#but still I’ve seen so many people quit without a second thought

[tampon-on-the-sidewalk]

A word to anyone considering leaving their job for whatever reason:

Give two weeks notice AND work the last of your scheduled shifts.

Not only does it make you look better to other potential job offers (you see things through to the end as opposed to dropping prior obligation, ie previously scheduled shifts)

But it makes it so much better for your coworkers, who otherwise would have to work themselves to the bone just to make it through the day.

Sure, fuck corporate. Fuck your managers. Fuck your customers, even, if they ain’t treating you right. But please respect the others who absolutely can’t handle being a person short when hours are already spread so thin.

[hrrtshape]

things i manifested in the last 5 months.

◞ a trip to paris with my mom, because, obviously, i deserve cinematic montages of me walking along the seine in sunglasses and a red coat.

◞ a trip to italy’s ski resorts with my dad and brother, living my best après-ski la dolce vita moment, probably in a fur-lined coat, giving ‘mysterious heiress with a past.’

◞ a trip to ibiza. . .do i even need to elaborate? the sun, the sea, the absolute lack of thoughts in my head, just vibes.

◞ becoming more prettier. a few months ago, i took that test where a robot “according to science” calculates how pretty you are. i got about 52%, skip to right now and it shows 80%!!!!

◞ a trip to the belgium grand prix because i am a girl of culture and i like watching millionaires drive in circles really, really fast. everyone PLEASE manifest that charles leclerc falls in love with me.

◞ losing weight after ED recovery, but in a way that felt good and right, not in a ‘war with my body’ way, but in a ‘my body is thanking me for treating it with kindness’ way.

◞ and by extension… eating however much i want. not only in that “oh, i eat however much i want and don’t gain” (although, yes!!!!), but also that i don’t feel absolutely horrible, horrid and disgusting after eating past 8 o’clock.

◞ excuse my french, but, growing an ass!!!!!! this one gets its own fanfare because how does one thrive off a diet of carbs, croissants, burritos, and soy milk lattes AND still develop the physics-defying, gravity-defying, renaissance sculpture of a derrière??? the laws of biology are in shambles. the gym hasn’t seen me in months and it will continue to do so.

◞ my mom’s business POPPING OFF. the celebrities in my little nation are in her dm’s, the business is expanding into so many places, and the success!!!!! it’s only just beginning.

◞ shifting to my fame dr for 20 minutes and meeting timmy t!!!!! one second in my bed, the next in a make up chair. a cameo from hollywood’s favourite brooding poet boy. did he fall in love with me instantly? maybe. was i effortlessly captivating? always. the chemistry? palpable.

◞ cocktails!!! everywhere. i don’t even have to ask my parents anymore, they’re always in my hand at the perfect moment. divine intervention in mixology form.

◞ always being at the right place at the right time. no missed busses, no wrong turns, no long lines, no awkward “why am i here” moments. just perfectly timed entrances like i’m starring in my own movie. I AM the meet-cute.

◞ my mom and dad FINALLY getting along. a historic event. peace treaties (actual contracts) were signed, egos were dissolved, and my mental health got a break it so desperately needed. love this for 9 year old me who was probably getting bpd as everything occurred.

◞ my little safe space (shifttblur, my little prophet oracle shenanigans) taking off. the church of muad’dib is THRIVING. and i’ve gotten so many kewlest friends<3

◞ my hair isn’t as oily anymore. and i DIDN’T EVEN SWITCH PRODUCTS. science is flailing, trichologists are confused, but i’m simply basking in my newfound ability to go days without dry shampoo.

◞ my nose??? smaller? upturned?? nature is quite literally BENDING to my will. my face is sculpting itself to perfection, no consultation necessary.

◞ also!!! my lashes have grown an INSANE amount. falsies who???

◞ my intuition reaching oracle of delphi levels. i don’t even need to second-guess things anymore. if i sense something, it’s FACT. the accuracy? terrifying. my inner knowing? undefeated. the people around me? spooked.

◞ eloquence. this is, lowkey (high-key), the most fortunate thing that had ever happened to me. i am patiently sitting and waiting for that 100% on my essays.

◞ me and my dad finally getting along. not in a dramatic, movie-moment way, just in the little things. the conversations that didn’t feel forced. the jokes that actually landed. the quiet understanding that we’re both trying, in our own ways.

◞ money. just… money. not in a lottery-winning way, but in a “somehow, i always have enough” way. in a “random discounts appear when i need them” way. in a “people keep handing me little opportunities” way. a quiet, steady flow.

◞ my painting and drawing skills getting better without me even noticing. one day, i just looked at something i made and thought, wait….when did i get this good? and that was a nice feeling.

ib the amazing @solanasreality who i got the idea from !!

[crescenthistory]

i hear searching for fluff. i raise you cat animagus reader and the animal politics that come with being a cat. oh that’s a glass of water you’ve placed on the counter? what a perfect place for my paw to go. they’re a total goodie two shoes but can never stop themselves from swatting at and generally terrorizing sirius, dog form or not. i’ve seen so many videos of woodland animals like stags befriending cats or stealing their food and everyone just being like “wdym i didn’t know they could do that”. reader starts slow blinking at people without realizing. i could go on for forever i would love to see shenanigans and hijinks

beautiful thoughts, i enjoyed all of them. i let them inspire me into a drabble situation of cat!reader terrorising sirius with reg (and rem) on her side. this is just pure chaos and silliness, thank you for the opportunity lovie<3

Words: 2.4k

Warnings: not proofread, fem!reader, no use of y/n but your cat form is called "whiskers", james and sirius pranked you mildly, you get revenge as a cat, you are only in cat form throughout this, sibling squabbles, super minor injuries (you put your claws in sirius), platonic physical affection, general chaos and fluff

Note: this is technically in the same universe as my other two (first, second) cat!animagus!reader fics with regulus, but can be read alone. it is more of a platonic!sirius x reader fic though, it focusses on the interactions between them + reg, rem and james

Sirius had been made aware by many a parent, professor and otherwise nosey adult, that actions had consequences. Which was all fine and dandy with him, the consequences were often the sole inspiration for his actions. 

This, however. This, they did not warn him about.

“Ow, ow, ow!” he hissed, trying to shake the feline creature off his shoulder. 

Just a few seconds ago, she had been innocently peering down on his textbook, front paws resting on his shoulders as she stood on the top of the sofa he was reclining against. That didn’t last long though, as her claws came out and dug in through the fine material of his shirt, seeking the pain and destruction this evil creature seemed to live off of.

Unaffected by his shaking, she elegantly climbed down his arm – claws still out and still using him as leverage – to plop onto the table before them with a soft prrt!

“Remus, your friend is hurting me,” Sirius sneered at his boyfriend who was sat in a grandfather chair beside him, flipping through a newspaper Sirius was quite certain was out of date.

The other boy hummed noncommittally. “Does she have reason to?” he asked without looking up from the paper.

“No!” Sirius exclaimed at the same time as Regulus said, “absolutely.”

He shot his brother a glare on the other side of the sofa. He was reading through a novel in pristine condition, only looking up to glance fondly at the menace currently parading around the coffee table. Sirius was growing miffed that none of his hangout companions were sparing him any attention.

“I haven’t done anything, and if I had the minx should be over it by now.” Sirius did his best to seem authoritative, but he had a tough crowd.

You hissed at him from where you were standing on the table. Regulus looked up at that with mirth swimming in his eyes despite his impassive facial expression.

“She seems to disagree, Pads,” Remus said nonchalantly. “She’s also been running around as Whiskers for the past few hours, which she only does when she is either really pleased and really upset.”

“And she’s not pleased,” Regulus added unhelpfully.

Sirius muttered something under his breath that amounted to “I wouldn’t be pleased either, if I had to be in a relationship with such a grump” to which he received a throw pillow to the face, another hiss and an admonishing “Pads”.

"It was just a little prank," Sirius defended himself. "It's quite literally what we do." He didn't feel the need to go into the specifics; this was a dog he wanted to bury yesterday. Or, well, cat.

"To no one's enjoyment but your own, I'm sure," Regulus huffed. "If she's bothered by it, that's entirely her right."

Sirius looked to Remus for some backing up, and when he found none, he let out another groan, collapsing further into the sofa in his evident despair.

He would have happily stayed there, bitching and moaning as he pleased, had it not been for the suspicious sounds coming from the coffee table.

There, he found that you had not looked away from him and were sitting disturbingly close to the little homework station he had sat up earlier to then promptly ignore – an open textbook, half-written essay, quill and unscrewed inkpot. The look in your eyes was one you had picked up from Remus in your early days together, full of mischief and tomfoolery. 

“Don’t you even dare–” Sirius managed to get out as he sat up in his seat and pointed a chiding finger at you, but the damage was done.

With what almost sounded like cat laughter – something most unknowing students would brush off because why would a cat laugh but Sirius knew all too well must be your joy at his expense – you knocked over his inkpot. The pot was almost full and the ink fell right on top of his essay and textbook. He let out a half-screech as he moved forward to correct the damage, but you walked straight into the pool of ink, ensuring you were spreading it further around his essay and the feather of his quill. 

Regulus let out an unrestrained bark of laughter as Sirius sank to the floor in front of you, blabbering anger, while Remus simply snorted as he shook his head, choosing not to get involved yet.

“You furry bastard!” Sirius called out as he picked up his parchment, trying to shake some of the excess ink off, only worsening its condition. “You absolute menace.”

Some of the ink he shook off got on your fur, adding to what was already coating your paws from dragging it around. You solved this in the only manner that made sense in cat-world – by launching yourself at Sirius, effectively doubling his screeches within the second.

“Oi! Oi!” Sirius kept calling as you hopped onto his chest, burying your claws into him so he couldn’t simply shake you off, ink smearing all over Sirius’ previously white shirt. The assault of a lifetime, if you asked him. “Azkaban! Azkaban for all of you!” he called when he saw Regulus doubling over with laughter on the opposite end of the sofa.

“Pads! What’s going on, mate?” James’ voice called as he came half-running over after spotting the commotion the second he entered the common room. 

Sirius opened his mouth to reply, but upon James spotting the feline devil currently attempting to smear more of the ink across his being, he interrupted with a coo. 

“Oh, hi there little Whiskers!” James greeted, bending down to pick you up by the neck. In that James-Potter-way he simply peeled you off of Sirius and held you out before him, just far enough that the ink wouldn’t get on him. “What’s got you in such a tizzy, huh?” he asked, poking at you with his free hand which earned him a petulant hiss.

“The bloody puma destroyed my essay and leaped at me,” Sirius huffed as he clambered back up, ignoring how he sounded like a first year telling on a classmate to McGonagall.

“I believe she is seeking revenge from that little stunt you two pulled earlier,” Remus drawled from his seat, sharing a look with Regulus who rolled his eyes. They knew.

“Which is fully within her right, I must add,” Regulus said, ever the devoted boyfriend. Bloody lucky you. “And she’s not a puma, you wanker, you’re just scared of cats.”

“Slander! ‘M not!” Sirius defended himself, but James ignored him, turning his attention to the cat wriggling in his grip.

“Did we upset you, little kitten?” James asked so friendly you almost wouldn’t catch the teasing in his tone. “So sorry. Next time we’ll hex your tie a different colour. Robe too, yeah?”

Upon receiving another hiss from you and a lunge of your paw, James outright giggled and petted the top of your head carefully, neutralising you if for but a moment.

“How come she’s forgiving you right away? I have had my property destroyed and was lightly maimed in her quest for revenge!” Sirius shook his head in disapproval, attempting to stare you down. It wasn't turning out to be fruitful.

“Sirius, I have a question for you.” Regulus didn’t continue until Sirius reluctantly met his gaze. “Did you know – and be honest with me now – that you’re a wizard?”

Before Sirius could give him a snarky response, Regulus had waved his wand casually over the ink pools on the table and stains on his clothes, cleaning both up effectively as if nothing had happened. Then he gave Sirius a smug smile that made him want to turn into Padfoot and lunge at him – which probably wasn’t a good idea given there were other people in the room.

“Imbécile grossier,” Sirius muttered under his breath as he kicked a leg out at Regulus, intended more for effect than harm.

He received a “connard stupide” in return as Regulus dodged any further assault by getting up and walking over to James, who was now fully petting the rabid killer, whispering something about “please forgive me, it was just too funny not to”. Traitor. 

“Hey there, amour,” Regulus said as he picked you up out of James’ arms. “Are you regretting marrying into the family?”

You made a huffing sound, climbing out of his arms to settle along his shoulders, over his neck, were you could cuddle against him while still scowling at Sirius.

“You and me both, sister,” Remus mumbled half-heartedly. Sirius gasped at him with every theatrical bone in his body, earning him an eye roll and – at last – for Remus to abandon the paper to give him a quick smooch.

“I didn’t realise sister-in-laws were allowed to be as sibling-y as an actual sister,” James mused as he folded his arms to take in the scene before him. 

“She’s not,” Sirius argued, extracting another eye roll from Remus who patted his thigh placatingly. “Cats are just evil.”

“You could always confront her as Pads, you know, level the playing field,” James suggested.

“Absolutely not.” Regulus turned around so his body was shielding the cat on his shoulders from the three boys. “Not that I doubt she would win against your clumsy self any day, but let’s not even go there.”

Sirius and James barked a laugh that was disturbingly similar while Remus shook his head. “Don’t worry Reg, the less time I can spend around kittens, the better,” Sirius said briskly, feeling emboldened by James’ presence. 

You poked your head around Regulus’ neck at that, so that the two of you could share a look. It’s always peculiar for Sirius to see how much understanding seems to pass between you two, especially when in different forms altogether. It's not something he expected for his baby brother and he feels his heart warm at the display – which he promptly pushes down to focus on the war currently playing out in Gryffindor.

As if you two reached an agreement through just that look, you butted your head against Regulus’ cheek while he nodded. Carefully, he manoeuvred you into his arms and plopped you down on the armrest of Remus’ chair, and disappeared from sight to a secluded corner of the common room.

“What in Merlin’s name just happened?” Sirius mused out loud, exchanging bemused glances with James who plopped down beside him.

“Oh, I’m sure it was nothing good.” Remus smiled through his words as he freed one of his hands to scratch under your chin, causing you to purr and brush your feline body closer to his arm. Sirius would be remiss if he didn’t think the sight of pure love between you two wasn’t adorable, but to hells if he would admit it before you two reached a truce. 

Your purring was interrupted as you let out a soft prrt! for seemingly no apparent reason, and reached up to give Remus’ cheek a soft cat kiss – that made the boy’s face crinkle into a smile – before jumping down onto the floor. There, Sirius saw the reason for your joy and felt his heart drop in his chest.

“Oh, hi, Shadow,” Remus greeted the black cat that made a beeline for you on the floor, brushing his body against yours with soft purrs. “Come to join in on your brother’s torment?”

“Absolutely not–” Sirius started, but before he could get up and out of his seat, both cats had jumped up onto his legs and made their way to his lap. “What are you guys doing? Get off?!”

James was giggling once more beside him and Sirius had half a mind to throw the cats at him and run away. Though, he was beginning to doubt whether he would be able to as he saw the determination in Regulus’ eyes.

“I believe they’re making you eat your words, love.” The smile in Remus’ voice was so evident that had he not been as handsome as he was, Sirius would have smacked him.

His arms were frozen at his sides, hands hovering in the air, unsure of where to go as he watched the two cats settle down in his lap in horror. Your bodies were horizontal with his and flush against each other’s, becoming liquid in the cuddle puddle you were currently creating.

Sirius tried hissing at you to no avail as Regulus only slapped him with his paw in response. He tried shifting slightly to push you off, but you buried your claws through the fabric of his trousers – Sirius would give Remus a run for his money as the scarred one of the group after you were finished with him. He tried looking to James and Remus for help, but neither boy were willing as they took far too much enjoyment in the show. Remus at least pretended not to as he “read”, but James was fully angled towards him to see the events unfold, shoulders shaking with mirth. 

A sigh escaped Sirius as he accepted his fate. “I hate you lot,” he said decisively. “Each and every one of you.”

Regulus made a noise that sounded like it was in disagreement with his statement while Remus just hummed. James nodded his head as if to say “fair”.

You, however, picked your head up from where it was resting over Regulus’ and just stared at Sirius. Usually he felt like he could read you quite well in feline form, which he assumed was due to some skills of Padfoot’s transferring over, but right now you were impossible to understand. You held his gaze head on, almost as if you were studying him, but your breaths were coming so slowly you had to be calm, right? Though this forced proximity was clearly a form of punishment, you were growing comfortable. Was he forgiven?

His train of thought was interrupted as the staring competition you had for a few seconds was interrupted – by you blinking. Slowly. Keeping your gaze on him but fully closing your eyes intermittently.

A slow grin spread across Sirius’ face.

He didn’t know a lot about cats and he principally disliked them. But he did know what that meant.

“Yeah, yeah, princess,” he mumbled as his cheeks almost grew a bit red. “You too.”

[devskindawritingblog]

Hand in Hand

cate dunalp x fem/gn reader Click to help Palestine 🇵🇸 🍉

summary: The first time that Cate touches you without her gloves on. Basically pure fluff.

AN: I’ve been wanting to write for Gen V or the boys so this is my first one!! My own idea, it’s not an original idea obviously I’m sure someone else has thought of it but it’s my own words.

word count rounded: 1.9k

Since her first day at God U Cate has tried desperately to fit in. After being locked away from the world for so many years, she was desperate for some time of human interaction beside her parents, not that her parents paid her much attention. She was conditioned into keeping on her gloves at all times. After her brother, Cate was sure that she didn’t even trust herself without them. So she rarely took them off around people she cared about.

After some time, she got used to the idea that the gloves were a part of her now. She had multiple pairs, and she even got a pair as a little Christmas gift. As thoughtful as it was, opening a gift and seeing those gloves was almost upsetting. She tried so hard to gain trust in her friends and peers, and still, she knew better than to try. For the first time in her life, she had friends and people who cared about her.

And then she met you…  

It was her second year in her superhero management class. You weren’t friends per se, but you were friendly. The first day of that class, you arrived late because your roommate had unplugged your alarm clock to charge their laptop. Funnily enough, they were the ones to wake you up by being way too loud. You sprung out of bed and threw on an outfit, barely having enough time to get yourself ready before you ran to class.

 You were only a few minutes late when you swung open the door and awkwardly closed it behind you as the class turned around to look at you. The teacher welcomed you back, ushering you to sit down. The only spot left was next to Cate. You walked over to her, placing your bag down under the table and taking your seat. She glances over at you, giving you a small smile. 

“Hey… You're Cate, right?” You say turning to look at her. She looks back with a look you can’t quite place. "Yeah, you're not new. I’ve seen you in my other classes." She states, quirking her brow. “Oh… yeah.. Sorry. It's my second year; I just don’t do well with starting conversations…. And it would be best if I didn’t call you the wrong name." You say, laughing awkwardly. Luckily, she laughs back, smiling a little as she brings her attention back to the prof.

It might have been short, but that interaction stuck with you for days. You knew her name; everyone knew her name. You just wanted to talk to her, and you weren't always the smoothest at flirting. But that new spot in your class next to the prettiest girl was enough to make you wake up early every other day. Soon your “friendly” awkward interactions in class became group projects together and movie nights in her dorm room. 

The two of you became "close,” almost best friends in a sense. You had countless sleepovers in her dorm. At the start, you were so nervous to sleep in that tiny bed next to her, so you slept on the floor with a few blankets and pillows. After a few uncomfortable nights, Cate invited you onto her bed. You were a little hesitant, but after you got into that small ass bed together and she watched you with those sparkling eyes, you loved it. 

 The small bed was scary at first, but after countless nights, you grew closer and closer. Not even closer as friends, but as the sleepovers became more frequent, you became closer literally. You used to be scared of touching her, even if you weren’t the one with mind control. You both slept on both edges of the bed, shoulder to shoulder. That was until Cate had a pretty shitty day and had invited you over. The both of you watched a movie on the couch together. You knew that there was no way she would touch you first, so you decided to rip off the bandage. 

"Hey, Hey…you okay?"  You ask softly, nudging her out of her trance. Her eyes snap over to you before she awkwardly adjusts herself, scooting further into the soft couch. “ y-yeah….” she says before you raise your eyebrow, reaching over to take her gloved hand in yours. “Okay…… I’m not. I just had a shitty day. Class was slow, and honestly, I really needed this." Cate sighs and smiles. You give her hand a little squeeze, and she is suddenly brought back to her hand. 

She looks down at your hands and back at your face. You had already turned back to the movie, so Cate laced her gloved fingers with yours as you lay your head on her shoulder. She stiffens a little but quickly relaxes as she wraps her arm around you as well. That soon transforms into tangled limbs and lingering touches. Those movie nights turned into make-out sessions after you asked Cate to be your girlfriend. 

You'd come over, and Cate would put on some Vought movie; somehow there was always a new movie to watch. Not that you were complaining; the two of you would only make it through the first 10 minutes before she scooted into your lap. She would always tighten her gloves, ensuring that she wouldn't slip up. You would always notice, but you never really commented on it. You knew it was a touchy subject for her, and you didn’t want to upset her. 

 The two of you have been dating for a few months, and you knew she was always so nervous about letting herself touch you. But after seeing the real Cate, your Cate, the Cate who loved movie nights and order in pizza and you, she knew she could just be herself and trust you; she just wasn’t sure she could trust herself yet. The idea that she would somehow take advantage of you or influence your feelings would cause her mind to race. She hated the possibility that she would hurt you and that you would break up with her and leave her alone. It haunted her nights, and tonight was one of them.

You had come over like usual for “movie night." It had become a weekly thing for you and Cate, almost like a date night type of thing. A night to wind down and forget about all of the assignments the two of you have. You were both lounging on the couch, wrapped up in a cozy blanket. Your fingers carded through her soft hair as you laid her head on your shoulder. You're both scrolling through all the movies you can watch before you hear three knocks at her door. Cate gasps, sitting up quickly off your shoulder, her eyes darting to the door and then back to you. 

“The food’s here!” Cate squeals, kissing you on the cheek before she bounds toward the door. Slowing down to a stop before she swings open the door. She pays the poor driver who had to find his way around the campus. She shuts the door behind her and makes her way back over to the couch as you clear the table. Cate places the warm paper bag on the table, taking out the food as you both ramble on about how hungry you are. 

Cate slips off her gloves and places them next to her on the couch. She took off her gloves sparingly, especially around other people. But she never liked getting her gloves dirty. The two of you ate together, discussing what movie the two of you should "watch." As the two of you finish eating, you clean up the bag and sit down next to Cate for the movie to start. She quickly reaches for her gloves, but you stop her. 

“Cate”. You say softly as you lean over, grabbing her arm, careful not to hurt her. “You don’t need to wear those around me." You say as Cate looks back at you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as she blinks. “What? But… What if I can’t control it? I..I sent my brother away. What if I hurt you too?”. She says, turning back at you. 

“You won't. Cate, I trust you so much. You're my girlfriend, and I know you don’t like them. I mean, you always complain about your hands being sweaty." You say, sincerely laughing a bit at the end as she rolls her eyes. “I'm being serious though; I trust you more than anything, Cate....and if you want, you never have to wear your gloves around me." You say, making sure she knows that you are being serious.  

Cate sighs “I-I don’t know, babe. I really don’t want to lose you." She says as she looks between her gloves and you. “You won't; I believe it. I really do. But if it's too much, we can take it slow, you know. I'm not saying we have to hold hands skin to skin." You ramble on before she cuts you off. “I-I want to. I want to." She repeats herself more firmly as she sighs, clearly contemplating. “I want to. I want to hold your hand and feel your skin against mine." She says as she puts down her gloves.

 “You sure?” You ask, to make sure that Cate is 100% ready. “I’m sure”. She repeats it back. You smile and reach out your hand, and Cate scoots closer to you, hesitantly taking your hand. You intertwine your fingers with hers, and as you both relax, she starts to smile. “This is nice, and I'm not controlling you…right?" Cate says nervously giggling as you nod .She lets go of your hand, holding it in her other hand as she traces the lines on your palm. You smile back and lean forward to press a kiss to her forehead.

It almost opens a new part of Cate, a part that is vulnerable and not worried about hurting you. She smiles and reaches up both her hands to cup your face before she pulls you into a kiss. You kiss her back as she pushes a strand of hair away from your face. You sigh softly before leaning forward again to give her a kiss on the nose. She smiles back and shifts to sit in your lap. You push back on the couch, opening your arms as she settles onto your thighs. 

“Comfy?” You ask as she settles, and you give her a little pat on her thigh. “Yeah…it's perfect”. She sighs, grabbing your hand again and running her fingers along your palm. “Your skin is soft." Cate comments as she runs her fingers along your arm and then up to cup your jaw. “I put on lotion, I guess." You say, laughing a bit at the weird change of subject. She giggles back as she continues to run her fingers down your arm, tracing random swirls and shapes.

“Can we stay like this... all night?” She asks, tucking her head into your shoulder. “Sure, whatever you want, baby." You smile, turning your head to give her a kiss on the cheek. You grab her hand, and she intertwines her fingers with yours. The two of you relax as the movie continues to play in the background.

[lazysoulwriter]

In The Moment - Drew Starkey.

You always thought that controlling your emotions was an art, especially when it came to Drew Starkey. After all, what you had was simple. You always knew that a friends-with-benefits situation was the only thing he offered, and deep down, you were fine with it. After all, everything was easier this way. No expectations, no demands. The kind of relationship where, theoretically, no one gets hurt.

Until that night.

The group of friends was buzzing with excitement, as usual, and you found yourself in the middle of a casual conversation at the bar. The sound of laughter and loud music filled the room as you tried to enjoy the moment. Drew was by your side, as always, grinning casually with a drink in hand and his eyes scanning the crowd. It was funny how, even amidst so many people, he still managed to make you feel unique, like the rest of the world didn’t matter.

But then, as if by magic, something changed.

You were approached by a few guys at the bar. They weren’t anything special, but they had that look of interest and tried to make small talk, talking about everything and nothing at the same time. You smiled politely, but soon realized things were starting to get a little more intense. The guy in front of you, with an easy smile and interested eyes, was beginning to draw you into the conversation in a way that made you uncomfortable.

You glanced at Drew, but he was quiet, seemingly oblivious, chatting with his friends. Maybe he wasn’t really paying attention, but something inside you told you he’d noticed the exchange of glances.

“Hey, you’re from around here? I’ve never seen you before,” the guy asked, pulling up a chair and sitting down way too close to you.

You tried to take a step back, feeling uneasy. You didn’t want to be rude, but he was being persistent. When you tried to back away, not really wanting to leave but just wanting some space, he placed a hand on your chair, blocking your way.

“Sorry, I think I’ll take a walk,” you said, trying to smile and back away, but the guy didn’t seem willing to let you go that easily.

And then, without warning, a strong hand grabbed your arm and you were pulled to the side. The force was enough to make everyone look in your direction. Drew. His eyes were dark, a familiar glint of possessiveness and something else—something you couldn’t quite decipher—shining in his gaze.

“Hey!” the guy complained, but Drew didn’t seem to care.

“Go away,” Drew said in a low, firm voice, looking the guy up and down. “I said, go away.”

The guy hesitated before realizing it wasn’t worth fighting and walked off with an angry look. Drew then turned to his friends, still holding your hand, without glancing at them. His expression was now fixed on you, and something in his face seemed… vulnerable? It was an expression you’d never seen before.

Then, as if he’d broken some internal barrier, Drew let out a low chuckle, but he was slightly drunk, his voice trailing a bit.

“I love her, okay? I’m not pretending anymore. Okay, (y/n), I love you. And from now on, we’re dating.”

The words landed like a bomb in the air. His friends started laughing, like it was a joke, but something in Drew’s tone made them stop for a second. You could feel the tension building in the room. The way he was talking… It didn’t sound like a joke.

You froze, unable to move. Your heart was pounding, and the mix of confusion and happiness was overwhelming. Was he really saying this?

“You’re… you’re drunk, Drew,” you murmured, your voice soft and unsure.

Drew smiled in a disarming way, as if he were sure he was in control of the situation, but his voice still carried a trace of vulnerability. He leaned in toward you, and this time his voice was softer, as though he were opening up in some way.

“I’m not. I just didn’t know how to say it, (y/n). I love you, and it has nothing to do with what we had before. It has nothing to do with… that.” He made a vague gesture, as if referring to the casual nature of what you had. “I just… I can’t stand seeing you with other guys.”

You swallowed hard, your heart racing. The reality of the moment was starting to sink in. He was confessing his feelings. He was really in love.

“I… I love you too…” you began, your voice faltering.

Drew looked at you with a slow, relieved smile, as if he’d finally found something that calmed him. He seemed as relieved as you felt. The tension had broken, and he, with that low and shy laugh, pulled you closer. He moved as if to leave, but before you did, he looked at you with that smile that only he knew how to give.

“I love you, (y/n). Just to make sure you know that,” he said once more, with that sincerity you knew was true.

You smiled back, feeling like something had changed forever between you two. After all, it was no longer a secret. The game had changed, and you couldn’t deny it.

Maybe, deep down, Drew Starkey had always been yours, and you had always been his.

[crow-in-gotham]

BLOG POST NO. 4 - ALL ABOUT THE WAYNES

Remember that off-handed comment I made about moving into Gotham without proper research? Well, it’s more like no research at all because I just found out who the Waynes actually are.

For you see, I am what my friends lovingly (read: derogatorily) refer to as an internet hermit. Basically, what I’m trying to say is that I have lived under a rock for basically my entire life. Well, at least when it comes to anything celebrity related. Hell, I don’t know much about Filipino celebrities, much less foreign ones. The only Filipino celebrities I bothered knowing the bare minimum about is BINI, and the only foreign actors I know are the ones who played in the Harry Potter series.

But back to my main point— yes, I only just now found out about who the Waynes are.

Why? Because I literally share a class with one of them. Actually, scratch that, I’m pretty sure I share a class with two of them—

So I did a little digging (read: my friends were appalled by how “uncultured” I am, and forced me to sit through a 3 hour long lecture about Wayne Lore) and here’s my thoughts.

First of all, Bruce Wayne, or “Brucie” as the media likes to call him, is the biggest fucking teddy bear I have ever seen. Like seriously, if “head empty, no thoughts” was a person, it would be him. Kinda sus (look Ray, internet slang!) to think he’s completely empty up there considering the fact that he, you know, runs one of the biggest enterprises in the entire world? The man is richer than Lex Luthor himself (yes, I know who he is— thank you Lan) and just keeps getting richer even with the amount of money he just seems to throw out everyday.

Honestly I’d be inclined to believe he’s actually some sort of secret super genius who’s just hiding behind a facade of stupidity just to lower everyone’s guard, but at the same time, I, quite frankly, could not give a fuck. The man pays my scholarship, I don’t really care if he’s the human version of a koala or the second coming of Isaac Newton. As long as he keeps doing all the good that he’s doing, I’m good. Overall, seems like a good guy and a nice hugger.

Next up is Richard Grayson-Wayne. Or, as literally everyone apparently calls him, “Dick”. Like, seriously? I know this has probably been said so many times— to the point where if you took all those times it was said by someone and turned it into an audio file, it would probably outlive the universe— but still. Really? Out of all the nicknames, you chose that?

And okay, maybe times were just different back then (shoutout to you old people out there), but was this guy so attached to the name that he just couldn’t be bothered to change it even when the modern day meaning for it was popularized? I mean, seriously, how many spittakes am I gonna have to go through every time my friend (hi Lan) says something along the lines of “I have a thing for Dick”. My friend knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing every time he says this sentence, because he never bothered to add the last name “Grayson” to it. Like, I know you’re gay Lan, but come on. The closet is already made of fucking glass.

Other comments to make? That ass. Like seriously, he tries to hide it by wearing slacks but sir, we are not blind. Those seams are fighting for their lives every time you take a step.

Next one on the list is Cassandra Cain-Wayne. There’s honestly not much else I can say about her other than the fact that I think she’s an absolute angel, and that I’ve replayed videos of her ballet performances for maybe an hour? There’s just something about the way that she dances that just looks so mesmerizing. It reminds me of a swan— beautiful, graceful, and equally as deadly. No, seriously, have you seen angry swans attacking people? Those birds can be fucking terrifying. I don’t know what about her looks so dangerous, but she just does? To me? It’s weird.

I’m not saying she’s a bad person or anything, I’m just saying that in a scenario where someone tries to mug her, I don’t think it would be her who’d end up with stitches. Which, honestly, I respect.

Next is Jason Todd-Wayne. The fucking brick house himself. I mean, come on, just look at one picture taken of him recently and tell me you did not stare for more than 10 seconds. This man is the definition of “If he’s a tree then I’m a squirrel”. Am I completely biased in this case? Maybe. Will I plead guilty? Over my dead fucking body.

The whole “disappeared for a weird amount of time, was assumed dead by the public for a while, then suddenly came back one day out of nowhere” situation aside, this guy is like the prime example of a glow-up. I don’t know what happened during those years he went missing, but he came back looking like a beefed up Princess Anna.

Chunk of muscle aside, there are also a few pictures of him hanging out with the kids that come by Martha’s House (local homeless shelter— thanks WE), and rescuing kittens from trees, and honestly I think it’s so sweet. It’s giving “gap moe” and I’m very much here for it.

Up next is Timothy Drake-Wayne, otherwise known as Tim (because who the fuck says Timothy nowadays—). Now this guy is the reason why this entire post exists in the first place. Why? Because I literally saw him walk right into class and sit literally right next to me (which, now that I think about it, is kinda weird because we were in a lecture hall and— hello, there’s literally 10 other seats in the same line as us?). Now, at first I didn’t really think anything of it— because duh, I lived under a rock remember? I had no idea who he was when he walked in, nor why everyone else in the room was staring at us like our heads were on fire (I checked— they were not), but I was running on 2 hours of sleep and barely any caffeine so I couldn’t give two fucks.

Then this mf (look Ray, abbreviations!) turned to me and just— hands me a bottle of 5 hour energy? That he just took out of his bag?? Now don’t get me wrong, I was thankful and all that, because there was no way in hell I would’ve survived that class without more caffeine making my heart almost palpitate, but also— kinda weird? Didn’t think much of it anyway and just thanked him. We did introduce ourselves to each other, but only with our first names because, you know, who the fuck introduces themselves with their full names unless it’s the first day of class and your professor decided it would be great to “get to know everyone” by doing self-introductions.

It wasn’t until 3 hours later at lunch when I discovered that I had, in fact, talked to Tim Drake-Wayne himself, courtesy of one of my friends (I’m looking at you Rayne) screaming at me.

That was also what led to the whole “sit down and let’s talk about Wayne Lore” that lasted 3 hours.

Duke Thomas-Wayne is the next one. This guy is an absolute fucking sunshine. He’s the other guy that’s in one of my other classes— actually, now that I think about it, we’re in a group together for that class’ semester-long project.

Wtf.

The literal personification of a ray of light is groupmates with me holy shit. “Become group mates with a Wayne” was definitely not on my bucket list for this year but you know what I’m not complaining about it.

Oh god I just remembered the fact that I ended up rambling about seashells for an embarrassingly long amount of time to him because the group wasn’t talking about anything so I ended up making small talk with the person next to me, which ended up being him.

I hope he liked my ramblings about the different kinds of seashells I have??

Last but definitely not the least (I feel legally obligated to say that) is Damian Wayne himself. He’s famous for being the only Wayne child to actually be blood-related to Bruce Wayne (not that that makes the others any less his kids—), and also well-known for the fact that he threatened to shove a cane up someone’s ass during one of the many Wayne Galas. Honestly, I respect it. The threatened person was being an asshole to some other guests and apparently Damian Wayne had enough of his bullshit. It made rounds on social media for an entire year apparently (not that I’d know— I was dead to the internet beyond my little circle of hyperfixations).

Other than that there’s not really much else to say about this guy? Other than the fact that I think he’s kinda cute in the little brother way. There’s a clip online of Tim Drake-Wayne calling him a demon spawn though, which I think is funny as fuck. It’s giving sibling energy to the max. I’m sure there's a good reason why this Damian Wayne has been dubbed the demon spawn.

There’s some honorable mentions for the Wayne Family (you know who I’m talking about) but honestly this has gone on for so fucking long. Maybe I’ll make a separate post about it at some point.

… How the fuck does Bruce Wayne deal with all these fucking kids—

[welcome-to-green-hills]

Sonic is the perfect person to give Shadow the "give the humans a second chance " speech in sonic 3. Of all the fluffer puppers, he has the most experience with the humans. His experiences with humans were a mixed bag. He saw both good and bad in the humans, just like how the original speech mentioned both good and bad aspects of humans

Sonic spent 10 years silently observing the humans like a living ghost, unable to truly interact with them, out of fear of exposing himself and getting exploited for his power by greedy assholes , then he was chased by asshole Robotnik who apparently wanted to use him as a guinea pig/power supply slave forevermore. He was also almost made into barbecue hedgehog by hostile locals in that Siberian cabin (now granted they warmed up to him after pivonka but still) . He got locked in a cage by GUN.

But on the other hand he had so many wonderful experiences with the humans. A whole ass town of humans banded together to stand up for him against the stinky egg. The people of green hills seem to genuinely like him. Hell his adoptive parents are humans and love him (and his siblings) more than anything. Jojo seems to admire him as well.

I wholeheartedly agree, my dear.❤️✨

This is a conversation that NEEDS to come from Sonic, not from Amy Rose. If this conversation doesn’t come from Sonic in the film, I’d be very disappointed. It would be a missed opportunity.

I’ve had this thought since 2022. I’ve even shared this again back in May. Sonic will have a better understanding of what Shadow is going through in this continuation. He has first-hand experience of what the humans are like. He’s seen the good and the bad. And he’s quite capable of having this conversation without being demeaning. The “Sonic” that we saw with Knuckles on the roof in the miniseries is the “Sonic” to expect for the third film. He’s matured quite a lot since the first film.

Please understand that this is NOT a hate post towards Amy Rose. Not at all. I love Amy Rose very much. What I’m saying is that this moment would NOT work with SCU! Amy Rose. It worked well in the games because A). We’ve grown up with her (we know her beginning point and her now), and B). She was at the right place at the right time and happened to say something that triggered a memory within Shadow. Those that want Amy Rose to give the humanity speech in the film are expecting an exact copy of SA2. It’s been stated multiple times that this is not Sonic Adventure 2: The Movie. Even if Amy Rose does appear in the film, we don’t know if she would be the same version of the one that we know from the games. Remember: these versions of our beloved game characters are younger, as well as come with new characteristics that handle different situations.

So what would that mean for Amy Rose? It would mean that the humanity speech was not for her to give. And that’s okay. Give her a newer moment that outshines SA2. She is much more capable and deserving than that. I would very much love to see her shine in new light and bring something new to the table.

[friendsoup]

Omg hello! So I am obsessed with Vertin and CANNOT find anything on her. Could you write an angsty fic between her and the reader? Like something where she and the reader obviously want something to develop between eachother, but refuse to go through with it for whatever reason? If not that's completely alright, I still adore your works.

Brave The Storm

Recipe: Angst, Hurt no comfort, Romantic pining, GN!reader, Reader x Vertin, Projecting myself onto Vertin by making her neurodivergent, v short v sad

WC: 987

AC: Wrote this in the ideal fanfiction writing setting. Home alone, on the couch, with my dog beside me, a cup of warm coffee on the table. I hope this isn't too short for you anon! I had run writing Vertin!

“Timekeeper?” You call, timidly from the doorway. You’ve never ventured into the Timekeeper’s office before, though few have. To your understanding, it was Vertin’s secret place, where she stowed herself away after every storm. Usually, she’d emerge a day later, ready to lead your team forward. But now was different. She hadn’t left the office in days, and everyone was beginning to grow worried. Restless without any commands from her. “Come in.” You hear her voice call from the other side. Your breath catches in your throat. You know that you’re about to see another side to Vertin, one that she’s shown very few people. Hesitantly, you twist the doorknob, and let yourself in. “Apologies for the mess.” Vertin says, shuffling through a box of files. She looks distraught, her eyes heavy with bags and her lips scratched to high hell. Her hair is pulled back into a haphazardly done ponytail, which hangs low. Stray hairs cover her face, it’s clear that she hasn’t fixed it in a while. It occurs to you then that you’ve never seen Vertin with her hair down. You hadn’t considered the true length of her hair, but with it unfurled from it’s bun, you see that it’s quite long. “I wasn’t expecting a guest.” She continues, snapping you out of your thoughts. “No, no, you’re fine.” You shake your head lightly. You can excuse the mess. It’s the work of a genius after all. Far be it from you to criticize. “I brought you something to eat.” You walk up beside her, placing the small tray of toast and water down beside her. It wasn’t the healthiest meal, but Sonetto had mentioned something about it being safe food. You knew better than to doubt her knowledge on the Timekeeper. “Thank you.” Vertin responded, bringing her hand up to her lip again. Absent-mindedly, she scratches at it, picking away another layer of skin.

Without thinking, you move your hand to hers, gently pushing it away from her face. Vertin’s eyes widen and look to you, shocked by this development. You notice the slightest blush on her cheeks. “Sorry!” You apologize quickly, glancing away. “I just… You shouldn’t pick at your skin, Timekeeper. It’s not good for you.”

“Vertin.” She mutters. “Please, call me Vertin.” She looks up to you with pleading eyes. You swallow harshly. “Vertin.” You correct, though the word feels wrong in your mouth, ”You shouldn’t pick at your lip. You could damage your skin.” 

“I know.” Vertin sighs. “It’s a bad habit, I’ve been doing it since I was a child. It’s difficult to quit though. I feel like it’s simply been built into me.” Her eyes fall back to her hands, to the box she was looking through.

You kneel next to her, peering into the box. You see the headlines of newspapers pop out in between the manilla folders. You recognize the dates, as times in the distant future. Vertin places the newest neatly inside. “The creator of the Storm must have a twisted sense of humor.” She says, suddenly. “I can bring as many items as I want with me into my suitcase… Yet the people I try to save stay lost forever.” Her voice is soft, fragile. As if she could shatter at any moment. You spend a second in silence, attempting to find some hopeful words. “You’ve saved many people, Vertin.” You whisper back, scared that if you’re too loud, she’d break. “Regulus, Sotheby,” You take in a breath, holding it in your chest for a moment,”Me.” “You?” Vertin asks, her gaze returning to you. “I don’t think you needed saving. You’re a capable fighter, you’re brave, you have a brilliant mind, you’re…” Her voice trails off, the slight blush returning to her cheeks. Silence falls between you once again. Hesitantly, you reach over, placing your hand over hers. She flinches initially, then calms, her shoulders falling and her breathing slowing. You feel your heart race in your chest at the contact. Her hand is cold, begging to be warmed. 

“The reason I keep fighting,” You begin, feeling your throat close up at the honesty, “The reason I’m so brave, and I try to be so smart, is because I want to make you happy. The Storm, it took so much from me. I wouldn’t have the strength to go on if you weren’t in my life. You are my purpose, Vertin.” “[Y/N]...” Vertin chokes on the word, her eyes beginning to tear. “Vertin, I-” “Don’t say it.” She interrupts, holding a finger to your lips. “Please, don’t say it.” Tears are falling quick now, rapid succession down her face. “I can’t take it. I can’t stand it.”

“Why?” You plea, squeezing her hand slightly. “Just let me in, Vertin. Let me help you. We can brave the Storm together!” “No.” Vertin shakes her head rapidly, pulling away from your touch. “You can’t. I can’t. It’s too much. I’ve lost so much over such a short period of time. Everything I gain turns to sand. I can’t let it happen again. Not to such a great extent.” “I won’t leave you!” You beg. “You don’t know that!” Vertin shouts, her eyes bloodshot. 

“Vertin…” You whisper, your shoulders falling in defeat. It’s true. You don’t know what’ll happen next time the Storm hits, or when the next attack happens. Though you want to assure Vertin you’ll be by her side through it all, you know that it’ll be an empty promise. Yet empty promises are all you’re able to provide. “Please.” Vertin sobs, her hands trembling. “Leave me be.”

You open your mouth to protest, but then she looks at you, and it sends a dagger straight through your heart. Her trembling lip, her fragile expression. You fear making things worse.

You stand, and make your way to the door.

“Goodnight, Vertin.” You tell her, before you leave. “Take care of yourself.”

[flowers-of-io]

Things I wrote (and posted) this year

My fic year in review, sorted chronologically! I'm quite proud of myself, I have to admit. I tried some new things this year and even if I wouldn't say there are many *masterpieces* on this list, I still appreciate how varied it is.

Here's to an even more diverse 2025!

the witnessed and the tricked

Rated T | prompt: Witness Me

Savathûn steals the Veil and feels really good about it. Nezarec dies like a loser. The Witness ignores all of this.

Savathûn laughed. She laughed so brightly and truly, her voice thundering like the sound of an avalanche approaching, rippling across space like magma rushing out of a volcano. Outside, the world was ending. The Deep had arrived to state its claim--oh, what a boring development, what a dull and wholly expected turn of events, and what a sorry display of ineptitude the Final God of Pain was making of himself, spluttering and wheezing at her feet. She kicked him in the face for good measure. He grasped weakly at her ankle, gargling out curses through a ruined throat, and tried dragging himself after her when she turned to leave, but the lack of two limbs and several vital organs prevented him from getting very far.

when do ghosts have nightmares

Rated T | 1016 words

Toland gets a taste of his own poison.

Eris asked him that once, not in a letter but a mournful scream sent drifting on the waves of the vast Sea. She must have been worlds away, because by the time they got to him the words had already built up and swollen into a deafening roar that crashed and swept him away like a ship amidst a rainstorm. He did not answer, and neither does he now.

a chorale, a double-stop

Rated T | 651 words | prompt: yesterday/today/tomorrow

Freaky Black Garden rarepair fic!

“I missed you,” she says. Radiolaria spills from her mouth.

Kabr cups the back of her head and brings their foreheads together.

“How come?” His voice is a song too, melting into her as their feet melt into the brook and dissolve into arc and sillica. “I’ve been gone for barely a minute.”

Dark Mirror, chapter 5: The Communion

Rated T

Accidental Best Friend Acquisition, Lucent Brood version.

“Aren’t Ghosts usually busy with looking for their Lightbearers, or something?”

The Ghost went quiet for a second, something about its cheery demeanour shifting.

“My Lightbearer is dead,” it said stiffly.

as grief is large among the grieving

Rated T | 1246

You know how in that D1 mission with Crota's funeral you can find Ir Yût in one of the towers? Yeah.

The Song becomes her. For one suspended moment she is bodiless, pervading, seeping through the air in tender wisps and passing through stone and skin and crystal—deep beneath, where the worm lies, where soulfire licks bone. The beauty of it, she’s always figured, the true beauty of the Song is that it knows no borders; that when sung right, it is all-encompassing, radiating like starlight across time and space until a will strong enough to smother it arises. The truest form of art: will channelled without shape or substance, intangible beyond the ruin it leaves in its wake.

Field Research

Rated G | 1274 words

The Crimson Days are upon us, and Eido is on that ethnology grind.

By some miracle, they found a table snuggled in the far corner of the room, under a fern in a hanging pot. Eido bumped her head against it as she sat down.

“There are many people here,” she remarked, rubbing at her forehead.

Brilliance, Brilliance

Rated G | 1187

The Lucent Court is celebrating. The yuri is toxic.

Through all her years of studying the Hive, Eris wouldn’t have thought they danced. Maybe it would have occurred to her earlier if she'd ever discussed it with Toland; he's always seen them as both more and less than she has, not only mindless beasts and not only gods. He would've said, of course they dance, they're a complex, highly advanced society, the kind that had built palaces and dreadnaughts before the Earth was even created. They have music and art and insanely complicated biotechnological mechanisms, philosophy and cuisine—why wouldn't they dance?

Notes of the Remembered, chapter 4: Pretences

Rated T

Mulled wine and not-confessions.

“I’ve told you before about how the Hive see death.” She gently rocked the mug and watched a slice of orange rise to the surface and ruin the image of the Traveler-less sky reflected in it. “Our mythoi are not so different, at the heart of it. The Hive believe soulfire is the immortal part of a person, the connection to the Sea of Screams, but unlike one’s Ascendant form, it can’t be destroyed so easily. Death is only and forever an ending, but the essence persists… Funny, when you think about it, that something endowed to us by the worm gods is at the core of our faith in the afterlife.”

Órthos

Rated G | 1846 words

Two old men talk about devotion.

Kuldax's eyes, gleaming and clever with age, narrowed under the brow of faded chitin. He was old, and he knew kings and their ways. Thus he spoke, “The Hellmouth is an empty husk. It is solely the vestige of the Deep that Xivu Arath wants it for.”

“Primarily, not solely,” the Warpriest corrected, for he too knew the ways of kings. “Through ruin and hunger you’ve remained faithful to the bladed path. She will reward that.”

“There is no mercy other than the mercy of death,” Kuldax said. “All else is debt and future boons. If it is ruin and hunger that shall claim us, then it must be so. But never again,” these words he spoke sternly, because he was old and not afraid of death, “will it be the whim of a Queen.”

unless you play it good and right

Rated G | 1729 words | prompt: kissing as encouragement

Happy zaiatl content before everything went to [LOUD BUZZER NOISE].

“Ha.” She said it flatly, but the edge of her fingernail dug into Zavala’s cheekbone and it was enough for his breathing to fall out of sync. Incredible—how easy it was, how the world around him suddenly shrunk down to just the two of them, and his vision turned sharp and hyper aware like on the battlefield. “I do not tend to braid love with politics, Commander. It is a ruthless game.”

“Indeed.” He tucked his face into her palm and pressed his lips against the thick line of the scar there.

XXXV

Rated G | 720 words

Xivu asks the useless question.

Shutting her out of her throne world, really now. She had an unfinished dice game with Haroktha. The flow of tribute shuts her parasite up, but there is still a cacophony of voices yelling in her head; worms her gods and the Deep Itself and her confused adjutants all screaming like thrall set on fire and asking how, HOW, how did she do it and how did you let it happen and how could you not see this coming. The constant noise blinds her almost as much as the pain does. It is harder to tune them out now that she is locked out from her own mind palace.

Dark Mirror, chapter 6: The Mirror

Rated T

A day in the life of a Lucent Brood Acolyte, rather (affectionate) than (derogatory).

Something glinted in the corner of his eye, and instinctively Dornuk turned to check on it. By the gate in the far distance, sunlight was reflecting off the heavily ornamented horns of a Wizard—Ascendant, judging by her height, clad in wormsilk and siver chains and a number of other utterly useless decorations that shimmered and tinkled. She was very diligently licking a column.

“Why,” he wondered aloud, rather than asking anyone in particular.

SHE SEES

Rated G | 253 words

A conversation about home and rebirth.

I have a vision. A brilliant garden. Vitreous strongholds built from osmium and Light. We will rise and meet the Traveler. We will save the Hive the way you said the Traveler saved us, the way it wants us to save it.

Come in Time, chapter 11: Temptation (part III)

Rated T

The end of love.

It was easy, following her. She was the needle of your compass always pointing north, a metronome steadying you when the world was all fury and noise, a razor blade cutting through your doubts and questions and fears until they were nothing but unambiguous truth. She knew what she wanted, and she wanted you by her side.

She is gorgeous even now, dark hair ruffled by the wind and gaze sharp like a shard of glass. She is all power, furious power—an archetype of godhood rather than a woman, an alien figure you have known for years but do not recognise, a house on fire with blown-out windows lit up by the blaze. You have never asked yourself, before, how it would feel to lose your way. You do now.

Come in Time, chapter 12: Evitable

Rated T

Rekkana attempts to explain the concept of chronomancy to a very unimpressed Tevis.

“So what you’re saying is you guys predicted Six Fronts in your sleep.”

“Technically yes.”

“Amazing. Why did the Consensus kick you out, again?” Tevis tilts counterclockwise and peers at her with his single, squinted eye. “Something about a vision of the Speaker becoming corrupted by the Darkness, and the plot to assassinate him?”

This Book Is Full of Lies, chapter 13: Reckless Oracle

Rated T

The team moves into the Scarlet Keep, Eris gets a cat, and Ór gets oneirologic torment.

“So, I guess this means the Daito rabbits and the spectral cats know each other,” Crow wonders aloud, half amused and half genuinely puzzled. “Do they... travel between Luna and the Dreaming City to visit each other? Or is there a separate plane of existence that they meet at, like an Ascendant Realm, but for little guys?”

“It is possible that the Awoken—oh,” Eris gasps when the cat leaps nimbly from the crate and onto her outstretched arm. It weights nothing. With careful paws it climbs up her forearm and shoulder and settles around the back of her neck like a scarf, purring softly. Gingerly, she raises a hand to rub it between the ears.

This Book Is Full of Lies, chapter 14: Leap

Rated T

Savathûn's Brood watches a choice being made.

Aiat! We are Her Brood, and our hearts are of Hers. In our minds we hold the substance of Her teachings and the anti-matter of Her lies. Aiat! The Deep has deceived us, and thus She has conquered the Deep, for She is the Queen of Deceit.

To be of Her Brood is to be entuannei: that is, to know the-space-between, to lie upon a truth until it changes its substance, until the only truth that remains is one which cannot be denied. Aiat! We are of Her, and our souls tremble with the fear of inexistence; we are of Her, and our hearts surge at the promise of life.

FEARS TO LIFE, chapter 1: i'm not going down with the rest of you

Rated T | 738 words

Toland knows what he will do after Crota.

"‘You’, hm." Eris crosses her arms. "Then it's true what Eriana says, that you don't plan to wage this battle alongside us."

"My path leads elsewhere."

"Deepward?"

"As ever."

Ikora Week 2024: Moment

Rated G | 301 words | prompt: memorable moments / wisdom

Ikora and Osiris reunite.

She has played this moment in her head hundreds of times. Curse her wandering mind, perhaps, or her bleeding heart; never once has it done her well to overthink, and there is nothing she has thought about more than the freeze-frame of Osiris on the steps of his jumpship, fifty-seven years, four months and twenty-two days ago.

Ikora Week 2024: Unexpected, Welcome

Rated T | 733 words | prompt: favourite ship / supernova

Asher hasn't used the Light since the accident.

Asher passes her a glance, then looks back down at his palm. His eyebrows are pulled together in a deep frown. Slowly, he brings his Vex hand up and cups it together with his good one. Ikora realises she is holding her breath, and wills herself to relax.

The air between his fingers swirls and then is sucked into itself as a tiny singularity begins to form. It is miniature and unstable, but it's there, eddying and tugging at the air around it greedily. Asher gasps, and she pretends she didn't hear it.

Come in Time, chapter 13: Convergence (part II)

Rated T

Alemyr and Praedyth converge in the Black Garden.

He says thickly, “Sometimes I want to go back so badly.”

Her arms curl around him in an embrace that smells like lavender and the Tower.

“You don’t have to.” He lets the tears fall and sink into the linen of her robe, darker spots on dark blue. “You are always there.”

you and me at the end of the world

Rated G | 3368 words | destinytober prompts

Stories from the Pale Heart and elsewhere.

the landing

Immaru doesn't care. Immaru escapes through the window and flies off into the night, and he doesn't care as he glides under the brilliant purple-blue expanse of the sky, and above the dark and angular landscape, and not even when he finally curls up in the palm of his Lightbearer, shivering and angry. He really could've gathered some intel while he was there. It's not like he'll be sending anyone out there to snoop around in the nearest future, anyway. He doesn't care.

the blooming

I can already hear you accusing me of overmetaphorising. There is no end of the world! The cosmos is infinite and Guardians make their own fate. Even the radiolaria in their little bronze caskets may soon have to make peace with this fact. This is the beauty of existence: it keeps going on, and on, aimlessly and for no reason other than it just does. Arte pro arte--but oh, what beautiful art it is indeed! We have always appreciated this majesty, me and her. You could say it was the love of life which brought us together. Would you believe that?

(You'd do well brushing up on your Symmetrist writings. The sword and the bomb share some very basic principles.)

the lost city

"Shouldn't you be takin' some time off, anyway?" A handwave, its shadow flickering over the table. "I'm sure our Hunter Vanguard there can manage on his own for a bit."

"I'm good."

"Oh come on." There is a longer beat of silence, distracting him enough that he moves on to the next report, and then words like a blinding grenade: "If it's about dealin' with grief, that ain't the way to do it."

the outskirts

"You know," he says, "that's not really what I pictured when I said he might find the greatest Guardian of all time."

"What, a prince of the Reef?"

"A Hunter Vanguard."

the refraction

—and he [wakes] in a place that is a time that he/they/he has never seen before. An emerald meadow. Flowers like blood. Sky with no ceiling, white rivers, glass plains echoing with a—

[Define: wakes. Sudden transition into alertness from a period of dormancy.]

—song on the [wind] like the sighs of a giant. Still. Everything is still when you [are] Vex, charting moments like points on a map and skipping between them without any movement at all. He breathes in—tastes salt—sees white and green and red and feels something electric trickle down from his nostrils.

the abscess

You took your vengeance, dead thing. You razed and killed. You took my friends and you took my Father and you took my children and you took pleasure in our suffering, over and over. Bathed the Shore in our blood.

It brought you glee, I'm sure. This destruction, this fury. Intoxicating. Your uncontrollable bloodlust, taken out on all held dear.

Dream No More

Rated G | 1437 words

Three travellers come to Hallownest.

For herself, she chose a chamber on one of the upper floors, small, but with a lovely view of the rain-drenched capital. Settling in the royal guesthouse next to King’s Station might’ve been the more obvious choice, but Hornet couldn’t bear the thought of entering it yet, not when she didn’t know if any of her mother’s things would still be there. The whole city was a minefield of memory, really; though while she’d previously dreaded the inevitable confrontation with the past once she’d have returned, now she found the experience overwhelmingly cathartic. She only cried once, in the gardens, when she saw Hollow nipping insistently at the overgrown hedgerow with a pair of rusted shears like it was the most normal thing in the world for them to do. She failed to explain it when they jumped up to her with great alarm, their single spidery hand patting her form to check if she was hurt.

Planetomachía

Rated G | 2235 words

Four gods duke it out with the Nine.

You know, my dear, in four thousand years they will still be telling this story. One most certainly cannot deny it grandeur, both in the setting and the circumstances—yes, yes, I know. It didn’t really change much, and there will have been so many greater battles since, but this is not how legends are made. A legend must be a good story, first and foremost. It must slide smoothly off the tongue. Fire and darkness, love and horror, blood and glory—this is what keeps a myth alive. Nobody cares if the war with the Taishibethi was in any way crucial to the Hive’s crusade; what they remember is Emperor Raven splitting open a war moon, this one bright moment of power and gore caught in a frame. It did not save the Tai from extinction—but it is still remembered, still passed on between generations, millenia down the line.

[midnightrings]

Siena and her opera performances - a short character study

So, I thought I might share a short little analysis of the operas Siena performed, as I’ve not seen anything like this on here before and I’ve spent some time digging into those operas for my fanfics.

I want to post a whole character analysis of Siena at some point, but the operas play an important part in highlighting Siena’s character and her relationship with Anthony, so I thought it might be interesting to dig a bit deeper into those performances. Especially when it comes to a character like her (who barely got any screentime), those few seconds of her performing make a nice addition and add some depth to her character and storyline.

I won't focus much on the opera Siena performs in episode 1 – Gluck’s Iphigénie en Tauride – as it's not as interesting as the other two, because there doesn’t seem to be much of a connection to Siena’s character or her relationship with Anthony per se. Unlike the other operas, the focus in this scene is clearly not on her – she’s mostly just in the background, with two very short closeups, so we see that it’s her that is performing on stage. There is a deleted scene between her and Anthony according to the published script of that episode:

However, while I think that deleted scenes and such can make for interesting footnotes during an analysis/interpretation, I don’t like taking them too much into consideration – after all, there might be a good reason why this was deleted.

So the actual scene we see doesn’t really highlight anything in regards to Siena’s characters besides the fact that she’s an opera singer and that this is one of the only times we see her wear some brighter colors – while she’s on stage, playing a character. The other two operas she performs in episode 3 and 4 are much more focused on her character and storyline, especially her performance of I Capuleti e i Montecchi in 1.03 – this is the only time we see her perform without any of the other cast members present.

However, that’s not the only difference between Iphigénie en Tauride and the other operas. I Capuleti e i Montecchi and Les contes d'Hoffmann are also anachronistic. Iphigénie en Tauride premiered 1779, while I Capuleti e i Montecchi premiered in 1830 and Les contes d'Hoffmann in 1881.

People tend to make fun of historical inaccuracies or dismiss them as mistakes, but most times, anachronism is on purpose. I think it’s safe to assume that everyone working on this has been aware that those operas would not premiere until decades after season 1. The operas were clearly chosen for a reason.

Les contes d'Hoffmann by Jacques Offenbach (1881)

Les contes d’Hoffmann (The Tales of Hoffmann) tells the story of Hoffmann, who choses to give up on love and devotes his life to art and poetry instead. It's based on three short stories by E. T. A. Hoffmann, and some are probably familiar with the movie, but just to roughly summarize (also because there’s some important differences): At the beginning of the story, a prima donna named Stella invites Hoffmann to a meeting in her dressing room after her performance. Before the meeting, Hoffmann recounts his past great loves to his students. The opera consists of three acts, each telling the story of one of Hoffmann’s previous loves. After recollecting his stories of heartbreak, The Muse can convince Hoffmann to give his love to her (poetry) instead of visiting Stella.

There are many parallels to Siena and her relationship with Anthony here. The most obvious one is the prima donna part – Stella represents Siena. While there might not be direct similarities within the story or between Anthony and Hoffmann, the ending to Hoffmann’s story is still in some parts similar to Anthony’s. The opera ends with Hoffmann declaring that he doesn’t want to love anymore – which sounds quite similar to what Anthony says at the end of season 1.

Siena is obviously not performing the entire opera – we only see her sing “Belle nuit, ô nuit d'amour” as the courtesan Giulietta – who tries to fool Hoffmann into falling in love with her.

Storytelling-wise, it obviously does not fit Siena’s story at this point – she is not trying to fool Anthony into falling in love with her, quite the opposite. Though it does work well as a juxtaposition, especially when we see Siena noticing Anthony’s stares and she slips out of her role. There’s a clear contrast here between her performing as a devious courtesan and looking almost flustered as a result of Anthony’s gaze.

And although Siena at that point doesn’t want to seduce Anthony in any way, the piece still beautifully represents the actual scene that takes places here: Anthony longingly staring at her the very moment he recognizes her voice – almost as if under a spell (a very horny spell). Even when Violet tries to distract him, he cannot help but look in Siena’s direction. He’s completely enthralled by her here – similarly to how Hoffmann was enthralled by Giulietta. And similarly, both relationships are doomed to end unhappily.

Adding onto that, this is also the only time that we see Siena on stage where she represents exactly who she is: a courtesan. During the other two performances, she’s wearing bright, pastel gowns – very different from her usual style. The costume she wears here is also different from her usual style, which is fairly plain otherwise – but it does highlight the role she plays within society.

I find it quite interesting that this is the only time we see Anthony and Siena interact with one another during one of her performances – and one of the only times we see them interact in public altogether. This scene clearly shows the class difference between them: Anthony attending a ball as the lord he is, while Siena performs for everyone else’s entertainment, playing a seductive courtesan. They are present at the same place, yet they can’t talk to one another – there is an invisible wall between them which is highlighted by the positions they take within that scene as well as the clothes they wear. Had Siena performed any other part of that opera, she would probably have worn a pretty gown and those differences would not nearly be as noticeable. But she’s performing as a courtesan and as a result, this might be the most visible representation of her and Anthony’s differences and main conflict.

Returning to the actual story of the opera: At the end, Hoffmann explains how his three previous loves – Olympia, Antonia and Giulietta – all represent Stella. They show different aspects of the prima donna: the musician, the young girl and the courtesan. As I said, Stella represents Siena, and so do all of the other characters. In this scene, we see her visually represented as the courtesan. The show highlights this several times, especially during episode 3 when she talks to Genevieve and then later visits the gentlemen’s club and is inviting Simon to join her the next evening. Her need to find a keeper that can protect her and provide for her plays an essential role within her storyline.

Then, she’s obviously also a musician – a good amount of her scenes consist of her performances, and her character is defined by those performances. And, in the end, she’s also a young girl – and the show ensures to highlight that part as well. Through showcasing her vulnerability and emotions, we can see that she is not that different from the other young women in the show, like Daphne and Marina. They are all young, dealing with heartbreak and making decisions to secure their future. And this is in my opinion what sets Bridgerton apart from other stories of its genre. Usually, a character like Siena would only be the musician and courtesan – either sidelined or vilified. The show humanizes her, however, by granting her screentime to show her pain and struggles and even, to some extent, her innocence – which is especially well done during her performance in 1.03.

I Capuleti e i Montecchi by Vincenzo Bellini (1830)

As you can probably guess by the title, I Capuleti e i Montecchi tells the story of Romeo and Juliet. I don’t think there’s a need to summarize the story, and I also think it’s pretty clear why this particular opera was chosen: Romeo and Juliet originated the star-crossed lovers trope – which is the exact trope Siena and Anthony would fall under.

There are many things I love about that scene – it’s just all around a brilliant scene, not just in relation to Siena’s character. Though I will obviously only focus on how it relates to her character here.

The aria Siena performs is “Oh! quante volte” – Juliet waiting for Romeo, begging for him to come for her. It’s quite emotional and allows for Siena’s character to express her own emotions throughout her performance.

First, I adore how beautifully this ties in with the next scene. For one, because it sets up the atmosphere and essence of Siena and Anthony’s relationship – the tragedy of it all. The scene with Anthony in Siena’s dressing room underlines how this is not meant to be a love story with a happy ending, and the performance right before that amplifies this. Their story is doomed to end unhappily. And, similar to Romeo and Juliet, it is not merely a tragic story about love – it’s a story about the dangers of defying societal norms and duties and your own identities within that society.

But the dressing room scene also shows the clear differences between both stories. When Anthony visits her, Siena choses to reject him. She might have been emotional during her performance, but when Anthony showed his face, Siena did not act based on emotions but was very much rational in her words and actions. Because Anthony is not Romeo, and Siena is also not Juliet.

I also love how this performance builds a beautiful contrast to Les contes d'Hoffmann. Instead of a courtesan, Siena is playing an ingenue, wearing a pretty gown and looking all around sweet and innocent.

As the opera is in Italian, Juliet is obviously called Giulietta – just like the courtesan from Les contes d'Hoffmann. I have no idea whether this has been an accident or was done on purpose, but it’s a wonderful parallel. In both operas, she’s playing two very different women who happen to share the same name.

It underlines the differences between both roles but also draws a connection – which is Siena’s character.

By society, Siena is seen as the Giulietta from Les contes d'Hoffmann: the courtesan whose intentions are dubious and malicious. When Siena performs as I Capuleti e i Montecchi’s Giulietta, we can see a more vulnerable side of her as she openly cries on stage. We see her heartbroken and emotional, letting her guard down completely for a moment. In the end, it’s merely a performance. But Siena uses this performance to allow herself vulnerability – a vulnerability she is not usually allowed.

Those different performances do an excellent job at showcasing Siena’s character and also her main conflict and the different roles she plays. The chosen operas add some wonderful depth and insight into her character and I absolutely love how the shows has implemented them.

[the-lightning-strikes-again]

Lotura Week 2023 Day 3 - Beach Day Bliss / What's the Weather

Sun and Water

Emperor Lotor of the Galra peeked out from behind the curtain of the changing room, cheeks visibly heated. “And you’re sure this is…socially acceptable clothing in human environments?”

Princess Allura leaned against the wall in her bright pink bikini and glittering sarong, admiring her own suit. “Oh, very.” She leaned in and added, “I think it’s freeing after so many years stuffed into thick clothes and armor. Don’t you?”  

The alien man’s slit eyes narrowed, and his blush deepened. “The Galra do not…show themselves in this way. Typically.”

“Are you afraid to partake in opening swimming? How then do your people ever enjoy an ocean or a sea?”

“We have swimming suits,” he complained, “and do not trounce about half-naked.”

“But such dress doesn’t mean nakedness here,” Allura said as she placed a hand on her hip. “Come on, if I can do it, surely you can as well. I thought you said you like exploring new cultures, besides.”

He made a noise in the back of his throat, then disappeared behind the curtain again, mumbling under his breath. In time, he pulled it back to reveal himself in navy swim trunks and a white, open button-down shirt, carrying an orange and blue-striped beach towel under his arm. “I am doing this only because you have partaken in the wearing of the bikini.”

Allura’s cheeks heated upon glancing over his form. Lotor’s armor was fitted to his lithe body, but the sunlight streaming into the changing rooms shined bright over his scarred lavender skin and sleek, corded muscle. His long hair glowed about him.

“Oh,” she said, eyes wide. “On second thought, do hide, or else I shall have to fight for my claim when all others see how handsome you are.”

Lotor gave her a half-pleased and half-miserable look as he reshuffled his beach towel and awkwardly placed sunglasses atop his head—an action still new to him. “And you do not think I must anticipate the same for you?”

She beamed at him and held out her hand. “The humans are quite used to this state of dress and to me, but I do love your flattery. Come on, let us go together, then, and we shall make it quite clear that we are claimed by each other.”

He paused before he reached out and intertwined his long, calloused fingers with hers. “…Together,” he agreed.

The two alien royals stepped into the warm sand of the Earth. Lotor glanced down at the sensation upon his bare feet, curious of the pleasant softness of sand between his toes, and then he glanced back up at the crowds before him.

Human children laughed, chasing one another, while other couples walked hand-in-hand, with several adults sunbathing or chatting beneath large, blue umbrellas.

Lotor’s ear twitched. In the background was the gentle cresting of waves as they crashed against the beach. Among them, the Paladins of Voltron played a game with a multi-colored ball. With all the activity, and the several other aliens lounging about humans, the crowds paid no mind to either Lotor or Allura besides a friendly wave as they passed by.

And the Earth’s sun—it pleasantly heated his skin, so unlike the cold darkness of space.

In great curiosity, he inhaled the scent of the sun and the beach. It was an airy, salty scent that inspired a lightness in his heart. A sense of cosmic alignment.

Allura tugged on his arm and pulled him along to the edge of the waves. “You do know how to swim, yes?”

He followed her without complaint, glancing about all the activity. “Of course, but I do not swim or traverse a beach for pleasure as humans seem to do.” The waves crested against his ankles, streaming past to cover the sand, and the water cooled his warm skin. “I’ve always seen swimming as a survival skill only.”

Allura pouted in a cute way, tightening her grip on his hand. “It pains me that you’ve known no fun whatsoever for ten-thousand years.” Her fingers stroked against a harsh scar that ran along the side of his palm.

Lotor squeezed her hand back, careful of his claws. “But I am here now with you,” he said, voice rising with merriment. “Teach me all the ways of fun, for I am a quick learner and quite interested in the concept.”

That lit up Allura’s eyes. “Oh, there’s lots of ways to have fun at a beach. Perhaps we should start with simple fun, as I would hate to wear you out after the latest battle with rift creatures,” she said, pulling away. Her sarong glittered in the sun as she leaned over, grabbing onto one of the free sand chairs.

“I could do without rift creatures,” he agreed and moved to help her.

Soon, they sat side by side in the sand chairs, their towels tossed farther up the beach. Lotor reached out in pleasant awe as a wave crashed over his outstretched legs, the water splashing up his heated arm before it receded.

They still held hands between their chairs—a slack, comfortable grip.

“I see now why humans do not wear armor at the beach,” he said. “The water and sun are pleasant here.”

Her expression softened. “Isn’t it?” she agreed. “Back on Altea, our oceans contained giant Eravutes—large nightmare creatures that made their nests on the beach, and could be occasionally be tamed into pets. It always made for an interesting time but certainly not a relaxing one.” She sunk back into her chair, breathing deeply as she closed her eyes. “I could get used to this.”

Lotor made a noise of agreement, glancing down to peer curiously into the clear water. “As could I,” he murmured. “It seems that simply enjoying the atmosphere is a popular pastime at Earth beaches.”

“Oh, quite.” She peeked open one eye. “Do remind me to slather you with the sunscreen lotion sooner rather than later.”

His white eyebrow quirked. “You would encourage touching in such a way while we are underdressed in public?"

Her nose crinkled with laughter, even as her face heated up from a different energy than the sun. She pulled away to pile her white curls into a top bun before saying, voice prim, "It's about sun safety, above all."

Lotor leaned in. "Do I get to return the favor of the slathering of sunscreen?"

Allura tightened her bun and waggled her eyebrows. "Of course."

@loturaweek2023

[kami-kun1003]

this is based off an AU i have where Silver is a lot more paranoid and dishonest, but learned to hide it behind his peaceful mask of the soft spoken boy we all know and love. basically Silver if Disney had made him a villain like the other characters but he’s still not quite as bad

i kinda just wrote all this in one go so excuse any poor writing

~~~

There were so many people here.

Silver breathed in for seven seconds, allowing the air to fill his lungs, then let it out slowly.

He’d never seen so many individuals before in his entire life. Hundreds of students standing in one massive room, all wearing the same dark ceremonial robes.

Despite his attempts to remain calm, his heart stubbornly refused to cease its rapid beating. He’d always been taught to be wary of strangers; you never knew which one could be a foe.

And now he was surrounded by them.

Potential threats were everywhere. Someone could be lurking in that shadow, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. That person over there looked fidgety— was he armed with a hidden blade?

Silver’s eyes darted around as his anxieties grew. How had Father and Malleus been fine for an entire year without him and Sebek to protect them? He knew not to underestimate their abilities, but you could never be too cautious in a place like this.

His breathing grew erratic as the world seemed almost dreamlike. He couldn’t stop the paranoia from overtaking his mind.

An arm bumped into him. He whipped his head around, ready to defend himself against whoever the assailant was, only to realize it was Lilia.

“Oops, my apologies, Silver.” The fae smiled cheerfully at him. “Isn’t this exciting?”

He wanted to argue that it was anything but exciting. That it was terrifying, and he was overwhelmed and wished to leave.

But of course he couldn’t. So instead, he forced his muscles to relax and returned the smile. “Yes, I’ve been quite enjoying myself.” The lie rolled easily off his tongue. “I’m looking forward to being sorted. I hope the Dark Mirror finds me suitable for Diasomnia so that I may be at your and Malleus’s side.”

Only the last sentence was true. He despised the idea of walking up there for everyone to see him with his back turned. What would they think? What if they found him weak? What if something happened while he was away? He wasn’t sure he could get to Lilia or Malleus in time if an assassin were to take advantage of him being on the other side of the room.

“Soothe your nerves, there is nothing to be afraid of.” As though reading his thoughts, his father attempted to reassure him. “It’s only natural to be nervous, but I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

But you might not be. Silver held back a sigh and merely nodded.

“Trust me, Silver.” Lilia chuckled behind a hand. “You’re always so worried over us. It’s truly endearing.”

There it was again; talking down on him like he was just being a silly, overdramatic child. Silver deeply hated that, and wouldn’t take it from anyone but his father.

“Right. I’m sorry— I’ll try to compose myself better.” He responded with his usual expressionless face.

“That’s the spirit.” Seeing Lilia’s joyous grin was almost enough to wash away his fears. “I believe it’s nearly your turn. Don’t panic, now.” His tone was light and teasing, as though oblivious to how likely it was for that to actually happen.

“I won’t.” Silver dearly hoped his words wouldn’t turn out another lie. “I’m not that scared, old man…”

“Really? I noticed you looked rather unsettled for a while.” His father pointed out, always the observant fae. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine.” It took some effort to keep his voice calm. “I greatly appreciate your concern, but there’s no need to worry about me.”

“Well, if you say so.” Lilia shrugged, and turned his attention onto the current student being sorted into Octavinelle.

Silver wasn’t sure what he’d do if he was put into anywhere aside from Diasomnia. Request a dorm transfer, perhaps, no matter how tedious the process was.

He wouldn’t allow anything to stand in the way between him and his duty as a bodyguard. Not seperate dorms, not the other students, not his own sleepiness.

He was theirs, forever and ever.

[lskisms]

THE FEAR AND THE FIRE (OF THE END OF THE WORLD), J. MILLER

synopsis — or you have seen the end of the world once and you feel you’re going through it a second time.

genres &&. warnings — apocalypse, (minimal) romance, (potentially mutual) pining, (un)requited love &&. canon typical violence (gore, weapons, wounds, etc.), canon compliant, illness.

word count — 2.4k.

note from r — the last of us has had a hold on my heart since 2013. i have vivid memories of watching youtubers play it, of discovering one of my favorite video game voice actors of all time through it, of falling so deeply in love with joel miller (who was, at the time, old enough to be my father and still is, honestly). it was a game i thought about every so often, but still felt deeply impacted by and connected to, and when i heard that it was getting a television adaptation, i truly could not have been more excited.

i’m no longer the sixth grader i was when i discovered the last of us for the first time and i’ve changed so much in so many ways, but that initial devotion to the series still holds true in my heart. seeing the game that made me love storytelling get the love i feel it deserves on a much grander scale is a beautiful thing. i’ve been meaning to use this account to write fic that isn’t related to my main interests and what better way than to christen it with a tlou fic with the title taken from my favorite song by one of my favorite musicians (“wasteland, baby” by hozier, for those who don’t know).

honestly, i’m more of a pedro!joel girlie, but this can be read as either game or show joel. i tried to keep the descriptions very general and vague so that your favorite version of joel fits in just perfectly. enjoy to your heart’s content. reblogs are appreciated, comments encouraged. ask box is open if you feel you need to yell at me directly anonymously.

in the hours after the last real day of the world, everything went quiet. the soldiers had been bussed out, survivors having either been lucky enough to go to the emergency quarantine zones with the military or having been turned on by their own government, left dead or dying on street corners, on front lawns, in fields. there was crying, screaming in the streets, fires blazing and glass crashing out of frames, shattering on abandoned sidewalks.

but the world was silent to you as you sat comatose underneath your bedroom window, aching knees pulled tight against chest, arms cradling head, gun sitting askew on the floor. flames across the street cast burnt orange shadows across the floor, both comforting and petrifying. your roommate lay dead in the doorway to your room, her eyes cold and empty and forever staring intently, blood pooling and staining your carpet, the rug, the stray dirty clothes you’d told yourself you were going to pick up after you got back from classes but hadn’t, in the end. the glock 19 your father had insisted upon getting you for college, finally finding use only to be cast aside once more.

you’ve never quite remembered standing and throwing together a backpack stuffed as full as possible with clothes and food. or stepping out over the body of your roommate, the beginnings of light gray fungus creeping out of the wounds you’d caused to take her down. the halls and stairways of your apartment building littered with the bodies of people you’d asked for laundry detergent and tutoring and rides to work when it was too cold or rainy or you just didn’t feel like walking or catching the bus.

an entire life uprooted in one singular moment.

from the blood-soaked streets of an austonian suburb, fire lapping buildings and shattering glass, you’d eventually found a group of survivors on the outskirts, people who had managed to hide from or stave off military men. a dead person can’t be infected, someone had reasoned to you upon your protest, but we weren’t going down without a fight. and here we are.

the willingness to not only kill, but to openly admit to doing it without holding an ounce of shame had scared you. it made you wonder if you could trust them, if they were safe to be around, but then you had killed, too, in an effort to protect yourself. and it hadn’t been a nameless, faceless individual, someone following orders, no matter how immoral; it had been your best friend. in reality, you were the one who shouldn’t have been trusted, the one unsafe and unstable.

but they had trusted you anyway, some semblance of a found family. sneaking through texas as it slowly went silent, scouting for food in grocery stores not yet scavenged, finding nooks and crannies to camp out in at night. and you came to trust them and yourself the way they trusted you. they protected you, expected you to protect them in return, helped you feel steady in a world that was falling apart in a way that was wildly different from life-changing events that had come before.

they had helped you through the end of the world.

twenty years later, the composition of your group has changed quite a bit through death and family reunions and simply separating. by the time you made it to the boston quarantine zone years into the apocalypse, only a few of the original group members remained, including yourself.

life has a strange way of making time feel simultaneously fast and slow. with none of the amenities of your life previous, you’d felt that the world trudged on at a snail’s pace. in the early years, you had none of your old books, no journals, no hobbies that you had been able to pack up in your backpack when you walked out of one life and into the next. every waking moment, every shred of brain power was relegated to staying alive and nothing more.

but then, life couldn’t move fast enough for the simple fact that you didn’t want to live in this world anymore, either through the invention of a cure that would miraculously fix the world or what could only be the sweet release of death. it wasn’t that you wanted to die necessarily, but the idea of of living through the apocalypse, never knowing when you’d eat next or get murdered by a raider or, undeniably the worst of all, when (or if, though that has always been stupid at the very least) you’d get infected, stuck in your own body and unable to ask for the mercy of a bullet in the head.

boston had been good for you, still is. you’d arrived about five years ago, fresh off the road and an exhausting separation with a few of your group members you’d been with for a couple years. they’d decided to take off in favor of other settlements, tired of trekking fruitlessly towards a fedra qz that wasn’t guaranteed to still be standing. but it was there, teeming with so many lives, and after the obligatory infection check and a further interview, you and the remaining scraps of your group finally had a home. a permanent one, at least for the foreseeable future.

a few months following your arrival, joel miller rolled into town, tall and stocky and going gray at the temples and across his jaw. he was quiet but opinionated, hardworking but standoffish. the younger people in the qz went out of their way to avoid him, the older people too, because he was so unapproachable. your friend, tiy, who had joined your trekking group a few years prior, mentioned once that they liked him well enough, but “found him aloof and too stubborn.” nobody liked that he’d made it clear he wasn’t looking to make friends.

but you had been intrigued by joel’s stiffness or maybe it had been that he reminded you of yourself in those early days when you’d found it difficult to connect with people. sure, it had been years since then and you’d adjusted as well as you could, but there was still a learning curve to find the right balance of trusting but skeptical, getting close without investing too much, what with death waiting around every corner.

so you’d made it a point of trying to get under his skin, at least a little. you trailed alongside him as he walked laps around town, insisted on hanging out in his apartment when you were bored and couldn’t stand the silence of your own lodging, even followed him and tess when they slipped outside the fence to go scavenge for better supplies than fedra could (or would) offer.

of course he’d been resistant at first, but tess found it funny. she liked having you around; a breath of fresh air, she called you, someone she could talk to and actually expect responses from. in those early days, she said that joel was a brick wall and he’d never truly given it up. he might let you around more often, but to anticipate anything more than a glance or a glare was asking too much. it had all been said in jest, lighthearted in tone but there was still a truth to it.

and almost five years into your weird friendship with joel miller, he really hasn’t ever given it up. it’s doesn’t feel like the cold shoulder it had at first, but he’s never stopped fixing you to the spot with those icy stares and keeping his responses clipped. it’s grown on you a lot over the time you’ve known him because he doesn’t sugarcoat his words, never beats around the bush. you can always trust him to tell it like it is, even if it hurts your feelings.

which is why you don’t say anything about the thoughts about him that have been popping up unannounced as you lay in bed at night and mourn a life that has been out of reach for twenty years. this whole thing started when you were fresh into your twenties, college and parties and looking for love to get your parents off your back about when they were going to have grandchildren in their future. when the world had ended, you swore off anything more than tentative friendship because what use was a best friend or a lover when you never knew what could happen.

but then you’d gotten older and older and suddenly you were closing in on an age that had seemed so out of reach in that carefree, college student life of yours. and you’d started to realize that you’d missed out on so much. you began to grieve the loss of romance and happiness and comfort, but without an end result of consolation, you couldn’t write the elegy you wanted.

one day a few months ago, you’d been walking with joel at dusk, the sun casting the sky in that burnt orange hue and the complementary pinks. you were doing all the talking and joel wasn’t offering much in the way of response, but it didn’t matter. and then when you’d broken past the city into the more remote parts of boston, the two of you had come to a stop, admiring the sunset in silence. and you’d looked over at your companion and god, the sight of his profile against that pink velveteen and orange creamsicle sky, he looked like the most beautiful person you’d ever seen.

and everything had changed for you in that moment. in recent weeks, as you’ve lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come, you’ve been waylaid by thoughts about what it could be like if you let it happen. if you and joel let it happen.

when you look at him now, you see possibilities, a chance to not spend the rest of your life completely alone, isolated from human touch. someone to share your bed at night, to wake up to in the morning, kissed by dawn. if you close your eyes, it feels warm, you can feel that dawn sun on your skin, joel’s arm draped haphazardly over your waist, his breath stirring the wispy hairs at the nape of your neck. it’s a weird sort of comfort to have as you close your eyes at night, willing yourself to succumb to rest.

but at the same time, it feels wholly terrifying, dauntless, completely impossible. because truthfully, after so long without a connection that extends past that surface level acquaintanceship, anything deeper feels crushing. it is a weight that rests upon your shoulders like the rock upon sisyphus’s, something you are bound to bore for the rest of your life and eternally thereafter.

it feels like a second coming, the second apocalypse. when you ponder the idea for longer than a few seconds, it feels like you’re going through the end of the world all over again and you sit there, paralyzed. when you were younger, romance was easy to think about, to fantasize about; you spent many a night slumped in bed, stuck between drunk and sleep, thinking about the boy you’d been iming for the last three weeks. then, it had made you giddy, reduced to giggles and blushing as your friend yelled responses from the kitchen.

now, though, your heart stops, your mind stutters, you feel nervous and excited all at the same time. it’s like being on the precipice of something and waiting for the tip over the edge, to plummet head first into the darkness, anticipation and fear mixing into something wholly indistinguishable. you look at joel and you fantasize about flashes of a domestic life. you stand in the kitchen together and you think about resting your cheek against the broad expanse of his back, that welcoming place right between his shoulder blades. your knees brush as you sit on the couch and you freeze like a deer caught in headlights.

you want it and reject it all in the same breath, fingernails biting into the flesh of your palm as you will the ideas and the fantasies away. he, in all his gruff salt and pepper glory, always looks at you in these slivers of time together, the worry lines deep between his eyebrows, his way of asking whether you’re alright. and you look back and shake your head and offer a smile because you can’t bring yourself to tell the truth, the thoughts that plague your late night reveries, brought on by the silence and the darkness coalescing. you can’t do that to him or to yourself because you’ve known joel for too long to ever think it’s something that could ever happen.

but at two in the morning as you lay sick in bed, weeks after your realization, joel sleeps on the ratty couch in your living room, just feet away. you are hyper aware of the fact that on the other side of the wall, he slumbers after having insisted earlier in the day that he stay with you for at least the night so that if you needed help, you had someone there with you. it had surprised you then, but with the silence and the knowledge of him sleeping in your apartment, it starts to mean something more.

you’ve come to learn that joel shows his appreciation in nontraditional ways, methods that aren’t as confrontational and obvious. he’ll walk you home at night, straight to your door, even though he complains about his knees aching afterwards. he’ll ask, rather gruffly, if you’ve eaten. he chiefly looks out for himself, but he makes sure he takes the highest paying jobs and what he doesn’t need, he passes on to you in return for you checking the radio when he’s away.

and you realize that this is just a new iteration of that, the fact that he sleeps in your crumbling apartment while you’re ill with the flu just so you aren’t alone. maybe it’s a remnant of that instinct he had as a father or maybe it speaks to something more, an evolution in your relationship that isn’t as unrequited as you so thought. it fills your heart with a warmth unlike any you’ve felt in a long time and it makes you feel human again, capable and deserving of that love that you haven’t let yourself approach in so many years.

you’ll let yourself hope, at least for now, in the heat of your illness. it feels like the end of the world, the idea of it all, but it feels less daunting when it’s joel you’re thinking about.

(c) lskisms, 2023. do not repost, translate, or otherwise plagiarize my work. the only official versions of my work are available on tumblr and ao3 under the name lskisms.

[fibula-rasa]

Cosplay the Classics: Maya Deren in Meshes of the Afternoon (1943)

My closet cosplay of Maya Deren in her film Meshes of the Afternoon

I’ve been sitting on this cosplay for a shamefully long amount of time at this point. Originally, I thought to myself, “self, there’s no need to write anything long-form or meaningful to accompany this cosplay. Everybody knows Maya Deren.” But, then I did a quick little search around the internet and felt the inauspicious tug of the Curse of Knowledge.

Over the eighty years since Maya Deren made Meshes of the Afternoon, images of Deren have become emblematic of experimental film, both here in the United States and internationally. I’ve been privileged enough in my life to have formally studied the history of independent film in America and have also worked at an institution that specializes in preserving avant-garde film. So, for me, Deren’s shadow looms large. She is, no exaggeration, one of the most important figures in the American experimental film tradition. On tumblr, Deren’s image (particularly in Meshes of the Afternoon) has proliferated even further with popular sets of gifs and stills. That said, I can’t pin down quite how much the average film fan knows about Deren’s films and ideas. To put some things in context, I’d like to start by highlighting how she became an icon of experimental film.

Picture it: America in the 1940s. You’ve delved into filmmaking for the first time without a production company behind you. You’ve independently created a short, silent, poetic, experimental film at the height of the US’ studio era. The same qualities that might classify a film as niche today were even more pressing in the 1940s. So, how do you get it seen? Maya Deren had some ideas about that.

Deren was confident in film as an artistic medium. Over the course of the 1940s and 1950s, Deren arranged her own screenings by renting out a playhouse, and marketed and packaged her films for universities and artistic and cultural institutions in the US and in Europe. Deren also wrote pretty extensively about film form and also about the nature of and meanings behind her films. Deren would also speak at screenings of her films. So, basically, before there was a festival circuit or arthouses or cinematheques in the US, Deren positioned herself as author and primary marketer of her films. This necessary self promotion was pattern setting for the time, but also created an indelible association between her image and the developing independent film scene in mid-century America.

Deren’s image being the emblem of experimental American film is largely due to the way she continually promoted her films and engaged directly with her audience and with discussions around her work. (Additionally, seeing as Deren’s movies were self-produced, how much she could make renting and screening the films would provide the budget for the next film.)

If you’ve gotten this far in this write up and haven’t seen many/any of Deren’s films, first of all, thanks, but second of all, I recommend checking out a triple feature of films commonly grouped together as her “trance” films: Meshes of the Afternoon (1943), At Land (1944) [my personal fave], and Ritual in Transfigured Time (1945). They are all less than 15 minutes by the way, so don’t be daunted at the suggestion of watching three films in a row! Keep in mind that all three of these films were initially conceived of and released without a soundtrack. There is an authorized score for Meshes of the Afternoon composed later by Deren’s third husband, Teiji Ito, but how well that score serves the film is debatable. So, depending on where you choose to watch her films you may want to watch them soundlessly the first time, just to be sure that the music doesn’t get in the way. (Though I will say some of the scores I’ve seen people make on their own are crackerjack!)

As a preface to your viewing experience, I’d like to advise you not to get too caught up in overly logical and literal thinking—don’t intellectualize. Getting too hung up on whether you “got” a piece or art or not is just a barrier to genuine experience. Oddly, this is something I bang on about a lot in real life (and maybe I have on here before, I don’t remember) but it was pretty exciting reading more of Deren’s writing and coming upon this very relevant passage:

“It is therefore relevant to underline, here, the fact that the appreciation of a work based on experiential, or inner, realities consists not in a laborious analysis based on the logic of a reality which a ‘prepared’ spectator brings to the work. It consists, rather, in an abandonment of all previously conceived realities. It depends upon an attitude of innocent receptivity which permits the perception and the experience of the new reality. Once this reality has been perceived and experienced, its logic may be deduced if one wishes. Such a deduction is not necessary to the perception and can only follow it as a secondary activity, much as an analysis of love, for example, can only follow upon the experience but can never induce it.”

— Cinema as an Art Form" by Maya Deren, New Directions 9, 1946

The anecdote I often bring up to illustrate “innocent receptivity” to people who are reticent to take my advice is from David Lynch. Lynch recounts a private screening of his work for Mel Brooks when Brooks was considering him to direct The Elephant Man (1980), which Brooks was producing. Lynch assumed that that was the end of the line for him, but instead, Brooks loved his films and shared his own emotionally-grounded read on Eraserhead (1977). Lynch hadn’t anticipated Brooks’ intelligence as an artist and film enthusiast or his receptivity to the form. Lynch was obviously hired. Basically, we could all do with being more like Mel Brooks.

If you get the chance, and you’re interested in expanding your understanding of film as art, I strongly recommend checking out Deren’s writing. Her prose might seem florid, but I promise it’s a floridity based on precision of explanation, it’s not an exclusionary type of wordiness. There is a collection of some of Deren’s work from 2004 called Essential Deren (available on the Internet Archive). I’ve also been considering recording a reading of her essay “Cinematography: The Creative Use of Reality” if having an audio file would be appealing to anyone?

Well, thanks for making it all the way through! I know I haven’t really been doing longer-form stuff for this blog lately. Words are kind of a struggle for me and I get pretty easily discouraged to express myself with them, but upon reflection, I knew Maya Deren deserved the effort. I hope that I’ve provided sufficient inducement for you all to check out her work!

A couple of reference photos for my closet cosplay

P.S. I posted some excerpts of Deren’s writing over on my “whatever” tumblr

Buy me a ☕

[desultory-novice]

These comments seemed to deviate a bit from my “villainous Magolor” post where I discovered them but they also inspired me, so I’ll go with it and deviate some more on the topic of the “villainous friends”...

Now, personally, I've never seen the Mage Sisters as all that heroic. I mean, I adore them. I don't doubt for a second they're part of the good guys "now" but heroic? They're still wearing their evil cult (cough) "religious" uniforms! I imagine all three of them still lean a little hard on the "murder is okay!" side of things.

They helped because they had a reason to help. But are they still going to have “goat sacrifice Tuesdays” for a while? ...Possibly! (It could just be me, but I do think it's hilarious when the entire Jamba gang continue to be blatant worshippers of a dark god while chilling with the rest of the cast.)

I do think that this topic is nearing the core of why my feelings on Magolor have been in flux since DX. I’m happy for him to have a redemption arc, but I really don’t want to see him de-fanged...? I never did write that translation comparison post, but I’m endlessly thankful to the English translation for the “I just want to hear everyone scream...” :pause: “...with laughter!” exchange because it at least shows that Magolor has an unusually grim sense of humor, as opposed to him being a wholly innocent victim of the Crown. 

(Obviously, he did what he did in RtDL. No one’s questioning that. They wouldn’t name a song “Atone for One’s Misdeeds” otherwise. But I am concerned about the implications that the Crown was manipulating him from the moment he landed on Halcandra. Manager Magolor is fun and all, and while I don’t want to have a “Magolor is still the bad guy lol” Kirby Light Novel situation, I hope the sussy wizard stays somewhat sussy down the line.)

Anyway, the long and short of it is my love of gray morality characters is why I fell in love with so many of them and why I try to write all the former-antagonistic Dream Friends as still being in possession of a few villain traits. I really don't want to see anyone "brainwashed into being good" or must-always-be-on-their-best-behavior now. I want to see these flawed individuals make nice but flawed, characterful decisions.

I want the three Mage Sisters to occasionally each say really messed up things in a blithe way without realizing why said thing is weird. I want Susie to think she can solve most things in life by throwing enough money and science at them. I want Taranza to openly white-knight his beloved tyrant queen and naively blink his eight eyes over the awful things he did in her name. 

I want Magolor to engage in shady business practices with a smile and a wink, walking away while counting his cash. I want Dark Meta Knight to whole-heartedly believe murder is a "reasonable" option to most everyday situations. I want Daroach to casually purloin the cast's possessions when they're not specifically watching him, just because he can. I want Marx to break into loud hysterical laughter when someone trips and falls or breaks a plate.

The Dream Friends might as well be 10 different colored Waddle Dees if we expected them to all act good and peaceful and harmless all the time.

-

I just wanted to say though, @icedragonlizard​, I don’t know what kind of convos are going on outside my own little space on the internet, but I think people really aren’t as upset or /neg about Susie as they used to be.

There are maybe a few holdouts out there - I wouldn’t know as I don’t really go searching - but you’ll most likely never change those peoples’ minds and its best just to ignore them while shoring up a space for yourself where people aren’t attacking your blorbos just to get a reaction out of you or to spew unhappiness everywhere.

Here, have this “Deal With It” Susie w/ shades!

(PS: I recently learned I had been drawing both Susie and Taranza quite off-model! Her helmet actually goes down way longer than I thought, less of a “headband” and more like a metal boudoir cap. And Taranza’s lowest set of hands start at the middle of his body and go up toward his head. I thought I remembered them as starting at his waist and going down instead. Oops!)

[middleearthpixie]

After the Fire ~ Chapter Forty-Seven

Summary: Following the Battle of the Five Armies, a grievously wounded Thorin is brought back to the kingdom of Erebor, which is still mostly in ruins. Although he’s survived the wounds he received at the end of Azog’s blade, his recovery is far from complete. Grief, regret, anger, all are making his journey that much more difficult and the physical recovery isn’t quite the most difficult challenge he faces.

Jasna Stoneham is no stranger to loss, as she is a survivor of Smaug’s wrath upon Esgaroth. When she is asked to help the dwarves healers of Erebor, her instinct is to say no, but she needs the job, and so agrees to it. However, no one told her that of all the patients, she would be responsible for the king himself, Thorin Oakenshield. 

Unfortunately, the road to recovery isn’t necessary a smooth one, but if there’s one thing Thorin will learn, it’s that Jasna is just as stubborn as he is and for every step back he takes, she is there to push him three steps forward. And Jasna will soon find out that there is a gentle, softer side to the dwarf king, one that very few people have ever seen and one he fights to keep hidden from her as well. But like his recovery, that is also easier said than done. 

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x ofc Jasna Stoneham

Characters: Jasna, Thorin, Thranduíl, Dwalin, Glynne, Tauriel, Rainisa, Keenor

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 3.3k

Tag List: @tschrist1 @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass @kibleedibleedoo @xxbyimm @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-and-write-lover @sherala007 @enchantzz @knittastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78 @sorisooyaa @ruthoakenshield @frosticenow @quiall321 @dianakc @buckybarnes-thorin

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

Previous chapters can be found here. 

In many ways, Mirkwood reminded Jasna of Erebor, although she would never say as much to Thorin, knowing exactly how he’d take that. But to her, there were a few similarities. Where their chambers were, it was cool and damp, like Erebor. The thick canopy of leaves and vines and branches made seeing daylight impossible, just as it was in Erebor. 

And everyone in Mirkwood seemed to stare at her. Just as they did when she first arrived in Erebor. 

Jasna didn't notice it at first. Their first morning, she offered up a warm smile at every curious look, but by the end of that day, it seemed the stares just wouldn’t end. And she hated every moment of it.

Being around the wood elves was like being surrounded by the most perfect women in Middle Earth. Even the men were stunningly beautiful. Every where Jasna looked, she saw tall, lithe bodies and striking faces and she never felt shorter or dumpier than she did in Mirkwood. 

She kept those thoughts to herself, though, as she and Thorin strolled through the forest after supper on their second night. Thranduíl played tour guide and perhaps it was only her imagination, but he didn't seem to put out by it as he pointed out this enchanted river or that statue covered in lichen and barely visible. 

They’d been wandering for nearly an hour when a tall, slender he-elf with shimmering straight blond hair seemingly dropped from the trees. “Father, there you are.” His blue eyes slid in their direction. “I beg your pardon, Thorin, Queen Jasna, but I’ve an urgent matter that will not wait.”

Thranduíl sighed softly, turning to his son. “What is it, Legolas?”

“An orc pack has been spied off the Northeast Road.”

Jasna felt Thorin’s arm stiffen beneath hers as he said, “Orcs?”

Legolas nodded. “Gundabad orcs, no less.”

Jasna looked from Legolas, to Thranduíl, and then to Thorin, who looked visible pale at the news. “Gundabad?”

Thorin nodded slowly. “Azog’s kin, no doubt.”

Her stomach curdled and without thinking, she tightened her fingers on his arm. “Perhaps we should—”

“My lord,” a tall, slender she-elf with long red hair also dropped from the trees, “you are needed at the north gate at once.”

“Tauriel?” Thorin turned to her. 

She smiled. “You and the queen should return to your chambers, Your Majesty,” she told him as her smile faded. 

“Take Jasna back,” he told her, easing Jasna’s arm from his, “and make certain she remains there.”

“Wait,” Jasna shook her head, “Thorin, you are not going out there, are you?”

Thorin bobbed his head. “I am, indeed. I need to see for myself, if one has taken Azog’s place and with his quest in mind.”

“Thorin, you and your bride will remain here.” Thranduíl’s low voice brooked no argument. “You do not know this terrain nor do you know what you face. Allow my soldiers to—”

“I’m not asking for your permission,” Thorin cut him off, shaking his head, “nor do I need it.”

“Thorin,” Thranduíl lowered his voice and looked over at her before saying, “may I speak to you a moment?”

Thorin didn't look at all happy, but he stepped away from Jasna, who looked over at Tauriel, whom she hadn’t seen since her and Thorin’s wedding, and then only briefly. “What’s going on?”

Tauriel glanced at Thranduíl and Thorin. “I think they are searching for him.”

“For Thorin?” Jasna stared up at her, her belly kinking even more tightly now. “Are they the same orcs who—”

Tauriel nodded. “They are. We need to send to word to Erebor as well. Where is Dwalin?”

“He remained behind,” Jasna told her softly. “Said once through this forest was enough for him and went back to his chambers.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Thorin’s back and shoulders stiffen and she looked up at Tauriel once more. “What happens now?”

“We’ve sent a regiment out to meet them. But, Legolas felt Thranduíl should know as well.”

Jasna bit back a sigh and fought of a shudder at the same time. Her encounter with orcs in Esgaroth had been horrifying and she had no desire to see one, even from a distance, ever again. 

But even worse, the memory of the horrible wounds their now-deceased leader had inflicted upon Thorin made her belly churn with more force. The last thing she wanted was for him to go charging out with the elven warriors to face off against another orc. 

“Thorin, I will not allow you—”

Thorin cut Thranduíl off with a sharp, “Then it is well and good that I am not asking for your permission, and since I have no need for it—”

“You and your wife are my responsibility and I have no desire to explain to her or to your people how I let you fight on my behalf.” Thranduíl’s voice, usually calm and smooth, like oiled silk, rose slightly. “And I will not argue it, nor will I debate it. You will allow my people to handle this.”

Both Jasna and Tauriel stared at one another with eyebrows raised and Jasna held her breath as she waited for Thorin to erupt with indignation. 

But, to her surprise, a low sigh bubbled to his lips and he glanced over his shoulder at her and Tauriel. Then, turning back to Thranduíl, he said, “Of course.”

“Good.” Thranduíl’s hand came to rest briefly on Thorin’s shoulder. “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon with your queen. I assure you, no orcs will get past our borders.” 

He looked up then. “Tauriel—” He lapsed into Sindarin and Jasna understood not a word he said, and as she glanced over at Thorin, she wondered if he did, for he glared at the woodland king.

But then, Tauriel nodded, excused herself, and started off down the path back toward the heart of the woodland palace at a brisk pace, easing her bow from her back. 

“And now,” Thranduíl turned to her, “I will leave the two of you to your own devices and I will see you both at supper.Try not to worry, as I’m certain we will run them off handily.”

Thorin shook his head. “If you need us—”

“I understand. For now, just enjoy your time together.” Thranduíl strode in the same direction Tauriel had gone, only to pause and glance at them over one shoulder. “I only recommend you do not go near the waters here.”

“I remember all too well,” Thorin called.

“Yes,” Thranduíl’s eyes flickered with hints of amusement. “I gather you do. I will see you both later.”

And with that, he was gone and Jasna turned to Thorin. “What happened, with the water here?”

He offered up a slight grin. “It’s enchanted, but mostly with black magic. The last time we passed through here, we… let’s just leave it at it slowed us down some and made us easier targets.”

“Targets?”

He nodded, easing an arm about her shoulders. “You’ve nothing to fear, mesmel. You are perfectly safe with me.”

“Well, I know that,” she told him leaning her head against him, “but I am curious about these enchanted waters.”

“Dark magic is found in them and I cannot say how that might affect you. I know it left us dwarves a bit out of sorts, and I imagine you’d not fare much better.”

She turned toward the narrow river that ran through the heart of Mirkwood, the brackish waters rushing melodically along the tree roots and over rocks studding its bed. The sound was peaceful, but the longer she listened, the more menacing the undertones grew and little by little, the urge to just keep walking down the path wound through her.

Tucking her arm through his, Jasna leaned her head against his shoulder and said, “We could go back to our chambers, you know. There we don't have to worry about magical water or orcs.”

A low rumble of laugher touched her ears. “I do like the way you think, mesmel.”

“I thought you might.”

The door closed softly behind them and Jasna’s eyes closed as Thorin came up behind her, eased an arm about her waist and with his free hand, swept her hair to send it spilling over her left shoulder. His lips came warm and soft upon the slope of her neck, sending a teasing chill rippling through her. The tip of his tongue swept gently against her, making her shiver as she whispered, “I do love how that feels…”

“Good,” came his husky murmur as he brushed his lips up toward her ear. The hand on her belly splayed, slid upward to curve about her left breast, where his finger tightened and his thumb slowly slipped about her nipple. 

Jasna caught her bottom lip between her teeth, her eyes heavy lidded and sliding shut on their own as the sensations ran riot through her. Tension swirled through her, her heart beat faster with each slow, teasing kiss and each slow, teasing caress. Her head spun, gently at first, but as Thorin’s hand slid down over her belly, along her right inner thigh, it spun faster, more wildly.

His fingers curled into her skirt, slowly tugged it up. The warm air stirred as the fabric swept upward and she held her breath as his fingers crept higher, brushed flesh that was so very sensitive, slid into the dampness of her arousal. 

He moaned softly into her hair as she rocked back against him, her backside pressing into him, the firm ridge of his growing erection nestled against her.

She reached for him, curved her hand against that bulge, smiling as he exhaled heavily against her, whispering, “Mesmel…” as he slid a finger inside her. 

She sucked in a sharp breath at the teasing stroke, her hips moving with him. Her body tightened about him, her hand tightened about him briefly, then her fingers moved nimbly to open the fastenings of his trousers. The sinews in her wrist burned from the odd angle, but she ignored it as she angled her hand into those trousers, and slid down to find him. Her fingers closed about him, and she smiled as he shivered against her and whispered, “Maralmizi…”

“I love you, too,” she managed to whisper back. 

She tried to shift then, to spin toward him, but he wouldn’t let her. Instead, he whispered, “Stay just like this, amrâlimê.”

She bit down on her bottom lip once more as he eased his finger from her and caught her skirt to lift it higher still. Then, he caught her wrist to withdraw her hand, tugged his trousers out of his way and then—

“Oh…” She couldn't hold back her heavy sigh as he entered her slowly and thrust slowly. Gently. Fire ribboned through her with that one thrust, her eyes closed, her body hummed. 

His fingers curved about her hips, his voice a low growl as he murmured, “Jasna…”

He moved slowly, his fingers tightening against her, holding her completely still even as she tried to move, tried to rock back into him. “Hold still, mesmel…”

“Thorin…” 

He bent to sweep a hot kiss along the curve of her neck, up toward her ear. As he did, he slid one hand back between her thighs, into her heat, and teased her mercilessly. Her blood boiled its way through her veins, the tingles grew hotter and sharper, swirling through her, wrapping around her, and as he brought her to the edge, he gave a hard thrust, and as she shattered around him, he arched hard, crushed her against him, and gave himself up to the moment with a breathless, “Jasna!”

“Thorin!” Her voice echoed about their chambers, her fingernails digging into the door’s rough, parklike surface, her body tensing and pulsing about his. Her head spun so wildly, left her so breathless that, if it wasn't for his arm about her, Jasna would have crumped to her knees at the spiky hot pleasure rushing through her.

He slowed against her, wrapped his arms about her, and whispered, “Amrâlimê,” before nuzzling her. 

Her eyes closed of their own, her forehead came to rest against the door, and she whispered, “Don’t let go of me, dwarf. I’ll hit the floor for certain.”

“Worry not,” he assured her, a hint of laugher in his voice, “for I am not letting go. Not ever.”

He shifted to slip from her and as her skirt slid back into place, she smiled at him over one shoulder. “When I suggested we come back here, I thought we might at least make it to the bed.”

“I couldn't help myself,” he said with a shrug and a grin. “Have you any idea how irresistible you truly are, Queen Jasna?”

She shook her head as he tugged his trousers back into place and re-fastened them. “Tell me.”

He winked. “Firstly—”

“Thorin!” Dwalin pounded on the door. “Is Her Highness with you?”

“Where else would she be?”

“Thranduíl has requested her presence in the Mirkwood infirmary.”

Jasna looked up at first Thorin, then the door. “What?”

“Aye, the battle… it seems the orc pack was far bigger than they’d expected. Bigger and angrier.”

“She is not—”

Jasna tugged open the door. “Yes, she is, Thorin.”

“Jasna, wait, you—”

“Thorin, I’ll be in no danger in the infirmary, just as I wasn't in Erebor’s.”

Thorin sighed. “Are we needed, Dwalin?”

“Thranduíl has not asked, and I doubt he will, but—”

Thorin moved to the far side of the room, where the Orcrist stood propped against the wall. As he slipped it from the sheath, Jasna stated at the brilliant blue glow engulfing the blade. “Thorin, you are not going out there.”

“If they’ve come in search of me,” he replied grimly, brushing by her to join Dwalin in the doorway, “they will find me, for I am not going to live that way again. I’ll not spend the rest of my days looking over my shoulder. As with the Defiler, this will end here and now.”

He looked over at Dwalin. “You stay with Jasna.”

“Thorin, wait—”

She and Dwalin said it in unison, only to have Thorin ignore them both as he shoved by Dwalin and disappeared down the path. 

She looked up at Dwalin. “Go with him and keep him safe. I’ll be fine.”

“Your Highness—”

“Do not argue with me. I’ll be fine. Go and watch over him.” 

As Thorin had done, Jasna also didn't wait for him to respond, but hurried out of the room as well, leaving Dwalin to stare after her. 

She grabbed the first wood elf she passed. “Where is your infirmary?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your infirmary? Where is it?”

“Do you know where the throne room is?”

“I do.”

“There is a staircase before it. One floor below, there you will find our healers.”

“Thank you.” She sprinted off toward where she thought Thranduíl’s throne was, got herself turned around once, and finally managed to find it, where three tall, slender she-elves looked up at the same time. 

“Who are you?”

“Jasna Durin, of Erebor. I understand you need an extra pair of hands,” she replied evenly, as other elves began arriving with the wounded. “I worked with Narnerra, trained with her and Óin in Erebor. I am more than capable.”

“But, you are their queen—”

“That matters not now,” she replied, shoving her sleeves to her elbows as she spotted the row of basins along the far wall and moved to wash her hands. “You need my help and I gladly offer it.”

“Very well, if you insist. I am Rainisa.” She pointed then to the other two she-elves, both redheads. “This is Glynne and that is Keenor.”

Jasna bobbed her head. “I’m Jasna and it’s lovely to meet you..” She glanced around at the wounded. “And we should probably get to work.”

With that, she washed and dried her hands, and then dove into the wounded. For the first time since Óin and Narnerra pronounced her ready to treat patients on her own, Jasna wasn't at all frightened. Not nervous or unsure. Instead, she heard Óin’s calm voice, Narnerra’s soft encouragement, and she set to work alongside the elves as if she’d been there for years. 

The casualties were not nearly as terrible as the ones following the Battle of the Five Armies, but they were bad enough that Jasna had time only to wash her hands between patients before the next one was laid out before her. 

But then the flood slowed to a trickle, and Jasna smiled as she snipped the end of the silk thread she’d used to stitch up the last elf. “Glynne, are there any others?”

“I think he’s the last.”

“Oh, thank—”

“Dwalin, let go of me. I do not need to be here.”

“Ah, hush now and let yer wife do what she doest.”

Jasna spun about at the sound of Thorin and Dwalin’s voices and turned to see him with an arm draped about Dwalin’s neck as Dwalin helped him into the infirmary. “Thorin? What happened?”

“He took an axe to the leg, is what happened,” Dwalin grunted, none-too-gently dropping Thorin into the nearest chair. “And the blasted fool still wouldn’t stop.”

Jasna crouched to take a look. The back of his leather boot was sliced and stained red even as he said, “It’s only a gash and I am fine.”

“Thorin, let me be the judge of that, will you?”

He sighed as she unbuckled the boot and eased it from his foot, but his sigh turned into a gasp as she peeled down his ruined hose. A nice chunk of flesh had been taken from the back of his leg, above his ankle, and it bled freely without the pressure of his boot on it. 

“Glynne,” Jasna looked up, “please bring me a poultice of comfrey, a kingsfoil solution, and linen to wrap this.”

“Of course.”

“Jasna,” Thorin tried to pull his foot from her grasp, “I am fine—”

“Stop it, Thorin,” she snapped, taking hold of him once more, “and let me work, please. I’d rather you not lose your foot, if it’s all the same to you.”

He scowled, but relaxed enough, wincing as he wiggled his toes. “It does sting a bit.”

She smiled up at him. “I can have some mead or ale brought to you.”

“Do you need sew it?”

“It’s too large a wound for stitching, and too much is missing to get clean edges,” she told him. “I’ll bandage it with the comfrey and it should heal on its own. Although,” she managed to smile, “you will have a scar from it.”

“What’s one more at this point?”

“Somehow, I thought you might say that.”

Glynne returned then with the supplies and as Jasna went to work cleaning the wound, she said, “Please tell me it’s over.”

“I wish I could, mesmel,” he replied softly, wincing as she washed out the wound with great care. “But, whoever has stepped into the Defiler’s boots was too much the coward to show his face.”

“Do you even know his name?”

“I do not.”

She looked up. “So, someone n-new is hunting you and you don't even kn-kn-know his n-n-name.”

“I do not know it yet. But I will.”

Her stomach curdled. “And then what?”

“What do you think?”

“Thorin.” She patted the wound dry with a clean towel and then set about treating it with the comfrey before wrapping it. 

“We will return to Erebor and I will go and find him and when I do, I will end him.”

“Thorin—”

“I will not discuss it, Jasna. My mind is made up. We take our leave come morning.”

She scowled as she finished bandaging his leg, but wasn't about to get into a fight with him over it there, in the infirmary. 

But they would be discussing it later.