#finally a post truly worthy of the tag

[bunnyb34r]

Um I got an interesting suprise in my lush box...

Looks aside though what the fuck am I gonna do with a dried banana chunk 😭 am I supposed to let it float in my bath? Am I supposed to compost it? Is it a snack?? 🍌

The picture on the order sheet is a square little bubble bar and ofc I get a vagina one 😭😭

[gremlinmodetweeker]

A Walk in the Woods

So, I had some struggles in my life. I've been homeless since about July 27th, but I've been staying at a friend's home. I'm on disability, so it's hard to make ends meet.

In the depths of my despair, I wrote about König's lonesome walks in the woods.

Edit: As of August 13th, I do nearly have a home now. However, I am still posting this because it reflects an important feeling and something I think about with König. I love writing him as goofy and awkward, but I think sometimes it's important to remember the reality of being a soldier.

TW: Suicide reference, ptsd, references to gore, warfare/active combat discussion, depression, mental illness

Story below Cut

A Walk in the Woods

König goes on long walks alone sometimes.

You might be tempted to come with him, but that would defeat the purpose of the walk, so he’d just have to have you tag along and take another walk later, most likely when you’re asleep.

Long walks in the woods help König calm down. He likes the silence of the forests. Sometimes, if he’s lucky, he’ll hear an owl hooting or see a bat fluttering by. He’s thankfully not the type that mosquitoes are attracted to, so bugs tend to leave him alone if he just gives himself a light spritz with bug spray. He thinks that long ago, his body adapted to the forests. Maybe it was because it was the place he felt most himself, maybe it was because it was where he was most alone. The forests never bothered answering his questions.

On these walks, König has the time to finally think about what’s been going on in his life. When he walks, he thinks about how long he has left to serve. Will he retire when he hits the golden age, or will he retire when his body gives out? Will he even make it to retirement? He doesn’t know. He wonders what will happen to you when he retires. He also doesn't know, which is worse. It frightens him terribly that he knows there’s nothing he can do to protect you from the reality of living with a partner in the military. He’s gotten to a point where he no longer sees warfare, but he does hostage rescues in dangerous cities in more dangerous countries. How long until there’s a chink in his armour?

When he walks he thinks about how he’ll divide his will. He needs to be prepared, as much as he wishes he could live forever. His mother made it until she was in her late nineties, his father just turned one hundred when he passed. He comes from longevity, but does he truly want to live that long? He’s done so much damage to his bodies throughout his years of service. His body could only go on for so much longer, and he didn’t know how long he could last.

When König was younger, he was brave and proud of taking after his grandfather by going into the Austrian Jagdkommando. He was revered by his younger siblings, and his parents had been nothing but proud of him for his decisions. He’d been a strong recruit and quickly risen the ranks to a prestigious title.

Now, as he walks through these lonely woods, he doesn’t quite know how much value his title holds anymore. What worth is a badge and a name if you spend most of your life looking at your partner through a phone, really? Is he even worthy of being a father if he has to spend months overseas? He’s missed so much of his loved ones' lives because of this godforsaken burden he carries. No amount of money could buy back the time he’s lost with his family.

And yet, still, he works. He trains in the barracks, readies his bodies for the next onslaught of bodies and screams when he is deployed into the next battlefield. He knows that when he comes home, he’ll have new nightmares to wake up screaming from. And who will be there to comfort him but you, frantically awoken by his thrashing and screaming as he shoots and kills all over again in his mind’s eye. He lives it over and over again every night. He will until he sleeps one final time. He’s trapped on lands you’ve never seen, lands he hopes you’ll never see in your lifetime. He’s seen so much carnage, there is so much blood on his hands and these same hands are the ones that hold you, cherish you, fuck you. He’s covered you in blood. 

His walks carry him deep into the forest. There, he finds a clearing where he’ll look up to see the sky. Some days it’s blue and wide as the sargasso sea, some days it’s swathed in a darkness only split by the twinkling eyes of the gods above. Every time he looks up, he hopes that someone somewhere will see him begging on his knees for forgiveness. He tells you he doesn’t pray anymore, but he prays every time he comes to this clearing. Not for himself, no he’s long since been sent to Hell. He prays for you because he’s afraid that he’ll drag you down with him.

When he comes home, he’ll smile and hug you tightly. You always ask about it, but he never tells you where he went. He keeps telling himself he’ll bring you some day, but he knows he never will. You’ve seen him weak, but he can’t bear to have you see him like this. He wants you to see him smile and laugh and hold his children up above his head and fill the air with the sounds of joy and youth. He’s a strong and powerful aurochs of a man. You may see him stumble when he goes out to the hardware store to fix the latest leak in the sink, but he wants you to see him as a reliable pillar of support.

He prays that you will never see him out in the woods alone. He’s terrified that one day, one fateful day, you’ll go into his clearing to find him way up high among the tree branches.

Story Masterlist

[hitlikehammers]

nowhere without you

rating: t ♥️ cw: post-final battle, hurt/comfort ♥️ tags: established relationship, hurt/comfort, BIG emotions, even BIGGER love, as in: soul-deep love, softness; happy endings always ♥️

for @steddielovemonth day eight: Love is the heartbeat I can feel when I hug him

(also probably the humble love-soaked endlessly-devoted beginnings of the rockstar!husbands in je ne regrette rien)

The weirdest part is how, in the aftermath, Eddie doesn’t speak. Like, at all.

Scratch that: it’s the weirdest and the most concerning part. Eddie makes noise, mostly pained kinda moans that make Steve’s chest clench, ache more the admittedly-decently-deep wounds slowly—but reliably, like, consistently—stitching themselves together, and Steve begs him to get looked at again, because something has to be wrong to cause those kinds of sounds but Eddie doesn’t even shake his head, doesn’t really move at all save that sometimes he trembles, and it’s…

It fucking breaks Steve’s heart.

He’s almost gotten used to stroking Eddie’s hair in silence—so wrong; worthy Eddie that’s just so wrong—and working any tangles out so, much as it’s getting a limp and greasy with days of neglect, at least it’s smooth; but he’s almost resigned to this for the long haul because he’ll weather anything he has to for Eddie and they’ll work through this, whatever this is, they’ll worth through it together and—

“How did you stand you it?”

The sound is more a scratch than anything, glass on sandpaper, and it’s down to Eddie lying where he hasn’t left for the last four, going on five days—as in, not once while Steve’s been awake has he existed without Eddie’s weight situated just so against his chest, sinuous and deliberate in where he presses against, careful as a rule of Steve’s worst injuries and delicate about how he rests against Steve’s body, but not…hesitant.

More, kinda…kinda desperate.

So it’s down to him being pressed so close and sure and unwavering that Steve feels him speak more than anything, matches the motion of his lips against Steve’s gown to words rather than the wind, or something outside his door to the halls of the hospital beyond; it’s down to the tension in the whole of him, the all-too-present shaking that Steve matches the scrape of the question to a hurt that’s…that maybe Steve doesn’t wholly understand just yet, but that really and truly does cut him deeper and closer and more critical at the core of him than the Upside Down ever could have clawed in: Eddie lives in him, nothing else can really…ever hope to be deeper.

“How are you,” Eddie rolls gravel across more words, and Steve’s missed his voice so fucking much, he didn’t realize how much until it’s here again for him to hear and hold but, Jesus fuck, it’s like…it’s like it’s drowning; like Eddie is drowning and then his breath is hitching, and oh, god, that voice is cracking around the edge of a sob, watery and wavering as he damn-near close to begs:

“How did you survive it?”

Steve feels it clench in his ribs, because he thinks he…he thinks he’s putting it together. The strain, the agony in that voice, that voice he loves so fucking much, from this man he loves with everything, but then—the way Eddie presses into him. The force, and the position, and the pattern. The way he’s been quiet, unfailing, but never…never seems distant, seems the opposite: seems focused; intent. The way Dustin had come in and caught him upon the things he’d missed in one of the almost-nonexistent windows where Eddie sleeps, hand lines alongside his sternum and head curled in the most uncomfortable pretzel Steve can imagine, forehead all scrunched and eyes squeezed shut so goddamn hard, looking like any sleep he manages is nothing close to rest by any measure: but Dustin had came in and told him Eddie was the first to him; Eddie ran faster than he’d seen a person run; Eddie’d looked devastated, broken when they’d caught up, and they’d been so afraid, feared the worst, and—

Steve’s starting to fit the pieces together. Maybe.

“No,” Eddie whines, pitchy and fervent and almost ear-splitting, like a wail of sheer gut-wrenching pain that Steve can’t find the reason for in the here and now because it’s just them in a hospital room, they’re okay, and his hand presses heavy, gentle around his wounds still, always gentle and so, so careful and Steve doesn’t know what’s caused the reaction, but then—

Then he can feel his fucking heartbeat for how hard Eddie’s pressing. It’s weird, how it makes him feel…strangely alive, the sensation of it kept and held like that, specifically in Eddie’s hand. And he’s not paying attention to the monitors really, tuned them out as quick as he could but when he listens, okay. Okay, maybe faster than normal, but Steve’s fucking worried, okay, he’s—

“Fuck, no,” Eddie moans and twists his head, no, not just his head, his ear and leans harder into Steve’s chest, his breathing shallow and Steve hates it but he doesn’t know what to do, how to help, what to fix because he’ll fix it if he knows, he’ll climb out of this bed and crawl on the goddamn floors of he has to, but he doesn’t know where to go, what to find, what demon’s left to slay—

“I’m just, I’m grateful you did,” survive, Steve survived…

He survived, like, now?

“But grateful’s such a weak word, it doesn’t,” and Steve takes a breath, and reaches, rests his hand on Eddie’s wrist just to see: his heartbeat’s somuch faster, it’s like a flutter of a flutter felt strong enough to break through skin, it catches in Steve’s heart just to touch—

“You’re so much stronger than I could ever, like,” Eddie’s going on, still breathless and fuck, Steve can see why; “fucking hope to be.”

Shit, but that’s…he wasn’t stronger, fuck, Steve wasn’t stronger than Eddie, Eddie nearly got eaten alive, Steve nearly couldn’t staunch enough of the bleeding, he almost lost—

Eddie keens, horrible and hurting and Steve stills: the monitor. The thundering of his own pulse at the memory.

How did you survive it?

Losing. Almost losing. That’s…that’s what it is.

That’s why Eddie’s pressed against his chest, his his head and his hand have been a fucking frame, goddamn, like, parentheses surrounding Steve’s beating heart, proof of life, Jesus—

“But I need to be,” Eddie’s voice is quiet, but steadier, and his chin dips like a nod to himself; “I need to learn how,” he’s firm with it; “for you.”

Oh, god. Oh…oh Eddie.

“I can’t ever lose you, Steve,” Eddie presses trembling lips to Steve’s chest and then presses close again, so close and oh: he wasn’t just intent where he’s been silent so long.

He was listening.

“Never ever,” he breathes against Steve, hot and damp; almost kinda breathless again, or still: “never ever.”

“Eds,” Steve begins, not even entirely sure where he plans to go, just knows he needs to do something, say something, but Eddie’s turning Steve’s hand in his, where he’d circled Eddie’s wrist; he’s turning it and mirroring the hold, gripping Steve’s wrist in kind.

“I couldn’t find it,” he gasps, and the sound makes the sob clear before Steve feels the wetness soak through to his skin; “I couldn’t feel it at all, you were, it,” he presses his fingers in hard, squeezes so goddamn tight, and Steve can’t…he doesn’t want to imagine what Eddie had to do, what Eddie found and felt, he doesn’t but he can, because he remembers the mirror image so stark, it took him so long because he couldn’t find a pulse either, he’d had to press on Eddie’s heart at the source and even then—

“I couldn’t feel you.”

Oh. Fuck. He—

“Oh, baby,” Steve’s elevated enough at an angle that he can at least kiss Eddie’s hair, barely brush his scalp but it’s enough, for the breath that punches from Eddie against his chest it’s at least something; “that’s…”

“I won’t survive that again, Steve,” Eddie sucks in, unsteady and drenched with tears, with sorrow, but also…also more than anything else, they’re filled up with so much love.

A love big enough to hurt that hard.

“And I can’t…” Eddie gasps, breath catching; “I can’t handle not feeling it,” and his fingers tighten; his hand on Steve’s chest and his cheek across from it press down that extra little bit so Steve knows his own heartbeat in those moments full and deep.

“Have to feel it always,” Eddie whispers like he’s telling himself, and Steve, and Steve’s heart through flesh and bone, some cosmic secret no one else can know: too sacred. Too precious.

“You can feel it any time,” Steve lets his hand fall from Eddie’s to cover the hand Eddie’s got splayed ln his chest, counting time; holds him there almost protectively: “all the time,” and he slips his fingers between Eddie’s and shifts his palm close to the beating, so he can still feel what he needs as he murmurs with his heart literally in Eddie’s hands, with his entire goddamn soul:

“All of me. It’s yours.”

Unshakable fucking fact. He doesn’t even have to will it, or hope for it; his heartbeat knocks that heavier against their hands for those words like it knows.

It knows.

“Don’t leave me,” Eddie bursts out, begging; almost something primal, and Steve can feel the tremoring of his lips where they drag against him; “please. I’ll do anything, I swear it, just don’t—“

“Be you,” Steve braves the whimper that comes from untangling his hand from Eddie so that he can reach for Eddies cheek and cradle him in closer, and oh, fuck, thank god: something in him sighs out and loosens, ever so slightly—finally.

“Everything you are,” Steve presses on, runs his thumb back and forth through Eddie’s drooping curls; “let me love you, past living and dying,” and Eddie’s breath catches, for that, but Steve holds him tighter for it, drowns him as best he’s able in the proof he needs so bad; “don’t leave me,” and Eddie huffs a little for that, like it’s beyond believing, impossible, and Steve smiles to himself for it, tries to lean enough to press the grin to Eddie’s head, hopes he manages as he murmurs there close:

“That’s it, Eddie,” and he lets his fingers spread wider, cradle Eddie all the more: “that’s all I need.”

“That and more baby,” Eddie answers him between the double-beat of his pulse, immediate; “you’re the music and the rhythm,” he nuzzles a little against him, and Steve smiles a little wider for it; “you’re the reason my heart beats,” and Steve finds that heartbeat for himself at Eddie’s jaw, now; a little calmer. Not much. But: something.

It’s a start.

”I don’t have a reason without you,” Eddie exhales, vehement; “I don’t want a reason, without you.”

And Steve should maybe push on it, or be scared by it: but neither seem right, not for this.

Not for them.

Steve just holds Eddie’s pulse under the pressure of his touch, and holds Eddie’s cheek closer still into his chest as he breathes:

“You’re my whole heart, Eds,” and he lets a second pass, and then another, for that heart of Eddie’s to pump evidence unshakable against him, to play the song and rhythm straight into his waiting ear:

“Was never going anywhere without you.”

♥️ ao3 link here

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch

♥️

divider credit here

[quipxotic]

You know, when Caleb and Beau showed up at the Malleus Key I was a little salty. Not because of them as characters (I like what little I know of both of them) but because of the onslaught of posts in the tags that were some flavor of*:

"Finally a reason to watch Critical Role again. The good characters, the REAL heroes are here so I can ignore all these terrible, boring/obnoxious nobodies" (i.e. the members of Bell's Hells).

"Oh all these silly Campaign 3 only fans will have no idea what's going on now! If they only knew, they'd give up on watching this lesser campaign and devote themselves to the only truly worthy campaign" (i.e. Campaign 2/the Mighty Nein).

"Why are you mad at me for flooding the tags with posts about Caleb and Beau? We've had practically no content on the Mighty Nein! (Except the 141 episodes of the main campaign, the comics series, the novel, the animated show which had already been announced, and the at that point 1 reunion special.)

I blocked so many people back then and it improved my Tumblr CR fandom experience so much, even if it did cut down on the volume of posts. This time around with Essek I'm having a much better time. I don't know if that's due to my active pruning of who I see or if it's just that all the people who love to deliver their piping cold takes on CR episodes are focusing their whole attention on him/them and (for once) leaving Bell's Hells alone.

If that's what it takes, bring on more Essek!

*Perhaps these are slight exaggerations for humor, but they're not that far off.

[rowenasgf]

Day 4: Fog.

another fic using the “fog” prompt for day 4 selfshiptober. this one is set in my witch’s familiar au!

The call had been strong, insistent; impossible to ignore both for its magnitude and for the curiosity such magnitude is wont to evoke. I pad through the night, barely visible amongst shadows, sleek black in entirety except for the glinting green of my eyes which reflect a ghostly yellow through the fog. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know it’s the right way. I hope I’m the first one there. I hope whoever I find deems me worthy of the bond.

A woman with red hair sits at a table on her porch, one leg crossed over the other, sipping from an ornate teacup. Waiting. There’s an almost tangible ripple of energy around her. She’s the one I seek. And with no other hopefuls in sight, it seems I do have a chance to claim my prize, should she find me fit for purpose.

I sit at the bottom of the porch steps, tail curled around paws, looking up at her patiently. Patience is important; no witch wants a demanding familiar. Obedience, good temperament, willingness to serve. She notices me a moment later and a slow smile grows on her face.

“Felt the call, did you, dear?”

My head tilts slightly and I blink once, slowly. I don’t move from where I sit. If this goes well, I’ll be doing a lot of waiting for her to command me, so I might as well get a head start.

“Aye, thought so,” she continues, taking my obedience as confirmation. “Come here, then. Let me see you.”

As bidden, I trot up the steps and make my way towards her, then jump up onto the spare chair - she can get a proper look at me without hunching down this way. Her brows quirk in something like amusement and she gives me a once over. She reaches out, offering her hand, which I bunt gently; something about her touch feels right as she rewards me with a quick scratch behind the ear, but I withhold a purr. I don’t want to come on too strong.

“Well, you certainly look up to snuff this way,” she says, and I sit up a little straighter at the praise. “Show me the other.”

A light mist semi-obscures my form from vision as it twists, contorts, grows into something else. When it clears, dissipating into the evening fog, I sit opposite her passably human rather than passably feline, though I'm truly neither.

The witch’s gaze gives nothing away, but I'm careful not to squirm under her scrutiny. It’s a test, the whole thing. And she won’t have me if I don’t meet her standards.

“Have you had a witch before?” she asks.

“Never,” I reply, concise and to the point.

“But you’re willing?”

“I am. I will accept the bond if you offer it.”

I cringe internally at my eagerness, which could easily translate as desperation. Which it is, in a way; I'm verging towards the latter end of the acceptable age for a familiar to remain unclaimed and I'm keen to remedy it. Be that as it may, some witches don’t want desperate.

This witch, though, doesn’t seem put off. In fact, it almost looks like there’s something akin to triumph behind her eyes, but it could just be a trick of the light.

“My name is Rowena.”

“Rowena...” I repeat it back to her and notice how easily the syllables fall from my mouth.

“Mm,” she hums in approval, “and yours?”

The final test. Rowena doesn’t seem like some infant witch having her first dabble in the arts. She must know a familiar is nameless until its witch bestows upon it a designation.

“You tell me,” I reply.

The right answer, if her pleased smile is anything to go by.

“Hm. I think you’ll do nicely.”

tag list: @astral-express-family @dykenastasyafilippovna @bladedragonslayer @skyliv @hermitkisser @remedy-ships-it @tinplanets @cowsuponcows @lipsticklens @tothemoon-ships @winters-witch24

pls DNI if you post inc3st in any form whether fictional or not !!!

[whoishotteranimepolls]

My observations part 2 there's been some developments

There have been some new developments in fandom behaviors and trends that have changed since my last post about this and since a lot of people have liked it, I'll give the curious people an update before I forget

I have noticed something about the Trigun fandom. I thought you all were just ride or die loyal however, if it's wolfwood holy crap! You guys give the unhinged trio a run for their money. Do you know how many times I've seen unhinged comments about his Catholic titties. And why is the Catholic part so important that it must be emphasized every time? Otherwise you all are still ride or die no matter the character. But I have found a streak of unhinged crazy that I apparently missed the first time around.

I know someone mentioned they wanted to see the Fairy Tail fandom mentioned so I will mention you. So are you alive Fairy Tail Fandom are you okay? Your characters do get requested with some frequency and some of them are pretty iconic but you guys just don't do anything except if it's Gildarts v Shanks. Because how many rematches are we on now because people like that specific matchup just so they can post the meme about Gildarts being Shanks from Temu. Otherwise characters don't do all that well. But I will say one thing. You guys are giving one piece a run for its money when it comes to cursed matchups. However, I'm sure it's a good thing. Remember people are very annoyed with that fandom on my blog

Soul Eater. What has gotten into you guys? If it's Stein the fandom is worse than the unhinged trio. Any other character? I never know what you guys will do

Fullmetal Alchemist you guys have finally exposed you're crazy! Her name is Olivier Mira Armstrong and the unhinged things said on those polls. She is now one of those characters I now question should I mark this as mature content because apparently some of you want to be stepped on by her amongst other things. Remember people I read basically everything that is put in the tags. And for those who doubt her power, as of me writing this, she's tied with Senshi in their poll.

The unhinged trio is still just as bad as ever for those who are not aware, that's the nickname I gave to Jujutsu Kaisen, Dorohedoro and Black Butler because those three fandoms collectively are just nuts. However, the unhinged trio may get a lineup change soon. So I'm going to break down the three of them since I've noticed some specific things about you guys so let's get into that

Jujutsu Kaisen I will give you one thing. You guys are creative when it comes to slutty nicknames I think that's the best way to put it. They're hilarious! I'll give you that. However, I think some of them have scarred me for life. So if you want to know why some of these slutty nicknames are getting shared in the poll reblogs it's because of you guys. But the nicknames some of them are unhinged. However, never change. Jujutsu Kaisen fandom your entertaining. If not, terrifying sometimes. However, without a doubt, this fandom belongs in the unhinged trio. You are the gold standard of the unhinged trio. Your feral unhinged madness cannot be matched by any other fandom.

Dorohedoro I'm wondering if you truly belong in the unhinged trio because I think your craziness only applies to Noi and not to the other characters. So I'm curious to see how this plays out over the next few weeks because as far as I'm aware there's only Three maybe four characters in that show Noi a blonde chick a blonde dude and a lizard. So we're going to see over the next few weeks if you all truly belong in the unhinged trio because there are some other fandoms that definitely are gunning for your position

Black Butler I also wonder if your craziness is fandom wide because you guys don't seem to care if Sebastian is in a poll, but if it's Undertaker or Grell holy crap the levels of insanity. So again, I will be testing to see if you truly are worthy of your spot in the unhinged trio

And I think the Senshi polls meme/trend has kind of died down. I haven't found a request in the inbox for a while and he has officially lost to Noi from Dorohedoro by a large margin and may lose but it'll be close to Olivier Mira Armstrong from Fullmetal Alchemist apparently we found his weakness strong, powerful women.

I hope everyone has enjoyed my second entry into my poll analysis series You can find part one here

[noirandchocolate]

I mentioned my Master Kohga's father in tags on another post, so now this post is my headcanons about how succession to the position of Master works in the Yiga Clan.

The short answer is, it's inherited, but it isn't automatic/doesn't have to be.

The Clan is not a monarchy (ewww, they would say!), and while they do have great "allegiance to their Master" according to Creating a Champion, the Master isn't thought of as a ruler. (I also do not hc that the Yiga are a "cult," and mine are certainly not a cult where they worship Master Kohga (either the specific guy in AoC/BotW/TotK or the "Master" as a concept/post held by many.)) They absolutely do not believe in a divine right to rule (that's stupid annoying Hylian nonsense and one of the things they rebelled against in the first place), and they also don't think that simply because a person is the scion of the particular bloodline/family that currently holds the Master position, they must necessarily be the best candidate for the job. I dunno, I just really don't think that a group that formed in opposition to an oppressive monarchy that betrayed them would keep a family in power forever in a similar monarchical system just because they're that family, or would let someone keep the position indefinitely if that person was genuinely horrifyingly bad at the job.

That said, the Master also can't be said to truly be a "first among equals" or "democratic"-type position. The Clan does treat its Masters special. They follow them, they protect them especially, they'll do their bidding loyally according to each leader's personal style (some like to be pampered--*coughcurrentKohgacough*--while others are more austere--currentKohga's father's mother's father for example). A Master Kohga expects orders to be followed. They ("Master" is a gender-neutral term and position) have a Right Hand and certainly take advice from others within the Clan, but ultimately they hold the final say on things, with all the power and all the responsibility that entails. Basically, what the Master says, goes.

Until it doesn't.

But I'm getting ahead of myself, ha! Better go back to the "usually inherited, but isn't automatic" part, because this post is about succession headcanons!

So, there typically will be a presumptive "heir" to the position and name of Master Kohga, and it is usually the current Master's first child. However, a subsequent kiddo might distinguish themself in a leadership/martial prowess/etc.kind of way and surpass their sibling into the heirship. If the Master doesn't have a child yet, the presumptive heir might be a sibling or other close relation. "Child" includes adopted kids, too, if that isn't obvious. Yiga children are raised communally, and it's considered a huge honor (/understatement of the century) if the Master thinks your kid is amazing enough to officially adopt and train to take over. A Master may also consider their Right Hand their heir. Nevertheless, traditionally it's the Master's first child, and barring one of these more unusual circumstances (and others I could go on listing--keep in mind the Clan has existed for 10,000 years), that's who'll be getting raised and trained up to take the position eventually.

Still, unlike with Hyrule's monarchy (and arguably most Earth monarchies), the Master position doesn't immediately pass to the heir upon the previous Master's death. As I said, there isn't some magical divine spark or quality that the Yiga believe transfers from one Master to the next. Instead, there is an interim period during which the Clan prepares for and holds funerary rites for the old Master and the heir...undertakes several trials and rituals to prove their worthiness for the position.

These include multiple types of challenges from hardcore meditation (as in, no food or water, very ascetic like the old Sheikah monks trained), to arcane skill demonstrations, to a trek up through the Highlands to retrieve a hidden object (somewhat similar to Blademaster candidates' journey to place bananas at the frog statues), to successfully leading a stealth raid on a Gerudo or Hylian settlement, to...well the big showy one is slaying a Molduga solo. That's the final test, a literal and symbolic showing that the heir is capable of protecting the Clan from even the biggest of natural threats. So, with all of that, it's not completely a given that the heir will succeed at becoming Master! Most do. They're raised for it, as I said. But they're not just handed the leadership role because they're a very special baby, like Hylian monarchs and nobles are. They earn it. Ultimately, what all of the tests show is that the heir is willing to go to great lengths of various types for the Clan--the underlying message beyond the shows of strength, fortitude and skill is "I do this because I am dedicated to all of you."

Once all those trials are complete, the now fully-realized heir is tattooed with a giant, red Inverted Eye on their back. (The upper "teardrop" starts at the base of the neck and from there the Eye spreads across the shoulders and back--it's big. And while most Yiga will have the Eye tattooed somewhere on their person, only the Master can have it, or any other tattoo for that matter, in red.) Their new mask is crafted, and unlike all other Yiga masks that are purely smoothed-down wood, the Master's mask has a thin overlay of bone--from the Molduga they defeated. Following that, there's an Ascension ceremony during which the title of Master and name of Kohga are officially conferred.

That's how it was with the current Master Kohga; his father was Master, he was the heir and (briefly) the Right Hand, he received all kinds of special training starting in childhood in addition to the usual martial arts stuff most Yiga learn, he completed all the trials, and he ascended to the position upon his dad's death just as expected. He "inherited the name Kohga" as stated in Creating a Champion, just like his father, grandmother, great-grandfather, and every other Master back to the very first Chief.*

Anyway, next for the "what the Master says goes until it doesn't" part I was cryptic about at the start of the post. You might think the kind of system I've described where the "heir" isn't always a Master's first child and that first child can be replaced etc., would cause just as much resentment and strife as a monarchy (I mean think of how many kings assassinated heirs to take their places irl). But again, the Clan is not a monarchy and they in fact have a formal method for those who want to assert a claim to the Master position against the heir.

As a culture, the Clan tends to be very much about maintaining internal peace because it's them against the whole rest of the world basically. So while sure, we see individual members in the games (TotK especially) complaining and having rivalries and being a lil' bitchy, ultimately they're quite cohesive and "ride or die" with each other and the group as a whole. So since the idea is to have a Master who will take care of and lead the Clan, a first child who'd rather do something else or who's a total klutz with a weapon is in most cases unlikely to be vendetta-level mad if their parent chooses their sibling as the heir. The fact that the heir doesn't have to be the Master's child at all also takes care of situations where a Master dies and their kid is still...a kid. A sibling to the deceased Master can step in and take the position, or someone else entirely can...okay here's the procedure.

The heir and even the Master can be Challenged.

Most instances of this happening occur in the above scenario: the old Master's chosen heir is still a child, and there's a sort of stylized "challenge" where that other relative or the Right Hand or someone else the Clan would agree is better than a literal ten-year-old (or whatever) to lead, declares their intent to take the tests instead and ascend to become Master. Less frequently, it can occur where the chosen heir is of-age but can't complete the requisite tests and someone else steps forward who can.

Least frequently, because as previously stated the Clan is pretty harmonious internally and generally loves its heirs and trusts its Masters' judgment, someone can Challenge the heir by attempting to undertake the tests as well. If both succeed, they will then battle it out. Not to the death! But to the defeat.

Similarly, at any time, anyone can attempt to Challenge a Master. This is incredibly rare, even across a history of 10,000 years. The Yiga are very loyal to their Masters! I was being clickbait-y with that ominous sentence before my readmore cut! However, they have the Challenge as a failsafe procedure for when a Master is, let us say...really shit at it. Acting like an utterly abusive despot, completely shirking all responsibility, repeatedly and unnecessarily/stupidly getting a lot of Clan members killed, that kind of thing. Generally a complete failure to the spirit of being a Master. The Challenge in that case consists not only of a battle, but also of a referendum in which all Clan members (anonymously) vote. If the challenger wins, they'll still have to undertake the trials to become Master. As I said, this is like, vanishingly uncommon, especially in more recent times.

For all that they're a bunch of shadowy assassins, the Clan prefers a peaceful transition of power because that kind of cohesion keeps them safest. The current Kohga's bloodline through his father has held the Master position for 800 years (keep in mind though, Sheikah-blooded folk live a long time), and his bloodline through his mother held it for several hundred before that. Still and all, every individual Master accepted the risk of the trials and the responsibility of the position. They've all been considered special, and been adored and waited on and obeyed by their Clan, but they all...

Well, one of our dear Best Guy Master Kohga's clearest, most impacting memories from his childhood is his Nana's final words to him and his father, on her deathbed:

"Go, and be Masters, my children. They will serve you, and they will love you, if you will serve them, and love them, and lead them."

As much as Kohga is theatrical, and hugely self-confident with a moon-sized ego, and loves napping and delegating chores...even with all of that window-dressing type sillygoofy personality stuff... He does care deeply for his Clan and his allegiance to everyone in it is just as great as their allegiance to him. As we see in AoC, when things get serious he will put his life on the line for them.

Just as expected of any great Master Kohga.

And he is certainly beloved for it.

[tartigglez]

"allow me to comfort you?"

zhongli x gn!reader

genre: fluff/reverse comfort

word count: 1.1k

tags: zhongli is SO SAD. IM SORRY. uhhhhh cuddles, lots of em, kith kith, nightmares, zhongli is dragon boi

tw/cw: ig zhongli has some sort of what i guess could be called anxiety but that's kinda it

a/n: decided to double post this week because i have exams and this is my way to destress, enjoy :)

ps... this is not very well proofread

opening your eyes in the morning is normally quite a peaceful feeling, especially when your boyfriend is with you, as he would normally have his arms wrapped around you, lovingly awakening you from your slumber. however, today seemed different, or rather, tonight. 

you were awakened to the feeling of movement, and a rather dragonic looking man stirring next to you in bed. 

was he having a dream? a bad one? you could’ve sworn this was the first time this had happened, and you weren’t sure what to do. 

after a moment, you sat up, and decided to awaken him, as you could see the golden patterns on his arms glowing every few seconds, which after knowing him for a while, you came to figure meant he was in some sort of distress.

you grabbed his arm and started to move your hand up and down gently, as to not startle the man too much. some people might think its a risk not worth taking, to awaken a literal sleeping dragon, and even you knew the man had the potential to hurt you, but he never would. you trusted him, more than anything. 

after turning on the lamp at the bedside, you began making more effort to awaken the man. 

“zhong. my love, wake up”

after about thirty seconds of attempting to awaken him, the man suddenly sprung upwards, breathing heavily, and catching hold of his surroundings. he scanned around him, before grabbing onto your hand and looking down, closing his eyes. 

shortly after you began to hear gentle sobs from the man. surely this can't be right. rex lapis, crying…?

“hey, what happened? you okay?”

you quickly realised however, that these questions were pointless, and that he was not going to respond. instead, you opted for pulling him closer to you, wrapping one of your arms around his broad shoulders, and holding his hand with the other, gently stroking his thumb. 

his gentle sobs continued for a few minutes, before you moved your hand from his and used it to pull his head to your chest, where you presumed he could perhaps find some solace as you ran your fingers through his hair. 

when his sobs finally slowed down, it took him a moment to pipe up. 

“surely this position is uncomfortable for you, aren’t my horns hurting you, or digging into you somewhere? i can make them g-”

“shh, i’m okay. promise.”

“v-very well”

after another moment of silence, he spoke again…

“i am... sorry for awakening you. i cannot remember the last time this happened, but it was truly long ago”

“my love, you have nothing to apologise for. do you want to talk about it?”

“i suppose it would be improper of me not to offer up an explanation after so crudely awakening you like this… i dreamt that… they left me”

“they left you…? who?”

“the liyuean people. i dreamt that they abandoned everything here, that their archon was no longer worthy and-”

was he crying? again?

“hey, you’re okay. it was only a dream”

“i’m sorry, i do not have these experiences often, which means that they only feel more real to me”

you wipe the tears from beneath his eyes, and lean up to place a gentle kiss to the top of his forehead.

it was still an odd sight to see zhongli crying. 

"i know, darling, i know”

“may i talk to you about something? If you wouldn’t mind lending an ear?”

“that's exactly what i'm here for, ‘li” 

“very well. truthfully i sometimes feel as though a lot of my person is a façade. of course i am required to believe that i am powerful, otherwise i would not hold my position amongst the seven, but honestly i sometimes feel that i am not enough for the people here in liyue. i have given them everything i have, but what if that is not enough? what if one day, liyue, rex lapis, morax and zhongli are all left in the dust. what if it is all forgotten? if my efforts are put to waste?”

“zhong. when was the last time you interacted with a liyuean? they all know that you care for them more than anything, do not let your own self doubt get in the way of that, or you will become blinded by your insecurities. you are doing a good job, take it slowly. after all, fate awaits us all, and there is very little that can be done about it. i promise you, the people of liyue love you. i love you”

“i love you as well, dear. sometimes i just worry.”

“i know. i cannot even begin to imagine the amount of pressure you are under.”

you used your hand to tilt his face towards yours, before easing his worries with a kiss.

“shall we lay down dear? i still feel apologetic for waking you up”

“sure, but just this once, allow me to comfort you?”

“very well”

you moved to lie flat on your back, as zhongli moved himself closer to you, resting his head upon your chest.

“is this okay?” 

he asked, wondering if the position was comfortable for you. after all the man did have literal horns poking out of his head.

“mhm! can i play with your hair?”

“please, do. that sounds ever so pleasant at this moment in time.”

and so you moved your fingers to entangle in his hair, gently massaging his scalp as he let out a large yawn, wrapping himself tighter around you.

“i love you, y/n”

“love you too, ‘li”

after a few moments of pleasant silence, you piped up again, with intentions to ask the man if he had calmed down any.

“zhong?”

“zhong~?”

ah. he was sleeping. 

“sleep well, prince”

and all of a sudden, began a low, rumbling, purring noise, from somewhere in the mans chest. an ability you were completely unaware he had, but for some reason the sound soothed you, and let you know he was calm, and happy in your presence. 

you placed a gentle kiss to his head once again, before drifting off into your own slumber. 

you awakened to the feeling of gentle kisses being placed upon your shoulder, by none other than zhongli himself, who was obviously very impatiently waiting for you to wake up.

“ah, you're awake. good morning, dear”

“mmm, morning zhong”

“did you rest well?”

“i did. you?”

“me too”

“why of course, i'm not sure why i asked”

“what is that supposed to mean…?”

“you started purring in your sleep last night”

“i did WHAT?!"

[wasteful-sam]

Worthy [Part 1]

Synopsis:

While on their way to Baldur's Gate, Rolan and his siblings have to settle in Emerald Grove, as the lands are overrun with goblins and mysterious cultists. It is here that he meets a peculiar drow, and the story of their unlikely relationship starts to unfold.

Tags:

Slow burn, romantic, ongoing, F/M, Rolan/female drow.

Disclaimer:

This will be a long one, covering the overall BG3 story and storyline of some of the origin characters. Thus, spoilers ahead for anyone who hasn't completed the game.

The story is a slow burn that is bound to end up explicit, so, yeah. (~‾⌣‾)~

Also, English is not my first language, and I apologize in advance if the wording may sound odd somewhere in the text.

All in all, I wrote this to relax a cluttered mind, but I genuinely hope that the fic will be enjoyable for you! Yours truly, Sam.

[AO3 Link]

+++

Worthy

Part 1 | Chapter 1

The strangers

The day they arrived - chaos erupted in the Emerald Grove and, subsequently, his life. That bunch of self-important, nosy do-gooders. And to think, by this time, Lia, Cal, and he could have been halfway to Baldur's Gate. Of course, deep down, Rolan chastised himself – he should have been firmer with his siblings. After all, when did the authority of strangers become more important to them than their brother? Was he that pathetic?

"No," Rolan's ego violently interrupted his ever-emerging self-doubt, at least for now. His mind returned to earlier today when it all started.

+++

The reverberating roar of a horn was the first sign of trouble. The three tieflings were chatting by the beach when the sound startled them.

"What in the hells!?" Cal exclaimed, frantically turning his head around.

"Something's at the gate, come quick," Lia cried out, rushing up the hill.

"Stop!" Rolan hissed angrily, trying to catch up with his sister. He finally grabbed her arm, bringing her to a halt near the Sacred Pool. Cal joined them shortly, breathing heavily.

"Are you out of your mind? Where do you think you are going? You two – get back to the beach and hide somewhere among the cliffs," the tiefling wizard whispered angrily.

She pulled her hand from Rolan. "We can help protect the grove. We must at least warn the others!"

"I think they already know," her younger brother mumbled. Other tieflings around them were visibly nervous, trying to figure out what was happening. Even the druids stopped their ritual, looking up toward the grove gates.

For a couple of minutes, the siblings were silent, listening carefully. Lia was the one to break the silence.

"Let's at least come closer, can't hear much from here. I promise we will run to the beach as fast as possible at the first sign of trouble," she added, noticing Rolan's growing frustration.

"Fine," he sounded defeated. "I'll go first. If I say run – don't you dare disobey."

At this point, Rolan figured that whoever attacked the grove would have broken through already if they had sufficient manpower.

After all, scouts who kept watch on the grove's walls could be barely considered fighters. Likely, just a couple of goblins stumbled upon their hideout.

He signaled Cal and Lia to stop as they passed Aaron's make-shift merchant post. From there, they could somewhat see the commotion on the bridge and hear the tinkling of swords and spells being cast. The siblings didn't dare to speak or move – all froze in anticipation. 

The wait felt like an eternity. Finally, they heard Zevlor's command to open the gates. Rolan relaxed his posture. The usual smirk graced his face as he saw Aradin and his thugs running through the entrance. "Of course, these idiots have something to do with this," he concluded.

To his surprise, a group of strangers sneaked into the grove shortly after Aradin. Well, he knew at least one of them – that pompous Blade of Frontiers. Wyll, was it? He stumbled upon the grove a couple of days ago and has become somewhat of a local fencing teacher. And most tieflings found his company quite enjoyable. "No wonder these simpletons hang onto his every word – all they need is just a couple of embellished fairytales to deem someone a hero," Rolan scoffed to himself.

But no matter. He didn't intend on making new acquaintances. It was time for a serious talk with his family.

+++

The outsiders intervened just as he was arguing with Lia. The group was passing by when Rolan tried to convince his siblings to leave the grove as soon as possible.

"What's the point in blades and spells if we don't bloody use them?! We should stay. These people aren't fighters, we can help!" she exclaimed angrily.

The group stopped and exchanged glances. Rolan had no doubt they had heard most of the arguing.

"You should all stay. A single blade could make a difference," said the silver-haired drow. She glanced confidently at Lia.

Satisfied, Lia turned her head to Rolan. At this point, he knew the battle was lost - once Lia sets her mind on something, it's impossible to get through to her.

"Fine, we will stay! If we survive, it will make for a good story, I suppose," he growled, intentionally paying no attention to five prying strangers.

"We were told you have a healer. Do you know where she might be?" inquired another woman with black braided hair. Her tone was colder and tired.

"I think she will be in the chambers by the pool. It's where most druids spend their days. Just head down the stairs, you'll see," wedged in Cal.

"Please, you think the druids will have time for strangers that appeared on their doorstep out of thin air?" Rolan finally graced the group with an arrogant stare. "They are one ritual away from exiling us all from this gods-damned place. What makes you so special?"

"I don't know, maybe the fact that we slaughtered a bunch of goblins outside the gate will play a role?" replied a pale elf, injecting as much arrogance into his words.

"Alright, calm down. We will deal with all that one step at a time," the drow spoke again, placing a hand on the elf's shoulder. "Thank you for your help! I'm Nimriel, and these are Shadowheart, Gale, Lae'zel, and Astarion." She pointed at each of them individually, branding an enthusiastic smile. The others, however, weren't as excited.

The tiefling woman couldn't help but smile in response, "I'm Lia, this one's Cal, and the grumpy one is Rolan."

"Nice to meet you," Cal cautiously said, while Rolan rolled his eyes and murmured, "Pleasure."

"The fight was intense, I see," Lia noted, looking at the group's dirty, bloodied clothes.

"You can say that again," the drow chuckled. "One of the bastards has thrown a bottle of grease at me, and I tumbled down the hill like the most graceful sack of turnips! Then a worg charged straight at me…"

"Nimriel, we don't have time to chat right now," the black-haired woman interrupted.

"Right… Sorry, we really got to go," the drow nodded apologetically. "Thanks for the directions."

And with that, the group bid their hasty farewells and sprinted towards the druids' chambers. The tieflings could hear how the green-skinned woman – Rolan, although surprised, was sure it was a githyanki – was scolding the drow for being too open with the "horned ones."

"What an odd bunch," Cal said quietly, watching them leave.

"They certainly are. We should keep away from them."

"What? Why? They've slayed the goblins! Who knows if Zevlor and Aradin would've managed on their own," Lia raised her tone again, her annoyance growing. "They can help us fend off the next assault!".

"Don't be ridiculous. Their arrival at the grove at the right time was either a strange coincidence or a malicious plan. Think, Lia. When was the last time you saw a friendly drow? Hells, druids killed a drow who was snooping around just last week! Not to mention a githyanki amid them," Rolan sounded firm and confident.

"If we go by your logic, all tieflings are just wretched, evil fiends," his sister paused, taking a deep breath, "I'll talk to whomever I want; it is not for you to decide."

Rolan scoffed. Arguing with Lia felt exhausting at this point. He thought she was still young and naïve, not used to being approached with anything other than concerned stares and rudeness from non-tieflings.

"I'm… I'm with Lia here," Cal gently broke the silence. "Let's just see what happens."

"Of course you are. Two troglodyte peas in a pod. Do whatever you want," Rolan turned away from his siblings, pondering.

He couldn't let anything happen to them, not when their future was at stake. At that moment, he decided to watch the strangers closely. He was determined to confirm they were no threat.

+++

Rolan saw the despised group of outsiders a couple more times that day. They were walking around the grove, talking to tieflings and druids. At one point, they approached the Blade of Frontiers, who was training kids in fencing. Judging by their body language, they have reached some kind of agreement.

Later, the tiefling wizard noticed the strangers walking into Zevlor's chambers. They left the grove shortly after, taking Wyll with them. "Maybe this is the end of the unfortunate encounter," Rolan thought, relief washing over him. Still, he wasn't convinced.

+++

He approached Zevlor later that evening. The older tiefling was just leaving his chambers to get some fresh air.

“Good evening, Zevlor. Although it could have been better if not for the goblins' stench outside the gate," Rolan said casually, a note of arrogance still evident in his voice.

"True. What Aradin did was reckless. What's more infuriating is he left Halsin behind. Who knows what's become of the druid." 

This revelation startled Rolan. Indeed, with all these worries about strangers, he didn't even realize that the bear druid didn't return. More bad news – Halsin was a competent warrior and one of this grove's most significant tiefling allies. The other druids had even more incentive to kick them out without him.

"We were lucky that Wyll and those travelers helped us out. Although our position at the grove gets shakier," Zevlor continued.

"Oh yes, I saw them getting a private audience with you," the wizard tiefling responded sarcastically. "Mind sharing what they wanted?"

Zevlor glanced at Rolan’s face, trying to find the source of his concern. He smiled gently: “I know the drow’s presence may worry you. I was surprised as well at first. All you need to know is that they are not a threat to us. In fact, they can prove quite helpful in the future.”

“Riiiight,” Rolan crossed his arms. “And you know that after talking to them, what, half an hour at most? You are not being rational about this!”

Zevlor wasn’t perplexed by Rolan’s reaction. He’s grown accustomed to the tiefling’s fiery temperament. “I know enough to place my trust in them. They didn’t have to help us fight goblins. And they surely had nothing to gain from saving Komira and Locke’s daughter from Kagha’s wrath,” he concluded calmly.

The sly fox must’ve had some kind of a deal with strangers. He wasn’t shy of sweet-talking people into doing what’s best for his tiefling tribe. Although Rolan was fond of this quality of Zevlor’s, he still thought the old paladin’s judgment was clouded.

With that, he left Zevlor be. He needed to process all the new information.  

+++

"Hello! Apologies, do you maybe have hyena ears stashed somewhere? I'd gladly buy, seeing as none of the merchants here are in possession of those," a cheerful male voice interrupted Rolan's concentration.

Annoyed, he looked up to see who had disturbed his reading. Of course, those pesky outsiders returned! One of them – a human, most certainly – was talking to Cal while Lia stood near, puzzled. The other two – githyanki and drow – were buying something from Dammon, whose "forge" was nearby.

"Hyena ears?" Cal was confused. "What for?"

"Why, for a potion of speed, of course!" the man stated as if it was common knowledge. "My supplies are humiliatingly sparse at the moment."

"Oh, um…, no, sorry."

"Well, it never hurts to ask," the man shrugged, his voice still friendly and pleasant.

"Any luck, Gale?" his two companions were approaching as they finished their business with Dammon.

"I have asked around, and no one seems to have what we need," he replied.

"No matter. We have no use for your magical trinkets. My sword alone will be enough to cut through weaklings of this plane," githyanki replied confidently.

"Lae'zel. Calm down a bit, will you?" the drow hissed, looking at her companion with a plea. She then turned to tieflings, her tone rapidly shifting to cheerful. "Don't mind that, please, she's just tired… Soooo, what's…new?"

"Oh, nothing much," Lia said cautiously, yet a faint smile appeared on her face. She clearly liked talking to the drow, Rolan thought to himself.

"Not that we have much to do here, just chatting, trying to make ourselves useful. Say, but you've been busy! I heard you've helped Arabella yesterday," she continued. "I knew you could turn things around here."

"Oh, you mean the little girl? The whole situation was disgusting. That Kagha is one nasty toad," the drow answered, "I thought druids would be more understanding and peaceful. What's their deal?"

"The same "deal" that everybody has with tieflings," Rolan finally had enough of this whole conversation, longing for peace and quiet. He looked directly at her, smirking. "You should know, Underdark dweller. And if you don't - ask around your Menzoberranzan cronies."

The drow looked hurt for a moment, returning his glance. Rolan's comment definitely struck a nerve. However, she promptly recovered, saying, "Yes, I know, although I'm not from the Underdark. I'm sorry I offended you."

Her response made Rolan think. It was not a reaction he expected from a drow.

"No, you didn't!" Lia exclaimed quickly. "Rolan's just an old grump. Don't mind him."

"I'm not grumpy! And not that old either!" the tiefling wizard heard himself exclaiming. He could rarely leave the teasing of his siblings unanswered. He noticed the drow giggled, reacting to his outburst. "What's so funny?!"

"Just didn't expect such a serious-looking man to react so childishly. You really are not that old," Nimriel giggled again.

"Sounds about right," Cal pointed out cheerfully, and he and Lia were now grinning.

"Anyway," Gale interjected, trying to change the topic. "Why are you in such a hurry to reach Baldur's Gate?"

After the brief episode of humiliation, Rolan felt an urgent need to brag. "My apprenticeship with Lorroakan begins shortly, I cannot be late. Yes, that Lorroakan, the greatest wizard in Baldur's Gate," he said arrogantly.

"I've heard the name before! Young man, yes? Lives in the Ramazith's Tower in the lower city?" Gale sounded excited.

"The very same."

"I heard he's a bit of a cad, but you say he's a powerful wizard?"

"Of course he is! The greatest spellcaster along the Sword Coast! As if I'd settle for a lesser mentor."

"In that case, I would very much appreciate it if you could arrange an introduction should we reach the city," Gale suggested, turning his head to Nim.

"So you are a wizard?" Nimriel wondered, staring Rolan up and down. "Should've figured by the way you seem to enjoy the sound of your own voice."

"I'm... what!?" the tiefling tensed up.

"Sorry, sorry, I had to get even," the drow raised her hands lively. All this sounds fine to me. Could you?" She looked at Rolan, smiling gently. Something about her expression made his heart skip a beat, but he chose to ignore the feeling.

"If it is powerful acquaintanceships you are after, look no further than yours truly. Few can match me in either magic or talent. In years to come you will boast of this meeting. I can assure you," he bowed his head slightly, breaking their short eye contact.

"Enough chatter already, we don't have all day," githyanki intervened.

"Right, we'd better go. Sorry, it was nice talking to you all. Will definitely see you again," with her last sentence, she squeezed Lia's shoulder a little, making her giggle.

"That was quite embarrassing," Cal nudged the tiefling wizard as they watched the trio leave.

"It would be if I cared," Rolan nonchalantly opened his book.

"Tell me, when did you become like this? So I know the exact age when I turn into a joy-sucking prick." "You live and learn, brother."

Chapter 2

Mistrust

It has been a week. Rolan still struggled to figure out what made this group of seven blockheads join forces. Yes, seven! On day three, they showed up at the grove with a tiefling, who was even more loud and obnoxious than the drow. And the Blade of Frontiers now had a set of horns growing out of his head for some reason!

Although they were sparse on details of their alliance, the group certainly loved bragging about their adventures. At least, Rolan saw it that way. All it took was for tiefling children to take a liking to strangers after those saved a boy from harpies.

Word of the rescue spread fast, and soon, the whole grove knew what had transpired. Tieflings warmed up to the outsiders, wanting to learn more about their new-found idols.

Rolan also listened to the strangers' stories, but not because he was fascinated by them, like others. He analyzed and pondered their motives, making mental notes on each. Some remained a complete mystery to him, like the silent half-elf and irritable githyanki, who barely interacted with the grove's dwellers.

Others, however, were either loud, chaotic, or pompous. The wizard named Gale was, perhaps, the most tolerable of the bunch. As a man of considerable intelligence, he was grounded enough to keep his companions from being too ignorant or obnoxious. Although, his constant monologues of self-importance grew old very fast.

But by far, the two outsiders he involuntarily interacted with the most were tiefling and drow. They talked frequently with Lia, perhaps due to similarities in character.

That drow, Nimriel, was especially odd. Whenever visiting the grove, it seemed like her mission was to come up and talk to every person she could see. It was as if she was afraid to be forgotten about. Or was sniffing out information.

Once, after Lia's friendly chatter with the two, Rolan swallowed his pride and asked directly what they were talking about.

"You're not subtle at all," his sister replied condescendingly.

"Maybe I'm just curious, ever considered that?" Rolan shrugged.

"Oh, sod off. You're using "the parenting tone." It's like Elturel all over again. Your paranoia is getting annoying. They are regular travelers."

"Travelers?"

"Well, yeah, met up on the road to Baldur's Gate and decided to travel together for safety. Like we did with Zevlor's group."

"It's not comparable," the wizard shook his head.

"Why?"

"Alright, let me spell it out to you: an aggressive githyanki, a monster hunter, a suspicious drow, and a runaway from the hells – all in one group. And the other three are quite shady, too, if you ask me."

"You know about Karlach?" Lia asked, surprised.

"It's easy to get Dammon yapping after a couple of beers," Rolan replied nonchalantly, checking his well-manicured claws, "But you're missing my point here. They are all very different, some are natural enemies, in fact. Yet, they travel together? All of them need to get to Baldur's Gate and they just met on the road like that? There's something behind all of this."

Lia sighed. She knew Rolan all too well, and such outbursts were expected. Her brother was living in a mind-made cage, keeping her and Cal locked as well. Lia knew he was trying to protect them, but treating his siblings like children was getting out of hand.

"I don't know what to tell you. They're just going around, clearing their way to the city, killing monsters, looting…. We could've learned something from them."

"Like what?" Rolan rolled his eyes, "Living as mercenaries?"

"How about just "living" for starters? We'd be better off with money if we'd take a risk once in a while," Lia insisted.   

"Why risk if we're already on the way to our future home?" Rolan softened up a little. "I promise you, Lia, once I'm the apprentice, you can forget all these constant worries."

"I know, I know," she looked at him, calming down. "And you promise to relax a little, too?"

"I won't be relaxing. Wizardry is hard work, you know."

"I meant your attitude."

"The attitude is what kept us going for so long," he replied smugly. "But yes, I'll definitely be more… "relaxed," as you say."

"And you won't mind me joining the Flaming Fist then?"

The wizard bit his tongue. It was a sore topic for them. "We'll see," he replied.     

+++

"Hey, Rolan!" the drow approached him nonchalantly the very next afternoon.

"Mhhm."

"Reading as always?"

"How observant."

"Seems like your favorite book! What's it about?"

"Nothing that would be of interest to you."

"You know me well, I see?" There was no malice in Nim's voice, only teasing.

He finally looked at her, "You don't strike me as someone who practices magic. I see you more as an expert magpie."

"I am interested, actually. The more we travel, the more I learn that swords and cantrips don't always quite do it in fights. I even asked Gale to teach me some of the simpler spells. But to no avail. I just don't have a talent for it like you two."

Nimriel sounded sincere, which took Rolan aback. Was she trying to sweet-talk him, or did she genuinely believe his prowess without needing any proof? He simply didn't know what to reply.

"Can I take a look at your book? I'm just curious," she smiled, breaking the silence. The drow turned her charm to the maximum, looking straight at him. Nim couldn't help it - she wanted desperately to be liked by everyone around, even this irritable tiefling.

"Suit yourself," the wizard passed his book without much regret.

Now that the spells grabbed the drow's attention, he could take a closer look at her without being discreet. Her armor was ripped in several places, blood stains adding colors of terror to an otherwise dull leather outfit. Fresh cuts could be seen where her lilac-grey skin wasn't covered by clothes. The drow was still smiling as she read his book, her pretty, animated face dissonating with the disheveled attire.

"What happened to your ear?" the worrying tone of Rolan's voice surprised him.

"Oh," she automatically reached to her left ear, "Nasty burn, huh? Luckily, it was the only one. We got to the mercenaries' hideout yesterday, and those weasels had their lair stuffed with explosive barrels. Long story short – a fight ensued, things got fireballed, and – here's the result," Nimriel told the story so nonchalantly as if describing her favorite recipe.

"Looked even worse yesterday, but Shadowheart fixed me up well. With her skills, it will subside soon, but until then – I own of the ugliest ear in the grove," she giggled, but her expression betrayed her, showing how conscious she was about the burn.

"It's not that bad," Rolan replied, but he quickly realized how it sounded. "I mean, it doesn't flaw your face much. It still looks…presentable," he added apologetically, forgetting how to speak normally.

"Aha, I see the mighty wizard is also very skilled in reassuring," Nim laughed. She resumed reading, not noticing Rolan's embarrassed scowl.

They've spent some time in silence. While Nimriel was looking through pages, he continued unwittingly studying her face. Slender, blessed with elegant features, she would look like those literary portrayals of royalty if not for her big light-violet eyes, ragged shoulder-length haircut, and battle cuts.

"Too difficult for me still," Nimriel's voice yanked Rolan out of his intense contemplations. "I think I need to learn to work with scrolls first," she closed the book, reaching to give it back, but froze. Rolan was looking at her intently, his arms crossed.

"Why are you nosing round the grove?" he asked with authority.

"What do you mean?" Nim tried to master an innocent smile, but the wizard caught her off-guard.

"Your pleasantries won't work on me. You know exactly what I mean."

"Didn't realize that people must only be cordial for a reason. But then again, the cordiality expert knows best," she sighed. "What's your problem?"

"There are talks about strange cultists roaming around, goblins taking captives to their camps… And in the midst of this all, you appear here, out of nowhere. Snooping around, making friends left and right. It is… peculiar."

"You know a lot for someone closed off in the grove."

Rolan smirked, "Unlike you, I don't have to stick my nose into every conversation to learn what I need."

"This is exactly what you do now," Nim's tone became tense. "I don't think we've given you any reason to mistrust us," she shoved the book into his arm and turned around, "Sorry for distracting you. It won't happen again."

As he watched the drow walking away, Rolan shook his head. He rarely felt bad about giving someone a piece of his mind. Why now, all of a sudden? 

+++

It all ended before anyone in the grove even realized something was happening. The adventurers have taken down Kagha. Apparently, they found proof of her conspiring with Shadow Druids and confronted her in the druids’ chambers. As a result, Kagha and other Shadow Druids that sneaked into the grove laid cold on the stone floor. The ritual was swiftly stopped, putting the worries of refugees to an end.

“Serves her right,” Rolan heard his brother talking excitedly to Danis and Bex. “That witch would rather cut all our throats than let us stay!”

“We are lucky that other druids came to their senses,” Bex replied. “Maybe they will even help us next time goblins come here!”

“Now, now, don’t hex it,” Danis gently squeezed her hand. 

“Let me dream a little,” she kissed her husband’s cheek.

“Hey, Lia! What’s the news? Have you seen them yet?” Cal exclaimed, seeing his sister approaching.

“We exchanged a few words, but they were in a hurry. Looked pretty tired,” she sighed.

“Pity. I’d love to thank them personally. Maybe even bake something to celebrate,” Bex glanced at Lia. “You think they’ll come back?”

“Karlach definitely will once she hears you promised a hot meal,” Lia snickered.

Rolan listened to their conversation, his face emotionless. But deep within, a shift had occurred. Perhaps he was glad to be wrong about someone’s intentions for the first time in his life.

+++

No one heard from the group for the next few days before their sudden return. They came through the grove's gates nonchalantly, as if they were regular residents. Of course, nobody in the grove knew the burden the adventurers had carried for two weeks. For how much some of them talked and interacted with refugees, they remained a mysterious seven.

The group made their regular rounds, eventually coming to Dammon for supplies. It didn't take long for a friendly conversation to start, with all the regulars among tieflings joining in.

Rolan was there as well, his usual silent self. He would sometimes look at Nim while she chatted lively with the others. The tiefling wizard still didn't figure out what he would tell her. He will not be apologizing, of course not! But he didn't want to end it all on a sour note.

She finally caught the tiefling's glance and smirked, nodding. A wave of panic hit Rolan, but he tried keeping his composure. The wizard gestured Nimriel to come aside for a talk, to which she agreed.

"Hey there," Nim said casually, her brow raised.

"Listen. The last time we spoke…"

"No-no-no," she interrupted quickly. "The last time we spoke, you glared straight at me. I believe I deserve the same treatment now".

"Alright," he straightened his pose, looking into her eyes. "I was harsh. I had my reasons to distrust you. But my concerns proved unfair," Rolan paused, trying to find the right words. It was hard looking at Nim. The tiefling could see that she was quite enjoying his vain attempts at explaining himself. A large black eye she got was quite distracting as well.

"You did well for the grove, and I was unjust."    

"What an intricate way to say you are sorry," her tone was soft with a smudge of teasing, "Don't worry about it."

"Just like that?"

Nim shrugged, "It's not a first for me. I'm a drow, remember? You should know."

The tiefling felt embarrassed. She even remembered the exact words he threw at her back then. And Nimriel noticed that.

"Hey," she said softly, "Can't we just forget it and start getting along? I hate making people feel all bad."

"I can assure you, it's nothing of that sort," Rolan blabbered, averting his eyes.

"Let's be frank, it's written all over your face," Nim giggled, "You are redder than usual."

"This is just fantastic," the tiefling sounded defeated. However, a feeling of relief began to settle inside: "For your information, it's just hot in here, hence the color change."

"Suuuure, keep telling yourself that."

They chatted for a little while before Nimriel left for her camp. Some of her companions, however, stayed.

The group's elf and tiefling were talking with others by the Dammon's "forge." Rolan joined in on their conversation soon after.

"The swamps were awful," Astarion complained. "The smells, the bugs, the dirt! I'll need a full wardrobe change once we reach any half-decent townlet!"

"Oh, come on! You are so dramatic. The nature was still beautiful there!" Karlach said gleefully. "Anything's better than hells!".

"Lucky for me, I won't be comparing anytime soon," the elf replied, supporting an innocent banter.

"How are things at the camp?" Dammon interrupted. Has my old workbench found a use?"

"Yes, thank you! Things are fine, more or less." Karlach sounded a bit apologetic. "We had a small setback, but overall…"

"I wouldn't call the brawl a small setback," Astarion interrupted playfully. "It was glorious!"

"What are you two talking about?" Lia wondered.

"Lae'zel and Nim got in a fistfight, and…"

“Astarion!” Karlach grunted.

"What? It's all fine now, anyway. Let me enjoy my "socializing-outside-the-camp" time!" Astarion shrugged, putting on the theatrics. "Anyway, you know how Lae'zel can be, with all her "I'll cut you down-s and slash you in-s." Well, she didn't quite like one of our plans, and she wanted to leave. Nimriel, predictably, started to talk her out of it. And the gith had it – ripped her armor off and took a fighting position. "A weakling such as yourself won't be able to land a single hit on me!" Astarion tried to imitate Lae'zel's crude delivery, "You want me to stay? Prove your worth!". Oh, how we all gasped when Nim threw her armor to the ground, too!"

"Oh, gods," Lia interrupted, worry growing in her voice. "Why didn't you stop them?"

"And miss the show?" the elf glanced at her like the tiefling was mad. "Honestly, the only thing that could've made it better is mud brawl. But, alas..."

"Cut it out," Karlach rolled her eyes.

"Alright, alright! So, fists started swinging left and right. Screaming, arguing, the spectacle! To my surprise, Nim even managed to land a few hits on the green devil! But the results were obvious from the start – Lae'zel knocked her out – straight in the eye!" he froze in a dramatic pose.

"Aaand?!" even Dammon was invested at this point, dropping the short sword he worked on. "Did githyanki leave?"

"No," Karlach replied calmly. "In the end, Lae'zel admitted that Nim was stubborn enough to make her stay. Although, I had to knock her out and tie her to a tree first," she grinned bashfully. "They made peace for now."

"You are one twisted group of individuals," that's all Rolan could say.

"Believe me, you don't know the half of it," Astarion shook his head, simpering. 

Chapter 3

The night at the Sacred Pool

The moon was full and inviting that night, laying its silver light on the grove. Shadows danced among the trees, creating a tapestry of light and dark on the forest floor. A soft breeze whispered through the branches, carrying the earthy scent of moss and pine.

If only Rolan could enjoy it. He hadn’t slept properly since the whole debacle at the druids’ chambers. The anxiety of not making it to Lorroakan on time laid heavy on him. The future at Baldur’s Gate is what his family deserves. He couldn’t afford to let them down. He sat near the Sacred Pool for the last few nights, working tirelessly on his spells. “Why waste time laying on a bedroll if I can’t sleep anyway,” he thought.

The dawn was close, and the tiefling heard the sound of bushes whirling somewhere nearby. It startled his sleep-deprived mind, and he called, “Who’s there?”

“Huh? Rolan, is that you?”

The tiefling squinted, looking in the direction the voice was coming from. He stood up, his yellow eyes piercing the dark. Someone’s figure was emerging from around the trees. At this point, Rolan thought the lack of sleep had driven him insane. It was Nim walking towards him. The drow was also squinting, holding a batch of apples in her arms.

“Nimriel?” he asked in disbelief with a hint of annoyance. “What…what are you doing here? And what’s with the apples?”

“Um…it is a little embarrassing,” she smiled confusedly. “Can I come closer?”

“Can you?” now his voice sounded almost mockingly. “Well, why not?”

As she approached, Rolan realized something dreadful and swiftly turned his head away.

“Why in the hells are you walking around here in your undergarments?” he hissed.

“Shit! I’m… well, I didn’t expect anyone to be up this early. I got hungry and thought I could quickly sneak in here for some apples,” she gabbled, walking towards him.

Nim stopped near the tiefling, close enough to see his face in the light of a small lantern the wizard brought. She didn’t quite know what she was doing – frankly, a night stroll for apples was just an excuse to clear her head. No matter how positive she tried to be, the inner worry that her new-found exciting life could end as promptly grew stronger day by day. The worst part was that she forbade herself from sharing her fears with the group. They were, after all, Nimriel’s first semblance of friends. And losing them was even scarier than dying to a tadpole.  

And now, here she was – staring at the half-turned face of a tiefling whom she found pretty extraordinary. To her, interactions with Rolan mostly felt amusing – the serious, snobby demeanor contrasted too much with his short-tempered behavior. Why not use this distraction right now, Nim thought.

The situation they found themselves in started to feel very comical. Nimriel snickered, biting into one of the apples. “Did your head stuck?”

“It’s called having manners, being appropriate. Such concepts might be foreign to you, of course,” Rolan sounded irate, his head still turned away from her. He then looked around, searching for something. Getting no results, he lowered his voice as if embarrassed. “I… can offer you my shirt if you don’t mind.”

“I see you take this “having manners” thing seriously,” Nimriel shook her head playfully. However, she felt intrigued – she was sure the tiefling would just shoo her away from there. This was quite a nice gesture, “Alright, I will entertain it. Take it off.”

Rolan felt his skin tingling as he undressed his shirt. “Did she have to phrase it like that?” he thought.

Nim slipped into it with no issue, the white shirt barely covering her upper thighs. She quickly plopped onto the stone bench near the pool, chewing on the apple. Rolan sat on the opposite side of the bench, keeping the distance.

“Well, you seem quite nonchalant,” he broke the silence awkwardly.

“Why shouldn’t I be? It’s just you,” Nim mumbled without bothering to swallow her food first. “Or what, you want to scold me for stealing apples or something?”

“Never mind.”

“Oh, it’s about this?” the drow gestured her chin down to her body. “As I said, I didn’t expect anyone to be awake. Why bother dressing? Besides, I can take on anyone in the grove,” she paused, thinking. “Or scream for Karlach to help, this works too.”

“Sure,” he replied calmly, rolling his eyes slightly. “Are night apple runs a usual occurrence or…?”

“Nope, just couldn’t sleep,” Nim shrugged. “Am I distracting you?”

In truth, she was. But for some reason, Rolan didn’t really want her to leave. There was something soothing in talking with Nimriel like that when no one was around. It was as if they were sharing a special moment only they would know about. He quite liked this feeling.  

“Nothing important,” he replied after a short pause.

“Would you mind keeping me company for a bit, then? I don’t want to go to sleep just yet.”

Rolan felt relieved. He may be able to entertain this peculiar situation for a little longer. “Why, nobody among your companions wants to listen to your apple-munching at the dawn’s break?”

“Back to your usual “pleasant self”, I see,” she threw back at him. Although, the wizard could tell that Nim enjoyed his little jab.

“Learnt any new spells since we last spoke?”

“Nah, we were way busy these days.”

“Busy brawling with your githyanki friend?” Rolan pointed at her black eye.

“Oh,” she giggled uncomfortably. “I see my supreme leadership skills are talked about far and wide. What do you think? Does my face still look presentable?”

Nimriel didn’t expect the tiefling to consider her question seriously. He looked closely as if calculating every proportion and curve. She now had a chance to take a better look at his face, too. Surrounded by darkness, his features seemed as sharp as ever, with deep yellow eyes – dangerous but alluring. Her cheeks started to blush.

“I can’t think of anything that could spoil a face like yours,” Rolan replied quietly. But his condescending tone made a swift comeback. “Was getting punched worth it?”

“It was,” Nim was confident in her words. “I won the argument and kept her from making bad decisions.”

The wizard lifted his brow, considering her response. “Interesting perspective. So, you are a leader?”

“Apparently,” Nim chuckled. “Why? Don’t I look like one?”

“I can’t judge that, haven’t seen you in action,” the tiefling replied.

“Wow, no sarcasm or a snarky remark?” Nimriel said, tilting her head. “I mean, I wouldn’t call myself one. Sometimes, I think they’ve chosen me because they wouldn’t talk to each other otherwise.”

“At least you’re honest with yourself,” Rolan smirked.

“Ha-ha.”

“You wanted a snarky remark, didn’t you?”

“Anyway, why aren’t you sleeping?” the drow asked lightheartedly, changing the subject. She was munching on another apple.

“Well, I…,” he stumbled a little, “Just too excited about my apprenticeship. Such a powerful wizard as Lorroakan expects a lot from me. I have been working on composing my own spells and…”

While Rolan was blabbering on, Nim seized the opportunity to look him over. For a wizard, he was very well-built. The drow was particularly interested in the ridges covering his chest and torso. She has never seen anything like it up close. A hot, pulling feeling began to form in her stomach.

Rolan noticed her staring and stopped talking immediately. “What?” he asked in a cold tone.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, trying to look as uninterested as possible. “I was just curious. These protruding bones look so interesting, almost like an elaborate carving.”

“Whatever you say,” Rolan said, unimpressed. He turned his body sideways to escape the drow’s eyes. To him, any such glances from non-tieflings felt like mockery.

“I mean it,” Nim said seriously, looking into his eyes.

Rolan returned her glance, trying to figure out if the drow was trying to save face. He finally mellowed down, believing Nimriel. “It is a reminder, you know,” his voice now sounded grim. “Sins of our ancestors we are bound to carry with us forever. Marks of deformity and ugliness to instill fear and disgust into anyone that encounters us.”

“I’m sorry I disappointed you,” she paused. “It may not mean much coming from me, but I don’t see tieflings that way. And… I think I understand how you feel.”

Rolan considered her words. "Suppose you are," he nodded, remembering how he called her the Underdark dweller.

"Although," Nimriel hesitated, "It's not the same. The hate towards us is justified."

"It is," the tiefling replied quietly.

Nim shrugged, "It's the same everywhere. I appreciate your honesty, at least. Do you... does everyone else in the grove share this belief?"

"The fear of drow comes to tieflings as naturally as the fear of plague to any mortal man," Rolan looked at her, sighing, "But you don't have to worry."

"What do you mean?"

"It's obvious that they don't hate you."

Nimriel appeared relieved, "You think so?"

"It's pretty obvious that they grew to trust and like you. Many of them, at least," Rolan chuckled, "Gods, you're so shaken about this, it's quite something."

"It just... doesn't happen much," she smiled, "But I'm glad that somebody sees me just as a person."

The topic started to intrigue Rolan. Nimriel seemed as far from her kin as one could imagine. "I remember you mentioning not being from the Underdark?"

"The locals found me in the Forest of Mir. I might've been born in the Underdark, but I wouldn't remember – I was practically a newborn then."

"Hm. You were raised by humans, then?"

"Raised is a strong word," Nim mumbled uncomfortably. "But yes, I lived among humans for a little while. As you can imagine, they weren't fond of drow either."

Rolan decided not to ask further – the past clearly made Nimriel uneasy.

"And now, when it seems that I have found people who look past my heritage, it is too late," Nimriel quickly stopped talking, understanding she had already said too much. 

"How come?"

"I…," she faltered. I don't really know. I can't tell these days when the time is up." She glanced at him, and Rolan saw deep sadness in his eyes for the first time. "Life has suddenly become very complicated."

At that moment, the tiefling finally recognized Nimriel for what she was – unsure and anxious, just like him. She didn't find the strength to hide it behind the usual chattiness and smile. This is probably the reason she's not sleeping tonight.

"Life has always been complicated," Rolan responded calmly. "And it will become harder," he saw her eyes starting to glisten and couldn't help but put a hand on her shoulder. "But, as I discovered for myself, if you work and believe hard enough that you deserve something, you can find happiness in your struggles, even if for a short while."

"You are harsh, Rolan," Nimriel squeezed his hand. A feeble smile returned to her face.

"I speak only of what I know. You seem capable enough to withstand the treachery life presents."

Nim's brows furrowed as she studied his expression. "Well, if you speak of what you know…It explains a lot about your behavior."

Rolan smirked. "My behavior is not of your concern."

She didn't respond, but the wizard knew, judging by her expression, that Nimriel was onto him. She saw a breach in the walls of coldness and waspishness Rolan had been building all these years. The thought of her peeking through these walls terrified him.

Still, the tiefling couldn't look away from her, nor could she. Something happened between them tonight, something they both feared and wanted.

"It was nice talking to you, but I think it's time for me to get back to camp," it seemed Nim returned to her usual, cheerful self.

She stood up, taking his shirt off. Rolan didn't make an effort to turn away this time. Their conversation made him see Nimriel in a different light. She amazed him in a confusing way: both strong and vulnerable, open but full of mysteries still. Just like that, he fell for Nim. Maybe it happened even earlier, but Rolan wasn't interested in details.

"Have a good rest of the night," Nimriel returned his shirt, smiling. She pretended not to notice how Rolan looked her over. Her drow nature immensely enjoyed that.

"You too," he muttered, watching her leave. The tiefling wouldn't see Nim for a couple of days after this night. Her return, however, would bring about a change.  

Chapter 4

The paths split

He found himself standing amid a party, quite content. The outsiders, impressively so, managed to destroy the goblin camp – the final obstacle between tieflings and the road to Baldur’s Gate. And the party was, of course, in their honor.

Rolan now began to understand why Zevlor put such immense trust in them – they must’ve had an agreement all along. And so, does it mean that the adventurers were swords for hire? What a simple conclusion to a mystery he was pondering all these weeks.

The cheap wine relaxed Rolan’s mind. His annoyance subsided, and the tiefling wizard didn’t mind talking to his kin and even once-dreaded outsiders. He was chatting in the company of Wyll, Lakrissa, Shadowheart, and Astarion.

Although, Rolan was quite in and out of it, chasing Nimriel with his eyes. He didn’t have a chance to talk to her yet – the drow was prancing all over the place, talking, laughing, and hugging the temporary grove inhabitants she grew close to so quickly. Rolan was glad to see her this way. What the group achieved was well deserved.

“Say,” Wyll turned to Lakrissa, “We’ve got so many weapons from our goblin raid. I think it would be great if we leave you some, for your journey.”

“The heroic Blade of Frontiers strikes again,” Astarion rolled his eyes. “How are we supposed to get money for new armor?”

“So, you are saying that you don’t mind carrying a dozen short swords?” Wyll replied cheekily.

“Well…I was counting on my good friend Karlach…”

“How gallant of you,” Shadowheart remarked sarcastically.

“Oh, come on. We all know she is the might of the group”.

“Which makes you…?” Shadowheart raised a brow.

“Why, the charm, of course,” the pale elf said, elegantly fixing his hair.

“Bhaa,” the Blade burst out laughing. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“It’s not my fault that the truth hurts, darling,” Astarion smirked.

“So, what do you think of my offer, Lakrissa?” Wyll broke a short silence.

“Oh, right! Let’s see what you’ve got,” the tiefling replied. Shortly, the two departed to the west side of the camp to see the group’s loot stock.

“By the way,” Astarion turned to Rolan. “You are pretty well-versed in magic?”

“Of course. Why do you inquire?”

“How about necromancy?”

“Well,” Rolan paused. “I try to indulge in learning about all wizardry schools… Depends on what you want to know.”

“Interesting,” a foxlike smile graced the elf’s face. “You see, my friend, I’ve got this book…”

“Stop nagging the man with your stupid book,” Shadowheart interrupted. “Nothing good will come of it.”

“Don’t you have another three bottles to devour? Don’t interfere while grownups are talking,” Astarion replied condescendingly.

“We should’ve left you on the swamps,” the cleric gurgled.

“What’s the issue with the book?” Rolan asked. The prospect of showing off his knowledge entertained him quite a bit.

“I think it contains some powerful necromancy spells, but the book won’t let me read them. And it also toys with your mind somehow once you open it.”

“Hm… a cursed necromancy book, how original,” Rolan contemplated for a moment. “Your best bet is to find a skilled necromancer who will recognize what curses were bestowed upon it. Until then – DO NOT open the book and don’t cast any spells onto it, the attempts of purifying it will only backfire.”

“Well, that’s… something, at least,” Astarion sighed.

“Having fun?” Nimriel sneaked in on them, her face beaming.

“As much fun as this cheap wine can afford us to,” Shadowheart replied.

“Ah, niben Nim! Maybe you will be reasonable enough to talk Wyll out of gifting around our weapons?” the elf pouted at her.

“You volunteer to carry it all up the mountain pass, then?” she smirked.

“…I hate you people,” Astarion growled in defeat.

“And you make no effort to hide it,” the cleric added calmly.

“Look who’s talking!” the elf reacted. “For your information, I…”

“Come on, Rolan,” the tiefling was swiftly taken out of the argument as Nimriel grabbed his hand. “This will take them a while. Do you mind a short stroll?”

“Not at all.”

+++

She quickly led him down to the beach, so quickly, in fact, that Rolan didn’t have much time to protest. Not that he wanted to – her delicate hand, curled carelessly around his fingers, felt so nice. Nimriel finally stopped near the water, turning to him. She had the widest smile – Rolan wasn’t sure if wine was the reason.

“Didn’t expect you to come to the party, thought you’d be halfway to Baldur’s Gate by now,” the drow lifted her brow.

“I would’ve been if not for Cal and Lia. They desperately wanted to chat with their favorite hero,” that was a lie he came up with beforehand. Of course, the tiefling would not admit he also wanted to see her.

“And you didn’t?” Nim asked playfully. She definitely was inebriated.

“Oh, please. I nearly dispatched those goblins myself, but it seems you’ve managed well enough,” even in moments like this, Rolan’s arrogance took the better of him. And the wine didn’t do any favors either. “And why wield a masterwork where a butcher’s blade will do?”

“I certainly will not miss those nasty jabs of yours,” she replied, smirking.

“It’s sad to hear that you take reasonable remarks as jabs,” the tiefling swayed his head left, keeping eye contact. “I thought you thoroughly enjoyed them, given you came back for more on the daily.”

“You are insufferable,” Nimriel rolled her eyes. “But you were helpful…”

 “Helpful?” she caught him off-guard.

“Well, yes, that’s what I wanted to tell you. But let’s sit; I feel like I’m about to fall over.”

She plunged unceremoniously onto the sandy shore. Rolan followed hesitantly.

“I feel a bit foolish,” Nimriel finally said, looking at the water.

“Why?”

“I’m… I don’t have much experience talking to people. Or being sociable, for that matter,” she replied sheepishly.

“You must be joking. I doubt there is a single person at the grove you didn’t bombard with your chatter,” Rolan kept his smug tone.

“No, I mean, in general,” her tone sounded apologetic and a bit annoyed. I… At first, I thought you absolutely hated my guts. And, honestly, I’m still not quite sure if you don’t,” she giggled nervously. But I’m grateful for your advice the other night and that you spent time with me. I really needed to talk to someone then. It was a lucky coincidence that you were awake, really.”

Rolan didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t a norm for someone to thank him. And it came from Nimriel – a person he was so rude and unpleasant to. The sinking feeling started pulling on his chest. The tiefling glanced at her quickly and, to his terror, realized that Nim was also looking at him.

“You really are easy to impress if me talking does it for you,” Rolan heard himself replying. “And, just so we are clear. I don’t hate your guts. Your company is perfectly serviceable.”  

“That’s nice to hear,” the tiefling saw a modest smile returning to her face, feeling relieved. “Then can I ask you to give me your hand? Like this, palm facing me?”

Confused, Rolan obliged. Nim then lightly pressed her palm against his, comparing something. “Mm, that’s about right,” she mumbled and swiftly reached into her pocket, producing a small silver ring.  

“I thought you may put this to good use. It allows casting the dimension door. At first, I wanted to give it to Lia but figured – you are the wizard of the family, so it’s only logical,” Nimriel explained.

“I won’t take it,” Rolan replied adamantly.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t take handouts from anybody. All I need I always get myself.”

“But it’s not a handout… Just something that can help you on the road. I also gave Cal and Lia some supplies, and they didn’t mind.”

“You are not responsible for my family’s safety. I am. And I’m capable enough to provide it,” Rolan sounded calm but determined. His pride took the better of him.

“Guess I’ll be giving it to Lia then.”

“Oh, you are stubborn,” Rolan shook his head. “She wouldn’t even know how to use it.”

“Well, she wouldn’t need to. Her magnificent brother will cast 20 dimension doors for her at once, straight from here to Baldur’s Gate! Will be a pretty accessory, though.”

“Bitterness doesn’t suit you,” the wizard smirked.

“That’s right, bitterness is your most attractive feature, on par with arrogance, of course.”

Rolan began to understand why the group chose Nimriel as their leader. Something in the way she looks at you makes you feel and do as she pleases, as if she bewitches you with her genuineness and determination.

“Fine,” he sighed. “Maybe I am somewhat unreasonable here. If you still want to, I will take it.”

Nim’s features softened. Arguing with Rolan always felt like a small battle – frustrating but weirdly satisfying once it’s over. This tiefling was, in a way, special to her. Brutally direct but still closed off. Harsh but nice at times. Smart. Observant. Leary.

The worst part is that Rolan was right to be suspicious. She and her new-found friends were a danger to the grove, risking turning into mind flayers any minute. What would happen if the refugees, in whom she found so much comfort and joy, learned of this? Nimriel couldn’t bear to think of it. She was perceived as a monster all her life, only to be turned into another one.

“Give me your hand,” she said quietly. As Rolan obliged, Nim carefully placed the ring onto his pinky. The ring was relatively small and stuck right in the middle of the finger, where the bone protruded. The wizard looked at his hand, examining it.

“Fits well enough,” he muttered.

“Well, I’m glad we can end our little acquaintanceship on a positive note,” the drow said, relaxing.

 “Are you also leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes, heading for the mountain pass. And then Underdark, perhaps. Will be interesting to see the ancestral homeland for the first time, so to speak.”

“Hm. Take more food with you. The Underdark’s flora and fauna aren’t what you are used to eating here,” Rolan responded knowingly.

“Thanks, will keep that in mind. I was also thinking… AUGH!” she exclaimed suddenly, clutching her head.

“Nim? What’s wrong?”

“Just migraine,” she burbled apologetically, although Rolan could see an immense amount of pain in her expression.

“Can I help somehow?” he asked, worry in his tone.

“No, it’s fine. Can I just lean on you for a moment?”

“Sure.”

Nimriel leaned against the wizard’s shoulder, her eyes closed in pain.

“Has something similar happened before?”

“Yes, it will pass soon, don’t worry. Give me a couple of minutes. In the meantime, you can tell me something interesting, it will help”.

“Alright. What would you like to know?”

“Mm, I don’t know…what do you like to do for fun?”

Rolan thought for a minute. He genuinely couldn’t remember when was the last time he did something most people considered “fun activities”.

“Studying magic is fun for me,” he concluded, watching her, trying to figure out how she feels. “Don’t get me wrong, it is hard work, but once you learn a new spell, it is a divine experience. You can’t fathom how body and mind so generic can create these extraordinary things. And you only grow more eager, can’t stop wondering how far your potential can reach. I hope to unlock it fully one day.”

“You describe it so lovely,” Nimriel beamed through ache, her eyes still closed. “Please, continue.”

Rolan couldn’t help but smile back at her.

“Once I get to Baldur’s Gate and settle down, I’d also like to study stars.”

“Study stars?”

“Yes, they fascinate me truly. A perfect amalgamation of power and beauty. I have never felt such calmness as I saw them after leaving Elturel,” he looked at the sky to remind himself, if only just for a moment. “It would be nice to have a telescope and watch them after my study sessions with Lorroakan are over. How is your headache?”.

“Much better,” Nim replied. The tiefling felt she was drifting into sleep. “I wish I got to know this version of Rolan sooner,” she whispered.

His heart skipped a beat. A wave of bittersweet sadness covered Rolan’s mind.

“You still have time,” the tiefling murmured, pressing his tail gently against Nimriel’s back to keep her from falling. “You can visit me in Baldur’s Gate…I could…tell you more about the stars.”

“I’d love that,” was Nim’s last words before falling asleep.

Rolan sat in silence, looking at the sky. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her as if the mere act would cause her to vanish. Yet, Nimriel was still there – her form leaning against his shoulder, her breath a soft lullaby in the stillness of the night.

If only they’d met another time, another place, the tiefling thought. Not at the most turbulent point of his life, when he has nothing to show for himself, nothing to be proud of. She is so kind to him. But then again, she is like that with all the tieflings. To her, he must be just another face in the crowd. A bitter, arrogant face at that. He is a fool – to fall for someone that easily. Pathetic. But it will be over tomorrow – they will go their separate ways, and he will likely never see Nim again. Good. Time shall pass, washing away the regrets of what could have been. He must take care of the family at all costs. He can think of his own wants and desires after. It is decided.

…But the dreaded tomorrow hasn’t come yet. He can stay here, with her, just for a little longer. There is no harm in pretending they are watching stars together, happy in each other’s company.

Rolan carefully turned his head towards Nimriel. Her expression was peaceful, the migraine must have stopped. There was so much he wanted to ask her. To hear her talk to him and smile again. But he missed his opportunity, deservingly so.

Enough of this nonsensical moping. He is a grown, rational tiefling. Living inside your head gets you nowhere in life. Only a cold, emotionless mind and determination.

With that, Rolan removed the ring Nim gifted him and put it into his bag. The book on spells he showed her once was in there, too. The tiefling pondered a bit and took it out together with an ink pot and quill.

+++

Wyll was slowly going around the campfire, gathering empty bottles of wine. The party ended not so long ago, but the campsite quickly went quiet – most of his companions were plastered, snoring in their tents. But the Blade didn’t want to sleep just yet – it was a delightful, warm night, particularly in the face of what to come next for him and the group. He didn’t want it to end just yet. Wyll was thinking about taking Lae’zel’s offer. She was rough, sure, but wouldn’t it be nice to spend the night with someone, especially if it could be his last time. Besides, you have to give it to the gith – for all her aggression, she was strong-willed and direct, which are very attractive traits in Blade’s book.

The sound of movement interrupted Wyll’s trail of thought. He lifted his head and saw Rolan coming towards him. Interestingly, he was carrying Nim in his arms. The drow was deep in her sleep, wheezing comically, probably drunk.

“Hey, Rolan. Thought you all left already,” the Blade said quietly, pointing to Nimriel. “And what’s with this blazed potato?”

“She fell asleep while we were talking.” the tiefling replied, his voice sounding tired. “Can you take her to her tent?”

“Sure.”

Rolan took a fast final look at Nimriel and passed her body to Wyll. “Also, can you give her this? She will understand.”

+++

“Soooldier, rise and shine! Breakfast time!”

Nimriel slowly cracked her eyes open, reacting to Karlach’s delightful voice. The menace of Avernus was lightly pulling off her bedcover.

“Urgh-eh,” the cacophony of sounds was the first thing the drow could master after the night of heavy drinking. “Is it late?”

“Nah, Halsin’s still at the grove. So we have time for Gale’s special treat!”

“Thank gods for that man. Mystra’s a fool for throwing away someone with such passion for cooking.”

“Maybe the broad doesn’t eat normal food,” Karlach giggled. “Come on!”

As they approached a makeshift table, the other group members were lazily stuffing their faces. The hangover has been their unwelcome guest this morning. But even in times like these, they maintained their tradition of eating together.

“If it weren’t for yesterday, I’d thought you were all turning,” Nim joked, landing next to Lae’zel.

“Haven’t looked in the mirror today yet?” Shadowheart sneered.

“Nah, I’m not prepared for new nightmares,” the drow replied. “Thanks for breakfast, Gale!”

“At your service,” the wizard tried to bow gracefully, dropping his fork to the ground.

 “I wonder how many bottles we emptied last night,” Karlach said, chewing ravenously.

“I stopped counting at fifth, but you lot outdid yourselves,” Gale noticed.

“What else were we supposed to do?” Astarion nagged. “I was bored out of my mind. All this hero life is not for me. I ended up wandering the woods, but that demented bard’s music must have scared off all the animals”. He grinned curiously. “Please tell me at least someone got busy last night. I want to know all the gritty details!”.

“Ha, I wish!” Karlach responded. But in my case, it would be a veeeeeery steamy sex.”

“You have no shame,” Shadowheart rolled her eyes at them.

“You too, darling, judging by your blood-shot eyes.”

“No arguing at my breakfast table!” Gale declared. “Besides, I don’t think our condition is particularly ingratiatory towards intimacy.”

Wyll remained silent, chuckling on the inside. He briefly glanced at Lae’zel, who didn’t seem to pay attention to the conversation at all.

“You are just a prude,” Astarion grimaced at the wizard. “How about our dearest drow?”

“I was way too drunk for that,” Nimriel replied, pondering. “I don’t even remember how I got to my tent.”

“That’s because you didn’t,” Wyll interjected casually. It was a good opportunity to distract Astarion from asking about the Blade’s night adventures. “Rolan carried you in.”

“Huuuh?” Karlach’s face beamed with intrigue.

Nim stumbled for a moment, trying desperately to remember. “Oh… Right, I remember chatting with him on the beach. Did he tell you something, Wyll?”

“That you fell asleep.”

“Ha, ha-hah,” The elf roared with laughter. “The man is so stuffy that even sex with him puts women to sleep!”

“Cut it out, we just talked. You think I wouldn’t know if I slept with someone?” The drow interrupted, annoyed.

“So defensive we are! Something’s definitely going on between you two lovebirds,” Astarion responded cockily.

“Wish you could fight as well as you joke,” Nim scowled back at her companion. She now could remember what they were talking about, feeling embarrassed that she nodded off during the conversation. She greatly enjoyed Rolan’s company when he was calm and open, like last night. To fall asleep in the middle of it was disrespectful. And Nimriel didn’t even say a proper goodbye.

“At least that explains why you disappeared last night,” Karlach replied. She turned her head to the elf. “Drop it already.”

“You all such bores, even you, Karlach,” Astarion pouted.

“I almost forgot!” Wyll got up, still a little disoriented from the night of drinking. The Blade swiftly entered his tent and returned to the table, carrying something in his hands. “Rolan asked to give this to you. Said you will understand,” he passed a medium-sized red book to Nimriel.

“A book?” the confused drow took it off Wyll’s hands. It was the same tome of spells she once asked the tiefling to look through. The pages were a bit shabby, riddled with Rolan’s remarks written along the pages.

“Hmm, a “Weave of Life?” Haven’t seen these series of tomes for ages, I don’t think they get printed anymore,” Gale looked at the pages over the Nim’s shoulder. “Quite outdated for my taste. But I see Rolan came to the same conclusions, judging by his markings.”

“What do you mean?”

“He tried improving the spells, figuring out how to get the most use. I’d say some solutions are pretty adequate,” the wizard nodded in approval. “Why did he leave it behind?”

“Well, I once mentioned that I tried learning some spells,” Nim smiled. “Perhaps it was his way of saying thank you.”

“Try it if you want; I can help decipher some of the writing,” Gale clapped her on the shoulder, returning to his plate.

Nimriel continued flipping through the pages, participating in conversations now and again. She paused at the last page of the book, realizing that Rolan had left her a message:

For the ring. Practice at least once a day. Hope the spells from the book will help on your journey. -          R.

Short and scrupulous writing, just as she would expect from him. Still, the tiefling’s gest felt so warm and personal that Nim could not help but smile. The hot, tickling feeling rushed through her chest. She wanted to see Rolan again.  

[stubblesandwich]

Return To Me - Chapter 4

A/N: It was requested I post this here, as well, so here ya go! (Sorry if I double tagged anyone.) I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thank you endlessly to anyone still following this story. You have all my love.

Summary: Emma Swan is dying. Her last remaining hope is a heart-transplant, and those aren't easy to come by. But, as luck would have it, fate finds her worthy, and on a stormy autumn night, Emma is given a second chance at life.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Boston hospital, Killian Jones has been devastated by the sudden loss of his wife.

Inspired by the 2000 film of the same title with Minnie Driver and David Duchovny. Find on A03 here

++++++

Chapter Four - Don't Get Around Much Anymore

Three Weeks Post-Op 

Emma had been called a cynic plenty of times in her life. As it turned out, being pushed through the foster system for a decade and a half hadn’t exactly turned her into a beaming optimist. Like most cynics, she claimed she was actually a realist. She planned for the worst, because things tended to not work out that great for her, and hoped for the best. Sometimes she was pleasantly surprised. 

But in the litany of potential outcomes Emma had been preparing herself for, a new heart had never actually made the list. It was akin to winning the lottery, in her mind. Life had not been particularly kind to her. Yet, she had always taken her blows in stride, and she never took handouts. And the prospect of finally making it to the top of the transplant list at the age of twenty-six, after almost a decade of waiting, felt like a handout from life. 

Emma Swan had never been one to sit around waiting for handouts. 

There were other things she had prepared herself for. Increasing the handful of pills she took each day to keep her body from failing on her any faster. Moving from her full time job and supporting herself completely on her own to working part time, then very part time, to not at all. Getting on a government disability program. Each new punch to the gut from life she took in stride, as best she could. 

And through it all, righting her each and every time she stumbled, were David and Mary Margaret. They were some of the best, most genuine and caring people ever to be placed on planet earth. She didn't deserve them—there was a small, cruel voice in the back of her head that affirmed this for her every day. But they just kept showing up for her, and they wouldn’t leave, and they wouldn’t let her quit. 

As it turned out, after the first week, getting a whole new vital organ sewn into her chest wasn’t as bad as she had thought it would be. By the third week, the pain was starting to subside, transitioning into a residual soreness, and her biggest struggle currently was not clawing at her incision every time it itched. When the skin itself didn’t feel like an odd mixture of both tight and numb, it felt ablaze with itchiness. It was all she could do not to scratch at it. (Every time she did, Mary Margaret would bark at her to stop it, or David would throw a random item in her direction. Most recently, it had been a box of tissues that had narrowly missed her head, and he threatened to get an extendable fly swatter to swat her with, as needed.) 

For the first time in her life, Emma was well and truly doted upon. She had family members who inarguably refused to leave her side. That is, of course, until Mary Margaret was forcibly removed by way of her impending school year start. 

She’d had almost a month left of her summer break when Emma had had her operation, and she had been able to push almost all of her classroom prep off until the very last minute. David helped her ready her room when he could, but Emma knew her friend was fraying at the seams from trying to do so much in such a short span of time. Mary Margaret had a handful of vacation days, but she hoarded them like a dragon for true emergencies, and worried constantly that if her students started off the school year with a substitute teacher, they would just end up watching movies all day instead of actually learning something. 

This was their last weekend before the new school year started and Mary Margaret went back to working full days. Emma was lounging on the couch, dozing, lidded eyes half focused on the episode of Friends quietly playing on the living room TV. She and Mary Margaret had just finished putting together twenty-five “Welcome back!” folders for her incoming students, as well as a second set for their parents. 

“Why couldn't they have been ready for you to have the surgery during the start of summer?” Mary Margaret lamented, as she plopped her last folder down on the pile.  “I would have had three months off to be here with you!” 

David glanced over at them from the pile of pans he was washing at the kitchen sink and gave his wife an odd look. “You do realize you're wishing the woman whose heart Emma has now had died earlier in the year instead of later, right?” 

Mary Margaret looked aghast. “No! Of course I don’t wish that. I didn't... I just meant...” 

David raised his eyebrows at her, but by now he was smiling gently at his wife. Mary Margaret huffed. A slightly awkward silence settled between the three of them. The fact that another person was dead and Emma was still alive because of it was something they all knew but typically left unsaid. David had said it out loud, and now the strangeness of that fact settled over them all heavily. 

“I wonder what she was like,” Emma murmured from her spot on the couch, puncturing the silence. “They couldn't tell me much. Well, couldn't or wouldn't, not sure which. All they said was that she was older than me, but not by too much, and in great health. Obviously we had to have the same blood type. But they couldn't tell me how she died, just that it didn't affect her heart.” 

“Probably head trauma,” David said sagely. Emma winced at the thought, but he was likely right. He had seen enough as an officer to know. Especially working night shifts, when the majority of car accidents took place in the area. 

“That sounds awful,” Mary Margaret said quietly.

“I'd never say I was glad someone else died,” David said after a while. “But I'm glad Emma's still with us.” The fact that these things were one in the same went unsaid. Mary Margaret reached over and squeezed Emma’s arm in gentle agreement with her husband. Emma glanced over at her and offered her sister-in-law a small smile, trying to convey to her without having to say it aloud that it was okay. 

But in truth, Emma was uncomfortable. It just made her feel so strange, knowing that for every happy moment she now got to have here with her family, someone out there was living new moments, making new memories, without their own loved one to share them with. Someone out there was grieving a tremendous loss—had lost a daughter, a sister, a mother, a wife. The woman whose heart Emma now had could have been any one of those things, or all of them at once. She was presumably loved, adored, missed dearly. And Emma just didn’t know what to do with that information, how to carry these feelings with grace and proper gratitude. Often they \manifested in the form of guilt. David and Mary Margaret were quick to talk her out of that whenever it came up. That woman’s death meant something, they assured her. Part of her lives on, and part of her saved a life. That has to mean something to her family, right? 

They were right, Emma knew. David saw so much meaningless death in his line of work that she inherently believed him when he told her that it was a gift, her being able to use someone else’s heart. (She didn’t have the courage to ask him how he would feel about any of Mary Margaret’s vital organs going to someone else, if she died.) It was a guilt she carried nonetheless, and she carried it poorly. It was an awkward shape, this guilt, and heavy, and she didn’t know how to carry it well. It all too often made her fumble. 

“I’m gonna take a shower,” she said Mary Margaret looked over at her sharply, instantly suspicious that Emma was still feeling off from the previous conversation, but Emma was quick to wave away her worry. “I’m fine,” she assured her. “Really. I just feel grimy, and I don’t want to taint the epicness of Last Dinner with my stink.” This was their last evening—Last Dinner—before Mary Margaret returned to work full time, and they were marking the occasion with David’s mother’s famous lasagna recipe, a favorite from David and Emma’s semi-shared childhood (and coincidentally the only meal David really knew how to make, but that was beside the point). 

“I second the vote for a shower,” David said, raising his hand in mock vote. 

“You would,” Emma said with a roll of her eyes that David didn’t even need to see to know was there. Mary Margaret started to rise with her, as if about to help her to her feet. “Relax, woman,” Emma said, putting her hand on her friend’s shoulder gently to stop her. “I’ve got it. I’m not a complete invalid.” 

“Jury’s still out,” came David’s response. 

Emma looked at Mary Margaret, half expecting her to admonish her husband, but Mary Margaret just stared up at her with poorly veiled anxiety. “I’m not!” Emma said. “Guys, it’s been almost a month.” 

“Three weeks,” Mary Margaret corrected. “Since you got a new heart. Not since you got your tonsils removed.” 

“Okay,” Emma said, stretching out her back a bit as she stood there, chasing a kink out between her shoulder blades. “Sure, it was a big surgery.” David scoffed from his place by the sink, and Emma shot him a warning look. “But the doctors even said I have to try to do more on my own. I think it’s safe to say that includes showering.” There was no argument from David on that one. Mary Margaret, on the other hand, looked unconvinced. 

“What if you slip and fall?” 

“I’ll be sure to have my Life Alert button handy,” Emma retorted wryly. “Seriously, guys, it’s okay. I can handle showering.” Before they could argue any further, Emma slipped away, locking herself in the bathroom.   

“Let me know if you need any help, okay?” Mary Margaret called through the door in a singsong voice only a few moments later. Emma swore she heard the doorknob jiggle, like her friend was testing to see if it was locked or not. It was, thankfully. Emma was already halfway undressed, and the last thing she needed was for her brother to get an accidental peep show because his wife thought Emma had already gotten stuck behind the toilet and died or something. “Emma?” 

Oh, my God, Emma mouthed to herself. “Thanks,” she called out. “I will!” That seemed to appease Mary Margaret. But the faint squeak of the bar stool at the kitchen island assured Emma she hadn't gone far. It was endearing, how much they worried about her. At least, that's what she told herself in the moments like this, when it was almost impossible to find even just two seconds of privacy. Sometimes, she really did feel like she was a little kid again. Only now, she was re-living a much different version of her childhood. A sweeter, kinder version wherein people actually wanted to take care of her and didn't think of her as a monumental burden. 

The tub's faucet squeaked shrilly as she turned on the water. When she’d first gotten home a week ago, just that motion, gripping the handle and giving the antique metal a yank, had left her arm feeling like a limp noodle. She was doing much better now, but she still felt pathetically weak and exceptionally out of shape. At one point, long ago, she had been fairly strong. A thin child, but always scrappy. Now she was a pale waif, muscles atrophied over the years as she'd gotten sicker. She vowed to herself that was going to change. Despite how frail she was, at the same time, she legitimately felt like she could take on the world now, with this new heart. She could finally breathe, take a breath fully in and out, without feeling lightheaded. That alone was a miracle.  

Gingerly, she lifted her tank top up over her head. Her scar, where a surgeon had cut into muscle and bone and forcibly ripped open her sternum, stood out, an angry red slash against alabaster skin. For the first few weeks, it had been concealed by gauze. By this point, it was still tender, but her doctor encouraged her to air it out often. She even had some skin mobility exercises she was supposed to be doing daily, to help the layers of tissue beneath the scar not permanently adhere to one another. The scar itself stretched from the top of her chest, dropping down in between her breasts, all the way past her sternum bone. It was a thick, gnarled thing, aesthetically ugly; but she found herself overwhelmingly grateful for it the longer she looked at it. As ugly as it was, this scar meant she was going to live to see her next birthday. 

Washing herself was still a slow, cautious process, but much easier than it had been when she’d first gotten out of the hospital. She took the time now to do her full, luxury, self care princess shower routine, something she hadn’t had the strength to do in months.  The venting system in the loft's tiny bathroom was terrible, and by the time she stepped out of the shower, steam cloaked the room like a fog. The sheer dampness of the air made her cough when she inhaled. Emma didn't care; she felt amazing. It was easy to underestimate how much better a good shower could make a person feel. She felt human again, instead of the fresh-from-the-hospital, invalid goblin she’d been feeling like for the past few weeks. Humming to herself, she dried off, turbaned her wet hair, and started to dress. 

David had the water running at the sink, and the apartment’s ancient radiator had kicked on next to the bathroom; when Emma finally opened the bathroom door, her brother and sister-in-law didn’t hear the faint creak of the old wood on its hinge as it started to open. 

“But you love your classroom.” David was saying in a low voice. It was clear he was trying to be fairly quiet, but this felt like intruding in on a conversation that had been going on for several minutes. Possibly the whole time she’d been in the shower. 

Emma didn't hear Mary Margaret sigh, but she could tell by the tone of her voice that her words had come on the end of one. “Of course I do,” she said, “And I really do miss my kids. But Emma needs me here. I can't just leave her! She just got a new heart, David. A heart. It's not like she had her wisdom teeth removed and just needs a day or two to get back on her feet.” 

The aforementioned heart skipped a beat in Emma's chest. A familiar, sinking feeling of guilt settled low and heavy in Emma's stomach. 

“But she will get back on her feet,” David said gently. “You know she will. She just needs time.” 

“Exactly! And she needs me here to help her until she does.” 

“No, she doesn't.” 

“David—” 

“Mary Margaret,” David interrupted lovingly. “She's going to be okay. Better than okay. This is the day we've all been waiting for, don't forget. She's getting a second chance at life here.” Unexpected tears welled in Emma's eyes at that. “And Emma knows that,” David continued. “You and I both know she's going to be chomping at the bit to get back out there. It's going to be hard enough keeping her here the six weeks it'll take for her to heal. She's not going to need our help half as much as you think she will.” 

Mary Margaret started to respond, but Emma couldn't take it anymore. She took the bathroom's old doorknob in her hand and gave it a good rattle, like she had just started to open it, and the door creaked loudly as she pushed it fully open. David and Mary Margaret grew hush until Mary Margaret piped up with, "Oh, hi Emma!" a little too brightly. David noticeably busied himself with cutting the garlic bread he’d pulled out of the oven moments before. The guilt at having eavesdropped coiled in Emma's chest like a snake ready to spring, and she swallowed around the lump that had grown in her throat. “Hey,” she said, trying her best to sound normal.

“Everything go okay?” Mary Margaret asked. “No dizziness?” 

“I didn’t hear the Life Alert alarm go off,” David said dryly, shooting his sister a wink. 

“I feel amazing,” Emma said earnestly. “Seriously.” She sidled up to her brother and successfully bumped him out of the way, taking over the cutting of the garlic bread despite his weak protestations. 

“Oh, good,” Mary Margaret breathed, and the relief was evident in her voice. She shared a glance with David, which Emma pointedly ignored, and moved to grab the stack of dishes waiting on the island so she could start setting the table. 

“I was thinking,” Emma went on, “Maybe I could come help you set up your classroom later today. If you think you need the help. Or I could just come keep you company, get a change of scenery.” 

“That sounds like a great idea,” David said, as he watched his wife’s expression. 

“That would be great, honestly,” Mary Margaret said, but was quick to add, “As long as you’re feeling up to it.” 

“I mean, as long as you don’t have me lugging around twenty-pound carts of Crayons or something,” Emma laughed, “I think I’ll be okay.” 

“Do fourth graders still use crayons?” David asked, as he popped open the oven one final time and withdrew the lasagna. The cheese on top was browning and bubbling and a minute away from burnt, just the way his mother had always cooked it, and the whole thing looked wonderful. 

“Not really,” Mary Margaret said with a shrug. “But it doesn’t matter. I have a big, handsome deputy to do all my heavy lifting for me.” She batted her eyes at her husband a few times, who grinned back at her. 

“All right, lovebirds,” Emma said, as she clicked the salad tongs at them a few times in playful warning. “Let’s eat. I’ve got my appetite back and I’m actually starving.” 

“Jeez,” David said, “You’d think she’d gotten a new stomach with the heart. She’s gonna eat us out of house and home now.”

Table set, food out, they took their respective seats. David uncorked a bottle of red wine he’d been saving for a special occasion, which Emma was definitely not allowed to have, but she told Mary Margaret to enjoy it for her. 

As Mary Margaret spooned squares of lasagna onto everyone’s plate, Emma took a moment to try to find the right words to say to convey how she was feeling to these people who would seemingly do anything in the world for her. But what she wanted most is for them to get back to living their lives, too. They had put off so much for her sake, and she was more grateful than she knew how to say. But it was time to move on now, to heal, for all of them. 

“I know it can suck, having such a huge surgery,” Emma started, pausing to clear her throat. “But this is different.” She glanced up at Mary Margaret, who was watching her closely. “I mean, a month ago, I was dying. I never told you guys this, but it just felt like the end. I was working on drafting a will.” 

“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret said quietly. 

“That’s so morbid,” David said.

“I know it’s stupid.” Emma toyed with the end of her napkin as she stared down at her plate.  “I don’t really have anything to will to anyone. I was just going to leave anything I had to you guys.” She cleared her traitorous throat again and took a moment to blink back some tears. She needn’t have bothered; when she glanced up at her family, they were both openly tearing up as they looked at her. “Okay, stop,” she said, pointing her fork at them, “Or I’m going to lose it. Absolutely no crying in baseball.” 

“Got it,” Mary Margaret said, her voice watery and absolutely unconvincing. 

“Just… Thank you,” Emma said, when she finally got her voice back under control. “I don’t want to think about where I’d be without you both. From the bottom of both my hearts,” she said, with a wry little smile she couldn’t keep at bay, “Thank you.” 

David chuckled, wiping at his eyes, and Mary Margaret continued to stare at her, smiling and barely holding back the floodgates. “We love you, sis,” David said, and a moment later he raised his wineglass. “To Emma’s new lease on life.” Mary Margaret’s wine glass followed, and Emma clinked her water glass with theirs. 

“And Mary Margaret’s new school year,” Emma added. 

“Hear, hear,” Mary Margaret agreed. “I’ll take prayers, good vibes, anything you’ve got.” 

“You’re going to do great,” David assured her, as he put his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer to kiss her cheek. “Those kids are lucky to have you.”

Dinner was splendid, and the company even better. It was the first full meal Emma was able to enjoy without feeling nauseated, which was a win in her book. She literally couldn’t think of the last time that had happened. Mary Margaret did indeed have Emma’s wine, and was perhaps a little tipsy when they later ventured out to put some finishing touches on her classroom, which just made it all the more enjoyable for Emma and David. 

And as Emma settled into bed that night, for the first time in a long time, she felt well and truly good. She felt full, warm, strong, and loved. And she knew, felt sure in her bones, that this was the start of one of the best years of her life. 

+++++

The funeral went as well as a funeral could--especially considering there was no actual body to bury. Milah had set it up long beforehand that all salvageable organs were to be donated to the nearest hospital at the time of her death, then the rest of her body donated to science. This made planning her funeral and memorial service a unique affair, as there was no body for a wake, no urn of ashes received. That he would receive later, whenever the hospital saw fit. So Killian honored his wife's memory the best way he could. 

Everyone who had ever known her in the past few years since she and Killian had moved Stateside was crammed into a small funeral home to celebrate her life and speak well of her. Her parents were long dead, but he had managed to get his hands on some childhood photos from her aunt who still lived across the pond; a small smattering of her extended relatives had sent cards to pay their respects. But the room was filled primarily with her coworkers and friends she’d made in the few years they’d lived in Boston. 

Milah had been a truly gifted photographer, both in her work and personal life, evidence of which sat neatly framed and displayed on nearly every available inch of table space in the room. All the best photos Milah had ever taken through her work had been printed and framed and displayed, tucked neatly between bouquets of flowers. One table was so long, it took up the entire back wall. 

Killian had almost, almost, completely lost the last tenuous grip he had on his sanity when the wrong flowers had come in that morning. He had distinctly ordered stargazer lilies, his wife’s favorite flower, for the table arrangements. Instead, what had been delivered to him were a rainbow assortment of Gerber daisies, of all things, which he viewed on this particular day as nothing short of an abomination. As it turned out, there had been a mistake with the delivery trucks, and his order had been sent to a birthday party instead. It probably should have embarrassed him, how angry a simple mix up of flowers had made him. But as he had very little pride left, he was literally seeing red, until Robin showed up beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and gently steered him out the side door and outside for some fresh air. Will took over, his general belligerence a helpful and actually useful tool that day, and tried to get the flowers sorted out with minimal shouting. 

As Killian stood now, gazing down at the myriad of perfect photos his wife had taken over the course of her career, he belatedly realized he had been the star of many of them, unbeknownst to him. His wife had apparently been a ninja behind her viewfinder when he wasn’t paying attention. It should have made him feel awkward, being the focal point of so many of her photographs; the last thing he wanted now was attention. And yet, he couldn’t help but smile at most of them. One of him leaning over the railing of a dock, for instance, staring pensively out at sea, squinting slightly in the light of the sun. Another of him from behind, a shadowed figure standing on the beach with his toes buried in the sand and his hands in the pockets of his shorts, staring out at the red slashed sky of an oncoming storm. He was the blurred, black clad figure in the background or at the helm in several photographs of the ships he and his brother had helped restore. 

It was visible, tangible proof of how much she had loved him, how often her camera found itself pointed in his direction, focused on him. And God, if that didn’t make him miss her all the more. His heart was an open wound, and he was never going to be able to staunch the flow from it. Day by day, he felt like he was bleeding out, until soon there would be nothing left of him. 

One photo, his favorite, and one that was already framed in his home, stood out prominently. His and his brother, Liam, in front of their first real score for the ship restoration foundation, a beautiful, towering piece of history in the form of a stunning antique merchant vessel. Liam’s arm was thrown over Killian’s shoulders, his face alight with absolute joy (and possibly the buzz from the beers they’d had over lunch). They were both squinting, laughing like fools at having finally pulled it off. Towering behind them, not to be overshadowed, was the ship, herself: the Jewel of the Realm. Milah had been sent by a local paper to get photos of the ship, and her new owners, as a focal point for a story on local maritime history. 

Killian felt fortunate he remembered that day so well. It had felt like the best day of his entire life, at the time. Seeing his brother so elated, after everything they had endured together, had been enough to send Killian to the moon. It felt like things were finally, finally going their way. He had taken to Milah instantly, and spent the hour regaling her with the history of the ship. A merchant ship, originally, but thought to have been used for piracy at one point. He leaned heavily into the implications of the latter fact, as he felt—rightly so—that it added intrigue, and Milah had been enamored with the Jewel. He'd joked that day about renaming it the Jolly Roger, much to his brother's chagrin. She’d had other work to get to that day, so she hadn’t stayed long, but she’d given him her business card, which he still carried in his wallet. Liam had been killed shortly after, on one of his last missions with the Royal Navy before his scheduled retirement. Everything had changed, then. But Killian had always felt especially lucky that it had been Milah that day who had come to take their photo. For one short hour, she had been able to meet his brother, before Killian had lost him forever. The stars had aligned, and for one short span of time, the man who had meant the most to him and the woman who would come to mean everything to him had met, briefly. It wasn’t much, in the grand scheme of things, but to Killian, it had to be enough. 

And then there were the glorious photos of the rest of the ships he had brought on through the years. He had always marveled at Milah’s skill behind a camera, her ability to find just the right angle, at just the precise time of day, to truly capture the essence of the ships he restored. Through her eyes, even the in-progress pictures never made them look like pieces of floating shit, which some of them very much were at the start of the process. She managed to make them look like hidden treasure, just waiting to be uncovered. Pieces of history waiting to be lovingly restored to their former glory. That’s what he’d felt like, with her. She’d been the one to see past his flaws after the death of his brother, to see something worth loving in him, something worth restoring. 

And now what was he, without her? 

The frequent looks of sympathy that came his way over the course of the memorial service were one of the worst parts of the day. Each and every concerned glance that flit in Killian's direction was threaded not only with heavy condolences, but something much worse: pity. And he knew he was a pitiable sight, indeed. He was dressed well enough, in a deep black suit Milah had bought for him after his business had another big break. But, his arm with the broken collarbone was still in a sling and had no hand at the end of it. Dark circles cradled his eyes, which seemed to be permanently bloodshot these days. He had given up almost entirely on sleep.

Sleeping felt impossible, an insurmountable task despite its simplicity; the bed was too big, too cold, and too empty when he was the only one in it. He tried—really tried. Each night, he made a valiant attempt to sleep in his own bed. He'd toss, turn, and generally do a lot of staring up at his ceiling. Eventually, he resorted to Netflix. But his “recently watched” list was full of her favorite shows, episodes half finished, series just begun. It was a terrible distraction. 

The first week after he arrived home from the hospital, his recliner chair in the living room had been the only place he could comfortably fall asleep with his arm in a sling. It was a lumpy, unsightly thing he had inherited from his brother (it was this reason and this reason alone his wife had allowed him to keep it.) Milah had called it his old man chair. These days, he’d often fall asleep in the chair, wake up with a start an hour later, and make his way to the couch, where he’d try to fall back asleep, but would mostly lie awake, staring into the dark, letting his mind off its leash and letting it wander to dangerous places. 

Often these thoughts centered on what he would do if he could track down the driver who had hit them head on, then fled the scene. What he would do when he found him or her varied. Sometimes, he pictured lighting him on fire. The next moment, he'd revel in the thought of running him through with a knife, watching him slowly bleed out on the floor. Or he’d take his hand from him, too. Such thoughts kept him company and carried him through until morning. 

Now, with the lack of sleep and the general dissociation he felt, he often didn’t feel cemented in reality. When he looked around the room, taking in the funeral parlor, it felt like this was happening to someone else, and he was merely observing. It didn’t help that he was surrounded by a sea of people who didn't know what to say to him. The moment never came that he was spared the awkward indignity of a conversation with someone who had little else to say other than I'm sorry. 

She was a lovely person. 

(Each time, he bristled at the use of the past tense.)

She'll be missed. 

Pity had overtaken the room, lingering like a dense fog. Everywhere he turned, his friends, her friends, co-workers, even a handful of people he had never seen before in his life, were all wearing the same expression on their faces. It transcended simple pity. It was next-level pity, flashing from their eyes and those slight down-turned corners of their mouths like a brightly-lit billboard in the night that read "YOUR LIFE DEPRESSES ME." 

He couldn't blame them. He pitied himself, too, when he wasn't numb, pulled down so deep into his own despair he could no longer think straight.

At least the food was decent—or so he had been overhearing. One quick glance over at Will Scarlet in the back of the room, face stuffed with h'orderves, told him the funeral parlor's appetizers couldn't have been terrible. If there had ever been a time he appreciated his friends more, he couldn't think of it. Of all the people who had shown up to the service, Locks and Scarlet were the only two who didn't make him want to scream. Or run. Or throw a punch. All of it, all at once. 

Will and Robin sat apart from the rest, in a pair of wingback armchairs in the corner of the room. Killian hadn't had a chance to speak to either of them, apart from initial hellos and quick hugs when they'd first arrived, and of course the ordeal with the flowers, but somehow, he knew without even asking they intended to stay for the entire affair, likely planning to take him out for a drink when this was all over.

What else do you do for your best friend after his wife's funeral?

All in all, it wasn’t a very hopeful affair, and too often bordered on bleak. Killian had no words in honor of Milah he wanted to share with a roomful of people who didn’t know her very well, and he didn’t trust himself to speak without breaking down. So, people ate, drank, and made a reserved and somber form of merry. They swapped stories back and forth, each offering up little pieces of the woman they had known.

Milah's parents had died years ago, and she had no siblings, so the room was occupied primarily by people she had thought of as friends. That was a nice thought, and in the coming weeks, Killian would be touched by the food, flowers, and cards that continued to arrive on his doorstep in memory of his wife. 

But here, in this moment, he couldn't bring himself to find hope in anything. 

+++++++

One Year Later 

Was a house truly haunted if you didn’t mind the ghost?

It felt like a haunting for months after Milah’s funeral, this limbo state he found himself in, where he couldn’t bring his heart or his brain to fully comprehend that she was gone. They traded shifts in misunderstanding, his heart and brain. There were days where, logically, he understood his wife was dead. And yet, his heart still leaped at the sound of a car door shutting outside, or an imagined creak in the floorboards that sounded like her coming around the corner in the hall. Other days, his heartache was so profound, he could barely muster the strength to get out of bed. All too often, he’d forget, and for a few blissful minutes, reach for his phone to call her and ask her a question. Those were beautiful moments, the forgetting. But the remembering that followed took his breath away. 

Then there were the things around the home he couldn’t bring himself to toss. Notes she’d left on the fridge, a grocery list on the table. Leftovers from her favorite meal at their favorite restaurant he couldn’t bring himself to throw away until they were fouling up the whole kitchen. Her phone was recovered from the accident and eventually made its way to him, via the detectives working the hit and run case. He went through her email drafts, texts, anything he could get his hands on that held pieces of Milah. He'd saved every voicemail she'd ever left him, had them memorized, and he'd play them when he missed her most, poking the bruise in his heart over and over until it numbed and didn't hurt so much. It all felt relatively harmless, like doing this to himself couldn’t possibly be a bad thing. 

Until he found himself practically sobbing the floor of the shower one morning over a soggy clump of her hair he’d pulled from the drain. 

He just couldn’t seem to pull himself together. 

How do you bring yourself to purposefully excavate traces of someone from your life, after they’re gone, until it was like they weren’t even there at all, the life you shared existing only in snapshots and memories? How exactly does one get to that place, force yourself to loosen your grip on all you have left of the person you love, the person you’d give anything to see one last time? Killian couldn’t fathom it. He couldn’t picture himself ever ridding himself completely of Milah’s memory. 

But he could stop leaving land mines for himself. 

He’d always run a tight ship at home, in terms of cleanliness. He had never had much, by way of possessions, and wasn’t sentimental about keeping things. Now he found himself debating whether or not he should keep a note in the bathroom his wife had scrawled out for herself to remind herself to order new contacts. These were the silly, useless things he stared at for minutes on end, debating what to do with. This little scrap of her pretty handwriting he recognized and loved. The thought of it winding up in a landfill somewhere made him ill. 

Eventually, he gathered these random scraps and pieces of her he’d found (except the clump of hair from the drain—that one did make it into the waste bin, thankfully) and gently shepherded them into a large Ziploc bag, which he kept in a box on her side of the closet. 

Robin and Will called often, texted even more often, and even dropped by now and again. They offered their help constantly, gladly would have helped with menial tasks like this (like throwing away scraps of paper Milah might have touched, God, he was a mess), but he turned them away each time. He just wanted to shut the world out, encase himself in a tomb of his own grief. 

He hadn’t even been able to see her, to say goodbye to her, because he hadn’t been bloody conscious for it. He had no memory of Robin telling him of her death; in the week following the accident, he left a slew of traumatized nurses in his wake as people had to tell him again and again for what felt like the first time that his wife was gone. 

Milah, bless her ever-loving soul, had signed herself up to be an organ donor. Of course she had. On some level, he knew this. It was marked on her driver’s license, and it was surely something they had talked about at one point. But now he resented it, resented the whole idea of it. He resented anything that didn’t allow him to see his wife one last time. One doctor had had the absolute audacity to tell Killian that he didn’t want to see his wife, anyway; the damage from the accident had been too great, the brunt of which had gone to her head, and that it was a miracle her heart was still beating enough to allow for any organ transplants. Killian, for his part, had an entirely different definition of the word “miracle”. 

So he waited to receive her ashes, held a funeral without her body. But he certainly didn’t wait patiently. 

He wonders sometimes what she would think of what he's become. No doubt there would be times she'd laugh at how ridiculous he was being, debating on keeping an old, wet clump of her hair like some kind of serial killer, and the subsequent guilt he felt at throwing it away, this gross little piece of her DNA. 

And yet, he reminds himself that there is, oddly, more of her DNA out there somewhere. Somewhere, out in the world, a select few of her vital organs are in new bodies, presumably thriving and keeping their hosts alive and well. Presumably, there are people out there who will be forever grateful for these pieces of his wife. Actual, living pieces of her. Killian has no idea how to feel about that, truly. There will come a day, when he is able to pull himself out of this darkness that perpetually feels more crushingly inescapable by the day, that he is able to see the true and abundant beauty in it. Milah, gone, but literal parts of her living on, providing life-giving support to someone else’s body and soul. That's the true miracle, really, and something he’d know she would be proud of. 

For now, in the depths of his despair, he feels annoyed, indifferent at best. Her benevolent medical and scientific donation was, for many long months, the thing standing between him and a proper burial for his wife, the thing that stood in the way of closure and him being able to say goodbye to her properly. This is the thing his mind latched onto, chooses as a target for his blame. 

Closure arrives on his doorstep one afternoon, boxed and bubble wrapped, in the form of an unassuming black urn. When he finally received her ashes, half a year after her death, he knew what he would do with them, knew immediately what she would want him to do with them. But he can’t yet bring himself to say goodbye, and the urn sat above their fireplace for months. This is the moment it hits him, truly, that she is gone. This is what it takes for it to finally sink in. He spends a long time building up the courage, brick by brick, to do what he needs to do. And as what would be her 37th birthday approaches on a warm July day, he finally gathered the strength to lay his wife to rest and honor her the way she deserved. 

What he doesn’t appreciate about the day, however, is the weather, which turns out to be an absolutely perfect New England summer day, which Killian very much resented. 

It was almost like it was mocking him. Jabbing a bright, sunshiny finger right into his face and laughing at his grief, which still, even almost a year after the death of his wife, was still a wound that had left him hollowed. When his brother had died, suddenly and with too much life left unlived, he'd felt like the ground itself had been pulled out from under him, and he'd been left in free fall. Now, with Milah gone, it felt as if his heart had been ripped right out of his chest and crushed in front of him. 

How did people live like this? 

If he were truly honest with himself, Killian wasn't certain what he was doing each day could actually be called living. He was alive, sure. Most days, the only thing that kept that from being true was the unknown lurking behind the veil of death. He had his own theories, his own hopes, for what awaited in a possible afterlife, but of course, no one really knows for sure until their time comes. He couldn't be sure what would happen to him, whether or not he'd see Milah, if he died tomorrow. Hell would be dying and not being reunited with her. And that was a hell whose existence he was not quite ready to test. 

The closest thing he had to his wife now was resting in his lap, ashes encased in ceramic. He had taken a small, private sailboat out to sea, sailed until there was no one else in sight, trying to find a good spot to release her ashes to the ocean she had loved so much. It had been close to two hours, now; he knew he was putting off the inevitable. If he didn’t do it now, he feared, with good reason, that he never would.

The best part about giving someone’s ashes to the sea was that there wouldn’t be one particular spot where her body would be laid to rest. The waves would take the dust of her and spread it for him, from shore to shore, just like they had taken his brother’s ashes. There would be no headstone, but the ocean itself would remind him of her, and he could visit her anytime he liked on a sea that had always brought him a sense of serenity. 

Killian Jones had never believed in soul mates until he’d met Milah.  And he still didn't quite believe in them, in the traditional sense. He didn't believe in a ready-made mate just waiting for him to find her. No, in his experience, life was far from ever that easy or that simple. But things had changed for him when he'd met his wife. Then, with her love, the broken pieces in him, irrevocably shattered the day his brother had died, shifted together into something that could almost be held together again. With her, he’d felt more whole than he could ever remember feeling in his life. 

She had been married at the time, when they’d met. Daydreaming of leaving her terrible husband, dreams which grew in intensity with each passing day. And while she hadn't exactly left him for Killian, she may has well have. Everything had changed for her that day, too. 

For while Milah had been his partner, they hadn't met each other and been perfectly content. But they had made each other stronger, in all the ways that counted. Now he believed wholeheartedly that soul mates existed. But they weren't found, ready made and prepackaged. They were made, forged through love and hard work working hand in hand. 

These were the things he thought, as the gentle salted breeze ruffled his hair and brought stinging tears to his eyes. As he looked down at the urn that held the last physical piece of the woman he’d loved, would always love, was lost and adrift without. 

“I love you, Milah,” he whispered to the wind. The tightness in his throat and jaw wouldn’t let him say more, but he knew he didn’t need to. She’d known how much and how fiercely he’d loved her, and he had to think that wherever she was, she still knew the hold she had on him. 

He held the urn against his chest with his prosthetic hand, working to unscrew the top. The breeze calmed at just the right moment, and as he leaned over the side of the ship to release Milah to the sea she'd loved, the dust of her settled gently down into the water. 

=========

gonna tag a few folks who I think might care this is up (again, sorry if I already tagged you!) @spartanguard @sunbeamsandmoonrays @caprelloidea @kmomof4 @queen-mabs-revenge @ahsagitarius @galadriel26 @t-tamm-

@lavendersoapsuds @its-imperator-furiosa @midnightswans @cigarettes-and-scotch-whisky @withheartfulloflove @captainswan-middlemist @sarahreadsff @princesseslikepirates @winterbaby89 @pirateherokillian @wordslovedreams

@hannah-mic @thecraftyartist @blackwidownat2814 @once-uponacaptain @kylalovesbabeme @swiftmicheles @emmaswanstlk @captainswanslay

@the-tones-of-wallflowers @kday426 @krystalsficpage

[elvisabutler]

phila

summary: he was a frat boy. you were not a sorority girl. could i make it any more obvious. or how you fall for a frat boy and an incident happens that makes you realize how much he cares for you and just how much his friends do too. fandom: austin butler rating: m but not because anyone has sex more for rough content. pairing: austin butler ( frat boy ) x female reader word count: 2823 warnings: talking shit on fraternities and sororities. mild insecurity. a bit of misogyny. frat bros being heinous human beings. non consensual drug use. violence in the form of a drunken brawl. roofies being mentioned and used. dudebros being assholes. beer bottles being thrown. implied undressing while unconscious done by a trusted person. completely averted attempt at sa/sexual assault. author’s note: y'all can essentially blame @prompted-wordsmith for this one because they're the one who put the little nugget in my brain back when we talked about this. heed the warnings, please. i didn't tag this as austin's main post tag because i know it deals with a sensitive topic but it's also probably— the last frat austin piece i might write unless anyone has something they specifically want to see. same goes for my tags for all of you. which, truly i refrain from tagging when it comes to things i feel most of you would prefer not to read and this is no exception. i believe i put all the warnings but feel free to tell me if i missed any. hope you enjoy if you read and thank y'all for your support. also i know not all chapters of SAE are like this but they are known to be a— bad frat so to speak.

Going to frat parties is not your idea of fun. It's a fact that Austin knows and will usually acknowledge and allow you to just skip them with promises that he won't do anything funny with any other girls. Not that you don't trust him, but you know how touchy he can get while tipsy, and you know as well as anyone sometimes touches can be misconstrued. There are lone exceptions, though, the parties that Austin begs to have you at so he can show you off and tell everyone how much of a genius his girlfriend is. They're always held at other frat houses, and every so often, you start to wonder if you're being dragged around like a trophy only to realize that's not the case at all. If anything, it's him trying to prove to everyone that you're kind of settling for him and that you could get better guys. It's a silly notion, you think, but it is what it is and you go along with it for Austin's delight only to remind him when you're safely in each other's arms in bed that he's the only one for you. Besides, what sort of girl is supposed to go for the premed and theater guy, hm?

Tonight is one of those nights where you're in a simple black and white jumpsuit and Austin is in what you like to call party causal. Or a step up from his normal tank tops but not full formal or business wear, but it involves jeans that make his ass look flawless so you're pretty sure you're winning just because of that one sole fact. It's easier to hitch a ride or just walk with Austin when it comes to heading to these parties and tonight is no different with you sitting in the passenger side of his car as his hand interlocks with yours.

"You're going to have to let go of my hand, Austin. Pretty sure no one is going to let us live it down if we get into a car accident because we both know better," you laugh, pulling his head up to your lips to kiss it as he shrugs.

"I can drive one handed." He attempts to defend his actions only to earn a look from you that has him sighing. "Hitting the curb that one time doesn't count."

A laugh erupts from your mouth as you finally move your hand away despite his pout with those plush lips of his. "Right. Do I have to call Darce and them to get more proof or do I win this argument just because you knew I was going to mention that?"

Austin pauses and looks for a moment like he's going to present a defense worthy of a brilliant lawyer before, "I think we're at a draw."

There's a moment where you look like you're going to playfully argue before you just smile. "Drive, Butler."

Normally Austin has a tendency to stick close by to you at these parties, not because he doesn't trust you, but because he- despite being a nice and trusting person knows better than to trust a lot of the frats on campus. Most of the time any thing that happens are just rumors but he knows through the grapevine that there's a few people who shouldn't be on campus but have Daddy's money to help them avoid getting kicked out. But this particular party has some pledges he lost out on and likes to check up on from time to time. You're a big girl, though, and he knows you'll be fine. He knows if anyone tries anything they're in for a world of hurt before he even knows there's a problem.

In hindsight, he should have known better than to leave you alone at this particular party. The time before the party had been a little rushed and your normal preparation of having enough to drink ahead of time was left by the wayside. It meant this time around you were nursing a coke trying to be the designated driver at a house most people know better than to have open drinks at. You try to mingle as best you can, attempting to use this to build some connection to someone knowing that despite everything this frat is one of the richer and thus more connected ones and it shows in the talk you hear among some people. Your eyes instinctively seek out Austin more than once and are relieved that he's close enough to you that no one would dare try anything until you find yourself face to face with a guy you've met before.

"Y/N! Fancy seeing you hear. AB finally let you out?" The guy— Jackson, you think his name is— smiles, his canines being exposed when he does. He reminds you of a wolf in all the worst ways.

"Jackie," you mockingly croon, setting down your drink for just a moment. "Cute how you think Austin can tell me what to do like that. Andrew let you run around off the leash?"

You watch as a muscle in Jackson's jaw twitches and you want to laugh but you stop yourself when you see him start to open his mouth. "Funny. AB knows how to pick his bitches. He sent me over here to talk to you actually. Said he wanted to mend bridges between our two houses. He knows Aussie's a little mad about that—"

"How you sniped the kids you called charity cases in your pledge class? When everyone knew they were shoo ins for Phi Kap. But little Andy got it in his head they needed to SAE boys. Yeah, I heard the story." The words come out more vicious than you intend them to but strangely Jackson doesn't react. "What?"

Jackson laughs and for some reason you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up almost as if to warn you of something. It's then that you remember you set down your drink and pick it back up. As you're picking it up, you miss how Jackson smiles. "You really are something else. Shame you settled for the poor white trash surfer boy. When you get tired of him, you'd fit right in here, Y/N. Fucking mean enough."

With that Jackson walks away and you find yourself wondering what just happened as you take a sip of your Coke. Austin catches your eye from across the room and winks, smiling at you before turning to talk to the freshman he was already talking to.

Austin knows that two things are wrong when he looks up thirty minutes later after catching up with multiple Freshman and being interrupted by some asshole whose name he didn't even catch. You're not where you've been for almost the entire party which wouldn't be strange except he can't really find you anywhere. He pulls out his phone to see a missed call from you, a voicemail and a text message that looks like the ones you send him when you've fallen asleep with your phone in your hand. That alone worries him and has him listening to the voicemail only to hear your voice sound wrong in a way that has him seeing red. It doesn't take him long to find one of the upperclassmen— Trey, he thinks? Maybe Trevor, Austin honestly doesn't care as long as he has some idea of where you went.

"Did you see where the girl I came here with went? My girlfriend— She—" Austin trips over his words, suddenly reverting back to that shy boy he once was when he was younger unable to order his own food. The man rolls his eyes.

"The uptight one? Dude, she went to where the bathrooms are. Maybe the bedroom?" His hand motions in the direction of a hallway and Austin shoves his way past multiple people to the third bathroom where he hears something that sounds like you groaning. Austin doesn't waste another second before he's against the door saying your name and somehow you manage to get the door unlocked.

Austin finds you on the floor near the toilet and all he thinks is that you look exceptionally out of it. Your eyes barely focus on his face and when trying to reach him you decide the under the sink counter door is his leg. "Aus—" You start before trailing off. "Why'm I in the bath'oom?"

Part of why Austin likes you— loves you as much as he does is how well spoken you are so hearing you like this makes him so terrified that he's grabbing your hands and yanking you up with a grunt. Your body practically melts into his before you hear another knock at the door and see some of the boys from Austin's frat looking at the scene. Kelvin's the one who speaks first.

"Did they—Aus, man, you know what this looks like."

Austin's grip tightens around your waist and you look up at him and press your nose into his shirt, inhaling his comforting scent even as your mind jumps and swirls and does everything in between being normal. "Tight. Too tight."

Everything feels too tight, your jumpsuit, your bra, his arms but you can't figure out how to get out those words as Austin's grip loosens just a hair when he turns to look at his friends. The boys he'd trust with his life and with yours. "I— I don't know how the fuck they did this but find whoever did it. Fucking— she can barely stand up and she wasn't drinking. You guys know that. Who does this— I'm just here to talk to the newbies not to— Not to put my girlfriend in harms way."

It's then that Austin watches Xavier and Adam already leaving the doorway and after a moment he hears a crack of a beer bottle breaking.

"Who did it to Y/N? We just want to talk, man! Take you so you can see your handiwork!" Xavier's voice silences the crowd before there's a rush of voices and cursing that has Luke joining the fray only for you to hear him shout,

"Where the fuck did you get a beer can like that?" It's a valid question but one he says while grabbing a foldable chair and brandishing it in his hands as someone— Trey? Trevor? Alexander? Someone tries to run off after laughing at the scene.

"She deserved it," he mocks as Luke steps closer to him chair still in hand. On your shaky legs Austin starts to try and lead you back to his car before Luke does something you never thought was possible outside of pretend WWE matches. He throws a chair on top of someone's head. Your ears faintly hear the cracking of wood and you wince against Austin before he holds you tighter to him.

"You're fine. They're— They're not gonna hurt you." Austin whispers against your hair and you can smell the faint traces of alcohol on his breath. "I think they're gonna hurt all of the upperclassmen of SAE but not you."

As if on cue there's a bottle that flies by Austin's head and shouts that sounds like multiple of Austin's friends trying to tackle someone.

"Fuckin' tryin' to knock him out?" "Already messed with his girlfriend!" "Your balls that small Andy??"

In another time and place you'd be laughing and while telling the boys it's not worth it but honestly you can't right now. Truthfully if you could right now you'd be joining with them, getting in hits just the same as the rest of them. It frustrates you to not be able to but at the same time there's a warm feeling in your chest unrelated to whatever is circulating in your system at knowing these boys are willing to do this for you.

Someone throws another bottle at Austin's head and it barely misses you before there's another set of shouts and more cursing and general ruckus. Austin pulls you closer once more and starts to head to the door as you hear Tom's bellow to Austin.

"B, get her outta here! We got this! Just get us some rides!" Rides home is what he means but he's interrupted by someone trying to climb on his back. "Now what the fuck are ya doin' bruh?"

Austin takes that as a cue to rush out, only stopping for a moment to shout something about not getting arrested before getting you both in the car. He knows he's not supposed to drive after he's had any sort of liquor but you're in no state to drive yourself and he doesn't trust that his car will stay in one piece if he leaves it here. The second he starts the car your eyes start to droop down and he frowns looking at you.

"I'm so sorry, babe."

You wake up the next morning to Austin on the phone sounding more agitated the more words are spoken. It's a strange thing to see but even more strange is how you're in a pair of pjs you've left in his room at the house with no recollection of how you got in them.

"I know it goes against the code of— they drugged my girlfriend. I think when comparing the two we have the moral high ground. I'll take— I'll take punishment for some of them but you're not shutting down our chapter. I'll handle— yes I can handle it!" His next words are a little incomprehensible and you just sort of stare at him while pulling a blanket tighter around you until he hangs up and realizes you're awake.

"Hey. You— How're you feeling?"

You pause before answering and sigh. "Like shit. I don't— What happened last night? I remember bathrooms and beer bottles? And a chair?"

"I— I'm not really sure. You were where you were at one point, then you disappeared into the bathroom after you drank something? I don't— I really don't know. I found you when I realized and when I did. The boys and I realized you were— uh— that you had something in you that was definitely not something you took willingly." Austin moves to sit on the bed next to you and pulls you close to him. "I got you out of there and— there might have been a few injuries? Involving fists and chairs and bottles. General mayhem."

A silence falls over the two of you before your eyes widen. "You mean they— Did you just tell me I had a bunch of frat bros fighting for me?"

Austin can't help the quiet laugh that leaves him as he nods. "And I didn't even ask them to. They saw you and some of SAE said some— very stupid things and yeah. Tom shooed me out before a bottle hit us. They're in a lot of trouble right now but no one got arrested which is a— It's surprising but I don't question the charm of some of us."

"What about the whole frat—" The words die on your lips as soon as Austin's hand touches your cheek and he shakes his head.

"We'll be fine. Fighting with another frat is bad but not nearly as bad as members drugging someone on purpose considering I think— I think they singled you out specifically. Or at least figured you'd be a fun target. I don't— It doesn't matter. We look better in comparison." Austin explains, watching you bite your lip. "It's fine, babe. I promise. Honestly, they care more about you and if you're okay. Just like me."

Which is to honestly say, stop worrying in Austin's roundabout way. You don't speak for a good five minutes, choosing instead to listen to Austin's heartbeat before you finally move to try and get up. Austin quickly puts a stop to that even as you frown. "Austin, I'm fine just let me get up."

"Future doctor's orders. You're staying in bed today just so I can keep an eye on you. Promise you can do whatever tomorrow. Just— please, babe."

After a moment you move to crawl back into bed and glare a bit at him. "Go get me food, then. I'm— I think I'm so hungry I'm nauseous? I don't know just— food." You stare at the door and swear you hear someone walking by it. "And I guess send in the guys? Are they being creepy at the door?"

The answering yell of no has you and Austin laughing as he opens the door to find Tom chilling against the door, before barging in. "They sent me for recon. Ya good?"

You share a look with Austin as you nod. "Yeah, go tell them I'm good. And that next time try and defend my honor a little more subtly. And tell Luke he's got to show me that chair trick."

taglist: none for this.

[silentmoths]

Fragile as a brick wall

Masterlist || Next

welp, I was originally going to start posting this one on Ao3 but seems they're doing some maintneance, so the tumblr crowd is the first to get chapter 1.

I havent felt this...energized about a story in a while, and while I doubt it's updates are going to be daily like my first batches of longform, here's hoping I can keep the energy up.

Zhongli x Afab (fem pronoun) Reader

NSFW elements in later chapters

Multi-chapter, Royal AU, angst, mentions of death, eventual fluff, eventual smut, idk more tags when they happen ig?

(Beautiful header made by the lovely @ainescribe ;w; i am not worthy)

Ch:1

The night is quiet, peaceful.

Unassuming.

A small group of travellers pass through the gates, silent save for the echo of hooves against cobble as their horses ascend the path towards the castle. It’s been many years since any of them have returned, and for some, they had never once set foot into the kingdom; now only following their leader, hopes of a better life for themselves and all these unassuming villagers.

They expect resistance from the guards, but as their leader removes their hood, any and all step aside, staring with wide eyes, as if they’d seen a ghost, some of them even bowing in reverence; they remembered.

They all remembered.

They all know why he’s here. 

They say nothing. Turning a blind eye to the newcomers' approach, hushing any of the younger guards who had never laid eyes upon the man at the head of the party as they pass, for this, he is glad, he didn’t want to hurt any of his old friends.

“M’lord…this is almost too easy.” Xiao mutters, eyeing off the guards from beneath the safety of his hood. “This must be a trap.”

“This is no trap, Xiao.” Zhongli responds easily, turning his head to give one of his strongest and most loyal a reassuring smile. “These are old friends who are tired, just as I was.”

“Things truly are worse than I thought.” Ganyu mumbles, eyeing off the village down the hill, rundown and falling apart “Are you sure we can save this?”

“I am.” He responds with confidence “I cannot do this alone, but as you can see, the guards are on board, the villagers will be swayed easily…with all your help…this can be turned around.” 

He does not mention the one other person he can think of that could truly turn the tides, she isn’t even here right now, sent on a goodwill mission to the kingdom she had been promised to, no matter, any political promises from the king would be dissolved before dawn.

He sends Xiao and Ganyu to the prince's chambers first. Despite their glaringly cruel outlook on their subjects, he needed those two alive, and he knew Xiao and Ganyu could do that. Finally, at the screaming of one of the princes, the alarm is finally raised that there was indeed something wrong in the castle, guards mobilise, yet all seem to actively avoid where the actual problem is, vanishing to other wings of the castle, dragging confused new recruits with them as Zhongli waits.

The twin’s are deposited at his feet, bound and gagged as he sits upon the throne that will soon be his, hood pulled back up to conceal his identity as he waits. The king was a proud man, and he loved this horrible gilded throne more than anything else. His mind turned feeble, greedy and tyrannical after the death of his wife, if there was anywhere he would go first, it was here.

What bothers him more are the smaller thrones, set either side. Two…one for each prince, completely disregarding their older, far more capable sister.

No matter, Zhongli would see to fixing that soon enough.

But before then, the drunken, thunderous shouting from down the hall signalled the approach of the one man he absolutely had to see.

The king shouts obscenities and profanity at him, demanding his sons be let go, that he would have Zhongli hung for his crimes. Zhongli listens silently, letting the oaf bluster himself out before rising. 

“You have forgotten me…” He sighs with a shrug of his shoulders as he unclips his cloak, allowing it to fall away. “Quite a shame.” 

There is a burning satisfaction Zhongli feels well in his chest when the tyrannical king he had once served so loyally, realises who it is standing before him. Despite the many years, Zhongli still looked very much the same; well kept, fit and strong despite his thin physique, and his eyes, to the king, it was the eyes.

The molten amber-gold was unlike anything he had ever seen before, and had not seen since the death of the captain of his Royal guard some five years ago.

“You-” For all his thunderous bellowing earlier, the sight of a ghost had the horrid man stunned to silence, unable to move, unable to speak, as Zhongli draws his sword, face hardened to stone.

“Me.” 

–

Blood stained the throne room floor that morning as dawn breaks and the villagers slowly meander to the gatehouse. The guards, once sullen and imposing, step aside, welcoming the common folk into the castle grounds proper for the first time in over a decade.

The people begin to talk, to flock and to question as they approach the castle, once cut off, once a place of fear; anyone who had been summoned to the castle prior had never been seen alive again.

And yet the sight they are met with at the main gates is of a pyre, of the king’s body, cremating and the two princes bound, forced to watch their father’s corpse burn in the morning light.

They see Zhongli, standing tall and proud, a man none had seen since he and his battalion had been sent into battle five years prior, the only man to not return. A good, and honourable man who, despite his loyalty to the throne, oft rebelled against the king’s order, who tried his best to help the village, to sneak any excess food from the kitchens before it went to waste, to help farmers in their fields on his off days.

The people point, and the people shout. They cheer and they cry tears of joy.

After over a decade of fear and uncertainty, a new king had come in the night and usurped the throne with such vigilance and grace, that no one had even known what had happened until morning.

It was heartbreaking to him in a way, to see how absolutely no one, save for his two remaining sons, grieved the death of the previous king. When Zhongli had first joined the guard, he had been a firm but kind man, and to watch him slowly fall to the clutches of insanity was painful.

But what’s done, is done.

He is not officially crowned until the next day, but he has his small resistance group already beginning to set up and settle in, he tells the castle staff to take time off, to go home with their wages for the week and be with their families. Some do, most refuse, citing that there was much work to be done, and that the small handful of people he had would not a castle make. 

It takes a week of hard labour, on both the staff and his own parts, to finally clean the dreary, grey walls and floors, to re-light the torches and to bring a touch of finery back to the neglected palace. 

The king’s chambers in particular, were a testament to just how horrific the times had become. Filthy and strewn with empty bottles and papers. The staff tell him that they had not been allowed into this wing of the castle for years, and they insist on attempting to push him out so they may clean it themselves.

He doesn’t allow it. It’s his chambers now, he should have a hand in clearing out the old mess. Just because he was king now does not excuse him from dirtying his own hands.

(That and he just…couldn’t watch these poor men and women clean all this on their own)

As things settle into an easier rhythm, his attention turns to proper, administrative duties.

With Ganyu on the case, everything is already lined up, ready for him to read over and sign, she has already sent correspondence to neighbouring kingdoms that they, under new ruling, are no longer a threat; Zhongli’s ultimate goal is nothing but peace and prosperity for his home. He listens to the requests of his new tentative allies, and he allocates funds to fix parts of his new kingdom broken down under the old reign. He does his best to have everything kept fair, but this is where he falters; fierce in battle he could be, but paperwork was always taxing.

And then the villagers come again one morning. Almost all of them present to the throne room, hardened looks upon their faces, and at first, he think’s he’s done something to wrong them.

They ask first about the fate of the twins, citing that they had still been alive at the burning of the old king. At first, he’s surprised, having not expected any of them to care about the pair of delinquent royals who had caused them nothing but pain, but he tells them anyway.

“They are currently being held in the dungeons, they are still being cared for.” 

“Then what of the princess? What do you intend to do with her upon her return?”

At the merest mention of the princess, the crowd begins to shout, to beg and to plead for her life to be spared, multiple different villagers of different status’ all coming forward offering to take her into their homes should he choose to banish her from the castle.

Zhongli finds himself proud of his new people, and glad that they too, held such fondness for the princess. Far more like her gentle queen mother than she ever was her father. He recalls his days before war broke out, of the fondness he’d held of her.

He would never bring her harm.

The crowd’s shouting dims at his statement of that very fact; their princess would not be harmed, she had no choice in any of her fathers matters, she would not be banished, or married off for gain. The villagers rejoice, their giddy excitement only growing.

Faintly, he hears whispers from some of them, wondering just how she would react to the new king upon her return, if she hadn’t been told already.

And faintly, Zhongli wonders if she would even return…a thought that hadn’t crossed his mind, despite knowingly waiting until he was sure she was not within the kingdom before he took control.

He hopes, of course, that she does return. If anyone deserved a hand in shaping this kingdom, it was her…and Zhongli, while keeping his intentions quiet from all but his closest confidants, wanted her to become queen.

His queen.

Once the crowd is calmed and sent on their way, he retires once more to his chambers, and finds himself, void of things to be doing, staring out the window as he remembers. A young girl, clinging to the hem of the queen's gown as her mother introduces him to her. He remembers how small and fragile she looked, remembered placing a kiss to her knuckles with a quiet murmur of ‘your majesty’ and how it turned her cheeks pink.

Remembers standing beside her on the day of her mothers funeral, watching as her face remained radiant and smiling as she spoke fondly of the queen mother. Watches as the king slowly crumbled before them all, unable to speak, unable to do anything. His sons, her twin brothers were no aid, too coddled to truly cope with such tragedy.

Despite it all, it was her who picked up the pieces of a kingdom left in mourning, and yet it was her father who took those pieces and ground it all to dust. 

Taglist: @stygianoir @meimeimeirin @ainescribe @dustofthedailylife @theheartshaker @alice4wonderland2812 @bel0vedcup1d @rjssierjrie Want to be added to the list? shoot me an ask~

[pagesandpothos]

Les Normaux: A Graphic Novel

Official Blurb:

'One of my favourite webcomics of all time' Alice Oseman Boy moves to new city. Boy meets vampire. They kiss, then become friends. But both would like something more… A global Webtoon phenomenon and LGBTQ+ graphic novel about friendship, love and magic. Sébastien recently moved to supernatural Paris hoping to get away from his troubles at home and live a peaceful life learning magic. But what are you going to do when the really hot vampire you made out with last night to forget your troubles turns out to be your new neighbor? Sébastien (a demisexual boy with “main character hair” and a bunny named Pierre), meet Elia (a hot, supermodel, vampire neighbor and crush). Join Elia, Sébastien and their assorted crew of wonderful friends, as they navigate the ins and outs of dating in a modern and paranormal love story.

My Thoughts:

I recently got the opportunity to read an advanced digital copy of the upcoming graphic novel of Les Normaux. I have not read the webcomic version but I absolutely adored reading the graphic novel and I can't wait to read more!

Les Normaux: A Graphic Novel is set in a magical version of Paris and follows Sébastien, who has recently run away from the human version. He quickly meets Elia, an attractive vampire, and the two soon find out that they are neighbors. As the two slowly become close, we meet their friends and family and get to know the fun and diverse world that they inhabit.

My favorite thing about the graphic novel is the burgeoning relationship between Sébastien and Elia, of course. The two are seriously adorable and I loved all of their interactions. Their dynamic is so cute and squeal-worthy. I'm enamored with them already.

Sébastien/Elia's slow-burn relationship is the main focus of the story but there's also a lot of character-building that I really enjoyed. Every character in this is delightful. Both main characters are interesting and have a lot of depth. The supporting characters are all fun and enjoyable. Even Pierre, Sébastien's pet bunny, gets a few interludes that made me laugh out loud. The characters are also incredibly diverse. There's gay, bisexual, pansexual, and aroace representation among the characters!

There's also strong focus on friendships and chosen families in this that I loved. The friendship dynamics are sweet and I always love the found family trope.

Finally, the artwork in this is truly beautiful and has gorgeous coloring.

I highly recommend any fan of diverse and queer media to pick up a copy of Les Normaux: A Graphic Novel when it is released. I genuinely enjoyed every second of reading this and I look forward to future volumes (and getting a hardcover copy of this volume). In the meantime, if anyone needs me, I will be binge reading the webcomic!

My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Tropes/Tags: queer, Achillean, cozy fantasy, romantasy, paranormal romance, slowburn, found family

Other Notes: Find the webcomic here!

Links: Storygraph | GoodReads | @lesnormaux | @theartofknightjj

Les Normaux: A Graphic Novel will be released on February 11, 2025, and is available for pre-order!

I received an advanced digital copy of this book for free thanks to Avon and Harper Collins. The above are my honest feelings about the book provided. I don’t have any affiliate links in this post and I do not make any money from my reviews. I review books simply because I love to read.

[oleanderbailey]

Please only interact/follow if you're 18+.

𖥔 WELCOME TO MY BLOG!! 𖥔

--=.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖=--

Hello! I'm Oleander (but I mostly go by Olly) and this is my Writeblr blog! I'm super excited to be here - I'll be posting excerpts from my current WIP(s), OC wordvomit and more fun stuff!! This post serves as a rough guide to navigating my blog and provides some basic info on who you're reading stuff from.

--=.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖=--

About me:

☽ - 19 y/o ☽ - he/him ⚧ ☽ - UK ☽ - novelist, screenwriter, cartoonist ☽ - neurodivergent in multiple (but secret) ways

--=.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖=--

How I work:

☽ - I host most of my WIP information on my blog, which can be accessed via desktop. Most info can be found by using this post instead, so don't worry if you're on mobile. ☽ - As I always put at the top of my posts, please do not interact or follow if you're under 18! Not because I'm a pretentious prick, but because I write a lot of sensitive stuff that I don't feel tooooo comfortable encouraging minors to read. Yes, I'm only 19 going on 20, but it's a good time to start good habits. ☽ - ALWAYS looking for new mutuals! I don't care what you write, I probably wanna hear about it! ☽ - PLEAAAAAAASE TAG ME IN WRITEBLR GAMESSSSSSSSS

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𖥔 MY WIPS 𖥔

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INTO THE VORTEX

Started: August 2022

Status: working on first draft!!!

Genres: psychological thriller, dark romance, horror erotica

Themes:

☽ - maladaptive romance ☽ - trauma & mental illness ☽ - cannibalism as a metaphor for cannibalism ☽ - pretty privilege & societal misogyny ☽ - nature vs nurture

Blurb:

Ives Gannet is not well. Really not well. Ives fantasises about being destroyed. Slaughtered, consumed and disregarded as the final act of love. She masturbates to it at night in her flat at Upland Apartments; the thought of giving up her body in such an extreme way. The ultimate gift. She seeks someone worthy of this gift. Decent men are few and far between as it is in Portland, but finding someone who could truly love her and indulge this fantasy... it's impossible. Everyone treats her like shit before they have the right to, and she's growing weary of it. Weary enough to drown her sizzling anger with booze every night. Bill Kane lives on the top floor of his apartment block. He is unkempt, asocial and greasy. He harbours dark fantasies of carnage that for years, he has buried deep. But, as the nights of winter grow longer, his willpower grows weaker. He slinks into the bars of Portland to people-watch. Just "watching"... until a woman approaches him. She reeks of drink, but is coming on strong - he can't not take her back to his place. She's perfect. If one thing leads to another, that's not his fault. He can't help what he might do.

Taglist:

☽ - general tag ☽ - intro posts ☽ - writing excerpts ☽ - photos ☽ - playlists ☽ - related crime ☽ - related psychology ☽ - Ives Gannett ☽ - Bill Kane

--=.𖥔 ݁ ˖☾𖤓☽.𖥔 ݁ ˖=--

[classicsapphicships]

The next round of intermission polls will be up later this afternoon, but I want to talk about something I'm seeing a lot of in the tags as these polls go on. And that is the question 'how can you vote for a ship that's not canon?'

First and to get it out of the way, I want to say that canon representation is so, so important. From including non-white actors to including non-straight relationships, the changes in media and fandom over the past decade have been huge. The fact that we can have canon interracial queer relationships is amazing, and I in no way want to take steps back from that. I want media and fandom to keep pushing forward, to the point that it's not a big thing. To the point it's just the way things are.

But with all of that, I also want fandom to realize that not everything has to be canon to be 'worthy'.

Fandom is built on creation and community. From sharing fanfiction through mailed newsletters and stapled together zines, making fanvids with VCRs, all the way up to today where you can hit 'post' and thousands of people can see it instantly. It's still about community, from those early days where fandom was secret and contained to today when it's known and expected to drive a show's success. And community does not rely on what ships are and are not canon.

For example. Xena/Gabrielle just swept the first bracket, and I saw so many people commenting about how they were canon as they made their way through the rounds. But they're not.

Now, they might be ABC- All But Canon. Not even going to try and deny that one even to make a point. But they aren't canon. Arguably the largest femslash couple in fandom today, and they aren't canon. Why? Because the studio/network/whoever was making the final call wouldn't let them be. Does that make them less worth or important than the canon representation we get in more recent shows?

Even today, networks and studios and such still have final say on where the writers are allowed to take their shows and relationships. And while things are changing and moving forward, these brackets look back at where femslash fandom came from. The ships that got us here long before canon queer representation was common.

There was a time where a show would have a dozen different ships as every combination of characters was paired together by someone, because we all gravitate towards different aspects of a character. And yeah, sometimes that made for some serious ship wars and dark times. But for the most part, 'ship and let ship' was a common refrain. One person could ship characters A and B, and another person ship characters A and C, and that was fine. Or they could see A and B as purely platonic and ship C and D. And there was room in the fandom for all of that. Some fandoms were better about it than others, but overall.

I think fandom has truly lost something when so much today is about what is and isn't canon. Because rarely is it about the representation and more about being 'Right' in your ship. Of course it's the Only Correct Option, they're Canon. I can Prove I'm right. Your ship is only fanon, it can't compare to my Canon Ship.

And the fandom old part of me will never not be saddened by that, and how much space for creativity we lose when we only explore the areas some network executive says we can.

[missnobodymadness]

I'm so damn bored and feeling such a strong desire to share some OC stuff so I decided to share some of my favorite quotes from my characters because why not? I feel like it also helps me finding some motivation to finally start writing again.

Feel free to share this or make a similar post with your OC's quotes as well, I'd love to read them. :3 (English is not my first language btw, sorry about any possible errors)

Anyway, I'm starting with my favorite girl, Myline.

Myline (Naruto and Boruto)

"Don't give me the privilege speech when you are all living up there exploiting those who stand below you, not once did I felt any privilege or pleasure in serving your opressive system and I will never bow to it. Take my words as you wish, they will only feel like a threat if you perceive them as such, so, how it's gonna be?" - To Darui and A during the invasion of Amegakure arc (not a canon arc).

Aisha (MCU)

"Whenever a scientist finds a cure to something, companies will take advantage of them and sell it to you for the price of your soul, lives weren't meant to have a price tag, you can't play God and decide who is gonna live based on who is wearing Prada and that's what motivates me to keep fighting for a world where science and technology will become a right instead of a luxury"

Evelyn (AOT)

"Dang, this sucks...I've been told that I always make bad decisions all my life, maybe I should've listened before it became an habit, guess this is gonna be the last time I make one...Sasha must be feeling really lonely up there though..." - She thinks to herself as Jean and Pieck run in the opposite direction, both looking confuse on why she wasn't doing the same, she then looks at the sky one last time and run towards Reiner and the warhammer titans.

Masha (TWD)

"While most people hate what is left of this world, I've finally found myself in it and I am enjoying every second of it"

Mybuza (Boruto)

"I hope that someday people will look at me as a ninja ready to sacrifice my life for them instead of just the daughter of a terrorist"

Luna (Pokémon)

"Power is fame and fame is made of power"

Now the ferals from my original story, Cursed Scars.

Sahamara

“If you can’t stand the meaning of a true scar, then you can’t stand life” 

Dakarai (This son of a... >.>)

"You can’t expect to be a good fighter if you can’t even leave a mark on that rock, maybe I should scratch that precious face to exemplify how it is done"

Dalia

"I believe in second chances when regret is present, we are more complex than we think, our minds are capable of constant development but such thing is only possible when we finally learn how to recognize and embrace the wrongs of our past and move on for a better future"

Bakuto

"You once said that stars shine brighter to those who are worthy but lately they all look the same to me, does that mean that the Gods have given up on me?"

Kabuwa

"Greediness brings more misery than accomplishments" - To Ushiva, about Rastakah.

Rastakah

"Some call me greedy, others a tyrant but what I really like to hear them call me is mercy"

Ushiva

"Never underestimate the things a broken heart would do"

Matimba (The one lying down)

"Sometimes you just have to understand when the best option is to get out of your comfort zone and face what is holding you back so you can finally be the best version of yourself"

Thabisa

"War doesn't interest me, what is truly important to me is the well-being of my pride sisters, however, don't take me for a fool, my claws have been immersed in blood before"

Satahka (Lazy, lazy boy)

"This world has yet to prove me what a good nap can't fix"

Yarashin

"Don't spend the rest of your life stuck to your past, maybe it taught you how to hate, but the present can also teach you tolerance and if you try really hard, future may reward you with love"