#wip: dizzy spells

[dazzelmethat]

Sess lineart wip. I went for the look that early manga Sess has.

[hero-of-the-wolf]

Hyrule gets whumped 👀👀

-Sky Floor

Hyrule pressed a trembling hand to his stomach.

Breathe in, breathe out.

The world spun around him, blurry and fuzzy and distant in a way that should probably be concerning.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Someone was talking. Shouting, really; he could hear the voice of the captain closeby, but the words slipped just past the reach of his consciousness before he could make any sense of them.

Breathe in….

@skyward-floored

[greenleaf4stuff]

Thank you for the tag @gauntletgirlie! <3 Sorry it took me a while to get to it! ^_^'

Zero pressure tagging: @plotdesigner @themalhambird @janacariad @biodead-on-the-biobed @thephoenixandthecrocodile @wowstrawberrycow @illegalcerebral @askereiniongilgalad @shestoodintears @cestpasfaux24601 @gingeragenda @saffronstories @valar-did-me-wrong and anyone else who wants to play! <3

Share whatever brought you joy writing or sketching or drawing lately!

Here is mine, from when I recently did a final edit on In Convenience chapter 4 and rediscovered this little bit:

"Always so good to me, so quick to learn of my needs and discomforts – and so considerate to meet them," he murmured, and then finally turned back further. His face was soft, still, and Celebrimbor felt a weight be cast off his shoulders. "I am not sure how much I’d wish to see the result of it, but the braiding itself feels quite calming." Now, he looked a little unsure as well. "Would that be alright for you?" Celebrimbor smiled, moved closer, and hugged Adar from behind. The uruk easily caught both of his hands and held onto them as he tilted his head back, pressed their cheeks together. The elf nodded lightly. "Absolutely. I just want you to enjoy this – all of this. That would give me the most amount of happiness. And you, hopefully, as well." "You needn’t worry about that," Adar replied, and Celebrimbor could feel the smile that came over the other’s face. "You have made me feel...safe, and comforted, and very loved this evening, Tyelpe. You always do." The elf felt as if his heart was swelling inside his chest, ready to burst, and he wound himself more tightly around Adar as a result. The kisses he pressed into Adar’s cheek and jaw were the shape of smiles. "That is because I do love you." "I know," the other replied, and turned to bring their mouths together. "I love you, too." Celebrimbor could have wept with the beautiful simplicity of the other’s words. As it was, he poured himself into their current kiss, and only reluctantly drew back afterwards. He felt so full, of affection, and fondness, and contentment. To the brim and beyond it – overflowing.

Hi <3 starting a small WIP Whenever chain to brighten your weekend if it's as crammed up with work as mine.

💛Share whatever brought you joy writing or sketching or drawing lately! 💛

Tagging (without any pressure, of course x3) @gauntletgirlie without whose encouragement I wouldn't have dared to start this, @saintstars @sauron-kraut @cilil @trash-ainu @winds-of-zephyr416 @green-apple-juice @spicywarl0ck @midnottart and EVERYONE else who'd like to participate and I forgot to tag due to my overworked two-braincells-run mind! 💛💛💛

“Of course, my lord.” Behind Mairon’s comely neck, a wispy, startling dab of sunlight, soft as apricots, wafted through the eternal shadow-plumes above Angband, grazing his fair head, spearing each lustrous strand of hair into rays of carnelian vermillion and tangerine- scarlet iridescence ablaze. Not even I could have said if it was his doing or whether it was just the natural desire of all things fair and golden to please him. I could not have said, in that precise moment, what was mightier, my elemental wrath or my abyss-cloven adoration.

Sorry, it's not much, I'm lacking confidence to share more but I hope YOUR snippets will be as amazing as aplenty! 💛

💛 Have a lovely weekend, guys!!!

[yeyinde]

WIP WEDNESDAY.

a portrait of madness | oil on canvas (in the clumsy strokes of a child's fingerpainting)

JOHNNY MACTAVISH X READER

18+ | IMPLIED KIDNAPPING. NON-GRAPHIC SMUT. TRAUMA.

He burns incense on Sunday.

Catholic, he says with a slight roll of his shoulder, tone dipped in a thick coat of nonchalance that drips like hot wax over his words. Habit. 

It's piled together with other things, too—his life story eliding into a thickened paste, slurring over the edges until they're blurred and distorted. Nonsensical. Something he seems to realise by the pinch in your brow, and clicks his tongue in irritation, murmuring a jagged apology under his breath that makes you want to weep.

You won't, though. Crying just makes him frantic. Makes him gather you into his arms, holding you tight as he whispers it'll be okay and you fight the urge to tell him it's all your fault. 

Swallowing it down is easier than letting him pretend he's a hero, so you watch him instead. Voyeuristic. Riveted as he brings his hand to the mangled mess of his temple, fingers folding into a fist. Driving, digging, into the scarred tissue that frames his temple. Angry. Muttering under his breath as he grinds his knuckle into bone—

It's episodic. These little spells of torment last several minutes where he digs and you fight both the urge to be sick all over the sheets and to cry, beg him to stop. Don't hurt yourself. 

A farce. 

It shouldn't matter that he's chiselling into tissue, raking claws through grey matter; playing Dies Irae over coiling gyri. Orchestral condemnation that makes you feel like you should be relishing in his torment. Conducting madness with barbed words and caustic accusations. But—

You derive no pleasure from his suffering, and spend the day choking on the heady plume of incense as it fills the small room he keeps you locked inside, begging him to stop.

(Please, god, stop—)

He won't, though. Not until he's satiated some indivisible need to hurt himself—righting a phantom wrong with the push of his fingers into torn tissue; trephination costumed as self-flagellation. And it's only when this urge is quelled will he climb into the lumpy mattress with you, eyes glazed over and blood dripping from the scratchmarks on his temple, and gather you into his arms. Shackling you to his heaving, sweat-slicked chest as he mutters insanity into your ear, and runs his sticky, blood-damp hands over your body. 

"Mine," he'll bite out, and it'll be the only thing he says that'll make sense for the rest of the night. Everything else is the scrape of iron over lodestone; grunts and whimpers and ragged breath. 

He'll take you apart with teeth and tongue, nipping at your skin as he laughs into the hollow of your throat, dazed and dizzy with the split of your thighs bracketed around his waist. A perfect feckin' fit, pretty doe. 

In these moments, you'll forget yourself. Clean slate. Blank canvas. You'll pull him closer and whine when he pushes himself inside of you—a perfect fit, just like he said. A missing piece, just like he is. 

You've never realised how empty you felt until he rolls his hips, sinking deep inside of you. Filling the space that aches like a bruise when he pulls out. Yearning. 

And it's such an ugly thing, isn't it? To find that missing part of yourself in the thick split of his cock as he gasps about stolen ribs and figs and how he remembers you from a past life. 

It'll make you sick in the morning when you feel him—sticky and thick between your thighs; cum dribbling out of your bruised, tender cunt (already aching)—but you'll beg for it as he buries his teeth into slope of your breast, grunting into the wound like you've gutted him. 

And maybe you have. In a past life. A different time. Took a blade to his firm, trim belly and sliced through the tangle of thick, black hair until a line of red grinned up at you; a vicious twist of its lips, mocking and cruel. Flensed maw gaping wide enough to swallow you whole—

The worn bible on his desk, kept next to the dogtags and locket they sent him home with, speak of murder as a mortal sin. He laments this in mutable sermons sometimes, spinning reviled lies of death and destruction. Penance in pounds of flesh. 

He talks about that a lot. 

Penance. 

Whispered out between feverish mutterings of nonsensical things too ground up in his thick patois for you to discern. To make sense of. Everything is blurred under heavy brogue, except—

"Are ye finally gonna confess today, doe? 

He asks this with his legs spread wide, knees far apart. Bible resting on the top of his thick, muscular thigh. Rosary clenched tight in his fist. The cross on his chest swings like pendulum when he leads forward, eyes wide. Wild. Peering into the heart of you as he asks the question again. Softer this time. Slower. A caress. Sweet in your ear. 

Enticing. 

You like him better when he's drenching his fingers in grey matter and screaming at the ghosts to stop hiding things inside his closet. 

So, you evade. You look away. Pretend he isn't real. Doesn't exist. That he's a ghost. A phantom. A bad dream—

"look'it me, doe—"

A shadow in a hallway. A noise in the dark. 

"Look'it me—!"

Whispers at midnight. The ocean in a seashell. Creaking floorboards in an empty house. Something in the corner of your eye. 

"don't do this tae me, doe! Ye cannae—"

Immaterial. Something you made up inside your head—

"why'd ye dae this tae me, doe? Why'd ye do this tae us?" 

Not real. Not real. Not real—

Until his hands are around your throat. Teeth bared, lips cocked in a snarl. 

"oh, ahm real, doe. Ahm very real—" madness drips in the back of his eyes like condensation down a glass. He tugs you closer until his blood-stained teeth pinch at the soft skin of your cheek. "An' don't ye forget that, doe. Ahm just as real as ye are. Ahm just as—"

Sometimes you think it's a little strange how you can still breathe even when his hands are tight like a noose around your neck. Even stranger, maybe, that you like it. The way it feels. The sight of him breaking apart, unravelling. Coming undone. Unmoored as you turn your head away from him, drawing those fevered eyes to the slope of your throat—

He bites down until skin breaks, tears. Buries his canines into you first, gasping at the puddle of blood that wells beneath his teeth. Slurping. Sucking. Groaning into your neck as your warm blood soaks his tongue, almost choking himself on the flood of it. His front teeth follow, slicing through tissue. Punishing. 

Feeding. 

Vampiric. You knot your fists into his shorn, messy hair, pulling him closer, nearer to your vein. The ridge of your jugular. Just get on with it. 

End me, you demand. Make it worth it. 

He closes his palm around your fingers when you go to push him away when he refuses your plea, wrenching your hand down to his side, his ribs, and moaning low in his throat—the sound wet, gurgling; sticky—when your nails catch his skin. Tearing. More blood between you than air in your lungs. 

He presses them hard into his muscle until it yields against bone. 

"feel th'?" He slurs, iron drenching his words. Sodden chin jutting into the hollow of your throat as he heaves with an airy, pluming laugh. "S'missin', ain't it, doe?" 

The hand gripping your fingers tightens until they go numb. Your dizzy gasp swallowed up into the ragged spill of his breath as he slides the tips of your fingers down to bottom of his ribcage with a grunt. 

He asks again—feel th', doe?—and you offer a feeble nod in response. 

"what'd ye do wi' it, doe?" 

You don't have an answer. You don't know. 

His growls, this low, dangerous thing, and pushes your knuckles harder into his skin until it sinks against tissue—

"S’not there, is it?" He laughs with his tongue against your neck, lapping at the blood. The scorching puff of humid air against the wounds hurts like a sunburn. You bear your neck a little more. "Where'd ye put it?" 

Your head hurts. Swaying like a loose pendulum on your neck—a teetotum—and you wonder if he bit too deep this time. All the way through until it clings to your body by a thin piece of tissue—

You drop forward, slumping against him. Forehead pressing into his cheekbone, lips dragging against stubble. 

"You're crazy," you slur into skin, and he laughs, a muffled rumble buried in the makeshift cage of your throat. 

"ahm no' crazy," he grunts, pushing you down until your back is flat against the mattress, his body boxing you in. Heavy on yours. Smothering. His head is still buried in your neck. Tongue lapping at the last drops of blood that weep from the wounds you can't feel anymore. 

Not crazy. You think about this room. These four walls. Concrete. Stone slabs. Gothic revival. A bed that smells of sweat, sex, and incense. Old paper. Dusty books. 

Blood.

The hollowness of his ribcage. The missing door—

He mutters things as you lull between lucidity. Talking about a man named John. Someone named Simon. How they warned him this would happen. 

"aye," he concludes as you sink deeper into sleep, clinging by a loose, fraying thread as he buries himself inside of you once again. "Sift me as wheat—"

On the dredges of sleep, he'll murmur, soft and sorrowful: why'd ye dae it, doe? Why'd ye—

You don't know. 

But in the back of your head, a memory dredges up from the bowels of your subconscious, spat up like vomit. Regurgitated madness. It festers, writhing like a parasite. A worm in your brain you can't control. 

Ribs between your fingers. bury the bone in the backyard. But no—

Hung on a spit, blackening in the flames. Charred marrow crushed between your teeth like stale, hard bread. Chew, swallow—

You think you might have killed him. Devoured him whole. 

Metaphorically speaking, that is—

(in dreams. in the empty vacuum of your mind. a different time, a different place;)

—because the thing in your memory isn't you. 

[owiil]

Sterek prompt:

Phonecall where one of them accidentally falls asleep

I'm so sorry that this took so long! 😥 I got hit by inspo for my current WIP and kind of, flitted over to focus on that for awhile. Also... uh... my initial thought for this prompt was so cute and fuzzy. Like, Stiles at college, Sterek night time phone calls, Stiles exhausted while studying, adorableness. And then I wrote this:

"Where are you?”

Stiles sighed, feeling woozy and dizzy and a bit like he was both floating and very, awfully heavy at the same time. His teeth were numb and his cheeks felt hot while the rest of him felt rather cold and he was really, just, kind of holding on to Derek’s voice because it was the only thing that seemed really real.

“Stiles.”

“What?”

“Where are you?”

Oh. Right. Location. Location.

His eyes slid across the world like molasses. “An alley. Between two dumpsters. One’s green and the other is white.” He snorted. “The white one has a recycle logo on it. In what world is the white one the recycle? It’s always green. It’s supposed to be the green one. For nature.”

“Stiles.” There was an edge to Derek’s voice, sharp and hard enough to cut through Stiles’ indignation about the recycle dumpster being the wrong color and bring him back to the conversation. “An alley where?”

With a hum, he leaned forward. Grunted at the tearing sensation in his gut. Leaned a bit more until he was panting ragged breaths but could finally see past the dumpsters. “Can’t see a street sign. No people.” Until and unless Trent, or whatever his actual name was, unless it was Trent, which—ugh, Trent—managed to track him down.

“Anything that’s not a street sign? Anything?”

“Orange and yellow neon across the street.” He squinted his eyes, found it didn’t help clear his vision, and finally had to lean back because the pain his stomach had grown too much, also, he was loosing strength in his arm, could tell from the way he felt a wash of wet warmth down his front, soak into his pants. “Maybe a palm.” He panted a ragged breath. “Palm reader? Why does it matter anyway? Use your nose.”

“We’re still recovering from the grenade yesterday.”

Or what Stiles had called a grenade. It had been a magical explosive, not a literal one. Good for Stiles. Less good for the wolves who could barely get into a beta shift and whose senses were cut down to a pittance of what they normally were at.

“Right.” Shit. “Maybe I should call 9-1-1 instead.”

“What.” Not even a question, just a straight up demand.

Stiles’ eyes rolled in a very slow circle before landing on himself and immediately darting away with a haste he hadn’t managed to achieve up to that point. “I am bleeding,” he said, strained and a little nauseated, “a lot.”

“What?” A question that time, snappish.

“I— Did I not—?” His tongue darted out to wet his lips only to be as dry as them and he frowned. “I may have gotten stabbed. Sorry I didn’t mention that.”

“Shit.”

“’s okay. I’m positive I’ve been worse off before.” He thought. Was pretty sure. He took a deep breath, winced, and let his too heavy head thump back against the concrete wall behind him. “I could try that teleportation spell, probably. It’s blood magic. I definitely have enough of it.”

“You are not trying teleportation magic for the first time while you are…” Derek snarled.

Stiles’ lips twitched into a small, amused smile. Always leave it to Derek to be skittish and nervous around new magics. It was kind of hilarious. Stiles didn’t tease him about it nearly as much as he needed to. “Alright.” He took another breath and shivered. “Alright.” God his phone weighed a ton. Pulling it away from his ear he put it on speaker, though between the blood and his jittery fingers and the trouble he was having with his vision it took a few tries. When he did, Derek’s voice came through, mid sentence.

“—e Black Rose?”

“Where I started?” Stiles asked back, letting his hand and the phone drop to his side. “Yeah.”

“In the back alley.”

“He was such a good kisser before he stabbed me…”

A beat of silence and Stiles thought maybe he’d fallen asleep for a moment or the line cut out because Derek wasn’t one to takes beats of silence on phone calls, not unless he really had the time, then he was very much a beat of silence kind of person. Too many beats of silences.

“Did you…” A beat.

Weird.

“Did you take your shirt off?”

“Yeah, the make out was great before the knife showed up. Aside from being a psycho witch, his heavy petting game is really top notch.” Lids terribly heavy, Stiles let his eyes slide shut. Besides, the sound of Derek’s voice seemed to be dulling the— “Oh.”

“What?”

“Think I’m gonna pass out soon.”

“No.”

Stiles tried to open his eyes. It was a genuine fight. “I’m cold,” he said, taking another laborious breath. “And the pain’s starting to dull a bit. So, you know, you might want to call an ambulance.”

“Stiles,” was the last thing he heard before his eyes rolled up and he slumped over, sliding limply along the concrete wall into the pile of garbage bags to his left.

⟪more of my tumblr fics here⟫

[seiya-starsniper]

So I've been plonking away at a new WIP that I started for @dbdcentral's Dead Boy Detectives Appreciation Week and I....am not going to have it finished before the event ends 😅😅😅

However, @five-and-dimes tagged me in the last line tag game again, and I do have a part of the fic I'm pretty proud of so far, so I'm going to share it!

This fic is meant to fill the Day 2 Prompt: Alternate Universe. The basic premise here is that while on a case, Charles gets hit by a weird spell that causes him to wake up in an alternate universe where he and Edwin are alive, human, and living together as young adults and not teenagers. Oh, and they're also together together, and Charles is...much more into it than he thought he would be 🤭

---------

“Good morning sleepyhead,” Edwin greets, holding out a mug to him. “Coffee?” Charles takes the cup, immediately places it down on the counter, and wraps his arm around Edwin’s waist, pulling him in for a kiss.  He likes kissing Edwin, Charles decides. Edwin’s mouth fits perfectly against his, soft and plush and warm. Edwin also tends to sigh every time their lips touch, like he’s surrendering complete control of the kiss, of himself, entirely to Charles. It’s a dizzying feeling, to be trusted so completely like this. They’d always trusted each other implicitly, in every way that mattered, but this vulnerability, this devotion, is something else entirely. “What’s gotten into you?” Edwin laughs when they pull apart. “You’re acting like we just started dating yesterday.” “Maybe I’m being nostalgic,” Charles whispers against his best friend’s mouth, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as well. He nuzzles his nose into Edwin’s, then steals another kiss. “Maybe I want to reignite that initial spark in our relationship.” “Oh please, like the spark ever went out,” Edwin replies, rolling his eyes fondly. “You’ve never been able to keep your hands off me.” “And I’m not about to start,” Charles grins, before he kisses Edwin again. Edwin lets out a surprised mmph! but otherwise does not protest to being kissed senseless once more. Breakfast and coffee can wait, Charles thinks. Nothing else more important than this.   There’s a small part of Charles that feels guilty about wanting to do this, about wanting to step into a life that did not belong to him. This was not his Edwin that he was kissing, and he was not this world’s Charles. Charles knows that if he immerses himself too much in this world, it will be that much harder for him to get out, for his Edwin to find the right spell or magic to get Charles back to his own world. If he isn't careful, Charles could even get stuck here permanently, and never be able to go back.  …But surely a few stolen kisses couldn’t hurt?

[dramioneasks]

HP FESTS: Dramione Month (Part 10)

Dramione Month 2024:

Dizzy at the Falling Stars by galaxy_skies - T, one-shot - Professor Snape has been teaching them the Patronus Charm for two weeks. Most of her fellow Dumbledore’s Army students have been pretending to struggle with the spell. Not Harry, though, of course. His stag careens impressively around the classroom until Snape tells him to stop posturing or it’ll turn into a peacock. And while everyone else is busy casting spells, Hermione has been busy watching Draco Malfoy.

Obliviate by WitchyWander - E, one-shot - The first time Hermione realised that Draco Malfoy wasn't the biggest git in wizarding Britain was the day he finally kissed her. Too bad Harry had to be an idiot and waltz into her office at the worst possible time.

Pansy Plans a Party by TheDarkFaerie - E, 3 chapters - Pansy is in charge of planning and running a special party. She's going to make sure that it's extra special. “Paperwork check,” a dangerously low satin of words rippled across the dark carpeted room, bringing silence to the goading voices all around Hermione’s ears. ** Long snippet from my full series re-write, currently in progress, called "A Moment of Leverage". ** [WARNINGS: Rape/Non-Con]

Obliviate by saneasluna - G, one-shot - He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to pull forward all the memories he can, a whirling kaleidoscope of colors. He tries to touch each moment with his mind one last time, fast forward through what’s been keeping him going this last year. That first kiss in front of the Black Lake, under darkness of night, their breaths coming out in puffs of cold as they bundled under his cloak.

Haven’t I given enough? by Goldenbuckydrabbles (Goldenbucky) - E, one-shot - She never imagined she would be face to face with the task of performing this devil of a spell for a second time. She digs deep into her emotions, trying to draw up the raw strength she needed the first time, filling herself with the same courage and resilience she had to feel to save her parents as she gears up to cast the spell. For, in the end, it’s to save his life. She has to be strong. She has to do this.

Lost Love by HCB123 - G, one-shot - Why did Draco refuse to identify the golden trio? What was really going on upstairs when Harry and Ron were locked in the dungeon listening to Hermione's screaming at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange? A fic in which Draco is just a boy, trapped in an impossible situation wanting to do the right thing but external forces prevent him.

Meet Me in Margate by thehoneydoll - E, WIP - “Don’t you want to see?” Draco asks from beside her this time. Only as she turns, he’s there. Not just a voice at the edges of her mind, but there. Tall, slender, and pale as ever—his eyes sad and his shoulders hunched as he stares at her. He looks just as he had the last time she’d seen him. “Don’t you want to remember me one last time?” “No,” Hermione answers honestly, voice hoarse and throat tight as she considers it. “I didn’t know it’d be like this. They said I just had to go to sleep and I’d forget everything. I didn’t know I’d have to relive it first.” “It’s okay, Granger,” he says with a small tilt of his lips that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “In the morning it’ll all be over.” Or: The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind AU

Come Back to Me; I Love You Still by galaxy_skies - T, one-shot - Sometimes he pulls the memory out, on quiet lonely nights when the ache bites into his bones. When the curiosity gets too much to bear.

This fest is ongoing.

[carriedlikeabriefcase]

WIP of a Douma x reader I'm working on

Context for scene: It's a modern AU where he's buying the girlfriend experience. And, I headcanon that as a human, he would have anemia for multiple reasons; all reasons steming from his mental disorder.

“I'll walk you home,” He snatched your hand, interlacing his icy fingers in yours.

“That really won't be necessary,” Your struggle for your hand only made him smile,”Also why are your hands so cold? Are you a freaking vampire or something?”

“Or something,” His face twitched, prepping a fabricated lie. But a manipulative half truth soaked in honey comes out in its place,”My dove, I have anemia. It sincerely warms my heart that you're so concerned about my well-being. And since that is the case, I'd like for you to hold my hand to keep me warm.”

“What kind?” Curiosity getting the better of you.

Douma places the index finger of his free hand along his sharp jawline, his other fingers resting on his chin,”Iron deficiency, isn't that just so dreary?”

You snickered with a wry grin,”Only if you don't take your supplements.”

“Supplements?” Douma's face dropped; lips parting, thick eyebrows drooping. He looked like one of those sad puppies from rescue advertisements.

With an eye roll, you started to walk towards the exit. Begrudgingly allowing his hand to remain in yours,”If you're diagnosed we both know damn well the doctors told you to take iron.”

“I'm rather fond of the dizzy spells.”

“Are you fond of having brittle nails?” There's a pause in your steps. You raise your intertwined hands up to his eye level. His eyes narrow at you, realizing you understood the reason behind the periwinkle, acrylic cover-up.

The flirtatious outward demeanor drops,”You're not very nice, are you?”

“Maybe I'll be nicer if you take your vitamins.”

“Hm, I'd take them if you fed them to me by hand.”

“It'll cost ya’ extra,” Teeth dug into your bottom lip as you fought back the urge to grin. Losing the battle as a genuine smile brightens your face.

He mirrors you.

“So be it.”

[amandaoftherosemire]

Second Sight -- Part Twenty

Fandom: Marvel Avengers AU/MCU AU

Pairing: Loki Odinson X fem!Reader

Characters: Loki Odinson

Author: @amandaoftherosemire

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 7,886

Format: Series WIP

Warnings: Language, angst, fluff.

Summary: You begin visiting Asgard regularly. You and Loki fight and make up.

A/N: If I was reading this, I would not have believed me that this wasn’t a dead fic, especially when over a year passed since the last update. I didn’t really believe me either, but knowing that this story is out there in the world, loose ends dangling, weighs on me. Thus, I made a rule for myself that I’m not allowed to write any other fanfic until this is complete. But that just meant I didn’t write anything. And now I’m dropping a fairly slow transitional chapter after a year and a half of nothing, long after everyone who cares is gone. That seems reasonable.

I make absolutely no promises as to when the next chapter will post. I clearly have no idea what I’m doing, and I cannot be trusted with those kinds of predictions. I would like to believe that it will be soon, as the next chapter is where we meet back up with canon, but I also have come to know myself quite well and there’s no point in pretending to be something I’m not. But please send good vibes to the part of my brain that controls executive function. I could really use it. 😉

<<Part Nineteen here

Second Sight Part Twenty

Three years after you met, at least as measured in the flow of normal time, and nearly nine months after you'd exchanged rings, Loki was finally satisfied that he'd taken every precaution necessary to protect his illusion from your anti-magic aura. Once he began taking you Asgard, he couldn't stop, too gratified to see his childhood home through your eyes. Things that had once only inspired anger and resentment became beautiful again at your side, watching your eyes widen in wonder, your lips part in gasps of awe and astonishment. Walking next to you, pretending to be his father, sharing Asgard with you, he began to acknowledge the attachment he had to the place, regardless of where he had been born.

Draped in the various tokens, baubles, amulets, and bejeweled chains that carried the net of spells Loki had created to protect you both, you, at long last, got your first sight of Asgard, stepping through shimmering silks into Odin's bedroom. The room was lavish and luxurious in a way your imagination could not have created before you saw it for yourself and left you speechless with awe, feeling almost stupid with it. Everything around you seemed soft and lush in a way you had never before experienced. Even the air itself caressed your skin more gently; never piercing, the light shimmered and bounced against every surface, scattering in a way that seemed to slide more easily into the eye.

Between the overwhelming awe and heart-pounding excitement sat weeping gratitude for the NPC effect of your wedding ring as you were openly gawking by the time you reached the main hall of Odin's palace. Struck dumb with awe at the grandeur you could see in every direction, you couldn't remember to close your mouth. Looking out across the length of the throne room, you fully understood for the first time why Loki's private domain was so dizzyingly lush. The room was bigger than Madison Square Garden and a thousand times more impressive. Faced with the reality that Loki's childhood home was a palace filled to the insanely high rafters with gold you began to comprehend in a new way how far apart the two of you had started. How you'd come together at all was a mystery and how you'd stayed together was incomprehensible, only becoming more so the more time you spent at this side.

The murals on the ceiling of that throne room, three stories high, made you imagine the dizzying task of painting such things and sent your own head spinning. You only made it worse trying to imagine yourself in the painter's shoes, and knew you could never match their skill with your feet on the ground, let alone suspended in midair above a possibly lethal height.

That first time you walked through the throne room, those massive, imposing murals high above you, you stopped in the middle, tilting your head all the way back, until the back of your skull was touching your upper back. Loki stopped next to you, fussing with something at the hem of his tunic to cover for his pause in the center of the room.

You couldn't move, needed utter stillness to strain your eyes enough to see the picture so very high above you. Though you were at risk of drawing attention from the guards, as painfully upright as their spears, who were placed at strategic points through the hall, you didn't care, needing to examine the portraits circling the centerpiece of the grandest mural of all. Even from this distance, you could clearly see that the work was incredibly fine and detailed, rich with color and edged in gold.

You peered carefully at the family portraits, closely examining each of Loki’s family, putting faces to the names you'd heard by now thousands of times. As the years had worn on, Loki had told you about his world, his childhood, his family, and you felt you knew them, despite having never met them. You recognized Thor easily, from his appearances on the news, and moved on quickly, wanting to focus on those you'd never seen. You studied Odin thoroughly, having an urgent need to understand what he was supposed to look like. As you couldn’t see Loki’s illusions, you hadn’t been sure how he'd appeared to others as you'd walked through his kingdom on his arm.

You wished that Frigga’s face was turned toward you, found yourself lingering as you'd fiercely wondered for years what Loki’s mother had looked like, whether her good heart was apparent on her face. If there was something worth loving inside Loki, it was clearly Frigga's doing. That he could love anyone in return, that he could love you, was because of the love she'd so freely given him. You’d imagined what she looked like, hoped to see that loving heart reflected in her face, had wanted confirmation. Knowing it didn't really matter, you let Loki pull you into motion just as your eyes fell on his portrait. Unable to help yourself, you scoffed out a laugh that echoed around the high ceilings.

"Did the mural painter have a vendetta?" You murmured the question half-seriously, incredulous at the way your husband was depicted in this masterpiece painting. He had been flawlessly painted, true to his features, but with such a sinister cast to his expression that you couldn't help the amusement bubbling up inside you. With such skill on display, the wicked portrayal had to be deliberate; none of the other portraits had anything like the aura surrounding him.

Loki paused a moment, glancing up at the mural above the two of you, a frown of confusion digging a line in between those undeniably wicked eyebrows. He was baffled as to what could have prompted the question as he couldn't remember the last time he thought about the painting. He honestly never even looked up at it anymore, so long had it graced the ceiling. "I don't know what you mean,” he replied, looking back down at you still puzzled, as he'd seen in the painting what he'd always seen, and had long, long since become accustomed to ignoring.

Chuckles tickling the back of your throat, you turned with a teasing smile for him. “Are you kidding me?” With a nod of your head toward the portrait, you didn’t quite hold back a small snort. “You are looking at the same painting of you that I am, right?" You asked, laughter thick in your voice. Despite the height of the ceiling, you could clearly see that his portrait was plotting something.

Loki looked once more at the ceiling, focusing this time on his own portrait amongst the riot of color. His eyes narrowed when he saw to what you were referring, acknowledging internally that his portrait was not as flattering as his brother’s, but that was expected and beneath his notice. Still, once you'd pointed it out, he could easily see the shadows around his brow, the menacing tilt of his head, the closed posture and understood why you had asked about them. The painter had made decisions.

He searched his memory, trying to remember who had painted the mural and what, if anything, he’d done to offend them. He had a vague memory of cruelties, both given and received. It had never occurred to him that his teeth could have been sharp enough at that age for his bite to have any impact, but your sight was often more clear than his, especially with the things he saw so often as to take them for granted. Speaking slowly, he looked back at you as he answered, both his voice and his face guarded. “She's a very talented artist, well-respected amongst my kind."

You couldn’t see through all of Loki’s lies; he was far too clever for that. That didn't mean that you hadn't learned how to read the expressions that flashed across his face. You knew when he wasn't telling you everything, when he was speaking around something and the way he was speaking around this made you wild with curiosity. He never talked about old flames and all it did was make you want to know more, but you couldn't pester him about his centuries-long love life. That felt unhealthy. But this was a chance to find out something, finally. There was no way you were letting this go.

You raised an eyebrow and looked back at the dark-eyed, shadowed figure that represented the man at your side as the two of you moved past the throne, heading toward the door out of the throne room, and ultimately down to the gardens. Your lips were curved in amusement as you pressed him further. "Then she had a personal problem with you, because you look sinister as fuck.” Lowering your voice as you were getting close to a guard, you finished with a wink, "Still sexy, though.”

Loki’s face relaxed into a wide smile and he chuckled at the wicked eyebrow wiggle you gave him. He wasn't worried about the guard overhearing your conversation; he'd piled so many illusion spells into the pendant at your neck, the ring around your finger, anyone who didn't directly interact with you would have a hard time remembering that you'd been there, and would never remember that you spoke.

The truth, something that would never pass his lips because he would never tell himself such a truth, was that he never talked about the lovers he'd had before because he barely remembered them anymore, barely remembered what it was like before he met you. Having you in his world, seeing his world through your eyes had banished even the memory of what came before, at least for the moment. He couldn’t imagine why he'd ever bother trying to dredge up memories from before, when he’d felt like no one understood him, or ever would.

 "I'm sure she had a reason,” he tossed out carelessly with a shrug, grinning at you unrepentantly. “Who remembers?"

You rolled your eyes, trying and failing to suppress a smile. You knew you were overindulgent, but you liked seeing him happy too much to dim it with questions about the past. "You're right. What am I thinking?” Loki drew you through door behind the throne, intending to take you through the smaller corridor to the back way to the gardens. He knew how natural beauty could awe you and he wanted to once again see your bottomless eyes go wide with wonder. You let him guide you, letting go and laughing out loud at his relentless nonchalance.

“How could you possibly remember every person who hates you enough to immortalize it in gold leaf?"

Over the following year, you became very familiar with Asgard. Loki drew you into his daily life as fully as he'd drawn you into his shadow realm, getting very comfortable with having everything he wanted in reach with nothing and no one in his way. He disliked being parted from you, often requesting that you join him on Asgard as soon as you were done seeing to your everyday life on Midgard. You'd gotten into the habit of coming home from work, hopping into Loki's extra-dimensional palace to change into an Asgard-appropriate gown before popping through the portal in his study that led to Odin's private quarters.

Each piece of jewelry Loki had seen fit to drape over you had its share of spells designed to keep you hidden and safe. You had yet to discover any weaknesses in your adventures, and Asgard was no exception. On the rare occasion that you'd drawn attention to yourself, it had been deliberate. To both your and Loki's relief, you'd been perceived as an Asgardian, and one of note only due to your place as Odin's companion. Everyone who met you had a vague sense of having met you before, an implicit understanding of your place in their world, but neither were they allowed to consider it for longer than a moment.

You learned the royal palace until you knew it the way you knew your own neighborhood, able to find your way through without ever passing by an ounce of Nidevellir iron. Like your own neighborhood, the palace had become familiar, but never routine. Unlike New York, however, the sprawling golden floors under soaring lavish ceilings never seemed fully real. Neither did the rivers the Asgardians skimmed in their flying boats, or the forests in which they hunted. You couldn't explain what it was about the world in its entirety, but it had a dreamlike quality that made you question reality. At the same time, there were moments with Loki where everything sharpened into an almost painful clarity. Asgard itself, however, or perhaps the interaction between the world and its occupants and the spells that Loki had woven around you, left you floating through.

Sometimes, however, for no discernable reason that you could see, you would be standing hand in hand with Loki, a new wonder spread out before you, as Asgard was full of them, and that dreaminess would fall away and it was like you were looking at the world through fresh eyes, eyes that were being allowed to see all that they could for the first time. There were moments, your heart pounding, your breath speeding, that you could almost feel your vision shift into a different state, as though you were seeing another range of color, or yet another layer of reality. Some moments, it seemed as though the practice with Loki's magic had made your unique sight even more powerful.

Though the merchant on Alfheim had provided Loki with his first real clue about that sight's origins, only part could be explained in such a way, and it did not explain why Asgard seemed to affect that sight. In many ways, knowing a possible source had left both of you with only more questions.

But questions and the search for answers animated Loki, gave him new excuses to hop from world to world, taking on new disguises and tricking others out of what he needed from them. If this wild love affair had ever been meant to last, you'd worry that his fascination with you would end with the solved puzzle. No matter how devoted, adoring, possessive he was toward you, about you, it seemed impossible that he could love you the way you loved him.

Everything about him, the flash of mischievous eyes, the curve of a wicked smile, even the dip of a sullen brow could make warmth and heat tangle inside you. The emotion was so much, swelling and filling you up until you felt like you were made out of love for him. Sometimes it felt like you were trying to be more than only yourself, like love had changed you, and you sought to be something more, something that could match how tall he stood in your esteem. Despite everything between you and Loki, a part of you remained always braced for the day he stopped making the thin chain around your wrist ice over in summons, the day he stopped craving your company, the day this crazed dream ended.

As it was, you could comfort yourself with the cold truth that you'd probably never have to find out if Loki would tire of you as he was bound to be found out any day, so little did he seem to care about his illusions. Nearly four years after he'd stolen his father's throne, he'd gotten too comfortable in the lack of resistance from the Asgardians. As long as life remained calm and their lives undisturbed, they were uninterested in challenging the status quo. Loki had used that for years to his advantage, had known that peace and prosperity would be more than enough to quell any questions about the man on the throne. Over the years, that lack of challenge had led to complacency.

And in that complacence, he began to chafe.

"Is there a protection spell on the floor?" You were sitting in Loki's pocket dimension, paging through a book about the Aesir language to look for familiar symbols, and trying to ignore Loki as he paced his study floor in long strides. You didn't look up as you spoke, but in your peripheral vision you could see him narrow his eyes as he snapped his head toward you.

The sneer on his face was becoming a familiar sight. "I beg your pardon?" he snarled softly, through almost gritted teeth. There was an undercurrent of warning to his tone, as though he suspected you were trying to bait him.

His suspicions completely accurate, your voice remained bored as you answered, "I’m trying to figure out how you haven’t worn a track in the floor yet." You raised a brow but kept your eyes on the book in your hand as you casually turned the page. "You pace it often enough." Well aware that you were testing him, were in fact deliberately taunting him, attempting to get under his skin, you kept your face mostly serene even as you lifted a single brow in mild disdain.

Loki's smile was sharp as a blade and his voice acid sweet as he replied with mock surprise, "My apologies for disturbing you." He stopped and turned to face you in a whirl of emerald velvet and midnight silk, his eyes firing with insult. "I didn’t realize this was your study."

For the first time, you lifted your gaze with a deliberate sweep of your lashes and met Loki's heated stare with cool frustration, letting a humorless half smile curve the corner of your mouth. "And I didn't realize you summoned me to watch you pace your study." Glaring at him on the emphasis, you shifted your attention back to your book in dismissal, though you knew he could hear the way your heart was starting to speed as the confrontation wore on.

"You're free to leave." Loki spat out the words in tones as cold as the world of his birth, one hand gesturing toward the armoire holding the portal that led back to your apartment, as he turned away from you and walked toward the desk in the corner. As he bent over the front of the desk, keeping his back to you, you rolled your eyes behind him despite the way your stomach dropped at his words.

You couldn't help but wonder if this was it, if the years you'd spent together had finally rendered you familiar enough to be worth his contempt. The part of you that had always believed it was only a matter of time before he tired of you would always hear rejection when his voice lost all warmth and color. Pushing back against the emptiness that echoed inside you at the sound, anger rushed in to fill the void and made your voice tremble slightly, making you sound more hostile than you intended. "And you're not. And that's why you're wearing a rut in the stone."

"Enough." The single word was an order. Loki bent to brace his palms on the desk, his head dropping down to look at the book open in front of him. When he didn't look at you, merely dropped his command like a stone, as though you'd ever obey, your icy façade crumbled in the blaze of flaming rage. Fury propelling you to your feet, you jumped up, eyes wide and mouth opening with the first of the flood you'd kept dammed up inside of you.

"It's not enough, Loki! You-- It's like--" You were so furious you were sputtering with it. With a stamp of rage that had him finally turning, you tried to clamp down on yourself but everything you'd been biting back came pouring out of you. "You're like a tiger dying in captivity! For months you've been chewing on me like I'm the bars of your goddamn cage!" Your hands clenched into your fists at your side, your eyes glittering with the beginning of unshed tears, you looked him in the face and finally said what you'd been most afraid to say. "If you want me to leave, stop being a coward and fucking say it."

Loki rarely flinched, and this was no exception. Anyone who hadn't spent years of time outside of time alone with him would not have had the opportunity to memorize his microexpressions as you had, would not have been able to see the pain tightening the corners of his mouth, his eyes. His voice still cold, though his eyes blazed with emotion, he stated firmly, "Do not put words in my mouth." He paused a moment, then spoke in a voice perceptibly more gentle. "If I no longer wanted you here, you would have no doubt on the matter."

Your knees went weak in relief as the fury drained out of you. Somehow, you hadn't known how badly you'd needed the reassurance until you'd received it. You didn't know it, but the look on your face was broadcasting clearly exactly what you were feeling and Loki's heart hurt with the realization that you'd indeed had doubt, but about him. Knowing he'd hurt you with his own frustrations made him ache with a rare remorse that, for once, he didn't bother to hide.

When Loki's face softened with tenderness, with apology, you ran forward, into his waiting arms. Grateful that, if nothing else, you still wanted each other, he caught you close and enfolded you tightly against his chest. You buried your face in his throat and let him take your weight as you felt his lips brush over the top of your head.

"I wasn't exaggerating, you know." You didn't move your head, simply spoke against his throat, your lips moving against his skin. Though his arms didn't loosen, you felt him pull away in resistance despite the fact that he didn't really move. Your arms tightened in response, and you felt the burn of swallowed tears at the back of your throat. "You're so miserable, like you feel trapped and it's killing you."

Loki wanted to pull away, not from you, but from what you were saying. He knew you were right, but he didn't want to consider what it meant for either of you. He'd found so much joy in simply making you happy that he didn't want to examine how he'd been ignoring his own growing dissatisfaction. "I have the weight of the Nine Realms on my shoulders." He could hear himself giving you half-truths, but couldn't make himself acknowledge the truth to himself either. "Our enemies stir and I have lost track of my brother, Heimdall, Sif. I have a few things on my mind."

You shook your head but you didn't take your face from its place beneath his ear. Though that was all true, it wasn't what was destroying his happiness. "You hate pretending to be your father. You like being in charge, but you hate the responsibility of actually ruling." At this, Loki began for the first time to physically recoil, but now that you'd uncorked these thoughts, you couldn't keep them to yourself anymore. You held on, refusing to take your own weight back from him, forcing him to either hold you or drop you, betting that he wouldn't do the latter. "No, don't. As much as you despise straight communication, you have to hear this. You have to listen." Tilting your head back, you looked him in the face and said, bluntly, your throat still aching from the tears you were still holding back. "Because living like this is killing you."

Loki wouldn't drop you, no matter what nonsense you were babbling about, but it took the sight of your eyes drenched with tears to make him listen. He sighed, and softened again, vaguely annoyed that anyone had such power over him, even you. "Living like what?"

You sighed in relief when you felt him relax against you, saw the annoyed indulgence moving over his face and knew he would hear you. Grateful for the chance to finally speak, you did so in a rush. "Without any real use for your talents. No one disagrees with you, no one argues." A line began to form between Loki's eyebrows as your words sank in, and he didn't interrupt. When he didn't protest, you didn't stop. "Not even maintaining the farce of pretending to be your father amuses you anymore because no one will call you out no matter what you do. Whether you've done it consciously or not, you've tested them by acting strange. They notice that you're not quite right as your father, but they don't say anything. The only people who would are gone, and you're bored out of your mind."

Loki's mouth had opened partway through the flood of words, but he hadn't tried to speak. Once you fell silent, however, he realized he wasn't certain what to say. As was your habit, you'd seen more deeply than he'd expected and had spoken a truth he hadn't acknowledged for himself. He couldn't deny that he'd been dogged by a sense of dissatisfaction, a feeling that had once presaged his most audacious mischief but now only made him pick at those around him, mostly you. "It's not boredom," he replied, slowly, his voice guarded. "Not exactly."

Even the guarded tone couldn't stop you, not now. You'd been trying to pry this door open for weeks, if not months, and you wouldn't be dissuaded now that you'd succeeded, even this little bit. "Then what is it?" You still had your arms wrapped around his waist, your chest pressed to his and your face lifted to search his with eyes desperate for understanding. Squeezing him, you pleaded with him, needing him to confide in you, explain why he was so unhappy, why he was pretending he wasn't. "Please, Loki. Tell me. Trust me."

Loki scoffed out a laugh, disbelief audible in the sound, and grinned wryly down at you. "I do. As I trust no one else in this universe." He shifted his weight as he paused, his face turning inward as he contemplated your question. As he moved to brace himself against the desk at his back, he dipped his head to brush his lips over yours. If he'd thought he could distract you, he may have tried, but the determined look on your face, the heartsick look in your eyes, told him not to bother.

With a deep sigh, Loki tried to put his feelings into words. "Boredom isn't quite right," he murmured, slowly, contemplating the itchy sensation that drove him to pace his study, "because I really do have a great deal to worry about." Looking inward, he didn't realize he was staring deeply into your bottomless eyes, falling in and speaking the truth without thought. "I can wear my father's face, but I cannot wield his power." At the sound of his own voice, the truth he'd been hiding from himself, he began trying to extricate himself from whatever lay in the depths of your eyes and would have the truth from him whether he liked it or not. Still, he spoke, "If these stirrings become more than a nuisance, I may have to call my brother back to Asgard. If that happens…" trailing off as he worked to disentangle himself from the power of your gaze.

A teasing grin flashed across your face, and the crinkle at the corners of your eyes allowed him to fully break free, amazed as always that you could catch him so. "Admit it." You spoke the words with a warm indulgence and a gentle shake, your arms still wrapped tightly around his middle. "A part of you cannot wait for Thor to come home." At the look of disgusted consternation that moved across his face, you burst out laughing, throwing your head back. "Don't look at me like that," you snickered, shaking your head at him, and not letting go despite the way he was tensing in your arms again. "Thinking about having to deal with Thor made you look alive for a second. You miss him."

You said the last gently, with a wealth of understanding, but that didn't stop the insult from bubbling up inside him. With a huff of indignant irritation, his hands lifted to your upper arms to pull them from around his waist, setting you away from himself with a cold, "I do not."

You didn't bother to disguise your amusement as he turned away from you to face the desk, pulling a journal toward him and turning it to focus on the notes there, pretending to shut you out. "Fine," you retorted as you turned and plopped down in the spot on his desk he'd just vacated, "if not Thor himself, you miss having an adversary." You snagged the coin Loki habitually kept on his desk and started practicing bouncing it across your knuckles. Loki thought your dexterity could use work, and though you had no aspiration toward pickpocketing, it made him happy to corrupt you. "One who knows you well enough to be a genuine challenge." You glanced over at him and smiled at the sulk forming on his face. "You're stagnating without one."

Loki flashed a smile at you, but made sure he didn't get caught in your eyes again. He really didn't want to have this conversation but you weren't letting go this time. "I'm still trying to understand you," he purred, leaning in to take your mouth in a kiss designed to deflect, as was his usual, as you usually let him. "That's become the greatest of challenges, my sweet."

You kissed him back, lifting your hands to his face to hold him there, taking you both somewhere sweet and dark for a moment. When you pulled your lips from his, it was to nuzzle your mouth against him, humming in pleasure as your fingers danced over the silk of his skin, the sharp edge of his jaw. "Flattery will not deflect me this time," you murmured, dancing kisses over his cheeks and mouth and making his eyelashes flutter, "no matter how sweetly you kiss me while you do it."

Loki's grin flashed again and he sidled over press a palm on the desk on either side of your hips, nudging your thighs apart with his knee and stepping between in one smooth motion. With that wolfish smile on his face, he took your mouth in a kiss both deep and hot, his tongue sliding between your lips to tangle with yours. You kissed him back with fervor, letting him wipe your mind clean for a moment.

Despite the part of you that wanted to dive into the oblivion he was offering, wanted to go back to pretending that everything was fine, you only allowed yourself a moment to indulge before gently withdrawing. You kept your hands on his face, even as you pulled your mouth from his to pin him with a solemn stare, though the corners of your mouth turned up in the slightest of sweet smiles. When you lifted an eyebrow, he sighed in resignation.

"Not deflect, really." While he'd been kissing you, he'd moved his palms from the surface of the desk to the tops of your thighs, and he squeezed gently now, pressing them open with his hips. "Divert, at worst," he quipped with a winning grin and a nip at your lower lip.

You fixed him with a stern look, using your grip on his hands to hold him in place. "Loki." You waited until he stopped fighting and looked you in the eyes. You hadn't wanted to force the issue, but he was more stubborn than anyone you'd ever known. As the silence stretched and he tried to resist the pull of your gaze, you waited, love making you patient. When his eyes met yours and his body seemed to sag in surrender, you leaned forward and kissed him, your lips a velvet brush against his. When you pulled back and met his eyes again, you tried to show him in your expression how you felt. "You're my heart." An understatement, if there ever was one. You felt like he'd become a part of you, and to lose him would be to destroy the part of yourself you loved most. "Do you understand that?"

Loki could see how you felt on your face and his heart throbbed in response, as he felt exactly the same. This time, he gave you the truth without a fight. "As you're mine, I understand nothing better."

"If what's happening inside you was happening to me," you kept your hands on his face, your eyes on his, looking deep as you spoke, "what would you do to put a stop to it?" You saw the emotions chase each other in a spasm across his face, love, pain, anger. He seemed to want to move away, a shiver moving through his body, but he stayed in place, his eyes on yours. When he didn't speak, you prompted, "Answer me honestly for once."

Loki's mouth twisted sardonically, struck by the irony of that statement while trapped in your truth-extracting gaze. With a laugh that was a half-scoff, he lifted his hands to take yours where they still cupped his face. Long fingers twined around yours, bringing the backs of your hands to his mouth, brushing his lips over your skin with a tenderness he so rarely indulged, even with you. "There is nothing I wouldn't do." The words had a fervor that made them resonate, the low rumble of his voice seeming to seep into your bones. His silver tongue could give lies lovely dancing rhythm, but the truth fell from his mouth in a pounding beat. "There's no end to which I would not go to shield you from any pain."

You cocked a brow, waiting for the acknowledgment that you were only acting in his best interests as he would act in yours. When he stayed silent, you sighed as your mouth curved in an indulgent smile. "Something has to give, love." You leaned forward and over your still joined hands, brushed your mouth over his. "I will not have that something be you."

"I'm not--"

Despite his sudden scowl, you cut him off with a shake of your head. "You should think about when to cut and run, and whether that's sooner rather than later, for your own sake." You smiled and snaked a leg around his hips, pulling your hands from his to slide your arms around his neck. "Maybe you should break the spell on your father from some luxury resort on a planet that doesn't have an extradition treaty with Asgard."

Loki's head was spinning. He didn't know how you could ever think that he'd be bored or tired of you when there was never an end to the surprises with you. He could never predict you, no matter how much time you spent together, no matter how he studied, what he read. The thrill of it never failed to awe him.

Nor did the thrill of loving you, he thought as his body curled toward yours in response to the invitation he recognized in the way your limbs were wrapping around him. More than willing, he bent to slide his arms around your waist, his hands spreading open to press his palms over your back, pulling you closer. "Are you ready to leave then?" He asked the question when you were nose to nose, then tilted his head to close his teeth gently around the edge of your jaw.

Your breath was already speeding, your body arching to his, and you ached with gratitude that this remained unchanged between you, that this feeling always rose within you both to meet the other. "At a moment's notice. I already have my go-bag packed." The words still packed a punch, for all they were said with only half your breath. You'd lost the rest when Loki began nuzzling his face into the skin of your throat where your pulse beat, the sensation sending shivers of pleasure over your whole body. "If that's what it takes to put the light back in your eyes."

The slightest of pauses and the breath of a sigh before the words, "So dramatic," were all the acknowledgment you were going to get, but you'd long since learned how to read the man you called your husband; for all the vows were said in private, with no witnesses, you'd bound yourselves together as surely as any two beings could, tying your fates together for good or ill. What happened to him happened to you happened to him happened to you. You would not be a passive object in your own fate.

You slid your hands into his hair, softly dragging your nails over his scalp as you went, glorying in the purr you pulled from him in response. Tightening the thighs you'd wrapped around his waist at the same moment you tightened your hands into fists, you pulled his head up, surprise leaving him without resistance. "I know you are, but I love you anyway," you murmured with a soft-eyed smile. Taking advantage of the surprised laugh you'd pulled from him, you pulled his face to yours and pressed your mouth to his, wanting to remind him that you weren't one of his treasures, another object in his hoard.

The tangle of tongues was more like a duel than a kiss, but neither wanted nor called for quarter, for mercy. When you finally broke apart, you tossed back your head to gasp for air, your body already yearning for him. The rumble of his voice, the vibration of his lips settled into your skin as he murmured, "You're the light in my eyes." Your legs tightened around him in response even as one of his hands dropped to your thigh. He slid his hand, surprisingly hot, underneath your thigh and gripped tightly, using the leverage to press more firmly against you. "You're a part of me, Y/N," he paused as he lifted his head to look you directly in the eye and what little breath you'd managed to catch fled, "and I miss you as such when you're not with me. I don't think it's possible for me to ever want you to leave."

For some reason your throat had flooded with tears, as though this had been eating at you and the reassurance was something you'd needed more than you'd been able to acknowledge until you'd received it. Whatever the reason, you had to speak through them. "You're not tired of me yet? Even after all of this time, and not-time?"

Despite the smile you'd given him on the little half-joke, he could hear the tears clearly, could see the beginning threat of them in your eyes. That you could question for even a moment what you meant to him told him more than anything else you'd said that his mood and behavior had become untenable, that something had to change.

Using the grip on your thigh and the arm wrapped around your back, Loki lifted you, the room spinning around you as he turned away from the desk and toward the sofa. His eyes seared into yours even as his voice caressed your ears with a velvet purr, "Was it not yesterday?" The whirling journey ended when Loki placed you on the couch and stretched out on top of you, his hips spreading your thighs wide. The arm behind your back lifted to curl around your head, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone as his eyes continued to burn on yours. "When I first found myself caught in bottomless eyes that saw deeper than any I'd ever before known?"

Your heart melting, you went soft in the face of such sweetness. Loki was next-level charming when he turned it on, but this wasn't that. This was something sincere and heartfelt in him that cut to the core of you faster than anything else ever had. You'd always been unable to stop yourself from wondering if this would have been who he'd been if he hadn't needed the armor of lies against his world. Defenseless in the face of it, you met his mouth eagerly with your own when his head dipped to yours.

By the time your head cleared enough to remember that he'd never actually addressed your original concern, he had dragged the loose collar of your sweater down over your shoulder and was devouring the skin of your neck and collarbones with soft, sucking kisses that were making it impossible for you to catch your breath. Still, you stopped arching your neck into his mouth and spoke, "Wait. You're trying to deflect me again."

Loki had tensed at the word 'wait' but relaxed immediately with a laugh. "Divert!" he cried, burying his face in your throat to laugh for real when you scoffed in response. Nuzzling into your skin, he rubbed his face on you like a cat as he cuddled you close with a shimmy of his whole body that had you melting again. "If the stirrings become rumblings, we'll run." He lifted his head to smirk into your face. "Does that satisfy?"

You tilted your head and leveled a serious look at him, wanting him to take this seriously, just this once. "I worry that we're pushing our luck, that if we're not ready escape will become more difficult, or even impossible."

"Are you doubting me?" Loki lifted up on the elbow braced next to your head and looked at you with mock indignation.

"Loki." The wealth of patience in one word carried the years of living and playing alongside this man and made his lips twitch whether he would or not. When you dropped his favorite endearment for you, "Darling," and looked at him like you were already tired, he wanted you like it was the first time all over again. "You act like you've never miscalculated."

A flash of a grin, he knew his part in this dance. "I don't know what you're talking about." Everything about him cried innocence and an outside observer would never know that he was anything but sincere, but you could see the twinkle in his eye, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, and knew what he was doing.

"The day we met." You said the words sharply, with the tone of someone who'd had to say these exact words many times before, and indeed you had, as Loki loved this kind of play. Indulging him would lead to him trying to distract you from the conversation with seduction, as he had already begun pushing your sweater back so that he could trail his fingertips over your collarbones.

"Please." He waved his first miscalculation as though it wasn't the catalyst for all the came after. "Hardly of note." His head dipped, his mouth replacing his fingers and brushing delicately over your skin.

You did nothing to stop him, simply focused on keeping your wits despite what he was doing to you. You weren't trying to stop him, wanted him as he wanted you, but you needed to resolve this. You arched into his mouth even as you said, "Attracting Heimdall's attention by forgetting not to touch me."

You felt his lips curve against your skin before his breath, "Easily remedied," then his lips, pressing more of those soft, sucking kisses into your skin. His hands slid underneath your sweater, and the slight chill of his skin against the warmth of your skin made you shiver.

"Nidevellir iron," you said, the sound more like a moan thanks to the sensations his mouth, his hands, his body were inspiring.

"Shhhh." Loki was chuckling even as he lifted his head to press his mouth to yours in an attempt to shush you.

You wiggled away, your head twisted so you could glare at him. "That luck spell you put on my necklace that almost had us interrogated in an alien casino dungeon."

"Stop!" He almost cried the word, openly laughing and the sight of him genuinely given over to humor had your stern expression melting into loving indulgence. The sight of you looking at him like that, like he was worth the love and devotion you'd shown him, had him leaning back down to kiss you, another sweet meeting of mouths that said what words could not. When he pulled his mouth away from the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours and sighed. "I will endeavor to create an escape plan so perfectly mischievous that even you'll have to stop fretting." The words sounded like they were teasing but you recognized the promise buried underneath the teasing.

You lifted an imperious brow and smirked at him. "That is all I ask."

Loki threw his back and laughed out loud, delighted with you. His face soft, he brushed his lips over one eye then the other, admitting softly, "Your life on Earth brings you joy," and for once it didn't seem like the truth was being pulled from him against his will. "I don't want to take any joy from you until I must." Your breath caught at the expression on his face and when he paused you didn't speak for fear he'd stop. He seemed to be thinking deeply for a moment before his face cleared and he continued, "But, in the meantime, I'll speed up my preparations to leave quietly." Now that there was a problem to be solved and plots to be hatched, Loki could feel the fire light inside him and knew you'd been right, that he'd been stagnating. "I want to cover our tracks thoroughly. Thor will send Sif after us and she's relentless when she feels insulted."

You could see that he was already more animated than he'd been only an hour ago and grinned, ready to tease. "Old girlfriend I need to worry about?"

Loki snorted. "Hardly." With a wolfish grin, he lifted up enough to pull the sweater up over your head, tossing it with abandon. The next instant most of his clothing was gone, and the cool skin of his chest was pressing against yours. "I prefer my women sweet and sarcastic," he said, satisfaction all over him as he smiled into your eyes, as you smiled back. A twist of his lips, "And she prefers my brother," and you understood immediately the nature of that relationship.

"Ah." You sympathized; unrequited love was always a bitch.

Loki could hear the sympathy and knew it could be detrimental, especially when dealing with someone was dangerous as Sif could be. "And she is loyal to her core," he warned, "so she'll hunt us with her all."

You grinned and reached between you to flip open the button at the waistband of your jeans. "So you're saying you have a challenge," you retorted with a grin and started working your jeans down as best you could with him in the way.

Laughing again, Loki realized that he hadn't let himself really laugh in a long while and reveled in it. Grinning back at you, he straightened enough to help you wriggle out of your pants. "I suppose I do."

Part Twenty-One Coming Soon!!

Taglist: @lumar014ad @old-enough-to-know-better73 @felicityofbakerstreet @browneyedgirl22 @fashionworld12 @moonknight-s-cumdump @thedistractedagglomeration

[stabbyfoxandrew]

I made it in time!!!! Could you please bless my week with some Vampdrew or Angel Neil? Whichever receives less love today.

I love them both so much!!

Have a great day Aerie <33

WIP Wednesday (8/21) | Vampire Andrew AU (Part 167)

“I know you won’t,” Kevin says softly, not breaking eye contact. The two of them stare at each other for a solid ten seconds, because Andrew sometimes has a hard time tearing himself away from that stupid, muddy green gaze. And Kevin’s face is mere inches from Andrew’s. He could kiss him. He could put his tongue in Kevin Day’s mouth. And he would like to. He can feel Kevin’s warm breath against his forehead and it’s almost dizzying. It isn’t supposed to be dizzying.

A breath away, inches up.

“So, do we call him out or what?” Aaron asks suddenly. And Andrew nearly jumps off the desk. Call who out? What? Oh. Neil. Andrew shakes his head, trying to pull himself out of whatever spell Kevin has him under.

“No. I have a better idea.”

“You mean worse,” Nicky says, giving Andrew a suspicious look.

“Naturally.” Andrew smiles. “Neil is coming to Eden’s with us on Friday night.”

The entire room is silent for a beat, then Aaron laughs. “How exactly are we going to manage that? Brain him and toss him in the trunk?”

“If necessary,” Andrew shrugs. He doesn’t think it will be.

“Andrew—”

“I am just doing my job, Kevin. He is coming to Eden’s, he is taking dust, and I am going to ask him questions. If I don’t like his answers, I get to eat him.” Andrew says, his fangs dropping at the idea. He just came up with that bit. Possibly because he’s starving, possibly because it seems a fitting end for someone like Neil. “Agreed?”

Kevin swallows thickly but nods. Nicky pouts. Aaron shrugs his shoulders. “Fine with me. I never wanted a mini-Kevin running around anyway.”

“Hey!”

Andrew smiles, letting his fangs glint. “Finally.”

[transmasc-wizard]

wait, I wanna hear more about Rosalind's magical exhaustion please!! how does magic over-use work in this world? is it the same for everyone? does it depend on what type of magic you're doing? what zany shit did Rosalind see/say when delirious?

@memento-morri-writes

helloooo hi i am glad to ramble

so, in Arthur WIP, your capacity to do magic is coded in your bone marrow, and you move magic through your blood to cast it. as magic is only somewhat tangible, it moves through/across your blood, bones, muscles, and organs with ease. This means when you're casting something, you are pushing magic around and through the tissues in your body.

done extensively, This Is Bad For You. it causes both causes small tears in the tissues and generally lets some magic get caught and fester in places. the most common first sign of magical overuse is bleeding under and around your fingernails, because both the magic and your body want those spells to be out of you as fast as possible, and they tear at that delicate skin in the process. after that, it becomes more personalized; a lot of people start bruising. some start crying automatically. usually the effects start in the hands, the heart, and/or the head, and expand out there. dizziness, confusion, and fatigue are common early effects as well. if you keep pushing, the caught magic becomes more of a problem---it can grow into volatile growths that explode on impact, fuck your temperature regulation and plunge you into heat or cold, open long lacerations on your skin, etc. type of magic influences this; for example, you're significantly more likely to get internal frostbite if you're doing magic with the cold, or for wounds to open on your body if you're magically slashing at another person. sometimes the magic even grows into viruses or fungi that stay long term.

for Rosalind, she experiences: fingernail bleeding, bleeding from her eyes, incredibly dry throat, dizziness, hallucinations, a migraine, shaking, ticcing, bruising along her wrists and hands, small papercut-sized wounds all across her arms, general pain in several internal organs as magic is moving across them, and HEAVY fatigue. it's her first time using combat magic in a real high stakes scenario, and she vastly overdoes it. she hears her mother's voice, worried and disappointed, and her father's voice, incredibly scared. she also sees Arthur as his father, who'd like, Just kidnapped her. so that's not very fun. she goes on a bit of a ramble to him about how "his son" is so much better than him, and also reveals she's scared of Orion but doesn't want to be, and she has to be magically put to sleep and carried out. she ends up sleeping for a good twelve hours. when she wakes up, Arthur gives her Alexei's old ring, which has the power to act as a sort of safety harness that helps keep magic use in check that he'd previously kept worn around his neck at all times for Grief Reasons. He tells her it's important, and not to lose it, but that he hopes it keeps her safe, and that's a big moment in their relationship development.

ty for the ask :3

[pixelated-mechanisms-chaos]

Health update, reason why nothing has been posted, and a thing im working on on ko-fi while im not delirious/hj

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

- Health -

Heyyyy im not deaaad- my doctor just found it a great idea to go, despite my partners advice and warning of "hey he'll feel miserable off them" to go "your blood pressure on these meds is too low. Stop taking them and see me in a week"

So now im sitting here. With fucking fever, meds-withdrawal symptoms, headache and aaaaall my symptoms from before are back.

Heavy dizzy spells. Heart reate going all over the place fastness wise. I barely have energy to even go to the kitchen and just- did you ever think a bush looked comfy to sleep in?? No?? I DID YESTERDAY.

Meaning- if i continue the game at this moment, you'll get a fever dream that barely works- so until i am a functional human again that can actually stand, im gonna be afk!

....most of my symptoms, do HEAVILY align with POTS....so that's... fun. Heart speed shouldn't be FAST when just laying, right? Or when getting up spike faster, right? Yea. All around fucked.

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

- Ko-Fi -

In different news. To distract myself, when i don't happen, do be dreaming about cuddling bushes/silly, im working on adding ko-fi memberships! They're uh...in the works but dunno if anyone would wanna be a member? Here's the things you get for being an octokitten captain? Its still a WIP- including the price cause i have no gauge over how prices vs. Rewards do with memberships? I might make it 10 instead? I dunno. I did discover the shop tho so maybe i can play around with that?

Question is also, do you WANT memberships?

Hell if you wanna support me as a one time thing just for shit n giggles, heres my ko-fi link

[ Ko-fi ]

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go back to cursing at my doctor for saying i should go off my high blood pressure meds and not warning me that I'd feel like this. At all. I hate the dizzy. I HATE THE MAYBE CHRONIC ILLNESS. FUCK.

[toastofwaterdeep]

Durgetash One Shot

In short: Gortash and Durge are on a heist, Durge gets injured and the inn only has one bed available. Tensions run high, pining ensues. This is a WIP, intended to be part of larger work.

TW: canon-typical gore, canon-typical violence, alcohol, nudity, sex mentions.

Durge uses she/her pronouns (did this for clarity but it doesn't ring true to me and I'm going to change it to they/them going forward). No name used, but based on my Durge, Juno, and so describes their idiosyncrasies and appearance.

Word count: 4516

The heist had gone off without a hitch. Gortash had a deft hand at dispatching enemies himself, but his partner in crime laid waste to all in her path. He felt a dizzying thrill fighting at her side, like how the gun dog must feel bounding to retrieve its master’s kill.

“That was amazing, you are amazing,” he raved. She turned to him, casually retrieving her bloodied dagger from her latest foe’s neck. He went to her, hands placed on her elbows. “Hah! You’re like a one-person army! Oh, I used to have to skulk about, take my enemies out one-by-one, but by your side I feel unstoppable. You just tear through them all, and you make it look easy! No, you make it look glorious.” She let her hands rest on his shoulders, somewhat experimentally.

Gortash pushing his luck, blaming it on the heat of the moment. She gripped him tightly, knife still clutched in her left hand. She kicked her leg into the back of his calf, pushing his right shoulder down. Her blade caught his chin, splitting the skin. The move sent him firmly to the ground at her feet before he could register the apparent assault. It took him too long to understand what he is seeing. It was not just her standing above him, but an assassin. Her dagger plunged into the soft flesh under his jaw, the tip of the blade sitting snuggly in the man’s grey matter. The assassin in turn had run his short sword through her ribcage. She retracted her blade and the man fell down dead. Sword still nestled between her ribs, she attempted to pull Gortash up. He scrambled to his knees, pulling her down to him. She grunted, then coughed. Blood poured from her mouth. Her wheezing told him her lung has been perforated.

“What did you do? Why did you do that?” The attack had been meant for him. He had been the one to let his guard down. She attempted to wrench the sword out. “Stop, be still. Let me help.” She again tried to speak, letting out a bloody gurgle. He dragged her into his lap, cradling her head in the crook of his arm. “Hush. Apply pressure here. Press so hard it hurts. I’m going to remove it, it will hurt.” She screamed a wretched, otherworldly shriek. He inspected the blade as she placed her palms on the wound to heal it. “No! Not yet! The blade was coated in poison. If you heal the wound, you’ll seal the poison in.” He pulled a vial from his satchel. “Drink.” He cupped her chin, helping her keep the antidote down. She gurgled and hissed in response. “I know, I know. It’s vile.” He pressed his hand to her jaw, thumbing a drop on the corner of her mouth between her lips. She looked up into his face, eyes wide and frantic. He had seldom seen her injured before. She was never where the arrow fell, the blade landed. Even glancing blows seemed to dance off of her.

The antidote set in, and she sighed against his hand, fingertips still pressed gently to her chin and lips. “Now, you can heal it now.”

“Te cuno,” she rasped. The spell floundered, fizzling out before it could leave her fingertips. “I can’t,” she managed to rattle. “I’m too tired.”

“Just a little. Enough for the lung. You- you must close it.” It sounded like a plea.

She panted, brow furrowed. She tried again, light bubbling from the wound, leaving the outer skin open and bloody. The wheezing eased. “I have a minor salve, but it has nothing on your magic. It will keep you stable until you’ve rested.” She nodded, attempting to remove her jerkin. She grimaced with the gesture. He took over, unlatching the hooks. He pulled her shirt untucked to expose the wound. She hissed as the fabric pulled from it. “You’re alright. Just stay still.”

“Oh,” she grunted as he pressed the salve into the flesh. “You…”, she wheezed pitifully. “You’ve got long eyelashes.”

“What?”

“You’ve got long eyelashes,” she continued. “Okay. That’s okay.” Delirious, he thought to himself.

“Well, I’m glad it’s okay,” he chuckled, hoping to humour her, keep her calm, quell the heartrate.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“Hm?” He did not look up. He continued his work, rubbing the salve into the wound, fingers covered in thick, hot blood. “It’s alright. I can help.”

“I meant for cutting you.” He looks into her face now. She so seldom allowed her face to contort, giving so little away but now her features twitched with the pain. Her brow furrowed, her eyes soft. He thought about replying in earnest. Instead, he forced a well-practiced smile.

“As you should be,” he replied. “But I suppose it is better than what the dead man just there had planned for me.” She reached up, placing her thumb to the cut, fingertips gently resting at his jaw. He felt the warmth of magic trickle from her fingers into his skin. Against his better judgement, before he could think of how best to respond, he turned his face into her palm.

“Oh,” she whispered, running her thumb gently under his chin while examining her work. “I left a scar.” She fell limp, her head lolloped into his chest. He stared down at her, dumbfounded. He knew that anything he had to say would go unheard.

“That was very stupid, you should have used it on yourself.” His chest thrummed with something unfamiliar, something not unwelcome. “Thank you.”

He gathered her up in his arms, found a forgotten alley to hole up in until she came to. She would need a night’s rest before she could meaningfully heal. For now, he just needed to keep them out of sight. It did not seem right to lay her across the cobblestones, so he slid to sit with his back against the wall and kept her pressed to him, head against his shoulder. He waited. He tried to gather his thoughts, process what had just happened. He had never been one to celebrate too soon. He knew better than most that that way disappointment lay. By rights he should have been run through, and yet, he was unscathed because she… By the gods, she might have saved his life, and nearly got herself killed for it.

She let out a heavy sigh. His gaze shot down at her.

“Good morning,” he whispered, trying not to let his relief show.

“Mmm,” she mumbled. She absent-mindedly nestled against him. She blinked the sleep from her eyes, glancing up at him sideways. Nonchalantly, she rolled her neck, so she was no longer tucked up in his chest, though she still sat in his lap, legs tangled with his own. Whether she was embarrassed, or he just fancied her to be, he could not tell. She had regained enough of herself that she did not allow her expression to let on. “Where are we?” she asked, meeting his hushed tone.

“I’m not overly familiar with the place. I just picked the nearest dark, empty alley while you rested. Can you stand?” She unfolded herself, experimentally, trying to rise to her feet. She stumbled with the pain, and he caught her, hands at her waist to steady her. She grunted in response, whether thanks or acknowledgement it was unclear. She put a hand against the wall to hold herself up. He rolled to his feet.

“Sore?” he asked. She nodded, not looking at him. “Lean on me,” he instructed.

“I’m fine,” she rasped.

“I know,” he replied. “Lean regardless.” She met his eyes and held his gaze, searching for intent. Strange and uncharted territory for them both. She relented, putting her hand into his elbow. “I can handle it; I did carry you here, after all.” She scoffed at this.

“You did not.”

“I did! You are heavier than you appear.” She let out her almost laugh, allowing herself to fall heavily into his arm.

She looked pallid and pained as they walked, though she tried not to let on. The cloaks from the dead drop remained where they had left them. He did not ask to assist her, wrapping it around her shoulders and lacing her in. She flinched. He glanced at her face, but she did not meet his gaze. She relaxed her shoulders.

“I’m making you uncomfortable,” he stated.

“I’m not used to this.”

“This?”

“Help.” He nodded. This was all so alien, so bizarre. This exchange of… he was not sure how to define it. “What do you want?” she asked. He was roused from his thoughts.

“What?”

“What do you want? Why are you helping me? I would have been fine, I would have found my way. I could have slept in the alley. What do you want?” A fine question. Since they had started working together, he had learned quickly that he need not hide himself from her. She was just as vicious, just as cunning. She did not pretend their alliance disadvantageous to them both, equal exchange. So, what did he want?

“I want… I want you to be well. This has been a strange one, even for us. At present, I can only think ahead as far I want you to be well. So, let us find an inn, and rest.”

“Very well,” she replied.

Most of the inns in town were full, as yet none could be bribed with what money they had between them. Stopping to sleep had not been part of the plan. He determined that the next inn would be the one. He did not care if all they had was single bed in a cupboard. She could sleep and he would sit on the floor.

They approached the bar, and the man glanced up at them. Gortash did not wait for the preamble.

“Do you have any rooms?” he asked, trying not to let on how tired, how stressed, he was.

“We have the one bed, sir,” he replied.

“Which is perfect,” Gortash exclaimed, not skipping a beat. “Because we are newlyweds. Right, dearest?” He held out his hand to her without looking. She glanced at it a beat too long. He flapped the hand open and closed. She gingerly placed her hand in his. He took the opportunity to pull her to him, wrapping an arm around her waist, disturbing the injury. She grunted and narrowed her eyes at him. she turned her gaze to the barman.

“Yes,” she said, flatly. “We have just returned from visiting…” They both hesitated, looking at each other in joint panic.

“Friends.”

“Family,” she added.

“Friends and family.” The man at the counter did not care who they were pretending to have visited and selected the room key.

“Well, enjoy your stay…”

“We will! Please, run a bubble bath for my lovely partner, we have been travelling all day.”

“Bubble bath,” she echoed.

“This charming creature,” he cooed, laying it on thick. “You are my whole world. Aren’t you, darling?”

“Yes.”

“Now say something nice about me.” She stared at him placidly.

“You… are… highly tolerable. I seldom tire of your company.” He pressed his hand to his chest as if deeply moved by her words.

“Ugh, aren’t you sweet? A bottle of red, if you please!”

“Certainly, sir. Room’s just up the stairs, it’s the only door so you’ll have no trouble.” She pulled him along before the barman had finished speaking.

“Come, love. Let’s not waste another moment,” he said as if to the whole bar, rather than her, allowing himself to be led.

“We’ll, uh, we’ll give you a minute.”

“Give us 10.” Gotash winked at the barman.

“Very good, sir,” he replied joylessly.

Gortash looked about him before shutting the door behind them.

“Let me see,” he insisted, hands at her elbows. She rested her hands on his chest to steady herself.

“It’s fine. I just need rest.”

“Let me help you,” he insisted. She hesitated, avoiding his eye.

“It hurts to bend," she admitted. "I could do it myself, but I don’t want anyone drawn here if they hear a scream.” He chuckled.

“Oh, they won’t come if they hear screams from this room.”

“Regardless,” she continued, “I will not object to your help.”

“Of course, tell me what I can do.”

“Help me remove my garments.” He kept his face neutral.

“Oh, right. Yes. Of course. That’s fine. Which ones?”

“Anything that would require me to bend at the waist.”

“Of course. Of course.” He sank to her feet, unlacing the boots and pulling her free of them. He slid the jerkin off, unbuttoned the untucked blouse. He had allowed his mind to wander to similar scenarios featuring her before, though usually, if he pictured blood at all it was not her own. Or at least, there was a lot less of it.

He paused, reminding himself who he was. Whyever should he be nervous? This had not been exactly how he pictured it, but emotions were high after all. The adrenaline had not quite ebbed. She had asked him to undress her. She kept her cards so vexingly close to her chest. Such a blunt, matter of fact person. Her propensity for saying exactly what she meant made her impossible to read. In his fantasies it was usually him rescuing her from harm, being nursed back health by her hand, wondering however she would show him her gratitude. Even so.

He took her hands and stood up, pulling her to her feet. He began to unlace her trousers, pulling her firmly to him with the motion. He treated himself to eye contact as he did so. She did not flinch. She did not avert her gaze. She looked back at him with that blank expression. That damned unreadable expression. He sank to his knees to pull the trousers down, maintaining her gaze. She rocked her hips as he did so. To assist him? To be maddening? He put a hand to the back of her knee to lift her leg free, and then repeated the gesture with the other leg. Now she stood in just her bloodied slip and smallclothes. He reached up, under the slip, placed his thumbs under than bands of the smallclothes, and removed them in a slow, deliberate move. He was used to his partners saying what they wanted, asking, begging. He liked to play, but he loved to win.

He made no move to stand. He would not be the first to buckle. She cocked her head to the side, still holding his gaze. He thought he could detect the slightest hint of a lift at the corner of her lips.

“Thank you, I can take it from here,” she said.

“Hmm. Hmm?” he mumbled, stupefied. She moved past him, and he turned to follow, realising a moment too late, still on his knees. “Well, I- do you need help getting in the bath?”

“That I will manage. I appreciate your effort.” He stood, brushing his knees off, neglecting to hide his indignant disappointment.

“It was nothing,” he muttered. She turned to face him again.

“Not it wasn’t,” she replied. “I do not give my thanks lightly. Accept them.”

“I-” He read just the hint of an expression on her face. There was something earnest behind the eyes, in the downward curve of the lips. “I only meant that I was, am, happy to help you. It does not trouble me. You are welcome.” She nodded curtly in reply and went for the bathroom door.

The evening turned to night as he waited impatiently. It felt curious that he should be anxious, he was accustomed enough to his own company, he often welcomed it. He checked their supplies, jotted in his notebook, ordered dinner. An hour or so had passed by the time he realised he could wait no longer.

“Gods, has she drowned in there?” he mused, flippantly. His stomach turned at the thought. Had she drowned in there? Had her wound turned sceptic? Had she gone into shock? He bolted for the door, gripping the knob to turn it as he heard… humming? He knocked with too much force.

“Sorry to disturb you. Are you decent?” he asked, rather too nonchalantly.

“Yes,” she replied. “Enter!” He exhaled, turning the knob still held firmly in his grip.

“I was just wondering- Gods!” He turned away, covering his eyes like an embarrassed child. She sat up in the bath, exposed. “I thought you said you were decent?”

“I am decent, we are in private,” she retorted.

“You are naked in the bath,” he replied. “That is not decent.”

“I am often naked, what is your concern exactly?”

“I was just… surprised,” he said, turning to face her. He had uncovered his eyes, but his vision darted around her, surveying spaces she did not occupy. “We clearly have different expectations of decency.” He felt her gaze on him. He considered the correct response, the one that implied he felt in control. Avoid looking to suggest he could take or leave seeing her. Or look, appear unmoved, resolute. There was a third option, of course. Let his desire be known, consequences be damned. She tutted before he could decide, and for a moment he was terrified she had read his mind.

“Ah, you are concerned I am attempting to take sexual advantage of you. Fear not, I shall sit lower in the bath and obscure my nudity.” He heard as she disturbed the water. “Better?” she asked. He glanced up now and he cursed himself for not looking before. He merely nodded, trying to keep his face blank. “Excellent, come sit and tell me what it is you have to say. I have saved you half the bottle.”

“As if to say you have drunk half the bottle?” he asked, allowing himself to smile. Now that he had allowed himself to look at her, he could see the flush in her cheeks, around her ears, across her clavicle.

“No! I have a little more in my cup,” she jested. “You were very cunning to tell them we are newlyweds. I did not catch your intentions at first, but I see them now.” She had an almost conspiratorial look on her face.

“Oh?” he asked. He had not been entirely certain of his intentions himself, but he was interested to find out what they were.

“This way they will afford us privacy in expectation we will be having sex, but they will also bring us whatever we wish straight to the room.”

“Uh, indeed. Yes.”

“So clever. You are so clever,” she hissed. “Sometimes I get a bit cross about it because I want to be the clever one.” He could not tell whether the annoyance in her tone was affected or genuine. He chuckled, helping himself to the bottle and taking a swig from it.

“To be honest with you, I just panicked. I just said the first thing that came to mind,” he admitted. He would not admit that he also wanted to be the clever one. That he considered her his competition.

“The first thing that came to your mind in a panic was very good. You would discount yourself because it came easily to you?”

“Thank you,” he conceded with a nod. She was sparing with her compliments, but tonight they seemed to flow freely. Perhaps he would send for another bottle.

“Ah, but there is just one flaw in your plan.” This roused him from the warm glow of her effusive praise. His expression twisted only momentarily with annoyance before returning to his polite smile.

“Oh? What, pray?”

“They will expect to hear us. They will get suspicious if all is silent, no?”

“You are… correct.” He felt his chest tighten, the prickling at the back of his neck. “What do you propose we do about that?”

“I will show you after the bath.” He felt the tether of control slipping from his grasp again. He attempted to keep his face as blank as she kept hers.

“I … look forward to it.”

“Well, never mind that, what were you going to tell me?”

“Oh, I was just going to check on your wound, see if it needed tending.”

“The salve is holding well, but I would welcome your help. Hmph, I don’t think I’ve said that before. Felt strange on my tongue. I welcome your help...” She observed him, cradling her cup. He held the wine bottle in both hands and allowed her to survey him. They sat quietly for a time. He was about to ask her what she was thinking when she broke the silence.

“Thank you for having them make the bubbles for the bath, I’ve never had them before.”

“Have you not?” He cocked his head to side.

“No, they are lovely, and I am enjoying them immensely.”

“That surprises me,” he admitted.

“Does it?”

“Absolutely. I had just assumed you were a spoiled princess.”

“And I, you.” He laughed heartily at this, and she allowed herself to grin.

He helped her out of the now cold bath. It was useless avoiding looking at her so he did his best to merely gaze upon her sexlessly, as one might an anatomical drawing or life study, observing without emotion. Her body was as speckled with freckles as her face, generously dotting her shoulders, her chest, arms, and knees. He observed she was… naturally ginger. She leaned against the rim of the bathtub as he applied more salve into the wound and dressed it expertly. He wrapped her up in one of the cotton robes afforded to the room, careful not to tie the waist too close to the wound. All the while she wordlessly acquiesced to his every move, turning this way, placing her arms like so, brushing the curly strands of her long hair out of his way. There was a comfort, a familiarity in it, like they read one another, anticipating the other effortlessly.

She watched him as he worked on the knot at her waist. He had a cool, focused appearance when he worked with his hands. Clever, practiced hands. His shirt laces were loosened, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She looked up into his face.

“How is it?” he asked her without stopping his work.

“Hmm,” she hummed. “Hmm?”

“The wound?”

“Good,” she breathed.

“Good?” he asked, glancing at her quizzically. She suddenly felt hot and prickly.

“Bad. It’s fine.” She felt her fingers twitch strangely. He released the knot, and her with it.

“You’re still flushed. Do you feel feverish?” He placed one hand on her forehead and the other on the back of her neck.

“I- I feel…” She threw up her arms, shooing his hands away. "I am well, stop fussing," she snapped.

“Come into the bedroom, sit by the window. If you’re still running hot-”

She fled from the warmth and steam, into the bedroom. As she sat on the edge of the bed, he unlatched the window. The air did feel blessedly cool on her accursedly warm cheeks. What on earth had that strange, tingly absentmindedness been? Utterly bizarre. Perhaps she was feverish after all.

“What did you mean when you said you had a plan for the noise? The expectation of noise, I mean,” he asked, rousing her from her musings.

“Ah, yes. There will be an expectation of the sounds of lovemaking. Even very polite and considerate newlyweds would produce some sound. So that is what we must do,” she stated, matter-of-factly. “Well, don’t just stand there. Join me on the bed.” He did as she instructed.

“Now,” she continued, “first I must know what is expected, and we must be on the same page for this to work. I shall detect your thoughts, show me a scenario.” He allowed her entry to his mind without hesitation. “All of that? Really? Very well. It would be more helpful to me if you could imagine a third person perspective. Very well, I’ve seen enough, bring the scenario to its conclusion. Oh, is that common?” she asked.

“Very,” he confirmed.

“As you wish. Shall we begin?” So blunt, business-like. Still, this was hardly the time to be disappointed. What did he want? Bodice-ripping, certainly, but romance? Or rather, did it hurt his pride that she may not? Well, perhaps he could turn that hard-heart supple yet. He drew closer. At that moment she began slapping the mattress with the flat of her palm.

“Oh yes, this man is making love to me! It’s fun! I’m enjoying it!” she cried.

“Oh, you’re fully mad,” he said before he could catch himself.  

“It would be much more convincing if you joined in,” she hissed before continuing her effusive yelling. “Oh, yes! How delightful!” He could not help but smile, amused by the ridiculous display. He clambered across the bed to its headboard to bang it against the wall.

“Oh, yes, that’s great. I’m also enjoying this, too,” he called out. “They’re going to expect moaning,” he whispered to her as continued to bang the headboard, “not just talking.” She scrambled up to him.

“Moaning? Fine, do it,” she instructed.

“They’ll expect you to moan, you’ve set it up that I’m taking charge.”

“Have I? Oh dear, but is that believable?”

“Of course, it’s believable!”

“Oh fine, what should the moaning sound like?” In an instant, his other hand shot out to press her wound. He delighted in the furious yelp she let out. She smacked him on the chest, barring her teeth to hiss. “They expect me to sound like a dying animal?”

“Indeed,” he replied, letting the offending hand fall to rest on her thigh, giving her a cruel smirk.

“Well forget it,” she growled, her face inches from his. “I will maintain my dignity. Oh, yes, by the gods, I am reaching climax now! You are fine husband! How well you make love to me! You are everything I want in a partner!”

“And I you.”

“You are so charming it makes my knees weak. I adore your clever mind and your precise hands!”

“I have craved you since the moment I laid eyes on you. How many nights I’ve lain awake thinking of this over and over. You are brilliant, bold, vicious. Your beauty is maddening. What I wouldn’t give to have you-”

“Why did you stop yelling?” she interrupted.

“Uh?” he managed.

“They won’t hear you if you’re speaking in such hushed tones.”

“Oh,” he breathed. “I think, I think we should stop.” He gingerly withdrew his hand from where it had begun to slither beneath her robe.

“Oh yes, the sex is drawing a close! A fine time was had by all! Alas, it must end! Thank you for sex, darling!”

“Yes,” he muttered. “Thank you, too.”

“You are most welcome!”

In the bar below the patrons returned their attentions to their drinks. The bartender shook his head at the customer sitting before him.

“It’s always the quiet ones,” he murmured.

[skyborneveggie]

💥and 🛏️ for the writing ask game? Perchance?

Yay ty for the ask! 💜

💥 Is there a chapter, scene, or WIP you're most excited to write? Share a snippet or tell us about it!

For my hanahaki fic, honestly I'm just really excited to write a lot of very miserable descriptions & explore the blurred line between physical and emotional pain. As for a snippet, I haven't written most of the story yet, but I do have a little bit of a (very rough) first draft of the turning point; when Light thinks he's about to undergo another bad spell of hanahaki, but it's actually him having an emotional breakdown and he can't tell the difference because he is incapable of recognizing his own feelings 😭. A little excerpt from that scene:

He curls up around his chest. There is something trying to come out of him, something he can’t stop. His eyes burn, tears prickling at the corners. The thing pushes up his esophagus, clogging his trachea until black dots start to appear in his vision and he grows dizzy from lack of oxygen. He steels himself and clenches his lungs, and vomits it all up. It is nothing but a sound. A guttural, primal, tearing noise ripped out from somewhere deeply hidden inside him. It is the only thing he registers before control slips from his fingers, and shatters into a million irreparable pieces on the floor. His face is dripping. There are terrible, miserable sounds coming from his own throat, and the echo of them burns his skin with self-loathing. Shut up. He stuffs his fist into his teeth to silence himself. Water smears onto his fingers and runs into his mouth. It tastes of salt.

I'm pretty satisfied with this as a starting point~. It needs polishing up, but I think the emotional core is there :)

🛏 Is there a new trope you'd like to write this year?

Hmmmmmmm well, not really a trope but I would like to work on writing happier things in general, or maybe hurt/comfort instead of always hurt/no comfort & generally angsty stuff.

[blackjackkent]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by: @queenaeducan Tagging: @bardic-inspo @astreamofstars @morganaseren @thedarkstrategist @istibaethoriel @rhysintherain @0ccuria @gothyanki @dungeonsdragonsandlawyers @babygurltash @eluvisen (I tag folks who have liked this post over here! Following me and want to be tagged in other work-sharing memes like this? Drop a like there! <3 And if you don’t want to be tagged anymore just unlike the post. c: ) Opening section of the new Jaheira/Khalid fic I've started working on, which has turned out to be a big sucker and for which I have been really enjoying expanding the personalities of the Harper squad I've created for their early adventures. :D Astute Khalid-knowledgable readers (to whom I haven't already rambled about this fic) may be able to guess the context for this scene. XD

-----

Jaheira hisses with pain, fisting her fingers into the thin sheet draped over the medical cot.

"Aye, I know," mumbles Reeda. The young halfling cleric has the tip of her tongue stuck out between her lips, her eyes narrowed with concentration as she delivers another healing spell into the wound in Jaheira's gut. "If ye'd fallen back an' come t' me when the blow was first struck, this would be hells of a lot easier. Ma’am," she adds as a distracted afterthought.

Jaheira grunts. "The battle needed finishing," she mutters through gritted teeth. The words are a little slurred from bloodloss, undermining any attempt at bravado.

"Spoken like a Harper," Reeda quips dryly, not looking up. “I know damn well there wasn’ even supposed t’ be a fight. Commander Vartan said--”

“Vartan did not know what we were facing.” Jaheira scowls, but can't maintain the expression for long. The makeshift medical tent gives a lurch around her as her head sags back against the pillow behind her. 

Reeda’s right, of course. Their little team of Harpers was assigned to nothing more than a simple fact-finding mission, investigating reports of bandit attacks on the small farming settlements south of the Chionthar. And simple it seemed - right up until the first arrow caught Kambas in the shoulder. The battle that followed was swift and brutal - and a Harper victory, but a very near one.

"They are not simple bandits," Jaheira mumbles. The instinct to give a crisp, accurate report is deeply ingrained; even the pain in her abdomen can’t quite blot it out. "Slavers on… on an advance scouting run… by all evidence. There were… skilled mercenaries among them."

"Must've been, to puncture you proper." Reeda shoots her a slight grin, but her eyes are troubled. "Arvul,” she snaps over her shoulder. “I need somethin’ t’ stem the bleeding, dammitall.”

“Almost done,” Arvul grunts. Jaheira is dimly aware of the hulking half-orc ranger lurking in the shadowy corner of the tent, mixing a potion with quick, deft movements. 

Reeda rubs a hand down her face. “Good. And then change th’ dressing on Kam's shoulder and check on Freya’s leg. An’ make sure Mouse is still conscious; I told her not t’ go t’ sleep with that concussion.”

Instinctively Jaheira tries to turn, to check on her injured comrades, but the world sways violently again with the attempted motion.

Reeda delivers her a brisk slap on the shoulder without looking up. “Stop stlarning moving, Jaheira! Worry about yerself for once,” she says sharply. “Gods. ‘s like treatin’ a bunch a’ children.”

Another flare of blue light lashes from her palms over the wound; the pain recedes slightly although not the dizziness. The cleric sighs. “That’ll have t’ do. I’m near tapped out.” She squints at Jaheira. “Got luckier'n ye think, ma’am. Magic or not, a gut wound's no joke. Need ye t' rest here overnight with a few potions in ye, if I'm t' have ye up and runnin' again by morning."

Jaheira grimaces. “You know… that I prefer sleeping out of doors..” she says vaguely.

Reeda looks around at the canvas walls of the little medical tent, which ripple gently in the brisk wind pouring through the valley from the north. “I think ye’ll survive just this once,” she says dryly, and shoves a small vial into Jaheira’s hand.  "Just lie still, drink this, try not t' move around too much till it's sealed itself up, aye? Done what I can for the pain. And maybe next time, avoid the pointy end of things." A pause. “Ma'am.”

[suttttton]

Fic Preview: Spellbook!

for everyone wondering what i've been doing since dreamweaver ended, it's mostly this fic. there are other fics in the WIP folder (most pertinently tongue clipped out, fairy fic, and (of course) groundhog day. but this one is frontburner, in the most active development it could possibly be. HOPEFULLY it will be finished and ready for posting by the end of december.

in which gerry hires martin to steal jonah's extremely prized spellbook, and the spellbook turns out to be an Actual Human Person. there is ROMANCE. there is TRAGEDY. there is WHUMP. it's going to be a decently long one--at least 40k, but possibly a lot more. possibly a LOT more. and i'm super excited!

so anyway, here's a preview for y'all. enjoy!

Introduction

The spellbook screams, its voice thin and agonized, but that's only an instinctual reaction. It doesn't truly feel pain. It doesn't feel anything as its vision goes dark, as it slumps to the side, its weight resting against Jonah's legs. It keeps its eyes closed against the dizziness and focuses on breathing. Long inhale, long exhale.

It registers the physical sensation of Jonah's fingers carding through its hair. "Well done," Jonah says, and the spellbook recognizes the notes of pride and praise in his voice. It lets them sink in, lets them reach down toward its heart, accepts the small bit of warmth. The spellbook is good at filtering its input, only absorbing what is helpful.

It is good at being a spellbook.

Jonah steps away, and the spellbook manages to keep itself from slumping to the floor. A bruise to the elbow or hip could damage the spells there, rendering them unusable until Jonah healed the wound with one of the Restorations that line the spellbook's spine. It levers itself carefully down, using its hands to find the floor and pillowing its elbow beneath its head.

Jonah is gone for only a few minutes. The spellbook can hear his footsteps nearby, but its body is far too tired for its mind to wonder what Jonah is doing. It’s too tired, and it knows better than to let its mind acknowledge the corpse sprawled on the floor mere feet away.

When Jonah's steps return, the spellbook steels itself. It forces its hands beneath its shoulders, pushes itself up to sitting. From there, it stands. Its head feels very light and darkness still fuzzes the edges of its vision, but as it blinks and sways, the darkness recedes. It stares at Jonah's shoulder as Jonah looks it over.

"You may rest," Jonah says, and the spellbook relaxes. It turns away, stepping like a young fawn towards the nearest wall and placing a steadying hand against it. It leaves the Chamber of Hearings and returns to its room, tucked away between two of Jonah's ground-floor workshops.

It is a small room, but that suits the spellbook perfectly well. He has a bed with a blanket to cover him from the cold and a pillow to cushion his head. He has a soft rug to protect his feet from the chill of the floor in the early mornings. He even has a small window where he can sit and stare out at Jonah's central courtyard, watching birds and butterflies and—sometimes—people as they pass through the garden.

It is more than enough for a spellbook.

Today, the spellbook collapses atop the bed, too tired to even cover himself with the blanket. He closes his eyes, wills his body to rest despite how much it aches. He is bad at sleeping, at quieting his thoughts enough for the night to take him under, but that’s fine. He prefers insomnia. When he sleeps, his mind has nightmares that cause him to wake with a racing heart and tears in his eyes.

In the nightmares, he can never manage to remember that he is only a spellbook.

Spellbooks do not fear.

The spellbook lays on his little bed and closes his eyes and rests on the thin filament between sleep and consciousness. His mind floats along meditatively, flitting from one thought to the next without grabbing hold of any of them.

He doesn't know how much time has passed when the door opens. A creaking sound, a thin trail of light, a shadow that the spellbook would recognize as Jonah even without the lamp illuminating his face. He starts to sit up, to offer himself for use, but Jonah's hand comes to his shoulder, pushing him back down. "No need to rouse yourself."

Jonah places the lamp on the floor, making the shadows in the room tall and looming. Then he reaches into his cloak and pulls out a small, well-worn tome. It's his spell reference, and the sight of it sends a flash of despair through the spellbook's nerves.

It's only a flash, though, quickly smothered. This is his purpose.

He offers Jonah his hand and stares at the wall when Jonah speaks the word that causes his spell sigils to glow brightly on the surface of his skin. They don't hurt after they've settled into him, but the sight of them makes him feel dizzy.

He feels Jonah's hand tracing over his arm, turning it this way and that, viewing the spells from every angle. He makes a pleased noise. "I don't see any slippage at all. Well done."

"Thank you."

With no further warning, Jonah grasps his hand firmly and begins tracing his execution spell back into the spellbook's empty palm.

It doesn't scream, but it can't help the whimper that claws its way past its lips. The execution spell is the worst by far, a sharp pain that seems to travel up its arm and through its shoulder, to its very core. The spell is intricate and painstaking, and Jonah works slowly, unwilling to risk marring the spellbook's skin with the slightest mistake.

"Very good," Jonah says, and the spellbook takes refuge in the pain as it gasps for air. Jonah massages its tingling palm and wipes tears from its eyes, but the spellbook hardly notices. It hardly notices anything, staring at the gray wall, forcing its mind to a blank, clear slate.

Jonah moves on to replacing the other spells that have been used up. One of the restorations must be replaced, as well as a teleportation. A sleeping spell, a disguise charm. A few other novelties. None of them bring pain like the execution spell, but they all hurt. Some of them burn like brands, some of them ache like the spellbook's flesh is being crushed beneath heavy rocks. Some of them feel like being flayed open. Some of them feel like drowning.

"That's enough for now," Jonah says, standing up. "Take off your shirt."

The spellbook doesn't question the order. (Spellbooks don't have questions.) It does what Jonah says, resisting the urge to pull its blanket around its shoulders. There are spells covering every inch of its skin, but the ones hidden beneath clothing are seldom-used, meant for special occasions.

Jonah traces a hand up the spellbook's side, coming to rest on its ribcage, just below its armpit. The spellbook suppresses a shiver. Jonah mutters an activation, and on command the spell breaks apart. It's a pleasure spell, and Jonah hums with the satisfaction of it.

The spellbook stifles a whimper against pressure that feels like it could crack his ribs open.

Jonah kisses his forehead, and the spellbook closes its eyes, knowing that it is cherished, that it is important, that it is irreplaceable. It steadfastly ignores the creature in its stomach that curls up in disgust at such offerings of kindness.

"Sleep well," Jonah says, and then he exits, taking his lantern with him.

The spellbook relaxes against his bed, pulling his blanket around him. He pulls his legs to his chest. There are tears in his eyes, which he wipes away with the corners of the blanket. He breathes. Long inhale, long exhale. He closes his eyes.

He sleeps.