#and this is the first time i wrote for one of my ocs

[tethrras]

a soft place to land

vittoria de riva x lucanis dellamorte. 2.7k. fluff, hurt/comfort, flirting. click here to read on ao3.

-

Vittoria is no stranger to loneliness.

It keeps her bed cold and her nights quiet. Sometimes she’s grateful for it and other times the longing for something more, the same longing she’s felt since childhood, threatens to strangle her. But she’s a Crow, and Crows can’t afford connections like that, so she doesn’t complain and instead spends long nights sharpening her blades in silence. Sharpening blades or, when she feels longing’s hands tightening around her neck, sitting in the window of her apartment in the canal district and watching the civilians of the city go about their lives.

“Her” apartment isn’t her apartment at all. It’s an abandoned apartment overlooking the market that no one has lived in for what seems like a decade, if not longer. She found it after one of her first contracts, and it’s the only place in Treviso that she can escape to without feeling the need to look over her shoulder for Viago. On nights she can’t sleep and doesn’t want to think or train, she scales the surface of the tower and settles in the window, letting the heartbeat of Treviso lull her into something that might resemble sleep. Visiting the apartment is what she misses most about home, and after seeing what happened to Minrathous, after hearing about what's happening in the South, she wants to visit it again. Who knows if - who knows when - it’ll be the last time?

She intends to head for the Eluvian with little fanfare - the others don’t need to know about her trip - but when she reaches the bottom of the staircase in the library, she finds Lucanis sitting on a chair with a cup of coffee in his hand and a book open in his lap. He looks up at her as her footsteps slow to a stop.

“De Riva.”

“Dellamorte.”

Vittoria shifts her weight from one foot to the other as a slight smile creases Lucanis’s lips.

“You’re going out.” He appraises her armor with a raised brow. She should’ve cleaned it earlier like she had meant to…

“I am.” Vittoria rests her hand on the hilt of her sword. “But I won’t be gone for long.”

“Where to?”

“Home,” she answers, then, “Treviso. Ever since we got back from Minrathous…”

He glances down at his lap then. “I know.”

She can tell he feels as she does - guilt for what happened to Minrathous, to the Shadow Dragons, to Neve, but gratefulness that the same - or worse - didn’t happen to Treviso. It’s a poor consolation, but consolation at all is priceless in times like this. 

Vittoria clears her throat. “Would you…”

“Would I what?”

“Um. Nothing,” she insists, shaking her head. Of course he wouldn’t want to come with her - he’s clearly in the middle of something. She’s not sure she wants company, either. “Anyway, I won’t be long. If anyone asks for me -”

“Were you going to ask me if I’d like to come with you?”

“... No.”

“Then what were you going to ask?”

She knows very well that Lucanis didn’t know who she was before she rescued him from the Ossuary, despite the two decades that she has spent with the Crows. It continues to surprise her that he understands her better than Viago ever has after only a month or two. No wonder he’s such a good assassin - he’s very good at reading his mark. She clears her throat. “Alright,” she confesses. “I was.”

“I thought so.” He stands up, takes a long sip from his teacup, and then places it down on the saucer. “Let me get my things. I will meet you at the Eluvian.”

He doesn’t leave her waiting long, and they travel home through the Crossroads in companionable silence. Vittoria can’t help but glance over at him from time to time. While he didn’t notice her in the past, she certainly noticed him - she even thought she had been in love with him once, though she’s sure now that she didn’t know what love meant. Or means. But he and Illario had a life that all Crow recruits wanted for themselves, and Vittoria had been one of them. The acclaim. The attention from the Talons. The inherent talent. When she was younger, she thought that having the attention of someone like Lucanis would’ve made her life easier - easier than the attention from Viago, anyway - and she strove for years to get that attention. She grew out of it eventually, and then, of course, he died, and whatever leftover feelings she might have had died with him. But now, the fact that not only is he alive, but that she was the one to save him… Sometimes it doesn’t feel real, and she always catches herself looking at him to make sure he’s really here.

“We’re not going to the Diamond,” she says when the two of them reach the Treviso Eluvian. “If you wanted to check in with Teia and Viago...”

“Hm. Then where are we going?”

“I have a place in the city that I go to. I consider it… well… a home. Of sorts. I wanted to make sure it was still standing, after…”

Lucanis nods. “I understand. But maybe we can check in with Teia and Viago while we’re here…” At Vittoria’s wince, he gives her a smile. “Or not.”

“Thank you.” There is a part of her that loves Viago, however complicated and repressed that part is, but the last thing she needs right now is a lecture.

“Of course. No one understands the desire to avoid Viago as well as I do, believe me.”

She steps through the Eluvian with Lucanis on her heels. 

Most of the Crows are asleep for the night, so the two of them meet no resistance at the Casino, and from there she leads him through the familiar streets in silence. It’s a short walk, though, and soon enough she’s standing at the base of the apartment building and refreshing herself on her usual footholds. She hasn’t been here since before she saved Varric all those months ago, and she would hate to fall to her death from the building that she’s scaled more than any other - in front of Lucanis, no less. To her relief, the tower doesn’t seem to have suffered in the face of the dragon attack. She glances back at her companion, who is staring up at the surface of the building the same way she had been moments ago.

“It’s not as tall as it looks,” she reassures him.

He meets her gaze. “Good thing I have wings.”

Vittoria has been climbing her whole life. As a child, she would spend hours scaling trees until she reached the top and could settle down in the branches with a book or wooden toy that she had stolen from one of her siblings. By the time she was six, she could scale the tallest tree on her family’s farm in one breath. When she first arrived in Antiva, it was the only thing that made her suited to the life of a Crow - everything else, the fighting and the thick skin and the iron stomach, came later. So climbing is second nature to her, and in no time, she’s heaving herself through the window and rolling onto the floor of her apartment. Lucanis follows. They stand up from the ground, dust themselves off, and meet each other’s eyes.

“This is it.” She says it more awkwardly than she’d meant to, and winces at herself. She thought she’d gotten over her infatuation with him - she doesn’t dwell on those old feelings when they’re working together side-by-side, killing Antaam and Venatori and Sentinels - but now that it’s the two of them, alone in an abandoned apartment with no gods or dragons for miles around, that soft spot of her heart feels rubbed raw. She turns away from him. “I’ve been coming here for years,” she says again. “I’m glad to see it’s still standing.”

Lucanis looks around curiously, and Vittoria does, too, to familiarize herself with the apartment again. There’s a bookshelf with a few books in it - books that she bought from the market herself, but can’t remember the contents of now - and a collection of knives sitting on a stool next to a well-worn whetstone. Above the stool is a series of scratches on the wall, each scratch representing one of her successful contracts. There must be more than a hundred scratches, but she’s not sure if he’d consider that a high or low number, so she resists the urge to call attention to it. 

On one side of the room is the window from which she can see the market, and on the wall opposite is the window from which she can see the whole of Treviso spilling over the hills on the horizon, its silver spires sparkling in the moonlight. Lucanis lingers here, standing still for a long moment. When he speaks, it shatters the silence.

“I have never seen Treviso like this.”

“I haven’t seen it like this for a long time.”

She brushes past him and sits on the edge of the window. It’s what she would do if she were alone, after all, and that’s what she had been coming here to do - to be alone, to calm herself and soothe her nerves of steel. Even though she knows she won’t be able to do those things now that he’s here with her, she’s still going to pretend that she can. And it’s easy, because for a long, long moment, neither of them move. It's only when she turns her head to look at him that he sits down on the windowsill across from her, stretching his legs out until his feet are nearly in her lap.

She used to dream of this. Of sitting across from Lucanis, fighting alongside him, of him knowing her name and… knowing even more than that. When she was little, she always imagined what she would tell someone if they asked her about her childhood in Ferelden, and for some reason, sitting across from him, she feels the words leaving her mouth before she can think about it. “When I arrived in Antiva, all I could think about was how different it was from Ferelden. I hated it at first.” But even the word hate doesn’t capture her feelings, because she spent most nights in the year or two after she arrived sobbing in her bed until the other recruits realized that hitting her hard enough could convince her to be quiet. “But I can’t remember what Ferelden looks like anymore. I can’t remember my family. All I know is Antiva, Treviso, Salle. The Crows. Viago. If Ghilan’nain’s dragon had…”

Vittoria glances over at Lucanis. He seems focused on something in the distance, but she notices him shift in his seat and straighten up when she looks for long enough.

“Did you recognize me?” She doesn’t know why she asks him this, but she does. “In the Ossuary?”

Lucanis shakes his head. “I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I didn’t think you did.”

“But I wish that I had.” He turns to face her. “I don’t know how I never noticed you before, truthfully.”

“And why is that?”

He smiles again, and she resists the urge to glance back out the window. “You are an impressive woman, Vittoria.” 

“Well.” She clears her throat. She doesn’t know what “impressive” means to him, if it means what she thinks it means or what it should mean or if it means something else, but her face flushes nevertheless. “I’ve worked hard to be.”

At that, his smile sours. “You know… You take very good care of us. Of the team. But I hope you don’t think that we can’t be there for you the way that you - ”

“I didn’t invite you here to give me a motivational speech.”

“Ah. You didn’t invite me at all, remember? I had to tease it out of you.”

Her face flushes even more at the word “tease”. 

“I just mean that… If there is anything I can do for you, any difficulties you might be facing that I don’t know about… please tell me.” He sighs. “I know that I can’t do much, all things considered, but I can try to ease some of the weight off your shoulders if you let me. I have wings, you know. I can take it.”

“Please.” Vittoria waves her hand at him to dismiss the thought. “You keep me fed - that’s enough.”

“Mm.” He crosses his arms over his chest and nods. “And you do eat a lot more than the others, that’s true…”

“Hey!” She kicks his foot. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing! It was merely an observation.”

“Watch it, Dellamorte.” She gestures to the open window. “You’d hit the ground before Spite realized what was happening.”

“Please don’t say his name right now. I don’t want him to ruin the moment.”

There it is - another word that might mean something to him but also might mean nothing. She didn’t realize that whatever’s happening between them right now could be considered a moment… but at the same time, she has started to notice that he’s been giving her more attention since she saved him and the Crows from the dragon. He sits beside her at dinner, keeps close to her side in fights and in their travels through the Crossroads… and what had he been doing tonight, sitting in the library of the Lighthouse instead of the kitchen? 

She tells herself that it doesn’t mean anything, though. It can’t mean anything. Vittoria could never live at Lucanis’s side. He’s in line to become First Talon, and his family has been a part of the Crows for hundreds and hundreds of years. No matter how much training she does, no matter what she does, Vittoria won’t ever feel like she belongs to the Crows or like the Crows belong to her. She doesn’t think she’ll ever rid herself of the fear that one wrong move will be the end of it - of her life here, or of her life at all. And she feels the same about Lucanis. If she pushes her luck too far, who can she trust to watch her back the way she trusts him? She needs to focus on finding allies right now. Not a lover.

If he was interested in her at all. Which he isn’t. He can’t be.

“We don’t have to talk, you know,” she tells him, more for her sake than his. If her face flushes any more tonight, she might burst into flames. “We can just sit here and… look out at our city.” 

“Our city.” Lucanis turns away from her and rests his head against the window frame, settling in and looking more at ease than she’s ever seen him. And while watching him in motion is enough to drive her to madness, seeing him at ease might be even worse. Watching his chest rise and fall with long, measured breaths. Watching his eyelashes flutter like he’s trying to keep himself awake. He is a beautiful thing, Lucanis. She’s sure being loved by him would be a beautiful thing, too.

“Before we stop talking, then, let me say one last thing: thank you for saving our city.” His voice is softer than a whisper, so soft that she has to lean in to hear what comes next. “And even though I didn’t know you before, I am glad that I know you now.”

As allies. As friends. As teammates. While she knows that’s all he means, it’s still something. Vittoria smiles at him. “Me too.”

True to his word, Lucanis doesn’t speak again for the rest of the night. Neither does Vittoria. (Neither does Spite.) They watch the sun rise over the mountains surrounding their home and then decide that it’s time to return to the Lighthouse to rest before they see the First Warden. But if things go well, if she somehow figures out a way to stop the gods, then she might bring him back here and tell him all the things that no one has ever thought to ask her about. He might even want to know.

[lonewolflupe]

Yesss I have commissioned artwork to share with you all <3

This gorgeous and most precious artwork of my OC Lupe and her love Fives was done by the magnificent @amalthiaph! She was one of the first artists I encountered when I started my Tumblr-journey, and I've always wanted to commission her one day. And look at this: it's a dream come true ❤️

Some ramblings below the cut, but let me tell you what an absolute joy it was to commission Amalthia! Thank you so much! <3

About the commission

It was such a pleasure commissioning artwork from Amalthia! As you can see, her art is stunning and I absolutely adore her unique style! I commissioned her through Ko-fi and se was super quick to respond. She contacted me through Tumblr to ask about some preferences and to share WIPs with me, always checking if she had the details right before continuing. This was actually the first time I ever commissioned someone, and it was a very great experience. I could totally recommend anyone to get a commission from her. Amalthia, thank you so much for the gorgeous artwork, for the wonderful service and for the overall great experience! <3 I might be coming back during another round of your commissions for some more!

About the art

This is my Jedi OC Lupe (I adopted her name as my online nickname here on Tumblr) from my ongoing longfic A Lupe Of Faith. After a most chaotic first encounter with Fives, they keep meeting and causing mayhem at 79's until one thing leads to another, and they fall in love. They end up developing a very strong, loving bond, with a deep care and mutual understanding for each other in between all the horrors of war they both go through. I asked Amalthia to picture them as 'partners in crime', looking both lovingly and mischievously at each other, as it's such an important part of their relationship (and how they ended up being together in the first place). I've put so much of myself into Lupe, and I fell in love with Fives myself as I wrote my longfic, so their bond is very dear to me.

Amalthia pictured it perfectly, and once again, I want to thank her for that. I will cherish this piece forever, and I couldn't be happier with it. Thank you thank you thank you <333

I just can't stop looking at them they are so precious I love them

[heshemejoshi]

more toto and chimichang.. to put it bluntly they have bewitched my entire mind and soul

[chialattea]

Feli scketches,,,, ft a 30dys challenge I never shared whooopz (very normal voice) I’m normal about thee

[corvid-gremlin-official]

i just realized something.

as a kid, i was always obsessed with stories about undercover spies, agents, and the like

not because i liked the institution, but because i just liked the idea of secretly observing and blending in with everyone else

I JUST HAD AN EPIPHANY.

the reason i wanted to be a spy, and loved secret agent books so much, was BECAUSE they were about secretly observing the actions and cues of others, and adopting them to blend in with the crowd. which is a lot like trying unconsciously to blend in with neurotypicals by watching their patterns and trying to imitate them - without even realizing my subconscious was pulled towards that kind of story because of it.

woah

[kalolasfantasyworld]

The birdies at the wedding 🕊️

A little one shot posted for 3000 hits!

Summary:

Helena, Nozel, Heinry, Noureen and Natalia attend the wedding of Asta and Noelle.

Just lots of fluff, pretty descriptions, spanglish and some silly jokes 💕

Yes, there is an illustration 🩵

Type: One shot

Word count: 2800

Author's note:

I mention other people's OCs. (Literally mentions, but I couldn't stop myself 😁.) They belong to @lyranova @thoughtfullyrainynightmare and @loosesodamarble.

The ceremony at Asta and Noelle’s wedding was simply beautiful. Helena could come up with multiple astounding adjectives to describe it, but she was sure that even all of them complied could not reflect on how she was feeling. She bawled her eyes out and was loudly sobbing, while using a handkerchief to wipe away her never ending tears of joy. 

Her children two nine year old boys Heinry and Noureen, and Natalia a three year old little girl would point out her emotional state. 

“Mama, why are you crying?” Heinry pulled on her dress. “Papa do something!” He would then bother Nozel, who just smiled softly and stayed quiet as all of them should have done through out the ceremony. 

After Asta and Noelle spoke their vows and finally said the long awaited ‘Yes’, the party was moved from the great chapel to the Silva Estate ballroom. As the Lady of the house it was Helena’s job to have it meticulously prepared. She obviously poured her heart out and countless hours at that, towards reaching her goal. The grand hall was lavishly decorated with white, pink, purple and blue flower bouquets, garlands, lights and all possible accessories. However it was not too much, just the perfect amount to not let anyone feel overwhelmed, but allow them to appreciate the interior. Helena cared for the good name of House Silva and she continued to fulfil that playful promise she had made to Nozel years ago, about pouring her dignified strength and giving her best for the prosperity and reputation of their House. Theirs. And now Asta joined the Silva family too. 

The newlyweds sat at a rectangular table, which was specially raised on a platform, so that everyone could see them. Kahono as Noelle’s bride’s maid and Yuno as Asta’s best man, sat on both of their sides. Next to Yuno there was one additional seat prepared for his fiancé Neva, but she disappeared somewhere within the crowd and had yet to join them. 

Helena and her familia were seated at the table to the right from the newlyweds. Next to them sat Solara and Fuegoleon with their own three cubs. They were engaged in some pleasant conversations and Fuego was completely drowning in the mesmerising green eyes of his wife. Helena watched them fondly, happy that everything seemed to have fallen in its right place. 

She turned towards her three birdies, whose sight filled her with joy and pride only a mother could understand and smiled. Noureen was fidgeting with the high neck of the white jabot that he was wearing. It contrasted with his pastel red, sleeveless blazer and chocolate brown strands of hair, that fell onto his shoulders. Under the blazer he wore a white shirt with golden bands gripping it at his wrists. Matching pants were straight pleat and golden sandals finished of his look. The red cross flory fitchy earring in his right ear proudly stated, which house he belonged to. Although everybody could probably guess it anyway, because his hair was styled almost exactly as Nozel’s. And those eyes of his, they were lilac, just like nana Acier’s and his papa’s. 

Heinry wore the exact same outfit, just that the accents were baby blue and the earring was on his left ear. He looked like a miniature copy of Nozel with his silver hair styled in an eagle like manner. However only looked, because when it came to his behaviour, nothing could scream louder the energetic atmosphere of the Drazels. 

Natalia sat on the other side of the table in a raised seat specially prepared for a three year old. Her silver hair was getting longer and it was neatly styled in soft waves. The dark brown eyes of the girl were excited as she tried manoeuvring towards her mouth a piece of duck using a small fork. Helena worried that she would drop it on her soft lilac dress and then they would need to leave the party to get her changed. Thankfully Nozel was there to save the day. With a flick of his fingers he created some mercury protecting the fabric. 

Classical ballroom music was being played by the band and Kahono, now a kingdom wide star, sang a love song for the newlyweds. Helena was immersed into the sound. She felt excitement rise in her chest and she knew, she wanted to join the dance. 

Helena turned towards her husband and a her lips formed a beautiful smile. 

“Would you like to dance mi amor?” She asked in a sweet tone. 

“I’m good,” Nozel answered flatly and focused on the roast duck, that was in front of him, completely not noticing an annoyed expression on his wife’s face. He had to not realise, that she was just asking out of courtesy. 

Helena furrowed her brows and huffed. 

“Are you suuure?” She elongated the word and made Nozel look up. His eyebrows raised and lilac eyes were questioning. 

“I want to finish this dish,” he said. “You know it’s my favorite.”

Yes Helena was aware, but she wished to be selfish and dance now.

“Papa helps me eat,” Natalia crinkled her tiny nose and now that it was two against one Helena knew she lost. Daddy’s girl was taking his side, since her youngest years. 

“I would like to dance with you mama,” Heinry jumped of his seat and approached her. He respectfully bowed down and then reached his hand towards her. The little prince, that he was, knew all the required etiquette and was pristine with his manners. Lilac eyes flashed confidently and Helena chuckled softly reaching out to her son. 

“At least someone knows how to be a gentleman,” she grinned at her husband, who just rolled his eyes affectionately, before once again swooping in to save Natalia’s dress. “What if you just feed her?” Helena added. 

“I can… myself,” Natalia found the right word and furrowed her brows, while gripping harder onto the fork, that she was holding. She was a smart three year old and certainly a feisty one. Wonder where she got that from?

“You heard our hija,” Nozel proudly gazed at his daughter.

Helena could not help the fond expression, that appeared on her face. Nozel was a great dad, despite his countless worries, that he was going to be an awful one, like his own father was. However both of them pushed through, they made mistakes, they learned from them and they did all of this together, supporting one another. Now the three little birdies were growing up in a warm and happy environment, something Nozel’s childhood was lacking after his own mother had passed away. 

Helena was pulled out of her thoughts by Heinry, not so sophistically dragging her towards the dance floor. He was very excited. When the next song began to play, she let her son lead her and even though he would make tiny mistakes, and slip from time to time, Helena knew that he was doing his best and it was all that mattered. 

When Kahono finished singing they moved slightly to the side, but did not leave the dance floor yet. Helena smiled at Heinry and he responded in the same way, flashing his white teeth. ‘That’s my niño,’ she thought.

Suddenly somebody ran up to them and grabbed Helena’s dress hiding behind her. 

“Woah, Noureen!” Helena exclaimed startled. “What are you doing hijo?” 

He poked out his nose, so only the upper part of his face and frantically searching lilac eyes were visible. 

“Tia Noelle wants to dance with me,” he whispered determined. “I’m running away.”

“Yhm,” Helena nodded and furrowed her brows at him. “And you think you will find shelter, while grabbing my dress?”

“Yeees?” Noureen raised his brow and Heinry chuckled, which earned him a poked out tongue from his exactly twenty four minutes younger brother. 

“Hijo,” Helena smiled and pulled his small hands off her dress. She then turned around to face him and knelt down so they would be levelled. Helena reached out her palm and pressed it to her son’s cheek. Noureen nuzzled into it and she smiled, noticing right away how similarly to Nozel he behaved. “It is tia Noelle’s wedding day. She doesn’t want to dance with you to make you miserable, but to share her joy with her nephew,” Helena’s voice was tender. “Consider it a little gift you can give to her. I know you want tia to be happy.”

“I do,” he nodded motivated, “but what if I trip and then ruin her dress?” Noureen asked. “She looks very beautiful, tio Asta just can’t take his eyes of her.”

“My sweet hijo,” Helena looked at him lovingly. “It will be alright. You know how to dance and if you trip, that’s simply it. It will be just fine.”

“Tia won’t get angry?” Noureen blinked his lilac eyes. 

“I don’t think there’s anything, that could ruin her mood today,” Helena winked and tapped his pointy nose. Her son softly giggled. “So go on now. Ask tia Noelle to dance.”

Noureen nodded determined and ran off towards the woman of the night. Helena and Heinry watched them for a minute, before deciding to head back to their table. 

How surprised they were when the only ones present were Cyraleona and Eleonora Vermillon. Their parents and their brother were gone mingling, or dancing, while Nozel and Natalia were nowhere to be found. 

Helena furrowed her brows. Where could these two had gone off to? 

“Maybe papa did not manage to save Natalia’s dress and they went to change?” Heinry said out loud.

“Probably,” Helena nodded and looked at him. “Since they’re not here would you like to dance again?”

“Mama,” he groaned annoyed. “You know I have to ask you that. I’m practicing being a gentleman.”

“You already are one,” Helena chuckled, but let Heinry ask her again. Court etiquette practice was always welcomed, while being raised in a Royal family. 

However as they moved towards the dance floor and then began swaying to yet another waltz, something drew Helena’s attention. Between the swirling dresses and moving legs, Helena noticed a familiar glint of silver. She guided Heinry towards it, walking past a pair, who Helena recognised as Josele and Nacht Faust, and then abruptly stopped, because her heart could not take the emotion, that it was experiencing. 

Helena smiled and watched the view in front of her, while the warm feeling inside of her chest bubbled joyfully. 

Just a few meters away Nozel and Natalia were dancing. However since their daughter was so small he had to lean down towards her in order to support her. Natalia’s movements were clumsy and she did not know the steps, so Nozel let her step on his feet, and with each move of his, she had no other choice but follow. Two dark orbs were staring and trying to analyse the dance, while brows furrowed determined. Silver hair beautifully framed her plump cheeks as she pouted. Her lilac dress, surprisingly without any stains on it, fluttered behind her. 

Nozel was smiling, softly, because this was his way and Helena knew, that it was the most genuine expression, that he could have. His gaze was filled with love as he guided his little girl and lilac eyes were watching, taking in her view. Nozel looked amazing himself and Helena could proudly admit, that to her taste, he was the most handsome man at the party. He wore a blue, long sleeved blazer with sophisticated golden accents and a white jabot, but it started lower on his neck, beneath the part, where his golden collar used to be. A Silva cross was attached to the jabot at the centre beneath the soft feathery neckline. The vest underneath the blazer was white and his pants were pressed pleat, like those his sons wore. Silver hair was styled in the eagle like pushed back and up hairstyle and the strands at the front were braided. However it was just this official occasion. Everyday he would have them loose, because he no longer needed the reminder of his past. He would clasp the blue Silva pendant only on occasions, such as this one, which required the ‘Nozel Silva’ look. 

He had to feel her stare, because Nozel looked up at her and Helena’s heart beat faster. She smiled genuinely and felt a soft blush spread over her cheeks. How she loved him and the family they had created. 

“Natalia really can’t dance,” Heinry commented and pulled Helena out of her thoughts. 

“Oh shush. They’re doing amazing,” she quieted him, but her tone was fond. 

They came back to the dance themselves, but then Heinry grinned at her. 

“What if we do a switch?” He asked. “I can teach Natalia a little bit and you would dance with papa?”

“Heinry,” Helena chuckled. “Do you think I need a wingman to dance with my own husband?” 

“Well mama,” he shrugged. “You kind of failed earlier.”

“I won’t this time,” she deflected.

When the song ended they approached Nozel and Natalia. Helena smiled fondly and swept her gaze over them. Just as she was about to speak up and ask her husband to dance, Natalia reached out her little arm and grabbed onto his palm, pulling him down towards herself. Her fingers looked so small compared to his. She leaned in and whispered something to his ear. 

Nozel slowly closed his eyes and then delicately nodded, before ruffling her hair. Natalia squeaked excited and let him stand up. 

“May I have this dance Helena?” Nozel reached out his hand toward her.

She gracefully took it and let him lead her just few steps away from their children. They did not want to loose sight of them, especially the three year old in this filled with people ballroom. So only when Heinry and Natalia began to dance, the gazes of their parents went towards one another. 

“Keeping secrets from me again mi amor?” Helena playfully quirked her brow as Nozel pulled her closer and began leading her to the music. 

“Would you like me to spill them?” He asked flatly and when Helena nodded, he shook his head. “I can’t violate the sacred father-daughter trust.”

Helena pouted. 

“So I’m going to be left in the dark, when it comes to your whispers?” She fluttered her lashes. 

“Maybe,” Nozel stated. “Although I suppose you will get it out of Natalia after making her surrender in a tickle war.”

“I am the best at tickle wars,” Helena laughed. 

“I am aware,” he deadpanned and just to tease him Helena moved forwards. “Don’t you dare,” he furrowed his brows and it made her chuckle even more. 

“Oh you know I wouldn’t do anything, while we’re in public. Nobody will know the tricks that señora Silva has up her sleeve,” Helena winked.

“They don’t acknowledge how much of a devil you are with these,” Nozel stated in a serious tone. 

“No captain,” she corrected him and her tone changed to seductive. “I’m a devil in some other settings, only known to you,” she purred. 

“Helena,” he hissed, but could not hide the gentle, fond expression on his face. 

“I love you,” Helena grinned and Nozel just rolled his eyes. 

“I love you too,” he gazed at her deeply, “but you are annoying.”

“And I will gladly annoy you for the rest of our days,” she said. 

“Keep your promise.”

The song ended and Helena very reluctantly pulled away from Nozel. Two of their kids were nearby and she noticed further away Noureen bowing to Noelle, before she took her new husband’s hand. Asta’s green eyes were focused on her this entire time and seemed very excited to dance with his gorgeous bride.

“After the next song you should ask Noelle to dance with you,” Helena inquired. 

“I will,” Nozel nodded and looked at his sister proudly. “She’s come so far and became very strong. I am happy for her.”

“Oi watch out,” Helena grinned and he quirked his silver brows at her. “Your caring side is showing so much today, that some may even think the real Nozel Silva has been kidnapped.”

He narrowed his eyes. 

“You actually think you’re funny?” Nozel asked irritated. 

“And that’s how I know you’re my husband,” she giggled. 

Soon the song ended and Nozel was about to go ask Noelle to dance, while Helena and their children would head to the table. However at the last second Nozel stopped her and looked her in the eyes. 

“I love you Helena and you look beautiful this evening, just like you do everyday,” he said and it caught her by surprise how out of the blue it was. Despite being married for years, she flushed and her heart picked up its pace. “Save me the next dance, because I want to show off to everyone my amazing wife.”

[cboffshore]

okay. update on the shiny new mysterious insane post-Skybound fic idea I told y'all about this morning:

They grow up so fast, don't they?

[swiftsaltsweet]

Me: Good news! I wrote like....12ish pages yesterday! :D Brain: Was it all attributed to a single chapter. Me: *walks away* Brain: WAS IT A SINGLE CHAPTER OR DID YOU JUST JUMP AROUND?! Me:

[ihathbenobiwankenobied]

night shift

Summary:

"What were they doing together in Cody’s quarters, of all places, at 0100 in the morning?"

Or the one where Skull, the lead medic for the 212th, gets a call from Cody when Obi-Wan has a late night allergic reaction. He finds an unexpected scene.

Word Count: 2,390

Skull liked the night shift when it was assigned to him; it was peaceful. 

It was quiet in the Negotiator’s medbay at night; it was a respite from bloody Generals and many of his irate brothers insisting they not be relegated to his care for a fucking paper cut that was usually a near-fatal stab wound.

Skull liked when he could take a seat and run through his weekly reports and shoot the shit with Oxy without having to pause.

Mostly, an empty medbay meant hours in his laboratory, a place where he could focus on preventative care instead. Skull’s eyes wandered over the notes he had written on a loose piece of flimsi. He peered back through his microscope at the bacta powder solution he had been studying for days. 

He had just settled in minutes early, his shift starting at 0100 hours, when he heard the familiar piercing beep of his comlink. He tried not to sigh. 

It blinked incessantly from across the lab, and Skull lifted his glasses from his face, curiosity peaked. Glancing briefly at the name on his comlink, Skull was surprised to see it wasn’t Oxy passive aggressively trying to get his attention from outside the locked laboratory door. 

Rather, it was Commander Cody.

Skull raised an eyebrow; as the 212th’s lead medic, he was presented with tentative schedules for all of the men, even that of his commanding officer. He had noted that Cody was off duty for a day and he was scheduled to be on the Negotiator to report virtually to the Jedi Council. In fact, Skull had even seen him in the mess hall at dinner .

Suppressing his concern and suspicion, Skull answered the com.

“Commander? Is everything alright? I saw you were scheduled for off-duty–” Skull wasn’t able to finish his sentence.

“It’s Ob– the General. He’s– I think he’s having some sort of reaction– he can barely breath–” Skull’s heart skipped a beat. Allergies. Anaphylaxis. 

Skull thought Obi-Wan’s lengthy list of allergies was under control . He had spent hours curating a list of approved dishes for the mess hall to cook for him, and even longer crafting a customized adrenaline shot tailored to Obi-Wan’s overactive immune system. 

Between Skull and the General, they had been so careful to pinpoint what he could and could not eat, so diligent to prevent any possible scenario that could occur on the battlefield?

What could he have possibly eaten, or been in contract with on the Negotiator?

“Short of breath, nausea…?” Skull asked as he shut off his lab lights and shoved his loose flimsi into a manilla folder. 

“Yes– his shots aren’t here. Says he forgot them– I–” Skull’s heart skipped a beat and he cut off Cody before more time could be wasted. 

“I’ll bring one. Just– stay on the line Commander.” Skull tried to keep his panic from worrying the Commander even more. Instead, he kept his tone flat and stood hastily from his rolling chair. 

Skull didn’t waste time and unlocked his lab door in haste. Oxy stared at him with a peculiar look of smugness and confusion mixed together. “Oi, Skully, you finally decided to do something useful?” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and leaned back, arms crossed against the medical bed behind him. 

Skull ignored him momentarily, and hurried to the medical supply closet. He headed straight for the prepacked case labeled with the General’s name and ripped it from the shelf. 

“If you call saving the General’s arse again useful, then yes.” Skull shot Oxy a pointed look and brought his comlink back towards his face as he pushed through the swinging doors of the medbay. 

“Commander, are you still on the line?” He asked as he walked briskly down the hallway in the direction of the barracks. 

“Yes. He’s not looking so good, Skull…” Cody’s voice leaked with panic; Skull could almost hear the Commander’s voice trembling. 

“Commander– I need you to focus for a moment. Where are you located?” Skull figured the General’s quarters was a likely answer.

“My quarters. 2224-01D.” Cody answered after a pause. “Please hurry.” 

“Give me one minute.” Skull stopped walking and began to run, barely caring about the write-up he would likely get if anyone in authority saw him. It hardly mattered when the General’s life was on the line. 

Skull steered himself towards the ranking clone barracks just next to those of the Jedi. For a moment, his focus faltered as he considered what Cody had told him. What were they doing together in Cody’s quarters, of all places, at 0100 in the morning? Skull could hardly believe that a General, much less a Jedi, would agree to meet in the quarters of their subordinate . It surely did explain why the General inadvertently had lost access to his adrenaline shots.

Skull shook the thoughts from his head and prepared himself for quick thinking as he approached Cody’s quarters. 

01B, 02A, 01C….

01D. 

He didn’t bother to knock, instead placing his fingertip on the pad just outside the door to force his own entry.

The door slid away to reveal an empty room save for a small chair in the corner holding some beige clothes and a set of glasses. Skull stepped inside, momentarily confused before he heard a soft voice emerge from the left. 

“Keep breathing, please . Skull will be here any second. You will be fine, everything will be fine.”

Skull swiveled to find Cody sitting in just his briefs by Obi-Wan’s side. His face, usually perfectly shaved, was covered in a layer of stubble. He had an iron grip on Obi-Wan’s arm and panic laced his voice as he spoke softly. 

Obi-Wan sat propped against the edge of Cody’s bunk, shirtless , with one hand curled over his neck and another on his chest. A loose pair of linen pants protected his legs from the metal floor and he heaved in wheezing breaths. “Don’t–” He sucked in another breath and abandoned whatever he was going to say as Skull approached and dropped his bag heavily onto the floor beside the pair. 

“I’m here.” Skull said, mildly breathless himself, still struggling to figure out what in the absolute fuck was going on. He pulled open the medical case and plucked out one of the several adrenaline shots along with an alcohol pad. “General, you know the drill, keep those breaths even.” Skull kept his tone low and schooled his face into an unpanicked look. He hoped it was reassuring, especially given the wild look in the General’s wide eyes.

It had been a long time since the General had experienced anaphylaxis, and even longer since he had gone such a long period of time without his shot made available. Even out in the field it was rare for a reaction to be left untreated. 

Skull made quick work of flicking the outside of the syringe. “Commander, pull down his pants.” Cody looked at him, mouth ajar, before Skull swore under his breath and pulled at the elastic band of the General’s pants himself. 

He wiped the alcohol pad across his thigh before warning the General, “Alright, here we go.” Obi-Wan nodded urgently in response as he wheezed even louder. 

Without hesitation, Skull stabbed the syringe into his thigh. Obi-Wan didn’t make a sound for a second, his breath still caught in his throat. Skull held his own breath and counted to ten, hoping to see Obi-Wan’s purpling cheeks turn into a less alarming shade of red. 

“Deep breaths, General.” He reminded the General as he pulled Obi-Wan’s hand away from where it rested across his neck. Obi-Wan’s eyes remained wide, but he sucked in a deep breath that sounded marginally better than before. “That’s it, keep going.”

Skull watched him breath for a minute until, though he was still mildly wheezing, it looked like he was able to bring in a breath with little resistance. 

Kriffing close call, that was. 

Skull briefly looked over at Cody as he collected the sterilization wrapper from the shot. Cody’s lips were pulled into a hard line, like usual, but something in his eyes made him seem far less calm than he appeared. 

If Skull didn’t know any better, he might have thought the Commander looked… teary .

“I’m afraid–” Skull averted his eyes when Obi-Wan spoke up hoarsely, his gaze on  Cody’s form, “I’m not feeling…” He took a moment to suck in a breath and seemed to be shifting around like he wanted to stand up. Skull pressed him back against the side of the bunk gently.

“Please, stay sitting General!”

Obi-Wan fought against his hold weakly, “Not feeling so good, Cody–”

Cody’s eyes flew open wide and he rushed to the corner of the room where he emptied a waste basket. Moments later, he deposited it in Obi-Wan’s arms just in time. Cody looked away as Obi-Wan heaved into the can, a small amount of liquidy brown bile coming out before he set it aside. 

“Well… that was pleasant.” Obi-Wan murmured after he paused to suck in another deep breath. Skull noted that the exposed skin of his chest and face had mostly returned to its normal color, outside of the vague redness of his cheeks and little mark on his neck…

Skull almost let his eyes widen, but looked away before he had a chance to let his thoughts get the best of him.

Medical help now, questions about the severe lack of clothing in this force-forsaken room later. 

“Not really a great time for jokes, Sir.” Skull said instead, clearing his throat.

“Agreed.” Cody said firmly and stood in his place. He assumed his resting position, arms crossed over his chest and back held straight and tall. Yet, he hardly looked as menacing and serious as usual in just a pair of tight, black, underwear. “You can breath now?” The Commander asked Obi-Wan, the fright in his eyes fading just slightly as Obi-Wan offered him a hint of a smile and breathed in deeply once or twice.

“Yes, it works like a charm.” Obi-Wan said while pointing to the emptied syringe and offering Cody a strangely familiar smile. “Thank you Skull– I shouldn’t have left my quarters without my med pack. I extend my deepest gratitude to you for coming in such a hurry.” Skull was also offered a warm smile as he extended a hand to Obi-Wan and helped him onto the bunk where he could sit more comfortably.

“Not a problem, General. It’s my job.” He said the words teasingly. “And because it’s my job, I need to know what exactly happened here?” 

There was a long, awkward pause as Cody looked nervously in Obi-Wan’s direction. Suddenly, the Commander seemed much more aware of the fact he was stripped down to his underwear, eyes blowing wide before he cleared his throat and reached for the set of blacks neatly folded on top of the dresser next to his bunk. “It was my fault. I bought some biscuits from the lower levels of Coruscant last time I was there. I thought I read the ingredients list, but I guess I must have missed something.”

Cody reached for the package – one biscuit missing – and handed it sheepishly to Skull. 

While he tried to look over the ingredients list for a moment, Skull could hardly keep a straight face considering the idea that the Commander and General were sharing a package of fancy Coruscantian biscuits together, at 0100 in the morning, while half-naked in Cody’s quarters. 

Things were starting to appear very obvious, and Cody seemed to realize Skull knew something was amiss.

“I’ll analyze these in my lab, see if maybe the ingredients list was missing something. No sense in wasting your time any further boys, it looks like you were enjoying your night.” Skull offered up a smile and crouched down to pull out an extra bottle of Obi-Wan’s emergency medication, and a few adrenaline shots. 

General Kenobi’s face was colored a dark red as Skull sat down next to Obi-Wan and placed the next adrenaline shot in his hand. “Alright General, I know it’s been a while, but remember to repeat this shot in twenty minutes. If the symptoms don’t go away after three more, send me a com and we’ll get you set up in the medbay for observation.” 

“Thank you, Skull. I will remember of course.” Obi-Wan took a deep breath and looked away before any prolonged eye-contact could happen. Skull nearly snorted.

“Would you like me to teach Cody how to do it?” He asked, glancing over at the Commander just as he was readjusting the shirt of his blacks. 

“Oh!” Obi-Wan explained, “That certainly won’t be necessary–”

“Well I’m sure you can teach him yourself anyway, General. I am leaving two of these here… just in case.” Skull stood from the bed and forced himself to hold back the urge to wink in the Commander’s direction. 

“That is ah– appreciated Skull,” Obi-Wan said, a half-hearted smile gracing his lips as he shifted into a more comfortable position on the bed. 

Skull nodded and collected the remaining contents of Obi-Wan’s medkit before heading towards the door.

“Listen–” Cody started, likely seeing the hint of an amused smile on Skull’s lips, “It’s not what you are thinking.”

“I’m sure it’s not, Commander.” Skull tapped at Obi-Wan’s medical case with a few of his fingers and pressed the button to open the door. “It looks like you and the General were having quite the late night tactical planning session, complete with fancy biscuits and a lack of clothes .”

Cody looked vaguely exasperated before schooling his expression. “Don’t tell anyone.” He whispered, seriousness enveloping his form as he took a step closer to Skull. “We can discuss.. later.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it Commander. All I ask is in the future, you reference his list more carefully before feeding him anything. I’d really rather not interrupt your… intimacy, again.” Cody let out a sigh, “And please, keep a few shots here.”

With that, Skull nodded his goodbye to the blushing Commander, and shuffled into the hallway where he finally allowed himself a low chuckle.

There would be lots to discuss at Obi-Wan’s next medbay visit, that was certain. 

But for now, Oxy and Skull would be having a rather entertaining night shift.

[replacement-pasta]

Like a venty picture of my OC Jinkgo I drew to calm myself down.

I must have been having some kind of episode before making this. I remember being pissed off about saying something wrong, then I just sort of snapped, then I blacked out, then made this.

[tvrningout]

i’ll have y’all know that i was ready to pass out before i saw this silly lil video which made me wanna make a silly lil guy and now we got a backstory and personality and brain rot over a new oc 💜

[foxclcves]

𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒆 (𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 01)

The white night sky blinded her. It seeped through her eyes and shot to the back of her skull, the nape of her neck, and it was cold, so cold, before a crack shuttered through her body. The distressed cries of horses, their stomping hooves and the groans of their restraints faded from her ears, as though her head was being pulled underwater, deeper and deeper still. Oh, how they rung, and how she longed to writhe—to disperse her pain somehow from a body that could no longer move, her neck, the splitting agony in her stomach. It felt so wrong, the absoluteness her newfound misery. Oh, how she feared and oh, how she prayed. How she wanted to cry and sob and scream. Oh, God, please. Oh, God… please.

Her eyes opened. The sky was still white, less blinding. The silence, unnerving as delicate snowflakes fell onto her face, her eyes fluttering when they landed on her eyelashes. As though dipping into a warm bath, or drinking from a fresh cup of tea, warmth spread through her, from her fingertips and through her torso and head, and the rest of her soon followed. She almost sighed, the sudden feeling of ease and comfort seeping over her, the sensation of being comforted, even most dearly. It was only then she realized someone was holding her hand.

For the first time in Lord knows how long, she moved, but only turned her head with caution in mind of the rest of her body, whatever state she was currently in. She felt she could gasp, as she would at any other time, but she did not. An odd almost familiarity flickered in her mind as she stared up at a young man kneeling at her side. He was dressed in all black, his eyes and hair seeming to glow with the snow around him, both dignified silver. His hand—both of them were bare, a peculiar choice for early winter, but they were… not cold, but not warm, either. Despite her acknowledgment of his presence he said nothing, and she said nothing, but the cold was forgotten, unfelt. He had a half smile, a little crooked but genuine, and she got the impression that this expression was natural for him. He did not look concerned for her, did not look smug or unfeeling. She considered him to be patient, having no reservations at observing her own expressions openly.

And then, he gave her hand a small squeeze, so subtle she could have missed it if she were not so focused. Something compelled her to sit up, more fluidly than she expected. She gasped at her impulsive move, bracing herself for pain, but there was none. Stunned, she was, as she gazed upon him again, her eyes widened. But she wasn’t compelled to act or rejoice. There was confusion in her, and a surfacing understanding trying to break, but she could not peg it. It was gradual, but insistent; she felt it was important. She could also tell that it was something that would put a weight in anyone’s stomach or a lump in anyone’s throat, though.

The young man looked away from her, and she soon realized that he was watching something. She turned to follow his gaze, her apprehension about wounds forgotten unwittingly. At first, she regarded the carriage with numbness. A significant part of it was decimated, the quality wood it was crafted from smashed and broken, lying in shards and planks across the icy earth. The two horses had been removed from the carriage, the battered driver a pitiful sight. He held his arm, so cruelly twisted, and his head was bleeding, his face skewed with despair, and almost bleary to her. He was within earshot and clear sight, but she could not make sense of the shape of his nose or the height of his forehead, none of it. The driver looked back and forth between the carriage and the horses that were mute to her. Finally, she noticed the blood, leaking from one of the carriage’s passenger doors. Out of its window hung a limp arm, its hand pale and the long sleeve and coat that followed undeniably familiar.

She knew, then. But then she had known immediately, somehow. That underlying feeling broke the surface, and she remembered. She recalled the sadness of her departure; an older woman’s tired, smiling eyes, and an unloved man’s scorn. She remembered her new velvet gloves forgotten at home, how she sulked at her loss and having nothing new to show off at her boarding school, her exile, her reluctance and remorse to a man and every man like him who weeded their way into her life. The ride had brought solace, the winter landscape taking her breath away, the driver singing to the horses as though they were his children. The same often somber, yet still joyful man who stood before her now, looking torn and in woe of his wounds and everything around him and not seeming to notice her. The hapless arm, wrapped in the sleeve to a dress she had gotten last Christmas from one with eyes which never stopped smiling, one with hands who never stopped creating in earnest. The warmth of her hands still lingered in her mind and in her palms, a feeling so different to the one who cradled her hand now.

Everything was too quiet, a welcomed change sometime prior when she was in pain but bearing down on her now. The crash was sudden, its aftermath immediate. Splintered and jagged wood still intact to the carriage’s skeleton pointed to the bleached sky where snow continued its descent, flurrying downward to earth more soundlessly than an owl’s wings, than its tolling call and its calculated foreboding. There was peace in what was most definitely a tragedy, but she felt a nothing that was not entirely apathy; perhaps it was acceptance.

“Am I dead, sir?” she asked at last, her voice quavered but once.

He did not answer, but continued to gaze upon the carriage. Its cargo was splayed across the ground, gowns dashed with powered snow, jewelry sinking into the whiteness. She touched her throat with her free hand, where her pendant still nestled below her collarbone. The slightest feeling of relief spread through her chest; she felt not so alone. The velvet gloves were novelty compared to what this meant to her; she would take it with her, wherever she might go.

The young man looked at her again, and wordlessly they both stood. She moved to her feet with a grace she had never possessed nor had been able to acquire, and her legs did not wobble from her awkward sitting on the ground for so long. Had it been long? It felt as much. Whenever he looked her in the eyes it was as though he could motivate her to do things through thought alone, which was oddly comforting as she doubted she could move on her own otherwise, at this point. He continued to hold her hand, not firmly but securely. Their fingers were not linked, and she opted against such a move, afraid of shifting whatever they had now.

Her eyes were on the carriage again, and she sighed. Any wariness she may have felt was dulling, as though her ability to express emotions of any dread were slipping from her memory and instinct. “Are… you a ghost, sir?”

Still he was silent, his half smile and patient eyes never wavering or shifting. “I am not,” he answered, and his voice was hard to describe. Not deep or high, not brash or soft spoken. So many things about him became increasingly indescribable. It felt as though if she were to look away from him for too long, she’d forget what he looked like entirely.

She glanced down at their hands, a wave like encouragement blossoming in her temples. “Are you… are you here for me… sir?”

“Yes, miss,” he said, after a well-timed pause. His voice was again hard to pin, but she could identify, again, a kind patience. “Yes, I am.”

She didn’t know what to say. By the minute, she felt she was fading. That whatever she was, it was, perhaps, completing. “I think I am sad.”

“For you?”

“For my mother, sir.”

A thicker silence fell over them, like the sort when you’ve gone and said something bold, or perhaps stupid. The urge to look up at him became too much, and so she did. He was smiling softer now, a smile that did not humor or pity her, but a smile that was anything but hard. His other hand, covering the top of hers, squeezed in a way again almost unnoticeable, and the chill of the night faded away entirely.

“We must go now,” he said. “Are you ready?”

She considered this, the vagueness of his words causing her even more pause. “Did I make it to November, sir? Is that the month?”

The driver kneeled before the passenger window. His arm now secured in a makeshift sling made from his coat, his hand reached for the body’s hand. He cradled it in his palm with care, and wept. Her own eyes swelled with tears, and she wished she could remember him. Had she known him well? She had a growing feeling that she would never know.

“Miss.”

She turned back to the young man, trembling and unable to tell if her tears chilled her cheeks. She did not check, as she feared how it would impact her resolve, earnest but still unsure. She longed to be comforted, and felt a sensation almost like warmth spreading through her again and relaxed, albeit a little.

“It is November, miss,” he continued. He leaned his head toward her in an almost confidential way, and she found the nearness soothed her further. “You have made it. You have nothing to fear, nothing to worry about any longer.” He weighed her hand in his, all three limbs swaying slowly up and down in the slightest. “I will go with you, when you are ready. And I must caution you, miss; no matter how tempting it is, the deceased who linger are rarely ever happy, and I would hate to see you as anything but strong, as you are now.”

“I am strong?”

“You are.”

She smiled, eyes lowering to their hands again. She nodded to herself. “You are an angel. You’re… you’re going to take me to heaven.”

“I am an angel?”

“I want to believe that you are.” He had no wings, but her determination became a vice.

“Then I am.”

She dared another glimpse of the carriage, and averted her eyes quickly. When the young man removed his hand from the top of hers, she whispered, “Don’t leave me. Even if I am strong, I don’t think I can do this alone.”

He pulled her hand towards him, looping her arm through his and flattening her palm against it. He covered her hand with his again, giving her a nod and a widened smile. “That’s why I am here. So you won’t get lost. It’s my job; I don’t leave anyone lost, when I can help it.”

Absently her arm adjusted in his, and they stood side by side, their conversation coming to a halt. The driver had collected himself enough to return to his horses, mounting one and attaching the other. He turned them back down the road, from which they had both came together on that carriage, and rode off as fast as he was able, mindful of the ice, even more mindful now. And now, there was nothing left for her here, nothing but a body drained of life in a way she could not see and did not want to see. And yet she lingered, longing to return to it, wanting to feel the cold and see her breath turn to vapor. She could feel herself leaning toward that arm, as though she could will it and all connected back to life. How strange it was to gaze upon your own physical form and not be able to touch it, to move and flex your limbs and crane your neck. How disconnected she felt knowing she felt nothing perhaps as the body felt nothing, though she was still there, witnessing it, thinking about it and every detail in her flesh. Did she still have scars, freckles, and moles? She did not feel compelled to check on anything but that body. Were bodies really shells, then, after all? And upon leaving it, was she pure? She felt the same, she could not tell. Was she free? Was this true freedom, despite that lingering here was ill advised by this mysterious man, this angel if he was one?

And was this angel waiting for her to make a decision? If she wanted to stay, could she stay? And what life would that lead to, if it was even one at all? She felt nothing and yet everything.

No, she thought to herself. I can’t stay here, I can’t go back. There’s no going back. I will not be a ghost. This exhaustion, this dissociation and sadness, it would be all that I have. And perhaps, everyone else would die and leave me alone. Truly alone.

She looked up to the snow covered pines of the woods, which seemed to be curving downward in a gradual, dizzying way. Trying to block out the sky, trying to keep her where she stood. There were whispers, a white noise like the cacophony of insects, and her body seemed to drift closer and closer to her without moving. It felt as though her flesh hand could lash out to her at any moment. She was terrified.

A tight squeeze of her hand sent a jolt through her. The trees straightened, and the carriage was where it had always been, the arm as it had lied since the driver left. She looked to the young man, who loosened his grip and stared up at the trees, his gaze a warning one. She knew then that whatever evil was closing in was thwarted by him, and squared her shoulders.

Was this what it was like when the dead lingered, her longing and sorrow transforming into terror and entrapment? Was this her true test of character and strength, not lying in her physical form but her spiritual one? And was this what it came down to: to stay behind in a life gone, or to move on into the unknown?

“I am ready to leave,” she said, her voice ringing out firm and with no trace left of hesitation. “I will not be a ghost.” I will not embody my loss and suffering any longer. One way or another, I will be free. This terror and confusion will pass. I will be free.

The young man cut his gaze to her once more, and a soft smile returned to his face. They trekked through the snow, their pace not obstructed by its bulk. They paused in unison once they stood in center of the road, their backs to the direction from whence she came. The storm progressed, the wind picking up but as silent as the rest of her surroundings, and the end of the road becoming more obscured. Trees were fading from her line of sight, and she could no longer make out the carriage. Her grip tightened on the young man’s arm, and he looked to her. He waited for her first step. She took it, and he followed.

[sysig]

Working on some designs for one of my oldest OCs, “Cure” (Patreon)

I also managed to track down some of her initial concept sketches from 2018 - why 2018 considering I called her one of my oldest OCs?

Well, her design has always been rather elusive, even more so since she spent so much time in my head without being brought to paper - even these sketches make mention of it!

Pretty sure she got “Cure” in 2018 too - starting to take form!

[arklay]

seeing stars.

pairing: diana x albert wesker words: 7.0k warnings: migraine, nausea and vertigo, brief mentions of food and alcohol, internalised ableism [read on ao3] — [part one]

A long exhale sounded from the en suite bathroom. It wasn’t one of relief. No, it was strained, wavering as it left parted lips – the evidence of a day riddled with nothing but stress.

Wesker slowly opened his eyes and looked up at the mirror from how he had hung his head, his hands resting on either side of the basin. The figure behind his reflection caught his eye instantly – dark hair a stark contrast to the white doorframe its lovely owner was leaning against. She was simply watching him with this faint, barely-there frown strewn about her features.

Despite being rather annoyed at Diana for sneaking up on him, or more so at himself for not noticing she had done so, he was glad she had kicked off her heels under the dining table. The last thing he needed right now was the shrill clicking of those awful things on the tile floor.

His head already felt like it had been put in a vise and someone was turning the handle; he didn’t need more noise to aggravate it.

“Where are your glasses?” Diana asked, and Wesker could only wonder if he’d imagined the worry clinging to the edge of her voice.

Could she tell he was in pain? That his sunglasses weren’t just some fashion statement people liked to tease him for? Had she put two and two together so easily when most were too dense to?

Wesker’s eyes darted up to lock on to hers in the mirror, though for only a split second, before he looked down again with a small huff. “I don’t know.”

He’d truly had a shocking day. It had been one thing after another, and at some point he had taken his glasses off to rub his eyes then forgot to put them back on. It wasn’t like him to misplace his belongings, and certainly not his shades, of all things, but the stressors piling up ensured the whereabouts of where he’d set them down slipped his mind faster than he thought possible.

It had all started with that pig, Brian Irons. The initial cause of his foul mood. That poor excuse of a man had proven himself to be a thorn in Wesker’s side time and time again; the police chief thought he could undermine those ensuring his unsavoury past was kept under wraps, but Wesker wasn’t going to stand for such insolent behaviour. He made sure to discuss the issue with William during his visit to the NEST around lunchtime, calling for a shorter leash.

However, the day only seemed to continue to go downhill once he’d returned to the station.

The problem wasn’t simply the piles of reports taking up space on his desk; the image of Diana wouldn’t leave his mind. He shouldn’t have stopped by her lab with coffee and spoken to her at all. He needed his focus to be solely on his work. The way she could capture his attention was quite bothersome, really. And that prompted a rather foolish decision on his part – a phone call with plans for dinner.

It didn’t end there. The newest S.T.A.R.S. recruits were a headache in and of themselves, yet getting a call from Sherry’s school the moment he left work had been the icing on the cake. She hadn’t been picked up hours beforehand, and being the next emergency contact, Wesker was informed of such incompetence.

William’s obsession with the G-Virus was getting out of hand. He’d always been more preoccupied with his work than the people around him, but forgetting to pick Sherry up from school was something else. Something Wesker didn’t quite like.

Not to mention it completely ruined his plans for the night.

With a suppressed clearing of her throat, Diana pulled him back to the present. She pushed herself off of the doorframe and made her way closer towards him. “Would you like me to look for them?”

Wesker shook his head and immediately regretted it; the sudden movement made him wince as a short wave of splitting pain made itself known right behind his left eye, causing him to grip the edge of the counter until his knuckles went white. The pain wasn’t unbearable yet, and he was glad his typical nausea seemed to be at bay, but he had no clue how long that would last. Not long, if he had to guess, given his luck with the rest of the day’s events.

Taking a deep breath through his nose and out through his mouth, he steadied himself. With each count, he found it easier to tolerate the ache, though it didn’t subside in the slightest. It would have to do though; he needed to get through his nighttime routine.

He reached over and slowly pulled his toothbrush out of its holder, making sure to not move more than what was necessary.

“No.”

Wesker glanced up at the mirror again with one of his brows quirked in genuine confusion, and he watched as Diana’s reflection inched closer. Then her hands were covering his. Why he found himself frozen at her touch was beyond him, but her soft fingers pressing against his skin was a welcome sensation.

She only pried the toothbrush and paste out of his grasp, far more gently than she needed to, then she placed them back to where they belonged.

“You are obviously unwell. You don’t need to brush your teeth when you feel like this,” she said, voice soft and oddly soothing, as opposed to the hammering against his skull.

Diana took Wesker’s hands in her own again, and her thumbs brushed along the raised veins on the backs of them in slow circles. It wasn’t just comforting to him, it was familiar, intimate, and the point at which he’d begun to embrace her touch rather than shun his craving for it was lost on him.

Her eyes finally landed on his own and she directed a small nod towards the door, making him aware of what she was about to do next. Then she took a step back. Then another. And she carefully pulled him along with her, guiding him towards his bedroom without so much as a word from him. Wesker couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. He didn’t know what to say, what to do, and with how tired he was, he could only let her take the lead. She seemed to have her mind set on making sure he would rest, and that made his chest feel much too tight.

It was almost as if she cared.

The trip to the foot of his bed felt much longer than usual. Diana’s cautious approach made sure of that. He was not intoxicated; she didn’t need to hold his hands and ensure he put one foot in front of the other. And yet she did. He felt like an absolute fool, but he still let her pull him along, regardless.

Once there, Diana sat him down on the edge before she quickly knelt down in front of him, tucking her legs beneath herself as she did so. Her attention went straight towards his boots and deft hands worked to untie their laces.

Wesker couldn’t quite wrap his head around her behaviour. He wasn't sure what to think. On any other day, he would’ve thought her kneeling between his legs quite amusing, especially with how she kept roughly pushing her stubborn tresses that kept falling in front of her face back behind her ears. But his head hurt far too much, and there was just this horrible warmth searing through his chest and up his neck, settling across his cheeks and threatening to join the burning at his temple.

The question in her eyes whenever she’d glance up at him certainly wasn’t helping either. It was almost wary, as though looking for permission to continue. Or perhaps assurance.

Her fingers wrapped around his ankle, carefully grasping it as she pulled off his boot. That made him feel far too odd, but she only repeated the action with its counterpart. He was thankful for the way she placed them next to one another by his bed though, all nice and neat, instead of simply tossing them to the side like anyone else would.

Diana pushed herself up off of the floor using her palms and moved to stand between his legs. Soft hands reached forward to cradle his face, the cool pads of her thumbs brushing along the high points of his cheeks. But she was only looking into his eyes, searching for… something.

He wasn’t quite sure what she was doing, to be completely honest. However, the repetitive movement along his cheekbones was calming, almost strangely so, and he hated that his eyes threatened to flutter shut and his hands itched to reach out and hold onto her sides – perhaps even pull her closer, if he dared.

How could she draw such a reaction from him? Especially given the circumstances.

The last thing Wesker needed was for her to look at him like he was some injured animal; he didn’t want her pity. It was enough that he let her drag him out of the bathroom when he was in the middle of carrying out his routines, as though he was caught in some sort of trance. But to look at him in such a way, to help him undress… It was ridiculous. He didn’t need to be fussed over.

Wesker reached up and closed his hands around her wrists. His grip was tight, though not enough to hurt her – merely cautionary, much like the glare he sent her way. Astute as she was, he had no doubt she would get the message.

Diana’s fingers fell away from his cheeks, curling in on themselves, but she didn’t move to break the distance between them. She only continued to hold his gaze, eyes still scanning his own in search of some answers, even as he loosened his hold on her wrists.

It had been wishful thinking, anyhow; he should’ve known she’d remain defiant.

Wesker pulled her hands further away from his face while he slowly rose to his feet. Then he let go, making them drop to her sides in a rather lifeless fashion. He didn’t miss the question in her eyes, or the way a crease formed between her brows, but he simply focused on manoeuvring around her towards his dresser – unsuccessfully at that, as his side brushed against hers with how he staggered.

Movement made the pain behind his eye considerably worse. The familiar sensation of tiny knives stabbing, leaving puncture wounds in their wake to obscure his vision, made it incredibly hard to keep his eyes open any longer. Wesker took a deep breath to try and steady himself, keeping as still as could be so as to not cause himself more pain. If only for a moment of relief.

One of his hands settled on the surface of the dresser while the other moved to open a drawer. He hoped Diana didn’t see how he fumbled with the pull handle. He wasn’t even sure why that bothered him. But he moved to correct his error far too quickly, causing him to lose balance slightly.

The sight of plain black, white and grey t-shirts folded up and sorted by tone brought some level of structure back to the chaos that had been Wesker’s day, and it pleased him more than it probably should have. The shirts were simply for when he was too cold to sleep shirtless – he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing them casually, otherwise – and he removed one from its designated place for himself, and one for Diana.

The next drawer he opened contained his pyjama pants, all monochromatic and devoid of patterns, akin to his shirts. Just the way he liked. There were a couple of blue pairs though. Not like that mattered; he chose black, as usual.

A tired sigh left him then.

“Diana.” The sound of her footsteps crossing the distance between them seemed to reach him later than when they’d occurred, because she was already standing at his side. Wesker simply handed her the t-shirt he’d chosen for her, then he spoke again without looking her way, “Would you like pants?”

Diana chuckled at that, and the corner of his lips twitched. He treasured that sound. Well and truly treasured it.

“I doubt anything will fit me,” she whispered, the smile in her voice telling him she was trying to subdue her laugh.

“You have long legs.”

She let out a low, sweet hum at his dry response and positioned herself behind him, lifting her chin to rest it on his shoulder as she watched his hands comb through the pairs of pants in the drawer below. It was clear to Diana that he wouldn’t find anything that would fit her, considering she was barely two thirds the width of him, but she let him figure that out for himself. Instead, her hands ran down his sides and towards his hips. She stood on tiptoe to press a lingering kiss to his cheek while one of her hands travelled between them.

“Doesn’t change that you have more hips than I do,” Diana said between another kiss, tone playful, while her hand squeezed a handful of his firm backside.

Wesker reached behind himself and swatted her hand away, but he couldn’t stop the slight chuckle that bubbled up in his throat before it escaped him – one that mirrored her own. Her arms changing position, wrapping around his waist with her chin settling against his shoulder once more, was not what he expected in response, however. The feeling that brought up inside of him was not something he wished to confront tonight.

He needed to place more distance between them.

“Drawstrings.” Wesker held up a pair of pants that could be tightened at the waist, negating her claims that there couldn’t possibly be anything of his that may stay up for her.

Diana held back another sigh as she loosened her arms and plucked the pants from his grasp. Their short moment of joking around certainly didn’t last long, but she wasn’t sure why she even expected it to. It wasn’t the time or place, but she simply didn’t know how to deal with the situation at hand; it was always difficult for her to navigate when someone wasn’t feeling well.

On the other hand, Wesker was none the wiser to Diana’s inner turmoil. He only withdrew from her slack embrace and returned to where he’d been sitting at the end of the bed earlier, entirely focused on ridding himself of the rest of his work clothes. Without her interference.

Nothing seemed to be in his favour today though, because the moment his hips met the bed the entire room began to spin. It wasn’t like he had sat down too fast – or maybe he had finally lost his bearings – but the way the room was warping around him with stars dancing across his vision caused him to squeeze his eyes shut. His teeth ground together of their own accord and he cursed himself for it as that only amplified the pain at his temple.

All Wesker could do was turn his attention towards the buttons of his shirt, trying to ground himself as best he could by focusing on the feeling of one beneath his fingertips. The way the edges pressed against his skin as he pushed the button through its assigned opening felt so much sharper than usual. And it didn’t help that he fumbled on the first go.

“Let me help you.”

The almost desperate plea from the voice across the room couldn’t have come from Diana. Surely. Not even the distinct accent and low, gravelly quality of it could convince him; she had never done such a thing, never sounded like that, even when he’d reduced her to ruins in bed.

The Diana he knew wasn’t so willing to offer assistance.

Wesker scoffed, perhaps a bit too harsh judging by the frown he received, and only roughly unfastened the next button on his shirt. “I do not need your help.”

Oh, how he wished that were true.

The bile burning the back of his throat begged to differ. And it was getting increasingly difficult to just keep his eyes open, like his lids were being weighed down by some invisible force.

The soft sound of a zipper made Wesker glance over to where Diana stood, only to watch as her skirt pooled around her feet. His hands paused what they were doing as his eyes lazily wandered over her, mesmerised by the way she was carefully rolling her tights down her long legs. It wasn’t until she moved on to her shirt and made quick work of the overpriced garment that he shook himself free of her spell. To say she was stunning was frustratingly accurate.

She stripped down to nothing but her panties before pulling his massive t-shirt over her tiny frame, adjusting her hair the minute it was over her head. That shouldn’t have made him smile to himself. The thought that she was cute shouldn’t have even crossed his mind in the first place.

It wasn’t that long ago when he’d considered her vain for constantly worrying about her appearance, and the first time she had worn one of his shirts he had thought she looked absolutely ridiculous – comical, even. It was only endearing now. He chose not to look too close into that change, convincing himself that the pain he was in was simply making him delirious.

Fuck, he just wanted to go to sleep. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to close this day and reset in the morning.

Despite struggling with each one, Wesker managed to finish undoing the buttons of his shirt and he weakly shrugged it off of his shoulders. It went no further than that, however, even with another attempt. The motion only made his stomach lurch, like waves roiling at sea.

A defeated sigh left him at that, but he was too tired to fight it. He must have made for a pathetic sight, one he wished there was no one present to witness.

That would’ve been grand, if he was so fortunate. Diana was standing in front of him again after dropping the pants in her grasp and crossing the distance in only a few quick strides. Before he could protest once more, she reached forward and laid her hands flat against his shoulders; cold fingers dipped beneath material, causing a shiver to run through his entire body, before she gently pushed the sleeves down his arms. It was unnecessary, but Diana held his forearm as she pulled the sleeve off by grasping the cuff, making sure to not turn his shirt inside-out.

He’d kiss her for that if his head didn’t feel like it was going to explode at any minute.

As soon as she freed him of his undershirt with the same meticulous care, Diana returned to what she had started earlier, before Wesker had stopped her. This time around he wasn’t nearly as tense when she took his face in her hands. In fact, it was the most at ease he had felt all day.

The chill of her palms provided some relief to the burning beneath his skin and the stabbing behind his eye. Even if it was only for a moment – until his cheeks warmed her hands and ripped that pleasant sensation away from him.

The only difference from when they’d found themselves in this position earlier was that Diana now leaned down to place a brief kiss on his lips. Wesker expected some level of warmth in her gaze once she pulled away, but he was only met with the look someone would have when scolding a child who had just hurt themselves on the playground.

If she was insinuating that he was being childish, they’d have a whole other problem on their hands.

Diana readjusted her hold to cradle his face in a more secure manner, fingers pressing firm against his skin. “I know you don’t want my help, but I will not see you make yourself sick because you are too stubborn to let someone look after you.”

Wesker glared up at her. Well, he hoped it was a glare, because whatever left him was all that he could muster in his state. From the way one of Diana’s brows raised, he sure did something, even if he had no idea if it was what he had intended.

They simply looked into one another’s eyes, holding the steady gaze for far too long – a familiar occurrence that usually took place when she challenged him. He supposed it was the other way around this time. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her help, it was that he didn’t want anyone’s. He thought himself above that, and he had managed being in this position countless times before. Even if on some of those days he had gone to sleep without being able to change his clothes.

Perhaps he needed some help.

“Fine.” Wesker relented with a long blink, and allowed himself to settle against her touch and relax some more.

That earned him a faint smile from Diana before she leaned in again. His eyes fluttered shut out of habit, but her lips didn’t connect with his own. Instead, they landed on his forehead, and his moment of ease faded away instantly, his hands balling into fists at his sides the longer she lingered there.

The pit in his stomach seemed to lessen when she withdrew and dropped to her knees again. But his head felt absurdly heavy without her hands holding it up. There was too much running through his mind, it was getting overwhelming. And it wasn’t just the hammering at the side of his skull. He wanted her but he tensed up at her touch, he needed her but he hated her assistance, he… He shouldn’t have invited her over tonight.

What had he been thinking?

Slender fingers curling into the waistband of his pants pulled Wesker from his thoughts, and he looked down at Diana, who had glanced up at the same time with that question in her eyes once more, asking if it was alright to continue. He simply nodded and she focused her attention back to what she was doing; he even lifted his hips to allow her to pull his pants off. Whenever she had dealt with the button and zipper eluded him.

He despised that – the feeling that he was no longer in control, losing his vigilance as the pain distracted him too much. It wasn’t just that though, the woman before him also played a part in causing his dazed state.

It was strange. Wesker couldn’t recall ever having a lover treat him like this. She wasn’t telling him that he was going to be okay, that she was there for him, or any of that superficial nonsense. She was just assisting him, doing whatever needed to be done so that he would be comfortable enough to hopefully get some sleep. It brought about another dreadful sensation to the mix already pestering him.

He lifted a hand and placed it over Diana’s when she reached for the t-shirt he had haphazardly dropped on the bed when the vertigo had hit him. She only looked down at his large hand enveloping hers for a moment, seeming to be the one stunned now. Then her eyes finally darted up to his face, and the steely determination in them from before melted away into that look that unsettled him far more.

“I’m being overbearing, aren’t I?” she asked, a slight trace of a chuckle clinging to the edge of it, as though she was almost embarrassed by her behaviour.

Wesker let out what was probably supposed to be a laugh in response, but little more than an exhale came out. “No.”

He paused as his next words died on his tongue. Or more accurately, they didn’t seem to want to leave his throat and even get that far. Diana was none the wiser and just rose to her feet, hand slipping free of his own and taking the t-shirt with it. Wesker chewed on the inside of his cheek for but a fraction of a second before he swallowed his pride.

A sharp inhale, then he lifted his head to look up at her. “Thank you.”

The genuine smile that crossed Diana’s face made him feel far too warm, like the sun was bearing down on his skin and reaching the deepest parts of him; it wasn’t quite a grin, teeth staying hidden, but the corners of her eyes crinkled and the indents on her cheeks deepened somewhat. She didn’t give him much of a chance to admire it though, too preoccupied with making sure she didn’t move him around too much as she carefully pulled the shirt over his head and helped each of his arms into the sleeves.

“I take it you have photophobia,” she said matter-of-factly. It was almost too clinical-sounding for Wesker’s liking, odd as that may seem. The term alone just left a bad taste in his mouth.

It was sort of his own fault, which he didn’t like owning up to. He’d always had trouble with his sensitivity to bright lights, but he was only meant to wear the tinted glasses Umbrella prescribed him when in the lab or outside. It had been the relief he felt without a migraine clawing at his senses that made him forget he was wearing them at all, and in turn, that developed into a habit of leaving them on for nearly all waking hours. His eyes adjusted to the conditions and it only worsened his sensitivity when he was without his sunglasses.

What he wouldn’t give to have his youthful eyes back.

When Wesker didn’t respond to her, Diana gently cupped his cheek. He tried to meet her gaze, but her eyes were focused just below, where her thumb was brushing across the dark circle marring his skin. Another thing he wished he could reverse time to prevent.

As useful as her help was, Wesker couldn’t understand why she was doing this, why she was being so… kind. So tender. She wasn’t a nurturer, or the type to worry about others. Maybe she did actually care for him, more than she let on. That didn’t feel right though – it just left him profoundly uncomfortable. His mind had to be playing tricks on him with how exhausted he was. That was the only reasonable explanation.

Diana’s thumb paused its repetitive motion and she simply held her hand in place. It was just for another second or two, but her touch lingered well after she departed, leaving a pleasant tingle across his skin.

The last obstacle in the way of Wesker being able to just collapse into bed and hope that his migraine was gone by the morning was the pair of pyjama pants Diana was bunching up so she could help him change into them easily. His tired limbs seemed to move on their own, slipping into each pant leg with little input from him, but the moment he lifted his hips as she tugged the fabric over them, another surge of intense pain hit him, causing him to keel over.

It felt as though his head was being split in two, torn apart from the inside out. He could have sworn the eye taking the brunt of the pressure was going to pop out of its socket at any minute. The only thing he could do was rest his head in his hands and endure it, pressing his thumbs down on the innermost part of his brows in hopes to alleviate some of the pain.

Diana shuffled closer and reached forward to place her hands on his thighs. They only ran up and down the sides of them in a gentle, reassuring motion while her mind scrambled to recall the locations of where she’d seen every thing that could possibly aid him in his house.

Her brain was being just as helpful as his was, because she drew a blank, too taken aback by the sight in front of her. The intimidating Albert Wesker slumped over in pain – that was something she thought she’d never see. He always seemed so… invincible. Nothing could tear down his powerful image and break through his composed demeanour this easily, and she couldn’t quite believe her eyes.

“Albert?” Diana’s voice was so soft he almost didn’t hear it, but his name always sounded so much nicer spilling from her lips compared to anyone else’s. “Do you need a bucket? Or…” She paused for a second then let out a frustrated huff. “Where do you keep your painkillers?”

“They don’t work,” Wesker grumbled.

Of course they don’t, she thought. That would’ve been too easy.

Or he was being overdramatic. So, she pressed on. “Not even a little bit?”

The crease between his brows only deepened, and he squeezed his eyes shut. So, that was a definitive no.

Diana pursed her lips as she tried to think of what else she could do for him. She wasn’t familiar with actually dealing with a migraine, even if she knew all of the treatments on paper; she was fortunate enough to never get them, and she couldn’t remember the last time someone around her had. She could list off every over-the-counter painkiller and triptan that was used to specifically target a migraine, but that would do her no good. She didn’t know what worked for him.

There had to be something though. Diana moved to stand and go take a look at what was in the medicine cabinet in his bathroom, but Wesker fumbled to take her hand in his own.

That made her freeze on the spot.

She had no doubt he was cursing himself for doing such a thing, for how it almost seemed to be a reflex more than a conscious decision. Or perhaps he just needed something solid to hold on to. Whichever it was, Diana didn’t care, so long as it helped. Even if the way he was gripping her hand hurt like hell; she’d been through far worse, so the possibility of a broken bone was something she would simply bear.

“Here,” she whispered while carefully pulling Wesker up to stand a moment after she did so herself. He stumbled on his feet when upright, but Diana was there – the pillar to hold him up and save him from toppling over.

The arm not reaching for his – right hand clasping his own – was wrapped around his back. It served to keep him stable as she slowly guided him over to what she had long since been acquainted with as his preferred side of the bed. This whole ordeal would’ve been much easier if he wasn’t leaning his entire body weight against her, but at least the trip wasn’t too lengthy.

Their hands only parted when Diana let go to lean forward and pull back the covers for him. Wesker really hoped she didn’t see how his fingers extended on instinct, as if to chase her touch. It was utterly pathetic. The urge to hold her was getting increasingly annoying, and he wished his body would just try to not embarrass him for once.

He couldn’t exactly exert much control over his innate reactions in his condition, but if Diana noticed, she didn’t say anything. That was one positive, he supposed.

And the fact that he managed to sit on the bed on his own without dragging her down with him. That probably would’ve earned him a bony shoulder digging into his chest, and that would just make matters worse.

Diana didn’t have to, but she went so far as to help him lie down as well. In a way that wouldn’t make his head feel as though someone had taken a hammer to it, that is. All slow movements and firm but gentle touches, manipulating his limbs for him as they felt too heavy for him to move on his own. And when she was done, one of her hands reached up to smooth back his hair.

That brought about that dreadful flutter in the pit of Wesker’s stomach. Or maybe that was the nausea. He couldn’t tell at this point.

Weary eyes tried their hardest to stay trained on the figure lingering in front of them. But they were unsuccessful. Wesker couldn’t keep them open any longer, not when everything was spinning around like this. He couldn’t even make out what the expression strewn about Diana’s features was.

It didn’t even matter, because her comforting touch left him before the sound of her feet padding across the floor reached his ears – quickly, like she was in some rush. Unnecessary, Wesker thought. He wasn’t exactly going anywhere, lying there in agony.

He didn’t think it would get this bad. It had been so long since he’d had a migraine like this. The nausea, visual disturbances, and all of that nonsense was typical for him, but the vertigo would come and go. Every time it showed itself he was caught off guard; there was no getting used to the feeling of his body swaying back and forth when he was lying perfectly still.

That wasn’t even the worst of his problems.

His mind decided it wanted to be louder than the rhythmic pulse behind his eye, yelling at him to the point where his thoughts felt like they were what was causing his pain by bouncing around and colliding with his skull.

Weak. Pitiful. Unacceptable. Over and over again.

How could he let someone see him like this?

Not just someone, but her, of all people. The woman who would roll her eyes when one of the researchers called off work, the one who boasted about never getting sick, the one who carried herself like nothing could strike her down. Just like he did. And yet here he was, reduced to rubble by a bit of pain.

That’s what was confusing Wesker. Why was Diana being so considerate of his plight? He had no doubt she’d rather be at the lab, or really anywhere else, doing something worthwhile instead of this. She should just leave, honestly. There was no reason for her to stick around; it wasn’t like she felt anything more for him beyond fellowship. Sherry was wrong in her assumption; Diana wasn’t his partner.

She may have been his, but he certainly wasn’t hers. No, she just enjoyed toying with him.

Now was not the time to fall into thinking about that rubbish again. He should’ve never asked her if she wished to stay the night. Or invited her over for dinner in the first place, for that matter.

“Alright.”

That pulled Wesker out of his head. It may have only been low, simply a hurried mumble under one’s breath, but that entrancing voice was unmistakable to him. His little pity party hadn’t lasted long – privacy breached once more as Diana returned from whatever she had been doing. He really did despise that she was witnessing him in this state; this wasn’t how he wished for her to find out he suffered from migraines.

With her hands full, Diana crossed his room with the stride of someone on a mission – full of purpose. First, she placed a glass of water down on his nightstand, then she used her now free hand to pull the bucket she’d found in the laundry out from under her other arm, where it was sitting awkwardly and digging into her side. 

Once she set it down beside the bed, she crouched in front of Wesker and placed the ice pack she’d wrapped in a tea towel in one of his hands, which he lifted to his forehead immediately. Diana had no idea if that would help him or not, actually. She preferred heat for pain relief; being sensitive to the cold always made her recovery with injuries from ballet growing up a horrid experience. Maybe she should have looked to see if he had a heat pack instead. That would help alleviate the tension in his neck and shoulders.

No. She had what she needed, she wasn’t going to run around and make an even bigger fuss. It would probably make him feel worse, anyhow.

The only thing left to do was close the curtains and block out any light that threatened to seep into his room, whether that be from the street lamps illuminating the suburb or the bright moon itself. The significance of his blackout curtains now made much more sense to her.

When she stood to round the bed, Diana had no idea why she took the hand by his hip in her own and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her thumb even brushed across the back of it for a second. There was just this odd need to show him that she was there, that she wasn’t going anywhere.

Even as she pulled the curtains shut, the thought didn’t leave her mind.

She wasn’t going anywhere.

Taking care to not make the mattress dip too much, Diana climbed into bed next to Wesker. The last thing she wished was for her getting comfortable to cause him any undue pain because it jostled him about. It was only then, when the covers brushed across her bare legs, that she realised she was only wearing his shirt – the pyjama pants he’d chosen for her long forgotten somewhere to the darkness.

Wesker decided to be rather ungrateful for her cautious approach, as he moved on his own. Diana couldn’t help how her eyes wandered over him, taking in every detail she could as he began to slowly roll over; his brows were knit together, deepening the lines between them, his lips were pulled down in a frown, and his eyes were screwed shut. It was rather obvious to her that he was trying to not bring up all of his dinner, and that sent her heart plummeting down into her stomach. What he was going through really sunk in then.

She wished she could just take the pain away, make it all disappear and guarantee it would never return.

It was an awful feeling, watching the man who had only ever given her these tiny glimpses of vulnerability do what looked to be such a practised motion, as though he had a tried-and-true method for dealing with his nausea for so long.

She felt helpless. But why did she even care? Countless lovers had come and gone, not ever leaving an imprint on her heart, but he seemed to tug at every string.

A loud thump, immediately followed by a rather feeble sound, pulled Diana from her thoughts. It wasn’t quite a groan, but not nearly a whimper either, and she never thought she’d hear such a sound come from Wesker.

While turning, the ice pack had fallen free of his weak grasp and landed on the floor, causing the disturbance. Diana opened her mouth to speak, to ask him if he wanted her to pick it up for him, but she didn’t get a chance; he curled up against her side all of a sudden, resting his head on her chest. That was something she wasn’t prepared for. He had never done that before, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he heard the way her heart sped up at the act.

Diana kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling, not daring to look down at him while her arm hesitated to wrap around his back. What was she even supposed to do? This was all new territory for her, for them, and… it was overwhelming. She didn’t know what to think; there was just this massive weight that had been dropped onto her chest. And it wasn’t Wesker, or the way he slung his arm over her waist.

It was that somehow, despite everything, he had managed to worm his way past all of her defences and make her actually care for him.

But friends do care for one another, yes? That is a fact. And it’s not like their dates meant anything; she had gone on many with casual partners in the past, and they were merely a formality. The longing she felt for him was nothing beyond physical.

The arm around her tightened its hold on her side, pulling her closer, and Diana looked down just in time to see a grimace twist Wesker’s features before he turned his head to rest his brow against her breastbone. Whatever he grumbled as he did so, Diana couldn’t quite make out what it was.

She chewed on her lip while bringing a hand up to the back of his head, gently cradling it and holding him close. She found herself hesitating again, unsure of the implications of her touch – how it could be perceived. But the urge grew too strong soon enough. Whatever was going on between them was just that, and she wasn’t going to complicate matters by overanalysing it.

Her fingers ran through his hair, pressing firm against his scalp in somewhat of a massage. Diana absolutely hated the feeling of pomade residue on her fingers, but seeing the way his shoulders relaxed eased her disgust, if only slightly. She’d just have to deal with the waxy feeling on her skin, she supposed. It was a selfish thought but she wished he’d at least managed to rinse out his hair. She knew he hated it as well, though; his routines were always so important to him.

Wesker let out a long exhale and Diana paused the motion, unsure if what she was doing was actually making matters worse. He didn’t say anything, but the way he held her closer while his legs tangled with her own made her stomach flip, as though she was the one who was going to be sick.

The arm around his back held him firm as she leaned in to press a kiss to the top of his head. She never wanted him to go through this again, and she would find a way to ensure that.

For now though, she made a note to have a look for his glasses first thing tomorrow, before he woke.

[ehlnofay]

The travellers arrive at the lake earlier than they expected, a good few hours before sundown.

“I think we have time to find an inn after all,” Veezara says, his shifting feet treading boot-prints into the pebbly sand. “There’s certain to be one somewhere on the shore.” Or not too far from it, at least; Lake Ilinalta may be bad luck, or said to be, but travellers still need rooms and innkeepers still need coin.

Torr, who is already leaning his knapsack against the trunk of a tree, shrugs. “Eh. I like it here just fine.”

He sits down in the dirt to punctuate the statement.

Veezara remarks, “You have managed to avoid going to inns for a remarkable amount of this journey. You know you can afford it, yes? You have the money?”

Torr scrunches up their face. “Don’t use observations you made while shadowing me across the country against me,” they complain. “And yeah, I know. But I’d rather send it back to Windhelm.”

“Of course you would,” Veezara mutters, half-fondly; Torr sticks his tongue out.

“’Sides,” he says, after a moment’s silence, “it’s nice out here. I’m learning so much about the land, Veezara, about nature. You wouldn’t deprive a poor city kid the chance to learn about nature, would you?”

Veezara laughs at him; but he acquiesces, so Torr counts it as a win. They start undoing the ties of their knapsack. They’ve both been walking for ages now, and Torr’s hungry. (He’s not as good at dealing with hunger as he used to be, either – which is probably a good thing, but also means the food in his pack is disappearing at an alarming rate.)

His friend does not have the same idea.

“If we’re going to spend the afternoon resting,” he says cheerfully, “then we should at least make the most of it. Let’s go swimming. The water is beautiful.”

Torr digs a half-stale hunk of bread out of the pocket of the knapsack. “You go,” they reply. (Do they still have that crock of jam they nicked from the wedding in Solitude? The bread looks a bit too tough to eat on its own.) “I can’t swim.”

When they glance up, rock-hard bread in one hand and the other feeling for a jam jar in the bag, Veezara is staring as though they have two heads. “What?”

“You can’t swim?” he asks, incredulous, and Torr snorts.

“Veezara,” they say patiently, “I grew up in Windhelm. Where would I have learned to swim?”

“There’s a harbour, isn’t there?”

Torr cackles. “You’d get battered by one of the boats in five minutes flat, if you managed to last the cold that long. Not even the Argonians down the docks ever swam in there. Nah, never learned. You have fun, though! It does look nice.”

It really does, the sun slowly beginning its descent into the mountains and valleys to the west, glittering bright and merry off the water. The Lake Ilinalta itself is almost luridly colourful, reflecting the blue of the sky with picturebook vehemence. Torr hadn’t known water could look so bright – back home the harbour was always just grey.

Veezara nudges their leg with his toe and they look up. “What?”

“Unacceptable,” he says firmly. “Do you have a clean change of clothes?”

Torr’s been switching between the same three outfits since they started this job (‘cept the duds they stole to blend in at the wedding.) “Clean enough.”

“Good,” Veezara says, and leans down, grabbing Torr’s arm and hauling him up. “I am teaching you to swim.”

 By the time the sun touches the distant mountaintops, Veezara seems well on his way to making good on his promise.

They’re standing in the not-quite-shallows but not far from the shore, Torr in his undertunic (which he figured could use the wash) and Veezara in his grey linen trousers, and after ages of gruelling work Torr seems to have at last got the hang of kicking.

Gruelling is a bit exaggerated; Torr can think of many things worse than spending an afternoon splashing ineptly around under the warm sun. Even if they’re not sure that water activity is quite to their taste – the first ten minutes were spent inching into the lake and yelping at the mushy squelch of the dirt between their toes. Then when Veezara coaxed them into dunking their head in the water (most important part of swimming is holding your breath, apparently) it went right up their nose and then the next five minutes were spent trying to get their dripping hair out of their eyes and refusing to go get a hair tie out of principle. Veezara laughed at them again, and said they looked like a half-drowned skeever; but that’s easy for him to say, he’s been swimming long as he can remember and he doesn’t even have hair.

But Torr’s mostly got the hang of it now, he thinks; even if it took him a long time to get used to the odd sensation of water lapping against his chest, and even if he was worrying about slaughterfish for so long and bringing it up so much that Veezara stopped finding it funny. (Excuse him for being worried about stories of fish that can take a chunk out of you afore you catch a glimpse of them! Torr’s heard they like more temperate waters like the ones down Falkreath, and as a human that can’t swim he’ll be at a disadvantage if any do show up. This is their home turf.) He’s actually kicking now, instead of just slapping his feet noisily on the surface of the water, and he’s able to stick his head underwater without immediately choking down half the lake, which Veezara says is about as much as can be hoped for in a few hours.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” he keeps saying, which Torr is pretty sure is a load of shit but appreciates anyway. “Try to roll your head to the side, you look like you’ll snap your neck in half bending it backwards like that – there you go.”

Torr sucks in a breath and douses their head underwater again.

“This sucks,” they complain when they shift their head to get air again. “I’ve been doing this for ages and I’m not even moving.”

Veezara says placidly, “You’re more than welcome to let go of my hands if you want to try a few strokes on your own.”

Torr only tightens his grip. “No thanks,” he replies. Water gets a bit in his mouth. Veezara grins.

(It really does suck. But Veezara is so enthusiastic about the whole thing, and they don’t want to disappoint.)

(Besides, it’s nice, in a terrible sort of way.)

“Actually,” Veezara says, and he doesn’t finish the sentence.

The thing about the lake is that it moves, the waters ever gently pushing and pulling, and Torr’s pretty focused on trying to manage the kicking and the moving to breathe and the not getting muddy lake water in his eyes at once – so it isn’t until Torr notices Veezara’s knees gently knocking against his chest that he realises he’s tipped onto his back and is moving them slowly and steadily away from the shore.

Torr startles, takes in a mouthful of lake water, chokes. It dribbles unpleasantly down their chin as they gasp, “Veezara!”

Unruffled, he says, “Now we’re moving.”

Torr swallows some more water and starts coughing. (It’s foul-tasting stuff.)

Veezara looks concerned, then. He tries to reach down to brush the wet hair out of Torr’s eyes, murmuring, “Hey, hey,” like they’re an agitated animal, but their grip on his hands clamps in a way that implies they’d rather rip off his fingers than be detached from them.

“I’ve got you,” he tries. “You’re fine, yes? I’m not letting go.”

Torr spits out a mouthful of water. “Can’t just start swimming me across the bloody lake with no warning!”

“I recognise that.” He’s still swimming unceasingly backwards while Torr coughs and kicks. “I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”

“No next time,” Torr says. “Never getting in the water with you again, you’re a menace.”

Veezara laughs at that. “Nonsense. It’s an important skill to have. You never know when you may need it.”

Torr manages to catch enough breath to blow a raspberry.

They keep moving – Torr keeping up his steady if ineffectual kicking, Veezara effortlessly swimming for the both of them – for a while, until Torr is soothed enough to stop coughing and gagging and to just barely loosen their grip on their friend’s hands. Not enough to stop worrying about whatever could be lurking in the depths (mostly slaughterfish, maybe one of the huge crabs, although the lake is supposed to be haunted so he thinks a bit about ghosts too) but at least enough to stop vocalising those worries.

It really is nice if he calms down a bit. Nice colours. The movement of the water is unnerving but nice once you get used to it. The fact that Veezara’s going to the trouble is nice, too. Torr honestly never gave swimming a thought before today (he was in Windhelm, after all, what kind of madman would think about swimming there) but it’s clearly something that Veezara values, that he wants to share with him. Torr’s never quite gotten used to this in all the time he’s been in the Brotherhood; other people being the ones to go to the bother. Other people teaching and showing and explaining things. Weird – but nice.

“Keep kicking,” Veezara prompts, and Torr does.

They reach a rock jutting from the lake, its surface warm from the sun, and grainy. It’s too smooth at the sides to climb but Veezara gives Torr a boost. Torr turns to help him up – and sees how far they are from the banks, and feels a little sick. (They could maybe swim a stroke or two, if they were lucky, and the bank is… definitely further than that.)

Veezara denies the offered hand. “I’d rather get a proper swim in while you’re getting some shut-eye,” he says teasingly, and Torr thinks about falling asleep on the rounded top of the rock surrounded by water who knows how deep and feels sicker.

“Suit yourself,” he replies, and curls up a bit, because he is cold in his still-dirty now-dripping undertunic, and the sun is nice. (Falkreath and its ridiculously mild weather.)

The rock is actually quite nice too. Not too cold. No jagged edges. In a nice quiet place, where the water laps gently against the stone. As far as places to sleep go, Torr definitely could do worse – no, tell a lie, they have done worse. Under a posh house’s porch comes first to mind, though in their defence, they’re pretty sure they had mild hypothermia at the time. Weren’t thinking quite straight. At least no owners of the rock would likely burst onto the scene and start screaming bloody murder to get off the property while they’re trying to have a kip.

“Hey Veezara,” Torr calls, the movement of his jaw feeling funny against the coarse stone, “you’d haul me out if I fell into the water, right?”

“No, I’d let you drown,” he says. His voice, floating on the water from somewhere past Torr’s head, is flat enough to indicate exactly what he thinks of that query. “Of course I would, Torr, what kind of question is that?”

“The kind of question asked by someone who’s tired. Thinking of taking you up on your suggestion.” (He isn’t really. He’s not actually going to sleep on the rock. But he is tired – been walking all bloody day, and almost every day before that since Solitude.)

Veezara’s voice comes again, fainter. “Scream if you need me.”

“Will do.”

Torr tilts his head back, face to the dimming watery-blue sky, and shuts his eyes.

He likes times like this – slow-paced, no fuss. He’s never quite sure how to manage in them, but he likes them. (That’s why it’s best when they coincide with travelling like this – he gets to relax while also having a distinct spot to work towards. Still something to do, there’s just no drastic rush.) It’s luxury to get to lie down on a silly rock in the fading warmth of an afternoon on the lake.

Would be nice if the others could be here, too – though that’s an image which makes Torr laugh as soon as they conjure it. They can practically see it – Gabriella sitting cross-legged and stately on the banks, Arnbjorn grumbling about the weather and the water and the pointless break in routine, Festus huddled up under a tree with a notebook. Astrid and Babette at least would probably be good sports about it – and Cicero might like it, if he could be persuaded to leave the coffin.

But Torr’s never actually seen Arnbjorn and Cicero in a room together except for meals, and not even then half the time. So maybe a lake day would not be nice. Torr can see it going sour quickly.

Oh well. Still a funny image. (Maybe one day – after the stress and the glory of this job is over in full, and everyone’s had time and space to get used to each other – it would be possible.)

“Veezara?” Torr calls. “What are the odds we could do something like this with everyone?”

The lake is silent. Torr opens his eyes. “Veezara?”

The lake is silent.

They sit up.

Maybe he’s playing a joke on them, they think uneasily. Maybe he’s hiding somewhere to get a rise out of them. But that’s not his way, and anyway, there’s nowhere to hide; the water all around the rock is smooth and undisturbed, and there’s nothing else to hide behind.

“Veezara,” they shout again. There’s no ripples, nothing.

He’s a good swimmer, right? He said. Surely a strong swimmer can’t drown in a calm lake.

(Except with outside influence. Veezara never denied that there were slaughterfish in the lake, and Torr’s heard they can drag you down.)

(That’s probably not happening.)

(Veezara’s been under the water, presumably, for an awfully long time now…)

“Veezara,” Torr says again, though he highly doubts there’s much use.

He’s crouching on the little rounded rock, trying not to think about how much of it is submerged in the depths, how deep the water here might be, how far below his friend might be. There’s a ripple to the side of it, suddenly, and he leans over to try to see what it is (Friend? Fish?) except –

Except he dripped water all over the stone and made it slippery, and he pitches over the edge and into the water.

Torr’s not ready when he goes under, hasn’t taken a breath. He scrabbles at the side of the rock for purchase, scraping his hip and knee painfully, but it’s too smooth and too steep and his hands won’t grip. He can’t tell how deep he’s fallen – tries to look up, reaching as though there’s something to grasp – but he can only murkily see how the sunlight breaks on the surface and he doesn’t know how far he is. Shit.

Shit shit shit. This is why Veezara shouldn’t have dragged him out onto the rock!

They hadn’t had time to take a breath, so now they really need to – only that’s an absolutely awful idea, so they’re just floundering, trying to break the surface and grab onto the rock all at once. Their lungs are aching, and they’re scraping their whole body against the stone in their efforts to climb it, and it’s really, really not working, and shit. This is so stupid. They’re a bloody assassin, on their way home after killing the Emperor’s cousin at her own wedding, having spent years on the streets in Windhelm where getting caught outside in the wrong weather could freeze your fucking face off, and they’re going to die because they fell off a rock.

Torr can’t help but exhale, now. He manages to clamp his lips shut before he breathes in again, but his chest is burning and he can’t breathe in and he can’t get a grip on anything and he really needs air and he gasps and it hurts like hell and there’s nothing but the weak sunlight to hold onto –

And then there is something to hold onto. Torr clutches at it, his hands scraping and grasping, and then he’s rising, and then he’s above the surface and he’s trying to exhale and inhale at once and it doesn’t work and he’s coughing and retching over the water, still scrambling for height, and they’re moving.

It feels like Torr’s coughing up a lung. But eventually it soothes enough that they can shift their head to look – and it’s Veezara, dragging them towards shore with a set look on his face.

It turns out he can swim a lot faster when he’s not catering to Torr’s fear. Even when he’s practically carrying their spasming dead weight, he’s still going at a speed that would leave any may-or-may-not-be-there slaughterfish nowhere.

He hauls them out of the lake, onto the bank, and lets them cling limpet-like to his arm as they continue to cough and splutter and generally have a bad time. There’s air enough to breathe – but their chest still aches, exhausted, and they think they might have bashed most of their body against the rock in their efforts to climb it. They can see blood beading, thin and watery, thin and watery, on their grazed wrist. There’s a little blood on Veezara’s head too, in the creases between the scales. Torr hopes they didn’t do that.

Veezara lowers him onto the dirt of the bank. Torr spits something – lake-water and phlegm, maybe – onto the ground and rasps, “Sorry.”

“What? No.” Veezara flicks hair out of their face. “Don’t apologise, you almost drowned. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“Thought –” But Torr’s chest aches as soon as he starts talking, so he presses a fist to his chest and quiets. Veezara goes to their packs and finds a threadbare blanket in Torr’s knapsack. It’s a sweet gesture (even though Torr fruitlessly tries to stop him draping it around his shoulders – now his sopping hair will drip water all over it!)

“What happened?” Veezara asks, after a time. “I was only out swimming for a few minutes – I shouldn’t have left you when you can’t swim, but how did you even manage it?”

Torr pulls the drenched blanket tighter round their shoulders. “Couldn’t see you. I was looking and then I fell in.” They look up at him accusingly, then. “Thought you drowned! Where were you?”

Veezara stares at them incredulously.

“What?”

“Torr,” he says, and gestures at the side of his neck –

To the shape of the gills, standing out against the scales. Torr blushes painfully red. “Forgot,” he mumbles, and tips his head back. “Nine, I’m such a dope.”

Veezara laughs.

“I’m sorry I worried you,” he says, much too sweet and earnest for such a stupid mistake. “Really, I shouldn’t have left you alone when I knew you can’t swim. It’s entirely my fault.”

“At least partly my fault for being an oaf,” Torr argues. He snuggles further into the sodden blanket. “Least you kept your promise.”

Veezara looks blank a moment – then he smiles. “I did say I’d get you out of the water, didn’t I? I seem to be making quite the habit of rescuing you.”

“Oi. I could have managed Solitude on my own.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Torr balls up the dripping blanket and throws it at him; he laughs.

[skautism]

>"sculpt a mixed media piece representing a safe space!"

>has never felt safe