#but i finally acquiesced to them and just got used to them even though they make my gender dysphoria worse

[dhampir-dyke]

Oh my god I am never wearing women's jeans ever again

[ellecdc]

Hellooo, so I see you opened your requests 🥸 I am a new member of the The Marauders fandom and you have been my go to and all time favorite writer. First want to thank you for all the effort you must put in for us goblins. I am also very new to even really interacting on tumblr outside of the anonymous option. So hellooo! Any way onto the request if you ever feel like it, I get horrible migraines and to deal I tend to look really goofy with a compression cap and ice face mask on and during my recent episode I couldn’t help but think about how any of your lovey boys would react to their partner looking crazy with all that gear on 🙃. This is weirdly specific so ignore if it doesn’t sing for you. But thanks again for the art you share!❣️🌿

hi sweets! first of all: WELCOME TO THE MARAUDERS FANDOM!?!? please help yourself to any seat and don't hesitate to ask any questions you may have (there's a lot of complicated shipnames, canon vs. fanon theories to learn). second of all: OMG are you kidding me!? well thank you, that's quite an honour, but feel free to check out these authors I mentioned previously. thirdly: I love you little goblins 😭😭😭😭

also, since you didn't specify which marauders boy - I opted to give you all of the ones (that I write for) as headcanons 🫶

How various Marauders era boys would react to your migraine get-up

James Potter:

he'd open the door to the bedroom to find you laying there, prone in your pain

immediately "oh angel!!!!" causing you to wince in pain and shush him

he'd acquiesce but he'd whimper quietly as if your pain was causing him pain

he'd start flitting around the room: pulling the blackout curtains shut tightly, placing a glass of water and some pain meds beside you

you'd finally have to banish him from the room, though, on account of his various noises (poor dude couldn't manage silence if his life depended on it)

when you started to feel better, however, you'd take the sleep mask off but not the cap and head out to the living space to find James had closed every curtain in the whole flat, he had turned on a humidifier just on the off chance it helps relax you, and started a pot of tea for you

"I've got the hot pack here if you'd like me to warm it up for you?" he'd offer quietly, still looking particularly pained at your sorry state

"Can I just have a hug?" you'd ask pathetically and he'd coo (quietly) and embrace you gently as if you were about to break

"I'm sorry your partner looks so silly when you come home to them." you laughed, thinking about the ice/compression cap you were still wearing

"you've never looked more beautiful"

Sirius Black:

I believe he'd get very nervous to see someone in pain whether it be physically or mentally - but particularly a pain that was mental or internal (like a migraine vs a cut etc) because he wouldn't know how to fix it and he'd feel useless

He would whisper a cautious "hey baby" as he entered and move so slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible "what happened?"

he knows nothing happened, just that you're hurting: but again, he doesn't know how to fix this and he hates it

"What do you need?" he'd ask as he'd lie down cautiously beside you, itching to reach out but not knowing if it would be okay.

"Nothing." you'd mutter, and immediately feel bad for being short with him. "nothing, I'm sorry. just some time." you'd correct, reaching your hand tentatively across the space to touch his hand, which he'd quickly albeit gently take in his own

"okay." he'd say simply

you waited for the bed to move to signal his departure, but he never left.

he just laid there with your hand in his, watching you quietly

you wouldn't notice this in your state, but he was taking dramatic breaths for your benefit: deep breaths in, holding, and deep breaths out, silently encouraging you to align your breathing with his, which you did subconsciously

you'd wake up later in much the same way - him still on his side watching you (or perhaps he fell asleep too) and your hand still in his

he'd apologize to you as if your pain was somehow his fault, but it was because he felt helpless when you needed him

you'd thank him for his help and he'd relax immediately

Remus Lupin:

Remus is no friggen stranger to chronic pain and flare ups

he wouldn't even say anything, he'd just adjust his footing so he made as little noise as possible

he'd gently press a kiss to your shoulder, to make sure you knew he was here (though he knew with your head the way it was, you would have likely heard his keys all the way down the hall of the apartment building

he'd make himself busy in the flat - soup ready for when you woke up, tea ready to be brewed should you want some, lights off, curtains closed

he'd come by in a bit and quietly tell you to sit up, helping you replace your no longer cold ice mask and cap with new ones

you'd pathetically ask him if he would stay and he'd breathe out in relief because really - that's what he's wanted from the beginning

Regulus Black:

"what's this? what happened?" he'd ask urgently, thinking you'd been hurt or something

"sh! I have a migraine" you'd moan back.

he'd make a pitying tsk sound and make for you

totally babying behaviour "what do you need? do you want food? do you want more blankets? less blankets? a new watch? I'm going to order you a new watch"

you'd banish him from the room for the coddling and when you return to the living area later - he will be surrounded by bags because he had gone shopping and returned with the most ridiculous things: clothes, food, jewellery, blankets, pillows

"I didn't know what you might need." He'd say, slightly shy

"I needed a nap, Regulus." you'd laugh.

"well...you deserve all of this anyway."

and then he'd spend the rest of the evening doing low-impact stuff for your head. reading you a book quietly, gentle conversation, maybe run you a bath

bonus! Barty Crouch Jr:

"who did this?" he'd bark as he saw you in the fetal position with your gear on

"christ, Barty. please be quiet"

"what happened?" he'd demand, quieter but no less intense.

"I just have a migraine."

a switch would flip. he'd ready the room for you (curtains, quiet, water, pills, he'd set up a fan pointed at you.)

then he'd sit outside of the door to your flat and violently threaten anyone walking in the hallway if they make so much as a whisper of noise in this flats direction.

[trigunwritings]

Bad Habits (and Dutiful Husbands)

Rating: General

Relationships: Fem!Reader/Wolfwood/Vash

Summary: Vash and Wolfwood have to take care of a job, but their thoughts are still with their wife.

Written by @blood--hunter

Note: Reader is referred to as wife and uses she/her. Various pet names are also used through the writing.

The lighter sparked to life with only one flick. Wolfwood sighs in relief, lifting the small dancing flame to his cigarette as if it were as delicate as a butterfly. Just as he’s about to cup his hand—mostly out of habit— around the end, there is the sound of a gunshot.

In the same breath that the bullet meets his cigarette, Nicholas lets out a sigh. He had known it was going to happen, but it was still an annoyance that made his teeth grind.

“Seriously?” He asks, flickering dark eyes to the man walking towards him. Vash was dressed in his usual red coat as always, blond hair waving gently in the desert wind. “You couldn’t even let me have one drag?”

Though his gun was nowhere to be seen, Vash was the only one stupid enough to literally shoot something out of Nicholas D. Wolfwood’s mouth and not expect any consequences or accidental injuries.

“You heard the little lady.” Vash said, taking the final few steps to stand before his husband. “No more smoking. It’s bad for your lungs!”

Nick gnashed his teeth again, leaning against the large, cross-shaped gun that was behind him. Vash was, unfortunately, right. Their wife had strict orders for him not to smoke anymore largely out of concern for his health. He hadn’t the heart to tell her that his newfound powers would keep anything like cancer at bay, instead acquiescing to her and Vash’s whims than try to make the argument.

“Whatever,” He spits, turning his eyes to the ruined, ramshackle house before him. Within was hidden the Glass Gang, known for burning down any town they went through and turning the sand itself to glass in their wake. They preferred fire as their weapon of choice, and there was a bounty on them that could cover the bills for months. “At least I didn’t show up late.”

“Aw, c’mon, I just got a little held up.”

Wolfwood didn’t comment—with Vash, the excuse was probably literal.

He hoists his gun onto his shoulder, letting it sit there as he sauntered to the front door.

“Hey,” the man said, banging loudly at the door that held on by barely one hinge, “Come on out!”

“Could be a little more polite.” Vash sighs, but he stands there regardless, hovering over Nick’s shoulder like a worried hen.

Ever since they’d gotten married he had started doing that. He did it to their wife too, hovering, fidgetting, worrying about their health and how they felt. It was Vash’s way of showing how he cared, so Nick allowed it, and sometimes—only sometimes—he even found it cute. Their wife had told him that he needed to accept some things, like people caring about him, when they got married. Her words rang in his ears in moments like these.

It’s because he loves you, Wolfwood. Let him.

“Ain’t commin’ out!” A voice finally rings from inside.

He sighs. Sometimes he wished he’d just picked a different profession. Maybe being the town preacher would have been better, but it never really stuck and—if he were an honest man—he preferred sticking to Vash’s side. Otherwise, their wife would have done it and he didn’t think he could bare being the one at home taking care of things while she and their husband was out earning money.

Vash pipes up before Wolfwood can think of anything to say. “We have donuts!”

“Really?”

Nick raises a brow, looking to his husband. Vash is subtly shaking his head no.

So, it was a lie, then.

The voice inside responds all the same, “Then I guess I will!”

Nick has enough forethought to leap away from he door, grabbing Vash by the edge of his sleeve and hauling ass. Just as they get clear the slab of wood is kicked open— a burst of flames taking up the space where they had just stood.

Vash whines from beside them as they hit the sand. He looks over his shoulder to see a tall man—taller than even Vash— standing in the doorway. The gang-member held a huge flame thrower in his hands, complete with a large tank attached to the back of it, probably filled with some sort of fuel.

“What? No donuts for me!” The man says, a wide, hungry grin on his face, “Or are they all burnt?” Nick rolls his eyes but Vash chuckles, even if it is a little awkward.

“So,” His husband speaks from beside him as they both stand, dusting themselves off. “No way we can convince you to just turn yourselves in?”

“‘Fraid not.”

“Well, that stinks.” Vash sighs, “And here I told my wife that I wouldn’t get into any trouble today.”

“Our wife,” Wolfwood corrects, expression straight and unwavering.

The gang-member’s face crumples in confusion and discuss. “Your wife? What kind of woman would marry you two assholes?”

Nicholas lifts the punisher, taking aim for the tank of fuel, but Vash stops him with a firm hand on the end of his gun.

“Now, now, no need to go insulting us.”

The man chuckles. Nicholas’ frown deepens. One more stupid word and he was going to be eating lead.

“Nah, I won’t insult you anymore. But I am gonna make your little lady at home eat your ashes!”

He lifts his flame thrower. Vash dodges out of the way, rolling to the man’s side while Wolfwood goes the other way both of them are flanking him but as they get into position gun fire erupts from the house. The rest of the gang was joining the party.

Fine by him.

Wolfwood strafes with the weight of his weapon on his shoulder, letting bullets strip through the house’s walls. He knew Vash didn’t want anyone killed, and he didn’t want to disappoint his husband, but it was better to lay down covering fire and risk maiming someone than get killed themselves. Their wife would never forgive them if the both of them didn’t come back in one piece.

Vash, for his part, acclimates quickly to the new scenario and moves to be behind the large man. Unwilling to fire at—what seems to be—their boss, or to get hit themselves, the gang-members stop firing, probably to attempt to repossession themselves.

Their leader growls deep in the back of his throat, trying to swing around to set Vash ablaze but Wolfwood’s husband is too fast, and manages to stay behind him as he swings from side to side.

“Get back here you little freak!”

“No thanks! I don’t wanna end up roasted!”

“Fight fair damnit!”

“Nope!”

As the two of them continue to bicker, Wolfwood makes his way into the house. There are five other gang members and all of them are scrawny, hungry men who aren’t very hard to take down now that their cover is gone and their boss is preoccupied. After tying them up with rope as one big group he emerges from the house again.

Vash has his hands raised, a simpering smile on his face as the boss points the nozzle of his flame-thrower at the other man.

“Got you now!”

Wolfwood sighs, rolling his eyes. “When are you going to stop playing with him?”

The boss smiles wide, eyeing him. “What? So you want me to roast your husband right in front of your eyes!”

“Wasn’t talking to you.”

The man’s face crumples in confusion, but it’s Vash who speaks next. “Oh, I was just gonna let him get this out of his system first.”

With a click the gang-member attempts to light his weapon. Then another click. And another.

Click. Click. Click.

It’s only now that he realizes the tank of fuel is long gone, Vash having gotten rid of it long before Wolfwood even went into the house.

“W-What?!”

“Sorry buddy, couldn’t let you go around setting people on fire!”

Before the man can say anything more, he’s on the ground and his hands are tied behind his back.

Another long breath leaves Nicholas and he grabs for his cigarettes without thinking. He barely has time to put it in his mouth before a gunshot rings out, knocking it away once again.

“God damnit blondie!”

“Hey! Wifey’s orders!”

[marigold-hills]

Dunes & Waters, part 3

PART 1 • PREVIOUS PART • NEXT PART

They drink the tea. Remus sits at the small kitchen table, tries to fix the crossword. Sirius stays at the window, pointing out everything he sees and deems interesting. (That woman and her dog look identical. There’s a cat sitting on the boot of that car there, does it come every day? Think I could feed it some fish? I’ve heard there are a lot of strays in Egypt. Maybe if it’ll like me it will come inside.)

“I’ll need to go shopping today,” he says, finally, after having been ignored for the rest.

Remus has been given strict rules from the Ministry, and the first one is: don’t let the criminal out by himself. “Whatever for?” He asks because everything Black could possibly want is already in the apartment.

“Clothes.”

“You got clothes yesterday.”

“What, those things Shacklebolt had left? No way am I wearing those.”

There’s a scowl on his face, accentuating the sharpness of cheekbones.

“I’m not wasting money on your vanity, Black. Anyway, it seems like you managed to get yourself something,” he points to the white shirt, ignoring the way its sheerness offsets the tattoos.

“Like it?” Black hops off the windowsill, does a little shimmy. “I’ve transfigured the curtains.”

He must read the expression on Remus’ face correctly, because he adds, no remorse and full of mischief: “don’t worry, they’re the ones in my room. I prefer to have full access to morning light. And I have money, I’ll have you know. Don’t need you to buy me clothes.”

It’s a beautiful shirt. Looks delicate. Immaculately centred on Blacks collarbones and only showing the very outline of them. A tiny pattern of flowers on the cuffs.

“Fine,” Remus concedes, thinking he needs to get more cigarettes anyway. “We’ll get you more clothes before you rid us of all the soft furnishings.”

The smile Black gives him is both beautiful and so self-satisfied it renders the beauty frustrating. Remus wants to take back his acquiesce – he hates it, that he gave in. People like Black (beautiful, rich, connected) already get what they want too often. Remus vows, for his own sanity or for his own wicked amusement, to stand firm next time and say no. No to shopping, no to cigarettes, no to tea.

If time in jail didn’t teach Black not to take things for granted, then Remus will.

“Change that one back though. I’m not having the hotel bill the University just because you decided to play at a fashion designer.”

“You’re no fun, you know that?”

“I do, in fact. Lucky for me we’re not here for fun.”

“Right. This research you’re doing,” he says research so pointedly there is no need for quotation marks. Remus feels mocked. “Ever going to tell me what it is?”

“As Kingsley said: you’ll be told when you need to know.”

Black huffs, throws himself onto a chair opposite Remus. The way he moves is more than dignified: each careless turn is as fluent as water. Even with how thin he is now, and Remus imagines that’s the result of jail rather than a choice, Black is graceful. Fingers wrapped around a mug, ankles and long legs on display. Every delicate, breakable bone a sight people would pay to see.

NEXT PART

@tealeavesandtrash

@moon-girl88

@hoje--aqui

@cocoabutterandbooks

@onion-sliced-apples

@prancingpony42

(let me know if you do/don’t want to be tagged!)

[ellestray]

Burden.

Han x gender neutral reader. Angsty fluff. Implied idol!au. Friends to lovers. 826 words.

!! Very small implicit mention of depression.

Note: this is my first fic ever & i'm stepping out of my comfort zone by posting it- i hope you'll like it! i'd be very happy to take any constructive criticism :) also, english isn't my first language, so i apologise for any mistake. thank you for reading! & thank you to the wonderful, talented @astraystayyh for encouraging me and giving me advice 🤍

recommended playlist: from this place - John Pizzarelli there's no such thing as love. nevertheless, - Jeong Eun Park & Park Jungeun non è la fine - Yiruma

"Do you ever wonder how we got here?"

You don't really know if Han is thinking of your respective careers, or your bond that blurred the lines between simple comradeship and romance— but it doesn't matter. Your answer would've been the same anyway.

You acquiesce. "Yeah."

Frankly, he doesn't know what exactly he's asking you about either. It's too late to think about it, anyway. But in this moment, sitting down on the cold floor of the practice room, he can only feel the warmth radiating from your near body. Maybe this very moment is what he's inquiring about.

"It doesn't matter how we got here, honestly. I'm just glad we're here." You add, flashing him a smile in the reflection of the mirror facing you. Seeing this interaction from a third party perspective makes him smile as well. His friends were right; you do look good together.

Since when had your existence become so bright to him, who's so used to darkness? It's like the sun had graced him with its presence, letting him know that it'll be okay. It'll all be okay, as long as you shine.

He wasn't sure how to convey this to you, though.

You've both been fully aware what you have is more than a simple friendship. Lingering touches and long stares were your way of telling each other that you knew. Nonetheless, irrational fears have always kept you from speaking it out. You both are somewhat cynical, dreading the ultimate end before anything had even started.

But the serenity he feels in this moment helps him forget the end could even exist.

"Shouldn't we talk about it?"

This time, you know exactly what he's thinking of.

"I don't know. Should we? We're fine like this." You sigh quietly. You had always been scared of this moment coming, where he's made his mind up, lost patience, or just needs answers from you.

"I mean, we can't just keep playing games forever."

You frown, upset he'd take this lightly. "This isn't a game to me."

"I know, to me neither", he quickly answers. "But we're acting like it. We can't- I can't physically act like you're mine while verbally acting like we're nothing. It hurts."

"Jisung-" You try to interject, but promptly get interrupted.

"We push and pull as if we had an eternity ahead of us. Y/n, we can't wait for each other forever. Waiting always leads to something. There needs to be a moment where the wait stops, and you're finally faced with what you've been expecting."

You stay quiet. It happened a few times before- Han trying to let you know, or at least implying he needed more. He's never been so direct, though, fearing screwing things up by being too blunt. This is new.

"Just me saying this should be enough to halt the wait. I'm crossing the line." He continues, turning to face you, rather than your reflection. "But why does it feel like we're still stuck?"

You allow yourself to take a moment to think, and he lets you. He always does. Even with all this wait talk, he still remains patient. It's almost frustrating.

"You know there's a shit ton of things that are blockages. For... you and I." You look down, trying to internally deal with your nerves.

"Tell me what they are. We can just get rid of them together." His voice is so soft, so quiet it's painful.

We. Together. You might implode if he keeps referring to the both of you as a singular entity.

"There's our careers. We're both drowning in work. Besides, if we get caught, what will people say?"

"If we have time to be friends, we have time to be lovers. We can make time for each other like we always have."

Lovers. That hit you like a ton of bricks.

"And, 'besides', I don't recall you ever caring about people's opinions. You know I don't care either", he resumes. "What's really holding you back, y/n?"

Of course, he could see through you. There's absolutely no point in not being straightforward.

"It's just... Those feelings, they're so unique and overwhelming, it's like they're crushing me. I'm suffocating, I can't keep suppressing them— but I don't know how to deal with them, or how to express them. And, if I'm being honest, I genuinely don't think I'll be able to live if something happens to us because of how much I'm lacking."

"You can learn. That's what love is all about, growing and learning together."

Love. He said it.

"You don't get it, Ji. You deserve for love to be at your image. Loud, prideful, genuine. You deserve someone that will always make you feel as special as you are and.. deeply, intensely loved. I've never had to express those things, and I don't have much room to. I just don't know how to do that."

"Then let me. I'll carry the burden of expressing our feelings."

[lightwise]

TBB S3 E10 Reaction

Life has been a bit busier the last few weeks so I am finally catching up on my episode reactions (I’m determined to do all of them this season!) And I apologize y’all, this episode made me very snarky apparently.

I’ll be honest. When this episode first came out I was nowhere near as surprised by it or horrified by it as reviewers seemed to be. Nothing about Palpatine hunting down force sensitive children as experiments and using Cad Bane to do it is a surprise, and the Vault feels so much like Andor. But even on a rewatch this episode holds up so well and honestly just starts to give a cold chill under the skin as the quiet horror of it sinks in.

- Cute kid. And the Batch nowhere to be seen. This is going to be a different episode isn’t it

- Oh no. He’s force sensitive 😫😫😫 hmmm how could that possibly go wrong

- This is giving Andor vibes 👀

- It’s always interesting seeing “regular people” in Star Wars and little markets and how they’re just trying to go about their daily lives.

- Don’t go around snitching people! Nothing good ever comes of it!!!

- Yeah this guy is worse than Timm from Andor. Wtf dude. You’re turning in a baby!!

- Also is it just me or typical Star Wars “houses” end up being pretty dark and depressing?

- Wait okay okay. So this is the CX chamber. Why can’t we see any of them yet 😩😩 what is this red fog? What are these weird conditioning pods? What kind of armor is on this datapad?? *trying to crawl inside my screen* I NEED ANSWERS JENNIFER!!

- “Do you trust me?” Ooooh why do I think that’s going to come back around

- But also, babygirl, I don’t think you actually know what you’re signing up for

- “I could be more useful” “you wish to be the new chief scientist Dr. Karr?” “I believe I’ve earned it.” Alright. This. This is interesting. This fully encapsulates the dynamic that these two have shared. Emerie knows that Hemlock only values things that are useful, and probably only sees her own value in the light of what she can contribute, due to how she was raised and the circumstances she has been trapped in. Hemlock’s tone of voice implies that he has never considered her as being the new chief scientist, and yet he acquiesces quite quickly, almost as though he’s just too busy to think about it and if it means things are brought back up to production standard then he’s fine with it. His utter disregard for Emerie as an actual human and someone with merit is disgusting though.

- But I get it, the man’s busy, he’s got a lot of evil shit he’s trying to do all at the same time 🙄

- So we have “the assets”, which is the area that Hemlock took Palpatine in the first episodes, where the orange containment pods are and the zillo beast is being kept. We still don’t know what those assets are. The Vault is something different.

- Well. Shit. It’s Andor and Narkina 5 for kids. Lovely 😳💀

- “There are few adults left with such characteristics” I WONDER IN THE NAME OF ONE EMPEROR PALPATINE WHY

- Okay so this entire exchange is awful. The kids are so cute! Hemlock is so cold. “Specimens. Assets” ughhh Emerie what are you getting yourself into!!

- Is this the first time we’ve heard the word glasses in Star Wars?

- Oh no. So THIS is why Cad Bane was brought back 🥺🥺

- The score in this episode is perfectly eerie

- Lol Todo is not good with kids huh 🤣

- That poor mama when she wakes up and finds her baby is gone

- I hope that dude has his entire life flash before his eyes as he’s trying to pick all of those credits up

- “My name’s Eva” 🥹🥹🥹 Emerie has no idea how to handle this 😂

- I still wanna know what’s happened with these commandos. No way a clone of Jango Fett is able to look a child in the eyes, call them a “specimen” and not have even an ounce of remorse as they stun them point blank.

- “Jax?” And Eva just points. The power in knowing someone’s name vs a dehumanizing number

- It’s also interesting that these kids are species that are red, blue, and green, and when they get Bayrn in, he’s white. RGB colors make up white light when put together.

- The little peeks of Emerie’s backstory we keep getting are so interesting. She was abandoned by Nala Se. She knows that these children don’t belong here, the same way that Omega told both her and Crosshair that they didn’t belong here either. Nala Se says that the Empire will hold these kids to control them. Emerie feels like she has no power to do anything differently. So much to unpack here.

- Why is Tarkin’s holo so large?

- Lol I honestly love getting to see the backbiting politics of how the Empire functions. It’s so bad and so funny

- Also love that Project Necromancer is so secret that even Tarkin doesn’t know what it is. He’s so nosy

- Okay why does he bring up the CX schematic again and why is it so different than the one we saw earlier??

- Whoa Cid was tortured???

- “The other operatives aren’t ready to join you in the field” why????

- We’re visiting a lot of space stations this season

- Man I wish Emerie had fudged this test

- Nooo let the poor baby go home 🥺

- Oh and now we’re putting kids in solitary confinement. Great.

- C’mon Emerie. Keep clicking that moral compass until it points north

- She kept the straw Lula. She’s giving it to Eva 😭. There’s hope for her yet

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Girl Squad: Assemble!

So I was staying with my sister for a week in July, and the entire time I was there, she was trying to cram this book into my hands. I was super leery because I had read ACOWAR, but I finally acquiesced--mostly on the strength of the little bits of Nessian from ACOWAR that I had enjoyed.

Reader...

I was absolutely floored by this book. It was leaps and bounds better than ACOWAR, and I found Nesta a way more interesting protagonist than Feyre. I also appreciated that she and Cassian weren't perfect off the jump; everyone got to make mistakes and everyone got to figure it out. I also adored the girl squad Nesta built for herself. So let's talk A Court of Silver Flames.

Hi, hello, welcome. This is your SPOILER WARNING. Proceed at your own risk.

One kind of cannot exist in book fandom spaces on the internet without knowing that ACOSF is a polarizing book. People love and hate Nesta, and there are legitimate, evidence- and text-based reasons for both sides. If you found Nessian to be Satan's Power Couple, this is not the review for you, because while both Nesta and Cassian are flawed characters, I enjoyed the hell out of them and this is going to be largely positive--although there are a couple of things we need to talk about that are less glowingly positive. But overall, I liked Nesta, and I liked her relationships with Cassian and her girl squad.

In terms of structure and sentence-level writing, this book was surprising. SJM still does that thing where she uses words that don't make either connotative or denotative sense (seriously, if Cassian's fly has stays in it, then something is DEEPLY wrong), but the pacing and structure of the plot and character arcs felt smoother and more intentional than the entirety of ACOWAR did, and there was just straight up more plot per page than ACOTAR or ACOMAF had. There was also more sex--and I know this is somewhat controversial too, but I defend this by noting that part of Nesta's coping ability with her trauma was to go hypersexual, so having her relationship with Cassian be extremely physical made sense in terms of Nesta's character arc. She even had a little monologue about the difference between fucking and lovemaking that I thought was actually really good for Nesta. Being able to identify different needs and contexts--as well as their inherent fluidity--was real growth for her emotionally. In general, I wasn't bored by this book the way I was by ACOTAR and I wasn't going "WTAF is happening" like I was with ACOWAR. Getting away from Rhys and Feyre seems to have really set SJM up to write a story, not her favorite ship, and I think readers can really see the difference.

At this point, I want to shift into character group/ship headings, because that's the easiest way to address the disparate parts of this book.

Nessian

Nessian is my favorite ship in the ACOTAR books, because Nesta and Cassian are interesting characters to watch, and they're allowed to fuck up and fix things. For example, Nesta is kind of godawful at communicating and following directions. She full-on does not stay in the tree, and almost gets herself murdered to death by "kelpies." She does also find the mask, so she gets a bit of leeway, but she gives Cassian more than a few hear attacks because she's prickly but has a soft gooey center that she is often acting out to protect. She would literally cut her own nose off to spite her face before admitting that's what she's doing, but that's very much what is happening for her. And Cassian is smart enough to eventually figure out what Nesta is doing.

My favorite example of THAT is when Cassian puts together than Nesta pissed off Clotho specifically to get his ass in the library long enough to show off his teaching skills and methods to prove that he's a safe person to all the women in the library. He's literally walking out the door afterward when the penny drops and it's adorable. This isn't to say he never screws up, though.

He REALLY fucks up when Nesta spills the baby wings beans. Did we need to push Nesta to the point of literal physical collapse on that hike? No, no we did not. That was fucked up, my dude. But they do talk it out and they work through it. What they don't ever really work through is Cassian being in the worst possible position in the Nesta-Rhys relationship. Cassian is a murder himbo (affectionate). Off the battlefield, he's a cute slab of muscle with a single brain cell and a good heart. He is also deeply tied to Rhys in a way that is perhaps not entirely healthy, so he absolutely goes back and forth between putting Nesta first and putting Rhys first. Which is messy and uncomfortable and gets baby ex machina-ed at the end rather than actually sorted out. Like, the worst, most toxic part of the Nessian ship is Rhysand and the Inner Circle. And that never really gets resolved because Cass will never leave the Inner Circle, and Nesta is never going to be fully accepted in it.

Despite that, however, I do love that Cassian arrives at the point of trusting Nesta to the point where he trusts that she can girlboss HERSELF out of the Blood Rite. We all know that if that had been Feysand, Rhys would have broken every rule ever and hung the consequences. I love that Cassian is actually held to the rules and has to trust Nesta and his relationship with her and their (admittedly rocky) past to get her out of that situation alive. And she ultimately chooses him again and hauls his ass out of the fire too. They just complement each other well, and I enjoyed watching them negotiate the relationship--even if I missed the mate bond snapping into place entirely because what even WAS that writing, SJM???

I know that some fans criticize the pattern of "solve your depression and trauma with hiking and combat training" in the ACOTAR books, but I found that it made more sense for Nesta than it ever did for Feyre. Nesta has a deep desire for control and enough power not to feel helpless. She's also got a genuinely good sense of "the most good for the greatest number of people," and that plus her general boyfriend makes it make sense that she would end up reforming the Valkyries.

Nesta's Girl Squad

Which brings us nicely to Nesta's girl squad. I absolutely ADORE that Nesta goes out and finds friends outside the Inner Circle. Her relationship with the Inner Circle is toxic on a GOOD day, and they quite simply cannot support Nesta in the way she needs to be supported. So Nesta goes out and finds people who can and will.

Gwyn and Emerie are really fun characters, and the best parts of the girl squad for me were not so much the Valkyrie training (although I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy that) but the parts where the three reclaim the parts of girlhood and girl friendship that they were denied. They have a SLEEPOVER. They make plot-relevant FRIENDSHIP BRACELETS. They SHARE SMUTTY ROMANCE NOVELS and TALK ABOUT THEM. Literally this is the most wholesome relationship and it's a genuine treat to see Nesta form bonds outside of the fate of Prythian and her sister's complicated in-laws. This was probably the part of the book that I loved best (yeah, possibly even more than Nessian being Nessian), because we finally got away from the toxic sniping from Mor, the sheer evil of Ianthe and Amarantha, and the deeply fucked-up sibling relationship between Nesta and Feyre.

The girl squad just likes and supports each other.

That happens rarely enough in books that where there are strong, positive bonds among female characters, I always love it. Did Emerie and Gwyn get the amount and depth of development I'd have liked? No. Was that justified? Yeah, kind of. It was Nessian's book, it's a romance, and the fact that we even GOT a girl squad in a straight romance is a win as far as I'm concerned. Did it start as a trauma pack bond? Also yes, but like...that's just on-brand for ACOTAR, and at least Nesta's girl squad does the work of dealing with and processing their trauma.

*Side eyes the hundreds of years that Mor, Az, and Cass have been sidestepping around whatever the fuck their little triangle is*

The Feysand Thing and Nesta

Ok. I know why we had to have Feysand in this book. Plot reasons are a valid reason to include characters. That said...the pregnancy subplot was too stupid for words. It turns Rhysand--who I was already not enamored with after ACOWAR--into a patriarchal anti-choice asshole. It's Feyre's body, she gets to have 100% of the information about what it's doing and what her options are. And Rhys, dear, if you're too much of a coward to "take away Feyre's happiness" by telling her that giving birth is almost certain to kill her, make the healer do it. Yell, scream, and beat your chest, if that makes you feel better about it, but FOR FUCKS SAKE, tell her what's going on with the pregnancy. There was an opportunity to have a real conversation about abortion (because apparently C-sections aren't a thing in Velaris), but SJM didn't bother taking it. Instead we were stuck with a STUPIDLY overprotective and stressed Rhys. He is a massive dick to Nesta for this whole book, he's protective to the point of literal murder (which is not a good look), and frankly Nesta having to save his entire family's lives for him to stop literally wanting her dead feels...icky.

Also, I cannot not be on Amren's side over the stupid death pact that Feyre and Rhysand made. That was somehow EVEN STUPIDER than the pregnancy subplot, and uh...were I a citizen of Velaris, I would not be super happy with how the succession of the court is set up OR the fact that my 500-year-old High Lord thought that making a death pact with a 20-something who has a high-risk pregnancy was a good idea. Like...there are no brain cells at work here.

Nesta might not have had the best of intentions when she tells Feyre that Rhys has been lying to her and she's probably going to die, but like...FEYRE HAD A RIGHT TO KNOW. And If Rhys had balls, he'd have been the one to tell her or arrange for the healer to tell her.

Literally Nesta and Rhysand are never going to be friends, and that's FINE. But Nesta should not have to live with his bullshit.

Nesta and the House of Winds

Nesta has a pet magic house. It's amazing, I wouldn't change a thing.

The Stays Thing

There have been multiple posts about this on my blog, but of all the "words mean things" crimes SJM has committed in her books, the one that goes "Cassian's cock strained against the stays and buttons of his pants" is absolutely the worst one. For context, these are stays:

Stays are a boned support garment for the upper body that have historically been worn by people with breasts. I have no idea how you'd even BEGIN to put a pair of stays in the fly of a pair of pants, but if SJM meant that Cassian was straining against his own type of support garment, then the word she wanted was "jockstrap." She could even have gone with "cup" or "athletic supporter." Literally any word that describes a garment that keeps penises from flopping wildly about during physical exercise would have worked here, but nooooooo, we got "stays." I might actually be madder about this than I was about the use if "twist" in ACOWAR, because at least with that one, the word was in the ballpark.

Literally all my friends have heard this rant, but the winning response was from my sister who looked at me and went, "When I read it, I assumed they were the things that made his pants stays [sic] up."

Reader, she got the screech of rage she wanted from me with that response.

Nesta's Death Magic

Ok, I am so deeply conflicted about how Nesta's death magic was handled in the book. This idea had so much potential and some HELLA cool moments, but I can't say that I love that she gave up 99% of it at the end. I get why, and I even get that Nesta was probably more comfortable without the phenomenal cosmic powers, but the execution kind of felt like it was one more thing she had to surrender to not poke holes in Rhysand's fragile-ass ego. IDK, I'm conflicted, and your mileage may vary, but I didnt want to not mention the badass powers and Nesta's sheer force of will in controlling and directing it.

Overall though, I thoroughly enjoyed Nesta's book, and I would absolutely recommend reading this one. It's an SJM book, so you're getting a fair number of expected flaws with it, but in and around those flaws, there are interesting characters and a compelling story.

[woodsfae]

B5 s03e21 Shadow Dancing previous episode - table of contents

I see the next episode is called z'ha'dum (dang I have been mis-spelling that a dozen different ways) so the "z-minus" must be referring to that. This coming at the end of season 3 also affirms for me that Sheridan must survive z'ha'dum despite the prophecy of death. Some heart-stopped-but-he-survived pedantry. I still think Dr Franklin is going to be pivotal. But that's next episode! 

Delenn is speaking before the League of Aligned Worlds or whatever their acronym is. She and Lennier are wearing somber brown and green-grey, as opposed to their usual jewel-tones. Are they trying to dress down to fit in with the lower species? LOL. 

Delenn is asking for more ships than the individual worlds feel they can risk, and is promising that the Minbari are commiting considerable forces as well. 

The Shadows have been driving refugees into sector 83 for months, and Sheridan thinks an attack on the corralled population is imminent. 

It's funny, I used to think Marcus looked annoying but now I'm always so happy to see him. He seems to have recovered from Neroon beating his face in. 

THE PLAN: Ivanova and Marcus are going to sector 83, going completely dark, and are waiting for the Shadows to turn up. Then they're getting out ASAP without engaging them, at any cost. Presumably to summon the rest of the waiting forces that Delenn has just negotiated to be waiting. 

The League is acquiescing to Delenn's request and lending the alliance all their spare ships and then some. Ivanova is in command of the White Star with Marcus as her leal interpreter and they're off! I'm not sure if I think this is going to work, or if it's going to be a miscalculation and they're going to be in a really bad position coming into the season finale. 

"Sometimes people walk away because they want to be alone. Sometimes people walk away because they want to see if you'll folllow them into hell."

Uncharacteristically insightful for Garibaldi, but also, don't play those games. You can't walk yourself into hell on the slim chance that the person you're chasing is hoping to be caught. 

Guest Star Barbara is not making a good impression on me, but we are also shown that Stephen Franklin is looking a little less rough than in his last appearance. 

Z MINUS SIX DAYS

I'm absolutely positive that's counting down to Z'ha'dum now. 

Minbari beds are...not ideal. And it would be pretty strange to wake up to another person at a 45 degree angle staring you (or not) straight in the face. 

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met," says Marcus, then claims it's just a greeting. 

"It meants...my words are inadequate to the burden of my heart."

"That's an unusual greeting."

"They're an unusual people."

Fingers crossed that Susan will remember the pronounciation and repeat it to some unsuspecting Minbari man. 

Fingers also crossed that Susan never ever dates Marcus.

LOL the Minbari beds' feet tip up enough to be almost flat. And then some. asdfkljahf. So you can angle towards either bulkhead based on preference? hah.

Minbari continue to be hilariouly bizarre. Delenn shares a Minbari custom that, when a couple has been flirting as long as they have been, they spend three nights together while the man sleeps and the woman observes his sleeping face. If she likes it, cool. If not, they're finished. 

Stephen Franklin just tried to intervene in a mugging and got a gut-stab for his trouble. Perhaps this will be how he finally meets himself. 

Rough stuff. He's dragging himself along in bloody handprints to try to find help. 

I guess I'd say I've met myself through injuries, but the end result has been me fixing myself up the vast majority of the time, and I'm not even a doctor. Though granted, the injuries have never been a gut stab.

Susan has finally got comfortable, by stealing all the pillows from the beds to make a pallet, and immediately gets an urgent page to the bridge. That tracks!!

The White Star has picked up a signature that's probably-definitely a Shadow ship, and they've come out of the moon-shadow they've been hidden in at the same time. badadadadada tension! 

In the splotchlights Delenn brought Sheridan to keep track of the battles, it looks like Sheridan's going extremely grey. Stress grey. 

Dr Franklin is chillin in a pool of his own blood, chatting with a hallucination of himself. Finally! Space AA can come to a conclusion and Stephen's final form can appear. 

I like how the Shadows' ships move in space. It's quite unlike anything else I've seen. 

Ivanova is returning fire on the Shadows ship, despite the direct orders to escape and not engage for any reason. 

And a whole fleet of Shadows ships are coming into view! Dozens, perhaps even a hundred or more. 

"Well, who wants to live forever?" Ivanova says, and they send the signal to the rest of the fleet. I continue to like her more and more. 

Hmmm. Hallucination!Stephen is a lot harder on Stepehn than I think is fair. This is a really harsh internal dialogue. And uncomfortably relatable? But this kind of negative self-talk can be really improved by finding a good therapist. 

Ahh, so the Grey Council's dramatic spot-lighting has a practical effect! It's also a holographic war-room. Sheridan directs the Minbari telepaths to jam the Shadows' capital ships, and deploys the waiting fleet. They got the message! The White Star's backup is on the way. 

"Don't you go passing out on me - that's just another kind of running away."

I BARKED with laughter at that line. Internal!Stephen is a dick. 

Hmm in the war room lighting, Delenn also looks like she's going grey, so I'm not sure if it's a stress-grey thing or a lighting thing. 

The battle continues. The CGI has noticably improved from s01 and s02. 

The Minbari beds make more sense when they're full of telepaths at work than full of humans failing to fall asleep. 

It appears that the League fleet has driven off the Shadows, but the music and Delenn and Sheridan's mien is somber. Injured personel from the fleet are coming in at the same time as Franklin is getting medical attention. 

"We did ok. Not great, but ok," Sheridan says. Frame it as a victory!! As Ivanova points out, it's the first time they pulled together the League. And they drove them off!! 

Z MINUS 4 DAYS

Garibaldi watches Franklin sleep. I ought to write the fic I have floating around in my head where they get together and only inflict their emotional idiocy on each other.

Garibaldi: "Don't ever do this to me again."

Well that isn't a deterrent. to me.

Delenn is out of the brown-and-green and back into her jewel tones. 

Ivanova thinks the Shadows have been deliberately leaving Babylon 5 alone and hearing this, Sheridan has a flashback to his vision of Ivanova, with a raven on her shoulder, asking "Do you know who I am?" 

Working out the vision - Susan is a latent telepath and said (irl) she doesn't know who she is sometimes. Sheridan also saw himself in a PsiCorps uniform, and Ivanova again in all-black with a veil saying "yuou are the hand." I remember this, but it's handy that they're recapping this because I didn't remember the exact specifics. But they haven't figured out what they think it means. But they better hurry up because a Shadow vessel is in hyperspace going places to do things!

Franklin is the CMO again. Apparently. Unofficial up to the point that Sheridan walked in and offered it to him again. 

Stephen's personal revelations are good - it's important to know yourself. And I like that he's realized he's always defined himsef by what he isn't, and how that didn't serve him well. Psychologically speaking.

hmmm cute. Sheridan's sleeping, and Delenn's watching him with a little smile. And danger is afoot on b5, going by the ominous music and shots of various humans and aliens. Zack Allen wakes up Ivanova to tell her someone's coming on board.

SHERIDAN'S WIFE. fuck yeah

But now I have a new question, considering the multiple shots of a shadow shuttle flying around: is she herself, or is she a puppet of the Shadows? 

Z MINUS 2 DAYS

*definitely not making high pitched noises right now*

Who in the fuck gave Anna the codes to Sheridan's quarters? Like. She's been declared dead and everything. I blame Zack.

z'ha'dum alert

[dream-of-the-bitchless]

Happy Birthday Month!! May it be the most fantabulous of months. 💖💖

Could I humbly request a Corinthiel piece (shocker I know 😅) for you birthday prompts. It can be absolutely anything you desire.

Thanks for the nice wishes (: it was quite the month, that's for sure.

So, for you I decided to go for something a little different than the prompts I had suggested. I got inspired by Nightmare Country and figured why not expand on that a little? It is a tiny bit angsty, but it ends well. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I did writing it ^^

Madison Flynn licked her paw and proceeded to rub her face against it, leaving one eye open to watch the retreating form of the King of Dreams. To her left stood the Corinthian, hands in his pockets, his whole body turned towards his master. The line of his shoulders conveyed the anger that was brewing inside after both him and Flynn were forbidden from leaving the Dreaming to continue working on the case that had brought them together in the first place.

“So, that’s it? We just sit here and let those people continue as they were?” Flynn questioned, the fur on her back rising with discomfort.

“Pretty much. He’ll take care of the rest,” assured The Corinthian.

“And you’re okay with that?”

“What do you want me to do? You heard him. If I try anything, he’ll simply erase my memories.” The Corinthian’s eyes were obscured by his customary shades, yet the slump of his shoulders belied his true mood. “I’ll be left with nothing. Again.”

Flynn’s brow furrowed. She wasn’t used to seeing such openly displayed vulnerability in the Corinthian, although she’d always had the impression there was a lot of it under the surface. She hadn’t even noticed they’d spent an entire year together before Max pointed out the date of her death, but she couldn’t deny she had grown to understand the nightmare, perhaps even appreciate him. She was still angry at him, though.

“It was very arsehole-y of you to leave us to die at that office, you know?”

The Corinthian sighed. “For the last time. I did what I had to do to get what we needed. I had a plan to get you out of there. If anything, I left you at the safest place you could be.”

Flynn’s whiskers twitch, unamused. “Being with an ancient, murderous witch doesn’t sound very safe. But sure, can’t wait to hear what that amazing plan of yours entailed.”

“There’s no need for it anymore, so you can just forget about it.”

“That’s just another way of saying you had no plan!”

“Fuck, Flynn. You never give up, do you? You’re here, you’re fine, now let it go,” the Corinthian directed an annoyed look at the cat by his feet, fumbling with the zipper of his jacket.

Flynn acquiesced and started licking her paw anew, allowing the nightmare to fester in his annoyance, before sitting next to her. After deeming to have let the silence stretch enough, she voiced the question she had been meaning to ask for a while now. “Max told me what they did in that club, that he had been offered anything he wanted. Did he offer you that for us, too?”

Flynn didn’t need to clarify she meant Azazel. The Corinthian hummed his affirmation.

“What did he give you?”

“Something I wasn’t interested in,” the nightmare answered, rushed, as if already expecting the question.

Flynn tilted her head. “Odd. Didn’t seem like the kind to miss the mark. How off was he?”

A humoured scoff left the Corinthian’s chest. “Not even in the same ballpark.”

“Did he offer you to kill?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Like that?” Flynn parroted, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I guess I can see why you didn’t take it, then. I would’ve stopped you.”

The Corinthian sighed again. “Believe it or not, killing is not the only thing in my mind. I’m very complex. Multifaceted, even, you know?”

“What did you want, then?”

The Corinthian stilled for a moment, and when he finally answered, he seemed miles away. “Nothing he could give me.”

The cat’s eyes twinkled with curiosity, but she didn’t press further.

“I still think it’s crap that we cannot keep investigating. I mean, those people ruined my life, you know?”

The Corinthian patted her head, and the smile on his face was as genuine as his could be. “At least you got a life.”

And after that, the nightmare stood up and walked away.

*~*

Corinthian, he heard, directly in his head, making all his teeth chatter. Come to see me, he got ordered, leaving no room for discussion, despite the sweetness of the melody in that voice. And the Corinthian obeyed.

Dream of the Endless waited for him at the dining room. In this new form, he had taken to holding council in different areas, not limited to the throne room. The Corinthian did not know how he felt about it yet.

“You called, my Lord?” he voiced, more as a statement than an actual question.

“Yes. We must discuss some matters.” Dream’s entire attention was glued to the paintings on the walls, the scenes depicted on them playing over and over in an eternal loop whose players weren’t aware of. It reminded The Corinthian of that Grecian urn poem by Keats, his mind supplied. He had no idea why he knew it.

He straightened his back, not quite standing at attention, waiting to be debriefed. Dream’s eyes finally met his, and they softened minutely. The Corinthian swallowed around nothing.

“What did Lord Azazel offer you?” his Creator asked.

“Why is everyone so interested in that?”

“Corinthian,” Dream called, making the Corinthian smirk.

“Oh, doing the voice and everything. Okay, fine. He offered me some kills.”

“Of what kind?”

“I don’t know, the mortal kind, allegedly. But I’ll be damned before I trust the word of a demon.”

“You do well by being wary,” Dream said, but he seemed distracted, in thought.

The Corinthian felt the annoyance in him grow. “You also thought I would betray you, my Lord? All for the price of a few pairs of eyes?”

Dream hummed. “No. I would like to think you are aware enough to know that what I offer you surpasses anything Azazel could ever hope to concoct.”

“Is that an offering?” the Corinthian challenged, bolder than he truly felt.

“My realm is not that of Desire. But I know what you would dream of, were you able to,” Dream said, and then his entire awareness was focused on the Corinthian, including that of the entire collective unconscious.

The gesture lasted a mere second, yet it was enough to knock the breath out of the Corinthian. He caught a smile spreading over Dream’s lips before the King turned away from him.

“Lord Azazel could not give you what you dream of because it was not his to give,” Dream mused, taking a few steps before doing a slight turn of the head, gazing at the Corinthian from under his lashes. “I, however, can. After all, I am mine to give away as I please.”

The Corinthian’s mouth fell open. He normally hated being read so easily, and he had always been so transparent to his creator. It was unnerving and intoxicating at the same time.

“Daniel—” he started, hand stretched out, and the personification before him stopped minutely.

“You still hold onto that name.” There was incredulity and wonder in the Dream King’s voice. The Corinthian thought he heard gratitude as well. “We will continue this conversation soon enough. For now, there is much I need to attend to. Please make sure to remain available,” Dream added, making his way out of the room and leaving the Corinthian alone with a table topped with food.

The nightmare ran a hand through his hair, trying to process everything that had happened. He paced around, plucking at some of the things on the table and nibbling on them with nervous energy. On the farthermost side of the table, where the Corinthian had found Dream, something caught his attention: a half-eaten apple, sitting next to an open jar of peanut butter. The Corinthian assumed Lyta Hall would approve.

[salthien]

when all was said and done, Coronation ended up leaving kind of a bad taste in my mouth, so I didn't really plan to make anything further for blball and especially not for Coronation. that being said, I did have some stuff I kind of liked from before it broke bad, so on request here's a kind-of wip amnesty for one of them.

hands, 1.4k. gen. blaseball does not leave much time for leisure, especially for its captains. elip dean of the hades tigers makes do with what they can get.

“have you thought about picking up a hobby?”

elip’s attention is slow to leave their notebook, still scribbling postgame notes at one of the empty clubhouse tables. their head lifts, eventually, then tilts, one brow arching.

“something small,” mehdi elaborates. “to keep your hands busy.”

they maintain the look, brows furrowing in a challenge.

“you fidget, eli. a lot.” a pause, and mehdi lifts a palm defensively. “don’t look at me like that. i just think it would be good for you. you don’t need to be in captain mode all the time.”

elip ducks their ears as if admonished, but their eyes are smiling as they tip their head in another unspoken question.

“you’ve got options. just something to keep your hands busy - i wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve got needles and yarn stashed away around here somewhere, or beads. paper’s not hard to come by either.”

something clicks, then, and elip’s eyes go wide as they nod excitedly.

----

it starts like this: little paper animals, folded and strewn about the clubhouse. they are imperfect; the white underside of the bright squares peeks out around uneven folds on cranes with wings that won’t sit right, crabs with lopsided pincers, frogs with short bodies and too-long legs.

there have been a few casualties, too, accidentally swept to the floor and caught by wayward heels. elip trashes the crushed ones as readily as anyone else.

“oh– shit.” vela says, prying a bright yellow crane from her cleat one day. “cap, you gotta be more careful with these little guys.”

elip looks across the dugout, shrugs once. later, though, they see vela tuck the crane under a magnet in her locker, its crumpled wing carefully smoothed out. it fills them with a warmth they can’t name long after they’ve left the stadium.

----

they don’t limit themself to paper. as the season goes on, elip swaps craft paper for colored twine, carrying beads in a hidden pocket of their skirt. despite mehdi’s protests, they unwind the first three lumpy, uneven bracelets they make to save material - no use being wasteful.

the fourth, elip presents to stevie with little fanfare. they press it into his hand - a simple thing, pale blue twine, small green beads strung into the weave - as he comes in from striking out in the top of the ninth.

“for me?” he asks, even as elip is beginning to step away. they nod, only half-looking at him, but pause as the crow’s feet around his eyes crinkle with a smile.

“captain dean, you’re too kind.”

they notice it after that sometimes, the twine fastened snugly beneath his glove. it makes them smile no matter how far they’re down on the scoreboard.

----

in the off-season, they throw themself even further into mehdi’s suggestion, whenever training and their duties as captain allow for it. one day in late summer, amaya arrives at the clubhouse to elip, awaiting them expectantly, hands behind their back and eyes bright.

“morning to you too, elle.”

when elip finally reveals their gift on outstretched palms, amaya pauses, surprised, her eyes flickering from elip’s face to the painted clay pieces cradled in their hands.

“you made these?” elip answers their question with a firm nod and lifts the little clay armaments further, gesturing to amaya with both palms.

“seriously–? they’re so cute, are you sure?”

elip rolls their eyes exaggeratedly, and amaya finally acquiesces, taking the miniature silver-and-rose painted sword and shield from their palms with a kind of fond reverence that elip won’t soon forget.

----

by the beginning of season 2, more gifts have found their way into the hands of their team, each stripe carrying a token from their captain’s creative spree. elip abandons their more complex endeavors as the season begins and they turn their focus to the game.

they wonder, perhaps too much at first, about wandering zephyr - cursed and, they hope, making the best of it. he seems happy, no matter what color jersey he wears when they see clips of him online, and that’s what matters.

but pragmatism is the name of the game, especially as players start going up in flames: they stop letting themself worry if he misses Hades, unsure if a yes or a no would bring them more peace.

when they catch one of his interviews, scrounging for news on the rest of the league as much as they dare, they linger on it just enough to notice the beaded corner of an ash-gray keychain hanging out of his pocket. a lump rises in their throat, bittersweet.

----

you only keep what you had on you when you died, say the long-dead as they fill the hall of flame with space and color and depth. 

there are ways of contacting the living, but not reliably. 

we’re here for you, they offer, but you’ll have to get used to this. chances are you’ll be here a very long time.

leandra doesn’t mind. she’d heard the stories of the hall and still chosen it willingly the day she’d taken the field after mondegreen’s incineration. that does not make the physical adjustment any easier - the dampness, the way her fur clings to her flanks, the way her chest aches for breath that won’t come - but she’s made her peace with that, too.

what does ease her mind is the scrap of maroon cloth she discovers in her breast pocket, surfacing a memory - elip, closing it into her hands the morning of day 79. sewn into it is a sun, pale yellow and filled in with hasty stitches. the captain had not been clear what it was for, only that she was meant to have it. they’d been quite insistent.

leandra finds herself glad for it now, running her thumb gently over the stitchwork. it is, if nothing else, an affirmation of her decision. she cannot imagine elip in the dark of the trench.

----

they don’t talk, much. derrick is fine with that. the silence is comfortingly familiar, and elip seems equally unbothered by it. they commiserate over bad games, elip might ask a question or two about the hall or about derrick himself, but mostly they seem happy to simply have him around as quiet company while they read or study games or make things, sequestered for a handful of hours in elip’s hades flat or derrick’s tiny new apartment.

on one occasion - post-finals, when elip’s in charleston for vela’s memorial - they bring a bright sheaf of paper and seat themself on the floor with it, one cowled ear tipped toward where he sits on the couch. it’s a kind of quiet intensity he hasn’t seen from them much.

aren’t those good luck? he asks in sign, the quiet too comfortable to break with his voice - it's easier, sometimes, and elip's fluency in the common languages of the league makes up for his spotty hall-earned education. elip looks up between cranes, a brightly-colored row of them lined up in a semicircle on the rug. elip's ears tip back in confusion, and derrick repeats himself.

their expression doesn’t change; if anything, they grow more confused.

“those’re good luck, right?” he says, out loud this time, and the understanding that dawns over their face is quickly replaced by amusement, their shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.

lucky, they sign with a smile, middle finger lifting off their chin, and derrick realizes his mistake before their hand can even make it back to their face to demonstrate what he’d said instead.

“y’know– fuck it. maybe i do want to know if they taste good.” he grouses with a lopsided smile, leaning back to stare up at the ceiling. once elip’s laughter subsides, they nod, signing lucky again as they set the newest crane with its fellows.

“gonna need a lot more cranes than that to help either of us, i think.”

elip’s ear flicks dismissively beneath their tichel, and they pull another piece of paper from the sheaf to their careful creases anew.

derrick doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes later to find his apartment empty. the only evidence of elip’s departure is a text comprised entirely of emojis - happy face, shushing face, waving hand, sleeping face - and a small navy blue crane they’ve left in his upturned palms. he smiles faintly, leans to set it on the side table and only jumps a little bit when something crunches softly behind him.

he starts upright, turning halfway, but there’s nothing behind him except the back of the couch and another crane. a third falls into his lap with his movement, and he connects the dots at last, pulls the collar of his sweater around to find that elip has in fact filled his hood with yet more palm-sized paper birds.

derrick doesn’t believe in luck, really – but he gathers the little pile of birds onto the old side table and carefully slides the blue one into his phone case for good measure.

[msfcatlover]

AT LAST! THE ZOMBIE TIMELINE!!!

Huge thanks to @666imgoingtohell, whose suggestions finally gave the creative side of my brain the kick it needed to work out Steph’s timeline! Here’s what I’ve got so far.

(Warnings for all things Joker, implied torture & experimentation, disease, death, suicide, eye trauma, asphyxiation, overdose, isolation, depression, drinking, self-sacrifice… fuck, I am definitely missing a few, but that’s all I can think of for now.)

(…yeah, they all come from dark, depressing futures where everyone they cared about died, but Steph’s is definitely the most fucked up.)

.

The Joker captures both Tim & Damian. Joker thinks it’ll be extra funny if he can make a Robin corrupt themself, so Damian is used as leverage. (Damian hates it, hates every second of it, but especially hates the guilty way Tim glances at Damian before acquiescing to Joker’s orders. Make this, do that, eat this, take a deep breath off this inhaler we all know is horribly poisoned while Joker cackles like it’s the funniest shit he’s ever seen. Every free moment, Tim looks for an escape. Every chance Tim gets, he works in some sort of message or sabotage to whatever he’s made. Even as Tim’s face sets in a permanent smile, even as he becomes increasingly bright & cheerful about following orders, Tim keeps at it. Even as the orders switch to using Dami as a guinea pig—Tim blinks rapidly, cheeks twitching, and says with a sort of happy confusion, “That wasn’t the deal.” Joker says the other option is Robin dies right now. Damian can see the horror in Tim’s eyes when the first needle slides in; Tim’s twisted lips form a silent “sorry” in the moment Joker can’t see it.—even then, Tim keeps antidotes and medical supplies as close as he can, scrambling to fix whatever he’s done in the aftermath.)

(Once, after Tim started to change but before the deal changed to match, Joker had to go fight Batman and left both of them handcuffed to the same pipe overnight. “Robin,” Tim whispered into the dark, “I need you to promise me something.” “What is it?” “Joker’s not curable, everyone knows that. If I become like that—” “No!” “It’s already happening.” Tim giggled. “I can feel it.” “Absolutely not! How dare you, ask me to—” “It doesn’t have to be you. But I need you to make sure.” “No,” Damian says again. It’s a little less forceful, a little more desperate. “I know what happens when I go bad, Dami.” Tim sounded almost giddy, though his words were grim. “That’s without Joker-fication. I—we can’t let that happen, okay?” “Stop being an idiot.” “No.” Tim laughed, but it was quickly muffled, like he was biting down on something to bottle it up. “Contingencies, baby bat! They’re important. If I go bad, I need you to make sure I can never hurt anyone again.” A pause. “We both know locking me up won’t be enough.” “It’s doing an impressive job so far.” Damian yanked his own handcuffs, so they rattled against the pipe. “If something as pathetic as this can hold you, you really think you stand a chance with Arkham?” “Arkham doesn’t have my baby brother in a death collar.” Tim’s voice went soft and distant-dreamy. It was the most serious he’d sounded in a long time. Damian swallowed. “I won’t let you hurt anyone. I promise.” “That’s the spirit!” The giggles were back as quickly as they’d left. It was awful.)

It took 2 months to find them. Damian was rescued, but the Joker just barely escaped, dragging a breathless Tim behind him. Damian had to be sedated, he was fighting so hard to go after them.

.

People started getting sick, seemingly at random. What started as lightheadedness bordering on dizziness turned to giddiness, and things escalated from there. Damian knew about Tim’s little rebellions and told everyone; the micro-doses of Joker venom worked to burn the virus out of their systems, but more victims just kept popping up.

(The fact it was so obviously Tim’s handiwork left the whole family shaken.)

The Bats kept searching for Tim.

.

They found him alone in a lab, Joker’s body laid out on the floor and left to rot. It was obvious Tim had been dipped since they last saw him, his skin bleached by the chemicals that first made the Joker. During the fight, one of the tables got overturned and Tim’s mysterious science setup got smashed.

“It’s out,” Tim whispered, almost reverently, before bursting into laughter. “It’s out! You can’t put it back, I can’t stop it anymore, because you let it out!”

(The fight ends with gas in the air and Steph’s hands around Tim’s throat, a too-wide smile creeping onto her face, before Damian drags her off, snapping at her that she’s not herself, and giving her an extra dose of antidote. Tim scrabbles back to the wall, one hand at his throat. The hoarseness from the choking almost drops Tim’s voice back to its normal register. “You promised. Dami, you promised.” Damian shakes his head. “It’s not too late—” “It is!” The cackle was just a horrible, rasping cough. Tim’s voice takes on a sing-song cadence once he gets his breath back. “Can’t come back from where I’ve gone, can’t fix what I’ve done! Red Robin’s gone, long gone. Make it stop.” The giggle is nearly silent, more of a shudder. “Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop!” Tim’s voice cracks back to laughter, like he’s telling a joke so good he can’t get out the punchline, and tears run down his cheeks.)

(It goes further, but the point is: Steph watches Damian drive a scalpel from the table into Tim’s eye, watches him twist until the twitching stops. Tim’s hands come up on instinct to grab Damian’s in the first moment, but Tim doesn’t fight it; he just holds on. Damian stumbles back and sits down hard on the floor.)

.

When Batman asks what happened, Steph speaks up before Damian can. “He killed himself.” Damian looks at her incredulously, but Steph plows forwards without hesitation. “It looked like he had a moment of lucidity. Tim asked us to kill him—his exact words were ‘make it stop’—” Her voice cracks, but she keeps going. “—and when Robin said we wouldn’t, he…” Steph swallows, and mimes jabbing herself in the eye. “Da— Robin tried to stop him, but Tim was… he was laughing, but he seemed really upset.”

Batman looks at Damian, who’s staring down at his blood-stained gloves (less blood-stained than Tim’s hands, which all but covered Damian’s.) “I promised,” Damian whispers, “that I wouldn’t let him hurt anyone. When we were both prisoners, I promised.” He looks up at Bruce, eyes full of tears. “I was going to break it! But he—”

Bruce places a hand on Damian’s head. “It’s alright, son. It’s not your fault.” (Damian doesn’t say anything else, just bursts into tears in his father’s arms. Steph wonders how long the can maintain the lie.)

(It’ll turn out she shouldn’t have worried; they’ll have much bigger problems soon, and you know what people say about keeping secrets.)

.

Here’s what they don’t realize: the Joker virus couldn’t survive outside of the human body or near-lab conditions. Transmission was near-impossible, and all victims up until this point had either been part of one of Joker’s schemes or subtly injected in crowded spaces; almost nobody caught it from anyone else.

Tim’s new strain (which he had been fighting with himself not to release, getting into a perfectionist loop as a distraction from the urge to just let it loose) as it turns out, is highly contagious. It can survive for a good few hours in open air, and rapidly colonizers any surface it lands on.  Tables. Floors. Clothes. Skin. Hair.

Steph & Damian rode back to the Batcave and underwent thorough decontamination of themselves, their gear, and the car alone. They took their shots just in case of exposure, and played cards while waiting out the hyperactive high a micro-dose of Joker Venom causes. Bruce came back, decontaminated, and sat down to run tests (because otherwise he’ll have to face the fact his son died tonight, and he’s not ready for that. Tim’s not dead until Bruce processes it, and you can’t make him.) 

Bruce did not realize he needed to take the shot too.

.

(Gonna be completely open right now: we are NOT going Batman-Who-Laughs. Mainly because he relies on several of my least favorite interpretations of Bruce’s character to make anything resembling sense, but if you need a different reason… Tim’s strain is much less about re-creating the Joker a million times over, and more about twisting how people emotionally react to the world around them; everything makes the happy-chemicals, and the stronger the emotional reaction ought to be, the higher that rush. While not inherently a degenerative condition, the ever escalating self-destructive behavior this leads to means it might as well be. For example, some of the infected are probably going to seek out fear toxin just to get that high, but just because their happy chemicals are going nuts doesn’t mean the fear isn’t under it, and doesn’t mean they’re safe from heart attacks.)

(It’s just not funny if everyone is telling the same jokes, is it? If everyone has the exact same sense of humor? Wouldn’t that get boring after a while? Obviously. Big J was just too self-absorbed to realize Timmy’s joke was better.)

.

The early symptoms can be easily mistaken for sleep deprivation & too much caffeine. The secondary ones can be chalked up to grief. It takes a little over a week for the infection to become obvious. The incubation period is only a couple of days.

Wayne Manor: compromised.

The Batcave: compromised.

Literally everywhere Bruce went before he realized what was going on: compromised.

(Wayne Enterprises, city hall, the public funeral, the Watchtower: all compromised.)

(Bruce locks himself in quarantine as soon as he realizes, but here is another problem: the micro-doses of Joker Venom are not a vaccine. They burn through the bloodstream like a secondary immune system, wiping out the J-virus specifically, but they do nothing to build up immunity. Re-exposure is always a concern. Bruce is perpetually contaminating everything in the room, and no sooner has the Joker Venom left his system than the infection sets in again. His blood work is never clean for more than a few hours.)

Heroes infected. Allies lost. No matter how hard they try, there’s not enough Joker Venom to go around, but oh, oh do they try.

.

The family falls apart.

Alfred’s heart can’t handle the treatments. 

Babs goes into complete lockdown. 

Damian feels so guilty, he throws himself into helping as many people as he can, taking only the bare minimum of shots so that there’s more for other heroes & civilians; when Damian gets sick, those borderline suicidal tendencies mesh with the J-virus in truly horrifying ways. 

Cass is the one who finds Damian’s body, barely managing to choke out her message to the other Bats as the gasses start to take effect. She manages to drag Damian almost to the window before she just can’t do it anymore, gasping laughter over the coms as her lungs give out, with backup still several minutes away. 

Jason (not yet reintegrated into the family) goes from a not entirely trustworthy, usually distant maybe-ally who would at least reliably back them up in an emergency to a usually hostile, paranoid mess, spiraling even deeper into his own depressive tendencies & terrible coping mechanisms as the virus spread, the shelters fell, and his trauma compounded on itself by the day.

(Once, Steph found a stash of liquor while searching for survivors. She, Jason, Dick, and Cass (who wasn’t dead yet) proceeded to get absolutely plastered that night, each talking about how they’d want to go out and making promises about what they’d do if the others died. It was the closest thing to relaxed any of them got since Tim & Damian first disappeared, and it would be the last they had together ever.)

(Here is why Jason is unrecognizable to Steph: he’s been a hostile loner for as long as she’s known him, pushing others away to protect himself, never abandoning them but never lingering any longer than he had to. He made it very clear he was helping because he “had” to, not because he wanted to, and even when they became closer after the world had fallen apart, Jason was still gruff & distant even at the best of times; even when they got along & liked eachother, the paranoia of never knowing if one of them might actually be sick was a constant wedge keeping them from getting too close. A Jason who doesn’t just occasionally let people stick around but seeks them out, whose insults are more affectionate than razor-edged, who grabs on and says, “This person is one of My People(TM), and anything that wants to mess with them has to do it over my dead body,” is an alien concept to her.)

Dick died evacuating some survivors from a 3rd floor apartment. Purely reflexively, he tried to give them a reassuring smile. Purely reflexively, they shot him in the face. (Steph, on the building just across the street keeping lookout, heard the shot and saw Dick fall. Whether he would’ve survived the gunshot is irrelevant when hitting the pavement practically head-first.)

One rescue mission was almost a clean success. They got the survivors all the way to the escape vehicle before realizing there was a kid still in the building. Jason’s jaw set, and Steph barely had time to scream for him not to go, don’t do this, don’t leave her like this, before he was running back in. (The kid made it out. Jason did not.)

Steph broke every promise she’d made about not giving up, about fighting to the end, about going out in a blaze of glory, after being cornered by a swarm. She chose to go out on her terms, though, refusing to give them the satisfaction of her pain or of her becoming one of them. All Steph’s cures would be unusable by the time help came, either smashed or tampered with by the Joker-zombies, but she had enough for the Joker Venom to do its original job.  She took all of them, and died laughing at her own ultimate failure.

.

.

.

(And then she wakes up.)

[napo-leo-art]

This is an unfinished and largely unedited fic I was writing about Levi's first time with Danny where (for some unknown reason) I decided to make a rule where I could only write it while drunk (idk if this was an exercise in seeing what came out when I was drunk or if it was ~*method writing*~ or what, but idk if I can finish it and I sure as hell cannot read it loool

Anyway Word Count: ~3300 words Rating: E Pairing: Herald/Levi (Sidestep) Warnings: I honestly have no idea, I didn't read it

"So..." Daniel swallows, finally aware that he's standing with a half-naked man on the verge of what might be a breakdown in his arms. "Do... do you want a drink or something?"

Levi wants to laugh. Levi wants a smoke, or a whole pack. He wants to tear Daniel's clothes off and take a bite of him, maybe sink down on his knees and see how far down his throat Daniel-Danny can go.

"Yes," He says in response. It comes out on an exhale, Levi's body kick starting him back to life with a little jolt. His foot sweeps forward and bumps into one of Daniel's, and only then does he realize he was checking for floating. No- Danny-Daniel's really that much taller even with both feet on the ground. Not as tall as Ortega. Neck probably doesn't hurt as much when he bends down to kiss Levi, which he's done more than once since they've got here, but it still makes Levi's stomach clench to think of how they must look together- the Golden Boy and the Has-Been, and at least his long legs keep Sidestep from looking too small in photos. Next to each other, though...

Maybe it would be better to put Danny on his knees. Or on his ass more likely, leaning back onto his hands, head tilted until that bright hair has fallen off of his face, and his face hidden between Levi's thighs...

"Levi?" Fuck, now that he's heard a hint of the accent, he can't let it go in his mind.

"Hm?" He asks, before he thinks about the fact that he's still clinging onto Danny, who has acquiescently kept his arms just as tight- not because he thinks Levi's too weak to hold himself together apparently, but because Danny *likes* it, and he's going to keep doing it as long as Levi actually lets him. Levi feels like he's flicking treats to a dog, which is a mean way to see Danny but god, isn't it accurate?

For a moment he's hit with a poetic thought: that the heat he's feeling is from basking in the warmth of feeling so *loved*.

He squashes that feeling back where it belongs, into the overflowing trashcan of his mind. Fuck, he's so drunk already that Danny might really just be holding him up with his arms.

He doesn't let Danny let him go, no- he holds those arms firmly in place and twists in their hold, turning back towards the kitchen counter and using Danny's glass for the both of them. His own glass lays abandoned on the floor where he *threw* it, and even that didn't scare Danny away. And that means that feeling bad about this really is meaningless, because Danny has already seen at least half of the nasty, ugly, *wrong* things about him, and he's not pulling those arms away or telling Levi to leave. Levi could push him off the deep end right now: '*I'm Retribution, I broke your leg, and I LIKED IT.*'

Instead he fills up Danny's glass, too full, more than is appropriate. But why the fuck do they make whiskey glasses so big if you're not supposed to fill them to the top? Why is Danny's hair so soft if not to grab it, why are his lips so plush if Levi's not supposed to kiss them?

When he spins back around to Danny with drink in hand, he's not sure if the drop in his gut is anxiety or lust. Really could be either. Both. Dr. What's Her Face has heard a little bit about his sex life or lack thereof because *he* brought it up, dumb asshole, and she says that he should take that twist in his gut as the fear it is but really, he hates fear but he's learned to like whatever *this* is.

Danny doesn't ask if Levi's okay, for which he's eternally grateful. Levi can only just *feel* the intention of the question buzzing at the front of Danny's mind.

"Pretty big glass you've got there," He says instead, still unsettled but now at least Levi isn't crying and *oh,* Levi's taking his jaw in his hand and so gently pushing the lip of the glass between Danny's plush ones, pouring a little more into his willing mouth. He's a little clumsy with it, little streams of the expensive stuff seeping past the corners of his mouth. Levi pulls the glass to the side and this time when he pulls Danny down, he licks the liquor from his face. It's so gross. Levi's just gross. He can still feel how he's exciting Danny, so it looks like it's working. He takes a swig from the glass and swallows with effort before his lips meet Danny's again, the smoky-oak flavor passing between them.

"I want *you,*" Levi says then, letting his voice dip into its huskiest tones. Smoking and boozing has fucked up his voice a little, but is that really so bad? He tries to immitate that throat rumble when he's John but he just *can't*, and it feels so good to have one goddamn thing that this body has over his puppet.

If he bothered to peek past the booze, he'd find that this body only makes him feel stupid when he tries to tease. But he'll let that thought lie where it fell, because he can *feel* the way Danny pushes his hips forward, seeking contact.

He can feel Danny's clothed cock bump his lower stomach. Fuck. *Fuck.*

"Oh, just that? I can give you that." Danny says with a grin. Correction, Levi's telepathy provides: he would love to give you that, *please.* He's even letting his hands trace the hemline of Levi's pants, a hint about what he wants before he even opens his mouth again. "May I?"

Normally Levi would refuse. He only knows his normal because the idea of this has plagued him for months, and in ten fantasies out of ten he was coaxing Danny not to float as he sunk his mouth down to Danny's base and took him all.

But tonight he's too busy marveling at the way his body is happily, enthusiastically responding to Danny's closeness and '*ah,*' Levi thinks, '*that's what it's supposed to feel like.*' He's so turned on already that he can feel the slick of his wetness coating the inside of his thighs. His legs shift together, trying to alleviate it, hoping for- god, why hide it? Hoping for Danny between them, whether it's his hand, his face, or his hips. Doesn't really matter.

"Go for it." Levi says, but he's still surprised when Danny yanks him up onto the counter before his trousers come off. Nope, not just trousers. Underwear too. The marble is freezing cold against his ass but hey, kitchen counters are the perfect place to eat. He's going to deny that sound later, the sound he makes when Danny coaxes his legs open. He'll edit it right out of the clip he's made of the noise *Danny* made, and he's not sure Danny knows he made it or that Levi heard it. He knows how to do *this,* he's just never done it with a man before, and that thought fills Levi with equal measures of jealousy and comfort up until Danny bends to kiss his thigh and everything, everything else goes away for just a little moment.

"This is my first," Levi gasps when Danny's thumb creeps over to slide along the line of a scar on his thigh, not because he wants to share it but because it feels *important*, and because Danny is apparently the sounding board for every stupid secret he's had. '*Why not talk about the threesome dream while you're at it?*' "...time."

"I better make it *really* good then," Danny laughs, not at Levi but just because he can't believe this is happening, his face heating further when Levi's hands find a good grip in his hair, which is just as soft as it looks. And Levi's hands feel it just as well as he sees it when Danny fully dips his head between his thighs and... *damn.*

His throat clamps automatically against his first moan, and every one after that is a little easier, caught behind the tight press of his lips. He grabs the glass of whiskey and takes a full gulp of it.

Danny's tongue traces up the slit between Levi's legs twice before it pushes a little further, before one hand slips off Levi's thigh to spread him open. His only sounds are gasps and sighs. His body tells a different story: tightened grips on Danny's hair, twitching muscles, a bottom lip clamped hard between his teeth.

"Fingers," He demands, because all this is already so much without having to ask nicely, and because even at home alone he wants it like this, fingers pressing up against his g-spot.

Danny obliges with just one at first, and that's enough. Levi sees more than senses what Danny wants: himself, legs wrapped tight around Danny's hips as he buries himself inside, every thrust deep...

It feels better to think of this all as what Levi wants. Being wanted is *hard*, being wanted feels *wrong*, and so in his own mind he imagines Danny pressed back against the sheets, Levi fucking down against his straddled hips.

"Oh fuck," Danny whimpers, finger still buried in Levi even as he butts his head against Levi's hip. Levi didn't mean to push the idea out, but it's already out there before he knows it. And he knows that it barely matters that Danny knows the origin of the thought, mostly seeing it as his own: '*Me pressed back against my sheets, Levi fucking down against my straddled hips.*'

He wants to throw the glass still in his grip. He wants a smoke. The most sane thing he wants is to touch Danny and to be touched back, and it would be easier to use his grip on Danny's hair to slide him back between his thighs, but he doesn't do that. He tilts Danny's head up oh so gently. It's mostly a strain on himself to bend his back so sharply when he leans down to kiss him again, tasting himself on Danny's lips and tongue. Daniel, lips parting to let Levi kiss him deeper, isn't passive the way Levi half-wishes he was. Another finger slips in, both curling up to push up at just the right angle.

Fuck.

He does his damnest to strangle that noise back where it belongs, behind his teeth where it won't do too much damage. But his lips and teeth are parted to slot as much of his mouth against Danny's as he can, and that's been going on *too long*, and so he parts them with a yank on that feather-soft hair just in time to make his punched-out whine harden into a rasp. Danny's thumb finds his clit faster than his half-lidded eyes can find contact with Levi's.

"How's that?" He asks with a grin that Levi hears as much as sees. Bastard. The bastard's other hand is tracing the scars on Levi's thigh with a reverence that doesn't feel soothing- which is fine really, Levi thinks he'd hate being patted and doted on like a twitchy stray cat, most of all *now* when what he wants is... exactly what Danny's giving him. *That look,* like...

"Is *that* why you keep looking at the scars?" Levi asks, breath hitching on a moan and then bursting back out with a breathless laugh. *Incredible.* "A kink?"

Danny doesn't have to answer, the flush on his cheeks does all the talking. But does anyway, "*yeah*", before he leans back down and wraps his lips around Levi's clit.

"Oh my-- *god*," Levi laughs again, bringing the glass up to his mouth and just butting the rim up against his lips. "I'm here telling- you my darkest... secrets... and you're getting... a stiffy over my scars. *Oh fuck,*" He gulps down another swallow of whiskey before he sinks down against the countertop, skin prickling with goosebumps as soon as the marble touches his skin.

"I think I finally get your sense of humor," Danny quips from between his legs, right before his tongue laps around his fingers, dipping into his entrance. Levi grunts, his whole core starting to tense, his thighs threatening to clamp around his poor victim's head. Danny's doing so good it feels like a challenge, and he doesn't plan to lose.

"Then you're... *probably* drunk enough... I don't want *either* of us sober... for my first time." Levi hisses, and he can just barely feel Danny's thoughts butting through the haze of his drunkenness, and he's got to cut that off *now*. "I showed you mine, when... are you gonna show me... yours? Scars. Body. *Come here.*"

Danny's lips are on his again, and his fingers have never stopped moving. Levi is trying and failing to plant his heels against the countertop so he can grind down on them.

He just *knows* none of those pinup shots are real. Photoshop or something. Not just the physique but the skin, not even the most premium doctors could erase everything Retribution did to Danny.

It's not the scars that are Levi's kink, exactly. He just like thinking that he's made his mark on this new territory, left something behind that'll stick even when this all goes to shit. He knows on a bone-deep level that it will, that there's an invisible timer ticking down at inconsistent, immeasurable speed.

Danny-Daniel has to pull his fingers out to undress, not looking even the slightest bit self-conscious. Levi wonders if it feels *good* to know he's so wanted, so want*able*, if Danny actually feels sexy under his scrutiny. The thought of eyes on him makes him feel pinned down like some etymological victim, or maybe like the butt of some joke. It's made worse by how bad he still wants this, like at any moment Danny will pull back and laugh at his enthusiastic desperation.

"Fuck you." He blurts with a little too much heat, one hand shooting up to grasp the curve of Danny's pec. "The pictures were real."

Except for the scars, but that registers more on the lizard hindbrain than on the more upfront desires burning up right out on the open. Thank *god* Danny isn't a telepath, because his mind is flooding with desires without proper outlet: bite, devour, fuck, make him beg, make him CRY

The buzz of too-bright thought bubbles up between them, and Levi knows it's Danny's thought before he even forms it into words and pictures- Levi doesn't need a cock to *fuck him* and use him the way he wants, he'd be a willing but mischievous little toy for Levi to gnaw on, to take what he wants. Just an illusion of true submission, but it works. He wants to make Levi come *so bad* that it snaps into Levi's mind stronger than Danny's base need to stick his cock in him. He'd happily let Levi ride his face for the rest of the night, as long as Danny could just see him blissed out at the end of it.

"*Fuck you,*" He repeats, and Danny laughs this time, though his face is heated. It contrasts so nicely with the pale hue his skin usually takes. This time Levi can see just how far that blush travels- it meets his jaw, then neck, collarbones and beyond. The fingers still splayed on Danny's chest just toe the blurred line of where his blush ends. The heat extends past that. Levi thinks he can feel his own sweat beading where their bodies are pressed together. "You think I won't? I've got no gripes about leaving you like this."

"Let me take you to the bedroom?" He offers rather than demands, bubbling up another flock of associated thoughts and feelings. Levi doesn't need to read them, because Danny happily says it. "My bed is a lot more comfortable. It's soft."

"I prefer firm." He doesn't, but he's a contrarian little ass even when he's not drunk. That means, though, that Danny just blinks down at him with this look of feigned innocence that makes Levi want to scream, or at least just bite him.

"Take me there," He orders a half-beat later, because he knows that Danny won't just fucking take him until he gets a straight answer for once. It doesn't matter if Danny's deciphered his code or not, Levi still needs to speak his language for him to work. Like saying the right cheat code or entering the right password. "*Now,*"

This time Danny moves him without sass, slipping back into the comfort of their dynamic. Not nearly as well-worn as Levi's dynamic with *Ortega*, where communication moves with a connection delivered through words spoken in the past. Danny has acclimated himself to Levi with a speed that betrays all of that pure observational skill; on Levi's end, it's mostly telepathy. He's not afraid to cheat, just a little ashamed to admit it.

Maybe it would be better not to think of Ortega, who still brings up a sharp and pleasant sting in his chest in some sort of psychosomatic response, or maybe some sort of learned pain- it'll hurt when the bad part happens, so might as well start the hurting now. Things like seeing Ortega with a million and one potential love interests and only turning to Levi with entirely platonic affection.

Not like Herald-Danny, who looks at Levi like he's worth fucking on clean sheets and a soft mattress, like he'd care if Levi dipped past nervous, neurotic, but enthusiastic participation and into a sort of dull-eyed acceptance-

No. He has to physically shake that thought away, body quaking enough that Danny shoots a puzzled look his way as he bends down to gather Levi up in his arms.

"Your counter is so fucking cold,"

"The bedroom's warmer," Danny assures with a coy smile, using the moment to warm Levi's back with his hands. "We can turn on the heater if it's that bad."

"Who the fuck," Levi spits with contempt, shoving his face against Danny's neck even as his skin prickles with latent discomfort, "Has a heater in Los Diablos? Get a white noise machine and just cope with eighty degree weather, you freak."

All of this shit- Danny carrying him in his arms, Danny kissing him, holding him, accepting him, *loving him*- it's declawing Levi bit by bit. The Levi of months ago could've broken the man's spirit, forced Danny to reject him, heard and *felt* how much it would hurt the little hero. Now he's not sure he could muster anything affective. He's tracing the tips of his short nails along the edges of all of Danny's scars, dismissing a halfhearted fantasy about tearing them back open with Retribution's clawed gauntlets. Instead he's catching Danny's skin between his teeth, too soft to deal real damage. He's finding the peaks and valleys of Danny's muscles with his fingertips, only pausing to rub a nipple under his roughened thumb.

--

Danny is floating them both to the bedroom, cracking an unashamed smile to greet the hard stare Levi tries- and fails- to give him.

'*I wish I were a telepath too.*'

"No, you don't."

'*If I were, I could know what you're thinking right now.*'

"You don't think you could ask?"

'*I don't think you would answer.*'

[blarrghe]

This chapter of Strange Feelings in the Party camp got a comment about its ending, and on a re-read I remembered how this came out of a much older scene of just dialogue I had posted on here - probably one of the first things I wrote for this blog. And now with it fleshed out for the fic, it feels like a little ficlet in itself.

The full fic is here, but i just wanted to post this again.

“Well, I’m not going to try to steal from Morrigan’s secret cheese stash again, I just got the feeling back in my arm. So, truth.” 

Violet leans back with a wooden tankard of ale and allows Alistair his turn. She has taken mainly dares from Alistair, lightening the mood by acquiescing to his silly ideas. To Zevran she largely answers truth , and Zevran has asked about little of importance. 

He himself has opted for almost nothing but truths as well, which is surely a change for him. Violet asks about sexual proclivities with enthusiasm and bright eyes, Alistair asks mainly after his tattoos. 

Alistair, on his turns, has only been dared. Zevran has not asked him to do anything extraordinary, though he is getting temptingly close to daring him to allow him to give him that tattoo he so obviously wants. 

“Who was your… first time?” Alistair asks, rather timidly. Alistair has had two tankards of ale, and is finally beginning to get the point of the game. 

“A gardener at our estate. Her name was Vanna,” Violet shrugs, “broke her heart.” 

“I knew it,” Zevran says with a grin. “Slayer of dragons, breaker of hearts. It suits, no?” 

Violet frowns. “It was only one summer, but… left her on some bad terms. Said I’d never loved her.” 

“I’d be heartbroken too,” Alistair mutters through a grimace. Then he looks at Zevran guiltily, and then away. 

“My turn, then,” Zevran cuts the tension with another swig of his own ale and another bright grin. “And I have just the thing. So, Alistair, truth or dare?”

"Well I certainly don't like the sound of that." Alistair eyes Zevran's grin suspiciously. "Truth." 

"Shame. Not even just a wing of the Grey Warden crest?" He sighs dramatically as Alistair pulls a face. "Very well, I’ll let you have an easy one. Who was your first kiss?" 

Violet rolls her eyes, but Alistair nearly chokes on a swig of ale. 

"Boring," Violet declares, "we already know." 

Zevran levels his smirk Alistair's way. "Do we?" 

"Well... technically…"

"Hold on," Violet darts a betrayed glance at Zevran's growing smirk. "No gossip, hm?" she nudges Alistair, "what does he know that I don't? I thought it was me." Her pout is not really offended, but Alistair begins to stutter. 

"Well, Alistair?" Zevran intones with a waggle of his brows. 

"I suppose, technically, it was Zevran," Alistair manages to get the words out, slowly. 

Zevran grins. Violet spins from her pouty scrutiny of Alistair to flash wide, surprised eyes at him. 

"Zev!" She shouts, half a laugh. His smile widens and his cheeks warm. 

Sometimes she shouts his name like that, half of it and half laughing. He hadn't thought that she still would, after he'd caused her to cry, but sometimes she does. He reminds himself again that he is lucky to have such friendship. 

Violet turns back to Alistair, giving him one of her too-hard playful punches. "When?" She demands. 

"Do you want to tell it, or shall I?" Zevran offers, rising to take up their empty mugs and bring them to the cask for new pours of ale. 

Alistair stammers wordlessly as Zevran takes and returns his cup, so still standing, he begins.

'"Very well then. You see, we had just finished killing the revered saviour Andraste, reborn as a dragon, and all the pesky beasts up the Frostbacks—" 

" — we didn't kill Andraste ���" Violet begins to Interrupt. 

"Hush, amor, let me tell the story. You were off doing whatever Warden business it is you get up to —" 

"Recruiting the dwarven forces to fight the blight?" 

"Yes, all that. And while you were away, the rest of us were stuck back at camp getting painfully bored. And poor Alistair, this was before the two of you figured things out, you see, well he was fretting so over this rose he wanted to give you. So, naturally, I wanted to help." 

Alistair is sinking down in his seat. "I’m sure," he groans. 

"Out of the goodness of my heart," Zevran continues, "and to see you two together and happy, of course." 

"He said," Alistair cuts in now, putting on a thick mockery of an Antivan accent, “you know, back in Antiva, I was known to be an exceptional teacher on the arts of love. A love master, if you will.”

Violet laughs loudly. "Love master?" 

Zevran had not actually said any of that, but he directs a proud smoulder at her anyway. "Hmm, do you deny it?" 

She keeps on laughing, waving him off. "Go ahead, go on." 

"I offered him some advice. But poor Alistair, he was still so nervous. So I offered to help him more practically. I suggested, since the poor man had never so much as kissed another, that he might feel more at ease if he could try it once without any attachment or expectation. He refused at first, of course, but as you well know, none can withstand the charms of this master lover for long." 

Alistair slumps over to hide his face in his hands. "Maker, kill me now." 

"He says to me, desperate and pleading. Zevran, I cannot sleep! I can think of nothing else! All I do is imagine kissing her and it all going terribly wrong! Our teeth will surely clash! My big honking nose is going to bash into her perfect face and give her a nose bleed! Help me, Zevran!" 

"That’s not what I —" 

"Hush, darling, let him tell the story," Violet interrupts, leaning in, her elbows at her knees. 

"So I offered again, 'I could kiss you, Alistair. I am sure it will not be so disastrous as you think.'" 

"It was a beautiful sunset, the forest was glowing... he said I had pretty eyes," Alistair defends himself in a pout.  

"You do." 

"Mhm," Violet agrees. "You do." 

Alistair resumes his shamed posture,  head in hands. 

"But yes, as he said, it was quite a romantic little scene." 

Violet is shaking her head in disbelief. She gives Alistair’s hunched back a gentle pat. "Alistair…" 

"I’m sorry!" He lifts his head, "I was just, I was so nervous." 

Violet is chuckling lightly. "That is the most adorable thing I have ever heard," she says. She appraises Alistair with affection in her gaze, and he smiles meekly under it. 

"And it worked out well, yes?" Zevran declares, "no nosebleeds. You’re welcome." 

Alistair drinks deeply from his new tankard of ale. Violet's eyes flash up to Zevran's, and he has known her too well not to know what she is thinking. 

"Well, my turn, right?" She smiles deviously. "Zevran, truth or dare?" 

"Dare." 

"Do it again."

[noonmutter]

Review

DWC November 2022

Day 2: Orbit/Illusion

(yes it's posted out of order but shh we don't talk about that)

"It'll be okay, love, I promise."

"You promised that the last time!"

"Okay, true, but this time th' barrier between life an' death isn't torn asunder an' all tha' stuff."

"Leooon…!"

He knew it was very serious, and Valarin's worries were completely valid, but Leon couldn't help grinning to himself. That particular whine was adorable every single time Val did it. It helped that it usually meant he was winning an argument, too.

It wasn't about being right, though; when the whole mess with the Shadowlands had started, Leon had been trying to get back into serious study with the Dreamweavers at Val'Sharah. He'd managed to dreamwalk on his own, and he'd needed to get a handle on that before he got himself in trouble.

Naturally, because he was an Ambroce, he'd gotten into trouble almost immediately anyway. The first time he'd set foot in the Dream on purpose, he'd ended up ensnared by an enterprising drustvar lord and trapped in the Winter Queen's realm until Valarin had come to bail him out. There were plenty of silver linings to that whole debacle--he and Valarin had finally said they loved one another, for example--but it still would have been better not to have nearly died to a lunatic's mind control.

Also, Valarin was still clearly scared shitless that Leon would end up in trouble again. The poor thing still got uncomfortable whenever he wore a mask. Leon understood it, of course, but he also knew he still had work to do. And after a few months, it seemed like peace wasn't actually an illusion this time. Things had fallen quiet, the sky had closed up, and life and death had settled back into some semblance of balance. He no longer felt like he was constantly a few inches too far to the left, and he hadn't had nightmares in weeks.

It was time to go back to the Dreamgrove.

Pin and Kaewynn had had similar misgivings, and both had been a little disappointed that he was going to be leaving this way, but they'd eventually given him their support. Valarin had taken rather longer to acquiesce, but that was to be expected, since he'd been the one that had to do the saving last time. None of them would necessarily use the word "permission," but he was basically asking for that. If they hadn't been willing, he wouldn't be going.

Things had been a touch more dramatic when he'd informed Celedyn of his upcoming 'business trip,' but that was just Celedyn. The elf cared very much, but he rarely said so using those words, instead choosing to dote, fret, and beg Leon to reconsider. Leon spent most of that conversation cradling (and some things a bit more intense than cradling) him. It was both more and less exhausting than the conversation with his spouses.

Caythaes' reaction had been almost refreshingly unworried. All they'd asked for was a way to reach him in an emergency--which he had struggled to provide. Only druids could enter the grove, and sending communication into it from outside was ...difficult, even years after Xavius' interference with the Nightmare had ended. A compromise was struck when Leon promised to return to a cabin in Bradensbrook at least once a week, and that if he didn't, a member of the Dreamweavers would be there in his place.

Vember had been thrilled to hear he was planning another extended visit, too. He got the impression that happy though she was, she did occasionally feel the distance from her family (well, him) and friends. It was a trek from the Broken Isles to the mainlands, even with Dreamwalking and portals, and her work was important. Naturally, he was welcome to stay with her, and he was looking forward to that. He dearly missed his big sister, and he had... kind of a lot of stories, by now.

The cabin plan made everyone else a lot happier, too. Leon admitted to himself that he wouldn't be too upset to take regular breaks from the isolation from his loved ones, either. It'd annoyed his mentors the first time around, since they felt it suggested a lack of devotion and it was disruptive to the peaceful mindset best suited to traversing the Dream. That time, Saeil had been able to meet him at the cabin, giving him someone to talk to and work out frustrations with. He looked forward to doing the same with others; the variety alone would help.

When he left for Val'Sharah, he did so with enthusiasm, rather than a sense of impending doom. This time, he'd be able to learn, to grow, to understand.

This time would be different.

It just might take a while.

( @daily-writing-challenge @pinpep @wowrpgamer @valarin-sunstorm @celedyn @mekandawn @vembermarlon @saeil-moonblade )

[ruinous-robes]

Chapter 8: The Most Convincing Lies...

What? Me with two chapters less than 3 months apart? It's more likely than you think. Thanks to Lortober and my dear friend and beta reader @kingcrxwn, my butt finally got kicked into high gear to change my plan into what I truly wanted for this story.

This chapter is for the reserve Lortober prompt "bait," and I hope you enjoy! This chapter was a joy to write.

“So you want us to invite the ones who attempted to kill our son here?”

Patroclus held up a placating wing to Phoenix. “If you would like, I will search every future forwards and backwards, but they won’t make such a move again. It’s power they’re after. Killing the prince was meant to make you afraid, and get him out of the way—“

Achilles interjected, “—because they knew I wouldn’t believe them—“

Patroclus nodded. “Then, when they came waltzing in, claiming they knew a way to make sure this never happened again, they would worm their way into your good graces and use their Sight as an excuse to get you to do as they pleased.”

Achilles watched as his father sighed, rubbing at his forehead, ears flat. At his feet, little Amalthea sat, flopped on the ground and staring very intensely at Patroclus. To his father’s left, Thetis eyed the Weaver as well. 

“And how do we know that this isn’t your plan?” she asked. “Worm your way into my brother’s good graces—“ Achilles heard the implication dripping off the words, and he bared his teeth at her, “— and whisper in his ear what you want done?”

Patroclus opened his mouth to defend himself, and Achilles cut him off. “He hasn’t asked me to do anything that wasn’t my idea, Thetis,” he hissed. Achilles didn’t know who slammed her tail in a door, but he wasn’t having it today. “But—“

Patroclus cut him off. “I swear it on Luana and Elius both that I have no ill intent. And even if I did, I haven’t tried to kill anyone. The Weavers who planned this did, though. And I would see them brought to justice, just as you. They’ve blighted not only your family, but the name of the Spinner, as well.”

Achilles continued to glare at Thetis, not appeased. But he was the bigger person. He was. He could move on with the conversation. He could be helpful. 

“I think we should put out a summons, pretending we’re all scared and need new guidance, and when they show up, expose everything we know in front of everyone,” he said. 

Phoenix frowned. “But how are we to know if they’re really the perpetrators, and not someone else looking for an opportunity for power, and jumping at the chance?” 

Patroclus bowed his head. “I am certain that they will be the first to answer the summons, but I can see what my loom tells me. I imagine the Spinner is just as angry at their indiscretion.”

Phoenix nodded; he looked tired of this conversation. “It will be done, Weaver. But know this: if your plan goes awry, it’ll be your head I’m coming for first.”

Patroclus trembled a little, and Achilles felt himself flush hot with anger. He was helping them! But Pat simply bowed his head again, acquiescent. “Of course. I will begin my Weavings immediately.” 

Pat turned, leaving the throne room, but Achilles didn’t immediately follow him. He whirled on his father. “You can’t speak to him like that! Did you forget that he saved my life?”

His father looked dumbfounded. “And for all we know it could be a plot. He could be working with them. Listen, son, I know he’s caught your eye—“

Achilles stood up, defensive. “That doesn’t matter! He flew in from Murkwood, father. Through a hurricane— he had a head injury from debris! You really think he was involved in some… some plot from a fringe Goldsea insurrectionist group?!”

“We just don’t know much about him, Achilles, that’s all I’m saying—“

“— Oh, Achilles knows plenty about him,” Thetis said lightly, but there was pure evil in her eyes. “He slept in the Weaver’s room last night. In his bed, according to the servants.”

Achilles was going to kill her. He was going to kill her dead. 

“Because he has a bum leg!!!” Achilles shrieked, hackles raised. He was furious. “I didn’t even do anything! He’s my friend, and he asked for my help!”

“Define ‘help,’ because that seems a lot more friendly than ‘helping’—“

“Enough!!!” Phoenix roared, slamming his paw down and making Amalthea yelp. Achilles and Thetis went silent, snapping their jaws shut. “Achilles, I don’t like that you’re sniffing around him so much, but you’re an adult. I don’t care what fancies you take to. Just don’t lose your head. And you, Thetis, quit antagonizing your brother. He’s got a hot enough head as is.”

His father sighed, long and deep. He looked so, so much older than he actually was, like his twins’ bickering was stealing the life out of him. He turned back to Achilles. “You and that Weaver of yours have until Amalthea’s Four Seasons celebration to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who did this. I don’t want any of the rest of my family in mortal danger. Now both of you, get out, and for the Creators’ sake, leave each other alone.” 

Phoenix picked up Amalthea, who immediately wailed, demanding to go with Achilles to see “the big bird.” Achilles would’ve found it endearing, if he hadn’t been so furious. He snarled at Thetis before marching out the main door. 

He swung open the doors, expecting to stomp his way all the way to the Volmyr’s rooms. Instead, all he saw was Patroclus sitting in the hall, hunched in embarrassment. 

Achilles cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I, uh… you heard that?”

Patroclus nodded. 

“… I’m sorry.”

Patroclus nodded again. 

“Listen, I don’t care what anyone thinks, okay?” Achilles said, shoving down his anger. “We’re sticking together. We’re friends now.”

Yeah… yeah, they were friends now. 

Friends who took arrows for each other and snuggled in the same nest. In a friendly way. Like friends do. 

Oh Creators, Thetis had a point. 

Maybe they were a little more than just friendly.

Achilles shoved that thought far, far into the back of his brain, reserved to be agonized over when he tried to sleep at night. 

Instead, he nosed at Patroclus’ neck. “C’mon, let’s go back. You can do your weird knitting, and I’ll order us lunch. We’ve got a mystery to solve.”

And if during their mystery solving, Achilles decided to take a very warm and very cozy nap in definitely-not-his-own-bed, it was to spite Thetis. That was all. 

——

The morons took less than three days to respond to the royal summons. 

Patroclus had seen their names in his visions — a group (or Tapestry, as he had called them) called the Birdeaters — and had seen that they would fall for the trap and come to answer the royal call. He said that, then, his visions had gotten hazy. 

When Achilles had asked what that meant, Patroclus had simply shrugged. “It means that part of the future isn’t very certain. There’s still too many pathways and choices to be made.” He had smiled, then, and looked at Achilles with a fondness that made his heart hurt. “And reading anything with you involved gets tricky, sometimes. You’re very unpredictable, Achilles.”

Now, a week later, he, Patroclus, Thetis, and his parents waited in the receiving room. Achilles fidgeted with his paws, turning a ring on his dewclaw around over and over, making the gold catch the light. He had worn his finest crown and was draped in a light robe. 

They wouldn’t let him have his sword. Admittedly, it was probably for the best. 

To his right sat Patroclus. He leaned closer to the Weaver. 

“So what does this weirdo look like?”

Patroclus — who wore a fine forest green tunic that brought out the richness in his eyes, but strangely, had forgone his Weaver pendant — didn’t take his eyes off the still closed door. “There is a party of three, but the leader of them is the only one who will speak. They look as if a weasel was cursed to be a wolf.”

Achilles snickered. Thetis, to his left, stomped hard on his foot. He glared at her, but just as he was about to open his mouth, the door flung open. 

Patroclus was right. The guy did look like a weasel. 

Through the doors, flanked by guards, walked three wolves. One was a Bracchus, a little younger than Achilles himself and the color of the sea. Another was a Kit with a coat that seemed to shift color with every step, every color under the sun merging across their fur. The wolf in the middle was clearly the leader. He was thin, far thinner than any Lupin Achilles had met, with fur that flashed silver and shiny, unnervingly blue eyes scanning across the room. He didn’t walk so much as slink, and the long hems of the Vespen-feather coat he wore dragged the ground softly. On his head, he wore a circlet that looked far too close to a crown for Achilles’ liking. 

Achilles hated him instantly. 

He felt Patroclus’ breath at his ear. 

“You have to speak before your parents,” he whispered, hardly more than a rush of air. He had barely turned his head, eyes locked on the silver wolf. “They cannot know that I am a Weaver as well. They’ll take it as a threat. Lie. Tell them another reason why I’m here.”

Achilles nodded slightly. He could do that. He was a great liar. It definitely didn’t stress him out at all, being put on the spot like that. Nope. The great Achilles could figure this one out. 

The three wolves stopped at the foot of the dais, bowing low and averting their eyes in respect. 

Achilles saw his father begin to speak. Before he could, he cut him off. He could apologize later. 

“The family thanks you for your answer to our summons, friends. You may rise,” he said in his most princely voice. 

The silver wolf looked up, and his eyes cut between himself and Phoenix, like he had been caught off guard over who was doing the talking. He hid it well. “Of course, Prince Achilles. After what has happened, we are just glad to see you alive and well.”

Yeah, right, Achilles thought, biting back a sneer. “I’m glad that it all turned out okay, but I would rather nothing like it happen again. My…”

He paused. He couldn’t say advisor— then that ruined the bait for the trap, right? And a bodyguard wouldn’t be sitting directly with the royal family in a reception of a foreign group, neither would a far-off dignitary. 

In the end, his mouth ran off before his head could catch up. 

“My fiancé was seriously injured.”

He felt Patroclus go stiff at his side. 

A ripple of tension raced across the room, starting on the dais, creeping through the shocked Weavers below, before infecting the now murmuring guards. 

Phoenix took over in an instant, but not before cutting his eyes sharply at Achilles. 

Yeah. That had been a bad call. 

But it was too late to back out now. 

“Yes, well,” Phoenix continued, his voice ever so slightly strained. “As my son said, when we read your response to our summons, we were instantly intrigued about your… abilities. Your names are..?”

Finally, the silver wolf spoke. “My name is Aster.” His voice was smooth, but too loud, echoing off the walls. “And behind me are my seconds, Aegean—“ He gestured to the blue wolf. “— and Devious.” The rainbow wolf. “We hail from the outskirts of this fine pack, from a group called the Tapestry of the Birdeater, and we have been blessed by the divine Creator Fate with the ability to predict the future.” 

Thus began the twenty minute tirade of him “regaling” them all with his grand visions and predictions. 

Achilles almost laughed, if it wasn’t for all the glares he was still getting. 

When Aster had finally slowed down, his mother cleared her throat. “Yes, well, Aster… all of that would certainly be useful in stopping this from happening again. But would you be willing to prove your abilities, publicly?”

“Of course,” he crooned, and Achilles thought his voice was about as charming as a snail’s trail. “My skills with the lyre aren’t just for Weaving; I play a lovely tune, as well.”

“Excellent,” Nereid said. “My youngest has her Four Seasons ceremony just a week from now. Could you perhaps do a reading then, both for my daughter and for my dear son’s engagement?“

Oh, Achilles was so getting an earful. 

“I’d be more than honored, Queen Nereid.”

“Good,” she said. “One of our courtiers will guide you to where you and your companions will be staying. You’re welcome to ask them for anything you need, and we’ll tell you everything you need to know later today.” Her smile was gentle.

The three Weavers were led out of the room. The heavy doors slammed shut behind them. 

Achilles knew his life was over when his mother dismissed the guards. 

Throughout the forty-five minute long reaming he got about lying and this rumor is going to be all the way to Darkspine by the morning and how do you expect to cover your tail this time, Achilles?, Patroclus was eerily silent. He only spoke to confirm that, no, he had not been asked to marry Achilles, and no, that particular lie had not been his idea. That fact made Achilles more afraid than anything else. 

When he was finally dismissed from his execution, he walked beside Patroclus. If his tail was long enough, he would’ve tucked it between his legs. 

The walk was painfully silent. It was like even the wind was embarrassed. 

Finally, just before they reached the door to Patroclus’ room — which Achilles had thoroughly claimed as his own — he squeaked out, “Are you mad at me?”

Patroclus breathed in, let out a deep sigh. 

“What is wrong with you?!”

“You were the one who put me on the spot!!!”

“So your first thought was to say we’re getting married?! The very first thing that ran through your head was to say I was your husband-to-be. You cannot be serious, Achilles.”

“Well, it was, okay?! I’m sooo sorry that not everyone was raised in a cult and can lie with no problem!” 

Achilles stalked inside. He should probably go to his own rooms, then, if Patroclus was also upset with him. Rationally, Achilles knew he had every reason to be upset. He had wound Patroclus up into a very emotionally charged lie, without consulting him. But the prince wasn’t being rational and… and it hurt, he realized, when he didn’t have Patroclus in his corner. He started to grab the few essential things he had ferreted into Patroclus’ room, and the Volmyr watched him in silence. 

He stomped back to the door, but he couldn’t bring himself to open it. Why did it suck to be mad at Patroclus? He never felt this horrible when he was holding a grudge against anyone else. 

“I just want to know why you said that,” Patroclus said quietly. Achilles heard him settle heavily on the ground, somewhere near the fireplace. “Out of all of the lies, why was that the first thing that stuck out to you as believable? I— I know I have not been exactly… subtle, with how I feel about you. But— but I didn’t think you so cruel as to punish me so publicly for it.”

The fire in his veins sputtered and died, doused by the rain of those words. 

Patroclus thought he did it to spite him. 

Achilles whirled. “I would never do that to you, Patroclus.” Because that had never, never been his intention. He would never hurt him like that, not in a million years. 

“Then why—“

“Because— I… I don’t know, Pat! I just said it,” he snapped. He felt cornered, suddenly, felt like something was clawing its way out of his throat. “Just like I don’t know why I sleep in here instead of my own rooms, or why it feels wrong if I look to the right, and you aren’t there. I said it because… because it felt right to say it, okay? It felt like that was the only thing there was to say. I—“

Achilles stumbled backwards as the force of the realization hit him. 

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Patroclus was staring at him now, his green eyes bright, his mouth hung open in shock. 

For an eternity, the two stared at each other as the world held its breath. 

“Achilles—“

The spell broke, and what he had just done rushed over Achilles like a choking wave. So he did what he was best at. 

Achilles the Fearless, Achilles the Swift, ran for his life. 

When he reached his rooms, his bed was cold.

[queenharumiura]

It is, unfortunately, true that Byakuran is nowhere near as talented as his dear friend Haru when it comes to making baked goods. He's sure she still remembers the last time she had tried to convince him "anyone can bake!" and they had ended up scraping lemon cake batter off the ceiling after it had (somehow) exploded from its container. Anyway...

Although Haru's birthday fell on a Friday, a day when they still had to go to classes, Byakuran remained determined to give her a proper surprise to start the day off. He might even go to classes just to appease her. For now, Byakuran is getting into position with a bag with a present for Haru slung across his body. With a little hop, he manages to pull himself high enough that he can get a foot up, and then hoist himself up onto the ledge that sticks out just in front of Haru's bedroom window. The curtains are drawn, but Byakuran's been over enough times that he's sure he's at the right place. It's so early in the morning that everyone in the house should still be asleep, including Haru, since there's still a couple of hours before classes begin.

He rummages around in the bag for his phone to give her a wake up call. "Haru-chan, good morning~ Mind opening your window?" It takes a few moments, but if Haru's bleary and muffled voice over the phone is any indication, she's at least conscious enough to understand his request and acquiesce despite its weird nature. Byakuran can hear sounds of activity before the curtains finally get pulled open and the two of them are now staring into each other's eyes through the pane of her bedroom window.

Happy Birthday, Haru-chan! is what he mouths through the glass, and he pulls out from his bag a gift-wrapped box, inside of which contained a whole sewing kit full of different coloured threads, as well as a care-repair kit for her costumes. He got her her favourite cake and breakfast foods too, obviously, but he didn't want to risk it getting jostled around as he climbed up.

((only the most insane and chaotic birthday surprises for haru-chan (tho its a bit late huehue)! for byakuran's sake i hope she isn't living on the 20th floor of an apartment building wheeze))

[Haru Bday 2k24 Ask] ||Accepting|| @vanaglorie

Haru was sleeping soundly in her bed, deep asleep until her phone went off. As she had a tendency to use her phone as a back up alarm, she wakes up startled, though a bit confused. Haru wasn’t a morning person despite what people may originally assume of her. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she notices that it was her phone ringing due to a call rather than an alarm waking her up. She picked up the call to be told to come to the window.

On another day she may have questioned it, but her brain still wasn’t completely on so she just dons a small thin jacket (she’s sensitive to the cold in the mornings) and she makes her way to the window to see Byakuran out the window. A couple of slow blinks before they widen in surprise and nervously starts fumbling with the window. The alarm bells full woke up her brain and she opened her window in haste, as if worried that any delay could result in her friend falling over the ledge.

“Hahi! Akkun, you scared the life out of Haru just now.” She whispers as she accepts the gift-wrapped box. “Come inside for now. Haru is worried that you’ll fall over.” Or worse—some early bird passerby can be a concerned Samaritan and call the police on some weirdo hanging outside of someone’s window. How would she explain that to her relatives that she was staying with? It made her dizzy to even think about.

She opens the gift to see the sewing kit and the care-repair kit that would be useful for her costumes or daily life necessities. There was also one of her favorite cakes and breakfast foods. It was a surprise that he went through all this effort for her, “Aww Akkun, you didn’t have to go through all this for Haru, but I really appreciate it.” She’s still speaking in hushed whispers because… there were people still asleep in the household.

Haru gives him a big bear hug from her excitement. She was touched by the gifts. He knew her quite well to know what her favorite foods were and what kind of gift that she’d appreciate. “Haru loves everything~ Thank you. Such a lovely surprise for Haru.” Though she is curious why he chose now of all times to give her the gifts. Couldn’t simply wait until later in the day? Why does she think if she asked his answer would be, ‘I just wanted to see your surprised face!’