#ANYWAY come on by and we'll have a good time

[jmdbjk]

January

It's been every which way over here, not gonna lie, I'm ready for a month of nothing happening.

That being said, Hobi is about to unleash some music to get us lathered up prior to embarking on his world tour.

But that's a kind of chaos I welcome. More, please. (see what I did there?) Orchestra Mic Drop needs to be on the set list. Manifesting.

Anyway... Jimin. I can't wait to have fun conversations with you about your military service. I'm positive the stories will keep us enraptured for ages. I can't wait to have you back with us. I see the snow falling in Korea and I am thinking of you and your crew shoveling away, then knocking the snow off your boots and heading inside to the mess hall where Jungkook and his crew have cooked up some steaming bowls of hearty stew or soup to warm you all up.

Soon, the spring days will be here and then before we know it, it'll be June 11 and you and Jungkook will be back. As of today, 130 days left. We will already be on a high from welcoming Namjoon and Tae back.

What will that first day be like? Will you and Jungkook sit on that couch in the Hybe building in your military uniforms with balloons and flowers next to you, and turn on a Weverse live just like Jin and Hobi did?

No pressure, lol. BUT WE REALLY NEED TO SEE IF YOUR ASS IS OUT OF THIS WORLD. YOU PROMISED.

You mentioned that you and Jungkook talk about a lot of things before going to sleep. The things you talk about in those deep conversations are probably becoming more and more real to the both of you every day. Don't be scared. Don't be worried. We only want you to be safe, happy and out of there. Really LUYO 💜 too.

The day is coming when we can all say YOU DID IT! WE DID IT! WE ALL MADE IT! NOW ON WITH THE REAL SHOW!!

And last but definitely not least, the first group live with Yoongi... cue the tears. Will he get out early? Saved vacation days? Would he even show himself if he did? Or will he go by the book all the way to the end? We wait™️.

I heard Kim Jones is leaving Dior. I was not a fan of the last few seasons of his creations. I could not imagine Jimin wearing any of that mess. The new mens creative is supposedly JW Anderson. Not sure when we'll see first glimpses of his Dior menswear. He better be prepared to fit Jimin's sculpted butt perfectly.

And Pharrell has designed a new Tiffany line called Titan that has little spikey things and such...

I have finally realized I have entered a phase where all I'm concerned with is what is happening in real time to all the members. What are their thoughts, their state of mind now while fulfilling their duties? What are their concerns, what are the things that bring them joy and satisfaction? What are the forces and events that are impacting them?

We can glean these things from their brief moments they post on Instagram or Weverse, or when their fellow soldiers or colleagues post things that help us see more.

We know Namjoon is about to die from boredom. He knows what is planned and he knows its going to be big.

We know Tae is very proud that he's met his target goal to join the Bangtan buff-line. But we'll have to be the judge of that because Jimin says they're working out and he has "good things to show us" (see: out of this world butt above).

Jungkook needs a little confidence boosting but is ready to belt out karaoke at a moment's notice. Hand that man a mic please.

And Jimin is nervous because he's immersed himself in his soldier role for the past 1 year and 2 months and now must pivot and make the shift back to his real life.

Jin has worked 3 weeks straight and we don't know what that means.

Hobi is busy melding the LA hiphop scene into his DNA and prepping for a concert tour to blow us away. Can't wait.

And Yoongi... an autograph left somewhere but when? Recent? Not recent? Someone saying they MIGHT have spotted him. He's been a ghost. He said he would be. And that's what will make his re-emergence that much more emotional for all of us, to finally see him and his smile.

Ok, that was a good ramble. Until next time, everyone dress warmly if you live on the top half, dress for summer if you live on the bottom half but all of you stay safe and always look for the positive.

[silentsneezes]

Heyy me again… ahahah

Do you have any silco with allergies hc’s or maybe a k!nk Silco/Vander Zaundads fic?

Totally asking this with normal intentions, completely not obsessed or anything!

(Im gnawing at the bars of my enclosure i love your writing)

thank you anon!! trust me when i say i'm also gnawing at the bars of my enclosure... so here's almost 3k of sick v/ander and kink s/ilco

i'll probably continue this in the future, but between university and life things i haven't had as much time to write... so we'll see

anyways, this is set pre-everything in the show. you could read it as an au if you want!

The Last Drop on a Saturday is no fucking joke. Vander knows that full well, always double checking his list of opening tasks to ensure things run smoothly. Only a few hours after opening, the dimly lit, smoke-filled haven is already filled to its capacity. Earlier that day, there had been a boxing match held in a nearby arena, and it’s safe to say people are still riding that high. Vander picks up on arguments over bets that were won or lost, prideful drunkards boasting about how they’d been rooting for the champion all along.

The bar practically roars with the infectious excitement, only encouraged by the drinks the patrons continue to slam back. Vander doesn’t mind, he’s quite pleased with how popular his bar is, especially on nights where boxing matches occur. Everyone needs a good drink after a match, he supposes. Plus, the influx in business never hurts– people typically become more generous tippers the drunker they get. 

Vander works mindlessly as he pours drink after drink, zoning out to the sounds of raucous laughter, the clink of glass against wood, and the quiet kshhhh of the keg. The conversations are nothing more than a full-on-chorus, which has its pros and cons. 

On one hand, it allows Vander to zone out to the constant noise, letting himself work without second thought.

On the other hand, Vander feels like fucking shit. He’d been coming down with something the past couple of days, but he’d figured it wasn’t anything a few DayQuil couldn’t fix. Now, he’s beginning to realize that he was sorely mistaken in his initial dismissal of the cold. His usual charming grin doesn’t come as easily tonight, and when he wipes his brow, it’s not just due to the heat of the room. His skin is coated in a feverish sheen, his cheeks uncharacteristically flushed as he forces himself to work through his rising fever. 

The frequenters of the bars notice– at least those sober enough to– but they’ve seen this before. Vander’s tough. He’s the kind of guy who keeps his bar open for better or for worse, so when he’s sick, they just give him a look of silent understanding: he’ll be fine, he always is. 

As ‘fine’ as Vander might be, his movements are dulled by fever. He keeps moving, keeps working—filling mugs, passing shots, refilling drinks– functioning as if he’s on autopilot. His work is only interrupted as he hears the familiar drawl of his friend’s voice. 

“Is anybody home?” Silco asks with a slight smirk, looking Vander up and down as he takes a seat on the barstool closest to the sick man, observing his absent expression. Vander opens his mouth to reply, pausing momentarily to clear his throat before gruffly responding, “very funny, Silco,” sarcastically. He starts making Silco’s drink wordlessly, knowing exactly what the other likes. Vander doesn’t bother filling the silence between the two of them, letting the steady roar of auditory input wash over him. 

“Long day?” Silco questions, frowning as a nearby customer lets out a howl of laughter at his own joke, “I’ll bet you 20 gold coins he soils himself by the end of the night.” 

Vander finds it somewhat amusing how Silco always seems to take issue with the other patrons of the bar, as if he finds himself somewhat above this crowd. “I’d be an idiot to take you up on that,” Vander says with a tired grin, his lips barely curling upwards as he leans in, resting his weight on the bartop. He places the drink in front of Silco with a heavy thud, the glass almost too solid in his grip, as if it’s an anchor to keep him from slipping under the noise and fatigue. “You know how they get after boxing matches.”

“Oh, do I,” Silco replies, the words clipped, his voice carrying an immense judgement of those customers who lack any semblance of manners or public decency. He doesn’t like them, doesn’t trust them, but he does like Vander. 

Vander struggles to think up a response, his usual charm and banter replaced with a steady painful thrum threatening to become a migraine. The noise of the bar presses against his skull like a vice, and just as he finally manages to think up an adequate response, he feels it coming. A tickle in his nose, faint at first, but enough to make his breath catch as it buzzes through his sinuses. 

At first he tries to fight it, swiping at his nose roughly with the backside of his hand. His other hand searches his pockets for a rag, a handkerchief, anything. Unfortunately for him, the sneeze builds quickly. His eyes are forced to scrunch shut as his chest swells with an urgent, “hhHHHH-” and for a half-second, everything around him goes blurry, the pressure in his sinuses making his head swim, “hHHRRZZSCHHH’HUw!!”

Vander turns away from the bartop just in time, snapping forwards into his elbow with a resounding sneeze, one that grates his throat enough as to where he has to blink away a few tears. Silco watches with rapt attention, his abdomen pooling with hot attraction as he observes Vander’s broad frame nearly bend itself in two with the force of the sneeze. 

“Bless you,” Silco purrs, his voice low and sultry. The blessing practically rolls off of his tongue, and yet Vander knows it’s not just out of politeness. You see, Silco doesn’t just bless anyone. For him, offering a blessing is somewhat of a privilege, something one earns through continuous affection, and he and Vander are nothing if not affectionate. 

“I’ve got the whole damn package today—head full of cement and a nose that thinks it’s spring,” Vander mutters, barely able to keep the irritation out of his voice. Had he not known about Silco’s kink, he would’ve been entirely fed up with his body's need to sneeze. Except there’s a sliver of him that can’t help but relish the fact that he can make Silco squirm so easily. If he has to feel so utterly miserable, someone might as well enjoy it, right?

And he is miserable, nothing short of it. Silco, however, seems to be basking in Vander’s sickness, finding it difficult to resist the sight of his friend turned fuck-buddy turned… whatever it is they are now. 

“Why is it you insist on working when you’re sick?” Silco questions, knowing full-well the stubborn answer he’s about to receive– it’s the same every time. 

Except Vander doesn’t answer, letting Silco’s question hang in the air as he raises a hand to his nose. It’s back again, that bothersome, tantalizing itch that’s been wreaking havoc on his nose all night, “hhHHH’uh-”

At the sound of Vander’s hitch, Silco prepares himself for the imminent sneeze. Vander has never been one to have dramatic build ups when he’s sick– though allergies are an entirely different feat– rather, his sneezes come on quickly with one to two hitches beforehand. 

Unable to find a rag in time, Vander settles for cupping a broad hand over his nose and mouth, “hHHMMPH’DSSXCHHhew!” The sneeze is barely muffled against his palm, and Vander can feel moisture threatening to slip through his fingers. He pinches his nose between his thumb and his forefinger, gathering the residual mess and moving to wash his hands. 

When Vander returns to the bartop, he sees Silco, his gaze intensely focused, waiting with that unsettling calm, as if he could pounce at any moment. Had the countertop not been separating them, Vander is certain Silco would be draping an arm around his waist and pulling him close. And god does he want that. 

Just as Vander moves to prop himself against the bartop again, he hears a drunken, “Oi! Vander!” and groans internally, straightening up and snapping out of his exhausted haze. The woman, a regular frequenter of the bar, leans against the other side of the counter with a casual air, “Get me something strong, but nice. I’ve got a lady to impress,” she says with a smirk. Usually, Vander would have the energy to engage in some sort of playful banter, perhaps asking the customer as to who she’s pursuing tonight. Instead, he rattles off a few drink options, giving her a sideways glance as she chooses the strongest of the drinks he’d proposed, “You sure? It’s got one hell of a kick.”

The customer dismisses his warning with a wave of her hand and a chuckle, “I’m feeling lucky today.”

“Liquid luck,” Silco tuts almost inaudibly from his seat, though it goes unheard by anyone aside from Vander, “what a foolish concept.”

Vander’s lips curl into a slight smirk at the sound of Silco’s words, but he forces himself to maintain focus. He has a job to do. With a sigh, Vander grabs a glass, still feeling the steady ache that only a cold can instill. As he’s about to start mixing, he feels that nagging sensation in his nose return, the familiar tickle building once again. He grimaces, trying to hold it back for the sake of not sneezing into a customer's drink, but his body has a different plan. His breath hitches involuntarily, forcing him to pivot away from the countertop without even setting the glass down first. He draws in a final, urgent breath before snapping forwards and spraying the tiled floor with an uncovered, “hHHRRRSSXCHHHh’eHw!” 

As the sneeze fades, Vander stays still for a moment, eyes squeezed shut, his body still catching up with the sudden burst of pressure. He forces himself to stand upright, tending to the moisture clinging to his septum with his sleeve. He’d usually have a bit more decorum when it comes to covering and utilizing his sleeve as a tissue, for the sake of germs moreso than any feeling of embarrassment, but he’s too fucking tired tonight. 

“Salud,” the woman blesses absentmindedly, watching as Vander composes himself enough to make her drink, “you look sick as a dog,” she comments. Vander just continues mixing the drink, replying with a halfhearted, “that’s never stopped me before.”

“Touche.” Luckily, the woman leaves the conversation at that, exchanging the drink for a few gold pieces and making her way across the bar back to the person she’s trying to impress. 

“She’s right, you look terrible,” Silco says matter-of-factly, drawing Vander’s attention back to him. His fingers trail along the rim of his now empty glass, his expression smug as he receives an eye-roll in response. 

Vander doesn’t have time to reply as another customer approaches the bar, and he internally curses as he turns away from the one person in the bar he actually wants to see right now. His head throbs, the dull ache in his throat turning into a tight, bothersome burning sensation. As he prepares a round of shots, every movement feels slower than his last, his limbs growing heavier as the evening progresses. 

Finally, after what feels like hours, there’s a lull in drink orders, and Vander has the opportunity to return to his conversation with Silco. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries, instead saying, “you’ve got a handkerchief, no?”

“I always do,” Silco replies effortlessly, a slight smirk tugging at his lips as he registers where this is going. Vander extends his hand wordlessly, becoming increasingly frustrated with his nose running like a faucet. 

“Use your words,” Silco tuts, though his eyes flick between Vander’s outstretched hand and his nose, reddened and irritated after being berated all day. 

“Silco,” Vander huffs huskily, evidently too exhausted to tolerate any sort of teasing, “give it here.”

“That’s no way to treat a customer.”

“Bullshit, you’re not a customer.”

“Hm, then what am I?” Silco asks, enjoying this far more than he should. His hand slips into the inner pocket of his vest, extracting his crimson red handkerchief from its resting place. He keeps it hidden in his lap, waiting for the perfect moment to submit to Vander’s request. 

“A brat.” 

Vander’s hand remains outstretched, waiting for Silco to drop the dominant act and give in. Fuck me Vander mentally curses as the itch swells in his nose again, forcing his wide nostrils to flare in protest. It’s like Silco was waiting for this moment—the vulnerability of Vander, flushed and slightly out of breath, his hitches almost an invitation. 

“I know you always hhhHave one on you. Give it to m-hHHH-me dammit,” Vander’s previously annoyed tone is replaced with one of urgency. Both he and Silco know damn well he can’t hold back for shit. 

Silco watches, waiting until the very last second before pressing the handkerchief into Vander’s palm. His fingers brush across the calloused skin of Vander’s hand, which is nearly twice the size of his. Vander clutches the handkerchief, turning on his heel and doubling over as a sneeze tears through him, “hHHHGGSXCHHH’Hh’ugh!”

“Bless you,” Silco purrs once again, silently cursing the countertop separating him from the sick man. He can feel his arousal making itself known, pressing against the tight confines of his pants, “You’ll be making that up to me, you know I don’t share–” he begins, but Vander cuts him off. 

“I’ve been pudting on a show for you all nighd. Don’d be so greedy,” he mumbles huskily, the congestion in his voice dulling certain consonants. Vander gives his nose a strangled blow. It’s unsuccessful at first, eliciting a huff of frustration from the man. With both hands holding the handkerchief over his nose, he takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the next attempt. The second noseblow is much more productive, clearing his airways as best they can be with a cold ravaging his nose.

“That’s better,” Vander acknowledges, tucking the– already soiled– handkerchief into his back pocket and moving to wash his hands again. Silco, having been observing Vander’s every move, shifts to relieve some of the pressure in his pants. 

“It’s a shame you have to work,” he comments idly, knowing full well that Vander could’ve called someone in to cover his shift, “I’ve heard a good fuck is quite the cure-all for colds.” 

Silco’s bluntness never fails to catch Vander’s attention. People typically shy away from expressing their kinks, especially one as bizarre as sneezing, but Silco treats it as he does anything that can bring him sexual gratification: without shame– though don’t be mistaken, he’s eager to indulge in humiliation when given the chance. 

Vander knows exactly what Silco is alluding to, weighing the benefits of closing early or calling someone to take his place. His stubbornness and grit can only last so long, it seems, as he leans heavily against the bartop again. 

Grinning as he recognizes the slight defeat in Vander’s expression, Silco presses on, “Would it be so terrible to take a night off? I’d stay, of course, to attend to your needs.”

Vander looks up, his eyes traveling from the smirk on Silco’s face to his slightly unbuttoned top– had his chest been so visible before, so appealing? His view of Silco’s slim waist is blocked by the counter, but he’s almost certain Silco’s hard to some extent; it really only takes a few sneezes to get him going. After all, Vander’s are his favorite. 

“Fine,” he agrees stubbornly, glancing at the clock. Typically, The Last Drop would stay open well into the night and through the earliest hours of the morning, but it’s only 11:30 and Vander feels like dead weight. He leans down, searching for the bar-phone he keeps next to the especially expensive liquors. Upon finding it, he dials an employee's number despite the guilt ringing through his mind. He’s not one to give up easily, and he’s certainly given one hell of a fight to make it through this shift, but the promise of a quieter room and Silco’s attention is enough to sway him. 

“Jay? I’m sorry to ask, but–,” Vander pauses as his breath hitches, the itch suddenly returning with a vengeance. He holds the receiver as far away as possible, ducking to the side and clamping his other hand over his nose, “hhHHHGDTSCHHH’huew!” 

Apparently, Jay could still hear the utter desperation of the expulsion from over the phone– and was left to imagine the mess it made, and trust, it was messy– and is quick to say, “I’ll be there in twenty. Try not to drop dead by then.”

TBC…

as always, any reblogs, tags, and comments are very much appreciated!! i experimented with a different writing style with this fic, so any feedback is appreciated as well :3

[qqueenofhades]

I used your template to email my AG and posted it to my FB - it feels...something close to amazing? Amidst the dread? to be able to do something, to see that I did something. I also saved my AG, senators, and rep's phone numbers to my phone and will be calling them. I even got brave and sent something to my mother who is into maga asking her to do something - we'll see how that one shakes out.

That is all great to hear and I'm glad that my resources were useful in helping you feel able to take some control of the situation and react in a constructive way. Obviously we cannot fix it or erase it or immediately shut it down, but we can control how we react and find ways to make ourselves brave among all the scariness. I am proud of you.

Anyway, I am elderly and Monday (ugh) beckons tomorrow, so it is off to bed with me. But I really appreciate everyone who has taken the time to reach out to me and say that I have helped them feel better and to take action. That is good and meaningful and it is what you needed to do today. We will deal with tomorrow when it comes.

Much love to everyone. 😴❤️

[jelzorz]

206.

Soren's pretty good at first aid, actually.

He kind of has to be. He's Captain of the Crownguard, after all, and his men, and their men, and their various new recruits all injure themselves from time to time and they all need to know how to deal with it in case there's no one else around. He'd made it mandatory to know a little while ago—it seemed ridiculous to rely on the castle doctors for minor injuries, and they have enough to deal with without the various training injuries Soren and his men accumulate from day to day.

It's a valuable skill for a Crownguard, but more valuable (for him, anyway,) is knowing when someone else is injured and trying to pretend they're not.

Most of his men are pretty good about it. They take their rest days as they need them, give their muscles enough time to recover between training sessions, all of them too aware that it's more trouble than it's worth if they do injure themselves over something as silly as routine training.

Anyway, that's how he knows immediately that there is something is wrong with Opeli's wrist.

She is unflappable most days; able to stare down the worst kinds of politicians and noblemen without batting an eye, but Soren catches the little grimace that crosses her face, that tiny hint of discomfort as she flexes her wrist this way and that while she records the minutes of this afternoon's council meeting.

"You feeling all right, High Cleric?" he asks, when Ezran dismisses them for the day.

Opeli stays to clear up the mess, as usual: all the parchment and the ink spots on the table, the treaties and the finances and the documentation that all needs to be filed away that no one else has ever offered to do.

She twitches her lips at him, amused, flattered, the wince more obvious in her eyes than anywhere else. "What would make you think I'm not, Captain?"

Soren only scoffs and blocks her path before she can pile anything else into the growing stack of parchment. "What's wrong with your wrist?"

Opeli blinks at him, then has the gall to shake her head. "It's nothing," she lies—and it is a lie. Soren can see it on her face. "I must have overworked it."

"Oh, so you admit you're overworked."

She smirks. "Only as much as you are."

Soren narrows his eyes at her because as much as he insists his men take rest days, he is not one of his men. But it's not like he's overworked. He takes plenty of breaks, thank you, and yeah, there's a lot to do, but it's not the same. Opeli's workload is bigger than any of theirs, she simply pretends that it isn't.

"Can I see?"

"If you must."

"I must," he sasses. He catches her hand before she can find a way to avoid it and her grimace is obvious this time, especially when he tugs her sleeve up over her wrist.

"It really is nothing, Soren," she says as he examines her skin. There is no swelling, no dark bruising against the paleness of her arm, just tenderness as he tests the flexion of the joint. "It happens sometimes. Nothing a bit of turmeric won't fix."

"This has happened before?"

Opeli shrugs. "Now and then."

Soren tuts. "I mean the turmeric will help but it won't fix the problem. It needs rest and ice and stability."

She twitches her lips again, like she wants to laugh but won't let herself. "Are you a doctor?"

"I'm Captain of the Crown Guard," he says loftily, flashing a grin at her for good measure. "You're not the first to try and fool me. Come on. I'll bind it for you. Leave those," he adds, nodding at the stack of paperwork. "This first, then we'll come back and I'll help you file them."

Opeli blinks again. "Oh. You don't have to do that."

"Neither do you," points out Soren. "Let me help."

She pauses. Then she smiles. "If you insist."

"I do," chuckles Soren. Her hand is warm in his.

[sewn-with-lilies-fair]

Lay of Leithian: The Rock Opera

Subtitled Livestream- 9 November, 2024

Two different fates are woven together when Lúthien, an elven princess, falls in love with Beren, a hero of mortal men. To win her hand, Beren is sent on an impossible quest- to cut a legendary gem from the crown of the Dark Lord. So begins this battle between light and darkness, love and duty, in the most enduring tale of Tolkien’s Middle Earth.

Want to experience a new Tolkien adaptation? Our little Leithian fandom would like to invite you to one of our livestreams! Come join myself and some other fun Silmarillion fans as we watch this Tolkien rock opera together.

Where: Cytube (video stream) / Discord (live chat) Links will be reblogged here, 1 hour before the stream. When: Sunday, 9th November, 9am PST / 12pm EST / 18:00 CET Run Time: 1hr, 35m, with a 15 minute intermission Performance Details: June 2024 recording in 4K Language: Russian / Subtitles: English* *Subtitles are an uncorrected draft; they may contain slight timing errors or performance/script inconsistencies that should not detract from the stream. Note: This recording contains flashing lights. Additional Material: • Lay of Leithian translation • Links and resources

See you soon! 🤘

[deoidesign]

when your main characters start dating after years of writing so they finally get to be like this

[onesnoopyaday]

I AM AT MY LIMIT

Snoopy #90

30/12/2024

description under the cut

[description: a cartoon-style drawing of Snoopy's head. Snoopy is a white dog with black ears. His eyes are shut and his mouth is a horizontal line. There are two large blue teardrops, one under each eye. The text "I am at my limit" is handwritten across the top of the image.]

[queerprayers]

i want to say first of all that i fully respect a community's/denomination's/culture's right to have closed practices. i am not entitled to other people's traditions, and when i am a guest in a space i understand that everything is not automatically for me. and i know i do not have to understand to respect.

and also! when i go to a catholic church and can't receive communion i want to fall on the floor weeping. what do you mean i can't have him he's right there. sorry my baptism was the wrong kind of baptism. i'm hungry and you want me to become someone else before being fed.

[hawnks]

Logging out for a while, love you miss you <3

[deiaiko]

#19.3 Unravel

It had been some time since Agni felt this nervous. Not even talking with Jinsung Ha recently had made him feel like this. He fiddled with the mask on his hand as he waited for Grace to come back. He had thought hard on how to deliver the news, but he knew that no matter how he phrased it, Grace would be upset. Velt nuzzled under his palm and Agni gave her a few pats, before deciding that she would be better inside her bowl in his lighthouse, just in case the shinsu acted up around Grace after he received the news.

Grace came back wearing the comfiest shirt and shorts Agni knew Grace liked to wear on lazy days. He joined him on the floor, and they ate dinner together. Agni always finished last, so while waiting for him to finish his meal, Grace told him about his day with Bam. Grace was intrigued by how much his way of thinking had changed, and how glad he was to be able to be by Bam's side when he was having a bad day. It reminded Agni of the hidden floor, when Grace faced his sworn enemy.

They left the used bowls on the coffee table and went to brush their teeth. Afterwards, they turned off the light and went upstairs to sit on their bed. Grace's curious gaze never left him, and Agni curled his feet nervously.

Grace was the one who broke the silence. "So…what is it?"

Agni's breath hitched. This was the part he dreaded most. "I talked with the crocodile earlier. Did you know that he could manipulate stone already?"

"Huh." Grace needed a few seconds to let the information sink in. "Didn't Rak learn it on the Hell train? How does he know it?"

"Turns out our crocodile also traveled back to the past like us. He found the young crocodile and taught him."

"What?!" Grace gasped, wide eyed. "That means our Rak is–!!"

"He's dead." Agni quickly snuffed out that hope. They had been in delusion for long enough; it was time that they faced the bitter truth. "He suffered a fatal injury from the explosion. He couldn't have lasted long without proper help." Agni omitted the actual cause for Rak's death, but still kept his words true. "I'm sorry."

"…Oh." Grace looked lost, just like Agni was. His lips parted a little, but they closed before any sound escaped.

Agni gently squeezed Grace's hand, encouraging and comforting as he let the silence stretch on, giving Grace some time to process the information.

"Agni…" Grace whispered, "do you think Hatz and Isu…?"

Agni bit his lip and avoided his gaze, as the nightmare of that day replayed in his mind. He witnessed Hatz get his arm ripped off when trying to protect him. He could still recall the clang of a sword hitting the floor, and Hatz's suppressed scream that gnawed deep at his guilt. He witnessed Isu get beheaded after being taken hostage, the memory of warm blood painting them both still vivid like it happened yesterday. 

Agni refused to acknowledge their possible deaths, because it felt like a nightmare that one day he could hopefully wake up from. He avoided the topic when Grace brought it up, so he wouldn't have to say it aloud and make it real. He had been so hard on himself, because he couldn't get rid of the feeling that he had failed Grace and everyone else involved.

Agni knew this had to change if he wanted to live better, now that they had gotten a second chance. So he swallowed down the lump in his throat that had built up over the years and asked mostly to himself; "What are the odds of their survival?"

"There's always a chance–"

"Grace." Agni looked him straight in the eye. "They were already severely injured before the explosion hit."

Grace fell silent and went still.

Agni felt a pang of guilt upon witnessing Grace's reaction. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap." Agni fiddled with his hands. He realized that he didn't know how much Grace knew of what happened. "My scar…do you know how I got it?"

"I…was told it was from the family heads' battle." Grace looked thoughtful. Agni knew he was trying to be careful with his words. "A stray attack?"

"It could have been worse." The memory of the scorching heat on his skin felt like it had only happened yesterday. He passed out right when he was about to heal Isu, and only found out later that he also lost sweetfish at that time. The days he spent recovering from the burn, to withstand the excruciating pain every second he was conscious, and finally coming to terms that it'd be a permanent scar, was one of the turning points that had changed him forever. Were Grace not there to care for him, he might have ended up destroying himself even more.

Agni hadn't realized he had his left hand clawing on his cheek until Grace pried his hand off and frowned, "You're doing it again."

"Maybe I should wear the mask…" Agni muttered to himself. After all, Grace gave it to him less so he could hide the scar but more to prevent him from unconsciously hurting himself. The only time he could safely take it off was when Grace was around.

Agni bit his lip nervously when Grace didn't reply. He no longer had the courage to look Grace in the eye that spoke so much concern, so he leaned close and rested his head on Grace's chest. "Rak, Isu, Hatz and Hwaryun were trying to get me out of that damned place. But we were caught while escaping, and…it was a bloodbath. I was…too occupied to react to the incoming heat. Rak shielded us from the explosion. And when I woke up…"

"They weren’t with you," Grace finished it for him after Agni trailed off a moment too long.

Agni nodded dazedly, "I've been telling myself that they're still alive, after a blow that could kill rankers. But…who am I kidding? I was lucky enough to survive with just this little–" Agni vaguely pointed to himself– "inconvenience."

Agni felt a hand gripping his arm, and he pulled away to see Grace looking at him with a pained expression. His eyes were glossy and his lips were pulled into a thin line. Trusting his instinct, Agni reached out to gently trace and cup Grace's cheek with his free hand.

"I'm sorry," Agni muttered. "I'm sorry, for not telling you sooner."

Agni silently witnessed tears that streamed down on his love's face. It was a bitter sight that Agni wished he'd never have to see again, that he had tried to avoid for so long by not telling him. He pulled Grace in and held him close to his chest, as if Agni was trying to gather his own crumbled heart back together.

Grace mumbled their late best friends' names as he held onto him tighter, shaking from each breath he took between sniffles.

Agni felt his own eyes sting with unshed tears. He remembered the years he spent climbing the tower together with his old team. Despite their banter being his source of headaches, Agni knew he too had come to acknowledge them as his cherished friends. Only when they were gone did Agni realize how much he'd miss having them around. Seeing the younger them didn't exactly close the gaping hole in his heart, but at least the emptiness was more filled.

Agni squeezed Grace tighter. "We have their younger selves with us now. We will protect them better this time."

Grace only nodded and sank further into his embrace. And Agni planted kisses on his hair, relishing the thought that after everything he had gone through, Grace was still a constant in his life. As long as he had him, everything would be okay.

When Grace started shaking again, Agni caressed his hair and hummed a comfort song they had known by heart. Still, it didn't make falling asleep any easier for Agni, especially not after admitting that his nightmare was very much real. However, as he had been through grief…this, too, would pass.

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[wholelottagin]

"10 People I'd like To Know Better" Tag!

tagged by @fuckin-nancy & @fassbender-mcavoyobsessed

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Last Song: Full Circle by Half Moon Run

Favorite Color: green, especially in and around a sage green.

Last Book: The Witcher by Andrzej Sapkowski

Movie: Jurassic Park (it just popped up on Netflix and it had been a while)

Last Game: Raft (last played), Grounded (last finished, except for that damned infected broodmother, we tried that fight like 10 times over and got our butts kicked every time)

Last Show: Death in Paradise

Sweet/Spicy/Savory: tough! At a pinch I'll say savoury. But sweet and savoury together is great. I'm a real wimp about spicy lol but I like trying it.

Relationship: pffffft ok I'm trying to distract myself from something else at the moment, so I'm gonna TMI which I normally don't here. But like 8 years ago? It's been a while. I dated a fair bit through my 20's but have only been in two serious(ish) relationships. The last one was a long time friend (from like 12 years old) who was well aware of my persistent depression before asking me out. Cos long time friend - and very good close friend, so he knew. We were together for almost a year. Anyway, long story short, turns out most people don't want to hang around if you have persistent depression. Because it's not a problem that they can fix. And, you know, it's kinda boring lol. I mean I'd get away from it if I could! But yeah, bye bye boyfriend. And he did the whole don't worry I'd still like to be your friend and then I never heard from him again. So whatever. Most of my friendships went the same way too. Anyway, I haven't bothered with dating since. Not because of him specifically. I don't think that would have worked out longer term anyway. But things kinda got worse/harder for me and so that all fell by the wayside. I'd be surprised if anyone read this far lol I don't really share personal stuff on here!

Last Internet Search: "next james bond" lol my best friend sent me a thing she'd seen that said Henry Cavill was announced and I was just checking if that was true. Spoiler alert, it was not.

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tagging: if you feel like it @tormentedbythirst @words-and-seeds @teamhawkeye @drb10 @willkill4pudding @onboardsorasora uhhhh there's not that many people here lol so anyone else that wants to as well, please!

[spotaus]

New Age AU (Waking Nightmare)

Heyyy everyone! I'm scheduling this to post rlly early in the morning my timezone so don't mind that- We are officially (at least for a little bit) going in order for these drabbles! So, they may be a bit more boring than some of my other ones, haha-

Having said that, here's a third addition for the main-story! (un-edited as usual so please ignore my fumbles haha!)

(My beloveds @ancha-aus , @papiliovolens, and @mutzelputz ! Hi again!)

Comforting darkness. Night couldn’t be sure of the last time he’d slept so soundly. The remnants of a chill against his bones worn away by heavy sheets and a warm softness that engulfed him. 

His mind was bleary as he felt the edge of consciousness snake into his skull. Some little energy that sparked in his chest and urged his mind to catch up with the restlessness of his stationary magic. He was so cozy. His magic was right, though. Like every other day, he had duties to attend to and events to oversee. 

A meeting with the lord of a border town at 9 this morning, a temple-leader at 10, a break until lunch which he planned to use to help prepare Horror’s gear for his upcoming mission, then an incoming shipment of goods would arrive around 2, he’d host the merchants for an hour or two, then the Knights training would be at 6. Most of the tasks felt like routine at this point, there was always someone who needed direct audience, and Nightmare saw fit to at least hear them out, though some obviously took priority over the others. The shipments wouldn’t be too difficult either, and the merchants were often simply charmed to spend time in the parlor of the King, he usually only had to sit and listen to grand tales until the merchants excused themselves for their next delivery. Training was likely his favorite daily task, he usually looked forward to it. Getting to be active, see his knights active, it was a treat after a long day. 

Hmm. Actually. Why was he having such a hard time remembering his plans for their work today? 

Nightmare felt his brows furrow in the blissful darkness of his room at the thought. He always ensured he established a new routine before he turned in for the night. Usually mulled it over during dinner as the others chattered about any sort of interesting topic, and wrote it out in his journal before changing and laying down. Or, more usually, turning to other papers and projects in need of handling. 

Only, he didn’t remember doing any of that. 

He would blame it on his sleep-addled brain, but as far as he could recall, he only can think of Cross and Horror’s sparring. He’d called it a day when Cross fell into routine, but… That was where his recollection of the day ended. No dinner chatter, no late-night bookkeeping, it was almost distressing. 

Maybe he’d simply had a long night. Sometimes when he went without sleep for a week or two his sleep would be heavy and he’d be groggy. Ccino might’ve been right, he’d need to be more aware of his sleep-schedule. Especially if it was starting to affect his memory. He didn’t want to start forgetting things. That would leave him vulnerable, susceptible to trickery and claims against his fitness to rule. He swore he’d ask Ccino about it later, if his journals didn’t provide him with enough context to jog the missing memories, of course. 

The only good news was that he must’ve only been asleep for a normal amount of time. There had been no wake-up call, from Ccino, his knights, or otherwise. Perhaps he was lucky enough to have awoken before the rest of the castle deemed him needed and he might get a chance to explore his writing before anyone expected him. 

Right, that decided it then. It was time to get up and around. 

Soundless, Nightmare outstretched an arm above his head and let his limbs uncoil as well. Cold air surrounded them, and he thought little of it as he moved to shove himself upright. He planted his elbows behind him, lifting, only-

“Nightmare?” 

The soft voice didn’t so much as startle him as it confused him. It came from somewhere behind him. Above him? He opened his good socket and found the room was, in fact, not pitch-black like he’d assumed. There appeared to be a single candle somewhere to his left. More alarmingly, however, was the familiar crimson glow of a target-shaped soul. Though, as Nightmare caught sight of it in the darkness with his fuzzy vision, it wobbled a bit, shape becoming unstable. 

Why… 

He blinked in thought, his mind running slowly to catch-up. That was Ccino’s voice. 

Nightmare twisted his head, and spotted, now, Ccino. He seemed tired, and he. He had been tucked under the covers, right beside him. Nightmare realized, with a jolt, that one of his elbows was digging into Ccino’s lap, and he lifted his weight off of him the second he connected the dots. Ccino’s eyelights were wide and bright despite the obvious bags under his eyes, and Nightmare felt like his skull was full of pudding as he tried to figure out why exactly this situation felt so strange. 

Of course, Killer probably shouldn’t have been in his quarters, to start with. He was welcome, of course, but the only time Nightmare had asked him in for the night were when he had paranoia fits, back at the start. He doubted he’d ask in both Killer and Ccino at once, though. So perhaps Ccino had asked him in? To watch over them or to deliver something? But that brought him back. Why was Ccino in his quarters? He would never complain, of course, he had always slept best with Ccino nearby, his magic and voice soothed his troubles, but it was strange. He didn’t recall having a break-down. There had actually been very few major stressors over the past few months, and very few which would bother him enough to need comfort. 

“Ccino?” He questioned in return after his prolonged silence provided him nothing in the way of answers.

Though. His voice seemed to tip him off to… something. It was tired, a tone Ccino was all too familiar with, but it was not deep. It didn’t rumble in his chest or project beyond himself with ease. His voice was hoarse and weak, as though he’d been crying. And. It was familiar. In the same way that Ccino’s arm which wrapped at his shoulder was familiar. 

“You’re awake… How do you feel, my king?” Ccino asked, then. 

Yes, something was certainly wrong. 

In the corner of his vision he noticed that Killer had gotten closer, stood at the foot of the bed, his soul dimly illuminating the underside of his skull. His grin was wide, the kind which followed naming a new cat or testing the weight of a new knife. Something had made him happy. Nightmare, realized starkly, that he could not feel that happiness. In its place was the cold of the room, and an eerie internal silence. 

“Strange. …Cold.” Nightmare spoke without thinking. 

Ccino had always been able to help him with his troubles. It was second nature to tell his woes to his caretaker- Caretaker? Ccino hadn’t- Nightmare hadn’t thought of Ccino as his caretaker in years. Ccino was- his guardian. 

Ccino shifted slightly, and Nightmare felt the arm on his side shift so that it covered more of his side. A significant portion of his upper arm, over his shoulder, and across his back. He leaned into it a bit. Ccino was warm. 

He could feel warmth again. And cold. What had happened?

“I… imagine that you would, my king. How much do you remember?” Ccino’s other hand crossed over his chest to rest on Nightmare’s forehead. 

It was warm, and he only barely refrained from attempting to throw his whole weight into Ccino’s palm. The back of his hand nearly covered all of Nightmare’s forehead. It was strange. 

Nightmare wanted to answer him, to say that he didn’t remember, ask for answers. But he lifted his hand to meet Ccino’s outstretched arm and. Well. Those were white phalanges. Peeking out from his heavy, thick sleeve were little hands with pearly bones and a soft purple hue between the joints. His reaching fell short by an inch or two, coordination lacking, his arm felt shorter than he expected it to be. 

And on the same note, his back felt sorely empty. Tendrils missing from his spine. Nothing to wrap around Ccino, subconsciously or not, and nothing to lean back on. 

Memories started filtering back. Feeling unsteady, falling off his feet, collapsing and losing his senses. His magic, all draining, all at once. His knights there, arms holding him. Ccino holding him. 

“I collapsed. Didn’t I?” He asked, voice small. 

There was a gentle hum from Ccino. 

“Yes, you did. Your Knights said that just after training your magic seemed to drain away, and they called for me when you became unresponsive. Does that sound right?” Ccino explained quietly, removing his hand from Nightmare’s skull.

He thought about it for a moment, but it sounded right. There was no reason to doubt Ccino was telling the truth, either. Ccino wouldn’t lie to him. He nodded. Yes, it did sound correct. 

Nightmare pulled his hand closer into view of his eye, and shoved himself to sit up with a little grunt. His bones ached again at the motion, but he ignored it in favor of looking at his hands in the low light. They both seemed untouched by the dark substance that had made up his body for the past seven years. In fact, they looked like they hadn’t been touched by any injuries at all since he’d acquired the apple. No cuts from catching Killer’s stray knives or blocking Horror’s axe swings, nothing that would even hint at him having been part of any training at all. The only sign of damage, for course, being the groove along his inner left palm. His bone has slowly, but surely, been stripped away in that location from his repeated practice with blood oaths as a youth. He’d nearly forgotten the mark was there at all. The scar hadn’t transferred to the god-like body the apple had given to him. 

Tentatively, he pulled up his sleeves just a bit and found the, now unfamiliar, gleam of fragile, thin bone hidden beneath the heavy fabric. He shivered at the invasive chill, but nonetheless dragged the covers back. Someone, likely Ccino, had removed his boots along the way. His feet were just as his hands, pure bone, not a hint of the negative magic left. There was likely none hidden under the rest of his wardrobe either. Entirely gone. 

He was entirely small.

By his assumption, and likely the conclusion Ccino had already confirmed to himself, Nightmare was now, physically, exactly as he was the morning of the coronation. A frightened, weak, untrained teenager. He was 13 again. 

“This isn’t-” good. He stopped himself.

Nightmare felt his soul pound in his chest for a moment as a realization struck him. As much as he felt young again, as much as sitting beside Ccino brought him calm, time hadn’t fallen back. Just his body. And, considering how slowly it felt he was chugging through realizations, maybe his mind had fallen behind again as well. 

He looked back to the end of the bed. 

Killer was stood there. Or, well, leaned. He had draped himself partially against one of the banisters which supported the dark cyan canopy above Nightmare’s bed. He was still grinning, though it had been toned down. He worried, for a moment. He couldn’t feel him still. He knew that look was often associated with contentedness from him. But what if he was wrong? What if Killer was only wearing a poker face, already aware that Nightmare had lost the ability to sense his lies- 

No, this was Killer. He was Nightmare’s first and most loyal knight. Ccino wouldn’t let him nearby, let alone inside the room, if he was planning anything nefarious. 

“Killer.” nightmare drew Killer’s attention, and the other perked up, though he’d already been staring, “What is the status of the others?” 

He watched as Killer stood up a bit straighter and chuckled to himself. 

“The others are well, my lord. We’ve been taking shifts ensuring this room stays secure, and going about business as usual. Horror and Dust took up Cross’ training the past two days, and we rescheduled Horror’s mission for two months from now, since we weren’t sure when you’d recover and didn’t want to have anyone too far from home.” Killer reported, his voice low, as though expecting someone to be listening in. 

Nightmare let the information roll through his skull for a few breaths. 

His knights had all stayed. They’d all still been in the training room when it happened, so they weren’t unaware of his… affliction. And. Days. Two days? Killer didn’t just add information like that for nothing. He’d been out for two entire days. Wow. So much for his meetings and shipment-collections. 

He felt himself frown in thought, before he caught himself and schooled his expression again. 

“And. I assume no one knows about… this. Aside from ourselves, Dust, Horror, and Cross?” He questioned, then.

Killer nodded smoothly, “Our most valuable team player came up with a cover. The rest of the castle believes you’re resting after overworking the past few months. Not a peep outside the grounds far as I can tell.” His hand gestured to Ccino, and Nightmare didn’t doubt that his head of house would be quick on his feet. After all, Nightmare had done similar things, tucking away after working on long and draining new laws or projects. “We threw folks off the scent who visited by letting Dust listen to them. Scary bastard got the information pretty fast, it’s in your study for when you’re feeling better, my Lord.” 

That was good. Nothing he’d have to worry about having missed, no tarnished reputation. 

He shivered again. It was still cold, even wrapped up in his heavy everyday clothes. 

There was much he had to catch up on, much he had to do. First of all being that he’d want to go back to the library, research the ritual. His mother had ruled for hundreds of years and those before her had centuries under their belts. Nightmare had seemingly been stripped of the magic. Only after seven years at that. He’d need answers. For himself, for those who trust him, for his people… Oh he was not looking forward to facing his people. 

Point was, this wasn’t normal. Never in their recorded history had a ruler lost the god magic. Maybe his corrupted appearance had always been a warning sign, a connection not made between himself and the apple? Maybe it was that Nim had been somehow tailoring the magic to Dream rather than him, so receiving a host that was incompatible it would only thrive for so long? Or perhaps it was that bloodshed which never happened. Whatever burning desire to kill which had driven him to near madness in those first moments, in the weeks after, maybe because he never fed it enough, the magic starved? He hadn’t gotten blood on his hands since that first year… 

“Understood. Thank you, Killer.” Nightmare praised his knight. 

He needed to get started. Make up for lost time. He could already feel the nerves of uncertainty starting to kick in.

“If you could, collect them? I want to speak to you all, and-” Nightmare’s voice fell short with the sound of a clearing throat. 

He paused and glanced back at the culprit. Ccino. 

Nightmare had slipped free of his hold at some point, now only their legs touching through the comforter. Ccino’s arms were crossed and he was watching Nightmare with a look the king knew all too well. It was a dissuading stare, one he knew meant ‘think about what you just said and try again’ without saying it out loud. This was the stare he’d received when he’d brought Killer back to the castle. And hired Dust. And every other questionable character roaming the halls. 

The king remained silent in the wake of Ccino’s stare, though he looked at him with what he hoped were the big, watery sockets he used to wield in his youth. Maybe one thing might be working in his favor from this bodily downgrade. 

Ccino seemed to give in first, letting out a gentle sigh. 

“My king, you are still in recovery, you just woke up from a very large change. The castle won't expect you for at least another two days, maybe longer. Your knights will be patient. Besides, you have a skull wound, and I do believe that if I don’t help you tend to it before Horror sees you again, he may be distressed.” Ccino explained, lifting one hand out to gently pet over the blind side of Nightmare’s skull. 

The king was frustrated to find that he let out a little squeak as Ccino’s feather-light touch caught on a crack he hadn’t even realized was there. He flinched down a bit, and Ccino retracted his hand like lightning. 

Nightmare noticed, but he didn’t think much of it, too occupied with reaching his own little hands up to touch the bottom of his dark socket and trail up out of his line of sight. It hurt, if felt like his skull was on fire and a headache split through his thoughts when he had seemingly traced too much of it. Near the top of his skull, a little fragment was misplaced, other cracks and crevices trailing from it. Ouch. 

Unlike his palm wound, he didn’t recall being so injured on his skull. Unless. Oh, right. How could he have forgotten? At the coronation, before the magic had fully bonded to him. The blow that had made him half-blind in the first place. He hadn’t realized the strike had been so deep. 

He focused again on Ccino, and saw how closely he was being watched. 

“You- You’re right.” Nightmare practically mewled, “Killer, disregard that request. Continue with what you’ve been doing since I became indisposed.” 

He didn’t have to look to the Knight, having heard a ‘Yes, m’lord’ from the end of the bed. 

“Then, we should get this wound cleaned.” Nightmare voiced. 

Ccino hummed. 

…

The water was warm. That he was grateful for. It seemed to chase away the chill of the room he’d left behind. 

The bath was connected through a doorway, of course, but he’d asked Killer to stand guard and ensure no one entered. He didn’t want anyone seeing him like this, least of all entirely nude. That would only end in disaster. 

It had been years since he’d taken a proper bath, the negativity never quite agreed with water, and yet Ccino had slipped into the routine as though it’d only been yesterday that he’d last done it. He started the water and collected soaps and scrubs and towels. Then he’d helped Nightmare out of bed, and walked with him to the bath. Locked the door behind them, and assisted Nightmare in removing his too-big layers. He was shaky still, with movements. It felt like he couldn’t carry his own weight anymore. 

Now, he sat submerged up to his chin in the clear, warm, water enjoying the weightlessness and trying to ignore the strangeness of looking at his own bones again. In some ways he knew this was him, but in others… 

“Nightmare, are you alright with me starting to clean your wound?” Ccino’s voice broke him out of his thoughts. When Night looked at him he continued briefly, “Horror said it might hurt, so if you need a break just tell me, alright? We can take as long as you need.” 

Night glanced to Ccino, and found that he’d, at some point, removed the apron Night had spotted on him earlier, as well as rolled up his sleeves, and removed his fur shawl. His eyelights met Nightmare’s, but he was pretty sure that they’d been examining his skull again. Based on how it had felt before, he didn’t doubt it’d probably hurt. 

“Yeah, okay.” He agreed quietly, leaning his back against the warmed edge of the tub. 

It was an inground tub, one seemingly carved into a smooth stone. It was far too big for him, especially now, but it might’ve fit his mother perfectly and given her room to stretch. She was a tall woman. Nightmare was curled nearest to one of the edges where ‘steps’ had been carved in. Ccino sat cross-legged just behind him on the ledge. 

He stayed still as Ccino scooped down beside him and cupped some of the water into a little bowl he had on-hand. Carefully, he poured it over Nightmare’s skull, moving one of his hand to make sure none of it went into his dark socket while he closed his other one. The warmth made him shover, but it was nice. He missed being able to feel warm. Maybe now he’d remember to light the hearth in the study more often. 

Next, he felt as Ccino must’ve grabbed a cloth, because he carefully slid it across the top of Nightmare’s skull. Just as his finger had, it snagged a few times, but Nightmare bit back the need to flinch. It was fine, he could handle it. This repeated a few more times, before more water poured over his skull. The repetition was calming. 

There was a pause, and then the silence of the bathroom was quietly filled with the beginning notes of a hum. Night knew that hum, it was the one that Ccino always hummed for him when he was stressed, or couldn’t sleep, or needed to relax. Of course, sometimes Ccino would hum on his own, too. When he was working, or when they were sitting in the study, or he was pleased with something. It was always a comfort. 

He figured it must’ve been to distract him, because a pressure invaded a portion of his skull towards where the big opening had been, and squinting his socket open revealed that Ccino had begun to actually work at the cracks left in his head. He had… some sort of brush, he thought, and scrubbed slowly, but with more force than anything previous. Sure, it hurt, but he didn’t want Ccino to stop, it’d better to get it all over with at once. 

The humming persisted, only pausing every once in a while for Ccino to check in with Night, but the young king always just nodded and asked him to keep going. 

Only when the wound was entirely clean did Ccino see to stop and let out a breath. 

“Alright, all done.” Ccino announced. 

If he’d been well, if he hadn’t had such an injury, Night probably would’ve let himself sink fully under the water and sit there for a few breaths. That would’ve been nice. 

“Thank you, Ccino.” He said instead. 

His skull still throbbed in protest from the cleaning, Ccino probably dislodged particles that had been in place for seven years just waiting to cause him trouble. Despite that, he shifted so that he could prop his arms up and out of the water, to look at Ccino. 

His head of house was already going about cleaning his supplies, putting them away all neat and tidy. He didn’t say anything, but when he caught Nightmare looking at him, he gave a soft smile.

Ccino stood to go return the items to their rightful place in the cabinet, leaving only a washcloth, soap, and several warm towels in his wake. 

Nightmare took up the washcloth and soap, taking the initiative to start scrubbing away at his own bones. This scenario felt like something straight out of. Well. Before. Before he found the scroll, before the ritual, before the coronation, before sending Dream away, before his rule, before the knights, before all of it. It was as though, in all that time, so little had changed. 

“Ccino?” Nightmare spoke up, the other skeleton was still on the other side of the room. He only continued when he heard a quiet ‘yes, my king?’ from across the space. “Ccino. I- I don’t know- I don’t know what I’ll do now.” 

He hadn’t allowed himself to have the thoughts before, to doubt himself, but the truth was blaring. He was young again. All the magic that had provided him security, that had been able to earn him a face of fear and power, that had drawn so many to respect him… it was all gone. He would do research, but he doubted he could get it back. The magic was provided by his mother’s soul, and well, he was sure that it was no longer with him. Whatever magic he’d assessed to have lost had to be gone. Long, long gone. 

And with the loss of the magic would come the loss of his status, and the loss of his status would mean the loss of everything. One well-placed sword-strike or arrow-bolt could end his life, and the entire kingdom would fall to the wayside in his wake. Of course, he believed in his people to maintain best they could, but he hadn’t even finalized his revisions. The farms were still being subsidized by shipments out of kingdom, the funding for restoration after the floods and storms wasn’t anywhere near finished, and he had no heir or next of kin to pass the throne to… except for Dream. And he loved his twin dearly, but he was sure his brother would seek to undo all his work, would dismiss those he cares for, would reinstate the blood-magic. It would leave way for slave contracts and sacrifices to arise again. 

“What do you mean by that?” Ccino asked, crossing the space back to him. Had he spaced out?

Nightmare returned to vigorously scrubbing at his neck and shoulders, using it as an excuse to partially turn away from Ccino’s gaze. 

“Everyone has followed me because I could promise protection, safety, a new life. My plans are not finished yet, and I’m weak now. Anyone who were to see me would see me as weak, and an easy target. I-” He paused a second, “I worry I won’t survive to be able to see my promises through. My- my state will only put people in danger. Put you in danger.” He voiced. 

He would have died in those first few weeks if not for the might of his magic. It worked as a repellent enough that assassins and rebels learned to not even go near him. Without that…

“My king, are you doubting the skill of your Knights?” 

Ccino’s question caught him off-guard, enough-so that he shot his skull around to look at him. What did he mean?

“No, they are highly skilled and powerful.” Nightmare answered.

Ccino was watching him with a stern expression, had he said something wrong? 

“Your Knights have been trained, by you, to do two missions. Their second is to serve and assist this kingdom. The first, which you seem to have forgotten, is to protect you.” Ccino explained, tone even. “Until now, you’ve simply been strong enough that they haven’t had the chance to show you just how often they’re looking out for your wellbeing.” 

Nightmare felt foolish as he stared at Ccino. He couldn’t muster any words, his mind was racing to figure out if he was right. 

“You know. He likely won’t say anything, so as to not wound your pride, but when I got to the training room after your collapse? Killer had you tucked in his arms, holding you close. The only reason he let go, I think, is because I showed up and you wanted to get to me.” Ccino explained, and Nightmare felt heat rush to his skull. He remembered collapsing, and Killer caught him, but Ccino was right, he hadn’t ever touched the floor. “And I was there to witness as your other knights agreed to stay. To continue to train, and work, and wait for you to wake up. Even Cross, and he’s hardly been here a fraction of the time the others have.” 

Ccino let out a tired sigh, and Nightmare stared at him, wide-eyed. “My point is, my king, that they have all seen you. As I see it, they plan to abide by their oaths, and their own morals, to continue to serve you. Not your magic, but you. So, at least for their honors, don’t dismiss them so readily.” 

Ccino moved again to sit at the edge of the bath, and Nightmare hesitantly sat his washcloth back on the edge. A sniffle escaped him as he let Ccino’s words sink in. He was right, of course. Without his being awake, any of them could have simply left, no harm no foul. And yet Killer was outside the bathroom door right this moment, the others working their hardest to keep up appearances. 

He sniffled again, and felt tears attempting to well in his sockets. 

“Y-you’re right, Ccino.” Night muttered, but, “You won’t leave, right?” 

He wished, a part of him at least, that Ccino would. He’d stayed here in this place that tormented him for so long. He’d stayed by Nightmare’s side through it all. But now Nightmare couldn’t protect him. Couldn’t keep him safe. He wasn’t even an adult anymore, he was young and inexperienced again, and- He knew he wanted Ccino close, though. Moments like this, selfishly, he needed. Especially now.

“My Nightmare.” He was only a bit startled as Ccino shifted and cupped his hands around the sides of Nightmare’s skull, careful of his newly revealed injury. He allowed himself to be dragged closer to the edge where Ccino was sat. “You know my answer. I have no plans to leave your side. Not back then, and especially not now. I love you too much to ever think of leaving.” And Ccino gently brought his skull down to nuzzle his nose against the top of Nightmare’s skull. 

The little king sniffled again and felt the tears fall from his good socket. He leaned his skull closer to Ccino’s legs and pressed against the soft fabric of his pants leg. Ccino always knew just what to say to him. 

“Promise- promise me something?” He piped up, socket closed, trying to stop the flow of tears. 

Ccino hummed in question.

“Promise you’ll tell me? If you’re upset, or sad, or mad? I- I can’t just know anymore, and I don’t want to hurt you because I don’t notice.” The again was silent. They both knew that Nightmare had been an ignorant child. That Ccino was good at hiding what he really felt. 

“I promise you, Nightmare. I will tell you.” He agreed.

…

“My lord!” Killer greeted enthusiastically when Nightmare trailed Ccino out of the bathroom. 

The knight had been standing standing in the space beside the door just next to the bed, and Nightmare looked to him as he exited. 

He realized, suddenly, that Killer was taller than him. 

Oh. That would take some getting used-to.

“My lord, do I have something on my face?” Killer asked, moving his sleeve to drag across his cheeks. 

Night realized, with a start, that he must’ve lost his poker-face along with the negativity which used to engulf his expression. He blinked, and watched as Killer, very much intentionally, smeared the magic which fell from his sockets across the lower half on his face. His grin didn’t fade.

“Well, you didn’t.” Nightmare responded almost out of habit, furrowing his brow. He tried to ignore the fact that he had to reach up in order to plant his hands on other side of Killer’s skull. It only occurred to him in a moment that he no longer had his tendrils to wipe away the excess markings like he would normally do. “Hold still.” Nightmare insisted, even though Killer hadn’t moved an inch. 

Instead of tendrils, Nightmare used one of his sleeves, pulling the baggy fabric up and over his fingers, to scrub at the still-fresh magic and wipe it away. It hardly took a few second, but he huff in content when he deemed it a job well-done and released Killer’s skull. The way the other straightened up and his sockets turned to crescents alongside his grin made Nightmare smile a bit to himself too, before he quickly turned away. 

Only when he saw Ccino standing near his desk with a fond smile did it occur to him that what he’d done must’ve looked silly now. Actually, he used to do it all the time without a second thought. Had Killer done that on purpose? Well, he usually did it on purpose, but. Whatever. Don’t overthink it! 

Nightmare quickly started to walk away, moving himself with wobbling steps towards his desk where Ccino had stood. 

He was still uneven on his legs, strides connecting with the ground much more quickly than he was used to, but he’d manage okay. The warm water had helped to loosen his sore magic and now only a dull ache persisted from the wounds in his skull. 

He was silent as he popped up onto the stool sat before it and pulled open the main drawer, just below where he would normally be writing. The drawer itself was full of papers, organized and filed away, several being scrapped versions of the newest laws he’d put into place. He moved those aside, lifting them onto his desk, before digging his phalanges beneath a piece of wood in the bottom. Secret pockets in drawers were nothing special, Nightmare had found there was one in about every drawer in the castle with any significant purpose, and so he rarely used them for anything actually important. Except for this one. 

He had to take a breath as he stared at the object before him, and lifted it up with careful hands so that the other two could see it. 

A mask. One carved out of sacred wood, made for him when he was only five. One of a pair, the other far off, safe in another kingdom with his twin. 

This one was flat, shaped like the curious, round face of a barn-owl, the eye-holes round and wide. The wood was an unnatural ashy gray, slightly tinged purple from years and years of exposure to his magic. IOn either side sat a thick, satin ribbon, which would easily support the weight when it was tied around the back of his skull. 

Nightmare, honestly, had never intended to bring this relic back out. It hadn’t fit his skull as an adult, and so he’d resorted to hiding it away in storage. A relic of an era behind him. And yet, here it was, back in his hands again. No doubt it would fit his skull just as perfectly as it had the day of the ritual, when he’d finally grown into it. 

“I’ll wear this, I think, when I return to my duties.” He voiced to no-one in particular, before turning to Ccino, “Would you do the honors?” He asked, lifting the wood to his skull.

Ccino was quiet as he stepped around and took up the soft purple ribbons. Ccino knew just how secure it needed to be, and we evidently careful of his wound. Nightmare knew when he was finished, and hopped off the stool. 

A mirror in the far corner of his room was his goal, and when he stood in front of it, he felt small. The clothes were baggy, his body thin and scrawny, his stature almost hunched. Had he always looked so scared as a kid? Maybe that was why Ccino had always stayed nearer to him than Dream. Most strikingly, his mask, and his socket, looked identical to the last time he remembered looking in a mirror like this. Aside from his dark socket, of course. 

No one had directly told him so, but they had been right to keep him inside, to not take him to the healers. He was probably about half his normal height with his bare feet against the carpet covering the stone floor. He looked tired. His magic wasn’t even right anymore. 

He laughed, quietly, at the sight.

“It looks like I’ll have to do some training of my own.” he voiced, already feeling tired at the prospect as he moved to untie his mask. 

By the time it slipped into his free hand, Ccino was at his side, and Nightmare passed it off to him to hold. He got closer to the mirror now, to get a better look at his skull. The light was still dim, but being more awake his magic was working to make up the difference. 

“Training, my Lord?” Killer questioned curiously from somewhere behind him.

Nightmare nodded to himself, prodding at one of the cracks which trailed down to his socket. He hissed before deciding not to touch them again, just look. 

“Yes. Not for combat, though. To alter my magic signature and appearance. King Nightmare doesn’t have purple magic, after all.” He explained, “I think if I tried to spar with any of you now I would be tagged in half a second.” 

He hoped his tone wasn’t too weary as he admitted it. 

Killer laughed from behind him, “I don’t know, I think you’d make it at least a minute if you convinced Cross to a dueling-spar.” He joked.

It was a tease. Nightmare laughed in agreement, feeling a bit lighter. It must’ve been obvious to his knight that his physical condition was poor, and Killer had been there to watch Nightmare learn to fight as they both trained together. He didn’t seem distressed that Night wasn’t much of a combatant anymore. 

He could do this. He could do this. He just… needed some time, was all. Just like before.

[jrueships]

im going into my new work tomorrow, first time ever😐

[nobodybetterlookatme]

Update 3: drove the asshole home bc I was so sure he was fr gonna die if he drove himself lmao. Poor dude looked so miserable, like bro was either holding back while we were working or he got worse the second he was able to relax, bc there wasn't a single moment of silence the whole drive back, dude was just curled up in the passenger’s seat shivering and being so fucking symptomatic. Like he was doing that thing where you basically cough all of the air out of your lungs then doing that rattly little inhale and then repeating, like it was Not Good 😬 0/10, hated being there to experience that in person, I was horrified, I want all of that to stay in audio recordings where it can't hurt me lmao. And he wasn’t sneezing a ton, but when he did, he stifled them until I told him to quit it bc the last thing he needs is a fucking ear infection on top of whatever the hell is already wrong with him, and even when he stopped, he was so congested that they sounded kinda stifled anyway 😭 like it's all objectively hot and I would've loved it had I just read it and not experienced it first hand, but unfortunately I'm a massive germaphobe and had to sit three feet away from this guy all damn day. So I bleached the hell out of my car and scrubbed myself down in the shower three times and I still don't feel like anything is clean enough, but I'm tired so it's gonna have to do for now lmao

[sewn-with-lilies-fair]

Lay of Leithian: The Rock-Opera

Subtitled Livestream- 13 January, 2024

Two different fates are woven together when Lúthien, an elven princess, falls in love with Beren, a hero of mortal men. To win her hand, Beren is sent on an impossible quest- to cut a legendary gem from the crown of the Dark Lord. So begins this battle between light and darkness, love and duty, in the most enduring tale of Tolkien’s Middle Earth.

Здравствуйте, друзья! Hello, friends!

Want to experience a new Tolkien adaptation? Our little Leithian fandom would like to invite you to one of our livestreams! Come join myself and some other fun Silmarillion fans as we watch this Tolkien rock opera together.

Where: Cytube (video stream) / Discord (live chat) • Links will be reblogged here, 1 hour before the stream When: Saturday, 13th January, 7pm EST / 4pm PST / 1:00 CET Run Time: 1hr, 35m, with a 15 minute intermission Performance Details: Recording TBD; likely to be either the May 2023 live broadcast or the June 2022 pro edit. Language: Russian / Subtitles: English Additional Material: • Lay of Leithian translation • Links and resources

See you soon! 🤘

[etapereine]

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