#Cliff Shelf Nature Trail

[comfort-questing]

night and death and the rain are given (p4)

first, second, third

"You look dreadful," was the next thing that Jean said to Diluc, as he leaned into the window-frame next to her chair. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Some. Enough." Did sleeping fitfully for a few hours between daylight and eleven o'clock count? He'd gotten less before and counted it, at that.

Jean didn't answer, just raised her eyebrows ever so slightly.

Diluc sighed. "You, of course, being the local expert on resting."

"Fair. But we don't need you getting ill again, too, sir." She reached out to brush her fingers against his hand, the worry deepening on her face.

Winds of mercy, when had she started looking at him like that? Like he was something that needed to be cared for? He expected it from Barbara, that being the nature and calling of Barbara more or less; he had thought better of Jean than this. He rubbed his eyes and looked away, towards where Kaeya lay huddled and motionless on the bed, dark blue-black hair spread across the pillows.

Didn't Barbara's healing usually work faster than this, he couldn't help thinking - out of his admitted depth of inexperience with Barbara's healing; he'd not been conscious for the majority of his own brush with it.

As if sensing his gaze, Barbara looked up, the shimmer of Hydro dancing half-visible around her outstretched hands.

"Don't worry, sir," she said. "We ought to stay hopeful - it's for the best at times like this." She returned to humming softly, and this time when she rested her hand on Kaeya's cheek he did not pull away. "I'm helping him sleep now and trying to bring his fever down. He's worn out and very weak."

He hadn't seen Kaeya since the day they'd brought Jean back to Mondstat from Starsnatch Cliff, but looking at his foster-brother now he could see the traces and hollows of exhaustion and strain on his face, and he wondered abruptly whether Kaeya often looked like this - not so far from what he saw in his own mirror, some days.

"I shouldn't have let him go," Jean said softly. "I knew it was a risk. But our little crimson scientist's incendiary devices shouldn't be wandering all over the continent, and this time it really wasn't her fault that they were. If anything, it was my fault in the first place, for letting Iris have a collection to try to break up the ice on the mountain." She rubbed a hand over her face, pushing her hair back from her forehead. "But we can't have any more adventurers lost trying to find their way through, or spare the Knights to go bringing them back all the time. Not with the dangers on the roads..." Her voice trailed off. "I'm sorry. I'm rambling again."

"No. I - I'm sure that you have much on your mind." He knew well enough how it was, to think about one cause of a problem and to pull a whole skein of them down off the shelf. Whatever the Knights were or were not doing as an entity, Jean herself was no slacker.

"But for now, I'm here." Jean folded her hands on her lap. "And my mind should be here, too. For Kaeya, and for you."

"For - me?"

"Of course." Her voice dropped, so that he had to lean closer to hear her. "I - I know how it feels to worry about a sibling. Although for smaller reasons, of course, on my side."

Diluc clenched his teeth. "He wouldn't like it if he heard that," he said. "About us being... siblings."

Jean's eyebrows drew together. "Why wouldn't he? I thought..."

"We were - we were brothers. But that's a long time ago, and when we were - quite different people, he and I, and on a different road." Diluc let himself slide down the wall to sit on the floor, his legs suddenly too tired to hold him up, the sunlight too bright in his eyes. "I don't know what we are now. Is there a word for people who used to be brothers, once? Foster-brother? Erstwhile brother? Stray brother?"

"I asked myself that too," Jean said. She put out a hand to touch his drawn-up knee, shyly, then firmly, but her eyes were far away. "With Barbara. You know that we didn't live together, for a while? All I knew was - one day I woke up and Father was gone, and Mother said all good riddance to bad rubbish. And there was no more shouting, but there was no more singing either, because he'd taken Barbara with him."

For an instant her gaze found Barbara by the bedside, and a smile fleeted at the corners of her mouth.

"I told myself she'd forget me. I told myself she'd already forgotten me, and sometimes that maybe she was better off without me, even. Happier, somehow. Living an easier life no doubt than I was. But then - I saw her in the Cathedral, one day, and she smiled, and called me big sister, and all of those years vanished like leaves on the wind."

He didn't know what kind of wind it would take to make the last years vanish. But he found Jean's hand with his, and pressed hard, in an acknowledgement that he didn't know if he could shape in words.

"We don't walk the same paths, Barbara and I. We don't always see each other, or know each other's routines, or share each other's friends. I'd be as lost in her choir rehearsals as she'd be in my office. But - I don't think that matters, truly."

Diluc swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight.

"But - you two were born siblings," he said. "Kaeya - Father found him."

(And he'd laughed and cried that rainy day more than on any other day in his life, because he'd had a little brother, just like he'd always wished for and thought it was a stupid wish that would never come true.)

Jean turned her hand over so that their fingers interlocked, slowly, deliberately. "I don't think that matters, either," she said. "Why should it?"

"But I don't know." Jean was trying to be kind, Diluc knew, but she was all coming at it from the wrong direction, and he couldn't let her go on being wrong. Not at a time like this, when so many things were upside-down already. He felt himself trembling helplessly, and squeezed his eyes shut to still the spinning of the room around him. "I don't know if he wants to be my brother."

Jean didn't answer for a long moment. Barbara was singing again, very softly, from across the room; Kaeya's harsh breathing was quieter now, more even.

"Well," said Jean, at last, "perhaps sometime soon you can ask him. And in the meantime, remember - when he needed help the most, he chose to come here, and to you."

He kept his eyes closed after that. It seemed simpler. And somehow, inexplicably, Jean's other hand found its way to his shoulder, and then to his hair, and he was mildly disappointed when Adelinde's appearance with a tray of food and soup startled him back to alertness and the complicated and fearful world around.

#crow writes a thing #genshin impact whump #whump #hurt comfort

[slowtravelingcat]

A new kind of chair and Badlands National Park

Monday, April 5th, 2021

CAL - We’ve arrived! It’s been one full week in Rapid City, South Dakota. Our new accommodations only have windows on one of the four available walls, but the water that flows from the kitchen sink is just as sweet as it was in Minnesota. 

We arrived early in the evening last weekend and I immediately recognized a new kind of chair. There are two of them and they are higher than the couch but lower than the kitchen counter. Naturally, I investigated, taking a strong liking to the one on the left.

Perched on this new kind of chair, I can gaze downwards at the large, bald one as she does her daily work on the laptop, but am also afforded easy access to the kitchen counter where I can smell the sink and supervise meal preparation. This is truly a great invention and it almost makes up for the lack of windows. 

MICHELE - We are finally settled in Rapid City, SD, staying in a budget hotel suite, acquired through Airbnb. The Sojourn is about 1.5 miles outside of the main square in town. It’s clean, efficient and the perfect jumping-off point to explore the Great Plains. 

This weekend, the adventure officially started with a day trip to the Badlands. This National Park is about an hour and a half outside of town, for which I strongly recommend taking Highway 44 on the way in.

I left around 4pm, planning to stay at the park through sunset at 7:30pm. This turned out to be perfect timing and allowed time to hike 3 little trails: Cliff Shelf (.5 miles), Door (.75 miles), and Notch (1.5 miles) as well as explore Window and the Fossil Exhibit stops.

Around 6:30pm I started the slow, meandering drive on Badlands Loop, which featured a ton of viewpoints and at least 2 herds of bighorn sheep. The road worms in and out of the traditional desert rock formations, for which the area is known, as well as vast grasslands that look like pools of bright yellow water from far away. I grabbed a few pictures of the magnificent sunset and then ran into a herd of bison on the way out. 

The Badlands Loop ends in the tiny town of Wall, which is your typical touristy roadside attraction. By 8pm almost everything was closed except for a few restaurants. I opted for dinner at Badlands Saloon and Grille, which is the kind of place where you can feel comfortable being covered in dust and eating with your hands. 

For the drive back, I took I90, which was darker and more desolate than I anticipated, nonetheless, I arrived back in Rapid City much quicker than I expected. All in all, a lot was accomplished in a mere 5.5 hours. Such is life outside of the city.

#cats #digital nomad #slow travel #travel

[thorsenmark]

My Travel Paintings - Badlands National Park and Bison by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: Badlands National Park and a Bison. When I captured the original image I posted here on Flickr (www.flickr.com/photos/14723335@N05/28503748057/in/album-7...), it was an overcast day with off and on drizzle that made for very slick trails to walk. So even though I was limited on places I could walk, given those conditions, I made the most of it and took in some amazing views. This is one are in Badlands National Park where I really enjoyed the views that seemed to stretch on to a distant horizon while walking the area around the Cliff Shelf Nature Trail. It was later while walking the shop at the Ben Reifel Visitor Center that I came across a water color painted image that inspired me to digitally paint something from that location. While there were no bison that day, the water color painting did...and I was going to paint one with mine! So to the digital painting…I’d been reading and practicing painting lessons in a book I was reading (The Photoshop and Painter Artist Tablet Book by Cher Threinen-Pendarvis) One lessons/chapter had me practice sketching and then painting with water color brushes for different images. That gave me an idea on something to try out with the many water color type brushes Kyle had to offer with Adobe Sketch on my iPad Pro. I would sketch out the image I captured with my Nikon D800E and then make changes like including a bison grazing on the prairie grasses and change the overcast skies to one with blue skies and clouds. So after sketching the image I wanted, I then tried out a few of Kyle’s brushes until I got something of what I wanted to paint on top of what I’d sketched out. I could then work with different colors and shades to produce relief in the terrain. Mind you, I was not trying to paint that as accurate as possible; my thinking was to use broader brush strokes where possible to create the appearance in this famous national park in South Dakota. So while not the perfect water color look I wanted, it was a good first try and something to work on with other images! Two other things I did was to use a background I painted out that makes a postcard I’d seen at the Visitor Center and would bring out a warmer color as I painted. The other was more practice on the skies that I’d read from this article (www.creativebloq.com/advice/5-simple-tips-for-painting-be...). In the left center foreground of the painting, you'll find that stick figure image of me "hiking" with my Cubbies hat, loving my time exploring the badlands and South Dakota :-)

#Azimuth 135 #Badlands #Badlands National Park #Brule Formation #Central Great Plains #Cliff Shelf Nature Trail #Cliff Shelf Trail #Eroded Buttes #Eroded Pinnacles #Grassland #Grassy Area #Grassy Field #Grassy Meadow #Great Plains #Landscape #Looking SE #Mako Sica #Meadow #Mixed-Grass Prairie Ecosystem #Nature #Niobara-Missouri-Black Hills Plains #North America Plains #Outside #Blue Skies with Clouds #Pierre Shale #Sunny #Rockyford Ash #Sharps Formation #Trip to Dakotas #Trip to Dakotas and Wyoming

[penguinlop]

Yandere Xiao x Reader

/// The Captive at Wangshu Inn - Part 2

Summary:

You always fantasized about traveling to Liyue because your mother was from there. But after making your first stop at Wangshu Inn and meeting a certain Yaksha, you start to wonder if Liyue is really as you idealized it to be.

Warnings: Yandere themes, Stalking, Verbal/ Racial Harassment (Xiao calls reader mutt,) Gaslighting, Toxic family relations, Suggestive Content, Mentions of Violence, Vulgar language

Part 1

Guilt devoured your fidgeting brain and heart.

He was right.

You had no place to gawk at an Adeptus like that, let alone the last known surviving Yaksha. How could you, a mere mortal, compare to a robust being that vanished gods alongside Rex Lapis? Euphoria should be overflowing your body! Furthermore, he probably didn’t mean what he said. The demon conqueror has roamed the lands for thousands of years. Who were you to judge his more archaic mindset? To him, you were a puny pebble, ready to be tossed haphazardly into the Bishui river.

Regardless, you made up your mind. You will apologize. You didn’t want your interactions with an illuminated beast to end on a sour note.

Yes, yes! You will prepare a simple, meaningful gift. But what do the Adepti even like? Rushing excitement de-escalated as you pondered for a few moments. They have no need for sleep. Most don’t need to consume anything to keep their bodies fit. They purely don’t have any need to participate in such trivial, human matters. Mortals are fickle. An Adeptus is as lasting as stone.

A sigh erupted. You pinched the bridge of your nose. But you started to recall how a kind laugh and hum soothed your fatigue, and a small warning about a certain gentleman on the rooftop terrace echoed in your mind.

I mean, it doesn’t hurt to ask.

__

The lobby is always so warm and welcoming, with Verr Goldet as its heart.

You gently pushed the hardcover, teal tome back into place on the mahogany shelf, and took out a cherished classic instead, Rex Incognito: Volume 1. The noise of the books slackening with the novel’s removal was matched with a chuckle.

“I take it you met our resident Yaksha?”

You breathed in and out and replied, albeit with discontent and pursed lips, “I’m not sure if “met” is the right word.” You gazed into almond-shaped eyes just below neatly cut bangs.

Her laugh was saturated with amusement. She leaned forward, rested her head on folded fair hands, and stared directly into your eyes. “Well, I daresay that you broke a record. Xiao is quite the recluse.” The tuxedo cat with golden eyes leapt from the desk. Porcelain vases quivered from the movement. You took steps towards her reassuring air. “He must’ve been in a rather good mood to even think about speaking to others.”

If I “broke a record,” I can’t imagine what he has said and done to others...

“I know that look on your face, dear.” She stood up slightly and crossed her arms playfully. “I’ve seen it quite often between couples here at the Inn, usually after a minor altercation. No matter where they visit from, it’s always the exact same.” The woman with auburn hair then spoke slowly, as if emphasizing every syllable, every letter. “It is the face of guilt. An expression that displays how much you want to atone for your sins.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you sheepishly nodded. “I just—”

Her pointer finger met her lip, hushing you like a mother to a babe. “I will say only a few things, so listen carefully. Xiao isn’t fond of many things, but he has an affinity towards Almond Tofu and Qingxin. Perhaps his spirit resonates with the flower’s solitary nature.” Her chestnut eyes softened when she said that. They then trailed up to the decorative map above the mahogany bookcase. “Qingxin can be found on the peaks and cliffs of Liyue’s stone forests, such as in Jueyun Karst, home to the Adepti.” Her head tilted slightly. Her voice seemed even more melodious. “But that being said... I will suggest going near Mt. Qingce and Wuwang Hill, just above the ruins and village. The climbing isn’t as strenuous or dangerous as it is in Minlin—”

The grandfather clock rang proudly, bellowing to the Marsh that it was already an hour past noon. “I shouldn’t keep you held up. However, do enjoy yourself! If you follow my advice and go near Qingce, the village is quite lovely, a relaxing place for a stroll or snack.”

You bowed your head respectfully and spewed a multitude of thanks before rushing to your room and gathering your backpack, wind glider, and a wicker basket.

You rummaged through your belongings, pulled out a lacquer box painted with dragons and phoenixes, and took out an ornate gilded hairpin. It was encrusted with beads and crystals made out of fine noctilucous jade—a gift from your mother for your birthday.

Now seated at the vanity across from the comfortable bed, you questioned if you should wear it today as you didn’t want to lose it during your travels. However, you fondly remembered how you would prance along the streets of Monstadt as a child wearing a flowing hanfu and displaying your culture. Liyue, however long I have waited to explore you.

You decided.

You would wear the pin and go to Qingce. If you meet your grandparents, you will face them headstrong and with an open heart. If you don’t...Well, everything happens for a reason.

However, pressure mounted on your chest as you remembered your mother’s teary eyes, bitter face, and sorrowful voice as she seethed the name of the quaint village and whispered curses to her parents. But you wouldn’t let that put a damper on your adventure. This whole trip to Liyue is a symbol of fulfilling change for you. Breaking the chains of the past, finally letting go and allowing gentle breezes to take over one’s yearns and faults. As they say in Mondstadt, “Let the wind lead!”

___

You quickly noted how lovely it was to walk through Dihua Marsh during the daytime. After paying respects to the Statue of the Seven, you followed the dirt road and made sure to take in every exciting detail.

The small statues of robed dragons scattered throughout beckoned you into a desolate forest of swaying bamboo. They were your enchanting guides. One after another, they held your hand and whispered words of encouragement. When you abandoned the forgotten stone path, creaky wooden bridges, and reached the coveted village, a scenic sight was merely a few steps away. Lush, vivid terraces presented dignified glaze lilies. They were snuggled amidst flowery ponds of sunny yellows and oranges. Birds could even be heard chirping with happiness; feathers billowed in the air from their takeoff. You breathed in the fresh air, and a mellow smile bloomed. How peaceful. Liyue’s beauty truly is expansive. Everyone has remarked how bustling the Harbor is, how unnerving the peaks of Guyun can be, yet this dainty village in the north offers nothing but slow, restful touches. Heavy grief dissipates from taking in the wondrous sight.

You needed this truly.

As you strolled into the quiet center plaza and took in the blue terracotta roof tiles and the turning mill, you noticed how the few inhabitants were mainly elderly and a handful of children.

You politely waved to a retired couple seated at one of the bamboo tables. Their glazed porcelain tea set and metallic dessert tray reflected the sun. You couldn’t make out their faces, but you mouthed a “hello” to not startle them. Then, just as you were about to pass them, your very bones shook when a throaty voice punctured the air.

“So, you must be our grandchild from Mondstadt.” A frigid, blunt statement struck the scene.

“How do you know?” A bewildered question was articulated by you.

But instead of a concrete answer, a sickly sweet voice pursued after the first. Her voice was utterly cloying. You felt dizzy. As if you had eaten too many confectioneries. “Come, child.” She quickly moved one of the bamboo chairs from under the table that rested beside her. She patted it twice. Your, supposed, grandmother grinned wider. “Oh dear, you mustn't make me repeat myself.” The elderly woman trilled.

You hastily walked to the seat, set down your basket, wind glider, and backpack, and fumbled with the scalding teacup that was pushed into your hands. A nervous chuckle revealed your innermost thoughts; everything seemed to be going so fast, your feet moved on their own; nevertheless, you were excited. Flashbacks to your declarations in the Inn were played. Just take it easy.

The woman with doe eyes framed by creasing wrinkles squished your cheeks. You almost winced. Her strength was frankly surprising. “Oh, oh, look, honey! Doesn’t she have her mother’s features!” She lifted your chin, then sharply moved your head from side to side to examine you thoroughly. “A porcelain doll.” She sighed happily.

With a tilted head, you asked. “Um...Thanks? But may I ask how you know I am your granddaughter? I have a friend in Mondstadt named Amber whose grandfather is from here too, if I remember correctly.” You didn’t know who to keep your eyes on. One was scrutinizing you vigorously, and the other was glaring at your form. You felt like Hansel and Gretel ready to be baked in the oven and then stuffed into your frosted, gingerbread coffin.

The older woman blinked and humorously snickered. “Oh my dear, didn’t I just say it, or were you not paying attention? You look nearly identical to your mother! One look was all it took.” She then snatched the pin from your hair and caressed it tenderly. “Besides, this pin is an heirloom. It was given to my husband when he was younger. He then gifted it to me on the evening of our wedding. I handed it to your mother on her birthday. She continued the tradition, I see."

“Oh, uh, I understand now.” You played with your fingers impatiently, wanting desperately to take back the treasured hairpin.

The sound of tea pouring into the porcelain cup across from you caught your attention. The steaming vapor highlighted antagonistic eyes.

The manner in which he gently placed the cup back onto the saucer contrasted with his blunt persona. “Out of all the things she could’ve cherished, she chose an utterly meaningless one in comparison to her grave deed. Are you aware that your mother disgraced us?” His jaw clenched, years of ire were evident in the way he furrowed his eyebrows. “She angered Rex Lapis.”

More confusion was added to your fogged mind. They were truly feeding you so much information.

Studying you like a freshly baked good, your grandmother leaned more forward and pinched your cheeks harder.

The embittered man continued. “She was contracted since birth to wed her betrothed, the son of a family friend of ours, but the night before the ceremony, she told us she was with child.” His veins became more prominent as he hissed the next remarks. “Our daughter, who we sacrificed everything for, went and eloped with some Monstadter who was in Liyue for vacation. I should've never let her go down to the Harbor that summer.” Your grandfather was breathing heavily. Frail hands became slick with sweat. His enraged face reminded you of the spiteful demons illustrated in that book about Yakshas.

The pinching on your face was alleviated. You massaged your cheeks for relief. The elderly woman hushed her spouse and rubbed his fists. “Now, now, not here, not here.” She sighed and returned to look at you. “He was so full of hatred that day that he suffered from a stroke. Of course, he miraculously survived, which I am grateful for...But he can’t walk normally now.” Her voice wavered as she gazed upon the verdant fields. “As someone who hails from a family of prosperous farmers, he greatly suffered.”

His fixated stare only grew. "I devoted my life to that child, and in one rash decision, she took everything away; because of my stroke's aftermath, no one was able to take up the work. As a result, generations of hard work withered away and vanished. The moment she touched that filthy foreigner and broke her contract, Rex Lapis punished our lineage.

He looked you up and down, took in your appearance, which resembled your mother so greatly, and scoffed. “You’re nothing but proof of her mistake.”

A cold slither brushed your spine. You shivered at the grim comment. “Surely that isn’t the case? From what I’ve heard, Rex Lapis is a benevolent god. Besides, this whole scheme was planned since she was a child. The Geo Archon wouldn’t be so cruel as to force an infant into a contract just because her parents wrote it up.” You bargained in a defensive yet composed manner. You have had many odd first meetings this trip. One more bad ending is definitely something you wouldn’t want.

“As someone who was born in the City of Freedom, I doubt you will understand what it is like to feel the presence of a god.” Your grandfather wouldn’t avert his gaze and muttered indignantly under his breath. “Besides, I’m not surprised you side with your whore of a mother. She has corrupted your mind. So, our grandchild, too, shall follow the path of sin. How shameful.”

The tea was searing as it went down your throat. Your eyes widened even more, you gulped down nerves as sickening as acid. Humiliation grew as you took in the situation. The muggy tension was utterly terrifying. You wanted to flee this village to stop the condescending grins, to stop those eyes that pierce like lit cigars on supple skin. You gripped your shirt tightly as a way to distract yourself from the tears threatening to spill. I thought today would be different. Maybe if you weren't so naïve, you would've had the intuition not to traverse through the sea of bamboo, not to follow those robed dragons, not to be entranced by all the greenery. How can anyone be so cold-hearted?

You vividly recalled the words your mother left you with before your departure.

“Going to Liyue will be a mistake, child.”

Those blistering words were tattooed into your inner mind.

“I-I should leave.” You shakily smiled and collected your items. “Thank you for the tea and for your time, but I must go. I am collecting Qingxin and wouldn’t want to travel back to my hotel too late. The Marsh isn’t the most prime location safety-wise.”

Your grandmother’s eyelashes fluttered again, wrinkles seemed even more prominent, that unbearable saccharine smile swelled. You could taste the honey and sugar being forced down your throat. You nearly gagged. “Qingxin? You’re in search of Qingxin?”

“Yes, which is why I should be going now. Thank you again.” You tried to disguise your anxiety with a laugh.

She looked at you directly before she spoke. You were stunned to realize that her eyes reminded you of Verr Goldet. Mature, soft, yet full of wretched amusement.

“Wuwang Hill has what you are seeking. The finest there is! The desolate area is a haven for such lonesome flowers.”

An alarm rang, disturbing the ambiance. Heads turned to face a modest house nearby. The baked scent of mouth-watering pastries permeated.

“Ah yes! My goodies are done!”

__

Clink-Clink.

The sound of a demon mask that protects those from evil sounded throughout.

Xiao has watched you ever since you entered Liyue.

He despised your pristine, bright eyes, your velvety face, your swaying hips, your angelic voice.

You reminded him of days from antiquity, times when he did nothing but bathe in crimson blood. His gluttonous soul consumed dream after dream, leaving the victim a hollow shell. What choice did the poor child have? The war left gods desperate for power. The boy with teal hair and golden eyes was forced to become a bloodhound. The faded scars of torture on his body are like suffocating vines on a tree.

Oh! He just wanted to corrupt you so badly. To see you squirm underneath him, weeping for him to not take your delectable aspirations. Every time you blink, your lashes will be covered in radiant tears. You were nothing short of a vixen.

The Adeptus grunted before snapping back to the dying abyss mage in front of him. The disgusting oozing blood from his victim and the stained spear in his hand should be enough to sedate the crawling hunger. But it wasn’t. He frustratedly sighed, ashamed at his carnal appetite.

Yet a singular thought crept into the Yaksha's mind like a moth prancing around a hanging lantern. The image of sending you to a slaughterhouse, with your pure body clothed in satin and bound by silk rope, intoxicated him.

You will be enough to calm his jaded soul, despite all his derogatory words and your tainted blood that has the stench of another land beyond the borders of Liyue. You were always enough.

The first night you arrived, he snuck into your room. You were tempting him too gravely. He skillfully cut a small lock of your hair and devoured it. Each strand tasted like heaven and the crack of dawn.

For once, he felt at ease. His karmic debt that compressed and ravaged his lungs, psyche, and taut skin ebbed away. Being tortured and enslaved by bloodshed from his own hands left him broken, feeling as if he couldn't dream because he took so much from others. However, with you, paradise is within arms reach.

He just needed to grab it.

In his true form, Xiao is a winged creature. But that evening at Wangshu Inn, he was a tomcat with mockingbird feathers between his fangs. He could almost picture how scarlet beads would lay on your face if he bared his talons.

The thought of your bones being crushed and pressed into creamy almond milk sent electrifying jitters through his muscles. He can almost imagine your delicate skin carved into plush pieces of silky tofu. What a luscious texture it will be! Heat flushed his face. Your heart will still be thrumming and beating in his palms.

That voice of yours that sounds like a fiddling dihua flute will be his. Your voice box will be ripped from your body that reeks of goodness.

Perhaps a fate like that would be too cruel for a mere mortal.

His contract with Rex Lapis flashed in his mind. “Protect the people of Liyue and their children. To this do you dedicate your life to, and I will free you, Alatus.” Maybe his former master’s vile handprints still stained his slender form. The taste of sweet dreams still brings him to his knees, still makes his mouth salivate, still clogs his mind.

Xiao’s breathing was getting heavier. His throat was sore and raspy. Limbs ached from slaying monsters since the day before— a mere distraction to the Adeptus. Yet, in some unorthodox way, you reminded him of the Lord of Geo. That same liberating warmth he felt when he first gazed into considerate amber eyes was in you somehow. If he could steal your essence, which is so full of life, so hopeful, maybe, just maybe….. Concentrate. Concentrate. Don’t think of such preposterous notions! How could a moronic human not even from Liyue be my new savior? Rex Lapis has been nothing but understanding. How could thoughts of throwing it all away for a foolish mutt dare to even trespass my mind!

Displeased, Xiao hurried to fight yet another demon.

However, the thought of finally ending this nightmare, making this naïve mortal absolutely his, seeing your face scrunch into such adorable expressions, left him wanting to succumb to such mesmerizing dreams.

A bite is all he demands, after all.

Thanks for reading!! (๑꧆◡꧆๑)

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact xiao #xiao #xiao x reader #yandere xiao #yandere xiao x reader #xiao x y/n #xiao imagines #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #yandere #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader

[justaddthings]

 Here’s a list of 100 shelf stable snacks since people with ADHD tend to forget about the food they bought, and also have issue remembering how long ago they bough things, which can lead to a lot of food spoilage. Not all of these are the healthiest but eating something is better then nothing.

ABC bar

Airheads

Almond Joy

Almond butter pouch

Almonds

Animal cookies

Apple chips

Applesauce pouch

Bagged roasted chestnuts

Bamba peanut snack

Banana chips

Beef jerky

Belvita biscuit

Boxed bone broth

Boxed chocolate milk

Butterscotch chips

Canned peaches

Canned pears

Canned sardines

Cashews

Chedder rockets

Cheerios

Cheese balls

Cheezeits

Chex mix

Chocolate chups

Chocolate covered coffee beans

Cliff bar

Corn nuts

Craisins

Dark chocolate squares

Dates

Doritos

Dried coconut flakes

Dried figs

Dried lemon slices

Dried mango

Dry cereal

Dry roasted edamame

Freeze dried raspberries

Freeze dried strawberries

Fruit Gummys

Fruit leather

Fun dip

Gingerchew

Goldfish

Graham crackers

Instant mashed potatoes

Instant oatmeal packet

Jello cup

Jellybeans

Juice box

I listed something twice here, I’ll put something else in the list, later, ty for telling me anon

Kind bar

Konpeito

Larbar

Lemon heads

M&Ms

Mandarin orange cups

Nature valley bar

Nutella to go cup

Olives

Oreos

Peanut butter

Peanut butter pretzels

Peanuts

Pirate Booty

Pita chips

Poky

Pop tarts

Popcorn

Pretzels

Pub mix

Pudding cups

Pudding mix

Pumpkin seeds

RX bar

Raisin

Ramen chips

Rice cake

Rice cracker mix

Rice crispy treats

Ritz crackers

Roasted seaweed

Salami

Saltines

Senbey

Sunflower seeds

TJ’s uncrystalized candied ginger

Trail mix

Triscuits

Tuna pouches

Umaibo

V8 can

Veggie straws

Walnuts

Wasabi peas

Wax bottles

Yogurt pretzels

Z bar

#add #adhd #i know alphabetized lists can be hard to read so if anyone wants me to scramble it to make it easier for them lmk! #list

[felassanis]

A hope on cliffs - Aruani

Ao3 Link + Fic under the cut:

Sunlight was spilling in through the nearby window. Pouring glowing, warm, and natural arrays of colours into the bedroom like the mosaic halls of a cathedral. Igniting their surroundings with the hues of a campfire’s flames; washing over their faces as the brightness slowly stirs them awake.

At some point during the night, their limbs had untangled and they slept on either edge of the bed. Annie slowly opened her eyes and was met with the brunt of the white wall, a minor deflation tugged at her chest from the boring sight. Then a soft breath tickled the back of her neck; the wispy, fresh scent of leather, from days spent suffering the tightness of the harnesses, saving her from complete disappointment. Then that woodsy smell he always got when he spent a day outside embraced her as she felt an arm curl around her sides. It reminded her of her garden back home, and she felt safe in his arms. And that odd ambrosial minty sweet smell he somehow possessed filled her nose as she turned over. Greeted by the picture perfect sight of Armin laying beside her.

His eyes were closed, but as she nestled closer to him the hint of a smile working its way on his lips gave away his act. She pressed her fingers over his wrist that was holding her waist, stroking his arm as she travelled along it to settle her fingers on his neck. Playing with the hairs that were there until he finally gave in and opened his eyes.

“Hey,” He murmured. His voice pleasantly tired, his fondness for her still being there conveyed through a delicate breath that made her stomach flip. His morning voice was truly something to behold...

Often when the dawn broke, Annie would collect her things and withdraw from his room without a peep. He hated this, she was fully aware, and it took a great deal out of her to fight the temptation to stay under the covers with him. But better she steal away than let any of the others in on this secret of theirs. This morning however, she felt differently.

“Hey you,” She hummed, trailing his jaw with the tip of her finger. The sensation made his handsome smile grow ever more, and she was in awe at how more defined his face had become. So much time had passed between them...so much wasted time...he was older, so was she. And yet she could hear the eerie tick-tock of her mortality in the background...

“Nice to see you're still here,” The sound of his voice keeps her delving anywhere too dark.

“Yeah, you too,” And she meant it. Still here, she was still here...enjoy it, Annie.

His eyes, now open, were unwavering in their navigation of her face. She knew that look. Could hear the machinations in that mind of his whir as he balanced on the line between staying where he was or kissing her. Looking for evidence that she would withdraw if he leaned in. She was never one for many words, so he always looked for silent confirmation. 

Annie made the decision for him. Leaning in close till their lips touched, grazing together softly which earned a pleasant sound from him as she slowly drew her fingers to the back of his head. Carding her nails through his hair which she knew he loved. His fingers dug into her hip, no doubt keeping her in bed with him. Less she climbed out and left him alone like she normally did. Still, she found herself smiling into his lips as she traced circles into her skin with his thumbs. Like he was conducting some kind of rune that would compel her to remain here forever. 

“Do we have anywhere we need to be this morning?” She asked, pulling away. Not entirely keen on keeping him from any duties he had. Even if she was tempted to steal him away from the others.

“None,” He breathed. Indeed, a tension seemed to have fled from his shoulders as he said this. Peace washes over him, breathing new life into him. A rare sight for sure that made her heart soar for him. And told her that he wasn’t lying.

“Good,” She shuffles closer, resting her head against the warmth of his chest. Her ears pressing just over his beating heart. “Because I want to stay like this for a while longer,”

“These are rare moments” His chin meets her head. “We should enjoy them,”

As usual, Armin was right. She had never stayed till the morning, and the air between them danced with endless possibilities. She walked on the tightrope between luring him into a peaceful slumber held safely in her arms, or stirring something else within him. Drawing out the side to him only she ever got to see. And enjoy thoroughly.

“Annie?” He says, pulling her from these thoughts.

“Yes?”

He was silent, as if he hadn’t meant to start up a conversation. She kisses his chest, letting him know deep in his heart that he could tell her anything.

“If this ever ends...this chaos, this war. If there’s a chance this could all end peacefully...what would you do?”

The question takes her aback. The ambition slithering in his words, the naivety of it all, made her chest writhe and tighten. The mere thought of a possibility of a world devoid of hate and violence...it made her sad. Because it was not a reality. He knew this, yet he could not help entertain the idea. 

Truthfully, it was something she both loved and hated about him. His ambition, his hope and his idealism. It was everything she lacked and envied.

She preferred not thinking about it. But in truth, this was coming increasingly hard to avoid each time their lips met and each time touches lingered longer than they should. Such bittersweet memories that had not happened, and would never happen. Like she was mourning the death of a life she had never even known. She couldn't picture exactly what a life would be like with him. But enough was there to make her miss it. If things were different, she would ask him to marry her. A jarring proposition, coming from her, when some would say it should be coming from him. But she didn’t care. The question hung on the tip of her tongue more than once but she could not find the courage to utter it aloud. Because how could she? Maybe she was that selfish to give into the temptation of running away for good. But Armin most certainly was not.

“I don’t know, Armin,” She would not bring the world to this room. She would not bring its harshness and cruelty in this moment; shatter this peace and this rare instance of recluse with her coldness. Upon hearing the way his heart pitter-pattered like gushing rain, she sighed and decided she would humour him. “Why? What would you do?”

“I...have ideas,” He says hesitantly. “A house on a cliff. With winding stairs spiralling down onto a beach, perhaps,” His voice is tantalisingly soft, ebbing with hope and brightness for which she does not hear from him all that often. “Naive ideas,”

She pries away and looks him in the eyes. Holding his gaze. Then she begins pecking him on the lips, the chin, the cheek, the nose...

“What else?” She inquires in between kisses. Encouraging him.

She hears a chuckle emanate from him, like the rumble of thunder, as she continues in her path of igniting his skin with her lips. 

“Have you ever seen those circular windows? An odd thing to want, I know, but...I picture a house having one of those overlooking the beach. They’re different and they remind me of the library I used to go to when I was a kid. They had one there, you see,” He starts and she listens intently, drawing up this house he paints in her mind with his words as brushes.

“I’d have my own bookshelf. I only ever owned one book, the one that was branded as illegal contraband, so there was never any need to have one. Not that we could have even afforded one anyway. My grandfather had a few cookbooks but those weren’t interesting reads...I’d own lots of books, and keep them on a shelf,”

She smiles against his neck. “That sounds lovely,”

“I sound like I’m five,” He murmurs, laughing. 

“You don’t,” She finally finishes her journey back on his lips. Pressing into him eagerly. “Not at all,”

“You don’t dream about what could’ve been?” He asks her, hoping he was not alone in this.

“I’ve never given much thought to the future,” Her mind unfolds the dusty memories of towering over Shinganshina. Of running through the forest, the sounds of 3DM gear zipping through the air behind her like a swarm chasing after her. Of her father, the beatings and exercises creating sores in places she didn’t know existed. 

The burning, hot first feeling of transforming at will…of being told afterwards the price of this magnificent power...

“There was never a future in store for me. So I never wasted sleep thinking about it. But when you talk about yours...I want them to come true, Armin. I want you to be happy,” 

“It could be ours,” He responds, and his hand leaves her hip to caress her cheek. Stroking the space between her cheeks and just under her eyes. “Somewhere, sometime, in another life. I think we deserve to live for ourselves after everything that’s happened to us,” He adds….

She nods. “I’d like that…”

There’s a brief smile exchanged between them. And for a moment, they exist in that little house on the cliff. He sits in that circular window with a book, and she hangs at his side overlooking the white breasts of the waves. And they live for themselves...

He kisses her, kissing the tears that fall like dewdrops across her cheeks as the cruel world settles back into reality. Their reality...

#armin arlert #annie leonhardt #aruani #armin x annie #Armin arlert x Annie Leonhart #attack on titan #snk #aot #shingeki no kyojin

[shreddedparchment]

Absence Makes the Heart

04/17/2020

Pairing: Superman x Reader          Word Count: 5,431

Warnings: language, lots of language, violence, blood, wounds, injuries, plenty of angst

DCEU Canon

A/N: I’ve been meaning to write this one down for a while. It’s based on a dream I had but I just went and added details and a little bit of backstory. Nothing too crazy. This will probably just be a one shot. The top half is heavily edited while the second half I just spat out because I was inspired and I went with it. Hopefully it’s good. This is my first foray into something other than Marvel, so any feedback would be greatly appreciated. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Edit: I forgot to thank @babiiface95​ @evansweaters​ and @sherrybaby14​ for giving me some feedback on this! It helped tons!! xoxo

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

In this moment, all you can feel is the pain in your side.

You stumble forward, hitting the chestnut wood of your door hard. With nothing to brace yourself on, you slide along the length of it until you’re sitting, shoulder pressed against it.

“Ugh…” You groan, letting your hand trace the smooth grain until it can latch onto the handle. “Fuck this shit. I quit.”

You tell no one.

There hasn’t been anyone for months.

The door gives as you twist the knob sending you falling onto the small foyer of your apartment. You’re on the top floor, beside the penthouse. Your own place is small. Compact. Just three rooms, four if you count your bathroom.

You pull yourself along the dated ceramic tile and watch as you leave a smear of red behind you.

“Honey…” You begin, kicking the door shut while you stay flattered against the floor. “…I’m home.”

No one responds.

You exhale through your nose as annoyance rips through your chest.

“Fucker.” You say at no one, but obviously someone.

It takes every ounce of strength you have left to haul yourself into your bathroom. You peel off your suit, letting it drop to the floor in a whip of heavy fabric, space quality tech that was not fashioned on Earth but created for you.

To protect you.

Because he said he cared.

“Fucking…fucker.” You huff, yanking the first aid kit from the open shelf beneath your sink.

Your sports bra is drenched in sweat and blood, sticky against your skin as you plop yourself at the small kitchen table. You pull open the kit and reach for needle and thread.

It’s a messy stitch, clumsy and crooked from the angle you’re forced to work in. However sloppy, you do seal the wound to your ribs and the bleeding finally stops.

In your blood-soaked underwear, you make yourself a sandwich and stand at your counter, staring at the primary blue coffee cup sitting beside your own in teal.

You chew loudly, smacking your mouth as the bread sticks to the roof of your mouth. Eyes glaring at the cup, you bite down more fiercely. Tearing the food apart angrily.

“You’re a stupid bitch, Y/N. Get over it.” You sigh, then retreat to your bathroom to tidy up.

~~~~~~~~~~

Exhaustion is not your friend. It makes you cranky and irritable and sad because you can’t stand the silence in your home.

You groan, pressing your hand against your side gently, then reach for the remote and turn on the TV to war the silence.

It’s a cacophony of sound and for a moment, it grates your nerves. Some cartoon, loud and full of slapstick.

Next channel has people screaming at each other from opposite sides of a stage. Chairs begin to get thrown. A guy with a mullet takes off his shoe and chucks it at a man with one ear.

Next channel has an old black and white movie. The pretty woman with dark curls and a heart shaped face leans across a table, chin in her hand as she moons over the composed man who is smirking at her casually.

Nope. You think. No romance.

Next channel is the news.

“-sure what to make of what we’re seeing. It’s like nothing we have witnessed before. Veronica, can you tell us what’s happening?” The news anchor presses his hand to his ear, eyes squinted as he stares ahead.

The screen shifts and Veronica—a pretty woman with flowing red hair and deep blue eyes fills your screen.

“Miguel, it looks as if all of the ocean’s water is being pulled away from our coastline and out towards the ocean. Where the water is going, we aren’t sure. There is no way to know what this means or what can be causing it. And although we’ve seen this phenomenon happen in films, doomsday blockbusters where a tidal wave the height of a skyscraper builds up before the subsequent flood, experts are sure this is not at all what’s going on.

There are dozens of meteorologists, marine biologists, oceanographers, and astronomers still searching for the cause. The only thing that they all can agree on for certain is that the oceans are not withdrawing, but rather, they are draining, leaving sea life, coral reefs, and the ocean floor exposed.

“Something is pulling this water away. Whatever is causing this, is not natural.”

Sitting up, you place your elbows on your knees as the video changes to that of a helicopter shot as it circles the ever-decreasing ocean line. A humpback whale and her calf attempt to outswim the retreat, but they fail and as the water falls away, the creatures are beached between two sheer ocean cliffs.

“What the hell…” Reaching up, you cover your mouth, watching as the video moves back to Veronica.

“If we can’t figure out why the ocean is draining, we will have hundreds if not thousands of species left without chance of survival. This is not only a loss of a life for many endangered species, but also leaves us to face the consequences within our fishing industries and the millions of people it not only feeds but employs as well. If we cannot stop-”

Veronica suddenly stops speaking, holding her hand to her ear as she listens for a moment.

“Sorry, Miguel, it looks as if Doctor Rashda has found a source point for the draining. Doctor Rashda can you hear me?” Veronica asks, waiting for a moment before the video splits vertically.

The second frame of video sits empty, a sloping sandbank visible in the distance. It curves around in a semi-circle at the center of which is a growing swirl of dark blue water.

“Doctor Rashda?” Veronica asks again, her eyes frantic as they search a monitor out of view.

“Surrender.” A voice says, high pitched. Female. “Surrender and you will not suffer. Surrender your planet, and I shall make your end quick.”

Veronica is silent as the column of swirling water parts a little, just enough so that a pale face is visible.

“Surrender.” The voice says again, the pale face’s lips moving as it speaks. “And you will die quickly.”

Frowning, you move to the edge of your seat, your anger doubling.

“M-Miguel are you seeing this?” Veronica asks, voice small with fear.

Miguel doesn’t answer.

The figure in the water holds out its hand and from the swirl comes a smaller sphere. In this sphere something moves. As the camera zooms in, you can make out the distinct shape of a body, thrashing within its bubble.

Veronica screams just as you and everyone else that must be watching realizes that within the bubble is Doctor Rashda, struggling and gasping for breath.

You’re up on your feet, racing to pull your suit back on when a commotion pulls your eyes back to the TV, legs already in but with one shoulder exposed as you freeze mid-dress.

“He’s back!” Veronica is shouting gleefully. Relief and reverence painting her voice. “Superman is back!”

You move two steps closer to the TV, not intending to take the word of a panicked reporter. Until you can lay your own eyes on him then it isn’t real.

A few seconds pass. Then, a blur of blue and red streaks through the center of the bubble and when the water stops rippling, Doctor Rashda isn’t there.

“Motherfucker.”

You pull your suit on roughly, ignoring the way the movement tugs at your side as you zip up and launch out your open window.

You fall fast, plummeting towards the ground in a streak of teal and gray. When you’re only three feet away, you feel a surge of power as your arms, and legs burn with white hot energy.

It pushes you upwards and propels you higher and higher until you’re soaring across the sky at incredible speeds, leaving a silver trail of light behind you.

It only takes you minutes to reach the coast but sometime between you jumping out of your living room window and arriving here by the Golden Gate, the fight has moved cityside.

You hear a deafening crunch as blue and red goes slamming into black, gray, and brown ocean floor, disappearing into the subsequent rubble.

Heart pounding, you propel yourself towards a thin figure, long stringy black hair, sallow skin, arm still stretched out from her hit. She turns to look at you just as you reach her, but you throw your own fist out in a powerful uppercut. It throws the strange woman high into the air.

You follow for a few feet, hovering in there as you watch her skyrocket out of sight into dark clouds overhead.

Behind you the heap of ocean floor rubble begins to shift.

Coming to rest on the cliffside above, six feet below he breaks through the rock and it falls around him, a flurry of fine sediment saturating the air.

Chest heaving, side burning, heart clenched so tight you think it might truly be shredding, you watch as the fucker stands up and does a quick scan of the area looking just as perfect as he did when he left.

His eyes are focused, searching the sky for sight of his attacker but instead he finds you.

His eyes soften and you’re still so angry you glare. You turn on your heel and walk away, staring up at the sky as you wait for the woman to fall.

“Y/N…” You hear him say, but you don’t turn to look at him.

You can feel the swirling of wind as he flies up to you, the soft pats as his feet hit the ground. He circles around your right, leaning forward to get a better look at your face.

In your peripherals you can see the gentle curl of his dark hair, falling along his forehead and a hundred memories of your hand gently sweeping it aside make your body tremble.

The pleasure that the memory brings makes your blood boil and you roll your eyes, ignoring the puppy eyes he gives you.

“Let’s just get this over and done with. I’m tired.” You assert and watch as the strange woman careens towards the two of you, an inhuman screech growing louder as she falls.

Moving forward a few steps you aim yourself, bend your knees and launch yourself up towards her. As you collide, she grabs hold of your shoulders, and the two of you twist and spin in the air, struggling to get the upper hand.

Shifting quickly, you pull her over you, grab hold of her shirt front and with all the force in your body, you spin and chuck her down as Clark flies towards you to finish the job.

~~~~~~~~~~

A tattered white dress is all that remains of the ocean thief.

“Who was she?” Clark wonders, moving to stand beside you as you watch the stain of saltwater grow as her body dissolves to nothing.

“You don’t know?” You ask him, turning to look at him and hating how much it pleases you to finally see him again.

His broad body, thick with muscle and stupidly accentuated by his damn blue skintight suit, feels larger than before he left though you know that’s silly. He’s as God like as ever, though he’s only an alien. To the world, he’s a savior. Invincible.

Superman.

What really hurts to look at are his eyes.

It chokes you, those baby blues, full of unspoken questions and expectation. For you. For the future. For the present. He wants to know you again.

You tear your gaze back down to the woman as Clark shakes his head.

“No. I was flying home when I saw the ocean empty and followed the trail to the spout she was in.” Clark explains.

“Well, it’s too late to find out now.” You point out. “The water will come back soon. You’ll need to make sure people stay away from the coastline.”

Turning towards him, you wait, your rage evened out and layered with betrayal.

That painful gaze of his so piercing it nearly steals your breath away.

“Where were you, Clark?” You ask quietly, your anger outweighing the hurt.

The apologetic look he gives you, the tilt of his head, the step he takes towards you grates your nerves.

“Y/N-”

“It’s been months. Almost a year.” You sigh, unwilling to give in.

He takes your hand and the impulse to pull away nearly overwhelms you.

His hands are rough, only in that masculine way. His skin is unblemished. Perfect.

The strength of his movements are carefully calculated. A natural habit he’s developed after a lifetime of having to be gentle to keep from breaking those he touches. The heat from his hands is familiar and it envelops yours easily.

“I was coming home.” He tells you.

“Home? How do you know that it’s still your home? Maybe someone else has moved in.” You threaten and there’s a visible fall in his eyes.

It nearly breaks your icy exterior. But you have every right to be angry and hurt that he left you. Out of the blue, no word as to where he was going or when he’d come back.

“I have to go.” He’d said, and left you sitting on the couch, wondering when he’d come home.

He looks down at your hand in his, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand.

“You went to see her first, didn’t you?” You accuse and he quickly meets your gaze.

“No.” He assures you passionately, moving a little closer. “No, I was going straight home.”

“She’s been looking for you.” You tell him, tempted to confess how useless you’d been in those first few weeks he was gone. “All of them have been. Where is Superman? Is the million-dollar question. And now here you are.”

He’s back just as randomly as he’d left. Just as sudden. Just as quiet.

“There he is!” A familiar voice shouts. On the bank across the large ravine you both stand in Veronica appears looking dazzled and excited, her camera man hoisting up his camera to begin what will be the first clear footage of Superman finally back. Earth’s hero returned.

Quickly you pull your hand from his and turn to walk away.

“Where are you going?” He asks, following for a few steps.

“Home. I’ve been in Australia for the last month dismantling a new crime syndicate with Bruce. He and I are both very tired. He stayed behind.”

“Oh.” Clark says.

“Superman!” Someone calls. “Superman is back!”

Civilians have begun to gather along the empty waterway, all of them eager for a glance at the Man of Steel.

You know how you made it sound and maybe it’s your annoyance making you push him away now that he’s home, but all you can think about is getting back home and being alone.

“The water will be back, Kal.” You shift to his birthname with so many ears nearby. “Get these people away.”

You leave him standing there, watching you fly away, with those baby blues full of quiet yearning.

~~~~~~~~~~

The apartment…your home…it’s a void.

You sit on the arm of your sofa still in full uniform, hand gently resting on your thigh—palm up. You’re a mess again. Dirty with blood and dirt and sweat.

Needing a shower doesn’t do much to deter your silly brooding. Silly because you did this to yourself. You made it seem like you had someone new waiting for you here when really the bleak emptiness is in need of a six-foot, three-inch tall Kryptonian.

His presence is here. Loud and white hot. His coffee cup burns you from across the kitchen—asking where its owner is. His drawer still full of clothes. Comfy sweatshirts and crisp white t-shirts. Blues and grays and reds too.

There’s one you’d set aside. The last he’d worn. Only once. It had sat on the end of your bed night after night until you’d caved and pulled it on. Now it probably smells more like you than him.

The place is silent. Only the drip, drip, drip of the bathroom sink breaks the quiet.

Your gaze wanders to his shoes by the door, shoelaces left undone, a small speck of mud on the side of the left heel.

Shutting them, your eyes water.

No. You shake your head. I won’t cry.

You take a shaky breath and release it slowly, sighing as your body slumps forward.

The movement reminds you of your earlier wound and you gasp in pain as you sit up straight again, leaning to the side to look at the spot growing increasingly wet on your side.

“Shit.” Stitches are probably torn open. “Fuck.”

Maybe it’s your frustration with this whole situation or maybe your wound really just hurts a lot, but as you reach over to feel the bloody spot, your voice finally breaks. Though there are no tears, they really want to fall.

“Fucking, stupid, fucking…” You sigh again, this time faster, angry.

“That’s a lot of French.” Clark says, his voice smooth and even and excruciatingly beautiful to your ears.

You stand up, startled, and spin to watch him pull his left leg in through your open window, following his torso.

He’s still in his suit, cape and all. Once again, the sight of him reminds you of his Godlike status. His perfection unreachable and yet, here he is. In your home. Where he’d given himself to you openly and without reservation.

He stands there, his hands clenched into nervous fists. Skin just as dirty as yours but not sweaty. Not bloody. His hair is a little disheveled. The tresses normally so carefully tempered are free to curl and wave.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, voice still weak from your raw emotional outburst.

“I went to see Bruce.” He explains, and you might just kick yourself for implying Bruce would be waiting for you. “Why-?”

“Because I wanted to hurt you.” You admit, cutting him off before he can word the question. “Because I wanted you to regret leaving me the way you did.”

“I do regret it.” He sighs. “I-I only left because I thought I heard…”

He hesitates and you’re tempted to kick him out. You turn away from him and move into the kitchen, trying to ignore the wound that needs tending.

With your own coffee cup in hand, you pop a k-cup in your Keurig and punch the power button, waiting for it to power on before you select the largest cup option and listen to the whirr of the motors instead of Clark’s silence.

“I went to Krypton, or what’s left of it.” Clark finally says, this time from the mouth of your kitchen archway, hands still clamped tight.

You shut your eyes tight, hands clinging to the edge of your counter. Squeezing ever tighter until they begin to ache, and you still only keep squeezing.

“I wish I could be as impressed by that answer as I was the first time you told me that.” You shake your head.

“It was different this time, Y/N.” He shakes his head, then takes a step closer.

The movement draws your eyes and you watch the intense focus on his face, the uncertainty to speak.

“What is it?” You ask, still a little bitter.

Even though he looks as if he means it and this trip to Krypton is more serious, he’s not speaking. He’s keeping this from you. Holding it back.

“Jesus fucking Christ Clark, I guess you don’t trust me.”

“No.” He insists, moving another step closer which still leaves him a ways away from you in the kitchen. “It’s not that. I do trust you. More than anyone. But…”

You want to scream at him. You want to tell him to go to hell and to stay away from you and to shove his excuses up his ass, but your curiosity is growing.

There’s a small panic in his baby blue eyes. A fear.

So, you wait. You hold your tongue. You’re patient for now. You give him a familiar silence that tells him you will wait until he’s ready.

He recognizes it and meets your quizzical gaze as your coffee finishes brewing.

You don’t even realize it’s done as you stare into Clark’s eyes and he stares into yours.

The moment he decides, his shoulders relax. His jaw drops a fraction of an inch as he stops clenching his teeth.

As the weight on his shoulders is visibly lifted, you feel yourself relax too. Nearly a year of being without him and you’re still so attuned to his moods.

“I found someone.” He tells you. “On another planet, in a Kryptonian ship that had been sent only days after my own.”

“Another Kryptonian?” You ask, curious but also fearful.

You remember very clearly the last Kyrptonian that had come to Earth. Zod and his minions had torn Metropolis to shreds. They’d killed so many people and Clark had made the hardest decision in his life.

Not that you’d been there. She’d been there. But Clark had let you in on the weight of that moment. The choice that he hated to make but would gladly do so again.

He must see the fear in your eyes because he shakes his head and takes yet another step towards you.

“No. Don’t be scared. Really. She’s-”

She?!

“-she’s harmless.” You frown at him because that’s the stupidest fucking thing he’s said since getting back. Maybe the stupidest thing ever.

“Okay,” He amends. “Maybe not harmless, exactly. She’s my cousin, Y/N. And she needed help.”

“Your cousin?” You ask, voice low and full of questions.

“From what I can tell, she was sent here after me, but when her ship was knocked off course, she was trapped in form of hypersleep for a long time. She was older than me, but now she’s a lot younger.” Clark continues to explain, speaking with some gusto now that you’ve allowed him to pick up some momentum.

“Where is she?” You wonder.

“I left her with a family that can take care of her. Someone that I trust. Far away from me. She’s still very young and I think it would be best if she remained hidden for a while. Just until she learns how to control her abilities here on Earth and to give the world time to get used to the idea of another Kryptonian.” He takes one more step.

“After Zod, I don’t know that there is any amount of time that would prepare the world for a Supergirl.” You frown.

With your defenses lowered, Clark takes the opportunity to step even closer, finally stopping beside you.

He hesitates again, this time as he reaches to take hold of your elbow. His fingers press against your arm gently like he’s stroking piano keys. Testing to see if you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

He lifts your arm a little and doesn’t break eye contact with you until your arm is lifted enough that he can get a clear look at the red on your side. Head tilted to the right as he assess the injury.

Straightening his head, he slides his hand down to your hand, taking it before gently pulling you away from the kitchen, through your bedroom, and into your bathroom, switching on lights as he goes.

Watching him be like this has always been your favorite. He moves with a purpose, eyes trained on what he’s looking for without a glance spared your way.

You stand beside him as he holds your hand, hunched over to look under the sink for your first aid kit.

After he retrieves it, he pulls you back out into the kitchen. There’s more room there for both your bodies, especially with his taking up so much space.

He places the kit on the floor before he pulls you in front of him. Both of his hands find your waist and he lifts you up onto the edge of the counter to sit.

Slightly surprised, you gasp and place your hands on his shoulders, tracing the muscle while you can do so discreetly until you must remove them and place them at your sides.

Clark steps towards you, his hard abdomen pressed up against your legs as he wraps both arms around you, hands searching for the zipper on your back. Leaning over your shoulder to get a look at it, he’s almost hugging you.

And you can’t stand the tease of it.

The movement is quick, and he leans back again once he’s got the suit undone.

“What happened?” He asks as he hooks his thumbs into the top of your suit and pulls it down over your shoulders, your biceps—then holds the arms still as he waits for you to pull them out—then bunches it down along your waist to expose your injured side. “Lift your arm.”

You do as he ass, wincing as it tugs on the reopened cut.

“This is deep.” He disapproves.

“Bruce and I really were in Australia. One of the guys caught me with a knife just as we were getting them rounded up.” You explain.

“This is gonna hurt.” He tells you as he pulls the kit onto the counter beside you and pulls out a pair of small scissors and tweezers.

It takes him almost no time at all to snip away the broken threads and clean the wound again.

He waits, thinking for a moment, then meeting your gaze.

“Do you want something for the pain?” He checks, eyebrows raised in worry.

“Just do it, Clark.” You sigh, frustrated because this is all too familiar. This proximity, the smells, the heat, the way his hands poke and prod at the edges of your cut.

His eyebrows gather together as his jaw flexes with a frown, staring at the cut as he threads the needle quickly.

A proper needle this time, sanitized and threaded properly.

Taking your lifted arm, he pulls it over his head onto the opposite shoulder and places your hand there where his cape meets his suit.

“It’s gonna hurt.” He says again, and you realize he’s giving you something to squeeze.

And he’s right. Without the adrenaline from before, you feel every stitch and you’d thin you would get used to this sensation. But it hurts like fuck all and you squeeze his cape tight until you can’t help but give a small yell in annoyance.

“Why is it always the little wounds that hurt the most?” You sigh as he sips the thread and moves to clean his work area.

“You should go shower.” Clark says as he sanitizes the counter. “Be careful with your stitches.”

You don’t fight him on this because you desperately need another shower. Maybe if you’d been fine, you would have argued, but you’re dirty and aching.

When you emerge from the bathroom, you find that the sky outside has darkened. You dress quickly, just a pair of black old cutoff sweats and one of Clark’s gray hoodies.

You’re absolutely swimming in it, but it’s so soft and comfortable. Loose so that it doesn’t add any pressure to your stitches.

The apartment is so quiet you stand there, pulling the sweatshirt down as you listen intently for any kind of movement.

“Clark?” You call, just a little insecure after months of his absence.

You move out into the living room. The floorboards creak and moan as they settle beneath your feet. The large carpet in your living room silences your steps but you also stop walking, staring at the empty kitchen, then the empty living room.

Had you dreamt him?

Maybe he really isn’t back?

What if you’ve finally gone crazy?

What if he’s never coming back and you’d passed out after you got back from Australia and everything with the ocean had been a dream?

Are you really going nuts?

There’s a soft thud from your bedroom and with eager footsteps you rush back in.

Sitting on his side of the bed with his bare feet planted on the ground, Clark is hunched over. Elbows on his knees. Hands resting relaxed at the wrist while he stares at the floorboard underneath your bedroom window.

“Clark…” You sigh, not realizing how relieved you sound.

He’s changed, wearing a pair of gray sweats and a plain white t-shirt.

He looks good. Showered. His curls just barely damp.

“Am I welcome here?” He asks, staring ahead.

You move to the bed and climb on, walking on your knees towards him until you stop just a foot away and sit back on your legs.

It’s a good question. One you think on for a moment.

“You didn’t come back for ten months, Clark.” You sigh, hating that fact. “I didn’t know if something had happened to you or maybe you’d decided to leave me and Earth behind altogether? Mostly I just thought you were dead. I spent most of my time convincing myself that you’re so close to invincible that killing you might be impossible but-”

“I’ve died before.” Clark says, hating the idea that people think him a God. He turns towards you and frowns.

His words, however true they may be, send painful clenches into your chest.

Your face does something that makes his demeanor shift. Suddenly he’s sitting beside you, arm wrapped around your waist as he reaches up to push your hair back and away from your face.

His fingers graze the skin of your neck and he hooks it there, squeezing gently.

“I’m not dead.” He says, maybe guessing your thoughts of madness? “I’m right here.”

“But you weren’t.” You shake your head. “And I was so angry at you. I hated you. I cursed your name. Fuck that guy. Stupid fucker. I hate him.”

Clark simply watches you, his eyes moving side to side as he looks at your face and every expression that crosses your features.

The one thing that you’ve always loved about Clark, is the way that you can tell he’s really listening. Not once have you felt as if you weren’t being heard. Even if he doesn’t agree with whatever you’re saying, he listens so intently, trying to understand your point of view before he poses his own.

And you love him for it.

Shit. You still love him. Of course, you do. Of course, he’s always been yours.

Even in his absence, you were his and he was yours.

“I said that almost every night, hoping that you would hear me and come back. But you didn’t.”

“But I did.” Clark says. “I’m here. And I’m sorry I left without explanation. I’m sorry that I put you through that. And I know that you can’t forgive me for it. That I’ll be trying to earn your trust again every day that we’re together. But, please can I stay?”

He rubs your lower back, his large hand sending heat into every inch of your heart. Restarting it after he killed it ten months ago.

“Please?” He begs. “All I’ve thought about is getting back here. To you. To our home and our life together.”

You shut your eyes, relishing in the way his arms feel around you, his hands large and hot. His breath is sweet and warm. His scent is clean and so him that it makes your stomach flutter.

You won’t need that shirt of his anymore. Now you have him back, here with you. Where you can touch and feel and love and laugh and just be with him.

“Or should I leave?” He asks.

Your eyes pop open, red fury raging through them. “You do and I’ll hunt you down, Kent.”

He smiles, softly at first. But when your hand begins to trace the taut sinew of his muscly forearm, his smile grows wider. It grows and grows until it’s blinding and beautiful.

You trace the curve of his shoulder, tickle his neck before reaching up to smooth the curls that fall against his forehead gently.

He shuts his eyes, enjoying the affection before you push yourself forward between his legs and settle on your side.

You cuddle into the center of his chest, tucking yourself between his arms, head on his chest, under his chin, arms grabbing tight to the soft cotton of his shirt.

“I missed you.” He whispers against your hair.

You smile, shutting your eyes as you let yourself finally be at ease. Clark is home.

#superman x reader #superman x reader fanfiction #superman x you #superman x y/n #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #clark kent x reader fanfiction #clark kent x y/n #dceu fanfiction #dceu #superman fanfiction #superman fanfic #superman fic #superman x reader fic #clark kent x reader fic #Absence Makes the Heart #shreddedparchment

[fourthwingingit]

So i just reblogged something about flashfam having adhd and not just as a "haha funny joke they fast lololol" thing and now i have headcanons (only with a few because im new to flashes sorry)

1) BART (the one im most familiar with)

Bart thrives in cleanliness. Bart also cannot clean to save his LIFE

Like he looks at a dirty shelf and his brain just

"Nope too much time to leave"

He tries to clean his room weekly.

And weekly he gets derailed about 10 minutes in because "OH MAN I HAVENT SEEN THIS IN SO LONG!!!" *starts reading old writing project*

He is a hyperactivity king

He cant sit still to save his life

Hes just constantly moving something

He bounces his leg so fast it blurs

Probably self medicates with caffeine because it gives his brain enough stimulation to Chill The H*ck Out

He interrupts people because he gets excited

2) WALLY (i know the least about him sorry)

Have you heard about our lord and saviour rsd?

Literally this boy has such bad rsd (rejection sensitive dysphoria) that like his best frieds could make a joke and hed be like "Oh :)...... okay,,, ill just,,,,,,,,, leave forever now."

From what i know about him his inattention is his worst trait

Like he would be in the middle of saying something Really Important and he jusr zones out and somehow when he comes back hes talking about dogs and has no memory of what he was saying previously

Also when someone is Telling him something Important (tm) he john mulaney's and just zones out against his will! Oh the doctor is giving me vital results? Well i guess id better wonder about the lifecycle of a snail.

3) Barry (my og boy)

He is "high functioning"

Which is fancy talk for "calm on the outside and screaming on the inside whenever he does anything"

Can he do paperwork? Allegedly.

Has anyone seen him do it? Of course not.

Does the Captain somehow get fully completed documents moments before the Absolute Deadline when he knows mere minutes before they werent even started? Absolutely.

FAMILY ACTIVITIES (aka family wide symptoms and coping activities)

This is a caffeine dependent household

It messes with barrys powers but the others use it So Much (i know thats not how it works but my city now)

Every morning they ask someone to help them do one (1) basic chore

Wally: "iris can you watch me do the dishes so i cant leave before its done? I promise ill pay you back."

Barry: "hey jay i need to mow the lawn come talk to me while i do it or ill end up running over to different stores to compare fertilizers or something equally barely related."

Bart: "tim please. I NEED to go grocery shopping but i Will buy so many things that we dont need if you dont come with me. And that is a threat."

Since they need to eat a lot and they need to have stimulation they constantly have cliff bars and stuff on them. All different flavors too! Cant get boring or it wont help with anything.

Robin: i need a snack, i havent eaten in like, a whole day

Kid flash: what flavor cliff bar do you like? Or do you prefer nature valley? What about [weight gain bar]? Oh! You dont eat bars do you? Stupid kid! No worries man, ive got just the thing! Trail mix!!

Robin: you.... dont have pockets??.?.?????? HOW???????

They all have special interests and love infodumping to their friends, but the way they do it is different

Barry: Flash Fact(tm)!

Wally: hey, did you know?

Bart: hey! Guess what i just found out!!!!

#flashfam #flash #kid flash #impulse #wally west #barry allen #bart allen #Bartholomew Rudolph Allen #Bartholomew Rudolph allen ii #wallace west #adhd speedsters

[canyonhermit]

Lost? (Portentum Canyon Masterpost)

So, you’ve found yourself lost in Portentum Canyon, California. Calm yourself. I know, all the trails look the same after a certain point. But don’t worry, my child, you’re safe here. Hm? Where are you? Who am I? What’s that sound? Why does that deer have three eyes? Let’s cool it with the questions. Take a seat and I’ll lay it all out in simple terms.

This post includes:

I. Who am I? - Who is The Hermit?

II. Where are we? - Guide to Portentum Canyon

III. What can I do for you? - How to interact

IV. The Author

V. Taglist

Who am I?

I’m what the folks around here like to call The Hermit. I live here, in the middle of the canyon, by myself. I get lonely sometimes, but I’m lucky to have weary travelers such as yourself every once in a while. I’ve been here for longer than you can even fathom- human minds, they’re so inhibited.

(The Hermit deals with all content tagged # hermit’s words)

Where are we?

Portentum Canyon, the most obscure and uncharted nature preserve in California. It’s big enough to be a state park but there were too many incidents to get it officially recognized, which is probably why you’ve never heard of it. Over 500 square miles of dense forest, steep cliffs, and dangerous rapids. Hiking here is definitely not for the faint of heart, but I’m sure you know that. It’s rarely traveled by humans, so it’s mostly populated by some of the most beautiful native wildlife in the country: the American black bear, common blue jay, Sierra Nevada red fox, hyampom hog bear, six-eyed deer, Central American whintosser, red-headed woodpecker, western double-headed coyote. It’s scorching hot in the day, but frigid at night. 

Nights here are treacherous and often lethal. Besides the fauna, the woods are plagued by restless spirits. They inhabit abandoned buildings and crashed vehicles, even the trees themselves. Some of them haven’t even died yet.

You were lucky to find my little shack before sunset. I know, it looks like a mess from the outside- some have said that it looks like it would tumble down the cliff and into the river if I so much as sneeze- but I promise it’s rather cozy inside. If you can get past the abandoned coffee cups and books on the floor, there’s a pair of mismatched armchairs (ignore the large purple stain on the back cushion of mine, it’s no concern of yours) and a fireplace. It’s always been lit, however, I don’t remember ever lighting it. There’s a window but it’s best you avoid it at all costs. There’s a wooden shelf full of books- yes, I know they look like they’re about to fall to the floor, but I assure you they want- and a small stove and sink. How do I have running water and heat all the way out there? None of your business, kid.

What can I do for you?

Unfortunately, there are no gifts without charge. You must be tired- I have food and drink, but you’ve got to offer me something in return. Requests can be anything, physical or otherwise, and offerings are in words (a story, a memory, a poem, anything non-physical) as long as you deem your payment of equal value your request! For instance, you could offer a story in return for a hot cup of coffee, or a book recommendation in return for some heartfelt advice. 

(Similar to the ask/offering system of @/normal-horoscopes, @/theambersalesman, and @/thetatteredveil. My responses are primarily cryptic horror-writing oriented as opposed to genuine, more benign responses from those blogs, and payment is in words instead of objects.)

The Author

Hello! My name is Lawrence, I’m the writer behind The Hermit and the concept of Portentum Canyon. I’m a writer specializing in horror, I am absolutely in love with every legendary American cryptid, I speak three languages, and I’m allergic to fiberglass. I dabble in spirituality, witchcraft, and the occult, and I’m a nerd for urban legends.

I’m a Califonia native and I can assure you that (as far as I know) Portentum Canyon does not exist. It won’t exist unless I manage to manifest it into materializing in our dimension, but that’s not extremely likely. However! It is heavily based on the urban legends (haunted and abandoned buildings, rampant cults, ghosts of perished hikers, the occasional UFO, etc) surrounding Turnbull Canyon in SoCal, with an environment comparable to Yosemite Valley and the surrounding national park. (The header photo is a picture I took of Yosemite Valley on a disposable camera that would later be dropped into a lake and barely salvaged.) The creatures inhabiting it are various North American cryptids and legends with the addition of a few that are simply products of my imagination. Feel free to ask about them, I’d be happy to infodump!

To ask for me, simply clarify “to the author” in your ask. No offering necessary because, unlike the hermit, I’m not a rapacious immortal bastard. I’m not a pro at anything, but I’m still open to answering questions about my research on California, cryptids, and urban legends, or simply about myself. Or anything, honestly, I get bored. Out-of-character content is tagged # author’s words.

This blog is inspired by @/normal-horoscopes, @/theambersalesman, and @/thetatteredveil but does not claim any canonicity within said blogs. This blog and all characters and writing are copyright to me, the author. I am not an expert on American cryptids and urban legends and the stories and descriptions expressed here should not be considered factual or accurate.

Taglist

#hermit’s words = Posts The Hermit has added to and asks answered by The Hermit

#author’s words = Out-of-character posts I (the author) has added to and asks I have answered

#foodstuff = Asks requesting food or drink, horror writing

#talk = Asks requesting words (advice, stories, etc), may or may not be horror

#canyon lore = Asks and posts referring to and/or explaining legends pertaining to Portentum Canyon

#canyon friends = Asks and posts referring to and/or explaining the creatures and spirits residing in Portentum Canyon

#cw ____ = Content (primarily in horror writing) that may be considered triggering or disturbing. If you’d like me to add a cw tag for your triggers, send an ask or message me and I’ll be happy to do so.

#[blog name] = Content interacting with a certain blog

I will add more as this blog grows and changes!

This blog is a safe space for everyone except for bigots. If I catch you disrespecting anyone, you’ll be thrown off the ravine or fed to the double headed coyotes without hesitation :)

That’s all! Welcome to Portentum Canyon, where the sun is hot and you are never, ever alone. Animals with more eyes than are natural are always watching you. You cannot avoid them. Have a nice stay!

#hermit's words #author's words #cw long post #canyon lore #canyon friends #masterpost #portentum canyon masterpost

[onwesterlywinds]

One Last Step

So still this broken melody And therewith shoulder thee One last step only leaving An empty hearth down by the sea

Content warning for suicide. | Contains spoilers through 5.0.

I.

In the weeks before the Calamity, Ahtynwyb Eynskyfwyn often dreamt of a tempest of mythological proportions. In those dreams, the storm would bring itself to bear against the mighty cliffs of Quarterstone, upon which perched her grandparents' cabin. The seas would rise in a deafening pulse with waves fit to level any lesser artifice, breaking against the wall of stone and sending their spray up into the blustering sky.

And she would stand alone at the top of those cliffs and know, even in her dreams, that naught would ever be the same again.

II.

The Cabinet of Curiosities held a trove of books. Throughout her travels, throughout her journeys through ruins long forgotten and civilizations engulfed in war, she had wondered every now and again what works she would preserve if forced to do so - if the only remaining testaments to a culture were the things that she and others like her could carry on their backs and in their minds.

She had seen Doma's answer; Ala Mhigo's, too, was becoming clearer by the day. But the Crystarium's had taken her by surprise for the sheer breadth of it: thousands upon thousands of tomes encompassing the last vestiges of mankind. Each book contained not only knowledge, but the dreams of those who had carried it to safety and given it up for the betterment of all. Each book had been entrusted to the community and its future, free for any to peruse.

And after no more than a morning of taking stock of the catalog, Ahtyn left the library to explore the Crystal Exarch's private collection.

She scanned the topmost shelf in his study, her heart pounding in her ears, until she laid eyes upon a tome she'd spotted from afar earlier in the week. Though slightly shabbier around the edges, its pages far more yellowed than she had remembered, she could not have mistaken it for the world. Her feet carried her across the room in a daze. Once she lifted the book from on high, she massaged the intact spine; as she flipped through the volume leaf by leaf, she found not a single page missing.

No book in the Cabinet of Curiosities could mean as much to her as this one, for none of the books beyond this room had come from the Source. None of them had traveled across time and worlds in the very subject they depicted - the Crystal Tower - and not a single one had been her favorite companion as a child.

Her eyes filled with tears as they rested upon the opening lines:

Once upon a time, four young Warriors of Light journeyed forth to right the wrongs of Allag.

III.

It had been bound to happen sooner or later. Looking back, she had ignored all signs from the beginning that her first-ever adventuring party had not been meant to last. One of their number had an ego; another prioritized too many commitments back home; another found fault with everything the others did. Ahtynwyb, for her part, had spent too much of her time smoothing over the fissures emerging in their group with each passing day. Regardless of how or why they had gone their separate ways, the excuses for why they would never have been a team worthy of legend brought her no comfort.

And on a more practical note, her lack of a party left her that much further from entering the Binding Coil of Bahamut.

Though if she were in the Binding Coil, she thought, she wouldn't be able to see the stars over Silvertear. She could stare at that dusk sky forever, with its gathered clouds still purple-hued over the lake and the Crystal Tower shattering the horizon.

She would be inside that tower soon enough. That had to count for something.

"Ahtyn!"

Cid made to throw her some sort of bread but then, noticing the book in her hands, jogged it over to her instead. It was a flaky pastry the size of her face, wrapped in paper and filled with spiced vegetables and cheese. "Fresh from the Toll. Figured you could do with a pick-me-up after running around the lake all day."

"Thanks, Cid."

Either Cid hadn't yet seen her teary eyes, or he had enough grace not to comment on them. "What's that you're reading? Something of the Scions'?"

She shook her head. "No, I've had this one for a while. It was my grandpa's." She closed the pages on her index finger, the better for him to see the cover emblazoned with the very tower before them without losing her page. "Just some old stories. They're a little childish, but they've always been kinda nostalgic, you know?"

Cid let out a long, low whistle, then thumped her on the back a little harder than she had been expecting. "G'raha!"

From where he sat at the center of Saint Coinach's Find, the young man's ears perked up in the middle of his swig of ale; he jumped to his feet in a single fluid motion. "Y-Yes?"

"You said the key to the tower was in legends, yes? Something that the ancients wouldn't have thought to preserve via tomestones?" Cid beckoned G'raha over with a wave of his arm. "You're going to want to see this."

IV.

"Find what you were looking for, then, hero?"

She gave so great a start that she very nearly dropped her book. Emet-Selch leaned against the closed study door, examining a nearby desk and all the clutter the Exarch had left lying atop it. Ahtyn opened her mouth to tell him he wasn't supposed to be in there, then, given the nature of her own trespass, thought better of it.

"I did," she replied, cautious of the venom with which he spoke the word "hero." "And now I'm going to stay in here and read. Alone."

Emet-Selch cast a conspicuous glance at the tome's cover and heaved another of his sighs. "Hmph. How very tedious."

She pointedly ignored him and turned a page.

V.

"And you say this book has been in your family for generations?" Rammbroes murmured. He rubbed the back of his bald head, a sure sign that he was deep in thought.

G'raha Tia turned the book over to reexamine the front cover, even holding it up to where the tower stood to their north. It was a perfect representation, down to the positioning of each crystalline turret. "Despite the fact that the Crystal Tower has not been seen in millennia," he said, echoing Ahtyn's thoughts perfectly. He returned the book to her, bequeathing it as gently as one would hand over a tool of one's trade. "Could your family be descended from survivors of the Allagan Empire, perhaps?"

She shrugged. "I guess there's that chance, but... we're farmers on one side, and pirates on the other."

"After thousands of years, one could never truly know where one's ancestors-"

"What I meant was," she interrupted, "I think if we were descended from Allagans, we'd have way more family stories to tell about how we single-handedly saved the world."

G'raha squinted at her, then at Rammbroes, who was chuckling somewhere over her shoulder. "She's described Roegadyn culture in a nutshell for you," Rammbroes specified.

VI.

"But how can you throw together two whole worlds without things getting smushed?" she had asked her grandfather once during the climax of one of his stories. "Wouldn’t that hurt a lot of people?"

"Sometimes," he replied. "But other times, it’s just what everyone needs. Ye know what the stories say happens when there’s nothin’ but light. Sooner or later, the darkness comes back, and then what’re ye left with? Ye’ve got to have some some darkness to balance out that light once in a while, aye. Because it’s not light that brings the heroes home at the end, Liveen - it’s balance."

VII.

"What is it that so captivates you about that book, then?" Emet-Selch asked some twenty-odd pages later. She had no idea if he'd ever left the study at all - but strangely, even after his constant pestering in the Rak'tika Greatwood, she found him something of a welcome presence. There was, after all, no danger of him revealing her.

"It reminds me of my grandpa. And of a lot of friends."

He let out a noise that might well have been a yawn. "How quaint."

"I thought you were supposed to be a big fan of stories like this one."

"This may surprise you, but omniscience is not among my many talents. I'm afraid I don't know the first thing about it."

"Sprawling epics, dramatic motivations, tragic flaws. I thought Solus ate that shit up." The mention of that name caused him to stop examining his gloves and start actually looking at her. "At least," she continued, with some smugness, "that was what I heard on the Prima Vista."

Emet-Selch's lips twitched into a brief smile as he let out a barely perceptible chuckle, leaning to rest against the nearest wall with folded arms. "So my grandson's suspicions were well-founded: you did meet with Jenomis after all."

"I have."

"He spoke truly. I never will say no to a well-constructed story - particularly not from a master of their medium, as Jenomis is. It's fitting that you were able to bear witness to one of his performances. I can only imagine his resultant works will be better served for your collaboration."

Her eyes were too busy tracing the next line of text-

For why would the hero have thought to look for the villain in her own shadow?

-to immediately register Emet-Selch's words. By the time she did, they took her somewhat aback. "...I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

VIII.

"Hey. Alphinaud."

The crunching footsteps to her right slowed but did not halt. The fulm-deep Coerthan snow made it difficult for them to traverse side by side, but despite lacking her long stride, weather-resistant armor from the Crystal Tower and overall affinity for the cold, Alphinaud had always preferred to keep an even pace with her on the road whenever possible.

"You okay?"

Alphinaud did not stop, even surpassing her on the wooded trail. He made some small noise to indicate he was paying attention but otherwise did not turn to look at her.

"Don't worry. It should start to warm up once we get closer to Mor Dhona, especially around the next hill."

He gave another noncommittal nod, though he shivered a bit through his tunic.

"I wanted to ask you something," she continued. She followed in his steps, mostly so as not to leave him behind - but also, if she had learned anything over the past few weeks, it was that eyes and ears truly were everywhere, and that a misplaced shout could be fatal. "While it's just the two of us." The understanding that Haurchefant would be too overbearing to take part in such a delicate conversation would have to go implied.

"G-Go on," said Alphinaud.

"What Ilberd said, back at the Observatorium, about the prisoners he'd taken into custody." She waited. "About how they would be thoroughly interrogated."

"Do you find fault with his methods? If so, allow me to raise your concerns with him. I imagine he would be amenable to finding an alternative method of..." He trailed off, presumably to search for an acceptable word.

"Gathering intelligence?"

"Precisely."

"You're well within your rights to ask him what his methods actually are, Alphinaud," she said. "And to tell him to stop, if he goes further than you'd like. But if he's one man operating alone, without your oversight-"

"Thank you, my friend," Alphinaud snapped, "but I would rather we speak of something else for the remainder of our journey."

They continued their trek back to Mor Dhona in utter silence.

IX.

The waves over Quarterstone had ebbed since the Calamity, but the ocean still reached a far greater height than she remembered from her youth. She would never get used to such a view, even less so now that her grandparents' house no longer stood: it had been drawn over the cliffs not even a year after their family had relocated to Moraby, its foundations too weathered to withstand the constant onslaught from a changed world.

Grehswys merely sipped at her wine, looking as much at the road on which they had traveled as she was at the horizon they'd memorized throughout their shared childhood. At length, she passed the bottle over to Ahtyn, and she took as long of a swig as she could get away with.

"There's one thing I've come to appreciate about adventurers," her sister said. "You've learned how to talk about shite like this. Most of you, at least."

"What do you mean?"

"You've met folk from all over the world, right?"

"Right."

"So you've had to describe this to them, if it ever came up. What it meant to you, that is, and what it meant to lose it."

Ahtyn racked her brain and was surprised to recall several such conversations: with the Leveilleur twins, with Mupal, with Sairsel, with a full bar at the Sandsea on at least a couple occasions. For something that she had thought of as some great weight, she had brought up the topic more than she'd thought. "I... I guess so. Yeah."

Grehswys shrugged. "That's what's so horrid about staying here. We all went through it, but... we just keep it bottled up. A story everyone knows but never tells."

X.

The void was wearing on her in subtle ways. Or perhaps it was that the creatures she'd fought here had been stronger than any others she'd encountered throughout her adventures thus far.

But the Cloud of Darkness was fading with each passing second. Devoid of its summoned monsters, devoid of immediate purpose, the air in the void was beginning to grow stale - heavy. All around and above her lay a roaring expanse of abyss. It was dizzying to be so entrenched in the dark, save for a ripple of aurora to mark a semblance of light at the end of the tunnel, or a silver lining, or some other grandiose metaphor she didn't have the energy to engage with.

"Right," said Aoife Mahsa beside her, waving a hand in front of her own face. "So... what now."

Ahtyn took as deep of a breath as she could, though the burgeoning void was constricting her lungs with a sickly sweet sort of taste. "Find a way back to Hydaelyn," she said, and ran further toward the aurora. "I'll find G'raha and Nero!"

"Yes!" Aoife replied, bounding in front of her before she could protest. "WE find a way back to Hydaelyn, with G'raha and Nero! You're really on the ball, aye!"

"But Aoife-"

"Don't you 'but Aoife' me!" the bard scolded. "I'm not leaving you alone in here! Besides - if you got lost in the void, Cid and Baithin will each give me at least one lecture!"

Her eyes suddenly stung, and this time, she didn't have any light to blame it on. "Okay," she said, and stepped straight into the oblivion stretching out before them both. "So uh... dibs left void?"

XI.

Ahtyn knelt in the black sand to gather up the last of her belongings from the camp, the better to hide a sudden spike in her anxiety - the first distress she'd felt since wandering along the coast of Valnain more than a moon ago. With Ultima defeated and the Orbonne Monastery cleared of its haunts, Hrjt would have no cause to leave her home for the foreseeable future.

And Ahtyn had yet to overcome an inability to remain in touch.

Her movements stilled over her pack as she considered her impending return to the life of a solo traveler; then a slender finger tapped her twice on the shoulder. Ahtyn turned to find Hrjt's outstretched hand, and Eternal Wind clasped in it.

"You forgot this in my robes," Hrjt said.

There was such earnestness on her companion's face, without a hint of mischief or irony, that Ahtyn couldn't bite back her chuckle. "Okay, sorry. This isn't my strong suit."

"What isn't?"

"I should've just been direct. Hrjt, it's a gift."

"But-" The ends of Hrjt's ears twitched as she frowned. "Oh, no. I couldn't. You said this book was your favorite."

"It is! Which is why I think you should have it."

Hrjt gestured outward with her other hand - the one holding her staff - toward the remaining visible stretch of black coast. Through the heavy fog, Ahtyn could barely make out the dark tides forming a powerful rip current stretching far out into the Valnard Sea - and for once, the sight did not make her wistful for La Noscea.

"Ahtyn," said Hrjt, firmly. "This is how I live. I won't be able to keep it safe or dry with me."

"That's fine," she replied, even as the wind cast a fine spray across her cheek.

"You wouldn't wish to leave it to someone? A future child, or a pupil? Besides, what if I never have the chance to read it?"

"That's shite and you know it; you'll get at least four hundred more years than me."

"And what should happen if I'm instead captured by a voidsent and become lost to the lightless abyss forever?"

Recognizing her deadpan jest for what it was, Ahtyn grinned. "That's just depressing."

"There is, as you would say, a non-zero chance."

"Okay." Ahtyn held up both palms in surrender. "If you really aren't sure, I'll take it back."

She waited, unsure if she had been too pushy from the first. As Hrjt hesitated, her eyes gleamed with a sort of shyness Ahtyn had yet to see from her. "If you're sure... I'll keep it as safe as I am able. I promise."

"I'll visit you again soon," Ahtyn said, and meant it.

XII.

She could not reconcile the sight before her with the weeks of intimacy she had come to take for granted. The aether tugged at her senses; it sparked in the air like diamond dust as Ysayle Dangoulain made her descent against the sickly green sky. She fell faster than gravity, faster than flight. And yet time itself slowed as Ahtyn watched her from the airship, with Cid's hands pulling her back at the arms and the sounds of her own screams deafened in her ears.

She had never, never been able to reconcile the vibrant woman she'd come to know with the dead-eyed primal she had once fought, so long ago, when she'd still been convinced that doing so would bring about Eorzea's salvation. For all of Shiva's conjured majesty, she could convey none of her ideals except to those already devoted. They had had countless conversations during their Dravanian journeys; they had spoken in Ishgardian and Common and tongues long since lost to other mortals, sharing in the wonder of their blessing and burden, partaking together in the joys of being understood as equals. Shiva's summoner was far more wondrous bereft of her power. Ahtyn doubted, even now, that the same could be said of herself.

It was none of it fair. Ysayle was not meant to be the one to fall-

The hull of the Agrius froze, then shattered, then exploded - and soon the flames from the dreadnought's engine melted every last trace of ice. Ysayle's aether, too, was beyond her reach forever.

XIII.

"There are so many things I don't understand," said the young Minfilia, staring out across the hillside at the ribbons of Light pouring over Lyhe Ghiah. "But most of all, I've been wondering... how you manage to do it all on your own."

It was a question she'd been asked time and time again - only this time, she didn't wave away the girl's concerns. She didn't deflect with humility, insisting that the Scions had been at her side all the while or some such. Someday Minfilia would have to tread this same path, as her namesake had before her. Honesty would be the kindest possible gift.

"Well," she began, and the word hung in the air for a little while. "It helps that I've always been the type to want to save the world. Even when I was your age. Mostly I wanted someone, anyone, somewhere down the line, to know that someone tried to make things just a little bit better." She didn't say that when she was Minfilia's age, that desire had usually manifested as an abstract, foolhardy vision of self-sacrifice. "And when it's something you've grown up feeling, when it's that innate to you-" Twelve, and she thought she'd had it bad with merely a preference for books; from what Urianger had divulged, Minfilia had spent her childhood locked in a tower with only a name and a responsibility. "-it's usually less about finding the will to go on and more about... not burning yourself out, or spreading yourself too thin. I'd say that's the hardest part."

Minfilia nodded in the direction of her knees. "It must be difficult," she murmured. "Thancred's told me only a little of what you've done, but I... I can't begin to imagine it."

"It helps when you can be yourself in the day-to-day," she admitted. "Though of course, that's much easier said than done." It was why she had never come around to feeling comfortable in Ishgard: the more Edmont and Aymeric and all the rest came to revere her, the more she wondered if any of them had ever truly known her. "Aside from that, I try to vouch for others as often as I can. It relieves some of the pressure, it helps make some real allies, and... and sometimes it gives people another hero to focus on for a bit. Much as people don't want to hear it, it's not healthy to rest all your hopes and dreams on one person."

From beside her, Minfilia took in a deep, shuddering breath.

"D-Don't get me wrong," Ahtyn stammered. "I'm not saying I think everyone has to be strong enough to look after themselves. That's not a charitable way to think about things, and it doesn't account for all the people who haven't had a choice - like people from occupied territories." She was rambling now. "And there are some real advantages to having a single hero, like being able to take decisive action when it matters most. But I've seen it go wrong: once people get it in their heads that one person, one being can fix all of their problems, they'll go to all sorts of lengths to make it true."

She breathed in deeply, staring hard at the Light. "And honestly, I thought it would be different here in the First, when I heard people resented their Warriors of Light. I thought it'd mean they'd rely less on heroes and more on each other. But I still see it with the Exarch, and with you, and-"

She took one look at Minfilia's wide eyes and finally had the sense to curb her thoughts.

"I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to get so heavy, and none of this is your problem, and... and I don't know how much it makes sense. Long story short, it's just... it's something that gets me because it's..."

"...Because it's not fair," Minfilia finished.

XIV.

Ahtyn had come face to face with a siren before - the creatures that sang to sailors of their purported destinies. Once she had seen a captain walk into a siren's arms against the heeding of his crewmen, and the gory aftermath that had come of that scene had haunted her dreams for nearly a week. And as a song foretelling her own destiny rang out through the reaches of Azys Lla, she wished she could know its promises to be false.

The Goddess regarded her with heavy-lidded, dispassionate eyes.

It’s not light that brings the heroes home at the end, Liveen.

And then the scales tipped.

For a moment she was weightless. She fell through the golden air, watching Sophia grow ever further from her. When the others righted, she did not; with another lurch, with her own balance stymied, she tipped backward over the edge.

"AHTYN!"

A hand, small but strong, grabbed her at the wrist. It hoisted her, perhaps with the added strength of others, upwards and upwards until her feet regained their purchase on the platform and A'zaela Linh's worried face returned into view.

"Thanks!" she called. Sylvan Rain and Crimson Bull were holding off the primal in her momentary absence, pushing back against the Goddess' Daughter with their shoulders and no shortage of will to keep her from reaching Arae'sae and Nivelth. And still, for a moment, she merely stood. For the briefest of instants, the primal's call had granted her a vision clearer even than the Echo, though now it faded from her like water in her hands. She made to charge and then, in a terrifying second, realized she could not find her shield; only when A'zaela handed it back to her did she raise her sword to provoke the Goddess to face her again.

"How's that for judgment?!" she cried. "Now come and get me!"

XV.

No one spoke in the Ocular. Not even a plate of the Exarch's famous sandwiches could tempt them into conversation after their discoveries in the Qitana Ravel. For all their earlier bickering, Y'shtola and Thancred cast identical glowers of fatigue. Alisaie sat cleaning her rapier with single-minded dedication; Alphinaud paced from one end of the hall to the other. Urianger thumbed through a tome Ahtyn didn't recognize from the Exarch's private library. Minfilia pivoted her gaze from one Scion to the next, always folding and refolding her hands in her lap.

"Maybe this is hypocritical," Ahtyn said at length. "But I don't think this really changes anything."

They all turned to her.

It was wishful thinking, but if she had to continue to ponder in silence the possibility that she could be tempered, she would likely lose her mind.

"I agree," drawled Emet-Selch from out of nowhere behind her. "Listen to the hero. Continue your course." He took a bite of a sandwich and, presumably unsatisfied, set it back down onto the tray. Only Minfilia had the energy to glare at him.

"What I mean is," she continued aggressively, "if it's true that Hydaelyn is a primal, then anything we do to try to change or mitigate that fact could have serious consequences for the Source, if not other worlds."

Urianger nodded his agreement. "This matter requireth deliberations with our esteemed colleagues in the Source."

She opened her mouth to promise that she would raise the topic as soon as she could, but the Light suddenly heaved in her chest. The wave of nausea cut off any of the promises she might have made, any reassurances that the foundations of their worldview would remain intact.

XVI.

Even with the power surging around and through him, she held out a hand. She held out a hand as though doing so could undo all that he had schemed and dealt throughout the past half year, as though she could pull him from that precipice through her own sheer will.

Instead Ilberd Feare stared directly into her eyes, his eerie grin widening, as he stretched out the hands that held the eyes of Nidhogg and leaned further and further backward-

"COWARD!" Alphinaud screamed.

The Griffin gave one last tip of his head - a nod in her direction, it seemed - and she was seized with a horrific calm as he fell from Baelsar's Wall.

XVII.

The knock, quick and quiet, came upon her inn room door at nearly three in the morning. She staggered out of bed in a flash, halfway to grabbing her pauldrons. It could only be another Eulmoran attack, or some other initiative that required her urgent participation, and Captain Lyna would just have to get over her dishevelment. Then she threw open the door and found Alisaie in a robe and nightgown, carrying a pillow.

"May I borrow your floor?" Alisaie asked, conveying somewhat more consciousness than Ahtyn had expected, given the hour.

"Uh, yeah," she grumbled, albeit before she'd fully processed the question. "Of course."

Alisaie slipped inside, kicking off her slippers with enough force for them to land yalms apart. "It seems neither Alphinaud nor I can sleep. Only he insisted on making cocoa, and conversation-" Ahtyn could not determine from Alisaie's tone which of these she held in greater disdain. "-and I simply didn't have the heart to tell him I wasn't remotely interested."

Despite the proposal she'd agreed to, Ahtyn shepherded Alisaie toward her bed and took the floor for herself. There was more than enough room for them to share the mattress; then again, she had experienced all too often Alisaie's sleep-kicking during their expeditions in Gyr Abania and the Far East, when she or Lyse would have to share accommodations with her. The sight of the smallest among them enjoying her own sleeping mat was one that had never failed to bring Gosetsu to fits of his boisterous laughter. One by one, the memories of their adventures flickered through her head, bringing with them the crushing realization of how much of Alisaie's life she had missed while they had been worlds apart.

With the both of them settled and the lights long extinguished, Ahtyn whispered, "How are you holding up, really?"

She had expected a groan of frustration, or a muttered curse. Instead, Alisaie rolled over and stared in the general direction of her voice. "As always, I'm worried for you. ...I suppose that's why I can't sleep."

XVIII.

Her first thought, exhausted as she was from the interdimensional battle with Shinryu and the mere sight of Zenos lying dead in a pool of his own blood, was that Lyse looked beautiful with her arm stretched aloft. Her second thought was that Lyse had an incredible singing voice, and so did Ashelia Riot, though the latter was leaning the entirety of her weight against her husband and trying to look inconspicuous while doing so.

And as she stared out from atop the ramparts of Cotter Tor, she had never been prouder to stand among a crowd. For once, for once, all was put to rights. She did not quite know how she had come to stand here, beside Arenvald and the pennant, with a throng of Ala Mhigans far below. Between her and those people - the people whom she had played her own part in protecting - there lay a drop of half a thousand fulms.

"Ahtyn!" Lyse clasped her from behind at the shoulders, giving her a little shake to pull her from her reverie. The others behind her had begun to disperse back into the royal palace. "We're regrouping back at Porta Praetoria. Unless you need a minute?"

She shook her head. Better to look into Lyse's eyes than to peer into that empty, dawn-hued sky; better to have Lyse's hands on her than to trust in her own feet not to take her over the edge.

XIX.

It was easiest to take hold of his hand, crystalline though it was. They both needed the fresh air, but there was little to be found, even on the tall cliffs of Kholusia: she could scarcely smell the sea over the tinny smog from the dwarven forges.

But the Exarch did not appear to mind. He recovered slowly but steadily from his moment of collapse, his breathing growing more and more regular the longer they shared their simple contact.

"Construction on the Talos is proceeding apace?" he asked.

She nodded. They lapsed then into an easy, comfortable silence, presiding together over the Light-strewn sky. Soon, if all went as planned, that Light would be gone - contained amongst the vast sea already rising within her.

"It still doesn't feel right to me," she said at last. "None of this does, without the wind."

The Exarch's face gave no movement that she could see, but she could sense the smile in his words. "Then if you have a moment yet to spare, I would ask you to indulge me with a tale from your people - Eternal Wind, wasn't it?" As he turned to her then, she could see his grin in full. "Perhaps it would put both our hearts at ease, given the impending juncture."

It did not matter that he could easily have known of her connection to that book through any of the Scions, or learned it from gazing through the rift to the Source.

She knew then who he was for certain.

Her grip on his hand had grown so tight that it had begun to ache against the crystal. "Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."

And then she burst into tears.

"Oh, no no no," G'raha Tia murmured. His hood visibly shifted as his ears went flat. He reached out with his free hand, his hand of flesh, as if to touch her shoulder; instead, his hand lingered somewhere above her pauldron. "I'm so sorry, my friend; I-I never meant to-"

"I just-" She was sobbing now, as hard as she had cried alone at the banks of Silvertear Lake after she and the rest of NOAH had said their farewells to him. "Whatever happens next - no matter how it all ends - I want you to know h-how much it means to me. All hundred years of it! Everything you've done, everything you've been through... gods!"

He did not confirm her praise. As she rested her head upon his shoulder, still weeping for him alone to see, he laid his own head against her - his lips brushing mutely against her temple.

XX.

Tucked three-quarters of the way into Eternal Wind lay a strip of dyed Dalmascan paper, with words written lengthwise upon it in a hasty scrawl:

For the Ironworks.

May her light guide our journey home.

Hrjt Brotin

XXI.

"My dear, beloved sapling," Feo Ul crooned.

But she was beyond such praises now. All the different parts of her lay fractured. Here, atop the watchtower and brimming with sacrifice, she was neither savior nor warrior nor woman. She could not be anything, let alone the one thing she needed to be. She could scarcely maintain her consciousness without focus, let alone a process of thought, let alone the weight of her disparate memories. She was fit for nothing save destruction, save an Ascian's machinations.

"You are lost - confused - and have precious little time to gather your wits."

Time was not what she needed. Oh, to rule from Lyhe Ghiah forever would be a wondrous dream, a blissful reprieve - and yet it would be an ending, and one she was unworthy of at that.

"Stand very, very still," said the king. "Think not of where you need to go, but where you are right now at this moment. At this time, in this place..."

Ahtyn breathed in deeply. She let Feo Ul's words flow over her, like a steady breeze to greet the waves of Light breaking over the ramparts of her body. A single tear slipped down her cheek; Feo Ul swiped it away with the point of a single finger. The gesture, surprising in its intimacy, provoked an unexpected chuckle.

"I'm still here," she whispered. "And I still have you." And the twins, and Ryne, and all the other Scions. Her family, Hrjt, every friend whom she had ever known and loved. G'raha. "I know what comes next. But I'm... I'm so afraid, right now. And it feels silly to be so afraid." What would happen to the Light if she burst from all the fear and sadness and guilt?

Feo Ul shook their head. "It isn't silly at all at all, my sapling. But as you set off for who knows where, making even more of a mess of that aether of yours - remember that you have withstood this before, and you will surely do so again." They laid their hands upon her cheeks, flitting close enough to touch their tiny forehead against hers. "And know too that for all the miseries you have endured, you give back joy in equal measure."

XXII.

[Let us debate today the topic of our colleague's newest collection.]

The tide of Light had carried her to the deepest reaches of the Tempest, to a place where shades treated her as one might treat a misbehaving child. She sat staring at her own feet in the Hall of Rhetoric, a means of grounding herself against the aether's pull.

The masked, robed figure sitting opposite her gave a grandiose gesture with his arms. [It is an outrage, and a danger to young ones such as our guest.]

[The work is certainly unconventional,] his identical partner agreed. [Yet a danger? It inflicts no pain, and it neither incites nor promotes harmful behaviors.]

[It serves as a call to action and is therefore inflammatory by its very nature and purpose. Its themes are like to instill ideals of nonconformity within the most impressionable.]

[My friend,] the masked figure beside Ahtyn said, [it sounds to me as though you oppose the mere idea of this work. Have you yet read it?]

[Er... no. I have not. But I have heard enough from those I trust to know that it challenges the very fabric of the society we all labor so hard to uphold.]

[And yet these trusted friends and many other noble souls have read it, and are presumably no less patriotic for having done so. It seems to me, therefore, that this work is but a touchstone for a broader debate: that of censorship, and if some individual ideas deserve to be curbed in order to better provide for the needs of all.]

[What's this work about?] Ahtyn asked. She could not follow the conversation, even as she recognized each and every one of the arguments they made.

The figure across from her held a finger to his lips but otherwise ignored her. [You know I am all in favor of creation as self-expression,] he insisted. [But creation necessitates responsibility. We employ the Bureau of Architects to ensure that a patent is not accessible to those of insufficient skill and understanding. There is no such way to determine whether ideas could or should be similarly judged to ensure that those of weaker wills do not take it upon themselves to... to act upon ideas which they do not fully understand.]

[You raise a valuable point, my friend,] the specter beside her acquiesced. [Perhaps we shall discuss this matter with Emet-Selch. He is ever impartial with moral quandaries such as this.]

With their final debate settled, with their purpose served, the two figures faded into peaceful obscurity.

XXIII.

"You truly don't remember."

The more the Light surged within her, the more she wanted to, even as she feared what else that remembrance might bring. Her ramparts already threatened to crumble amidst the Ascian's private hell; were they to fall now, were the Light to overtake her, she would be lost.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, girl."

The words filled her with rage, as they always had, but neither could she tie them to any particular memory - and so she stared up, trying to summon anything more than a growl of pain in her throat.

"Well, retorts never were your forte." Emet-Selch knelt, the better to grasp her chin and tilt her face up toward his, forcing eye contact. Beads of sweat borne from pain obscured her eyes, nearly blotting out her vision. "And neither was irony, apparently. That you of all people should forget."

A new crop of Light rose in her gut, burning like bile as she spat it out onto Emet-Selch's Garlean boots. "Tell me." For words meant as an order, they rang pathetic from her lips. "Tell me who I was." Who I am.

He rolled his eyes and stood, dragging her up only part of the way before releasing her to crumple once again onto the crystal floor. "You were full of potential, most of it wasted. Just as you are now." He swept an arm wide, across where she lay half-broken upon the cold aetheric surface. "You could have been something, had you applied yourself - had you cared one whit beyond your own stupid dreams! You could have saved all of us. But no!"

"What did I do?" For whatever great sin she had committed, she had no doubt that it contributed in no small way to these people's destruction.

Emet-Selch's arms fell; his shoulders slumped. "What did you do?" he repeated, incredulous.

When he turned, he turned to face her without a hint of mischief in his eyes - only a mad grief.

"You created stories. Long, long ago, you wove a tale about a hero's journey - and from that tale sprang every other legend of heroes and journeys these sundered worlds have ever known."

The next breath she drew in was painless, steadying. Filling.

Emet-Selch drew himself up to his full height, coughing into his fist before adopting an orator's pose. "'A hero leaves her home, with the knowledge that naught will ever be the same again. She is tested, time and again - by monsters, by enemies, by allies, by the great and irrevocable struggles taking place in the world and in herself. She endures an ordeal graver than any other, something she has worked towards perhaps without ever knowing it, and in so doing sacrifices a part of herself. And when she returns home, if she returns home, she is changed - not in the way she hoped but in the way she needed.'" He sneered down at her, at the Light pouring out from her. "Is this the glorious homecoming you always imagined, my dear? Is this the necessary change you so envisioned for yourself, at long last... Sappho?"

Over the Light, over even the humiliation and fear and regret, that name triggered within her an ancient knowing. She staggered to her feet. Cold, unfeeling aether burst from her spine like wings, like a Passage of Arms given form.

The others could not save her now, for there could be no saving her. For all her insistences, she was the only one. There could only be this end - her end.

"You could have saved them!" Emet-Selch screamed, even as she transformed further into the broken creature he had sought for his own ends. "It was not enough for us to beg to you, oh, no. You decided you alone wanted no part in creating our savior, our god. And so we were left to summon Zodiark without your guidance."

He laughed so loudly and for so long that the sound doubled him over, even as she found the will to stand tall. By the time he composed himself once more, his voice was as soft as death.

"But you were correct on one point," he seethed. "My world will have no need for heroes."

XXIV.

At the end of days, the world needed a hero. Amaurot had chosen Zodiark.

Against her fears, against her protestations, the ritual would be performed on the morrow.

She stared down at the burning city, at the end of days. She wished she could evoke pity or grief for her people. She wished she could summon anything but her own worthless guilt.

A stillness emanated from the horizon, the first vestiges of Zodiark's lightless dawn. She tore off her mask to greet it.

They had used her own words to justify it. At the end of days, a savior comes. Would that she had never written at all.

With that thought etched into her mind, Sappho stepped from Amaurot's tallest cliff.

XXV.

"This world is not yours to end." Ahtynwyb Eynskyfwyn, the Queen Light, drew her sword against the Dark. "This is our future. Our story."

"Very well," said Hades. "Let us proceed to your final judgment. The victor shall write the tale, and the vanquished become its villain!"

???

And when she sat down upon her bed, aching and purposeful and devoid of every last obligation but one, she opened up a spare notebook to its first page and wrote:

Once upon a time, a young Warrior of Light journeyed forth into a realm reborn.

I tell you someone will remember us in the future.

-Sappho, Sapphic Fragment 2

#Livvy Ahtynwyb

[mutanitys]

I CAN’T FIND IT ANYMORE but in this one interview, james offhandedly said “you never sent me postcards (from genosha)” to fassbender. i went on a spiral and started working on this... it’s a wip... i’ll try and get the completed thing on ao3 soon u3u

*****

No one's ever hailed Erik as an art connoisseur, nor praised his eye for any type of stylistic workmanship. For flamboyance and extravagance, maybe, if he counts that one snipe remark Charles made during their many fights (he can't even remember which one it had been anymore)—but nothing in this postcard screams ‘byproduct-of-rage-overreaction.' 

Definitely not. He's hired the best artist on the island—a bright, albeit slightly too excitable, youth by the name Brad—to work on that very handmade postcard, after all. It was a good call; Brad had been profusely enthusiastic when Erik had first approached him.

"This could kickstart a profitable line of creative exports from Genosha in the long-term!" he gushed, flitting around as he turned everything he touched into paint of different viscosities and hues. "And for us to start off with something as easily marketed as postcards and prints... that is so smart of you, Mr. Lehnsherr!"

Personally, Erik thought it was so smart of Brad to extrapolate his selfish wishes into a much more productive economic plan for his personal-have-turned-micronation, but he never really said that out loud. Not because he thought Brad wasn't actually smart, but because he'd rather like to keep his real intentions hidden.

Erik traces the soft watercolour painting of one of Genosha's beaches with his pointer, the pale blue waves on its shores melting into dark blue depths closer to the horizon. Whitish-yellow cliffs cradle the beach, peacefully sunlit; it's the perfect picture of serenity. A sanctuary.

The hard surface of the high-grade card feels a little rough under Erik's fingertips, and the touch is almost wistful in nature, if he allowed himself to be that little bit more sentimental—but he isn't, and won't be. Because when he drops this in the sole mailbox they have down by the city square, it will be the tenth postcard he sends out to Charles with not so much as a hastily-written reply back. 

Beside him, a nib-pen lies innocently on his hardwood work table. The act of even picking it up again is so cheesy it becomes intimidating, yet Erik doesn't know what else he's supposed to do—can do. He needs—wants—to know, if only a little bit, despite fully realising the choice to leave had been his own and his alone. 

My old friend, Charles...

In all his previous letters, it had always just been 'Charles', and as his fingers trace out the inky curves of the 'S' Erik immediately regrets his decision, wishing he'd picked up a pencil instead. But what's done is done—this is his tenth postcard after all (Jesus, tenth, how pathetic). An extra word or two in the greetings wouldn’t harm anyone. 

Not much has happened in the last week since I last wrote to you...

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Erik mutters under his breath, throwing the pen aside. Can he sound any more desperate? He can’t even pretend months have passed since his last postcard. He knows Genosha isn't the most accessible place in the world (deliberately designed to be exactly the opposite, in fact), and mail originating from it is likely to be slow and infrequent. Likewise, no contact from or knowledge of the outside world has really reached his peripheries, so anything could be happening. An outbreak of cyclones, storms, the like. Charles being incredibly busy. Or Charles hiring someone to handle his mail who’s ordered to destroy any communication from a certain ‘Erik Lehnsherr’ upon sight. 

But it's not the affairs of the entire world that he's been sitting at the edge of his seat for—not at all. Several mere sentences, words even, from the world he knows and has always been strangely fond of; from Charles and his silly, posh school—that’s the desire that’s been keeping his hands occupied writing on flimsy little postcards. Sending the first felt like a diplomatic gesture—a peace offering, as one kingdom would present to another. The second, third and perhaps fourth postcards could all be classified as such: logistical necessity, to consolidate Genosha's self-contained peace, even in a roundabout way. 

But everything else after that? Erik couldn't deny it if he wanted to—they were all for Charles. 

At the moment, however, he's feeling quite hurt and angry at the realisation of events. He'd just messed up the lovely postcard Brad had painstakingly spent hours of manlabour on with his ill-chosen words, his fancy pen had just left a dark blue trail on his favourite white work shirt and the chances of Charles sending anything back to him is still slim to none.

There's a pinprick of pain behind his eyes that make his fingers twitch—tell-tales of rage surging in his chest, rattling the cans lined up along his bedroom shelf even when he bottles up the heat with a twisted mouth and furrowed brows. One can falls off its shelf--the metal nib of his pen shakes, rolling the tool onto its side—his fingers tremble, then clench—and then—

Nothing. Everything is still all of a sudden, Erik left panting as he slumps back into his creaking chair, left feeling drained and... resigned.

He picks up the pen and feels it in his every bone: resignation. There's no point in lying to himself: resignation is all he's truly felt ever since the day he'd left Charles.

#cherik #charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #x-men #fanfic #xmen fic #scribbles #xmen fanfiction #i had to puke words out!!!!!!

[sinsofaconfessor]

(( Apologies! and warning! This post is LONG!))

The Stormwind streets, an almost peacefully quiet day save the typical shouts of Breels recipes and the local gnews echoing. Syred sat there, slumped at his desk. One hand propping up his head as his dull gaze watched the door. Not many came to his shop, the small demand silently astonished Syred. He was quite certain with the way Stormwind worked, the way azeroth worked people should be flooding for customized weapons, runes and enchantments, potions and poisons. The shop now was a waiting room, an eerie limbo where the elf sat and watched time pass. 

More often than not, he'd close the shop early due to lack of visitors and return home, but today the thin wooden boards that made up the back wall of the shop found a small fraction of curiousity. Syred had discovered his shop shared a wall with what sounded like a guard office of some time. Chatter day in and out of various events, information muffled through wooden planks almost interesting amid what was another day of very little. His gaze turned to the door up the stairs, contemplating bringing Amarah and Ari downstairs. He'd finished working on a book for them, blank pages enchanted to give movement to figures drawn on them. He suspected it'd keep them from coloring on anymore important tomes he'd tried desperately to keep from their hands.

Syreds shop was something he was...fairly proud of, a work of almost gaudy and over the top elegance mixed with the brick and wood theme of stormwind.  Enchantments keeping books tethered to shelves, candles mounted in metallic holders enchanted with levitation spells all for a bit of flare and appeal, if only to advertise some of what the store offered. All the while black and red themed carpets, curtains and tapestries settled and guided the patrons gaze to the wares, all completely matching Syreds own preferred attire scheme.  No one expected less from an elf. Syred enjoyed playing the part a little too much.

the sound of bare feet shuffled across stone, bringing Syreds ears  from eavesdropping on the muffle sounds behind him to the door. A night elf stepped slowly and carefully inside the enchanted parlour. Dark violet skin and muscle framed kilt and glowing runes simmered over the Kal'doreis chest and arms, blindfold settled loosely on the bridge of his nose as jagged horns curved forward and up, marking this one as Illidari, or at least former. Demon hunters.

Ugh, demon hunters. Syreds thoughts turned to telling the elf he was closed, turning him away. Business had been beyond slow, however, and the shop itself hemmoraged money. If Syred had sought to do this for actual profit the business would have gone under months ago. Money wasn't an obstacle, boredom however stalled his typical standoffish nature.

Syred straightened himself out, rising to his feet and offering a slight dip of the head to the demon hunter, noting the lack of glaives with mild curiousity. " Greetings, Welcome to the Needful. What are you looking for today? new steel?" Cordial, though strained he was at least momentarily polite. Syred didn't like demon hunters, or paladins, or cats, or drunkards, fools, Sundays,Lightforged, farmers....It could be said the list of things Syred did like was far shorter. " I'm looking for something to help me kill a demon. The King has sent me on a mission."  

Of course, Syred slouched, almost bored all over, of course the demon hunter was hunting demons. Of course a call to victory from the king. Syred  unavoidably sighed. " I recommend an orb, something to contain spirits and entities. Killing a demon isn't an issue, it's mostly what happens to their essence afterwards..I suspect you're careful enough to avoid overeating since you aren't a pile of ash." Syreds hand flicked, a crystalline orb floated off the shelf closest to the window, slowly gliding toward the center of the room. **Thunk..**

The orb fell to the ground,  its magics failed, in the same instant the whole shop seemed to falter like a gnomish machine running out of power. Enchantments lost their glow, candles fell to the ground spilling wax and rolling across the wood and stone. Everything in the store seemed to go dark. The entire fade of magic brought a moment of pause, confusion over Syreds face evident. All of this seemed...impossible. His eyes turned up to the window of his shop, outside a deep green glow just barely evident, a sign of tampering.

His eyes turned back to the demon hunter standing in the room with him, two feet taller, massive. His eyes stared down at Syred as thick rocky carapace coating his shoulders, arms and claws.

oh.

Oh.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Inside the Stormwind office, a simple accountant keeping track. He was seated at a desk, keeping tally of each guards salary in a ledger. Mundane silence and peace. It wasn't even payday when the accountant had the most conversations his entire week. The only break in his silence was the soft scribbles of the quill over paper.It was just enough for the accountant to wish for something else. Maybe -he- could apply for a guard position for a more exciting life! This office was cramped and worst of all, strangely hot this early in the morning. Why -was- it so hot?

The thought was answered in a flash of fate-woven destruction. Splintering wood heralded an explosion of shattered singed and cracked wooden walls. The first sight emerging? A pitch foxtail, cropped by massive violet clawed hands, armored in thick rocky scales. Wood planks thrust outward as burnt discolored wood exploded outward, the accountants only friend  was the desk he'd ducked behind to avoid the shrapnel of splinters and chunks of wood. The immense form of a Demon hunter powered by vengeance burst through the wall, revealing the shop burst in felflames. Massive clawed feet gouged the wood of the guard house as he'd come to a halt, it was evident a charged leap had sent the demon hunter and Syred through the wall. Destruction and flames weaved through the now merged buildings, Syreds head clutched in the demons clawed palm.

Smoke spilled through the office, causing the Accountant to race from his office , screaming into the street. "  FIRE!. There's a fire! " He scampered toward the stocks, quick to call anyone and everyones attention. Amid the plumes of smoke the sounds of violent impacts, wood being crushed and grunts of pain, snarls as the howl of of something whipping quickly through the air. Grunts and audible tears of cloth, and furniture violently crushed tattled the hidden violence behind the smoke. Small sounds of bystanders gathering witnessed not a shopkeep being accosted, but the shadows of two bipedal creatures illuminated by green flame and clouded by smog trading blows.

Books fueled the flames as the second stories support gave way, groaning before shelves came crashing to the ground, support beams weakened and collapsing into the rest pushing smoke into the streets. The crowed scampered back from the smoke, some overwhelmed by the surge and encompassed with in it.

Then? The smoke dissipated,  the witnesses seeing the smoke taking to the sky and flowing rapidly off into the distance. All that remained was the two destroyed buildings, all sounds of violence gone. It was as if the two creatures had vanished, leaving two hollowed frames of buildings burned to ash from entirely within. Syred had now earned himself the title of completely and utterly uninsurable.

Smoke rocketed across the sky, billowing over cliffs and farmland before arcing downward as if the smoke trailed a cannonball now coming to kiss the ground.  What landed was far heavier.  A crash of locked limps and clawed hands sinking into flesh, gashing wounds across skin tumbling across the quarry of the gold coast, set just to the profile of the giant pit. Syreds form scrambled to his feet, shadow magic clouding him and the demon hunter dissipated. The Night elfs rocky skin, forged into spikes jutting alone his forearms, shoulders, and back. The Night elfs skin bore claw marks gashing his flesh over his torso and arms, blood stained his spikes. His jaw, temple and cheek held lines cut across his face. Fire sparked over the dry grass of the plains cropping his feet. His Metamorphosis burned with power, heaving pants and a pleased grin laced in dripping blood over his canines.

Across from the Demon hunter  crouched Syred, his shoes destroyed leaving clawed feet and carapace skin. A long spindly tail swayed, barbed points at the end dripping with the demon hunters blood. His clothes were in tatters, flesh burned a slight green tint over the darker red. Horns curved back over his foxtail. Bruised skin in the shape of fingers painted over his head with blood dripping down over the back of his neck. Cuts  and pierced wounds peppered over the darkened skin of his torso, cropped barely by thin fabric dangling but a few errant buttons clinging to the mockery of the shirt swaying in the air of the farmland. Black carapace wings twitching and lightly flapping behind him. The Demon hunter had revealed Syreds form in the brutal brawl of fire, brimstone and public destruction. Syreds demonic flesh had torn into the fabrics of finely tailored clothes, carapace legs pierced the fabric of his pants as dripping blood leaked down his figure. The bleeding seemed secondary injuries to the large bruise marks forging green welts over Syreds skin and what was likely close to broken bones barely saved by hard demonic sinew and muscle.

Both were panting, staring unblinkingly at one another as Syreds voice gasped out the first words between the two since their first round of brawling. " You...Lose." Kal'dorei cackled. " I lose? I got you alone with no guards to interfere. You..." Lose."

This person was after him? The realization brought a swell of shadowmagic, darkness spilled across the ground, shadowy tendrils birthed from the ground and rocketed toward the demon hunter, sharpened points of magic seeking to skewer and pierce him. Felfire flames burst around the hunter, repelling the shadows around his form as his massive legs propelled him into the air, launching him down onto Syreds form. Felfire trailed around the hunters figure as he lunged at Syred.

Syreds gaze widened, watching the hunter repel his magics, sigils of felflame marking the ground around him. Clouds of shadowmagic surged around him, working to disperse his form from physicality only to be dispelled as a massive clawed hand ripped past the smoke, gripping at Syreds neck and plucking him from his magics influence. Carapace hands grasped at the arm in range before the demons form was gripped, clawed fingers dug into his throat causing blood to drip down his skin. The hunters laugh was instant as his grip allowed him to turn, lifting Syreds shorter demonic body and hurl him into the massive crater of the quarry.

Syreds body tumbled, no mercy granted in his fall as rocks crashed against carapace, bone and flesh until he'd landed at the bottom, limp figure draped over a fallen boulder. This was where a villain would be mid-monologue, talking about how perfect their plan was. It was unfortunate Syred wasn't in a talking mood. The hunter himself wasn't big on words and it showed as a boulder found itself rolled from the edge of the quarry and sent tumbling after the devastated demon. The sound of crashing rocks hitting the side of the quarry brought conscious thought and survival instincts to kick in, pushing Syred to open his eyes and look up. Shadows swirled around him again, pushing past the boulder as it slammed against the bottom of the quarry where his body once lay, the smoke condensed into a cloud, swelling as if staying intangible for whatever reason. The hunter allowed for little time for a reprieve, massive clawed feet pushed the elf off the edge of the quarry as he leapt down and into the cloud, immolating felflames burning through the cloud of magic and forcing Syreds form into physicality.

**CRACK**

Carapace broken, bone shattered and the demons body was shoved back into the bottom of the rocky pit, his left arm bent the wrong way, his torso folded against a clawed fist that cracked into his side, sending the body bouncing uselessly across the ground. Pain Ripped through Syreds nerves, screaming in protest at pain he'd not felt in some time. It was blinding and with so little time to recover the situation only found itself more grim. Syreds brief dispersion had allowed him time to seal the gashed and cuts on his wounds, but did little for new wounds of the devastating connections of the demons fists with his form. Syred fell uselessly again to the ground, magic wasn't working, and in this moment a knock down drag down fight wasn't working either. What else was left to do? Shadows were ineffective on the hunter. " The King wants you gone... Imagine his surprise when I tell him what you really were. A useless pile of demon." The hunter looked to be rolling his shoulders, fuming with power as flames licked the air around him. He approached Syreds prone form, snatching at his leg with a crushing grip to lift his carapaces figure upside down. A moment later the hunters hand twisted, snapping Syreds leg and cracking clear through the carapace to break at his leg. " There will be no nether for you, I'll eat you myself piece by piece...starting with.."

The pain caused an unavoidable howl from Syreds lips, anger, fury and rage boiled up. Whispers began to call at his mind, calling violence and death to his mind. Sanity melted rational thought except for one single synapse, one track snapped into a singular idea.

A boulder smashed against the hunters back, causing him to drop the elf and fall over. The hunter turned, looking at the top of the quarry above him. Had someone come to interfere? His answer came in the form of another boulder -smashing- against his form. Shadowy tendrils had birthed from the walls, magics grasping over the physical, what couldn't be dispelled by the hunters magics. Each Tendril Hurling boulder after boulder from the bottom of the quarry.

Rock after rock battered against the demons spiked armor, crashing and raining a storm of rocks against his body, the strain of physical exertion and the time spent in the form caused the spikes to melt away, grunts and thrashes as the hunter swiped at the number of shadowy assailants with little avail, their distance and use of the projectiles kept hailing any number of gravel. smaller stones hailed at the elf like bullets, pelting against the elfs violet skin until? A sharper rock found it's home in his back. An elongated rock hurled like a javelin pierced elven flesh, the tip of the rock emerged from his chest.

Syreds azure eyes stared from the ground, his mangled frame willing the shadowy tendrils into murdering for his will. The demons gaze turned to look back at Syreds prone form, even with the meat of his body absolutely devastated. Flames licked at his skin as felflames and power built into his form. The hunter laughed at Syred, watching him before.

Chaos, power, flames burst through the quarry. Fire erupted from the hunter in spite and vengeance causing a surge of felflame to burst and cover the entire quarry in the blast. The force of the explosion sent a tremor through the ground in Westfall, green flame lighting the morning sky in a pillar of flame, heat and magic slagging rock and spraying molten magic across the ground.

The eruption was enough to get the guards of sentinel hill to send a patrol, paladins given a call to action and adventurers given quest to find the source of the danger. In hours passed, the guard that came upon the scene found two charred skeletons cemented into slagged rock at the bottom of the quarry, unidentifiable by any clothing or hair, one skeleton submerged in heated rock face down into the bottom of the quarry, the other face up adjacent to him.

#Syred #The King #borderland coalition #Rosemarri

[im-anonymoose]

Day 1: Ring

He stared blankly down at the water. Churning, bubbling, foaming water. It crashed against the rocks, flinging salt spray in his face. His eyes stung, but from the ocean or tears, he couldn’t say. Wind snapped around his hair and filled his ears with white noise. Gray clouds mirrored his gray mood.

He remembered this cliff. This beautiful, horrid, dreamlike, wretched cliff. Scraggly rock that once had delicate flowers bloom now was a breeding ground for thorny weeds. His feet were protesting his lack of shoes, but he didn’t mind the bite. Thornes dug into the tender arches of his feet. The pain was almost enough to make him forget.

~ ~ ~

He didn’t quite know how old he was. Possibly fifteen? It didn’t matter, not really. What mattered was his idiocy, his mistake. His near death. His mother always said to be careful when playing on the rocks. They were especially slippery after storms. Lucky for him, it was only a light drizzle.

Whether it was courage or stupidity - the two can go hand in hand, after all - he ran to the sandy beach, his mother’s warnings lost further down the hill he went. He hopped along the rocks, laughing gleefully as the tide roared over his feet. His shorts were soaked by the time he made it to the little cavern in the cliffside. 

It wasn’t much of a cave than a glorified indent in the rock. It was enough for him and his five closest friends to sit comfortably inside during a particular giggle-filled night from swiped alcohol. The night ended quickly after they played a rather dislocated game of spin the bottle, ending with all of them piled on each other, the crash of the ocean lulling them to sleep.

The boy laughed at the memory, picking up the bottle that stood as a trophy of what they believed was a daring exploit. Along with it were seashells collected from the beach, parts of crabs caught in the rocks, and his prized possession: an intact horseshoe crab shell. They were neatly laid out on a natural shelf, high enough so the ocean would never steal them back.

Other knick-knacks were saved in a sand bucket in the corner. Most of it was all flotsam from the beach: shards of broken glass, shark’s teeth, feathers, rubber ducks, half of a flip phone, and a barnacle-encrusted engagement ring. 

Curious as the phone was, the ring was most interesting. It was intricately made, silver vines winding around the ring. In place of a diamond was a black pearl. Alege made its home in the nooks and crannies of the design and the pearl was scratched. Despite the rough journey, it must have taken, it was still as beautiful as ever. Though a wonderful find, he didn’t quite know what to do with it, which is how it ended up in a bucket full of odds and ends.

This evening, he held the ring to the ocean. There was something wistful about it, something lonely, yet familiar. Often he would have the urge to throw himself into the sea as it whispered to him from his window. This ring, washed up by a fitful wave and placed by his toes by chance, felt like a promise of sorts. When he would lie in bed, thoughts wandering and loud, the noise of waves would drown them out. When he would feel lonely, gulls would perch on his window sill, bringing seaweed and seashells. When he was angry and distraught, the ocean would caress his ankles, almost beckoning him into the dark, lukewarm expanse. 

He felt married to the oceans and her wild moods. A raw energy engulfing him when near, covering him in a lover’s embrace. He would float on her wake and sometimes, if very lucky, would feel a hand grasp at his. The boy was smitten with her untamed beauty and his small cavern was the perfect place to meet with her. 

Whispers of the water would echo in his cave. They spoke in a language unknown to him, yet touching his very soul. If he closed his eyes and sat rather still, he would hear her hidden song, melodious and smooth. It would grow closer and closer until he swore he could feel her inhale and exhale, but when he opened his eyes, it ended. 

It drove him mad, this unseeable voice. So, whenever he could break away, whenever he could hide in his cavern, he would. And that was where this evening found him. A storm brewing in the distance, the wind whistling as it sped up. Waves crashed, threatening to spill over into his cave. He stepped back, hopeful that the spell would pass.

It didn’t.

One particularly violent wave crashed over him, the tide rushing back. It had plucked the ring out of his fingers and ran with it. He shouted, but his voice was lost in the wind. He flung himself on the ground and tried to grasp at the ring before it was lost in the depths, but another wave crashed over him, yanking him into the angry sea. 

He had never felt more terrified than having the oppressive weight of gallons of water push on his body and force itself into his nose and mouth. He screamed, bubbles adding to the foam topping the waves. Salt burned his eyes as he thrashed uselessly, looking for where the sky went. He was losing oxygen, his mind becoming fuzzy and distant. This was it. He was going to die, taken by the one he loves.

The sea sang her song for him one last time, unburdened by the volatile and thick water. 

His body was pulled against the wake through no will of his own. The winds batted at his head and he registered the air, sucking in a breath of life. Still disoriented from being thrown by the waves, some unseen force hooked under his arms and pulled him to shore. Water glided around him, soothing the burn in his chest, his heart.

When his body reached the sandy bank, he grasped at it, crawling up the beach. He shook with adrenaline and wind chill, coughing and gasping while the sound of water still rushed through his ears.

“Are you quite alright?”

He whipped around, staring at the source of the smooth, gentle voice. It belonged to a girl who was floating in the water. Her eyes were a shocking purple and her hair was crystal blue like a calm pond. She had freckles along her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

“I’m… fine. What are you doing in the water? Come on, my mom can probably make some hot chocolate and-”

“I’m afraid I cannot leave.”

The boy stared at her, quizzically. “What?”

“I… cannot leave.” She said, looking down sadly. Behind her, a figure breached the water and rose over her head. A fishtail. A huge fishtail, sea green and shimmering in the pale moonlight. 

“Oh my god. You’re a… you’re…” The boy trailed off, taken by this girl.

“A mermaid.” She answered, “I’ve seen you. With your human friends. In that cave over there.” She pointed to the now water soaked cavern. The mermaid smiled wistfully, “You would always get so excited about such silly things. When I gave you that rubber duck… oh, how you laughed! It was unlike anything I had heard before!”

“Wait, that was you?” The boy said.

“Oh… yes. Is that bad?” She sank into the water, her eyes perturbed. 

“No! Of course not! I was just… surprised. I’ve never seen a real-life mermaid before. You… you’re beautiful.” He said, eyes wide and sparkling.

“Oh. Thank you. That is very kind.” 

The boy nodded, staring out on the horizon. The storm was beginning to clear as quickly as it had struck. The ocean’s waves settled slightly, still rocking the young mermaid nestled on the brink of the shore.

“Excuse me, friend, but could you tell me tales of the sea?” He asked, wistful at his new companion. 

The mermaid’s eyes lit up and the boy swore she could light the darkest trenches. She began to speak in a manner that sounded like song. He was entranced by the lilt in her voice and the rhythm of her words. 

She regaled a tale of the mighty Poseidon and all that he reigns. How every fish, from the tiniest minnow to the most monstrous whale would bend to his command. How the merfolk would sing to him and please him with dolphin shows. She told how she was the daughter of the daughter of the daughter of the great architect of Atlantis and all of it’s stunning, hidden beauty. She boasted lightly of how her own father’s father’s father handcrafted Poseidon’s throne himself with only the finest clay and marble. 

The boy listened and listened until a shill call of his name beckoned him. 

“My mother! I’ve been out so late. I must go.”

The mermaid laid her hand on his, eyes wide with a question unsaid. 

“I will be back tomorrow, in the cavern. If you would meet me?”

She smiled warmly as she turned his hand and pressed into his palm. She pulled away, revealing the ring he had lost to the waves. 

“As sure as the tide rolls, dear friend.” 

The boy kept true to his promise, returning to the cavern every night. And every night, his aquatic companion told more stories, each more fantastical than the last. She told of shipwrecks and pirates, hippocampus and nereids, the great Kraken that had sunk at entire barge with a slash of its tentacle. She told soft stories of caverns filled with luminescent crystals, undocumented coves with new creatures, the sunrise, and fall over sparkling waves. The boy’s dream to devote himself to the ocean was swayed each time he saw the young mermaid. His fidelity came to hold fast to her heart. 

As years grew, the young people grew with them. Mere stories turned to the mermaid taking the boy on sporadic journeys through the sea. In the water, she was wild and free, fluid as the expanse around her. She used charms allowing him to breathe under the wake with her for a short time. One spell wore off too quick and she resuscitated him on the beach, keeping their mouths together long after he had gotten enough oxygen.

They were smitten, yet always forced away. The man’s mother urged him to go into town and find a job. When he told the mermaid of the news, she cried out. 

“But then I will never see you! You will leave and I will have an empty cavern! It will fill with the ghost of your laughter and surely fill me with dread. I will have to leave this beach and never return.”

“No, no. I promise I will always return. I promise to you.”

“How? How may I be sure of this?”

Little did the mermaid know, the man had taken to wearing the ring. First, on his finger, but the questions became too much to bear. His mother looked quizzically, and his friends laughed. He couldn’t part with it, however, so he sold his shells and crab parts and horseshoe crab shell to local merchants. With the newfound riches, he purchased a fine silver chain that looked like waves rolling in the sea. 

He lifted it out of his shirt, the chain reflecting in the waning sunlight. The mermaid floated in the tidepool, transfixed. He slid the ring off the chain and held her hand, oh so delicately. In one intimate motion, he slid it on her finger, resting the pearl on the vein leading right to her heart. She gazed at it, eyes brimming with tears.

“I will be back to see you. Only an hour.”

“Only an hour.” She whispered back.

The man gleefully ran to the cavern after little over an hour in town. The seafarer he had been conversing with had been stubborn but folded eventually. His love was waiting, swimming in anxious circles.

“You’re late!” She scolded, with little heat in her tone. It was a fond annoyance, for she saw that shining look in his eyes.

“A ship!” He sang with no preamble. “I will be working on a ship!”

The mermaid looked shocked, “You are leaving? To where? For how long? When will I see you again?”

“No, no! It is the perfect occupation. A captain was looking for a hardy, clever crew to travel to distant lands. He was in town for only a few days, but I caught him on the tail end of his stay at the inn. He says I would be perfect for the seas!”

“And how does this work for me? I can’t live on a ship!”

“You won’t have to! You can swim right along with us. We’ll find new, exciting lands and meet interesting people and never have to part. This is the way I can live with you; the open seas!”

He grasped her hand, lightly touching the ring on her finger. She finally understood. A ship was the perfect unity of land and sea dwellers. Her face adopted a fierceness the man adored so. It was the face when diving through a tiger shark den, or when wrestling an octopus for a valuable chest of treasure.

“Yes! I will go with you! We will own the seas and rule them. Together.”

His mother’s goodbye was misty-eyed and gentle for the both of them, but the young man was an adult and mounted his new home. The wood creaked gently under his boots and he took a deep breath, already getting a whiff of the adventure to come. He glanced at the water, seeing his love’s tail breach the water and wave, only to disappear under the hull. 

They set sail at noon, traveling far. The man was true to his word, as they did indeed see many wonderful sights. One trepidation filled night left them in a storm. The rain was heavy and the crew was lost in the fog. The captain shouted orders, trying in vain to leave the overcast. From the ghostly mist, a voice rang out. Smooth and melodious, it sparked a memory in the man. 

He yelled to his captain, “That voice! Follow that voice! To the port! The port!”

The captain nodded, slightly fearful but impressed in the man’s resolve.

“PORT!” He commanded, and the crew followed suit.

They continued to follow the voice until they were far from the storm. The crew stopped, enchanted by the voice that had saved their lives. The captain raised his eyebrows at the man, who simply gestured to a rock jutting from the water. There sat a beautiful maiden with a fishtail, shimmering in the golden glow of newly found sun. She waved to the man, blowing him a kiss, who caught it and waved back. She laughed gorgeously, diving into the water and bolting ahead. The crew followed with newfound vigor, gracious for this peculiar man and their courageous savior. 

Throughout their journey, the mermaid continued to help them. She knew her ways through jagged rocks and rushing tides. And when they weren’t in danger, she would describe the ocean floor and retell her stories. She fit seamlessly with the crew: strong, passionate, willful, and daring. They loved the mermaid dearly, but none loved her more than the man.

It became most apparent on that fateful day, wretched as it was.

The crew had been sailing soundly, singing sea shanties and examining the new map a local gave them from their last excursion when they saw it. Another ship, much bigger than theirs, the figurehead a terrible dragon. It moved steadily towards them until it’s captain was able to see theirs. 

“You travelers?” He asked gruffly, a disapproving eye squinting at them.

“Of the kind.” Replied their captain stiffly, “Just heading to another island.”

“Got loot?”

Their captain replied slowly, posture cautious, “I don’t believe that’s your business.”

“Well, I believe it is. Can’t leave our waters without forkin’ over the fee.”

“And what may that be? AS far as I can tell, the ocean is as free as the air we breathe. So, sir, if you don’t at all mind, we’ll be going.”

The other captain stared blankly, then roared to his crew, “SCAVENGE THEM!”

Immediately, their ship was overtaken. Pirates swung aboard, shivs and knives and sword in hand. The slashed and hacked, breaking the beautiful wood of the deck. They raided and pillaged as they pleased. All the while the man and his companions begged for them to stop. All seemed lost.

Until a huge wave crashed over the deck, soaking the pirates and knocking them down. There, on the wet deck, balancing on her tail, stood the fearsome mermaid. She helps aloft a long stick of coral with an urchin stuck to the end. Her eyes were as cold as the deepest abyss as she stared them down. The pirates stood in shock. Their captain screamed. They advanced.

She there was too many of them and there was little she could do on land. So she opened her mouth, took a breath and screeched so violently one the pirates' ears bled. They were only left incapacitated for a moment before they regained their senses and deftly caught her. She struggled as they tied her, fins and scales cutting anyone who got close.

“No! Please! You must stop! Anything!” The man cried, no longer able to contain his anguish. 

The evil captain smiled dangerously, “Anything?”

“Yes! Yes!”

“I want her. My, my, would her tail look so beautifully mounted on my wall. A reminder of the rarest creatures in the sea.”

“No, no, anything but that! I love her, don’t you understand? Surely there must be someone you love? Surely you must have a heart?”

The pirate captain’s face softened, memories flicking through his eyes. He looked on the verge of tears, eyes darting along the deck and the sea and the crew and - landed on the man. His face washed of the warmth as he grinned demonically.

“No.”

He stabbed her through the heart.

Two anguished cries of lovers shook the world to its core. The man felt nothing but the vibrations from her voice. The last thing he had heard from her - a scream of agony. He fell to the deck, knees hitting unrelenting wood. He felt nothing. He said nothing.

Something landed in front of him. It was a finger with a gorgeous ring on it.

He blacked out and all he saw was red.

And all he heard was another scream, guttural and gasping for breath.

~ ~ ~

He stood there silently. He knew his mother was watching him from the window, worried. He was going to tell her eventually. He knew she’d be overjoyed to throw a wedding. Instead, she had her son returning home vacant, vowing to never marry, never love. She held him as he cried, sobs wracking his weak form. 

The man held the ring to the sea, peering through it. The pearl eclipsed the sun. There were so many questions he needed to be answered, yet no answers would ever come. He stared at the sea, familiar and homely, yet now strange and foreign. With one last show of affection, he kissed the ring and cast it into the waves. 

Perhaps another young fool will happen upon it.

{Hiya! Moose here! This is my first short story to the public, so constructive critism is greatly appreciated. Or any criticism. Also, I’m using the template for Inktober, mostly just because I like the prompts better :3}

#writeblr #writers #writing #writober #short story #mermaid

[thorsenmark]

Badlands and Prairie Grasses Under Blue Skies Along the Cliff Shelf Nature Trail (Badlands National Park) by Mark Stevens

#Azimuth 164 #Badlands #Badlands National Park #Blue Skies #Blues Skies with Clouds #Capture NX2 Edited #Central Great Plains #Cliff Shelf Nature Trail #Cloud Wisps #Color Efex Pro #Day 5 #Eroded Buttes #Eroded Pinnacles #Evergreen Trees #Evergreens #Grassland #Grassy Area #Grassy Field #Grassy Meadow #Great Plains #Landscape #Layers of Rock #Looking South #Mako Sica #Meadow #Mixed-Grass Prairie Ecosystem #Nature #Nikon D800E #Niobara-Missouri-Black Hills Plains #North America Plains

[traditional-with-a-twist]

iv. Beauty and Her Beast

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In her deepest moments of loss, Shirayuki would withdraw from the world around her. 

As if the shock had raised raw nerves to the surface of her skin, she shrank from contact, recoiled from discovery.

She hid her wound inside herself, where nothing could expose it, and no one could touch it.

When possible, she hid it even from herself.

...

Between her grief and those who would intrude on it, she interposed a veneer of composure. Under this facade, she continued to perform her daily roles with the promptitude of a marionette.

Shirayuki was no actress. Her ingrained forthrightness prevented her from delivering a convincing performance.

The best she could manage was a semblance of her usual activity.

She drifted from place to place, haunting the castle like a ghost of her former self, sketching the motions of a princess-to-have-been, a bereaved fiancée, even a royal pharmacist, but her timing was off.

She spoke at the wrong moment; she answered questions that no one had asked; she delivered her charge to the wrong recipient. She unmade whatever she had finished minutes before in an unconscious, anxious movement of her hands, left to their own disposal.

Sometimes she trailed off, looking away as if listening to something else.

Her eyes traced the path that led away from Wistal Castle, followed the road the royal knights had ridden east, lingering on the horizon in unanswered expectation.

Although she knew better, it was impossible to shake the conviction that she would see him again.

 ...

Their last good-bye--a public ceremony before the castle gates, enacted before hundreds of watching eyes--was no better than a pause, a question mark in the middle of a paragraph.

Whenever she had needed him, Zen had found his way to her. From the depths of a hidden manor to the endless expanse of an ocean, he searched her out like a beacon.

There was no wall high enough, no cavern deep enough, to keep him from her side.

Any moment now, her heart persisted in imagining, she might hear his voice again, see his smile, feel his hand in hers.

She knew better, but the deception lingered.

It trebled her desire for concealment. A hope spun of wishes and self-imposed forgetfulness could not bear the rough handling of another’s scrutiny.

Shirayuki veiled her longings and her agonies in assumed fortitude, swaddled all of it in feigned equanimity. Brittle as an eggshell, the false poise clothed her, made her fit for company.

When the fragile illusion threatened to crack, she fled.

 ...

That day, with servants thronging the hallways, torches amassed in preparation for the mourners’ march, a walkway of white sand strewn to guide their steps, and wreaths of heartsease ladening the air with their perfume--Shirayuki felt herself unequal to bearing the weight of the public eye.

She flinched from the presence of another human being; her feet turned aside from each chance encounter.

She made her escape without forethought, starting from corner to corner like the quarry in a hunt, retreating deeper into the maze of Wistal’s walls until she found herself alone.

The battlements rose to the height of the heavens on either side of her, uninterrupted even by windows. She had traded blank faces for staring stone blocks, but it was enough.

It would require an eagle eye to spy her out there.

With the bonds of society relaxed, her hurt welled up and overflowed. It burst from the hidden place where she had suppressed it.

It brought her to her knees.

There Obi found her, tossed in the storm of a loss she could not bring herself to name, where she least expected another soul to venture.

There he forgot himself in loving her.

There he left her.

 ...

At first, Shirayuki had felt Obi’s absence as she felt everything good in her life slipping away.

The changes began with the war: research suspended, austerity measures introduced, the brisk predictability of castle life devoured by the hectic pace of impending crisis...and then Zen’s proposal.

Shirayuki set her face to the new path with the same spirit she had always confronted destiny. Determined to do her best, grudging no sacrifice, privately cherishing hopes for the future, she had accepted the offer of Zen’s hand and promised to never look back.

Then the war had ended.

Her love, her work, her friends--they had fallen from her like broken rock, shearing off the cliff and crashing into the sea. She stood alone on a precipice now, swaying before the brink.

 ...

No door was closed to a member of the royal family, even a premature one, but neither was there a place for her in the greenhouses anymore. Her desk was cleared, her uniform packed away; they would conduct trials for a new apprentice soon.

The book of her life as a pharmacist had closed; she might take it down from its shelf and look over the pages she had labored to record, but she would never add another entry.

Nor would she continue training to assume the fullness of her role as Second Princess of Clarines. The office no longer existed.

She was caught in suspended animation, like a creature on the verge of flight, frozen in amber.

 ...

In her bewildered displacement, there were no familiar faces to offer her a kind look or a friendly word.

Kiki and Mitsuhide had ridden away with the royal cavalry, and they had returned as strangers.

They wore different uniforms: black, like the servants’ new livery and the drapes that covered the windows.

The warmth had left their eyes.

They never smiled.

 ...

And Obi? The once callous enemy who had become her shadow, then her guard, and at last her friend?

Obi had gone away for days at a time before, engaged on tasks of some vague and undefined nature, some understanding between him and Zen that Shirayuki had never felt the need to inquire into.

She worked around his absence, as one would make adjustments on a still day for the lack of a breeze.

Her responsibilities in the pharmacy might take longer, her hours might be quieter, but she didn’t mind it, because she knew he would be back.

The gaps in Obi’s attendance made up a layer in the pattern of her days, predictable in their unpredictability.

...

If she wondered what could be keeping him, now that the voice directing his movements had fallen silent, she refused to articulate this question, even to herself.

It tread too near the door in her mind that she was holding closed with all her strength--it was better to think nothing of the incongruity, so that there was no need to remind herself of the circumstances that made it so.

It never occurred to her that those same circumstances might have effected a permanent change in Obi’s position with respect to herself--that even this, his presence in her life, might fall away.

She couldn’t allow the possibility that Obi might not come back.

...

When he appeared to her again at last, she caught hold of him as a drowning sailor would seize a rope in a storm.

He was the last element of her life before the war, the last familiar landmark that hadn’t changed.

When he vanished, she was adrift again.

#Akagami no Shirayukihime #zenyuki #obiyuki #references major character death #PurePassion #Beauty and Her Beast #indepth with Shirayuki's grieving process #this chapter was a bear to write! #bringing all the threads together #P.S. #reviews are manna #THANK YOU #love how you connected Raj's offer #to Obi's later doubts #stay tuned for Kiki chapters!

[cherry3point14]

SO NOW YOU WANT TO READ?

DESCRIPTION: You need a break and you think you’ve figured out the perfect way to not research. That is it’s perfect until you need your research. 

[A short oneshot based during S12? Basically whenever Sam is in the library (so all the time).  Characters: Sam x Reader, Dean. Words: 1,768. Warnings: Blink and you’ll miss it violence. Allusions to human sacrifice]

AO3 link here if you would prefer.

You were a genius. One day the finest scholars would dare to try and unravel the subtle intricacies of your mind and they would, undoubtedly, fail. Because you’d been sitting with super nerd Sam for the past week now and he still had no idea that you weren’t doing research.

He was better at research anyway so it’s a victimless crime really.

You had briefly considered telling Dean of your brilliance and how you were getting away with it. You know, paying it forward, but somehow you just knew that he would get you caught. Probably by getting caught himself and then ratting you out to take the fall. 

The trick was cliff notes. Or at least the text summarizer you found online. For twenty minutes prep, you had found a way to create compelling lore cliff notes. A little scanning with your phone, let the OCR app do its magic and then plop that into the text summarizer. Bingo, bongo baby.

Then all you had to do is decide what you wanted to do with your time. One time you’d watched four episodes of the office on your phone, it wasn’t the first time you’d researched with your headphones on after all. Yesterday you’d sat there genuinely reading, just not the ridiculously dull, half Old Russian book on ritual sacrifices.

The best part? Whenever he looked up at you with those big, round eyes of his and asked you how it was going you had your little summary right there to casually throw into the conversation.

“Getting through it, I don’t think there’s anything on why we’re seeing this pattern in South Carolina, I mean this is just going on and on about the deity Perun, a big deal by the way, like a mix of Thor and Odin. But I don’t think twelfth century Slavic is going to help.”

You almost crack when he smiles at you like you might just be the most helpful person in the universe, “don’t worry Y/N, we’ll figure this out.”

Yep. You can feel the guilt creeping up your chest. You know you should be helping. You almost throw down the trashy romance novel you're reading in favor of actually reading the huge chronicle you’re balancing on your knees.

But you just wanted a little downtime and with the number of cases you’d been working lately, this was the only way you might get it.

Besides Sam loved research, so it was a victimless crime… right?

The Thor looking piece of work has you tied up against an oak tree. Luckily, it’s young and narrow enough that your arms aren’t being painfully pulled from their sockets while you try to maneuver yourself out of the bonds, unluckily the boy scout knew his knots and the whole process was taking you longer than you hoped.

And considering Dean is being prepared for some good old-fashioned human sacrifice you really needed to get free.

Sam is struggling the same as you, his bigger hands against the tough knots proving harder than expected. You make it out first and wait only a minute until the God wannabe is distracted with some concoction he’s mixing, before you slip out of sight to free Sam.

He turns to you without thanks, a giant bundle of panic and adrenaline, “ok so angel blades are a no go. You read the stuff on Perun, what kills him?”

So much for your victimless crime.

You rack your brains hoping that somewhere in those summaries, which you hadn’t even read properly, you’d flitted your eyes over the answer. But all that’s coming back to you is experts from your tacky erotica.

Eduardo held her by the waist, pinning her to him with every ounce of his strength. His height towering over her made her feel small, but his hands wrapped around her made her feel safe.

“Um, well, I’m trying to remember…” you trail off trying to buy some time.

Sam claps his hands to your shoulder like it might wake you up from a trance. “Y/N we don’t have time, you spent hours going through the Russian. He’s going to kill Dean. What do we need to use to kill him?”

Eduardo leaned into her with a hand fisted into her hair, “you are so beautiful my love, my Isabella. Like the morning sun that drowns out the night. Kiss me and I’ll be yours, forever.”

“Oh my god!” you shout whisper, mindful of the enemy who would only be distracted for so long, “you got me ok. I didn’t do the reading. Are you happy? I read some shitty romance novel instead and I haven’t been doing research all week and now we don’t know how to kill this pantheon prick and he’s going to sacrifice Dean and then you and me, and I have no idea how to kill him.”

He looks horrified and although it’s not a great moment to make a joke you think he’s probably most horrified that you weren’t doing research. Not the imminent deaths. 

You feel like he’s about two seconds away from telling you he’s disappointed, which everyone knows is worse than angry, so you ramble on hoping for the best. “Let’s just take a guess ok. I mean these idiots are normally bite the hand that feeds you types so maybe it’s something that he gets his power from can also be used to kill him?”

“So, any idea what that might be? And don’t suggest thunder, please.”

You’re pacing the shadows now willing yourself to remember anything.

“He’s hot for fire and mountains… maybe fire? Burning him? Need to get him to stay still first though.”

You lean back against the tree Sam had been tied, the bark against your back is like a jolt to your head, “oak!”

Sam raises an eyebrow at you, apparently, all the trust was gone. “Oak?”

“Yeah. His mythology is not that different from Zeus. I’m telling you, it’s oak. We’ve just got to… hey, give me a boost.”

“What?”

You thrust a finger in the direction of the alter Dean is unconscious on while Perun is anointing him with shimmering, golden oil, “I think he’ll hear us if we start trying to chop one of these trees down but if you help me up there I can probably break off a branch.”

The next five minutes involve Sam pushing you up into the tree he’d been tied to and you, not a natural tree climber, attempting to not slide back down the trunk. You eventually manage to start pulling a hefty branch back and forth but that’s when Sam hisses at you, “he’s chanting now.”

You give up being quiet for the sake of speed, holding yourself to the tree with one arm and leveraging your weight into repeatedly kicking the branch until it starts to splinter. It takes a few tries but finally, the stump of wood falls to the ground where Sam grabs it and rushes over to the sacrificial scene in front of you both. That leaves you on your own to fall, pretty pathetically, from the tree.

Perun, having sped up his words once he heard the commotion you were making, is now holding up an intricate, curved blade when Sam takes his shot. He pushes the oak branch through his chest. For a moment it looks like it hasn’t worked and only slowed him down instead but Sam, being brilliant as he is, worked it out from the rest of your rambling.

He pulls out a lighter and sets the wood on fire while the phony God is still impaled on it. The fire sets quickly and you suspect that Sam doused the branch in lighter fluid first. Perun doesn’t look angry as he burns just frozen in shock as the fire licks at him, leaving a smoldering pile of ashes in seconds.

You pull yourself up from the floor and run over to check on the elder Winchester, “Hey Dean, wake up.” Sam joins you in shaking him until Dean’s eyes open and he jokes like only he can after nearly becoming a human kebab, “what’d I miss?”

“Hey Sammy, mind if I join you?”

He’s looking at the book he just lifted from the shelf when he glares at you like he’s not quite over you betraying the sanctity of the library.

“I’ll take that face as a yes.”

You sit down in the vacant seat next to his pile of books knowing he will have no choice but to return to his seat next to you. Which he does with pursed lips as his eyes scan the page.

“Come on, I said I was sorry. You know I love reading obscure lore books with you it’s just, I needed a break.”

He sighs, “why didn’t you just tell me that?”

“Because then you’d have tried to read my pile on top of yours and, well, how was I supposed to know that the exact information we needed would be in one of the books I pretended to read?”

Although there’s still a crease in his forehead you can see the lines of his mouth soften, “we don’t know what information we need or what book it's in, that’s kind of the point of research.”

You grin because you think that means you’re forgiven but you ask him just to double check, “so you forgive me? I can be your book buddy again?”

“As long as you don’t call us book buddies.” This time he’s smiling too.

An hour later and you stand up stretching your arms and offering to go make some coffee, which he gladly encourages. When you return with two mugs he has an unexpected twinkle in his eye as he accepts one from you.

“Oh, my Isabella, you are too kind to Eduardo.” He's put on a ridiculous Spanish accent.

You freeze for a moment, absolutely mortified. The only thing that saves you is Sam’s face, it’s not as judgemental as you might have expected, and maybe after the whole fake research thing you deserve some measure of embarrassment.

Clearing your throat, you adopt an equally bad accent, “Oh Eduardo, take me away to the sea!”

His eyebrow raises dramatically, “Kiss me my Isabella and I’ll be yours, forever.”

You join him in the laughter and throw a playful punch to scold him for teasing you. Sitting down with your coffee and returning to your reading you barely manage to stop your wistful sigh.

God, if he kissed you right now you would be his, forever.

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural x reader #supernatural reader insert #reader inser #spn #spn reader insert #spn fanfic #sam x reader #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester #my gif #spn imagine