#bathed in white (white mage)

[bakuzen-art]

I'm coming out of my swamp to post some paintings I've done recently. Starting off with soggy Orion Altano

[zeloinator]

Poor Zee is going to be suffering from heat stroke more than any enemy in Dawntrail having to be so covered in clothing in the tropics shes jsut gonna have a constant little breeze going on her at all times

[witchofthescions]

what's your favorite town to hang out at

Well... I don't usually stay in one spot too long honestly, haha. You can usually find me hanging out either in Ul'dah, Ishgard, or Mor Dhona depending on my mood. Probably Mor Dhona most often, really, since that's where the Scions usually are.

At the moment I'm spending a lot of time around Castrum Oriens, though, trying to figure out what's the deal with Gatty.

[austinbutlerslovers]

Passenger Princess

Label Mature 18+

Summary With a small break in his hectic schedule Austin wants to clear his head with you on the open road.

❤️‍🔥Passionate Smut❤️‍🔥 Austin wanting a quick get away • Austin wanting to spend time with you • being Austin’s Passenger Princess •rewarding Austin w a new experience • BJ while driving •cum eating •sex in a car• simultaneous orgasms• cream pie

🔗 Masterlist

*Inspo via @ughdontbeboring @feralgodmothers

Passenger Princess

The wind rushes through your hair as Austin’s white Porsche 356 A 1600 Speedster zips effortlessly down the freeway. The low hum of the engine blends with Blue Moon by Elvis Presley—one of Austin’s favorites—as it plays through the speakers.

You lean back in your seat, glancing over at him, and he’s effortlessly beautiful, every bit the image of a Lana Del Rey song come to life.

His sandy blonde hair is tousled perfectly by the wind, his Jacques Marie Mage shades reflecting the sunlight, hiding his gorgeous blue eyes you know so well.

He’s wearing a white tee and blue jeans, understated but undeniably sexy, his hands gripping the wheel with practiced ease.

“This is exactly what I needed,” Austin says, his voice cutting through the music. “Just the open road, no schedule, no cameras… just us.” His fingers trail lightly over the steering wheel as he glances your way with a small, satisfied grin. “An hour out of L.A. feels like another world, doesn’t it?”

You nod, smiling as the wind whips around you. “It does. You’ve been working non-stop, Austin,” you admit, gazing over at him.

He sighs, his shoulders relaxing as he leans back into his seat. “It’s been a whirlwind up until last week, and I still have meetings about my next projects when we get back. Feels like my head’s constantly spinning,” he confesses, giving you a side glance. “This—this is the first time in a while I’ve been able to just breathe.”

“I know,” you say softly, reaching over to brush your hand against his arm. “I can tell how much you love what you do.”

He gives your hand a quick squeeze before returning his focus to the road. The highway starts to clear, the cars thinning out as the sprawling desert landscape unfolds around you.

The vast, golden horizon stretches endlessly, dotted with rugged hills and the occasional cluster of cacti. As the miles roll by the fuel gauge dips and Austin pulls into a remote gas station.

As he steps out to fill the tank, a gust of wind lifts his shirt slightly, revealing a glimpse of his toned abs.

He catches you staring and flashes a playful grin, walking over to your side of the car. Leaning in, he gently lifts your chin, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

“I’m going to grab us some snacks,” he says, his voice low and easy before heading toward the small store attached to the station.

You watch him walk inside, your eyes lingering on the way his jeans sway with his frame.

A few minutes later, he returns to the car, placing a bag onto your lap with a familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “Thought you might like these,” he says, his voice warm and teasing.

You peek inside, finding a few of your favorite snacks and bottles of water. The simple gesture making you smile with affection.

“You know me so well,” you tease, tearing open a bag and putting a piece of candy into your mouth, savoring the taste and the way he watches you with quiet satisfaction.

He grins, twisting the cap off a water bottle before starting the engine easing the vehicle back onto the open road. 

With the steady hum of the engine beneath you and the endless stretch of highway bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun—it’s all so effortless, so perfectly in tune.

His hand drifts from the wheel, fingers brushing over yours before lacing them together and when he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles, you feel it everywhere.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he says softly, his voice rich with sincerity.

Your heart flutters, your grip on his hand tightening. “Thanks for having me ” you reply, your voice a gentle confession.

He smiles, eyes flickering to you briefly before returning to the road. His thumb moves in slow, lazy circles against your skin, and the way his hand fits with yours feels like something you were always meant to hold onto.

“You know,” he starts, his gaze fixed on the horizon ahead, “a few years ago, I used to dream about getting in a car like this and just driving forever. No map, no destination… just the road.” His voice dips lower, tinged with a nostalgia “Guess I’m living that dream now.”

The sunlight catches in his hair, accentuating the natural waves and the way it curls slightly at the ends.

He looks impossibly good like this—relaxed, focused, the quiet hum of the road framing him perfectly.

Your gaze drifts down to his lap, then back up to the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath his shirt and you can hardly focus on what he’s saying anymore—you just want him.

“You only dreamed of driving in a car like this?” you ask, letting your hand slip slowly over his thigh.

He glances at you, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah… I mean, maybe racing it really fast too.” He grins, his voice teasing, but there’s something else in his tone now—something darker, more knowing.

You tilt your head, fingers trailing over his knuckles, your touch featherlight. “What about having a blowjob while driving it?” you counter, your voice laced with a challenge.

Austin’s breath hitches for a split second, and you see it—the way his knuckles tighten on the wheel, the sharp flicker of want in his expression as he glances at you, then back to the road. 

Your heart pounds knowing what you want and without hesitation you unbuckle your seatbelt and slowly lower down beneath the dash. 

The engine purrs loudly around you, as you settle on his lap. Your fingers move to his tack button, tugging it open and lowering his zipper. Austin exhales slowly, his hand resting on the back of your neck.

“Baby …you’re so bad,” he says his voice hoarse, his tone laced with arousal as he speaks above you.

But there’s no resistance only encouragement as he relaxes into the seat, spreading his legs wider to give you better access.

He watches you intermittently, his fingers threading through your hair as you ease him out, the weight of his cock thick and hot in your hand.

You stroke him slowly at first, letting your tongue flick against the sensitive tip, savoring the way his thigh tenses beneath your palm.

Austin’s lips part, a sharp inhale escaping him as his grip tightens just slightly in your hair.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice strained but filled with so much need it makes your pulse race.

Encouraged, you take him deeper, feeling him throb against your tongue. 

His hips lift involuntarily as his other hand grips the wheel tighter.

The car stays steady, but you can see the concentration in his expression—the way his brows knit together as he fights to focus on the road while you work him with practiced ease.

He groans, his voice thick with praise, his thumb stroking the side of your face as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper. 

Your own arousal grows, your free hand slipping between your legs, fingers pressing against the aching heat there as you whimper around him.

His body reacts instinctively, his cock pulsing in your mouth, his breathing ragged. “Fuck Baby it feels so good,” he moans, his hips pushing up gently, matching the rhythm of your movements. 

You can hear how close he is, the subtle tremble in his voice, the way his thighs tense beneath your touch.

Your pace quickens, and he groans deeply, his hand flexing against the wheel as his body betrays him his hips lifting in perfect sync with your eager mouth. 

“Y-you’re gonna make me…come” he gasps, and you feel it—the twitch of his cock, the way his thighs flex harder, his stomach tightening as he loses control.

His soft, breathy moans fill the space around you as he spills into your mouth, his release warm and sudden. 

He groans your name, the sound reverent, his head falling back against the seat as his grip loosens in your hair.

You swallow hard, savoring the taste of him as you slowly pull back, your lips swollen as your eyes flick up to meet his. 

Austin’s hand slips to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin.

“That was incredible,” he praises, his voice low and filled with undeniable affection.

You grin, pressing a kiss to his stomach as you tuck him away, slipping back into your seat and fastening your seatbelt like nothing happened. 

He watches you in amused disbelief before reaching over to squeeze your thigh, his touch lingering.

“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, his voice full of wonder.

You simply smile, leaning your head back against the seat, feeling the buzz of satisfaction still coursing through you as the car speeds down the empty road, the world outside feeling far less important than the heat between you.

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the music shifting through tunes as the soft hum of the engine blends seamlessly with the peaceful atmosphere of the open road.

“This place we’re heading to is supposed to be amazing. Quiet, tucked away… I think you’ll love it,” he says as he takes your hand in his.

You smile, leaning your head back to take in the view. “I’m sure it’s perfect,” you say, squeezing his hand gently as the Porsche glides down the highway.

The sun begins to dip lower in the sky, casting a golden glow over the sprawling desert, the horizon glowing like fire as you approach the small, exclusive town where your vacation house awaits.

As Austin glances over at you, a playful smirk tugs at his lips. “You hungry?” he teases, steering the car off the freeway and into an In-N-Out Burger drive thru.

You laugh, your heart warming at the way he always knows exactly what you want.

“You know I’m not saying no to this,” you reply, leaning back and watching him with adoration as he places the order.

When he hands you the bag of food and drinks before pulling back onto the road, you can’t help but grin at the familiar smell of the In-N-Our burgers filling the car.

He pulls off onto a quiet, remote hillside just on the edge of town, parking in a spot with a perfect view of the sunset.

You sit together in the Porsche, the golden light filtering through the windows as you dig into the food. Austin bites into his burger, letting out a low hum of satisfaction. “Mmm I used to love this. It used to feel like such a treat, you know?”

You smile, taking a bite of a fry. “Does it still taste the same?” you ask, your voice soft.

He glances over at you, a nostalgic look in his eyes as he swallows. “Yeah, it does,” he says, smiling warmly. “Maybe even better now.”

After finishing the meal, you wipe your hands on a napkin and wash everything down with a drink of soda, then lean back into your seat, letting the serenity of the moment wash over you.

The way Austin’s looking at you makes your heart swell with gratitude, and you reach out to brush your fingers along his arm.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Austin’s smile softens as he leans closer. “Come here,” he murmurs, his hands finding your waist as he gently guides you to climb onto his lap.

You settle on him, your knees on either side of his thighs, and as you stare into his eyes the fading sunlight makes them glow like the sea.

“You know what else I’ve wanted to do in a car like this?” he asks, his voice dropping to a low, teasing tone.

You grin, your heart racing as his hands slide up your sides. “What else?” you whisper, tilting your head slightly as his lips brush against your neck.

“You,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice laced with affection. His hands grip your hips, holding you firmly as you press closer to him.

You love him so deeply in this moment that it’s written all over your face and he leans in pressing his lips to yours.

His kiss is slow and passionate, his mouth moving against yours in a way that sends a spark of heat rushing through you.

It’s the kind of kiss that leaves you breathless, igniting a familiar ache deep inside you as your hands gently cup his face, pulling him closer wanting even more.

He shifts slightly, his hands working to pull his jeans down just enough to free himself, and you feel the heat of him pressing against your stomach.

Your breath catches as you lift yourself slightly, pulling your panties to the side and allowing him to guide you down on his hard cock in one steady motion.

You moan as you finally settle on the base, and his head tilts back with a low groan of satisfaction as his hands tighten on your waist.

You kiss him along his jawline, trailing soft, adoring your lips up to his ear as you start to move, rocking slowly at first, savoring the way he fills you completely.

“You’re everything to me,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion as his hips push up to meet your movements. His hands guide you, matching your rhythm as his breath becomes heavier, the tension in his body rising.

“Baby… you feel so good,” he whispers , his voice breaking slightly as the pleasure builds. His lips find yours, kissing you deeply as you pick up your pace, his hands gripping you tighter.

You can feel the way his body begins to tense, the slight hitch in his breath every time you roll your hips against him.

You sink down on him faster and his hands guide your movements deeper as you feel his cock pressing the perfect spot inside over and over again.

As the pleasure spirals higher, you both lose yourselves in the moment, his soft praises and your quiet moans filling the car.

When you finally reach your peak together his grip on you tightens and his mouth falls open in a guttural moan as he spills into you. The intensity of your release leaves you trembling in his arms, your forehead pressed to his as you catch your breath.

“I love you,” he whispers, his hands sliding up to cup your face as he presses soft, lingering kisses to your lips. “More than anything.”

“I love you too.” you smile, your heart full, as you rest your head against his shoulder, the warmth of him grounding you as the sun sets over the horizon, painting the sky in soft pinks and golds.

Carefully, you slide off his lap and back into your seat, buckling in as he adjusts his jeans with a satisfied grin.

The engine roars to life, the familiar hum filling the air as he shifts into gear and pulls back onto the road.

You lean your head back, gazing up at the stars beginning to twinkle above, a soft smile on your face.

Reaching over, you squeeze his hand, and he intertwines his fingers with yours as the Porsche glides effortlessly down the highway, the air cooling with the onset of night.

As he rolls up and parks just in front of the vacation home, he cuts the engine, and for a moment, the two of you sit there in the stillness as the night wraps around you.

You glance over at him, his profile softly illuminated by the glow of the porch lights, and you can’t help but think that in this moment��just the two of you, being on the open road, and satisfying each other endlessly—is everything you needed, too.

END 🏜️

🔗 Masterlist

🏷️ Always Tag Me

@purejasmine @burnthheparaphilia @butdaddyilovehim99 @austinbutlerfly @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal @lindszeppelin @abswifey @aust-een @umika @feralgodmothers @psycheetamore @megangovier @magicovento @obsessedvibee @austiebuttbutt @faegoddessog @dunevitani @unicoo @thejeywillburnoutthepain @jessica987 @slowsweetlove @hardcoredisneynerd @finley-08 @thegabbyh @thefallofthedamned @buckysteveloki-me @bucking-mustangs-with-wings @shegatsby @darlingisntit @lovereadingfanfic @denised916 @shockercoco @minispice-1@ @i5uckersblog @ughdontbeboring @meetmeatyourworst @avidreader/3 @xxmandaveexx @mamawiggers1980 @imjustheretoreadsmuthaha @missjadesticsreblog @gravesdiggergirl @nostalgichoya @stars-remain2 @skulliecadaver-blog

[ledesaid]

Whatcha got there, kid?

—What are you reading, kid?

—Nothing! —Billy clutched the large, old book to his chest.

Constantine's eyes widened, and he took the cigarette out of his mouth. Something smelled off. That book?

—Bah, what a scam! For a second, I thought you were hiding a magazine of dubious reputation...

—I don't read that stuff! —the young apprentice mage hid his face in the large compendium.

—You're twelve years old, kid. I'm more worried that you don't have one.

—It's my history book. I have an exam tomorrow.

—You kids and your school exams...

Constantine took a couple of steps back and, with a simple attraction spell, snatched a booklet from Billy's knees, leaving the boy surprised. It was almost completely invisible thanks to a spell, but not enough to fool Constantine's trained eyes.

—Aha! —he took it without blinking— And it's black magic! —anger spread across John's face as he took the opportunity to roll up the booklet and give Billy a firm tap on the head.

—Ouch! —Billy rubbed his head.

—No practicing that magic under this roof, kid!

—I wasn't practicing it... Just reading it —he said in a lower voice.

—You teenagers and your white lies...

Lighting a new cigarette, the Englishman carefully examined each page... They were basics, nothing lethal or permanent, but there can never be enough caution with these matters.

—And just to be sure, you need to bathe in holy water.

—No! Come on, Mr. Constantine, it smells bad. It must be stagnant by now.

—You don't want to end up deformed or cursed, do you, cap?

With a reprimanding look, Billy shook his head. He had already gone through that before in his first months as captain, nothing pleasant, and although one of his cases had led him to meet the Englishman, he didn't want to repeat it.

—I wasn't going to practice it...

—Yes, and I, Constantine, swear that I will never invoke an arcane circle...

Sarcasm hung in the air; Billy had been caught.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - The Stretcher - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

An ugly reckoning...

tw: gore, violence, medical trauma, limb loss

cw: suggestions of inappropriate relationships between mentor and student

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Silco walks on.

Inside, the odor of stale chemicals seeps through the air. Jinx's containment pod is a plexiglas sphere resembling a transparent hive. Inside, she is laid out on a narrow cot. Her left hand—the two clever fingers so cruelly excised—is strapped to a splint.  The stumps are a little red, but clean and dry. Each one is neatly sutured with black thread.

Black as the sucking hole in her chest.

Through the covers, Silco can see the delineations of the wound, a map of gauze adhering to her torso.  The flesh is still flayed. But it is no longer a disaster-site of hideous spillage. The raw tendons are scored with tiny stitches. Each one, a testament to Singed’s ruthlessly meticulous handiwork.

The rest of Jinx is bone pale as if the scant pigment on her skin has been sucked dry. Her freckles stand out in stark pinpricks.

Two bags of fluid hang on a metal pole, drip-drip-dripping down a tube into a needle jammed into her arm. The steady flow of antibiotics, morphine, and synthesized Shimmer will bolster her vitals and keep her under.  Her breathing—a tarred constriction of bubbles caught in her perforated lungs—has smoothed over the course of the night.  But it remains an effortful jag: deep, dragging, discordant.

Silco's guts churn. The instinctive grind of rage is offset by guilt.

Then: shock.

Jinx is not alone.

A longer body's curved around Jinx's small one. One arm, the sleeve rolled to the elbow, is flung over her hip. Fingertips splay against her thigh: an anchor. The other arm, metallic, makes a protective arc over Jinx's skull. The cybernetic fingers, tipped with steel, are threaded in her blue hair. The head, half-obscured in lank brown curls, is tipped to Jinx's own.

Their temples mirror. Their eyelashes kiss.  The cadence of their chests rises and falls in concert.

The Hexcore, with hypnotic rotations, bathes Jinx and Viktor in a violet glow.  

From his own extremities, Silco feels pure rage blast open as the Monster unlocks.

"What the hell—?"

Singed looms from the corner of the medbay: tall and fleshlessy thin as a mantis. He's clad in a white smock resembling a butcher's apron. The barest smear of blood is caught in the weave. He glances up at Silco's snarl.

Apart from an expression of insectile alertness, he shows no other signs of concern.

"Ah," he says. "You've returned."

"Open the pod." 

"I beg your pardon?"

"Viktor. What in the frozen hell is he—?"

"He's aiding her retrieval."

"What?"

"Her retrieval," Singed says, in the same imperturbable tone. "From what I understand, a plunge into the Void is not unlike falling into arctic waters. It takes a strong grip to pull oneself out. J17 is a skilled swimmer. But she remains partially submerged. She'll need a guide to drag her to the shore."   

"He has no right to—"

"To what? Hold his companion's hand?"  

"Companion?"

Singed nods.

Silco's jaw locks as the Doctor's meaning sinks in.

Guardians and Mages. He'd known, in his bones, that the bond between Viktor and Jinx held a strange, unearthly resonance. A tie that binds, like gravity does a comet: two celestial forces, inexorably pulled together by the galvanic charge of their shared potential. 

He'd assumed the nature of the bond was intellectual. That their kinship was a matter of mathematics: two minds, one wavelength.  Then Jinx's spells of strangeness and self-enforced secrecy began. He thinks of the audio recordings in the Aerie: the susurrations and whispers. The ungodly silence.

It wasn't sex—no matter the wildness of his paranoia, he knew Jinx was still too innocent, and that her tastes lay elsewhere. But the overtones—of communion, and a deeper, almost otherworldly intimacy—were terrifying.

Now, seeing them together—a tangle of arms, a knotting of fingers—his worst fears have been made manifest.

It's plain, from the ease between their bodies, that Jinx has slept in Viktor's arms before. Plain, too, that it's happened enough times for this closeness to take on overtones of trust.  A trust Silco had invited: to his doorstep, past his threshold, and straight to his daughter’s bed. 

A trust that’s been repaid with disaster.

Reflexively, Silco's fists ball.

"Open the pod," he says. 

"What?"

"Open it."

"With all due respect, that is not the wisest course of action." Singed remains maddeningly equable. He could be discussing a minor surgical procedure: the pros and cons of local versus general anesthetic. "The Hexcore—from what I gather—is acting as a buffer. It is protecting both J17 and Viktor as they work to draw her out. To separate them at this juncture would risk a backlash."

"Backlash?"

"I'm speaking in metaphysical rather than medical terms. From what I have gleaned, the Hexcore is a living organism. It has its own will and wants. I am not privy to the nature of the bargain it has struck with Viktor. But I hazard that it is his key to the Void. And that, in exchange for entry, it protects his and Jinx’s corporeal forms. To rip them apart would be... traumatic. For all parties present."

In Viktor's embrace, Jinx expels a sigh.  There's a subtle alteration in her breathing. The Void creeping across her brainwaves, perhaps. Viktor's arm flexes around her. His own breathing—that half-mechanical, half-organic rasp—deepens. His lips touch her temple. 

The Hexcore sings. The pitch is nearly ethereal.

Two spirits: locked in orbit.

Silco's jaw grinds. A vein ticks in his temple. Whatever's happening, it is not something he comprehends. Not something, he suspects, meant to be comprehended.  But that doesn't stymie the rage. Nor the dread.

The former, he can dissect with a cool eye, peel it down to the viscera of what it is: a primal need to keep his child safe. 

The latter, though...

That's a formless shadow stretching over his psyche. The sense of something very, very huge: a force the size of a godhead eclipsing the horizon. And the stormfront, lightning-laced, is rolling across the sea straight towards his ship of destiny.

It's not often Silco feels his smallness. But he does now, and the fallout is brutal.

"You knew," he says, deathly soft.

"Hm?"

"You knew. About Viktor. Compromising my child."

Singed is not a shrugger. Hedging is not his strong suit. But his silence speaks for itself.

"I would not call such a bond a compromise," he says at length. "In some ways, it was inevitable.  Viktor is extraordinarily gifted. J17, a creature of pure potential. They are both seekers in the dark. It makes sense that they'd find each other." A slight cant to his head: a gesture of self-reproach. "I will admit: I should have informed you. But there was no reason to believe the entanglement was of a carnal nature."

"No reason to believe they weren't fucking?"

The vulgarism stirs Singed out of scholarly calm. He doesn't smile. But his lipless mouth shows a glint of teeth. It's the same expression he'd wear when Silco would return to the Cannery after prowling the dank cloaca of the Lanes.

Always: with a plaything on his arm and ill-gotten gains in his pocket.  

He'd often likened Silco's gravitation toward vice as a form of self-medicating. The sex, the drugs, the power-plays: all symptoms of a man whose eye could not close, and needed other means to unwind. Other ways to blot out the light. 

It was a diagnosis Silco only partially agreed with. It was not autonomic impediment that kept his bad eye from closing. Simply the refusal to look away from the world as it was.

Now, his bad eye smolders in its socket. It's a marvel the Doctor doesn't wilt in its heat. Then again, Singed's always been a hard man to burn.

It's what he and Silco have in common.

"No," he says. "That, I do not believe."

"Is that so?"

"Given Viktor's... condition... it's unlikely."

"I'm not sure if you're aware, Doctor—" Silco's tone, beneath the frigid civility, is honed to cut jugulars, "—but there are ways around that."

The glint of teeth deepens. A grin, however cold. "Oh, I am aware.  But I'm also aware of Viktor's nature. I've known him since he was a boy. Frailty's always been his cross to bear. But that has not diminished his drives. Only... redirected them, as it were." 

"Sublimation."

"You sound dubious."

Silco's good eye slits. Singed's grin fades.

"I understand. We're men of pragmatic bent. There will always be a selfish component to our pursuits. A willingness to see the big picture, even if it means putting our better selves on the backburner."  He turns to the pod. "Viktor is different. His nature has a singular trajectory: up. He wants to ascend. To break free of limitations: both inborn and self-imposed. Sex, in comparison, is a dead-end. Love, though? That's something else. Something that can take him to the stars." 

Silco follows his stare. The pair, entwined, are haloed in violet. Their breathing is slow and steady.

A duet.

"The boy's always longed for a taste of the transcendent," Singed muses. "I imagine, in J17, he's found it. A force of pure creation. Pure entropy. It is only in chaos that order can thrive. The sense of a divine plan is what gives meaning to the world. And a multivalent, fractal reality is what allows a scientific theory to evolve into law."

Silco's knuckles pop. He says nothing. 

"If it helps," the Doctor adds, "I doubt the boy's done worse than hold her hand. The way he speaks of her, one would think her a... psychopomp. Someone to guide him to a higher plane of knowledge. Someone whose existence is to be worshiped. Not possessed."

"Worship and possession," Silco replies, in the voice of cold prescience, "often end the same way."

"Oh?"

"With someone on their knees."

Singed doesn't laugh, exactly. The sound's too measured. But his mangled lips stretch to show the full set of teeth. They hold the implacable sheen of scalpels. Each one slitting its careful way through the tissue of Silco's self-control.

"A cynic's view," he says. "And one I disagree with."

"Do you, now?"

"I'll grant there is a physical element to their closeness. But, I suspect, the physical is merely a conduit to that higher plane. A literal touchstone to guide them through the dark. The true roadmap, as it were, is the end each of them seeks."

"That end being?"

"Balance," Singed says. "If my theory is correct, they each serve as a counterpoise to the other. J17, in her unbound potential: a spirit of half flesh, half catalyst. A force in constant flux. Viktor, in his rigid catechism: a being forged in metal and magic. The very dictum of death. Each is, in their own way, an anomaly. Together, they are a paradox. One that introduces a new paradigm."

"Paradigm."

"Cause and effect." The grin's gone. Only Singed's eyes shine: a cold, methodical zeal. "Or, in your language: cost and reward."

A chill steals through Silco.

It's not the first time Singed's dissections of the metaphysical have taken a macabre turn. For the Doctor, the two are indistinguishable: the duality of life and death reduced to quantifiable variables of mess and mass. In his laboratory, Silco's witnessed the results firsthand.

The Doctor's a man who understands that knowledge only goes as deep as the knife cuts.  And Silco, a man who has cut to the marrow of humanity's ugliness, knows there's no limit to the incision when the rest's been pared clean. 

"If your intention was to disarm me," he says flatly, "you've failed."

"Disarm." Singed's chuckle is dry as bone dust. "Old friend, you are not the weapon. Only the steel that whets its edge."

"Flattery?"

"Fact." The corners of Singed's eyes crinkle. "We are, both of us, mere tools for a greater design."

Jinx cries out.

In the pod, the Hexcore spins rapidly. The rotations, faster and faster, become a multicolored blur. The fluctuating glow—sometimes blue, sometimes red—is phantasmagoric. Silco has the sense of something primordial unspooling into existence. The birth of a star, on a spiritual scale: chemical fusion gone mystic.

A subsonic hum fills the air. Jinx's cry spikes.

Her whole body begins shaking: a subtle network of pain radiating, it seems, from the epicenter of her wound. Viktor's embrace holds. But beads of sweat pop on his temples. His breathing goes choppy.  The pod's plexiglas walls turn milky as if with steam.

No—frost.

Silco can see the lattice of ice spreading. The cracks, fanning in jagged starbursts, resemble spiderweb.

Meanwhile, Viktor and Jinx may as well be under a full rig of stage lights: both of them are simmering in their skins.

Jinx's pallor is engulfed by a bright pink flush. Her breath comes in rapid drags. Her good right hand, fluttering, finds Viktor's good left. Their palms align, fingers twining. The twin rows of knuckles, flesh and bone, are deathly white.

The Hexcore's singing deepens. Jinx's own cry climbs to a keen.

Silco races forward. "Jinx!"

Before he can touch the pod, Singed seizes his arm. The grip is cold, cadaverous, yet somehow comforting.

"Not yet," he urges, as Jinx's wails echo and re-echo. "It's not done yet."

"Let go! She needs me—"

"No." Singed's grip is as unyielding as his gaze. "She needs to finish this. As does Viktor. Let them see it through."

Silco stares. Blood beats in his temples. He understands, remotely, that he is terrified. Paralysis, its predictable residue, clings like a second skin. It's a heaviness he despises. It's why he is so quick to reassert self-dominion with a dose of violence. To defend himself, monster and man, from threats that would otherwise devour him.

But what if the threat's taken root in the tenderest parts?

What if it can never be excised?

(Is that fatherhood?)

Tossing her head, Jinx screams. Viktor, gasping, shudders.

The Hexcore's pulsations go critical.

Then—with a flash of brilliant blue—the humming ebbs. The pod's opalescent frost, in icy bloom, evaporates. Within, Jinx and Viktor subside into stillness. Their hands are still twined, their foreheads together. Both breathe in unison. 

But there's a dissonance in the rhythm. A harmony, that, while still in tandem, is their own.

Viktor is the first to wake.

His arm loosens its cradle around Jinx. His head stirs, the dark crown dislodging against its blue perch of her skull. The gold eyes—with their black-rimmed core—flicker. They are glazed in shock.  Then he blinks, and they regain focus. The lineaments of his expression—grim-lipped and hollow-cheeked—are ones Silco knows well.

The sense of a spirit coming to the limits of its endurance, and shattering the barrier.

Now he's unsure what awaits on the other side.

Slowly, the golden eyes swivel. They find Singed. They find Silco. Then they fall on his and Jinx's still-linked hands. Something flickers across his wan face. Not a smile, exactly. But a certain softness around the hard brackets of his mouth.

As if he'd held on to a fear for dear life. And now, finding it unfounded, can let it go.

With a gentle tug, he unthreads their fingers.

Jinx doesn't stir. But she lets off a long slow exhalation that could be sadness, or a deep release of tension. Viktor disentangles their bodies. He does so with a delicate, deliberate care, keeping a light contact of fingertips all the way down her torso. Silco follows their path to Jinx's ribcage.

Under the gauze, the wound is closed. The meat is seared like a brand. But there's no trace of torn skin. Even the stitches—each raw suture point—have shrunk into a smooth pink furrow.

Jinx breathes. Each rise and fall—seamless—is a small miracle.

Silco is not a devout man. Contemptuous of all matters devotional, he treats prayer like a poor business transaction: an unstable currency of sacrifice, with no guarantee of success.

Now, the gratitude that floods his lungs is nearly a baptism. He hates every iota: the helplessness, the loss of agency.

But loves, gut-wrenchingly, what it's restored.

With effort, Viktor straightens. His bare feet, touching the tiles, let off a metallic clink. One hand grips the bedframe. The other reaches for his cane. Every muscle delineates the difficulty of keeping his balance.

The sheer exertion of willpower in holding his mind and body together.

As with all impossible endeavors, he does not falter.

"It is done," he says, hoarse but steady.  "She is back."

"Back?"

"Within herself. The Void... has touched her heart. She has seen its own. But she is intact."

"Intact?"

"She will recover." He swallows with a liquid click. "In time."

Silco nods.

On the rumpled sheets, Jinx sleeps. Her breaths hold a deep-sea serenity. Her delicate features are preciously girlish and lost-looking. The sight suffuses Silco with a tenderness that yet calls up the horror of it all.

He takes himself to a place of stillness, and allows himself to feel it. Not just last night's ordeal. Everything leading up to it. Strategy after strategy, error after error, so the outcome is the same as when Zaun first emerged from its ravaged shell.

His child in a sickbed. His paternal devotion in a deathmatch with politics. His and Vi's blood game no more than a war against specters.

A war they've both lost.

Badly.

Silco's eyes pass from his sleeping beauty to the man who'd saved her life.

"Doctor," Silco says. "Open the pod."

Singed does not argue. With a deft touch, he flips the controls. 

The plexiglas shell retracts. The air, trapped, is instantly sucked out. It is unseasonably warm from Jinx's and Viktor's body-heat. The smell holds a sterile bite of disinfectant. Underneath, a faint trace of musk lingers.

The unforgettable odor has been imprinted on Silco's olfactory landscape since Jinx began working with the Hex-gem. The permeating ozone-stink of night sweats and lightning strikes.

The afterglow of the Void.

Now Silco detects the component he'd not dared to put a name to: that singular, almost sexual tang. Two spirits, intertwined, coupling in a realm without flesh. 

Right under his roof.

His eyes lock on Viktor's. The younger man's ambivalent features, caught between exhaustion and relief, shift. Wariness creeps in. It's not the fear of reckoning. More the full awareness of a gamble gone sour.

Now the ruin, no matter how cataclysmic, must be accounted for.

The gold eyes—infinitely patient, infinitely reckless—do not waver.

"I believe," Viktor says, "you have questions."

"I do," Silco says. Then: "Doctor. Fetch the stretcher."

Singed's head takes on an insectile slant. As if he's caught the taste of blood in his mandibles, and is trying to parse its source.

"Stretcher?" he repeats. "Whatever for?"

"Viktor."

"The boy seems perfectly—"

Crossing the distance, Silco lays a hand on Viktor's shoulder. A steadying, almost paternal clasp.

The Monster, unsheathing its claws, rakes down.

His fist slams into Viktor's gut. The young man staggers with a strangled cry. His cane clatters. The rest of him slumps, jelly-legged, as Silco follows with a snapping right hook, smoking it straight through the boy's frail defense and connecting with his jaw.

There is a satisfying snap of bone on bone. The sound, visceral and rich, kickstarts a tidal wave of blackness that seethes from the balls of Silco's feet and climbs all the way to his hairline.

The Monster is awake, and it is hungry.

"Doctor," Silco says, as Viktor crumples to the floor. "The stretcher."

Wisely, Singed obeys.

[dunmeshichilchuck]

For That One Guy On Tumblr, part 2

Chilchuck x !fem !Halffoot Reader

@dunmeshimeshi @leguink

Yes, union! What-" Chilchuck stopped and frowned. "Wait...how long had this dungeon been open when you entered?"

"...maybe six months? I joined on with a party dedicated to finding and destroying the mad mage instead of treasure hunting. How long has it been?"

There was a stunned silence. 

Finally it was broken by Chilchuck whistling through his teeth. "pheeeeeeewwww, you've been here a long time then. It's been almost six years since this dungeon was discovered."

The tall man beamed. "Woooahhhh this is so cool! I guess it doesn't matter how long it's been, as long as the body isn't too damaged and everything is there the soul sticks around! That means if we preserved bodies in something like vinegar they could stay in stasis indefinitely!" 

The elf rounded on him. "thats not- this poor person just found out she's been...gone for almost six years and that's your reaction??"

The tall man raised his hands defensively. "It could just have a lot of applications, okay? Has anyone even been ABLE to be revived after so long? No one thought it would be possible but clearly-" he gestured at you "she's living proof it is!" He stopped abruptly, as if realizing something. "Ah, sorry! What's your name? I'm Laois!"

Your mind whirled. How did this happen? What about the people you knew? Oh god, what about your sister? She'd be up near what...27 now? Was she technically the same age as you now? God she'd never let you live that down. 

"I'm...y/n....six...six years? How is that even possible? Oh! Who wound up defeating the mad mage? Did they wind up being the ruler like the dead guy said?" 

There was an awkward silence. Finally Laois said "ahh...hmmm... Well he's not been defeated yet...people have been trying all this time..." 

"What...? How? We figured we had to get in fast before everyone else started flooding in but....six years? Has someone at least gotten close?" 

A sudden pang of regret struck you. There was no hurry. Your party could have prepared more. You could have vetted your party members more....maybe you could have made it. And since Laois would definitely know if they had succeeded...they were either dead or given up. The thought gave you some small satisfaction.

You hoped it was a trap that did them in. Fuckers shouldn't have tossed you aside so easily.

Laois continued "but! I think we've got a solid shot at it now! So don't worry, we'll definitely defeat the mad mage!"

Chilchuck quietly snorted, and rolled his eyes at you. 

The elf stepped in. "It's nice to meet you y/n! My name's Marcille." She pointed at the dwarf and then the cat girl and said "his name's Senshi, and she's Izutzumi." 

"Nice...nice to meet you..." You stuttered out.

"Nice to meet you!" Senshi said, smiling up at you. Izutzumi just continued looking bored. 

"Food is ready!" Senshi continued "now I'm sure you have more questions for us, but you must be starved from resurrecting and there's no rush. Let's eat a meal first and then we can talk. But! Before we eat you're going to need to wash up and get some fresh clothes. No sense in eating a meal with dirty hands." 

You looked down at yourself, he was right, you were filthy and your clothes hung off you in tatters, grimy and soaked with disgusting water. Now that you paid attention, to your embarrassment you realized you definitely smelled. 

Marcille hung up some blankets to give you some privacy so you could quickly rinse off, and you could hear them rustling around in packs and discussing what would fit you. The water felt amazing, and you realized even before your....death. you hadn't bathed in a very long time. You must have already absolutely reeked before you went into the ice.

After a few minutes Marcille popped back inside triumphantly brandishing a pair of pants, a shirt, and a...length of white fabric? The shirt looked like it would fit you, the pants....not so much. 

"We found some clothes for you! Chilchuck had an extra shirt and I had some pants. We'll roll them up for now so you can go ahead and eat and then we can hem them up later."

Chilchuck interjected from outside the blankets. "I'm going to want that back at some point! That was my one extra shirt!" 

Marcille ignored him and thrust the clothes at you. "Oh! And-" she dropped her voice to an embarrassed whisper. "I knew my um...underclothing wouldn't um...fit you...but I figured we could make a quick ah, fix using some fabric? And maybe a better one later?"

"Oh you mean wrap this around my chest as a makeshift bra? Sure we can do that." You didn't bother lowering your voice. Who gave a shit if some random guys found out women wore bras. 

You quickly dressed, making a makeshift bra with the fabric that you were actually kind of proud of.

The pants ballooned out around your legs but it couldn't really be helped, and you could tailor them to you later. Surely they had at least a needle and some thread.

You felt optimistic for the first time. This could actually be doable. You could be useful enough to earn your keep, especially if they had plenty of food anyway. You were pretty good at drawing off and distracting bigger monsters so even with fewer traps you'd come in handy. This could really be your chance to carry on with the quest and succeed, or if they sent you back, oh well, you wouldn't be worse off than when you started. 

Yeah, this could really work. 

[tanoraqui]

Dungeon Meshi Liveblog: Falin's Back! Everything Will Surely Be Okay Forever, Now

the bath scene is so good and not just for shipping reasons, honestly. Falin going, "I hope you guys didn't go to too much trouble to save me? That magic circle looking kind of fucked up..." and Marcille going, "NO IT'S FINE, EVERYTHING IS FINE NOW AND WAS WORTH IT, WE'RE GOING TO LOOK BACK AND LAUGH."

And Falin going directly to offering mana, in a way that's clearly standard for either mages in general or at least Falin to Marcille, and Marcille very reasonably freaking out because by all logic there's no WAY Falin should have any energy to spare right now - she must just be being self-sacrificing! And even if she does have a smidge of energy, who knows how soon she'll need it again! She died in her last fight!

.

Lolll Laios (twice Chilchuck's height, width and weight) is more of a lightweight when it comes to alcohol.

.

*delighted jazz hands* Practical Worldbuilding & Considerations By The Characters! See, THIS sort of detail is why I'm reading the manga.

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Consume! That! Which! Would Did! Consume! You!

.

I love this casual dinner discussion. They're all so deep in the weirdness now. Of course, Laios immediately proves that he still has them all beat, but it's really been a full-party descent into being absolute freaks by the standards of basically everyone else in the world.

.

Chilchuck's side-eye game is really impeccable.

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That's such a fond little big brother smile, I'm gonna cry!

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LOOK THEY WERE HAPPY AND TOGETHER, EATING DINNER AND HOLDING EACH OTHER FOR UP TO LIKE THREE HOURS! I could just stop here...they'd be happy and reunited if I just stopped here...

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Obsessed with how the cover of the next volume implies that Falin is going to be, like, a real character now, rather than almost immediately resuming her role as elusive mcguffin/white whale/sexy lamp.

.

This is so fuckin' cool, and creepy for them to wake up to. All the flesh is just melted off!

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The dragon ribs and giant pool of blood, with monsters forming out of it. the floating book, single gesture and en pointe pose. Falin helpless and somehow corrupted in the background... AESTHETIC.

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Nothin' but #thatbitch from my "school's first ever genius student"!

Srsly I could spend all day watching Marcille ancient magic!counterspelling these blood pterodactyls one by one. Her research is validated, and not just with an arguably self-serving resurrection! She has skills that are vital to saving all their lives! She's so fucking good that the Mage drops them all in a pit rather than continue to uselessly throw monsters at her!

[secret-smut-sideblog]

Lay on Hands

Astarion x F! Tav

18+ sub/dom, use of mage hand, power play, threats, dirty talk, groping, fingering (f!), restraint, p-in-v, roughness, porn w/o plot

In the early hours of the morning someone cant keep their hands to themselves...

-

"Sleepy," She moaned in protest against his roaming hands, nestling into his pillow.

Honestly, she should know better by now. To be so beautiful and in his bed.

That in turning away from him in her sleep the blanket would pull with her, revealing the delicous line of her hip, her waist. That curling her leg up would only flaunt the round curve of her ass. That the sweet lavender would still be caught in her hair from her bathing. That her underclothes, still dreadfully on, would tease at the edges of her hips.

Even in his camp shirt, the sight always making him hazy. The ruffle of the collar plunging into her cleavage.

Truly, how could he resist?

She sighed against him as his fingers traced the inside hem of her small clothes, hooking underneath. Not quite pulling, not yet.

"Astarion.." She whined into her arm, yet her hips pushed slightly into him.

"Such a delectable display," He murmured into the curve of her neck. "How can I not indulge?"

Ran his tongue light against the soft skin. Felt her shiver against his chest.

Turning onto her back to look at him, his hands free to new landscape. An unrestricted eyeful of how divinely his shirt hung from her curves.

Gave him a withering look, convincing no one.

"It's so early," His mouth burying into her shoulder, humming in agreement, body hovering over her. Fingers travelling, tasting. "Do you have no- ah!" A quick gasp as he thumbed over her nipple. "-decency?" She finished. Leg curling around his hip.

"Never." He smiled, fingers pinching lightly through the fabric of his shirt. "And you should know that by now, darling."

"Well then," She hissed into his ear, hand in his hair. Pulling. "You wont expect me to play fair then, will you?"

He groaned, hoping for this outcome. She was so easy to rile up. Teasing his throat in the vipers mouth.

Flipping quickly she straddled his chest, knees pinning his elbows down, his hands splayed next to his head.

Breath caught in his throat, this was new.

Her fingers drawing the line of his clavicle.

A sigh. Eyes alight.

"Volo."

The spectral hand appeared behind her back, invisible to him. Could feel a single finger trace up his thigh.

Eyes wide he arched against her, groaning, making her rise slightly.

An evil glitter in her eyes. "Already?" She purred. Leaning down onto his chest, chin rested on folded hands. Her full weight holding him. Watching.

"You conniving she-devil," He panted, the unseen hand running lazy circles over his bulge.

Turning her head slightly, a deceptively sweet smile spreading her face. "Oh? You want to play by the rules now?" Hand below palming him so lightly.

Rising on knees, rumbling into his ear. "When I'm just getting started?"

Giving him a quick vantage point between her legs, her ghost fingers wrapping tight around him.

"Fuck," He hissed. She sat back again, satisfied. Could feel the wetness of her underclothes against his sternum.

"Fuck what, my love?"

"Fuck you."

"Not yet."

The hand came up over her shoulder, pulling the collar of his shirt away from her long neck. Dancing along her pulse. Fingers splaying as she licked them obscenely. A line of saliva trailing from its spectral fingertips.

He moaned, hips thrusting into nothing.

Both her hands pushing her hair back, ribcage lifting. Eyes closed. Hand trailing down her neck, pulling the ties of his tunic, slowly unlacing with rough pulls.

Despicably hard below her, he thought he was going to go mad.

Only when the still slick hand cupped her breast, her fluid smearing a patch of transparency across the thin white fabric, did his resolve break.

"Please," He whined quietly, hands clenching near his ears.

Her eyes slid open, hand dragging across her other breast, revealing further.

"Please what, beautiful?"

Throbbed hard at her compliment. "Please let me touch..." His right hand straining against her hold.

She bit her lip, pretending to consider. The hand cupping up the side of her neck, running over his favorite spot to feed. Her low sigh against it.

She moaned, phantom hand running its thumb against her lower lip. Teasing inside. Making him wait.

Smiling wickedly at the flush of frustration climbing his neck.

"How can I deny those sweet eyes," She breathed, sliding back, releasing.

He practically scrambled over her. With a grunt, pulled her Godsdamned underclothes off. Fingers plunging inside her. Rough. Fast. Vengeful.

Her head fell back, already fluttering against his fingers. Mouth hot on her neck. His pace brutal.

"Oh Gods, Astarion," she panted into the curl of his hair, pulling her leg up into her chest.

He could only growl in response, fingers a flurry. Free hand gripping into her hair.

A pressure against his ear. Gods he had already forgotten about the hand.

Thumbing just like she knew melted him. His eyes flashed. Still she teases him.

"Darling," He warned, low. Fingers still punishing. "You're going to regret it if you keep this up."

Her eyes glittered. Bit a smile at him.

"Prove it." Phantom hand pinching.

Whispered, raspy. "I dare you."

Hooking her leg around his hip he pulled her up. Hand freeing himself, fast as lightning, he slammed inside her.

She moaned loud, back arched, choked out a little laugh.

His hips brutal, he rolled into her. Right hand pushing smearing circles into her clit. Left pushing down on her throat.

Her mage hand dissipating as her concentration broke.

A delicous little whimper left her and he smiled wide. Malicious. "There we go," He purred.

Already clenching around him, he hitched her up higher. Hitting that spot that made her mewl.

"Vith uns'aa isilme!" She cursed in Drow, so low he could barely hear. Oh he had her now.

"What was that, darling?" Pushed forward into her ear. Revelling.

"I said," She breathed, voice hot. Her hand gripping the back of his neck. Switching to Elvish.

"Arkhlavae tel'quiet salen illunathros."

Fuck me my moonlight.

He groaned loud, eyes pulling shut. Her words, the way her tongue danced over the syllables, driving him into her viciously. Hips snapping.

How did she always gain the upper hand?

"Siilens thar, alet nesh tel'quiet Veluthe.." She breathed into his ear.

That's good, come for me Beautiful.

Too much, his resolve shattered again. Hips stuttering, he was teetering over the abyss.

"Tet," Drow again, low, throaty. Could hear the smile in her voice. "Ussta xukuth.."

He was gone. Thrown over. Gripping her hips he lunged into her. A wet guttural sound ripping from him. Hips spasming. Biting down, hard, on her shoulder. Drawing blood.

Her legs wrapped strong around his hips, pulling him in even harder. Matching his relentless pace. Grinding him down.

Something between a whimper and a growl left him. Her hips merciless. Locked in.

No choice but to ride his high to almost insanity. Panting, begging moans, words lost. Oblivion.

Only when he was slumped comepletely into her did she stop. His breath a gulping gasp.

Gods it would take all morning to recover.

"What," He struggled out, her hands scratching his scalp lightly, just how she knew he liked. "What did you say?"

"Lovely." Pressing a sweet kiss into his hairline. "My heart..."

~

[changenameno]

My Own (Chapter 1)

Summary:

Geralt finds himself once more on the path, gloomily looking at what lies ahead. And you? You had no one, no home and certainly no coin. Well that’d be something you had in common. No coin. You two are surely off to a great start… Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x Fem. Nymph Reader

Warnings: 18+, death, blood, cursing, angst, MDNI (there may be smut in the future)

Word count: 1.5K A/N: This is my first attempt writing something that I’d actually post. Have been afraid to do so, for a very, very long time. It’s not proofread, any mistakes are my own. Please be kind, comments/rebblogs are very appreciated…Thank you❤️✨

Shout-out to the lovely @livesinfantasyland not only for her beautiful crafted moodboards (which you should totally check out!) but also her kind words of encouragement! One moodboard of yours especially sparked my writing muse, called “Bathing with the Witcher”. Thank you soooo much! You truly are a sweetheart, and I hope you will like this…

!The Witcher characters and world are not mine!

🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻 CHAPTER 1 Looking back you saw the castle ablaze with fire. Smoke spirals rising into the dark sky, only adding to the clouds above. Your home was burning to the ground before your very eyes and you could do nothing to save it.

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He grunted, reproachfully opening his yellow eyes. A new day was only just breaking, not even fully light yet. It had been another night on the road, without a job, without coin… Yesterday Geralt had tried selling the Kikimora to the alderman, who in turn had promised their mage would buy the beast. Turns out, Stregobor was just another weird wizard, talking nonsense about lesser evils. Then there had been Renfri, he didn’t actually think she’d leave Balviken but he wasn’t very prepared for the market fiasco either. Now he squinted at where his swords lay next to him. With the addition of a brooch attached to one them, it should serve as a reminder that something like that would never happen again. He slowly sat up, sore and still bloody. His thigh throbbed, there was a deep gash in his black breeches where Renfri had stabbed him. Vesemir would have scolded him for not taking care of his wound right away. Grunting once more, he got up and walked to where Roach was standing near a tree. She tried to nuzzle him and he let her, petting her sturdy neck then reaching into his saddlebags and grabbing a cloth and his least favourite potion. He didn’t bother sitting down, Geralt simply poured the liquid over the wound. “Rrgg f-fuck,” he grimaced. Once the excruciating pain had subsided a little, he wrapped the white cloth around his thigh, all the while breathing through his clenched teeth. Roach nickered softly, he turned his yellow eyes toward her and lifted one of his brows “Hey don’t be mean… I know I should’ve done that yesterday.” Suddenly his head whipped to the right, he had heard something on the other side of the clearing. Though he didn’t see anything yet, Geralt was sure that there was something or more likely someone behind that huge oak tree.  

                                                               Slowly and without making a sound he made his way over to his swords, picking the one closets to him and readying his fighting stance. His nostrils flared, the reason why he picked up the sword in the first place. That smell. Unnatural. A tinge of blood but also another very pleasant scent nearly overpowering his senses. He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly that scent was, but he’d never smelled anything like it. Though now that he was thinking about it more clearly, he remembered that he had smelled it before. It had been in the air, only a whiff but still the reason he woke up so early. That must mean whoever was hiding, had been there for some time now. Geralt lowered his sword, staring at the oak tree. Too tired and angry to come up with a refined plan he simply roared, “Show yourself!” With his luck, obviously nothing happened. Waiting a few more frustrating minutes, he finally made his way over to the oak tree. The dewy grass making his boots wet. As he reached the end of the clearing, he took step by soundless step around the thick tree trunk, once more sword at the ready. It was like watching a cat stalking its prey. Or so he thought. Before he could even lift his sword, a branch hit him square in the face and with such force, he stumbled backwards.

🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻

It felt like your lungs were drowning, drowning in thick smoke. Even though the castle was dozens of miles behind you by now, it still felt like you couldn’t breathe. The cool night air doing nothing in aiding the battle of your burning lungs against your panic stricken system. They couldn’t get you. They couldn’t… Your mind supplied very unhelpfully, that they indeed could get you, because they had horses and were therefore a lot quicker than you. But you couldn’t stop. You had to get away, so you continued to stumble through the night. Then you heard it, the rumbling thunder of the rapidly approaching horses. “There she is! Quick, we’ve got her!” “Over here!!” The voices rang through the night. Before you could run any further, the riders of doom had circled you. Wide eyed and breathing heavily you looked around. Tall horses surrounding you, all of which were ridden by deadly armed men. There was no escape. Looking at the ground you saw a branch, so you swiftly picked it up. It was barely longer than your forearm, but still better than nothing. One of the man dismounted his horse chuckling, “Aaaw that’s adorable, we’ve got ourselves a fighter. But Princess don’t bother, we shall deliver you unharmed. Isn’t that right?” He laughed darkly and the other surrounding men joined in. Yet you refused to lower the branch, so he kept talking as if you were a scared little girl. Technically you were scared but surely you were no little girl.

His first mistake, dismounting his horse. His second, nearing you without drawing his weapon. And thirdly underestimating you. He couldn’t finish his next demeaning sentence before you hit him over the head with all the strength you could muster. A truly horrid scream and cracking sound followed, then his body hit the ground. Unmoving. One of the other men screamed: “That damned idiot, get her!!” You let yourself fall onto your knees, releasing the branch and putting both your palms on the ground. Digging your fingers into the dirt, you began to murmur, the only thing that could save you now. The men grew uneasy, as did the horses. “What is she doing?” “How should I know?” “Make her stop!!” Suddenly a piercing pain exploded on your right shoulder. An arrow had struck you. You whimpered but didn’t stop whispering. Then finally the ground began to shake. “What’s happening!?” The horses panicked and reared up, just as the first root shot up and knocked the three men closest to you off, of the back of their horses. The resounding thud as they hit nearby trees, let chaos further explode around you. Screams, shying horses, roots continuing to shoot from the ground, pain. It was deafening. And yet you didn’t hear anything, besides your own racing heart. Quickly you got up on wobbly feet, trying to breathe through the pain. With your left hand you struggled to get a hold of the arrow sticking out of your shoulder, but you only succeeded in breaking the shaft off. The resounding pain, made you howl loudly. “F-uck…”, you pressed out. Oddly enough right then everything had come to a halt. Spooked by what’d happed, all the horses had either run off on their own, or with more or less conscious riders still in the saddle. The remaining men strewn on the ground unmoving.

The roots now, nowhere to be seen, as if they hadn’t just been beating dozens of armed men unconscious. Only weirdly shaped holes in the ground, pointing to an unnatural maybe magically induced battle. You didn’t really care about that though. The most pressing matter was, getting away, so you steadied yourself and started walking as fast as you could manage. Because your shoulder blade throbbed with every step, you weren’t going very fast at all.

Still you soldiered on. And on… and on. Through the night. Numbed by exhaustion and the horror that came with your escape, you weren’t very aware of your surroundings. Just enough that you’d picked up the branch before you left, as a last defence against who knows what.

As you continued to stumble through the woods, the first ray of light penetrated the thick foliage overhead. So you came to a halt at the edge of a clearing, leaning against a huge oak tree and sinking to your knees. The exhaustion catching up, made you lay down on your left side to not further antagonize your injured shoulder.

You lay completely still, eyes closed, for about ten minutes only concentrating on your breath. Seconds before you could finally welcome the blessed unconsciousness of dreamland, a roar nearly made you jump out of your skin: “Show yourself!”

CHAPTER 2

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[raayllum]

"Do you want me to wash your hair?" for rayllum?

The Starscraper, despite its intrigue and mystery, has bathrooms like anywhere else, although Rayla knocks first before entering her and Callum's quarters at all.

They'd been given a room and ensuite to share upon arrival, and while she'd blushed a little leaving her parents to come here, well... She was grown and in love. There wasn't much they could say, even if Runaan glowered.

Besides, however much Callum had said he was okay after the de-coining, she knew he'd been quiet and lightheaded. Which was why, after a few seconds of no reply, she pushed their door open and tentatively poked her head in.

"Callum?"

He was standing by the bed, shirtless (she ignored the heat in her cheeks) and turned to the side, seemingly looking at his reflection in the mirror leaning up against the far wall. Even from this angle, circular scars were evident on his upper chest, one looking more like a bite mark near his abdomen—souvenirs from Finnegrin's ship, and Rayla's stomach churned like the sea at the thought he'd ever been in that much pain.

It took a second, but then Callum noticed her, shifting to face her. His new white shock of hair, threaded into one of the locks that curved over his face, hung over his eyes. Another unpleasant souvenir from the de-coining spell. Callum had said the coins had some residual dark magic tainting, that Star magic was ancient and unpredictable—that the white hair wasn't from actual dark magic itself, but... Rayla didn't know how much she believed him.

Or how much he believes himself, given the look in his eyes.

She crosses the room in three quick strides, her discomfort and distraction on the back burner as she places a hand on his shoulder, lifting his face to hers. "Least we match," she says, brushing back the white. His lips twitch. "Were you getting ready to bathe?"

She can't think of another reason he'd be taking his clothes off. At least not one that makes sense outside of foolish, distracting fantasies—

He nods, blushing a bit himself. "Yeah." He rubs the back of his neck, grimacing. The magic had taken a toll on his body too. "Just got lost in thought."

She thinks of how he'll have to reach up and behind if intends to wash his back, or... "I could join you," she says and then quickly clarifies, "to—outside the tub, I mean. To wash your hair. If you want."

Primals above she was such a—

Callum softens and leans into her. "That'd be nice," he admits, even if the flush doesn't leave either of their faces.

She still turns away as he fully disrobes, waiting till he lets her know he's fully in the water, light steam rising from the tub before she turns back around and settles behind the rim on a spare chair. She focuses on washing his hair while he wipes a rag along his chest, pleased when she can hear him hum happily—maybe even murmuring some more of that sweet, silly, Ocean arcanum poetry under his breath—a sure sign that he's finally relaxing.

She brushes back his hair, running her sudsy fingers through the white streak, and he sits up more along the rim, craning his neck to glance at her.

"There's an Ocean poem, y'know," he says, forcing nonchalantness, his fingers tapping nervously. "Reminded me of some stuff I've read about the Moon arcanum. About how water, or the moon, changes, but..."

"It's still always inherently the same," she says, "no matter its appearance?"

He nods. She rinses out his hair and the leans over to kiss his forehead, and then the white streak for good measure.

"I think that's true," she murmurs, "but I think you'd know better than me, Mister Mage."

Callum smiles and then settles under her hands, sighing. "Thank you, Rayla."

She thinks of how he brought her back from the brink, when he was just the ghost inside her head that she didn't want, persistent and caring as always. How could she think anything else of him? How could she offer anything less in return?

She reaches forward and takes his hand, the nervous tapping quelled. "Always."

[madwomansapologist]

Autumn Thunderstorm | Chapter 2 - A call to motion

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series synopsis: Thranduil thought the recent attack of spiders on a periphery village was the only thing deserving of his attencion. If he could've imagined what he would found there, who he would found there, the Elvenking would wait a millenia in front of that river so he could see her sooner. Or: how Gandalf managed to keep a secret for 14 months.

second chapter synopsis: Curious about last night's events, Thranduil dedicates his dawn to understanding who exactly you are. Accumulating questions and very few answers, you allow yourself to remember the past. Aerin, uncertain of your future, tries to make sure that you won’t be around to attract more attention to yourself. She should’ve known better than that. [4K]

warnings: female!reader. lotr kinda of violence. pre-Smaug. warg. blood. trauma (subtle). fear of being lonely.

glossary: Lossëistar: Ice Mage┆Vendë: Maiden┆Tîrwen: Honest maiden┆Thalieth: Heroine┆Maenwë: Clever girl┆Alassëa rá; Alassë’ arin; Alassë’ aurë: Good morning

The frigid shore was not so different from the frozen river. Dirtier, but as static under your feet as the ice. Or maybe the earth was warm. Maybe the earth was gentle and caring. Maybe it was as it has always been, and you were the one whose now frost. Maybe it finally happened: your lack of control, your lack of knowledge, turned your blessing into a curse. 

The mist surrounding the valley made your fear fade away.

As you walked into the shore, gravel crunching your feet, the freedom of being in the midst of danger was nothing compared to the cold. Looking down, you noticed your numb feet turned white. Your blood was not circulating.

Only when tremors overtook your winning smile the Elvenking managed to find his voice. And he gave in to a king's first nature: a command. “Prepare a hot bath. Forthwith.” Thranduil’s words were not directed at anyone, but his steward hurried to the inn.

Thranduil took a step forward your shuddering shape, but no further. As his foot touched the icy ground, the voices on his mind came to a consensus. Now he understands. What attracts Gandalf’s attention. What was so special that made him keep coming back to that exquisite inn. 

Thranduil understands. And now, with that knowledge, Thranduil chose to get closer to you. “Vendë,” Thranduil spoke softly. “You did not need to act. The river would not affect us. Why did you put yourself in danger?”

Still reeling from adrenaline, for a moment you forgot that the man in front of you was a king. He was just a man, a kind one, asking a question. “Because I would have felt bad if I did not.”

For the second time in minutes, you left the Elvenking speechless. Analyzing your eyes, searching for some hidden lie, he did not even notice the silence. All he did was to let the truth sink in.

But you noticed it, and it reminded you of who Thranduil was. Did you say something you should not? The village is made up of elves, Aerin and her son are half elves, you know how to act around them. The silence must be caused by a royalty norm. You should have called him king, should you not? Or maybe he was waiting for a formality that you did not know should be performed.

Staring into his ocean blue eyes, you bowed. It was a stiff move, your muscles throbbed, but it was the best you could do. The only thing you know about acting around kings is to obey and be polite. The Elvenking is not ordering anything, so your mistake must be about the second one.

Blankets were thrown over your shoulders. Aerin rubbed them against your body, helping to ward off the cold. “You are wetting the king’s feet. Say you are sorry.”

“I am sorry,” you obeyed her without thinking twice. She may not be the kindest person in the world, but she is good. And takes care of you. So when Aerin says you should be sorry, you believe her. You did not even look down to see if she was right.

Before Thranduil could say anything, Aerin guided you into the inn. “Poor thing. Let’s make sure you do not get a cold.”

Gildor approached. “I bet your grace did not imagine your night would end that way.”

“No.” Thranduil was not sure about what surprised him more. Your bravery, or the reason behind it. “I did not”, he whispered to himself.

You felt Aerin’s hands trembling as she helped you into the tub. The water was so hot, smoky, exactly what you needed. Plunged into boiling water, you forgot about everything that was not warmth and twin suns and the color yellow and fire.

Aerin left you to finish your bath with some privacy after you promised her to not sleep on the tub. She walked into her room and took a sip of red wine. Soon she woke you up, complaining that you could have drowned on the tub, and helped you stumble your way to your bed.

Even alone, with everyone else sleeping, Aerin did not stop shaking.

Because she had only one task. Gandalf made sure she would understand it. Aerin had only one thing to do: make sure you would stay with her, in the village, away from danger. But she saw how the Elvenking looked at you. He looked at you like someone that had innumerable questions. And a king’s question always gets its answer.

Aerin had only one task to fulfill, and now she has a problem.

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Shattering glass woke him up. Thranduil rose, and even in the dark of the room it did not took him more than a second to find his sword. Illuminated by moonlight, he stepped out his chamber and followed the treacherous sound. 

But all he found was you, on your knees, picking up broken shards in a messy kitchen. Overturned pans, open jars, a mixture of spices in the air. A supper was served earlier, but you looked like you wanted to have one just for yourself. You must be starving.

“Did I woke you up?” You murmured, tiredness almost palpable on your voice. But that was not the only thing he could sense. Thranduil heard your hesitation. Your fear.  “It was an accident.”

Thranduil laid his sword on the table, the ghost of a smile appearing on his face. He knelt in front of you, picking up the shards of what was once a cup. He could feel the warmth of your breath. “Have you heard many stories about Woodland’s elves, vendë?”

“I had, your grace.” Vendë. That made you feel warm inside. Most people call you Lossëistar. Have someone ever called you maiden before?

Thranduil knows the reason for your hesitation. “And what did you hear?”

Your smile faded. “That most of you descend from ancient tribes that never went to Faerie in the West. That your magic is strong. That your folk are more dangerous between the elves. And less wiser.”

“Do I look more dangerous and less wiser?” Thranduil asked, his husky voice sending shivers down your spine.

You felt tempted to agree. Thranduil probably is dangerous, but not in a way you should be worried about. You shook your head with a genuine smile. “I cannot even remember the last time someone called me by my name.”

That made Thranduil bite his tongue. Distrust is his second nature, but something tells him you are not a bad person. People could have been nicer to you. “Then stop apologizing. You did nothing wrong tonight.”

You rose, and thanked him because you did not know what else to do. Without paying attention to what you were doing, you took the shards from his hand and left them in a box with some garbage. 

Thranduil circled the table, candles enlightening his golden hair. There is something so alluring about elves' hair. They simply drew attention. His seems to be so soft. You forced yourself to look away.

That was your chance to shut up and not embarrass yourself in front of a king. “Is it true your kind live inside the threes?”

Thranduil slowed down his pace. “It is.”

“So you can decrease in stature?”

Thranduil guffaw. You must be entirely wrong to get that reaction from a king. “Our trees are bigger than you think.”

“It must be a large forest.”

You sat back in front of your improvised supper and went back to eating. Until you dropped your cup, you had been eating for almost half an hour. You offered him food, Thranduil just shook his head and sat in front of you.

“How can I explain this to you?” He held his sword. Thranduil slid his fingers along the hem, looking for a way to make you see the correct image. “It is like a bird house. But instead of birds, it is filled with elves. And instead of lean wood, it is made of ancestral trees bigger than villages. And instead of a simple construction, it is a king's palace.”

You swallowed the food. ”Termite is a problem? Or is the wood magic?”

“Three minutes of conversation and you were more creative than half my generals,” Thranduil was not complaining. Not about you, at least. “It can be impolite, it probably is, but how many stomachs do you have?”

“It is, but I do not mind,” your honesty attacked again. “When I do big things I can get exhausted. And hungry. So hungry.”

“Do you tend to do big things, vendë?” Thranduil looked out the window, seeing the huge frozen wave. To call it a big thing... a euphemism. “It did not look like it was your first time.”

“That dam is a current problem,” you ate more before continuing. “I normally only do big things. It is easier.” Thranduil’s curious gaze made you talk more. “I know it seems stupid, but it is true. I could not freeze a cup of water even if my life depended on it.”

Thranduil was intrigued. How can someone that does things like that face hardship on such an easier task? “Gandalf did not mentor you?”

“No, he is just my friend. Wait. Do you know him?” You smiled, thinking about the old man. A yawn escaped your mouth. “He was here this morning.”

Thranduil arched his eyebrows. At the meeting, Gandalf said he had traveled far and wide. Why did he lied? Why would he need to lie about something like that? What piece of knowledge is missing to form the right outlook?

Thranduil wished he had a closer relationship with the inconvenient pilgrim. Perhaps he would understand the reason for such a small lie. But maybe you are the answer he desires. Maybe it is you that can make him understand why the man respected throughout the continent decided to be unfaithful. “You work for lady Aerin?”

“I take care of the horses.” You pointed in the direction of the stable. Your eyes shone. “I also help lady Aerin with her garden, but because I am the reason for them to crush her flowers. When I arrived earlier, my heart almost stopped because of an elk on the stable. But he was so nice. Big and scary, but he let me pet him and even stole an apple from my basket.”

“So my elk is a burglar.” Thranduil smirked.

“No… I did not meant it that way.” It hurt when you swallowed the food. “He was there and I just…”

When you let another yawn escape, Thranduil noticed how he lost track of time. It is too late. So late it is almost too soon. It is been long since someone talked to him about things that did not really mattered. Conversations beyond council meetings about the possibility of the Enemy still alive, assemblies about his army organization, political discussions that led to nowhere. Something beyond flatterers and cowards without motive. A real conversation.

It is been long since Thranduil laughed without fear of appearing disrespectful. Or tried to find a dumb but functional comparison instead of powerful yet useless phrases to describe his kingdom. Or discovered that apparently people think that Woodland’s elves can decrease in stature to live inside trees. Just a real conversation.

“It is late.” Thranduil said, but only within a moment he stood up. “Enjoy the rest of your night, tîrwen.”

“Same to you, your grace.” You watched the Elvenking disappearing in the hall. “Tîrwen”, you let the word run over your tongue. “I do not know this one.”

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By the beginning of the morning, Aerin made her way to the kitchen. Such was Aerin's astonishment when she saw that not only was her pantry attacked, but that the person responsible for such a horrendous crime was sleeping on the table.

Part of your face was dipped in what looked like a mixture between oatmeal, cherry pie and roast pork. Her disgust at your choices was greater than her anger at seeing the mess.

“You behave like a child. A toddler, even!” She pushed you toward your bedroom trying to sound angry. Your hair smelled of cherry, your mouth stank of pork, and what smeared your face was oatmeal. Aerin was laughing more than anything.

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“Orange leaf, anise and lemon-grass," you murmured to yourself while feathering the straw basket with an old cloth. "That is it?"

Aerin handed you a pot of honey and a jar of strawberries. "Milk. And sage." She folded a cloth and covered the basket. "Do not forget to eat. I do not want you passing out."

"Sage?" You arch your eyebrows. "At this time of the year?"

"I need it for a recipe", lied Aerin. "If you cannot find it in the village, you shall gather their buds in the meadow. Remember where sage sprouts?”

You sighed. After sleeping for most of the day (and eating for most of the dawn), you were not so excited about going all the way down to the village. You could feel a migraine forming right behind your eyes. And considering that summer has already begun to say goodbye, the chances that you will have to enter the meadow are great.

“I do.” You opened the inn’s front door. A cold breeze shivered your cheeks. “Anything else?”

Aerin felt guilty for making you walk so much, but it was for a good cause. The longer you were away, lesser were the chances you would draw even more attention to yourself. And entering the meadow will not hurt you. It will tire you out, but not hurt you. “Good riddance”, she said.

Due to the repairs to the dam, all horses were being used. How amazing for you. Walking down the valley, on the long path towards the village, you passed through many wagons carrying wood and workers. Many elves thanked you, with words or kind gazes, but you did not see the need for it.

To stop the water exhausted you, but it did not maim you. You are fine, just a bit tired. It would be weird if you have not done something. To let tons of water fall right into the village, aiming and drowning hundreds of people, just because you did not wanted to feel exhausted? That would be perverse.

The quick conversation you had last night with the Elvenking came back to haunt you. “Because I would have felt bad if I did not.” As simple as that. You did not even thought twice before doing something. You just did.

And even if it could have harmed you in any considerable way, you would still have done it. After all, you owe this to them. No one here had any obligation to have helped you, and yet they did. Aerin did. You owe it to her. You owe her so much.

Walking alone, trapped with your own mind, things that you wish to forget come back to you like hauntings. Every elve that thanked you, that smiled towards you, that said you were a thalieth: they only remind you about what you owe to them. It all just reminds you of how you got there.

Rain dripping on your face, land penetrating your nails, owls chanting. Wind roaring, trees shuddering: it was like being caged inside a monster beating hurt. So wet, and dark, and frightening. And so fucking loud.

That is how you first woke up, alone in a dark forest, during a thunderstorm. The only thing you could see was a distant light, and you wandered towards it because what else could you have done? When you finally made it out of the woods, following that yellow glamor like it would protect you from all your fears, you collapsed on Aerin’s doorstep.

What a first memory to have. 

It has been a long time since you thought about that. About what happened fourteen months ago. You do not like to do it. It is painful. It makes you feel so lonely. But you were alone now, walking down the dirt path, and that memory at least kept you company.

After the mental scourge, you made it to the village’s core. You roamed the fair, way more tumultuous than usual, seeking Aerin’s orders. You heard whispers about the Elvenking’s frightening presence. About how his army could burn cities to the ground with just a single command. 

That made you chuckle. You heard stories about Mirkwood, but now they do not seem so legit. You do not think a cruel lord would compare his palace to a birdhouse. 

You chatted with the elves, tried a better price for the things you wanted, discovered that no one had sage anymore. And little by little that gray cloud that stalked you disappeared. 

Gradually, leaving you with a bitter taste in your mouth, it faded.

“Are you sure you do not have it? Or anything that looks like it?” You begged the tradeswoman at the last stall. “Honestly I can work with anything green…ish.”

She laughed telling you to just go into the meadow, you sighed and waved. At the village’s entrance, where there were not a lot of people around, you started running. If you get to the sage’s buds soon, maybe you can take a nap. 

You crossed the path and went down an embankment, dirt soiling your dress. It was already old and rusty, a little bit of mud was not a big deal anymore. As you advanced, the weight of your body on the angled ground turned your steps into slips. You almost fell, but you made it to the lowland.

Laughing to yourself, you dropped your basket on a fallen log and searched it for your crimson ribbon. It was so silly, you could have fallen and gotten really hurt, but it was fun.

“As a foreigner I may be wrong, but I am pretty sure that is not a path for a lady.”

You dropped the ribbon into the mud. You turned around, a hand up on your chest, and saw the slim figure leaning on a tree. “Does your grace want to kill me?”

Thranduil moved towards you, slowly decreasing the distance between you both. “I saw you running, vendë.” There was something that resembled a smile on his face. ”Thought you were a damsel in distress.”

“Damsel in distress?” You rolled your eyes. “Nah, I do not think so.”

Something burned inside Thranduil’s chest. “Not in need of help?” He did his best to ignore that fire.

“Lady Aerin demands sage.” You tucked your hair behind your ears. Your ribbon was floating in a mud puddle. “Not a task that requires a king’s escort.”

Thranduil stood in front of you. You had to lift your face to look him in the eye. They were so enveloping. Like a river current that hides treasures while fending any intruders. “...could leave a damsel alone in such an environment?”

Ashamed that you did not listened to most of what he said, you nodded and guided Thranduil into the field. Following footprints that showed a familiar path, you made your way through natural plantations. Sunlight began to irritate your eyes.

“Managed to rest, vendë?”

“I took a nap.” You tried your best to sound energetic. “It was a really good nap.”

“You should be resting.”

“But Lady Aerin…”

“Lady Aerin should have sent her son to the village.”

“I appreciate it, your grace, but there is no need to defend me from her.” You rubbed your hands against the basket. One should not disagree with a king, but you tend to speak before you think. “Lady Aerin has done more for me than anyone ever did, and for that I will always be grateful. I have a debt with her, one that nothing will ever pay. She may not be the kindest, but she is not wicked.”

Thranduil said nothing more. 

For a long minute, you guided him into a wheat field. Leaves tickled your arms, you ran your hands through the wheat as you walked. Warm. The breeze played with the sprouts, and you like to imagine that the field was breathing in and out.

“You are more tender than me.”

You turned your head to look at him, hands still playing with leaves. “Do you consider yourself resentful?” You covered your eyes, protecting yourself from the sunlight so you could see him. All you could see was a dark shape.

“I do,” Thranduil whispered. It was not just a confirmation. It felt like sharing a secret. “My anger can be inconsolable.”

“You were injured, were you not?” You decided to get closer to him. A shadow, almost like sent from above just for you, made you able to see his eyes. Not rivers. They had storms caged inside it. You felt the urge to take his face into your hands, but you kept that desire to yourself. “And no one noticed.”

His calloused hand reached up to caress his face, but Thranduil stopped the involuntary instinct. It was not a question. No one noticed. You did not asked it, you just knew. Thranduil never felt so seen. “I envy those who grew kind.”

“It is so easy to grow kind”, you gave him your brightest smile. “But to turn kind? Oh, this is noble.”

All the Elvenking could hear was his heartbeat. There was a sparkle in your eyes. A certain sort of calculated innocence that only a person who suffered can manifest. It was like you had lived an infinite amount of lives before. “You are… sharp.” 

“I am not”, your bright smile turned into a giggle. You took a step back, suddenly aware of how close you both were. “I do not think so.”

“I do.” Thranduil’s solemn expression got softer. “I do, maenwë.”

“What does that mean?”

“You do not know elvish?”

“I know a few expressions.” You went back to walk through the field. Thranduil followed you. “Alassëa rá. Alassë’ arin. Alassë’ aurë.”

“Three different ways to say good morning.” Thranduil chortle. “Practically fluent.”

“Ouch!” You put your hand on your chest, pretending to be offended. “I thought kings were supposed to be polite and pleasant. I guess it is not a rule.” 

Within a couple of minutes you found the place where sage grows. Analyzing every branch, you tried to distinguish all plants growing there. When you found the frosted pointy leaves, you started breaking a few branches. Your basket was already filled with jars and paper bags, but you found a way to make it fit.

“Done.” You covered everything with a thick cloth and rose from the ground. “Lady Aerin sorted strawbe…”

A howl shut you up.

Thranduil held his sword, not drawing it from its scabbard yet. It was a total change. The relaxed countenance, just waiting for you to pick the branches you needed, became as hard as stone. His long body became more aware of space, you noticed that he straightened up. His eyes scanned the meadow, and you knew what he was looking for.

“There are no wolves in Rivendell”, your voice was nothing more than a whisper.

You were right. There were no wolves in Rivendell. It has never been a problem before for your village or any other under Elrond’s protection. But as another howl crossed the sky, you understood that times have changed. And not for the better.

“You will stand behind me. Will step where I do and nowhere else. You will not talk, will not scream, will not whisper.” That was not Thranduil’s voice. Not the one you know. It was husky, concentrated, immediate. Each order evokes a clear meaning: the best you can do is obey. It was king. 

“Do as I say.” The Elvenking reached out to you. “Trust me, vendë.”

Your response was as clear as his orders: you held his hand.

Thranduil walked fast, analyzing the ground before stepping on it, holding your hand tightly so that nothing could separate you from him. So silent. You followed him as best you could, the basket weighing on your left arm, and your legs not always able to reach the same spots he did. But you never complained, or asked him to slow his pace, because the howls did not stop. They just got louder.

You do not know how he learned the way back so fast, but within minutes you could see the smoke coming from a village’s house. And maybe that made you let your guard down. Because you only saw it when it was right in front of you.

It was twice your height. The claws could cut through wood without difficulty. Its fangs were bigger than your hands. You read books about it, but no draft could ever translate the fear they emanated. A giant wolf. As smart as human, and as malevolent as the most corrupt man. It was a warg.

Thranduil pulled you behind him, you can remember the gleam of the longsword and the weight of his hand on your belly. A black shadow filled your vision. It all happened so fast. A howl, an illusion of movement, and a blur dominating your eyes. Everything happened so fast.

It was not until you felt the golden hair falling on your face that you understood: not a blur, it was an attack. And you were now lying on the floor, sun burning your eyes, with a deep pressure on your shoulder.

Your head fell to the side. Moist grass and a mess that once was a filled basket came into focus. Your eyelids closed, a voice you never heard before told you that darkness had taken you before, and then something shook your body.

You were awake again, and your eyes saw beyond the mess in front of your face. You saw the warg giant body. And you saw his decapitated head.

“There are no wolves in Rivendell”, you coughed. 

The ground has moved away from you. You were flying. But you should not be. You will end up flying and flying and flying without knowing how to get back to the ground.

“Maenwë”, you recognized Thranduil’s voice, and within time you saw his face. He was holding you in his arms. There was blood on his cheek. And when you looked down, you saw blood dripping from your shoulder. “Keep talking.”

The voice spoke to you again, and darkness took over your vision. It was so calm, so warm. You let him envelop you. “I miss the cold.”

[Third Chapter]

GENERAL TAGLIST: @suakemi @notanalienindisguiseblink

AUTUMN THUNDERSTORM: @ferns-fics @notanalienindisguiseblink @rayrlupin @elvyshiarieko @graniairish

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

[olympeline]

(Third part of what I’ve decided to call my Catch the Queen omegaverse/cardverse USUK AU. Enjoy!)

Okay! Arthur is very knocked out so we are switching to Alfred’s POV for a bit. Our mysterious sunshine knight won his challenge with little effort thanks to his super strength and Arthur’s magic refusing to harm Alfred once he revealed himself to him. And - while Alfred was hugely disappointed that Arthur didn’t seem to remember him - that strange, magical reaction gave him hope. You see while Arthur had seemingly forgotten him, it’s not a mutual thing: Arthur is the one person Alfred could never forget.

Alfred was born into House Jones: a minor noble family of the Kingdom of Spades. His father died in battle, his mother in childbirth, and growing up Alfred only had his servants, tutors, and twin brother Matthew for company. While Mattie wanted to be a mage, Alfred always knew he was going to be a knight like his dad. Strong, athletic, and a natural leader: Alfred showed much early promise and his tutors were preparing him to become a squire when he was old enough. Life was good for Alfred despite not having parents. He had his twin, he had plenty of friends at school, and he was going to be the best Knight of Spades in the whole kingdom! A knight was a hero who defended the weak and saved them from bad things. Once Alfred learnt this, he never wanted to be anything else. At age seven he was a sunny, cheerful boy full of promise. Then disaster struck: Alfred became ill. A wasting, breathing sickness that soon left the formally strong, hearty boy white, wheezing and confined to bed. Whether it was always in him or he caught something, no one knew. Nobody could cure it - the healers and doctors left baffled - and Alfred’s life was officially ruined. Left bedbound to waste away while Matthew was sent away to mage school. His twin cried and begged to be allowed to stay, but the arrangements had already been made before Alfred got sick. Plus they wanted the Spare quickly sent away to safety now the Heir had a potentially infectious illness. Alfred was left alone too weak to do even the boring grammar and history lessons he used to hate.

Alfred spent months this way with no improvement and grew to despair. Putting on a brave face during the day but crying himself to sleep at night until his useless lungs choked. There seemed to be no hope left for Alfred of House Jones. Then, one day, a second bolt from the blue. Only this one was much more welcome than a mystery sickness: a thief broke into Alfred’s house. Specifically into Alfred’s bedroom. It was the middle of the day and Alfred was dozing after failing to eat his lunch. His newest pills made him feel too sick to eat, so the maid left a tray by his bedside in case he wanted it later. Alfred awoke to a sound and was stupified to see a stranger - frozen like a deer in headlights at being caught red handed - in the middle of stuffing bread, cheese, and meat into the ragged cloak he wore. The stranger was a boy about Alfred’s age or a little older. Blonde, green-eyed, filthy and thin, and smelling like he hadn’t bathed in a week. Alfred had no idea at the time but the runaway Spade Queen-in-Waiting had just tried to steal his lunch. Arthur was nine and had fled the palace after finding out what the future had in store for him as Queen. Yeah, the Royal Talk didn’t go well, lol. Arthur was terrified and determined not to let it happen. So he stole a set of servants’ clothes and ran away. Leaving the palace in chaos in his wake as the court officials tried to simultaneously mount a search whilst keeping Arthur’s flight a secret and avert a kingdom-wide panic. But life on the road was hard, particularly for a pampered royal, and it wasn’t long before Arthur was desperate enough for food to scramble up some vines to a second storey window, chasing the scent of fresh cooked meat.

Alfred would have yelled, pounced on the thief, and tried to wrestle him to the ground in the past. As he was post-illness, it was all he could do to try and yell at him to put his lunch down. Even that left him doubled over and wheezing till tears ran down his face. The sound summoned the maids and Alfred’s live in nurse and by the time Alfred could see again, the thief had vanished. The nurse got him settled and the maids shut and locked the window, promising to call the constable. Alfred was left alone to ponder all that happened. He found himself strangely disappointed after the adrenaline faded. Excitement was hard to come by and he wished the encounter hadn’t ended so fast. Even if he couldn’t duel a wicked thief and catch him like a good, heroic knight. Just something that wasn’t his endless, normal routine was enough. Then Alfred’s nose caught that unwashed scent again and his heart skipped a beat. He called out as best he could for the thief to come out and show himself, or else! And the bed juddered as someone jumped and banged their head underneath, swore a word Alfred had once been switched for using, and then scrambled out gracelessly. The lunch thief stood before him and he and Alfred stared at each other for a long moment. Then the thief’s gaze drifted to the fresh plate of food the maid brought and Alfred heard his stomach rumble. The thief blushed scarlet under the dirt and glowered at Alfred as if daring him to comment. Alfred said he could have the food if he wanted. The thief stared at him and Alfred promised he wouldn’t tell. The boy looked hungry. The way he fell on the food told Alfred he was wrong: the thief wasn’t hungry, he was starving.

Afterwards, Alfred told the boy his name and then asked him his. When the boy answered it was in a funny accent that Alfred could tell he was trying to conceal without success. He said his name was “Oliver” but stumbled over the three syllables in such a weird way that Alfred was immediately sure he was lying. He told the boy so and the boy snapped back that Alfred was wrong. Alfred called him a liar-liar-pants-on-fire. The boy called him stupid and a little kid. They devolved into arguing until the maid came back to scold Alfred for getting worked up, and the boy had to dive under the bed again. Once she left, the boy emerged and asked Alfred why he hadn’t told. Alfred shrugged and said he didn’t care about the food so it would be unfair if the boy was hanged for taking it. He asked the boy where he was from but the boy wouldn’t answer. He changed the subject by asking Alfred what was wrong with him. Alfred shrugged and muttered something noncommittal. He didn’t like talking about his sickness and a real life thief (even just a lunch one) was much more interesting. He said so and the boy blushed again and retorted haughtily that he wasn’t a thief. Alfred pointed out he was just caught stealing and the boy went even redder. It was cute so Alfred showed mercy and agreed when the boy (gazing at the floor) mumbled something about paying Alfred back one day when he could. Then the boy thanked him awkwardly for the food and said he had to go. Alfred told him - a little desperately - that he could have more food later if he came back again. Being sick was boring as hell on top of everything else with no Mattie to play with and his school friends’ parents too afraid Alfred was contagious to let them visit. The boy said sorry but he was on an important journey and had to go right away. Then he left through the window. Alfred tried to write Mattie a secret letter telling him all about the exciting thing that happened. But he was too weak to sit up and hold the pen for more than a couple of sentences. Alfred cried again that night. Buried deep under the covers where even his sharp eared maid couldn’t hear him. He wished the strange boy hadn’t left even if he was a smelly thief who called Alfred stupid in his weird accent. All those things were still better than being alone.

But it wasn’t to be when the boy thankfully proved himself a liar a second time and returned the very next day.

Alfred thought about all of this as he sat in the anteroom to the Queen’s chambers. Staring into space as awestruck servants scuttled around and bowed low to their soon-to-be King. Alfred, out of his armour and wearing his first ever set of royal clothes, didn’t notice them. Too busy remembering Arthur as he was as a child, and wondering what in the all-loving name of Spades he was going to say to him once Arthur woke up.

(End of part 3! Maaaan, this just keeps getting longer, huh? I can’t help it. I like this AU too much. I just want to flesh it out 😆)

[witchofthescions]

"What's it like?"

Ernastral heard the soft clink of glass against wood as Lenar set down the potion he was working on.

"What is what like?"

Erna continued staring up at the underside of her loft, eyes not really taking in the detail of the wood. She knew Lenar was working on something or other at her desk, but she hadn't bothered to ask what, precisely, it was.

"Losin' someone you're tryin' to save."

There was a long silence. Erna didn't feel like repeating her question.

"...Awful."

She let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

"Attempting to heal a dying man is like filling a bucket with a hole in the bottom. No matter how much you pour in, 'tis not enough to fill it again."

"Do you..." Erna faltered, stopped, tried again. "Is it easier when you know they're wounded?"

The chair creaked as Lenar leaned back. "Depends on what you mean by 'easier.' Easier to see what you're failing to fix? Oh, most definitely. Easier to deal with emotionally?" Lenar sighed. His voice cracked when he next spoke. "Hardly."

"How do you deal with it?"

Another long silence.

"...E-Sumi-Yan was right, you know. All lives must end someday, and not even the most potent of healing magics can change this fact."

Erna averted her gaze, letting it fall on her bookcase instead.

"To heal is to hold others' lives in your hands, Ernastral. Not everyone has the fortitude to bear that burden."

"I'm plenty strong," Erna said, her voice quavering.

"'Tis not a matter of strength," Lenar said. "If it were, I would not be much of a healer."

"But you're strong!" Erna sat up, bringing herself face to... well, the back of Lenar's head.

"I..." Lenar faltered. "N-Not as strong as you."

"Lenar—"

"Regardless," he continued pointedly, "raw strength is not what matters. The most powerful healer in the world cannot stop mortality. Everyone must die someday. But, hopefully, a healer can ensure that day is not today. 'Tis quite a lot to ask of someone. And not everyone can handle that weight."

Erna pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin against them.

"It's perfectly alright if you can't," Lenar reassured her. "You don't have to do everything."

"I... White magic makes so much sense to me."

Lenar turned slightly. "...Like black magic?" "Mm-hm." Erna absentmindedly dug her toes into the bedsheets. "I mean, not all of it comes easy, of course. I gotta work at it so much more than I ever did with black magic. But... but it just feels right, sorta."

"To wield white and black magic means to wield the power to heal and harm. Are you sure you can handle that burden?"

"I..." Erna pulled her knees closer.

"You don't need to answer me now—or ever. This is something you need to answer for yourself, and yourself alone."

Erna fell silent, staring ahead blankly. She thought back to Sylphie, and her dangerous misunderstanding of how the healing powers of conjury worked. Healing was the one aspect of white magic Erna struggled with, even with the whispers of countless generations of white mages assisting her. The more mystical aspects of the craft always felt just outside of Erna's reach, just outside her understanding.

So maybe you need to find another approach.

"...Hey, Lenar?"

"Hm?" Lenar paused in his resumption of his previous tinkering.

"Can you... teach me how to heal?" She lifted her head and caught part of Lenar's expression. He looked... surprised?

"Seems a bit late to be asking that," Lenar remarked. "But if you wish for my aid, I will gladly give it."

Erna smiled, despite herself. "Thanks, Lenar."

"I'll have to make some preparations, of course. I'd rather not have you practice on a self-inflicted injury."

"Aw, but wouldn't that be easier?" Erna teased. Lenar sighed heavily. "I'm kiddin', I'm kiddin'."

[idalenn]

Lillian Kyo - OC Smash or Pass

Rules: pretty self explanatory. Include physical descriptions and/or pics, and propaganda. the "other" label can be used for "sexuality misalignment" (ie: OC is femme and you're gay, vice versa or you aren't into smashing but a specific thing you wanna do with them like perhaps hug or study them under a microscope idc)

Quick Facts:

Height - 6'2" / 188 cm

Age - early 30s post DT

Gender - Trans Woman

Sexuality - Pansexual

Pronouns - She/They

PROS:

Accomplished White Mage. You'll survive just about anything.

Need someone to find a rare or specific plant for you? A toxin to be ground, mixed, and splashed onto your weapon? She's your girl. (Just don't ask her to do any preparing. That's a botanist, not an alchemist)

Oodles of physical contact. Nature is healing and so is she. Will carry you bridal style.

Practiced flutist.

Chases the thrill of combat. (This is a pro)

CONS:

Will actively discourage you from going out into Keeper-unfriendly sunlight.

Selfish with her time and person from years of giving all and never having a choice in matters.

Incredibly petulant at times. (Heal-ING not Heal-ED)

Easily stressed by events out of her control and by her own perceived failings. If she trips too much, for example, she will kick a hole in the earth.

Has to constantly remind herself to forgive others and herself.

Not straightforward with her feelings, becoming frustrated when a decent way won't present itself leading to further frustration, which is why she treasures the Echo as she does; one can understand her implicitly through it, or at least witness the events that made her some way and from them draw their own conclusions.

Needs others to be direct and to the point with emotions and feelings. Oftimes more dense than a black hole.

Chases the thrill of combat. (This is a con)

DETAILS:

Whether or not Lillian is wearing gloves remains a reliable indicator of how close she wishes to be with people. Gods help you if she starts wearing gauntlets again.

Excellent wilderness survival skills. Before a Keeper tribe sends their child out into the cold, cruel world, they make sure their child will be able to live without them.

Had to be taught Ishgardian table manners and to bathe more often. If she can get away with forgoing either, she will, but does know which plants she can rub on herself to cover up musk.

Will put weird things in her mouth all the time. Colorful leaves, edible soaps, sour-smelling rocks with familiar looking moss, etc. Which are poison? Which taste good? Which are edible? It's a Keeper trait exacerbated by years as a botanist, so don't think too much about it.

Romantically: Bitingyoubitingyoubitingyou. On a more serious note, she has a lot of love to give, and does so more freely as of late, but her struggle with building meaningful connections and being honest does hamper this. If you do manage to forge this bond and navigate hazy, unchartable waters, she'll want to keep you around for as long as possible, much as she does with the Scions.

You cannot fix Lillian; she can only fix herself. But she is better now than before.

Sexually: Switch, but prefers to let others take the lead if possible. Not entirely comfortable with being pushy or demanding. Try not to give her too much power, though! Take heart in knowing she's an accomplished healer. You will survive. But do keep whining - she likes it.

Tagging: @zoroarkthief (because I want to see a Faren one) but I got to this super late so if you see this and haven't done it already OR want to do it again then take this as your sign to do so!

[ababanerb]

soldier on [3]

masterlist

AO3

Safiya manages to hide away in her farmhouse for another three days, dodging Magnus’ attempts to force her into socializing against her will with the most powerful warding spells she knows. Her house and the majority of the property covered in layer upon layer of invisible shields, designed to steer people away without even a thought about where they’d been going in the first place.

Three days of paranoia ridden solitude.

Three days of nearly burning the house down when the foundation settles, every shadowy corner has her jumping with magic crackling in her palms. She can’t make toast, not after she’d accidentally shot a hole through it when her toast had popped up the other day. Three days of falling asleep sitting up, her back pressed to the door drifting asleep and startling awake at every noise. Three days of begrudgingly eating the leftovers in her fridge, belly bloating with fullness for the first time since she was fourteen. Three days of searching through the attic, an actual flashlight in her hand, because she can’t trust herself to not set the dusty space on fire when something shifts in the corner of the dark room. Three days of avoiding her reflection in the bathroom mirror because she sees someone else in the glass.

It’s miserable, and she feels worse than she did when she was a frontline soldier. 

The only upside is having an actual bathroom. With a shower that she doesn’t have to share with twenty other women at a time. Not to mention taking an actual bath. 

The bath that she’d fallen asleep in. And then woken up with her teeth chattering when she’d turned the water to slush in her sleep, when she’d dreamed of a Gotorran mage who’d tried to melt the flesh clean from her bones. There’s still a bright red scar down her left forearm from where he’d managed to get his fire to pierce through her ice, pulsing and glowing erratically. 

Three days of holing herself away, Magnus tapping incessantly on her shields, before the old wizard in his not as old tower gets his way and Safiya has to make the short trek into town so she doesn’t starve to death.

“Can’t fucking stand you,” She curses in the direction of the tower, middle finger raised spitefully as she zips her mom’s old coat all the way up to beneath her chin. The stiff collar brushing awkwardly against her jaw as she pulls her long dark hair out from the jacket, the loose waves falling limply in the cold.

The farm is still covered in a thick blanket of snow, and whether Magnus actually followed through on maintaining the farm since her grandfather’s passing has yet to be seen. Not that it really matters, she knows she’ll have work to do either way. The coop and barn are still standing off in the distance, also covered in snow, and there’s a pang of sadness as she envisions the animals her grandpa used to keep when she was a girl. 

Can still remember the two black and white Holstein cows he’d gone through the painstaking process of teaching her how to milk, can still remember processing jug upon jug of milk with her mom. Can remember the two meat cows he’d had - and then never again when she’d cried into a bowl of beef stew - beautiful Herefords. Named Bread and Butter, because her grandpa thought it was funny. 

It had been so lively here, when she was a girl. Atwood Farm was never short of life, always chock full of it. Even in Winter, it had never been quiet. She’d had snowball fights with her mom on days like this, the two of them slinging snow back and forth without any magic until he grandpa came barreling towards them, magic brimming in his hands to make the game all that more fun.

It’s silent now, though. Only Safiya’s quiet sigh and the crunching of her boots through the snow and the creaking of the metal gate at the end of her driveway as she leaves, dropping the shields around her property as she does. Swearing that she can hear the ghost of laughter behind her.

Pelican Town remains relatively unchanged in the nearly ten years it’s been since she’d last seen it. There’s a new doctor in the same old clinic, Pierre’s is right where it had always been, and the Saloon still wafts the smell of something mouthwateringly good through the square, even when Gus hasn’t opened for the day.

It’s different all the same, though. Safiya trying not to flinch when Pierre’s door rattles loudly shut behind her as she waves the snow off her boots with a flick of her hand. The clumps of white dissipating into thin air as she grabs a wire shopping basket and swallows hard.

When’s the last time I was in a grocery store?

The thought fills her head, a little too abruptly for her comfort, as she picks an aisle - packed full things in colorful packaging. Nine years of MREs in beige and white packaging, and food so bland she’d forgotten all about this . 

Forgotten all about fresh fruit, laid out in neatly done displays in the produce aisle. And chips, in flavors that didn’t even exist before she’d been drafted.

And-

“Naomi?” A voice chimes politely from behind her, a hand tapping against her shoulder. 

Safiya startles, body suddenly cold and heart somewhere in her throat as she leaps halfway across the aisle, hands blooming with color and basket forgotten on the floor. She suddenly regrets wearing her moms old coat, even though she hates the military issued coat she’d arrived here in. Because at least in her coat, she has full range of motion. Unhindered ability to kill.

Enemy. Enemy. Enemy. Her mind screams at her in the voice of the drill instructor who’d hated her and she’d hated right back. Kill or be killed. Kill them first. 

And in her own voice, I don’t wanna die. 

“Oh!” The voice says again, and Safiya’s eyes clear, mind calming as she focuses on the woman who stands on the other end of the aisle. She’s got the most vibrant green hair Safiya’s ever seen, and a face stretched tight with fear as Safiya remains on guard.

“Caroline?” Another voice calls, male, footsteps rushing towards the commotion. 

It takes Safiya another few seconds to extinguish her glowing hands, the absolute terror on the face of the woman across from her is the same as the Gottoran girl she’d killed one muggy summer. A girl who’d been even younger than her, but trying to kill Safiya with all she’d had. Safiya was seventeen, then, and her hands had tingled with lightning still sparking over her fingertips, the girl seizing on the muddy battlefield below her. 

She’d also had green hair, though not as vibrant. Probably due to the same reason most people dulled in active combat. Safiya could still hear her choking on her own blood, wide, pale eyes staring desperately up at Safiya, mouthing words in a language she didn’t understand. 

“Naomi?” The male voice cuts through, and Safiya blinks, and she’s back in the aisle of a grocery store, shopping basket on the ground with her things scattered around it. And the green haired woman from before peering at her from behind a brown haired man in glasses.

“Naomi?” The man asks again, like he can’t believe his eyes, head tilting as she stares back at them. Shame curling like a hot iron in her gut.

“That was my mom,” Safiya says, quietly, afraid that if she speaks any louder her magic will make even her voice a deadly weapon, “I’m Safiya.”

Safiya creeps forward, hands kept splayed low as she approaches her abandoned basket, like she’s approaching a wild animal. Her hands shake as she puts her few things back into the wire basket, and her hands still feel tingly as she fumbles a jar of dill pickles back into the basket.

“I’m sorry,” Safiya says, addressing the green haired woman from where she remains crouched in the middle of the aisle, “You startled me. I hadn’t meant to scare you.”

Safiya pulls her face into what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

“It’s alright,” The green haired woman says, stepping out from behind her husband - or, Safiya thinks he’s her husband - waving a gentle hand through the air as she approaches Safiya, “You just got here a week or so ago, right? I’d be jumpy in a new place, too.”

Safiya gives the woman a tight-lipped smile, standing up with her basket gripped tightly in her hands, “Yes. I’m taking over Atwood Farm.”

“That’s perfect!” The man interjects, striding forward and jutting his hand towards her, “I’m Pierre. If you're looking for seeds, my shop is the place to go. I'll also buy produce from you for a good price! A little agriculture could really inject new life into the local economy! ”

And resell them for double the price. Safiya thinks, watching as Pierre’s eyes gleam with desire that is uncannily similar to bloodlust. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Safiya says, nudging his hand back towards him the back of her hand, “It’d be smarter if we don’t shake hands,” She tells him, a little apologetically, but he ignores her, grabbing her hand in both of his and shaking vigorously.

“Don’t be silly,” He chuckles, and Safiya can feel her magic roaring beneath her skin. Can taste in the back of her throat and smell it in the air around her. Her instincts screaming at her.

Safiya’s lip curls as she snatches her hand back from him, the man yelping when she discharges a short burst of fire from her fingertips. “Do not touch me,” She snarls in the same voice she’d used as a colonel, her voice a blade of its own. “Understand?”

Pierre nods, cursing beneath his breath as he cradles his singed hand to his chest. He turns sharply on his heel, pushing past the green haired woman who’s staring with wide eyes at Safiya.

“I’m Caroline,” The woman says after a long moment, Safiya turning towards one of the shelves with her eyes screwed shut as she mentally berates herself. “Our town doctor, Harvey, next door, he served seven or so years ago.”

“Thanks.” Safiya responds, breathless, as she rests her forehead against one of the cool metal shelves, “How did you know my mom?” She asks, grasping for anything to fill the awkward silence and pull her mind away from the barely-there smell of burnt skin.

“You don’t remember?” Caroline asks, and Safiya’s dares to glance at her, “Your mom and I were good friends before the two of you moved away to Zuzu.”

“Well, it’s been a long nine years for me,” Safiya supplies, only a little bitter as she skirts her way around Caroline and towards the singular check-out counter, “There’s a lot I don’t remember anymore.”

Caroline says nothing else, just purses her lips and gets Safiya checked out. And Safiya stares at the counter, refusing to look Caroline in the eye, afraid of what either of them might see in the other’s face. 

Caroline slides her two bags of groceries over the counter, and Safiya swipes her card through the card reader that’s probably been there since she was a girl.

“It’s okay,” Caroline utters softly. Safiya’s fingers curl gingerly around the plastic handles of her bags, unsure if she can trust herself. “Pierre’s ego is probably more hurt than his hand, Nao- Safiya,” Safiya cringes at the stumble, and her regret for wearing her mom’s old jacket only grows, “Pelican Town’s glad to have you. And… I just want to say, thank you for your service.”

Safiya wants to set herself on fire as she nods politely at Caroline, shoves her card into the back pocket of her ill-fitting jeans - also her moms - as she thanks Caroline as quickly as she can and ducks back out into the cold. Grocery bags clutched tight in her fingers.

She vows to not go back into Pierre’s until it's Spring, and she doesn’t have to wade through the snow if she needs to make a terribly executed escape again.

—

It’s Tuesday, Sebastian notes absently as he types through yet another line of code, dying for a cigarette - or a blunt, either’s fine at this point. Or, he thinks it’s Tuesday. He can’t be sure, time and sleep lost on him as he pounds out his larger fourth project in two weeks.

But, it must be Tuesday. Because he can hear Abigail upstairs, blabbering some benign thing to his mom about something her mom told her to pass along before she’d left her house. So, it’s Tuesday, he reasons, because Abigail always comes over on Tuesday at one o’clock, like clockwork, to pester him. 

But- No, it is, He assures himself, tapping his phone awake just to check the date. A little annoyed that his life is so routine that he knows the date and time solely on when one of his friends comes over to cure her own boredom. 

“I fucking hate that I’m right, sometimes,” He curses under his breath, flicking his tongue against his teeth just to hear the piercing there clack. Forcing his attention back to his code for the few precious moments he has before Abi comes clomping down the stairs in her platform boots that are shit for any weather other than pleasantly warm and sunny. He downs another gulp of cold coffee, shuddering as it goes down and fingers flying across his keyboard, desperately trying to get a few more lines done when he hears the telltale noise of Abi’s boots hitting the top of the basement steps. 

He gets two more lines of code before Abi comes crashing through his door, reminding him of why he’d become such a stickler for locking his door when he wanted some alone time. She doesn’t knock, never has, probably never will, and if she cares that he’s working, it doesn’t show. 

He just barely manages to save his work by the time Abigail’s got both hands on the back of his gaming chair, pulling him away from his desk and spinning him towards her. “Seb!” She exclaims, her face inches away from his, “You’ll never believe this,” She laughs, squealing with glee as she lets him go to dance around his room. Her boots thumping loudly on the wooden floor of his basement room.

Sebastian sighs, pushing himself back towards his desk to fish a cigarette from his desk drawer, “What won’t I believe?” He asks begrudgingly, spinning the spark wheel of his lighter with practiced ease, holding his cigarette between his lips as he shuts his computer down.

“The new farmer burned the shit outta my dad this morning!” Abigail squeals, jumping wildly with glee until her foot wobbles on the landing, “Oh my Yoba, Seb! It’s incredible. Dad was bein’ a real dick this morning, too.” Abigail continues, surging forward as his eyebrows raise, “Oh,” She laughs, nearly cackling, “Karma is real, Seb. This is the greatest day of my life!”

There was a time, back when the two of them were in high school, and Sebastian was shamelessly horny, and Abigail wanted nothing more than to piss off her parents, that he would actually give a shit about whatever Abi has to say. Partly because he had enjoyed her company more, then, but mostly for sex.

He also hadn’t had a job, then. 

But Sebastian indulges her anyway, one of his closest friends, because she is Abigail and he is Sebastian, and he will indulge her the same way she indulges him and Sam, “What d’you mean, the farmer burned your dad? Must’ve been spitting fucking fire if it got to good ol’ Pierre.” He drawls, sounding just interested enough to keep her from complaining as he takes another deep drag of his cigarette. Relishing in the way it burns on the way down.

“No, Seb,” She says, on her feet again, hands pressed to the arms of his chair as she leans over him. Grinning so hard it’s a wonder her face hasn’t split in two, “The farmer literally burned my dad! Like-” She squeals, reeling back and gesturing wildly at her right hand, “ Burned , burned. Flames- Came from the farmer’s hands!”

“Get out,” Sebastian says pointedly, actually pointing at his bedroom door as his lips pull into an annoyed frown, “Don’t waste my fucking time on this kinda shit, Abi. You know I have shit I need to get done.”

“No, you fucking do not ,” She snorts, pulling away from him in a huff as he blows a puff of smoke in her face, and falling back onto his bed, “And I’m serious , Sebby!”

He glares sharply at the nickname, something reserved only for his mom to call him.

“ Sebastian ,” She quickly corrects, holding her hands up in faux surrender, “And I’m serious.”

He raises a skeptical brow at her, ashing his cigarette in the broken bottom half of what was his favorite coffee cup turned ashtray, “The other week you said you saw a shadow person.” He reminds.

“And I did ,” She protests.

“Abi,” Sebastian sighs, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers together over his stomach, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and flicking his tongue piercing over the backs of his teeth. “Not that I don’t believe you. But everyone knows that anyone who can channel magic is off fighting against Gotoro. It’s just not even fucking possible, Abs. And even if there were some random new mage , of all fucking things, in town. You’d think more people would know by now. Because that would mean soldiers are coming home. 

“And you and I both know they’re not, because Sam hasn’t said jack shit about it. And don’t go mentioning this to him, either.” He says harshly, jabbing in her direction with the index and pointer fingers of his right hand, “Don’t go getting his hopes up when nothing’s been made official.”

“Fucking-” Abi sighs, exasperated as she meets his hard gaze, “Fine. Whatever.”

He nods once, turning his chair around and booting his computer back up, a silent demand for her to leave.

“... Wanna have sex?” She offers after a moment, trying to peer over his shoulder as he opens up his coding program.

He points to the door without looking away from his screen, “No. Now get out so I can work.”