#perhaps this is unsurprising after my last post

[neurasthnia]

spanish resource lists for learners

a list of lists!! levels are estimated.

refold has a crowdsourced resource list for spanish, curated & with notes | A1 to C2

dreamingspanish on reddit has a crowdsourced spreadsheet with over 90 channels geared towards learners | A1 to C2

learn natively has a huge deck of spanish books sorted by difficulty by learners | A1 to C2

prensa escrita has a list of news websites sorted by country & sometimes city | B1 to C1 probably

the CI wiki has an editable list of CI resources and a couple of native content links | A1 to like B2?

comprehensible hub has tons of spanish podcasts for learners | A1 to B2

letterboxd has a ton of very fun #español lists, e.g. movies mentioned in the wild project podcast, latin american female directors, made in puerto rico | ~B2 to C2

there are also a ton of moocs in spanish for intermediate to advanced learners (moocs are online courses, usually free) | B1 to C2

#spanish langblr #spanish notes #* #langblr #language learning #spanish language #perhaps this is unsurprising after my last post #we're compiling babeyyyyy

[vidalinav]

Part 2 of the Nesta gets sick, acofas re-write thing

This is not my best work honestly. It's more of my quick writing. But you know what? It is what it is. Not everything can be a masterpiece and I should post things even when I don't think it's perfect. Keeps me humble and keeps me brave. This was a pep talk for me.

Part 1

~

The icy wind scars his face, but it's a small form of torture. Her name sits on his tongue, but he has yet to see if the mountains will hear him or if the people of Velaris will point the way.

Which tavern? Which music hall? Which book store? Which person's bedroom will he find her in?

How drunk will she be?

Cassian wishes he was drunk right now, but...

Has he ever been sober since he's seen her face?

Cassian sees her and the words spill out his mouth. Nothing honest--no. If he were telling the truth, he'd have sunk to his knees. Human, fae, or... death.

She breathed life back into him.

Now Nesta's being haunted by her thoughts, drinking them away, so they may be silenced, so the ice on his face--the piercing slice of winter, is a small price to pay. A small sacrifice. A small revenge for he deserves more than this.

"Nesta!" he yells, but Cassian's sure the wind swallows his call, howling like a wolf to the moon.

Cassian doesn't like the thought of her traveling in this. The city is bright, but he's unsurprised that many of the businesses are closed. It is a holiday after all. Thankfully, the taverns are alight with patrons and noise. He's almost glad it's open if only to offer Nesta reprieve.

Because she isn't at home when he knocks on her door. He can't sense her at all. Cauldron knows her apartment must not have good heating, or at least the door felt as cold as ice. Quiet and mocking. For that alone, Cassian's sure she'd be somewhere here.

So which tavern will it be?

He clenches his fist, but he tells himself it's to warm them and not because the thought of her uncared for goads on his nerves. Not because the thought of her cared for in another's bed makes him want to gut someone brutally.

"We haven't seen her, my lord," the barkeeper says.

"Cassian," he quickly corrects, though he knows none of the workers will do as he asks, formality running heavy throughout town.

"We haven't seen her in a couple of days actually," a younger fae, who offers to pour him a drink, notes. "She usually sits right over there, nearest to the musicians. They've been traveling, you see, so perhaps she's tried another tavern."

"We hope she comes back, my lord. Our high lady's sister is always welcome."

Cassian is sure she is, since he's seen the bills collected on her behalf. "Do you know where she might be?"

The barkeeper shrugs, "maybe Blue Mill? Have you tried the Wolf's den?"

"She's not there," he says, though Cassian offers his thanks and moves on to another tavern down the way, much tamer than the last.

Nesta's not at that one either. The snow sprinkles down and it packs the ground in deep white. He can feel it in his boots.

Where can Nesta be?

Perhaps, he should have told Azriel to send his shadows, but he does what he knows, so he shoots to the sky, not bothering to think about how much his wings will ache from this weather.

He doesn't know how long he searches, before something starts eating at his gut. Something pokes and prods at his chest. Something is not right.

Something is terribly wrong, and it is not this storm or the sting against his wings. It's not the fact that the city sings even from above, as if nothing but him can sense this.

Nesta is nowhere in sight.

She's not at the bridge, the taverns, the trail to her house, the walk to the bookstores, along the Sidra. There is nothing that says that Nesta lives here, all he sees is white.

White is the color of death, he finds, and something morbid calls him forth.

Nesta. Nesta. Nesta.

He thinks the wind calls her name, an echo of his voice. A chant. Cassian thinks of death gods. Of monsters. Of villainous people.

What is happening to her?

Why can't he find her?

Cassian circles the mountain, pulling at his hair.

There.

A scarf circles around a lamp post and it looks like the one Elain gifts to Nesta for her birthday last spring. Light blue and waving hello, come find me, I need you. When he grasps it, Cassian can catch the slightest whiff of her scent.

"Nesta," he calls, peering at the space as if she'll come out of hiding. He sees piles of snow, no footprints in sight. All he can smell is wind and winter and cold. "Nesta!"

He finds a shroud near the stairs, her head lying against the stone. Touches of brass and pale skin. Snow has already begun to pile on her body. A blanket of white. A funeral.

"Nesta," he gasps. "Nesta. Nesta!"

She is so perfectly silent, it fills him with dread.

"Talk to me, Nesta," he demands as he grasps her shoulders, and then her hands, blowing into them as if that my warm her from the inside out.

Her cheeks are a budding pink and her lips are tinged in blue. Cassian thinks of death, corpses, and pale flesh. He can't help it. Nesta lays so still, he wants to throw up.

Her heart beat is faint, but Cassian thinks it might just be the wind drowning out any noise. At least he keeps repeating that to himself, because pulling out his own won't help hers beat louder or stronger.

"I'm going to take you to the house," he says, though she doesn't make a sound. Nesta's head lulls into his neck as he holds her to his chest. Cassian's surprised to find a touch of warmth at her skin and for that he sends a thousand thanks to the Mother.

"I've got you Nesta," he says, kissing at the top of her head without thinking. "I've got you."

I'm never leaving you alone, again.

~

You see I have a very good memory, so I had this book series memorized like the back of my mind. But then I went into a PhD program, and brain dumped it all. SO I cannot remember some details or at least I can't remember which things happened in what book... just like SJM ( LOL ). So if this is not bookly accurate, just ignore it. Nothing about this is bookly accurate anyway.

Also this is hella dramatic. I should have really just started off with... he found her with no explanation... which is what I usually do. But I tried to give explanation. And... it's dramatic. But whateva.

You'll see her actually sick in the next part.

#nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #nessian sick fic #vidalinav

[bowlzone]

Today's cereal is Vanilla Spice Cheerios!

Initial impressions: We're kicking off the new year here at the Bowl Zone with a hotly anticipated Cheerio creation. I have no idea what vanilla spice is meant to be, is it just vanilla and cinnamon as the box implies? Certainly from the cinnamony scent wafting from the inside plastic bag it seems that might be the case, but I can't wait to find out.

Post-bowl thoughts: These are not the classic whole-oat hoops that Cheerios are renowned for, with some inclusion of corn in the base grain the texture is different then I have come to expect of the classic Os. While the specifically oaty feel on the tongue has remained, it features some of the hollow crunch that has come to be associated with corn-based cereals. In this bowl however, it works quite well to add more of a snap to the bite than usual. Not bad, just not the classic Cheerio experience I'm perhaps unhealthily emotionally attached to after a childhood of intensive Cheerio consumption. As for the flavor, Cheerios once again do a fantastic job of balancing the strength of flavoring perfectly, it's neither too mild or too strong, complementing the base of the cereal nicely and forming an incredibly easy to eat bowl. However, it is literally just cinnamon. If I had to guess, including the word 'spice' on the box was a way to capitalize on the popularity of other spice based flavorings. I can't even really taste vanilla in here, though that's not unsurprising as vanilla is widely the most unsuccessful cereal flavoring. If anyone has any suggestions for good vanilla cereals let me know because I have just never seen it done well. Overall this is a great bowl of Cheerios that doesn't quite live up to the best Cheerios out there on the cereal market. The milk was a delightful finisher to this bowl, and I'll no doubt polish off the box in the rest of the week but I don't think it will leave much of a lasting memory behind once gone.

A surprise Mr. Garlic for those who enjoyed his presence in my last post...

#cheerios #nebulously vague 'spice' #Surprise cat

[thee-morrigan]

caught a lite sneeze

Forgot to post this here last night (i was too distracted by whatever was happening on ao3). I continue to be on my vampire bullshit <3

the wayhaven chronicles | nate/holland (f!detective) | rated g | also on ao3 Holland has a head cold; Nate learns that caffeinated water exists.

“I am not sick,” she said, but the protest fell on deaf ears. Which was offensively convenient, she groused to herself, since the ears in question were supposed to be extra good at hearing. Except, apparently, when the person to whom those ears belonged was (also apparently) no longer interested in debating this point with her.

Coward. He just didn’t want her to win the debate. Which she totally would have; though she would begrudgingly agree that he perhaps had some stronger arguments, she was nonetheless supremely confident in her ability to out-stubborn anyone.

Well. Except maybe Adam. But that was still a definite maybe.

But maybe it was for the best that they weren’t actually having this argument — even if the imagined version playing out in her mind happened to be going very favorably for her. He might have gained undeserved ground based on the series of sneezes that erupted out of her immediately following her protests about the pristine state of her health.

As it stood, Nate seemed to feel she’d made his point for him, as his only response was a single raised brow.

Holland huffed and slumped back against the wall of pillows she’d erected behind herself on the bed. 

“I hope you know you’re infuriating,” she rasped, grimacing at the sandpaper scratching her throat, raw and inflamed.

“Yes, I’m the infuriating one,” he said amiably, sweeping a thumb along her cheekbone before pressing a kiss on the bridge of her nose.

“Let me make you some tea. Do you have any or should I go get some?”

“I have coffee.” She tried a whisper. It hurt more than talking at a regular volume.

Nate sighed but didn’t fight the smile tugging on his mouth. “Coffee is a diuretic, and the caffeine will only irritate your throat more by drying out your vocal cords.”

Holland attempted a scoff, an effort her inflamed throat and lungs rewarded by spasming into a coughing fit. Damn her stupid, traitorous body for consistently undermining her.

He sighed again, rubbing a hand between her shoulder blades until her cough subsided. “Why don’t I just go look for myself?” 

And then he was rising from his seat on the edge of her bed, hand stretching out to smooth the covers that, as far as Holland could tell, were completely un-mussed.

“It’s not like I have any non -caffeinated tea here,” she mumbled at his retreating back, scowling at the soft laugh that floated in as he left to determine what, if anything, in her kitchen might be appropriate for a person with a head cold and not, if one were to judge based on the contents of her pantry, the drinking habits of a particularly overworked grad student. Or a person in a constant state of mania. 

She gave him all of two minutes (and it was two minutes, precisely: she’d watched the seconds tick away on her bedside clock, wondering if she could literally die of boredom — surely lying around in a vegetative state was not conducive to her health) before disentangling herself from her bedclothes and padding out of her bedroom after him. 

He looked entirely unsurprised as she stepped into the kitchen. 

Although...something else seemed to furrow his brow as he turned to look at her, one hand resting against her refrigerator door as he pressed it shut, the other...oh.

Not surprise on his face but, rather, something that looked like a warring mix of confusion, concern, and amusement. 

Amusement seemed to be winning.

“Your water is caffeinated.” Not a question, though the statement sounded nonetheless a bit strangled and uncertain.

Holland scowled again, crossing the kitchen to take the large can from him. “It’s sparkling water,” she defended, the aluminum slick and cool against her fingers as she pulled it from Nate’s grasp.

Amusement became the clear victor as he grinned down at her. “Oh, of course. Your sparkling water is caffeinated,” he said mildly.

His smile only widened as her scowl deepened. She briefly considered sticking her tongue out at him. The impulse was interrupted by another trio of sneezes, accompanied by an abrupt twist of her head to the side, one arm outstretched as she pressed her face into the crook of her elbow, against the sleeve of the gigantic flannel shirt she wore in lieu of a bathrobe over her pajamas. Nate took advantage of the interruption to reclaim the can of sparkling water from her outstretched hand, tucking it back inside her refrigerator.

She let him take the overlarge can from her, though that didn’t stop her from continuing to glower at him as she hoisted herself to perch on the countertop edge, idly bumping the heel of one foot against the cabinet door below. 

“Wire basket on the top right shelf,” she mumbled, tipping her chin in the direction of the pantry door behind him. “If — and it is an if , by the way — I have any tea, it’ll be in there.” 

He just kept smiling at her, though, those dark eyes warm and soft with a particular shimmer of affection as he looked at her. He was always looking at her affectionately, but sometimes he seemed to add some extra layer to it, some kind of soft-overlay glow of extra tenderness that tugged at the gentle downward slope of his eyes and smoothed the happy creasing at the corners of his mouth as his smile stretched. 

All he said before turning to investigate the aforementioned pantry section, though, was “Thank you.” 

For a moment, a comfortable quiet descended over her kitchen, punctuated only by the muted thud of Holland’s foot against the cabinet door and the softer scrapes of Nate shuffling through her pantry. And then— 

“A- ha ,” Nate turned back towards her, a small metal canister in one hand. Apparently she did have tea after all— and non-caffeinated at that, judging by the somewhat faded “ginger mint” on the label. 

Holland cocked her head and squinted. “What pocket of Narnia did you pull that out of?” Her voice cracked midway through emphasizing “that” and she grimaced, swallowing hard. 

Nate’s triumphant grin at finding actual, non-caffeinated tea in her apartment faded into a look of concern. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could persuade you to go back to bed and rest?” 

“I don’t know,” she said ( croaked ), “Is there any chance I could persuade you to stop fussing over me?”

He huffed a laugh, which meant he was at least sort-of smiling at her again as he crossed the few steps that separated them in her apartment’s tiny kitchen. He set the tea canister down next to her on the counter and smoothed her hair back from her face, letting his hand rest against the side of her neck.

“I’m always happy to let you test your powers of persuasion on me,” he teased gently, rubbing his thumb along her jaw, and she felt a starburst of warmth sparking underneath her ribs even as she rolled her eyes at him. (Even as she winced at the decidedly less pleasant starburst of pain that rolling her eyes caused.) “But I’m not ‘fussing’.” 

“You are absolutely fussing,” she said, and her voice was almost gone, all cracks and rough edges and chipped gravel.

Gods, her throat ached. All of her ached, actually. If she had any sense at all, she would go back to her bed and the piles of blankets Nate had brought her when he’d arrived and found her shivering with chills despite the warmth of her apartment. Despite her hoarse protests that she was fine and definitely not febrile. 

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her temple. “You know you won’t suddenly become any less capable of taking care of yourself if you let someone else chip in from time to time, right?” 

There was a touch of amusement and more than a touch of fondness in his voice, and Holland felt the curve of his smile against her skin. 

“There’s a first time for everything,” she countered, but there was no fight in what remained of her voice. She wasn’t sure why she was trying to fight him on this anyway. Maybe she was just too contrary by nature. 

She gave a half-sigh, half-laugh that turned into a full cough for a moment, making her twist away from him again. When she could take a mostly full breath without her chest hurting on both inhale and exhale, she turned back to Nate with a rueful demi-grin and slid off the counter.

“Okay, you win: I’m going back to bed.” 

Nate’s smile brightened a bit with relief. “Thank you.”

“But only because it’s freezing in here.”

“Holland,” he called just as she reached the kitchen doorway, that melange of amusement and concern back in his voice.

She turned, brows raised in silent question. Even sick as she was — her normally bright eyes pain-dimmed and tired, her skin wan and gleaming with fever and fatigue — she still seemed half a breath from forming another disproportionately spirited and unexpectedly endearing defense of caffeinated water (of all things), or teasing him about “fussing” (which he wasn’t: he was showing an appropriate degree of concern for his very sick girlfriend). 

Even sick as she was, Nate couldn’t help but let himself be pulled in by her current, inescapably towed along by whatever invisible, immutable thread had stitched itself to them both. 

“Want me to bring you some cold medicine with your tea?” he asked finally.

Holland tugged the frayed sleeves of her flannel further over her fingers and wrapped her arms tightly around herself, shivering slightly. “Yes, please.” 

She shuddered again but gave him a grateful smile before turning and shuffling back to her bedroom. 

By the time he’d finished brewing her tea and finding where she kept medications (arbitrary cupboards and drawers, apparently), Holland had fallen asleep. She lay curled on one side, her face and the hand tucked beneath it only just visible beneath the mound of blankets she’d burrowed under. 

Very gently, Nate rested the mug of tea and packet of cold medicine on her nightstand, then slowly lowered himself onto the mattress beside her. Despite his efforts, she stirred a bit as he sat, squinting one eye open and scooting towards the middle of the bed to give him more than the couple of inches he’d had before. 

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” he murmured, running a hand over her hair. 

Holland leaned into his touch like a cat, eyes drifting shut again as her face relaxed. “S’okay,” she mumbled, reaching a hand blindly from beneath her blankets to find his. 

She squeezed his wrist — once, softly — then let go. “Thank you for looking after me.” 

“I will take care of you as long as you’ll let me, schatje.” 

She could hear the smile in Nate’s response, could feel it in the warm brush of his lips on her cheek. Could feel the warm stretch of another in the unbidden curve of her own lips, the counterpart and answer to his.

With a hum of a laugh, Holland murmured something that sounded like definitely fussing into the pillow and let the sweet oblivion of sleep reclaim her.

#katie writes things #twc #the wayhaven chronicles #n sewell #oc: holland townsend #ship: your entire heart

[velvet-cupcake-games]

Belated Robin Month Conclusion

Sorry about the delay in our last Robin Month post! My 10-year-old PC exploded. :( I have it back to limping functionality and its replacement is on the way (no KS funds were used for this)!

Anyhoo, here's an excerpt from Robin's lore story, which you can find in our Made Marion Mega-Guide, an optional lorebook, art book, and game guide that can be purchased alongside the game.

Robin's story comes in the form of a journal written in cipher (after all, our trickster Robin doesn't care for anyone else to see his inner thoughts). In this bit, he's relating a tale from his younger days. And yes, it involves his old "friend" the Sheriff, long before he was the Sheriff.

1434, Beith, New Moon Ascendant

"Robin of Locksley."

It was never good when my father used my full name.

"I've been speaking with Lord Woodthorpe about the incident at the river."

"Bah, Dad! He only heard Geoffrey's side, I know it!"

My father heaved an impatient sigh. This was hardly the first time Geoffrey and I had butt heads in spectacular fashion, and it would be far from the last.

"Fine then, out with it. What happened?"

"We were all setting out boats on the river. His servants were doing all the work, and I said we should learn to use our hands an' do some of this kind of work, too. I said you taught me so.

"And you know what he said?  He said, 'Unsurprising. The Locksleys do have a reputation for excen… exshen… eccentricity.'"

I'd used my best snooty voice for Geoffrey, who was exactly the same age as I was but spoke as though he were much older.

"So I pretended I was having trouble and yelled for help. His servant came to assist me and when he did, I jumped over and cut the rope holding Geoffrey's boat to the dock.  You should have seen his face, floating down the river without a paddle!"

"That, I heard. What in blazes were you thinking? He can't swim, not with that…"

"He said don't treat him any different just 'cause he lost his leg!" I interrupted loudly.

I may have hated Geoffrey's guts, but that sentiment I understood. A man has his pride.

"He… You're right, son. But that doesn't mean you can act so ungentlemanly! Someday you will be Lord Locksley and he will be Lord Woodthorpe. You two need to learn how to get along!"

"Hmph, the Magpie woulda done what I did!"

My father gave me a serious look.

"Perhaps, though to defend another's pride, not his own. Or he would have… once. That's why I convinced him there was a better way."

"You… what?"

I hadn't heard this before.

"You know the Magpie has been retired since before you were born. I helped him find a different life. One where he could walk in the light; where he had the power to help people within the law."

I was stunned. My father had ended the career of my greatest hero. And yet… he'd done it at the calling of his own ideals. A man has his pride, indeed.

"Now, go to your room. I want a one-page apology that you will read when Lord Woodthorpe next holds court. I understand young Geoffrey will have words of apology for you, as well."

#made marion #robin hood #lore

[getaway-gatsby]

A Spot of Bother - 3/6

Originally posted on AO3 as getaway-gatsby

All too soon, it was time to start your day's work. Leaving Chekov to his second plate of pancakes – his own, this time – you and Sulu made your way to the bridge. As you stepped off the turbolift, you realised just how hard this shift would be, the sheer intensity of the lights increasing your headache threefold. Instinctively, you placed your hand over your eyes to block the glare. Sulu went to speak, looking concerned, but you got there first.

“Say how awful I look one more time and I’ll make it my personal mission to find and break every one of your katanas.”

Unsure as to whether you were joking, he kept quiet as you took your respective positions at the front console – Sulu as helmsman and you as navigator. You thought you’d be relieved by his silence. However, he now found a new way to irritate you, shooting you constant sideways glances as if he expected you to keel over at any second. The way you felt, you weren’t ruling it out, but all the same, you could do without Sulu’s trepidatious looks. At least everyone else on the bridge was too absorbed in their work to notice your discomfort.

Almost everyone, anyway.

“Are you all right, Lieutenant Y/L/N?” The voice made you jump, and you whirled around to see the captain standing beside you. “You look a little under the weather.”

Behind Kirk’s back, Sulu gave a self-satisfied nod. There was no doubting its meaning – I told you so. You pulled a face in return before answering the captain.

“Absolutely fine, sir. Just tired.” A sudden thought struck you and you suppressed the urge to roll your eyes. “Oh my god, did Bones ask you to check up on me?”

Unabashed, Kirk chuckled. “Guilty as charged. You know him too well.” His tone turned serious for a moment. “He’s got a point though. That dart could have caused all kinds of trouble. If you do start feeling ill, tell me. I'll send you down to the med bay.”

“Thank you, sir. I will." You were lying. There was nothing on God’s green Earth that could convince you to go to the infirmary.

Unfortunately for you, however, you weren’t actually on Earth. It was, perhaps, unsurprising then that only two hours of your shift had passed before you were reconsidering your aversion to the med bay. The constant hustle and bustle of the bridge was grating on your last nerve. Every order issued, every bleep of the scanners, even the melodic lilt of Uhura speaking her umpteen languages; it all felt like nails being driven deep into your skull.

This was far from your only complaint. If you had thought you felt unwell that morning, that was nothing compared to how you felt now. As the minutes passed, you could practically feel your temperature rising, your hair sticking uncomfortably to your clammy forehead. Worse still was the wavering vision that exacerbated your already potent nausea. In short, it was becoming increasingly harder to dismiss this as a trivial ailment. Your mind kept circling back to Kirk’s earlier comment: "that dart could have caused all kinds of trouble." Perhaps you had been hasty to dismiss the CMO's concerns. Maybe you should go back to the med bay after all.

In the end, a particularly acute wave of nausea made the decision for you. Hell, you’d rather withstand the CMO’s scolding than vomit in front of your colleagues. Besides, if you threw up on the ship's controls, Scotty would kill you.

You turned around, opening your mouth to attract Kirk’s attention. However, you were beaten to it by the urgent tones of the First Officer.

"Captain, the scanners are showing a Klingon vessel heading towards us at warp speed 6. I suggest we go to battle stations, now."

As Spock spoke, your window of opportunity slammed shut. Kirk’s attention was now focused wholly on the Klingon threat. Turning back to your console to prepare for the impending attack, you felt a sudden moisture on your upper lip. When you raised your hand to investigate, it came back bloody. Unbelievably, your body had chosen now as the ideal time for another nosebleed.

It was official, you decided. The universe hated you.

But not as much as Bones would hate you when he found out you'd lied to him.

#leonard mccoy imagine #leonard bones mccoy #leonard mccoy x reader #mission gone wrong #james t kirk #star trek tos #star trek aos

[kazoosandfannypacks]

How The Vicar Says "I Told You So"

a/n: I realized I never posted the link to this fic on tumblr yet! How silly of me! No wonder some of you didn't find it right away!

also on ao3

 Penzance walked into the library, unsurprised to find there the same lad he'd met there a decade ago- though now the young boy was a strong man, his shaggy crop of hair tamed, and his title as the Earl of Mount Dunstan rightly claimed.

 The vicar was about to give his typical greeting, but he hesitated, seeing his lordship put a finger over his mouth to advise him to be quiet, then nod his head ever so slightly to his left, with a smile that would've been uncharacteristic of him even a year ago- for tucked under Lord Mount Dunstan's arm was the new Lady Dunstan, lost in a contented and beautiful sleep.

 Penzance nodded, quietly grabbing a stool from the other side of the room and planting it, and himself, at Dunstan's right hand.

 "It's almost unnatural to see her at rest," Penzance whispered, "she is of the nature that is always doing, always acting."

 Dunstan looked back down at her, brushing a dark lock of her hair from her sturdy, beautiful face, as enraptured as he always was by the red of her cheek and the line of her jaw and the deep lashes that hid her bluebells-under-water eyes.

 "She is Life," he said, in hushed tones, "Life can't help but keep moving, keep doing- and yet, Life itself stops and finds rest in my arms! Surely even Red Godwyn, in all his glory, couldn't count treasure like this among his spoils."

 "Is that the chronicle you were reading to her tonight?" The vicar motioned to a book which rested in his lap.

 "She's interested in the histories, in the 'First Man,' as she calls it, and all that followed after. She thinks a great deal on my family history," and here he smiled again as he corrected himself, "on our family history. She wants to know everything, and I want to share it with her."

 "As it should be," Penzance said, "you share the future of the Mount Dunstans, and the past along with it."

 "I truly am fortunate," Dunstan said, "There's no one I'd rather share it with than Betty."

 The two sat in silence for a moment, the contented silence they'd often relished in, the silence their unusual friendship was forged in. Presently, Lord Mount Dunstan noticed a smile across the vicar's face, a knowing smile, one that even sparkled in his eyes.

 "What's on your mind?" Dunstan asked.

 "Nothing of importance," the vicar responded.

 "Your face betrays you," Dunstan shook his head, "your thoughts dwell on something, something lovely, if not humorous."

 "It is both," Penzance replied, no longer trying to hide his expression, "it is a conversation we had here, many years ago, and one a few years later."

 "And which conversation was that?"

 "When you mourned the fall of the house of Mount Dunstan- that such a great house would end with you."

 The fifteenth Earl of Mount Dunstan gave a laugh, one that would've been more hearty had he not been careful not to wake his wife.

 "And I seem to recall…"

 "We both remember it well," the Lord interrupted, and perhaps if their friendship wasn't as it was, the vicar wouldn't've taken the liberty to continue.

 "I recall, on the cusp of greatness," Penzance continued, "your belief that standing before me was the last Mount Dunstan, that all the decent world wouldn't come near you- and do you recall what I said to you?"

 "I do."

 Penzance nodded at Dunstan to encourage him to continue his thought, and with characteristic begrudging (but out of respect for the elder man,) Dunstan offered the vicar his smug victory.

 "'No- not the last. Believe me-' and for a time, I didn't. It would seem that I was wrong, friend" Dunstan said, "and that in the end you were right."

 Penzance smiled at the young man who sat before him, having had the honor of seeing the fifteenth Earl of Mount Dunstan transform and develop, watch as he grew into his place in the world- to watch a man who clung so closely to himself now admit to the personal folly of disbelief.

 "It would seem you have sacrificed your pride after all," the vicar smiled.

 Dunstan looked back over at his wife, at how peacefully she had let herself fall to rest in his embrace, and he contemplated the irony of it all. She was not of the kind to take interest in a poor investment such as himself. He was not of the kind to accept anything from anyone, let alone the most sacred gift in the world- Bettina Vanderpoel herself, and all that she had- and yet, neither of them would've felt happy with anything else but each other. He kissed her forehead, gently, softly, as not to disturb her, then turned back to look at the vicar.

 "It turns out some things," Dunstan reasoned, "are worth the sacrifice of anything."

 And the love that James Hubert John Fergus Saltyre held in his heart for his beloved lady Bettina was one of those things.

 She was, in fact, several of them.

#the shuttle (1907) #the shuttle #frances hodgson burnett #kazzy writes #salttina #lord mount dunstan #bettina vanderpoel #reverend lewis penzance

[rockscanfly]

caesura (take a breath)

Ceasura, definition: a pause in a verse, usually in the middle of a line, to allow for a breath

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

The night Kaldur’ahm of Shayeris finally kissed Roy William Harper was not, of its own merit, very special. It was a Thursday in the middle of a slow November. The rest of the team had just returned to school after a long weekend.

Kaldur, who among the Team was uniquely free of this responsibility, accompanied Roy to the Star City native’s favorite drag bar for a night of (generously defined) cultural enrichment.

Notably, it wasn’t the fact that they had both been drinking underage that got Kaldur and Roy kicked out of Aunt Charlie’s Lounge into the cool dark of one of Star City’s safer alleyways.

Nor was it fighting—Charlie’s had been a favorite of Roy’s ever since they let him sneak in for his first drag show when he was sixteen, so the quick-tempered redhead did his best to stay civil.

No, Kaldur thought ruefully as he swallowed back the last of his ozou, one brow cocked at the impatient bouncer before stepping gracefully through the open firedoor. For once, Roy hadn’t landed them in trouble on purpose.

The man in question cursed as he failed to light a cigarette in the brisk fall breeze, dourly eyeing the firmly shut door. “Can’t believe that fucker thought I was cheating.”

Kaldur sighed, breathing in the wet, cold air blowing up from the harbor. It was sour with garbage and the usual array of petrochemicals unavoidable in the Surface’s cities. But it was cool, and the bar had been overly warm with body-heat from the tightly packed crowd that had arrived for tonight’s show. “Mistaken or not, surely you can see where he was coming from?”

Roy snorted, cheering a little as his cigarette look light. The warm light of the cherry lit his face from below, highlighting the furrow of his brow. “It’s darts! Anyone can hit a bullseye, Kal.”

Kaldur reached forward, plucking Roy’s cigarette from his hands. “Ten times in a row?” he asked, arch.

Roy huffed, crossing his arms as Kaldur fit the cigarette between his lips. The Atlantean stole a long pull, eyes closed, rolling the smoke around in his mouth before blowing the smoke into the dim night.

Roy was a terrible, corrupting influence. Between the ten rounds of shots between them—whiskey for Roy, anise-sharp ouzo for Kaldur—and the hundred or so chemicals in the stolen cigarette, Kaldur was sure he’d abused more substances in one night than he had in the first two years he’d been on the Surface.

Still, Kaldur mused, mind in a rare fog of peace. Landweller alcohol was mild stuff, but the gentle buzzing behind his temples, fizzy and light, was a welcome reprieve from the stress of leading the team. It is a pleasant corruption.

Kaldur opened his eyes, slowly, unsurprised to see Roy gazing at him with a fond smile from his post against the alley wall. Kaldur held the cigarette out, pinched elegantly between two fingers. “You’re staring, my friend.”  

The dirty, yellow light of the alley did nothing to dim the rare happiness in Roy’s eyes. “And? You know what you look like, right? Kaldur, I’ve been beating people off all night.”

Kaldur snorted. He saw the moment Roy’s words reached his own ears, the rush of blood across his cheeks.

“Wait—“

Kaldur couldn’t help it. He collapsed, laughing, bracing himself on one forearm against the opposite wall.

Strong arms embraced him from behind, turning Kaldur until his back was against the wall, Roy’s arms braced to either side of him. Kaldur looked into his best friend’s face, and collapsed again into giggles, one hand over his mouth.

Perhaps landweller alcohol has a stronger effect on him than he thought.

“Should I be offended?” Kaldur finally managed, cheeks stinging with the force of the grin he couldn’t fight down. “That I was not included in that venture?”

Roy rolled his eyes, biting back an answering smile. “Laugh it up, fish sticks,” he chuckled. Roy took Kaldur’s hand from where it was unsuccessfully muffling the Atlantean’s laughter. He clasped their palms together at their sides, fingers aligned in parallel. “I’m not the one who missed ten people hitting on him tonight.”

Kaldur pushed his fingers against Roy’s own. Straightened his shoulders, pushed up into the solid body pressing him against the alley wall. “I wasn’t oblivious,” Kaldur corrected. Roy’s eyes were dark and warm. “I just didn’t care.” Another smile, softer. Wistful. “I’m with you.”

When Roy kissed him, it wasn’t what Kaldur had been imagining. It wasn’t a revelation, wasn’t the earth shattering, cosmic change he’d built in his head over three years of silent longing.

It was just eager, and warm, and joyful. Roy’s callused hand cupped Kaldur’s face gently, guiding him deeper. Kaldur threw his free arm over Roy’s muscled shoulder, fingertips brushing through the short, soft hairs on the back of his neck.

Eventually the need for air parted them, Roy tucking his sweat-damp forehead in the crook of Kaldur’s neck. The wet heat of his words against his gills caused Kaldur’s own breath to stutter. “Second date is gonna have to wait awhile—I owe Dinah so, so many hours of monitor duty for being right about this.”

Kaldur raised their clasped hands to his lips. “Our friends are industrious creatures,” he said, smiling, pressing a kiss against the chapped skin of Roy’s knuckles. “I was just about to say something very similar regarding Artemis and her Atlantean homework.”

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

(A/N: An extremely misleadingly fluffy moment from a WIP. But, this part is done, and in the spirit of the new year I figured it’d be nice to put a little fluff out there for my boys. Lord knows we need it. Happy New Year, y’all.)

#kaldur #kaldur'ahm #roy harper #will harper #young justice #yj #aqualad #red arrow

[obeymeluv]

You Steal the Boys’ Clothes

Something I’ve been thinking of for a while.

Lucifer

It was rare the eldest was without his cape, as everything seemed to be a formal event and he must be dressed to impress. Being dressed to impress, however, means being clean so he gets it cleaned from time to time

Lucifer is a very organized, practical man. Constantly towing the line of obsessive for the sake of orderliness.

He knows where his cape should be, and that it’s not there

With a demon’s-only screech that warns Mammon to stretch his calves and run, Lucifer hunts down the three most likely suspects to interrogate them (Mammon, Satan, and Belphegor).

He tries to get a two-for-one by dragging Mammon into the study where Satan sits smugly with a book (because he knows he didn’t do it but MAN is he enjoying this!)

Imagine surprising not one, but THREE demons when you come shuffling down the hall with a Lucifer’s cape wrapped around you like a blanket.

It whispers and it drags and it absolutely DROWNS you.

Very charming. Ethereal, almost like some sort of wedding wear

Lucifer would’ve never imagined you’d be the culprit, and now his poor brain is trying to save and process the idea of you looking so sleepy-happy in his clothes

And the ex-angel falls all over again.

He catches the little cheek nuzzle and way you bunch it around your body, a foot poking out not to get tangled

Satan and Mammon will probably die laughing instead of at his hands, but Lucifer could really care less

Lucifer idly wonders where you’d curled up that he totally missed you, and escorts you gently but red-faced to your room

Satan and Mammon tag along, and when they see Lucifer come out with his cape they can only deduce he put you to bed.

Mammon

With no homework to do and some money in the bank, Mammon was ready to spend the weekend tearing up the town with you!

He was fresh out of the shower and mostly dressed, searching feverishly for his beloved white and brown jacket

Mammon wasn’t the cleanest person by nature (hello, money hoarder and collector of interesting/valuable things) so he tidied up as he went

As he started to suspect one of his little brothers was holding the jacket for ransom, he sent out a group text asking about it

There were several typical smart-ass responses (Lucifer, Asmo, and Satan) and he was in the middle of a snark fight when you showed up at his door somewhere between bashful and chill

In HIS jacket

Mammon’s brain shuts down.

HIS baby in HIS jacket? HELL YEAH! OH GOD, IT’S TOO PERFECT!

FIEND, TAKING HIS HEART!

“It’s kind of a human thing,” you explain. “There is a one-jacket fee among couples. Usually it’s a hoodie.” you tease, reluctant to shrug it off, “But this seems to be your only jacket so I guess I could give it back.”

It’s very subtle, but he’s worn that jacket for centuries and no amount of detergent can disguise the scent that makes his heart skip a beat

Something about the smell of your skin and a hint of his has him purring

You hold the jacket out to him. Mammon wraps his fingers around it and swings it around until he’s holding it over one shoulder

The yellow takes over in his eyes a little more. Gets a little brighter and intense.

“You want to take anything else off?” he husks playfully

Your day out turns into staying in and Mammon is happy to trade his jacket for a shirt you can sleep in (like, forever. It’s fine. Whatever, dummy.)

Leviathan

It was actually really hard to steal Levi’s clothes because he lived in his hoodie and turtleneck. His RAD uniform was really just for show and that wasn’t what you were looking for, anyways. You didn’t want to chill in uniform.

He was very particular about his merch because certain shirts were collector’s items and he didn’t like people messing with his folding patterns

You went to Asmo with your dilemma and he found it absolutely ADORABLE. It was almost enough to make him jealous, really

Somehow (Asmo being Asmo?), the fifth- born was able to swipe one of the green button-ups Levi wore under his RAD uniform

His first thought was to alter the garment to make it fit you (matching outfits? YES!) but Levi would probably kill him. His big bro hated shopping for clothes unless he HAD to have them.

Asmo gets the bright idea to magically/temporarily alter the fabric to fit you. Maybe Levi will like it so much he’ll just give you a shirt! 💖 (Or get some fucking outside time and go buy more shirts!)

Levi catches his own scent somewhere outside of the door and his brain goes off. He hits the pause button at lightning speed.

No one else smells like him! They haven’t shared bath products in centuries! He already finished his laundry so what’s happening?!

His first thought is: Mammon broke into my room while I was in the bathroom and stole something to pawn!

Levi doesn’t even think to take inventory of his stuff, barging out of his room to hunt down his big brother

He’s yelling and whining before he even sees him. Then he sees you. In his shirt.

All the angry words die in his throat as the absolute mortification and adoration sets his face on fire

SO KAWAII! It basically makes up for your normie-ness.

Levi’s stuck standing there, blushing his head off and unable to say anything as his fists shake with joy and nervousness

He gets a nosebleed. One of his brothers are laughing at him.

You guide him back to his room to take care of him, Levi lets you and becomes very fascinated with the idea of you in his clothes .Lots of petting and figuring out you look DOUBLY MEGA CUTE when the magic wears off and you’re just in a pool of fabric.

He’s totally down for matching clothes and definitely lets you keep the one you’re wearing.

Satan

His wardrobe is very...interesting...to say the least

Colors and personal combinations aside, Satan actually has a very smart wardrobe. Lots of basics and easy layers.

You can’t steal his signature green sweater or the blazer he seems to live in, so you settle for an emerald knit sweater that has a bit of a v-neck/university feel to it

It takes Satan a while to notice, as he’s buried in a book. You two tend to gravitate towards each other and just enjoy a cozy, companionable silence

He’s just finished a book and is debating cracking open one from the stack to his left when the color catches his eye

The smooth, sly comment dies on his lips when he realizes he likes the damn thing because IT’S HIS

You look very cozy and warm. It’s a very ‘cuddle me’ kind of look.

Perhaps you could warm his lap? Or give his poor hands a rest under the hem?

Very cheeky and clever. Grabs you by the sleeve of it just to ‘answer his curiosity about whether it matched his nails’.

Does he have a cute university student kink? If he didn’t, he does now?

There’s a 50-50 chance of you guys having sex.

Will definitely want to hold you and cuddle you close, petting the fabric and whispering compliments into it.

If you don’t already have a business/academic attire, Satan will definitely suggest a few pieces because YES. This is a thing he loves and it DOES things to him.

Asmodeus

He’s the type to let you think you stole something

Probably stages what he wants you to steal just so you take it

Honestly, I could just see him dumping some of his clothes on you because you’re dating now and this is a cute thing he read about!

It’s super likely he’s into couple outfits or coordinating outfits, so he’s either spent time in his closet pre-planning or asked you to try on a million things just because

This cutie pie purposely orders THE BIGGEST thing he can find so you can both fit in it at the same time

Asmo loves you to pieces no matter what, but seeing you in his clothes makes him squeal and hit a note Mammon has threatened to murder him over

Ever dramatic, this is like, THE BEST THING EVER

A MILLION Devilgram posts about it (safe ones, of course)

Do you guys spark a couple’s trend and spade of lover’s stealing each other’s clothes to snap a victory pic? Maybe

Probably fake faints at the sheer glory of you in HIS bomb ass clothes. Definitely fans himself

Spoils you rotten with compliments

This man is weak. “Gorgeous! Smother me.” as he falls back on the bed and gestures to his face

He won’t turn down the idea of sexy times (depends on your libido, comfort, etc.) but sometimes he makes raunchy jokes just to be funny. Smothering could also mean using him like a body pillow (which he’s totally okay with).

You get max cuddles and WILL be the envy of Devilgram

Beelzebub

Beel felt a little guilty for leaving you at the House of Lamentation with his brothers

You guys were supposed to hang out after school but there was an emergency practice. The coach always got pre-game jitters and demanded a few last runs. He showered and ran back to the House, hoping you still had time for him.

He tiptoed quietly into his shared room, unsurprised to find you waiting there for him. You’d been caught in Belphie’s sleepy little aura by the looks of it,

Beelzebub couldn’t help the grin or little hum that made it past his lips. Your eyes were open but he didn’t know if you actually saw him. You looked super cute in his humongous bed though

You were getting sleepier and sleepier, your eyelids getting heavier and heavier. Beel pulled the sheets over you and gentle untangled the arm you managed to latch on to

Maybe waking up to a bit of food would make up for everything! Beel toiled away in the kitchen, making a cute little snack tray for the two of you.

In reality, it could probably feed at least twenty, and he ate at least half of what he prepped.

Beel returned to the room with what he considered a decent amount (scraps, kind of, but enough variety! He tried! It’s the thought that counts!) and was surprised to see his sheets all tangled and half-kicked from the bed

You were wearing his jacket now, passed out and turned into the furry lining that usually went across his shoulders and neck

DId you sleep walk? He was trying to understand how you’d gotten into his jacket

Beel realized it was the first time you’d been in his clothes and it was enough to make his heart melt

Super huge on you, obviously (extra fabric everywhere), but so cute! He could basically swaddle you in his jacket

“They’re a restless sleeper,” Belphie yawned. “I thought it would help them calm down.”

It used to work on Belphie, so Beel could see why he resorted to it

Beel offered his twin some food, sitting carefully on your other side.

He shifted some of the parka fur away from your face, trying to fix your hair and nudge your chin up so your nose wasn’t buried in anything. He stroked your cheek a little, mesmerized by the sight of you and how you felt.

Belphie declined, muttering something about, ‘Stop looking like that and eat your food! Gross!’ before Beel settled for patting your head one last time and eating quietly

Belphegor

He’s another one that’s hard to steal from

You’d think it’d be easy since he sleeps all the time, but Belphie really only wears 10% of the clothes he buys

Yes, he’s a pajama snob and has all things comfy and cozy, but hardly any of them smell like him because he falls asleep anywhere with little issue (no special clothes required!)

You thought about stealing his blue cardigan with the pocket, but he’s always sleeping in it!

Belphie picks up on your train of thought, and the frustration, because you fall asleep thinking about it. Dreaming about coyly stealing his cardigan and being all cute and snuggly in bed

It’s enough to wake him up, shuffle to you, and break your sleep. He flops down on your bed with his cardigan unbuttoned and says ‘climb on’ while patting his chest

You’re obviously sleepy and confused and he loves it. Belphie slides you onto his chest and wraps his arms around you, resting bits of the fabric on your back as you settle into him

It’s not the same but it’s close enough

Would you be offended if he got you cow pajamas so he could snuggle you like his favorite pillow? He falls asleep wondering about the answer

He wakes up to see that Beel has covered the two of you with his favorite blanket.

You in his blanket? Against him? Slowly smelling of him and his clothes? It’s the best thing to fall asleep to.

Makes a joke out of your clothes-stealing quest by stripping one of his pillowcases off and putting you in it like a little sack. You have to stay on his bed now because you’re his pillow and all pillows stay on the bed.

“What? You wanted to smell like me! It’s something I use!“ Belphie defends as you wonder whether or not you like this human pillow thing while he snuggles you.

#Obey me! #Obey me! x reader #Lucifer x reader #Mammon x reader #Leviathan x reader #levi x reader #Satan x Reader #Asmodeus x reader #asmo x reader #beel x reader #Beelzebub x reader #Belphegor x reader #Belphie x reader

[nerdzzone]

S.O.S. [darling can't you hear me]

Summary: When Tom and Elouise Hiddleston met at the end of 2010, neither of them knew just how much his career would take off the following year. They had just enough time to build the foundations of their relationship before Thor rocked the world and when they got married - three years later - they felt like they were unshakeable. 

But marriage is hard, especially when your husband’s career takes him away from home for long periods of time. When Elouise starts to feel the strain of the distance between them, will they be able to pull it together and save their relationship? Or will they crumble and fall apart?

Tom Hiddleston x OFC

Masterlist

18+

Note: I started this little story a while ago and have decided to post the first chapter to test the waters and see what the response is. I have a few chapters written, but not that much so updates will probably not be super regular, but I do have plenty of ideas. Let me know your thoughts and if you’re interested in reading more!

-----

April 2016

“So, what brings you here today?”

Elouise looked around the room as she took in the therapist's words. It was sparsely decorated, she noted. Not overwhelmingly friendly, but she imagined there was some sort of technique at play with the decoration. Some kind of feng shui or psychological tricks at work to put people at ease, to make them open up. Perhaps that was why her answer fell from her lips with more surety than she had expected.

“I’m thinking of leaving my husband.”

It was a thought she’d had a lot over the last few months, but not one she’d ever voiced and hearing the words out loud made her heart crack in her chest. She’d walked into the room determined to be strong. She was simply asking for advice and seeing what a professional could recommend. It was supposed to be just a fact finding mission, but as her statement hung in the air, she felt the weight of it for the first time and her strength started to waver.

She looked away, furiously blinking back the tears that had filled her eyes as the therapist watched her with an annoyingly unsurprised expression.

“I appreciate your honesty,” Dr. Bailey commented after giving Elouise a moment to compose herself. “Can I ask why you’re thinking of doing that?”

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Elouise began to explain.

“Well, he’s an actor. If you hadn’t already figured that out.” The therapist nodded and admitted that she had, but Elouise wasn’t surprised. They didn’t have a particularly common last name which is why she had reached out to a friend to find a professional who could be trusted to be discreet. “In the last year, we’ve probably spent about two months together because of his filming schedule and I’m just not sure I can deal with it any longer.”

Dr. Bailey nodded understandingly, but mulled over her words and the silence had Elouise rushing to explain.

“Obviously, I knew what I was getting into when I married him,” she admitted. “But I didn’t think it would be this bad. He takes on project after project, in locations all over the world with barely - if any - breaks in between. He’s never home and I’m starting to think that he’s doing it for a reason.”

“What reason would that be?”

“I don’t think he loves me anymore, not like he used to.” The conversation was getting deep much faster than she’d anticipated, but all the time she’d spent privately brooding had her emotions bubbling to the surface. She needed to get them out or she knew she’d explode. “He’s been home from his most recent trip for almost a week and we’ve barely spent any time together. I feel more like his housemate than his wife.”

“Is there a reason that you haven’t spent much time together since he returned?”

“Because he won’t stop,” Elouise huffed. “I’m a nursery school teacher so I work from about eight to three every day. I usually get home around four, but he’s been busy doing press or reading scripts or having meetings until late in the evening and then he goes to bed early because he’s ‘exhausted’. It’s like he’s avoiding me.”

“Have you asked him if that’s what he’s doing? Or explained how you’ve been feeling?”

“I shouldn’t have to,” Elouise insisted. “He’s been away since January and before that he was only home briefly at Christmas after being away since September. I shouldn’t have to beg for some attention and affection after being apart from him for almost seven months straight!”

“Ah, but no one is a mind reader,” the therapist reminded her with a soft smile on her face. “And men in particular seem to struggle with that ability.”

“I don’t want him to read my mind, but he should want to spend time with me after being away. I shouldn’t have to ask because he should want the same thing that I do. He always used to, we were inseparable when he returned from work in the past, but now I just feel so disconnected from him.”

“Did you stay in touch much while he was away?”

“Not as much as we used to,” she admitted. “He was all over the place - in Hawaii, Vietnam, Australia - so the time difference made it hard enough and he was working long days on top of that. I think that’s when I started to feel neglected. I was always the one to message or call and then ninety percent of the time he’d cut the call short.”

“And when he came home, were you excited and welcoming? Or is there a chance that some of the neglect you’d felt while he was away may have led to a hostile reception?” Dr. Bailey’s question put a frosty look on Elouise’s face, but she quickly rushed to assure her. “I’m not trying to place the blame on anyone, I’m just trying to understand the situation.”

“It might not have been the warmest welcome he’s ever received,” Elouise reflected. “But I was annoyed. He’d changed to a later flight so he could get dinner with his friend and that meant that he didn’t get home until well after midnight. In the past I would have stayed up, but if he didn’t care enough to rush home, I didn’t see why I should make the effort.”

“Could it be that he felt your animosity and the disconnect that you’re feeling is coming from him attempting to give you some space?”

“Well, if he could feel my animosity then he should have addressed the situation instead of just avoiding it.”

“But you’re here, talking about leaving him, instead of dealing with the situation yourself,” the therapist pointed out. “He could be feeling very similarly to you.”

“So, you think I’m overreacting?”

Elouise’s tone was annoyed, but there was relief in the pit of her stomach. If she was overreacting then there was hope. 

“I think you’re hurt,” the therapist clarified. “I think you feel unappreciated and lonely in your relationship and you don’t know how to fix it.”

Elouise nodded in agreement of that assessment.

“So, what do I do?”

“The first thing would be to start a conversation,” she advised. “Ignoring the issue and avoiding each other will only drive you further apart.”

“But what would I even say?”

“What you say isn’t as important as how you say it,” Dr. Bailey warned. “Keep yourself calm and try not to sound accusatory. Just explain how you’re feeling and see how he reacts.”

“And what do I do when he reacts badly?”

“Why do you assume he’ll react badly?”

“Because,” Elouise shrugged. “I probably would if he came to me saying that he felt unloved and was thinking about leaving.”

“Well, I would suggest not starting with a confession like that, but if,” she corrected. “He does react badly then all you can do is explain yourself. Your feelings are valid and you’re allowed to express them even if they’re hard for him to hear. Eventually, if he does want to make it work, he’ll try to understand where you’re coming from.”

“And if he doesn’t then there’s nothing else I can do.”

“Not necessarily. I know that counselling can be a hard thing to do and I commend you for coming here today, but have you considered couples counselling as well?”

“I haven’t. He doesn’t even know that I’m here. I don’t know if he’d agree to it or when we’d find time in his incredibly busy schedule.”

She threw in a roll of her eyes to emphasize her annoyance about her last point and the therapist chuckled. 

“Well, it’s a good option. Sometimes it can be easier to get all your thoughts and feelings out in the open when you have a mediator to keep you calm and on track.”

“I’ll see how he reacts first, I suppose,” Elouise sighed. “But I’d like to make another appointment for next week. I’ll either need guidance as we work through our issues or I’ll need guidance navigating a divorce. Whatever the case, I think I’ll need your help.”

“And I’m happy to give it, but I’m confident that if it’s what you both want, we can save your marriage.”

“Let’s just hope it is what we both want.”

With that Elouise rose to her feet, thanking the doctor for her time before heading to the door. She stopped by the receptionist to make another appointment for the following week and walked out into the chilly wind of an April afternoon in London.

-

It wasn’t far to their house from the office of the therapist she’d visited, but it was far enough that most people would choose to take a taxi or the tube. However, Elouise decided to walk. She’d hoped the extra time and fresh air would help clear her mind and give her some kind of idea where to even start when it came to broaching the subject of her discontent with Tom, but when she found herself standing on their doorstep, she was still none the wiser. With a sigh, she unlocked the door and let herself in.

It was quiet, the sound of her keys falling into the bowl by the door echoing around her, and her heart sank as she thought that Tom must have - once again - made plans for that evening. Plans that didn’t include her. She sighed, her heart heavy in her chest, but was surprised when she turned into the kitchen to see him sitting at the table. His eyes had been skimming through something on the screen of his laptop, but they flicked up towards her as she stepped into the room.

“You’re home late,” he observed, a soft smile on his face.

Elouise was surprised he’d even noticed and stared at him for a moment. She hadn’t planned on bringing up her concerns that evening as she was already drained from her conversation with the therapist, but something about his observation had her emotions bubbling to the surface again.

“I had an appointment,” she informed him. “With a therapist.”

“Really?” Tom questioned, looking taken aback by her confession. “Is everything okay? Are you okay?”

The fact that he could even ask that question annoyed her.

“No, I’m not okay,” she snapped at him, feeling her patience slipping away. “I’m not happy, Tom.”

“Not happy about what?”

“You, us, our relationship,” she clarified, her lip wobbling as she fought back the tears that were burning in her eyes. “You’ve been home for a week and it’s like I’m living with a stranger.”

Tom stared blankly at his wife for a moment before sputtering out a response.

“Wow, I, uh, I don’t know what to say. You were asleep when I got home and left for work early the next day. I’ve been jet lagged and busy with press, but I didn’t realize you were unhappy.”

“That’s the biggest problem, you’re always so busy,” Elouise told him, her tone slightly more spiteful than she knew it should have been. “You’ve basically been gone for an entire year and then you come home and you’re still working.”

“It’s my job, Lou,” Tom reminded her. “You knew what my schedule was like when you married me.”

“I know that! I know that I knew what I was getting into,” Elouise agreed. “But I didn’t think it would be this bad and you’ve made no effort to keep in touch. You only ever messaged me if I messaged you first and you cut our phone calls short - on the rare occasions that the time difference even allowed for a phone call. I’ve learnt more about what you’ve been up to lately from interviews and social media than I have from you, how is that supposed to make me feel?”

“It was a draining shoot,” he defended himself. “The days were long and physically exhausting. I’m sorry you felt that I wasn’t putting in effort, but I did my best.”

“But didn’t you miss me?” Elouise practically whimpered, silently cursing herself for being such an emotional wreck. “Don’t you feel how disconnected we are? You haven’t even kissed me since you came back.”

Her claim made Tom frown, a pensive look on his face.

“I have kissed you.”

“You’ve kissed my cheek and you’ve kissed my head, but you haven’t properly kissed me,” Elouise insisted. Her cheeks reddened as another thought hit her. “And when was the last time we had sex? We didn’t when you were home at Christmas so it has to be at least a year. Aren’t you worked up, Tom? Because I know that I am!”

Her cheeks burned with that confession. Talking about things like that was never her strong suit, but sex was an important part of any relationship and had been an important part of theirs in the past - the fact that it had disappeared left her feeling not only incredibly lustful, but undesirable and alone.

However, her moment of vulnerability was met with what she considered to be another rebuff as a laugh fell from Tom’s lips.

“Is that what this is about?” He asked. “Because we can fix that, darling.”

“No, that’s not what this is about! That’s one symptom of a bigger problem!” She resisted the urge to stamp her foot in frustration, but at least the anger in her voice had caused the grin to drop from Tom’s face. There was a moment of quiet between them as Tom processed her words and she thought about what to say next. Figuring she had nothing to lose, she decided it was best to put it all on the table. “I don’t think you’re in love with me anymore.”

Tom frowned deeply at that announcement.

“Really, Elouise? That’s a bit of a stretch.”

“No, it isn’t,” she insisted. “Even now, I’m telling you how I feel and you’re laughing and unbothered.”

“I am not unbothered,” Tom protested. “I’m just trying to understand where this is coming from. I thought we were fine.”

“You thought it was fine that we’ve barely spoken at all in the last year?” Elouise’s tone conveyed her incredulity. “You thought it was fine that you’ve come home after being away for months and we’re acting more like housemates than husband and wife?”

“I suppose I didn’t notice,” Tom admitted. “I’m sorry, Lou.”

Despite his apology, Elouise felt her heart sink.

“Well, that tells me everything I need to know,” she decided. “I think I’m going to have an early night. Goodnight, Tom.”

She turned and walked back out of the room, ignoring him as he pointed out that it was only six o’clock. She trudged up the stairs, the heaviness in her steps reflecting the heaviness in her heart, waiting until she was safely behind the closed door of their bedroom to collapse into sobs.

Downstairs, Tom was feeling rather like crying himself. He’d noticed a shift since his arrival home, but he knew she’d been annoyed about his change in flight and assumed that giving her some space until she got over it was the best course of action. Clearly, he’d been wrong.

Reflecting on his time away, he felt another pang of guilt. Of course, he’d missed her, but he hadn’t been lying about his long, exhausting days. He had tried to find the time and energy to call or message her, but after hours trudging through a Vietnamese swamp or running through a jungle, it often slipped his mind. He knew her days weren’t nearly as busy though and he knew the time probably passed much slower being the one left at home. He should have put in more effort, but he could hardly believe it when she accused him of no longer being in love with her. 

She was his whole world, the love of his life, the woman he planned to start a family with and grow old with. He couldn’t imagine a life without her and, as he poured himself a glass of whiskey, he decided that he was determined to make things right.

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston fic #tom hiddleston fanfic #sos darling cant you hear me

[mxvladdy]

Diavolo- True Form

Whoooooooo weeeee! ‘Pologies for the wait on these longer posts. I’ve been hit with a one two punch of house emergencies and sudden costly ass repairs, so my creative juices have been rightly squashed as of late.

Plus side I got my drawing tablet and drafting table back so I can neaten up my blog lay out now (yay!) 

Anyway this one was a challenge in the best possible ways. I really like Diavolo because of how little we know about him so it gave me some wiggle room. Or at least what I know of him- im only on like chapter 23 of the stories. Idk if I did him justice as this is angsty af but I sure had a blast writing it!

Hope ya like! Next up: Beelzebub 

Trigger warning: Mention of blood, and swearing. 

Diavolo-

He'll never show you, so don't ask. His true form is god-like in its own right and such knowledge, such truly raw demonic power in its natural form is not for your mortal eyes.

No matter what your lineage, it would break you. And despite his roles and being the literal devil, he doesn’t want you suffering.

Sometimes when he thinks you wouldn't notice he relaxes his hold on reality, just a fraction. He wants to relieve some of the tension that is always building just below the surface. Like closing your eyes when you have a tension headache. The mental energy he has to exert to keep face is enormous. Regular glamour doesn’t work nearly as well as his own, or Barbato’s magic.

But you see hints during your downtime spent in his company. A ripple in his reflection on the window pane. Unexplainable shadows dancing across his exposed skin. Too many teeth in his mouth when he laughs. Sometimes when you stare into his eyes you see something indescribable staring back behind them. His usually warm and inviting gaze darkening. A barest flicker, a hulking bestial thing kept locked behind in his golden gaze. It's enough to freeze the blood in your veins.

On certain nights when you can slip away from the brothers you stay in his room. Lying  awake, you watch his magic wane and shift as he slumbers. Sometimes you see runes, or at times letters. You are tempted to write them down and ask Solomon. But something stops you each time.

The worst images are the faces. Unknown souls trapped beneath his flesh clawing to be freed. Silent screams fading back into his body as he dreams. Your fragile fingers trace the patterns they leave as you wait for the next day wrapped in his embrace.

Only once have you seen more of his form then he would ever wish. The depths of his strength and mental fortitude were unknown to you so the slip up took you both by surprise. He masks the error well, but the sudden shift in energy in the room couldn’t be suppressed .

You are suddenly so aware of the oppressive weight of gravity on your frame. Your bones grinding together under the force of his aura. You panic, desperate by the need to breathe, but are unable to draw even the smallest bit of oxygen as it is robbed from the room. Time and reality wrapped too, distorting in ways only you thought only Barbatos could do. You knew in that moment the sudden dread of death, how mortally was but a rusty shackle tethering you down.

He collects himself, dispelling the energy and locking his glamour down tight to protect you. But that split second of fury felt like an eternity to you as you sink to the floor. You hiccup a shaky sob and shiver. Your fragile human mind bowing under the strain of what it cannot comprehend. Scolding hot tears fall from your cheeks, before splashing crimson the stone below you.

You didn't approach him again for over a month. No matter how strong you are, some things were better off unseen.

Mini Fic

He didn’t know. For once in his ancient pitiful existence, he had been unaware of his surroundings. It had been for just a moment, one tiny crack in his veneer. The foolishness of Mammon and Belphegor’s actions finally poked the right nerve. He wouldn’t hurt them, for Lucifer’s sake. That prideful demon would never forgive him if he did. But he could scare them. A quick look at his true self; a flash of the deepest bowels of hell. Enough to give them a reminder of their positions and standing in his court. He had expected their whimpers of fear, could taste the acidic tinge of it exuding from their pores. What he didn’t expect though was your blood curdling screams alongside.

Ironically, he would have to thank the second eldest later. His fast thinking is the only thing that saved you from complete damnation. His body shielded yours, taking the brunt of the stronger daemons hellish might for you. What little magic Mammon still had left used to protect you. Though, while your vision was blocked, you could still feel his oppressive presence. It racked your mortal flesh. Diavolo knew what affects his power had on humans. He spent years breaking and consuming damned souls with zeal after all.

The brothers had run from him after that, screaming for Simone. Barbatos following close behind, a look of consternation on his usually impassive face. You had been so limp in Mammon's arms. Diavolo could do nothing, shocked by his own weak will and realization that he might have ruined everything. You had been whisked away so quickly by his faithful servant and the brothers that he hadn’t had a chance to look you over himself. But the brief moment he saw will haunt him for years to come. Your eyes red from the sudden haemolacria, the blood staining your clothes and face. Your fingers digging away at your soft skin, black and purple blotches staining what he could see. Mouth opened wide on a silent scream. He knew what you must have seen. The souls of the damned trapped under his glamour breaking free to latch on to your unmarred soul trying to drag you back with them.

Against his butler's advice he stands at your door now days later trying to see you. He couldn’t sit around and just hear updates second hand. The brothers had been keeping guard most days in a valiant attempt to keep him away. But he could only be waylaid for so long before he used his rank against them.

He had arranged a full council meeting. Every one of the brothers knowing full well it was to get them out of his way. Yet, the order was absolute. This time none of the brothers could reject it. Barbatos would keep them in that room for eternity if he so wished for it. He hated using his age and power against them, but he saw no other way to get to you.

It was foolish now, standing as he was in front of your door. A part of him hoping you would turn the knob and let him in. Let him comfort you for once, instead of the asinine distractions the brothers offered. He could help too. Hells, he wanted to. He wanted to be closer to you. Power discrepancy be damned. The other part of him knowing it was for the best that you didn’t. Your guardian and tormentor all in one. He listens to your muffled sobs for a moment fighting with his feet to stay cemented to the floor instead of heading back in defeat.  

"When my father was still around he took me down to the deepest depths of the kingdom. Where the worst of the traitors and sinners are imprisoned." His deep baritone rumbles through your door during a break in your crying. "It’s a place few seldom go; even now I have yet to return. Back then he told me ‘there will never be a human soul that is undeserving of punishment. Even the ones destined for the celestial realm are tethered to sin.’ At that time I believed him. The things I saw in your realm... " The prince chuckles wearily.

He remembers the ever present scowl on the old King's face. His dark eyes looking out at the sea of damned souls he controlled. Even as a young daemon, fresh into his wings and still sharpening his horns to impress others he could tell how much his father detested his position. How it had warped him, turning him bitter and cold, even to his mate and only child.

Diavolo never wanted to be like that. Not to the ones he supposedly cared for at the very least. "I think that is why he hated the other realms so much.” He continued. “Humans, for their ability to choose which realm they would eventually end up in after they pass. That even the worst sinners could find redemption enough at the last moment to get to the pearly gates. While daemons, no matter how well they served, or the duties they did for the good of their own would never be seen as equals to our celestial counterparts or yours. That this existence is all we'll ever be destined to have. Nightmares and monsters, stories to tell little human children to keep them in line.” He pauses, collecting himself. “I believed wholeheartedly that every human deserved the punishments only my kind could dowel out. But, in this past year I have spent with you, I find myself changing. You are so undeserving of such torment. Somehow you are understanding and forgiving beyond measure to us. You handle our ill tempers with such grace. For daemons such as us, it is staggering, and humbling. I regret that I have hurt you so deeply and have broken your trust. I swear it as the head of this realm I would never intentionally do so." He looks at the door handle willing it to open. " I am so sorry."

Your crying picks up again. Huge heaving sobs that rattle your chest. Great Father, he just keeps making it worse. Clearing his head Diavolo turns.

Rejection of this nature was new to him. No one had ever dared to ignore him, especially such as this. The royal in him- his father's blood- seethed that he would even stoop so low as to grovel to a short lived thing like yourself. Even deeper yet, it demanded another taste of your essences. You little soul kept safe behind your rib cage. He wanted it added to his collection, kept tucked away deep within his maws.

It was sick; it was wrong. He chokes on the idea. The intrusive thought burrowing deep. How deplorable was he? Perhaps the angels were right to keep him out of heaven.

You didn't show to class the following day, or the days after. Unsurprising to him and the seven of the inner council. He figured the other day wouldn’t change anything. But it was utter agony to him. These days trapped in his office only getting short and curt updates on your health from Lucifer. It had been a special kind of torment.

Today he sat once again at his desk staring at some godforsaken bitching of a royal cousin. He knew this whelp. Some backwater thrice removed eons ago. Yet he was demanding an audience? The gall. The ink of their eligible handwriting makes him cross eyed. Would this day ever cease? He looks to his hourglass, the sands within seemingly frozen in time.

"My Lord, perhaps you should take a moment to stretch your legs?" Barbatos moved from his corner. Gloved hand coming to rest on top of the same three lines he had been reading for the past two hours. "This work could wait another evening I’m certain ."

"Did I do the right thing my friend?" Diavolo doesn't even bother answering the question his servant posed. They both knew he wouldn't. "This program. Our human exchange students. Solomon is one thing, but-"

"Your will and path is absolute." Barbatos states. "There are no mistakes within you, merely stumblings onto different paths."

With a gentle push Barbatos moves the hulking demon out of his way to collect and organize the scrolls and letters scattered about the large desk. "You made the right choice bringing them here. Look at what they have done. They are entertainment to you are they not?"

The prince rose knocking his desk aside and descended on his butler. His true form out in all its unholy glory now. His highly condensed magic distorting the study as if he was a black hole. The axis of the room shifts. His priceless collection of books and toys disintegrating from the cold radiation he emits.

It was all for show really. There was nothing he could do to an ancient being such as Barbatos. So he lashed out, throwing a tantrum in the security of his office. The hopeless agitation he felt fueling the flames of his rage. His butler had only added holy water to his already festering wounds.

Barbatos had been by his side for time in memoriam. The crafty bastard had helped raise him. Had shaped him into the ruler he was today. If anyone could break and remold him it would be his oldest companion.

The dark haired daemon waited for the waves of agitation to dry up. Moving only when the prince was in his more presentable demonic form. Large barrel chest heaving as he reined himself in. “Are you back to your senses?” He asks coolly, already categorizing the items to replace and furniture to be mended.

"I had not meant for it to go like this."  Diavolo croaks into his hands collapsing back on what remained of his desk. Building a bridge between realms, yes. That noble idea was the greater purpose of this program, but the rest of it. The classes, and dances. The parties where he threw his newest toys about to see how they would react to things other mortals worshiped? That had been for his own curiosity and amusement. Lesser beings navigating a foreign world blind to the dangers that were right under their very nose. Bring a mortal with no magic into his realm? Deep down he knew this was an inevitability. Especially with the freedoms he granted them. He just didn’t think he would get so attached.

“No one believes that you would hurt them on purpose.” His butler cuts off his downward spiral. “It would ruin the program. That is what you are so stressed about, right?” Barbatos eyes him skeptically. Diavolo, himself, and Lucifer had spent many sleepless weeks constructing and negotiating this program. If the Arch Angels heard a mortal was hurt down here it could very well end this little escapade. But the look in the prince’s eyes told a different story.

A warm glow emanated from his cheeks and he was unable to meet the old daemon’s gaze. Ah. "Or perhaps things have changed?" Barbatos smiles coyly up from beneath his bangs. "You are your mother's son after all. Neither of you were ever able to stem your bleeding hearts for long." Diavolo squawked indignantly but didn’t argue. Instead he merely turns a darker shade of red and curses under his breath.

He skipped out on court that evening. Not that he cared much. The other nobles would no doubt use the time to gossip about his whereabouts and uncouth behavior of late. Truth be told, he was avoiding the brothers more than anything else. They had made it expressly clear (some more then others) how they felt about him currently. He wouldn't doubt that Belphegor had a few more brothers on his side now.

Instead he stood at your door once more with a tea tray in hand. He had bumped into Simone on the way. The angel had come to bring you dinner and to check up on the last of your wounds. Celestial magic worked miracles on those who have been touched by the darker arts. Diavolo was grateful for his talents. And, by some miracle, Simone had made it abundantly clear he was not going to bring this to the higher ups on his end either.

Upon seeing the prince slinking up the house's stairwell the other man had simply smiled and offered him the tray. “I suddenly got a message from Luke. Could you perhaps drop this by our friend’s door?” Diavolo had accepted without preamble, large hands dwarfing the platter of little tea cakes and sandwiches. The young cherubs work no doubt. His cooking was a fine treat, and a great incentive to at least open the door.

“Hello again.” He knocks twice. “I just wanted to check in on you. I know I am the last person you wish to see but I was hoping to talk?” Silence greets him. Were you awake? He breathes deeply and focuses on picking up your vitals. You were up, your heart thumping steady somewhere in the room. That was good. “I also have dinner for you. Simone had an urgent matter to attend to so he- for better or worse- entrusted this to me.”

Diavolo searches hopelessly for something else to say. He couldn’t just leave the food and go. He needed to see you. “I don’t plan on staying long today. I understand when I am not wanted, but I cannot help myself but be worried for you. Perhaps this is just me contritioning, because I know I caused this. The amount of times I have been called a ‘ass’ by Solomon over this have been staggering.” He rambles. After another bout of silence from your end he coincides. “I see- I will leave the food by the door and let you rest.” Defeated he puts the food down and turns to leave.

The door clicks open slowly. One bloodshot eye peeking through the crack. “Oh mio piccolo mortale.” He loses his grip on your shared tongue at a loss. You looked- you must have been in the hall longer then he or the brothers had known. Such damage couldn’t be done in a few moments. Your skin was healing as nicely as Lucifer had said, but the deep purple scarring still remained on the surface. The burn pattern of it all was random. Twisting wounds that reflected an oily sheen from the light of the hallway. “I-.”

“I know-” You cut him off with a raised hand. “and I feel as though I owe you an apology too.” Your voice was so weak and shaky. A mockery of your normally strong and jovial tone. Hearing you laugh at school had brightened the dreary halls. He hadn’t realized it until you weren't there.

“You owe me nothing.” Diavolo says in earnest. He watches you contemplate your next words before throwing whatever you were going to say away.

“Would you like to come in?” Your eyes drop to the tray. “Luke always makes more than I can eat.”

“I don’t think that would be wise.” He backs out. All his plans crashing and burning around his feet. His actions had been irreparable.

“Perhaps not,” You open the door wider taking the tray and heading to your side table, leaving him no room to argue. “But then again, being a lamb among such wolves as yourself and the brothers isn’t smart either.” You meant it as a joke but he couldn’t even muster a chuckle. It was true. Gods. “Dia-” You approach him again but falter at the last second.

As much as you wanted to be close to him again the memories were still so fresh in your mind. The cold hell fire of his magic ensnaring you, searing your skin. The whispered words of sinners long since past still echoing in your head, all in languages you’ve never heard before. The worst though had to be the screaming. Lost souls begging for help. Some sounded so familiar…You shutter involuntarily.

You wanted to hate him for this. Curse him for putting you through this pain. But how much could you blame him? Or any of them? They were daemons. Whether he meant to hurt you or not, it truly had only been a matter of time before it happened. It would be hypocritical of you to fear or hate him forever over this. Six of the seven brothers have threatened your life before, and you have forgiven them. Hell, one of them actually killed you. What’s more was that Diavolo’s wrath hadn’t even been directed at you.

Wrong place at the right time; seemed to be your forte. “Please, come in.” You repeat again firmer than before mustering up either courage or sheer human stupidity to order him in. You couldn’t tell the difference anymore. “We need to talk.”  

He enters, following at your heel like a lost puppy. All air of princedom gone as you clicked the door shut. Diavolo fiddles with his hands, old habits from childhood coming with his nerves. He didn’t know what to expect anymore. Yelling? Some kind of beratement? A plea to go home and never look back?  He would let you.

You pass by him, giving him a large berth of space to get to your seat. “Tea?”  

Diavolo jerks his head to you. He had forgotten momentarily the plate of food he had used to get access to you. You smile sheepishly pushing it and a plate of sweets towards him with your unbandaged knuckles. He doesn’t move till your hand retracts back to your lap. You jerk your head to the open seat waiting for him. You weren’t going to take no for an answer.

“I- thank you.” The daemon sits making himself as small as possible in the straight back chair. He takes the porcelain and drinks mindlessly. The scalding hot tea doing little to help the tightness of his throat, but it did thaw some of the ice in his mind.

“Are-how…” He fumbles so unsure of what to do next. “I see you’ve been keeping up with your school work.” Diavolo closes his eyes, wincing internally at his words. That’s what he comes up with? Idiotic.

You smile anyway, eyeing the massive pile of books and paperwork spewn about your bed. “Yeah. I’ve taken to doing my school work with Levi in his room. Mammon and Beel are nice enough to drop it off to the teachers when they are due.” He nods. He knew this of course. But it was nice to hear it from you. But yet, you don’t meet his eyes. Far too afraid to see what hid behind them.

The thought of being dragged back into those dark depths again makes your pulse quicken. You instead stare at your nail beds, finding them more interesting. They were purple now. The nails stained black by the contact with his magic. “Will- will that go away?” He asks. Demonic curses or taints were nigh impossible to remove fully. Disgustingly, he hoped they didn’t. Then your nails would match his. The darker depths of his soul coo at the idea, happy that in a small way every daemon would know your his. Not as good as a pact, but as close as he could get to being a part of your little mortal life.

“I’m not sure.” You reply honestly bringing your hands up to place them on the table. “Simone and Solomon have done what they could. But, it is as good as it’s going to get for now. They say it could fade with time.” You look up at him, eyes gazing to the left of his face. “Luke thinks I should see a stronger angel.” Diavolo winces, the thought stung, and terrified him. “I told him no.”

That surprised him. This was your chance. The celestial realm had been skeptical from the beginning. If they knew, it would be a perfect caveat for them to step in. “Why?” Finally you look at him. The fear was still there. Hesitation evident in your eyes. Yet you forced yourself to look at him, fighting through your trepidation.

“Did you mean what you said earlier? About your father and what you think of me?”

“Of course.” He replies without hesitation reaching for your cold hands. You flinch but don’t move away. It felt-nice. His warmth chasing away the perpetual chill that covered your fingertips. Idly you stroke his strong hands with your thumbs.

“Then, I think we can work on this privately.” Slowly but surely you felt like you could fix this. Not for the program, but for yourself.  

#obey me #obey me diavolo #obey me headcanons #gods have mercy I wanna smooch him so bad

[sodone-withlife]

icarus fell, and blood stained the ground

i'm back!! (but not really—the new school year literally starts in an hour and it will be back to my pathological dependence on academic validation. at least i can say i've technically published another fic before summer break ends)

anyway, here's the fic in response to part 1 of sumayyah's post. i published a companion poem for this some time ago. as per usual, i gave up on proofreading so hopefully any mistakes don't detract from the story. also, i hope the formatting and jumping back and forth between italics makes sense—let me know if it doesn't, though it might be easier to read on ao3 (it should go up on there by 4pm PST because school)

warnings: murder, major character death (may potentially be classified as suicide-by-proxy, depending on your interpretation), guns, canon typical violence, slight gore at the end, mentioned substances

word count: 1.9k words

The damned man thought of everything, Jessica thought as she scowled at the damned folder that sat innocuously on the large mahogany desk.

The desk that would soon be cleared, all traces of the previous owner gone.

She lifted a shaky hand and brushed it through her hair, shuddering at its greasy and unkempt state that hinted at the state she had been in recently. Weary to the bone, she forced herself to sit back up and grab her phone, dialing the number that was written on the sticky note placed on the inside cover of the folder. It didn’t surprise her to hear an unfamiliar female voice answer the phone with a “Ms. Brooks?”

He had thought of everything, after all.

Really, the only thing she was surprised at was the sheer extent of his connections—but thinking back to her phone calls with Haley back when he was still practicing law, the talks about extravagant offers from top corporations and firms, she really wasn’t surprised. Thus, it made sense that her call to the top law firm in the state would be answered within two dial tones and by someone who already knew who she was.

And within minutes of talking with the woman who introduced herself as Ms. Stevens, Jessica became even more aware of just how prepared her brother-in-law had been before he walked to his dea—

Not an in-law anymore—her brother. He had long since earned that designation, that spot in her broken family, no matter how much self-flagellation he put himself through in regards to her sister’s murder and no matter how much abuse her father hurled at him in the years before the man who once viewed him as a son succumbed to dementia.

Hours later, despite having already reached her limit twenty minutes into the call, she finally hung up the phone with only funeral arrangements as an immediate concern. Slowly, she stood up from the chair and mechanically made her way into the tiny bathroom that had once been a familiar sight, when her nephew was still a child—

She forced her mind away from that minefield; she wasn’t willing to spend another sleepless night thinking about what had gone down in the past month, what had happened a week ago in that apartment, what her nephew was doing and thinking in the cell that only seemed to become colder and crueler the more she thought about it.

How many prisons had he visited? How many interrogation rooms, holding cells, general population cells, max security cells, death row cells? Did he ever get used to it? Could he allow himself to get used to it, to forget that these people are also human no matter the crimes they’ve committed?

A careful hand fell onto Jessica’s shoulder, and she shuddered under the warmth that seeped into her body, a warmth that had been lacking from her life for a long time now. She turned to see Morgan staring back at her, concerned.

“You didn’t pick up your phone,” he explained neutrally, flicking his eyes towards her phone—and sure enough, there were ten missed calls, each from a member of the team. She looked back up but avoided his concerned gaze only to latch onto her reflection in the mirror and internally winced at her haggard appearance.

“Did you—“ she coughed, clearing her throat, “have you figured out what happened?” Morgan’s unspoken question about her well-being went unanswered, and she continued to avoid looking at him.

She watched the man shake his head through the mirror, unsurprised and once again cursing her brother for his incessant habit of playing his cards close to his chest, especially when it came to personal issues.

How else is—was—he one of the best at poker in the bureau, often even beating Reid?

“He hasn’t talked, either,” Morgan informed her quietly, saving her the pain of asking the question herself. “Forensics is still struggling to put together a cohesive picture. To be honest, I doubt we’ll ever find out what actually happened in that apartment.” He shook his head, frustrated at the man he considered his brother.

If either of them bothered to ask, they would have found that both were truthfully unsurprised at this outcome, given what they only recently learned about the factors and circumstances that led to it. The few established facts about this case in addition to speculation based on systematically organized notes left in an even more meticulously organized folder painted a clear enough picture of the events preceding the fall.

But it wasn’t really an accidental, flailing fall.

In all truthfulness, he didn’t fight it.

Icarus let himself fall to his death in an attempt to compensate for his hubris, to suffer the consequences of his mistakes, and it was both a cowardly attempt to escape the hellish burns caused by the boiling, melting wax and a selfless attempt to teach posterity to avoid ending up like him.

Jessica remembered the warmth of Morgan’s embrace when he ignored all protocol and took it upon himself to inform her of what had transpired in the past two months, regardless of the still-ongoing investigation. It didn’t do much to soothe the cold that had threatened to swallow her whole as she listened to the details in silent horror.

He had sat her down in her apartment, the one she had taken care of her ailing father in before he finally died and the one she couldn’t bear to move out of for all of the memories that had been formed inside—with her father on his good days, with her brother, with her nephew

“A week ago, we were invited by MPD to consult on a series of killings that happened over the course of a month. We had an eye on the situation since the second murder, and there were two more victims in the span of a week before we were finally called in,” he began quietly.

He had suspicions as to what was happening by the time the team was invited in on the case at the personal request of the MPD chief. It certainly wasn’t the first time he had come across this profile before, but there were simply too many puzzle pieces with matching edges for the connections to be brushed off as a coincidence.

“Based on the rate at which bodies were popping up, we anticipated another one within two days of us being called in, but the killer had gone suspiciously silent. We went through crime scenes, forensic reports, and things weren’t adding up.”

"It’s a local case and we’ve coordinated with MPD multiple times, they know the drill. I’d like to take a personal look as well, the brass has been all up in my business about this case given its proximity to the Hill."

That’s what he said to the team regarding him suddenly taking the initiative to go to the crime scenes despite his responsibilities—it had been a while since he last went out to crime scenes, often taking care of the office politics and coordinating the investigation back at whatever precinct or office the team had taken over.

“There were odd inconsistencies, missing pieces of evidence… There was evidence to show that the killer was an amateur, but ultimately the profile we ended up building was nowhere near as detailed as we hoped it could be—but it ultimately went a long way in helping us figure out what was really happening.”

Old case files going missing from his home office, growing interest in his job, sudden mood swings happening long after the worst of puberty, increased isolation, dropping grades…

Absentee fathers of Georgetown students being stabbed and shot to death as if the killer was unsure about what to do, an innocuous Jack-in-the-Box takeout bag sitting near the last three bodies…

Numerous signs, and yet it was the outwardly irrelevant piece of trash, perhaps a sign of the killer’s gluttony—a sick joke that only he could have recognized—that led him to put all of the horrifying pieces together. It’s been over a decade, and yet the memories of that damned day remained as clear as ever, dogging his every footstep. Nightmares in which the worst happens still often visit him in his sleep, sometimes even combined with the effects of Peter Lewis’s drug concoction, effects lingering even after all these years.

“Somehow, we completely missed the fact that he fit the victimology. Maybe it was because of his efforts to distract us… If we had put it together earlier we might have been able to figure it out much earlier, and maybe everything could have turned out differently.”

Only after intensive counseling and careful editing of his case reports was he allowed to continue in the bureau after Lewis and his targeted attacks, and yet he knew he was still being watched. It was with that thought in mind that he made a decision on how to handle the situation. Either way, his life would be irrevocably changed, and there would be casualties alongside him.

All he had to do was figure out how to minimize them.

“He never came in that morning; Reid was the first to notice the lights off in the office. We were headed towards his apartment complex as soon as we saw a cleared-out office with a retirement letter being the only thing left on the desk. All of the pictures, trinkets, law books, messy stacks of paperwork—gone.”

A retirement letter for formality's sake, one copy emailed directly to the director and one printed on his desk, to simplify some things for the bureau and to ensure that Jessica and his son get his pension should the worst happen. All of his decisions, meticulously recorded and justified, except for this last one to protect the team from the consequences of his choice. All of his notes, all of the claimed evidence, carefully stored in the file box he left next to the retirement letter back in the office. Favors accumulated since law school called in, contacts throughout the local justice system ready to step in and deal with the fallout.

All of this, an attempt to compensate for the mistakes he’s made over the years and his hubris, to protect the remnants of his family and the team.

Morgan couldn’t finish telling Jessica what had happened, voice somehow caught in his throat and refusing to cooperate. He simply shook his head, and she folded in on herself, the weight of the last week too much for her to hold up. Slowly, he pulled her into a hug, rubbing her back but not doing much more to soothe her.

This is a wound that wouldn’t ever heal.

The story ends like this:

Icarus burned, and Aaron Hotchner said nothing as the hand that held the gun against his temple shook with uncertainty. Everything he wanted to say was written—one might call him a coward, but writing had always been so much easier for him—and he knew that he would be the final casualty, that the killings would stop after tonight.

Icarus fell, and Aaron Hotchner was flung sideways, the unyielding bullet from his gun fired by his own son shredding the brain that thought had of everything but the emotional and psychological effects his final decision would have on his family and friends.

Daedalus grieved over his son’s crumpled form, and Jack Hotchner would be found with his father’s dead body in his shaking arms as he stared blankly at sights unseen to the team, who had come hours too late.

Blood stained the ground, seeping into the cracks and crevices of grasping fingers, and nothing would ever be the same.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #bau #jessica brooks #jack hotchner #tw character death #tw guns #tw violence #tw murder #tw death #just to cover my bases #tw substances #tw drugs #tw gore

[sokkas1mp]

I gonna break in this acocunt with me being angry about something that doesn't really matter (very fitting for tumblr if you ask me), this article.

First: "And I’m sorry to open with this, but part of that is due to the age difference between them. Two years is hardly worlds apart (I’m personally working with four), but a 12-year-old boy and a 14-year-old girl are. Especially the way these two are drawn. Not to be too voyeuristic about Y7 cartoons, but Katara has clearly gone through puberty, while Aang hasn’t. There is something just…off, about a sixth grade boy having a full on make-out sesh with a high school girl."

This argument is one of the most stupid ones if you ask me, because it blatantly ignores the culture we have been presented by the show. I can understand why people find this weird, but we have to try not to look at it as if its our society, because its not. In A:tla, specifically the water tribes, 16 is marrying age. Right there, our "age norms" (idk what else to call it) are very different. And there are no divisions between ages in their world like we have with middle and high school. To me, two people are fit to be together based on their maturity, not their age. That's why 45 & 40 is not the same as 15 & 10, or 20 & 15. This is the same for Kataang. They have very similar life experiences and matured together, literally side by side, so a two year ago gap is irrelevant.

Second: "...Katara took on a very maternal role with Aang. Sure, she’s a caretaker and sort of a “mom friend,” but it’s a bit more than that. She served as his literal guardian during the show’s run—there’s just no other way to look at it. By the third episode, she called herself his “family,” and later even went on to role play as his mother to get him out of trouble at school. Aang, meanwhile, was… Well, I wouldn’t say “immature” for his age, […] However, Katara is 14 going on 25, while Aang is just, Aang."

There's a compilation of Katara doing thing with Aang that if someone saw a mother doing with her son they would call it incest:

Katara definitely acts motherly towards Aang, but that is just her nature. She is more than just motherly with him. And some people like to call the check kisses familial (which is kinda weird imo), but we know Katara herself doesnt think that:

"Easy there, big brother" She pushes Sokka away. Not to mention, this was about a scene or two before she kisses Aang on the check.

Calling someone close to you your family does not mean you see them in the same way you see your parents/siblings. And Sokka played Aang's father in that scene, but we aren't sitting here using that as evidence to call him Aang's paternal figure.

Something Aang haters forget (or chose to ignore) is that being lighthearted and goofy does not equal immature. Yes, Aang does some juvenile things, but that shouldn't take away from his growth and maturity.

Third: "In fact, in the last season, Katara was shown to be uncomfortable each time Aang kisses her, and even went as far as to tell him to back off with the romantic stuff in the episode before the finale, because she was confused about how she felt. [*new paragraph*] Yet, in the end, she just trots up and blushes at Aang, than happily makes out with him when he goes for it,"

Katara initiated 2/4 of the kataang kisses (not including the check kisses). The kiss in The Cave of Two Lovers and the kiss in the finale. Yes, she's the one that "goes for it" in the finale (she also initiates the hug). She only pulls away once out of the 3 times we see a kiss end (this would be excluding the kiss in The Cave of Two Lovers). She wasn't confused about her feelings, she didn't want to have to worry about a relationship when they were nearing the end of the war.

Fourth: "The post-canon comics only furthered the lack of exploration of her feelings in this relationship"

Fifth: "[referencing a scene in The Promise in which Katara is jealous of a fanclub being around Aang] "I'm sorry, this amazing, adult communication is blowing me away"

The are both still teenagers, who have zero previous relationship experience. Also, Aang had no ill intentions and Katara recognized it.

Sixth: [refencing Katara's role in The Legend of Korra] "Did Katara want to do anything other than sit in a healing hut and be known for having Aang's kids?"

This is another argument that just pisses me off. You can not use Katara's lifestyle in her 80s (she is 85 in s1) as judgement for her adulthood. It's purely assumption based. Constantly this author assumes that because she is in a relationship with Aang, Katara would drop her whole personality. What? Katara would not and could not be forced to do something or conform to some label and Aang wouldn't let it get to that point either. He would squash any idea that she is just "The Avatar's wife" or "The mother of the Avatar's children" the minute he heard it.

Seven: [comparing Katara's reaction to Aang The Desert to Aang's reaction to Katara in The Southern Raiders] "You'll spend a long time looking for her condescending tones. "Anger won't help, Aang," Katara never said, because she got that he was processing something painful and needed to sort it out himself. This difference in behavior is something that would be really fitting for a twelve year old boy to learn and understand. There's just no indication that he ever did."

Maybe I'm remembering wrong, but I don't remember Aang being condescending towards Katara. He was offering his advice because he knew her and knew that she would regret doing what she thought was right when her judgement was clouded by anger. And guess what. He was right. He never forced anything on her, either. Sure, he was a bit more pushy than he could've been, but in the end he let her go on the trip with no complaints. He even agreed that this was something she had to do.

Eighth: [referencing The Ember Island Players] "When the actor says 'Wait! I thought you were the Avatar's girl', Aang agrees. Katara is his."

You know damn well Aang doesn't see Katara as just his. And she's give him PLENTY of reason to believe that his feelings are reciprocated (which they are).

Ninth: "It's the story of a woman who swallows everything lest the man she's interested in has to learn anything about his behavior that violates her boundaries."

Ha! You said she was interested in him.

But in all seriousness, you mentioned how Katara stood her ground and told Aang that she was confused, but apparently now she's swallowing her feeings.

Tenth: [talks about the cloud babies daddy issues]

I don't disagree with what is said here, for the most part, but I don't think it is a reflection on Aang and Katara's relationship.

Eleventh: "... given what what we got with Kataang, it's completely unsurprising that Aang and Katara's parenthood/adult life was defined by a lack of communication and availability, at least from what we can tell. This also puts Katara's choice to immediately moved to the South Pole once Aang died in perspective; perhaps the city he poured all his energy into, at the cost of his family, held some bitter memories."

Once again with the lack communication. We can't use the early years of their relationship to determine their whole relationship. Also, there wasn't consistently a lack of communication, you just pointed out one time and ran with it.

We don't know at what point Katara moved back to the South Pole, but there are plenty of reasons for Katara to leave Air Temple Island:

a) Her son moving in/or planning to move in with his family.

b) She was no longer needed in the city and thus had no need to stay.

c) She wanted to go back to her native home for comfort after the love of her life died at a relatively early age.

d) The next Avatar was discovered and she came home to train them.

That's all. Thank you for reading my unnecessary rant if you made it this far, and I just want to close out with a few things:

- There were some things in the article that I did not include for the fear of this becoming a novel of me repeating myself.

- I agree with most thing said in the final segment of the the article. Most, not all.

- I appreciate the author for not trying to shove Zutara in just because Kataang wasn't there. That is becoming increasingly uncommon, so it was nice to see.

#kataang #pro kataang #katara #aang #pro katara #pro aang #atla

[tenspontaneite]

Peace Is A Journey (Chapter 23/?)

In which a Healer visits her patient, three unfortunate children have a very cold day of travel, and Corvus learns something unexpected during his convalescence.

(Chapter length: 14k. Ao3 link)

Warnings: non-graphic descriptions of respiratory illness, an amputated limb, and non-consensual administration of medical treatment. Discussions of suicide and mercy-killing. Depictions of early stages of adapting to a new physical disability. Mentions of cold-related injury in background characters.

---

A runner came for them early. Early enough that Sarli and her apprentice had barely risen. Seeing as Sarli was not yet presentable, Cairon answered the door; she listened to what little she could glean of the conversation through the walls.

She heard “Yes,” and “yes,” again, and then “I understand. I will tell my master.”

Sarli finished dressing and went out to receive the news. “Well?” she questioned, once her apprentice was within her line of sight, and he straightened.

“The castle requests our attendance to the prisoner at our earliest opportunity,” he reported. “And there is someone to show our way to the new cell waiting outside.”

She considered this, and the urgency it implied. It was fortunate that they had no appointments booked until the afternoon, apparently. “Have they any news of his condition?”

“Sick, and weakening.” Cairon was succinct.

“Unsurprising.” Sarli went to her medicine cabinet and opened it, considering the arrayed items with a careful eye. The infection was surely still persisting, so, something for the reduction of fever. The lilium, of course, for pain. It would be well to bring an anti-inflammatory, too. Perhaps several. And, if the elf persisted with his reticence, then…the needle, too.

She plucked a few vials and bottles from her shelves, then went for the other assorted basics of bandages and disinfectants, and handed some of it off to Cairon to pack while she wrapped the rest. And then there was nothing but for the two of them to leave their House of Healing and follow after their waiting escort.

The elf’s new prison was apparently in a wing of the castle proper; or so she surmised when they did not divert for the dungeons once through the castle gates. She supposed the stipulation of moonlight cut off many of the more secure below-ground options; she had been very clear in specifying that some amount of moonlight must be upon the cell for as close to the entire night as possible. She wondered how they’d managed it.

Once they were through the inner doors, one of the Crownguard took up her escort. “Healer Sarli,” she greeted, with a nod of respect. “If you’ll follow me? Your patient is waiting.”

“Of course,” she said, and so they followed a little further. The castle was well-guarded today, she noted. Very well-guarded. And increasingly so, as they progressed into a wing that did not seem designed for prisoners at all. “Is this not a residential wing?” she asked at last, a little nonplussed by the finery of the halls she crossed. Cairon, too, seemed a little narrow-eyed about the affair, though he did not speak. His eyes marked each and every Crownguard as they walked.

“Diplomatic wing,” corrected their escort; despite her professionalism, there seemed a hint of unease to her countenance. “I’m afraid your stipulations for all-night moonlight access were difficult to manage, Healer. The diplomatic quarters are empty for the moment, and they have always had high security anyway, so it was decided that one of the rooms should be converted for use as a cell. The windows are…larger, here.”

Sarli raised an eyebrow. She supposed there had been no call for the crown-castle to host Moonshadow prisoners before, but even so… “Surely that must have been rather a lot of work.”

“Less than you’d think. It was mostly a matter of replacing the door and putting a cage on the window. And stripping the room, of course.” The Crownguard hesitated for a moment. “It did take the night, though. The prisoner was only moved here two hours ago.”

She paused. “So, then, he has had no moonlight this past night.” Although her tone was neutral, she thought it plain that she was not pleased. Beside her, Cairon looked grim.

“Regretfully, no.”

Sarli pursed her lips, and said nothing more until they reached the cell.

It was apparent when they reached it. The door was thick and iron-banded, adorned with bolts and keyholes and chains. It was a sharp contrast to the finery of the rest of this area of the castle. There were two Crownguard directly outside the door, and several more posted the length of the hallway. Evidently, they were taking no chances with the elf that had slain the King. The effort they’d gone to was testament indeed to how valuable they considered this prisoner.

There was also a man who was certainly not a guard of any sort, waiting for them. He looked up as they neared, eyes sparking with recognition. Clearly, he knew her by the robes. “Healer Sarli,” he greeted, and offered a short bow. “You have been anticipated.”

Sarli stopped across from him and eyed him appraisingly. No sign of military conditioning, but a certain self-assurance to his manner regardless. He seemed sharp-eyed and shrewd, and was dressed smartly in predominantly dark colours. She recognised his like. “There has been no tribunal yet,” she observed, a little startled to see an observer from the Crow Lord’s office here.

He nodded agreeably. “There hasn’t. I believe they aren’t in any particular hurry to hold one either, since it will be a moot point if the elf doesn’t survive the new moon.” The man’s eyes slid from her to Cairon, then back again. “I am Teyron. I will be present for any and all meetings between the prisoner and his guards and visitors of any kind.”

She inspected him. “Seeing if there is anything to glean from non-exceptional measures?” Her voice was dry.

Teyron smiled. “That, too.”

Sarli shook her head. It was like that, was it? Very well, then. She supposed it mattered little to her. Cairon seemed a little confused, though, so she turned to him and said “This is a member of the Crow Lord’s office. He is here to gather information on the prisoner via the passive methods of observation and insight. He is also here to ensure no one attempts covert communication with the prisoner during visits.”

She was watching him closely to be sure he understood, and was satisfied to watch him fall briefly still. “I see,” Cairon said, in the end, eyeing the Crow Lord’s man with some mixture of caution and curiosity. “Is that standard for prisoners of war?”

“It’s standard for prisoners with a covert operations background,” Teyron said affably, and inclined his head to the door. “Shall we?”

“Yes.” Sarli approached the door as one of the Crownguard reached over to slot a thick key into the mechanism. When it was opened, she allowed Teyron and the guards to precede her, then followed without further ado.

She lingered in the doorway for a moment, taking stock of the room. If this had been ambassadors’ housing, she could only imagine it had been for lesser members of a delegation. The place was well-lit, but it was not large. Even stripped of its finery and furniture, it was emphatically not large. A servant’s posting, perhaps? Even such a lowly use was beyond it now. It was utterly bare but for the trappings of a prison. No bed, not even a pallet; but there was a chamber-pot, she was glad to see. That was certainly more than the Lord Protector had provided.

As the Crownguard had said, there had been bars affixed around the broad window of the impromptu cell; the mortar barely looked dry where they penetrated the walls. She thought humourlessly on how much work it would be to rehabilitate this room when it had expunged its use as a prison.

And then there was the prisoner himself. Her patient. The guard had not thought to mention the chains affixed to the wall, but he was well-secured by them. There were cuffs at his neck, both shins, and the surviving arm, all held fast by long chains that coiled around him like darksteel snakes. They seemed to allow him a surprising range of motion, and Sarli guessed that he would easily be able to reposition himself in front of the window, should he desire. And yet, he had made no attempt to do so. Instead he was slumped backwards against the wall, peering narrowly at them; he seemed too weak to hold himself fully upright.

Sarli inspected him in a fast, evaluative moment, then stepped forwards. “You will remember me, I trust,” she said, and approached without ceremony to lay her pack down. Cairon trailed at her heels, silent and watchful. “I am here to continue your treatment.”

The elf did not reply. His eyes slid from her to Cairon, and then to Teyron. There they lingered for a while, dark and suspicious. She supposed he must be aware of what that man represented. At all times, Teyron would be watching for any opening or weakness implied in his reactions. The elf had already been silent and taciturn, and she doubted this would help matters.

So she sighed, and beckoned Cairon over. The Crownguard followed as well, which she noted with some asperity. The territoriality was reflexive; a Healer should not be managed in her treatment of a patient, nor crowded in such an unseemly manner. “Are you a Healer’s assistant as well as Crownguard?” She questioned the woman, annoyance lending sharpness to the words.

“Begging your pardon, Healer,” said the Crownguard. “I am protection. He has sufficient leeway in his chains to attack you.”

“And perhaps that would be a legitimate concern nearer the full moon,” Sarli said. “But for the moment, my patient is so weak he trembles at supporting himself upright, even leaning on a wall. If I cannot stop him, my apprentice will. Step back, if you please.”

Two faces went disgruntled at once: the Crownguard’s, and the elf’s. The latter, she supposed, was unhappy with her entirely accurate characterisation of his weakness.

“As you say, Healer,” The Crownguard conceded, finally, and did step back. Satisfied, Sarli went to her work.

Her first order of business was to give her patient a thorough looking-over. In plain daylight, his inhuman skin-tone was more evident, but the sickly pallor held to it nonetheless. His face was a little too pale, and the shadows beneath his eyes were dark. She felt for his pulse, and found it shallow and laboured. His temperature was somewhat higher than preferable, though not yet dangerously so. She inspected the stump of his arm next, removing the bandages and gauze, and noted that it had healed very little at all. It was not bleeding, but the edges of the wound had made no visible effort at sealing, even as careful as her stitching had been. Sarli saw that it was at least not visibly infected, even if the inflammation was severe. Finally she gestured for the stethoscope and listened to his lungs again. Their condition was more advanced now, though she could have surmised that merely by listening to him breathe.

For his part, the elf bore the examination stoically, flinching only the first time she touched him and then not at all thereafter. At last she sat back and observed him. “Will you take your medicines of your own accord?” she asked, and he blinked slowly at her. There was no hostility in his eyes, only a weary resolution. Outside of the dark, they lacked their uncanny phosphorescence, and seemed a great deal more human.

“I will not,” he rasped, as he had once before. The Crow Lord’s spy watched avidly from the corner.

She inclined her head. “I respect your pride, and your force of will,” she said. “But it is my duty to heal you.”

The elf’s eyes slid briefly to Teyron again. She expected him to remain silent after reminding himself that they were observed, but he surprised her. In that terrible rattling voice, he said “Your duty, to heal one who is already dead.” It was not quite a question, but had the taste of one regardless.

Sarli considered the words, feeling in them some edge of a culture unknown to her. There was significance here that she was not privy to. “I know nothing of the ways of your kind,” she said at last. “If you think you are already dead, then perhaps you are. I cannot heal a corpse. But I am human. If you are not beyond my aid, then the alleviation of your suffering does remain my duty. I will see it done.”

He exhaled, and the sigh would have been silent if not for the crackle of his lungs. He descended into a brief, painful series of wet coughs, then he met her eyes. They were oddly steady. Again, that rasping voice: “I have heard of how human healers alleviate suffering.”

In the corner of her eye, Sarli saw Teyron shift, less with interest than with wariness. She could read the thoughts, there. The elf’s words were not quite an overt invitation of a more permanent mercy, but they skittered close enough that an information specialist might fear what she would do.

And well he should. It would be easy, after all. No one could stop her from mixing the lilium a little too potently. It would spare him his pain. Spare him the suffering of the next few days. Spare him the inevitable torture that would come, should he survive.

Sarli regarded the elf, expressionless. Beside her, Cairon was very still. “You speak of the mercy-killing that a Healer may practice as if you would invite it,” she said, at last, and he made no objection to the words. Just watched her. “You refuse to eat or drink on your own, and accept no medical aid that is not forced upon you. In this regard, you behave as one seeking to die.” Sarli watched him, and nodded to herself. “…But I think that there are limits upon that intention, for you. If you truly wished to end yourself, none could stop you. Yet you have not.” Slow and deliberate, she set the stethoscope fully aside, and reached for her medicines. “If you will not do it yourself, do not ask it of me. I will not be the instrument of your destruction.”

The elf looked away, deliberately taciturn. There was a flicker of frustration in his expression, but nothing else. She wondered if he had been wishing that someone would take the decision from him and enact his death themselves. She wondered if his strange culture, such that it was, forbade direct suicide. Either way, he had not died, and he was not yet upon the nadir of suffering and despair that would see her change that.

Not yet. But she had given the quiet death before, and might well give it again, should there be a need.

Silent, she gestured to Cairon, and received the needle and the lilium from his hands.

“Know this, my patient,” Sarli said finally, and watched the elf’s eyes turn guardedly her way. “Once Mercy becomes a knife, there can be no more Mercy thereafter. But where life persists, there is Hope of change.” The words sat holy upon her tongue, and she lingered for a moment beneath the weight of them. She exhaled, silent, and finished “This is a lesson that the centuries have taught us very well, and that you would do well to learn.” Then she kept at her work, eyes steady on her tools. She did not look for her patient’s reaction.

When she lifted her eyes to regard him, he was very carefully expressionless. If her words had provoked any response in him, he was allowing none of it to his face. Stoicism stared back at her. There was a light tremor in his living arm; she eyed it, finished her assembly of the needle and reservoir, and reached out to prick the skin. He barely twitched as the lilium joined to his blood, soon to bring him the relief from pain that she had promised; but only that. No more. Her Mercy was not yet a knife.

The elf endured the treatments in silence. She had come prepared for the notion that he might not accept medical aid, but even so, the medicines that could be administered to the blood were not many. The lilium, yes. The anti-inflammatory as well. But she had no recourse to treat his fever if he would not drink. She sighed, and set it aside, well within his reach. “If you change your mind about accepting medical treatment, this here is for your fever,” she said, and he glanced at it. “It will aid your body in fighting the infection. Consider it.”

He blinked, slowly, then looked deliberately away. Apparently he was done with speaking for the day.

She accepted it, and then finally rose. Her old bones ached from kneeling for so long, but she refused to show the duress; she handed the bags to Cairon and then turned to leave. “I will return tomorrow, in the morning,” she stated, to the Crownguard and the observer both. “If there is any change in his condition before then, send for me.”

They murmured their assent and bowed lightly as she left; she waved off her escort and left with Cairon without ceremony. He was very quiet, saying nothing, and watching the guards they passed on their way through the castle. Though his expression was well-schooled, she knew him well enough to see his unease.

Once they were upon the streets, surrounded by the hubbub and bustle of the castle-city, he finally ventured to speak. “Did you mean what you said back there, master?”

She glanced at him, and found him looking troubled. “I rarely say anything I do not mean, Cairon,” she answered, just a little wry. “But perhaps you should be more specific.”

He looked away, not meeting her eyes. “’Where life persists, there is hope of change’,” he quoted.

Sarli considered it. “Yes. I spoke it truly.”

“You believe that.” He was not one to doubt her word, but he seemed searching now. Uneasy in his skin, as though the answer mattered to him. “Even for…him.”

‘Even for the assassin that slew the king’, went unspoken. Or perhaps, ‘even for an elf’.

For a moment her heart burned with familiar anger, familiar grief. But those were the trappings of Sarli-the-person; thus Sarli-the-Healer breathed out and cast them aside. “Even for him, Cairon, yes.” she said. “Hope is a beacon to every soul.”

The comment occasioned some glances from the people around her; and well it should. It was not lightly that anyone devout spoke ‘hope’ aloud, and a Healer was always devout. “I wouldn’t think someone like him has much in the way of that,” Cairon said, after a moment, and though it wouldn’t be clear to a stranger whether he’d meant hope or soul…

She stilled a little, and cast him a warning glance. She looked deliberately around at those around them. He took the admonishment and fell silent until they were alone again, walking to the mouth of the Valley, and near to home. Then she spoke, before he could, as if no time had passed at all since his badly-placed comment. “His prospects are ill, yes,” said Sarli, “but not hopeless. Never hopeless. You should know better than that. Certainly you should know better than to express such a sentiment in public.” It was a rebuke and a warning both. He should know better. Few indeed were the people who would not.

He flinched as though struck, and did not try to defend his words. Good; if the wrong ears had marked her apprentice saying such a thing, it could cast a shame on her, to have taught him so poorly. And that was the best of the potential negative consequences.

“Perhaps you need a reminder,” Sarli allowed, opening their door and easing herself through. Cairon glanced warily at her, setting out the bags, and she went directly to the bookcase. She pulled out a leather-bound tome, bloody red, a lotus engraved on the cover in metallic silver. It was the work of moments to find the correct passage, and she presented the book to her apprentice without preamble. He took it in his hands and stared at it as though it were a live snake, for all that he had certainly heard and read its scriptures before. She commanded, “Read.”

“…The tools need cleaning, master,” he offered, hesitating. “The medicines need putting away.”

“I will do it,” Sarli said at once, and then again: “Read.”

Again, he hesitated. And then his eyes fell upon the page, and its old sacred tale. He winced at it, very slightly, then finally exhaled. Sarli knew then that he would do as she had commanded, and turned away to begin attending to the tools of her trade; behind her, out of sight, words as familiar to her as her own breath filtered into the air upon her apprentice’s voice.

“’When the Last Light came to Her, She was lingering silent among the death-shrouds, and Her hands were wet with the blood of mercy’…”

Learn, she bade him, in the privacy of her own mind, and finally felt her heart settle from the clamour his public heresy had set it to. It could have been worse. He hadn’t spoken loudly, and his phrasing had been ambiguous; the onlookers might well think he was calling the person-of-discussion soulless, rather than hopeless. Still unsettling for someone not aware of the situation, but not dangerous.

And dangerous it would be, should anyone find him – a Healer’s apprentice – to have verbally denied that the Last Light existed for everyone. Even the lords, even the royalty, secular as they were, would never say such a thing where someone might hear.

Her apprentice thought himself very subtle, and often he was. But not always. And certainly not around her.

Be more careful, Cairon, she thought to him, though she did not speak. I will not always be here to protect you.

“’…this is a dark time, and its shadows may stretch for many years. / But I have something to show you, and I wish for that you will take heed. / So come with me, and I will show you Hope / In the dark of a thousand shadows…’”

 ---

She was warm; she was comfortable; she didn’t hurt. Rayla slept, and slept very well.

The lilium kept her under for the first span of the night, blotting out the shifts and sounds that would ordinarily wake her. It ebbed after a while though, and a thin edge of pain made her blink groggily awake. The tent was not dark; Bait glowed in his sleep, and the egg glowed too. That was normal. Everything was fine. She went back to sleep.

A while later she stirred again, feeling the warmth of the tent ebbing as the night’s cold encroached. But it wasn’t so bad. She went back to sleep.

Later, again, she woke with the disorienting sensation of sudden and unexpected contact. She made a surprised noise and cracked her eyes open to look. Callum had burrowed himself into her side, all curled-up, like he was cold. The lilium must have still been in effect, because all she did was sleepily think oh, that’s nice, take a drowsy moment to appreciate his warmth, and go back to sleep again.

The final time she woke that night was to a dragging awareness, somewhere in the back of her sleeping mind, that something was amiss with someone’s breathing. Not right. Not normal, for the middle of the night. She dragged herself to consciousness, eyes opening. She checked Callum first, who was still plastered against her side, deeply asleep. This time she had enough presence of mind to feel flustered about it. There was nothing wrong with him, though, so she turned her head to inspect the rest of the tent’s occupants…

…and found Ezran sat upright, plainly awake, running a hand calmly and absent-mindedly over the shell of the dragon egg. He didn’t look like he’d only recently awoken, either. He had the look of someone who’d been sitting up for a good while, quiet and weary in the night’s stillness.

After a moment, he seemed to notice that she was watching, and his eyes slid her way. He looked so tired. “…Hi, Rayla,” he said, voice hushed and quiet, as if to avoid waking anyone else up.

She blinked, then squinted, half sitting up. “What’re’y’doing awake?” she questioned, words a little slurred and incoherent from sleep. “It’s only…” she groped at her Moon-sense, which was growing rather weaker as it waned. “…three. Three’n the morning.”

“Huh. Is it.” He seemed vaguely interested, as if he’d had no idea what time it was before she told him. And…she supposed he hadn’t. What must it be like, being human, not knowing at all times what the time was? She made an impatient noise at him, and then he seemed to realise she’d asked a question. “Oh! Um.” He glanced down at the egg in his lap, hesitant. “Zym’s awake.”

Rayla frowned. She’d been worried, in a half-asleep sort of way, that he’d maybe been kept up by nightmares, or grief, or both. But… “And that woke you up?” she surmised, and he nodded tiredly.

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Can’t get back to sleep, either. It’s…hard to be asleep, when someone’s in your head being all…awake.”

She considered that, thoughts slow and groggy. “You tried putting him down?” she asked, eventually.

“Yeah,” he said again, morosely this time. “It helped a little, but not much. He’s just…awake.” He patted wearily at the eggshell. “He used to be mostly-asleep all the time, before the storm. Now it’s more like he’s…I don’t know, a regular baby or something. Asleep a lot. But not all the time.”

She’d heard elf parents complaining about their babies keeping them up all night; she thought of that with a vague sleepy humour, finding the circumstance of the baby Dragon King keeping the child King of Katolis awake to be weirdly amusing. Unfortunate, though. “That sucks,” she said, eventually, still struggling to manage anything more coherent. She did not feel properly awake.

“Mm.” He shrugged tiredly. “Not much I can do about it, though.” His eyes slid back her way, and lingered. “Did I wake you up? I was trying to be quiet…”

“Kinda,” she supplied after a moment. “I could tell someone wasn’t asleep. Wanted to check everything was alright.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Ez watched her, eyes just a little too luminescent in the dark for it to be normal. It could have just been reflection from the egg…but it wasn’t. “You should try to go back to sleep, then,” he said eventually. “Just because I can’t get back to sleep doesn’t mean you need to be awake.”

Rayla accepted the sense of that reluctantly, aware that she was tired and really did want to sleep, and that there probably wasn’t anything she could do to help Ezran by being awake. But, even so, it felt a little wrong. “I can sit up with you, if it’d help,” she offered.

He shook his head. “Nah. Thanks, but…it wouldn’t really help anything. And you need your sleep.”

“So do you.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have a baby dragon in your head being unhappy about how squashed he feels,” Ezran pointed out.

She sighed. “Fair enough.”

Callum chose that moment to make a tiny murmuring sound and curl a little further into her side, all balled-up, one hand settling with its fingers curled over her waist. She stiffened, abruptly reminded that he was there, being cuddly, visibly so, and Ezran was awake to see it-

Even tired as he was, Ezran very plainly did see; his eyes flickered to his brother, and a trace of a smile lifted his lips. “At least one of us is getting a good night’s sleep,” he commented, with a lightness to the words, like the sight had pleased him somehow. “He looks pretty comfy there, huh.”

Her shoulders hunched defensively. She half wanted to turn away, to shield Callum from view, but it was a little late for that. Instead she held herself stiffly motionless, cheeks prickling with heat, and said “He’s just – cold. He’s cold and I’m the biggest warm thing around. That’s all it is.”

Ezran barely twitched before shaking his head. “Nah. Callum’s just like that, when he sleeps. He’s either moving about and kicking the covers off or he’s hugging. He doesn’t really have any in-between. You should see him at home – he usually just ends up hugging a big pillow or something…” He tilted his head, looking at them. “But, yeah, maybe he’s cold too. He does look kind of…balled up.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he was cold, but then she noticed he’d picked his cloak off the floor and slung it around himself. He didn’t look too chilly. “Right.” She muttered, self-conscious, and tensed a little further when Ezran cast his brother a thoughtful look and reached over.

He touched his fingers to Callum’s neck and smiled. “He’s so sleepy,” he said, affectionately, and lingered there for a few moments longer. “And, yeah, he’s a little cold.”

“I said so,” Rayla said, vaguely soothed by this apparent corroboration, but-

“And he’s warm and comfy where he is, and it’s nice.” Ez finished, drawing his hand back, settling with the egg again. “Or that’s about what I can get from him when he’s asleep, anyway.”

She didn’t say anything, but could feel the flush rising in her ears. She was entirely, acutely aware of the weight of Callum against her side…and the way that he, too, felt pleasantly warm. In the end she made a sort of vague, disgruntled noise, too embarrassed to offer something more coherent.

Ezran looked at her, then. He seemed almost curious. “Do you not mind, though?” he asked, inquisitive. “I remember you were annoyed about him moving around in his sleep, around when we first started travelling. And now he’s cuddling you.”

Rayla looked away, face hot. “…If you try to push him off, he just comes back,” she muttered in the end, half-exasperated and half-flustered. “He doesn’t even wake up. Just…” She nodded towards him without actually looking, because she wasn’t sure she could particularly cope with the sight of Callum’s sleepy face and messy hair right now. “Easier to get a full night’s sleep if I just leave him.”

She didn’t realise her misstep until a few moments later, when she became aware of Ezran’s silence. She looked up at him, and found his watchful gaze on her. “So it hasn’t just been tonight, huh?” he asked, plainly picking up on what she’d given away. She grumbled again, but didn’t answer, averting her eyes. More thoughtfully, as if to himself, Ez said “And you don’t mind.”

“Who says?” she retorted, disagreeably. She’d certainly minded plenty near the start, after all.

But, again, Ezran was thoughtfully quiet, for long enough that she eventually glanced back at him. In the shadows, the faint luminescence of his eyes was striking; something she’d expect more of her own kind than his. With those eyes on her, he said again “You don’t mind.” It wasn’t at all a question, and strangely, her breath caught. She found she couldn’t answer.

Ezran looked at her with such a solemn weight of knowing that she felt stripped bare, felt exposed, as if she faced a priest of the Moon's Shadow instead of a ten year old boy. A priest of the Shadow, with the eyes to see the secrets hidden beneath her skin. She stilled, oddly shaken, until the moment passed and Ezran nodded, eyes falling on Callum again.

“Good,” he said, softly. “That’s…good. Callum needs more people who’ll care about him.” Before she could flush at that, he smiled. “And he always has been pretty huggy.”

Uncomfortable, Rayla glanced down at Callum’s sleeping face. Only half of it was visible at the moment, with how he’d smooshed it into her side. “I noticed,” she said, a touch dryly. Then she hesitated. “Ezran…” He looked at her inquisitively, and suddenly it was hard to force the words out. “You…are you going to tell…” she trailed off, not even entirely certain what she was asking.

He fixed her with that oddly penetrating look again, as if he knew what she was trying to say better than she did. As if he understood, even without having touched her at all. “Am I going to tell him he gets cuddly with you when he’s asleep?” he offered, now with a little spark of mirth in his eyes. She stared narrowly at him, suddenly absolutely certain that he was enjoying this. “Or that you’re okay with it?”

There was something about the way he said that last part. Teasing, like he meant something else. Something more horrifically embarrassing, like ‘that you’ve got a huge crush on him’, or possibly another equally terrible equivalent. Was she imagining it? Did he actually guess that she – or was she just overthinking…?

She looked at him again. At the tiny smile, the knowing look, the glimmer of mischief.

Yeah, he knew. Or at the very least, he knew more than she wanted him to.

Her face burned, and her shoulders hunched as she looked away. She’d hoped to keep this hidden from him, even despite his empathic abilities and uncomfortably astute people-reading skills. She’d been an idiot. It would never have worked for long.

“Any of that,” she agreed, in the end, not meeting his eyes. She was so hyper-aware of Callum’s presence now that it almost itched, that she wanted to push him away. But she didn’t want to risk him waking into this conversation, of all things. As it was, she was thanking the stars for how much of a sound sleeper he was.

Ezran smiled, tilted his head consideringly at his brother, and hummed. “I guess I won’t tell,” he decided, in the end. “Callum can be kind of slow about this kind of thing, so it’ll probably work out better if I don’t say anything. At least for a while.”

What was that supposed to mean? Slow about what? What would work out better?

Still. She could at least appreciate the decision he’d apparently made. Rayla glanced at him warily, but though he was clearly having a good time with the topic, she didn’t see any duplicity in him. Her shoulders eased a little, and she sighed. “Thanks,” she said, begrudgingly.

“Plus, it’ll be way funnier to watch you guys if I don’t tell,” Ezran added helpfully. Rayla glared at him. “What? It’s true. Last night was already great, with how you laid all over him like that, his face was hilarious-“ at her tiny strangled noise, he cut off, looking at her inquisitively. “What? Do you not remember?”

She hadn’t, until he’d mentioned it. But now…the memories were hazy, and dreamlike in that characteristic lilium-drugged way, but they were there. “I do now,” she muttered, tense with mortification, suddenly awash with the recollection of how nice it had been. Drugged-Rayla had found such an entirely uncomplicated contentment in the whole thing that it warmed her even now. “Ugh.” Then, since he already knew, and she might as well: “This is exactly why I was worried about taking the lilium.”

Ezran stared at her. “It is? I thought it was because you didn’t want to act weir-“ He stopped. “Ohh. I get it. You don’t want to act all crushy around Callum.”

Her shoulders went up, and she reflexively looked down at the human prince pressed into her side to make sure he was still soundly asleep. Thankfully, nothing had changed on that front. Still- “Shh!” She hissed at him, prickling with self-consciousness.

Undaunted, he said “You were fine, you know. Just kind of cuddly. Cuddly’s fine.” He indicated his brother’s sleeping form, as if to present it as evidence. Rayla followed his gaze and pinked. “He’s, you know, a cuddly person. So he was surprised, but…” Ezran shrugged.

She intensely wanted to escape this conversation. But it wasn’t like she could just…leave. Opening the tent would waste all the heat and leave them all properly cold for the rest of the night. So she did the only thing she could: “Enough talking,” she said, firmly, ignoring the flush in her cheeks. “You should try to go back to sleep now.” Seeing him open his mouth to object, she added sharply “Try. Even if you can’t. Laying down with your eyes closed is still better rest than being up and awake all night.”

“Aw, fine,” Ez accepted, and eyed her. “You’d better try to go to sleep too, though.”

She sighed. “I will, Ezran.”

He extended a hand over his brother’s side, littlest finger befuddlingly extended. She stared at it warily, uncertain what he meant by it, and after a moment he prompted “Pinky promise?”

“What in Xadia’s name is a pinky promise?”

“A promise you make by linking your pinky fingers and shaking them,” he explained. “Means you can’t break it. So?” He waggled the finger.

She’d always thought they were called ‘pinkos’. “I don’t have pinky fingers, Ez.”

Undeterred, he said “That’s okay. You can just use your last finger. It’ll count.” So, sighing, she relented and extended her left hand to link fingers with him. He shook it twice, very solemnly, and then the promise was – supposedly – sealed. He looked very satisfied with himself. “There,” he said, and leaned back. Then, true to his word, he gathered up the egg again, repositioned the grumpily half-asleep Bait, and planted himself down on the ground, eyes determinedly closed.

It looked kind of comical, actually. His face was a little screwed up, like he was trying to stubborn himself into unconsciousness.

Glad for the reprieve from the uncomfortable conversation, and mindful of the weird human finger-vowing custom, Rayla settled back down herself. Callum hadn’t shifted much when she sat up before, and didn’t shift much now. He just pressed his face into her shoulder instead of her arm. She glanced at him one last time, for a very long moment, and then closed her eyes. Sleep followed soon after.

 ---

 Rayla woke again a few hours later. It was a while past dawn, and though the Moon would still linger above the horizon for a few hours yet, its recession pulled at her. Habit brought her awake with unerring ease at that sensation, so she blinked her eyes open and rose. Callum mumbled incoherently as she displaced him; she glanced at him quickly, but was relieved to see he was still asleep.

She sighed, quashing the increasingly-familiar flutter in her chest, and carefully extracted herself, reaching out to pull his fingers out of the wool of her jumper. That complete, she shuffled over to the tent doors, noting that Ezran had evidently managed to get back to sleep at some point…though, he was stirring now. That was unusual. Usually he slept as deeply as his brother, and didn’t budge even when she moved about. He sat up and yawned as she started undoing the door toggles, blinking sleepily at her. “Morning, Rayla,” he greeted, after a moment, voice rough.

One look at him and she recalled the middle-of-the-night conversation they’d had, and the mortifying details therein. She offered him a wary half-smile, folding the tent-door back. Instantly, it was colder; the air between the two tent layers made goosebumps lift on her skin, even with most of it swaddled in wool. She shivered, but reached outwards for the next door anyway. “Morning,” she echoed, after a moment, fingers working carefully at the toggles. Her left hand prickled with a strange numbness as it moved, clumsy as if cold, even though it was just as warm as the other one.

The outer door opened, and the air from outside was so frigid it felt like a slap in the face. She grimaced, inhaling sharply, and that inhale half-burned her lungs with the biting chill. “Ugh,” she said, and a few seconds later, Ezran made a similar noise as the air hit him.

“Oh, wow,” he said, sounding a little impressed. “I guess the tent really does make a difference.”

“That’s kind of the point, yeah,” she agreed, then forced herself outside.

It was a very bright morning, even now. The sun had just about poked past one of the mountains, and the sky was a pale, clear colour almost devoid of clouds. What little cloud-wisps there were moved noticeably; it was still relatively windy. She squinted against the brightness, then ventured out. Frost crunched beneath the boots she’d apparently slept in.

There hadn’t been any more snow in the night, so the area she’d cleared hadn’t particularly filled in, but it was white anyway. She frowned at her footprints, stamping a few times experimentally, and confirmed that it really was just frost. Frost, at least a couple centimetres thick. She turned around and found it had settled on the exterior of the tent as well, turning the whole thing pale and icy-looking. “Ugh,” she said again, disgruntled, knowing that they’d need to clear that off before they could pack it.

She’d headed over to the burned-out campfire by the time Ez followed her out, having pulled his boots and his cloak on, shivering. “What’re you doing?” he asked her, as she piled in their remaining firewood and went for the flint. He had Bait in his arms, the toad looking half-asleep and as grumpy as ever.

“It’s a cold morning,” she said. “Better have a hot drink or something before we go. It’ll do us good. Plus, I think our meat is all frozen, so we’ll need to heat up breakfast, too.”

“Oh, right.” He paused for a moment to think. “Can I help?”

“You can take the scarves and gloves and stuff off the snow-people,” she offered, dryly, and nodded to the line of icy sentinels at the edge of camp. “Since you and Callum apparently forgot to do that last night. They’ll need warming, too.”

Ez winced. “We did forget.” He sighed, put Bait down by the fire, then trotted off to obey. He returned a short while later with some particularly frosty winterwear, which she put close-ish to the burgeoning fire. Hopefully not close enough to catch alight. “Are we going to wake up Callum soon?”

She glanced consideringly back at the tent, which she’d left entirely open. “Cold will probably wake him up on its own soon enough,” she estimated. “But sure, why not.” So she stood and went, Ezran apparently deciding to follow. She found Callum curled up and shivering on top of her cloak, chasing the last vestiges of warmth, shifting like he was on the verge of awakening. She rolled her eyes, then reached through the tent-layers to poke him in the thick wool socks over his feet.

He giggled, apparently ticklish, and squirmed when she poked him again, and then finally cracked his eyes open. He peered at Rayla, then at Ez, as if not awake enough to comprehend what he was looking at. “Cold?” he offered, in a sort of incoherent questioning complaint, and then squinted at the brightness of the light from behind them. “Mm…too bright. Shut the curtains?”

Ezran snickered. Rayla lifted an eyebrow. “No,” she answered, helpfully, and watched him blink a few times more. He frowned.

“Tent,” he realised, seconds later. “Camping. Mountains. Right.” Finally he pushed himself up, then frowned. “Why am I on your cloak?”

Beside her, Ezran’s face was suddenly beset by an enormous grin. Rayla pointed her finger at him sternly and said “No.” Turning back to Callum, she added “…Probably it was warm, or something. Give it here, though, I’m getting chilly.” She ignored Ezran’s expression and prodded Callum until he was up and pulling his boots on, then reclaimed her cloak. He seemed to wake up a little when she started struggling to get it around her shoulders alone; for all that her hand didn’t hurt at all anymore, the motions for pulling clothing on still tugged unpleasantly at the wounds on her arm and shoulder, and she was all-too-aware that the lilium had worn off.

Rayla sighed, and lingered in place while Callum sat up to help her with the cloak. She was getting used to that, but it still rankled a little. She carefully didn’t look at his face, too aware of Ezran watching them.

“Thanks,” she said, when he was done, then receded from the tent doorway. “Now get up. We’ve got a long way to go today.”

“Don’t we have a long way to go every day?” he asked, pulling his boots on, and she snorted.

“Generally, yes. But considering how many days we’ve been sat around lately, we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

He seemed a little surprised to see the fire re-lit when she led him out, but settled under the explanations of breakfast and a warm drink easily enough. “It’s a good idea,” he agreed, a little ruefully, settling to hold one of his icy gloves over the fire, just far enough not to burn. “I feel all numb and cold and stiff, kinda. Would be nice to warm up a bit before having to move.”

“We’ll all feel fine when we’re walking.” Rayla shrugged, and checked on the water. “But, yeah.”

A while later, when they’d all had some pine tea and they’d boiled some meat into a bland but serviceable semblance of breakfast, he glanced at the stiff way she was holding her arm and inquired about her pain levels.

She blinked at him owlishly. “Hurts, but not any worse than usual?” she offered, shrugging. Almost on reflex, she flexed her bad hand, as though to chase some of the familiar stiff ache from it, but there was just…nothing. No pain at all in the hand itself. In the wrist, sure, but the hand?

It didn’t feel normal. But it didn’t hurt, either. She wasn’t sure what to think about that.

He noticed the motion, of course. “Is your hand bothering you?”

She sighed, and looked away. “No.” Her voice was a little short. It didn’t hurt. It was bothering her, though, just…in a way she wasn’t sure she was ready to think about yet, let alone talk about.

He accepted that easily enough, even though he plainly wanted to press further; he was so annoyingly considerate. “Alright. Well, I was just wondering…” he glanced at her arm, hesitated, then went on. “…if it’s been long enough that it’s safe for you to take willow bark again. So you can take something for the pain while we’re travelling.”

Rayla blinked, nonplussed.

“You didn’t think of that, huh?” Ezran spoke, observing her reaction, and she frowned.

“I didn’t,” she said, after a moment, and considered her injuries, invisible past the bandages and several layers of clothes. “It’s…hm.” Eyes narrowing a little, she thought about it. It wasn’t like there wasn’t still stuff going on under the surface. Willow bark probably would slow or disrupt that. But, at this point, the seal on the wounds was solid enough that it wouldn’t necessarily be dangerous.

“Rayla?” Callum prompted, when she’d been quiet a long time.

“I think it’ll make me heal slower,” she concluded, after a while. “…But, now I think about it, I’ll barely be healing at the moment anyway, so…I might as well?” She shrugged, and felt a little lighter; it was undeniably cheering to think of maybe having some painkillers to tide her through what would be a pretty physically-demanding day.

She’d already got caught up in the relief of that idea, so was a little taken-aback when Ezran squinted at her and said “Why not?” She frowned at him, confused, and he elaborated. “Why aren’t you healing at the moment?”

“Oh.” Somehow, even after spending so long with them, confirming every day that they were human…she’d forgotten they wouldn’t know. So, with a false nonchalance, she nodded towards the sky, where the pale crescent of the sinking Moon still remained, washed out in the bright blue of daylight. “It’s New Moon soon,” she explained, averting her eyes from theirs. “It’s just…like that. For Moonshadow elves.” She scowled a little. “Especially without moondust.”

“Oh, right.” Callum nodded, as if remembering. “You said you’d be weaker at new moon. I didn’t know it affected stuff like your healing too, though.” He hesitated, looking at her. “How far away is it?”

Rayla grimaced. “Three days, ish. Including today.” She hadn’t in her entire life seen an unmedicated elf at New Moon. The ones who were crazy enough to go without moondust hid themselves away for the duration. She didn’t know what it would be like, but…

“And it’s already making you heal really slow?” Ez seemed morbidly interested. “Even days away?”

She was quiet for a while, uncertain if she wanted to admit it. “My healing, and my senses, and my strength.” Her voice was curt. “I’m weaker already. It’s not so bad yet, but in a day or so…” She shrugged. “No avoiding it, I suppose, but I’m not looking forward to it.” It was nagging at her, even, in a strange insistent way that she wasn’t used to. There was an animal awareness in the back of her mind, intent on the waning Moon, itching and whispering at her as if to say that she wasn’t safe, she wasn’t secure, she needed to find somewhere to hide before it was too late…

Callum and Ezran shared a glance. “Can you tell us what to expect?” Callum asked, trying for pragmatism, though she could tell he was worried.

She snorted. “No, not really. People tell a lot of stories about natural New Moon, so it’s hard to know what’s true.” She squinted at the sky. “I’ll have a better idea the day before, though. By then I should be able to tell how hard it’ll hit me.”

He hesitated. “Is it…” he seemed to struggle for the words, and she looked at him until he managed it. “Will it be dangerous? For you?”

Her first instinct was to snort dismissively at the notion, but then she paused. “…No, probably not,” she estimated, after a little more thought. “If I was sick, maybe, it could be a problem. Or if I was more badly injured.” She glanced at her arm consideringly. “We get sick easily, at New Moon. If that’s worse off of moondust…” A pause for thought. “I suppose the worst case scenario is my arm getting infected.”

Callum looked dismayed. “Rayla, that is dangerous. Infections are bad.”

She glanced at him. “Yeah, they can be,” she acknowledged. “But worst comes to worst, we’d just have to hold out for…Half Moon, I suppose, or anything past it. That’s one bonus of not being on moondust.” She grimaced at the thought. “Moonshadow elves off moondust are pretty impossible to kill with infection, near Full Moon. So, there’s that.”

She didn’t mention, because she doubted it’d help anything, that people tended to tell tall stories about the extremity of weakness that the New Moon brought. Stories that indicated that an unhealthy elf could sicken and die so quickly that they were gone before the Moon could turn back. But she wasn’t that unhealthy. She had injuries, maybe, but she didn’t have anything that could suddenly get worse and really mess her up. She should be fine.

Her hand, though. She recalled the weird experience she’d had the first time the binding had loosened, and twitched. If the human healer was to be believed about the dangers, that could have been the sort of thing that’d go wrong at New Moon. But, thankfully, she was plenty past that now.

The words had apparently reassured Callum, at least. “Well, thank Mercy for that,” he sighed, then looked at her curiously. “So, if you have a sick Moonshadow elf, do you take them off moondust to help them recover, or…?”

Rayla rolled her eyes at him. Trust Callum to get curious about the details of it. “Not if it’s close to New Moon,” she said. “Then they’ll just get worse. Or – actually, they get better for a day or two, then they get worse fast.” It was something she’d been taught about, with regards to first aid in the field. If someone was sick or severely injured near Full Moon, you stopped their moondust, and the influx of magic would sort them out once the drug left their system. But if the Moon was waning, it wasn’t worth the risk.

“But the full moon makes you recover,” he said, thoughtfully. “Do you heal faster, too?”

She glanced at her arm, momentarily pensive. She wondered what it would look like, when the Full Moon had passed. “Yeah.” Shaking her head as though to dispel the thought, she shoved a jar of icy cooked meat into Callum’s hands, and said “Heat that up, would you? I’ve got some packing to do.” She took that opening to escape the conversation, too-aware of the throb of her wounds and the strangeness of her hand.

She left the boys by the fire as she went around the snow-banks, pulling the wrapped slabs of frozen meat she’d shoved in there for cold-storage yesterday. The venture had been successful enough that divorcing the supplies from the surrounding ice was a little challenging; the snow had turned icy, and clung to the packages in sharp-edged clusters. Finally she brought it all back to the cleared space and got to work.

It was an annoyingly long time until they were ready to leave. Heating up breakfast took time, getting frost and ice off of their stuff took time, getting the contents of their waterskins to melt into something drinkable took time, and getting their gloves into a fit state to be worn took time as well. Rayla was fully impatient when at last they could put the pot away, and even then…

Reflexively, she tried to pick it up one-handed. Left-handed. It felt heavy; her hand shook, and her wrist ached, and the pot slipped from her fingers. A pot, and it was too heavy to hold. Her jaw clenched, and she reached with the other hand instead. She lifted. That, at least, was properly effortless.

Is it always going to be like this? she wondered, dismayed, keenly aware of the unhealthy fatigue in her wrist. Then, ruthlessly, she shoved the thought away. She tucked the hand carefully against her side, and went back to the increasingly-familiar awkwardness of trying to conduct camp chores with only her right hand available.

The dull ache of her damaged wrist harried her until, eventually, she took some willow bark between her teeth and chewed for long enough that all her pains went a little further away. It wasn’t as effective as the lilium, but her mind was clear, and it was a relief not to have to travel with her wounds searing at her so terribly.

“Right,” she said, when everything was finally in order. “Let’s get moving.” She pulled on her gloves at last; the fabric itched and tingled strangely on the skin of her left hand.

The boys checked their snowshoes, hefted the straps of their bags, then tromped over to her where she waited at the edge of their former camp. She settled her own straps over her uninjured shoulder, glanced around to make certain they’d not forgotten anything, then started walking.

“Goodbye, snow-people,” Callum said to their icy constructs, both boys waving the things farewell as they left. Despite herself, Rayla shook her head at them, and smiled.

 ---

 The snow was icier today, and a little easier to walk on with the snowshoes. That was a mercy, considering literally everything else was harder.

Just a few days ago, the initial burst of mountain-hiking had set Callum’s legs to aching more fiercely than he’d ever experienced in his life. He’d acquired soreness from combat training plenty of times over the last few years, but that didn’t hold a candle to the stiffness of legs unused to walking uphill for days on end. Then the thundersnow had happened, and he’d had a chance to recover. There’d been some walking yesterday, but not enough to reduce him to the same state as before.

He suspected that would change today.

The going was almost entirely upwards, and it was steep. Even with the snowshoes, it was hard to find his footing, and in places he pretty much had to climb, bracing his hands against rock directly in front of him to pull himself up. Ez, being considerably shorter, needed to be helped up those parts, Bait riding in his sweater to free up his hands.

It made him miss the first few days of their journey, a little; back when the ground had been level enough he’d been able to draw as he walked. Now he didn’t dare look at anywhere except where he was putting his feet.

…Most of the time, anyway.

He couldn’t really help staring around with wide-eyed wonder, sometimes. Every time they crested a slope or finished climbing the steeper sections, he could look ahead or behind and see the mountain range sprawling out around them. The angle wasn’t quite right for him to see all of the way they’d come, but some of the lowlands were visible anyway. They looked impossibly green and verdant from where he was, up on the mountain with its snow and ice.

It was weird to think that, mere days ago, he’d been somewhere warm enough to not feel the chill biting at his fingers. There wasn’t even much sunlight to help warm him; the clear skies of the early morning had given way to a patchy, sullen layer of clouds. It made for some pretty scenery, what with the rays of light casting between them over the landscape, but it didn’t soften the chill at all.

The cold wasn’t all bad, though. It created some really beautiful things. Callum found himself admiring the branching twigs of a leafless shrub, eyes following the strange frigid crust they’d accumulated. Ice clung to the undersides, an inch long, in an odd rippling pattern that made his hands itch for charcoal. Ice was on everything today, but this looked different. Where most every other grass and shrub around them was white and lumpy with thick frost, this looked clear and almost glassy. He tilted his head to see the watery light glimmer through, thinking of how he’d shade it.

It was then that Rayla nudged him, breaking him from his reverie. “Something interesting?” she asked, eyebrow raised. He offered an embarrassed laugh.

“Er,” he said, and indicated the shrub. “Just…that. The ice on it. It’s pretty.” He shrugged.

She looked blankly where he’d pointed. “…It’s twigs.”

“Pretty twigs,” he insisted, lips twitching. “The ice is really interesting! Sort of…wave-y? Ripple-y?”

“Kind of like icicles, maybe?” Ezran suggested, sounding a little winded as he leaned in to look. He evidently wasn’t having any easier a time with the walking than Callum.

Callum eyed the shrub appraisingly. “Yeah, something like that. Like sort of…lengthways icicles.”

Rayla shook her head at him. “It’s ice on twigs,” she said, exasperated. She was smiling a little, though. “Nothing special.”

“Well, I think it’s nice,” Callum announced, in staunch defence of the icy twigs in question. “And I want to draw it.”

She rolled her eyes, then reached out to tug at his cloak, beckoning him onwards. “Uhuh. Sure. But later. Now’s for walking.”

He mock-saluted, hand to his chest, and walked.

It was tough going. A mere hour later, his head was fogged with exertion and his legs were burning, and he seemed constantly out of breath. It wasn’t as though he was unaccustomed to the feeling of tightness in his chest, of labouring for steady breaths for what felt like hours on end – but it was distinctly different to experience it free of the usual panic or distress. He got out of breath during training, sure, but – not like this. Not in this strange, persistent way, where even the short breaks they took didn’t seem to help.

Given the exertion, it took him a while to realise that the breathlessness was a little weird. A lot of the walking was more like climbing, and it made sense to be panting during that. But they came to a plateau around midday, and walked on nearly-flat ground for a good fifteen minutes, and he still couldn’t quite catch his breath. “…Is it just me,” he managed, between gasps for air, “or is it weirdly hard to breathe today?”

Ezran’s breath was huffing and puffing too. “Not just you.”

Rayla glanced at them, and then at the mountain range ahead of them. “It’s the altitude,” she said, plainly, and both of them turned to blink at her, still plodding numbly onwards.

Callum frowned. “What?”

“Why we’re finding it harder to catch our breath,” she clarified, waving at the mountain. “It’s altitude. When you’re up high enough, the air’s thinner. Harder to breathe.” She shrugged. “And we’ve climbed a lot today.”

“…Oh,” he realised, nonplussed. Ezran, for his part, seemed too busy staring exhaustedly at the sky to have many thoughts on the matter. “Isn’t that mountain-sickness?”

“Same thing, different names.” Rayla agreed, pausing to stretch out her legs and shake them a little, as if to dispel some stiffness. Whether it was the oncoming new moon, or just the harshness of the ascent, she seemed to actually be feeling the exercise for once. “We must be past three thousand metres now. That’s when most people usually start getting mountain-sickness.”

He considered asking what that was in feet, but didn’t quite get around to it before his brother spoke. “That’s a lot of metres.” Ez mumbled, tiredly.

Callum glanced at him, then back at Rayla. “Should we be…worried, about this? I don’t know much about mountain-sickness, but can’t it get pretty bad?”

“We’d need to go a lot higher for the breathing to be an actual problem,” Rayla said, shaking her head. “But let me know if you get weird headaches, or feel sick, or dizzy. That’s the stuff to watch out for. For now, though…” She hummed pensively, and narrowed her eyes at the scenery. “…I’m thinking we won’t have to go much higher than this. It’s not like we’re trying to summit anything. We’re just trying to get onto the next mountain.” She tilted her head to scrutinise the route. She pointed out a vaguely-sloping plateau a fair distance away, somewhat lower on the mountainside than their current position. “I reckon we can start going down again that way, and then find somewhere to camp past there. That’s got to be a couple hundred metres lower. Should be easier to breathe.”

“Sounds good,” he sighed, and lifted his face to a cold breeze. He hadn’t expected to be grateful for the freezing weather, but with how hard he was working…if it had been warmer, he might have passed out by now. He pulled in a few more unsatisfying breaths, then pushed onwards.

After about half an hour, they stopped ascending quite so viciously and instead began a meandering up-and-down path along the mountainside, heading steadily downwards. This was when Callum discovered that going down mountains was just as hard as going up them, albeit in different ways. It was so icy that they had to take it painstakingly slow, and even then he felt constantly on the edge of a nasty fall. His toes crushed together at the fronts of his boots, beginning to grow sore.

The third time Callum slipped on ice and had to be steadied from falling face-first down-slope, Rayla went away and snapped a branch off of a large pine, shearing off its needles with her blade and scraping off most of the bark. She judged it against his height for a few moments before unceremoniously chopping several inches off the end. “Here. Walking cane.” She said, presenting him with it, and went off to go find another branch, which she prepared for Ezran.

They mumbled thanks at her, exhausted, and continued their descent with somewhat greater poise than before. The descent pulled at different muscles to the ascent, so his legs weren’t complaining quite as much, but the fronts of his toes were starting to hurt in that sharp way that suggested there’d be blisters soon. He’d never had blisters on the front of his feet before, and wasn’t especially looking forward to the experience.

The pine-canes weren’t sturdy, and Callum snapped his after less than an hour. By that point though he didn’t need it as much, so he just went without until – finally – Rayla glanced at the sky and announced their lunch break. “Oh, thank Mercy,” he muttered, dropping his backpack with abject relief and collapsing to the ground.

Ezran lowered his with rather more care, but made an incoherent noise of gratitude when he finally sat down. “Shouldn’t that be Fortitude?” he mumbled, tiredly. “Since we made it this far without falling over?”

“Speak for yourself,” Callum huffed, wiping a hand over his face. Even through the gloves, he thought he could feel the livid heat of his skin, warmed by exertion. He imagined he was probably super red-looking right now. “I’ve fallen over tons of times. Or…nearly fallen, anyway.”

Rayla lowered her bag and the tent pack carefully, as though being mindful of her other shoulder, then collapsed with obvious relief beside them. “You have a god of not-falling-over?” she asked, sceptically, and he rolled his eyes at her.

“Not a god,” he said back, just a little amused, eyes closing as he panted for breath. “Paragon.”

“You have a paragon of not-falling-over?” she corrected, and when he opened his eyes to glance sideways at her, her lips were twitching.

He snorted, then closed his eyes again. He half wanted to turn over and plant his face directly into a snow bank. It’d help him cool down, at the very least. “Pretty much,” he sighed, and after a moment of consideration, did reach to his side and pick up a handful of icy snow. He smooshed it onto his face, the ice crystals a little sharp-edged on his skin. “Endurance, and willpower, and keeping going even when stuff’s hard.”

“Fortitude’s a good Paragon for us right now, I think,” Ezran said, sounding exhausted, and Callum offered a wordless hum of agreement.

“If this had been an official mission, people would’ve sent us off with him, you know,” he said, almost wistful. “They’d have said ‘Fortitude follow you’. And ‘Prudence guide your feet’. That’s traditional for big or important or tough journeys.”

Rayla offered a dubious hum. “Well, this journey’s definitely all three of those.”

For a while, they just laid there, getting their breath back, trying to cool down. Callum’s under-layers began to feel cold and clammy with the sweat, indicating they’d probably smell terrible later on. He was too tired to bring himself to care.

Eventually, Rayla pulled herself up, even though she plainly didn’t want to. “Right,” she said, determinedly, in as bull-headed a manifestation of Fortitude that anyone could have asked for. “Food. We can’t take too long with this break, so…food.”

Callum made a face. “I’m really not hungry.” In the wake of the sheer exertion of the morning, eating seemed unthinkable. The mere notion turned his stomach.

“Yes you are. You’ve just not cooled down enough to feel it,” Rayla refuted, pragmatic, and went for the reserves of cooked meat she’d put in her bag. “It’s hard to eat after exercise, but when you’re on a stupid long journey, you do it anyway.” She opened the jar and waved it aggressively at them. Both of them complained pitifully at her, but she wasn’t having any of it. In short order they’d both reluctantly withdrawn a portion and sat up to start nibbling on it.

“You’re like aunt Amaya is about breakfast,” Ezran muttered, mouth part-full, chewing around the bite he’d taken. “She’s really bossy about that too.”

Rayla looked nonplussed. Plainly, she wasn’t sure what to think about the comparison.

“Imagine if we told her that,” Callum put in, uncertain whether to be amused or alarmed at the thought. “Wonder how she’d react to being compared to an elf.”

“She’d definitely make a pretty weird face,” Ezran offered thoughtfully. “She’d probably be glad Rayla’s making sure we’re eating, though.”

She grimaced at that, looking like she’d swallowed something sour. “Don’t know about that. She’d just stab me for running off with you two in the first place.”

Callum opened his mouth to protest, remembered the depth of his aunt’s sentiments for elves, then shut it. “…Well, I mean…”

“Don’t worry, Rayla,” Ez said, reaching out to pat her on the knee. “If you ever meet aunt Amaya, we’ll make sure we’re there, and then we can convince her to be nice to you. No stabbing.”

Rayla glanced at him, expression slightly pained. “…If you say so.” It was very obvious, from her face, that she had absolutely no intention of going near their aunt if she could help it. Not for the first time, Callum wondered what kind of reputation Amaya had in Xadia.

“We can keep teaching you sign language, too!” His brother went on, determinedly cheerful. “I bet she’d be too surprised at an elf trying to talk to her properly to, um,” he searched for a word.

“Stab me, clobber me with her shield, or throw me in a dungeon?” Rayla suggested, and both of them made faces at her. Callum, for his part, had recently seen Rayla contend with what would surely have been a fatal stabbing if he hadn’t tossed her assailant off a cliff, and wasn’t particularly keen on imagining any Aunt Amaya variations on the affair.

It was uncomfortably easy to picture, though. He’d seen one of his aunt’s famous Battalion sparring sessions, and she was…very, very good at fighting. Struck suddenly wordless, he said nothing.

Ezran shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

Rayla sighed, and for a moment, looked down at her left hand. She flexed its fingers carefully, slow and methodical, and Callum remembered how she’d been looking at it earlier. For all that she hadn’t wanted to talk about it, she’d seemed…unsettled. “Well,” she said, quietly, after a moment. “I guess sign language is…probably pretty good exercise, for this hand.”

“Keeping it moving, helping circulation?” Callum supplied, after calling back to mind the Healer’s advice. “Yeah, I guess it would be. We could do a quick bit of it now, while we’re resting?”

She eyed him, then rolled her eyes. “Suppose. Might as well make it something useful, though.”

“Like what?” Ez asked, intrigued.

“Like watch signals. Check-ins, and stuff. The kind of thing my lot would use ictus for.”

“Huh,” Callum blinked, and thought about it. It wasn’t like he’d not seen military sign language terms being used before, given who his aunt was, so… “Yeah, sure. What first?”

Rayla, apparently, had been drilled thoroughly enough in proper silent report-giving enough that she had a list of important terms ready to go. She determinedly worked her hands through learning the signs to demand a status report, report all-clear, report a problem, and report possible enemies in the area. It was all pretty basic, but she clearly wasn’t used to learning this sort of thing, and…well. And her hand was obviously giving her problems.

He didn’t comment, because he could see she didn’t want him to. But it was slow to move. The fingers trembled strangely in certain positions, and didn’t quite seem to respond right. Several times, between his demonstrations of new signs, he saw her flex the fingers and shake the hand, as if trying to dispel some stiffness that wouldn’t quite deign to leave...

“That’s probably enough for today,” he decided, once she’d navigated her hands through a quick practice exchange of an all-clear status report. “Or, at least, for now. Probably won’t sink in, if we try for more.”

She blinked, then nodded. “Yeah, probably,” she agreed, and glanced briefly at the way ahead. “We should be moving again, anyway.”

“Next time, we’ll teach you something more fun,” Ezran promised.

She glanced his way, smiling a little as she hefted her bags over her one good shoulder. “Like what?”

“Like talking about your favourite foods, maybe?” he suggested, picking up the bag with the egg carefully, and kneeling to let Bait jump onto its top, riding there like a monarch in his carriage.

“That sounds like a good way to get ourselves stupid hungry with nothing good around to eat.” Despite the words, she sounded amused.

Callum thought longingly of the castle meals, and regretted not eating more at lunch. Rayla had been right; he really had been hungrier than he’d felt at first. “Still nice to think about,” he said wistfully. “Give us something to look forward to when this is all done.”

“Suppose.” When he looked at her, she looked a little wistful herself, as though she were caught in similar thoughts of home.

As they started to walk, he glanced at her sidelong, and eventually asked “So…what are your favourite foods, back home?” If, as she’d claimed, everything in Xadia was magical…did that include the food? What did magic food taste like?

She hesitated for a moment, like she wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to say, or even if she wanted to. But then she smiled, still wistful, and started describing her favourite Xadian fruits and berries to them, and which ones she’d learned to find and pick herself in the forest she apparently lived in.

He listened to it all, interjecting with questions here and there, and…though she was pretty sparing with the details, started to get a better idea of the place she’d grown up in. A forest full of magic, and wild fruit vines growing on trees tall enough they’d probably overshadow the cliff his home castle was built on. Trees tall enough and immense enough to carve houses out of. It was so fantastical to imagine. Thinking of the wonders of Xadia, waiting so far ahead, made it a little easier to keep walking.

The hour passed like that, with easy curious conversation to take their minds off of the travel, and in the end Callum felt lighter than he had in days.

Even if Rayla wouldn’t tell him what was in a moonberry surprise.

 ---

 In the wake of the storm, the Healer’s house grew busy, and from his sickbed Corvus bore witness to it all.

The first day, there was a stream of miners displaced from the mountain by an avalanche. Broken bones on two, sprains on a few more. A day later one of the same group, only recently recovered from the mountainside, was brought in hypothermic and near-dead, losing two toes and a finger to frostbite before she was stabilised. No one had died, apparently, but it had been a near thing.

Now, the whole town was effectively on standby, waiting for the weather to improve. The tail-end of the thundersnow was still lashing at Verdorn’s periphery, for all that the mine-folk apparently thought it had moved past Farel – and, accordingly, the mines – by now.

“It’ll be another day before it’s safe to go back there,” said the Healer’s wife, a woman named Serris, who oversaw the mines and was apparently rarely home. “So in the meantime, we’ll just have to do our best impressions of directionless layabouts. At least you lot have the excuse of injury, eh?” This last comment she directed at her battered fellows in their beds, a good-natured jibe, and they jeered back at her.

“I’ll be glad to see a little more of your face in the meantime, at least,” said the Healer Marla, her voice dry. “And if you’re so offended by being a layabout, you can come help me mix these salves.”

“A harsh taskmistress, my wife,” commented Serris to the house’s residence, amused, before she went as commanded to help with the work.

Corvus quite enjoyed the company, in honesty. He’d grown accustomed to travelling and serving with the Battalion, and though he was frequently detached for his tracking endeavours, he missed the camaraderie of his fellows. It was good to have people to talk to, even if most of them were as bedridden as he was. And, with little else to do, they all spent a lot of time talking. He was recipient to a lot of questions about his current mission, which he couldn’t answer, and a lot of questions about the Battalion, some of which he could. He admitted when asked that he’d been told to stand by and heal, so wouldn’t be heading anywhere soon.

“I’m to get transportation to Greatport if I can do it without risking myself,” he said, a little wistful. He liked Greatport. If he had to convalesce anywhere, it would have been a good choice. But… “Apparently, I’ll have to hold off on that for a while, though.”

“You certainly will, master Corvus,” Marla said severely, without even looking up from her mixing. “Horseback would be terrible for you as you are now. It’s waiting for a cart to take you or nothing, and we’ve a while until the next of those is due to leave.”

So that was how his days passed, in the thick of the storm. He tried not to spend too much time worrying about the General, or the princes. For better or for worse, he was off the mission now. He just…wished he could have done better. If he had, maybe the princes would be safe now. Instead, he’d undoubtedly driven them straight into that deadly storm, with their captor potentially too badly injured to see to their safety.

He tried not to fret. But it was hard to avoid, when he had frostbitten testaments to the dangers of the mountains convalescing around him. The elf wasn’t the only danger to those boys, was she? And his failure had sent them straight into that gauntlet. He’d wanted to save them, but instead…

Still, Corvus did what he could to avert his thoughts. He’d sent what information he could to Amaya. There was nothing else he could do, at this point.

Except:

“The tavern had some interesting visitors today,” said Serris, after returning from checking in with her workers at the tavern in question. She shot a piercing look at Corvus as she spoke. “A couple of kids, one of ‘em in Crownguard armour. They said they’re tracking that elf.”

Corvus straightened on his headboard. So did everyone else in the house of healing. “Kids?” he repeated, then processed the Crownguard part. There was only one Crownguard he knew of who was young enough to easily be called a kid. He was suddenly at full attention. “Siblings?” he questioned, intent. “A girl with dyed hair? Her brother the Crownguard?”

Everyone was looking his way, now. “You know them?” Serris guessed, after a moment.

Lord Viren’s children, here? “I’ve met the Crownguard,” he said, slowly, mind working furiously. They were tracking the elf? That made no sense. That wasn’t a job for Crownguard, it was a job for the Battalion, the military – for him. And the dark mage…

He thought ‘elf’. He thought ‘dark mage’. Then he thought, ah.

For a moment, it all seemed to make sense. He considered Lord Viren with unease, and everything he’d heard of the man, working so closely with the General. Perhaps he wasn’t content with what could be harvested from the five felled Xadian assassins. Maybe he wanted the sixth, too, and had sent his daughter and son out to that effect…

…except, that didn’t quite fit.

“…Is that what they said?” Corvus asked, after a long silence, aware of the sudden quietness of the room of convalescents. “That they were after the elf?”

Serris eyed him, cautious. She folded her arms. “They tried to hide it at first, but, yeah. They didn’t know you were here, either. Seemed interested in that. They might come visiting soon.”

Corvus made a noncommittal noise, and tried to pore over his thoughts, tried to identify what tasted wrong about this situation. He’d been on a low dose of lilium for days now, and it slowed his mind more than he cared to admit. He needed his wits about him now, because there was something off here. Something important.

Slowly, through the fog, he drew the discrepancies from his gut into his mind.

Viren was Lord Protector now. If he wanted a pursuit of the elf, why not make it larger-scale? Why send only his children? Why not work with General Amaya, who was expressly pursuing the elf already, and surely had the best knowledge of the resources available? Soren certainly wasn’t a trained tracker. He doubted the girl, the dark mage, had that sort of training either, at her age-

He stopped. Examined the thought.

Dark mage. Tracking. Were there spells for that sort of thing?

For the first time, he felt an inkling of anger. If they had a way to find the princes and they’d been withholding it…!

Except that wasn’t right either. They said they were tracking the elf, not the princes. And, at this point, the news that the princes were actually alive probably hadn’t spread very far. So…Lord Viren had sent his children, a talented but inexperienced Crownguard and…a dark mage…in pursuit of an assassin thought to have slain royalty. Why? Were the ingredients worth so much to him? Was there some other motive?

…He’d sent his children covertly. Hadn’t given word to General Amaya, or Corvus would certainly have been notified by now. He wanted that elf found, and either he didn’t trust the General, or…

Or, there was some other motivation at play here. Something secret. Something, perhaps, that the Lord Protector would only trust to his own family.

Corvus recalled, all at once, that the elf had her wrist bound by magic. It was what had given him the advantage in the fight with her, knowing about it ahead of time, knowing what to target, what to exploit…and the Healer had said it was dark magic, hadn’t she? Dark magic, when there were only two dark mages who the elf might have encountered. One of those mages was now here.

Something isn’t right here, he thought to himself grimly, and felt his fingers itch for a quill. Amaya needed to know about this. But…

He sighed. Kora hadn’t returned in a while, so he could only assume she’d been put to work on the other end, relaying vital information to those places and people she was bound to. If he wanted to report, he’d have to do it by the town’s rookery, and send it to the Crow Office for redistribution. That would take time, and he still didn’t have the full story. If the Lord Protector’s children were here – if he could talk to them-

He needed to report. But it would be better to wait until there was more to say.

“If they ask…” Corvus said, slowly, to a dozen keen pairs of ears. “Tell them where to find me. I think we need to talk.”

--

End chapter.

Chapter Notes: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1OGBo7nKVDIfWjhxGe90fwaS3lP0IfQJ3?usp=sharing

Link to PIAJ chapter notes folder (Google Drive folder including worldbuilding, commentary, medical notes, research notes, and misc notes for all applicable chapters within this section)

This chapter's notes cover: travel details, the Crow Lord’s office, Hope, Mercy scripture, Moonshadow religion, rare Moonshadow elf abilities.

Timeline: https://docs.google.com/document/d/107eD8zmLAAFBWSOgsLyl8g4pAdQF4EgMh4rpN_m91U4/edit?usp=sharing Link to PIAJ Timeline Google doc ( to be updated as story progresses)

PIAJ Masterpage: https://tenspontaneite.tumblr.com/piaj Link to PIAJ Masterpage on tumblr (containing links to chapters, meta, art, Q&As, and resources) (Link may not work properly on mobile/app)

Author Notes: 

So. It’s been a while. You can pretty much completely blame that on a single scene, which blocked me so hard that it actually kicked me directly out of the fandom. I’ve never had that happen before. I had to slowly claw my way back via my other tdp fics. The scene in question is written now, thankfully. I deferred it to the start of next chapter out of desperation, and then managed to write it all in a mad burst of inspiration the other day.

Various things have happened in my life that you can, like, vaguely catch hints of if you read back on my tumblr, if you’re into that sort of thing. Otherwise:

Credits: more Hogarth inspiration for one Sarli line in this chapter, specifically 'Where there is life, there is hope of change'. It's not word for word in the text, but there was definite inspiration there. I can't quite remember which book it was – In Extremis, maybe? Middle of its series, in any case.

Next chapter is done, and I’m very excited about it. It has some fun content, but most of all: it has my favourite Runaan plotline scene. I wrote it a long time ago, relatively early on in piaj development, and have been in love with it ever since. I’m so excited we’re finally to the point of me being able to publish it. I’m going to write a fucking huge author’s commentary section for that chapter’s extended notes, I have so much to say about it.

For now, though…I like this chapter a lot, actually. I’ve reread it so many times while trying to block-break over the last few months, and normally that would make me sick of it, but I still love it. Really enjoying starting to get to The Good Stuff. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed! Or some sort of stat enrichment! It’s incredible fuel for the writing engine.

#tdp fic #rayllum #tdp callum #tdp rayla #piaj chapters

[elmidol]

Dirt You Created [Tyki/Reader] NSFW

originally written October 23, 2013

A/N: As stated, I am going to be posting a few of my older one-shots on here from DGM. I do plan on writing some new ones rather soon here, beginning with Tyki/RC. I am scheduling a batch of them now, which will all include this A/N.

These ones are unedited and include (y/n), which I no longer use in my current writing. Nothing wrong with it; just a personal preference. I do also want to state that there may be instances of mentions of face reddening and such, which I now know is not inclusive.

Fic Warnings:  contains rape (not from Tyki; the Tyki/Reader portion is consensual); sex; canon-typical violence; slight plot; 

Title is based on the song “Whore” by In This Moment

It had been a great honor to even look upon the gentlemen and ladies who entered your masters' home. You, a lowly servant girl, had been cleaned and primmed to look presentable. Still, you were not to speak to a single soul save for when you were spoken to, and even then short, simple answers were to suffice. Perhaps that was what had sparked your interest the most. The inability to speak to the man who garnered so much attention from the gathered guests. Even the hosts, your employers, paid him special attention.

Accustomed to being treated as nothing more than furniture, you were unsurprised and only slightly affected at the sight of the mistress's daughter emerging into your room along with the attractive gentleman. Their lips were locked together, smacking noises issuing from the pair as they further entered what the young lady referred to as a 'closet' and made their way to the bed. The girl placed the man's hands on her chest, his hands groping and caressing the mounds that were hardly concealed by the front of her dress. Why, if you had had such an outfit, you thought, you would have treated it with far more respect. As it was, you averted your gaze and set about to sorting what rags you did own from your position on the floor.

It was nice to be tucked away in a corner while the two enjoyed themselves on your bed. You shuddered at the idea of such sullied sheets you would be forced to occupy. Your eyes wandered about the ground. Perhaps you would slumber there for the night. You continued your silent nature when the master's daughter slipped out from the gentleman's embrace. You did not doubt there had been a lack of penetration; such young ladies kept their virginity intact even if every other part of them were whored out. She left your room after whispering to the man that her parents would doubtless be looking for her.

The gentleman chuckled, stretching out on the mattress and watching as the door was closed behind the female with whom he had just enjoyed himself. You paid him little attention, although your eyes did dart towards a certain portion of his anatomy. You had never before seen one so large despite the many lovers the young lady had brought into your room. The task of sorting out your clothing complete, you raised your head to observe the man. He had reached behind himself, slipping his arms under the pillow that he moved around his head. He paused, his brow furrowing, and withdrew a tattered photograph.

"Please put it back," you said, your voice cracking initially from its lack of use.

The man, clearly startled by your presence, did a double-take. His eyes widened and a hue of red crossed his features. He returned the photograph to its previous position then quickly set about covering himself up. As he tugged up the zipper, you moved over to the side of the bed and took the photograph. Clutching it to your chest, you watched as the man kept his eyes trained on you. His gaze wandered up and down your body a few times before returning to your face.

Not once did he speak a single word to you. You were quite used to this as well. Most aristocrats regarded you as nothing more than the help; as though that made you less of a human. Instead he was much too preoccupied with fixing his clothing, ensuring that he looked quite presentable. The man was nearly finished with this task when two of his male friends poked their heads into the room. They teased him for his latest bounty quite a bit before the shorter of the pair caught sight of you. He shifted into the room, walking over to you and touching you, appraising you as though you were cattle.

You stood with your chin slightly raised in the air, not uttering a single word. To do so would only incur punishment; be it from this man or from your master later. It did not surprise you that there was only minimal protest from the two other gentlemen present when their companion began tugging at his belt. He undid the front of his pants and wrestled you onto your already dirtied bed. You stared up at the ceiling, aware that the two other male parties in the room were watching as your virginity was taken by force. You refused to cry, to do more than grit your teeth and wait for it to all be over.

Likewise, when after the guests had all left and you were alone with your master and his family, you said nothing as your master berated you. His daughter had used you as a scapegoat to get out of punishment yet again. She had said that she had caught you entertaining men in your room. And your sheets had been her proof. When your master had his wife shove two fingers into your opening, she withdrew them to find, indeed, a man had been inside of you.

For weeks did you struggle through their punishments. Perhaps such cruelties would have continued had it not been for strange men appearing at your master's door, stating that you were to be taken away. That you were a potential. Potential what, you hadn't the slightest idea. Nor did you particularly care. You followed them out of the home you had known for a good portion of your life.

In silence did you endure your first years within the Black Order. Training to become a better fighter, to prove that you were indeed worthy of the Innocence that had chosen you. All the built-up frustrations from the years in your former master's home and your rape, you used it all to fuel your resolve. Those in Central even commented on how you impressed them. Regularly they began to have you sent out on missions. You learned to defeat akuma, the creations of the Millennium Earl.

When news of the Noah family arrived, you were not the least bit concerned. In your mind, you would view them as nothing more than an enemy to defeat, much like the akuma. Your first encounter, however, had left you nearly dead.

You had not believed that you would ever see his face again, much less in that sort of setting. The gray-skinned gentleman's countenance was unmistakable. Your knees had buckled when he had stepped into view, the organ in his hand being consumed by the carnivorous butterflies known as Teez. He had mocked you in a lilt, stating that you were quite young to be an exorcist. Too pretty, he had said.

Gritting your teeth in the anger that consumed your heart, you had launched yourself at him in a fury. The Noah, eyes wide, had just enough time to block your attack. The mace-like Innocence that you had nearly met the side of his head on your next attack. He ducked at the right time, his hand thrusting forward. You had felt the limb enter your body--go straight through your body as though you were made up of nothing other than air. This was it, you had told yourself. I'm going to die.

The instant he had looked up into your face, however, his hand--which had been on its retreat, ready to snatch an organ--froze. You stared at him, your face quite expressionless, and your eyes were trained on his. "...you recognize me, don't you?" you asked, your voice quiet and neutral. "You don't have to stop on account of our past, Mister Mikk." His limb trembled while inside you, his face assuming a morbidly amused expression. He reminded you quite of a Jack-o-lantern. "Or would you prefer to just stand aside and watch...an akuma could do it."

Tyki straightened his posture, covering the bottom half of his face--his twisted grin--with his free hand. It took him several seconds to get himself under control. When he had, the man removed his hand from your body without stealing a single cell. "I had been told your contract was terminated for promiscuous behavior." You snorted. You pretended his words fell on deaf ears even though your heart ached at the memories they invoked. "When I told Earl Markuson of what had occurred, he had said it didn't matter."

"It doesn't," you said in a deadpan. Tyki blinked at you, his lips twitching then pressing tightly together into a frown. "Oh, I see." You rolled your eyes. "You had a shred of decency in you and were able to feel guilt."

"I--"

"You don't even know me." You cocked your head to the side, adjusting your grip on your Innocence. "And besides, Mister Mikk, we're now enemies." Your mace had met his arm with a sickening smack.

By the end of the battle, it was you who had been injured the worst. A broken arm, several lacerations on your legs. Your Innocence had been damaged, although you had managed to keep it from being destroyed. Komui had fussed over it but repaired it all the same. It would not be the last time either. On five different occasions did Tyki Mikk damage your Innocence and leave you injured. During each occurence, the man had tried to start up a conversation, met only by your silence.

This sixth incident had you baffled. Tyki Mikk had approached you wearing his human skin. He had offered to pay for an outstanding bill the hotel you were vacationing in demanded you settle. You, having no money to your name, could only watch in silence as Tyki handed the coins over to the manager. You pressed your lips tightly together and frowned. Once the bill had been paid, you turned on your heel and left without a word to the Noah. Tyki swore under his breath and hurried after you, much to your dismay.

When he caught up, his hand seized your wrist and tugged lightly so that you were forced to stop. Without looking over your shoulder, you listened to what he had to say. "I had thought you'd done it before." You were not quite sure to what he was referring for several seconds until the realization dawned on you. You snarled; as though whether or not you were a virgin made rape any less brutal! You snatched your arm away. "Look, it's...(y/n), right?"

"Nope."

Tyki made a noise of confusion that had you turning your head to look at him. A light blush came to your cheeks upon noticing how flustered he had become. He looked nothing of the suave gentleman you had seen at your former employer's estate. You put your hands on your hips, shaking your head and hating yourself for even speaking to him.

"Look...what the hell do you even want? Forgiveness? It doesn't even matter anymore."

Tyki sighed, withdrew a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it. He puffed a few times on the smoke stick while watching you. You raised a brow. "I'd been worried he had knocked you up. That it was the reason you were forced to leave."

"Oh." You rolled your eyes again. "Your friend doesn't have some bastard child out there, you don't have to worry." He was frowning again. For some reason this was beginning to annoy you. "If all it is is that you can't get over the fact you only watched, forget about it. I was nothing more than dirt to you, right?"

He started to protest then, reluctantly, admitted that this was true. You nodded. It hurt to hear the words aloud like that even if you had always known them to be true.

"Alright, so--"

"You were just so pretty. I was going to do something, but then..." His words had the effect of silencing you. Your mouth was open mid-sentence yet no words were coming out. Feeling suddenly dizzy, you moved over to the wall of a building and steadied yourself by placing your hand upon the brick.

Tyki closed the distance between himself and you. His mouth met your cheek. When you did not push him away, he grew bolder and sealed your lips with his own. This shocked you out of your reverie. You jerked backwards, earning a moan of disappointment from the Noah. All the same, Tyki backed away from you without another word. He tipped his hat to you then left.

You had switched hotels after that, hopeful that the man would not track you. When, however, you continuously received gifts during the remainder of your vacation, you were at a loss of what to think. Sometimes you cried, sobbed and screaming into your pillow, at the roses and jewelry Tyki left for you. Other times you could only stare at the items. Once or twice you managed to throw away the gifts into the garbage without a shred of emotion.

It drove your comrades absolutely insane the way the Noah would flirt with you, would leave you trinkets, roses, and invitations to parties whenever you were on missions. You had attempted several times to get it through to Tyki's thick skull--via your mace--that you were not interested--maybe a little, although you refused to admit this--in his romantic feelings. Your comrades, likewise, interjected whenever the dark-haired man would so much as speak a single word to you.

After a mission, while your comrades were at either a strip club or sleeping, you had ventured to a bar. Upon entering, you had caught sight of a familiar gentleman, who was sulking despite several women attempting to gain his attention. You wove your way past the flirtatious ladies, ignored their protests and swears, and tapped the man on the shoulder. Tyki disregarded the contact, no doubt assuming it was from one of the other women who were around.

Sighing, you said, "Hey. Mister Mikk."

His head whipped around. Tyki visibly perked up at the sight of you then, after a moment, frowned, and turned away. So he was back to sulking, was he?

"You do know Akin was teasing you, right? He and I aren't a couple."

Tyki turned again, sliding off the barstool and grabbing you by the arm and led you out of the bar. A few of the women groaned audibly, while others lived out their disappointment quietly. "Are you still mad at me, (y/n)~?" he asked, a playful lilt to his tone.

"I have...never really cared enough about you to be mad," you stated honestly. He frowned at your answer. You averted your gaze and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "Don't get all upset, Mister Mikk. You said yourself you thought I was nothing but dirt."

"You were just a maid," he argued.

You jerked away from him as though he had burned you. And, with his words, he sort of had. "So that makes me less human? Man, I'd hate to know your thoughts on the homeless."

"That's..." He fell silent, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Okay, that's a good point. I care for the homeless."

"Just not maids?" you asked, incredulous.

Tyki smiled sheepishly at you. "I do now."

That day had been the start of several less violent meetings. After missions, regardless of who was the victor, Tyki and you would meet at a neutral location. He would deal a hand of poker that the two of you would play. From time to time the pair of you made it to ten hands before one or the other had to leave. During the games you were mostly silent, although you did speak to him on occasion.

When next Tyki deigned to kiss you, you did not pull away. Nor did you return the gesture. Since your rape, and possibly due to it, you had not been intimate with a man. His hands were gentle yet venturous, although he was careful to respect your body language; at the slightest tense of a muscle, he would back off from you. This was perhaps one of the reasons why, after nearly a year of knowing Tyki as a Noah, you returned one of his kisses.

Shyly, clumsily, you pressed your lips back against his. Tyki made a noise of startlement that preceeded a moan of delight. You allowed him to lead you to his hotel room, to begin to take off your clothes even though the actions made you feel ill; you could not help but remember the previous occasion of fornication. He, however, sat on the bed with you standing in front of him when the two of you were stark naked. His eyes ran up and down your naked body, a stream of compliments leaving his lips.

"Mister Mikk..." You swallowed, fighting off the feeling of nausea. Your eyes were glued on his erection, which had your legs tensing in apprehension.

Tyki blinked. "Oh, (y/n), you can use my first name~"

"T-Tyki... I..." You placed your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself when the world around you spun. "Oh, fuck, I feel so sick..."

The Noah released a frustrated sigh when you leaned over to the side and vomitted on the ground. "That really...killed the moment." All the same, he held back your hair and moved behind you, rubbing your back soothingly. When the contents of your stomach were emptied on the ground, you leaned back against him. You could feel proof of how turned off your throwing up had made him. His flaccid cock pressed against your thigh, where it twitched and began to enliven as you cuddled closer to him.

Tyki wrapped his arms around you, scooping you up and tucking you into bed with him. The man climbed under the covers with you. You said nothing as his hands wandered about the contours of your body. You could only look at his face, watch his eyes, which were glued on yours. He started to move closer, his lips searching for yours.

"My mouth probably tastes like vomit, Mister Mikk," you said. He groaned, raising a hand and massaging his forehead.

"You're killing me, (y/n)!"

All the same, he backed off. You later supposed that you had fallen asleep first. When you awoke, you found that during the course of the night Tyki had wrapped his arms around you as well as hooked one of his legs over yours. You attempted to wriggle out of his grasp, felt him tighten his hold, and then stopped moving. You watched the man as he slept for several minutes, slowly but surely untangling his limbs from yours.

When at last you were freed and dressed, you took the pen and complimentary notepad provided by the hotel, and wrote Tyki a short note. You placed the note where you hoped he would easily find it then snuck out of the room.

A month transpired during which time you did not see the man again. It was when your mission was complete and you were sinking into your bed to sleep that you encountered Tyki Mikk. You openly gawked as he used his ability to choose to enter your room. Startled, you chucked a candlestick at his head. Tyki ducked, held up his hands, and said:

"Hey, hey, (y/n)~ Don't be like that~"

You held your blankets up to your chin, quickly moving to hide your Innocence from view. "Make sure the door is locked." He blinked. Growling in frustration, you motioned towards the door that connected your room to your comrades'. "Lock it, would you, Mister Mikk?"

Tyki turned and did so. This gave you just enough time to stow away your mace in a location you doubted Tyki would search. With that task complete, you drew your knees to your chest and watched as the Noah closed the distance between the two of you. He climbed onto your bed, soon showering you with kisses. First on your forehead, next your eyelids, your cheeks, and finally your lips. He nipped at your bottom lip, his tongue swirling along it. Face red, you began to return the gesture.

You could feel him reaching past your covers with his ability, could feel your clothes being pulled from your body. The blankets shifted as he moved under them, his bare skin touching yours. Your hands shot up, palms flat on his chest as he shifted between your legs. Your eyes were wide. His erection brushed against your lower lips, and you swallowed hard.

"Mi-mister Mikk, I--"

He silenced you with a kiss. Pulling away for air, he said, "Tyki~"

"Tyki, I don't think--"

"That's not my strong suit either~"

You furrowed your brow, confused for a moment, your mind being preoccupied by other things, namely the way his body felt pressed to yours.

"Look, I'm an exorcist and you're a Noah--"

"--we'll worry about fighting tomorrow. I'm only aiming to destroy the Innocence~"

"You...you've broken my bones several times, and--"

His tongue thrusting forward into your mouth effectively shut you up. Tyki's fingers began to slowly explore your body as his tongue probed the contours of your mouth. You ran your tongue along his, your hands running up and down his chest before sliding towards his abdominal muscles. His fingertips ghosted over your entrance as one hand teased your breast. You shuddered, gasping loudly when his fingers found your clitoris. He rolled the nub with his thumb, which he had slickened with your juices.

"Ty-Tyki!" He groaned at the sound of his name coming from your lips. The man wrapped your legs around his waist and rocked forward. His erection slid against you, along your lips and clitoris, in a way that had your body aching. Your lips quivered and your eyelids fluttered. Again did he roll his hips into yours. This time you bucked up against him.

Tyki wiggled a single finger then a second into your entrance. He scissored you, stretching you to accomodate his size. You moved against the fingers that thrust in and out of you. Your hips rolled against his digits as they curled and uncurled. When he removed them, you released a disappointed groan. Tyki soon silenced you, practically knocked the air out of your lungs, when he thrust forward, entering you with his cock. It hurt initially. You rested your forehead against his shoulder as he adjusted his position and moved in and out of you a few times. His hands, massagining every portion of flesh they could grasp, helped to ease your pain.

The next time Tyki ventured to visit you in such a manner, you were crying in your pillow. When you saw him, you hissed with anger and rage. Your nails dug into his back, you swore at him, you whispered words of hate as he angled you onto his dick. "You killed him, you fucking bastard!" you said through grit teeth, your hands pulling at his hair.

Tyki said nothing in response, only kissed you as you abused his body. You knew that he could choose to forgo the pain, to only delight himself with your body. That he could use his ability to ensure your nails and teeth did not dig into his flesh. Yet somehow you found that he respected you too much to do so. You bit at his collarbone as you rode him, your walls clenching around his erection, which was buried so deep inside of you. The sensation of him moving within you, of his hands on you--this man who had mere hours ago murdered one of your comrades--had you hating yourself for a moment. You felt sick--you felt like you were less than dirt; a product created by the man you were fucking.

After the two of you had come down from your orgasms, you told him to leave. Tyki, after a kiss on your shoulderblade, obliged.

Such was your relationship with the Noah. The two of you fought one another, never moving in for the kill, always for the injury or insult. And each night afterwards you would comfort one another with your bodies. What made you feel as though you were more than dirt, more than a piece of furniture, however, were the gifts Tyki would leave for you. Not always materialistic objects either. At times his words would touch your heart. The way he remembered your birthday when not a one of your comrades had.

Resting your head on the man's chest, you allowed yourself to close your eyes. No doubt he would be gone by morning and a note would be left for you to read. That was how it had to be, however, lest your comrades discover what you did with your enemy.

"Mister Mikk," you whispered.

"Tyki," he said with a sigh.

You rolled your eyes, flicking your tongue out against his nipple. You heard and felt his moan from your position. "I love you too."

Tyki flipped you onto your back, his body soon engulfing yours. You could tell how happy you had made him by how thin the line between his white self and black self was as he made love to you.

#tyki mikk x reader #tyki x reader #d.gray-man #dgm #dgm fanfic

[rosepetalsthings]

Excellent!

I really like your takes on situations. You have a very calm and logical approach to things. So I will toss you some discussion points and stuff.

What is your opinion on the recent mcc toxicity? There seems to be 3 sides. The "stans", "antis" and the neutral (those that don't give a shit/ only watch not comment)

So far here are my observation on reactions and such:

There are of course the dipshits sending death threats. They have of course taken it too far.

Then you have those that are toxic towards the noxcrew and scott. These people are mainly on twitter. There are also those being toxic towards Dream and co. While they exist on twitter there are also a lot of them on tumblr.

There have been a variety of posts on the subreddit. Including a megethread. There have been some "hate posts" one which Dream himself responded to.

As far as I am concerned, both sides are being toxic as all hell. There was no need to escalate this. As someone on reddit put it, "Dream is the child in the middle of the divorce."

For the recent mcc toxicity surrounding primarily Dream (which lets be real it all does, even when there’s more at play), I do agree that it tends to fall under those three categories. I may be biased here but I tend to think of antis as typically the most toxic, purely because being a stan mostly means you very intensely like a thing/person, but to be an anti you’ve kind of already have to coming at it from a place of negativity/hate.

I also agree that Twitter have perhaps the most Diverse range of Stans and Antis, and some of the most extreme takes and are the reason any of this reaches the discussion point they do. But that’s unsurprising considering that it’s practically designed to have the most clickbait, extreme takes possible. I think tho it is ultimately the most toxic cause it’s the best site for actually getting a response from the cc’s, which lets be real drives most of the conflict. You can attack Noxcrew and Scott, as well as Dream and Hbomb (I feel like Hbomb is now, unfortunately, irrevocably linked to the mcc drama, since the last several have also had him involved in some way). Also has a way for people to dm and dog pile on a person.

The mcc subreddit tends to sway pretty neutral in my opinion, and is possibly the least toxic place for mcc drama which you don’t tend to expect, but make since it is 1) moderated and 2)already a place built for discussion. You don’t go on there and not expect people to say their opinions. Post mcc14 was bad, but after 15 and 16, the place has actually gotten pretty good in my opinion (Helps that it probably has the least amount of people on the sub)

Tumblr I think is somewhat similar to Twitter, but in a surprising turn of events (for me at least), the most popular and seen posts tend to be pretty against Dream, especially about Buildmart (which I will say is probably because people saw Dream saying he doesn’t like Buildmart and would rather not play it as him personally attacking Grian and his win). It’s still a pretty toxic place here, just that you can’t directly attack creators, so you must go after other people. Which ooh boy I saw a lot of. (also the erasure of mcc wins, jumping on a bandwagon based off nothing but your opinion on what other people are saying. Like I saw someone say they were against Dream for “forcing noxcrew to change buildmart or quitting” and then admitting that they hadn’t actually watched the clip, just saw people reacting to it)

For the actual opinions on the recent drama? The one surrounding buildmart is probably the dumbest, at least from the idea that Dream is at all attacking anyone, or holding the Noxcrew hostage in an ultimatum. Attacking him for saying that he doesn’t like the game is stupid. Now the discussions on whether Buildmart should have a change and what they change could be is good! Both sides are interesting debates and I like seeing peoples ideas of revamping it (I think that it would be helpful if there were a way to practice on the server, I think players like Dream could help from that), but this is perhaps the one I’ve seen the most people attack each other over on tumblr (guys don’t be a dick people are allowed to be of the opinion that Buildmart in particular is harder for people with adhd because of the memorisation and unique sensory experience compared to other games). I do find it interesting (and good) that Dreams main responce on Twitter has actually been to criticise people who want it banned purely for Dream and People angry at Dream for wanting it banned, in a joking way. 

Pretty much, toxicity in mcc seems to be about what I’d expect, but it’s interesting to see where people fall on the spectrum, and that while some of the toxicity has been understandable if still uncalled for, the latest is mostly just stupid and blown largely out of proportion. 

#dreamwastaken #fandom critical #mcc #oh god this is so long oh god but i just have so many Thoughts on this #man i could have gone on more about the other few mcc's and the strange impact hbombs had but like this was already too long #Also awwwwwww thank you anon :D #I hope this isnt too rambly but I very much appreciated the question #what i find most weird is how it seems to be pitting friends against each other or at least people who really do not have drama