#eternal reread

[wundrousarts]

Various Wundersmith thoughts and things I've noticed after rereading the book for yet another time:

This one is significantly longer and a little bit more random than my recent Nevermoor reread, but who cares 🤷 the more the merrier!

There are things both serious (theories, thematic parallels, etc.) and silly (jokes, personal reactions). This time around I discovered the annotations feature in Apple Books and had a lot of fun with that, so I'll try to include the bits I highlighted when necessary. Enjoy!

— I don't mean to have a shippingbrain, but it feels impossible to view Jupiter and Israfel as anything but exes/folks that had a Thing in the beginning, omg.

—— Israfel throwing the "old friend" back at Jove..... my note for this one was "#gay"

— I like the interest Mog has in Bohemia, and I'm interested based on that one Silverborn snippet for her to return (and eventually explore other parts of the city as well)

— Jupiter referring to the junkies as "they're not patrons of the fine arts" feels like a nice little set up for the Museum later on. Thought of and admired as an art piece, but the rich folks at the auction don't actually care about the work put into it.

— Do you think the folks at Wunsoc that organize the little show that welcomes 919 are a little peeved that the Fireblossom's being reignited means that they can't perch creepily in them anymore lol.

— I wonder if the Wunsoc Oath has a pre- or post- Massacre origin

“The nature of Miss Crow’s unusual –" she paused, seeming to catch herself before calling it a ‘knack’ – "situation.” (Ch2)

—— Elder Quinn hesitates to refer to Mog's power as a knack, so I wonder if that's just a general thing of Wundersmithery being different, or if knacks are a post-Massacre categorization

— I love how this book really starts to solidify the theme of family in Nevermoor... Wunsoc, her Unit, the Deucalion, Wundersmiths, the Crows, her mother..... AAAHHHH!!! I can't wait to see where it all goes.

— A "note sealed with silver wax" from "the Celes-" ..... YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!!! 😁😁😁

—— Likely about Cassiel but even that and beyond could tie into a lot of other Silverborn Theories..... Noelle..... The Silver District....... I will keep this all in mind

—— Also, updating my SIlverborn Masterpost posthaste ✍️✍️✍️

— It likely doesn't matter and will never be explained, but I wonder if the room between student's houses and their hometrain station is part of the Gossamer, and like a thin place between worlds

— Miss Cheery's first outfit is so y2k I need to draw her. It makes sense because she's like 20 in this book.

— The Wunsoc circle diagram has always interested me since I first read it. I wonder if the size of the circles ever means anything??

—— Could it relate to the probability (?) of the knacks? Mundane is the most common to occur, Arcane more specialized, and then Wundersmiths are very, very rare

—— Something I often forget is that folks in Wunsoc that weren't Wundersmiths have always existed. Were there more than 9 of them in each year? Were there always 9 non-Wundersmiths? Did the trials always exist? What was the relationship between non-Wundersmiths and Wundersmiths like?

—— On that note, did C&D only become the Wunsoc motto / purpose post-Massacre? Or did they do that before as well? If the motives of Wunsoc have changed over the years, has what they look for in students changed as well?

“Everybody at Wunsoc has a job to get on with – every junior and senior scholar, every graduate, every teacher, every patron, every Elder and every Master.” (Ch5)

— I am still forever curious about what Masters are, and why they are on the same level or possibly even slightly higher than Elders

—— Are they previous Elders? Are they people who excel in their craft? I'd like to say there could be a connection to Wundrous Apprenticeships but 1. those seemed like a natural given, 2. likely aren't really around anymore, and 3. I'm not really sure why they would have so much authority if so.

—— I like to headcanon that senior scholars do internships/apprenticeships

— Something that makes me laugh is that I will famously agonize over something, in this case the Wunsoc academic school year, only to discover upon a reread that it is explicitly stated how it works. lol.

— Brilliance Amadeo and her predecessors are referred to as "First-Line Wundersmiths." This likely relates to the chambers in the Liminal Hall in Sub-Nine that we see in Hollowpox.

—— Knowing Jess, I bet that either Mog or Squall are part of the Ninth Line

“Your kind are … all … dead," continued Professor Onstald. "And if they’re … not –" he blinked his watery eyes at her and took a long, rasping breath – "they should be.” (Ch6)

“My duty is not … to save you … from yourself. It is to show you … that you are … beyond saving. All of your … kind … are beyond …” (Ch6)

“If you were half the Wundersmith you ought to be by now, it wouldn’t be possible for me to tap into your power like this. (Ch24)

— I've had a theory post on the progression of Wundersmiths in society towards the Massacre in the works for awhile that I've postponed until after my Hollowpox reread, but:

—— What if it was a group effort?

——— There's a part in one of the books that's like, "Squall led his fellow Wundersmiths in a coup, and then turned on them" and as much as Wunsoc likes to spin and fabricate things, I think that this could also be true. What caused Squall to turn? That's a mystery we'll have to unravel later...

———— This book is heavy on Squall controlling and manipulating folks, both literally with Wunder but also mentally with words, so could be interesting if that played a part in the revolt

— Regardless, something spooked Onstald enough to turn from admiring and studying Wundersmiths and their ways to hating them, and I'll forever be interested in what happened.

—— I think there could be some slight truth in him viewing all Wundersmiths as bad, because some stuff, like Mathilde's Morbid Museum (lol), could indicate some darker inclinations by folks other than Squall

— Maybe I'm an idiot for not realizing this before, but I don't think it was Jupiter that got Mog/919 into the Maps class.

“I have dedicated my life to taming this monstrous city, and I love her with every fiber of my being.” (Ch8)

“Goodness. You’ve only been here a year? And yet you and Nevermoor seem to go hand in glove. It’s almost like this place was made just for you.” (Ch8)

—— So Squallish. I wonder if anything he said was coached.

—— Do you think this is how he got him on his side? Did they bond over both being obsessed with Nevermoor?

— I think a lot of Mildmay's problems would have been fixed if he had simply been more proactive about networking instead of turning to a life of crime. I mean, he's only 19, just out of school! Way to quit early, dude.

One bite brought on the specific sensation of bittersweet late-summer nostalgia … which sent Francis straight back to the test kitchen, as he’d actually been aiming for the carefree abandon of a mid-summer music festival. (Ch9)

— I wonder how much of Francis's knack/what he cooks/cooks with has a Wundrous origin. I'm also often reminded of the Smoking Parlor.

—— I like to relate it to my Communication "Art" but alternatively... does remind me of Israfel's voice. Curious about how Celestials and Wunder interact.

—— Alice Frankenreiter of 915 is mentioned as a shapeshifter..... how Masquerade-esque. Another point for the "knacks being related to Arts" theory?

——— I also have to point out how funny to me the "Franken-" is with the knack. lol. (makes me think about Frankenstein)

— There is a "noise like a thousand tinkling bells" when the Ghastly Market is revealed. This noise also shows up in the other two books during the Christmas Eve battle. In a world where magic by Wundersmiths heavily involves singing in order to use Wunder, I like the further comparisons of magic and sound. Will keep an eye out for more during Hollowpox.

—— We see this as well with this line:

Her fear and revulsion and rage swelled inside her like a symphony (Ch16)

which I just annotated as "music/art comparison. slay."

——— On that note, I feel like the connection between Wundersmiths/Divinities and the Celestials being explored more could be interesting, as both of their powers involve singing. I'm curious how/if their magic overlaps.

— The fact that the Loyalty Trial was from the Elders and thus they were the ones who asked Cadence to humiliate Baz will never not be funny

— Chapter 18 mentions a "Polaris Hill." Named after Griselda Polaris?

— Have to say: Between being excited about a killer flytrap and teaching 919 swears, an underrated Mahir trait is that he is actually very silly.

— If you've ever seen me call the Gossamer-Spun Garden the "Wundergarden", please know that the Murdergarden is 100% why lol

— I hope hope HOPE!!! we get some proper definitions someday for the Wundrous Act Classifications. Like Spectacle, Phenomenon, Singularity, etc... I hope we get to learn what they each are someday!!!

“To do just what a Wundersmith does," One corner of Squall’s mouth twisted into a quarter-smile.” ... "To grant your fondest wish. To give you the thing you want more than anything else.” (Ch19)

— I feel like this line is often overlooked and is an underrated hint at what a Wundersmith's role in society was like

— I'm a bit of a pessimist (SORRY) about the movie adaptation, and once thing about this book is that I'm mourning that it'll probably never get adapted.

—— I think that the idea of Nevermoor as a movie musical works so much better with Wundersmith because there's so much more magic and music and singing in this one, with both Israfel and the first Nocturne lessons. I could see it the integration of the non-diegetic (?) songs that the characters sing and the themes of the movie/books work better with this book than the first one just because of that.

—— Also the theatricality of characters such as Squall and Mildmay is off the charts in this book! I'd even throw Dearborn and Murgatroyd in there as well. I think they could make for more interesting characters in a movie musical than the general supporting cast of the first book.

—— I'd say that perhaps they could mix and mash stuff from both books 1 and 2 into a single movie, but I don't know if they have rights past the first book.

Squall cocked his head to one side, a deep frown etched into his forehead. ... Squall took a step towards her. He looked like he was remembering something. (Ch19)

— I wonder why he recognizes the song!

—— Curious if anyone else has their own theories on this they want to share. I brought this up in the discord a few months ago and have yet to make a proper post but here's my idea:

——— Squall's song and Mog's song are very similar in a few ways, so perhaps one of the songs was influenced by / is “descended from” so to say from the other, or they have a common ancestor.

——— Could explain why Little Crowling is familiar to Mog and Morningtide’s Child is familiar to Squall

... into the cold embrace of a capricious and unknowable city. (Ch19)

— This is like, baby's first comparison, but I do enjoy how this refers not only to Nevermoor but also Squall just a moment earlier. They are sooooo linked. I wonder if there's other moments like this in the book that I've missed.

— The Jemmity Park stuff is interesting to think about because I think Odbuoy is the youngest Wundersmith present at the time of the Massacre.

—— The idea of him being the youngest I feel then fits with him making the park only work for children, as that seems appropriately mischievous.

——— Because of my (outdated tbh) Eventide theories, I had a silly theory he was 7 when he made the park, but when you think about that more, it falls apart. A little funny to think about though, ngl.

— Anyone else think that the Elders should have told Jupiter about Sub-Nine in case he wanted a part in that? I feel like as a patron and adoptive father figure of a Wundersmith, he might want some access to Wundersmith history and culture. His excursions to the park and Cascade Falls really prove an interest and he could be helpful to the group.

— Morrigan compares Squall's Séance Synchronicity to Coven 13 in the Fright Trial... are these magics connected at all, or will we learn more about the different magics in the world at some point?

Squall held his hands out – palms downward, twisted into claws – and made his fingers dance like a puppeteer twitching strings. (Ch24)

— I find it so funny how the Puppeteering (also known as Marionette) parallels– the statue in the Elder's hall, the stunt with the Charlton Five on the platform, and this scene– were so obvious, and yet it took a solid 2 years after Wundersmith's release (right before Hollowpox was out!) for somebody to bring it up for the first time. And now everyone accepts it as basically canon lol!

— Wonder if the Wundrous Arts sign got changed to Wretched Arts before or after Squall's exile, in order for him to know about it. I have some theories on the timeline of all that that I'll share at a later date.

— I often forget and I think it's often overlooked that the Magnificub growing was Squall's doing, not just Mog's.

—— Wonder if he was stalking her that night as normal OR detected her intention and swooped in OR was there already due to the auction

— The way that Squall bows dramatically to tease Mog and then Mildmay does the same a chapter later is so funny.

“There are far greater monsters –" his eyes flashed – "and far greater dangers. Miss Crow, we have a shared enemy you could never imagine. If the Wundrous Society doesn’t take you off the leash, if you aren’t given the freedom to grow, to become the Wundersmith I need you to be … then terrible things are coming down the line. For both of us.” (Ch24)

— War in Arc 3 pleaseeee

—— It's interesting because it seems that Nevermoor/Free State has been relatively peaceful ever since restructuring… but the Wintersea Republic has had the same amount of time to build up! And now they’re looking to take the last slice of the pie…..

“There. That feeling. That fire in your heart, that spark of anger and fear. Focus on it. Feel it. The flickering, burning anger inside – THAT is Inferno.” (Ch24)

— What if each of the Arts are bolstered by an emotion? Doesn't seem so but 🤷 could be a fun AU idea perhaps

— A lot of the description of Inferno in this book– a flame or firework in Morrigan's chest– reminds me so much of Howls Moving Castle (2004) that it's on my eternal to-do list to draw.

— Between Mog's lessons in this book and Goldberry's circular breathing, I think it's interesting how much of Inferno relates to breath

—— "Breath of life" ?

—— Could relate back to music/singing, which is needed to summon Wunder

—— Do any of the other Arts (excluding Nocturne and Inferno) have any connections to breath that we know of? Or even are just aligned with a specific part of the body? If anyone has any thoughts on this, please do share!

— Anyone else like to think about the Hunt of Smoke and Shadow and the way the Hollowpox hunted? No? Just me? Okay

—— I think that Wundersmiths definitely probably have specialties– and these are based on natural affinities, NOT lineage– and Mog's is likely Inferno whereas Squall's is likely Veil

He took a deep bow, still laughing. (Ch25)

— My note for this line and the whole scene was simply, "🖕 WORST 19 YEAR OLD EVER" lol

“You saved my life tonight. I find myself in your debt." He watched her for a moment, pressing his mouth into a line. Morrigan could tell he wanted to say something more, but wasn’t sure if he should … or perhaps he couldn’t quite find the right words. Israfel breathed a deep sigh. "You’d do well not to mention that to the folks at Wunsoc. I shouldn’t be in your debt.” (Ch27)

— What does this all meannnnn

— Interesting how Jupiter mentions that he thinks Cassiel's disappearance is unconnected to all the Ghastly Market stuff

—— I've mentioned before (maybe not on here, sorry) that the timing could perhaps line up in order for Cassiel to be the Celestial that Noelle's knack is stolen from, if we want to go with that theory

— Mog saying that Squall said something funny, as in weird, yet Jupiter's first response is to ask if he said something "funny haha" is so funny to me. Why is that his first response.

— Folks have mentioned it before, but I'd love some more bonding between Mog and Lam based on the fact that they're both from the Republic

— Elder Quinn refers to Mog as "our Wundersmith" as in like, just another brother and sister in Wunsoc, but it could be interesting if that wording is ever brought up again to try to use Mog, or make her do something no one else can because of her powers, like in the days of old

And finally (about 3k words later):

— Lam is referred to as "the smallest of all of them" in terms of 919. Not to me! While I wholeheartedly believe she is certainly short, she's not the shortest for me. #ShortMogSupremacy.

[wildsaltair]

Tender Fires

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: T (hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, with a few hints of spice)

Word Count: 6.4k

Tag List: @enjisbf, @nasatshirts, @empressenchanted, @streets-in-paradise, @xiscamoony, @aelondrias

Author’s Note: I'm back with another Maximus fic! This is actually part of a larger narrative in which Maximus escapes the execution attempt and ends up at reader's farm, where she tends his wounds and they fall in love but have to fight their feelings because he intends to leave to keep her safe. As always, this fic is written from the deepest longings of my lovestruck heart, and I hope that love is obvious :) Thank y'all so much for your kind words about the last fic, and I hope you enjoy this one!!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

“You’re up late.”

At your words, Maximus turns his head to look at you, and a soft smile crosses his lips. His features are etched in shadow, flickering with the dancing firelight.

He’s seated in front of your kitchen fire, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, gazing deep into the flames as if searching for some hidden meaning within. You would never have known he was in here if you had not been awakened by the loud cracks of thunder outside and come in search of the warmth of the fire.

An autumn storm, a midnight fire, and the most captivating man you have ever known, dressed only in his plain white sleeping tunic. It seems like a combination intended to lure you into trouble.

As you move to sit in the chair beside him, he looks back into the hearth, a smile still tugging at the corner of his lips. “I have stayed awake staring at many fires in my life,” he tells you quietly, his voice deep and thoughtful.

Out of the corner of your eye, you risk a glance at him, looking for the scar on his ribs. He has been with you for a little more than two weeks now, helping you with odd jobs around the farm as his strength returns. His wounds, though still vulnerable, have healed quickly, and you are relieved to see no signs of further injury on the parts of his skin that you can see.

“As have I,” you reply, eyes still lingering on him. “Though for me, it has always been the same fire. This one.”

He hums in response, nodding slightly. You have never sat by this fire together at night, and you are bewitched by the way the light dances over him, makes his golden skin shimmer. The lines of his arms and shoulders are limned in shadow, the firelight flickering on his handsome features.

You are overcome with a desire to put your hands on him, to feel the heat of his skin and the strength of his body, but you cast your gaze on the fireplace instead.

“I envy you that,” he answers softly, after a short reflection. He glances up at you, studying you intently. “A home fire, always burning in the same place.”

The meaning of his words is not lost on you.

Every day, the thought of him leaving you is more painful. At the moment, as you sit close enough to listen to him breathing, the thought is unbearable. Your home is his home now, and you long — more than you have ever longed for anything — for him to realize that he belongs here.

His shadowed eyes search yours a moment more, then return to gazing at the flames.

You take a deep, steadying breath to calm yourself. Your hands are trembling, and you smooth them over your skirt, hoping he does not notice how nervous you are from this simple interaction.

“Tea?” you ask quickly, pushing yourself to stand and get a bit of space between the two of you.

He glances up again, and your heart clenches at the gentleness in his expression. He nods. “Thank you.”

Have his eyes ever seemed so wide, so earnest? Are you imagining the way his gaze lingers on you, drinking in every detail of the way you move?

You can feel the tension in the room thickening, your own heart beating faster as you fill the kettle with water and set the tea leaves to brewing. Somehow, sharing space with this man is so much more intimate at night, with a storm raging outside and a warm fire bringing extra heat to the atmosphere.

Even more astonishing to you is the fact that you are not afraid of this powerful soldier. He is strong enough to do anything he wishes to you, to take whatever he obviously wants. But even now, standing here in your night shift, with your hair and your defenses down, you have no fear of him.

If anything, you wish he would initiate a touch, a kiss, anything that would lead to the passion that has been haunting your dreams every night.

Such as your dream last night. You can still feel the sensation of your body thoroughly tangled with his, your limbs entwined, his hands pulling your skirt up to your waist. Your cheeks burn when you remember all the places he kissed in your dream, all the places he touched and explored and pleasured. Such thoughts make you ache all over again, especially now that you are standing so close to him.

A blinding crack of lightning, followed by the roar of thunder, pulls you from the dream-memory of his mouth hot on your throat.

To distract yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you ramble on the first topic you can think of. “My father used to tell me stories beside this fire,” you announce as you hang the kettle over the fire and settle back into the chair beside him. You don’t dare meet his eyes, even as a smile crosses your lips at the memory. “I always begged him to tell me ghost stories even though they frightened me.”

He tilts his head to the side to look at you curiously, a smile of his own playing at his lips. “What kind of ghosts do you have in these parts?” he asks, leaning on one arm of the chair to look at you more squarely.

Somehow, having his full attention focused on you is unnerving, undoing, arousing. You can hardly find the words to speak.

His eyes are still on your face as you feel a deep blush burning in your cheeks. You hope he will attribute it to the warmth of the fire, not your intense reaction to the way he gazes at you. If he only knew how much more heated you are by his presence.

“My favorite is the Howling Woman,” you blurt out, glad that your voice is not as unsteady as you feared. “She wears all gray, with her head covered. She’s been seen in these mountains for decades.”

He does not interrupt you, but your breath catches as his gaze wanders across your face. An absent smile is still on his lips, and he seems to be content to simply watch you, to let his eyes trace the lines of your face, your neck, your hair where it tumbles over your shoulders. His gaze is searching, admiring.

How will you find the strength to hide your desire when one look from him could bring you to your knees?

Clenching your jaw and willing the kettle to boil faster, you continue your story determinedly. “They say she was the wife of a farmer who was killed after being thrown from his horse. She found him with his neck broken.” You pause, still breathless from the effects of his undivided attention. “She went mad and drowned her own children. When she came to her senses and realized what she had done, she walked into the wilderness to die.”

You wait for him to interject, to ask some clarifying question or comment, but he does not. He is still leaning on the arm of his chair, his dark eyes captivated by the sight of you in the firelight. You can almost sense the way he is actively preventing himself from letting his gaze wander further down — where your shift does little to hide the shape of your figure.

But somehow, his watchfulness is not an act of seduction. He seems genuinely swept up in your story, spellbound by the sound of your voice. He listens to you intently, curiously, and waits for you to continue.

“But to punish her for her crime,” you continue, blushing even harder, “the gods cursed her to wander these mountains and valleys for eternity, never able to die and meet her family in the afterlife.”

It is the sound of your voice, you realize now. His gaze wanders over your features slowly, as if measuring them, but his silence persists the longer you speak. It is as if he cannot bring himself to interrupt you, so captivated as he is by your voice.

“She still walks at night,” you finish, finally allowing yourself to look deep into his eyes. There seems to be no end to them, no way to pull yourself out of the gaze that holds you captive. “She wanders, calling and wailing and howling.”

He swallows hard, licks his lips, though you guess he does so unconsciously. A shiver runs up your spine, and not from your ghost story.

You lean forward, just an inch or so, to finish the story. “They say you can hear her best on a night like this,” you whisper, and the silence between you is so concentrated that you feel you might choke on it.

His gaze flits down to your lips for a moment, and in this flickering firelight, surrounded by warmth and desire, you think he may kiss you.

The silence is broken by a loud crack of thunder outside, one that makes you jump at its suddenness. You both look away, realizing how intently you have been gazing at one another for an inexcusably long amount of time.

The tea in the kettle is boiling at last, and, glad for the distraction, you lean forward to take it off the fire. Your two cups are sitting on the table beside you, and you fill both before handing one to him. He nods his thanks, and the two of you sit quietly for a few moments, looking deep into the firelight.

He is the one who finally breaks the silence. “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asks softly, with that pleasant raspy quality you have come to recognize in him at night.

You smile and lean back in your chair to sip at your tea. “Of course,” you confirm lightly. “Don’t you?”

His expression grows quizzical, and he doesn’t lift his eyes away from the fire. He takes a sip of his tea, thinks for a long time before answering. You are more than content to sit in silence with him, but he finally comes to an answer.

“No,” he tells you quietly, still mesmerized by the dancing flames. Eerie shadows prance over his fine features. “Spirits do not wander the earth after death. They go to the afterlife.”

His voice is calm and even, but resolute, assured. You have talked so little with him about such things, and you cannot deny your curiosity at learning more about what he believes.

“How do you know?” you press, unconsciously leaning toward him.

He does not move for a moment, just grips his cup tighter and sharpens his gaze at the fire. “I have seen enough death to feel certain of it,” he declares, then turns his head to look into your eyes again. “If ghosts could exist,” he tells you softly, gently, “then I would be haunted by them every moment.”

Your heart aches for him now, for the pain and grief he carries with him always. His life has been difficult, laden with the weight of many lives and much responsibility. Even in a peaceful haven like your home, he is ever followed by the burdens of his past, no matter how much comfort and peace you have offered him.

“Perhaps they do not wish to speak to you,” you suggest, tilting your head to show that you are teasing him. “Perhaps you do not know all there is to know in the world.”

His haunted expression softens as he looks at you, taking in the meaning of your words. As before, his soft smile smoothes the lines in his face, lifts a bit of the weariness etched into his features. You can’t help wondering if he realizes your effect on him, if he craves these moments of tranquility and comfort as much as you do.

“I am sure of that,” he tells you in a low voice, and your heart turns over at the simple passion in his eyes.

You lapse into silence once again, each of you drinking your tea and losing yourself in thought. Your own ponderings are of him, wondering what he is thinking. He has seemed burdened ever since you found him sitting by the fire, and you long to know what worries him.

If he only knew how your heart leaps at the sight of him, how you long to cradle his face in your hands, to kiss him until all his burdens are lifted, until all he knows is this deep, all-consuming love that has swept over your heart like an autumn storm.

The thunder continues to roll outside, the rain pelting your roof relentlessly, but the warmth of the fire and the pleasant constancy of his presence is comforting.

You do not press him for several long minutes, letting him mull over his worries in silence until both of you have finished your tea. When you set your two empty cups on the table beside you, you finally decide to inquire, pushing your chair a few inches nearer to him and leaning on one arm of the chair so you can look into his eyes more closely.

“What troubles you?” you ask softly, and he finally lifts his head, dark eyes burning into yours with all the intensity of the hearth fire.

His voice is hardly more than a whisper when he replies, “Ghosts.”

“Memories?” you ask, entranced by the way he slowly leans forward, closing the distance between the two of you one inch at a time. Your skin suddenly burns, aching for a touch, one simple touch, that will answer your constant longing for his hands on you.

After a moment of hesitation, in which he seems to ponder the consequences of what he wants, he finally lifts one hand and trails his fingertips down the side of your face.

“Shadows of things I do not understand,” he murmurs absently, and he traces the line of your jaw with fingers so gentle you cannot imagine them ever wielding a sword.

He gazes at you more openly now, his eyes traveling down to your lips as his thumb brushes over them. You suppress a shudder at the contact, and he strokes your lips a few times, transfixed by the sight, before sliding the backs of his knuckles down the column of your throat.

Stars in the heavens, if he only knew how your body is aching for him, how you respond to the slightest touch he gives you.

You finally find your voice to speak. “Is it your men?” you ask softly, as if the room has suddenly been overtaken by a spell.

He sighs, brow furrowed deeply in thought. “They were not my men,” he replies at last, still stroking his fingers down your neck. “Not the ones who betrayed me. My men were loyal, courageous.” His voice is thick with sorrow, and you sense that recalling this memory is painful for him. “They were my brothers,” he half-whispers. “They would have risen up in rebellion if they had known.”

Your heart aches again at the sadness in his voice, the sadness he works so hard to disguise throughout the day. Somehow, in the darkness, in the stillness of nighttime, he seems more vulnerable.

“Why does the Emperor want you dead so badly?” you finally venture to ask.

His hand stills on your neck, eyes not quite focused on your face. He seems to be traveling back in time in his mind, and he draws a deep breath as he thinks. Almost as if he does not realize what he is doing, his hand wanders to the base of your neck, absently stroking the sensitive skin there.

It’s all you can do to hold still, to keep from betraying how perfectly wonderful his touch is to you.

His voice is low and measured when he answers your question. “I once received favor that he believed should have been his.” He pauses, then raises his eyes to meet yours meaningfully. “By his own father.”

His words take you aback, and you know he must notice your wide-eyed stare. “Marcus Aurelius?” you squawk in disbelief. “You knew the great Emperor?”

“Yes,” he replies, his face softening into a smile at the memory. You are shocked by the revelation, but his fond smile warms your heart after seeing his heavily burdened expression a moment ago. 

He presses on, though his hand is now running softly over your shoulder, skimming over the top of your thin shift. “I was young when he took me under his wing,” he explains, eyes tracing the path his hand is making on your shoulder. “I had won some small battles, and he saw in me potential for greater things. He made me what I am today.”

He strokes your shoulder once, gently, then removes his hand, as though he cannot trust himself to keep touching you there. Again lifting his deep blue eyes to meet your gaze, he looks at you so tenderly, so affectionately, as he raises the same hand to tuck your hair behind your ear.

You want to melt, to close your eyes and sigh in pleasure at his simple touch, but you fight for your composure. “He must have been a great man,” you manage instead, meaning every word.

“He was the greatest man I have ever known,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers through your hair at your temple now. “He is the closest thing to a father that I ever knew.”

You have noticed how the man is drawn to your hair whenever you leave it down. He seems fascinated with it, with the way it cascades through his fingers when he cards them through it. His attentions are so gentle, so unobtrusive, as if he is unable to keep himself from simply admiring your beauty in this soft firelight.

“And that is why the Emperor envies you,” you observe to keep from losing your breath.

“Yes,” he answers quietly, his voice hardly above a whisper. “He believed that his father wanted to pass on his power to me.”

You nearly startle in surprise at his words. Not only the commander of the northern armies, not only a confidante of Marcus Aurelius, but the rightful future emperor himself?

You almost feel dizzy, though you’re not sure if it is from the shocking news or the way his fingers keep brushing your temple as he plays with your hair. “Did he?” you prompt him breathlessly, genuinely curious.

He ponders for several long moments, letting your hair stream between his fingers. You are entranced simply by looking at his features — his dark eyelashes, his sharp nose, the gentle creases by his mouth. He is so exquisitely lovely to you, so unaware of how deeply he affects you.

“I do not know,” he finally admits, tracing the side of your face before letting his hand fall back into his lap again. “He never told me.”

His words silence some of the shock you were feeling at wondering if you were in the presence of a man who was supposed to have ruled Rome. The thought of this man, this humble, honest, unpretentious warrior, ruling such a corrupt and conniving empire is almost unthinkable.

You are struck by the absence of his touch, and he seems hesitant to initiate any more contact now that he realizes how close he has drawn to you. He’s still watching you carefully, as if gauging your reaction to his touches, but you cannot resist reaching out to him now.

Your fingers seek out the necklace that hangs down to his chest, a simple cord bearing two wolf’s teeth on the end. You have never asked him about its origin. You handle it carefully, and the man barely breathes as your hand hovers over his chest.

“What would you have done if all this had never happened?” you ask softly, caught in the intimacy of this quiet moment. “Would you have been a soldier all your life?”

Your question is a heavy one, full of unspoken desire and curiosity. You can tell he senses that desire by the way his dark eyes burn into yours, by the way his chest rises and falls more quickly, as if you are taking his breath away just by touching his necklace.

He thinks for a few moments, still gazing deep into your eyes. “I always imagined I would die in battle,” he tells you, a hint of sorrow in his voice. “There seemed no other fate in store for me.”

Your heart tightens, and you let go of your loose grip on his necklace. Suddenly, all you want to do is touch him, to make contact with his body somehow. His words have struck a chord in your heart, reminding you how grateful you are that this world-weary soldier has come to your home, to your hearth, instead of falling on a battlefield hundreds of miles away.

With your pulse racing, you press your hand flat against his chest, splaying your fingers over his heart. Even through the fabric of his nightshirt, you can feel his heart pounding like a war drum, perfectly in rhythm with your own.

Oh, how you long to press your heart against his, to be wrapped up in his arms, so thoroughly tangled with his body that you cannot tell where you begin and he ends.

His breath comes more quickly now, his lips parted and his eyes scorching yours with a hunger that stirs your blood.

“But,” he begins in a hoarse whisper, his gaze flickering down to your lips and then back up, “I did imagine, sometimes…” He pauses, licks his lips again, takes a slow breath, “that if I did have a chance to grow old… I might…”

He halts again, his voice dying in his throat. You press your palm more firmly against his chest, and his heart skips a beat beneath your hand. You can feel his skin burning hot under his shirt.

“Tell me,” you whisper, and a look of unadulterated desire flashes across his face.

He leans close to you, close enough that his breath skims over your lips. “That I might one day have a home,” he breathes. “A family.” He sighs softly, the longing in his voice especially evident. “A life of peace always seemed… unlikely.”

The hesitation in his words is palpable, and suddenly his own larger hand is covering yours, pressing it tight against his chest. You realize that he is relishing your touch the way you relished his a moment ago.

After holding your hand against his heart a moment longer, he grasps your hand in his, lifts it to his lips. Your own heart skips a beat now, when he presses a slow, languid kiss to the back of your hand.

“And now?” you whisper, breathless and tingling with need.

He breathes against your hand, slowly and calmly. “Now,” he echoes, his voice rumbling in your bones. “Now a life of peace seems impossible.”

No. No, he cannot mean that. He cannot still mean to leave you when his gentle eyes speak of the passion he holds for you.

“It does not have to be,” you insist, lifting your free hand to touch the side of his face. He actually sighs at your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. His lips are slightly parted, and it takes all your willpower not to lean forward and kiss him until he can breathe nothing but your name.

His eyes remain closed when he responds, your hand still cradled in his. “To believe otherwise would be foolish,” he tells you, though his voice is anything but resolute. “Dangerous.”

You stroke the side of his face tenderly, enraptured by the way he reacts to your touch. He seems so relaxed, so overwhelmed when you caress him gently. The thought suddenly strikes you that this man has probably never been touched this way — not as light as a feather, with such love and affection that he can feel it beating in rhythm with his heart.

When you brush your fingertips down his neck, over the sensitive skin of his throat, he makes a sound so soft, so unguarded, that you nearly come undone for him right there.

“Are you not well acquainted with danger?” you whisper, leaning in closer to him. He opens his eyes when he feels you drawing nearer, and his fathomless eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

You want him to stay. You want him to love you as you so desperately love him. You want him to never stop looking at you the way he is now.

And when you press your hand flat against the side of his neck, your gaze fluttering over every perfect feature of his face, his soul opens to you, and you see all the love you bear for him reflected deep in his own eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes, and he leans forward to close the few inches that separate your lips from his.

The first sensation that strikes you is his blood pulsing in his neck, hammering against your hand as you caress him. His own hand tangles in your hair, holding you in place while he presses his lips against yours.

There is no hesitation in this kiss, no second-guessing or reluctance. His lips move against yours in a rhythm so natural that you wonder if he has imagined this as many times as you have.

He tilts his head slightly to the side, drowning in your kiss like a dying man seeking air. You can feel the breath knocked out of your lungs, so unaccustomed to any attention as passionate as this. The man lifts his other hand to cradle your jaw, still kissing your lips, gently but insistently, over and over and over.

This is what heaven must be like, you realize distantly when his tongue slides against yours, every inch of your skin tingling in response. His undivided attention, his unashamed desire for you is so arousing, so delightful in every way.

You can feel your cheeks burning, your skin heating up, the longer his hands linger on your face and neck. His fingers stroke your jaw, and his other hand grips your hair just hard enough to hold you in place. He is still reveling in your kiss, still using his lips and tongue to draw out the softest moan you have ever made in your life.

As soon as he hears it, he moves his lips to press against the corner of your mouth, much as he did the first time he kissed you in the barn. He trails his lips down your jaw, peppering kisses on every inch of skin he passes.

Thoroughly excited by his kisses and touches, your mind is all too eager to provide any number of tempting images. When he dips his head to one side, lips touching the place where your jaw meets your neck, all you can imagine is the careful way he would undress you, lay you down, and make love to you, slowly and gently but passionately.

He drags his lips down your neck, his curious tongue coaxing another soft sound from you. Again, your mind flashes to all the ways he might use his tongue on you, all the places he could seek out and tease until you are so dizzy with pleasure that all you can say is his name, over and over.

Another press of his tongue, and it takes all your strength not to beg him to take you right here. You can imagine it so easily, the way he would grip your waist, your hips, the way you would wrap yourself around him and touch every inch of his bare skin if he would only give you the chance.

What would you not give to see him shudder in pleasure, to throw his head back and hold you tight as you cling to him and make him feel the same thing he ignites in you?

It’s at that moment that he whispers your name, tenderly, reverently, like a prayer, against the soft column of your throat. Your whole body shudders in response, your hands tightening where they have landed on his broad shoulders, and he finally fulfills what you have been aching for.

One strong arm wraps around your waist, the other around your upper back, and in the space of a breath the man has pulled you against him, leaning you to the side so that you are cradled in his arms across his lap.

You are suddenly very aware of how thin your shift is, of the way he must be able to feel every curve of your body pressed against him. His fingers are gentle where they wrap around your waist, and you feel with heightened awareness all the strength of his own body, all his powerful muscles and vigorous energy.

All you can do is sigh in pleasure as he keeps his head buried in your neck, still kissing your sensitive skin as though he cannot get enough of you.

You can barely take a breath, so overcome with the multitude of sensations he ignites in you. His hand flexes against your waist, and you respond in kind with your fingers digging into his back.

You have the distinct impression that the man is having to physically restrain himself from going further, that all he wants to do right now is yank open your shift and kiss his way down your bare body. As irresistible as that thought is, you let him take the lead, and he chooses to simply kiss you rather than ravish you.

He is a noble man, a man of honor, and though your body is aching for him to truly make you his, you take pleasure in his self-control, his respect for you.

His fervent kisses to your neck finally slow, and he breathes against your skin as though trying to memorize you. When he nuzzles his face against your neck, all you can do is close your eyes in absolute ecstasy. One of your hands finds its way into his hair, and it’s his turn to shiver with pleasure, pulling you even closer against his body and resting his lips against the curve of your neck.

He goes still in your arms when you stroke his hair, slowly and tenderly with your fingertips. Again, you are struck by his reactions to your gentle touches, by the way he melts into your arms as though overpowered.

Several long moments are spent in that position, with you cradled against his chest, his face against your neck. You would be content to stay like this all night, just listening to him breathe, feeling his heart beating against your side.

But the moment passes, as all moments do. Another crack of thunder shakes the house, and you can’t help but jump a little in his arms.

As if pulled out of his daze, the man smiles softly against your neck, strokes your back soothingly in a way that only serves to make you arch your body against his. A moment later, he lifts his head from the crook of your shoulder, letting his face brush against yours as you disentangle yourselves.

Though you have just spent the last few moments passionately embracing and kissing, and though both of you are still flushed and breathless with exhilaration, the following moment is not awkward. You do not look at each other as you part, but you can sense your own relief and contentment in him.

You do not know what will come of this. You do not know if he will stay much longer. But in a moment like this, with your lips still swollen from his kiss and your skin still burning from his touch, you feel as though no heartbreak can be as vast as this perfect fulfillment you feel with him.

You stand slowly, glad that you are not as unsteady as you feel, and you lift the kettle off the fire just to have something to do. You can feel the man’s eyes on you, though he does not speak.

“It is a fierce storm tonight,” you comment, almost without realizing that you are speaking. The silence between you was comfortable, but you long to say something, to know that he is still at ease with you.

He takes his time in responding, especially since you have your back to him. “Yes,” he says simply, his voice deep and husky.

Stars, how you want to hear that voice in your ear, in your bed, murmuring to you while you both reach the height of your shared pleasure.

You swallow hard to banish your intrusive thoughts. You move to set the kettle down in your cabinet and scramble to think of something else to say. Rain continues to pound against your roof, sending a slight chill through the air despite the warmth of the fire.

“Will you be warm enough tonight?” you ask over your shoulder, still conscious of his eyes burning into your back.

Again, he takes his time answering. “Yes,” he finally replies. “Will you?”

You let the question hang, still standing with your back to him. You hope he can understand your wordless answer, especially after sharing such an intimate moment.

The only warmth I crave now is the heat of your body against mine.

Still trying to avoid meeting his eyes, you half-turn to pick up your two empty cups from the table. Doing so makes you lean against the side of the little square table, and you notice with great surprise that it does not tilt dangerously to the side as it has for the last several months.

The table legs are perfectly even now, and you suddenly raise your eyes to look at the man squarely. He is gazing at you with the oddest combination of expressions — desire, contentment, admiration, sorrow, longing, affection, and several others you cannot name.

“You fixed my table,” you observe, genuinely struck by the kindness of his simple gesture. You don’t know when he did it, but sometime in the last few days he must have noticed the unsteadiness and taken the time to fix it somehow.

He holds your gaze for a long moment, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “It needed fixing,” he replies simply.

Your heart leaps into your throat, though you can’t say quite why. Despite the fact that just a moment ago you were wrapped up in his arms, sighing while he covered your neck with kisses, you are much more affected by his modest demonstration of kindness — fixing something of yours that was broken.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly, returning his small smile with all the warmth blossoming in your heart.

You finish your task, setting the two cups in the cabinet to be washed tomorrow. The storm outside has quieted somewhat, but you can still hear the constant pounding of raindrops on the roof and walls.

Quiet thunder rolls in the distance as you turn to look at the man again. He is still seated, leaning forward with his knees on his elbows, gazing at you curiously.

This is what you want: this man in your home, always, sharing your fire, sharing your space, looking at you as if you hold his heart in your hands.

The words spill from your lips before you can consider them. “My father always told me that a storm can make a person change their mind about anything.” You hear the significance in your own words, and you press on anyway. “He said it’s in their nature to bring about transformation.”

The man’s darkened eyes do not leave yours for a moment, and you hold his gaze steadily, wanting him to hear your unspoken plea.

Stay with me. Let me love you as I do in my dreams.

His face does not betray any decision, but his gaze is tender, filled with a weary longing. His eyes explore each feature of your face as gently as his fingers did a few moments ago.

“Perhaps I will listen to it for awhile, then,” he murmurs, and your heart sighs.

All is not lost. You must simply wait.

As you start towards the doorway that leads to your bedroom, you pause beside his chair. The man is looking up at you with eyes that melt you to your very soul. Overcome with your affection for him, you lift one hand and stroke the side of his face, smiling down at him fondly.

“Goodnight, general,” you whisper, and your heart whispers, Beloved.

Before you can drop your hand, the man wraps his fingers around it and brings it to his lips. An unhurried kiss to the back of your hand, one that sends another shiver down your spine, and he releases you. His eyes burn into yours, intense, ardent, yearning.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, and your heart hears his whisper, Beloved, long after you have slipped into the next room.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

More of my fanfiction if you're so inclined :)

[helianthus21]

guys he put his blood in a vial, placed it in a locket with his initial, kissed it and gave it to daniel.

[surreal-duck]

valkyuri

[hualianschild]

to think that everyone rejected him treated him harshly yet xie lian was the one to hold him gently and said it's not his fault (yeah let me go cry in the corner again)

[nullify-pygmy]

I long for everytime Honored Eternal Path of Demise by TheDarkSideCupCake updates. I need more RPG horror aus in any fandom in my life and it waters my crops.

[dryope]

Remembering that now lestat was turned whn he was 34 he and nicki were probably together for like 14 years… and that it took him a hundred years to try again… and that he’s more connected to music than theatre and plays in this version 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 like imagine youre lestat and you are deeply in love with your first love your husband of 14 years the love of your life and you have a job you love and you are happy you are so so debilitatingly happy and suddenly you are taken away from all of it and you are thrust into this life of killing and monstrosity and then he loses his mind and dies and dies and dies over and over again and you try to save him but he only gets worse and in the end when he dies for the final time he dies without his mind and hating you. Like personally i couldnt do it

[kerryweaverlesbian]

God I'm suddenly thinking about Jack's pov of Castiel because Cas wasn't there for the Box thing, and the entirety of the Destiel Divorce happened while Jack was dead. He has absolutely no way to know that Cas even argued in his favour. He comes back and Cas takes him back to the Bunker and he and Dean are still friends. And it's still important to placate him and humans. And it's still important to mask how inhuman you are. Last time Jack saw Dean he was about to shoot him in the head in cold blood.

[getyinyusedtoit]

feeling very normal and not at all emotional about this today.

[sad-emo-dip-dye]

This was soooooo sick and twisted for Asagiri to drop and then not elaborate on and the bones not even animate it

[wundrousarts]

Various Nevermoor thoughts and things I've noticed after rereading the book for yet another time:

aka, everything that made me put something in the Discord or on here

— Cadence's braid is twisted up into a knot during the Book Trial, unlike the usual braid down she's often depicted with

— "Threads" of Wunder, the Gossamer being a "web", and the Wundrous Art of "Weaving"..... so fun! I need to look for more stuff related to Weaving and other Arts as I reread the other books

— Given Wunsoc’s motto of Containment & Distraction and the history of the Yule Queen and St Nick learning Arts in Sub-Nine, I wonder if the annual Christmas Eve Battle is purely entertainment for the masses or if it’s a distraction from something as well?

—— It’s in Courage Square… what if, if there is a Ghostly Hour there (of the massacre or of a related event), the Battle distracts folks from the possibility finding it? I’m team “it happened on the last day of the year” and not Christmas, but still 🤔 much to think about whenever that location comes up

—— If it is a distraction, it could also be a distraction for another part of the city just because it gathers everyone to one place and they’re less likely to be elsewhere

— Mog and Jack fighting but then convening a few days later to dump out their Christmas stockings together and trade the contents is Peak sibling behavior and I love them for that

— The picture that Dame Chanda is like “oh don’t cancel me but he’s hot” about Squall isn’t a photograph but a print of a painting. I wonder if more paintings of more Wundersmiths exist anywhere and if Mog could find them, or if they were all burned or something

—— I’d love if by the end of the series Mog has renewed the reputation of Wundersmiths and gets a new portrait done of her that’s hung up somewhere, this time where she looks healthy and happy, as a contrast to her bitter Hall of Dead Crows portrait from before

— Fen licking the side of Mog's face when she's crying <3

— Squall is so dramatic making the tiles of the Wunderground station turn black as he turns around lmao

— Aside from the obvious the obvious danger of the gathering, Squall describing Cursed Children dying on Eventide as a “mercy” and his whole “we do what we’re asked because we have to because we’re Wundersmiths” speech in Hollowpox, I wonder if part of why he wants there to be no more Wundersmith anymore and the Courage Square Revolt was because he was against the Society / government / Nevermoor using Wundersmiths from a young age for their own desires and gains. Anti child labor in the worst possible way lol

[thelaughingmagician]

Batman and Robin Eternal #1

[zukkaoru]

(hope i get to) live a life next to you

Maki wraps her hands around her own mug, letting the warmth seep into her skin. After she’d first joined Jujutsu High, she swore off drinking tea, because it reminded her too much of home. She switched to coffee, both for the caffeine and because it was something she was never allowed before. But Ieiri recommended tea with honey to soothe her throat, permanently raw from the smoke and flames she inhaled eight months ago, and Maki doesn’t mind the taste of her childhood so much anymore.

it's summer again, and maki reminisces

🥀 2.3k words || nobamaki || post-shibuya au 🥀 written for jjk sapphic week day 5: free day

[hualianschild]

ahh still hits the same *proceeds to cry an entire river*

[metanarrates]

augh the idea that timekeeping now matters to the industrial complex because the people are starting to wake up and hope that they may live past tomorrow

[fortune-maiden]

Now that I've remembered Lunar again, I'm kinda tempted to go reread the Dragon Song LP xD