#Step Attenuator

[covid-safer-hotties]

CDC Recommends Multi-layered Protection Against COVID-19 as it recognises SARS-CoV-2 is a Year-round Threat

Published July 4, 2024

The US Center for Disease Control now recommends immunization, hand hygiene, clean air, isolation, treatment, face masks, social distancing and testing to prevent and protect against COVID-19 and tells the public there is no sign of SARS-CoV-2 becoming a winter virus.

In this update published on 3 July, the CDC’s National Center for Immunization and Respiratory Diseases warns the public that COVID-19 is likely to remain a year-round threat. This new official advice is at odds with the recommendations of some vocal scientists, who, without evidence, still push the line that COVID-19 will simply attenuate or weaken over time to join the many causes of the common cold, only really affects the vulnerable, or that it will become a winter bug.

The CDC’s new position is a welcome recognition of reality and an acknowledgement that those who expected SARS-CoV-2 to settle into a winter virus pattern were wrong. The advice to adopt multi-layered protection is perhaps a tacit admission that COVID-19 is taking more of a toll on public health than many people expected.

In a study recently published in Science, Peluso et al. provide compelling evidence for two potential contributors to Long Covid: persistent SARS-CoV-2 and aberrant T cell activation, both of which can be found for up to two years after acute infection.

A recent review published in Medical Review sets out the spectrum of disease pathology with COVID-19 and Long Covid and gives some clues about why we’re seeing an increase in long-term sickness and in work disability around the world.

Our recommendation remains the same, take whatever steps you can to protect you and yours from COVID-19. You can find our advice here, or download the US Center for Disease Control’s easy to follow graphic on multi-layered protection.

[slaaverin]

https://www.tumblr.com/slaaverin/778257953757282304/maybe-its-because-jungkook-downplays-his?source=share

Anon is not wrong to say that jungkook downplays their bond many times and isn't as clear about it as jimin is be it through his actions or his words.

When they asked about GCF, i don't mind jk saying jm wasn't main model but what he further said wasn't really needed like he said he filmed jimin because there wasn't much around to film like who says that? Is that HOW u expect ppl to see the love (not talking about romantic but just general love between friends)?? Then as anon mentioned when jm said jk used to go to his room for 3 times a day jk said it was because jm's room was closest like come on I'm sure other members weren't living on another floor that he can't walk few more steps and be in their room if he actually wants to?? So again is that HOW u expect one to show the love?? Is that the right wording to show u love this person? Same about the Military he said he also wanted to do special force and while jimin has mentioned multiple times that he's glad jk was with him, jk never once outright said it to anyone despite him writing letters like tell me is that HOW u show gratitude towards someone in front of public? Yes they don't need to do things for public but given they're celebraties and do a lot of things infront of public what's about showing gratitude so hard?

Jkkrs keep saying that jungkook is an introvert and don't know how to talk like that but ask him about namjooon and you'll hear him talk all big, in fact the most big praises jk has ever given are for namjooon. He talks very highly of namjooon in front of everyone so what's so difficult to do that about someone who's been there for u more than anyone else? No Jungkook is not someone who doesn't know how to talk like that, he is someone who choses when and for whom he wanna talk all those things about. Once armys in music show told joon how handsome he is and jk literally said that now armys will understand why joon was jk's crush and mind u this happened during their last CB so a 2 yrs ago. He talks very highly of hobi's dance and thinks hobi is the best dancer of BTS and don't say he says it because the grp has decided on it because i have very good example to give how he actually belives it that's why he says it. Jk has said taehyung is the most handsome man he's ever seen in his life now i ask YOU slaverin tell me the BIGGEST compliment jk has ever given to jm or has put jm above everyone else in something.

These are just few examples but most of the times when asked jk about anything regarding jm he acts like he's doing it for the sake of it heck he himself went ahead and said that jimin and him wouldn't even meet if it wasn't for the show now u tell me slaverin how does this wording will make a non-fan feel about their bond? U think they'll thin how much attached at the hips they are when jk is out there saying he wouldn't even meet if not for the show? His intentions were whatever but this doesn't come off as "attached at the hips" to ppl that are not jkkrs or armys who knows jikook.

The reason why jk's love is questioned like that and not jm's is because jimin is wayyy ahead in expressing his love for jk be it verbal or thr actions. Jkkrs keep saying jk's Actions are louder than words when u have jimin who's words and actions are Louder than jk's can ever be.

I'm already very pissed off tonight so sorry if this comes out a little harsh.

Don't you get it????

Why do you think JK attenuates the things he says versus his actions?

Why does he do all these things with JM, showing that HE OBVIOUSLY CARES, because otherwise why would he do those things? Why would he go into his room? Why would he enlist? Why would Jimin indeed be his GCF main model? Why would he choose him over and over again? Why AYS? Why would he lose on purpose at games with him when we know he loves to win? Why would he hype him up so much everytime he can?

Jesus you're taking such little details and making a full picture out of it that's crazy.

But indeed anon why would he do all of those things if he didn't care, he didn't love him? He simply wouldn't do them at all!

And yes your question, why is he not vocal in his words with him and I'll use you guys vocabulary "downplays" his words and his actions and repercussions?

Why is that so I wonder?

Why does he say openly he loves whatever member, but closes off when it comes to Jimin?

That's not because he is an introvert. No.

That's certainly not because he doesn't like him. Remember: all of his actions show that he does.

But why doesn't he say it outright? Why does he have no trouble saying he has a huge crush on Namjoon, but not Jimin?

I swear to you you need to use your brain.

BECAUSE WITH THE OTHER MEMBERS THERE ARE NO STAKES. IT MEANS NOTHING TO HIM.

He can say whatever he wants about any of them and it holds NO EMOTIONAL WEIGHT except playful friendship.

Are you still wondering why he doesn't spell it out with Jimin? Jesus I feel like I'm doing psychology 101. I have a headache.

Why does Jimin fluster him? Why does he play it cool "No big deal" "No really I was just there".

Why did they never define their relationship?

Because, differently of the relationship with the other members, what Jimin and Jungkook have is more.

Don't you get it???

The VERY FACT JK downplays it, creating a decorrelation between his words and his VERY LOUD ACTION,

It is precisely WHAT IS THE HUGE GIVEAWAY.

Because if he says he loves Jimin it's not the same than with other members.

It's not playful. It's not casual. It's not innocent. It's not meaningless.

It holds a weight bigger and very fucking much more dangerous for JK.

Because JK loves him, he does, but in another way than the other members.

You want me to spell it out? It's romantic. There you have it. JK has very big, profound romantic feelings for JM.

It's time people open their eyes for fuck's sake.

And everytime JK talks about him or of their bond, he gets self-aware, because it holds weight, it has more meaning than saying I love you to Namjoon.

So he's trying to protect himself and them from prying eyes because obviously he doesn't actually want people to pick up on that. But he thinks that if he is actually vocal people will see it.

(I mean he doesn't have to say it and we already see it but whatever can reassure him I guess)

JK was the only member to dedicate lives for Jimin. JK has pointed at his heart then at Jimin several times. JK has put him first in looks. JK had said he would date him. JK said he was the member he feels the most connected to. JK has BEGGED HIM to come on live with him. JK thinks Jimin is prettier than clouds and calls him pretty constantly.

JK said they wouldn't meet if it wasn't for the show because JK was in a middle of a busy schedule. OBVIOUSLY THEY MET. This was only a particular time with a particular context of them both being very busy in a row. And then JK said "You're here, finally" expressing his sense of relief that he could see Jimin because he obviously missed him.

I swear to all the gods people are seeing only what they want to see.

During memories, aren't they always attached at the hips? In the background, doing whatever the fuck these two do? Like doing insane flirting and basically couple stuff?

Did you watch content these last few years?

Oh but I forgot how people come to conclusions but always fail to notice jikook doing the most wild things because they don't even pay attention.

So yes, JK isn't always VOCAL (to me he has been more than enough but you do you) he doesn't spell it out with words how much he loves Jimin but what do you expect someone like him, deeply in love, would do?

This guy can turn into a flustered mess by the mere presence of Jimin so do you expect him to say he loves him, and be normal about it???? Don't you think we wouldn't immediately know??

It's precisely because his feelings aren't normal or friendly or casual that he doesn't say it. He can't. He won't.

Because it's private and not for everyone. Because they show already SO MUCH that telling us his true feelings for Jimin would reveal such a big part of his heart that he feels vulnerable, so he closes himself off.

Can you actually blame him?

I'm seriously doubting the ability of people who want things spelled out for them to read people. Do you know how the heart works? Do you know love? I'm really questioning because the fact I had to explain all of this to you is mind-boggling to me.

JK is in love with Jimin, has been for years. And the poor guy is only trying to keep the last remnant of privacy he has.

Instead of questioning him and his love question yourself why you don't see an expression of love right when it's front of you.

Because after a while this blindless feels purposeful to me. Or maybe these people are very young, idk.

Oh, and the biggest compliment JK has given JM is that he is his fan, and that JM will always be number 1 for him. But I would put "prettier than clouds" up there because this was quite romantic indeed. Oh and the whole speech about JM having a nice personality, having beautiful eyes and you know, actually dating him is pretty high on the list.

Finishing up with this

Is he in love? Yes. Ok moving on.

Has he done 38373738 actions that proves it? Yes.

Does he have to tell us he has deep romantic feelings for JM? NO. It is self-evident for fuck's sake.

Is he allowed to be shy and protective of his own feelings and his view on his own relationship with him? Absolutely yes because he owes us nothing.

Because that's his and theirs and not for anyone else.

Does it mean he loves Jimin less? No, quite the contrary. He's head over heels for him. That's why he will not say it like a schoolgirl with a crush. "No I'm so cool it's nothing I certainly have not been in love with him for 10 years I have an alibi your honor I spent 4 hours in his room because he was just there you understand that wasn't even me in fact I don't exist leave me alone"

Is this more clear anon?

I swear to god I'm tired of the BS today

[nofomogirl]

We need to talk about body snatching

I'm not a massive fan of the 1827 minisode - if you're curious why it bothers me, I've explained it in my post about two GO canons - but there's no denying it does an amazing job at exploring the complexity of morality and moral choices. It starts with a very black-and-white two-dimensional image and gradually adds shading and perspective, making it harder and harder to judge as we go along.

I think it's worth digging into (pun not intended but I'll take it).

Layer 1: body snatching bad

We learn someone did something

It's those first few seconds where we see a person robbing a grave, and since we know that robbing graves is a crime and generally not a good thing to do, we can quickly form a tentative conclusion that this is wrong.

Okay, in this exact instance, we immediately get enough context clues to see that this kind of judgment would be oversimplistic and superficial. Only Aziraphale, who for some reason acts as if it was his first day on Earth after a thorough memory wipe, is ready to condemn Elspeth based on just that.

Nevertheless, this is the first layer - the deed itself with no context.

Layer 2: body snatching acceptable

We learn about the person who did the thing

That's the whole journey with the first dug-up body where we get to know Elspeth and become privy to her circumstances - she's desperately poor, she has another person depending on her, she robs graves to survive. Aziraphale's suggestions that she might earn her living by selling books, weaving or farming just serve to prove how inaccessible more honest and dignified professions are to her. In turn, her comment about how she's not hurting anybody who isn't already dead hints that from the realistically available options, Elspeth could have chosen something much worse.

Technically this layer is a significant step up from layer 1 but it still isn't really challenging. Things are spelt out really loud for us, and most importantly everything we learn about Elspeth is just attenuating circumstances. To top it off both she and Wee Morag are immediately endearing. The takeaway is that sometimes things that in theory are bad can be excused which is important but the verdict still comes without any second thoughts.

Layer 3: body snatching complicated

We learn the larger context around the thing

This mostly happens when Aziraphale and Crowley discuss body snatching with Mr Dalrymple. We learn that the stolen corpses are used for a medical study that can advance human knowledge and make it possible to save living people and that surgeons have no legal means to obtain enough of them for their research - hence their need to buy them from body snatchers.

At first glance it's just more of what we got in layer 2 - more agruments in favour of body snatching that aren't all that nuanced and don't really give us any pause - just from a larger perspective, beyond Elspeth's individual experience. But if you glance more than once you'll notice this is when things stop being straightforward and easy to judge.

The moment we enter a proper grey area is when Aziraphale asks why Mr Dalrymple doesn't acquire the bodies himself. This is a very valid question - while we might easily agree that studying the human body to further medical knowledge is a good thing, and with just the slightest hesitation admit that it's acceptable to resort to using stolen bodies if that is the only way the research may continue, it's not as easy to excuse taking advantage of the poor and the desperate to do the actual stealing that we know is very dangerous.

The moment we know without a doubt we are in a proper grey area is when Mr Dalrymple laughs at Aziraphale's concern.

Objectively, the surgeon is right that it's more effective if he doesn't risk his own life in the graveyard and uses his time on actual research, teaching students and saving lives. But it's also clear he doesn't exactly see people like Elspeth as actual human beings and feels he has every right to use them. On the one hand, he is paying, on the other, he happily benefits from the cruel class system and is not even one bit remorseful about it. On the one hand, he takes risks too, on the other he has a chance of rewards Elspeth will not benefit from. It's not the poorest whose lives will get bettered by the progress of medicine, even though they're the ones who pay with their lives for that progress. And if Mr Dalrymple gets lucky and is knighted for his work (we know he wasn't in the end but it was a possibility), the poor still won't be pardoned for stealing for him. Nevertheless, he has no issue with that.

As I said, things get nuanced.

Layer 4: it's different when it's someone you know

The thing actually happens in your life

I think you'll all agree that the turning point of the minisode is when Elspeth decides to sell Wee Morag's still warm body. This is what finally leaves us speechless.

That's because up until now we've been approaching the issue intellectually. It's not that we didn't care about the characters, but we were allowed to keep a safe distance. The whole thing was like a problem to be solved - "Is body snatching right or wrong? Discuss in 500-1000 words" - and everything we've learned so far was data for this assignment. I believe that one of the reasons why this detachment came naturally was that there was a very thick line between people involved in body snatching and the bodies that were being snatched. The former were, well, people, obviously. The latter were inanimate objects.

It isn't until Wee Morag is to be sold that we are forced to see a person in a dead body. This is also when real emotions enter the equation.

This shift forces us to question our judgment for the first time. It was easy to justify Elspeth when she was selling a nameless corpse. But the fact that she decided to sell her closest companion - and most likely lover - shocks us. Something inside us strongly objects to how quickly she makes the decision.

And then there's the transaction, and it is also different when it's someone we know. The fact that we knew Wee Morag fully exposes Mr Dalrymple for the heartless jerk that he is. The way he treats Elspeth is the absolute worst and if you haven't realized he was a hypocrite earlier, you should be disillusioned by now.

But at least Elspeth is not a hypocrite, right? It may seem cold that she sold Wee Morag but it just proves she simply believed it's all right to sell a dead body, doesn't it?

Well, about that...

Layer 5: it's different when it's you

You are forced to face the thing happening to you

This layer is reached when Elspeth plans her suicide and asks Aziraphale and Crowley to bury her "somewhere where no ghouls will ever dig her back up again".

It turns out Elspeth McKinnon really was a filthy liar.

Not long ago she was insisting that body snatching doesn't hurt anyone who isn't already dead, and asking why she should let Wee Morag rot in the ground when she starves. But she wants to make sure it doesn't happen to her own body. The idea that someone might dig her up terrifies her and she calls people who do it ghouls. So why was digging up other people okay again? Why should she rot in the ground while other people suffer? There were other people living in the street where she and Wee Morag hid. Why not ask Aziraphale to give the money to them? Or just anybody in need? Why not ask to sell her body as well and use the earnings the same way?

Also, if you look at it from a certain perspective, Elspeth betrayed Wee Morag in the worst possible way. Wee Morag believed that if someone's body gets cut, that person's soul cannot enter Heaven. Yet Elspeth sold her to Mr Dalrymple, claiming that Wee Morag would have wanted her to have the means to survive. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Wee Morag would have made that sacrifice. But then Elspeth decided to kill herself and use the money she got for Wee Morag's body for her own funeral.

But does it make Elspeth wicked? Certainly not. She's simply torn by grief. I seriously doubt she's been planning to commit suicide when she was taking Wee Morag to Mr Dalrymple. She might have genuinely tried to carry on but the reality of what happened caught up to her. Mr Dalrymple's cruel words certainly didn't help her cope with a personal tragedy. I even suspect one of the reasons she sold her friend was that she had no idea what else to do with a dead body.

Does this excuse her actions? Kind of, but not really.

Elspeth was a tragic character, not an innocent lamb with a heart of gold.

The point is - can any of us really judge her?

Which, coincidentally, is a question that the original Good Omens book toyed with quite a lot.

If you've reached this far, thank you for reading!

[ginnysgraffiti]

dirty thoughts, riding, self-relief, needy

y/n, partner half asleep.

KING HAL (HENRY V) x yn.

you were his fabric doll, as he started to call you after the official marriage.

softness, kindness, a giving nature and wisdom; that's how he described you.

hal spent hours worshipping and absorbing every tiny detail about you, and if you only asked, he could go on and on.

he usually got lost in your fair wavy hair, doe eyes, blushed porcelain cheeks and delicate little hands.

"all your grace is in your vagueness, my queen. your soft voice, your manner languid, your features blurred and dreamy." his shooting words waking you up the morning after the marriage.

and then he got lost again in your features, measuring the distance from one freckle to the other, the softness of your lower lip, more evident than the upper one, before primitively undressing you and making the bed creak until small hours.

his place was between your legs, no doubt.

and anyone who dared to lay eyes on you would meet the guillotine the following morning, at the bell's heavy ringing, and you knew it.

but the sticky words of his, sweet like honey, they only dripped down the walls of the royal halls, during boring and long meals, where you represented a public image and inspiration source.

yes, because with you, you and you only, in private, hal was the most alive animal you had ever seen.

and you missed all this.

you missed the taste of his tongue, the heat of his thighs, his overly expert hands and his hungry gaze.

he made you feel so loved, beyond every limit.

now, however, the peace pacts and bloody wars were consuming him to the core, badly scratching his armor, crumbling his tolerance.

you could rarely see hal during the day, and even when you hoped to enjoy his company in the late evening, he was usually too tired or busy checking the artillery.

you felt neglected, even though you knew very well that it wasn't his fault at all.

but now the gazes of the other nobles became more focused on your skin, and the caresses he used to give you left an empty space under the covers.

(...)

one evening, when the flame crackled particularly on the medieval torch on the wall, your steps drew their way towards your room.

the latter creaked slightly, and hal's sleeping figure gave you such a view.

he was shirtless, as always, lying belly up, lost in a deep and calm breath.

you approached the mattress, making sure to not make any noise. you quickly got changed in your pajamas and sat next to him.

something about his position and his presence was awakening something brutal and hot inside your knotted stomach.

you could feel your stomach juices flaring up.

fuck, you needed him.

the sin was now rising to the neurons of your brain, consuming you alive.

you didn't know if he would forgive you, no, but you knew that that was all you had to do.

such dirty thoughts for a queen.

(...)

you found yourself straddling him with only your underwear, you had taken off almost everything. you molded yourself to his pelvis and the hardness you felt between his thighs took your breath away.

you stopped breathing. your eyes widened and you felt your cheeks burning.

you felt his erection quiver under the thin layer of your panties and with an inhibition that was unknown to you and an incessant need to attenuate the devastating heat that you felt between your thighs, you rubbed yourself against him, moving your pelvis dangerously.

faster, faster.

faster.

faster until you could feel yourself soaked.

you could feel his hips bones the more you moved, and your mouth was wide open.

you looked at him hypnotized in his most regal sleep. his perfect face teasing you slowly, in such a perverse way that made you even wetter.

you panted.

the breathing heavy and wet.

no longer able to bear the powerful pulsations between your legs you moved even faster but slowing down every now and then, when small grunts came out of his soft lips.

without even realizing it you were already entertaining yourself, rubbing your fingers against the fabric of your own underwear.

dirty moans filled your ears.

you didn't know what you were doing, but you knew you had never felt better.

"are you going to cum on me so soon?" asked a husky voice in your ear, panting.

fuck.

you couldn't look up, you couldn't allow yourself to sink into your wet perversity like this.

you could barely nod.

an ashamed queen ashamed of her own actions.

how disgusting.

hal grabbed your hips and with one move made you lay on your belly, making you let out a small cry of surprise that you knew would excite him even more. your smells mixed with the spicy ones of the room, the bodies merge. this position made everything more intimate and awkward.

"how naive to think i was really asleep..."

you worshipped him, as if you had a god in your hands, while he slammed you onto the mattress with incredible force.

now you found yourself with your cheek against the pillow and your pelvis raised to the height of his cock. with one hand he grabbed your buttock, he placed the other on the back of your neck to keep you still. you felt dizzy and hot.

he moaned like a caged animal.

you knew he was just holding back and that if you could turn around you would catch a murderous look waiting for you.

the one look you needed to know when he wanted to push himself into you.

he needed.

instantly.

he squeezed your buttocks vehemently and your eyes widened when he gave you a resounding slap on your buttock which made you let out a very powerful scream and which, to your enormous surprise, made you terribly more excited. you felt him lean over you, his massive chest pressed against your thin back. he loomed over your body, brought his mouth close to your ear and, in a husky, sensual voice, murmured, "fuck, i didn't know my queen could have such a twisted mind within these walls."

"i-...i can explain...your majesty...forgive m-"

he pulled your hair to make your back arch and the loudest moan left your wet lips.

your legs trembled in the middle due to your own sound.

how pathetic.

that's just how you were when you needed hal.

"there's no need, just let me fill you up with my cum until my queen is completely satisfied beyond any physical limit. and call me hal, only hal." a soft wet kiss delivered on your shoulder.

"forget your queen duties tomorrow."

the last famous words you fucking craved for so long.

[windvexer]

Hi Chicken, i tried your rapid manifestation spell twice and it didn't work for me. i was hoping i could ask some troubleshooting questions? i stuck pretty close to your instructions and i think my goal for the spell was very reasonable. i think the two places where it could have gone wrong is prepping the space and the offering. i didn't do anything special for prep, i just cleaned up the physical space. should i be casting a circle or something? also my offering (not counting the candle) was some incense, maybe i need a nicer offering?

Heloo, sorry this took so long. We're in reference to this, I'm pretty sure.

I wrote you this post.

In retrospect, reading that spell, I can see that it is is very bare-bones. I wrote it scraped of ritual format so someone could implant it inside their own structure.

Unfortunately this means if you do not have your own ritual structure then you might be under-casting the spell.

Prepare your spellcasting space in any way which you desire.

For me this means things like:

Calling helper spirits

Blessing the working space to be attenuated to workings of witchcraft

Raising, finding, or calling power to facilitate an act of magic (compass-laying and related activities)

To me these are not acts of lip service to tradition but vital steps. So in the spell as written, the entire act of raising power and moving into magical headspace is summarized as "prepare your spellcasting space however you want."

Consecrate, evoke, or greet the Eight of Wands in any way which you prefer.

I wrote this to mean that however you personally call forth power into your working space, you should do it; I personally don't think this spell is dependent on treating the card as having a spirit, or if you treat the card as a correspondence, or whatever. However you have to do something to call forth power into your space.

But I think this can come across as saying, "hello, Card!" without any magical action behind those words and moving on.

In my paradigm this step to call forth power from the card might be elaborate and multi-stepped. So maybe I'd have to ply the spirit with offerings, perform tasks for it (maybe it won't appear until the entire deck is pampered), or intuitively work to assist the spirit in arriving (more work with the compass or something).

By the time we get to:

Light the candle. Plainly explain to the candle that its job is to provide fuel to the Eight of Wands.

In my practice at least several magical actions have already occurred (such as those described above), and we've been actively working magic for a few minutes, maybe even 20 or 30 of work depending on how long it's taking to raise energy and attend to the needs of spirits that day.

To answer your question directly, no, I would not think the quality of offering has anything to do with it. I think I would first examine surrounding ritual steps to see if you've undertaken enough magical actions for power/energy/the attention of spirits to have actually arrived to your location.

In retrospect truly none of these things were really described in that spell post so if someone did not already have this structure I think they would not be able to tell it was necessary.

[fazedlight]

Asynchronous (Rift era, pre-Crisis, not nearly as much sc angst as the gif implies)

Where am I?, Kara thought, her body shaking as she pushed herself off the floor she had apparently crashed into, trying to stand. How long was I unconscious?

Her head was killing her. Pain was a rarity under a yellow sun, and in this case the feeling was hard to shake - it was just all too reminiscent of not long ago, when she was trapped in kryptonite, fighting burning lungs and a blinding headache while fighting heartbreak at the same time.

But she needed to not think about Lena right now.

Kara searched her mind for the last thing she remembered, Brainy’s words transmitted to her ears, telling her about the capabilities of the alien creature she was fighting. The creature was generally docile enough - but in a panic, it would thrash and quake, and it had the unique ability to…

Where… When am I?, Kara thought, looking around at the building whose ceiling she had fallen into. The creature could send her anywhere in time and space - forward or back in time, across the planet or galaxy, it didn’t matter. The good news is that the effect would be temporary in nature, lasting a day at most, before she snapped back into place, something about attenuated vibrations. “Time is like a rubber band,” Brainy had said, though Kara was certain she could hear pain in his attempt to simplify the explanation.

Kara heard the buzz of a portal behind her, the quick cock of a gun. “Don’t move,” came the familiar voice. “These aren’t ordinary bullets.”

Kara turned slowly, deflating under the hard eyes of her ex-best-friend. Lena was tense and angry, her finger resting on the trigger, her other hand on a tracking device. My heat signature, Kara thought, Guess she has kryptonite bullets now.

Lena’s eyes narrowed as she reached to her belt, before tossing vibrant green cuffs in Kara’s direction. “Put those on.”

Kara lowered herself to the floor, taking the cuffs, feeling the burn in her hands. She couldn’t really fathom Lena trying to kill her. But after the disruption of Lena’s Myriad plan, and now being held at gunpoint… “Lena, what are - what are you going to do?”

“How do you know my name?” Lena growled.

Kara’s eyes widened. Anywhere in time and space… “Who do you think I am?” Kara asked.

“Is that a joke?” Lena asked, as Kara’s mind revved into overdrive. “You think you can come back, with cartoonish S on your chest, and we’ll forget the Third Reich?”

Fear sank into Kara’s stomach. Earth X. “Lena, I know this looks like-”

“Through the portal. Now.”

-----------

Kara found herself sitting in an interrogation room. 

Her mind was scrambling for what Barry had said had become of Earth X - she remembered that, in the aftermath, the Third Reich had fallen to the Resistance, which was trying to rebuild a non-fascist society. But she knew the balance had to be fragile. The Reich had its proponents.

But Kara didn’t have long to think, before another familiar face walked into the room. “Winn!” Kara said, jumping up.

“Sit down,” Winn growled back.

Kara tensed, shaking off her confusion as she slowly sank to her chair, as Winn gave Lena a skeptical look. Right, he’s not the Winn I know either…

Lena shrugged. “She knew my name, too.”

“You’re both my friends,” Kara said softly, “On my Earth.”

Winn ignored her words, stepping around the table to take a seat at its corner. “We need to know if the Führer is still alive.”

“He’s dead,” Kara said, meeting Winn’s eyes. “As is his wife.”

Winn’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“I was sent here by accident,” Kara answered. “At some point in the next day or so, I’ll snap back to my own Earth.” If you don’t kill me first, she thought.

“And how do I know you’re from another Earth?” Winn demanded.

“You met my sister,” Kara whispered, thinking back to Alex’s stories when they were separated on Earth X, years ago. “Alex Danvers. On my Earth, she’s your friend too.”

“You,” Winn said skeptically. “I’m friends with you.”

“I’m not from your Earth,” Kara said. “I’m not asking you to trust me. Just let me live long enough to go back to my own time.”

-----------

Kara fidgeted as she sat alone in the room again - watching, waiting, itching against the bounds of her kryptonite cuffs. 

She was certain that Winn and Lena - possibly others - were debating what to do with her. Hopefully they don't just kill me, Kara thought, searching her mind for how she might prove she’s not from their Earth.

But the door opened again.

Lena stepped in quietly, eyes on Kara. But the anger was subdued from before. She was curious. “Lena,” Kara whispered.

The wariness wasn’t gone from Lena’s stance, but she sat across from Kara. “What’s it like, on your Earth?”

Kara smiled. My Lena would be curious about the other Earths too, she thought. “The Third Reich ended in 1945. We’re… far from a perfect world. But we haven’t had the struggle that you’ve had.”

“And you and I are friends?”

Kara’s expression faltered, as she glanced down at her hands. “We used to be. We used to be best friends.”

“What happened?”

Kara bit at her lip, unable to look Lena in the eye. “I betrayed you. You hate me now.”

Lena’s brows furrowed. “That doesn’t seem to be the sort of thing that would help your cause.”

“I’m not going to lie to you again,” Kara said. “I’ve done too much of that. The other you, I mean.”

Lena frowned, and Kara could see some of the tension in her body rise again. “What happened to my Earth’s Kara? How did she die?”

“Her heart was dying from too much solar exposure,” Kara said. “I took her up into the atmosphere before her body… it started a nuclear reaction.”

“And the Führer?”

“Oliver from another Earth killed him.”

Lena’s eyebrows briefly raised. “Winn met him, apparently.”

“Yeah. My sister was there too.”

-----------

Kara itched at her bonds again, wishing there was a clock she could check. I don’t know how much time would be left anyway, she thought to herself. But at least I’d know…

She was surprised to hear the door open again. Lena walked through with a cup and some bread, placing both in front of Kara on the table. “You must be hungry,” she said.

“Thank you,” Kara murmured, leaning forward and beginning to eat.

“What did you lie to me about?” Lena asked. “On your Earth?”

Kara swallowed harshly. “I- I kept my kryptonian identity from you. Kryptonians and Luthors don’t get along.”

“Luthors?”

Kara’s brow crinkled. “Are you a Walsh, here?”

Lena nodded slowly. 

“Your mother…” Kara asked. “She’s alive?”

Lena’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

Kara smiled. She got to be raised by Elizabeth, she thought. “Are the Luthors alive? On this Earth?”

“No,” Lena said. “Alexander Luthor was the last Führer, before Oliver Queen. There was a power struggle.”

Kara nodded. “You were raised by the Luthors. On my Earth. So when I hid my identity, and became friends with you… you didn’t take it well when you found out.”

Lena looked on curiously. “The secret? Drove me to hate you?”

Kara shook her head. “There were other mistakes I made. In the aftermath. I… hurt you pretty badly.”

“So what did I do next?”

“You tried to brainwash the world.”

Lena’s eyes widened. “Why?”

“To make everyone kind.”

Lena’s brow raised. I guess that resonates, Kara thought. In a world full of fascists… 

“I can see the appeal,” Lena said. 

-----------

Kara was fascinated. And bored.

Her only company was Lena, on and off. She was grateful when Lena came in with food, and over the moon when Lena came in to exchange Kara’s kryptonite cuffs with far less painful power cuffs. 

But her moments with Lena were few and far between given her apparent other responsibilities, leaving Kara staring up at the ceiling for long stretches of time.

She found herself torn, thoughts of “When will I be able to go home?” warring with “I hope my Lena looks at me like that again someday.”

-----------

“Are you happy here?” Kara asked. “Are you- are you with anyone?” Lena smiled. “I met him a year ago,” she said. “We butted heads on technical projects. Trying to rebuild our society’s infrastructure. But something more came of it.”

Kara smiled. “Jack?”

Lena’s eyes widened, and she nodded. “Jack.”

Kara nodded too. “I’m glad you have someone.”

Lena tilted her head curiously. “Were we more than friends?”

“You and Jack? Yeah, on my Earth-”

“No,” Lena clarified. “You and I. What were we to each other?”

Oh. “No,” Kara said, shifting uncomfortably. “We were only ever friends.”

“Is that all you wanted?”

“I just- don’t think it’s relevant to you-”

“I don’t know what I’m like on your Earth,” Lena said, leaning forward on her arms. “But if someone hurt me so badly that I try to brainwash the world about it, I think that person must’ve meant something to me.”

Kara bit her lip.

Lena’s brow quirked. “If your plan is to never lie to me again, that seems like the sort of thing you should tell me. Other me.”

Kara laughed, her heart twinging with joy and pain. “If we ever get along again, I’ll tell you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

-----------

“Why are you trusting me?” Kara asked curiously.

“What do you mean?” Lena asked, in a tone that was more coy than confused.

“You just seem less suspicious of me than before,” Kara shrugged. “In the beginning.”

Lena’s lips quirked, taking a moment to consider Kara. She then raised her hand, twisting it slightly, causing a small yellow glow to appear. Kara noted in shock that there seemed to be a glow passing over her own body, too. “What’s happen- what are you doing?”

“Just making your temporal shift visible,” Lena said. “I scanned you after our first meeting. I can’t prove you’re not from this Earth, but I can prove that you’re not where the universe expects you to be right now.”

“I’m sorry, but-” Kara sputtered. “But are you using magic?”

“Lena doesn’t have magic on your Earth?” Lena said.

“I can’t even get my Lena to believe in magic,” Kara said with a laugh. “Rao, this is amazing.”

Kara glanced up, and found Lena smiling.

-----------

“How long have I been here?” Kara asked.

“About 12 hours,” Lena said. “Honestly, I’d let you go. But Winn said it might cause a panic anyway, if too many people see you walking around.”

Kara sat back for a moment. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

-----------

It was at the 17 hour mark - just after Lena had brought in more food - that Kara’s hands began to glow. “What are you doing now?” Kara asked.

“Nothing,” Lena said, leaning forward to eye the glow. “I think you’re being pulled back.”

“Oh,” Kara said, glancing up at the alternate Lena. What should I say? “Thank you,” Kara murmured. “Thanks for being good company.”

“Give me time,” Lena said gently.

“Time?”

“I’ll come to my senses,” Lena said, thinking to herself, nodding. “I- I know there’s baggage. But at some point, I will come to my senses. I’ll come back to you.”

Kara smiled. “I hope so.”

“Good luck, Kara Zor-El.”

-----------

Kara found herself falling. No longer cuffed, no longer in a dark dusty room - but bathed in sunlight and breathing fresh air. Earth-38, she thought gratefully.

She blinked, shooting upwards in the sky again, hearing shouting in her ear. “Kara?” came Brainy’s panicked voice. “Kara, are you still there?”

“I’m here,” Kara gasped, looking over National City. 

“Must’ve lost you for a minute,” Brainy said. “The creature is by the arboretum. We’ve finished making the power net, J’onn is flying it over.”

Kara glanced to the north, but her ears were fixating somewhere southeast, locating a familiar heartbeat. We’ll figure it out, Kara thought, clinging to Earth X Lena’s words.

We’ll get there, in the end. “I’m on my way.”

[queenhunter102]

Chapter 3 ~ Settling in

Welcome to Chapter 3, Hope you enjoy also, I have a feeling I should start telling you I have little something, something coming over the next month

You huff as you are dragged out of the med-bay by your arm, growls being the only sound that can be heard between the pair of you. It's not long before you pass by the landing site and into another building. This time, it has offices instead of med-bay suites. John hauls you into an office, closing the door behind you. He lets go then, each of his steps measured and precise as he walks to the desk, taking a seat, his breath sounding forced as he settles down in his big chair. He tilts his up, looking at you. "So, who are you?" he asks, his eyes finally taking you in, your kitted-out black gear that had a simple insignia on the front of your vest; he watched as you sucked air in through your teeth before slowly but steadily raising your eyes to meet his. "I'm Venom, Sir," you say, pulling yourself to stand at attention. Giving him a salute, John only squints his eyes. "I don't know anyone by that callsign," he says, his voice sharp and accusatory; you tilt your head from side to side. " You should have been informed of my arrival weeks ago, Sir," you say. Now, you really wish you had your bag filled with that important information you needed. John only pursed his lips as he leaned back in his chair and unbuttoned his shirt sleeves. "Right, and I'm Elizabeth the second", he says, his eyes feeling like sharp knives poking into each exposed, despite there being little skin to be seen. You lower your eyes, not wanting to piss him off further than you already seemingly had. John growled a little as he leaned his forearms on his desk. "If I were informed about you, where did you come from?" he said. " I'm from MI5, sir; Unit Chief Mark Levins requested my transfer," you say. John pursed his lips as if he were thinking as he pulled at a drawer, pulled out a small, thin file, and laid it out on the desk. John casually flipped it open. "Unfortunately, I don't have a picture or name for you," he said as he flipped the one or two pages on the file. "I also don't have much about you either," he said. You nodded. "I know…MI5 have classified my file," you said, knowing that was almost true. John sighs, resting his head on his hand as he watches your stance, posture, and expression.

There was a moment of silence between you before a loud knock broke the tension. You watched as John's eyes turned to the door. "Come in!" he shouted. You glanced over your shoulder, watching a tall man enter, his face covered by a mask. You squinted, looking at his mask, and realised it was a skull mask in his hands, holding onto a set of files.

The skull man briefly eyes you as he walks past, heading to John and the file out to him; you watch as John takes the file and opens it, his brows scrunched. "What have I told you boys about interrupting me?" he says, sighing. You watch John's face change from annoyance and confusion to Surprise and suspicion.

His eyes flick back to you before flicking back down the file. He stands from his desk, taking the file with him as he leaves, leaving you alone with the tall masked man; you look over to the man watching him watching you before you flicker your eyes down, unsure what to say or do.

"So you're the recruit?" he asked. Your eyes flicked up to the tall man, and you only nodded. The masked man tilted his head to the side. " I don't know what they taught you, but we use our words here and stand at full attention." His voice was gruff and attenuative. You snapped to full attention, your arms dropping to your side, legs pressed together. "Apologies, sir!"

The masked man only shakes his head as he watches you…seeming almost amused with how quickly you changed to suit his wants; you watch as John comes back muttering, "Bloody Laswell, Cannae, find one Kid" John huffs as he walks past you and straight to the masked man.

John hands him a file. You watch as the masked man reads the file, his brows raising. "You, sure this is right?" he asks. John only nods his head. "Seems so," he says, glancing at you over his shoulder. The masked man sighed, his shoulders slumping, as he closed the file, handing it back to John.

The masked man straightens his posture before he walks over to you, his hand outstretched. He pauses two feet from you as he pulls down his mask, showing off the rest of his face, his barely-there brown stubble that seems to match his dark brown eyes, which look so…broken and fractured.

You eye his hand, hesitating as you watch before slowly offering your hand. The masked man takes it with a little more force than needed. He gives you a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes before saying, "Welcome to the 141. I'm your Luetenint Riley."

You gave a quick nod as you shook his hand. "Thank you, sir. It is a pleasure to be here," you said. John followed after him, offering his hand and snatching yours when offered; he gave you a tried smile as he shook your hand, clasping it in his other hand. " I just hope you aren't as bad as my boys," he said, sighing, as he let go of your hand. Waving his hand, indicating that you follow him, he says, "We should take you to get settled. " Luetenit Riley nods as he follows after you and John. "Yeah, we should call a meeting," he says, closing the door. John hums as he walks down the hall, only pausing to look back. "We should, but we'll leave it a few days," he says as he guides you down the hall.

TAGLIST: prettykinkysoul, ghosts-hoe, spicyspicyliving, dneicjefx, cryingpages, sakunawifey, cringeycookies, ttsbaby01, caius-red04

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Here's the COD master list: Here

Our Omega (rewritten)

Lore page Summary: Here

Remember: leaving a like, re-blogging, and commenting helps in this world and encourages more.

See you around, my little loves.

Kissess.

Part 2 / Part 4

[fioriperglidei]

Paean of Health

My wellbeing is in Your hands, Magnificent Apollo Oulios, Father of soothing Asklepios. As Your warmth is a gift of Strength, to endure the clinical exams Patience, to deal with tedious protocols Comfort, to lessen my corporeal struggles. My soul ought to follow your steps, Beloved Dionysos Soterios, Savior of the frail and frantic. Your embrace dries away my tears, A teaching of balance between antitheses. My fear of the unknown is attenuated, Whenever Your hand guides me. Thanking you never seems enough,  Please accept these words of tribute From your humble and faithful worshipper. Khaire, Olympian tenders of healing.

[pucksandpower]

Speaking of the measles outbreak. I am as fully vaccinated as a person can be I think, my parents aren’t insane and believe and trust in science thankfully, but I also unaware of how the different types of vaccines work. If I am exposed to measles is there a chance I can get it or is it the type of vaccines where the chance of me getting it is like 0.001%?

And I actually have the same question about polio. When I was in elementary school we read Small Steps and met polio survivors who encouraged us to get vaccines because they save lives by preventing diseases. I have lowkey been terrified of getting polio since people have stopped using their brains and decided that they didn’t need to vaccinate their children.

I also know that these are obviously different vaccines than what we get for the flu every year but do we need boosters?

Thanks so much, hope we all stay safe and healthy despite the terrifying stupidity of others!

Hi, my love! That’s a great set of questions and I love that you’re thinking critically about how different vaccines work!

For measles, if you’ve received two doses of the MMR (measles, mumps, rubella) vaccine, you’re considered fully vaccinated and about 97% protected against measles. That means there’s still a very small chance (about 3%) that you could get it if exposed, but it’s extremely unlikely.

The MMR vaccine is live-attenuated, meaning it contains a weakened form of the virus that trains your immune system to recognize and destroy it before it can cause an actual infection. Once you’ve had both doses, you generally don’t need a booster since protection is long-lasting (I was one of the lucky few whose titers were low enough to require a booster when I got tested for medical school). The rare cases of vaccinated people getting measles usually happen if their immune system didn’t mount a strong enough response, but even then, symptoms tend to be much milder.

Polio is a bit different. The vaccine we use in the United States (the IPV or inactivated polio vaccine) is a killed virus vaccine, meaning it doesn’t contain any live virus but still triggers a strong immune response. If you completed the childhood polio vaccine series (typically four doses), you’re considered fully protected and don’t need routine boosters. However, if you were traveling to a high-risk area or there was a local outbreak, a doctor might recommend an additional dose just as extra precaution. Your concern about polio is totally valid, while it was nearly eradicated in many places, low vaccination rates have allowed it to resurface in certain areas.

As for flu vaccines, you’re right that they work differently. The flu virus mutates rapidly, so the vaccine is reformulated each year to match the circulating strains as closely as possible. That’s why we need a new flu shot annually, while vaccines like MMR and polio provide longer-lasting protection.

Believe me, I completely relate to feeling frustrated about people rejecting vaccines despite overwhelming evidence of their safety and effectiveness. The best thing we can do is stay informed, keep up with our own vaccinations, and encourage science-based decision-making whenever possible. I hope this helps!

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive (daily updates)

From September but still relevant.

By Jessica wildfire

The science of not helping.

In 1913, an engineer named Max Ringelmann noticed something weird about human behavior. When you told one person to do something like pull a rope, they tried really hard. When you put them into groups, they didn't try as hard.

They slacked.

Psychologists have identified this behavior as social loafing. Sometimes they also call it diffusion of responsibility, defined as "the idea that the presence of others changes the behavior of the individual by making them feel less responsible for the consequences of their actions," leading to "moral disengagement."

A 2005 study confirmed that when you put people into teams, each person does less, with the exception of highly motivated individuals, who wind up doing most of the work. If you were ever the team leader or facilitator, you know all about social loafing.

It happens online, too.

A 2022 review on diffusion of responsibility revealed that it happens all the time, in situations ranging from donations to tipping. It even happens in online communication. If you email one person, they're more likely to respond. They also give longer, more detailed responses. If you email a bunch of people, and they see each other copied on the message, they don't respond at all or they send shorter, less helpful replies.

Groups also make riskier decisions than individuals.

A team of psychologists asked a bunch of adults to play with marbles. They put them into pairs. Each pair's job was to stop the marble from sliding down a ramp. They won points if they stopped the marble before it hit the bottom. They got more points if their partner stopped it before they did. As predicted, both players got worse over time. As the study concludes, "The co-player's presence led participants to act later, reduced their subjective sense of agency, and also attenuated the neural processing of action outcomes." Basically, it made them slower and dumber.

In 1968, two psychologists wanted to see what adults would do in an emergency when they were alone, versus when they were in a group. They started pumping fake smoke into a room while people filled out a questionnaire. When they were on their own, 75 percent of participants did something. When they were in a group, the dynamic almost completely reversed. More than 60 percent of them did nothing. They just kept working on the questionnaire.

When the researchers asked why, participants said they didn't want to look stressed or anxious. They figured if nobody else was doing anything, then there was nothing wrong. They figured they were just overreacting. They cared more about looking weird than letting the building burn down.

That's called pluralistic ignorance.

You see similar results in studies over the last several decades. On their own, people generally take more responsibility.

There's nobody else to do it.

When you put them into groups, they start acting selfish and stupid. They look to each other for validation first. If they don't get any signals to act, then they'll ignore what their own eyes are telling them. The more people you add to a situation, the more passive they become, the less likely they jump into action.

About a decade after the smoke study, another team of psychologists ran a similar experiment, but this time it was a man beating a woman in public. Participants intervened when they thought the man was a stranger. When they thought the man was her husband, they didn't do anything. That's called confusion of responsibility, when bystanders think it's not their place to step in or step up to help, or they're afraid helping will get them into trouble with some kind of authority figure.

A 2018 study looked at the brain's natural response to emergencies. They observed a significant drop in the central gyrus and the prefrontal cortex, the parts of your brain associated with helping. A person's first reaction is to preserve themselves. Their brain has to cross an empathy or compassion threshold in order to risk their own safety and security by helping someone. Basically, they have to care more about the person in danger than themselves.

A 2019 study in Aggressive Behavior found that friends and family members help each other when strangers don't. In fact, knowing the person makes you roughly 20 times more likely to help. Flip that, and you see that if someone doesn't know you, they're 20 times less likely to get involved.

Saturation also plays a role.

When you add more people to a situation, there's less for them to do. At least, that's what they usually think. If someone's already helping, then bystanders are less likely to get involved.

The gravity of an emergency also makes a difference. Basically, an emergency has to look bad enough to get someone's attention, but not so bad that it triggers their self-protection instincts.

You can see why this setup poses a problem when it comes to a crisis that falls way above or way below that threshold.

The climate crisis and the pandemicene hit us right in the middle of the bystander effect, exploiting pluralistic ignorance and diffusion of responsibility. It's exactly the kind of problem everyone wants someone else to do something about.

The super rich grasp this vulnerability, at least intuitively.

So do politicians.

They're perfectly happy to profit off our deaths and the destruction of our future while everyone stands around waiting for someone else to make the hard decisions, for someone else to make the personal sacrifices, for someone else to deal with the problem. Even worse, they use the inaction they see as an excuse for them to do nothing. After all, why should Monica give up her carbon bomb vacation when Heather is going to Italy?

As we've observed time and again, everyone reinforces each other's anxiety about looking weird if they're the only ones doing the right thing. They would rather sabotage their own health than violate social codes.

Some research has pushed back on the bystander effect, showing that people do tend to offer help even when they're in a crowd. However, the Aggressive Behavior study shows this likely happens because of accountability cues. In other words, they act because there's a camera present of some kind or some other indication that there's going to be consequences for not helping. That's why they help.

They don't want to look bad.

Here's the strangest part:

Most people know about the diffusion of social responsibility, along with terms like social loafing and pluralistic ignorance. If they don't, they've heard the story of Kitty Genovese, even if it's exaggerated. We have countless examples of societies allowing moral crime and social murder to happen right in front of them, simply because their membership in society itself encouraged their silence and complicity.

They know all this, but they still decide to stay silent and complicit when it's happening right in front of them.

Maybe psychologists should study that.

Even when people know about these psychological and sociological hangups, they still choose to dwell in denial and wishful thinking. They tell themselves it's different this time, or there's some kind of exception to excuse it. They still choose to stand around and wait for someone else to do the right thing, until it's too late. They're really good at admitting fault and promising to do better after the fact, especially when they can fall back on a diffusion of responsibility as the reason.

Then they wait for everyone to forget.

Rinse and repeat.

It's ironic that we keep talking about society and community as something that calls on us to summon our better selves and help each other, when our actions continue to prove that group behavior often leads us to making bad decisions and indulging in our worst selves.

Simply being in a community isn't enough.

You have to do something.

[genz420]

Beauty of Scars & Flowers - Chapter 7: Gift and Embraces.

Master List

Previous Part - Next Part

The morning air was crisp, and the chill nipped at the exposed skin of Lyanna’s neck and chest. When she heard the Southern ladies complain about the cold, she should have understood that her definition of cold and theirs were two completely different things.

Lyanna liked the cold. She preferred it much more than the heat of the sun. She enjoyed the feeling of the wind kissing her skin and the warmth that spread from her chest. Yet as she stood in the courtyard, watching all the ladies being fussed over, she regarded every listening to the unknown ladies. 

Her attendance at the outing was not her idea but her uncle's. It seemed that, with each passing day, Larys was more eager to give her away to any man who gave her the slightest attention. She was unsure who was hosting the event but knew of the people that would be in attendance.

Lyanna was determined to find out if Ser Alan was serious in their courting dance or if she was just another pretty thing for him to play with. She had thought that Ser Alan would have been a good match for her when she had first met him, but with each passing day and the presence of a certain prince, her confidence that he was serious about his attenuation shrunk. 

She watched from beside the horse that was assigned for the day as the ladies of the court gathered together, laughing and whispering with one another. The fact only reminded Lyanna that she was an outsider among the people of the Crownlands. 

Perhaps she should start to assimilate herself more with the customs here. She is sure Helaena would happily have her company during the masses that the Sept holds on the holy day. Or she could change her yellow and blue wardrobe to green. It seemed like she was going to be there for the long run. 

Lyanna continued to run her bare hand over the horse's mane as she watched longingly at the ladies. Not paying attention to the words that her uncle was saying. 

She had not paid attention to the words since he insisted she spend her day outside the Keep, choosing to act childless and pretend that her uncle did not exist. Larys would have been offended, but Lyanna always acted childishly when forced to do something she did not want to do. 

Aemond watched from his post within the threshold of the courtyard as Lyanna petted the horse in front of her. The second he took the step out of the keep, he could not turn back once he was spotted. 

The prince took a deep breath before straightening his back and making his way toward the two Strongs within the courtyard. The sword at his hip felt like it suddenly weighed a ton, and the gloves in his hand became as hot as Vhagar's wither skin. 

Larys noticed him first. The cripple bowed his head to the prince and stepped away from his niece, allowing the two young adults a moment to themselves. Aemond should have known that Larys had heard of the blossoming friendship between him and Lyanna; it always seemed that Larys knew the things happening around the keep before anyone else. 

“My Lady Strong,” Aemond broke the silence between them, his hands gripping the gloves in his hand to the point his knuckles turned as white as them. 

The prince's voice was enough for Lyanna to tear her gaze away from the ladies. As Lyanna turned to face the prince, she quickly curtsied to him before offering a kind smile. Before Lyanna could return the greeting, Aemond held out the pair of gloves in his hand. 

They were cloth, Lyanna noted, as white as fresh winter snow with a few different colour flowers embroidered along the cuff. They were beautiful, yet she made no move to accept them, just looking at them as if they were made of fire. 

Aemond waited for Lyanna to move to accept them, making a slight shift of his weight. He had spent the last few days reading about the culture of the first men, and he knew the significant meaning of a gift of gloves, but maybe this was too soon. Perhaps he should have started with letters and not moved straight to a piece of clothing.

Larys stood to the side, leaning on his cane as he watched the duo with narrow eyes.

“These are for you, My Lady Strong,” Aemond said again. His voice made Lyanna look away from the gloves and toward his face. 

He could see the slightest tint of pink on Lyanna's cheeks. So faint that if he did not have her face committed to memory, he could not notice a difference. Aemond watched as Lyanna swallowed and smacked her lips together before she pulled her eyebrows together.

“You did not have to, my prince,” Lyanna finally spoke up, taking a deep breath after she finished speaking.

Lyanna took a step away from the horse she had been petting and toward the prince. So close that Aemond could smell the floral perfume that she was wearing. It was so intoxicating that Aemond could not help himself from stepping toward her, closing the gap between them even more. 

“I insist,” He told her, his voice slightly softer and quieter than before. 

Lyanna looked back down to the gloves, one hand gently moving toward grasp one of them. Aemond could only watch as her fingers moved along the embroidery, waiting to see the reaction she would have. 

But before Lyanna could speak up, Larys joined the two of them. The clubfoot looked between his niece and the prince and the gloves that he was holding. Larys might have spent most of his life in the crownlands, but he remembered the customs and traditions of his people. 

“Say thank you, Lyanna,” Larys told her, and for the first time, it seemed like his niece did not fight his words. 

“Thank you,” she said as she took the gloves and looked back up at Aemond. She held them against her stomach, tracing her fingers over the embroidery while offering him a smile.

“Will you be joining us today, Ser Larys?” Aemond turned his attention away from Lyanna, not fighting the smile on his face. 

“I am afraid not.  My foot prevents me from riding. I trust you will after my beloved niece?” Larys asked Aemond as he taped his cane against the cobblestone. 

Lyanna could not help but snicker at her uncle's words as she looked down at her shoes and tried to bite away the smile on her face.  Beloved niece was the most humorous statement that her uncle had said so far.

“Of course,” Aemond assured Larys, who quickly gave the two of them a curt nod before leaving them. 

Lyanna watched as her uncle left, feeling like she could breathe again as he left her presence. She felt as if she could act like her true self without the nagging feeling that every move she made was the wrong one in her uncle's eyes. Lyanna looked back to Aemond, gently playing with her new gloves. 

“I did not know you would be joining us,” She told him as she returned to the horse. 

Aemond rested his hand on the pommel of his sword as he mirrored her movements. Standing not even an arm's length away from her, he patted the horse's rump. 

Helaena had been the one to inform him that Lyanna would be spending the day away from the keep with the rest of the young courtiers. Revealing to him, she planned to find out Alan's true intentions.  It just so happens that his training season had been cancelled, and he had the day free to do whatever he pleased. 

“I thought it would be fun to spend the day with my fellow young courtiers,” He answered as he looked around the courtyard. 

Lyanna did not stop the laugh that escaped her. 

She knew that Aemond held an interest in the lives of the courtiers. Only enjoying hearing the gossip about their lives but never socializing with them. 

“You think spending the day with Ser Alan will be fun?” She asked as she looked at Aemond; her words and smile were one of jest. 

That smile made Aemonds stomach feel warm. 

The morning sun made her skin glow, and Aemond wished he could thank whatever handmaid had dressed Lyanna. For the dress she wore hung off her shoulders. The skin of her shoulders and collarbones were free to soak up the sun's rays, and Aemond could feel his mouth drying at the thought of what it might feel like against his skin, against his lips. 

He pulled his eye away from the freckled skin and back toward Lyanna’s face. A tight smile was on his face, and any on-looker would assume that the prince was in a sour mood. 

“I think spending the day with you in the King’s Wood will be fun,” He whispered to her, not wanting the people around them to hear such tender words. 

“You honour me,” She whispered back, not hiding the smile that came on her face at his words. 

– – 

The ride to the Kingswood was filled with jokes shared between the prince and the soon-to-be lady of Harrenhal. The two of them were within their own world, not caring about the glances that were shot toward them by the other courtiers or side glances of Ser Arryk Cargyll. 

The two simply enjoyed the ride toward the wilderness, with Aemond pointing out different features of architecture to Lyanna. She had enjoyed listening to the prince and his knowledge about the city he had lived in his whole life. She didn’t focus her attention anywhere else but on him as they rode through the city and eventually the King’s Road to get to the camp. 

Once the group of courtiers arrived at the camp, Aemond could not help but slightly judge the scale of the camp. It all seemed rather intimate, with men and women all drinking and laughing loudly.

But maybe this is what this kind of event was like. 

Part of Aemond suddenly realizes that he was not invited, that he had invited himself, but he could not care. He wanted to spend the day with Lyanna. 

Aemond, still looking around, dismounted his horse first before handing the reins to Ser Arraky. He moved his neck around until he heard a satisfying crack. He then set his gaze on Lyanna, who was still atop her horse. 

Aemond, being the gentleman that he is, moved toward Lyanna. Instead of taking hold of the reins, he offered her a hand, which she gladly accepted. 

With one hand holding on hers, Aemond moved his other hand to rest against where he assumed her hip bone was. He relished in the moment of helping her dismount the horse and settling onto the ground. 

Even once Lyanna had her bearings, Aemond did waver from her side. He watched as she pulled her hair over one shoulder, exposing the bare skin of the other. His eyes stayed lingering on her chest and how, with each breath she took, her chest would almost spill out of her chest. 

The hand that Aemond had used to help Lyanna off her horse still rested against the dip of her hip. The feeling of her dress against his hand made his head hurt, knowing that only a few barriers separated them. 

He quickly removed his hand and stepped away as the unmistakable sound of the most annoying knight of the seven kingdoms sounded behind him. 

“Lyanna! You look beautiful, and with the flowers I have gifted you in your hair,” Alan broke the silence between Lyanna and Aemond. The knight’s arms were open wide in greeting, and a smile on his face. 

Even Aemond could not deny that the soon-to-be lord of Horn Hill was handsome. His face was free of scars and a typical man of descent of the first man. A common trait he shared with Lyanna was that Alan properly did not have to learn the dance of customers that is shared between two lovers like Aemond had to. 

Lyanna moved away from Aemond and toward the knight as she offered him a small smile. Aemond had not noticed the white flowers in Lyanna's hair, yet his gift cost significantly more than a few flowers. He’s held more meaning and commitment than some stupid flowers. 

Yet Aemond knew she probably cherished the flowers.  

“I thought I should make use of them before they wither away, Ser Alan,” Lyanna greeted back as she allowed the knight to take her hands.  

“No need for the formalities today; it will simply be us,” He spoke sweetly to her, his voice like honey and Lyanna now remembered why she tolerated the man.

“I think that Lord Larys would appreciate it if the formalities stayed,” Aemond said as he moved to stand beside Lyanna. He did not break his gaze away from Alan, instead straightening his posture.

The moment the prince spoke up, the joy on Alan’s face left and was replaced with distaste. It seemed that the two men held the same feeling for one another.  

“Prince Aemond,” Alan greeted with the bow of his head, letting go of Lyanna’s hands and stepping away from her. 

Lyanna looked back at Aemond, a slight pout on her face, before looking back to Alan with a smile.

“The prince is to be my chaperone for the day,” she told him as she tried to uplift the mood and situation. 

“How gracious of him,” He agreed, not looking at Lyanna but keeping eye contact with Aemond. 

The soon-to-be Lord's tone was only joyous, and it became clear to Lyanna and Alan that their plans for the day would not go according to plan. Yet the prince could not be happier. 

Lyanna grasped Alan's hands, pulling his attention back onto her and putting a warm smile on her face. She knew she had to charm a man who had been taught just like the rest of the daughters of nobility.  

“I have read a great deal about the wildlife in this area. Ser Alan, would you like to accompany me while I try to forage for some flowers,” Lyanna proposed, but her smile vanished as Alan ripped away his hands from hers and took another step away from her. 

“After I finish welcoming the rest of the ladies,” he told her curtly. Before Lyanna or Aemond could wish him a farewell, he was already moving toward another smaller group of ladies. 

Lyanna nodded to herself as she took a deep breath. Smoothing out of the front of the dress, she was unaware of the longing gaze of the prince standing behind her. 

“I will accompany you,” Aemond spoke once he was sure that Alan was far enough away from them, offering Lyanna his arm, which she gladly accepted.

“Thank my prince,” she thanked, giving him a small smile as they moved toward the tree line. 

With one wave of his hand, Aemond dismissed Ser Arryk as he and Lyanna left the group and ventured into the woods.

– 

“My prince?” Lyanna spoke up as she took Aemond’s arm once again. 

The only response she got from Aemond was a low hum as he guided the two along the riverbed. 

Lyanna kept glancing between him and the shrubbery around them, weighing the pros and cons of bringing up the topic she wished to talk about. 

The gift that Aemond had given her was the main thing she wished to ask about, but she feared that she might come off as rude and ungrateful for the prince's generosity. But the meaning behind it weighed heavy on her mind. 

If Aemond knew the significance or if it was just a friend gifting something to a friend like she had been doing with Helaena. 

“Why the gift?” Lyanna finally asked as she kept her eyes away from him so as not to see how he reacted. 

Aemond took his gaze off the greenery before them and glanced at Lyanna. He could see the slightest build-up of sweat on the side of her neck and that the bright sun was hurting her eyes. Could tell that she was slightly nervous when she asked her question. 

Aemond looked back before them as they entered a fall clearing of tall grass and wildflowers. The sound of birds and the buzz of insects were slightly overwhelming, but the smell was divine. He understood now why Lyanna yearned for nature and if this was what she was giving up while residing within the Keep. 

“Do I need a reason to give a dear friend of mine a gift?” Aemond simply asked as he tried to avoid answering the question. 

He kept his back straight as Lyanna unlinked their arms and moved to look at the flowers in front of them. She had taken out the small white flowers in her hair when they first entered the tree line, mumbling what he assumed were cruses in a foreign language as she did so. 

“I am your friend?” Lyanna asked as she picked a wildflower and handed it over to Aemond. The prince gladly took the flower from her as he nodded his head.

“I consider you one,” he answered as he followed her through the tall grass. It seemed like Lyanna knew where she was going, but a small part of Aemond worried about the safety of the land they were on.

“It’s just that to me, that kind of gift means something,” she told him, not stopping to look back at him. 

It was easier for her to focus on the nature around her than the heavy gaze of the prince. 

Aemond smiled as he noticed the slightest blush on the back of Lyanna’s neck. He would bet that her face held the same fairness of pink. A gift as simple as gloves had her flustered and confused, and that fact made Aemond proud of himself. 

“I did not know; my apologies,” He apologized as he sped up his pace to keep stride with Lyanna. 

Aemond knew what it meant. Knew that gloves were only given when serious interest was there. He had confirmed it not only with the maesters but also with two knights that were from the north. 

Ser Criston had almost overheard the conversation he had to have. Gods know that the Kingsguard would have run to his mother and told her. The headache from that would not have been worth it.  

“Perhaps you could tell my uncle such,” Lyanna proposes, worried about the future of their relationship if her uncle gets the wrong idea.  “The gift of gloves is often a late courting gift between betrotheds. I fear that my uncle will think it is you showing interest,”

Aemond hummed for her to continue; part of him wanted to keep listening to Lyanna, and the other wanted to ensure he had gotten the right information. 

“It symbolizes a man asking for the woman's hand. It is also a type of clothing,” She told him as she turned to look back at him. 

Lyanna stepped back and leaned against what she knew to be an oak tree. She could feel the roughness of the bark against the soft skin of her back, and she was sure her hair would be intertwined with the bark. 

She put her hands behind her back as she watched Aemond move closer to her as if a predator stalking its prey. 

Aemond moved to stand before Lyanna, one of his feet almost next to her as he leaned his weight against one leg. The prince crossed his arms behind his back, looking over Lyanna once. The humidity of the air caused her hair to become slightly frizzy, and a few strands had stuck themselves onto her temples. 

“What does clothing have to do with courting,” He asked as if he didn’t already know. But he wanted to hear her say it, needed to hear her say it. 

Lyanna could feel her chest become hot as Aemond's gaze remained on her. She had nowhere to run, not that she wanted to. 

She swallowed the saliva in her mouth before looking Aemond up and down. She did not know how he could look so flawlessly and perfectly put together. 

Lyanna took a breath before straightening herself. 

“You can not touch each other, so giving a gift that you have both had against your skin becomes the closest thing to it. Gloves, shirts, and garters,” she answered, her voice trailed off at the last word. 

The prince had asked her a question, and who was she to deny him an answer. 

The sides of his mouth perked slightly up at her words. Part of him thought that Lyanna would not tell him the whole truth, but he was glad she did. Aemond took another step toward the trapped Lyanna. They were so close to one another that their chests were almost touching. 

Only one breath separated them from one another. 

And at that, Lyanna could not help but slightly lick her lips as she forced herself to keep his gaze.

“Garters?” he asked, and his voice had a slight tone of jest. 

Both of them knew that they should not be talking about this. 

Should not be so close to one another. 

Should not even be left alone with one another. 

All it took was one onlooker for there to be repercussions of this conversation. 

But that was part of the thrill for both of them.

“It’s scandalous. Erotic even, the intimacy of giving something that will hold up a woman's stockings so close...I’ve heard men even have messages in silk embroidered in them,” Lyanna continued, and she did not waver as she saw Aemonds hand move to touch a loose curl of her hair. 

She did not move as she felt his knuckle gently graze against her ear or when one of his hands gently clasped around her waist. 

She did not move as the prince leaned him to the other side of her face, cheek against cheek, as he whispered in her ear.  

“What kind of messages?” he asked her before he moved his lips to ghost against the skin of her cheek and jawline. 

“I have yet to have such kind of gift, so I can not say,” Lyanna answered as she carefully moved her head to the side, yet she worried that any movement she made would scare away the prince. 

Aemond smiled as he gently planted a kiss against her jaw, moving his free hand to hold the other side of her neck; Lyanna moved to grab his wrist as she shifted on her feet.

Aemond carefully moved his thumb along the side of her jaw as his lips made their way to the underside of her jaw. 

Everywhere he touched, he left a trail of waking fire along her skin. He could tell how his actions affected her by how her breathing deepened, and she leaned into him.  

She could feel the blush that was on her face and chest. Yet she did not want the overwhelming feeling to end. 

She wanted to feel his lips against all the skin of her body. She wanted to feel his hands against her skin. She wanted him. 

She could take in here in the woods if he allowed. Fuck dignity and tradition. She now understood why lust dedicated people's actions. 

“Maybe I could change that,” Aemond whispered against her skin as he planned another kiss against her skin.

Lyanna was about to nod before a lady's scream pulled them out of their haze. The two moved just far enough away to look each other in the eyes.

The sound of laughter of both men and women quickly followed the scream.

She was the first to move as she pulled herself away from Aemond and the tree. Not caring about the pain of her hair being stuck within the tree's bark. Lyanna moved her hand over the skin of her neck where Aemonds lips were. 

She cleared her throat and turned to look at the prince, who was already watching her. For once, Lyanna could not read his face. 

“It seems that the ladies are having fun. “We should rejoin the party, should we not?” Lyanna asked, and Aemond nodded. He started back toward the group, leaving Lyanna to follow after him. 

– – 

Lyanna was knelt before the Heart Tree. She could feel the wet dirt against her knees as it seeped through the fabric of her stocking, probably staining both the fabric and her skin with each second she stayed. The corset of her dress felt tight against her chest with each breath she took, and the pins in her hair felt like they were stabbing her scalp. 

But through her pain, the only movement was those of her lips as she whispered her prayer. 

She had made a beeline for the Godswood when she and Aemond arrived back at the keep, not stopping when she heard the prince call out to her. And once she arrived at the holy place, she had planted herself before the tree and had yet to leave it. 

The sun had long left the sky, but Lyanna remained.

She prayed through the pain of hunger that came from her stomach—prayed through the bite of the chill of night.  Her eyes closed so she did not have to see the red weeping tears of the tree judging her. Yet even with her eyes closed, she could still feel the eyes of the nameless gods judging her as she prayed and repented.  

Whenever she thought she had prayed for enough forgiveness, her skin would burn where Aemond’s lips had once ghosted against her neck and lips, and then she would start the prayers again. 

It seemed like any self-dignity and preservation that Lyanna thought she had would burn to ash the second the prince joined her side. No, whenever the prince was in eyesight, they would become as if the flames of desire burned inside her. Lyanna knew what would happen if anyone were to discover the events today: she would be sent back to Harrenhal, and the title she fought so hard for would be given to her uncle. 

Lyanna could not allow that. Could not let all the sacrifices be for nothing. 

Larys could not help but compare his niece to a child asking for forgiveness from a parent as he watched her pray. The moon's light casted a shadow of her body against the ground, and Larys was reminded of how young Lyanna was. He was sure that if her parents had survived the fire, they would fight to keep her locked away in Harrenhal and away from any man she might be able to marry. 

The language of her prayers was now foreign to him, but he knew that his niece would not spend hours before her gods praying for a simple mistake. She had been raised by devout worshipers of the old ways, and every decision she made was with them in mind. Larys knew that much about his estranged niece.

“Care to say why you missed our dinner,” Larys broke the silence of the night. 

He waited for Lyanna to respond to him, yet as he watched her kneeling figure, she made no movement to get up or answer him. Larys tapped his cane against the ground and cleared his throat, waiting for a response from the girl deep in prayer. 

“No. I’m praying, so go away,” she answered him, her voice coarse, and it was clear that she needed a drink to soothe it. 

Lyanna did not want to face her uncle. Even if he was a cripple, she was sure that he would be able to see through her lies and know precisely what she had done. That he would punish her for her harlot actions and desires. 

So Lyanna remained knelt. She would stay before the tree until she could move past her improper behaviour and thoughts. The gods would tell her when she was done. 

“You have been praying for hours,” His tone was one of authority, yet Lyanna could only choke down a snicker at it. 

He might be her elder, but Larys held little true authority over her when they were in private. He could not physically punish her, nor would the rest of their family be okay with any humiliation that Larys might put her through as a punishment. She was sure her aunts would ride to the Keep themselves if he did so. 

“I have been neglecting the gods since I arrived in the south; I just wish to show devotion once again,” Her voice was louder this time as if with each moment Larys spent in her presence, she was coming out of her trance of prayer. 

“Lying before that tree is a sin, Lyanna. That is much I remember,” Larys told her, hoping to use her faith to gain the truth from her. 

Her words were not lies and, therefore, not sin. She tried to tell herself. 

Lyanna sighed to herself. She knew that Larys would not be leaving her alone. With shaky legs, she stood up. The sound of her knee popping raised slight concern, but the stiffness in her legs and throbbing pain in her head raised more. 

Maybe she shouldn’t have skipped her dinner. 

Lyanna's hands moved to rest on her hips as she took a deep breath and turned to face her uncle. Rolling her shoulders as she moved toward her henched man. 

“Is praying to the old gods forbidden now? Do I need to go to the Stept and light a candle?” Her tone had a bit of bitterness and venom that the sweet girl here a second ago did not usually possess, but it was reminded of a woman he had long since forgotten.  

Or tried to forget. She often plagued his dreams, and sometimes, when he was awake, he could swear that he saw her within the darkness of the corridors.  

“It is time to retire for the day, Lyanna,” He calmly told her. He did not want to alert her of how her voice truly shivered his bones. 

The darkness of the night made her hair look almost black; her soft features were suddenly sharp, and he could see a sparkle of green in the brown of her eyes. As Lyanna stood before Larys, it was as if her face was transforming into hers.

As he spoke, Lyanna could not help but roll her eyes. She knew that it was of no use to fight now. She was tired, and her bed was calling for her. 

She let her arms fall and began to move toward the exit of the Godswood. But as she moved past her uncle, he quickly wrapped a hand around her arm, stopping her from moving further. 

Larys debated whether or not he should press the issue further. He might be able to gain the truth from Lyanna if he continued to annoy her with his questions. 

But as he held her arm in his hand, her eyes only narrowed, and her mouth turned into a scowl. The more he looked, the more he saw of her. 

But she was always present in Lyanna in the way she held herself—the quickness to her jabs of words. 

Larys let go of her arm, resting both hands on the pommel of his cane. He offered her a small fake smile.

“You remind so much of her in this light,” He quietly whispered to her, as if the tree in front of them was listening to the words. 

Lyanna's brows pulled tougher, and she swallowed the spit in her mouth. She moved slightly to face her uncle, unsure of who he was referring to.

“My mother?” She asked, her voice louder than Larys’s. 

He shook his head as he responded. “The wretched witch that raised you,”

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@delaynew @coldmermaidhologram @snh96 @sahvlren

[futuristicyouthvoid]

Kili x Elf Reader

Summary: While the days were going very calmly and peacefully in Rivendell, the visit of the dwarves accompanied by Gandalf interrupted this. However, over time, you begin to get close to a certain dwarf.

As you followed Lord Elrond and Gandalf, you smiled at their little banter about 'dressing appropriately'. While they were settling down at the table, you walked over to your cousin Lindir and gently clasped your hands in front of you. "Your face looks like you're in pain..." you said loud enough for him to hear. He glanced at you briefly. “It's not wrong… I'm just… wondering how this would turn out.” You wanted to laugh at his attitude but you didn't, yet you couldn't help but try. "I honestly expected better from you, your expression is still a bit soft. Try not to waste yourself too much." You gave a small smile as he shifted uneasily.

You watched the surroundings, or rather the dwarves, throughout the meal. You weren't very familiar with them, so you wanted to observe. In any case, it was not difficult to predict that things would explode at some point. They were quite rambunctious… in one word, attenuated.

You were talking softly with Lindir, at this moment you came face to face with one of them. It was obvious that he was much younger than the others. When you didn't look away for a while, he smiled at you and then winked. You were amazed at first by his bold attitude, but then you reminded yourself that he was a dwarf. Of course it would happen. He looked surprised when you went beyond your limits and gave him a small smile. He never thought that you would respond to him, especially after a few unsuccessful attempts... Your sensitive ears had heard his conversations with his friends, which were louder gossip than they thought anyway.

At some point things really broke out. Suddenly all hell broke loose, a food fight broke out between them, accompanied by the dwarf who climbed onto the table and sang. You'd never admit it, but it seemed kind of fun. Poor Lindir's horrified expression amused you even more, and you almost laughed, but held yourself back again.

As you were about to turn around, you froze in place as a piece of food hit your chest. The front of your light-colored dress and the curls hanging down the sides of your face were stuck. There were some dwarves who noticed this. One of them was that young dwarf...

His eyes were wide open and confused as he looked at you. Embarrassment... that's what happened and he was definitely the one who accidentally threw that food at you. You left there with Lindir. You quickly went to your room and cleaned up.

You did not meet the young dwarf for the next two days. At some point you realized he was running away from you.

The next day, after doing your work, you went out to the balcony, the sun was setting. You leaned your hands on the railing and began to watch the view you always see.

Just then, you heard a pair of footsteps. It was definitely not an elf. You slowly turned and looked.

It was that young dwarf. You saw him looking at you with the same embarrassment. You were the one to break the silence, "Your name is Kili, right?" He nodded and agreed. “Yeah, that's me… well…” you then gave him your name and added, “What are you doing here?” He took a few more small steps towards you. "I owe you an apology... I'm sorry. For what happened at dinner. I swear I didn't do it on purpose... I- believe me, it happened by mistake." He arranged the words one after another. You weren't actually really angry, you knew it was a mistake. You had incredible patience and were not easily angered. You were calm again now, but your facial expression was not that soft. This made him even more nervous. "I have a condition." He jumped right in, "Sure, whatever you want."

"Tell me your story, from the beginning. Where did you come from? What have you done? Where are you going? What will happen next? I have heard some things, but I want to hear it from a dwarf myself, I must know it all. Maybe then I will forgive you for what you have done, young dwarf." The nervous look on Kili's face was gone, replaced by a smile. You gave a small smile and invited him over. You sat together and started talking while watching the view. He literally told you everything he could think of. You listened to him with interest. You made occasional comments and laughed at some of his jokes. It was almost night when you were there. You lost track of time, but it was the first time in a long time that you enjoyed it like this. The same was true for Kili. He watched you while talking. You were so perfect... in fact, you were the most beautiful being he had ever seen. He had flirted with many women throughout his life, he had seen many women, but you... you were completely different. The moment he saw you he was speechless, almost choking on his own saliva. No one could fault the beauty of the elves walking around, but you were on a different level. So much so that you were considered one of the most beautiful elves.

Kili fell in love with you even more that night. He was the kind of guy who fell hard. You caused him to fall seriously hard. He made some flirting attempts when he dared. He was trying you. You also gave him small feedback. It was unclear whether this would go anywhere, but you went with the moment. You've been living for centuries, and by now, of course, some people came your way, but you never went forward with any of them or allowed yourself to be courted. You thought you had more time for this. Maybe one day it would... but after you met Kili, you started to realize things about yourself. Were you falling in love with this dwarf? Some thoughts began to haunt your mind and continued as the days progressed.

You both started meeting on the same balcony at night. Almost every day for two weeks. But you knew it would end because he had to go and they didn't have much time left. The day of Durin was approaching.

You walked to the balcony and paused at the entrance. Kili was standing by the fountain, looking at himself in the reflection of the water pooling below. You had noticed that he often played with his hair and face. But it wasn't like arrogance, it was more like insecurity. You directed your steps towards him. "You may have a sweet face, but such arrogance hits hard." There was a hint of mischief in your voice. Kili jumped when you spoke, startled. "Oh! Mahal!" Then he quickly recovered and smiled at you. "Did I ever mention that you float almost like an angel? Do your feet touch the ground?" You giggled happily as you approached him. "I didn't mean to scare you, I'm sorry."

"No, you didn't." in a mischievous manner. You laughed.

Then a silence fell and as the silence fell you were looking at each other. Instinctively, you slowly reached out your hand to the strand of hair that fell in front of Kili's eyes and combed it to the side with your fingers. Even this small movement caused Kili's breathing to hitch. He swallowed. It was you again who broke the silence, "They need to be shortened a bit. They cover your face." He barely heard what you said at the time, in fact it only sounded like a mumble.

"You are so beautiful... flawless. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life." he said softly. He seemed fascinated. You looked absolutely ethereal as the starlight reflected on your face, illuminating your pure white skin, full pink lips, and long dark curls. You looked like you came out of the most beautiful fairy tales and Kili was fascinated by your appearance. His eyes were pensive and he was watching you with admiration. For a moment he thought he was in a dream, in fact he felt that way most of the time he spent with you because you were too wonderful to be real to him. Your beauty, your kindness, your deep and velvety voice, your awe-filled gaze... At the same time, your knowledge and experience gained over the centuries you lived, your advice and stories were interesting. He lost himself in you. He was becoming more certain with every second he looked at you.

He had fallen in love with you.

What you heard had filled your heart with excitement, and those looks you received had increased it even more. There was something much different in those eyes now... more serious. Yes, Kili was a fun guy and you had definitely seen similar things in him, but this time it was different. The rhythm of his heartbeat changed.

“Kili…” you mumbled his name softly… soon Kili slowly pulled away, looking away from you. You frowned slightly, trying to understand. "Please talk to me."

Kili was so caught up in all these moments that he forgot the facts. You couldn't love him... how could you? Such a perfect and immortal being had no business being with an ugly - by dwarf standards - dwarf like him. Yes, he was incorrigibly flirtatious and outgoing, but deep down, his self-confidence was sometimes slipping. By dwarf standards he was considered ugly, he didn't have a proper beard and he certainly couldn't grow it, and his hair wasn't long enough. He didn't have as much hair on his body as there should have been. He wanted to be like his brother and uncle, but it was impossible, he could never be like them. Any woman would never be with someone who wasn't masculine enough, right? You wouldn't like it either.

He thought so, but he didn't realize how wrong he was. "You can never love me... why would you? I have nothing to love... I don't even have enough beard. I'm a hopeless person..." sentences suddenly came out of Kili's mouth. He looked at you, realizing what he said. You even thought it was cute that he could make such a simple thing such a big problem with his childish attitude, but of course, from his point of view, this was a serious thing. Well, this was normal for his young age.

He was about to get up, but you held his arm with a gentle smile on your face. "Oh Kili... you're so naive. Did you really think I would make a problem with this? I'm not a dwarf or a human. The things that bother you about yourself are not for me." He looked at you confused and thought about what you said for a while. Then you added again, "I'm an elf, and the things you mentioned don't apply in elven culture. But either way... you're beautiful just the way you are." You reached out your hand and placed it on his cheek. “You are so beautiful… in everything. I swear.”

Kili's eyes filled with tears at your attitude. He had never heard such things from anyone before, except his mother. But that didn't really count. He watched as his wet eyes found yours, he knew you wouldn't lie to him. Maybe someone else would make fun of him feeling such intense things and developing a sense of confidence in such a short time, it might seem like nonsense, but it wasn't like that. He trusted you and you always approached him with all your sincerity. He closed his eyes and leaned into your soft touch. He could stay like this forever and never complain. You gently caressed the side of his head with your thumb.

In some moments words were not necessary, you could only find peace in silence. It was exactly like that right now. There was no need for words. There was peace.

You and him.

Just the two of you.

The distance between the two of you was closing with each passing second and finally, as your eyes closed, both of your lips slowly met. His hand found your soft hand. Kiss was full of tenderness. You were as close to each other as possible. You both broke the kiss to catch your breath as your lips burned like fire. Foreheads met.

Kili whispered against your lips, "Amrâlimê"

And you whispered, "Meleth nîn"

[missvaseline]

Whenever you watch me: Chapter 3 (Griffith x Reader) 18+

When Griffith was a child, he found his very first member. They've grown together and she became the best swordsman he’s ever seen, a prodigy. But there is a difference between being a mercenary, and then being Griffith’s.

Triggers: harassment, heavy manipulation, possessiveness, dubious consent, sadism

Previous chapter: Chapter 2

The forest was unforgiving. It was a whipping to her backlash that for once she wished was physical instead of time teasing her until the sun dipped below the lands. She was doing it again. Reminiscing, more like- ruminating the past like it was skin she couldn’t tear off. She paced silently for hours with Viola. She would've been driven mad if it weren't for the snivels and snorts from the steed's nostrils reminding her that she wasn't alone in the desolate sea of green. And she remembered. She daydreamed while finding a hint of a path back to camp. She remembered herself as a bustling child, before the bandits, before the band, before Griffith.

She wish she didn’t remember. She wished it was melted in her mind, far from memory like it was a pandora’s box that she knew not to touch. Rising humidity made her weary while traversing confusing paths made the journey back more treacherous. When she finally saw the telltale smoke twisting into the skies from the camp fires, she sighed in relief. After she tethered her steed to the wooden post hidden behind tall trees, her eyes flickered to Griffith casually sitting with everyone during a conversation with Guts, likely of tomorrow’s drills before the raid. His expression, the tranquil that had always been his mask for as long as she could remember. The swordswoman was quick to step out from the line of sight to sift in the shadows from canvas tents.

“You missed the strategy meeting today.” Casca’s voice called from her tent where she peered through to her. The duelist cringed as if she’d been caught stealing.

“I’ve been busy.” She replied with a sheepish scoff. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, let alone Casca. She was the sort of person who knew how to read the silence between words better than words sometimes and it would’ve been obvious how offput the swordswoman was in front of her.

“Griffith said you were working on special training exercises?” Casca asked. Now it was a test of what Griffith didn’t say. The dueler opened her mouth as she thought of a lullaby.

“Yes… a new sword technique I was working on.” And Not contemplating what happened in the flower field. Not lost for hours. Iron winnowing made for a beat of silence.

“When did Griffith arrive back?” The swordswoman continued.

“Just before midday.”

Casca replied absenly while checking the sharp of her blade. A vein ticked out from the sword maiden's neck as she realized he left her to her own devices after reacting rightfully to his transgressions. Griffith’s laughter rung like he heard the conversation between them. It was an annoyance that festered so much she abruptly turned in the direction of her tent.

“Don't forget about the meeting for tomorrow" The sword master turned to look at Casca, giving her a nod before departing quickly. She nearly ran towards her tent so that the campfire wouldn’t catch her. It felt like an inconvenience for her tent to be near the campfire, damn near sitting on the log with everyone else. it was a beacon to her whereabouts at night. It was insisted on because there was ‘no more room for any other place but next to the fire’ according to Rickert. But the rolled camp layout maps were in Griffith’s tent. And given Rickert’s age, it wasn’t a stretch that he'd follow those maps to the T.

She pulled back her canvas flap-

“You’re back.”

Griffith blinked and the attenuative gaze he held with Guts flickered to her. Her heart slipped into her stomach. Throat uncomfortably swelled. She could see the faint smile that Griffith held and she knew. There was recognition in the way he managed her absence like it was a miniscule step out of duty and not some god awful search for the camp.

“The terrain for the next raid is quite similar to where you were training today,” That leer of his widened, “Perhaps you could share what you learned with the others? Or would you like to talk about it to get caught up on the meeting held earlier?” Crackling flames punctuated the silence between them while she fought not to look at him. Leather creaked in her clenched fist.

“I wasn’t thinking about the terrain, so I wouldn’t know. I talked to Casca about the meeting.” His expression remained unchanged while he set his cup down- the sounding clink only pulling everyone’s attention to it.

“No? The field of blue orchids didn’t catch your eye? They’re quite rare in these parts.”

He would twist the knife and season it with salt… anything to get her riled. Judeau, who was sitting on the adjacent log, snapped his interest to the sound of the flowers.

“I didn’t know they grew around here?”

“They typically don’t.” Crystal eyes never left hers. “They need very specific conditions to thrive. The right amount of care, protection…” He paused before he finally slipped his eyes from her. “Sometimes they simply grow in places they shouldn’t.”

She’d wait for the other shoe to drop all night. Lips kept pressed to themselves as she decided not to engage. Bated fear was for the fact that as soon as she opened her mouth, she would be fighting with him in front of everyone. She would regret weeks from his elusive petty moves. It was easy to see. Guts was silent as he studied her. The same sort of contemplation that Casca held that made her stomach twist.

Griffith’s fingers drummed once on his cup before he stood. His tongue graced her name.

“Would you help me review the maps for tomorrow? I value your insight on the terrain.”

Fuck the terrain. She gawkily settled her gaze on everyone, their credulous glances only made her crumble up on the inside. Like she was wrong to not want to talk.

“…I’m… too exhausted from earlier, I was going to head straight for bed...” She gave an apologetic grin, but it wavered at the slight hardened edge of Griffith’s gaze.

Judeau’s eyes kept on his while he realized the circumstances. It was polite on the surface.

“Well,” Griffith conceded with a warning she picked up like a sickness. “I wouldn’t want you tired on your saddle tomorrow.”

Guts glanced at Griffith, the gears churning. Though he didn’t speak.

“I can help with the maps,” Griffith's attention cut to Judeau like a sword.

“It is appreciated, though, I specifically wanted her detailed observation on the terrain given her experience.” She was straining herself to stay silent before she nearly pleaded with her eyes to her tent. Her teeth were audibly grinding. Judeau went to speak again but was clipped off with Griffith clearing his throat. A smile placated his lips.

“Afterall, we wouldn’t want anyone getting lost on orders when they’re weary.”

The duelist pardoned Judeau’s weak attempt to save her from an inevitable situation as a cover for how she truly felt. Though when she felt the need to reprimand him for what he was doing she felt a tinge of guilt for wanting to do so.

Was he upset because of what I said? She thought.

“Indeed, I’m sure I’ll be more available in the morning. Have a goodnight then.” She said before she quickly crept behind her tent and sighed in irritation.

“Now, The next raid should be interesting,” His melodic voice carried through the flames between the sparse members of the band.

“I’m counting on everyone’s particular talents..” His velvet chatter faded in the night air as she tied her tent closed. tight knots made for a lock as if it made a difference to hearing his voice all night. Hearing him felt like she was sleeping on clattered steel. Ever since the band grew exponentially, his stem began to grow thorns. His temperament prickled at her. Sleep finally greeted her when the silence began to descend over the camp. The morning came and it all felt too similar to the night. When she sifted up, she quickly gathered for her clothes to bathe. She spent a moment untethering the fabric that acted as a lazy padlock for her privacy last night. Fortunately, when she did bathe, Griffith didn’t arrive to corner her in the water like she originally expected.

She paced back to find him sitting alone cross legged on a withered stump, watching pink saturating the sky. His blade caught the dawn’s blush while his fingers traced the edge echoing a lion admiring its own claws. The morning mist had clung to him like a second skin. He didn’t need to turn when her steps crinkled grass behind him. It was known it was her presence by the tempo of her steps.

“You bathe earlier each day.” He remarked, his voice rippling like the river’s surface she was under. The dagger stilled in his hand. “One may think you’re avoiding something.” Tilting his head, he peeked at her reflection through the knife. When he finally turned, twin pools of still water graced her. She stared back like they were depths to swim through.

“The only thing I’m avoiding is exhaustion.” Her eyes kept to his as a defiance began to boil beneath the surface. “Otherwise, you’ve been acting strange ever since this band grew from a budling”

“Strange?” He repeated in breathy laughter. “At least your truths sift in between your comments.”

He unfurled his legs and stood abruptly.

“It’s that, isn’t it? The flower field? Letting you find your way back here?”

His whispers didn’t slither into other tents. She stood courageously on her ground and didn’t move when he began to pace towards her.

“What else would it be?”

His distance was a yard, keeping the veil of boundaries over her.

“Responsibilities mounting, sacrifices climbing.” He admitted, arms cross behind his back. The sun showed itself from the veil of the earth like a spectre and if she wasn’t in the pot of her feelings then her breath would’ve been taken away. And it wouldn’t have been a sunrise that would’ve taken it.

“Are you okay, Griffith? Tell me what is going on.” She asked and his eyes slightly widened before settling into a gentle expression.

“Does it truly matter? I should be asking you the same.”

“...Why did you make me walk back?” With a bitten lip, he thought. It was a bad habit considering her gaze would flicker to them only for confused feelings to whirl. Azure eyes furrow before he sighed.

“Because I attempted to offer you to the camp, and you declined. You told me to fuck off. I wasn’t going to run off after you after what... had occurred. I figured you needed the space. I wasn’t going to leave you to your devices. If you hadn’t returned to your tent, I would’ve gone looking after you. If you are truly exhausted, by all means, stay here and avoid the raid.”

“I’m not that tired. Though, you waved that around to the ignorance of everyone yesterday?"

“I thought... it would provoke you to speak to me, even if you were angry.” And then he glanced at his knife again, likely trying to avoid her eyes.

“I apologize.” The sword master's tightly held posture relaxed. There were paradoxes she couldn’t fully understand.

“Do you? Really?” Her gaze settled into him and his shoulders shuddered.

“Yes. I felt I did too much yesterday. It was uncharacteristic of me- “

“Why did you do it?” She wanted all the pretenses thrown out. For that elusive fog between them gone like she wanted it gone from the day they met. This was confusing, putting her in a spiral. There was an intensity that grew so much it threatened to coat her in confusion again.

“I was frustrated.” His mouth paused before opening to say more, “We are like a lopsided painting and the more I tilt it one way, the more it looks skewed. It never feels... correct.”

What did correct even mean to him? To her it meant what they’ve always been.

“What do you mean?” A step closer and he appeared to hide within himself. A tinge of fear settled in her that sparked wildfire and without her realizing she was taking shorter breaths. Griffith perceived this and abruptly she felt the smooth balm of his palm brushing against her arm.

“Calm.” He gently pulled her closer for her to hear the entirety of his whispers. “You are crucial. Do not doubt that. But to say I fully know in what way, would be a lie.” The pad of his thumb rubbed circles onto the skin of her arm and the air began to thicken. A flicker of her nod and he sifts his hand away, garnering her space.

“Confusion isn’t a comfortable feeling, you know.” The swordswoman kicked at the dirt.

“Was it less confusing when we were younger? Sharing tents, telling each other stories? Was it better when we did those things?”

He asked and she expected a grin in jest, but it never came. The camp stirred alive underneath tents and with it came the requiem of their conversation. Yawns gave sunset to the solace of dawn. The words over her tongue melted and eyes skimmed conspiratorially over the shifting behind white, beige fabric. Corkus slipped out from his tent. Helmet between forearm and side, brow quirking to the scene that held Griffith and the swordswoman. Shoulders stiffen before she abruptly turned for her tent.

Griffith’s words were left unanswered when she went to her tent for her armor. They didn’t race that morning. In fact, her eyes fell dry in contemplation over the spirals in bark after she had strapped her armor on, ready for the night raid to begin. The sky was orange, farewell playing for the sun. Griffith was on his white steed, speaking in one last assurance of the plan for the night. It was an attempt to save more lives, but she couldn’t simply listen. Not while the events eddied in her head like a vortex to no end.

“You listening?”

A rustle came to her shoulder and Rickert grinned at her to get her to pay attention. More like saving her life. The hint of frustration she held for him faded when she saw his young face hidden behind what seemed like tin. It wasn’t like he was malevolent. She just wished he knew more to understand the small things that hid in plain sight. Lips curled back at him in assurance, and she looked over at Griffith hiding behind the band.

When their horses moved in unison was when she was under observation again. Her mind on autopilot as she guided the reins in her hands to follow up hills and paths. Rickert had kept his horse’s pace matching hers.

“You don’t need to do that.” She scoffed, reading the young mercenary immediately for what he was doing. “You don’t seem at all focused.”

He grumbled as he focused to the line of horseman in front of them. Griffith in front, turned away in silence.

“I’m focused. I’m just in thought.” A sigh and a corner of her lip curled. “Who said you were the leader, anyhow?” She changed the subject in the form of a jest instead of directly answering him.

“Making sure a friend is safe doesn’t require so. You skipped out on the strategy meeting.” What nearly came from the sword woman’s mouth was a seething recall of yester events, but instead she simply regarded him with an arched brow.

“Yeah, well it wasn’t necessarily my fault- it was honestly a long way back.” She wasn’t going to admit more than that. Rickert gave her a quizzical stare before putting his awareness ahead. Armor clacks as everyone marched to the drum of the hooves in front of them before Griffith’s steed stopped, it’s silver tail flicking before turning. There was a directive already in mind.

“Casca, reinforce the northern flank. Guts, The east. Judeau, take the archers into the trees, watch for the exit points specifically- if we need help on either side, you help.” Almost in unison they nodded to Griffith’s words, the swordsman stood carefully awaiting orders only to be washed by a brush of indifference it seemed. Until the very end.

"You will secure the northern front along with Casca- I'm counting on you to clear out that flank." Horses parted between his words to catch her. She silently nodded.

"Alright, lets disband quickly." He barked. The swordsman was a shadow behind Casca in a long stretch in the darkness framed by evergreen as they quietly paced on foot.

"We must remain stealthy as we go, unless we want to be killed on the spot." Casca's mutter travelled to the silent party. Each step was a risk.

The forest breathed with the rustle of chainmail and held breaths. Moonlight carved silver veins through the canopy as Casca signaled the unit to halt, her hand slicing downward like a blade. The sword maiden’s fingers flexed around her hilt, the memory of Griffith’s thumb against her lip dissolving as palls slipped over pine and grass. A sentry’s helmet gleamed

“Two scouts. You take the left.” Casca nearly mouthed.

The sword maiden's body moved before she could be pulled back into the sarcophagus of her thoughts. Her sword slid free without sound, boots crushing damp moss as she closed the distance. The scout turned too late- her blade split his throat before his cry could birth itself. Blood pattered the ferns like rain. Casca’s kill was cleaner, her dagger hilt-deep in the second man’s eye.

“Distractible tonight,” Casca muttered, wiping her blade on the corpse’s cloak. “Eyes forward.”

The woman's sword arm burned. Three soldiers lay at her feet, a fourth circling. Adrenaline sharpened his snarl, the stink of his fear. She feinted left; And he took the bate. Her pommel smashed his temple, and he crumpled, it was cry from the enemy that rang out like a siren. Men approached the top walls like crows perching down, silhouette arched bows wavering as they began to point in sync. The raid unfolded like a bloodied tapestry beneath the moon’s cool gaze. Griffith’s strategy had severed the enemy’s ranks with meticulousness- flanking maneuvers, feigned retreats, chaos sown in the soil beneath them like poisoned vines. Yet Griffith’s gaze strayed too often to the whirlwind of steel and fury that was her.

She fought as she always did: relentless, elegant, a storm contained in human form.

“Hold the eastern flank!”

Griffith barked at Guts, who grunted in acknowledgment, his dragon-slayer hewing through armored bodies like wheat. Casca’s voice rang closely, rallying troops. Griffith’s attention snagged again on the swordswoman as she lunged into a knot of spearmen. Her armor flashed crimson in the torchlight, her movements, something he’d learn but could never surmise.

Too far. She’d pushed beyond the vanguard, chasing a retreating captain. Gloves tightened on reins.

“Judeau!” His voice sliced through the din. “Reinforce the north- now.”

The archer nodded, already losing arrows into the fray. Though, Griffith’s stallion was already pivoting, galloping towards her recklessness. A blade skimmed her side, a speckle of crimson cried from the torn hull, and something white-hot lanced through his chest. She chased pavements, hooves raining in the weather of sound as she narrowed her focus. Adrenaline was what gated her pain and suddenly a sword flashed behind her. An enemy’s head fell like a turnip as Griffith came into view.

“Retreat.” He hissed through his helmet.

A careless laugh sounded in response, “Hesitating in battle? A shock. This is getting started” She sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She suddenly lurched back avoiding a swipe of a mace. “He’s dead today. I’m not letting that go.”

Gem eyes hardened and he didn’t argue. He couldn’t. Swiftly, she was pulled up onto a horse before an axe came down to split the phantom of her that lingered in the air. Legs slip over his, chest to chest, pressed against him, alive. Her breath warmed his helmet as she looked into his eyes before she swiftly squirmed.

“You fool.” What came out from him was venom as she stilled knowing a fight between them now would get them killed.

“I can get back in the fight-“

“You’re too reckless,” He said quickly, ignoring her sharp inhale. “Corkus, hold the eastern line!”

He yelled to the passing rider, his steed whipping to the flick of his wrist to take cover behind a wall. Gashed bodies were trampled as the horse darted. When bricks colored her vision, fury exploded in her.

“Stop, I can fight-” The maiden rasped, pushing him to stop the horse. By her wrist, she was pulled from his horse along with him she yelped when the expectant land on her feet was instead a haphazard stumble, and she found herself gently splayed onto the patch of grass where arrows whizzed just around the corner. She thrashed, fingers scrambling on vambrace.

A tare shrieked as he quickly balled his wrenched surcoat.

“Stop!”

He caught her wrists, pinning them with a grip as iron as his will.

“…When your head is missing out of the battle, I knew I should’ve left you behind when you were studying bark more than my orders!”

A stinging pain made her shriek only for her gaze to snap to the pulsing source of torture. A stuttered gasp found her when she saw that gash that had torn through her armor like parchment. She hadn’t even noticed in the heat of battle that a sword had nabbed her. Her eyes came down to see crimson creep on the white of the threaded border.

“You’ll bleed out by morning. Stay still.”

Words died as she grew lightheaded. The iron shell over her head tinkled against his metal shoulder while he aimed on keeping as much pressure against her side. She watched while fingers tremble before they jerk to remove the rest of his cape.

“But the battle..”

“To hell with the battle,”

A growl thundered as his panic began to grow when blood began to drip from the fabric.

“It’s not enough. Its deeper than it looks… keep pressure. Here.” His palms press over hers to the source of the junction.

“You didn’t seem all too concerned when I had to walk back.”

Jaw gnawed underneath his falcon helmet.

“Enough.”

Words cracked like a whip. He stood abruptly, scanning the tree line.

“Judeau!” He called and the archer’s silhouette flickered in the budding fire’s light. Judeau’s grasp over the wood of his bow and arrow loosened as he stumbled down quickly. “Escort her to the rear camp. If she collapses, hold onto her on the horse.”

The archer's usual levity vanished.

“Aye, Captain.”

She held her gash tighter. His gaze traveled to hers while his lashes hid them from the moon.

“You’ll survive this. I swear it.”

Griffith whispered before his figure faded into the darkness of battle while Judeau gathered his steed to help her onto. Slumped against his back, writhing as she held pressure to her gash, the field before them looked like the 7th circle of hell. The men, their men- dying in flocks. She felt ashamed being on the horse, hearing their cries. Weary eyes glared at stars in frustration as the echoes of steel clinking grew into faint whispers.

[ghoulodont]

Sapwood

Mushy May 2024 — (shut up) I'm taking care of you. Dewdrop lets Rain past the surface, if only a little. Set after β-Lactam.

Relationship: Raindrop Characters: Dewdrop, Rain Words: 3.3k

Sickfic, Pre-relationship, tour bus lore

Mushy May prompts by @forlorn-crows

Read below or on AO3

Between the bus moving and people moving, getting in and out of their bunks, shuffling past each other in the narrow hallway, it’s never completely quiet at night — the white noise from the engine and the wheels can’t mask everything, and the heavy blackout curtain that separates each individual bunk from the common space only attenuates so much. Currently, someone just past said curtain seems to be wrestling with an inanimate object, a brief but violent crash filtering in through the thick fabric.

Rain rolls over in his bunk, turning away from the sound. He should be sympathetic, of course, as he has no doubt been the source of noise at night too, dropping things or tripping over an errant shoe on the floor, but the longer the tour goes on the more he yearns for his own very private bedroom at the ministry, with its cherished door and coveted lock. The occasional hotel room is a far cry from that luxury. Whoever makes noise is an enemy right now.

But then that same someone swears quietly, and it’s definitely Dewdrop.

Rain hasn’t seen him since he retreated into his bunk soon after the two of them got on the bus, nor has he gotten any messages from him, despite the offer to bring him anything he needed — an interaction that churns endlessly in Rain’s head, urging him to cringe at what now feels like an overbearing intrusion.

The best course of action is surely to curl up into the tightest ball he possibly can so that the memory can no longer worm its way inside. Dew is probably fine. That might not have been him, anyway. It might not have been anyone — a trick of his tired mind, just his imagination. It might have been a coincidence. Things fall over on the bus all the time.

Outside, the distinct clunk of the door between the bunk compartment and the front lounge closing brings his thoughts to a simmer again. Maybe Dew is not fine. Maybe he should be asking for help, and he’s not. It wouldn’t be a surprise, really.

Eventually, the worry sinks its claws deep enough to spur Rain to action. He pulls back his curtain and peeks out. Dew isn’t in the hallway, nor is he in his bunk — its curtain has been left halfway pulled back, the space beyond it in profound disarray.

Rain slips out of his bunk and makes his way to the front lounge door. He stands there in the rocking darkness, listening carefully. Nothing of note emerges from the tangle of overlaid background noises, the hum of the air conditioning unit on the ceiling draping him in waves of cool air, the drone of the engine churning somewhere behind him, the whine of the wheels beneath the floor gripping the pavement.

It could have been nothing, no one. The possibility that it wasn’t keeps him standing there. It pushes him to open the door to the front lounge.

Dew is there on one of the couches, wrapped in the standard-issue blanket from his bunk. His head snaps up to look toward the door as Rain steps through and wordlessly pulls it closed.

When Rain continues toward the couch, Dew pulls the edge of the blanket up over his nose and mouth. “What are you doing?” His voice is a forced whisper muffled by fabric. “Go back to sleep.”

Rain isn’t deterred. When he sits down next to him, the leather of the couch creaking, Dew sinks a little further into his blanket like a turtle. His eyebrows furrow slightly. Below them, his pupils are wide in the dim light.

“I think if you’re going to get me sick it’s probably already happened,” Rain says.

Dew hums, ambivalent, but he lets the blanket fall away from his face, revealing a dejected frown.

“Why are you out here?” Rain keeps his voice low, presses gently.

“Can’t sleep. And I’m cold.”

Rain frowns. He reaches a cautious hand towards Dew’s forehead, slowly enough that it’s a request.

Dew doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move at all, apart from his eyes fluttering closed.

“You’re really warm,” Rain says, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he really has a chance to think about them. The skin under his fingers is as hot as the last time he felt it, a startling, uncomfortable heat, like the stones of the path in the cloister after baking for hours in the summer sun.

“Well, I feel really cold.”

As Rain lets his hand fall to his side, Dew’s eyes slide open like they were never shut.

“My throat hurts. And my —” He shakes his head. “Everything hurts.” He pulls the blanket a little tighter around himself.

“Can I make you some tea? Maybe it would help?”

“Maybe,” he muses, gaze fixed out the window, through the streetlights that endlessly slip past, spires against a sky beginning to brighten at the horizon. Then, more decisively, “I can do it.”

“Let me do it,” Rain offers, one hand firm against Dew’s blanket, stilling the sluggish motion that stirs underneath it, pushing back against his attempt at stubborn self-sufficiency before it can gain any traction.

Dew sinks back against the couch.

A few steps away, Rain pours water into an electric kettle, a cheap plastic thing picked up at some labyrinthian superstore on the first day of the tour. It’s one of several similar appliances in this space that qualifies as their kitchen, barely four feet of counter space and a diminutive stainless steel sink. He settles it onto its base between a weathered coffee maker and a toaster with a penchant for thermal destruction, and sets it to boil.

He turns to Dew, whose eyes are now downcast and unfocused. “I’ll be right back,” Rain assures him. He holds a cautious stay right there on his tongue, a don’t get up, like Dew will jump out the window, will be running down the highway if he turns his back.

All he can do is tell himself that won’t happen, that he hasn’t pushed so hard as to make asphalt and gravel preferable over his ministrations. The door laments a low creak as he pulls it open, then closed behind him.

The front lounge is dimly lit, but the bunk compartment is truly dark, windowless, like a narrow rock passage in the depths of a cave. Rain reaches into the familiar space of his bunk before his eyes have a chance to adjust.

He braces one hand against the bunk above it when the bus hits a bump, the whole hallway tipping gently to one side and back, counterbalancing before returning to upright. He peels a blanket from where it’s still tucked under the far side of the mattress, trying his best to make as little noise as possible.

The fleece fabric is soft under his fingers, the same as when he reached out and touched it absentmindedly when he walked past it at the store — plush but lightweight, not too thick. It was the second day of the tour and they were picking up all the items they had forgotten to buy on the first day, odds and ends, things they only realized they needed after spending time without them. It was the same store too, albeit in a different city; the layout was similar enough that it felt like they had been there before.

Rain gathers the blanket in his arms. The smiling green frogs printed on it appear in the darkness to be indistinct gray blobs. A gentle snore filters through the curtain of one of the bunks behind him.

When he returns to the front lounge, the kettle has begun its characteristic quiet roar, another layer of white noise shrouding the already heavy space. It expands and fills every corner, enveloping them, and, maybe, just barely, pushing them closer together.

The central item of bedding provided for each person on the bus is a fluffy comforter. In the small space of the bunk its volume is satisfying, an ample sort of nest-making material, but it’s not quite as thick as it looks, or as warm. Dew has it wrapped around himself like he’s preparing to endure a harsh winter, pulled tight, his body huddled in the center. Rain drapes his blanket on top.

Dew looks on, his brows furrowed again. “This is your blanket.”

“It is.”

“You’ll be cold.”

“No, it’s okay, I have another one.” This is true, technically, if you include the comforter still in his bunk.

Behind him, the kettle clicks as it reaches a boil, and the accompanying sound of bubbles leaping forth from the heat quickly drops off. The void left in the atmosphere is a nudge toward the task he’s deviated from; he took advantage of the idle time it offered and now it’s outpaced him, left him behind.

He returns to the kitchen with intent, an objective in mind. He picks through one disorganized cabinet until he finds what he’s looking for. As he extricates the cardboard box from the surrounding mess, he doesn’t expect to hear Dew’s hushed voice again, commenting on it.

“Are you stealing stuff from Cumulus?”

Rain glances down at the box in his hand, and at the big fluffy cloud doodled on it in black marker. He is, indeed, stealing from Cumulus, and is perfectly aware he is doing so.

“She won’t mind.” It’s half an assertion and half a prayer. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, at least in this situation.

Dew’s face remains painted in worry at the prospect. He’s digging his heels in against this situation, this offer of support, and providing endless excuses and detours, whether he realizes it or not.

“Really, let me take care of you. Don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with it.”

Somehow, that’s enough for Dew, who doesn’t push any further. He tucks his chin into the mass of blankets around him.

Rain plucks a teabag from the box and unwraps it from its paper packet. He places it in a cup from the stack of them in the cabinet, then pours hot water into the cup. The teabag blooms gold against the white of the waxy laminated paper inside.

He finds himself opening the cabinet again without a clear reason, occupying himself while the tea steeps. Does it need something else? There’s a bottle of honey next to the cups — it feels like an appropriate addition. It all but vanishes as it streams into the deepening tea, the two substances the same color.

He holds one hand loosely around the cup as he works, wary of the precariousness of an open container on a moving vehicle. The liquid inside billows with steam. It smells medicinal, maybe a bit spicy, like gingerbread and something else he can’t place. The teabag jostles around awkwardly as he stirs it, caught in the vortex created by a plastic spoon from a box in a nearby drawer.

When he turns around, cup in hand, Dew has his eyes closed again. Rain pauses — it would be counterproductive to wake him, after all — but his eyes snap open in the pressing stillness, like he can somehow feel Rain’s gaze linger on him, brush over his face like a gentle hand.

Rain offers him the cup. He has to unravel his blanket cocoon just a bit to free a single hand with which to accept it. Rain stands there in front of him, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. The bus rattles; his knees absorb the movement.

Dew raises the cup to his mouth and takes a tiny sip. Rain doesn’t miss the brief grimace, quickly masked away, as he swallows.

“How is it?”

“It’s really sweet.”

“I put honey in it.” Suddenly that feels like it might actually have been the wrong decision — like maybe all of this was a mistake.

Dew doesn’t say anything. He takes another tiny sip.

“Is it okay?”

“It’s good,” Dew says. And, not as an afterthought, but as a cautious confession, “thanks.”

There’s only a moment of relative silence between them, of stillness, before Rain succumbs to the anxious call of the kitchen again, a ward against helplessness. He pulls open the drawer where they keep their hodgepodge of medicines and first aid supplies. He selects a bottle of garishly red liquid and holds it up for Dew’s regard.

“Do you want this?”

Dew stares at him vacantly.

“To help you sleep,” Rain clarifies. He turns the bottle around and looks at the label on the front, where the ingredients are listed. Then, carefully feigning ignorance, like he hadn’t recently spent his evening scrolling through search engine results on this very topic, “I think it might help with your throat too.”

Dew wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know, isn’t it late? When is soundcheck tomorrow?” His phone lays discarded on the couch next to him; its screen glows when he turns it on, a pale torch illuminating his hovering fingers.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rain soothes, another half-prayer, something else to figure out later. “It’s going to get taken care of.”

Dew’s phone screen dims. He tucks his free hand back under his blanket.

Rain turns the bottle around and lifts it closer to his face. He blinks at the small text on the back of it. The measuring cup mentioned in the dosing instructions must have been misplaced at some point, or maybe just discarded — an image of Cirrus taking a gulp straight from the bottle drifts through his mind.

He turns back towards the kitchen and begins to browse through drawers and shelves, pulling less familiar cabinet doors open slowly in case their contents are poised spill out, having shifted in transit. There’s a shot glass above the sink, sturdy and emblazoned with the cheerful logo of the gas station chain it was purchased at — places that all seem to blur together at this point, but this one was memorable enough to warrant a souvenir. It’s close enough to the right size, considering the other options available.

He pours an honest approximation of the listed dosage into the shot glass, maybe a two-thirds of its volume or so — it’s hard to tell given the tapered shape. The liquid inside sloshes gently with the movement of the bus, leaving a stained-glass ring around the inner perimeter, tinting wherever it touches with its cloying hue. He holds it out to Dew, who untangles his other hand.

Solemnly and without ceremony, Dew leans his head back and tips the contents of the glass into his mouth. When he returns upright, a particular kind of panic washes over his face that has Rain scrambling to find something for him to throw up into, but it quickly passes. He sips from the cup in his other hand, grimaces, and takes a deliberate breath. He passes the empty shot glass back to Rain.

Rain places it in the sink — washing dishes feels like the least important thing in the world right now. Instead, he returns to the couch. He sits down again, but doesn’t say anything.

“You can go back to sleep,” Dew says. “If you want.”

Rain pauses with words on his tongue again, words that might come from somewhere too deep, too close to his heart, and reveal a little too much, too directly. “It’s okay,” he assures, sufficiently vague.

Dew shifts under his blankets. He’s staring into the cup of tea, which he’s holding up to his face, near his mouth — for warmth, maybe, but it almost looks like he’s trying to hide behind it. “This is all so fucking stupid. And embarrassing.”

“I’m sorry.” Rain looks away, down at his own hands folded in his lap. “I’m not judging you.”

“I know.”

His heart lifts at the tiny spark of validation that response ignites, once he processes it.

Dew sets the half-full cup on the table next to him. Carefully, he lifts one edge of the blanket and places it over Rain’s lap, or at least as far as it will reach — it’s not quite big enough for both of them. Then, he leans back and closes his eyes.

Rain’s mind spins in place, rotating around a single thought. It’s a question answered, at least — neither of them found the words to admit it, but Dew’s actions said all they needed to say.

It’s a decision made, as well. He can’t get up now, so he closes his eyes too and lets the bus carry them forward.

—

Rain jolts awake to something flopping onto his lap and a startled rush of adrenaline.

The something is Dew’s limp, sleep-heavy arm. The events that brought the two of them here, into this situation, rush back into his mind, a turbulent wash of fragmented memories that settle into a still pool of reality. He blinks hard. Mid-morning sun filters through the bus windows.

Dew’s head lolls to one side, lips parted and brows pinched together. Sweat beads on his brow, darkens his hairline. His cheeks are red, the flush oozing down toward his neck. He groans quietly.

Rain’s heart thumps — this situation is in stark contrast with the calm he fell asleep to. He grabs Dew’s haphazard tangle of blankets and lifts them away, gathering them into a big ball in his arms. He tosses them aside on the couch.

Dew huffs. He retracts his arm from Rain’s lap and tucks it tight against his own body. He rolls his shoulders forward, tips his chin down, like he’s trying to curl in on himself.

Rain separates his extra blanket from Dew’s comforter with a few gentle shakes. As the ball of bedding unravels, the comforter flops onto the floor. He drapes the thinner blanket over Dew’s body, pulling it up over his shoulders and down across his legs.

After a few anxious moments, Dew seems to relax a bit. His head sinks back, wrapped arms loosen from his torso. Still, tension remains in his forehead and jaw. The length of his nose glistens with sweat.

The best Rain can provide is a paper towel wet with the lukewarm water at the kitchen sink. Next to him on the couch, the sides of their thighs pressed together through fuzzy frog-print fabric, he sponges Dew’s forehead with delicate touches. It feels inadequate, rough, but it’s what he has available here in this wasteland of single-use disposable products.

Dew sighs, and Rain can feel his hot breath against his wrist.

When the paper towel starts to become too warm he tosses it onto the nearby table, where it lands with a sad, soggy sound. He can throw it away later.

Dew shifts again. His arm rolls — gently, this time — out from under the blanket and comes to a stop resting against Rain’s thigh.

Absentmindedly, Rain traces one finger over a raised vein on the back of Dew’s hand. When he moves, a little twitch of his index finger, Rain freezes in place. An anticipatory wave of shame rolls over him, of panic, his mind completely blank as he searches for an excuse for this behavior, but Dew doesn’t stir any further. His eyes dart back and forth behind his eyelids, some dream holding him in the realm of sleep.

Rain continues following the lines and contours of his hand, a prominent bone at his wrist, a tendon cresting the knuckle of his index finger. He lets his shame abate, but not completely, keeping himself on alert. Based on the light outside, the others will be awake soon — maybe already are. The calm here feels crystalline, liable to shatter at any moment.

As if in response to his wariness, the door to the bunk compartment opens. Rain pulls his hand away, composes himself, prepares to justify why he’s here and what he’s doing. He sweeps away thoughts he doesn’t want to explain, as if someone might peer into his head and see them. Nevertheless, in a corner of his mind, the same thought keeps spinning over and over, impossible to ignore.

[hitmyvape]

In his study of the form that masochism takes in modern man, Theodor Reik puts forth an interesting view. Masochism is more widespread than we realize because it takes an attenuated form. The basic dynamism is as follows; a human being sees something bad which is coming as inevitable. There is no way he can halt the process; he is helpless. This sense of helplessness generates a need to gain some control over the impending pain—any kind of control will do. This makes sense; the subjective feeling of helplessness is more painful than the impending misery. So the person seizes control over the situation in the only way open to him: he connives to bring on the impending misery; he hastens it. This activity on his part promotes the false impression that he enjoys pain. Not so. It is simply that he cannot any longer endure the helplessness or the supposed helplessness. But in the process of gaining control over the inevitable misery he becomes, automatically, anhedonic (which means being unable or unwilling to enjoy pleasure). Anhedonia sets in stealthily. Over the years it takes control of him. For example, he learns to defer gratification; this is a step in the dismal process of anhedonia. In learning to defer gratification he experiences a sense of self-mastery; he has become stoic, disciplined; he does not give way to impulse. He has control. Control over himself in terms of his impulses and control over the external situation. He is a controlled and controlling person. Pretty soon he has branched out and is controlling other people, as part of the situation. He becomes a manipulator. Of course, he is not consciously aware of this; all he intends to do is lessen his own sense of impotence. But in his task of lessening this sense, he insidiously overpowers the freedom of others. Yet, he derives no pleasure from this, no positive pschological gain; all his gains are essentially negative. […]

In summary (as Fat would say), the modern day masochist does not enjoy pain; he simply can't stand being helpless. "Enjoying pain" is a semantic contradiction, as certain philosophers and psychologists have pointed out. "Pain" is defined as something that you experience as unpleasant. "Unpleasant" is defined as something you don't want. Try to define it otherwise and see where it gets you. "Enjoying pain" means "enjoying what you find unpleasant." Reik had the handle on the situation; he decoded the true dynamism of modern attenuated masochism ... and saw it spread out among almost all of us, in one form or another and to some degree. It has become a ubiquity.

🤯🤯🤯

from Valis

[your-dandy-king]

A Domestic Disturbance

( 1 , 2 )

The path back from Soult's camp to Duroc's domain is not a straight line. The spirit paths and leylines between worlds and dimensions rarely are. Ney rides Bessiere's turbulent wake as he pushes the limits of his endurance. This path takes them over soaring mountaintops covered with glaciers and snow, before plunging deep into abyssal underground caverns and through the artificial canyons between massive towers and minarets of a golden city in a vast desert.

Bessières barely notices it though. His mind is playing what he saw when Helene shared her memories over and over again.

He violated my home. He violated my child.

I will find him. And I will destroy him.

It will not be soon, but he can be patient. Very patient.

He senses his destination is soon, and casts himself off the leyline, exiting it with a forceful punch that echos a sonic boom. Below him is a familiar lake and familiar woods. And there by the shoreline, is a familiar house. But it's a house that suddenly doesn't feel like a home, not any more.

He lets Ney drop from his wake and zips downward towards the house. He steps onto the green before the house, his form once more corporeal and solid. And he hears the faint attenuations in the air, the slight vibration. Duroc isn’t alone in the house.

What is this? he thinks.

And he'll walk in, to find his husband, his beloved @askgeraudduroc and @commandant-des-traitres seated at the same table he's shared with his loves and his daughter. They seem to be sharing a meal at a table with so many good memories for Bessières, and now it’s been violated and despoiled by another unwanted invasion of their house that was no longer a home.

"You," he spits with frosty calm at Marmont. Joachim told him about what Marmont has done, but Geraud pleaded with him. He’d given into Geraud’s pleas with extreme misgivings and reluctance. But he agreed so long as Marmont stayed away from the house. "Why are you here." It's distinctly not framed as a question, as his hand goes to his sword's hilt.

@le-brave-des-braves @murillo-enthusiast @askgeraudduroc @commandant-des-traitres