#the lizard sits there every morning

[smolplonts]

tormented by a lizard sunning itself

[jawbone-xylophone]

Okay time to be really opinionated: I think almost the entire TMA fandom writes Michael Distortion wrong.

Every time I read a fic about him people are emphasizing how swirly and elongated he/it is.

What's scary about Michael is that it is essentially the living personification of gaslighting. He makes everything else metaphorically swirly.

Sure there's "nobody would believe you", but most people who meet Michael think he looks angelic. He only looks scary out of the corner of your eye, or if he's feeding you just enough truth to get your guard down. He's fun to draw and describe as a psychedelic nightmare, but he is basically the gaslighting demon. It's a polite young man with curly hair and a beautiful smile who you could absolutely take home to meet your mother.

You only know he's a monster because your lizard brain starts screaming.

On a related note, its portfolio also includes dissociation and hallucinations, and nobody takes enough advantage of that– like, kissing Michael. Lots of people describe kissing Michael as a very physical event with notes of static and that tingling sensation of limbs falling asleep. A good start, but my argument: you feel him smooching your cheek and giving your hand a cute little squeeze, despite the fact that he's across the room ordering a coffee. It feels so real. You can feel his callouses catching at your fingers, but no matter how you flex your hand there's nothing there but air. You don't know if you just want it that badly and your eyes are lying, or what. He brings you a coffee and the sensation vanishes.

I know exactly what that episode about "the man who wasn't there" was because I've experienced it, and nobody utilizes that enough. Have you ever closed your eyes and tried to walk through a room, and been Firmly Convinced there was an object in front of you you were about to run into, despite no evidence of such an object when you open your eyes? It's a little like that. Any sort of relationship with Michael Distortion (not recommended and likely a way it has killed many people) would involve you getting comfortable with the fact that your senses are lying to you at an exponentially increasing rate, like a frog slowly being boiled alive.

Is he there? Is he not? Does it matter? You feel loved. You remember being told good morning and eating a homemade breakfast. Did you actually? Maybe it's a memory from a year ago you only think is from this morning. He's adorable even if his laugh gives you tinnitus. Maybe you've always had migraines. He takes care of you through them. Can you remember what he does to take care of you? ....normal people stuff, probably. Ice packs. You think he brought you ice packs once. You're sitting at a bus stop, going... somewhere, for a reason you're sure, and your body is telling you you're sitting on his lap but you keep checking, tapping with your nails, and the seat is hard metal. Does it matter? Maybe it really is him. You'd prefer if it was him. These cute little hallucinations are his way of showing affection. It's comfortable, even when the city shuts off your water because you only thought you paid your bills. He gives you his coat in the rain, and you laugh together and run through the weather, but when you get home you're holding a stranger's purse full of cash instead of a coat and you have no idea why. It's his idea of affection, though. He says he loves you when you ask about it, anyway, and don't you need the money now?

He's a lovely young man and the only normal thing in a world gone mad. The gloves only come off when it's done playing with its food.

[izzystizzys]

When the 212th collaborates with the 501st, chaos is sure to follow in their footsteps. This has been largely true of every engagement since the start of the war, in Cody’s experience. Had he even an ounce more of a rebellious streak, he might question why and whether the success rate is worth the feral instinct for mayhem his battalion and Rex’ awaken in each other - as it is, he simply fills out the after action reports and then screams into his pillow, which is hard as durasteel and doesn’t warrant the name.

Or, on some days, he steps into the training rooms to work off some nervous jitters only for his foot to catch on someone’s armoured shoulder and faceplant straight into what looks like the entirety of both battalions piled together in a massive cuddle pile.

“What”, he manages between gritted teeth, heaving himself up with one hand supported on Crys’ arm and the other planted in places that make Boil jackknife up with a strangled yelp, “the kriff is this?!”

“We’re watching the Corrie Reality Special, sir”, his own voice calls from somewhere across the room. “The 91st is passing by, so we have satellite access to the Coruscant Broadcast network for a few hours, and we couldn’t settle on a specific show -“

“- so we decided to watch them all”, Rex finishes, sheepishly, where he’s fought his way through wiggling piles, hoots and badly imitated monkey lizard noises. The thought that he shares DNA with these degenerates is enough to drive Cody to the brink of a nervous breakdown some days. “Spopcorn?”

Ah. The Corrie Reality Circuit. When Cody first heard of it, he’d thought it was a prank. Then, they were deployed to the middle of bumkriff nowhere on the edges of Midrim space edging on Outer Rim, with a connection so spotty even classified military intel only got through about half the time, and the whole idea got shelved in favour of clankers and keeping his General’s lightsaber in his General’s hand where it belonged.

Now, a gaudy, glittery monstrosity of a logo announcing a Coruscant Rotational special appears on a rigged up screen, which means one of two things: either Fox is pulling the Galaxy’s greatest long con on all of them, or he’s been murdered and replaced with an evil clone (ha!), because there are no circumstances in which he would agree to star on Coruscant Reality TV.

Cody tilts his head consideringly. Rex smiles at him sheepishly. Tilts the spopcorn bowl at him, invitingly.

“Oh, dank farrik, sit your shebs down!”, someone (Fives, probably) yells out, fed-up…ly.

Cody sits his shebs down.

“Good morning and welcome all of Coruscant to the Great Coruscant Rotational Special: Our Boys in Red Edition!”, a bright red Twi’leki man announces on the screen amidst cheerful jizz music and loud hooting from the training room. “My name is Braham Horton, and I will be your exalted host for this fine, fine late night cycle!”

“And now, gentlebeings of the metropolis, I present to you the images that have driven us all to laughter, joy, and even tears at times over these past few weeks - whodathunkit, that the CSF media project would enthrall a whole Galaxy of viewers and cause the largest recorded peaceful civil protest of all time?!”

“The sorry what now”, says Cody, suddenly thinking back to the urgent meeting General Kenobi was currently in with Generals Windu and Yoda - passing by on the Venator in orbit. “Uhm”, says Rex. Braham Horton, unfazed by the commotion he’s causing lightyears away, chatters on.

“- many hours, so we’ve compiled an introductory little best-of for you, exalted viewers! And what better best of to start off on than the hottest entry of the most explosive bombshell into the villa - please give it up for Commander Thorn and how he stole all of our hearts on Love Island!”

A garish, club-tech jingle Cody has so far only heard buzz through the walls of establishments that generally didn’t allow clones thrums through the training room, followed by what can only be described as the sort of noises spiced up banthas might make. Thorn appears on screen, more oiled up and half-naked than Cody remembers, though just as bleach-blond, hair slightly longer than regulation and smile blindingly perfect.

“I’m Commander Thorn, baseline twenty-four years humanoid - during daytime I might be the scourge of Coruscant’s criminal underworld, but at night I don’t mind playing good cop for you!” He punctuates it woth a sleazy wink and fingerblasters that have Rex honest-to-god gagging, and Cody seeing his life flash before his eyes. If Alpha-17 finds out about this…

Suddenly, Thorn’s smile drops in favour of what might almost be called a scowl on even his handsome face, and the music cuts out. “There, got your soundbyte. Can I go back now? I’m supposed to be on shift.” Indistinct, off-screen chatter and a captioned oopsie… appear in a shower of glitter. Thorn’s face does something complicated. “For HOW MANY MONTHS?!”

Cut to a montage of what Cody can only describe as beaches, oil and abs galore, Braham Horton narrates and extremely close-up shot of what Cody tries very hard not to identify as Thorn’s crotch. His own crotch, in a way. Oh no, that’s weird, stop that train of thought immediately-

“Although our favourite bombshell’s entry into the villa wasn’t without its hitches and hurdles-“, emphasized by a zoom-in on Thorn’s form in a speedo huddled away from a partying crowd of softcore-kriffing contestants on a yacht, “- as well as all know, he would soon find his place in the villa - or places, rather!”

Two crying humanoid women appear on screen, with eyeliner smudges down to their knees. A hoot goes through the room. Cody watches with a sense of impeding doom. “You slept with her after I chose to match up with you instead of Chad?! How could you!”

Thorn, still oiled up with both blasters out for the world to see, winces. “I didn’t me-“

A hysterical gasp, a camera swerve. Three more people stand by the doorway, all clutching their chests with wide eyes. A broad, green Twi’leki man raises a finger to point accusingly. “You were sleeping with them too?! I thought I was the only one!”

“Dear Force”, Cody murmurs, unable to look away from the building speeder wreck on screen. Braham Horton laughs good-naturedly at his misery. “Ah, good times! And who could forget the all-out brawl of the following matching night, where a record number of every single other contestant attempted to physically fight the others for the right to match up with Commander Thorn! Including a somehow returned Chad, who nearly won thanks to the element of surprise. I wish we could show the footage, but then we’d have to slap several warnings on it and probably still get taken off the air.”

“I didn’t know Corries kriffed like that!”, someone (Fives, let’s be honest, it was definitely Fives) calls out into the room, receiving snickers and a well-aimed pillow to the throat for his trouble. He goes down with a choking scream.

“Someone who was less impressed by the hot’n bothered beach weather was Commander Thire, who found himself Less than Impressed by his co-contestants inability to keep it in their pants on Too Hot To Handle!”

Thire’s face, identical to Thorn’s in every way except the ones that matter, appears on screen. His black hair is cut in a cropped mohawk, arms folded over a button-up he’s carefully pieced together with… safety pins? Where are the buttons on it?

“These people are pathological and pathetic and I will spend not a second longer on this farce of an attempt at ‘entertainment show’”, says Thire, air-quotes so sharp they could cut stone. His scowl might be permanently etched into his face, Cody can’t tell. “Unlike literally everyone else, I have an actual job to do. Now move.”

A brief pause, in which cheerful jizz music plays over what is obviously a producer begging off-camera, followed by an eyeroll so hard it hurts Cody’s brain to watch. Thire throws his hands into the air in defeat, marching off into the sea behind him still fully clothed.

“When they didn’t find him until the last episode, I’ll admit, I thought he’d died too!”, Braham Horton cuts in cheerfully. “But would you look at his little lonely island lair - now that’s a fulfilled man, and too many coconuts for my taste! We’ve had to blur his hands out as he discovered the cameras just moments before these holos were taken, unfortunately. And, dear viewer, who could forget this exit-interview for the ages!”

A considerably more clothed Thire appears on screen, eyeing a microphone like he’s about to use it to stab out his own eyes. The reporter clears their throat in audible anxiety. “C-commander, how would you describe your reality experience in one word?”

“Demeaning”, says Thire, blandly.

Silence.

“Um, o-okay”, squeaks the reporter.

“Would you like some more words?”, asks a dead-eyed Thire.

“No, um, I think - I think we’re alright.”

“Because I have many words. Mostly for whoever the *bleep* thought this was a *bleep* good idea, and *bleeeeeeee-*”

“We’ve had to censor most of the Commander’s on-screen appearance, dear viewer, for your sensibilities”, says Braham Horton, eternally and painfully cheerful. “And speaking of sensibilities, who could forget Commander Stone honouring his name in several challenges on ‘I’m A Holostar - Get Me Out Of Here!’”

Soulful violin music fills the gym, overlaid with images of a bald vod Cody surmises must be Stone. Stone stares stonily into the void, glass of bright green something raised to his lips and already half-empty.

“Memorably, he downed a pint of acklay urine within seconds-“

Horrified screams are followed by an image of Stone chewing, yet another thousand-klick stare.

“- or when he ate Tauntaun anus -“

Rex doubles over gagging, and Cody slowly puts his handful of Spopcorn back down.

“- of course the ten minute worm-bath challenge cannot go unmentioned -“

“FORCE PLEASE NO!”, screams someone (Echo) tearfully. Commander Stone, buried to the chin in wiggling orange worms, looks less impressed.

“ - and who could forget his encounter with a horde of ginntho spiders and nests of vexis snakes!”

A remote goes sailing past the screen, missing by a mile, as images of Stone with his whole arm stuck in various boxes fly past. Someone is retching. It might be Cody.

“We would show the infamous butchery challenge wherein the Commander found himself drenched in nexu guts and sandworm brains, but once again, this is family friendly programming and we are not allowed. Nevertheless, a win well-deserved. And now, please welcome the one, the only, the awe-inspiring, the unbelievable: Marshall Commander Fox!”

Another Force-awful jingle, big, blocky letters, and Cody chokes on his own spit when Fox’s scowling face appears on screen. He’s thinner, greyer and angrier than the last time they saw eachother in person. Only the last one is really a surprise.

“I am neither naked nor afraid”, says Fox, arms crossed firmly, foot tapping impatiently on the ground. “I am, however, quickly losing my patience. Explain to me again the point of spending my valuable time undressing in the middle of bum-*bleep* nowhere on the Midrim instead of doing my job as the head of planetary security in the middle of a Galaxy-wide war?”

Several beats of silence follow. Fox grows less impressed with each. Cody knows that look well. Usually, it precedes handcuffs and a cold sonic blast to the face.

“Um… you signed a contract?”, says a producer’s voice uncertainly off-screen. Fox barks out a harsh laugh. “I’m legally classified as military property, my signature holds less weight than if I’d had one of the Guard’s massiffs shit on that contract for me.”

“Ouch!”, calls Crys.

“Gettim!”, adds Longshot.

“But… don’t you sign off military documents all the time for the Senate?”, sputters the producer.

Fox smiles with far to many teeth. It’s also a look Cody knows far too well, and even lightyears away it has a shudder going down his spine.

“Really makes you think about the technicalities of that definitely-not-slave-army, doesn’t it?”, he says, dryly.

“Although considerably less naked and afraid than all other contestants, Commander Fox left us with many memorable moments - such as when he saved the entire crew from an angry Acklay!”

Most of the next holovid is blurred out, though Cody can (unfortunately) guess at the why and how. So can most everyone else, judging by the collective groan.

“Down, boy”, says Fox, flatly, to a hissing Acklay twice his size. It rears its fanged head, and a shudder goes through the room. Fox simply crosses his arms and nails the beast with an unimpressed look. “You are making a fool of both of us. Cut it out.”

Chastised, the Acklay blinks at him, slowly lowering itself back down with a confused hiss.

“No kriffing wonder all the Corrie shinies are such hardasses”, mutters Rex, whom Cody is hard pressed to agree with. “I came from a tube and that look gave me daddy issues.”

“Yes, dear viewer, who could forget these heart-warming moments of good, quality television!”, sighs Braham Horton, dreamily. “Not Coruscant anytime soon, that’s for sure! We are now entering the twentieth rotation of the sit-in protest of a petition to allow the Commanders of the Coruscant Guard to compete on Dancing With The Planets, Coruscant Rotational’s epic dance competition!”

“Dear bum-kriffing Force”, whispers Rex, wide-eyed and awe-struck. “Does Fox know about this?!”

Cody, who’s already dialing the kriffer’s comm-code, wipes a singular tear from his eye. “Not a clue, but kriff, am I going to enjoy telling him.”

[strwbberrriii]

Leon Kennedy Headcanons ♡

my Leon headcanons because i love him and think about him about him constantly, so enjoy my hcs about this man <3

some are silly and random, some are romantic.

-he's such a SWEETHEART.

-omg. he's a sweetie. i can't with this man. he makes me smile and giggle every time i see him. he's such a himbo you guys.

-he speaks italian, english and spanish. since he is from Italy (or rather, his parents are), he's known the language since birth. then learned english when he got to kindergarten.

-i don't think his english or spanish are the best though since they're not his first. he'll sometimes be forget some english words when talking to somebody, so he replaces them with italian ones and his coworks are just like "what???" 🤨

-has definitely said "wow there partner" or "wow there cowboy" when somebody pisses him off.

-he likes both women and men. he has no preference either. i see him as either bi or pan, probably more pan leaning since that's what i am.

-he's literally such a good boyfriend, i can't. even if you too aren't dating and are just friends, he's so sweet. i would gladly given him a kiss on the cheek if i could.

-if you we're to get your period, he'll buy you pads and tampons. if you get cramps, he'll sit on the ground or lay in bed with you and rub your back. he'll go "i'm so sorry baby." :(

-his favorite colors (and color pallet) are blue and black. the blue is meant to represent stylishness.

-he's so dog coded. like just full on golden retriever energy.

-likes lizards. bc i said so.

-goes to NICU and rocks babies with Rebecca sometimes, it makes his life feel somewhat normal and i love that for him <3 also girl dad leon. "girl dad leon!" we all say in unison.

-his birthday is around july-august, my brain says July 25th for some reason.

-if you're taking to long to get ready, he will threaten to leave you behind but he's not. you know it. he knows it. everyone knows it. "will you hurry up baby? i will leave you." "no you won't." "you're right, i probably won't...just hurry up, please."

-calls you baby, babe, and sweetheart. i just picture him calling you something basic or something.

-goes to a coffee shop every morning and gets the same coffee to start his day off strong. his drink choice is either really plain or stupidly girl 😭😭

-also leon is a fashion icon. especially older leon. you can deny it all you want, but in the end, we know he's cunty. like cunty cunty. like he has his bachelor in cuntology with a major in motherlogical studies at the university of servington.

-motorcycle rides!!!!!!!!!! :3 (re6-)

-as a teenager, he had really bad acne, so during re2 and generation he has a skin care routine but never tells anyone (only Krauser knows. he kinda approves, Krauser is all about taking care of yourselves to improve), so he washes his face before bed, takes meds for his skin, and puts medicine all over his face.

-however as his mental heath declines, he'll stop doing it, and his acne will either stay the same or get as bad as it was in teenager.

-also Krauser is HIGHLY against facial hair and forced Leon to shave it. but after he dies, leon stops giving a shit.

-his favorite my little pony characters are fluttershy and rainbow dash of course.

also i made a playlist for him, so you wanna listen to it, here's the link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0uLAoUjwZaXzxcH8uCt7yP?si=a3f2e9cf27b54365 also the songs are not what i think he would like, it's just songs that remind of him :D

[melo-bees]

Scars

Summary: in which Finnicks scars remind you of what you you’re lucky to have.

Contents and warnings: mentions of near death experiences, angst, mentions of scars, mentions of hospital equipment, fluff. Post rebellion Finnick x reader.

A/N:Hello! It’s been a minute since I’ve written something and I was feeling a little inspired after reader @milliesfishes recent Finnick Odair work! I’m still quite new to this so I’ll be happy to take any criticism you have!!

Life is a gift given to us all that we must protect.

You of all people would know this. You’d learned that first hand when the love of your life, Finnick Odair, was fighting for his life in a hospital bed. He had been attacked by lizard like mutants on the mission to kill President Snow in the Capitol. You had been devastated when he was brought in. He had narrowly survived from what everyone was saying and that only made your heart ache more. You cried to the doctors and nurses to let you see him. Eventually they grew tired of the endless arguing and had let you in to see Finnick.

When you saw him you stood frozen in the hospital wing. Bandages covered his body, he almost resembled a mummy. IV’s and tubes stuck out of him every which way. Monitors upon monitors beeped in the background. That’s when you learned life was something you shouldn’t take for granted.

It had been several months since the rebellion. Finnicks recovering had been surprisingly smooth. Perhaps the gods had finally felt pity for the man.

You were both back in your beloved home inside of district 4. It was early morning now. Bits of early morning sunshine streamed in through the windows in your bedroom. You still weren’t quite used to waking up in your old bed after everything that had occurred over the past few months.

The other side of the bed was cold, which was expected. Finnick, your now husband, always went out for his morning swim to clear his mind. So you sat up in the warm bed and stretched your tired limbs out. Turning to the edge of the bed you slipped on a pair of soft slippers and went to search for your husband. You called for him in the house but there was no response. You hummed to yourself and glanced out at the beach through the windows in the kitchen. You were delighted to find Finnick sitting on the back porch steps.

You happily made your way to the back door and opened it quietly. You called out to him again.

“Honey?” You whispered softly so you wouldn’t startle him.

At the sound of your voice Finnick perked up and turned around. You were met with that stunning lopsided grin. It made your heart stutter every time you laid eyes on it.

“Hi sweetheart, just wake up?” Finnick said cocking his head to the side. His hair fell over his forehead in sandy waves. He had let his hair grow out a bit since the rebellion. You supposed it was a way he felt freedom.

You nodded with that pretty smile of yours crossing your face and padded your way over to the steps to sit next to him. He wrapped a strong arm around you. His hands were a little cold from swimming still.

“How’d you sleep, pretty?” He asked, nuzzling his nose into your cheek and pressing a gentle kiss there. Finnick always seemed to want to be as close as possible to you. This fact was more noticeable since the war.

“I slept good. I missed our bed.” You hummed with a small giggle and leaned into his touch. He was always so grounding.

“I did too, honey. It’s nice to be back home with you. I missed this.” Finnick replied. His voice was soft and earnest. His hand traced soft circles on your arm. You turned your head to smile up at him but noticed that his actions on your arm seem to falter. He sucked in a sharp breath and lowered his arm a bit.

“Are you okay, hon?” You asked with a concerned look filling your big eyes. Finnick chuckled, wincing ever so slightly. He nodded with that iconic smirk on his face.

“Never better.” He said with that toothy grin that could make anyone swoon. But you saw through the act. You turned slowly and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a few of his scars from the mutt attack. His scars were a constant reminder of the attack but it they were also a sign that he was living and breathing. The skin surrounding the scars was raw and red. Definitely inflamed. A frown replaced the smile on your face, your eyebrows bunching together.

“Finnick, this is bad. Did you overdo it today on your swim? You’re supposed to be resting. Did you take your medicine?” You bombared him with questions. You couldn’t help but feel worried about him. Finnick let out a sigh and rested his arm around your shoulders again. He reached down and cupped your cheek with his free hand.

“Baby, baby…slow down a little. I’m fine. My scars are just a little achey today. I took my medicine and I wasn’t out swimming for that long.” Finnick cooed. His own brows were knitted together and his sea-green eyes were full of honesty. You nibbled on the inside of your cheek and nodded.

“Alright, I’m just-…I don’t want you to hurt yourself, Finn.”

Finnick nodded in understanding and wrapped you up in his strong arms. You didn’t miss the way he winced when he did. You carefully leaned against his chest.

“I know, honey. I’m being careful. I don’t want you to worry about me though, alright? We’re home safe and sound. No more worrying, hm?” Finnick tilted his head to look down at you. His brows were still furrowed together in concern. He wanted to make sure you understood. You reluctantly nodded. You were home now. Everything would be alright.

“Alright. I believe you. I’ll stop worrying. I only worry because I love you, though.” You whispered to him. You met his gaze with the same earnest expression. Finnicks face broke out into a soft smile. He leaned down and kissed your temple gently.

“I know you do, baby. I love you.” He muttered against your forehead. You closed your eyes, feeling safe in his arms. A wave of comfort rolled over you. You knew things would be alright.

[mister-a-z-fell]

People often say to me ‘Aziraphale, what exactly is Firmament?’

And by ‘often’, I mean ‘twice’, and they don’t so much say it as send me little enquiries on the Twitters and the Tumbler, along with inexplicable demands to know whether Crowley or I go ‘on top’.

I’ll get to the point in a moment, but, since you’re here, I would like to make it clear that our sleeping arrangements are nobody’s business but our own.

In any case, we don’t own a bunk bed, so the point is moot.

The subject of Firmament first came up on a clear night a few hundred years after I followed Adam and Eve out from Eden. Seth — their third child — was lying on a stone outcrop near the settlement, watching the sky, and I was sitting a little way off, keeping an eye out for scorpions.

‘Ol-ah-kwa*?’ The boy was usually full of questions, but that night he’d been uncharacteristically quiet. ‘What are they called, the lights above?’ It wasn’t the first time he’d asked and he already knew the answer perfectly well, but that was his way.

‘Those are stars. Has your father shown you how to find your path by them?’ He shook his head, and I resolved to talk to Eve in the morning.

‘How are they there? Are they like flowers on a bush? Or spots on a lizard? How many there are.’

I wished Crowley had been there, just then. He could have explained it so much better. I did my best, although I think I left him with the impression that every star hovered high in the heavens like a hummingbird, and he took some convincing that they wouldn’t eventually grow tired, having nowhere to perch, and come crashing down around us.

‘But why are they like fires? If they were made to fly up there forever, why don’t they grow feathers and just be birds?’

‘Well, that would rather defeat the purpose, B-qa-lyl**.’ And that might have been the end of the matter, but the boy had long since learned my weakness.

‘Don’t you know?’

And this is what I told him:

‘They are stars, because God told them to be stars. If She ever decides that they should be birds, then birds they will become. She told your father and mother to be human, because there was a place made in the world for humanity. Your purpose in this life is to discover what it means to be human.’

‘What about the next life?’

‘Wait and see.’

And this is what I didn’t tell him:

In the Beginning was the Void. And God spoke into the Nothing -That-Was, and that word was the first Firmament.

Firmament exists without mass, without substance. It is the Almighty’s intent, Her design, Her love; it is a blueprint for reality, pure potential and the Universe is spun with its threads. In the hands of the Virtues, it takes on form, accretes matter — becomes Material, a mechanism turned with a key that sounds like ‘LET THERE BE’.

Firmament can only be seen by the shadows that it casts. Gravity. The way that particles converse. Electromagnetism. Slood. It moves in mysterious ways and it reaches everywhere that is not Void. One day, scholars will glimpse the outer edges of ‘omnipresence’, and call it ‘quantum entanglement’.

I should have found a way to explain that — while stars aren’t birds — they share their firmament as all the brush stokes of a masterpiece share their canvas, as the individual notes of a melody are carried on the same breath. Everything touches everything. ‘Look what ye have done unto one of the least of these my brethren, the same have ye done unto me.’

Perhaps if I’d taught Seth that all that lies between each of us and the furthest, strangest star is a triviality called ‘distance’, which only really has meaning inside the preserve of mortal dimensions, he might have understood. I tried to explain it to his descendants, but perhaps they were too old, too certain of themselves, to listen. I was never much of a teacher.

Later, in all the confusion of Babel, rāqīa (something beaten thin to form a surface) and rakhmyn (love) went their separate ways, and whenever I encountered the subject of… celestial scaffolding — for want of a better word — it came in the context of the former. A shell to support the stars, to hold back the upper waters. They forgot about the ‘love’ part.

Later still, Crowley got volubly drunk with a fellow named Copernicus and made some progress, but even his controversial model couldn’t let go of firmament as the pastry around the universal profiterole.

Then there was Giordano Bruno… but we don’t talk about him.

So, here I am, trying again. Hoping that I’ve explained myself better this time, because, after all, that’s what an angel is: Firmament imbued with mind, and grace, willed into life by words of purpose unique to each one of us. Wearing atomic fancy-dress so that we can speak to you in words you can comprehend (ideally without falling down and giggling while your hair smoulders gently).

We are, at base, figments of Her imagination, which is so powerful that it was necessary that She invent free will to stop all things yielding unfailingly to Her whim. As a consequence, reality tends to become malleable in our immediate vicinity.

What is Firmament? It’s everything. It’s Creation. It’s humans, and demons, and angels. It’s stars, and it’s the walls of Eden. It’s the bullet, and the finger pulling the trigger, the magician and the audience, and the shocked air expanding in ripples from the burning powder. It’s the scalpel, and the flesh. And inside, beneath the dancing atoms, it’s love.

Try to remember that part, because sometimes it seems very well hidden.

It’s love.

*Brother

**Something small

[luvfy0dor]

since requests are open can i request like just lazy mornings with fyodor?? obviously, take your time with it!

“Sleep in Half the Day” ♡⁠˖” Fyodor Dostoevsky x GN! Reader ੈ✩‧₊˚

Warnings; None

Description; Sleeping in and savoring a Saturday morning with your lover.

A/n; AHHHH this is so cute, I'm so sorry it's so short, but I really wanted to put emphasis on lazy mornings. I'm so so sorry it took me so long!! Its so cold in my bedroom and it makes it hard to sit up and write and I have so much school work to do OMG 😮‍💨

It was the average Saturday morning for you and your lover, basking in the sun as it shines through the blinds like lizards on rocks in the desert. One of his arms was draped over your waist with his other curled into his own body, the blanket strewn every which way but directly on top of both of you. Neither of you cared, it wasn't particularly cold this morning, and his body heat did a fine job at keeping you relatively warm anyway. Fyodors hand ran up and down your side before slipping under your top and rubbing circles into your skin. You could feel his soft exhales, the cool air hitting the nape of your neck while he holds you close, your back to his chest.

"Are you awake, myshka?" His sleepy voice pierces the silence and you nod, reaching and interlocking your fingers with his. He hums quietly and props himself up with his elbow and his eyes scan over your still sleepy face. His eyelids droop and he leans down to kiss your forehead. "Good morning." He murmurs against your skin, his Russian accent as present as ever when he speaks. You smile and gather all the energy it takes to roll over so that you're facing him. "Good morning. You look so refreshed." You mumble, your hand cupping his cheek and your thumb swiping underneath his eyes where he had dark circles. They contrasted his skin, but they did so beautifully. His flushed cheeks and nose did the same.

"Do I? I've been sleeping a lot, recently." He admits, returning to his position of lying down at your side with his eyes closed again. "I could go back to sleep right now." His chin rested on the top of your head. "Then go back to sleep. I'm still tired, too." You say, your breathing steady and your nose pressed against his neck. "Mmm, okay." He softly sighs and his fingers play with the fabric of your shirt while his own sleepiness pulls him back into unconsciousness. You run your fingers through his hair with your own eyes closed, making an attempt to fall back asleep yourself. "I love you, Fedya." You murmur quietly against his skin. He obviously hadn't replied, already being knocked out cold and snoring quietly. You couldn't help but smile a little, holding back a snicker at the sound. It's not long before you also end up asleep, cherishing the lack of plans in the day and therefore ability to laze around for as long as the two of you want.

A/n; I'm really sorry that posts have been few and far apart!! I got midterms next week, but I know the topics pretty well so I'll definitely have some free time in between them to write more.

[preciouslittle-bhaalbabe]

Thinking about poor Astarion getting sunburn on his nose because the man sits there absorbing the light like a lizard every morning.

I know my durge would be rubbing sunscreen all up on that face then kissing away his protests ;w;

[from-memphis-with-love]

All In

Summary: It's the swinging '60s, baby, and Elvis Presley is the grooviest spy this side of the Rockies. He's in Monaco on a new mission, breaking hearts and breaking codes.

* Elvis doesn't like losing, but he's good at it. 

Losing isn't so bad when he has to, it’s just a role to play like any other. Winning, though—a victory lap or getting the girl—that's what Elvis loves. He’s too competitive, that's his problem. 

Usually. Today is different.

The sun slices through early-morning clouds, casting long shadows across the potted bougainvillea on his balcony. A lizard darts across the sun-warmed travertine. Elvis leans back in his chair, the white lacquered wicker creaking beneath his weight as he takes a sip of freshly-squeezed orange juice. It’s tart and tangy, made from Sicilian blood oranges flown in specially for hotel guests. He could get used to this, he thinks, even though anything would be better than his last job in Albuquerque.

The view from his room is breathtaking—a panorama of the glistening Mediterranean Sea, palm trees standing sentinel along the shore, and the winding streets of the principality. Above it all, both figuratively and literally, sits the Casino de Monte-Carlo, an opulent sugar cube of a gambling house that has seen countless fortunes won and lost. 

Elvis squints against the lettuce green sky, the warm breeze ruffling his jet-black hair. Crossing one long leg over another, his tailored trousers stretching over his lithe frame, Elvis savors the moment. At a perfect 6 feet tall, with piercing blue eyes and a marble-chiseled profile, he cuts a striking figure even in repose. 

It's a perfect August day, the kind that makes one forget there's always work to do, even in a paradise like this. 

A knock at the door interrupts his reverie. “Room service,” a muffled voice calls out.

Elvis rises and pads for the door, greeting the uniformed attendant with a warm smile. “Morning,” he says, stepping aside to let the man enter. 

The attendant wheels in a cart laden with covered dishes. “Where would you like me to set up, sir?” he asks.

“The terrace, please,” Elvis replies, watching as the man efficiently arranges the dishes on the table. “Thank you…?” He pauses, waiting for a name.

“Jean-Luc, sir,” the attendant supplies with a slight bow. 

“Thank you, Jean-Luc.” Elvis nods approvingly and hands the young man a few crisp bills, a generous tip reflecting his own working-class roots. He knows two things for sure: Jean-Luc works exceptionally hard for his money, and he probably knows more than he should about every hotel guest. He might prove useful. 

Jean-Luc's eyes widen slightly as he pockets the tip, his posture straightening imperceptibly. "If there's anything else you need, sir, please don't hesitate to ask." His tone carries a hint of conspiratorial understanding, a recognition of the unspoken agreement between them.

Elvis gives him a smile, equal parts charming and enigmatic. "I'll keep that in mind."

With a final nod, Jean-Luc takes his leave, the door closing softly behind him. Elvis settles back into his chair, his mind already racing with the possibilities of this new connection.

On the table before him, a sumptuous breakfast: buttery croissants, jam, slices of blackened bacon, and a variety of cheeses. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the salty sea air. Elvis unfolds the crinkled newspaper, his sharp gaze scanning the headlines for anything of interest. He's expecting a message, a signal that will set today's events in motion. He knows Reginald would never let him down. 

As he turns the page, a small butterfly of a note flutters to the ground. Reaching down, his fingers trace the embossed CIA seal, the paper smooth and cool to the touch. 

Ah, there it is. 

Elvis' pulse quickens as scans the writing: 22 Avenue de la Costa. He turns the scrap of paper over in his fingers, searching for any additional clues, but the reverseis blank. The message is clear enough: whatever awaits him, it's not going to be a walk in the park. He’s been in the game long enough to know that when Reginald plays things close to the vest, it means the stakes are higher than ever.

His handler had been unusually tight-lipped during their briefing. But that’s just the way Elvis likes it. The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward. And such secrecy could only mean one thing–this job is tough. Dangerous. The kind of high-stakes operation that gets Elvis’ blood pumping. Let the games begin. 

Glancing at his watch, he notes the time: 9:58 AM. The casino won't open for hours, giving him plenty of time to plan his approach. He'll need to be cautious, though. The Duke and Duchess of Castellano, his well-connected friends, have arranged for him to join an exclusive poker game later that evening, one in which he will have to lose. Drawing attention to himself before then wouldn't be wise. 

Finishing his breakfast, he stands and stretches his limbs, muscles flexing beneath his shirt. Monaco is a playground for the glitterati, their perfect little jewel box on the Côte d'Azur. But beneath the surface, he knows, lurk secrets and dangers that most people never see. Dangers they could never even dream of. 

With practiced efficiency, he hurries across the suite, his mind already shifting into mission mode. He pulls a sleek black case from beneath the bed, his fingers dancing over the combination lock. Inside, an array of gadgets and weapons gleam in the morning light—tools of his trade, each one carefully chosen for maximum impact and minimum detectability.

He selects a few key items: a miniaturized camera, a set of lockpicks, a small vial of a clear liquid that definitely isn't water. Each one designed disappear into the hidden pockets of his suit jacket, concealed with a skill born of years of practice. Elvis learned long ago that preparation is key in this line of work—you never know what you might need until you need it.

It's time to become Anderson “Andy” Davis, a first-time Grand Prix entrant and new pet project of the Monegasque elite. He opens his closet and selects a lightweight blazer and a crisp white shirt—a smart, sensible choice that won't draw a second glance. Dressing quickly, his fingers deftly fasten the buttons, the silk smooth against his skin.

As he checks his reflection in the mirror, Elvis allows himself a small, secret smile. His handsome features, so often a liability in his line of work, are expertly disguised by the subtle changes in his posture and expression. With a final adjustment of his cufflinks, he grabs his room key and heads out the door, the steel heavy in his pocket. 

Ready or not, here comes Andy.

[seaslugfanclub]

Hiii, could you do a drabble or sm where Sidekick!gn!YN helps Gaston do his hair? Much appreciated if you do this 💖

Of course! It was super fun to focus on a single villain! (I have super short hair so I’ve completely forgotten how to do long hair) Hope you like it!

————————————

“Stop laughing dammit! It’s not funny!”

“Are you kidding!? It’s fucking hilarious!!”

All was well in morning when Gaston decided to drag (Y/N) out to go hunting. It had rained the previous evening, and Gaston wanted to follow any fresh tracks that could be found in the still damp trails.

The trip was going well until the pair reached a steep incline, yet the Frenchman had no intention of delicacy.

“Gaston, watch where your going man.” (Y/N) warned, stepping carefully over rocks and any other debris.

Gaston scoffed, unable to comprehend that he could slip, “please (Y/N), no one is as careful as myself. I’m as graceful as a swAA-”

Cue Gaston stepping on some wet leaves, sending him stumbling off the incline and tumbling down a few feet into the underbrush.

Luckily, the only thing that was wounded was Gaston’s pride. Save for a few tears on his tunic and mud smudged on his face, he was fine.

The same could not be said for his hair though.

It was like the entire forest decided to take residence in his locks, and as Gaston climbed back up the hill (Y/N) could swear they saw a lizard crawl around his head. His hair ribbon had long been lost in the fall, causing Gaston’s loose hair to look even more wild.

“I told you to be careful!!”

“Oh will you shut up!”

Which is where we find the duo now, exiting the forest after Gaston realized the state of his hair, making sure to complain every step of the way.

“I can’t believe this! It’s going to take a lifetime to get my hair back to perfection!” The Frenchman groaned, stopping to take a rest after leaving the tree line.

(Y/N), more than happy to take a break, went to sit behind Gaston, who was beginning to prod at the ecosystem that was now his hair.

“Will you stop picking at it? Your gonna make it worse!” (Y/N) chastised, “Here, sit still.”

Gaston flinched as (Y/N) began to delicately pick out each leaf and twig, making sure that they weren’t pulling at his hair too roughly. It took a good hour or so for (Y/N) to remove all the debris from Gaston’s hair, who made it take even longer to do so because of how incapable he is at keeping still.

“Cover your eyes.” (Y/N) ordered as they slung off their water flask from their shoulders, taking a quick swig of it before pouring the rest of the water onto Gaston’s head, washing away the last of the dirt.

Gaston was glad for the excuse to shield his face away from (Y/N), the unexpected domesticity of the situation causing a strange prickling sensation to cover his cheeks.

“Do you have your comb?” (Y/N) asked, making Gaston silently thank them for breaking the quiet between them.

“O- of course! You know I don’t go anywhere without such necessities!” He preened, digging through his trousers and pulling out his prized comb that he carved himself out of the antlers of a stag. (Y/N) chuckled, grabbing the comb from his hand before pulling it through his hair.

Gaston shuddered, clamping a fist over his mouth, his pride refusing to let him make a single sound of enjoyment. The feeling of (Y/N) combing through his hair felt better that all of his successful hunts combined or the finest ale.

(Y/N), oblivious to Gaston’s internal crisis, hummed to themselves as they finished combing out the remaining knots. Smiling at their hard work.

“There, all done! Now for the final touch.” (Y/N) pulled the ribbon from their own hair, using it to gather together Gaston’s locks into his signature hairstyle, pulling it into a neat bow. “Tadaa!! Now we can go back into town without you looking like a beast!”

Gaston looked over his shoulder, running a hand over his hair.

“What about your ribbon? You look just as wild as I just did.” Gaston questioned rising from the grass, refusing to admit he liked (Y/N)’s loose hair. (Y/N) stood up alongside Gaston brushing themselves off and beginning to walk towards the village.

“Oh please, I’ve got a whole load of them back at my place, and it looks good on you.”

Gaston grumbled , coughing away his blush, “Well of course it looks good on me, everything does.” He stated, quickly catching up to (Y/N) while keeping a hand on his hair. “And I guess you did a more than mediocre job on my hair…”

(Y/N) grinned, patting Gaston’s arm,

“Your welcome.”

From that day on (Y/N)’s ribbon never left Gaston’s hair, even when he slept the strip of fabric was neatly placed on his bedside table.

[itwasthereaminuteago]

|| Stray ||

Gif by @briefcasejuice - full set here

Matt Murdock x gender neutral reader

Tags/warnings: fluff.

He enters through the living room window, careful to avoid knocking over the array of knick-knacks perched on the windowsill. He has a key of course but he just prefers this way. He knew from blocks away that you were deep in sleep, a smile hooking up his lip when he could hear your little snorts and snores.

His body is remarkably free of hurt and bereft of bruising for once, it had been a rare quiet night. He slides both his mask and shirt off, sitting on the edge of your couch to unlace his boots. He strips down to his black silk shorts, moving quietly on his bare feet as he pads into your kitchen to the fridge. He opens it, feeling along the containers on the shelves. Sure enough he finds there's a braille label that reads 'Matt' on one. He takes out the container, placing it on the counter and opening the lid a crack to investigate its contents. Tomato, garlic, basil, olives and oregano fill his nose before he puts it into the microwave for a few minutes to heat it up. You'd always leave some dinner for him if you thought he'd be out late and he loved you for it. Your pasta was the best.

He sits at the table eating straight out of the tub, more famished after patrol than he realised. He'll wash everything up in the morning but he walks around your apartment picking up and folding your hoodie over the back of the couch and tidying away some other detritus, putting his own clothes in a neat pile before heading to the bathroom to quickly wash and brush his teeth. You always left everything where he can easily find it, including a pack of Tylenol just in case.

When he slides into your bed he smiles softly as your arms immediately seek him out, wrapping around him as you snuggle your warmth into his cooler skin to equilibrate. You reply with a small hum when he kisses your forehead gratefully.

"Thanks for dinner sweetie." He whispers, and you mumble something half incoherent about lizards and he has to really stop himself from laughing at you.

Your fingers sleepily find his and he gently squeezes your hand, kissing the top of your head again.

"You're like a stray." He hears you murmuring into his arm.

"Hm?"

"... someone should adopt you." you continue, and he does let himself chuckle at that.

You feebly shove at his chest, waking up a bit. "M'not joking. Come 'n live with me."

Matt strokes his other hand down your arm, breathing in your sleepy scent. It's true that he could get used to this but you were just babbling.

"Shh, go back to sleep."

He can feel the brush of your eyelashes on his skin. "Matt, I wanna wake up every morning with you here like this."

His heart swells with the thought that you'd really want to take him in.

"What's there to talk 'bout? You don't wanna?"

"Let's talk about it in the morning sweetheart." is what he says.

He hears the small measure of hurt in your grizzly voice as you blink open your eyes in the dark. He puts his hand to the side of your face, thumb smoothing over your cheek. Then he captures your lips, slow and soft.

"Yeah I want to." He assures, and you smile and kiss him back.

"Good. S'settled then." And you nuzzle back close against him. "I love you Matty. I'll keep the sill clear."

Okay, his heart was definitely going to burst.

"Love you too, sweetheart. Thank you."

Matt tags: @saintmurd0ck @mindidjarin @castlesnchurches @peterman-spideyparker @pastafossa @mattmurdocksscars @mattmurdockspainkink @marvelswh0re @munsonownsmyass @hellskitchenswhore @pedrito-friskito @sweetieswiftie @briefcasejuice @shedaresthedevil @freshabogados @e-dubbc11 @father4giveme @idrinkcoffeeandobsess @imperfxctly-me @stress--relief @murnsondock @stupidthoughtsinwriting @whistle1whistle @tea-and-wine @emiemiemii @imherefordeanandbones @m0nster-fvcker @creatingjana @echos-muses @lazyxsquirrel @messymissy @evilbubu @chvoswxtch

[soupandsauce]

My 'Tiri

Fem!Avatar Reader x Neytiri Te Tskaha Mo'at'ite

Summary: In which Neytiri comes home tired after a successful hunt, and you, being the mate sent from Eywa, takes care of her and makes her feel so very special &lt;3

Look at her <3 sleepy tiri with the baby hairs.

She seemed angry with me the first time our paths intertwined in the lush forests of Pandora. It was a Tuesday evening, the vibrant clementine colored sunset left the most heavenly sheen on the jungle floor. I was sitting under a mighty tree who's bark resembled that of lizard skin, typing away on my MacBook the details of a large plant I had discovered that morning. The air was thick with moisture from the light rain a few hours before. Exotic yelps and chirps from fauna nearby had been playing like a broken record, echoing slightly from the sheer size of the forest.

"Kempe si nga"

My heart falls twelve stories off a high-rise building in Manhattan. The familiar words of a Native barge into my ears as my body tenses up faster than the gasp that spills from my lips moments after.

It was harsh in the way she asked it, like sandpaper trying to shape wood the way she wanted it, wanting me out of her jungle.

Her eyes hold planets and her skin holds the sea. The starts cluster on her face in a pattern only Eywa could create. They glow brightly watching me. Her head tips to the side as she examines me, her tail moves curiously behind her.

I stay silent. Not that I want to, but because I can't get the words out of me for the death of me. I am terrified and entranced by her presence.

" You are Faysawtute, why have you come to us wearing our skin?" She asks, her wooden bow tapping my side.

I swallow hard.

"I have come to learn." I say, my voice shaking like a small dog.

"Fayvrrtep do not learn, they do not see as Na.viyä do." She says, every word piercing through my skin like daggers.

"Believe me, Oel ngati kameie. Your home has been stolen from you by a greedy species that does not know peace. They have killed their mother. And they're going to kill yours too if we do not stop them. Skiva'a, skiva'a!" I say, motioning my hand towards home tree.

"Why should I believe you?" She says more gentle than the rest of her words, Her head tilting again in curiosity.

"Because I fell in love with Eywa. With all she has created and balanced for Na'viyä." I say, emotion coating my words like a thick snow.

That was 7 years ago

Since then, I have made the consciousness transfer and become one with Na'viyä. We lead the clans to victory in a colossal battle against the RDA. Many lives were lost. Many were wounded. But Na'viyä won their home back. We live peacefully hear in the lush forests inside home tree, the thick walls provide safety and warmth.

Neytiri, alongside the rest of the hunting party provides food and hides for the clan. Ninat provides Na'viyä entertainment and inspiration with her singing and music. Mo'at provides healing and interprets the will of Eywa. And I contribute by helping around wherever I can, whether that's assisting the elderly carry their belongings, cooking meats and tseylu, or weaving feathers onto arrows.

"Oel ngati kameie." I hear the familiar voice hum into my ear.

Neytiri presses her forehead into my cheek before sitting beside me on the woven mats of our shared hut. She rests her head on my shoulder and watches me tie off another bead on a bracelet I have been working on.

"How was hunting, paskalin?" I say in a whisper, feeling her tiredness seep into my skin where she touches me.

"Very successful." She whispers back.

"I am ready to relax with you, ma yawntu."

I smile as I tie off the bracelet, creating a good place to pause the craft, and face Neytiri. I look at her face with a smile. I admire her features, Her eyes that seem heavy, and her lips that part as she breathes out.

"How does a bath in the stream sound?" I whisper, seeing her eyes close and a smile creep up on her face. She looks so heavenly. Always. Eywa was generous with me.

"As much as I want it, I don't feel like I have the energy to make it down Hometree." She says.

I huff a small amount of air out of my nose, laughing.

"Then I would love nothing more than to wash you clean right here, Ma Paskalin."

Neytiri smiles wide with tired eyes and crashes into our bed. She lays on her back, staring up at me, who has already prepared a cloth in water for her.

"You love me so beautifully, yawne." She whispers, already with closed eyes, feeling me caress her sticky skin with the cloth.

"It feels so good." She hums, feeling the cold cloth wipe her clean from the long days hunt.

She falls deep asleep before I get to her face, gently wiping the sheen of sweat off her forehead and tucking her hair out of her face. I bend down slowly, not to wake her, and plant a nurturing kiss to her forehead.

"Goodnight my love. May your dreams be happy and your sleep be plentiful."

"My Tiri."

[flamboyant-king]

I'm trying to write out passing conversations/mundane moments that would fill in the days of Cammy and Harvey, because it's the little things that make up life. So here's what one day would be like, maybe it's nothing, but to them, it's everything.

(Harvey wakes up from a nightmare early morning and Cammy senses it from outside. Cammy flies into Harveys room to comfort him, transforming into their human form for maximum hug-ability)

Harv: It's happening...Camellia...

Cammy: (holds his hand)

Harv: Help me...come back...

Cammy: Do you remember what we did yesterday?

Harv: We were on a walk...you talked to a bird...

Cammy: Do you remember the kind of bird?

Harv: A blue one...which is different...I usually only see sparrows or...robins around here...haven't seen a crow in a while...

Cammy: What did the blue bird say?

Harv: Tweet?

Cammy: Oh, right. (Giggles)

Harv: Hehe...

Cammy: (caresses Harv's hand) The bird said an old man was giving her nice oats in the morning because she looked beautiful. But she looked beautiful all the time, so the man gave her oats every morning.

Harv: That's nice...do birds have teeth?

Cammy: I don't think they do.

Harv: We'll have to look that up later...

Cammy: In the bird's mouth?

Harv: (chuckle) No, like on the Internet.

Cammy: Oh, right. (giggles)

Harv: Thank you, Camellia. I think I'm getting there.

Cammy: Does that mean I can hug you now?

Harv: Not yet. Let's talk more.

Cammy: Are there any birds you used to see in the Philippines?

Harv: Ah...My family used to raise a couple chickens...they used to wake us up in the morning...I don't remember what happened to them. They either got stolen or we ate them.

Cammy: Huh!?

Harv: From what I remember...there used to be deadly cock fights where...they'd put the chickens against each other...stick blades to their feet and let them--

Cammy: Harveeeeyyy...

Harvey: Sorry...

(Harvey hugs Cammy in apology, but he needed that hug too. After holding the moment, Harvey assures Cammy he's alright and Cammy leaves through the bedroom door. Harvey does his morning routine and makes his way downstairs)

Cammy: The sky is clear and it looks very hot out, Harvey, perfect for lemonade and macarons! (Opens the sliding door)

Harv: We can take a few lemons...from the next neighborhood...

Cammy: Harveeeey, we can't just steal lemons, you told me not to do that!

Harv: They won't miss a couple lemo--

Cammy: EEP!

Harv: What?

Cammy: Someone fell on my head.

Harv: (takes a peek) Ah, it's a lizard...

Cammy: Oh dear, I hope they don't get stuck in there.

Harv: I got you. (Tries to pull out the lizard. The lizard crawls deeper into cammy's floof)

Cammy: That tickles, teehee~

Harv: Your hair is a forest of tangles...

Cammy: Its not tangles! It's curly! Ow!

Harv: My hand got stuck...(The lizard crawls out of Cammy's hair and onto Harv's arm) but the lizard is unstuck.

Cammy: That's good!

Harv: Camellia, would you like me to... comb your hair?

Cammy: Huh? Really? That's so nice of you~ Will you tell me any stories you have about lizards.

Harv: Here's one thing... (frees his hand from Cammy's hair) In the Philippines, we call them butiki. They would be all over...the inside of our house. (The lizard crawls off Harv's arm and onto the ground) I remember I would catch them...and put them outside.

Cammy: That's so nice of you~

Harvey: One time, I saw one fall into...our air conditioner...I heard many thumps and a whine...I think it died in there...

Cammy: Um-

Harvey: In the living room...we had a ceiling fan...and I remember sitting there and a few lizards crawled...onto the fan...so I turned on the fan...and watched them go flying.

Cammy: Harveeeeeyyyy...

Harvey: Sorry...I'll go grab a brush...sit right here.

Cammy: Grab some macarons too. (Lizard climbs onto cammy's arm)

Cammy: For me and the lizard. (A second lizard falls on cammy's head.)

Cammy: EEP!

(Harvey and cambly sitting on the back "porch", Harvey combing Cammy's hair with his fingers because the brush was hurting cammy's head.)

Harv: Your hair must be really long... if we straightened it.

Cammy: I don't know how you'd straighten it. It's naturally curly.

Harv: There's this heating device that...people use to flatten out hair so it's not...curly.

Cammy: I like my curly hair.

Harv: Your tangled hair?

Cammy: No, it's noooot.

Harv: Heh. Your hair is really soft... I don't really see you shower.

Cammy: Huh?

Harv: I mean, I'm not watching, but...do you use soap?

Cammy: Are you saying I'm smelly?

Harv: No, no. I'm just wondering cause...I thought soap is a human thing.

Cammy: I use oils and I bathe in my fairy form since it would take up less water and oil!

Harv: Makes sense. Oil really helps get rid of tangles...so I don't see why you have so many tangles.

Cammy: Harveeeeyyy!

Harv: Sorry, sorry.

Cammy: I like you messing with my hair, though. It's nice and calming on a beautiful day like this~

Harv: That's good. You can...mess with my hair later...if you want.

(a peaceful hour passes by)

Harv: The tangles are mostly gone...your hair is still curly.

Cammy: (bounces) Thank you Harvey, now it's my turn!

Harv: Okay...

Cammy: (stands up and kneels behind Harvey) Teehee, your hair is so soft.

Harv: Try not to get crumbs in there.

Cammy: I'm cleeean~ Your hair is as fluffy as mine~

Harv: That's surprising...I did shower this morning.

Cammy: Smells nice too~

Harv: Thanks...I was thinking I need to cut my hair soon...but not so short like when I was...

Cammy: Maybe a trim, so it's not so messy, but maybe just combing it back would make it more neat! (Pushes his hair back and looks at his face) See! Handsome~

Harv: Heh...I think I grew out my bangs to try and cover my scar...it's not like...a big deal now but I think unconsciously...that's what I did, but also just got lazy to take care of myself.

Cammy: If you ever find it hard to care for yourself, I'll take care of you. (Looks into Harvey's eyes and smiles)

Harv: ... (Harvey gazes back)

Harv: And I'll do the same for you.

(A lizard falls on Harvey's head)

Cammy: EEP!

(time passes, they tend to the garden, and come back home after a quick walk in the park)

Cammy: A beautiful day followed by a beautiful night!

Harv: It's late night barbeque weather.

Cammy: This sounds like it has a story attached~ Oh! (A firefly hovers by Cammy) A lightning bug!

Harv: I call them fireflies. Those little guys are a sign...of a true summer's eve.

Cammy: Hm~

(Enjoying the silence and the occasional firefly glimmer)

Harv: I believe it was high school...we would have parties at Tito and Tita's house...the backyard was big...enough for Eli to run around and stuff. The campfire and grill smoke kept the bugs away...from the food. But the front yard...that's where all the fireflies were. They were the only thing that lit up the yard...other than the stars. It felt like I was in the sky with the stars. (A firefly lands on Harvey's sleeve) It was magical.

Cammy: There is magic everywhere, Harvey. (Smiles)

Harv: Yeah...We tried catching the fireflies in plastic cups...just to see them up close. (The firefly leaves Harvey's sleeve.) But like always, the magic never lasts. (The firefly lands in cammy's hand.)

Cammy: Hello. (Cammy whispers to the firefly before it flies off.)

Harv: What did it say?

Cammy: It said "just one moment."

(More fireflies enter their backyard. Landing on the leaves of various plants, some land on cammy's hair and Harvey's shirt.)

Harv: I see now...

Cammy: I hope you don't try catching these ones, they were nice enough to show off.

Harv: Nah...some magic can't be contained.

Cammy: They can be if you have a really good jar. I should know, I've been in a few of them, teehee~

~~~

I wanted to draw this but ya know how it is with me, so it shall stay as words for now. I would love to see the firefly scene drawn out, but maybe one day~

[hoppingonjim]

A is for Aftercare- holland march

note: decided to try and go in depth for an nsfw w holland and eventually jackson healy.

cw: religious imagery, afab!reader, just fluff. mentions of smut but barely explicit.

he declared there was an angel in his sheets. ribbons of coral sewn through tiresome limbs. for the past hour you acted on impulses with the detective. the neighbors to your left reported a wolf, howling.

there's a chorus he finds in your breath. the pattern of up down with your breasts engaging in a slight wave of movement. a placid sea undulating. his besotted fingertip swirls over your unalarmed nipple, flesh breathing into flesh. ingesting the feeling of relaxation. you're the prettiest sight his eyes have walked upon. the hills of your breasts and dips of your waist, the mississippi in your hair and the gateway of st louis in your back. georgia hips that stir home and children. still his eyes would roam and return back to your lips. parted with sporadic pants.

on the bed he promised a bath for you. where you could feel the time of tudors rewind when his fingers lave the sin in your locks. still his eyes return to your parted lips. opened just slightly. ajar for the glossary of your mind to pluck something grand out. something grand to share with him.

it's one in the morning but he assures the moon is a welcomed sprinkle that will accentuate the bubbles that'll float upon you. you nod your head lazily. with large hands it takes only a manhattan moment until your head finds the comfort of his bare chest. muscular pecks and a lean waist. the american man holds you in his nuclear glory. you observe how the veins in his biceps display themselves when your weight is reliant on one arm.

a smile forms on his thin lips when he can still feel your birthday figure cling to him. exhaling the serene zephyr of satisfaction. a joke is met with you regarding nuptials. a response only consisting of a grin is returned to him. a postcard of dreams. while the porcelain tub fills for you, he grants you apologies in an unscripted string before guiding you to sit on the tile floor. black and white checkered stinging in their coolness. your knees hinge then unhinge, silent brass with grease.

home is the drawer his lanky fingers reach for in your time of waiting. stuffed towards the untouched oak are his two backup packs. marlboros make a man a husband. rejuvenation blew out the opened window, residing over the porcelain sink. a view of the lords and the lizards, both disguised as average. disappearing together under flickered lampposts. one by one.

one hand caters the white stick to his mouth. puffing out that turbulent heat. dangling lifelessly. the other hand swims in the surface of the water, reaching over for the pink bottle of bubbles. the seeming potion poured seamlessly, foamy goodness bubbling to the surface and bobbing along the waves the stilled water bellowed. an eventual school of bubbles rising to the top.

you brought up the stash of marlboros he smuggled into your home. and he just laughs. repeating an old wives riddle about doctors and cigarettes.

then like every other night when he ropes himself into your walls, he deems the bath good enough for you. lips rummage a smile, messily. the cigarette dangles once more as he settles you in. questions float around you, was it good enough?

the water creeps up to your neck with your skulking slide. he knows it's perfect. and as promised he lets your scalp be cleansed of inferno that blazed from his loins. from yours. igniting both of you lovers into a volcanic coupling. once he's sure he's scrubbed lust from your body he swears he's met eden. the nature of your birth form once more.

the clock reads twenty. for twenty minutes he's bathed you senseless. gingerly and finely. letting soap whisk away with water that runs down the channel of cracks between his wicked fingers.

a puffy towel encapsulates you once the groans of the drain ring empty. your temple holds his kiss. the cigarette found the sink. another promise of his existence chimes your eardrums.

a promise that this will happen the following night. and he'll be sure to stock some more of your bubble solution.

the moon relishes in the cast and props of the show in front of him.

[vaya-writes]

Serving the Serpent - 9

Briar owes Lord Isen her life. She works off her debt by serving in his castle. Dealing with the rapidly changing circumstances of her life, she’s not used to anyone paying her much attention. It’s hard when Isen seems set on interacting with her. 

Cis female human with selective mutism x male naga (slow burn, co-workers to lovers, power imbalances, eventual smut). 4700 words. Content warnings for this chapter include discussion of Briar’s cult-like upbringing, sleep deprivation, and Briar experiencing significant anxiety. Divider from firefly-graphics.

Thank you for your patience everyone <3 It's been a month and a half, whoops. I present the only one bed trope. Enjoy.

Previous - Masterlist

The phrase ‘when it rains, it pours’ is not always accurate in the Ophidian Lowlands. Usually, the sky hangs low and overcast, drizzling on and off throughout autumn.  Perhaps the saying is a holdover from when the Pilgrims lived on the continent. Perhaps it was never meant to be used literally, and only ever used to refer to misfortunes of other kinds. Regardless of the phrase’s origins, it proves especially true the morning lord Isen is supposed to start his tour.  

Briar finds him amidst a tangle of blankets, unresponsive. She’s not surprised. The serpent is cold blooded, and the temperature can’t be doing him any favours. Opening the curtains doesn’t do much to rouse him, and neither does stoking the fire.  

Briar approaches the bed, staring down at the pale scales that peek out from the blankets, wondering if she should wake the lord. She’s never had to do so before, as he’s never had to be up quite so early. 

She coughs softly, but Isen doesn’t respond. Neither does he move when she shakes the bed. She waits a moment before trying again. And then a third time. Her anxiety grows when she realises she’ll have to take more drastic measures.  

She’s just doing her job. She won’t get in trouble. She won’t. 

Isen lets out a hiss when she pulls the blankets from the bed. He curls up tighter and attempts to sink beneath his pillows. Briar starts removing them, one cushion at a time until Isen lies bare on the bed. Still, he does not wake. 

Briar lets out a loud sigh – practically a groan with the way exasperation colours her voice. They have things to do and places to be, and they’re going to be late. 

She flinches when Isen sits up, quite suddenly.  

He squints at her, bleary, hair mussed. “D’you say somthin, Leg?” 

She’s taken aback by his slurred speech. Enough so that she doesn’t even have room to worry at the question. Instead, she raises her brow. ‘Did you?’ 

He rubs his face. Lets out a groan.  

And lays back down. 

Briar watches him with widened eyes. She no longer has any compunctions about shaking him awake. 

Isen is saved from Briar’s ire when Arol blows into the room, completely abluster. 

“You do this every year Kovit!”  

Briar jumps back as the lizard grabs Isen’s tail and pulls; heaving until Isen’s bottom half is hanging off the bed.  

“The weather broke, I’ve been rearranging things since sunrise, we are already behind. And you’re not even out of bed!” 

Isen lets out another groggy noise before sitting up. “Sss fine Arol. The tide doesn’t change ‘til midmorning.” 

“The tide doesn’t- are you not listening? It’s been raining all night. We’re not taking the Ophidia, we have to go on foot!” 

Isen takes a moment. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

He sighs. Rubs his face again. “Okay, okay. What time is it?” 

“Time to leave. The sun has been up for nearly an hour.” 

“Okay. I’m moving.” He slides off the bed, moving sluggishly towards the wardrobe. 

Arol turns tail and is about to leave when Briar taps him on the arm. She doesn’t want to deal with his mood, but would prefer that to being left in the dark. 

“What?”  

She stills at his tone. Stares him dead on, and waits for him to deflate a little.  

To his credit, Arol seems to understand her expression. “You’re right, sorry. I’m just feeling quite frazzled.” 

She shrugs, and waves off the statement. Then she shakes her head. ‘What is happening?’ 

Arol eyes her hands with a wince. “I’m sorry, I haven’t learnt Sign yet. Isen, can you translate?” 

Isen leans out from his wardrobe as Briar repeats herself. “She’s asking what happened.” 

“Of course, you’re new around here.” Arol’s posture loosens. “Most of the time we travel the lowlands via barge. This trip would only take a day or two if we could do that. But it stormed all last night, and now the river isn’t safe to sail.”  

Briar nods her understanding. She tries signing something simple to him. ‘What’s wrong with that?’ (Why, you, bad) 

He gets the gist of it. “It will take a whole day to travel to the Sisters on foot. Even if we can sail tomorrow, that’s a whole day we’re adding to our itinerary. I’ve had organise additional supplies, reschedule our appointments... It’s not a big problem. I’m just feeling foul. Sorry for yelling, you shouldn’t have to witness that.” 

Briar waves him off again. ‘It’s fine.’ 

He nods. “Thanks, Legs. I’ll meet you both downstairs. Breakfast will be on the trail.” 

Briar’s nose crinkles. It seems Isen’s nickname is sticking. 

Arol is gone by the time Isen emerges from his wardrobe, dressed and looking marginally more awake. He lets out another yawn, before giving Briar an almost contemplative frown. 

She raises her brow, accompanying him as he follows after his representative. ‘What?’ 

“I think I dreamt that you said something to me, right before I woke, but I can’t remember what.” 

Briar immediately knows what he’s talking about. He had woken right after she’d groaned at him. She can’t help but stare at her feet as they walk, an unsourced feeling of anxiety curling in her gut. The idea of vocalising-  

She doesn’t even want to think about it. Every time it had come up since she was a child, she’d been met with nothing but distaste. Exasperation. Blame. Even the kindest of the pilgrims had alienated her. Made her feel like she was deficit of something. She doesn’t want to hear it from Isen too.  

It’s irrational. She knows he wouldn’t hurt her intentionally. Wouldn’t pressure her to speak if she made it clear that she didn’t want to. But everyone who’d ever found out that she could speak – or at least that she should be able to, that her vocal cords were not, in fact, damaged, did nothing but hurt her. Intentional or not. Even Stella, from time to time. It was exhausting. 

She realises that Isen is silent. He’d been awaiting her reaction to his confession. Had possibly taken her silence the wrong way. 

She can’t say why she does it. But the exhaustion is back, and part of her wants to confide in somebody. To share, and lighten the burden, just a little. To say ‘I am tired, and I hate this’. And she doesn’t think Isen will make a big deal out of it. 

So she does it again.  

She sighs, letting out an unpleasant, almost wheezing groan while she does, replicating the noise that had woken her boss.  

Isen whips his head in her direction. He looks bewildered. Amused. “Is that what woke me up? I didn’t dream it?” 

Briar shrugs, looking back at her feet again as they descend the stairs. 

He’s silent for a moment, and she dreads the questions that might come. 

But he only huffs. “I must have really annoyed you. Sorry Legs.” 

She looks up, surprised. 

“It’s the temperature. I wish I could tell you I’d be better, but it’s only going to get worse.” He runs a hand through his hair. Adds offhandedly, “I’d probably sleep through the whole of winter if it weren’t for my- well-” he looks embarrassed. “I guess you’ll see.” 

No longer wracked with tension, Briar levels Isen with a mystified stare.  

He waves her off. “Don’t worry about it. Sorry for making your job harder this morning.” 

--- 

Briar does not enjoy travelling. 

The path near Riversreach is manageable. It’s supplemented with wooden planks laid over the worst of the mud, keeping the muck from swallowing the ground. But by midmorning they’re trudging through the sludge– all of Briar’s concentration going towards sidestepping puddles and navigating mired pits that menace her boots with their depth. 

She’d been aware that there are no major roads through the Lowlands, but seeing really is believing. If she were here alone, she’d become quickly lost amidst the wetlands. Now and then she spots markings on the trees – bits of rope and ribbon tied to the branches to make the way more visible. But most of her focus is on her feet as she scrabbles to keep hold of her luggage.  

Pack animals wouldn’t be able to traverse the lowlands with any effectiveness, so everyone carries their own things. Even Isen drapes a bag over one shoulder, his partison over the other. He looks particularly miserable. 

There are places where he can dodge the worst of the mud, but most of the journey he has no choice but to slosh through it. Briar understands now, why he’d elected to forgo a sarong today. Anything on his lower half would be spattered and ruined by the mud. Still, he wears a coat. It surprises Briar, who’d never seen him cover his chest. He really must handle the cold poorly.  

Shivering in the drizzle, she can’t help but sympathise with him. 

By the time they arrive at their first stop, Briar is regretting her choice to join Isen on this trip. She knows she should take in the sights; examine the first settlement of the Lowlands with keen interest. But her skin is splotchy from insect bites, her feet are wet and blistered, and her hair is frizzing something fierce in front of her eyes.  

Arol takes one look at her and snorts. “You look as miserable as our lord.” 

She acknowledges him with a grimace. 

The sun is setting when they make their way into the raised and stilted village. It’d be a relief to climb out of the mud if it hadn’t followed her, clinging to her legs with what feels like malicious intent.  

A stocky lizard greets them, chest bare despite the rapidly cooling air. He’s an older male, his colours faded somewhat, and scars dotting his hands and arms. “Welcome to the Lower Sister, lord Isen. I hope the road didn’t give you too much trouble?”  

Isen doesn’t bother with pleasantries. Or even smiling. 

The lizard chuckles. “The spare room has been prepared for you, sir. The boathouse has also been cleared for your use.” 

Isen inclines his head to the lizard. “Thanks, Varan. Arol will handle things for a bit.” 

Briar isn’t quite sure what to do when Isen wanders off, trailing around the scaffolded path; the stilts barely wobbling under his bulk and weight. Arol seems to have the luggage under control, and is chatting familiarly with the greeter. 

Suddenly worried she’d be left behind in the skeletal village of planks and ladders, Briar follows after Isen, towards a lowset building.  

She stops at the door he’d disappeared through, and gives it a tentative knock. 

No response. 

She tries again. 

After a moment there’s a muffled groan. “Yes?” 

Briar cracks the door open, suddenly apprehensive about bothering the lord. She wishes she knew the protocol for such situations. 

The first thing she sees is Isen’s pack, discarded nearby. Then his jacket, in a heap on the floor.  

Before she understands the implications of the shed layers, her eyes come to rest on his back. 

It takes her a moment to work out what she’s seeing. That the building is open on one end, to accommodate the river. That Isen is in the water, leaning against a pier of some sort. 

Then her eyes widen, and she becomes painfully aware of her intrusion. She might be used to seeing Isen’s top bare, but knowing that he’s in the process of bathing has the sight hitting differently. 

She lets out a humiliating squeak of a noise, before turning hastily away. It is, however, too late to retreat. 

Isen sounds tired, but not mad. “Did you need something?”  

Briar closes her eyes. She can feel her whole face flush with embarrassment. ‘No. Sorry. I was just following you.’ 

“Right.” He’s still tired. But she can hear the amusement in his tone. “My apologies, I should have let you know where I was going." 

‘It’s okay. I’ll wait outside.’ 

“You can stay, if you wanted. I’m sure you’d like to wash the mud off too.” 

The suggestion winds her. She fumbles with a response, blinking at her feet several times before shaking her head. ‘I’ll wait until you’re done.’ 

She shuts the door firmly behind her, even as Isen’s wry laughter follows her outside.  

--- 

None of the villages in the Ophidian Lowlands are large enough to need an inn. There's simply not enough travel to the region to warrant accommodation. The closest thing the Lower Twin has is a spare room in the Elder’s house.  

It’s a stark place, furnished with a single bed and wardrobe, and dimly lit by the light of the doorway. Varan, The Lower Sister’s leader, had freshened the room up with clean bedsheets and some dried flowers in a vase. 

Briar eyes the single bed, warily. 

‘Where is Arol staying?’ 

“With a friend. They don’t have enough room for,” Isen gestures to his tail, “me, though. So, I stay with Varan.” 

‘And where am I staying?’ 

“Here. The bed is large enough for two, if you wanted to share.” Isen frowns. “Next time we’ll bring you a hammock. Most Lowlanders use them. Sleeping off the ground keeps the water out.” 

Briar’s not sure what her face is doing, but Isen takes one look at her, and backtracks. “We could also track down Arol. See if his friend has room for another. If not, I imagine somebody has a spare hammock somewhere...” 

Briar’s stomach knots with anxiety. Torn between imposing on a stranger and a lizard she barely knows, or potentially sharing a bed with Isen. The Serpent; reviled by the Pilgrims. And more pertinently, an unwed male. She really wishes she’d stayed at Riversreach.  

She bites her lip, almost hard enough to draw blood, and pulls herself together. ‘No. I don’t want to stay with a stranger.’ She steps into the bedroom. Gives the bed a wide berth as she lowers herself to the ground. ‘I’ll sleep on the floor.’ 

Isen frowns. “It’ll be uncomfortable.” 

She shrugs. ‘I’ve slept on the floor my whole life. I will be fine.’ She’s not entirely honest. Technically she’s slept in a ditch lined with hay and fur. It’s moderately better than sleeping on a hard surface.  

“Seriously, Legs. We’re close to the water. It will be much colder in the small hours. There’s no shame in sharing. If you’re worried about modesty, I can keep my hands to myself.”  

He’s not wrong about the cold. Just sitting on the floor gives her an idea of how uncomfortable the night will be. Perhaps she shouldn’t brush him off so quickly. Not that she’s in a hurry to share with him. But it might be worth considering the option more carefully. Looking past the scandal of the notion. 

She’s never slept with a man before. Never even slept close to one. In New Haven it had been forbidden for her to be even near a man who wasn’t family. Women had been watched closely, to ensure they weren’t cavorting with strangers, or breaking the rules of modesty. 

The people in Riversreach are freer with their touch. Briar didn’t know what to make of it at first. Had thought of the other servants as rude or indecent before realising that the Ophidians lived by entirely different rules. Seeing everyone else share light touches – bumped shoulders, brushed arms – is one of the main reasons she’s hadn’t been quite so put off when Isen had displayed these tendencies. 

But sharing a bed?  

She’s mortified that Isen would even suggest such a thing. Bed sharing is for family. For spouses. Not whatever she and Isen were. Servant and lord. Employer and employee. 

She shakes her head, firm, and begins to make herself comfortable. Her coat and boots are set out to dry and she uses her pack as a pillow. It’s only got clothes in it, so it works well enough.  

Isen lets out an exaggerated sigh. He sets his own clothes out to dry before closing the door and engulfing the room in darkness. “The offer remains if you change your mind.” 

She scoffs at the suggestion, but without the light there’s no obligation to sign a reply.  

Still, listening to Isen climb into bed fills her with envy. She’d manage well enough, but that doesn’t stop her from wishing for a blanket. Wishing she had the nerve to even ask for one. And though she staunchly tries to ignore the thought, it keeps resurfacing throughout the night. She keeps wondering how warm it would be, sharing the bed with Isen. And how long she could wait until he withdrew his offer to share. 

--- 

Wisps of conversation drift past Briar, barely registering, as she glares down at her drink. Her tongue wants to recoil out of her mouth, but she still sips at it, knowing that the coffee has something of an energising effect on people.  

Isen had been right, of course. Not that she’d admit it. She’d slept fitfully last night, waking every hour or so. Her back had ached upon rising. Some movement helps her body loosen, but does nothing to banish the bags under her eyes, or the cloudiness to her thoughts. 

The coffee doesn’t help. It just makes her jumpier. More likely to flinch when somebody bumps into her, and sets her heart pounding at the slightest of exertions. She concentrates so hard on staying present and focused that she barely has any awareness to spare towards Isen and their companions.  

Still, she takes in her surroundings with muted interest. Between the light of the sun and the guided tour Varan gives them, she’s able to paint a clearer picture of life in the Sisters.  

Built above the silt and reeds, the Lower Sister is a fishing village. They have the most established dock in the Lowlands, and receive what little trade makes it to the region. Most interestingly to Briar, the wooden buildings aren’t permanent; able to be taken apart and carried to higher ground in the case of severe flooding. In this part of the marsh, wood is scarce, and is treated as such. 

They cross the river at midday. The currents have settled enough for Varan to pole them over on a flat raft. Then they hike. 

The Upper Sister is located atop the steep cliff that cradles the far side of the Ophidia. A trail has been hewn into the cliff face, but the climb is still arduous. Briar is panting by the time they reach the top. Then her breath is stolen entirely by the view. 

She’d been too focused on the climb to note the height they’d gained, but with the trail finally below her, she’s able to take in her surroundings. 

The entirety of the sister village stretches beneath them. She’s struck by just how small the settlement really is. The marsh extends behind it, gradually transitioning into a thicker swamp, and eventually climbing up into the highlands, emerging as the forest. 

Varan catches her staring, and gives her a smile. “It’s really something, isn’t it?” 

She nods. 

Briar tries not to let her mind wander as much during their tour of the Upper Sister. Many of the buildings are sturdy and permanent, made from brick, with some even incorporating the surrounding outcrops of stone. The Upper is reserved for buildings that can’t be dismantled or easily relocated. There are workshops of several kinds – a forge, a kiln – and even a handful of shop fronts. 

Isen listens politely as Varan regales him with the finer details, pausing occasionally to ask a question. The focus of the tour is mostly on the plans in place during the thaw, and discussion of storage, rations, and evacuation procedures. 

Briar is happy for him to take the lead in conversation. Thankfully he doesn’t seem intent on forcing her interactions. Appears to read her detached mood. At least until lunch time. 

They’re treated to some kind of crayfish. The dish could rival the meals served at Riversreach – seasoned masterfully, and cooked to perfection. She and Isen have been served greenery with their food, while Arol and Varan eat only meat. Briar takes her time, picking carefully at the crustacean.  

Isen makes several comments in her direction, and she doesn’t process that he’s even speaking to her until he leans into view and signs her name.  

She blinks. ‘Yes?’ 

‘Are you okay?’ 

She’d been staring into space after finishing her food. It hadn’t taken long – she'd been ravenous after the day’s exercise. 

She forces a smile. ‘Fine. Why?’ 

Isen frowns. ‘You haven’t been talking. Listening.’ 

She flushes, caught out. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt.’ 

Isen stares her down, brows raised in exasperation. 

She looks away, chastened. ‘I’m a little tired. Yesterday was a long hike.’ (Walk. Travel) 

“Uhuh,” he says, deadpan, and bringing to Briar’s attention that the prior conversation had been entirely silent.   

Arol and Varan tactfully ignore the interaction. 

It’s close to sunset when they finish in the Upper Sister. Briar is feeling spent and overwhelmed by the time they make it down the cliff. Her muscles are jellied from exertion, and her mind is foggy from fatigue. So tired, she is, that when stepping down from the pier to the barge, she doesn’t brace for the wobble of the raft. 

Briar yelps as she loses her footing, certain she’s about to fall face first onto the wood, or worse – into the water. 

Someone grips her upper arm. Pulls her back firmly enough to steady her. 

“I’ve got you.” 

Briar takes a second to recompose herself. Still, she’s quite shaken when she looks up at Isen. 

He’s standing far too close – practically flush with Briar’s back – but for once she doesn’t care. 

‘Thank you,’ her fingers tremble as she signs. 

The corners of his mouth twitch upwards. “You’re welcome.” 

She doesn’t speak much on the way back. Not that she’d spoken, or rather, communicated, much before. But now the weight of embarrassment stiffens her body. She can’t lie about her state anymore, not when there’d been so blatant a display of her ineptitude. 

Her brooding must be noticeable, because Isen sighs over dinner. Reaches out to ruffle her hair.  

The action snaps her out of her miserable stupor. 

“Don’t fret so much. Missing your landing is hardly the worst thing to happen on that barge.” 

Arol snorts from his side of the table. “Pryden has fallen off at least twice.” 

Briar gapes at Arol. Struck with the image of graceful, arrogant Pryden, with his dagger sharp quips and lingering eyes. Falling off a barge. 

“You boys never could handle your drink,” Varan murmurs with a smile. 

Isen’s face crinkles. “We can handle them fine. Just not that swill you brew down here.” 

Arol stays late, reminiscing with Varan about some of their drunken escapades from older days. But when the sun sets and the fire burns low, Isen stretches and gives Briar a meaningful look. 

“I think it’s time we turn in.” 

Somehow Briar had been too tired to remember the bed situation. It comes back to her now.  

They both say their goodnights before shuffling into the room and closing the door behind them. Then there’s silence. 

Briar stares at the ground, trying to hide her nerves. She flinches when Isen’s arm shoots out, barring her path. 

“You’re sleeping in the bed tonight.” 

She recoils. ‘What? But I’m-’ 

“You are not fine. You look dreadful. You’re taking the bed, and that’s an order.” 

Panic begins to fill Briar at his commanding tone. To her humiliation, her eyes start to blur with tears. She hasn’t cried in months- and she has no intention of crying now. She turns her face away. Dashes the moisture. Holds herself stiff until the emotion passes.  

Isen softens. “Legs. I’ll take the floor tonight. Okay? I’m not going to touch you without your permission. I won’t even look at you if you like. But I cannot have my aid stumbling around like the undead. You will sleep in the bed tonight.” 

She doesn’t know what to say. How to refute him. The dim lighting gives an intimate air to their stare down, and it’s not long before Briar loses her nerve and drops her gaze. 

‘Is this... allowed?’ 

He tilts his head. “Is what allowed?” 

She gestures to the bed. 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” 

Briar has to think on that question. The situation feels so wrong to her. How does Isen not notice it? How does he remain so unaffected? 

‘You’re more important than I.’ 

Isen blinks. He hadn’t expected an answer quite like that. 

“I... suppose. In title, yes. But we’re both people. Why should lineage entitle one person to the bed and the other to the floor?” 

Briar doesn’t know. She’d never thought to question these things before.  

Isen seems to be processing her discomfort, considering it closely.  

“The Pilgrims practice Conservatism, right?” 

Briar blinks at the sudden turn in conversation. It’s a relief to focus on something other than the space between them, and the bed looming before her. But she hadn’t expected to be discussing religion. 

‘Not quite. We migrated away from the mainland because the elders disagreed with several of its practices.’ (Migrated; travel, move. Practice; think, act, do.)  

“Which ones?” 

‘They believed Conservatism wasn’t modest enough. That the Patriarchs were too liberal. That changes within the church would lead to the loosening of values.’ She doesn’t care for the details, but can recite them, nonetheless.  

Isen winces. He’s heard the rhetoric before. “Did you and Stella practice it?” 

Briar nods. ‘It was called New Conservatism. And yes. Everyone did. Anyone who spoke out was...’ her hands slow and still. It takes her a moment to refocus. ‘Everyone did.’ 

There’s another silence. This one more thoughtful. Considering. Before Isen slithers a few inches closer. “I think that you are experiencing a bit of culture shock. It’s not unusual to those who move from home to live in foreign parts.” 

Briar shakes her head, disbelieving. ‘These aren’t foreign parts.’ 

“No? Are you not experiencing a sudden language barrier? Surrounded by completely different styles of living?” 

She shakes her head again, still in denial. She doesn’t like the way the conversation is turning. Doesn’t like how Isen is bringing it back to her. Personalising things again. 

“New clothes, new job, different companions, different rules... I’m quite certain, Legs. But it’s okay.” 

Briar sits heavily on the bed, taken off guard. ‘It’s not. It’s- I’m fine. There’s no problem. I can do this.’ 

He lowers himself before her. The naga equivalent of a crouch. “I know you can. I just want you to know that it’s okay to have doubts. To have questions. I went through something quite similar when I moved here.” 

Her hands are pressed to her face. She peeks through her fingers. 

Isen reads the question in her eyes and smiles. “It’s true. I was a mess. Completely embarrassed myself with my lack of knowledge. Can you imagine a lord who doesn’t know the number of settlements in his own lands? I had to hire Arol just to teach me about the area.” He leans back, offering another soft smile. “But that’s a story for another time.” 

She senses his focus honing back on her. Braces herself for more scrutiny. More uncomfortable conversation. But he only sits at the foot of the bed. 

“Rest. We have another big day tomorrow.” 

They have another stare down, but her heart is no longer in it. Seated so close to him, she can’t stand to meet his gaze too long. Finally, she narrows her eyes at him, before staring pointedly at the ground. 

He grins, raising his hands in surrender and slipping from the bed. “Of course.” 

Only when he’s curled up at the foot of the bed, jacket draped insufficiently across his coils, does Briar relax. She slips her boots off, and lowers herself to the mattress. Gets comfortable beneath the blanket.  

Her nose crinkles. The pillow smells like Isen. 

“Goodnight,” Isen murmurs. 

Briar hums a wordless reply, and falls swiftly into sleep. 

[serial-serializednovelreader]

For the ask game: 10 and 17, Jonathan Harker!

Yay! Always happy to get an ask about one of my favorite characters in fiction :))))))))))

10. Best moment on screen (or in the book):

This is super hard, since he has SO many good moments!! I am going to keep this spoiler-free, since I'm not sure if you've read Dracula all the way through or not and I don't want to spoil anything (if you have read the book, I do talk about a few of my favorite moments with Jonathan that take place later in the book in this ask!).

I would have to say him attempting to save the child he hears the three sisters feeding on in Dracula’s room. I think it's truly a defining moment for him. We've just seen Jonathan (understandably) scream in fear for his life after seeing the three women again and only feeling safe in his room. He knows as long as he stays in there, he will remain safe. But as soon as he hears a child in danger, he's willing to risk facing those women again *and* Dracula to save a child he doesn't know and doesn't even know if he can save. I don't think he even considers any of that in the moment — he's just ready to do it. That's what makes him a hero in my eyes. Being willing to do what's right, no matter the cost. Of course, Dracula prevents him to do so by locking the door and...he cries. It's such a human moment from him and I appreciate that we get this moment of raw honesty. It's the first time we see him do so in his time at castle Dracula.

I think Shovel Day is very important too, don’t get me wrong. I just think that this moment is what truly defines him — in my eyes — as a hero and is his best moment on screen followed by him hitting Dracula with a shovel!

17. Quotes, songs, poems, etc. that I associate with them:

Going off of this moment, I have two quotes that I think go great with it:

"There are stories about every hero. How they became great. Most have one thing in common. Their bodies moved before they had a chance to think. Almost on their own." -- All Might, My Hero Academia (dubbed version of S1 Ep.2)

"Crying does not indicate that you are weak. Since birth, it has always been a sign that you are alive." -- Charlotte Brontë

Now for my favorite quotes from Jonathan Harker (again, spoiler-free!):

“(Mem., get recipe for Mina.)”

“‘Do you know what day it is?’ I answered that it was the fourth of May.”

“Solicitor's clerk! Mina would not like that. Solicitor—for just before leaving London I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a full-blown solicitor!”

“If there were any one to talk to I could bear it, but there is no one. I have only the Count to speak with, and he!—I fear I am myself the only living soul within the place.”

(about Dracula yeeting his mirror) “It is very annoying, for I do not see how I am to shave”

“(Mem., this diary seems horribly like the beginning of the "Arabian Nights," for everything has to break off at cockcrow—or like the ghost of Hamlet's father.)”

“Once more have I seen the Count go out in his lizard fashion.”

“I am surely in the toils.”

“Despair has its own calms.”

“This morning, as I was sitting on the edge of my bed cudgelling my brains…”

“It makes me rage to think that this can go on, and whilst I am shut up here, a veritable prisoner, but without that protection of the law which is even a criminal's right and consolation.”

“Let me not think of it. Action!”

“Yes, there is a way, if one dares to take it. Where his body has gone why may not another body go? I have seen him myself crawl from his window. Why should not I imitate him, and go in by his window?”

“As he went down the wall, lizard fashion, I wished I had a gun or some lethal weapon, that I might destroy him; but I fear that no weapon wrought alone by man's hand would have any effect on him.”

“Good-bye, all! Mina!”

As for songs, I made two playlists about Jonathan Harker, one about his time trapped in the castle and one about his relationship with Mina (here's the post with the playlists included, for your reference!). I'll highlight one song from each that are my personal favorites.

Striking and ominous with an epic feel, Run Boy Run by Woodkid definitely embodies what we're all shouting to Jonathan while he's going to the castle. However, I can definitely picture this song taking place as he's climbing down the castle walls (lizard fashion, of course) and attempting to escape. I imagine the musical interludes are flashbacks during his time at the castle and the various horrors he experiences. What happens at the end with the hopeful swell of the song is up to you...

Lyrics to highlight:

Run boy run!/ This world is not made for you Run boy run!/ They're trying to catch you Run boy run!/ Running is a victory

Tomorrow is another day/ And when the night fades away/ You'll be a man,/ boy! But for now it's time to run,/ it's time to run!

An 80s rock ballad, You're the Inspiration by Chicago is swoony and romantic with an electric edge. This is one of my favorite love songs and it definitely embodies how Jonathan feels for Mina! If Dracula was set in a modern time period, I could definitely see Jonathan serenading Mina with this song during karaoke night (bonus points if he can’t sing, but it’s the sweetest music to her, lol).

Lyrics to highlight:

You should know,/ everywhere I go/

Always on my mind,/ in my heart

In my soul,/ baby

You're the meaning in my life/

You're the inspiration/

You bring feeling to my life/

You're the inspiration

And I know,/ yes I know that it's plain to see/

So in love when we're together/

Now I know that I need you here with me/

From tonight until the end of time

Ask game here