papermint-airplane

[dspd]

I love the dichotomy of Jon Sims. He is both Jesus and Anti-Christ. He is both crabby, testy asshole and patooshkie softy that will save everyone. He's both extreme skeptic and "I believe you" without evidence. He's both evil smiter and sweet bb boy. He both kills via glitter bomb and saves via condemnation.

[yourfaveisafearavatar]

Cole Sear from The Sixth Sense is an Avatar of the End

[thanksjro]

Transformers Holiday Special (2015) — Wishing You and Yours a Delightfully Secular Wintertime, Containing Absolutely Zero References to the Birth of Christ

Despite what some might like to think, Christmas isn’t for everyone; even with all the commercialization, at its heart, it’s still about the Baby Jesus. You can tell that we haven’t shaken the Christian connection, because the cover for this special issue has the father, the son, and the holy spirit, which is hidden behind the company logo.

And if Rodimus doesn’t stop screwing around, his resurrection’s gonna have to happen a lot sooner than Easter.

Because this is a comic special, things are going to be a little different. Instead of one standard-size issue, we’re getting three mini-stories, each with their own writer (from each of the comic runs that were publishing at the time) and artist. Our stories are listed here:

Don’t worry about what Ultra Magnus is up to behind that text.

Now, you may ask, why on earth am I covering this issue, which is a specifically Christmassy one, now, when it’s not currently Christmas? Well, according to Roberts, the story “Silent Light” takes place after MTMTE #49, and #50 is when the crew manifest for the Lost Light gets shaved down some, so realistically, this is when “Silent Light” happens in continuity. So I want you to keep in mind that Getaway’s Christmas isn’t going so great.

I won’t be going back to catch up on the other runs’ plots, as the Christmas stories are stand-alone.

Getting into it, our first story is:

Penned by Mairghread Scott and drawn by Corin Howell. We open up on a cityscape featuring a happy sun and some eye-searing narration boxes.

I went to Howell’s Twitter to see what her deal was, and was greeted with a banner consisting of a sexy succubus lady with her boobies out, so I’m going to assume she simplified her style for this issue, since mecha are hella difficult to draw.

Also, I hope you like the structure of How The Grinch Stole Christmas!, because that’s what we’re getting for the next little while, complete with chunky, white text on painful-to-view red.

Our story opens with all the transformers from the colonies visiting Cybertron and making friends with each other. Everything is beautiful and nothing hurts, which pisses off President-King Starscream to no end. Being the drama queen that he is, Starscream feels that everyone should be paying attention to him 24/7 and feed him grapes as he reclines on a sofa, because hasn’t he done enough for all these sorry sacks of shit? He hasn’t even caused a war, unlike the last guy who was in charge. Bumblebee (who is a ghost) tells him to just be fucking nice for once in his miserable life, but Starscream wouldn’t be Starscream if he could settle down like that.

Our god-king of the planet calls for his aide, Rattrap, who is going to be in his alt mode for the entirety of this story, to help him set up for a public broadcast addressing his need for attention and adoration.

He sends Rattrap off to deliver the tape to the news, which seems to consist of two very sleep-deprived individuals. Because they’re apparently the only two robots stupid enough to attempt to cover the nightmare hellscape that is Cybertronian current events, the last bit of Starscream’s tape is cut off when one of them falls asleep on the switchboard. This turns Starscream’s personal worship holiday into “For the Love of God Be Nice to Each Other” Day. Everyone takes to it beautifully, getting BFF tattoos, going on vacation with their husbands, hugging in the straightest gay way possible, holding parades, giving each other bombs, and getting absolutely shitfaced.

Starscream, distraught that nobody is giving him the emperor treatment like he had wanted, sulks in his twin bed, then moves to his dinky little throne as the night wears on, making the most miserable faces he can the whole time. Eventually, Chosen One Day ends, and he’s been completely ignored. Very sad.

Then, there’s a knock on his door, and Starscream creeps over to the peephole just in time to be smashed flat by Wheeljack slamming the door open. Last time we saw Wheeljack he was assumed dead by most, and floating in a tank at Starscream’s behest. He’s gotten better since then, clearly.

Wheeljack came with friends— the entirety of the main cast for Windblade/Til All Are One, to be exact— and they’re here to make sure that Starscream isn’t completely alone on this friendship holiday he accidentally invented. Everyone toasts to his good, totally intentional idea, and Starscream decides against killing all of them for at least the next 24 hours.

Now pay attention to this next story, because it’s actually canon-relevant, because of course Roberts would write a holiday special mini-comic that ties into his overarching plot. Fucking nerd.

Our artist for “Silent Light” is Kotteri (or Kotteri!, as it’s been written on some of their other publications) the pen name for Ikumi Fukuda. Kotteri is primarily a manga artist, having created their own works and well as working on other projects. I admittedly can’t find much on this person, not even their preferred pronouns, TFWiki itself using “they”, which I will default to. All of the info they’ve provided themself is, of course, written in Japanese, but even running things through a translator only proves that information to be purely professional. Their personal Twitter is protected, and my follow request was never answered, as far as I know. There’s a fan Twitter account for their art that claims “she”, but I have no way to verify, and I don’t want to assume anything based on art style, because that’s sort of shitty. Let it never be said that I didn’t do my due diligence here— I fucking hate using Twitter.

We open with Rodimus having just returned from Meteorfest, a festival where you surf on meteors and avoid your co-captain and SIC’s calls like the putz you are. He’s greeted by said co-captain and SIC decorating assembling a Christmas tree cloaking machine and finishing each other’s sentences like an old married couple. Rodimus tries to deny the existence of Minimegs, then we get our heavy-handed and lampshaded explanation for the crux of the issue. Megatron handles Minimus like a baby doll as the two of them explain that the Lost Light is about to hit Mauler territory.

Maulers are notorious for wanting the Cybertronians dead, but Megatron is too much of a macho man to pussy out and go around them. So instead, the crew will be hiding in special sleeping pods that will mask their spark signatures, and pray to their pantheon of gods that no one notices the ship the size of Manhattan. Brainstorm has like fifteen new inventions, despite being on house arrest from his lab. Megatron’s autobot badge is wearing a hat. Merry fucking Christmas.

Over at Swerve’s, it would appear that everyone’s favorite television junkie is closed for business, as it’s just him, Nautica, and Whirl, sitting on the floor getting absolutely shit-faced on subspace-filtered engex. This might’ve been an issue, as folks are supposed to be bedding down in their B.E.D.s for the next leg of the trip, but Swerve slipped Magnus some Bing Crosby earlier so they’re cool right now.

There’s a banging at the door, and Whirl decides to answer, even though it’s not his bar, because if it’s trouble come a-knocking, it was probably looking for Whirl anyhow.

When Whirl answers, however, it’s not Magnus having caught wind of Nautica disrespecting the Autobot code, but an entirely different flavor of problem.

Now, I know that thing Whirl’s holding looks like a fucked up Hitachi Wand, but it is, in fact, an entire-ass baby robot. It seems that when Cerebros (Fortress Maximus’s friend, if you’ll recall) sent the engex through the subspace, this infant Cybertronian (Luna One-ian?) got mixed in with the other supplies.

We learn a bit about how baby Cybertronians work before we remember, oh right, this kid is gonna get everyone killed if they catch wind of her spark, since there isn’t a B.E.D. for her. Yes, it’s a girl! Congrats to our three idiots on their Cybertronian gender non-conforming little princess.

They gang decides to shunt her back through the subspace hatch, so they head over to where it’s currently being housed— the office of Ultra Magnus. Nautica, using her wits and all the tools in her arsenal, smashes the window to the office and they break in. The empty Magnus Armor sits in the dark like a grim monument to being married to your job. Whirl informs Nautica how to comfort the baby that he super for-sure doesn’t care about, handing her off while he uses his titty glass to replace the window in the door. Swerve tries to bite through iron chains holding the subspace hatch hostage, only to be stopped by the sound of justice coming down the hall.

The gang, of course, looks suspicious as hell standing stock straight immediately in front of Magnus’s office, but Minimus rather likes the change of pace out of these goofy morons, and is maybe also trying to deflect his embarrassment at being caught performing his own personal karaoke. He sends them off to their B.E.D.s, and it looks like all’s well that ends well until Whirl asks where Sparky is.

Yes, he named the baby.

Don’t worry though, he’s totally not attached or whatever.

Nautica, in her panic to not be caught stealing/vandalizing/using equipment she doesn’t have the clearance for, stuffed Sparky in the Magnus Armor. And also put the helmet portion back on the body, for some reason. Anyway, it looks like our little princess is gonna be a load-bearer when she grows up, because Magnus is up and looking for hugs. Nautica, a paragon of level-headed thinking in times of crisis, handles this in the best way she can.

And that’s a wrap on Minimus Ambus! Let’s give him a hand, folks! And let’s also give a hand to the new Ultra Magnus, Miss Sparky Whirldòttir! Where did that little scamp get to, anyhow?

Swerve nominates himself to be the one to drag Minimus to a B.E.D. to sleep off his concussion, leaving Whirl and Nautica to track down the baby.

The scene changes to Megatron announcing a last call for beddy-bye time on the intercom, just as Ultra Sparky enters the room. She looms over Megatron, putting him in a very compromising position as he hits the intercom button with his arm. Rodimus, climbing into his own B.E.D., wishes that his co-captain and SIC would stop being gay for, like, five minutes, or at least wouldn’t do it where it can be broadcasted throughout the whole ship in audio format.

Whirl and Nautica come save Megatron from the onslaught of physical affection, stating that “Magnus” has had a bit too much to drink. Megatron orders them to bed from his fetal position on the countertop.

It’s bedtime, but we still haven’t figured out how to get the kid back to Luna 1 so the Maulers don’t super-murder the whole crew. Nautica leaves Whirl to figure it out, getting into B.E.D. and wondering who the fuck knocked on the door in the first place. Whirl tells her not to worry about it and to go to sleep, so he can be the one to deal with this mess.

Whirl, notorious for doing all the nastiest jobs— former Wrecker, intended bullet sponge for the time travel situation, attempting suicide via Megatron— is going to add another tally to the list labeled “Reasons My Peers Don’t Really Like Me All That Much”, by throwing an entire baby out the air lock.

However, Whirl is being written by Roberts, who would never allow the number of robot babies to go down, so Sparky’s adorable assimilation of Whirl’s signature physical features gets him right in the soft underbelly he swears doesn’t exist.

Wow, Roberts put a baby in that robot. Surely this is as overt as we’re going to get with this imagery, since we’re in a major publication and not some fan-fiction!

ANYWAY

Whirl wakes up in the Medibay, emptied of infant and freaked the hell out about it. Velocity— who I will remind you is basically the only medical doctor on the Lost Light, since everyone else is too busy getting railed by weeaboos and joining unethical polycules to do their actual jobs—informs him that his daughter is, in actuality, a massive colony of scraplets that combined to look like a newborn.

It turns out that Nautica is a bit of a snitch, having spilled the beans after she woke up. Whether or not she thought Whirl had thrown the baby out the air lock isn’t really addressed, but thank god he didn’t, because then we would have had to send everyone’s favorite gun-addled dipshit to jail for the rest of forever. Checking security footage revealed who the mystery knocker was— it was the scraplets, forming the shape of an arm.

When Nautica asks how the hell they all survived this, seeing as Whirl kept the murder baby, Whirl informs her that he cut off power to his own spark to allow everyone else to live, including his sweet baby princess, winning him a #1 Dad mug, and also several emails from Rung to please make an appointment with him.

Whirl’s miracle Christmas baby lied and stole with the intent to murder everyone on board, and that makes her the ultimate daddy’s girl.

I hope you’ve all enjoyed this canon-important holiday special story about Whirl becoming a father.

In our third and final story, it appears we’ve been transported to Whoville, by the talent of our MTMTE Season 1 colorist, Josh Burcham. Within Whoville resides Anna Log, a human woman who owns two turbofoxes and sleeps in full military body armor on her couch. The wall in her living room suddenly explodes, revealing a late-night visitor.

Motherfucker, you are supposed to be on the ship right now.

Mega-Claus fusion-cannons Anna Log, and we cut to a film noir office where none other than Thundercracker has his feet up on the desk. The art grayscales for this section, as he narrates that he’s a detective. He’s wearing a fedora. It’s January 7th. He has a mysterious past and probably thinks that makes him very sexy.

The phone rings, cueing Buster, Thundercracker’s puggle, to put on her own fedora, and the two go to see the crime scene, where Thundercracker is the same size as a normal human man and wears a trench coat.

It turns out that Anna Log is the director of security for the entirety of planet Earth, which is sort of a big deal. When Thundercracker and the cops look at the security footage, they see who did it— Santa Claus, played by Megatron himself. Fucked up.

Sure, pal.

Thundercracker must now fly to the North Pole and kill Santa, because that’s how the law works. He transforms, flies by Club Penguin and a Coke commercial, reflects on his job, and then gets ready for a fight with Santa’s security measures, as Busters glowing nose warns him of incoming danger. She’s very talented, Buster.

Thundercracker makes quick work of the cybernetic security reindeer with his twin energy katanas and Buster’s jetpack. He kicks down Santa’s door to find the jolly elf himself standing in the dark, potentially rabid. The two start kung-fu beating the shit out of each other. It should be noted that this Santa isn’t the Megatron Santa, who shows up behind the two as they brawl, but rather original-flavor fat man Santa. How Thundercracker didn’t notice this isn’t addressed.

Thundercracker demands to know why Megatron dressed up as Santa Claus to commit a murder— the murder part made sense, Director Log and Megatron would be diametrically opposed— and Megatron reveals the greatest slight against himself he’s ever known.

Framing Santa for murder ain’t exactly gonna turn that coal into a diamond, Meggy baby.

Thundercracker clocks Megatron, he becomes besties with Santa Claus, and they ride a flying tank into the sunset. Thus ends Thundercracker’s most brilliant writing project yet, which he was reading to Marissa Faireborn this entire time.

Marissa isn’t terribly impressed, poking holes in all the little nonsense bits, while also not feeling thrilled about having been killed off in the first two pages of Thundercracker’s book. While the two argue, Buster and Ayana Jones make a Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown! reference together, and the issue closes out with a big ol’ Autobot symbol, even though Thundercracker was a Decepticon, Ayana and Marissa are humans, and Buster is a goddamned dog.

Thus ends the Holiday Special. Up next, more direct story progression!

[joshsindigostreak]

I See Hell in Your Eyes

Chapter Nine

“Your pretty face and electric soul.”

Vampire!Josh x Vampire!Reader

Authors Note: Good morning, readers! Sorry for putting yall through the wringer in Chapter Eight. It will happen again, but not in this chapter! This one is a lot sweeter. If you haven’t read Chapter Eight yet I highly suggest you do so because this chapter won’t make a lot of sense without it. Also as always my inbox and DMs are always open so if you want to come scream at me after a chapter feel free to do so! Every single one of y'alls comments and thoughts means the world to me and I love hearing what you think. 😘😘😘

Word Count: 7310

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of blood, allusions to violence, SMUT, 18+, minors DNI, blood play, teasing, brat taming if you squint, fang play(?), I think that’s it. :)

Sixteen hours. That's how long Josh had been asleep. The first two hours, you didn’t even move. You just held him as he slept, gently cleaning up any blood with a towel and running your fingers through his hair. Eventually, you shifted from behind him and got him properly tucked in. But you kept your promise, your eyes never left him for a second. After redressing you laid down next to him on the bed over the duvet. 

You were so focused on him that you didn’t even hear the door open, or notice Dimitri standing next to the bed. 

“How is our dear Joshua?”

Without looking up, you say,, “he’s fine.”

“How long has it been?”

“Sixteen hours.”

Dimitri hummed in response, “how long did it take for you to wake up?”

“Two nights.”

“Typically it's around the same amount of time for a Maker and their new Vampire,” he paused and said, “have you slept at all, darling?”

Ignoring his question you replied, “some people don’t wake up at all…”

“Oh that's very rare, and you know that-”

“Rare, but not impossible.” 

“I knew someone who took six nights to come back, and do you remember that Mary girl who lived with us during the twenties? She took over a week. It all just depends, darling.” 

“How long did you take?”

He looked off in the distance for a moment, “roughly three nights. Woke up in the basement of a church of all places.”

“I was in a carriage,” you said softly, the memories floating back to you, “in the middle of the day, no less. He was inside, sleeping.” For a moment, you were back in that carriage, terrified and unsure of where you were. You had made the mistake of pulling one of the curtains to the side to look out the window, only to be immediately met with searing pain on your hand from the sun. It was hours before your Maker came back to check on you. 

Dimitri shook his head, “Isaac wasn’t the most…thoughtful of Maker’s.”

You sat up on the bed, laughing a little, “that's putting it mildly.” 

“Have you heard from him at all?”

“Not since ‘84, and even that was too much.” 

Dimitri chuckled slightly before turning towards the door, “you should come downstairs, Portia and Magnus are finally back from their holiday. They’d love to see you.”

You shook your head and looked back at Josh, “no, I’m good…I’m staying up here.”

He smiled warmly, “I meant what I said last night, that you must mean a lot to him. Some people beg to be turned for other reasons, power, immortality, staying young forever, but he simply didn’t want to see you hurt. He didn’t even hesitate once he heard the terms. Love like that is rare.” 

The l-word caught you off guard and you sputtered, “I don’t know…I mean…we’ve barely even…it's kind of soon for that.”

“We’re Vampires, darling, since when do we care about time?” You were silent, trying to will the blush away from your skin. Before he left the room, he said, “if you need anything, just call for Phillip. He’ll bring you anything you need.” 

You resisted the urge to make a smartass comment about Phillip, “thank you, Dimitri.”

“Any time, darling,” he said before disappearing down the hall. 

Josh remained still in the bed, having not moved very much at all in the last few hours. You reached over and brushed his curls back again, and you weren’t sure if you were soothing Josh or soothing yourself. 

As the hours passed, you could not fight off sleep any longer, eventually letting it wash over you as you laid beside your lover. It wasn’t a restful sleep, in fact you found yourself waking up every other hour or so. Each time you’d sit up and check the time, noting how long it had been. You were still so full from the draining that you couldn’t even fathom feeding for at least a couple more days. Dimitri had checked in a few more times, sitting beside the bed to keep you company, but you turned down any invitation to come downstairs. You couldn’t risk it. You couldn’t miss him waking up, you were not going to chance Josh waking up frightened and alone. You wouldn’t let history repeat itself. 

~!~

Miles away, a now solitary hunter paced around his brother’s apartment. He had not felt ‘right’ in hours. Specifically, sixteen hours and five minutes. His Witch had tried to calm him down several times, but this was something she couldn’t fix. Not with her words, not with her love, and not with her magic.

~!~

It was the second night now, and you were dozing next to him. Movement next to you had you snapping your eyes open, and you saw Josh had rolled over on his side, facing you. His eyes were still closed, but his brows were knitted tightly together, and a frown was fixed on his face. 

You reached out, wanting to smooth your hand over his face, but his hand shot out from under the covers and snatched your wrist midair. The reflex was too fast, and his grip was too hard to be…human. Your entire body froze. 

Suddenly his eyes snapped open, his brown eyes staring at you, but not seeing you. You were flipped onto your back as he hovered over you, hand still gripping your wrist next to your head. He was still looking at you as if he didn’t recognize you. That was common after a Vampire wakes up, as the adjustment period was far longer than the movies and books would lead you to believe. 

“Boy Scout…,” you whispered slightly, hoping to jog his memory.

A low rumble came from his chest in response. That was another thing, it often took Vampires a little while to regain the ability to speak. 

Breathing heavily over you, his eyes raked down your form and his other hand reached towards your face. Those soft fingertips of his grazed your cheek, tracing your bone structure, your nose, and down your neck. His hand curled around your neck, his thumb slid across your jaw and landed on your lips, a familiar move he had done many times. 

You remained stock still, letting him explore. His eyes hadn’t met yours again, instead he was staring down at your lips while his thumb rubbed your bottom lip a few times. Taking a chance, you slightly puckered your lips to kiss the pad of his thumb. He blinked several times before finally looking up and into your eyes. There he was. His eyes softened immediately and he opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out. He tried again, but it wasn’t happening for now. 

“It’s ok…you don’t have to talk right now, Josh,” you whispered. 

Instead, he crashed his lips onto yours, and sank his body down to rest fully on top of you. The hand wrapped around your wrist let go and slid up to thread his fingers in yours, which you gladly squeezed back. Now it was your turn to reach up and cup his face, feeling his muscles move as he tilted his head to get a better angle. 

But the sweet moment was cut short by him wrenching away from your face in pain. He sat up and straddled your waist, hands covering his mouth as he groaned into his palms. His fangs. They were trying to come down but he didn’t know how to relax and let it happen. Contrary to how they’re depicted in various forms of media, fangs don’t just instantly ‘click’ down. It's a skill. A skill one has to learn and hone in order to be able to feed properly and efficiently. 

You carefully sat up and gently took his hands away from his face. His eyes looked scared again, and you quickly shushed him and softly spread your thumbs across his upper lip where his gums were. He winced a little at the sensitivity as his hands rested on your forearms. 

“It's your fangs trying to come out for the first time. You have to relax, Josh,” he looked at you skeptically, “they can’t come down until you relax. Breathe through your nose for me? Yeah?” 

He fully sat down on your thighs, and did what he was told and took deep breaths through his nose. His eyes were trained on you the entire time. He could feel his teeth begin to move, his canine teeth especially. It felt like an invisible force was prying them out of his mouth. 

“I know it hurts, it always does the first few times, but soon you won’t even feel it happening, I promise,” your thumbs moved to his cheeks, your right one resting where his dimple normally was. 

He nodded slightly and leaned into your hand, trying to stay relaxed. 

“Watch me, ok?” You opened your mouth, baring your teeth and took a few deep breaths and slowly let down your own fangs. After over 350 years, it was hard to slow down the process, as you could complete the action as fast as blinking at this point, but you tried your best so your hunter-turned-Vampire could see it for himself. He studied the movement as it happened, finally having a proper visual to mentally focus on. 

After a few more deep breaths, his teeth shifted again, this time down, but not all the way. A smile lit up your face as he parted his lips to show you, and you whispered praises to him as he continued breathing. With a slight groan, his teeth descended all the way, and you saw his fangs for the first time. 

You stared in awe. While you met him as a human, seeing fangs in his mouth looked so…natural on him, as if they had always been there. Unexpected tears formed in your eyes, as it really hit you that he was a Vampire now, he was like you, and the two of you were the same. 

“Beautiful…,” you mused while touching one with your thumb, “do you want to see them?”

He nodded, and you looked around to see if there was a mirror. The closest thing you had was your phone, and you quickly snatched it off the nightstand and turned the camera on, flipping it to selfie-mode and handing it to Josh. He turned the phone over in his hands and held it in front of his face. It was definitely strange to see protruding fangs in his mouth, but they didn’t feel out of place. He ran his tongue over them a few times, feeling how sharp they were, how much longer they were from his other teeth, and he turned his head back and forth to see them at different angles. Satisfied, he tossed your phone to the side on the bed before turning back to you and cupping your face once more to collide his lips to yours, this time smiling into the kiss. 

It had been so long since you’ve kissed a fellow Vampire, especially one you lov- had feelings for. Your tongue slid across his teeth, feeling the contours and length of his fangs, and it was your turn to smile against his lips. He laid you back down onto the bed, shifting his legs so that he was between yours. His lips were everywhere, kissing all over your face and playfully scraping the tips against your skin. 

But the urge to drive them into your neck, to fully taste you in a way he couldn’t when he was human, was reaching a boiling point in his system. He was putting more and more pressure against your neck, but not breaking the skin…yet.

You quickly recognized what he was doing, what he wanted, and you pushed him away so that he was back over your face instead. 

“As much…as much as I’d love for you to do that…your first feed has to be with human blood…,” you were almost sad in telling him no, but this was a process that wasn’t fully complete until he tasted human blood for himself. It was what fully sealed a Vampire in their new form of existence, the full stop at the end of a sentence. Sheepishly, he closed his lips over his teeth, feeling like he had done something wrong. You caught the look in his eyes and quickly reassured him, “no no, it's ok, we’ll have plenty of time to do that afterwards, I promise.” You figured Dimitri himself would have a human or two on hand for feeding, as he was never a fan of blood bags. 

As if on cue, the older Vampire in question rapped his knuckles on the door as he opened it.

“Is our dear-,” before he could finish his sentence Josh immediately shifted on the bed and practically shielded you from Dimitri, his instincts taking over briefly. Dimitri held up his hands in truce, “now now, Joshua I’m not going to do anything. It's wonderful to see you awake and back with us.” 

You sat up behind Josh, looking at Dimitri over his shoulder, “you wouldn’t happen to have a human on hand? Please?”

“About that…after we talked earlier I let the Council know about your decision and that you were handling it yourself. They insisted on sending a representative here to make sure it actually happened.” He sighed before continuing, “Judith…is downstairs in the conservatory waiting for you.”

“Right now? He still can’t talk! He needs to have his first feed.” 

“I know, darling, I didn't expect them to send her this quickly,” he rolled his eyes as he said ‘her’, letting you know that Judith was not one of his friends on the Council. “I’ll give you a few minutes, but it’ll be better for everyone if you don’t keep her waiting.” With a sympathetic look, he closed the door behind him, leaving the two of you alone. 

“I’m so sorry, Josh, I didn’t kn-,” he turned and pressed a finger to your lips and shook his head, shushing you and letting you know that he understood. He got off the bed and collected his clothes from earlier that you had folded and placed on the couch. He threw his shirt on as he walked towards the ensuite at the far end of the room. You had already dressed while you had waited for him to wake up, so you sat at the edge of the bed and let him get ready. As he walked to the ensuite, you couldn’t help but notice that his walk was slightly different. His shoulders were straighter, his strides were quieter but more deliberate. You wondered if he himself even noticed the changes yet. From the angle of where you were sitting, you could just barely see himself checking his teeth out in the mirror again. His fangs had retreated back into his gums, and now his top row of teeth looked completely normal. 

His eyes looked at you through the mirror, catching your gaze. He smirked at you, before turning to finish getting dressed. As he exited the ensuite he locked eyes with you again and in an attempt at his new speed, he tried to race over to you. However, stopping was a completely different story, and he ended up tackling you onto the bed. 

Giggling, you reached up and traced his nose with your finger, “don’t worry, you’ll get there, Boy Scout.” You lifted your head to kiss him, and whispered against his lips, “come on, let's get this over with.” 

It wasn’t hard to find the conservatory, all you had to do was follow the classical music being played. Just like the rest of the manor, Dimitri spared no expense in this room either. It was a massive space, with a complete wall of windows that went from the floor all the way into the ceiling, creating a dome-like appearance. It was a perfect view of the stars at night, and a perfectly lethal place for a Vampire to be in after sunrise. He also had so many plants in the room it almost looked like a small forest in the room. Most of the flowering plants had closed their blooms for the night, and the evergreens sat peacefully in their pots. The main source of light in the room were the various lanterns that were strategically placed among the greenery. It created such an intimate atmosphere, especially with the light of the Waning Moon filtering in from the windows above. 

The beauty of the room stopped when you spotted the Council member sitting rather stiffly on the couch towards the middle of the room. Judith, as Dimitri called her, was a Vampire who appeared to be in her late fifties, with blonde hair that was so faded it almost looked gray at certain angles. She had it in a tight ponytail, making her sharp cheekbones the main feature of her face. Her eyes were equally gray, and they narrowed at the sight of Josh. 

“Ah, finally, there they are,” she said in mock enthusiasm. 

“Judith please,” Dimitri said with a sigh while nursing a drink in his hand.

Josh’s hand slid into yours as you made your way to the center of the room. His expression was neutral, but you knew his mind was full of thoughts and words for the snotty Vampire in front of him. 

Judith uncrossed her ankles and stood up, clipboard firmly in the crook of her arm. She gave you a look that let you know to let her look at Josh alone, and you reluctantly let go of his hand and went over to stand next to Dimitri. Her back was to you now, but you were still able to maintain eye contact with Josh.  

“Open your mouth,” she commanded flatly. She wanted to see his fangs. 

Josh looked at you briefly over her shoulder, starting to panic because he had only made his fangs come down once at this point, and was still getting the hang of it. He put his hands behind his back and wrung his wrists, trying to remember what you had told him. 

You kept eye contact with him, and motioned for him to take some deep breaths and to relax. Dimitri nodded along next to you; he wanted Josh to succeed almost as much as you did. 

Josh’s Adams apple bobbed a little before he opened his mouth. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to replicate how he had done it upstairs less than an hour ago. Judith stood there, staring at his teeth with an unimpressed look on her face. But after a few tense minutes, his fangs descended and locked in place. 

Judith made a small “hmph” sound and reached into the pocket of her skirt to fish out a measuring tape. She held the tape next to one of his fangs, and wrote down the measurement on the clipboard. She switched to the other side to get the other’s measurement, before mumbling loud enough for everyone to hear, “it's ok they’ll get longer in time.” 

Josh clamped his mouth shut and gave her a look that was so pointed, you were glad he wasn’t able to actually speak. But the way his eyes glared at her spoke volumes on their own. 

Judith ignored him while she made notes on the clipboard, scribbling away her thoughts and observations. 

“Has he fed yet,” she said without looking up.

“Umm…no, not yet-”

“Excellent. Bring in one of your humans, Dimitris,” she commanded as she finished her notes and looked back up at Josh. 

Dimitri sighed and took a long sip of his drink before motioning to one of his staff to fetch one of his human companions. He always had a steady supply of willing humans who were into being fed on. He had a knack for finding them in the haystack that was humanity. 

Josh looked at you again over Judith’s shoulder, the same panicky look from before had returned on his face. 

You mouthed, it's going to be ok, at him as the door opened and a woman in her mid twenties entered the room. 

Her eyes lit up when she saw Dimitri, “hi Dimitri…,” she gave him a flirty wave with her fingers. 

“Pleasure as always, Rebeckah,” he said with a small smile. She already knew where to go and dutifully went over to the couch and sat down, keeping her eyes on Dimitri the whole time. 

Judith motioned for Josh to join Rebeckah, and made his way over to the couch and sat down. You started to follow him before she barked, “I’d like to witness this alone, actually.” 

Something in you snapped, “the fuck you wi-”

Dimitri quickly stepped in, “what she’s trying to say is, as his Maker, I think it’s more than fair for her to be in the room for his first feed? Since he doesn’t know what he’s doing, she has a right to be here. In fact it would be the responsible thing to do, don’t you agree?”

Judith rolled her eyes, “fine, but she can’t interfere. The Council wants to see how he does on his own.” 

The Council didn’t want to see shit, you thought, they wanted him to fail. They wanted the ‘I told you so.’ 

Dimitri’s large hand landed on your shoulder, giving you a comforting squeeze. 

“Very well,” he said in a clipped tone. 

You looked up at Dimitri, the worry written all over your face. He gave your shoulder another squeeze. 

Tentatively, Josh reached over and took Rebeckah’s wrist in his hand, figuring that would be the best place. He could feel her pulse through her arm, and it made his gums above his fangs throb. He felt is instincts trying to guide him, which was a good sign until-

“Oh not the wrist, it's your first feed after all, I know you really want the neck deep down,” she was practically taunting him at this point, and turned back to the older Vampire and used his own words against him, “don’t you agree, Dimitris?” 

Dimitri’s mouth twisted into a frown, “it is the ideal spot I suppose…”

You were practically vibrating with rage right now, and you wanted to physically rip Judith’s head off her body yourself. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. You were supposed to be right there with him, guiding him through it and making sure he didn’t take too much. 

“Don’t be shy, get closer to her,” Judith said while flicking her wrist at Josh. 

Rebeckah obliged first and scooted close to him, angling her head to expose her neck. The smell of her blood filled his nostrils, and at first he thought he was hallucinating. He knew his senses would be stronger, but actually experiencing it was completely different. 

Judith had her back to you and Dimitri once again, and you used this to your advantage as you looked at Josh over her shoulder. You feigned scratching your neck to show him where to put his hand, which he immediately copied. 

He lowered his face to her neck, the scent of her blood was almost overwhelming to him now and it was still safely in her body. Part of him was running on pure instinct, and getting impatient that he hadn’t sunk his teeth into her yet, whereas the other part of him was having an out of body experience as the reality of the situation hit him. He was really about to drink blood, as a Vampire, for the first time. However, the instinctual side of him won out and he pressed his new fangs against her neck. He could feel her pulse against his teeth, and with the same ‘fuck it’ mentality one has before a shot of tequila, he pierced her flesh and her blood began flowing into his mouth. 

Rebeckah made a small squeak, but she relaxed in his hold and a serene smile spread across her face. 

Josh breathed through his nose and took his first real pull from her, and the sudden burst of flavor nearly had his eyes rolling back. He never expected blood to taste this good, let alone have a flavor profile. He recalled the taste of blood as he remembered it from his youth, that gross metallic flavor that would fill his mouth whenever he’d lose a tooth, or that one time Jake hit him in the mouth while they were fighting and cut his lip open. But now? Now he was getting notes of…lilies? Lavender maybe? It was all so overwhelming he wasn’t sure, he just knew that it was good. He kept pulling and pulling, feeling it run out of his mouth a little and down his chin. 

You on the other hand were watching him like a hawk, and listening to Rebeckah’s heartbeat even closer. It was still steady and normal, but you knew it wouldn’t be that way for much longer. The way Josh was pulling was very deep, but he didn’t understand that yet. If you hadn’t been so stressed about your lack of involvement, you would’ve noted how absolutely gorgeous he looked while feeding. He needed to slow down, if not stop completely. You thought back to your first feed, and it didn’t end well for the human involved because you had zero guidance. Isaac had just let you do what you wanted and cleaned up the mess later. But you didn’t want that for Josh, he didn’t deserve to be traumatized right out of the gate like that. 

He didn’t want this to end, part of him wanted to keep going until he couldn’t anymore. But this low thumping noise in his head got slower, and it was then he realized he had been hearing her heartbeat the entire time. It was slowing down, and he had just enough wherewithal to know he needed to let go. But knowing and doing were two different things. 

You were starting to panic, and you looked at Josh, hoping he’d look up just long enough to make eye contact with you. Judith started scribbling notes again, and you wanted to crack that entire clipboard over her head. You thought about faking a cough, making some sort of noise, but you didn’t want her to send you out of the room for ‘interfering.’ 

Josh wrenched his eyes open, and looked up to find you. He saw your eyes were watery and filled with panic, and he understood why. From your vantage point, you mouthed the words, “you need to let go,” to him, and he wanted to listen, he really did, but it was as if his mouth and his brain weren’t working together. But, he tried anyway, and loosened his grip on Rebeckah’s neck and slowly worked at dislodging his fangs from her neck. He fought the urge that was screaming at him to keep going, to drain her dry like a juice box, but he refused to let that voice win. With more force than he would’ve liked, he pulled his teeth from her neck, and let go of her completely. 

Before he could fully relax, he saw you point at your teeth, and then patted the side of your neck with those same fingers, silently telling him to use his blood to heal the bite. Josh sprung into action, quickly and hastily biting his index finger, breaking the skin and rubbing his own blood amongst her own on her neck along the puncture wounds. Within seconds they began to close and he was able to lean back on the couch, out of breath. 

Judith paused for a second in her scribbling, and looked at her watch on her wrist and wrote down the time. She observed Rebeckah for another minute, who seemed completely fine with the situation and was only slightly miffed she had blood on her dress. 

Dimitri gestured at the staff member standing by the door, “please take Miss Rebeckah to the kitchens to get her something to eat. Have the chef make her whatever she wants.” 

Rebeckah smiled and stood up from the couch, “and what about my dress?”

“I’ll get you a new one, as always,” this made her smile as she made her way out of the room. 

Without a second glance at Josh, Judith turned back to Dimitri and sighed, “I’ll give my observations to the Council but everything seems to be fine.” She looked at Josh over her shoulder, “welcome to your new life, don’t fuck up. We know who your family is, after all.” 

Josh glared at her as she exited the room. Dimitri gave you a nod and left as well, leaving the two of you alone. 

As soon as the door shut you rushed over to Josh, your hands immediately took his, as apologies fell from your mouth, “I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t know that was going to happen, you weren’t supposed to be alone like that-”

“...sw-sweetheart…,” his voice was so faint, but it was there. He was gaining his voice back. Relief flooded through you, you didn’t realize just how much you missed his voice until he spoke again. You couldn’t take it anymore and practically lept into his lap and wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his neck. His arms instantly wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer. He was so thankful to finally get his hands on you. 

After spending several minutes just lying in his arms and breathing him in, you pulled back and said, “are you ok? How do you feel?”

A dreamy smile spread across his face, “honestly? I feel fucking incredible right now.” His voice was still scratchy, but it was gradually getting stronger.

You smiled back, “yeah? You did so good earlier, I want you to know that. They were setting you up to screw up but you didn’t. It's so difficult to stop like you did the first few times, let alone the first time. I’m so proud of you, Boy Scout.”

His cheeks reddened at the praise, “Ah, I just…I just remembered what you told me about listening for the heartbeat…had to force myself off though.” 

You were beaming at him now, “I’m not saying it's going to be easy, but I just know you’re going to be so good at it in no time. Next time I’ll be right there with you, I promise. I won’t let anyone get in the way of that again.”

His hands slipped under your shirt and rubbed the skin of your back, “I know you wanted to be there, it wasn’t your fault…” 

“But I-”

“I don’t want you to beat yourself up over this, it happened, but all we can do is move forward.”

You knew he was right, but you still felt bad, “I know I just-”

“Next time we can share, yeah?”

That surprised you, and you smirked at him, “Boy Scout…” 

He glanced out the wall of windows, and noticed the dark blue sky was starting to get lighter, “I think…I think we need to go back upstairs…and shut the windows…,” the suggestion dripped from his voice.

“Race you there?”

“You better get started, sweetheart…,” his eyes bore into yours before you took off from the conservatory. The two of you were a pair of giggling blurs rushing up the stairs to the third floor. He caught up to you at the door, and lurched to a halt while pressing you up against the solid wood. You reached behind you to start twisting the doorknob as he snaked an arm around your waist. His eyes looked even darker in the dim lighting of the corridor, but his smile was sweet, a combination that only he could pull off. 

Stumbling into the room, Josh locked the door behind him before reaching down and firmly gripping your thighs and wrapping them around his waist. He carried you backwards to the bed, while you stripped your shirt off and threw it blindly to the side. Your hands instantly returned to his cheeks as he laid you on the bed. He stood up momentarily to throw off his own shirt, before crawling up the bed and getting on top of you. The rest of your clothes were quickly shed, leaving the both of you naked. 

Josh’s mouth devoured yours, sucking on your bottom lip before he slipped his tongue inside and tangled it with your own. You moaned into his mouth, the relief of him being okay and back in your arms spurring you on. He groaned and lifted off your lips slightly, running his tongue along his top teeth. He looked at you, a little annoyed at his own body as his fangs tried to descend again. 

You recognized the look, and you smiled, “don’t fight it, Josh. Let them down, I wanna see them again…” 

He closed his eyes for a few seconds and concentrated. They came down ever so slightly faster this time, but he still winced at the pain. 

Staring at him, you reached up and gently touched one with your finger, “I just can’t get over how beautiful they look on you…” 

His cheeks reddened before he started working his way down your body, kissing every bit of skin he could reach. Every so often he’d drag his fangs across your skin, causing you to arch your back. As he made his way down to your core, he deliberately skipped where you needed him most to pay attention to your thighs. 

You sat up on your elbows and made a noise in protest, which made him chuckle against your skin. One of the few downsides (at least to him) to you being a supernatural creature was that any hickey’s he made would heal within minutes, but he loved littering your skin with them anyway. The way you arched towards him, trying to get him where you needed him only made him tease you further. Every time you thought he was going to put that perfect mouth of his against your core, he’d switch to the other thigh to nip and suck at your skin. 

“If you don’t-”

Before you could finish your sentence your lover latched onto your core, flattening out his tongue and licking a stripe from your entrance to just below your clit. A frustrated noise escaped you, and his eyes met yours with the most mischievous energy behind them. Those pools of molten molasses seemed to darken even more. Tilting his head slightly and curling his lip up to show you his teeth, he drug one of his new fangs over the edges of your lips, up and up, and slowly circled your clit. He put just enough pressure for you to feel the sharp edge against your sensitive flesh, before diving in and sharply sucking your clit into his mouth. You cried out, loud enough to echo around the room, and you couldn’t give a shit if anyone in this fortress of a house could hear you. 

Two of his fingers teased your entrance before plunging in, curling upwards and giving that spot inside you all the attention they could. His pace was quick and brutal, spurred on but the grip you had in in his hair and how you were practically fucking his mouth. He grinded his own need onto the mattress, desperate for some friction of his own. 

It wasn’t long before your first orgasm of the night washed over you, making you shake beneath him while grinding on his face. His fingers worked even harder to ride it out, drawing it out as long as possible for you. But he didn’t give you a chance to fully still. Placing one final kiss to your clit, he crawled up your body to claim your mouth, letting you taste yourself all over him. 

You were far from done when you flipped him over, straddling his hips and grinding against his cock. He threw his head back and made the sexiest whining sound you had heard in a long time. He sat up and gripped your ass, lifting you up to wrap your legs around his waist. 

“Tell me what you want…,” he whispered against your mouth while keeping you hovered just above his cock.

“Josh please-”

“Josh please, what, sweetheart?” 

“I need you, don’t be mean,” your voice was nearly an octave higher than normal, and now it was your turn to sound whiny. 

“...and what do you need?”

Your nails dug into the skin at the base of his neck, not caring if they broke skin a little now, he could handle it. 

“Your cock, Josh, I need your cock.”

His eyebrows raised in the cockiest manner, “oh? This? This cock?” Before you could answer he pulled you down onto him, plunging him deep inside as he bottomed out. His eyes rolled back at finally being inside you, and you used this distraction to tighten your pussy around him as revenge. A strangled noise left his throat, “you are…such…a little brat…” 

You smirked as you started to work yourself on his cock, relishing in every ridge and vein he had to offer you. He kept one arm around your ass, guiding you and gripping you as he leaned back on his other hand. As your pace quickened, you felt your own gums start to itch and move. You let your fangs descend, not wanting or needing to hold back anymore while with your lover. He was kissing your shoulder, and you leaned your head down to graze your teeth against the shell of his ear. 

He lifted his head, and gave you an equally toothy grin, both of you baring your fangs at each other. 

“Boy Scout…,” you started, nearly breathless, “remember earlier when I told you to wait?” He instantly caught on to what you were referring to, when he had almost bit you earlier. His Adam's apple bobbed as he nodded. “If I let you do that…can I bite you too?” 

His cock twitched inside you at the question, “please, please do…”

“Taste me, Josh, show me you know how,” you whispered. 

Another strangled sound escaped him before he lowered his head and pierced your neck with his fangs. It had been…a long time, decades even, since you had had a Vampire taste you. It was such an intimate act, most considered it almost sacred. 

Josh took a long pull off of you, and the first note that hit his tongue was a distinct cherry flavor, tart but sweet, along with a distinct undercurrent of sea salt. He could practically smell the ocean. Flashes and sounds started to flood his mind, swirling around in his mind's eye. They focused, and he saw you, as a teen in Jamestown, scrubbing the floors of the house you used to live in. A second flash, it's the Victorian era, and you’re giggling in bed with another man. You called him Colin before it dissipated. Another flash, it’s twenties and you look sad as you sipped your drink. You were surrounded by people partying, but you weren’t matching the energy. A final flash, this time it's the seventies and you look darling in your bell bottoms and feathered hair. You seemed happier then, laughing with a few girlfriends in a bar. 

The feeling of his fangs in your skin hurtled you toward your second orgasm. Before you could reach your high, you bit down on your lover's flesh. His taste…his taste was the same, but it was so much more vibrant? As if it had been turned up several notches. That orangey citrus flooded your senses, and as the vanilla showed itself to you, flashes started behind your eyes too. A small, scared, seven year old Josh scrambled to stab a rogue Vampire in the leg with a knife from under his bed. Another flash, this time Josh was older, late teens at best, getting lectured by his father about a hunting job gone wrong. The importance of his responsibility as the “oldest” was being drilled into his head. Flash number three, Josh is sitting next to his twin in front of a fire, laughing at some inside joke as he brings his beer to his lips. Who knew Jake Kiszka was capable of smiling? The final flash was him gathering some files on a table, the one on top had your name clearly on the tab. He wasn’t in his apartment, but in a room that looked like an office. 

Your vision went dark as your high overtook you, making you shake and pulse around him. His cock twitched inside you again, and a muffled groan shuddered against your skin letting you know he had reached his own high. Carefully, you each withdrew your teeth and lapped at the fresh blood on your skin as your wounds healed. 

Josh kissed you softly, mixing your blood with his, enjoying the taste. He opened his eyes and smiled at you, feeling more content and happy than he had in days. The stress from the past week had completely evaporated, and in this moment, all he saw, all he cared about, was you. 

His Vampire. 

The adoration for him was written all over your face, and you silently noted the blood smeared all over him. You looked over your shoulder at the ensuite, and could see the edge of a clawfoot tub from the doorway. 

“Lets get cleaned up, Boy Scout…”

His grin widened and he looked over your shoulder, seeing what you were looking at. He also saw the first light of the day start to filter in through the windows. Thankfully the bed was positioned in a way that didn’t put it anywhere near them, but in order to get the ensuite they’d have to cross them. Carefully he kept you in place as he reached for the remote on the nightstand. 

He punched the buttons, and the shades came down. His hand squeezed the flesh of your ass, “only the moon gets a free show, sweetheart…” 

You gave him a quick kiss before crawling off of him and leading him into the bathroom. Soon, the both of you were situated in the hot water, enjoying the extra wide clawfoot tub. 

Josh tried to take the lead in cleaning  up, but you stopped him and took it upon yourself to clean the blood off of his skin. He relaxed into the water as you swept the rag over his skin. Meticulously you cleaned any dry blood out of his beard and mustache, kissing him as you went. It had been a long time since someone had properly taken care of him afterwards. 

It was clear to you that the new-Vampire exhaustion was creeping up on your lover, and you worked a little faster to get him cleaned up so the two of you could return to bed. He would probably have another long sleep again, but not nearly as long as that first one. The process of becoming a Vampire was complete, but it still took time for the body to adjust.

Soon you were back in bed with him, the covers pulled over your exhausted bodies as you wrapped yourselves around each other. His ear was on your chest, and you were softly grazing your nails against his scalp. His eyes were closed, and sleep was well on its way. 

He pressed a soft kiss against your skin before mumbling, “...love you…” 

You stared at him as he completely stilled in your arms, eyes welling up, 

“Love you too, Boy Scout,” but you weren’t sure he heard it. 

To be continued…

Tag List:  @dannyandthekiszkas , @readyforthegarden  , @sinners-go-to-drink-the-wine , @wideminded-dreamer , @runwayblues , @wildbluesorbit , @llightmyllovee , @rhythm-of-space , @sacredthefran , @writingcold , @alwaysonthemend , @wetkleenex-gvf , @josh-iamyour-mama , @lightsofthe-living-gvf , @gvfcinema , @sacredthethreadgvf , @losfacedevil , @jakekiszkasbuttsweat , @shutupdevvie , @hearts-hunger , @gretavanfleetposts , @ascendingtostardust , @mackalah , @andromeda-raine-gvf , @jake-kiszkas-smirk , @gracev0609 , @sacredjake , @earthlysorrows , @gvfpal , @myownparadise96 , @itsafullmoon , @gvfmelbourne , @twistedmelodies , @that-witchy-pan , @gold-mines-melting , @texas-bbq-pringles , @jakekiszkapunchmeintheface , @sadiechar , @char289 , @stardustvanfleet ,

[cranberrybogmummy]

Headcanon for booze and drugs for Peter Lukas, Elias Bouchard and Simon Fairchild.

Peter Lukas: smokes weed mostly with Elias|Jonah not a lot though.Just enough to get giggly and feel chilled out and hungry. Sometimes smokes a cigar.

Drinks prefers single malt scotches the older the better, doesn't realize or think £1,000 is all that much to pay for good bottle of Scotch. When he gets to intoxicated to be comfy he goes into the Lonely, which sobers him up like a BIG COLD SMACK to the face. He doesn't get hungover.

Elias Bouchard| Jonah Magnus: in his long lifetime he's done nearly everything but stays away from hallucinogens cuz that's just asking for the Distortion to come and visit. As for drugs mostly prefers, cocaine and weed. Doesn't smoke as frequently as the real Elias but enjoys the floaty mellow hazy feeling of weed and can smoke A LOT. But Cocaine is his weakness, he has a coke nail and gets the purest highest quality nose candy (beholding side benefit) from his dealer who has been doing this for twenty years and can't quit.* Also a fiend for booze, the beholding gives him a high tolerance which means he can toss them back with the best of them. His cocktail of choice is a gin & tonic but no lime, with an orange twist and orange. bitters. There are some LIMITS though to the tolerance and getting cross faded as lead to him blacking out…and having SEARING STABBING PAINFUL HANGOVER. The Beholding shares all the embarrassing details of what he did the night before when legless. Now, note this he rarely lets his hair down and parties, like four times a year but when he does HE GOES HARD.

*his dealer can't quit because Elias will tell the police everything if he does. Poor man really wants too but well ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Simon Fairchild: Also over the centuries has sampled mainly drugs but has found most of them boring or tedious. Doesn't like 'shoving things up his nose' or 'anything derived from the poppy'. What does he like? Well strong cocktails especially Aviation cocktails, he likes champagne and mimosas and he likes a nice wine. He also likes weed as well all strains, feels the mellow floaty apathy it produces in him… connects him with his patron more. As for that THE VAST gave him VAST tolerance… if he feeds it, if not he's sloppy after three drinks. Because he's MOTHER-FUCKING SIMON he does what he wants and just sort of chills and visits amusement parks to check out the roller coasters wink.

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

I Didn't Know You Were Keeping Count — Part XI: Cat

ao3

masterlist

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Author's note: All right, here you go: The first part of Season Unending, in which Leara is not as together as she'd like to be following the disaster in Solitude.

Tag list: @ravenmind2001 @incorrectskyrimquotes @uwuthrad @dark-brohood @owl-screeches @binaominagata @constantfyre @kurakumi @stormbeyondreality @singleteapot @aardvark-123 @blossom-adventures @argisthebulwark @inkysqueed @average-crazy-fangirl @the-tuzen-chronicles @shivering-isles-cryptid @orangevanillabubbles @cosmermaid @thelurkershideout

Content Warning: This time, it's not Bishop. Look out for Thalmor wearing dark robes.

#######

The claw traced an electrifying trail down the side of her face, nipping at her lip before cutting down her neck. 

“Oh, my pet, but you’ve been a terribly bad girl, haven’t you?”

“I’m sorry—”

“Ah!” The claw tapped her collarbone, sharp and piercing. Sparks sprang up in its wake, hissing as they kissed her skin. “Don’t speak. I’ll not have another lie off your pretty tongue tonight.”

Iron and ozone clogged her nose. “Please—”

The claw dug deeper, joined by others, and bit into the bare swell of her chest with the shocking teeth of the mythic swamp dragons in the south. Pain seared through her veins, eroding her heart and boiling her blood. Leara screamed.

Hard stone met her, and she jerked up. Something heavy drug her arms down, and with a cry, she pushed and thrashed. Then it was at her feet, and she saw it for what it was in the dim light of the white mage’s candle. Her blanket.

At the end of the bed, Karnwyr whined. 

“I’m sorry,” Leara gasped, voice hoarse. Dry, as if she’d really been electrocuted. 

She shivered.

Lifting the blanket from the floor, she wrapped the heavy wool around her shoulders. She felt Karnwyr’s eyes follow her as she slipped her stockinged feet into the shafts of her silver and leather boots. “Go back to sleep, I’m okay,” she whispered and, for good measure, gave the wolf a reassuring scratch under the chin. Karnwyr’s brow creased, clearly skeptical. Still, he huffed and lowered his head back on his front paws. “Shh,” Leara soothed, giving him all the comfort she couldn’t feel. “Sleep.”

As if against his will, Karnwyr was lulled back to sleep by the gentle affection. He was snoring as Leara slipped out of the room. 

It wasn’t yet dawn. No light teased the eastern horizon to proclaim Magnus’s rise. She hoped it would be a bright, sunny day. She wished to feel the touch of magic on her skin before she plunged into the pending maelstrom that would be the peace conference. Yet with every breath, she could almost taste the approaching storm, hard and cold and as real as the chaos that would soon house itself in High Hrothgar. Even in the silent hallway, lit by nothing save faint starlight and her own trailing candlelight spell, she could feel the bitter wind bite at her cheeks and stir her unbound hair. Was it a bad omen, or was she still shaken from her nightmare?

What did she dream, anyway?

A cooing voice and an electric touch. Leara swallowed, her throat tight. Some variation of the same nightmare that haunted her sleep since the night of that thrice-cursed ball. Sometimes, there were other voices, and sometimes, there were knives or harp strings. Burns and smoke. But always, always there was the voice and the lightning. White hot and cloying in her veins. The stuff of nightmares that never ceased to dog her steps in the waking world. 

Bishop’s solution to her nightly awakenings was to sleep through them. In the near fortnight since leaving Solitude, Leara began to wonder if anything short of a rampaging mammoth or a legion of Daedra could be counted on to wake the ranger from his deep sleep. It worked in her favor, though. He didn’t ask about the thrashing or the crying – he didn’t know about them. Rudimentary Illusions, the kind every girl in High Rock learned to use, covered up the signs on her face. Illusion itself was never her strongest school, save her practiced Muffle and Clairvoyance, but hiding the bags under her eyes and the pallor of her skin was becoming second nature. It wasn’t the first time she’d used magic to disguise her appearance. In a twisted way, it was almost a comfort.

The door to the courtyard opened noiselessly under her hand. The frigid air didn’t bite her as hard as she might have expected, but her system was still flooded with adrenaline from the nightmare. Overhead, the thin forms of Masser and Secunda cast distorted shadows over the snow and stone, twisting the world into a vision of another world. She remembered the dancing auroras overhead when she’d left Paarthurnax that first time, back when he’d directed her to find the Elder Scroll. Now, the skies were shrouded in clouds through which only the brightest stars could pierce. All around her, the world was haunted, holding its breath on the edge of doom. The last sigh before the final plunge. 

Creeping across the barren snowscape, Leara eyed the archway and the path to the top of the Throat of the World. High winds howled against the mountainside, barring the way to Paarthurnax. Yet Leara wanted desperately to make the climb to meet him. Do dragons sleep? Would he be curled against the ruined Word Wall, lost to dreams, or awake in silent contemplation of the heavens? Would he welcome her company or turn her away at such an unholy hour?

Her legs trembled beneath her. Leara collapsed to the flagstones, her back against the unlit brazier stand. The blanket fluttered around her. Her chest ached. Burned. Froze. Then her head rolled back against the stand, her eyes sliding closed. 

She was so tired. So tired. She couldn’t make the climb.

Tears froze on the ends of her lashes.

“Paarthurnax, please . . .”

·•★•·

A gentle hand shook her awake. 

Predawn was sweeping in across the sky, depthless midnights touched here and there with the golden pinks of pending morning, mixing in a dappled grey and bruising violet off toward the west. It wasn’t yet half after four in the morning. 

Blinking in a slow haze, Leara peered up to find Master Arngeir standing over her, a frown set on his weathered face. 

“Are you well, child?” he asked, worry set around his mouth. Leara supposed she’d worry too if the prophesied hero she’d had to nurse back to health went and froze to death on the back porch before fulfilling her destiny. If her face wasn’t numb with cold, Leara imagined she’d have blushed with shame. 

“I’m all right,” she whispered. She wasn’t, but it was fine.

Master Arngeir’s frown deepened, probably because he wasn’t foolish enough to take her words at face value. He offered her a hand, and after a moment, Leara took it. Some other time, she may have been alarmed by how easily the elderly Greybeard pulled her up, but she already knew she hadn’t been eating well since long before Solitude. Maybe since before Mirmulnir. She wasn’t sure anymore. “Good morning.”

“Let us hope it will be,” said Arngeir, grim. “There are many hours still before our guests arrive, but there is much to prepare.” His hand on her shoulder, her teacher guided her back toward the monastery. 

An early breeze swirled the edges of her blanket, brushing her bare legs. Leara cast a longing look to the mountain peak, hidden as it was by clouds and the vanishing night. Her gaze fell, and she found Master Arngeir watching her, knowing. 

“It isn’t forbidden for you to make the climb whenever you wish,” he told her.

“I was worried he was sleeping,” she blurted, not willing or able to admit the exhaustion gnawing her limbs, rooting her to the earth when she sought the sky. “Have you ever seen a sleeping dragon?”

To her surprise, Master Arngeir laughed. Full of the same light, wry amusement she could almost recall in her grandfather’s voice from her earliest childhood memories. “I imagine that even dragons must rest sometimes.”

Good, maybe when this was over (if she was even there when it ended), she could rest, too.

·•★•·

Master Borri spied the Imperial and Stormcloak delegations coming around the curve of the mountain near noon. They were maybe around half a mile apart from each other, neither party daring to get too close to the other. Each was mounted with additional guards and pack horses. Amid the snow and ever-present ice on stone, it was a slow climb to the monastery. 

Even from the table where Leara sat with a light lunch of dried berries and herbal tea, she could feel the tension growing like a tightening bowstring. Or perhaps a noose, growing tight around her throat as she fell through the gallows—

No, she would not think like that! This was an opportunity, a hope to forge peace – if not a lasting peace, then perhaps a peace that could pave the way for a stronger, more steady solution down the road. Skyrim was in turmoil, and if she could in any way soothe the gash made by the Civil War while tending the burns from dragon’s fire, then she would do her best. As Dragonborn, she could only succeed or die trying.

Of course, it was as impending death crept back into her mind that Bishop finally made his appearance. Yawning and stretching, he gave his side an absent scratch as he sauntered over to Leara’s little table. Snagging a fistful of berries off her plate, he threw them back, chomping down with a short cough.

Leara winced behind her teacup. “Lovely for you to grace us with your presence.”

Beside the table where he was gnawing on a cow bone, Karnwyr grunted.

Bishop burped. “Took me forever to get comfortable on that damn cot,” he grunted. He plopped into the chair across from Leara and reached for her plate. 

She smacked his knuckles. “Oi! Let off! You snooze, you lose!”

“Please, woman, I catch most of the food you eat!” Bishop snorted. 

Leara withdrew her plate from the table, holding the remaining fruit out of Bishop’s reach. “I’m afraid you don’t have time to filch off my plate. You need to get ready!”

“Ready for what?” he asked, wiping crust from his eye.

A grimace twisted Leara’s mouth. Bishop was a frightful sight: His hair stuck out in nearly every direction, and his night clothes were in equal disarray. She was glad none of the Greybeards were there at the moment to see him. As dignified as they were, Bishop was just as frightfully embarrassing to look at. 

“The delegations will be here within a half hour or so. We need to be ready to open the doors and get the peace talks underway.”

Bishop flapped his hand in mimicry of her talking. Leara pursed her lips in a tight line. “This little tea party of yours has nothing to do with me, sweetness. It's all you and the old windbags, thinking you can get everyone in Skyrim to kiss and make nice.”

Leara ate a berry, grinding the semisweet fruit into shreds. 

“What are you going to do?” he went on. He pushed the chair back on its rear legs and leaned against the wall, his arms behind his head. “Are General Troll Face and the Stormdrain going to sit around the campfire and braid your hair? Will you do each other’s nails and makeup, too?” He leered at her, “Can I watch?”

Silently, Leara drained her teacup. Then she set it down. “You will not make a fool of me in front of them,” she said, voice cold. 

“Me? Make a fool of you? No, darling, you do that all on your own!” Bishop laughed. “What are you even trying to accomplish here, anyway? Because you sure as Hell aren’t going to establish a lasting peace between those two warmongers.”

Scooping the rest of the berries into her hands, Leara restrained the urge the throw them at Bishop’s head. Instead, she dropped them one by one into her mouth, methodical. She was too tired for this. So little sleep and such a long time before she could try to get more. The day stretched miles onward in front of her, but her patience with Bishop was growing desperately short. She was done tiptoeing around him.

“I’m trapping a dragon in Dragonsreach.”

Then she walked away, the clatter of a falling chair and broken pottery behind her. 

·•★•·

Leara was careful to avoid Bishop in the intervening time before the Imperials and Stormcloaks arrived. After leaving him in a spluttering mess of chairs and pottery shards, she’d disappeared into her cell. Her blue gown hung on the wardrobe where she left it the night before, freshened and primed for the council. Wearing armor to conduct peace talks didn’t sit right with her, so the blue dress it was. Running her fingers, still tinged pink from frostbite, over the lace, something in her chest loosened. She made it this far. She could do this.

She had to.

Once dressed, she went to stand in the foyer of High Hrothgar, her hair carefully pinned and her hands folded before her. Nerves ran electric up her arms and around her ribs, but she pushed it away. She had to. This was for Skyrim. Her discomfort wasn’t even worth considering.

The heavy doors opened, and she heard Master Arngeir greet Ulfric Stormcloak and his party. Leara’s hand tightened over her rings, the enchanted bands biting into her skin. Master Arngeir said something. Ulfric replied, his voice humming against the stones. They exchanged words that she couldn’t understand, but she remained in place. 

The thump of heavy footsteps came down the corridor, and then Ulfric Stormcloak entered the hall beside Master Arngeir. His gaze wandered over everything but her, for which she was almost grateful. Let her be a backdrop. He was taking in the ancient stones and carvings that formed High Hrothgar. Oh, yes, he lived here once, didn’t he? He was supposed to be a Greybeard a long time ago. Before the war. Odd that that slipped her mind. She needed to remain focused. It wouldn’t do for her memory or attention to slip during the peace talks. Things were tense enough as it was without her issues getting in the way. Leara swallowed, her eyes trailing from the Jarl to his party. There weren’t many of them in reality, just Ulfric, one of his generals – Galmar, wasn’t it? – and some guards. A few carried bundles of supplies on their backs; these followed Master Borri into the west wing, where the parties would be housed in empty cells for the night. The couple that remained stood near to their Jarl’s back. 

A blond head caught her eye, and Leara blinked. Then, a genuine smile blossomed over her face. 

“Ralof!”

All heads turned toward her, and Leara’s ears grew warm as she realized that, yes, she did call out her friend’s name. Her smile curved bashfully as one of the other guards elbowed Ralof, snickering. Ralof gave her a jaunty wave, and she relaxed. 

“Ah, Dragonborn,” Ulfric Stormcloak began. He stepped forward, his attention on her. “It seems your efforts have paid off.”

“That remains to be seen, Jarl Ulfric,” she said. She squeezed her rings, the black band hot. Meeting his eyes was incredibly difficult, especially after the incident with Bishop in the Windhelm Jail. Mara’s mercies, she managed it, if only because of the iron stiffening her neck and spine. “Thank you for making the trip.”

“You made a convincing argument. I’m hoping your position at the negotiation table will be as credible.” He didn’t appear quite as hard as before, but Leara remained on guard. 

“I hope not to disappoint.” 

The General, Galmar, grunted. Leara recalled how he initially scoffed at the idea of the peace council, though he gave Ulfric his support when the Jarl asked for it. She found herself glad that Ulfric brought him and not the other general, Yrsarald. Both were opinionated, yet Galmar gave the impression of being a little deeper in thought than Yrsarald. “Make it worth our time, then. The road from Windhelm was too long for us to come here to be made fools of.”

Leara’s smile was thin. “I wouldn’t dream of it, General.”

Beside them, Master Arngeir held out his hand. “Dragonborn, if you would, perhaps it is time to show Ulfric and his party to the meeting hall.”

“Of course, Master,” Leara bowed her head. “Please follow me.” 

Up the steps and down the wide stone hallway, she led them, Ulfric and Galmar at her shoulder and the guards behind. This close to Ulfric, the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Did any escape her bun? She’d need to duck out and get another pin before they opened up the peace talks. Maybe two, just to be sure. 

“Well, Dragonborn, I trust there will be a point to all this,” commented Ulfric.

Leara cleared her throat. “We haven’t discussed the terms yet, Jarl Ulfric. You may not like them. Besides, General Tullius isn’t even here yet.”

“He can take his time getting here,” Galmar scoffed. “Damn faithless Imperials. Can’t even get to a meeting on time.” 

One of the guards chuckled. Ulfric’s wry face caught in her peripheral. Leara stared resolutely ahead. “They should be here fairly soon. Only, their party is larger than yours,” she said. “It’s slower going on the steps with so many.”

“Aye, too many. They can’t go anywhere without their Thalmor handlers holding the leash, and Talos knows those elves are dragging their feet every step up this mountain.”

The Thalmor . . .?

If Ulfric and Galmar hadn’t been at her back, Leara would’ve frozen in place. As it was, her knees wobbled, threatening to buckle under her. The Thalmor? She shoved her right foot forward, continuing her walk down the corridor. The Thalmor were coming? Electricity stung the too-raw nerves of her hands, biting and itching under the skin as it crawled up her arms. The Thalmor were coming. Anxiety and lightning gathered in her chest, burning and binding. 

Elenwen. 

There was the door to the meeting hall. It was a wide, low-ceilinged room with a large round table dominating the center. Its shape rather resembled a horseshoe, with a low hearth burning between the table’s arms. It was empty: Master Einarth had gone to help Master Wulfgar with the delegations’ animals. “If you’ll please be seated on this side,” she said, indicating the left. To her ears, her voice was high away and cool, lost in the clouds her head was threatening to dive through. “Would you care for some mead?”

“Yes, if you please,” Ulfric said. He was watching her. He knew. He knew. He knew—

“For me as well.”

“Right,” Leara nodded. “I’ll be back.” She turned and left. 

But barely had she stepped into the hallway when a large hand slipped around her arm, encircling her small wrist. Panic seized Leara’s heart, squeezing harder and tighter than before. She whirled around, free hand freezing over with frost magic. 

. . . and then it dispersed just as quickly. 

“By Shor, you’re still as flighty as a pine thrush!”

“Ralof!” Leara scoffed and swatted his arm. But the relief that eased her heart and muscles was visible in the small smile she shot her friend. 

“I figured you might want some help,” Ralof shrugged. 

“Sure!” 

Her arm linked with Ralof’s, Leara guided him down the monastery corridors to the kitchen. High Hrothgar was ancient: From what Leara understood, the monastery once housed dozens of disciples and students to Jurgen Windcaller’s Way of the Voice, as well as masters of the Voice and clever arts (or whatever it was the Old Nords called their magic). It was an old building, very cold, but made of a sturdy dark stone that blurred the building’s silhouette from afar during snowfall. It was tranquil and distant, far apart from the world below and full of peace. Despite the turmoil twisting in her soul over her destiny, High Hrothgar held in its walls a centered grounding that reminded Leara of her youth at Cloud Ruler Temple. Reminiscent, but calmer and heavier, too. Heavier with the weight of the world. Leara couldn’t help but hope that the Imperial and Stormcloak delegations would feel some of that peace mingled with purpose when they met at the negotiator’s table. 

“How have you been?” she asked Ralof. 

“I can’t complain. No more near executions, so I’ve had that going for me,” he laughed. His golden hair and sunshine smile were a bright spot in the dim halls. “Can’t believe I’m actually here at High Hrothgar. But you’re used to it now, right?”

“Hardly,” Leara echoed his laughter. 

Ralof grinned, “It’s hard to believe that scrawny elfling from Helgen turned out to be the Dragonborn.” 

There’s a good-natured disbelief in his voice that reassured her. Ralof’s was a genuine and kind character. Without him, she’d have never made it out of Helgen. His company on the road to Riverwood and the invaluable aid his family gave her once they got into town were vital components to her journey into Skyrim, without which she would have been in dire straits. Leara smiled softly. She’d missed Ralof. “Yeah, it really is.”

Earlier, Master Einarth had set a pot of spiced mead on the hearth to warm. It was meant to be served when both parties were present, but Leara needed space from the anxiety of Ulfric and the Thalmor pressing into her lungs. A platter of goblets sat on the heavy wooden table that served as both a counter and dinner table. Passing these, Leara took up the ladle to gauge the mead’s temperature. 

“I don’t mean to pry—”

“You do a little bit.”

Ralof chuckled. “All right, perhaps I do. But what is this meeting about? How is peace going to stop the World-Eater?”

Her hands stalled their stirring. “Did Jarl Ulfric tell you it was Alduin at Helgen?”

“Aye, he did.”

“Ah.”

“Leara,” Ralof hesitated, “what are you planning?”

She pressed her lips together, hard. Was it only over an hour ago that she fired the answer off in Bishop’s face? Her throat tightened. She’d need to get a hold of herself before the meeting began.

“I need to go to Sovngarde,” she whispered to the hearth. 

“What?”

“I—” Am going to die. “Need to trap—” A dragon, a live dragon. “I need to use Dragonsreach. Peace is Jarl Balgruuf’s price.”

Large hands gently pried the ladle from her brittle fingers. Ralof hooked it on the pot’s handle. “You don’t have to tell me everything,” he said, not unkindly. “I’d just like to know you’re taking care of yourself. You look tired.”

“Thanks,” she laughed, but it wasn’t as full as before. “I’m fine, really.” She wasn’t, but she would be. She had to.

Carrying the platter of goblets, Leara led Ralof back to the meeting hall. Entering, she found Ulfric already seated at the table, a frown creasing his face. It smoothed out when he looked up at her, a cloud passing from in front of the sun, but Leara could only offer a small smile in return. Galmar stood beside him, talking lowly, though, on Leara and Ralof’s entrance, he went silent. Akatosh, please let me make it to Sovngarde. If she was to die, it’d be far more beneficial for everyone if she did so while defeating Alduin rather than if Ulfric exacted revenge for her Thalmor past and her role in the war. 

“We’ve prepared spiced mead,” Leara explained, gesturing for Ralof to set the pot on the stone sideboard rather than the hearth. Best to keep it out from the middle of the potential battleground. Lips pursed, she cast a subtle warming rune on the bottom of the pot to keep the mead hot. She took a goblet from the platter and ladled it full of mead, then she faced the table. The guards were watching her, and Galmar, his arms crossed, was eyeing her, too. Was Skyrim much like High Rock? It was better to be safe than sorry. She brought the goblet to her mouth and swallowed a mouthful. Master Einarth’s spice blend was warm and comforting and left her chest warm for a blissful moment. 

Then she handed the goblet to Galmar, and the feeling was gone. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, gruff. 

“It’s not poisoned,” she replied. 

“Why would it be poisoned?” 

“Galmar, don’t torture the woman,” Ulfric said, sitting sideways in his chair so as to face his general. 

The grin that curved across Galmar’s face ruffled his mustache and crinkled his eyes. “I’m only putting her through her paces.”

Leara tried to muster a light smile, but she was sure it looked like a grimace. “Perhaps that’s best left for the peace talk.”

“Perhaps,” Ulfric said, accepting the goblet from Galmar. 

Perhaps. Leara nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to be ready to greet the other delegation.”

“Of course,” Ulfric lifted his goblet. 

Skirts brushing around her ankles, Leara forced herself to walk sedately from the room. Ralof shot her a quick, reassuring look, and some of the renewed tension in her chest eased. Once in the corridor, her shoulders dropped, and she heaved a sigh.

“Having fun playing hostess?”

“As much as I can, I suppose.”

Bishop pushed off from the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and his face dark. “We need to talk about this circus of yours.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Aside from the litany of issues she needed to address this afternoon alone. 

He followed her down the hall. “You want to trap a dragon in a damn castle, and for what? So, you can fly off into the sunset and die?”

“That’s not why, and you know it.”

Bishop caught her wrist in his. His hands were harder than Ralof’s. “You know why I worry about you, woman. You know why—urgh!”

Resigned, Leara came to a halt. “Bishop, please. Whatever concerns you have, can we please discuss them after the meeting? I’m pressed for time now.”

“You sure as Hell weren’t pressed for time when you were avoiding me all morning,” Bishop grumbled. “All right, fine. Have it your way. But when they hang you out to dry because even your demands are too much for those egomaniacs, don’t come crying to me!”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

Pulling her wrist from Bishop’s grip, Leara continued down the hall. She wasn’t surprised when, a moment later, his footsteps echoed after her. 

“Where’s Karnwyr?” she asked.

“In your room, out of the way.”

Oh. That was probably meant to be considerate. Still, she missed the wolf’s comforting presence by her side. 

“I saw you getting friendly with that guard. What was that about? You taking in any man who bounds after you like a lost puppy, or do you just prefer blonds?”

“What, Ralof?” Her head twinged. Lovely, on top of the discomfort from sleeping outside, she was gearing up for a headache. “He was helping me with the mead. Which, by the way, I didn’t see you offer to do.”

Bishop barked a laugh. “Me? Serve mead to the Stormdrain himself? Listen, sweetness, you and the old windbags can play political nursemaids all you want, but I’m not getting involved.”

Not getting involved, her right hip! Bishop had done nothing but insert himself in her business since she met him! And, all right, she did allow him to after the entire Blackreach incident, but still. His definition of non-involvement was clearly from a different dictionary than hers. And it was wrong. 

She moved to tell him so, then paused. A familiar voice caught on her ear, and Leara spun, her eyes blown wide. “By Akatosh.”

“Now what is it?”

Ignoring Bishop’s question, Leara lifted her skirts and hurried down the corridor. She rounded the corner, only to freeze at the top of the stairs, a confused Bishop at her heels. There, in the foyer, were precisely who she didn’t want to see standing in the middle of the Greybeards’ home. 

Delphine and Esbern. 

The Thalmor were coming. The Blades were here. Ulfric Stormcloak was down the hall.

Nausea rolled in her stomach. She swallowed hard, her throat dry. Her attempts to keep the Blades and the Greybeards apart in the course of her destiny were in vain. Delphine would figure out how much she sympathized with the Greybeards’ philosophies over those of the Dragonguard that Delphine sought to restore, and Arngeir, Arngeir would learn of her red past as a Blade, and the Greybeards would banish her from High Hrothgar. The sanctuary at the top of the mountain would be lost. Paarthurnax’s guidance would be lost. She was going to be ill. She couldn’t afford to be. Akatosh.

Master Arngeir towered over Delphine, though he stood eye to eye with Esbern. For a peace-loving monk, he looked ready to toss the two Blades out on their rear ends—violently. “You were not invited here. You are not welcome here."

Delphine was dressed in Akaviri armor; prim and put together, she looked every inch the Knight-Sister. Conversely, Esbern was in warm wool, making no distinction toward his affiliation to the Blades. But his Thalmor dossier aside, his association with Delphine was enough. 

“We have every right to be here for this council,” Delphine said, glaring down her nose. Watching a small Breton glare down a venerable Nord was jarring enough to be funny if Leara weren’t agonizing over why they were here. “Actually,” she went on, “more so, since the Dragonborn is a member of the—”

Esbern, who was busy studying the architecture of the monastery, caught sight of Leara at the top of the stairs. “Ah, Elanor! There you are!”

It was like watching a train of merchant wagons piling up in the marketplace, unable to prevent the accident and unable to look away from the disaster. Master Arngeir’s frown turned to her, and Leara’s heart sank. 

She descended the stairs. “Good afternoon, Esbern, Delphine. How remarkable to find you here, seeing as I didn’t invite you.”

“An oversight on your part, right?” Delphine lifted an eyebrow, as pale and condescending as ever. “You look comfortable.”

Stopping short of standing by Master Arngeir, Leara was keenly aware of the room’s tension settling on her shoulders in a heavy shroud, all attention on her. “How are you here?”

“It’s no secret that you fought Alduin and lost,” Delphine sniffed. She cast a wary glance over Leara’s shoulder at Bishop, then, ignoring the darkening glare on Master Arngeir’s brow, she went on, “Just because we packed up and moved shop doesn’t mean I don’t still have my contacts. I’ve not been on the run this long making stupid decisions like completely cutting myself off.”

“Of course not,” Leara smiled, gritting her teeth. 

“I still have my contacts in Whiterun. You’re not as subtle as you think. I’ve known about this little council meeting for nearly a month.” Which meant as soon as Delphine found out, she was ready to make the trek to High Hrothgar. Wow. “We have just as much right as anyone else to be here, seeing as we’re the ones who helped you get this far in the first place, Elanor.”

Leara spluttered. Arngeir’s scowl deepened. “Is that so? The hubris of the Blades truly knows no bounds.”

“If it were up to you people, she would stay sitting here on your mountain all day with her head in the clouds!”

It was Bishop’s hand on Leara’s elbow that kept her from popping Delphine in the mouth. Absence, it seemed, made the heart grow fonder. Leara felt better about Delphine and the Blades’ contempt for the Greybeards when she wasn’t in the same Hold as her. 

“Delphine, please,” Esbern said, speaking for the first time. “We didn’t come here to debate the philosophies of Blade and Greybeard. Remember the issue at hand: Alduin must be reckoned with.” Then he turned to Master Arngeir, a tired look on his weathered face. “You called this council for that reason. You wouldn’t have done so otherwise. We have much information on Alduin and the crisis at hand.” There was a glimmer in his eyes. “You’ll need us here if you want the council to succeed.”

Despite this, Master Arngeir’s scowl did not relent. However, after a long moment, he bowed his head—shallow but acquiescence, nonetheless. “If this is how it must be, then so be it. You may attend the council.”

Esbern nodded his thanks, but Delphine only smirked. 

Leara wanted to scream, and they hadn’t even started the damn meeting yet. “If you’d please follow me—”

“Actually, Dragonborn, I would like a word,” Master Arngeir went on. He did not look at her. 

Oh. Her throat tight, Leara turned to Bishop, who, by some undeserved mercy from the Divines, had kept whatever snide comments he usually had to himself during the exchange with the Blades. “Escort Delphine and Esbern to the table.”

“Are you serious?” said Bishop. “Did we not just have the conversation about why I’m not getting involved with your little—”

“Bishop, please.”

He quieted. Then, casting her a shady look under pinched brows, jerked his head toward the stairs. “C’mon,” he told the Blades, “What her ladyship decrees.”

A harsh breath pushed through Leara’s nostrils as the Blades followed after a grumbling Bishop. As he passed, Esbern clasped her shoulder, but it did nothing to settle her nerves. Actually, Leara was feeling too much. She knew it. Too much was happening. She thought she could handle it, but . . .

No, she had to handle it. She would. It was fine. 

“When you told us that it was the Blades who showed you Dragonrend, I knew to worry about what other counsel you might take from them,” Master Arngeir said. He did not look at her; instead, his gaze was fixed on the tapestry above the entrance. Leara remained silent. “Their claim that they are responsible for you traveling the course of your destiny should be laughable.” Then he faced her, his eyes tired. “I have told you before how the Blades use the Dragonborn, but it seems you already know it.”

“Yes,” Leara said. She recalled the lessons, the stories. Watch for the Dragonborn. Protect the Dragonborn. Follow the Dragonborn.

“I did not fathom that the Dragonborn was a member of the Blades, and yet, all this time, that is who you are.”

Leara lifted her eyes, her shoulders set though they wanted to sag. “What do you want me to say, Master? That I should never have joined the Blades? That I regret the years of service I gave and the lessons I learned? That I renounce them?” And hadn’t she thought of it? If Delphine’s dismissal of Leara’s standing as a Knight-Sister wasn’t enough, the fact that she abandoned her post during the war was enough. She all but did renounce the Blades, for all her delusions on the contrary. 

Master Arngeir’s countenance was grim. “I would know that we can take you at your word, but now I see that we have reason to question, not only your means, then your intentions as well. We must take you for what you are, Dragonborn.”

“And what am I?”

“A charlatan.”

·•★•·

His thumb stilled on the goblet’s rim when she entered, followed by the Imperials.  

He stood at her entrance, Galmar following suit. His eyes met General Tullius’s over the Dragonborn, Leara’s shoulder, and his jaw tightened at the sight of the towering forms of the Thalmor ambassadors behind him. A smirk cut across Elenwen’s face, and Ulfric’s scowl deepened. So, they expected him to sit down and treat with the Thalmor today. 

They were wrong. 

In with Tullius and Elenwen came a host of others, a great number that drowned the small company Ulfric selected for his entourage. Ever present at the General’s side was Rikke, as fierce and hawkish as he remembered her. There was a storm in Rikke’s eyes that seemed determined to strike him across the room. After Rikke’s gale came the slight figure of Jarl Elisif, barricaded by her ever-present housecarl. The would-be queen was wide-eyed and still, almost as if being in High Hrothgar, in this room, drew her into her shell. Mousy, he thought. 

Two legionnaires trailed the group, a small blonde woman and a taller Nord with a dark mustache. They, like he and his men, were disarmed, their weapons likely in the antechamber with the Stormcloaks’. After them came two guards with the golden horse of Whiterun on their armor. Balgruuf came between them, apart from the Imperials, but clearly of their delegation. Even if he would not choose a side, Ulfric questioned whether Balgruuf could ever truly be persuaded from the safe path laid by the Empire. It was the type of safety that bore complacency from the familiar, refusing the call to action from conviction. Balgruuf knew what was right. Ulfric knew this. But Balgruuf would sooner turn to the familiar for the protection of his people rather than risk all for his convictions. This was the truth. 

And yet. And yet, for the sake of their old friendship, Ulfric hoped Balgruuf would find the courage to follow his convictions, to join the cause and free Skyrim from her bondage. That alone would carry more weight than any peace treaty that the Dragonborn thought she could orchestrate. 

After the delegation came Master Arngeir and the other Greybeards. Not for the first time, Ulfric wondered why they agreed to host the war leaders in their monastery. High Hrothgar, always remembered as a bastion of peace, was now the host to warriors and their opposing views. How Leara convinced the Greybeards to open their doors to this council, even to discuss the dragon threat, Ulfric didn’t know. But no, one glance at Master Arngeir’s face showed a lingering shadow in clear eyes. Arngeir, at least, was not happy about this turn of events. 

At once, Leara returned to the pot of spiced mead and prepared the tray. Ulfric only caught a glimpse of her pale eyes as she passed in a swirl of blue. 

“Take your seats, and we can begin,” said Master Arngeir, sitting himself at the head of the table. Off to the right, Delphine huffed. “Now that everyone is here, the Dragonborn will serve the mead. We offer this in goodwill, in the hope that everyone has come here in the spirit of—”

As he spoke, Elenwen sat down at the table. Ulfric, on the cusp of sitting back down himself, stiffened to his full height. 

“No, we will not sit at the same table as that woman!” he said, forceful. “You insult us by bringing her here as if you expect us to just accept the presence of your chief Talos hunter!”

Legate Rikke scoffed. “Here we go.”

Galmar growled, eliciting an eye roll from Balgruuf. Elisif sighed. 

“Now, Ulfric, I have every right to be here,” Elenwen said, poised like a serpent on the edge of her chair. “It is in the best interest of every party for a representative of the Aldmeri Dominion to ensure that the terms of the White-Gold Concordat are upheld. Particularly given the history of certain local governments in disregarding those terms as they see fit. Such a breach of treaty is a reason enough to be concerned, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Ormand?” 

The air stilled, cooling. “Yes, Mistr—Madame Ambassador, perhaps.”

Then the room warmed again, but a chill ran up his spine.

Her head bowed, Leara returned to his field of vision, her tray laden. In silence, she served the mead. 

“Look here, Ulfric,” Tullius said, pointing his hand. “You cannot dictate who I bring as part of my delegation. If you can’t accept that, then there’s no point in us going any further.”

Ulfric gritted his teeth. Beside Rikke, the Dragonborn stilled. Across the table, he saw her purse her lips. Elisif took a goblet, and Leara moved on.

“If we must negotiate the terms of the negotiations, then we will never get anywhere,” Arngeir said. There was a rumble in his voice. “Perhaps this is a matter best addressed by the Dragonborn.” 

Standing between Balgruuf and the Thalmor, Leara’s cold eyes flicked from Tullius to Ulfric and back. “I believe—”

The nerve of those Imperial bastards, Ulfric brooded.  

“As Ambassador Elenwen said, we are discussing matters that may encroach on the terms of the White-Gold Concordat. It is to the benefit of all that we respect the existing treaties so that we can work out an agreement that works for everyone.”

And here was the Dragonborn, with her half-answers and line-walking. The chill curled around his spine again, sharper. He did not expect this, not from her. But what does he really know of her? “Either she walks, or we do,” he declared. “If you think I will sit at the same table as that Thalmor bitch—"

Leara’s chin was defiant. “You misunderstand me, Jarl Ulfric. It is imperative that we observe the existing treaties, but I don’t think we need the Dominion to hold our hand to do so.” She turned to Elenwen, who was within arm’s reach of her. Behind Elenwen’s chair, another golden-haired Altmer woman stood, her statue’s face unable to conceal the heat as she stared down the Dragonborn. Leara merely smiled. “If you’ll pardon us, Madame Ambassador, your presence may do more harm than good here. Please, excuse us.”

Elenwen stood. She was taller and darker than the Dragonborn, Ulfric noticed. He had never used magic himself, but there was something in the air that left an electric film on the back of his throat. He wondered if anyone else could feel it. 

“Very well, Miss Ormand, you may conduct this meeting as you see fit.” Elenwen’s eyes cut to Ulfric. “Enjoy your petty victory, Ulfric, as long as your Dragonborn is here to win the battles for you. The Dominion will treat with whatever government rules Skyrim. We would not dream of interfering in your civil war.” Turning on her heel, she beckoned her lackey. “Come, Hindalia,”

Tearing her glare from Leara, the other Altmer followed her mistress. 

“Run away!” cried Galmar, slamming his fist on the table. His goblet wobbled. “We’re not as easily culled as your Imperial pets! Skyrim will never bow to the Thalmor!”

Rikke charged to her feet. “You’re lucky I respect the Greybeards’ council, Galmar, or I’d—"

“Legate!” Tullius’s hard snap cut her off. “We’re representatives of the Emperor here! Act like it!”

Her dark scowl carved a harsh line across her face, but Rikke obeyed like the good legate she was. “Sorry, sir.”

Leara placed a new goblet in front of him, removing the old one. She did the same for Galmar. 

Arngeir cleared his throat. Despite the Thalmors’ exit, the tension in the room was heavy. “Now that that is settled, may we proceed?” 

Ulfric cleared his throat. “I have something to say first.” 

“Are you serious?” muttered Rikke. 

“I agreed to attend this council to come to an agreement about this dragon menace. That is it. Beyond that, we have no interest in negotiating with the Empire over any terms.” After all, hadn’t the Empire denied them in the past? Turnabout was fair play. “I consider even talking to the Empire a generous gesture on our part. It’s only a matter of time before they’re driven out of Skyrim.”

“Are you done? Or did you want to continue dictating from your soap box?” Tullius asked, eyebrow raised.

Galmar bristled. He moved to speak, but Ulfric held up a hand. “Fine, let’s get on with it.” 

On the other side of Galmar, Leara sat in the empty chair. Intention lit up her face, but there was a shadow lurking there, under the blue. She watched them. 

Master Arngeir stood. “Good. General Tullius, Jarl Ulfric, this council is unprecedented in nature. Never before has High Hrothgar opened its doors to mediate a war, yet we stand here now at the Dragonborn’s request. I would ask that you respect the spirit of High Hrothgar and its history of peace and benevolence. Your being here brings the hope that we can find a lasting peace for the good of all Skyrim. Dragonborn?”

“Yes, thank you, Master Arngeir. Jarls, Generals, Legate,” she nodded to Rikke, “I have asked you here to discuss the present dragon crisis. The Greybeards have been generous enough to open their halls to us, allowing us a neutral meeting ground where we might discuss terms for a truce that would allow for a swift handling of the dragons’ threat.” Perched in her chair, Leara leaned forward as she spoke, straight-backed and still. “Jarl Balgruuf has agreed to allow me to use his palace Dragonsreach to capture a dragon, but it is imperative that we first reach an agreement that protects the people of Whiterun in such a delicate situation.”

Capturing a dragon! So, that was her plan. Ulfric wasn’t sure what to make of it. When he agreed to the council, he knew it was an opportunity to confront Tullius without a battle’s bloodshed, but even when the Dragonborn insisted this circus was necessary to defeat the World-Eater, Ulfric never expected her solution was to capture a live dragon! Did she hope to ensnare the World-Eater himself, or was this dragon a rung in the ladder as she ascended toward the top? What did she hope to gain from capturing a dragon, information, allies? Ulfric sat back in his chair, lost in thought.

Around the table, the other reactions varied. Balgruuf, knowing Leara’s plans from the start, simply stared ahead, determined. Galmar, however, and Rikke too, it seemed, were more affected: Galmar’s loud splutter over choked mead nearly drowned out the Legate’s heated swear. Her General, it seemed, didn’t quite catch the ramifications of such a declaration. This was to be expected. Ulfric didn’t imagine an Imperial like Tullius would realize the meaning behind holding a dragon in Dragonsreach, much less comprehending the threat of the World-Eater himself! But it was Elisif’s reaction that caught Ulfric’s attention. Her hands pressed to her mouth, the Jarl of Solitude was wide-eyed and speechless. 

Good, Ulfric thought. Perhaps with the legend of Olaf One-Eye brought into the modern age, she might learn a new respect for Nordic history and tradition. Somehow, though, he doubted it. 

Delphine’s near-silent “Damnit” against the whispering of the guardsmen pricked at the edge of his attention. When the Blade appeared in the doorway, clad in her Order’s armor and shadowed by the old man, Ulfric hadn’t known what to make of it. Hers was a face he’d never expected to see again, and yet here she was at the Dragonborn’s peace council. He half-wondered why she was here. 

After the initial reaction, Leara continued, “In light of this, I would ask that the members of the council look beyond things such as territory and resources in order to help ensure the dragons are dealt with swiftly. Thank you.”

“Yes,” Arngeir nodded. “Now, let us open the floor. Who would like to start the negotiations?”

The muscle worked in Ulfric’s jaw. Until now, he fully intended to open his position by demanding Markarth be handed into Stormcloak hands. Still—

Tullius held up his hand. “Our terms are simple: Riften must be returned to Imperial control. That is our price for agreeing to a truce.”

Elisif’s eyes darted to the General, wide, then, finding Ulfric’s gaze, they hardened. Her mouth thinned.  

“By Talos, he’s got stones!” gristled Galmar. “You’re in no position to dictate terms to us, Tullius! If you think we’ll turn Riften over just because you barked an order, then you overstep yourself!”

Crossing his arms, Ulfric leveled a look at the Imperials. “That is quite the opening demand. Tullius.” One he was loath to meet. 

Galmar’s scowl was fierce. “Ulfric! Don’t say you’re considering accepting this demand! It’s outrageous! We can hold Riften against these milkdrinkers, and Jarl Laila—”

He could see Rikke bristling. For all that he appreciated Galmar’s gumption and tenacity, it could easily lead them into trouble. Ulfric was no fool: He knew good and well that there was little stopping Tullius from making another attempt to capture him on the road from High Hrothgar. It was only the respect held by Skyrim’s people for the Greybeards that stayed the General’s hand. But respect could only be stretched so far before it snapped with tension. Ulfric’s men were outnumbered here. Their cards needed to be handled with care.

 Ulfric held out his hand. “Peace, Galmar. We’ll do whatever I find to be in the best interest of Skyrim, understood?”

Still glowering at the Imperials, Galmar nodded, “Yes, my lord.”

“Come on, Tullius, do you really expect us to simply hand over Riften? Just like that?” A wry smile tugged at Ulfric’s mouth. “Because your legion has failed to take it by force, do you think we’ll surrender our hold if you ask instead?”

“I’m sure that General Tullius does not expect something without discussing a price,” Arngeir said, voice hard and peaceable all at once. 

In the corner of his eye, Ulfric saw Leara cross her hands. Her face was closed. 

“Of course he doesn’t!” Galmar barreled on ahead. “What are you willing to pay for Riften, Tullius? Empty promises and more Imperial bluster?”

“That’s enough, Galmar.”

“Jarl Ulfric, in exchange for the Rift, what would you want in return?” asked Arngeir.

Now, since they were asking. “First, let me be clear: The sons of Skyrim have learned from bitter experience that talking to the Empire is a waste of time. Their promises are always punctuated with a sword and a shackle.” The memory of the betrayal at the Markarth gates still gnawed at him decades later. “However, I accepted the Dragonborn’s invitation to this council, and so, whatever the Empire does, I will negotiate in good faith.” Galmar nodded his agreement. 

Turning to the Dragonborn, Ulfric found himself met with a cold blue stare. Unlike a month ago in the Windhelm jail, when she would no longer look him in the eye, she met him head-on. But there was an edge to the ice that he hadn’t seen before in their previous encounters. If he weren’t so preoccupied, he might have wondered if it had anything to do with that fleabag, Bitchup, or whatever his name was. He would have wondered if the man was still hounding Leara. He may even have spared half a thought toward the woman’s dog. But they were fleeting curiosities. This truce and its potential ramifications dominated his attention, and he couldn’t spare much more from that. 

“Well, Dragonborn, this is your peace council, right? Tell us, what do you think the Rift is worth?” he asked.

Tilting her head, Leara regarded him from the end of the table. “The Rift has its own advantages that would be hard to match from another Hold,” she said. “If you were to trade Riften for, say, the Reach, that would split the holdings and scatter both sides across the map. No matter how you cut up the map, problems rise up.”

“This whole Civil War is a problem, Leara, or have you forgotten?” Tullius asked. 

Leara’s lips thinned. “I am keenly aware of what’s at stake here, General, but I don’t consider tossing Holds back and forth like some kind of game to be a productive use of our time here. The Stormcloaks cannot surrender the Rift.”

“You’ve disappointed me,” Tullius grumbled, brows drawn low. “I agreed to attend this council based on your good name, but it seems you’re determined to favor Ulfric at every turn!”

“You’re mistaken, I do not—”

“Markarth is our price,” Ulfric stated, coming to a decision. He did not want to give up the Rift. That would put the Empire right on his southern flank. But if he could gain the Reach from it, the silver mines and its proximity to Solitude would soften the blow. And who’s to say they couldn’t retake Riften in the coming months? His soldiers knew Riften and its advantages better than Tullius could ever hope to! The sons of Skyrim would shatter the Imperials in a siege. Of this, Ulfric was certain. 

“Are you serious?” Elisif said, speaking up for the first time. “This, both of you—you disrespect the Greybeards and the Dragonborn by using this council as a means to advance your war engines! We are here to negotiate a truce, not draw new battlelines!”

“Jarl Elisif!” barked Tullius. “Let me handle this!”

“But General!” the woman persisted. “These demands are outrageous! Did none of you hear what the Dragonborn said?” 

“Jarl Elisif—”

“I can’t believe this,” Balgruuf said, half-rising from his chair. “This is how the Empire repays us for our loyalty? By trading us like playing cards?” Ulfric moved to speak, but Balgruuf jabbed a ringed finger at him. “And don’t you start on how your cause is any better! That’s a load of sheep’s dung! You came here intending to barter for Markarth, consequences be damned!”

Ulfric ground his jaw.

“General Tullius!” cried Elisif, refusing to back down. Over her shoulder, her housecarl lurked in threat. “You don’t intend to go through with this! You can’t trade Markarth for Riften! Not to that, that traitor!” Well, the girl had guts, Ulfric could give her that. If only she’d found them before. 

“Enough!” Tullius snapped, rubbing his temples. “That’s enough!”

“What’ll it be, Tullius?” demanded Ulfric. “Markarth for Riften? Or is that too steep a price for your vanity?”

Galmar huffed.

“Don’t try me, Ulfric! The day is coming when I’ll have you back under the headsman’s axe, and there will be no dragons there to save you!”

With a shout, Galmar shot to his feet. “I’d like to see you try, leech!” 

“That’s IT!” Rikke was out of her seat. “Keep your tongue, Galmar Stone-Fist, or I will take it from you!” 

Noise sprang up around the room. Ulfric was on his feet. The cries of his men and the legionnaires joined in a maelstrom of sound, drowning Galmar’s shouts and Rikke’s threats. Balgruuf was on his feet, but Ulfric couldn’t understand what he was saying, though the red in his cheeks hinted at his explosive anger. Elisif’s housecarl had a hand on the back of her chair; his Jarl pressed backward as Tullius leaped up beside her. 

“Never trust an Imperial!”

“Have you heard nothing—?”

“—will not stand by while you—"

“Damn faithless—"

“Oh, I should’ve expected this!”

“—nothing left to say to—”

“We will WALK!”

“This is a farce!”

“How dare you—”

“By Talos!” Delphine swore, “Can you hear yourselves?” She was drowned out. 

“This is no negotiation at all!” yelled Tullius, voice loud above the din. 

“You’re losing the war, and you know it!” Ulfric retaliated. His fingers itched for his sword. 

“How many lives must be spent before you see the cost of this war?” Elisif cried out, rising to her feet. Her housecarl hovered nearby like a mother hen.

Galmar’s snarls filled Ulfric’s ear.

“You always were a fool, Ulfric!” Rikke’s voice went shrill.

“The Empire’s pretty words are worthless!” 

“Says the speechmaker!”

“Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth!”

“QUIET!”

A thrill of chilled air curled through the chamber, dowsing the storm of voices in cold silence. Ulfric turned, words caught in his throat, to see Leara at the foot of the table. He was alarmed to see frost creeping along the tabletop from where she’d braced her palms against the stone. A lock of hair curled from the braided bun at the base of her neck, as frozen still as the rigid set to her thin shoulders. He caught her eye, then, as she stared down everyone at the table. The guards behind him shifted in discomfort, and Ulfric couldn’t say he wasn’t unsettled himself. It was like looking into the Sea of Ghosts in the dead of winter: Desolately cold and inhospitable. The caress of frost from her glare was as bitter as the icy mists of the northern waters. 

“Be quiet,” she said again, tone level. Power hummed in her voice, even at a lowered volume. “Please. You’re acting like children.”

Arngeir let out a weary sigh, his hand over his eyes. Guilt and embarrassment niggled at Ulfric at the sight. Despite his leaving the Way of the Voice and his future as a Greybeard to fight in the Great War, he still held the utmost respect for Master Arngeir. It was not lost on Ulfric that he’d spent more time with the elder Greybeard than he had with his own father during his childhood. 

Clinching his fist, he held his tongue, but he stood his ground.

“Is this what passes for diplomacy in Skyrim?” Leara sniffed. “I expected better.”

Ulfric rounded on her because, Ysmir’s beard, she wasn’t helping, despite Tullius’s assertions, but then the old man beside Delphine stood. There was a shift in Leara’s posture then, almost imperceptible as she drew back from the table. Her hands fell to her sides, drawing the frost away with them. Ulfric turned away. 

The man tugged at his wool scarf, sorrow written in the lines of his face. “You are all so consumed by your hubris that you are blinded to the real and present danger! What do wars and territories matter when the doom of creation hangs by a thread? Nothing!” 

“Is he with you, Delphine?” Ulfric asked, crossing his arms. “If so, I’d advise you to tell him to watch his tongue.”

Short though she was, Delphine forced forward an imposing figure in her armor. “He is with me, and I would advise all of you to shut up and listen to what he has to say before this gets any more out of hand.”

Across the table, Tullius rolled his eyes. 

Squaring his shoulders, Delphine’s friend stepped closer to the table. He was tall. Ulfric imagined he’d been taller before age set into his bones, but there was a spark of wit about him that pushed back the years. Long ago, Ulfric recalled learning that the Blades Order consisted of more than just knights and warriors. Throughout their vast network were spies, scholars, and scouts, among other things. Although the Empire dismantled the Blades after the war, leaving them to be picked off by the Dominion’s hunters, the infamous Order’s operatives were no strangers to hiding. Or so the stories told. But looking at Delphine and her companion, Ulfric wondered how many Blades really evaded the Thalmor. He hoped more were as successful as Delphine and the old man seemed to be. 

“Don’t you understand why the Dragonborn must capture a dragon? Don’t you understand the reason why the dragons are such a threat to us?” the old Blade said. “Alduin the World-Eater has returned! He is here, now, at this hour, and he devours the souls of the dead, of your fallen comrades! Every life lost in this pointless conflict only adds to Alduin’s power. If it goes on, his strength may become unmatched.” The Blade’s focus centered beyond Ulfric, and he knew the man was watching the Dragonborn. The woman who had offered hope. “Can you not, just for a moment, set aside your anger and hatred in the face of this mortal danger?” 

Isn’t that what the Dragonborn asked when she met with him in his war room? And he agreed to come, didn’t he? He knew what the dragon threat meant—Leara told him then, and since Ulfric found himself dwelling on it when his mind should be on the movements of his troops and the planned attack on Fort Snowhawk. Yet field reports and casualty lists struggled to hold his attention when contending with the World-Eater’s shadow. Every soul in Sovngarde fed the World-Eater’s strength; whether it came from an Imperial or a Stormcloak, every child of Skyrim whose spirit sought the solace of Shor’s Halls was lost to the black dragon’s maw. 

It was sickening. 

“I don’t know about the end of the world,” Tullius began slowly. He rubbed his chin in thought. “But these dragons are getting to be more than the Legion can handle. If this truce can help the Dragonborn eradicate this menace, then we all benefit.” Lifting his gaze, Tullius sent Ulfric a hard glare. “It would do you well to remember that, Ulfric.”

“If he’s right about Alduin,” and Ulfric was sure the old Blade was, “we each have just as much to lose as the other. Remember that, Tullius. Now,” his hand on the back of his chair, Ulfric sat back down. “Back to the matter at hand—”

“I would like to call a recess.”

Almost as one, Ulfric and Tullius turned toward the Dragonborn. Leara was sitting back in her seat, prim yet for her drawn face and the still-frozen curl. Her gaze glossed by his to meet Master Arngeir’s. 

“I think a break might benefit us all,” she continued, straightening. 

Master Arngeir nodded, slow and tired. Ulfric could see the exhaustion creeping across the elder’s face. This council was wearing on him. Part of Ulfric regretted that. Another part wished to have things over with so that he could return to the Palace of the Kings and plot his next course of action during the intermittent peace. “We will adjourn,” Master Arngeir said. “The council will reconvene in an hour’s time. When we do, may cooler heads prevail.”

This time, the scraping of chairs was loud against the silence. Properly chastised, the council members stood. No doubt, each would go off into their corner to discuss new terms and unravel the reasoning of the Blades and the Greybeards. 

And the Dragonborn, Ulfric thought, watching her disappear through the doors in a swirl of blue skirts.

Ulfric didn’t understand her at all.

·•★•·

The echoes of the fight rang through her head as she darted down the hall, away from the meeting hall and the crowd gathered there. She needed a minute. She needed water. She needed sleep. She needed, she needed to breathe. 

Bursting out one of the side doors, she entered the courtyard. The sun glittered off the surrounding snowbanks, lighting the area a brilliant white. It was perhaps a little warmer than it had been during the night, but Leara didn’t pay any attention.  She fled toward the overlook near the edge of High Hrothgar’s mountain shelf to a half-moon of stone benches facing out toward the Whiterun Plains below. She collapsed on the middle bench, half laying, half reclining on the cold stone. With a shaking breath, she pressed her forehead into her arms.

Elenwen, Elenwen was here. And so were Delphine and Esbern. 

And the peace talks!

Arngeir thought she was a liar. 

Leara’s chest constricted. She forced icy air into her lungs. Her hip ached where it dug into the bench. 

What in Akatosh’s holy name were they doing? What just happened? As soon as she gave either man the floor, Tullius and Ulfric made grabs for the other’s land. What they could not take by force in battle seemed like fair game at the negotiating table. But didn’t she tell them this wasn’t that kind of negotiation? They were here for the good of all Skyrim—all Tamriel, and yet they used their compliance as a shield to guard their true purpose: They both sought power over the other. 

That’s the way of war, Leara reminded herself. Just or unjust, to show weakness to the other side was a risk most didn’t recover from. Was leaving Whiterun alone a weakness? She didn’t think so. She knew Balgruuf agreed with her. Whiterun’s safety when Leara captured the dragon was his utmost concern. But how far would Balgruuf go to ensure Whiterun’s safety and neutrality? Further than she would, Leara mused darkly. She wasn’t willing to appease egos just for her own benefit. Balgruuf, loath as he might be to surrender to either side, would make concessions if it was for the wellbeing of his people. But Leara couldn’t choose the people of Whiterun over the rest of Skyrim. She didn’t have that luxury. She needed an agreement that took care of everyone, or if not that, at least one that didn’t put them into a worse position than they were already in. Trading Markarth for the Rift was not the answer.

Hard nails bit into her palms as she squeezed her fingers into fists. No, she and Balgruuf might have a similar goal, but even he wasn’t on her side. He didn’t owe it to her to be. Neither did Tullius. Certainly Ulfric didn’t. 

We must take you for what you are.

A charlatan.

A dry sob seized her ribs in a vice. After today, she wouldn’t have the Greybeards either. Despite everything she’d done to follow their teachings, her past as a Blade won out. Arngeir no longer trusted her. Oh, he put on a good show for the negotiations, but there was a weary shadow over his shoulders. She knew what he wasn’t saying. She was a monster—

Not even Delphine and Esbern could be counted to side with her. Delphine never made her distrust of Leara a secret, and Esbern’s proximity to the other Knight-Sister cast his friendship in doubt. She missed Cloud Ruler Temple. She couldn’t trust the Blades. 

There was no one’s side for her to be on, because no one was on her side.

“Akatosh, don’t let me be alone,” the sob broke from her throat, rocking her body in its wake. “Don’t let me be alone!”

“Oh, but my pet, you are alone.”

Leara stilled, her muscles tensing. She didn’t dare raise her head from the nest of her arms.

The whisper of boots on stone was her only warning before a familiar hand trailed long fingers through her hair to the coiled bun. The nails dug into the back of Leara’s skull, drawing out a gentle pain. Leara inhaled, breath catching in her throat. The hand left her skull for her neck, trailing lightning to her shoulder. Her nerves burned. 

“What do you want, Elenwen?” whispered Leara, holding herself still. She could not defend herself. She couldn’t even move from the fear freezing her blood. 

But she could still hear the smirk in Elenwen’s voice. “Is it too much to believe I might wish to speak to a very old friend?” 

Her fists tightened. “We are not friends.”

“Oh, but weren’t we?” Then Leara was wrenched into a sitting position, Elenwen’s thin arms disguising the strength in her hold. Leara was pulled up to face her and found herself powerless to stop it. But that’s how it always was. 

When Elenwen and her newest protégé had swept into the foyer behind General Tullius and Jarl Balgruuf, effectively ending Leara and Arngeir’s conversation, an iron corset had laced itself over Leara’s lungs, pulling her inward and stealing her breath. The haunted memory of the Aldmere’Loren weaving its darkling shroud over the ballroom at the Blue Palace asserted itself, drawing with it the sight of hundreds of devastated faces, each wrecked with emotion too deep for mortal hearts to comprehend. The image shadowed Leara’s gaze as she greeted the Imperial delegation, spine stiff, face frozen. Night terrors full of cooing whispers and crackling electricity threatened to take her in the light of day as she led the group to the meeting hall. The entire time, Leara could feel the pinprick of lightning on her skin, a shadow and a threat, ever real, never sleeping. Elenwen knew, and what was more, the Ambassador had told her companion. One needed only to meet the younger Altmer’s burning glare to know this. 

Yes, Mistress.

Where Leara found the strength to deny Elenwen’s attendance to the council, she wasn’t sure. But if she took nothing else from him, she could thank Ulfric’s adamance that the Thalmor be denied presence. And he had every right to do so. How could any of them fathom what Elenwen had done to him during the war?

What Leara did to him.

She shuddered. 

The golden iron of Elenwen’s grip held Leara’s wrist in a snare. “Considering all the years we spent together, I had hoped you would think differently.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but don’t you, Vilya?”

Leara twisted back, tugging at her wrist, but Elenwen’s grip remained firm. The other hand came to catch her chin. Again, Leara threw herself back, but Elenwen was firm. Then her thumb and forefinger cradled Leara’s chin as the other fingers, long and biting, splayed across the side of Leara’s neck. She could feel her pulse drum against the steal hold. 

“Don’t be a brat, Vilya. You know how I hate your childishness.” 

The fingers tightened, pressing into her windpipe. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good girl.” The hand did not relent. No, instead, Elenwen leaned closer still, lips so close to Leara’s ear that she could feel the cool breath brush her skin. A shiver ran down her neck and into her chest. The corset tightened. “This is how it is going to be. Your little charade is over. This defiant streak you’ve fostered will be pruned. Perhaps you believe you’ve been clever in your evasion of the Aldmeri Dominion, but no one can run forever, not the Blades, and certainly not you, my pet. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Elenwen regarded her with green-gold eyes, as bright and acidic as any ripening citrus fruit. Unbidden, a memory of someone in her class comparing Elenwen’s eyes to Lady Finduilas’s citrus orchard rose up. Their glower was just as sour. “The only reason you will walk out of here alive,” Elenwen said softly, poisonous, “is because intelligence reports you are the only one capable of ending this little dragon crisis. Certainly, those fools you’ve invited to this mockery of diplomacy seem to think so. Once it is resolved, expect to be visited by a Justiciar force. Resistance is futile.”

Leara tried to swallow, only to gag against the collar of flesh around her neck. 

“I don’t know how a half-breed such as you managed to infiltrate the ranks of the Thalmor and ascend to such a high position,” Elenwen continued, low in Leara’s ear, “but believe me, we will find out. When we take you, you will beg for death before the end. We will unmake you, and when at last you die, you will not know your own name, Vilya, or any other.”

The mechanical “Yes, Mistress” clawed its way up Leara’s throat, but she fought it down. She fought Alduin—and lost—but she survived the first encounter. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, shouldn’t let Elenwen leave here believing she had the upper hand. Again. Leara tricked the Ambassador for years, back when she was not nearly as important as she was now, and hadn’t Leara done it again just months ago at the Embassy party? She was a Blade first, and hiding was in her nature. 

You are the one who revealed yourself to the Dominion, you bloody bimbo.

Wasn’t she? The pieces didn’t all fit within her mind, but then, Elenwen’s intelligence network was more than Leara could keep up with amid the dragon crisis. The Thalmor had agents hunting her for months. Every move she made was chronicled by their eagle-eyed spies. And she’d made some bad moves, her encounter with the wizard Ancano, for one, and the performance in Solitude, for another. And then she answered to Vilya. Yes, Leara passed the point of deniability long ago. It seemed Elenwen anticipated that, or else she wouldn’t have touched her. She knew Leara for what she was. 

Hopefully, hopefully, Leara could pull the wool back over her eyes when she came for her. Or, if not, daze the Thalmor enough so that Leara could once again escape their grasp. 

The defiance strangled the old compliance. “Surely you realize I will go to someone and tell them what you’ve said. You’ve promised me death. I don’t think the Nords will take kindly to their Dragonborn being threatened by the Thalmor.”

But Elenwen only smiled, flashing pearly teeth in a predatory gleam. “Who would you run to? After all, you said it yourself: You’re alone. Tullius is mine, and Ulfric won’t help you once he realizes what you are. Sooner or later, the Jarl of Whiterun will ow to one of them, and you’ll have nowhere to turn. Not even the old men want you here.” Her thumb stroked along Leara’s jaw. “I do hope you’re not counting on that little ranger of yours. He will soon flee than fight for you.”

Tears bit at the corners of Leara’s eyes, icy as they wound down the side of her face. Cooing, Elenwen released her wrist and brushed them away. “Now, now, my pet, don’t cry. You knew this was inevitable the moment you crossed the Dominion. Perhaps if you hadn’t left, I’d have kept your secret. After all, you always were my most promising instrument.” 

Then Elenwen drew Leara forward and placed a kiss on her forehead. It was dry and hard, just as it always was. Her thumb brushed the lingering tears on Leara’s still face, and then she stood. The sudden cold was a relief from the intensity of Elenwen’s proximity, but still, Leara couldn’t breathe. She would relearn to breathe soon, but for now, she was still choking on the doom in her chest. The bands of iron did not release her lungs. 

“Compose yourself quickly, my pet,” Elenwen sang, saccharine. “Didn’t I teach you not to fall apart outside closed doors?” Her laughter was light and high. “Don’t fret. I will see you again before we leave High Hrothgar. And after that,” her eyes softened, but not truly. It was a false gentleness. Infantilizing and demeaning. “It won’t be long until I have you again.”

Like that, Elenwen was gone, leaving Leara in a huddle of gooseflesh covered by too-thin clothes. Her hair was a mess, but she couldn’t bring herself to care anymore. The iron corset encasing her lungs was freezing over, binding hard around her. Was this what others felt when she cast the Frozen Façade over them? Her fingers jerked, painful as they unwound from the tight fists, but nothing happened. Not even her magic could banish the feeling. Feim. Zii. 

Pressing both palms over her heart, Leara pushed against them, panting. Air trickled into her lungs, painful against the force Elenwen exerted on her throat. Just enough not to leave a bruise but enough that Leara wouldn’t forget the touch too quickly. She kept panting, and soon, her lungs were working against the fear strangling her. Feim. Zii. 

Once she felt she could breathe, Leara wavered to her feet. Her mind reeled at what Elenwen had said. The Thalmor weren’t just coming for her. They were going to kill her, and now there was no doubt. And there was no one to help her. No one.

She was alone. 

But hadn’t she always been? It was foolish for her to ever think otherwise. 

Yet that never stopped her from surviving, did it? She had until she faced Alduin to decide how best to evade Elenwen’s agents. But such a decision hinged on Leara’s surviving the battle in Sovngarde in the first place. More and more, she was starting to think that it may be best for her to die facing Alduin, so long as she took him down with her. Perhaps it wasn’t a matter of surviving indefinitely but surviving until she faced Alduin for the final time. 

Because that was her destiny, wasn’t it? She was Dragonborn. By the grace of Akatosh, she was born to face the World-Eater in this twilight hour. Everything before that a stepping stone needed to reach that point. 

Dashing the remnants of half-frozen tears from her face, Leara turned back toward High Hrothgar. And then, the fine hairs at the back of her neck prickled as if there were eyes still on her. Eyes that never left her. Lifting her skirts, she hurried back toward one of the side doors, the closest to her bedroom. 

But even in the shadow of the monastery, the eyes never left her. 

[satisaranea]

𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐘 𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃: 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐘

full edition! couldn't be bothered for the life of me to add the siblings from each couple so they'll be down below! part one here. note: peregrine has linnea and cassia out of wedlock, so they keep the sarver surname.

𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒

Vella Abernathy (Nee Fenn), Minerva Fenn, Kernel Fenn DECEASED

Splinter Sarver (ONLY CHILD) DECEASED

Venia Kinser, Huxley Kinser DECEASED

Peregrine Sarver (Kinser) ALIVE, Adeline Sarver (Kinser), Amelie Sarver (Kinser) DECEASED

Keene Vawter, Ellis Vawter DECEASED

𝐒𝐔𝐁 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒

Sarvers: Cassia (now Abernathy), Linnea (now Harshaw), Peregrine, (by marriage) Adeline, Amelie, Splinter, Surge, Sanderiana (by marriage)

Kinsers: Leslie, Agnes, (by marriage,) Venia, Peregrine (now Sarver)

Wiltsprings: Meriena, Magnus, Basillia

Fenns: Vella, Minevra, Kernel, Camellia, (by marriage) Sear

Abernathys: Kipley, Haymitch, Hasil, Cassia, (by marriage), Vella (by marriage,) Ritter, Basillia (by marriage, uses Wiltspring), Fraiser, Cattina (by marriage)

[moodymisty]

Hello, I hope you are doing well. And summer ends on a joyful note✨

Roboute Guilliman/reader-eternal(can she be related to Malcador?👀) Maybe NSFW?🤭I'm sure most primarchs have a breeding and pregnancy kink🤔 But Roboute is a special case: he had a good family and loving parents. He himself wants to be the same as Conor. He has a legacy to pass on. And if these inclinations of his had previously subsided, then now that he has a reader who can endure, nothing stops him. How would his Astartes react to the possibility of their primarch having a child of his own? How do they treat the reader?

Author's note: There's a lot here, so I thought it would be best to format my thoughts in my usual headcanons with a small drabble at the end way to make sure I could speak all my thoughts. I hope that's acceptable to you ;3 This one ended up not having any overt sauce because I got so distracted by sweet Guilliman, but if you desire the full NSFW, you're always welcome to send in another request because I'm a dolt xD

Relationships: Roboute Guilliman/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Some vague mentions to NSFW things but nothing overt, Tokophobia/Pregnancy mentions, Typical 40kness

I'd agree that a good amount of the Primarch's have that sort of kink, but it manifests in very different ways depending on which Primarch it is.

Lorgar wanting to corrupt purity or fall victim to primal temptations, Vulkan's desire for family, Magnus wanting to share his teachings; Guilliman's is more of the traditional sense.

For as long as he can remember, he's tossed away the idea of ever having a family. Given his lot in life, his duty to humanity, that isn't a thing he can indulge in. He has no time for such selfishness.

He's resigned himself to fighting for others to have that gift, not himself.

When you arrive in his life, Guilliman suddenly remembers how hard it had been to push and keep those thoughts down, now that you serve to constantly remind him.

He has many fond memories of training or hunting with his adoptive father, and one day he would like to have the same with his own child, if the galaxy would let him be so selfish.

When you do tell him you're with child he's an absolute mess though. You're both treading into unknown waters, after all. No matter how strong you are he still worries about your health.

The Ultramarines definitely have their qualms about it though.

Keep in mind they were raised from kids to be stalwart killing machines, so the kind of thoughts and dreams their Primarch is having are... weird to them.

They have more interaction with baseline humans that say the Dark Angels however, so they aren't totally out of touch.

You did disturb one of Guilliman's men when you keeled over in pain and he attempted to make sure you didn't fall, and he felt your child kick his palm. His disturbed face is forever seared in your memory as one of the funniest things you've ever seen. You're pretty sure the marine's squad still beats him up about the whole thing.

Mostly so, his captains and commanders worry. They know that you serve as a weakness (speaking in a logistical sense) to Guilliman that can be taken advantage of.

He's exactly where you expected him to be.

The green haze of the hologram map shines against his skin, having been growing palid over the past weeks. Guilliman often times works himself into an awful state, pushing himself to the mental limit before finally taking respite.

You can't stop him from doing it. So the least you can do is enjoy a few moments of time with him alone before he goes back to the bridge of the Macragge's Honor to hear any updates from his commanders.

When he notices you in the doorway, his face perks up considerably.

"You should be resting." He instantly comes at you with, and you can't help but sigh.

"Not even a hello?" You come closer, and it's his turn to sigh. You walked all the way here, it's the least you can get from him. He puts a hand on your shoulder and presses his lips to the top of your head.

"Hello. You should be resting." There's papers, scrolls and plastic flimsies spread across the edges of the hologram table, clearly a mess done by him.

"I just wanted a few minutes alone with you, is that so wrong?" He sees the small hint of a smirk on your face, as he pulls away to lean on his hands pressed against the holotable. He takes a glance towards your belly.

"How are they?" You're well past showing at this point, and it will only be a few months until you're finally face to face with your child.

"Finally asleep, it seems. They stopped kicking my stomach."

He lets the smallest smile on his face.

"Yearning to fight, even bef-"

The door suddenly opens, revealing an unfamilar to you Ultramarine captain. A hand rests on the pommel of his chainblade, helmet tucked into his elbow. He also has the worst timing in the known galaxy, interrupting your private moment before it even had a chance to truly begin.

"Lord Primarch, You have a vox. Legion Captain Hektor holds news of a new world." The captain looks in your direction and nods his head.

"Apologies, Legion Mother."

You'll never get used to that title. One of many you had thrust upon you when you'd entered into a relationship with Roboute, even if they technically were not official. You were not bound by law as of yet, but the Chapter had taken to calling you Legion Mother none the less. It becoming official was less so a possibility, and more so an inevitability. The Captain bows and takes his leave, and the both of you are alone once again.

"Will I be attending this diplomacy meeting as well?" You joke, looking up to the Primarch.

"If you can do so without straining yourself, then possibly." Guilliman won't deny that you have a knack for diplomacy, no matter how much you might say otherwise. He wishes for worlds to surrender peacefully; He also wishes for you to remain in good health.

"Now go rest. The both of you."

You feel an armored hand gently press against your aching belly. Carrying a Primarch's child hasn't be easy on your body in the slightest; Even more so than a normal human child. You'll happily indulge in the rest, with one exception.

"As long as you come and join me once you're finished. Please?"

Even if you can get him to take a few minutes of respite, you'll consider it a victory. Roboute sighs as he looks downward.

"I will try." You just barely hear him mumble underneath his breath, as his hand still on your stomach. It moves slightly as he kneels.

"Be easy on your mother. She wasn't meant to carry someone like you."

His sentence makes you think for a moment, before he pulls away and lets you leave.

Guilliman did technically join you; But it was only after you'd already fallen asleep. He stepped into the room and gently sat down onto the massive bed, still in his armor. He didn't want to wake you and simply watched, hand sitting close to your leg. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment and his lips parted as he took a few deep breaths, and then took one more look at you- both of you, before standing and leaving again.

[moonysmoothies]

Pt 1 of why season two of shadowhunters is terrible

So even dividing these by seasons it was way too long for me to post on here while keeping my self respect, so enjoy this essay? about the yin fen plot line because i will die mad about it.

For some background information, in season two episode four of the shadowhunters tv show, there is a demon attack inside the institute. The specific demon of this episode was allegedly created by Valentine to attack the institute through possessing shadowhunters. Did we forget the plot of City of Fallen Angels? Shadowhunters cannot be possessed (with some exceptions but the show came out before tlh anyways). They all have certain protection spells put on them as infants to keep them from being possessed. Apparently not in the show though.

Both Isabelle and Alec get possessed by the demon, with Alec killing Jocelyn and Izzy getting stabbed by Clary since that was all it took to release the demon and kill it. Isabelle’s wound gets infected and it’s not healing but she refuses to go to the infirmary to get it looked at. Victor Aldertree (a made up character who has a combination of Imogen Herondale’s successor’s name and the inquisitor from tid's name who is running the institute for the first half of the season and he’s british and person of color so we know he’s evil), was sending a team to go see the iron sisters to ask why Valentine wanted to steal the mortal sword. Izzy had apparently wanted to be an iron sister when she was a child (she didn’t in the books btw) and goes to his office to volunteer to lead the mission. Aldertree asks to check Isabelle’s wound because he used to be a field medic. He confirms that it was infected and gives yin fen to fix it. He presents her with this silver gel that goes on the spine and applies it for her. Ok, fine. Maybe there have been some modifications to the drug since Jem took it and since it was on the ship bringing Jace to New York. I can get past the form of it. What I can’t get past is that in the next episode we find out that yin fen in the show is made from vampire venom. Not poison from Yanluo, but vampire venom. Saying that it’s made from vampire venom and not poison from a greater demon does so much already to diminish the danger of it. Vampires bite people all the time. If you die because of a vampire, it’s because they drank all of your blood, not because you overdose on their venom. Vampire venom doesn’t cause searing pain and hallucinations like what Jem described from Yanluo. 

In the next episode, Izzy sees that Aldertree has run out of yin fen and spends the episode trying to track some down. She meets this one warlock in the Hunter's Moon and asks for it, to which he says, “dancing with the devil, are we?” What the fuck? Why is it so dangerous? There’s no evidence in this show that implies that you can overdose from it or that there are harmful effects on your body other than the withdrawal. Then, to add insult to injury, Magnus swoops in to kick the warlock out of the bar because apparently he’s been banned from North America and mentions how yin fen almost killed Jem. No! You do not get to change everything about a substance other than its name and color and then name drop Jem. This is not what almost killed him. Jem spent five years of his life dying from a drug that was essentially a bastardized medicine and was sapping his life and energy more than it was giving it to him. We see in Clockwork Prince and Clockwork Princess how it affected the werewolves who were being given too much of it by Mortmain. He was making them take it six to seven times a day and as Jem said, “The more you take the faster you die.” In the books, there is no scenario where you become addicted to yin fen where it does not kill you. It’s not a “typical” drug like it is shown to be in the show.

But back to the plot of the show, Isabelle goes to see some vampires to ask for their venom because that’s what yin fen is made of. Raphael swoops in and saves her and she collapses into his arms. After some convincing he bites her, giving her venom. After this, they start a relationship which is just them essentially being addicted to each other - Izzy being addicted to his venom and Raphael being addicted to her blood. I don’t know how we got to shadowhunter blood being addictive for vampires, but apparently it is. The most we know about it in the books is that Simon almost completely drained Jace of blood in City of Ashes, but that could have been because Jace has extra angel blood even for a shadowhunter, the fact that Simon was just practically drained of all of his own blood, or that Simon was so new to being a vampire. Simon also bites Izzy and Alec and is completely fine and unaddicted. Even if you take away the weird addiction plot, Raphael is a canonically aroace character. He’s still asexual in the show, but no longer aromantic. I’m pretty sure the reason they did this was because they drew out the climon plotline to be agonizingly long so they felt that they needed to put Izzy with somebody romantically, but it doesn’t change the fact that it is so terrible that they took away one of the only aroace characters I can think of. After Alec finds out about the yin fen and her relationship with Raphael, they have a fight that ends with her going back to Raphael and him going to the institute. Then Valentine attacks the institute because he needs its angelic power core to be able to activate the mortal sword so that it can emit a heavenly light that will kill any downworlders in its path. Obviously this is a huge change from the demonic conversion ritual he was trying to do in the books, and it doesn’t even make sense. I’ll talk more about this change in another part, but that’s the plot of the mid-season finale. Alec ends up confronting Aldertree about how he gave Isabelle yin fen and they fight circle members on the rooftop when Isabelle comes in and saves them because she had found her phone that Raphael hid because he and other downworlders were going to kill Clary because if she touches the sword while it’s plugged in to the angelic power core it will be able to emit the heavenly light because of her extra “pure” angel blood. Anyways, Isabelle collapses into Alec’s arms after that one burst of energy and we get a shot of Aldertree looking guilty. Then she breaks up with Raphael at the end of the episode.

The next time we see her she’s going through withdrawal. Surprise, it’s not what Jem goes through in Clockwork Princess. She never coughs up blood, she doesn’t lose all the color in her hair, eyes, and skin. She just seems to be going through a “typical” drug withdrawal, although I don’t know enough about that so I can’t really talk much about the accuracy of it. Alec tells everyone that Izzy just has the flu and leaves her alone because there are demon attacks going on. Izzy immediately goes to the Hotel Dumort to ask Raphael to bite her. There’s an awkwardly framed shot of her pulling a seraph blade on him and getting upset when he says no (I guess shadowhunter blood is less addictive than yin fen?) and then she stalks off to the alleyway where they met and sees the greater demon who is the focal point of the episode. Her necklace breaks bc of all his demon energy or something and then another british shadowhunter comes and saves the day. It is no other than Sebastian Verlac! Again, he’s british so we know he’s evil and also purposefully burns himself with a tea kettle later in this episode, but more on that in another post. Sebastian brings Izzy back to his apartment and gives her this extract of a root from L’isle Adam which she just takes. Then she’s fine! There’s a few passing mentions of her talking about it with people and Simon recommends narcotics anonymous meetings for her and she goes to them, but the people there think she’s talking about heroin. The plot comes back to mess with a Sizzy plotline briefly in season three which was not the worst because it led to a cute (i use this term very lightly) Alec and Isabelle scene. 

Now for the reason I am writing this, Jem Carstairs and how this is a disgrace to his character. In the literal sense, Jem is a drug addict. He says so himself after he and Will find the dying werewolf in Clockwork Prince and compares his dependence to yin fen to the opium addicts in Shanghai when he tells Tessa about it in Clockwork Angel. He gets so angry at Will for doing drugs in Clockwork Prince that he actually punches him (something that is so out of character for him that Will could barely believe he had done it when Tessa told him the next day) because he was so angry that Will was toying with what had destroyed his life. The important thing to note is that when these comparisons do happen in the books, they come from Jem himself. When other people, such as Gabriel, draw the comparison it’s used to further villainize them, because the books make sure to make it clear that Jem is not a drug addict in the typical sense, such as how Izzy was portrayed in the show. This is because Jem was never meant to represent drug addicts, but instead described in the forward of Clockwork Princess to be “condemned to die young of a fatal demonic illness, no matter how desperate the efforts to save him, just as in reality victims of consumption sickened and died without penicillin.” It’s also made clear throughout the books that Jem despises needing yin fen, he hates that it keeps him from living as full a life as Tessa or Will could. It’s why he ends up in the situation he was in during Clockwork Princess, he took more of the drug to seem healthier for Tessa, even at the cost of dying faster and therefore getting less time with her. Not only does this plotline essentially negate all of those feelings, but it gives Jem the label that everyone in these books try to argue against, that Jem is nothing more than the average drug addict, someone who most of the other shadowhunters view as someone weak and less than them. He can’t just stop taking yin fen like Izzy could in the show, because yin fen is pretty much a death sentence for anyone who becomes addicted to it, not a normal drug, and this is not the story that yin fen was created to tell. They could have literally just changed the name of the drug and not mentioned Jem in ep 7 and I would be still be upset but not this upset abt it.

[dirty-bosmer]

Forgotten: Treacle

Here with my first and probably only @tes-summer-fest contribution of the year. I've been pretty busy this summer, but I'm happy to have participated at least once :)

Written for @atypicalacademic, who inspired me to continue Scar-Tail's story past his canon quest line. You were so right. He deserves happiness 🥲

summary: Scar-Tail, the wind calls, and the Hist remembers even if you refuse to. On the night you breached your shell, the Shadow blotted out the sky. It was to be your shroud for all your days, first to last, a gift you’ve disgracefully abandoned, and though you may run, the cold loving embrace of fate forever skitters in your wake.

Stop for only a breath. Look down, find it bloody, here, returned to you, blackened flesh under its claws, scrabbling at your heels.

warnings: non-graphic mentions of death and dissolution

Ao3 link: here

Scar-Tail doesn’t speak his name anymore, not even in his native tongue. He wonders, if enough time passes, will he ever forget its rhythm or will it quake within him always like a second bloodbeat? Some days he feels it trapped behind his teeth— the sibilant shape of it, the phantom weight of it, the gathering swell in the hollow pocket of his throat. The Hist still speaks it in his sleep where formless figures call him by the name his brother called him, and even in dreams the name is doused in venom. Even in dreams, the only ones who speak it want him dead.

The knife that sleeps beneath his pillow isn’t there when he reaches, but he feels it like the ghost itch of an amputated limb. His magelight flares. The looming darkness in the corner is revealed as merely shadow. Still he sleeps with the candle burning, for even shadow he is hesitant to trust these days as he was one once not very long ago, remembers that the darkness wears a sinuous smile, and he knows where it hides its teeth. 

Two days, and he’s on the road again, a stranger bound to Nirn by a will and only a will. Rootless, unmoored, his body has become a foreign thing— spines ground down as the face sculptor recommended and belly fattened on unfamiliar foods. In Bruma, he discovered a taste for mead, and he likes it too much. The sweet amber color, the heady wave of its warmth. ‘Like drinking liquid sun,’ he told the barkeep, and it earned a laugh and another round on the house. These days he gets drunk on the smallest kindnesses. These days, he no longer feels like something trapped inside a jar.

If Ocheeva could see him like this, she’d recoil, wouldn’t recognize him. If Ocheeva could see him like this—

Citrine eyes in a face of jade scales. The memory sears sharp, but one day the fleshwork will heal the brand. He scratches at it, picks at it like an old scab, and strews the roadsides in eggshell and pale, stringy yolk as he births himself from the detritus of the life clinging to his heels.

Every new city demands that he is less of his past self, so he chokes it down and rolls new names on his tongue, hoping to forget the bitter taste of the Hist— Maheelus. Tanaka. Vetra-Mahei. Sings-in-Silver— but the sap runs through him like iron through a vein, and though Scar-Tail is fading, if the wind asked his name, what could he tell her? What could he offer if only breath?

—

Wake up one morning and find yourself dissolved beside the shadow left behind when Magnus pulled all darkness from the sky. When you leave the bed, you leave your old body too, a ghost peeled out from the pool that once was your lungs, and you wrangle its waters down a new stream, shape its banks to hold a new life. Touch the mirror. Touch your bare-faced spirit. Ask if it’s the same at the root now that you’ve stripped its branches clean. Become a new shape. Wear a new face that strangers wave to in the streets without fear, for you are a Saxhleel made of grafts. Look, all rough burls sanded down. Every scale is now smooth to the touch. 

Yet the Hist still reads your scars, the ones you thought the magic had healed over, knows you bleed black sap when cut open. You are ku-vastei, cannot be gentled, will never be talcum soft, and when the Hist sees the man you’ve stuffed your soul inside of, it knows his smile required so many knives to be carved. 

—

Salt crusts on his scales as the sea mist dries. “Haul,” the shipmaster says, and Scar-Tail does. He’s been in this town too long but the pay is good and the work is hard, and he’s come to find comfort in the foreign smell of human sweat. In the evening, his shift over, he wanders Taneth’s harbors for the breeze. There, Abrim finds him, always does. He guides Scar-Tail down to the taverns where the rest of his crew sits drinking away their gold, and Scar-Tail follows, drawn to his side like some heat-seeking whelp. Inside, he sits facing the door.

The torchlight throws dizzy shapes on the wall. The tavern churns, and all around him is a froth of people as thick as the head on his ale. He won’t feel the buzz until the fourth beer if he feels it at all, but even without it, he’s content here. Here in the briny stew of the seaport with the salt smell and the raucous laughter, the human heat wrapped around his shoulder. Willing himself to weightlessness, he lets Abrim rock him side to side in the rhythm of shanties he never had the chance to learn the words of. Even when he tries, the melodies don't fit in his mouth, but Abrim’s smile is reassuring. Abrim is gilded in the torch flame. Every part of him is a different shade of brown such that Scar-Tail needs only look at him in flickering light to feel he’s travelled all of Tamriel’s woods, seen every kind of tree there is.

—

Two weeks, and new callouses have formed on the pads of his palms. He relishes the rope burn, the way the thick braids abrade compared to the slender wires of a garrote wrapped tight around each fist. Staring at the old knots on his knuckles, he thinks, this is honest work. This is good work, and at night the only part of it that follows him to sleep is the vision of a stained shirt, gleaming skin in the sunlight, the sweat rolling off like beads of oil. 

Abrim’s ship is packed and set to leave Taneth, and the next time Scar-Tail sees him, he knows it will be the last. The thought floods him with a new kind of fear. It sloshes cold in his chest, clings thick to every branch of his lungs. He thinks, this must feel like drowning.  

But the evening air is dry and spiced in sunset reds. Scar-Tail breathes, regains his footing on solid land. At the taverns, Abrim is as he always is, and he is warm in color, deep in scent, rich in sea-spun stories that fill Scar-Tail with as much envy as they do wonder for the sailors and storm-weavers that long ago swam these waters. Scar-Tail wonders if the villains in these tales were star-made as he was, if their cradles were lined in rot like his nest was with razors. If born on a different day under the light of a different constellation, would they have been heroes? Would they have lived on forever in the hearts of men?

The tavern roar grows muffled at his ears as the crashing waves lull him into dream. He imagines himself a new life, resplendent in the awe of those who survive him, those who love him enough to sing his name to strangers too. In this life, his hands are bloodless. In this dream, he’s never held a knife. Could he have it one day? Can he live a small legend, erase enough of who he once was to one day hear his name spoken with full use of the tongue?

The wondering is ripe, ripe enough to overwhelm him. In the ale’s reflection, he sees the palimpsest he’s become. The pitted wound that is Scar-Tail forms a craggy mantle beneath his skin, and there is little give when he presses, the tissue tough beneath. He is still there no matter how hard he’s scraped, Scar-Tail, full of pride, a mutinous tremor through the din. Though it reaches him as only whisper, that name is wreathed in wire, and the recurved fang of its echo sinks deeper with every twist. 

What will it take to strangle this voice that has stitched its dying breath inside his ears? When he hears it, he feels like a missing person, like a part of him has ceased to exist. A sickness rises inside him; he tastes himself decaying. For all the poisons he’s swallowed, now immune to, it’s the acrid tang of dissolution that sends him rushing into the night to spew his dinner into the sea. 

Scar-Tail retches, turned over in a bout of vertigo. Abrim walks over and pats him on the back. “Uta-’mei, what’s wrong?” he says. “Can’t handle the drink? Come, let’s get you home.” 

Scar-Tail coughs. “What did you call me?”

“I’ll explain it another night.”

“When?”

Abrim’s smile is a sliver of opal in the sandstone. “The next time,” he says, “Come on now. Stay close to me.”

And even if Scar-Tail never learns what Abrim meant, he knows that this name fits better than any he’s given himself before. He likes the feel of it, Uta-’mei, the liquor kick of it rising beneath the sour spit in his mouth, and decides that if he dies tomorrow with no one else to speak it, his ghost will scratch it into his own headstone before he completely disappears.

—

Wake up one morning and find the world you lived in gone to dust. You lay shipwrecked, bare to the bone, alone in the silver light of dawn. New flesh will have to be sculpted onto your frame, but you’ve paid someone do it before. You’ll do it again. This time, even your shadow has left you. ‘Good riddance,’ you say. You will have to remake that too.

The sand of your past life clings to your soles, chafes between every toe. You count the grains knowing it will be the last time its coarse edges erode you. Soon, you will bathe in cleaner waters, be free of it, be glistening, yolk-filled and new. Now that you’re here, and he’s gone—

No, now that he’s here, and you’re gone—

Scar-Tail, the wind calls, and the Hist remembers even if you refuse to. On the night you breached your shell, the Shadow blotted out the sky. It was to be your shroud for all your days, first to last, a gift you’ve disgracefully abandoned and though you run, the cold loving embrace of fate forever skitters in your wake.

Stop for only a breath. Look down, find it bloody, here, returned to you, blackened flesh under its claws, scrabbling at your heels.

Sweet child, the wind calls, have no fear. This shade was to preserve you from the blinding harshness of the day that will turn your eyes to water in your skull. Sweet child, look at you, so lost now. Look, curled up, all fetal, how your own reflection cows you. This shade was to serve you as much as you were to serve the god who wove it, and even with your claws clipped and your teeth hidden behind hand-carved grinning lips, your bones retain their shape, always will until you break them. Raise a hand. Press it to the foamy shoreline to obscure the rippling image beneath. Find each finger whittled to such a sharp point that your touch will forever bear the risk of drawing blood.

—

The shop windows taunt him from his periphery, but he will pass one hundred more if that’s what it takes to prove his presence. His footfalls are heavy, yet he persists, learns how to walk again, how to exert his body upon the world if only to feel it press up against his feet. 

But it is enough to be above ground, free to float like a loosed leaf, released from the mire he was hatched into. The wind tugs on the knobs that are left of his spines, and if Scar-Tail lives, it is not in name but in this ever-changing shape, this new boundary layer surrounding each limb. And he chooses to live here. Here where the sun bakes the earth and the water pulls all moisture from his lips. Here, tasting the salt in the air, the sunshine golden-sweet, like mead. Drunk on its light, he chokes, spills past the brim, and when he laughs it’s because the first breath he ever took was smothered in darkness; all light he’d drank before had been drawn in through gasps. 

One hand in the ocean, the water moves freely through his fingers. He couldn’t divert it, couldn’t destroy it if he tried. To his reflection, he offers the jagged slash of his smile, and he doesn’t care what gnarled image stares back. He says, “Name me. Call me by the sigh that leaves your lips when I’m within you. I shred myself apart to stand before you here, reborn, and did I tell you how it hurt, to push air out of these new lungs?”

The sun sets over the Abecean, bleeds a burnt orange that reminds him of the light that lived in Teinaava’s eyes when they were young. It is by some secret alchemy that a longing still brews for the brother who asked for his heart ripped clean from his chest. Yet he still feels it, yes, love for the brother who believes him now dead, who believes Scar-Tail had been the one to betray him. He will feel it always, he thinks. It’s the gift he’s given himself, to love unbidden, to love when no one wants it, to thirst for life in great bursts that swell within him like sap bubbling out of a wounded tree.

He cannot quell it, not even if he tried. It will ooze from him in the next life too. 

Tomorrow, he will travel north to meet Abrim in Sentinel, or maybe he will cross the deserts and find another town to welcome him home, but when he leaves Taneth, he will shed his last skin, and he considers the last person to speak his name was a woman who had been hired to kill him. When she offered up his heart, what did his brother feel in return? Joy to have fed him back to the soil? Relief to return him to the root?

He hopes so.

[dspd]

hc that Helen was obsessed with CrossFit and Distortion!Helen can't shake Helen's intense exercise addiction so every morning it times it's morning jog to intersect with one of the Institute's employees and it loves to stall so Martin gets jealous when it stretches in these eye searing pants while talking to Jon about something banal and trivial

[vizishereig]

@samblerambles thank you for being brave enough to share yours, hehe >:3 now I'm going to share my wips/ideas >:D

(I don't think there's any order at all, ngl)

Two Venom Ethan Au's, one of which is Wintersberg (Heisenberg is Venom) and the other which is Lethanfield :3

A Scennedyfield 3+1 fic that boils down to three times they feel out of place and once where they feel right where they needed to be

Scennedyfield Au that is their relationship through photos they took

A Scott-centric fic about dysphoria, tho that one's a bit iffy bc I'm afraid to project tooooo much onto him lmao

A Chreon fic based off the song "Blah Blah Blah" by The Oozes (Chris and Wesker fucked a few times, I dont take any criticism. Blue eyes are seared into this man's mind :3)

The Magnus Archives x Resident Evil Crossover

Wakfu x Resident Evil Crossover

Wing Fic :)

Shifter Fic (each person has an animal they can turn into. All I know is that Leon is a cat)

Eye Injury (projecting, yayyy)

RE4R time fuckery (Chris is the wolf Leon saves and things devolve from there)

Beauty and the Beast Chreon Au :3

Scott is a reflection/Lake thing fic, also Scennedyfield

Nivaneddy Ghost Au bc I thought it was fun :)

Lethan. the only thing I have planned is that these two point a gun at each other. I need it to happen.

Serrenedy Hyacinthus Au (based off the myth! :D)

Serrenedy Song of Achilles Au :)

Metaltango Noncon thing that has been rotating in my head for a bit. hard to write bc I haven't written smut ever. :3

[alexanderlightweight]

for Wednesday prompt? Inspired by the fic where magnus breaks Alec's parabatia rune because it had been taken over : dark!magnus breaks Alec's parabatia rune because he doesn't want to share alec/for selfish reasons

hey! i hope you enjoy this. it's set when alec is trying to track jace and jocelyn gives him that rock and magnus is trying to not lose him. its called my heart beats for you

lumine

3DNE

-

For weeks Magnus has been willing to allow a great many things if it meant it got him Alexander. He finds now, on the cusp of losing him before he’s ever actually had him, that he’ll not allow this to continue on. The parabatai bond is clearly a parasitic one and he’s not willing to let Alexander once again risk his life so recklessly.

Magnus feels a small flicker of remorse — because a piece of Alexander will be lost forever — before he extinguishes it. It’s easily accomplished once Magnus remembers that the piece of Alexander he’ll be losing, is the only piece that will never belong to him.  

After that it’s simple to run his hands soothingly over Alexander’s face and his neck. The door is locked a moment later and he summons a stele the clave would murder him for having. It’s an old relic, undoubtedly of incredibly historic significance to them. Magnus doesn’t care and he never has except that in this instant, its the only thing he needs. Magnus soothes his hand over Alexander’s torso and lets out a regretful sigh, he hates the very idea of causing Alexander any more pain, but this is for the best.

Alexander’s pallor grows but Magnus leans down and kisses him, an orb of magic gathering in his mouth and when his shadowhunter groans in pain, Magnus feeds the magic to him and then slips away. Alexander goes still as his heart freezes, caught in a trap as Magnus traps it in a different time.

Alexander’s body continues to live, tied to Magnus’ own heart as he breathes for both of them.

The parabatai bond flickers, confused and conflicted and Magnus scowls as he lifts the stele and he curses that he’d having to go this far. The stele lights up red and with his magic melding, turns a lurid purple that reminds him of his father. Magnus quickly sears a rune that he only knows from his early years growing up under the Silent Brothers… care.

It will not let a broken rune link it to the same person twice.  It was old and once used to end unions and marriages, Magnus doubts a single soul beyond a few Silent Brothers still know about it. It’s with a vicious pleasure that he ensures Jace will never again have a tie to Alexander’s soul.  Magnus then soothes a palm over the spot, whispering words that make his throat feel as though he’s swallowing angelic grace. Alexander’s color returns and Magnus hisses as his palm sizzles from the strength it’s taking to forcibly heal Alexander’s rune so it fades into nothingness.

He finishes and lets himself collapse over Alexander. 

Tears of pure victory and delight come to his eyes and he lets them, bowing over Alexander’s chest as he unlocks time and lets Alexander’s heart restart. He presses his ear to the beautiful beat and sighs in contentment, tears still rolling down his cheeks when the door bursts open.  Izzy is there, Raj and Aldertree too and whatever Izzy did to stall them was enough, but by her frightened eyes its clear she doesn’t know that.

“Out—” Magnus snarls, letting the anger he still feels fuel him and pushing away his joy to call upon the anguish of causing Alexander pain. “I will not have you in here.”

“The criminal—”

“Alexander is no longer useful to your investigation.” Magnus spits and he beckons to Izzy who is staring at him in shock as she takes in Magnus�� tears. She gasps and Magnus winces, as if he hadn’t meant to mislead her, “he lives, Isabelle. But only just.” Magnus shakes his head and then sighs, “his heart stopped and while I brought it back, I don’t know when he’ll wake up, or if he will. The bond you so viciously demanded he tax broke under the weight of his search.”

Isabelle is across the room, on the other side of the bed and holding Alexander’s hand, looking miserable as her lip wobbles and tears run down her face. Magnus muses that it’s a pity she’s only this concerned when Alexander is already hurt and he stops them from approaching any further than he needs to with a ribbon of fire.

“I am not in a pleasant mood after restarting my paramour’s heart.” Magnus warns them, because he’s not pleased this was necessary even if he likes the outcome. “See the evidence for yourself and then leave.”

They do, grumbling a bit but Aldertree look worried, something nervous in his gait and eyes. As soon as the door shuts Isabelle is there, giving Magnus a hug.

“Thank you for saving him.” She gets out, but she’s sobbing as she does it and Magnus pats her back soothingly.

“I can’t let him stay here, not after this.” Magnus says, “they won’t let me linger forever and there is no telling what they might try. Or if they’ll give him the proper care.” Isabelle looks hesitant so Magnus quietly adds, “I worry about Aldertree, Isabelle. He is not a man who likes failure and he has failed badly here. I would worry too much, of what he would do to cover them up.”

Isabelle looks at him and then nods, hating to agree but knowing that Magnus isn’t lying.

“You’ll keep him safe?” Isabelle asks softly, hand petting her brother’s forehead and Magnus puts his hand on her shoulder comfortingly.

“He’s the safest he’ll ever be with me.”

[fandomsnstuff]

This is based off a post i saw truly forever ago about a concept pertaining to magic and spell slots.

@taznovembercelebration

Day 5: ow!/meow

Lup and Magnus are in a bind. He's hurt, she's out of spell slots, it's time for something drastic.

Read it on AO3

In hindsight, they probably should've left the cave as soon as they heard the heavy breathing. Then they should've left when they saw the massive sleeping creature. But if there's one thing Lup and Magnus are going to be, it's dumb and brave. Now, they're getting chased deeper into the cave by a goddamn building-sized tiger.

They tried to stand their ground and fight it, but it got some really good hits on Magnus, and Lup's only got so many hit points. So they ran. They're hoping for a way out, or a wide spot where they can loop around back to the entrance, but the cave only seems to get deeper and darker.

She's used all her slots shooting spells behind her as she ran, and the creature's definitely slowed down, but not enough. She can hear Magnus's laboured breathing beside her, and she knows he's slowing down too. The beast swiped him right in the chest earlier, knocking the wind out of him and at least bruising a few ribs. This needs to end, ideally without them dying.

She has an idea. A really stupid idea that she's not even sure will work and for sure guarantee her immediate capture and death if it doesn't work, thereby guaranteeing Magnus's death because he'd never leave a friend behind. But she's read the books, heard the testimonies, it is possible.

She tries to level her breathing as best she can, and wills forward as much magic as possible. It makes her skin tingle and her vision swim. She can feel it collecting at her fingertips, but she doesn't let it go yet. This needs to be big. She takes another deep breath and ignores the heat she can feel radiating off of her. Her hands feel like there's countless needles pricking her palms. The heat grows, and she knows it's now or never. She plants her feet and whirls around to face the beast, her hands outstretched. A column of white hot flame bursts from her palms and engulfs it. Lup screams with the roar of the flames, and the beast yowls as it's reduced to ash.

When the flames die down, Lup collapses to her hands and knees. She feels like there's live wires running through her blood vessels. She's trembling, she feels sick, and black spots float through her vision. She squeezes her eyes shut to try and counteract the pounding in her head.

"-ly shit, Lup!" Magnus's voice comes into focus. "I thought you were out of slots."

"I was," she chokes out.

"Then how-"

"Magnus," she pleads.

"Right, let's get you out of here. Can you walk?"

She reaches an arm out for him to help her up, and she struggles slowly to her feet. She leans heavily against him and begins her stumble back towards the cave entrance, but her head is spinning in fifteen different directions, and her skin is tingling all over. It feels like it's been an eternity when Magnus says, "um, maybe it'd be better if I carried you back to the ship. We'll get there faster."

"You're injured."

"Not as badly as you are. I'll be fine."

She lets him scoop her up into his arms, and he takes off in a jog through the cave. When they emerge back in the wilderness, the sun is blinding. It turns the dull pounding behind her eyes into a searing headache. She groans and buries her face in Magnus's neck to try and block it out.

Her ears are ringing by the time they make it back to the ship. Magnus explains what happened, and after some incredulity from Taako, they get her set up in bed with all the lights off and a cool cloth over her eyes. "You're stupid," Taako says as he tucks her in, "you could've died."

"But I didn't."

"But you could have."

"Um," Magnus says from somewhere farther back, "I'm still confused about what even happened."

Taako tuts. "You channel magic through yourself. The whole point of levels and spell slots is to make sure you don't burn yourself up. A higher level spell takes more magic to cast, so a brand new wizard would probably destroy themselves trying to cast it, and a more experienced one can do it once or twice and be fine. You can still cast a leveled spell when you're out of slots, but you're going to fucking pay for it because you're channeling more magic than your body can handle. Isn't that right, Lup?"

"I love you too, Taako," she deadpans.

[consistentscreaming]

I think jon would play the violin. it was another thing his grandmother signed him up for, in the hopes that it would occupy him for a while.

And occupy him it did.

The first few lessons, he hated the damn thing. It was hard, and squeaked, and he couldn't get it to work right.

then, his violin teacher invited him to a symphony with her other students. the rest of them groaned and complained about how boring it was, but as jon watched the swell of the bow , and how it floated above all the other instruments, he fell in love.

it wasn't easy. his fingers hurt. it squeaked and croaked and made all the wrong sounds, but he persevered. he joined his schools orchestra when he was older, but while the other members messed around and got distracted, he worked and perfected his part.

his old violin teacher came to his first performance, while his grandmother stayed home.

in college, he majored in english literature, but he joined the symphony, and took great pride in balancing school, a job, violin practice, rehearsal, and working up the courage to ask out the pretty girl he shared a music stand with.

he and georgie liked having the same part, but they loved having seperate parts that weaved and danced together, sometimes touching and crossing and flirting over the page.

he told her about his grandmother and his first violin teacher.

she told him how much her family liked it when she pulled out her fiddle after dinner.

she was faster than he was.

he was more precise than she was.

after they graduated and got jobs, they didn't have time for a symphony anymore, but sometimes they would pull out their violins and play a duet, just the two of them and the Admiral.

after they broke up, jon didn't touch his violin for over a year. it sat in his closet, dusty and out of tune.

the anniversary of their breakup, he pulls it out. he tunes it, and plays their duet again.

it's pretty by itself, but it feels like it's looking for something. missing its other half.

he puts the violin back into his closet.

years later, tim asks him idly if he plays any instruments. jon is quiet, before admitting that he used to play the violin.

tim asks why he stopped.

jon doesn't answer.

then, he is moved down to the archives. he starts staying later after work, and buys a cot to keep in his office.

the violin sits in his closet.

jane prentiss comes, bringing with her scars and walls between them, and when she leaves, she takes sasha with her.

as jon sits in his apartment, forbidden from returning to work, he cleans out his closet, and finds the violin. he cleans it, and tunes it. his bandaged fingers are clumsy and it hurts, but muscle memory is an incredible thing. this time, he plays his favorite piece he ever learned. it was a song he'd done in orchestra as a teenager, and it had remained one of his favorite prices since.

he stops halfway through.

he does not put the violin back into the closet.

more time passes.

he runs into his apartment, the image of a dead man seared into his brain. he grabs everything he can fit into his backpack, shoving it in as fast as he can. without thinking about it, he puts his violin into his case, and takes it with him as he flees his apartment.

later, georgie will ask him if he still plays. he will give a noncommittal answer, and she will tell him that she goes to the park sometimes to play.

he says no when she asks if he wants to join her.

late at night, he will walk into the staircase, and practice fir the first time in years. the violin flows and swells with familiar music and grace.

he finishes the peice and he does not cry.

he moves out. he gets kidnapped. he goes to china, then america, gets kidnapped again, returns home, and then jonathon sims, head archivist of the magnus institute dies in an explosion at Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum.

when he wakes up six months later, georgie will argue with him and leave.

his violin is next to his hospital bed.

he returns to the archives, and he misses people. he misses his beginning violin teacher, he misses georgie, he misses sasha, he misses tim, and he misses martin.

one night, he will wake up. someone is playing a violin somewhere in the institute.

it is his favorite piece.

he picks up his violin, and tuning it quickly, he joins the mystery violinist. the two of them play in unison, until the other violin falters, quieting. jon continues, though. he needs to finish the song.

basira will ask if he heard the violins last night.

he will nod.

two weeks after the buried, daisy will sit in his office and ask if the violin is his. he will nod. she will ask him to play something for her.

he thinks about what to play, and decides on a song he heard basira listening to.

daisy will say he sounds nice.

in the chaos after escaping the lonely, jon doesn't notice that martin is carrying a violin case until they are at the safehouse. martin will blush, and say that he's not very good.

jon will offer to to teach him.

as they walk across the landscape of fear and horror, the violins are strapped across their back. salaesa will request an old sailing tune that jon doesn't know, but martin plays it with only a few squeaks, and jon will watch, smiling.

it is a strange thing, to smile during an apocalypse.

in the tunnels, georgie will ask if he wants to play their duet.

he will admit that he's forgotten some of it.

she will smile ad say that she has also.

the rest of the tunnel people enjoyed the performance anyway.

in the rubble of the institute, there are two violins. the body of one was crushed by a peice of concrete, and the bows are nowhere to be found.

georgie, basira, and melanie will leave them there.

together.

[rawmeknockout]

Hungover Rodimus had resigned himself to being trapped by a lover reasuring him in their sleep. Actually it was kinda nice even if his helm throbed and he was kinda queasy. He gets cuddles, and told he was lovable even with his imperfections. It's actually pretty great in a mildly panic inducing way.

The real panic is when a sharp pain sears through his spark. It knocks him out cold. But when he awakens with his lover, his amica, and Ultra Magnus hovering over him Ratchet deliveres news he never expected

"Mazeltov Captian, you're not dying. You're just kindled.""

PREGNANT RODIMUS