practice your speech and what you were going to say to several different questions. The whole point was to make you appealing to not only the sponsors but the Capitol as a whole. After all, the sooner the tributes get used to the Capitol’s mannerisms, the better the victor will adapt.

“Alright, let's try this again.” It had been thirteen minutes and Pradain was still struggling to get you to sit up straight.

“Come on, we started an hour ago, I’m sure they can learn how to sit up straight later. What’s important is that we get them to speak clearly and with charm.” Dolly protested as Pradain pressed a hand to your back to get you upright.

Pradain’s outfit consisted of satin gloves, and a matching dress that towered to his ankles, his feet adorned with five-inch platforms. It was beyond you how he had learned to walk in those.

“Don’t be ridiculous Dolly, this is a must when it comes to Capitol mannerisms. Now up!” Groaning you forcefully sat up, your shoulders still drooping.

“Ah! See- I thought you were shaped weird, but you’re just not lifting your shoulders.” He clasped his hands onto them, bringing them up and fixing your head’s posture. “See? That wasn’t too bad. Now let’s do it again.” He instructed,

You looked over at Buckley- who had a scarf tied around him and the chair, propping him up straight. “I think I got it.” The poor boy pleaded to be untied.

“You stay. And you,” He pointed at you, “Up!”

Ramsey rolled his eyes. “Alright well, I’m just gonna go ahead and start reading these questions. Ramsey was already dressed in his suit claiming that he didn’t want to put it on later, so he decided to put it on now.

He shuffled through some cards with common interview questions. “Alright, Buck-o this one’s for you. How would you describe home?”

Buckley perked up, “Easy- Home is-”

“AH! This isn’t a test, it's an interview. Tell them why you like home, what makes it special. Start with, ‘Well, home to me is-’” Pradain scolded Buckley.

“Right, ok.” He nodded and looked at Ramsey to reread the card.

“How would you describe home?” You looked over at Dolly, your face bored and uninterested. She noticed it and ushered you to pay attention to Buckley, sitting up straight which reminded you to sit up as well. Your back was on fire, you always thought you had an okay posture, but only now knew that it was too forward leaning.

“Home to me is..” He stopped to think, his nose twitching as he was lost in thought, “Home to me is the yellow sunset, the dirt on my boots after a long day of work, the voices of my siblings arguing over a small toy, the pretty girls fluttering their eyelashes at me, the way their hair falls on their shoulders, and how round their-”

“Okay, no stop- you’re getting distracted.” You laughed at Buckley’s response, starting nicely but going off-topic.

“Alright then, at least you’ll make them laugh. You’ve got a good voice too Buckley, nice start.” Dolly tried making the best of things.

“Same Question for you (Y/n). How would you describe home?” Ramsey put the cards down, his tired eyes looking at you as he waited for your response.

“Any time now.” Spoke up Pradain.

“Home to me is…Home to me is.” There was about a three-second pause, “My Brother. My Pa. Our little house by the wheat fields, and the river that runs through 10.” It wasn’t much, but it’s all that could come to mind.

“That’s a start.” Dolly smiled.

“We need you to say more, and don’t be afraid to get emotional, the Capitol loves that. They eat it up.” Ramsey crossed his legs. “We’re gonna have a long day.” He sighed.

4 pm came quicker than anticipated. In the period you’d been practicing you were able to learn to project your voice, and Buckley learned how to be quieter. The two of you learned some fancy words, though you doubted you’d use them in a genuine sentence.

Sashay and the rest of the stylists waited for you down at the stylist quarters where you were ready to get replucked like a chicken. It didn’t hurt as much as the first time, but the stinging feeling was still there. After you got bathed, they began working on your hair. Its (H/c) color being amplified and made brighter as they put some chemicals on it. It smelled foul, far worse than the cow poop at home.

Your nails were painted black and white, You mentally groaned knowing where this was going. When your hair was finally dried they worked to braid it, putting some turquoise accessories on you before handing you to Sashay.

She smiled brightly at you and kissed your cheek, “My my don’t you look beautiful.” She complimented taking your hand and leading you to the hanger where a long sleek cow print dress hung. It looked to have fur on it, and you assumed it’d come from home.

“You’re going to look amazing.” She said excitedly as she instructed you to take your robe off. Sashay herself was dressed in all black, contrasting with what Dolly was wearing- white. You assumed the whole theme surrounding 10 would be cow print, and you were right. She helped you put the dress on, making some adjustments while it was on you so it would hug your figure better. It draped down longer on one end, the other end having a slit and exposing much of your leg. Below you wore some high-heeled boots that you thought looked ridiculous, but Sashay seemed enamored by them. She adjusted a belt on your hips- also containing hints of turquoise, and finally a necklace on you, tying the look together.

“Oh!” She sighed clasping her hands together, “(Y/n), when you go home I guarantee you every man will want your hand in marriage.” She cooed as she circled you. “Perfect, now all we need is makeup.” The lady sat you down for another hour and a half of makeup application. You liked Sashay, she was more level-headed than Pradain and had such eloquence to her, however, the mix of having to speak in front of millions, and the games being tomorrow was not settling in right. Ramsey had to ask Pradain for a pill that would calm down your stomach.

Sashay was escorting you out to the backstage area where Dolly and Ramsey were waiting. Ramsey was wearing black, Pradain opting to wear white, both of them sticking to the theme Pradain and Sashay had planned. You looked around for Buckley but he was nowhere in sight.

“Wow.” Ramsey let out a long whistle, “You do not look like yourself at all.” He said admiring Sashay’s work.

“(Y/n), you look stunning.” Dolly’s mouth was agape as she went to hold your arm and observe you. Your hair had been taken out of the braids, leaving behind curls in its place.

“I can’t walk in these.” You whispered to her frantically. You didn’t want to fall on stage, but that seemed like something that would happen in your near future.

She laughed, her smokey eyes closing making it look like she had hollowed eyes, “It’ll be fine, just try not to think about it.” She assured you.

The stage was light as people began to flood the venue. There were stagehands all over the place, getting things set and ready. More tributes flowed in, you shrank back when you realized how extra Sashay had been with your interview gown since the others looked to be more playful and simple. People kept staring at you as they walked in, and that was a bad thing in your book. Eventually, Buckley came in. His stylist next to him as they chatted about god knows what. When he spotted you he froze slightly, keeping his gaze on you as they made their way to the group.

His hair was slicked back, his face looking more square but in a good way. He had some makeup on, but it was only to even out his tone, his freckles had been redrawn over his real ones since the base of his makeup had covered them. He wore a black suit, with hints of cow print on the inner side and flaps that poked out towards the neck of the suit. His boots matched yours, and he had a belt as big as one of the screens on. The two of you looked like you ran some sort of Texan Casino.

“(Y/n), You look beautiful.” He complimented, his hands taking yours as he made you spin. “I almost didn’t recognize you.” He said light-heartedly.

Buckley’s attention made you flustered and you felt the room get warmer, “I could say the same,” You smiled, “Have you seen your hair?” You asked carefully, poking his gel-held hair.

“Alright well, we’ll be out in the front row. Look for us alright?” Sashay excused herself and Pradain, leaving the two of you with Dolly and Rasmey.

“They’re gonna line you up again, two lines- boys and girls.” Ramsey explained, “There’s a screen back here so y’all can watch but don’t miss your cue alright?” He ordered. The two of you nodded.

“(Y/n), remember what we went over alright?” Dolly caught your gaze.

Previously you’d spent time with Dolly going over some things you could do to emphasize your image as the Capitol’s cowgirl. Dolly had instructed you to speak with more southern twang than usual, keep a smile and hospitable personality, and speak on the livestock and ‘ranch life’ back at home. All things that would make a District 10 resident roll their eyes, but a Capitol citizen clap and shout. Unfortunately for you, you knew that this whole act would blow up in your face. You wouldn’t get taken seriously by the tributes, and if the small chance of you winning existed, you’d have to keep up the stereotype.

Your mentors left you to take their seats. There was about an hour until show time, and some makeup artists stuck back to touch up some of the tributes. You and Buckley paced around the backstage, practicing lines with each other, and working on pronunciation. You hadn’t even noticed that the careers had flowed in. Glimmer was wearing a pink poofy dress, far too short for her. The only thing that distracted from her body was her giant blonde hair that cascaded perfectly, but even then she wore body glitter that made her shine. Clove on the other hand wore an orange dress and a hairdo that puffed the top part of her hair up. The two looked at you and laughed, making it obvious that they were laughing at your gown. You couldn’t blame them though. You would’ve laughed at yourself too. Buckley defensively went to stand in front of you to block their view, but it didn’t do much since they’d have to walk past you anyway.

Behind them came Marvel and Cato. Both their faces were serious as always as they discussed something about weapon quality. You paid no mind to them, knowing that if you did they’d find a way to cause a scene. You weren’t sure why you were their favorite tribute to a bug, but you blamed it all on your stunt on your first day here. As they walked closer Marvel patted Cato on his chest, and the taller male turned to look at where you were standing.

“Damn, never knew the girls from District 10 could look like that,” Cato said as they walked past the two of you, pretending to be nonchalant although you knew he had purposely said it.

“Nice dress 10,” Marvel said, eyeing you as he trailed behind Cato. The two of them shook their heads and laughed as they approached the front of the line.

“If I were a career I think I’d go after those two first.” You told Buckley who gave you an amused smile.

“If you were a career you’d be with them.” He corrected. It wasn’t far from the truth. In almost every game, the careers were quick to form alliances with each other, alienating the weak from the strong.

“You ready for the spotlight?” Talking was something you’ve come to realize that you did when you were nervous. Your hand practically shook, and you wore a nervous smile on your face. It was involuntarily there, however as much as you tried you couldn’t get rid of it.

“No.” His simple reply. “Not too thrilled about it.” He exhaled. He had been holding a straight posture, his shoulders up, turtling his neck.

“They’ll love you.” You reassured, but it only made him smile, his nerves still present.

“Just don’t want to be laughed at.” He mentioned.

The lights were beginning to flicker, meaning that it would soon be time for the show to start.

You thought about what he had said. “Trust me. No one’s going to laugh at you.” Dolly and you had trained for your interview. Everything you were instructed to say made you look like a country bumpkin. If anything Buckley would be District 10’s saving grace- and you its fool.

“Wow. You look beautiful.” Came the voice of District 12’s Katniss. It sounded rehearsed, void of any emotion. The same went for the smile she threw at you.

You returned it and bowed your head. “Please, you’re the one who deserves such praise.” You guessed she was only saying that because her mentors wanted her to make allies in the arena since her high score presented a problem.

That was the entirety of the exchange. The stage managers lined everyone up in order of appearance, hushing them as the presentation started. Once again you found the insides of your palms to be sweaty. You tried everything to ease your beating heart, deep breaths, pinching yourself, thinking of other things. However, none of them got rid of the sensation in your stomach. You felt like throwing up.

Up on the screen Caesar Flickerman’s silhouette appeared, his signature ponytail obnoxiously hanging from his head as he leaned back on the chair. His theme song played, the bass so loud you could feel the floor rumbling. Cheers from the crowd erupted. Buckley stood attentive, watching the screen with his hands on his belt, his stance wide to keep himself in balance. From where you stood you could see Marvel and Cato hyping each other up, Glimmer joining in to fix Cato’s neat suit.

“Let’s bring her out!” It had been a good couple of minutes, though it seemed like seconds as Caesar called out for Glimmer. She was the first one to go. Leaving about 19 people ahead of you. You watched as her clear, shimmery dress bounced as she stepped onto the stage with a huge smile, waving to the crowd. Her hair effortlessly dropped into place, making her look all the more attractive. The crowds were loud. Your eardrums could only handle so much before you reached out to cover them.

Eventually, it was Marvel’s turn. He seemed so confident in everything he said, you learned just how charismatic he could be. Clove went next, her interview only made you more cautious of her. Soon after it was Cato’s turn. Unlike Marvel, he gave off boisterous energy. Almost as if he was too good to be there. However, the crowd was eating it up. He ended his interview with a hollar and returned backstage. It was almost the two-hour mark, some interviews taking longer since he wanted to give the tributes who didn’t stand out some limelight. Eventually, it was your turn.

The stage manager came back to look for you, their hand on your shoulder as they walked you up the stairs. You glanced back to catch the reassuring gaze of Buckley, but instead found Marvel’s. He gave you a wink as a token of good luck, and off you were.

“Now I’m sure we all remember our next tribute from the tribute parade. I mean how could we forget after the thrilling act she performed!” Flickerman emphasized his words, stretching them at the appropriate time.

A couple of ‘woos’ and whistles came from the crowd as the anticipation built up. “From district 10- (Y/n) Cuernos!” He announced your cue to cross the stage. The lights were extremely bright, you had to look down as you stepped onto the stage. The crowd cheered at your out-of-place attire, it being one of the most unique (and ridiculous) outfits of the night. Shyly you put on your best smile before catching a glimpse of Dolly in the crowd, making gestures for you to smile bigger.

You cringed when you thought of your family back at home watching this. Saying a silent apology, it was as if a switch turned on in your brain. Suddenly, your teeth shone as you stretched your lips into a smile, fluttering the huge eyelashes your makeup team glued onto you. With a hand on your hip, the other one waving, you swayed like you saw glimmer doing, your dress’ fabric swishing in the gap your legs left as you strode.

“(Y/n)! My, my, how you clean up!” Flickerman commented, standing to greet you.

“Thank you, Caesar.” Your eye nearly twitched at the forced southern twang in your voice. It was a whole lot more than Buckley, who had a natural southern accent, you had close to nothing of an accent. Even when it did slip, it sounded nothing like this. “My stylist purtied me up didn’t they?”

He looked to the crowd, “Indeed they did.” He motioned for you to sit.

It helped that the stage lights practically blinded you. You could see that people were sitting in the stands, but you weren’t able to make out distinct features- save for the front row where the mentors sat.

Remembering what Dolly had told you, you sat up straight, teeth-baring into a cheesy smile.

“Did that print you’re wearing come from a cow you raised?” The presenter’s teeth glinted in the light as the crowd erupted in laughter, “Oh! ‘course not- just inspired by them.” You giggled back, hating yourself even more. Your heart was beating hoping the president would accept your performance.

Flickerman adjusted himself in his seat, “Now, I was going to leave this question for last- but I just know the audience has been anticipating the answer, am I right?” He turned to the audience who were cheering blindly.

Like a doll in a box you smiled stationary, waiting for him to ask the question, but of course, he needed to prolong it for suspense. “What was going through your mind when you rode that steed?” There were some woo’s from the crowd, and you watched yourself on the screen as they replayed the moment. That clip gave you an ego boost each time you saw it. Giggling a bit too nervously you shook your head. “Nothing.” That earned a laugh from the audience. “I just remember wanting to ride it- couldn’t help myself I guess.” You gave a small shrug.

“What a wildflower this one is.” Caesar made some amused faces.

The interview lasted for another couple of questions, he seemed to have a lot for you. He asked you about home life, your loved ones, Buckley, and about skills. You didn’t have as many questions as the careers, but it was more than District 8’s tributes who had the least.

“And do you have a strategy to win the games?” His tone was more serious now.

Here it was. Your closing line. The one that took you and Dolly two seconds to come up with, but would echo in the minds of the audience.

“I’m from District 10. I’m a born and bred cowgirl. I have to win. ”

Cato couldn't help but smirk at your response, crossing his arms and leaning on the wall, he watched with attentive eyes as your interview continued.

His open mouth smile followed by “woah woah woah!” made the stadium rumble. You smiled and waved out to the crowd, Dolly giving you a thumbs up.

“That’s an ambitious statement! I love it!” He did a little kick, “Well, you go out there and rope them in (Y/n) Cuernos! District 10’s very own cowgirl!”

If only you could see Cato’s pissed-off face next to Marvel’s smug one.

As you walked backstage again you were greeted with a bone-crushing hug from your fellow tribute. “Hey, that was good! Though you were a little strong on the accent.” Buckley patted your back.

“Yeah, I had no idea you had one.” Glimmer teased as she and the other careers leaned against the wall. “Stop trying to win them over, I’m already the Capitol’s sweetheart.” The tall girl crossed her arms, the jewels in her dress reflecting.

Marvel came around you, making space between you and Buckley who knew better than to cause a scene. “Did they make you skin that cow yourself?” His fingers scraped the waist of your dress, he let out an “O” when he realized it was just fabric.

Cato gave him a look, causing him to back off. “You have to win huh? How do you think you’re going to do that?”

“Don’t worry about it.” You refused to look at him.

“Oh, I’m not worried. You see if anyone should be worried about you.” He sneered, his gaze getting darker. “Save yourself the disappointment, enjoy your time in the Capitol, and accept your fate. I’m winning this one.”

“As if.” Clove rolled her eyes.

Buckley and you both stared down Cato.

He snickered, “And don’t go around thinking your friend here is going to help you. If you’ve been doing your research you know that there’s no such thing as friends in the arena.”

That irked Buckley, “So who’s to say your little posse won’t turn on you and gang up on you in the arena?”

“Pft, then let’s hope they can outrun me.” His response made the careers shift uncomfortably.

“We knew what we were doing when we signed up.” Marvel spoke up,” It’s our job to ween off the weak ones, so the strongest can prevail.” He said looking at you.

“So is that what Cato’s going to do to you?” You didn’t mean for it to be a comeback. It just came out that way. The careers looked pissed now, but a stage manager came just in time to lead them back to their mentors.

“Watch it 10.” Cato’s wild grin didn’t deter you, you continued to stare him down.

Just like that, your time at the Capitol was coming to an end.

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Tags: @randomgurl2326

#fanfic #xreader #reader insert #x cato #cato hadley #the hunger games fanfiction #74th hunger games #the hunger games #katniss everdeen #marvel #romance #tribute #district 10 #xtribute reader #peeta mellark #coriolanus snow #jack quaid #x reader

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aralezinspace · 2 months

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Summer Knight Part 3

When Crown Prince Morpheus is summoned to his father's court for the summer, he expects it to be just as tedious and aggravating as any other season spent in the Dreaming's capitol. What he doesn't expect is an attempted kidnapping, a successful kidnapping, uncovering designs on the Dreaming's throne, and a handsome esquire he really isn't supposed to fall in love with. How can he not, when Hob Gadling sees him for who he is, and not just his station? How can he not, when Hob is willing to burn down the world for him? Or: Prince!Morpheus/Commoner!Hob Gadling medieval/fantasy AU

~~Masterlist~~

Dividers by cafekitsune

Chapter 4

Cain shadowed Hob and Morpheus for the first week of his new assignment, helping him learn the Prince’s routine and what he was expected to do while the Prince was attending to affairs of the realm. So far, the worst had been the daily council meetings: Hob was to stand behind Morpheus’ chair at his right shoulder, and be alert for threats. Easy enough, were it not for the side effect of having to listen to members of the council pompously drone on and on about matters of state.

Morpheus had warned him how tedious these meetings were, that they would thoroughly test just how well Hob could hold his tongue.

He hadn’t been joking.

Hob stayed by his side through council sessions, individual meetings with advisors, errands about the city to the treasury and city guard, every duty the Prince was responsible for while attending court. He couldn’t help but marvel a little- the Prince never stopped going. True, his wasn’t the manual labor of building and manufacturing, but it was no less intense. The Prince was exhausted when they returned to his chambers every night, sometimes too tired for even a few words of conversation before turning in.

As the Prince’s guard, Hob was privy to every aspect of the Prince’s day, and he saw and heard more than what occurred to most. Beneath the Prince’s icy exterior, he saw a man who cared deeply about not only his own shire of Fiddler’s Green, but about the Dreaming as a whole. He saw a young man burdened by responsibility, and by the knowledge that he would take the Dream Throne some day. He saw a man consumed by duty, who only ever wanted to do right by his land and his people. It made his heart ache to see him bear such a burden alone.

He also saw how none of it was enough to appease the prickly King, nor stir the Queen from her reluctant passivity.

In addition to guard duty, Cain had requested that Hob at least try to give Morpheus some basic combat training. Oh yes, Morpheus had had all the lessons and education in warfare a young prince was expected to have, but to say he took to it like a fish to climbing trees would be an understatement. But, maybe now that he was older, he might have more of an interest.

So it was that, a month into his duties, Hob and Morpheus found themselves at the hidden lake where they had first met, armed with training swords, waterskins, and a picnic lunch of bread, fruit, cheese, and dried meats. Their horses were tethered to a stout tree- Jessamy had decided her approach to Hob’s dapple gray gelding (he had named him Gregory) was to pretend he didn’t exist, no matter how much Gregory tried to befriend the piebald mare.

Both were attired simply in a shirt, breeches, and their riding boots. Hob looked relaxed, twirling his sword with a practiced ease that made the Prince’s hands clammy with sweat. “Must we do this?” Morpheus groused, mimicking Hob’s ready stance. He wasn’t a stranger to swordplay, it had just never appealed to him. He preferred to settle matters diplomatically- one could just as easily draw blood with words as with blows.

“I said I’d teach you,” Hob replied with an easy smile. “I’d like to be able to at least tell Sir Cain I tried so I don’t get thrown out on my arse after only a month.”

Even with his smile, Hob’s eyes were fixed on Morpheus with singular, deadly focus. The Prince felt his blood go hot and cold all at once- was this what the bandits felt before Hob took them down? Like there was no way they could win, and yet that wasn’t a bad thing?

“We’ll take it slow,” Hob assured as they started circling each other. Morpheus’ steps were slightly unsure, tentative and out of practice, whereas Hob moved with the assured grace of a cat sneaking up on its prey.

With a nod, Hob gave Morpheus permission to make the first attack. The Prince pursed his lips into a thin line, breathed through his nose, bounced twice, and lunged forward, his cut aimed at Hob’s side.

The esquire parried it with ease and near flawless technique. He beckoned for Morpheus to keep coming when the Prince showed signs of backing off. The Prince hesitated- he knew he was no good at swordplay, it just wasn’t him. He was light and swift, more suited to hunting and scholarly pursuits.

“Try again,” Hob encouraged. “Promise you won’t hurt me.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Was that a challenge? If there was one thing the Prince and his temper couldn’t resist, it was a challenge. His pride loved proving people wrong and turning expectations of him on their heads.

The Prince’s lips curled into a slight snarl as he attacked again. Hob almost laughed- who knew the regal and marble-cold Prince Morpheus had such fire in him?

He wanted to see it again.

He parried the Prince’s blow, and the one after that. Morpheus hesitated again, and Hob decided it was a perfect time to see what the Prince’s defense was like, how quickly he could move from attacking to defending. He flicked the Prince’s blade away with the tip of his own and lunged in.

Rather than bring his blade up to defend, Morpheus took two long, graceful steps to the side, twirling out of range. Hob was definitely not expecting that, to be left mid-air and wide open for a counterattack. The esquire laughed as he took his ready stance again.

“You mock me?” the Prince spat, surprised at the anger festering into hurt.

“No, never! I’m surprised- dodging like that isn’t at all what I expected. Again.” He beckoned the Prince to attack again.

They traded a few more blows- every time Hob attacked, Morpheus evaded rather than defend before returning with an attack of his own. Soon, Hob was certain in his observation that Morpheus preferred to dodge to the right. A knowing smirk touched his face- his next attack would test that theory.

Sure enough, Morpheus dodged gracefully to the right, and Hob was ready and waiting for him. Hob continued his forward momentum, taking a lunging step into Morpheus’ space and holding a fist to his side, the barely there touch prompting the Prince to stop dead in his tracks.

“If I had a dagger you’d be dead.” Hob’s voice was serious, but not patronizing. There was something warm and hard and unreadable in his eyes. “You’re quick, that’s good. But if you evade everything the same way, sooner or later whoever you’re fighting will figure that out and turn it against you just like I did.”

The Prince vented his ire with a huff and pushed Hob back. He stalked a few steps away, aggravation simmering in his gut. Why did he want to be good at this? His ineptitude for swordplay had never bothered him before, he could and did take pride in his other skills. So why was it bothering him how easily Hob was besting him?

His face set in a snarl, Morpheus took his stance. “Again.”

Hob quirked a brow and his gut clenched. If looks could kill, he’d be down on his knees at least. He had wanted to see that fire again, and now here it was, simmering and carefully controlled. He settled into his stance. This would be their last bout before they took a break for lunch, and it most likely wouldn’t end well for Morpheus. He was too aggravated, too frustrated to think clearly about what he needed to do. Hob debated whether it would be wiser to indulge him and fight one more bout, or insist on calling it off now. The fire that had so fascinated him was threatening to become a nigh untameable inferno, and yet he found himself willing to risk getting burned.

A determined, cocky smile touched Hob’s face as he settled into his stance. “Alright Highness, once more then lunch. Let’s see what you’ve learned.”

This time, Morpheus took the initiative and attacked first, barely waiting for Hob to be ready. He was ferocious, almost out of control, powered by anger and frustration. Hob parried his attack and dodged the one after that, aiming a cut at the Prince’s leg.

To his great surprise, Morpheus parried it, and Hob now understood why it wasn’t his preferred defensive move: he could feel how the impact of their blades shuddered through the Prince’s lithe form, causing him to stumble ever so slightly off balance.

Morpheus snarled again and attacked anyway with a quick flick of his wrist, taking Hob almost by surprise. Hob batted his blade away, not a very good parry but enough to get the pointy end away from him. From there, it was easy enough to step into the Prince’s guard, disarm him, and sweep his legs out from under him. Morpheus landed on his back with a grunted huff, most of the wind knocked out of him. When he could breathe again, the Prince moved to rush to his feet, but was stopped by the point of Hob’s sword pointed precisely at the hollow of his throat.

He growled and snarled his frustration, glaring up at the man who stood over him, immovable as a statue. Anger and bitterness roiled and bubbled, threatening to spill over, but Morpheus grit his teeth and shoved it down. Hob let him smack the blade away in his temper, instead bringing it up to rest easily on his shoulder. Without a word and only kindness on his face, Hob held out a hand to help him to his feet.

Morpheus grudgingly took it and snatched his sword up. His stomach gave a soft growl, as if tentatively reminding him of its needs. Morpheus ignored it as he stalked away and rolled his shoulders. He faced Hob again with a determined and slightly unhinged frown. “Again.”

Hob held up a placating hand. “Lunch first, Highness. Then we can keep going.”

Morpheus stalked up to his guard and got in his face, anger flaring off him as he growled, “I am your Prince. You will do as I order. And I say, again.” Hob thought briefly about obeying, slightly mocking the Prince’s arrogance as he did so. But he had never backed down from anything in his life, and wasn’t about to start now, Prince or no Prince.

“And I am in charge of making sure you are kept hale and hearty.” Hob’s voice was a deadly purr. He straightened his back and looked down his nose at his charge with threatening menace. “Lunch. First.”

Morpheus was shaking. His muscles clenched, his hand ready to fly and strike Hob’s maddeningly handsome face for his audacity- but that was not the princely thing to do. It was his job to consider the words of those more knowledgeable than him to make the best decision- and definitely not to pay attention to the heat that had flared low in his belly. “Very well,” he spat, soft and venomous. “Lunch first.”

Without another word, Hob spread out their lunch on the picnic blanket and sat himself down at one of the corners. The Prince plopped down, snatched up a hunk of bread, and savagely bit into it. The Prince was normally closed off and somewhat irritable, and if Hob didn’t know better, he’d say he was sulking.

They ate their lunch in silence. Hob finished first and tossed the last crumbs of his bread to the fish in the lake. After resting on his back for a handful of minutes, Morpheus was ready to go again. His face had softened, some of the angry tension remedied by food and a little rest. Without words, they picked up their swords and faced each other again.

Morpheus let out a battle cry that startled the horses and attacked with everything left in him. He so badly wanted to beat Hob just once to appease his pride. Hob held his ground, let the Prince come to him rather than let himself be subject to his chaotic energy.

He parried one wild attack, then another, then another, traveling backward towards the treeline. Then, to the Prince’s surprise (it really was the last thing he had expected), Hob dodged, exactly the same way Morpheus did. Only, the esquire didn’t go very far- he evaded the attack by hairs, then surged back in.

His free hand splayed across the Prince’s chest as Hob used his momentum to shove Morpheus into the tree, the edge of his sword held just below the Prince’s chin. Morpheus’ blade slipped from his hand, both from shock as well as the impact that jarred his entire body. Hob could feel the pounding heartbeat beneath his palm, quick and strong. Their breaths mingled hot and heavy in the scant space between them.

The air was thick and tense, almost ready to burst from the anticipation. Their lips were a hair’s breadth from meeting. The Prince licked his lips as he panted for breath. Hob’s eyes followed every motion of that pink tongue until it withdrew.

“Do you yield, Highness?” Hob goaded in a raspy murmur. His eyes were positively blazing as he pressed himself just a fraction closer, enough for Morpheus to feel the heat coming off his skin. The Prince shivered and swallowed hard, not wanting to contemplate the clenching in his belly and the heat between his thighs. Hob was starting to shake, barely noticeable, breath caught excitedly in his chest.

What would Morpheus do?

The Prince struggled and squirmed, pushing his chest into Hob’s hand, ignoring the sting of the blade across his throat. Hob backed off just a hair with the blade, not wanting to accidentally slice the Prince’s neck open. The hand pinning Morpheus flexed, every muscle from fingers to shoulder bulging slightly as he pushed the Prince back into the tree.

He sighed with mock disappointment. “What must I do to make you yield, Highness? You’re not exactly in a good position right now.” Morpheus’ eyes flared and glimmered with devilish determination. One of his hands snaked into the space between them, and firmly cupped Hob’s rapidly growing semi with his full hand.

The Prince smirked, smug and knowing. “It seems, neither are you, Master Gadling.” Hob snarled, baring his teeth and choking back a moan at how good it felt to have the Prince’s hand against him, the friction of his breeches against his flesh. The blunted blade pressed back into the pale column of the Prince’s throat, not yet drawing blood or making a red mark, just enough to indent the skin. They couldn’t do this, they shouldn’t do this. It was a violation of every code of chivalry and honor Hob was now supposed to live by.

But then why did it feel so good?

“That’s hardly sporting,” Hob growled back with a slightly wild grin, “Also not very smart, if you’re bluffing.” Rather than backing away, he forced down the little guilty lump in his stomach and pushed back into Morpheus’ palm. The Prince gasped- he could feel Hob throbbing against his hand, hot and hard and insistent. A wicked idea crossed his mind: ever so slightly, he squeezed.

Hob let out a grunt like he had been kicked in his chest, doubling over enough for the blade of his sword to slide down to the Prince’s collarbone and their foreheads to meet. Morpheus let out a decadent chuckle and threw Hob’s own words back at him: “What must I do to make you yield?” He playfully nipped at the tip of Hob’s nose.

The esquire grunted again and took several heaving breaths. His arms were trembling, he had to bite his lip hard enough to draw blood to keep a whimper behind his teeth. “Fuck-” he gasped, breathy and barely audible. He glared at Morpheus through his eyelashes. A rush of heat clenched in the Prince’s chest as he observed in real time just how much of an effect he had on his guard.

“Yield,” the Prince crooned with a smile, “And I will give you what you want.” Hob groaned again- he was only mortal, how was he supposed to resist? He snarled and fought back tears of angry bliss as he shoved the Prince harder against the tree. Morpheus’ eyes went wide- he had thought Hob would succumb, would give in to his baser wants. His esquire clearly had a much stronger will than he could have imagined.

“This is not a game, Highness.” Hob’s words were soft, for the Prince’s ears alone, but his voice was ragged and cracked and scraped over hot coals. “I swore an oath, keeping you alive is not a game.” He swallowed, some of the anger leaking from his muscles. Morpheus hadn’t moved an inch, his hand still pressed firmly against Hob’s crotch.

His next words were mumbled, as if he didn’t want to give them life but had no choice. “I may not always be able to protect you.” Morpheus opened his mouth to interrupt but Hob kept going. “We both know it’s unlikely, but it’s true. Burgess has already sent men after you, who knows if he’ll try harder next time. And if that day ever comes, I want you to be able to defend yourself, I want you to be able to stay alive no matter what happens.”

Morpheus was stunned once again by the extent of Hob’s devotion. “Hob, I-” he choked softly. The hand pressed between Hob’s legs slid up his chest to caress a scruffy cheek- the esquire couldn’t help the soft hum as he leaned into the touch.

The Prince sighed, and then all the fight melted from his body with a low whimper. He went almost limp, Hob’s hand and the tree at his back doing most of the work to keep him upright.

“I yield,” he breathed, somehow sounding both regal and petulant at the same time. Hob relaxed his hold with a soft smile. He pressed a brief kiss to the Prince’s forehead and took a step back. Morpheus briefly massaged his throat where the sword had irritated the skin slightly.

Hob picked up their discarded weapons and threw a smile over his shoulder. “Come on then, we should be getting back.”

Chapter 5

It was almost impossible to miss the sparks that flew between the Prince and his esquire every time the two were in close proximity, and the ever strengthening bond growing between them as the summer went on. Naturally, the servants began to talk, and, as was the obvious progression of events, word eventually reached the King.

Chronos knew it would have to be dealt with, but he refused to draw attention to it at a council meeting- the last thing he needed was more public scandal hovering around his heir. Instead, on the day he had chosen to confront his son, he spent his free moments in the council meeting scowling at Morpheus and his guard.

According to Sir Cain, Hob was performing admirably. Lucienne had been helping him improve his reading, and he had asked to study the chivalric codices along with instructional manuals for all different kinds of combat. He didn’t leave the Prince’s side for any longer than he had to, and Morpheus seemed surprisingly at ease in his constant presence. By anyone else’s estimation, he should be on the path to a knighthood by the end of the summer, a ranking officer by year’s end.

Chronos’ patience finally snapped one evening after dinner, when Hob and Morpheus had left the hall walking side by side and way too close together, rather than Hob following the Prince like a loyal dog. Hands clenched tightly around polished silver, his teeth ground together dangerously hard. This was not what he had in mind when he insisted his son have a guard while attending him at court.

It was clear to anyone with eyes that Hob Gadling was the reason Morpheus had been acting strangely; why his son had been rejecting offers of courtship from suitors of realms near and far, why he had been distracted and speaking less frequently during council sessions, why he was neglecting his studies.

He seethed through the rest of dinner, sipping dry wine in an attempt to take the edge off. Queen Nocturna could feel the ire rolling off him in waves- she wanted to try to ease her husband, but already knew that once he was on a warpath, nothing could dissuade him. She could only hope he wasn’t too harsh on their son, and resolved to be there for Morpheus in the aftermath. Such was the nature of a political marriage.

Once it was acceptable for Chronos to leave the hall, he stalked out the side door and down the halls to the Prince’s rooms. He didn’t even knock on the door, just threw it open and let it bang loudly against the stone wall.

Morpheus was indeed in his study, in his nightclothes and a robe, seated in a comfortable armchair, reading a book. The Prince jumped at the sound of the intrusion, immediately frowning and rising to his feet when he saw it was his father. “Father, to what do I owe this late visit?” he asked, trying to keep some semblance of calm and respect.

Chronos let out a breath through his nose, like a bull preparing to charge. “There is something we very much need to discuss.” He paused. “Your behavior since Gadling became your guard has been most unbefitting of a Prince. If you cannot comport yourself as befits a Crown Prince, I will be dismissing him and choosing your next guard myself. I cannot have you losing focus and neglecting your duties to the realm.”

Morpheus seethed. Why must Chronos antagonize him? “Father, if you take issue with how Master Gadling has been performing his duties, kindly tell me your concerns and I shall address them. He is, after all, my guard.” His gaze became hard and frosty. “However, if you are merely here to get a rise out of me, I respectfully ask that you leave.”

“Oh, I have several concerns about that peasant,” Chronos spat. He took a deep breath to unleash all the pent up frustration that had been building for the past few months.

Unknown to the King, the esquire in question was in the small study adjoining the Prince’s sitting room, seated at the desk, working on his letters- he really had come a long way since the Prince and Lucienne had started helping him, stating that it was only right for a man of his standing to be able to read and write well. His head perked up at the sound of raised voices- there was no mistaking the Prince’s angry rumble, nor the King’s agitated near-shouting.

Frowning, he put his quill down and rose to his feet, ready to intervene if needed. He rolled up the sleeves of his tunic as he slowly made his way to the door, listening intently while staying out of sight. “The whole reason you were assigned a guard,” he heard the King snap, “was to eliminate opportunities for our enemies to use you against me, not create more of them! Gadling makes you weak, unfocused. I will not have the Crown Prince-”

Hob couldn’t listen to any more. Chronos may be King, but how dare he inflict such ruthless ire on his son who was about to crack under the weight of duty and expectation. He stepped purposefully into the room, firm enough that Chronos could not miss the resounding clump of his boot against the stone floor. “I think you’ve made your point, your Majesty,” he shot at the King. He moved to stand beside the Prince and crossed his arms over his chest.

Smoke should have been coming out of Chronos’ ears. “Watch your tongue, Gadling,” he hissed, a threatening finger pointed at Hob, “Morpheus may allow you much more freedom than your station deserves but I will not tolerate such insolence.”

“With all due respect, Majesty,” Hob growled, taking a step forward, his tone telling the King loud and clear just how much respect the esquire thought him worth, “Your accusations against his Highness are unwarranted. If you have a problem with how I am performing my duties, please talk to me directly, or Sir Cain. Prince Morpheus works tirelessly for the sake of the realm, and even if I were not his appointed guard, I would not see him needlessly harassed.”

The two royals blinked in disbelief- Chronos in shock at this peasant’s audacity to speak to him like that, Morpheus in awe of the backbone Hob was demonstrating by standing up to his father, looking him in the eye and refusing to back down. Chronos was leveling him with a glare that had made lesser men drop to their knees and grovel, but Hob still stood unshakeable as the most ancient of oaks.

“You dare.” Chronos’ words were a snarl, deep in his throat like a wild animal, dangerous and threatening.

“Yes,” Hob shot back with a challenging quirk of his brow, “I swore an oath to defend the Prince from any and all who would harm him, no matter who or what.” He glared at the King, fire blazing hot and deep in his eyes. “So yes, I dare.”

The King shook and seethed as Hob and Morpheus stared him down, immovable as stone. He glared at his son. “We are not done with this conversation.” With that ominous pronouncement, he turned swiftly on his heels and stalked out of the Prince’s rooms, slamming the door behind him.

Both men let out a sigh of relief when the echo of the closing door had faded. Morpheus sank back into his armchair and massaged his temples with a shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering shut. He felt a headache coming on. Hob immediately knelt before him, a tentative hand on the Prince’s knee. “Are you alright, Highness?” he asked softly, none of the anger or hardness of moments ago present in his face.

Morpheus let out a shuddering sigh. “You need not have come to my defense,” he murmured back, flat and numb, refusing to look at Hob. “My father and I have had a strained relationship since I reached my majority. Words like this are hardly uncommon.”

“That doesn’t make it right.” Hob gently took the Prince’s hands in his- oh gods the Prince was shaking. He held those pale hands in a grip both gentle and firm, grounding. He rubbed his thumbs across the backs. “I swore an oath, Highness.” Morpheus opened his eyes to stare at his guard, kneeling at his feet. His guard, gazing up at him like he had hung the stars in the sky. The Prince couldn’t ignore the swooping sensation deep in his stomach- never had he been the subject of such open adoration, devotion, dare he say lo-

“I swore to defend you from any and all that would hurt you, and that includes your prick of a father.” He glanced at the floor and rattled off a few sentences in at least two different languages the Prince was somewhat familiar with, and none of the words sounded flattering. Morpheus gasped and fought a quick, losing battle against the urge to laugh.

“Referring to the King as such could be seen as treason,” he teased. Hob returned his grin, happy to have shaken Morpheus out of the shock of his argument with Chronos.

“Then hang me for treason,” he chuckled. A relieved grin touched his face as he held the Prince’s hands up to his lips and pressed a firm, tender kiss to the smooth knuckles. Hob stood, the Prince rising with him.

“Thank you, Hob.” Morpheus’ words were soft, directed at Hob’s feet- with luck, his guard wouldn’t notice the flush of heat in his cheeks. It was a heady feeling to be under this man’s protection- his devotion to Morpheus’ well being went far beyond simple duty. Hob Gadling was whole-heartedly committed to Morpheus- not just the Crown Prince of the realm, but Morpheus the man- he’d hold Morpheus tenderly close with one arm while the other brandished a sword at the entire world, to challenge him if they dared. “Thank you, but-“

“I know.” Hob’s words were low and resigned, heavy with sadness. “I know. We can’t.” He pulled away ever so slightly, but to his surprise, Morpheus refused to let him go.

“We can’t,” the Prince agreed, something close to mischief twinkling in his eye, “and yet I would reward you anyway, if you would indulge me.” Morpheus turned them so his back was to the lowly smoldering fire, and eased Hob into the chair he had just been sitting in. Morpheus’ warmth still lingered in the soft cushions, and it seeped through Hob’s clothes to caress his skin.

Hob’s eyes went wide when Morpheus knelt at his feet, his fingers still firmly gripped by hands cool and smooth as silk at night. The Prince’s robe flared out behind him in a swath of navy satin lightly embroidered with silver.

Slowly, gently, he guided Hob’s hands to the chair’s arms and firmly placed them there, with a look that told Hob he was expected to keep them there. Those fathomless blue eyes kept him pinned in place, barely breathing, as Morpheus’ fingers slid from his hands to just above his knees. Those fingers teasingly crawled higher and higher, their lightest touches enough to send sparks flying through Hob’s veins. The warmth of the embers in the hearth had nothing to do with the heat burning at the underside of Hob’s skin, and he now had a vague idea of what Morpheus meant by ‘reward.’

“Highness,” he weakly protested, squirming slightly, “Please, you can’t-”

“I am your Prince-” Those four words immediately made the esquire stop fidgeting, and were made all the stronger for the rumbling murmur they were spoken in. It was a statement that would never cease to be true, even if no one was around to hear it. “-and this is how I choose to reward you for your service. You wouldn’t presume to refuse a reward from your Prince, would you?”

Hob shook his head. With a satisfied smirk, Morpheus’ fingers slipped under the hem of his tunic to find the ties of his breeches. He teased the knot apart, making sure to ghost his fingertips over Hob’s bare skin every few moments. Each touch to the sensitive skin just around his groin made him twitch and jump, unsure of whether he should try to sink back into the chair or lean forward for more.

Once there was enough room, Morpheus let one ghostly hand slip into Hob’s trousers to palm his cock. Hob jumped with a yelp at the slight but unexpected chill of the Prince’s flesh against his. “Hob,” Morpheus ground out in warning. “Be still.”

“Yes, Highness.” Hob’s breathless reply was instinctive, slipping from his mouth before his mind had a chance to cognitively string together the words. Panting for breath, the esquire forced himself to settle back into the chair. The Prince rewarded him with a pleased smile and a few gentle strokes to his rapidly stiffening cock, despite the tiny, screaming voice in his head urging him to beg the Prince to stop, that they couldn’t do this.

Once he had coaxed Hob to full hardness, both of Morpheus’ hands slipped under his breeches to squeeze his flanks. Taking the hint, Hob pressed his feet into the floor just enough to let Morpheus wiggle his breeches down to the tops of his boots, just below his knees. The Prince slowly, menacingly licked his lips at the sight of Hob’s bare flesh straining towards him, gently shadowed and draped by the hem of his tunic. He slowly lifted his gaze to meet Hob’s, pupils blown wide, the remaining blue blazing with near desperate heat. If Hob hadn’t been lost before, he certainly was now. He almost came then and there, just from the sight of Prince Morpheus Aeterna kneeling at his feet, staring at him with what could only be described as burning lust.

It was so wrong, for their positions to be reversed like this, and yet neither could deny the thrill that zinged through both of them, sparking between them the way lightning hit a tree. It went against everything they knew to be true; a Prince should kneel before no one save the King and Queen.

Morpheus would gladly spend the rest of his days at Hob’s feet, showering him in the same devotion Hob had graced him with.

Ever so slowly, the slowness of careful deliberation rather than uncertainty, Morpheus took the base of Hob’s prick in hand, and lowered his head.

Hob would have been embarrassed at the high pitched whine that left him, almost a squeal, had anyone other than the Prince been around to hear it. In a startling contrast to the chill of his hands, the Prince’s mouth was an inferno, hot and wet and utterly fucking perfect. Hob couldn’t remember the last time he had someone’s mouth on him, let alone one that felt so good.

“Fuck, Highness-” he gasped as Morpheus’ tongue swirled around the head and dipped into the slit, exactly the same delicate motions he had seen the Prince use to lick sweet cream out of a hollowed strawberry. He felt more than heard the soft, satisfied “hmph” as Morpheus took him deeper. Hob sank further into the chair, biting into his knuckles hard enough to leave an indent in an effort to muffle his moans.

The Prince savored every taste of Hob’s warm flesh, every drop of precome that leaked onto his tongue. Hob’s scent filled his nose, musk and linen and leather and something so masculine it made him shiver. Even with his eyes closed and mouth wrapped around Hob’s cock, Morpheus looked entirely too pleased with himself. Princes got what they wanted, yes? He pulled away with a suck and a kiss to stare devilishly at his esquire. “I would have you gasp and cry my name, Master Gadling, if you are able to string the words together.”

Hob couldn’t stop the wanton groan that punched itself out of his chest. He had known the Prince to be steady and confidently poised since the moment they met, but this was something more. Normally, Hob despised arrogance of any kind, but when it seasoned Morpheus’ words as the man knelt before him? It was sweeter than ambrosia, more delectable than the finest of wines, melted in his mouth like buttery pastry. He couldn’t get enough.

Scarlet suffused his cheeks as he sank even further into the chair, unable to hold up his own weight as the Prince resumed his attentions. Hob’s fingers bit into the armrests of the chair to keep them from straying to the Prince’s ebony locks that practically begged for his grip. Morpheus kept a steady pace, not slow enough to be considered teasing, and yet definitely not enough to bring Hob to his peak. He had just enough mental acuity to wonder if this was actually a reward, or just cleverly disguised torture.

While Hob slowly unraveled under his tongue, Morpheus’ hand snuck into his own loose breeches to take himself in hand. The jolt of pleasure was so strong he almost bit into Hob’s shaft, but was able to stop himself with a whimper. Morpheus knew he was as good as useless in Istoria, whiling away the summer at his father’s court where he had no real say, no real power, and yet he could still feel the burden of his station and responsibilities heavy across his shoulders. But here, at Hob’s feet, he could let all of that go. He wasn’t beholden to duty, or custom, he could thank his guard for services rendered, and do so in whatever manner he chose.

“Prince-” he gasped, the sound morphing into an almost watery whimper as Morpheus completely froze, his tongue barely twitching as it lay flat against his shaft. Sparkling eyes flicked up to Hob’s flushed face and an elegant brow twitched. Hob took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “Morpheus…” The Prince’s name was rasped with such breathless adoration the Prince almost came in his breeches like a teenager.

Hob swallowed again. “Morpheus, please-”

Morpheus pulled away long enough to whisper, “As my knight commands,” the gentle breath against the wet tip of his cock sending a shiver up and down Hob’s spine. It only took a few more licks and sucks on his head and a gentle twist of his hand for Hob to come with a barely held back shout. He spilled into Morpheus’ mouth, the Prince eagerly swallowing it down. A stray drop trickled out of the corner of his mouth when he finally pulled off; he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

Hob panted for breath and sank into the chair, boneless and pleasantly warm. Morpheus rose to his feet and settled himself in Hob’s lap, straddling a muscular thigh. “If you’ll allow me…” he breathed, wrecked and gravelly. Hob could barely process what the Prince meant by that before Morpheus was rocking his hips back and forth, grinding his cock into Hob’s leg.

Hob’s prick twitched painfully once he realized what Morpheus was doing, and callused hands immediately bit into the Prince’s slim waist, digging into the satin of his robe and linen of his tunic. “Oh fuck,” Hob gasped, stray wisps of hair sticking to his forehead as his head fell back.

Morpheus held on to his guard’s broad shoulders, pushing into them for leverage. The friction was delicious, and the sting of Hob pulling him closer ripped a gasp from his throat. Nails bit into muscle as Morpheus pushed and pulled to get more of that friction, more of that pressure, more of the heat radiating from Hob’s skin. He bit his lip against a whimper and let his head fall to rest in the crook of Hob’s neck.

It only took a few more deliberate motions of his hips to send Morpheus over the edge, his release soaking through his breeches and just barely dampening Hob’s. The two panted softly for breath, basking in the other’s presence. Morpheus hadn’t known how much tension he had been carrying until he felt it melt out of his bones and muscles just then.

Morpheus lifted his head just enough to slant his lips across Hob’s, tenderly holding a scruffy cheek in the palm of his hand. Hob melted into the languid kiss with a quiet hum, letting himself luxuriate in the feeling of the Prince’s lips and the warmth of his body for just a little longer, before they must both take back up the mantles of their duties.

With a heavy sigh, Morpheus eased himself off Hob’s lap and adjusted his robe, a pink flush still decorating his cheeks. He pressed a gentle kiss to Hob’s forehead, as if in blessing. His lips lingered there as he whispered, “Goodnight, Hob Gadling.”

Hob swallowed and reverently lowered his gaze. “Goodnight, Prince Morpheus.”

#the sandman #dreamling #centennial husbands big bang

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nitewrighter · 2 years

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Finally saw Love and Thunder, and it really wasn’t that bad. I think if anything. it’s Taika Waititi recognizing Disney doesn’t see him as an artist so much as a recipe, so he’s just not really giving a shit and just throwing out a lot of goofy fun while plugging in Marvel comics references, but he still wants the audience to have fun, so here we all are in a dark air-conditioned room listening to screaming goats and Guns and Roses. But at the end of the day it’s a completely overwrought MCU film so whatever nuance he might have been able to plug into it is meh at best. There’s just such a weird dynamic between the MCU destroying the concept of the movie star while still relying on the concept of the movie star. And honestly, knowing someone who’s currently fighting cancer--I’m just... really sick of the weird finality of cancer’s presence in movies. Like, yes, the seriousness of cancer absolutely reflects its representation, but people can live with cancer for decades, so it’s like... the whole ‘heroic sacrifice of the cancer patient’ trope just doesn’t have the same appeal for me as people who want to compartmentalize that shit and never have to actually deal with it.

#thor: love and thunder

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baronaliswritingcorner · 3 months

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Fódlan Flufflets #25: Popular (Felix/Bernadetta)

A parting gift before my two-week retreat -- the return of Fódlan Flufflets!

In honor of the #ChooseYourLegends results, have some #Felibern -- my very first, in fact! Please enjoy this latest slice of my patented Fódlan anachronism. ---

Felix had endured countless humiliations in the maelstrom of agony that was his life. Losing spars to classmates and veteran knights alike. Falling for Glenn’s mischievous pranks, guised as “coming of age” rituals. Enduring the second-hand embarrassment that was Sylvain’s skirt-chasing.

All soul-crushing in their own ways, but experience ingrained a budding humility that’d bloomed into his adulthood years, and he’d learned to brush off such embarrassments like the pitiful swings of a fresh Fraldarius troop.

This, however, was the final straw. Not even a day into their vacation at Derdriu, and they were greeted with the culture shock that was the city periodical’s headline:

““SHIPPING WARS” RUN RAMPANT -- “FELIBERN” OUTPACES THE LIKES OF “DIMILETH”, “SYLVGRID”, “FERDITHEA” and “LEORENZ” IN NEW POLL DECIDING FÓDLAN’S CUTEST COUPLE!”

And that was how, after being chased by hordes of screeching fangirls, Felix and his wife found themselves holed up in Derdriu’s fanciest inn. The screams of adoring fans and invasive paparazzi buzzed incessantly outside their window like a sea of hungry gnats, swarming the Aquatic Capital and descending upon their refuge -- their cheers and demands invasive as they were utterly confounding.

“FE-LI-BERN! FE-LI-BERN!! FEEL THE BERN!!!”

“WE KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE! COME OUT AND SMOOCH FOR US!”

“CAN YOU COMMENT ON THE RUMORS SURROUNDING LADY BERNADETTA’S PREGNANCY?”

Cornered, exhausted, and utterly defeated, Felix’s face rested firmly in his palms – not merely because of the egregious invasion of privacy, or the impossible likelihood of escape, but because of one unfathomable variable he’d never have predicted.

“Ehehehehe,” giggled his wife. “Oh my gosh, Felix! Look! They drew us as little kitties! And we’re snuggling!”

No, it was because after all the screaming and hiding ceased once all the facts were laid bare, Felix came to the horrifying realization that Bernadetta actually liked it.

“Bernie’s never won at anything,” marveled Bernie, “but Cutest Couple in Fódlan? Hehe! It’s funny because it’s true! Bernie prevails!”

“Please stop,” moaned Felix.

“But look at all the competition!” said Bernadetta as she thumped her chest. “We beat out Ashette, Mercedue, Cysithea, and, and-”

“Yes, I read the article.”

“Ehehehe, do you know what this means? We have fans!” said Bernadetta with a squeal. She unlocked the window and waved outside. “Yes, hello! Bernie sees you!”

Wincing at the deafening roar, Felix yanked her back inside and slammed the window shut. “Don’t encourage them. And since when were you such a social butterfly?”

“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport, Felix!” said Bernadetta with a pout – shaking her arms in that familiar display of protest. “C’mon, didn’t you see the artwork? They’ve got some serious talent!”

Shoving the paper into his face, Felix was met once more with the paper’s meticulously detailed header image: the two Fraldariuses, engaged in a wistful liplock amidst glowing fireflies in a moonlit forest; a menagerie of doe-eyed woodland critters surrounding their tryst with palpable adoration.

Felix composed himself with a deep sigh. “Last I checked,” he said with an elaborate exhale, “our marriage wasn’t out for display. I don’t know how this whole nonsense started, but once we get back, I’ll appeal directly to Dimitri for an immediate ban on this so-called ‘shipping’.”

“Oh, come on – it’s all in good fun! Here, check these out,” said Bernadetta as she flashed a collection of paper-thin tomes, their covers decorated with amorous embraces and lovelorn looks courtesy of Fódlan’s top couple.

Felix nearly hurled. “What are--wait, where’d you even get those-”

“Oh, some fans shoved them into my hands while you were swinging your sword at those journalists – I think they’re called ‘zines’? Let’s see: there’s “Arrows and Swords” – it’s full of little stories about us! – and this one’s called “Violet Dreams and Azure Courage” – chock-full of pictures; see, I’m a mermaid! -- and this is…um, I’m not sure what the “18+” stands for, but it’s called “Steamy Fraldarius Nights” and--oh my-”

Ripping that last one out of his wife’s hands, Felix threw the offending zine to the floor and smote it with a Thunder spell. “Look, we came here for a retreat,” said Felix, incredulous at reminding Bernadetta – Bernadetta! -- of the values of privacy. “How do you expect us to relax if we’re constantly entertaining the delusions of these obsessed goons?”

Bernadetta pouted as she crossed her arms. “Well, you can say what you like, but they’re not leaving!”

“Then I’ll make them,” said Felix as he marched to the window and swung it wide open. “People of Deirdru, may you promise to leave us alone once I give you what your pathetic hearts desire!”

“WE HEAR YOU LOUD AND CLEAR, LORD FRALDARIUS!”

“Felix?” said Bernadetta as her husband pulled her to the window, “what are you-”

Immediately swinging Bernadetta to his front, Felix elaborately dipped his wife out the window and gave the entirety of Derdriu front-row seats to a passionate kiss.

The city shook with a rumbling roar – the raw power of nerd fandom rippling the very air itself, enduring even as they pulled apart.

Bernadetta flushed crimson, reduced to lovestruck babble. “N-no fair.”

Felix grinned roguishly. “Just promise me you won’t wound Lorenz’s pride by rubbing our victory in his face, and I won’t embarrass you further.”

------

AO3 Link

#fodlan flufflets #felibern #felix hugo fraldarius #bernadetta von varley #i just love absurdism #bernie and lorenz do seem to have an antagonism thing going on #choose your legends #fire emblem three houses #fire emblem three houses fanfiction #fe3h

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linkspooky · 1 year

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Oh I want you to go all in deep! As deep as you can go!

So plz tell me. How is Kitty Pryde from X-Men is like Mai Zenin from jjk?

I'm going to take this joke ask completely seriously, watch me.

Why are Mai Zenin and Kitty Pryde from X-men the same character? To begin with a brief history on comic books at the time. The Uncanny X-men is one of Marvel's most popular series, it features a school full of children who are gifted with great super powers but otucasted from society because of it and need to be taught by older people with the same powers how to use them. So you know, nothing like Jujutsu Kaisen.

X-men is the original "superhero high school" story. If a story features a bunch of teenagers with superpowers it's probably at the very least indirectly inspired by X-Men. When there's worldbuilding where some people in the world just happen to be born with superpowers, that idea probably came from X-Men. X-men is iconic! Kitty Pryde was introduced to the comic as a result of a Marvel Comics editorial dictate that the series depict a school for mutant children.

Kitty Pryde was the youngest to join the X-men at the time of her creation, and served as the archetpyal "Kid Sister" character to all of the older teams in the group. Not only does she play the part of a literary foil, she's also someone who provides an audience perspective especially to younger readers. The whole point of having a bunch of teenagers have super powers is to make the characters relatable so you can imagine yourself as one of them, so as the other characters got older they added Kitty Pryde to give the audience a new perspective character.

Except, Kitty Pryde is one of the most famous X-Men. Bar none. There's something about how young and normal she is that makes her appealing, especially around a band of freaks, a lot of whom have much more dramatic backstories than her. She's a lot more interesting than just "the baby sister" or "the normal one" because her perspective is unique, she's literally a kid who's thrown into this new world. She's sympathetic because the world she's just stumbled into is bigger than her and she just barely knows what's going on and she's just a normal person who happens to have the ability to walk through walls.

Then we have Mai Zenin, the most teen girl of teen girls. She is a character who should be as immediately sympathetic and relatable as Kitty Pryde, because she also is a completely normal girl thrown into a world she doesn't like, but we the audience don't see her that way because she's not the perspective character, Nobara is.

And Nobara thinks Mai is an asshole.

This is where I go back and introduce you to more comics history. Running at the same time as Marvel's X-Men and just as popular was a series that was also about teenage superheroes, the New Teen Titans. They decided to add a younger teenage girl to a team filled with young adults mostly in their late teens or early twenties but with a twist.

George’s strength was he also understood the characters 100 percent as I did so there was never any question. He knew. We had talked enough about the characters to know we were exactly on the same page with them. So I said, “Everyone keeps complaining that we’re like the X-Men” and the X-Men had just gotten Kitty Pryde. I said, “Why don’t we really screw around with them completely?” — this is the fans — “…and make them think we’re stealing Kitty Pryde only she’s gonna be bad from Day One.” You always had characters pop up, certainly at Marvel, who were bad that get redeemed. But this character would never get redeemed. She was insane. In fact, she was the catalyst for everything. She wasn’t working for Deathstroke. He was working for her in many ways and she was leading him because she’s crazy. She’s a total psychopath… and she’d be 15.

In a famous interview Marv Wolfman admits that the concept of Terra came from everyone accusing Teen Titans of stealing from the X-Men, so they decided to make a character exactly like Kitty Pryde... but an asshole.

Terra is the exact same character as Kitty Pryde, young teenage girl added to the team, feels like she doesn't belong anywhere, completely new to life, can't control her powers, but Marv Wolfram and George Perez decided to write her as an antagonist to the main characters so despite having sympathetic traits, the audience doesn't sympathize with her.

Terra's the asshole little sister.

Which is essentially the same concept for Mai, especially in regards to her relationship with Maki. Mai doesn't present herself right away as a loving little sister who looks up to Mai, and loves her in spite of the Zen'in's treatment of Maki. She piles onto the Zen'in's abuse and throws the same insults at her. She's immediately unlikable as Nobara the audience perspective character decides to hate her. After all they grew up in the same household, Maki can be strong and fight back, Mai is just weak and blames others.

Mai, just like Terra too doesn't really want to get stronger, she doesn't want to change. She pouts, sulks, whines, makes excuses, blames others, all ways that we don't like to see victims acting because Maki can be strong right? So why not Mai? Terra was created to be everything that Kitty Pryde is not, and Mai was created to be everything Maki is not.

That's why Kitty Pryde and also Terra remind me of Mai Zen'in, because she is literally created to be the little sister of Maki Zen'in a character we're supposed to love and sympathize, with the exact same backstory of Maki... but an asshole.

#askspookies #mai zenin #tara markov #kitty pryde #this was a silly ask #but i answered #now give me a cookie

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brightbeautifulthings · 5 months

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Hail Hydra by Rick Remender & David Mandel

"'That no matter what you did, no matter how hard you fought, there was no chance you'd ever leave the world changed in the same way they did?' 'That's all I've ever felt, Ellie. I've just never heard anyone else articulate it quite as well.' 'Only their children could appreciate what it's like to grow up in the shadow of their legacy."

Year Read: 2023

Rating: 3/5

Thoughts: At a glance, the Battleworld series is an odd amalgamation of alternate-Earth scenarios and team-ups you wouldn't necessarily expect to see in 616, along a similar line as the What If? comic run and Disney+ show. I doubt I'll read through the whole thing, since it goes on forever and spans characters I don't have a lot of interest in, and it seems like the kind of thing where people can pick and choose the ones that appeal to them without losing a lot of continuity. I'll probably give Marvel Zombies (because zombies) and Planet Hulk (because Stucky) a try, but that's about all that's jumped out at me so far.

Obviously, I chose this one because I have a soft spot for Ian Rogers (Nomad) and all of Steve's other-Earth children. This is one of the only places we get to see Steve and Sharon's daughter, Ellie, and I adore her in spite of her totally incongruous, midriff-baring outfit. Despite the relatively short page-time, I like her sibling relationship with Ian and the way they bond over living up to the Cap legacy. There's a bit more on Ian and Steve's relationship as adults that's interesting too. Naturally, the characters are the real draw of the collection for me. Including Venom as a villain felt completely out of place, but what the hell-- we're already down the rabbit hole in Hydraworld.

And wow, is it grim. I wasn't expecting rainbows out of a Marvel Earth that's essentially ruled by Nazis, and it's every bit as dark as you'd expect and then some. There's no real winning for the heroes, just a question of how badly they're going to lose, and it's hard to watch them struggle against the hopelessness of overturning a fascist system that's already so deeply rooted. There isn't a lot of hope here, but it does give Ian some perspective on the fight Steve Rogers has been fighting all his life in 616 and why it matters. I very much did not enjoy the last issue from Hydra agent Hank Johnson's perspective, satire or not.

#book review #graphic novel review #hail hydra #rick remender #david mandel #battleworld #3/5 #rating: 3/5 #2023 #science fiction

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cartoonfangirl1218 · 1 year

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So it finally aired, the end of The Owl House and the beginning of a whole new adventure for Luz and her friends. I really love the full circle of it, it even affected me in real life as I found it in my freshmen year of college and now I’m graduating in less than a month so I semi feel like I’ve grown with them in a different way. But more importantly, I love how everyone got where they needed to be. So random thoughts about the finale include I was a little confused by the opening in that I wasn’t sure if it was part of the episode or an ad. Nonetheless, I loved how it directly addressed the viewers and fans that enjoyed the show as much as the creator. The nightmares were suitably brutal and horrifying before we realize it’s all part of the Collector’s new game and I adored that the final adventure mainly included Eda, Luz and King as the ultimate trio against Belos. Also the quick montage of memories that Luz shows the Collector so he and the audience can marvel at how much they’ve grown and changed from the beginning of the episode to now. Luz nearly died! And it was super convincing too. My friends thought she was dead and I kept saying it’s Disney, they wouldn’t do that. Which was true but I’ll admit even I was wondering that they might go there. Also I can’t be the only one who saw Belos’ corruption of the Titan was like Godzilla right? They were going for Godzilla.

Luz meeting King’s dad was awesome, he was such a chill dad but what was really emotionally impactful was after Luz’s worries about being the villain and being like Belos, and having learnt her lesson that you choose to be the special one, it’s not something that’s handed to you-Comes the Titan offering Luz that choice and she takes it. Also her Titan-Luzara design is so badass! Just everything in that sequence from King and Eda’s grief rage to them working together to defeat him once and for all. Also very stirring was Luz’s final confrontation with Belos and how he tries to get her to help him, appeal to her because they’re both human. And we see Belos for the delusional hypocrite he is that he is nothing like a human and melts away like he deserves. Loved the epilogue too (Hooty had the funniest and most beautiful return to normalcy) and seeing where everyone ends up and how most of the fandom was right that Luz lives the best of two worlds on earth and on the Boiling Isle, feeling she is belonged and understood on both. Plus the idea that she lost the Titan magic but it doesn’t matter because she has the skill and hard work to continue to become a great witch and learn on the way because “weirdos stick together.” And we saw Luz’s quinceñera! Or dieciocho-ñera. And one final interaction with the audience with that group shot as they say goodbye to the Collector and us one last time. Just amazing!

#the owl house #toh spoilers #toh #watching and dreaming #the owl house spoilers #random musings

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captain-stark-rogars · 7 months

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So happy that i gravitated towards RdJ in the last few years cause I was huge Chris evans fan but then one day I was like ‘hello daddy’ and it’s been RDJ ever since. Now I was still a Chris fan until about a two years ago. And no it’s nothing to do with Alba, although from what I heard she is very racist, although it’s hear say so idk, no it was when he when went to London for a booty call and was photographed with lily this was in the height of the pandemic

. I work in the health field and it wasn’t a picnic . So to see him do this really irked me. ((It was for a PR photocall, which why many still don’t trust the whole Alba thing ) breaking stuff that was suppose to keep us safe for a booty call PR thing. That was the beginning of the end. Now like I said I ship Stony ((Steve and Tony Marvel) so I do still use him as a FC for Steve. Lately his down home appeal isn’t working like it used to. So no I really not a fav of his anymore, will use his Face for my Steve.

Now RDJ I love, love, love. Like I said he a total DiF, he kills in everything he does. Yes he far from perfecta and has his faults. But the man is trying to save the planet, been married to same woman for like 20 years. (( so don’t come at with your just jealous cause Chris is married cause respectfully 🖕🏻)) . He crawled his way back to stardom and is from what I’ve heard a generally nice guy who will take time to take pics and chat with fans. Again ik he isn’t perfect but I like him so much more then Chris and have for a while.

#robert downey jr #chris evans

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dyrewrites · 5 months

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Pale Blood - panic in the pretty lights

Odea bounced. Up and down she bounced, squeaking like an excited mouse. She had kept quiet from the cab to the ticket booth, eyes firmly on the ground until they reached the synth that ran it. There she refused to let Delmas show his ID, shoving her own hand up to the screen and confirming him and Den as her ‘guests’.

Then she rushed into the cab in a flurry of giggles and started to bounce. Little bounces on the balls of her feet, as she hummed a familiar tune. And that tune bothered a sigh from Delmas, but delighted a smirk from Den.

“That big a fan?” Delmas asked her bounces.

The louder squeak was not an answer, but it’s what she gave him.

Den chimed in, fighting another smirk, “Isn’t there something we have to attend to before we meet Mr. Perfect?”

Odea did stop then, to grin up at Delmas, “You told him!”

“I told him,” he repeated, scooting away from the tiny woman’s glee–unfortunately, the cab did not allow him much wiggle room and so this resulted in smashing into the metal siding.

Giggles preceded Den’s remark, “It did take some work.”

“He is so closed off,” Odea told him.

And he nodded before stepping over, to face her, where he rested his chin on the back of his hand, “Like a vault.”

“Did you hear him trying to justify not telling you?” She returned, holding her own chin and nodding dramatically.

“I did,” Den answered, in an equally dramatic fashion.

“I tell ya,” Delmas cut through their gossiping tones, “on the list of things expected today, the two of you bondin’ over my want for privacy wasn’t on it.”

“Privacy,” Odea scoffed, all the playful drama puffing with it as the full extent of what she’d lost of him–and every whispered command–swelled, “Fangs who go digging around in other people’s minds and making them forget do not deserve privacy.”

Den shoved against Delmas’ chest, not moving him an inch, and all but shouted, “You did not!”

“No, I didn’t,” he assured them both before trying to recall what Odea was talking about. But nothing recent included mind games.

The dogs, the thought popped, and the image on Bosch’s screen flickered after, I saved her from the dogs…did I mess with her head then? And his own words played for him–though he hadn’t asked and had no memory of speaking them–‘tell Ron, Del says he's sorry for keeping me.’ But I can’t make anyone forget–correct, he couldn’t, but it was necessary at the time–And that was a week out, at least, why she mad about it now?

They were staring, both of them. He’d been quiet too long and they were staring. So he tried to explain, “I didn’t do it on purpose. I don’t even really remember doing it. I only know I was even there because of Bosch’s fucking cameras.”

Den checked out right about then, as he and Delmas already had the conversation that appeared to be repeating.

He had been to Upper Dolor fewer times than he had fingers and, despite all the hot air everyone blew about it, he didn’t mind much. He didn’t find it all that appealing. But the trip up, soaring straight up in a tight metal box with the whole city stretching out below him...that he enjoyed. And he marveled at the sight, as he had the few times he’d seen it before; picking out all the brightest lights in the rainbow of flashing–and quickly blurring–color that speckled the rough grays and shining blacks of the slums.

A single finger firm on the hardlight–which kept the harsh winds of the ludicrous speed they traveled from turning everyone inside into a spray of blood outside–he thought he had picked out the glaring neon sign that hung near Delmas’ apartment...when Odea groaned so loud he decided to care about the other passengers again.

“You still went poking when you had no right to,” She tapped Delmas’ chest, hard and added, “so I don’t want to hear any of your faeshit about privacy.”

“Fine,” he had no room to throw his arms up, so they made it about halfway, “but you should know that I didn’t poke, I didn’t need to,” and, if he had looked at his more astute boyfriend just then, Delmas would not have said what he was about to say. But he did not, instead he leaned to Odea’s eye level–which shoved her up against the other side of the cab–and said, “you’re just loud.”

Den slapped himself on the forehead–despite a deep desire to slap Delmas–then shielded his ears from what he anticipated would be a shriek.

But no shriek came.

Even as the cab breeched the smog, pouring hotter, brighter sunlight through its tall windows, all Delmas received from Odea was a quiet, smoldering glare–which may have been weakened by her thick glasses, tinted as they had become in the brighter light.

The remainder of their trip–all fifteen minutes of it–came and went with naught but the soft grind of metal on wire and the drone of wind moving faster than it ought around the oblong surface of the cab.

“Number in party,” a smooth, mechanically sweetened voice sang as all of the wind stopped dead and the cab’s door slid open with a satisfying woosh–do not deny me my wooshes, one only gets so many.

Odea hopped out of the skycab’s perfectly still cabin–held tight and sturdy on thick metal beams and hidden cables, the thing would not budge no matter how much one desired kicking it into the suns.

The synth that spoke with so smooth a voice waited just outside the door. Their artificially tanned skin glistened beneath a layer of perfumed dew–spritzed from above every skycab as they landed, to ensure no one fouled the air–but that was not what marked them synthetic. Nor was it the gold and white striped hair, or the matching uniform; an angular cut pantsuit of pristine white and gold, its starched pant-legs tucked into shin-high boots–the heels of which should have been registered as weapons.

No, the scream of their mechanical origins came from their eyes.

Their irises glared, shrinking, turning–and audibly whirring for the one with ears sharp enough to hear them–in glittering gold from the center of shining black eyeballs.

Their too-smooth voice sang again, without a hint of intonation, inflection, or warmth, “Number in party.”

“See, that, that’s what I don’t like about being up here,” Den said to no one as he kept behind Delmas and tried again to put his hands into his pockets.

Delmas slapped him away, smiling, “We’ve got synths below too.”

“Yeah, but ours are more...awake,” Den tried again. Pressing his chest against Delmas’ back–and a little around his side–he pulled the flaps of the big coat he wore out of the way and slipped his hands into the front pockets of Delmas’ jeans.

“Well, some of them maybe,” Delmas said, sighing at the hands wriggling around in his pockets. But, as they wouldn’t be moving anytime soon, he didn’t remove them.

“Three,” Odea said, shuffling from one leg to the other in front of the slim podium, her eyes twitching to every new face that flowed from neighboring skycabs.

“Purpose,” the synth said, not asked–those models did not have the ability to truly inquire, they could only relay and obey.

“Um,” She had something for that, but she was there for more than witch duties, I can’t say I’m here because of blood, shit, how do I phrase it?

“Someone forgot her title,” Den told Delmas’ side, adding louder, “you’re a blood-letter, remember...witch?”

“Two in one, not bad,” Delmas chuckled–more from the very warm hand tickling his thigh, but also the words, those were funny too, in a way.

“Right, right,” Odea closed her eyes, focusing on the why they were there and not the that. More skycabs were landing on either side of theirs–in a great big circle they could only see a fraction of–and visitors were filing out in numbers Odea was the opposite of comfortable with. “Uh, witching duties and...um, blood-le,” shooting a glare behind her she muttered, “damnit, Den,” before turning back to the ever-patient synth, “phlebotomist duties.”

Witch outranked phlebotomist and, though Odea had forgotten in the anxious bubble her breath had become, witches needed no reasons for witching.

“Coven and Designation please,” The synth intoned, and in their ever-so-slight change of tone, Den found himself curious.

“...that one male or female?” He asked Delmas.

“Neither,” He answered too quickly, voice hitching at the end.

Den giggled before asking, “How d’you know?”

Delmas pointed as he wiggled away from another gripping hand, “There’s a marker, on their temple, brands ‘em for customer service. And all customer service synths are andro.”

The last wriggle had pulled Den’s hands away and he pouted before snuggling in the offered coat, “Why do you know that and I don’t?”

“Ever work with synths,” it wasn’t a question–Delmas knew he hadn’t, well, he was pretty sure...and correct.

Den thought about it, came to the realization that he had only seen them in clubs, or cabs, or brothels and decided not to answer.

That earned him a grin and a tighter squeeze.

“Alright,” Odea said, rushing up a bit too close to them as all of the people began to jitter in her veins, “we’re good to go. So let’s go. Right now. Move.”

Though she was shorter than every other visitor crowding the station–barring a few gnomes and a wreck of faeries–Delmas and Den found it all too easy to follow Odea through the hot rush and murmur of the crowd. The bright auburn of her short-cropped hair, bouncing and snaking through all manner of brighter and duller colors, stood out like a beacon.

Neither were too certain how that worked, exactly, nor were they aware of how much focus it took Odea to do it.

Until they reached the gaping arches of the station–now, ‘gaping’ may not seem like the best word for a big door, but bear with me here...because it was a very big door–and Odea heaved her guts into a glittery gold trash bin.

Den froze before the arches, enduring the shove of bodies passing–which jostled him even as Delmas kept him safe in his arms.

He did not enjoy those arches, not in any capacity, but he especially disliked walking through them.

They yawned overhead, towering high above even the ogres that barreled past them. So high that one could only tell they were arches by the way they bent the light, and what light they bent; the yellows of Som’s bright shimmered on the golden metal of the arches–a gold that you may notice coats everything, there were few areas of Upper Dolor that did not glitter.

And those damnable arches brought his attention to the ceiling of the station, or lack thereof, as there were no ceilings. There were layers upon layers of wide bridges connecting the skycabs to the exits and a terrible endless chasm below. Every single bridge bore more bodies than he imagined them capable, and he didn’t care for that either.

Even on the lowest layer of Upper Dolor’s disc-like island structure, the station bore no flooring. Beneath the bridge Den stood on were metal beams, thick and webbed, holding the bridges and the outer walls of the station...but between those beams waited empty air and a haze of black smog far, far below.

And none of it sparkled like the dazzling lights and wonder that the slums did on the trip up. The view from that bridge was one of hollow terror, and the more he stared the further it seemed to stretch and the louder it seemed to whisper, jump.

He gripped Delmas’ coat tighter, whispering, “I hate this place,” but he managed to force his feet to move and they passed beneath the arches.

And Delmas groaned and dug out his sunglasses.

Upper Dolor always made him doubt his immunity to the suns; if not for the bright, then for the heat. But neither of those are what drew the muttered, “Shit,” from his lips.

That came from looking out into all that bright...and not seeing Odea.

#writeblr #snippet #novel #writing #urban fantasy #pale blood #i shared this before and deleted it for reasons #have it again #i will throw tiny moments of closeness into every dialogue tag and you will never stop me

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goongiveusnothing · 1 year

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“how he is treated in a place where Harry isn't big”

But Harries and media and even certain people who hate him always bring up that he is legend status in every part of the world lol. This anon’s impression was interesting as I’d previously believed the lies about him being the number one hottest thing on the planet. Ironically, that constant messaging of him being Gods gift to the world plus his overexposure and his equally heinous fans is what made me hate him. I also hate his greediness. And there’s more reasons but I don’t have all day to write them out.

I wonder though if the reception would have been warmer if he wasn’t so very ugly now (his current face combined with being creepy and sleazy). I think if that was his 17 year old self, he could have caused a frenzy that would transcend the language barriers. But as it is, he probably eased up on his lame jokes and clown routine because that shit only works on the US/Europe crowd since everything he does is a marvel to them.

Koreans are used to huge performances, to dances, to costume changes, and the whole "queerbaiting" thing with like ugly clown costumes or nail varnish doesn't work so well when most Korean pop artists use much more feminine inspired clothing and make up as a normal part of their image and all of them have bromances.

i do think this is as big as harry will get in the eastern world. with his looks going downhill and him refusing to spend anything on any part of his shows, i just don't see why anyone normal will be going out to see him in a couple of years over there. he has the teen girl market and when he gets too old looking for them, he hasn't crossed over to appeal to anyone else.

#harry styles

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romanoffsbish · 2 years

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lantern, maple, bonfire 😝

lantern - how did you meet your best friend? What were your first impressions of each other?

Please… Not this 🙈

So… My bestfriend of 18 years—Alex, we met when I was nearly 8, and tragically cursed with a total blanket of naivety. I’d just been thrown in with my dad who I’d sparingly seen throughout the years, and I knew absolutely nobody in this new area.

So, I’d sit at my window, watching cars drive by, and one day I saw a little girl pushing this little boy on his skateboard. I gasped, then ran outside to inform them I also had a skateboard and to wait for me. They shockingly did, but for like the first year she apparently hated me, and I’d been innocently none the wiser. She even nicknamed me “Creek girl,” because on school days when she was running late her dad’s truck would whiz by the creek where I (who was also late) would just be stood there staring at the stream lol.

Now though, we’re ride or dies, and our families are permanently combined ❤️

Now, Anastassia it was the total opposite. She absolutely was on my shit list by sheer association with her brother lolol. I’d just moved to a new city, moving into my aunts from my dads, and I thought I was off to a fresh start. Then a month in she waltzed into my math class and I was like “🙄.” Nelson, her brother, was purely annoying (normal preteen boy shit; I’d actually been able to convince him I was a Russian spy at one point, and years later he was like “No way… It wasn’t true?” ahahaha)

Anywho, we clicked, but then life happened and we fell off because middle/high school drama happened to her. I was a quiet kid so I was like ‘Hey…’ and that was it. Post high school we had ended up at the same job, we’d started having closing McDonald’s dates, and next thing I know we’re 8 years strong, and her kids/his son are basically mine (as they say) bahahaha. Her youngest literally calls me mom(and means it with her whole chest), and they all call me ‘Kwee-Kween’ or ‘Kleeks’

maple - is there a hobby / skill that you’ve always wanted to try but never did?

Honestly… Writing was the only one, and I’ve been doing my best at it since October of last year. I’d always been a maladaptive daydreamer, so it was about time I put it down for others to possibly enjoy. Nothing else has ever appealed to me and been shrugged off. I’m pretty adventurous, so as long as I physically can do it, I do lol. Like kayaking, that shit is fun.

bonfire - describe your dream house.

Four bedrooms… One built for a plethora of cats, jungle gym status and with an under the stairs space for my one weenie dog… A room for me, a room for my future partner, and the other room will be for guests. I’m a firm believer in separate spaces, but a shared bed 🥺

Downstairs will be like a loft area with ALL of my collections, because believe me I’ve got a lot of pointless Marvel stuff that makes my heart beam.

A pool would be nice, but not necessary, and the aesthetic for me would be dark, because that’s my vibe… I’m a city girl, but I love the woods so I’d be fine settling for somewhere in between. 🤪

Like look… This is beautiful 😍

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candied-cae · 2 years

Text

To Be So Lovely

Chapter 1/1 - - - Read it on AO3

Word Count : 1,703

Summary : One night, when Frenchie comes home, he notices Wee John acting a bit shy. Wee John had never really been taught to appreciate himself, but his lover will not let this last. It's time they had a conversation about John's insecurity, and how truly ravishing Frenchie thinks he is.

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Frenchie had finally finished his turn helping Roach scrub the dishes for the day and was making it back to his and Wee John’s shared room. He threw open the door to see John standing, probably just getting back himself from checking on the gunpowder. Frenchie noticed John often did that if he was going to be a little late getting back, he’d have run below deck to kill more time until they’d be together again. Frenchie thought it was pretty cute.

The large man turned around and smiled seeing him. And just seeing Wee John’s glowing grin would always bring his own onto Frenchie’s face. He walked further into the room, closing the door behind him, and gazed up and down the man’s body. He was a marvelous sight. Frenchie thought so every time he saw him, but after a long day, he always seemed that much more appealing to the eyes.

“There you are.” He mused at the object of his deepest affection.

Frenchie reached out to hold his massive hands and simply adore him when he caught sight of John pulling his shirt off of his body. He’d seen him do so before but wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing it for.

“You look absolutely lovely, darling” Frenchie assured as he leaned in for a kiss.

The kiss was returned but without any response. And then John retreated to the bed and attempted to tuck himself away under the blanket, even in the stifling heat of the tropics in summertime. This was also something Frenchie had noticed him doing before. Neither action made much sense to him, but it almost looked like Wee John was attempting to hide himself and his shape under the fabrics. Frenchie thought such an idea was foolish, simply because he looked too damn good to not be seen.

But now that he was thinking on it, there were other actions Wee John had taken which aroused a certain suspicion. They were kissing rather fervently one time when Frenchie moved to run his hands around John’s hips, and he could feel him go rigid. He reined himself back a bit, John relaxed back into their intimacy, and so he brushed the concern away as just a bit of timidness. It was earlier on in their relationship, after all. And, back when they’d all been marooned together, while most of the crew were stripping off their layers for a chance to bring down their temperature, John just moved to sit in the shade, completely covered. And, while it might’ve not been the exact same sort of situation, Frenchie can’t help remembering that Wee John was the only crew member Stede couldn’t fit into a fancy outfit for their terrible tea time with the English. He’d only seemed to pick at his food that evening.

Frenchie had been sure that if something was bothering John, he would’ve said so to him… but now he was wondering if there was something he’d elected to omit.

Frenchie stepped into the bed beside him, crossing his legs as he sat and looked at the man next to him,“ Why don’t you let me look at you? You always seem to try and skirt from my view when I just want to behold you.”

Wee John huffed and shook his head,“ It’s ridiculous.”

“What is?” Frenchie asked, carefully leaning closer. He wanted John to know he was really listening.

“Lovely.” Wee John quotes back to him with a roll of his eyes,” A ridiculous word for me.”

Frenchie’s face went something sour at the comment. His Wee John? Not Lovely? He’d never heard something so wrong in his whole life.

“Now, that is something I’d completely disagree with you on.”

There was a tired, or detached, laugh in John’s voice when he answered,“ Then I’d completely disagree with the working of your eyesight.”

That was the first time Frenchie had ever seen him so void. He was usually somewhere between a bright smile, cheeky remark, or wanton desire. But he looked so… small now. Like he’s been drained of any comfort and self-assurance.

“Where is this coming from, John? You must know I find you truly effervescent. A vision to be adored. A wealth of bountiful beauty to be enjoyed.” Frenchie found himself slipping into theatrics with a wide smile as he finished,” You enamor and amaze me every day.”

But Wee John didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at him.

Frenchie deflated a bit as he asked again,“ You do know that, right?”

Wee John sighed before answering,” I don’t need you to kid me.”

That line hit Frenchie hard. He wasn’t kidding, not in the least. His mouth fell open in his surprise, but before he could even insist otherwise John continued.

“I know I’m a big guy. Always have been. Might think the big guy don’t get messed with, on account of him being so… but I never was the tight, chiseled, sharp kind of big, and I never was much interested with acting all manly all the time. That kind of big guy? Nobody minded him. But this kind of big guy? He’s just made to be the butt of a joke.”

“I don’t think you’re a joke.” Frenchie says honestly,” You’re wicked funny and my favorite person to laugh with, don’t get me wrong. But not to laugh at.”

Wee John blinked but still didn’t turn towards him. Frenchie shifts a little closer and says,“ You, yourself, Wee John - and your body - they are not a joke.”

“Right.” Wee John laughed to himself at the idea.

“It’s the truth,” He contested,” It’s beautiful, all of it. I love the grey and black of your hair and the way it falls over half your face when it gets tussled through a hard day. I love the shaved sides where I can run my fingers along your scalp. I love your earrings and how they reflect the light all day long, making you the easiest person to find no matter what’s happening. I love your chin and how it moves when you laugh. I love your shoulders and how they lead to your arms. Strong and inked. And how I always feel so immeasurably safe in them. I love tracing over the black drawings when I’m sleepy but can’t bring my eyes to close. I love your hands, so much bigger than mine, and how they hold me so well. Like nothing else could fit me as they do. I love your chest, the wispy hair and the softness, the striking sight of the silver barbells never leaving me un-astounded. I love your belly, so plush and warm and stunning. Its shape makes me think to take a pair of scissors to your shirt so it won’t be so well-tucked into your breeches. I love your rear-”

Frenchie had meant to go on. He could’ve gone on for hours if Wee John needed, but he cut him off.

”And if I said something stupid like that I loved helping my mother make dresses? Because sometimes she’d need to put them on me to fill the fabric so she could mend it right, and I felt pretty for just a few minutes at a time? Then you’d see the joke. Then you’d laugh.”

He said it dismissively. Like he’d already decided that any other answer couldn’t possibly come from the man kneeling beside him. All logical reason said that Frenchie enjoyed him enough despite his size and his playful attempts at softness or seeming dainty. There was nothing to believe otherwise, not against everything he’s known.

“No.” Frenchie asserted firmly. Putting a hand to his shoulder to draw his attention to his serious expression, which Wee John finally looked at, and continued,” Then I’d ask if you wanted a dress of your own sewn to fit your magnificent figure properly.”

And looking into those beautiful browns, so sure and honest… Wee John believed him. Frenchie had just pictured Wee John wearing a dress, a wish he held so quietly close to his heart he’d never spoken it before, and he didn’t laugh. He instead earnestly wanted to know if John would like to make the idea a reality.

“…Really?”, he carefully asked, still terrified that the answer might’ve just changed had Frenchie reasoned with himself and come to the conclusion the rest of the world seemed to.

But instead, he promised,“ Really. Because I find you rather pretty and it’d please me if you saw yourself that way as well.”

That sentence sent more warmth to his heart than he’s ever felt before, but there was still a lifetime of cruelty he’d been taught… he can’t really imagine feeling pretty again now that he’s aged and grown so much.

“That’s a tall order,” he admits cautiously.

“Well, while I’m not sure I could make a very nice dress for you, still getting a hang of the sewing thing, I think if we found the right person for the job…” Frenchie paused as he leaned right up to John’s pierced ear and whispered,” You’d look so absolutely lovely, you’d be forced to say so yourself.”

And with that, Wee John couldn’t keep back the shy smile that’d been tugging at his cheeks,“ That sounds… lovely.”

Frenchie drifted further in and kissed him again, but this time it was better. Less chaste, less avoidant, less closed. This kiss was more open, more trusting. It was more comfortable. Frenchie slowly ran his hand down from John’s shoulder, over his back, just ever so carefully doting on the rolls of flesh there before it came to rest on his hip. And John didn’t wince under his lips this time. With his other, he laid it on his chest and slowly moved across his collarbone as he maneuvered over himself. In no time at all, he was sitting atop John’s lap - right where he thought he belonged, he might add - when John pulled their kiss apart.

But it was no action of fear this time, instead, he drew on a mischievous grin and asked,” So, about my rear?”

Frenchie laughed himself before answering,“ Of course, darling, let’s return to such a fine subject matter, indeed.”

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