feverish thoughts

So Many Stars (Ch. 1)

Pairing: Phan
Genre: Chaptered fic, AU
Word count: 3,320 words
Description: After graduating with his law degree, Dan decides to move to Japan to teach English for a year.

A/N: so i’ve been wanting to write a phan au where they are english teachers in japan for a long time. this is going to be a pretty long, chaptered fic. please read if you’re interested!


It was 36 degrees outside — literally human body temperature — and the air was so thick with humidity Dan was pretty sure he could take a bite out of it. Yet here he was, sat in a full suit and tie in a room where the only relief from the sweltering heat came from the half-assed breeze that occasionally drifted through the open windows. His shirt was plastered to his back with sweat, and he was pretty sure it was going to have to be surgically removed later on. The vinyl couch he sat on felt like it was made of lava. 

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The Aquitaine Princess

Tribute and follow-up ficlet to sparklight’s chapter forty in her marvelous “In Which Our Intrepid Hero Doesn’t Escape” series. (Fiercely-protective Mommy Vader wasn’t something I understood I desperately needed until I encountered it! And I love genderbent “Luca” as well. ^_^)

If you’re wondering about the title, it’s a reference to a beautiful French poem known as El Deschidado, which references an “Aquitaine prince with a destroyed tower.” Technically Luca would be a princess (though I’m not certain how comfortable she’d be with the title), hence the change.

Trigger warning for a panic attack. I don’t feel Luca is any less badass than Luke, but you’ve got to keep in mind that the poor kid’s in a seriously traumatizing situation. (Let’s hope there are some Imperial therapists available in the ranks.)

L & V are being a bit more emotional than normal, mainly because I think genderbent Luke and Vader might be a little more in-tune with their emotions (albeit Vader a smidgen more so.)

Thanks again to the very-excellent sparklight, whom is an angel, saint, and a bag of chips!

I am the Dark One, – the Widower, – the Unconsoled
The Aquitaine Prince whose Tower is destroyed:
My only star is dead,- and my constellated lute
Bears the black Sun of Melancholia.

In the night of the Tomb, You who comforted me,
Give me back Mount Posillipo and the Italian sea,
The flower that my afflicted heart liked so much
And the treillised vineyard where the grapevine unites with the rose.

—Excerpt from El Deschidado


“… what do you want?” Luca asked, quiet and shamefully soft, even as her back was almost painfully stiff. The hand around her wrist tightened, making the metal of the cuff dig in a little, and the other gloved hand finally rose up, not quite touching her cheek.

Foreboding gathered in her gut as she watched those starkly yellow eyes wash out into bright blue again, watched the harsh twist to Vader’s mouth soften a shade.

“My daughter.”


Luca had flinched at that. Partially because her stomach had rolled sickeningly and she had to take deep, shuddering breaths to keep the remaining contents of her stomach from heaving their way up. She braced a glistening palm against the wall, nearly slipping.

The hand poised over her face slowly fell. She wondered wordlessly why Vader bothered if she couldn’t actually bring herself to touch her affectionately, but the hand had hesitantly reached for Luca, as if of its own accord.

Dimly, Luca felt the writhing flare—something like a supernova—of Vader’s wintry force presence hardening, crackling as it rapidly frosted over into a pernicious arctic armor. And suddenly it seemed to be much farther away, as if Luca were looking at it through the wrong end of binoculars, though Vader’s hand still clutched her wrist so tightly she was rapidly losing feeling in it.

Luca immediately felt a hot rush of shame as she gazed up at over-bright eyes, starkly-blue embers hovering in the dark, unblinkingly watching her. Did Vader sense her revulsion?

Her next thought stepped on her question mark: Why should she care if she hurt Vader’s feelings? Insanity, it seemed was catching.

Or genetic.

Her free hand drew itself into a shaking fist, nails sinking in her palm. Uncle Owen had lied about her mother, and while she could maybe, albeit begrudgingly, understand why he had, she couldn’t help resenting him even if the feeling came with a maelstrom of guilt.

And when he and Beru had been murdered, the only person whom saved her from being crippled with grief was Ben, whom gave her what she’d wanted her whole life: The knowledge that she was meant to do something special—albeit more so than she ever could’ve guessed—and that her mother had been, too. She bit the inside of her mouth hard, and something metallic and hot flooded her mouth. Vader snapped something she heard, but didn’t understand.

Anakin Skywalker was a Jedi knight, a paradigm of strength and goodness, whom also had her life cut short by Vader. If Luca hadn’t already wanted vengeance for Beru and Owen, now it became a purpose, which had been the only thing sustaining her all this time, her friends aside. A lump rose from her chest and lodged itself in her throat.

Her grief for her mother had vapidly skyrocketed, something she hadn’t even thought possible. But Vader wasn’t anything she anticipated, the demon she’d needed him to be, and she felt pity for him—her—before Luca remembered and her contempt washed it away.

But Vader was her mother, there was no use in not accepting it, the force had no feelings and resonated the affirmation over and over again—

“Young one.”

Vader was urgently saying something else, her hand still bracing Luca’s back. Luca stared blankly at Vader’s rapidly-yellowing eyes.

Ben had to have known Darth Vader was her mother and he’d lied, just like everyone else in the galaxy so desperate to turn her into a pawn, he’d lied when Luca had no one and nothing left, not even a home. Ben wanted her to kill her mother—she shrank back from the thought as if burned, it felt traitorous. But it was true.

Now she could never trust even Ben’s memory ever again. The only person she could understand innately wasn’t lying was her mother. Her mother was alive, the sweetest and most secret hope Luca had ever cherished, but it’d devolved into a nightmare. Vader was a genocidal and vicious maniac. Nothing short of evil.

Luca probably imagined the faint tremor in Vader’s hand still clutching her wrist. Vader, whom for all Luca’s training, for all her giving everything and then some, had stolen her away as easily like a cat would a kitten, regardless of her struggles.

She let out a noise that came out both a strangled laugh and a sob. Vader was the only person whom she could innately understand wasn’t lying, and yet she in all likelihood wanted to use Luca too, her own child. Both Obi-Won and Anakin Skywalker died second deaths in that moment.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Exhale, exhale, exhale—

Her lungs plunged rapidly for air, seeming to end only at the base of her neck, not drawing nearly enough oxygen, regardless of how much she gulped for it.

Her mother’s hands grasped her shoulders as Luca’s vision blurred orange, bled red. Her mind churned in a near-indecipherable blur of terror and hysteria. Her ears rang and someone must’ve been screaming while her throat burned as if it were filling up with blood. She thrashed hopelessly in Vader’s hold, too panicked to care that there was no escape on the ship, that her wrist at this point had become a distant, stinging star of pain as the manacle dug into her skin. Why not, why not, what did it matter she didn’t care nothing mattered anymore—


Vader’s ear-splitting roar sliced through the air and the force; Luca’s eyes widened, freezing as Vader seized her in a too-tight hold, pinning both her arms to her sides. Still Luca struggled, and in Vader’s now-palpable concern, her icy barriers thawed and Vader’s force presence rushed to meet hers. Luca fell limp at that, and if Vader hadn’t been clutching her upright she would’ve certainly tumbled to the floor.

At first it was worse, because Vader’s mercurial force presence loomed like an enormous, blackish-red tidal wave over Luca’s, reaching for her like so many hands. Barriers flew up in Luca’s mind as she frantically retreated deeper into herself, but Vader had been using the force longer than Luca had been alive, and when she pursued the blockades were carelessly knocked aside.

A second later Vader’s mind immobilized her own in a perfectly-implacable grip, rippling with furious dark energy—the first icy jolt upon being badly burned. Luca would’ve cried out if she could’ve, bracing herself for a certain mental assault and the agony certain to go with it.  

Something tentatively—tentatively?—and gently brushed against Luca’s petrified subconscious, the lightest of touches. Stunned, Luca tried to speak, but a cool energy glided over her feverish and distressed thoughts, plunging them into white background noise.

Shaking like mad, her head tilted and fell against Vader’s armor-clad shoulder.

There was a quiet hum coming from the gentle energy flowing into her. It did not quite make her calm, her heart was beating too quickly for that—but it hushed the frantic, blind energy that would’ve sent her battering herself against the ship walls. Luca’s eyes slipped shut. It wasn’t quite unlike the time she’d been slipped inside a bacta tank.  

Another light caress, albeit still uncertainly so, as if Vader were frightened of her, which was absurd to the point of being hilarious. Vader’s force presence was infinitely larger than Luca’s, could’ve crushed hers into dust. But while the idea was baffling, it felt like Vader’s mind was actually cradling hers.

More likely, Luca had somehow sustained head trauma when she’d been electrocuted earlier.

Her breathing was still shuddery, but slower and deeper. Awareness returning, Luca sharply inhaled as she sensed a ring surrounding her, comprised of a black, thrashing maw of blazing toxic energy.

Alarmed, wishing desperately for hers—Vader’s—saber, Luca was shocked by the sheer fury and hatred these flames emitted, something she could dimly understand had been kindled by raw despair.

This force energy jabbed violently out, like so many knives and so much broken glass and while Luca had once scoffed at the word bloodcurdling, she could not do so now. Approaching them would be suicidal. She redoubled her efforts to be free, and Vader had only tightened her mental grip the way she had Luca’s wrist.

While unharmed by the barrier, Luca desperately wanted to shy away; the flames were comprised from malevolence, lashing out and seeking so many targets; possibly the whole galaxy. And yet, oddly enough, not at the girl they surrounded.

But the force defense was more than pure anger; there was a staggering amount of possession and protection radiating off them in waves, something near-feral in intensity and if Vader meant to harm her all along (though Luca didn’t think so) why couldn’t she get it over with?

Young one.

Vader’s voice within the force struck a rich, deep alto. No rasping, no staccato breathing, no intermittent noises from her support. Luca’s eyes flew open, startled.

You are safe.

The voice began hissing the beautiful words over and over again, and the comforting cool energy coming from Vader increased, lulling. Eyes flickering once again, Luca sagged in the gloved hold, fighting to stay conscious.

Her brow furrowed, bewildered as to why this seemed dimly familiar.  


Sometimes when Luca slept she remembered something, or at least upon waking she dimly remembered recalling something, from a very, very long time ago. Before she’d been born.

In a night without stars, she was a nebulous being whom didn’t think in words. Her nascent mind wandered, eventually approaching a much larger presence than her own self.

Innately she understood without understanding how whom it was, and brushed against it curiously. At first it started in blinding-white-shock, iron-defenses shooting up before they crumbled into an intense tenderness, something tremulous. It recognized her.

The awestricken luminosity softly pressed back, with something akin to playfulness. It’d wrapped around her so tenderly and tightly she’d been happy, a profound sense of contentment and rightfulness stealing over her in their burgeoning force connection. The other used it to send peaceful waves passing over her, both of them basking in mutual adoration.

That had been the first time Luca’s consciousness encountered Anakin Skywalker’s, but it hadn’t been the last.


When Luca came back to herself, there were tears streaming silently down her face. Vader held her in a not-quite an embrace, pinning her arms, which was it was confining as much as it was comforting.

At last by unspoken agreement Luca tugged back and Vader slowly released her. The former turned to look determinedly at the wall while rubbing her face.

And she prayed that Vader couldn’t understand that her earlier revulsion was not least because a little girl from trillions and trillions of light-years miles away (but not far enough) had looked up at the dark lord’s words, was scrubbing her dirty face and scrambling to her feet, staring expectantly at the sky.

The silence between them was every part as uncomfortable as the shouting. Luca’s face burned and she couldn’t quite bring herself to look back.

However dire the situation, it was the most profoundly awkward one Luca had ever encountered. Vader seemed to feel the same, considering just how quiet she was, save for the intermittent breathing on the oxygenator.

It was childish, but Luca couldn’t help but reach out with the force towards Vader again, and for her credit was firmly pushed away. The latter’s force presence was rapidly resealing itself in its fortress.  

“Will you be still now?” Vader said at last, sounding as weary as Luca felt. “Can I trust you not to harm yourself?”

Luca just nodded wearily, still wiping her eyes. Thankfully Vader didn’t see, or pretended not to. The two remained chained together, though both were looking in opposite directions of the dilapidated old ship, lost in her own thoughts.

Anakin Skywalker was still alive. Anakin Skywalker was still alive.

She mopped her face once again, took a few deep breaths.

“Where are you taking me?” She asked, not quite trusting her voice.

“My ship.” said Vader shortly, after only a moment’s hesitation. The woman’s eyes remained fixated on the windows ahead, reflecting her ruined face stricken of any color, so badly burnt that hair refused to grow. “You’ll be interned in quarters there.”

Luca felt a sharp spike of irritation. Exactly how well had Vader thought this plan through before kidnapping her? “And what, you’re going to lock me up forever, is that it?”

“Don’t tempt me,” snarled Vader, pulling at their chain. “As it stands, the idea of having you handcuffed to my person at all times has its merits.”

Luca went very hot and then very cold at that, because Vader wasn’t someone whose bluff you wanted to call.

“Please,” she tried again, her voice again reaching that painfully soft and embarrassing register. “You can’t just—“

Vader spun on her heel to face her, bluing eyes flashing.

“I can. You are safe with me, not at the beck and call of a ragtag, hypocritical army of anarchists whom will step on your throat the moment you become a liability.”

“The Alliance would never—“

“Yes, because they clearly had ‘Miss Vader’s kid’s,’ best interests at heart,” Vader scoffed, and Luca nearly had the heart knocked out of her.

It would’ve been one thing if Vader kept shouting lies in her ears—annoying, but bearable because she knew otherwise. But the moment Luca discovered her parentage the soldiers had closed in on her—

They wouldn’t have hurt me. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.

“No, you did not. But your innocence would not save you; you were culpable in being born my child.”

It sounded so awful spoken aloud, given shape. Luca had to count to ten to avoid screaming.

“I can’t turn. I can’t be like you. You have to let me go.”

“I have to do no such thing. What I must do is my obligation, which is to keep you from harm.”

Surprise flitted on Luca’s face and her breath caught. Vader pointedly looked away, her force presence growing positively polar, an icy warning to keep a safe distance.

It was a very strange dance. When Luca stepped forward, Vader stepped back, and however much Luca had tried denying her parentage, Darth Vader had only told her the truth over and over again.

Too exhausted to argue anymore, and knowing it was useless in any case, Luca sank to a sitting position again and closed her eyes, so emotionally drained she could scarcely move.

Vader had stolen yet another thing from her. She couldn’t imagine harming her now.


Sometimes when Luca was small, she woke up crying in the middle of the night. Aunt Beru would come in and rub her back, assuring her that her nightmares were only ever just nightmares.

And she did have dreams of black, white-eyed creatures dragging her away and eating her (she couldn’t scream, because they’d eat that too), but sometimes she didn’t dream at all, but only woke up crying from a fissure so horribly hollow and hurting it made her worry she might never stop.


When Luca came to, she awoke wrapped in a black cape, as whomever was carrying her marched across a white bridge. A docking chamber.

Suddenly remembering and returning to hell, she warily turned to gaze up at Vader—whom by now had her unholy black mask restored, eyes shrouded in black. What color were they now, and what was she thinking?

Luca wearily shoved at Vader’s front so as to least have some decency in walking, but she might as well as pushed a wall for all the reaction Vader gave.

Luca pressed a hand against her eyes and was annoyed when it came back wet; she’d been crying from the old place again, the one with bits of her that had never grown up, not really.  She hid her face upon wondering what the imperial soldiers must’ve thought, to have seen the dark lord carrying a girl draped in her cloak and crying as if her heart were on the verge of stopping.

Vader had turned grief into murderous, destructive power. Luca could only let it turn into pain and something tenderer, infinitely more vulnerable. Maybe that was why Vader turned—sheer fear of being torn apart by this raw emotion.  

She sulked, hating the fact that she couldn’t hate Vader, despite the enormity of her actions. The woman had razed entire civilizations and now Luca needed her and that thought was so disturbing so she feebly tried pushing against Vader again, wriggling in her hold and knowing the futility.

“I can’t stay here.”

“You can and must. At my side, you will be a princess.”

Luca’s mind wiped itself blank, faintly hearing Biggs laughing. “I’m not a princess. I have it on good authority I am the opposite of a princess. A princess told me that.”

“You were one before you were born, child. It is your birthright.”

“Please. My friends will come for me in any case.”

This was something Luca did and desperately did not want, for Han, Leia, Threepio, Artoo and Chewie to appear. They’d be in mortal danger, and yet Luca was already missing them.

“I will kill Palpatine for what he did,” said Vader coldly as they stepped into yet another long white hallway. “He told me you had died, and so I’ll burn him from existence. Here is another lesson, child. I’ll destroy anyone whom tries taking you from me.”

Luca’s jaw dropped, and despite the cloak draped around her went cold.

…..oh. Um.

Escaping was going to be an ordeal.

All glittering gold

Based on “Imagine cuddling with Thorin the night before the BotFA and making him promise that he will return to you (which he does)” from ImaginexHobbit

Note: I had to tinker with the timeline a bit to make this imagine work, but I really liked the idea, so I figured accuracy could take a little holiday.

A sequel to Pierced by Cupid


Thorin had returned to sit, brooding, on the throne while you lingered on the narrow walkway below the dais watching Balin, Dwalin, and Bilbo leave. When the trio had disappeared through the vast, arched doorway, you turned to him where he slumped, his eyes restless and constantly moving with his feverish thoughts.

“You’re not being reasonable, Thorin. How long will you test their loyalty?”

He glanced irritably at you before looking away over the cavernous chamber. “They owe me their loyalty.”

“And you owe them your trust, your patience,” you countered. “Have they not proved themselves time and time again, all of them?”

“You forget your place,” he warned, turning a dangerous gaze on you.

You opened your mouth to speak and closed it again, summoning all of your self-restraint to smother your simmering frustration, bite back the angry words that wanted to claw their way from your throat. “You are not the man you were,” you said finally, carefully. “You regard the ones who love you most with doubt and suspicion…you are consumed with the search for this accursed stone, and I fear for you, Thorin. I pity you.”

“You pity me?” He repeated your words incredulously, in a voice thick with contempt. “I am King under the Mountain. I have no need for the pity of a woodworker’s daughter.”

Anger flared in you again, threatened to burn what love remained between the two of you, frail and brittle as a fallen leaf, to ashes. “There was a time when you spoke of making a woodworker’s daughter your Queen,” you retorted, caring no more for self-restraint. “Or have you forgotten everything you said when you had me bare beneath you in Laketown?”

Even in his madness, Thorin looked stung, and still the words poured from your lips. “Was I only there to warm your bed?” you needled him. “Give you courage to face the dragon with my pretty words of love and faith?”

“Enough!” Thorin bellowed, rising to his feet with an almost convulsive movement, his glittering armor and the mad gleam in his eye making him larger, frightening. “You forget. Your. Place.” He ground out the words through clenched teeth, and just as suddenly as it had flooded you, your fury drained away, leaving behind only a cold, empty regret that filled your eyes with tears.

“I have no place here,” you whispered, searching for a glimpse of the man you loved in the face of the capricious, grasping tyrant who stood before you and finding no such comfort. With a trembling exhale, you turned to begin the long walk to the doorway, leaving him glowering on the dais.

“Where are you going? I have not given you leave,” Thorin said indignantly, behind you.

Your footsteps were loud in the oppressive stillness.

“I am the King!” Petulance crept into his voice. “I am the King, and you will stay until I have finished speaking to you!”

Only the silence answered him, and your retreating form grew smaller.

“Go, then,” Thorin growled, his call echoing on the stone walls. “Go! But know this: if you walk through that door, do not presume to show me your face again.”

With that, you halted, standing frozen beneath the great stone arch before looking back over your shoulder to meet his demanding stare, far away across the chamber. His lips began to curl into a victorious smirk that quickly faded when, without a word, you turned and left the throne room.

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Lips catch on teeth in a hurried kiss. Hungry, hungry eyes stare into his. Blunt nails bury themselves into his hips; a jean-clad leg pressing in between. A toned chest is pulled flush against his, molding him to the wall. His hands latch onto black leather and clutch so hand the knuckles turn white.


“Shh.” A finger slides over his lips. “Don’t say it. Tonight, we are nameless.”

He wants to argue, he wants to scream that it wouldn’t matter; by tomorrow, he would be nameless once again.

A feverish kiss stills his thoughts, soft lips stealing away what little control he had. They pull apart briefly and Icarus looks into Apollo’s eyes. Reality suddenly bites at his heart.

A golden boy with the brilliance of the sun, gold-spun hair, and celestial blue eyes. How could a boy who dreams of flyings and wakes up with the sun in his mouth ever compare?

“You don’t want this.” Why does the words sound like death’s doors closing? He feels like falling.

“I-I do.” His voice quivers more than he would like, stutters as much as his traitorous heart does.

“Then, why do you look like you’re about to cry?”

“I-” The words are stuck in his throat, his tongue heavy with fear. He doesn’t want to say it, lest it becomes laden with anger and desperation. He doesn’t want to give in to the dangerous idea that Apollo meant something to him.

He runs a hand through his silky hair and Icarus’ fingers twitch with urges to card through them. “I’m not going to hurt you. So, please, tell me what’s wrong.” Apollo stares at Icarus with those intense blue eyes and he caves.

“I.. you said that tonight we would be nameless,” he murmurs. Icarus winces at how weak and disappointed his voice sounds, but continues anyways. He’s already off the deep end. It’s too late to take back his words. “But, I’m going to be nameless tomorrow and the next day and forever, aren’t I?”

Apollo freezes and Icarus looks away. He contemplates leaving when he realizes that he’s in his own house, his own room, and curses. Inviting Apollo had been a decision proved fatal.

“No.” The word is soft and lingers long in the air after Apollo’s voice dies away. Icarus’ head turns sharply to look at him, hope blossoming in his chest. He hates it; the fact that the hope would end up being crushed, that he would be disappointed again.

“You’re not nameless. You will never be nameless, Icarus,” Apollo says. His hand skirts through his hair once again and Icarus recognizes it as a nervous habit. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just thought.. I thought that if we didn’t say our names.. if you didn’t say my name, then I wouldn’t fall for you more. Then, it would hurt less when we act like strangers tomorrow.”

Icarus could feel his heart skip a beat as he looks at Apollo. His lips part in an attempt to speak, but no sound comes out.

“You don’t have to say anything. I’ll just.. I’ll just leave. This was supposed to be your night and I ruined it. I’m sorry.” Apollo stands up and turns to the door. Panic wells up in Icarus’ chest and he grabs Apollo’s wrist.


Apollo freezes at the touch, but remains facing the door. Icarus knows that he can easily break out of his weak grasp, but the golden boy is rooted in his tracks.

“P-please stay,” Icarus practically begs. He licks his dry lips, swallows the lump in his throat, and finds the courage to say, “I want you here.”

“You do?” The hesitance and the overwhelming hope in Apollo’s voice breaks his heart.

“I do,” he answers resolutely. He has never been more sure of anything. “I.. I’ve fallen for you, too.”

Apollo abruptly turns around and sits on the edge of his bed, hovering above Icarus. His form shakes, as does his voice. “You.. you have?”

Heat crosses his cheeks and Icarus knows that he’s blushing heavily. He nods, not trusting his voice to find the right words.

“Oh, thank god.” Apollo exhales heavily, his lips lift in a relieved smile. He becomes shy in the next instance, so different from the confident boy Icarus knows. “Can I hug you?”

“Yes, please.” The earnest reply brings forth Apollo’s sweet laughter and Icarus finds that it’s worth the embarrassment. He is pulled into Apollo’s embrace, strong arms wrapped around him, and his eyes flutter close.

Hesitantly, Icarus’ arms reach around to Apollo’s back and he rests his hands on the soft leather. It only takes a moment for them to tighten and suddenly, Icarus never wants to let go. His only reassurance is that Apollo feels the same way; if his snug embrace is any indication.

“This has to be a dream,” Icarus says, his voice barely above a whisper. He has the sun in his arms and his body feels light as if wings were attached to his back. He’s falling but he’s not alone. It has to be a dream. Reality isn’t so kind.

Apollo breaks apart from Icarus’ hold, arms still held possessively around his waist. He presses his forehead against Icarus’ and stares into his eyes. “It’s not a dream, Icarus. This is real. I’m real. And, I’m not going to disappear once you wake up.”

Icarus chokes back a sob as he closes his eyes. His mind still can’t wrap around the idea that Apollo is here, in his bed and in his arms. His heart, the wretched thing, has already accept it as truth. It would only take a bit longer before his mind believes it as well.

He opens his eyes and gasps softly at the pure unadulterated love in Apollo’s eyes. Aphrodite must have blessed him tonight because the love is so tangible he could taste it.

Apollo’s eyes are so blue that Icarus swears he stole the color from the sky. They’re clear and honest. Icarus couldn’t find the heart in him to question Apollo’s claims. He’s telling the truth; his soul practically resonates with it.

Icarus buries his head against Apollo’s chest, breathing in his scent. He becomes heady with the smell of sunlight and leather, soft sighs escaping his lips.

Apollo only pulls him closer, whispering sweet, sweet declarations of love in his ear. Icarus is crimson to the tips of his ears and Apollo merely chuckles. “You’re adorable.”

He’s not one to take compliments well and stumbles through his thanks. Apollo just smiles and presses soft kisses into his hair. “Happy birthday, Icarus.”


They spend the night in each other’s arms, kissing sweetly and spilling secrets they’ve been dying to tell. The heated desire from before thins out and a deeper intimacy brings them closer than hurried carnal pleasure ever could. They fall asleep tangled up together and doesn’t let go even in Morpheus’ realm.

 When Icarus wakes up, he finds his head resting on a toned chest, strong arms wrapped around his body in a secure embrace. He flushes, but snuggles closer to Apollo and closes his eyes. Falling isn’t so bad after all.

- Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #57
tails & talons - fairies and ink

Part (9) of my NaLu Florist/Tattooartist AU series
check out the amazing art for this fic:
read more: here

“Thankyou so much for helping me with these.”

“Ah, no worries!”

Natsu grinned as he dumped the last of the potting soil bags in the corner and clapped his hands together.

“There’s nothing more to carry, right?”


This could have been the prompt for him to leave, but Natsu seemed to have different plans. Lazily, he walked over to her chair and slumped down, resting his feet on the counter.

“And what do you think you’re doing?" 

"Keeping you company,” he yawned. “Besides, my next appoinment is only at two thirty. Still over half an hour left.”

Lucy tried to sound annoyed, but it sounded fake at best. They both knew she loved his company just as much as he loved hers.

And so she simply continued about her previous occupations, but not without giving him a quick warning to not destroy any vases - again.

As she rearranged the decoration, Lucy could hear him rummage through a drawer behind her back. Seriously, had he ever heard of privacy?

Then it became quiet again, and she continued exchanging pots and wilted flowers, until a regular scratching noise diverted her attention.

“Hey Natsu, what are you doing?”

“Mmmh?” he replied, apparently distracted. “Drawin’.”

That was enough to get her attention.

“Oh really? Can I see?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, but simply interrupted her busy hustle and bustle as she made her way to the counter, rounding it to peek over his shoulder.

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I present to you the kylux whaler au that exactly 0 of you asked for. If I am lucky it will entertain more than myself. 

1826, New Bedford. Johnathan Snoke’s First Fisheries are on the cusp of dominating the whaling trade. Benjamin “Renegade” Solo (”I hate that name. Call me Ren.”) is the relentless force in Snoke’s infinite fleet, leading them to deeper and richer seas. From the helm at port William Huxley (”That’s my father’s name. Call me Hux”) charts new hunting routes and oversees the buying and selling of their wares. When word of returning ships reaches him he is often found upon the widow’s walk, his trained eye on the horizon, and when sails appear on the waves he can be found at the docks, steadfast as the pier itself. His reunion with whaler Ren is fleeting; it is rare to see either of them milling about town for a good week after returning to port. If you are unlucky enough to spot either outside the safety of their warehouse on Main Street be sure to not comment on Hux’s stiff gait or the wobble in Ren’s step, or else be prepared to be on assignment in Antarctica for the next four years hunting penguins. 

Inspiration from a feverish thought process some three weeks ago. I’d apologize for this hot mess but I’ve been frustrated with my art so it was time to get self indulgent, and I’m damn proud of the results. I am something of an old whaling nerd so if you have questions I will answer them with worrying enthusiasm. 

(Also this is 10000% a long haul setup excuse to draw these two set to “Lowlands Away”)


Your voice playing sonnets
they pierce my heart
taking me apart

The words fading out
inside my chest
vibrating against my ribcage
resonating, echoes away
inside my bones
against the flesh
ebbing out.

Your fingers touch my forehead
I close my eyes.

Your fingerstips are warm
marking my skin
making me feverish.

Everything is sluggish

My imagination?
A feverish dream?
A wishful thought?

Embrace me.
Take me

Like fusion.
Tasting your lips.
Like drugs.




Feeling of…
I feel your fingertips.
You’re touching me.
Caressing me.

You’re close by.
Right beside me.

Did I wake up?
A lucid dream?
A daydream?
Did i ever fall asleep?

Never there.
Hazy thought.

A shadowkissed memory.
A mystery.



It’s a bad day when a purifier goes insane. 

Abby, the local Batter, was once a voice of mercy. Justice. As much as any other, at least. But he becomes more and more convinced by the day by the corruption eating away at the remains of his true self that, in fact, his condition - his failure - is only due to the events of… he can’t remember… A year…?

A year ago.

It is the clone’s fault. It must be. It’s not his fault, he knows that. And that any version of himself could enjoy the company of, fall in love with, and be intimate with such a thing is honestly sickening. It disturbs him to his core.

Something has to die. The duplicates Gnome creates for him are not enough. But he has an idea of what might be, for now. Something the other Batter in mind no longer has care for - not now, at any rate.

He now leans on the wall of the building opposite the residence the Clone-s call their home. But it isn’t theirs. It never was. This is his file. He was created for it. He has made it safe.

It belongs to him.

No higher purifier from an alternate file can judge him. It has no right.

Such are feverish thoughts - justifications - running through his head as he polishes the inhabitant blood from his bat, eyeballing several broken secretaries, recently destroyed, around him.

Omega has its doubts. The three have since the day they entered the other file.

Add-ons share a strong bond. But they are also loyal to their purifiers.

The Batter pushes himself off the the wall, nudging the visor of cap up with an expression of contempt.