#like sure-- none of them are particularly reverent of the gods

[12pt-times-new-roman]

c3e59

let's go back in tiiiiime

"Where are we?" "Where's everybody else?" "Where's Imogen?"

This area is rife with not just volcanic activity, but with seismic activity as well, and Ruidus is to the south.

Laudna identifies a handful of places that match this description: the Truskan Vale (near Kamordah), the Panagrip Sands (to the far east of Marquet), and the Spectrum Gorge in the middle of Issylra.

Orym to Caleb, via sending stone: "Um... Caleb Widogast? Are you alright? Where are you? Not sure we're even in Marquet anymore. Please respond." He's met with a feedback loop and static.

Orym to Dorian, vis sending stone: "Dorian? Can you hear me? Uh... what's the sky look like where you are? Tell me you're okay." Same thing.

They crest a ridge of the gorge, and beyond, there's a dense forest, a cluster of growth affixed to the mineral-rich earth. Orym, with a passive perception of 31, sees movement — 

AIMEE!!!!

She's a dwarf with long blond hair, covered in tattoos — two stand out, one of a banner heart that says "me" instead of "mom," and one with a large cursive D. She's wearing earring hoops that say "fuck off." A corset, bejeweled boots, a massive gold belt buckle, carrying a whip and a sickle.

I'm calling it right now, this woman is going to romance Laudna and Ashton.

An hour ago, she was in Tal'dorei looking for her ex. She almost found him when she heard Ludinus' voice, saw white light, then appeared in this forest.

Mona is a barbarian/rogue (who rolled excellent stats btw).

From the top, they can see that the gorge is a massive canyon at least two miles long. Ruidus is to the southwest of them. An extremely overgrown and vibrant forest surrounds the canyon, and there's a river nearby.

Orym can see another gathering of leylines to the northeast — another nexus point, miles off. Loosely in that direction, he can see a township, and beyond that, a massive mountain range with one singular mountain taller than any he's ever seen — the Heaven's Stair. The entire western side of his vision is taken up by a mountain range that looks so foreboding and ominous that he doesn't even want to go near it. To the south, ocean.

Traveling to the northeast, they encounter a fire and send Pate to scout. (Friendly reminder that Pate uses the stat block of an imp, so he can turn invisible at will.) At the fire, there's a cart, a reindeer-looking beast of burden, and a humanoid figure warming their hands.

Utkarsh Ambudkar is an actor best known for his roles in Pitch Perfect and Avatar: the Last Airbender.

Bor'dor is a half-elf "built like a coat hanger." 6'4 but hunched over, delicate fingers, no scars or tattoos. Brown skin with shades of green and gold, unkempt hair, and large gold-amber eyes. A face that carries the resting expression of "what the fuck is going on?" No armor, a green cloak, leather shoes, and a crossbow.

He shoots a 5th-level lightning bolt at Mona, then casts cure wounds at second level. He's a divine soul sorcerer!

He was in the Cyrios Mountains on Wildemount (near Pride's Call) with his sheep — his family raises sheep and sheepdogs — and caring for his sick brother. Then he felt a humming, heard a voice and a droning, a pain in his forehead — then he got teleported here, along with his cart.

And apparently he just... spontaneously gained 9 levels in sorcerer over the course of the hours he's been here. Which, if he's a divine soul sorcerer, is super fucking concerning considering what we know about the gods giving large amounts of power to their followers from EXU: Calamity.

Mona's whip is a whip of warning, which gives her advantage on initiative rolls. Also, creatures within 30 feet of her cannot be surprised, and if they're sleeping naturally and combat starts, they wake up at the start of combat.

Orym spots another figure, walking through the forest, approaching the light and conversation.

EMILY!!

She's a shadar-kai elf with emo girl tattoos with runes instead of song lyrics, but she's dressed in the formal attire of a mage's apprentice. Indoor kid vibes, clothes not meant for adventuring, "coming out of a tense conversation with a book."

She's a Cobalt Soul apprentice!! She's here asking about their "experiences with the apogee solstice."

Her book talks to her. She was sent by the Cobalt Soul, but with a sentient book chaperone. It's a tome with black and brown leather and silver runes, with a scrunched face roughly pressed into the front. Denios was trapped in a book during a rivalry, the Cobalt Soul got their hands on it, and now he's a chaperone.

The Cobalt Soul didn't know where she was gonna end up, but they sent her through a teleport spell hoping for a metropolis — and ended up here. So this confirms that teleport works, but there's no guarantee where you're gonna end up.

Prism was stepping outside the library to prepare for her teleportation when she heard Ludinus, saw a flash, and ended up here.

The Soul knew that the apogee solstice would be a "cataclysmic event." They scrounged up everyone they could and dispatched them to try to figure out what's happening.

The sentient book is also her spellbook, so she's stuck with him.

It sounds like Prism is an order of scribes wizard? That would make sense for the Cobalt Soul.

Mona's "real" name is Deni$e. Her nails are incredibly sharp stilettos. Her demeanor reminds me a lot of Keg.

More rustling in the bushes! More people?

Nope! Initiative at the end of the break.

Prism has a raven familiar she calls "mother." She also invokes the spirit of her spellbook, confirming that she's an Order of Scribes wizard.

Denise has at least 3 levels in rogue, because her sneak attack is 2d6, and at least 2 levels in barbarian, because she has reckless attack.

Gods, I forgot how much I love Talisein's descriptions of Ashton's attacks and rage builds. They're all so good.

Oooooh, I've never seen steel wind strike used in a game before! It's a 5th level ranger/wizard spell from Xanithar's that deals 6d10 force damage on a hit to up to 5 creatures within range. Then, regardless of whether it hit or not, the caster can teleport to a space within 5 feet of any of the targets.

Also, yes, rules-as-written a familiar counts as an ally that can proc sneak attack. So if Veth, as an arcane trickster, had taken find familiar, or if Frumpkin was used in this way, she could've gotten sneak attack much more reliably. Personally, I find it strange that familiars can do this while spiritual weapons cannot, but yeah.

I love that Bor'dor, the newly-minted sorcerer who has no idea how to use his magic purposefully, is this party's only source of healing (besides Laudna's wither and bloom, which hardly counts). From that, it seems like this group is much more geared toward social encounters than physical ones,

YO. EMILY. that is a DOPE FUCKING MOVE

The plant swallows Orym, then the book goes in behind him and gets into contact, then Prism casts dimension door through the book on Orym to teleport them out.

THIS is why I absolutely love watching veteran players on Critical Role. People new to the system have their own unique charm to the way they play their characters, but people like Emily and Aabria who are highly experienced with and aware of D&D 5e know to make incredibly creative moves like that.

And at the same time, Utkarsh (and guests new to 5e) pushes the limits of the rules, because they're not familiar with those rules, to a point that they come up with wildly creative plays based on what knowledge they do have of the rules-as-written that end up being clutch moves.

Combat ends.

Prism's raven is named after both her own mother and the Matron of Ravens, because the latter is prominent in the Shadowfell.

Prism is "really new to spellcasting," despite being a 9th-level wizard who is therefore capable of casting things like contact other plane, create spelljamming helm, legend lore, and teleportation circle. tbh this is such a cool take on wizards -- someone who's never tested their spells in combat situations, but who's confident in their own ability with those spells in more innocuous circumstances, due to their expansive study and lack of practical experience.

Also, Prism knows exactly who Ludinus Da'leth is, though she's never interacted with him directly, because of his leadership of the Cerberus Assembly.

"We don't leave people behind. That's the rule. You do not leave people the fuck behind." I love that this has become the center of Ashton's philosophy, because it makes so much sense. They were left behind, left for dead, and a single person stayed by their side, helped them, saved them. So of course they are going to be that person for someone else. Of course they would rather be the Milo, of course they'd rather try in vain to save someone instead of leaving them behind and subjecting them to the same pain and isolation that they themself felt.

Also, again, Emily is using the same logic for Prism as Aabria did for Laerryn. Maybe it's just because we've never really had a proper elf PC (or a player-character who had the trance ability), but this is just such a cool take on trance...... I love it.

Ahhh, so Prism doesn't necessarily believe the gods should die but she does believe that they might deserve to be usurped by mortals ascending to godhood like the Raven Queen. With a skill check, Prism's truthful reason is that she's feeling excited to be out of the library. She thought she was going to freak out, but she didn't, and she's excited by that -- she feels like she could smoke a cigarette in a single drag, she feels that rush of adrenalin. It's like when Caleb said in C2 that they were all addicts to the thrill of battle, the adrenalin of purpose.

Bor'dor doesn't remember his mother very well, and he hasn't seen her in a very long time. He believes that his magic comes from the love of his mother, and he's clinging to that. He and Prism take the first watch, and bond over their ability to trance.

Yep, Prism is 100% an order of scribes wizard. Manifest Mind is a 6th level ability of that subclass.

Ashton panicked, down in the mines. They thought they'd won, they thought Laudna had won, and they think they made some bad calls. Laudna says that "we're a bunch of dumb-fucks, going up against a 500-year-old wizard, so..." And Ashton reassures her that they're gonna get their people. They're gonna get Prism, Bor'dor, and Deni$e to where they need to go, then they're gonna find Imogen. "If they went to space, then we'll go to space... if she got vaporized, we'll bring her back. This is what we do. We bring everybody back. There is no failure in this, and we're going to figure it out because it's what matters. I have-- whatever broken thing that's in my head, that means that anything's possible now, that's what I've decided. We brought you back, and we can do it again... sure, we're not enough to save the world, but we are more than enough to bring everybody back... we can't save the world, but we can save our people. We're going to."

I never really got to know Percy, I liked Molly, I loved Caduceus... but I want to fucking study Ashton like a bug under a microscope, I want to turn them around in my brain like a microwave. They are fascinating,

Deni$e and Orym take the last watch. Deni$e knows Shaun Gilmore! She went to Emon looking for him specifically. She also knows Dariax, "that piece of shit." She knows Orym from wanted posters all over Emon -- the Nameless Ones have put up wanted posters for all of the Crown Keepers.

Dariax has a dumptruck ass, canon.

DARIAX IS THE EX DENI$E WAS LOOKING FOR

And the Nameless Ones were going after her because they were looking for what Dariax stole, and as soon as she saw him months later, she got teleported here.

Orym has flashes of Keyleth, Will, the horrors they've witnessed. It permeates this light conversation, his entire existence. He drinks, heavier than we've seen him drink the entire campaign. "I just... I just don't think I've ever felt so small."

Prism doesn't know sending, but if she can find a scroll or a copy of a spell, she can transcribe it into her spellbook very quickly. She wants to find a library or some discarded spellbooks so she can help, so she can cast sending.

As an interesting note, this is also an Order of Scribes ability! Usually, it takes 2 hours per spell level for a wizard to transcribe a spell, but for an Order of Scribes wizard it takes two minutes per spell level.

"That mountain to the north is the Ascendant Bridge, the tallest mountain in Exandria... it's visible as far away as Vasselheim. It's believed to be where the gods first arrived in the world." The party is within a gorge of Othanzia, the region in which Vasselheim, the dawn of all civilization, sits.

The party can still see Ruidus, even in the early daylight. They can see townships around -- they have options scattered in every direction.

[dawn-of-worlds]

The Tolinakka at the Dawn of Days

The Tolinakka, firstborn of the mortal races, are beetle-like creatures with four legs arranged around a horizontal lower body, and two arms (ending in six-fingered hands) and an antlered head emerging from a vertical upper body that is connected to one end of the lower body. At full extension they stand almost seven feet in height; they possess both internal bone-like cores and an external chitinous exoskeleton of hues ranging from light blue to black; they feed primarily on fruits, with nectars, flowers and honey providing key delicacies. They are also possessed of a certain lack of fear of death and surety of will that makes them both courageous and bold but also independent-minded and quarrelsome; yet they also have a tendency towards patience and deep contemplation of the world around them.

Traditional Tolinakka society, as founded in the Cradle of Kirrik soon after the Dawn, was focused around small communities of agroforesters, who tended their own patches of fruit-bearing trees and used the surplus to support specialised craftspeople – coppersmiths, carpenters, potters and the like. These Ancient Tolinakka were monogamous and raised their young (often twins) as couples, organised themselves in a semi-democratic fashion around local elders and chiefs, and frequently went to war either over practical matters of land ownership and resources, or over esoteric matters of philosophy.

The Tolinakka were of a philosophical bent from their first creation, and while they revered most of the gods to some degree (with Kirrik and Zoreinak being the most prominent) they did not entirely devote themselves to any of them. They pondered the mysteries of the cosmos, communing with spirits where that offered them knowledge, utilised deep meditations in the hope of gaining insight into the Paths of the Dead, or went on pilgrimages north to the Thunderous Inlet, in the hope of being struck by lightning and gaining enlightenment.

And they argued, constantly, about everything imaginable.

The Tolinakka respected many things, but none more so that being able to make persuasive arguments; particularly favoured were those able to synthesise multiple contradictory arguments into a single thesis. The Tolinakka themselves invented writing early in their history, so as to better record and teach their various philosophical treaties, and soon enough teaching became a respected profession amongst the Tolinakka, and different philosophical schools were founded, expounded on their ideas and developed feuds.

The Tolinakka spread throughout the Cradle mostly through the splitting of communities; as quarrelsome as they were, Tolinakka communities did not get very large before they separated, because the Ancient Tolinakka far preferred to dwell with a small community of those with similar views that a larger community of mixed views. As they spread, the infuence of CHI A ASH brought forth the Cults of Ecstatic Unity. These early cults were organised religion only compared to the “religion” of traditional Tolinakka society; they were not particularly organised groups.

Yet their message of unity and oneness nonetheless made sure they grew larger than other Tolinakka settlements, held together by the influence of the Blackroot plant. This size meant other communities, even if they found the practices of the Cult disturbing or immoral (Zoreinak-primarists in particular took offense to their horn-dulling and opposition to debating), were reluctant to make war upon them. The Cults did not take over Tolinakka society, but became undoubtedly the most powerful single force within it.

Such were the Tolinakka in the time that would one day be referred to as their Golden Age.

[avarindigenous]

Finrod, the Edain, and Mighty Whitey

(a note:

there are going to be people who read this and disagree with me. there are going to be people who are deeply offended because I’m talking about something that’s clearly supposed to be cute or innocent and framing it in a light of racism and racist stereotypes. this is a good thing. all I can speak to is my perspective, and I want to begin a conversation, not end it. I’m addressing something that makes me, as one colonized person, incredibly uncomfortable, because I firmly believe it is not on purpose. it makes fandom spaces inhospitable and unwelcoming to me, and if I’m uncomfortable enough to make a post about this it’s probably concerning and upsetting to others. that’s why I’m bringing it up. if you disagree with me I welcome your conversation. if nothing else, at least consider my perspective.)

there’s been a trend of recent posts (I am not going to link any of them, because this is not meant to be either a callout or an incitement to harassment) portraying Finrod’s first contact with the Edain as something they find deeply culturally significant on more than a historical level, and placing Finrod in a role of “benevolent pet owner” or “spiritual advisor”. the Edain, particularly Bëor’s children, regard him as a saintlike figure to be revered and venerated if not outright worshiped, and his impact on their lives and culture is presented as downright religious. there are several art pieces going back years depicting Finrod’s first meeting with the Edain in an almost hagiographic way, with him angelically lit while wide-eyed primitive humans stare up at him in awe and wonder. other fanart draws on real-world iconography to paint him like a Catholic saint.

seeing these posts makes me deeply uncomfortable, and I’m not sure if the people involved are aware of the racist tropes they’re drawing on to facilitate these kinds of reads of the text.

when Finrod meets the Edain, they are a nomadic culture that has been traveling for generations. they have distinct languages for their different ethnic groups, they have family structures, and they have music. they are, in short, a fully-fledged people group. Finrod denies being a god when they ask him if he is one, and from that point forward they do not seem to have any kind of lasting religious tie to him. they don’t have the technology elves do, or the textiles, or the language, or the religion, but this is not because they are primitive. it is not because they don’t understand that different races exist. it is not because they need to be educated or awakened or guided into a better, more “modern” way of being.

now. Tolkien has a race problem. none of his work fully escapes it. as a result, while the text itself is clear that the Edain are not below the elves when it comes to their self-awareness and their abilities, the tone and style of the narration will often present the facts in a biased tone. if you’re not firmly convinced of the fact that nomadic or preliterate or otherwise non-Western societies are not primitive, there is ample room in the way that particular scenes are written to interpret them as if Finrod is lofty and high and advanced while the Edain are guileless and soaking up knowledge. there’s even a parallel between Finrod finding them and Oromë finding the elves in Cuiviénen. however, this is based on racist understandings of contact between different peoples. putting Finrod in a position where he treats the Edain like they’re adorable pets and the Edain treat him like he’s a religious figure is leaning into one of the oldest tropes in the book, quite literally.

there is a long history of “white or white-coded person comes into contact with primitive tribe only to be mistaken for a god” as a trope in historical and speculative fiction. examples include Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest, The Road to El Dorado, and The Return of the Jedi. many people now understand that this trope is racist, but it’s not solely racist because the “native tribe” or “primitive people” are presented in stereotypical ways. even if the natives are intelligent and innovative and given autonomy, like in The Road to El Dorado, the trope is still racist, because it assumes that no matter how good we are at other things, we’re always going to be simple religiously. it also centers white people in the spiritual and religious beliefs of those they have historically conquered, and sets up a power imbalance where our rituals and our traditions are mere superstitions to be exploited or dismissed.

this becomes even more of a problem when you consider that Finrod is almost always depicted as white, and canonically, the house of Bëor was darker-skinned. (Tolkien uses the antiquated and racially charged term “swarthy” to describe them in The Peoples of Middle-Earth, but this does not erase the fact that they aren’t white.) putting a blonde-haired blue-eyed white man at the center of the spiritual lives of brown people is not good. prioritizing the purity and pure intentions of a white man is not good.

Finrod is also a canonical colonizer. he built Nargothrond in a place already inhabited by the petty-dwarves and drove them out of their own home. I don’t say this to argue no one can love him. many characters in the Legendarium do morally dubious and terrible things, and many good or heroic people are also colonizers. it’s a reality of the text. now, liking him does not make you evil, and neither does minimizing those aspects of his character. there are any number of reasons someone might disagree with this interpretation of him, or might choose to ignore parts of his biography. but responding to the presence of a colonialist by further pedestalizing him in the eyes of people he then goes on to have power over is troubling.

I’m not saying we can’t keep having fun posts about Finrod’s relationship with the Edain. there are many ways to reparatively read the text, focusing on the good things and acknowledging the flaws while also downplaying their importance in our own conceptions of Tolkien’s works. writing Finrod as having an equitable relationship with the Edain, where he’s close to them the way he’s close to his Eldarin friends, is one way to do that. another is featuring more cultural exchange - Finrod teaching them how to play the elvish harp, and them teaching him about bone flutes or jaw harps or drums, is an example of that.

all I’m asking those who read this to do is to consider that putting Finrod above his newfound friends treats those friends like they can’t understand he’s not divine, or like they would automatically assume he was despite his denial. Finrod is not a Mighty Whitey. he isn’t saving the Edain from themselves. he’s made first contact, and befriended them, but they’re people, not strange animals he’s studying, and not lapdogs he can’t fully communicate with who only love him unconditionally. canonically, he treats Beren and Barahir like valued allies and friends, not like unusual oddities who add flavor to his court. he lets Andreth insult him and shout at him and criticize him. he sees these people as people, and that’s one of the best things about him.

[ever-is-typing]

Hewwo~

Mind giving me some yandere halberd of silence Grace hcs?

note: oh ho ho, the first yandere request 😳 and a skin request too?! two birds with one stone bbyyyyyyy ☺✨

also fair warning: these hcs will feature a variety of uncomfy topics, including but not limited to- obsessive behavior, sadistic behavior, mention of drowning, mention of death, mention of/forced participation in a sacrificial ceremony. (and please for the love of God don't romanticize these sorts of relationships they're very harmful and abusive (but I'm sure yall are smart enough to know that) k thanks ♡)

🐠🐚Yandere! Halberd of Silence! Grace (Naiad)🐚🐠 relationship headcanons

• in this AU, Grace is a goddess of the ocean- so, in your small fishing village on the edge of the sea, she is revered as such

• you grew up partaking in numerous celebrations meant to honour her- festivals, feasts, the works

• Grace would usually watch on as these events took place- that might be how she first noticed you.

• there was something about you that stood out as alluring immediately. something she couldn't quite understand

• despite being a mere human... everything about you looked so... ethereal.

• and like that, she was hooked (pun intended lmfao)

• so she continued observing you.

• she would watch you while you worked with your family, hauling nets of fish onto land to scale them and gut them and sell them...

• she found herself growing hot whenever you'd jump onto a boat with your father to go fishing.

• seeing you within her domain was... arousing, in plainest terms.

• sometimes, you swear that you can see the silhouette of a woman shimmering beneath the waves.

• not only that, but when you have your back to the water, sometimes you feel gentle breathing trailing down from your ear up to your neck-

• you've just chalked it up to paranoia as a coping mechanism.

• Grace made sure to always bless your fish harvests whenever you were present with the other fisherpeople-

• a silent gift to you from your benevolent and adoring goddess.

• soon enough, others had taken note of all of the fish you'd haul in on a daily basis

• they called you blessed- chosen by the legendary goddess to bring fortune to the village.

• and, soon enough, you were being called on by dozens of villagers on the daily-

• be it to bless crops or harvests, they all thought you were to act as Grace's chosen mouthpiece

• and naturally, that sort of pressure got to you real quick. you were nothing of the sort! you just wanted to live a quiet, humble life with your family!

• and that aching feeling of being watched never ceased.

• so perhaps one night you ran away to the shore to be alone.

• and perhaps that is when the goddess begins to feel particularly confident-

• confident enough to reveal herself to you, her beloved mortal.

• she would confess to everything. stalking watching over you, blessing you, being positively enamored by you...

• you were absolutely horrified. but she was quick to reassure you! she did it all out of love, so it was okay!

• she saw how much stress you were facing in your village, and seeing her darling undergo such turmoil made her heart ache.

• so she would extend her divine hand to you. she would offer you everything your heart desired- power, status, riches...

• ...so long as you were to join her in the depths, to stay by her side and to worship her for eternity.

• she didn't know why you looked so scared. a goddess was confessing her undying love for you! you should have been honoured! throwing yourself to her feet, not hesitating to give yourself to her immediately!

• but, you did none of those things.

• instead, you... you ran away. like some little coward!

• Grace might feel distraught at first. upset, even. but that wouldn't last long before she got angry.

• Grace, despite her otherwise docile and benevolent behavior, is still a goddess of the sea, and something to be feared.

• and after her will is rejected? by a human, the very creatures who were meant to abide by her every wish?

• you can bet your ass she was enraged.

• from then on, your village faced a merciless deprivation of food. fish would turn rotten as soon as they were caught, and the once fruitful crops all deteriorated and crumbled to dust in an instant.

• no one could eat anything- and, over time, people began to die. if not by the means of starvation, then through their own despair to leave the village and be caught in the hurricane.

• oh yeah, the hurricane. forgot abt that

• the storm flooded and destroyed everything. it wrecked buildings, ruined homes, and many people who desperately tried to escape the carnage met their ends at a watery grave.

• despite it all, though, you were kept alive. Grace wanted you to see what your defiance had caused.

• this was a punishment for you- she wanted to see you hurt for going against her.

• after two weeks of this merciless onslaught, the villagers grew very angry with you.

• "Why is the goddess doing this to us, Y/N?! What did we do wrong?!"

• and of course you knew why. but you couldn't say- not without humiliating yourself and wracking yourself with guilt further.

• but, as I said, the villagers were desperate. they wanted this suffering to end, and, at this point, they didn't need an explanation.

• if you couldn't perform your duties as a prophet, perhaps you never were one at all- which justified everything they were about to do next.

• you were taken from your home late at night. you kicked, you screamed, you sobbed, but your pleas for mercy fell upon deaf ears.

• the villagers had to appease the goddess somehow- perhaps through the end of your life they could find peace.

• and, as you were tossed into the sea, thrashing and screaming for air, the last thing you saw... was the shimmering silhouette of a woman.

"To defy me was foolish, my love... not that it matters. Willing or not, I will have you in the end."

- Yandere! Halberd of Silence! Grace ⚔⚔

[fleursdemeduse]

Remembrance AU: Constant Dying

This is not going in the direction that was originally planned, but I'm not sure I'm too upset by it. I'm glad to finally post a part that goes a bit further into Techno's feelings about you this time, though. I'm also starting to work on an angsty Simpbur fic alongside this one, so keep an eye out for that.

Warnings: Mention of death ; Near-death

Words: 3.6k

Your legs throbbed as you trudged through the multiple paths to where you and Techno had been mining. Your neck wasn’t fairing much better. There was always residual pain after a death, especially when you were killed by your own stupidity and not mobs or someone else. You were more than happy to take hits for your friend, often shielding his body with your much smaller one to protect him, but natural deaths were pointless to you. Not to mention that dying this many times in such a short period made an ache develop on the right side of your brain and you knew you wouldn’t be able to be rid of it for hours. You finished descending carved stairs to where you believed you had been and let out a sigh at the effort. Your chest filled with a dull ache at the action. A firework to the chest was certainly a quick way to die. It was far from the most painful as long as it got the job done in one or two shots and the ache would only last another hour or two if you would stop dying.

You thought back on how the events from earlier in the day had transpired. The entire thing had been a shit show and you loathed the next time you’d speak to Wilbur, knowing you were likely going to just yell at him. You weren’t in a great mood because of his little stunt. At least you knew why Techno had killed you and several others on the server. There was no reason for him to sit back and watch Tubbo be executed by your dearest friend. You could only hope that the boys new scars weren’t too bad. He’d have to display them for the rest of this lifetime, after all. Maybe he’d think they were cool like Tommy did.

You slowly unclenched your jaw and relaxed your shoulders, smiling a little at the thought of blond that you spent the other half of your days doting on. He was like the little brother you had always imagined wanting. Mumza had filled your prayers in some fashion, you supposed. A small chuckle spilled from your lips, deciding you’d make Technoblade pay you back somehow for your deaths today. You were up to three now.

A smile curled your lips as you thought of the possibilities. Maybe you’d steal his crown for a little bit. Or his cloak. You giggled to yourself as you crossed the lava pit that you were going to use later for obsidian. Mining in caves this deep was difficult enough without mobs so the lava was a good way to make sure none spawned nearby. Perhaps you could get away with all of the above with the addition of forcing him to make you a cup of tea. That would certainly be fair, wouldn’t it? You were sure if you convinced chat, you’d be able to make him do it.

The ore had been mostly cleared out, all that remained were long tunnels deep underground spanning for what felt like forever. It took you a good chunk of time, but finally you approached him from behind. He had continued mining, cobblestone covering the hole that you had fallen down and ultimately died upon impact in. “You grabbed my stuff, right?”

He pointed to the chest that had been set up, not stopping his assault on a piece of diorite. You flipped open the lid, pulling out several stone pickaxes he had managed to pick up. You didn’t suppose he had kept most of the stone, leaving it in the cave, but the ores, redstone, and lapis you had gathered sat untouched in the chest. “I don’t understand why you continue to use those. They’re flimsy.”

You shrugged before joining his side again, mining away the soft rock. “Because I can keep a large stock of them and don’t have to waste the durability of my diamond one.” You stopped paying attention to the coal you mined at above you as you looked towards him. “Besides, they’re expendable and I don’t have to worry about retrieving them every time I-”

Gravel began to fall on and around you in heavy chunks, obscuring your vision. You were startled for a moment at the sudden assault and you cursed your horrible luck. Of course the moment you were back and trying to resume your task, you’d almost die again. You recovered quickly, feeling the pressure around you as you were crushed and tried to dig your way out of the pile, but more seemed to just fall and replace the gravel you had just removed. It was suffocating. Rocks grated against your skin and you cringed at the sound of them rubbing against each other. You tried to claw your way through, fingers getting scraped as small pebbles cut the flesh. You were running out of air. You hated dying like this.

A hand grasped your bicep and you grunted as you were yanked out of the rubble. Rocks and flint shifted around you as it gave way and filled in the spot where you had just been. A broad chest cushioned you as you stumbled forward. You sucked in air as you rested your forehead against him. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone screw something up that fast before."

Your laugh was more of a wheeze as you smacked your hand against him, next to where your head rested. You didn’t move, however. Techno chuckled as he pat your back. He’d let you have your moment to calm yourself back down. He wasn’t particularly scared of you dying again, but he knew it had to have sucked. You had been taking the brunt of damage meant for him since, well, every time the two of you spent time together, and he didn’t understand why you were so eager to do it. On top of your clumsiness that already resulted in countless other deaths he didn’t know about, you died for him often when it would have probably only resulted in a minor wound for him. You were so reckless. But that smile you gave him every time somehow dissipated his annoyance more than it should have. It was familiar somehow. The voices loved it more than they should have. They loved you more than they should have.

You didn’t care who he was, how he was, what he did, if he could do something for you. You cared about him. Whenever he was giving too much to the rebellion, whenever he was hyper fixated on tasks and was trapped in his own brain with only chat as company, you were always there. They didn’t mind receding to the back of his head while you two talked, adding in small quips here and there. The loud roar they normally were was typically a small rumble when you were talking. It put him on edge with how much they liked you, but he couldn’t blame them. You provided conversation more often than not. You offered simpler solutions to long problems in his head he’d been breaking apart over and over until it had spiraled into a bigger one than it had started out at. But besides that, you also forced him to sleep, to remember to drink water, to take time for himself. To care about himself the way you did. He didn’t know how to repay you for the unending kindness you showed him. Especially when all you asked for was his friendship in return.

He felt you sigh against him and he moved his arm to free you. You were looking up at him, though, not stepping away.

"Are you alright?" His lips twitched. Shouldn’t he be asking you that?

"Yeah, why?"

"You look mad." A snort escaped him. You couldn’t even see his expression past the mask.

"That's just my face.” You didn’t look convinced. He ran his fingers through your hair, knocking some debris loose. It fell to the floor at your feet. He ignored the way you leaned into his touch. “I’m alright, [y/n].”

You smiled at him. You smiled that cursed smile. It made him feel worthy of the title god; so full of reverence and kindness. You had to have been blessed by Kristin herself. How could you still look upon him like that after what had happened at the festival? How could you show such adoration for a-

“Stop lookin’ at me like that.” He turned his head away. He didn’t feel like he deserved to be the recipient of that smile made from sheer adoration. Your eyebrows furrowed and your smile wavered.

“Looking at you like what?”

“Like how Wilbur looks at you.” Your laugh rang through the tunnels. It echoed off the walls and he couldn’t help the swell of something in his chest. For a moment, you reminded him of Phil.

“Why is it a bad thing if I look at you like he does to me? He’s a really dear friend.” Oh dear.

“Don’t tell him that.” The idea of you only seeing him as a friend would break his heart floated unspoken in the air. You didn’t seem to notice it.

“Why not?”

“Just don’t.” Techno stepped back from you when it was obvious you weren’t going to do it yourself. He watched you deflate slightly and felt like he had done something wrong.

“It’s not like he wants to talk to me now anyways.” You picked up your pickaxe again, moving to work on the pile of gravel. He offered you his shovel and you took it. “He hasn’t said a word to me since the festival earlier.”

“I’m honestly surprised you’re still talkin’ to either of us after that debacle.” You paused your digging to look at him curiously. “After me bein’ peer pressured into killin’ Tubbo and everyone else. Killin’ you. His plan to do nothin’ ‘bout it. It’s surprisin’ that you aren’t givin’ us both the silent treatment.”

You scoffed, going back to the gravel in front of you. “That wasn’t his plan.”

Techno stilled, his eyebrows furrowing. “What?”

“Wilbur wasn’t planning on just doing nothing. He has TNT planted all around Manburg.” You hesitated, the grip on his shovel tightening in your trembling hands as you continued digging. “I don’t know why he didn’t set it off.”

There was no sound next to you or behind you. Stopping your work, you looked at him, only to see him looking towards where the mouth of the cave was. “We should be gettin’ back.”

A soft sigh left your mouth. “Go on ahead, I’m right behind you.”

You didn’t want to face the fallout.

You returned to Pogtopia late that night. Mining alone had been a good way to soothe your nerves after the events that had happened earlier. Whilst you had wished Techno had been there longer, you understood wanting to regroup. Today had been stressful for all of you.

You walked down the crude steps that had been made after putting the excess resources into the communal chest at the top. There was soft murmuring and the distant sound of Wilbur’s cackle put you a little on edge, but you soldiered on. It’s okay. Tubbo hopefully would have respawned by now. Things would go on. You froze at the top of the walkway down to the primary meeting area.

Techno was wrapping his knuckles with some extra gauze you recognized to be from your chest. Tommy was sitting a little away from him, his back to the wall and his knees to his chest. There was a distant look in his eyes as he stared at the ground in front of him. You could see a sliver of one of your plasters on his face, the bluish purple fabric and white dots a dark galaxy against his pale cheek. Your feet were moving before your brain as you ran to the teenage boy and knelt before him. You should have come back sooner. You reached out to hold him before hesitating, choosing instead to extend your hand to examine the flesh around the bandage. “You look horrible, Tommy. What happened? I thought you were safe after what happened at the festival.”

Techno grunted from the sidelines. “We resolved our issues.”

The boy before you huffed, still looking at the ground, but he leaned into your touch. “Resolved is a strong word, but we’re okay. For now.” He looked up at you and you pursed your lips together. He relaxed at the worry in your eyes. He was safe with you. “Where were you?”

“I was mining. I needed to blow off steam after all of that.” The blond just nodded, pressing his face further into your touch. You moved closer to brush some of the golden locks away from his face with your free hand. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Techno was suddenly beside you both, towering over the two of you. “It stays in the pit.”

You sent him an inquisitive look. “The pit?”

He only nodded and your frown deepened. Anger started to fester in you. Did he do this? To a child? “We are definitely discussing this later, Technoblade.” You watched his shoulders tense for a moment. You didn’t know if it was because of your tone or the use of his full name, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care at the moment. You’d take care of it later. You two always talked things through, and now would not be any different, but you had to worry about Tommy. “You can’t just hurt people and say things are better now.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but you were already helping the blond up to shuffle him to your bed. The child kept trying to wave you off, but you persisted. Despite your ire against him, something shifted in his chest at watching how gentle you were with Tommy. His bond with you was truly something to behold.

Why aren’t they paying attention to us like earlier?

They’re so sweet to him.

Tommy's lucky we didn’t accidentally kill him.

I wonder how they’re so close.

E.

I don’t want to talk to them later.

Why are they mad at us?

E.

So they’re not upset about the festival, but they’re upset about a fight with Tommy? That makes no sense.

Follow them.

This is stupid.

E.

Do they like him more?

Techno sat back in his spot against the ravine wall. He saw traces of a fireplace and used the heel of his boot to push around the sooty remains. Most of the questions chat had were valid, but he didn’t want to pursue you. He didn’t want to have that conversation later, either. He just wanted to move on. But he knew you wouldn’t. Something about how resentment ruins friendships and miscommunication was the biggest cause. He could never resent you. Sometimes he resented the gods, but never you.

He wanted to know what kind of entertainment DreamXD and Kristin got out of watching them over and over and over again. Did they have nothing better to do than continuously create and orchestrate each new lifetime? Each new world with different rules and a different storyline? Or recreate other worlds just to change the plot? There had been so many, but this was the first where they all remembered. This was the first where he had met you.

Techno closed his eyes. None of his lives had been bad. Well, particularly bad. Wilbur always seemed to get off worse than he did. Tommy sometimes worse than them both.

He remembered a life of gilded castles, one of many. He trained Wilbur and Tommy in combat. He studied politics and was a general. He watched the two of them grow up in Phil’s absence. There were handmaidens that were too bold in their words, butlers that were too polite, and inside jokes between him and the guards. There were dinners made of things that he only wished they could recreate here. He remembered that despite any squabbling, they were still very much a family. He knows Tommy remembers that one all too clearly. He doesn’t talk about it often, but Techno knows the look in his eyes whenever Phil is mentioned. He also speaks sometimes about the servant that once tended to his mother but he nor Wilbur could ever recall one. Too many faceless employees. Too many nameless soldiers.

He remembered a different life where Hanahaki Disease roamed rampant. The flowers infected most of the people he knew. Sometimes they got better, sometimes they didn’t. Phil would never catch it. The blurry memory of his friend saying so flashed briefly in his head. That fact didn't surprise him in the least. Phil was a catch. But he had never had to deal with the deadly buds either. He couldn't remember why. His head throbbed gently as he tried to wade through the fog. Wilbur had suffered from it, though. It was devastating when he passed. The flowers choked him, stuffing his airways with petals. Who had he loved so much it killed him? Didn't he love anyone like that? Didn’t he find someone so beautiful that dying was more preferable than a life without them? Maybe he did. There were small flashes in his head of the gentle squeeze of a hand and a smile that could snuff out the sun. Why couldn't he seem to remember their face?

There was another life. A life where markings appeared on his skin. Little scratches, cuts and scrapes that weren't his, doodles, words that he would have never written himself. He remembered sitting through a lecture once, smiling at the little stars that speckled his arm and slowly appeared like the night sky in the twilight of the setting sun. Wilbur had shown off the same markings, and it was brutal irony that the two of them shared this connection with a third. They would play games frequently. Mostly twenty questions or tic tac toe, but locations and true names were always burning scribbles on their flesh when attempted. They tried many tactics to find out more before Wilbur had told them both off. He wonders if they had found their third in that life.

There had always been gaps in his memory, especially when it came to his other lives. Lulls where the mundane had become just a bit too mundane, moments where he just shut his brain off and went by instinct. Things were easier when you didn’t have past lives to think about. When he didn’t have to consider if he had already learnt a lesson and was doomed to repeat it. When you weren’t around to give him glares and words of encouragement and cause disruption in his life. Were Tommy and Wilbur’s lives more difficult with you here too? With someone to tell them what to do and to patch up their wounds and give fleeting touches that were so soft it was like touching a petal? He hopes not.

A sound of distress comes from the direction you and Tommy had gone in and he turns to look. You’re standing there, facing away from him, reaching out towards empty space to someone who wasn’t there. You must’ve been the one to make the noise.

You turn around and his frown deepens. You look tired and more than a little frustrated. It was amazing how much of a difference you stood now compared to the person that clung to him throughout the nether when he had first met you. Your presence was easy. You didn’t ramble like he would disappear anymore. You didn’t look to him for validation with every move. You didn’t act out of the desperation isolation had instilled in you. You had settled like the missing puzzle piece they didn’t even know was missing. Did you ever visit the library that you had once called your first home?

He watches you finally approach him, sitting and leaning against his side as if you weren’t upset. You move to intertwine your arm with his, hand slipping into his own. He didn’t stop you. “Wilbur, he’s-”

“Crazy? Yeah, I know. He wants me to set off withers.” You sat straight up. Shock painted your face a hue that didn’t suit you. Or perhaps it was fear. He didn’t like it.

“Withers?” He nods. Your head spins back to the direction of your bedroom. “Does Tommy know?”

“Tommy knows. I went along with it.” Techno feels you scoot away, releasing your hold on him and he already misses the feeling. “It’s not like we’re tryin’ to salvage the place, [y/n].”

“I don’t want more innocent people to lose another life, Tech.” You look at him once more. “Do Tommy and Wilbur know that you’re hoping to leave nothing behind? Because they both talk about reestablishing L’manburg when given the chance.”

“I keep tellin’ them the truth, but it seems like they’re not gonna listen.” He watches your face fall into a look that he hopes meant acceptance. Your eyes moved to the ground between you both and you just nodded. You didn’t know where you would sit in the aftermath of this all.

Techno felt your hand slip back into his as you take your place back against his side. Pink hair was soft against your cheek as you rested it against his shoulder.

“One step at a time. Let’s worry about getting rid of Schlatt first, okay?” He just nods back, resting his head on top of yours. You squeeze his hand in response. You felt safe again, especially with him next to you “Now-

Tell me about this pit.”

[hotchseyebrows]

that's my heart right there

a derek morgan x penelope garcia fic

a/n: hi beloveds :) today i present this happy and soft morcia fic that i wrote in practically one go last night. who needs wips when you can just ignore them all blatantly for new works? thank you as always to @blkantigone for providing another set of eyes, love you lots! love you all too, thank you for reading!

rating/warnings: teens and up, allusions to sex but none on screen, mostly just gooey marshmallowly fluff!

read it on ao3 here!

The sunlight surrounds her in a soft glow. She smiles at him and something inside of him breaks open.

“Let’s get a drink.” It’s not an unusual request for them, but it feels bigger this time. “If you want to.”

Her smile grows. “Yes please.”

-

A post Exit Wounds fic where Kevin doesn't exist and Clooney the dog is much more important to the narrative. They're in love and finally doing something about it.

word count: 2311

“I kinda love you, Derek Morgan.”

“I kinda love you, Penelope Garcia.”

He thinks about it the whole plane ride back from Alaska. When they board, she gently tugs him to the big couch before sitting directly next to him. He drops his arm around her shoulders instinctually, smiling as she hums and pulls out her knitting. She smells like honey and rain (the respective scents of her shampoo and conditioner and her body wash) and has picked a warm color gradient for her outfit and makeup today. She babbles about her knitting group’s latest gossip for a while as he relaxes into her side.

She seems like her normal relaxed and bubbly self, but he can feel the tension in her shoulders. Their early conversation was comforting, but her worries are still weighing on her. But he doesn’t want to bring it up in front of everyone, so he just kisses her temple and tugs her closer. “So wait baby girl, is Jared going to ask out Francisco or not?”

“I don’t know! I asked him about it before we left and he dodged giving me a straight answer. I think he’s worried about their friendship, but it’s SO obvious that Francisco is wild about him. They’re already best friends, so- he’s just being silly. I told him that.”

The conversation moves on, but Penelope’s friends join the merry-go-round of thoughts in his head for the rest of the flight. They stay close for the remaining 8 hours, usually with some form of physical contact even as they adjust positions over the long trip home. Derek focuses on making her laugh as much as possible and trying to make her blush all at once.

When they land at home after almost 9 hours on the jet, the sun is setting. The team is obviously tired, but in relatively good spirits as they exit the plane. Derek is last, just behind Penelope. The sky is full of the same colors on Penelope’s clothes today, he realizes as they walk across the airfield. “It’s good to be back,” she says, pulling her shawl tight. “I miss you when you go but it’s… easier on me in some ways not to be there.”

It makes him pause, slowing to a stop. Penelope walks further ahead but notices he’s not there and stops herself. She looks over her shoulder at him, waiting. The sunlight surrounds her in a soft glow. She smiles at him and something inside of him breaks open.

“Let’s get a drink.” It’s not an unusual request for them, but it feels bigger this time. “If you want to.”

Her smile grows. “Yes please.”

-

They don’t dance. This part is unusual. Instead it’s 4 drinks in each at a quiet bar close to Derek’s apartment, and they are glued to each other’s side on the same side of a table in a corner booth. This place doesn’t even have a dance floor. 

She leans against his side, nosing at his neck. “You smell good,” she mumbles. He wraps an arm around her, feeling shaky like a ship in a storm.

“Baby girl, is this-” He pauses, not sure what the question should be. Not sure of the answer she’ll give. Penelope picks her head up to look at him, cheeks flushed. Derek swallows. “Am I imagining things, or…” 

“You’re not imagining things.” She leans up and kisses the corner of his mouth. “I feel it too.” He grins and pulls her in for a proper kiss. They fall into it easily, as if it isn’t the first time. The first time it really means what it’s meant to. It feels like they’ve been together for years- and in some ways, that’s not untrue.

-

He brings her home. It’s late, and they’ve had a long case and now a long night, so he knows she’s tired. Still, she stops to drop to her knees to hug Clooney when he comes barreling out of Derek’s bedroom at the sound of them entering the apartment.

“Oh, hello sweetie, hi there, yes, I know, it’s so exciting when Daddy comes home, but it’s even more exciting when he brings me to visit, I know-” Clooney agrees with a quiet woof- “see, Derek, Clooney said I’m his favorite.”

Derek smiles at the way his best girl gets along with his big goof of a dog. “He’s got good taste.” He doesn’t mean the words to come out so weighted, but she looks up at him with such a reverent look on her face that he doesn’t care.

She stands up and drags him through his apartment, Clooney hot on their heels. They get ready for bed at the same time as if they’ve done this domestic routine every night for ages. She won’t stop looking at him like she loves him. Like she cherishes him. He believes her.

She pulls him into his bed, arranging their bodies close together. They don’t do anything more than kiss with their arms wrapped around each other. She falls asleep first with her head on his chest. It makes him feel warm. They shared a bed in Alaska too, and now he’s thinking about not wanting the streak to end. He pulls her closer for the moment, the places where her soft skin is touching his own shooting little bolts of lightning through him as he falls asleep too.

-

Penelope makes breakfast. He takes Clooney on a run, slipping out of bed when she’s still asleep and kissing her forehead before he goes. When he comes back, she’s in his robe, standing over the stove. He’s sweaty and hot, but she yanks him into a kiss anyway. After the eggs burn a little, he pulls away and takes a quick shower. She’s waiting at the table, coffee made and Clooney napping at her feet. The food is delicious, but sitting here with her like this is better. She tastes like coffee when he kisses her over the table.

Someone surely would have noticed Penelope in the same outfit again today, but over the years so much of her clothing has ended up hanging in Derek’s closet next to his own that she’s able to pick out a full outfit for the day. Today her dress is frilly and bright green. He picks out a darker green shirt to match- just because he can.

-

They drop into this new routine easily. Their flirtatious phone calls now have this added layer of promise and intent, even if they haven’t made good on it yet. She’s always been the primary person to stop in and take care of Clooney while Derek’s on cases, but now he comes home and she’s still there. His two best loves, sitting on his couch. He gets home after a case with hidden cameras and is feeling particularly exposed over it all. But there she is, smiling up at him, because she missed him. Because she wanted to see him.

“Hi there,” she says. He crosses the room and lifts her off the couch, holding her against him. She follows his lead with ease, trusting him implicitly. His arms wrap around her waist. He can literally feel her breathing like this, and he’s never been so grateful that she’s alive. “Hi,” she whispers again.

“Hi baby.” He nuzzles the side of her head, breathing in the soft honey scent of her hair. 

She doesn’t ask what’s got him all worked up. She just wraps her arms around his neck and lets him hold her. After a minute or two of just swaying in place, he leans in and presses their lips together. A gentle kiss at first, but quickly his desire for closeness, to feel her, bleeds into that too. He lifts her legs off the ground and puts them around his waist. Penelope makes a noise close to a whine in the back of her throat, pushing closer. He carries her to his room, kissing her fiercely all the while.

-

Afterwards, she’s lying on top of him with her head on his chest. Derek runs his fingers through her hair, gently untangling anything he comes across. “I’m glad you’re home,” she says, slightly muffled by her mouth’s position against his skin.

It sounds like she means that this is their home. Or that she is his home. 

“Me too.” He pulls her up for another slow kiss. She climbs up on top of him, straddling his hips. Her hands cup his cheeks before running down his chest. He keeps the kiss slow, and she kisses back with ease. Like they’re in love.

-

Derek is in the break room, making another cup of coffee. Emily slides next to him, a coffee stirrer in her teeth. “You seem happy.”

Derek looks at her out of the corner of his eye. “It’s a nice day, Prentiss.” Emily deliberately looks at where the rain outside is hitting the window. Derek doesn’t back down.

“Whoever you’ve been dating must be a hell of someone. That’s good.”

Derek can’t help but smile. She really is.

“But I want more information sooner than later, Morgan.”

He hums, and picks up Penelope’s coffee cup from the rack. He takes his time filling it before looking at Emily pointedly. 

She pauses and then grins. “I fucking knew it. I knew it!” Derek smiles back. “You better take care of her, I swear to God-”

“I will. I am.”

She softens. “She better take care of you too.”

He picks up both mugs. “She does.”

-

He’s never felt like this in a relationship before. Being with Penelope is easy. It’s just the same as it was, but better and more. She stops by his office a little more, and he swings by the batcave more often than he needs to, but no one notices. It’s just part of the normal Morgan-Garcia antics everyone expects. 

She does take full advantage of this and is definitely getting kissed more often than anyone else at Quantico during the day, but Derek doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind at all.

-

They’re sitting on a park bench at the edge of the dog park and watching Clooney run himself ragged through the grass. She puts her head on his shoulder. “Francisco asked Jared out a few days ago.”

“I thought you said Jared was the one who was thinking about asking out Francisco.”

“Francisco got tired of waiting.”

He nods. “I know the feeling,” he says before kissing the top of her head.

-

After they find Ellie’s mom, Derek can’t shake this weird mixture of happy and sad in the middle of his chest. Penelope comes over unprompted with a plate of cookies and a stack of dvds. They lay on the couch, her holding him and Clooney with his head on Derek’s thigh. They don’t talk about it then, but they will later. For now she traces a pattern on his side as Nicolas Cage and Holly Hunter kidnap a baby. Clooney starts snoring. Penelope kisses Derek’s shoulder, arms holding him tight.

-

They show up together to a little party at Rossi’s. Emily sees them holding hands and grins. No one else notices that, but they do notice when Penelope pulls Derek down into a kiss after he gets her another drink.

“Thank you, mon amour. You’re my hero.”

He laughs. “Anything for you baby girl.” He taps the tip of her nose in punctuation. She pulls him in for another short kiss in response.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” says Rossi.

Emily is grinning widely. Spencer and JJ have matching excited and pleased looks. Hotch has this knowing look on his face. Derek raises an eyebrow at him specifically. Hotch just looks back with the softest smile on his face. He should have known Hotch would have noticed.

“Hold on, does that mean what I think it does or is this something you two are just doing now?” Spencer asks.

Derek looks down at Penelope. “Yes.”

The team laughs. “Yes to which part?”

“Yes,” Penelope says.

Spencer scrunches his nose at her. She giggles. “Yes, as in, it means what you think it does, pretty boy.”

Spencer claps his hands together, swinging them back and forth a little. “Good! Finally. I’m glad we don’t have to wait anymore.” 

“Me too,” Penelope says to the group, but she’s only looking at Derek. He leans in and kisses her again in agreement. 

-

Derek takes Clooney out when they get home to let him do his business before bed. When he comes back inside, Penelope is already in bed wearing one of his shirts and flipping through a knitting magazine. He strips down to his boxers and climbs into bed next to her, laying on his back and putting his face on her thigh.

“I think they took that well,” she says.

Derek rubs his face into her skin. He hums, nodding a little. 

“When did Emily find out?”

“Find out that it’s you I’m seeing? Or that it was you I was too afraid to do anything about?”

She chuckles. “How about both, then.”

“She cornered me in the break room a few weeks after Alaska. And I never officially told her that I was nuts about you, so I think a safe bet would be her first day on the team.” Penelope drops the magazine and climbs into his lap.

“That long?” He knows what she means specifically.

“Even longer.” She runs a thumb along his jawline and looks down at him with such adoration in her eyes he thinks he might burst.

“Me too,” she whispers, like it’s a secret. He pulls her down into a kiss.

“I kinda love you, Penelope Garcia,” he mumbles against her lips.

“I kinda love you, Derek Morgan,” she says back without hesitation. He kisses her again, 'cause that’s the best thing he’s heard all day.

[luuurien]

Westside Gunn - Peace “Fly” God

(East Coast Hip Hop, Boom Bap, Gangsta Rap)

Westside Gunn's latest mixtape is exceedingly decent. Recorded in just two days after returning from Paris Fashion Week, the Buffalo rapper proves his formula still works, even as it begins to feel like his signature boom bap sound loses a bit more of its shine with every new release. Peace "Fly God isn't bad by any means, but it doesn't do anything we haven't already heard enough times before.

☆☆☆

If you've got a formula that works, why get rid of it? For Westside Gunn, that's been both a blessing and a curse: he more or less revitalized the boom bap sound in contemporary hip hop with himself and the Griselda crew shooting their way to the top of 2010s rap, and his best work proves why his domination is well-earned, with opulent and luxurious beats underpinning grimy stories of New York ruthlessness that feels like a reverent painting doused in oil and grease, the kind of rap best experience on late night drives and downtown walks. His work ethic has always been second to none, releasing multiple projects every year and never letting anything get in the way of his creative drive, and that hasn't changed even now with the world in his hands. Peace "Fly" God, his latest mixtapes recorded in just two days with Stove God Cooks and Estee Nack after his return from Paris Fashion Week, once again shows how strong a sound Gunn has cultivated over the years, the mixtape's quick production time still including all the things that make his music so great, thick boom bap beats and whiskey-smooth production that emphasizes Gunn's unique cadence and fits perfectly with anyone he decides to work with. At its best, Peace "Fly" God proves that Gunn's sound is evergreen, always a pleasure to have around and rarely anything less than great to listen to. What Peace "Fly" God does expose to me, though, is that Westside Gunn can only take things so far when keeping within the boundaries of his signature sound. I know that sounds like a given, but it's important to recognize just how similar these songs are to the ones he was putting out back in the mid 2010s - I'm not hyperbolizing in the slightest when I say that songs like Ritz Barlton and Horses on Sunset could have been on FLYGOD or any of the Hitler Wears Hermes mixtapes and not sound out of the ordinary even a bit - and while that doesn't make Peace "Fly" God a bad project by any means, it makes me wonder about how much Gunn can expand on his sound in the future. It could just be the mixtape's speedy, ramshackle production not being able to deliver the same richness of Pray for Paris or Supreme Blientele, but when half the album's tracks are shoddily made drumless tunes that don't have nearly enough instrumental punch to stick the landing, particularly Jesus Crack with its eight minute runtime that leaves so much space between Nack's verses that it has absolutely no right taking up about a fourth of the runtime. This limited scope in production has always been a brick wall looming over Gunn and the larger Griselda group's music for years now, but Peace "Fly" God sees Gunn running straight into it and not looking for any way to get around it. Are these songs all good? Sure, for the most part, none of them are unlistenable or poorly made. But are they doing anything new or exciting within Gunn's discography? Not by a long shot. Gunn himself is also unusually sparse across Peace "Fly" God's ten tracks in both production and rapping. He's always been a curator open to letting collaborators and features take control over where certain songs go, but he doesn't even get a single verse on Bobby Rhude as Nacks gets the entire song to himself and doesn't make much of an impression when he is on the mic, either, leading to a sense of disengagement within the mixtape that's rarely present within Gunn's tight-knit projects. Out of the album's four producers, three of them are longtime Griselda collaborators, with Conductor Williams, Daringer and Madlib all appearing more than a few times on previous Griselda releases, and while again that's not an inherently bad thing, it further contributes to this feeling of stagnation that prevents Peace "Fly" God from standing out within Gunn's discography. People have been saying Westside Gunn's been making the same song over and over again since the start of his career, and while that's not entirely true, I wouldn't call it entirely inaccurate either when Peace "Fly" God makes it so apparent how homogeneous a sound he sticks to on every release. What really matters is how convincingly he's able to sell you the experience of these regal, moody boom bap tunes, and the fast-tracked creation of Peace "Fly" God makes that an impossibility when there's not time for the music to refine itself. On the whole, Peace "Fly" God is still a fine mixtape. It's got some great songs and doesn't overstay its welcome, and Gunn's charisma and personality still comes through as strongly as ever. But what the quickfire pace of the mixtape's release reveals is that Westside Gunn's music has to establish itself intensely in order to get you pulled in, or risk becoming not much more than enjoyable background music. Westside Gunn's sound is one so lavish and fun to listen to that there's no way that his projects can be anything less than good, but it Peace "Fly" God is riding the knife's edge between familiarity and boredom. When it works, it works, but it all comes by too quickly and unceremoniously to feel like it's worth coming back to. He knows what he's good at, and he does a remarkable job at keeping his music consistent and well-dressed, but what Peace "Fly" God lacks is that extra dimension, that little bit of grit and explosivity that brings things to the next level and has made for Westside Gunn's best previous project. For better or worse, it's Westside Gunn at his bare minimum.

[dirkjakeweekly]

DIRKJAKE FIC RECS

This is a rebloggeable version of our sidebar page reproduced in full, for those who prefer to save things on their own blogs for later!

INTRO

This page is not intended to be an encyclopedia, but rather a non-exhaustive list of a few Dirkjake Fanfics (and Fancomics) for those that may be interested in the ship, but a little too tired of trawling through AO3 search! Some of these contain NSFW or suggestive content, viewer discretion is advised.

[ FIC RECS (last updated Jan 2021, click readmore for full list) ]

It’s only a canvas sky

Their guardians dead at the hands of the Condesce, growing up in the shadow of her slow takeover of the Skaian Federation, Dirk Strider and Jake English have spent their whole lives alone up until shortly before their twelfth birthdays.

Or: Dirk fixes a transmitter, makes a friend, builds a robot, and tries to communicate affection over distance to the barest possible minimum.

Read here!

GOD’S BRAND NEW FATE SELECTOR (Fancomics)

In ONE PARTICULAR TIMELINE, detached from many similar ones, an aspiring divorcee stands by his baby’s cradle and attempts to hatch an escape plan with some aid from the ghost of his long-deceased boyfriend. He’s not exactly helpful.

SOMEWHERE ELSE ENTIRELY, Dirk Strider is overcame by the nagging feeling his splinters may be getting a little out of hand and far too into his head, when he gets a booty call.

One timeline is Epilogues-Compliant, another Epilogues-Divergent. 

Read here!

We’re All Friends & Family Here (And Frankly, We’re Sick Of Your Shit)

It’s been about a year since the big Fast Forward, and sure, things on Earth C aren’t perfect for everyone. But they’re fine. Really. It’s fine. Everything is super fuckin’ swell, and that’s that.

It’s not like one night is going to change anything.

Read here!

Perpetuity

“Call it a car crash waiting to happen, you’ll just call it your downfall”

Dirk is a romantic, just not a particularly optimistic one.

(Written pre-epilogues release, post-game, fix-it)

Read here!

Tailspinning Into the Epilogues with Dirk and Jake (complete series)

Read here!

Stark Nonfiction (Part of the Tailspinning series)

Jake tries his hand at a gentler epilogue.

Read here!

Between the Lines (Part of the Tailspinning series)

“It’s just… I can’t remember the last time I felt so at peace, I guess. It was such a lovely jaunt with Jade, and instead of being all torn up about coming home, I feel even better, now. It’s actually been a real while and a half since I felt… bad, you know? Like actually bad.”

You don’t have much in the way of emotional permanence about that sort of thing. Surely it was months ago, when you were staring gloomily at the bottoms of bottles like the world’s most up-his-own-ass useless overdramatic dilettante. Did it even really happen, if it all, in hindsight, just seems like a dumb pantomime of misery to get attention? A successful dumb pantomime of misery to get attention, mind you, you definitely got it, and a boyfriend to boot. Was it ever really as atrocious and apocalyptic and unsurvivable as it seemed?

Read here!

A Palate Cleanser (Part of the Tailspinning series)

ROXY: hay everybody its jakes turn! ROXY: hes got a few words hed like to say about our dear departed buddy

The eulogy we missed on Candy’s page 15.

Read here!

Eschewal

“you hope he’s a benevolent god”

Read here!

Grublr. (Fancomic)

In the consort kingdom, atop of the large, humongous mansion where the god of Hope lives, there is an apartment complex.

Read here!

The Hitchhikers Guide to Your Ex-Boyfriend (Fancomic)

Jake English waking up sore and alone on a cold floor is not a strange occurrence for him as of late. The ethereal beam of light and sluggishly churning floor is new, but he’s woken up in stranger places.

If circumstances were better he’d probably have something shocked and relevant to say about this strange landscape he’s found himself in, but circumstances are in fact legendarily shit right now.

(A comic/fic where Jake English gets rights)

Read here!

The Four Kings, the God Thief, and the Black Diamond Pirates

Dirk and Vriska have it good. They raid ships, pillage merchant vessels, constantly poison each other, possess a lucrative pact with the Wind King, sing a lot of dope fuckin’ sea shanties, and captain a loveable crew of pirate scum. They’re ready to kick back, take it easy, and become the vile and revered scourge of the diamond trading line.

Then they find someone in the water.

Read here!

Sea shanties for Thots (Four Kings continuation)

Jake English has never done anything wrong, ever, in his life, if you don’t count literally all that stuff from the first installment of oxfordRoulette’s diegetic-musical-cum-found-family-pirate-AU. Luckily, that was in the last story, and he is completely better now in all respects. None of that nonsense is a thing anymore and it will not be relevant at all! Surrounded by friends and allies, with a very cool piratey boyfriend and a hold full of treasure from his recently decimated country, he’s got everything a fellow could want.

What will he do?

Befriend an octopus god. Learn to fish. Kick back. Take it easy. Kiss his boyfriend a lot. Open a jewelry company? Pursue immortality. Confront his past. Embrace his future. Maybe save the world. One thing’s for sure: there will be a lot of songs involved.

Read here!

Two idiots at Homoville, N69, TX

In a moment of desperation, Dirk goes on r/relationships. Things get oversharey real quick. He types as follows:

“I [23M] cannot understand my [24M?] roommate. He is the most bizarre man to ever set foot on earth and I’m afraid I’m losing him.”

or, and They Were Roommates.

Read here!

Drive it home with one headlight

Some mistakes are so fucking big that they divert the path of your life entirely, sending you somewhere you were never meant to go. Some mistakes are so seismic and so obvious that when you look back on your life all you can see is the beacon where you made them. Some mistakes leave you so far off course you don’t even recognize who you are or why you’re still here.

You don’t usually get a chance to make amends.

Read here!

A Tallied List of Various Occasions in Which Jake English Encountered the Elusive Smile Belonging to One Dirk Strider

Jake English, explorer extraordinaire, tracks down the most unique treasure of all: a nerd in pointy sunglasses.

Read here!

BONES OF BLACK MARROW

Dirk summons a demon for the exclusive purpose of ‘cathartic boning.’ He gets what he wants.

NOTE: This fic is ergodic (think House of Leaves), which means it cannot be downloaded for offline perusal on your kindle/pdf reader. Also has CYOA elements, so clicking “Entire Work” will make the fic impossible to read.

Read here!

fire fly

A wedding. An anxiety attack. A daring tryst.

Read here!

DIRK TOPS (Fancomic)

Ever think about how Dirk Strider got full narrative awareness of the fanfics where he’s the big scary hunk in charge and went “I can do that” when he wasn’t, in fact, able to do that? i do. i think about that.

Read here!

MLM stands for Moron loving Moron (Fancomic)

aren’t you TIRED of longing? don’t you just want to go APESHIT while dating your best bro? i mean, you’ve earned it, right? (Collection of oneshot comics. marked as complete, updates whenever)

Read here!

fist is a four letter word

Jake’s face quirks. “App?“ 

“Yeah, app. Like, application. You know your phone can do other things right? Like, apps.”

“You sure do keep using that word! I’m not quite sure I understand what you mean.”

“You know, apps.” You try to think of how to explain apps. You suddenly can’t think of what apps are.

What’s the name of an app.

Literally just name any app.

He’s staring at you.

Oh my god.

Read here!

Witching Hour

There’s something almost magical about that time between too late at night and too early in the morning. It’s the perfect time to meet a stranger and go on an adventure.

Read here!

[highfaelucien]

Ardere - A Helion/Lady of Autumn Fic

y’all heathens made me have feelings so i wrote a thing. hurt/comfort, angst, all sorts. Tagging some folks who inspired this with their emotional dashboard shenanigans/that I feel would Appreciate the content. @exiledelain @confused-as-all-hell @asteria-of-mars @ratabrasileira @ladyvanserra @vanserrasvalkyrie @rarephloxes  @queen-hypaxia

Title: Ardere

Length: 3.3k

Warnings: Mentions of domestic abuse, given Lady Autumn’s situation

Summary: Set during the High Lords meeting in ACOWAR. Canon compliant, I suppose, but do any of us care about that anymore?? Hestia, the Lady of the Autumn Court, seeks her oldest lover and comfort Helion for a stolen night of love and reconnection. Helion POV, emotional hurt/comfort, bit of angst.

Teaser:

‘" Hestia," he whispered, with the same reverence he'd speak the name of a goddess in her holiest temple.

Instinct bade him go to her, and he did not fight it. He didn't even try.

For a moment he thought she might refuse him, might insist upon caution. But the next she was in his arms, and as he held her close and breathed her in, he knew he hadn't been truly warm since last he'd been able to embrace her.

"Helion," she murmured into his chest.

The sound of her voice wrapped around his name was the sweetest torture he'd ever known. All Hyben need do to break him was ask him to defect in her voice and he would obey without a thought.

AO3: Link

"I cannot spare long." 

The book he'd been flipping idly through dropped at once from his fingers at the sound of that voice.

Before he'd finished turning to her, her scent hit him. So warm, so inviting, it nearly knocked him back into his chair.

Then he beheld her.

The first time he'd clapped eyes on her, all those centuries ago, she'd left him breathless and stunned. 

Like an Autumn storm that had ravaged every part of his being and left him, naked and awed, before its power and majesty. She had blown into his life with an unexpected abruptness as yet unmatched.

He'd been an arrogant prick at that age. Cauldron, he was still an arrogant prick. But he'd been used to everyone's eyes, male or female, following him as he moved through a room. 

Those gazes found him and they didn't leave. He was High fae. He was a High Lord's heir. He'd been made to rule Day and to look damned good while doing it.

 He'd been accustomed to being wanted, to inspiring lust and envy by simply existing.

Never, before her, had he been on the other side. 

He'd never seen someone so beautiful. So consuming and captivating that he hadn't been sure of being able to win their lust and love with a simple smile and an effortless word.

She'd shaken something in him that day. She had entered his world and unmade him with a glance. Then reconstructed him, exactly as she'd found him, with one stark difference. At the core of the man she had rebuilt was a need for her. Not merely her beautiful body, but her heart, her soul. He'd known, in that moment, that she had him. And always would.

The years had taken much from her. And holy gods, did he know it. But they had not taken this, her ability to so thoroughly destroy him that he was reborn at once as her servant in but a single glance.

" Hestia," he whispered, with the same reverence he'd speak the name of a goddess in her holiest temple.

Instinct bade him go to her, and he did not fight it. He didn't even try.

For a moment he thought she might refuse him, might insist upon caution. But the next she was in his arms, and as he held her close and breathed her in, he knew he hadn't been truly warm since last he'd been able to embrace her.

"Helion," she murmured into his chest.

The sound of her voice wrapped around his name was the sweetest torture he'd ever known. All Hyben need do to break him was ask him to defect in her voice and he would obey without a thought.

For all that he made a show, and tell, if he was fair, about what the Cauldron gave him with regards to his body, particularly his glorious thighs, that wasn't his true pride.

No, the thing he held most valuable was his mind which contained the knowledge of a thousand libraries and more.

He didn't earn his name by clearing through spells with his thighs. Fuck no. His wit, his cunning, his intellect, that was where his true power, his true strength as a High Lord came from.

That was why Hestia had always managed to claim him so thoroughly. All these centuries later and he still couldn't think around her. Couldn't form a single coherent thought while her scent filled his lungs. It travelled from there directly to his brain, and filled it with stolen afternoons and illicit nights spent in the only place they truly belonged.

Drawing away, in itself an agony, but one he was rewarded for, as it let him look into her face.

He cradled it between his hands, so careful. so delicate. She was not a fragile woman, he knew that well. She was of the forge, with fire in her veins, and iron in her bones.

The world saw the silence, the frailty of her body, and the resignation of her fate and mistook that for softness, and docility. He knew better.

This woman put the heroes of the War to shame. Her strength, her courage, her will - if they had any idea they'd have written epic poems about her resilience and ballads to her spirit. 

Drakon wouldn't have lasted an hour in her place. Had she been in his, the damned War would have ended so fast they wouldn't have been able to call it one.

Yet he held her with all the gentleness that was in him. Not because he feared she might break without it; but because he knew she would find none elsewhere.

His fingers tenderly brushed her hair from her eyes. Like her, their, son's it was a red as sure as blood. But hers spiralled from her in a cacophony of raucous curls. They were contained, now, with a thick leather band around her head. He would always remember them wild, and free, as she was meant to be.

As he moved them aside, he saw the shadow of a bruise around one of her beautiful russet eyes. Hidden well, but...

His body went taut, jaw clenching instinctively. She felt the tension coiling in him, and laid her hands gently over his.

"Don’t," was all she said, voice soft, but unyielding, like the sun’s gentle rays as it rose each morning.

"Not a heartbeat has passed for me since that day," he rumbled, voice deeper and darker than his usual light, playful timbre." That I have not thought about the choice that was made, and begged the Mother to let me change it." 

She faced him steadily and said, " You know I made the choice that was available to mem" she moved closer, her body melting against his, like the hot metal of a blade folded around itself to create something more, "Not the one I wanted."

"I know, my hearthlight,” he whispered softly, sensing her smile at the old pet name he used for her, “And I would never blame you for that. But as for myself-"

A coward. This woman. This holy, burning creature. This caged forest fire... She loved a coward.

Hestia placed a finger to his lips, silencing him, " What good does it do," she murmured the rich warmth of her voice caressing him like a thick blanket on a cold winter night, “To dwell upon the past? To linger, in misery, and shame in a single moment of your immortal life?”

He opened his mouth to answer her, but she knew him too well, and silenced him with but a single look.

"Will your regret force back the sun?” she demanded with that quiet spirit he loved so keenly, “Will your sadness take us back? Will your guilt rewrite the pages of the history books which have been gathering dust in your libraries for centuries?" 

She was such a small thing. She always had been. And seemed more so, held between his muscular arms. Yet she dwarfed him now.

Like the flicker of a candle flame catching and summoning a raging inferno to remind him she was but a fragment of a force of nature, bound in skin, but never truly caged.

"If I could have," he said at last, voice a little hoarse as though he'd inhaled thick smoke, “I would have done so a thousand times over. And paid any price to do so."

He had tried. He'd never confess it to another soul, not even to the Mother herself upon his deathbed, but he had tried. Tried to rip apart the fabric of all reality with nothing but his bare hands and love for her.

A part of him was still surprised that it had not been enough. Because it was. Reality had simply not accepted that particular facet of its existence.

"I know you would have, lucky fluke," all these years and still she called him that. 

A name she'd hung on him to tease the first day they had met. He'd baldly called their meeting the Mother's own ordained fate. She'd laughed, with a sound like falling leaves, and named it, and him, lucky fluke. 

Then, the words had been edged with mockery. Now they echoed with all of their history, with all of their fondness, and all of her love.

"But time goes on. That sun of yours still journeys East to West, and we still live with the decisions we made upon a summer's night a million fireflies' lifetimes ago."

" Hestia-" he began, but she quietened him once more.

"When I wish to look back, Helion, I shall find myself a mirror,” she said, with the strength that had held her together all these decades of pain and misery, turned upon him now to remind him that she would not yield.

“I will not live my life wading through times I have already endured,” she said, voice softer now, but no less intent, “I have no wish to allow him to cause me pain in the few and rare times that are my own. I shall make pleasant moments here, with you, and that is what I ask of you. To be with me. Here. Now. And to love me while we can."

"I am yours, Lady,” he breathed. 

With the same breath he’d first pledged that to her centuries ago. Before the world had taken the freedom she craved so much, and given him a power he’d never wanted. A tattoo of her heart had etched itself over his own, in a vibrant red, a marker of the bargain he’d made. Unintended, but not regretted. 

“From now until my sun fades from this world unto the next," he promised her once more, one hand over his heart.

"Until I find you there as well," she replied, as she had all those years ago, leaning up, while drawing him down, and touching her forehead to his.

He loved her. Oh, Cauldron, he loved her, and whatever the Mother had used to make her, he loved that too.

"Come," she said softly," Let us make the most of what time we have."

So they did.

"What do you want from me, Hestia?" he whispered, pressing the worlds into her thick hair, his face buried in the crown of her head.

She looked at him, and answered as she did each time with aching certainty, and absolute truth." Everything."

"Then take it." he whispered, a devoted priest at last within the presence of his deity, “All I have, and all I do not. Take it all."

So she did.

They had no need of words in that hallowed space when bodies and beings connected, skin to skin, and soul to soul.

The breath it would have cost to provide a vessel for their thoughts would have only felt like a barrier between them.

They had no wish for that.

He knew her thoughts. And she knew his. They did not need to share them with the air and fireflies. 

For themselves, they gave voice to those thoughts in the lost language of lovers. Spoken in the gasps of breath and sweating palms.Thundering hearts, and hungering lips. Gasping lungs, and grasping touch.

And every thought the same: I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Then came the quiet. The gentle tangle of limbs. Eyes closed, heartbeats aligned. Willing the dawn to wait for them.

They did not sleep. They would not waste time on dreams when they already had everything they could ever hope to find in that untamable oblivion already contained within their embrace.

"It has been some time," Helion said at last, loath to break the spell of the silent commune of their souls, but such was his nature,"I thought the most of you I would ever make love to again was the echo of our last time, the memory of you."

He shifted slightly, so that he could see her face, all peaceful lines and soft curls, her eyes still closed.

"Why now, Hestia? With him," his jaw tightened at the mere mention of that excuse for a male, "So close the risk-"

"Is minimal," she interceded smoothly. Still without opening an eye, she continued." I drugged his wine. He shall sleep until daybreak. At least."

Helion opened his mouth, then closed it, refusing to be drawn off course "You didn't answer my question."

"I thought the answer would be obvious to you, lucky fluke," she murmured.

"You know you reduce me to the wits of a mere mortal, hearthlight," he said, half burying the words in her thick hair.

" Hmm," she hummed, thoughtful, "Must I spell it out for you, then, brightheart?" 

"If you would be so good, my lady." 

She was quiet so long he thought she might have succumbed to sleep, despite their pact.

At last she said, quiet as an Autumn breeze, " Each morning, when I open my eyes, and watch the sun rise beyond my window, I prepare myself for pain." 

He flinched, but she seemed not to notice, continuing calmly.

"This has been my burden to bear through all my years of marriage And I have borne it well, without falter, or complaint.

"I have known pain in many forms, and I have carried every one. But upon the horizon, I saw a new pain. One I had not confronted for so long. And I knew, in my soul, that I was not equal to it. That, at last, I would meet a battle I could not win. And so I found a way to avoid fighting it altogether."

"What did you foresee, hearthlight?" he forced himself to say.

"This war," she murmured, her ever-steady voice cracking in a way that made him pull her closer still. "This war came. And it claimed you. It took you from me when you had not been mine in centuries. And I could not abide that."

"I am always yours," he whispered fiercely. 

"Peace, brightheart," she soothed, "I know that. But I had to feel it. I had to erase the idea that last time was the last. I had to have you, and hold you, and love you once more before the end. Or else I knew I could not face this war. Not alone."

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and held it, eyes closed, heart pounding, fighting every urge not to speak the words batting past the lump in his throat. But he had never been as strong as her.

"I cannot let you go this time, Hestia," he groaned, " I cannot sit idly, and smile, and tease while I've willingly let you go again."

"If I can find the strength to do what must be done," she said, with iron in her words, "Then you must find the strength to let me."

"I can't," he said, voice breaking. She found his hand and squeezed it, "I am a High Lord in my own right now, Hestia." he breathed to her." I could-"

"No, you could not." she said, firm, unyielding, a rock in an icy stream, with waters all around, that had not moved in centuries, and would not now.

"There is a war coming, Helion. Win or lose in a fight for me, it would shatter this fragile alliance, and any hope for Pythian. So you will do no such thing." she went on, before he could protest, "For we must win this war. For our courts. For our people. For our freedom. And for our son."

For the first time her voice broke. Before they fell, his fingers had already lifted to wipe her tears. the only ones she would shed. Not for herself. Never for herself. But for her, for their, son... She had never confronted him with it so boldly before.

He closed his eyes, unable to deny her. Unable to even deny her.

"We have to tell him, Hestia," he said, so softly.

"We must," she agreed, "But I have not been allowed to see him in almost three hundred years. And I will not have you tell him alone. As much for his sake as for yours."

He nodded, head bowed. 

"Together, then. If I make it through what is to come."

Reaching up she took his chin between her fingers and drew his face down to meet her eyes.

"You will not die this war, Helion," she told him.

Her words flared with that fire she was forced to hide from everyone, everyone but him.

"Because if you try, I will drag the Mother by her hair to your grave and force her to dig you up for me."

He smiled at those words, at the certainty that she would do exactly as she said.

"That almost makes me want to try it, you know," he purred, tracing vague patterns into the bare skin of her shoulder with his thumb as he spoke, "Just to see you do that."

She actually growled at him which, from her, was enough to utterly dissuade him from the notion.

They lay in gentle silence together, until the velvet blackness of night bled to indigo, as the careless artist of time spilled the white she used to craft the stars into the sky itself and melted its darkness.

"I've always found it ironic," he mused, "That being High Lord of Day hasn't blessed me with the power to halt the sun, and stop the day from intruding."

"That is your duty, brightheart." she replied with a soft smile." You must assert yourself upon the land, its sleepy lovers, and restless thieves alike, and force them to make haste and more. Without you there would be no growth, no change, only stagnation and decay." 

She cupped his face in her hand, a hand now lined, to show the life she'd lived. Without him. His heart lurched at the thought.

But her voice drew him back to her as she said, "And without Day, the nights would not seem nearly so precious."

He pressed a gentle kiss to her waiting mouth, silent thanks for her words, the feeling behind them. He held her eyes a moment more. spinning out this last bit of thread, like a frugal weaver making the most of fate's allotment.

Then he said, irritably, "I'm still going to have words with Thesan later today."

She laughed as he said that, but she laughed as she withdrew from him. 

How fittingly ironic that the sweetest sound he'd ever heard paired in this moment with the bitterest sorrow he'd ever felt.

He watched her as she withdrew the new gown she'd thought to bring. At a silent glance from her he rose, still naked, and helped to seal her back into her cage of cotton and lace.

He combed and braided her hair, as he'd done a thousand times before. Then, heart aching, as it had a thousand times before, he spun a ward around her, to mask his scent where it mingled with hers. She could carry no reminders of this night save fragile memory.

Then, like the night, with one final kiss, she was gone. The chamber felt cold, even as it was bathed in his light.

Wordless, he pulled on a robe and strode onto his balcony to greet the rising of his sun.

It was a hollow warmth, compared to her, and brought him little comfort. 

As he gazed ahead into his eternity. Alone, once more. Lonely in a way only she would know. For the world saw the friends he surrounded himself with, and the lovers he brought to his bed, without ever knowing the gaping void in his soul that he could never fill with them.

Closing his eyes, he drew in one last breath of her, of them, their scents still mingling on his skin, then banished it.

He turned towards the light, facing this new day, and begged the Mother to lend him even a fragment of his heartlight's strength that he might face it.

***

[five-rivers]

Long Night in the Valley Chapter 13

The car didn’t seem more crowded, but it was. Spinner had the dubious honor and privilege of being in one of Mr. Compress’s marbles, along with the doctor. Midoriya Inko sat in his recently vacated seat.

She was, without a single doubt, the most dangerous person in the vehicle. Mostly because she was completely insane. She had spent the first few minutes of driving detailing how she could blow up the car with her quirk and making sure that they knew she’d do it if she thought she had to.

What would make her think she ‘had to’ was a mystery Tomura didn’t particularly want solved.

He could totally see what Sensei saw in her, and he didn’t like it. He wished he could go back to ignorance. This questline was insane. The whole game was going to wind up broken. Had he killed an essential NPC at some point?

Eyeballs were small objects. So were most organs.

Midoriya Inko was someone Tomura could respect.

Would Midoriya Izuku be like this, if Tomura had an actual conversation with him? Their conversation at the mall hadn’t exactly been… normal. Tomura could admit he’d been using his intimidation skill to move the conversation along. Of course, Midoriya had struck him as a two-dimensional All Might fanboy at that point. Limited dialogue options. Killed in the next encounter. A hidden miniboss, yes, but just a miniboss. Not terribly important to the main campaign. Forgotten by disc two.

Clearly, he’d been wrong.

Which he shouldn’t have had mixed feelings about, but definitely did.

“Dear,” said Midoriya Inko, making everyone in the car stiffen, “do you have eczema?”

“The what?” asked Tomura, his tone too subdued to be considered snapping, because he wasn’t about to snap at someone who had convincingly demonstrated her ability to crush his organs against the inside of his abdominal cavity.

“Oh!” said Toga. “I know this one, Mom! It’s a skin condition.”

Tomura pulled his hand away from where it had been scratching at his neck. “I don’t have a skin condition. It just itches sometimes.”

Midoriya Inko nodded. “Yes, that sounds like eczema, I—” She stopped, blinking. “Did you just call me ‘Mom?’”

“Yeah, is that okay? Izu-kun and I are dating, after all!”

“No, she isn’t!” shouted Twice, the car swerving a little. “She is not! Only in her dreams!”

“Ah,” said Midoriya Inko. “I see. Well, I don’t mind you calling me that, but I think you really need to ask Izuku before you say that you’re dating. Make sure you’re on the same page, dear.”

Toga pouted.

“Now, where was I? Eczema. Izuku used to have eczema, but he grew out of it, mostly. I still carry some cream with me. Do you want some?”

Would refusing be dangerous?

Was the cream secretly poison?

Was this a complex scheme to get under his skin?

“Oh, Izuku mutters like that, too,” said Midoriya Inko, happily. “You remind me quite a bit of when he was going through his antisocial phase, actually. It would be funny if it turned out that you were related, wouldn’t it? Quite a coincidence, hm? One I’ll have to talk to my husband about.” The last sentence was as hard as diamonds and as poisonous as cyanide.

Tomura once again decided that he regretted everything.

.

“This is terrible,” whispered Tsuyu for the fifth or sixth time.

“Tres mal,” agreed Aoyama.

“Is it bad that I can completely believe All Might wrote this?” asked Satou.

“Why would it be bad?” asked Shouji.

“Because it’s so… bad.”

“And yet,” said Yaoyorozu, “oddly compelling.”

“Why does he use so much English?” grumbled Mineta.

“What a mad banquet of darkness,” said Fumikage, who was, nevertheless, also reading the fanfic on his phone.

“But, like, it makes it pretty obvious that All Might thinks the world of Midoriya,” said Kaminari. “Do you think he knew that other people could read this?”

“I mean,” said Jiro. “He had to, right? It wasn’t like he was born in the nineteen hundreds.”

“I don’t know, sometimes you’ve got to wonder. Like… sometimes it’s as if he was grown in a lab to be the perfect hero, you know?”

“Kaminari, stop trying to be Todoroki, please,” said Fumikage. “You do not need to dip yourself into the darkness.”

“I’m just saying,” said Kaminari. “And it isn’t as if we don’t know that there are a bunch of mad scientist types that would do just that, plus the Hero Commission is psychotic—”

“That’s unkind to psychotic people,” said Fumikage, glowering. “You know, most psychotic people never hurt anyone. The incidence of villainy among people who experience psychosis isn’t significantly higher than among the general population.”

“Sorry, man, just a figure of speech.”

The bus slowly came to a stop outside UA’s gates.

“My switch isn’t working,” said Green Light as he repeatedly pressed a button on his dash. “I guess they’re still on lockdown. We’ll have to wait for Nezu to come let us in.”

“Still?” asked Midnight. “Midoriya isn’t even in the city anymore, as far as we know.”

“Not that he was ever a threat to the school,” mumbled Present Mic, his quirk making him loud enough to be heard regardless.

Fumikage, having finished the fanfic some time ago, looked out the window and spotted two people in suits loitering near the gate. “Yamada-sensei, Kayama-sensei, who are those people?”

Everyone rushed over to Fumikage’s side of the bus to look out the window, rocking the vehicle.

“Ohh,” said Present Mic. “Yeah. That makes sense. Those guys are with the commission. Yep. Good ol’ Nezu, keeping them out.”

“Wait,” said Jiro, “does this mean we’re stuck out here, too?”

“No, no,” said Present Mic. “He’ll have to let us in… But then they’ll come in, too.”

“Midoriya’s room,” said Fumikage. “They’ll want to search it.”

“Can we do something?” asked Kouda, timidly.

“Should we do anything?” asked Tsuyu, bluntly. “We don’t want to incriminate Midoriya even more by making it look like he’s hiding things.”

Fumikage turned to Kaminari. “Anything new from Principal Nezu?”

“Why are you looking at me?”

“You’re the one he emailed last time.”

“Hey, Fumikage,” said Jiro, “do you think you can fly over the wall? Maybe you can get a head start on… well, whatever, I guess.”

“I don’t think we should do anything suspicious while they’re watching,” reiterated Tsuyu.

“Yeah, plus we really revamped campus security. And this is Nezu we’re talking about.”

“The Rat God,” someone whispered, reverently.

(Was that Shouji?)

“Exactly, exactly,” said Present Mic. “So, everyone, just, please, calm down. Just sit back down, and we’ll ride the bus to the dorms. Like normal.”

“Yamada-sensei, nothing about this is normal,” said Tsuyu, flatly.

“Well,” said Present Mic, “yeaaaah, okay, you got me there, listeners.”

“Nezu’s coming up,” said Green Light. “Aw, he has Eri with him. They’re so short together.”

“Green Light,” crackled the radio in Nezu’s voice. “Did you forget that I have cameras and microphones installed on all our buses?”

“That’s how he knew I was the one putting together the compilation!” said Kaminari.

Fumikage peered out the window and furtively opened it, so they could hear what was going on. Eri was definitely there. She was also sporting the deepest, most dismal, aura of darkness Fumikage had ever laid eyes on. Luckily, it seemed to be aimed at the commission lackeys in the form of a smile and dead, dead eyes.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen!” said Nezu, cheerily. “I apologize for the long wait! As Lunch Rush indubitably told you, we had a small emergency.”

“We’ve been out here for hours. What kind of emergency could have kept you for hours under these circumstances?”

Eri’s smile grew both broader and deader. “Me,” she said. “I’m the emergenny.”

“Emergency,” corrected Nezu, gently.

“Emergency,” repeated Eri.

“I’m sorry?” said the shorter of the two investigators.

“I’m the emergency. I hada—” she paused, and her face pinched slightly in concentration. “I had an emergency, because, because, you’re being mean to Deku.”

“We—”

“You’re mean,” insisted Eri. “You’re bad guys. Deku is the good guy, because he saved me. Only bad guys are mean to good guys.”

“Excuse me, is this Chisaki Eri?”

Eri hissed.

“Perhaps I could ask you to refrain from using that family name. We’ve been trying to get past what her form did to her, you understand. Teach her morality.”

“I’ll bite you,” said Eri, malevolently.

“Self-defense, as well,” continued Nezu. “It’s very important for children to be able to feel safe and confident in themselves, don’t you think? And the recent news dealt a serious blow to that. You understand, then why I felt that it was more important to take care of my ward and other students than to greet you here. Especially given that you wished to interview Eri-chan as well.”

“I’ll bite you,” repeated Eri. “A lot.”

“We’ll… need a look at Midoriya’s room, first.”

“Way to go, Eri,” whispered Shinsou.

“Very well! You’ll have to come around to the front office to fill out some paperwork. We’ll need a physical copy of your badges, as well as a copy of your warrant, for our records…”

The gate opened, distracting Fumikage from whatever else Nezu had said. Green Light quickly drove through, making straight to the dorms. Fumikage snapped the window shut.

“So, uh,” said Kaminari. “What’re we going to do about Midoriya’s All Might shrine of a room?”

“Should we even do anything?” asked Jiro. “If stuff is disturbed, that’s going to be suspicious. I don’t want to get him into more trouble.”

“It’s a teenage boy’s bedroom,” said Mineta. “The stuff in there is already disturbed.”

“Mineta, I don’t know how to tell you this,” said Kaminari, “but your experiences are not universal.”

“None of you are disturbing Midoriya’s room at all,” said Midnight, standing. “You didn’t forget that we were here, did you? If you say yes, we’ll have to take some time to work on your situational awareness~”

.

Nemuri hadn’t quite known what to expect from the words ‘All Might shrine.’ In her experiences, the word ‘shrine’ could, especially when applied to a person’s hobby or area of interest, could cover a vast array of displays of varying intensity.

But Midoriya really went Plus Ultra on everything, didn’t he?

“Okay, kiddos,” said Midnight, “what would you say was the most incriminating thing in this room?”

She and Present Mic were the only ones actually in the room, but the students were gathered right outside the door.

“Notebooks.”

Midnight nodded. They’d get those first, then search for other places Midoriya may have put evidence of less-than-entirely-morally-upright behavior. Not that Midnight really expected to find any.

“Where does he keep them?” she asked.

“He has a shelf above his desk he usually keeps them on, kero.”

Midnight looked at the shelf above Midoriya’s desk.

It looked back at her.

This was because it was a void. As in, void of any notebooks. An abyss of sorts. Empty.

There were no notebooks in evidence.

“This will be a problem.”

.

“G-Gigantomachia?” asked Izuku, turning up the sweetness in his tone despite his nerves. And pain. Yep, there was a whole lot of pain, everywhere. Now that he was no longer actively running for his life, it felt like he’d pulled every muscle in his body.

“Yes, Little Lord?” asked Gigantomachia, happily.

He was like a giant dog. Izuku almost felt bad tricking him like this, but he reminded himself that Gigantomachia was a giant, evil dog. So.

“Will you do something for me?”

“Of course, Little Lord!”

“Well,” said Izuku, “you remember how I said that Shigaraki Tomura and I don’t get along?”

“Yes, Little Lord! My memory is very good!”

Izuku blinked. “Is that a—” He cut himself off with a shake of his head. Not the time. “Well, I think that it might be a good idea if, ah, we established that he can’t attack me anymore.”

Gigantomachia stood up, shaking the earth and almost sending Izuku tumbling down. “HE ATTACKED YOU?”

Maybe this would be easier than he thought. “Yeah. A couple times. I’m okay, though!” He waved his hands. “I just think that it might be a good idea if we established a, uh, a pecking order. Sort of.”

“I’M GOING TO PECK HIM TO DEATH.”

“Please do not actually kill him.”

“I’M GOING TO PECK HIM MOSTLY TO DEATH.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Izuku.

“I’LL SHOW HIM YOU’RE IN CHARGE. YOU’RE MUCH BETTER THAN HE IS. MUCH MORE LIKE LORD.”

Wow. That was… certainly a statement. That Izuku was going to try his best to forget forever.

“Right. So. If you see him, do that,” said Izuku, nodding.

“OF COURSE, LITTLE LORD.”

“And, this is just a reminder, but don’t go into towns.”

“I WILL REMEMBER!”

“Great,” said Izuku. “I’m going to go back in and, uh…” He couldn’t say ‘plot my escape with Toshinori.’ “Rest,” he settled on.

“Oh!” Gigantomachia crouched down, his voice suddenly whisper-soft. Assuming rocks could be described as whispering. “Sleep well, Little Lord!”

“Thanks,” said Izuku, beating a hasty retreat.

.

“Stop the car!”

“But you said-!”

“Just stop the car, Twice.”

There was a not-at-all hidden ‘or else’ in those words. Twice, once again, stopped the car.

“Oh, my,” said Midoriya Inko, leaning forward. “That man up there looks remarkably like the sitter Hisashi hired for Izuku.”

“Oh, god,” said Tomura, dragging his hands down the sides of his face in lieu of looking out the window. “We aren’t prepared for this level.”

Midoriya Inko suddenly disappeared. Tomura made a noise in the back of his throat that wasn’t at all a scream.

Mr. Compress raised his hands defensively. “I thought it best to marble her while she was distracted. We wouldn’t want her to get injured in ”

“Wow! Way to go, Mr. Compress!” said Toga, giving the other villain a hug. “Good thinking!”

“Yeah!” agreed Twice. “Now she can’t hurt us—But she sure can when you let her out!”

“Which is why I propose we bring her to Giran at the first feasible opportunity. Between him and the doctor, I’m sure they can make arrangements for her that we need not be involved in. And I will make sure we are all far, far away when I let her out.”

There was a series of sighs of relief.

“Good idea,” croaked Tomura. “But what are we going to do about—” He swore vehemently. “He’s seen us, he’s seen us we’ve got aggro! Reverse!”

.

“Is that Vlad-sensei’s car?”

“Unfortunately,” said Toshinori, “I think it is. Oh, dear, the man’s one to hold a grudge. I think I’ll have a new nemesis by the end of this.”

.

Today had been a very annoying day in general for Vlad King, but for some reason, his sense of annoyance suddenly doubled. This made his hands clench and thereby tear the piece of paper he was holding.

Scratch that. His sense of annoyance had tripled.

“Yagi,” he muttered, “I am going to sue you so much.”

“What was that?” asked Hound Dog, looking away from the video feed displaying Eri-chan scarring Hero Commission agents for life in her undeniably cute way.

“Nothing,” muttered Vlad.

.

All for One paused in his assault of the vault door. He couldn’t help but feel like someone somewhere had said something unusually aggravating.

Ah, well. He had other things to worry about.

.

“Ah,” said Toshinori as one of Gigantomachia’s fists tore off the bumper of the rapidly reversing car. “Hm,” he continued as Shigaraki climbed out on the hood, grinning. “I think we should go, now.”

Izuku nodded. They could only hope to get far away enough away for Gigantomachia to be unable to hunt them down.

If they ran into any other problems…

.

Dabi paused as he heard quite a lot of noise from up ahead and rolled his eyes, ignoring how the movement pulled at his staples. The idiots had already started fighting Gigantomachia. Well. He didn’t want any part of that.

He changed directions. Hanging out in the woods it was, then.

Eh. It was good for him. Fresh (cold) air. Sunshine (sort of). Readily available reminders of why he hated his father.

Nature was great. If only he could burn it all down without blowing cover.

.

“Oh, no,” said a hapless technician.

“What?” asked the commission supervisor who’d brough the sample to the lab. “What is it? Is he related to the Scourge of Kamino?”

“Well,” squeaked the woman, her mousy ears twitching. “Yes. But I ran him through a few other databases as well, and…” she trailed off. “Well… The number of cross references in the hero database is staggering, but, of course, if he’s related to them, and to the other, well…”

The commission supervisor grabbed the edge of her monitor and twisted it around to face him. She watched the blood drain from his face and refrained from calling him out on his rudeness.

“Why,” he asked, “didn’t they run the Scourge of Kamino’s DNA through these databases?”

“I guess they didn’t think it was necessary?”

“Excuse me,” he said, “I have to make a few calls.”

.

“You want us to attack the League of Villains now?” asked Hawks, frowning. “You’ve had me following them around for weeks, and you want us to go in now, with next to no preparation? We don’t even know if the rest of the League is with Dabi.”

What had they found out from Midoriya’s blood sample? Had it turned out the way Dabi had expected.

Was Midoriya Izuku the son of All for One?

“Alright, alright,” he said in response to his handler. He sighed deeply, leaning back to better look at the sky. “But even I’m going to need a couple hours to get everything together and start coordinating with other heroes. I’m—Sir, I really don’t think I’m going to be able to take them all on just with myself and my sidekicks. Midoriya probably isn’t with them to begin with—I’m not questioning you, sir. I just don’t understand our objective in attacking them now. Why are we rushing? It seems counterpro—Yes, sir.” The line beeped loudly as it disconnected.

Well. All this had been a monumental waste of time.

It also boded ill for Midoriya. It sounded as if he’d become an even greater target than before, and considering that the commission had been labeling him a villain even before testing his DNA… Something bigger than being related to All for One must have come out. Something that had scared the commission. Something they would scrap their stealth- and intelligence-based plan for dealing with the League for. Something they wanted gone. Locked away with Midoriya.

Hawks couldn’t imagine what that could be. Maybe he was related to All Might? Or Endeavor? All Might wouldn’t be bad, he was never publicly in a relationship, but then he’d always been private about his personal life. But Endeavor… that’d be a scandal and a half.

But, if either of those were the case, why were they so sure he’d be with the League of Villains? It didn’t make sense. Unless… Unless Midoriya wasn’t the only one related to All for One.

At least they weren’t asking him to kill the kid. The mission was capture.

Which meant that Hawks had to come up with some way of letting an injured and probably exhausted teenager and a severely disabled old man escape without looking like he was letting them escape. Or looking like an incompetent idiot. Again. Because he wasn’t about to bring Midoriya in under circumstances this shady. Maybe before, when he thought it was just trumped-up kidnapping charges, but with this uncertainty…

Commission lackey or not, Hawks was still a hero. Sometimes that meant he put aside personal feelings for the good of society, and sometimes it meant that he ignored orders so a minor wouldn’t be indefinitely imprisoned at a commission black site.

Fun times.

He sighed and gathered in his feathers, angling down into a dive. Time to get to work.

.

Ochako kept seeing things out of the corners of her eye. Shadow in the shape of people, in the shape of children. Stains on the walls.

The hallways were scrupulously clean. Spotless. Empty. Brightly lit.

Todoroki had mentioned smelling smoke a few times and had started gagging for no reason once or twice. Iida kept twitching as if he had heard something. Aizawa appeared unaffected, but Ochako could see the way he gripped his capture weapon and the rigidness of his spine.

Izuku looked resigned.

“Did they really—” started Iida.

“Yes,” said Izuku. “Almost certainly.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Todoroki.

“You’re only getting fragments of Three’s memories, since she’s suppressing this,” said Izuku. “But…” He twitched, slightly. “It’s going to get worse the farther we go. The places she was in…” His voice was soft, sing-song, not quite entirely there.

“Izuku?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m focusing on something else outside.”

“Please tell me you aren’t fighting pro heroes again,” said Aizawa.

“No, I’m escaping from the League of Villains right now.”

“How?”

“Mm. Great question. I’ll tell you how it goes later, if it works.”

“That’s not what I—”

An ear-splitting, bone-chilling scream filled the air, making everyone flinch and clench. Something crackled overhead.

“Incident response team to hallway C. Code Blue.”

More screaming. This time, Ochako had a better idea of where it was coming from, and it seemed like everyone else, did, too.

They ran past classrooms that were alternately empty and full of shadow people, past soulless dormitory rooms stuffed with bunk beds, past cells and rooms Ochako didn’t even want to think about.

A pair of dark-skinned girls stood in the hallway, one holding a bloody hand to her throat, the other baring her teeth. The lights flickered. Dimmed.

The girls were gone by the time the lights came back on.

The hallway they were in was full of operating theaters, complete with lights over the door. Ochako felt sick.

But she was used to dealing with nausea. She took a deep breath and swallowed.

“What now?” she asked. The quaver in her voice was barely audible.

“Now…” Aizawa turned slowly in place. “We’re trying to find where they met Ryuji.”

“Two,” said Izuku, nodding.

“So, the most likely place for that…” He trailed off. “The most likely place for that is in the… residential areas.” He sounded disgusted with himself for referring to a prison with such bland terms.

“We passed something like that,” said Todoroki, quietly.

“Right,” said Aizawa. “Let’s go.”

.

The way back was much more… crowded. The memories were more tangible. Ochako quickly taught herself not to look in any of the rooms. Not that it helped much with what they saw in the halls themselves.

Izuku’s distraction only grew worse as they went further. He kept trying to follow, or sometimes fight, the memory ghosts.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Focusing on something else.”

“Just don’t die on us, problem child.”

“We’re doing okay,” said Izuku.

This was, of course, when the facility’s alarm went off.

“Intruder alert. Intruder alert. Intruder alert.”

.

Izuku couldn’t hear the sound of the fight between the League and Machia anymore. This meant that either the fighting had stopped, or they had moved out of earshot.

Despite the League having a car (Vlad-sensei’s car) Izuku doubted that the fight had gotten all that far away.

Next to him, Toshinori winced. Izuku looked at him with concern, but Toshinori waved it off.

Izuku took a shaky breath.

They just had to keep going.

.

Twice had, perhaps predictably, backed the car up into a ditch, where, despite the amount of pressure he put on the accelerator, it stayed. Stuck. Perhaps forever.

All members of the League of Villains that were not crazy enough to crawl onto the outside of a moving car to fight a homicidal giant climbed out. All members, meaning a single member. A single member, ironically, being Twice.

At least he hadn’t been going very fast when he ran into the ditch.

“Everyone okay? –Of course, they’re not! You were in a car crash, idiots!”

“Come help us fight!” ordered Shigaraki. “We were in the middle of something, you know, stupid level boss! Keep having to save scum I hate you aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

Well, that wasn’t a good sign.

“Where’s Himiko?” he shouted.

“Over here, silly!” said the second Shigaraki, because, yeah. Twice had forgotten he hadn’t duplicated Shigaraki.

Man, he was dumb sometimes. It was great he had friends to help him with that!

He dove into the fight which, ever so slightly, ever so slowly, began to move away from the car.

.

Izuku’s head throbbed sharply, and he stumbled, Toshinori just managing to catch him before he faceplanted. Four and the other past users hissed at him from the back of his mind.

Someone’s coming. Hide.

They were in no condition for another fight.

Toshinori nodded sharply, and pulled Izuku aside, into some bushes. Izuku tried to breathe quietly but was painfully aware that both he and Toshinori were out of breath and raspy. Ragged. They’d been aiming for speed, not stealth, counting on the sounds of combat to cover them.

But if someone was out here—

Izuku smelled smoke. A branch snapped. He held his breath, despite the way his lungs longed for more oxygen. Had Dabi been in the car? Izuku hadn’t seen him. He hadn’t seen any blue fire. It wasn’t like Dabi to hold back.

A pair of black booted feet came into view.

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

.

They found Two standing in a hallway, surrounded by the bodies of soldiers. A small horde of shadow children clung to his legs.

When he laid eyes on Izuku, he sighed.

“Does the world ever give you a break?” he asked.

“Not that I’ve noticed,” said Izuku.

[ampleappleamble]

—

Debriefing the Crucible Knights went about how Axa had expected it would. She and her companions had staggered out of Heritage Hill only to be immediately escorted back to Crucible Keep along with the little girl they'd rescued from her family crypt, the poor waif falling asleep on Edér's shoulders as they'd made their way through town. Once inside, they'd had their wounds tended to and their bellies filled as they recounted the events of their harrowing mission, repeating themselves over and over to one bewildered Knight after another. By the end of the evening, rumors, misinterpretations, and half-truths about the "end of the Curse of Heritage Hill" were all anybody in Crucible Keep could talk about– unless one preferred to gossip about the mysterious Watcher of Caed Nua instead.

Restful sleep was coming harder and harder to Axa, and the troubling trend had continued as they'd bedded down in the barracks that night. She'd woken the next morning feeling worse than she had when she'd laid down the night before, and her attitude had very much reflected it. She'd particularly let her ire show when her breakfast had been interrupted by a man who'd introduced himself as Penhelm, a name she recognized as the one belonging to the Knight that Osric had sent her after the day before, hoping she could recover his family's breastplate from the snooty little gossip.

"Is it true that you're not actually a Watcher, but merely a Cipher? Like the... others of your kind down at Hadret House?" Arrogance and curiosity mingled in his insufferable smirk as he spoke, not even having had the decency to wait until she'd finished chewing.

"That depends," she'd replied, her mouth still full of bacon. "Is it true you steal people's family heirlooms after talking shit about them and getting them kicked out of the service?"

Needless to say, she had gotten nowhere trying to convince him to do right by Osric. So on her way out, she'd passed through the scriptorium and, with a careful eye and a whispered word to Aloth, she'd left Crucible Keep that morning with Penhelm's soul lineage affidavit tucked away in her satchel.

She had been on her way to Hadret House to have the affidavit examined for authenticity, hoping to gain a bargaining chip that might pry the heirloom armor from the little bastard's hands, when a messenger had appeared at her shoulder, letting her know that her presence had been requested... at Hadret House. She'd almost laughed at the absurd coincidence– until the messenger told her exactly who had summoned her there, his tone low and reverent.

"Who is Lady Webb," she'd asked, "and what exactly does she want with me?"

The messenger had been young, with a casual, almost flippant air about him, but he had still had the good sense to lean close and keep an eye out for eavesdroppers. "You don't know her, milady? She's the directress of Dunryd Row, Defiance Bay's investigative peacekeeping force. No one's actually met her face to face, in... I don't know, a long time. But they say that despite her advanced age, her mind is a steel trap and her will is an iron fist. She and her Cipher operatives keep the city safe from threats that most kith are never even aware exist..."

Axa had listened, at first. She'd tried to listen. But as he'd spoken, as he'd thrust the wax-sealed summons into her hand, she'd found herself distracted by an all-too-familiar feeling. Something was pulling her toward Hadret House, something that had nothing to do with Dunryd Row or Ciphers or Lady Webb, and she'd turned away from the messenger in the middle of his speech to pursue it, helpless to resist.

He was there. Just outside of Hadret House, on the far side of Brackenbury. He was there, and she approached him–

–she approached him, any confidence she'd had before dissolving now in her sick stomach, trickling down her trembling limbs. She couldn't do this.

She had to do this.

He was already watching her, but the impact of his gaze was no less powerful than if he'd turned dramatically to face her. It was as though he knew what she was going to tell him already.

Of course he does, she thought. He knows all. He knows what I've done. What I–

"You look as though you've seen a ghost, dear."

Lady Webb chuckled in her throat, but her face did not laugh with her. "Although, perhaps you have. After all, you are the Watcher who wrested the ruins of Caed Nua away from poor, mad Maerwald, as well as the Watcher who ended the... 'curse' of Heritage Hill, if my reports are correct." The old, frail woman rose from her desk, crossed the room with a deceptive grace. "And they are."

Axa kept her head low, but lifted her eyes to meet Webb's gaze. "Why have you asked me here–"

"–You know why I have asked you here, child."  With anyone else, she would have felt that she was being chastised, but with him, she only felt kind, fatherly concern. "Your fellow missionaries have reported a change in your behavior recently. You neglect your duties, you are quiet and distant. What troubles you so to make you act this way?"

Tears stung her eyes. Her whole body quaked. Her breath caught in her throat. The quivering pit in her stomach broadened and her heart fell into it, and for a second she thought she might actually vomit, but instead it was her confession that flew from her mouth:

"Your Eminence, I... forgive me, but I wish... I wish to leave the order."

He folded his hands, frowning–

"You're not a stupid woman, Axa Mala. You should know why I've asked you here. Defiance Bay's concerns are my concerns, you see, and evidently, they are yours as well. But neither of us is overly fond of beating around the bush, so let's cut straight to it, shall we?" Lady Webb stopped at her bookshelf, turned to face Axa again, her keen eyes piercing the other woman's mind, her soul. "Why do you seek the Leaden Key?"

She had known, somehow, that Webb would ask her that, but it still took her by surprise. Nevertheless, Axa didn't waste time asking how she'd known. "I'm looking for someone. A man I saw in the ruins of Cliant Lîs. He... did something to me. And I need him to undo it."

The wizened old Cipher nodded at her, then, let her eyes slip shut, her face twitching–

–"You have been nothing if not an extraordinary asset to us," he said, slowly pacing as he spoke. "Your conviction in our cause has inspired your contemporaries to greatness, and together with them you have brought the light of redemption to thousands, if not more! What could possibly shake your faith in yourself like this? Your faith in us?"

Somehow, without her realizing, he had ended up crossing the room to stand directly before her. He looked into her eyes, worry and sorrow emanating from him. "What's wrong, Anthea? What happened?"

She squeezed her eyes shut but she still saw him in her mind, still saw the compassion in his eyes that a despicable sinner like her could never deserve–

Lady Webb opened her eyes, gasping softly.

"The gods are cruel," she murmured. "The man you seek is none other than the grandmaster of the Leaden Key himself: Thaos ix Arkannon."

The name echoed in Axa's head, the bearded man's masked face floating before her mind's eye. It felt like she'd always known him, or at least known of him, but only now could she put a name to the face.

"Thaos," she whispered–

"I cannot stay, Your Eminence. I'm... I'm tainted, wicked and weak." Anthea lowered her head, letting her tears fall to the floor. "I've done something terrible, something I can never undo, an unforgivable act of blasphemy. I fear– no, I– I know I am beyond redemption."

She curled in on herself, wracked with sobs, unable to continue. Shame and guilt burned her face, but she knew she deserved to burn for real, to burn forever. But even to cleanse her soul with holy flame would be too kind a mercy for a traitor of her magnitude. How could he, how could the gods ever forgive such a miserable wretch like her?

His hand fell onto her shoulder, steady and strong–

"He is a man unlike any other," Webb explained, her voice quiet and serious as she made her way back to her desk, hands folded behind her back. "The Leaden Key is an organization dedicated to obscuring, muddling, and destroying information, including any evidence pertaining to themselves or their activities. There's no way to be sure, but what little we've found suggests that they have supposedly existed for over two thousand years." She looked pointedly at Axa, one eyebrow cocked. "And it was Thaos who founded them."

"But that's impossible," Aloth blurted. "Even the longest-lived elves haven't even come close to..." He trailed off, twisting his fingers together anxiously, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Webb sighed, one drooping corner of her mouth briefly lifting into a smirk. "But when it comes to the Leaden Key, little is as it seems. If what we've managed to learn about him so far is true– and there's no guarantee that it is, but it's the best explanation we've got– he is one of Woedica's Favored, an agent of the Queen Who Was who has been gifted with the blessing of eternal life. In practice, this means that every time he dies, Thaos' soul is guided by Her hand to be reborn in an almost identical vessel, and once he reaches puberty, he Awakens to all of his past lives at once, in order to continue the work of his Mistress on Eora. So strong is his soul, in fact, that he can supposedly even project it out of himself and into others, crushing the will of lesser souls and usurping their bodies for his and his Queen's own ends." She regarded Axa with pity. "He is almost certainly the most dangerous, elusive, powerful man on the face of the planet. And while I can't deny being grateful for the company, you have my deepest sympathies that your path has also crossed with his."

"Why was he in Teir Nowneth the night the machine was activated in Heritage Hill?" Axa demanded, her head spinning. "What was he doing in Cliant Lîs? How did he Awaken me–"

–"So you have sinned," Thaos proclaimed gravely. "You have erred, stumbled on your path, and now you would cast yourself into the Void. Is that it?"

Anthea wanted to cover her face with her hands, wanted to run, to hide, but she could barely even find it in herself to draw the breath to answer him. "What I've done, no god could forgive me. Now or ever."

He brought his other hand around, then, gripped both of her shoulders firmly. "My child, my dear child, if you truly believe that then I have utterly failed you, as a teacher and as a leader. There is no sin so grevious that it cannot be absolved, no path so dark the gods cannot light the way to salvation! As long as you do not turn your back on Them, They will never turn Their backs on you."

She knew it couldn't be true. It was too good to be true, and nothing in her life had ever been half so good. Not since she was a child. But... would he really lie to her like that? He never had before. At least, she didn't think he had. Anthea slowly lifted her head to look at the man who would save her from herself–

Lady Webb sat back down, letting her chin hover just above her steepled fingers. "That's what I'd like to know. There's quite a lot I'd like to know about Thaos ix Arkannon and the Leaden Key, as I rather imagine you would, too. That's why I summoned you here today– to work with you, pool our resources, compare notes. The Key has been... active as of late, and where they go, you seem to follow, righting their wrongs. As you did in Heritage Hill." She smiled, her thin, red mouth like a slit cut into her face. "I'd like you to continue to do so, and to report your successes back to me. In return, Dunryd Row's resources shall be at your disposal should you need them, and with a bit of luck– well, a lot of luck, in truth– perhaps we two can corner him and get our answers at last."

There was something behind Webb's eyes, something mysterious and passionate and unrelenting that Axa couldn't quite place, but she knew instinctively that it wasn't for her. Whatever it was that drove this woman, whether it was a thirst for vengeance or a desire for the truth or a need for justice, the ferocity behind her eyes was only for Thaos.

She could respect that.

"Very well," Axa replied, "I accept–"

–"I... I want to believe that's so, Your Eminence," she stammered, "but even if it were, I don't deserve Their clemency."

"Some among the gods would see you punished, it's true," he murmured. "But the sting of the lash passes in an instant compared to the eternity afterward in which you shall enjoy the boundless mercy, the cleansing forgiveness, the all-consuming love of the gods. That is what makes one deserving– devotion. As long as you devote yourself to Them, They will return the faith you place in Them a thousand fold."

The tears fell afresh from her eyes, this time from sheer relief. Somewhere deep in her heart, she must have known he could make it all right, could show her the path to absolution. He always did. That was the real reason she had come here, wasn't it? What had she been so afraid of?

Thaos smiled warmly at her, his hands still gently clutching her shoulders. "Stay with us, Anthea. We need you. The gods need you. They have entrusted you with the truth of Their Word– will you return that trust?"

"I will," she whispered–

"Now, before you go– what was that bizarre display you put on just outside our door?" Lady Webb was already looking through another stack of documents, but she spared Axa a bemused glance. "It's not a good look, dear, standing around with your eyes glazed over and your mouth agog. You're liable to catch flies."

"I'm an Awakened Watcher," the orlan retorted curtly. "The memories from my past life tend to be a bit more vivid than the ones other Awakened kith might experience. And I don't exactly control what I see or when I see it."

The old Cipher shrugged. "I meant no offense. Only trying to warn you that you may have unwittingly broadcasted your whereabouts to someone who seems to have a bone to pick with you." She gestured vaguely toward the door to her office, and it swung open, an orlan man stepping in as though he'd been expected.

Webb looked at Axa the way a jaded teacher might at an impudent pupil. "Well? Show him the affidavit."

She blinked, and somewhat reluctantly, she reached into her satchel and produced Penhelm's affidavit, the one Aloth had pilfered for her at Crucible Keep. "Uh... Can you tell me if this is genuine?" she muttered.

The older man took it from her, looked it over briefly, and shook his head, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he handed it back. "Not at all," he pronounced. "Being perfectly honest, it's a rather shabby forgery, too."

Webb sighed, shuffling her papers. "Thank you, Kurren; you may go." The orlan gave her a respectful nod and left to return to his work downstairs as the directress of Dunryd Row grinned wryly at Axa. "Now you have your bargaining chip. Penhelm is waiting for you on the street outside. Do exercise caution, dear, and try to keep the blood off of my siding. We've only just had it repainted last month."

"Actually," the little woman smiled slyly, "I think I've got a better idea."

—

[iamanartichoke]

What do you think Loki would think of Kilgrave (from the tv series)? Would Loki be immune to his powers? How could Loki cheat and defeat Kilgrave?

This question has been sitting in my ask box (among others - sorry, anon :/) for probably a couple of months and I think about answering it at least once a week and I haven’t answered it yet bc I have no idea how to express how flaily I am at the idea of Loki encountering Kilgrave (believe it or not, I never thought about it before! Loki teaming up with Jessica, yes, but not crossing paths with Kilgrave.).

I also don’t know how to answer this lmfao, I have no idea. 

Well, I have a lot of ideas, but how accurate and/or in-character they are remains to be seen. .

Idk, buckle up. 

Under the cut bc it’s super long and I’m sure only like three people care about this. 

What do you think Loki would think of Kilgrave (from the tv series)? 

I don’t know if there’s a word that would encompass what Loki would feel toward Kilgrave. I think that there’s a number of things he would think, none of them particularly flattering. I think that the most succinct way to put it would be that Loki would think Kilgrave - basic, is the only thing I can think of. A basic bitch. 

I say that for a number of reasons and it’s not that I think Loki would think Kilgrave isn’t a threat. Kilgrave is evil. Kilgrave is irredeemable evil; there’s no redemption arc, no coming back from the things he’s done. He doesn’t want to come back from the things he’s done. 

It isn’t just that he mind controls people, and it isn’t just that he kills people. It’s the way he feels (or doesn’t feel) about it. 

Kilgrave could be a sociopath. (I don’t know enough about the diagnostic criteria to say that he definitely is, and on tumblr dot com, I feel like I need to disclaim that right off the bat. I’m not armchair diagnosing here.) There’s no empathy in him, no remorse for any of his actions, no inclination to do the right thing. It’s the exact opposite: Kilgrave’s particular brand of villainy is rooted in this purely sadistic need for power over others - quite literally. 

He doesn’t just want his victims to hurt or kill themselves. He wants them to do it as painfully as possible. He wants them to suffer, and he wants them to keep on suffering even after he’s no longer there to enjoy it. 

An example: Kilgrave uses his powers to hustle a ton of money in a poker game, and one of the players confronted him. Kilgrave told him to “see how long it takes to put your head through that post,” and the poor guy goes over and is just slamming his head repeatedly into the post, long after Kilgrave leaves. This is a particularly horrifying aspect of Kilgrave’s ability: the person isn’t freed from the mind-control after Kilgrave is no longer there, and it’s not the kind of mind-control that can be broken with “a really hard hit to the head.” The victims physically and mentally cannot stop doing what he told them to do, either until the thing is complete, or they literally die trying.

It’s brutal and perverse. But it’s significant to note that Kilgrave doesn’t hurt/kill everyone he mind controls. Whether or not he decides to make someone suffer seems to depend on 1) how useful they can be to him, and 2) whether he feels like it or not. There’s little rhyme or reason. He will mind control someone to give him their cell phone, mind control a second person to throw a cup of scalding coffee in their face, and mind control a third person to cut their own hands off, and all three of these things seem to be the same to him. He doesn’t see making someone cut off their own hands any worse than making someone give up their cell phone. He’s not any more horrified by it, and he doesn’t even think about it long enough to attempt to feel any real remorse. 

In this manner, Kilgrave mind controls, torments, kidnaps, rapes, maims, and kills his victims and doesn’t give it a second thought. He forgets them forever once he’s done with them. (What makes Jessica the exception is a whole other meta.) He’s motivated by the feeling that having power and control over other human beings gives him. He’s motivated by feeling invincible, and will do whatever he can to maintain that sense of invincibility. 

These things make Kilgrave terrifying as a villain, both to his victims as well as to the audience. What makes him a particularly formidable villain for the series is that Jessica is literally the only one who can stop him. He loses his ability to control her, and she’s strong enough to take him down. She’s the only real threat to him. When one is surrounded by regular human beings who are completely helpless to this brand of mind control, it raises the stakes and frames him as a villain you are going to be scared of. Ymmv, but I mean, I certainly wouldn’t want to cross paths with Kilgrave on the street. 

So why is he a basic bitch? 

Loki may consider all of these things, and he may further be mildly horrified if he actually saw what Kilgave does to some of his victims (’mildly’ because we don’t know what Loki’s threshold is; who knows what kind of Fucked Up Shit he’s seen by now), and he would conclude that while Kilgrave is certainly a threat in his own, human context, there’s nothing about him that differentiates him from any other would-be villain out there. There’s nothing compelling about him; there’s nothing that sets him apart. His powers are the only thing that make him significantly more threatening than any other human serial killer who kidnaps, rapes, and kills for no reason other than that sheer need for power and control over a victim. 

I mean, Loki’s opinion of the humans is pretty low to start with. When Thor says, “you consider yourself above them,” and Loki is like, “um yes?” - I don’t believe that’s a response that had anything to do with the scepter’s influence and everything to do with the culture in which he and Thor were raised. Odin compares Jane being on Asgard to a goat being at a banquet table. The W4 mention “throwing around a little lightning and they see us as gods” (paraphrase). Loki grew up in a world that is both physically and scientifically millenia beyond humanity, and as a prince besides (which grants him a level of privilege above even other Asgardians). It’s only natural, I think, that he would see the humans as lesser-than his own people. 

If Loki encountered Ted Bundy on the street, he’d not be overly impressed. Likewise, Kilgrave is not overly impressive to him. In the most general “here’s my reaction,” sense, Loki thinks that Kilgrave is what we would call a basic bitch. It’s similar to how he used his last breath to tell Thanos, “You’ll never be a god.” The implication being, you may have power, and you may be frightening, but there is nothing about you that is truly remarkable and there never will be, no matter how hard you try. 

That all said, if we dig a little deeper, I think that Kilgrave would give Loki a lot to think about, in a way? Kilgrave suffered through medical experimentation in order to get his powers, and Loki isn’t a stranger to torture. And I think that, in a comparative sense, Loki would be somewhat reassured at the fact that he finds Kilgrave’s actions appalling. Even going through whatever torture Loki went through, he didn’t turn out like Kilgrave. Kilgrave does things that Loki would never do. (The mind control aside, but to be fair, it wasn’t entirely Loki’s choice to do that.) 

Loki doesn’t enjoy violence just for the sake of it. He takes no pleasure in hurting or killing anyone and, in fact, seemed kind of repelled by it (does anyone else notice how Loki rarely looks at his foe when doing the violent thing?). Loki would never kidnap or rape anyone, and certainly not just to feel power over another person. He would never inflict torture, either. 

I say this fairly confidently because the consistent thing about all the misdeeds Loki has done is that they’re internally motivated. Loki’s desire for power isn’t rooted in the need to victimize others; it’s rooted in this deep-seated self-loathing that has him convinced that power - not just any power, but the power to be a king - is the only way he will ever have any worth. 

He never wanted to rule Asgard. I don’t believe he wanted to rule Midgard, either. It’s like Loki is seeking the illusion of power more than the actual power itself. He wants the worthiness and the validation; he wants to be taken seriously. He wants his own abilities, specifically his magic, to be revered as any other warrior’s skill. He just wants to be seen. 

So I think on some level that Loki, when confronted with bone-deep, unapologetic, irredeemable villainy (for lack of a better word) would think, I could have been worse. Thank the norns I’m not worse. 

Again, I may be completely off-base or wildly out of character - idk, I revised this like 12 times. But this is just my idea of what Loki would think of Kilgrave and I hope, if nothing else, it was interesting to read. 

Would Loki be immune to his powers? 

Yes. This is another thing that contributes to how Loki sees Kilgrave; his powers aren’t a threat to him personally. This is because Kilgrave’s ability is a virus. 

According to Kilgrave’s Wikia: 

Kilgrave’s abilities are due to “a virus that he emits through microparticles in the air. His power was revealed to be a side-effect of the viral treatment used to cure his childhood degenerative disease. His ability is always active as he cannot stop his body from producing the virus and anyone within his immediate proximity is affected” (Source). 

Now, I’m no scientist, but my takeaway from this is that, because Kilgrave’s powers are literally a virus, and said viruses (viri?) have this effect on the humans around him, someone with alien biological insides (Asgardian or Jotun, for that matter) would likely not be affected in the same way, if at all. 

It’s like how ebola or HIV (or covid, ugh), is potentially deadly to humans because of the way our cells respond to the virus cells. Someone who isn’t human wouldn’t have that same response. Of course, it’s entirely possible that a different effect could occur, or even possibly the virus could affect an alien but the reaction wouldn’t be as strong or overpowering. There’s no way to know for sure but, my limited understanding of science-y things leads me to believe that Kilgrave’s ability would be useless on anyone who wasn’t human.  (As a matter of fact, I think that it’s revealed that Jessica was able to break free from the control because she’s enhanced and her biology is different, but I’d have to watch those episodes again.) 

How could Loki cheat to defeat Kilgrave? 

Considering the above answer, there would be no need for Loki to cheat; Kilgrave’s abilities wouldn’t work on him, which leaves him powerless while Loki maintains his arsenal of magic, along with the whole super-strength thing. Loki would probably just have to hit him a few times to take him out. 

I’m sorry this is so long, but I really appreciate the question! Thank you! I hope that this was a decent answer overall.

[silvokrent]

So since Tyrian's arrest screen didn't list everything he was wanted for, what else do you think he did? My brother thinks arson, I think more along the lines of torture.

It’d probably be easier to ask, “What crimes didn’t he commit?”

I think you’re both right. Arson and torture seem like equally valid possibilities, but they’d have to be the result of context and circumstance. On one hand, Tyrian always struck me as someone that’s adaptive, flexible, and capable of improvisation, which is why I doubt he’d be averse to either. On the other hand, Tyrian appears to have a modus operandi—speed and stealth. Like most Faunus, seeing in the dark (presumably with tapeta lucida, the eyeshine a lot of nocturnal and crepuscular animals have) affords him an advantage many of his victims lack. That, coupled with his stinger, sets him up by default for a very specific tactic: hit-and-run assassinations. Catch your target off-guard, deliver the killing blow, then melt back into the shadows before anyone’s the wiser. Fire lacks discretion, and torture involves prolonged interaction with the victim (which increases the odds of him getting caught, as time/duration would be proportionate to the risk of being discovered).

If a situation called for it (like setting a car on fire in order to distract pursuers), or he was contracted to complete a specific job (like torturing someone for information), then I could definitely see him committing arson and torture. But if he’s recreationally killing, then I think it’s more likely that he’d indulge in his preferred repertoire, envenomation and stabbing.

The nice thing about his criminal record being truncated (with a “see attachment for more details” appended to the file) with multiple redacted sections is that it leaves a lot of room for speculation. Bear in mind that much of this is either conjectural with little supporting evidence, or my personal headcanons.

One of the things that I found interesting about Tyrian’s character was his reverence of Salem. “Goddess” isn’t just an affectionate title or a term of endearment—he literally apotheosizes her. Compare that to how his teammates interact with her. While they treat her with respect, none of them use the same venerating language as Tyrian (“Your Grace,” “my lady,” “our divine savior,” “our goddess”). This tells us that his worship of her isn’t the norm amongst her followers, which also means that he has a reason for doing it.

Personally, I’ve never been a fan of labelling people who commit heinous crimes as crazy or insane—not only because it implicates nonviolent mentally ill and neurodivergent people, and scapegoats them for the actions of others—but because in this instance, it robs Tyrian of the complexity that comes with rationalizing one’s choices. Tyrian’s decision to deify Salem shouldn’t stem from some sort of psychopathology, but rather a logical, personal, or historical precedent.

Let’s reverse-engineer this thought process:

Tyrian worships Salem.

Salem (in Tyrian’s eyes) is the extreme embodiment, manifestation, or expression of cathartic violence.

Tyrian worships this form of violence.

And what else in RWBY’s universe embodies those traits?

The Creatures of Grimm.

So, with that in mind, let’s talk about all the illegal things Tyrian’s done over the course of his life, and more specifically, why.

Archotherolatry: This is a term I coined for my RWBY worldbuilding blog. If you break down the etymology, archotherian (Greek - ruling beast, the scientific term for Grimm) + -latry (Late Latin - worship of), it translates to “the worship of Grimm.” The practice was outlawed by the King of Vale (King Ozark) after the Great War. While the decision was rooted in common sense—like, you really don’t want people to see the Grimm as gods for fairly obvious reasons—Ozark had ulterior motives for outlawing it. You see, Ozark was one of Ozma’s incarnations, and the immediate predecessor of Ozpin. While archotherolatry had been falling out of favor over the last few centuries, it was still a religion with a presence in certain corners of Remnant. Salem used to recruit these cultists directly into her ranks. By making the practice illegal, Ozma was hoping to cut off a potential source of followers.

Prior to meeting Salem, Tyrian was one of the surviving few practitioners of the faith. Not only that, but he had a particular mania about it. Grimm worship in Remnant changed depending on where in the world you went, but one of the recurring practices involved human sacrifice. Now, while Tyrian didn’t subscribe to any specific holy doctrine and wasn’t a member of any secret groups, he did adhere to certain rites and ceremonies. He savored the taking of lives, but even more than that, he enjoyed offering up his victims to the Grimm. During the months that Pickerel spent hunting him down, his trails would often lead him to secluded areas outside cities or towns. There he’d often find a large ornately-detailed circle on the ground painted with blood, with the tattered corpse of the victim lying in the center. The surrounding trees and rocks would sport eye-like patterns drawn in blood, similar to the patterns seen on the bony white protrusions on a Grimm’s body.

When selecting potential victims, Tyrian didn’t discriminate. Gender, age, nationality, race, economic background—they all bleed red, so it didn’t matter. Not technically, anyway. That wasn’t to say he didn’t enjoy abducting business owners that were prejudiced against Faunus, or that he didn’t find ironic humor in sacrificing Huntsmen to the Grimm. He just wasn’t particularly choosy about who he sacrificed.

In a similar vein, I think this is how Salem first learned about Tyrian’s existence. Whenever her scouts or sentries returned to Evernight and reported in, they’d inform her about a man that would drag people into the woods and invite the Grimm to feast upon them. This possibility excited Salem for several reasons: not only was he predisposed to loyalty to her, but the fact that he’d clearly been doing these sacrifices for some time meant he was talented. It took a lot of skill to kill so many people without being caught by the authorities. She needed an assassin, and he would do perfectly.

When Tyrian wasn’t feeding people to the Grimm, he probably murdered for sport. He thrilled in the hunt, in the dizzying slick of blood beneath his fingers, the intoxicating coppery smell, the beautiful song of his victims as they cried, begged, and screamed. Acts of violence honor the Grimm, but in addition to that, he simply relished in the joy of killing. And he was good at it.

Of course, sacrificial manslaughter doesn’t pay the bills, so Tyrian had a day job. Well, I say “day job,” but it was more along the lines of contract killer/thief/kidnapper/smuggler. Tyrian operated largely out of Mistral’s criminal underworld, particularly in the capital (though depending on the work he was doing, he’d travel to Wind Path or Kuchinashi). Potential clients sought him out and hired him for any number of jobs: collect the debt that this person owes me and kill them if they refuse to pay; abduct the member of this rival syndicate and bring them to these coordinates; assassinate someone for me, and bring back proof that they’re dead; transport this contraband (weapons, drugs, Dust) and ensure the shipment arrives safely; kill these people and destroy the evidence; capture this person and extract information from them by whatever means necessary; follow this person without being detected, and collect information about their routine. Although Tyrian preferred jobs that involved bloodshed, he’d still accept contracts for more mundane work (even if he found it somewhat boring). Tyrian didn’t have a ton of dealbreakers in terms of jobs, though he refused to do anything that involved sexual assault. (Even serial killers have standards.)

Destruction of public and private property was likely an unintended or indirect consequence of his work. As much as Tyrian enjoyed wanton carnage, he prided himself on being stealthy and thus had to exercise some level of restraint, so as to not leave behind damning evidence in the form of collateral damage. Breaking a window or kicking in a door is a liability. Accidentally setting off a Dust explosion is a good way for the authorities to track you. That being said, there were a few memorable occasions where Tyrian absolutely wrecked shit up. Perhaps the most noteworthy of these was the day that he was finally captured by Atlesian and Mistrali law enforcement. On the day of his arrest, Tyrian caused nearly 50,000 lien’s worth of property damage, including the destruction of three Paladins.

Tyrian’s name, while spoken among the criminal element, was unknown to the public. Even so, he garnered a reputation as Anima’s most infamous serial killer. People often referred to him by his title: The Ghost in the Mist. (Years later, a documentary by the same name was released. It was an hour-long production that detailed his activity in Mistral, all of his victims, an analysis of his signature, and other relevant or interesting trivia. It even featured an interview with Pickerel, prior to his death. Tyrian absolutely loves this documentary and has re-watched it several times.)

I’m sure there’s more that he’s done that I can’t think of presently, but hopefully this gives you a general idea of all the criminal activity I think he’s committed.

[foulserpent]

PRELUDE

the first couple hours or so of the oblivion crisis

The Amulet of Kings glittered in the sunlight as it made a graceful descent into a puddle of mud. It had landed a couple of meters from its intended destination, a pile of Xikeel’s dirty prison clothes. She stood, naked and frozen in indecision for a moment. With a shrug to no one in particular, she slipped into the cool waters of the Niben.

Blood, muck, and god-knows-what drifted away from her scales as she swam in circles and twists, savoring the water that flowed through her neglected gills. She probably wouldn’t feel totally clean until her next shed. Xikeel would be cleaning out the foul smelling dirt of the Imperial City’s prison from between her scales for weeks to come.

She broke the surface, floating languidly on her back as her tail propelled her. Everything was so vibrant! The rich green of the foliage lining the bank, the lilies sprouting where the river was still. Some colorfully-winged reptile shrieked its way across the sky above. She closed her eyes and rumbled in contentedness. After so long, the sun was warming her belly again. Xikeel began to doze off under its gentle touch.

It was a beautiful day in Cyrodiil, and its emperor had just been stabbed to death.

Xikeel, in truth, had barely been listening to the old man as he handed her his necklace. In fact, she hadn't once spoke to the doomed imperial tyrant as he rambled about visions and divines, soldiers roiling around him with suspicious eyes locked onto her every movement. Xikeel had trailed after his fleeing party like a dhole tails behind a wounded deer, curious and testing how much she could get away with- if she could make a break for it. That became quite difficult when a pack of red-robed phantoms began to descend from all angles, slavering at the mouth in anticipation of a kill and not deigning to allow an innocent bystanding woman pass unscathed. She was weak from her captivity, and the cuffs on her wrists still cut her off from even the simplest of spells. No, she would creep through the shadows as the knights died one by one, until she, the old man, and the young knight were the only ones who remained.

The emperor seemed under the impression that his sheer presence would compel her to do some task for him. Xikeel wasn't quite sure what it was. Something about a monk named "Jeffrey" or some such, over at Weynon Priory- she knew what that was. Her brother had a contract there once. His target had put up quite a fight, and the whole family laughed over dinner as he relayed his harrowing encounter with the monks.

But the emperor had moved on to other topics, voice growing more desperate with each passing moment. With great reverence, he handed her the bejeweled necklace that had rested on his neck. Xikeel was making a show of yawning and blinking each eyelid and nictitating membrane when one of the red-cloaked assassins had sprung from the shadow and plunged a blade down his royal throat, before turning upon Xikeel! She had attempted to clarify that she wasn't affiliated, just trying to escape, but he was having none of it. He had wrenched the knife from the fading king, and lunged for her.

"You chose a bad day to take up the cause of the Septims!" He had roared.

The slash across her chest still ached now, in the water. It hadn't cut too deeply, but it was wide, carving up half of her chest and mixing her blood with the freshly dead emperor's. After she and the surviving soldier had killed the assassins, the soldier gave her a potion to salve her wound. He was quite kind for a- "blade"? Some specialized type of legionnaire, she assumed. It was an excellent quality potion as well. It burned and stung like nettle as she massaged it into her wound, but the cut sutured itself together with strands of fresh tissue, pulling shut before her eyes.

"That always freaks me out," the soldier said, skin clammy and eyes distant. "The way it looks while healing."

"Yes, it's very cool." Xikeel said cheerfully. "Ow!" The salve had stung hard as it wove together a particularly flayed bit of tissue. The soldier barely seemed to register her.

He was a young human, perhaps a few years older than her. He'd taken off his helmet and now stood in a beam of sunlight, revealing dark skin and closely cropped hair. A pleasant face, absolutely twisted in horror. The man was clearly capable, judging by the efficiency with which he slew the assassins, but it seemed as though he had no training for this scenario. After all, there hadn't been a good king-killing in ages. He swallowed and fidgeted over the corpse of the emperor, breaths coming in a little too intentional and controlled. He didn't seem to have noticed that the emperor had given her his necklace. He was somewhere else entirely. It looked like him and the other knights had fucked it up pretty badly.

---

Xikeel sunk beneath the surface, lazily drifting to the riverbed and settling into the silt. Well, that was interesting, but she had more serious things to worry about. She'd been arrested before she even made it to the Night Mother's tomb. It had been several months since that day. Whatever had followed surely had played itself out by now, a notion that squeezed at her throat with a cold hand. Surely they'd found and dealt with the real traitor? The pressure in her neck grew tighter. She had been mad with her father. She was too focused on his naked body, sliced and broken and bleeding in ways that couldn't have happened unless he was alive during all of it, and the words of the Hand had been muffled under the sound of her father's rope creaking. She did not tell the Black Hand that he was innocent, that the traitor had been one of them. She had said nothing.

A catfish drifted lazily over her snout, and she darted out a practiced hand. Within a second, its neck had been snapped, blood clouding the water where her clawed hands had pierced its sides. Xikeel was starving.

Fish in tow, Xikeel slithered onto the riverbed. Patience, she reminded herself, and took to washing her filthy prison clothes instead. There was only so much that could be done with them, but she had to at least wear something. Her hands looked alien and moved of their own accord, wrists still bound in the silencing cuffs that kept her from weaving even the simplest magic. Xikeel hissed. She should have asked the nice soldier if he could take them off. Luckily, there were other ways to start a fire.

The fish began to sizzle into a banana leaf she had scavenged, propped high above a rather unimpressive campfire. Everything was slow and heavy now, mingling with the afternoon heat to fog her brain.  She dimly wondered if the soldier had made his way back to the Imperial City proper yet. Had he dragged back his emperor's body? Was he standing before the council now, delivering the news of a king-killing? Was he scared? These thoughts came and went as if someone else's, as she lay in the sun to dry herself and the clothes. The amulet sat warm in one hand. Her mind was untethered, and it drifted up the thermals as the first day of a new world dawned behind her.

[morgana-ren]

Shigaraki as a god tho, amazing

Oh wow this ended up... something. Look if you’re religious at all, you’re going to want to keep the fuck out of this one. 

Halleluja

Warnings: Implied Dubcon, religious themes, manipulation, apocalypse, sexual themes, me knowing nothing about religion but pretending to, just wow. If you’re like religious at all, literally any religion, you might wanna like not.

The promised land did not come of milk and honey; it came of rot and ash. 

Salvation was not given in the form of eternal bliss and jubilation, but in the mercy of a quick death and deliverance unto nothingness.

You were his prophet. His disciple. You are his chosen. The harbinger of his coming.

You alone bear his Mark, a brand across your skin where his exalted fingers first clasped your frail human form and scarred your delicate mortal flesh. Despite your feeble existence, he saved you from the blight, plucked your soul from the skies as the rapture raged on. You were found worthy of his compassion and he shielded you from the fires as the world around you burned. None were spared in his conquest, countless nations thrown carelessly into the underworld as his fecund shadow of disease and death was cast upon land and sea. It was only you he coveted, and eyes that have seen the expanse of eternity focused now solely on something so impure, so trivial.

He is not renowned for benevolence or generosity, but for you, he will show lenience.

Born anew and bathed in the blood of the lamb, his precious fruit in the ravaged Garden of Eden. A serpent coils tightly around, scales taut against bruised flesh until you yield to his blasphemous whispers.

And now you kneel to him like the God he is, all glory and splendor, a feast for your gluttonous, unworthy eyes. You worship him greedily on your knees as you should, only this time it’s the deity before you who sighs and exhales ‘Oh god’ as you pray him your lustful gratitude. 

There’s nothing holy about your biblical act and you’re sure the ancient tales warn against the mating of gods and mortals, but as Semele to Zeus, you’ll take your chances on sinning with divinity if it means you can bask in his otherworldly majesty. He must be willing to risk the wrath as well because he pulls you from the floor with hands that have shaped the world and onto his throne and lets your bruised knees rest upon the blessed stone. For the first time, you understand the love that only a true master can offer. 

Make no mistake, he’s equal parts beauty and cruelty, radiant in his encompassing power. He could have repaired existence or destroyed it, and he’s chosen the latter. They say it’s better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven and he put forth his will in those words as the creators are one to do. Ash still spirals in the wind and he’s built his kingdom upon the remains of the old. He’s brought down chaos and ruin, ripped down all that offended him like the God of Old upon Sodom and Gomorrah and used the rubble to build his palace. 

Those omnipotent vermilion eyes see right through you, even when you refuse confession. What grand naivety you often have, trying to harbor your thoughts from him. He knows your greatest fears, desires, any traitorous idea that might worm its way into your simple human heart. You can’t hide your trespasses. He’ll make you dance for him in the remnants of his enemies -what was your entire life- to remind you that he can give or take whatever he wishes on a whim. He’s all that is left. You should be grateful. It is only through his whim that you still breathe. You could have easily been the grayed remains that powder down your jaw as he so lovingly wipes the tears from your cheeks.

He’s a forgiving Lord. 

He saved you. He was your redemption and you found new grace in serving him. You owe him. You owe him your obedience. Your loyalty. In this world and the next. You’re his consort in this kingdom of decay and he will rot what’s left of the ground around you to keep you by his side. Not even death will see you taken you from him. The river Styx would sooner see itself drained and Charon denies you passage. 

His divine providence, as all before him, comes at the cost of your soul. It’s a price you offer freely, as all true believers do, as well as your flesh and blood and anything else he demands. 

He seems particularly interested in your body. Some of his fellows were revered for their patience, chastity, and virtue. He is not among them. 

You fascinate him, little mortal. Even among the devout, your piousness is most impressive. The fragile bodies of humans weren’t made for his kind, but you take everything he gives you, eagerly even. It’s taboo, sinful and wrong and an affront to everything his predecessors intended. It goes against the very laws of nature. He was not to consort with your people. 

The rules set before him eons ago crumbled to ash just as easily as everything else he deemed unfit for his attention. Only a king can set forth the laws in their dominion, and his head bears the crown. He will no longer be restrained by any force, either that of man or God. He’ll splay you before his kingdom of corpses and fill you with his forbidden celestial seed and you’ll take it all.

His beloved Whore of Babylon.

He has swallowed the sun like fated Fenrir and all the light in your life right alongside it, regurgitating it out in his stagnating pit of cinder and soot to putrefy under his rule, his clemency. He is all that is left, the only resplendence, though you are unsure if it is a hallowed glow or the burning aura of epitomized rage he embodies.

He always has been and always will be. The inevitable. The Alpha and Omega. The Beginning and the End. Gabriel’s Horn will grow rusty from disuse. The apocalypse has already come.

Kneel before your savior. 

[timeforelfnonsense]

The Lusty Eladrin Maid (2/3)

Astarion x Dafni || E || Ao3 (See for specific tags) ||  Sunshine & Starlight: My on going bg3 series 

The longer they swayed, pressed chest to chest, hip to hip, the more certain his lust addled consciousness became that the sensual curves of her body belong just below the consumption of blood on his hierarchy of needs. Those big, glittering topaz eyes, that blithe, pixie grin that tugged at the corners of her plush pink- She had him completely bewitched. If Astarion was asked right then and there to describe Hanali Celanil, he most assuredly would have said the elven goddess of beauty and joy as a shapely spring eladrin with wild curls the color of gillyflower and a generous sprinkling of golden freckles.

He’d have to take her to a real ball one day. Some Upper City function with good wine and better gossip. Somewhere with lots of shadowy nooks and covalently placed furnishings. His mind conjured a vision of Dafni dressed in a gown of silk and tulle. A full, flouncy number that sparkled in when the light caught it just right. Anyone else would appear garish in such a gown, but somehow on Dafni it only added to her mythical beauty. 

She’d be the envy of all in attendance, but of course, she’d spurn them all for him. Astarion felt his cock stir at the thought. There was an undeniable eroticism in the knowledge that he had the favor of someone others desired. Oh, how the rabble would seethe with jealousy when the pair of them emerged for an unoccupied study! Dafni’s hair slightly messed, her lips kiss swollen and wet. 

They could burn all they liked, this alluring enchantress was his. 

His hand traveled down her spine to her backside, giving the perfect plumpness a quick squeeze. Dafni responded with a lewd squeak. 

“Such a lovely little Coquette.” With a rakish grin, he began gathering up the hem of her gossamer dress, the back of his knuckles grazing the skin of her thigh. Dafni’s breath hitched at the sensual contact. He caught her one of her hands by the wrist, guiding her to the edge of her skirts, “Can you hold this for me, darling?” 

Dafni nodded, eagerly gathering up fistfuls of fabric. Astarion slowly sank to his knees, his hungry gaze fixed on her endearingly flustered expression. Once he was settled into the patch of flowers and wild grass, Astarion nudged her thighs apart. He kissed his way up her leg, stopping for a gentle nuzzle against the twin punctures he’d left behind during a previous tryst. He tucked his thumbs into the waistband of her thin pink knickers, in one firm tug he had her hips bare. He gave a low, fierce noise, his bottom lip caught in the sharp grip of his teeth. He guided one leg over his shoulder, he kept one hand on the base of her spine, holding her firm and steady. He traced the line of her folds with his index finger. It had only taken a bit of kissing and a dance to get her wet and wanting.

Parting her petals with his fingers, Astarion set to work. Her taste was earthy and warm but there was a hint of sweetness, like wild honeysuckle, so very Dafni in its nature. He swept his tongue along every inch of lovely quim, greedily lapping up her arousal. 

Her fingers buried themselves in his hair pulling him closer to her core with enthusiasm. The sensation of her dull fingernails, lightly dragging across his scalp sent an instantaneous ache to his groin. He could always be certain Dafni was truly pleased with his presence between her legs when those slender fingers wove their way into his hair. Astarion let out a sharp intake of air as Dafni, lost to wanton urge, dragged him closer with a particularly enthusiastic pull.

“Such a needy, needy girl. He hummed between the ravenous strokes of his tongue, “You are getting close aren’t you, darling?”

“Mmmhmm...” She affirmed through a breathy sob and another meaningful yank of his roots. Dafni whimpered as he slipped his middle finger into her heat and then another, pumping and stretching until a high dulcet cry shook through her whole body.

Dafni’s eyes squeezed shut, a symphony of multicolored stars exploding behind her the darkness of her eyelids. She felt drunk and dizzied with pleasure. Her knees were jelly, her stationary leg threatened to buckle but Astarion kept his hold sure. 

“That’s a good girl.” He purred, untangling himself from the limb tossed over his shoulder before guiding her down to her knees in the soft grass beside him. 

Astarion placed a kiss on the center of her forehead, his hand sliding up the back of her head, nimbly untying the knot of her handkerchief. He ran his fingers through the wispy hairs at the nape of her neck. The calloused pads of his fingertips dragged their way down the exposed skin between her shoulder blades before they found the gauzy fabric of her frock. He traced the satin ribbon that ran down the back of the dress. As he began working the lace free of each tiny eyelet, he drew her into the sweetest kiss she’d ever received, his lips brushing against hers in slow, lulling presses.

The dance, that perfect kiss, it was as if he’d somehow gotten a hold of her girlhood journals and set himself to make every foolish daydream come true. Dafni cupped his face, coaxing him closer, cradling his strong, noble countenance with the same gentle reverence she would nature's most delicate creations. If only she could return the favor. Find some secret wish hidden boyish fancy locked away in the dusty attic of the fortress of hurt and anger that guarded his heart. If only he would allow her inside those daunting walls long enough to find it. 

When Dafni cared for someone, it was never in half measures and she cared for Astarion more than most. He’d seen more hardship than soul ought to have. The thought of it made her stomach wrench and the knowledge that he had lived it, that felt as if her heart were caught in a vice of cold iron. She knew he despised her sympathies, mistaking her loving concern as pity. That no matter how much affection she poured into him, there would always be scars, not just the physical ones, that would linger. Still, she could offer him solace and refuge- A place for him to rest his weary soul and began healing. 

Dafni brought her arms over her head as Astarion Freed her from her dress. She watched as his elbows bend, preparing to toss the pile of rainbow chiffon Gods knew where. Dafni’s brows pulled together tightly, catching his wrist in a loose grip she shook her head.

“I’m rather fond of that dress and I’ve had to go hunting for it among shrubbery once already.”

With an overstated roll of his claret red eyes, Astarion gingerly placed her dress down in the grass beside them. The annoyance that colored his features was quite short-lived. Free of her frock Dafni draped herself across the forest floor, her thighs parted exposing her glistening core to his gaze. She took up a fistful of his white cotton shirt, pulling him into the cradle of her hips. 

He’d always thought her ravishing but, seeing her bare in the daylight…

If he weren’t dead already, the sight of Dafni, drenched in golden sunlight, thick, delicious thighs spread open in a sinful invitation, would have surely stopped his heart cold. Somehow the universe had managed to fit all the wild, joyful warmth of springtime into her splendid curvaceous body. 

Astarion ran the back of his hand across the warm, speckled flesh of her rosy cheek. Dafni gave an approving sigh, nuzzling into the touch. He traced his way down the line of one of the pale, raised marks that decorated her full hips. Delicate, wavy paths that overlay all of her most ample and lovesome places- like tendrils of creeping ivy vine crawling their way up a forest church. 

He gave one of her heavy breasts a squeeze, his thumb toying with its rosy nipple. Dafni let loose a bright keen as he took the little peak into his mouth. Her hips jerked upward, rocking back and forth over the hardness straining against his pants. 

Dafni had him relieved of his shirt in a frenzied blur. She has chided him about his treatment of her frock but it seems she held no such scruples when it came to his clothing. Not that he was terribly put out, he found the wild desperation quite rousing. 

“Astarion?” 

Gods, the way she said his name. Dafni's voice always had a musical quality but the tuneful lilt rang most clearly in her elvish. Every time his name graced her plush pink lips he felt a distant pang of gratitude he hadn’t been given something more common. 

“Daffodil?” He brushed a stray curl from her face, “Is everything alright?” 

“Yes!” She said with a small, musical giggle, her hand coming to rest over his own at the side of her face, “I was just wondering if perhaps…” 

“Perhaps what, dear? I don’t blush easily, pet. Make your request.” 

“If you insist.” She took in a deep breath, her chest pressing against his most tantalizingly, “I was wondering if perhaps you’d take me as we are positioned now? With you on top. As you did the last time we found ourselves alone in this meadow?” 

It was an almost innocent request. 

His response should have been, Of course, darling! I’ll ravish you any way you’d like!

His chest tightened at the memory of her hand on the ruined flesh of his back- Of the sound of her tender promise he needn’t hide from her. All the delicious, debaucherous things she’d said that night, none had felt half as intimate the quiet reassurance murmured in her distinct, lyrical elvish. The sweet sincerity of her words had been enough to undo him that night. 

You don’t have to hide from me.

Her liting voice still rattled about his skull like a harpy’s charm. He had foolishly allowed himself to believe her for a few, remarkable seconds. She was wrong, of course. There were most certainly parts of himself that always would remain locked uptight. Safe from those wide, curious eyes and that quivering lower lip.

He did want to do it, to cradle her close and gaze into those big, beautiful eyes as he hilted himself within her. He’d bedded her plenty of times, confident as could be! Why should this be any different?

I’ll feel vulnerable too and that terrifies me.

 I’m already in too deep with you.

You’ll grow tired of me eventually and then I’ll feel like an idiot.

“It’s alright to say no.” She assured, “I would never ask you to do anything that made you uncomfortable.”

 The words felt so like her. 

Soft.

 From the structure of her lovely face, her sea of floral adorned ringlets, to the fullness of her figure, or the bountiful, caring heart that thumped steadily beneath her breast, everything about Dafni was enticingly soft. Every part of her calling out to him, Just a little closer, let me shelter you from the storm inside your chest.

Dafni was one of those rare souls who was truly kind. She had no agenda or duplicitous intentions. Just a good heart and sheltered upbringing.

She buried her face in the crook of his neck. Her arms pulling him into a snug embrace. The feeling of her chest rising and falling against his own was almost hypnotic. He could have lost himself for hours in the soft tide of her breathing. He raked his fingers through her messy hair. 

“You’ve already made me so happy.” She murmured against his skin, “This morning has been like a dream.”

She was so precious.

 A delicate flower that had somehow crept its way into the cracks in his soul. She made him feel needed. Special.

 Maybe even loved? 

He felt a rush of bruising guilt as the thought crossed his mind. He couldn’t give her love. Not yet- possible not ever. Love felt like a four-letter word. A word that could put them both in an early grave. 

He shouldn’t have let things go this far. Gods knew he tried to keep some distance between them, to resist the strange pull he felt. Every time he would surrender to his desires. He had already allowed her this close, what difference did one more inch make? 

Astarion felt heat pricking at the tips of his ears. She was making him into a sentimental fool! One of them needed to be sensible about things and it was certainly not going to be Dafni. He knew it was not a matter of if but when he’d be forced to break her heart. That was the conundrum of caring for her. On one hand, he couldn’t bear to see her hurt but it felt inevitable that he’d hurt her himself.

 He did care for her.

 He could allow himself that much. Perhaps, it was not in the way he should- Not the way she deserved, but it was as best he was able to for the time being.

She’d been a good and loyal friend. Someone he could trust to watch his back in a fight. She made him laugh and brought him the most joy he’d felt in centuries.

 No, it wasn’t love. He was far too old and world-weary to name it as such. They had only known each other for a short while. She was young and by her own admission flighty when it came to relationships. He was bitter and hardly the sort of fairytale prince she’d want. Still, Dafni had taken up residence in a hidden corner of his heart. She was the one thing he felt he had any sort of claim to in centuries.

It wasn’t love, but maybe it didn’t need to be for it to be meaningful?

Maybe it could be one day? When he knew he was truly free of Cazador. 

“Yes.” He whispered wrapping his arms around her waist.

What was the harm in another inch?