#> Rose: Reorient

[awellreadmannequin]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Homestuck Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam Characters: Rose Lalonde, Roxy Lalonde, Kanaya Maryam, Calliope (Homestuck) Additional Tags: Angst, Mental Health Issues, References to Addiction, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, continental philosophy, Rose Lalonde hates herself Summary:

How is a person supposed to go on? When the world you have always know crumbles away around you, how are you supposed to orient yourself again? You found an answer to that question once. At the bottom of a bottle of tasteless liquor. Since then, you’ve been forced to rely on inertia to keep going. But here, in this new world you helped create, inertia has faltered. Nothing happens anymore. All the people you depended on are either missing in action or busy. You know, logically, that what you need is to build a new support network. To strengthen the relationships you have until they can support you when you stumble. But how are you supposed to do that? All of your friends are just as traumatized as you. None of you have any real life experience beyond the game. The weight of not just a lifetime but an eternity without the basic social knowledge necessary to build and maintain stable and caring relationships looms over you. Everything feels so hollow now. What was the point of winning — of creating a new world — if you don’t even have the requisite mental and emotional configuration to enjoy it? How are you supposed to go on, Rose?

[cherrysha]

Craving

Pairing: Vampire!Phinks x Reader

A/N: this was supposed to be short but it kinda got out of hand...also wanna thank True Blood for the whole 'vampire blood as an aphrodisiac' thing.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warning: Blood, Death, Allusions to Sex, (Phinks could be seen as yandere in this piece)

Hunger. Its the first thing he notices when he opens his eyes. All consuming, bubbling and burning away at his stomach to the point he feels sick. It’d only been a few days since Phinks ate, although the meal itself was more of a snack. He hadn't had the luxury of gorging himself, seeing as he was on the road and there were very few people passing by at that hour in the night.

He had resigned himself to emptying the veins of someone in a nearby village; although they were poor and Phink’s meal reflected that. Instead of the nutrient dense blood he was accustomed to, this man’s had the viscosity of water and left Phinks barely satiated.

At the moment, he wanted to roll over and satisfy his empty stomach with you. It was the easiest option, and he knew your blood to be of high quality; ensured it even, but the last time he fed from you, without slaking his overwhelming emptiness on someone else first, was all too fresh in his mind. Your hollowed eyes and exhausted body had shaken him to his core. Even now he can see your gaunt face flicker through his mind in warning.

Slowly, Phinks rose from the bed, whisper quiet as all of his kind were, before leaving your little cottage just as quietly.

The walk into the city would’ve taken a normal man hours. For Phinks it was barely long enough to reorient himself. The moon shone brightly on the weathered path, casting shadow in the ditches that wagon wheels had left in the dried earth. It had to be close to midnight, although the passage of time seemed torturously fast to him, he’d gotten acquainted with telling it through the cycles of the moon. Phinks had one more week with you before he had to report back to the troupe. He loathed leaving you, the easiest solution being to take you with him, but the idea of any other of his kind looking upon you, drinking from you, was abhorrent to him. No, bringing you with him opened up the possibility that he’d be forced to share; An idea he wasn’t keen on.

The routine of finding his first meal was easy enough. The streets were packed on warm summer nights such as this. People eager to partake in festivities that hadn’t enticed him for nearly a century. There were brothels, bars, and other unscrupulous places to choose from; but Phinks preferred to choose from the nearly empty buildings in the city. 

A rich apartment complex had been built in the heart of town, over the sea of shantytowns that had, at one point, choked off the streets. Now, all that stood were regal, gilded buildings. The residents weren’t his target, no, they’d draw too much suspicion. He craved a filling meal and knew the guards would be all too easy. They were paid enough to be loyal, and that in turn meant they were fed well. He’d just have to set the scene.

Phinks enters the bar a little ways down the street from his targets as he does all things; with an air of smug arrogance that he’s been unable to shake since before he was undead. He fits in with the crowd, so much so that he’s not even questioned as he asks for an entire bottle of whiskey. As long as he’s got the coin to spare it doesn’t seem that the bartender cares. All to Phinks’ benefit. He empties half the bottle on the cobbled streets before returning to his hunt. He’d only need about half of it anyway, and knew better than to drink the swill himself. 

No, the last time he’d tried drinking alcohol he’d vomited so much that Shalnark still mocked him for it. He hadn’t been a heavy drinker before turning, but he’d wanted a touch of normalcy. Food and drink tasted like ash in his throat, yet sweets and alcohol were the worst offenders. The memory makes Phinks grimace, quickening his steps as he heads down the road.

It takes mere moments before two guards are cornered in a dimly lit alley and Phinks snaps both of their necks. He didn’t want to cause any injuries that would spill his dinner onto the dirty cobblestone. He was too smart for that. Instead, he drank his fill before snatching one of their pistols. He aimed, pointing at one guard’s chest and the other’s head before firing. The whiskey was easily dumped into their open mouths and he used the rest to douse them. The bottle clinked against the ground as he admired his work. A late night brawl between the two would draw less attention than finding them dead with their veins sucked dry. The last thing he wanted was a monster hunter on his trail. Phinks quickly emptied their pockets before leaving. You could use the money. Buy yourself something good to eat that, he too, could enjoy.

By the time the moon hung bright in the sky, he’d drank enough to calm his stomach, although his mind was still racing. With his new meal came euphoria, the feeling accompanying the quenching of his hunger. It was during this time that his thoughts inevitably returned back to you. 

He knew running full speed back to you was a waste of energy, but he did so anyway. The night was too perfect, the sky too peaceful to want to be anywhere but by your side. 

He judged by the moon that he must make it back in record time. Maybe a quarter past one if he had to guess. It’d be around this time that you’d start to fidget in your sleep, maybe even wake yourself up in preparation to fulfill his needs. You did so every night, and although he spurned you by ignoring your requests to feed, tonight he’d indulge. 

—

“It’s time.” Phinks calls to you, his curt tone belying a hint of annoyance that he didn’t truly feel. Unbeknownst to you he’d spent far too long just taking in your peaceful form, intent on studying the rise and fall of your chest that felt completely foreign to him at his age. Was there a time when he breathed like that? Out of sheer necessity instead of just having the instinctual urge from time to time? Phinks had copied your movements, breathing in sync with you as you dozed under the clear sky. He found that he enjoyed it, if not just for his senses being assaulted by your smell. He’d even leaned in closer to the juncture of your neck, had breathed in deeply and relished in the scent of blood pulsing just beneath your skin. The smell was exquisite, but what made his mouth water was how he was engulfed in a scent that was undeniably you.

You stir, groaning as you try to sit up, to gather yourself and answer his call. You knew him well enough now that ignoring him and continuing to sleep was not the best idea. Slowly, you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before obediently waiting.

“We’re going outside.”

“Why?”

“So many fucking questions. Can’t you just do as you’re told for once?” His answer was sharp, as it always was, but lucky for him you’d just nodded. Gathering yourself before standing.

The night air was crisp, yet still comfortable. You’d even brought a blanket to shield yourself from the dew on the grass. Phinks grimaced at the thing. In truth, he was angered that he hadn’t thought of it, but yet he found the thin fabric to be an annoyance.

He’d made you come outside multiple times, enjoyed the way the moonlight danced along your skin, but to you, he’d always said feeding under the moon was less claustrophobic when he deigned to answer.

You sit, legs folded underneath you as you angle yourself to peer up at Phinks. He, in all restraint, moves slowly to sit in front of you, legs wide and inviting as he reaches for something at his belt.

The knife glints in the light, sharp and dangerous, and you felt your stomach roiling.

“We, we don’t have to do that tonight, Phinks.” 

“But don’t I?” He growled, “You always cry if I don’t” there was a stunning truth to his words, a truth that had you nodding along in acquiescence as he pressed the blade to his open palm.

The sharp pinch was nothing to him; a slight irritant in an otherwise perfect night. An annoyance he was willing to bear for your comfort, although he’d never admit to it.

With no words spoken, you kneeled on the ground before him, letting the warmth of his blood slip past your lips and down your throat with moan. It tasted good, fresh. The tang of it reminding you of ripe fruit, of summer and sweetness that belied the stoic expression of the man in front of you. Phinks resisted the moan that was building in his chest at the sensation of your full lips wrapped around him, drinking him in so greedily it caused hunger to stir in his stomach once more. Your desire was his own, magnified and heightened by the blood slipping down your jaw and onto your neck, pooling on the white fabric of your nightgown. Phinks smiles at the sight of you tainted by him. As you should be.

“So fuckin’ messy.” He tuts, his free hand wrapping around your jaw as he pulls you into his lap. It’s quick, as all of his movements are, but he slows down as he licks a stripe up your neck, cleaning you with his tongue before covering your mouth with his own.

It doesn’t take long before he’s prying you away from him, ignoring the whimpers that echo through the cool night air. You land on your back, legs immediately splaying open in invitation. Phinks takes a moment to consider you, soft hair and even softer eyes as you stare at him pleadingly. So well trained. He doesn’t have to cajole you to open up, to accept what he’s offering you, what he’s taking. In part, he knows it to be the effect of his blood, but on nights like this it was easy to fool himself into thinking the searing affection he had for you was reciprocal in nature. 

Phinks kisses his way up, following the veins marking the path to his next meal, his lips press behind your leg before stopping at the apex of your thighs. He finds that he quite likes breathing, likes the smell of you in his lungs, just as he likes the taste of you in his mouth. He remembers the first time he’d done this. Taken from your pliant body by force. No, his blood wasn’t necessary anymore but it made these shared moments all the more sweet. When he bites down its with enough force to make your legs shut on instinct, to rip a whimper from your lips. Phinks knows its not painful in your current state, can see the proof of your arousal glistening in the moonlight. 

He indulges. Lets his mind wander on thoughts of you as he drinks you deep. Hopes he can engorge himself on the very essence of you. He craves it, an itch in the back of his mind that won’t go away; to consume, to be consumed, until neither you nor him can be separated. He fills his lungs with your scent, ears attuned to the soft whimper of your voice, mouth latched onto your femoral artery and he thinks that this could be enough. 

The air around you shivers with the whine that leaves your mouth once he finishes. Over the past year you’d learned to find pleasure in the pain, learned to crave the feeling even. His mouth leaving your bloodied skin was a denial of that pleasure, the hollow ache in your chest incomparable to the mark he’d left on your skin. 

Again, Phinks reprimands you for being so greedy, for wanting even when he was willing to give. But right now his prize was staring back at him; lust blown pupils trained on his every move as he slinked his way back up your body.

He tastes himself on your tongue. To him, its a bitter tang compared to the sweetness of your blood, but he enjoys it all the same. Enjoys swallowing your moans, sounds made solely for his ears and his alone. He wonders in times like this if you ever regret letting him through the threshold of your tiny home. Allowing him entry when you were too clueless to know you’d dragged home a half dead, and malnourished, vampire.

He smirks at the memory of it. Of your fear, your helplessness as he pinned you down and nearly drank you dry. The only reason he’d stopped was the severity of his injuries. At the time, he had planned to use you as one does a cow for milk. Letting you rest until you’d regained enough blood to nurse him back to health. He’d hadn’t fallen asleep more than twenty minutes before a stake was driven through his chest, high enough that it wasn’t lethal, but deep enough to betray your courage, and he’d fallen for you just as easily as the stake had been pulled out.

Now you were a supplicant at his altar, open and inviting as the pink stain of your feast on his blood betrayed you. As your actions betrayed you. You were his, in every way that mattered, your spirit was intertwined with his own.

“Please Phinks. I need you.” Your pupils are dilated, breath heaving as you beg for him. For all of him.

His tone is dry, an honest smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he replies, “Of course you do.”

[yiliy]

I am reading Attack of the Clones novelization and while most of it follows the movie word for word there are some parts that have never made it into the movie, and the part that describes the mess that is Anakin Skywalker from the moment Obi-Wan jumps out the window

until Anakin finds a speeder

is one of the most hilarious things.

He's trying to go through things, he forgets what the layout of the building he is in looks like... Just look at this:

“See to her!” was all that Anakin explained as he scrambled past them, running full out for the turbolift.

Anakin was in no mood to wait for a turbolift. Out came his lightsaber, and with a single well-placed thrust the Padawan had the doors open, though the turbolift car was nowhere near his floor. Anakin didn’t even pause long enough to discern if it was above him or below, he just leapt into the shaft, catching hold of one of the supporting poles, and spinning downward. His mind whirled, trying to remember the layout of the building, and which levels held the various docking bays.

Suddenly a feeling through the Force alerted him to danger.

“Yikes!” he yelled as he looked down to see the turbolift racing up at him.

Grabbing on tighter to the pole, he held his open palm downward, then sent a tremendous Force push below to propel himself back up the shaft, keeping him ahead of the lift with sufficient speed for him to reorient himself and land, sprawled, atop the speeding car.

So basically he jumped down a turbolift shaft without looking and ended up a pancake on top of the turbolift.

Again, whipping out his lightsaber, he stabbed it through the catch on the lift’s top hatch. Ignoring the shrieks from the car’s occupants below, Anakin pulled open the hatch, grabbed the edge as he shut off his blade, then somersaulted into the car.

“Docking bay level?” he asked the pair of stunned Senators, a Sullustan and a human.

“Next is sixty-something,” but Anakin slammed the brake button, and when that didn’t work fast enough for him, he reached into the Force again and grabbed at the braking mechanisms, forcing them even more tightly into place.

All three went off the floor with the sudden stop, the Sullustan landing hard.

He used the Force to stop a turbolift which was already stopping because what are a few broken bones of Senators when Obi-Wan is in danger.

THEN. HE. FORGETS. HOW. TO. OPEN. A. TURBOLIFT. DOOR.

Anakin banged on the door, yelling for it to open. A hand on his shoulder slowed him, and he turned to see the human Senator step by, one finger held up in a gesture bidding the eager young Jedi to wait.

The Senator pushed a button, clearly marked on the panel, and the turbolift door slid open.

But what happens when you Force stop a turbolift? It doesn't align with the floor.

With a shrug and a sheepish smile, Anakin had to fall to his belly and squeeze through the opening to drop to the to the hallway below. He ran frantically, left and then right, finally spotting a balcony adjacent to the parking garage. Out he ran, then vaulted over a rail, dropping to a line of parked speeders. One yellow, snub-nosed speeder was open, so he jumped in, firing it up and zooming away, off the platform and then up, up, heading for the line of traffic flowing high above.

He tried to get his bearings as he rose. What side of the building was he now on? And which side had Obi-Wan flown away from? And what angle had the fleeing probe droid taken?

As he tried to sort it all out, Anakin realized that only one of two things could possibly put him on Obi-Wan’s trail, dumb luck or …

The Padawan fell into the Force yet again, searching for the sensation that he could identify as his Jedi Master.

Of course Anakin couldn't think but he can always sense his Master :)

WHY didn't this make it into the movie 😭 It would have made this exchange even funnier

Forgot how to human, more like it.

[jpitha]

The First Few Rows Will Get Wet

Just for a moment, it looked like everything was going to work out.

The Starjumper Remaining Grace was taken by surprise while headed to the research station Rear Window. Pirates had been spotted operating in the general area, but they were known to leave the research stations alone.

Three pirate ships - calling them ships was generous, they were hulks destined for the scrapyard mostly - descended upon Remaining Grace as they made preparations to link away. Most of the time, piracy is pointless between the stars. Any ship out there can just link to a new location and with no way to track a link, there's no point in attempting to pursue. Pirates tend to be a local problem, centering on centers of populace. Rear Window, Vertigo, and North By Northwest are all long distance observation stations a short link from the Starbase Rakish Swagger. Everyone - including the local authorities - assumed the Pirates were based out of Swagger, but nobody could prove it.

Grace was full of supplies and scientific equipment and so a target that the pirates could not pass up. As they attacked from above, Grace defended themselves.

"Two are coming in from 11 o'clock high, one is trying to sneak around to the rear!" Penny LaGrange calls out from the radar station. Grace runs a small crew, so everyone helps out with the roles. She isn't the radar operator, but she was closest to the station when the attack started.

Captain Kennison grips the arms of his chair tighter. "Grace, did you WEP the reactors? We need all three batteries going while being able to finish computing the link home." He doesn't bother with the whole lines about giving permission and telling Grace the order with which to make decisions, Remaining Grace is five times older than the whole crew put together, he assumes they know what they're doing."

"Aye Captain, we're at War Power and climbing. Primary, Secondary and Tertiary batteries are free and firing. Henry, where are we with those link coordinates?"

"Sorry Grace, working on it. The computer crashed, I had to restart it. We're calculating from zero again." Henry Smithfield is sitting at the other station, willing the computer to calculate faster.

It's just the three of them and Grace themselves. Small crews are pretty normal these days. An AI can honestly run an entire ship themselves and they often do. Having more hands helps though, especially when things get busy. Henry's station pings and he looks up, relieved. "We have coordinates! We can link away anyti-"

A ripple of heavy thumps interrupts his announcement. From the Command deck, an alarm can be heard quietly warning the crew that isn't in engineering.

"Lucky hit! Reactor 4 is venting and entering overspeed!"

Sweat beads on Captain Kennison's forehead. "Grace, can you dump it and we link away before it blows?"

"We're going to try. Henry, enter the coordinates and link away on my command!"

"You got it Grace, coordinates entered and ready."

"Aaaaaaand-" There was a loud booming clang as a door was flung open -"now-"

****

Captain Kennison came to consciousness slowly, painfully. What was going on? Why was he on the floor? "Huh, this carpet is nice" he thought, as his consciousness rose to prominence and he heard the muffled shouts of Remaining Grace "Captain Kennison! Captain Kennison!"

He sat up. "What is it Grace, did we link away? That was quite a hit."

"Yes Captain, it looks like we had a missile strike as soon as we opened the wormhole, it detonated as we linked away. I took a very hard hit. We have other problems right now though."

It was then that Peter Kennison heard a noise that he had never heard aboard a Starjumper.

He heard the roar of atmosphere.

"We're falling!"

"Yes Captain, there was a link error, we've entered an atmosphere."

"What about juke charges? I remember reading that was used during a mis-link to reorient the ship"

"I'm too large Captain. I think I know the event you're talking about, it was a Frigate early in the K'laxi/Xenni war. We're going to have to land."

"Land?" Captain Kennison sounded incredulous. "Can a Starjumper land? I didn't think the could."

Remaining Grace sounded testy. "No, they normally can't. I don't know about you, but I don't particularly want to slam into a planet, do you?" Grace threw an image up on the screen as Henry and Penny regained consciousness. "It appears that this world is mostly water, so we're going to try to ditch in the ocean. I need you three to rig for ditching while I try and orient us Stardrive down and use that to slow our decent."

"Rig for ditching?" Penny shakes her head and wipes some blood from her forehead.

"Water landing. Now please help, I need to concentrate."

As the three of them got out of their seats, they felt and heard the Stardrive fire erratically. Grace was trying to use bursts of thrust to steer them and that combined with the gyros was setting them engine first towards the planet.

When people see a Starjumper in space, they think it's long. It's a reasonable assumption. Most Starjumpers are between 3 and 5 kilometers long with smooth sweeping lines.

They're incorrect though. A Starjumper isn't long.

It's tall.

All of the decks of a Starjumper are oriented like floors on a skyscraper. If you think about it, that makes sense. Starjumpers existed before wormhole technology, before artificial gravity even. They would thrust at 1 gee for weeks, and then coast between stars, before flipping over and thrusting again at 1 gee to slow down. With the engines at the "back" thrusting at 1 gee made that the "floor." Orient the ship like a building and now everyone is comfortable while they thrust.

Falling through the atmosphere, Remaining Grace looked like a skyscraper falling on a pillar of intermittent fire. While Grace worked hard to keep from slamming into the ocean, Penny and Henry ran around the bridge, flipping ancient mechanical levers and switches that were hidden behind long disused panels, while James shouted commands reading from a very old doc on his pad. Some paranoid engineer a thousand years ago worried that a Starjumper might have to make a water landing, so a process was developed and tested.

Finally, Grace was able to get themselves mostly oriented correctly, and fired their Stardrive. In the atmosphere, the roar of the drive was intense. The whole ship vibrated and roared as they rode the pillar of fire. "We're still going too fast!" Grace sounded like they were speaking through gritted teeth, this must be taking nearly all their effort. "You need to buckle up, I'm boosting to three gee."

Everyone quickly scrambled to their seats and strapped themselves in as Grace ramped up the thrust. As they sat in their seats, pressed by the hidden hand of thrust, they could feel the thrust swing around as Grace worked to keep themselves pointed straight up and down.

After what felt like an eternity, the Stardrive cut, everyone felt a sickening drop as they fell the last few feet, and then there was a gentle rocking as the ship bobbed like a buoy in the ocean. "Everyone, I can say for sure that I am as surprised as you all are, but we're down and safe." Grace sounded... amazed that it worked?

"Thanks Remaining Grace, that was masterfully done." Penny and Henry gave their assent. "But... now what? How do we get home?"

"That... is a little harder. We're going to have to repair or replace the wormhole generator and link back... somewhere. Probably Rakish Swagger or Rear Window themselves. It's not like they don't need the supplies anymore."

"But Grace, can we link from the surface of a planet? Do we have to boost to orbit first?" Penny was scanning the area, trying to figure out where they were."

"Honestly, Penny, I don't know."

[aotearoa20]

Penance: Part One. One/Two/Three

The little messenger of the Valar was actually very lucky to have found them all together at the same time.

There were many rooms and long corridors in Mandos. Ambarussa had found Curufin in this one some time ago, on the small outcropping of rock by an underground waterfall. And he would not be moved. He sat with a form that was barely distinguishable and stared out at where the water hit the pool, causing a continuous spray of bioluminescence.

Caranthir had no intention of lingering beside his brother’s bitterness. He wandered, often to the Halls of Vaire. He met his grandmother and her handmaidens. Sometimes he looked for news in the tapestries. Sometimes he could persuade the solemn to give him work. They never let him do more than untangle threads but in a being barely corporeal, it was enough of a challenge to keep him for utter boredom.

Ambarussa wandered too, Amras trailing after his twin as he showed every nook and cranny left in the Halls. But they returned now and again, trying to coax their brothers into their explorations. Celegorm followed them once or twice but usually remained within eyeshot of the little room with the waterfall.

It was pure chance that Caranthir had ended at back there at the same time as the twins and nothing was said of it. They didn’t speak all that much, well, save Amrod who never really stopped. He seemed scared of the empty space.

Mandos is quiet. For weary broken souls, the silence is a balm. A space to reorient and to heal. But Amrod has long come to terms with himself. Amrod is long healed and Caranthir knows the dark quiet has been smothering him. He thinks he may go mad and could almost laugh at the irony.

A light appeared in the doorway and it was strange. There was light down here. Green flamed lamps and plants that glowed hues of violet and blue. But this was different. This was warm and too bright for his imagined eyes. The figure obscured its glare was tangible enough for his footsteps to echo.

"What news, friend?" Amrod smiled.

Caranthir shivered. It’s eerie the ease with which Amrod could speak with Namo’s Maiar. Their presence still filled him witth a sense of dread, though this one didn’t seem to. Celegorm stood as it drew near but made no move towards it. There was somethingwrong about it. It was too bright, too solid -

“I’m looking for Maedhros Fëanorian.”

There was a beat of silence before Amrod grinned, “You are not dead”

There was a excitement in his voice that sounded nearly like a threat. The stranger lowered the lamp and as his face came into view, Caranthir was almost certain he knew him.

“Lúthien,” he heard Celegorm whisper and with that he was certain.

“You’re Elros’ brother” he said as he rose to his feet. The elf opened his mouth to reply but for a moment no words come out. As if he didn’t know where to pursue his first question or ask a new one.

“He came this way before he left.” Caranthir continued making the choice for him, “He also asked for Nelyo.”

“I am Elrond Peredhel.”

Half Elven. Dior’s grandson. He would have been the Prince of Doriath if fate and his family had been kinder.

“But you are not following him?”

He would have assumed so. He knew their own twins dealt ill with being parted. Elros had not stayed long. Caranthir’s remembered thinking of asking him to carry a message to the otherside. Perhaps he should have.

But it would appear this one was not bound for the Doors of Night. Amrod was right, he was still living and evenso he could sense a solidness to his fëa that his brother did not have.

“No.”

“What do you want?,” Curufin's voice cut sharp from his little crevice of stone.

“To speak with Maedhros.” Elrond replied, undeterred by the coldness of it. 

“Why?”

Caranthir took a breath he didn’t need, ready to defend the poor boy from whatever was about to leave his brother’s mouth when they were both silenced.

“Elrond?”

They all turned to the shadowed door.

Maedhros had arrived so close to fading, they feared they would lose him forever. Even now his fëa was barely a wisp of a thing. It was as if the darkness had found a voice.

“So for this one he’ll appear, but we are not so worthy,” Celegorm doesn’t quite growl but Caranthir elbowed him as hard as an incorporeal spirit can elbow another. He might scare Nelyo away for another hundred years.

“Maedhros…” Elrond began, the word hung in the air a moment before he shook his head and looked away, “I have petitioned the Valar for your release.”

“Little pity,” Amras echoed softly.

Elrond turned to the voice and nodded, “but not none at all, I have come to you all with a proposition”

“All of us?” Celegorm said in surprise, he like the rest, assumed any bargaining would be for Nelyo alone. But the half-elf smiled and went to sit on a small shelf of rock. His grip on the lamp shook faintly as he placed it down.

He took a breath and said, “The Valar, Namo especially, have no desire to keep you in here until the world’s breaking. Some of you have been in these Halls longer than Morgoth himself and your crimes though terrible could not be counted as worse than his.”

Caranthir didn’t intend to laugh, but Celegorm chuckled beside him and he found he could not help himself.

“Even so,” Elrond stared at them both unimpressed, “There are many who would argue most of the great woes of the world came to being at Morgoth’s first release and the Valar would have you free to sow discord in Aman. If you were to return there would be conditions.”

Unease shivered through his fëa. Caranthir wasn’t sure he wanted to know of whatever deal Elrond teased out of the Valar. Return would be a curse while the Oath hung over them. Here at least it slept once they realised there could be no escape from the Halls. Better they languish here until Maglor deigned to joined them, and with him any chance of reclaiming the last of their own. And then to Darkness, whatever that entailed. Compared to rhe alternative it would be a relief.

Not that he didn’t appreciate the boy’s efforts. Misguided though they were he had no reason to go through the trouble. It was sweet really.

“You would be put under the responsibility of one of the Valar and under their service – ”

Never mind, he was a petty bastard. Caranthir almost respected him for it. He laughed again, harsh and deliberate. This had to be a joke.

“That’s no reprieve, it is another prison.” Curufin had no face with which to glare. The flickering mist the made him up seemed to pulse and condense in on itself.

“But we could be free of this place.” Amras muttered, wincing more out of habit than anything else as his twin gripped his shoulder.

“To what end?” Curufin hissed, “Are we to be thralls until the end of time?”

“The Valar agreed they would be poor judges of the length of such service. A small council was appointed to judge when it would be safe for you to be left free and unchecked. Olwë, Elwing and Nimloth. Idril also was asked but she said would trust in the wisdom of the three.”

“Then we should be slaves forever! Who would agree to such a bargain?!”

More was said, by most of them, with far less grace. Caranthir himself had no desire to be the lackey of any of the Powers. He was quite comfortable down here, awaiting their doom in his own dread and despair and he was more happy to explain that to the little upstart.

Elrond sat patient enough until their protests died down.

“I have spoken with my father,” he said, quietly softly now, his eyes landed on each of them, “He said if you would agree to these terms, he would return to you the last of the Silmarils for as long as it was necessary to release from your Oath.”

The silence that fell was black and cloying. Maedhros had told them he and Maglor had watched over the peredhel twins for a time. He’d said little more, only to get him off his case, the last time they had been visited by other. Given the extent the Oath had ravaged him by the time he arrived here, they all gathered that it would not have been a pleasant experience for any involved.

He studied the boy’s gentle expression. Did he know the power he held over them all in a single sentence? He must. He must know he could get them to agree to anything for the sake of that offer. It would be a fitting and complete vengeance for this prince of the Sindar to hold the fate of them all at his mercy. Except he couldn’t align such cunning with the person before him.

And for all the humiliation being at the beck and call of the Valar would be, given the truly limitless possibilities, it was a fairly tame punishment. Perhaps it would have to be for the Powers to agree to it.

“What of our father?” Celegorm said suddenly, his voice strangely void of its usual elegance, “and Maglor, we don’t even know where he is.”

“This offer is open to all of you, I can go no further into Mandos like this but Namo said he would speak to Feanor” Elrond sighed, “As for Maglor, he is found. He rests in my house.”

“Is he alright.” Maedhros asked in a tight voice.

“He is not,” Elrond replied and for some strange reason he seemed grieved, “He will not allow himself to be helped but has conceded to follow whichever fate you choose. I... it is not a choice to taken lightly, but please don’t tarry, for his sake.”

“We will do it,” Curufin spoke up. He paid no heed to the stared that stares leveled his way, instead he turned to Maedhros, “We have to don’t we? What use is there debating it?"

Maedhros sighed so deeply him might have dissipated himself into dust. But he nodded and all at once Caranthir’s grip on eternity pitched once again. He had half a mind to resist it. He did not have to agree to this deal that he had not hand in shaping or bargaining. There were too many loop holes that could be explored and exploited both ways. But a familiar heaviness gripped him and turned his tongue to lead. He could not risk Elrond recinding his offer by asking too many questions.

The smile on the half elf’s face was drenched with relief. If he didn’t know better Caranthir would have thought the lantern itself shone brighter at the news. He couldn’t fathom why. His head hurt, so little has happened for so long, for everything he knew to change once more! But to be free... Such hope was as sharp as a knife pericing the depths of his fea. He tore it out and shook his head. Free to do what?

[starqueensthings]

Foreword | Prev | Next | ao3

WARNINGS: brief allusions to a traumatic past (June), but no detail provided. Moderate medical anxiety (Howzer). Moderately graphic descriptions of medical injuries. Repeated mentions of blood and discomfort/pain. RATING: 16+ for mature themes and mild to moderate whump. WC: 4500ish. (This chapter and the next were never intended to be separated, but it accumulated to nearly 8k words, and pruning certain aspects of this encounter in the name of brevity would only do a disservice to this story, so I apologize for the somewhat abrupt way this chapter ends). PLEASE ENSURE YOU’VE READ THE FOREWORD BEFORE PROCEEDING FOR AN IN-DEPTH DESCRIPTION OF WHAT DEGREE OF CONTENT YOU CAN EXPECT THROUGHOUT THIS STORY.

“Uh… yeah?”

The responding voice was barely discernible over the cacophony radiating down that bustling hall, though was both unmistakably bathed in the accented intonation of a clone soldier, and seemingly quite confused by the civility of her gesture.

With a preparatory sigh, June prodded the control panel on the wall adjacent to the door and stepped back for it to permit her entry. Immediately apparent directly opposite that threshold, and sitting somewhat stooped atop that pathetic excuse of a paper bed sheet, was CT-5863.

If the Gods of technology were to ever bless it with the power of human deduction, the chrono on the wall behind him would have asserted that those blue eyes locked on his for the span of only a second; barely half of an inhale, a torpid blink at most. But, surely, too much had happened in that moment of unprecedented placidity for a mere “second” to have been all that passed.

Those armoured legs, wholly encrusted with the evidence of several rotations in grueling action, instantly ceased their absentminded swing over the long edge of that uncomfortably rigid gurney. The way his brows softened only enough for those gleaming brown eyes to widen in unrestrained surprise had her famined stomach plummeting near-painfully toward her toes in a sensation she was both unfamiliar with and unprepared for, and had the highly polished durasteel floor beneath her sneakers not continued to reflect the abhorrent fluorescent light overhead, that feeling only would have her entirely convinced she was now freefalling toward the cobblestone courtyard some eight stories below.

“Hi,” she squeaked as his expression continued to soften, that unprofessionally casual address escaping her tongue completely void of intention and thought, and had she not felt her jaw shift to let it pass through her lips, it could have been entirely feasible to believe that the salutation came from a third party.

If there was any semblance of a response waiting atop his tongue, it remained inhibited by the stupefaction still working its way across that tanned face. Lips initially contracted against the relentless gnaw of pain, now parting enough to expose their ragged and wind burnt nature and convey his unbridled bewilderment; those brows once furrowed beneath the act of being left to wallow for hours in the virile discomfort of a neglected wound, shifting to diminish that charming crease between them.

“Hi,” he echoed, reddened lips drawn slowly toward his ear ahead the beginnings of a one-sided smile that promised to only intensify her already befuddling paralysis.

June swallowed, that brief constriction of the throat reorienting the contents of her stomach momentarily granting her the abeyance to wrench her gaze from his, a gesture worthy of recognition based solely on how absurdly arduous of a task it seemed. ‘What am I doing here again?’ she asked herself, right hand thoughtlessly moving to retrieve the datapad from its clamp beneath her arm and bringing that lifeless screen toward her nose.

“Right,” she whispered to the sight of her distorted reflection, before clearing her throat and unsticking her sneakers from the floor.

The holocomputer, set atop a rolling desk at the foot of the bed, rose to life upon the frenetic poke of her finger. Though June had always been what her brother had previously deemed “embarrassingly deficient in stature”, that monitor sat just shy of successfully hiding him from view, and her composure was once again diminished by the heat surging to her cheeks upon the quick affirmation that his gaze had followed her every step across the room.

“You’re not a droid,” the soldier offered slowly, eyes narrowing under a perplexed sense of intrigue as a blood stained finger trailed to and fro across his chapped lip. “I mean— I don’t think so. Not like any I’ve ever seen…”

The acceptable reply would have been to offer him a laugh, a small scoff. Kriff, even an unsupported snort would have been sufficient to humour such an unintentionally comical assertion, but the continued prickle atop her skin and the nascent disquiet in her mind quickly devoured all potential for a moment of light-hearted banter.

“Nope,” she agreed, immediately thankful that her tone had forgone the shrill squawk of her first greeting and returned to her normal tambre. “They called the big guns in for you.”

“Uh oh. Why do I feel like that might not be a good thing?”

She risked another peek over the shield of her holoscreen, instantly and regretfully noting the delightfully sharp angle of where his jaw met his ear, that contour accentuated by the expanse of a bashful smile now doming both cheeks.

‘What the hell,’ she demanded silently as she failed, again, to offer him the titter he deserved. Aghast that the professionalism and charismatic bedside manner she’d spent long years and countless tears mastering had been ripped from her by something as immaterial as basic eye contact, she flicked her ponytail petulantly off her shoulder and refocussed her attention to the task at hand: logging into the Hospital’s charting software.

‘He’s just a soldier,’ she reminded herself with a snort of self-directed derision, desperately trying to extract her password from the depths of her distracted brain.

And he was. There was nothing overtly different or unusual about CT–5863 in relation to the hundred-or-so other clones that had passed in and out of her care since the war began. Quite frankly, there couldn’t be anything different about him, it was genetically impossible. So why had one look from this set of honeyed eyes seen her stomach careening into the next dimension and her nerves prickling as if every shift of his gaze left a trail atop her skin?

Thrice she tried and failed to enter her secure information into that software, yet its repeated beeps toward the inevitable system lock-out fell on entirely deaf ears, and it wasn’t until the screen strobed that she’d near-reached the maximum login attempts did some glimmer of awareness surge back to her.

“I’m Dr. Kiore,” June told him, attempting to banish that myriad of improper thoughts by corralling every cooperating neuron into entering her password, and the breath she’d unintentionally held in her lungs was granted their escape atop a sigh of relief as that familiar landing screen emerged in front of her. “What’s your name?”

“CT–58—”

“No, Captain, your name.”

“My name?” A puzzled pause preceded her answer, that brief second of hesitation having failed to lessen any of the obvious confusion behind those two words, and the notion that she may have to formally explain such a simple concept was the first to pull a smile to June’s lips.

But, “Howzer.” He recovered quickly, offering his name in the same tone he’d used upon hearing her tap on the door, and the small creases now wreathing those twinkling eyes as they narrowed in something close to suspicion entirely laid bare his continued bewilderment at her behaviour.

“Howzer,” she repeated, offering him a casual smile as she swiped her finger across the monitor and entered the information next to his designation number. “It’s nice to meet you.”

A moment’s innocent silence fell between them as she typed, masterfully toggling between different pages of his medical chart and familiarizing herself with the details of his treatment history. For an active soldier, particularly one that appeared as if he’d spent several respite-free rotations laying in the foreign dirt of a distant planet, his chart was remarkably vacant, the only few noted injuries being quickly treated in the field and recorded somewhat haphazardly by the trio of different medics who had seen him.

“I– I think that might be the first time a civilian’s asked me that,” he contemplated under his breath, eyes unfocussing as he rubbed that dirty palm across the stubble on his chin

“Yeah, well… they were supposed to ask downstairs,” June scoffed, the grumble swaddling her tone readily exposing the disdain for the repeated shortcomings of her colleagues. “I’ve asked them four billion times to try and remember, but of course no one listens to the youngest.”

While his lungs expanded to utter what was undoubtedly going to be another humorous quip, the sentiment was stolen off his tongue by a sudden and salient cringe of discomfort. In that otherwise banal motion of sitting up straight, hand reaching upward to thoughtlessly push those dark waves further back from his forehead, a spasm of pain quickly froze his actions, that sharp jaw quickly clenching behind olive cheeks as a muted grunt rumbled in his chest.

Harrowingly familiar with the discomfited sounds of a trooper in agony, June darted from behind the computer without a second glance, feet taking her earnestly to his bedside where Howzer continued to grit his teeth against the pain of attempting to lower his elbow back down.

She stopped when she reached his beside, and too determined to somehow minimize his discomfort, her focussed eyes entirely missed the way shame had forced his gaze away from her. In a gesture that inexplicably attuned her concentration nearly as thoroughly as it further chilled her skin, she tugged the sleeves of her labcoat toward her elbows.

It took barely a breath of being within arms-length of the stranger for the pathetic remnants of his shirt, and the implications of its destruction, to resonate; that typically tight compression top now sliced into misshapen shards thanks to the expanse of an immense gash in the material. Yet more gruesome than the soaked integrity of that metallic cloth— its creation having once promised to prevent such wounds from occurring —was a piteous patch of gauze so saturated with blood that it had begun to leak a small cataract down his side, that seemingly limitless river of blood having already stained the exposed skin of which it bordered.

“Sheesh,” June mumbled under her breath, reaching slowly toward him until her fingers wrapped carefully around the elbow he was subconsciously attempting to use as a protective barrier.

Howzer’s breath hitched sharply in his throat as her fingers found their mark, though despite that unintentional huff of trepidation, he offered no resistance as she began to cautiously lift that arm back upward mere millimeters at a time until the sight of that grisly gash reappeared. The sheer size of that weeping laceration, stretching across the anatomically labelled “quadrant 6”, and reaching all the way from central rib cage to interior scapula, made ascertaining the true degree of the injury quite a challenge from her standing position in front of him. As June battled the need for a better vantage against attempting to prevent causing Howzer can any extraneous pain, it became apparent nothing short of clambering onto the bed beside him and simply straddling his left hip could allot her the unobstructed view she needed to formulate an appropriate treatment plan.

“I can’t get a great look from here,” she admitted with an apologetic grimace, now cautiously redirecting his arm forward in an effort to ascertain precisely how far back this horrid laceration reached from its inception below his left armpit. “Bear with me just for a sec… it’s gonna hurt a smidge.”

“It’s fine,” he answered, though wrapped in little more than a tight-lipped mumble, his reassurances fell flat in their task of convincing her. “It doesn’t hurt. I jus– ugh…”

A series of murmured apologies left her lips as something near a jolt of pain robbed his tongue of that white lie, and she tactfully refrained from commenting as she watched that silly cotton square fail to contain another surging red waterfall.

“You know,” she started as his jaw rutted forward to repress another hum of discomfort. “If you had just let them give you an NBA injection downstairs, this wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Don’t need one,” he grunted back as she flicked away those soaked and frayed fabric shards and began to pluck that impetuously placed patch of medical gauze from his side. “I told you, it doesn’t hurt.”

“It doesn’t hurt, but you couldn’t get your shirt off?”

That delicate accusation left her lips before the gates of professional restraint could corral it. The implications of second-guessing both a patient’s feedback and their subjective symptoms was highly unprincipled, yet despite his continued refusals, there was no ignoring the fact that, while half of his battered and abused armament sat stacked in one of the chairs by the door, he’d been unable to pull that snug garment from his torso.

To her relief, that same lop-sided smirk inched back across those dehydrated lips, eyes softening as they danced lightly across her features, and June was immediately grateful for the trivial need to extract an unopened sterile gauze pack from her pocket as her cheeks tingled anew.

“Alright, smartypants, you got me,” he admitted, the tips of his ears reddening under the unfamiliar vulnerability of his confession. “Maybe I just don’t like injections. Maybe they freak me out… a little.”

An ephemeral glance was all it took to identify the nature of his budding embarrassment; the reaffixture of his gaze upon his lap, the tiny flitter of his cheek as he chewed on whether he ought to defend his admission or not, the horrid clicking of his molars as discomfort had them relentlessly grinding against each other. Yet it was not the professional obligation to advocate for a medicinal intervention that saw June’s hands hesitate on their way to fully rid him of that incapacitated bandage, but an inexplicable and damn-near irrepressible urge to console him.

“Hold this here for me,” she instructed delicately as if she hadn’t heard him, indicating her need with a small tap of the finger whilst pressing that new fresh fabric to his wound in the void of its sodden counterpart. “Just for a minute while I grab some goodies, but firm pressure— hold it like you mean it.”

He shifted instantly on his seat to assent to her request, right hand forgoing its docile perch atop his thigh to cross his torso and clamp that material into place; those grimy fingers momentarily weaving their way into hers in his haste to comply.

That inadvertent touch set her very nerves alight, the ceaseless prickle lurking behind every inch of her skin intensifying to a degree that promised to expropriate the floor from beneath her feet again, and having been largely unable to resurrect her stomach from the depths of her toes where it had buried itself at first sight of him, June hurried to snatch her fingers from his and depart his bedside. The unprecedented euphoria of his skin brushing atop her own amidst that otherwise innocuous motion had virtually supplanted all evidence of the preceding sympathy, and replaced it with a moment of attraction so potent, she’d failed to digest any of the apology he’d quickly stammered during her retreat.

‘Maker have mercy, would you get a grip…’ she silently scolded, eyes scanning the assortment of supplies on the shelves in front of her as she forced a slow breath through pursed lips. ‘You’re being ridiculous. So he’s a little pretty… You just feel bad for him. It’s just pity. He’s been sitting here a long time, and he’s obviously uncomfortable… that’s all.’

But that weak justification had barely gained any potential momentum before it was squashed by the reality she could not deny. Attributing the peculiar undulation of this interaction to pity alone was both ignorant and ludicrous, as Howzer was not the first soldier to admit having a distaste for injections; the majority of her combat patients shirked from even the mention of that so-dreaded injector. In fact, most were deeply suspicious of anything even distantly related to the field of medicine, many turning pugnacious in their discomfort, and eyeing Lumi with a powerful mistrust as if that hovering medical assistant was concealing a murderous motive behind those yellow oculars. Others flinched at the mere thought of sedation, often demanding to hear any and all available treatment alternatives before consenting to whatever procedural route they deemed most tolerable regardless of its diminished efficacy, and it was this perpetual argument, this consistent mentality, that had June entirely convinced the clones in her care harboured significant trauma from their Kaminoan upbringing.

So if pity was to blame for the tingle atop her skin as the music of his familiar accent danced in her ears, why today? Why this ailing soldier, and not one of the hundred or so others she’d previously treated and discharged without pause. Why not Bolts, whose cheeks became stained with uncontrollable tears during those brief moments of lucidity when he awoke to be scanned at tragically frequent intervals? Why not the Commander from three rotations ago who’d begged her to falsify a clean bill of health so he could return to the front lines where his brothers were undoubtedly being slaughtered in his absence? What was it about this man… this objectively meaningless encounter… that had the hairs on the back of her neck standing upright as if there was something lingering in the next second? Why was this set of brown eyes imbued with the power to lasso her lungs into her stomach? Steal the floor from beneath her feet? Freeze time as if the universe itself had held its breath at first sight of him?

‘You’re better than this,’ she told herself as she rustled noisily around those laden shelves, heaping an array of various supplies into her arms. ‘Swallow whatever this weird attraction is and get on with it so you can go home. You’re tired and starving.’

Sighing heavily through her nose, she pulled the cauterizing pen from the top shelf and added it to the pile of tools clamped against her chest atop an small tub of her preferred burn salve, a USI injection tool, a single-use bottle of saline for wound disinfection purposes, and a handful of the standard 4 x 8 inch dermabacta patches.

Keeping her eyes deliberately downward, she nudged that locker door closed with her hip and started back toward the bed. After pausing briefly to power on and deposit the cauterizing pen beside the computer, June tipped forward and dumped the remaining products onto the paper sheet beside his waiting figure, attempting to ignore the return of his warm gaze by reaffixing her eyes to the tattered vestiges of his top.

“Shirt’s gotta come off,” she advised him, placing her hands on her hips and gesturing with a small nod to the garment he’d deferred removing as long as possible. “Contamination risk is too high if it stays flapping around the wound after I disinfect the area. Think you can pull it off without too much… ouchie?”

Those ensanguined fingers drummed nervously against the gauze he continued to press in place, a contemplative hum issuing from his nose as his lips shifted to a grimace. “I can give it a shot,” he finally assented amid a doubtful chuckle. “Unless maybe cutting it off is an option, and I can try to preserve what’s left of my dignity?”

“I mean– I could,” she agreed half-heartedly, though the image of her hands drifting carefully atop his skin whilst snipping that cloth from his bare chest nearly overpowered the awareness of that option being the least practical. “But we’d be sending you out of here shirtless afterward and it’s not exactly the warmest time of year.”

“Fair point,” he apprehensively agreed. “Maybe there’s a hospital gown or something that could pass as blacks until I can sneak my way into barracks?”

“Not unless blacks are covered in purple cogs and tied together behind your neck,” June scoffed. “And, honestly, if that doesn't send your dignity to the grave, I don’t know what would.”

Had such a disappointed huff not left his nose in that subsequent moment, the mental image of him trying to awkwardly stuff the excess material of that scratchy, violet gown behind his chest plate likely would have had a small snicker escape her lips, yet the unease dominating his expression instead resurrected that mystifying need to commiserate with this alluring stranger.

“We can handle this,” she asserted, watching him thoughtfully chew the inside of his cheek while picking uselessly at a blemish in the teal paint on his thigh plate. “If I help, you won’t even need to lift your arms. Plus– once it’s off, I can throw it in the Cleanser Tube and get it washed while I’m patching you up. That way the purple robe can stay in the cupboard, and you’ll have your shirt back to walk outta here dignity intact. Deal?”

His gaze shifted upward, darting back and forth between her eyes as if searching their depths for any semblance of the ulterior motive he’d seemingly grown to expect.

“Okay,” he agreed a sigh later, evidently failing to find anything other than quiet confidence behind that sapphire blue. “But if I start weeping, do your best not to laugh.”

“I’ll try,” she answered in mock intensity, waiting for his timorous gaze to meet hers again before offering a jesting smile. “Though in all honesty, Captain, just wait until you feel my hands. I’ll be more surprised if you don’t start weeping.”

Stepping intentionally around his armoured knees toward the head of the bed, she watched him steel himself by straightening his posture and taking a deep breath. “I’ll pull on your sleeve,” she told him, permitting herself only a moment to appreciate the endearing quartet of freckles on the right side of his neck. “You pull your arm.”

She guided her thumbs under the elastic cuff of his top, that deceivingly thin fabric instantly reminding her of the wetsuit she’d once donned during a diving trip on Naboo, though there was something significantly more tutelary about this injected material, as if the microthreads used to create it had been fibers of some pliable steel.

“I appreciate you being so… helpful,” he spoke, wincing slightly as his hand disappeared into the darkness of his sleeve and redirected itself downward through the trunk of the garment. “I guess I did need the big guns.”

June hesitated, barely able to repress the small smile promising to peel across her lips as she rolled and bunched the hem of his shirt in her fists, waiting until his palm had firmly planted itself beside his hip before proceeding.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked him in what she hoped was a casual tone despite her heart pounding loudly in her ears at his indirect laudation.

“‘Course,” he answered, squeezing his eyes closed as she began to stretch and guide that narrow collar past his ear and over his meticulously cropped hair.

“You’re not the only soldier who hates injections. You’re one of very many, actually… and one of even more that tries to hide it under this very unnecessary ‘tough guy’ attitude. While I don’t personally understand the fear behind a microdose of medication, that doesn’t mean I don’t understand being very wary of something, and that by no means makes you a wuss.”

He emerged from the depths of his shirt with a smoldering look that she’d never seen adorn the eyes of a soldier before, and the intensity of how he gazed sternly yet somewhat reverently into hers near-forced a paralytic shiver down her spine.

She near-cowered under its magnitude, and growing increasingly aware of how her body continued to betray her demand for professionalism by relentlessly inflaming her cheeks, she stepped carefully back around his knees and stuffed her fingers under the cuff of the other sleeve.

“Ready?” she asked as he upheld a pensive silence, waiting for him to consent before hooking one hand under the hem of that top now draped over his shoulder, and directing it carefully down the muscular arm he shifted to grant the garments removal.

She didn’t wait to see if he’d further acknowledge her expostulation before wadding up that soaked and soiled fabric and departing the bedside, crossing the room to where the Cleanser Tube sat recessed into the wall. After opening the door and shoving the clothing inside, she activated a sonic cycle with a quick poke of a button and turned to the adjacent Hand Sanitary Station.

Both pieces of machinery were considered to be state of the art medical technology, and were proprietary pieces licensed to only this medical facility while the patent approval process remained clogged behind far more consequential senatorial matters. The Cleanser Tube, designed to wash, sanitize and dry textiles in a fraction of the time that a traditional washing machine took, was installed on every floor, ensuring the sanitation droids could efficiently reuse the ludicrous amount of bedding the hospital exploited daily. Its pseudo-partner in technological advancement, the Sanitary Station, had demanded significantly more adaptability from the medical staff upon its installation, most of whom had spent several expensive years learning to meticulously disinfect their hands prior to any patient contact. While not all that different in concept to the Cleanser beside it, the absence of friction in hand washing was a foreign concept for a surgeon used to scrubbing their skin to within an inch of its already shoddy integrity before initiating a procedure. Nevertheless, the benefit of its efficiency had proved largely pivotal for those increasingly numerous days where surgeries were booked back to back.

Its familiar ion aroma wafted upward into June’s nose the second she approached and forced her fists through each of the two side-by-side valves. Sensing the new additions in its chamber, the machine activated automatically, tightening the silicone grip around each wrist to near-discomfort while cool, damp air began to circulate between her fingers. An inappropriately loud chime moments later alerted what felt like the entire hospital that the disinfection cycle had completed, and the machine ceased its vibration for only a moment before those sophisticated motors kicked back into life, preparing to swaddle her hands in a thin layer of purple nitrile. When all ten of her fingers had been appropriately coated, the valves released their complete encirclement of her wrists, and she pulled her hands from the tubes, fingers flexing habitually against the irksome constriction.

Foreword | Prev | Next

Tag list: @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @starrylothcat @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @secondaryrealm @dystopicjumpsuit @freesia-writes @sev-on-kamino @littlemissmanga @523rdrebel @wings-and-beskar @wolffegirlsunite @sunshinesdaydream @clonemedickix @drafthorsemath @jediknightjana @moonlightwarriorqueen @starstofillmydream @mooncommlink @wizardofrozz @trixie2023 @clonethirstingisreal @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @mythical-illustrator @arctrooper69

[thesweetnessofspring]

Roses and Pearls by HalfHope (thesweetnessofspring)

Rated: E

Description: Peeta Mellark is the sole victor of the Quarter Quell. With District 12 nothing but ash, he rebuilds his life by moving to the Capitol and falling in love with Rosalia Snow, granddaughter to Coriolanus Snow.

Then people Peeta thought long dead kidnap him and Rosalia, including the one person he hates more than anyone: Katniss Everdeen. They say he's been hijacked. They say that he used to love her. Locked away in District 13, Peeta is determined to protect his mind and his fiancée from the rebels. But while imprisoned, videos disprove his memories and his feelings toward Katniss grow confusing. Who can he trust, and what really happened in his past?

Thank you, thank you @louezem for being my constant beta and cheerleader!

Chapter One | Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Nineteen

Finnick and I stay outside until it’s time for my therapy, sometimes talking and sometimes not. It’s nice to breathe some fresh air, get reoriented from the war. Remember that there is in fact life still, even if it’s impossible to see underground. If I’d picked up any survival skills like Katniss and Gale, I would have been tempted to stay out there.

Only Thirteen has Katniss and Delly and Haymitch and the videos that I need to get a full understanding of what happened during the Games. Today we’ve finally reached the start of the Quarter Quell, the last few days of my life before I’d been hijacked. A space in time that I still have questions about and have been more difficult to sort out than the others. Yesterday Prim told me that although the Quell only lasted three days, so much happened in it that it’ll take a couple weeks to get through as there isn’t a lot they’ll be cutting out.

When Prim brings out the morphling, I say, “Can we skip that for today?”

“What’s brought about this change?” Prim asks.

“I don’t need it now,” I say. “I know what I’m seeing is true. And I’m sure I’ve seen the worst of it already. I can handle it.”

“We can skip it for today if you’d like,” Prim says. “But it’s okay if you need the help.”

Continue reading on ao3

[skyloftian-nutcase]

I sort of work in healthcare (not medically certified but I have a position in a nursing home) and idk what code this would be for a hospital (if there even is one) but how would the healthcare boys handle a code being called for a missing patient?

(@hermitdrabbles56)

Legend sighed, blowing some stray hair out of his face as he tapped his fingers on the desk. It was a fairly slow night in the ED, a pleasant surprise, though it made time practically crawl.

Legend had helped the tech restock all the supply carts in his pod, had reread all the notes in his patient’s charts, and still found himself with four hours of his shift left. He had two patients, one of whom was just waiting on lab results and the other was getting admitted and was waiting on a bed. He had absolutely nothing to do.

So when an alert popped up on the computer screen, he perked up with interest. He wondered if there was a fire alarm in a nearby building that has been activated. Instead, he saw security walking briskly, and he looked back at the screen with a little unease.

“Elopement?” He read out loud.

“Looks like,” Warriors commented as he came up beside him. “Came from 6 central, male in his twenties, brown hair, facial tattoos—”

Warriors stopped mid sentence, frowning. The realization dawned on him just as Legend jumped to his feet.

“That’s Twilight!”

The pair nearly tore out of the ED, asking a fellow nurse to watch their patients and making their way to the elevators. Legend was texting Twilight furiously while Wars updated everyone else who was at work.

Wild answered first. Wait the elopement is Twi?? Wth??? I’ll search the basement

“What is he thinking? It’s three in the damn morning!” Legend muttered to himself before yelping as he rounded a corner and slammed right into someone.

Twilight stumbled back unsteadily, throwing a hand out to catch himself. Warriors hastily jumped forward, catching their friend by the hand and guiding him to the floor. Legend reoriented and immmediately opened his mouth to snap at the tech-turned-patient when he got a good look at him.

Twilight was in a pair of pajama bottoms and his hospital gown, eyes glazed with confusion and bags sitting heavily underneath them. Legend knew his friend hadn’t been sleeping well during his hospital stay after his emergent appendectomy, but—

“Need to go home,” Twilight muttered.

“He’s freaking delirious,” the travel nurse groaned as Warriors put a steadying hand on Twi’s shoulder.

“We’ll help you, okay?” the war veteran said gently with a smile. “Let’s get up.”

As Warriors tried to help Twilight to stand, the tech jerked all of a sudden, landing a solid punch right to the nurse’s jaw. Warriors grunted, falling backwards as Legend yelled.

“What the hell Twi, calm down! It’s us!”

Twilight’s eyes were crazed now, and his breathing picked up exponentially before he stood and started to back away. Legend crouched by Warriors to check on him, and the latter waved him off with a groan.

“I’m okay,” he slurred as he rubbed his jaw. “Good grief he can throw a punch.”

“Twilight, you’re safe,” Legend tried to appease their friend as he hovered near Warriors protectively. “It’s us, Legend and Wars, your friends. You’re in the hospital.”

“Need to go home,” Twilight insisted.

“Twilight?”

Legend and Warriors looked behind their confused brother to see Time paused by the elevator.

“He’s delirious,” Warriors said before flinching.

“Shut your trap until I can get some ice on it,” Legend hushed him before continuing, “He’s confused and ran out of his unit and he hit Wars.”

Time stared at Twilight for a moment as the latter started to stumble in another direction, not noticing them anymore. The surgeon slipped easily into his path without touching him.

“Hey Link,” he greeted gently. “You want to go home?”

“Home,” Twilight insisted anxiously.

“Okay,” Time appeased. “Let’s take you home. Can you follow me home?”

When Legend rose to help, Time shook his head. “Look after Warriors.”

Warriors rolled his eyes. “He only punched me once. I’m fine.”

“How is it we get abused so much that we say stuff like that?” Legend moaned, rubbing his face in frustration. “I’ll take care of him, old man. Just don’t let Twi land a hit on you.”

As Legend helped Warriors stand, Time coaxed Twilight into an elevator. The young man paced the confined space uneasily, sometimes rounding on Time as if he had just noticed him. Time gave a reassuring smile and a gentle reminder each time. When they reached the sixth floor, the surgeon carefully guided the younger man down the hallway.

Twilight stopped just short of the doors. “I need to go home.”

“I’ll take you there,” Time reminded him for the eighth time. “It’s okay. You’re safe, Link.”

Twilight shifted uncomfortably before he looked at Time closely.

And then he randomly burst into tears, catching the surgeon off guard.

“Twilight—”

“Pa,” Twilight called pathetically, his voice shaking. “I—home—they said—where—”

Time stood there awkwardly for a moment, unsure what to do. He was nervous to get too close given what had happened to Warriors, and his interactions with patients was never when they were so delirious.

Maybe he should have let the nurses come along. They were better suited to handle this.

The surgeon shook his head. He could handle a delirious patient, especially Twilight.

Most especially because of the title he’d just called him.

Taking a breath and feeling his heart flutter with both warmth and anxiety, he stepped forward and held out a hand. “It’s okay, Link, I’m here.”

Twilight sniffled, stumbling into Time and disregarding his hand entirely. Time caught the boy with sharp reflexes and a surprised grunt before settling into a hug, whispering, “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here.”

They stood there together a moment, Time gently rocking them both as he spoke reassurances into his boy’s hair. Then, Twilight abruptly stumbled away, his tear stained face and puffy cheeks twisting in fright.

“There’s—he said to—someone’s in the corner—”

“Nobody’s in the corner, Link,” Time assured him. “It’s just you and me.”

After pointing out that no one else was nearby, and reminding him that they were going to bed at least twice, Time finally managed to convince Twilight to enter into the unit where his room was. His nurse immediately came forward alongside the charge nurse.

“I think he could use a sedative,” Time said with a smile.

“No kidding,” the frazzled looking nurse muttered. “LIP already put in for one. We’re working on getting a sitter but nobody’s available.”

Time shrugged as everyone coaxed Twilight back to bed. “I can stay with him.”

As the nurse brought him some supplies to keep himself occupied, he watched Twilight attempt to get out of bed again, setting off the bed’s alarm. He stood quickly as the nurse rushed in after having just left, and he coaxed the young man to settle once more.

After finally getting some ramelteon and seroquel, Time watched Twilight twist and turn in the bed and gently redirected his hands when he picked precariously at an IV.

Twilight glanced at him, and for a moment he looked like he recognized him. Then he reached out towards the surgeon, about to get up and set off the alarm again. Time stepped forward hastily, taking Twilight's outstretched hands in his own.

“You’re okay,” he said softly, stroking his boy’s fingers with his thumbs.

“W’nna go home,” Twilight whined sleepily.

Time watched him a moment longer and then sighed, bringing down the side rail of the bed so he could slip into it. Twilight moved over for a moment and then dazedly settled halfway on top of the surgeon, making him chuckle. After raising the railing once more, Time wrapped them both in blankets, holding Twilight close.

To think the kid could have gotten worse, to think his appendix could have burst, he could have gotten septic and died, all because he was too stubborn to come in until Wild called for help because he couldn’t carry him to a car.

Couldn’t carry him out of that hell hole the pair currently lived in.

“W’nna… home…” Twilight muttered sleepily, his breath tickling Time’s neck.

“Don’t worry,” Time soothed, rubbing his back. “I’ll take you home.”

To a real home, one without roaches, one without safety concerns, one with warm soft beds and food and animals that he loved so dearly. Twilight and Wild and their puppy were never going back to that motel.

“I’ll take you home,” he repeated as Twilight finally settled to sleep.

[transmutationisms]

yo interested in the reading recs on the body fascism thing 👀

ok disclaimer that i have various problemsissues with almost all of these & would love for somebody to theorise this better some day

on exercise, sport, and physical activity:

sport and physical culture in occupied france: authoritarianism, agency, and everyday life, by keith rathbone

body fascism: salvation in the technology of physical fitness, by brian pronger

'against exercise', by mark greif

the sculpture machine: physical culture and body politics in the age of empire, by michael anton budd

the expressiveness of the body and the divergence of greek and chinese medicine, by shigehisa kuriyama

empire of ecstasy: nudity and movement in german body culture, 1910–1935, by karl toepfer

ideals of the body: architecture, urbanism, and hygiene in postrevolutionary paris, by sun-young park

on fatness and weight stigma:

fearing the black body: the racial origins of fat phobia, by sabrina strings

being fat: women, weight, and feminist activism in canada, by jenny ellison

seeking the straight and narrow: weight loss and sexual reorientation in evangelical america, by lynne gerber

on food and dietetics:

eating right in america: the cultural politics of food and health, by charlotte biltekoff

modern food, moral food: self-control, science, and the rise of modern american eating in the early twentieth century, by helen zoe veit

diet and the disease of civilization, by adrienne rose bitar

eating nature in modern germany: food, agriculture, and environment, c. 1870 to 2000, by corinna treitel

[anonymousewrites]

One Hell of a Love (Book 1.5) Chapter Sixteen

Sebastian Michaelis x Demon! Reader

Chapter Sixteen: One Hell of a Dance

Summary: (Y/N), Claude, and Sebastian battle while Alois and Ciel duel.

            Claude stood a ways away from (Y/N) and Sebastian, Hannah beside him. She, however, was already “disqualified” from the dance due to being beaten by (Y/N). That didn’t mean Claude didn’t have a use for her, though.

            He took his glasses off. With one hand, he pulled Hannah to his side, and the demoness gasped and trembled.

            (Y/N) cocked their head. They still felt like Hannah had some power that she was, for some reason, keeping quiet in exchange for…what? Being hurt and used by Claude and Alois? Either way, (Y/N) could see through it. They understood the way non-masc people used power. They kept it hidden before striking so no one could attempt to take it away. That was what they saw with Hannah.

            But they had no time to focus on that. Claude was the immediate threat to them, Ciel, and, most importantly to (Y/N), Sebastian.

            Claude pulled his glove from his hand with his teeth. He tipped Hannah’s face towards him.

            “Claude…” she whispered, closing her eyes and bracing herself.

            Claude’s fingers pushed into Hannah’s mouth. For a moment, his eyes went to (Y/N), and his fingers pressed against the back of Hannah’s mouth, causing her to gag. It was a sexual motion, and (Y/N)’s eyes narrowed in disgust and distaste. Sebastian’s eyes flashed with anger as Claude’s gaze once again traced over (Y/N).

            He would gauge them from Claude’s head.

            Claude finally turned his head to focus on Hannah. His hand moved down her throat until he grasped something and pulled it out. Hannah coughed and collapsed to her knees. Claude held the sword he’d pulled from its sheath in his head. It was a deep blue-green, jagged and twisted, not a weapon of human design.

            Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “Oh, what do we have here?”

            (Y/N) glanced at him. “What is it?”

            “An ancient, mystical sword, clad in eternal darkness: Laevateinn,” said Sebastian. “I did not expect him to possess such a blade.”

            Claude brandished Laevateinn. “I simply thought I would pay due respect since you occasioned this ball. Well, then, let us commence the Danse Macabre.”

            Claude ran at (Y/N) and Sebastian. He stabbed at Sebastian, but the raven demon grabbed the flats of the blade and guided it away from him. (Y/N) jumped behind Claude and attacked, but Claude stumbled forward, reoriented himself, and swung at (Y/N). They flipped backwards while Sebastian raised two knives to block the sword. The silver knives were cut in half but Laevateinn, however. Sebastian dodged back beside (Y/N) as they glanced at each other and reassessed their strategy.

            Claude attack again, and Sebastian and (Y/N) dodged again. They danced across the chess board; Sebastian and (Y/N) retaliating but being forced to back off as the arc of the blade came to close to cutting skin.

            On the terrace, Ciel and Alois rose and walked into the mansion. The nobles would face each other while the servants did. Sebastian and Claude’s eyes met. This could be it. Neither would back down now.

            Laevateinn smashed into the ground beside Sebastian as he watched Ciel leave carefully, and (Y/N) pulled him aside. As they reached out though, they hissed as a thin thread sliced through their hand. Their eyes widened, and Sebastian’s eyes narrowed.

            “It seems you were a bit too concerned for yourselves and the Young Lord,” said Claude. “You seem to have lost concentration.”

            Sebastian’s cheek was slit open, and drops of blood fell to the floor. Another thread was stretched taught around him. “Ah. When did that happen?” All around him and (Y/N), threads thin enough that only demons could see and manipulate them, sharp enough to cut flesh, kept them in place.

            “Damn,” muttered (Y/N). They had been too worried about keeping Sebastian safe to care for themself, and now both were stuck in the spider’s web.

            Claude jumped onto a thread and walked towards the demons. The webs tightened, cutting into the pair more. “The spider threads of the Trancy family are able to cut the steel. If you move, your head will fly off.” He smirked. He couldn’t help but lick his lips at the sight of (Y/N) trapped by his threads, utterly at his mercy. Blood dripped from their head, ruby red and tantalizing.

            “As expected of the Spider’s butler,” said Sebastian, no kindness in his words as he narrowed his eyes upon seeing Claude’s lustful gaze.

            Claude reached out towards (Y/N), and their eyes flashed fuchsia. Sebastian could see a bit of their demon form swirl into existence, their nails sharpening into claws. They weren’t to be so easily tamed by some webs.

            “So beautiful…” he murmured. “I knew you’d look sublime restrained…”

            “I don’t take compliments from spiders,” hissed (Y/N) in disgust.

            Claude’s gloved hand brushed against (Y/N)’s cheek, and they struck up. Before their claws made contact with him, though, not caring for the various threads cutting into their skin as they moved, Claude’s hand withdrew, and he straightened. Sebastian’s narrowed eyes, bright fuchsia at the sight of Claude near (Y/N), moved towards the mansion.

            Alois and Ciel were battling within. The two were bleeding, and the demons could sense it. Claude moved quickly, slicing through the webs to create a path for himself to run to mansion. No matter who was dying, he needed to be there. He needed the souls.

            Sebastian and (Y/N) extracted themselves from the threads. Sebastian couldn’t help but reach to (Y/N) to pull them through the webs without getting injured. His hands rested on them but a moment before retracing as they raced into the mansion.

            (Y/N), Sebastian, and Claude threw open the library doors.

            “Young Master/Your Highness!” cried Claude and Sebastian.

            Ciel lay on his back on the ground, and on top of them, Alois was gasping for air as Ciel’s sword stabbed into his side, blood seeping from the wound. Alois fell back, allowing Ciel to sit up, and clutched his wound.

            “That hurts!” cried Alois in pain, curling into his side on the ground. “Help me! Help me, Claude!”

            “Yes, your High—.” Claude started towards Alois, and Sebastian moved to help Ciel.

            “Stop there, Sebastian!” ordered Ciel. His eyes were furiously wild. “Don’t approach before I’ve killed him!” His soul was finding its revenge once more, and the demons froze in awe.

            “Of course.” Sebastian bowed his head and smirked.

            Ciel stood over Alois, sword at his side. “Die, Alois Trancy,” he said.

            “No! I don’t want to die!” Tears streamed down Alois’s face. “It hurts…Help me, Ciel…”

            (Y/N) almost (almost) pitied the boy. Claude had willingly given evidence that he was the focus of Ciel’s revenge. But (Y/N) had no room for pity for a human who went looking for a battle and lost it.

            “You’re disgracing yourself, Alois!” said Ciel. “How dare you, after killing my parents!”

            “You don’t understand anything!” cried Alois helplessly. “The demon at your side is deceiving you!”

            Yes, but yours is far more deceptive and traitorous, yet you are unwilling to see it, thought (Y/N).

            “Demon?” murmured Ciel.

            “My parents were killed, too,” sobbed Alois. “My precious family was burnt to death, along with my village. I was robbed of what was important to me. We are the same! I swear, I won’t haunt you anymore!” He was begging, crying. “I will apologize for everything! Just, please, spare my life!”

            Ciel raised his sword. All his soul burned for was revenge, pure and bright. “You soiled my pride. You will atone for your sins with your life!”

            “Help me, Claude!” cried Alois.

            Ciel plunged the sword down, and Claude moved to grab him. He grabbed the sword, but before he could reach for Ciel himself, (Y/N) was between them, pushing Ciel behind them as their catlike eyes pierced into Claude. Sebastian had been ordered not to move, but (Y/N) had no orders they had to follow. Claude surged forward, and (Y/N) pushed Ciel to Sebastian, who grabbed him protectively. Claude’s hands grabbed (Y/N), and they pushed him back, slapping him across the face, claws raking across his skin, the blood from their cuts splattering across his skin. (Y/N) shoved away from Claude, retreating to Sebastian and Ciel.

            A drop of blood dripped to his lip, and Claude licked it. His eyes turned fuchsia, and his mouth fell open in shock.

            Sebastian’s eyes widened as he saw Claude’s expression. (Y/N)’s blood. He had tasted (Y/N)’s blood and looked like that. Whatever obsession he currently held for owning (Y/N) had just deepened. It was clear on Claude’s face.

            “Alois Trancy!” Ciel nearly roared in anger, trying to get out of Sebastian’s grip to attack the boy at his butler’s feet. He groaned suddenly as his own bound ached and fell limper.

            “I cannot allow you to consider the dance in this condition,” said Sebastian. He glared at Claude. “I’m sorry, but we are leaving now.” His eyes narrowed as Claude didn’t respond, still staring, wide-eyed, into space. “Mr. Claude?”

            (Y/N) stepped closer to Sebastian. They could fight for themself, but it didn’t change that they felt slightly…safer beside the demon they loved.

            “Ah…yes,” said Claude slowly. “We will continue this ball some other day.”

            “Then we shall take our leave,” said (Y/N), keeping a watchful eye on the spider demon as Sebastian picked up Ciel.

            “You snuck off on your own and were injured. I must say, you are quite an unruly Young Master,” said Sebastian, trying to lighten Ciel’s mood and keep calm as they left the room. He wished he had more than two hands so that he could also pull (Y/N) close to keep Claude from them. The possessive itch had returned, and he was extraordinarily satisfied when the doors of the Trancy mansion slammed closed behind him.

l

            “Claude…what are you staring at?” sobbed Alois from the floor, looking at his butler, whose gaze was still glued to the door. He lifted a bloody hand. “Look, I was stabbed in the stomach! Help me, quick!”

            Claude didn’t move, still frozen. He pulled a glove from his hand, shaking in excitement.

            “Hoheotararuna ronderotareru! Hoheotararuna ronderotareru! Hoheotararuna rondero—” Alois spluttered and threw up blood. He gazed up at Claude, whose eyes slid to him for but a moment. “You have the eyes of someone who’s looking at maggots crawling on a fresh turd…” He collapsed.

            Claude didn’t spare Alois a look as he traced his bare hand over the blood (Y/N) had left behind on him. He gazed at the scarlet on his fingers. Reverently, he licked the blood.

            He nearly moaned at the taste.

            It was like liquid power. Magic thrummed in (Y/N)’s blood. (Y/N)’s blood was pure as a human soul’s. It whispered of a mortal life ending in revenge, in power. It betrayed the way (Y/N) took contracts that served their own, slight, morals of revenge upon those who abuse others and tipping the scale of power in the favor of those to whom it has been denied.

            It was exquisite. It was intoxicating. It was addicting.

            Claude wanted more. He needed more. He needed (Y/N) on their knees before him, ready to serve him, ready to allow him to slice their skin open to get to more of that delicious blood, the pure power of Hell and vengeful magic that coursed through their veins.

            Claude would make (Y/N) scream—in pain or pleasure. Whatever he desired.

l

            (Y/N) watched as their wounds from the threads healed. It had taken a little bit longer than usual since another immortal had used their weapons to hurt them, but with the lack of severity and time since the fight, the cuts were finally sealing.

            “(Y/N)?” Sebastian knocked softly on the door.

            (Y/N) stood and opened the door. “How is the Young Master?”

            “He is frustrated but will recover,” said Sebastian. “He is resting due to his own injuries.” His eyes scanned over the cuts in (Y/N)’s clothes and skin. “I see your own are finally healing.”

            “Yes. Don’t worry, I’ll have the uniform mended in a moment, and I’ll be clean and presentable for tomorrow,” said (Y/N).

            Sebastian stepped inside. He held a cloth and a bowl of water in one hand. “Will you…allow me to help you?”

            (Y/N) blinked, surprised. “Help me?” Their heart burned happily. Sebastian wanted to help them. “If it is no problem.”

            “It is none,” said Sebastian. He set the bowl down on the vanity, and (Y/N) sat down.

            Sebastian felt his anger at Claude rise again as he saw (Y/N)’s blood still staining their skin. He couldn’t wait to have a chance to rip Claude apart. Sebastian already avoided most demons, none were as respectable as (Y/N) in his opinion, but it was unusual even for him to wish harm on another. However, Claude had crossed too many lines, desired too much that was Sebastian’s (Y/N) wasn’t Sebastian’s and he didn’t like it but he knew they weren’t his. Sebastian wanted to destroy him.

            But now was not the time for anger. This was an opportunity for Sebastian to show he cared to be near (Y/N) to touch them to show them he desired them when would they see how deeply he wanted them he loved them.

            Sebastian soaked the cloth in water and took (Y/N)’s arm. His heart thrummed with nonexistent life at how much trust was reflected in (Y/N)’s eyes as they allowed him to touch them. They didn’t like touch, and yet they willingly sat before him and allowed him to wash the blood from their arms.

            (Y/N) watched Sebastian’s calm movements. Their undead heart thrummed as they felt his ungloved hands trace their arm. Skin against skin—they felt safe in his touch. He had always made them feel strong and secure. Dear Satan how they loved him and his touch and his respect and his honor and everything that made him Sebastian.

            “May I?”

            Sebastian didn’t want to ruin the calm and the trust (Y/N) had in him. He had washed their arms, so the only place left to clear of blood was their face. For one of the only times in his life, Sebastian wanted to ensure he didn’t go too far. He wanted to touch them in any small or gentle way, but he refused to cross (Y/N)’s boundaries. He couldn’t lose them not (Y/N) he couldn’t he couldn’t.

            “You may.”

            (Y/N) didn’t fear Sebastian’s touch. They wanted it. They wanted him to come closer. There was no warmth from his skin as he pressed the wet cloth to their cheek to wash the blood, but that didn’t change the pleasant tingle that his touch left on them. (Y/N) could have purred or pressed closer if they had less pride.

            For a moment as the last of the blood was washed away, Sebastian’s hand lingered on (Y/N)’s cheek. So many words whirled in both demons’ heads—thoughts, desires, promises—but neither spoke.

            Sebastian stood, withdrawing his hand. “Thank you for assisting in the dance today. You have no need to remain, no contract or duty, but you fought by my side. Thank you.”

            (Y/N) smiled. “Sebastian, we are friends. You know that I would not leave you on your own. Not against someone like Claude.”

            A soft smile appeared on Sebastian’s lips. “No, you would not.” He leaned forward. “And you know I would not abandon you.” For a moment, his hand flitted out and cupped their chin. “As you said, we are friends, so if you are ever in need, I will repay your loyalty in kind.”

            Then he stood and left the room, leaving both demons with a burning sensation in their skin and a strange rush of happiness, a feeling ever-so-evasive of demons, in their veins.

            (Y/N) traced their cheek where he touched them. So gentle…(Y/N) enjoyed it. But they did imagine what he could be like rougher in other…situations.

l

            Sebastian placed his cloth and bowl down in the kitchen, about to clean them, when he noticed a bit of blood resting on his fingertips. (Y/N)’s blood. He stared at it. He hesitated. He wanted to taste wanted to taste (Y/N) in every way but he didn’t want to be Claude, uncontrollable and a lecherous fiend.

            But Sebastian was no Claude. He knew that.

            His tongue flicked out as he tasted (Y/N)’s blood. Magic and Hell liquified poured onto his tastebuds, as fine as any soul. A part of Sebastian considered what this meant for Claude, how obsessive he’d become now at the addictive taste of (Y/N)’s blood, their essence, the closest thing to a human soul as a demon could have.

            But the other part of Sebastian delighted in the taste. Everything a demon craved—magic and power, the purity of a soul complete before death, vengeance and death—it all poured into (Y/N)’s blood.

            (Y/N) was sin and Hell incarnate, as worthy as any demon born from Hellfire, stronger for having lived a human life and died a human death.

            And Sebastian loved them.

Taglist:

@technikerin23

@im-making-an-effort

@izzieg3987

@jinxxangel13

@alexpangender

@otomyoli

@neenieweenie

@nex-crowley

@anxious-chick

@bellacastiel

@v1l-ismissing

@agentdedf1sh

@idkhowtoplayhoyoversegames

@iamsexytrash

[halcyon-autumn]

More concept writing for Dragon!Egwene au, where Rand and Egwene are twins and not romantically involved. This bit mirrors the scene in the show where Ishamael screws with Rand on the way to the blight. It goes a bit differently with Egwene as the Dragon.

Egwene awoke sharply, blinking to reorient herself. She had been dreaming - had she been dreaming? Something felt odd.

“What did you see?” Moiraine asked, all her Aes Sedai intensity once again solely focused on Egwene. “Dreams have great meaning, especially so close to the Dark One’s prison.” Moraine stepped forward, then arched backwards suddenly, a breathless scream fighting to leave her mouth. Something long and silver protruded from her jaw. A sword.

“No!” Egwene screamed, leaping to her feet. The silver blade retreated, but Moiraine was already dead, her bright eyes dull and pale skin already the color of the Blight’s blasted gray trees. She collapsed in a heap on the ground to reveal the Dark One, eyes aflame, mouth open in that eternal fiery scream.

He wanted her afraid, and she was, but being afraid did not stop her from also being furious. She grabbed Tam's knife and flung herself at the Father of Lies, blade out, and plunged it into his chest as hard as she could.

The Dark One didn’t react. She scrambled backwards, only now remembering that she could channel, that she was the Dragon Reborn and the Creator probably hadn’t put her on the earth to try to stab the Dark One in the face. She grabbed for the Source the way that she remembered Lews Therin grabbing for it in her dreams, but nothing came to her. Drift, she ordered herself as Ba’alzamon reached up and pressed the knife into his body. Drift!

The knife vanished. It was a man looking down at her now - a tall man, attractive, with a well-trimmed beard and a clothing style that she didn’t recognize but tugged on her memory nonetheless. She should recognize it, she almost did, but -

“Much easier to talk this way,” he said, and tilted his head. “You don’t look like him much - perhaps something in the eyes. Strange, how time changes us all.” And then the Dark One, the Father of Lies, reached out and tenderly ran his thumb along her jawbone to the soft skin under her chin.

She slapped his hand away as hard as she could. He didn’t seem bothered; she had a sense that he’d let her hit him. “Oh, sit down,” he said, as if she were a rambunctious child. “We’re finally having a conversation again. This is the best you could muster?” he glanced down at the corpse between the two of them. “One Aes Seda? You came with 99 companions last time, all of them more powerful than her. This - this is sad. You should have least brought the other channelers with you.”

“Shut up,” Egwene said. Drift. “I know that you’re trying to make me doubt myself.” DRIFT! 

“I’m doing you a favor, Lews. Old instincts run deep, I suppose. You’d have gotten so much further with a shred of humility - oh look at that, you’ve managed to embrace the Source. ”

It felt so good to hold the One Power again. Egwene turned on the Dark One, hands raised “I’m going to kill you,” she said, starting the painfully slow process of weaving the same fire she’d used against Eamon Valda. She had to be faster. She couldn't image that her fire would be enough, but the prophecies wouldn't exist if she didn't have a chance of winning. And besides, she had to do something.

“She’s barely taught you anything, has she?” The Dark One said. “Those women are going to use you; they’re not capable of anything else. Aes Sedai betrayed you before, and they’ll betray you again. Don’t you remember?”

Egwene unleashed her weave. She swore it was aimed right at the Dark One’s heart, but it seemed to twist in midair to land on the gnarled husk of a tree behind him. A tree which, when set alight, burst into flame like dried grass.

The Dark One’s eyebrows rose, and Egwene had the singular experience of seeing what the Father of Lies looked like when he was amused. “Stubborn as always Lews, now without the firepower to back it up. You tried, I supposed. That’s nice.”

The fire spread, tree to tree. Egwene tried to channel water, but couldn’t make more than a thimbleful. The Dark One watched, head still tilted. “You don’t have to go through this, you know.” The fire had ringed around the two of them and was pressing in, closer and closer. “Would that farmer want this? Tam al”Thor? Or your brother?”

“They both would want me to kill you,” Egwene said, and tackled him. If she was going to burn, so was he. She could have sworn that she felt her arms connect, but then the Dark One was two feet to the left of where he’d been and she was flying past him, crashing into the fiery roots and branches of the now burning Blight. Smoke burned her eyes and fire raced greedily up her clothing. She clamped her jaw shut to keep from screaming as the Power vanished.

The last thing she saw before the flames took her was the Dark One sitting down on a tree stump with an exasperated sigh to watch her burn.

--

Egwene gasped awake, eyes burning, skin still too hot. She smacked at fire that was no longer there and tried to cough smoke that didn’t exist from her lungs.

“What? Moirained asked “What did you dream? Dreams have great meaning -”

“The Dark One knows we’re coming,” Egwene said. “Of course it was a dream - I’m so stupid. I should have realized.”

“What did he say?” Moiraine asked, closing the distance. “What happened?”

The muscles in Egwene’s jaw tensed. “Nothing he said is important. All that matters is that I found out that trying to set him on fire won’t work.” She stalked forward, deeper into the Blight. “Let’s go.”

[awellreadmannequin]

Oh man, Reorient chapter 2 is shaping up nicely. I’ve unwittingly written myself into more roxy x callie than anticipated, but I’ve really come around on the ship through my latest reread. I’ve historically been pretty ambivalent towards Callie, but she’s a really fascinating character. I don’t wanna spoil any plot beats from the fic, but I do want to dig into her feelings about her species and her desire to be more troll/human like.

As an aside, I feel like Callie is a bit overlooked by the fandom? Which is a bummer, because she’s far and away the most trans-coded character in the narrative (yes i will die on this hill, fight me). Like, I enjoy June as much as the next gal, but Callie pretty explicitly suffers from a dysphoria, right? Unlike Cronus (who is an asshole who just wants to get laid), her feelings are treated with gravity by the narrative. She has a trollsona, but doesn’t insist that she is a troll, rather her discomfort with her appearance is also pretty clearly gendered. She expresses gender envy towards Roxy more than a few times and explicitly worries that her friends will think she looks like a monster. There’s also something to be said about how she is ‘the better half’ of the cherubic dyad. Callie isn’t just the girl half of the cherub, but instead the person the cherub becomes when their persona and attitude are accepted and loved by others. The June stuff is there if you squint, but Callie is just a cut and dry allegory for trans identity.

Also, I fucking love her little suit?? Like, she’s easily the second best dressed character in the comic after Kanaya.

[pclyglct]

[ jenny boyd | she/her ] Another face is seeking safety in New Orleans. Make sure to welcome ELIZABETH “LIZZIE” SALTZMAN to the home of the resilient. Rumor has it that they are an 19/21 year old HERETIC, who is one of the SACRIFICED but we’ll keep that a secret. They are said to be VOLATILE, but that’s all a façade to cover up their STRONG WILLED nature. We’ve heard that they can be found listening to BRUTAL by OLIVIA RODRIGO, which sums them up pretty well. Let’s hope that they can find a way to survive this harsh new world.

hello! I'm S, and I'm happy to be here! a lil disclaimer first: I've watched all of Legacies, but I'm on s2 of TO (slooow progress), and s5 of TVD (no intention to finish), so wiki will be my source for kai/gemini/etc specifics not discussed in legacies!

name: elizabeth "lizzie" saltzman

age: turned at 19, currently 21

gender: cis woman (she/her)

hometown: mystic falls

current residence: new orleans

species: heretic (vampire/siphoner hybrid)

sexuality: bisexual (w/a preference for men)

positives: authentic, passionate, daring, strong willed, empathetic

negatives: selfish, volatile, impulsive, insecure, envious

house: slytherin

alignment: chaotic good

post-canon

lizzie's canon life is pretty much the same, and can be found here!

come the end of legacies, lizzie remained with the salvatore school, helping her mother and her friends rebuild and welcome the new class

in the year following, as the OEA rose in prominence and threatened the school, lizzie still committed to the school's cause regardless, keen on not running away over a hopefully insignificant threat

unfortunately for her, the threat wasn't insignificant, and her dedication to the cause is what led to her sacrifice

she took a solo recruiting mission to visit a supposed troubled young witch in need of safe haven. it was supposed to be a low stakes endeavor, not even worthy of a proper day trip. in reality, the "troubled young witch" was working for the OEA, and what was meant to be a good Samaritan mission led to lizzie being captured, sacrificed, and trapped in the prison world

she was in there for 3 years, absolutely livid at the turn of events. the karma of the situation (or lack thereof because she was trying to be good and not run away and deal with things head on and take initiative and spread warmth and community and all that kumbaya nonsense) has led to some setbacks in her own personal growth, ngl, but she's working on that since her return

also worth noting that her time away has left her feeling just awful in general. prior to her sacrifice, she was just starting to embark on a journey of figuring out a future for her self, now that she was finally in a position of having one with the merge out of the question. but then the OEA became a thing causing trouble, and she was thrown into a prison world just as things started seriously changing in the real world. being trapped for so long stifled her and her growth, and she's come back to a world different than the one she left, all the people she's loved moved onto various different stages in their lives over the 3 years, and she hates that.

anyways, she's only just recently finally made her way to new orleans after her release, and she's got a lot of resentment at the OEA for her imprisonment, while also dealing with a lot of self-esteem issues stemming from a profound sense of aimlessness. she's doing her best to reorient herself to this new reality

relationships.

parents: alaric saltzman (daddy issues), jo laughlin (bio mom), caroline forbes (mamma's girl)

siblings: josie saltzman (twin sister)

extended family: elena gilbert & damon salvatore (aunt & uncle), stefan salvatore (ex-step dad? / uncle), bonnie bennet (aunt)

past romantic relationships: rafael waithe (ex-fling), sebastian (ex-boyfriend), ethan (crush/dated), jen (ex-fling), mg (ex-boyfriend).

more dynamics: hope mikaelson (ex-sire bond/frenemies), landon kirby (hobbit), penelope park (frenemy), auora (unlikely ally), kaleb/jed/cleo/wade (super squad)

wanted.

trapped together: lizzie spent 3 years in a prison world, she was bound to make all kinds of relationships with the people she was trapped with, and I want them all. friends in the prison world, roommates/neighbors, hookups, relationships, enemies, unlikely friends (!!!), people she worked with during her many (failed) attempts to escape, etc. and all of the above!

vampire mentor. the s2 stefan to her caroline. ideally, this is someone who was in the prison world with her. I imagine that in the year after legacies but before lizzie got trapped, she had started making decent headway into her vampirism with mg, but after getting trapped, I can def see her making it her mission to get through honing her skills totally, if only to help her get through the endless sameness of the days

baby vamps. similar to the above, except instead of a mentor, this was someone who was new to the vampire world with her, and they explored the ins and outs of vampirism together. also ideally in the prison world, likely to be a WC.

crush (m): lizzie is prone to superficial crushes, pure eye candy. it's a great distraction for her, something to pour her energy into easily, and easy is exactly what's she's looking for after being gone for so long. if anything real actually comes from it is something we can plot, but for now, this would just be someone easy on the eyes

crush (f): I hc that lizzie realized she was bi after spending time with the god Jen in s4. since this realization, she's leaned pretty hard into the exploring that part of herself loud and proud and open about it (likely to overcompensate for how out of her field/new being with women is for her), so she probs also has a fem crush too. she's likely to resemble more of her s1 rafael-era flirtation (re: awkward & rambly) with women than her smoother s3/4 semi-confidence.

fwb/fuck buddy: lizzie has got a lot of pent up frustration over her years away, and this person helps her release that. could be friendly arrangement between two peers, or just a fuck buddy who is only contacted when she's got an itch to scratch. this person, regardless of the their relationship to her, likely also is prone to hear lizzie vent her frustrations before/after (and possibly even during) sex because bb's a talker!

living situation. I imagine since her return and coming to new orleans, she's probably living with a family member (her mom most likely, maybe her sister), which is fine, but she'll eventually want to move out into her own space (she was on an independence journey away from her normal familial crutches before being trapped, after all), so potential roommates and neighbors would be fun plots.

friends. and of course, all the friends! lizzie is an extrovert who has a very hard time being alone, so she of course likes to build a community of people she can go to for all the things. shopping friends. foodie friends. gossip friends. unlikely friends. confidants. OEA revenge buddies. accountability buddies.

frenemies. and with friends, comes enemies, which lizzie is prone to making.

everything above are just suggestions off the top of my head; I'm rlly open to any and all plots for my girl lizzie! if you'd like to plot, you can reach out to me here or on discord (blodxreina)!

[let-your-chaos-explode]

I Got You, Babe - Chapter 3: Confusion

Lady Leonora Lesso woke early to the sound of birds chirping through the open window of her tower. Sunlight streamed through the window and settled merrily against the bed. 

Lesso slowly blinked open her eyes against the sunlight, anticipating a massive hangover as punishment for the amount of alcohol she had drank the night before. She groaned, reached for an object to throw at the obnoxiously loud birds, and paused. There was no headache. And she remembered. 

The birdsong continued, and against the melody a few knocks sounded against the wooden door of her bedroom. Knock, KNOCK, knock.

“Rise and shine Lady Lesso! It’s a beautiful morning and you are LATE for the students’ return!” Professor Dovey called from behind the door. “You have ten minutes before our school address!”

Cold dread settled in the pit of her stomach as the sound of Dovey’s heels faded down the stone corridor. 

Lesso kicked off the covers and slowly rolled out of bed. With apprehension, she opened the wardrobe and her gaze settled on the same outfit from yesterday hanging pristinely and unworn. She snatched it off the hanger and angrily got dressed. And with a sharp flick of her wrist, her make-up and hair were done. 

“Let’s get this over with.” She sighed.

She marched along the bridge from the central tower. Confusion, anger, and admittedly a little bit of fear clouded her thoughts. Why was this happening to her? Did someone curse her? Was she going insane?

She violently slammed open the doors to the assembly hall. The flinching reactions of the students and staff were ignored as she stalked to the main podium. 

“How good of you to join me.” She said as Professor Dovey opened her mouth. “Yes, I know. ” 

Dovey’s mouth clicked shut with a taken-aback expression loud on her face. “Do I say it that often?” 

“Often enough.” Lesso muttered as Dovey plastered a wide and entirely fake smile upon her face, addressing the students. 

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to if you were ever on time.” She hissed out of the corner of her smile. 

Lesso crossed her arms and shrugged. It wasn’t like she was ever going to change her ways. 

The roar of the students continued to climb as they entered the hall. Lesso eyed the clock on the far wall and idly noted that they were running behind schedule. Dovey must have done the same. 

“Shall we get this show on the road?” Dovey asked her, the implication clear in her voice. 

“I thought I’d let you do the honors.” 

“Welcome back, students!” The Dean of Good called across the auditorium. 

But the deafening volume, if possible, grew louder. She shot Lesso an imploring look that was promptly ignored. 

“Attention!” She shouted, attempting to imitate the authority usually present in the Dean of Evil. 

A few Ever heads turned in response. 

“ATTENTION!” She shrieked, slamming her golden staff against the floor. 

Immediately, the chatter died down. 

“Well done, princess. There’s hope for you yet.” Lesso smirked. 

“Thank you, Lady Lesso.” Dovey smiled brightly. “Welcome back, students! I hope everyone enjoyed their time away from school and got to enjoy some rest and relaxation. Today will be a day of reorientation. We will resume our regularly scheduled classes after breakfast. Please refer to the schedules handed out to you before break.”

Lesso mouthed silently along to Dovey’s speech. After a beat of silence, the blonde looked at her. 

“Do you have anything else to add?”

“Nope!” She said with a loud pop of her lips. 

Dovey looked at her quizzically before returning to address the children.  “Copies have also been posted in the main halls of each castle and in your personal dormitories. You are dismissed! Have a wonderful first day back!”

The students rose from the bleachers and began streaming out the door. Lady Lesso stood to follow them. 

“I’ll see you at the staff meeting after breakfast. Don’t worry, I won’t be late.” She called over her shoulder, missing the unnerved expression left on Dovey’s face as she exited the hall. 

Lesso stopped and waited at the junction of the main corridor and the hallway leading to the dining hall. She leaned her back against the stone wall and counted to three before sticking her cane into the walkway. Perfectly timed, Emma Anemone rounded the corner and tripped over the walking stick and crashed to the ground. 

“Oh, Professor Anemone! I’m so sorry.” Lesso cried with exaggeratedly feigned remorse. “I’m sure that wouldn’t have happened if you had been watching where you were going.”

She hummed sagely like she had just imparted some grand, life-changing advice. 

Emma rolled her eyes and with a stupid amount of grace, picked herself up off the floor and adjusted her dress.

“Are you satisfied?” Anemone asked with a bitter edge to her tone. 

“Very.” Lesso nodded succinctly. 

Emma cocked her head and scrutinized her from head to toe. 

“See something you like?”

“I see you , Red. I see the sad little girl inside. And some day, you might realize that every effort you have put into making everyone else around you feel low is because that’s what you feel. Maybe then you’ll realize that not once has it done anything to lift you any higher. You are in the same place now that you were when you started. Maybe, one day, you’ll understand that some of us have been trying to simply accompany you along the way. I really do hope you realize that before you end up completely alone and just as irrelevant as you always feared you would be.”

Leonora’s eyes narrowed and she lunged for the historian, grabbing her by the flared, pink sleeves. 

“What the fuck did you do to me?” She hissed in a rage. 

Anemone pried Lesso’s fingers off her dress and shoved her lightly away, confusion plain on her usually impassive face. 

“Have a good day, Lady Lesso.” She said dismissively. 

Emma gave her a wide berth and did not take her eyes off of the Evil Dean until she had rounded the corner, shaking her head incredulously as she made the turn. 

Lady Lesso slumped uncharacteristically against the wall and pulled at her hair in frustration. She abandoned the idea of breakfast and instead made for the library in the School of Evil. Clearly, she was cursed. Though, even as an expert on curses and death traps, she felt way out of her league. Maybe the beauty teacher had nothing to do with it. It was not in the realm of “good” magic, after all. But the words felt as if they had been carved into her brain and she was left feeling distinctly haunted. 

She poured over book after book on curses, but none provided any answers about re-living the same day. She did find a simple text on enchanted tattoos that gave her pause. If she was doomed to relive this day over and over again, would permanent changes carry over? She hadn’t yet noticed any consequences from the actions of her last trials. Lesso twirled her brightly glowing purple finger and with a hiss, a small raven appeared at her wrist. 

__________________________________________________________

“You’re late!” Dovey hissed as Lesso found her seat. 

“Better late than Ever.” She answered, rolling her eyes. 

A brief, glazed look flitted across Dovey’s face before she gathered herself to address the staff. “Thank you everybody for joining me for our quarterly staff meeting!”

“Let’s get this over with.” Lesso grunted. 

“We don’t have much to discuss since our previous meeting. Lady Lesso and I just wanted to follow up with everybody regarding the unification of classes and to problem-solve any hiccups.” 

Hands waved in the air and the staff all at once began to talk over one another. 

“SHUT UP!” She shouted over the dull roar, startling the participants into silence. “Let me guess…Yuba, your pea brain can’t figure out how to get the students from sabotaging one another, other than a shared grade. Beauty teacher wants to discontinue the curriculum and teach sex education instead. And Espada is incompetent and can’t figure out that his teaching methods are garbage.” 

Owlish, dumbfounded blinks stared back at her. 

“Was I right? Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Well…I don’t know that it needed to be worded quite so rudely.” Dovey stuttered. 

“No, I won’t teach the course.” Lesso continued, pointing an accusing finger at Anemone. “And you need to introduce girls from both sides into your class, Espada. And you need to adapt your teaching to their individual strengths and weaknesses. That should be common sense.” 

Still, her audience gaped. Before the swordsman could open his mouth to question her, she met his eyes. 

“You want to know how I know…Let’s just call it intuition.” 

“Lady Lesso, that was very insightful advice.” Dovey added from her seat, attempting to break the tension. 

“Why do you sound so surprised?” Lesso asked sarcastically. 

Deep, chocolate eyes cut over to Lesso’s and firmly held her gaze. 

“I never said that I was. I believe I was offering a compliment.” 

The undercurrent of defensive hurt laced Dovey’s words. Embarrassment crept in Lesso’s chest and she was once again caught off guard by the Good Dean’s support. She averted her eyes and cleared her throat uncomfortably. 

“In the interest of the students’ education, I will offer some assistance in teaching Espada’s class.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea.” Dovey said warmly. 

_____________________________________________________________

Lesso started her first round of classes with a simple textbook on each desk. She refused to suffer through the agony of the practical with students already so far behind in the curriculum. She very pointedly ignored the groans of protest and enjoyed the silent study hall instead. 

“When do we actually get to the poisons part of Potions and Poisons?” 

Lesso launched a paperweight into the center of the room. 

“Get out!”

The students scattered like pearls off a broken string and she was alone again. Lesso pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed deeply into the empty classroom. A headache was forming between her eyes and the exhaustion of her situation started to settle in. What was she missing? Why was this happening to her? 

The clock tower chimed noon and as if perfectly synched, her stomach growled in expectation. She trudged across the bridge to the dining hall and scanned the table for a vacant chair. Absently, she noted she was significantly earlier than “yesterday” and the crowd was much larger. Lesso’s eyes settled on the only empty chair at the table, next to Dovey.  Across the hall, her doe eyes shifted from whoever she was talking with and met Lesso’s unintentional stare. Her face brightened and she patted the seat next to her welcomingly. 

An unidentifiable feeling squirmed in Lesso’s belly. Her eyes darted around the room for a moment before her feet betrayed her. 

“Lady Lesso, good afternoon!” Dovey said brightly as Lesso hesitantly dropped into the vacant chair. 

She flushed warmly under the incredulous stares of the other staff members present and did not return the greeting. She filled her plate with the lackluster grilled chicken and some sad looking green beans. 

“It’s rather bland, wouldn’t you say?” Dovey whispered out of the corner of her mouth. 

Lesso watched the fairy godmother cut at the meat on her plate and push it around convincingly. She allowed a soft hum of agreement to be heard over the scraping of the cutlery. 

“Thank you for volunteering to help with this afternoon’s class.” Dovey tried again to elicit conversation. 

“If your teachers demonstrated any semblance of common sense or ability, I wouldn’t have had to.” Lesso barked and internally cringed. 

As the words fell from her lips, she suddenly desired to take them back. Why were conversations with this woman so impossible lately?

The same tight smile from before pulled at Dovey’s face and her gaze averted uncomfortably to the tasteless meal. Unfamiliar shame crawled up Lesso’s back at having put that expression on her face. She liked the genuine smiles better.

Wait, what?

"Yes, well, we all still have things to work on. Myself, included.” Dovey answered distantly. “Good luck with your afternoon.” 

The Dean of Good stood and cleared her plate. 

“See you later.” Lesso said lamely, watching her go. 

Storian, she wanted to slap herself. That was just as bad as her first go at it. And she didn’t even know why she wanted her conversation with the infuriating woman to not go poorly. Maybe it was those stupid wish fish getting into her head. 

“Well, that went well.” 

Lesso flinched violently and whirled around in her seat to glare at the one person who would dare to make a comment. Emma graced her with a self-satisfied grin and lowered herself fluidly into Dovey’s now-vacant seat. 

“What the fuck do you know, beauty teacher?” Lesso scoffed, shoving her plate away angrily. 

“A great deal more than you give me credit for, Red.” 

Lesso’s eyes cut sharply back to regard the historian from her periphery. 

“Clarissa is an Ever , Red. She thrives on compliments, pleasantness, and genuine conversation.” Anemone spoke as if she were talking to a toddler. 

“Are you telling me she wants me to sit here and tell her she’s pretty?” Lesso asked flatly. 

“Do you?” Emma interrogated. 

“Do I what?”

“Think that she’s pretty?”

“I don’t have time for this.” 

The thought was absurd. She had nothing but time! But she certainly did not want to be a part of this trainwreck of a conversation any longer. Lesso pushed her chair away from the table and reveled in the series of cringes as the feet screeched against the floor. 

___________________________________________________________

She didn’t bother observing Espada’s miserable attempts at instruction. She met him on the lawn and promptly told him to sit down and shut up. 

“Save your petty fighting for the battlefield. Use the opportunity we are giving you to hone your strengths and purge your weaknesses! Win or lose, these matches are supposed to teach you about survival. Consider it practice, because in life, there are no do-overs.”

She fought the shudder that threatened to break free at her own lecture. She matched the boys into more optimal pairs, learning from her previous attempt and set them upon each other. 

“Espada, where are the girls?” She questioned him during the reprieve. 

“Princesses do not belong on the battlefield, witch.” He said pompously. 

Her lip curled in abject disgust and the tip of her cane roughly found the center of his chest. 

“Have you learned nothing in the past year?” She snarled. “Any one of my Never girls could crush your Princes in a duel…in no time flat.”

Espada gave an unbothered shrug and slapped her cane away. “Prove it.”

Already on edge from the way her day was going, Lesso shucked her coat in a rage and snatched up a sword from the pile. 

“Let’s do this.”

The commotion drew the attention of the students practicing and the clang of steel faded as they lowered their arms to watch. Lesso and Espada bowed respectively and each took up a differing readying stance. The Dean of Evil adopted a more rounded position: she leaned lightly back into her bad leg with her good leg forward, and maintained a two handed grasp on the sword positioned across her body with the hilt anchored at her hip. Espada took up a more traditional posture, with the sword far out in front of him in a long point stance. 

She didn’t have to wait long. The consistent brashness of Evers came through and he lunged. The attack was easy enough to dodge as she pivoted on her forward leg and maintained her position. He swung high and she parried. Lesso allowed him to push her backward a few paces. With a few more carefully positioned ducks and dodges, she finally had him where she wanted him…staring directly into the afternoon sun. 

Sweat had started to collect at his hairline and his collar from the exertion of his offensive attacks and from maintaining the forward hold of his sword. In a flurry of swift slashes, she danced around the falling arc of his sword and tapped his flank with the broad flat of her steel as his weapon clattered to the ground. 

A slow series of claps erupted from the student audience and a piercing whistle highlighted her victory. 

“That was awesome, ma’am!” One of the Ever boys complimented. 

Lesso threw down her sword and lifted a sculpted eyebrow at her opponent. Espada scoffed and stalked off the field. 

“Worse than children.” She muttered, shaking her head. “Class dismissed!”

She snatched up her discarded cane and limped heavily back to the office. She hissed and cringed at every stair she was forced to climb, and in heels. 

“She was so caught up in the routine of her day, she almost missed the presence of the Dean for Good at the tower window.” The Storian narrated as she walked by. “Her steps faltered and her sharp gaze cut suspiciously to the quill.”

“Are you writing about me?” Lesso snapped, sounding mildly unhinged to her own ears. 

Her cane cracked loudly against the floor as she stomped over to the book. 

“Her turbulent green eyes searched the page for any helpful information, but found nothing of use.”

“Stupid fucking feather.” She hissed. 

The golden quill poked her roughly in the shoulder as if in reprimand and remained poised threateningly. 

“Alright, I’m going!” Lesso surrendered with narrowed eyes. 

She shoved open the doors to the office, immediately looking to the window to find Dovey looking through the pane. 

“Don’t you have class?” She asked as she collapsed at her own desk, opening the decanter of bourbon. 

Dovey eyed the alcohol with distaste but didn’t comment. “I have a free period.”

Lesso’s glass paused midway to her mouth and she raised a questioning eyebrow. “I didn’t know that.”

“I don’t usually spend it doing paperwork.” Dovey said with a self-deprecating smile as she gestured to her disastrous desk. “But I just had this odd feeling that I should be up here today. It was rather persistent, actually.”

Her smile faded to a pensive frown. 

Lesso’s eyes darted to the doors leading to the antechamber and back to Dovey. “Have you paid any attention to the Storian lately?”

“I don’t typically pay it any mind. The words just tend to fade into background noise, if I’m honest.” Dovey confessed. 

Lesso gave her a noncommittal hum and poured herself another glass. 

“You’ll fill up before dinner.” Dovey said quietly, gesturing with her chin to the glass. 

Lesso knocked it back and shrugged. “I probably wasn’t going to dinner, anyway.” 

Dovey pierced her with a scrutinizing look. Her soulful eyes looked sad and the intensity of her stare made Lesso squirm. 

“Doesn’t that ever make you feel lonely?” She finally asked. 

Lesso swallowed thickly against the nausea that lurched in her throat. The question felt entirely too on the nose and she fought back the eerie feelings it provoked. 

“I am a Never, Dove. To be a Never is to be alone.” She rasped into the rim of her glass. 

“It doesn’t have to be.” Dovey replied simply. 

The fairy godmother rocked on her feet and cleared her throat. The silence settled heavily in the air and neither Dean knew how to move forward. 

“I am going to go freshen up before dinner.” Dovey finally said. “There’s always a seat for you next to me, if you change your mind.”

She offered one last smile and turned on her heel before striding through the door. 

Lesso nursed her glass for a few minutes more. Truthfully, dinner did not sound appealing in the slightest. The cacophony of students and staff in the crowded hall was enough to make her want to stab her own ears on a good day. And today certainly was not a good day. And yet, inexplicably, she did not want to disappoint the other woman…something she seemed to do every time she opened her mouth. 

No, today was scrapped already. She just wanted this nightmare to be over. Lesso eyed her empty glass and sighed deeply before placing it hard on the desk. No more. 

She glanced at the hideous clock and decided to take a walk. It was earlier than she had been, but she wanted some time alone at the lake before Dovey would inevitably come by. 

She forced herself out of the chair and into the rapidly approaching night. The sun was sinking behind the broad backdrop of the castles, casting hues of red and orange against the sky. Objectively, it was beautiful. But Lesso couldn’t be bothered to notice. 

Her legs carried her over the well-worn paths and to the edge of the lake. She sank heavily into the damp earth and glared at the softly rippling water. 

“Did you do this to me?” She asked the wish fish below, but her reflection staring back at her was the only thing that she saw. 

Lesso reached out a hesitant hand to the surface and let a slender finger break the tension. Again, Dovey’s glowing face formed in the magical glow of the wish fish. Her smile was soft and wistful. Lesso’s heart clenched at the almost sad look depicted in her eyes. It was the same look she gave her in their conversation earlier. 

“Nevers can’t love, you stupid fish.” She bit out angrily. 

The picture shifted then. She saw herself, unmistakable except for the glowing smile and twinkling eyes. Her likeness cradled Dovey’s face so gently and captured her lips in an unbreakable kiss. Dovey’s hands came up to cover her own and those sad eyes fluttered in pure bliss. 

Lesso gasped and snatched her hand from the water as if she had been burned. She stumbled back from the water’s edge and breathed in deep through her nose to quell the rising panic. 

“No. You know what, I don’t need to take life advice from a couple of enchanted guppies.” She snarled. 

Lesso continued grumbling and she stomped back to her chambers. The sun had long set behind the trees, and in the dark she careened into a warm body. 

“Fuck me, this happens way too often to be natural.” She groaned from the hard, cold ground of  the stone bridge. 

“Lesso! I’m so sorry! I was just on my way down to the lake and I was not watching where I was going.”

Concerned, Dovey stared down at her, offering a hand to help her up. 

“Nope!” Lesso shouted, hauling herself to her feet and brushing past Dovey. 

She practically sprinted up the invisible stairs and to the safety of her bedroom. Behind the closed door, she slid to the floor and bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a scream. She traced a finger over the fresh ink at her wrist, praying for answers. Slowly, and then all at once, she had an idea. 

“You can’t start the day over if you don’t sleep!” 

She lunged for the bedside table and was immediately grateful for the change in routine of the day’s morning. Her hands found the small clock, clutching it tightly to her chest. It was nearing eight PM. Only twelve hours to go before this hellscape would start over. 

She could manage that. 

Next Chapter - Chapter 4

Previous Chapter - Chapter 2

[coyotescribbles]

She'd been walking. She couldn't remember where she'd been walking to, just that she'd been walking.

And, at some point, the streets and towering buildings of Cybertropolis had fallen away, leaving nothing but a vast, star-filled sky overhead and…

And…

A low, lilting, droning sound rose up from beneath her paws.

She stopped.

The sound came again, this time accompanied by another. And another. A chorus of wordless, tuneless music bubbled up from…

…From the fathomless depths Azrael found herself gazing down into when she looked around to find the source of the sounds. And as she watched, transfixed, something moved through the dark. Black on black, faintly illuminated by tiny blue bio-lights, enormous shadows swam languidly past, calling out to one another in those haunting voices.

Some part of her knew that she should have been afraid, was conscious of the fact that this was impossible, and yet…

And yet, when one shadow breached the surface nearby, so close that she could see the starlight shimmering on its glossy, segmented hide - that she could feel the spark-deep groan of exertion as that immense body rose higher and higher, slowly arcing back towards the water until it crashed back beneath the surface… she felt nothing but a quiet, overwhelming awe.

An awe which gave way to shock when the waves died down and she realized that she was no longer alone.

Another figure stood out on the water a short distance away, cloaked in shadow with no features visible except for a pair of blue-white optics. They said nothing, only stood motionless, watching.

Azrael's hackles prickled.

"Who are you?" She called pensively; her voice rippled across the water's surface in waves of blue flecked with golden light.

No answer.

"Is this something you're showing me?"

The figure raised one arm, pointing to something behind her; turning to look in the direction indicated, Azrael saw the lights of a distant city. They spread out along the horizon as far as her optics could see, painting the sky with green and gold and white.

"I don't-" she turned back to the figure, audials curling back, "I don't understand, why are you showing me this? What does it mean?"

YOU WILL UNDERSTAND

The words-that-weren't echoed through her mind as the figure lowered its arm; she took a step forward, feeling the water ripple around her paws.

"What will I understand? Why won't you just tell-"

Before she could finish her sentence, the surface of the water opened up beneath her, and she was sent plunging into the endless black, flailing and struggling to reorient herself until a brilliant green flash illuminated the world around her, and she found herself face-to-face with -

Primus.

The core hung before her, dark and inert.

Then its apertures blazed to life in blinding white light.

And she lurched awake.

[the-everqueen]

Hi! So this first ask is about the concept you have for that X-men monster fic 👀

so ao3 user darthpumpkinspice dragged me down a Pierce/Logan hole and now i've read everything (in English) in the tags and am subscribed to a current fic-in-progress. i need to make clear: i have not seen Logan (2017). i've read the wiki summary and i know what hugh jackman and bhol look like. pero now i'm invested in smarmy Donald Pierce getting the shit beat out of him by a burned-out Wolverine and/or being a pretty princess/fucktoy for Wolverine.

(go read Twice Shy. and then, just because it's good Rose-as-Dream fic, Heavy Lies the Crown.)

anyways. given this context. i want a fic where Donnie gets revived/captured by A-T in the wake of film events and they test a new serum formula on him and it goes...wrong. cue Logan (also revived, and/or time loop shit, we know i love a time loop) breaking him out, thinking he's going to leverage this little shit for info to dismantle A-T, and instead he's got a handful of monster. two ways for this to go, imho: Pierce is turning into something wolverine-adjacent, with all the gross and delightful body horror and fear of losing humanity that comes with it. i find this fun because wolverines are related to martens and i DO think it's on the nose in a darkly funny way if the (metaphorical) weasel is becoming a (literal) weasel. also wolverines are solitary animals (ha) so putting two of those in close quarters and being like "work together!" has great potential. alternatively, Pierce's body is coping badly with a botched metamorphosis into bhol-as-Wolverine, with all the fun pain of "hey bone claws actually really fucking hurt and when not reinforced with adamantium they aren't a GREAT weapon, actually, because bones break," and "rapid healing factor doesn't stop things from hurting, esp. when 'things' are a pissed off adamantium-reinforced mutant who wants to use you as his personal punching bag." either way! i get Donald Pierce Coping Badly With A New Set Of Instincts, and the delicious playground of "what if we took someone who is definitely traumatized and has been masking that with violence and suddenly/horribly reoriented his whole sense of self while making him dependent on the person who wants him dead more than anyone else."

the first option has the potential for a...softer ending. not kinder, maybe, but it could result in some uneasy truce with elements of pleasure. second one is pure whump. for me, the attraction of this pairing is the flip of a hero into a small-scale villain for someone who absolutely deserves hurt. the reparative factor in non-whump versions is the classic "you have been seen at your absolute worst and someone still thinks maybe you could've had kindness, maybe there's something worthwhile at the bitter pit of you." but there's also the bit where it's like: you are Logan and you are tired. you have been saving the world since forever and it has not fucking gotten better and no matter what you won't die, you can't die, you wish you could die so at least you could stop. and the ghosts keep dragging you back against your will, and living so long makes for a LOT of ghosts. and then this bitch of a kid who tells you he's a fan is in your hands, and he's done a lot of bad and feels no guilt for it. and maybe you could make him sorry. at very least you can have this: you can prove to yourself you're a monster.