#tainted soil and water

[sl33py-g4m3r]

man... idk what led me down the rabbit hole of watching nuclear disasters on youtube....

but....

the more I watch these types of videos; the more I see the perils of nuclear bombs as well as nuclear power, and the fallout that it can create...

should we really be using something so very dangerous just to create electricity and power? is it really a cleaner source than solar/wind/water power?

what if nuclear bombs had never been created? or that we never used nuclear power in power plants?

it seems too dangerous and there's too much risk of fallout and long lasting problems, in people and the environment.....

this just makes me more anti nuclear anything honestly.....

[urlovebot]

cw: perv!sunghoon. sunghoon does your laundry so: panty sniffing.. and licking, possessiveness, exhibitionism, praise, overstim, hands free orgasm again (?), dry humping but solo (???), sunghoon creams his pants twice lmfaoooo what a loser.

a/n: nastiest thing i've ever written so if it isn't for you, i get it 😭

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

sunghoon knows its wrong. he knows its gross, a little fucked up but he can't help it. especially not when you ask him to wash your laundry with his to save on some money.

he couldnt help but dig through your pile, searching desperately for it and- oh! he's found it.

a worn pair of your panties. they're different than he imagined. he's spent hours thinking about it before. he thought they'd be plain, no lace, no pattern. multiple pairs but not alot of difference in color. mainly ones that match your skin tone. you wear alot of light clothing and he sees nothing when his eyes scan your body, spending more time on your ass than anything else. he knows that you dont wear low rise anything so they must be high cut? maybe hipsters? he's sure its nothing out of vanilla for you.

so why would you own a pair of white, bikini shaped, lace trim panties? this soils the picture he had of you in his head. all of his research- all of this knowledge he had of you.

he inspects the garment in his hand. this can't be yours right? sunghoon brings the thin, thin piece of clothing to his nose. it's definitely yours. he can smell the faint scent of your body wash on them.

now he's upset; nearly distraught. why would you own a pair of panties like this? who would you need to impress-

were you fucking other men? were you- sunghoons stomach drops- were you letting them taint you? a different, even more devastating thought springs forward and sunghoon is nauseous. are you not a virgin?

the sadness fades and is replaced by wild, unadulterated anger. his fist closes around the flimsy cloth. god hes upset, frustrated nearly to tears but never at you. never at you. you could never do wrong, his perfect angel. his pretty princess would never do wrong. he knows this, but he's got to take action. do something to solve this issue, make you clean again.

sunghoon brings the panties up to his nose and lets out a whimper at the scent, its tangy but theres a hint of sweetness. fuck, he's hard now. he palms the outline of his cock through his sweats; you smell so good. he knew it, knew that you'd smell good. he tracks what you eat, when you eat it, how you eat it. he makes sure to prepare good, balanced meals for you. he buys you all of your multi-vitamins, tracks the amount of water you drink to make sure you're never dehydrated. he knew you'd smell good, he made it that way.

he feels his cock leak into his underwear. he knows its wrong, knows its fucked up and dirty, but he does it anyway. his tongue pokes out to lick the center of your panties- oh. oh. his eyes roll to the back of his head. it tastes- no, no. you taste good. he feels precum dribble out of his cock and now he feels his underwear get a little damp.

he presses his palm harder against his crotch and takes another, more confident lick at the spot where your pretty pussy would've laid and now he's whining and humping into his hand like a fucking dog. he stumbles at the sensation and catches himself on a washer and he's reminded that this is a public laundromat on campus. a more secluded one, but public nonetheless. the thought of someone catching him makes his head spin.

everyone knew you were roommates. you were so, so popular amongst your peers. so sweet and kind, a smile that lights up a room, an infectious, contagious giggle. and sunghoon, who was so, so handsome but as much as he was handsome, he was shy. didn't talk much to anyone. except for you. he'd stroll with you as you bounced next to him, talking about your day as you both walked back to your dorm.

what better way to claim you than for someone to walk in and see him fucking himself and holding your panties up to his face. the thought turns him on so much that he squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a strangled moan.

god he needs it. he needs to fuck you in front of the whole campus. all of those men that violated your princess parts- he needs them to watch as he stuffs his girthy length into your pussy. he wants them to watch as he stretches you out. he's sure you'd struggle against him as what he had in girth he also had in length, but he knows you'd like it. he knows you'd love being filled up by him. by him.

he's so fucking mad. how could they? he slams the fist holding your panties on the washer as he continues to fuck and grind into his hand.

fuck those men that defiled you. fuck them for touching you that way, putting their filthy hands on your precious body. he'd fix that. cleanse you. cum all over your pretty frame, cover you in it. your face, your tits, cum on and in your tight little cunt. he prays you'd let him fuck your ass too so he could fill that up as well- shit.

he feels it coming. he feels the onslaught of pleasure start to pour into his body. he wants to hold off- wants to hold his cum until he can spill it inside of you but he cant. he's gonna cream his pants like hes a teenager again.

he laps at your panties again and he cant wait to taste your pussy. he can't wait until he can eat you out for hours, have you cum on his tongue over and over and- oh-

his eyes squeeze shut again and he bites his lip to try and conceal his moans. he can't tell if its working though, his ears are ringing and the only thing he can think of is roughly humping his hand to get off.

he whines and whines and whines as he feels himself let go, ropes of cum seeping through his underwear. its spurt after spurt and now his hand is wet and its starting to stain his sweats but he cant stop. his cock has a mind of its own, twitching and jumping and fuck- he's so sensitive.

he stops cumming, stops shooting his load into his underwear. he whimpers and removes his hand from his pants but his hips are still stuttering against nothing.

god he wants to feel it. he wants to know how it'll feel when he slides his cock into your warm, tight, wet cunt. he wants to feel his balls slap against your ass from how hard he's fucking you. he wants to feel your pussy gush around him, cover his cock and balls in your juices. he hopes he can make you squirt so you can drench him in you and- no. no no no-

sunghoons knees knock together as he feels himself cum in his pants again and he might actually pass out this time. its dry, nothings coming out but he feels euphoric. his hips fuck into the air and its so fucking gross, he feels so gross and so dirty but its only for you. only for his pretty princess.

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Twenty

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: Canon typical graphic depictions

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

You were running on coffee and willpower, and both were in short supply. You cradled what you promised would be your last cup in your hands, feeling your fried nerves inch closer to bursting into flames with every bitter sip. 

Azriel had one arm looped protectively around your waist, propping you up against his side like an overworked bookend. You both sat huddled over the map you’d spent the last day and night laboring over until you could picture every stark line pressed behind shuttered eyelids like an afterimage. Until your cramped hands shook while clutching the mug like a vice. 

Feyre, Rhys, Mor, Nesta, Lucien, and Cassian similarly hovered over the innocuous sheet of paper. Pale parchment glow flickering over expressions of intense thought. 

You traced the outline of the lake, its form vaguely star shaped and pointing abstractly towards the north, south, east, and west.

“Here.” You tapped the northeast edge where a greyed out huddle of shapes formed the forest and a collection of scribbles marked the Death god’s home close to the waters. The lines swirled in your mind like a thousand snakes locked in battle, swallowing each other whole and getting eaten alive in an endless, vicious cycle. 

Koschei’s portion of the continent lay flat and unassuming, seemingly vulnerable with the flatlands peering at his back with limitless entry points for enemies from the Continent. But the seductive ease of access through that region was a guise. Koschei was a death god, and a powerful one at that. Magic grew in and out of the soil there and what walked those woods had a strange habit of toeing the line between life and death.

The western corners swam in seas of grasslands, flat and open and unprotected save for the expanse of water a mile wide. 

And the lake. The lake was the most curious thing of all. A black shape on paper, still and foreboding. 

You knew from Andrian’s memories that enchanted swans flocked there — women layered with curses that kept them bound to the region in animal form — but nothing else. No creatures floundered in the salty dark. No animals came to drink from it as if they could sense the power that tainted it with decay. 

“The boundaries of the Koschei’s power lie somewhere along here.” You pointed to the lazy line sketched down. “But I wouldn’t trust it. When Andrian was first sent off from the lake he crossed the plains towards one of the harbor towns on the coast and he felt that Koschei’s influence scaled with the distance away from the source of his power.” 

“Any weak points? Places we could slip in unnoticed?” Feyre’s eyes scanned the page, reimagining your weak swirls of ink into something more layered. Something with more meaning that could only come about from the mind of an artist and a warrior. 

You pointed to one of the star points and then to another toward the south. “Here and here. Don’t ask me how and don’t ask me why but these are the only two blind spots. Andrian used to sneak away from Koschei’s house to these two places.”

“To do what?” Cassian asked. He lumbered towards the back of the war room, easily peering over everyone’s shoulders to the flattened parchment and eyeing the wooden pieces strewn across the map, his own piece being tipped with a glistening red stone. 

“To plan his escape.” 

A hush fell over the room, thick and suffocating. 

The boy had never succeeded.

Feyre’s lips flattened to a pale line, the air around her reverberating with heat as the temperature in the room rose — a drop of Autumn’s power magnified. She nodded to the second map, this one gathered from Azriel’s contacts on the Continent. Whereas your map had laid out Koschei’s land in detail, Azriel’s was suspiciously empty where the lake was concerned. The two fit together like puzzle pieces. “What’s the nearest harbor town?”

“Tournnes.” Azriel replied without needing to look down. You’d memorized one map, he’d memorized the other. “It’s a small fishing village located twenty-three miles to the southwest. Most of the inhabitants are men that come and go with the season and travel west from Slairn and Friesieg. It will be empty this time of year.” The fish would have gone south in search of warmer waters. Even here the Sidra had turned frigid, crusts of ice lapping up against grey sand shores. 

Cassian shook his head, examining the map with a scowl. “There’s poor coverage getting from Tournnes to Koschei. And an abandoned town’s too obvious a place to hide any soldiers. It’d be better to come in from the east, through the woods.”

“Then we’d need to take the long way around Koschei’s territory.” Lucien argued back, “Our soldiers would need to trek through foreign lands for weeks and we’d lose any advantage Tarquin could give us by staying close to the coast.” 

“You can’t trust those woods,” you gasped, your eyes flashing with fear that didn’t wholly belong to you. 

Never enter those woods. Henna had once warned her Andrian. Never. Do you understand me?

Azriel tightened his hold on you, pressing his lips into your hair to brush against your ear. “Breathe, my love. Breathe.” 

You hadn’t realized you’d stopped. 

It was a heavy burden carrying the memories of others. Like a weight tied around your belly that hadn’t been properly woven into flesh. Something both part and apart from you. And you’d been feeling too many of Andrian’s memories in the past week since his death. 

Silence flung itself over growing irritation and anxiety as everyone circled back to the same conclusion. 

They wouldn’t be able to bring their armies abroad. And with limited numbers, brute strength would only go so far when forced to bring a fight to a foreign land against a foreign god. This would be decided by few. It would be as intimate as lovers. As ruthless as enemies. 

“There’s still the other plan.” Nesta reminded them, glancing first at Feyre and you with the faintest of nods. 

“I hate that plan, Nes.” Cassian gripped the back of her wing-backed chair and she reached up to take his hand in her own. She looked like a queen in her own right — harsh, pragmatic, unwavering. And he her mirror — a roguish knight, rough and wild and raw. 

“I know. Unfortunately for you, it’s the best one we’ve got.” 

“It’s the only one we’ve got.” Mor said with a sigh, rubbing her temples to alleviate the ache there. “We’re asking for a blood bath one way or the other.” 

“Ione is still with us.” Rhys squeezed his cousin’s knee. “Without her, he can be killed.” 

“But for how long, Rhys? How long until he finds someone else? Some other way?”

The question hung in the air like an ax ready to fall. An invisible clock ticking its way towards doom. Koschei had read the book’s contents. He had to know the secret to freeing himself was sheltered in Ione’s veins. So long as she was alive and breathing she was a threat as much as she was a tantalizing prize for him to tear his teeth into. 

Feyre’s fingernails clicked on the glossy tabletop, eyes narrowed in on that splash of black on paper. Through the golden string tied to her lower ribs, she felt the tug of her mate’s silent agreement. Her eyes flickered upward for a brief moment, as if she could see through the layers of the House to the skies above. “For as long as we have Ione, we have the upper hand. But we can’t rely on it forever.” She looked at you, “ We go with the first plan. It will have to be enough.” 

You shivered. 

Four years ago, when the Day Court had first opened its borders to foreigners from other Courts, you’d encountered a male in the market. He’d been young and reckless and glamoured himself to live amongst the humans for six months. In that time, he’d learned their version of magic — the sleight of hand tricks and elaborate games of misdirection humans played on one another. Caped entertainers bedazzling crowds with obvious moves, while the real work happened just out of frame. 

You thought of him now. You pictured him in the marketplace as he made a hand-painted playing card disappear from his hand into the fold of his suit jacket, only to reappear under an overturned teacup. 

Yes. 

It would have to be enough. 

The crisp blade flashed in the dull light as you moved your feet back and forth in a practiced dance. 

Left, left, right, duck, keep your wrist straight and slice up. Just like Azriel had instructed you. He stood off the narrow mat, hazel eyes tracing every slow movement of yours with a critical gaze. 

“Practice makes permanence.” He’d reminded you earlier. “Get it right first, then we’ll worry about speed.” 

Magic hovered over the House of Wind’s training gym, warping the air like a soap bubble as it shielded you from the frigid rain. Even so, the scent of petrichor and the cleanliness of frosted wind hung close to warn of the storm churning its way down from the north, carrying with it the promise of rainfall or the first true flakes of snow. 

How poetic that winter should come with death chasing its heels while you were learning a dozen ways to kill a man. 

“Here.” Azriel took your wrist in a loose grip, arching your arm and sticking the point of the knife into the training dummy’s jugular. Hay crinkled and burst out from the burlap covering instead of blood and you stepped away, locating the points in the liver, the lungs, the heart, the throat, under the arms, and more. Gruesome things made digestible by the motionless, fake body propped up on wooden poles. 

You didn’t need to imagine what it would feel like for your blade to meet flesh. 

Your arms ached. Hot, unfamiliar stretches of muscle trembling while slick with sweat. You could taste salt on your tongue as Azriel repeated himself. 

“Be precise. Be quick if you can. Then run like hell.” 

Incapacitation and speed. Those were the only two things you could rely on if things went south on the Continent. 

Precise. Quick. Run.

“Emphasis on run,” You muttered beneath your breath. You adjusted your feet to match Azriel’s stance, feeling the strength of his muscles close to your body and imagining some of that power seeping into the ground for you to drink up. 

The corner of his mouth twitched, then rose in a smile. “Exactly.” He stepped in, hands twisting your hips to be straight and then drifting up to your wrist. “Too much.” He corrected your bones with a feather-light touch. He wasn’t smiling anymore. 

It should have been romantic. Him touching you like this with his front pressed against your back and his breath sliding over your skin as he taught you to wield a knife. Instead his insides churned relentlessly. Visions of you, blood-splattered and motionless on the ground, flashed through his mind. He’d be damned if he let that happen again. 

You practiced on him next. Blunt, stone knife gripped in your hands as he moved in slow-motion. Azriel must have had everything custom made for you. The balance felt right in your hands, the movement as fluid as your awkward limbs could manage. 

You clasped a hand around the back of his neck, dragging him forward as you swung up. 

Where the head goes, the body will follow.

He didn’t so much as grunt as the stone wedged itself into his ribs. 

You locked eyes with him and saw his pupils blown wide as a doe’s. “Good.” He murmured. “Again.” 

On and on you went for hours, Azriel’s panic fueling the training he put you through, as if he could fit a hundred years of combat into a handful of hours. 

You grunted when Azriel easily flipped you over onto your back, a scarred hand catching the nape of your neck so your head wouldn’t slam into the floor. The knife slipped out from your sweaty fingers, skittering away and disappearing beneath one of the weapons racks along the wall. You breathed heavily beneath him, feeling the grit of the ground and the sweat sliding into your hair and the leather brushing your chest with every breath he took. 

In a real fight, Azriel would have killed you a thousand times over and he knew it. There was not a single moment where you could have saved yourself. 

You saw the tell tale flicker in his eyes, the tensing of his jaw before he gritted his teeth and swore beneath his breath. 

You felt shame seep into your stomach again. “Az—”

“I want you to take my memories,” he said. “Everything I’ve learned over 500 years.” 

Metal whispered against leather as a tendril of shadow retrieved the knife and slid it into the thigh sheath Azriel had tied around your legs only hours ago. It felt strange to have such an unfamiliar weight against your thighs. To know that only leather kept the wicked blade from slicing you to the bone. 

“We’ve been over this before, Azriel. I can take however many memories I want from you until I can picture every way to take down an enemy in my mind’s eye. But that doesn’t mean my body will obey or follow through correctly. Knowing things mentally isn’t the same thing as knowing things physically.”

Azriel huffed in frustration, dropping one hand to your waist like he often did and gripping the flesh there to ground him. 

“If we had more time—”

“When this is over we’ll have more time.” 

If I make it. 

Because if there was anyone who would survive what was to come. It was Azriel. And you could find a great deal of comfort in that.

Azriel must have read your doubt because his eyes hardened and his hands came up to cup your jaw. “We will have more time. We’ll have time for everything, do you understand me?”

“Like what?”

“Whatever you want. We’ll travel the Courts. I’ll take you dancing and—”

“You’ll teach me a dozen new ways to kill someone?” 

“Exactly.”

“Should I start keeping a tally?” 

“If that would help, then yes.” He dipped his head down, kissing you firmly on the lips, the taste salty and warm to the touch. Kissing you came easy now. Touches were a comforting drug he craved daily. 

“If things go wrong—” He whispered, flicking a strand of hair out of your eyes. “Promise me you’ll find me.” 

You blinked up at him, tracing fragments of gold in his eyes. 

“Find you,” you echoed, your voice tinged with sadness. “You’re not going to convince me to run?”

He laughed bitterly. “I know you too well, my love. You wouldn’t listen even if I did. If anything, it would make you want to stay and fight even more, just to prove me wrong.“ “Then is this some reverse psychology? You tell me the opposite of what you want, so I end up doing what you intended all along?”

“You’re thinking too deeply about this.” He slid his arms around the small of your back, dropping his weight until you were flush against him. Until you could feel his heart beating beneath his skin in time to yours. “Find me, so I can protect you. And so if anything happens, we won’t be alone. I want you to promise me.” 

You caressed his cheek, the coarse bandages he’d wound around your wrists and knuckles scratching the skin of his jaw and the faint stubble that had grown there over sleepless nights. “I promise I’ll find you, Azriel. We’re better together anyways.” 

He could never disagree with you. He lifted you back onto your feet, kissing your forehead. “Three more drills, then we’ll be done for the day.” 

He made you run five. The bastard.

You’d dreamed of what might come. Nightmares filled with glassy-eyed children and skeletal forests where the dead roamed free. A black lake with stones of bleached bone to fill your lungs and choke the life out of you. 

You wanted to make Azriel proud. You wanted to be the kind of warrior who could match him physically, not just mentally. The kind of female he’d never have to worry about protecting in that way. But violence had never been beaten into your bones and you could only hope that the skills you did possess would see you through to the end. 

You and Azriel would make it. You’d all make it. 

Some way. 

Somehow. 

Then there would be time for everything you had ever wanted and everything you’d never had the courage to ask for.

You woke up to a world shivering beneath a dusting of snow. Frost creeped up the windowsill, trying to slither inside before the House’s magic burned it away. A grey, ashen sky hung low over the mountains, mist blowing over and gathering in valleys until they were transformed into pools of smoke. 

So this is it. You thought wearily, tasting the change in the air. Winter’s finally here to choke the world into submission. 

You burrowed further under Azriel’s wings, chasing the heat that rolled off his skin. When you looked up at his eyes they were already trained on the weather, some similar tangle of thoughts running through his mind that had his grip around your waist tightening. 

“The other death gods. Have you met any of them, Az?” You whispered your question into the hollow of his neck, feeling the blood rushing beneath your lips until he answered.

“I’ve met a fair few. The Bone Carver, Stryga, and Bryaxis joined our side in the final battle against Hybern and Nesta was equivalent in power when she first emerged from the Cauldron.” 

“Nesta?” You asked questionably. 

She was a collection of sharp edges wrapped in silk and cunning, but a death god? 

Azriel smiled ever so slightly. “You didn’t know her then, but she was a terror to behold. You could feel her presence in a room like a knife in your back or a flame licking at your heels so hold it starts to freeze. Only Cassian was foolish and lovestruck enough to approach her at the time.” 

You tried to imagine it — Cassian’s wild, borderline arrogant mannerisms going toe-to-toe against Nesta’s magnified sharp grace. “That sounds about right.” 

“Feyre knows the most about the death gods. Has come face to face with the most. Rhys sent her into the Weaver’s cabin to retrieve her engagement ring — don’t give me that look, my love, I don’t understand it either — and she’s the one who convinced The Bone Carver and Bryaxis to fight for us.” 

“Feyre has a penchant for endearing herself to monsters.” 

Azriel smirked, pearly teeth flashing. “You have no idea.” Then he said something that stuck with you. “The Bone Carver was especially close to her.” 

Anytime the Bone Carver — Thanatos — was mentioned, you could only think of Bethsevah. The one person who had ever looked upon his true face and never flinched.

“How so?” 

Shadows swarmed around his ears, as much a sign of his thinking as it was a sign that whispers beyond your own understanding were reaching him. 

“When Feyre met with the Bone Carver, he made a bargain that he’d only fight for her if she could descend into the Court of Nightmares and bring back an enchanted mirror without going mad. Feyre said she saw her true form when she looked into her reflection, and that it was only by accepting this form that she was able to keep the madness at bay. The Bone Carver was impressed with her and pledged his loyalty to her from then on.” Azriel shook his head, wings flaring out in another sign of his thinking. “It never made sense to me why a being like him would even make that bargain to begin with.” 

“Even death gods can be surprised. We should consider ourselves lucky.” 

“It wasn’t just that though. I was watching when he died. He… he turned his face up to the field at Feyre and he smiled at her. It felt like a bittersweet ending to a story I didn’t know. Like he was saying goodbye to more than just this world.” 

You draped your arm over his chest, tracing the black ink swirling across his chest and over his shoulders like ocean waves. The Bone Carver was more myth than legend to the few fae that had known of his existence and you knew with each passing century his story would be steadily wiped from the earth like wind shaving down stone. His name would become a whisper. His story, and Beth’s, a tragedy for no one but the stars to weep to. 

But you were still here, and your time with Bethsevah’s book had left you with no small amount of fondness for him. For now you would still be able to whisper his true name. 

“Thanatos.” You said. “He loved this world and the people in it. He sacrificed his life for it. I think he had many things he wanted to say goodbye to.” 

“To Thanatos then.” Azriel raised an invisible cup towards the ceiling of his bedroom, silk sheets sliding down his arms.

“To Thanatos,” you echoed. 

You eventually went through the morning motions together —Azriel helped lace up the back of your dress, and you buttoned up his shirts, careful to avoid the fragile membrane of his wings as you stood at his back.

He tugged you away from the bedroom door at the last moment, your questioning eyes softening when he cradled your face in his hands and stole one last kiss in the privacy of your room, murmuring "Beautiful," against the crown of your freshly brushed hair.

"Do the others know you're such a hopeless romantic?" You asked, finally opening the door and breaking the spell of privacy.

Before Azriel could answer, Cassian blew past the room, shockingly quiet for his mountainous size. "Yes, we all know," he shouted before disappearing down the hall.

Ione stood proud and tall in front of the windows, grey eyes narrowed at the Sidra as it wound through the valley like a snake. Cassian slid into the space beside her and handed her her cane. She knew instinctively where the warrior stood and where his hand reached out towards her. She took the cane without the second glance. A golden lion’s head roared from atop its wooden post, Ione’s fingers resting squarely between its glistening teeth as she leaned experimentally on the new device. Cassian had ordered it custom for her and she knew that hidden within the sleeve of glistening redwood was an iron rod forged in enchanted flames that rendered it near unbreakable. 

“Careful.” She reminded Cassian when she caught him staring for too long. “This body may be different, but I can still bring you to your knees.” 

Cassian chuckled, “I don’t doubt that.”

She slammed the cane against the ground once. Twice. Testing its strength and finding it worthy. “Do you think it will happen soon?” 

This waiting — it was beginning to grate on her nerves. This foreboding calm that threatened to fall away into chaos and bloodshed. She almost wished she were living three years into the future, when she was finally done healing from her wounds and the future had faded into the background of her life once more.

“If I could see into the future, I would not be here right now waiting.”

“And yet here we are.” Ione sighed, shoulders rising and falling elegantly beneath a wrinkled but slender neck.  

Cassian would have said more had Feyre and Rhys not entered the room together, bruises layered beneath their eyes as they plastered on bright smiles for their family, tension visible through the cracks in their porcelain teeth. 

The Inner Circle had assembled in their entirety at the request of their High Lord and High Lady. There was no holiday to be celebrated. No birthdays or anniversaries or special occasions. The fare that had been laid out on the table was simple and everyone filled their plates before spilling out across the sofas and the armchairs or carving out a space on one of Rhysand’s expensive hand-woven rugs. There would be no special meal around the new table devoid of scratches and watermarks and the passage of time and love. This was their family, and for their family it was the company that put finery to shame. 

Elain was a flutter of movement in and out of the kitchen, shepherding pots of tea and fruit tarts before Lucien finally caught her around the waist and made her rest. The House was equally restless. The lights strung above the fireplace mantle flickered like lantern flies. 

Mor sat with Emerie’s wings draped around her shoulders like a cape and Gwyn sat on the floor, hugging her knees close to her chest as she rested her head against the Illyrian female’s knee. To no one’s surprise, you and Azriel clung to the corner of the room, content to watch everyone’s laughter with your arm subtly looped around his. 

He still hasn’t told her, I see. Emerie noted, watching your smile stretch into place when Azriel leaned close to whisper in your ear. 

Does it matter? Mor teased, kissing Emerie’s nose reverently. The Illyrian’s cheeks turned warm. Emerie had not been granted the freedom to explore romance to the same degree as Mor, something she’d worried about when they first started their courtship. But if anyone asked the blonde, she’d tell them it drove her wild to see how such simple gestures could reduce the fearsome warrior to a puddle, even now. Mor tucked herself into Emerie’s side, throwing her long legs over the armrest. It’s probably a good thing. If they could speak to each other like this, we’d never hear from them again.

Emerie laughed into Mor’s golden hair. 

Conversations rose and fell. Plates emptied and clicked as they were laid out on the coffee table.

It was a simple peace they welcomed with open arms. 

They didn’t hear the faintest thud coming from above their heads. 

You smiled when one of Azriel’s shadows wove themselves into your hair, tickling the sensitive skin behind your ear and along your neck. 

“Sorry,” Azriel whispered, trying and failing to draw them back to him for the nth time that day. “I don’t know what’s gotten into them.” They’d been especially touchy as of late, nipping at your heels like a litter of puppies vying for attention or hiding in your pockets. It was a mixture of Azriel’s own feelings that spurred them on and their own desire to protect what they’d claimed as theirs. 

“It’s alright, Azriel. I like having them around.” 

They hummed amongst themselves, happy to see you so pleased. Sometimes, Azriel wondered if you’d be able to learn to listen to them as well. To tease apart that secret language he couldn’t begin to describe. 

Maybe you were listening to them now without even realizing it.

Maybe that’s why you and Azriel were the only ones whose eyes snapped towards the hallway before the first creak of wood sounded throughout the House.

The shuffling of a new, unfamiliar set of feet down the stairs had the hair on the back of your neck rising and crackling with energy.

It wasn’t Jurian. It wasn’t loud enough to be Jurian. He so rarely descended from the attic that he made a habit of making his presence known, tired feet shuffling along the rugged staircase with measured drags. 

You walked over to your brother and tugged on the back of his shirt. “Jurian—”

“That’s not Jurian.” Lucien said with bated breath. He was the third person in the room to hear the sound.

He’d checked on his friends less than a handful of hours ago. Jurian had been as he always was — weary but hopeful as one hand had clenched the bundle of morphine and the other had leaned against the food cart Lucien had carried up to the top floor. 

And Vassa… Vassa had been uncharacteristically quiet, slouching against the wall of her gilded cage, raw skin and thin feathers trembling with her haggard breath as she slept. 

“You should come down.” Lucien had said. “You deserve a break.” 

But Jurian had only shook his head and flashed a tight smile. “As much as I would love to bless you with my presence, I won’t leave her like this. But one day, my friend, we’ll both walk down those steps together and have a proper celebration. I promise you.” 

Vassa came down the steps. 

Alone. 

Naked.

Shivering.

You eyed the window where the mid-afternoon sun beat down on a frosted city. 

It was the middle of the day… and Vassa was human. 

You clutched Lucien’s arm, fingernails digging through his cotton shirt before he could take another step forward. Silence suffocated the room. There was something deeply wrong with the cursed queen. She trembled like a newborn fawn unceremoniously dumped into the world, her skin puckered and pock-marked from where she’d picked at old scabs and opened new wounds. The whole array hung from bones so thin they may as well have belonged to a bird. 

“Vassa…” Lucien’s voice broke on her name. 

A path of bloody feathers trailed behind her.

She grasped at strands of her fiery red hair and tugged. Hard. You focused all your energy on keeping the food in your stomach when strands fell through her bloody fingers and saliva rose in your mouth. 

“I’m so sorry, Lucien. I can’t… It won’t stop.” Her voice, which had once been beautiful, grated your ears. “My skin. It feels like I’m crawling out of it.” 

“Vassa.” Lucien held out his hands, showing her they were empty. “Where’s Jurian?” He would come down. He would help her in ways only he was capable of. 

“I don’t… I don’t know…”

“Where’s Jurian?”

At the second mention of her lover’s name, Vassa broke down crying. Fat, ugly tears streaking down tan cheeks that had turned sallow and grey. She wiped them away, fingers dripping. There was a deep, unyielding hunger evident in every stutter of her body as her eyes raked across the room. You flinched when those milky, teal eyes passed over you… and landed on Ione. 

Elderly, painfully human, Ione.

Vassa’s left eye twitched and Azriel had only enough time to tackle you to the ground and cover your body with his own before the mortal queen burst into flames.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______________

Author's Note:

^^ Visual depiction of how I've felt the last week like what in the world? I'm getting enough sleep I swear but every morning I feel like I'm dragging a two ton boulder behind me until I get a sip of that bitter goodness. Ugh. Hope y'all are resting better than I am.

Anyways, I know it's been a while since I posted, but the chapter is here! Whoop! And I hope you enjoyed :) As always, feedback is appreciated and welcome if you have burning things you need to get off your chest (doesn't even have to be SSIB-related honestly my inbox is there).

[lymericslimerick]

The Night, She calls Me | 𝖭𝖾𝗎𝗏𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗑 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

The Iudex of Fontaine had never been known to stoop to lowly "human" desires, up until now.

warnings .ᐟ smut(?), making out, Neuvillette gets stabbed, blood drinking, descriptions of a knife being pushed out of a wound, Neuvillette's very much insane, reader is vaguely vampiric, yandere-esque

1.4k words | she/her pronouns

The moonlight shone through the radius window looming over the alcove, shining a spotlight on the two bodies intertwined under its glow. Clothes were scattered on the floor, a mechanic’s jacket and dress shirt haphazardly thrown to the wayside and a coat, adorned with elegantly drapes pieces of fabric befitting of only the highest authority thrown across the room like it was shot out of someone’s hand in a flurry. Two pairs of hair clips, ornate and sharp thrown at the foot of the nook as one body pulled the other impossibly closer, arms wrapped around the other in a vice grip.

They’re kissing, one side restrained and fragile as she halfheartedly matched the crazed, animalistic need of the other who’s all fangs and tongue, kissing like he wants to consume after years of starvation. Two vibrant blue antennae glow and stand on their own on his head, almost covered by the waterfall of formerly proper long hair, now an unkempt mess of spiky pieces and interrupted cascades.

A dance of the tongue for a beat, and the more human other speaks. “Chief Justice.”

Immediately, “Dearest, sweetest, please call me by my name.”

She ignores it, pulling him closer by his cravat. He makes a noise of childish excitement, bordering on a whimper as eyes older than the soil of the earth stare at her with an intensity that could rip the skin of the bones of any other being. “Monsieur.” His lips tremble as he captures her in another kiss, hands coming up to clasp the sides of her face as if to goad her into melting like he was, urge her to fall like he has.

Her hands go up and touch the sides of his neck and Oh, he is on fire. The skin she touched is singed and burnt with her, a drop of hell on the pristine landscape of heaven as he struggles to gasp and pant at the feeling. O’ light, O’ void, the feeling. The feeling was consuming, numbing his brain further as she kept her hands there, fingers kneading and prodding like she wanted to feel the raw flesh and blood and power of his person on her hands. He can’t help it, he bares his fangs and tries to bite into her kiss, consume her like she consumes him.

She pulls her hands away and he fully whines, antennae rigid as it sticks close to his head much like an angry animal. She brings her hands to clasp over his own and he feels like they have mangled them, tainted them so only her touch would form them back to what they once were. He lets out a shaky exhale, “My joy, My beloved, My life’s queen…” He wants to wail and thrash as his lips chase the feeling of hers. She is cruel, depraved.

“Quiet,” She mumbles into mouth and he keens, ducking his head into her shoulder. “Be still, let me do this.” He takes a laboured breath into her as he feels her hand separate from his, feels as it reaches into the pocket of her pants. He can’t bring himself to care as she opens her mouth wider, giving him an anchor to latch onto, an outlet to express his carnal desire. He eats and eats at her mouth like he’s a man shackled by earthly desires, like he isn’t the Iudex of Fontaine, the supreme authority of all waters but a weak, puny little thing single minded in his pleasure.

So good. So good. Sogoodsogoodsogoodsogoodsogoodsogoodsogoodso goodsogoodsogoodsogoodsogoodso-

He feels the blade’s presence before he sees it, and he sees the blade before he feels it. He stills while he feels the blade around archaic flesh, feels his entire being bloom and settle around the blade held in the hands of his beloved. He lets his mouth open around hers in surprise as she looks at him with a beautifully deep gaze, beautifully cold eyes, and the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen in his entire life. A small, lithe little thing that didn’t even look like it was wholly directed at him, instead directed at the blue blood coursing down the wound in his chest. But Oh, the joy of seeing her like this. The joy that she’s smiling at him.

She’s looking at him, she’s looking at him, she’s smiling, she’s happy. He feels himself smile, shaky and full of fangs. “H-hah.. Hah..” He throws his head back onto the alcove with wide eyes, draconic pupils crazed and shaking. He feels himself be consumed by her fire, the need coursing through his veins bringing him to a higher plane. “…Hah..!”

“I hope you don’t mind this too much, Monsieur.” He feels her voice in his veins, and she feasts. Her tongue licks at the dripping blood from his wound, trailing up to the source. His mouth opens and a silent scream escapes him, not from pain or from fear, from a primal instinct he hadn’t felt in all of his rebirth. This instinct feels like he’s been returned home, returned to a place where he’s one of everyone, a single drop in a vast ocean instead of a tsunami approaching a small sea settlement. His eyes roll up into his head as he feels his dearly beloved lap up more of him with the fervor of someone dying, someone starved. Might this mean he and his beloved were feeling the same things? He shudders at the thought. How wonderful it was that he was brought to heaven by being defiled and his beloved by consuming the water that coursed through his veins.

Regrettably, he feels himself running dry. His primordially sculpted body wasn’t as keen on becoming a feast for his other as he was, skin stitching together and muscles flexing to reject the blade lodged in his chest as it slowly pulls out of him. The squelching noises coming from his chest made him whine, biting his lip so hard he draws more blue blood. He desperately wants his love to drink from the would he’s currently chewing deeper into. He hears her ‘tsk’.

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t bleed as much as I wanted you to,” She mutters. “Your body isn’t like others, is it .. Neuvillette?”

The door rattles with the might of Neuvillette’s scream. His eyes roll back into his head , his antennae glowing blue and vibrant as he comes untouched in his pants. Faintly, He hears the pipes in the bathroom burst and the faint yell of a guard, followed by exclamations of confusion and fear both outside and inside the Palais Mermonia. In his peripheral view he sees lights switch on around the buildings surrounded the Palais, his divine hearing flooding with exclamations of “The pipes burst!” “Get the food off the table! it’s flooding!”. Above him, his beloved chuckles. “How cute.”

Neuvillette feels himself laugh alongside her, euphoric and trite. So unbecoming. The knife is completely removed from his chest and safely pocketed into her pants, the tight imprint of them against her thigh almost making Neuvillette come again. She brings a hand up to her own mouth to wipe the blue ichor off her lip, licking the residue off it. He faintly registers how she looks more full of life, formerly lifeless (s/c) skin looking more vibrant and warm and her (e/c) eyes looking bright.

Neuvillette can’t bring himself to care at all, instead marvelling at her beauty against the moonlight. His life, his love, full of him. He shudders as he feels the waters temper, murmurs of citizens grateful that their water had stopped flowing with such fervour ringing in his head. Little did they know, they needed to thank his beloved for it, thank her for every divine thing that happened tonight. She extracts gloves from her pocket and sheathes her hands, muttering under her breath about “Feeling bad” or “regretting she had to get relief like this” and “This should be enough.. I swear I won’t bother you again, Monsieur.”

What?..

He feels dread creep into him as she continues on, reclothing herself with a sense of urgency she does not need. Doesn’t she know this Palais belongs to her now? Doesn’t she know He belongs to Her now? He feels himself sputter and babble while she looks back at him, the worst sort of look in her eyes. The look of leaving.

“Thank you so much for letting me get some relief, Monsieur. Have a good evening.”

On her way back, the storm that had formed almost instantaneously threatened to flood Fontaine once more. The roads of Fontaine filled with water cloying at her ankles as if it were alive, as if it was begging her to come with them. She paid them no mind.

[cherie-doll]

hiii!!! can you please make a fic about keegan having a nightmare and accidentally waking up the reader who is sleeping next to him? I adore your work so much!!!!

experimented with this one a little bit, also im counting this as prompt day uhh 8? except i skipped idk how many days

The road Keegan walked was long and seemingly endless; nothing but gravel ahead and the surrounding forest on both sides. When he glanced up, far ahead, he could see a valley. The air was muggy; suffocating. His throat was dry and thirsting for water, and he trembled as he continued walking. He tried counting how many yards he had left ahead, but he couldn't make out a number. He heard a trickle of water and turned, looking for a stream. And surely, he found it; he neared the riverbed and sank to his knees in gratitude and relief. He lowered his head, placing a hand on either side, fingernails digging into the earth, the soil soft and miry. He lapped and drank from the streamlet like a dog, feeling the cool water running over his face. Then the smell... Oh, the smell! It was strong and pungent. The river reeked of blood. It was seeping into his skin, staining and tainting. It was revolting and repulsive. He felt sick yet, he couldn't pull his head out of the water.

Keegan opened his eyes to the darkness of the bedroom, the cool air coming from the AC, and yet, he still felt the tightness in his chest, the desperation of gasping for air. The hands that had been buried deep within the soil now clutched the bedsheets.

In the stillness of the night, you had been woken up to find Keegan like this. It was one of many firsts you've seen his eyes wide with horror. Keegan's eyes couldn't focus, he swear he could feel bad things under his skin until he felt a warm touch. A warming touch that jarred him like the spark of electricity in contrast to the cold, cutting-like water from the stream. You called out to him, repeating his name over and over like a prayer you've said too many times in church. Your fingernails pried on the skin of his wrists, feeling the pulsating sensation of blood running through his veins. He swore it was his father's blood he had been drinking, how he could still taste the brininess of it on his tongue.

You pressed your lips to his, letting him taste you. Pushing his tongue into your mouth, hoping to wash away the blood, he tasted the cheap beer you'd been drinking earlier that night. He closed his eyes whilst you opened yours, sliding your finger under his cheek and caressing his skin. Parting from your lips, his body slumped, relaxed and rested his head on your shoulder. He got rid of the taste, and now he smelled your scent hoping to get rid of the rotting stench of a decomposing corpse.

He counted his blessings and reflected on his curse. You cleansed him, purified him, sucked the sin right out of his body.

[slashersdaddy]

Hi!

i was Wondering if you can make writing about Slasher x S/O that Accidentally Kill The Slasher Victim Or Target?

like, in Self-Defense or Wanting to Protect The Slasher from The Intruder, but ending up killing them?

Of course!! This is such a cute idea! >< I chose to do Billy Loomis (Ghostface) because it was cute, but i will probably do a bunch of snips of random slashers!

(Not proof read)

CW: death, Bl00d, mvrder, guilt, depictions of a panic attack (only the start of one) MDNI 18+ GN READER X BILLY LOOMIS

As you stood, huffing and panting over the now bloodied corpse, hands shaking in fear, or was it excitement? you'd dint know anymore, all you knew was it was agony.

You looked up to see your boyfriend, his imposing form frozen as he stared at the blood covering your shaking form.

Gently, and slowly he set down the knife he held, wrapping you into his arms, shushing you as he moved off the Ghostface mask, stroking your cheek tenderly.

His dark eyes seeming to stare into your very soul

"shush, hush now love, its okay. You are safe now"

His voice was silky smooth and kind, tearing down the walls of fright and anxiety that had built up as you tried to speak "I-I didn't mean it Billy! Th-they were going to hu-hurt you and I just..." you trailed off, disgust picking at your bones, you killed someone and you were acting like it was okay. Of course Billy killed people but it was different! He was Everything to you. As you lost yourself in the thoughts, you were shaken out by Billy wiping blood off your cheek and licking it off his thumb "Its okay love, next time let me watch ok?" He joked, or you thought? But the smile on his face eased your nerves and caused you to relax, falling into his arms still trembling. Kicking aside the body he carried you up to the bathroom, setting you on the toilet to run the bath, making sure it was warm but not to hot. Once he was satisfied with the temperature he put bubbles into the bath, before turning to you, gently stripping you of your blood soiled clothes with a low hum "Its alright now my love" His voice was like silk, a sweet sirens call as you sank into the clear water, the blood staining you tainting the water a light red, then as he scrubbed it all off a deep crimson. Before you could begin to pick yourself apart for what you had done he pulled you out, wrapping you in a fluffy white towel and carrying you to your joint room, setting you on the bed and grabbing some underwear for you and one of his shirts. He dressed you, kissing up your arms and stomach as he dressed you, soft and loving touches as he held you, and the soft comforting beat of his heart lulling you to sleep "Goodnight my sweet one"

[crguang]

RAHHHHHHHHH *ahem*

Fluffy Prompts 54, 44, & 8 w/kafka?

i have another req with #8 for kafka as well so i used the first two! also, im now realizing that this might not be as fluffy as you meant it im sorry hfejbfkf i feel like there are certain things kafka would only say in serious-ish situations

There’s blood on your hands. It stains your skin with a red that makes you uneasy, and you stare at your open palms for what feels like a lifetime; the seconds stretch into years spent immobile and helpless, rooted in a soil where nothing else will ever grow. A veil of near silence covers you and in the dim streetlight, only the unnerving dripping of water can be heard. Drip, drip, drip— each droplet falls in tandem with each beat of your heart and their synchronized melody disorientates you completely. You don’t know where you are, why you are here or what you’re meant to do. You don’t feel the cold despite the fine layer of snow blanketing the deserted street you stand in. You look up at the night sky and see no stars. Your tongue is numb and heavy with a sense of doom that you can’t place and your mouth stays shut in uncertainty. 

You look around in search of anything remotely familiar and in your peripheral vision, another streetlight flickers to life. Your steps are measured as you make your way to it like a moth to a flame. It stands in front of a narrow and dark alley that seemingly extends for miles. You can’t see the end of it, and the uncomfortable feeling that looms over you at the thought is amplified by the sight of a shadowed figure slumped against the bricked wall. You hesitate to get closer but your gut forces you forward, one foot after the other, until you’re planted in front of the black mass. It moves, the shape of its head slowly tilting up to meet your horrified eyes, and the breath is sucked out of your lungs at once. Even without a reliable light source, you recognize the soft color gradient of pink and lilac, dulled with the allure of death. The figure reveals itself to you; its shredded over-shoulder coat, ripped shirt, torn high-waisted shorts and distinct custom-made gloves as tainted as your hands slowly unravel under your nose to form what you instantly know is your biggest fear. A steady amount of blood seeps from a wound near the abdomen and stains what is left of the white shirt. Broken sunglasses lay on dirty magenta hair, and you are unable to look away. The figure— Kafka’s— mouth moves, murmuring words you can’t hear as there is only blood and water in your ears. Your eyes, frozen and unblinking, sting with the weight of unshed tears and your chest burns from the lack of oxygen. You don’t register your trembling hands or the world that spins beyond the two of you, you can only stare at Kafka’s dying body in dizzying terror.

A thick layer of sweat clings to your forehead as you awake with a sharp gasp, sitting up on the bed with a hand on your chest to make sure that your inability to breathe was only an effect of the nightmare you woke up from. Your breathing is heavy and labored, warm tears wet your cheeks with every quick blink of your eyes adjusting to the darkness of your bedroom and you sit there for long minutes just regaining your bearings. The glowing numbers of your digital clocks show that it’s only a little past midnight. Panic lingers in your tense muscles and your shaky fingers desperately reach for the phone atop your nightstand. The light hurts your eyes but your hazy mind can’t focus on the feeling, you fumble with unlocking it and opening your contacts, scrolling down the list of names until you find the one you’re looking for. 

A shuddering breath parts your lips, weak sniffles occasionally escape you, and the line rings and rings before the call goes to an automated voicemail. A pitiful sound leaves you. You redial. If you had all of your senses, you would have recalled that you had not heard from Kafka in almost three weeks. She does this sometimes, she disappears for weeks at a time due to the high stakes and stealthy missions she’s given. Depending on the risk, she can’t afford communications with you. Every so often, she tells you how long she’ll be away so you don’t miss her too much— her words. However, you presently cannot think straight, still haunted by the gory sight of her injuries. The call goes to voicemail. You redial. Voicemail. Redial. You start picturing the worst, the same constricting feeling of fear from earlier curling around your limbs until your knees are to your chest and your ragged breathing makes no sense to your ears. 

The line rings and your tears dampen your collar. After the third ring, someone picks up.

“What’s wrong?”

You hear commotion on the other end but the sound of Kafka’s raspy voice brings you relief so intense your whole body shakes with your next exhale. No doubt your labored breaths can be heard through the phone, and there’s a pause amidst some distant, unintelligible shouting.

“What happened?” Your eyes shut as you concentrate on the way Kafka’s words soften a touch.  

“When… When can you be back?” Your voice sounds weak and pleading, quiet in contrast to the racket of the other line. 

“I’m a little busy. Why?”

You don’t know how to explain your state of mind. Your brain needs to perceive her in front of you, in the flesh, to appease its morbid concerns and fully register the fact that she is alive. 

You sniffle. “I need to see you.”

More muffled shouting, an insistent alarm going off in the background, and Kafka’s annoyed sigh. You think she’s irritated by your demand but, like her previous ones, her next sentence is underlined with concern. 

“I’m wrapping something up, right now. I can be there tomorrow.”

You feel fresh tears well up in your eyes at the idea of waiting half a day to have her near. You try to steady your breathing and fail. You’re crying softly into the phone, now.

“No… Please come home, this doesn’t feel right…”

There’s another pause, and then, multiple gunshots ring out in succession. You squeeze your eyes tightly shut, the noise worsening the rising panic in your chest. You don’t want to think about what she’s doing and the chaos happening around her, anxiety nips at you with each bullet being fired because it reminds you of the dangerous life she lives and that your worries are not entirely unfounded. The shots keep coming until the shouting dies down to complete silence. It seems the blaring alarm has also been dealt with during the ruckus; you can’t hear a thing save for what Kafka says next.

“It’ll take three hours. Sit tight, alright?” Her tone lifts at the end, meant to be reassuring in her own subtle way. 

You nod even though she can’t see you. “Okay.”

“Bye, bye~!”

Kafka ends the call. You inhale slowly and find that breathing comes a little easier. 

By the time the second hour passes by, you can barely bear the weight of your eyelids, but sleeping isn’t an option. Your mind is still restless and you dread the possibility of your nightmare coming back, so you distract yourself by playing games on your phone. You check the time regularly, anxiously, and when the clock announces exactly three hours after your call, two firm knocks resonate through your apartment. You practically jump to your feet to open the front door. 

Kafka stand on the other side with her usual, easygoing smile. It widens an inch as she sees you and it takes everything you have not to throw yourself at her immediately. A quiver runs through your hands. You step aside to let her in, fiddling with the handle, and quickly close the door behind her. 

“So, what was— Oof!”

Her sentence is cut off by your arm around her waist pulling her flushed against you. Your nose burrow into the crook of her neck, amidst her soft strands of hair, and you embrace her tightly to convince your brain that she’s here, alive and with you. You breathe in the faint scent of tobacco on her skin as her steady heart beats against yours and gently encourages your pulse to follow her lead. Kafka brings a hand up to pat your back somewhat hesitantly, then eases into the hug enough to rub along your spine when you don’t let her go. You both stand in the entrance of your apartment for some time, the soothing sound of your heater in the background. The remnants of fear your nightmare left you with are squashed by Kafka’s arm around you and her body pressed to yours. 

“...Better?” Kafka speaks up after a while, voice soft in the quiet of the room. 

You reluctantly loosen your hold on her and lean back slightly. Her bare fingers rest under your chin and tilt it upwards so you can meet her eyes. There’s a hint of concern in them that she lets you see despite the small smile on her lips. 

“Are you going to tell me what this was about? Or do I have to guess?” Her playful words mean to ease any lingering trace of turmoil. 

Now that you’ve fully calmed down, you start to feel the effects of your interrupted sleep. You blink slowly to keep your eyes open a bit longer. 

“Can we lay down first?” You ask quietly, rubbing your eye withh one hand while the other searches Kafka’s limp one at her side. 

She looks at you for a few seconds, thinking thoughts you’re not privy to, before replying, “Of course.”

You lead her to your bedroom and prompt her to lie on the bed, uncaring of having her outside clothes on your clean sheets. Kafka settles against the pillows and you follow suit, half of your weight on her as an arm snakes around her waist to keep her pressed to you. In the dim yellow light, with your face on her chest, you notice some blood spatter on her shirt. The sight brings you back to the tattered clothes soaked in her blood that you dreamed of a few hours prior. You close your eyes, willing the mental image to fade away. Kafka’s fingers brush the back of your neck and trail down your spine in repeated motions. You’re much more relaxed in her embrace and can talk about what happened without being gripped by emotion. 

“...I had a nightmare that you were dying in an alley,” saying the words out loud makes you feel ridiculous in hindsight, but she shows no sign of amusement or mockery. “It felt real. And I had no idea what you were up to these past weeks, so I… It felt real.”

Kafka doesn’t say anything for a long time, you wonder what she could be thinking about. Her touch doesn’t falter on your back, the only indication that she heard you at all. Exhaustion creeps up on you, but you’re getting a little nervous at her lack of response. You feel the need to explain yourself further. 

“Sorry if I pulled you from something important… All I could think about was your— your body laying there, bloody and alone, and I got so scared because your work is dangerous and I never have any way of knowing if you’re okay until you come back. I wasn’t thinking straight, I thought—”

“Don’t think about anything. Just tell me that you love me and hold me tighter.”

The rest of your excuses die in your throat. She pulls you impossibly closer and you mutter low confessions into her chest until your speech slows and sleep claims you completely. Kafka holds you through the night, fingers playing with the hairs on the back of your neck, staring at the still shadows on your bedroom ceiling. She doesn’t tell you that no one has ever worried about her death before and that it’s a strange feeling to know that this primal instinct to fear finality is born out of your genuine love for her. She sits in that thought for hours. When the sun begins its ascension in the sky and her consciousness is starting to slip, her lips brush the top of your head as she murmurs her own well-kept love confession.

[drivinmeinsane]

K + touching + 34

※ Prompt: Touches // 34. Washing the other's body // K x GN!Reader ※ Word count: 1168 ※ Author's Note: I threw my 400 word limit right out of the window with this one, but that's alright.

A knock on the front door rouses you from the couch. Leaving the television playing, you cross the small studio apartment and cautiously peer through the peephole. You can make out the blurred shape of your neighbor from down the hall through the aged glass.

Surprised, you immediately flip the lock and open the door. Whatever reasoning has led him to your doorstep must be important. He never makes social calls.

“Hey, wh—” the words die in your mouth once you catch proper sight of your unexpected visitor.

You’re no stranger to seeing K at his worst—filthy with gore and oil tainted, barren soil—but the state of him now gives you pause. He is hunched over, clearly favoring one side. The replicant has had a rough night. Most of them are.

They run him hard at the precinct, you know. The whole damn city is aware of what the LAPD gets up to with their skinners. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve accompanied him up the stairs after crossing paths with him on the streets when you both are off work, patiently taking the ascent step by step while he struggles to not let on how severely his job weighs both on his mind and his body. He pays the toll for his existence every moment he’s alive, but doesn’t everyone who has been left behind on this spinning rock?

K doesn’t make an attempt to smile. He merely stares at you with tired eyes.

“My shower is broken. I…” he pauses, rolls the words over his tongue like a broken marble, considers how much he can ask for, “was hoping I could use yours. Please.”

“Of course,” you agree immediately.

Stepping back to give him space, you gesture for him to come in. As he passes by, you realize that he is not wearing his jacket, only a grimy t-shirt and pants. His boots look hastily tied, sloppy. He must have redressed in his dirty clothes once he realized he wasn’t going to get clean at his place. His hands are empty. The replicant must have expected to be turned down.

You turn. K is clearly waiting for permission to move around the small unit. The overhead light catches an abrasion on the side of his cheek, gleaming off the fresh blood. It draws attention to the battered state of him.

It makes your heart ache.

“Won’t the water pressure hurt? It’ll take a few cycles to get all of that off.”

His response to your concern is to shrug. He is too used to the expectation of pain to give it more than a passing thought. A flash of discomfort tightens the corners of his eyes with the casual movement. Barely aware of your own actions, worry overtakes you and you move into his space. Your hand hovers over the slope of his shoulder, not quite resting on the dark mess soaked into the fabric of his shirt. It doesn’t all look to be industrial grime. K doesn’t sway away from your closeness, even as you hear his breath catch once before settling back in its steady pattern.

“I can do it,” you offer, unthinkingly.

“You can do what?” His voice is soft in that characteristic way of his, hard edges smoothed off into something helplessly vulnerable. It reminds you that he was created to be broken.

“Wash you.” At his non-response, you add, “It’ll hurt less.”

A sigh. The shift of his boots on the tile floor. He is careful to not step on your rug lest he mark it. You’re sure he can sense how badly you want to help him. K was made to pick up on human cues. Finally—

“Alright.”

As you lead the officer into the cramped space of the bathroom, you try to not feel like he’s the one doing you a favor. You drag a threadbare towel off the shelf and drape it in the bottom of the shower to pad the inhospitable plastic before gathering a battered bucket. The handle has long since been lost to time.

At your side, K strips with a resignedly methodical practice you don’t want to think about. He is not shy about exposing his body to you, giving the air of this being a familiar request. It makes something nameless and acidic coat your mouth. He is careful to fold his removed clothing and set it neatly aside.

Naked, the replicant lowers himself to his knees onto the thinly padded shower floor. Once seated, he interlaces his fingers and bows his head. He waits patiently for you to finish filling the bucket at the sink and gather a scrap of towel to use a rag. The ‘9 is the picture of practiced supplication. Someone really has trained him for more than just killing his own kind.

You find your own place on the floor outside of the shower. You wet the cloth and rub a bar of soap over it to form a lather. With nothing else left to do but swallow down your nervousness, you start the process of getting him clean.

He lets out a sharp exhale, as if punched, when the first contact between you is made. Steeling yourself, you pass the cloth over his uninjured shoulder. You’re careful to keep your touch gentle. Grime slicks down his arm in soap-swirled trails.

“You don’t have to do this,” K offers. His eyes are squeezed shut and he’s trembling. His knuckles are going white from how tightly he’s gripping onto his own fingers.

“I don’t,” you agree. “I’ll stop if you want me to.”

The replicant shakes his head. “I don’t.”

And so you continue, careful around his bruises and scrapes. You gently work the rag over his short hair, soaping it. Chasing the cloth with your hand, you work your fingers through the strands. Your fingertips brush over his scalp. Unconsciously, you’re sure, the replicant is pressing into your touch. It makes you wonder when he’s last been handled with kindness untainted by any other motive.

Has he ever? you think, disquieted.

Your chain of thought is interrupted by a sudden, heaving shudder. K attempts to smother a desperate noise behind his clenched jaw, curling in on himself even further. You realize then that he is crying. Tears are escaping from behind his closed eyelids and joining the water speckled across his upper thighs. This had been too much. At the realization, you drop the washcloth. It lands on the floor with a wet thud. It’s loud over the muffled sounds of the replicant in front of you.

Not caring about how wet your shirt gets, you lean forward and wrap your arms around him. He turns in towards you as if he were a plant in one of the Wallace greenhouses reaching towards the glow of the artificial light. K allows himself to accept the comfort.

Neither of you speak while he sobs himself ragged in the freely offered shelter of your body.

[thesummerestsolstice]

Part Three of "Earendil Drank the Silmaril" AU- Kidnap Fam edition

M&M do not know that the light of the Silmaril is now part of Earendil, or that his children inherited some of it. Not consciously, anyway. But there is something oddly familiar about the children, when Maglor finds them, alone in the woods.

(The escort Elwing sent them away with hadn't been the most trustworthy, and unfortunately, two frightened children had slowed their progress towards Gil-Galad's camp too much.)

Maglor sees the shining eyes and the light that springs to their fingertips, and assumes that part-Maia children are just like that– he's certainly heard far stranger about Luthien. Maglor was always going to take them in– he'd at least like to think that leaving two defenseless children to die is still beyond him– but there's also something odd. Before he can really think about whether it would be possible to send them to Gil-Galad, he's already dismissed the idea. It slips from his mind like water. He doesn't connect that to the Oath– normally, it's compulsions are violent and impossible to ignore.

(But of course, the Oath knows the truth about Elrond and Elros. M&M always say that it would be impossible to return them to Gil-Galad's camp. They're only right most of the time.)

Still, the story goes on, as it must, and love does grow between Elrond, Elros, and the monsters who care for them. Actually, things do look up for the Feanorians after E&E come to Amon Ereb. The plants grow much more easily, even in the tainted soil. They run into orc patrols less and less. Injuries heal, even when they really shouldn't. Some of the Feanorians speak of divine intervention on behalf of the children, others think that it's the twins' Mairin magic at work. Even the Oath seems to fall silent. M&M put it down to parental love.

(Elrond and Elros are, if not exactly required for the Oath to be fulfilled, then at least close enough to a Silmaril to quiet it for a time.)

None of them ever figure it out. Eventually, Maedhros and Maglor do send their children away, when it's become clear that all that's left for the Feanorians is death and grief.

Maglor watches as they leave, tears in his eyes, and thinks he finally understands what it means to be condemned to eternal darkness, now that his precious little stars are gone.

[mireyaaaaaaaaa]

The Blue Umbrella

Her POV [Pt.1]

I have an unhealthy obsession with writing stuff revolving around blue stuff. Go check out my previous fic, ‘Blue Hoodie’ if you can guys! It would mean a lot if you like my fanfictions<3

_______

Warnings\ Not proofread, fem!reader, kinda slow paced sorry but I hope you like this!

“I really should’ve checked the forecast” I mumbled, stranded at the study café, looking at the formerly sunny sky now a dark shade of grey. One moment the Sun was shining brightly, the next moment the clouds started pouring heavily. All I could do was wait for the rain to stop so that I could go home. It wasn’t that I hated rain, it’s my favorite weather. I feel so carefree, all my worries about well… everything are washed away by the rain. Afterwards, the cool breeze and the scent of soil in the air, it’s the most calm and serene feeling I can feel in my life, constantly shadowed by my problems… But, today wasn’t the right day, my sister was finally coming back from her foreign studies and I can’t wait to meet my only friend. My sister was probably the only person I’m close to and can share everything with. My parents often fought, so growing up, my sister was the one responsible for me and always there for me.

I was sitting on one of the tables outside the café, thankfully covered, watching people pass by. Couples were having a stroll together, laughing and sharing an umbrella, I saw a family of four having the time of their life just chatting and enjoying each other’s company. I wish I had someone to share my time with. I wish my family was that happy. Now that my sister was back for a few weeks I would make sure I spent all my time with her. Only problem, I had no way of getting home. Sure, I could run as fast as I could but I would still reach home drenched and catch a cold.

I spotted a group of five friends not far from here. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t help staring at them. There was this one guy in particular who really caught my eye. He looked like he was being left out and not being paid any attention too. He was cute, dark messy hair, and beautiful eyes. It was as if someone stole all the stars from the sky and put them in his eyes. He had a sad smile on his face as he looked down at water droplets falling onto a lone pink tulip at the side of the pavement. I couldn’t help but feel sad, not for him, for me. Well, for him too. I mean, it sucks being ignored by your own friend group or just being left lonely. I mean being alone isn’t that bad, but it isn’t always good either. I felt a tear roll down my cheek… no idea why, kind of did. I knew how that felt.

I felt a light tap on my shoulder; I didn’t realize I had zoned out. I quickly wiped away the few tears that tainted my cheeks. I turned around and… WHAT?! No, like, wasn’t he over there a second ago? The guy from the other side of the road, was here. Right. In front. Of. Me. “Take it.” ,were the only two words he said to me, handing me the umbrella before sprinting away, his bag held on top of his head.

I was left staring at the blue umbrella. He didn’t even know me? Why would he help me? Was he secretly my guardian angel? Did he know I was desperate to go home, or was that feeling masking my face right now, clearly evident to the whole world. Not that anyone would pay attention to me. But then, why did he? The next time I met him again, if I did, I would ask him if it hurt falling from heaven. Okay my thoughts are getting really cheesy for a random stranger with a blue umbrella. Thank you… whoever you are.

I shook my thoughts away and shrugged. I got an umbrella, isn’t that what I wanted? I made my way back home, walking through the silent streets.

“Mom, Dad, I’m home!” I announced as I took of my shoes and put them on the shoe rack to dry off. “Y/n! Where were you?” I heard a familiar voice call out as I heard footsteps rush towards me. I almost started crying at the sight of her. My sister was back! She rushed to hug me and engulfed me in bear hug. “Aww you’ve grown up y/n!” “I missed you so much! Sorry I’m late, I was stranded at the study café. Where are mom and dad?” I asked. I shouldn’t have. Melisa flashed me an awkward smile “Uhm in the kitchen but we can just go chill in my room. I set up a movie night for us!” “Are they… arguing again?” “Don’t worry about it y/n… you know how they are…” I frowned but I was used to it. Most of the time when I reached home I would only be welcomed by silence or the occasional noises from the kitchen or living room where my parents were arguing over just about whatever topic they can. I’m probably invisible and only appear when they need something to argue on or someone to scold if the other one is not at home. I missed Melisa so much, it’s a pity she’s 5 years older than me so she left home for foreign studies and well… found a job there and she’s probably going to settle there.

As we made our way over to the stairs I heard shouting from the kitchen. I heard my name.

“IF IT WEREN’T FOR YOU MELISA WOULDN’T HAVE HAD TO RAISE Y/N!”

“ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY I WASN’T A GOOD MOTHER? HOW WERE YOU ANY BETTER?”

“I EARN THE MONEY WE PAY FOR HER SCHOOL. I EARN THE MONEY THIS HOUSE WORKS ON. WHAT DO YOU DO EXCEPT WORKING AS A WAITRESS AT THAT OLD RESTAURANT?”

“STOP QUESTIONING MY WORTH! I DO WHAT I CAN! YOUR LIFE WOULD BE CHAOS WITHOUT ME! YOU CAN’T EVEN COOK ONE MEAL IF YOUR LIFE DEPENDED ON IT”

“I WISH I COULD LEAVE YOU BUT I NEED TO STAY FOR Y/N”

“LEAVE IF YOU WANT! YOU DON’T EVEN CARE FOR OUR DAUGHTER!”

“NOT LIKE YOU DO!!”

I looked at my sister with tears starting to form in my eyes. “M-Mel.. they’re going to separate? Where will I go…? Why is our family broken?”

“shh it’s okay y/n I’m here for you. I know this is tough, especially hearing them argue over you and say all that mean stuff. But you’ve stayed strong for so long… you’ll go to college soon and you’ll be able to have a better life, yeah? If I could I would take you with me but you know our parents would probably get really mad over that and stay that we’re being ungrateful and stuff like that.” She looked down. “I’m sorry y/n” I hugged her “Don’t be. None of this is our fault. W-what movie are we going to watch?” I asked, trying to switch to another topic and a better atmosphere. She wouldn’t stay for long, I had to make most of the time we had. “Your favorite~” “OMG ARE WE WATCHING (your favorite movie/show) AAA THANKYOU!” “Look at you being all excited. Why are you still holding onto that umbrella? Wait, where did you get that?” oh. Oh. OHH. “Oh uhm… so… as you know, it’s raining heavily! I was at the study café and it started raining cats and dogs. And it’s not like I could run all the way home without getting drenched and catching a cold so I just sat there doing people-watching and stuff and I saw a group of friends just chilling you know? And there was this boy, with sparkling, chocolate brown eyes and fluffy, dark hair. Is that the right adjective? He was kind of secluded and had a faint, sorrowful, smile on his face but it was pretty oh and-“

“Okay sis I get it. You’re in love with a stranger. Did you talk to him? What’s his name? Did he lend you this? Spill the tea!”

“No I’m not! I just found him cute and attractive and kind of noticeable because I could relate to that feeling. And no, I did not talk to him so I don’t know his name. And yes, he has lend this umbrella to me. He just appeared in front of me out of no where and told me to take the umbrella, handing it to me. Then, he ran away. What was that about?” I rolled my eyes. “An introduction wouldn’t have hurt!”

“Okay y/n don’t admit your crush. I won’t force you”

“I said it’s not a crush!”

“Oh but it is! My sister is in love~” Saying that she ran into her room and I chased after her. We both collapsed onto her bed in a fit of laughter. I missed her so much. How many times am I going to say that?

_____________________________________________________

A/n>>> Okay so I know Leo didn’t really make an appearance in this but as I mentioned, this will be kind of slow paced… mostly because I’m not getting ideas to fit in the middle of the few ideas I already have and my exams are going on. I had an exam today also (the day im posting this) and after this, two exams are left, and these subjects are as tough as maths so I’m probably not going to write any sequel parts this week.

Also, I was originally writing this for Percy, hence blue umbrella, but Leo has literally stolen my heart since the day I read the lost hero so there is no way I wouldn’t write a fic for him and this is the only idea I have right now

Im going to  post a leo pov too by the way! And im writing a long luke castellan mafia ff thing I started a long time back so expect a lot of new posts in march! Or not. Most probably yes.

ALSO IM STARTING A TAG LIST IF ANYONE WANTS TO BE ADDED PLEASE TELL, THANKYOUU<3

[sirenscrawlings]

The Truths of Things

[Owlcatober 2024 - Prompt 1: Teatime - @owlcatober]

Words: 736; Characters: Camellia Gwerm

She had never much cared for tea.

As much a staple of the nobility as it was, she should, by all accounts, have loved it—at least, as a symbol of status. It had distinctions between its differences in quality much as class itself did—upper to lower, noble to peasant—and boasted of pedigree and rarity much the same. It, supposedly, had subtleties in its aromas and tastes that told truths down to the very nature of its soil and seed and pampered care, of the nuance that only the most sophisticated of palates could discern; in a way, like telling the difference between something real and of a pretender—of something or someone truly noble, blood as blue as fresh tartare, or of someone merely hiding behind a gilded mask.

Perhaps that was the reason. It could very well have been the flavor: too delicate for her sharpened tongue, too earthy like the dirt her porcelain fingers refused to be soiled by, too floral; a reminder of the namesake she'd long despised. It could have been any of these excuses, but they, ultimately, did not matter. What did, was that she had never had a taste for it to begin with, and, in her mind, it was because she had not been born with it. She never could have been. A gilded mask, no matter how fine, no matter how opulent and wealthy and rich, was only ever in the end a lie.

Camellia Gwerm hated tea.

And the man beneath her reeked of it.

It was all the excuse she'd needed when he'd approached her, all dazzling smile above his shining armor, itself decorated with wrought flowers and leaves. Desperation and relief had radiated from him upon spotting her, all alone in that quiet corner of Drezen she'd come to find solace in, much like the wretched stench of tea that suffused his very presence and threatened to wrinkle her nose. She'd needed no other reason to settle for him, and getting him alone had been a trivial matter as always for even as nobles were nobles, men were men.

He'd said his name for naught use to her at all and when she'd given him her own, a demure giggle, and an innocent question asking about the design of his armor, his fate had been sealed.

Men, would always be, men.

It didn't matter if they came from some long pedigree of merchants who'd made their wealth off of vaunted teas from far off Casmaron—"Lovely at this time of year at our sah-ray", which she'd gathered to mean some sort of villa. It didn't matter if they were so wealthy and wanted for naught that it seemed they could very well bathe in the swill. Men were men, it was only a simple task of getting them talking about themselves for long enough that they would soon find themselves on their backs, chest straddled by her supple thighs, and idiotic, naive grins on their faces.

Her nose finally did wrinkle, then. The mustiness of the old, forgotten basement only seemed to make his stench worse, and the thought of a bath—preciously rare, hot, clean water—soiled and tainted with leaves filled her with disgust. Dried. Musky. Old leaves from the dirt. That's what tea really was, and every noble, every so-called 'refined palate,' was merely lying to themselves in mutual harmony about it.

And just as tea was merely leaves, so too was this man merely meat.

She would've breathed a sigh of relief as that wretched floral stench gave way immediately to the dominance of fear and blood, but her exhilaration, as always, triumphed over all else. How swiftly she'd pulled the stiletto from her boot, and how even swifter still she'd brought it forth and down that he hadn't had time to scream. Only now as the life and light left his eyes did they become colored by shock and then terror in realization—twas a delight she always savored with glee. And, only then, did he possibly see in his final moments what was her true sultry smile, and hear her true husky, ravenous laugh.

Camellia Gwerm hated tea.

She hated pretending even more.

The gilded mask fell away. Tea was leaves, but meat was meat, blood was blood, and she was Camellia Gwerm, whose tongue had not been made to savor the taste of anything delicate.

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

It's been a while since I've had much to share but tagged most recently by @imogenkol @g0dspeeed and @thesingularityseries to share a wip

It's a Kit week this week apparently after just posting chapter 55 of American Beasts, and a wip last line snippet, here's a bit I've started working on for chapter 56. Where Kit passes judgement on Dutch. Slapping a giant warning on this considering it describes setting a person on fire, and mentions of Vietnam war crimes... so the general dark themes that can be expected from this fic. A return to form, one could say.

This late into winter the bunker had become damp, the musty scent of a basement clinging to the walls and the floors. Didn’t seem to matter how much he aired it out, the stink remained like a bad omen. Clinging, cloying. The land poisoned along with the water and it bubbled up through the soil and the pores of the concrete.

Dutch glanced over at the pictures he had of his family, the ones he’d lost, driven away, and took a swig from his flask. The cheap bottom-shelf whiskey burned the whole way down coalescing with the tobacco smoke from his hand-rolled cigarette to form one tainted mixture of a man’s fall into bitter loneliness. Rubbing his hand down the whiskers of his goatee, wiping at the corners of his mouth, he took another sip of the liquor, something more akin to paint thinner with the way it rotted his gut.

The board on his wall had been updated, the formation of the Seeds having changed. John was alive, Faith was gone, and the Deputy, Kit, had joined their ranks, falling in line with their brand of insanity. He stood there, hands on his hips, his jaw working from side to side as he started planning the next steps required to bring them down. Joseph’s Island had been dealt with, he had watched the smoke rise himself before the fleet of boats that had set off from his property had returned. But that was just a drop in the ocean. There were still two bunkers remaining, the cult’s forces split between the two, and he knew for certain they would not let a slight like this stand against them. It was an affront to the Father, and Joseph Seed didn’t appreciate being made into a joke.

As he returned to his bank of monitors, Dutch found the screens had all gone blank, but there was no power outage on his end – someone had cut the feed. Moments later, the lights all cut out and the air filtration fans stopped their spinning until the backup generator kicked in. The dull amber glow of emergency lights kept most of his surroundings in the murky depths of the dark. Long shadows looming from out of the corners and amongst the crates he had stored down there with him, reminding him of one of those old slasher flicks, and the killer was inside the house already. 

Catching the chemical smell of benzene in the air, sweet and pungent, the perfume of a hot summer’s day, he stormed out of the control center of his bunker. Reaching the long hall leading to the steep set of stairs that ascended to the outside world, he saw the teeming masses that barricaded his only escape route. Demons in the night. Reaping what he sowed.

Red jerry cans glugged out liters of gasoline in a deluge, the liquid pouring down the steps, coating them in a cascade. It splashed on his boots, pooling at his feet, crawling outwards and spreading like a pestilence. He looked down and by eye alone he could see the flood had already come, standing an inch deep in the flammable substance. Dutch’s eyes rose, forced to meet the instigator and her pale, lifeless eyes as her people parted, making a hole for her as if she were some messiah among them.

She didn’t flinch, showed no sign of second thought, no guilt or remorse. Cold, inert. As soulless and dead-eyed as the rest of the Seeds and their flock. Her hair was the only thing moving, dancing in the wind as though it had a life of its own. Kit stared down at him, that constant scowl of hers almost mocking him now as her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed. 

John Seed had marked her with ‘Wrath’ and he could see it written all over her. A sinner set upon the path of judging other sinners. Judge not, lest ye be judged yourself.

He’d had no idea who she was when he’d saved her all those months ago, pulling her out of the water the night of the arrest. Had no idea of what she was capable of. The stranger in their midst who distanced herself from all. The outside observer, seeing them all for what they really were. And now, he couldn’t help but feel maybe he deserved the fate she brought down upon him. The things he did in war, the bloodshed and destruction of families he had participated in throughout Hope County. Dutch resigned himself to it, to his end. It was a better one than becoming a slave to the beliefs of a madman like she had, just another sycophant at the feet of the Father. This merciless, vengeful, violent thing that he helped to sic on the county. 

“I’ll see you in hell, Kit.”

He didn’t beg, didn’t run. There would be no point. It seemed as though whenever Kit had her eyes set on a soul's demise, she marched the warpath until the goal was met. If it wasn’t now, it was only a matter of when, and he’d seen the video of what she was willing to do in the name of duty. In all honesty, he was getting off light. 

Should've left her to drown, his final thought as he watched the old army zippo lighter fall, bouncing down the last few steps with a tinkle like chimes. Flickering flame hit the waterfall, and the blue conflagration sprinted towards him, a devouring creature feasting upon the fuel to reach its final meal. 

His body was engulfed in flame, the inferno gorging upon flesh, fat, hair, and cloth. The searing heat made it impossible to breathe, melting the thin skin of his eyes shut. In his mind’s eye, in his final moments, he couldn’t help but picture his days in Vietnam. The napalm, the burning innocents. Monks immolating themselves to end a useless war. One as brutal and unnecessary as the war that had struck a small county in Montana. 

He screamed himself hoarse until the skin of his throat had been barbecued and his heart gave out. The heavy door of the bunker shut tight, leaving him inside to burn. A crematorium. A structure meant to save a life from the devastating power of a bomb, made into nothing more than a tomb. 

Black smoke rose, curling up to meet the sky. A charred husk of an island to match the darkened cinders of Joseph’s. The Alpha and the Omega. Ending where it began. 

writing tag list [opt in/out]: @henbased @roofgeese @cloudofbutterflies92 @aceghosts @galaxycunt

@ocdemon-747 @unholymilf @wrathfulrook @raresvtm @fourlittleseedlings

@harmonyowl @mxanigel @finding-comfort-in-rain @carlosoliveiraa @confidentandgood

@afarcry5fromstraight @inafieldofdaisies @voidika @kyberinfinitygems

@clicheantagonist @adelaidedrubman @strafethesesinners @statichvm @josephslittledeputy

@tommyarashikage @simplegenius042 @theelderhazelnut @josephseedismyfather @voidbuggg

@direwombat @florbelles @cassieuncaged @shallow-gravy @cassietrn

@strangefable @stacispratt

[yokowan]

The bus is late. You tug uncomfortably at the mask of your pressure suit. This isn't your first time wearing one by any means, but it certainly doesn't help make the walls of the city leaning in around you feel any less stifling. An old man lowers himself onto the bench next to you. "Y'on't look like yer from here. Mariner Valley?" You reflexively jump in your seat a little, alarmed by the unprompted attempt at conversation. "Y-yeah. How could you tell?" "Ah, all you communists look the feckin same." You open your mouth as if to speak, before electing not to respond.

WELCOME TO MARS MOTHERFUCKERS

It is two hundred and fifty-odd years in the future. Mars, once a cold dead husk, is now a developed world with bustling industry and a contested legal status that hasn't become a problem yet because everyone chooses to ignore it. The planet has slowly been gaining a breathable atmosphere, not through any concerted terraforming effort, but instead because oxygen is produced as a byproduct of many metal refining processes. After over a century of heavy industry, the parts of the planet's surface at low elevation have a high enough atmospheric pressure that crops can be grown in the open air, and humans can survive without needing a pressure suit.

Which parts of the planet become breathable first has a huge impact on Martian socioeconomics, leading me to perhaps my strangest science fiction writing project yet:

THE REGIONAL STEREOTYPES OF MARS

EAT MY TAINT YOU GODDAMN MARINER HIPPIES

Hellas

Hellas is a large impact basin surrounded by the southern highlands. Its very low elevation means it was one of the first parts of the Martian surface to have arable land, and provided the majority of the planet's food before most agriculture moved north. The height of the surrounding terrain traps in moisture, resulting in it being the most lush part of Mars, containing its only wild grasslands. Hellas is the most populous region of Mars, and is home to the planets colonial administrative capital of Badwater.

Hellas' habitability and developed infrastructure means it is the region of Mars most frequently visited by outsiders. Its culture and general appearance have become Earth's main conception of the planet.

Hellas is positioned on the opposite side of the planet to Mars' other major population centers, so overland travel is inconvenient and uncomfortable. This has made it quite culturally isolated, with much of the planet seeing the region's citizens as stuck up, backwards, and blind to the plight of the average Martian. Having the planet's oldest settlements, Hellas' residents view themselves as being the "real" Martians, and hold some resentment towards the rest of the planet for being so weak-willed and forgetting their roots.

Chryse

Chryse is a large, flat plain in the northern hemisphere. Its elevation is mostly not low enough to be habitable to humans without pressure suits, but genetically modified plants thrive in the nutrient-rich alluvial soil. Though Chryse's population is quite small, only having a couple of dense towns located in deep craters, it provides a majority of the planet's food.

Chryse's inhabitants are commonly perceived as easygoing, hospitable and a bit simple-minded. That is, if they are perceived at all. Despite its importance, the region is often forgotten in discussions of Mars.

As its exports are mostly local to Mars and occasionally to the outer solar system, the region finds itself largely isolated from Earth politics. This is a point of pride for its inhabitants, who consider themselves for this reason to be truest Martians, embodying a spirit of independence and self-reliance.

Mariner Valley

Mariner Valley is a system of rift valleys near Mars' equator. Its higher elevation means that it became habitable slightly later than Hellas, but the moderate climate and abundant water make it highly desirable as a place of habitation. Originally it served as a staging point for people and cargo moving to and from mining settlements on Tharsis, but it slowly evolved into a highly developed center for manufacturing and industry.

The region's value as a manufacturing hub which is easily accessible to the outer solar system makes it highly desirable to Earth corporations, who have long been vying for political influence in the area. This is met with resistance from many of the locals, upset that the fruits of their labor are largely spent on the interests of Earth instead of bettering their own planet. Mariner Valley is the nucleus of a socialist independence movement, and is currently under partial administration by the Martial Coalition. This is allowed to exist as it serves to take some administrative burden off of the colonial government and doesn't inconvenience them, though any acknowledgment of its existence is completely informal and under very vaguely defined terms.

Depending on who you ask, Mariner Valley is either a place for well-meaning but starry-eyed and unrealistic idealists, or a rotting trench full of communists. Its anyone's guess, really. Broadly, Mariner Valley sees itself as the future of Mars: real, red-blooded Martians who truly believe in their people.

Tharsis

Tharsis Rise, often simply "the rise", is a massive plateau around the Martian equator. Its high altitude and harsh winds render it uninhabitable. Its valuable deposits of highly accessible ore minerals mean that people live there anyways. A pressure suit is needed to be outside here. At moderate altitudes, a partial counterpressure suit to assist with breathing is sufficient. In the mountains, full body pressures suits are necessary to prevent bodily fluids from flash boiling.

Settlements in this region are largely run by Earth corporations and structured entirely around resource extraction. Despite the huge value of the area's resources, it remains among the planet's poorest. Escaping poverty proves particularly difficult when your boss sets the price of oxygen. Public perception is largely divided, with some people seeing the struggles of Tharsis as a symbol of Mars' oppression, and others seeing it as their just comeuppance for being lazy and reliant on handouts from Earth.

The population of Tharsis is spread out, and apart from a few large settlements with good transportation, isolated from the rest of the planet. They are not linked by kinship nor ideology, but are together in their misery. They're born in the dirt, they work in the dirt, and they die in the dirt. In the dirt, they're one people, and what's more truly Martian than that?

All elevation maps were made with MOLA data using JMARS

[strxnged]

TIGHNARI: # the roots of ambition.

CHAPTER I. In which you meet the Forest Ranger of legend, a former student of your Darshan, who causes you to interrogate your life choices.

Word count. 2.4k. Genre. Found family, gn!reader.

Table of Contents. / Next chapter.

By your age, Eleazar should have affected more than the tips of your fingers. The cureless, Withering-born disease crept from the farthest limbs towards the organs and mind at a gradual but unstoppable pace. Only with the frequent treatment from Nilotpala Lotuses and immersion in the rainforest could your body find the strength to delay the progression of ash scales and numbness across your body. Still, as you knelt at the foot of trees with your hand wrist deep in miniscule roots and a magnifying glass grasped carefully by the other hand, you wished vainly that you might be able to feel the bumps of the fractaling extensions with more sensitive appendages than your own.

You were focused on as much of the texture as you could gather with your palm and knuckle, leading you to ignore, at first, the rustle in the leaves around you of much more than a squirrel or bird. You were faintly aware and had been reminded by peers many times that with the way you became mesmerized by whatever microorganism you found yourself immersed in the “mind” of. However well-meaning the scares they would pull on you to snap you out of it, staying aware of your surroundings really wasn’t a lesson you had yet learned.

A clear voice, however, was enough to rouse you from your trance: “Pardon our interruption.”

You took in a breath—the first you had taken for awhile, you realized—and then stood, turning around.

Three Forest Rangers had gathered a few feet behind you. On the left, a shorter girl tilted her head at you, purple eyes shyly gazing out from beneath green bangs. She had one hand clinging to the sleeve of the middle figure and the other to the corner of her own shawl. To the right of the middle figure, another Forest Ranger leaned against a tree with his arms crossed, looking vaguely interested in you and your circumstances. He also looked like he’d had enough time standing there to make himself comfortable. In between the two was the presumed speaker. He wore a colourful adventuring outfit with a distinguished sash and puffy striped pants. Above lime-streaked dark hair, two fennec ears were erect, alert. Something about this person felt familiar.

“Apologies,” you said, “I didn’t notice you three at all.”

“You’re in a very dangerous area,” the middle one continued. “Not having noticed us is an augurous sign for your safety, so we’d be happy to escort you to somewhere safer if you are willing. Especially since you don’t appear to have a Vision.”

You made no movement to leave. “I have to stay here. It’s for my research.” 

He smiled gently. “My name is Tighnari. You may know me as a fellow Amurta scholar, however tainted my reputation and relationship with the Akademiya may be.”

You told him your name.

“It’s lovely to meet a scholar who loves to get dirt under their fingernails like myself,” he said. “But I’m sorry, it’s just too unsafe for you to hang around here. We’re here to start clearing the nearby Withering Zone.”

The relaxed Forest Ranger stood up straight and interjected, “Gener— Er, Forest Watcher Tighnari, I think it’s about to clear us out first.”

 Sure enough, several scorched animated fungi were emerging from the trees a few yards behind you. You quickly knelt at the roots you had been inspecting a minute before and took a rushed but measured sample of soil, sealing it in a jar of water. You set the jar in your bag, threw the bag’s strap over your shoulder, and ran.

A braver, more well-rounded researcher might be able to pull out a shortsword or a bow in this situation, as the Forest Rangers were doing, but you were not the type of person who could dabble in a lot of skills. Running came more naturally, and either way you would need to abandon the site. Climbing trees, too, was a handy skill, though both of these you were bound to lose in a few years.

That was why you had to hurry.

Dashing past the many trees and up a slight incline, you kept an eye out for a climbable tree. Just a few good, strong lower limbs, and you’d been out of monster’s reach in no time. There one was—you leapt—you reached—you pulled—and slumped your body against the trunk, legs on either side of a limb. 

Finally, you peered back the way you came to see if you’d been followed, or if your friendly hecklers had slain every enemy. You noted with a sigh of relief that all seemed serene for a second. That was, until a Dendro-variant fungi flapped its fleshy wings up the hill towards your hiding spot. You began plotting your next escape.

A flurry of green darts surrounded the fungi and enshrouded it in glowing mist. Discombobulated, it made a clean “bonk” sound as it hit a tree not far from you. The darts hit the monster then, striking it repeatedly until it stirred no more. You observed the forest watching for the next threat that would be destroyed by thin air, or perhaps for your hero.

“Let’s try this again,” Tighnari’s voice said—but this time from very, very close by. You whirled your head to see him smiling a little smugly from a limb above you. How had he— “Your research—does it really compel you to put yourself in such a precarious situation?”

Your mouth gaped at him.

“From how quickly you run and climb, I expect that is the case,” he added.

“The forest is dangerous,” you deflected. “It’s not hard to wind up in that sort of situation, with Withering Zones popping up everywhere.”

“I’ll grant you that,” he said. “Your methods could use some guidance, though.” At the raise of your eyebrows, he added, “I’m sure it isn’t your fault. The Amurta professors aren’t what they used to be. What you need is someone to guide you in the field. Someone to tell you to wear gloves when collecting fungal mycelium samples. The oil from your hands is enough to taint your samples beyond recognition. If you’d like, I can lend you some.”

The last thing you would want to do would be to wear gloves and fully barrier your fingers from any remaining sensation, so you ignored this, and eyed him up and down. “You’re really Tighnari, huh?”

“Well, I think so. Unless I’ve consumed a very, very psychoactive mushroom recently.”

You slowly got to your feet, balancing on the limb with a hand to steady you rested on the trunk. Tighnari, sitting casually on the next limb, was at about eye-level, so you could peer into his hazel-green gaze.

“Then, you were a former student of Sage Naphis. Is that so?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, “upon my graduation, he encouraged me to join the faculty. I’d had quite enough of the Akademiya by then, so I politely declined.”

“That seems about right. He thinks the Forest Rangers are in good hands.”

Tighnari looked incredulous. “That’s all?” 

“No,” you admitted. “Actually, he gets somewhat sulky when he brings you up. ‘An unfortunate loss,’ he says. He likes to tell students to beware the persuasion of the forest-dwellers.”

He laughed. “Will you heed his warning?”

Before you could reply, you heard a girl’s voice. “Master, we eliminated the last of them!”

“Thank you, Collei,” Tighnari dropped from the tree, landing eight or so feet below you with ease and addressing the green-haired archer from before. “Let’s set up camp, then, the sun’s threatening to disappear. To the river!”

“To the river!” The third Ranger echoed. As he and Collei proceeded, Tighnari hung back, peering up the tree at you.

“If you’re anything like me, Y/N,” he said, “field research has a way of making you forget the meaning of hunger. Let us take care of you for the night.”

You humphed. “No, you’ve taken quite enough care, thank you. I must heed the warning indeed, and I’m hardly hungry.”

Your stomach, in defiance, growled loudly.

Tighnari smirked, waiting patiently. You climbed out of the tree.

|

⸙

|

“You can’t force me to stay here with you guys until the night is through. Unless you want to help me filter my sample.” 

“We could if we had put something in your stew,” Tighnari joked. At your sour look, he apologized, “Sorry. You were asking for it.”

“I’m confident the General Watchleader would be more than eager to look at mushrooms with you all night,” the third Ranger, whose name you had learned to be Amir, said. “He’s a little strange in that way.”

“Come now,” Tighnari said. “I was getting to that. How many times do I have to ask you to please not call me that, especially in front of strangers?”

“Strangers!” you cut in. “Surely you three are not still wary of me.”

Amir raised an eyebrow at you. “You are certainly strange. Maybe in the way Tighnari can appreciate, though I’m far removed from the whole mushrooms scene.”

“Are you?” you queried.

“I much prefer the study of medicinal herbs.”

“Oh, that’s not so independent of fungal ecology.”

“Maybe not,” Amir conceded, “But fungi are just so complex. There’s no one way to define them, so where do you even start?”

“As I was saying,” Tighnari said. “There’s a great many things I still wish to understand about fungal mycelium, and it would be my utter pleasure to work with you in your research.”

“I—I didn’t ask for help with my research as a whole. Just the sample would be more than enough help.”

“Do you think you would like more help?”

You pondered this. “I… I am limited in my capabilities. I don’t make the best project partner. I like to… work at my own pace, which tends to fluctuate.” You bit back any words that might directly indicate the seriousness of your condition. The actuality of your terminal disease. People acted—differently—once they found out about the Eleazar. You liked the thought of these new, adventurous friends, especially while they didn’t know about your prognosis.

Tighnari sucked air through his teeth. “That damn Akademiya. Shame on them.”

“Sorry?” you said.

“I just—” he shook his head, disappointed “—can’t get past the way they treat students. Not half a thought for real, field safety, and a hell of a lot of energy put into murdering the autonomy of passionate learning. It’s rare that I meet a student these days who has any self-respect left at all. Do you sleep at night, Y/N?”

Your eyes widened. No, you didn’t, but you weren’t about to say so.

“My apologies,” he said. “You’re trying to dissuade me—but it isn’t your fault. What I mean to say is that you would benefit from stepping a little further away from those sage pricks—forgive my language—and accordingly stepping deeper into the roots of your studies.” 

“I do study roots.”

Tighnari scoffed. “Oh, my. Cyno would like this one.”

Collei, who had up until now watched the conversation with silent, interested eyes, let out a giggle. Tighnari beamed at her tenderly, and you sensed that she was a little more family than apprentice to him.

“Cyno?” you asked after a moment. “You mean, the General Mahamatra?”

“Cyno tells the most awful jokes,” Collei explained excitedly. “He especially likes puns. Ooh, they’re so terrible!”

Tighnari’s tone was dripping with sarcasm as he said, “Yes, and those closest to him earn the pleasure of his attempts to lighten the mood.” He smiled more sincerely. “He’s a dear friend to me, and a valiant protector of the law. He’s also the reason Collei came to be a part of our team.”

Collei’s expression returned neutral.

“She’s a complicated Eleazar case. We can only take care of her as much as she lets us,” Tighnari explained. “But she’s found a home here in the forest. Gandharva Ville wouldn’t be the same without her.”

You nodded, trying to keep your face detached. You felt the implication of the words—the unbearable, inevitable future of when Gandharva Ville would forever be transformed by their loss. 

You hadn’t met many other cases in your years. Those who you knew with the disease were either miserable or hiding their misery with saccharine charades. You felt all the empathy in the world for them—but you couldn’t stand their haunting company. A part of you expected that that was how others felt about you, but it was no matter when the majority of your company were emotionless and eternally mysterious microorganisms. 

“As you may or may not know, Eleazar symptoms can be better managed in the forest. Nilotpala Lotuses, a useful treatment for the skin conditions that develop, are also far more accessible away from the city.”

“I’ve heard something of the like,” you replied. ”I wonder why the disease behaves differently.”

“If there’s one thing I hope they’ve taught you,” Tighnari said, “it’s that context matters greatly for all types of ecology and health.”

You agreed.

“And for learning, as well.”

You supposed so.

“Don’t you think you might learn more—learn better—living safely immersed in the subject matter?”

Didn’t you think so, lying sleepless beneath the stars later that night next to the three of them? Didn’t you think so with the timer in the back of your mind counting down the remaining moments of your life? Didn’t you think so, hearing the ground move beneath your head—so much more alive than you could ever dream to be?

In the night, the loud silence of a million living things was sliced through by one human’s cries. Collei, suffering night terrors associated with clear physical pain, woke Tighnari and Amir from their quiet slumbers. You lay frozen, listening alertly, as Tighnari talked her back to sleep with descriptive details of flowers in the area, of birds soon to beckon dawn, of histories encoded in botany and zoology. Collei had calmed down and nodded off again, but the General Watchleader kept on until you could not hear him any longer. Your thoughts animated and blurred together, and you were lost in green dreams of life.

In the morning, you told Tighnari that you did, indeed, think so.

Table of Contents. / Next chapter.

[werewolfnightwalker]

Filthy Wings

TW: mental breakdown, PTSD, hurt/comfort, blood

Filthy. Putrid. Disgusting. Useless. His fingers blistered from the hot water, knuckles screaming from being clenched so tightly as he clawed at his feathers, trying to wash out blood that wasn't there.

But dammit, he could feel it! They were filthy, he could still smell the copper and see the crimson against his scarlet feathers.

Soiled. Defiled. Worthless. Garbage. A sob tore from his throat as he began to tear the feathers off his wings. Off, off, OFF, OFFOFFOFFOFF-!

Panic rose like sick in his throat as he felt them detach, the fear of losing even a single feather again drowning him faster than the water that ran through his hair and down his face.

He went back to scrubbing, the blisters on his fingers splitting open as the water turned cold. He was shivering in seconds, his clothes soaked and clinging to his skin. He was dizzy, unable to breathe between punchy gasps. He just- he just had to get the stains out, he just had to clean them, and he could stop.

The pain in his hands was nothing compared to what his feathers had delivered that day. He sobbed, trying to tear them off and clutch them close at the same time as he weakly scrubbed, his own blood now running from his fingers. It washed out in pinkish rivulets, dripping onto his wings and pants and swirling down the drain.

If that was what it took to purify something that could never wash clean, then he'd gladly bleed out. He continued to scrub, even as the water became icy and his lips became tinted blue.

He didn't know how long he was in the shower. Too long. Not long enough. He'd barely started, when the door opened. He couldn't look, he couldn't see anything but the red, red, red, redredredredred of feathers and blood and blood and feathers and-

"Keigo." A pair of hands, pale and pallid and cleansed in fire, reached into his vision.

"Nnnno!" He cried, terrified that they'd only be tainted if they touched him.

"Keigo." He repeated, persisting and soft. Long, gentle fingers took his bloody, befouled hands, ever so careful not to touch where his vile blood bled. "Let me see."

"I- I- Th- They're f- f- filthy-" His teeth chattered from the cold, but the sting was nothing compared to what he'd done to others. It wasn't enough, it wasn't enough penance, he was still so-

"Let me see."

"Don't touch-!"

"I won't, just open them for me. I won't touch."

He sobbed, clutching the fingers that held his own like they were all that kept him from falling. Already on his knees, he bowed his head in shame as he opened the worthless burdens he bore. The hot tears that rolled down his cheeks were immediately cooled as they dripped off his chin, mixing indeterminably with the shower water, just as the blood mixed with his feathers.

After several seconds only filled by the drumming of water in the tub's basin, he heard a relieved sigh.

"They're clean, Keigo. All clean."

"No, no, they're still-"

"Baby bird. I promise you, you got them clean." His fingers were squeezed gently, and he sobbed.

"They'll never be clean! There's- I- I can't scrub hard enough, they're still so fucking filthy-!"

"Then, they're clean enough tonight. Come on, let's get out, and I'll brush them, to make doubly sure. If they're still dirty, we can wash them again. I'll help you, alright? You did good." A shadow fell across him and he closed his eyes, bracing for retribution, a strike, but soft lips pressed to his brow, instead- a blessing? Or a promise?- before arms encircled him, oh so careful not to touch the squalid feathers.

He allowed himself to be helped to his feet, the water getting turned off before he was wrapped in a thick, fluffy towel that both hid his wings and pressed them to his back. He whimpered, relieved that they were still there yet hating their touch.

Another kiss to his brow, and he was guided away from the tub, to sit where his hands could be bandaged, rubbed until they stopped cramping and trembling.

A soft whisper of, "I've got you," and he was being helped out of his wet clothes, into warm and dry ones.

A soothing hum as a brush was ran through his hair, slow and soft and parting the wet locks like they were silken and deserving of such kindness.

Guiding hands pulled him close, into Touya's lap, so that he might cling to the only good, clean thing in his life as hands that shouldn't be so stained, that did not deserve the punishment of touching him, began to run through his wings in search of the grime and gore that he could feel caked them like cement.

Each wing, each feather, from the primaries to the pins, was inspected and searched, before Touya wrapped his arms around him and held him tightly.

"All clean." He confirmed softly, as Keigo hid his face in Touya's shoulder, sobbing brokenly with relief, "You're clean, Keigo."

End.

A/N: Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, consider leaving me a tip so I can get my name changed!

[abalathia]

steer [stir] verb steer (verb) · steers (third person present) · steered (past tense) · steered (past participle) · steering (present participle)

- (of a person) guide or control the movement of (a vehicle, vessel, or aircraft), for example by turning a wheel or operating a rudder. - (of a vehicle, vessel, or aircraft) be guided in a specified direction. - follow (a course) in a specified direction. - guide the movement or course of (someone or something).

The Gyr Abanian sunsets that were once full of wonder and vibrancy suddenly felt unextraordinary. Florence once thought they were painted by the hands of the Gods, each color meticulously chosen and blended until the sky was ablaze with a fiery masterpiece meant just for her, the closing of a chapter and promise of an equally breathtaking dawn. But since Ilberd’s death, it felt more like a harbinger, a reminder that everything unequivocally is and would always be shit.

It took weeks for the pain to subside, but it would never heal. The loss was far greater than she’d imagined, and despite obtaining everything they had ever wanted because of it, their victory tasted rancid in her mouth. Everything was suddenly tinged with the rot of grief. It forced her to think of things she swore she never would, like the absence of her father and how quickly she would have traded his life for Ilberd’s without a moment’s thought. Her mother would be troubled by the revelation, and as Florence knelt beside the bed where her mother napped, dreaming of days long gone, she wondered what she would tell her. That all things come to pass? That death is only the beginning? That we must be strong despite the storm?

Planting a lingering kiss on her mother’s forehead, savoring her scent of water lilies and various oils, Florence needn’t question it. She would tell her to follow her heart as it had yet to steer her wrong. And she intended to do just that.

With a knapsack, coinpurse, a pair of twin blades, and the last remaining inkling of faith left flickering within her, Florence left the home she fought so hard to free and made her way to the coast where she’d bargain her prowess to secure a spot on a ship headed, well, anywhere. Anywhere but here, anywhere but Eorzea. The dirt and grass and springs were as tainted as the vast expanse of sky that seemed like it would fall down and crush her at any given moment, and she couldn’t bear another second on the very soil she bled for. But the open sea, the smell of salt and taste of a freedom without the chains of her past; it gave her hope.

As Florence boarded a small ship adorned with crates and barrels of overflowing fabrics and dyes and shiphands spoke with accents she struggled to place, she looked to the horizon and smiled. The heavens were gilded and glowing, and for the first time in as long as she could recall, she looked forward to what tomorrow would bring.