#HINT HINT FOR THE LONG FIC

[talesfrommedinastation]

FOR EVERY ASSHOLE COMPLAINING AND MAKING FUN ABOUT TECH’S HAIRLINE I WILL DRAW A PIC OF HIM LOOKING CUTE AND COMFY WITH A PERFECTLY FINE HAIRLINE THAT OH I DONT KNOW MOST Y CHROMOSOME INDIVIDUALS WILL GET IN THEIR LIFETIMES.

Source: Had a long day, drank too much bourbon, found people making fun of receding hairlines and Tech and I see RED.

I also see plenty of children who never thirsted after Christopher Meloni on Law and Order and y’all tasteless and make me the sad. He so FINE.

Also my wonderful hot engineer Eagle Scout husband is a Texan version of Tech and has his hairline. I will defend my man’s like it’s Helm’s Deep up in herrrrre. He my boo. And is probably deeply horrified that Doug the redneck neighbor is quickly becoming so popular on Tumblr and his PhD holding director wife is going on like this.

Whatever. I pay my bills and I do the LORDS WORK.

[violent138]

Batfamily member's civilian identity becomes some serial killer's target because it fits some profile. Cue said murderer going after this member of the Batfamily, earning a very shocked and mildly exasperated set of swear words and then getting their ass kicked. The Batfamily member doesn't even bother calling the cops, just tosses the would be killer in the back of their car (which has bloody gloves in the seat and weird files on people), leading the murderer to conclude they're in the presence of a much worse serial killer.

Tldr: Outsider POV fic where a Batfamily member earns the undying adoration of an actual murderer and it's a slow, convoluted process to getting the evidence to arrest them while also protecting their secret identity.

[mmm-eta]

I saw your art and love it so much! Especially your pieces with Sky and Viktor. What do you think about them? There's so little work for them, and poor Sky deserves some love from him. 🥺❤️

aww thank you thank you! 🥹❤️ and good question! My brainrot lately was Sky developing crush on Viktor.. I think it didn't happen right away.

I love thinking of Viktor calling Mrs Young by her name as an evidence of them being at least not-close-friends :)

So! Just like in the series, SkyVik is the only romantic (far-from-romantic actually) pair I see Viktor in. I love them in their miserable state of unrequited affection, self-consciousness and closeness (& fast bad end), and don't want to make it any further myself.

And of course Sky deserves some love. In my humble opinion she deserves the whole world, but love can't be forced. Viktor himself cut any more of not even it, but simple human connection, in “Good night, Mrs. Young” scene.

Honestly, I don't think Viktor would agree to engage in a relationship at all considering his mental and physical state. Let's say I respect things laying the way they are. and Viktor's feelings. or choice.

[lenle-g]

Inspired by these Scott and John words by the amazing @scribbles97 who knows I adore the idea of John's Oxford stint and couldn't resist this gem <3

The letter’s weight hadn’t changed in his hands, even if it’s appearance had. Once crisp sharp edges were now crumpled and the two folds were starting to rip where he had folded and unfolded it so many times.  Practically, he knew the letter was exactly the same weight as it had been when his course supervisor had handed it to him. Except, as days had become a week, the weight had felt heavier in John’s chest. He only had another week to think about it, his supervisor had warned it would take all summer to make the appropriate arrangements. His professors had all seemed convinced that he would go, it wasn’t every day you got invited to study at Oxford University after all. 

It would only be for a year, Ffion had insisted at study group, an interim that would still count towards his degree. He had only part jokingly asked if she wanted to go in his place. She would be much better suited to making friends in a new place. 

There was no denying it though, Oxford was tempting. The British University had always been in close competition with Harvard, each trying to outdo one another year on year with improved facilities and support. The only reason John hadn’t considered the other University had been the same reason he was still hesitating with the offer. 

Oxford was a long way away. 

To get home from Harvard, at best, was a four hour flight, at worst a two day drive. 

Oxford was transatlantic, at least double the flight time. 

He wouldn’t see his family for a whole year. 

Looking up he watched the gentle sway of the apple tree in the breeze, listened to the gentle creak of the barn doors. He wouldn’t see home for a whole year. 

“Whatcha doing out here, Johnny?” 

His eyes widened as he looked over his shoulder to the door back into the kitchen. Scott was leaning against the frame, the knowing cocky smile familiar as always. 

“You’re an hour early.”

Scott was meant to have flown in from Virginia, his flight was meant to have just landed. They all knew how long it took from landing to get home, they’d all done it enough times. 

Big brother sighed as he stepped out onto the verandah, hands shoved in his jean pockets as he leant on the railing next to the step where John was sitting. 

“Dad left a jet in DC and took the new rail line up to New York, said I could fly myself home. You do the math.”

He already had. 

“So, your turn to answer my question.” Scott continued, nodding at the letter, “What you got there?”

He was grateful really, Scott had been the one he had wanted to talk to about the whole thing. Scott would know what to say, his biggest brother somehow just always did. There wasn’t the same pressure from Scott as there was from Dad, he just understood differently. 

“Oxford University have invited me to complete my research year over there.” He admitted, reading over the words he already had memorised, “I could spend the next academic year in England.”

“Nice one.” Scott grinned, “I’ll tell Dad to pick up a bottle of something on his way in so we can ce--”

“I don’t know if I’m going to accept it.” He cut him off forcefully. Just like Dad, Scott had a habit of getting ahead of himself. 

The message seemed to get through though as his big brother plopped down next to him on the step. His frown was obvious confusion. 

“John, that’s one hell of an offer, Oxford is… it’s Oxford.”

“At present they have the better facilities over Harvard.” He filled in, not taking his eyes off of the paper, “They’ve just spent six million upgrading their Offshore Observatory. That’s as well as the Royal Observatory which is as good as what we’ve got at Harvard.”

On paper, comparing the facilities left it as a no brainer. 

“So what’s the hang up?” Scott asked, reaching for the letter to read for himself. 

Still John’s eyes didn’t leave the paper, still firmly fixed in place as his big brother read over the words for him. 

“Oxford is in England.”

Scott looked up, eyebrow raised, “So?”

“I don’t know anybody in England.” He sighed, “You guys all worry that I spend too much time on my own now if I go over there I’ll spend even less time with people.”

Scott shrugged at he leant against the railing of the steps, “You like being on your own though. I thought you would have jumped at the chance.” 

A glance back towards the kitchen apparently gave Scott all the answers he needed as John pursed his lips. 

“Oh.” 

“I know I’m not as close as the rest of you,” He admitted softly, “But you’re still my family.”

Scott shuffled over until their shoulders were pressed together. John expected him to sling an arm across his back, but was grateful when he didn’t. Instead big brother handed back the letter, nodding as he did so.

“And you’re still our brother, moving across an ocean isn’t going to change that. I’d come and visit when I’m on leave. Hell, I could bring Alan with me and you could show off the observatories.”

He had to smile at the thought. Watching the stars with Alan was one of his favourite pastimes, to be able to show his brother the best in star watching technology would perhaps be the biggest bonus of the trip. 

“Don’t let a fear of the unknown stop you from jumping in.” Scott grinned, his shoulder bumping John’s lightly, “You might love it.” 

“You sound like Dad.” 

Scott laughed as he stood, “Yeah, a few people have told me that recently.” 

Pausing on the top step as he frowned again, “And I wouldn’t worry about being on your own, doesn’t Dad have a friend over in London? That Lord guy?” 

“Yeah,” John nodded, suddenly remembering himself, “Yeah he does.” 

“So, you gonna go?” 

Taking a breath, he straightened his shoulders. His chest still felt heavy with the fear of not knowing what would come next. Scott seemed to have every faith though, and John knew he needed to have the same sort of faith in himself. 

“Yeah.” He swallowed, finally smiling as he looked up to his big brother, “I’m going to Oxford.”

[jubmato]

bleghhhh finally sat down and made a full body ref for my bill design

more versions, closeup, and notes under the cut! (version without the coat + accessories, and then a version in minimal clothing) ↓

notes time!

- fuck ass bob forms the vaguest of triangle shapes (like. a soft triangle ig)

- cosmetic scarring on the right side of his face. he literally just made it like that for shits and giggles

- vaguely based on pitiful descriptions of ancient sumerians; long, angular nose, big eyes, long ears, brown skin.

- white hair is self indulgent on my end. i am bestowing upon him the highest honor i know. stupid little white streaks in his hair

- "why is the triangle transgender" fuck you thats why

- rune tattoos on his forearms change frequently. its like an led billboard for all the bullshit happening in the multiverse. the alphabet also changes. i just used galactic/minecraft enchantment table because i already know it

- clothing is always loose and comfortable. i think he'd fucking hate wearing clothes and would wear the baggiest shit imaginable to keep it from touching his skin, if he were actually human. (foreshadowing (/j)). as this is just an illusion he uses in the mindscape, however... just loose. the grippers stay out tho unfortunately. boy put the dogs AWAY

- big fucking robe. idk why it just felt right. let's say it's to sell the whole Muse thing or whatever

- small ribbon around his neck (to stay fashionable whilst also keeping his bowtie (god i fucking hate bowties theyre so ugly im so sorry))

- the glasses are useless he does not need them

- earrings also change frequently. almost always unsubtly gold & triangular but he can get silly with it if one so desires

OKAY I THINK THATS EVERYTHING 🙂‍↕️ sorry for the long post i just have a lot of thoughts in my brain. smiles. if you got this far, thank you for reading, i owe you my life

[wildsaltair]

Tender Fires

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: T (hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, with a few hints of spice)

Word Count: 6.4k

Tag List: @enjisbf, @nasatshirts, @empressenchanted, @streets-in-paradise, @xiscamoony, @aelondrias

Author’s Note: I'm back with another Maximus fic! This is actually part of a larger narrative in which Maximus escapes the execution attempt and ends up at reader's farm, where she tends his wounds and they fall in love but have to fight their feelings because he intends to leave to keep her safe. As always, this fic is written from the deepest longings of my lovestruck heart, and I hope that love is obvious :) Thank y'all so much for your kind words about the last fic, and I hope you enjoy this one!!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

“You’re up late.”

At your words, Maximus turns his head to look at you, and a soft smile crosses his lips. His features are etched in shadow, flickering with the dancing firelight.

He’s seated in front of your kitchen fire, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, gazing deep into the flames as if searching for some hidden meaning within. You would never have known he was in here if you had not been awakened by the loud cracks of thunder outside and come in search of the warmth of the fire.

An autumn storm, a midnight fire, and the most captivating man you have ever known, dressed only in his plain white sleeping tunic. It seems like a combination intended to lure you into trouble.

As you move to sit in the chair beside him, he looks back into the hearth, a smile still tugging at the corner of his lips. “I have stayed awake staring at many fires in my life,” he tells you quietly, his voice deep and thoughtful.

Out of the corner of your eye, you risk a glance at him, looking for the scar on his ribs. He has been with you for a little more than two weeks now, helping you with odd jobs around the farm as his strength returns. His wounds, though still vulnerable, have healed quickly, and you are relieved to see no signs of further injury on the parts of his skin that you can see.

“As have I,” you reply, eyes still lingering on him. “Though for me, it has always been the same fire. This one.”

He hums in response, nodding slightly. You have never sat by this fire together at night, and you are bewitched by the way the light dances over him, makes his golden skin shimmer. The lines of his arms and shoulders are limned in shadow, the firelight flickering on his handsome features.

You are overcome with a desire to put your hands on him, to feel the heat of his skin and the strength of his body, but you cast your gaze on the fireplace instead.

“I envy you that,” he answers softly, after a short reflection. He glances up at you, studying you intently. “A home fire, always burning in the same place.”

The meaning of his words is not lost on you.

Every day, the thought of him leaving you is more painful. At the moment, as you sit close enough to listen to him breathing, the thought is unbearable. Your home is his home now, and you long — more than you have ever longed for anything — for him to realize that he belongs here.

His shadowed eyes search yours a moment more, then return to gazing at the flames.

You take a deep, steadying breath to calm yourself. Your hands are trembling, and you smooth them over your skirt, hoping he does not notice how nervous you are from this simple interaction.

“Tea?” you ask quickly, pushing yourself to stand and get a bit of space between the two of you.

He glances up again, and your heart clenches at the gentleness in his expression. He nods. “Thank you.”

Have his eyes ever seemed so wide, so earnest? Are you imagining the way his gaze lingers on you, drinking in every detail of the way you move?

You can feel the tension in the room thickening, your own heart beating faster as you fill the kettle with water and set the tea leaves to brewing. Somehow, sharing space with this man is so much more intimate at night, with a storm raging outside and a warm fire bringing extra heat to the atmosphere.

Even more astonishing to you is the fact that you are not afraid of this powerful soldier. He is strong enough to do anything he wishes to you, to take whatever he obviously wants. But even now, standing here in your night shift, with your hair and your defenses down, you have no fear of him.

If anything, you wish he would initiate a touch, a kiss, anything that would lead to the passion that has been haunting your dreams every night.

Such as your dream last night. You can still feel the sensation of your body thoroughly tangled with his, your limbs entwined, his hands pulling your skirt up to your waist. Your cheeks burn when you remember all the places he kissed in your dream, all the places he touched and explored and pleasured. Such thoughts make you ache all over again, especially now that you are standing so close to him.

A blinding crack of lightning, followed by the roar of thunder, pulls you from the dream-memory of his mouth hot on your throat.

To distract yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you ramble on the first topic you can think of. “My father used to tell me stories beside this fire,” you announce as you hang the kettle over the fire and settle back into the chair beside him. You don’t dare meet his eyes, even as a smile crosses your lips at the memory. “I always begged him to tell me ghost stories even though they frightened me.”

He tilts his head to the side to look at you curiously, a smile of his own playing at his lips. “What kind of ghosts do you have in these parts?” he asks, leaning on one arm of the chair to look at you more squarely.

Somehow, having his full attention focused on you is unnerving, undoing, arousing. You can hardly find the words to speak.

His eyes are still on your face as you feel a deep blush burning in your cheeks. You hope he will attribute it to the warmth of the fire, not your intense reaction to the way he gazes at you. If he only knew how much more heated you are by his presence.

“My favorite is the Howling Woman,” you blurt out, glad that your voice is not as unsteady as you feared. “She wears all gray, with her head covered. She’s been seen in these mountains for decades.”

He does not interrupt you, but your breath catches as his gaze wanders across your face. An absent smile is still on his lips, and he seems to be content to simply watch you, to let his eyes trace the lines of your face, your neck, your hair where it tumbles over your shoulders. His gaze is searching, admiring.

How will you find the strength to hide your desire when one look from him could bring you to your knees?

Clenching your jaw and willing the kettle to boil faster, you continue your story determinedly. “They say she was the wife of a farmer who was killed after being thrown from his horse. She found him with his neck broken.” You pause, still breathless from the effects of his undivided attention. “She went mad and drowned her own children. When she came to her senses and realized what she had done, she walked into the wilderness to die.”

You wait for him to interject, to ask some clarifying question or comment, but he does not. He is still leaning on the arm of his chair, his dark eyes captivated by the sight of you in the firelight. You can almost sense the way he is actively preventing himself from letting his gaze wander further down — where your shift does little to hide the shape of your figure.

But somehow, his watchfulness is not an act of seduction. He seems genuinely swept up in your story, spellbound by the sound of your voice. He listens to you intently, curiously, and waits for you to continue.

“But to punish her for her crime,” you continue, blushing even harder, “the gods cursed her to wander these mountains and valleys for eternity, never able to die and meet her family in the afterlife.”

It is the sound of your voice, you realize now. His gaze wanders over your features slowly, as if measuring them, but his silence persists the longer you speak. It is as if he cannot bring himself to interrupt you, so captivated as he is by your voice.

“She still walks at night,” you finish, finally allowing yourself to look deep into his eyes. There seems to be no end to them, no way to pull yourself out of the gaze that holds you captive. “She wanders, calling and wailing and howling.”

He swallows hard, licks his lips, though you guess he does so unconsciously. A shiver runs up your spine, and not from your ghost story.

You lean forward, just an inch or so, to finish the story. “They say you can hear her best on a night like this,” you whisper, and the silence between you is so concentrated that you feel you might choke on it.

His gaze flits down to your lips for a moment, and in this flickering firelight, surrounded by warmth and desire, you think he may kiss you.

The silence is broken by a loud crack of thunder outside, one that makes you jump at its suddenness. You both look away, realizing how intently you have been gazing at one another for an inexcusably long amount of time.

The tea in the kettle is boiling at last, and, glad for the distraction, you lean forward to take it off the fire. Your two cups are sitting on the table beside you, and you fill both before handing one to him. He nods his thanks, and the two of you sit quietly for a few moments, looking deep into the firelight.

He is the one who finally breaks the silence. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asks softly, with that pleasant raspy quality you have come to recognize in him at night.

You smile and lean back in your chair to sip at your tea. “Of course,” you confirm lightly. “Don’t you?”

His expression grows quizzical, and he doesn’t lift his eyes away from the fire. He takes a sip of his tea, thinks for a long time before answering. You are more than content to sit in silence with him, but he finally comes to an answer.

“No,” he tells you quietly, still mesmerized by the dancing flames. Eerie shadows prance over his fine features. “Spirits do not wander the earth after death. They go to the afterlife.”

His voice is calm and even, but resolute, assured. You have talked so little with him about such things, and you cannot deny your curiosity at learning more about what he believes.

“How do you know?” you press, unconsciously leaning toward him.

He does not move for a moment, just grips his cup tighter and sharpens his gaze at the fire. “I have seen enough death to feel certain of it,” he declares, then turns his head to look into your eyes again. “If ghosts could exist,” he tells you softly, gently, “then I would be haunted by them every moment.”

Your heart aches for him now, for the pain and grief he carries with him always. His life has been difficult, laden with the weight of many lives and much responsibility. Even in a peaceful haven like your home, he is ever followed by the burdens of his past, no matter how much comfort and peace you have offered him.

“Perhaps they do not wish to speak to you,” you suggest, tilting your head to show that you are teasing him. “Perhaps you do not know all there is to know in the world.”

His haunted expression softens as he looks at you, taking in the meaning of your words. As before, his soft smile smoothes the lines in his face, lifts a bit of the weariness etched into his features. You can’t help wondering if he realizes your effect on him, if he craves these moments of tranquility and comfort as much as you do.

“I am sure of that,” he tells you in a low voice, and your heart turns over at the simple passion in his eyes.

You lapse into silence once again, each of you drinking your tea and losing yourself in thought. Your own ponderings are of him, wondering what he is thinking. He has seemed burdened ever since you found him sitting by the fire, and you long to know what worries him.

If he only knew how your heart leaps at the sight of him, how you long to cradle his face in your hands, to kiss him until all his burdens are lifted, until all he knows is this deep, all-consuming love that has swept over your heart like an autumn storm.

The thunder continues to roll outside, the rain pelting your roof relentlessly, but the warmth of the fire and the pleasant constancy of his presence is comforting.

You do not press him for several long minutes, letting him mull over his worries in silence until both of you have finished your tea. When you set your two empty cups on the table beside you, you finally decide to inquire, pushing your chair a few inches nearer to him and leaning on one arm of the chair so you can look into his eyes more closely.

“What troubles you?” you ask softly, and he finally lifts his head, dark eyes burning into yours with all the intensity of the hearth fire.

His voice is hardly more than a whisper when he replies, “Ghosts.”

“Memories?” you ask, entranced by the way he slowly leans forward, closing the distance between the two of you one inch at a time. Your skin suddenly burns, aching for a touch, one simple touch, that will answer your constant longing for his hands on you.

After a moment of hesitation, in which he seems to ponder the consequences of what he wants, he finally lifts one hand and trails his fingertips down the side of your face.

“Shadows of things I do not understand,” he murmurs absently, and he traces the line of your jaw with fingers so gentle you cannot imagine them ever wielding a sword.

He gazes at you more openly now, his eyes traveling down to your lips as his thumb brushes over them. You suppress a shudder at the contact, and he strokes your lips a few times, transfixed by the sight, before sliding the backs of his knuckles down the column of your throat.

Stars in the heavens, if he only knew how your body is aching for him, how you respond to the slightest touch he gives you.

You finally find your voice to speak. “Is it your men?” you ask softly, as if the room has suddenly been overtaken by a spell.

He sighs, brow furrowed deeply in thought. “They were not my men,” he replies at last, still stroking his fingers down your neck. “Not the ones who betrayed me. My men were loyal, courageous.” His voice is thick with sorrow, and you sense that recalling this memory is painful for him. “They were my brothers,” he half-whispers. “They would have risen up in rebellion if they had known.”

Your heart aches again at the sadness in his voice, the sadness he works so hard to disguise throughout the day. Somehow, in the darkness, in the stillness of nighttime, he seems more vulnerable.

“Why does the Emperor want you dead so badly?” you finally venture to ask.

His hand stills on your neck, eyes not quite focused on your face. He seems to be traveling back in time in his mind, and he draws a deep breath as he thinks. Almost as if he does not realize what he is doing, his hand wanders to the base of your neck, absently stroking the sensitive skin there.

It’s all you can do to hold still, to keep from betraying how perfectly wonderful his touch is to you.

His voice is low and measured when he answers your question. “I once received favor that he believed should have been his.” He pauses, then raises his eyes to meet yours meaningfully. “By his own father.”

His words take you aback, and you know he must notice your wide-eyed stare. “Marcus Aurelius?” you squawk in disbelief. “You knew the great Emperor?”

“Yes,” he replies, his face softening into a smile at the memory. You are shocked by the revelation, but his fond smile warms your heart after seeing his heavily burdened expression a moment ago. 

He presses on, though his hand is now running softly over your shoulder, skimming over the top of your thin shift. “I was young when he took me under his wing,” he explains, eyes tracing the path his hand is making on your shoulder. “I had won some small battles, and he saw in me potential for greater things. He made me what I am today.”

He strokes your shoulder once, gently, then removes his hand, as though he cannot trust himself to keep touching you there. Again lifting his deep blue eyes to meet your gaze, he looks at you so tenderly, so affectionately, as he raises the same hand to tuck your hair behind your ear.

You want to melt, to close your eyes and sigh in pleasure at his simple touch, but you fight for your composure. “He must have been a great man,” you manage instead, meaning every word.

“He was the greatest man I have ever known,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers through your hair at your temple now. “He is the closest thing to a father that I ever knew.”

You have noticed how the man is drawn to your hair whenever you leave it down. He seems fascinated with it, with the way it cascades through his fingers when he cards them through it. His attentions are so gentle, so unobtrusive, as if he is unable to keep himself from simply admiring your beauty in this soft firelight.

“And that is why the Emperor envies you,” you observe to keep from losing your breath.

“Yes,” he answers quietly, his voice hardly above a whisper. “He believed that his father wanted to pass on his power to me.”

You nearly startle in surprise at his words. Not only the commander of the northern armies, not only a confidante of Marcus Aurelius, but the rightful future emperor himself?

You almost feel dizzy, though you’re not sure if it is from the shocking news or the way his fingers keep brushing your temple as he plays with your hair. “Did he?” you prompt him breathlessly, genuinely curious.

He ponders for several long moments, letting your hair stream between his fingers. You are entranced simply by looking at his features — his dark eyelashes, his sharp nose, the gentle creases by his mouth. He is so exquisitely lovely to you, so unaware of how deeply he affects you.

“I do not know,” he finally admits, tracing the side of your face before letting his hand fall back into his lap again. “He never told me.”

His words silence some of the shock you were feeling at wondering if you were in the presence of a man who was supposed to have ruled Rome. The thought of this man, this humble, honest, unpretentious warrior, ruling such a corrupt and conniving empire is almost unthinkable.

You are struck by the absence of his touch, and he seems hesitant to initiate any more contact now that he realizes how close he has drawn to you. He’s still watching you carefully, as if gauging your reaction to his touches, but you cannot resist reaching out to him now.

Your fingers seek out the necklace that hangs down to his chest, a simple cord bearing two wolf’s teeth on the end. You have never asked him about its origin. You handle it carefully, and the man barely breathes as your hand hovers over his chest.

“What would you have done if all this had never happened?” you ask softly, caught in the intimacy of this quiet moment. “Would you have been a soldier all your life?”

Your question is a heavy one, full of unspoken desire and curiosity. You can tell he senses that desire by the way his dark eyes burn into yours, by the way his chest rises and falls more quickly, as if you are taking his breath away just by touching his necklace.

He thinks for a few moments, still gazing deep into your eyes. “I always imagined I would die in battle,” he tells you, a hint of sorrow in his voice. “There seemed no other fate in store for me.”

Your heart tightens, and you let go of your loose grip on his necklace. Suddenly, all you want to do is touch him, to make contact with his body somehow. His words have struck a chord in your heart, reminding you how grateful you are that this world-weary soldier has come to your home, to your hearth, instead of falling on a battlefield hundreds of miles away.

With your pulse racing, you press your hand flat against his chest, splaying your fingers over his heart. Even through the fabric of his nightshirt, you can feel his heart pounding like a war drum, perfectly in rhythm with your own.

Oh, how you long to press your heart against his, to be wrapped up in his arms, so thoroughly tangled with his body that you cannot tell where you begin and he ends.

His breath comes more quickly now, his lips parted and his eyes scorching yours with a hunger that stirs your blood.

“But,” he begins in a hoarse whisper, his gaze flickering down to your lips and then back up, “I did imagine, sometimes…” He pauses, licks his lips again, takes a slow breath, “that if I did have a chance to grow old… I might…”

He halts again, his voice dying in his throat. You press your palm more firmly against his chest, and his heart skips a beat beneath your hand. You can feel his skin burning hot under his shirt.

“Tell me,” you whisper, and a look of unadulterated desire flashes across his face.

He leans close to you, close enough that his breath skims over your lips. “That I might one day have a home,” he breathes. “A family.” He sighs softly, the longing in his voice especially evident. “A life of peace always seemed… unlikely.”

The hesitation in his words is palpable, and suddenly his own larger hand is covering yours, pressing it tight against his chest. You realize that he is relishing your touch the way you relished his a moment ago.

After holding your hand against his heart a moment longer, he grasps your hand in his, lifts it to his lips. Your own heart skips a beat now, when he presses a slow, languid kiss to the back of your hand.

“And now?” you whisper, breathless and tingling with need.

He breathes against your hand, slowly and calmly. “Now,” he echoes, his voice rumbling in your bones. “Now a life of peace seems impossible.”

No. No, he cannot mean that. He cannot still mean to leave you when his gentle eyes speak of the passion he holds for you.

“It does not have to be,” you insist, lifting your free hand to touch the side of his face. He actually sighs at your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. His lips are slightly parted, and it takes all your willpower not to lean forward and kiss him until he can breathe nothing but your name.

His eyes remain closed when he responds, your hand still cradled in his. “To believe otherwise would be foolish,” he tells you, though his voice is anything but resolute. “Dangerous.”

You stroke the side of his face tenderly, enraptured by the way he reacts to your touch. He seems so relaxed, so overwhelmed when you caress him gently. The thought suddenly strikes you that this man has probably never been touched this way — not as light as a feather, with such love and affection that he can feel it beating in rhythm with his heart.

When you brush your fingertips down his neck, over the sensitive skin of his throat, he makes a sound so soft, so unguarded, that you nearly come undone for him right there.

“Are you not well acquainted with danger?” you whisper, leaning in closer to him. He opens his eyes when he feels you drawing nearer, and his fathomless eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

You want him to stay. You want him to love you as you so desperately love him. You want him to never stop looking at you the way he is now.

And when you press your hand flat against the side of his neck, your gaze fluttering over every perfect feature of his face, his soul opens to you, and you see all the love you bear for him reflected deep in his own eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes, and he leans forward to close the few inches that separate your lips from his.

The first sensation that strikes you is his blood pulsing in his neck, hammering against your hand as you caress him. His own hand tangles in your hair, holding you in place while he presses his lips against yours.

There is no hesitation in this kiss, no second-guessing or reluctance. His lips move against yours in a rhythm so natural that you wonder if he has imagined this as many times as you have.

He tilts his head slightly to the side, drowning in your kiss like a dying man seeking air. You can feel the breath knocked out of your lungs, so unaccustomed to any attention as passionate as this. The man lifts his other hand to cradle your jaw, still kissing your lips, gently but insistently, over and over and over.

This is what heaven must be like, you realize distantly when his tongue slides against yours, every inch of your skin tingling in response. His undivided attention, his unashamed desire for you is so arousing, so delightful in every way.

You can feel your cheeks burning, your skin heating up, the longer his hands linger on your face and neck. His fingers stroke your jaw, and his other hand grips your hair just hard enough to hold you in place. He is still reveling in your kiss, still using his lips and tongue to draw out the softest moan you have ever made in your life.

As soon as he hears it, he moves his lips to press against the corner of your mouth, much as he did the first time he kissed you in the barn. He trails his lips down your jaw, peppering kisses on every inch of skin he passes.

Thoroughly excited by his kisses and touches, your mind is all too eager to provide any number of tempting images. When he dips his head to one side, lips touching the place where your jaw meets your neck, all you can imagine is the careful way he would undress you, lay you down, and make love to you, slowly and gently but passionately.

He drags his lips down your neck, his curious tongue coaxing another soft sound from you. Again, your mind flashes to all the ways he might use his tongue on you, all the places he could seek out and tease until you are so dizzy with pleasure that all you can say is his name, over and over.

Another press of his tongue, and it takes all your strength not to beg him to take you right here. You can imagine it so easily, the way he would grip your waist, your hips, the way you would wrap yourself around him and touch every inch of his bare skin if he would only give you the chance.

What would you not give to see him shudder in pleasure, to throw his head back and hold you tight as you cling to him and make him feel the same thing he ignites in you?

It’s at that moment that he whispers your name, tenderly, reverently, like a prayer, against the soft column of your throat. Your whole body shudders in response, your hands tightening where they have landed on his broad shoulders, and he finally fulfills what you have been aching for.

One strong arm wraps around your waist, the other around your upper back, and in the space of a breath the man has pulled you against him, leaning you to the side so that you are cradled in his arms across his lap.

You are suddenly very aware of how thin your shift is, of the way he must be able to feel every curve of your body pressed against him. His fingers are gentle where they wrap around your waist, and you feel with heightened awareness all the strength of his own body, all his powerful muscles and vigorous energy.

All you can do is sigh in pleasure as he keeps his head buried in your neck, still kissing your sensitive skin as though he cannot get enough of you.

You can barely take a breath, so overcome with the multitude of sensations he ignites in you. His hand flexes against your waist, and you respond in kind with your fingers digging into his back.

You have the distinct impression that the man is having to physically restrain himself from going further, that all he wants to do right now is yank open your shift and kiss his way down your bare body. As irresistible as that thought is, you let him take the lead, and he chooses to simply kiss you rather than ravish you.

He is a noble man, a man of honor, and though your body is aching for him to truly make you his, you take pleasure in his self-control, his respect for you.

His fervent kisses to your neck finally slow, and he breathes against your skin as though trying to memorize you. When he nuzzles his face against your neck, all you can do is close your eyes in absolute ecstasy. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, and it’s his turn to shiver with pleasure, pulling you even closer against his body and resting his lips against the curve of your neck.

He goes still in your arms when you stroke his hair, slowly and tenderly with your fingertips. Again, you are struck by his reactions to your gentle touches, by the way he melts into your arms as though overpowered.

Several long moments are spent in that position, with you cradled against his chest, his face against your neck. You would be content to stay like this all night, just listening to him breathe, feeling his heart beating against your side.

But the moment passes, as all moments do. Another crack of thunder shakes the house, and you can’t help but jump a little in his arms.

As if pulled out of his daze, the man smiles softly against your neck, strokes your back soothingly in a way that only serves to make you arch your body against his. A moment later, he lifts his head from the crook of your shoulder, letting his face brush against yours as you disentangle yourselves.

Though you have just spent the last few moments passionately embracing and kissing, and though both of you are still flushed and breathless with exhilaration, the following moment is not awkward. You do not look at each other as you part, but you can sense your own relief and contentment in him.

You do not know what will come of this. You do not know if he will stay much longer. But in a moment like this, with your lips still swollen from his kiss and your skin still burning from his touch, you feel as though no heartbreak can be as vast as this perfect fulfillment you feel with him.

You stand slowly, glad that you are not as unsteady as you feel, and you lift the kettle off the fire just to have something to do. You can feel the man’s eyes on you, though he does not speak.

“It is a fierce storm tonight,” you comment, almost without realizing that you are speaking. The silence between you was comfortable, but you long to say something, to know that he is still at ease with you.

He takes his time in responding, especially since you have your back to him. “Yes,” he says simply, his voice deep and husky.

Stars, how you want to hear that voice in your ear, in your bed, murmuring to you while you both reach the height of your shared pleasure.

You swallow hard to banish your intrusive thoughts. You move to set the kettle down in your cabinet and scramble to think of something else to say. Rain continues to pound against your roof, sending a slight chill through the air despite the warmth of the fire.

“Will you be warm enough tonight?” you ask over your shoulder, still conscious of his eyes burning into your back.

Again, he takes his time answering. “Yes,” he finally replies. “Will you?”

You let the question hang, still standing with your back to him. You hope he can understand your wordless answer, especially after sharing such an intimate moment.

The only warmth I crave now is the heat of your body against mine.

Still trying to avoid meeting his eyes, you half-turn to pick up your two empty cups from the table. Doing so makes you lean against the side of the little square table, and you notice with great surprise that it does not tilt dangerously to the side as it has for the last several months.

The table legs are perfectly even now, and you suddenly raise your eyes to look at the man squarely. He is gazing at you with the oddest combination of expressions — desire, contentment, admiration, sorrow, longing, affection, and several others you cannot name.

“You fixed my table,” you observe, genuinely struck by the kindness of his simple gesture. You don’t know when he did it, but sometime in the last few days he must have noticed the unsteadiness and taken the time to fix it somehow.

He holds your gaze for a long moment, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “It needed fixing,” he replies simply.

Your heart leaps into your throat, though you can’t say quite why. Despite the fact that just a moment ago you were wrapped up in his arms, sighing while he covered your neck with kisses, you are much more affected by his modest demonstration of kindness — fixing something of yours that was broken.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly, returning his small smile with all the warmth blossoming in your heart.

You finish your task, setting the two cups in the cabinet to be washed tomorrow. The storm outside has quieted somewhat, but you can still hear the constant pounding of raindrops on the roof and walls.

Quiet thunder rolls in the distance as you turn to look at the man again. He is still seated, leaning forward with his knees on his elbows, gazing at you curiously.

This is what you want: this man in your home, always, sharing your fire, sharing your space, looking at you as if you hold his heart in your hands.

The words spill from your lips before you can consider them. “My father always told me that a storm can make a person change their mind about anything.” You hear the significance in your own words, and you press on anyway. “He said it’s in their nature to bring about transformation.”

The man’s darkened eyes do not leave yours for a moment, and you hold his gaze steadily, wanting him to hear your unspoken plea.

Stay with me. Let me love you as I do in my dreams.

His face does not betray any decision, but his gaze is tender, filled with a weary longing. His eyes explore each feature of your face as gently as his fingers did a few moments ago.

“Perhaps I will listen to it for awhile, then,” he murmurs, and your heart sighs.

All is not lost. You must simply wait.

As you start towards the doorway that leads to your bedroom, you pause beside his chair. The man is looking up at you with eyes that melt you to your very soul. Overcome with your affection for him, you lift one hand and stroke the side of his face, smiling down at him fondly.

“Goodnight, general,” you whisper, and your heart whispers, Beloved.

Before you can drop your hand, the man wraps his fingers around it and brings it to his lips. An unhurried kiss to the back of your hand, one that sends another shiver down your spine, and he releases you. His eyes burn into yours, intense, ardent, yearning.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, and your heart hears his whisper, Beloved, long after you have slipped into the next room.

[xlmibby]

me on daily basis in my fics: lumine is very unwell during her stay in teyvat. she's lonely and so homesick that it makes her go insane. pain seems to be etched deep into her veins and no matter how hard she tries to erase it, she can't do it. she's feeling lost and needs someone to hold her, even if it's just for a moment. even though she's strong, she feels like she might fall apart any given moment.

hoyoverse: yes, you're right. lumine is suffering.

me: oh nooooooo😭😭 wdym lumine is suffering😭😭😭

[owl-with-a-pen]

Parthas had a vibrancy about it that Kara had seen nowhere else. She’d detailed it in her article the first time she’d visited with Nia, but no words could really do the town justice. Community really meant something here, humans and aliens alike worked together to keep their town thriving. And it was thriving.

Nia had once told Kara that her mother had been the heart of the town. She’d planted the flowers that still bloomed each spring on every street, bursting out from pots beneath the windows of local cafes. She’d been commissioned to paint original works for a lot of the community venues and had even designed a mural that was now proudly displayed across the first building that greeted outsiders into the town’s borders.

Isabel really was the heart – a heart that continued to beat even now that she was gone. Her vitality was ingrained into the lives of every person who called Parthas home, but none more than the family she’d built that home for.

Kara had been visiting Parthas more than anywhere else over the last few months. Not to fulfil her duties as Supergirl, but rather the infinitely more important duties of Kara Zor-El, Maid of Honour Extraordinaire. She’d been busy booking venues, securing hotel rooms, ordering flowers plus catering - giving just about any regular wedding planner a run for their money - and in all that time, she hadn’t yet needed to return to Nia’s own childhood home.

That was, until now.

“Thanks for doing this with me, Kara,” Nia said as they made their way up the cobbled pathway towards the front porch.

It was her first coherent sentence since they’d reached the town border. Nia had spent most of the drive passed out against the passenger side window, a surly furrow to her brow.  Kara was willing to bet she hadn’t had a wink of sleep last night. After all, today’s trip wasn’t exactly something Nia had been looking forward to.

So, she tried to stay cheerful for them both. “Hey, of course.” She beamed, nudging Nia’s arm. “Alex didn’t bestow me with the title Best Maid of Honour Ever for nothing, you know.”

Nia did smile at that, although it couldn’t quite disguise the shadows beneath her eyes. She glanced up towards the house warily, her jaw set. “I’m just glad to have a buffer. Things have still been… weird between us, y’know?”

Kara winced sympathetically. “Is she here yet?”

Nia shrugged. “You tell me.”

Kara took that as her cue. She closed her eyes, opening her heightened senses as she listened out for any signs of life behind the varnished doorframe. She straightened almost immediately. “Well, there’s definitely a heartbeat in there. Your dad’s still out of town, right?”

“Suit and shoe shopping,” Nia said with a roll of her eyes. “I think he’s trying to get a wedding gift while he’s in the city, although he’s not really sure what a Coluan would want. I said waffle iron.”

Kara nodded seriously. “Brainy is getting pretty good with breakfast foods.”

“Right?”

Kara chuckled, catching herself when she noticed how intensely Nia was studying the door. She cleared her throat. “Ready?”

“For this? Never,” Nia muttered, grabbing for the doorhandle. “So here goes nothing.”

The house was just the same as Kara remembered, right down to the pleasant smell of vanilla mixed with acrylic paint that wafted down the hall. From the way Nia stiffened, Kara knew it wasn’t just her heightened senses picking it up.

Isabel’s paintings still decorated the walls, an intricately detailed doorway to her dreams in every direction they looked. Nia kept her eyes trained on the floor, sucking in a deep breath as she took her first step inside.

At the same time, a floorboard above them creaked and a shadow slunk over the banister, dipping swiftly towards them. They both looked up just as Maeve Nal appeared at the top of the stairs, a strained smile already etched in place.

At first, no one said a word.

Kara glanced awkwardly between the two sisters as they exchanged a long and wary look. Kara knew exactly what that kind of a look meant, she and Alex had shared it plenty of times themselves. Once, when they’d been teenagers, Kara had lost control of her heat vision during an argument with Eliza that had nearly burned the kitchen down. The following morning, she’d met Alex with the same expression Maeve was demonstrating now. An unspoken promise to try harder, to be on her best behaviour. No more outbursts.

But there had been- so many more - and so Kara understood the distrust in Nia’s eyes, that hesitancy to believe anything Maeve was selling her, no matter how much they both wanted it to be true.

When Nia remained silent, Maeve cleared her throat. “Nia, Kara, you’re early,” she said with forced cheer. “How was the journey?”

“It was fine,” Nia said quickly, an edge to her voice that made no room for small talk.

Maeve nodded anyway. “Good, that’s good. Do either of you want a drink, or--?”

“Can we just get started?” Nia interrupted, grabbing for the stair rail.

Maeve’s smile hardened into tight line. She pursed her lips, stepping away from the banister. “Of course. Come on up.”

Kara smiled politely as she passed Maeve on the landing. The last time they’d seen each other hadn’t exactly been under the best of circumstances. Not just that, but when they’d first met, Maeve had only known her as Kara Danvers, Nia’s work colleague and friend. Now, like the rest of the world, Maeve knew the truth.

That, right now, she was sharing a roof with Supergirl.

Not that Maeve seemed to care. Maybe she was used to superheroes with a family history as rich as Naltor’s, maybe she’d made the connection long ago - or maybe she was more focused on the well-being of her sister to pay it any thought. This was going to be a difficult experience for them both, Kara knew, and whether Nia admitted to it or not, there was a reason she’d wanted Maeve there with her today.

Nia took the lead down the hallway, walking a path she must have travelled a hundred times over the years, before stopping in front a doorway just across from her dad’s bedroom.

It was already open.

She waited for Kara to catch up from the corner of her eye, bracing herself, before heading through to the other side.

Kara followed her in, Maeve close behind. With all three of them in there, it should have felt crowded, but somehow the room was accommodating enough to fit everyone comfortably. Natural light flooded in from three large windows on the tallest part of the far wall, casting an inviting glow across the tan floorboards. A pink orchid was sat on the windowsill, petals fresh and flourishing in the sunlight.

An easel was set up in the centre of the room, an old canvas still hooked in place. The painting wasn’t finished, its meaning lost to time, but Kara couldn’t help but wonder.

Had this been Isabel’s final dream?

The room wasn’t just home to Isabel’s old artwork. Large antique wardrobes had been pushed against the wall, and boxes of old supplies gathered dust in a corner. The rest of the furniture had been hidden away beneath clean cotton sheets, as though they were already sharing the space with a handful of ghostly figures.

The studio kept parts of Isabel’s life in colour, at least, even if a few had been obscured along the way. Nia’s dad must have been looking after the room as best he could, and although nothing felt neglected, there were certain pieces of clutter that hadn’t been touched for a very long time.

“So,” Maeve said, leaning against the doorway. “Where do you want to start looking?”

Nia didn’t speak; her dark eyes worked over the room, flickering quickly from spot to spot. She didn’t marvel the place like when she’d first visited the Fortress - there was nothing new about it, not really. Kara knew that this was far from Nia’s first visit home since her mother’s passing. Last summer, she and Brainy had stayed in Parthas for three weeks after their engagement announcement, and Nia had since set aside a weekend every month to visit her dad. In all that time, though, Nia had admitted she’d never made it quite as far as her mother’s art studio. It was never locked, the door nearly always open, but she always found an excuse to avoid it.

Now, Kara watched as Nia marked out every item in the room like she was planning an itinerary. Finally, she bit her lip, heading over to the closest wardrobe before pulling it open.

The doors shuddered and groaned on old hinges, the smell of mothballs invading the air, but Nia didn’t seem to mind. Instead, she started to card her way through the heavy articles of clothing that hung inside. Some from decades prior, others more modern in shape and cut. On her right, Maeve opened the wardrobe stood nearest to the door, a host of pastel blues and ivory creams packed tightly on the other side.

Neither sister spoke a word to the other, and Kara suddenly felt that bit more of an invader on the whole ritual. Nia had wanted her there as both a peacekeeper and a friend, but her duty was a little blurred around the edges now that she was stood among Isabel’s old things. Kara decided to open one of the boxes on the floor that hadn’t been taped shut to occupy her time, rummaging inside half-heartedly as Nia continued her search.

She combed through her mom’s things carefully, pausing to squeeze or hold a piece at length when it sparked a fond memory. That was the only time she looked halfway comfortable with what she was doing. Kara felt her pain – aside from the data crystals stored in her pod, she hadn’t had anything left of her parents when she’d been sent away, believing them to be dead. If she had, she might have found the same bittersweet peace that was currently stirring Nia’s confliction.

Every so often, Maeve would offer up a possible clothing option from her closet, pulling a jacket or scarf from the hanger for Nia to see. Her wardrobe certainly boasted a colour scheme more fitting for their objective, but every time Nia shot her down. She was clearly looking for something specific, even if she didn’t know what it was she was searching for.  

Maeve stopped trying soon after her fifth failed attempt, and the room fell once again into a tense silence only disturbed by the screech of metal hangers on metal rails.

Just as Kara was planning to suggest they break for lunch, Nia gasped sharply from behind her. Kara turned immediately, tense and alert, only to find Nia stood with something clutched tightly to her chest.

It was a long piece of satin fabric with a pearly texture. Simple and without shape, like a scarf or shawl.

But there was nothing simple about the way that Nia was looking at it.

“Nia—what is it?” Maeve asked.

Nia gritted her teeth, shaking her head. “This was stupid,” she muttered. Her arms fell slack, dropping the satin to the ground. “I-I need some air.”

She stormed out before either of them could convince her otherwise, disappearing around the corner. Kara caught Maeve’s eye guardedly.

“I should—” Maeve began.

“No,” Kara said. “Let me.”

Maeve didn’t try to fight her on the subject. Her own eyes were glistening, unable to articulate her thanks.

Kara didn’t wait for one. She gave it five seconds before following out after Nia, locating her heartbeat a little too quickly. It was thudding like crazy, and the fact she’d only made it as far as the stairs only increased the volume of her grief.

“Nia?” Kara asked tentatively. When Nia half turned her head and she saw the tears that had begun streaking down her face, Kara’s chest tightened. “Hey, Nia, Nia, what is it?”

Nia only shook her head, wiping angrily at her cheeks with the edge of her palm. “I shouldn’t have done this, Kara. It was a dumb idea.”

“Nia,” Kara admonished, taking her arm. “It was a good idea. A wonderful one. Look, maybe we should take a break. We could go to that coffee place on the corner, the one you were talking about earlier?”

“No.” Nia rolled her shoulder out of Kara’s grasp, folding her arms. “I mean—no. I don’t need a break. I just—” She blinked quickly, clenching her teeth. “Just—I thought this’d be easier, that being here with all her stuff would make me feel closer to her, make everything clearer.” She snorted. “But it doesn’t and nothing here feels right.”

“It’s okay.”

“But it’s not!” Nia spun to face Kara fully, the tears of her frustration still glittering on her jaw. “I came here to find something of my mom’s that I could wear for my wedding day, so why can’t I, Kara? It’s all here, so why—”

“Hey, hey, breathe,” Kara instructed, taking Nia’s shoulders before she could back away. This time, Nia didn’t fight her. She stared, chest heaving, cheeks blotched with red, until finally Kara’s words began to sink in. Her lashes fluttered shut and she drew in one long and steady breath, easing it out through her teeth. Kara smiled. “I think you answered your own question. It is all here, there’s a lot to go through, and I don’t just mean your mom’s stuff.” She glanced meaningfully down the hall, giving Nia’s shoulders a reassuring squeeze.

Nia huffed out a laugh. “Maybe you’re right,” she muttered thickly, before rolling her eyes. “I know you’re right. I just…”

“Take it slow,” Kara said. “There’s no rush, Nia. However long it takes, we will find something. I refuse to leave until we do.”

Nia’s lips crumpled into a smile at her pseudo-serious remark and Kara grinned, winding an arm around her back. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Nia agreed, sniffing into her hand.

After drying her face off with some tissues from the bathroom, Kara guided Nia back to Isabel’s study and right into the expectant gaze of her big sister.

“Everything alright?” Maeve asked immediately, abandoning her search.

Nia nodded quickly, avoiding Maeve’s eyes. “Things just got a little overwhelming.”

“I noticed,” Maeve said with a wry smile. “You were looking at this, right?”

The second Maeve lifted up the offending satin piece, Nia faltered. She set her jaw, biting her lip. “Yeah. It’s just… I guess for a second it reminded me of what mom was wearing in the dream realm. When I—”

“Right,” Maeve said, cutting her off with a pained wince. “Of course. Well… maybe, maybe that’s a sign you should wear it? It’d go well with your dress, right?”

Nia frowned. “You haven’t even seen my dress.”

Maeve gave her a pointed look. “And whose fault is that?”

Nia cringed, taking the shawl from her sister’s hands. She weighed it for a moment, letting the satin slide across her palms before she gripped it more firmly. Eventually, she sighed. “Maybe for the afterparty,” she relented.

Kara caught the unconvinced glimmer in Maeve’s eye when she nodded, turning back towards the wardrobes. “We’ll keep looking.”

On the bright side, the tension that had once weighed the room down didn’t seem quite as present anymore. Instead, Isabel’s studio was flooded with easy chatter. Now, when Nia or Maeve found something that they liked, they’d pause to laugh, nudge the other, and recount the memory that came with it.

“Remember when mom thought this hat looked good?”

“Oh my god, her gardening gloves! I thought the neighbour’s dog stole them years ago!”

“She let me live in this sweater whenever I was sick.”

The stories continued like that for hours and soon, Kara found herself laughing along with them, pointing out atrocious style choices in the mix and begging for the stories behind them. She found she was learning a great deal more about Isabel Nal than she ever had when she’d been alive, and with every memory revisited, a little more of that tension chipped away until it felt like nothing but a bad dream.

The laughter came to an abrupt stop when Nia reached the last item in her mother’s closet. She glanced to Maeve, finding that her sister was in the exact same position. Two wardrobes full of stuff to blow through, and they hadn’t found a single thing she could use.

“Don’t look so down in the dumps,” Maeve said, patting her sister’s arm. “Who said it had to be clothes, anyway? What about…” She stopped in the middle of the room, hands on hips as she scoured the studio. Kara watched as she moved purposefully to the far wall, grabbing one of the larger sheets and tugging it free, revealing the furniture beneath.

Maeve’s face lit up. “Nia--- what about in here.”

Kara stood stunned, staring in amazement at Maeve’s discovery. It was an antique dressing table, an old varnished oak piece with an oval mirror fixed into the headboard and one long drawer fitted underneath.

Nia walked over to it, running her hand across the brass handle before carefully tugging it open. Kara peered over Nia’s shoulder, her eyes widening when she realised what rested inside.

“Oh Rao, they’re beautiful.”

The inside of the drawer was inlaid with a royal blue velvet. Pieces of jewellery had been set delicately into each individual indent. Rings, bracelets, necklaces, all made from bands of pure gold that glittered intermittently with flecks of blue.

“Oh wow, mom’s jewellery collection,” Maeve said from Nia’s other side. She turned to Kara, adding for her benefit: “She brought a lot of them with her from Naltor. Each piece is fitted with a Naltorian gemstone. They’re supposed to help focus the mind and body, offer clarity to those that are lost, and not just for the daughters gifted with the Sight.” She nudged Nia’s arm. “Mom would let us wear them out for special occasions sometimes.”

Nia’s smile was distant, caught far in the past. “I remember,” she said, picking her way across the collection. “College graduation, she told me to choose anything I wanted.” Her hand stilled suddenly, clenching her fingers together. She swallowed hard.

“What is it?” Kara asked.

A scornful smile twitched at Nia’s lips. She glanced up, catching Maeve’s eye through the vanity mirror's reflection. “Except… I never did. I wanted to, really, and it felt right, like I was drawn to these stones somehow. My powers hadn’t even manifested yet, but I was so afraid to pick one, because a part of me knew what it meant, even then.”

Maeve turned away guiltily, unable to match her sister’s glare. The room felt colder, suddenly, and Kara fought the urge to shudder. This wasn’t her fight, nor her place to say anything.  Whatever Maeve had to say, she’d be speaking it alone.

“Do you feel drawn to anything now?” Maeve asked, surprising them both with her certainty, as though she wasn’t being held under scrutiny at all.

Nia’s brow furrowed, her expression guarded. “What?”

“Well, do you?”

“I—” Nia shook her head, turning unwillingly back to the jewellery out on display. “I- I don’t know…”

Impulsively, Maeve took her sister’s hand, linking their fingers together. “Don’t think about it,” she scolded, rolling her eyes. “Feel, Nia. Draw from the stones’ clarity. Let that guide you.”

When Nia glanced Kara’s way, she tried to offer her an encouraging smile, even if she was a little lost on what was going on here. She’d seen Naltorian jewellery before, Maeve’s first peace offering to Nia had been the necklace Isabel had given her, but this was different. When Nia closed her eyes and her and Maeve’s joined hands drew a line across the velvet, a band of blue energy erupted from Nia’s bracelet, winding at first around their fingers before misting out into fine tendrils like digits of their own, probing the drawer’s interior as though they were living things.

Kara supposed they were. What was Nia’s energy if not an extension of herself? And if the stones offered clarity, then they were certainly helping with the search now. Nia’s face was set with expert focus, her eyes rolling calmly beneath her lids as she followed the path her powers were chasing. Until, eventually…

“Wait,” Nia said, her eyes snapping open. “What’s that?”

Kara wasn’t sure what Nia was seeing, that was until she picked at one of the rings at the corner of the set, pulling loose a small piece of ribbon that had been tucked beneath it.

“A pull tab?” Maeve asked.

Nia’s frown deepened as she tugged at the ribbon. With it, a whole section of the velvet inset came loose, lifting upward.

Underneath was a small hidden compartment, barely a few inches across. And inside that compartment…

“Oh my god,” Maeve said. “Is that…?”

Cushioned between four edges of black velvet was a brilliantly silver bridal comb with cobalt blue gemstones set into the fixings in a wave-like pattern.

“The Naltorian symbol for union,” Maeve explained, her face pale. “I can’t believe it was here this whole time.”

“It’s beautiful,” Kara murmured, unable to tear her eyes away from it. “Oh, Nia, it’s perfect.”

“It’s mom’s,” Nia said tightly, closing her eyes. “She- she wore it for her wedding, but we thought it was lost. I only ever saw it in pictures, never…” She stopped herself short, reaching out for the comb before lifting it carefully into her hands. It looked ancient and brand new at the same time. Nia handled it delicately, as though afraid it might snap under the slightest provocation.

Maeve’s eyes shimmered, an eager look, a hungry look. “There’s this old Naltorian tradition,” she said slowly, her voice wavering slightly, “the daughter that inherits the Sight is meant to wear something of her matriarchal line on her day of union. Her wedding day. Every family has something different, something personal, but that item will stay in a family for generations. This was mom’s, but it was also our grandmother’s and our great-grandmother before her. It could go back centuries. It does go back centuries.” She lifted her hand, as though to summon it. “Mom once told me it would only find a Dreamer when the time was right.”

Kara watched Maeve warily, monitoring her fascination.

“I didn’t even know that,” Nia muttered, just as Maeve’s hand coasted over it. Nia flinched, clenching her hand across the comb in reflex. She narrowed her eyes at her sister, weighing her intentions, before slowly unfurling her fingers.

Maeve looked at Nia curiously. When Nia nodded, she breathed in, taking the bridal comb from her sister’s hand. She studied it carefully, running her index finger over each individual gemstone, testing it for durability.

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Maeve said as she continued to examine the comb. “About Naltor, about… tradition. Mom always thought she’d have more time and I… I didn’t want to share it. I wanted it to be a secret, just between the two of us.”

Nia bared her teeth at that, a bitter scowl as she made to turn away. Before she could, Maeve caught her arm, stilling her little sister so that she could run a hand along her back, winding her fingers into the edges of her long hair. Kara watched as Maeve bunched Nia’s locks together in her free hand, fashioning it into a low hanging ponytail. “Hold still.”

“Maeve,” Nia murmured, but she did as she was told, watching her big sister through the mirror as she slid the bridal comb into place, holding in a way that the wave of blue perfectly melded into the depths of her dark hair.

Maeve marvelled at her handiwork. “Well, look at that. It’s perfect on you.”

“Something borrowed,” Kara said, nodding towards Nia’s reflection. “Something blue.”

Nia choked out a watery laugh, rubbing at her eyes. She probed at the comb, grinning as she felt for it in her hair.

“I’m sorry I never told you,” Maeve said, her reflection fixed solemnly on her sister. “It was selfish and spiteful and never my secret to keep. From now on, I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”

“It sounds like a lot,” Nia admitted honestly. She folded her arms, tipping back into her sister’s ready embrace. “Maybe you can tell me more about it back in National City? I mean, I still need to show you my dress.”

Maeve’s eyes lit up in surprise. She grinned, nodding her head. “I’d like that.”

“And wait until the whole outfit’s put together,” Kara added excitedly. “Nia, you are going to make one breathtaking bride.”

“Thank you,” Nia mouthed, taking Kara’s hand.

Kara squeezed back gently. “Any time.”

In the end, she supposed her services as social buffer or peacekeeper hadn’t been all that necessary. Her duty as a friend, however? That was a full-time role.

One that she was more than happy to fulfil for the rest of her life.

[nhi-theuserof-this]

Update:

As a writer, I’m sure it’s obvious what I’m about to do to gabriel and his gay boyfriend

[kingbyx]

I need to write this so I don’t forget so that I can fic it later (lmk Drabble / fic prompt if anyone wants it) macaque angst, mild gore warning

Macaque failed in his task and the Lady is displeased. The thrall who calls himself a mayor requests his head, but his Lady thinks the shadow may still be of use. Still, he deserves a punishment, no? The Mayor asks to destroy something slightly smaller than a head, but no less amusing to ruin.

Perhaps it is the six eared warriors eyes that ruin his performance, the mayor says, afterall, losing an eye can quite affect one’s vision. He never did heal completely from that fight with his old love, did he?

The lady agrees. Why would a warrior named for his hearing need his sight anyways?

Go, she says, do as you wish. The mayor is eager to comply.

He rushes forward, claws of bone and ice ripping from his knuckles with a violent crack and the wet sound of flesh. He smiles.

Macaque does not struggle, chained and bruised and bloodied, has no leeway in his binds. He cannot struggle, and even if he could move he does not know if he would. His every muscle aches and his bones are weak and he is so, so tired. He cannot hope to count the wounds.

The claws rake across his eye and he screams. That is all he can do as blood runs warm and sticky down his face and fire rushes through his veins. He knows nothing but pain and it only gets worse.

The mayor removes his claws and considers taking the eye with them, but decides he likes the look of the bleeding wound too much to ruin it. It is beautiful.

Macaque feels his shadows, roused from their frozen terror at his pain, swarm his mind. They drag him down to rest and he does not fight it.

[luuxxart]

asking Souji if he would rectify the accomplice route would be like asking if the sky is blue.

[iridescentis]

It just hit me that I'm actually writing a fic that took 120k words to get to the first kiss 😭 talk about slowburn holy shit

if you've stuck around this long and still reading WWY you are lovely but also are you okay?? LMAO

[theghostofashton]

you saw the truth in me

pairing: TK/Carlos rating: M word count: 63.4k playlist

TK Strand. He’s been asked to train TK Strand.

He almost didn’t believe it, when he opened his inbox on Monday morning. He had to read Nancy Gillian’s email three times before it started to sink in.

TK Strand is making his return to acting after five years, and he’s been asked to train him for the role.

Anyone who doesn’t know TK Strand is living under a rock. His story will go down in pop culture history as one of the biggest falls from grace this industry has seen in years. Hollywood’s golden boy, years of good press and praise heaped onto him for his talent, his charisma, his massive heart, all thrown away after a failed engagement and drug-fueled bender broke headlines.

Or, Carlos is a celebrity personal trainer, and lapsed actor TK Strand is his new client.

[tallymonster]

Memories of Us Chapter 5

Chapter list: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |

So from this point on I'm going to be uploading on a slower speed, probably about twice a week at most just to keep working on it a little bit. Thanks to all the reblogs, likes, comments, everything! Keeping me going here, and it's pretty great ❤️❤️

Thanks as always to my darling @micropoe10 who read this and pushed me to keep going.

Inspired by @cheesy-cryptid 's piece 💜

Chapter 5

"seemed to stop my breath"

The night of the gala had arrived and Octavia was already exhausted from all the preparation. Not even the work she did to set up the gallery was this frantic. It started with an afternoon of trying on at least 15 different dresses, followed by an appointment at a fancy salon Astarion set her up in.

He insisted on paying for it, even though she kept trying to talk him out of it "Octavia, please. I know how much I pay you, just take the gift. Besides you work for me, you represent the museum. You have to look not like how you usually do, it's a party, dear. So be a good girl and trust my personal team."

Her hair is done in a half up, three roses made out of her own hair placed carefully on the back, the rest in curls cascading her exposed shoulders. It takes a while, but when it's done it's perfect. The dress she ends up with flows to the floor, its off shoulder sleeves flutter as she glides downstairs. It's black with flowers embroidered on the edges and up the center.

She's waiting for Gale outside her home, the black cloak she's wearing over her shoulders blows gently in the breeze. She adjusts her hair and fixes her dress. Gale strolls around the corner, he walks up the small set of stairs up to Octavia's door. He's in a black fitted suit, silver embroidery going up the legs of the trousers, lapels, and sleeves of the jacket as well. He holds out a small bag with a small ribbon on it.

"I felt like this gift was an appropriate apology for the whole 'walking in on you sleeping in a mess of documents with our boss' and of course tonight's festivities! I figured this would make your hair even more elegant." Octavia slides the bow off the top of the small bag, she pulls out a velvet box containing a moon shaped hair pin.

"You really didn't have to do this, you know. It was only slightly embarrassing." They smile at each other and she hands Gale the box as she places the pin in between the rosettes in her hair. "Well, what do you think?" she asks. "Impeccable. Simply Exquisite." Gale has a faint blush across his cheeks. He clears his throat and extends an arm out to her.

"Thank you, truly. You and Mr. Ancunin really know how to make me feel appreciated. You two are the best friends I could ever ask for, and I've only known you for about two months. Now I feel like I have to get you some nice pens or something." She chuckles as she links her arm into Gale's as they start their walk to the museum.

He smiles and confides in her, "I also wanted to thank you for accepting my request to attend tonight's event with me. The idea of bringing my mother was tempting," he grimaces slightly "but I'm glad you are here in her stead." Gale lets out a laugh with slight embarrassment. "She and our family tressym loved making remarks while I was trying to get ready, something about having a good time and not coming home without a wife."

They laugh as they cross the road, the museum's entrance aglow with the other guests filing in. Octavia exhales and grips onto Gale's arm a bit tighter. "Don't worry, these things are usually more talking about our work than ourselves, you'll be fine. Besides you have me! I'll be right by your side, unless you don't want me to be. You can tell me to go away any time." He winks at her and she feels the nerves melt away somewhat. She nods and pulls him towards the entrance, "Alright then. Let's do this."

Tag list (thanks to everyone who has asked to be tagged, it's extremely flattering 🥰 if anyone else wants to be tagged let me know!)

@justporo

@satanicspinosaurus

@sleepy-timaeus

@tragedybunny

@davenswitcher

[thewintersoldierdisaster]

at present, i have 43 ideas on my long fic to write list and i just want to yap about all of them lmao

does someone want to pay me to stay home and write fics all day?

[calmlb]

WIP Wednesday

i didn’t realize it was wednesday but here’s a peek at the au i started almost a year ago & recently started working on again 🥰