#(in fact I would imagine that she still loathes him and thinks he's a wretch)

[valasania-the-pale]

do you have any galadriel brainrot rattling around that you want to share? I'm especially fascinated by any/all galadriel & maglor ideas either in the third age, or otherwise...chiefly bc of your portrayal of them in "the final verse" is so interesting ...Or just, brainrot in general? Always love hearing your takes on things <3 <3 <3

Always.

If I'm focusing on her relationship with Maglor however, I think it may be funny to share that I don't think Galadriel likes Maglor much at all, but rather pities him. He is, arguably, the most wretched elf alive by the end of things, and a decent reflection of what she could have been had she made different, probably tempting choices in her life. Maglor chose something over goodness (whether that was family, pride, loyalty, or whatever, it kind of depends on your reading of him, but whatever it was, he prioritized that thing over being a decent person), while Galadriel was faced with the choice of her ambition and pride over goodness - and in her case, where it mattered, she chose right. She knows how that temptation can feel, however, and I would imagine that Maglor (and Maedhros, back when he was around) were and are very personal cautionary examples of where personal desire can lead when not tempered by wisdom and care.

You know, I like to think that it would be Galadriel to drag Maglor back to Valinor? Not because she likes him, or because she thinks he deserves it, but because my picture of Galadriel is someone who has seen so many loose ends left untied, between Morgoth's escape, the Valar leaving Middle Earth and its people in the lurch of Morgoth's hatred and warring, and the aftermath of the War of Wrath (e.g. Sauron was left unaccounted for, enabling all of the sorrow to come). Leaving Maglor behind means that the story isn't done, the elves will never fully leave, he'll just fade away into a vague sea-voice, an unending, quavering note, held past the point of breaking, never finished. I think that, where Elrond would honor Maglor's grief and choice, Galadriel would be just unimpressed and impatient with it all. "No, we're not doing this again, get on the damn boat. Mourn in Lorien if you must, but I'll be damned again before I leave you here."

I think it also stems from the idea that, by the end of the third age, I think Galadriel is tired of almost everything, tired enough that old grudges - however deserved - are just not worth clinging to. He's done awful things, but depending on how you read her, hasn't Galadriel also? She's either a bit player in the Silmarillion or she abandoned her family entirely - for someone so skilled, and who later (in her fading years) demonstrates such will and power, it implies a personal history of just generally keeping her hands off. And if she was hands-on, then she failed like everyone else. She's connected to everything intimately, so no matter the reading, there's pain and failure there. Maglor has obviously done more, but understanding doesn't come from equivalence, it comes from kinship.

And, I think the last reason she'd do it, is because Galadriel almost certainly knew Nerdanel. After having to endure Celebrian's situation, after Luthien's departure (and presumably the grief that caused Melian), and now having to face telling Celebrian that she'll never see Arwen again, I don't think Galadriel would just accept Maglor's self-imposed exile knowing it would harm Nerdanel as well. It would be one last, unnecessary tragedy to pile onto an exorbitant pile (and, in my headcanons of Galadriel's history, I like to imagine that she and Nerdanel had a connection of friendship for various reasons). There's a whole sub-narrative about mothers having to just accept the loss of their daughters in the Silmarillion (Earwen joins the list, and Anaire, and--), and if Galadriel has shown anything, it's that she strongly defies convention.

[il-mostrc]

Hannibal had graciously granted Jacob (@evilsontherun) unrestricted access to his residence whenever his duties with patients occupied his time. This arrangement often extended into the late hours, occasionally allowing Hannibal to indulge in a few evenings where he would entertain Jacob—or vice versa. He was never fully prepared for the myriad of stories that would unravel the moment he crossed the threshold of his foyer.

Historically, Hannibal had been reticent to engage with his neighbors, scarcely knowing their names or whether they owned pets. It was Jacob who swiftly acclimated to the surrounding community, forming connections with various individuals. Unfortunately, Jacob also possessed a tendency to recount details about his life and the people intertwined within it. Consequently, Hannibal's private existence became a subject of public interest; the neighborhood was now intimately aware of his identity and the affiliations he shared with Jacob.

Jacob's Bingo offer was an opportunity to tempt, though he found that the little blue haired ladies at the church were far more sinful than he ever imagined. They say you get more conservative as you get older, this was in fact, a lie.

A pretty big lie.

Hannibal had never before experienced such relentless advances. Despite the countless souls he had encountered throughout his life, none had been as unabashedly bold as these elderly women. His rear was sore for days, those needle fingers pinching in all the soft spots. With an exasperated groan, he let his gloves fall onto the nearby furniture, casting his eyes heavenward in a moment of frustration.

"For Satan's sake, Jacob, you needn’t go to such extravagant lengths for the sake of our neighbors. Permit me at least a modicum of solitude where I am spared from responding to a cheerful ‘Hi-Diddly-Ho, neighbor!’… Things were decidedly quieter before your arrival,” he lamented. It was irksome to realize that the entire neighborhood was now privy to his existence through Jacob's extensive socializing. His gaze drifted to the tin resting on the living room table, a wretched gift from Ms. Mabel—her infamous cookies. While Hannibal loathed them, Jacob, in his usual fashion, indulged in them heartily, which only encouraged Ms. Mabel to continue her relentless baking. This latest tin was the third to infiltrate his home, much to his chagrin.

With a reluctant swallow, Hannibal exhaled deeply before continuing, “I shall venture forth, hoping that divine retribution strikes me down while I traverse that church.” A shiver ran down his spine at the very thought, though he was convinced that it was the throngs of well-meaning yet overly enthusiastic elderly women who shielded him from the sanctity of the holy spirit within the church.

They were wicked grannies.

Jacob trotted down the stairs with his familiar enthusiasm, a towel scrubbing through his damp hair. No brush was ever required -- he would fetch his hat, cover it all, and be done with the matter. The cowboy stepped in the door of the living area. He let his towel fall around his neck, hands holding to either end. "Hey there, sir," he greeted Hannibal, smiling his brightest. "Thought that was ya, comin' home. Ya missed a full day ; a dog's missin' off the folks a few doors up. There's two little 'uns lookin' for it, with their ma . . . " Jacob sighed, expression dipping sadly. " -- 'm gonna go help 'em some more. Nothin' worse than a couple a' kids cryin' on ya." The cowboy moved to turn away and then paused. He glanced back over a broad shoulder, brow raised. "Ms. Mabel gave us more a' those cookies. We were gardenin' 'fore I saw them kids out hollerin'. Y'know, she said bingo's back on in the church basement this Friday. S'pose 'm goin' . . . 'n she told me 'm allowed a partner again." Jacob scratched at his beard, unable to help his own curiosity. "Ya think ya'd want t'come, Doc, or are ya still sore from the first time ?? " Not that Jacob could blame Hannibal if he swore the occasion off forever -- the bingo ladies had been rather charmed by him, for better or for worse.

[ronsonlywhore]

Draco Malfoy and Exist For Love by Aurora

❛ 𝗲𝘅𝗶𝘀𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲. ❜ draco malfoy x reader

summary: you lay your head on his shoulder, and in that exact moment draco feels like he lives for nothing else except you. like he exists for nothing else except love.

pairing: draco malfoy x fem!reader

warnings: mentions of murder and poisoning, drinking

a/n: oh to slow dance to this song with a lover at 3 am...any volunteers? / this songfic was written for my mini 200 follower celebration!

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

in draco’s eyes, you were heavenly; the true definition of an angel gifted to earth from the gods above and, like all gifts, he cherished and treasured you like his life depended on it.

loving you was like flying: exhilarating and always leaving him breathless. draco had never felt like this before; his heart knew that he couldn’t. to him, love was something he could admire, something he could long for, but never something he could have for himself. it just wasn’t in a malfoy’s nature to openly devote yourself to someone the way he wanted to devote himself to you.

and he loathed his own name for it.

☾ ⋆*·ﾟ:⋆*·ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:·ﾟ .: ⋆*·ﾟ: .⋆

your touch was electrifying.

your hands had only grazed his for a moment while passing him an empty cauldron, your fingers there then gone, but those few seconds were enough to have draco floating on a cloud for the rest of the day.

he would never be able to explain the way you made him feel.

☾ ⋆*·ﾟ:⋆*·ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:·ﾟ .: ⋆*·ﾟ: .⋆

draco felt like he was going to be sick.

“are you okay, malfoy? you look a little pale,” you ask worriedly as draco considers making a run for it. next to you, your friend giggles and murmurs, “malfoy’s always pale, (y/n).”

draco hears a yelp of pain from your friend, you having elbowed her harshly in the ribs. he finally gets the courage to look you directly in the eyes, the same eyes he dreams about, the same eyes that put the entire galaxy to shame.

you’re looking expectantly at him, your friend poorly trying to hold in her laughter. the fact that she’s probably silently judging him sparked something in draco. what was he cowering from? he was a malfoy, and besides, the worst thing you could do was say no.

“iwaswonderingifyoueverwantedtostudyinthelibrarywithmesometime?” draco mumbles. his throat feels dry and he can feel his heart beating in the pits of his stomach; he’s having a hard time swallowing. tongue-tied...that’s another thing he can add to the list of things you cause him to be. not that he keeps one, or anything.

you tilt your head to the side, exposing your neck to the red-orange glow of the sun. draco can’t help but let his eyes trail down your throat and over your collarbone, desperately trying to imagine what it would feel like to ghost his lips over your smooth skin, or breath in your sweet scent, the scent he’s smelled so many times before in his amortentia potion…

“malfoy? malfoy?”

draco breaks out of his trance, cheeks blazing as you say, “i’m sorry, er, i didn’t catch what you said about the library.”

“oh,” draco falters out. if he wanted to chicken out and never attempt to speak to you again, now would be the time to do it. no, he thinks. he promised himself he would go through with this.

he takes a deep breath and tries again, slower this time, “i just...i was wondering if you ever wanted to study with me in the library?”

“oh, are you looking for a tutor?”

your friend finally bursts out laughing, holding her charms book close to her chest in doing so. you ask her what she finds so funny, and she answers, “don’t you see, (y/n)? he’s asking you out.”

you look back to draco, eyebrows raised. “asking me on a date? to the library?”

draco quickly backs away, thinking about how horrible this idea was. why did he ever believe he had a chance with you, the living embodiment of pure bliss?

“never mind. it’s stupid, i know,” he mutters dejectedly as he walks off, planning to find a deep hole he can crawl into and never emerge from again.

he feels a hand on his shoulder and turns around, his eyes meeting yours once more; the same eyes that carry the universe all at once, the same eyes that the sun envies with all her might.

draco can hardly believe the words that come out of your mouth next.

“no! no, i think that sounds quite nice, actually,” you say as you pull back your hand. his skin burns at your touch, and aches when it’s gone.

“you do?” draco asks, surprised and not taking notice of your friend rolling her eyes behind you.

you nod and smile, continuing, “how about this thursday after lessons?

all draco does is nod, not finding the right words to say.

“great! it’s a date, then.” you walk back towards your friend, saying cheerfully, “see you around, draco.”

draco. you had said his name.

mesmerized: another thing he can add to the list. but he definitely doesn’t keep one, or anything.

☾ ⋆*·ﾟ:⋆*·ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:·ﾟ .: ⋆*·ﾟ: .⋆

“remember when you asked me out?”

draco groans and throws a balled-up piece of parchment towards you. “please, don��t remind me.”

you laugh and try to dodge the flying paper as draco goes back to his essay, his quill scratching against the sheet. you sigh, resting your chin on your hand; draco fights the urge to look up and get hopelessly lost in the mere presence of you.

“you came up to me and said...what was it again?” you say as you scoot closer to him. he feels your lips brush over his cheek, your warm breath fanning his face.

draco turns to face you just as you lean in, but before you can give him a proper kiss, he playfully pushes your face away gently.

“i will never forgive you for assuming that i needed a tutor,” he sniffs dramatically.

you pounce on him, right there in the middle of the library, and draco doesn’t care if everyone is staring or whispering; he lets you pepper kisses all over his neck, anyways.

“i thought i would be forgiven by now,” you whisper into his ear as you prop your chin on his shoulder, your nose brushing against his jaw.

“your apology is still being considered,” draco breathes out before catching your mouth in an amorous kiss.

your kisses always took the air out of his lungs. or maybe that was his body telling him he needed to breathe, and stat.

you and draco eventually go back to your studying, but draco’s far from focused now. you have invaded his mind, taken over his thoughts, so that now all he can see and feel is you: a peaceful oblivion he wants to emerge himself in for eternity.

draco thinks back to a year ago, when he was just contented with your eyes lingering a second too long on him, pleased at just being able to sit next to you in potions. now, he has you; not just your persistent stares or your polite smile. you.

☾ ⋆*·ﾟ:⋆*·ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:·ﾟ .: ⋆*·ﾟ: .⋆

draco swallows back a bit of bile as he loosens his tie harshly, his fingers getting caught in the intricate knot doing so. his footsteps echo in the empty corridor, and he wipes beads of sweat from his forehead, cursing himself for forgetting to meet you at the lake. now you’ll definitely know something’s up.

he walks through the great hall doors, the soft breeze doing nothing to calm his tension. he had only passed by the hospital wing, had only gotten a glimpse of weasley lying on the bed, unconscious and senseless, but that was enough to set his nerves on a frenzy. he did that. he poisoned weasley, even if it wasn’t directly, even if he didn’t mean to.

he had also cursed katie bell with that wretched necklace. a vexed pendant that wasn’t even meant for her, a bottle of venomous bottle of mead that wasn’t meant to be drank by anyone except him: professor dumbledore.

as draco trudges down to the lake, he finally comprehends how real all of this suddenly feels. he can’t kill dumbledore; he can’t kill anyone. he could barely bring himself to imperio bell, could barely handle gifting that bottle to slughorn. how could he ever be capable of murdering someone and watching them fall dead in front of him?

he tries to compose himself as he nears your silhouette sitting at the edge of the lake, your knees brought up to your chest, your arms wrapped tightly around your legs. draco comes to a stop behind you, berating you in his head for being this careless.

“what have i told you about sitting around like this, (y/n)?” draco asks as he plops down next to you, hoping you didn’t hear that small tremble in his voice. you jump as you turn to him, glaring as you say, “you’re late. and it’s not like death eaters are just going to sneak into hogwarts in the middle of the night and take over. hogwarts is the safest place on earth.”

draco’s stomach churns when he realizes that’s exactly what will happen in approximately a week from now, thanks to him fixing that bloody cabinet. remember, you’re doing this for your parents, draco thinks. for her.

“the stars are shining brightly tonight, are they not?” draco hears you whisper as you take his hand and start tracing patterns on his palm.

“i suppose,” he answers, his mind still on his impossible task.

“my mother used to say the stars shone for me,” you say, choosing to outline different constellations on his hand.

draco smiles slightly and turns to look at you. “that’s because they do.”

you lay your head on his shoulder, and in that exact moment draco feels like he exists for nothing else except you. nothing else except love.

☾ ⋆*·ﾟ:⋆*·ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:·ﾟ .: ⋆*·ﾟ: .⋆

“father used to say love was nothing but an illusion, something that could fill your heart up but leave it miserably empty.”

“love is anything but, draco...it can be so many things and nothing all at once.”

draco’s back itches from the tree bark scratching at his back, but he stays in the same position and sips from the bottle of firewhiskey, anyways. it was his idea, after all.

he stares at you watching the whomping willow sway in the distance, your hand loosely grasping your own bottle. you had only taken a few gulps of the alcohol, but you looked drowsy and dazed already, the liquor quickly taking effect.

draco doesn’t know if it’s the quiet buzz resonating through his body that makes him do it, but he still asks, “please do tell of all the things love can be, (y/n).”

“long answer or short one?”

“both.”

you sigh contentedly as he watches you bring the bottle to your lips, observing the way your throat moves while swallowing the whiskey. you breathe in deep, then start, “love is like stumbling through life all alone, just passing through the motions, and then that one person walks into your life and suddenly you feel like you’re living, you’re alive…and i’ve heard it’s a very wonderful feeling.”

you pause, take another swig, and continue, “love is like being torn apart the minute you were only born, but that one person is the only one that makes you feel whole and complete...your other half, you could say.”

it finally clicks in draco’s head that you are his ‘one person.’

“love is selflessness, and loyalty, and euphoria. love is fearlessness, and spirit, and earnestness. love is the center of everything but also the center of nothing; we revolve around it but it also revolves around us.” you sigh, this time catching your breath.

draco can’t keep it from you anymore, not after what you told him everything that love could be, what love should be, what love will be.

“is love not keeping secrets?” he murmurs.

“yes, i suppose love is honesty, as well,” you answer back.

he responds to that by pulling back his sleeve and revealing his dark mark in its full, horrid glory. your eyes widen as you scramble back from him, your grasp on the bottle slipping and rolling away in the grass; draco’s heart drops as he realizes you’re scared of not only the mark embellished into his skin, but of him as well by default.

“what did you do?” you whisper, horrified.

“the dark lord was threatening my family...he was threatening to kill you, i had to!” draco’s voice breaks just a little bit; he prays to the gods that you’ll believe him, hopes you’ll see his reasons.

you don’t.

draco’s father was right; love can fill your heart, but only for a little while before leaving it miserably empty..

☾ ⋆*·ﾟ:⋆*·ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:·ﾟ .: ⋆*·ﾟ: .⋆

draco’s mother is calling him over, and everyone turns to look at him with judging stares or pitiful expressions. even the dark lord is looking expectantly at him.

harry potter is dead. now everyone will have to choose their sides.

across the destroyed courtyard he can see his father glaring at him. he really doesn’t want to walk over there, doesn’t want to declare his loyalty to them, but what can he do? he has no one to live for on this side, no one to live for him.

he takes a deep breath and starts maneuvering the crowd, walking towards his parents. it feels more like walking into death’s open arms.

“draco.”

he stops, coming to a complete halt. he hasn’t heard his name being spoken in that soft tone in a while. he turns around and you’re there, reaching for him, and he can’t focus on anything except you. you say his name again, and it feels like white horses gliding over the waves or a rushing ocean in his veins.

“love is sacrifice, too,” you whisper.

draco doesn’t walk to his parents. he chooses to stay with you instead.

you, the one person who makes him feel alive and whole. you, the one person he exists for.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

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[inkstaineddove]

Man as Mirror

Ships: PruAus if you wish; background PruHun and FraAus

Characters: Roderich, Gilbert; mentioned Erzsi + Francis

Summary: Arriving home early from Paris, Roderich encounters a shirtless Gilbert in his kitchen, leading them to have a conversation Roderich could've gone without.

Vienna, 1774.

Once his carriage safely rolled to a stop, Austria stepped out of it and stretched. While even he could not deny the beauty of Paris, nothing pleased the heart quite like home. Servants rushed about him, ushering in his extensive luggage. Sidestepping away from them, he gazed up at the early-morning sky and allowed himself the luxury of taking it all in. The fading purple of night, the sun shyly poking its face out through his hedges, and the birds singing their daily hymns. Truly, there was nowhere quite like home.

Feeling sufficiently uplifted, he entered the home and mindlessly made his way up the stairs. He froze once his hand hovered above the doorknob to his bedroom. He had been burned once before doing this and while, thankfully, all other parties had been asleep, the event had caused him enough mental anguish to power him through another three decades. Still, the desire to change out of his travel clothes was nigh impossible to dismiss. Leaning an ear against the door, his decision was made for him when he heard something like a moan come from Erzsébet. Changing could wait.

All remnants of his good mood dissipated as he silently grumbled to himself about their guest. While it certainly came as no surprise – Erzsébet did this every time he was out of town and, honestly, Roderich had grown to expect it – but hearing them was different. Sure, he was no fool and they made no effort to pretend but having indisputable proof of their trysts was another. Roderich was cursed to have found a spouse and enemy full of cunning. He noted that, if the two of them ever put their powers to good use, he’d have to compliment them for it. For now, while he was their target, any appreciation was out of the question.

He felt his body yearning for caffeine and knew what the next item on his agenda must be. Still lost in his thoughts, he was completely caught off guard at the sight of a bare-chested Gilbert standing over the kitchen counter. It was comical, really, watching such a brutish man delicately pour cream into two dainty mugs, mentally measuring out the right amounts. Roderich stood back and watched the whole performance in domesticity, studying the man before him as he never had before. The way his back and shoulder muscles shifted with each movement; how he never slouched even when it would be far more comfortable to; how the whole time, he never stopped humming marches to himself.

This scene felt too intimate and Roderich understood that he was not its intended audience. What he needed most from his rival now was hostility and not misguided fantasies of marital bliss. He cleared his throat and stepped into Gilbert’s line of sight. “For me? How sweet of you.” He snatched the mug closest to him and added in his usual five spoonsful of sugar. He held up a finger when he felt Gilbert gearing up to protest. “She’s still asleep. Besides, no one likes waking up to cold coffee. It sets such a tone for the day.”

They settled into a tense silence, neither one wanting to acknowledge the other. It was childish, Roderich understood, but failing to will the other out of his existence was better than devolving into petty insults or a physical altercation. And, if he ignored all rational thoughts, he didn’t even care. When around each other, what else were they but ancient children? There was no reason for them to speak, why invent one?

“Paris again? How many times have you been there over the last three months?” There almost appeared to be a hint of affectionate teasing in Gilbert’s words.

Roderich turned to face him and was surprised to find Gilbert already observing him with mild interest. What a strange morning, one he wished he could find some escape in by returning to bed but felt certain would provide him with no real escape. If anything, the pair would wake him up and demand he leave his own damn bed for another room, that’s how selfish they were. Against his will, he felt himself noticing the strength in Gilbert’s body, all broad shoulders and muscle, the physique of the ideal warrior. All suddenly clicked on why Roderich always found himself flat on his ass whenever they’d begin to trade blows. His arrogance had blinded him to the fact that imperial power mattered little when they weren’t trying to kill each other on the battlefield. With biceps like that, his only chance to get the upper hand would be a swift kick to the groin, which even at his worst he was too principled to resort to.

He was brought back to reality when Gilbert began snapping his fingers in his face. “Jesus, has anyone ever told you how creepy that staring thing you do is? Like you were trying to undress me with your eyes.” He straightened up and shivered. “Commission a portrait, it’ll last longer.”

“Please, don’t be so crass. This,” Roderich flippantly pointed to Gilbert’s outfit, “is already enough. If I imagined you in any less, I’d be ill for at least a month.”

Gilbert smirked as he took a sip. “Funny, most people have the opposite reaction.” He leaned his hips back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Now, how much more stalling can you do? What’s kept you in Paris so much? I don’t recall most treaties taking that much time to…hammer out.” He bit his lip, trying to suppress his snickering.

“It’s rude to talk work at breakfast.” Austria couldn’t be bothered to mask his irritation. Things such as ‘politeness’ and ‘civility’ always seemed to go to waste on Prussia. “And, if you’re fishing for what’s in our agreement, you’ll have no such luck from me. You’re wasting your time.”

“You think I give a damn about what’s on a fucking piece of paper? As if I’d be wasting my time on that. I don’t know who blabs more for the right price, your officials or France’s.” Gilbert’s demeanor was too casual. “Most of the time, we don’t have to go to those damn meetings anyways. We’re little more than decorations, the bureaucrats have everything written before they even breathe a word to us. We know that, they know that. There are always ulterior motives for our little business trips. Whenever I come here, I tell my current minder I’ll be off doing a diplomatic something-or-other in Vienna for a week, don’t wait up.  They buy it even though they know the real reason I come to this shrine of gaudy antiques.”

“Your point, Gilbert?”

“My point is that you’re no different. Sure, you tell everyone that you’re renegotiating this or that little detail and maybe your officials believe it. And you tell it to Erzsi, and she believes it since it’s easier than thinking the husband she loathes so much is just as miserable as her. And maybe you believe it too because you have to lie to yourself first to lie to everyone else. But you can’t fool me.”

The whole time he spoke, Roderich was staring down into the contents of his mug. When all was quiet between them was when he finally looked up, laughing. “You must be desperate if you’re begging to get a morsel of gossip on me from me.”

Gilbert scoffed. “I’m not fishing for gossip. If I was, I would’ve gone through your letters while you were gone. And, before you ask, I’ve never done that. Not for lack of trying, I’m just not good at picking locks.”

The vein behind Roderich’s left eye began pulsating. He rubbed his temple gingerly, wincing. “I think I prefer it when you act like you can’t stand to be in the same room with me. Why the annoying younger brother schtick?”

“Maybe I’m making up for lost time.” For added emphasis, Gilbert made sure to loudly schlurp down a sip. Roderich’s wince at such a noise caused him to snort some coffee out his nose. Wiping it away, he grinned. “Or maybe I just want you to stop thinking you’re any better than me. Get you when you’re unguarded.”

“There’s a glaring hole in your plan. You’ve forgotten that I would never allow myself to be so vulnerable around you, no matter what time of day it is.” He mockingly shook his head, tutting. “I understand that, for now, we’re officially getting along just fine, but don’t mistake that for camaraderie. The first chance either of us gets, we’ll be back to stabbing each other in the back for sport. It’s who we are.”

“Well, aren’t you a pessimist.”

“Hardly. I simply know our natures too well,” Roderich sighed, growing weary at this line of conversation. “So, if this is only temporary, why should I feign tolerance towards you? Quite honestly, you’re not important enough to me for that sort of performance. Even if you were, you would see right through it. No, my energy is better spent on nobler pursuits.”

Gilbert had set his mug down, now drumming his fingers on the countertop. “I’m not asking for friendship; I’m asking for honesty.” He rolled his eyes with the temperament of a teenager. “Whatever. You got me sidetracked. It’s pointless anyways; you’re too delusional.”

“Excuse me?” That was quite the accusation from an unusual source. “At this point, you may as well come right out and say it.”

“If you insist,” Gilbert’s tone lilted up, songlike and jeering. “What you won’t admit is what I started this whole conversation with. All these trips to Paris, they’re not about work or diplomacy or any of your other shitty excuses. I know and you know that the only purpose is to blow a load in Francis’ ass and get away from your miserable life.”

Roderich set his mug down gently. There was no need for it to spill, to make a mess all over the clean marble. “For a moment, I’m going to ignore the vulgar insinuation you’ve made about my relationship with Francis.” He looked up, not breaking eye contact with Gilbert. “You know nothing about my life and my contentment with it. I understand that you are a deeply unhappy and wretched creature and why shouldn’t you be? There is nothing for you to go home and boast about, no shining accomplishments of yours not bathed in the blood of an innocent people, but do not project your misery onto me. For all your crowing to the contrary, we have never been, nor will we ever be, the same.”

Gilbert scoffed. “And everything you’ve ever done, there was only glory to be found there? All the princes you absorbed into your own lands, they were willing? The Bohemians, the Hungarians, they love your rulers? Are you pretending that only Russia and I invaded Poland because I remember seeing you at the table, carving out portions for yourself.”

“I’m not so naïve to believe I haven’t picked up the sword before. And, if necessary, I would again. You’d be wise to remember that.” Roderich straightened up, pulling his shoulders back. “But I’ve achieved just as much without force as with. The home we’re currently standing is a monument to such.”

“Please. It’s a monument to other people’s power and what it can get you. We don’t impact change, we just ride the waves of it,” Gilbert sneered. “This house is a prison for all who come in it. A golden cage is still a cage, Roderich, even for the largest bird.”

Roderich sighed with a roll of his eyes. “Mixing your metaphors doesn’t make you sound wiser, I’ve told you this before.” Needing caffeine for his growing headache, he took a sip. “I assume you’re including yourself among the captives.”

“To a degree. I can leave whenever I want – as you love to point out, I do have my own house – but where would one of us be without the other two? We are the protagonists of our own tragedy.”

“I sincerely regret that old king of yours got you into theater. Next you’ll be telling me how all the world’s a stage and we are but merely players.” When Gilbert opened his mouth to comment on that, Roderich held up his hand. “That wasn’t an invitation for your Shakespearean theories!” He rubbed the bridge between his nose, his prior weariness intensifying. “Why does it matter to you so much? Why must I parade my discontent as you and Erzsébet do? If you make your life’s purpose revenge against an unjust world – there you go! I admit it’s unjust! – you are sure to become more miserable than ever before. Perhaps you should learn that before it destroys you like one of your dear tragedies.”

“It matters because you act like you’re superior to us in every way when, really, you’re no different. And I don’t think I’ll ever understand that,” Gilbert’s voice softened with something akin to regret.

Something in his tone of voice, in his posturing, lit a fire within Roderich. His eyes hardened and he pressed his lips into a scowl. “Understanding is what you want? If it’ll get the defiling power of your pity off me, then so be it! I am better than you in every conceivable way. If I am to you but a mirror, peer close and you’ll realize it too. Where you feel trapped by the circumstances life has thrown us in, with a life that can never truly be our own, I’ve taken what you’ve failed to grasp. While you were slaughtering pagan Easterners in your little bog, I was here, accumulating wealth and power you’ve only fantasized about. I am the seat of an empire that you only have access to through Brandenburg.

“But those are meaningless things, aren’t they? Because here’s what really matters to you – the only thing, isn’t it? I’ve seen how you stare; I know that look – I’ve got what a childhood spent pining among the monks prevented you from getting. Did you ever mention it to them? How young love made that vow of celibacy torturous? How close did you come to breaking it? How many Hail Mary’s did they make you perform for every impure thought? Do you wonder what they’d think of you now, going through all this because you’re in love with your brother’s wife? Phrased just so, they would burn you at the stake again. Ah, but the hellfire is familiar, isn’t it?” Roderich glanced at the clock hanging behind Gilbert’s shoulder. “Erzsébet should be waking now. Go play domestic and bring my wife some coffee.”

Roderich forced himself away from Gilbert, who was left crestfallen with his wide eyes and gaping mouth. He had said enough, gloating would be overkill. He entered his study and locked the door. If there would be consequences for his monologue, let them come later.

The day was still new. Roderich stared out the window. Despite checking the clock, his adrenaline had made him forget the time. He approximated it was no more than nine. He began pouring himself a glass of brandy, but stopped, preferring to drink from the bottle. He gazed around the vast emptiness of the room beyond its sole occupant. He raised the bottle for a toast:

“To the prison of my own making. There is no place quite like home.”

[merryfortune]

Get Well Soon

Ship: Chiyu/Shindoine

Fandom: Healin’ Good PreCure

Word Count: 2.4k

Tags: Canon Divergence, Enemies to Lovers, Redemption Arc, Minor or Implied Relationships

Synopsis: Unrequited feelings are a disease and it sure is going around a lot lately.

   She wasn’t sure when reality had slapped her in the face, but it had and it had hard.

   It had even left its mark. Again, she wasn’t really sure when it had. Or maybe it had every time and she had been so quick with the blush of denial; she never noticed the pink in her cheeks that wasn’t rouge.

   But, at long last and overdue, Shindoine was finally ready to face the facts. King Byougen was not in love with her.

   She was madly in love with him, but he did not feel the same way. She was nothing but a nuisance to him. Nothing at all to him. Just another replaceable soldier but he was the one to have named her. To have first called her by Shindoine and when he had spoken that name, she had swooned. To be given meaning and identity and purpose but for what? To be just another token in a losing war?

   It was awful. Made Shindoine’s heart twist and turn and knot.

   She had listened to that wretched thing for so long in the place of advice more down to Earth, stemming from the likes of Guwaiwaru and Daruizen. Shindoine sighed and suddenly nothing mattered to her. Not the shimmer on her eyelids nor the lipstick that she used; her nails seemed blunt despite having been treated this morning.

   Even with all the gloom and misery around her, the bubbling and magmic world of one so thoroughly and endlessly undermined, wasn’t quite good enough for the heavy feelings that Shindoine wallowed in. If she was going to feel sorry for herself, she needed somewhere which wasn’t here because here had nothing but pebbles to kick and no one at all to bully.

   Somehow being hit with the I told you so from either of her fellow Generals hurt more than the actual revelation that her feelings towards King Byougen were useless.

   So, to the Human World it was.

   But it wasn’t the same.

   When she was on the rampage before, it had been done in the name of love and there was nothing more invigorating than that. And no, the irony wasn’t lost on Shindoine. She was at her peak, physically, mentally, and emotionally, when she was in love. Doing it all for her precious King Byougen. All healthy and refreshed. Disgusting. Now she only had pity and other pathetic feelings for that Shindoine she had been before she had accepted the reality rather than making herself up with make-up and denial.

   It was so much rosier back then. Even if back then was mere hours ago, really.

   Shindoine looked around. She hardly knew where she was, just walking around in a daze. Sulky and depressed. Worst still, she was ignored. Or at least she thought she was ignored. She was certainly doing a lot of ignoring as she heavied herself with all the different ways that she could negatively self-talk about herself and her stupid, unrequited love.

   But looking up, blinking, getting dazzled by the sunlight, she had to squint but Shindoine was almost certain she knew this place. That she had been here before. The stony steps; the wooden building, and a very, very subtle and well-hidden smell of sulfur.

   She growled to herself as she let another terrible realisation dawn on her. This was where the blue, water-themed Pretty Cure hailed from. Cure Fontaine. Shindoine could feel her skin crawl but for some reason, it didn’t repel her. Rather, it further attracted her to this building.

   It could be fun to wreck. To rend it with all her angst and loathing. Slipping inside undetected wasn’t too hard, either. Shindoine looked around. It was different to a lot of the other human dwellings that she had been inside of. That a vastly different style, to it. The bamboo on the flooring, the layout that had a natural flow to it. It seemed older. She didn’t necessarily dislike it as she explored it for an idea of something to infect with a Nano Byougen.

   Only, she didn’t end up doing that. She ended up in its backyard with nothing speaking to her with inspiration. Not in a destructive way at least. Shindoine found herself mildly intrigued by the hot springs. It had been a long day and the warmth was pleasing to her skin. It was gentle; not like the harsh, raking warmth of her home world.

   So, she indulged herself. She deserved it, after all. It had been a horrible past few hours and walking around aimlessly in her high heels had done a number on the soles of her feet so she sat down at the rocks. She took off her shoes, took off her pantyhose too and she tried dipping her toes in the water.

   Shindoine could have melted when she broke the tranquil meniscus of the water. She shivered and she sighed. It was wonderful as she let herself go deeper; her toes grazing the scrubbed down bottom of the hot springs. It was soft but still had a rocky feel; it was fun texture. For the first time in hours, Shindoine smiled to herself and she drank in her surrounds. How quiet it was; that hidden smell of sulfur. Oh, it was perfect.

   It could have been perfect.

   It was perfect, very much so, right up until the moment when she heard a clatter behind her. Something dropped in surprise, buckets and brooms and that sort of thing.

   Shindoine turned her head with a scowl. She saw a familiar face that she couldn’t quite place but she knew her luck, even if she didn’t know this girl as that girl was undoubtedly Cure Fontaine, even if she wasn’t in her big, plucky dress and the like. She smiled awkwardly.

   “My apologies,” she began and Shindoine was almost about to tell her to save it before she continued, “I didn’t realise that we had a guest.”

   She then bent down to pick up what she had dropped - and it had been exactly what Shindoine had thought, a bucket and a mop. Shindoine glared. Pouted, too, chewing the inside of her cheek.

   “I can leave, too, if you would prefer privacy. I don’t want to disturb someone whilst they are soaking.” she said.

   “If its you, I don’t mind.” Shindoine said. “We can call a truce for today, Fontaine, I’m not bothered enough to go on a rampage today.”

   “Oh, dear…” she murmured, and she set aside her cleaning supplies.

   Shindoine groaned to herself. Now she had gone and done it. She had a feeling that this was about to be more bothersome than conjuring a Megabyougen and trying to destroy the place. And yet, she didn’t try to do that. To throw dirt in the face of that truce and instead let the Pretty Cure sit down next to her. Her feet dipping into the water and all as she held onto her apron, a look of concern on her face.

   It made Shindoine sick to her stomach. The way this girl could just give her a break like this. If it was the other way around, Shindoine knew that she would be merciless. One of the Pretty Cure having a bad day? There wouldn’t be another opportunity like it but the moment she, the villainess and arch-nemesis of this very girl has a bad day?

   She sits down with her and makes the most soft-eyed expressions. It revolted Shindoine as she tried to look away from said soft-eyed expressions. She was too pretty, that girl. It irked Shindoine.

   She sat down next to her and straightened up her apron that she wore and looked up to Shindoine and said, “You can call me Chiyu, if you like.”

  Shindoine very much did not like that but she did anyway.

  “What’s got you so down, hm? Do you want to talk about it?” Chiyu asked.

  Shindoine very much did not want to talk about it with Chiyu but she did anyway. In a small, uncertain voice, she admitted to this Pretty Cure what the troubles with her bubbles were, making ripples in the water with her foot, Shindoine very simply explained herself, “He’s not in love with me.”

  Chiyu’s expression all but shattered. That soft look in her blue eyes hardened, turned almost icy and if Shindoine didn’t know any better, she would say that Chiyu empathesied very much with her crisis.

  And sure enough, she did, she mumbled back, “I know the feeling.”

  “Oh please,” Shindoine huffed, flicking water about, “as if. Who in the world would turn down you? Me? I can understand. Who would want a no-good villainess around, only useful as cannon fodder, no different to the other two dweebs I hang out with but you? Beautiful, brilliant Pretty Cure who always saves the day? Yeah right, girlie, you are yanking my chain so knock it off.”

  “No, really,” Chiyu insisted, “I know the feeling and you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You are beautiful and brilliant in your own right, Shindoine, you always give your all. Its admirable, even if, er, yes you are trying to destroy the planet but, um, perhaps if you are intruding on a party of two… Then yes, you would get turned down.”

  Shindoine gasped. “No way.” she exclaimed.

  Chiyu nodded and she twiddled her thumbs, “Yes way.” She mumbled.

  “Pinkie and Yellow, huh?” Shindoine teased.

  “Yes, it seems they have coupled up but knowing they are exclusive does little to quell the crush I have on Nodoka regardless.” Chiyu murmured.

  “Here’s to us then.” Shindoine murmured.

  “Here’s to us.” Chiyu echoed back.

  They were both quiet for a moment. Letting on the hot springs make almost imperceptible noises for them until, eventually, they both had to do something. To move, to make a sound. They both turned their heads at just the right time to catch the other doing the same and there was a genuine understanding of pity and grief of being unrequited between them.

  Chiyu smiled, sympathetic. “You’re not too bad when you’re not trying to destroy the world.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Shindoine sarcastically replied. “You’re not too bad either, when you’re not trying to save the world.”

  Chiyu laughed.

  “That makes you laugh?” Shindoine asked.

  “Well, um, not really. I prefer puns, actually.” Chiyu admitted.

  Now Shindoine was laughing and quite raucously at that. She closed her eyes to it and she tried to imagine Chiyu having a real belly ache over something as stupid as that. Stupider still, she couldn’t think of one to test and when she opened her eyes, Shindoine was caught off guard by how beautiful Chiyu looked in the sunglitter bouncing off the still waters, sitting prim and proper. All whilst emanating this sincerity that almost made Shindoine want to switch sides.

  She was just so lost. She couldn’t bring herself to destroy the world for someone who would just destroy her, so she looked longingly onto this girl and she felt almost refreshed. There was a wondering, it lived within the glint of the sunlight and the water of the hot springs, and she took that chance.

  Shindoine kissed Chiyu on the lips. Surprising her.

  Chiyu was too stunned to kiss back but she couldn’t deny there wasn’t a fizzle to it either. She could feel the skin on her lips literally burn off the longer that Shindoine kissed her. The taste was rancid, but she could feel the kind passion behind it.

  Shindoine, meanwhile, sighed into the kiss. Where it was hurting Chiyu, it was healing her. Chiyu’s lips were soft and wet; vaguely tasting of cleanly mint and once upon a time, Shindoine would have been disgusted by that. Right now, in this mid-afternoon moment, it intrigued her. It was all part of the experience as she took this foray into the light and when she broke back, she moaned.

  There were burns and blisters on Chiyu’s lips. She instinctively tried to cover up her mouth, now wounded but it just made her seem cuter. Shindoine smiled to herself. She thought they were just the right shade of red tinged with pus; she tilted her head to the side and Chiyu felt flustered by her stare and just how fond it was.

  “I’m still not sure what to do with myself but… I like you at the very least.” Shindoine said. She then got up abruptly, she flipped her long hair off her back and generally fussed. “I best be going.”

  “Okay then,” Chiyu replied, feeling a little stood up, being kissed and ghosted in one fell swoop, “but will I see you soon?”

  “I hope so. If I don’t try and destroy this world, the others will and those two are losers so.” Shindoine murmured.

  “I see…” Chiyu murmured, downhearted.

  Beginning to walk away from Chiyu, scared of leaving what she was literally created to do despite her apprehensions of her usefulness unto it, Shindoine added, “Healin’ goodbye… That’s what you guys say, yes? Well, I’m feelin’ it, at least a little bit, and its strangely not that bothersome or tiresome.”

  Shindoine had no idea if she was giving Chiyu false hope of some redemption in those words. All she wanted was love. Love to infect her and to infect others with love and with those marks on Chiyu’s lips, Shindoine had certainly accomplished something like that.

  “I’m glad so, um, get well soon.” Chiyu said, chipper despite her hesitance which dipped into over-confidence because she was making a joke. Her laughter was proof of that even if it made Shindoine roll her eyes.

  Chiyu’s demeanour was so bright that Shindoine was glad she had her back turned but she could feel how bright they were. It unsettled her; it made her skin crackle and blister no different to her kiss unto Chiyu because even thoigh bleach was cleansing, it was still a poison.

  Shindoine smiled. She disappeared soon after, but she did take Chiyu’s bidding her farewell in good, amused heart. She wanted to get well soon as well as unrequited love was a disease. Though, having said that, she wasn’t too sure what that made her kindling with Chiyu because it didn’t feel like sickness, but it wasn’t a cure either but it was a middle ground that maybe Shindoine could get used to.

[stormyweaver]

Borrowed Time || Chp. 1

So my latest hyperfixation has been this show on Netflix called ‘Swee/t Home’. It’s a live-action South Korean adaption of a webtoon comic, and seriously if you’ve never heard of it before, at least watch the first episode. If you aren’t hooked, gosh, I don’t know what could make a person want more! But you don’t have to have seen the show to enjoy this I think, but again I’d highly reccommend checking the series out. I adore every single character and I’ll probably be writing more about them all, but for now I’m focusing on Pyeon San/g-wook because h-he’s my fave... He’s basically a mysterious drifter who dolls out justice in his own badass way, and he’s amazing and a super complex character. 

MAJOR SPOILERS FOR EPISODE FIVE, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED:

This is after Sang-wook kills the pedophile he was hired to find, and then drags his body outside while bringing two other victims who had died to a monster inside the apartment building. It was pouring raining and my brain instantly went: how can you have a out-in-the-rain scene without sickness? BLASPHEMY! Anyway hope y’all enjoy!

The timing might have been slightly comical if he didn't have a splitting headache. Or, was it a concussion? That... nurse had mentioned something similar, but he truly hadn't paid her any mind. Why would he give someone so prying the time of day in the first place? He hated being touched without his permission, no matter the reason; maybe she had simply been trying to help, but there was absolutely no way in hell he was going to let her continue treating him as if he was some weakling.

No, he only... felt weak, due to all of the stress. He would bounce back eventually - he inevitably did. Though he could never fully comprehend why, his body had an uncanny ability to heal faster than most, and bestowed him with a strength that most people only ever imagined themselves possessing. It had served him well over the years, made him capable of surviving on his own for as long as he'd needed to, aided him in carrying out the tasks others simply didn't have the stomach for. It had of course, had it's downsides - there were injuries and ailments he simply couldn't knock in a matter of hours, and those instances where he'd been forced to finally allow his body to rest were intensely irritating.

A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead as he staggered through the dirtied hallway and, sensing that he was finally alone, allowed himself to lean bodily against a flyer-littered wall. His breath was coming in short, harsh pants, almost bordering on wheezing, though his teeth instantly grit at the idea. He wasn't weak-- damn it, if Jae-heon had just left him out there to die, he wouldn't be feeling like utter, completely useless shit right now. The zealot likely loathed him just like the rest, if not fear then at the very least an intense dislike. Only his 'vows' or whatever meaningless word of God had made him keep the gate open. He swallowed- or rather, made an attempt to, and was unsurprised to find that the action was mildly painful. Pair that was the throbbing near his sinuses, the malaise, and the general feeling of being lethargic, it wouldn't take a medical professional to inform him that he was unwell. What was that old saying? Something about only fools catching a chill from standing out in the rain? Nonsense. But... well, he wasn't about to start pondering old proverbs with a pounding headache. At least he wasn't getting a nose bleed. Just a stuffy one. It took Sang-wook longer than he would have preferred to stand up straight again and continue limping down the walkway, but eventually he did, coming to a stop on the corner of a vacant room. He could practically hear his limbs creak as he perched himself on the edge of a step, and one hand automatically slipped into his jacket pocket. Some habits were harder to break than others. And if ever there a time he truly needed a smoke... With the lit cigarette between his lips, he began to ponder what his next move would be. He had technically finished his business there; no other reason to remain other than the fact that fucking monsters were roaming the city. Of all the positively inconvenient bullshit - monsters. Not that he had any real plans after taking care of matters. He never did. Being a drifter meant not making attachments, not allowing himself to get roped into anything unless it was related to his main task. And yet there he was, with an apartment full of people who either saw him as a thug or a threat or, for some irritatingly insane reason, a person to be pardoned. A laughable concept at best. He didn't even want to be pardoned - he didn't regret the things he had done, to begin with. And wasn't that one of the key steps to getting into heaven? Being repentant for your sins? Well, that was already one big strike against him. Just how did that damned nosey priest expect him to continue on, then? Why had he been so adamant about "saving" him? Why? A trail of smoke filtered past his nostrils, nose absently wrinkling as the thoughts only served to frustrate him all the more. What the hell was he going to do... He brought the stick to his lips again, but his breath caught pre-inhale, mouth forming a deeper frown than normal. A small pin-prick had been stinging the back of his nose ever since he'd woken up, but so far he'd been able to ignore it. Until now. He sniffed harshly, once, twice and, thinking that was that, but the moment he closed his lips around the cigarette, he inhaled harshly through his nose. "hH'KGSHHh!" The sneeze jerked his head down sharply, though he managed to keep it relatively quiet. The last thing he needed was some passerby hearing and having the guts to try and approach him. Though containing it hadn't done his headache any favors, and his teeth had nearly snapped the cigarette in half. Hell, he couldn't even smoke in peace. What was the point of still being alive, again? "You shouldn't be smoking," Ah, there it was. Sang-wook didn't need to glance up in order to place the voice - he could smell the self-righteousness from a mile away. Or, he would have, had he been able to smell anything at the moment.

Resisting the urge to sniffle, he made no attempt at offering even a semblance of acknowledgement towards the other. Not that it would stop him from poking his nose where it didn't belong, so it came as no surprise when Jae-heon stood directly in front of him, gradually lowering himself until he was seated similarly to the other with a soft grunt. Sighing, Sang-wook plucked the useless cigarette from his lips and tossed it to the floor, swiftly crunching it beneath his boot. "I'm not,"

Jae-heon hummed in acknowledgement. "I don't say it to judge," Sang-wook wasn't sure why he felt the need to clarify, but his gaze did flit over to the other's general direction for a moment. He could see the glint his blade gave off out of the corner of his eye. Curious. Although he didn't doubt the other's skill, he just didn't see a point in taking it with him everywhere. But that was ultimately his choice, and he didn't have the mental capacity to bother pondering why he did so. "How are you feeling?" The scarred man barely lifted his eyes to Jae-heon, who gestured with his chin towards the direction Sang-wook had originally walked from. "Yu-ri took a look at your head injury, right? Is it serious?"

The only response he gave was a meager shrug. Sang-wook wouldn't willingly give information about how he was feeling when it didn't matter in the long run. Whether he was fine or slowly bleeding out, what difference would it make? You shouldn't be alive in the first place; why does he care? God, thinking made his head throb. Couldn't he just be alone in this god forsaken complex for more than a solid minute?

He heard Jae-heon sigh, noted him shift slightly, but still kept his gaze glued to the floor. "What you did... I can't agree with your actions," Sang-wook almost scoffed aloud. Was he really expected to listen to a lecture about right and wrong? His attention was already split, anyway. The itch sparked in his sinuses still burned, not having been satisfied with the weak excuse for a sneeze, and every facial muscle was tensed as he worked to smother the sensation into submission. At least he always happened to look stoic, so he doubted the other would notice. Still, hearing Jae-heon gear up for a sermon of sorts didn't bode well for his waning resolve. "But I do understand why you did what you did. The others might not - they might still see you as something that you're not-" "What would you know about what I am?" Sang-wook interjected sharply, a scowl evident on his features. Admittedly, it hurt to talk, and he internally cringed at the trace of hoarseness in his voice. But he didn't like anyone thinking of him as some misunderstood wretch worthy of some kind of redemption. He wasn't a hero, he wasn't a villain, not good or evil - he simply was, and he never needed to be more or less than that, didn't need to satisfy anyone's opinion of him. Jae-heon glanced down momentarily, looking as if he were trying to gather his thoughts. Speaking could come as easily as breathing at certain times, and yet there were moments were every point of diction managed to fail him. "I'm not here to pity you. And I wouldn't claim to understand you. Every person has their reasons for what they do - and every person has to stand with those reasons before the almighty. I'm not here to judge," The scarred skin beneath Sang-wook's eye jumped slightly. "Then what are you here to do? Whatever it is, you're wasting your..." He had to pause, throat constricting momentarily before he sighed unevenly through his nose, "... breath. You should be more concerned about yourself," Jae-heon couldn't help but quirk a miniscule smile at that. "That isn't God's way. Besides, I wouldn't still be alive if I had decided to be selfish," His thoughts shifted to Hyun-su, Mr. Han, Ms. Im and Ji-su - he had all of them to thank for his life, for making it this far. People who, while they may not have shared the same faith as himself, had believed that sticking together and looking after each other was the way to survive - was the right path. No matter their differences, they chose to be selfless, and that was what had led them to finding the other survivors. Sang-wook didn't reply, mainly due to the fact that he wasn't sure he could safely do so without breaking his concentration. Though it didn't matter - Jae-heon continued anyway. "You didn't have to bring back Min-Ju and Su-ung. I won't ask you why, because to me, what matters is that you did. That means something," When Sang-wook didn't respond again, Jae-heon opened his mouth to continue, only to be silenced when the other opposite him took in a sharp inhale and twisted off to the side. "hH'GKxnt! h'HCHGnt!" Jae-heon blinked for a moment, not really startled by the sneezes but seeming to examine Sang-wook with a little more scrutiny, to which the the other flashed him a glare. Unfazed, he continued to gaze at the other. "You look pale. You should be resting," Sang-wook simply scoffed, cringing at the phlegm lining his throat. He desperately needed to sniff back the moisture threatening to breach his nostrils, but his pride held the action back as Jae-heon continued to press the issue. "You're up and about after having passed out - and you were in the rain for a good while. You might be getting sick," And if he was? What the hell did it matter? Sang-wook wanted to press both heels of his palms against his eyes and grind until the pressure behind them lessened at least a little. He was exhausted, and fatigue suddenly swept over him like the storm clouds still raging outside. Everything felt heavy and sluggish which, for someone with normally such sharp senses, was more than off-putting. It felt wrong. He felt wrong. Why was the good Christian wasting time worrying about whether or not he was ill when there were literal monsters still roaming the apartment? As if sensing his turmoil, Jae-heon finally moved to stand back up, katana blade resting by his side. "You should go see Yu-ri - at the very least she can give you something for your head," He began to turn away, paused, then uttered something that made the skin on the back of Song-wook's neck prickle uncomfortably.

"Take care of yourself," Jae-heon’s retreating footsteps seemed to echo unusually loud, and it wasn't until he could no longer hear them any longer that Sang-wook finally indulged in a thick, pitiful sniffle and allowed his head to drop into his waiting hands.

[vulturhythm]

heave her up and away we go

people across the globe have heard of the wolf of the sea. they’ve heard tales of a captain with hair as pale as the moon and eyes as yellow as the gold he seeks, of a brute of a man whose conquests are vicious and leave no survivors.

(no one ever points out that, if there were no survivors, there would be no tales.)

nearly all the coastal cities claim to have been visited by the wolf and his horrific vessel, the mohren. “he took our mayor’s daughter” or “we watched him slay all our finest soldiers...” all stories of bloodshed, of unspeakable acts the likes of which only a true pirate could achieve.

(no one ever points out that no one actually describes having seen the wolf in the wake of such assaults.)

the wolf has earned himself an awful name upon the seven seas, and it is said that he fears no other captain - not one who sails beneath the crown, nor one who hoists the skull and bones high. it is said, in fact, that even blackbeard cowers at his very name.

(no one ever points out that blackbeard has been many years dead and gone.)

and yet...

well.

for such a horrendous reputation, the wolf of the seas is, in fact, little more than a puppy in the shallows.

and who am i to tell you this?

none other than the wolf’s favorite companion, his most trusted friend, his private performer, his lover on the best of days.

i was born julian, but following my recruitment into the pack of the wolf, as it were, i have taken up a multitude of names - jaskier, dandelion, even songbird at times.

(more cruel names, such as bastard, wretch and ship’s rat, at other times. it all depends upon the side of bed upon which the wolf awakens.)

when geralt found me, i was playing for farthings - pence or shillings, on a good day - at a little pub in an even littler port city. some of you may know it, but it is likelier that the rest do not, so i won’t name it. it had been a rough day for tips, and yet still i sang. by the time a great, hulking man with hair as white as snow and eyes as bright as the sun walked inside, my voice was nearly gone, and so i pounced upon the chance to down a drink or ten with a mostly-willing partner.

(geralt is standing above me as i write this, and he says he was less than willing, but i question his memory at times.)

i don’t recall how long we talked that evening before the location of our discussion moved from the pub to the exterior wall, and then, eventually, to the loft of a stable, the owner of which i knew would be drinking until dawn. i caution against taking a man to bed amongst a pile of straw, for a multitude of reasons, but i have no regrets.

well, anyway.

dawn came, and i found myself loath to leave geralt entirely. he mentioned that he had a ship, the night before, and it was this that i repeated to him upon sunrise. “surely,” said i, “my prospects for money would be better in a new town with new ears,” and geralt sighed at me, acting so incredibly put-upon.

“to the next port,” he said, and that was that.

“but, jaskier,” you cry, “you set foot upon the mohren and did not immediately turn tail? such bravery!”

waste not your praise, fair reader, for, i must admit, i had yet to piece together the image of this powerful man with that of the infamous wolf of the sea. it was with foolish joy and a light heart that i strode up the gangway and onto the great black ship. first to strike me was the fact that the only visible crew consisted of a young girl, watching from the crow’s nest.

next was that this was most certainly not of the british crown, nor was it your average fishing vessel.

no, it was a large and sleek thing, meant for speed and endurance.

it was, in short, a pirate vessel, something which i confirmed for myself when i cast my eyes upward to see a black flag overhead.

a black flag that held not the jolly roger, but a massive white wolf skull, vicious teeth bared.

i assure you, dear reader, my heart was in my throat when i whirled to geralt, who had already begun to pull the wooden gangway back onboard.

“you’re the - “

“the wolf of the seas,” he said, and he sounded entirely unaffected, as though this was a daily conversation. “i have no plans to hurt you. like i said, to the next port, and no further.”

it was as i stood there, lute in hands and jaw upon the deck, that geralt stepped toward me, and i take pride in the fact that i didn’t flinch. “you have the song of a lifetime in the making, right here before you, but if you want to go back ashore, i won’t stop you. i’m merely offering transport.”

as i recall it, i was entirely robbed of the ability to speak for those first few seconds, so i was capable of little more than a nod. on the one hand, if i was killed, i could rest assured it would be painless, considering the strength and power geralt had made evident the night before. on the other hand, geralt was entirely correct - if i were to survive, i would have the makings of the finest song known to man.

i would live in luxury!

geralt took to the wheel shortly thereafter, and i followed along, standing near his side to observe.

the wolf of the seas, i can tell you all, is not a fan of idle conversation, so the bulk of our discussions for the next four days consisted of my eloquent monologues, halfhearted grunts, and, well, various other noises.

it was the evening of the second day before i managed to coax anything akin to an explanation from the incredibly silent man, and, once i had begun the process of extracting his story, i found it far more prudent to remain aboard than leave his company at the next port. geralt protested initially, but three years later, he has not yet rid himself of me entirely.

now, i wish to preface this - and all subsequent information - with the following:

all that i am about to relay has been pieced together over many a year of traveling with the wolf of the seas, and the writings in this journal are little more than a traveling musician’s attempts to chronicle the life of one of the kindest men to ever sail the world.

with that out of the way, let us begin.

-

the circumstances of geralt’s birth and early childhood remain a mystery, as any attempt to discuss these things results in a complete and undeniable refusal, so alas, i cannot tell you where the wolf was spawned. i can, however, tell you that his introduction to the sea came about as follows:

as a youth, he trained under a crew of shipwrights, one that built the finest of crafts for the crown - a crew that has, from what i’ve gathered, long since met their ends due to natural causes. geralt’s affinity with the craft paved a natural way for him to join the british royal navy as soon as he was of age.

(watching geralt, it is easy to imagine him upon a warship, and yet, i cannot fathom him in anything but a position of command. he is a leader, through and through.)

he saw few true battles, as my understanding goes, but it seems his frustration with the crown merely grew with each passing day, as he and his crew were sent to dispatch all pirate vessels. in moments of vulnerability, he has shared with me stories of horrific acts committed by the men said to be on the side of the law, of innocent folk harmed in the path of good, of men whose only crime was seeking a living upon the seas slaughtered like beasts for the altar.

to date, geralt hasn’t told me of the final straw.

i know better than to ask.

according to him, it isn’t that difficult to steal a ship from the navy when one is among the most trusted sailors.

i have my doubts.

geralt’s brand of piracy is a unique one, to be sure. i doubt the man is capable of a legitimate attack on another vessel, at least not on one that isn’t telegraphing clear intent to harm. a stark contrast to the brutal portrait painted by civilized society, geralt spends his days patrolling the seas with intent to help, not to harm.

in my time spent at his side, i have witnessed the horrible wolf of the seas escort smaller craft to port, dispatch empty slave vessels and let them sink in splinters, defend others flying beneath the jolly roger from the crown... perhaps most important, however, i have seen him offer men and women alike safe passage or a spot on the crew in exchange for their promise to spread the worst of rumors to those on land.

why?

well, according to geralt, the why should be obvious - no british officer is going to fear a pirate whose reputation is one of kindness.

—

the wolf of the seas travels with a motley crew, to be sure. in all honesty, his crew isn’t much of one to speak of, as the majority of those who travel with him regularly are kept on for... sentiment, as it were. in terms of combatants, he employs those whose luck has failed them elsewhere.

the young lady i’d spotted in the crow’s nest that first day goes by the name of ciri, and she was taken in when the crown left her town decimated in search of a presumed criminal. geralt thinks of her as a daughter, something i determined very quickly. she’s a bright child, although perhaps a tad too perceptive for her own good.

there’s a grown woman aboard, too - a lady with bright red hair and a sharp wit, known as triss. geralt’s interactions with her lead me to believe they were once rather fond of eachother. i bear her no ill will. she’s an interesting sort.

eskel and lambert - two rather formidable men, both of whom i tend to avoid, for little reason apart from their enjoyment of tormenting me. i’ve rescued my beloved instruments from their mischievous hands many times before.

there are others, too, of course, different people of different creeds, all taken aboard to be given a second chance, all useful in some way. i know none of them particularly well, but we live on friendly terms.

geralt makes a point of dropping in on certain towns regularly, to visit old friends - vesemir, yennefer... i never interact with them terribly much, but i have seen the fondness in geralt’s eyes when he returns from his much-needed retreats.

one thing for which i can vouch is that the wolf of the seas has never turned on one of his own. he treats each and every one of us well, and truly, we want for nothing. i, for what it’s worth, have a warm bed and a warmer body to enjoy each and every night, in exchange for little more than song.

i live what is far from a conventional life, to be sure, but i wouldn’t trade it for all the riches and status in the world.

well, the moon rises high, and geralt is calling me to bed. i must set my quill aside for the time being, but rest assured, my tales are far from complete.

until the morrow,

jaskier

—

you have no clue how nervous I am right now - I really, really hope you like this!

to the rest of you, don’t worry, merman!au is nearly done!

@xdandelionxbloomx

[fandomn00blr]

FUNERAL HOME MEET-CUTE PROMPT FOR MORRISTAIR!! (i actually don't know what a meet-cute is, but i am hereforthissssss)

So...you already pretty much know what happened to this. But this is now officially a “meet-weird,” and it has inspired my latest WIP. So thank you, friend! Your ideas are the best! I’m linking to AO3 in another post, because it’s a whole ass chapter of a whole new work now, but here’s the finished part featuring Morrigan, just for you...

In what appeared to be some kind of office, a large faux mahogany desk stood, taking up most of the little square room with its oversized workspace and overhead cabinets. The room seemed to be overflowing with old yellowing papers and file folders stuffed haphazardly into filing cabinets and every other spare nook and cranny not taken up by the imposing furniture. Behind several piles of “unfiled” paperwork, there was a young, dark-haired woman leaning back in a beaten up fake leather executive office chair, also ridiculously big for the size of the room. Her thick-soled black boots were kicked nonchalantly up on one of the only cleared-off spaces in sight, and she had some kind of device in her hand that she was absent-mindedly tapping at and scrolling through.

Neria could sense the device’s connection to a larger network, but refrained from trying to link up with it herself. Establishing a closed, local connection with the self-contained and heavily-defended network of the sterile Facility computers was one thing...connecting with another Link out in the wild seemed risky, even for her. She imagined Cullen congratulating her on her restraint and recognition of “appropriate boundaries.” And Jowan shaking his head at her for missing an opportunity to try out her skills now that she was finally out of that wretched, stifling place.

“What?” the woman at the desk asked, sounding annoyed that anyone had dared to bother her.

She was around the same age as the two of them, though she seemed to be wearing lots of dark eye makeup to try and hide the fact. Her tight black jeans, torn and faded on purpose, and her loose net shirt hanging perfectly-slouched off of one shoulder to reveal a dark burgundy bra strap betrayed her false apathy, as well.

But her spiky golden collar necklace reminded Neria of scrapping with her parents as a little girl. “Vintage costume jewelry...” her mother had explained to her when she’d picked something similar out of the scrap pile with a look of awe and wonder like she’d found something truly valuable amid the heaps of old electronics. “You can keep it. It’s practically worthless.”

Worthless trinkets. A voice that wasn’t Neria’s or her mother’s chided her in her head.

The woman behind the desk seemed to fix her eyes on Neria for just a moment, a glimpse of recognition snapping itself into some kind of shared consciousness between them. Then, as quickly as her eyes had flickered over her, she withdrew again, returning her attention to her device while Neria blinked, continuing to stare blankly at her necklace.

“Yes, er...we were wondering about making some arrangements. For a friend. Who died recently in the...” Alistair nodded toward Ostagar, but the young woman seemed unmoved.

“He was a fairly important person,” Neria chimed in, trying to be helpful. “Do you have a discount for that?”

“Neri…” Alistair groaned, shaking his head.

“Ah, yes.” There was a hint of something new in the young woman’s face as she looked up at them again. Amusement? Intrigue? Loathing? Whatever it was, it was better than the cold contemptuous indifference she’d been trying so hard to show them up until this point. “The ‘fairly important person’ discount...let me just look that one up.”

She kept her golden eyes on Alistair now, a tiny hint of half of a smirk as she smashed the keys of a dusty yellowed keyboard that didn’t appear to actually be connected to anything. “Oh, how strange. It seems that was only for a limited time. As in, while the person was still alive. And thus, still important.”

Neria seemed to consider this for a moment. “Huh.” Then she shrugged, looking up at Alistair. “I mean, we tried, right?”

“Anyway," Alistair continued. "His body is currently…”

“Dismembered,” Neria interjected, nodding emphatically.

Alistair turned and gawked at her in disbelief for only a moment, before shaking his head as if he could ever shake the horrific images she'd just so casually conjured up back out of his mind.

“But we would still like to arrange a small funeral?” he said, turning back pleadingly to the young woman behind the desk. “To honor him somehow, and help lay his soul...to rest…? Or to help it pass over to…” he trailed off, unsure where he was even going with this.

He had noticed the woman’s left eyebrow raising higher and higher the longer he rambled and it remained there, arched in condemnation as she asked, “So what do you expect us to do about it?”

“Aren’t you...a funeral home?”

“I mean...I guess…” She sighed, then pushed a button on an old telecom console in front of her. “Motherrrr…”

“What is it, girl?!” a voice crackled over the speaker.

“Customers...I think?”

“Send them back to me, then.”

There was a harsh click, and the young woman’s attention returned to her device.

Neria elbowed Alistair after a few moments and he cleared his throat.

“She will meet with you in the trailer out back,” the young woman drawled, somehow rolling her eyes at them without even looking up. She lifted her bare shoulder to indicate roughly which direction they might proceed.

“Thanks!” Alistair chirped. “We’ll find it!”

He hastily pulled Neria by the arm out to the hallway, in the direction of the harshly glowing EXIT sign, and then pushed through the rear emergency door, which, to the surprise of no one, was already disarmed.

[vanderlindemangofarm]

Hi! Not sure how requests work since this is the first time I've done one, though I absolutely adore the fact you make content for my soft trainwreck Swanson. So really just any content for him, headcanons, a gender-neutral fic about him getting the love he deserves, some female reader smut. I just need more content for this underrated boi so just choose whichever.

So…this inspired me more than I anticipated. Initially I was going to do some headcanons for Swanson finding someone who would treat him right, but got thinking about his life before the gang, and here we are. I tried hard to keep within the canon knowledge of his life (for example his dud marriage) but imagined other scenes such as how he saved Dutch - I know canon leaves this open for the player to imagine but I really enjoy the idea of him unknowingly saving someone and then suddenly finding himself part of an outlaw gang. Basically his life has been one giant ‘Curb Your Enthusiasm’ meme.

As it goes, I’m proud of this. I’d like to do similar pieces for the other “forgotten” characters like Strauss and Pearson one day, but we’ll see how it goes.

This is for you, Anon, and anyone else who, like me, often finds themselves thinking about dear Reverend Swanson. 

Summary: Orville reflects on the choices and loves that lead him down this path as he seeks his own redemption and returns to the city he once called home.

Warnings: mentions of alcohol and drug abuse

Word count: 1,995 

The Emerald Tiles

Orville thought of her often. Thewoman he would have married.

Would have. Would. The word pierced him like an icicle and meltedaway with the hazy hours of another wasted day.

As the gentle hum of the campfaded into the background with a large swig of whiskey, Orville closed hiseyes. The air was cleaner out here, he thought. It was nothing like the city,his city, the city that made him. New York seemed a lifetime away, and in asense it was, he concluded with a sigh. Those days where he’d stuff one of hisfather’s theology books under his coat and sneak out of the house, finding aquiet corner of Chelsea where he’d sit by the river, legs dangling over thegrey water, brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of the words he read. Thebooks spoke of disciples and martyrs and faith that stood unshaken againstquestions and debates and fear.

It was always assumed thatOrville would seek out a career in the church, just like his father. He was athoughtful, earnest young man with a wild tangle of red hair and ink stains onhis fingers. But try as he might with his studies, he could never get to gripswith the academia of it all. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy learning – headored the process of understanding something – but the idea of taking thewords of other, often dead learned men at face value didn’t sit well with him atall. And so that’s where those stolen hours by the river, books in hand, cameinto practise. Without someone berating him for his insolence, he could readand query and wonder in perfect solitude. And on his way home, perhaps he wouldsee her. The woman he would have married.

Her parents kept a greengrocerson 17th Street, a modest but overflowing store piled high withproduce and walled with unforgettable emerald green tiles. Orville decided thatthe tiles were chosen to match her eyes, ignoring the fact that the buildingwas twice her age. She always pretended not to see him until he was right infront of her, her shining eyes widening in mock-surprise. She would allow himone piece of fruit to take on the house, though woe betide the pair of them iftheir scheme was ever found out. He’d scan the shelves of glossy green applesand sumptuous looking pears, punnets of berries that toppled over one another,their juices staining the wooden floors. Once he’d chosen his treat she’d cupit in her little hands, subtly wrapping it in brown paper and tucking it intohis coat pocket. Sometimes her hand would linger there, just for a moment.Other times he’d gently brush her palm, and she’d blush.  

He would finish his education, hedecided. He would marry her. And then they would leave.

The darkened shroud of war stilllingered over the city. Orville could still smell it in the night air, see itin the gloomy interiors of ruined house-fronts, hear it in the whispers ofthose who drank too early and for too long. And although this was his city, heloathed its miserable claws.  As themonths went by, Orville felt more and more stifled, more frustrated. His fatherwas rarely at home due to his work, his mother kept busy with running thehouse. With few friends – and even fewer of them with similar interests – hewould bring his conversations to the greengrocers. He saw injustice everywhere,he’d exclaim to her, the woman he would have married. The poor only seemed toget poorer. The world only seemed to get angrier. He’d clench his jaw, eyesblazing, raving about how faith seemed worthless nowadays. She’d listen, sighand simper.

It’s alright, he’d say. Theywould be married soon. And then they would leave.

Perhaps it would have beenalright, had Orville not had his first taste of liquor and broken the nose ofanother man who told him to be quiet, to sit down, to stop his uselessramblings about faith. Perhaps if he had come up with a witty line, or ascathing glance, or a simple polite smile, the river of his life would havecontinued without nearly as many meanders.

But here he was, holding herhands as she wept, in the alley behind the greengrocers. She told him that noneof it could happen, none of it. Everyone heard about the broken nose, includingher parents. He cupped her face and told her it didn’t matter. They could stillget married. They could still leave. She wasn’t a prisoner.

She said yes, she knew that. Butshe didn’t know him, not anymore. She couldn’t marry someone who frightenedher. For the first time in his life, Orville couldn’t respond.

He left that night, for Ohio.

Although he did ascend to theposition of reverend as the years went by, it was as if he never fully saw thesun. He spent hours writing, reading, preaching. All the while, the clouds thathung over him only felt heavier. He had sworn to never touch liquor again afterthe wretched broken nose, but there were some nights when the Earth felt socold he could stand it no longer. And as with any taste of honey, one willalways find a reason to have more.

When he lay with a beautifulwoman on a hot July’s evening and decided to spend the rest of his life withher, he thought the world had come around again. Finally, he had found acompanion to call his own. The drank together freely, danced, laughed, shouted.He’d lift her up and bury his head in her chest. She smelled of smoke and wineand rain.

She wanted to go to west aftertheir wedding, as far west as he could take her. Mistaking her insistence forromantic spontaneity, Orville complied. It was in San Francisco that she gavehim her ultimatum – follow her to Shanghai or lose her. She was married toanother, you see. A bastard of a man who never danced with her, you see. ButOrville, her Orville, he was the one for her. He could dance. He took her west.What was an ocean if it meant they could be together forever?

His hesitance cost him more thanhe realised. When he woke the next morning in an empty bed, he knew she’dalready gone.

More years passed. More liquorwas consumed. When Orville threw himself from the balcony of a saloon, claimingto be in good favour with the Angel Gabriel who would definitely save him, hefound himself bed-bound with a generous prescription of morphine. Fortunatelyfor him, his little stunt had caught the attention of two lawman who until thatmoment had been in hot pursuit of a dashing, dark-haired fellow with a sack ofmoney. Fast forward a few months, and Dutch van der Linde was offering Orvillethe chance to find a new family, a new life, in gratitude for saving his. Allhe had to do now was have some faith.

Faith? The irony! Orville foundhimself laughing out loud now, sitting in a puddle of his own urine on the edgeof camp.

But the Earth kept spinning, lifekept happening, as did death. Sean, Kieran, Hosea, even young Lenny, allsnatched away. Tales of an island, of a war ship. Dutch’s increasingly strangemind. Arthur being somehow…different.

In what seemed like a hurricane,Orville found himself sober. He still wasn’t sure if he liked it yet, only timewould tell. But this gang was his family, he realised all too late. If he hadany chance of salvaging it, he’d have to be on his feet. And he did try to helpthose he could, truly. He didn’t expect to be explaining all of this to Arthuras he waited for a train that would take him far away, but here he was. The airfelt thick with uncertainty, and yet rife with clarity for the first time sinceNew York.

And so, there seemed to be onlyone place to go. And for all of the majestic, ever-growing buildings of thecity, all he could picture was emerald green tiles.

Unable to afford the full journeyto New York, Orville spent some time in Ohio again, preaching on street cornersfor dollars and his own peace of mind. He was welcomed by a small congregationjust outside of Cincinnati, where he remained for several years. It would havebeen his forever home, had the idea of returning to New York not planted itselfso painfully in his head.

The day he left he rose early,dressing in his freshly laundered attire, straightening his hat. He feltfoolish, as if he was trying to impress someone. Perhaps he was.

As he sat on the train, thechanging shades of green in the landscape soothing the growing nerves, hethought back to the gang. Redemption was a strange concept, could it ever berealised? With a pang of guilt, he wondered if he could have invited Arthur tocome with him, to let him die in a warm bed with a belly full of good food, anda friend by his side. He shook his head, feeling a lump in his throat, knowing hewould never have accepted such an offer.

New York swelled and bellowed anddanced like never before. There was an electricity in the air, something thatrefined the senses and exhausted you all at the same time. Suitcase in hand,Orville wandered the heaving streets like a lost child, his head tilted upwardsto take in the sky that was rapidly succumbing to architecture. The noise wasoverwhelming.

37…36…35…each street unlockedmemories that had been begrudgingly stored away in the furthest corners of Orville’smind.

27…26…25…turn back, go uptown, hetold himself as firmly as he could, but his feet wouldn’t stop. His back hurt,his breath was laboured.

20…19…18…stop, that’s quiteenough now.

17.

17.

17.

There it was, 17thStreet, stretched like a grey scar, smothered with people, with lives, who hadno idea about his, about any of it. Orville turned right and walked down thechorus line of shops, public houses, eateries with exotic smells wafting fromthe cosy interiors. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry, as he scanned thehorizon for the greengrocers. At last, he saw it.

His eyes took in the boarded-upshopfront, broken windows, a sign announcing FOR LEASE. Emerald tiles, chipped,battered, missing. He was unsure how long he stood there, or if he cried. Itwas as if his entire life was being paraded before him like a cruel circus.Every drink he swallowed, every punch administered, every night of debaucherypushed back, scattered before him in pieces like the emerald tiles.  He was dimly aware of the looks he was gettingfrom other pedestrians, which brought him back down to reality in one fellswoop.

And Orville Swanson realised thathe had returned to New York not for the woman he would have married, but forthe man he would have been. The man with the tangle of red hair and ink on hisfingers, studying theology by the river, who loved the pretty girl in thegreengrocers and wished only to help the world, who ignored the taunts of adrunkard and worked pensively, who would heal people with his words and docharitable acts and hold the hand of a green-eyed, red-headed child. Now, as hecontinued his walk down 17th Street, towards the river, Orvilleprayed for the man he would have been, for surely he existed in another life, anotheruniverse, and would wish him no ill will. And he smiled, knowing thatcontentment was not stored away in memories, covered in dust, but was somethingto be discovered anew.  

[hyunnielix]

Wrong | 1.

The smell of crime reeked through your city although you were a controlled assassin with limits, you tried your hardest to use your sense of justice to step up and be their vigilante for better or for worse, unfortunately, you have to get involved with the city’s most notorious mobster, Tom Holland.

Pairing: Tom Holland x Y/N | Parts: 1 2 3 4 5

Warnings: mob!AU, violence, gore, teasing, swearing, sexual themes, drug references, alcohol abuse, death, assassin!reader

Word Count: 2k

           clothes off ‘cause she so soft

                 this ain’t a fair fight 

            One; The File, Fire & Flames

Echoes whispered through the paper thin walls, the cold breeze flowing through the open windows causing your skin to react, creating small goosebumps as the stealth catsuit you wore barely covered the exposed skin of your upper body. It wasn’t a logical choice really, but you didn’t have a say.

Your stomach churned with a multitude of emotions, unable to pinpoint just one as the tension in the night air grew thicker almost suffocatingly.

Clenching your jaw to suppress any faltering emotions from showing on your face, you strutted confidently in your stiletto heels down the poorly lit hallway and towards his office.

The only light source guiding your way was the iridescent moonlight that shone onto the marble flooring, reflecting onto many of his prized possessions that were on display in glass cases, not too practical.

You recognized the guard as your close colleague Sebastian, nodding to him dismissively as your hand came in contact with the metallic handle twisting it ever so slightly.

“Be careful, he’s not in a good mood,” His calloused hand clasped around your wrist tightly preventing you from entering, ripping your gaze off the patterned wooden door and to him, you forcibly removed his grip. Your faces merely inches apart as you calculated your next words.

“I think I can handle it.” A growl fell from your lips, surprising yourself in the process at your hostility as his eyebrows furrowed, his usual glimmering blue eyes now dull and bloodshot. 

Your lips parted, struggling to swallow the lump in your throat inaudibly before pushing the door open, entering the ‘famed’ room that your colleagues always praised claiming miracles happened in there, but you refused to believe this as your own experiences proved the opposite, knowing how much of a curse it really was.

The skin coloured case file that sat under the table light on the desk was the first thing to catch your eye. Totally ignoring his lingering presence in the room, you strode towards the table inhaling the wretched scent of smoke whilst picking up on the ashtray that embers were still brightly burning out.

Brushing your fingers nimbly over the folder before picking it up, your stomach dropped as your eyes glazed over the file name.

“James, I can’t do this one,” You stated while flicking through the pages of research pausing at the headshot image of the notorious mobster with brunette curls and chocolate eyes, your spine shivered at the mere thought of him.

Usually, the target's weaknesses were listed underneath their name, however, the list was absent from the file causing you to wonder just how deadly this guy really was. How many people had he murdered in cold blood?

“And why is that?” He inquired, his voice coming out hoarser than you’d imagined obviously from the side effects of smoking as he ominously came forward into the light.

His auburn hair was messier than usual, the wrinkles on his forehead and the corners of his mouth more prominent than ever. His eyes scared you the most holding answers to questions you couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

“I’m not going on a suicide mission,” You retorted, dropping the file onto the desk disinterestedly as possible hoping the slither of mercy he possessed and your ability with words would save you from your inevitable fate if he refused to work with your stubbornness.

“It’s either you or your family,” He shrugged nonchalantly, the words rolling off his tongue too smoothly to be an empty threat. Your throat constricted at the mention of your relatives, chest heaving with what you could now recognize as vexation.

“Y/N, you’re our best operative,” He continued on, attempting to persuade you as he sat comfortably in the chair behind the desk eyeing your every move and reaction to his lethal words. You resented him for turning you into a weapon, once you saw the world that way there was no going back.

“That doesn’t make it right,” You retaliated, slamming your hands onto the desk violently, accidentally denting it with the pressure of your fists. 

“Don’t step out of line now girlie,” He warned, slowly sliding his pistol across the table, the irritating noise of the metal against the wood throwing you off.

Leaning forward, he yanked your forearm down onto the table, bunching his other hand in your hair as he brought your face dangerously close to his

“If you’re not careful, I’ll inject that serum right here,” He hissed, pressing his fingers on your pulse point, your eyes widening as he let out a chuckle at the exact reaction he would hope to coax out of you before throwing your head back.

“You sick bastard, don’t touch me.” You seethed, trying to control your anger by clenching your fists, digging your nails into the palm of your hand and drawing a red substance.

“Sebastian, take her away,” He spat as Sebastian entered the room, pinning your wrists behind your back harshly. You could’ve easily dropped him but you had to earn their trust, no matter how long it took.

“You promised me a call asshole!” You yelled out, striking a nerve in you as you loathed broken promises, you had one too many of them in your life.

“I think it’d be better if they still thought you were dead.” He responded smugly, a smirk creeping onto his face while you struggled against Sebastian's grip restraining you from slapping the smirk off James’s face. He threw you over his shoulder, hauling you out of the room before you did anything else out of recklessness.

“Quite a nice little performance you put in on there doll, I’m impressed,” He commented while locking the door behind him, letting you crawl off him, your heels coming in contact with the ground again.

“Not all of that was a performance,” You mumbled, peering up at him with glazed over eyes unsure of how to handle your bubbling over emotions properly as you were never quite taught how it was one of your weaknesses.

“The only way you’re going to get out of here is to kill him and burn that contract,” He sighed, running his hand over his light stubble as he watched the cogs turn in your very complicated mind.

“What right do you have to tell me how to escape? when I've been here longer than you,” You spat, pointing your finger into his chest with every syllable pronounced out of pure spite.

“Y/N tread carefully, I’m the only person willing to help you here you don’t want to lose that.” He crossed his arms over his chest, glad that the room behind him was soundproof as he stated the facts.

“Do you?” He questioned, but you knew too much was at stake to be retaliating against him just because you were in a bad mood so you swallowed your pride begrudgingly.

Cursing under your breath, you turned away from him pondering your options as you grazed your fingers over the bleeding palm of your hand revelling in the sting it caused. Pain brought out your most undesired emotions.

“I’ll have the file delivered to your room tomorrow morning,” He informed you as to your lack of reply left a lot of questions, for him anyway.

“I want it tonight.” You sharply ordered beginning to strut down the atmospheric corridor again, away from Sebastian and that bastard James.

The multilayered manor you lived in, which some people would call a paradise was more like a jail cell to you. Staring at the many different prototypes of latex catsuits that hung in your closet a sigh left your lips. From what you gathered the city had dubbed you ‘Black Cat’. The number of reports and televised criticism on you was deafening to your ego however you expected this, you knew how the world thought about vigilantes. Especially the corrupted police that pathetically called themselves the justice system, because of them media outlets were desperate to figure out your alter ego, much to your dismay. James kept them off your tail for the pure reason of entertainment.

Propping yourself up on your bed, your sensitive ears picked up the sliding of something under your door. Head snapping towards the direction, you furrowed your brows at the skin coloured file that lay strewn about on the tiles. The silver and reflective name of Tom Holland shining into your eyes irritatingly so.

Picking it up, you opened the file pulling out the paperclipped sheets of paper that had valuable information about his background on it. Your eyes scanned over the first page. After an hour or so of breaking down his profile, you found some crucially important points; He never went anywhere without his right-hand man Harrison Osterfield, His whole familiar were involved in the drug industry which also made them one of his weaknesses or so you assumed yet it was dangerous to do so in situations like this and he had an affinity for strippers that didn’t surprise you.

Dominic and Nikki Holland were out of the picture, none of their limbs or bodies intact enough to be autopsied. They had both left on a train to negotiate their next payload when it exploded, the assassination attempt deemed successful. You recognized the symbol on the detonated bomb realising it was James’s handiwork.

The Holland twins, Harry and Sam were both trained in hand to hand combat obviously it wasn’t military training but the second best thing. Luckily one of them had a girlfriend but you weren’t going to notify James about that since he would go to desperate lengths to torture people for fun and use them as leverage, you had firsthand experience in that. 

Claire Hope, 19 Ridgewood Drive, imprinting the address in your memory you resealed the document. It was the appropriate occasion to utilize the stealth suit for this slight detour.

Zipping up the suit whilst standing on the ledge of the windowsill, you inhaled the stale but refreshing air of the night letting the iridescent moonlight beam onto your face, eyes fluttering shut in a moment of contentedness.

Turning on the balls of your feet, you positioned your arms in a T movement allowing yourself to plummet backward without a single hesitation in your action due to your cat-like reflexes.

The masks built in GPS proved its efficiency in times like this, tracking targets became easier with each new piece of manufactured tech James had stolen.

Scaling the roofs was the effortless section of the mission as you concentrated your focus on following the crimson arrowhead that guided you to the address through the mask, allowing you to do so without any unwanted interruptions.

As you began to accelerate approaching the girl’s house, boisterous ear-piercing sirens could be heard ringing out. A screech ripping through your throat as it threw you off. Dropping down low onto the roof as you accidentally gained the attention of the people swarming around the house. Familiar scarlet and azure-tinted lights flickered around continuously on a loop.

“Fucking cops.” You hissed under your breath, eyes widening interestedly as an ambulance pulled up outside of the house, the shrill and frantic yelling of the paramedics almost deafening. You’d think they’d be trained in situations like this to handle it calmly.

Watching intently as paramedics exited the house, you noticed the young woman you could recognize as Claire having an intense seizure on the stretcher.

“She’s going into cardiac arrest!” The male exclaimed signalling the others to aid him, getting ready to perform CPR as they placed the stretcher onto the gravelly ground of the pavement, their covered hands on her chest putting pressure there every couple of seconds.

Your breath hitched as the sudden realization hit you, you weren’t the only one assigned to this mission.

You ears pricked up as the smallest clinging noise caught your attention, squinting your eyes you saw a shiny gold encrusted ring next to her lifeless hand that must’ve slipped off as they placed her body onto the ground enticing you even more than before. Was she apart of the 7 rings?

[mairesmagicshop]

a surgeon’s hands

1500ish words

F!Apprentice x Julian (apprentice not named or physically described)

The slow burn continues. Julian and his apprentice work together. The temptation nearly overcomes what he values above all. He’s too hard on himself and maybe something needs to change.

Warning: A few non-graphic references to autopsy.

We're standing on a wire

Any moment it might break

We could fall into this fire

Or give into this fate

-Bittersweet, Elenowen

Ever since his studies in Prakra, Julian Devorak has prided himself on his hands. Loath ever to part ways with a compliment - because if there could be one greater than from a master physician like Nazali Satrinava he could not conceive of it - it was the one indulgence he permitted himself. Steady, still as death, even; no nervous tics, no accidental hurt occasioned by an errant or hasty gesture.

A surgeon’s hands, they’d said, and it had stolen his breath clean away. He comprehended the power in those words and accepted that which he wielded: to be able to penetrate the fragile shell of the human form, navigate the maze of nerves and capillaries and ruddy waters constantly coursing within… and heal. There was no greater weight – and indeed, no greater thrill – than entering the ailing, dark abyss, and banishing the infirmity. Leaving it not untouched but transformed. Better than before.

This plague was a trial and a scourge for, among other things, it had left his sure hands impotent, good for nothing but the prodding of lifeless bodies for clues. But he knew it would not - could not - last forever. His hands would heal again; he could feel it in his bones. And so he looks upon his hands with trust and admiration, even if he cannot do the same for the rest of himself.

-

She’s been working in the clinic a little more than a month, and if the growing shadow of the plague seems as though it’s blotting out the very sun, she’s a single candle piercing the darkness. They’ve been meeting every evening to discuss the days’ trials: general observations, new admittances, the ever-growing body count. Her reports are thorough but laced with compassion, and tonight, he notes, the clinic is full of fresh-cut flowers. “It helps them to have something beautiful to look at,” she says. “And they help purify the air.”

He heaps praise on his apprentice – what an excellent idea, of course that must help – and finds himself unable to look away, their gaze upon each other lingering a beat too long for comfort. Decorum demands he bite back the unspoken obvious, gone jumbled but undeniable in his mind – you, my dear… you are the beauty… -

She smiles at his silence, politely averts her eyes. She knows, he thinks, a frisson of warning and excitement twining down his spine in equal parts. She must. He clears his throat out of habit, crooked smile returning. Composes himself again - steady.

He will do an autopsy this evening (these are human beings, damn it - he refuses to call it a dissection), the patient who she reported had survived five days after onset of the plague. There may be some secret, waiting to be unlocked within the body – An extra two days, how? What made her different from the others? - something which might free them all. They must try. She’s more than ready to assist him and he tells her so, awaiting her assent. Her fierce, hungry look is all the answer he needs, even as her words tumble out, heated and pained. “I will do anything to stop this. I’m in.”

The sun is nearly down, the sky awash in color. They lock up for the evening, chatting amiably as they make their way to the night market for a couple of meat pies, as they’ve done now countless times before. Their pace and the ease of their conversation have become pleasantly familiar. If he’s being honest with himself, their time together is the best part of his day; a reward for the plodding, difficult hours spent researching – agonizing – over some way to treat the victims, ease their suffering, at least, let alone cure the plague itself.

As they near the palace, she leans into him and murmurs an off-color joke, and the press of her breath feels altogether indecent against his neck. He meets her gaze, feigning scandal, his heavy brows arched, and as she gives him an incorrigible wink, they dissolve into laughter. For the briefest of moments, the plague, the din of the surrounding crowd, and the misery simmering amongst them all fall away. Only they remain, and Julian, full of shameful longing, thinks about sex instead of the dark duty that awaits them.

-

The descent into the laboratory is a somber contrast and there are no teasing words, not here. But there is closeness, fleeting touch, as he helps her into the apron and offers her the mask, his hands bare. It does not escape him that despite the ample spaces where she could take it unhindered, she chooses the spots where his fingers rest, her fingertips ghosting over his. His ears burn, his face is hot – I am not imagining this; that was deliberate. And then: “Will you tie it for me?”

He swallows hard as she places it to her face, the strings hanging down, turning her back to him. Shifting fluidly behind her, he studies the line of her, the tilt of her head, the way her ears sit, sighs inadvertently. “Julian? Are you all right?" In an instant, he remembers himself.

He mutters an apology, feeling ridiculous. Get a hold of yourself, you great fool. But he's more interested than ever, now. Perhaps his intuition is right; it could be that the esteem in which she seems to hold him is not altogether professional. He feels a tug in his chest, a little burst of exhilaration which he clamps off tightly. Would it be too forward, then; would it be unwanted to...?

He reaches forward, his palms slipping against the sides of her neck, impossibly soft. She exhales softly, her head tilting back toward his touch. Taking the strings of the mask between his fingers, he draws his hands back and up, the insides of his wrists to the heel of his hands dragging firmly against her, up past her ear as he feels the shiver convulse within her.

He ties a quick bow, his fingers sliding down through the edge of her hair to rest at the base of her neck. He leans in just beneath her ear, trace of a smile at his lips. "All done. Don't forget your gloves."

She whirls on him suddenly - how very, very close she is, her eyes fixated on his mouth, lids fluttering upwards. She lifts her chin (rather suggestively, if he’s reading her right) and raises her arms, wiggling her gloved fingers in apparent comic relief. "I'm way ahead of you," she says with a smirk. "Are you ready?"

He swallows, clears his throat. Slips on his gloves speedily and holds his arms up to mirror her. "Born ready, my dear." Striking a jaunty expression, he feels transparent and false, his heart hammering so hard he can hear his own blood sloshing through his ears. Her answering smile is tempered with something that looks like anxiety, so he gives her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. You'll be fine, he says. It's something all doctors do. But she is not a doctor, and they both know it. She is now here for him. And they both know it.

He leads her out to the table where the body lays shrouded and waiting. He begins with lecture, gestures punctuating his speech which flows easily as she watches on, eyes wide but not quite afraid. Upon his request, she hands him the scalpel to begin. As she delivers it to him she stands for a few seconds, quite close, her heat seeping into his hip, and as he turns - 

A curious thing: a trembling hand. His hand, in fact. Odd, at first - but then, betrayal. He can trust nothing else in this cursed life. Will he mistrust his hands now, too? He scoffs within himself, feeling embarrassed and frivolous. Is there nothing I can keep safe? He wants to laugh, or else cry; tear his hair out. Will this wretched plague take everything from me?

The scalpel clatters to the floor, its thin, high, metallic laughter echoing all around them. He whispers a curse and lunges to the ground to retrieve it. He kneels and reaches under the table, and as he extricates himself, he feels her hand on his shoulder.

He peers up at her.  Her eyes glimmer, calm in the dusky light, and she offers a hand to help him. No pressing concern or wretched pity, no judgment or commentary into some fall from grace; just one person, helping another. Fighting the keen desire to root himself at her feet, the shame rising so quickly it feels he might be sick, he takes it, murmuring a word of thanks. He turns to his grisly work, his apprentice beside him. He takes a deep breath, her hand upon his back to steady him, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world for her to do.

She is so beautiful, and so very close still, and with that touch, something passes between them. The flagellation within him comes to a halt as she looks on, visible in his peripheral. She told him something tonight - perhaps not directly, not with her words, but in a different way; she showed him. He dropped a scalpel. That’s all.

And he smiles, despite himself. Still, even as death.

[thelastmorozova]

I found this deep in a Google Docs folder from 2015/16 from when I was deep in Darklina hell. Thought it was about time it saw the light!

I'm trash. This is trash omg.

Summary:

Alina reflects on her shadowy marriage to the Darkling.

--

The Darkling won every war and Alina is the reluctant Queen to his King.

The day had already gone to hell, and it was barely nine.

   Her arm burned from where the blundering maid had lost her grip on her breakfast tray, causing both hot liquid and food to spill onto her queen. Alina made no attempt to order the guards that dragged the sobbing maid away to be gentle. Nor did she allow anyone near her but a Healer.

   Things got worse when she pulled on her dress and found a hole in her sleeve, as if it had caught somehow. Huge, gaping and ugly. It would not do.

   It was with her mood foul that she strolled into the dining room and took the seat opposite her husband. Neither looked at the other, neither acknowledged the other until the soft clinking of porcelain ceased.

   "You didn't come to bed last night," he said quietly, his eyes fixed upon Alina over the rim of his cup.

   Alina laughed softly. "You are well informed as to my whereabouts, husband."

   "What is so wrong with our marital bed that you refuse to share it with me?"

   "I've no quarrels with the bed, only you." And what you intend the bed be used for.

   A muscle feathered in his jaw. The cup clattered against the saucer. "Must you always be so difficult, my love?" he growled.

   Alina smirked. It was simply impossible not to. Only she could rile him up so very fast and successfully. She folded her hands and rested her chin upon them. "Just imagine how impossibly dull your life would be without my 'difficult nature.'"

    Saints, he often wished that he could kill her. Choke the life from her as his shadows invaded her body through every crack and crevice. His queen's screams and pleading for mercy would be the sweetest music to his ears.

   Though he knew already that she wouldn't beg. Or ask for forgiveness. Alina was too much like himself now. The girl who had walked through the doors of the Little Palace was long since gone, warped by shadows.

   "I will never bear you another child," Alina said slowly, deliberately. "Go bother yourself with the one you already have. You may control me, but you'll never control my heart. You ensured that it was ripped out long ago."

   The Darkling tipped his head back and laughed for a long moment. "Such dramatics!"

   She knew that he'd sense the power building up before she unleashed it, but still she threw out the arc of light towards him and fled from the room, her chair on its side.

   At times, Alina missed the nobody she had been before being claimed by the Little Palace. By him. Maybe the life of a mere cartographer would have been better than this. This... slavery in exotic silks and heavy perfumes.

   She often contemplated running, but where would she run to? And he would find her, of course. There was nowhere to run when you had a hound of darkness snapping at your heels. And it wasn't easy to think of running, for despite everything... what little of her heart she had left loved him. Those rare moments of love and affection, they were addictive.

   Enslaved by my own heart, she often thought bitterly. Enslaved to a monster, and you love him still. Fool.

  The winter solstice celebration drew closer with every passing day until at last, it arrived. Decorations flooded the castle and icicles hung from every banister, real and delicate.

   Alina loved her dress for the evening. It was of the purest sapphire, embedded with real diamonds upon the bodice. Halter-necked dresses would always remain her favourite, for they spoke of grace and surety, the perfect attire for a queen. Though, she doubted that the queens of days gone by would have approved of the way the dress barely fell to her knees at the front, but grew into a long and glittering train at the back.

   He wanted dramatics, he'd get dramatics.

   They'd all be there, Alina knew that. Even the Fjerdan king and queen, though they both loathed and feared them, the Grisha. The unnatural witches and their power. In the early days of conquering Fjerda, they had burned the Drüskelle, their witch-hunters, the same way they had the Grisha. Now you will never walk with your Djel, the Darkling had said with his eyes shining darkly with hatred, raising his hands to signal that the Inferni could begin.

   And then he had shattered the Ice Court and burned it to the ground, enveloping the area in the Fold. Not even the Volcra could feast on the little ashes that remained.

   Assassins and armies came. Assassins and armies died. One by one, the capitals fell to the Darkling and his monstrous Ravka.

   The crown upon her head drew everyone's attention when Alina walked into the throne room.

   Of course it would. To the unknowing eye, the circlet upon her brow would look like ivory. Only it wasn't, but human bone. Her final amplifier.

   She could barely remember the boy anymore. Much less his name. It had been too many years since she'd killed him and taken his very bones. She had loved him once, she thought. Or was it a mere dream?

   It was as she was trying in vain to remember the name of the human that she saw the woman.

   Alina stopped dead. Sat upon the knees of her husband and king was a young woman in a tight fitting midnight blue dress. And even worse was the fact that the Darkling was smiling, a hand upon her hips.

   Jealousy and rage erupted out of her. She was only half-aware of the beam of light that she threw the wretched woman's way, her screaming as she went blind harsh in Alina's ears.

   The Darkling said nothing, did nothing as the woman fell away from him, sobbing and scrabbling at her ruined eyes. Alina merely stepped over her body and snarled, her eyes positively glowing golden with anger from within. She grasped the Darkling's chin and forced his head back, eyes meeting her own. Alina was infuriated by the dark amusement in them.

   "I knew it," he murmured. "I knew that you still had a heart, no matter how shriveled up it may be now."

   Alina ignored their audience and straddled his lap. Her fingers fell from his face to his heart. Even now she was surprised to feel a real one beating beneath her hands.

   "I don't have a heart," Alina told him quietly, "but I am prone to fits of jealousy. You are mine and I am yours. You would do well to remember that."

   "Might I say that jealousy becomes you, my Alina?" His lips brushed her own, so softly that she barely felt it. Desire flooded her body, her fingers finding the front of his trousers and digging her nails in. Mine, she seemed to say. You may sit upon this throne, but you should remember who sits on the one beside you. This shadow kingdom of yours would not exist without me.

   If anyone had any objections as the king bunched his queen's dress up at the hips and unbuckled his belt with his other hand, they kept quiet, feigning disinterest. The chatter didn't dim once as the girl cloaked in light rode her king of darkness. Slow at first, discreet, but then faster and harder, her head tilted back towards the gilded ceiling and obscene moans upon her lips, their audience forgotten as they often were. Time had taught Alina that modesty was a dull thing, that it was much better to scandalise. After all, forever was a long time to stay behind closed doors.

After their encounter in the throne room, they left the party, not bothering with the planned display of light and dark. Why was it even needed? The entire world knew their extremity of their power. And feared it.

   It was almost dawn when she awoke. Arms encircled Alina's midriff as if they belonged to a devoted lover. But... what were they? Alina could never use the phrase "making love" when they had sex. Love was not involved. Not in the slightest. Their encounters were moments of madness, lust and nothing more.

   One of the hands slid down to her inner thigh. "Planning on running out on me so soon?" His slightly sleepy voice accused through the darkness. "A pity. I had the most delicious of ways to wake you up in mind."

   Alina swore internally as her body began to burn once more. At his words or because of the fingers creeping ever closer towards her core, she didn't know. She loathed the effect he had on her stupid, traitorous body. Though her body resented her for it, she grabbed his wrist and wrenched it away.

   "Don't touch me."

   At first there was silence and Alina thought herself triumphant. But then she squeaked in surprise as his hand shot down between her legs and cupped her. A soft laugh and he breathed into her ear "Why not? It's evident that you enjoy it. Despite all of your hissing." His other hand slid over her stomach, fingers dancing upon her sensitive skin.

   Saints, Alina thought, struggling to formulate a line. Or think of any word at all that would make him let her go. To get across how much she hated him.

   "Please," she eventually came up with, voice barely more than a whisper.

   "Please what?" He murmured, lips finding the line of her jaw through the impenetrable darkness. Alina swallowed hard and let her eyes flutter shut. She allowed him to kiss along her jaw until he reached to her throat. When he found that, he bit on it a little too hard to be merely teasing and playful. Forever marking me as his own, Alina thought darkly. "I'm waiting," he said quietly against the hollow of her throat. "Please what?"

   "Please just let me go to sleep. I'm tired." Lies. Lies. Lies.

   "You know that I don't like it when you lie, Alina." Before she could reply, he flipped her from her side and onto her back. Alina forced herself to say nothing as he sat astride her hips, as naked as she was. "And I'm very sure that just now, you lied to me."

    Alina steeled herself as she pushed hard against his bare chest; he didn't move. But then, he did.

   The kiss was devastating. It shattered her apart, then remade her. And she hated it. Hated him for making her feel such a way. Alina gave in and kissed him back, twining her arms around his neck and drawing him down towards her. Bastard, she cursed as his teeth caught her bottom lip. You bastard. I hate you. I should stab you while you sleep.

   Did he love her? No. At least, she didn't think so. The day they married had felt like a complete sham. A ceremony of lies. When they had exchanged vows, it was yet another link added to the chain that was already weighing her down. They were bound so utterly and completely.

   And yet, despite it all, she frequently got jealous whenever he spoke with another woman. You need to decide what you feel, Alina. You can't hate him one day, then contemplate feelings for him on the next. It doesn't work like that.

   Alina broke the kiss and gasped out "What do you feel for me? About me?"

   He stilled above her. "I don't understand," he said in a clipped tone. "We are married."

   "Indulge me, Alek."

   A pause and he rolled off her. Alina watched as the lamp next to the bed was lit, the flickering orange flame casting long shadows about the room. The Darkling looked anything but pleased, his inky black hair a mess atop his head. Alina liked him better this way; when there was no one else in the room but them and he didn't bother with the charms of court life.

   "I never should have told you," he growled softly, throwing the covers over himself once more. "Now my name is nothing but a weapon for you to wield whenever you see fit."

   "Your name a weapon? Don't make me laugh; you used to love it when I called you by your true name."

   He still loved the way her lips shaped his name. Not his title or His Majesty, but his real name. The only person alive other than himself that knew his birth name was Alina.

   Alina shivered and he raised an eyebrow. He supposed that it really was a cold night, and she was hardly dressed appropriately. She was as bare as he was. "Are you cold?" he found himself asking.

   "No."

   Rolling his eyes, he took her arm and tugged her into his embrace, pulling the warm covers around them so it formed a cocoon. Though she grumbled unhappily about it, she snuggled closer into the warmth of his chest. He placed a hand upon the small of her back, distantly pleased that she didn't throw him off.

   "The world changes around us, yet we remain constant. Forever is a long time, Alina. Too long for us to spend the entire time loathing each other," he said quietly into her ear. Alina didn't move. "We only have each other."

   And Viktoriya, Alina sighed. Though how long would she live? Had she inherited her father's ability, his immortality? Part of her hoped that the girl would simply grow old and die. It was such a horrible thought, but she feared what she might become with such a father. And mother. Viktoriya was the child of monsters and what hope did a child like that have?

   Alina traced a finger up his spine, satisfied when he shivered at her touch. "I am nothing but your obedient servant."

   "You are my servant, yes, but you are not obedient. Not in the slightest." Once more those fingers slid over her thighs and she knew that he was trying to make a point; he was expecting her to shake him off, to snap at him to leave her be.

   "Just fuck me already and get it over with. I'm tired," Alina snapped, rolling onto her back. Maybe after he was finally satiated he'd leave her alone for a week or two. If she was that lucky.

   The Darkling paused as if he was going to say something, but then Alina watched his expression turn blank once more as he climbed back onto her and into her.

   Alina was summoned to the dining room the very next morning. When she awoke she was predictably alone, but she took no notice as she dressed herself rather than have some terrified maid do it. Her muscles ached and complained at every move she made. Each time Alina winced, she cursed her king and his wildness. His inability to control himself. As long as he was satisfied, she didn't come into it.

    I should find a man who can satisfy me like a real person, she thought on the way down to the dining room, mood more than foul. A man who won't think solely about himself and actually consider the woman he is currently fucking.

    "You look distinctly grumpy this morning" was his greeting just as she passed through the doors. Alina wanted to throttle him there and then.

   "Don't talk to me," she ordered, taking the seat furthest from him as usual. The Darkling was best observed from a good distance away.

   This was their existence. And Alina was fairly certain that it would remain so forevermore.

[nightblink]

Blink Reads Oathbringer - Chapters 94-99

In which I yell about many things, from Dalinar to worldhoppers, and go on a semi-long rant about how Syl is severely misunderstanding Kaladin’s need for emotional intimacy.

Also, fyi, this Best of Dark Souls Series Soundtrack mix is A+ atmosphere for the whole of Part Four thus far.

Chapter Ninety-Four – A Small Bottle

Another sketch-page before the chapter, this time detailing Types of Vorin Wines. Thank you Sanderson for giving us these little worldbuilding tidbits~

[winces] Seven years ago, and Dalinar was an angry stumbling mess of an addicted, alcoholic drunkard. He's not even functional.

They discovered the Parshendi on that hunting trip and Dalinar still hasn't been to see the Nightwatcher? Daaamn, that trip was a lot later after Evi died than I'd previously imagined. Dalinar's trying to suppress an absurd amount of self-loathing under all that drinking and it's tearing him apart – he was psuedo-functional on the trip but it just reminded him of being the Blackthorn so much that he's basically trying to drown out all memory of that now too

!!! Adolin and Renarin were both on the trip where the Alethi came across the Parshendi!

'Her hair. Her judgmental eyes.' How much of your anger and guilt and self-hatred have you been taking out on your sons, Dalinar.

...you did not just fucking refer to Renarin, your own son, as 'the invalid'. You… ooooo, but I want to STRANGLE you right about now. And then you scream at them on top of that?

Oh, Renarin. First coming back, facing him, giving him the bottle, and then pulling him in for a hug. Dalinar, you think 'timid', but what the hell is braver than what your son is doing right now, huh?

Dalinar… Dalinar practically hated his sons - for how much they reminded him of Evi, for how much they cared - during the worst stages of his grief and alcoholism. Good god. It’s no wonder that this entire family is broken right through to the core.

'Why hadn't the boys learned to hate him back? They should hate him. He deserved to be hated.' This is the realization, isn't it. This is the turning point that finally tipped you over the edge into deciding to visit the Nightwatcher – the love of your sons, the way that Renarin (brave, unshaken Renarin) holds you as you cry.

Chapter Ninety-Five – Inescapable Void

Well that's not an ominous chapter title at all. :|

“the powers of all Surges compounded in one” sounds like one of the most terrifying concepts in the Cosmere. There's a reason that there's no Radiants with all the Surges like there are Mistborn with the ability to burn all metals – they're already too disgustingly OP. To think that there might be an Unmade with all the Surges compounded? Uhhhhh, wh a t. Also what's this about swallowing a gemstone to- wait. Wait. Yelig-nar was the one that Aesudan said “serves me”. Fuuuuck fuck fuckity fuck-

Kaladin is a seething pot of barely-contained emotion right now, even moreso than usual, which is saying something. It's no wonder he's attracting angerspren – he feels that he's abandoning people that he should be protecting, down to the last breath, if need be, and that feeling's only heightened by the fact that they fled from a scene where he couldn't save anyone.

Shallan's too mentally and emotionally exhausted to devote energy to feeling much right about now, and Adolin's in full 'Grieve later. Keep moving. Reach the next goal.' mode. To Kaladin, it doesn't look like they care because they're not outwardly showing any hurt, and that just makes him angrier-

And he's holding onto that even if he knows he's wrong. Because his depression is coming back with a forceful vengeance, and The Wretch is a looming grey fog in the back of his mind just waiting to consume him. 'Life going well? The darkness would whisper that he was only setting himself up for a bigger fall. Shallan glances at Adolin? They must be whispering about him. Dalinar sends him to protect Elhokar? The highprince must want to get rid of Kaladin.' I… shit. Those two lines are a punch in the gut, that is e x a c t l y what it feels like; no matter how much you try to logically convince yourself otherwise, it doesn't matter, because the numbness and the grey and the loneliness are all too overwhelming… damn, I need a moment.

Kaladin, it wasn't your fault. His death wasn't your fault.

'There was an insufferable spring to his step, like he was actually excited by this terrible place.' Oh, Kaladin, how utterly and absolutely wrong you are…

'Awful, terrifying perspective. He could see too many sides.' How to protect people when they're all intent on killing each other, goals diametrically opposed? No good answer. I'll bet his agony over this is going to feed into his next Oath as a Radiant, like his realization over Elhokar did in the last book.

Huh. Shadesmar has Actual Plant Life. Why, and how?

This place, with its eternally dark sky, is far too like the feel of his depression for Kaladin to fight back against the Wretch of his depression right now.

I'm trying to decide whether the continual referral to the spren of Adolin's sword as Adolin's spren is for sheer convenience and writing flow, red herring, or if it's actually hinting at something. Knowing Sanderson, it could be any of those.

Note: the city of the Honorspren was/is “far to the west”

!!! Syl was bonded before?! So, she was 'born' just before the Recreance, and barely had time to really know her bonded before he died. She 'wasn't ready' for the bond – too young, perhaps, even as spren measure these things (however they measure it).

“Spren normally weather the death of their Radiant...” ORLY.

So Syl was asleep for about a thousand years, then lived in the city of the Honorspren for aroud three thousand before she “heard” the call of Kaladin's emotions and left to find him – and it was specifically him that she left (snuck away from) Shadesmar for.

“I suppose the wind is always there somewhere, so they don't fade like passions do.” ….that's important. She's referring to 'passions' like 'emotions', but the fact that that specific word was used is significant in its choice.

Chapter Ninety-Six – Pieces of a Fabrial

That's not a POV-indicator-symbol that we've seen before.

“Yelig-nar is said to consume souls” uhhhhh, that's not good, even if it turns out to be inaccurate in the details

NAVANI IT'S A NAVANI CHAPTER oh yes good this is good, we'll get a perspective on Urithiru right now that's not Dalinar's, and maybe even a peek from the outside at Dalinar himself

Cultural note: 'On the day of the first meeting of monarchs at Urithiru, Navani made each person – no matter how important – carry their own chair. The old Alethi tradition symbolized each chief bringing important wisdom to a gathering.”

Of course Dalinar just tried to bring a stool. That's quintessential Dalinar right there.

Oh shit oh shiiiiit – she'd once been told that Jasnah was dead, but then Jasnah returned… there's not going to be the same conclusion for Elhokar. He's very definitely dead, and even if Navani hears of it, she'll still probably hold out hope. She'll keep on hoping for longer than healthy, I'll bet, because if she was proven wrong once then why can't her denial be right this time as well…

LOPEN. LOPEN OH MY GOD I'M CACKLING.

Bridge Four is convinced that Kaladin's disappearance is nothing more than a minor setback, and what reason do they have to believe otherwise? He's never really shared his breakdowns or deeper insecurities with the rest of them – or ever intentionally shared them at all – and he's always come back after getting knocked down. There's no reason they shouldn't be optimistic, for all they know.

Poor Gawx, having to sit in a meeting like this before all the heads of state; he's at least gotten a bit of experience under his belt, but he's still woefully outclassed.

Renarin. Oh man, you don't look like you're taking Adolin's disappearance well. HAH JASNAH BROUGHT A STOOL WHEN DALINAR COULDN'T. It is padded though; she at least gives more thought to comfort than he does. But where are Sebarial and Palona?

Ooooo, Ialai. Deliberately thumbing her nose at both Navani's order – Kholin orders – and the chair-tradition itself. Is she planning something specific at the moment, or just subtly displaying her refusal of respect?

[hums] So Navani realizes that she and everyone else still think of Malata as Taravangian's; that's good. We haven't seen any indication of her working as “Dalinar's” Radiant at all. Though she's sometimes worked the Oathgate, she hasn't actually worked her way in amongst the rest of the Radiants, and all we've seen of her is a small glimpse when she spoke to Shallan. Otherwise, she's still an enigma.

Lift is beating Rock in an eating contest. You go girl; show him how it's done.

Navani, Dalinar is probably not capable of leading the meeting at this point in time. It's terrible timing, but that can't be helped. You're the Dowager Queen, you can do this.

Ffffffft, Sebarial and Palona-

SEBARIAL PLZ

Note: Navani is fluent in Azish.

Hoooo boy, and we're immediately knee-deep in Politics. Emul wants the threat from Tukar gone and the awakened Parshmen back under their control, Gawx/Azir is in over his head, Tashikk wants to discuss regulation of the Oathgates, Natan would like the Gate on the Shattered Plains now please and the Alethi out, Thaylenah wants “free” (favorable for them) trade, Yezier wants- wait what do you mean Iri and Rira “seem to have fallen in with the enemy”? Do you mean the Tukari God-King, or Odium? I can only imagine it's the former.

Who knows where the tech for half-Shards is at right now or how/how quickly they can make them – they'd give an enormous edge against the Unmade, but production is probably not viable at the moment for use in the armies.

Yeaaaah, you have way better tech now, since you've actually have the time after Aharietiam to settle down and invent things without being plunged into Desolation after Desolation.

…. “Abandoned.” He's not wrong. The Radiants did abandon them all, their duty, and their bonded spren. Dalinar swears it won't be the same, but precedent tells them otherwise, and what reason have they to trust these Radiants and the awesome powers that they now wield?

IALAI. GODDAMN IT. [drags hands down face] YOU COMPLETELY AND EFFORTLESSLY NUDGED THE CONVERSATION IN SUCH A WAY AS TO DISCREDIT WHAT DALINAR AND NAVANI ARE ACTUALLY TRYING TO DO.

She's very, very good at what she does, you have to admit.

And now the whole thing is degrading down into arguments and thrown barbs. Thankfully, Navani's got this. Years as Queen and negotiating/maneuvering through social situations has prepared her, and she's got the sort of analytic mind that can turn such a gathering into a Problem To Be Solved.

A Problem To Be Solved by each nation playing to their strengths: Azish organization – she's right, they'll all need a common set of laws to work under if they're all going to work together in this sort of unity; international trade to the Thaylen government (no matter how much Sebarial may choke on his snacks over that decision); and the Alethi… “Well, we do excel at one thing.” Very true. Generals and armies it is.

So it's the Fused that have Iri, as well as bases of power in Marat and Alethkar.

So they've locked the Kholinar Oathgate from Urithiru – no chance of the four lost in Shadesmar to get through to Urithiru using the Kholinar Gate somehow, then, even if they did manage to un-Corrupt the Gatespren.

[breaths out] Azir agreeing to send help is a huge show of solidarity as well as perhaps even a burgeoning trust – or, at the very least, respect. This alliance between the major nations might actually have a chance of working. I'm still leery, as this has the chance to go very, very badly, but… there's a chance.

You… you don't need the Blackthorn, Navani. Nobody needs the Blackthorn (and you really shouldn't want him either) – you need Dalinar Kholin. Problem is, he's… broken. Like the rest of the Radiants. He'll never be ““fixed””, but he can take a step forward again. He's just not there yet, not with what he's newly remembered.

Chapter Ninety-Seven – Riino

“Of the Unmade, Sja-Anat was most feared by the Radiants.” Um, fuck? F u ck? And the entry says that she can only corrupt 'lesser' spren, but considering the fact that she's corrupted the Oathgate-spren, she's very likely grown stronger in the intervening years.

Psuedo-flashback for Kaladin again – '[He] remembered holding a dying woman's hand.” Who had gotten caught in what's essentially a bear trap as he tried to lead a slave escape. This is not boding well for his state of mind.

'What other simple, stable parts of his life were complete lies?' It's not that it's technically a lie, it's just that people didn't know enough about spren to be informed, but of course with the way Kaladin's thinking right now, when everything is turned to the negative and he's feeling trapped and along, of course it feels like lies, or the world mocking him.

Ooop, he's been found out. But… it doesn't look bad? Not really? (YET. NO GUARANTEE. SUSPICION AT ALL TIMES RIGHT NOW.)

Even if you were able to wear your Veil-personality right now, Shallan, you and therefore she still know nothing about actual scouting, and Veil's “streetwise-ness” and confidence won't help anything in that regard.

Unlike Kaladin, she might actually have the potential for some measure of healing while they're stuck here in Shadesmar…

“Yeah. Weird stuff.” Syl please. At least you and Pattern seem to be getting along fairly well, as far as things go? From Syl's past descriptions of Cryptics, I'd have thought there'd be more friction between you two.

Mmm, and here's Adolin, making sure she's all right and helping how he feels he can. (The physical contact is probably as much for him as for her, admittedly.)

“He's got battle fatigue, and an objective will help with that.” Mmmmm, yes and no – depression and heavy PTSD are the main factors here, but giving him an 'objective' will at least help a little; not as much as it would someone whose mind works like Adolin's does, though, as we see that Kaladin's scouting just brought up more memories of pain, rather than narrowing to focus on a goal. Either way, keeping an eye on him right now is necessary. The last thing he needs is to be alone on top of feeling alone.

Clothing says a lot about people indeed, and knowing that that's Vivenna… she's Nalthian and probably still has Heightenings, and they go for more saturated shades as a rule. 'Trying to prove something' is spot-on if she hasn't changed too much from how she was in Warbreaker. It's a really good assessment on Adolin's part.

“It didn't fit me anymore.” ….oh. Oh. That's… you're not being literal in the slightest. Damn.

OOOP, CORRUPTED APPROACHING, TIME TO LEAVE

omg the old man's a fortuneteller, and he reads the future from the highstorms. What do those even look like in the Cognitive Realm; does it infuse gems with Investiture like in the Physical Realm? The destructive winds must not be an issue if Azure/Vivenna told them not to worry…

...that old man should really have a “No Touchie” sign on that thing if he doesn't want people to get their fingerprints all over it. Or sucked away into a storm-vision.

A few things in Very Short Order: A) Sja-Anat can speak through her corrupted spren; B) she calls her corruption Enlightening, which is disturbing in and of itself (though really, it sounds like just another instance of The Bad Guys thinking they're In The Right, which, fair); C) there's an informant in Urithiru, but they're not part of Dalinar's inner circle since they passed on the lie that Shallan was an Elsecaller – I can't remember, do Taravangian and Malata know that Shallan's a Lightweaver and not an Elsecaller?; and D) Sja-Anat is still “helping” them, which is weird and I am still very suspicious.

FUUUUUCK, KALADIN'S SEEING A VISION OF THE FUTURE AND IT'S DALINAR IN TROUBLE. At… I think that must be Thaylen City? That'd probably be the only city that fits the description given. GUYS, GUYS YOU'VE GOTTA GET BACK ASAP

[chokes] “Unless...you're Invested. What Heightening are you? No. Something else. Merciful Domi… A Surgebinder? Has it begun again?” uM. UM UM UM. YOU'RE FROM SEL, AND YOU KNOW INVESTED NALTHIANS. AND YOU'RE AWARE THAT ROSHARAN SURGEBINDERS ARE A SIGN THAT SHIT'S ABOUT TO HIT THE FAN.

Haaaaaah, that man's not Shin, Kaladin, even if that's the closest analogue you can think of.

Regarding Wit, nobody's sure what he is.

[SNORTS] Looks like Roshar has yet to invent canning, of all things. That seems like something that would originate from Scadrial.

This time the spren of Adolin's Blade was referred to in that exact manner. Any referral to her as 'Adolin's spren' is probably just for flow of writing, then.

….why didn't you want to come into the lighthouse, Syl? Old memories, a bad feeling?

[winces] Rathalas. The Rift. And Adolin doesn't know the truth of what really happened to his mother there. I'm… I'm actually frightened to see what's going to happen when he does learn the true story.

I was right, it is Thaylen City he saw, and yeah, theoretically they should be able to transfer back via the Oathgate (if they can figure out how) – better to go there than to the Peaks if the danger Kaladin foresaw is slated to happen sooner rather than later. There's also been the insinuation that something weird, even wrong, is happening on the Peaks, so going there might not be the best idea anyway.

And right afterwards Shallan seconds that suspicion about the Peaks. Yeaaaaah. Try for Thaylen City.

[hums] Well, there's a good distraction for him to try to focus on. Protect Dalinar. It won't do much to quell his depression, but it's helping, and he needs all the help he can get right about now.

!!! Those ship-pullers sound REALLY COOL – like giant winged eels, almost! 'Traveling in style' indeed.

Chapter Ninety-Eight – Loopholes

“Abandon a city if the spren start acting weird.' YEAH, WELL, FAILED STEP ONE. Okay, so 'Sja-Anat was often regarded as an individual, when others – like Moelach or Ashertmarn – were seen as forces.' More along the lines of proper sentience rather than the personification/embodiment of a particular force or feeling, like Ashertmarn's Revel.

[sighs] The Desolation is definitely on its way, if not already here, Skybreakers. Gotta wait for that Heraldic Confirmation, though.

SURGEBINDER PAINTBALL. Oh this is gonna be fun

So. Shinovar trains people (warriors?) with the Honorblades – and they have all the rest save for Taln's and Jezrien's? And Szeth was one of them, flying the winds since he was young. Damn, that makes it all the more impressive that Kaladin bested him! Hmm, looks like Honorblades also use more stormlight for the Surges they give than a Radiant of that order would utilise for the same.

For once, in all the time we've seen him, Szeth is enjoying himself. That's nearly a miracle all it's own.

...and then immediately feels guilty for feeling happy.

[amused] Denth was better than Vasher at swordsmanship, sure, but “isn't any good with the sword” is just hilarious when they both had a few thousand(?) years both to hone their skill.

“And nobody should ever let him get too close.” No kidding. Whatever experience these older squires have, they're still up against the man who is/was The Assassin in White.

That's a funny sight right there, though – the graceful arc in front of the last glimmer of sunset, and POOFPOOFPOOF he gets nailed by all those who have dust pouches left. Almost there!…but not quite.

um. UM. Is that.. are those highspren? Slashes in the air, gaps into the void of space?

HAH. Loopholes indeed.

!!! Heyyyy, Nale is back! Where's you go on your retreat away after the craziness in Edgedancer, Nale? And did you find what you were looking for?

“It is time for you to learn the two greatest secrets that I know.” WH A T. TELL US TELL US TELL US-

Chapter Ninety-Nine – Reachers

Sketchpage at the beginning of the chapter is excellent. GIANT FLYING EEL-DRAGON-SPREN FTW – called “mandras” in Shallan's side notes

This 'Nergaoul' sounds like The Thrill, save that it's only the Alethi that are affected,rather than both sides of a single battlefield. Did the Unmade somehow figure out how to transfer its power through human genetics, rather than needing to be in the general area to spread/activate its power?

Back to Shadesmar, and to Kaladin struggling with the suffocating blanket of darkness that his depression is strangling him with.

Lightspren = called Reachers, look like “humans with strange bronze skin”, “metallic, as if they were living statues”. I'm wondering if these spren might have any connection with the Iri(-Riran?) genetic weirdness of metallics

...what the hell is up with Syl? Did she have Shallan Lightweave her? Can she change colour at will as well as shape? Is she trying to make the other spren believe that she's human?

And what's up with the vibrating copper plating on the ship? Some sort of guideline?

“Foreign technology.” I'm betting that orb that the lighthouse-keeper had is some sort of Selish device.

The 'Stone of Ten Dawns'. Kaladin, you mention that like it's supposed to be common knowledge, or at least common mythology. Is this another one of those like the 'Honor's Drop' or whatever-it-was that was mentioned in a chapter header some time ago?

Kaladin apparently doesn't know what condensation is…? Or at least how you can utilize temperature to make it happen. Using such a method to get water is probably a foreign concept on Roshar, considering the highstorms – they don't have any deserts on the planet so far as we can tell.

I'm with Syl on this one, Kaladin, riding one of those flying spren sounds awesome.

“Where's your sense of adventure?” “I dragged it out back and clubbed it senseless for getting me into the army.” KALADIN PLZ (at least he's feeling better enough to snark without much rancor?)

So Syl is under a Lightweaving. Are honorspren really so rare as to attract that much attention – and bad attention at that?

[throws hands into the air] He doesn't need a girlfriend/boyfriend, Syl, he needs a FRIEND. I- you've been sort of getting the hang of human arrangements and emotions but you don't have a good enough grasp on them to understand what your human really needs right about now. Would it be great if he could go and talk to Shallan and start to get to actually know her? YES. That'd be GREAT. But shoving him into a romance that you think he needs, especially as he still has an idealized version of her in his head right now? Bad idea. You're encouraging some of the right things – talking to her – for the wrong reasons/goals.

I love Syl, I really do, but I have issues with how she's been acting throughout much of this book when it comes to Kaladin and interpersonal relationships – not even just with Shallan, but like that time back in Alethkar when she was suggesting he get laid. Kaladin and Syl need to sit down and have a long talk about human relationships/emotions/everything.

[drags hands down face] HE NEEDS A CLOSE FRIENDSHIP WITH SOMEONE WHO ISN'T A SUBORDINATE, SYL. EQUALS. HE DOESN'T HAVE TO BE ROMATICALLY OR PHYSICALLY INTERESTED FOR THAT TO HAPPEN AND FOR HIM TO GET THE EMOTIONAL CLOSENESS HE NEEDS.

Ooo, another mention of the mysterious Tarah – who we still know next to nothing about.

Looks like Shallan knows what condensation is! Makes sense. That must have just been something beyond the scope of Kaladin's learning – though making water that way would be very useful for surgeons, as it's probably the cleanest water they can manage on Roshar, untouched by crem.

Oh noooo, poor seasick Azure-Vivenna…

!!!!! These mandras – the 'luckspren' – they're what allow greatshells to grow to immense size, beyond what even the lower gravity and higher atmospheric oxygen ratio allow? (It's good to see Shallan getting all excited about biology and… spren-ology or whatever it may be called… like she used to, back before she started distinctly splitting personalities to cope with her remembered trauma.)

“I'm mysterious.” “I used to think you were. Then I found out you don't like good puns – it's truly possible to know too much about somebody.” See? See? This banter? You two can become friends, you'd both probably even have fun together – any sort of romantic entanglements need to come far after that though.

Two-ish more days to the city on the Sea (Island) of Spears, then some several more down to Thaylen City – not only is it a longer distance on the map, but they'll have to cross over river-land to get there unless they go around, which makes the journey much, much longer. And there's also the fact that not everyone's on board with the vision he saw and their destination...

That feeling, Kaladin? It's called f r i e n d s h i p. That's why it feels different from your previous, purely-romantic crushes.

I- Kaladin, Kaladin, no. [groans and buries face in hands] I know it might sound nice, especially when the depression is weighing on you like a dark monster on your back, but repression like that is not a good thing. And it's not actually working.

[exileseverafter]

Chapter 8

The Princess and the Toad

“This is no time to be distracted. One thought at a time. Cats are the immediate threat. Avoid being seen by cats, then worry about the Toad and the plants and everything else.”

“Hide.” Philomene whispered the command to Melchior as she clung to the thick hairs on his back, watching the jewel attached to the moth’s thorax flicker. He was already hiding up in the rafters, but she knew he needed reminders and reassurance. The “Enlightenment Jewel” was a flimsy and poorly-constructed thing which had interfered with Melchior’s natural survival instincts without completely elevating him to sapience, leaving him with the intelligence of a small child. And frightened children needed advice from adults. It could have been worse for him. By the time the Thumbelina Royal Guard had put a stop to Lord Germain’s inhumane experiments in Animal Enlightenment, many of the poor test subjects were dead or trapped in permanent rages. Philomene had managed to rehabilitate and stabilize Melchior, earning herself a pet and friend. The idea that she might now indirectly owe her life to the monstrous Lord Germain made Philomene feel a little queasy, though the smell of rotting leaves from the roof didn’t help. At least she could take comfort in the knowledge that Lord Germain would still be rotting in a prison once Thumbelina was restored, provided he’d survived the disaster. That, of course, assumed that anyone had survived it. “Concentrate, Philomene,” she whispered. “This is no time to be distracted. One thought at a time. Cats are the immediate threat. Avoid being seen by cats, then worry about the Toad and the plants and everything else.” She looked around the roof area. Melchior generally slept inside the room, as even with his camouflage and large size he would be unsafe outdoors. Whoever had managed to open the window and let those monsters in had shut it closed as soon as the Toad was gone. For once, the massive size of the cabin was a boon to Philomene; built for and by a giant, it was like a vast cavern in and of itself and dwarfed the cats. They would at least have to sniff around more and take some well-timed leaps over furniture to make it to the rafters. Unfortunately, that big one was sitting on her ‘dollhouse’ laboratory. She could just imagine pots and potions tipping over, glass shattering and potted seeds strewn about every time it poked its big paws into the now-broken front window. That must have been the other message the Toad wanted to send her. He knew she was out there, he could send creatures to kill her at any time and he was never going to let her complete her research. “I sent the message to Marjorie. She should be here soon.” For all of her many faults, Marjorie could never be described as ‘unreliable.’ She literally would drop everything and come running if Philomene asked, much as the princess was loathe to demand it. “I can’t tell if those animals are Enlightened like you, or even like the Toad. They seem to be acting like regular cats…” A careful examination revealed that the door to the bedroom was open just a crack. It wasn’t enough to herd the cats through, but if she pressed flat against Melchior he might be able to climb through. She whispered the order to him and the moth took off flying, landing square on the wall next to the door. Two cats looked up at her, meowed and stretched up in an attempt to swat at her. They couldn’t get anywhere close, but just seeing their great eyes and fanged mouths leer at her from below made Philomene want to disappear into that wall entirely. The fact that riding like this and holding onto Melchior when he was sideways did a number on her back only increased her agitation. “Go. Through there. Now!” Philomene had to hold her breath and felt the surface of the door brush against her, but the moth managed to make it through the door to the kitchen area that served as the cottage’s atrium. It was even more cavernous than the bedroom had been, though much cleaner than the last time Philomene had seen it. Then, safe in Marjorie’s hands, she’d observed walls thick with dust and cobwebs. The new inhabitant must have spent some time tidying up, though he apparently had very few possessions other than some heavy-looking books and the pots and pans that now hung in the kitchen. What must have once been a dinner table had been used as a work surface, covered with a dusting of flour. And one frog. The Toad stood up on two legs, croaking and bowing with an oily smile. “I thought you might make your escape out here,” he said in a voice like gargling. His brownish-green back was covered with white spots, as it had always been. “Care for a meeting, Your Highness?” She didn’t want to face him again. She couldn’t, not now. Her desire to just bury herself in Melchior’s fur and pretend she hadn’t heard him  was difficult to fight. Instead she instructed him to land on the edge of Ezra’s cast-iron frying pan, letting her peek out over it from a safe distance. He wouldn’t go until she spoke to him, and if she could delay him long enough Marjorie would return to throw her shoe at him. “I think I’ll speak with you from here, if that’s quite alright.” “If the lady wills it. Don’t you think this has gone on long enough? You can make it all go away. You know you can.” “You threaten me with cats and think it’ll endear me to you!?” The nerve of that wretched amphibian, acting as if she could fix everything just by bowing to his will. That was really all it was about, wasn’t it? Just an ego trip for him. “Don’t you even care what happened to Thumbelina? You won’t even take responsibility for your actions?!” “The Green Witch will listen to me! She promised. She said she’d hold off and fix everything if you marry me.” The Toad puffed out his throat like a great spotted bubble. “So that would make you the selfish one, wouldn’t it?” “Fix everything.” Philomene took a deep breath, refusing to lose her temper even in front of a traitor. “When Thumbelina Kingdom is restored I’ll see you rotting away in a very dry jail. That might not ‘fix everything,’ but at least justice would be served.” Philomene could think of worse fates for the Toad, but such thoughts were unbecoming and best avoided. Then she went over his words in her head again, and something clicked. She narrowed her eyes. “What did you say about a Green Witch?” The Toad’s yellow-brown eyes went wider, and he started to hop about the table in mild panic, leaving little footprints in the flour. “I said nothing. I said nothing! Don’t tell her I said anything, please! She’ll squeeze my guts out and turn me into flower fertilizer…” So, that confirmed it. Philomene knew that the Toad couldn’t possibly have magic of his own. For a second, Philomene almost fel sorry for the Toad. It hurt to see him reduced to this, so mad with delusions of grandeur that he thought blackmailing her into marriage would somehow spare him from whoever he’d made a deal with. Then she thought of a sea of choking vines, her mother asleep in their beds surrounded by briars that just wouldn’t stop growing and spreading. She remembered a hollow mountain erupting with blood-red roses and glowing blue flowers. Those memories did a fine job of devouring any sort of pity for a former friend. “As if I could tell her. All you did was confirm she exists. Was she the one who opened the window, Toad? Are the cats hers?” Bulbous eyes glanced back and forth. “I-I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you any more!” The Toad leaped about in panic, finally landing in a small pile of flour. It stuck to him in a way that would have been funny once upon a time. Now Philomene could derive no pleasure from his presence. “You’re not good at pretending to be secretive.” And Philomene felt like just as much of a liar, putting on a brave face when she still wanted to order Melchior to keep flying and not look back. Still, she was getting information out of his panicked state. “What was your plan here? To scare me? To ruin my research? If one of those cats had eaten me I wouldn’t be able to marry you, and your whole plan would have been for nothing.” “It was to speak to you! You won’t talk to me unless I send cats after you. And don’t you mock me, Princess!” Out went the bubble throat again. “Sooner or later you’ll realize there’s no way to undo that spell other than the one she knows, and she answers to me.” Of course. Whoever this Green Witch was had easily been able to manipulate the Toad by stroking his ego and giving him the illusion of power over a larger, stronger being. Philomene hadn’t studied people and the way they worked to the degree Marjorie had, but even she could see that. The problem was, why? The Green Witch had nothing to gain from the fourth princess of Thumbelina Kingdom marrying an enlightened Toad. In fact, she couldn’t see how anyone would benefit from cursing an entire kingdom and refusing to take credit. “Of course, it was all my idea,” the Toad continued. He had apparently regained his bravado. “She just agreed to help me because she thought it was such a smart idea. In fact, wait until I show you what she lets me do now.” He held up his front left arm, revealing a gold band clinging to the warty flesh. Philomene’s instinct was to try to interrupt whatever he was about to do, in case this Witch had given him another magical boon. On the other hand, if he was going to reveal it to her so easily she ought to observe it first. Besides, she could see no better way to demoralize him than to let him understand his fear tactics would not work on her. Let him turn into a warthog or make it rain indoors. It wouldn’t stop her research. “See, I just have to…erm. Hmm.” The Toad was tugging at the gold band, his wide mouth frowning. “It’s stuck. Just a few turns, you see, and…” They both heard the quiet rumbling in the distance and felt the soft vibrations of the walls as someone walked onto the flimsy front porch. Philomene and the Toad were of such a size that they could not help but be aware of when larger beings were approaching; their booming voices and thudding footsteps gave them away. Marjorie’s steps were easy to recognize, close together, as was her fast-talking nasal voice. The fact that Philomene could hear her voice meant that Marjorie was talking to someone; she had not returned alone. A much greater thud followed, and the Toad looked as if he might throw up. Philomene couldn’t help but indulge in a little bit of mean-spirited intimidation of her enemy after the scare she’d had. “Oh, did you not notice? Didn’t she tell you? A giant lives here! Not just a big human, but a walking mountain from the clouds. He’ll blow you away with his breath.” “A-a giant? I’m not afraid! Of a human or a giant!” The Toad tugged frantically at his ring again. “What’s wrong with this thing?! Come on, work! It worked earlier! Rotten, rusty piece of-” The door swung wide open. The moment the Toad saw his opening he went for it, hopping right past Marjorie and the human next to her before the former had time to react. Marjorie jumped and yelped, and something behind her spoke in a deep rumble. “Was there a frog on my worktable?!” “Marjorie!” Philomene was so happy to see her maidservant, she didn’t mind Melchior taking right off and landing right on Marjorie’s hand. “It’s bad! There are cats out there, in the bedroom, and, and…what’s wrong?” Marjorie was looking a bit wide-eyed at Philomene, and then turning red. She gestured behind her bony shoulder at the shapes behind her. There was indeed another human, this one so wrapped up in furs and scarves it was hard to make out what he looked like. He was giving Marjorie confused glances. Behind him was something Philomene could only describe as a walking mountain in a baker’s apron, staring down at her with befuddled gold eyes. It was Marjorie who spoke first. “You’re safe, Princess?” “Princess?!” The fur-clad human and giant shouted at the same time, the resulting thunder pounding in Philomene’s ears. She hid her wince out of decorum, stood on Melchior’s back with unsteady legs and managed to lift her skirts in a curtsy. “Princess Philomene Marl Thumbelina. Melchior, land on the table. We probably need to have a talk.”

[sorrowsflower]

The Choices Made (Adlock)

Set at the end of The Reichenbach Fall

Motherhood had never been part of the Woman's plan.

For most of her life, she had been focused on survival and domination, and she had pursued both with a reckless frivolity that burned everyone in her path. None of these things were conducive to raising a child.

Her first discovery of the new little parasite she was incubating was not a joyous moment, as it was for some women. 

Her initial reaction was of shock, because she had always been very careful. Meticulous to the point of obsession. Though her work as a dominatrix never involved actual sexual intercourse, she'd had her own set of lovers, both male and female, prior to her acquaintance with a certain consulting detective, and protection was paramount to her.

It must be a mistake. A false positive.

But before the opportunity to analyze how, and which, bout of sexual activity with said detective -- it had to be Sherlock's; all her other recent lovers had been female -- had resulted in this little inconvenience, the dread settled in. 

It was not dissimilar to a wall of rain come crashing suddenly down on her head, invoking a long-forgotten childhood memory of watching little cartoon figures with black clouds above their heads.

Dear God, she was thinking of cartoons. It was already starting.

She drew a deep breath. That felt a little better. 

Perhaps this was not the black cloud she was imagining it to be. Hell, she wasn't even sure if she really was pregnant.

The dread lifted somewhat, eased by practical thought into a small niggling at the back of her head that could be easily ignored. Tomorrow, she would go to the doctor. Just to make sure.

...

Tomorrow, however, did not bring the fair weather report she had been expecting. The moment the doctor walked in with the results, she had known even before the other woman had opened her mouth.

"Congratula--!"

The Woman held up a hand. She didn't even want to hear it. The dread, which until then had been at the back of her mind, came to the foreground and threatened to take over.

But she was the Woman. She was not given to emotion or sentiment. She had already allowed emotion to take over once, and look where that had gotten her -- sitting in a clinic with a foolishly smiling doctor offering her congratulations.

Her brain immediately went into damage control, as it always did when confronted with a crisis. Find the root of the problem, and fix it. 

She quickly went over her upcoming calendar in her mind, and without letting the doctor start a spiel on -- God, she didn't even want to use the word -- pregnancy and pre-natal care, she cut the doctor off with a cold, professional hand and set up an appointment.

The doctor tried to argue, to offer other options, but she was stopped by the calm look on the Woman's face. There was no confusion, emotional turmoil or hysteria there. Only calm decisiveness. She had made her choice.

The appointment was made.

...

There were no major changes to the Woman's routine. At least not at first. No specific alterations or concessions made for the developing creature inside her, except maybe her morning routine was altered to compensate for the absolutely horrid morning sickness.

Then the "morning" sickness turned into "morning to noon" sickness. But still, it wasn't that bad. She had always been good at concealing physical ailments. And tea helped.

But when it quickly became "the whole fucking day" sickness, she had to admit, it was harder to conceal. The tea, which was now unpalatable, no longer helped. She had to scale down on her clients, and cancel various appointments because now she just felt violently ill all the time.

She abhorred it. The wretched nausea, the sweating, the heaving and dry-heaving, the dizzy spells and light-headedness, the weakness. It was all so distasteful, especially for someone who had been so meticulous about her body, and so immaculate in appearance. 

Pain she could handle -- she was a dominatrix, after all; pain was her bread and butter -- but this prolonged, ever-present discomfort was threatening to undo her. That, and the lack of control over her own body, which before had been a beautiful weapon for her.

Still, she took comfort in the fact that this would all be over soon, and she could return to her normal (if it could be called that) life.

...

Three days before her appointment, an article appeared on the British news website she frequently monitored. 

SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS

It was accompanied by a photograph of a man in a dark Belstaff coat and a blue scarf lying on the street, face intentionally obscured to spare the readers the man's gruesome, bloody death. But even through the blurring, the vivid red bloodstains on the man's face and on the street he had landed on were evident.

The bile that she had been suppressing all day rose to the back of her throat, and she had to look away to keep from being sick. 

She slammed the laptop shut and tried to breathe.

It took her several long, shaky minutes, but the nausea eventually subsided. Enough, at least, for her to be able to pick up the phone and place some calls. Half an hour later, she was feeling slightly better (physically, anyway), the story was confirmed, and she received an unobscured copy of the photograph.

The nausea threatened to come up again, but she tamped it down with a deep breath, and analyzed the picture as logically and impartially as possible.

It seemed genuine.

The blood was real, and though there was no way to be sure until her contacts at the morgue confirmed it, she would venture a guess and say that it was his. The face, covered as it was with blood, closely resembled his as well. 

But she, of all people, knew how easy it was to fool someone with a pretty face.

And she had seen his work, too. She had seen the cleverly-edited video of her own "execution" that had made its way into Mycroft Holmes's hands. As loathe as she was to admit it, if she wasn't alive and whole -- and now currently carrying evidence inside her body that would absolutely refute her death in Karachi -- she probably would have been fooled by it too if it had been her.

It wasn't real.

It couldn't be. He was too clever, too good of an opponent to die. True, he had a certain self-destructive streak, but there was no way someone as arrogant as he was would ever commit suicide. And certainly not for something they both knew was a lie.

That thought helped her calm down and settled her nerves.

All she had to do now was wait for the video to prove it.

Fifteen minutes later, the email arrived, and she opened the file. The angle of the video was limited to Sherlock alone, as her contact had been focusing on him, and the sound was less than ideal, but it was clear enough that the detective on the roof was speaking to John Watson, unseen, on the street. She could hear Sherlock confessing to the lie the press and the British public had been fed. 

Rich Brook. Reichenbach. 

They both knew it wasn't true. She, herself, was evidence that it was a lie. And yet, here he was, extolling the opposite to John Watson.

"Keep your eyes on me."

That immediately raised a flag. A magician directing the audience to the illusion and away from the trick. The Woman examined the video intently, trying to spot any discrepancies.

And that was when she saw it. 

A glint of sunlight from the roof a few buildings to the right. It only appeared as Sherlock said "Goodbye, John" and hung up the phone.

Before he dropped the phone and jumped, disappearing from her contact's view and the camera's.

Frustrated, and though she would never admit it to herself, more than a little shaken, she played the video again, to the part of the timeframe where she saw the glint of sunlight. She knew what that was.

The reflection from a rifle's scope, revealed only at the last minute before the shot. A shot that Sherlock Holmes's apparent death had prevented.

A sniper.

And it wasn't pointed at Sherlock.

And then she understood.

Sherlock, despite all his arguments to the contrary, was an irrationally sentimental being. He formed emotional attachments to people. 

While between the two of them, the Woman was more attuned to people, it was Sherlock who actually cared for them. When she had been exposed, it was only too easy for the Woman to abandon all ties, including her loyal Kate, and leave her former life. 

Sherlock, on the other hand... He had a whole brood of people he surrounded himself with. The doctor, his landlady, his brother, the detective inspector, his mousy little pathologist. 

If an instance occurred where he was required to give up his life for the few people he cared about, especially if it included John Watson, she had no doubt the idiot would actually do it. Hadn't he already infiltrated one of the most dangerous terrorist cells in Asia to save her life?

Foolish, foolish man.

She stopped the video and closed the laptop.

...

The day of the appointment came. And went.

She stayed home, phone in hand.

It never rang.

_______________

By SorrowsFlower

Yeah, okay, so I made this on one of those “writing game” sites where you “fight” a monster by completing x-amount of words in the allotted time. So my lazy ass didn’t edit, proofread or research any of this stuff like I normally would have.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

What if Claire made Jamie's first time amazing?

[Happy to oblige, anon, but lbr, is there any universe in which Claire *doesn’t* make Jamie’s first time amazing?  ; ) -Mod Bonnie]

Hail Mary, Part X 

[Quite NSFW]

Premise: What if Jamie and Claire had 1) been more openly affectionate in those early days, and 2) not *had* to get married?

Part I  Part II  Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX

When I awoke, I was startled to find that I wasn’t on Jamie’s horse, but tucked up snugly in a blanket under a rowan tree. 

Alone. 

“Jamie??” I bolted into a sitting position, scanning the darkened clearing, feeling my senses reeling as they struggled to place me in space and time. The air when we’d handfasted had been moist and deliciously cool, not this warm, dry stillness that was making the silence of the wood resonate so ominously; and I could have sworn the elevation had changed—that I was up very much higher indeed than any other time on our journey from Leoch. And most terrifyingly of all, the horses were tethered nearby, but there was no sign of Jamie or our baggage anywhere. 

“JAMIE?” I called again, panic starting to gather as I staggered to my feet. “JAMIE??” 

I whirled as hasty footsteps came crashing through the underbrush behind me, but thank God, it WAS Jamie. “Och, so she’s awake, at last!” he said, grinning. His face fell as he saw my expression, and he caught me up tight against him as I threw myself into his arms. “Oh, lass, ye didna think I’d ever leave ye?”

“No, you brute, but you could have been captured—” I gasped out against his neck as I kissed it, not crying, but my heart thundering even as I tried to hide my lingering panic, “I thought Dougal had caught up with you.” 

“No’ a chance, a nighean,” he promised warmly, holding me close. “All safe and sound.” 

I leaned my head against his shoulder. “How long was I asleep, then?”

“Nearly a full day,” he said, confirming my suspicion. “Ye fell asleep on the horse wi’ me last night and havena woken once, ‘til now. Had to wake and check on ye every few hours to make sure ye hadna up and died!”

“You smell good,“ I blurted.

He laughed and stepped away, doing a little turn to show off. “Had a wee bath in the burn. Cold enough to freeze my bollocks off, but glad to hear it was well worth it.” 

He showed me the way to the stream, just through the trees to the south. Cold or not, I was dying to get the Eau de Two Days of Horse and Panic-Sweat off me.

“When ye get finished,” he said, sounding tentative, “ye might…come join me up at the top of the hill?” 

“What’s at the top of the hill?” 

He shrugged, far too casually. “I’ve…made a sort of place for us, for….ken?”

I’d like to get started wi’ worshiping your body. 

For one wild moment, I wanted to forget the bath and have him right there, right then. But I really did smell atrocious, and there is nothing less romantic than being the filthy one when being intimate with a squeaky-clean partner. 

“I’ll be there soon,” I promised, my voice trembling just a touch; but he heard it, and I could have sworn he quivered.  Jesus H. Roosevelt CHRIST.

Finding the small stream, I washed quickly. I would have loved to wash my hair, but waiting for it to dry would have been a two-hour ordeal for which I wasn’t willing to make Jamie wait—or myself, to be honest. Despite that, the ice-cold water, and even the fact that I hadn’t any soap, it was heavenly to scrub off the worst of the filth and stink, and I came out shivering, but distinctly refreshed. I bent for my discarded clothes, then thought better of it, walking naked back to the horses and wrapping myself instead in the same blanket I’d slept in. No use putting clothes back on, dirty or otherwise, given— 

I wolfed down some cheese and bannocks that Jamie had left for me, then—with a deep, bracing breath—began my barefoot walk over the soft grass up the hill. I didn’t have to guess the direction, just followed the smell of the woodsmoke that floated on the warm air. It was a bit of a steep climb, and when the grade finally evened out I could see despite the darkness of the terrain beneath that we were very high up indeed; but it was the sight straight ahead that took my breath away completely.

It must have been a mountaintop chapel, once, though there was no longer a roof of any sort atop the three half-standing stone walls. It would have had a vaulted ceiling, high for its tiny size, with tall, graceful windows. The pale stone—overgrown in places by creeping, floral vines— must have had some sort of quartz in the grain, for the firelight and moonlight together seemed to illuminate the sanctuary all-round like phosphorous, casting the place in a warm, twinkling glow. 

Jamie was there, smoothing out the pallet of blankets he’d made overtop a makeshift mattress of heather and soft grasses in the far corner. Bless him, he’d even gathered flowers to grace the sill of the glassless window above the bed. I should have laughed. I should have teased him, but…but it was too breathtaking to say anything but an awed, “Jamie…” 

He whirled, his expression a little wild and startled, until it softened into a warm smile. “Hello, Sassenach.”

“Jamie,” I said again, gawping in wonder at the haven he’d appointed for us as I came around the fire toward him, “this is… absolutely beautiful.”

He nodded shyly, taking in the surroundings himself. “Murtagh said it was where my parents came, ken, for the first few days after they were marrit. He thought it would be verra peaceful. Private.”

As well it was. It was almost a shame—if Jamie had desired to be married in a church, this would have been an exquisite substitute. True, it would have taken Murtagh too far from the route to follow the post rider, which was too important to risk. What we would do here, though…yes, it would be an exquisite setting for that, too. And hopefully not a sacrilege. 

“But are ye cold, Sassenach?” my husband asked suddenly, seeing how tightly the blanket was wound around me from chin to toes. “I can add more wood to the—”

“No,” I promised, laughing a bit, though feeling as though all air had been sucked from the mountaintop.  “I’m not wearing it for the cold.” I let the blanket drop, just slightly, just enough to let him see my bare shoulders underneath. 

His face slackened, his nostrils flaring as he dropped his head and breathed carefully. “Aye…well…”

Somehow, I sensed he wouldn’t make a move before I did; so I gripped my blanket tight with one hand and came forward to lay the other on on his chest, my fingertips just grazing the warm hollow of his throat. I could feel it bobbing under my hand, hot, alive. “I think you’d better get out of these clothes,” I said, my voice husky. 

His eyes went wide, but he obeyed. He turned his back to me, pulling off his shirt and making a to-do over folding it into a pillow for the pallet. I came a few steps closer, wanting to see him. The scars shone in the moonlight, full of the memory of his pain, but taking away none of the beauty of him or his body. 

He was moving slowly; very slowly, in fact. Was I only imagining that he seemed loath to begin? 

As he rose back to his feet, I stepped even closer and pressed my cheek against his back. He tensed instantly, and I laid a kiss on the deepest scar. “Is everything alright, love?” I said, running a hand around to his stomach, the other still clutching the blanket.

“Aye– well…Claire, I need to tell ye something.”

What could possibly be relevant to tell me RIGHT NOW? He’d murdered someone? He was…impotent? No, I’d had plenty of evidence that Jamie Fraser was capable of an erection. “Tell me,” I said with no little trepidation. 

He turned to me, and he looked positively wretched as he admitted, “I’ve never—done this, before.”

He’d expected her to laugh; to grin and tease and ask how on earth he’d managed THAT, and was there something about his anatomy that had frightened the lassies away for so long??? He’d not have minded, to be honest—perhaps humor would have eased the tension he felt stringing his back as tight as a bow. 

But what she did do—what his wife did, erasing his fear at the root—was make a small, tender sound deep in her throat, run her hand up to rest on his cheek, and say, “Then this will be all the more beautiful.” She rose on her toes and kissed him, deeply, and he melted into her, bringing his hands to rest on her blanketed hips.

“How do you want it to be?” she asked, breathing heavily, all of the sudden. 

”…How?”  How many ways *were* there? 

“Your first time,” she said, carefully. “Shall I be gentle with you?”

His wame dropped. 

His mouth went dry. 

And he felt the growl of need tearing from him as he reached for her: “No.”

And she growled back just before her mouth crashed into his: “Thankgod” 

They were going to devour each other. She was against him and her blanket was gone. She was grappling with his belt and he felt the plaid fall to his ankles. He gasped and groaned in the same breath as he felt the length of her naked body pressed full against the naked length of his. “Wait,” he whispered raggedly, “wait….wait…” 

She was reaching raggedly but she stilled without question and waited, holding him close.

He held her, too, savoring her despite the roaring in his blood, the aching in his cock as he whispered. “I want to see you, mo nighean donn, before….”

She smiled and nodded, kissing his chest right next to his heart. “I love you, Jamie,” she whispered, happily, sweetly, softly as breaking dawn.  

“And I, you, mo chridhe.” 

 She tilted her chin up so that her golden eyes shone up at him. “Together?”

Always. “Together.” 

They each stepped back; and Jamie felt as though he’d been shot through with a javelin. 

There was a statue in one of the Sorbonne gardens, he remembered: white marble, and lovely, a likeness of a mythical goddess that stood radiant and beautiful; a work of true art. But Claire was the original; Artemis, shining in the moonlight, perfect in every seamless, curving inch of her; every dark curl; every quivering muscle, poised for the hunt. Her hips were wide, her breasts fuller and rounder than he’d ever dared imagine. Her lips—those soft, flushed lips were parting. “Dear God,” she was whispering, seemingly awestruck, herself, “Jamie, you’re beautiful.”

ME? A Dhia, look at YOU, he meant to say but couldn’t manage even a syllable. 

She shivered and gave a little smile at his muteness. “Have you ever seen a naked woman before, love?”

“Not up close,” he admitted, feeling foolish.

“Is it…?” she started, then shook her head and broke off, smiling in embarrassment. 

“It IS,” he vowed, and meant it with all his being. “You are.” And it seemed she couldn’t help but glow a bit brighter.

He had seen glimpses of women before, of course, but nothing like this; nothing like the glory of his wife. It seemed so idiotic, to be so undone by superficial beauty; but he deemed it a blessed surfeit of unmerited riches, that his sorcha, the light of him, was also the most beautiful person he’d ever beheld.

Before he could voice that he didn’t know how to begin—should he just… turn her around and bend her over? Would the windowsill be of help to keep her from toppling forward?—Claire was stepping past him to the bed…lying down on her back…spreading her legs…  

“Jesus,” he moaned, dropping to his knees harder than he’d intended. It felt fitting, though, to prostrate himself before her. He crawled closer and ran a hand down her thigh from the knee, so cool and so soft. 

She shivered at his touch. “Come here,” she whispered, firelight in her eyes as she reached for him, beckoning him to come kiss her. Face to face? Aye, he could see how that would get things properly aligned, but he couldn’t tear himself away, yet. “May I touch you?” he begged.

From the way she blinked, she hadn’t expected him to say that, but she nodded, and as he reached for her, she rolled her hips slightly to meet him. His fingertips met the soft, hot flesh of her, the moisture there, and the choked, “Oh—GOD,” echoed in his chest and around the walls of stone. To his shock, though, it had come from Claire. 

He looked up at her in utter astonishment and delight, grinning like a fool. “It feels good, lass?” 

She moaned in what must have been assent, for she moved closer to him, seeking more. He moved his fingers again, gently tracing the delicate folds of her, and could have died to hear her groan his name like that. 

He felt drunk—he was drunk on the euphoria of feeling her arousal coursing through his blood. She liked to be touched…and even HE could give her pleasure, it seemed, in whatever small way. He’d heard most women didn’t enjoy the deed itself, overmuch, but —Claire liked his touch, between her legs—Maybe she would like—

Heart thudding, he moved to the proper spot—dear God in Heaven, he *hoped* it was the proper spot—and slid a finger inside her.

He’d been gentle about it, he thought, but she arched immediately and cried out as she sat halfway up and looked at him in wide-eyed shock. “Oh, Christ, lass, I’m—” He snatched his hand back, mortified, “Forgive me, that wasna–”

But she grabbed his wrist, hard—and she met his gaze with what he swore was lust as she pressed him back inside her, until his palm was cupping her. He moaned to feel her tighten around him, feeling the silky-wet heat of her, all rough and smooth and alive against his skin. Her eyes fluttered shut as she began rolling her hips forth and back against him. He understood and he took up the motion himself, moving slowly in and out of her. She fell onto her back again, making the most exquisite sounds Jamie had ever heard.

Well, this *certainly* makes me feel more at ease about my own chances, soon to come. If just one finger can—

The next time he withdrew from her, he replaced two fingers. She cried out, throwing back her head and arching her back, her hand darting between her legs. He thought she meant to push him away, but she was only stroking herself at a spot just a bit higher up from his own hand that seemed to heighten her sensation. He could feel the difference of it around his fingers. He’d have to ask her about that spot later, whether or not it was something that he might help her handle in some fashion, the next time; but he wouldn’t interrupt her pleasure for the world, and he drank in the gift of it. 

He trailed kisses down her leg and up to her hipbone, watching her with fascination, not knowing what to expect or when to stop—Christ, he would go on with this bliss forever, if she wished it.  “Faster,” she moaned, as if hearing his thoughts. The sounds of her grew and swelled as he obeyed instantly and moved faster, hard enough that he thought surely he would break her in some way; and just as that thought crossed his mind, suddenly she was breaking, clenching tight around him, fast as a flutter of wings around his fingers, but hard and strong as a vice as she cried out so loudly it made the walls of the church resonate…with the sound of her. 

JESUS

He lay there, draped between her legs and over her heaving belly, shuddering under his own aching desire and with delight at what hers had just shown him. It was what he had felt that cold night on the road, when she’d woken and moved against him in sleep, that iron-hot blaze of her need reaching out for him—but no Hail Marys, this night; only desperate cries of thanks and joy—and pleas for more, more, praise be to God, MORE.  

Her breaths gradually slowed and she opened her eyes. “Oh, lass,” he groaned to see her so, glistening and panting, so ready and— “Mo chridhe—” 

His fingers within her were shaking and she pushed them free of her. “I need you, now.” Her hands were strong and urgent as she reached for him. “Now—now—now—”

“Take me, Claire.” He barely heard his own desperate words, completely in the thrall of her, the cry of his body moaning, “—Show me.” 

With unbelievable strength for someone of her size, she flipped him onto his back and the sight of her moving to straddle him, the feel of her thighs on either side of his hips as she poised herself above him, was—

He moaned her name, begging her—

—and it was her name, again — curse and prayer together  —that sent countless wings skyward from the treetops as she took the whole of him inside her with one sure movement. 

He gasped for air over and over before he could form more words. “You feel—”

“You too,” she breathed, her face exquisite with sensation and something like relief. “God, you too.” 

“—Sassenach—” He moved in her, and it was all the leave she needed. 

Jamie thought the entire world would come apart from the way she made every inch and every fiber of him sigh and scream from pleasure in the same instant. He grabbed her hips in both his hands to feel the power of her, the power of her over him. And the sight of her—the goddamned sight of her—her head thrown back and her eyes closed but her face alight with triumph and furor as she leaned backward and writhed along his length was—

“Claire—I canna–” he gasped out, his fingertips surely bruising her as he gripped her harder. “I willna last—verra much longer—”

She fell forward and somehow his body knew what hers wordlessly commanded. They rolled together until she was under him. 

“Wait,” she groaned, and she was slipping her hand down between them to touch that place again, and the sight of it, the feel of her touching herself practically against him was so arousing that—

“Jamie, *now*—” she gasped with an intensity that nearly undid him in and of itself as she grabbed both his shoulders, “—now—now—Hard.” He thrust in to the hilt, over and over, hard and fast, every stroke absolute, blazing joy; and when he heard her cry out and felt that iron tremor beginning around his cock, he let her take him, body and soul, let her drag him into an explosion of pleasure and color and sound that enveloped them both and vanished the world in flame and breath. 

He had fallen forward, at some point; had her head cupped in his hand; was still sheathed in her.  Every few seconds, a wave of sensation jolted through him and he shivered and moaned from it. He leaned his forehead against hers, his voice a broken shell. “….I want…to die like this.”

“Please don’t,” she laughed weakly. She was slick with sweat underneath him, heaving, running her hands along his back, his face.

“I want….to do this wi’ you…” he amended, smiling with every once of strength left to him, “….every possible moment… for the rest of my life.”

She glowed as she kissed him and whispered, “It’s a bargain, Jamie.” 

[one more chapter to come]