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#take my hand
strangex7 · 6 months
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danosphere91 · 2 months
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more fire core AU because you actually cannot get me off my bullshit.
this is also looking like it may turn into a Fic™️ so stay tuned.
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Theo content :)
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pedrito-friskito · 7 months
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Hiiiiii
for your Sundae thing, I’d like to do the roll for a fic option.
Americas Ass Dice bc lol, Pedro character, and if you could combine a smut and fluff prompt that would be awesome, but if not just smut is fine.
this is such a cool idea ❤️
hi lovely!!!! ok so….this one got away from me. I rolled a smut and a fluff and we got “is this real? are…are you real?” for fluff and “take off your clothes before I rip them off your body” for smut. and I rolled my favourite medieval grump, Pero Tovar! thanks for requesting, sorry I took so long, but I hope you enjoy! 💕
take my hand - pero tovar x fem!reader
word count: 4.3k (it got away from me I’m not lying LOL)
warnings: canon-typical violence, war, fighting, pero is a bit of a simp, explicit sex, unprotected p-in-v (wrap ur shit even in the old days okay)
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(gif by @pedrohub)
Pero finds himself in the middle of yet another war.
He follows William, because he owes his friend a debt — a life debt. If William had not bartered for him, Pero would still be rotting away in that cell, or perhaps the soldiers would have lit black powder beneath his feet just to see what would happen. He tries not to think about it too hard.
Regardless, he has followed William, and his friend has somehow lead them to the edge of another battle, one far too large and vast for them to steer around. Everywhere he looks, blood spatters and arrows fly. The glint of blades make his hands hunger for his own swords, the sound of metal clashing ringing in his ears as they inch nearer.
“There is no going around this, Pero,” William says, squinting into the fray. “I wonder what sparked such bloodshed.”
An arrow whizzes past their heads at that point, embedding itself in a tree not three feet from Pero’s horse. In response, the steed rears back, tossing Pero from his saddle before disappearing in the direction they’d come. “Stupid fucking creature,” Pero grits, wincing as he gets to his feet. William slides from his own saddle with slightly more grace, and claps Pero on the shoulder.
“All we can do is move through the fray, my friend,” William says, pulling the bow from his shoulder and nocking an arrow.
Before Pero can protest, William disappears into the battle and Pero’s view is quickly obstructed by the clashing soldiers. With a growl, he unsheathes the two blades at his back — grateful as anything that William had thought to return them to him — and darts forward, swords at the ready.
As he moves through the fighting, finding William a little ways into the crowds, an interesting memory tugs at his mind, nearly tearing his focus. He lifts his curved blade to block a sword aiming for William’s back — though they bare no colours, he knows the pair of them appear enemies to either side — and the memory sparks to life.
+
He was young, too young, when he left the village he had grown up in. Barely out of boyhood, he was conscripted as a soldier, forced to fight in a war he had no interest in fighting. His mother had wailed when they carted him away, his little sister hiding her tears in their mother’s skirts. Their father had died not a year prior, and his entire being had instantly filled with worry at leaving them alone.
Pero reached his hand out, calling to his family, when you suddenly stepped into his vision. You grabbed his hand, running to keep up with the soldiers carrying him off, and squeezed his fingers. “I’ll watch over them, Pero,” you promised, your eyes bright with tears. “Just come home to us.”
He’d known you since he was small. The house you lived in bordered his own, a small fence separating the scraps of land. You’d grown up together, in a sense, spending your childhoods running through the grass behind your houses, playing pretend in the trees and swimming in the river that snaked through the village itself.
He was barely a man, and you were barely a woman, but you had the ferocity of a girl beyond her years. Pero could see it, even then, and especially when you swore to take care of his family.
It made conscription a touch easier, knowing someone he trusted was looking out for his mother and sister. Still, he longed for home, and on especially lonely nights, he longed for you.
The night before the soldiers had come to take him away, you’d rapped on the back door of Pero’s house. His mother and sister were asleep, and worry had leapt into his throat when he first opened the door to see you standing there, your eyes shining with starlight. “Is something wr—” he started, but you shushed him and grabbed his hand, hauling him out the door.
“Come with me!” you whispered excitedly, and Pero let you drag him down through the grass, right to the edge of the river. He tried his best to ignore the spark of warmth between your twined hands, the sounds of the night filling his ears as you toed off your shoes, gesturing for him to do the same as you stepped into the water.
“What are you up to?” he questioned, but followed you, the water lapping at his ankles.
Your hands were still linked together, and you pointed up to the sky. “Look, Pero.”
He’d never seen so many stars. The open air in the fields generally offered some impressive night skies, but this was something else. Too many to count, little dots of light everywhere his eyes moved. And then, as he stared up, something shot across the sky, as though a star was trying to move from one spot to the next. He hasped and you clutched his hand with both of yours.
“Isn’t it amazing?”
Pero’s gaze lowered, catching on your face, upturned like his. Your expression of pure awe was nothing short of beautiful, and his heart climbed up into his throat.
He’d always known you, but for the first time, he felt like he was seeing you.
“It is,” he agreed, and his free hand slowly lifted, palm finding the curve of your jaw, fingers fanning across your skin. “You are.”
“Pero—” you started, your face tilting back down to his. He moved closer, testing, making sure you wanted this just as much as he did. When he paused, you pounced, and when his lips met yours, Pero swore he saw the starry skies above bursting with light behind his eyelids.
You stood there in the riverbank, water around your ankles and your arms finding their way around each other, kissing for what felt like hours. When the water grew too cold and the sky above started to lighten with the coming day, you parted and moved back onto the grass. Pero found a blanket for you to lay on and kept himself close to you, kissing you in different ways, finding which way you liked best.
“I heard rumours,” you said after you’d both broken apart, desperate to catch your breath, “that the King’s men are marching through the villages conscripting any men old enough to fight.” There was fear in your eyes, burning hotter than the starlight. “That means you, Pero.”
The realization had sent a chill down his spine and he’d nearly toppled back.
“Promise me something,” you continued, finding his hand and slotting your fingers through his. “Please?”
He nodded and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. “Anything, bonita.”
“Promise me you’ll come back.”
“I promise.”
+
The quiet thwip of an arrow zipping past his ear yanks Pero back to the present, deposits him back into the fray. His grip nearly falters as another blade connects with his own, but the memory of your voice, suddenly so clear, has him tightening his hold, swinging the blades down and around, the point of his own sliding through the gut of his attacker. The man falls with a groan and Pero can feel his heart hammering in his chest, rioting like a caged bird.
It’s been an age since he thought of you, thought of his promise.
It was not for want of trying. He fought the King’s battles for years, lost more friends than he cares to count. Your voice in his head kept him going most days, led him through each practice with his swords, every day growing more and more confident in his blades until they felt more like an extension of him than a weapon. He had to keep himself alive, keep himself whole, so he could one day return to your village, to his family. To you.
But the wars had other plans and soon enough, he was a man grown. There were other women, and he knew you would have had other men. You were beautiful as a young girl, and Pero would be the first to admit he’s often wondered how your beauty flourished over the years. 
With every clang of his sword, he wishes you well, wishes you a happy life, a man that loves you, takes care of you. Maybe a house in that village you both grew up in, your own children running up and down the lakeshore where he’d first kissed you. He’s loath to admit he wishes he was the one to give you that life, but he wishes it for you all the same.
Men fall on both sides of him, and Pero continues through the fray. He’s lost William for certain now, and just focuses on moving forward, dodging blows on either side, spilling blood of his attackers with nearly every step. 
Arrows fly from both sides and he swears he feels the sharp tip in his shoulder before he sees it. He growls, his left side exploding with pain and launches his curved blade in the direction the arrow came. It finds it’s mark, felling the archer that shot, and Pero barrels forward, ignoring the pain, lunging for the archer and pushing the blade deeper, yelling as he goes.
“Pero Tovar!”
Pero whirls, the voice familiar and unfamiliar all an once, his memory of you tinged with the battle raging around you. Surely he’s not still caught in his own head.
But it is you. Real as the arrow lodged in his shoulder, as the blades in his hands, the hot blood on his face. You stand before him, equally covered in the gore of war. A crossbow dangles from one hand, a short sword from the other, a quiver of bolts for the former strapped to your leg. Blood spatters across your face, a bleeding gash along your collar, the hem of your cloak ripped and caked with blood.
He barely notices the soldiers that rush past as he closes the distance between you two. Your arms open for him, your face pinched with a mixture of concern and relief as he stumbles into you. You hold him to you, tilting away from his injured shoulder, and Pero can feel your eyes everywhere, inspecting him, your hands brushing his back.
Somewhere, he finds his voice, and when he does, he’s that young boy on a riverbank again, not the scarred, war-torn man he’s turned into. “Is this real? Are…are you real?”
Above the din of battle, you laugh, and the sound is like bells. “Yes, Pero, I’m real.”
He tilts his head forward just a moment, until his forehead touches yours, until he can be sure. When he feels your warm skin against his, relief floods him, blocks out any pain he feels. “I thought you—”
You hush him, squeezing his good shoulder. “Time for that later,” you say, pulling back, your eyes darting around the battlefield. He sees a soldier barrelling towards the pair of you, but before he has a chance to raise a sword, you’ve lifted your crossbow and taken aim. The bolt makes a home between the soldier’s eyes, and Pero nearly topples over. “We need to get out of here.”
You stow your short sword, curling your fingers around his wrist. His mind flashes to William, his friend somewhere buried in the fray, and he must speak his concern aloud, because your head turns back to him, your eyes peering over his shoulder. You gesture with the crossbow. “Is that your friend?”
Pero turns, ignoring the pull of the arrow still embedded in his shoulder. Sure enough, there’s William, atop a new horse, shooting arrows left and right, dropping soldiers with every shot. He spots Pero, his eyes flickering to you beside him, and turns the horse in your direction. “Tovar, my friend,” he calls, bow hanging from his grip. “Who is—”
“Ride west,” you order, and the power in your command makes the hair on the back of Pero’s neck stand up. “Clear a path. My horse is beyond the edge of the forest, it’s a few hours ride to a safe place.”
Both men stare at you blankly, Pero hoping his gaze is full of admiration while William just looks confused. With a huff, you drop Pero’s hand, stalking over and turning William’s horse west. He opens his mouth to protest, but you smack the horse’s rear before he can get a word out, and off he goes.
“Come,” you say to Pero, offering your hand. “We need to go.”
He nods, takes your hand, and you start moving. William clears the path, as ordered, and it’s easier to get through than Pero is expecting. You lift your crossbow as you go, dropping more than a handful of men, and Pero manages to raise his sword more than once, blocking arrows from your body. Soon enough, you’ve reached the edge of the fighting, and you drag Pero into the trees. He follows you blindly, the ache in his shoulder more noticeable now, but he keeps going.
Eventually, you reach your horse, as promised. A chestnut mare that shakes her head at your approach, whinnying happily when you stroke her nose. You climb into the saddle with ease, offering your hand to Pero, and he takes it again, groaning as he clambers up behind you. You click your tongue at the horse, reins in hand as Pero slides his arms around your middle, mindful of the arrow shaft still sticking out of his shoulder. 
It’s not an easy ride. Every trot jostles him, making the pain spark. Somewhere in the first hour, he reaches up and snaps the shaft of the arrow off, tossing it away. It makes it easier for him to lean closer to you, to fit his face in the curve of your neck. You smell oddly good, like blood and battle mixed with something so achingly familiar his chest goes tight with it. He tightens his arms around you, fingers laced together over your belly, and as he settles a little deeper into your back, your hand covers his, brushing over his knuckles in a soothing motion.
“Is that the place?” William calls after the second hour. Sure enough, a small cottage lies at the forest’s edge, obscured enough that you wouldn’t notice it unless you were looking for it. You nod, nudging the horse a little faster. She must recognize the place, because she leads you around the side of the cottage, where a small pasture is fenced off, and steps right through the open gate. You slide from the saddle, reaching up to offer Pero your hand, and he takes it.
Back on solid ground, safe from the battle, he can’t help himself. Your lips part, words on your tongue, but he stops them, takes your bloody face between his hands and kisses you. The world around melts away, and he’s only vaguely aware of the pain in his body, William’s horse brushing past, the win through the trees. For a moment, there’s only you.
It’s a deeper kiss than he’s ever given you. Childhood has melted from you both, kept alive only by the memories, from the affection he’s held for you all these years. Something in him stalls then, has him pulling back, a flicker in his chest when he sees the way you chase his lips, your eyes hooded.
“Gods, I’ve missed you,” you murmur, and the hesitation that made him stop, the thought that your own affection had waned over time while his had stayed alive, vanishes, and he pulls you in again. The taste of you is different on his tongue, more addicting, and it brings his body to life in ways he’s only learned since he left you. His mind races, forming images of all the ways he wants to please you, more than the teasing kisses he gave you on the riverbank that night, both of you too young and innocent to know what else to ask for.
William clears his throat loudly, and you break apart, though Pero doesn’t let you go far. He’s still close enough to feel the heat on your cheeks, and he noses at your hair as you address his friend. “We should get inside,” you say, your palm flattening on Pero’s chest. “Let me tend to your wounds and get us something to eat.”
+
A few hours later, and all is quiet in the small cottage. Your stomachs are full, thanks to you — a delicious rabbit stew Pero told you multiple times was the best meal he’d had since he left home — and your wounds have been tended to. Your collar needed a stitch or two, and Pero had to sit back and watch William’s careful efforts; his injured shoulder made it impossible for him to trust himself not to hurt you further. The blood has all been washed away, clothes washed and hung to dry, spares given to both men for the meantime.
You show William to one of the bedrooms, make sure he has everything he needs for a sound night of rest before returning to Pero. Silently, you offer him your hand, and he takes it. His heart riots in his chest as you bring him to the other bedroom. The air is heavy with promise, warmed by the fireplace in one corner, and your grip loosens once you’re inside. Pero steps toward the bed, the mountain of pillows and blankets all too inviting, but turns to see you hovering in the doorway.
“If there’s anything else you need,” you stammer out, your eyes glued to the ground. Pero’s brow lifts and he closes the distance between you quickly, pulling you through the doorway completely and shutting the door behind you.
“There is,” he tells you, knocking a knuckle beneath your chin, lifting your eyes to him. They’re just as full of stars as he remembers, just as full of wonder and promise. “You, bonita. I need you. But only…only if you’ll have me.”
Your breath rushes out of you, warm across Pero’s mouth. “If I’ll—” You cut yourself off, falling into his arms. He catches you and holds you close, the flat of his palm roaming your back, sliding down the curve of your spine, just hovering over the dip of your lower back, the swell of your ass.
“Move that hand lower, Pero Tovar,” you murmur, a slick smile on your face, “or I’ll move it for you.”
He does as he’s told, grabbing a handful of your ass through the thin linen trousers you’d donned after getting cleaned up. For a second, he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him, that the heat the greets his fingers when he adjusts his grip, slides his hand past the waist of your trousers, gripping your skin for real, that it’s a figment of his tired imagination. But then a moan slips out of you when he grips you again, your knees parting to let his thigh slip between them. Pero drinks down the noise, kisses you like he had when you’d first arrived, not so silently begs for more.
Your hands clench in his shirt, a soft cotton tunic you’d given him to wear. He can feel the bite of your nails through it, and he’s desperate to feel your skin against his. You tug at the material and Pero grins. “Tell me what you need, bonita.”
“Take off your clothes,” you bite out, reaching up with on hand and gripping his chin, nipping at his bottom lip, “before I rip them off your body.”
He moves as quickly as he can, the ache in his shoulder unnoticeable as he tears the tunic off, reaches for his trousers. You’re naked before he is, and his trousers are barely off his hips when he sees you, all of you. He can’t stop himself, grabbing you, pulling your body flush to his and bringing you back to the bed. He lays you out, lets his mouth rove lower than you lips, tasting the flesh of your chest, ducking your nipple between his teeth. He’s attentive, watching the way your body reaches to each touch he offers.
Pero sets himself beside you on the bed, his mouth moving back up to your own while his hand wanders. Your knees snap together when his hand travels past your hips, cupping the heat between your legs, trapping him there. He smiles into your kiss. “So wet, bonita,” he murmurs, letting one finger tease your dripping cunt, the heel of his hand grinding into your clit, “so sensitive.”
You whimper into his kiss, the sound like honey to his ears, and Pero buries his face in your neck, nipping at your pulse. “Wait, Pero,” you say softly, and he freezes, pulling back, searching your face.
“What is it?” he asks, using his other hand to brush the hair from your face. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, no,” you assure him, shaking your head, chewing your lip. “It’s just…”
His brow lifts. “Are you…” He can barely get the question out. “Are you a virgin?”
“No,” you reply, lifting your hand and tracing a finger over his scar. “That’s just it, Pero. I tried…I tried to wait for you. I wanted you to be the first, but then…” You shake your head again. “They told us you were dead and I…I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” he repeats, like the word is foreign to him. “Bonita, I never expected you to wait. I never expected to see you again, truth be told. The god of luck must be on my side, throwing you back in front of me like this.” He drops his head, presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, careful of the injury at your collar. “I wanted you to be the first, too, but I…” He clears his throat. “I can think of something much better.”
“What’s that?”
“Perhaps I can be your last, and you mine.”
Your breath hitches as you pull him back down to you, the next kiss you offer even deeper than before. Pero drinks you down, memorizes the tastes of you. His hand works between your legs, two fingers pressing inside you, finding that deep spot that makes your body jolt in his arms. He murmurs to you softly in Spanish, words he knows you understand, and coaxes you up to that peak, thumbing at your clit as you topple over, gripping his wrist tight enough he can feel his bones shift.
“Pero,” you groan out, your chest heaving as you come back down, your lashes fluttering as you breathe. “More.”
“More, bonita?” he prompts, pulling his hand away, licking his knuckles clean. He’s not shy about it, sucking the taste of you from his skin, dropping his face to your chest when he’s done, scraping his teeth along the curves of your breasts. “Tell me, how much more do you need?”
“Need you inside, Pero,” you reply, your body writhing beneath his, back arching into his mouth. “Need to feel all of you.” Your hand snakes down between your bodies, fingers wrapping around his cock. It makes his breath stutter in his chest, but he doesn’t let up his ministrations, nipping at your sternum. “I can’t tell you how many nights I laid awake, with my hand between my legs, thinking of where you were, the man you’d turned into, how well you’d fuck me if you were there with me.” Your other hand grips his chin again, lifting his head from your chest, your eyes locked with his. “Don’t keep me waiting any longer.”
“Sí, bonita,” he grits out, and maneuvers you both the best he can. He slides to the edge of the bed, pulling you into his lap. You’ve got him hard as a rock between your hot kisses and your heady touches and your dirty words, and his cock bobs against his stomach, sliding through the dip where your thigh meets your hip as you settle into his lap. “You like it like this?”
“I’m yours, Pero,” you say, your voice soft. “You can have me however you like.”
The words make something in his chest snap. Pero slings his arm around your waist and lifts you just enough to notch his cock at your entrance, groaning at the heat that instantly floods him. Unable to hold back any longer, he pulls you down hard, filling you to the hilt in one fell swoop, and the loud gasp you let loose is music to his ears. 
“Mine, bonita,” he growls, gripping your hips in both hands, bouncing you on his cock. “All mine.”
Your words are gone, replaced with open-mouthed nods, your brows pinched together. You twine your arms around his neck, locking your fingers in his hair. Pero plants his feet on the ground, uses the floor as leverage to piston his hips up into yours, driving his cock deep into you, finding that same spot his fingers had grazed. It makes your body seize, your chest plastered to his, and Pero can feel the quick thump of your heart as you start to climb that peak once more.
He’s not far behind you, and when you clench around him, pleasure flooding your body a second time, he can’t hold back. Pero drops his mouth against your shoulder, bites down hard, and your responding moan has him spilling deep inside you, painting your insides with his spend. The feeling is almost too much, overwhelming in all the right ways. 
“Gods above,” you murmur, your fingers stroking through his hair, your lips at his temple, “that was…”
Pero lifts his head and finds you mouth, giving you a soft kiss that tastes of salt and a tinge of copper. “Everything, bonita.” Another kiss. “That was everything.”
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itsmoonpeaches · 2 months
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Title: Storge
Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial
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Word count: 1,004
Rating: G
Summary: As the quest concludes and the war ends, Poseidon is left with the truth and the realization that Percy means more to him than he knew.
Also available on ao3.
Camp Half-Blood celebrated. The night sky bloomed with multicolored fireworks. And amid the cacophony, the gods discovered the truth.
At Zeus’s command, Athena had called for a meeting with the whole council to end the war between him and Poseidon. But now Olympus shuddered with war’s echoes once again.
“So much for a swift and crushing victory, eh dad?” sneered Ares. He leaned back on his throne, the ancient stone pressed against the back of his leather trench coat.
“Silence,” Zeus ordered with a scowl. Thunder rumbled above them. “Your role in this has not been forgotten.” His irises swirled with storm clouds. He propped himself up, resting his arms on the circular marble table that the Olympians sat around. “We must decide what to do with Luke Castellan.”
Poseidon watched the proceedings with feigned indifference. He clenched his fists beneath the table and felt the leftover prickle of electricity dance across his fingertips. Even for a god as prominent as he, stopping Zeus’s Master Bolt with his bare hands was a harrowing experience. It was not often that gods held onto another’s symbol of power.  
Across from him, Hermes twitched. His face shuttered.
“He is lost to us,” answered Athena with the authoritative tone he always recognized. She looked like that girl who went on the quest with Perseus except she was taller with narrower, more angular features. She had the same dark curls, but never wore her hair down. It was slicked back into a tight knot and accentuated her calculating gray eyes. “He eludes us with the power of his sword, and that puts him under Kronos’s protection. It is inadvisable to deduce where the portals will take him with so little information.”
Zeus frowned.
Athena clicked her tongue. “We must decide what to do with the other one…Poseidon’s spawn. Perseus Jackson.”
Poseidon straightened. The quake inside his chest threatened to release the force he held back. Long Island’s shores were bombarded with waves. “Enough,” he growled. He unclenched his fists. His trident crackled in its sheath attached to his throne.
The council quieted. Athena narrowed her eyes.
Zeus grunted, folding his arms as he glared. “I will not renege on the prize I have awarded the boy if he does not cause a disturbance,” he said. “I refuse to be indebted to a half-blood.” He lifted the Master Bolt. Its energy reverberated from the floors to the Corinthian columns that enclosed them. “He has returned what is mine. For now, we watch him.”
Poseidon thought to relax, but that was before Apollo with his sunny grin and even sunnier disposition, decided to interrupt.
“My Oracle spoke,” Apollo started with a singsong tune that grated on Poseidon’s nerves. “This may be the Prophecy. We must prepare soon.”
Poseidon sucked in a steadying breath. A new squall formed near Australia’s Shipwreck Coast.
Artemis rolled her eyes. “Not everything needs to be said in haiku, brother,” she admonished. The silver in her hair gleamed like the moon.
Poseidon sighed. The tension in his shoulders never lessened. “Perseus is not yet sixteen,” he said. “Leave him be.”
“We will get nothing done talking in circles. I have duties to attend to,” Zeus added. He nodded to Athena. “Finish this.”
The meeting adjourned. The gods flashed away, vanishing to tend to their domains. But Poseidon lingered. He had not moved. He stared at a pearl he rolled in his palm.
“Do you ever dream about mom?”
His son’s voice rushed into his head like an endless current. Perseus’s eyes were so much like his own, so much more than he had imagined. Poseidon had not answered his question. He had not forgotten.
He clutched the pearl tight and stood, trident in hand.
“He is your weakness, the boy.” Someone disrupted the silence.
Poseidon turned.
Athena observed him from the pathway that led to the rest of Olympus’s sprawling city. “If you are not careful, he will become a liability to you.”
He inclined his head. “What's this?” he asked with a sardonic smirk. “The goddess of wisdom and battle strategy giving me advice?”
“It is simply an observation.”
“An observation I do not crave.”
Athena scoffed. “You surrendered for him,” she replied. “You lost the war for that boy. He is nothing more than a blip in our eternity. What will happen in the future when there is more at stake? What will you choose, your son or the Fifth Age?”
He parted his lips, but no answer came. Athena departed down the path. He was alone.
He walked to the edge of the council room, intent on watching what remained of the fireworks below. Even from here, he could see them. If he concentrated, he could hear the laughter of the demigods and smell their offerings scraped into the bonfire. Most of them did not know what had transpired yet.
He only wished Perseus was spared betrayal.
The hearth that occupied the edge of the room snapped. Out of the warmth appeared the form of a little girl in drab robes.  
“Hestia,” he said with a slight bow. “I am sorry to disturb you. I will soon depart.”
“You are lost,” she remarked. She always sounded so much younger than she was. “You are thinking of him…of your family.”
“You are my family,” he countered.
She smiled and offered her right hand. “Take my hand.”
With caution, he took it.
As soon as they touched, images flooded his mind. He saw Sally Jackson. She pressed her forehead to their son’s. The sunlight dappled the rivulets of her hair and brightened Perseus’s blue eyes.
He saw Perseus in his cabin at camp, running his fingers along the water in the fountain, a pensive look on his face. On his neck, he wore a new bead on the necklace Chiron had given him. Painted against black was a delicate sea-green trident.
When Poseidon remembered himself, Hestia was gone. The visions tucked away inside him.
“Yes,” he whispered into nothing. “I do dream of you.”
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edge-oftheworld · 25 days
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'shallow hearts for shallow minds that ache to be alive' the chokehold you have on me
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beargyufairy · 3 months
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You with the dark curls
You with the watercolor eyes
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lisbeth-kk · 2 months
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Sherlock fandom
Black Velvet
One of the many things John loved about their relationship, was when Sherlock read aloud to him.
That voice!
It reminded John of black and lush velvet. Elegant, posh, exquisite. Just like the man himself. Sherlock scoffed of course when John mentioned it. 
“Don’t be ridiculous, John! You can’t compare a baritone voice with fabric. And no, I’m not going to read the phone book to you to prove that you’ll enjoy that just as much as poetry and novels.”
John just smiled lovingly, utterly besotted with this gorgeous man, now sharing his bed. Their bed. He interlaced his fingers with Sherlock’s and squeezed. 
“What do you have for us tonight, then?” John asked. 
“Poetry. Unknown author. Anonymous,” Sherlock answered.
Was his voice shaking slightly?
“Alright. I’m all ears,” John said and made himself comfortable against the pillows, still holding Sherlock’s hand. 
“It’s called Take my hand,” Sherlock murmured before he cleared his throat and started to recite the poem in question.
I am leading you along a dangerous path but you always follow
Your courage is my safety net
No matter how deep I fall, you’re there to catch me
Never allowing me to hit the ground
The sun never shines as bright as you do
When you are guiding me with your glow
I know I will get it the right 
My conductor of light
Come, take my hand, be mine
Because I would be lost without you
John didn’t know when he’d started crying, or clenching Sherlock’s hand so hard it hurt.
“Sherlock,” was all he was able to utter, the lump in his throat was too thick and aching for anything else.
Sherlock looked down at him with an uncertain look and John couldn’t bear that look, so he lifted his other hand to stroke Sherlock’s cheek. Relief washed over that beloved face, and he bent down to catch John’s lips. The kiss was sweet, tender and John tried to convey all he was unable to say at this moment into that kiss. He knew Sherlock would feel it.
I love you more than I can ever tell you
You are the moon to my sun
My everything
I was so lost when we met
And you saved me
Every second I am with you is precious
Every minute without you
I feel like drowning  
I will take your hand and be yours
From now on and till the end of time
@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitchworld @raina-at @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @phoenix27884 @sabsi221b @peanitbear @7-percent @ninasnakie
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wifegideonnav · 2 months
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when jenny nicholson made a video about creepypasta and said that internet “it happened to me” horror tends to be bad bc people go way past what’s believable so it stops being scary. i get recced a lot of ~horror content on ig and. yeah. like ok you can edit a demon into your reel. cool 👍 not scary though
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bettermcn · 1 year
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you find yourself an afterthought deep in your design.
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macadam · 5 months
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I read one fic series where sparklings were like antennae having, camera eyed multi legged eldritch mars rovers and it was such a vibe. I also really like Orb and Roomba variants
Oh I love the eldritch mars rover concept. One of the top 10 creatures in my opinion
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wilted-woman · 3 months
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fey family brainrot strikes again
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whumperofworlds · 6 months
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I LOOOOOOVE "take my hand" scenarios.
Whumpee holding onto a ledge on a cliff or similar, their hand slowly slipping off the ledge. Caretaker rushing to the rescue, grabbing their hand in the nick of time. Caretaker yelling to Whumpee that they got them, to not let go. Their grips slowly slipping as Caretaker tries to pull them back to safety...
I have yet to see such a trope anywhere in the whump community as far as I'm aware, and I wanna see it 👀
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rainintheevening · 9 days
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take my hand (raised-as-a-Sith Anakin au)
(@clawedandcute I made this with that program you told me about)
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poetrybyonur · 1 year
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The only time I'll ever look down on you is if I'm helping you to get up. So reach for me, grab my hand. I promise I won't let go.
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danosphere91 · 1 month
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yoooo, chapter five is ready to go. danny, sam, and tucker finally have an actual conversation. can you believe?
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