#I know I’m churning out posts like this recently but it’s just so so important to me

[crabussy]

if you’re friends with the host of a system please PLEASE make an effort to get to know the others in the system. a lot of the time, since the host tends to front the most, the other people in the system aren’t able to socialise as much and end up without much of a support group or many friends. reaching out means the world!!

- enquire about a certain headmate! how are they doing? what have they been up to?

- message alters even when they aren’t in front. make them feel wanted even when they’re not around

- @ them in things that remind you of them!! if they have their own accounts on tumblr send asks!!

being a member of a system comes with unrelenting struggles and worries, and it is in your power to be able to alleviate some of these concerns. make your system friends feel loved!! [:

[as-is-above-so-below]

Cardigan - John Price x F!Teacher!Reader

Part 2: Midnight Rain

summary: you get yourself in a pickle a/n: hi! I return again! I'm sorry it's short, but I'm trying a new method of posting. Instead of aiming for a specific word count (which leads to me getting writer's block and not posting ANYTHING), I write until I'm satisfied with what I'm trying to achieve. Hopefully, I've achieved that goal, and y'all like it :) Blessed be! << Previous | Next >>

You drummed your fingers against the notebook in your lap and gnawed on the top of your pen. It was late, even by your standards; the sun had long since set, and dinner eaten hours ago. But you were up, sitting in the dark in your living room, heavy rain pelting your old windows. You were trying to pull together a new lesson plan for the following day. A few curious students had started asking questions about the modern military. Like, key differences between military strategies used in the time they were studying and today. And, of course, yet again, you made promises that you were struggling to keep. And you always keep your promises to your students.

Fuck.

The internet wasn’t helping at all. You didn’t study military strategy in any of your courses. Was that even a thing?

The last thing you wanted to do was call him. You were so confident that you could solve your problem yourself, at nine o’clock. Now, it was past midnight, and you were absolutely desperate.

Fuck.

Before your tired brain can flood with guilt and change its mind, you grab your phone from your nightstand and tap into your recent calls log. Your stomach churned, anxiety bubbling up with every trill. God, it’s so fucking late to be calling. It felt like you were split in two. One half of you was praying that his phone was on silent (you know it’s not) or he’ll sleep through the ringing (he won’t), while the other–the miserable, exhausted half–needed him to pick up.

The latter won out.

“Y/N? Are you alright?”

John’s deep, sleepy voice made you feel guilty and incredibly happy that you’d woken him up. Soft and grumbly, rolling in his chest; it made you feel soft and warm inside…

Not the point of the call.

“Hi, John. I’m completely fine, I just…” You took a deep breath, the heel of your free hand pressed into one of your dry, worn-out eyes. “I know you’re this big important captain, and you have work in the morning, but I’m in a bit of a pickle and need a massive favor.”

There was a slight rustling on the other end like he had turned slightly to check the nearby time. “It’s one o’clock in the morning, love,” he mumbled.

You felt even worse. “I know, I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me,” you begged, running a hand over the top of your head. “One of my kids asked about the military. It sparked a whole discussion in class, and I may have overstated my knowledge. I barely know anything about it, and my brain is turning to mush. I’m so tired I wanna cry, and-”

He quickly cut off your rambling. “Woah, hey. Slow down there. What’s going on?” he asked, suddenly sounding much more awake. 

That brought you pause. You honestly hadn’t thought what you would ask if John actually answered the phone through. It was one o’clock in the morning, which John had correctly pointed out, and your brain wasn’t operating at full capacity. 

“I was…wondering if you could give me a lesson. Because I’m super tired, and I like to hear you talk.”

“…You do?”

“Yeah. I’ve learned a lot from you just…talking to me? But I’m a history teacher. I’m an expert on wars, not war.”

There was some shuffling on the phone. On the other line, John was leaning over the edge of his bed, searching blindly for his little pocket planner in the pile of clothes on the floor. The rustling stopped when he placed the device on his pillow, rifling through the calendar. He sniffed and was quiet for a moment, while you nibbled anxiously at your pen. Again.

The silence finally broke with a tired sniffle from John. “I can do you better. Why don’t I come to your classes tomorrow?” he asked.

You froze, pen still between your teeth. John? Coming to your school? Spending the day with your students? That would be the equivalent of introducing your boyfriend to your children. 

“…Really?”

“Sure.”

Could you even call him your boyfriend? You’d been on a few dates, sure, over the last…two months? No, it was closer to three. Had it been that long already? You did some quick math in your head. You’d gone on about one date a week, with a few canceled due to last-minute commitments. Still, about one date a week, over three months…

Holy shit.

“John, I’m sure you’re busy. I couldn’t-”

“Not at all,” he hummed, cutting you off. “Besides, it would take me ‘til class tomorrow to give you a good enough rundown, and the boss loves shite like this.”

“I thought you were the boss?”

You could practically hear a small smile tugging at John’s lips. The expression was a familiar one. The corner of his mouth quirked up, shifting his beard and creating happy wrinkles near his eyes. His nose would scrunch up a bit, too, especially if you were out in cold weather. 

“Everybody has a boss, sweetness. Myself included.”

Christ. Not the pet names. And especially not in the tired, gravelly tone his voice was currently in. John Price was going to be the death of you, even in his unfocused state.

You unfolded your legs from underneath you and moved your notebook onto the coffee table. Your resolve was fading, and you couldn’t be bothered to argue. While you did feel bad about dragging John to your school to fix the problem you created, you weren’t sure you had any other option. Accept defeat? To a group of teenagers? Absolutely not. You’d never live it down. You sighed, rubbing tiredly at your eyes. “If you’re sure…”

“I am.”

A soft smile crossed your face. “Is this just a ploy to meet my kids?”

“Maybe.”

Your sleepy giggles were like music to John’s ears. The sound alone was worth the favor. As if he wouldn’t have done it anyway, just to ease your stress. He would take any and every opportunity to make your day easier or make you happy. What he wouldn’t give to hear that laugh in person, laying beside you in your bed–

No. John’s a good man. A gentleman, he would say. A man who was perfectly capable of not acting on his urges and thoughts. At least, not in person. However, in the privacy of his own home? That was a different story.

“Thank you so much, John.”

Right. You’re still on the phone. He heard a soft click on your end of the call.

“That’d better be you closing your laptop, I’m hearing.”

“It is.”

“Good girl.” You blushed furiously. Fuck. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight.”

taglist: @novausstuff, @cutiecusp, @ittosbigfatmantitties, @helpimhyperfixating, @hihhasotherfixations, @dugiioh, @glitterypirateduck, @cringeycookies, @lethalchiralium

Copyright © 2023 as-is-above-so-below. All rights reserved.

[throttlegainwell]

First Lines of 10 Fics Game!!

rules: share the first lines of 10 of your most recent fanfics and then tag 10 people. If you have written less than 10 fics, don't be shy and share anyways :)

(I'm not going to tag anyone. Just have at it if you feel like it. It's kind of neat.)

In reverse order, from most to least recently posted:

Proper Preparation Prevents Poor Performance

The important thing to keep in mind was that none of them had any idea what they were doing. The other important thing to keep in mind was that that had been equally true in literal life-or-death horror situations, and everything had more or less worked out fine. So what was a little clumsy assplay between friends?

Iconoclast (a composition painted on my face)

“Oh, you’re pregnant again?” Joyce forced her lips to curve, which wasn’t very much like a smile at all but just about as pleasant as she could manage. “Yes, I’m pregnant again.” “Oh, you must be so nervous,” Betty Flanders said, a pinched look on her face like maybe she should have perused one aisle over for the constipation remedies. “Considering, well, you know.” Joyce had half a mind to direct her to them, but instead her hands sped up on the register, ringing up Betty’s pantyhose and mints in record time and resisting the urge to overcharge her on principle, knowing she wouldn’t check the receipt or count her change.

Maybe a Medal

Nancy had that considering look in her eye that Jonathan had come to love. “You’re very pretty, you know.” Jonathan’s eyebrows drew together. He glanced down at himself, not particularly moved one way or the other, but Nancy had sprung odder things on him before. “Thank you?” “I mean your penis. The rest of you is pretty, too, but I want you to know that you have a pretty penis. I've thought a lot about this.”

release what's broken underneath

Consummate professional that she is, Nancy’s face remains impassive—any casual passerby would probably have no idea that she’s deciding whether or not to stop by the shooting range on the way home from work just to get her head on straight. But shooting targets, though appealing, seems inadequate for the kind of slow-growing rage pulsing through her as she tidies up her desk, packs her bag, and turns off her computer for the day, still seeing red everywhere she looks from staring too long into the phosphorescent green glow of her ancient IBM computer screen—which, though apropos of her mood, is annoying. But she goes through the motions. Like stuffing those notes away and watching the screen go dark will make it all less real, less horrible.

Hard Skills

Steve doesn’t necessarily have a wide variety of skills, by the standards of the crowd he hangs around these days, but he’s not without his talents. Athletic abilities aside, most of those talents are highly context dependent and not, well, appropriate in a lot of settings. But although he doesn’t get as many chances to show off as he’d maybe like, it’s enough that he’s got a pretty solid reputation by sixteen. The thing is, that means fuck-all when he starts screwing around with Jonathan Byers.

True Bearing

Finnick’s ears ring in time with the pounding of his head. It’s worse than being stuck near the motors of the Capitol fishing trawlers back home, those hulking beasts that churn up the water and belch out fumes; at least that thrumming is predictable and constant, even if you can feel it in your teeth. The music at this party is relentless in a different way, the sound just so big and inescapable, high notes and low notes alike shooting right through him with just enough variation that he can’t ever tune it out. It’s not helped by all the people determined to bend his ear and plying him with drinks. He hasn’t had a free moment (or an empty glass) all night. He’s always making the rounds all over the room, moving from dim and intimate corners to areas with spotlights bright as the sun and fancy, colored strobes that make him dizzy.

were you named in your father's will?

It used to take forays into a parallel dimension and battles with actual, for real monsters to totally disrupt Will’s day. A government conspiracy here and there, for good measure. There was a time when those were relegated strictly to the realms of fantasy, so Will has plenty of evidence that something being bizarre doesn’t mean it can’t be true—that it won’t happen. But there are still scenarios that, if asked, he would probably consider profoundly unlikely, if not downright impossible. Gravity on Earth reversing itself, for instance. Or Bush getting on television to announce that, actually, he loves queers, and so do all his cronies, and they’re going to get right on undoing all of that institutionalized oppression. But somehow those have more weight and realism to them—more genuine possibility—than what actually walks through the door just an hour before his shift ends.

Swear You Will

The knife flashes under the yellowish kitchen light as it falls. She waits too long to move her hand—forces herself to hold still. She can do this. But the knife falls fast; its path does not move. Does not budge—does not wobble—no matter how hard she wills it. Her reflexes win, not fast enough; she catches the wrong end with her stupid, normal hands. “Shit,” she says, cradling her injured hand to her chest. She glances over her shoulder, hoping she was not too loud. But the house is quiet with Joyce and Will at the store. Jonathan looks up from his pile of homework—there is no other way to describe it, spread across the stretch of table in front of him and a few inches high—and a stray page flutters to the floor. “What happened?” he asks, already rising to come to her.

Erosion

Annie watched the waves roll in, with Finnick’s warm, soft voice in her ears telling her she was brave and strong. It felt sort of laughable, all things considered, but she appreciated the effort, the intent. Finnick never talked down to her, not even when she was so silly that she couldn’t even set foot in the waters she’d practically been born into. Not even when she couldn’t do the very thing that she’d once done so naturally, so instinctively, it had actually saved her life. He hadn’t been home for long. She could still see the traces of the Capitol on him—from the ridiculous haircut those stylists had given him to the unhappy set of his shoulders. With every passing day, they loosened a fraction. Still, it always took time for him to wash off that Capitol coating, like it was a lingering smell on his skin that he just couldn’t shake—the way the smell of fish and saltwater clung to all the boats, but unnatural and strange. She had reached up to rub away Capitol makeup so many times, after her Games, only to find nothing there; it wasn’t the same, but it helped her understand, when she had to remind herself to be patient with him the way he was so effortlessly with her.

Saltare

Finnick steps into the training room the way Finnick Odair, Capitol darling and Four’s most lauded champion, enters every room: with a practiced ease and the palpable certainty that he belongs there. If this were a media appearance, he’d blow a kiss. But all things being equal, there can be no mistaking what this actually is. Finnick is here to play the game. But something becomes immediately apparent to him the moment he lays eyes on the Gamemakers of this Quarter Quell. This private session is a sham, of course. They all know what he can do—what he has done. And unlike some of the other victors—those who have been abandoned, right or wrong, to the forces of time and whatever crawled out of the arena with them, back to their home districts—Finnick has never left the public eye. Sure, the last time anyone saw any great physical feats out of him, he'd been a child, but now he stands before them tall, strong, and sharp. There can be no mistaking that he is in the prime of his life, with experience and skills to match. He doesn’t miss a step, and that much radiates from him. And despite his reputation—despite the whispers of the Capitol meant to discredit him, despite the fact that he now uses that simple, underestimated public face to his advantage—he has a clever, tactical mind.

[jeggsistence]

Emi Jones x Ryan Drummond

When the internet simply cares too much..

Zamn, only one post in and shit’s already devolved into a generic article churning out stupid news about celebrities that never had relevance. I'on even care.

Imagine that you’re like me, ‘doomscrolling’ on twitter like every reasonable Zoomer (slang for Gen Z). Terrifying thought, but you’re also mildly interested in Sonic the Hedgehog. As you’re scrolling through, trying to find something to waste your anger on, you encounter this image:

A meme, they call it. It may be passed off as random flubber, but it’s a sign that your Twitter feed will become unbearable for about a week.

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

So, who is Emi Jones?

Basically, Emi Jones is a semi-popular voice actress in the Sonic community, mostly known for her audio series, “Sonic and Tails R”, conveniently starring a Ryan Drummond.

Who is Ryan Drummond?

He used to be the voice actor for Sonic during the “Adventure era” of Sonic, which is around 1998-2004. He’s important to the… story.

What happened?

Zamn they need to fucking paywall you from asking rhetorical questions—

Basically, Emi Jones had a private Twitter account, which gave away the fact that she and Ryan were having a private relationship.

(Editor’s note: A bunch of private Twitter accounts)

This came out just 3 days ago, which means it’s already dead news, BUT LET ME HAVE MY MOMENT.

(Editor’s note: Apparently, information on this relationship came out in 2020, and actual evidence surfaced recently.)

I’on even know why I’m saying it like this. I’m too broke for an editor-

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

Anyway, this could be considered an example of a celebrity controversy. However, this is the most milquetoast controversy I’ve personally witnessed.

Nothing actually problematic surfaced, such as Justin Roiland being sued for domestic abuse, or most fittingly, Hunnid P, rapper known for the Knuckles tracks in SA2, attempting to extort Emi for money she didn’t have.

It can be boiled down into people complaining about two consenting adults having sex, or people complaining about people complaining about two consenting adults having sex.

Technically speaking, I’m adding fuel to the fire too, except the fuel is already burnt coal and I’m somehow expecting it to undergo nuclear fusion even though that’s not how it works; and the fire is like a candle’s flame.

Poetic. But basically, terminally online people (like me) should find better ways to waste their time. However, at the end of the day, iss funy doe.

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

Aight fuck this shit. It’s fucking boring, so I’m gonna list a Top 5 FUNNIEST EL MEHME from that spawned from this. Unlike how my father de-spawned from my household-

NUMBER 5:

This tweet was posted by the woman herself and ZAMN! It definitely gave a TERRIFYING foreshadowing to what would come out in approximately 2 months and 13 days.

However, I must give it a 6.5/10 because I don’t like Sonic Heroes (2003).

NUMBER 4:

This screenshot is of a Youtube video and Got damh there is so much to analyze. Sonic is characterized to be shrugging as his Sonic Adventure 1 (1998) model, representing Ryan Drummond and how he simply could not resist getting into trouble like the rebel he is!!

The second aspect you would notice is the woman on the right drawn to look somewhat seductive (oooh). However, you’ll be bamboozled to find out that that woman has the manliest voice on the planet. I’m talking full on Dwayne the rock, Tyler, the creator type bass. It’s like if a man and a woman had a child!

The “RANK A” is simply the cherry on top of such a delightful meme!

This would be a 10/10 image, however points must be taken off for informalities as some parts of the image are written in It*lian, so it’s a 6.7/12.

NUMBER 3:

HAHAHHAHA LOOK AT THIS IDIOT! THIS FUCKING DUMBASS WAS TRYING TO CORRECT SOMEONE ON WHETHER RYAN CHEATED ON HIS WIFE WITH EMI, BY CLAIMING THEY WERE DIVORCED IN 2019, BEFORE THE NEWS CAME. BUT TURNS OUT THIS AFFAIR WAS FROM 2015 AND THIS IDIOT WAS SHOT DOWN WITH AN UNRECOVERABLE BLOW!!!

Overall, 7.4/10, it has a little something for everyone.

NUMBER 2:

This one is exceptionally dank!! It uses a snippet from the theme song of Sonic Adventure 2: Live and Learn, but the caption has changed the entire context of the lyric, making it sound sexual, as well as a joke making fun of Emi’s skill in bed!!

8/10.

NUMBER 1:

This cannot continue. The pain is immense

WELL THAT’S ALL FOR TODAY, LIKE AND HIT THAT FOLLOW BUTTON SO YOU CAN IGNORE YOUR TAX EMAILS FOR A CUTIE LIKE ME!

Follow. Now.

[myhoneststudyblr]

my masterpost | my studygram | ask me anything | how to stop procrastinating series

[click images for high quality]

[transcript under the cut]

Other advice posts that may be of interest:

All About Procrastination

How To Study When You Really Don’t Want To

Common Study Mistakes

7 Strategies to Improve Concentration

Tip 11 - Video Yourself or Do a Timelapse

I actually discovered this strategy not that long ago but now it is absolutely one of my most valuable strategies. The best thing is that it is so simple to do!

It really works well because the video puts some pressure on you to look like you are studying. You can't stop in the middle to play with your pen or stare into space. You just have to keep going so you power through work.

It's also so satisfying when you are finished to see visual proof of how much you have completed!

Tip 12 - Accept that Some Days You are Going to Get Very Little Done

This may seem a little bit odd to put on a post that is meant to avoid getting nothing done but it’s actually a very important thing to remember.

Sometimes you need to take days off because otherwise, you are going to burn out. Some days you are just not going to be in the right mindset for studying because maybe you are exhausted after a big exam, or you have a headache or you feel unwell.

You just need to accept it, draw a line under it, take time for yourself, and resolve to work tomorrow once you feel a bit better. There is no shame in taking time to make sure you stay healthy.

If you can, try to get your quickest, easiest task done so you have some sense of accomplishment.

Tip 13 - "Churn It Out and F*@k Off!"

This was my mum’s motto when she was studying and working in academia. She recently told it to me when I was getting stressed about all the big tasks during online school.

Like I'm certain many of you are too, I am a perfectionist and I always want to hand in my very best work and put 100% into everything. But honestly that is impossible.

Some days you just need to get stuff done and if that isn’t your very best then it doesn’t matter too much because at least you did it. It's also probably better than you think it is. Once you get it done you can just forget about it and move on.

Tip 14 - Ask a Friend or Parent to Check Up on You

When you are studying by yourself, it can be hard to motivate yourself because you know that no one is actually going to check whether you made those notes or did the reading.

So ask a friend or someone you live with to check whether you’ve done the work or get them to read essays. You then get an external reason to study or do your tasks because you need to show them something.

Tip 15 - Rephrase How You Think of Tasks

When you think that ‘I need to do this task’ or ‘I have to get this done’, a lot of the time this causes unneeded stress and anxiety. Also, it makes it seem like you are being forced to do something and human beings generally don’t respond well to that.

So try to change your language when thinking about task into one that is more forgiving such as: ‘I choose to do this project so that I can go meet my friends tomorrow’ and ‘I choose to read this book now because it will help me in the lecture next week’. This is probably the most difficult strategy that I've shared and it will take a lot of practice . However, in the long term, it can help you change the way in which you view studying for the better.

[slasherrabbitmadness]

Bo Sinclair x Female Reader

THIS is a NONCON fic. Please don't read and then get shocked at what you read. You are reading this at your own risk! You cannot get shocked at the content here if you are sensitive to NONCON and read anyways. I am not responsible if you choose to still read this and it's upsetting. Also, there is Forced Breeding included! Read at your own risk.

When I get an AO3, I will be posting this there.

Underthecut - NSFW, NON-CON, Cheating -forced- Oral -Female receiving- Forced Breeding/Forced pregnancy, Degradation. Tagged as Dark Fic

Sinclair Brothers College AU Part 2 Part 1 is here!

Bo will never forget that morning. Never forgot your angelic face buried into his brother's chest, Vincent's face buried into the top of your head, nose nuzzled into your hair.

His voice had hurt for the three days after all the screaming he had done, his knuckles bruised for weeks after he and Vincent drew blows.

He could still hear your screaming, this shrill piercing scream for him to stop. To stop hurting him, to stop hurting Vincent.

Not one scream for him, his well-being.

Bo left the room with a bruised lip and ego.

The image of you comforting Vincent, rubbing his knuckles, kissing his cheek burned in his head. He replayed it over and over.

Bo couldn't get over how everyone seemed to approve of the whole ordeal.

That friend of yours had come running up to you, congratulating you on finally getting with Vincent. Even her tall British boyfriend paid a compliment.

His own friends even poked fun, how stupid he was not to see Vincent slowly making his moves. Vincent and you at the Dairy Queen, you at his art show, how both of you spent hours at the library.

How'd he miss all that?

Bo walked into his dorm, slamming the door behind him as he whipped off his hat, he frowned as he flopped onto the bed. back against the wall as he took in the room.

The large varnished bricks painted a light blue, years of new coats of paint chipping off in the corners. The yellow fluorescent light struggling to light up the room, no doubt the same light from when the dorm was built.

Bo took in his brother's side. Neat, save for a few books littered around, a few on his desk, three on the floor, two on the bed, and Y/n's cellphone.

Bo shot up, eagerly rushing over to Vincent's bed, hands immediately on your phone. He held it in his hands, smirking at the pink phone case with a bear's face on the back. He swiped his thumb over the screen, he grits his teeth at the image of you and Vincent on your home screen. Vincent held his arm around you as he kissed your cheek.

"Putz," he mumbled to himself, Bo's thumb lingered over your lock screen. He pressed in the four numbers, "Shit. She must have changed it." Bo looked up, going over what your new passcode could be. The old one was the date you and him started dating. Bo made sure it was that, and that way he had access to your phone whenever you were careless enough to leave it about.

Bo smiled as he knew what the passcode was. If his brother was anything like him, he'd be just as possessive, "Ding!" Bo tapped his foot in excitement as your phone opened up, he went right to your gallery, brows turned down in disgust.

Picture after picture of you and Vincent. Some tame, others, Bo whistled at the picture of you sucking off Vincent. He hated it, seeing your pretty little face lavish his brother's cock, but for Bo, it was easy just to picture his own in its place.

Another photo, you with your legs spread, hand over your mouth, embarrassed as your pussy was covered in Vincent's seed.

Bo groaned, "Little fuckin' whore." He pressed his feet into the ground, steadying himself. He was taken back to when he'd do the same to you, make you beg for his cum to coat your needy pussy. He licked his lips as he could hear your little whines and begs.

"Cum on my pussy, Bo." Fuck and you sounded so perfect.

"Cum on my pussy, Vinny." He cursed as your voice played over in his head. Hating how easily he could hear your sweet voice be so dirty for his brother.

Bo kept scrolling, his stomach churned, cock-stiffening as he scanned more and more pictures.

Videos, ranging from thirty seconds to two minutes in length. He pressed one, the image of you riding his brother played immediately.

"Oh, Vinny, your cocks making me feel so full." Bo groaned, he turned up the volume to hear the vulgar slaps of your ass against his brother's pelvis. "Oh, Fuck Vinny." Bo watched as you fell onto Vincent's chest as he lifted you, fucking up into you at a fast pace.

Bo watched till the end, his ears burning as your moans and whimpers wafted through the shitty phone speaker. He palmed his erection as he watched Vincent cum deep in you, his brother's disgusting grunts and growls had him snarling.

Bo's eyes remained on the screen. They widened as Vincent pulled out, carelessly spreading your legs open to the camera, both your face and Vincent are not visible, but your pussy was bared. He watches as his brother's seed leaked out of you, hearing Vincent mumbling at what a good little princess you are, how you were made to used, made to be a good little cum dump.

Bo shook, knuckles going white as he held the phone. Your whimpering approval of Vincent's words, how Vincent scooped his cum back up into you...

Bo snapped out of his anger as a text popped up,

-Hey, meet you at the library, I'll only be able to study briefly, I have a surprise shift at the hospital.-

Bo tapped it, immediately taken to your messages with Dan.

Everything between you and Dan was mundane. Study dates that often included Herbert and just random memes.

He exited out, looking over all the people you've been texting. Your texts with him deleted, he huffed as he continued. That girl dating the tall British guy. That weird Billy kid, Freddy, your mom, your boss, and Vincent.

He sat down on his bed as he went through the texts. Some of the texts were mundane, how are you, I'm good. I love you and can't wait to see you.

Bo froze, laughing to himself, leaning back onto the bed as he read the recent texts,

-Remember those awful cramps I've been having? My doctor said it was birth control. I'll be going off it for a few weeks and will be getting that Implanon thing.-

Bo checked the date, "Two weeks ago." he said to himself as he kept reading.

-So bad news, I won't get that Implanon thing for another month.-

-That's okay. We can keep it safe for now. One day though you'll be off that stuff ;)-

Bo shook his head, of course, his brother would be on that train of thought. Getting you pregnant. Watching your belly grow with babe.

Bo seethed, hand running down his front, cock pulsing at the image of you, begging for his cum, asking him to impregnate you. Your belly swelling with the Sinclair seed, his large hand rubbing over you, kissing your cheek, amazed at the changes in your body.

Your tits swelling, begging for Bo to ease the ache in them. Cock stiffening as he suckles on your tender tits.

Bo's attention was snapped back to reality as the door's handle justled. He quickly exited out of the texts, turned off the screen, and threw the phone on the bed, burying his face into his pillow, grunting as his cock angled into the bed painfully.

Vincent stepped in, sneering at his brother. "She forgot something, I won't be long." He mumbled, hand going for your phone.

"Y'her lap dog or some? She can't come get it herself?"

"I don't trust you alone with her." Vincent gave your phone a once over before grabbing a few books, "I'll be gone tonight, I work late, so you can invite that 'cute' girl from the bar." Vincent coughed as he finished his sentence.

"Yeah, yeah..." Bo eyed his brother, pulling his pillow closer into his face.

"You didn't touch this, did you?" Vincent waved the phone around, giving it a once over.

"Why would I touch her shit?"

Vincent shrugged his shoulders, "Bye," He opened the door, "Oh, and Lester is inviting us to a barbeque, he expects you to be there."

Bo flinched as his brother slammed the door. He sat up, freeing his cock, the images of you and Vincent still in his mind, the image of himself pushing Vincent away to replace Vincent's seed with his own...

"The library..." he said to himself, the image of you at the library, pushed over onto one of the corner desks, hidden away from everyone, his cock buried deep inside, pleading with him to cum inside.

Bo gripped the base of his cock, squeezing to let more of his precum drip out, watching as it fell along the side.

"That'd look a lot better in the place it belongs."

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

You and Vincent stood in front of the campus library, he ran his hands up and down your sides, pinching your ass when he dipped low.

"Vinny!" He playfully pinched his arm, kissing his cheek as you giggled.

"Can't help it, you're so cute." He kissed you again, tongue wrapping around yours, he pushed you closer into himself, your moan being suppressed by the kiss.

You reluctantly pulled away, "I gotta meet Dan. I need his help with my paper. Thanks for getting my phone."

Vincent nodded at you, kissing your cheek again, "I know, I don't want you near him, either."

You nod into his chest, inhaling his scent, linseed oil, and his farmer's market shampoo. You hum as he begins to sway you back and forth.

"I gotta go, see you tomorrow," He pulls away, hand rubbing over your cheek, his eye taking in your sad ones. "Be safe getting home."

"I will!" You shared a kiss goodbye as you excitedly entered the library.

You waved to norman at the front desk, he briefly looked up to give a small smile before returning to his large ornithology book on his desk.

You grinned and waved as you caught sight of Dan. He was in his scrubs with his Starbucks in his hand, smiling at you.

"I can help you for the next hour before I gotta go," He began as you sat in front of him, "Then I got my shift an-"

"Yes at the hospital, I know I know." You sat and opened your books, Dan grabbing one to flip through it, scanning for the important passage,

"Here, you'll want to start here, copy it, and then grab two more sources from the encyclopedias. Has to be from the books, not online."

You rubbed your temples, "Yeah, that's, a lot to take in."

Dan chuckled, "That's the advanced course for you."

You tapped your pencil on the paper of your books, "So, you hear about Brahms and his girl? The fight they had!"

Dan perked up, brown eyes filled with wonder.

The two of you immediately filled your time with gossip, the mention of Brahms's girlfriend and Billy was the only thing being studied.

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

Bo strolled up to the library, "Twenty minutes to closing..." He shrugged his shoulders as he entered.

He looks around, the lights dimmed, the desk lamps off, save for the few remaining students.

"Can I help you?" Bo snapped his head to the thin, pale man at the front desk.

"Ah, yeah, where are the books on, like art and stuff," Bo looked at the nameplate, "Norman." Bo fumbled with his hands in his pockets.

"In the back," Norman gestured his head behind him, "In section eight hundred to eight hundred and fifty. Don't be long, we are closing soon." Norman sneered as he shuffled the papers on his desk.

"Yeah, thanks." Bo shook his head, as he caught Norman giving him a once over.

Bo clenched his fists as he heard Norman mumble "I don't even think he can read."

He made his way around the library, ducking behind the rows when he thought he saw you, any girl that resembled you had his heart clench in shock.

"No, Vinny, I can't talk right now, text it to me instead." Bo froze, his feet heavy, your voice was curt, he heard you grunt, knowing you just hung up on his brother.

Bo followed the voice, finding you tucked away in the private study area, the tables up against the walls, the lights were severely dimmed, Bo wondered how in the hell you could see the paper in front of you.

He carefully watched his steps, inching slowly behind you, grateful you were distracted in the book, grateful you secluded yourself so far away from everyone else.

A wolfish grin spread over his face, standing over you, he leaned in, hands snaking over you, rushing to silence your mouth,

"Hey, Sweets, miss me?"

Your blood went cold, eyes bulged, you attempted to turn but Bo held firm.

"Miss me? Huh? Ah, maybe you need to look at me first." He whispered into your ear, placing a feather-light kiss.

You retched away, guttural noises being silenced as Bo put a hand around your neck.

"Ah, no no, c'mon now, that any way to react to me? C'mon sweets, you used to beg me, beg me not to leave you, cry whenever I missed a date, moan for my cock to make you come." He chuckled as you squirmed in his arms, the chuckle turning into a soft laugh as you reached for your phone.

"Grabbing your phone for me? How nice of you, Sweets!" Bo whipped you around, slamming you onto the table as he chucked away the books, thankful they didn't fall onto the floor.

You began kicking at Bo, the panic making your blood run hot, giving you a surge of strength.

You knew Bo, knew how much stronger he was, knew you couldn't fight him off. The look in his eyes as his body leaned forward onto yours, chuckling off your kicks.

"Ah, hey, calm down," Bo squeezed on your neck, kissing your cheek as you sputtered out a whine, choking as you gasped for air.

Bo grabbed your phone, your eyes burning as he easily tapped the four-digit code to open it, he went right to the gallery, opening up the video of you and Vincent, "Look at you," The video played, Bo held the phone to your face, forcing you to look, "Taking my brother's cum in your slutty little pussy. Fuck what a good whore you are."

He exited out of the video, going to your texts, "So bad news, I won't get that Implanon thing for another month." He read aloud as he shook his head, "tsk tsk, and I bet you are still fucking, even when it's not safe. I mean, if my brother's anything like me, he won't wanna wrap that shit up."

Tears pooled in your eyes, slowly falling along the sides into your hair. Your eyes pleading with him, 'don't do this, please.'

Bo huffed as he pulled down your skirt, panties coming along with it. He took in your pussy, licking his bottom lip as he caught a glance at your shaved pussy, thankful that his brother has the same taste as him. "You look so good, that pussy nice and clean for me, gonna look good with my seed spilling out."

"I'll let you breathe properly if you promise to be quiet, can you do that for me?" His baby blues stared into your eyes, you wanted to hurl as you saw a sick softness to them.

"I'll, b-be- go-good." You choked. You gasped in sweet relief as bo removed his large hand from your neck. Your phone in his hand was held to your face as you realized he was filming.

"You better open up these legs for me, little whore like you should be used to spreading her legs, hm? Taking my brother's cock while dating me. Well, you can have my cock again, and I'm gonna make sure you'll never fucking forget this. Like I'll never fuckin' forget waking up to you." Bo placed the phone down, propping it up against your books, "With cum dripping out your pussy in Vincent's arms."

You looked away as you heard Bo's belt clink his zipper coming undone, "I can easily scream,"

"Scream? ha, the place is practically empty at this point, who's gonna come as you scream? 'Norman' I can tell he's already too self-absorbed to care for another." Bo leaned down, his breath hot over your cunt.

"Please don't, Bo please, I'll do anything!"

His signature cocky grin spread over his lips, "Oh, you will, first, I get a taste of this," He plunged his tongue in, a soft moan as your taste hit his tongue, his eyes looking up at you, then to the phone.

You squirmed as your walls involuntarily pulsed around his tongue. You squeezed your eyes shut, hips shaking as he flicked his tongue over your clit.

"You taste so good, fuck better than I remember," He sucked hard, laughing as you whimpered. "See, little slutty body like your can't help but react."

Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you, Bo's large hand roaming your body, dipping under your shirt, sliding under your bra to squeeze your breast.

"Fuck it feels good too, remember how you used to beg me to suck on them?" He pinched your hardening nipple, "Look at the camera." He cooed.

He dipped two fingers into your heat, making you groan as he pressed down and sucked hard on your clit.

You breathed heavily through your nose, fighting the urge to let out a wanton moan. Tears flowed as your hips voluntarily bucked into Bo's face, his tongue sending wave after wave of euphoria through you that not even Vincent could manage.

Bo shook his head, a raspy moan muffled by the lewd noises your pussy made as he fingered you. He looked up, smirking into you, your pussy clenching around his fingers, how you covered your mouth to fight back the deep moan.

You ran your hand through Bo's brown hair, he moaned, taking the action as approval for his ministrations. You pushed on him, your airy moans muffled by your palm as you came. Bo stayed latched onto your clit, suckling and flicking it, tongue deep to your cunt to lap at you, groaning as it pulsed around his muscle.

Bo shot up, licking his lips of your cream, "Ah, see that, wanna taste?" You shook your head, mouth a no. He leaned in, one hand angling his cock while the other grabbed your neck.

His tongue wrapped around yours, muffling the whine as he slammed into you, his cock stretching you out, a slight burn mixed with pleasure.

Bo wasted no time, slamming hard into you, his cheeks pink as he groaned into the kiss, he lifted his head, "Ah, fuck, needy little pussy fuckin' missed me. Ah shit, I fuck." He grunted above you, his body pressing you into the table, "Fuck, it missed me, fuck it missed me."

You sobbed under him, your mind going to Vincent, trying to picture it was Vincent on top of you, it was you and Vincent making love in the library, not Bo. Not Bo sending waves of familiar pleasure through you, his cock stretching you out.

"Please, don't cum in me, Bo, please don't."

"Wah? cum in you? Sure, I can do that, after all, your little pussy was made for it." He sneered at you, a dark look flashed over him.

You punched at him, "I'll scream."

"You scream and that video gets sent to Vincent. Doesn't matter I'm hav-having m-my way with y-you." He stuttered between thrusts, "Just a video of you getting impregnated by his older brother. He won't want you."

You sobbed as tears spilled as you turned away from him, Vincent flashed in your mind. His smile, his light blue eyes, his hands holding yours.

Your body tensed as Bo's cock felt intoxicating, the familiar rhythm, his harsh kisses, mind being taken back to you on his bed, how he'd hiked your legs over his shoulders as he pushed them onto your chest, a cocky grin as he fucked you deep.

"Bo," You whimpered, "Please," you continued "Just not inside."

He slammed harder, groaning as you clenched around him, "Feels like it wants it inside. Don't lie to yourself, Sweets."

You couldn't, the tears fell, you whimpered Vincent's name, "Hurry, Bo."

Bo couldn't hold back, your sexy little body squirming under him, your pussy clenching around him, your spent leaking onto the table, your stifled moans. "Look at the camera as you cum, look as I cum in you," He turned your head towards the phone, tears freely falling Bo licked your cheek.

His breathing, his thrusts, his cock filling you so well, his raspy praise. You stared, "I'm sorry, Vincent." You scrunched your face as Bo positioned in and out, a low groan reverberated from his chest.

Bo laughed as he came, his seed painting your insides, coating your pink walls, picturing it shooting deep into your womb, his little swimmers getting to work.

You fought back the urge to barf, his cum filling you send a ripple of pleasure through you.

Bo hissed as his breathing slowed, the realization of your nails digging into his shoulders, came to his senses. He slowly pulled out, grabbing the phone, to capture his seed dripping out of your pussy.

He wrapped his hand around your throat, squeezing, a threat. He continued to film, "Ah, look at that, good little slut getting bred. Just like she was made too."

Bo brought the camera to your face, "Say, 'Hi, Vincent!' ha" he laughed as you kept your vision off him and the camera.

"it's okay, I know you're thinking of getting that plan B. But you'll be coming with me tonight, I'm gonna make sure my seed takes." Bo released your neck, thumb running over your lips as you coughed.

"Get dressed, we're gonna get a hotel, this is from over." He leaned in to kiss your cheek, "My good girl, mine again." He hugged you as he sent the video to his phone. He laughed as he felt you shake in his arms,

"I wonder what Vincent will do when he sees this, gosh I can only imagine." He hummed and swayed you back and forth, "You'll look great with my child in you, can't wait, ah you'll be so beautiful."

[kaile-hultner]

Nihilism is so easy, which is why we need to kill it

(I initially published this here a couple weeks ago.)

So last night it dawned on me that, after over two years of being relatively symptom-free, my depression snuck back up on me and has taken over. It’s still pretty mild in comparison to other times I’ve been stuck in the hole, but after 24 months (and more) of mostly being good to go, I can tell that it’s here for a hot minute again.

How do I know? Well, it might be the fact that I spent more time sleeping during my recent vacation from work than I did just about anything else, and how it’s suddenly really hard for me to stay awake during work hours. I don’t really have an appetite, and in fact nausea hits me frequently. I don’t really have any emotional reactions to things outside of tears, even when tears aren’t super appropriate to the situation (like watching someone play Outer Wilds for the first time). And I’ve been consuming a lot of apocalyptic media, to which the only response, emotional or otherwise, I can really muster is “dude same.”

For a long time I was huge into absurdist philosophy, because it felt to my depressed brain like just the right balance between straight up denying that things are bad (and thus we should fix them, or at least try to do so) and full-blown nihilism. This gives absurdism a lot of credit; mostly it’s just a loose set of spicy existentialist ideas and shit that sounds good on a sticker, like “The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.”

In the last couple years, while outside of my depressive state, I went back to Camus’ work and found a lot of almost full-on abusive shit in it. Not toward anyone specifically, but shit like “nobody and nothing will care if you’re gone, so live out of spite of them all” rubs me the wrong way in retrospect. The philosophy Camus puts out opens the door for living in a very self-destructive fashion; that in fact the good life is living without care for yourself or anyone/anything else. The way Camus describes and derides suicide especially is grim as fuck, and certainly I would never recommend The Myth of Sisyphus to anyone currently struggling with ideation. That “perfect balance” between denial and nihilism is really not that perfect at all, and in fact skews much more heavily towards the latter.

Neon Genesis Evangelion has been a big albatross around my neck in terms of the media products I’ve consumed in my life that I believe have influenced my depression hardcore. It sits in a similar conversational space to Camus’ work, in that it confronts nihilism and at once rejects and facilitates it. A lot of folks remark that Evangelion is pretty unique – or at least uncommon – in its accurate portrayal of depression, especially for mid-90s anime properties. The thing I notice always seems to be missing in these discussions is that along with that accurate portrayal comes a spot-on – to me, at least – depiction of what depression does to resist being treated. This is a disease that uses a person’s rational faculties to suggest that nobody else could possibly understand their pain, and therefore there’s no use in getting better or moving forward. Shinji Ikari is as self-centered as Hideaki Anno is as I am when it comes to confronting the truth: there are paths out of this hole, but nobody else can take that step out but us, and part of our illness is that refusal to do just that. Depression lies, it provides a cold comfort to the sufferer, that there is no existence other than the one where we are in pain and there is no way out, so pull the blanket up over our head and go back to sleep.

Watching Evangelion for the first time corresponded with the onset of one of the worst depressive spirals I’ve ever been in, and so, much like the time I got a stomach virus at the same time that I ate Arby’s curly fries, I kind of can’t associate Evangelion with anything else. No matter what else it might signify, no matter what other meaning there is to derive from it, for me Eva is the Bad Feeling Anime™. Which is why, naturally, I had to binge all four of the Evangelion theatrical releases upon the release of Evangelion 3.0+1.0 Thrice Upon A Time last month.

If Neon Genesis Evangelion and End of Evangelion are works produced by someone with untreated depression just fucking rawdogging existence, then the Eva movies are works produced by someone who has gone to therapy even just one fucking time. Whether that therapy is working or not is to be determined, but they have taken that step out of the hole and are able to believe that there is a possibility of living a depression-free life. The first 40 minutes or so of Evangelion 3.0+1.0 are perfect cinema to me. The world is destroyed but there is a way to bring it back. Restoration and existence is possible even when the surface of the planet might as well be the surface of the Moon. The only thing about this is, everyone has to be on board to help. Even though WILLE fired one of its special de-corefication devices into the ground to give the residents of Village 3 a chance at survival, the maintenance of this pocket ecosystem is actively their responsibility. There is no room or time for people who won’t actively contribute, won’t actively participate in making a better world from the ashes of the old.

There are a lot of essentialist claims and assumptions made by the film in this first act about how the body interacts with the social – the concept of disability itself just doesn’t seem to have made it into the ring of safety provided by Misato and the Wunder, which seems frankly wild to me, and women are almost singularly portrayed in traditionalist support roles while men are the doers and the fixers and the makers. I think it’s worth raising a skeptical eyebrow at this trad conservative “back to old ways” expression of the post-apocalypse wherever it comes up, just as it’s important to acknowledge where the movie pushes back on these themes, like when Toji (or possibly Kensuke) is telling Shinji that, despite all the hard work everyone is doing like farming and building, the village is far from self-sufficient and will likely always rely on provisions from the Wunder.

As idyllic as the setting is, it’s not the ideal. As Shinji emerges from his catatonia, Kensuke takes him around the village perimeter. It’s quiet, rural Japan as far as the eye can see, but everywhere there are contingencies; rationing means Kensuke can only catch one fish a week, all the entry points where flowing water comes into the radius of the de-corefication devices have to be checked for blockages because the water supply will run out. There is a looming possibility that the de-corefication machines could break or shut down at some point, and nobody knows what will happen when that happens. On the perimeter, lumbering, pilot-less and headless Eva units shuffle around; it is unknown whether they’re horrors endlessly biding their time or simply ghosts looking to reconnect to the ember of humanity on the other side of the wall. Survival is always an open question, and mutual aid is the expectation. Still: the apocalypse happened, and we’re still here. The question Village 3 answers is “what now?” We move on, we adapt.

Evangelion is still a work that does its level best to defy easy interpretation, but the modern version of the franchise has largely abandoned the nihilism that was at its core in the 90s version. It’s not just that Shinji no longer denies the world until the last possible second – it’s that he frequently actively reaches out and is frustrated by other people’s denials. He wants to connect, he wants to be social, but he’s also burdened with the idea that he’s only good to others if he’s useful, and he’s only useful if he pilots the Eva unit. This last movie separates him and what he is worth to others (and himself) from his agency in being an Eva pilot, finally. In doing so, he’s able to reconcile with nearly everyone in his life who he has harmed or who has hurt him, and create a world in which there is no Evangelion. While this ending is much more wishful thinking than one more grounded in the reality of the franchise – one that, say, focuses on the existence and possible flourishing of Village 3 and other settlements like it while keeping one eye on the precarious balancing act they’re all playing – it feels better than the ending of End of Eva, and even than the last two episodes of the original series.

I’m glad the nihilism in Evangelion is gone, for the most part. I’m glad that I didn’t spend roughly eight hours watching the Evamovies only to be met yet again with a message of “everything is pointless, fuck off and die.” Because I’ve been absorbing that sentiment a lot lately, from a lot of different sources, and it really just fuckin sucks to hear over and over again.

It is a truth we can’t easily ignore that the confluence of pandemic, climate change, authoritarian surge and capitalist decay has made shit miserable recently. But the spike in lamentations over the intractability of this mix of shit – the inevitability of our destruction, to put it in simpler terms – really is pissing me off. No one person is going to fix the world, that much is absolutely true, but if everyone just goes limp and decides to “123 not it” the apocalypse then everyone crying about how the world is fucked on Twitter will simply be adding to the opening bars of a self-fulfilling prophesy.

We can’t get in a mech to save the world but then, neither realistically could Shinji Ikari. What we can do looks a lot more like what’s being done in Village 3: people helping each other with limited resources wherever they can.

Last week, Hurricane Ida slammed into the Gulf Coast and churned there for hours – decimating Bayou communities in Louisiana and disrupting the supply chain extensively – before powering down and moving inland. Last night the powerful remnants of that storm tore through the Northeast, causing intense flooding. Areas not typically affected by hurricanes suddenly found themselves in a similar boat – pun not intended – to folks for whom hurricanes are simply a fact of life. There’s a once-in-a-millennium drought and heatwave ripping through the West Coast and hey – who can forget back in February when Oklahoma and Texas experienced -20 degree temperatures for several days in a row? All of this against the backdrop of a deadly and terrifying pandemic and worsening political climate. It’s genuinely scary! But there are things we can do.

First, if you’re in a weather disaster-prone area, get to know your local mutual aid organizations. Some of these groups might be official non-profits; one such group in the Louisiana area, for example, is Common Ground Relief. Check their social media accounts for updates on what to do and who needs help. If you’re not sure if there’s one in your area, check out groups like Mutual Aid Disaster Relief for that same information. Even if you’re not in a place that expects to see the immediate effects of climate change, you should still consider linking up with organizing groups in your area. Tenant unions, homeless organizations, safe injection sites and needle exchanges, immigrant rights groups, environmental activist orgs, reproductive health groups – all could use some help right now, in whatever capacity you might be able to provide it.

In none of these scenarios are we going to be the heroes of the story, and we shouldn’t view this kind of work in that way. But neither should we give into the nihilistic impulse to insist upon doing nothing, insist that inaction is the best course of action, and get back under the blankets for our final sleep. Kill that impulse in your head, and fuck, if you have to, simply just fucking wish for that better world. Then get out of bed and help make it happen.

[jaeminscoffee]

Cordolium

Cordolium- Heartfelt sorrow, heartache (n.)

Pairing- Lee Jeno x reader

Genre- Fluff for starters, angst for main course.

Word count- 1.78k

Warnings- Y/n’s led on by Jeno. Or she just misinterpreted his actions, also horribly written ✌

Summary- Who’d known one picture was all it would take to break your heart.

Having gotten into your dream university called for leaving your comfort house and moving into a completely foreign environment, where everyone would be strangers unlike your town where everyone knew each other. 

You were already cranky about the fact that you had to shift, added to that came the news that you’d have a roommate since the last room available was allotted to the student who enrolled in just minutes before you. 

It was a bittersweet feeling. Bitter because you have to live with a total stranger having to share common spaces, personality could be who knows how. Sweet because you’d have a familiar face to look around in the University for. 

“Y/n did you see my blue hoodie?” your roommate screamed from his room, to you who was seated on the couch by the living room. “Hmm?” you hum back, knowing full well the hoodie he’s implying to is the one you’d adorned right now. 

“Come on doll, is there any hoodie of mine that you haven’t worn yet?”

Jeno is the perfect roommate. You’d been shocked the first day you punched in the password to your apartment, opening the door only to be greeted with a guy who had nothing but a towel around his torso. Half shocked at the fact that your roommate for the rest of your semester would be a guy. Half shocked that an extremely good looking guy was your roommate. 

Jeno made the unknown neighborhood seem as though you’d been there all your life. He shooed away all your homesickness, never giving you time to even miss your street by bringing up new things to keep the pair of you occupied. 

“Uh? The one that you bought yesterday? I haven’t worn that yet.” you flash him a smile as Jeno passed you a look of boredom. “It was a rhetorical question, Y/n” he shook his head, making his way towards you with nothing but his sweats on. 

Not the first time you’ve seen him half naked, you’d seen him like that almost every other day, Jeno had clearly grown ridiculously close to you. But the sight of his toned abs and chiseled chest never fails to fluster you. “look at the picture you have of me half naked, you’re basically burning holes into my abs, babe” he retorted after plopping down on the seat beside yours and you immediately shift position to lay down on the couch with your head on his lap. 

“Bold of you to assume i still have that image, Jen” you say, handing him the remote to select what you two would be watching that evening as you tug on his free hand, bringing it up to your hair and placing it there, shaking your head slightly as a signal for him to run his fingers through your hair. 

This is how it’d been since you two grew close. You had a very, very touchy friendship. You had no objections to that, absolutely loving the cuddles and names he’d given you.

All fears of being alone had gone with the wind after the news of you being THE Lee Jeno’s roommate spread throughout the campus. The undivided attention you’d receive didn’t faze you though, knowing full well it was all just a way to somehow get Jeno to pay attention to them. 

That didn’t matter though since you’d found a perfect friend circle for yourself. That friend circle being Jeno’s friend circle. They were all extremely bubbly and accepting of your joining in the group. One particularly was extremely close to you. Jaemin. Having shared the same energy level and brain cells, you got close to each other really quick. 

Jeno chuckles at your antics before complying to your silent request, “Whatever. Though, I’d actually say nothing if you do end up being the first one to wear my new hoodie” you look up at him, confused. “you look cute in my clothes” he sends a wink in your way, leaning down to press a small peck on your forehead before diverting his attention to the shows he constantly switched back and forth to. 

“Oh? Then maybe i should change into that right now-” you attempt to get up fast to hide your blushing self, only to be pulled back with a strong grip on the material of your (his) hoodie which resulted in you falling right back onto Jeno’s lap. “Maybe you shouldn’t” he gave you a playful warning look, breaking out into a smile seeing you huff out giggles. 

“But you just said you don’t mind!” you try standing up again, “doesn’t matter” he pulls you back with more force, now locking you in a tight embrace as your head gets flushed into the nape of his neck, arms holding his bare shoulder for support.

Married couple. A title your friends had given you due to the pair of yours dynamic. It’s kind of like an inside joke at this point. Each time they’d point out you having something more than a platonic friendship, Jeno would always be the first one to dismiss it, clearing all misunderstandings whereas you’d make little to no effort to do so. Your love for the lad basically oozed out of you. 

It’s a little hard to not have feelings for a guy with the personality of an angel, behavior intact and looks as a plus one. You are sure he had at least a little something for you seeing his actions, lingering kisses, touches. You are so sure he’s got at least something for you.

Pressing one last kiss to the side of your head, he moves you gently off of him and onto the fluffy couch as you stare at him in confusion, clearly not liking the warmth being taken away from you. “what happened?” you ask him, about to pull him back down, “I promised a friend I’d go over, we’ll cuddle once i return home, is that alright with you doll?” he inquires, leaning down to smoothen down the hair that was sticking out here and there from his previous actions. 

“Why wouldn’t i be alright with that? As long as you give me all the cuddles we’re missing out on right now” you feign anger to which he gave you his signature eye smile. “Of course.” With that he left the room, probably to change into something else. 

You really wanted to spill out your feelings for the lad to him, you weren’t scared of being rejected. Jaemin, Jeno’s known better half, had assured you multiple times of how you’d definitely be the only one to catch Jeno’s attention. 

What you were really scared of was if you’d lose what you had right now. Feelings are stuff that comes and goes in a rapid and you can lose everything you have if your feelings for the other deteriorates somehow. But your friendship was way more important to you than your feelings and you wouldn’t, in a million years, want to lose what you’ve established with Jeno. 

You spend the rest of your evening watching shows, painting your nails, and even reminding yourself to make one of Jeno’s favourite dishes for dinner once he gets home, mentally thanking Jaemin for reminding you to not forget that little confession plan you had plotted. 

You’d make it subtle that you’re in love with your roommate through your actions rather than words, though, he’d be an idiot if he hadn’t already noticed at least a bit of affection for him through your clinginess. 

You make your way to your room after turning the flame down to low upon hearing your phone ring. You wipe your hands on your hoodie before pressing the red button and picking it up, Jaemin’s contact taking up its place on your screen.

“Jaem?” you inquire stupidly as though his caller ID didn’t make it obvious enough that it was, in fact your best friend calling you.

“I would have barged into your house if you’d taken any longer to pick up the call but congratulations for finally gathering some balls to do it Y/n!!” Jaemin screams into the speaker, obvious that he’s excited. “Congrats?” you ask back.

“Yes! Finally! You guys look so cute in that image, I almost threw it at Haechan!” he replied with the same energy. Confusion clouds your mind as you try making sense of his words. 

“Picture? Congratulations? Jaem, what are you talking about?" 

"You know! The picture he just posted of the two of you being all lovey-dovey! I never took Jeno to be a romanticist! Like, the caption??-” you immediately open your laptop to log into your social to see what imagine Jaemin was talking about, “I have a slight doubt that you’re the one who posted it from his-” finally in on instagram, you scroll down to see any new posts of your roommate,

“-phone, but like. I’m so glad that you asked him out, knowing Jeno, he’d never do it unless you double dog dare him-” running impatient hearing Jaemin ramble on about the said image, you finally search up Jeno’s name, feeling your stomach churn with an unknown feeling. 

“Also, did you dye your hair? You look really cute in that image though it isn’t all that clear! I told you from day one you’re a match made in heaven-”

You click on the recent post, the image of Jeno, leaning in, pressing a kiss on the lip of a girl unknown to you fills up your screen, ‘my one and only for eternity’ as the caption. “How was the kiss?-” you pause for a second, refreshing the page to see if it’s really an image of Jeno, kissing a girl, “Jaem.." 

"I mean, if you’re gonna act all shy with me now then don’t tell me, but tell me how did you confess to him?” you can physically feel your heart drop down to your stomach

“Jaemin..” “you finally get to call him your boyfriend, Y/n! No space between the two words! I can’t believe he decided to make your relationship public the day of confession! But seriously-”

“Jaemin listen-" 

"I’m still not over the caption, where did the confession take place?? You should’ve called me man! I would’ve recorded it-”

“Jaemin!” you finally scream, losing it at all the words coming out of his mouth, feeling enraged at yourself for ever thinking you stood a chance. Hearing the line go silent, you feel something wet travel down your cheeks the more you stare at your crush kissing a girl that’s not you. You choke out a silent sob. How are you supposed to face him after today, knowing everything you felt for him was unrequited?

“That girl in the image is not me.”

[bondsmagii]

Hey read (some of) this blog post (long as hell), tries to pick it up where your old scp cult post left off: lackoflepers medium com/scp-is-not-a-cult-196e87ce6b11

(link)

this is insane. I've never written anything that's ever received a full response before, so that's exciting. what's even more exciting is that this piece does raise some really interesting questions, and is very well-written and thoughtful.

the strange thing is, I think we're both in agreement -- but I'm calling it a cult, and the author of this piece is calling it a "fledgling religion". I agree with this outlook, if I'm honest -- but at the same time I can't help but think that this has filled a hole in my cult theory, rather than poked a hole in it.

when I wrote the original cult post, the one thing I couldn't quite equate was the religion aspect. there was a lot of things to consider from that aspect, in terms of cults requiring a certain doctrine, rituals, etc, and while I was able to draw comparisons to the site culture and these things, it didn't quite fit. this article explains and illustrates exactly what all of these things are, and the sheer amount of similarities between the SCP wiki culture and religious fundamentalists. it's absolutely incredible, how it all still adds up.

however, some things are way off. I understand the author has a history with site and with staff, and they obviously understand that there's a complicated relationship between the two. the piece certainly tackles the question from an educated site-critical standpoint, but I can't help but notice some glaring omissions and in some places, assumptions which I feel are quite simply incorrect. under the cut we go, because this is long.

the author seems to be very ignorant of the site's cyclical patterns. one of their main arguments for the wiki's not being a cult is how people like Dr Gears and thedeadlymoose don't have more power over the masses, being such important figures. the problem with the wiki is that it is very cyclical, and big names of one era do not translate over to new eras. big names replace old ones, and the old ones either become fond grandparent figures (like Gears, who had the sense to take a step back before the tides changed against him) or they become irrelevant or reviled (like thedeadlymoose, or pixelatedharmony (Roget).) this means that if the former appeals to the group, they will get essentially a pat on the head and a gentle dismissal, or if the latter speak out they will be silenced, harassed, banned, etc. this is very cultlike behaviour -- if somebody goes against the grain, they become an immediate enemy of the people. the only way to survive fame on the wiki is to retire quietly, at your peak, and keep yourself to yourself.

going on from this, there are also different levels to how a staff member is seen. there have been eras of the site where the site admin might not be as impressive as one of the prolific writers, for example. who these days knows about The Administrator? it's all Dr Gears to them. different authors have different levels of unofficial authority, and the author of the piece doesn't seem to realise that it's a cult of personality as much as anything else. there are constant divisions among staff, even if they present a united front; frequently those not toeing the party line have been ostracised or purged, and this filters down to the average user. just because a person is on staff does not mean they immediately skyrocket to godhood, if we're using the religious metaphor. this is why it seems as though "staff" as a whole isn't uniformly worshipped -- they're not. there are complex currents of power at work here, and it's frustrating because at first glance it seems to invalidate the very real fact that a few site members have all the authority. the staff worship extends to staff members. those in lower tiers will act similarly to those in higher tiers as a new member would act towards all staff.

the author draws attention to thedeadlymoose's impressive efforts to bring the site forward from its 4chan beginnings and make it more inclusive to LGBT members -- something that has undoubtedly had an effect. however, the author does not mention that to date, the site's only successful splinter site (as in, a site that lasted more than a few weeks) is RPC, and while this website came about for multiple reasons, it's undeniable that one of these reasons was because of the fact that the wiki was openly supportive of LGBT people during Pride Month. it's also interesting to note that the author is also a member of the RPC site, so it's odd that this piece of the site's origins is not mentioned.

the acceptance of these pro-LGBT policies also seems to be less wide-spread than the author believes -- most people don't care, there does exist users who are homophobic or transphobic, and -- something I'm surprised wasn't mentioned at all in the piece -- when LGBT members of the site spoke up and said the new logo made them feel pandered to, and the resulting blowout made them feel targeted and unsafe, they were mass banned from the subreddit by a rogue moderator who, incensed by the fact his authority was so challenged, then ragequit and abused people on the threads for several hours. this is a typical staff response to discontent in the masses. so yes, thedeadlymoose did have some significant sway in the attitude changing somewhat, but it was not as widespread (nor as cared about) as the article's author seems to think.

now, I shall move on to specific quotations.

Furthermore, as a gaggle of creators, SCP should never feature the mass conformity of thought that defines a cult; theirs is an ecosystem that predicates itself upon creation, and obsessively on the new and original — that is to say, the different (but tempered).

while the author does elaborate on this idea of creativity and conformity, this is just wrong. again, I blame the author's ignorance in regards to the cyclical nature of the site -- which isn't the fault of the author, in my opinion. such cycles are slow, measuring out in years rather than months, which is insanely long for an internet community. in order to notice them, you would have to have been observing for some time -- which I have been. since I have been observing the site (which has been since its very creation -- I was on the 4chan thread in 2007 when 173 was created and I have seen the wiki from its infancy on EditThis over to wikidot) I have seen this happen countless times. a type of writing, be it style or genre, takes off. it could be LOLFoundation, grimdark, whatever -- it takes off, it runs the site for a year or so, and then it crashes and burns. when it takes off, there are rules for writing it that must be obeyed lest you be downvoted to oblivion. as the attitude turns against it, those who still write it are vilified and ostracised, and the new one takes over. there have been mass purges in the past, and there has always been, since the wiki's inception, conformity of thought. one of my oldest complaints about the wiki is that, for a site full of writers, they have no imagination and absolutely no desire to step out of the approved style.

To put it very broadly, things get accustomed to the status quo in a highly regulated environment, and get better at simply remaining and surviving in that.

this could be a decent rebuff to my previous point, but the fact is that while the SCP wiki harbours cultish behaviour, a vast majority of the users are casual readers who maybe write one or two articles. the stagnation is, at least partially, because of the fact that most users sign up, read some articles, think "cool, I have an idea for one!", write it -- and have it emulate the articles they've read, thus sounding similar in tone and content to the rest of the recent articles -- get a semi-decent response if lucky, and then move on after a few months or years.

the people who power the wiki, however -- who are prolific, who churn out insane amount of articles -- are suffering from what I outlined in my above point. a small percentage of the wiki dictates the direction it goes. it has always been like this -- and people who go against the grain that staff have employed, be it old user or new, will pay for it. this payment is often in downvotes, but occasionally comes in harassment, bans, or deletions, too.

Lastly a cult is really the most extreme version of a religion, it is a religion on steroids.

this is straight-up incorrect. cults began as religions gone hayware, yes, but the idea of a cult as a Jonestown-style compound in the middle of nowhere is outdated. cults are the most extreme version of an ideology -- be it religious, political, or otherwise. they are ideologies on steroids. thanks to the internet, they also no longer have to be in real life spaces. you can be in a social cult on Twitter or on Discord; you can be in a cult of ideology on an incel forum or in a social circle of TERF blogs. all of these things are cults. they have cult-like behaviour and thinking.

this is where the author proves my point beyond all doubt. the author says the following about the wiki's increasingly left-wing inclusive policies:

What was intended to be an executive extension in peace has, due to the force required to counteract the sheer hostility and persecution once leveled at this group at its peak, instead overshot its mark and has become a brutal bureaucratic sanctioning of political identity. (I can hear someone saying that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.)

the biggest shift in this cult-think, for me, was observed when the shift towards Terminally Online Woke Left attitudes began to be increasingly observed. I'm not talking about getting people to tone down the homophobia and whatnot. I'm talking about this culture of purity and suffering that the author outlines very well in the article; if you have read the article, I needn't go over it again. the wiki now holds a monopoly on suffering using the same kind of Oppression Olympics as other spaces devoted to purity culture -- and purity culture is a cult. this is straight-up fact at this point. it is my belief that staff identified the power available to them in a) targeting people from oppressed and vulnerable groups and giving them a so-called safe space and b) using their various oppressions to their advantage.

something that is prolific in purity culture circles is that somebody who is oppressed in any way cannot be held to blame for their actions. they cannot be a bad person. this is ideological armour, and staff wields it. they also use purity culture and apparently progressive ideology to shut down anyone who dissents, and to smear their name and have then ostracised as an enemy. why do they do this? liking the power and fame of their position is a big part of it, as the author outlined, but something major is missing.

throughout the entire article, the author does not once mention the detailed and extensive history of staff sexually abusing minors on the site.

this is well-documented by this point. staff has seen many predators in its ranks, including one of the most prolific site members of all time -- AdminBright, or The Duckman. staff has known about these staff members and has covered it up over years. I myself have heard testimony from countless victims, but whenever we raise enough of a stink, a staff member does an "internal investigation" and nothing comes of it. the fact that the cult-like behaviour of this website can be discussed without one of the cornerstones of cult activity -- using its members for financial or sexual gain -- is astounding to me.

to go on from this, there is also no mention of the SCP lawyer fund, which raised over $30,000 and then faced staff actively resisting transparency as to the case and the funds. financial manipulation is another major example of cult behaviour.

without acknowledging these two things, I do not think that a full argument against the idea of the SCP wiki as a cult can be possible.

the author raises a good point that illustrates both why staff acts the way it does, and why the users are so eager to imitate:

The answer is something that can turn someone into their nemesis; something that would make someone sell their soul for 1000 upvotes; that tragic commonality that binds all individuals who feel the need to write; the need to be received, but more, to be loved for it.

this is a big reason why staff clings to its power, and why people sell out their creativity, and why people emulate this behaviour, and why prolific authors burn out so fast. however, running through all of this at its core -- through the need to be received and loved -- is the power that comes with it. this is all about power.

to mention the specific example of LordStonefish, and his reaction when he found out that his interviewer was enemy of the people pixelatedharmony, now of "burning out, ragequitting the site, and going to talk shit on KiwiFarms" infamy:

[...] it was as if LSF was speaking to a leper, and that the ongoing participation in the salvation of public approval (not to mention site participation as well) was directly dependent upon LSF’s rebuke of pH as a demon who is only worthy of a terrible fate and, as we see in the screencaps, even death.

leaving my personal opinions on Harmony out of this, going from a perfectly civil interview to finding out that the interviewer was an enemy and not only dumping all of his private information to offset doxing, but also going into detail about some highly personal stuff for shock value... I don't think Harmony quite required that treatment. the fact is that, as the quote outlines above, the only way to ensure that he wouldn't be completely ostracised for fraternising with the enemy (KiwiFarms -- of which Harmony is apparently the ambassador) was to behave like a man shunning a sinner. Harmony has sinned -- she rejected the status quo, she defied the group and its authority, and LordStonefish, in order to remain safe from being tarred with the same brush -- has to react with suitable horror to her presence.

it should be noted here that while KiwiFarms has a reputation for being a hive of scum and villainy, its main reputation regarding the SCP Wiki has been for being the one place where complaints against the site are openly discussed, often by defected staff members such as pixelatedharmony and Cyantreuse, and perhaps most telling of all -- the place where a lot of accounts of sexual harassment and abuse have been filed. staff rails against it on the grounds of it being filled with people who use slurs and have questionable ideological beginnings (ironic, coming from a website which began on 4chan) -- but as a leftist myself with extensive knowledge of the wiki, I can confirm that no criticisms I've seen on there have been unfair or inaccurate, and in fact a lot of the evidence and testimony posted there is damning. it would be fair to not wish to associate with the site because of its content in other places, or even its past reputation, but the fact staff rail against it so hard when it's currently one of the only places (and certainly the only public place) where their deeds are on display? it's interesting.

of LordStonefish's reaction, the author says:

This is the behavior of a deeply religious figure.

it is. this is the reaction of a Mormon meeting an old friend who has left the church. this is the reaction of a Jehovah's Witness crossing the street to avoid a shunned neighbour. it is the behaviour, you could say, of a cult member.

in the conclusion, the author states:

And if anyone is to shoulder blame for the creation of this pathology and its complex, it are those true bigots of history and today, who don’t have the spiritual maturity to understand that someone’s sexual preference or identity shouldn’t be enough to categorically separate them from a definition of humanity; to beat, maim, and wish death upon them.

perhaps this might have been true, perhaps this might have drawn a thoughtful and damning line under the whole affair, if not for the fact that this behaviour has been occurring since long before the internet became known for its progressive and now increasingly often, ridiculous takes on inclusion and sensitivity. this kind of cultish groupthink has been ongoing since the wiki's very first inception. the cyclical worship of a group of staff members and other prolific writers (though the group are often one and the same) and their chosen theme or genre has occurred like clockwork since the late 00s. it has occurred when the website was still entrenched in its 4chan days and saying slurs was barely blinked at. it was still there back when staff was predominantly (or at least presumably) cis, white, and male. it was there when being gay was the butt of a joke and being trans was all but unthought of. it has always been there, and while the latest progressive policies and attitudes have had an effect on how the power is wielded, it has not changed the power itself. if the tides ever turn on the Terminally Online Woke ideology, staff will change with it and adapt their policies and ideologies to keep their power.

if anyone is to shoulder the blame for the creation of this pathology, it is the elitist attitude that has allowed a select few to be worshipped unquestionably. it is the power-hungry individuals who seek out fame and respect on a writing website and then use this fame and respect to treat others badly and their fear of a fall from grace to shelter others treating people worse. it is on the shoulders of the staff members who use their position to groom and sexually assault minors. it is on the shoulders of the staff members who keep it silent. as the severity of staff's secrets has increased, so has their attempts to silence dissent and reform at all costs.

the author agrees that this kind of religious think might lead to a cult in the future. the author says the cult will be a cult of vulnerability, but I disagree. I believe the cult is already there, and it is -- and always has been -- a cult of power.

[spookyheaad]

Haphephobia talk

BIG TRIGGER WARNING: brief mentions of rape/coercion, mentions of suicidal ideation, self harm, physical and mental abuse, as well as dehumanization. This one is kinda heavy.

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Hi again! Currently horizontal on my couch because I have full body aches from the second covid shot and my head is killing me, but I expected this to happen as it’s normal for the second vaccine to knock you out for a day or two.

Anyway, I had a realization earlier that I write both Gild Tesoro of “One Piece”, as well as Death from “Darksiders” with Haphephobia - which is “a fear of touching or being touched”. While I write them with this phobia, it manifests within them differently, and I figured I would share some differences, and headcanons for both characters (it’s been so long since I’ve talked about my sassy depressed Nephilim husband; I miss you, Death ❤️❤️). Also with Death, I ship him with an OC I created, named Zemira. I don’t think I’ve shared a lot about her on tumblr, but I’ll be making a whole post about her another time; just know I’ll be mentioning her occasionally.

So I’ll be talking about Death’s haphephobia first, it’s a little more heavy (deadass trigger warning here for the brief mentions of rape. Skip this part if you need to):

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So I must start out with the obligatory mentioning of that accursed chapter from The Abomination Vault:

Death and War have to seek out Lilith and gain information from her. Death is viciously adamant for War to stay outside & away from that woman, but war protests and wishes to come in with him. Death, nearly resorting to beating his brother into submission, demands him to stay outside, and War finally relents.

When the eldest Horseman goes in to see Lilith, one of the first things she says to him is something along the lines of “this isn’t a social call, is it?”. I truly forget what else is mentioned, but there are a few times where Lilith tries to mention things of a (supposed) sexual nature towards Death, and he abruptly and angrily cuts her off. The one thing I remember Lilith saying to Death was her saying that Death was always a “sensitive boy” which makes my stomach fucking churn.

What is heavily implied in this scene, to me, is that Death and Lilith at some point in the past, had sexual encounters with one another that Death is very much extremely embarrassed and ashamed of, and with Lilith’s ability to seduce any being regardless if they want to partake or not, it’s safe to say that Death could have possibly been coerced into said sexual activity. Lilith’s ability to seduce is described almost like a date-rape drug to me, it causes people to fall under some kind of spell or go into a trance; what is a big uh-oh to me is when Death describes that War would be weak to Lilith’s wiles, or her tricks. So she is definitely capable of coercing people in any way to get what she wants. Also fucking keep in mind that Lilith refers to Death as her SON, which adds a whole new level of “what the fuck” to that situation; it’s just icky.

I feel that Death, because of this run in (or run-ins) with Lilith, developed a massive fear of being touched, which is backed up in canon in Darksiders 2. He does not allow anyone to physically touch him under any circumstance; when Death arrived in the Makers’ realm, Eideard touched his chest where the amulet pieces are embedded. Death recoils quickly and with a venomous growl, states: “Don’t touch me!”

Then of course when he goes to visit Lilith, she touches his chest as well, and he physically pushes her hand away from his body. She also refers to herself as Death’s mother, and Death angrily states: “You are not my mother!” Also from the moment Death sets foot in Lilith’s domain, he is not thrilled to be there, and acts very different towards her; more defensive, more on guard it seems.

So this headcanon stems from all of that; he will not let anyone touch him, it’s just that severe. Where my OC comes in, I actually have a story on AO3 titled “Haphephobia” and it shows how Death & Zemira try to get past this aversion to touch, so 1.) Zemira can give him affection and 2.) Death can allow himself to be loved. I’ll link it here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29860320/chapters/73476759

Death cannot even bring himself to hold her hand in the very beginning. So Zemira started there, holding his hand, physical closeness, and very slowly, started working to larger forms of touch. Obviously this gave Death massive amounts of anxiety, so this is why the process is extremely slow. It makes it even more important to go slow because Death tries to hide any weak emotions, so the physical and mental stress he puts himself under is tenfold.

I think that’s all for Death. His Haphephobia is extremely severe, from the specific traumas he has experienced, possibly being forced into sexual activity with his god damn “”mother””, as well as hiding his sensitivity and kindness (my headcanons for why he does that is a whole other post waiting to be written) and just not believing he is deserving of such love and care.

Ok, now for Tesoro (specific Trigger warnings here for mentions of self-harm, suicidal ideation, physical/mental abuse)

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So I just recently realized that I wrote Tesoro with symptoms of Haphephobia; also compared to Death, it isn’t as severe or debilitating, but no less harmful to the person going through it.

For Tesoro I think it was sparked by a mix of guilt and insecurity, obviously as well as his past abuse from both his mother and the Celestial Dragons. But in Film Gold it’s obvious that he doesn’t have an issue with being touched, I’m referencing the scene with the pool girls. I think in canon, he’s on high alert when someone goes to touch him, especially if it’s someone he is not familiar with, or does not like. It’s more of an automatic thing that he learned to suppress over time, especially because he absolutely craves attention and affection, and his fear of touch gets in the way of that.

So in a way, he did learn how to work through it, but it wasn’t proper or healthy, and because of that it’s still there in the back of his mind. I also believe that he doesn’t like people pinning him by the wrists/hands/arms or holding him down in any way, or being bound (sexual or non sexual, he does not like it). It triggers severe panic and flashbacks, so, it’s a big no.

In terms of if he were to be around Stella, it becomes heightened. It’s not that he’s afraid of her; he knows her well. He is afraid for her sake, that he would hurt her in some way simply by allowing her to touch him. All through his life, Tesoro was made to feel like he wasn’t worth the space he took up in his existence. His mother did not love him, the one person that could have given him some form of gentle gesture. She instead hurt him, screamed at him, made him feel worthless. Then we all know about the celestial dragons; they didn’t even see Tesoro as a human, and that mixed with the beatings from both the celestial dragons and his mother, he is weary to allow others to get close.

After Stella died, In his heart of hearts Tesoro genuinely thought that he was unloveable, mainly because of his mother. The one woman who brought him into this world didn’t care about his dreams or his well-being, so then how can anyone else? Then, when he found the single person that cared about him, she was whisked away from him without a second thought. Tesoro feels doomed to observe yet never experience the love and kindness that the world had to offer.

That mixed with Haphephobia makes him very cautious of others, and in the case of Stella, vehemently afraid. He loves her, and she loves him in return; Tesoro knows this full well, (we’re headed to the “if Stella survived” AU) after they reunite he is so afraid to touch her and it’s painful to him when she touches his body. It’s another source of frustration and anger because he knows that he is still in love with her, but his own body is trying to push her away. He would tear open his body for the apprehension to leave, to finally feel the comfort he yearned for within Stella’s embrace. No more fear, no more being brought to tears because he felt he didn’t deserve her kindness, no more guilt.

Both he & Death feel unloveable but for different reasons:

Death feels unloveable because of the atrocities he has committed, specifically the Nephilim Genocide & the creation of the Grand Abominations. He feels knee-crushing amounts of guilt for taking part in such events, and he puts up a facade of being an uncaring monster, when he is very much the opposite. He has kindness to give, yet is afraid to show it because of that idea that he is to be seen as nothing but an attack dog for the Charred Council. But this is also the same Nephilim who was so tired of making things that took life, and chose to make something that gave life instead, and gifted said item to his sister, Fury. This is the same Nephilim who took his own life to prove that his youngest brother War did not start the apocalypse. He cares so deeply, has insurmountable love to give, yet feels incapable of doing so.

Tesoro thinks he is unloveable because the world conditioned him to view himself as such. The extreme abuse he suffered told him that he is trash; an afterthought whose only use is as a punching bag or a wasted body to rend flesh from. Ants had more worth in this world than he, and Tesoro knew it. All it took was Stella, one person, for him to see that he is worthy of such a thing, that nothing that went on in their pasts was his fault, and that he does deserve to be given gentle touches, soft reassuring hugs, feather-light kisses, and that he is able to be loved.

[tenspontaneite]

Peace Is A Journey (Chapter 20/?)

In which Callum and Ezran finally confront an awful truth.

(Chapter length: 15k. Ao3 link)

Preword: this chapter begins immediately after the end of the Callum, Ezran, and Rayla scene of chapter 19, and builds on mood and context cues from it. If you’ve not reread that scene recently I’d recommend at least scanning its tail end before reading this chapter.

Warnings: Grief, heaviness of mood and theme, general sadness.

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‘Something’s wrong’, Ezran had said, and: ’Something’s been wrong a while’. And for all that it was true, Callum couldn’t bring himself to think about what that surely meant. He couldn’t bring himself to talk. So he didn’t. Ezran didn’t, either.

They lingered wordless for all the time that Rayla was gone. It would have been silent if not for the shriek and violence of the winds. Callum stared out into the blizzard and felt strangely dizzy as he watched the snow, tracking the twists and spirals of its motion until the brightness of its white burned behind his eyes.

It was less bright now than it had been. Evening was coming, and the sun was starting to go down. His gut twisted as he thought of that, thought of Rayla, out in the storm and the ever-encroaching cold. For once, he didn’t try to tamp down on the worry. He didn’t even try to soothe the anxiety quivering in his fingers. It was better than the alternative.

Ezran was too quiet. Not in a dragon-dazed way – not anymore. He was too alert for that, even clutching the egg to his chest. His eyes were hooded, brows drawn together into a tight furrow. He looked thoughtful, but not in any sort of happy way. His fingers were tight on the shining eggshell of the Dragon Prince, and they trembled.

Callum was aware of the tension building bit-by-bit in his brother’s frame. He knew the signs of Ezran getting worked up about something, getting upset by something. He should have asked. He should have asked, but – he couldn’t. It was like a vice clamped around his throat whenever he so much as considered it. So he sat there in ever-more painful silence, not asking, and not thinking.

He didn’t think about the flags lowered on their posts atop Verdorn, surrounded by the flickering of countless ceremonial flames. He didn’t think about what Rayla had said, before she left. He just considered the state of the fire, and tersely added a few sticks to it, and deliberately did nothing more than worry about how long she’d take to return.

He didn’t ask, and he didn’t speak, and he tried not to think. But even that wasn’t enough, in the end.

Eventually, Ezran’s head jerked up towards the storm, uncanny-bright eyes fixed unerringly in the direction of the ledge. Callum’s stomach churned, torn between relief and unease at the sign, and he stared as well. He stared for a good few minutes before Rayla appeared, a shadow darkening upon the face of the blizzard, cloak and scarves whipping behind her in formless silhouettes of grey. And then she was close enough, stepping away from the ledge, that he saw her in full: shoulders dusted with snow, face wreathed in cloth, and shivering.

He was on his feet and scrambling out of the covers in a second, heart beating shallowly in his throat. His pulse felt thin and thready as he approached her, fearful in some way he didn’t want to put thought to. Instead he rushed to her, tugging on her cloak, leading her stumbling into the conjoined lights of the fire and the egg. “You’re back,” he murmured to her, instead of thinking about what had put the tremor into his fingers, or the look of dread into her eyes. He opened his mouth to say something else, but the words wouldn’t come. It was all too senseless.

“…I’m back.” She repeated, and her voice was very quiet. She wouldn’t quite meet his eyes. Her shoulders, when he went to lift the snow-strewn cloak from them, were hunched and tense. Whatever she’d hoped to escape with her reckless trip out had evidently followed her back. Callum swallowed, and set the cloak aside by the fire, and reached out to pull the scarf down from her face, to tug the wood-harness from her shoulder, to busy himself with anything and everything he could…

Ezran hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t greeted her, or stood, or done anything but stare at her silently, hands still bracketed around a stolen Prince’s egg. That silence was a chill, like an encroaching frost at Callum’s back. The hairs at the back of his neck rose, but he ignored that too. His fingers shook as he put the new firewood aside, and the snow-sodden outer scarf, and then, then-

“Callum,” Rayla murmured to him, still quiet. It was almost chiding, in a gentle way. An admonishment. As though she knew as well as he did that he was prevaricating. As though she knew exactly what he wasn’t thinking of, and was too tired to do the same.

She looked tired. She looked defeated. Slowly, with a cold and breathless dread, Callum let his hands fall away from her scarf, hanging uselessly by his sides. He looked at her, and saw the way she looked back at him. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t say anything. Without quite meaning to, he stepped away, fingers trembling on empty air.

It was only then, in that fraught silence and space, that Ezran finally moved. He straightened – not all at once, but slowly, like it was something he had to work himself up to. When he finally looked up at her, there was something frighteningly decisive about it. Something irrevocable. Looking at him then was like watching the thud of a coffin set down upon its pyre, with nothing left but to wait for the flame. His eyes settled upon her with such a weight that she flinched as though struck.

She met Ezran’s gaze, just for a second. Then she looked away. Her eyes closed, and her hands curled into fists at her sides. When she glanced across at his brother again, there was a resignation to her expression. Dread, too, and a guilt grievous enough it made his breath freeze just to look at her. “Ez?” She voiced, finally, so quietly he almost didn’t hear it.

“Rayla.” His voice trembled around her name. Callum watched, frozen in place, as his brother stared up at her, taking in a long shaky breath as though to brace himself. Finally, unsteadily, he said “I – I’m pretty sure – I think you’ve got something you need to say. Something you’ve needed to say for – maybe a long time.” His eyes, too blue, fixed on hers. He almost seemed to be daring her to deny it. Pleading, even. “Don’t you?”

Her breath shuddered, and he was close enough to hear it. She looked stricken, and couldn’t quite seem to manage to speak. Instead, she nodded, expression tight.

A thread of panic wove its way into Callum’s heart, just enough to thaw his tongue. “I – shouldn’t you be resting?” He asked, a little desperately. It sounded like a plea, even to his own ears. “You just – you just got in from the blizzard. You should sit down, warm up-“

Her hand settled on his shoulder, and his words froze on his breath. She didn’t say anything, just looked at him, but that was enough. He went still again, and the pain in her eyes became just that little bit more terrible. “I’m sorry,” she said, lowly, face drawn like the words hurt her. “I…I kept trying, but…”

Ezran stared up at them, jaw set, skin tinted blue and pale in the dragonlight, the colour making him look starkly ill. It put an unsettling cast on his expression now, wan and full of dread. His eyes were too wide. “I’m right, aren’t I.” He said, and it wasn’t a question. Rayla watched him, painfully resigned, and Callum was still frozen. “You’ve been hiding something. Something important. I just – I keep feeling it, all the time, like you’re guilty, and it’s-“ he stopped, and swallowed, and took a fortifying breath. “You keep feeling like you’re doing something wrong. And what you were saying, earlier-“

“Ez,” Rayla started, but Ezran was talking now, his amassed tension and fear bubbling out of him, like he was afraid to stop now that he’d started. Callum’s eyes flickered unwillingly between them, heart beating sick and fearful, knowing he had to stop them somehow; but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, like some dark shade had stolen his voice again.

“You keep feeling guilty,” His breath hitched, half way through the words. “A-and – and I’ve been trying not to think about it, but – it’s always, always whenever – it’s about dad,” She flinched, stricken, and he gestured at her as if she’d made some very telling point- “See? It’s – whenever we talk about him, or – or you see him in Callum's book, or anything – you flinch, or you go quiet, and – and you feel so horrible and guilty and I’ve been trying not to think about it but-“

“Ez,” Callum croaked out, finally, almost desperate to – to stop him talking, to make him stop, to take that awful expression off of Rayla’s face and the shaking from his brother’s shoulders and the tight, terrible pit of certainty from his belly.

Ezran trembled, but he didn’t stop. There were tears pooling at the corners of his eyes, but he didn’t stop. Instead, he looked straight ahead at Rayla and- “I’ve been trying not to think about it,” he repeated, slower, and halting, the words thick with half-shed tears. “But it keeps – and you're not saying anything,  and I know you’re hiding something from us, and earlier you said ‘my parents might be dead’, just like that, like ours are - are –“ He trembled, white-lipped. “…And while you were gone I just kept thinking, and – I. I just…" he wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and looked at her. Finally, waveringly, he asked “Rayla? What happened to your other wrist binding?”

She went still. Her eyes closed, almost in time with the harsh rasp of Callum’s breath as he inhaled, because – he remembered that she’d had two at first, of course he did, he didn’t forget details like that. But he hadn’t thought of it, not since he learned what the bindings meant, and that – that was a little too much. Too much to avoid, too much for him to push down with all the other things he’d been trying so hard to ignore, just – too much.

He found himself staring at her, heart in his throat, utterly desperate for any sign, anything, anything at all that would put this horrible thought away, anything that would mean he wouldn’t have to think about it, it wouldn’t be happening, it wouldn’t be real…

Instead, she opened her eyes, and as she looked at them, he saw that they were bright with tears. “I’m sorry.” She whispered, voice choked, and – he was shaking his head, slowly, as if it would change anything- “I’m so sorry.”

“No,” he said, unbidden, the word slipping numbly from his lips as Ezran's expression crumpled. “No, no, Rayla, you can’t – you’re not saying-"

His brother’s arms closed so tightly around the egg that his hands overlapped each other, fingers curling into his sleeves tight and shaking. “Rayla,” his voice was barely a whisper, until it wasn’t. His face contorted with despair. “Just say it. Tell me!”

Her breath shuddered out. When her mouth opened, Callum felt some abortive impulse to stop her, to halt her, but- “I’m sorry.” She said again, utterly miserable and utterly defeated. “He – King Harrow-"

“You can't, “ he repeated, numbly, and her shoulders shook.

“He’s dead.” She forced out, all at once, and then there was no taking the words back. Callum froze, motionless, as Ezran went still with him. For that first, terrible second, it was like the world had halted around them. And then-

Ezran hunched over the egg and wailed. The sound of it was terrible, thin and choked with anguish, and it spun around and around and around in Callum’s head until he was dizzy with it, until his heart was pounding and his vision swimming – he stumbled backwards, and fell, and wasn’t nearly coherent enough to be thankful he’d missed the fire. He just fell, and it was the tears stuttering loose on impact that made him realise he was crying.

“Callum-“ Rayla was saying, voice choked, but he could barely hear her, and his eyes were too full of tears to see much of anything.

He didn’t mean to do it; there suddenly wasn’t enough room in his mind for anything so coherent as intention. But he did it anyway: he pulled himself unsteadily to the side, over the cold stone, reaching out blindly until his fingers hooked in the fabric of his brother’s jacket and pulled him close. Ezran was crying, and Callum had never heard him sob like that, not once, not ever.

A second later, he processed what he’d done, and tugged all the tighter. It returned some sense to his head, if only a little, to blink until his eyes were clear enough to see, to pull his brother closer until the two of them were braced and shaking around the shape of the dragon egg between them. Its light was flickering and stuttering now in time with Ezran’s sobs, as if it was crying with him. Maybe it was, with that connection it had to him. The unborn dragon whose mother had – had ordered it, and he might be crying too.

It hit him then, really hit him, staring through wet eyelashes at the egg of the Dragon Prince. A thin, wounded sound rose and shuddered from his throat, and he hardly noticed Ezran shifting to bury his face in his chest. He was too busy lifting a hand to his face, trembling horribly, and trying to wipe away enough tears that the world might make sense again. He’s dead, Callum thought to himself, numbly. There was no chasing that thought away now. No denying it. If there’d been any hope of denying it, it had passed as soon as he remembered the binding that wasn’t there.

Remembering the binding made him remember Rayla, just enough for him to lift his head, to start noticing things outside himself and his brother and the sobs that passed between them. She’d fallen to her knees, crumpled in on herself, and she was saying something. It was hard to focus past the numb shock, but a few seconds later, he managed: she was saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over again.

Callum wiped his eyes, but a moment later they were full of tears again. He couldn’t seem to stop it. His shoulders hitched and his breath shuddered, and there weren’t any words in the world fit to respond to that senseless apology. What was she saying sorry for? He couldn’t find any sense in it. Through the haze of his thoughts, it seemed more like noise than speech, as meaningless as the ceaseless shriek of the gale.

He stared dully at the blurry ground, feeling his shoulders hitch with his uneven breaths. Ezran curled into his side, and Callum clutched back almost reflexively, mind spinning around half-coherent thoughts. I didn’t want it to be true, he thought, a little senselessly, a little despairingly. He’d thought about the chilling skill of Moonshadow elves at Full Moon, hadn’t he? When she told him about Viatori, and how an entire team had slipped seamlessly through one of the greatest strongholds in the kingdom, he’d thought about it.

The memories just kept chasing themselves around in his head. When he’d tried to reach – reach his dad, when Viren had stolen his voice, the assassins were already there. Too powerful, too ruthless. The Crownguard were supposed to be the most elite warriors the Kingdom had to offer. The Crownguard had foiled countless assassination attempts in the past. The Crownguard were supposed to protect them.

The Crownguard’s bodies had littered the tower floor.

Even then. Even before Callum fled, they’d been strewn everywhere, crumpled and lifeless, right outside the final sanctum of King Harrow. Even without seeing the memorial flames, or the flags lowered for a kingdom’s grief…that had been enough. That had been enough, deep down, for Callum to know how that night had ended. He’d just…

He hadn’t wanted to believe it.

His fingers tightened around Ezran’s shoulder, crumpling the fabric. He could feel the wet of tears where his brother’s face was pressed into his chest, beginning to soak through all the layers of cloth. “…How did it happen?” He found himself asking, hollowly, the words not even feeling like his own. Rayla’s head lifted, though, so he supposed he must have spoken them. She was curled in on herself, miserable, looking so guilty he didn’t know how to respond to it. Emotion churned and twisted in his chest, thick and choking. “…Do you know?” He wondered, then, the taste of the words unbearably bitter. “Do you know how it happened?”

Her mouth opened and closed once, helplessly. Ezran’s head lifted just enough to regard her out of one bleary eye, watching. Listening. “…I,” she tried, and then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I don’t – I wasn’t there. I just…” She clutched around her right wrist, fingers visibly trembling. “We were just out of the city, when this…”

“It came off.” He guessed, dully, and her chin jerked down in an aborted nod. “And you knew. Right from the start, you knew.”

She looked away. “I kept trying to find a way to tell you.” Her voice was quiet. “I just…couldn’t.”

There was another twist in his gut, then. It felt almost angry. What gave her the right to be so miserable, when it wasn’t her dad? What business did she have being so guilty, when it wasn’t even her fault? The bitterness of it rose in his throat, sharp and acidic, and for a second – for a second, he wanted to be furious with her for being – for not – he wasn’t sure. But…it didn’t happen. Not really. Something burned acrid in his chest, but it wasn’t quite anger. He wasn’t sure what it was.

“…Why not?” Ezran asked, in the first words he’d spoken since – since she’d said it. There was an edge to them. Like he, maybe, had managed a little more anger than Callum had.

“I-“ She hesitated, so miserable, and shook her head again. “I don’t know.”

“You ‘don’t know.’” Ezran repeated, quiet and bitter. “It’s been over a week, Rayla. There were so many times you could have said something.“

“I know.” Her expression crumpled.

“You could have told us. You should have told us!” Ezran’s shoulders heaved with the weight of the breath that shuddered through him, close enough that Callum felt every second of it.

Again, with a choking edge of shame: “I know.”

Ezran’s breath hitched then. “He’s our dad, Rayla,” He said, and his eyes were welling up again with tears. “And he’s dead. Don’t – didn’t we deserve to know that?”

She shook as if every word were an actual physical blow, and – Callum could see, just looking at her, how much she was castigating herself. How much self-loathing she was tearing at herself with. He understood her too deeply to bear, and had to look away. He clutched tightly at his brother and said nothing. “You did,” She managed, and he could hear the sickening guilt in her voice. He shuddered. “I’m sorry. You deserved to know the truth. But…”

“But what, Rayla?” Ezran demanded, with a little more of that anger, and Callum couldn’t help but see the tears falling thickly down his face.

She didn’t try to defend herself. Just hunched in miserably, and…and that, he thought, was enough of that.

“Ez.” Callum murmured, close above his brother’s head, and felt the shudder under his hands. It hadn’t quite been a chide, just…a reminder, maybe. Of what, he wasn’t entirely sure. But it quieted him anyway, and he turned his face away from Rayla again.

“He’s dead, Callum.” Ezran mumbled brokenly, straight into the wool of Callum’s sweater. “Dad’s dead.”

It hurt to hear. It hurt so much. It probably always would. Thinking about mom had never really stopped hurting, after all. And – that was what had happened, wasn’t it? It had happened again. He’d lost another parent. He’d lost another beloved part of his increasingly broken family. Callum closed his eyes, and leaned forwards to press his face into his brother’s hair. The pain in his chest was sharp-edged and cutting, like breathing around broken glass.

He exhaled a shaky, shuddering breath there, feeling Ez tremble against him, and when he looked up again he saw that Rayla had a hand half-lifted towards them, as if she wanted to reach out, but didn’t know if she could. Part of him, very quietly, wanted to be angry with her. The rest of him recognised that there was no point, and just felt tired instead. It wasn’t her fault in any way that mattered, and she was already mad enough at herself for all three of them.

He regarded her wearily for a second, then jerked his chin in a vague sort of ‘come here’ gesture, uncertain he had the energy for anything more. She met his eyes, uncertain until he nodded at her again, and then she crept hesitantly forward. She was reaching out to Ezran’s shoulder when he lifted his head to look at her, as if he’d seen her coming even with his eyes covered.

Ezran looked at her, bleary-eyed through tears, and for a second looked wary and closed-off. Like he didn’t want her to touch him, and might push her away. But then he sighed, and shifted very slightly towards her, and she put her hand down on his shoulder.

That very instant, his expression crumpled. He sobbed, breath hitching into it alarmingly fast. Rayla flinched and seemed about to pull back when Ez turned and hooked the fingers of one hand into her sleeve, tugging at it until she stumbled closer. “Ezran-“ She tried, but he was shaking his head, tears welling so thickly in his eyes that their faint glow refracted through the water, bright and glittering and pale.

“I know,” The words tumbled from his lips, like he couldn’t help it, like he was answering some desperate plea she’d never spoken. “I know, I know why you couldn’t tell us, I – I knew even before you – I just…” He pulled at her sleeve, again, until she shifted closely enough to press a little against his side. A little against Callum’s, too. “It’s not your fault. I’m just…” He shuddered, and then turned fully away from Callum to embrace her this time. “I’m just…it really hurts.”

Her expression as she looked down at Ez had gone so open and vulnerable it hurt to look at. “Ez…” Her voice was thick, and the next time she blinked, it shook tears loose. One of them ran so closely along the outward edge of her pigment it seemed almost to frame it.

“You didn’t want to hurt us.” Ezran mumbled into her shoulder, and a strange spasm of emotion shook over her as Callum watched. Her expression wavered. “You knew it would. You knew it’d have to happen sometime. But…you just – you couldn’t.”

Her shoulders trembled. “You deserved to know.” She said, quiet, still with that edge of shame. “I should have told you.”

“You didn’t want to hurt us.” Callum repeated his brother’s words, quiet, and her head jerked up to look at him. That open, terrible vulnerability was hard to see on her. She always tried so hard to stay composed, and now… “I…understand that.”

He did understand, was the thing. He understood too well. He understood that she cared about them, and knew this would hurt them, and hadn’t been able to bear being the one to hurt them like that. Not until it had been too long, and too late, to avoid any longer. He’d been avoiding it too, after all. Of course he understood.

“I should have told you,” she said again, like she couldn’t get away from it, and he shook his head slowly.

“We already knew.” He admitted aloud, for the first time. “We just…didn’t want to face it, any more than you did.” How many times had he avoided asking? How many times had he deliberately not thought about it? How many times had Ezran deliberately not thought about it, after catching that spark of guilt through Rayla’s skin?

She closed her eyes for a moment, displacing more tears. “I’m sorry.” She said then, instead of I should have told you. “I’m so, so sorry…” Ez burrowed a little more tightly into her sweater, and said nothing.

Callum looked at her, expression so full of shame, the tear-trails on her cheeks glittering in the dragonlight, and his chest hurt somehow even more than it already did. It felt like it would choke him, it hurt so much. He leaned against her, breath trembling, and felt the silent hitch and shake of her shoulders against him. “For what?” He asked quietly, helplessly, when he could finally muster the words. “Rayla, none of this was your fault.”

“I should have told you.” She said, yet again, and when he shook his head at her, “I should have done something.”

That lifted his head further, to look at her better. To see the guilt in her eyes as she averted them from him. “Done what?” For a moment, he had no idea what she could be talking about. But then-

“I should have stopped it.” Her voice was quiet, and it trembled.

…Oh.

Callum looked away, down at the egg bracketed now between all three of them. “You tried.” He said in the end, very softly. “You tried, Rayla.”

She shook her head, violently. “I didn’t-“

“We were there. You tried.” The last word caught in his throat, and then he was crying again, the tears hot on his cheeks in the moment before the storm chilled them. “On that roof, you tried – you told him to stop, to call off the mission. We told him about Zym, but he just…” He shook his head as if in an echo of hers, more slowly. That had been ‘Runaan’, right? Someone who was basically family to her? And she’d fought him. “He didn’t listen.”

Rayla was silent, then. When he looked at her, she seemed struck, eyes wide. She was so pale as to look a little ill.

“He didn’t listen.” Callum repeated, heart hurting. “You had to fight him, Rayla, so he wouldn’t come after us. You tried. You really, really tried, and-“ She was shaking her head again, as if she wanted to interrupt him, as if she wanted to deny it, so he spoke a little louder and a little faster- “And you said! You offered, when I came back from the tower, to – go up there with me, and try again, but-“ He shook, distress making him dizzy, making his throat tighten with nausea. “I said no.”

Maybe he’d already known then that it was too late. After seeing the fallen Crownguard strewn across the stone, after seeing the assault at the tower’s innermost sanctum…maybe he’d known there was no sense in going back. No matter how much he wanted to. But most of all…

“I said no.” He repeated, quiet, and looked down at the egg. Rayla seemed shocked silent, watching him as he spoke, and Ezran had lifted his head to stare across as well. “I said – I don’t remember what I said. But Zym was what mattered the most, and I knew it, and you knew it, and-“ His voice broke. “-And I said no.”

She flinched at that, as if he’d found some way to take the pain of that knowledge and cut her with it, as if she were like Ezran, and could feel it keen as a knife through her skin. As though he’d heard the thought, his brother shifted, blinking miserably up at him. He reached out, and the fingers of one hand hooked into Callum’s sleeve.

“You were right.” He said, quiet and unhappy. Another tear slipped from the corner of his eye. “If we get Zym home, we – we could stop this, for everyone. But…”

Callum reached back, clasping his brother’s hand. “Ez…”

“I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish it – didn’t have to be like this.” His voice twisted into something thick and tearstained, and Callum had a moment to feel ever-more terrible at the sight of the misery on Ezran’s face before he turned his face back into Rayla’s sweater. She hardly seemed to know what to do about it, which would have maybe been funny under literally any other circumstance. Eventually, after some hovering, she curled one arm around his brother’s shoulders, squeezing gently. Her right hand; bereft of any and all assassins’ binds.

“Me too.” She said to him, very quietly, eyes shadowed with pain. He wondered if she was maybe thinking about her parents, too. How they might be dead after all, and in such a terrible way, with no way of her knowing for certain what had become of them. The only way to find out now would be to tear the words from Lord Viren himself, and that-

Callum’s throat tightened, and he shuddered. Discomfort and unease joined the churn of emotion in his stomach, and he felt ill.

He couldn’t help but remember some of the things that Harrow – dad – had said to him, in that last meeting. I’ve done terrible things, and I am responsible for some of those wrongs, and what’s done cannot be undone.

Dad had died full of regret, but determined to face the consequences for the choices he’d made. He’d been so convinced that his death was the only way forwards. He hadn’t even tried to leave, despite knowing full well that the assassins were coming for him. He hadn’t even tried.

Callum had tried. He’d tried to convince him. Tried to reach him, to tell him the truth about the egg so maybe that would change his mind. But it hadn’t been enough, with Viren in the way. And he’d said no when Rayla offered to go with him back into the tower. And now…Harrow was dead.

What else was it he’d said? Take care of your brother? Callum sniffed, and shuffled closer until he could hug Ezran too, squashed against Rayla’s side and the shell of the dragon egg.

“I wonder if he knew.” Ezran said, then, very quietly. The words were still muffled by fabric.

Startled out of his thoughts, Callum looked down at him. “…What?” He asked, bewildered.

“I wonder if dad knew,” Ezran clarified, head lifting a little. The rims of his eyes were ruddy from crying. “About Zym’s egg.”

‘What makes you think he doesn’t already know?’ He remembered, and felt the taste of bile rising in his throat. He shook his head, violently. “He couldn’t.” Callum denied, helplessly. He wanted to say that Harrow wouldn’t have let that happen, but – at the very least, he’d thought Viren had killed the Dragon Prince, right? And he’d let that happen. Throat tight, he went on “If he’d known, he would have – he’d have done something. He could have stopped the attack.”

Ezran didn’t say anything, just blinked at him, slow and unhappy. Eventually: “I hope you’re right.”

He wished he could just ask him, find out the truth – but that was one of the terrible things about this, wasn’t it? He couldn’t, because Harrow was dead. There’d never be any talking to him again. There’d never be any words, or answers, or anything from him again.

Callum’s breath hitched, and then – a second later, he felt a memory hit so hard it was almost like a body-blow. On reflex, he scrambled to check his belt, even knowing there was no sense in it at all, not ten days and however-many changes of clothing too late. A small, wounded noise emerged from his throat, high and upset.

They were looking at him immediately, both reflexively concerned. “Callum?” Rayla spoke, worried, and he squeezed his eyes shut, breaths coming fast with distress.

“I – I had a letter,” He managed, throat so tight he was surprised he could breathe at all. He could feel tears rising in his eyes again, hot and stinging, a pit of anguish taking root in the middle of his chest. “I had a letter, from him, he gave it to me before – the last time I saw him. I was – he said to read it, when he was-“ He stopped, and couldn’t finish, a sound like a gasp choking its way out of him. ‘You’ll know when', he remembered, and – it hurt like a hand had clasped around his heart and twisted-

Ezran’s voice was tentative. “…A letter?”

“It was important.” He recalled, heartbroken, breaths coming too-fast. “It was important, it was – it was supposed to be his last letter to me, but I – I must have dropped it, I don’t-“ He stopped, and tried to think. He’d not had it when they left the castle, or surely they’d have noticed it when they were taking stock of what they had. So, sometime before that… “I must have lost it in the castle.” He recognised, numbly. “When we were running from Claudia, or-“ His eyes flickered across at Rayla.

“Or when you were running from me.” She recognised, with a flash of regret over her face.

He buried his face in his hands, the fabric of the gloves too scratchy on his salt-scoured skin. “I can’t believe it.” He muttered brokenly. “I lost it. His last letter, and – and I lost it.”

Ezran couldn’t seem to find the words to respond to that; there was nothing from his direction but silence. Rayla, though – “I’m sorry, Callum.” She said quietly, and he felt a hand settle on his shoulder. “That’s awful.”

He lowered his hands, just enough to look at her. “I lost it.” He repeated, quieter, and…abruptly, felt so overdrawn with misery that something in him crumpled into silence. His tears stopped, as though some deep well within him had suddenly, finally run dry.

“Maybe someone picked it up.” Ezran said, then, but his voice was very distant. Callum looked at him, and found him blank-faced and numb. Hollow-eyed, like this had been the last straw for him too. One final tragedy, to make things just that little bit too terrible to bear. “Maybe one day we’ll be able to read it.” Despite the words, there was no hint of optimism or hope in his voice. It rang too hollow for that.

Callum shook his head, just a little, and didn’t speak. It was possible, he supposed, but…not terribly likely. And after everything…

He didn’t say anything, the hollowness in his chest expanding until it seemed to steal the voice from him. Ezran didn’t speak either, and didn’t move, still pressed half-into Rayla’s side. She abided by their empty silence, and sat with them, shoulder-to-shoulder, while the fire crackled and the egg’s light flickered and the storm tore around the mountainside. The quiet that held between them was heavy with a bleak, oppressive sort of lethargy.

Eventually, Ezran drew back away from Rayla, and back from Callum as well, until he was sitting up with their hands still trailing back from his shoulders. He hefted the egg fully into his lap again, fingers tightening around the bright shell. His eyelids fluttered, in that familiar way, and his expression twisted as though listening to something painful.

Callum looked at him, and managed to find the energy to speak. “…Is he alright?”

Ez exhaled quietly. “He’s upset.” He admitted. “Because we’re all upset, and I can’t…I can’t stop it from going through me to him. I’m feeling me being unhappy, and you two being unhappy, so he’s feeling it too. He’s so young. He doesn’t know what to do with it all.”

His chest hurt, thinking of Ez having to deal with the grief and turmoil of two other people on top of his own. It wasn’t fair. But he wasn’t sure there was anything to do about it.

“I don’t even know what to do now.” Ezran voiced, soft. “What are we supposed to do, Callum?”

He looked at the egg. “Well,” He started, then trailed off. He shook his head. “I…guess nothing has really changed.” His voice sounded empty even to his own ears. “We’ve got to stop the war. We’ve got to get the Dragon Prince home.” Home, to the Dragon Queen who’d ordered Harrow and Ezran be killed.

Ezran’s eyes returned to the eggshell, reflecting its searing light. “…Yeah.” He said, in the end. “I guess so.”

If he thought anything else, he didn’t say it. Just pulled the egg closer, and leaned in against Callum’s side. He looked exhausted. Drawn-out and weary, like the day and its toil and its grief had taken too heavy a toll on him. It wasn’t a surprise, really. There’d been the storm, and the sheer turmoil of the overburdened dragon egg, and then the talk about Rayla’s parents, and then this. Of course he was tired. Of course he was at the end of his rope. Callum didn’t feel much better off; he could feel the stress and exhaustion burning behind his eyes, until he felt a hair’s breadth from new tears at any given second. He thought he’d still be crying, if he wasn’t so tired.

As if to corroborate Callum’s thoughts, Ez settled in, and his eyes slipped half-closed. “I’m really tired, Callum.” He murmured, shuttered eyes as blank and distant as Callum’s own. “I just want this to stop.”

He didn’t elaborate on what exactly he meant by ‘this’, but he didn’t really need to. Callum exhaled, heavy and slow, and wound an arm around Ezran’s middle to tuck him closer in to his side. “I think we all just need a rest, now.” He said, quiet. “Maybe things will seem better later. Or…at least maybe a bit less terrible.”

Ezran blinked up at him, so slow as to seem lethargic. “Did it get better, before?” He asked, and for a moment, Callum didn’t know what he was talking about. But then- “After mom died?”

Pain stole his breath away. The next moment, he inhaled again, seeing by the minute flinch of his brother’s face that his grief had been marked. “…In a way.” He answered, in the end, and felt all-too-exhausted at the thought of doing it again. Of passing days, and weeks, and months, and enduring the ache of loss until it no longer clawed so incessantly at the insides of his chest. “It does get better. It just...it takes time.”

Ez sighed, as if he’d expected that answer. His eyes, already half-shut, closed all the way. “…I’m glad you’re here, Callum.” He said eventually, head leaning into his shoulder. After that, he didn’t say anything else. He just sat there, a silent huddled form, illuminated by the shine of the egg he still held.

Rayla’s shoulder shuddered briefly against his own. When he looked at her, she seemed to be fighting a losing battle with some nameless agitation. Her expression when she looked at Ezran was pained, and – when he looked across at her, she flinched when he met her eyes. Still guilty, maybe. She opened her mouth as if to speak, hesitated, and after another glance at Ezran shook her head and closed it. In the end she stared over into the fire, shoulders tense and hunched.

He wondered what was wrong with her. What was bothering her now. The intention rose in his chest to ask, but it couldn’t seem to make it all the way. He was abruptly too tired.

The quiet that settled among them then wasn’t a comfortable one. Callum stared into the fire and felt numb, as if the cold of the blizzard were seeping into his ribcage and clutching at his heart. He remembered being out there in the snow, until the chill stole into his limbs and made it harder and harder to move. He felt like that now, even despite the heat of the fire so close by. Like the chill was in his flesh, in his bones, and he’d never move again. If there was any mercy to that cold, it was that it numbed his thoughts too, until his mind ran slow and heavy with apathy.

After a while, though… “Is he asleep?” Rayla’s voice sounded beside him, quiet and just a little surprised. Callum lifted his head to look at her, and then at his brother, whose eyes were closed. His expression remained tight, brows drawn, but there was something about the looseness of his posture and the rhythm of his breathing that Callum recognised.

After a moment, he managed to speak. “Think so.” All things considered, if Ezran had managed to fall asleep now, it would probably be a challenge to wake him up again. Callum nudged him, just a little, and produced no wakeful response whatsoever. “…I guess he crashed.” He reflected on how tired Ez had been even before the day’s troubles got started in earnest. He’d barely slept, hadn’t he? “After everything, I’m really not surprised.”

When he looked over at her, Rayla’s eyes were on Ez, shaded with regret. “I am, a little.” She admitted, still keeping her voice low. “I couldn’t imagine sleeping after all this.”

Slowly, Callum lifted a hand and smoothed it over the back of Ezran’s neck. “He’s just a kid.” His voice came out softer than he expected. “He’s ten. He hardly slept at all last night, and then…” He shook his head, rather than attempt to sum up the day aloud. “He was bound to fall asleep like this at some point. Kids are like that, you know. They keep going and going and then, suddenly…” He nodded demonstratively at his brother.

The face Rayla made conveyed, quite expressively, ‘I’ll take your word for it’. What she actually said was “Makes sense, I suppose.” She watched Ezran’s sleeping face for a few more moments, before her eyes flicked up to his. “Think he’ll wake up if we move him?”

Callum assessed him. “Nah. He’s out.” He eyed Rayla, the barest flicker of interest pushing through the shroud of exhaustion that had settled on him. “What were you thinking?”

“Get him tucked into the covers, with the egg?” She suggested. “Make sure he’s comfy.”

He hummed, and nodded. “Yeah. Sounds good.” He had to work his way up to it. His limbs felt like they were made of lead. But, after some effort, he made himself move, shifting around to support Ezran under his arms. Rayla shuffled over to help, keeping the egg from falling out of his lap as they moved him. In the end they got him tucked into the tent-covers close to the fire with only minor shifts and murmurs on Ezran’s part, the egg’s shine half-blocked by the thick fabric.

Even in sleep, though, Ezran didn’t look relaxed. There was still that fraught tension furrowing his brow, as though heartbreak had followed him into unconsciousness. It hurt to see, but there was nothing Callum could do about it. So he lifted the covers to let Bait go in as well, and then sat back down by the campfire. It felt more like collapsing, really; his body felt so heavy.

Rayla took the opportunity to throw some branches into the fire before she followed suit, shooting him a few hesitant looks before she spoke, as if she wasn’t sure she should be saying anything. “…How’re you feeling?” She asked, looking as though she regretted the words as soon as she spoke them. Sure enough, she shook her head quickly, and muttered “Stupid question, I guess. You don’t have to answer that.”

He lifted his head to look at her, and…despite everything, for whatever reason, he appreciated that she’d asked. It settled something bereft in him; some part of him that was hurting, and lonely, and desperate for comfort. “…Well, I’ve been better.” He said, finally, voice sounding worn even to his own ears.

She glanced side-long at him, looking uncomfortable, and fed another stick into the crackling flames.

Callum watched the fire part and spit around the new fuel, his thoughts flickering in and out of sight like the embers in the ash. “I feel kind of stupid, for how long I was ignoring this.” He said, softly. “There were so many signs. I just…” He sighed, and wiped a hand over his face as if it would help anything. It didn’t, of course. He felt as unhappy and lethargic as before. “I really wish this didn’t have to be real.” He murmured it to himself more than to her, but saw her flinch anyway.

She fidgeted in place, shoulders tense, and then tenser yet when she stole a glance at him. There was an agitated jitter to her fingers when she broke a branch in half, crack, and cast both parts into the flame. He was starting to work his way up to asking her what was wrong, or what was bothering her, when- “I should go.” She muttered tersely, eyes flicking out to the ledge, and he froze.

“What?” He managed, a second later, voice croaking. His heart thudded dully in his chest, too exhausted for any true panic, but awake enough for reflexive fear to move it.

“I should just…go. Give you some space.” She was saying, not even looking at him, leaning back from the fire with the intention of movement written in her every limb, like she was about to spring up at any moment, like she was about to get up and leave. “I shouldn’t – you deserve to have some time alone, right now. And more firewood is always a good thing.”

Terror stuttered into his bloodstream, choking his heart with thorns. “Rayla-“

“I’ll just pop out for a bit. I won’t be long.” Still avoiding his eyes, she pushed herself up, rising to her feet, and…

Callum wasn’t surprised. Not really. Now that he was looking at her, he recognised the tension she was wearing; she wanted to get away. There seemed to be some reflex in her that drove her to hide away whenever she felt vulnerable, or upset, or – any number of things. It was her that wanted to get some space, and maybe she thought he wanted that too, but-

But he didn’t. He didn’t want her to go. He didn’t want her to leave him alone. He never wanted to be alone at times like this. But, sometimes, it happened anyway.

He still remembered the day he’d learnt his mom was dead. Remembered waiting for Harrow in the throne room he’d been led to, uneasy, certain that something was wrong. He remembered every word of what Harrow had told him, like it was burned into his mind by the weight of its pain. He remembered, too, how Harrow had behaved afterwards. Hesitant, and halting, like he wanted to stay but didn’t feel it was his right. He’d comforted Callum for a while, and then left. To allow him some ‘space’.

He hadn’t wanted space. He’d wanted Harrow to stay with him. But he’d not been able to find the words for it then, and so he’d been left alone.

The breath shuddered thickly in his throat, and his hand was trembling horribly when he reached out and clasped it around Rayla’s wrist. “Please,” He managed, the word half-choked with emotion. “Don’t leave.” Then, when she didn’t move: “Please”, again, more desperately.

She stared back at him, looking almost bewildered. A second later, her expression trembled, and for a second, it looked like she might cry. And then-

She sat back down.

She didn’t leave.

The relief was so powerful he could hardly breathe through it. Instead of speaking he closed his eyes, and trembled, and felt his fingers move around Rayla’s wrist as she settled beside him. He could almost feel her hesitance in how she wavered there, shoulder barely brushing his. Uncertain of her welcome, maybe, or uncertain of why he’d been so desperate for her to stay. He wasn’t sure until he opened his eyes and looked at her, and…then, seeing her expression, he thought it was probably both.

“…Thank you.” He mumbled to her, the words sounding almost embarrassingly heartfelt. Her eyes looked just a little wide, as if she was startled.

She studied him uncertainly for a few long seconds, like she had no idea why he’d be thanking her. Like she had no idea why he’d wanted her to stay. He…thought he should feel guilty, for not letting her leave and get some space to clear her own head, even if going into the storm would have been a fairly bad idea. The relief turned a little sour as he thought of that, gut twisting unpleasantly.

“…Sorry.” He offered, eventually, when she hadn’t seemed to manage to find anything to say. Anxiety prickled at the back of his neck as he remembered that – really, they hadn’t known each other that long, it was maybe a bit weird to have begged her not to leave like that, especially when she’d wanted to get away- “I just…really don’t want to be alone, right now.” He excused lamely, feeling abruptly very stupid and very tired. He let go of her wrist and wrung his fingers together, shoulders hunching just a little.

He’d looked away from her, not wanting to see her expression; so the touch at his hand surprised him. He glanced down, startled. She’d reached out, however hesitantly, to put her hand over his own. When he looked up…there wasn’t any of the closed-in tension he’d feared. Instead, she just seemed sad, and there was nothing closed about it. He looked at her and, within moments, felt the anxious twist in his gut ease. “’S alright.” She said, and he was almost too disorientated by emotion to hear her. “Don’t you worry.” Her voice quieted, then. Went gentler, and a little more solemn. “I’ll stay.”

A shudder ran over his shoulders, utterly involuntary. He couldn’t help the depth of the gratitude that shook through him at the words. She was here. She cared. She wasn’t leaving.

Tentatively, and stealing glances at her all the while, he shifted his hand to clasp the one she’d laid upon it. When she made no objection, he settled his fingers solidly between hers and nearly shook with the relief of the contact. Even with the layers of gloves in the way, the solidity of her hand in his own was unimaginably reassuring. “…Thanks.” He mumbled again, and thought he’d have been more self-conscious if he wasn’t so tired. As it was…

The exhausted, numb shroud hadn’t left him. Misery hung over the edges of everything like a stain, and everything left around the borders of the apathy ached with grief. He wasn’t sure that was going to go away any time soon. But even so – it helped, to have her here. It really, really helped.

Her ears were back a bit, as if she were abashed. He wondered, very distantly, when he’d started to understand what elf ear movements meant. Whatever she was feeling, though, the gentle caring in the way she looked at him hadn’t changed. She squeezed his fingers, even, as if to reassure him. “Least I can do.” Her voice was quiet, and maybe just a little guilty.

He didn’t think he had it in him to address that guilt right now, so he just…exhaled, very slowly, and shifted his hand more comfortably around hers. She hadn’t minded the hands, so he thought she wouldn’t mind him leaning on her either. So he did, settling a little against her side, and felt some nameless tension in the back of his head ease a little. He stared into the fire and breathed a little easier.

She didn’t make any move to shift or get up for a long time. She just sat with him. It helped.

It did help. But in the end, it helped in a way that thawed the edges off of some of the numbness, some of the shock. A few times, he found himself trembling as the grief moved through him like melt-water under a glacier. Once, his breath shuddered and his eyes welled with tears again, as if finding new reservoirs to weep from.

Rayla made concerned murmurs at him until he shook his head. “I’m okay. It’s just…” He looked down at their hands. It was her right hand he was holding; the hand that had never been bound long enough to hurt.

Her expression softened into now-familiar sorrow, and she sighed. “I’m sorry, Callum.” She said it in the tones of I’m sorry for your loss, of I’m sorry this happened, and that honest sympathy was what set him off into a true bout of crying again.

His shoulders shook, and his breath hitched, and tears did fall, but it all felt so much more subdued than before. Quiet, even. It was a resigned sort of grief, he thought. Defeated, maybe. As though he’d burned through the powerful, convulsive sobs of before and left only this behind. Whatever it was, it blurred his eyes with tears, and every time he trembled he felt Rayla close by his side.

She didn’t try to stop him, though seeing him cry plainly made her feel awful. She didn’t try to talk to him, either. Maybe she recognised that this was just…crying. Just grief, and it had to spill out somehow. After a few moments of watching him, she shuffled a little closer until she was more solidly braced against his side, and then slipped an arm around his back, pulling him into a silent embrace. He shuddered and let his face fall onto her shoulder, appreciating it more than he could say. She didn’t try to move him, even when he must have been getting her sweater damp, and just…stayed there.

After a while, he pulled back, and just leaned against her side, tiredly displacing a new tear from his eyes every minute or so when he blinked. Those tears stopped eventually, too. In their aftermath he felt even more tired and drained than before. After a long interval of silence, Rayla started glancing between him and the fire. Eventually, she asked “You alright if I go over and tend the fire a bit?”

It shook him out of his exhausted stupor, a little. He glanced at her, and their hands, and though he regretted it even as he spoke, he nodded and said “Yeah, sure.”

She squeezed his hand once more, then let it go. In a second she’d moved away and to the fireside, leaving the space beside him empty. He watched her work to settle that feeling of absence, blinking slowly as she fed twigs and bits of branch into the flames. She got up to get the pot and fill it with the snow piling thickly at the less-sheltered part of their alcove, and he watched the winds pull at her hair and scarf upon the storm’s edge. He watched as she set the pot on the fire, and waited for such a time that she might come and sit beside him again.

“Think Ez is waking up any time soon?” She asked, when the snow had gotten around to melting, and he glanced back at the tent layers. They were still glowing, cyan light filtering out around the seams, and Ezran’s face only partially-visible where he’d burrowed into the covers.

“He’ll either be sleeping another couple hours or another eight.” He answered, after a moment. “There’s not really any in-between with him, once he crashes like that.”

Rayla hummed at that, just a little rueful. “Well, suppose it means he’ll be fresh and ready for if he needs to take a watch shift tonight.”

Abruptly, Callum remembered the concept of fire-watch. Of camp-things, like food and drink and taking care of the fire that kept them alive. Of the fact that it was evening now, and…technically, it was approaching bedtime. After all this, after everything…some things were still the same.

It was a little jarring. It was a little reassuring in a way, too. The thought of routine, as new as that routine might be, was just enough comfort to be worth the effort of following it. Plus, well – some of it just plain needed doing, no matter how exhausted and threadbare and grieving he was. “Need to change your bandages.” He recognised, tiredly, and his eyes slid to her left arm. “Do your hand, too.”

She glanced back at him. “We can leave it tonight, if you’re not up for it.” She offered, quietly. “I can probably manage myself.”

Despite everything, he managed a flicker of indignation. “No need for that.” He muttered at her, annoyed at the thought of her trying to sort her bandages alone, one-handed, because she thought he might be too haggard and downtrodden to help her. “I’ll do it. Just – whenever’s good.”

The barest, faintest hint of a smile twitched at the edges of her lips. “Well. I don’t know. I’ll have to check my schedule.” She said, plainly too tired to make the words sound dry, but the sentiment was there. He sighed quietly, his lips offering the same tiny reciprocal twitch, too tired and too unhappy for humour, but appreciating the gesture nonetheless.

“Once you’re done with that water, then.” He decided, and she glanced at him for a moment before inclining her head. The water was bubbling gently by now; she took the pot from the fire with her hands comprehensively gloved, then refilled all of their jars with it. She left him with a smaller jar while she went and rummaged in the bags – after a minute or so of watching her, he realised she was fetching the scissors and bandages and disinfectant. He wanted to protest that he could get those, but…by then, there wasn’t any point. He was too tired anyway.

The water was warm, and felt good to drink. The heat of it spread through his body from the inside-out, unexpectedly lulling after the day’s trials. When he was done he set the jar aside, pulled his gloves off, shuffled over to where Rayla was waiting, and wordlessly reached to help her out of her layers.

There were quite a few. He’d lost track of how many extra layers they’d all been throwing on in the midst of the storm, and it took a while to get them off without hurting her. Drawing each sleeve over her injured arm required a delicacy and focus that he’d thought was beyond him, in this depth of exhaustion…but somehow, he managed it, and piled each article one-by-one beside the fire. She shuddered as the sweaters came off, and started hunching her shoulders when her arms were finally bared, goosebumps raising over her skin. Even directly beside the fire, it was so cold that she was shivering in earnest by the time he peeled the bandages off.

It was growing dark enough now that he mostly had to depend on the firelight to check on the savage wounds over her upper arm. If there was any mercy, it was that he was still too emotionally exhausted to feel as terrible as he usually did when he looked at them.

Silent, he pressed carefully around the edges, trying to feel at the state of the developing scabs. “Better.” He said at last, quiet, and reached for the disinfectant to wash the area. “Feels more solid now. These probably won’t open up again if you’re careful.”

“Mm.” She watched him, still shivering, as he re-bandaged her arm and then carefully pulled back her collar to check on the shoulder wound. It had never been as bad as the rest, and was doing fine. He replaced the bandage pad that they’d tied onto it, and then sighed.

“Alright, we can get your layers back on now.” He attempted a smile, tired, as she exhaled with relief.

“Oh good.” She grumbled, already snatching at the first item of clothing he’d left by the fire. “I don’t have the energy to be shivering like this. It’s too bloody cold.”

He wondered, for a brief dizzy second, how terrible the cold would be without the fire. With night nearly upon them, and their mountain almost in the middle of the storm…well, there was a reason they’d needed a fire-watch, wasn’t there? Without the fire…they’d probably be dead by now. He reflected on this almost emotionlessly, then moved to help Rayla with her clothes.

A few careful minutes later she was bundled up again, clad in so many layers that her torso seemed a solid mass of cable-knit sweater. Her neck disappeared behind the scarves, and then when her hat returned, her ears mostly vanished too.

He stopped her before she went to re-glove her hands, though, reaching out to touch gingerly at the back of her wrist. “This still needs doing.” He reminded her, exhausted enough that his voice sounded strange and flat to his ears. She glanced at him, frowning.

“…Normally I’d say to leave it, today.” She said, eventually. “But…”

“Ez and Zym loosened your binding a lot earlier.” He guessed, and she nodded. “Yeah, I think that’s…probably the most important time for it.” Briefly, exhaustedly, he closed his eyes. It was more effort to speak than it should have been. “Make sure it…recirculates right, or whatever.” He glanced at her bare hand, now almost entirely a normal colour, and blinked at it tiredly. “At least it should hurt less now.”

She flexed the fingers carefully, and then shifted a little to offer the hand to him. “Feels okay, yeah. Cold, kind of numb. Stiff, but…not really sore.” She offered quietly as his hands settled around hers. Despite everything, her hand actually felt a little warmer than his at the moment – he’d taken his gloves off to help her with her clothes and bandages, and that much time in the open air had chilled them considerably. He hesitated, then shuffled them closer to the heat of the fire.

He checked the bandage around her binding, first. The binding itself was surprisingly loose; while some magical force seemed to prevent it from being moved from its exact spot on her wrist, there was enough room in it now that he thought he could actually slip a finger under it if he tried. It wasn’t visibly squeezing at her wrist at all, and the bruise-dark hue it had left on her hand and arm was gone like it had never existed. The scabs of the sores were healing well. They were still hard and thick-feeling, but he could see the hints of new pink skin starting to grow in from their edges. “I…think you can go without bandages on here, now.” He decided, slowly, and set the bandage aside. “Just be careful not to catch the scabs on anything, I guess.”

She made a face at her wrist, like she found it offensive to look at, and – after a moment, Callum found himself staring too. His eyes fixed unerringly on the strange clasp, and then the silver of the ribbon itself, all-too-aware of what it represented. His breath stuttered for a second, and he closed his eyes, suddenly struggling to breathe around the sharp-edged pain in his chest.

He panted a few times in distress, eyes tightly closed, and didn’t quite manage to move until Rayla’s hand twitched between his own, fingers squeezing gently at his. He exhaled slowly, blinked his eyes open, then turned to wipe his face on his scarf. “Sorry.” He muttered, disoriented by grief, and couldn’t make himself meet her eyes. He was sure of the way she’d be looking at him – guilty, and pained, and sad – and didn’t know if he could handle that right now.

She seemed to hesitate. “Callum…”

“It’s fine.” He said, softly, and repositioned her hand in his, turning it palm-up for him to work. “I’ll just…get this done, and then…” He closed his eyes again, very briefly. “Then, I guess we…wait out the night. Rest, maybe. Somehow.”

It was strange; he was tired enough that the task ahead seemed more exhausting a prospect than it ever had. He wished he could leave it, and just rest. But…at the same time, he was dreading what would come once there was nothing left to do. At least now he had some distraction. Afterwards...there’d be nothing but his grief, and his thoughts, and the bleak prospect of the monumental journey ahead of them. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

“…Somehow.” She echoed lowly, like she felt the impossibility of that as much as he did. She fell quiet, watching with shuttered eyes as he finally started pressing his fingers into her palm. Together, they sat in a silence swallowed by the howl of the wind, and did not speak again.

 ---

 Rayla sat wordless and unmoving for all the time it took Callum to massage some circulation back into her bound hand. It took longer than usual, and she could practically feel the exhaustion dragging at his every motion. She kept wanting to suggest that he stop, and let her handle it, but…somehow, she thought he wouldn’t appreciate that now. So she stayed silent, and watched him, and felt guilt drag its claws viciously through the insides of her chest.

The flesh of her hand ached a bit where he pressed at it. There was a low-level sear to it, a gentle burning soreness, like someone had planted the suggestion of acid within her blood. Compared to the pulsing agony of her upper arm, it was almost pleasant. Finally, he finished, and remanded her hand back to her, and then…shuddered, a little, as he drew his own hands back to his lap and huddled down beside the fire, staring bleakly into its flickering light. He didn’t say anything.

She watched him through the corners of her eyes, heart hurting, throat choked with shame.

Again, as earlier, she felt the urge to – get away, somehow. To go out into the storm again, and give him some room to breathe. But that wasn’t an option, not with the fatal chill of a night-time blizzard waiting for her beyond their shelter. And, besides…

Rayla glanced at him, uneasily, and completed the thought: if earlier had been any indication, he didn’t want that room to breathe. He didn’t want to be left alone. He didn’t want her to leave.

She couldn’t quite wrap her head around it. Any Moonshadow elf would have wanted the solitude. Pain was a private thing; something to be held close and hidden away. Wanting someone with you during a time this terrible…that was shockingly personal. And for all that she knew he was a human, and had different cultural attitudes surrounding this sort of thing…she couldn’t help but feel bewildered, and strangely touched, by the memory of him pleading for her to stay.

She shifted in place, uncomfortable, but held that memory in place to force herself still. He’d asked her to stay, so she would. She owed it to him. It wasn’t as if there was anywhere to go anyway. But…

She had no idea what to do.

Rayla looked at him again, huddling by the fire with his knees up to his chest, eyes downcast, face oddly blank. It hurt, to see him like this. Hurt more to remember her role in doing this to him. She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, and suppressed the agitated reflex in her body that wanted to send her to her feet, to turn her face away, to escape this space full of guilt and shame and other people’s grief.  

Silently, she reflected on that impulse, exhaling almost silently. The sound of the wind drowned it out, and she had no doubt that Callum heard nothing. She opened her eyes and stared at the fire, and acknowledged to herself what was really motivating this ongoing desire to flee: it hurt to be here. It hurt to see him hurt, and to deal with her own shame. Leaving would be easier – if not for the storm – but it would also be cowardice. She’d done enough to hurt him already. Leaving when he’d begged her to stay would be too cruel.

But she didn’t know what to do.

There’d been times in the past where Runaan or Ethari had been having a hard time with something, but they always helped each other through that in private. It had been the same with her parents, though she’d been much younger then. She’d never been the person anyone turned to for comfort before. She’d certainly never had to help anyone through something like this, and – what was she supposed to do? How could she possibly make something like this better?

He wasn’t crying now, maybe, but this almost seemed worse. He was just…silent, and small-looking, and empty-eyed. It was terrible to look at. She wanted to help, but…what could she do? Talking wouldn’t solve this. He’d lost his dad.

Rayla hesitated, gut churning, and reached for one of the jars of water to take a sip while she thought. Callum’s silent form lingered in her peripheral vision, looking painfully lonely in the firelight. She wished she could reach out to him. A second later, startled, she wondered why she thought she couldn’t.

He felt…off-limits, in a way, in the grips of grief like this. It felt private, like something she shouldn’t be seeing, shouldn’t be witness to. It seemed an imposition to so much as be here, let alone reach for him when he’d not asked.

But he had asked for her to stay, hadn’t he? He’d reached for her then. He wasn’t reaching now, but maybe that didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t want contact, or that it wouldn’t help, or…oh, stars, she didn’t know. She exhaled into the warm water of her jar, then set it down. Finally, tentative, she shuffled a short way around the fireside towards him.

Callum’s head jerked up, just a little, at the sight of her approach. It was a faltering motion, as though he were struggling against some terrible weight to so much as move. Hesitantly, she reached out for his shoulder. Slowly, but – he watched her hand with that same blank, exhausted expression, up until it actually touched him, and then something in his face seemed to crumple. He shook all-over, and made a tiny miserable noise, and reached up to clutch at her hand so tightly it almost hurt.

Carefully, she tugged on it, a wordless offer to come closer if he wanted. Expression still trembling like he was somewhere on the verge of tears, he did shuffle over, huddling into her side closely enough he inadvertently elbowed her in the bands of bruising around her waist. She suppressed a wince, shifting to accommodate him more easily, and he took the opportunity to turn his face into her shoulder. His shoulders trembled.

He didn’t make any sound, but she could hear the way his breath was stuttering. He seemed a half-step from crying; too exhausted for actual tears, but upset enough that the motions of sobbing kept moving him anyway. A little awkwardly, she patted him on the shoulder with the hand that wasn’t still gripped in his, feeling very stupid for not realising earlier that this was what she should have been doing all along.

“…Sorry.” He mumbled thickly, and she wondered what he felt he had to keep apologising for. She was the one who should be apologising, but…

“Shush.” She told him, quiet and firm despite the aching of her heart. “Nothing to be sorry for.”

He shuddered again, and huddled a little closer. Tentatively, she put her arm around his back.

Callum spent the better part of the next ten minutes like that, breath hitching unevenly and his shoulders shaking. He never got quite as far as actual crying, but seemed gripped by its surrogate motions anyway. Steadily the shudders grew slower, and weaker, as if he was losing the energy for even that. After a while, he seemed to remember himself, and lifted his head for a moment. In his eyes she saw a faint, tired inkling of self-consciousness as he glanced between her face and her shoulder. “…’S okay?” He questioned.

Slowly, she reached out and smoothed her hand down the hair at the back of his neck. “It’s fine.” She murmured, and he took her at her word. His head lowered.

He still shook against her in stops and starts. It was slow, and faltering, and almost entirely soundless. He looked so terribly exhausted then, shadows dark beneath his eyes, that she thought it was more the tiredness than anything else that finally let him stop. He gradually went still, blinking blearily at the fire, and sighed quietly. Slowly, his eyelids began to flutter closed.

Ten minutes later, Rayla was almost completely certain he’d fallen asleep on her, somehow. It had to be the exhaustion to blame. She couldn’t imagine him managing it otherwise. Heart hurting for him, she made no attempt to move or dislodge him, and sat watching the fire for a long while.

She managed to avoid waking him for the next hour or so, even when taking a drink or tossing sticks into the flames. It felt like it was maybe eight at night by the time she heard movement from the direction of Ezran in the tent-layers, and turned her head to look over her shoulder.

The covers shifted. A low, unhappy sound emanated from within, followed shortly by quiet, broken whimpering. Crying in his sleep, Rayla guessed, and felt choked again with the weight of the guilt.

And then-

Callum, who’d not shifted or woken through a half-dozen incidents of her moving about, blinked his eyes open and lifted his head from her shoulder. “Ez?” He murmured, plainly disorientated, and in his uncoordinated attempt to look around ended up smacking his face straight into the scarves piled around her neck. “Mmph,” He expressed, surprised, and then he straightened up properly and squinted at her. “Rayla?” He questioned, plainly not really awake enough to have his wits about him.

“…You kind of fell asleep on me, for a bit.” She told him, voice quiet a low, her ear twitching in the direction of Ezran and his restless sleep. “Think you only woke up because-“ She hesitated, and glanced over.

“Ezran.” Callum processed, aloud, and struggled and stumbled his way through trying to get to his feet. “Yeah, I – I always wake up if he has bad dreams, I-“ He shook his head, and cut off the words. “I need to go to him.” He said instead, and finally managed to stand up. He’d taken a few wavering steps towards the covers when Ezran surprised them both by shooting upright, breath uneven, a few stray tears bright at the corners of his wide eyes. He stared uncomprehendingly ahead, too recently awoken at first to see them, and then finally his eyes seemed to focus on the shapes by the fire.

“…Callum?” He mumbled, voice strangely shaky. “Rayla? What…” He blinked at them, and then again more slowly as Callum lowered himself down at his side. He looked between her and his brother with a look of slow, terrible understanding. His eyes shuttered, and he lifted his hands up to his face.

“You sounded like you were having a bad dream.” Callum said, tentative, shifting over until he and his brother were side-by-side, pressed close against each other. “…Are you okay?”

Ezran didn’t answer for a long moment. His shoulders hunched and then shook, and he exhaled a thick-sounding breath. “I was dreaming.” He said in the end, almost listlessly, and lowered his hands from his face. “And then…I just…remembered, in the dream, that dad was dead. And it felt like a nightmare, so – I tried to wake up, but-“ He sniffed, and wiped his face on his sleeve. His breath shuddered again, his shoulders heaved…but then, instead of crying, he took a deep breath and seemed to force himself to steadiness. Finally, quiet, he finished the sentence: “But I woke up, and…it’s still real.”

Callum inhaled, a sort of pained breathy gasp, a flinch stuttering over his face. He breathed out shakily, then reached out to his brother on what seemed like reflex, pulling him close.

Ezran didn’t protest, but he did shudder at the contact, turning his face into Callum’s chest and sighing. “This is awful.” He said, very quietly. “I…don’t know what to do. I don’t know how I’m supposed to…I don’t know. I don’t know. I just..” His eyes slipped closed, and most of his face disappeared into his brother’s sweater. His next words were muffled in the fabric. “I’m so tired.”

“…You could go back to sleep?” Callum suggested, soft and unhappy, like he knew how inadequate a comfort that was for something like this. Ezran lifted his head, just enough to look up. Rayla saw the glitter of his eyes brightly in the gloom, too bright by far for how tired they were.

“So could you.” Ez said, plainly. His voice was strangely emotionless. “Would it make anything better?”

Callum flinched again. “…It might.” He said at last, after a long silence. “Sometimes, when things are awful…if you go to sleep, it can feel a bit less terrible in the morning.” Rayla looked at him, and remembered all over again that he’d already gone through something like this before. Years ago he’d lost his mother, and somehow had to live through the pain of that to a time where it started to get better. He’d had to suffer through that, just like he had to suffer through this now.

Rayla shivered, and thought of her own parents, and wondered if she’d have to do the same. She wondered if she, like them, was an orphan of this terrible war. She wondered if she should be mourning.

Ezran glanced out at the sky, dark and snow-torn, and then at the fire. “Morning’s a long way off.” He pointed out, in that same empty voice. “And there’s the fire-watch too.”

“You don’t need to be on the first watch, though.” Callum told him, leaning forwards just enough to rest his chin into his brother’s hair. “You could sleep a good while longer.”

Rayla expected him to shake his head, or disagree, or something. Instead he just blinked, tired and empty-eyed, and said “Okay.”

There was something horribly painful about that acquiescence. Callum seemed to feel it too. He closed his eyes, and pressed a kiss into Ezran’s hair.

Ezran didn’t move or speak as he was lowered back down and tucked into the makeshift bedding. He did reach for the egg, and Bait, pulling both of them against his chest. He laid open-eyed on his side for a minute or so, blinking slowly, then finally let his eyelids shut.

It was a while before he actually fell asleep. Fifteen minutes or more. Rayla sat silent, throat tight, and tended to the fire between glances back at them. Callum stayed beside his brother the whole time, near but not touching, a quiet weary presence in the dark beyond the fire. He was shivering a little by the time he returned, having waited long enough past Ezran’s sleeping that the air had chilled him through. He huddled by the fire and stared empty-eyed at the flames.

Rayla eyed him, and couldn’t think of anything to say. She didn’t think there was anything to say. So instead, she drew on her experience from earlier, and just…shuffled over to him, pressing in until their shoulders butted together. He glanced at her, exhaling slowly, and leaned back. He didn’t speak.

Time passed like that, with little interruption or change. She murmured to him at one point to suggest he go join his brother and sleep, but he just shook his head. So they remained there in silence and watched the fire together through the opening hours of the night. She warmed water periodically and got him to drink, and presented him with pieces of meat, and after a while even went to get some more to cook. It was something to do, after all.

A few times, Callum dozed off on her shoulder again. Never for long, but when she eventually did the same it was another matter entirely. She neither stirred nor dreamed, and woke a long while later to find herself covered in her cloak and curled beside the fire, a bag propped under her head as a pillow. Her body ached terribly as she finally moved, numb with cold and heavy with the pain of her bruises. Disoriented, she pulled on her sense of the Moon to figure out how long it had been. A little more than five hours, apparently.

She sat up, the cloak falling from her shoulders, and found Callum and Ezran sat together by the fire, very close by, the layers of the tent laid over their laps like unusually stiff blankets. They glanced over at her as she blinked at them, frowning. “I…fell asleep?” She concluded, bewildered that she’d not woken. They – or at least Callum – must have laid her down close to the heat of the flames, and put the cloak over her, and fed the fire through those hours…but she’d not stirred. It was unlike her.

“A good while back, yeah.” Callum agreed, voice a low hush, like he was still trying to avoid waking her. He nodded to the now-bare part of their shelter that had previously held the tent-layers. “It’s too cold back there now, so…I thought it’d be better to just let you rest here.”

“It’s too cold anywhere except right next to the fire.” Ezran said, and she saw that the egg was in his lap. That disconcerted her, but she supposed if Callum hadn’t complained it probably wasn’t affecting him too badly. “It woke me up. It was just…too cold to sleep. And then once I was here, Zym was too awake for me to sleep through.”

“You could try again now, though.” Callum pointed out, and received a very level stare for his troubles.

“No.” He said, very simply, like it was so irrefutable a decision it didn’t need to be reinforced with further words. There was that same blank apathy from before in his eyes, but with a little more animus now. He seemed vaguely unimpressed with his brother. “But you should.” He glanced sidelong at Rayla suddenly, and addressed her, saying “He’s not going to sleep, because he doesn’t want me to be awake alone. But you’re awake now. You can tell him to rest, finally.” There was a hint of asperity there, like he’d been trying for hours to change Callum’s mind without success.

She blinked several times to clear her eyes, then pushed herself all the way up, staring across at Callum, who was sat close enough that the bag she’d been sleeping on was against his side. He stared tiredly back, looking appallingly exhausted, with a resigned sort of expression that suggested he knew exactly how this was going to go. “Go to sleep, you dummy.” She told him, exasperated. “The idea of a watch is everyone gets some sleep, you know.”

He sighed. “I’m not sorry.” He said, a little indistinct, like he was exhausted enough to slur the words a little. “Wasn’t gonna leave Ez alone like that. Wouldn’t be right.”

Privately, she agreed with him. Leaving Ez awake alone would have been terrible, so she understood perfectly. But now… “I’ll take care of him.” She promised, phrasing it a little more directly than she might have if she’d been more awake. “So you can sleep. It’s fine.”

He blinked at her, looking painfully relieved. “…Good.” He mumbled, and slid his eyes sideways to the tent-layers, and then the fire. “Should I…?”

She nudged him aside and then pulled the cloak over. Ezran helpfully shoved the tent layers towards her, so she arranged those by the fire and then prodded Callum into place. “Down,” she ordered, and looking a little bewildered, he went. Soon he was curled by the fire in the spot she’d vacated, and she put her own cloak over him. He stared up at her with bleary eyes as she nudged the bag under his head. “Comfy?”

Somehow, he managed something close to a smile, face drawn and wan with exhaustion. “Mm. Very.” He sighed, eyelids fluttering closed. Then, by all appearances, he passed out within a few seconds.

“…He was so stubborn.” Ezran said, into the quiet left by Callum’s abrupt exit from consciousness. “I kept trying to get him to sleep, but he just…wouldn’t.”

Rayla glanced his way, then picked her way over to sit herself by his side. “Apparently you’re not the only one who can be stubborn when you want to be.” She said, a little dryly. She wasn’t sure if it was appropriate to tease him now, after – after he’d learned the truth she’d been hiding, and been hit by the grief of it, but…

He eyed her a little grumpily, but didn’t seem particularly bothered. “I guess.” He looked over at his sleeping brother, and his gaze gentled into something softer. Sadder, too. “…He didn’t have to do that, though. I was fine.”

Her brow furrowed. Slowly, she shook her head. “No, Ez.” She said at last. “It was the right thing to do. You…shouldn’t be alone right now.”

Ezran looked startled at that, eyes flying quickly back to her. He didn’t seem to know what to say for a few seconds, but then…quietly, he reached out to her, waiting until she consented to take his hand. He sighed, looking at their joined hands for a moment. She wondered what he was picking up from her now. Then, finally, his eyes slid up to hers again. “…You’re gonna take care of me, huh.” He said, subdued.

For a second, she didn’t know what he meant – then she remembered what she’d just said to Callum. Her shoulders stiffened a little, uncertainty gripping at her gut. She didn’t know what he thought of her now. Didn’t know what he’d accept from her. But… “Reckon I will, yeah.” She agreed, quietly. “If that’s okay.”

He watched her, silent and almost expressionless, then exhaled minutely. He shuffled into her side and looked away. “You said you’d be my sister, before.” He said finally, and let half-lidded eyes settle on the fire. “So I guess that’s fine.”

The words hurt in a way she somehow hadn’t anticipated. It felt like a stab through her chest; she inhaled sharply around it, touched and guilty and thankful at once. If Ezran felt any echo of it, he didn’t react. He just sighed, huddling against her, and watched the flames.

Full of enough nameless emotion that she couldn’t speak around it, that it choked her, Rayla stayed silent as well. The trust felt like more than she deserved. First Callum, and now Ezran – both of them had, despite everything, reached out to her for comfort. Like they wanted her. Like they needed her, somehow. Even knowing what she’d kept from them, and the role she’d played in their pain, they trusted her like this. It was…humbling. It made her heart clench with shame.

Deliberately – because she didn’t know how much of that Ez would pick up on, and he didn’t need that right now – she turned her thoughts aside and looked out at the storm.

As if reacting to her attention, the clouds flashed in the dark. The thunder that followed was faraway, five seconds removed from the light; the rumble was quiet. Already the storm was passing by. For all its noise and vicious cold, she didn’t think it’d hold them too much longer. Sometime soon, they’d have to leave this place, and deal with whatever waited beyond the blizzard. It was a relief, in a way. This was a place of grief and pain, and she wanted to be free of it. But, at the same time…they had so far to go. The mere thought was wearying.

Rayla closed her eyes for a moment, drawing on what resolve she could muster. It would be fine. Somehow. Within a day they’d have left here…and however long the journey to come really was, they’d take it one step at a time. It wouldn’t always feel like this. It would be okay.

Clinging to that thought, she wound an arm around Ezran’s back, drawing him closer in to her side. He went gladly, turning his face into the knit of her jumper and sighing softly.

Beyond their shelter, the thunder echoed further and further away, but the wind was as harsh a shriek as it had ever been. Its howl followed their vigil through the rest of the night.

 ---

End chapter.

Chapter Notes: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1fjPSeB8RRkc_DOw9sxaN5xgY5LwddRV4?usp=sharing

Link to PIAJ chapter notes folder (Google Drive folder including worldbuilding, commentary, medical notes, research notes, and misc notes for all applicable chapters within this section)

This chapter's notes cover: No new worldbuilding notes this chapter. However, there are author’s notes on this chapter’s characterisation, development, and some of the work that went into it.

Timeline: https://docs.google.com/document/d/107eD8zmLAAFBWSOgsLyl8g4pAdQF4EgMh4rpN_m91U4/edit?usp=sharing Link to PIAJ Timeline Google doc ( to be updated as story progresses)

PIAJ Masterpage: https://tenspontaneite.tumblr.com/piaj Link to PIAJ Masterpage on tumblr (containing links to chapters, meta, art, Q&As, and resources) (Link may not work properly on mobile/app)

Author Notes: 

Happy 2021 everyone. We’ve not had the best start to the year, but with luck it’ll be less atrocious than 2020 overall.

Long chapter break again, as you may have noticed. If you don’t check my tumblr and therefore haven’t seen my various personal updates on there – since the last update, I started playing a new instrument, broke several personal writing records, and took around a 15ish day break from writing before Christmas. I had an extremely powerful writing hyperfocus across a good portion of October and November, and churned out a Large Quantity of writing in a different rayllum fanfiction that will not be published.

Personal records broken

Most written in one day: Previously 8200 words, now 9150 Fastest 50k: Previously 11 days, now 9 days

Fastest 100k: Previously unknown*, now 23 days Most written in one month: Previously 88k, now 120k

*The previous record for fastest 100k would have been when I first started writing this story, but I wasn’t keeping detailed records at the time so I’m not sure of the exact date I started writing. I’m relatively certain 23 days breaks it though.

This chapter was kind of a lot of emotional effort to write, not to mention representing the execution of some seriously painful story arrangement logistics, so comments are very much appreciated.

[pokemon-ninjago-world]

Headcanon/Pokéninjago version of Lloyd’s identity crisis during season 5 of Ninjago

Got ab 12 likes on the announcement post so here we are: This is an essay-sorta-thing about something I thought and wrote some six years ago. It’s been so long since I wrote this I feel cringy reading it, but it’s tenable in Pokéninjago lore. It’s kind of a mix between my headcanon for the show, and canon of my AU, which is why there is mentions of “evolving” and Pokémon types.

Things to take into account:

Idk if there should be content warnings, but depression mention at least. Otherwise, this is pretty much as intense as season 5 went, just a little more angsty I suppose.

I must say that my version of Lloyd and his identity crisis were inspired by a certain artist’s version of him and by a comic they made about the Child’s Play episode’s aftermath. I don’t dare name the artist, since they don’t wish to be linked with the Ninjago fandom anymore, but some of you might know who I’m referring to. 

I do not know how psychology stuff actually works, all of this was made on grounds of a couple of high school psychology courses and a lot of imagination `:D

I wrote this originally in Finnish and let Word translate it, so this might be v clumsy at points.

Most of the text is under the cut!

                                                  ~***~

When Lloyd was just a small cub, closer to three years, his mother had left him in his father's care. Misako knew the boy would become the Green Ninja and Garmadon would become the Dark Lord. That is why she went looking for any ancient knowledge to avoid the final confrontation. Although her heart was torn since she had to leave her loved ones, she knew that she couldn’t just sit on her hands, and that perhaps she was the only one that could prevent the decisive battle between good and evil. It was also her wish that the father and the son could spend as much time together as possible. Thus, Lloyd's earliest childhood memories are about his father, and his recollections of his mother are blurry, obscure, and fading away as he grows up, or mixing with other memories.

            Dad meant everything to little Lloyd. Although they lived in the same monastery with Lloyd’s uncle as well, whom he also liked, his own father was still the greatest. Garmadon also loved his child deeply and wanted him to have a happy life. Although the poison in his veins was starting to get a hold of him and he was increasingly drawn to the Golden Weapons, his love for Lloyd and the desire to be with him in anticipation of Misako's return kept him away from them for much longer than if the boy had never existed.

                    When Lloyd "evolved," he lost some important years of his life, during which a youngster usually developes a picture of himself and his changing body. Lloyd's body changed in a single moment and even though his mind also changed to some degree, it was still mostly on the same level as before, since artificial aging did not bring him the years of experience that growing up normally would. From that moment on, he had to form himself a new image of himself. Frankly, he was facing a fierce identity crisis.

                     After the episode Child's Play, Lloyd adopted an identity whose foundation was flimsy and unstable. It consisted of a few simple pillars that supported his image of himself. Some emotions, thoughts, and memories that he could not, wasn’t able to or didn’t dare to deal with, secretly and slowly gnawed at those pillars like erosion. They grew into doubt that settled into the cracks like rockfoil.

                     That flimsy foundation for his self-image, consisted of these elements: I am the Green Ninja. I'm the strongest ninja of all. I’m the son of  sensei Garmadon. I’m the grandson of The First Spinjitzu Master. I'm one of the Elemental Masters. I'm a student of Sensei Wu. I'm one of the five elemental ninjas. It's my destiny to protect the world from evil.

                     This made it easy for Morro to destabilize and crush Lloyd’s self-esteem. Morro proved himself to be stronger and more independent than Lloyd, and that he could win him over and over again, no matter how hard Lloyd tried to fight back. Lloyd felt weak and desperate. Two pillars of his self-image collapsed to the ground and the masked emotions and doubts that chipped away at the other columns began to grow and intensify: He was not the strongest ninja and was therefore unable to protect the world from this evil.

                     This also affected his view of him as the Green Ninja. Although logically he still was just that – the Golden Weapons and his powers had proven it – he could not help but think that maybe Morro really was supposed to be the Chosen One. His identity was cracking, which ate away at his strength and self-esteem. Being a Psychic Type, his greatest strength resided in his psyche, and whenever his mind was in an unstable and vulnerable state, he couldn’t do his best, even if he had used everything he had learned. Losing his father fairly recently had already struck a dangerous notch in his mental stability.

                     Even though Lloyd was still his father's son, it didn't feel the same when he was no longer with him. Finally, he was only driven forward by his relationship with his other loved ones. He had to do everything he could to stop Morro from harming his friends. By protecting them he was also protecting the last intact remnants of his Self.

                     Lloyd did everything he could to resist Morro's possession. From time to time a memory of his friends and the will to keep them safe increased his "self-control," weakening the ghost's hold on him. However, a long, grueling time in constant motion, without water and nourishment, poisoned by a cold, vindictive spirit, steadily filled his mind with anguish and despair. Doubts penetrated deep into the tears of his self-image, breaking everything old until he no longer knew who he was. Only with the last bits of his mental strength could he interfere with Morro's possession so that he failed to clear the other ninjas out of his way.

                     Then, when Morro broke away from Lloyd's body, the Espeon felt like nothing more than an empty, broken shell floating aimlessly in the dark, beachless sea. He was unable to live up to any of the expectations and goals that had been set for him. Now, he was used as a trade-in item in the market of the world’s destiny. He longer had the strength or power to save even his best friends. He was as helpless as a newborn pup and all he could do was to stand by and apologize when he was traded for Realm Crystal.

                      Somewhere from his past, he dug up one last spark of strength. Already as a child, he had been left alone with unfriendly people, who then had ignited that stubborn flame in him: the desire to fight the cruel, unjust and repressive world. His body still had more strength than his mind, and this momentary burst of grit made him kick the Crystal out of Morro's hand. This, however, caused him to end up in the freezing stream, all his energy used up. There was not much left but a primitive desire to survive and a little strength to keep his head afloat before the cold numbed his muscles.

                     Lloyd's mind was in shambles. Images, memories, shattered fragments of his adopted identity… they all churned in his tired, blurred consciousness. Unintentionally, he began to go through the feelings of uncertainty, fear and inadequacy that he had denied from himself for years. The present seemed more surreal than the memories. He relived moments that had had a revolutionary impact on his life: When the golden weapons pointed him out as a Green Ninja; when he grew up under the influence of Tomorrow's Tea; when he met his mother and became to know her; when he unleashed the Golden Dragon in the Temple of Light; how he fought the Overlord who was possessing his father; how he harnessed his True Potential; got his father back; lost Zane; reunited his friends again and felt great togetherness with the other Elemental Masters. When he lost his father again. And when Morro possessed him.

                     Lloyd was lost. If it wasn’t for his friends and their care, he would have sunk deep into depression (and, on the other hand, drowned or, at the very least, died of hypothermia). When Kai carried him out of the FSM’s tomb, it triggered a very clear memory of the day when the Master of Fire had fulfilled his potential and Lloyd had been identified as the Chosen One. That day, Kai had come to save him from an erupting volcano and carried him to safety. Now, Lloyd felt like he was that little scared cub again, who had for a moment thought he was going to burn to the ground in the boiling lava of the volcano. He remembered how Kai's closeness had brought a feeling of immediate security around him. Even though the mountain had raged and wanted to kill them both, Lloyd had known he didn’t have to be afraid. Kai was there. He'd protect Lloyd. There was no reason to fight the fear anymore, he didn't have to pretend like he was tough. He was carried by someone older and stronger, whom to rely on.

                     The feeling was so intense, the memory so vivid that Lloyd was overwhelmed by an inexplicable, immense grief. The sadness of being forced to give up a carefree childhood so early on, to take on an enormous responsibility and assume a role that seemed too demanding for such a small boy to perform. He had had to grow up way too soon. He started shaking from holding back the tears. He didn’t mind since he thought Kai was probably assuming that he was shivering from the cold. But when Kai said quietly and understandingly: "Shh... It's okay... Don't worry about it," the last wall of pride and fear fell, and Lloyd could no longer repress his weeping.

                     At this point, he slowly began to build a new identity on the ruins of the wrecked one. He understood that even though he was the Green Ninja, it didn’t make him greater or more important than the others. He had more magical power than anyone else, but he was still only a person just like them. He could hesitate, too, and fail. There was no way for him to do anything more than what he was capable of, mentally, physically, and skill-wise. That’s all there was to offer, and if it wasn't enough, there were others whom he could rely on. Others, who would catch him when he ran out of strength. He wasn't the last link to hold the whole structure together.

                     These ideas developed slowly in Lloyd's exhausted mind. Slowly, he got stitched back up from the fragments of his previous self-image. This time, however, his new identity was not something that was given to him from the outside, in which he would have had to fit himself, but it was a solid, authentic self-image created as a result of self-reflection. It was still obscure, uncertain and seeking its form, and its growth was overshadowed by fear. But the conversation with his father drove away that last fear. The fear that Morro was supposed to be the Green Ninja instead of Lloyd. His father assured that Lloyd’s qi had no influence on how he should live and act. He should live the way his heart told him to.

                     In the end, although Morro managed to beat Lloyd one last time, this time he did not break down. He was more intact now, he had more inner strength, and he knew for sure he wouldn't be abandoned. That the fate of the world wasn't really up to him. He may have been part of the story, but after all, he wasn't the protagonist, at least not the only one of them.

[not-xpr-art]

Art Advice #6 - Ways to combat social media fatigue as a creative person

Hi guys!

This week’s topic is something I think any artist who’s predominantly active on social media will relate to; that feeling of utter helplessness at trying to live up to social media algorithms, which can really impact your mental and physical health...  

I want to just offer some advice on how to feel less burnt out from art social media (advice I need to take myself sometimes)...

Ways to combat social media fatigue as a creative person (& how you can make social media overall a better place to be).

As I’ve already said, social media can take a big toll on your mental and physical health, particularly if you’re relying on it for your career (as a lot of artists and other creatives do). 

This blog post aims to offer some small pieces of advice to help make your life a little easier when navigating the world of art social media!

1) Algorithms are built to destroy creativity.

I think we’ve all had that phase where we try and keep up with the fast paced algorithms of social media that demand we produce new content day after day, as well as constantly interacting with other people’s posts and spending a minimum amount of time on the app. And all of this leads to feeling fed up and tired when you’re using that particular social media. 

For me, Instagram used to be such a wonderful place for sharing art. I met many amazing fellow artists, and the community that was formed their was genuinely lovely. Unfortunately, everything changed when the fire nation (Facebook) bought out the company & the whole site became so less friendly to smaller creatives. 

I’ve heard a similar story from a lot of artists, who find Instagram’s focus on excessive posting and engagement, which mainly rewards big influencers or celebrities and not smaller accounts of creative people, incredibly disheartening. The algorithms don’t allow artists to naturally explore their creativity, and it leads to more and more artists getting just completely creatively burnt out.

Of course, this all sounds really pessimistic, but it doesn’t have to be. For me, places like Tumblr and the newly created Artfolapp, which (although not perfect) offer a great alternative to the algorithm heavy apps like Instagram, Facebook or Twitter. As with all socials, there’s a huge element of luck that comes with posting art (timezones, audience, etc can all play major parts in how well your art does), but I always find places where posting doesn’t feel like a chore are a lot more enjoyable.

Alternatively, as simple as it sounds I think a great way to start approaching all social media is to not focus on numbers. Instagram actually recently gave the option of being able to hide likes on others and your own posts, which I actually think is a great idea! Once you become less focused on numbers I think you can breathe a little easier!

2) Numbers =/= Your worth as a creative person.

Following on from my last point, it can often feel like if you’re posts aren’t getting as much attention as you used to then there’s something wrong with the work your doing. 

Of course, this isn’t true at all, and most of us know this. Unfortunately if your posts are a part of your work, and the engagement they have is directly linked to how successful in your job you are (and how much money you make that week), then numbers are a lot harder to ignore. 

My biggest piece of advice for this is to visualise the numbers as what they are; people actually interacting with your work! So even if it’s only 1 person, that’s still 1 entire person who enjoyed what you posted! 

3) Luck be a b*tch, honestly ...

As previously mentioned, there is a lot of luck that comes with being successful on social media. Luck of posting in the right place at the right time, having one person with a bigger platform share your art, etc. 

So there isn’t a lot of advice I can give in this section. One thing I’d recommend is involving yourself in a particular community or fandom. Even if you don’t do fancontent, finding a community where you can meet like-minded people and support each other’s work is a really useful thing!! 

For fancontent (like fan art, edits, cosplay, covers, etc) you can just check out the tags of those fandoms! Even if it’s a small fandom, there is usually some content that already exists for it. Often by following a range of people in the various fandoms you enjoy can also lead to fun opportunities, like fan-zines or collaborations! 

For non-fancontent it can feel like it’s a lot harder to find people to relate to. One thing I’d recommend is to find independent magazines online which specialise in sharing creative works! This can offer great chances to get your work featured, as well as meeting some fellow creatives!

Basically, curating your social media experience to feature people that inspire you & support you not only makes for a more enjoyable time being on social media, but it also means there’s more potential your work will be seen!

4) Passion Pays.

Audiences often know when you’re producing something because you feel like you have to (perhaps it’s fancontent for something you gained a lot of followers from, or a particular style that you’ve done for a long time) rather than from genuine passion, and that can be to your detriment.

My advice is to do what you’re actually passionate about, even if that means that some people may not be as interested. For example, I gained a significant portion of my followers on other social medias from posting Kpop fanart. And although I still do this occasionally, I only ever really do it when it’s something I really want to draw. Even though I know I could churn out a lot of Kpop content that those people who followed me for it would really like, I also like drawing other things & going out of my comfort zone in art. 

And I know that the people who still follow and support me now understand this, and often appreciate that I draw things I’m unabashedly passionate about! It has also made me a lot happier overall with my own work, since I feel like I’m constantly pushing myself to do new and interesting things for me, and not to fulfil the interests of others! 

This can also include a complete turn around of the kinds of things you create, by the way! If you’ve been a 2D artist for ages, but suddenly develop a passion for 3D sculpture, then go for it! Those who are still interested in your work will stick around. As well as this, you’ll grow an entirely new audience with the new creative outlet you start sharing! It’s honestly a win-win situation, and don’t let the fear of people not accepting the change hold you back!

5) TAKE BREAKS!

Possibly the most important piece of advice in this post is to remember to take a break from social media! Even if it’s something you rely on for your job, and the algorithms demand you spend time on them, try to take periods of time during your day to switch off from it. 

Another thing I would also suggest is taking breaks from posting things. I did this in January because I wanted a break from forcing myself to live up to the hell of a posting schedule. I still did art, but without the pressure of having to post things I was able to take time and have a little more fun with it! 

A final thing in this part that I’d suggest is taking breaks from doing creative stuff occasionally. If you’re anything like me, you probably spend nearly every day doing or at least thinking about creative things. And that can become very tiring! Whether it’s taking a week, a few days, or entire months, remember that your creativity and skill aren’t just going to disappear if you take a break from it for a bit! 

I think creative people tell themselves that if they don’t keep posting, then people are going to stop supporting their work. But in my experience, people stick around even if you haven’t posted something in years! Because if someone enjoys your work, then they’re going to stick around regardless! 

TL/DR

Basically to sum up, social media can be hell to navigate with it’s obsessive algorithms and posting schedules. But if you allow yourself to adapt to other sites/apps that don’t rely on those things, don’t fixate on numbers, curate your experience to both be inspiring and supportive, let your passion shine through, and remember to take breaks, then social media can become a lot more enjoyable! 

I hope this post was somewhat helpful to anyone who struggles with this... I have to admit that I often don’t take my own advice in regard to social media, but I thought me posting this could help both of us out lol!

Check out my other Art Advice posts here if you’re interested!

[ulalumewitch]

this was originally inspired by the prompt “The Pet” by @capriprompts … part 3 finally address the prompt proper and my version of it. hope you enjoy!

Author’s Note: This story deals with disappointments during the adoption process as well as references to parental deaths during childhood. Some readers may find this triggering. I hope I handled it with the care and sensitivity it deserves.

This is part 3 (and final part). The links to Part 1 and Part 2 are below:

https://ulalumewitch.tumblr.com/post/658329277505421312/betty-part-1

https://ulalumewitch.tumblr.com/post/658355318446800896/betty-part-1

(not sure why they both read “part 1” but i swear the second one is part 2. one day i’ll figure all this out - lol)

word count: 2,590

themes: angst and fluff

hope you enjoy - i just love these two.

“Betty: Part 3”

Damen frowned as he sat on a stool at the breakfast bar. He looked passed the living room and to the balcony. Autumn finally broke through the summer heat, but despite the chilly temperatures, Laurent had remained outside on the balcony. For over an hour.

He’d been there when Damen got home at dinner. Laurent refused to eat, stated he wasn’t hungry, and turned away from him. Damen didn’t push him. After eight years together he knew which battles to pick, and he knew if he picked this one, he would lose.

His stomach fluttered with nerves. Damen wanted to speak to Laurent about what was coming before it got here. He tapped his phone screen again. No new messages. Dammit, Jokaste.

The woman was always late. While he hated lying to Laurent these past few days, he felt it necessary. He’d never lied to him before and it wasn’t something he ever wanted to repeat. But he wanted this to be a surprise if only so that Laurent couldn’t argue himself out of it. This would be good for them. Damen was sure of it. Well ... mostly sure of it.

Damen opened up his text messages waiting for replies. The texts from the people he talked to most in his life waiting for responses he couldn’t muster himself to give at the moment.

Papa Theo - D. Kastor wants to host Thanksgiving this year. Don’t let him take over. You and Laurent are better hosts. I’m begging you. Do what you have to. If I have to eat salmon on crackers again instead of turkey because Jokaste thinks it’s en vogue or whatever her high snobby ass thinks, I’ll lose it. Thank you. Papa.

Auguste - Laurent keeps ignoring my calls. Everything okay?

Kastor - Bro, Knicks game next weekend?

Nik - Knicks game next weekend? Text Kas for info.

Nicaise - Tell Laurent to call Auguste before I kill them both.

Jokaste - I’ll text you once I’ve valeted with the package.

The text from Jokaste was from two hours ago. It was only a fifteen minute drive between their apartments. But Damen knew from experience if he pressured her she’d delay herself more.

But for the past few days Jokaste was oddly ... maternal. She’d listened without spewing unwanted advice and helped him find exactly what he wanted, pulling strings from a few of the charities she’d help fund over the years. He’d never been so happy she spent money and drank wine for a living.

His phone buzzed in his hand. Damen let out a shaking breath as the text from Jokaste finally came through: The eagle has landed. We’re on our way up.

Damen took a breath and replied back: Laurent is out on the balcony. Door is unlocked. If we’re still outside please wait in the office until I get you. He’s ... not himself right now.

Damen held his breath. It could go one of two ways with Jokaste. Either she would understand or she would say she was too busy and leave the surprise in the living room before walking out.

His phone buzzed: Ok

He let the breath he’d been holding out and resolutely walked around the breakfast bar and to the balcony. Damen opened the glass door and gritted his teeth against the blast of cold wind to his face. Laurent remained sitting in his chair, bundled up in a huge knit sweater, scarf, coat, and hat that left only his eyes visible. He didn’t move as Damen approached. Laurent didn’t even look at him.

Damen’s heart pounded in his chest. Did something else happen? Had he forgotten something important? He and Laurent never had a problem communicating until recently and it killed him. This had to end. And now.

“Laurent,” Damen said.

No movement. No glance of acknowledgement. Nothing.

The wind picked up and howled as if in warning from the gods themselves against the building. Damen grabbed a chair a swung it around directly in front of Laurent and then sat down. Two narrowed eyes of blue ice cut to Damen then.

“You’re blocking my view.”

“Laurent, I know this has been hard -“

“I’m not talking about this. Leave me alone.”

Damen took a breath. He was in a worse mood then he thought. Shit.

“Listen to me. Okay? Just listen.”

Laurent leaned back slightly and with a small flourish of his hand indicated for Damen to proceed before crossing his arms over his chest. Damen took a calming breath and looked away at the same view to steady himself.

“I don’t know how much you’re hurting, because I’m not you. But I’m hurting too. It’s difficult. It’s painful. It’s unfair, and ugly, and all of the things you hope to never experience,” Damen stated, “But we’ll get through this. We will have our family, Laurent. Yes, things are bleak right now but we can’t give up because somewhere out there is our son or daughter. Maybe they’re not born yet, maybe they are. But we don’t give up because that’s not what we do.

“We didn’t give up on each other. Hell, you spent your entire inheritance to start a firm with a man you weren’t even married to yet. You helped raise your younger brother when you were still technically a child yourself because the worst nightmare for children happened. You fought your way through school and internships all while spending hours volunteering with children’s programs when most of us in law school could barely keep up with the average demands. You are a fighter, Laurent. You can’t give up now. Please, don’t give up now.”

Laurent’s eyes flickered for a moment as he regarded Damen silently. He didn’t move a single muscle. He also didn’t respond.

Damen took in a shuddering breath, “I love you. I’m sorry life isn’t as we want it right now. I will keep fighting for it, but I need you with me.”

Laurent still looked at him with cool neutrality as he asked, “Where were you this week, Damianos?”

Damen’s heart lurched in his chest. Oh God ... Damen had known better than to lie to Laurent. But he did it anyway because he’d been giddy at the thought of the surprise now waiting for them in their apartment. Apparently Laurent’s foul mood had been exacerbated because of him. Goddammit this was not how he wanted this to go either.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

Damen cleared his throat, “I’m sorry I lied to you. But if you come inside I’ll show you why. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Laurent huffed, “I’m not in the mood for surprises or apologies. Now, leave me alone.”

“No.”

Laurent’s nostrils flared as he shot up and gracefully moved around him to the door. Damen cursed under his breath as he went after Laurent. Before he could think he caught his arm as they entered the living room.

“Let go,” Laurent growled.

“I was with Jokaste,” Damen surged ahead, “I needed her connections to get something for you and me to expand our family in a different way until our child comes home.”

Laurent stilled. Damen immediately let go of his arm.

Laurent turned, his blue eyes glittering with fury, as he hissed, “What did you do?”

Damen ignored the churning in his stomach and called out, “Bring her out, Jokaste.”

From the other side of the apartment the sound of heels clicking against the floor echoed around them. Then, Jokaste came into view. Her gold hair pulled back, her makeup made her look more devastatingly beautiful than was natural. Her designer clothes understated but somehow still reeked of money - and in her arms she held a basket with pink padding. And within that, a small puppy yipped happily, wagging her tail.

Damen looked at his husband. Laurent’s mouth hung slightly open, eyes wide and staring. Damen took a step closer to him until they were nearly touching but not quite.

Damen murmured, “She’s a King Charles Beagle mix. Her owners were older and couldn’t care for her so they put her up for adoption. She’s twelve weeks old, spayed, up to date on vaccines, and mostly housebroken. Jokaste put word out to the charities for animal adoption she’s helped fundraise for over the years, and then one of her connections emailed her about this beauty. I’ve been meeting with Jokaste to spend time with the puppy and then more recently to finish paperwork on her, as well as visit dog training centers and to research their puppy programs.”

He stopped. Laurent still didn’t respond, though he’d since closed his mouth, his eyes on the puppy in the basket. The white and tan puppy yipped excitedly seeming only to have eyes for Laurent. Damen’s chest ached slightly ... it was like she knew.

“I wanted to talk to you about it earlier but you needed time alone,” Damen whispered, “I’m sorry. I wanted it to be a little bit of a surprise but not this much. Also, if you don’t want her I understand. Jokaste will keep her instead so she’ll have a good home. But ... but I thought it would be nice for us to have a pet to take care of, to start expanding our family this way until ... until we can get what we want. She’s part beagle, so I imagine she’ll utterly lose her mind with happiness on the farm. But again, Laurent, if it’s too much, Jokaste will take her home, no questions asked. It’s up to you.”

Laurent swallowed and Damen heard his throat click as he did so. His face unreadable as he took a step towards Jokaste and the puppy. As he walked towards her, Damen stayed in place, but didn’t suppress the smile as the puppy began to yip louder, and bounced on her front paws the closer Laurent got to her.

“She’s high energy,” Jokaste murmured, “But she does love to cuddle. I think she likes you.”

Laurent remained silent as he brought his fingers up to the puppy. She immediately began to lick them, her tail wagging at such a rate Damen wondered if it possible for the thing to fly off of her. Then, tentatively, Laurent stroked her head. The puppy stopped bouncing but remained with her eyes on Laurent, tail wagging, as he pet her. Damen’s gut lurched as he saw the slight tremor in Laurent’s hand every time he lifted it up to resume stroking her down her back.

Then Laurent picked her up and held her against his chest. The puppy reached up and licked his face. Laurent pursed his lips together but Damen swore a smile was there before he was assaulted with puppy kisses. He cradled her against him, her fur a stark contrast against the black coat he still wore.

When she settled Laurent looked at Damen. He felt Laurent’s stare go through him and straight into his soul.

“Her name is Betty Rue Vere-Akielon,” Laurent announced.

Damen grinned, “Your obsession with the Golden Girls prevails once again.”

Laurent looked at the puppy and whispered, “They are fierce and so are you.”

The puppy licked Laurent’s face happily in response yipping gleefully. Damen cut his eyes to Jokaste and she smiled softly at him.

“I’m going to go,” Jokaste stated, “Have a good evening.”

“Thank you,” Damen said.

She dipped her chin slightly in acknowledgement and left. Damen walked over to Laurent and sat next to him as he set Betty on the ground. The puppy ran over both of their legs as Laurent removed his scarf and jacket, discarding both on the floor behind them.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” Damen whispered.

Laurent cut his eyes to him before focusing on the puppy again, and said, “Forgiven. I’m sorry I gave you the silent treatment.”

Damen huffed a laugh, “No you’re not.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on Laurent’s lips and he said, “I missed having a dog. We had one when I was a little boy but she passed away just before our parents.”

Damen nodded and said, “They estimate she shouldn’t be more than twenty-five or thirty pounds. Both breeds are good with children. Training is a necessity. But, but I think she’ll fit in well.”

“She’s perfect,” Laurent cooed and picked her up again to hold her to his chest, and then looked at Damen, his smile finally wide and unrestrained, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Damen said, “I know this doesn’t fix anything, but I thought it would help.”

Laurent leaned closer to him and then pressed his lips softly to Damen’s. He closed his eyes and when Laurent went to retreat, grabbed the back of his head and kept their mouths firmly in place. Damen deepened the kiss, needing the contact, reveling in the taste of them together.

“I love you,” Damen whispered breathlessly, “I love you and I’m here for you. Through good times and bad.”

Laurent smiled softly, “I love you, too. Thank you for ... thank you.”

Damen slipped an arm around Laurent’s waist and pulled him closer. Laurent could talk circles around anyone. But when it came to expressing feelings, he still sometimes had difficulty. But Damen didn’t mind. Laurent loved Damen in ways that went well beyond the words, as it should be.

“Oops,” Laurent tittered, “Betty, darling, we must work on that bladder control. Come on, lets go for a little walk. Does she have a leash?”

Damen smiled, “Everything is stashed in the office, including a couple of different coats for her since it’s getting colder outside.”

Laurent snorted a little and stood up saying, “I’ll get her collar, leash, and coat on. You can clean up the mess.”

“Is that how it’s going to be?” Damen asked.

“Please tell me you bought her a collar and leash to distinguish her as the royalty she is and that it matches whatever clothing you got for her to wear,” Laurent called as he walked away from Damen without looking back or responding to his question.

Damen rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath before stating, “No, because I knew you’d hate anything I bought anyway.”

Laurent’s snort echoed as he made his way down the hall.

Damen smiled even as he cleaned up the puppy’s accident as he heard Laurent’s murmurs to the puppy, “Don’t worry, Betty, daddy is going to get you the most expensive collar, leash, and puppy coats money can buy. Papa doesn’t understand the importance of these things. What do you think pink with diamonds? Yes, I think so too ... or maybe a gold collar to compliment your white and tan coloring? Yes ... we’ll try a few on ...”

The pain of the rejection began to ease slightly in Damen’s heart. He knew it would take more time and more than a puppy for it to heal completely. But his gamble paid off and he reveled in the warm relief that coursed through his veins.

He and Laurent had work to do, but the dark cloud of anguish seemed to lift from over their heads. And as Damen put on his coat and grabbed Laurent’s from off the floor, he smiled as he walked down the hall as Laurent’s lament echoed loudly from the office, “Oh my God, was this made for peasant puppies? Nylon? Really?”

But Damen didn’t mind. He’d endure any cutting remarks on his sense of puppy fashion if it meant his beloved had a respite from his pain. Things weren’t perfect, but it was still a damn good place to be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ End of this Little Story

thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed. They are one of the many ships I love to follow and write about. have a lovely day, morning, evening, night wherever you are! xo

[stranger-who-writes-fiction]

Ya know what these self-indulgent Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow posts need? Self-indulgent banner art, that’s what.

Spoilers for issue #4!

Let’s start this off right with CREATOR CREDITS. Issue 4 of Supergirl: Woman of Tomorrow is titled “Restraint, Endurance, and Passion.” Written by Tom King, Art by Bilquis Evely, Colors by Matheus Lopes, Letters by Clayton Cowles, and Edited by Brittany Holzherr. (w/ Assist. Editor: Bixie Mathieu & Senior Editor Mike Cotton)

THE STORY: 

Right, so this? This issue? Best one yet.

Also the bleakest of the bunch thus far; even though we don’t always see the brutality of the space pirates that Kara and Ruthye are following, there’s...the suggestion of it. The aftermath. And how Kara responds to it.

Okay, getting a little ahead of myself. BASIC PLOT SUMMARY: Ruthye and Kara continue their pursuit of Krem, who has taken up with Barbond’s Brigands.

The Brigands basically just. Murder and terrorize people, for profit.

Each planet they visit brings new horrors, as well as people who need Supergirl’s help.

And help she does.

KARA-CTERIZATION:

I yell a lot about the art on this book, and have, in fact, openly admitted that I’m primarily here for Evely and Lopes.

Well, that wily son-of-a-gun King went and wrote some of the best ‘Super’ stuff I’ve ever read and dang it, dang it, now I gotta yell about the words too. XD

Specifically, I wanna yell (in a good way!) about some words that occur towards the very end of the book.

Kara and Ruthye have Seen Some Things; things like genocide and mass grave sites and horrible violence, and upon reaching a planet where peaceful monks were slaughtered, Kara’s had enough, and needs to leave because if she screams, she’ll destroy what little is left of the monks’ monastery.

Here’s the text in full, because my gosh. It’s so good:

“What I write next I write based on my observations in those long-ago days at the side of the greatest warrior in the history of this august reality we all call home. It is important to note that my assertions do not rely on anything Supergirl said. It was not a subject we ever discussed or even approached, but nonetheless I believe it to be as true as the turning of worlds. You see, what is not well understood about the daughter of Krypton is that her power was not one of action but one of restraint, endurance, and passion. She did not choose to fire a beam from her eyes, or have breath of ice, or run faster than a speeding bullet. Or any of her other well-documented miracles. No, she held back her heat vision to look you in the face. She warmed her breath to converse with you. She slowed herself to walk by your side. Ever moment of every day, she suppressed the forces churning inside of her. All of the energy of a dead world that strained against her many barriers, eternally demanded to be released. I believe this effort hurt her. I believe she lived her life in pain. But I reiterate again, for I think it important enough to repeat--These beliefs are based on my time at her side, watching her as she moved through strife and sorrow. If you were to have asked her, I have little doubt she would have claimed that such as assertion was absurd. She would say she felt fine and well and then she’d as you if you needed any help.”

A long chunk of words, I know (this comic is DENSE!) but like. This is it. This is one of the defining attributes of the Supers--all that raw power at their disposal and they choose to help people, to be kind, to suppress that power for the benefit and safety of others.

HNNNNNNNG.

Hope, Help, and Compassion for All.

Whole lotta folks claimed at the outset of this book that King did not understand Kara, that he was a bad fit. And that may be so, I suppose--there’s a whole other discussion about like. The violence and swearing and ‘does that belong in a Supergirl book?’ But the characterization? Getting that Kara and Clark are just good people? 

King gets it. He got it in Superman: Up in the Sky and he gets it here, in Woman of Tomorrow.

Other things King gets! Kara is stubborn! Kara is passionate! Kara is going to fix things, even if the effort of doing so hurts her, physically, emotionally, and mentally!

(Fuuuuuuun fact for the crowd saying that Woman of Tomorrow is vastly superior to the CW show: TV Kara is ALSO all of those things! King isn’t pulling this stuff out of thin air. It’s almost like...gosh. I don’t know! Both the show and Tom King are pulling from the character’s comic history, or something!!!! HOW NOVEL.) 

Like, seriously. There’s a lot of overlap. Stop pitting Karas against each other!

Anyways!

I promised art, so here is art!

Oh, right, forgot to mention, Kara literally THROWS HERSELF INTO THE SUN to express her grief and anger, so as to not cause that unnecessary destruction. She gives new meaning to the phrase: Set yourself on fire to keep someone else warm. 

More art yelling: GOTTDAMN, the way Evely draws Kara just colliding with the surface of the sun and then the way Kara’s hair like...becomes the flames...

I am FEELING FEELINGS. HOW DARE.

Also, props to King and Cowles; King for deciding to have that initial scream, Cowles for the way the letters burst forth from the point of impact on the sun, and then back to King who decided that it would just be...devastating silent screaming from Kara, for the remainder of the scene. 

Back to the characterization, I just wanted to highlight something I mentioned...earlier on, I think? In these posts? But haven’t brought up recently, and that is how this book has not once brought up Zor-El, and I think Superman only got a quick mention in issue 2.

Honestly, I think that’s gotta be some kind of record.

It’s so refreshing. Not because I think there should never be mentions of Clark, or anything--I love that boy--but because so much of modern Supergirl comic drama is mined from the same like, angsting over her place compared to Clark, or her crazy sometimes-a-supervillain dad. 

There is no Clark and Kara drama here, no manufactured friction, because it’s just. A cool Supergirl story! 

Gonna keep going, but let’s do it with some more...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTT!!!!

Once again, Mat Lopes is all over the dang place with his palettes, it’s marvelous.

Each new planet gives Evely the opportunity to go hog wild on the worldbuilding and design, and similarly! Each new locale is an opportunity for Lopes to set the tone with colors. Like, here, towards the beginning of the book, we’ve got a planet bathed in this warm, pale yellow/orange light. 

(Quick note: “Sure, yeah, I get it. We all have our duties. And it’s mine as a neighbor to do what I can to help you with yours. Please.” A+ Kara content. We love to see it. And then locating the remains of the alien’s daughter, so that they can go visit the grave site and have some emotional closure???? It’s just. So. Touching.)

Anyways, back to colors.

Like!!!! LOOK AT THAT JUMP. From the soft, almost pastoral feel of the delicate oranges and yellows to HARD GREEN, PINK, AND PURPLE. (Difficult colors to pull off in print, I might add.) 

(This is also an interesting scene, character-wise, because I think it helps re-contextualize some earlier stuff with Kara. Like, I’m mostly thinking that incident on the bus, where she was swearing at the passengers as the space dragon was about to destroy them. Here, we see Kara kind of...goad this alien woman into releasing her pent up emotions by yelling at her/getting her to fight, and you can clearly see at the end of it that Kara did not mean the things she said, because check this out:

She goes and gives her a hug once the woman is able to finally cry.

It’s not ‘Kara is being mean, Kara is swearing at her’, it’s, ‘Kara has an unorthodox solution to a problem, and she’s gonna FIX that problem, NO MATTER WHAT.’

Circling back to the bus thing--again, that could be an instance of ‘unorthodox approach to a weird situation that Kara is going to handle because lives are at stake.’)

But also, DIG THAT KIRBY KRACKLE, BAY-BEEEEE!

And a little Strange Adventures easter egg! The Pykkts! 

(I think those guys are unique to the Black Label series, rather than deep Adam Strange lore, but don’t quote me on that.)

Moving on to YET ANOTHER PALETTE, one I’ve dubbed, ‘Treasure Planet Purple/Grey’

Love Ruthye’s snoozing against the door, waiting for Kara.

Also, just as striking as the colors of the environment, are the colors used on Kara. 

If you compare this page with the previous one, Kara’s eyes are a paler shade of blue, and the red-rimmed look on her eyes here is not as intense as the red-rimmed look we saw back in issue one, when she was confronting Krem. 

All of which to say! There’s a pale, haunted quality to both the linework and the colors. Like. We know Kara has Seen Some Things. But she’s shoving all that stuff down to protect Ruthye, to save Krypto, and to stop these monsters, and you get all of that WITH COLORS AND LINES ON A PAGE.

I love it, I love it so much.

OTHER BOOKS WISH THEY HAD THIS LEVEL OF CHARACTER ACTING, I TELL YA! THEY WISH THEY HAD THIS BEAUTIFUL ALCHEMY OF INKER, COLORIST, AND WRITER WORKING IN SUCH TIGHT TANDEM!

Ahem. XD

Alright, last bit of art, lest I just. Post the whole issue in here. (Which I’m honestly always tempted to do but Strong Feelings about Piracy hold me back.)

JUST HECKIN’ LOOK AT THAT BLUE, MAN. JUST LOOK AT IT. S’BEAUTIFUL.

And more stunning character acting from Evely. Like. Bottom middle panel. The expression, the tilt of her head and the shadows on her eyes...

*insert silent flailing here*

Oh, also, KRYPTO LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVESSSS (for now). 

I’m never right about these things, so I’m glad the one time I’ve correctly read a thing is when it involves Krypto not, ya know. Being dead. XD

Also absolutely love that Kara’s instinct is to send Ruthye home to protect her--once more leaning into that whole, ‘I’m going to protect you, even at great cost to myself’, though of course we know that she can’t send her home, not here, not now, just halfway through our journey. 

ERRRRRRGH, so mad we’re not getting twelve issues of this! CURSE YOU, POOR SUPERGIRL TRADE SALES! CURSE YOOOOOOU!

That said, King’s pacing? Has been phenomenal. I feel like Strange Adventures and even Mr. Miracle kinda...I’m not gonna say dragged, that’s not quite right. But it is more build up, I guess. Takes a while to get to the payoff.

Here, I think King is pushing things steadily along as he doesn’t have the benefit of an additional four issues, so he has to get to the point, so to speak. Keeps everything moving.

SOME FINAL, MISC. STUFF:

I’ve sort of glossed over the darker stuff from this issue, and I just wanna note that like. This is a book that features a bad guy getting stoned (in the death sentence way, not the drug way) on panel. Like. I can’t recommend this to children.

I can’t even really recommend it to some other Supergirl fans, because I know that the King elements will be too off-putting. 

It never feels like the book is going too far, though. At least in like an...exploitative way? If that makes sense?

The violence is handled with discretion, I guess is what I’m trying to convey. This could very easily tip over into like, gross shock factor territory, if not handled well, but I think the creative team pulls it off.

...Still wouldn’t hand this book to kids, though. XD

As mentioned, we’re halfway through this series! Can’t wait to see where it goes--every time I think I have this book figured out, it surprises me. So, like. Bring on the Dinosaur planet! With no sunlight! I wanna see how Lopes handles THAT. XD

(But Oh, OooooOOooh, we gotta wait until NOVEMBER.)

(Hhhnnnnng!)

(Then again, maybe that’s good; we’ve got the TV show in the meantime, and then once it ends we can pick right up with new Supergirl content just a few weeks later.)

(...Aw. Made myself a little sad, thinking about the TV show coming to an end.)

:C

So as not to end on that sad note, here once again is tiny, smushed Kara:

Give ‘em the ol razzle dazzle.

[itsinmydunah]

Title: WWE Smackdown

Rated: G

Words: 1290

Fandom: twilight rennaisance fic babayyyyy

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Summary: Bree may be tiny, but she is mighty.

A warning those who may be effected: mentions of past child abuse.

This one was a request from JaneMalfoy on ao3. So you have them to thank for this one, haha. I’m hoping I’ll be able to churn out more Bree fics with the same gusto. This fic is, as usual, also posted on my ao3.

Please be sure to tell me what you think!

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The sound of shattering ceramic has Bree cringing. She braces for a blow while stuttering out a hasty apology.

There’s dead (ha) silence throughout the house. No one is even fake-breathing.

“Bree, sweetheart, no one is going to do that here.” Bree peeks from beneath the heavy curtain of her hair. Esme is looking at her with kind and knowing eyes. The woman reaches out a hand slowly and tucks Bree’s hair behind her ear. Her touch is so gentle that Bree doesn’t even startle. “You never have to worry about someone hitting you or harming you. I promise,” Esme vows with an assertive tone.

“I—I didn’t mean to break it, Esme.” Bree believes the matriarch when she says no one will hurt her. From what she’s seen of this family in her short time with them, they don’t cross Esme. And more important than that, they are kind to each other. Even when Emmett ribs or mess around with Jasper and Edward, there is a line. No one hurts each other here. It’s not like the home she was raised in or the foster families she bounced from. Despite being ‘monsters’, they’re gentle. Especially to her.

“Oh, I know, baby. Don’t worry over it. We all broke many things in our early days. No matter what, you can’t be worse than Emmett.” Esme grins widely, nose crinkling as she teases her rowdiest son. Bree cracks a smile that grows even bigger when she hears an exclaimed ”hey!” from the upper floor.

“Yeah, don’t worry Bree. Carlisle makes sure Esme can have everything she wants. That vase wasn’t even an antique. I’m pretty sure it was just from Pottery Barn.” Bree tries not to let the thought of Pottery Barn being just a dispensable brand to anyone. She grew up with plastic chairs in the kitchen and a fold up table and was lucky to have season-appropriate clothes.

The Cullens’ wealth still boggles her mind. She was immediately given a closet-full of clothes by Alice and toiletries from Rosalie and a laptop from Jasper. They didn’t think anything of spending money on her, even in the very beginning. As much as she enjoys those things, she likes being able to regularly shower the most. And the hugs from Esme. And the calm, receptive presence of Carlisle. And the way they’re all so kind.

“If you’re sure,” Bree says doubtfully. She begins to pull herself out of her instinctive cower.

“1000%,” Esme assures. “Anyway, you’re pretty strong now yourself,” the woman winks.

“Sure, she’s strong, but she’s so tiny. Like, tinier than Alice!” Emmett booms. His raucousness has drawn the rest of the family from their rooms.

“Emmett, you know I can kick your ass,” Alice says, eyebrows set in a challenge.

Emmett tuts and waggles his finger. “No, no, no. You can evade me. Probably for days. But you cannot kick my ass. Not even close to the same thing.”

“It’s an important distinction.” Edward shrugs with a crooked grin. “But, actually, Emmett, you're not the strongest in the house right now.”

Bree cocks her head. Emmett certainly looks like the strongest one. Jasper is pretty stocky, too, though. Edward was lithe and fast, but not really one for brute strength. Rosalie was certainly formidable, but Bree didn’t think it could be her, either. Esme and Carlisle were simply too gentle to be the strongest ones.

“Edward means you, Bree.” Jasper offers. Bree blinks. Her? Not a chance! She was barely over five feet! Jasper must sense her confusion because he goes on to explain, “the human blood still in your body from your recent turning makes you stronger than any of us right now. And because you spent your early life drinking human blood you also have that as an advantage.”

Riley hadn’t told her any of this. She was still very unaware of a lot of aspects of being a vampire.

“I mean, I know that’s how its supposed to be, but look at her, Jas!” Emmett gestures towards Bree with exuberant hands. Bree looks down at her slight figure and skinny arms and has to agree with his assessment.

Jasper scoffs and shakes his head. “Newborns half the size of me could take me down before I was trained against them.”

“You’re telling me I could take Emmett down?” Bree inquires disbelievingly. She certainly felt stronger as a vampire than a human, but the very idea of taking down Emmett’s hulking mass is unthinkable. He’s easily 6’5”.

“If you can get a proper grip around him, yeah.” Jasper is grinning now like he knows what’s coming next. Alice is practically vibrating beside him.

“Well I won’t believe it until I see it,” Emmett says stubbornly. “Try me, short stack.” He holds out his arms and gestures for Bree to attack him.

“Emmett Cullen, not in my house you don’t.” Esme isn’t even in the room, but somehow she knows what’s happening. Bree shakes her head in wonder. This family is very in-tune with each other. It makes her undead heart a bit warmer.

“Yes, Esme,” Emmett intones like a begrudging child, “ Outside then, short stack.”

Emmett is already dashing to a cleared area behind the house. Bree looks at the others. They’re all bemused but unsurprised by the turn of events. They don’t seem concerned at all by Emmett’s determination to fight her. She knows that Emmett won’t hurt her, so she shrugs and follows him outside.

He’s already poised to attack when she gets to him. She tenses for a moment before lunging at him. She perches on his back and pushes down with all her might, sending him windmilling forward. A helpless cackle slips from her lips at the sight. She is strong!

“Oh, you’re sneaky!” Emmett booms, turning on his heel to bulldoze towards her.

She isn’t scared of Emmett. His open face is nothing like that of her father before he hit her. Emmett is smiling sunnily and laughing as he dodges her and tries to grab her waist. Bree can’t help the giggle that escapes her when she slips from his grasp. He looks so bewildered as she continues to evade his attacks. There’s the sound of Rosalie’s laughter in the background, but Bree doesn’t let herself be distracted. She hadn’t fought with the other newborns when they attacked the Cullens. It was an odd rush to get to use all the power given to her.

When Emmett finally gets his hands around her hips, she throws herself towards the ground and flips her center of gravity, sending him careening into the rocky bank beneath them.

“OHHHHH!!!!!! Em, she got you!!” Rosalie is full-body laughing now, bent over in mirth. The sight of this tiny girl flinging her huge husband over her body is just hilarious. Alice is grinning widely as Jasper guffaws at Emmett’s grumbling as he climbs up the bank. Edward is smirking. Esme, who came out to witness her son be put in his place by their newest addition, is also laughing.

“I did tell you she’d be able to,” Jasper reminds his brother who is picking leaves off his now-torn shirt.

“Yeah, yeah.” Emmett waves him off, narrowing his eyes at Bree. She grins, putting her hands on her hips and tossing her hair behind her shoulder. The much larger vampire shakes his head and breaks out into a good-natured laugh. “It won’t last forever though, short stack!” He scoops her up in a hug, twirling her. Bree shrieks and giggles, smacking his back but also clinging onto his shoulders.

She never imagined what it would be like to have a brother, but now it seems she will have a few brothers for the rest of eternity.