#but!! i made the tunnel just a little too small so the worm is very snug in there and a hassle to remove

[dailypokemoncrochet]

FOTH Dipplin!

The apple has a little tunnel in it so the worm (wyrm) part can wiggle through and pop out!!

[greetingfromthedead]

5. The Long Journey Ahead

Series: Apple Blossoms

Pairing: Knives x GN!Reader

Word count: 3.3k

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The twin suns hang low in the sky, casting a warm orange glow over the desert landscape. Cliffs tower over you, painted by the setting suns in shades of red and gold. The air is still and quiet; not even worms disturb the peaceful silence; it is only two pairs of tomas feet shuffling through the sand.

"I know of a little cave up ahead. We will make camp there for tonight," you say, turning your head towards Knives, who appears to have gone back to his silent protest. His hands grip the lead, and his eyes remain forward. He doesn't seem thrilled, but he hasn't complained or made any attempt to go off on his own either.

"I would have thought you were in a hurry," the man replies to your surprise. "Wouldn't you want to ride through the night to get there sooner? Instead, you want to waste the night away? The man sounded distressed; he made it seem serious, and you promised to hurry."

"The nights get dark and dangerous, and I will not be able to help anyone if we get hurt or injured. You're in no condition to travel for so long in one go either; the toma have to carry a lot too. And I am getting tired. A clear head is better than a cloudy one," you state simply, explaining without the condescending tone he used for his comment.

"You didn't sleep much when you were taking care of me," Knives replies.

"Yeah, and it was very hard." you smile a crooked smile at him. "I remind you that you have yet to thank me for saving your life."

"I never asked you to do it." The man looks forward as if avoiding your gaze.

"I guess that is true."

The remainder of your way to the cave's entrance is spent in silence again, only broken by your remark that you have arrived and instructing him to get off the bird. You take a flashlight and head into the cavernous space; the air almost immediately gets cooler. The tunnel makes a bend, hiding anyone there from the outside world, and that's where you decide to spend the night. You ask Knives to take off the gear from his tomas, but as he just stares at the numerous belts and ropes, you go to help him.

Knives looks down at you as you start talking about bag straps and saddle bags. You keep rambling about things he doesn't pay attention to. He simply stares at your lips moving and your fingers pointing at buckles and clasps, not taking in a single word you're saying. As you speak, you are clear, your tone is gentle, and you don't seem to be mocking him. Perhaps there are jabs hidden in your words, but they simply slip through his brain without leaving a single mark behind. His head swims again. Perhaps it is the thirst and hunger he has been ignoring. Such human needs have never been a priority to him, so why start now? It would also mean he needed to ask you for things, admitting to his shortcomings and weaknesses. Or maybe his head is too filled with thoughts of you. The way you act around him and others, your motivations, and your actions. Your presence consumes his mind, and he simply can't help but wonder about you constantly. You make so little sense to him. You're very human; you act human, yet somehow he finds it hard to be repulsed by you the way he should.

Knives is shaken out of his trance as the saddle and all the bags attached to it hit the stone floor with a loud clatter.

"You were supposed to hold on to it!" you say, slightly annoyed, and these words finally retain their meaning in Knives's mind.

He simply looks at you. The expression doesn't match the tone of your voice. Your eyes are gentle, almost the same as when you take care of him. A hint of a smile lingers in the corner of your lips, but a small crease forms between your eyebrows. He doesn't understand. What does this expression mean? He can't ask either unless he reveals more of his inadequacies, and that's the last thing he wants to do. So he simply turns away with an uninterested face and goes towards the cave entrance to look at the last light of the sunset, painting the heavens in shades of pink and orange.

Knives uses the moment of privacy to listen to his complaining body. The hunger and thirst are still there, nothing much he can do about it. The wound in his side stings with each movement, but no longer is it the blinding flash of white, hot pain that it once was. A dull pain lingers in his back and shoulders. He carefully stretches and rolls his joints, trying to ease the tension. He isn't used to feeling this way. He isn't used to being weak. He isn't used to relying on the mercy of someone else, let alone a human. Not that he remembers, at least. It is frustrating. All of it. From the patchy memory to you taking care of him.

He looks out into the emptiness of the sandy plain, wondering if he should just go. But the illusion of freedom doesn't call him; it doesn't tempt him. Knives tries to rationalize it. His body seems to be weak like a human's, and as things are, he doesn't have supplies. He doesn't have a plan either as to where to go. He can use you to get an idea of where he is or how he should proceed. This is all there is to it. That's why there is no point in wandering off right now. He will have you as a guide to help him figure out his next steps; he will stay until he has a plan. That's all this arrangement is.

Darkness starts to settle in as the colors of the sky fade. Knives looks over his shoulder to see the faint light of a flame dancing on a wall, accompanied by some clattering that echoes down the hallway. This feels familiar. He got very used to the sounds of your kitchen—your spoon hitting the side of a pot, the scraping of food against a pan, the sizzle of oil. He always listened. Even before he regained control over his body, he tried to piece together what was going on by the sounds in the room. You must be cooking. As soon as that thought crosses his mind, the smell of stew reaches his nose, and his stomach rumbles. He thinks back on how you used to constantly talk. At first, he found it annoying. Nothing of substance was ever said, but as the weeks went by, you started to speak less and less. A tiny part of him realizes he somewhat misses constantly hearing your voice; the silence feels heavier than the annoyance of your empty words.

The last thought irritates him to the point of a sneer. He quickly runs his hand over his face, up into his outgrown black hair, and immediately the sharp pain in his side makes his breath hitch and a hiss escape his teeth. He gently presses his other hand on the injury that still gives him trouble, feeling relief as the ache settles and he can relax again. This only frustrates him further.

Knives hears your approaching footsteps, but he doesn't let on that he does; he never does. The less you can see through him, the better. The more he hides, the more secure he feels. He doesn't need you to realize just how much he perceives; he wants to keep everything he can close to his chest. It is better that way; he can only trust himself in this human infested world after all.

"My my, you don't usually pout this much. Did a worm bite you, or do you really hate being out of the house so much?" you chuckle slightly, and from the very corner of his eye, Knives sees you leaning forward to see his face better. "Or perhaps you're hangry. I get it; you must be starving. Come on, dinner is ready."

With that, you turn back again. Knives can still hear the smile in your voice; it rings in his head, and he can't understand why you would be so cheery. Were you just making fun of him? It would make sense, and the irritation in his gut grows more insistent. Or perhaps it's the hunger pains. Whatever the reason, Knives is not happy as he turns his back on the desert and goes back into the cave.

He turns the corner to find the little campsite you have set up. The birds lay side by side, looking up at him with curious eyes. A little further away, you have set up a tiny gas burner with a mess kit on top. Some stew cooks in the little pot, with two bowls waiting beside the fire to be filled. The smell of the stew wafts through the air, making his mouth water. You have set up two spots for sleeping. You sit on a thin mat, a flimsy looking sleeping bag rolled out beside you. The other setup has a pillow that you lack; the blanket looks warmer, but the mat on the ground looks just as uncomfortable. Knives goes to sit on the setup across from you, on the other side of the burner.

Knives's face remains cold and distant, but his eyes watch you intently, never leaving your hands as you pick up the pot to divide the food among the two bowls. You stick a spoon into the concoction of vegetables and meat before handing the dish to him. He takes it without saying a word. As you turn off the little gas burner, you are plunged into darkness, but only until you turn on the flashlight and set it upright on the stone ground. It casts a circle of light on the ceiling, illuminating the space with a dim glow. Before picking up your own bowl, you push a flask of water closer to Knives, and you see his eyes dart quickly to it, but he doesn't show any urgency to grab it.

You eat in silence; the only noise filling the space is the scraping of metal on metal and your chewing. You're tired and worried. Your head is filled with grim thoughts of what could be waiting for you in Silvercrest. The man who came by your house was beyond distressed. He said people are rotting from the outside in. That can't be good. You go through the possibilities of what this could be. It is most likely an infection, but you haven't heard of anything like that before. Your supplies are low, critically so. If things are as bad as they sound, there might be very little healing you can do. Even bringing relief to the dying will be a challenge. Your only hope is that merchants have been through the neighboring settlements. There is a trade route running past that might have supplies to help, but you are most likely not the first one to come to that conclusion, meaning that the supplies will have already been used up.

"You finally give yourself a decent sized portion, and then you let it get cold too?" Knives asks, and snaps you out of the spiral of depressing thoughts.

"Oh," you simply say, blinking at the bowl in hand, "I guess you're right. I was just thinking."

"How come you suddenly have supplies to spare?" he asks, putting aside the empty bowl to pick up the water.

"You mean food?" you ask, but he doesn't answer. "It's not like we have anything to spare. I was trying to ration everything out over a week, but now we will hopefully arrive at a settlement the day after tomorrow. And while they probably lack food too, it will be easier to get more. This decision might bite me in the ass, but we will deal with it then."

The food has indeed gone cold, the vegetables taste bland, and the warmth doesn't distract from the chewiness of the meat. But on an empty stomach, it still feels better than nothing. Your chest feels heavy with anxiety; even breathing takes a touch more effort than it should. You try to push the thoughts of Silvercrest away, but they linger in the back of your mind like a persistent shadow.

"It is strange of you to say one thing and then contradict yourself the next moment," Knives says as he dips the flask away from his lips.

"The things you ask about are subjective." You speak to him calmly, almost like to a child. "My medical supplies, for example. It is the truth that I am running low on essentials like painkillers, antibiotics, disinfectants, suture kits, and more. If you appeared on my doorstep now, in the condition you were in, there would be almost nothing I could do. Perhaps I could only help you go into the night with some comfort and peace, but nothing I could do would heal you is what I mean. But that doesn't mean I am not in a position to help those who don't have one foot in the grave already. I can still clean some wounds, I can dress them, and I can share knowledge. To those who have nothing, even a little bit is more than they currently have."

Knives's eyes are cold and stern, and his low eyebrows cast shadows, making him look angry, but you know him slightly better than to assume he is upset with you. He seems genuinely confused and frustrated with you. Not really because of your actions; he doesn't appear to care about those, but because he doesn't understand you. Knives keeps asking questions that sound obvious to you, yet no answer you give him ever seems to satisfy him.

"Food that's enough to cover three days is a feast to those who only need it for one, but it is not enough for those who need it for a week. That's how life has always been here. If you have more than necessary, you give it to those who need it, and when you are in need, hopefully someone will help you if they can." You look into his eyes; they remain unchanging.

"What about other lifeforms? What about Plants? Humans don't seem to have the same level of empathy towards them as they do towards other humans, and even that seems lackluster to me." Knives's tone sounds accusatory. He doesn't turn away his gaze from yours, as if he is waiting for an answer, demanding an explanation.

"You're right, it's not the same," you speak calmly, and from the slight shift in his gaze, you assume he did not expect this response. "Humans are survivors. We adapt and evolve; even in the darkest of times, we use what we can. We band together to be stronger, and we rely on each other. It is not pretty, and both despair and greed bring out the worst in us. We have always used other lifeforms for our own benefit. Animals were used for more than just meat. They were also used for labor, transportation, and other commodities like milk and wool. But it's not simply exploitation; it has never been quite that simple. It's a complex relationship that has evolved over time, shaping both our society and the animals themselves. It became co-existence. One can't be without the other, and it became more than just labor and resources. Why do you think there are cats and dogs on this planet? Humans brought them with them. They spent precious resources to take these animals, but it's not for pest control or hunting like it used to be. It's because they provide companionship and emotional support. Humans need Plants to survive here. Since the beginning, we have been trying to move away from relying on them so heavily, but this planet is unforgiving and cruel. On a different world, we might co-exist differently by now, not just surviving with the help of each other but thriving, much like the dogs and cats we brought with us."

"You mean like pets?" Knives nearly spits the last word, clearly disgusted by the idea.

"No. Like friends, like family," you reply gently.

"Humans treat even those closest to them like trash," he continues, slightly less enraged.

"Sometimes. I'm not saying they don't, we don't. I am not saying humanity is great, and lovely, and perfect. That's simply not true. There are awful people out there. Nightmarish beyond comprehension. But not all humans are like that, and it's important to remember that. A few rotten apples don't mean the whole barrel is spoiled."

"You sound like you're defending them," he says in an accusing manner.

"I am not. But you sound like you want us all to rot in the ground," you reply matter-of-factly as you get up. "Now let me check on your wound. I want to make sure you didn't rip it on our way here."

Knives watches you with slight distaste as you grab the flashlight from the ground and walk over to him. He remains silent, his eyes following your every move, even as you kneel next to him.

"Do you mind?" you ask, pointing at his side. He doesn't reply to you in any way; he just turns his head away from you to look at the birds instead. Indifference appears on his face again, a very familiar sight to you.

Pulling up the layers of the hoodie and shirt reveals clean bandages. As Knives makes no moves to aid you in any way, you put the flashlight between your teeth to hold up the clothes with one hand and to peek under the dressing with the other. The wound looks clean and healthy; there is no sign of any ripping, bleeding, or oozing.

Knives turns his head back. He watches as you hunch over to look at his wound, the torch in your mouth, making the words you try to speak unintelligible. He doesn't say anything, and you don't try to repeat yourself either. You still don't make any sense to him. It's like you speak in riddles. Knives thinks himself to be smart enough that he should see through your deception and lies, but he doesn't even detect any. It's like you're speaking a different language altogether. It's infuriating. Yet his anger is not directed at you. It's directed inward, at himself. In his eyes, you don't act as he thinks a human should.

He feels your warm fingers on his body; they tug gently at his skin, a bit further away from the wound in his side. A slight, dull pain accompanies the sensation of your soft push. The impression lingers even as you put the bandages back and pull his clothes down. He hasn't noticed it before. The feeling of your touch stays with him, and Knives presses his own hand over where yours had been to erase the ghostly impression of your fingers.

"It looks good," you say as you take the flashlight from your mouth. "I can remove the stitches in a few days; I just want to be safe for now as I still worry about the journey ahead. I am so glad that we're finally at this point."

Knives watches you smile as you get up again. He notices the way your eyes shine with joy and relief. He doesn't quite understand this either. Why do you beam with happiness just because he is healing? Do you simply take pride in your work? He remembers you saying that you would worry about him if he disappeared, but it all doesn't quite fit together in his head. He wants to run his hand across his face, and lace his fingers into his hair to tug at it, but this move would reveal his frustration to you, and Knives can't have that.

Taking a mental health break so no update next week and we'll see from there.

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[tinyshe]

Garden Review 23.07.07

I just about had a heart failure with the grocer bill! Some things are up 300% from a year ago. Real incentive to get those winter garden ideas firmly in the ground! Go! this weekend, there are list being made and goals being set! We are entering desperate times that require desperate measures but with conviction and fortitude that ‘we can do this’.

Most of my rooting/propagation barrel plants can be planted in the earth. I have a few slow poke/secondary rose clippings for the rose tunnel at the farm. Those can be put in smaller pot. In these barrels I will put things that will need some frost protection since they reside on the south side like cut and come again leaf lettuce and maybe peas.

Most everything from the summer garden be struggling except the toms that are lost in the weeds. The potatoes are dying back so there will be a harvest of new potatoes next week (from under the hazel tree row/hedge). Once those are up I will amend the straw and turn. Letting it rest a little before replanting. These potatoes under the hedge grow on the top of a small bed of loose twigs to keep them just a wee bit elevated so they don’t rot and then they grow in the straw bed. Amending the straw lets a slow feeding (in theory) to the plant. Not as productive as the potato barrel but a close contender. I am also trying growing in the shade under the elderberries and alpine strawberries but the night creatures went through a couple of times digging up everything. This was a three tier grow in progress until the night tillers.  The other experiment is worm bin verse hot bed (both just from potato peelings). These I am hoping to get a goodly amount of seed potatoes. My other/last experiment is some seed potatoes that are sitting bare ass in a small pot in partial sun. They are a rich green colour but no ‘eyes’ ... its been almost 4 month!

I’m halfway mortified that my brother is trying to get a visa so see me. It will just be for a 24 hr thing as part of another trip he is on (I’m like a detour). Things are not tiptop and the things are not best ... I bought some plants in a desperate move to have something pretty in case he can swing it... not that a few small plants can hide everything but it was what I did. These poor things need to get in the ground asap! Its another wtf moment. This is why I need pen to hit the paper and stick with the plan or I’ll be flopping all over , not accomplishing anything. Goal. Engage. Execute. GEE

Hens are very displease with me; I’m terrible, the neighbors too loud, there is a shortage of greens, life it intolerable for spoiled chicken-kind so they are showing signs of a strike. If I don’t meet their demands, they will start withholding eggy-kinds for extended periods, not just this small warning strike/face off we are experiencing. Both Bronte and Rossetti come into the coop to scold me when I’m scraping their bounce board. ‘eeEEEErrrRRR! mmmEEErrrrrr? cluck-bockbock!’ (like ‘wtf! get out of our bedroom and fetch the greens, nitwit!). Guilty as charged. I’m a bad chicken mother.

So in closing (because I am now stalling), I wish you all an awesome weekend -- get out and garden or at least be outside and enjoy!

[godeaterazathoth]

FROM THE EARTH PART 1

The earth churned, and the Thing is what came out. Gruesome little cluster of teeth and skin, muscle and tendons, it was made of all the things that the humans throw out, of tears and sweat and spit and vomit and piss and semen and blood, it all flowed into the soil and was mixed up by the tree roots. The Thing kept rising, like a tick filling with blood. It drank from the earth all around it and laid claim. All to feed the Thing, up atop that hill like a queen on a throne: the screeching rat-queen cluster of veins and connective tissue and grinning, gnashing mouths. This was her.

THERE SHOULD BE MORE HERE

She felt a vague emptiness. A daunting hole in her centre. She looked down to see the muscle over her chest dent inwards, and she could feel the hollowness under it. She felt oh so lonely the emptiness a stabbing reminder of her singularity. She did not understand fully yet, but she knew she was different and that something should be there. She’d have to make a ‘something’.

She’d need innards. Yes, that would be so nice. To shuffle around with  hunger at nights, scraping along muscles and sobbing gently into the silence. Innards things. So, she concentrated real hard and sniffed the air, and a wonderful smell gifted her, a smell of sweat and tears and blood, something else that was salty.

She spread out into the forest, her hands and her eyes. And found the source of the smell. Two conjoined creatures clasping each other in the grass, sighing between their breaths. She could feel their innards as they clenched, they also had other things she would need. She watched them from the branches, wating to introduce herself.

I FEEL SO VERY HUNGRY

She could use the empty sack of one of the conjoined creatures, and climbed inside of it, moulding into a new shape. Two long arms, two long legs, a thin body and a head, all held together with hair. She ate the left-over parts, but she felt empty.

MY ARMS HURT

A heart would be nice, she thought. Something to buzz in her empty cavern chest, something to twitch and writhe in compassionate strokes and fill her body with rhythm. What were hearts made of? Over there, just beyond the treeline, there was a cemetery not too far for her to reach. Full of bodies who were all full of ghosts, trapped, screaming and screaming and begging, ready for release, ready for harvest.

She tunnelled down and down into the graves, biting the corpses and sucking the ghosts out through their empty eye sockets. She opened the bodies up and pulled all the red and purple and brown jewels out, she swallowed them all, they mixed and came together, she spat them all out into a pile and glued them together, pulling and stretching until the whole big mass was shaped kind of like a heart. A good enough heart, she thought. it’ll shriek and swell and make her life worse and the world more colourful, she would press her face against windows and fill rooms with jealous looks.

 MY CHEST MISSES THE OLD POISON

So now she had innards to keep her company, and a heart to keep her angry. But what’s the point of being whole if you don’t have a brain? She would have two sides, she thought, right and left. Her brain would buzz with electricity and vibrate against her skull, it would throb and leak hot Cerebrospinal fluid. That would be so nice. It would bring life and motion and sound, filling up her ears with shivering worm-noise that would make her try to dig out her eyes.

When she had her brain, she would dream of all the things that would be so nice to dream about, imagine all the sweetness the world had to offer. It was easy enough to make her brain – brains are simple and sweet. She pushed her skin aside and used her teeth to bite herself up, sucking up her own fat and spitting it all together in a small pool. She squished it between her palms, rolling and shaping it, when she was done she had made a brain out of it, she pulled the skin of her face and pushed her fingers between the muscles underneath until a small hole was opened up, with her fingers she pushed her brain into the hole deeper and deeper until it POPPED into the hollow in her skull, it got right to work running amok all through the her muscles, spreading its nerves along her bones like fungus, they raced down her spine all the way to the tips of her toes and forcing her skin to twitch with all kinds of new sensations.

 THE BURNING IN THE BACK OF MY SKULL HURTS

Now as she sat in the thicket, she wondered what else she would need to be whole. She thought long and hard with her new brain, BLOOD! That’s what she needed, so she set to work. Her blood would be more complicated, she told herself. Blood always is, as the currency of the soul and the vehicle of life. So, it would need to be made of complicated things. The deer of the woods had their own hierarchy, ages-old and complex as anything, and they had bodies full of blood, a too-large an amount of blood, in truth. She stretched some extra hands out and went raiding. The stag fought valiantly, bit up the hands till they were nice and swollen, even tore a few fingers off. But once the hands grabbed the great stag by the thorax and squeezed him until he burst, it was all over.

The hands dragged the does together, and the does were too defeated to care. They squeezed them all up, squished them together, pulling out every drop of blood, until the does were all but dried empty bags. She took the doe sacks and cut them into small strips, shaping and tying them together, she waved them under her skin in a loop, all the blood was poured into her new veins, “I have such lovely blood” she thought with pride. Her blood wasted no time gushing all over the place. Running laps around her, she could see their purple silhouettes through her skin. It was wonderful, she thought, just how it should be.

MY BLOOD FELT SO DULL AND HEAVY

Time passed, like it’s wanting to do. For a while, she was happy, but not for long. She started to get bored. All the innards did was scrape their way on the same muscles, the same order, whimpering the same pleas and scratching the same walls with the same cluster of sharp hungry wails. Their harsh thrashing caused the hair sewing her skin together to snap and come undone, and before she noticed the skin on her arm had come off and the muscle underneath began to rot and turn black. “Don’t you ever do anything interesting?” she thought. “Worthless thing, I hope your thrashing makes you come undone and you fall apart.”

Her heart, on the other hand, was far too lively. No longer content just to THUMP away in her chest and flutter in excitement, now it had taken to carving up the walls of her ribcage, scratching her diaphragm and marking up the flesh. “Hateful thing,” she thought. “You’re supposed to stay quiet, not assert yourself.” To make matters worse, it had started pumping her blood around her body on its own. Her brain only caused her skull to ache in dull pain, and her dreams weren’t pretty or shiny at all, and her mind was full of unwanted intrusive thoughts. “You’re supposed to make me curious,” she thought, “but instead you’ve made me fed up, and that’s a whole different story.”  She hated her new parts. They weren’t what she wanted. She plunged her hands into her stomach grabbing her innards and pulling them out meter by meter throwing them on the floor in a rage, she ripped her chest open and wretched out her heart she crushed it in her fist, her blood gushed out of her open wounds, draining onto the floor. She cracked open her skull and tore clumps of her brain out flinging them onto the trees. She gathered all the parts together and built a fire to burn them on, the smoke screamed and smelled like rotten teeth. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” she thought. But she couldn’t rid herself of them no matter how much she tried they grew back, they became her, she was alone.

STRENGTH ONLY ENOUGH TO DRAG MY FEET

She cried and cried into the night, now she was all alone again. Soon she saw some light through the woods. She climbed through a dark window, milling through the halls, wheezing and click-clacking her hands against the walls and doors and windows, dragging her feet. She could hear breathing and sweet little whimpering cries. It was nice not to be alone anymore. She couldn’t wait to meet her new friend.

“I hope they stop hiding soon,” she thought. “That’s what I need. A ‘someone’. That’d be so nice.” So, she sat by the door and waited for her friend’s shyness to fade. “If I offer them a gift, I’m sure they’ll come play. I’ll invite them out to the woods, and then I’ll chew off all their skin, and I won’t be alone anymore.”

I won’t be alone anymore. When they come see me. And I take them, and they’ve come to see me, and I’ve chewed off all their skin. I won’t be alone anymore. It’ll be so nice not to be alone. I won’t be alone anymore. I hope they come out soon. I won’t be alone anymore.

[bisexualbumblebee-writes]

Gassed and a Little Lightheaded- Tim Stoker x OC

Tim Stoker x Clara Florence

Description: Worms get into the Magnus Institute and Tim comes out of it gassed and a little lightheaded, much to Clara’s amusement.

Word Count: 1.8k

As Clara stood outside the Magnus Institute with the rest of the staff and some officers, firefighters and paramedics, she couldn’t help but tremble despite her best efforts. She was still processing how this could have happened so quickly. She had been waiting for Tim to get back from lunch so they could follow up on a statement together, then she heard a very strange noise. It sounded like a stadium, multiple voices screaming as one though it was very quiet. 

Naturally, she had been both concerned and curious, so she followed the screams to some sort of trap door, which then led to a tunnel. Though hesitant, she eventually grabbed a torch in a nearby drawer then climbed down. Once down there she shined her flashlight around as she attempted to get a grasp of her surroundings. It only took one sweep of her torch to figure out what had been making that screaming noise: the thousands of silver worms crawling around. Clara was ready to scream in both shock and fright at the disgusting creatures, when she heard someone else beat her to the punch. 

“Sasha?” She called out worriedly upon recognizing the voice. Without waiting for a response she ran in the direction of the voice, hoping she was right. She did her best to avoid the worms crawling around her feet and up the walls as she attempted to navigate the tunnels in search for her friends. Thankfully she didn’t have to go far as when she turned a corner, she crashed into something. Well, technically, someone. It was Sasha! 

“Oh thank god you’re okay,” Clara said relieved, pulling the girl into a hug once they both gathered their bearings. 

“You are too,” Sasha responded in the same tone as she returned the hug. 

“What happened? Where are the others?” She asked worriedly. 

“They’re deeper in the tunnel, I was running to get help,” the girl explained before beginning to drag the girl to the exit. “Come on!” Clara followed her obediently and watched as the girl pulled the fire alarm once they were out. 

“We need to talk to Elias,” Clara informed her when she let out a deep sigh. Sasha nodded, albeit reluctantly, and the girls made their way to the office. 

“So…” Elias trailed off once they told him what was going on. “These are the worms Jon and Martin have been going on about?” 

“The ones terrorizing us for months?” Sasha responded in a sarcastic tone. “Yes, they are!” Clara rested a soothing hand on her shoulder, though she had a feeling that it didn’t actually do much. 

“To be honest, I always thought they were just…overreacting,” the man sighed. “Other staff have seen them around, but no one’s reported any aggressive behavior or anything like that. “You know how those two are…Jon puts on a good show, but sometimes I swear he’s worse than Martin.” Clara rolled her eyes and leaned forward on his desk. 

“Look, Elias, I don’t know what you think is going on, but I have just seen thousands of…flesh worms pouring out of the walls,” she said with a small glare in his direction, hating that he wasn’t taking this quite as seriously as he should have been. 

“Yeah,” Sasha continued. “God knows how long they’ve been hiding! Tim might be dead, and the others…” she trailed off. Clara’s eyes widened and she looked at her friend. Tim was down there? Elias nodded, ignoring the girl’s frantic look. 

“Of course. Pulling the fire alarm was a good move, but that does mean most staff have evacuated. So, we’ll have to deal with this ourselves.” Clara shook her head distractedly. 

“There are thousands of them, Elias.”

“Not quite what I meant. On Jon’s insistence, I recently changed the archive’s fire suppression system to use carbon dioxide. Should have done it years ago, really-“ 

“So why hasn’t it gone off?” Sasha interrupted. 

“Because there isn’t an actual fire,” he explained simply. Clara sighed and ran her fingers through her hair in thought before peeking up a bit. 

“Can we set it off manually?” She asked, gaining the duo’s attention. 

“Oh, I think Jon’s got a lighter somewhere,” Sasha muttered offhandedly, though Elias merely shook his head. 

“He’s not smoking again, is he?” He questioned rhetorically before shrugging. “Anyway, it shouldn’t be necessary. There is a manual release a few doors down.” 

“Wait, wait,” Clara put a hand up hesitantly. “Will it hurt Martin or Jon?” Elias waited a moment before answering. 

“Almost certainly. Er, I’m not a doctor, but I know dumping a lot of CO2 on people isn’t generally considered a good idea. I really don’t want to have to find another Archivist so quickly after Gertrude, but from what Sasha says…it might be a mercy. You know the situation best, so…?” He trailed off, and they both looked at Sasha for an answer. The girl thought for a moment before finally nodding. 

“Let’s go.” 

As much as Clara wished to stay and help, both Elias and Sasha instructed her to get out of the building. They would only need two people for this job and it seemed that the two of them were the people for the job. So, very reluctantly, she ran out of the building just as police, firefighters and ambulances showed up. She was looked over by paramedics and questioned about what was going on since there was no obvious fire, but she couldn’t give an exact answer so they gave up on her. 

That’s what led her to this very moment, watching the building and desperately praying that everyone inside was okay. Or, at the very least, still alive. Tim was nowhere to be found amongst the crowd, which meant he was still inside. That’s what made her pray even harder as she stood between Mavis and Arwen. 

Sasha’s words echoed in her mind over and over again like a record. Tim might be dead. When had Tim even returned from lunch? Why didn’t she see him? Was that the last she would ever see him? She knew that it would do her no good to think like that, but given the unique circumstances of the situation there was a very real possibility that she would never see her fiancé again. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she heard several voices coming from the building. Clara waited with bated breath as the voices grew louder and louder the closer they got until finally five figures appeared. Elias, Tim, Martin, and Sasha stood in the doorway, the latter two holding up a limping Jon. Upon seeing her fiancé, Clara called his name with relief dripping from her tone. Tim’s eyes instantly landed on her and an almost comically wide smile appeared on his face. While the paramedics rushed up to Jon to see what the damage was, Tim slipped past them and walked down the front steps. Clara met him at the bottom and immediately threw her arms around him, hugging him as if he would disappear back into the tunnels if she didn’t squeeze hard enough. 

“Hi bug,” Tim greeted happily, which confused Clara. It wasn’t the type of relieved happiness that one would feel after getting out of such a tense and dangerous situation. No, it was as if what happened hadn’t fazed him at all. The girl pulled away from him to get a better look at his face. Small pockmark scars littered some of his skin, which Clara correctly presumed were from the worms, and his eyes were dilated quite a bit. 

“Tim, darling? Are you okay?” She asked worriedly. The man shrugged nonchalantly while his toothy grin stayed on his face. 

“Fine, I’m fine,” he responded airily. “Funny story, really. I ran into the office, worms everywhere, horrible death and everything, tripped and fell into some boxes. There were like twenty cans of gas in there.” The girl’s eyes widened. 

“Wait, what?” Tim waved his hand dismissively, but not in a rude way. 

“The gas…I got a bit light headed, you see. Not a lot of ventilation in the tunnels, you know.” For a few seconds Clara could only stare at him as she processed what he said. She ultimately nodded carefully. 

“Alright then. Well, how about we go over to those nice paramedics to make sure nothing’s wrong, okay?” She asked slowly, already leading him over to one of the ambulances. Tim followed her obediently, and Clara had a feeling that was because he didn’t quite have a grip on the situation or reality in general yet. 

After telling the paramedic what was going on, Clara discovered that Tim may have been suffering from respiratory acidosis from the lack of oxygen after inhaling so much CO2 then going into a poorly ventilated area for an extended period of time. It wasn’t too serious, and the treatment was simple enough. All he had to do was take a breathing treatment in the ambulance then go to a doctor and get some medicine prescription if the condition had lasting effects. The paramedic sat Tim down in the back of the ambulance and placed an oxygen mask over his mouth, instructing him to keep it there until he returned before walking away. Clara, naturally, opted to stay with Tim and sat beside him. 

“He’s nice,” the man muttered dazedly as the two of them watched the paramedic walk away. 

“He is,” Clara agreed with a nod before guiding the hand that held the oxygen mask back to his face. “Please keep the mask on, darling.” 

“You know, you’re nice too,” he continued in the same tone, ignoring as she repeated the action of putting the mask to his mouth. The girl shook her head with a giggle. 

“Thank you, Tim.”

“I’m serious, babe,” the man whined dramatically. “You’re not listening to me while I’m complimenting you. You’re always being so nice to me and you care about me. No one else would be here with me during this.”

“I’m sure there’s at least one other person who would be here,” Clara responded as she held back a smile. 

“Oh really? Like who?” 

“Your parents,” she retorted. 

“Oh yeah,” Tim laughed, immediately forgetting that he was supposed to be upset. “I forgot about them. Clara, I’m tired.” That’s when the girl allowed a smile to slip through. 

“Alright honey, once we leave here you can take a nap at home.” Tim nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer as he continued to breathe in the oxygen. 

After around ten minutes the paramedics finally permitted him to go home as long as Clara kept an eye on him. It took several minutes to get him to the car plus another few minutes when he sat in the car while Elias checked on them. When they finally made it home Tim just collapsed on the bed. Clara opted to just take his shoes off and tuck him in. 

“Get good sleep, Timmy,” she said, pressing a kiss to his forehead before turning off the lamp on the bedside table. 

“Mmm…night babe,” the man mumbled almost incoherently. Clara grinned and walked out, quietly closing the door behind her. It had been quite an eventful day for the both of them, but Clara was just glad that both she and her boyfriend would be okay.

[the-firebird69]

Watch "Aquaman and the Lost Kingdom | Teaser" on YouTube

He finds one of our lost kingdoms opens the tunnel and thinks that it is a threat to open the others and he's a clone. And Sherry is along for the ride and plays his wife which is a farce but she understands what's going on, and is there to tell other people no and he tries to harm her and the clothes go after Stan with the vengeance. And the max go after the clothes with the vengeance. And of course he sits there saying it I did it on purpose it's a threat you should listen to it and the max don't listen and need the Intel. And he's been down there where we were in wants to know and the same with Sherry it's coming up shortly after dune and there are two movies. The one that is out near la and in that area they think it's similar but it's not big enough and the tunnels are not big enough well the tunnels are and they're dry so they're going to try out there and they're trying to get the worm to do it and the worm won't and another thing is the worm can clog the hole by contracting give me about 20 miles in diameter and the tunnels are about 15 mi whether working on trying to doomsday device and to threaten everybody to get ships and more from that area it's going to go on shortly and all over the place and you can see it in the deserts there's huge wars

My son's character is Aquaman he calls him wimoma and that's the name it's close it needs a couple things because of Hera it's a big huge piece of s*** in space that's what they sound like and it's a gas station that he got whooped at a little bit and they're bother the s*** out of him and say that he made the thing and he kind of did what are you doing on purpose and it helped us a lot and people are cruel about what he does and are stupid in this case will and Bill understand it your preempting for him people try it and people fight it and you're nuts and but what can you do with the max running it and they say that too so here we go and our plan is working and these two are great operatives and they're great leaders and we're running it right now and when they come home they will be too more so they're also running it from where they are and that is why they need assistance but it's not just them and they always say it and they always ask us but it really helps what they do is really wonderful and it's worth thus far. We have so many calls regarding this and other things right now and then it's not funny and it's difficult and complex work they don't give him a break they try and give them diarrhea constantly and their sick all the time and they try and break him and get him to wipe out all sorts of things try and mess with this money made a huge fiasco with cable and his phone recently and it's horrible they're very wrong and we need to fix all that and get him a bigger phone this is terrible this one loses charge faster and not really but it has a small battery that will burn up quicker the cost too much to replace

Thor Freya

It's only $25 no but he's going to look at it. Seriously we do a lot of work here today we did tons of work and we got projects going and we added to our mini car and other things that will help get our armies going along with the deserts and huge huge attacks and they're erasing a buffer there's also a problem it's a trade off but we're getting territory but we need personnel to do that and we need you ours to sign on as soon as you can and I always say ASAP but that's what it means as soon as you're possibly capable and that is what it says

Hera

Zues

You know what the anachronism says and it means as soon as possible and it does mean as soon as you're capable as well we're going to move on all of these items especially the kick cars everyone needs a car and we need cars and we are going to do our plan and we need each of the first run vehicle the very first and then we start producing and the Bradley GT 1 we almost have and we're going to get it and we are we're after the first mini and it is not a Cooper it's a British motors company and we know where it is we did start production already old enough but not of the reproduction version which is a kit car. To start production we made our own and it is an individual vehicle. Now there's several other things happening we're after the first Camaro the first mustang of a certain year and that's to make the coyote x and it's not a Bradley GT one or two and it is Trump's vehicle and he did make the first run of these two and there's others too that we're going to take from him in order to do so. We took the viper and we are now making kit cars for that particular year is the year that our son and daughter said was very cool and it is a extremely fast car and the kid is going to come out very soon the kit and tons of that stuff we have a lot going on and we're going to get to it in a minute but we want to mention the stuff and all of his ideas are going forwards for the mini especially New Vegas that's coming up soon too

Frank Castle hardcastle and the guys considered some of the doomsday device if they destroy New Vegas and they're going to try and they're trying early and doesn't do them any good we're just going to wipe them out and really nothing's up there yet even if they were there it's their buildings and there's no proof it's us people will go there and they'll think it's us then they're trying to do that to say it's a kickoff and mac daddy wanted that and the max and we're doing it

I'm getting ready for a big night there's a huge number of assaults and I'm going to announce what's going on shortly

Duke nukem Blockbuster

Olympus

[glystenangel]

Better in Love

Bodyguard!Toji x Brat&Afab!Reader (Historical AU)

Series Summary: you're the daughter of a feudal lord, and Toji becomes your bodyguard. then, you fall in love

Chapters: 3/5

Chapter Summary: you and toji run from your feelings

Status: Completed

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI, slight angst

~1.9k

thanks for reading and enjoy<3

Ch. 3 - Run Down

There seemed to be a shift between you two after that day.

Toji became the first person you would share good news with, and the last person you expected to tuck you into bed when you would fall asleep while reading anywhere on the estate that wasn’t your room. However, he did so without fail and seemed to make the unexpected happen often. Any time you craved a certain dish, it would be prepared by the cooks and on your plate by the next day without you mentioning it to anyone but your attentive bodyguard. Also, whenever you picked fruit in the gardens, gathering them in the hem of your skirts, he would tap your shoulder and then his own in askance. You would then sit on his shoulders so that you could reach the higher branches, and you always thanked him with the ripest pieces of fruit. Sometimes, when he was guarding your bedroom door and you couldn’t sleep, you two would converse through the door. He would tell you stories he had heard in his travels, and you would listen to the grit of his voice until you succumbed to sleep. 

On days where he was training or sparring with the royal guards in the courtyard, you would return his kindness by offering to sharpen his blades beforehand and then cheering him on. He wouldn’t pay you any mind during these sessions, but once everyone was dismissed by the head guard he would return to your side and let you know how good of a job you did with maintaining his swords, swinging one in his hand and claiming that maybe you were good for something other than being a spoiled princess. Despite his insults, you gleaned the thankful compliments tossed within them.

For all of his efforts, you decided to additionally bestow him with an embroidered good luck charm during breakfast.

“What is it?” He sneered, holding up the intricately sewn charm by its loop.

“It’s a worm! Like the ones we see in the garden.” You excitedly leaned across the table, tracing the curvy shape. “I gave it a little face too.”

“You can’t be serious.”

You frowned, “They’re cute. I thought you liked them.”

You had seen him pick one up once, wordlessly letting it crawl onto his finger from a low bush branch before crouching down and setting it back onto damp earth. He had watched it tunnel back underground, a small smile on his normally expressionless face.

“Whatever.” Toji shrugged, closing a fist around the gift.

Later in the week, you could see he had tied it around one of his sword handles, and you radiated happiness from seeing it dangle in the breeze as his swords clacked at his side.

He had caught you smiling at the sight, quirking up the arch of his brow.

“What?”

“Nothing!”

“You’re not a very good liar, princess.” He leaned down to meet your gaze, and you instinctively mirrored his movement. Your lips felt the pressure of Toji’s stare, and you almost closed your eyes when the sudden scratch of one of the household servants’ sandals on the garden’s cobblestones made you turn towards the garden entrance.

“My lady…and sir.” The servant bowed to you both as soon as they reached you.

You copied their bow before folding your hands against your stomach.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, your father just wants to speak with you.”

“I see, lead the way.” You stepped forward, and Toji naturally followed.

“Oh, alone. Without Toji.”

You sent him a panicked glance, but he calmly jut his chin in the direction of the main house.

“I’ll go back to your room. See you there?”

You nodded, apprehension knotting your insides as you left him in the garden.

_________________

“Oh good, you’re here.”

“Hello, father.” You bowed, and the servant who brought you to your father’s study did the same before taking their leave.

“You must be wondering why I called for you.”

“A little bit.” You gave him a nervous smile, smoothing down the silky fabric of your attire as you took the seat across from him.

He sighed, “I’m just going to get straight to the point. You’ve grown so much now, it’s time.”

The words brought you even less comfort, and you began wringing your hands.

“A neighboring lord has a son, and he has requested your hand in marriage.”

You knocked over a handful of papers from the desk from how rapidly you stood.

“What did you tell him?”

Your father sadly stared into your eyes. “I’m getting older, and I would like to see you taken care of. I won’t force you, but I think you should-”

“No.” You began backing away, feeling your back hit the door.

“My dear-”

You flung open the door, blood rushing past your ears and nearly tripping over the floor as you ran until you could see Toji standing in front of your room just as he promised. Seeing him made your heart ache, and you couldn’t understand why in the flurry of emotions clouding your thoughts.

Upon hearing your urgent footsteps, he sprinted to meet you in the middle of the hall.

“Easy, princess. What’s wrong?” He brushed the loose hair out of your face, placing his hand on your cheek as you tried to catch your breath.

“My father arranged a marriage for me.” You clutched at the fabric of his clothing, searching his face. 

He dropped his hand, “Oh.”

“Oh? That’s all you have to say?” You felt your voice rise in anger and pitch, “You’re supposed to be protecting me!”

“I don’t need to protect you from your husband.” He glared at you, and then raked his hand through his dark locks, “I’m just your bodyguard. You know that.”

A hollow feeling washed over you, and you could feel the delicate seams of your heart ripping to shreds. You covered your mouth with a firm palm, trying to stifle the cry you wanted to let out. It was incredibly bad timing for you to realize you had fallen in love with Fushiguro Toji. If the devastation of your father’s news and Toji’s callousness hadn’t made you want to sob, you would laugh.

He reached for you, sighing and stepping closer, “Here, let’s get you calmed down.”

The tips of his fingers barely grazed your shoulder when you started running again. The pure emotion was too much for you to face at the moment, and you felt the desperate need to be alone. You wove between doorways and confused servants, not stopping until you lost Toji and raced out of the back gate to find refuge in the woods.

_________________

Tears streamed down your face as soon as you made it past the treeline, and you eventually found a fallen tree to sit upon as you consoled yourself.

You knew it was rather pointless, since you were exhausted and Toji could definitely track you. Even so, the wind whistling through the leaves and the petal hued sky brought you some peace as you deeply breathed in the earthy air. The sky continued to darken as you mulled over your thoughts, the arranged marriage and your feelings towards Toji weighing on you. Your lungs no longer pleaded for air, but every breath brought a stinging sensation to the corner of your eyes.

By the time Toji found you, the world was dipped in a hazy purple filter.

“You fucking brat!”

You were slow to face him, wiping at your remaining tears and ignoring him.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

When you stubbornly refused to acknowledge him, he lifted you by the wrist and spun you around.

You were dumbfounded by the intensity of his stare and the absolutely wild state he was in. In all honesty, he looked like an absolute wreck. The scarred man appeared to be out of breath and the ropy muscles of his lumbering figure were tense, as if every fiber of his being was clenched with stress. His normally slicked back hair was tousled, you guessed from foraging the woods for you, and his forehead sheened with moisture. Flashes of murderous rage and something you couldn’t quite place swirled in the green of his eyes, and you winced when he started scolding you.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” It was almost more of a statement than a question, every word seething with incredible frustration.

“Leave me alone.”

“Like Hell I will.” He scoffed contemptuously, “Your father almost had a heart attack. I’m taking you home.”

“I’m not going. I refuse.” You struggled to free yourself from his grip, wriggling your wrist and twisting your arm with determination.

“Stop that.” Toji chided, though he softened his hold.

“Let me go!” You ordered, venom in your words and hot tears lining your eyes again.

“You have to go home. Your father-”

“I don’t want to be married to someone I don’t love!” You finally shouted, your tearfilled eyes meeting his.

A swallow did little to soothe the emotion rising in your throat.

The next time your voice came out it was hardly a whisper, “Can’t you help me?”

Silence.

Toji grit his teeth, sighing alongside the wind.

“Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

The reluctant sentiment filled a broken shard of your heart with hope, “What?”

Toji looked away, allowing another drawn out silence to coil itself between you.

“Just don’t. Please.”

It was the first time you had ever heard him beg. 

“Toji, what are you talking about?” You moved closer, raising your free hand and attempting to turn his face back towards your concerned visage.

The touch made him instantly reel back, and he shook his head.

“No. Don’t. You don’t get to do that after today.”

You drew back, pressing the rejected hand over your heart. 

“Toji, please talk to me.”

“Stop!” A deep roar left him, and when he met your eyes again the hope in your heart died from his icy gaze.

“Just stop, okay? I’m taking you home.”

The aggravated request muted you, and he quietly led you home. His hand was still wrapped around your wrist, but it felt as though he was farther than ever.

Your father crushed you in a hug as soon as you crossed the threshold, worriedly checking you over and expressing the utmost gratitude to Toji. Your bodyguard said nothing, only politely bowing and walking off to his room.

That night, Toji didn’t appear to guard your room, and you cried yourself to sleep.

_________________

The next morning, your bodyguard was still nowhere to be found, and your father joined you for breakfast instead.

“Good morning, my dear.” 

Normally, the presence of your father was appreciated, but after yesterday you held little fondness for him and his arrival only punctuated Toji’s absence.

“Good morning, where is Toji?”

The same, sad stare your father gave you the day before crossed his face again.

“Toji left this morning. He quit.”

It was like your heart was broken for a second time. A deafening ring filled your ears, and you felt the burdensome hand of grief on your shoulders.

You gripped the fabric of your dress, certainly leaving marks in the skin below.

“Where is he?”

“My dear, are you alright?”

“Tell me where he is!” You rose to your feet, and he looked at you in shock. Undoubtedly, you had not raised your voice at him since you were a mere child.

“I told him the ferry takes passengers at the port.”

The words finished leaving his lips right as you rushed out the door.

________________

End Notes:

she's a runner, she's a track starrrr🏃✨ rly gettin those steps in lmao

we're heading to spice town soon btw

tag list: @brumous11

← Previous Chapter // Next Chapter →

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Tyrion I (Chapter 1)

He drank his way across the narrow sea.

Shut the fuck up, Tyrion.

Sorry, it's out of my system.

+.+.+

But why did he need salt beef, hard cheese, and bread crawling with worms when he had wine to nourish him? It was red and sour, very strong. Sometimes he heaved the wine up too, but there was always more.

I fully intended to give Tyrion the Cersei treatment, and highlight every instance of him drinking, but it turns out I would have to copy and paste every paragraph.

Just know he's intoxicated the entire chapter.

+.+.+

"Wherever whores go," his father had said. His last words, and what words they were. The crossbow thrummed, Lord Tywin sat back down, and Tyrion Lannister found himself waddling through the darkness with Varys at his side. 

Unreliable narrator Tyrion Lannister.

"You shot me," he said incredulously, his eyes glassy with shock.

"You always were quick to grasp a situation, my lord," Tyrion said. "That must be why you're the Hand of the King."

"You . . . you are no . . . no son of mine."

"Now that's where you're wrong, Father. Why, I believe I'm you writ small. Do me a kindness now, and die quickly. I have a ship to catch." - Tyrion XI, ASOS

+.+.+

Varys had escorted him through the tunnels, but they never spoke until they emerged beside the Blackwater, where Tyrion had won a famous victory and lost a nose.

Unreliable narrator Tyrion Lannister.

A chain did not defeat Stannis Baratheon.

"Most people seem to feel that it was my attack on Lord Stannis's flank that turned the tide of battle. Lords Tyrell, Rowan, Redwyne, and Tarly fought nobly as well, and I'm told it was your sister Cersei who set the pyromancers to making the wildfire that destroyed the Baratheon fleet." - Tyrion I, ASOS

+.+.+

"I killed Shae too," he confessed to Varys.

"You knew what she was."

"I did. But I never knew what he was."

Varys tittered. "And now you do."

I should have killed the eunuch as well. 

He laughed, lol.

Feels like Varys might have confirmed that secret entrance in Chataya's brothel was for Tywin.

+.+.+

He could hear voices shouting as he was hoisted up. Every bounce cracked his head against the bottom of the cask. The world went round and round as the cask rolled downward, then stopped with a crash that made him want to scream. Another cask slammed into his, and Tyrion bit his tongue.

[...]

 Tyrion's mouth was full of blood. He spat it at the fat man's feet. 

Hm.

<- Prologue

She sucked down a mouthful of the frigid air, and Varamyr had half a heartbeat to glory in the taste of it and the strength of this young body before her teeth snapped together and filled his mouth with blood. She raised her hands to his face. He tried to push them down again, but the hands would not obey, and she was clawing at his eyes. Abomination, he remembered, drowning in blood and pain and madness. When he tried to scream, she spat their tongue out.

+.+.+

Beneath his window six cherry trees stood sentinel around a marble pool, their slender branches bare and brown. A naked boy stood on the water, poised to duel with a bravo's blade in hand. He was lithe and handsome, no older than sixteen, with straight blond hair that brushed his shoulders. So lifelike did he seem that it took the dwarf a long moment to realize he was made of painted marble, though his sword shimmered like true steel.

That's fAegon evidence, but I have no reason to question Illyrio.

I was near as poor, a bravo in soiled silks, living by my blade. Perhaps you chanced to glimpse the statue by my pool? Pytho Malanon carved that when I was six-and-ten. A lovely thing, though now I weep to see it. - Tyrion II, ADWD

+.+.+

Pentos. Well, it was not King's Landing, that much could be said for it. "Where do whores go?" he heard himself ask.

"Whores are found in brothels here, as in Westeros. You will have no need of such, my little friend. Choose from amongst my servingwomen. None will dare refuse you."

"Slaves?" the dwarf asked pointedly.

The fat man stroked one of the prongs of his oiled yellow beard, a gesture Tyrion found remarkably obscene. "Slavery is forbidden in Pentos, by the terms of the treaty the Braavosi imposed on us a hundred years ago. Still, they will not refuse you."

That's strange, because Illyrio has Unsullied guards, and the Unsullied are slave soldiers.

The last was chained, the others guarded. The guards were plump, their faces as smooth as babies' bottoms, and every man of them wore a spiked bronze cap. Tyrion knew eunuchs when he saw them. 

Once again, just because you give it a different name. . . Daenerys.

Anyway, Tyrion asks five people where whores go in this chapter. The only time he gets an answer, he's told brothels.

+.+.+

A light wind was riffling the waters of the pool below, all around the naked swordsman. It reminded him of how Tysha would riffle his hair during the false spring of their marriage, before he helped his father's guardsmen rape her. 

I thought the year of the false spring was 281 AC? Or is he calling his marriage false? But it wasn't.

+.+.+

Tyrion began his explorations with the kitchen, where two fat women and a potboy watched him warily as he helped himself to cheese, bread, and figs. "Good morrow to you, fair ladies," he said with a bow. "Do you know where whores go?" When they did not respond, he repeated the question in High Valyrian, though he had to say courtesan in place of whore. The younger, fatter cook gave him a shrug that time.

The Sailor's Wife is not a courtesan, but that kind of stuck out anyway.

It must also be said that the courtesans of Braavos are renowned throughout the world, yet are all free women, unlike the more famous beauties of the pleasure gardens of Lys or the brothels of Volantis. - TWoIaF

+.+.+

The walls would have shamed any proper castle, and the ornamental iron spikes along the top looked strangely naked without heads to adorn them. Tyrion pictured how his sister's head might look up there, with tar in her golden hair and flies buzzing in and out of her mouth. Yes, and Jaime must have the spike beside her, he decided. No one must ever come between my brother and my sister.

And no one ever will!

I must admit I get excited whenever talk of iron spikes on walls comes up.

+.+.+

The guards were plump, their faces as smooth as babies' bottoms, and every man of them wore a spiked bronze cap. Tyrion knew eunuchs when he saw them. He knew their sort by reputation. They feared nothing and felt no pain, it was said, and were loyal to their masters unto death. I could make good use of a few hundred of mine own, he reflected. 

How about eight thousand?

I'm howling at the word masters.

+.+.+

The washerwoman went back to wringing out tunics and hanging them to dry. Tyrion settled on a stone bench with his flagon. "Tell me, how far should I trust Magister Illyrio?" The name made her look up. "That far?" Chuckling, he crossed his stunted legs and took a drink. "I am loath to play whatever part the cheesemonger has in mind for me, yet how can I refuse him? The gates are guarded. Perhaps you might smuggle me out under your skirts? I'd be so grateful; why, I'll even wed you. I have two wives already, why not three? Ah, but where would we live?"

You already have a wife! You can't marry again Tyrion! That's preposterous.

+.+.+

The washerwoman pinned up one of Illyrio's tunics, large enough to double as a sail. "I should be ashamed to think such evil thoughts, you're quite right. Better if I sought the Wall instead. All crimes are wiped clean when a man joins the Night's Watch, they say. Though I fear they would not let me keep you, sweetling. No women in the Watch, no sweet freckly wives to warm your bed at night, only cold winds, salted cod, and small beer. Do you think I might stand taller in black, my lady?" He filled his cup again. "What do you say? North or south? Shall I atone for old sins or make some new ones?"

Including for those who think Tyrion ends up at the Wall.

+.+.+

Tyrion pushed himself off the bench and went to fetch it. As he did, he saw some mushrooms growing up from a cracked paving tile. Pale white they were, with speckles, and red-ribbed undersides dark as blood. The dwarf snapped one off and sniffed it. Delicious, he thought, and deadly.

There were seven of the mushrooms. Perhaps the Seven were trying to tell him something. He picked them all, snatched a glove down from the line, wrapped them carefully, and stuffed them down his pocket. 

Sounds like a weirwood tree.

Those poison mushrooms will come up throughout the course of this book, and I have a feeling we'll get great foreshadowing from it.

+.+.+

Tyrion propped himself against the pillows, his head in his hands. "Do I dream, or do you speak the Common Tongue?"

"Yes, my lord. I was bought to please the king." She was blue-eyed and fair, young and willowy.

It took me way too long to realize she meant Viserys and not Aegon. Imagine my face, lol.

+.+.+

"Will my lord want me after he has eaten?" she asked as she was lacing up his boots.

"No. I am done with women." Whores.

The girl took that disappointment too well for his liking. "If m'lord would prefer a boy, I can have one waiting in his bed."

M'lord would prefer his wife. M'lord would prefer a girl named Tysha. "Only if he knows where whores go."

I doubt Tysha's the only wife he's referencing.

+.+.+

She despises me, he realized, but no more than I despise myself. That he had fucked many a woman who loathed the very sight of him, Tyrion Lannister had no doubt, but the others had at least the grace to feign affection. A little honest loathing might be refreshing, like a tart wine after too much sweet.

"I believe I have changed my mind," he told her. "Wait for me abed. Naked, if you please, I'll be a deal too drunk to fumble at your clothing. Keep your mouth shut and your thighs open and the two of us should get on splendidly." He gave her a leer, hoping for a taste of fear, but all she gave him was revulsion. No one fears a dwarf. Even Lord Tywin had not been afraid, though Tyrion had held a crossbow in his hands. "Do you moan when you are being fucked?" he asked the bedwarmer.

"If it please m'lord."

"It might please m'lord to strangle you. That's how I served my last whore. Do you think your master would object? Surely not. He has a hundred more like you, but no one else like me." This time, when he grinned, he got the fear he wanted.

. . .

+.+.+

"I would hope so. She was trained in Lys, where they make an art of love. The king enjoyed her greatly."

"I kill kings, hadn't you heard?" Tyrion smiled evilly over his wine cup. "I want no royal leavings."

Not to soil my girl's name, but that's kind of what Sansa was.

+.+.+

Tyrion speared a goose liver on the point of his knife. No man is as cursed as the kinslayer, he mused, but I could learn to like this hell.

He can't have a good ending. He simply can't.

+.+.+

"Mushrooms," the magister announced, as the smell wafted up. "Kissed with garlic and bathed in butter. I am told the taste is exquisite. Have one, my friend. Have two."

[...]

"In the Seven Kingdoms it is considered a grave breach of hospitality to poison your guest at supper."

"Here as well." Illyrio Mopatis reached for his wine cup. "Yet when a guest plainly wishes to end his own life, why, his host must oblige him, no?" He took a gulp. "Magister Ordello was poisoned by a mushroom not half a year ago. The pain is not so much, I am told. Some cramping in the gut, a sudden ache behind the eyes, and it is done. Better a mushroom than a sword through your neck, is it not so? Why die with the taste of blood in your mouth when it could be butter and garlic?"

At least Myrcella won't suffer?

+.+.+

He was not brave enough to take cold steel to his own belly, but a bite of mushroom would not be so hard. That frightened him more than he could say. "You mistake me," he heard himself say.

"Is it so? I wonder. If you would sooner drown in wine, say the word and it shall be done, and quickly. Drowning cup by cup wastes time and wine both."

Who's drinking poisoned wine?

+.+.+

The serving men brought out a heron stuffed with figs, veal cutlets blanched with almond milk, creamed herring, candied onions, foul-smelling cheeses, plates of snails and sweetbreads, and a black swan in her plumage. Tyrion refused the swan, which reminded him of a supper with his sister.

That's not the only person I'm reminded of.

+.+.+

"Kinslaying is dry work. It gives a man a thirst."

The fat man's eyes glittered like the gemstones on his fingers. "There are those in Westeros who would say that killing Lord Lannister was merely a good beginning."

"They had best not say it in my sister's hearing, or they will find themselves short a tongue."

+.+.+

The dwarf tore a loaf of bread in half. "And you had best be careful what you say of my family, magister. Kinslayer or no, I am a lion still."

Is there a more deranged family in this story?

Don't answer that.

+.+.+

"You Westerosi are all the same. You sew some beast upon a scrap of silk, and suddenly you are all lions or dragons or eagles. I can take you to a real lion, my little friend. The prince keeps a pride in his menagerie. Would you like to share a cage with them?"

✨ foreshadowing ✨

+.+.+

The lords of the Seven Kingdoms did make rather much of their sigils, Tyrion had to admit. "Very well," he conceded. "A Lannister is not a lion. Yet I am still my father's son, and Jaime and Cersei are mine to kill."

Just point her in the right direction, Tyrion.

+.+.+

Tyrion was beginning to suspect that a certain freckled washerwoman knew more of the Common Speech than she pretended. "My niece Myrcella is in Dorne, as it happens. And I have half a mind to make her a queen."

Illyrio smiled as his serving men spooned out bowls of black cherries in sweet cream for them both. "What has this poor child done to you that you would wish her dead?"

"Even a kinslayer is not required to slay all his kin," said Tyrion, wounded. "Queen her, I said. Not kill her."

The cheesemonger spooned up cherries. "In Volantis they use a coin with a crown on one face and a death's-head on the other. Yet it is the same coin. To queen her is to kill her. Dorne might rise for Myrcella, but Dorne alone is not enough. If you are as clever as our friend insists, you know this."

Tyrion looked at the fat man with new interest. He is right on both counts. To queen her is to kill her. And I knew that. "Futile gestures are all that remain to me. This one would make my sister weep bitter tears, at least."

If you knew that, why did you keep entertaining it?

Tyrion would sooner have gone to Dorne. Myrcella is older than Tommen, by Dornish law the Iron Throne is hers. I will help her claim her rights, as Prince Oberyn suggested.

x

At least in Dorne they speak the Common Tongue. Like Dornish food and Dornish law, Dornish speech was spiced with the flavors of the Rhoyne, but a man could comprehend it. Dorne, yes, Dorne for me. He crawled into his bunk, clutching that thought like a child with a doll. 

x

"I have a niece in Sunspear, did I tell you? I could make rather a lot of mischief in Dorne with Myrcella. I could set my niece and nephew at war, wouldn't that be droll?" 

+.+.+

Magister Illyrio wiped sweet cream from his mouth with the back of a fat hand. "The road to Casterly Rock does not go through Dorne, my little friend. Nor does it run beneath the Wall. Yet there is such a road, I tell you."

"I am an attainted traitor, a regicide, and kinslayer." This talk of roads annoyed him. Does he think this is a game?

Lol.

"This is no dream," he promised her. It is real, all of it, he thought, the wars, the intrigues, the great bloody game, and me in the center of it . . . me, the dwarf, the monster, the one they scorned and laughed at, but now I hold it all, the power, the city, the girl. This was what I was made for, and gods forgive me, but I do love it . . . - Tyrion VII, ACOK

+.+.+

"What one king does, another may undo. In Pentos we have a prince, my friend. He presides at ball and feast and rides about the city in a palanquin of ivory and gold. Three heralds go before him with the golden scales of trade, the iron sword of war, and the silver scourge of justice. On the first day of each new year he must deflower the maid of the fields and the maid of the seas." Illyrio leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Yet should a crop fail or a war be lost, we cut his throat to appease the gods and choose a new prince from amongst the forty families."

During a council?

+.+.+

"Are your Seven Kingdoms so different? There is no peace in Westeros, no justice, no faith … and soon enough, no food. When men are starving and sick of fear, they look for a savior."

He's talking about Aegon, but I still feel the need to remind everyone that dragons plant no food trees.

+.+.+

"Not Stannis. Nor Myrcella." The yellow smile widened. "Another. Stronger than Tommen, gentler than Stannis, with a better claim than the girl Myrcella. A savior come from across the sea to bind up the wounds of bleeding Westeros."

"Fine words." Tyrion was unimpressed. "Words are wind. Who is this bloody savior?"

"A dragon." The cheesemonger saw the look on his face at that, and laughed. "A dragon with three heads."

Tricky author. Daenerys has the next chapter, but Illyrio will escort Tyrion to Griff in his next chapter.

Final thoughts:

Ugh.

36 down, 13 to go. :(

-> return to menu <-

[taiey]

It's honestly hilarious how often Elias in 160 goes "and then I got lucky!" when it was, in fact, the Web. 

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was. 

Yeah, you weren’t wrong about that one.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during Gertrude’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when Jane Prentiss attacked

The Web orchestrated literally everything about Jane Prentiss’s attack on the archives. In 032 Jane speculates that spiders led her to break into the attic where she found her wasp nest. A ghost spider drove Carlos Vittery to move into the apartment block above the basement where Jane was hiding; Carlos’s name also appeared in 123′s Chelicerae website code. Martin went back and broke into that basement in 022 because he remembered seeing “quite a lot of spider webs”. John sees a spider in 038 and squashes it, breaking a hole in the wall and setting off Jane’s attack before she had fully built up her forces. Spiders eat the worm corpses in the tunnels afterwards.

Meanwhile Jonah thinks periodic monster attacks are a natural inevitability. We learn in 167 that the Web fed Gertrude “a steady string of plans to foil”.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus.

This pleasant bonus was the result of the web table being delivered to the Institute alongside the web lighter.

Jurgen Leitner was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much Gertrude would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast. 

Given that John left Jurgen to smoke a cigarette with, uh, what lighter..? I conclude that the Web thought this too, slightly earlier.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right

I only noticed this recently, so I’m going to quote 117 at length here. They have entered the wax museum and notice:

DAISY Come on. ARCHIVIST Right. [He makes a sound of extreme disgust – it almost sounds like he’s straining with something.] DAISY Shut. Up. It’s just cobwebs. ARCHIVIST There’s no such thing as just cobwebs.

yeah the timing being just right wasn’t a coincidence.

I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him. 

John went to Jared Hopworth because while considering anchors for the Coffin he listened to a tape that he found "in a corner of my desk drawer, covered in cobwebs” that described “the siren call of flesh”. Elias screwed up the timing; the Web fixed it.

Honestly, Detective Tonner has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

Daisy Tonner was forced into the Coffin during the Unknowing, in that waxwork museum festooned with cobwebs. Jonah didn’t have a plan for it.

I have two conclusions. One is that Elias is metaphorically bragging about how he became super rich with only talent, effort, and a small loan of a million dollars from his rich father.

The other is that the Web didn’t just benefit from the world ending. The Web made the world end.

[itsjustmyfantasyroom]

Yellow Lines

This was requested by @onechicagomayan who asked for this:

<He how are you? I hope so. I wanted to ask you if you could make a request with miguel? And if so, in which reader is a federal and falls in love with miguel, when he catches him she is forced to use the yellow raincoat but then she tells him that she is pregnant. In this story miguel is with emily, and if you could put some dialogue in spanish.

Thanks and sorry and if I made a bad explanation you can write to me.

I love your writing, a kiss.>

Hope you like this and its what you were looking for.

Warnings: Talks of cheating (I don’t agree with cheating, this is just for fic purposes). yellow rain coat and hot oil angst, does get a little intense and of course a mostly happy ending. I used goggle for the pinch of Spanish I used, so sorry if it's wrong.

WC: 1867

Enjoy x

Your palms were sweaty and the heat of dread raged through you fast, your heart beating out of your chest. It was only a matter a time before you were put into a situation that you could lose your badge, and here you were. The files on the Galindo’s built higher and higher and eventually it was time for you and Jane to be put in undercover when the opportunity arose. You had read every file back-to-back more than once; you were briefed on certain things and you had to check in once a week.

An ad appeared wanting a new personal assistant for the cartel boss and a nanny for his son. Everything had been set up, you applying for assistant, which you got and Jane for the Nanny which she got. Moving onto the grounds the following week to get as much intel as you could to finally get Miguel arrested and bring down his empire.

It was in the first week that you had realised that the Miguel you had read about and had been briefed about was not the Miguel you had started working for. He was just a business man in a dark world that sometimes did horrible things, but mostly he was a gentleman, easy to talk to and the stories he told you about his life before and after he started on this road intrigued you. Slowly over time, he started to open up about his marriage and how much they were struggling, he worried about business all the time and Emily getting involved with and in things he didn’t want her too and mostly how the lies had started to rip them apart.

It only took one over night in Mexico for the relationship to cross that line and although you both said the next morning it couldn’t happen again after waking up in each other’s arms, it did two to three times a week and now you were waiting for the timer to go off as you sat on the toilet of your bathroom, feeling like you were going  to be sick if that white stick showed what you thought it was going too. Your boss was already on your back about more intel, Jane having more than you and she just looked after the baby. But you were in love with Miguel, yes you were doing the wrong thing every time he laid on top of you, but now there was no turning back.

You reached for the stick on the counter, picking it up. You took a deep breath and turned it over, the word ‘pregnant 4-6weeks ’ in thick black letters on the tiny screen. Your stomach dropped and the tears fell, that was your career gone for 10 minutes of pleasure. You had to pull yourself together, you had a meeting with Miguel and one of the Galindo’s major buyers in 30 minutes. As you went to open your room door you were met with Nestor and Paco, both their faces cold,

“Y/N, you need to come with us”

“Is everything-“

“Let’s go, you know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting”

You were even more confused when you saw Maria walk out into the backyard with Christobel instead of Jane. Nestor opened the car door for you and Paco got in the driver’s seat, he driving you towards the dress factory. Your heart started to pound in your chest and your stomach flip flopped as Nestor lead you towards the back room, Paco behind you. You had read all about this very room, but up until now, never been in it.

Nestor opened the door and you stepped in, fear filling you when Miguel whipped his head towards you, a look on his face that you had never seen before, Jane tied to his church pure and a portable stove with a pot on it next to him. You jumped when you heard the door slam shut and you saw the look wash over Nestor’s face when he grabbed your arm and pulled you towards Miguel,

“How long did you think it would take for me to find out?” Miguel raised his eye brow at Jane and then turned to you “Ven Y/N, ahora”

Nestor pulled you to Miguel and your body filled with fear when his hand went to your cheek, his eyes were filled with rage and you heard Jane’s sobs. Nestor walking to the set up turning on the stove and started to stir the pot,

“Miguel” you chocked “What’s going on?”

“Please, don’t treat to me like a fool. They put you in my house and you worm your way into my bed” his lips came to your ear and his hand left your cheek and went to your arm “You think because I had my cock in your mouth and I told you my feelings I would spare you when I found out” Miguel stepped away from you, walking to the pew grabbing the yellow rain coat that was hanging off the end of it and handing it to you “Put this on mi amor, show me how much you love me now” he barked.

Your hands started to shake and tears ran from your eyes,

“Miguel, please” you begged.

“Now” he yelled, his voice echoing in the room. You quickly put it on and Miguel grabbed your arm pulling you towards the pot making you look at it and you saw the boiling oil “You’re going to pour that to her and then Nestor will take care of you”

“Miguel” you sobbed.

“What did you think was going to happen? I’ am Miguel Galindo. Do you think the FBI is smarter than me? They should have trained their agents better, to not leave flies laying around where they can be seen”

“I’ am pregnant” you cried out.

“Liar” Miguel snarl.

“Por favor Miguel, I’ am not”

Miguel looked down at you and then nodded at Nestor who left the room. Miguel told you the follow him after he ripped the yellow rain coat off you throwing it on the floor and whispered something to Paco on the way past. Miguel guided you to a small office in the back of the factory and locked the door, walking to the small fridge grabbing a bottle of water,

“Why?” Miguel had his back to you “I let you in. I trusted you”

“Miguel, you can still trust me. I read the files. On paper you’re a horrible man but when I got to know you. You know how I feel”

“Just words” You muttered back.

“No Miguel. I meant everything I said” you walked up to him putting your hands on his back.

“I need to know what you told them”

“Nothing” you kissed his shoulder.

“Stop. Tell me now. What did you tell them?” Miguel roared at you turning around to face you.

“Nothing” you screamed back at him.

You pulled your phone out of your pocket, sitting the bottle of water on the table and opened your messages to ‘Mum’ who was your boss and you handed him your phone. You watched Miguel’s eye brows frown as he read message after message from your boss telling you to get information or you would be pulled from the case, and either you didn’t answer or just wrote back ‘Need more time’

“You told them nothing?”

“No. Have your people check it out”

“It’s mine?” Miguel nodded towards your tummy.

“Si”

“I want you to do a test”

“Anything you need me to do to prove it to you, Miguel”

12 months later

It has been a massive whirl wind and roller coaster from that day in the warehouse. You held Camila in your arms as you looked out over the ocean from your unit in Cuba as you thought about everything that happened. Miguel was there for the birth; a paternity test was taken as soon as she was born, Miguel wanting to make sure that she was indeed his. The rent was paid for and there was money in your account every month for food and anything the baby needed. Miguel had snuck you and Jane out of the US through the tunnels to Mexico, making you both disappear. You sent to Cuba and Jane sent to Puerto Rico, with new names and a new life. Jane told never to step foot back in the US.

You hadn’t heard from Miguel in almost a month, you weren’t sure if he was going to tell Emily, but you were grateful for being far away from everything. You had seen the US news how the FED’s finally raided the Galindo house and you crossed everything that there would be no paper trail to you for you to get caught out and be brought back to the US.

You had just put Camila down after she fell asleep in your arms, when there was knocks on the door. You went and looked through the peep hole and gasped in surprise, swinging the door open to Miguel, his face scruffy and he looking tired,

“What are you doing here?” you moved out of the way and he walked in “Can you be traced here? I saw the news” you closed and locked the door.

Miguel didn’t answer at first walking in dropping his bags and throwing himself on the couch,

“No. For now. There isn’t a trail to you. I have new documents coming here tomorrow and we move into the new apartment next week”

“We?” you raised an eye brow at him.

A cry broke through the apartment and Miguel jumped up rushing towards the cry. You gave him a minute and then walked to door, leaning on it, your heart melting watching him cradle Camila in his arms,

“lo siento, mi princesa. I stayed away to long, Papa is here now” he kissed her forehead, Miguel looked up at you, a tear running down his cheek “She has your nose”

“She has her Papa’s long fingers” you smiled back.

“What we did, what I did to my wife, my son, was wrong” he muttered “But, I loved you”

“We did do wrong Miguel” you walked into the room “I still love you”

“You won’t when you find out everything. What was in those files was nothing”

Miguel kissed Camila’s cheek, putting her back in her bassinet and sitting on your bed, his hands going over his face and you sat down next to him putting your arm around him. He told you everything he did and then looked up at you with a tear-stained face,

“A lot’s happened” you whispered.

“I’ve made too many bad decisions. They are catching up with me”

“That’s life Miguel”

“How can you not look at me differently”

“Because I saw that other man that you are. Just Miguel, not Cartel Miguel. He is a good man; he is the father of my daughter”

“Can we do this? Trust each other after everything?” Miguel looked over at you.

Your hand went to his thigh and his went on top of yours,

“It’s not going to be easy, but I want to try”

 Tags: @beccabarba @alwaysachorusgirl @lovebishoplosamiguelgalindo @jemmakates @ben-c-group-therapy

[idiotic-genius]

How to write an immersive scene

requested by @noa-i - check out their blog, they have amazing lists of helpful links to writing guides!

As a writer, it is mostly inevitable to get to the point in writing where you are questioning whether anyone will actually want to read what they have created. A question greatly important to writing something the reader gets hooked up with is: How do I lure them in and make them feel like they are part of something? Sometimes, writing immersive makes THE difference between a scene quick to skip over and a scene you can't take your eyes off. But how do you create immersion?

In this post: 1. Worldbuilding 2. Narrators 3. Writing visually 4. Setting the scene 5. Example to summarize

Step 1: Learn your own facts

It might be banal, since you are the author, to re-read your own notes and think about what you have written so far. However, to get the reader hooked up, make them INTERESTED. This is easily accomplished by creating a detailed fictional world that doesn't seem flat. It might be a tiring process, but it always pays off! Knowing exactly what kind of world your character finds themself in makes it a lot easier to fill in details that subconsciously make the reader believe they are dealing with an actual real-world instead of "just" a fictional one. But even though it may seem harsh, cutting out some details and facts might make the reader feel much more comfortable. Their mind wants to insert them into the universe they're reading about, so overloading them with too many unnecessary details can be just as defeating as giving them too little info. Here is a link to a great beginners-guide on worldbuilding.

Step 2: Know your narrator

As we all know, there are a bunch of different narrator types to pick from when starting a new story, and each of them is good for a different thing- reaching from the typical first-person narrator (The Hunger Games, Percy Jackson) over personal third-person (Warrior Cats, Harry Potter) to omniscient third-person (Anne of Green Gables) and biased third-person (A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy). If you are writing an unbiased third-person narrator in your WIP, you can just skip this step. However, if you have any indication at all in your story as to who the narrator is, you might want to think about this more closely. The narrator is the bridge that connects the reader to the fictional world. To immerse the reader in a book, it's usually easiest to use the first-person narrator or the personal third-person narrator, because that way the reader will either imagine themself as the narrator or as a friend of the main character, which keeps them interested. If your narrator is an actual character in the story, it is necessary to keep their speech and description patterns consistent with themselves and the events of the story. For example, a character narrating that has never visited a school or similar should not use highly scientific words to describe what's going on, etc, because it will interrupt the reader's reading flow and disturb the immersion just as much as time skips do.

Step 3: Writing visually

After making sure you have the narrator and the world they're in all set, it's time to choose a writing style, more specifically, to decide the visuality of it. What I mean by that is that having a fictional world so flat it's boring is just as bad as not describing it in a way that delivers it in the way it deserves to be delivered. Picture it like this: Every scene starts in a white room, with neither windows nor doors. If you as the writer don't describe what is going on in that room and what it looks like, at best while keeping the narrator's character in mind while doing so (to make it "3D"), the reader will never know what is actually happening. This also includes adapting the length and complexity of sentences to the scene: In a combat scene, you will usually find short and cut-throat sentences to represent the intensity and living-in-the-moment mindset of a fight, however, in a meaningful conversation between two characters about a heavy subject, it's more likely that longer and more complex sentences are of use to mirror the narrator's deep thinking of the subject and their concentration on the conversation.

Step 4: Setting the scene

By setting the scene, you fill in this white room in the reader's mind, adding characters, sounds, furniture, windows, and scenery in general, while still leaving space for the reader to fill in the blanks. To find a middle between these two extremes is up to every individual writer and depends on the writing style. If you over-describe the room, the reader will know every detail about it, but it will take away their focus from what is actually happening in the scene. However, if you don't set the scene at all, the reader automatically makes up what the room might look like based on what they imagine, and then breaks out of the immersion as soon as you mention something, later on, to be in the room that they did not picture. For example, if you just say that A enters B's bedroom, the reader might quite as well imagine there to be small windows, some bookshelves, a standard bed, etc. If you don't set that up right in the beginning and later on mention that B has small windows, the books stacked on the floor, a bunch of plants, an aquarium, and a bunk bed, the reader will get confused because it doesn't fit what they had pictured before. So ask yourself: What is so important that the reader should know it before the scene actually starts? Context also matters in that case.

5. Example

In the following, I will write the same scene multiple times in different styles to illustrate what makes a difference in writing immersion. The scene goes as following: Jae falls into a dark room underground with a hooded, mysterious person waiting for him. The hooded person greets him and lights a candle, and in the emitting light, Jae realizes who he is talking to. Remember: These are more caricatures of the different writing styles than actual representation and are very overexaggerated, but you get the idea.

1. first-person narrator (Jae), scene not set properly, no visual writing, no consistency in speech pattern

After three seconds, I landed on something soft and realized I had landed in a chamber underground, slightly lit by the moonlight above me. I walked through the only doorway and found myself in a second room. A hooded figure in the middle of the dark lifted their arm. From the table beside them, they picked up a candle and lit it using a lighter. "Hello, Jae", they said, and in the newly emitting light, I recognized them in front of the fireplace.

-> feels flat and jumpy, gives no significance to the change of scenery

2. biased third-person narrator, scene set properly, overly descriptive visual writing, consistency in speech pattern

After falling for what felt like an hour, even though it was probably just a few seconds, Jae finally landed on something soft. Before even attempting to get up, he shivered at the fresh memory of what slimy, earthy, suddenly appearing tunnels felt like. He stared up through the hole at the moon and the stars, and immediately recognized the constellation of Cassiopeia, high up above him. Cassiopeia is said to have angered the Gods, so they gave her the gift of divination, but made it so that nobody would ever believe her prophecies, finally banning her into the sky as this constellation. Weirdly enough, the stars' pattern doesn't look like a woman, or a human, at all. Jae slowly stood up from where he landed and realized he had fallen onto a rather big cushion with a print of primroses in yellow, pink, red, and blue. He looked around in my new location and found himself stuck in a small portico with no windows at all and only one doorway. The walls seemed just as dirty and muddy as the tunnel he had fallen through, and as he looked closer, he spotted about a dozen small, pink worms slithering through the soil. The floor on the other hand was made out of dark wooden panels- if you wanted to call it a "floor". The pieces were just loosely stuck onto the earth underneath, and mud squeezed out from the gaps in between. Jae slowly walked over them and reached the doorway after just four steps. He saw a hooded figure standing in the center of the next room. The room had two sources of lighting: One, the moonlight shining through the disgusting tunnel, and two, a crackling fireplace. It looked like it belonged in a small cottage, being made out of red bricks and looking a little old with the small black-and-white pictures put on top of it. The flickering orange glim of the fire met the silvery-white shine of the moon in the middle of the room. On the right side, Jae saw a big old round table made out of similar wood as the floorboards outside. There were obvious scratches on it, some made by smaller knives, others bigger and maybe made by swords, with splinters on their edges. Apart from two, the fours chairs around it seemed just as maltreated, but the two others were polished and reflected the two light sources, with no scratch marks at all. On top of the table rested a metal candlestick with one slightly burned-down candle stuck inside it. The candlestick had a few scratches as well, on the side and at the bottom. "Hello, Jae", the figure said snarkily, with a voice deep and rough like sandpaper. They wore a black cape, smooth on what Jae could see of the inside and rough on the outside, with a big hood covering their hair and most of their face. A few of the blue buttons with a golden pentagram engraved on them were missing from the coat, and it was slightly ripped in a few places. One strand of dark hair fell into the person's eyes as they reached out for the candlestick, lighting the candle inside with a silver zippo-lighter. The lighter had small scratches as well as a few symbols on it. Slowly, the flame grew bigger and bigger, until the shine from below reached the figure's face. Jae's eyes went big as he realized who he was talking to.

-> little place for the reader's fantasy, but details make scenery deeper and less flat. This kind of description does make sense if the narrator/the character the narrator fixates on (Jae in this case) is very observant and/or intelligent because they will notice details that others don't. The question is whether those details are important enough to keep in the story.

3. first-person narrator (Jae), scene set properly, visual writing, consistent speech pattern

After what felt like an eternity of falling and silently begging not to die from the impact, I finally landed with my eyes squeezed shut. Okay, legs, arms, and head still in place... I slowly opened my eyes again, realizing I had landed on a soft pillow with a flower print. Cautiously, I got up, gazing up at the tunnel through which I had fallen. The view of the slimy earth made me shiver involuntarily as I blinked against the bright moonlight far above me. The sky was clear enough to see stars, which could have been far more enjoyable if it hadn't been for my miserable situation. I had landed in a small chamber underground, with a single doorway leading into a bigger room. The walls were just pure earth and seemed to swallow all noise, but when I took the first step, the sounds of my shoes on the dark wooden floorboards and of the mud squishing out from beneath them was louder than I had anticipated. I could hear the crackling of fire from the next room and see the orange glow as I made my way over to the doorway and took a glimpse into it. The room was not very big, but also not as small as the one I had landed in. There wasn't much space because of a wooden round table and four chairs, which all seemed very old and maltreated, judging from the scratches on them. I could make out a few pictures on the fireplace, and in front of that- "Hello, Jae." I had to suppress a gasp as I realized that I was not alone. In the middle of the room, right where the silvery moonlight and the orange glow of the fire met, stood a hooded figure. Their coat looked as old as the few pieces of furniture, with missing buttons and rips. I couldn't make out much of their face, even though I squinted my eyes, but the flickering light made it hard to see anything, let alone recognize. But that voice... Before I could come to a conclusion, the figure reached for a metal candlestick standing on the table and lit the candle inside with a silver lighter. As the flame grew bigger, they dispelled the shadows below the hood that had disguised the person's features before. I could feel my eyes get big as I finally realized who was standing before me.

-> Gives enough information to "fill the white room" without dwelling on details too much, shows the context of the story, gives Jae a consistent personality

So that's it for this post! I hope I managed to pass on a thing or two that I learned while researching and that this post will help you with your writing. Please acknowledge, I am not trying to attack anyone's style of writing!! If you write the way I wrote a "non-immersive" scene, it does NOT mean that your writing style is bad, let alone wrong, because the existence of many different writing styles is what keeps it individual and interesting! Find your own way and let nobody get you down :)

[karliahs]

It’s been months since he was this close to anyone. It might have even been Jon the last time, too; helping him walk down in the tunnels. How did they get from there to here? How-

“Tim?” Jon asks softly, pulling back to look him in the face, and it’s the loss of that warmth and pressure that makes Tim realise he’s started breathing in great, shuddering gasps. He screws his eyes shut and Jon reverses their positions, pulling Tim into his chest with unpracticed but fervent hands. His T-shirt is soft against Tim’s face; he hadn’t thought Jon would own anything so soft.

Tim’s throat is burning, but as long as he keeps his eyes screwed shut then he isn’t crying. He isn’t crying on Jonathan Sims the night before they both-

“It’s alright, Tim,” Jon says, searching for words of comfort he only half believes himself. “It’s - whatever happens tomorrow, it can’t - we’re safe here.”

Tim laughs bitterly. “Nothing’s fucking safe.”

Jon seems unable to decide between rubbing soothingly at his back and just holding on as tight as he can. Tim shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be giving into this. But there's a reason he lost so much time when he should have been searching for the thing that killed his brother. The Institute was full of potential answers, but it was also full of bright, lovely distractions. He's buried in the arms of one of them.

Tim didn't used to think of that as weakness - but he didn't used to think there were worms that burrowed through your flesh, or creatures that took every true memory of your friend without you ever noticing, or monsters that played with skin, played with the fabric of who you were, because it was fun.

Tim doesn't know fucking anything, and maybe he never did, and now all that's left is to-

"What can I do, Tim?" Jon asks, and he sounds so honestly lost.

"Turn back time," Tim murmurs into his shirt. "Don't let go," he adds a moment later.

“I won’t, I won’t.” Jon clutches him impossibly closer. Tim’s world narrows down into warmth and pressure. “Tim, we don’t - we don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do this.”

The gentle vibration of his words is almost enough to distract Tim from the words themselves. He turns his head so he can speak un-muffled, and immediately misses the comfort of being closed in. “I do, Jon. I can’t…” Tim fumbles for the right words, wondering faintly if this is how Jon feels all the time, struggling to give voice to the unspeakable. “The worst thing in all of this, the worst thing would be if they hurt someone again while I’m just standing there."

Still not crying, not as long as his eyes are tight shut. He feels Jon hesitate, then push forward anyway. "Even if...Tim, even if you had moved, what could you have done?"

Tim squeezes hard at Jon's side and isn't sure if he means it as a warning or a plea.

"I'd never have met you," Jon says, so soft Tim isn't sure if he was meant to hear it.

"Was just thinking before,” Tim replies, because he’s fucked up enough that he might as well keep going, “I wish I'd met you somewhere normal."

Jon’s hands still, and for a moment the rise and fall of his chest does too. It’s the closest thing to absolution Tim’s ever offered. He’s glad he can’t see Jon’s face, can’t see whatever shock or gratitude is playing out there. At some point, he made himself into someone who no one expects to be kind. He wonders, vaguely, whether it counts as forgiveness, to want someone to spend what might be their last night on earth forgiven.

from: enemy of my enemy, aka jon and tim sit in various rooms and talk: the fic

thank you for asking!!! here we go:

It’s been months since he was this close to anyone. It might have even been Jon the last time, too; helping him walk down in the tunnels. How did they get from there to here? How-

do you ever just think about how fast things went wrong for the s1 crew...they were friends just a few months ago!! a few weeks in between no current supernatural experiences -> trying to survive supernatural experiences together by physically holding each other up -> complete alienation. some experiences just defy comprehension, emotionally speaking, even when you can see every step that led from there to here

i also like to make myself sad by thinking about the practical day to day aspects of everyone in the archives being alienated from everyone else. like...when were either of them last touched (non-violently)

so much has changed but they've circled back around to each other

“Tim?” Jon asks softly, pulling back to look him in the face, and it’s the loss of that warmth and pressure that makes Tim realise he’s started breathing in great, shuddering gasps. He screws his eyes shut and Jon reverses their positions, pulling Tim into his chest with unpracticed but fervent hands. His T-shirt is soft against Tim’s face; he hadn’t thought Jon would own anything so soft.

'person starts crying without noticing until someone points it out' is a trope i generally try to stay away from partly because i just can't imagine that ever happening to me and therefore it doesn't ping my realism senses, but i get one (1) because it is undeniably juicy

this fic is very zeroed in on tim's perspective in terms of small sensory experiences, for a few reasons - drive home emotions, portray dissociation, and because i like writing about how it actually feels to be in a romantic gesture, to make it more real than just like...an image of people holding each other

small detail that jives with bigger points - jon's shirt unexpectedly soft, jon's surprising ability to still provide him with gentleness and comfort

i think jon here has no idea what to do but has been given permission to touch so is living his best tactile life with this inexpert hugging and is hoping that does something

Tim’s throat is burning, but as long as he keeps his eyes screwed shut then he isn’t crying. He isn’t crying on Jonathan Sims the night before they both-

“It’s alright, Tim,” Jon says, searching for words of comfort he only half believes himself. “It’s - whatever happens tomorrow, it can’t - we’re safe here.”

Tim laughs bitterly. “Nothing’s fucking safe.”

tim spends a lot of this fic having his inner-monologue cut off to try and show as well as tell that he's struggling to stay present

that 'both-' hurts me, honestly. hurts more than it actually being spelled out, i think. write to upset yourself, maybe you will upset others in the process

half is a word i absolutely overuse in writing but cannot stop. no one ever does something all the way, they are half- believing, wondering, worrying, etc.

i'm never 100% sure if i'm accurately capturing the way that jon speaks in canon but i did always like and want to emulate the fact that he speaks kind of hesitantly, trips over his own words, etc

Jon seems unable to decide between rubbing soothingly at his back and just holding on as tight as he can. Tim shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be giving into this. But there's a reason he lost so much time when he should have been searching for the thing that killed his brother. The Institute was full of potential answers, but it was also full of bright, lovely distractions. He's buried in the arms of one of them.

Tim didn't used to think of that as weakness - but he didn't used to think there were worms that burrowed through your flesh, or creatures that took every true memory of your friend without you ever noticing, or monsters that played with skin, played with the fabric of who you were, because it was fun.

again, jon does not know what to do so he is just trying. just trying to do any kind of soothing hand thing

i thought quite a lot about reconciling the seemingly happy-go-lucky tim that gets presented to us early on vs learning why he came to the institute in the first place. tim here is framing that as a failing because he's miserable and traumatised and guilt-ridden, but i think at least part of it was actual healing. he was taking time and enjoying the people around him and trying to make the best of things, until it all went wrong

related, the self-recrimination of tim hating himself for not having seen any of this coming, even though they were not predictable events...very human nature after you have been through something terrible. how dare i have not anticipated every trouble that ever befell me

'played with skin, played with the fabric of who you were' - a lot of this story was me just enjoying the themes of stranger-horror. i love the terror of knowing there are creatures who can change aspects of you that should be unchangeable, physically in skin and otherwise in terms of identity and memory. love applying that to jon and tim, who have been fundamentally changed against their will by trauma and their roles in a story neither of them wanted. skin as metaphor for identity, and learning that people can take away your skin is then utterly terrifying to someone who already feels like his identity is being forcibly eroded. and then that shared terror brings them back together, just a little

Tim doesn't know fucking anything, and maybe he never did, and now all that's left is to-

"What can I do, Tim?" Jon asks, and he sounds so honestly lost.

"Turn back time," Tim murmurs into his shirt. "Don't let go," he adds a moment later.

this fic...is so sad. why did i write this. why am i being attacked by my past self and their awful words on this day

explicit admission that tim wants/needs jon here...even a chapter ago he was like yeah i'm going to america with jon bc i am regrettably relying on him as my reality-anchor, nothing emotional here

“I won’t, I won’t.” Jon clutches him impossibly closer. Tim’s world narrows down into warmth and pressure. “Tim, we don’t - we don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do this.”

The gentle vibration of his words is almost enough to distract Tim from the words themselves. He turns his head so he can speak un-muffled, and immediately misses the comfort of being closed in. “I do, Jon. I can’t…” Tim fumbles for the right words, wondering faintly if this is how Jon feels all the time, struggling to give voice to the unspeakable. “The worst thing in all of this, the worst thing would be if they hurt someone again while I’m just standing there."  

Still not crying, not as long as his eyes are tight shut. He feels Jon hesitate, then push forward anyway. "Even if...Tim, even if you had moved, what could you have done?"

Tim squeezes hard at Jon's side and isn't sure if he means it as a warning or a plea.

warmth, pressure, vibration...continuing to be fascinated by the little tactile details of what it feels like to be close to someone

emotional logic is so powerful. tim moving most likely would have either made no difference to the outcome or worsened it (because both him and danny would have died) but of course for tim standing still while someone he loves was destroyed counts for everything about who he is. sometimes blame feels better than helplessness, which mirrors what happens with his friendship with jon - is it scarier if they are all helpless, or if this one guy is The Enemy

‘give voice to the unspeakable’ sometimes i like poetic descriptions of jon’s role as archivist

"I'd never have met you," Jon says, so soft Tim isn't sure if he was meant to hear it.

"Was just thinking before,” Tim replies, because he’s fucked up enough that he might as well keep going, “I wish I'd met you somewhere normal."

Jon’s hands still, and for a moment the rise and fall of his chest does too. It’s the closest thing to absolution Tim’s ever offered. He’s glad he can’t see Jon’s face, can’t see whatever shock or gratitude is playing out there. At some point, he made himself into someone who no one expects to be kind. He wonders, vaguely, whether it counts as forgiveness, to want someone to spend what might be their last night on earth forgiven.

:(

tim views talking with and connecting to people as fucking up. how much of that is even slightly shrouded in logic and how much is just - tim is depressed and deep in self-loathing, somewhere still at the core of him tim loves people and making connections, so of course doing the thing he wants to do is wrong

‘At some point, he made himself into someone who no one expects to be kind.�� tim has this thought once and then worries at it like a sore tooth because his default state is hopeless fury with himself, with everyone. i also think this demonstrates how new information/realisations often can’t help you out of a bad mental state on its own, because it’s all too easy to slot it into your existing thought patterns. pushing everyone away was making tim worse - he starts to feel like that was a mistake, but it just becomes more self-recrimination

forgiveness is one of those words that seems to encompass so many different concepts that i find it hard to know exactly what it’s meant by saying you forgive someone. specifying what’s meant by this little shard of maybe-forgiveness makes it mean more, at least to me

may i reiterate: :(

[voiceless-terror]

I have been seeing those posts about ep 40 jon being injured and sleep deprived in the archives interviewing the others. Jon probably hasn’t come down from that getting wormed fear/adrenaline.. maybe he’s about to have a breakdown.. but tims there. Or martin or both. Also thank you for all the good content this year :)

Thank you for the lovely message! Had fun with this one, though I think I made it a tad more angsty than I planned to. Hope you enjoy otherwise, and happy holidays!

“...It’s just pain.”

Pain. That’s all. He can work through that, he’s done it before. The pills are wearing off, his entire body throbbing and wrestling with the feeling of hundreds of frantic, wriggling worms burrowing in and feasting- no, best not to think about that. He’s got to stay in control.

Control. Control is standing in his own office, leaning against his file cabinet surrounded by the corpses of worms with his boss sitting in front of him. His boss who is currently giving him an unimpressed stare, demanding that he go home. But it’s alright, he can do this.

It’s just pain.

Elias recounts what happened when Sasha came up to his office, alerting him to Prentiss’s attack. His voice is measured and controlled, but his face betrays a level of disgust that they all feel, the living reminder of which sits in front of him, bleeding and fidgeting as he tries to stay upright, squirming not unlike the-no. Stop.

He wishes he had the tape, but Sasha lost it in the confusion. This second-hand retelling is stale and hard to swallow. Elias sounds perfectly reasonable, as always, apologizing to Jon for taking too long with the CO2 to which Jon only replies “It’s fine. We’re alive.”

Just barely.

But then he talks about the scream. And Jon hears it all over again, that impossible sound of agony and rage that sung out as his world faded to black. And then Elias talks about how he stumbled upon them, compared them to fucking swiss cheese and he’s got to stop him, raising a trembling, still-bleeding hand. He doesn’t need to be reminded of that. No, Prentiss is gone. What he needs to focus on now is Gertrude- how she died, who killed her. If the person who did it was sitting in this very room. If he’s going to be next.

He imagines his body, lying forgotten in the tunnels as Gertrude’s did all those months. No one looking for him, no one caring. He’ll never get his answers, he’ll just lie there and rot like all those worms-

Elias gives no more useful information, repeating the story as if Jon’s being irrational and urges him to go home. You can barely stand. It’s true. But if he sits, he’ll have to look Elias in the eye instead of standing over him, grasping what little high ground he can. 

“Martin finding her body in the tunnels is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”

Is it? 

He sighs, succumbing to exhaustion and sinking to his seat.

“Can you send in Tim?”

________

Tim’s voice is strange and detached. He sounds...traumatized, which is of course to be expected. 

He’s probably still high, too. 

It’s odd, how these things affect them. It’s sharpened all of Jon’s edges to an untenable degree, every movement a sharp agony of tangled nerves that sends his mind spiraling. But it dulled Tim, left him foggy and so unlike himself. He stares blankly somewhere to the left of Jon, as if meeting his eyes and seeing his own injuries laid out before him like a warped funhouse mirror would be too much, would undo this strange facsimile of a workday that Jon’s tried to conjure. Just the two of them in his office, discussing a case. Pay no mind to the dead worms or the blood coating the ground and the desk and his arm and his leg and-

“...I mean, I went full Gas-Rambo.” Tim. That sounds like Tim. His voice may be wrong but the words are there, teasing and familiar. He comes back, clears his throat and nods. But then Tim keeps going, slides back into his memories and makes them lucid for Jon.

“You know that worm smell? That earthy, rotten smell?”

Oh, yes. 

It’s still there, cloying and wretched reminder that it is. Elias told him to leave the basement, told him that he and Tim needed fresh air. But Jon wouldn’t listen, he never listens. And that’s why they’re in this mess.

But the why is bigger than that, too. He needs to know why Gertrude was in the tunnels, why she was killed, why these statements disturb him so and why the Archives feel wrong, like an intruder’s in their midst. He thinks he knows where he can find the answers. 

“Could you...describe the tunnels?” Tim sighs, but Jon presses on. Perhaps through someone else’s eyes he’ll find the one detail he missed, the one thing that explains it all and gives him peace of mind.

It’s quite the opposite. 

Because the worms down there, in that room Tim found, weren’t trying to attack anyone. They were crawling, wrapping around each other to form a ring- no, a doorway. Jon’s mind fixates on the word and Tim stares resolutely ahead, looking weary and drained. He has to hold it together, just two more interviews and he can go home and rest (and think and weep and scream). He clears his throat, lowers his voice to the register he finds most authoritative and tells Tim to go home and get some sleep. Tim rolls his eyes at the action, but gets to his feet, slow and pained.

“Yeah. Sure.”

He starts to shuffle towards the door but something twitches out of the corner of Jon’s eye, a tiny, jumping movement like...like a worm. He lets out a whimper as his mind shuts down, starts tearing at his arms, ripping at the bandages because something’s still there, burrowing deeper into his skin and soon it’s going to hit bone and where’s the corkscrew, where’s Martin’s steady hands and strong grip, he needs help-

“Whoa, there!” Tim’s coming back but he shouldn’t be, not when there’s worms all over his desk, crawling and jumping and devouring.

“She’s- she’s still here, can’t you see?” Jon’s tripping over words, stumbling out of his seat as he tries to avoid the writhing mass he sees below him. “Get h-help, we need- Martin! Martin, are you there?” It’s hard to walk, hard to move but he does it anyway, grabbing at the wall for balance as Tim backs away- good, go, get out, get help-

 Rapid footsteps sound and Martin appears in the doorway, his eyebrows knit in concern. “What’s- oh Jon, you’ve ripped your bandages, let me-”

Jon doesn’t care about that right now. Not when he can hear their song, not when Gertrude was rotting in the walls for so long and he didn’t know, he didn’t know. She became a mystery and he will too, it’s just a matter of time. He grabs onto Martin’s arm, clawing at his jumper with desperate hands.

“She’s-she’s-”

“There’s no one here, Jon. She’s gone. The ECDC took care of it,” Martin’s just trying to placate him, he can see the pity in his eyes. Maybe he needs it. But if Prentiss is gone, that doesn’t mean the danger is. Even if he can tell himself there are no worms, it’s all in his mind, there’s still that nagging voice in the back of his head- you’re next. 

So he holds on tighter, dragging Martin down to his level with a movement that makes him flush. “You- you saw her, Martin. Gertrude. How did she die?”

“Jon, please, just sit down-”

He pulls harder, raises his voice. “How did she die?”

“Jon-”

“How?” 

“She was shot! Three times to the chest. Th-That’s what I saw.” Martin’s eyes widen, as if the words were torn from him involuntarily.

Shot. Shot. The words echo somehow in this small, cluttered room and Jon can’t wrap his mind around them. She wasn’t attacked by Prentiss, killed by some unknowable enemy. She was shot. With a gun. A gun wielded by someone who had a reason to take the Archivist out. Someone who might still have that reason. 

He staggers back, releasing Martin and collapsing with what might be a sigh or a wail- he can’t hear what’s coming out of his mouth. He dimly registers a hand on his shoulder, gentle and warm but it feels like a threat because something’s wrong here, something’s after him and maybe it’s Martin, who found the corpse. Maybe it’s Tim, collapsed silently in the chair. Maybe it’s Elias, telling him to go home where he’s alone and vulnerable and easy to get. So he scrambles back against his desk, breathing heavily with his arms thrown out in front of him.

Martin was right, there are no worms here. Prentiss is gone. And something worse, and perhaps much more human is waiting in the shadows.

“..just needs sleep and some painkillers. I can take him back, call us a cab-”

“-both full of holes, for Christ’s sake. Jon’s scratching at himself! I’m not going to leave you on your own.”

“This isn’t some fun archives sleepover, Martin, you aren’t missing out on anything, I promise-”

“Shut up!” Martin’s voice breaks through the fog, loud and commanding in a way it usually isn’t. Jon hazards a glance up to see him standing at full height and even Tim looks shocked, leaning back in his chair as much as it allows. Martin goes red, taking a deep breath and lowering his voice. “That’s not what this is about, just...just let me do this. Let me make sure you’re alright. Please.”

Tim pauses, but gives in with a sigh. “Fine. I drove in, bad day for it. You fine with driving us back, or should we take a cab? I need to sleep.”

Jon raises his voice, tired of being talked about as if he weren’t in the room and can’t make decisions for himself. “N-No. I’m not going back with either of you-”

“Quit it, Jon.” Tim gingerly rises to his feet, shooting a tired look at his hunched form. “Nobody’s out to get you, you just need to get some fucking sleep and you’ll feel better. Now get up, or we’re leaving without you.” He clearly doesn’t mean it, because he pauses and waits for them in the doorway, watching as Martin bends down to offer his hand.

Jon’s hand automatically reaches out to grab his, but he stops himself. Maybe it’s his best shot- if it’s one of them, they may not make a move if the other one’s present. If it’s someone outside of their group, their odds are better for fighting them off. But if it’s Tim and Martin, well.

Jon takes his hand. because what other choice does he have? Only bad ones, it would seem. Martin helps him to his feet. “Are you sure you can walk? I can-”

“I’m fine.” If he’s going to die, he’d rather do it on his two feet and spare himself the indignity of holding onto his killer. He lets Martin keep a hand on his back, though- he can’t walk without it.

Every slow step is agony; he ignores Sasha smirk on the way out and eventually finds himself bundled in the backseat of Tim’s beat up silver sedan. He considers asking for the passenger seat as his nausea might get the best of him back here, but thinks better of it. Better to be back here and alone.

But then he isn’t alone, because Tim hesitates and moves to the back, wincing as he sits beside him. Why would he do that? What does he want? Jon wraps his arms around himself and scoots as far as he can to the side, trying to focus on Martin fiddling with the car and not the presence beside him. The radio blasts as soon as the engine roars to life and Jon flinches back, fingers burrowing deeper into his arms.

Martin begins to drive, not saying a word as he pulls out into traffic; he knows where they’re going, but Jon doesn’t. Tim must see his confusion.

“Were you not listening? We’re going back to mine.”

Jon casts his eyes to the floor. “I-I don’t want to-”

“Do you have unexpired food at your flat, Jon?” His face heats up- he’d been living on leftovers in the Archives, so that’s a no. “Will you actually rest if you go back on your own? Will you-” There’s a hand on Jon’s own, gentle but firm as Tim pulls it away from his arm and forces it down to the seat. “-stop picking.”

“Sorry,” he whispers, but Tim doesn’t let go, just holds his hand in his and leans his head against the window, staring out at the road. Jon doesn’t pull back, no matter how much he wants to. He just looks down, staring at the larger hand on his own and wonders how easy it would be for Tim to break it. Just one good, hard squeeze and a crush of bone but no, Tim just absentmindedly runs his thumb over Jon’s knuckles and somehow this hurts more.

They must make an odd couple, he and Tim bandaged like mummies staggering up the steps with Martin at the helm. He’s been here a few times and he has to fight against the instinctive ease he feels upon walking through the threshold. Martin’s talking and Tim’s barking out short answers, dropping his belongings as he limps towards the bedroom and makes a dismissive gesture at Martin. Jon feels strangely outside of his body, looking in on a bastardized scene of domesticity through a foggy haze of pain and unreality. With a start he comes back to himself, and suddenly he’s on Tim’s couch; time must have passed for he’s wrapped in a blanket with a steaming cup of tea in his hands and a lump in his throat. And he’s talking, watching as Martin fixes his bandage with a careful hand. 

“...tapes are gone, Martin. Sasha said she lost them but I don’t understand-”

“Prentiss practically destroyed the Archives, Jon, I’m surprised more aren’t missing. Look, Tim’s already asleep, you should do the same-”

Sleep? How can I sleep when- “Someone killed Gertrude,” he whispers and his hands shake, tea dripping down the side of his mug and scalding his skin. “And they’re going to get me next. Can’t you see?”

Two hands wrap around his own- big, like Tim’s but softer and unscarred. Kind, but still capable. Of what, Jon doesn’t know. He lifts his eyes towards Martin and sees it- Martin’s scared too, doesn’t know what to do with Jon’s ramblings and doesn’t know how to comfort him or make it better.

“Drink your tea.” There’s an edge of hysteria in his voice, a naked plea that Jon finds unnerving. “And I’ll keep watch. You’ve- you’ve got us, Jon.” It’s so sincere. 

Jon wants to believe it. “I do?”

“Yes.”

He drinks his tea and feels the fogginess from painkillers he doesn’t remember taking slip over him, quieting the voice in his head to a barely audible whisper. The pain’s gone but the memory of it doesn’t fade; he stifles a manic giggle as a childish tune pops into his head. The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out!

His eyes drift shut as the cup is pried out of his grip, a gentle hand pushing him to lay down on the sofa. He hears the dull murmur of comforting words and a sniffle- he’s going to go to sleep soon, Martin will be the only one awake, and Jon doesn’t know what he’ll do or what he’s capable of. But he’s so, so tired. And he may not trust Martin, but he wants him to stay.

He wakes only once during the night to see the outline of Martin sitting in a chair, scribbling something in a notebook. It’s so innocuous he can’t help the tiny noise of relief that slips out of his mouth. 

Martin doesn’t even look over, just quietly tells him to go back to sleep as if he’s hushed him a few times already. Maybe he has. The normalcy of it is like a peek into some universe he’s not yet privy to; Jon knows he shouldn’t trust the comfort of it. And yet. 

He goes back to sleep.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28252950

[starswornoaths]

On the Rocks

Commission for @anorptron! Thank you so much for your patronage! :D

Set during early 4.0, the Warrior of Light ventures to his home after suffering a recent defeat. In search of a balm for his wounds, he finds an opportunistic noble yielding proverbial salt instead.

Fortunate, then, that his family had thought of that.

Word count: 4,743

~*~

Despite the defeat that dogged every step traveled back to Ishgard, there was a strange, tentative sort of merriment in the air of Manor de Fortemps. The High House had been scheduled to host an event marking progress in the Houses of the Lords and Commons— to say that the Alliance’s defeat in Rhalgr’s Reach had been poorly timed would be a gross understatement. 

It didn't matter how many times Edmont and his brothers reassured him otherwise, Sage felt responsible for how thin the margin for political error had become in the span of days. Even as much as he tried to detach himself from the minutiae of the politicking that came with the day to day of government— and the Alliance’s military coordination, no less— it was impossible for him to not be acutely aware of how easily this initial loss could be used to twist the Ishgardian public against the war effort— and, by proxy, all of the progress they had bled and lost for.

A lurching churned Sage’s gut. His throat tightened in that warning sort of way that came with nausea. Before it could fully clench around his neck, he swallowed the feeling down with a drink from his glass. Though there was nothing in it to burn away the mauldin thoughts clouding his head, the sweetness of the fruit nectar was still enjoyable all the same.

Sage almost wished he was permitted to drink tonight. He didn’t even necessarily like the stuff, mind; Edmont hadn’t brought out his good stock of sweet liquor, after all. He’d known the company he’d be hosting tonight was largely unpleasant, bless the man, and instead saved what few alcoholic drinks Sage actually liked for another gathering. He instead tried to focus on the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel; whatever nonsense he might have to endure at this party would be worth it, to spend time with those he was closest to— with much better drinks in hand.

In truth, while Sage was still far from enthused about alcohol, it was hard not to look forward to those after parties, at least a little: once all but Aymeric and himself had been seen out for the night, they’d all sequester themselves in the lounge, to keep out of the staff’s hair, while they all unwound with, “the good bottles.” It had been a tradition among the Fortemps men—one Edmont had insisted kept his sanity—for years, long before Sage had met them. But Sage was promptly folded into those nightcap conversations, and Aymeric not far behind him, once Edmont had finally managed to catch him on his way out the door to last Starlight’s service in the Congregation, and would brook no refusals of his offer.

And that had been that: whenever House Fortemps was host for a formal event, regardless of scale, everyone managed to plaster on pleasant smiles and fashion themselves the very perfect picture of politicians and patriots alike, bearing the brunt of snide comments and would-be detractors attempting to smear their good names with grace and stoicism.

These days, it was one of the few pleasures Sage allowed himself, to have his newfound family all gather in the lounge to decompress. It was its own sort of happiness, expressing himself among others, who were themselves letting down their own masks.

Aymeric liked to play bartender, likely out of a need to earn his drinks, and Sage cherished seeing them all unwind and listening to them say all the impolite things that they couldn’t at the time. It solidified them as family, seeing this authentic version of themselves, and sharing it with one another.

And then they would unwind and vent about it to each other later, laughing and making merry all the while. It made moments such as these worth a damn.

Edmont must not have liked hardly anyone that had to attend this particular soiree; Sage recognized the bottles being carried by the servants as the same label that he himself had taken from the bottom shelf, back when he knew how to pick alcohol about as well as he knew how to ask for comfort. The former, he was abstaining from, on doctor’s orders, instead enjoying fresh fruit nectar Edmont had ensured was stocked for him, as something sweet to still sip at the gathering. The latter, he was working on, now.

As much as he felt he deserved, at least, with his most recent, catastrophic failure.

Holed up in Manor Fortemps, sheltered from the cold, Sage could almost think the loss at Rhalgr’s Reach distant. Far removed from him. In a literal sense, he supposed that tracked, though despite the malms and the days that separated him from his defeat, it was as if he could yet feel Zenos’ overwhelming presence bearing down on him.

Despite the warmth suffused throughout the manor, it felt like his limbs would never know that feeling ever again. The chirurgeons had reassured him that it would improve, as it was a result of the blood loss from his wounds. 

That was hardly anything new for Sage, mind; it wasn’t so long ago that he was so battered and bloodied, that he was bedbound not ten malms from where he stood now— and even that was but the worst of a long history of grievous wounds. It was just that, even in his most agonized recoveries— ones that were far worse than this one, admittedly, he had been able to rest, at least a little, knowing he was resting in victory. He’d broken himself upon the battlefield, and it was for something. He’d done enough.

But this...

He felt low. Uncharacteristically small, despite how he towered over the crowd, even here. If he wasn’t absolutely certain that it would bring undue stress upon his family, he would be somewhere quieter, darker, to be with his thoughts alone and stew in his defeat. Never before had he such an itch to sink into old habits, as he did standing there, feeling like his skin was pulled too tight across his bones, displaced from himself.

Alas, rather than sink into his own solitude, Sage instead had to contend with nobility, and all the demands that came with it. For instance: mingling. After so many incidents with such gatherings, he had learned to pick up on the signs that someone, not far from his vicinity, was about to interrupt his thoughts. For instance, there was someone worming their way through the crowd, removing any doubt that they were aiming directly for the Warrior of Light, for how intently they made their way over. Just as well; Sage settled on being grateful that he at least had some warning, this time.

“Warrior of Light! Why, Halone must have blessed me, personally, that I might run into you here!”

Unable to entirely stop himself from cringing, Sage managed to let it pass over his face into something more neutral before he swallowed the sip of nectar he’d pulled a moment before. His effort was nearly for naught when he locked eyes with the noble that had hailed him in question: he knew this man, in a sense, from how vocally –and frequently—he would protest declarations in the Houses of the Lords and Commons. 

“My lord,” Sage greeted, inclining his head politely. “You flatter me.”

In all honesty, he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d maneuver his way through an entire conversation with the man, if that was what he was after. Gods knew his brothers were oft times formal to a fault, but even Artoirel and Aymeric hadn’t been immune from venting their vexations with the man. Sage could so clearly recall the young Lord Fortemps storming about the foyer snarling about attempts to sway votes, or demands to recall a vote on a technicality, pausing only long enough to thank whichever family member it was that refilled his wine glass for him that time.

As Aymeric once put it: “His disagreement would be far more tolerable, had he ever any alternative suggestions to accompany it.”

Already, Sage could feel his temples threaten to pulse with a migraine as he forced his face into a pleasant smile. It was faint, for all his effort, but it was there.

If naught else, he at least had excuse enough to be less than perfectly pleasant; the wounds he walked away from Rhalgr’s Reach with were only just on the mend, after all. They were at least fully closed, and had been treated; a marked improvement from how he had handled previous injuries.

But the noble lord was speaking again, pulling Sage from his thoughts.

“Why, I speak only the truth! I had been hoping to speak with you even before the conclusion of the Dragonsong War, but alas! It seems as if you’re always on the move!”

“No rest for the righteous, and all that.” He muttered, half into his flute of nectar.

“For the wicked have all the fun!” The noble said, throwing his head back and laughing at his own joke.

When he leaned back, into his laugh, he lightly tapped the backs of his knuckles to Sage’s coat. Another wince pinched the corners of his eyes; he could smell the wine off of the noble’s breath; not necessarily drunk, but certainly enough to be loose tongued.

Sage pretended to take another sip to hide his lack of enthusiasm. Already, he wanted this conversation to be done.

“Oh, but I jest, I jest.” Said the lush lord, once he’d caught his breath on a delighted sigh. “I do beg your pardon, the wine brings it out of me.”

Sage tracked the overarticulated sweep of a bejeweled hand, as it reached up to wipe away a nonexistent tear from the corner of the noble’s eye.

“You certainly seem to be in good spirits, my lord.” Sage noted, not knowing what else to say.

“I have every reason to be! The Houses of the Lords and Commons were in unison this session, for a change, and with Starlight not far off, the festivities have been plentiful!”

“I see.” Sage replied, and prayed that would be the end of the conversation.

When it was clear that the Bard wasn’t going to offer a more verbose response, the noble cut off what would have been an obviously much more judicious pull from his glass, as if the thought of being left to lapse in silence for even a moment was considered some grievous slight. Maybe it was. Sage was in no mood to care. 

“Ah, I forgot! Your reputation for stoic silence precedes you!” The noble said, hastily blotting at the corner of his mouth with a kerchief.

“It’s one of my strengths.” Sage drained his glass of juice, and turned away to set it on the tray of a passing servant with a murmur of thanks. 

“A damn shame, then, to know that such strength fled you, at the battle in Rhalgr’s Reach.”

In an instant, what warmth Sage had managed to glean from the manor’s well tended hearths guttered out. Icy dread struck him at the base of his spine, freezing him in place, hand still outstretched from handing off his glass—in the best of circumstances, he was hardly one for conversation, but this was very clearly bait for him to blunder into, a verbal trap that was doubtless intended to damage his reputation—and, by extension, that of House Fortemps. 

Perhaps even Aymeric, too: as Lord Commander, he’d been overseeing Ishgard’s involvement in the Gyr Abanian theatre of war, this excursion included, after all. If ever there was a time for an opportunistic noble to try and undo all the hard work they had all put in, here and abroad, over one loss in a larger scale conflict abroad, it was now.

“What,” Sage managed to rasp, words dragged across the sandpaper in his throat, as he turned back toward the man. “Do you mean?”

“Oh come now, there’s no sense in dancing about the subject.” Said the noble, through a toothy, cruel upturn of his lips. “This was Ishgard’s debut into the Eorzean Alliance, was it not? Were we not counting on you to lead us into victory?” 

Indignation warred with nausea-inducing dread in the pit of his ribcage. The former, for how dare this man who had known no struggle remotely like Sage’s, speak on how war and its games were played. The latter, because how dare he echo the same thoughts Sage had been so keen on ignoring tonight?

To keep his hands from fidgeting, he stood at parade rest, and half wished he still had a glass in his hand to keep himself looking less stiff and affected. He knew this man would vex him until he cracked, if this was where he was already needling.

When he managed to find his voice, Sage tried again, “I did what I could—”

“Which was, somehow, not enough.” The noble swiftly rebuked. “Not enough, despite your victory over Nidhogg. A curiosity.” The noble sneered with a haughty twitch of his nose.

The chill that had clung to Sage’s limbs crept ever closer, brushing dangerously to his heart. As if he truly were freezing over, his breathing thinned out, and he felt his hands shaking at his sides, ever so faintly.

“By all accounts, ‘twas Sage’s strength that prevented an even  greater loss for the Alliance.” Came the voice of one of his brothers.

“One of those reports was mine own—and yes, we would have lost so much more, were it not for the Warrior of Light’s presence.” Added the voice of another.

Relief flooded him hearing Aymeric, then Artoirel, speak upon their unexpected appearance, flanking Sage on both sides. A united front was the best defense from such grave offense, after all. It was all Sage could do, to keep from slouching his ramrod stiff posture, as he remembered how to breathe again. Even without either of them coming into physical contact with him, he felt their warmth seep into skin and scale, bolstering him. Squaring his shoulders as much as his wounds would allow, he tipped his chin up, to hold himself proudly. Just like their Da had encouraged him—he’d earned that pride, paid for in blood, sweat, and tears.

The offending lord seemed only momentarily cowed, flinching his glass subtly closer to his chest as he recoiled from the unexpected intrusion to his personal belligerence against the hero. When it was clear, with a furtive glance around, that none of them were interested in backing down, he pulled himself upright and cleared his throat.

“The fact remains: a loss is a loss.” He pressed.

“Spoken like one who has never written condolence letters.” Aymeric replied almost instantly, the smoothness of his voice a whetstone for his lance-sharp words, poised to cut off this conversation at the pass. “Even one less family in mourning, is a victory in itself, my lord.”

It was faint—in particular, compared to the low din of the rest of the gathering, but the group of elites that had congregated and circled around themselves not far from where Sage had been standing, began to murmur between themselves about the conversation they were overhearing. Had Sage not been so keenly aware of his surroundings, over the roaring of blood in his ears, he might not have understood why the noble’s face turned ashen, then, when those words reached his ears. Aymeric and Artoirel had, in effect, struck far truer than anticipated, redirecting the very gossip that the nefarious noble had tried to weaponize.

“We wouldn’t be sending them at all, were we not engaging in conflicts that we had no business meddling in.” The noble replied, though it was clear by the way the pads of his fingers paled against the stem of his wine glass, that he was most certainly rattled. “Business, I will remind you, that we have made ours solely on debt to a singular champion! How can we condone it, as proud Ishgardian citizens, when our creditor cannot guarantee our victory?”

Were the man not gunning to undo everything that they had fought and sacrificed for and then some, Sage might feel some semblance of sympathy for him. As it was, it was at least a little morbidly gratifying, watching him squirm when challenged.

Aymeric seemed to expect the question. In truth, he had likely had to field it many times; he seemed almost bored with it.

“We did not commit ourselves to one war on the coattails of another solely because the Warrior of Light bade we do so.” He began in a low tone. One that gave a warning he put no words to, and did not have to. “On the contrary: as with the Dragonsong War, he only opened our eyes to the truth of the matter: that we were always involved in this war. We were always going to be involved in this war, whether we willed it or not.”

“Such fatalistic talk, from such a lauded, romantic politician!” The man jeered.

“Ishgard’s best defense has always been a proactive offense,” he explained patiently, in a tone that reminded Sage of one he’d used on Alphinaud, upon their first meeting in the Falling Snows. “The winds suggest but one course upon which the Empire has been set: total conquest. We cannot afford to watch, idle and indolent, while Garlemald marches right to our gates, afore we are moved to action.” 

“This was never our affair!” Cried the exasperated nobleman, perhaps a bit more inebriated than Sage might have initially thought.

Clearly, more than, as when the man made to jab an accusatory finger in the Lord Commander’s direction, he seemingly forgot that he was still holding a half-full wine glass. It sloshed enough to splash, faintly upon the chest of the Lord Commander’s coat. 

For a blessing, the fabric was dark enough that blotting at it with a kerchief was sufficient to keep the light colored champagne from damaging it, but the impropriety of the action was far from lost on even the inebriated offender.

With a singular, prim tug on his own lapel, Aymeric tucked the folded, soiled kerchief away with a barely repressed snort of indignation. “‘Twas ever Eorzea’s affair— and we have been Eorzeans for far longer than we have not, in our history. Garlemald is committed to making this the affair of every living soul on this star, to be conquered, until someone stops them. If every nation clung to their borders and insisted that it was not our affair, then we would simply be picked off, one by one—”

“Garlemald cannot invade us through the weather, and our neighbors besides—”

“Then they would lay siege to us, and our home would become our tomb.” Said a voice from the crowd that had begun to try to not listen to the growing ruckus.

That same crowd parted, and revealed Lord Edmont, honorable father of this evening’s host, looking every bit as graceful and dignified as ever. Striding purposefully, he stopped only when he was beside his fellow noble, and took his measure with an even, steely gaze. “I know I need remind no one here of what happened to the Stone and Dusk Vigils, following the Calamity. Would you inflict that upon our families, for turning away from the plights beyond our gates?”

It was clearly a future that the noble had not considered— in fairness, a future few would want to consider. 

In war, such wants do not matter: it is a path of death, and must be walked with both eyes open, or not at all.

Seeing the noble thoroughly cowed, Edmont eased that hardened stare, and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“But come! Such logistics are not for us retired folk to fret over any longer—”

“Edmont, you have surely heard your boy on the forum floor, debating that we meddle in—”

“And what right have we to criticize our children, when they protect a tomorrow that our inaction stole from them?” Edmont asked, not unkindly.

He might as well have struck the noble, for how he recoiled at the rebuttal. If there was a deeper, personal meaning for the noble, Sage did not know it, and did not care: he knew exactly who Edmont was thinking of, when he spoke so.

Edmont’s hand on his shoulder squeezed, comfortingly, as he led him away, speaking of happier things. There seemed to be an understanding between the two that Sage could only begin to fathom, but could readily identify: it was the look of a father that had to bury their child. It wasn’t enough for the dread and ire that the man inspired in Sage to completely vanish, but it was tempered with the understanding that, as he had learned is often the case with Ishgardians, his anger came from immense, generational tragedy.

It was a distant revelation, a balm on a wound, but it was nothing to the panacea that was watching how his family had managed to pull him back from the brink of panic, to cover his blindspots, to be his shield. It was an otherwise unfamiliar feeling, this sense of protection that settled over his shoulders and calmed his tumultuous heart. 

So distracted with awe for how swiftly his family closed in ranks around him, Sage had nearly forgotten to feel the sting of his injuries, until he’d shifted his weight and bit back a curse at the sudden jolt of fire that shot up his spine. When he flinched and his legs faltered, he felt two hands at his back— one of Artiorel and Aymeric both, bracing him.

“Forgive us for leaving you to the wolves, as it were.” Aymeric spoke up, gently startling him out of his thoughts. When he’d straightened and looked over at the Lord Commander, he was given a wincing smile. “No one wanted to smother you, mind, though we all attempted to keep the worst of them occupied.”

“Wh—“ Sage stopped himself from asking the obvious; even if he didn’t believe himself worthy of it, he could no longer deny he was their family, truly and utterly.

With a fond smile and a shake of his head, he instead chose to say, “I know better than to simper in the face of family, so, put simply: thank you.” When Sage smiled, it felt less like it resembled broken glass than it had since he’d left Gyr Abania—certainly less than it had all night. “I don’t know what I would do without you all.”

“And we would say much the same of you, Sage.” Artoirel reassured, clasping a hand comfortingly on Sage’s uninjured forearm.

“Which we have, on more than one occasion,” Aymeric added brightly. “And will keep doing so.”

“Artoirel might not fess up to just how much of that effusive praise comes from him, old sport, but I would be most glad to!” Chimed in the last of their brothers, who had otherwise been shockingly scarce all evening.

Artoirel harrumphed at Emmanellain’s delighted chirping, and crossed his arms. “Given you’ve the leisure to prod me for a reaction, I take it you’ve done your job?”

“Always business, with you!” Emmanellain’s expression momentarily scrunched. “But yes. Frankly, it’s almost boring, how easy it is to redirect the rumor mill. I do hope you’re not too terribly offended that the current affair-of-the-hour among noble lady circles is more stimulating gossip than whatever that lord’s quarrel with you is; he really is an offensively boring man, as politics go.”

Sage didn’t know what to say in response, and his surprise must have been evident on his face, as Emmanellain nudged his good shoulder and winked.

“What, not expecting me to pull my weight? I might not be half the knight my brothers are,” he said around an easy smile. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t still protect you, old sport.”

“I’m not sure they make shields tall enough for that.” Sage blurted before he could think better of it.

Practiced politicians they may have been, all the etiquette in the world couldn’t stop Artoirel and Aymeric from hiding their laughter behind their hands at Emmanellain’s gawping.

“Were you joking, just then? Why, Sage! I would almost think you liked me, or something!” Emmanellain gasped, a hand pressed over his heart, the very picture of mock horror.

This levity, this, this warmth, that permeated him, being surrounded by his family…it would not heal him. Sage knew that, deep down. But when he laughed, it came easily. The smile that followed, even easier. And that, that was what helped. What reminded him of his convictions.

“You’re my brother.” Sage said, his tone serious despite the smile still quirking his lips. “Stands to reason I like you.”

Emmanellain paused for a moment, his theatrics softening into something genuine. When he laughed the sort that had him holding his stomach and drying his eyes, it reminded Sage of Haurchefant.

“And you have good taste besides, don’t you forget that, old sport.” Emmanellain said, eyes crinkling for the width and breadth of his smile.

“And you discredit yourself.” Sage replied. “I see more and more of our brothers in you every day.”

It seemed Sage’s comment overwhelmed his little brother; he spun and plucked a flute of champagne from one of the wait staff passing by, and poorly tried to hide his flush behind its rim.

“Yes, well, I certainly have no shortage of examples to lead me.” Emmanellain half muttered into his drink, just before tossing his head back to tip the glass as far back as he could, and he drained it in one fluid gulp. “You included.”

He seemed not to know what to do with the quiet that came after emotional declarations, as, with a twist to set his empty glass on another tray being taken the opposite direction of the first, he used that momentum to turn back into the crowd, back into the mingling crowds that were resuming their previous low din of chatter.

Watching him fade into the crowd made Sage’s gaze wander through the faces in all the merrymaking that had resumed. On that passing glance, he caught Edmont through the crowd, having brought that offending noble into a group of other people Sage distantly recognized as some of the elder generations of the High Houses. It was only a moment, but it was enough to see exactly where the Fortemps propensity for warmth and good cheer came from, as much as their sense of duty had.

“Me included, then?” Sage asked, half to himself.

“Absolutely.” Artoirel said, with a surprising amount of conviction. “Our family has a reputation of housing the most upstanding knights in all of Ishgard. That has never been more true, than it is where you are concerned.”

Perhaps the alcohol did make Artoirel more verbose; Sage was unaccustomed to such declarations in abundance from the newest head of House Fortemps. For a certainty, it was the reason why it overwhelmed him, enough so that he was reminded of the burning shame of his most recent defeat.

“I was defeated—”

“And that should deplete you of your worth?” Aymeric countered at his other side. “Even the greatest people in history knew countless defeats— many of which were costly. Yet, they are not remembered as great because of their losses, but because they persevered despite them.” He gave a single, decisive nod. “I can think of no greater quality that could exemplify the knights of House Fortemps— you among the most exemplary.”

That overwhelmed feeling looped back around into a pleasant sort of warmth; it didn’t entirely absolve him of his guilt; none present expected it to. It weighed as it should— and no heavier. 

Grateful that his family was ever his shield, ever stopping him from pressing his burdens down harder on his own shoulders than he needed to, he could only lower his gaze, smile wider, and reply with, “I hope to be worthy of that.”

“You always were.” Artoirel and Aymeric replied automatically, voices nearly overlapping in perfect sync for their immediate timing.

With a surprised glance between the three of them, they dissolved into half-covered laughter, and that pressure on Sage’s chest settled, alongside his thoughts. It wasn’t enough to make the world okay. It wasn’t enough to make Sage strong enough to free Ala Mhigo and come home, not on its own.

But it was enough.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “An Honest Conversation.”

Addressing the elephant in the room, and beginning to deal with a problem that has been ongoing for a few months. Hope you all like :)

The room was half dark, it wasn’t due to the time of day or anything, but mostly because he considered it the perfect ambiance for practicing. Besides, it was easier to see if the lights were dimmed just a little. He adjusted the holographic headset over his head and eyes and dropped into a low crouch. In front of him the small Drev warrior in the hologram did the same. He followed it’s movements repeatedly practicing the forms laid out before him. Forms that were unfamiliar.

The forms of what the Drev were now calling the Resurgence….. The new spiritual fighting forms brought about by their new saint and distributed to Drev all over the galaxy, brought down from the mountain and their saint. The saint of the Sun.”

Sunny

His current weapons specialist and ex.

She had returned to the ship after the incident with the writing not everyone could read.

He spun the spear in a tight circle.

Now that was another can of worms entirely considering that he had been taken over…. Possessed? By some kind of cosmic being who said he both was and wasn’t Deus, but was and wasn’t Adam himself, which of course Adam took issue with considering --the last time he checked-- he didn’t have any unfathomable godly powers. From the short and…. Admittedly awkward, conversations with Sunny, it seems that that same being had helped her to develop the fighting styles, coming to her in the middle of some ritualistic trance, taking his form and also claiming to be him at the same time.

Due to these encounters, the UNSC and GA had added this Deus/not Deus to a watchlist of possibly dangerous alien species which included, right now, only the space dragons and that weird organic structure which had given him the vision. Anything they couldn’t explain or understand went on the list.

And yes of course there were a few people who had managed to study the space dragon, but they still didn’t understand how it could so easily travel from one area of space to another, or how it seemed to move faster than it should be able to even when it wasn’t creating its own warp tunnels.

And now there was this Deus, who seemed to be able to read people’s minds, encroach on their dreams, and had the power to survive in environments hostile to man or alien.

He jabbed forward with the spear and spun back.

He was practicing the human form, which he found to be the most pleasing and convenient. 

Not that he was biased or anything.

Around him, a few more bodies filtered into the room  heading to the periphery where the TVs and games were set out. No one bothered him, where he practiced in the center dueling ring.

At least not until.

“Try keeping your elbow a little higher.”

He was startled out of his rumination, and turned to look towards where the voice had come from, only to freeze when he saw Sunny standing at the edge of the circle, shimmering spear in hand.

Ever since she had come back , there was something different about her. 

A cool, poise and confidence that hadn’t been so evident.

In his opinion it just made her more of a badass, and tried very hard to intimidate him though he didn’t let it.

He adjusted his elbow, “You mean like this.”

“Better, you’ll get more power out of a thrust.”

He lowered his spear and rested it against the floor. An awkward silence reigned between them for a moment. But based on the calm expression of her face, he knew it was only awkward because of him.

He sighed and then straightened himself, smiling. He lifted his spear gently swaying the tip back and forth in her direction, “So what does the great Saint think about a little friendly duel.”

She looked at him in mild amusement, and he knew that she knew that he knew she was going to kick his ass, but what else was he supposed to do? Talk? What would he even say?

Getting his ass kicked was much easier.”

“I’m not sure about that….”

 She trailed off 

He shook his head, “Oh come on you’re like the best warrior on Anin now, it's not like anyone is going to give you a really GOOD fight. But if you’re looking for a mediocre one, you might as well pick me.”

The corners of her mouth tightened, ‘I don’t thin-”

“I challenge you to a duel.”

She cut off and looked at him.

He continued to smile.

He had made a formal challenge, there was really no way for her to back out and the two of them knew it. That didn’t stop her from looking mildly concerned as she stepped into the circle. Adam kicked off his shoes looking for better grip against the floor with his bare feet. Sunny set herself up on the other side.

Adam’sl challenge had drawn attention from a few of the Drev in the room, who wandered over to watch the fight, no one had seen Sunny in combat just yet, and everyone was more than a little curious about what she could do now, Adam most of all. He knew that she had gone and practically been exalted, but also, he had always thought she was a talented warrior. He had trouble imagining her being any better.

He was about to eat those thoughts in a  moment as one of the Drev took the opportunity to referee the fight.

They clicked out the starting command, and before he really knew what was going on, he was surrounded by a mailstrum of metal as her spear whipped around this way and that faster than he could have thought possible. He came out of the first attack surprised that he wasn’t dead and unsure how he had kept her back. Though he was sure that a large portion of that had been luck.

She came at him again, and he threw himself into a wild dodge, careening backward around the outer edge of the circle as she continued to advance.

He tried to fend her off, but that was about the only thing he COULD do.

Months and months of practice, and another month fighting with the neospartan colony on the archipelago and the only thing he could do was just not die.

She whipped her spear around and he deflected it to the side, but she came back again reversing the momentum of his deflection and nearly catching him on the arm. He quickly switched hands and caught her third attack which came from under and up. The clattering of their spears had brought the attention of the rest of the crew, who turned in their seats to watch.

Sweat rolled down from his hairline.

Then she did something she had never done before and kicked at the back of his knee with her forward foot. Drev didn’t do kicks, but there she was, and suddenly he was on the ground. She came in for an overhand strike which he just barely caught and had to struggle to keep off him. His eyes were wide.

He was losing.

And losing badly.

He tried not to think about it, but couldn’t help but be reminded how Drev battle partners worked…. How they had to be equal in a fight.

She was just toying with him.

His hands trembled as the spear bore down towards his chest struggling against her strength. He was going to lose…. Just like that, right here on the floor… on his back.

He had given into the inevitability when.

NO!

He could do better!

With a primal yell of anger and frustration spurred on by adrenaline he thrust his arms forward, throwing her back and nearly off balance. Around the circle the Drev muttered as he leapt to his feet. His teeth were gritted, and this time it was he who attacked his focus and frustration meeting at a sharp spearhead point.

This time it was her backing up around the circle as he came forward.

It might have been her surprise that allowed that sudden lapse, but soon she was throwing her own attacks in, sharp and snapping like a whip. He caught them, just barely.

Their fight grew faster and faster, the blows grew harder and harder, until his hands grew numb with every strike struggling to even keep hold of his spear.

Together they fought back and forth shedding sparks. 

A crowd had gathered, a few of the humans looked as if they wanted to intervene, but Drev stopped them.

Adam came in for a side blow, which she caught, but this time the vibrations were too powerful, and his spear was knocked from his hands to go rolling across the floor and out of the circle. The Crowd stood with a cry of shock expecting the fight to be over. Sunny swung at him, and he ducked following up with a tight twisting kick that somehow caught the shaft of the spear against the ball of his foot. The blow was so powerful that her weapon was reached for her hand to go spinning after his own.

The room stared in shock and awe as they ended up on opposite sides of the circle from each other.

Sunny glanced over at the proctor as if expecting him to reset the match with their weapons.

But by then he was too far gone. All his pent up frustration at himself came out in one fell swoop as he rushed forward across the circle leaping into  a flying tackle which threw both of them violently to the ground.

The sound they made as they hit the floor was like the crack of gunfire. 

Four hands against two they fought, Sunny kicked him off, and he skidded across the floor onto to right himself and came running back. He caught her around the neck this time, grabbing her around the throat with one arm in a choke hold squeezing at the arteries on the slides of her neck, just similar enough to work like a human did.

Her hands scrabbled at his arms, and for a moment he forgot about her second pair of arms.

That was at least until the sharp carapace of her elbow came down on the inside flesh of his thigh. That loosened his grip sufficiently enough for her to throw him off. Unfortunately things didn’t work out well for him.

And there was a sharp crack and sudden roaring pain in his temple as his head hit the ground and bounced.

There was an audible gasp from the crowd as he rolled to land on his stomach on the other side of the circle. He was dazed and his head hurt horribly, but as if he was being guided on autopilot, he got back up.

Across the circle Sunny was just getting to her feet, and with a grimace she looked as if she was about to speak, but he didn’t let her, coming at her again.

Their grappling took them to the floor on multiple occasions, only for them to jump back up when one or the other broke free.

Across the circle the proctor motioned for their attention, and with the flash of metal on metal, their two spears were tossed back into the circle. Adam caught his from the air, as did Sunny, and then they were back at it again with no holds barred, full speed and full strength.

He caught Sunny high on the shoulder causing her to stagger and hiss in pain. 

She caught him on the thigh, which almost caused him to keep over in agony sure that the bone had been fractured.

Around the circle the faces looked uncomfortable.

He snarled and rushed forward. They caught each other in a sharp exchange of blows that left his fingers on fire.

And then, it happened. He saw it in her eyes as a subtle narrowing, and before he knew what happened, she spun her spear around and cracked it against the side of his prosthetic knee. In the dead silence of the room, he heard something snap, and then the steel eye whirring grinded to a halt.

He was suddenly helpless tipping onto the floor and unable to rise.

WHen he lifted his head he saw only the spear pointed towards his face.

The room was silent.

He tried to get to his feet, but the prosthetic did not respond. He was left to sit on the floor under the point of her spear.

The narrowing of Sunny’s eyes faded and she looked down at his leg…. The leg she had modified for him in something close to shock.

“Adam I….”

He tried to move it again, but it only dragged like the limb of a useless doll.

The thought repulsed him, and he quickly unlatched the leg causing it to drop to the floor with a dull thud.

There was a mummering around the room as people hurried forward to help. Nairobi picked up the leg to examine it. Ramirez helped haul him to his feet. He bit back the sudden feeling of helplessness that came with a handicap he often forgot about, but looking, looking at the broken prosthetic in Narobi’s hands he became acutely aware of his own physical weakness.

Someone sat him down in a chair, while all the engineers gathered around the leg trying to determine what had caused the crack. Krill hurried over, giving him a look like thunder. Adam hadn’t even noticed he was bleeding until that moment.

Sunny knelt next to him, “Adam I-”

He held up a hand, “It’s ok, it was my fault. I got carried away.”

He didn’t let her continue.

It was thankfully, and almost mercifully at that moment when the Celzex showed up bringing the Tricar scientist with him. It took much of the focus off him and Sunny, and gave him time to spew some orders. He tried his best not to think about the fight, and his missing leg though limping along on the aluminum forearm crutches was hard to forget. With calm, patience and poise he dealt with their stowaway in good humor, allowed Krill to treat his head and check for a concussion, and then gave himself leave to retire to his room.

With the door shut, the turned to face the mirror across from his bed.

He wasn’t used to this picture of himself, less the admiral of the UNSC and more a veteran of the Drev war, with his missing leg, and the shitty aluminum crutches that had been military issued.

He hopped over to the edge of the bed and sat down, looking at the cold metal of the crutches, remembering the first time they had been given to him, on his return trip to earth. He didn’t really understand why he had kept them. 

Adam often forgot about this particular handicap. Or that of his missing eye, most of the time he thought of his new robotic parts as augmentations giving him advantages over other humans, but now he realized how dependent he was one them. When the lights were off and the augmentations were removed he was reminded of the past.

Sure there were times in his day where he remembered. The early morning before he put his leg on, and the fact that his on suite shower had a bench so he could sit, but those were minor things he could almost forget about. Looking down now, that didn’t seem possible.

There was a knock on his door.

He didn’t want to see anyone, but no. He could deal with this just as he had everything else.

“Come in,” He called 

He had not expected Sunny, sitting up in surprise as she walked in.

His first instinct was to throw the crutches to the side and cover his messed up leg, but he didn’t resist the urge and looked at her straight on. He leaned against the crutches, “I’m going to go ahead and apologize for earlier, I got carried away.”

“I think we both did.”

There was silence as she stood in the doorway.

He sighed. He knew what was coming, “Why don’t you sit down.” he patted the bed beside him, “or go grab that chair over there.”

She didn’t bother with the chair, instead, walking over to sit next to him. He adjusted himself as her weight sank the cushioning next to him. They both stared into the mirror across from them meeting eyes in the mirror.

“I’ll fix your leg. I just need a single part.”

“I didn’t doubt that someone would.”

She glanced over at him, “I’m sorry….. It was a…. Low blow.”

“I thought it was more good tactics honestly.”

“You don’t need to lie to me.”

There was another silence, as he looked inside himself for the truth. Granted that was part of it, but there was more. He wondered how honest he should be before deciding it was time to just say it. The worst that could happen was she would leave, and while that would kill him, it wouldn’t “kill” him.

He turned to look at her, “Yeah…. I suppose I don’t like being reduced to this.” He motioned down at himself, “but that's a personal issue, plenty of people handle it better than me. And I think I was honestly asking for it. You’ve been sainted in our time apart and I…. well I have done nothing of note, so I guess I was just trying to prove something to myself.”

She turned her head to look at him, and this time they made eye contact for real.

“Prove what to yourself.”

He gave her a brittle smile, “Prove that I could still match you in battle on the vein hope that one day I could repair what I did, but knowing I probably can’t.” 

She stared at him, her golden eyes unblinking.

He found himself continuing to talk, “And it's not just that of course. I admire what you went and did. I wish I could be more like you. I wish I knew what I wanted and I wish I could make myself better.”

She was silent for a long moment.

Before.

“You hurt me you know.”

He knew she wasn’t talking about the fight.

Adam wanted to look away again but didn’t , “I know I did.”

“But I also understand that humans are different from us. You often do things against your best interest to protect people. I believe that that is not the way, but, in the end, this is subjective.”

They waited quietly.

“Do you think…. I will ever be able to repair what I did.”

His heart hammered in his chest, but he took a few long, deep breaths.

He wasn’t sure what he expected. Maybe some cryptic answer like, I don’t know, or you’re just going to have to find out.

The kind of answer you’d expect from what popular media says about relationships.

Of course he should have known better. Sunny wasn’t like that.

She tilted her head to look at him, “Really, Adam?”

He felt as if his heart was sinking into the stub of his leg.

“I see.”

She rolled her eyes in a very human manner, “Not that you moron. You didn’t even do anything that bad, at least not in your culture. So YES of course you can fix it. Now I can’t exactly give you a timetable on that, but obviously I would be interested. You seem to have worked some things out, and from what I’ve heard about your escapades these last few months I’m not the only one who has been seeking higher knowledge.” 

She stood, “Anyway, I’m going to see if I can’t rig up something to hold you over until we can get parts at Europa.”

She ruffled his hair a little before turning and walking out the door.

He blinked in her wake.

Why did she always manage to throw him off balance?

And why had that been the most adult conversation he had ever had in his life?

He sighed and leaned back on his bed.

Ah yes 27 and he was finally becoming an adult.

How nice. 

[yellow-r-o-s-e]

it's all unscripted

Word Count: about 2000

Pairing: romantic Lumity, platonic Blight siblings

Characters: Amity Blight, Edric Blight, Emira Blight, also brief Luz Noceda, Eda Clawthorne, and Owlbert

Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Post Episode, Takes Place Immediately After S02E08 “Knock Knock Knocking On Hooty’s Door”

Warnings: Crying, Anxiety, Bits of Implied Perfectionism, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse

Author’s Note: I literally cannot stop thinking about Amity in this episode. She went through such an emotional rollercoaster, poor girl.

Summary:

Luz was in love with her.

The revelations still sent fireworks through Amity’s heart.

They were even dating now, which was unimaginably cool.

She tried desperately to hold that warmth close to her, fearing it would slip away as she got further from the Owl House.

This—sneaking back home and pretending nothing had happened—was the easy part. It should be, at least.

Read it on ao3 at the link below, or click the Read More button to read on tumblr

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33079672

Amity still felt dazed and jittery when she arrived in front of Blight Manor. Her feet hit the ground with a soft thud, crunching against pink and red pine needles. The concrete steps in front of her house loomed, looking colder and more threatening than she remembered. As she pulled her hood lower over her eyes, her fingers trembled.

It was fine. She could do this.

A headache had snuck up on her. Her forehead and eyes felt like they were burning, and she had a lump in her throat.

Still, she’d had a fantastic night. Nothing could take that away. Luz was in love with her, and they were dating. The memories still sent fireworks through Amity’s heart. She tried desperately to hold that warmth close to her, fearing it would slip away.

This—sneaking back in and pretending nothing had happened—was the easy part.

She turned to the palisman beside her.

“Thank you....” What was his name again? Edalyn had mentioned it, as she was insisting that he should fly Amity home to make sure she was safe, but then Luz’s hand had lightly brushed against Amity’s shoulder, and Luz’s gorgeous face had been right there, so close, and all of Amity’s thoughts had fizzled out to make room for sparkly giddiness.

“Thanks, little friend,” Amity whispered. The wooden owl seemed satisfied and flapped his wings. Then he took off, headed back to the Owl House, where his family was waiting for him. Luz was probably, hopefully, still thinking about her, and she’d be happy to see her little owl friend return safe, and...

A few pangs of inexplicable jealousy surged through her before she wrestled them away. She grit her teeth. This wasn’t how she was supposed to feel. She had been so happy a few minutes ago, it shouldn’t have evaporated this fast.

She closed her eyes and counted down from ten, bracing herself to move forward through the clearing. When she reached ‘one,’ she held her breath and sprinted until she made it inside. She shut the front door as quietly as possible and leaned against the wall.

Then, with no warning or reason, the electric glee came back full force, making her feel unsteady on her feet. She blushed, biting her cheeks to stop herself from smiling, or worse, squealing with joy. That wouldn’t end well for her. Luz’s words echoed in her mind. As much as her instincts tried to dissect the events of the night, as hard as she searched for any downsides or sources of negativity, she still felt like she was floating.

The good feeling lasted a few seconds before it was replaced by guilt, which didn’t even make sense.

“I need to get back home. My mom is going to kill me,” she had said, out loud, like a complete idiot. She had meant to say it to herself, but then Luz was alert and looking at her seriously and oh… oh no. She’d ruined the moment.

“Not…” Amity swallowed. “Not literally. I’ll be fine.” Needing to do something with her hands, she gave Luz a thumbs up.

“Are you going to be…” Luz’s voice was so soft, Amity felt like her heart was cracking.

“It’s totally fine…” Amity laughed, but it sounded hollow, even to her own ears.

“Because, earlier, she did try to kill me, literally, and I don’t want you to be in danger because of me, and-”

Amity groaned, trying to shift her focus to current issues, like getting up the stairs without being caught.

It would be so much easier if she could just feel all of her emotions at once, Amity thought, making her way down the empty hallway. If it was all at once, she knew she’d be feeling overwhelming happiness twinged with only tiny amounts of negativity. Unfortunately, the sheer amount of emotions were too much for her to handle, so they took turns crashing over her in waves.

She managed to slip upstairs unnoticed, and her hands were shaking when she silently opened her bedroom door, but she was pretty sure it was more from the leftover thrill of the night than fear of being caught by her parents.

She closed the door behind her and saw herself sitting at her desk, scribbling at a homework problem.

“What?” She blinked, confused.

The illusion of her dissolved into mist, and she suddenly realized that her brother was sitting next to her desk, looking directly at her. She froze, unable to speak.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

“We didn’t know where you went, but mom came to check on you, and I figured you didn’t want to be caught,” he said in explanation. “You’re welcome.” He smiled.

That made sense. Amity was pretty sure she should feel grateful for the save. Unfortunately, any gratitude she felt was more than cancelled out by the fury that he was in her room, perceiving her, drawing out the already too long night. Ideally the night should have ended twenty minutes ago, when she had still been with Luz.

“Hey, Em, she’s not dead,” Edric spoke into a shimmering circle, no doubt sending some sort of illusion to carry the message to their sister.

In a matter of seconds, Emira burst through the door, out of breath.

No no no no no, she hadn’t planned for this. She didn’t know what to say to them, hadn’t even figured out how she was feeling. She just wanted it to be tomorrow already, so she could be standing next to Luz at school, and everything could be bright and shiny and wonderful again.

“Oh, hey there Mittens,” Emira said, making finger guns. “Glad to see you here. Not that we were worried or anything-“

“Where were you?” Edric interrupted. “You freaked us out. Em was on the verge of telling mom-“

“No, I wasn’t.” Emira leaned against the wall, faking nonchalance. “I’m not a snitch. It was all under control, and I trust you.”

Edric stuck his tongue out at her.

“I’m sorry,” Emira said, “which of us said they thought they saw her get eaten by a worm demon?”

“Oh.” Amity finally found her voice, and their gazes snapped toward her. She slid down to the floor, trying to escape their gazes. “No, he’s right, that did happen.”

“What?!”

“Are you okay?”

And then the twins were talking over each other, pressing for more details, and Amity couldn’t quite breathe, and-

“You’re overwhelming her!” Emira chided. “Look at her face.”

“Like you weren’t also-“

“Shush.” Emira gently nudged her brother aside, sitting down in front of Amity. “Mittens, baby, can you tell us what happened?”

“I’m not a baby,” Amity grumbled. Why wouldn’t they leave? She just wanted to be alone, for Titan’s sake.

Emira rolled her eyes, and Edric shoved her gently.

“Mittens, teenager who is very wise,” Edric said. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“Yeah, um…” Amity tried to think back through the night, searching for an understandable place to start. “Well… you see…” she swallowed. “I…”

And then, she broke down sobbing.

Edric reached out a hand toward her, waiting until she nodded to pull her into a tight hug. She buried her face in his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he said.

“I know! That’s the problem! It’s not…” Amity hiccoughed, frantically rubbing at her face. “It was good. I’m just stupid. I don’t know why-“

She let out another sob. She was pretty sure she was getting snot all over Edric’s shirt. Good. That’s what he got for annoying her when she wanted to be left alone.

She made several attempts at speech that all came out garbled.

“Take your time,” Emira said.

“Luz-” Amity sniffled again. “Luz thinks I’m cool.”

Edric laughed at that. Amity tried to glare at him but still couldn’t stop crying.

“She’s so cute.” Amity sniffled, out of breath. “I’m gonna throw up.”

“That,” Edric cleared his throat, trying not to laugh again. “That sounds very difficult. How will you ever survive?”

“Shut up,” Amity grumbled, pushing him away from her. She stood up and flopped face-first onto her bed.

“We’re…” she had meant to get it over with, to say “we’re dating” and let the twins react over enthusiastically, but anxiety overtook her and her throat dried up.

"I'm sorry," Emira said, not sounding sorry, "but what does that have to do with being eaten by a worm demon?"

"Luz's dumb bird-worm thing kidnapped me," Amity said with a small laugh, grateful for the subject change. Then, she felt her face go bright red. She couldn't very well tell her siblings about the Tunnel of Love, or she'd be teased for the rest of her life.

"Okay..." Emira sat down next to her, and she fought not to hiss at the intrusion of her personal space. Emira must have sensed her discomfort, though, because she stood back up immediately. "And then?"

"Things... happened. And then Luz asked me hnnmnnmnm," she buried her face in her pillow.

"I didn’t quite get that." Emira said. Even without looking up, Amity could hear the smirk in her voice.

"Luz..." Amity took a deep breath. It was fine. She was okay. It wasn't going to become any less special if she said it out loud.

"Luz asked me to go out with her." It was silent for a second, and she savored the words.

"Woo!" Edric held out a hand to high-five her, and she tapped it lightly.

"Congrats!" Emira said. “No wonder you’re such a mess.”

“You did say yes, right?” Edric asked.

“I’m not stupid,” she said, throwing a pillow at him.

“Someone’s avoiding the question…”

“Yes!” she said. “I said yes, okay. Can I go to sleep now?”

“Hmmm,” Emira tapped her finger against her chin, and Amity groaned.

“Fine,” Emira said, “because we love you so much, and we’re so proud of you, we’ll let you sleep. Just this once.”

Emira grabbed her brother by the elbow and dragged him out of the room, shooting Amity one last smile before closing the door. Finally, she was blissfully alone.

Memories swirled through her brain again. Luz’s hand squeezing hers. Luz’s horrified expression when Amity had tried to fake a smile but couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down her face. Luz’s nervous laughter as she told Amity how much she liked her. Luz’s knee bumping against hers as they sat face to face, theoretically trying to decide what being girlfriends meant, but getting too distracted staring at each other to finish the conversation. Luz kissing her cheek and looking at her so sincerely as she told her “fly home safe.”

Amity’s heart thudded in her ribcage. She might combust if her siblings found out about how stupid in love she’d acted tonight, but she was going to explode anyway if she didn’t tell all the details to someone immediately.

Resigned, she sat up, and crept out of her room. Her siblings were still standing in the hallway, whispering excitedly. Edric noticed her first, tapping Emira’s hand to get her to look.

“Mittens?” she asked.

“I’m feeling every emotion,” she admitted, “and I can’t sleep, and I need you to come back actually,” she mumbled, not meeting their eyes.

“Sweet,” Edric said.

It wasn’t even a teasing remark, but Amity still blushed. She was screwed, she knew. Still, with their eyes on her, the hurricane of emotions that was tugging at her felt a little less heavy and a little more manageable. She was lucky to have them as her siblings, not that she’d ever tell them that.

“Aww, is she too in love to sleep?” Emira asked.

“Shut up,” Amity said, blushing even harder.

“Okay, okay, I’m shutting up. It’s your turn to talk,” Emira said. “Tell us everything.”