#kindle chapter 11

[rahuratna]

Nanami Kento: Relationship Headcanons (now a fic), Part 11

Warning: MDNI!! Explicit sexual content in this chapter. Details below cut.

Contents: smut, showering together, penetrative (vaginal) sex.

He holds you back with a playful grasp on your hips, but you manage to wrangle him into the bathroom. Every touch on your skin is an alluring little reminder of what awaits you, his fingers lingering, intimate. The resistance he puts up, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and wrapping small lengths of your hair around his fingers, bringing them to his lips, has you fighting every instinct to give in to his advances.

You have never felt attraction for anyone like this before, something you are gradually coming to terms with. It's almost as if there is some gravitational force he exerts over you, the gentle, bruising weight of his presence inside you, around you, something you want to hold so desperately against yourself that you feel an almost physical pain.

The water of the shower is warm and soothing against your aching muscles, the echo of your first orgasm still reverberating through you, the soft trilling through a tuning fork, readying itself for the strike that follows. Kento doesn't join you immediately. You brush damp hair away from you brow and glance back at him, and he is leaning against the shower door, taking you in, his gaze warm and unguarded. There it is; that look that you somehow cannot believe is directed at you, that kindling that leaves your lungs questioning their function.

You reach out to him, fingers stroking down his bare chest, leaving a damp trail of invitation. He feels powerful, weighted with possibility beneath your touch. His gaze clouds slightly, and he steps in, still nude. He has nothing to hide, not from you.

Nudging you slightly until you turn away from him, he embraces you from behind. The sheer strength lying latent in those arms of his, so vital, so filled with living possibility, makes you shudder slightly. You want him to embrace you like this on every day of your future lives, to use your shoulder as a support for his questing chin, to offer him the curve of your spine to rest his tired body against.

You can feel it in the growing firmness against your inner thigh, rising. He pushes you gently away from him, grasping your bar of moisturizing soap. Facing the wall, you feel rather than hear the movements he makes over the soft patter of the warm water on your skin, the slick sounds of soap being lathered over his hands.

He isn't tired now.

His grasp is sudden, firm across your stomach, caressing with strong, deliberate strokes in ways that make your body edge towards him and your breath catch in your throat. He spreads the lather across your torso, and you can feel the hum of approval in his chest as you lean back, surrendering to his attentions.

He moves upward first, covering every inch of your skin he can reach, slipping slowly over the flesh of your breasts, cupping and smoothing until he reaches the peaks of your nipples with a soft pinch. Tracing up along your sternum, he takes the soap to your neck. You tilt your head back as his fingers scrape along your collarbone, wrapping gently around your throat, breath hot in your ear. There is something there, a written  message against your skin, fingers tightening briefly, then releasing you.

He wants more. He is now comfortable enough expressing his desire to let you know this; that he wants you pliant, slightly submissive to him, worshipping you as he takes charge.

You can give that to him. Gladly.

You trace over his knuckles lightly, showing him that you're enjoying his attentions, then apply slight pressure. You want him lower, to give the same attention to all of you. He complies with a low murmur of assent, hands now bracing on your hips, squeezing the ample flesh there appreciatively, before moving lower. The power of his grasp as his fingers dig slightly into the flesh of your buttocks has you gasping, bracing your hands on the walls of the shower.

Th soft moan that leaves you at these attentions is enough to spur him on to the final stage of your cleaning, fingers gently tracing the outline of your labia before stroking slowly over, taking his time, spreading water over the already dewy arousal that has been building to slippery slickness down there.

He pays the same dedicated attention here as he does everywhere else, massaging, capturing your flesh in the comforting prison of his palms, pausing in between to replenish the lather he spreads over you. He kneels behind you, leaving you feeling vulnerable and exposed, quickly forgotten as his soft, damp hair presses again the back of your thigh, breath ghosting heatedly over your sex as he strokes down each leg, committing their shape to memory.

Your breathing is ragged now, but you maintain your position, just the way he wants. Something about your obedience in this small matter seems to be riling him up, quickening his own breath. He stands, turning you around to face him, finally, making sure that the warm spray catches you everywhere. You reach for the soap, to return the favour, but he stops you. He whispers against your lips, barely audible in here, in this cocoon of steamed glass and flesh on flesh.

"Don't worry about me. You have work tomorrow. I don't."

"Are you sure?"

"I can clean myself up any time. And besides ... I  want to take you again."

He pauses, and this is the first time he has spoken his desire with such directness, such possession, his eyes trained on yours with such need that you feel consumed by him. Leaving him tomorrow morning will be the hardest trial you've faced yet.

When he kisses you, all thoughts of tomorrow fly from your mind, scattering like wheat from a thresher. You are vaguely aware of his hands pushing open the shower door, of the care he takes such that you do not slip in spite of how close he holds you, the fact that he bats the towel away from your hand and seizes you even closer, engraving his answer on the shell of your ear with such startlingly primal need.

"Darling ... please. Want to feel you wet all over, like this."

He lifts you slightly, the damp wicks of hair on his chest grazing your nipples, wet hands catching and slipping on your thighs and buttocks, electricity building like charged static between your bodies. His mouth is so hungry, so sweet, so hot, and he is kissing you like he did that time in your office. But now, there are no clothes separating your entwined forms, no propriety that stops the way his hardened cock presses and slides with the urgency to mate against your folds, no desk preventing your precipitous journey from bathroom to the bed, guided by his reinforced strength.

He only pauses to tug the towel he's somehow maintained hold of beneath you, preventing the sheets from absorbing the dampness of your still wet bodies, and then he is on you. Your body is responding to him as if the rawness of your first orgasm had never existed, thrumming with the delight of fresh arousal, the need to be filled, grasped, taken apart, fucked until you can't take any more by this man you wanted above anything or anyone else in the world.

There is a moment of crushing intimacy, when his body is pressed so completely against yours that you can't imagine being apart from him again, fingernails drawing agonizing lines against each other's skin, and then something seems to click in his mind and he pushes himself up and away, a startled realization building behind the lustful haziness that has overtaken him.

"I ... wait. We need protection."

The tension releases from your frame in a breathless sound of protest, as he draws back hastily with a somewhat tortured expression.

"Kento ... please tell me you brought ... "

"Yes, my love, I did, just - "

You raise yourself slightly, watching the taut lines of his incredible backside flex as he marches over to the hallway where he'd dropped his jacket somewhere on the way to the bedroom. He snatches it up, and a quick rifle through an inner pocket produces the gleaming wrapping of what he's been searching for.

You cock an eyebrow at him.

"Just one?"

He glances up at you, and you watch with delight as that same subtle reveal of mischief in his natural stoic expression is echoed by the unfolding of a whole row of condoms, maybe six in total, as they tumble downwards in a joined section from the first.

"Of course not. Do I ever come unprepared?"

You purse your lips, shoulders shaking with laughter as he detaches one with a flourish and makes his way back to you, carefully removing the wrapper. When he reaches you, you sit up quickly, wrapping your fingers round his wrist, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, reminding him that you are also here to please him.

He takes a shuddering breath, silky, hardened flesh twitching in your palm as you unroll the condom over his length, stroking him with a gentle roll of your fist. His hand slips behind your neck, large palm rising until his fingers are entangled in your damp hair, tugging with eager, but gentle insistence. You allow yourself to be pulled back against the towel, moaning slightly as he covers your body with his, the slick coolness of the condom warming against your folds as he rubs, hard and intentional, against you.

He is panting again, losing himself in the sensation of you, taking control of your body further as he presses you into the mattress. You bless the instinct he has for pure sensuality as his skin, still damp from the shower, slides against yours, bringing you to the height of sensitivity.

Your legs open for him further, and he grunts, adjusting your position so that he can kiss you with messy fervour, rocking his hips against yours, drawing small cries and gasps from your lips. Your fingers are drawing lines of fire against his shoulders, begging him for more, and he complies. You are both operating on pure desire, fueled by an incredible need that blazes under your skin and out, over the shifting, press of hard and soft, wet and tacky, teeth and tongue.

He pauses, breathing hard, his hair tickling your forehead, and then, with agonizing slowness, presses his tip into your entrance. Your mouth opens in pained delight, body tensing reflexively, then relaxing. He is watching you with those beautiful hazel eyes, adoring, even now, misty with uncontrolled lust. He watches as he pushes further, as your head snaps back, a mix of scream and groan escaping your throat as he fills you, stretches you, feels you fluttering around his steely length in that contradictory mix of resistance and eagerness.

He is whispering soft, sweet nothings of encouragement and praise, shifting his hips, reaching down to grip your inner thigh and hold you open for him.

"Th - that's it, sweet love. Like that. Take me - oh. Oh fu - yes. So sweet. So tight. Let me - "

Your mind is barely functioning as he presses himself in, but there is enough coherent thought left to match the effort he is putting in to keep you with him, connected and focused on him.

"Oh God, sweet - fucking - ah. Angel, you're doing so well, I - "

"Y - yes, Kento, need you, need you so - please. Inside me."

"Right th - ah! Ahh, please. Oh God, like that. Want you ... want you, Kento. Stretch me like that - "

He is a large man, no doubt, and you can feel the full extent of that when the light scattering of hair around his base lightly brushes against your sensitive lips, cock bottoming out inside you, flesh bending and flexing hard against the yield of your soft walls. You are so wet that the slide of his entry pushes some of your slick out, and you feel it trickling down the side of you. He does too, and an explosive groan leaves him, his hips bucking forward in a way that makes you yelp and press your palm against his abdomen.

He isn't hurting you; you're much too wet for that, but he is slightly overwhelming, not just in sensation, but the idea behind this, that it is him, Kento, this deep inside you, his arousal keeping you stretched and open like this, his desire for you pressing you down into the bed under his powerful body. Panting, you meet his gaze, your own face flushed and drunk on passion, lip caught between your teeth, sweat now gleaming between the rapid rising and falling of your peaked, hardened nipples.

For the first time, you see Kento really and truly lose his restraint and control, even after everything you have already done with him.

He makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a rough grunt, hands closing like a vice on either side of your waist as he tugs you towards him, and then up, your back arching off the mattress under his guidance. He begins a slow, but punishing pace, drawing back and plunging back in, taking his pleasure, filling your mind with a white static haze that lifts and brushes against the edge of your awareness like a soft, lace curtain, blowing inward against you with every thrust. His movements inside you are a contrast to the uncontrolled manner with which his hands explore your body, greedy, desirous, taking everything he can.

And you'll give it to him.

As overwhelming as he is, you learn his body, his movements. You brace your hands on his shoulders, and he's strong enough to take your full weight, even as you all but hang from him. The arch of your back becomes a sinuous wave, rolling upwards to meet the press of his hips, his lips whispering the litany of a prayer into the curve of your throat before you undulate away from him, then back. It is a cycle of catch and release, the slick sounds between your bodies growing, sweat and the remaining dampness from the shower glistening on your skin and his.

His hands slide beneath your buttocks, fingers digging into your flesh, his grunts evolving to fully fledged groans and huffs. Neither of you is capable of coherent speech now, your movement reduced to that most basic and primal need, to be closer, closer, closer, deeper inside the very fabric of each other. Your eyes flutter open briefly, taking in his face between the dark lines of your lashes. Dampness is building at the corners of your eyes, but not enough to blur out the sight of him, the sinew standing out on his neck, the pureness, keen as a knife edge, of the ecstasy in his expression.

And at that moment, his eyes open, and you fall head first into the honey of that gaze of his.

Your perfect rhythm stutters, and you know it can't sustain itself forever, as much as you want it to. You can feel it in that wild stab of bone-deep pleasure, the heat building in your abdomen, the ache of your trembling thighs.

He pulls you towards him, moving backwards and you cry out as he presses somewhere new, deeper, in this sitting position. Your fingers scramble for purchase on his shoulders, and he soothes you with soft, wordless whispers as his pace slows, still buried inside you. You release him, hands flying behind you to find leverage on his thighs, lifting naturally off him until only the tip of him remains inside. You glance down at him, body quivering, the stretch and burn of him reduced down to the most beautiful fullness.

He looks at you as if you have brought the stars down into the bedroom, revolving around you both in an endless stream, and you know. You know then, that the sight of him, the feel of him, will be with you forever, as you will be with him. That he is committing this sight to memory, so that it will sustain him when you are not there, when distance, violence, the implosion of your world by forces beyond your control are all that remains. But so will you.

And you take the reigns he hands you now.

You bring your body down again, filling yourself with him. His hold on you is more supportive than guiding, and you bury him to the base, lips touching his briefly. You're close enough now to feel the deep, rumbling groan that bursts from him as you roll your hips, allowing his cock to slip out almost fully, before the return of your circular motion takes him back in. The stretch is even greater now, but you're riding him through it, using the muscles of your lower back to lift, swivel, release and again, and again, and again.

His moans become delirious, his arms looping behind you to pull you against him, so that every new movement of your body has your nipples brushing against the hard planes of his chest. The water of the shower has dried on the both of you, leaving new moisture in its wake. The slippery heat of you makes the most obscene noises as you take him, your cries building, building, like the billowing cloud of a dust storm against the horizon of your bedroom walls, a promise of blinding finality.

The world shifts, and you think for a moment that the pleasure has made you pass out, but then your back hits the mattress and he is above you again, snatching complete control away from you. And now his hands are beneath and behind your knees, lifting, and your cries are fevered, uncontrollable, as he drives into you once more. The hard drag of his sculpted abdomen against your pubic bone is pushing you steadily over the edge, your clit stimulated to an unbelievable peak of raw pleasure. Your fingers clutch helplessly at his chest before dropping, slipping around and behind him, dragging him further into you even as you scream for him to stop, no please, can't take any more, can't feel this, too much, its so good, love, love, love you, and -

The storm hits, and your body shakes like a leaf in a gale force wind, each shuddering wave catching you so hard that you can barely breathe, think, see, but you can feel. It's as if the synapse of every nerve has collectively fired an overload into the next, volley upon volley crashing through you as he calls your name, desperate, loving, pleading. You're unable to answer him, but your arms do the work for you, crushing him against you, fingers tangling in his soft, soft hair as you hiccup into his ear, dampness sliding down your cheeks.

The vice grip you have on him brings him down with you, and he roars in your grasp, powerful thighs trembling as his feet dig into the mattress. His chest is heaving against you, face twisted in such complete, unguarded bliss that you can't help the dizzy smile that breaks across your face. Something warm is building inside you, the tip of the condom swelling slightly. Kento plants his arms on either side of you, forehead resting against yours, the hot dampness of his exhalations spreading over your cheeks.

Is this what it feels like, you wonder, as he slumps slightly against you, careful even now not to place his full weight on you.

It is like this, that it happens? That the slide of his rough palm against your cheek, stroking away the moisture, becomes indispensable to you? That the heat of him, the heavy warmth of his body against yours, now so familiar, becomes an indelible mark on the canvas of your life?

It is perhaps here, in the glide of your hands across the broad expanse of his back, soothing the angry lines you've drawn there earlier? Is this how intimacy is born, and remains until we draw our last breaths, remembered forever in the rhythm of hushed, synced breathing, the secret veil that covers your tangled limbs.

This is how Kento becomes your lover, and you his. This is how he lays claim to your body, through every touch of his lips and hands, every stroke of his flesh inside yours. This is how you stay with him, until the small hours of the dawn, breathing in his scent, cradling his head against your stomach, whispering about a future neither of you can be sure about, but desire above all else.

This is how he kisses you, when the sun rises, burnishing his hair and eyelids with a patina of russet gold. The light pours through your fingers, spilling out across the forest-flecked tapestry of his soft, soft gaze and you are richer, in that moment, than anyone on earth. 

[ros3ybabe]

60 Day Challenge Day 1

Ahhhhhhh so I started the challenge today, Monday Nov 4th. And I think I killed it honestly! Here's the rundown of how and what I did:

Habit 1: Physical Fitness 💪

- What I Did: 50 min of strength training (leg day, quad focused) and 21min on the treadmill + 1hour physical therapy for my ankle injury

Habit 2: Study Japanese 🌸

- What I Did: 11min 27sec of japanese study on busuu + reviewed genki 1 chapter 1 flashcards twice

Habit 3: Reading 📚

- What I Did: read chapter 11 of Atomic Habits on the kindle app on my phone

Habit 4: Meditation 🌊

- What I Did: a 5 minute guided meditation on the Down Dog app, theme was Be More Present

Habit 5: Self Care 💞

- What I Did: morning moisturizer, morning journaling, made my bed, practiced basic crochet skills, night time skincare, night time journaling

Today was super successful in terms of hitting all my goals! Tomorrow I'm going to attempt to wake up early to achieve some things before I start the nitty gritty of my day <3

til tomorrow lovelies 🩷

[whysosincere]

Leverage - MK11 Self Insert Fiction

Lord Raiden, god of thunder and protector of Earthrealm, has betrayed a fatal weakness; one that the nefarious sorcerer Shang Tsung seeks to capitalize upon. A self-insert fic inspired by Mortal Kombat 11 featuring Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa as Shang Tsung, and Todd Dakins/Richard Epcar as Lord Raiden.

Characters: Lord Raiden (MK11), Shang Tsung (MK11), Female OC/Self-Insert

Chapter 1: Evening in Nara

It is late afternoon in the ancient Japanese capital of Nara when the clouds begin rolling in. There's a distant rumble of thunder, and in a secluded alley, far from the ancient temples of Todai-ji and Nigatsu-do, a lone tourist walks the stone pathways. It is Y/N, and she has just completed meditation among the blooming irises of one of Nara's oldest public gardens. As the first drops of rain begin to dampen her clothes, she quickens her pace, knowing her hotel is still a decent distance away.

Unbothered by the approaching rain, she smiles briefly at the rumbling storm clouds as one might an old friend. The supple curve of her neck and tilt of her jaw from this motion do not go unnoticed. Unbeknownst to Y/N, numerous eyes had been keeping her in their sights since her arrival. She continued on her way, heedless of the danger that had begun brewing in the shadows of the city, and ignorant of the observations of an old acquaintance.

It is said that the crack and roll of thunder is caused by the beating of numerous taiko drums in the heavens; an invocation and performance by the thunder god himself. He held many names: Indra, Zeus, and Taranis were just a few from across the globe. The Japanese had bestowed the titles of Kaminari, Raijin, and during this degenerate age, many had come to know him as Raiden. In truth, this storm was not his performance, but instead the subconscious apprehension of his heart, given form and sound in the roiling clouds that swept over the mountain peaks.

The thunder deity had been watching Y/N from afar, his eyes filled with an intensity that the approaching storm could not match. His eyes flash, and his grimace intensifies as he watches the woman weave around the primitive utility poles and take advantage of the rain-blocking eaves along her path. He knew her from his brief tenure with the American military during Outworld's previous invasion attempt. While he hadn't worked directly with her, her very presence had impressed him. The unmistakable aura of valor and courage that all of his Order of Light shared, had manifested in her. Though to him, this event seemed as recent as one might consider the life of a single stick of burning incense, Raiden knew for a mortal, it must've seemed ages past. This is why he had cautioned his brother so sincerely against involvement with mortal lives – The spark of interest she had kindled had left an indelible mark on his soul, but time had slipped effortlessly away without him realizing.

When it had come to blows, Fujin had rightfully pointed out his hypocrisy – Liu Kang and Kung Lao may as well have been his children the way that he lavished them with attention. That attention stretched time for him, slowing what should have been a moment, into years of training, camaraderie, and perhaps something akin to paternal love – at least that's what Fujin had alleged through a furious gale of blades. Raiden had called him a fool. In truth, he had been fighting with himself – his brother Fujin simply caught in the conflict. For especially now, such a title rightfully belonged to him.

The sight of her brought him back to that tumultuous argument. His heart ached at the memory, and his hands of flesh and bone tightened into fists. Originally created for the purpose of participating in Mortal Kombat, he had not intended this human body of his to remain for as long as it had. This body of his was simply a tool, he had lied. One that he would discard as soon as its usefulness had expired. That is what he had told himself lifetimes ago… Now this heart of his beat faster as he observed the scene below, his eyes never leaving Y/N's graceful form as she moved through the city.

One other gaze observed these motions with equal intensity, but unlike the distracted attentions of Lord Raiden, this stalking creature was fully aware that his quarry was under careful scrutiny. If he acted without proper caution, the game would be up before it had even begun.

The sorcerer Shang Tsung was never without his contingencies. Never found lacking in ways to slip the grasps of fate. And now as he enjoyed an extended reprieve from the beckoning of his master Shao Kahn, and the incessant meddling of Earthrealm's champion Liu Kang, he had detected an amusing inflection in the humors of the skies. One that, should he apply proper leverage to, might remove the most vexing of obstacles from his plans. Lord Raiden had fallen victim to his own hubris: He was in love.

[shootingstarpilot]

In Which Obi-Wan Meets Stitch Properly

Happy Friday! Today's been A Day, so to make myself feel better, I wrote a lil scene referenced in Chapter 11 of how to bring him home:

Stupid.

It wasn’t even during a battle. Not on the ground, where the noise is everywhere all the time and where he tucks himself back and away and pulls on ‘81 for a bit, because ‘81 knows not to flinch at loud noises and or tap his fingers and Stitch can keep being a good medic while ‘81 takes the brunt of the noise and the darkness and everything else.

It’s effective. ‘81 had gotten him out of Kamino. ‘81 keeps him and his brothers alive on the battlefield. But being ‘81 is exhausting. So he stops being ‘81 on the ship once he realizes he doesn’t have to be. Because no one tells him that he’s tapping too much or talking too fast or being too stupid, and he can walk up to Helix or Needle and ask for a hug and get one.

(‘81 doesn’t get hugs.)

So he’s not prepared at all when he wanders into the engineering bay just in time for the sharp snap of a backfiring engine to crack his brain open like an egg.

He backpedals instinctively, all thoughts of routine physicals dropped along with his composure on the engineering bay’s floor, and the whole world goes snapshot-blurry. 

Boots skidding across the floor.

A door that won’t open.

His own breathing, too loud.

A door that won’t open.

His own heartbeat, too fast.

A door that won’t open.

Voices approaching–

And then, finally, a door that does.

He flings himself in– glimpses a bucket, a mop, cleaning supplies– yanks the door shut behind him, and tries to fold down onto the floor. If his head’s between his knees, then that’s a few more layers between him and everything that’s too loud. But the engine’s vibrations tear all the way through him and splinter him all apart into a hundred thousand million tiny pieces–

He tries to back into a corner but the vibrations are in the walls too and hit right behind his shoulder blades–

He skitters into the middle of the room but the noise sneaks in through his feet and crawls all the way up and empties him out until there’s no room for shame or embarrassment or anything of himself at all, so he stands in the middle of the room with his hands over his ears and his eyes squeezed shut and tries to pretend he doesn’t have feet because eventually things go quiet again, they do, it’s just a question of how long it takes and how much of him gets peeled away in the meantime–

A different kind of quiet settles over him.

Not the raw type of quiet that usually arrives after the noise has worn itself out.

This is a solid quiet. As if someone has built a wall between him and the noise and has told it very sternly to stay out. 

The vibrating roar of the engines has dulled into an almost imperceptible hum. Like how it should be. 

He can’t hear his hammering heartbeat anymore, and his breathing is comfortably muffled.

He pries his eyes open carefully, in case someone actually managed to put a blanket over his head.

No one has. 

But there’s a blanket on the floor in front of him. 

He bends down and picks it up.

It’s brown. Brown is a quiet color. And it feels nice on his hands. 

He considers it for a moment, and then drapes it carefully over his head.

Oh. That’s much better.

In the dark and quiet, he has enough room to breathe properly.

And as he works on that, a slow, simmering shame begins to kindle uncomfortably behind his ribs.

That–

That wasn’t good.

The last time he’d let that happen had been on Kamino. An alarm had gone off in the barracks. A false alarm– the announcement came over the comms, calling off evacuation protocols– but the shrieking whine hadn’t shut up, and Stitch hadn’t been very big then so he’d opened his mouth to drown it out himself, and then Fractal had tackled him and dragged him under the bunk and pressed his face into his shirt so he could scream quietly and he’d squeezed him tight enough to force out all the noise that was trying to fill him up and–

He cuts the rest of that thought off, and breathes it out.

Then he breathes out the hiccups, and the ache behind his eyes, and the prickling numbness in his feet.

This time, when he peels the blanket off his head, the lights don’t hurt anymore.

He stares at the wall.

Then he shakes out the blanket, intending to fold it up, until he sees something that stops him short.

The blanket has a hood.

He stares.

Sleeves, too.

Then he remembers–

They don’t have brown blankets on the ship.

He looks down.

The thin line of light under the door is partially blocked.

Someone is sitting outside.

He looks again at the blanket-that-is-not-a-blanket.

At the blanket that is a cloak.

Clone troopers do not wear cloaks.

After a moment, he gives up on trying to fold it, and wraps it around his shoulders instead.

Helix says that General Kenobi can be trusted. Helix says to stay with General Kenobi because he brought troopers home safe. Helix says that General Kenobi stopped the decommissionings and that he wouldn’t ever send anyone back to Kamino, not even if they were– 

Not even if there was something really wrong with them.

(Helix says that General Kenobi is kind.)

Stitch takes a deep breath.

“We are learning,” he tells himself sternly, “how to be more than afraid.”

He opens the door before he can think better of it.

General Kenobi looks up.

Stitch hesitates before settling down cross-legged onto the floor next to him.

“Hello, sir.”

“Hello, Stitch.”

His voice is very gentle. Not loud at all.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, sir.”

Then, belatedly–

“How are you feeling?”

The General smiles, and Stitch relaxes. “Quite all right, Stitch. Thank you for asking.”

“You’re welcome,” he says quietly.

They sit in silence for a long moment until something occurs to him.

“Did you make it quiet?”

“I did.”

“Oh. How?”

“Nothing in your head, if that’s what you’re worried about,” General Kenobi says easily, and Stitch hastily remembers to worry about that and then remembers to be relieved that he doesn’t have to. “I have a friend who gets… overstimulated. Have you heard the term psychometry before?”

Stitch shakes his head.

“It is, in essence, the ability to read impressions by touch. Very useful, when used carefully, but occasionally he will glean something by accident, and sometimes those things are… overwhelming. We– myself and my friends– learned when we were much younger what would help. Creating a bubble of sorts would muffle other stimuli and give him time to reorient himself.”

He gives Stitch a sideways look, and says pointedly, “He’s quite the fierce fighter, and I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”

Stitch ducks his head, feeling a burning flush crawl up the back of his neck.

“The– the bubble,” he says haltingly. “Did you– when you make it– with the Force?”

The General lets it slide. “I did.”

Stitch makes a face, and General Kenobi laughs.

He can’t help it. The Force doesn’t make sense, especially not General Kenobi’s, and it bothers him. Helix too, he knows. 

He doesn’t think it bothers Needle.

(But then again, he doesn’t think anything manages to bother Needle.)

The General shifts up onto his knees and closes his eyes, and the world–

Stitch doesn’t know how to describe it.

It settles back into place. Quietly. With no itching. And the noise makes sense again.

“Thank you,” he says, remembering, and really means it. “And– here–”

He pulls the cloak off his back and offers it up.

General Kenobi gives him a considering look.

“You could keep it, if you like,” he says. “I have more.”

“It’s not mine, sir.”

“What if I gave it to you?”

Stitch opens his mouth, and then pauses, scowling. Technically, it would be his, he knows, but not– not in the right way–

The weight vanishes from his hand. 

“You don’t have to,” General Kenobi informs him gently, slipping his arms into the sleeves. “It was just an offer. But thank you for giving it back.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

“Would you like me to comm someone?”

“No thank you, sir.”

“All right,” the General accedes easily. “I’ll see you later, then?”

“Please don’t be bleeding,” Stitch ventures, and feels immensely pleased with himself when General Kenobi lets out a sudden bark of laughter.

“I’ll try my best.”

Stitch stays sitting against the wall for some time after General Kenobi leaves.

Thinking.

It’s only when voices approach from down the hallway that he levers himself to his feet and makes his way back to the medbay.

One week later, Needle comes in with their deliveries from the recent requisitions order and gleefully informs Stitch that there is something in it for him.

Stitch, bewildered, accepts the package. 

After some unsubtle encouragement from Needle, he opens it carefully.

Headphones.

Good headphones.

And the tag–

The tag says his name.

They’re his. 

(Properly.)

Later, Stitch concludes that General Kenobi sees the whole galaxy the way Helix sees him.

He thinks that’s a lot of people to love quite so much.

[duothelingo]

THE OPENING (al-Fatihah) 1. In the name of Allah, the Gracious, the Merciful. 2. Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds. 3. The Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. 4. Master of the Day of Judgment. 5. It is You we worship, and upon You we call for help. 6. Guide us to the straight path. 7. The path of those You have blessed, not of those against whom there is anger, nor of those who are misguided. 2. THE HEIFER (al-Baqarah) In the name of Allah, the Gracious, the Merciful 1. Alif, Lam, Meem. 2. This is the Book in which there is no doubt, a guide for the righteous. 3. Those who believe in the unseen, and perform the prayers, and give from what We have provided for them. 4. And those who believe in what was revealed to you, and in what was revealed before you, and are certain of the Hereafter. 5. These are upon guidance from their Lord. These are the successful. 6. As for those who disbelieve—it is the same for them, whether you have warned them, or have not warned them—they do not believe. 7. Allah has set a seal on their hearts and on their hearing, and over their vision is a veil. They will have a severe torment. 8. Among the people are those who say, “We believe in Allah and in the Last Day,” but they are not believers. 9. They seek to deceive Allah and those who believe, but they deceive none but themselves, though they are not aware. 10. In their hearts is sickness, and Allah has increased their sickness. They will have a painful punishment because of their denial. 11. And when it is said to them, “Do not make trouble on earth,” they say, “We are only reformers.” 12. In fact, they are the troublemakers, but they are not aware. 13. And when it is said to them, “Believe as the people have believed,” they say, “Shall we believe as the fools have believed?” In fact, it is they who are the fools, but they do not know. 14. And when they come across those who believe, they say, “We believe”; but when they are alone with their devils, they say, “We are with you; we were only ridiculing.” 15. It is Allah who ridicules them, and leaves them bewildered in their transgression. 16. Those are they who have bartered error for guidance; but their trade does not profit them, and they are not guided. 17. Their likeness is that of a person who kindled a fire; when it illuminated all around him, Allah took away their light, and left them in darkness, unable to see. 18. Deaf, dumb, blind. They will not return. 19. Or like a cloudburst from the sky, in which is darkness, and thunder, and lightning. They press their fingers into their ears from the thunderbolts, in fear of death. But Allah surrounds the disbelievers. 20. The lightning almost snatches their sight away. Whenever it illuminates for them, they walk in it; but when it grows dark over them, they stand still. Had Allah willed, He could have taken away their hearing and their sight. Allah is capable of everything. 21. O people! Worship your Lord who created you and those before you, that you may attain piety. 1 2. THE HEIFER (al-Baqarah) 22. He who made the earth a habitat for you, and the sky a structure, and sends water down from the sky, and brings out fruits thereby, as a sustenance for you. Therefore, do not assign rivals to Allah while you know. 23. And if you are in doubt about what We have revealed to Our servant, then produce a chapter like these, and call your witnesses apart from Allah, if you are truthful. 24. But if you do not—and you will not—then beware the Fire whose fuel is people and stones, prepared for the disbelievers. 25. And give good news to those who believe and do righteous deeds; that they will have gardens beneath which rivers flow. Whenever they are provided with fruit therefrom as sustenance, they will say, “This is what we were provided with before,” and they will be given the like of it. And they will have pure spouses therein, and they will abide therein forever. 26. Allah does not shy away from making an example of a gnat, or something above it. As for those who believe, they know that it is the Truth from their Lord. But as for those who disbeliev

Did you just send me the fucking Quran

[evilphrog]

Me convincing my Wheel of Time mutuals to read He Who Fights With Monsters: It's like if Mat Cauthon was the Dragon, and after every battle he was forced into court-ordered therapy to stop him from going crazy and destroying the world.

Me convincing my Discworld mutuals to read He Who Fights With Monsters: Half the book is ridiculous puns that hinge on obscure references you won't be able to understand without an encyclopedia, the other half is the most profound quotes you have ever read that imprint themselves onto your very soul. And three weeks later you will realize they are also puns.

Me convincing my Dirk Gently mutuals to read He Who Fights With Monsters: A bunch of losers and disasters learn to love themselves by loving each other, and discover that embracing their weirdness can save the world. Also, everything is connected.

Me convincing my Stargate mutuals to read He Who Fights With Monsters: Keep the adventure and the found family, but imagine that it isn't sponsored by the US military, so the characters are allowed to be gay and talk about their feelings like regular people.

Me convincing my MCU mutuals to read He Who Fights With Monsters: It's like if Age of Ultron never happened, and instead we got the Avengers Tower sitcom of our 2012 dreams.

Me convincing Tumblr at large to read He Who Fights With Monsters: The main characters are all wildly homoerotic and intensely shippable. There is canon representation from every part of the rainbow. Magic is structured in such a way that everyone is gorgeous, nobody poops, gay people can reproduce, furries are canon, and gender transition is virtually instantaneous. Imagine the fanfic potential!

If I have persuaded any of you, the first 13 chapters are free here:

The site has a fantastic interface, with font and formatting options. If you like what you read, you can get the amazingly narrated audiobooks on audible, the print copies on Amazon, or the e-reader on kindle. I highly recommend the audiobooks. The narrator brings a lot of depth to the characters, with the voices he uses and the level of emotion he puts in everything. I have never been able to pay attention to an audiobook before, but these ones are captivating.

[fdelopera]

Welcome to the 13th installment of 15 Weeks of Phantom, where I post all 68 sections of Le Fantôme de l’Opéra, as they were first printed in Le Gaulois newspaper 115 yeas ago.

In today’s installment, we have Part II of Chapter 6, “Le Violon Enchanté” (“The Magic Violin”).

This section was first printed on Monday, 11 October, 1909.

For anyone following along in David Coward's translation of the First Edition of Phantom of the Opera (either in paperback, or Kindle, or from another vendor -- the ISBN-13 is: 978-0199694570), the text starts in Chapter 6 at the description of Christine and Daddy Daaé, “They dressed respectably, refused the small coins that were offered them, and never begged” and goes to Raoul's journey to Perros, “Here's the last bend in the road, beyond it begins to go down and he'll see the sea ... wide-armed Perros Bay!”

There are some differences between the Gaulois text and the First Edition. In this section, these include (highlighted in red above):

1) Compare the Gaulois: un enfant de la ville

To the First Edition: un jeune garçon de la ville

Translation from the Gaulois:

a child from the town

Translation from the First Edition:

a young boy from the town

2) In the Gaulois text, Leroux added this description of Trestraou beach in Perros-Guirec:

... mais où se trouve maintenant, je crois bien, un casino ou quelque chose comme cela.

Translation:

... but where nowadays, I believe, there sits a casino or something of the sort.

3) In the Gaulois text, the Finnish poet Runeberg's name is spelled "Rumberg." In the First Edition, it is corrected to "Runeberg."

4) In the Gaulois text, the spelling of Norway is "Norwège." In the First Edition, it is the standard French spelling of "Norvège."

5) Compare the Gaulois "tous deux" to the First Edition "ceux-ci" to describe Christine and Daddy Daaé (meaning "both" and "they," respectively).

6) Minor differences in punctuation and italicization.

Click here to see the entire edition of Le Gaulois from 11 October, 1909. This link brings you to page 3 of the newspaper — Le Fantôme is at the bottom of the page in the feuilleton section. Click on the arrow buttons at the bottom of the screen to turn the pages of the newspaper, and click on the Zoom button at the bottom left to magnify the text.

[elrieldreamer]

Her final ACOSF thoughts:

1. Her first comment - “When does the next book come out?” Oh, my dear. That is the question.

2. Feyre not knowing about the dangers of the pregnancy started a great back and forth conversation between us. She is more understanding of Rhys’s motives in protecting Feyre’s emotional well being by hiding the danger than I am.

3. “Of course the boys had to play with the Made weapons the moment Amren walked away. I knew that was happening as soon as that the warning came out of her mouth.” 😂😂

4. She identified heavily with the hike. She’s a long distance runner, and physical activity plays a huge part in her emotional health. She talked about a several day hike she went on in Colorado with a group last summer and how it broke her before it built her back up. She pointed out that both Cassian AND Nesta had an emotional journey to work through heading up the mountain, which I hadn’t really considered before. It helped me feel less frustrated with Cassian’s behavior.

5. She had predicted that the girls would somehow take part in the Blood Rite, so she wasn’t surprised about that. She wants to know more about Balthazar (after our chat I sent her the incredible theory by Wingedblooms that Elain could be Balthazar, which later sent us down a whole new rabbit hole), and said that he was her favorite part of the whole BR portion. She once again noted that Gwyn was suspicious, and reinforced how she lured the beast. She’s feeling very confident that something is going on with Gwyn. She still wants to know more about Emerie.

6. “Why is Koschei preparing for Azriel? After Solstice, Azriel just needed a break. LEAVE HIM ALONE!”

7. She felt like the portion with Briallyn happened too quickly. She said that was a big letdown because she felt like Nesta and Cassian didn’t get a big, dramatic arc defeating the “bad guy��. We discussed how Nesta’s mental health might have been the “big bad” in the book, but we still felt like this scene needed MORE.

8. She was glad that it was Nesta who saved Feyre during Nyx’s birth, for both of them. And Elain, too. She said that she got really emotional when Rhys was breaking down, even though she knew that Nyx and Feyre would survive (she had been spoiled with a picture of Nyx). The scene left her with a lot of curiosity about The Mother, and she was glad that Nesta still had at least a little power.

9. “I think Nesta is going to have a baby in the next book. Man, she’s going to be an interesting mother.” 😂

10. We wrapped up the chat with a bunch of theory talk for Elriel’s book, lore discussion based on the sum of the series, and I sent her a bunch of fanfic links (scrolling through my saved works list was sobering, realizing how many were so smutty that I wouldn’t share with her😎). She restarted two days ago with ACOTAR because she wants to annotate on the kindle (she’s a prolific note taker), and is rewarding herself by alternating ACOTAR with a couple chapters of What Bloomed in the Darkgarden.

11. Final thought? “My birthday is next month. Can you get me my own physical copies?”

[inkbyajm]

of kindling sparks

masterlist: part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

tropes: fluff, slow-burn

warnings: 11 year age-gap (reader is 23, joel is 34)

word count: ~6000

author’s note: so this chapter as well as the next one basically serve as one long exposition before the main story (aka the prequel). i realise this is lengthy as hell but i needed to flesh out the relationship between joel and the reader for the upcoming chapters to hurt, you know?

(p.s. there's mention of joel carrying the reader. i know some people might be put off by this, but joel is quite buff. i mean the man works in construction, i promise he can handle carrying an adult for less than a minute)

————-　❈　————-

The air was getting chillier, the change of seasons not going unnoticed. (Y/N)'s focus was razor-sharp as she drove through the streets of Austin, making sure to take in the ever-changing leaves on the trees she passed by. As an exchange student, it wasn't cheap to be renting a car, and the money her parents were generously providing her could only last for so long. She desperately needed another source of income. Her prayers were answered the week prior when she stumbled upon an advertisement near the exit to her university. It was for a babysitting job with a decent pay and convenient working hours. She wrote an email to the address written on the poster:

Dear Mr. Miller, Is the babysitting job still available? I'm a student currently on an exchange program at the University of Texas. And while I haven't had prior experience in babysitting, I used to be an assistant teacher in a kindergarten. I'm very good with children and at keeping them alive (this is a joke, but I am pretty responsible, my mother can attest to this). If there is any need for it, I can also cook and clean up after each visit. Thank you for your consideration and I hope to hear from you soon!

Sincerely, (Y/N) (L/N)

To which, much to her surprise, she received an answer shortly after:

Dear Ms. (L/N), Yes, the babysitting job is still available. It's for my 12-year-old daughter Sarah. And while I appreciate all that you have to offer, there's nothing much to do but keep her alive, so your skill would be useful here. You can come by our house on 1411 Sullivan DR any day of the week after 5pm, we'll go over the details then. If you're still interested, you'll be able to start right away. See you soon!

Best regards, Joel Miller

After half-an-hour of driving, the house finally came into view. Just as she parked the car in the vacant driveway, and before she went to meet some stranger she hoped wouldn't turn out to be a creep, the girl gathered her wits and courage with a clasp of her hands, a deep breath, and a firm nod as if to say 'There's no going back now, and if I die, it is what it is'.

Her three knocks on the door were followed by a long pause which made her believe she had arrived either at the wrong time or the wrong house. But as she was about to turn around and flee in embarrassment, out came a middle-aged man with disheveled hair.

"Hello. Is this the Miller's house?"

"Yes, hi! I am so sorry I kept you waiting. (Y/N), right?" he said, wiping his hands on a rag.

"That's me."

"Great. I'd shake your hand, but mine are a bit dirty. Please, come in." he stepped out of the way to let her walk further into his home.

It was decently spacious and cozy, which temporarily put her at ease. They walked through the living room into the dimly lit kitchen. It smelled of spices and garlic.

He gestured around, "Welcome to our humble abode. Pardon the mess, I didn't exactly have time to tidy up," While it wasn't exactly messy, they could benefit from an extra set of hands. "You said you weren't from around here?"

"No, I'm quite a long way from home," (Y/N) said, taking a seat at the dining table. "I wanted to see other places, gain a bit of independence. Austin was one of the first to accept me, and since it seemed like a fine city to live in, I packed up my things and arrived at the beginning of summer."

"I'm Texas born and raised myself. Wouldn't dream of living anywhere else. How old are you exactly?"

"Twenty-three, sir."

He proceeded to rummage through the fridge that was almost full. "Alright. Would you like a beer, then? And please, call me Joel. You're making me feel old."

"Right, Joel. And sure, I'll have one if you do."

Joel handed her a cold bottle as he sat down across from her. She was familiar with the brand, they served it at the bar she worked at part-time on weekends. For the next hour-and-a-half, the two discussed (Y/N)'s life, her studies, Joel's job as a contractor, and Sarah. At some point, the attacks on 9/11 came up, unpacking the nation-wide terror they had brought. She recalled the panicked calls she received from her parents, begging her to come home. She had to explain that she was alright, that there was nothing to do about it now, and that she couldn't leave the city when she had already formed ties and taken on responsibilities.

Just as Joel was getting into another anecdote from Sarah's childhood, they heard keys jangling in the front door as it opened and shut.

"Speak of the devil. Done playing already?"

A soft voice rang through the house, "Yeah, I'm really tired." Then a pigtailed girl stopped abruptly at the entrance to the kitchen. She was wearing a soccer kit, carrying both a purple backpack as well as a blue duffel bag.

"Sarah, this is (Y/N). She's gonna be your nanny from now on."

The little girl hesitated at first, then gently approached the table and extended her small hand for her to shake. "Nice to meet you." she said with as much courage as she could muster, earning a smile in return.

Getting up from his seat, Joel kissed his daughter's head and told her food was ready, which prompted the child to run upstairs to her room. Feeling like it was her cue to leave, (Y/N) followed suit and slung her bag on her shoulder.

"Would you like to stay for dinner? I'm not much of a chef, but I have to admit I make a mean chili." said the man, pointing at the steaming pot on the stovetop.

The smell of a homemade meal was making her mouth water, but she hadn't known them for long enough to get comfortable. "Thank you for your hospitality, but I should really get going. I have some reading to finish before morning."

The two made their way back to the front door. "Alright, then. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, yeah?"

"See you tomorrow, Mr. Miller- Joel, sorry." she corrected herself, waving him goodbye as she swiftly got into her car and began the drive back to her apartment. She hadn't even begun the job, yet (Y/N) couldn't help but feel giddy about her small success.

————-　❈　————-

A couple of months had passed and (Y/N) was really enjoying her new gig. Sarah turned out to be the sweetest girl the young woman had ever had the pleasure of knowing. She wasn't fussy or troublesome, was very well-mannered, oh-so-friendly and kind, and a fan of using sarcasm here and there, which seemed to be something she picked up from her father. Joel, too, was accommodating to the new addition of their little family. (Y/N) could sense, however, that he was somewhat more reserved - closed, even. It was harder to get to know her employer, but she didn't mind, these things took time.

Leaning against her car, the young woman read her copy of 'Pride and Prejudice' for the 4th or 5th time. Something about it brought her great comfort, especially during the colder months. The festive season was quickly approaching and she wasn't sure if gifts would be appropriate so early-on in her employment. She had zoned out for so long, she didn't have time to register her name being called nor a pair of arms swiftly wrapping around her waist.

"Hey, kiddo." she laughed, hugging the curly-haired girl back.

She let go and stared up at her babysitter with her big round eyes. "Did daddy send you to pick me up?"

"No, I just finished classes and thought I'd swing by."

"What are you reading?"

(Y/N) turned the book to show the cover, "Pride and Prejudice. It's an old book."

"What's it about?"

"Uh- well, it's about a lot of things, but mainly it's the story of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy who have to overcome their differences to end up together. Hence the title."

"That sounds kind of interesting."

"Yeah, but it takes a lot of hatred and pettiness to get there."

The little girl shook her head in disapproval, "Adults. Why do they have to complicate things?"

"Alright, wise one. Get in before you get cold."

The car ride gave them more time to bond. They sang to Sarah's favourite songs and talked about whatever was on the little genius's mind. It was a unique experience for both of them, two feminine energies collided, something each of them longed for dearly.

At home, (Y/N) spent a significant amount of time helping Sarah with her homework: a bunch of English grammar exercises, essay writing, as well as some algebra. Following their arduous work, the girls decided they deserved some fun and made creamy pasta (one of Sarah's favourites) for dinner. Whilst waiting for the patriarch to come home, they got comfortable on the couch to watch 'Mrs. Doubtfire'.

Unsure if she should speak during the movie, Sarah poked her babysitter's arm. "Do you have siblings?"

"I don't, no. Why do you ask?"

"I don't have any either. Do you ever get lonely?"

(Y/N) wasn't sure where these questions were coming from, but she decided to entertain them anyway. "I used to, growing up. Though my parents did a very good job at making sure I felt loved at home. I miss them a lot, but I'm happy here too."

There was a long pause as Sarah was visibly deep in her thoughts. "I never knew my mom," It shouldn't have shocked the young woman, she assumed Joel and his wife had separated after noting the absence of a maternal presence in their home, but it still came as a surprise. "Daddy said she had her own reasons and that they both agreed for me to live with him."

"Adults always have their own reasons for things, even if it may seem dumb. I'm sure it was a very difficult decision to make for her and that she loves you very much."

"I don't think about her often anymore. My dad can be busy, but he does a good job. He comes to every game, takes me to fairs and carnivals, helps me with school projects. He's also extra cool on vacation."

Something about her remark pulled at (Y/N)'s heart. "I see. He seems like a really great dad." The girls went right back to watching Robin Williams dance around while doing chores, as if they hadn't just touched on a thought-provoking subject.

It was almost 11pm and Joel was nowhere to be seen. Instead of letting the girl pass out on the couch, (Y/N) let her hold onto her back as she carried the sleepy child all the way to her room. Making sure all was right, she put her to bed, closed the window, turned on the night-light, then made her way towards the door.

"You're really cool," Sarah said sleepily with her eyes closed. "I hope you stay for a long time."

No compliment in the world could compare to a kid's heartfelt approval. "I hope so too, sweetie. Good night and good dreams."

Walking back downstairs, the young woman took one look around the house and decided she could pass the time cleaning up here and there. She started by tidying up the living room: folding the throws, fluffing up the pillows, putting the board games back on the bookshelf. Then she moved onto the kitchen where she took the trash out, scrubbed the surfaces clean as silently as she could, put the leftover pasta away, and washed the dishes. Satisfied with her work, she went back up to Sarah's room to leave a glass of water by her bed in case she got thirsty in the middle of the night.

In a house that was dead silent, she heard heavy footsteps. In a short panic, she grabbed a pair of scissors that were lying on the desk and crept up closer to the door. The steps were agonisingly slow and calculated. The woman felt like she was in a slasher movie. Babysitters always die first. The only indication she had of the intruder's whereabouts was from the shadow that was created by the light from the kitchen. This is what you get for not turning on every single light in a house where you're all by yourself. One of the most important rules in horror movies, she thought. The shadow approached closer and closer to the door, and just when she hoped the distance was close enough, she leapt out of the room and went straight for the stranger. Unfortunately, her blow was blocked and her body pushed up against the wall. In a blink, she realised what had happened.

"What the hell, Joel?" she whisper-shouted.

"(Y/N)? What are you still doing here?"

"Doing my job. Couldn't let Sarah stay all by herself with no indication of when you'd be back. That would be irresponsible of me."

He let go of her arms, lazily rubbing his face. "You're right, I'm sorry. I got held up and my cellphone died. I'm so exhausted, I completely forgot you were here."

"It's all good, I didn't hear you arrive either," she paused, noticing the blood running down his left hand. "Oh my God, Joel, you're bleeding!"

He looked at the wound like he hadn't even felt it until then, "Oh, this is nothin'. I had worse accidents at work."

"Still, it could get infected. Please, take a seat in the kitchen, I'll be right back."

She went straight to the bathroom to fetch the first-aid kit. It was essential to know where it was, what it had and how to use everything as someone who had to watch a small human being. She went back downstairs to start working on Joel's injury.

"I'm so sorry. I was so caught up in my own mind, I thought you were an intruder, and it was the only weapon at hand-"

"Please don't apologise. It was my bad, really. I should have announced myself," he spoke as he watched her gently clean the cut with a saline cleansing wipe. "Can't blame you for doing your best to defend yourself. Takes courage."

(Y/N) realised that upon closer inspection, her employer was quite handsome. Dark messy hair, a somewhat upkept beard, broad build, crow's feet that indicated how often he smiled, as well as nose wrinkles that indicated how often he frowned. She carefully applied medical tape to close-off the wound and went to put the kit back where it belonged. On her way down, she noticed him looking around in slight confusion.

"Did you…clean the house?"

"Oh, you know, just lightly tidied up. I'm not a fan of leaving the places I stay at messy. Kind of a habit," she noted the silence and her hands instantly became cold. "God, I'm sorry. Again. I- I didn't even ask if you were okay with me touching your belongings, I got-"

"No, you're good. You're good. Don't sweat it. It's just that," Joel chuckled at her need to be so polite after months of working together. "You didn't have to do this. I can't ask you do to things that aren't part of your job description."

"I know. And I don't mind. Really. It's not like I'm playing Cinderella day and night," she said as they shared a laugh. "My job is to take care of a kid and the environment plays a big role."

(Y/N) picked up her bag, ready to leave for the night, "See you on Monday, Joel."

He reached out to touch her shoulder, then just as quickly removed his hand as if she had burned him. "Uh- do you- are you- um," She looked at him with furrowed brows, it's almost as if he was…flustered? "What are your plans for Christmas? Or, you know, holiday season? If you celebrate anything at all-"

"I won't be able to fly out to see my family this year, so I haven't made any other plans yet. Why do you ask?"

The man scratched his neck sheepishly, only then realising how long he had kept her standing on his porch when it wasn't exactly warm outside. "Would you like to celebrate with us? Sarah would be ecstatic to have you."

Warmth blossomed in her chest at the sudden invitation. So gifts are appropriate. Noted.

"I would love to celebrate the holidays with you guys. But only if you don't mind."

"I don't mind."

"Excellent, then I'll be here."

"Great."

"Good."

They stared at each other for way too long, the nanny realised, bearing the slightest of smiles. "Well, then. Good night, Mr. Miller."

He shook his head at her teasing tactic, "Drive safe, Ms. (L/N)."

There she was again, driving back to her apartment, giggling to herself like a maniac and for what? They invited her to celebrate a holiday. People did that all the time. Office workers, family members, casual friends, new and old lovers, it was truly nothing exceptional. But to her it felt different and she couldn't tell if it was because Sarah liked her enough to want her there or if it was because it came from him. Christmas was three weeks away. Three. Weeks. Away. Gifts. She needed gifts. What would she give them? What did they like? It came to her that she didn't know them that well, which meant she had some investigating to do in the little time she had left for shopping.

————-　❈　————-

When Christmas finally came, (Y/N) simply could not contain her excitement. She thought long and hard about the presents she would give the Millers, and while they may have appeared simple, she hoped that they would be appreciated. She personally wrapped them up in brown paper and decorated them with stamps, ribbons, and tags, firmly believing in the art of gift-wrapping. Austin had yet to see snow, she didn't think it would ever happen, yet the city was nevertheless bursting with festive spirit. Various lights decorated the trees and bushes in public parks. People hosted diverse markets in the streets where they sold artisanal goods and delicious foods. (Y/N) had gone ice-skating with the Millers a couple of weeks prior. Joel was as bad as she thought he would be; Sarah, however, was a natural. They enjoyed a lively Christmas parade that same day.

After parking in front of the house that was very tastefully decorated with her help, the young woman made her way towards the door, her homemade chocolate tarte in hand, and knocked, taking a second to register a male voice she did not recognise. The door swung open to reveal a man not much older than her, wearing a plaid shirt and dark blue jeans.

Looking her up and down, the stranger gave her a smirk, "And who might you be?"

"Hands off the babysitter, Tommy!" she heard Joel yell from deep inside the house.

"Ah, the famous babysitter!" he exclaimed, opening the door further. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

It smelled of oven-roasted turkey, of cigarette smoke, and of pine from the christmas tree. She found all of them moving about the kitchen: cutting vegetables, setting the table, washing the dishes. She felt like she'd arrived a tad too late.

"Can I help with anything?" she said, awkwardly standing in the middle of the room.

"Nah, everything's good to go," Joel replied as he scrubbed the remaining pots, "(Y/N), this is Tommy, my brother."

Said brother took her hand and placed a tender kiss on the back of it, "Very nice to meet you." Sarah couldn't hide her look of disgust if she tried.

"I didn't know Joel had a brother."

"You didn't tell her about me?" Tommy asked in exaggerated disbelief.

"Was I supposed to? Didn't know I was running a datin' agency."

"Thought that was part of the deal when we agreed to be each other's wingmen."

"Mm, don't recall us ever doing that."

"Well, we did. Spiritually. When we went to Buddy's Place? It was just around the time when Cat-" Tommy's monologue cut short with one sharp glare from Joel. (Y/N) could practically taste the tension emanating from him. Not a big fan of reminiscing the past, she noted.

"You know what, it's no problem. It's the perfect occasion to get to know each other, eh?" the younger brother flashed her a smile. They sure had impressive genes in this family.

Once the eldest Miller was done cleaning, all three adults cracked open a few cold ones to start off the evening. Tommy had the brilliant idea to teach Sarah a few card tricks, peaking their guest's interest.

"What are you teaching a 12-year-old cards for?" (Y/N) amusedly asked. Sarah seemed excited, she was one of those kids who loved to learn, it didn't matter what it was.

"First of all, every member of the Miller family knows how to play cards, we start young. And second, if not me, then who?" He made a good point. Tommy was, after all, the fun brother. "Wanna join in? I'm told I'm a great teacher."

She caught onto the subtle flirt and found herself wanting to return the energy. He was tall, he was dark, he was handsome. He smelled of cigarettes and beer with a hint of citrus notes. Not bad with kids but he wouldn't want any of his own anytime soon; very friendly, which for him also meant outgoing, ballsy, and prone to getting into trouble; charming to the point that he might seduce a few dozen women in one night; funny enough to make people like and maybe even trust him. She didn't mind flirting, but that was the extent of her intentions, and something told her Tommy Miller felt the same way.

They spent some time watching as Tommy performed the most outrageous tricks seen to man, to which his sole excuse was "I'm a bit rusty". He also tried to teach Sarah the art of cheating which, much to his disappointment and sorrow, his niece refused to take part in for moral reasons. (Y/N) noted the elder Miller's absence and excused herself from the oh-so-riveting demonstration of a disappearing card to go look for him. After searching the kitchen, his bedroom, as well as the garage, she stepped outside with a throw blanket and found him sitting on one of the patio chairs.

"What are you doing here? You'll get cold." he said, glancing at her from the side.

"I'm tougher than I look," she answered, nevermind the blanket tightly wrapped around her frame. "Came to keep you company."

"Who said I need any?" She sensed a hint of a playful tone.

"I don't know, you look awfully lonely sitting next to that empty chair." This earned her a light chuckle as she sat down. He didn't look very warm with one hand in his jacket pocket and his collar lifted up to his chin. She proceeded to awkwardly move her chair closer to his and slowly, as if dealing with a wild animal, reached out to wrap the throw around both of them, thankful that it was big enough for the job.

Sensing how still and tense he was, (Y/N) felt the need to talk to lighten the mood, "So, do you always sit outside all by yourself? In the dark? And in complete silence? Brooding-"

"I get the picture, and no," he took a sip from his bottle. "Sometimes I like to sit in my car."

He was capable of humour, which was a refreshing discovery after countless weeks of being formal. She understood wanting to define clear boundaries between employer and employee, but when she was essentially tasked to bond with his child and regularly invited to family activities, the lines naturally blurred, and her curiosity intensified.

"Who's Cat?"

Joel was silent for a second, then let out a reluctant sigh, "Cat was…a girl I knew way back when I was young."

"You're talking like you're in your 50s."

"I'm 34 to be precise, but fine, back when I was younger," he said grumpily. "We dated for a bit, then we didn't. That's how it went with most women I met."

"Oh, is this a Casanova situation?"

"No, more of a 'not ready to commit to a kid' situation," The silence that followed was loud, (Y/N) didn't want to make a sound, afraid he'd realise what he was doing and shut himself off. "I was 21 when Sarah was born. She's the joy of my life, I don't know what I'd do or where I'd be without her, truly. But...it was hard back then for a single dad with a newborn. Never went to college, had to take on side jobs to sustain both of us. My love life wasn't exactly a priority, and when the opportunity presented itself, they fled as soon as they heard the mention of a child."

The next question was risky, but she couldn't think of anything else, "So you haven't dated since your younger days? Not even the hot single moms in your area?"

This made Joel laugh heartily, a sound she loved to listen to, something she wanted to hear more often. "Not really. I mean I've flirted here and there, but Sarah and I are good the way we are now. She's my priority, and I want to make sure my partner's good to my kid too, you know?"

"If you don't mind my asking, what happened to Sarah's mom?" (Y/N) probed further, "Sarah told me-"

"Nothing happened. She left and that was that." The wall was back up. You pushed your luck.

Luckily for them, Sarah called for everyone to play cards. Which was then followed by board games. What they discovered that evening is that (Y/N) was either incredibly skilled at them or simply unbelievably lucky. She and Tommy got on well, making innocent physical contact here and there, high-fiving each other, sharing a lot of laughter, too much laughter for the man that sat across from them. Joel wasn't jealous, he was never jealous, but the sight didn't make him feel happy either.

After a while, the oven beeped, indicating that the turkey was ready. The four of them prepared the table with bowls of salads, bread slices, side-dishes, making space in the centre for the bird accompanied by roasted vegetables. (Y/N) joined in their prayer before they dug into their food. They shared all sorts of life stories: Tommy's time in the army, the most frustrating clients Joel had ever had, more embarrassing anecdotes from Sarah's childhood, funny and dramatic events that occurred while (Y/N) was on vacation. The young woman then brought out the tarte she'd made for the occasion, much to everyone's delight. It was as silky as she hoped it would be, tasting notes of coffee in her chocolate dessert covered in walnut crumbs. The ambience was relaxing, they sat under the dim light of the scented candles dispersed throughout the kitchen, bathing in the sounds of laughter and utensils scraping against the food on their plates.

When all was devoured, they moved the party back to the living room and Tommy decided it was time for presents. Sarah received hers first, which turned out to be a collection of CDs of her favourite musicians from Tommy and a skateboard she'd wanted for a long time from her dad. She hugged each of them very tightly, already excited to put both of her new belongings to use. Then it was Joel's turn to unwrap a brand new wallet gifted by his brother (apparently, he had complained about his old one he owned for more than a decade) and a second-hand guitar from Sarah that she acquired from a friend's cousin then paid for a cleaning by a professional with her own pocket-money (with a little help from uncle Tommy). Tommy received a steel lighter from Joel, who claimed the custom engraving – a hand-drawn cowboy hat on the front and T. Miller on the bottom – was Sarah’s touch. Just when everyone thought they were done, (Y/N) cleared her throat, calling for their attention, whilst dragging her bag closer to where she sat on the floor.

“I brought gifts of my own.” She declared and pulled out a box and gave it to Tommy, whom she'd met only hours ago. “I’m sorry, I took this just in case someone else would be here, but I wish I had gotten to know you sooner to customise the present to your taste- “

“Oh my sweet God,” he muttered, staring at the large crystal bottle of whiskey. “This is one of the fanciest kind around, it ain’t fuckin’ cheap either!”

“You’re lucky Tommy here is a whiskey connoisseur.” Joel said from his laid-back position on the couch.

The younger brother engulfed her in a warm hug soon after, “You got my taste just right, sweetheart, thank you.”

The room was silent as she extended a purple envelope to Sarah, who sat across from her. It didn’t seem all too exciting. The kid in question opened the envelope, eyeing her babysitter, who herself seemed a bit nervous. The silence in the room was suddenly broken as the 12-year-old squealed her hardest squeal, forcing both Millers to cover their ears.

“It’s two VIP tickets to the Halican Drops concert in Houston next year!” she exclaimed, launching herself at the now grinning woman. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“How’d you get those? I thought they were sold out.” her father asked, clearly having gone through the struggle of standing in long queues to make his daughter happy.

It was difficult to breathe with a prepubescent child sitting in your lap as she held you in a death-grip. “I have an old friend who happens to work at the venue.” she replied, accepting the kiss on the cheek from Sarah who sat back on the ground, practically buzzing as she stared at the pieces of paper in her hands.

Lastly, (Y/N) got up to stand in front of Joel as he looked up at the object she extended in complete surprise.

“You really didn’t have to- “

“Just open it.”

So he did. What he found inside was a Prussian blue knit scarf.

“I noticed you never wear one, and it’s pretty chilly out, so I figured I’d knit you one myself. Finished it just in time a couple of days ago. The color looks flattering on you.” she explained, blushing deeper and deeper with every word. She failed to notice that he, too, was heating up.

“Well, I’ll be damned. This woman can bake, she can knit, she’s smart, and she plays cards like a pro. I mean what can’t you do?” And while she knew Tommy was teasing, she couldn’t help but redden even more.

“I’m pretty proud of my mixing skills,” she added, making him pause with a face that read ‘no way’. “I’m a bartender on the weekends.”

She had barely finished her sentence when she yelped as Tommy scooped her up and over his shoulder. “That’s it! I’m taking this one with me. It was nice to see ya, big brother!”

(Y/N) squealed and wiggled around as much as she could to try to get him to let her down whilst Sarah did her best to save her friend by clinging to one of her uncle’s legs in protest. It was one chaotic scene unfolding in front of Joel, who had not moved from his seat, still staring at the scarf in his hands as he ran his thumb over the soft wool.

After all that excitement, the household members spent a few more hours watching ‘Home Alone 2’ and ‘Jingle All the Way’, DVDs Joel had bought earlier that week. During the viewing, he caught himself glancing at the woman curled up against the arm rest less than a few feet away from him. She remained completely oblivious, amused by the tomfoolery happening on-screen. He left the room for a moment to dispose of his empty bottle in the kitchen. On the short way there, he realised he was slightly tipsy. While he was rummaging through the drawers, he heard someone come up behind him.

“Looking for this?” he turned around to see (Y/N) holding up the bottle-opener. She walked up to the counter and opened the bottle in his hand, brushing her cold fingers against his warm ones in the process.

“You’re cold.” he commented bluntly.

“Yeah, my extremities get cold easily. That’s why I walk around in gloves and thick socks as soon as the temperature starts dropping.”

She threw away her own empty bottle and swiftly turned around to walk back into the living room, when she felt his hand wrap around her wrist ever so gently.

“I didn’t get to thank you back there. You know, for the present?” he spoke softly, giving her a rare smile. “It was real nice of you.”

She noticed the way his pupils were slightly wider than usual and his stance that seemed to swing back-and-forth ever so subtly. “Joel, are you…are you drunk?”

“It takes a lot more than a few bottles of IPA to get me there. I’m just fine.” he whispered, for what reason she wasn’t sure, then unexpectedly walked up the stairs to his bedroom. He didn’t leave her to contemplate her next actions for too long because he emerged not even a minute later, holding his right hand behind his back.

They found themselves standing closer than they should have, but neither of them seemed to care as Joel revealed the mystery object.

“Merry Christmas, (Y/N).”

It was the most beautiful edition of ‘Jane Eyre’ she had ever laid her eyes on. Red leather hardback with golden accents all over it, including the fore-edges, it looked like something out of a royal library.

“How did you know?” her question was vague, but she knew he knew what she meant.

“Sarah told me about the books that you like, said you haven’t read this one in a long time.”

Her warm embrace came to him as a surprise, but in the state of mind he was in, not only did he accept it, but it felt good, it felt right to hug her back.

“It happens to be one of my favourites, so thank you. Really. For all of the things you’ve done for me so far.”

The two held onto each other for longer than needed until Tommy’s call brought them back to reality. The other Miller eyed the returning pair suspiciously as they took their respective places on the couch and went back to watching the movie in comfortable silence. Only he noticed the red book in her possession and fought hard to stop himself from smiling.

Later that night, after all the dishes had been washed, the leftovers put away, and the only child put to bed, Tommy reluctantly sat in the back of the cab Joel had called for him. I am not fetching my brother from a jail cell on Christmas Day, he'd told him. When he walked back into his home, he saw a sleeping figure on the couch, covered by one of the throws.

He went into his bedroom and took no more than 10 minutes to replace all of his linen with fresh ones from the closet in the hallway. He wasn’t going to let his guest sleep on a couch, especially not under a row of windows or next to the entrance door. Carefully picking her up, and she was one deep sleeper, he made his way back to his bed to lay her down on the new sheets.

My extremities get cold easily.

He changed his usual blanket for a thicker one then grabbed a pillow and went to make his bed downstairs. He picked up the scarf lying on the coffee table once more and unfolded it entirely, only then noticing the tiny initials embroidered in grey into one of the ends – J.M. Upon an even closer inspection, he realised it smelled of vanilla and flowers.

————-　❈　————-

masterlist: part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6

tags: @elliaze @joeldjarin

[redisaid]

Beneath the Blue Moon - Chapter 10

Blue

Whew, it's been a while huh? I've sat on a draft of this chapter for months that I wasn't happy with because it did not match with my original plan to make it more confrontational. But I just couldn't get it there because the girls were too tired and sad to fight. What a mood.

Anywho, I'm gonna roll with this as is, though it's changing the tone of the story to be a tad bit more pensive. Expect a new poll soon for chapters 11 and 12.

5073 Words

Read it on Ao3!

Change for better or for worse Move much deeper to immerse Drape your spirit in the words Some kind of ghoul Small exception to the rule

It was hard to express what she felt in words. Sylvanas was always a woman of action. Her state of being was one of action. She preferred to show her love rather than tell of it. She enjoyed fussing over finding and then giving the perfect gift. She found herself addicted to the light that would kindle in Jaina’s eyes when she showed her something new or interesting—not to mention the hitch of her breath, the keening whine that would slip past her teeth as Sylvanas showed her new pleasures in bed.

Sylvanas was simply not meant for writing flowery letters, sealed with pressed flowers and perfume, in lieu of all that. If Jaina expected as much for her, she would be sorely disappointed. Her writing skills were better utilized in direct and concise military reports. Those she could easily churn out.

Yet a letter to her soulmate was a struggle.

Clea sat swinging her legs upon the great gilded mahogany desk of the Ranger General, offering little in the way of helpful advice. “You’re quite lucky she’s stuck with you, you know.”

“Your confidence in me is truly inspiring,” Sylvanas drawled back at her.

Even her famous wit and verbal stings were a thing that needed playing off of. If Jaina were here, she could easily have her laughing her pretty little laugh within minutes, and watch as her eyes widened and an intrigued smirk formed on her lips at the continuous, rapid pace of their banter. But Jaina was not here. Her soulmate was off playing nice with the arrogant fop that was Prince Arthas Menethil, somewhere in the great pine forests of Lordaeron.

And Sylvanas was stuck here in her offices in Silvermoon, trying to write a love letter in between mountains of other paperwork. But, when all was said and done, she was quite terrible at saying how she felt. She would much rather show it.

In fact, if Jaina were here, Clea would be politely asked to leave the room so she could show it in the way she truly wanted.

Instead of pouring forth her very soul through her quill, Sylvanas was left to look toward the wrist of the arm that held it instead—to the soft glow of the soulmark that Jaina had lit for her. In her mind, Jaina was there too, a quiet presence of focused intensity. She was thinking about something. She was often thinking like this. Imagining what puzzled her today always brought a smile to Sylvanas’ face, sometimes when one wasn’t necessarily warranted from a woman who had earned a reputation as a stern but fair General.

It was then that Velonara walked in with a stack of even more reports for her, and Sylvanas knew that with her, all hope of getting her thoughts out onto paper today had left the room.

“Good afternoon Ranger General, Ranger Clea,” Velonara said with a mocking air of formality that disappeared as she slapped the stack of paper onto what little surface area of the desk remained uninhabited by other work or Clea’s backside. “Pray tell, what requires so much of your rapt attention on this fine afternoon?”

“I caught her writing to her pretty mage and decided to help,” Clea announced before Sylvanas could even try to think of an excuse. “It’s not going well.”

“Tell her she has nice tits,” was Velonara’s sage advice.

“That’s the first thing I said,” Clea informed her.

It had, indeed, been the first piece of advice Clea had given. And while true, it did not help.

---

What seemed like entire lifetimes later, Sylvanas stood upon the cliffs above the twisting wreckage of stone and mana that was once Theramore, once again lacking for words.

The space between her and Jaina might as well have been filled with such cursed rubble itself. It felt just as tainted and impenetrable. A canyon miles wide—a distance too far and too treacherous to be crossed, or to even consider crossing.

But Sylvanas was here. She was here and she was whole again but dead. She was here to offer the crumbling remains of what she once was back to a woman who had become so much more than she could have ever imagined in these intervening years. Jaina was an Archmage. She was a leader of nations three times over. She had conquered and defended. She had both lost and won so much and lived to tell the tale.

All the while, Sylvanas had been dead. Walking, talking, but dead. How could she explain it all, when back in those happier times, without war and apocalypse threatening at every turn, she couldn’t even express her budding love for her pretty Kirin Tor apprentice?

Now, to the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras, she stood like a stone, unable to speak, unable even to begin to go through the list of things she’d thought to speak on, the apologies she prepared, the explanations that had been so clear to her when she’d muttered them as she paced through the Warchief’s chambers in Orgrimmar, hours before.

“I’m—”

“If you’re about to say you’re sorry again, save it,” Jaina stopped her before the second word could even enter into existence.

Only she was very sorry. It was hard to be anything but sorry. Surely, Jaina could feel it thrumming along their bond. If Sylvanas’ heart still beat, she would likely feel that too—the panic, the deep, twisting guilt.

Even Theramore was something she could blame herself for, though it was Garrosh who used the bomb. Still, she had not stopped him. She had not risked it all to defy him. And though strategically, it would have been utterly foolish to attempt it, standing here, watching the arcane scar upon the land that was once a bustling settlement twist and rot all the more, Sylvanas felt as though she should have tried.

Had Jaina thought of that, when she chose this venue for their meeting? Had she wanted to rend more grief from her, more guilt?

It was hard for Sylvanas to say. The woman who she had once loved was just as much a thing of the past as the cocky Ranger General of Silvermoon. Jaina was just as changed by her losses, just as scarred, and just as hard to read for all of it. The setting sun and the swirling arcane mixed their glows in the white of her hair—violet and orange. She looked aflame for it, and her eyes burned too, demanding.

So Sylvanas had to think of something to answer them. Some words, though none would ever be good enough. She started with a question, “You wanted to know why I wished to meet?”

It took a moment for Jaina to offer a simple nod in return, as though she considered leaving just then, finding all this unsatisfactory. But, her feelings as they traveled over their bond spoke a different story. Sylvanas focused on these instead, taking every ounce, every fiber of the intrigue, the hesitancy, the worry, and that little shred that might be wanting.

That, she could certainly understand. She wanted nothing more than to reach out to Jaina. To hold her to her chest. To breathe in the fire of sun and magic that played on the soft white of her hair. Even her gold had been stolen from her.

“I need you, Jaina,” Sylvanas explained. “I need your support. I need you to understand that I am truthful in what I say about the Jailer, the realms of death, and that I have everything to lose for it if I’m wrong. We all do.”

She watched Jaina stiffen at this. The words took their time in washing over her, and Jaina let them echo beyond her into the wreckage, and into the sea beyond before she deigned to respond. “Surely you did not retrieve your very soul from hell then, so you say, to ask for an alliance?”

“No,” the word echoes hollow. Putting that into words does it no justice. Yes, Sylvanas sliced her soul free from the very fingers of the being who kept it prisoner. She did it for so many reasons. She did it for her freedom. She did it because she was missing a part of herself. She did it, too, for love.

But Jaina did not look at her with love. Her eyes were hard, crystalline. They too sparkled with flecks of dying sun and untamed magic.

“I did it for myself,” Sylvanas answered honestly. “And for Azeroth. The things the Jailer asked of me seemed cunning and clever in the beginning. He had a plan. He offered me what I wanted, what I needed, and did not ask for much. It all seemed so clear in the beginning. Death is a cruel and broken thing, and he would free us from it.”

That too, was difficult to explain. What could she tell Jaina of that first death of hers? Of leaping from Icecrown hoping for release—hoping for an end to the mockery of life that still preserved her, only to find terrifying nothingness, then Zovaal, looming. He showed her the unfairness of it—the loss of self, the lack of rest.

Worst of all was when she asked, pleaded, begged him to see her family again—mother, father, Lirath—to know that they were resting safely somewhere would bring her the most peace she’d known since she was alive with Jaina in her arms, listening to her bare her burdens, her loneliness since their loss. But there were no such people left for her to meet. No, Zovaal had told her, what remained of the souls that were once half of her immediate family would not know her anymore. They would not judge her for all she’d done. They would not welcome her to run with them in the great hunt, as elven mythos would often picture the afterlife. No, they were perhaps an angel with blue skin, a trickster faun, a plotting vampiric courtier, a proud gladiator, a thousand other things, or even just loose, aimless anima. The person they had once been was gone. They would not know or remember her, for better or for worse, ever again.

Anything, it had seemed, was better than enduring the cruelty of that fact, and to bear the idea that it was the same for every soul that had ever been willed into existence. To be tied so deeply to others in life—only to lose them forever in the eternity of death? It was beyond cruel. And worst of all, that part was entirely true and real, and not just one of Zovaal’s lies.

It had been easy to dwell on that. Even missing half of her soul, it had been hard to follow the agenda to put an end to it when it dragged on and on, seeming just as cruel.

It had been impossible for her to follow it any longer as it directed her to hurt Jaina.

“No doubt you heard what I explained yesterday aboard our ships. No peace awaits us in death. He had promised me a way out. His domination magic made it seem so convincing, so clear. But I began to have my doubts that it was possible, that such a solution was even what he was driving me toward. Those doubts were solidified when he asked me to raise your brother, willing or not, and turn him against you,” Sylvanas explained.

Those words, it seemed, hit home. Jaina’s eyes widened at the truth Sylvanas had otherwise not revealed.

Yes, she was her tipping point, and yes, she should know that.

“You defied this master of yours then, for Derek?” Jaina asked.

“For you,” Sylvanas told her.

The sun clung to one last sliver of the horizon, lighting the western sky to brilliance in orange and gold. Belore would abandon them soon, but perhaps it was for the best. No doubt Jaina would struggle to look upon her as she did now. Devotion and apologies alike meant little if they came from such a wretched creature as she. Her beautiful apprentice turned Archmage deserved better than a mournful corpse.

“If you’ve known all this for so long, why not come to me earlier? That’s what I don’t understand, Sylvanas,” Jaina said, seeming confused at the end by the name that fell so readily from her lips.

The words met her along with a softening in the back of her mind. It was not what Sylvanas expected, not what she rehearsed for. She prepared for Jaina to be stony-faced, civil, but enraged. She prepared for eyes that would not meet hers, not these that stared, and danced with flame and fire and want and this bone-deep desire for an understanding.

Sylvanas held up her hands, bare for the occasion, glowing soulmark on display on her wrist. “Would you have believed me? Would you have even as I explained all these things yesterday, if not for the attack that came after? You wouldn’t have, and I have given you little reason to. I doubt it would have been any different had I sailed here straight from Lordaeron, Grand Marshall Garithos’ blood still wet on my hands.”

“You don’t know that,” Jaina told her. “I grieved for you. For so long, I mourned you. You didn’t even tell me you were—” she trailed off, lacking the correct words to finish that sentence.

“Still alive? Because I wasn’t. I’m a monster. An abomination. An affront to the gods themselves. I still am, even with my soul intact,” Sylvanas reminded her. “Back then, the Alliance saw my people as nothing more than mindless zombies, temporarily bending their feeble wills away from the Lich King’s control, soon to be consumed by it once again and be made to betray them yet another time. You mean to tell me you would have thought any differently?”

“How can I answer that if you didn’t let me try?” Jaina immediately snapped back, her frustration boiling through, both in the movement of her hands and like a pot of boiling oil in the base of Sylvanas’ skull. “If you had come to me, if you had—”

“If I counted back the hours to you I have wasted, dwelling on the past, one by one, we would be here all night and another day,” Sylvanas told her. “I don’t know how you would have reacted. When, where, or why. It doesn’t matter. Could have and would have do not help us now. They do not help the people of Azeroth.”

“They did not help the people of Teldrassil either.”

Ah, there it was. Sylvanas had speculated she would have to answer for her greatest of crimes here. Really, letting the Jailer in had been the greatest, but if it were not through her, then surely it would have been some other pawn that would have taken his power to Azeroth. She just had her anger, her reasons, her vulnerability in having only half a soul to judge by.

“It was not supposed to end that way,” Sylvanas told her frankly, voice low, finding for the first time she could not look into Jaina’s eyes as the dying sun behind her was too close to the memory of the roaring flames. “And while I know it sounds no worse to say this, only one key person was meant to die that day. I left the job to Saurfang, but his odd new sense of honor let Malfurion escape. The strategy to burn the tree was the extreme alternative I was driven to, though no doubt it is what the Jailer wanted all along. That is often how it worked. I would plan something sensible, direct and discreet, it would fail, and then I would be driven to the mad answer, every time.”

The silence stretched on long enough for Sylvanas to have to look up to gauge Jaina’s reaction. She wondered if SI:7 had heard of her original plans for the invasion of Darkshore. But what did it matter? They were doomed. All of these failures, time after time, all this falling back and having to rely on desperate measures—it had all been him. The taunting hand that had held a piece of her soul had pointed her in the wrong direction only to watch her damn ever more souls to his hell in her attempts to make it right again.

The fact that Jaina seemed to be thinking on it still, her mind grinding the words down to powder, as the sun flashed one last brilliant ray behind her, sinking below the horizon, was not lost on Sylvanas. It meant that she did not know. It meant that she was trying to understand.

“Tyrande would have killed you for it all the same,” was what she finally said.

“Perhaps I may yet welcome the mercy of her blade,” was all Sylvanas could say in reply.

There was another silence, but this one ended with a bitter, short laugh against the coming dark of night. “I don’t wish to feel what it’s like to die with you again, so let’s avoid that,” Jaina offered.

There. That was something. Just as the tension dropped on the edge of her spine. In the night, Sylvanas’ wrist glowed like a guiding star. There had to be something left of this, something worth saving. Even if all she had to offer Jaina was to share her life with a dead, bitter war criminal, who had been manipulated into some of what she’d done, and had gladly chosen other transgressions without so much as an ounce of that evil influence.

“I cannot say that Zovaal is to blame for everything I’ve done. I cannot draw an exact line for you of where he ends and I began. That, I think, is the worst part of it. The terrifying part. It all made sense in some way, because that was what he wanted. I wasn’t able to see it so clearly until the day I clutched my soul in my hands. His chains did not hold me then,” Sylvanas went on.

Feeling welled up in her along with the word. Bright and bold, crisp as the cold air of winter, burning as the summer sun. The extremes of emotion save that of anger had been a foreign thing, and still were to her. She felt too raw, too new, her skin newly shed.

“If I were thinking as clearly then, or any time, as I am now, I think I would have come to you,” Sylvanas told her.

She wanted to cry. Not in the screaming, raging way she’d cried for her death and the constant struggle that followed. No, she wanted to cry because this was all just awful. She wanted to cry because it was all like a bandage ripped from a scabbing wound that would not and could not heal. The world itself was even scarred—she had seen the tip of the great hilt of the sword stuck in its side even on her flight over here.

Jaina didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve planet-sized swords and magic-sundered cities. Only the purple of Theramore’s arcane painted her now, and she was beautiful in it. A stunning woman if ever there was one, powerful and stern in the way she stood and thought about those words.

She deserved a lonely Ranger General, whose life she had brought light back into just by existing. She deserved warm, languid mornings in a bed draped with the finest Quel’thalan silk. She deserved to laugh and smile easily, without worrying if she could or should for the state of things. She deserved the smile that even Sylvanas could feel a thousand miles away when she read her terrible attempts at love letters. She deserved the life they were supposed to have together.

But Sylvanas supposed it was not for her to say what Jaina deserved. White-haired and once-dead herself, her heart still beat, but she knew what it was to fail, what it was to have it all come crumbling down, and to be the one picking up the pieces yet again.

All Sylvanas wanted was a chance to be a brick in that new foundation they might both build together. Anything else, well, she would just have to see.

“I don’t know how I could have helped, but I would have tried,” Jaina told her.

“I know. I should have known,” Sylvanas told her. “And I know now it’s too little too late.”

Jaina reached for her, and just as Sylvanas had done when she’d first arrived, let her hand drop empty. It was covered still by the clawed gauntlet, hiding the mark that Sylvanas knew burned beneath it. Jaina was clearly not ready to divest herself of such armor around her, nor did she blame her for such caution.

Still, she reached.

“I can’t say I didn’t wish you did this all of this much sooner, but if you were manipulated as you say, I understand how hard it must have been to do at all,” Jaina said, looking down at that hand before clenching it, the metal of the gauntlet creaking. “But know that I don’t accept that as an excuse.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Sylvanas told her. “Or anyone. I deserve far worse than Tyrande’s blade at my neck, which I’ve no doubt she still wants to deliver to me.”

Tyrande’s absence on the ships was noteworthy. Even though the ceasefire had caused all Horde forces to be removed from Darkshore, she had pursued them to the last—apparently culling them from the boat ramps and swinging ladders hanging from hovering zeppelins. When Sylvanas had posed the question of where she was to Anduin at the beginning of the summit, he’d simply shaken his head.

“I only ask that if I am to be punished, that I do so after we have defeated Zovaal, at least in some measure,” Sylvanas went on. “I will be of no use rectifying my crimes if I am to be in chains once again.”

“I fail to see how that helps any of us,” Jaina concluded. “There is no doubt in anyone’s mind you have been truthful about this, you know. Not even mine. You were correct before in saying you had everything to lose if you weren’t.”

“Delivering oneself into the hands of one's enemies spouting madness they cannot prove is not the strategy of a woman with secrets left to keep,” Sylvanas noted. “I am done with secrets. Truly. Ask of me what you want, what you need to know and I will answer. I owe you at least that, for coming to hear me out.”

Sylvanas watched as Jaina’s lips wrapped around a question, then held it in, like a sigh she did not want to allow to escape. A prayer, maybe. A complaint, perhaps. There was so much to talk about, but the moon was rising, following her ardent and fruitless pursuit of the sun. Tonight, it was only a small crescent, still regaining its form and power. But, it was waxing, not waning.

And while Jaina seemed to debate what question she should ask first, she was asking.

Her pause left Sylvanas enough time to wonder what she would ask, if Jaina were to open herself up this way.

That answer was as simple as it was impossible, really. “Did you love me?” would be what she wanted to know. Ever, at all, still? It didn’t matter. But it wasn’t a question she’d been invited to ask, or one she could give voice to even if she was. Not now, at least. Perhaps not ever.

Perhaps she might never know. Perhaps, she might have to be content with her soulmate standing at arm’s length from her, struggling to find the right words, offering only distant hope of a truce, an alliance of needs, and nothing more.

But loved or not, Sylvanas supposed that was better than the alternative. Still, Jaina was here. She’d listened.

She opened her mouth again to speak.

“Can we maybe sit a while and just, well, talk?” Jaina asked. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear more about this Zovaal and the Maw.”

It was something. Anything at all.

“We can talk, yes,” Sylvanas answered, as she watched Jaina sweep aside her skirts, and sit upon a nearby boulder.

She gestured to the same rock, where a flat place was left empty just beside her, waiting, inviting.

It was the closest Sylvanas had been to her—no. That wasn’t right. Jaina had reached out to her the day before, touched her skin, asked for her to meet. No more melodramatics, no more comparisons of the years and years she’d lost to death and dominance, the wrong and the right of it. These would not serve Sylvanas in her goals, her atonements. Her actions would.

Sylvanas sat next to her soulmate, and though she desperately wanted to reach out to touch her again, she held her bare hands still in her lap. She would tell Jaina everything she wanted to know, everything she was willing to hear. Sincere words were never her forte, but as a career soldier, she could report like no one’s business. If Jaina wanted a report, she’d get the report of her lifetime, so long as she was willing to listen.

And Jaina, it seemed—sitting beside her, back straight, arcane fire dancing still in her eyes and on the strands of her hair—was still listening.

---

Another day, another lifetime ago, and Clea had once again perched herself on the edge of the Ranger General’s desk, legs swinging, without invitation.

“What has you grinning with your ears pointing straight to Belore like that?” she asked as she unceremoniously took up her favorite seat in all of Silvermoon.

“Would you believe me if I told you it was a report from Vereesa on supply lines?” Sylvanas offered, not looking up from the letter that was decidedly not that.

“No. Well, wait, it depends on the type of supply lines. I know you love a good artillery shipment, but maybe not that much,” Clea said.

Sylvanas huffed a laugh. While she would indeed be delighted to get some new ballistas requisitioned for the weaker points of their defensive lines on the Amani front, the likelihood of King Anasterian prioritizing that was far lower than her chances of even finding her once in a lifetime soulmate, whose letter she was actually smiling over.

Clea took this opportunity to peek for her answer and snorted her own response, “Well, I doubt Vereesa writes to you in Common, so I’d say you’re drooling over a letter from your pretty mage instead.”

“I don’t drool,” Sylvanas retorted. “But I also don’t wish to waste time lying to you. Now, Ranger, was there a purpose to your visit other than to pester me about my love life?”

“You love her then?”

Sylvanas knew that the question was meant to be teasing in nature. It was hardly meant as the existential blow that it felt like, a slap across the face that reality must be answered to.

Of course she loved Jaina. That much she knew. The truth of it was so odd though. She’d met the woman for only a week, and still knew precious little about her. Fate had decided to place them in each other’s hearts, forever bound by their souls, and while Sylvanas had relished in the idea of no longer being alone in this world, she had not done so with love in mind. Odd as it was to say, she sought her soulmate for wholeness’ sake as much as anything else really. It was a thing one did, a lifelong pursuit in the long life of an elf, one she was lucky to fulfill in her relative youth.

But yes, the answer was easy. She loved her. She loved Jaina with every fiber of her being, every steady beat of her heart, every calming reminder of their bond as Jaina’s thoughts and feelings leaked so subtly into her mind across the vast distance that separated them, and likely would for much of their lives. They were still figuring out where they would live, where they might even meet for the next time, once Jaina was finished with this silly little jaunt around Lordaeron.

She wanted Sylvanas to come to Dalaran, of course. That was the topic of this letter, apparently sent just before she left the city of mages to accompany Prince Arthas.

Sylvanas hated Dalaran, but for Jaina, she could try. That, she supposed, was what love really was, at least to her—a willingness to put all aside, grievances and gratitudes alike, just to be with someone. Even if that meant dealing with an entire city full of snooty magisters. Jaina deserved that much from her—to do as Sylvanas had done with her in Quel’thalas, and take her to meet her friends, to eat at her favorite restaurants, to see the things and people and places that were important to her.

It was all so strange how this worked with soulmates. It felt like doing love in reverse. The deep, unfathomable bond was there already, but Sylvanas didn’t know what wine Jaina liked best yet, or what she would do to cheer herself up or clear her mind when she was feeling weary of the world and its trials. She didn’t know her favorite color. She didn’t know what animal she’d most often pretend to be when playing make-believe growing up.

Sylvanas, of course, had been a fearsome lynx in her childhood games. What animals were even so prevalent in Kul Tiras for Jaina to assume their imaginary form in her play? Sylvanas didn’t know. She almost jotted down a note to herself to find a natural atlas of the island nation to familiarize herself with the possibilities, but remembered that Clea was there, now looking strangely at her as Sylvanas hadn’t responded in her musing.

“Of course I do,” she answered.

Because she did. She loved Jaina Proudmoore, and was looking forward to spending the rest of whatever time the gods might allow them to have together to get to know her, however and whenever she could.

[thevalkyriesshadow]

✨Surprise Snippet!✨

Have no fear friends, chapter 11 of Break Bones, Not Hearts is on the way! (I'm wedding dress shopping this weekend so trying to get it in before the weekend, but may be early next week!) Let me share a sexy little snippet to hold you all over. 😘

She reached down and turned on the shower. The water sprayed out at them in a cold torrent. Azriel gasped in and Gwyn let out a shrill squeal. She huddled into him until the water warmed. Then Gwyn was on him again. Her lips went to his neck, kissing and nibbling. His hands roamed her sides, her back, and ass. “Gwyn –” He moaned. The sound fueled her, added kindling to the fire that burned in her core. Her kisses trailed down his neck, traced his tattoos and the lines of his muscles on his shoulders and chest. His hips bucked forward, his hard length poked her hip as she nipped and licked one of his nipples. Gwyn definitely enjoyed pulling every sound from him. From the way he whined as her hands followed her descent down his body, trailing delicate lines across the planes of his stomach. To the way he moaned her name. She wrapped her hand around his cock as she came to stand at full height, her lips inches from Azriel’s. He inhaled sharply, his fingertips digging into her hips. “Were you a good boy today?” She watched his pupils dilate, his breath quicken. He nodded, his brows furrowed, and eyes pleaded with her. Desperate actions. Her lips curled into a sly smile, “Good. I’m going to get on my knees and suck your cock.” He nodded furiously again, that beautiful face strained with need.  “Can I cum?” His question was so quiet she could barely hear it above the rush of water from her multi-setting shower head.

[zeebee3]

AO3 tag game

Thank you for tagging me @so-scarlett-maroon!

How many works do you have on AO3? 43

What's your total AO3 word count? 926,285

What fandoms do you write for? Harry Potter (at least nowadays)

Top five fics by kudos:

(All are Dramione and rated explicit)

You Do It For Me- WIP, currently 44 chapters and 200+k. 8th year, Draco learns that Hermione has never had an orgasm, so offers to help her. It's a story of who-fell-first/who-fell-harder, lazy river romance and friend group hangs. Lots of games, banter, and yet somehow still basically pure smut.

Would You Rather - The first smutty one (ahem four)-shot I ever wrote! 4 chapters, 14.5k, complete. Draco antagonizes Hermione into playing 'would you rather' while working on a joint assignment in the library. He doesn't think women wank and Hermione decides to prove him wrong.

A Good Landing- 2 chapters, 14.5k, complete. The five times Hermione accidentally sat on Draco's lap, and the one time she meant to. Post-Hogwarts, friend group hijinks, and Hermione has a secret piercing.

It Was A Sunny Day- One-shot, 7.4k, complete. Auror Hermione needs help retrieving a memory from a mission she went on. Auror Draco is sent to use legilimency to retrieve it. This is entirely an excuse for me to write legilimency smut, feat accidental stimulation, dry humping/cockwarming, and a successful assignment.

Baby, Anytime You're Ready, I'm Yours - 11 chapters, 27k, complete. Post-Hogwarts intermixing Slytherin-Gryffindor friend group goes on a weekend holiday. Draco is in love but Hermione thinks they're just best friends. Rom-com vibes, found family vibes, and one of my favorite scenes I've ever written 🤭

Do you respond to comments? I really, really try my best! It's hard to stay on top of them sometimes but I've made so many friends via my comment section and it's such a fun place to interact with the fandom! But it's a time commitment and sometimes I get super behind 😭

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Probably Disturbingly Capable. It has an open-ending and that's usually pretty angsty, plus it's a Death Eater Draco/Order Member Hermione fic so that's always a little angsty. Ooh either that or A Gentle Haunting, which is a retelling of Ginny's possession by Riddle's diary.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest endings? Most of my fics have happy endings so it's hard to decide which is happiest. But possibly one of the ones that ended in proposals? Those were super sappy/happy (Just The Lightest Touch (Hinny), An Indecent Proposal (Panville)). OH or Kindling. That one ends with Draco ending his five years agonized pining, so he's pretty freaking happy.

Do you get hate on fics? Not that I've seen (and I sure don't look for it). I get comments softly demanding things sometimes but none that are aggressively rude or hurtful. I've been super lucky to have the nicest, most supportive readers 🥹🫶

Do you write smut? It's arguably the only thing I write 🙃

Craziest crossover? I've never written a crossover, though I'm currently writing a Formula One crossover so I guess that one!

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Yeah, a few times that I've been informed of (and thank you to the detectives out there who spot them!). So far, they've always been Drarryified which is, frankly, hilarious to me since Harry and Hermione are NOT a one-for-one replacement, nor is Drarry Draco anything like Dramione Draco imo. But I digress.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes! You Do It For Me is being translated into Chinese here, which is very cool.

Have you ever co-written a fic? No, but I've co-planned a fic and one day we shall write it!!!!

All time favorite ships? Dramione is creeping up as my top favorite, but Drarry is a close second. Dreomione is also a delight. I'm a sucker for rare pairs, too, and will pretty much read any pairing once.

What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you will? Look. I can't let myself doubt it. It has to be finished. AND IT WILL BE. (I'm looking at you, Balance & Oppose 🥹🫶). I do have a veritable fuckton of unfinished wips in my drafts though, none of which have ever been posted, so I'm sure one of them in there will never actually be finished. But again...I'll never say never.

What are my writing strengths? What I find easiest to write are smut scenes, relationship dynamics, dialogue, and carrying the flow. Are those what I'm strongest in? idk man.

What are your writing weakness? Having any fcking idea where a story is going before I start, and therefore inevitably leaving loose threads along the way.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language? I don't mind reading it as long as the context around it makes sense, but if it's a full convo that I need to check the end notes for, it's less enticing.

First Fandom that you wrote in? Mistborn

Favorite fic(s) you've written? Balance & Oppose is the fic I put the most effort into and for that, it always has a top spot in my heart. You Do It For Me is my favorite of fics I'm actively writing. And my favorite completed fic is probably There's Nobody Like You (BlaisexRon) or Say Please (tattoo artist Draco).

If you made it to the end, I admire your tenacity! 👏🏻

I'm tagging @smolbangs, @goldenbuckyyy, @willowingscribe, @sultrynuns, @youhavemyswordandmybow (if tag games aren't you're thing, no worries!)

[vampirepirates]

THE LONG WINTER — SANDOR CLEGANE.

Masterlist:

author's note + cast list

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

CHAPTER ELEVEN – THE NIGHT LANDS.

if i get too close,           and i'm not how you hoped,

forgive my nothern attitude. oh, i was

raised out in the cold.

"The boar's great tusks, they boded ill for good King Robert's health. And the beast was every bit as fat as Robert was himself. But our brave king cried 'Do your worst! I'll have your ugly head. You're nowhere near as murderous as the lion in my bed.' King Robert lost his battle, and he failed his final test. The lion ripped his balls off and the boar did all the rest."

Slow claps echoed through the room as King Joffrey beamed. Sansa did not do so much as bristle at Lyarra's side, causing her to reach out and grasp her hand. She squeezed once, before turning her gaze back to the scene. Sandor stood just behind the throne, adorned in the armor of a Kingsguard. It was almost unsettling to see him in something other than his normal suit of chain.

"Very amusing! Isn't it a funny song?" Joffrey asked the room, still grinning from ear to ear. He carried on for only a minute longer, before the bard stood to apologize. "Tell me, which do you favor? Your fingers or your tongue?"

Sansa gaped at the question, turning to Lyarra in horror. She only shook her head, squeezing her hand once more — though, whether the action was more comforting to her or Sansa she was not certain.

"Every man needs hands, Your Grace."

"Good! Tongue it is."

Ser Ilyn Payne, the same man who took her brother's head, approached from the shadows then. Sansa moved to turn away, but Lyarra only grasped onto her shoulders — keeping her facing forward. If Joffrey noticed her turning from him, it would likely further enrage him. Instead, the two watched as the bard's tongue was sliced off, thrown into the flames like a piece of kindling. Joffrey stood then, removing his crown and handing it off to Sandor.

Before she could collect herself, he — alongside Sandor and Meryn Trant, made their way to the pair.

"You look quite nice," He stated in greeting, carefully ignoring Lyarra's stare. Sansa, with bloodshot eyes covered by thick bags only nodded.

"Thank you, My Lord."

"Your Grace. I'm King now."

With a sharp glare, Joffrey walked ahead — meeting Lyarra's eyes for only a moment. He bid the pair to follow him. Sandor stopped in front of Sansa, keeping his gaze trained on Lyarra.

"Do as you're bid, child." He snapped, though his voice held no true venom. Sansa shook in Lyarra's arms, as the two followed after him. Joffrey was eerily silent until they reached their destination, a fact that had her pulse jumping each second. Once they'd turned a corner, Lyarra was met with not only blinding sunlight — but the sight of numerous decapitated heads. Instinctually she shot forward — covering her niece's eyes as the girl began to cry.

"Your Grace," Lyarra started, but was silenced just as quickly by a dangerous glare.

"Let her look. Let her see what happens to traitors," He bit, wobbling on his feet when Lyarra made no move to heed his word. She felt someone grip her shoulders harshly, the pain flooding through her at once. She knew instantly that it wasn't Sandor's touch.

"You promised to be merciful," Sansa cried, still buried in her aunt's arms. Ser Meryn pressed his fingers into the blade of her shoulder at that moment, and it took everything in Lyarra to not cry out.

"I was. I gave him a clean death." Joffrey stated, glancing back to his work. Lyarra carefully avoided the sight of her brother, instead training her gaze on the King. He raised his head once more, growing evidently impatient at their lack of cooperation. "I said, let her look."

"Your Grace, please. We won't be any trouble. We won't commit any act of treason. Just let her go home."

"Mother says I'm still to marry her, so she'll stay here and obey. And you," He paused, looking down her figure. "Well, you're too old for a husband, aren't you? A pitiful thing. Maybe you'll be the next head in my collection."

Sansa's head snapped up then as she pushed out of Lyarra's grasp, tears now raining down her cheeks. She wearily obeyed his command, pulling her gaze to the sight of her father's head. Lyarra swallowed before doing the same, Meryn Trant's fingers still pressing into her skin. She did her best not to stumble backwards at the sight, but she did look away just as quickly. Sansa, however, did not once blink — nor tear her gaze away.

"How long do I have to look?" The girl questioned, and Lyarra felt her heart stalling.

"As long as it pleases me." Joffrey almost seemed to gape at her resignation as Sansa once again agreed. He began pointing to the various heads. Septa Mordane, Jory. Every member of their house, one after the other. Lyarra wasn't certain how long the boy trailed on — rather, she couldn't keep her eyes from her niece. Sansa's stare was no longer one of fear, but hate. Lyarra felt herself growing both increasingly concerned — and proud all at once. Sansa was not made for this life. She deserved to be a lady — to dream of better days, to eat lemoncakes with her friends as they discussed Knights. Before this, if there was one person she had not been expecting to acclimate so quickly — it was Sansa.

"I tell you what, I'll give you both a present. After I raise my armies and kill your traitorous family, I'm going to give you each of their heads as well."

"Or maybe they'll give us yours." Sansa retorted, never once pulling her stare from the heads. Lyarra gaped, moving quickly to defend her niece as the King bristled.

"Forgive her, Your Grace, traitor or not — her father was killed before her own eyes. It's not an easy thing to accept," Lyarra attempted, but Joffrey's eyes only grew more vengeful by the minute. He furrowed his brow, stepping backwards to brush his robe.

"My mother tells me a king should never strike his lady. Ser Meryn," At once, he took his hands off of Lyarra — twisting Sansa to him. He struck her before she could do so much as blink, twice across her face until blood was dribbling down her lip. As he moved to settle himself once more, an idea seemed to come to the King's mind. "Her bitch of an aunt, too. Show her what happens when you disgrace a king."

Just as quickly, he was at her side. With two fists to the gut, and one slap across her cheek — Lyarra forced herself to stand upright. Ser Meryn, seemingly content with his work, stepped back to Sandor's side. She found herself carefully avoiding his eye, instead clutching her stomach as she turned back to Sansa. Sansa was approaching the king steadily, and she realized with horror what her niece was intending to do. In only a step, she'd be close enough to push Joffrey to his death. They'd be killed just after the boy fell, but the realm would be safe from Joffrey Baratheon's reign. Before she could get close enough, Sandor dashed forward — twisting Sansa to him as he wiped her lip with a handkerchief.

Sandor Clegane was becoming increasingly gentle with the Stark girls, it seemed. She found warmth struggling to bleed into her heart, as she only clutched tighter to her stomach.

"I do hope you'll obey now. The next time you step out of line, it's her head," Joffrey pointed to Lyarra, nodding with emphasis. She did not do so much as stumble, but never once pulled her eyes from the king. "that you'll see on a spike." He stepped away then, promising to look for Sansa in court. Ser Meryn followed suit, never once looking back at the pair. Sandor glanced at the retreating form of the King before turning back to Lyarra and Sansa.

He reached to take the handkerchief from Sansa's grip in an almost delicate manner, gripping Lyarra's chin in his hands just as he had before. All the while, he never broke her stare — his eyes carrying a message with more weight than she knew how to decipher. He ran the cloth over her lip, and Lyarra had to force herself not to lean into the touch. Sandor had been kind to her the past few days. More than he needed to be. Now was not a good time to think only of that, and not of the fact that he was still Joffrey Baratheon's dog.

He glanced down to the hand clutching her stomach, his gaze carrying a question — but she only waved him off, straightening herself to the best of her ability.

"Save yourself some pain, girl. Give him what he wants." He directed to Sansa, who only blinked. Sandor reached to grab Lyarra's hand, placing the handkerchief in it and closing her fingers around it. He held onto her for only a moment longer before pulling away, following after the king.

Once Lyarra was certain they were alone, she shot forward — pulling Sansa to her. As the girl began to weep in her arms, she placed her chin on the top of her head. It was then, that she properly took in the sight of her brother. Eddard Stark's eyes held none of his usual warmth, nor his knowing mirth. He was pale, empty. His mouth gaping with dried blood coating his cheeks.

All things considered, Lyarra was not certain how much longer she would survive in King's Landing without him at her side.

Each night after that Lyarra either snuck out to Petyr's brothel just after night fell, or she slept in Sansa's chambers. Some nights Aianna would stay up with her, if only to placate her in the slightest. Those nights, Lyarra refused to speak about herself. She only wanted to know more about Aianna. Each time, it was a struggle to get more than a few words out of her. Even still, she was just grateful to have one wholly good person in her life still. More than once she accompanied her to Sansa's chambers, only leaving once the two settled for sleep.

The nights that she spent in the brothel were more often than not consistent of her sitting in Petyr's study while he worked. His presence alone should have been comforting. All her life she longed to be back at his side, and thought as long as she had her closest friend with her — everything would be alright. Only, now, she felt a wave of tension bleed through her at the sight of him. She was waiting for the second shoe to drop, for something to hit her. Something that never seemed to happen.

One of the girls under his employment, Ros, had taken to sitting with her throughout the night. She'd seen the girl before, back in Winterfell. More than once, she had been at Theon's side — though, that was not something altogether surprising. The thought of the Greyjoy boy gave her pause. Lyarra could only wonder where he'd ended up. No doubt, he wouldn't leave Robb's side for anything. The two had been close for years. Closer than brothers.

Ros was witty, and easy to keep up with. Her charms were numerous. Once, Petyr seemed to marvel at the sight of them together — entering the room with, 'Ah, now there are my two favorite girls.' She was gladdened at once to have the girl in King's Landing. At the very least, she had another ally.

Petyr had offered her a room more than once, claiming that she could stay for as long as she liked. One night, when he was escorting her to the room — she could no longer hold back her tears. A dam broke, and at once she was all but sobbing in his embrace. His touch wasn't delicate, but it was caring. She could feel Petyr's love, and yet the lack of warmth was noticeable. She wanted to burrow further into his chest, to become one with him until she could feel him as well as she felt herself. Lyarra felt as if she could understand Petyr better than anyone she'd ever met, and yet she couldn't decipher his feelings for her. Some nights he would stare at her as if she'd hung the stars, as if he couldn't help but marvel at his own love for her. Other nights, she was almost a stranger to him. As if they were nothing more than good friends.

In a way, it was a polarizing difference from what she had come to expect from him. Lyarra had never felt such love for anyone else as she did for him. It was muddled within the word, the true meaning cracking in viridescent flickers. Was it love? Undoubtably. But was it romantic? Therein lied the question. There was a time that she wanted to be Petyr's wife. That if she needed to marry a man, she would will it to be him. Now, the thought of his hands on her made her sick — made her gut twist in discomfort.

Lyarra had no reason to distrust the man. Not after all he had done for her. And yet, something in her told her to think better of his advances. A voice, almost reminiscent of Varys, reminded her that no one was to be trusted. Not even the ones she loved most.

On the morning of King Joffrey's nameday, the sound of horns echoed so fiercely that Lyarra fell right out of her bed. The entire kingdom seemed prepared to celebrate the occasion. She and Sansa were to accompany the royal family to the festivities. Sansa would sit at Joffrey's side, as expected considering she was his bride-to-be, while Lyarra sat only a few feet away to her left. Sandor was the first to take part in the king's jousting tournament — adorned with his hound shaped helm.

As quickly as he raised his weapon, the fight was over. His opponent was thrown over the side of the platform they'd been fighting on, leaving Sandor standing tall — raising a shield with the Clegane sigil.

"Well struck. Well struck, dog!" Joffrey cheered, clapping with glee at the open carnage. Lyarra felt her stomach flip, but she couldn't help the slight wave of relief that bled through her at the victory. She knew better than to doubt him, but it wracked her nerves nonetheless. "Did you like that?" The king questioned, tilting his head in the direction of the fallen corpse. Sansa nodded at once.

"It was well struck, Your Grace."

"I already said it was well struck."

"Yes, Your Grace."

At once, another joust was prepared — the body of the fallen man being dragged away, leaving a trail of blood. Two men were announced, but only one came running out. After a moment of silence stretched through the area, a man came running down the steps — clumsily wobbling on his feet. The king quickly questioned if he was drunk, to which the man — Dontos, replied that he'd only had two cups of wine.

"Two cups? That's not much at all. Please, have another cup."

"Are you sure, Your Grace?"

"Yes. To celebrate my name day. Have two. Have as much as you like."

Ser Dontos seemed to beam at the notion, bowing his head in recognition. Lyarra hardly noticed Sandor approaching to stand at her left, only coming to realize it once he was blocking her direct line of sight.

"Ser Meryn, help Ser Dontos celebrate my name day. See that he drinks his fill."

Meryn Trant stalked over to the man, grabbing him with ease as he lowered him to the ground. Just as quickly Dontos' smile appeared, it vanished. Instead, the man was oozing with terror. They intended to pour wine down his throat, no doubt until he choked on it.

"You can't," Sansa exclaimed, causing Lyarra to curse under her breath.

"What did you say? Did you say I can't?"

"She only meant," Lyarra interrupted, leaning forward to place a hand on Sansa's shoulder — "it would be bad luck to kill a man on your name day."

"What kind of stupid peasant superstition—" Joffrey started, but was quickly cut off by a gruff voice from behind the group.

"She's right. What a man sows on his name day, he reaps all year." Sandor chimed in, nodding in agreement. Lyarra fought against her better judgement to shoot him a grateful smile, instead only meeting his eyes with what she could only hope was a strong enough glance to convey her message.

Joffrey sighed before resigning himself in agreement, waving for the man to be brought to the dungeons. Sansa, however, was not pleased — and continued to argue in Ser Dontos' favor.

"He is a fool, you're so clever to see it. He'll make a much better fool than a knight. He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death." Her words seemed to give the king pause, as he rubbed the tips of his fingers together contemplatively. Anyone could see that the boy was no idiot. He was vindictive, but he thought of his actions before he went through with them.

"Did you hear my lady, Ser Dontos? From this day, you'll be my new fool."

Ser Dontos was carried away by the crook of his elbows then, his feet dragging across the stone. Lyarra sat back with a resounding, but silent sigh. For only a moment she allowed herself to meet Sandor's gaze, the two sharing a message with only their eyes alone. Sansa was becoming increasingly good at wrangling the king's fury into something manageable. With Sandor coming to her aid, there was a chance that they could make it through the lion's den almost unscathed.

"My beloved nephew!" A voice called, and at once Lyarra sat straight — both hope and confusion bleeding through her. Tyrion Lannister came marching through the crowd, adorned with Lannister armor — with a man that Lyarra did not recognize in tow. Half a dozen thoughts flew through her mind at once. The last she saw Tyrion, he was an ally — a friend, even. The two drank their sorrows away together. She defended him to her brother and his wife more than once, just before Lady Catelyn had taken him captive. Not only that, but he was the last man to see her son with his own eyes. His presence would either prove to be a gift from the gods, or yet another blight on her life.

Tyrion took his time greeting each of the members of his family, even going on to say that Joffrey's little brother — Tommen — would grow to be bigger than The Hound, as well as more attractive. Sandor grumbled behind her, causing Tyrion to cackle as he pointed out that Sandor didn't care for him to the man at his side. Once he passed the king, he came to a stop in front of Sansa.

"My lady, I'm sorry for your loss." He bowed his head once, before turning to Lyarra herself. She could hardly control the wild grin that pulled across her lips, one that Tyrion met in equal ferocity. His gaze carried the same solemn weight that they had only moments prior when addressing her niece, but Tyrion seemed almost gladdened at her presence. He moved to grab her hand in his, leaning down to place a kiss on the backside of her palm. Lyarra scoffed at the motion, pulling her hand from his grasp.

"Lyarra Stark," He started, looking over her with a consistent grin. "A lovely sight, as always. I am sorry for your loss as well. Though, I can't say I am not happy to see you." Lyarra moved to retort with a quip, before she was cut off by the king's venom.

"Her loss? Her brother," He argued, pointing then to Sansa, "her father was a confessed traitor!"

"But still family. Surely having so recently lost your own beloved father, you can sympathize," Tyrion hissed, leaning back to look down at his nephew scornfully. Joffrey turned expectantly to Sansa, before she blinked in understanding. He expected her to argue, to disgrace her own father. Lyarra had only just opened her mouth to intervene, before the girl spoke up.

"My father was a traitor. My mother and brother were traitors, too. I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey," Sansa claimed, her voice never once wavering. Joffrey turned then to Lyarra, seemingly expecting the same from her, before Tyrion chimed in once more.

"Of course you are. I see the point. Enjoy your name day, Your Grace. I wish I could stay and celebrate, but there is work to be done."

With that, Tyrion shot one more amused look in Lyarra's direction, before marching off towards the keep, the same unknown man at his side.

"What work?" The king called, his voice reminiscent of a petulant child, "Why are you here?"

Another fit of sobs wracked through Ros, as Lyarra leaned to bring the girl to her chest. Only nights prior, the city watch ransacked the town — killing children, infants, everyone they deemed fit. Rumors spiraled that they were hunting the 'supposed bastards' of Robert Baratheon. A rumor that was admittedly confirmed in Lyarra's eyes once they'd slain the same babe that she swore she'd protect. Ros wasn't handling her grief well, a fact that she couldn't blame her for. Had she seen the babe slain before her own eyes, she would be in shambles as well.

Petyr eventually stalked into the room, sitting at their side as gently as he could manage. Ros pulled away from Lyarra's embrace, sniffling as she rubbed her eyes to meet his stare.

"I'm sorry, my lord," She whispered, pulling her knees up. Lyarra rubbed her back soothingly, before thinking at once that she shouldn't be present for their conversation. As she moved to stand, Ros clutched her wrist — her gaze almost pleading. After a moment of observing their interaction, Petyr began to question the girl — in a tone that almost bordered on caring.

"It's Mhaegen," She admitted, giving the man pause. The fact that he was unsure of the names of the women under his employment was not surprising, but it had her gut churning all the same. "She works for you. The gold cloaks, they killed her baby."

"Ah, yes. That was poorly handled. Sometimes those with the most power have the least grace."

Ros took a breath, before bursting into another fit of tears. Lyarra reached out at once to lean the girl's head against her body, brushing her hand through her strings of red hair.

"I can't stop thinking about it. I can't sleep. That poor little baby."

"You know, you remind me of another girl," Petyr started, as he leaned his head against her shoulder. The touch alone caused Lyarra's nerves to spike. "A lovely thing I once acquired from a Lysene pleasure house. Beautiful, like yourself. And intelligent, like yourself. But she wasn't happy. She cried often. I asked her why but we didn't have the kind of rapport that you and I have. Yes, it was quite sad. Girls from the Lysene pleasure houses are expensive. Extremely expensive. And this one wasn't making me any money. I hate bad investments. Really, I do. They haunt me. And I had no idea how to make her happy. And no idea how to mitigate my losses. A very wealthy patron, he offered me a tremendous amount of money to let him transform this lovely sad girl, to use her in ways that would never occur to most men. And you know what occurs to most men. I would not say he succeeded in making her happy, but my losses were definitely mitigated."

Petyr pulled back, standing to move in front of Ros' direct line of sight. All the while, he avoided Lyarra's dangerous glare. "Take tonight off to mourn Mhaegen's child. Get a drink with Lyarra. Collect yourself. I'll see you tomorrow. And you'll be happy?"

Ros nodded at once, a sickening smile curling from her lips. Her eyes held no warmth, no semblance of peace. Petyr left only a moment after, taking careful precision to not meet Lyarra's stare even once. None of it had been overly surprising, by any means. She was becoming increasingly aware of what Petyr Baelish was capable of. That he was no longer the boy she knew. Ros sniffled once, before collapsing into Lyarra's side. The two sat together until the sun began to peek over the city, and even then she only brushed the girl's hair back with a soft touch. It would seem that nothing was certain in King's Landing.

"The King himself made me a lord!"

Lannister guards tugged a screaming man out of the room by his arms, brushing past Lyarra with not so much as a sideways glance. She paused for only a moment, taking in the sight with a titled head before a voice called for her.

"Ah, Lady Lyarra! Do come in, please." Tyrion exclaimed, raising a cup of wine in her direction. She casted another longing glance in the direction of her quarters, which were only just out of sight, before resigning herself to entering the room. At Tyrion's side sat the same man from before, with a hairline receding back to the tip of his head. Even still, she couldn't deny that there was something charming about the way his eyes twinkled in regard.

"We," Tyrion started, tilting his head in the direction of the man, "are drinking to the new commander of the City Watch. Come, join us." Lyarra nodded at once, pulling back one of the wooden chairs with ease. A small, almost pudgy man with raven black hair half-sprinted to her side, quickly pouring her another cup of wine. She raised her cup in celebration, before pausing in thought.

"Ah, of course," Tyrion stated, standing in his seat, "Lady Lyarra Stark, meet Bronn." She raised her brow imploringly, to which the man only smiled. He was just Bronn, then. Simple enough. "Bronn, the Lady Lyarra Stark."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady." Bronn bowed in the slightest, before turning his direction to Tyrion. It was almost comforting to not be fawned over for once. To be addressed as she was, and not as some pitiful damsel.

Tyrion's presence had been a gift from the gods, she came to think. For once, the hours of the night flew by in a wave. Laughter bubbled from her throat with ease, with wine quick to meet it. Not once did they mention her family — her brother, none of them. Guilt threatened to flood through her at the thought that she was grateful for such a thing, but she swallowed it down all the same.

"How is it, that a man from nowhere — with no titles, no high standing, comes to be commander of the City Watch?" She questioned after another fit of giggles passed through her. Bronn paused, seemingly in thought himself.

"Must just be my luck," He shrugged, scowling as Tyrion snorted at his response.

"I've paid him well," Tyrion added as an explanation, swirling his cup in his hand, "I told him once that I'd pay him double what any other man would, and he listened. He's been my loyal protector since. And, as you well know, a Lannister always pays his debts."

"There's not a lot a man won't do for a bit of coin," Bronn stated, causing Lyarra to sit back in thought. Tyrion titled his head, taking in the words with the same level of confusion.

"You do know that makes you sound like a whore, don't you?"

"For the right price, I'd drop to my knees right here and now."

The remainder of the night passed before Lyarra could properly realize. Tyrion bid her farewell, asking that Bronn accompany her to her chambers. For a moment she attempted to wave him off, claiming that she could get there just fine on her own — before the wobble of her step became more pronounced. She scowled at once, as the man took her arm to guide her. He was uncharacteristically quiet for most of the trip, only sharing a few mocking quips each time she stumbled.

Just as she moved to enter her room, she took notice of the shadow in the corner of the hall once again. Only this time, the sight didn't feel foreboding. Almost comforting, rather. Sandor was always there, whether she willed him to be or no. That night, she wasn't haunted by the thought of him standing before her. Instead, warmth blossomed through her. She almost felt safe, for once.

Well. Hey guys. I feel like nothing major really happened here, but sometimes that's just life. We finally got to Tyrion's big role in the fic. This all honestly started because I wanted to write a character into Tyrion, Pod, and Bronn's little friend group. They're so obnoxious I want in.

But, we did get some pretty big developments in Petyr and Lyarra's relationship. She's growing increasingly confused as to where she should stand with him. What are his true motives, what does he want? Ros is definitely going to play a big role in all of this, just saying.

As always if you have any thoughts, feel free to comment below. And I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

Thank you,

Zevran.

[inknbrew]

InknBrew's Reading Schedule and Deadlines 2024

Reading slump edition

July

To Kill a Mockingbird (7/20-7/31) [Audiobook, Kindle. 1 hour min, 50 pages min, or 3 chapters] PRIORITY

Spiderwick Chronicles book 1 (7/20-7/23) [Kindle] {5/5}

The Lost Bookshop (7/21-7/31)

August

Song of Achilles (8/1-8/11) PRIORITY

Cant spell treason without tea (8/1-8/11)

If we were Villians (8/12-8/20) [Kindle]

[justagalwhowrites]

Hi! I’m currently reading Yearling - I waiting until you finished it up, so I could download the behemoth onto my kindle and enjoy reading it like the novel it rightfully is. Anyway, started it 2 days ago and I’m on chapter 11 and I. Cannot. Put. It. Down. OMG I’m in love with this entire Jackson-based universe!

I love the dynamic between Joel and Bambi - he’s soft and she’s rough around the edges, which is such a reversal from other Jackson stories. I love soft Joel. And I just love all the descriptions about horses - it’s literal magic!

Just wanted to tell you that! 🫶🏻

AHHHH HI BESTIE!!!!

I'm so glad you're enjoying it!! I loved really getting into Jackson and the people there in that fic, I miss it so much honestly. And I love that iteration of Joel, one who's been softened by Ellie and has come to terms with the vulnerability of loving someone again. I know I talk on here a lot about the different facets of that man but god I love him so much. There's so much conflict in him because I think he's inherently a very tender-hearted, soft person. He loves fiercely and I think it comes kind of easy for him, too - once he starts to fall for someone, the man falls quick. But that made him so vulnerable to the life-destroying grief and pain that comes with losing love and the Joel at the intersections of these things - the pain of loss but the inherent ability to love - just fascinates me.

Anyway, before I write a full dissertation in my asks... You're in for a ride, bestie! I hope you enjoy it.

Thank you for reading! I'm here for any and all yelling you might want to do in this fic.

Love you!!

[fdelopera]

Welcome to the 16th installment of 15 Weeks of Phantom, where I post all 68 sections of Le Fantôme de l’Opéra, as they were first printed in Le Gaulois newspaper 115 yeas ago.

In today’s installment, we have Part V of Chapter 6, “Le Violon enchanté” (“The Magic Violin”), and Part I of Chapter 7, "Une Visite à la loge n° 5" ("A Visit to Box 5").

This section was first printed on Saturday, 16 October, 1909.

For anyone following along in David Coward's translation of the First Edition of Phantom of the Opera (either in paperback, or Kindle, or from another vendor -- the ISBN-13 is: 978-0199694570), the text starts in Chapter 6 at Raoul’s testimony, “No, sir. The headstones there are small, poor affairs and they were completely covered by the blanket of snow and just their crosses showed above ground,” and goes to the description of Box 5 in Chapter 7, “It was exactly the same as all the grand-tier boxes. There was nothing to distinguish it from any of the others.”

There are some differences between the Gaulois text and the First Edition. In this section, these include (highlighted in red above):

1) Compare the Gaulois:

Et quelle musique, monsieur le juge? Nous la connaissions déjà!

To the First Edition:

Et quelle musique! Nous la connaissions déjà!

Translation from the Gaulois: 

"And what music, Monsieur Magistrate? We knew it already!"

Translation from the First Edition: 

"And what music! We knew it already!"

2) Compare the Gaulois:

ce petit dérobé cimetière de province

To the First Edition:

ce petit cimetière dérobé de province

Translation: Both mean, "this little hidden provincial cemetery."

3) Compare the Gaulois:

Demande

To the First Edition:

D.

Translation from the Gaulois: 

Question

Translation from the First Edition: 

Q.

4) Compare the Gaulois:

monsieur le juge

To the First Edition:

monsieur le commissaire

Translation from the Gaulois:

Monsieur Magistrate

Translation from the First Edition:

Monsieur Commissioner

5) Chapter VII was misprinted as Chapter VIII. This numbering error was never corrected, and was propagated throughout the entire Gaulois publication. Because of this, the Gaulois text appears to contain 29 chapters (plus the Foreword and Epilogue), when it actually only contains 28 chapters. The First Edition contains 27 chapters (plus the Foreword and Epilogue), because Leroux removed Chapter 11, "The Magic Envelope."

6) Minor differences in punctuation.

Click here to see the entire edition of Le Gaulois from 16 October, 1909. This link brings you to page 3 of the newspaper — Le Fantôme is at the bottom of the page in the feuilleton section. Click on the arrow buttons at the bottom of the screen to turn the pages of the newspaper, and click on the Zoom button at the bottom left to magnify the text.