#it is exhausting and terrible but i know it will be glorious if i can just PUSH. and not freeze in fear anymore

[norrisradio]

SURFSIDE

༄ PAIRING: yuki tsunoda x olympic surfer! reader | ༄ WC: 1.8K ༄ GENRE: fluff // established relationship ༄ INCOMING RADIO: based on this IG post // also because i swore i would write yuki x surfer! reader for a certain someone (@tsunodaradio. its always for kae if i'm writing about yuki sorry not sorry)

༄ SUMMARY: “You trust me?” // "Obviously." // "Then get on the board."

The sun glares against the water, a bright, golden sheen stretching over rolling waves. You stand at the shoreline, board under your arm, watching Yuki hesitate at the water’s edge. His feet sink slightly into the wet sand with every cautious step forward, then back, as if the tide itself is testing his resolve. His board dangles from his fingers like it might bite him.

“You’re stalling,” you grumble, adjusting the strap around your ankle.

“I’m assessing the risk.” Yuki’s eyes flicker to the water, then back to you. “What if a shark—”

“Oh my god.” You grab his wrist, tugging him forward before he can finish the thought. He yelps, stumbling after you, the resistance in his body melting just enough to follow.

The water surges around your ankles, then your knees, each wave curling around you in a familiar embrace. Yuki, on the other hand, flinches at every shift beneath him. You guide him deeper, adjusting his stance when he wobbles, fingers firm against his waist when he nearly loses balance.

“You trust me?”

His brows furrow, like the question wasn’t fair. “Obviously.”

“Then get on the board.”

Yuki exhales sharply but obeys, climbing onto the board with an almost comical determination. His grip is stiff, his body too rigid against the gentle sway of the ocean. You move beside him, running a hand along his back to ease the tension there.

“Relax,” you murmur. “The ocean can tell when you’re nervous.”

“I think it already knows,” he mutters, eyes locked on the water ahead.

You laugh, pushing lightly against his board. The motion startles him, but he steadies, adjusting to the rhythm of the waves. Progress.

A set rolls in, and you spot one that was small enough for him to try. “Alright, this one. You’re gonna paddle, then pop up—just like we practiced.”

Yuki swallows. His knuckles whiten around the edges of the board.

“You’ve driven a Formula 1 car at 300 kph,” you remind him.

“That has an engine.”

“You don’t need one.” You give his board another push, just as the wave caught up. “Go.”

And he does. His arms cut through the water, quick and determined, and then, almost too quickly, he's up—knees bent, arms out, wobbling, but upright.

For two glorious seconds.

Then—splash.

You wince as he tumbles into the water, disappearing beneath the surface before popping up again, coughing and spitting saltwater. His hair's plastered to his forehead, eyes squinting against the sunlight.

You swim toward him, biting back a smile. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” He wipes at his face, looking scandalized. “That was terrible.”

“You stood up.”

“For a second.”

“Still counts.”

He grumbles, floating on his back now, exhaustion outweighing his frustration. The water cradles him, the rise and fall of the tide much gentler now that he wasn’t fighting it. You drift closer, reaching out to brush damp hair from his face.

“Again?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Yuki sighs, looking past you toward the horizon, where the next set of waves rolled in. His lips quirk, barely a smirk.

“Yeah,” he says. “Again.”

The next wave rolls in, a steady swell rising beneath the horizon. Yuki’s fingers flex against the board, jaw tight. You nudge his shin with your foot.

“Breathe.”

A sharp exhale, salt thick in the air between you. Then, a nod. You brace a hand against the back of his board as the water lifts it, steadying him.

“Start paddling.”

He moves with the wave this time, arms carving through the water in strong, quick strokes. His board tilts forward, caught in the current.

“Now—pop up!”

For a second, he hesitates. Then his body shifts, hands planting firm against the board, legs swinging under him. A wobble, the smallest dip—then balance.

Knees bent. Back straight.

The wave carries him, smooth and effortless, foam trailing in his wake. The wind tugs at his soaked hair, salt clinging to his skin.

And then—laughter.

It breaks from his chest, bright and unrestrained, carried by the wind as he rides the wave all the way to shore.

You swim forward, watching as he half-jumps, half-falls off the board into the shallows. When he turns, face flushed and breathless, his grin is wide, sunlit.

“Did you see that?”

You wade toward him, barely resisting the urge to splash water in his face. “No, I was too busy making sure a shark didn’t get you.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn't argue, water dripping from his hair as he trudges back toward you. When he's close enough, his fingers curl around your wrist, tugging you forward. The ocean sways around you both, waves breaking gently at your knees.

“You’re gonna make me do it again, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head. “Would it be so bad?”

His grip on your wrist tightens—just slightly. The same way he does before a race, before a flight, before pulling you close in the quiet of your shared apartment.

Another wave rises behind you, distant but steady. Yuki glances over your shoulder, eyes narrowing, already calculating.

Then he smirks.

“I think I can go faster.”

You barely have time to react before Yuki's already paddling out again, cutting through the water with newfound confidence. You follow, trailing just behind him, watching the way his shoulders move, the way the ocean didn’t fight him as much anymore.

When the next wave approaches, he doesn't hesitate. His body moves like muscle memory—push up, legs under, weight forward. He catches the wave clean, riding it smoothly, adjusting his stance when the board wobbles beneath him.

This time, he lasts longer. The wind pulls at his damp trunks, the sun catching the water droplets on his skin. His movements aren't perfect, but they were his.

You catch up to him just as he reaches the shallows again, where he tumbles off his board and into the water with a loud splash. He barely has time to shake the salt from his face before you tackle him, arms looping around his shoulders.

“Look at you,” you murmur, grinning against his temple.

“Look at me,” he echoes, laughing as he wraps an arm around your waist. His grip is firm but familiar, the same way he always reaches for you—without thinking, without needing to.

The waves lap at your legs, the tide pulling and releasing. He's warm against you, even with the ocean clinging to him. You brush wet strands from his forehead, fingertips dragging along his cheek, and he leans into the touch like it was second nature.

“Not scared anymore?”

His gaze flickers past you, scanning the water as if daring something to emerge. Then, he smirks.

“Still wouldn’t swim alone at night.”

You roll your eyes, and he laughs, pressing his forehead against yours. The sun sits lower in the sky now, burning gold against the water, and Yuki—breathless, salt-kissed, beaming—looks like he belongs in it.

You nudge his side. “Race you back out there?”

His fingers curl against your hip, grip tightening like he might just hold you here instead.

But then—

“Loser buys dinner.”

And just like that, he's gone, already sprinting back into the water, kicking up sand and surf as he goes. You barely have time to react before you chase after him, laughter breaking through the roar of the waves.

The waves roll in softer now, the ocean easing into a lazy rhythm as the sun dips lower. Yuki floats beside you, legs half-draped over his board, arms stretched out in the water. His breathing slows, no longer tight with hesitation, no longer rushing to match the rise and fall of the tide.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, treading water next to him.

He hums, eyes half-lidded, lashes still wet. “Tired.”

Your fingers brush against his wrist, the contact light, fleeting. He catches your hand before it could drift away, thumb pressing against the crease of your palm, tracing along the salt-dried skin.

“You like it, though,” you say, watching the way the water rocks him, how his shoulders had finally loosened, how his breathing matches the pulse of the waves.

A small smile. Not the cocky smirk from before, not the teasing grin he threw your way when he won the race back out here. Just something easy.

“It’s nice,” he admits, voice quieter now. “I get why you love it.”

Your thumb brushes over his knuckles, and he lets you. The sky had shifted to deep orange, streaked with pinks and purples, reflecting off the glassy surface of the water. You both let it settle around you, the hush of the ocean, the distant calls of birds overhead, the occasional crash of a wave breaking further down the shore.

Yuki exhales, tilting his head toward you. “If I ever get eaten by a shark, it’s your fault.”

You scoff, flicking water at him, but he doesn't let go of your hand.

The sky burns gold and violet as you drag your boards up the shore, sand clinging to your skin, salt thick in your hair. The ocean murmurs behind you, waves folding gently against the beach.

Yuki drops his board onto the sand with a heavy sigh, flopping down beside it, legs stretched out, toes digging into the cool grains. His trunks cling to him, still damp, his hair a mess of tangled strands, but he looks—content.

You collapse beside him, close enough that your shoulders brush. He nudges you with his knee. “So, did I pass?”

You pretend to consider. “Mm. Needs improvement.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes, but his fingers reach for yours anyway, tugging lightly before settling in the space between them. His palm is warm, calloused from years of gripping a steering wheel, but it fits against yours like it belonged there.

The ocean stretches wide before you, endless and steady. The wind curls through your damp clothes, the scent of salt and sun lingering between breaths. Yuki’s thumb traces slow circles against your skin, absentminded, like he didn’t need to think about it.

“You’re gonna make me do this again, aren’t you?”

You turn, catching the soft curve of his lips, the ease in his posture.

“You’re gonna want to.”

A beat. A breeze. Then, a quiet laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, leaning back onto his elbows, gaze fixed on the horizon. “Maybe.”

He’d always been like this—full of fire and mischief, all sharp grins and quick retorts. But when the world around him stopped moving at 300 km, he fell into something quieter.

The ocean had slowed him, pulled him into its rhythm. No roaring engines, no flashing lights—just the waves, steady and endless, stretching far beyond what even he could chase.

He sits with his arms braced against the sand, fingers idly sifting through the grains. The sunset paints him in gold and violet, soft where he was usually sharp. His damp hair curls slightly at the edges, salt still clinging to his skin.

For once, he isn't itching to go somewhere. Isn't waiting for the next thing.

He just sits there, next to you, and lets the world move without him.

[veebeeboo109]

The Sanctuary

{The high fantasy prequel to "Cleaning Up the Timeline" Combining all limited myths. Polycule. Reader-centric.}

Read on ao3.

Tags: Reader/L&DS Men, Romance, Slow Burn, Rafayel's glorious arrival! I was buzzin writing this!

Chapter Four: The Heart Shaped Pool

That first night turns into routine. Zayne has terrible sleeping habits, and avoids resting for as long as he physically can. You, however, are not so repulsed by rest and have claimed one side of the bed. When he does finally succumb to exhaustion, he takes the free side, acting as a barrier between you and the room. 

You don’t talk about it. You want to. You want to ask why he doesn’t make you sleep on a roll on the floor, or in the tent you’ve all but abandoned. Curiosity at what this new breach of closeness could mean buzzes at the tip of your tongue everyday, and yet remains unspoken.

Reading lessons are slowly replaced with magic lessons. After learning to read, now you read to learn. Large texts that weigh heavy on your lap as you sit in front of the fire, trying to understand what the author could mean by ‘equivalent exchange’.

Less than a month after his last venture, Zayne sets out again. A heavy bag and even a change of clothes he takes with him. There's less rush this time, and he’s oddly secretive with the details of the journey when you ask.

“Can I come?” You finally gain the courage to ask. 

Zayne pauses for a moment, his back to you. It’s only when his eyes were away from you that you found the ability to speak. He turns and there’s a gentle smile playing on his face. “Not this time, little one. Perhaps next time.”

“But I could help.” You sound childish even to your ears. “I know how to do more than this. I can…I’m savvy.”

“A most clever apprentice you’ve turned out to be.” Zayne approaches and places his hand on the top of your head. Patting once and then drifting down the back and down your hair. “Tis not your skill I worry about, but your lack of footwear.”

You sigh and shift, “I’ve almost convinced some folk to trade with me, but no one is willing to take an IOU.”

Zayne’s eyes squint and he tilts his head, “And what were you trading for?”

“Patrick has leather scraps left over that I wanted, but he’s so stingy.” You huff softly and rise to your feet. “I found a spell in one of the books that makes plants grow. If I can use it, then I can trade some fruit or something come springtime.”

The whimsicality faded from Zayne’s eyes, “Spells of such manner require their price, little one. You have yet to summon the slightest bit of magic, and you plan to perfect an advanced spell such as that?”

He’s not wrong. Zayne is never wrong, but his words irritate you all the same. Over this past fortnight, you’ve grown antsy to start actually doing something. More than research and reading, you want to aid with the runes and summon magic to your fingertips like he does. Zayne is too cautious, you think.

As if Zayne can read your mind, he says, “Do not try and rush these things. Study the runes I showed you while I am gone, and when I return you can try writing them, yes?”

You simmer silently, knowing he’s being generous but still peeved. Your displeasure makes you too prickly to embrace his offer and so you pout, crossing your arms like a child. And this must amuse Zayne, because his eyes crinkle and his laughs softly. 

The soft leather of his gloves caresses your hair again, and he leans down to place his face in your eyeline. “I will be gone for a few days this time. Three at least.”

“Hm,” You say with a small nod. Zayne rises to his full height and just stares at you for a moment, before patting the top of your head once and turning towards the door. 

Your determination to not watch him leave crumbles the moment his foot steps outside the door. Rising to your feet, you catch him by the hand. And into the worn creases of his glove, draw out the rune for protection once more. Tracing that intricate pattern with your fingertip without a word. 

Zayne lets you do this, and you realize this is becoming routine. Next time, you think, he’ll expect it. He closes his hand, holding the invisible rune tight. “When I return, that will be the first one you learn.”

You are neither an educated person, nor a fool. Your skills and knowledge have been hard earned up until recently. Bartering, fire making, foraging. You could sew, patch, and embroider with some skill too. 

This new skill however, is conceptual. The actions of it reside only in your mind because they began as words on a page. 

You wait until it’s been a few hours after Zayne left, just in case he came back and found you. You’ve never been scolded by him before, and you’re not interested in hearing the disdain in his voice should he discover you disobeying his wishes like this. 

A book of runes tucked under one arm, and a satchel in the other. A little snack for after your practice. You’re far too excited and brash for someone with zero experience, but your optimism rings high and you find a secluded place far away from the cottage and the settlement.

From the satchel you pull out a bamboo storage tube and from it a stalk of charcoal. With the potential for anything between your fingers, you debate where to start. 

From the beginning feels right, and so you turn to the very first page of the book. Four runes are listed, corresponding to the four elements. The chapter drolls on for several pages about their many applications, and you’ve already read it twice. 

You prop the book up on a nearby crystal cluster, which illuminates the text and the area around you. The soft trickle of the water shifting in the pools nearby is the only other sound besides your breathing. 

You find a small stone near the water, barely the size of your palm. It’s cool, and heavy and you turn it over once to put the flatter side up.

Zayne has taught you to write a few things. Your name. His name. But never runes, never. 

The first stroke of the charcoal against the stone is smooth, and you glance between your hand and the book several times to make sure you get the symbol right. 

Fire. Your mind repeats, over and over. Intention for the rune is more important than the carving itself. The spirit you push behind is what turns it from useless scribbles to dangerous magic. 

Fire. Fire. Fire. 

You finish the last stroke and pull your hand away, uncertain what happens next. You’ve only ever seen Zayne use the defensive runes, and so you’re not sure what to expect. 

The stone slowly warms. Heat swelling like it’d been placed atop hot coals. It goes from being barely discernible, to pleasant, to stinging and burning your skin. You hiss and drop it, finding your palm reddened.

It trembles on the ground for a moment, sizzling against the dampened earth. You take a small step back, just as the rock bursts into flames. Bright, hot and orange– the flames grow in size, swelling with the fuel of your intention. 

You gasp and stumble back, the heat of the inferno growing closer and closer. An embarrassing screech leaves your lips as you scramble for what to do next. Instincts take over and you jump into action, kicking at the stone and punting into the water. 

Cringing at the lingering sting on your foot and leg, you watch as the stone sinks into the water. The fire is extinguished with a loud sizzling, and the remnants of heat make it bubble as it descends to the bottom. 

You catch your breath, feeling like you can still feel the heat of the flames. Ow, you think. The pain isn’t letting up, only getting worse. Glancing down to examine your potential injury, you're met with the tiny licks of flames at the hem of your skirt. 

Another squeal and you nearly fall on your behind in an effort to get away, except the fire follows you. Clamoring to the water, you toss yourself into it. Splashing as you sink into the icy surface, and sputtering as you come back up. Water shot up your nose and down the back of your throat, adding insult to injury as you grab onto the moss at the water’s edge and pull yourself out. 

For a few minutes you just lay there, legs in the water, and catch your breath. A few things were learned today. First, you can summon magic. Two, fire runes should be used very carefully. And three, listen to Zayne.

As you haul yourself out of the water and soggily drag you and your things back to the cottage, you swear you hear cackling laughter echo off the cavern walls. 

There are less than ten children in your sanctuary– that’s what you’re officially calling it now. Your Sanctuary. A bubble made of stone and crystal that begins to feel more like yours with each passing day.

The children vary in ages. From an infant less than a year old, strapped to their father’s back more often than not. Another is a toddler, still learning to walk but somehow still finding themselves in mischief often. 

The older children are adventurous, and don’t like to listen to their elders. You’d be more cross with them if you didn’t remember what it felt like to be so young, and to feel trapped. One of the older boys, nearly a young man, is particularly unruly. 

He refuses to obey his grandmother when told to stay within the cavern. You’ve heard rumors of him coming back nearly frostbitten after spending the day playing in the snow outside. His warm brunette hair stirs something like memory in your chest, and despite his unruly behavior, you have a fondness for him.

“You wanna’ know a secret?” The boy, Cosme, whispers at you. He sits down on the bench next to you, a bowl of thick stew in his hands, identical to yours. 

You pause before taking a bite. With Zayne gone, you decided to join Yvonne and the others for a meal instead of eating alone. You give Cosme an incredulous look, and lean down closer to him, “Are you keeping secrets from your grandmother again?”

Cosme scoffs, his mischievous smile fading, “Course not. Granny doesn’t believe me when I tell ‘er things, anyway. But you, you’ll believe me, yeah?”

You smile softly, “I suppose it depends on this secret of yours.”

The giddiness returns to Cosme’s smile, “There’s a monster in the sanctuary.”

You reel back, stunned, “What? A monster?”

Cosme nods emphatically, “The pools. One of ‘ems haunted. Me and Jilly went over there a few days ‘go. Grabbed me! Nearly took my life, it did!”

“I see…” Your previous concern fades. Jilly is Cosme’s younger sister, and a timid yet brave little girl. If she went to the pools so far away from her mother, it was because Cosme dragged her. 

“Look, look!” The boy sets aside his untouched stew and pulls up his pant leg, lifting it high to make sure you can see. “It bit me! Took a chomp!”

Leaning back as his little foot is suddenly in your face, you set aside your bowl to take a closer look. You expect to see a bruise, maybe a scuff of dirt he can pass as a bite, but what greets you is red. Four long scratches along his ankle. They’re not deep, but they stand out against the boy’s pale skin. 

Frowning, you gently nudge his leg back down to the ground, “That looks like a scratch, not a bite.”

“Scratch, bite, who cares? There’s a monster in one of the pools!” Cosme is failing to keep his voice quiet, overcome with childish eagerness. “You have to tell the Foreseer, so he can slay it!”

Ah, that’s why he came to you. With Zayne gone, you’re the next best thing, at least to the folk you are. No one knows yet about your abysmal failure with the fire rune earlier, and you hope to keep it that way. Cosme was entrusting you with this secret because he believed you the Foreseer’s emissary. 

You debate telling the boy it’s nothing, dismissing this outlandish tale, but instead say, “Which pool?”

Cosme grins, “The one in the corner. It’s big, and still. Shaped like a heart.”

You’re not familiar with it, but nod anyway. Tucking away this information for later. You give Cosme your best reassuring smile, “I’ll inform the Foreseer. I’m certain there are no monsters here, but we can check for you, alright?”

The boy nods with his whole body and picks up his stew again. With a heavy, theatrical sigh he says, “I’d take care of it myself, but I can’t lift Papa’s spear yet.”

A pleased laugh bubbles from your chest, and you smile into your stew. He reminds you of someone. Someone close to your heart, if not nestled within it. Trying to remember them makes that poorly healed wound on the back of your head ache, and your heart twists painfully. 

Zayne returns. Alone, but not empty handed. He looks tired when he enters your home, but there is lightness to his eyes you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. From his back he retrieves a large pack and drops it onto the floor. 

You turn to stand, but he stops you. Not a single word given in explanation as he comes to where you sit at the worktable, and kneels in front of you. He’s smiling gently– proudly – as he shows you what he brought. 

A pair of simple shoes. Ankle height and lined with cream colored fur. His gloved hand comes up to cup the back of your leg, drifting down to hold you while he slips the shoe onto your foot. The fur is softer than anything you’ve ever touched, and you shiver as the frosty feeling in your toes immediately starts to dissipate. 

“I found some stockings too.” Zayne whispers as he moves to your other foot, “And a pair of boots.”

Words escape you. Lost completely from your mind and your lips. Thanks feels like too weak a word for what you feel, and your heart is hammering inside your ribs at the sight of such a man on his knees before you. 

A sharp sting knocks you back to life as his fingers find the tender spot where the flames had left their mark. Zayne’s eyes narrow and lifts the hem of your skirt to examine what he’s found.

“What’s this?” He asks, sharply. 

“Nothing.” You hastily reply, pulling back your foot and tossing your skirt to cover it. “Nothing at all.”

Zayne says your name firmly, and goes to grab your ankle again and you hurriedly stand. “Is that a burn? Little one, how did you get hurt?”

The endearment is bit out, barely softening the ice in his voice. 

“It’s nothing.” You repeat, tucking hair away from your face and scurrying to the other side of the room. “I was foolish, and I paid the price.”

Zayne is silent for a moment. He rises up to his full height, a towering feeling after not seeing him for days. He’s never looked at you the way he’s looking down, but he’s not really looking at you is he? He’s staring at your hands, and then to your feet. And then, over to the hearth. 

“I’ll ask again,” Zayne says from deep in his chest, “What happened?”

A shiver runs down your spine as shame slinks down into your core. You’re not afraid of Zayne, but you are afraid of upsetting him. Seeing the slight wrinkle between his brows unsettles you, and you have to look away.

“I tried writing runes.” You blurt your embarrassment into the air, “The fire rune…”

You watch as Zayne’s nostrils flare. He’s absorbing your words, chewing on them, but saying nothing. His lips remain tightly sealed as several emotions pass over his face. 

“I see…” He finally says, taking a deep breath, “So you were successful in summoning the magic then?”

You’re a little surprised. You’d expected anger. Resentment, or bitter, foul disappointment. With a small nod, you reply. “On a stone. I set the intentions, just like you said.”

“And the burn?” He turns to the workbench, and gently touches the book of runes lying atop it. 

“The flames got too high, and I had to kick it into the water.” You sheepishly laugh, and then trail off, looking up at Zayne with wide, expectant eyes, “Are you upset with me? I…I know I should have listened–”

“You are not a child.” Zayne says like he’s speaking to himself more than you. “I can hardly scold you for taking action on your own, despite my warnings. Though, I ask you not to do so again.”

You smile. Zayne’s voice has returned to his normal cadence, and you’re amused by the amount of pride and disdain mixing there. He returns to unpacking his bounty, and you find yourself walking in circles around the room to feel the shoes.

“Cosme told me something interesting,” You say after Zayne has settled back in and you’ve shared a warm meal. “He insisted I tell you there’s a monster in one of the pools.”

Zayne pauses momentarily as he organizes the sachets of herbs he brought. He looks at you over his shoulder, “A monster?”

“He was quite certain of it. Told me that it took a bite out of him, though I thought it looked more like a scratch.” You shrug, “I promised to tell you, so you could slay it.”

Zayne is quiet for a moment, gathering his mortar and pestle and scooping some dried beetles into it. They crunch under the weight of the stone, but quickly become a smooth, green paste. You wonder what he’s making this time, as he pulls a jar filled with dried orange flowers down from the shelf. 

“I suppose it is a sign of security, for a child to make up such tales.” Zayne says thoughtfully, musing as works. “Cosme has always been excitable.”

“I thought as much.” You reply, leaning back on your hands from your spot near the fire. “I think he got hurt and was embarrassed.”

“There are large aquatic animals that he could have mistaken for a monster.” Zayne explains, “A seal perhaps, or even a large fish.”

“Could it be trapped here?” You ask, worried for this imaginary creature. 

“It’s possible, though hardly our concern.” Zayne scoops his ochre poultice into a wooden bowl and brings it over to you. He shifts his robes to sit beside you on the floor at your feet, and silently reaches for your ankle.

It’s rare he doesn’t wear gloves, and so all the more sacred to be touched by his bare fingertips. He swipes the cool poultice across your burn, stinging slightly at first and then soothing into a decadent cool. 

The amber glow of the fire diminishes the deep green of his eyes, and yet you can’t look away from them. Your poor heart feels ensnared in a wire net, cut up as it struggles against what you cannot understand. Words are weak when you find yourself without thought. 

“Zayne…” You whisper, and he looks up at you for a single moment before back at his work. As he begins to wrap your injury with a roll of gauze, your mind and mouth align. Speaking aloud the questions that bubble to the surface. “Why? Why do you take such good care of me?” 

His movements slow for a moment as your words hit him, and Zayne’s expression hardens. “Such a question…Do I need a reason?”

“I guess not…” You whisper back, “I feel indebted to you, and I cannot help but wonder why you bother with me so. Why do you spend so much time teaching me, and patching me up for my failures?”

Zayne finishes his work and ties the bandages up securely. He sits up straight and looks at you for a moment, and you search his eyes like one divines the stars for answers. He reaches out to you, and your breathing halts as you prepare for his touch. 

However, he pauses– holding his arm in between you and lifting his sleeve up to the shoulder. Like the unveiling of some rare artifact, you can’t look away. Burns are distinctive. They differ from scars from blades or arrows. They swirl and pucker almost organically, like the shape of the flames remain in the skin. Beautiful in the way they persevere. 

They cover the majority of his arm, reaching higher and higher and higher up until they disappear behind his robes. Following that trail, you lean forward and find more hidden beneath his color, and the faintest ripple along the side of his jaw.

“Our magic can turn against us in the blink of an eye. It was my failure that led to this, and I had very few willing to assist me.” Zayne explains as you examine him. His gut twists as he sees the concern tilt your brow. The desire to pull away is strong, but he holds firm– letting the shape of his scars imprint into your mind. “I teach you, not to put you in my debt, but because I want to. I will tend to any wound you suffer because you deserve to be cared for. Wondering about motivations is senseless, as I have made mine clear.”

Had he? Your mind whirls, crackling like the kindling in the hearth under the rush of heat that swallows you. Your cheeks warm, and you must be wearing the most amusing expression because when you manage to meet Zayne’s eyes, he’s smiling softly. 

Somehow, the two of you have drifted close. When Zayne drops his arm, and removes that barrier between you, you’re startled by the proximity. A part of your mind reels, urging you to back away. You’re mere inches from each other, and though you sleep this close– it’s hardly appropriate. 

However, you linger. Hovering in this air of personal space for a moment as something shifts in your mind. A chemical change that has you, abruptly, seeing him differently. He no longer towers above you, divine and untouchable. You can see the tiny wrinkles beneath his eyes. The split in his lower lip from the cold. The way his irises flicker back and forth as he studies, just the same as you study him. 

“It’s late.” Zayne whispers, just as a log cracks in the hearth, sending incandescent sparks up into the chimney. And your heart feels like it does the same– split down the middle and overspilling with something hot, flickering, and unknown. 

Crawling into bed that night feels almost scandalous, and you have to focus on breathing as you feel the mattress dip with his weight. Worried that somehow, this night of all nights, you’ll accidentally roll right into him. 

You don’t, of course, as nothing is technically different tonight. However, you find yourself warmer. Feeling a flush across your skin that buzzes like an instinct, long awaiting and dormant. Does Zayne feel this too? Is the tightening knot in your belly an affliction of some kind? A fever festered from your wound?

If it is, it’s not entirely unpleasant. And its symptoms flare, when– half asleep– Zayne reaches out and places his hand over yours. No more than a simple point of contact to bind you. What an odd illness, you think. To make your gut twist almost painfully and then shiver into pleasant tingles….

It is remarkably easier to navigate your sanctuary with shoes, and you say as much– several times, in fact– while you and Zayne round the next morning. The stockings he’d found are warm and soft, and it’s shocking how warm you are the entire time. 

Zayne looks pleased, proud even, as he works. He glances at you every so often, the sight of the shoes feeling too much like a victory for his ego. If seeing you cozy and warm does this to his psyche, then what will the deep blue fabric he procured do when he finishes fashioning it into a cloak for you? 

It’s gotten hard to hold his tongue. To control himself around you. The dreams Zayne once had of you are all but gone, but now replaced with the living, breathing version. Which, somehow, is even more vexing. In the dreams he could touch– he could taste– with abandon. In life, he must restrain himself. Maintain that delicate balance of student and teacher.

You’re not that much younger than he is, but the gap feels large sometimes. Life has been cruel to you both, and Zayne has unconsciously taken it upon himself to keep you from whatever cruelty remains. A staunch, abstinent protector. 

So, he needs some space. A moment to breathe after waking up to the feeling of your skin against his nose. He’d sought you out in sleep– something that was becoming more and more common as of late. Thankfully, you remained oblivious of this reprehensible habit of his, and he was able to escape from the bed before you noticed. 

After finishing your rounds together, Zayne made easy excuses of assisting some of the plainfolk with chores and assigned you a lengthy reading. Not to punish you, but to punish himself. An afternoon with your absence should give him ample time to correct his behavior. 

Which is how you found yourself back at the pools. The book was tucked inside a satchel strung across your shoulder, but likely going to remain unread. In your hands, you carry a wide basket filled with a few dried fish neither you nor Zayne found palatable. 

The idea that some misbegotten creature might be trapped here plucked at your heartstrings. You’d never seen the ocean before, and so sea creatures were a fantasy to you. Images poorly depicted in faded illustrations. You remembered living next to a river at some point, but you had a hard time recalling much of the aquatic life there. 

The heart-shaped pool lies at the furthest corner of the sanctuary. Separated from the rest of the water sources and remarkably still. There was no faint ripple in the water, no current, or even the occasional bubble. It’s the largest of the pools here, so its glossy surface is all the more unsettling. You kept your distance, at first, waiting to see if the beast the boy told you about made an appearance. 

Sitting the basket down a few feet away from the edge, you tiptoe across the sparse moss– careful not to slip on the smooth rocks in between. You peer into the water, finding its surface black and reflective as glass. You can see your own face staring back at you, and the sparking stalactites hanging high overhead. 

A sudden rush of shadow has you reeling back. It was fast and huge. It carves through the water close enough to the surface to bend it, but not break it. You stumble back, prepared for some sea serpent to come bursting out, while your heart recovers from the scare. 

Curiosity wins out over fear, and you pluck a crispy dried fish from the basket. You toss it out to the center of the pool. It floats atop the surface, drifting lazily and leaving tiny ripples in its wake. 

You wait, keeping your eyes locked on the fishy offering. 

Thwip.

Faster than a blink, the mackerel is snatched. Plucked beneath the water by something so fast and precise it barely disturbs the surface. Such a large creature, but so quick! You eagerly bounce in place, excited to grab another fish and toss it to your new pet. 

You nearly squeal in excitement when that too is snatched up. It must be so hungry! Trapped here in this pool all alone. Now, you grab two more fish, scooting closer to the edge on your knees to toss them out. 

This time you watch the inky depth, and see the long serpentine shadow circling the perimeter of its pool. Though the pond could fit twenty men comfortably for bathing, this creature is so long it’s a wonder it fits at all. 

The fish are snatched once more, and you’re too busy trying to catch a glimpse that you don’t see the mackerel until it’s slapping you in the face. Tossed harshly at you like it was an offense.

The water ripples and you swear you hear low, echoing laughter. Can a seal laugh? You toss the fish to the side and crawl to the side of the water, bracing your hands at the very edge and leaning over it, “So unkind! Is that how you thank someone who fed you?”

You didn’t prepare yourself for what you might see when you finally faced the depths, too caught up in your disbelief of being slapped in the face with a fish to think things through. 

Serpent, squid, seal. All of these creatures are mere imaginations to you, but what looks back at you is all too familiar. 

A face. A man. Floating a foot below the surface and shadowed by the wine-black water. A sharp cry escapes as you throw yourself back, scuffing your hand slightly on the slippery rocks and falling onto your behind. 

Your heart pounds in your chest, breath struggling in its fast effort to escape your lungs. Frozen in your spot, you struggle to comprehend what you just saw, and try to convince yourself it was a trick of the light.

Except, the surface of the water gives way and the man rises up. His pearly skin shimmers as the water cascades from him, and his hair somehow does not stick to his like normal wet hair would. The color of it is a dark aubergine, but as the soft glow of the light hits it, you realize it’s actually a softer violet, accented with rose and lavender. 

Beautiful is this creature from the depth. Unnatural in his ethereal grace, that even the anger that paints his brow is lovely. His upper lip lifts, and the sharp shine of his canine rivals the beauty of a sharpened blade.

“I have no need of the aid from mortals.” The man snarls, and it sends fear racing down your spine. He braces a hand on the moss and his pointed, dark colored nails dig harshly into it, “Cheap cuts of fish are hardly a worthy offering to me.”

You wish you could find your voice, but every time you try to move your tongue it wiggles ineffectively. What do you say to the ocean incarnate? Should you beg for your life? Despite the violence that coats the air, you don’t feel danger. 

The fish man stares at you for a moment, sizing you up with his teeth still bared. He tosses the remaining fish at your feet, and the slap against the stone. You flinch, finally finding the ability to move.

“Where is your piety? Your reverence?” He hisses, “These offerings are not befit for a thrall, and you seek to give them to the god of the sea? The king of the swells and the tides?”

You look down at the soggy fish, and then back up. Swallowing your trepidation, you place the fish back into the basket and sit on your knees. His words are nonsensical to you, and he seems to await your response. 

A god? Here? Locked away in the sanctuary with who knows how many miles between here and the sea.

“It’s just a little pool,” You say, peering at the contained pond he calls home, “Are you the god of it?”

The rage on his face flickers away for a moment, replaced with utter disbelief. His brow lowers, and his eyes burn an icy cerulean, “Such insolence. I should take you as a sacrifice for your audacity, but I know you would taste of gristle and bone.”

You draw back slightly, “Did you try and eat Cosme? The little boy who came here before?”

The pond-god sneers, crossing his arms to rest on the edge, “The youth tossed rocks into my pool, he is lucky I did not drown him.”

“You hurt him.” You counter, feeling indignation at this being’s rudeness.

“Just as he attempted to hurt me.” He snaps back. “His sire should thank me for teaching the boy a lesson in manners.”

You rise to your feet, and prop the basket up on your hip. This creature math wear the face of a man, the torso of one, but his spirit is sour. Perhaps he is just a beast that learned to speak some millennia ago, for you aren’t inclined to believe his claims of godhood while he spits such coarseness. 

“What are you doing here?” You ask, taking a half-step back, “Should the god of the sea not reside in it?”

He lifts his chin, soft strands of lavender shifting to frame his face, “Bring me worthy offerings, and I will tell you the story of the sea god.”

You frown, and in an elegant display of your lack of self-preservation, say, “You are not the god of much right now, sir, the god of ponds sounds more apt.”

The sea god chokes, sputtering on his own shock and he growls. It vibrates the water around him and he looks as if he might follow through on his promise of devouring you. However, there is a subtle blush across his cheeks, a violet hue that stains the skin around where shiny scales reveal. 

“Be gone from this place!” He snarls and dives back into the water. You’re only able to glance that flash of periwinkle scales and the sound of metal chains before a massive splash knocks you off your feet. 

<- Previous Next ->

[frost-queen]

The right approach (Reader x Oswald Cobblepot)

Requested by: @stygianoir Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @floatlosers, @alex–awesome–22, @merlieve, @wildiefleur , @meyocoko , @subjecta13-thefangirl , @m-rae23, @melsunshine  , @venomsvl, @evilcr0ne , @vviolynn , @niktwazny303 , @avada-kedrava-bitch-187, @erikasurfer , @slythetic  , @eliscannotdance, @p0nycurtis, @slythetic, @bitchybananaflower, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr

Oswald cleared his throat loudly. Gazing at his own reflection for a moment. Adjusting the tie around his neck. Wanting. Needing to look absolutely perfect. This was an important decision and he wanted it to be perfect. Knowing he might only get one chance. Taking a step closer to the mirror, he smiled shyly.

Gaze dropping low to avoid eye contact. – “My darling.” – he began flashing his gaze back up to himself. – “Remind me again of how many years we are working together now?” – he asked himself. Imagining he was speaking to someone else. He flashed a teasing smile at the mirror. Letting his finger trail against the frame, mindlessly.

He chuckled softly, turning his head down.  – “Yes, three glorious years now.” – he answered for himself. Oswald moved his cane to the other hand, leaning hard on it. – “You see I was wondering…” – he continued, fluttering his eyelashes at his own reflection.

His gaze shifting just a tat in the reflection. Noticing a spectator in the door opening. His smile faltering, his gaze going stern. – “What do you want?” – he snapped, turning sharply around. Victor snorted loud, removing himself from against the doorframe.

“Are you trying to flirt with yourself?” – he asked with a dashing smile. Knowing just how much he would taunt Oswald with it. As expected, Oswald groaned annoyed, making him even laugh even more.

“You don’t know anything!” – Oswald called out, looking ashamed away. Victor moved his hands up in defence. – “Should I give you some space with yourself?” – already backing back up. – “Leave the mirror untouched if you like or you can clean it yourself.”

It took Oswald but a few seconds to understand his joke. Scoffing loud. As if he was going to kiss his own reflection. – “I’m practicing.” – he let out to make a clearer understanding. – “Hey, whatever floats your boat.” – Victor answered with a cheeky smile.

Oswald scoffed again. – “For Y/n!” – calling your name out as he was getting annoyed with Victor. Victor furrowed his brows, brushing his fingers over his chin. – “I knew it.” – victor spoke, moving his finger up and down on him. – “You have that virgin kiss written all over you.” – he specified. Oswald’s mouth dropped in shock.

Moving his cane up, ready to hit Victor a few times with it. – “There is no shame in it.” – Victor said jumping back from his swinging cane. – “I’ve kissed before!” – Oswald shouted at him. Lowering his cane with exhaustion. Victor simply pulled his shoulders up, not entirely sure about it.

Oswald had enough, giving up. He stumbled towards the armchair. Letting himself fall into it. Sighing loud, resting his hand against his forehead. – “I want to commit my partnership with Y/n.” – trying to make it clear to Victor, he wasn’t doing some idle things.

“Oh…” – Victor responded. Oswald sighed again. – “I want to ask her to rule by my side. I… I was practicing…” – looking nervously away, to avoid Victor’s judgement. Victor hummed loud. – “In that case, it was terrible.” – he outed, making Oswald gawk at him. Annoyed, he looked away, fuming with irritation.

“You don’t know anything.” – mumbling under his breath. Victor pulled out his gun to check it for a moment. Breathing on it, then cleaning the top with his sleeve. – “You got it all wrong. You will get it all wrong if you go like that.” – Victor said casually. Dropping some advice for him.

Oswald scoffed, turning his posture more away. Not wanting to listen to another word of him. – “Y/n is straightforward. You should approach it straightforward. No idle dreading.” – he advised. Oswald laughed a bit. – “I’m not just going to ask her so bluntly.” – he answered. Victor pulling his shoulders up in response.

“Why not?” – asking a simple question. Oswald got up, laughing more. – “That is ridiculous. Woman like to be wooed.” – making his statement clear. Victor still wouldn’t give in. – “Well, not Y/n.” – Making it extra clear to him he was taking on the wrong approach. Oswald waved his hand away, not having ears for it. – “Suit yourself.” – Victor putted his gun back away.

“Don’t come crying when she rejects you… hard!” – with those final words, he took his leave. Oswald bit his nail nervously, feeling a bit frightened of his words. Wondering if he would have it at the right’s end. Groaning loud, he tossed all of Victor’s advice out of the window. Knowing his own way would be the right one.

Oswald’s gaze went down to his watch. Seeing the time made him widen his gaze briefly. Making him hurry up to get everything in order for your arrival. Waiting the last few minutes by the window. Swallowing nervously upon hearing your footsteps on the stairs. – “Oswald! Os! Are you in here?” – you called out, appearing into the room.

Oswald turned around, moving away from the window. – “What’s the urgency?” – asking as you watched him move away. Returning with shuffling feet and clearly hiding something behind his back. – “Os?” – you questioned. Surprised when he shoved a bouquet of flowers forwards. The gesture made you look uncomfortable away.

“What this?” – you wanted to know, curious about the sudden flowers. – “These are for you.” – Oswald spoke. You accepted them without further questions. – “Y/n… how… how many years are we working together now?” – he asked stumbling a bit nervously over his words.

“What does that have to do with anything?” – you responded loud. – “Indeed three…” – he answered, not listening. Eyes widening when he your response became clear to him.

He rubbed the back of his head nervously with a sheepish laugh. – “Well you see…” – he continued. Getting very nervous. “What are you talking about?” – you cut in, getting slightly impatient with his delaying. – “What’s with the flowers?” – giving them a good shake. – “Spill it out Oswald!” – you let out.

Oswald gulped loud, cursing at himself for throwing his own approach away. Taking a deep breath, he let his gaze settle on you. – “I want you to become my queen, to rule the underworld with me.” – he confessed. Waiting for your response with a frightened heart.

“Oh why didn’t you just say that! I would love to.” – answering, throwing your arms around him. Kissing his cheek, made him look sheepishly away. – “I thought you were having a stroke or something, good thing it wasn’t.” – you teased him, giving him a poke in the cheek. Oswald showed you a goofy smile. You kissed him again on his cheek, before kissing him on the lips. Sealing your promise to him.

-------------------------------------------

Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!

[no-nic]

Kakashi was born with a slightly broken heart.

Some death marks are visible on the soulmate’s body. A scar that chokes the neck, an eye that barely sees, a persistent burning somewhere inside, an entry and exit wound on the torso, bracketing the heart. But not every mark of destiny is so straightforward.

Kakashi’s heart tissue has always been drenched in chakra, letting drops float into his system. It has never been an issue in his daily life. Then Obito dies under a ton of rock, and he has the sharingan that greedily slurps every loose drop even when it’s covered and resting. They are in perfect symbiosis. They were also not soulmates.

Maybe he died from heart failure, Kakashi can’t help but doubt. This line of thinking is cut quite soon — as his lightning-wreathed hand slides though Rin’s chest.

It doesn’t matter which one was meant to be his. He will carry them both in his soul.

(Rin has always been a little wrong. A little not there. If you asked her about her soul mark, she would give you a sad smile and asked to be left alone. You would apologize, and you’d privately wonder what terrible end her body is mirroring. Would you feel better knowing that there is a void in her?)

(Kakashi didn’t defy fate. He died first. He died from hitting the bottom of his chakra reserves and still going further. Then the-man-who-was-close-to-god brought his soul back. It didn’t hurt Kakashi, if you don’t count meeting his long-departed father. It made Gai weep, as the exhaustion he was used to feeling suddenly turned a thousand times worse. He knew he would never be returning home — and that was before he knew that Konoha was turned into a crater.)

On a battlefield, among rubble, kneeling Kakashi watches Gai fight like never before. Wisps of red frame the glorious beast in green. They grow into flames, into an afterimage, into a dragon of eternal strength.

It is not enough. The enemy is no longer laughing — but what is one man’s power against a god reborn?

Amidst the settling dust lay two figures, one much less beaten down. Once again Kakashi can hear barking laughs and his chest grows tighter, as if a hand wrapped around his heart is squeezing out the last drops of his will to survive. The Eighth Gate — the gate of death.

There would be no defying fate, no miracles this time.

evil laughter. what even is a soulmate. carrying each other's burden? being forever scarred by their demise?

~~ exit now if you don't want spoilers for my bullshit ~~

okay so the soul bond is an alien parasite that feeds on specific emotions connected to loss. across time and space, it knows which two people will care about each other and sdflksdjkl sorry my hinge malfunctioned a bit

just be aware that any soulmate au i write is supposed to be horror

[brabblesban]

Louder.

Centuries before the circumstances of his ascension, Astarion watches the sunrise. Inspired by this artwork by pickled0ctopus For @glorious-void

TW: Torture, implied SA, Non-con elements, Suicidal Ideation Read on AO3.

Louder.

He tries, gods, he really tries. But he doesn’t have much voice left; today’s session with Godey had all but scratched his larynx raw.

He feels the chafe of the manacles on his wrists. He knows better than to fight against them, knows there’s no winning that, but Cazador liked having him do it anyway - for the theatrics of it, he had said.

That voice in his head, incontestable. 

So he had fought, tugging and pulling and yanking with a desperation that was not his, no, if it were up to him he’d just hold his hands slack but he has to fight, has to pull until his wrists are broken bloody weeping everywhere -

A loud crack behind him, and he screams as the whip lands, as requested. However the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a broken, hoarse groan. He despairs, knowing he’s failed his master yet again.

“The master said louder.” Godey cracks the whip again, and Astarion manages a louder sound this time, halfway between a shout and a moan. 

Please, he thinks, let that be enough.

He knows it is anything but.

He’s on a bed, the sheets white and clean in one of the guestrooms; a small comfort, one that he knows won’t last.

He eyes the window warily. The curtains are peeled back just far enough for a sliver of moonlight to land across him; Astarion arches his neck. The moonlight falls across his Adam’s apple, his hair falling back in silvery waves. 

Whatever new thing Cazador has thought up, Astarion thinks, might be preferable to the horrors Godey does. He had run out of sounds to make, of screams to titillate his master’s ears. 

And so Cazador had instructed him to clean up, boy, and lay down on the guest bed. 

Open the windows a fraction. Let the moonlight touch you. 

Do not move a muscle and watch the dawn arrive. 

Astarion had done just so. He wonders if the master intended to kill him this way, hopes for that to be the case. Likelier than not, however, he knows that this is yet another sort of cruel punishment that he just can’t see yet. 

The question of being able to die… well, he supposes not die die, as he’s dead - 

Of not existing, then, is something that has been plaguing him ever since he dug his way out of his grave. 

His master’s rules have so far prevented it. Not that Astarion hasn’t tried to find a loophole; years of his training as a magistrate have been put into exhausting, terrible use, trying to find some way he could circumvent Cazador’s words, twist them, and allow himself peace. 

No matter what type of logic he’d use in his head it never worked; he’d always find his own body betraying him, seeking safety when push came to shove. He’d scream at himself, to just please, please, stay put and die, but his body acted of its own accord, in accordance with his master’s will.

His body. Not his anymore. 

Astarion’s eyes, the only thing he feels allowed to move, keeps staring at the window. He watches the moonlight slowly wane. The hope is still there: perhaps this time with Cazador asking him to stay put he can last long enough to end; he could twist his interpretation enough to finally free himself.

Highly unlikely, he knows, but the embers of hope in his heart cannot be so easily tamped down.

All too soon the sun begins to rise. Astarion has not seen it in what seems like forever; his eyes widen to take it all in. Beautiful, the way those gentle rays illuminate everything; the small glimpse of color in a world so full of darkness makes his breath catch.

There are worse ways to end, he figures. This is positively divine.

The thought is unfortunately cut short by the sound of footsteps approaching him. His footsteps.

Cazador stares down at him, hidden in the safety of the shadows.

“Not exactly how I imagined you would execute this, but satisfactory,” he says. “A rare accomplishment, boy.” Despite himself, despite the gnawing hatred for his master, Astarion feels the swelling of pride at these words and immediately curses himself. Was he so wretched now that he craved even praise from him?

“Thank you, master,” he croaks out automatically.

Fuck.

Cazador smiles, as if hearing the thought. “One more thing.”

Astarion sees that gleam in Cazador’s eyes; in an instant what little hope he has dissolves and his undead heart begins to speed up. 

Of course there was to be no freedom. His master knew better, wanted him by his side forever, of course he did, who else brought the most beautiful victims, who else had the most exquisite screams -

“You want… to live,” Cazador says, eyes glowing a faint crimson as he taps into his power over him. “You’ll want to beg me to spare you from the sun.” Long, thin fingers, fingers that have touched him in so many ways and in so many places, all of them horrible, rest against his thigh. 

He feels the magic slowly take, the calm resignation and expectation of finally being allowed repose slowly morphing into panic that wasn’t his own, an alien feeling taking over him, ruling his heart and his mind.

His heart races, breathing quickens, whimpers, even as he tries to tell himself this isn’t what he wants. Betrayed yet again by his body and mind, trapped within the confines of Cazador’s will. He should be used to this by now; it’s been years of this, of endless waking nightmares of neverending bodies of dead-end hallways and pure shit -

The stream of sunlight begins to creep towards him, and Astarion struggles. He needs to keep still as commanded, but cannot stop his mouth.

“Master, please, I - I don’t want to die here,” he begins to say, his voice a wreck still. Cazador, still above him, watches with wry amusement, the hand on his thigh moving higher.

Astarion cannot help the whine that escapes him. “Please. Please.”

I’ll do anything say anything be anything just please don’t let me die here.

Never mind that those words, those thoughts, are not his; that he will never mean them in his deepest heart. He says them anyway, feels them anyway. 

“I think I’d rather you be quiet, child,” Cazador replies. 

Immediately his mouth snaps shut. His eyes shift over to look at Cazador, the defiance in them slowly ebbing away as the sunlight finally touches him.

Blistering, sizzling pain erupts from that line on his throat. He can hear his skin begin to burn, the crackling sound loud in the near-silent room. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t speak. Instead he watches his master, gaze conveying those traitorous feelings Cazador forces him to possess.

The pain increases, incrementally at first, and then worse as time passes. However it isn’t worse than any other pain he’s felt before, especially in Godey’s sessions.

He stares at Cazador and then at the sunlight, feeling freedom slip away from his fingers. So close to escape, to peace, and he is reminded that he can never have that. That this is it for eternity, to be Cazador’s, to spend day after day reliving the same waking nightmare without end.

A single tear falls. A different kind of pain.

If he could scream, he thinks, he could have been louder now. 

  

Taglist: @elora-the-slutty-songstress @tragedybunny @spacebarbarianweird @ayselluna @enterthedreams @coltaire @qiific3 @misscrissfemmefatale @vixstarria @eatyourheartoutmylove @linllewellyn @ battisonsgf @micropoe10 @thegoodwitchs-blog @akirahime @velcyrptrr @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @babblebrain-blog @asterordinary @last-but-not-the-least @artist4theworld @gracemisconduct @decadentcoffeewizard @rootin-tootin-n-kind@pursuitseternal@youngtacobanana @krispeenuggiez @girlygmer-blog @cheezits4lyfe @vinegarjello @the0ldmann

[lemurious]

[sic semper]

how many words will it take to keep a republic?

[this one's for camille.]

[the old roman republic fixation blending into the new one of the french revolution. now on ao3 as well.]

“He should’ve stopped right then. Thus, always, to tyrants. That’s enough to make one’s name ring for eighteen hundred years and then some.”

Ever since they had struggled through their first sentences of Cicero together, they have turned it into a kind of a hideout, a refuge. The last bright spark of the Republic, all the sweeter for its brevity, all the more terrible for the inescapable light.

They are fighting not to turn their own land into a desolation and would not stoop to the hypocrisy of calling it peace, and quirites have been renamed citoyens, and the old blood on the cobblestones is the same as under the statue of Pompey, and so many hands are eager to proffer a knife that there is a brief illusion that the guilt might be shared as well.

Camille has not moved to light the candles, and the sky has blinked violet for a mere moment, so fast that one could’ve missed it if one weren’t paying attention, and settled into a comfortable dusk.

He rubs his eyes, straightens himself, sways minutely in the slight derangement brought by exhaustion.

It is a respite, to think about what choices he would’ve made, had he the death of only one Caesar to reckon with, to imagine himself in the interminable tableaus of artists who felt that only they could give an accurate rendition to the scene. At the head of the liberators - no, that’s the place in which he can only imagine Maxime, however reluctant.

Camille stops dead, halfway through another speech in his head, he can almost hear his own voice shaking, his finger pointing in accusation at the corpse of Caesar and letting the anger of the crowd carry him through the Forum.

He wouldn’t have made the deal with Octavian though, nor scuttled off to Egypt. He would’ve stayed in Paris – in Rome, that is, of course. In his city. His city, claimed and signed and sealed in word after word and pamphlet after pamphlet, and declarations and constitutions and decrees beyond count, and it still might not be enough.

“He didn’t have to call Cicero’s name," Maxime goes on. "I wouldn’t consider Brutus a coward…”

Camille wonders if Brutus – not if, how frequently Brutus had tried to reason with his conscience, how many times Cassius had strengthened him, by words or arms.

They seem to have acquired their own Cassius, not too long ago, another moth to the flame of revolution, except this one – this one is worth watching, and the entire Convention watches. This one seems to be bound for a glorious death, if one could be contrived.  

It might not take much, these days. Marat has recently managed without even trying.

“What’s wrong with Cicero?” Camille pushes his thoughts out of his head, imagines them flying through the open window and into the summer heat that is settling into the city for the night.

“He was like one of these overtrained dogs, always ready to attack the next enemy. I do not discount the elegance of his language, or the precision of his philosophy – “

“You are trying to discount the man. But we still memorize his speeches. Now -give me a speech from Brutus, one to make you want to follow his lead! See – you can’t. I know you can’t. All you have from Brutus is a sword. Cicero took that sword and adorned it with virtue, having an excess of it in his possession due to having left all vice to Antony, now, of course, I do object to it, on occasion being partial to Mark Antony myself, but wouldn’t you call it a force of its own, this ability that only words have, to turn a death into a martyrdom and a murder into an execution?”

Camille positively runs out of breath by the end of the sentence.

“Caesar wouldn’t have been killed by a pamphlet.” Maxime is curt, but there is a softness to his look.

“Just you wait.”

“You – well, you I could trust – to prove me wrong.”

“I tell you again – only consuls can be killed in the Curia Hostilia, while tyrants have to die in words, over and over, until they teach us how to treat the tyrants of our age – wait, I need to put this down –“

“You should be writing plays.”

“You should be carrying a knife, just in case a suitable Caesar passes by. Stop insulting me. We’re living a tale, we have to be able to tell it too – not that I, of course, am going to give all that many more speeches, I suppose –“

“You will, when the need arises.”

“I wish I had your certainty.”

“My certainty begs to differ. You do not wish for anything of the sort. And I am hardly ready to start stabbing kings, or anyone else for that matter. We have our laws.”

“I know you. At some point, you will be called to a Curia and you will make a choice, against an entire row of Caesars, lined up, unsuspecting, in front of you. And then, well, then, another republic will be saved again, I suppose, and then –“

“And then?”

There is a tinge of dust, in the light breeze rising. A taste of desert.

“And then, Philippi.”

“Such a morbid future.”

“There’s nothing morbid about immortality, at least not for you, at least not this kind, it’s the only kind that is worth pursuing anyway, there’s a kind of truth to it that is harder to stain, and, speaking of which, time for me to go, this needs to be printed by tomorrow, they’re already cursing me in the press for keeping them awake.”

“Camille.”

“Yes?”

“Do you remember how we used to talk of them, as if we ran in their circles, as if we had to step aside to let their litters pass us by? Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, everyone? Do you think – they felt they had no other choice?”

The only answer is a cliché, and it sticks to Camille’s teeth like molasses.

Still, he supposes, it must be comforting. For a moment he is so exhausted that he feels that he will never find anything comforting, and then he looks at the desk, at the pen dripping ink because Maxime is holding it at a strange angle, and tells himself to stop being so fanciful.

It is easier to speak in clichés, in the dark. Sometimes, Camille wishes he could be turned off together with the lamps and blink right back into shape the following night.

He wonders what kind of a ghost he would make. And if Maxime would even want to stick around the living.

“One always has a choice.”

“Camille.”

“Yes, again?”

“…it's too hot, my words are trying to slip away from me – for all that I despise Cicero, that was something he was good for. Finding them.”

“You can just say something trite about surviving, taking care of myself, maybe even thinking, for once, of how my own words will be read before putting them down.”

“Is that what you expect of me?”

“No.”

Camille turns, steps closer, reaches out, velvet and lace and skin under his hands. Sometimes, even he chooses to be silent. So will Maxime, but not just yet.  

“Here’s your Cicero, then. Vince et vale.”

[elliespuns]

Question Tag Game

Thank you for the tag @galway-girlatwork

Do you make your own bed?

Me? I'm not a bed kinda gal. I've got a plush, extra-large couch that's my one and only. It's like my personal happy place where I eat, sleep, binge-watch, and do some other stuff that I won't mention in polite company. It's my comfort zone, my happy hideaway. Sure, my back might be yelling obscenities at me, but hey, that's a small price to pay for never having to leave the couch. Unless nature calls... or the fridge gets too far away.

Favorite number?

That would be 28.

What's your job?

I wouldn't go into specifics about my job, but let's just say that I work in a hotel. I toil away in the hospitality industry, which is just a fancy way of saying I'm working in a madhouse. It's exhausting, thankless, and full of divas. I've seen (and heard) too much. But hey, at least I get to meet all sorts of interesting characters from all over the world. It's like a never-ending parade of people who are just dying to make my life more difficult.

If you could go back to school, would you?

Ugh, school was such a dumpster fire that gave me nothing but anxiety. Between all the homework, group projects, brain-dead peers, and power-tripping teachers, I was about to lose my marbles. And I wasn't even getting paid. Talk about audacity.

Can you parallel park?

I don't have a driver's license because I'm too chickenshit to get behind the wheel.

Do you think aliens are real?

Oh, absolutely. I'm the head honcho here on Earth.

Can you drive a manual car?

I can fill the passenger seat, or Joel can fill me.

What's your guilty pleasure?

My guilty pleasure is watching hilariously awful movies featuring mutated beasts rampaging and battling each other. I'm talking cinematic masterpieces like Komodo vs. Cobra, Sharktopus, and the epic Dinocrock vs. Supergator showdown. These trash movies are so terrible, they're actually amazing. Who needs quality filmmaking when you can watch a giant shark, half-octopus wreak havoc on a beach resort? It's like my brain cells are committing delicious cinematic suicide and I'm here for it. The cheesier the special effects, the more nonsensical the plot, the worse the acting—the better these glorious trainwrecks become.

Any phobias?

Oh crud, I've got two major freakouts going on—a phobia of puking, which I'm pretty sure has the highly technical medical term of "emetophobia." And get this, for a grown adult, I'm also scared spitless of strong winds. We're talking hurricanes and tornadoes. Whenever the wind gets a little crazier, I'm over here having a full-blown panic attack. That one apparently is "ancraophobia"

Favorite childhood sport?

Basketball and soccer. When I was a kid, my dream was to dribble the ball like a pro, but unfortunately, I was just a little bean. So basketball was out. Too many tall pineapples blocking my view.

Do you talk to yourself?

I'm having a lively debate with myself 24/7. My neurodivergent brain has taken improv comedy to a whole new level. It's exhausting being my own therapist, life coach, motivational speaker, and crazy person all at once. But hey, at least I never get bored or lonely. I'm basically a party for one, and the guest of honor is always myself.

Tattoos?

I don't actually have any. But I love the decent ones.

Favorite color?

I'm obsessed with those delicate little pastel colors—you know, the soft and subtle hues that are basically the chill, laid-back cousins of the color family. But I will say black.

Do you like puzzles?

I do. But I don't have patience for it. I'm getting too old.

NPT: @snifsnouf-art, @pattwtf, @lost-in-relative-dimensions, @joelsknees, and others who want to participate.

[brainrockets]

I wrote a thing you guys.

Evan reads the damn book. In a moment of exhausted despair, he just plops on the ground and starts reading it. He's so tired. He sometimes thinks he's been tired his whole life. The moments of ease and respite stark in their contrast to his every day existing. The moments of respite sometimes hurt more he thinks, a window into a life he can never truly possess-just able to look at in stolen glimpses through smudged glass. 

And he wants to be stronger, stronger for his friends, who he loves fiercely and wildly, but HE DIED the other day. And they got him back, but more than ever he feels like he's haunting his own life and his unforgiving cut glass mind keeps throwing out possible connotations around the method of resurrection. What does it really mean to be here in this goat tatted body? Is it his body? Is it a new body? Some other horrifying thing he will find out right before some hideous consequences arrive? 

He deeply envies his friends. Their ability to get swept up in the fantasy of St. Dotto’s is equal parts terrifying, infuriating and enviable. That island couldn't bend to provide him a fantasy he'd be able to accept and he'd found himself unable and unwilling to bend to accept what it could do. The way K just threw themselves into it was as charming as it was absolutely aggravating. A great strength and a terrible weakness. This was how they approached anything and anyone they loved. Like a space laser. And frankly the absence of the spotlight of that laser focus made him feel like a kicked dog. He had to stop thinking in terms of dogs damnit. The glory of standing at the center of it was intense and glorious, but it wasn't something to count on. At least not for him. And he'd, towards the end, stopped feeling it as warmth and wonder and started feeling it like the ray of light of a bug under a magnifying glass. Focused on but not entirely seen or cared for. And K fell further into their web trying to fix what they broke the best way they knew how, Jammer had fled the entire country, declining to be drafted into something he didn't sign up for, Sam floated gloriously to a future of fame and adoration and he tried to remember how to survive the way he always had, on the edges, mostly alone. With nicer shoes.

On the walk back to the Hoopty, as the charm Sam had cast wore off of him, he felt the slow dark curl of shame start its insidious roiling through him like a wave or a worm. It's funny how you never know where the bottom is. How you can think you fell as far as it is possible to fall and keep on going. Jammer was slowly flying at his side looking fuzzy as he also threw off the charm offensive. Evan couldn't tell if he felt it as deeply as he did or at all. Jammer being infinitely cooler than anyone he'd ever known. He should ask. That'd be the right thing to do, but he worries if in the asking he'd be giving away too much of his own particular baggage and he doesn't want to strain the already fragile bonds they've just really started repairing with his Evan-Ness. 

Evan had taken back his backpack to once again set up his mattress up against the awkward and dubious shelter of their magical ride. Jammer hadn't put up a fuss, had just folded into himself on the mattress and seemingly drifted, not sleeping as such but not fully present. His back pressed against Evan for comfort like the animals they'd been begging to be so recently, like the animals that humans like to pretend not to be. And that's when Evan lost the fight. He felt the fight leave like his shadow, just float away from his grasp between one breath and the next. He looked up, he looked down. The Book was in his hands. He allowed himself a little lie, that he was just going to read it. He opened the cover. He started to read. 

------

Sam and K were arguing, they’d blown straight past banter and bicker and jumped straight to a full on huff fest. They were arguing without arguing, in the way of lifelong friends where so much has already been said that the silences and sighs are far louder and more pointed than words. Once the boys had left, a tidal wave of words had started spilling out of K as they made their way into the center of the caldera. Sam made the appropriate sounds, they'd been doing this dance since they'd first met on the forums so she didn't have to put too much effort into her side of things, trying instead to push down the dread she felt about how her friends had been affected by her Magnetism. She'd been certain it was the right choice, the least risky Magic to lean into on this island of amplification. And then her dear sweet boys had also been hit with the full force of her whammy. Horrifying. Embarrassing. K was insisting that it was fine, that amplification meant that they'd already had that desire in them, but Sam knows in ways that she also knows she’ll absolutely NEVER disclose to her friends probably, (especially Evan, unless she is sure that she wants the perpetrator dead and in the ground), that just because you have some desire inside you deep and buried doesn't mean that having it forced out of you non consensually isn't awfully damaging. Sam’s gift is people and charm so sharp she wields it like a sword. She knows profoundly the ways that people can get it twisted and she’s gotten real good at making them regret their choices. 

She loves K so SO MUCH, but she also wants her to get outside and touch some grass… once there is some grass. Or stay inside and eat regular meals, hang out, maybe shower a bit more frequently. To connect with the people that love them as well as they connect with all of the people out there on the internet. It’s not that what K is doing is not important, but she worries that they’re losing themselves, losing their sense of self in the depths of the network. But she would never force those things on them. Use her power to make them want to take care of themselves, make them be in the moment if they didn’t want to be. Grosser than gross.

She'd been looking forward to seeing her friends again, had dropped everything to follow the fraying threads and reconnect. She'd been in various levels of shock and horror at the reality she'd been confronted with. And a little bit pissed off. Weugan (and her boys, god but she loved those boys) were taking the brunt of that built up fury she hadn't been wanting to acknowledge. Sam is a happy person. She likes to be happy. It's a state that works for her. It's her first and best defense against the ugly sharp bits of reality that she just does not make the time for. Happiness and her teacup pig are all a girl really needs most of the time. It takes a lot for her to lose her happy. And she guesses that they officially passed a lot when she found herself standing in a hot spring with the corpse of her best friend covered in his exploded arm goo.

And then just kept on moving past that line like rockets. She's trying to figure out the secret of this fucking place, trying to execute their plan to try and make this situation at least not completely fruitless. She’s trying to forgive K for killing Evan, because she KNOWS that they were just trying their best to express how much they care. In the most impulsive and ambitious way possible. Sam sees the logic K was following, feels like she SHOULD have seen the danger coming. She knows K, she knows K cannot let things be. And that K needs a goddamned win. She should have asked better questions, noticed more. Intervened before she was wearing pieces of EVAN. Lord let the trauma not be in vain. She thinks, scanning for danger and wanting to just grab her friends and get the hell out of here. Take them to her flat and order a takeaway and do karaoke in her state of the art media room. If they still can look her in the eye after all of this. 

They find something promising in the maw, and ever brilliant K jury rigs something she doesn't fully understand past the basic gist of and is heartened by how K seems pleased with themselves. She wishes she'd been able to help more but she's more than willing to nod and hold wires and lend bits of her magic to K while they weave an impressive web of magic and networking and Sam distracts herself with possible new last names and set lists for her next musical episode. 

As they get things moving, Magic seems to shudder and hum in a promising fashion, there’s a light weaving through the gross magic fog and Sam feels something like hope just moments before she hears a sound like thunder and feels the earth moving under her feet. She loses her balance and crashes into K landing Awkwardly in a little K and Sam heap. From the heap they both look up to see black wings rush overhead and a loud cry of agony that they unfortunately are far too familiar with. They both push up from the ground and hop on their brooms. Something has gone horribly wrong with Evan. They just got him back. Lord help whoever hurt their boy.

----

K has been in constant motion, trying to outrun their guilt since well since they broke magic. They have also been running literally from hostile anti magic government goons as well, but some days that just feels like a metaphor for the emotions they're running from. If they stand still, who knows what will catch up to them, yanno? 

They know that they aren’t really doing okay. And maybe they haven’t been for a while. They had stopped paying attention to that when it had gotten in their way. Like they’d stopped paying attention to most things that had gotten in their way, like eating or sleeping or bathing or other people. They stick their tongue out at the uselessness of things that are in their way. Magic is real, so why does everyone keep insisting on things like rules and reality. What even does that mean, really in the face of MAGIC!? They’re still talking, covering the eerie silence with nonsense patter about how fucking hot it was for Sam to just make people roll over for her. What could K do with that kind of power, probably a lot. Probably too much. They know they are a lot. They miss being a lot in a group, when they stop too long and the thoughts catch up with them. They try not to ever let that happen. They think everyone is probably pretty pissed at them at the moment, they’re, if they’re honest with themselves, they’re pissed at themselves too. But they still can’t let themselves get caught out, not with so much on the line, not with their biggest mistakes still hurting so many people. They don’t know why their friends don’t see what’s driving them, why they aren’t as invested in things. Once they all went their separate ways, they’d floundered, just a little bit. What happens next!? And then they’d found a way to keep helping, to try and fix what they broke and they patched over the hurt of separations, the uncertainty of transitions and poured them into their missions. 

In the maw of Weugan, they find a place to plant their feet and a glimpse of a real actual fix for this whole ridiculous situation. They turn their considerable skills towards building something, they have a crochet needle in one hand and their tiny rose glasses perched on their nose to help them see where to jam the needle. They're built for this, and they cannot dream even a little small. They feel the rightness of it all surround them in a golden hum, like a melody they’d known their whole life. They set it off. And then they hear Evan scream in agony and they fall. Neither friend says a single thing. They pick themselves up and dash forward on their brooms towards the Hoopty and their boys. 

----

At the Hoopty, Jammer had been trying to get back to anywhere in the neighborhood of good. The dog thing wasn't like the last straw, he knew he had a bit of that dog in him, and he was at peace with it in general. You can only get compared to various friendly dog breeds by drunk folks and drunk teammates so many times without taking something away about the way you are in the world. And he has already had to confront how deeply he carries the weight of responsibility for the people he collects around him. So, yeah, he loves his friends and he’d be their dog, so what? He’s a big enough man that he can be a man and a dog, no problem. 

What was eating away at him was the weight, the weight of magic. The weight of all of these problems. He expects A lot of himself, always has. The world was always gonna ask more of him anyways, he likes to be ahead of that demand when he can, even when the world keeps moving the damn line and expecting even more. He keeps pushing himself so he can avoid pushes from others towards ends he doesn't want to achieve. He's trying to get himself right in his head space, distracting himself with building out training regimens for the season and wondering If his pals from school are having more fun than him. He really hopes so. He definitely doesn’t have it in him to fix magic AND mundane messes in just the one Spring Break. He’s trying some of those breathing exercises he learned at a workshop he volunteered for at LEEP, trying to get centered, so he can get back in the game. Evan’s still far too bony form at his back reminding him that they got him back. That he’s fine. He’s here. He’s fine. It’s going to be fine. 

He wonders when he’ll have time to fall apart for real, and if he’ll let himself take that time and if they’ll even have the time to take. And he doesn’t linger too long on that train of thought because he’s got shit to handle and that kind of thinking isn’t great for team morale. He tries to think of a sports metaphor to use later, knowing that his friends generally don’t have the framework to appreciate it, but frankly sometimes that’s half the fun. He thinks the breathing exercises are starting to work, he’s feeling more clear headed, regaining more of himself, more of the self he wants to be when he starts to notice the quiet sound of pages turning. As soon as he notices the rustle of the pages, he starts to hear quieter things, a hiss of whispers, a small wind cutting through the fog of this place, a growl from nowhere and everywhere. The heat at his back starts to increase slowly and then quicker. He is up like a shot, his reflexes fast as ever, only for an explosion of magic and force to shove him like 20 feet away, nearly into a rock, which he dodges at the last second. Evan is hovering in the air surrounded by swirling debris. 

Jammer, not really understanding what the FUCK is happening, absently notices the air mattress has shot out past the edge of the island and nearly to the ocean and the storm. He shakes himself off and raises his wand, ready to fucking end whatever is threatening them, but also frustratingly aware of how badly doing Magic has gone on this weird ass upside down wolf island. Dark lights are surrounding Evan, and he looks wrong and wrong for Evan is a real high bar. Jammer huffs his frustration and tries to find some angle to fix this. Sam and K are still not here and it’s all on him and he’s gotta figure it out. Evan’s not dying on his watch, not again. He looks towards where Sam and K are, looks for the familiars, looks for the damn wolf. He sees a golden light in the direction of his other friends and in that moment something changes. Out of nowhere, that weird snake motherfucker comes flying low, its mouth open and full of sharp fangs. It’s on a collision course for Evan, because of fuckin course it is. He shakes off his indecision and throws Magic at it, fiery and way bigger than he expected. The snake screams and flies away towards his other friends. He launches himself towards his friend, thinking to grab him out of the air like a basketball. Something even more wrong twists Evan just out of his grasp and Evan’s whole body goes pretzel-y. A horrific scream of agony pierces the sky, echoing out from the whirling mass of Magic and man. He cannot see Evan anymore. All he sees is a mass of whirling red and darkness deeper than his creepy ass shadow. He’s helpless and he hates it. 

He breaks his fucking wand and throws all he’s got at what he hopes is still his best friend. A wash of gold light covers the screaming ball as an echoing golden hum of magic washes over the world and everything goes quiet and almost still for what feels like forever. Something changes and a sense of gravity reasserts itself and something is falling. Jammer instinctively reaches to catch whatever it is, to save something from this fucked up bullshit situation. He looks down and finds himself at a total loss for words.

----

Sam and K fly like the devil is after them, even though the snake thing went the other way. They’re chased by the hum of magic they set off and their fears for their friends. They ride the wave of amplified magic and anguish. The quality of light changes from red to golden. The world is quiet, like the dawn right before the world wakes. They get to where they left their friends. They don’t see Evan. They just see Jammer. He’s facing away from them, cradling something in his arms. His shoulders curled inward. His body language gives them less than nothing. They must make some sound, because he slowly turns towards them, an unreadable look on his face. They move towards him, trying to make sense of what’s happened. No one says a word. Their brains are trying to catch up with their eyes. The silence is broken, again, by a cry. Only this time it’s smaller and is not a cry of agony. And it originates in Jammer’s arms, a tiny wriggling bundle, all big eyes and black hair. A baby. 

They all look at each other. Look at the baby. Look around for their tall and spooky friend. Look back at the baby. K is the first to break the stalemate. They straighten up and hold out their arms for the baby. Jammer hands the baby to K. They hold the baby and look at it closely, which makes the baby laugh even though no one else is anywhere close to laughing. K addresses the baby directly. 

“Evan, what the hell, man!”

[crimeronan]

Wsg. I love you. Platonic style.

Do you know how many hours I have spent tracking down the very few codependent Luz & Hunter fics out there.

Do you know how few are good, or if good, long-running.

Do you know how few have plot and outside POV.

Do you know how MANY are so anti-Lunter (even if it's platonic or misunderstood not romantic) that they Erase so much fun storyline those misunderstandings may have created.

You.

You beautiful fucking DIVINE ENTITY sent from FUCKING HEAVEN OR WHATEVER to write THE FIC OF MY(AND MANY OTHER'S) FUCKING DREAMS.

Holy Shit.

And you interact with your audience. And you post so much on Tumblr. And you answer world building questions and post bits of brainrot causing junk.

LORF SLL MIFGTY.

You, my dear fellow, are going to FUCKING SLAUGHTER ME YOU GODDAMN GENIUS YOU BRAINROT INDUCING MOTHER FUCKER.

I want to marry you and then cry. I Am Going To Eat Your Fanfiction.

GRARARSRSRAFHFZAEEAESYGU GEARRAEAAEAEAR *BITES YOU* GYUINYCRXYBINKVUCYYCSAEEAEERARR

Also, quick question, are we getting some lavender winter in the far far future (I Will Cry) (Platonic Or Romantic, I Will Cry)

fjsjdjdjsj this is so sweet thank u. i fully believe you on how hard it is to find good luz & hunter fic. i only look at sibling fic for them (which is the vast majority of content) when i've exhausted All My Other Options & the number i've read where they're like ew gross!!! liking each other would be INCEST!!!!

.....head in hands.

i have Vague plans in the works to write willow into the AU as terra's apprentice with a lot of baggage... and for there to be Complex Feelings about how hunter and luz seem to have allied with amity. especially given that all three of them are hot and amity was probably willow's first kiss and willow is still So Fucking Angry at her.

gay rights! i love lavender winter With All My Heart.

IN THE MEANTIME, can i VERY ENTHUSIASTICALLY rec @halcyonhue's "you're a far cry from an empire at peace"? it's set in the princess AU (fanfic of it!!! oh my god!!!) with a slightly different take on willow that's fucking GLORIOUS and has been on my mind for WEEKS. willow as a high school dropout and eda's gardener who takes no shit -- the fic is Mainly huntlow cautiously getting to know each other, but there are hints of Very Fraught willuz and terrible terrible amillow backstory. and the interactions and clever politics and internal narration are all so good i KICK MY FEET FOREVERRR....

[luminouslumity]

So I've been wondering whether or not to write up a post on myth retellings, but with Cinzia's new video and these other two that I found recently, honestly, these people describe my feelings perfectly! That's not to say I don't like retellings at all, but even with the ones I do like, I feel like a lot of them fail at what they set out to do, especially in terms of characterization.

Actually, you know what? Incoming rant below! And obviously, more power to you if you like these retellings. Again, I don't hate all of them (for example, Ariadne by Jennifer Saint and The Private Life of Helen of Troy by John Erskine are actually two of my favorites, and I found Katherine McDonald's Fairies of the Underworld series to be really fun), I just have a lot of thoughts I've been feeling the need to let out.

This is what I like to call Hades Syndrome and Demeter Syndrome, where you have a mythological character who more or less gets the overcorrection treatment. So basically Adaptational Heroism and Adaptational Villainy respectively, but for mythology specifically.

I feel like you see this a lot with Helen, with her portrayal in The Penelopiad being the most egregious example that comes to mind in terms of a negative portrayal. But on the flip side, you have Daughters of Sparta, which does give a positive look on Helen, but at the expense of making nearly everyone else around her into a terrible person. The author of the latter does the same thing in The Shadow of Perseus, in which almost literally everyone else is an overall good person except for Perseus! I talk a little bit more about both books here.

And if I had a nickel for every time I've seen a terrible portrayal of Thetis, I'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice. Speaking of, The Song of Achilles really does do a disservice to The Iliad in general—especially where Patroclus is concerned—and I'm saying this as someone who liked it!

And then, of course, you have the big ones: Hades and Demeter. Of course, my little term for this trope comes from them, as Hades has been portrayed as more of a hero in recent years and Demeter the villain... and honestly, it's gotten kinda exhausting at this point. As a sort of simplification of everything I'm about to say, I'm not expecting something like Hercules or Hadestown to be mythologically or culturally accurate and of course you can enjoy whatever you want, but if you're going to portray Hades as something other than Greek Satan, then it'd be nice to see that same courtesy be extended to Demeter as well. The only recent retelling I've seen this done with is Winter Harvest, and even then, it falls into the same trope of completely villainizing certain gods right from the start.

Now, even though I'm speaking more so narratively, I also think it's important to keep in mind the culture of the time, because at the end of the day (besides providing an explanation for the changing of the seasons, of course), this is still a story about a mother trying to find her daughter after she'd been wed without her knowledge, in a time when women were treated as little more than property. The fact that Demeter tried to defy this says alot!

However, I do think there's something to be said over portraying her—or any character, really—in the exact opposite direction, considering, well...

But golden-haired (xanthe) Demeter sat there [in her new-built temple in Eleusis] apart from all the blessed gods and stayed, wasting with yearning for her deep-bosomed daughter. Then she caused a most dreadful and cruel year for mankind over the all-nourishing earth: the ground would not make the seed sprout, for rich-crowned (eustephanos) Demeter kept it hid. In the fields the oxen drew many a curved plough in vain, and much white barley was cast upon the land without avail. So she would have destroyed the whole race of man with cruel famine and have robbed them who dwell on Olympos of their glorious right of gifts and sacrifices, had not Zeus perceived and marked this in his heart.—Homeric Hymn to Demeter (trans. Evelyn-White)

And if you want to get into the Romans (though their versions of course came much later), we also have these two incidents:

"When Zeus commanded Plouton (Pluton) [Haides] to send Kore (Core) [Persephone] back up [to her mother Demeter], Plouton gave her a pomegranate seed to eat, as assurance that she would not remain long with her mother. With no foreknowledge of the outcome of her act, she consumed it. Askalaphos (Ascalaphus), the son of Akheron (Acheron) and Gorgyra, bore witness against her, in punishment for which Demeter pinned him down with a heavy rock in Haides' realm."

[...]

"But he [Herakles while in Hades] did roll the stone off Askalaphos (Ascalaphus). . . As for Askalaphos, Demeter turned him into a horned owl."—Pseudo-Apollodorus, Bibliotheca (trans. Aldrich)

"The Sirenes, daughters of the River Achelous and the Muse Melpomene, wandering away after the rape of Proserpina [Persephone], came to the land of Apollo, and there were made flying creatures by the will of Ceres [Demeter] because they had not brought help to her daughter. It was predicted that they would live only until someone who heard their singing would pass by."—Pseudo-Hyginus, Fabulae (trans. Grant)

Then there's Hades, who I'm super glad is no longer being seen as pure evil in recent years, but then again...

Apart from Demeter, lady of the golden sword and glorious fruits, she was playing with the deep-bosomed daughters of Oceanus and gathering flowers over a soft meadow, roses and crocuses and beautiful violets, irises also and hyacinths and the narcissus, which Earth made to grow at the will of Zeus and to please the Host of Many, to be a snare for the bloom-like girl—a marvellous, radiant flower. It was a thing of awe whether for deathless gods or mortal men to see: from its root grew a hundred blooms and is smelled most sweetly, so that all wide heaven above and the whole earth and the sea's salt swell laughed for joy. And the girl was amazed and reached out with both hands to take the lovely toy; but the wide-pathed earth yawned there in the plain of Nysa, and the lord, Host of Many, with his immortal horses sprang out upon her—the Son of Cronos, He who has many names.

He caught her up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. Then she cried out shrilly with her voice, calling upon her father, the Son of Cronos, who is most high and excellent. But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tender-hearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave, and the lord Helios, Hyperion's bright son, as she cried to her father, the Son of Cronos. But he was sitting aloof, apart from the gods, in his temple where many pray, and receiving sweet offerings from mortal men. So he, that Son of Cronos, of many names, who is Ruler of Many and Host of Many, was bearing her away by leave of Zeus on his immortal chariot—his own brother's child and all unwilling.

And so long as she, the goddess, yet beheld earth and starry heaven and the strong-flowing sea where fishes shoal, and the rays of the sun, and still hoped to see her dear mother and the tribes of the eternal gods, so long hope calmed her great heart for all her trouble (lacuna)... and the heights of the mountains and the depths of the sea rang with her immortal voice: and her queenly mother heard her.—Homeric Hymn to Demeter (trans. Evelyn-White)

On through deep lakes he [Hades] drove . . . past Bacchiadae [Syracuse], where settlers once from Corinthus' isthmus built between two harbours their great battlements. A bay confined by narrow points of land lies between [the twin springs] Arethusa of Pisa (Pisaea) and Cyane. And there lived Cyane, the most renowned of all the Nymphae Sicelidae (Sicilian Nymphs), who gave her pool its name. Out of her waters' midst she rose waist-high and recognised the goddess.

‘Stop, stop!’ she cried, ‘You cannot take this girl to wife against Queen Ceres' [Demeter's] will! She ought to have been wooed, not whirled away. I too, if humble things may be compared with great, was loved; Anapis married me; but I was wooed and won, not, like this girl, frightened and forced.’

She held out her arms outstretched to bar his way. But Saturnius [Haides] restrained his wrath no longer. Urging on his steeds, his terrible steeds, and brandishing aloft his royal sceptre in his strong right arm, he hurled it to the bottom of the pool. The smitten earth opened a way to Tartara (Hell) and down the deep abyss the chariot plunged. But Cyane, heartbroken at the rape of Proserpine and at her pool's outrage, in silence carried in her heart a wound beyond consoling, and in endless tears she wasted away. Into the pool—her pool and she but now its deity—she spread dissolved. You might have seen her limbs soften, her bones begin to bend, her nails losing their hardness. All the slenderest parts, her wave-blue hair, her finger, legs and feet were liquid first; the change is slight and short from delicate limbs to chilly water. Next her shoulders, back and sides and breast dissolved in slender rivulets and disappeared, and last, in place of warm and living blood, water flows in along her wasted veins and nothing now that you could grasp remains.

Ceres [Demeter] meanwhile in terror sought her child vainly in every land . . . She turned again to Sicania (Sicily) and there, in wanderings that led her everywhere, she too reached Cyane; who would have told all, had she not been changed. She longed to tell but had no mouth, no tongue, nor any means of speaking. Even so she gave a clue, clear beyond doubt, and floating on her pool she showed the well-known sash which Persephone had chanced to drop there in the sacred spring. How well the goddess knew it! Then at last she seemed to understand her child was stolen, and tore her ruffed hair and beat her breast . . . Then that fair Nymphe [Arethusa] . . . rose from her pool and brushed back from he brow her dripping hair [and told her that Haides' was responsible for the abduction of Persephone]."—Ovid, Metamorphoses (trans. Melville)

RIP, Cyane!

And then of course, there's Persephone.

Dreaded Persephone!

Queen of the Underworld and Goddess of Spring!

Let's take a look back at the seed incident, shall we?

When he said this, wise Persephone was filled with joy and hastily sprang up for gladness. But he on his part secretly gave her sweet pomegranate seed to eat, taking care for himself that she might not remain continually with grave, dark-robed Demeter. Then Aidoneus the Ruler of Many openly got ready his deathless horses beneath the golden chariot. And she mounted on the chariot, and the strong Slayer of Argos took reins and whip in his dear hands and drove forth from the hall, the horses speeding readily. Swiftly they traversed their long course, and neither the sea nor river-waters nor grassy glens nor mountain-peaks checked the career of the immortal horses, but they clave the deep air above them as they went. And Hermes brought them to the place where rich-crowned Demeter was staying and checked them before her fragrant temple.

And when Demeter saw them, she rushed forth as does a Maenad down some thick-wooded mountain, while Persephone on the other side, when she saw her mother's sweet eyes, left the chariot and horses, and leaped down to run to her, and falling upon her neck, embraced her. But while Demeter was still holding her dear child in her arms, her heart suddenly misgave her for some snare, so that she feared greatly and ceased fondling her daughter and asked of her at once: "My child, tell me, surely you have not tasted any food while you were below? Speak out and hide nothing, but let us both know. For if you have not, you shall come back from loathly Hades and live with me and your father, the dark-clouded Son of Cronos and be honoured by all the deathless gods; but if you have tasted food, you must go back again beneath the secret places of the earth, there to dwell a third part of the seasons every year: yet for the two parts you shall be with me and the other deathless gods. But when the earth shall bloom with the fragrant flowers of spring in every kind, then from the realm of darkness and gloom thou shalt come up once more to be a wonder for gods and mortal men. And now tell me how he rapt you away to the realm of darkness and gloom, and by what trick did the strong Host of Many beguile you?"

Then beautiful Persephone answered her thus: "Mother, I will tell you all without error. When luck-bringing Hermes came, swift messenger from my father the Son of Cronos and the other Sons of Heaven, bidding me come back from Erebus that you might see me with your eyes and so cease from your anger and fearful wrath against the gods, I sprang up at once for joy; but he secretly put in my mouth sweet food, a pomegranate seed, and forced me to taste against my will. Also I will tell how he rapt me away by the deep plan of my father the Son of Cronos and carried me off beneath the depths of the earth, and will relate the whole matter as you ask. All we were playing in a lovely meadow, Leucippe and Phaeno and Electra and Ianthe, Melita also and Iache with Rhodea and Callirhoe and Melobosis and Tyche and Ocyrhoe, fair as a flower, Chryseis, Ianeira, Acaste and Admete and Rhodope and Pluto and charming Calypso; Styx too was there and Urania and lovely Galaxaura with Pallas [Athena] who rouses battles and Artemis delighting in arrows: we were playing and gathering sweet flowers in our hands, soft crocuses mingled with irises and hyacinths, and rose-blooms and lilies, marvellous to see, and the narcissus which the wide earth caused to grow yellow as a crocus. That I plucked in my joy; but the earth parted beneath, and there the strong lord, the Host of Many, sprang forth and in his golden chariot he bore me away, all unwilling, beneath the earth: then I cried with a shrill cry. All this is true, sore though it grieves me to tell the tale."—Homeric Hymn to Demeter (trans. Evelyn-White)

That said, the two did seem to have a pretty peaceful marriage; in the hymn itself, Hades essentially says that she'll rule alongside him:

And Aidoneus, ruler over the dead, smiled grimly and obeyed the behest of Zeus the king. For he straightway urged wise Persephone, saying : "Go now, Persephoneia, to your dark-robed mother, go, and feel kindly in your heart towards me: be not so exceedingly cast down; for I shall be no unfitting husband for you among the deathless dods, that am own brother to father Zeus. And while you are here, you shall rule all that lives and moves and shall have the greatest rights among the deathless gods: those who defraud you and do not appease your power with offerings, reverently performing rites and paying fit gifts, shall be punished for evermore."—Homeric Hymn to Demeter (trans. Evelyn-White)

We also have sources that suggest Persephone actually preferred living in the Underworld to the mortal realm and that she had an estranged relationship with her mother, so this common trope actually does have credence in the ancient world, but again, it's important to note that these are much later compared to the original hymn.

First, Virgil:

“Tartarus hopes not for you [Caesar in the guise of Hades] as king, and may such monstrous lust of empire never seize you, though Greece is enchanted by the Elysian fields, and Proserpine reclaimed cares not to follow her mother.”—Virgil, Georgics (trans. Fairclough)

Then Lucan (twice):

"I invoke the Furies, the horror of Hell, the punishments of the guilty, and Chaos, eager to blend countless worlds in ruins; I cry to the Ruler of the world below, who suffers age-long pain because gods are so slow to die; to Styx, and Elysium where no Thessalian witch may enter; to Persephone who shuns her mother in heaven, and to her, the third incarnation of our patron, Hecate, who permits the dead and me to converse together without speech."

[...]

"I shall tell the world the nature of that food which confines Proserpina beneath the huge weight of earth, the bond of love that unites her to the gloomy king of night, and the defilement she suffered, such that her mother would not call her back."—Lucan, Pharsalia (tran. J.D. Duff)

Lucian's Dialogues of the Dead also gives a brief scene in which Hades allows a fallen soldier to see his loved one again only after Persephone convinces him to:

PERSEPHONE: Husband, doctor that disease yourself: tell Hermes, as soon as Protesilaus reaches the light, to touch him with his wand, and make him young and fair as when he left the bridal chamber.

PLUTO: Well, I cannot refuse a lady. Hermes, take him up and turn him into a bridegroom. But mind, you sir, a strictly temporary one.—Lucian, Dialogues of the Dead (tran. H. W. and F. G. Fowler

And returning to Ovid's Metamorphosis:

The new-wed bride [Eurydike (Eurydice) wife of Orpheus]... fell dying when a serpent struck her heel. And when at last the bard Rhodopeius [Orpheus] had mourned his fill in the wide world above, he dared descend through Taenaria's dark gate to Styx to make trial of the Umbrae (Shades); and through the thronging wraiths and grave-spent ghosts he came to pale Persephone and him, Dominus Umbrarum (Lord of the Shades) [Haides], who rules the unlovely realm, and as he struck his lyre's sad chords he said : "Ye deities who rule the world below, whither we mortal creatures all return, if simple truth, direct and genuine, may by your leave be told... for my dear wife's sake, in whom a trodden viper poured his venom and stole her budding years. My heart has sought strength to endure; the attempt I'll not deny; but love has won, a god whose fame is fair in the world above; but here I doubt, though here too, I surmise; and if that ancient tale of ravishment is true, you too were joined in love. Now by these regions filled with fear, by this huge Chaos, these vast silent realms, reweave, I implore, the fate unwound too fast of my Eurydice. To you are owed ourselves and all creation; a brief while we linger; then we hasten, late or soon to one abode; here on road leads us all; here in the end is home; over humankind your kingdom keeps the longest sovereignty. She too, when ripening years reach their due term, shall own your rule. The favour that I ask is but to enjoy her love; and, if fate will not reprieve her, my resolve is clear not to return: may two deaths give you cheer."—Ovid, Metamorphoses (trans. Melville)

And sure, there was Minthe and Adonis, but neither incident seemed to have had much of an affect on the relationship anyway, and with Minthe specifically, either she was a concubine and got turned into mint by Persephone (Strabo) or she's actually a former lover of Hades and gets turned by Demeter herself only after the nymph boasts about being better than her daughter (Oppian).

And before anyone says it, no, there's no such myth that we know of regarding Persephone going down to the Underworld willingly and/or ruling it on her own. There are certainly other female death deities that fit this description somewhat (Hel of Norse mythology, for example, has no consort), but not Persephone specifically. In fact, that seems to come directly from a book by Charlene Spretnak, which featured stories she wrote for her young daughter.

The closest I can find was this, regarding the Pelinna tablets:

However, Persephone is not merely the consort to the king of the underworld. Rather she appears as the supreme power in the realm of the dead, the figure to whom the deceased must appeal to complete successfully the journey to the underworld. Her husband, Hades, is not even mentioned in the Pelinna tablets, while the Thurii tablets contain only a passing reference to Eukles, who seems to be the equivalent of Hades, the consort of Persephone in the underworld, the male ruler of the dead. Eukles, however, seems to play no important role in the deceased's journey, he is merely saluted, along with Eubouleus and all the other gods to whom the deceased must give honor.—Radcliffe G. Edmonds III, Myths of the Underworld Journey

This isn't to diminish Persephone as a powerful goddess, btw, but that's the thing... she already is. A nature goddess who gets raptured away, but quickly grows to become a ruler who is not only on equal footing to her husband, but more feared than him? That sounds pretty powerful to me. And that's to say nothing on her mother, how gray-cloaked Demeter almost literally upended Heaven and Earth in order to get her daughter back and won.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Devotional Hours Within the Bible by J.R. Miller

"When therefore Jesus had received the vinegar, he said, It is finished; and having bowed his head, he delivered up his spirit." – John 19:30

The three hours of darkness was ending. The light was breaking. The Scripture tells us that Jesus then cried out in a loud, strong voice. It was not the cry of exhaustion and faintness; it was the shout of a victor. The cross seemed like defeat. Those who understood nothing of the meaning of the life and death of Christ, would think of Him as a man who had failed, all of whose dreams and hopes had perished. But we who understand something at least of the meaning of His mission and of the great purpose of His life, know that nothing failed. “It is finished,” was the shout of a victor in the hour of His glorious success. It told of the completion of His work. All had been accomplished that He set out to do. His work was done. He had nothing more to do. There was no reason why He should live an hour longer, for the last task had now been done. A little while before, He said in His prayer in the upper room, “I have glorified you on the earth: I have finished the work which you gave me to do.” When He said in dying, “It is finished!” He meant that there was nothing whatever left now for Him to do.

His friends did not think so. They thought His work was only beginning. He was but thirty-three years old, and at thirty-three we regard life as no more than just begun. He had been only three years in His public ministry. Think, too, what years these had been, how full of blessing to those whom He had touched with His life. We can imagine Joseph and Nicodemus as they reverently took His body down from the cross and prepared it for burial, lamenting His early death, talking of what He might have done if only He had been spared longer. His disciples, too, in their anguish and their loss would speak together of the terrible bereavement they had suffered. He had just begun to live. He had gone about through the towns and villages, doing good for three years, healing, comforting, helping, blessing. What would fifty years of such ministry have meant to the world!

We talk the same way of our human friends who are taken away in early years. Their lives were full of promise. They had just begun to do beautiful things. They had shown a little of the power that was in them, to be a strength to others, to be a comfort to those who were in sorrow, to be inspirers of noble things. Our dreams for them were just beginning to be realized. Then, suddenly, they slipped away and all was ended. We say that they could not be spared, that the world needed them longer. Over their graves we set up the broken shaft, symbol of incompleteness. It is a great comfort, then, to remember that life is not counted by the number of its years but by what it puts into the years, few or many, that are lived.

We live in thoughts not breaths. We live in deeds not years.

We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives who thinks most, feels the noblest, and acts the best.

A millionaire recently, when dying, sent for a clergyman and said to him, “Doctor, I have failed, for I have groveled .” He had not lived dishonestly; he had not made his money by unjust treatment of others, by the oppression of the poor, or in any way that men called wrong. Men said he had lived well. He had failed, according to his own thought, because he had groveled, lived as if he were a worm. Eighty years of such life, with God and heaven and love left out, however stupendous the earthly success, will not count so much in eternity as much as one day of self-denying life of love, such as Jesus lived. Jesus, dying at thirty-three, had lived longer than any man who had reached fourscore years of selfishness, of groveling, of fame-seeking. When a friend dies early, with only a few years of life but with those years filled with usefulness, helpfulness, unselfishness, and faithful doing of duty do not say he had not done his work.

Another comforting truth started by the dying words of Jesus, is that God allots to us our work, little or much, and the time in which it must be done. Jesus spoke often of His hour. Again and again we read that His hour had not yet come, meaning the hour when His work would be finished, His earthly life ended. “His hour was not yet come.” Then, at last, He said His hour had come. The time of His death was not accidental. Then He spoke also of His work as what His Father had given Him to do. It was not a haphazard matter how much work He should do, or what particular work it should be. It was all given Him by His Father. When He said in His last moments, “It is finished!” He meant that everything He had come into the world to do, all that the Father had given Him to do He had done, and that now He had only to yield up His life into the hands of Him who gave it.

What was true of Him is true also of us. There is an appointed time to man on earth, and each one has his mission, his work to do. Whether it is a brief time or many years, it matters not; our only care should be to do what has been given us to do, and to fill our appointed days, short or long, with duty well done. We need not fret, then, if our time is short, if we have only a few years given us to work. Faithfulness while the day lasts is all that we need to concern ourselves with. The things we wanted to do and longed to do but could not do, were not part of our work at all; they belonged to some other one coming after us.

“It is finished!” He meant fully accomplished, done perfectly. Not a word was unspoken which it was His to speak. Nothing, however small, was left undone which the Father had given Him to do. This never can be true of us. We do nothing perfectly. Our best work is marred and flawed by imperfections. We get the white pages from God day by day and return them blotted and stained. Our lives are full of blanks, neglects, duties not performed, things left undone which we ought to have done. But all Christ’s work was complete. He never omitted a kindness that was His to do, never passed by on the other side, to escape doing a service of love. We are never quite sure of the purity of our motives, even for the most sacred and worthy deeds we do. “Who of you convicts Me of sin?” Jesus could say as He looked into men’s faces. But can we always say it? Why do we do our good things, our holy things? Is it really from love to God, and so for love to men, or is it sometimes from desire for praise? Everything in our lives is flecked and imperfect. We have to ask divine forgiveness on our best acts and words and thoughts.

But when Jesus said, “It is finished!” He looked back upon a life work without a flaw, without an omission, without the slightest failure in thought or motive or deed. His life was brought under most searching light by the rulers in their eagerness to find something to accuse Him of when they sought justification for crucifying Him. But with all efforts to find a flaw, in the blaze of the most dazzling light they found nothing! Herod sent Him back to Pilate with the testimony that he had found no fault in Him. Pilate declared the same of Him when he had examined Him. Then we have the witness of the Father, as He looked down upon Him and said out of the clouds of glory, “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” Christ’s work was not merely ended when He bowed His head on the cross and said, “It is finished!” it was completed. His life was perfect.

“It is finished!” In a sense nothing He had done was finished; all His work was only begun. Luke spoke of the treatise he had made as narrating only “all that Jesus began both to do and to teach.” All would go on forever. This is true of everything we ourselves do. They tell us that every word spoken into the air goes quivering on through time forever; that if you throw a pebble into the sea it starts wavelets which will ripple on and on until they break on every shore. Thus it is with every word we speak, with everything we do, with every influence that goes forth from our lives. We are starting things each day which will continue into eternity. Nothing we do is ever finished. We cannot know the end of any act, of any word.

The same was true of the life and work of Christ. He only began the world’s redemption. He ever lives at God’s right hand, interceding for His church, blessing and saving man. His life seemed a failure the day He said this word. He had made but a slight impression upon the great world. He had gathered only a few friends, and they were men of no distinction, of no power or rank among men. He had been teaching for three years, speaking words of divine wisdom but they had not been written down, and seemed now to be utterly lost. There were thousands of beginnings of blessing but they were only merest beginnings, like seeds dropped into the soil.

We know what Christianity is today. The words Jesus spoke, which seemed altogether lost the day He died, have been filling the world with their blessings. The influence of His life, which then had touched only a few lowly lives, has since touched nations and generations, and has changed all the world, has transformed millions of lives, and is bringing the nations up out of heathenism into holiness and happiness! The beginnings of the first Good Friday, have developed into a glorious kingdom of light and love!

“It is finished!” When Jesus said this, He had reached the end of His sufferings. All His life He had been a sufferer. He came into the world to redeem the world, by pain and suffering. He was the Man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. Perhaps we are in danger these days of losing sight of the place of the wounding of Christ in the redemption of the world. In G. Campbell Morgan’s book, ‘The Crises of the Christ,’ there is a chapter called “The Wounded God.” The title is startling. Dr. Morgan reminds us that it is impossible to omit from the ascended and reigning One, the wounds He bears. They are part of His personality. In glory He appears as a lamb that has been slain. He was our suffering Savior .

You remember how vividly this is pictured even in the Old Testament. He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities. When He said, “It is finished!” He had just passed through the three awful hours of darkness. What took place in His experience during those hours no mortal can ever know. We know only this, that in the mysterious depths of those hours, human redemption was accomplished. It was then, that He redeemed us from the curse of the law by being made a curse for us. It was then that He who knew no sin was made sin for us, that we might be made the righteousness of God in Him.

As we hear His word of relief, “It is finished!” we know that the work of redeeming love had been accomplished. The infinite meaning of the sufferings He endured in those hours we cannot fathom; earth has no line long enough to sound those holy depths ; but we know that out of what was done on Calvary those hours come all the hopes of our lives. Every one of us had a share in those pains of His. In some mysterious way our sins were imputed to Him, part of the awful blackness that obscured the sun, and also for a time hid the Father’s face from the holy Sufferer. In some way, what took place there set us free from the curse of sin.

“It is finished!” was the first announcement of the completion of redemption. It was the first proclamation of the gospel after the price had been paid. The Redeemer Himself made the announcement. Let us hear it today. Redemption is finished. We can be sure of eternal life if we receive this Savior as our Savior. There was nothing left undone in those hours, that needed to be done to open the way for us to God, to put away sin, to provide eternal salvation for everyone who will accept it.

“It is finished!” Think of the words a moment as words that we ourselves must speak, each of us. We are always finishing something. One by one duties come to us, and we must finish them quickly and leave them. How are we finishing them? Are we doing them as well as we can, or negligently? One by one the days come to us, white and beautiful, from God. What are we doing with them? What are we writing on the fair pages? One by one, in quick succession, opportunities come to us, opportunities to be kind, to be patient, to be forgiving, to help others, to honor Christ, to witness for Him, to plant a seed of truth in a heart and we must meet them promptly, for a moment later they will be gone. What are we doing with our opportunities?

We are finishing a hundred things every day. What are we finishing? How are we finishing the things we do? Soon we shall come to the end of all our living, doing our last task, saying our last word. When we come to the end of all our living and doing what will be finished? What will we leave behind? Will it be something that will make the world forever better, purer, holier? When you and I say, “It is finished,” what will be finished?

[sordidery]

carnage, guts, gore. fuck, it's everywhere. red-black crusted under his fingers, every movement of his flexors accompanied by the pull of his arm hairs, his skin matted with blood all the way up to his elbows. he feels alive, exhausted, ashamed. and @drunivers... shit, this girl is a menace. he feels like he can't process what he's seeing. the stark streaks of white skin and hair in between the slashes of red, ginger standing over the remains of whatever the fuck that thing used to be.

for david kessler, from ginger fitzgerald: "the fucker deserved it."

all this blood came from a human? "jesus christ." david's jaw hangs loose, but then the metallic tang in the air hits his oversensitive tastebuds, as strong as if he just took a bite of raw flesh. maybe he did. he stumbles backwards, lips pressing together, color draining from his face. he thinks he’s going to be sick. "i’m gonna be sick-" david hunches over, hands on knees, and he tries, he really does, to puke it all up. if only he were actually disgusted. if only he didn't remember glorious flashes of the night: colors dulled but senses heightened, fresh air coming in pants, unrestrained in every sense of the word. he wills himself to think of the worst of it, this terrible thing he's become. jack, his still boyish face rotting away. waking up in a zoo enclosure, naked and alone, even the predators around him cowering. the feeling of being bare and afraid and teetering off of humanity's edge. he wants to be human. he wants to be the same kid who thought he could take on the world, his closest friend at his side.

david takes his hands off his knees but stays hunched, bowed, rubbing at his face with vigor. he shakes his head, once, twice. "you're sick." at first, he says it so quietly he knows he has to repeat it to be heard. so, david says it over and over until he can find it in himself to straighten his spine, until the words don't feel right on his tongue. a bloody finger points at the girl, steady despite himself. "i wouldn't do this."

[corditeheart]

As far as welcome-home parties go, this one is very quiet, and exactly what she needs. The movie continues to suck; the coffee is excellent.

Eventually, Ellone takes her leave, and they are left alone in her apartment, in a stretch of silence that feels strangely comfortable, that she breaks long enough to get up, take a shower while someone is there.

Even if she's still half-expecting an army of nurses to come barreling through the door any minute now, it's a relief to stand under the spray for several glorious minutes, rinsing off two weeks' worth of hospital stink, scrubbing shampoo through her hair with one hand and generally trying to ignore the plastic garbage bag they'd tied around her bicep to protect her cast from the water.

Bag aside, it's probably the best shower she's ever had. Even if she has to carefully apply a layer of paramagical cream to the furiously angry wound across her chest, held taut with a row of neat black stitches, stretching about eight inches diagonally across one breast and down. It's physical, terrible proof that people had had their hands inside of her, scrambling to save her life.

Xu stares at it for a while, processing it. Accepting it. It's there, and there's not much she can do about it now. Not unless she suddenly turns into a time witch or something.

God forbid.

She applies the cream, and smooths over a bandage as best she can, discarding the wrapper into the trash. It only sticks to itself a little, but it's good enough.

Xu emerges slowly from the bathroom, exhausted but clean. She has foregone the robe in favor of sticking with the towel-- the towel is easy, and there's no point in trying to wrestle a sleeve over her cast just to take it off and replace it with a nightgown that isn't made of the worst fabric known to man.

Squall's approximately where she left him. Or, at least, he hasn't left.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I can't wait to sleep in a bed that doesn't have buttons within easy reach," she says with a yawn, rolling her shoulders lightly (immediately regretting it, one hand coming to press against the bandages across her chest). "Are you staying, or going back up to Garden?"

The real question hanging in the air between them-- she had invited him to stop by. Staying the night was a whole other thing.

"You can stay. If you want to."

And one day, he might sprout wings.

Squall abandoned the awkwardness of drinking under the lid in favor of a paper-wrapped straw he found hidden in the plastic bag. Sure, it was flat. And watered down. He wasn't going to argue. Especially since the scent of reheated pasta was hitting him like a starved man.

Okay, maybe he did need to start looking after himself a little better.

When Xu spoke up, he paused the microwave so it wouldn't shriek at him. It was only a few seconds, anyway.

"Good. Grumbling that he's going to be forgotten and left in a nursing home, but good." It had been a joke. Mostly. Squall knew very well how distant he seemed from his father. How that would, likely, only change for the worse if it meant the distance between them kept Laguna safer.

The coffeepot sputtered and perked to life after two weeks of neglect. It would be good coffee. None of that medium-light roast nonsense from the hospital. They were adults, after all, damn it.

But she did it herself. Two weeks ago, she wouldn't have even tried. He was proud of her progress.

He leaned in, kissed the top of her head, then freed his portion of pasta from its prison. It was probably still stone-cold in the center. He didn't care.

"Welcome home."

[velvet-paradox]

Heartstrings (Part One)

Fandom: Sleep Token (Band) Pairing: eventual Vessel x Female reader Length: Medium Summary: Memories haunt our beloved frontman, some he'd like to forget and some he's been hiding. Warnings: eventual NSFW, 18 + ONLY, strong language, tobacco use, alcohol consumption, supernatural (no, not the show) element, a twisted little game. Tagging: @synnersaint as always, @megangovier20 

NOTES: I’ll be reposting to @roman-is-a-horse as well as that’s my little hole in the wall for all things masked men and Sleep Token

ENJOY!!!

He's exhausted. He's all sweat and grit, dirt beneath his fingernails, mud on his boots. 

He could care less. 

What he needed was sleep. Glorious, pillow soft sleep. And the deity let him. 

He dreamt of monkey bars, chipped green paint, orange creme popsicles, a dizzy tire swing blurring in the distance, a familiar face hanging upside down from a wound up swing set. The air is light and the sun is high. He learned why ancient Egyptians rimmed their eyes with kohl. Learned the proper pronunciation for Persephone. Had his first kiss. Got into his first of many, fist fights and tasted blood and why you don't pick at knuckle scabs. The taste of woodchips. 

And then he met you.

Vessel woke with a jolt, restless leg syndrome, jerking him at the worst of times but helpful on the stage. 

"You're pretty when you cry." That silky voice that lulled him to the dreamworld sang down to him. Above his head, resting oh so carefully upon his pillow was Sleep, taking the form of a smoky red cat with six black slits for eyes. The deity grinned sharp, bone white fangs before leaping into the air at Vessel's recognition that he was indeed crying, his cheeks and lips streaked with salt. Sleep hung in the air above him, wagging its tail.

"Bad dream?" Sleep asked, resting its face on its paws like some teenager, coiling the phone cord, awaiting the latest hallway gossip.

"I'm fine," Vessel sniffled and turned on his side, an attempt to ignore his maker.

Sleep rolled onto its' back, little red paws pointing up to the ceiling before floating in front of his face and purred. "That's not what I asked."

Vessel blamed it on his uncomfortableness, the bed was cold and the sheets icy against his bare legs. Sleep wasn't buying it, squinting all six eyes at him as he tossed and turned for the rest of the night. ....

"That's not fair!"

"Life isn't fair, brother, get used to it."

"You big troll, that's the last can!"

"Watch it you little gremlin or I'll step on you and put you out like a light."

Brotherly threats floated up stairs along with the smell of someone cooking breakfast. Cinnamon butter, scrambled eggs, no doubt since his heathen brothers refused to eat them any other way. Roasted earthy mushrooms, peppered bacon.

Vessel clung to the staircase watching three others maneuver around someone's rented home in the highlands. Through a large bay window he could make out the silky green grass and sparkling yellow daffodils dancing in the wind.

SpaghettiOs. 

III and IV were giving II shit in between grabbing plates, poor thing was jumping up and missing terribly the can of the tomato sauced rings. Vessel shook his head and jumped down the last two steps before they all stuttered to a stop, III hid the can behind his back as if he were about to be scolded.

"Never gets old, huh?" He asked and snagged a piece of less burnt bacon.

"Not a chance." III resumed his taunts until II gave up, growling low in his throat and angrily shut off the stovetop, marching outside into the daylight.

"Package came for you this morning." IV mumbled through a mouthful of eggs as he found him out on the porch swing. Vessel took the box with more questions than answers.

"Who knows we're here?"

IV shrugged and joined him on the bench, crossing his legs as the wooden slats swayed.

Vessel looked it over. Just a standard brown box, wrapped in a weeks worth of clear packing tape. Just several stamps -international corners, a beating or two in a mail office dented one of the boxes sides. He took the switchblade IV handed him, scoring the edged until it came loose.

He shook whatever was hidden, another box came tumbling out into his lap along with a folded piece of cardstock. He handed it over. Though as he dug around inside, he should've looked at the note first because IV's eyes, already on the large spectrum, had bloomed into bright blue saucers.

"What? What is it?"

"Look and see."

Vessel dropped the note to the ground as it were on fire. Explosive. A grenade of nostalgia and pain, if not sudden death.

ARE YOU GAME?

No.

No no no no no.

He could feel IV's eyes on him as he fumbled with the spare box, careful with the folds, peeling back the layers on carefully placed and wrapped tissue paper. His fingers ghosted over the jewelry or what was left of it before holding it up in the afternoon sun.

Vessel began to panic, anxiety was never far from him as he thumbed over one of the personally laid coins like a treasured rosary and if he were totally honest; it was just that. ....

Vessel had recently gotten into a band called Immortal the previous summer, expressing himself in a similar manner of covering his face (still experimenting with paint on his hands, he was always on the look out for the best greasepaint his first high school job could afford), in black and white paint, cut off jackets and ripped denim. Had attempted to look as cool as possible with a cigarette behind his ear. He never smoked it, just toyed with his mothers' addiction. The girls dug it so there was always that.

His friends chased squirrels until the popular girls noticed them, could've been a dare, could've been a prank but that didn't stop them from turning and chasing them instead. Their shrills squeals of laughter sang through the halls, tickled pink for attention in the back of classrooms.

The boys had ditched him once again as they left him at the playground, holding on to his bullet belt as he made his way, by foot, across town towards his job. He was going to be late, but the owner of the coffee shop couldn't care less; he was probably a few beers in as it was only three that Saturday afternoon. 

Louie could really pound them down.

He was almost there when he stopped short. There on a park bench were a pair of shapely legs. Just sitting there in the air. Torn fishnets with shin high striped socks and boots, scuffed and beat up, much like his own when he looked down.

He crept by slowly, curious if they were a mannequin's legs or if they were real or, God forbid they were just that. No body attached! How scandalous! 

A murderer on the loose and Vessel would be the first witness to the crime. His stomach had flipped at that.

But still, the young man proceeded forward, cautiously now as he left his usual path and got closer, squinting when he saw one of the ankles twitch. 

Vessel made calculated steps around he bench and saw- gratefully of course, that the legs were indeed attached to a body, the body of a girl his age that he'd never seen before. She was laying upside down with her eyes closed, arms bent and on the ground beneath her head so she wouldn't roll off and crack her skull. An opened can of SpaghettiOs sat next to her, along with a sad looking purse.

"What are you doing?" 

"What's it look like I'm doing, smart guy? 'm thinkin'." Was her response. She didn't even bother to open her eyes and acknowledged him. Foreigner for sure, he thought.

"Upside down?"

"I get all the cobwebs out better this way," then she cracked one eyes open, searching for him in this state and she smiled, the brightest smile he'd ever seen on a person. Stunning. Absolutely fucking stellar. "You should try it."

"Doesn't all the blood rush to your head like that?" Vessel turned his head to see her face better.

"That's the point, silly! When my brain talks to much the best way to shut her up is to rush her out, let her out. Come on, try it. There's plenty of room." She quipped and wiggled over in the bench, using her hands for leverage.

Vessel looked at his watch; twenty minutes until his shift started and he'd need to be there and get his apron on and punch in his timecard and Louie might not be drunk and waiting for him patently at the doors with a pained expression and angry, uncaffeinated patron waiting to get their fix.

He had trouble moving his body and wincing when one of the bullets jabbed his hip bone, but all in all he managed her similar position. Fucking wild. His jacket creaked when he moved his hands to the earth below, mimicking her position.

"Good job. Now watch me. Just breathe in and out like this, don't think about anything other than that and you'll be clear as a Koi fish pond."

He frowned but went along with it, looking at her as instructed he slowly shut his eyes, long legs growing tired he let them hang over the back of the bench instead and controlled his breathing.

He wasn't thinking about school or work, his thesis he had yet to start that was due in two weeks time. Not what he was going to have for dinner or which skirt II was trying to get under this week. Probably Jessica. II was always after Jessica.

"See. How do you feel now?" She asked. 

Vessel couldn't even answer her at first, too caught up in the sensations, more aware of her perfume when his senses kicked into overdrive with his heartbeat pounding in his ears like this.

"Weightless. Clear." He mumbled.

"Exactly."

Then her hand was on his, carefully he opened his eyes and his world felt like his house of cards were about to tumble down if he breathed too loudly. 

"I'm Y/N." ....

He thought about you as he ran the rest of the way to coffee shop, the little blue and white striped awning coming into view as his boots pounded pavement. He was just seconds away from being late, clocking in just in time and wrapping a brown apron around his jacket in the backroom.

He thought about as he rang up a pretty dark skinned girl, fresh faced and smiling at him.

He thought about you when a crotchety old woman barked her order and waited too close to the counter until he could brew it, which she made him do it twice. He thought about you when a regular by the name of Johnny Two-Step came in, grooving to the beat of whatever song which was playing softly in the background. 

He thought about you on the walk home, every park bench he passed by, with his hands in his pockets were shockingly empty.

Would he ever see you again?

Where you from? What were you doing here in this small seaside town? And why were you eating cold SpaghettiOs right from the can like a cat with a tin of tuna? ....

"Straight from the can?!" III asked the following day, sitting on his roof with an open notebook, ready for some action along with a stolen can of his father's beer. It would go unnoticed. They always went unnoticed.

III's dad would give a shrug and mumble about needing to slow down though he never did, he just went out and bought more, stocking the fridge in the garage for the next day.

"Never seen anything like it."

"I would hope not! Sounds like she's a screw or two loose."

"Maybe."

Maybe you did. Maybe you were what his mother would call 'quirky' or carefree, the possibility of being a hellion might be written in the stars for you too. Either way Vessel was into it.

"No no no, that's not how you do it. Here, you're just gonna' make a mess of it. Now look, you take the can like this..."

Vessel couldn't help be drawn into the kitchen of a house party a few weeks later, he'd toyed with the cigarette again, holding between his two front teeth as some girl in an obscenely short dress chatted him up outside. He told her to hold that thought and maneuvered through the bodies. Sweat and beer lingered on the air, music pulsed and couples and a possible throuple but Vessel's standards were making out in a dim corner.

The snap of a beer can had him joining the little circle around the sink. A few guys cheered. A few girls made noises, he couldn't decipher whether it was a good or a bad thing at the moment.

Vessel towered over the group, watching II wipe his mouth over the sink before slipping his trusty balaclava back up over his nose. He saw someone and when he looked, his eyebrows shot up to his hairline in an instant.

It was you.

It was really you!

You cheered in delight, gave him a high five and grinned.

"Whose next? How about you pretty lady?" You waved Jessica over, who was shy at first but followed your lead in her pink and yellow bellbottoms and halter top.

After your next shotgun you hugged Jessica who looked worse for wear and slumped against II who was more than happy to help her stand and move out out of the kitchen. II passed him in the doorway, giving him a fist bump to the shoulder, talking to his love interest, lost in the haze of beer and clouds of weed smoke.

"You! There you are you big tall drink of water."

Vessel turned just in time to see you, focused and barreling straight towards him, a look of drunken excitement on your face. You weren't stopping and then you were lunging at him, embracing him in a hug that should feel all sorts of foreign and wrong but... was welcomed and warm and you smell like floral perfume and beer foam.

You looked up at him with silly grin. "Hi."

"Hi yourself. Having a bit of fun I see."

"Wanna' shotgun a beer with me?"

"Maybe later. How many have you had already?"

You made a goofy sound in your throat, released his waist and took his wrist in your hands, dragging him outside. Something made of glass shattered somewhere inside the house as you two ducked out and sat down in a little gazebo on the property. Vines and little white flowers coiled up and around the lattice.

"You gonna' smoke that?" You asked, digging those same weathered boots into the dirt.

"You want it?"

"Can I share it with you?"

"You can have it. I actually don't smoke."

Your expressions ranged and rivaled those of a comic strip as you looked at him. "What the what?! You don't smoke, yet you just casually have a cigarette behind your ear?"

Vessel shrugged. "It's just an accessory at this point."

"Next thing you'll be telling me is you're not a real jester!"

"A jester?"

"The makeup! You're not a clown either? Some practicing mime? Although if you were a mime you wouldn't be talking, would you?" You drunkenly mused and Vessel wondered how many beers you’d already rushed into your bloodstream.

Vessel snorted and shook his head. "Afraid not. I'm just a guy."

"A handsome guy." You huffed and lit up the cigarette, leaning back on your elbows as you smoked.

Vessel snorted, unaffected by the tobacco hanging around your heads as you both looked up at the moon. Tethered to it's soft glow over the treetops. "I've been called a lot of things, but handsome ain't one of them."

You bolted upright, cigarette renting space between your teeth and burning his eyes as you grabbed his face like you were old friends. 

"That's a damn shame. I'm going to make it my mission to tell you everyday I see you how good you look. Even if you are talking mime!"

Part Two Part Three

[raining-anonymously]

infodump to me please.

ok but as you may know i am hyperfixating on a dnd series that none of tumblr cares about. it’s 1 For All DND by Deerstalker Pictures on Youtube and it is so funny and chaotic and well-made. i think i saw in a behind the scenes video that they film with a black magic camera (which i have seen in practice before and it’s. like. very good and expensive) and edit with adobe premiere (my beloved).

anyway series concept is that there are four Guys—Patrick the DM and his three players Eva, Antonio, and Nicole. Eva plays a half-elf fighter called Evandra who is tough and cool and scary and also bisexual. she has a sword and armor. sometimes she’s the common sense and sometimes she is Not. is that not top-notch character design? also her hair gets progressively cooler throughout the series which is very amazing of her.

Antonio plays a human bard named Antrius, who is incredibly full of himself, flirts with everyone (including a villain he successfully seduced, two paladins, evandra, his rival bard, a vampire, a random knight, a dwarven couple whose child evandra murdered, himself, etc), carries a lute but also plays everything from a kazoo to an accordion. he once said, “There’s no I in team. There’s an A, though—which stands for Antrius!” before doing a silly dance.

then there’s Nicole’s character, a tiefling sorcerer named Nixie. she can be a bit on the oblivious side—her intelligence score is zero—but she makes up for it with FIRE. like. literal fire. she’s adorable and pink but also she has one plan ever and it’s FIREBALL. also she likes women. when she was a kid she accidentally burnt her whole family to a crisp, probably due to wild magic and repression. disaster.

then there’s Pat the DM. who just wants a nice campaign. he also plays Every NPC (excluding a few roles later on) regardless of species and gender. he has to put up with the party’s shenanigans, which are exhausting, but he clearly does enjoy what he does, which is nice.

of course, this alone is great potential for a series—but what really brings it in for me are the side characters. aka guest players. over the course of the series, there have been a LOT of those: Vlithryn the triton cleric who’s tired of the party, Annandale the warlock who everybody hates, Dargle-Bark the… eccentric druid, Lorienne the paladin (who eva and antonio flirt with both in and out of character), the catlike Rogue who Nixie flirts with and Evandra hates, Mogdar the pacifist half-orc barbarian artist, Godfreya the incredibly amazing paladin, and my personal favorite—Zephyr the air genasi bard, who a) is Antrius’s ex, b) is Antrius’s rival, c) flirts with Antrius despite all this, d) is a bit (read: a lot) of a prick actually, and e) is crushingly insecure and cries himself to sleep.

that last character appears in a one-shot and one full episode, but that doesn’t stop him from being my blorbo. i have also watched the episode and gone over each shot and frame so many times that yesterday i realized that there’s a mistake towards the end where his flute switches hands in the very last shot of him. because i’m at that point where i have to see every facial expression from every character in that (musical!) episode, including nixie and evandra’s glorious background actions.

there’s also another earlier musical episode, which happens to be the best-rated episode of the series. the party’s been captured, and antrius (mis)uses bardic inspiration to get them out of it—and it’s beautiful. it’s just beautiful. wonderful cinematography, wonderful singing, wonderful lyrics, wonderful acting, wonderful script, just wonderful.

the episodes are short which is great if you have a wildly fluctuating attention span like me. the characters are often terrible people but they’re somehow still likable and hilarious. tw for extreme fantasy violence and sex jokes, but it’s a great series with great humor and the rest of tumblr needs to watch it so i can see fanart and fanfic without having to make it myself. you guys would love annandale

[shimmerbeasts]

Contrary to popular belief, Githyanki did not need to sleep. At least not completely. Many soldiers were able to restore their strength through mediatory rest. However, even if they had to sleep, Lae'zel would not be able to close a single eye. Too much had happened in the last twenty-four hours, and her mind was swirling.

Lae'zel had stepped out of her tent and was graciously wandering around the camp. Yellow eyes flitted over her sleeping comrades. She envied them, being able to find rest so easily. Though maybe it should not be a surprise. The fight in the Crèche had been hard on all of them. Githyanki warriors were fierce, especially those older and more experienced than Lae'zel. If she was honest, it was a bloody miracle - quite literally even - that they had managed to fight their way out of the Crèche.

Her own people had wanted her death! Lae'zel had done everything in Vlaakith's name. She had followed every order without hesitation. Vlaakith had even spoken of Commander Ulron, who had regarded Lae'zel highly! It had been the highest imaginable praise for her as the Commander had functioned as her sa'varsh, and there had been times when Lae'zel had been far from an easy student.

She had fought Vlaakith's battles, and bled for the Undead Queen, all in the hopes of one day wielding a silver sword herself and riding a red dragon as a kith'rak to enforce her glorious will. But what did any of that glorious will mean if, at a whim, she could be named hshar'lak.

She had followed Githyanki protocol. She had even undergone the dangers of the zaith'isk in hopes of purification, yet all it had done, was almost murder her. Even now, having escaped the torture device, Lae'zel was left with a strange feeling. Somehow, she felt weaker in ways, she could not put into words. She could only hope that these feelings would pass.

Lae'zel stopped in her wandering. She snorted in shock and disbelief when she saw what she had stopped in front of. Long before reaching the Crèche, back when this party of adventurers had still believed that they should exhaust every possible option, they had come across a large, brownish-red dragon, hiding out in a cave by the river west of the Emerald Grove. That same dragon as it turned out had been tadpoled just like all of them. However, thanks to the mysterious artefact and the Dream Visitor in it, they were able to save Khaevis from the terrible fate of becoming a thrall.

Lae'zel could not take her eyes off the dragon. Khaevis was sound asleep, her massive body a mountain of blackish scales with golden lines in it, her brittle mane, rustling under her breath. Lae'zel's throat was dry. Her eyes were wet, prompting her to blink multiple times. It was like looking at her dream, sound asleep, yet off and wrong for Khaevis was not a red dragon. At least not completely. If Khaevis was wrong when it came to the dragons kith'raki rode, then what did that make Lae'zel?

Her ear swivelled sideways as a gruff bass of a voice reached it. Lae'zel tore her gaze away from the dragon to meet Riesling, who had stepped beside her. How was she feeling indeed? Her slim nostrils popped open and closed as she exhaled the air. The Githyanki said: "I don't know. A lot has happened in these last twenty-four hours. A lot to take in and think about. All I can say is this: I sound more decisive than I feel. And I don't like feeling indecisive. Commander Ulron made it clear that indecisiveness is death. By all accounts, I cannot afford to carry these doubts with me. But exorcising them is harder than ever before."

The Oath Sworn.

I think I’ve seen this film before And I didn’t like the ending You’re not my homeland anymore So what am I defending now? You were my town Now I’m in exile, seein’ you out I think I’ve seen this film before

You remember their faces. The ones who raised you. Casthos and Elyria. You remember your childhood, seeping into you with a thousand little details.

The kind smile of your mother’s face, the soft dimples that form at the edges. The gentle laugh that comes with the explanation of why you don’t have a tail or horns. The softness of her lips on your forehead as she tells you that you’re special.

You remember the size of your father. The curve of his horns and the way they remind you of the stags in the forest beyond your home. The strength of his hand on your shoulder that tells seems to let you know you can do anything. The words of encouragement that follow you as you stalk with him through the trees, searching for the evening meal.

You remember the fire in the hearth at night and the stories told to you in front of it. The tales of Balduran and his adventures. The tiefling twins Havilar and Farideh, who carved their own legends into the Sword Coast. The paladin Gareth Dragonsbane, who shaped kingdoms and lived by ideals of duty, honour and courage.

You feel a desire to swear an oath of your own.

Blood. So much blood. It runs red down your arms, staining the soil, watering the earth. The bodies shift, black shadows, the corpses of the githyanki you slayed in the creche filling your vision along with the bodies you don't recognise. Bodies that are...familiar.

Snapping awake, Riesling felt his heart pounding in his chest like a hammer. Another fucking nightmare, tinged with the vile whispers of the darkness inside of him.

Wiping away the weariness from his eyes, he stood to full height, head too heavy to sleep. The camp was silent, save for the soft grinding of a blade against a whetstone. A sound he knew well, anchoring him to the moment.

He shrugged his broad shoulders, the battles from the creche still aching, taking his mind off himself, towards a companion as restless as himself.

Riesling watched Lae'zel from afar for a little while. He could only imagine what she must be feeling after the revelations of the Dream Companion and Vlaakith's deceit.

"Lae'zel," he greeted her, the gruff bass of his voice a dark wind in the night. "How are you feeling?"

It was a good a place to start as any.