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malvoile · 3 days ago

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Me and the Devil ; i

ɪᴛ ʀᴀɪɴꜱ ᴏɴ ᴄᴀʟᴀᴅᴀɴ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ.

word count: 7k warnings: arranged marriage, politics, graphic scenes of blood, violence, & death of family. trauma, past abuse (harkonnen&feyd rautha warning) not much else. mutual mistrust. notes: hi! tysm to my new followers ily all <3 here's chapter one remastered of this fic [originally posted on @tremendum ] - (inspiration for reader's family is taken from the family of tsar nicholas ii, so if it feels familiar that's why.) feedback very much appreciated :)

prelude series masterlist

Penitent Crimes of Retaliation;

“In accordance with the legal doctrine of the 'Reprisal Accord', as sanctioned by the High Court of the Landsraad, attacked houses are granted the right to retaliate against proven offenses committed against them; This action shall such be labelled as ‘Penitent Crimes of Retaliation.’

Under this mandate, should sufficient evidence be presented, the aggrieved house may initiate a retaliatory strike and is sanctioned to engage in warfare against the offending party. While reparations for damages incurred during the conflict are mandated, perpetrators shall be exempt from criminal sentences ensuring a balanced recourse within the framework of inter-house disputes; as deemed by a jury of the Great Houses Major and Minor at court."

- From the Reprisal Accord, Office of the Padishah Emperor. Imperium, 10041.

There was once a time when green was your favorite color.

You'd enjoyed a childhood of it – Peridot stones glittering upon headdresses, jade figurines, the velveted forest of winter dresses; halls draped with verdant portraits of the faces which came before you, and before you, and before you – all shroud in that forested pride; an ancient thing, to know the ground of the planet and to take life from the same roots as the trees around you.

A life cushioned in the nested hearth of mountainside and jade pools of glacier; and of course the breathstealing height of the sacred Pine. Viridescent flicks of the woven banner of your house, waving in the snow-whipped wind; A snarling green wolf upon grey armor, a hall of decadent verdant heirloom stones.

And in the three months each year when the ice melts off the lower glaciers – the glacial lakes, thawed into that deep emerald green. Your brother, your sisters and you, charging with wild hollers and flailing limbs as tutors and soldiers alike chased after you; scolds and yelps of fear dying on chapped lips as young bodies leapt into the glossy pools, rippling screams through the woods.

In the yawning abyss of childhood, there’s always been that lingering haunt color; When the men of a faraway House Major arrived to retrieve your older sister, she'd been shroud in that very same sacred pine-satin. An elegant dress, you remember quite clearly – draped in gold and jade, haunting the mouth of the ship in her shining emerald headpiece as she turned to wave goodbye for the last time.

A constant source of home, perhaps; and a reminder of the ever-churning yield of abundance the planet gifted your family. Gifts of life, spurting through the ice, growing over centuries within the warm breast of mountain caverns – miners returning to the villages and towns surrounding the castle, hands stained with verdant dust. Green, that gift of life.

Even at your sister's funeral.

A glossy forested casket, laid to rest in the ground of a foreign planet – the wind was sharp against the dark emerald veils of the women of House Bourbon the day you said goodbye to your sister.

Killed by the birth of her first – a son. You became the oldest of your siblings that day.

It was an honor, your parents had told you through tears as the earth swallowed the emerald peeks of casket through handfuls of dirt; an honor to serve your family, to serve the Sisterhood, to serve the Imperium.

Years churn on, as they always do – and somewhere across the Imperium, perhaps a new life has sprouted ,evergreen above the plot where your sister lies in eternal rest. But you can hardly stand to look at green anymore.

No, instead, you mostly see black.

They'd sent you away to make for your house a fortune; a son, they'd wished, for your sake - and, by whispers of your Lady Mother, a daughter – but the nest you made was one of fear and survival; a place crawling with shadows and monsters and deadly smiles.

Your na-Baron.

If Feyd-Rautha ever had a semblance of hesitancy, it was when you first met four years ago. You were at the end of your seventeenth year and he, freshly eighteen – a cordial boy by at least Harkonnen standards; escorting you with an arm held out, eyes malicious and teeth glinting but nonetheless tamed to curved glances and sickeningly sinister grins.

He'd even called you Lady Bourbon those first few months on Giedi Prime.

Perhaps in many ways, you can consider yourself lucky. Even if only for your bloodline, or the power laced through the syllables of the name you come from – or even, Maker forbid, in some way for yourself – Feyd-Rautha has indeed taken special care of you. Perhaps he does care for you – the care a panther reserves for his chosen prey.

Despite his endless vanity, he still has stooped so as to admit he waited too long to claim you as wife; a feat which, in some way, might bring him just a step higher in the chokehold his family holds the Imperium – and you, with tongue as sharp as your mind, know when to push and when to dissolve into those dark shadows he loves so much.

So you’ve let him stew in fury, avoiding eyes and sneaking from column to column; ears pressed to oaken doors with a trembling hand.

The accusations had come from Baron Vladimir; House Bourbon has been stealing the precious refinery codes, committing treason against the trading accords along the Harkonnen-dominated exportation route. And perhaps, he thought, you’ve been the one to plot against your beloved future family.

But Feyd-Rautha knows better – knows you'd never dare betray him for the sake of your life or purely through the denial of access. Feyd was, after all, the one to demand a public execution of your family and, in the same breath, redirect your sentencing to imprisonment. As if you weren't already.

Don't look away. See what we do to scum, my pet?

Hatred flows thicker than blood; and perhaps if you'd had your blade this morning, you would have finally plunged it right into the junction of creamy skin upon his neck, right there in the stands.

You were, in some ways, relieved when their bodies hit the sand fast. You've never seen your brother's skin so reflective as you did this morning; and the black sun, oppressive as it is intense, still could not hide the blood that had seeped from him.

A deafening roar of the crowd still did not muffle the glistening cries of the two girls; the ones no older than seventeen and nineteen, the ones who carry your nose, and your hair, and your laugh, and your blood. The crowd could not muffle the sharp loss of breath as the blades slid slow across the seam of their necks to spill that which you share so intrinsically.

You'd swallowed thickly, twitching to look away, gasp – to cry; but any semblance of pain was concealed under layers of unbudging, seething hatred. There is no space here for anguish; Your na-Baron would love it too much.

Why don't you leave me with them, then? You'd hissed through your teeth.

Though he was wild and psychotic, growling with hunger at the bloodsport in front of him, he heard you for what you'd said. Feyd's fingers pulled your hair hard, forcing your chin up towards his crazed stare. A sickly glint in the black sun, his teeth shone with hunger.

You'd have me throw you to your Wolves, and lose my prize? He'd tutted, kissing your forehead with a sickening sweetness; enough so that the servants had turned away their spider-black gazes. They didn't care much for the acts of affection you'd occasionally show one another – they know just as well as you that in a world marred by ugliness, any glimpse of beauty becomes a hauntingly grotesque show of power.

He'd snarled, a growling rumble through the chanting crowd of spectators screaming kill the Wolves; His breath was hot against your cheek. You're mine to keep – there's plenty of life left for you to serve.

He'd held your hand tight as they slit your father's throat – he was too drugged to put up a fight worthy of retaining his life; after minutes, his blade fell. It was then both of your sisters, swift deaths prolonged only by the wisps of prana-bindu that remained in their muscles’ memories, by the screams that heightened the jeering crowd in bloodthirst. Next came the assassination of your brother; the Tsarevich, the boy whose grasp on his knife shook as he looked up towards your seat helplessly.

Your mother had fought as much as she could in her drugged state – a Weirding Woman, whose flashing arms and darting legs outsmarted the Harkonnen fighters for far longer than what must have been expected. A Ginaz fighter until the end.

You saw it all with nails torn into your palms; the Harkonnens are ruthless, and Feyd-Rautha had sat calmly beside you with a sickly grin.

Your mother met the slow knife’s blade against her throat. It should have finished quickly – but in your horror: The neckline of her gown was too high, and too thickly inlaid with encrusted heirlooms.

Bless their voided souls.

The emeralds that tore from her gown as she'd spilled her blood to the sand sent a ripple of pain out of your throat; and Feyd had buried his face in your neck, teeth sharp and gaze glued to your own ruby blood beading out of your clenched palms, blackened in the sun's light.

If anybody would have bothered to look before burning the bodies, you know they'd find all the family diamonds sewn into the fabric of their clothing. Centuries of your House, melted away.

And Feyd-Rautha had drank up your agony with his lips, smiling as his hand wrapped around your throat.

Now, alone and away from the thick industrial air, your chambers are cold and suffocating.

There are screams coming from the hall – not the kind that you've grown to associate with your na-Baron testing his new blades, but the kind that comes with danger. With change.

As it turns out, you are not Feyd-Rautha's to keep any longer.

A loud noise outside of your quarters jolts you from your bed with shaky legs, whispering to yourself. They're coming for you. The sheets are crisp against your awaiting, tensed body; the blade gifted to you on your nameday three years ago by your husband-to-be grasped in your palm; still tainted with the ghost of your own blood.

Your whispers reverberate in the empty room, a spiny crawl of black moulding curling around your bed and awaiting the coming voices. "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me–”

Your voice shakes, despite yourself. Air puffs from your lips as your blood rushes - few things remain from your early days of training, before you were sent off to become a Harkonnen; This remains a relic.

A loud clash outside – blades against the failing force of shields.

For a moment, a hand grasps your arm; ghost-white and possessive, it claws at your skin, voice rumbling through your mind. Don't look so sad, my pet.

The door to your chambers begins to slam with an external force; Soon, the soldiers will enter, and you will do what must be done.

The hand squeezes upon your wrist harder – you bite back a cry. I will never let them keep what is mine. I will find you again.

You almost wish he will.

Slow as a predator, you rise from the sheets; a preparation for a fight that will end before it begins. A fight that has already been won.

Even when the hand upon your arm is gone into the shadows, succeeded only by a whispering ghost of bruises clutching your skin, you do not stop the old prayer; in fact, you hardly notice that you're saying it at all.

Even as the doors give in.

"-and when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing – only I will remain–”

The soldiers arrive in a burst of splintered doors and smooth movements; the one at the front, flanked by only two others clad in Atreides-tan armor, triggers some faint memory from a lost childhood.

He moves towards you in the sickeningly familiar stride, and it fills you with rage.

Duncan. Why did you wait so long?

It is too late. You lunge, snarling like the wild beast you've become; You fight, because that is the only thing you know how to do. It is the only thing you have left.

Your blade falls within minutes and you're taken by the man from your past not a minute after; you're on a ship, watching the black Opiuchi B disappear in an hour.

“My Lady.”

There is a buzzing downfall of drizzling rain that slides over the umbrella’s spine above you. The air here is thicker, laced in salt and terra; the voice snaps your mind back to the ground. Wind whips the veil draped over your head as you step forward stiffly, arms sore and eyes heavy.

The dress you wear, salvaged from your family's old castle, is dusty and pressed.

It clings to your skin, drowns you, as the rain falls. A staff of House Atreides holds the umbrella above you, shielding the intricate detailing inlaid along the trim of the dress as you walk.

The dress upon your shoulders is as tight a cage as the one you inhabited on Geidi Prime; and though it was an effort of good intentions, the Atreides' insistence of providing you with the necessities for you to perform your Sabberon's traditional customary mourning rituals has left you with a prickled spine and a saturation of spite bleeding into your heart.

Your family may be gone, but the ghosts of their deeds remain with you; a hard goodbye to give when you alone remain to pay for their transgressions. Still, you have found yourself draped with the veil, the dresses, the jewelry; you, alone on a strange planet with the symbols of their crimes, of their betrayals, of their poisoned love. It's what they would have wanted.

It is a death march from the hangar into the covered acceptance hall – banners of Hawks climb high towards the ragged cliffs, whipping and cerulean in the afternoon light. And ahead, stoic and proud, the members of House Atreides await you.

Your hands brush against the dark velvet – a texture you have not felt in years. It is odd, you notice, to catch the light of your skin not wrapped completely in black fabric; It has been many years, too, since you found yourself in green.

It is with a prickled glance that you slow your pace behind Duncan Idaho – the man turns and glances at you when you begin to ascend towards the House members, but you can't bear the look of unfamiliarity that flickers over him when he looks at you now. Your chin remains high, your eyes over the line of cliff climbing towards the sky.

Duncan, after these years, still looks the same – perhaps less tall, but that has more to do with your growth than his own; You, however, are not the same girl he last saw on Sabberon. Your hackles raised, your talons flexed within your palms: A coiling beast of hatred backed into a corner.

There is a coastline far beyond the hangar – and it calls to you quietly; a vast thing, cerulean, cold, and deep. You’d been otherwise occupied when the ship entered atmo to Caladan this afternoon; the sea remains something only within your mind, a figment whispering of golden lips and curling tides in the corners of your dreams.

An urge strikes you as you begin to ascend the stone stairs towards the welcoming party; and subtly, you crane your neck outwards to catch a glimpse of that sea – a crashing call in the distance, the circle of gulls cutting through the clouded rainfall. But there is no ocean within sight; only jagged cliffs which rocket hundreds of feet above or drop off sharp below.

Duncan stops just before you; Your spine straightens once more, vision concealed in hues of pine and evergreen as you take in the retinue standing before you.

Duke Leto Atreides at the center; a man with peppered age, a tall pride and commanding stare – beside him, a woman in a gown of the same deep cerulean – Lady Jessica.

A flood of knowing penetrates you the moment your eyes find hers; through the veil she stares at you, before flicking her sight beyond you, to the Reverend Mother who’d travelled with your retinue as per High Court orders. A voice curls in the back of your mind, stalling your heartbeat for a slow moment. Hello, sister.

Your lips purse as you look to the right, stood tall next to Lady Jessica; a boy intense in stare and proud in ceremonial uniform, eyes already awaiting your gaze with a sharp curiosity. Paul Atreides.

The son to whom you're now destined.

Even from your obstructed vision, there is no hiding such sharply beautiful features – a sculpted visage kissed with a smattering of freckles from the Caladan sun, pale from the weather; a curve of pouted lips, full, furrowed brows – curled dark locks and eyes wide and just as penetrating as his mother's. A properly handsome heir, you allow your heart's skip; But Maker, you realize as he solemnly watches your veil shift in the breeze, those eyes are so green.

And most peculiar – within them, there is no hunger; nor hatred, no inkling of emotion besides a giveaway twitch of curiosity in the dragging gaze over your shrouded form. Some ancient stirring in your chest, a hibernated anger, a desire to bare teeth towards such an unassuming and altruistic stare – though you do no such thing, remaining balanced upon your feet and tense with the coiled hibernation of an awaiting serpent.

There are eyes upon you with each movement of breath from your chest, and it stirs your fear in a way you’ve not felt in a long time.

It was easy to go unseen with the Harkonnens; by nature of arrogance and brashness, they paid no mind to the girl hiding around the shadows, slinking through the halls with a dark stare but blood that still bleeds green. The Atreides are no fools, and you are not one to think so; where Harkonnen honor lacks, Atreides honor flows in abundance. Though still, any such action that might come from a place of intrinsic value sets your teeth to edge.

The Great Houses of the Landsraad have charged you to leave your nest of shadows, and you have done so. You have been shipped to a new world, a new chain to which you will forever be shackled.

You have learned to find the betrayal of emotion that lingers within the stare of men like Feyd-Rautha and Vladimir Harkonnen – the hunger, the greed, the danger; you have learned to sharpen your edges with the blade of their power, and you know now what your place in this galaxy must be.

And yet, Paul Atreides: His stare betrays no emotion but duty; a foreign thing to you in these times, though as you scrutinize the twitch of his brow or the brush of eyelashes against cheek, you find yourself struck wary and off-balance.

He does not have that wolfish hunger in his stare that you’ve come to know – in truth, if not for the boyish pout of his pink lips and his freshly-shaven jaw, you might have dared mistake him for his father; A Duke.

You might have remained in your study of your betrothed if not for the echoing voice of Duke Leto speaking your name. A snap of your gaze towards the man in front of you as he nods warmly, “Welcome.”

It is an effort to bow in return to him, wincing through your stiffened muscles as your headpiece chimes with your movements.

“We are honored to welcome you to Caladan.” It is an exceedingly polite, humane tone with which he addresses you; you, a stranger who has been delivered from the protection (which itself might even be a laughable term) of their sworn enemy.

Though despite the sincerity, you find yourself struck with a stinging embarrassment: There is no honor to your presence, not anymore.

It gives you a moment to gather your expression, however hidden behind the veil it may be – perhaps they can't quite make out your face, but Lady Jessica watches closely. She sees.

You take a sharp breath, swallowing away the lump of emotion in your throat.

“Thank you, Duke Leto.” It is steel which grinds the melodically polite veneer of your voice; and without a hesitation you turn to greet the Lady of the House.

“Lady Jessica, it is a pleasure.”

In response you are offered a smile as warm as the Duke’s voice; there is a flicker of understanding which floats along the line of blue in her irises, and it compels you to continue, “Thank you for welcoming me to your home,” You finish, hoping the steely reflection within your voice does not bleed unto the other ears.

The rain falls quietly overhead, sliding over the high-drawn ceiling of the open acceptance hall. “We understand that these are trying times,” Lady Jessica begins; your legs feel weakened in a moment of shortened breath, though she finishes in a quiet nod. “We are relieved to have you on Caladan.”

The spin of worldchange has caught up with you at the reminder of such trying times – a day and a half’s travel between systems behind you, and yet the deaths of your family meet you still with a fresh sickness of shock each time you close your eyes. Your headdress chimes lightly when you bow your head once more in appreciation of her words.

The welcome feels rather intimate, in this moment – a retinue of four strong flanks behind you: Duncan Idaho, the Reverend Mother, and two Atreides soldiers; and before you stands the Duke and Lady, their Heir, and a party of five men in Atreides uniforms. Your eyes sweep them efficiently – no weapons; a surprising show of trust, knowing who indeed you have just been delivered from the clutches of.

Perhaps they'd thought they'd be taking in some injured little dove; a cooing thing, wings clipped and battered by the ferocious boy who'd gifted her with a knife plunged between her ribs on her eighteenth nameday. A bitter thought.

The scar that lies just below your breast on your right side is not a reminder, but instead fate carved into flesh – it does not ache; it hums with the echoes of pain grown to purpose.

It echoes of the months spent thrown into a pit under the glaring black sun; Not the arena that rang in the end of your family, no – this pit is smaller, with one large seat for the na-Baron himself; one not with a crowd of vicious jeering but with drugged concubines and slaves clutching blades to service his na-Baroness.

A place to watch his pets play.

Your eyes glance to the curved wounds scabbed over your hands – little half moons, skies of pain, etched into the palms of your hands. Destruction: the only thing you and Feyd-Rautha may have ever had in common.

Unfortunately, you endured; a hard lesson, to live with Harkonnens, to be one of them – and with a clip of fear, you worry you may never be able to unlearn.

It has been long enough for a bout of thunder to rumble up in the heavens above; you turn to the young man who stands next to Lady Jessica.

Your betrothed watches you in a peculiar tilt of head – subtle, but analytical; a gaze so green you have to look away, nodding slightly as you speak once more. “My Lord,” your heart thuds in your chest uncomfortably, wondering if he, too, will be as displeased as Feyd so often was when you spoke to him; though Paul does not so much as move as he inhales softly, eyes coasting over your jaded silhouette.

“My Lady.” He returns the formality with a voice much softer than expected; your heart is struck with a cool unease, distrust tightening its clutches around your throat.

A silent moment hangs thick between you; it is only then that you see the tense coil of Paul’s shoulders – surely a mirror of your own. Defiance, your mind tells you. Though Duncan Idaho’s voice cuts through your observations quickly. “We have much to discuss.”

Cutting to the chase, as always; you are relieved for the attention to fall off your presence as you let out a short exhale. “Yes–” though the Duke lifts a brow, eyes caught on the lump of gauze which wraps around Duncan’s bicep, concealed by his uniform. “–Idaho, Do you need to see treatment?” He questions the Swordsman.

As Duncan laughs, your shoulders tense; and before you can consider some quieter death, he begins to speak. “No. Harkonnen blades are sharp – but so are Lady Bourbon's nails.”

It is immediate, the prickling of eyes which befall you from all sides, and a heated stare from your betrothed that you steadfastly ignore for the sake of glaring at Duncan. There is a smirk growing on his lips as the Swordsman addresses you. “You fight differently than I remember, Little Bourbon.”

An old nickname, unearthed from the catacombs of the life you once lived in the wintered palace of Sabberon; a nickname so cherished in your youth and so foreign now that it knocks the air from your chest. Resentment curls within you at the warmth upon his tongue.

The shame floods you just as fast as the pride does, and in the aftermath, you stand just as rigid as before, hands clenched into the velvet of your skirt, seething under your veil.

There is no hiding the shock upon the Atreides' countenances; before them stands some monster, some savagery wrapped up in a gown and a pretty smile hidden beneath a veil.

It had been a habit – rabid hounds don't tuck tail when cornered, do they?

Nonetheless, you smile tight behind the veil, trying not to think of the life you've just left – of what cold life lies ahead.

When you respond, your voice is frigid. “It has been a long time, Duncan.” You muse; Paul’s piercing gaze of green penetrates the veil, but you ignore him.

“Threats demand evolution.”

The rain is gone into mist by the next day.

It rolls in fog along the moors outside, taunting an echo of tides far below the castle – in the morning room, forks scrape over blue-plated China. A grandfather clock lives in the corner; the seconds pass in quiet, insistent ticks.

A cleared throat, a swallow of water – air blown across a plane of steeped tea.

Your eyes burn from exhaustion.

To your relief, your arrival last evening held no such time for small talk – you were whisked away by the service staff to make sure your quarters were comfortable; in the minutes you’d been given to yourself, you’d found the clothing of a former life – dresses, tops and trousers of yourself, your sisters and your mother; the dressings salvaged from the Castle on Sabberon in the week leading up to the trial at Harko Arena.

All washed thrice of soot and rubble, hanging in wait of your touch within the wardrobes in the room. A sickening feeling had haunted you the moment you’d slipped your mother’s old ceremonial ferronnière and hair chain; the reflection of your stare in the mirror resembling too close the sharp gaze of her own. And that feeling had lingered in the shadows of your room still as you shut away the diadem of gold and emerald, the gowns, the old trousers your sister would wear to ritual; your eyes, burning along the skyline in the distance as you locked the wardrobe with trembling fingers.

Late in the evening, you'd attended a meeting in a small conference hall.

There, sat across from Paul, Masters of War and Swords and Strategy, a Mentat, and Lady Jessica, the Duke had asked you questions, ensuring you were not harmed – and perhaps more importantly, trying to ensure there was no malicious intent to your presence. It was in your sleepy haze you first detected the twitching motions of Lady Jessica's hands, the flicking gazes of the others as your voice carried to them. A war language, you’d realized quite quick. They think I am lying.

You'd only been there for ten minutes before you were escorted by a handmaid back to your chambers, where you sat without rest through the night.

Truthfully, you're breaking fast this morning with Lady Jessica and Lord Paul out of courtesy; You were up far before the sun had teased the horizon this morning, staring emotionless at the ghost who stood in the corner of your new chambers.

He is not a new visitor; in the hazy world between waking and dreaming, you’re well used to the ghost – how he smirks by the foot of your mattress, whispering with sharp teeth, with sweet memories, with promises of blood and pain. You’d grown used to his presence, and you’d remained upright for most of the night – until something moved in the corner of your vision, and you screamed.

That had woken one of the servants.

She came in with her head tilted down, holding a pitcher of water; you asked her to stay.

Her name is Hestia; close enough in age if not younger, as she must be merely twenty – the silence was hesitant but not wholly unpleasant as she’d sat, wary but willing as you shared the pot of tea brought for you.

It wasn't until she'd brought you breakfast a few minutes later that you realized the staff must have been informed of your ancestral customs before your arrival – she said nothing as you ate silently, staring out towards the coast of rocky cliffs and rolling moors you could just barely make out from your chamber windows. She’d helped silently to smooth your hair under your veil as you’d drawn it in preparation to leave the room; and with a beat of hesitance, you’d almost admitted to her you did not wish to wear it.

Now, you sit quite similarly; hands perched in your lap, tea in front of you untouched as the food on your plate.

Your future husband sits across the table from you – with a motion sluggish and ruminating, he pushes the omelet around on his fork. You find the boyishly restless knee from Paul, one which shakes the table just slightly, jilting your glass full of water.

A polite and quiet conversation follows; some throw off observation of the weather this coming week, how you seem to have brought the sunshine – a comment that makes both you and your betrothed share a sharp glance; heat following the sudden shared connection.

Efforts to bring you into such discussions are met with your polite, quiet words – and after a short time, a woman enters and whispers something to the Lady at the end of the table. Nodding, Lady Jessica takes her leave with a pointed look at Paul, suggesting he might escort you around the castle to settle you in.

Some cold dread licks its way up your spine, though you force yourself to nod – to adapt. “–If you have time, my Lord, I'd appreciate it.”

He seems equally pricked by his mother’s suggestion, though he hides it quite well – a quiet, chivalrous demeanor suits his striking features, and you find your distrust mounting in some self-preserving effort.

Lady Jessica’s leave brings a gust of air through the morning room, and soon you’re met with the scent of forest; a warm soap, sharp with the efforts of Caladan’s bright ocean salt and wooded hills to the west that lingers upon his skin. Your face flushes in the heat of the sudden morning rays, exposed by a gap in the clouds.

It's silent for a few moments as only the two of you remain; Your food untouched, his half-eaten.

The wall behind Paul boasts an intricate geometric wall of wood and empty-space; a fascinating architectural choice which complements the beauty of Caladan’s moors – you find yourself intent on tracing each line laid before you, ignoring the glossy glint of Paul’s hair in foresight. In the silence of youthful discomfort, the quiet feels inescapable – until it isn’t.

“Are you one of them?”

His eyes trace you when you return to his visage. Them?

In a slow realization, it occurs to you that Paul might assume you are just as bald and sickly as each Harkonnen; that perhaps their soil, so poisoned, might have penetrated the evergreen veins that carry your life to each part of you – might have wilted the very things that make you so uniquely yourself.

You shake your head, thankful for the lack of chains upon the crown of your head today; you are not a Harkonnen, and you never will be.

Perhaps that would have been the preferred choice of words, but instead from your lips fall a curt sentence: “I have hair.”

In the morning light, you glance at the skin of your arm; The skin that boasts arm hair, none of the sickly pale skin that knew of no clean air nor healthy sunlight – your skin, glowing with real melanin and health.

It is a brash choice to speak with such frivolity; You'd not dare speak so freely on Geidi Prime – stars, you'd never have spoken this freely at home on Sabberon, either – but there is no home anymore.

And if you've learned one thing in your years since coming of age, it's that the Great and Noble Houses of the Landsraad are crawling with perjurers, fabricators; Paul is likely the same.

If the Atreides boy must be wed to you, you cannot help that; They can dress you, insist on your traditional customs – but you will not go down easy. No matter how cold the home, you can be colder – you are more than the bones which hold you up; crueller than the demons that kept you in their ghostly grip for four years.

Though at your words, Paul’s cheeks flush a peculiar pink – and his lip twitches in a momentary lapse of stoicism. A lost battle, it seems, as you are rewarded with a small, boyish grin flickering over his visage. “No,” he starts again, eyes penetrating your own somehow, even beneath the layers of green that wrap around you. His breath comes in a short exhale, “Not Harkonnen,” His elaboration grows quiet as he continues, “I meant…Bene Gesserit.”

Your stomach chills.

His eyes seem to know the words which whisper around your mind, and a faint sense of memory gnaws at the cage within your head. After only half a moment’s hesitation, you shake your head. “No, my Lord.”

It must be what he expected – he does not so much as blink; though a flicker of knowledge passes over his face and he closes off, eyes flashing.

You are – despite your resolve – coaxed by his expression to continue, “I suppose I was…” Your hand tugs the sleeve of your gown.

“–Or, I was supposed to be.”

Your tone, unemotional; Paul bites back the suspicion that climbs up his throat. He’s no fool; he saw the glances between his mother and you, however short – in those breaths, the buzzing of his mother’s whispers behind shut doors, her eyes quaking and steadfast in the same.

And, of course, the lapping memories of dreams upon a beach of consciousness; a face beneath a shroud, a whisper from golden lips, a pathway dimly lit and forked into the foggy horizon.

He stands when you rise from your seat.

The dress you wear is unlike any he’s seen outside of your culture’s books; a waterfall of emerald that pools and flows – some frozen-limbed weeping willow, kissing the face of a thawing lake. He offers an arm to you, and you loop yourself to him with only a breath of hesitation.

Your voice comes again from those lips so hidden behind the veil of pine. “I was supposed to be a lot of things.”

Your voice is undeniably beautiful; strong, cold, unwilling. Polite, yes – but calculating, aggressive. Coiled in a nest, watching, waiting to strike.

She tells the truth.

His mother had signaled during the council the night before a dissection of your honesty; Yet trust is a fragile thing, and as much as he places faith in Duncan and his father, the thought lingers of distrust.

He saw the claw marks you'd left upon Duncan; a man you've known since you were a young girl. By decree, Paul is now bound to you in marriage; but he has spent endless hours unraveling the Harkonnens — their cunning, their strategy, their thirst for power – and yet, according to Duncan, the Baron and his brutish nephew simply let you go, unscathed and unpursued.

It gnaws at him, such inexplicable mercy from a house that knows no such thing.

Paul’s wariness does not bleed through his posture, as indeed it does not with you: You walk with your chest out, back as straight as a soldier’s; your words are cordial, indifferent.

Halls pass as he murmurs a light overview of the castle’s history, introducing you to Houseworkers as you stop to greet them; he is rather surprised by your indifferent charm that seems to enrapture the workers and scare them all the same; he wonders, then, what this life will be like, when you become the Duchess and he Duke.

A revolt in his heart; one childish and quelled by duty and understanding – and by his father’s words, burnt sharp into his mind.

Duty often requires us to navigate paths we may not have chosen for ourselves, Paul. You may not always like her, but you will treat her with the respect and care befitting of a future wife.

Love may come to you in other ways. But you will marry her, you will respect her, and when the time comes, together you will sire an heir.

Outside the walls, it is quiet – the wind is calmed, the tide drawn by the looming moon in the morning sky; you and Paul share no more than one unintentional glance broken up by wind-warmed cheeks and a softly cleared throat.

It is not until he escorts you along a path that winds down out of your sights that he notices your change in demeanor. Beside him, you take a deep breath, footsteps faltering as you slow – a blink of concern until he follows the direction of your veil towards a clump of moss sprawled across the earth. Curiously, Paul slows to a stop beside you.

For a moment, you stare down at the dirt and fallen tree limbs, the grassy field and rocks; though as if an invisible string pulls you upwards, you snap your head, voice sheepish behind your veil. “Apologies, my Lord.” You start to turn, “I've read of plants like this, but never seen them before in person.”

It is an odd moment in which Paul comes to understand: He knows what Giedi Prime is like, and your homeworld, from what he's read in the books on Sabberon, is mostly Glaciers, forests, and high altitudes.

The notion of you finding interest in Caladan’s flora and fauna is as bizarre as it is endearing – and so instead of moving along, Paul bends to grasp a bit of moss from a fallen trunk.

Your veiled visage tracks him as he returns to his full height; The earthy dirt spreads between his nimble fingers, green and soft against his skin. You watch him silently, curiously.

“It absorbs up to twenty times its dry weight in water,” He explains in an echo of an old ecological lesson, pushing the spongy material with the nail of his thumb. “Banks of it grow just around the brackish tidepools below the castle.”

Your interest, piqued, causes your head to crane slightly from your small height – he can tell, even without seeing any part of your face, that you are fascinated; it brings him a moment of pride.

At his gesture towards the coastline just peeking below, you follow in a slow move of interest, breath coming soft from hidden lips. He watches the side of your silhouette flutter in the breeze. “Am I allowed to see?” You ask stiffly, arms hanging at your sides.

An odd request – one which penetrates any semblance of protectiveness for his homeworld and instead strikes alarm in his chest. What such monsters do you come from that you must ask such foolish questions?

He lets the moss fall back to the stump, brows furrowing. “You are to be Lady Atreides one day.” His voice does not reveal any hint of his resistance to this fact, and for this, he is grateful. “You do not have to ask permission to see your own land.” He finishes, cheeks warm with the insistence of the seabreeze and the alarm which still thuds through his heart.

You have grown quiet – in the rushing blow of wind, you are still as an evergreen.

The wind from the sea whips in misty breaths even this high; inky tresses swirl around his vision and are swept away by his own hand – there are no words from you for several very long breaths, in which you clear your throat.

“I…do not feel well.” Your voice is sudden, thick with some hint of insistence – though your spine does not bend, it does not yield; a small breath as your head cranes up. Paul sees a glint of eyes through the ripple of green. “Please, if you would excuse me.”

It is not below Paul to entertain your fib – for your sake, sure; but rather for the growing weight of bitterness that festers in his chest each time he thinks of what is to come. Paul escorts you to your chambers in a tense silence that echoes only the footfalls and the swishing of velveted fabric.

You slip into your chambers with a polite and half-whispered thanks to his looming frame. Paul watches the fabric of your dress curl around the corner as the door shuts.

Upon his return to his own quarters, Paul catches Hestia; a girl known long before she began working for the House. He requests she bring you some bread and cheese, and send Dr. Yueh to check on you once more.

An insistent tapping grates in his mind as he stalks the corridor towards his rooms; a clock from halls away, ticking away the seconds – hands clench, flex; an itching shiver down his spine as he turns corner towards his chambers. A flicker of green around the corner just across the hall sends his stomach to tense, stilling in a moment of suspicion; hackles raised, Paul blinks away paranoia as a Houseworker trims a houseplant. A hand swipes over his visage, massaging his eyes.

Threats demand evolution.

The memory of your voice pierces his thoughts – and without a second thought, he turns heel and makes towards the training room, fingers itching for a blade.

follow @sandpoet for notifications & updates.

#the more i edit this story #the more i see the leaking traits of house Stark #its so awkward #i would NEVER be in that fandom!#<- me when i lie #paul atreides x you #paul atredies x reader #dune fanfiction #dune 2021 #dune movie #dune part one #paul atreides x reader #paul atreides fanfic #paul atreides smut

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mywhisperingwords · 3 days ago

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the truth always comes out | george f. weasley

summary: a game of truth and dare with a little twist word count: 1.2k masterlist

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with the kind of reckless energy that could only come from a group of seventh-years who had long since stopped caring about rules.

Outside, a thunderstorm rattled the windows, but inside, the fire crackled warmly, casting golden light over the cozy chaos of Honeydukes wrappers, Butterbeer bottles, and a pack of Exploding Snap cards smoldering on the coffee table.

George Weasley was sprawled across an armchair like a king holding court, his long legs stretched out in front of him as he flicked a Chocolate Frog wrapper at Lee Jordan’s head.

You were sitting cross-legged on the rug, half-listening to Fred recount yet another tale of mischief involving Filch and a bucket of undetectable swamp goo.

Your laughter came easily, but your attention kept wandering to George.

He looked especially unfair tonight—the firelight catching in his messy hair, his crooked grin lighting up his face every time someone laughed at one of his jokes. It was infuriating how effortlessly charming he was.

And it didn’t help that you’d been harboring a not-so-small crush on him for the last couple of years.

But you kept it hidden, afraid of what would happen if he’d find out about it. The two of you were friends—nothing more.

“Alright, alright!” Fred clapped his hands, dragging you back to the present. “Let’s shake things up a bit, shall we?”

Lee raised an eyebrow. “What’s your grand idea this time? Another one of your ‘genius’ inventions that turns us all into canaries?”

Fred grinned wickedly and reached into his bag. “Better.” He pulled out a small vial of clear liquid, holding it up dramatically.

Your stomach sank. “Fred, is that—?”

“Veritaserum!” Fred declared triumphantly.

The group erupted into chaos.

“Where the hell did you get that?” Angelina demanded, crossing her arms.

“Let’s just say Professor Snape is a bit careless with his potion stores,” Fred said smugly.

“You’re going to get us all expelled,” Alicia groaned.

“Only if we get caught,” Fred said cheerfully. “Which we won’t.” He plopped the vial onto the table. “Now, who’s ready for the most honest game of truth or dare you’ll ever play?”

“Absolutely not,” you said immediately.

“Absolutely yes,” George countered, smirking down at you. “What’s the matter? Scared someone’s going to dig up your deep, dark secrets?”

You glared up at him. “I have nothing to hide.”

“Prove it.”

Damn him and his stupid grin.

The rules were simple: each player took a drop of Veritaserum before their turn. If you chose “truth,” you had no choice but to answer honestly. If you chose “dare,” you were still at the mercy of the potion—it would compel you to follow through.

You quickly discovered that this was both hilarious and deeply dangerous.

Fred was the first victim. Lee dared him to serenade McGonagall’s portrait, and despite Fred’s protests, he found himself kneeling before the painting, belting out a completely off-key rendition of Can You Feel the Love Tonight.

“Points for commitment,” Angelina said, stifling a laugh as McGonagall’s painted self scowled down at Fred.

Next up was Alicia, who admitted under duress that she once accidentally walked into the boys’ dormitory wearing nothing but a towel and had been hiding from the twins ever since.

Then it was your turn.

You took the drop of Veritaserum with a sigh, feeling the potion settle like warm honey in your chest. Fred leaned forward with a gleam in his eye.

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” you said, because you weren’t stupid.

Fred grinned. “Who was your first kiss?”

Heat rose to your cheeks. “That’s easy. Michael Corner. Fourth year. It was awkward and terrible.”

The room erupted into laughter.

“Michael Corner?” George snorted. “Did he even know how to kiss back then?”

“Barely,” you admitted, rolling your eyes. “I spent the whole time wondering if it was supposed to feel like I was kissing a wet sponge.”

George was laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair.

As the game went on, the questions and dares got bolder.

Angelina dared Lee to wear a full set of Gryffindor Quidditch robes while reciting lines from Romeo and Juliet. Alicia admitted she once nicked a bottle of Firewhiskey from Hogsmeade and replaced it with water, leaving an unsuspecting Filch none the wiser.

And then it was George’s turn.

He took his drop of Veritaserum like a champ, winking at you as he did.

“Truth or dare?” Fred asked, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Truth,” George said easily.

Fred’s grin turned downright evil. “Who do you fancy?”

George’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment. His eyes flicked to you, then away.

“I…” He hesitated, his hands gripping the arms of his chair as though physically restraining himself.

“Come on, Georgie,” Fred teased. “We’re all waiting.”

George groaned. “Fine. I fancy—” He stopped again, his jaw tightening as his gaze drifted to you.

“Spit it out!” Lee said.

“I fancy you!” George blurted, his face going crimson.

Your heart stopped.

The room exploded into cheers and gasps.

“You what?” you managed to choke out.

George looked mortified, running a hand through his hair. “I—I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

Your cheeks burned as every eye in the room turned to you. “You fancy me?”

Everything about this felt like a dream, too good to be true.

“Yes,” George said miserably. “I have for ages.”

Fred let out a low whistle. “Well, this just got interesting.”

You did not know what to say. If it wasn’t for the truth serum, you could’ve sworn this was all just a stupid joke. But it wasn’t.

Everyone’s eyes were watching your next move, but all you could do was stare at George with disbelief.

The awkwardness didn’t last long—Fred saw to that by immediately daring George to snog you.

“Fred!” you yelped, your face burning.

“What? It’s only fair!” Fred said, grinning.

To your utter shock, George didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, cupping your face gently as he watched your reaction carefully. When you didn’t pull away, he kissed you. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, your heart racing as you kissed him back, all the tension and unspoken feelings between you finally bubbling to the surface.

When he pulled away, his cheeks were pink, but his grin was pure mischief.

“Worth it,” he said.

The room erupted into wolf whistles and applause, and for once, you didn’t mind being the center of attention.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of laughter and ridiculous dares. By the time the fire burned low and the last drops of Veritaserum were used up, you found yourself curled up next to George on the rug, his arm slung casually around your shoulders.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear, “this might be the best night I’ve ever had.”

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder. “I’d hope so.”

When he laughed softly in your ear, you knew that this was exactly where you were meant to be.

#harry potter #fic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagine #weasley twins #imagine #weasley #george weasley x you #george weasley x y/n #george weasly x reader #george weasley fluff #george weasley imagine #george fic #george weasley fanfiction #george weasley

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holmesianlove · 2 days ago

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Chapter 29 - Music

John woke, alone, in Sherlock’s bed, momentarily confused by the situation and then the memory of last night came back in a flurry. They had kissed, and then kissed some more and… well, one thing had led to some more very nice things and Sherlock had demanded John stay close. And John had no problem obliging, now that he knew he wasn’t imagining things. Now that he knew Sherlock felt the same.

He could hear Sherlock playing his violin out in the lounge. Music filled the apartment. It sounded much happier than his usual mournful music. Hopefully, it was good thinking music, and not regret-filled music. Or “I wish John would go back to his own bed” music.

John got up and pulled his T-shirt on with his boxers, wandering down the hall to find out. Sherlock turned and smiled, a beautiful, content smile at John and stopped playing. John sighed with relief and moved closer to place a kiss to those lips again and Sherlock was very happy to receive it.

“Aren’t you supposed to be heading to the train?” John asked.

“I cancelled.”

“Oh, Sherlock. No—“

“It’s fine John, it’s already done,” Sherlock said, with a little wave of his hand.

“But you should—“

“It’s done,” Sherlock said firmly.

“I’ve come along before. And they did invite me. Did you want me to—“

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “Mycroft would know the second he saw us and there is no way I’m giving him a shot at spoiling this in the first twenty-four hours,” he sighed.

John had to admit he agreed with the assessment, although he felt terrible that Sherlock now wouldn’t go and see his family at Christmas, as originally planned. He opened his mouth to argue.

“Nope. You’re stuck with me today, I’m afraid,” Sherlock said, with a twinkle in his eye. He put his violin down and pulled John in closer.

John smiled back at him. “Oh dear whatever shall we do?” he asked, suggestively.

Sherlock couldn’t help chuckling, deep in his chest. “I can think of a few things.”

God, that sound was incredible.

“If any of them involve dead bodies, I’m going to your parents’ house without you,” John scoffed.

“Not a chance,” Sherlock said, pulling John close to kiss him.

The very best surprise of this whole thing, had been that, aside from having an incredible chemistry with each other, and experiencing the excitement of realising they felt the same way about each other, the reality was that Sherlock was still very much Sherlock. And John could just be John. It was like this physical addition to their relationship was simply an extension of what they had already built together. Sherlock Holmes kissed like a bloody expert, and John had the confidence and swagger required to lead someone as head strong as Sherlock, who simultaneously lacked some experience, sexually. But all in all, when they were together, it was as if they had been a couple all along and this was just simply an extension of things. John could finally understand what everyone had seen between them, because it was absolutely there, and had always been there. They had just finally lifted a curtain that had hidden some information. Sherlock and John were still very much Sherlock and John, just a little friskier. And that, was a huge relief to John.

“I’m going to make some tea,” he sighed happily, reluctantly removing himself from Sherlock’s arms to walk to the kitchen.

“Yoo-hoo!”

“Hudders!” Sherlock cried out, enthusiastically.

“I thought I’d just invite you both down for a spot of Christmas lunch this afternoon. I know we’d spoken about it briefly, John, but I thought I’d formally invite you. We can celebrate the good news,” she said.

“Good news?” John asked, walking out of the kitchen to see her.

“You two finally getting yourselves sorted,” she said with a wink.

“Mrs Hudson how…?” John asked.

“How soundproof do you think these apartments are, dear?” she simply stated, with a look that made John blush profusely. “No need to be embarrassed. I’ve lived. It doesn't bother me. I’m just pleased. And if I know this one he will want to avoid the family and hole up here with you alone now,” she said, of Sherlock. “But you’ll need your sustenance too, and I have a roast beef that is too big for me.”

John closed his eyes, trying to adjust to the idea of Mrs Hudson listening in. “Well... thank you,” he managed to say.

“One P.M., don’t be late,” she said, and already started walking out of the apartment.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock said, from the side of the room.

“Well that was embarrassing,” John said, planted to the spot with humiliation.

Sherlock smiled and moved over to him to kiss him again, to reassure him. “I think it’s perfect. Everything feels just right.”

John looked up at his detective and smiled back. “It does, doesn’t it?”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Sherlock agreed.

“Right then. Tea?” John asked brightly.

“Please,” Sherlock replied, giving him one more kiss before he let go.

“Done. Now go back to your music. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I hope it was happy thoughts inspiring your playing?” he asked a little nervously.

“The very best, John,” he simply said. He returned to his violin and this time he played the Bach that John liked while their tea was being made.

As John stood in the kitchen he smiled to himself, remembering last night. He felt sure that this thing with Sherlock was all he needed. All he wanted. But he had felt that way once before and been very wrong and suddenly his stomach started to churn. What if they did this thing and it went sour? What if they weren’t actually suited to one another and then he would have spectacularly miscalculated and not only lost a partner but lost his best friend and a roof over his head. Was he being reckless by jumping into this with Sherlock?

The thoughts plagued him as he brought the tea out and settled onto the sofa. Sherlock put down his violin and came to sit beside John. They drank their tea in silence for a while, John thinking he was doing an excellent job of hiding his thoughts by staying silent.

“I’m not him,” Sherlock finally said. “I’m not going to—“

“It’s ok.” John cut him off uncomfortably.

Sherlock grabbed John’s tea from his hand and put both cups on the coffee table. “No, John, listen,” he said firmly. "You really are terrible at just listening." He turned to face John, popping a leg up onto the sofa to face John properly and grab John’s hands in his. “When I said all the things I said about love in the past, it was because a great many people proved to me what a weakness it can be. Just as they have done to you. But then I met you.” He smiled. “And for a while there, I hated love, but only because I knew I loved you and you weren’t going to return it. Or so I thought. It was a protective layer I placed upon myself. Just like when you announced repeatedly that you were not gay. Protection, John. And I don’t need to know… as a matter of fact I don’t want to know what Alex did or didn’t do. It’s irrelevant to me. But I can promise you, whatever he did that made you think people would just hurt you… I promise you I won’t be that. I’m not him, John. I am going to make a great many mistakes because I’m me, but you’ve seen me at my worst already. So you know that. But I won’t be him. And we can just be... us. And you can stop hiding and second guessing and running. I’m right here as I’ve always been for as long as you’ve known me. And I won’t be going anywhere.”

John sighed and pulled Sherlock in for the most tender of kisses.

“Now come back to bed. I wasn't actually done with you yet,” Sherlock said and they both laughed at him being flirtatious.

“The tea…”

“Really John?” Sherlock asked.

“No, you’re right. You’re right. The tea can wait. I’m all yours,” John said.

“Yes, yes you are,” Sherlock sighed, the sound full of contentment, and he took John’s hand to lead him back to the bedroom.

@lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @totallysilvergirl @221beloved @safedistancefrombeingsmart

@givemesherbet-blog-blog @naefelldaurk @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @peanitbear

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#sherlockbbc #bbc sherlock #sherlock fandom #johnlock #fanfic #angsty #ao3 fanfic #sherlock holmes #john watson #holidaze2024 #December Prompts

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sgiandubh · 1 day ago

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For calm winter afternoons:Τεμπελόπιτα (tembelopita) or Epirote lazy pie

This is one of the easiest Greek recipes you will ever find. Requires zero cooking proficiency and takes a flash to make and bake. The result is so satisfactory, it quickly became a go-to solution when you don't feel like baking, but still crave a good savory treat.

It hails from Epirus, a coastal region of North-Western Greece. On this basic map, it's colored in orange:

Epirus is nowadays one of the poorest regions of Greece, but two thousand years ago it was anything but. It's also smack dab in the middle of the coastal Balkans, and that makes it a hub for all the cultural influences you can imagine: Turkish, Italian/Venetian (see the island of Corfu -red arrow - one of my favorite places in the world), Albanian and even Vlach (a sensitive topic I shall not dwell upon). Those two traits explain why its local cuisine is very close to the concept of cucina povera (tasty treats out of virtually nothing) and features some unusual, but still easy, baking techniques. For instance, pies are seldom made with phyllo dough, which makes the whole process considerably easier.

I found this recipe during my first month of posting to Athens, in the gastronomy supplement of I Kathimerini, the highly respected Greek daily we all loved to use for our dispatches ;). I whimsically made it for the first time for a New Year's last minute invitation. It was a roaring success and remained a firm staple in our home, I usually make around the same date (for New Year's Day, it's always, always Pasta Perestroika/Penne alla vodka).

For this tembelopita (this makes me smile, because in Romanian, we borrowed the word tembel from the Greek τεμπελό/lazy, except it means 'idiot'), you will need:

1 3/4 cups (400 grams) flour; 1 cup (250 ml) milk; 2 cups (500 ml) cold water; one egg; 2 yolks (separate); 1/3 cup (80 ml) EVOO; 1 cup (300 grams) feta cheese; 1/3 cup butter (directly from the fridge!); salt, pepper, onion powder, dried mint, cayenne - your pick.

Line a sheet pan with baking paper, slightly oiled with a bit of EVOO (use the corner of a soaked paper towel, it works wonders). Place tray in the cold oven, start heating it at about500 Fahrenheit (250 Celsius) with the tray inside - no more than five minutes!

In a big bowl, loosely mix the flour with the milk (at room temperature), add the water - mix the whole until just incorporated. Add the egg, the EVOO and the seasoning.

Take out the tray from the oven, immediately pour the above mixture into the heated pan.

Sprinkle over it the feta cheese (coarsely crumbled, using a fork or even your hands - the chunkier, the better). Make sure you cover the entire surface of the tray.

In another small bowl, beat lightly the two yolks, pour evenly over the entire surface of the tray. End up with the cubed cold butter spread evenly.

Bake for 45-50 minutes until the edges are burned (I am dead serious) or at least golden brown. Take out, let cool, cut and devour.

It should look like this:

Tip: if the feta is very salted, skip the salt. You can also combine with a bit of grated cheddar (or Gouda, or Edam, or Manchego...), for enhanced flavor. In that case, add the second cheese immediately after the feta - but it's going to be your own version of the tembelopita, still glorious. ;)

You are welcome.

#cookery #Greek #country-style #cucina povera #savory treats #winter

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mariaofdoranelle · 2 days ago

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Stay a Little Longer - part 3

Fic masterlist

Written for @tomtenadia as part of the 2024 Rowaelin secret Santa!

In the last scene, I used some lines from canon and mixed it with my own! Hope you guys like it <3

Warnings: Implied sexual content

Words: 4,5k

The explosion erupted with a thundering roar, overpowering the hiss of the water as flames blinded the view of the target and engulfed the air with heat.

It was only their second meeting, and Rowan had given up on fixing his hair after the explosions. Aelin also noted that the targets were progressively getting less hard—the blocks of ice increasingly bigger, and her goal went from slowly melting it to merely making sure he saw some of the water before it evaporated.

“You should take a break. I’ll reinforce the magic barriers in the meantime,” he said.

Every day, he did it repeatedly. As if it meant nothing that Aelin’s magic could wreck barriers this strong in a few blows.

In fact, in all her clumsy explosivity, Rowan had never shied away from her magic—he seemed to be almost drawn to it, which made her relieved and scared at the same time. Relieved because, after witnessing so many people become terrified of her after displaying her magic, her name was thrown around in a way that portrayed her as either a god or a monster—but not with Rowan. With Rowan, the first teacher who wasn’t even remotely scared of her, Aelin was just herself.

But what did it mean?

That’s the part that got her terrified. Because something—whether it was a bond or a tendon—snapped in that drawing room when their magics touched, and it was with the sole person in the world that felt completely at ease with her magic.

Rowan felt it too. He got the types of bond mixed up due to some physical attraction he might be feeling for her—could she blame him?—but he’d figure it out soon.

In desperate need of a deviation from her own thoughts, Aelin said, “It’s hard to believe you’re this patient in the military.”

“That’s because I’m not. My mate gets a special treatment.”

“Would you stop?”

“The bond will still be there whether I stop or not, Princess.” Rowan tilted his head and stopped his work to peer at her. Something about her expression made him sigh. “But you’re not comfortable.”

“I’m not comfortable because we’re not mated.”

Rowan nodded, and a flash of disappointment and longing passed in his eyes, quicker than she could register, and he said, “I shall stop, then.”

The ache in her chest felt foreign, since he was finally granting her wishes. Aelin just wanted for Prince Rowan to forget about this without hurting him in the process.

“C’mere,” she said, tapping the patch of floor beside her. “In your many, many years, have you ever met a mated demi-Fae?”

“Just once, this couple from Mistward,” Rowan said as he sat next to her. “But my experience in Doranelle isn’t a good standard. I hear that things are less… segregated in Terrasen. Better.”

She frowned. “You guys truly don’t mingle with demi-Fae?”

“That issue is both social and personal, I’m afraid. Indeed, the demi-Fae that are allowed inside Doranelle don’t get to frequent the same places I usually do—which are among the high command of the military and in sporadical nobility parties my family coerces me to attend. With that in mind, I don’t mingle,” he said, using the exact wording of her question, “I constantly avoid social interactions—full-blooded or demi-Fae.” He sighed at her aghast expression. “Therefore, the only demi-Fae I see on a daily basis, unfortunately, is Lorcan.”

Doranelle’s one and only Grand General, while Rowan was “just” a regular general.

“Unfortunately because you’re from a deeply prejudiced land, or because you don’t wish to interact with Lorcan?”

“Both.”

“I see.” Aelin blinked, her gaze unfocused as she processed what she heard. She knew what the demi-Fae’s situation was in Doranelle, but it was always presented to her during meetings, as an statistic. Listening to Rowan’s point-of-view on the matter felt like a punch to the gut—while Aelin herself was a queen in the making, the kitchens were the furthest her own people could get inside Doranelle’s castle.

Once more, Aelin was glad she wasn’t Prince Rowan’s mate. As decent as he appeared to be, she did not want to be associated with the likes of him—personally or politically.

Aelin straightened, her chin high as she snarked, “At least you have a diversity token. I guess being the most powerful demi-Fae male alive is enough for Maeve to look past his unclean blood.”

Rowan shifted, still sat on the floor, his eyes careful as he analyzed Aelin’s expression. “To ensure there’s no misunderstanding…” he trailed, “I’m throughly repulsed by Maeve’s policies against the demi-Fae—which Sellene is already rectifying.”

“Oh, yes, and I’m throughly moved by your silent disagreement.”

His eyebrows rose up. “I beg your pardon?”

It hadn’t been even half an hour after Rowan’s calming exercise, but she could already feel the agitated fire beneath her skin, boiling the blood in her veins from indignation alone.

“How dare you imply that you were not complacent, in your mulberry silk tunic that was most likely stitched by an overworked demi-Fae seamstress. Your aunt,” Aelin spat the word, “built an empire founded on the exploitation and degradation of people like me, and yet you want me to believe you’d ever spare me a second glance, were it not for my title?”

“I would.”

She frowned, trying to see through that fog of anger. “What?”

“You doubted I’d look at you twice, and I’m telling you I would.” Rowan sighed. “As an unessential prince with no decision-making power,” he said with a pointed look, “I find it most practical to make changes from within. Small and well-measured acts of rebellion tend to be the most effective when you’re close to the people actively making the decisions.”

Aelin examined his open expression and wondered if he was trying to deceive her, or if he truly believed himself. “But it was not you who rebelled against her, was it? Maeve was killed by the people you vowed and failed to protect.”

“I suppose she was.” Rowan locked his jaw, his eyes growing distant.

˜˜

Their next few encounters got a lot less awkward once Aelin got those opinions off her chest, thank Mala.

Once she had learned the basics when it came to intensity, range, aim and everything else, she asked to pick the lesson’s activity for once, just in time to get the materials ready before they met again at The Dueling Hall.

“Easy,” he warned when her flames got too hot, too fast.

“Hush.” Aelin wiped the sweat off her brow, fatigue weighing down her limbs each minute she had to keep the flames at a controlled and gradually higher intensity—she wasn’t melting ice anymore, the stakes were too high. “I’ve got it under control, you Buzzard.”

“The same way you did when you shattered my mug?”

Aelin rolled her eyes at him, and her flames got involuntarily higher after his jab, making a shard blow off her candle holder, ruining its practical use.

She groaned and tossed it aside, along with the other overburnt ceramics. “This one was your fault. Don’t suffocate the artist!”

“It was useless before you ruined it. You’re a fire-wielder. You don’t need candles. Why on earth would you make a candle holder?”

“Because I have the fire, not the scented beeswax.”

“I’m not following.”

“You’ve never lit up a scented candle before? Those ones that release a fragrance when you light them up.”

Rowan stared at her, seemingly struggling to process this information. “But candles are for light. Why are you adding smell to the light?”

The brute. Aelin wouldn’t even bother with him this time. She threw a piece of clay at him for another round—she refused to leave this place without a clayware creation of her own.

“Don’t make anything too intricate in case you burn it again.”

“You are the worst teacher ever. You’ve got absolutely no faith in me.”

“I have faith that you’ll become a proficient wielder someday, not immediately after you overburned four pieces of clayware in a row.” He pondered over his next words while opening a hole into the ball of clay. “Think about it this way: this is a safe space for you to make mistakes. You’d rather learn from them here than when the stakes are high.”

She couldn’t argue with that. “Are you speaking from experience?”

Rowan tilted his head, his hands pausing their work as his gaze grew unfocused. “Nothing ever happened at work, though my family does like to recall some embarrassing stories from time to time.”

“Do tell!” she asked with a little too much excitement, wide-eyed.

Rowan chuckled and looked back at his mug-to-be as he recalled. “In my pre-teen years, I used to practice my healing magic with animals. This one time, my mother’s Asterion mare was having a difficult birth. It took ages for the veterinarian to arrive and she was under so much stress, so I decided to send a soft breeze towards her and—“

Rowan winced.

“And what?” Aelin set aside her chunk of clay and leaned forward, unashamed to show her eagerness.

“I blew down the entire stable.” He looked down, the slightest hue of pink tinting the tips of his ears.

Aelin cackled, her shoulders bending forward as her laughter filled the dueling hall. Rowan regarded her with a funny expression her aching ribcage didn’t allow her to decipher.

“It’s not that funny,” he said with mock-indignation.

“Were any animals hurt?”

“Just a few scrapes I healed immediately after.”

“Then it is absolutely hilarious.”

Chuckling, he shook his head and shaped his mug’s handle with a string of clay. “I’m sure you have even worse stories.”

“Worse? Yes. But not funnier in a million years.” Aelin looked down to her work and resumed shaping it. She needed something to do with her hands if she was going to talk about it. “The extent of my power was supposed to be kept a secret until I was of age, but it was impossible to do it when I couldn’t control it at all, so soon I was being watched by the entire world. If I accidentally blew up a wing of the castle, shortly other kingdoms would fund local rebels or demand restrictions on my use of power in treaties. Or maybe Maeve—the creepiest of all—would send my mother another letter requesting to meet me. The pacing and worrying was a constant in my youth—will she try to kidnap me next? How much power can I wield without having other kingdoms trying to harm or kill me?”

To her relief, Rowan didn’t show any pity. “It’s twisted and messed up. If anyone can learn how to navigate this, it’s you.”

Aelin didn’t feel like there was anything else to say, so she didn’t. Her soon-to-be ceramic was already shaped, and so was Rowan’s—she couldn’t tell by how done it looked, but by how equally ugly it was from the others he gave her to fire.

Aelin appraised it while starting with a low intensity of her fire.

While she tried to achieve the best shape she could for her work, Rowan’s mugs were done as soon as it looked useable enough. If the handle fits his hand, the bottom is flat enough to stay still and the hole is deep enough to hold his coffee, it’s done.

“Easy,” Rowan warned when her flames grew a bit higher.

“Shut it,” she hissed.

They were both kneeling, one on each side, hovering over their potter’s work.

“I better have a new mug after this lesson, Princess.”

“You could’ve had three new mugs by now if you’d help me out a little.”

“If I were helping you out ever since the lessons started, you’d be turning the clay into dust, not merely shattering it.”

Aelin wanted to sneer back, she absolutely did, but she was halfway into it and not a single shard had popped off the ceramics. As if Rowan had sensed it too, his attention was now wholly on their work.

A bit more. Increase just a bit more intensity, slow and steady—

A small, outer piece of Rowan’s mug handle fell off and, without thinking, he lowered down her flames.

“Gods,” he said, stupefied with his unintended help. “I wasn’t thinking—“

She shushed him, still focused on the flames. Now that he had set the perfect amount, she’d just have to keep it.

Keep it

Steady

Rowan breathed, “Just a bit more and—“

A small shard of Aelin’s own piece fell off.

“Don’t,” he said. “It was nothing. Minimal damage. Just keep up like this.”

She did exactly that, rubbing her face as she swayed on her knees from fatigue; still, she willed her fire to stay and act exactly as she commanded.

“Do you think it’s done now?”

“Don’t hush it.” His eyes were glued to the nearly done clayware. “We’re almost there.”

Aelin couldn’t bear to count the time. The amount of time she had to spend burning these things, controlling the fire so it wouldn’t break, was tiresome in the least. This was the longest she stayed without seriously tearing their work, and her other two attempts weighed down on her now.

“I think you can put it off now—slowly,” Rowan said.

Aelin complied her shoulders relaxing each time she decreased her fire, but still trying to maintain a steady rhythm.

She heaved a loud sigh and threw herself on the floor.

“Congratulations, Princess.” Rowan beamed at the ugliest mug she’s ever seen. His fingers wrapped around the gap in the handle as he mimicked lifting it to his mouth and said, “You’ve just burned functional enough clayware.”

She ignored his sass and grinned to herself, facing the ceiling. “Thank you.”

He laid as well, beside her, and handed her his mug. “You should have it. It’s your accomplishment.”

“But you wanted your mug so bad!” She said as she turned to face him. He did the same.

“I didn’t want the mug itself as much as I wanted for it to be whole by the end of the lesson.”

“Thank you,” she said, holding the mug with both hands with a small smile, as if it was something precious. She set it down and reached for her own creation. “You shall have mine, then. It’s only fair.”

Rowan chuckled. “Thank you for the lovely… miniature wand?” He laid it on the palm of his hand—his very large hand, in her defense.

Aelin gasped. “It’s a spoon!”

“A spoon,” he trailed, saucy yet cautious with her gift as he gently trailed his finger along it.

“Of course. You always carry so many knifes around, but I’ve never seen you carry a spoon,” she teased.

“How wise of you.” The corner of his lips twitched, but he was the kind of man that clamped down even the tiniest of smiles. “I’ve gotten too comfortable with my weapons lately. Finding a way to harm someone with this will be a good exercise.”

She didn’t doubt he would.

˜˜

In all her twenty-one years, Aelin had never grown to love her flames.

She’d feared them and their potential to harm.

She’d felt amused by them at the time she’d accidentally set some of Lord Suria’s papers on fire, when he drafted a proposal for a law that pissed her off.

She’d embarrassed herself among burnt books and under the gaze of an enraged librarian.

At best, she respected herself and her gift.

But right now, Aelin loved it.

The wind blew away her hair as she ran and twirled around the beach, the sand soft and loose under her feet while she opened her arms wide for the flames to dance on them.

Her chest felt so big and wide it didn’t feel like that at all—it felt as if it’d opened itself to welcome the entire world inside of her, and Aelin and this beach were one and the same.

I love this. I love this. I love this.

And Aelin wasn’t the only one affected. For the first time, she’d seen Rowan allow a full grin to sneak past his grumpy defenses. He sat on the sand the entire time, but Aelin could feel him sending more wind towards her when nature slowed it down.

She couldn’t tell how she was able to discern which particles of the wind were his and which weren’t, but some primal part of her did—a concern meant for the four walls of her room, not the beach.

She’d never felt as carefree—it felt as if her entire existence narrowed down to this, and she was made to feel to the bone the magnificent synchronicity between the wind and her fire.

Aelin opened her arms wider and ran where Rowan was, laughing at his antics when he played with the wind against her.

Rowan. He watched her every move—today, always—and she knew it was all because of him. Aelin wouldn’t go so far as to claim that her new newfound skills and confidence with her flames were his accomplishment more than her own, but it was impossible to deny that she wouldn’t be like this right now if it wasn’t for him. Her training wasn’t even complete, but she felt so grateful already.

Aelin laid on the floor beside his seated figure, but she couldn’t bring herself to put her fire down—it stayed low atop her body, like a small, living bonfire.

Rowan put one hand through the flame, unafraid and without touching her body, the way one did with steam before a hot bath.

“People usually make camp fires at night,” he teased, “not when the sun’s still high.”

“It’s so windy.” She smiled, her eyes closed. “I like how it tingles the flame.”

Rowan immediately sent more her way. She gave him a close-lipped, grateful smile.

Then he threw the smallest, most obnoxious block of ice at her. It turned to steam before it grazed her skin.

“You brute!”

He did it again.

Aelin frowned and grew the flames higher.

He chuckled. “I won’t bite.”

“I find it hard to believe you.”

Rowan’s expression slacked, the awareness of their exchange’s underlying meaning all over his face. He swallowed. He gave his eyes one second to wander over her before he turned to face the sea.

“We were supposed to be in the middle of combat training by now.” He gave her a pointed look. “You haven’t even crafted a passable sword yet.”

“Gods, s’fine.” Aelin lifted her forearm and waved a fire sword.

“A minimally passable sword is much sharper”.

“Isn’t it enough that the sword will be burning things? You also want it sharp enough to cut the fabric between the realms?”

“I actually wanted it to look like a sword more than a pole, but I wouldn’t object it if you made it happen.”

Aelin groaned and put her fire sword down. Despite his own insistence that they get some work done, Rowan laid down beside her, on the sand. They silently enjoyed each other’s companies, keeping that same dynamic where their magics gently played with each other like rippling sea water blending into the sand.

As a princess of a ruthlessly cold kingdom, if Aelin had known beaches could be this fun, she would’ve come here as soon as she landed in Wendlyn—it was either Rowan’s doing, or beaches in Suria were extraordinarily lame. Perhaps both.

He didn’t bring her here for fun, but to make her ready for adverse circumstances. Beaches were made of sand, water and wind, and all three of them could change Aelin’s fire, so she was supposed to be getting acquainted with those changes and reshaping her powers to accommodate them without losing efficiency in battle. A very important exercise, one she’d completely focus on was she not having the time of her life today.

It seemed like he was willing to forgive her for it, by the way his calls to continue the lesson progressively decreased once Aelin tugged her tunic off her pants and started to run with the wind.

Every time he ignited her flames further, Rowan’s scent came with the breeze, as if it didn’t unsettle her by default. At first, she thought that it was part of a cheap ploy to win her, wearing a cologne that smelled like pine and snow, two of Terrasen’s symbols. But then the scent lingered after he got wet or sweaty, and her theory fell apart because no cologne could withstand their training sessions.

Rowan naturally smelling like her home was a disfavor to her attempt to ignore that tug in her chest when he was near.

When Aelin rolled to her side, he was already watching her.

She watched him back, unabashed.

She watched how the sunlight made his gray eyelashes look holy, and how it blessed his skin in the form of a tan. How beautiful that skin tone looked along with the pink of his pillowy lips.

“Do you ever feel as if our magics are kindred?”

Rowan reached for Aelin’s aflame hand and stroked its back with his thumb.

“All of the time,” he said in a tone that was too quiet, almost muffled by the waves on the shore.

She traced her thumb along his palm. “I do too.”

“We could try.” He closed his hand, keeping her thumb trapped inside it. “We’d cross out one out of two.”

Mates or carranam, is what he didn’t say.

He never freed her from his palm. The one place most Fae used to test a carranam bond. She wasn’t ready to do it yet, bare her mind to him, stay at her most vulnerable, then face the consequences of having two bonded royals from kingdoms that antagonize each other.

But when it was just the two of them in a little breakable heaven, she almost followed the commands from her aching heart to just do it and get it over with.

“I—“

Rowan let go of her hand after the silence that led to a stammer.

“You don’t trust me,” he said. Not a question nor an accusation, though it pained her to see the crestfallen look in his eyes.

“There’s different ways to trust someone.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Aelin lifted her hand to his cheek, her thumb moving in idle circles against it. “I trust you, but some things are bigger than that,” she whispered.

Rowan didn’t look convinced, but didn’t want to argue or demand anything from her. She scrambled her mind for other ways to get her point across, but all it did was pause on the very method she hopelessly tried to avoid.

She kept her stare locked on his as she let go of his face and slowly, making sure he understood every step of the way, tilted her head back until her throat was arched and bared before him.

“Aelin,” he breathed. Not in reprimand or warning, but… a plea. It sounded like a plea.

Ever so tentative, Rowan slowly wrapped a hand around her neck, letting his thumb trace the length. She briefly closed her eyes and arched it further, a silent invitation.

He lowered his head to her exposed neck and hovered a hair’s breadth away.

Rowan let out a soft groan and grazed his teeth against her skin.

One bite, one movement, was all it would take for him to rip out her throat. His elongated canines slid along her flesh—gently, precisely. In order to keep from running her fingers down his back and drawing him closer, Aelin clenched the sand like she’d do to her bedsheets, but all it did was slip through her fingers and leave her with nothing to hold on to.

“No one else,” she whispered. “I would never allow anyone else at my throat.” Showing him was the only way he’d understand that trust, in a manner that only the predatory, Fae side of him would comprehend. “No one else,” she said again.

He let out another low groan, answer and confirmation and request, and the rumble echoed inside her. He reverently trailed pecks from the spot below her ear to her collarbone, and Aelin’s whole body was aware of it, from her agitated core to the goosebumps breaking through her skin.

Rowan closed his teeth over the spot where her lifeblood thrummed and pounded, his breath hot on her skin.

She shut her eyes, every sense narrowing on that sensation, on the teeth and mouth at her throat, on the powerful body trembling with restraint above hers. His tongue flicked against her skin.

She made a small noise that might have been a moan, or a word, or his name. He shuddered and pulled back, the cool air kissing her neck. Wildness—pure wildness sparked in those eyes.

Then he thoroughly, brazenly surveyed her body, his nostrils flaring delicately as he scented exactly what she wanted.

Aelin threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled his lips to hers—once she did it, Rowan didn’t hold back. Every flick of his tongue was demanding, the fingers on her waist near crushing, as if she’d escape his grasp any minute.

This… Aelin couldn’t say she never saw it coming. She’d been attracted to Rowan ever since she first laid eyes on him, even though attraction on itself doesn’t dictate her actions, and the situation they were in complicated things.

However, in that moment, there were no kingdoms or ghosts to haunt her.

There was no avoiding Rowan or the way his nearness messed with her mind and body, so Aelin’s new vow to herself was that whatever happened now stayed between them, the sand and the sea.

His touch boldened, reaching up to her side boob and breastband as he ravaged her neck. One lewd whimper, and Rowan used his wind to block any noise from leaving their little bubble—every sound she made for him was his alone.

Aelin tucked his tunic off his pants and sneaked her hands inside it. His heated skin was barely noticeable compared to when Aelin felt muscles she hadn’t known existed.

His abs felt so hard under such soft skin, it reminded Aelin of the most delicious chocolate bar, with smooth lines dividing neat ridges—

Stop it, a voice that sounded akin to her conscience interrupted her thoughts.

She shook the comparison aside and guided his mouth back to hers. Fae males—once Aelin allowed him on her neck, he hang onto it like his favorite toy.

Aelin lifted her hips, and the way his own ground back against where she was sensitive the most tore a moan out of her, even with her clothes on.

“Are you sure?” Rowan rasped quite gentlemanly, given the state they were currently in.

In response, Aelin burned his linen tunic into ash.

And then loved her—maybe not with his heart, but with his teeth, tongue and other body parts that fit even more perfectly, which felt just as nice for now.

In fact, it felt so good even the gods might envy her choice of lover.

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#rowaelin #rowaelin secret santa #rowan whitethorn #throne of glass #rowaelin fanfiction #rowan x aelin #aelin x rowan #rowaelin fanfic #throne of glass fanfic #stay a little longer #sall #beach scene

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kamaela · 7 hours ago

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a year of fandom in recs

cutie pie @garagepaperback tagged me in a 2024 fandom wrap up post and so yeah, i'll hop on the sentimental train. i've been inspired by so many things this year and i shall do my best to honour them in the rambling list below!

having previously been an avid lurker, i've thoroughly enjoyed making friends with some truly inspiring people in this fandom. without a doubt this has been a bright, bright spot on my year and im so grateful! you're all so wonderful and i love you and hope you know that.

@kk1smet has been a source of joy and inspiration from the start. my first ever fic (Got Me Started) was inspired by their prompts, and then my first ever fest fic (Mirror, Me) was sparked by their stunning art. THEN they honoured me with my first ever fanart for my fic (To Be Punished). im so blessed to call them a friend!

i can draw a straight line from every single word i've posted on ao3 to the fanworks that inspired them. ive read/seen sooo many wonderful things this year and it's impossible for me to name them all. ive picked out a few below the cut that are directly responsible for lighting a fire in me so strong i had to write that shit down. if you haven't already, please give some of these fanworks a go, they're all top notch.

+ @yiiiiiiiikes25 wrote cruising altitude from the raven cycle fandom and it fucking rocked my world. i am telling you right now, i have never read anything like it. it is an absolute masterclass in craft. every single word is thoughtful and precise. i thought i knew what voice and diction and pov were and how they can be used to tell the story you want to tell but really, i had no idea. yikes has this way of pulling you so deeply into a characters pov that its honestly disorienting to come out of. i fell in love with these random boys from a fandom i'd never read nor cared for, and i keep going back. i don't care if you are drarry monogamous, if you want to experience some of the best this dumb hobby we're all addicted to has to offer, i implore you, go read cruising altitude. go. GO. and then go read the rest of yikes catalogue bc ofc they also do drarry impeccably.

+ @garagepaperback i read this heaven of mud and haven't been the same since. then i read javelin and ive been permanently altered once more. not only is garage directly responsible for exes becoming my all time favourite trope, but the way they explore the deep, long-lasting effects of trauma (in these and all your other fics) is second to none! its incredibly beautiful and impactful and has left such as lasting impression on me. and all that is wrapped up in some of the most poetic and stunning prose ive ever had the pleasure of reading?!?!! get out of here (but also please dont i value our friendship dearly)

+ @mintawasalreadytaken i read All I Want For Kwithmath and then i went on a tear and read most of their Dead Drarry: Do Not Eat series and honestly had the BEST TIME. they write some of the greatest toxic, kinky, fucked up drarry, but somehow make it so i really fucking care about these two idiots, and want the best for them?? minta is so good at hooking you right from the top and then pounding those hooks in deeper and deeper. the end result is that i now cradle toxic drarry in my hands and wont ever let them go (and sometimes I even try writing them)

+ @eleadore's as the plant that never blooms and everything i could ever want helped to shape and sand the edges of the drarry dynamic i love and want to write! el writes some of the hottest, most rewarding, prickly to tender drarry out here. pls run don't walk.

+ @faiell and i shared our drarry fic debuts on ao3 this year and their fic, Purple, absolutely blew me out of the water. it's expertly written, hot as fuck, contains the shifting power dynamics that are at the core of what i love about drarry, and has SUCH A satisfying ending. i was grinning and cackling for about 3-4 business days after reading. (also peep their tumblr to scream at their art) fai, i've said it before and ill say it again, i'll follow you into fire, i really will.

this post is getting far far too long but i cannot end it without also mentioning some (not exhaustive) of the STAND OUT creators i've had the pleasure of experiencing for the first time this year. i'll include a rec (all drarry unless stated otherwise) + whatever unhinged drivel i put in my bookmark for each but it goes without saying that the talent runs deep and id rec multiple creations from these guys if this post wasn't already novel length.

@citrusses' Our Objective Remains Unchanged: THE drarry muggle au. reread a 100x material

@oknowkiss' draco malfoy's substitute murder service: this made me laugh out loud at several points and its only 10k!!!! also draco is simply lovely, i love him so so so so very much i want to be his friend and just listen to him talk and be insane. this whole thing is thoroughly enjoyable.

@mono-chromia's Red Wine Supernova: everything about this is wonderful, the relationship development, the sex, the writing. you'll want draco to step on your face after reading.

@putridpommes' [ART] Step by step (NSFW): sub harry. draco stepping on face. neon and sweat. what more do you need.

Helenish's A Soft Spot For Lost Causes (draco/ron): trauma treated kinda unserious but still seriously. gorgeous dialogue.

wild (orphaned): Okay so the banter/dialogue is unmatched, the relationship development bw draco and harry is soooo realistic and so delicious. a study on learning about yourself what it means to forgive

corvuscrowned's An Emerald In The Sky: stretched and pulled taut by this story, perfect longing/pining/yearning, heartbreaking and beautiful

peu_a_peu's The Superfluous Man: utterly delightful, hilarious, i want to stay in the feeling this fic gave me forever and ever. never not thinking about flustered yet domestic draco, endless quotes. An mpreg?? WHAT?? it's peu.

@stratigraphywrites' Untouched: this is delicious!!!! the push and pull between draco and harry is expert. extremely extremely hot

@lemonlimelea's we'll start anew: yeah this is wayyyy stunning, gorg writing, long time span capturing all different facets of harry and draco's relationship

@hephaestiions' It's You: one of those ones that leaves you panting and scratching the walls, crying for more.

okay if you read all this, thank you i love you. happy new year!

No pressure tagging any of the above plus @dryrsheet @its-the-allure @phoenixortheflame @smehur. would love to read about your year in review!

#year wrapped #phew this was a lot #drarry #fanfiction #fanart #rec rec rec rec

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odyssean-flower · 3 days ago

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The Winding Path of Fate Chapter 16 - Summer: A Homecoming

Masterpost

Pairing: Neuvillette x Female Reader Summary: You go home to attend your sister's birthday party.

Note: If you want to be on the taglist for this fic, please make a reply to this post, send a message or send a private ask

Have a pic of Neuvillette standing in wherever this is

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“The guesthouse has already been prepared for you, Monsieur Neuvillette. I hope it is to your standards. If you find anything lacking, please inform me or Mrs. Bernard immediately.”

“Thank you, madame, but considering the warm hospitality and consideration I have received from you and your family since I arrived here, I doubt that will be needed,” Neuvillette assured your mother, who seemed to blush at his words.

“Oh...oh my, such kind words,” your mother stammered out, ignoring your pleading look. “W-well then, I shall take my leave now. Breakfast shall be served to you first thing in the morning. I wish you a very good night.”

With that, your mother left the room, closing the door behind her, which, in turn, locked you in with Neuvillette.

The two of you looked at each other in silence for a moment, neither of you knowing what to say in this unthinkable situation you somehow found yourself in.

“It appears that we are to share a bed for the night, Madame. I hope that doesn’t cause you any discomfort,” he said at last, though the furrow in his brow indicated that the question should have been asked to him instead.

“Yes. It appears so,” you nodded, trying to quell your flipping stomach. “It’s only for a night, though, so I, um, hope you can put up with me until then.”

“No, Madame, I should be the one requesting that of you,” he insisted. “I should apologize for the uncomfortable position I have put you in.”

You decided not to say anything more, lest you fall into a never-ending loop of apologies...again.

Neither of you moved from your spots. His gaze was uncharacteristically unfocused, looking at anywhere but you. Though you didn’t have the ability to read emotions like him, you knew exactly what he was thinking then. It was as though you were looking into a mirror.

How did things turn out this way?

Let us return to the beginning of the day...

While you didn’t expect fanfare or anything when you returned home, you didn’t expect the house to be completely empty.

Your father being away wasn’t a surprise. His favorite pastime was wandering the countryside and climbing the jagged mountains near the village with a zither or notebook under his arm. You just hoped he didn’t stumble into a hilichurl camp or something like last time.

As for your mother and your sister Justine’s absence, it was soon explained with a letter given to you by your taciturn housekeeper, Mrs. Bernard.

Dear Sister,

I’m so sorry that I couldn’t welcome you back home! Dominic (do you remember him? He’s the viscount’s son I danced with) has invited me to a tour around Fontaine on those new flying machines for my birthday! He says he knows someone at the Institute and that they can lend it to him for the day. Mother is chaperoning us.

Oh, by the way, I’ve decided not to have the usual garden party this year. We’re going to hold an evening ball at the assembly-hall! Since you so insist on us not celebrating or even mentioning your marriage in any way, this ball will serve as a stealth celebration for you as well (don’t worry, we didn’t tell anyone. But just to warn you, Mother isn’t happy about it). I know how you feel about balls, but I do hope you can enjoy yourself as well. It’s a shame that Monsieur Neuvillette can’t come, but I suppose it can’t be helped. Everyone in the village is invited, and they’re all really excited. It’s been so long since we’ve had a large party like this, after all. Dominic says that he’ll invite some of his friends too. Anne, unfortunately, can’t attend as she’s busy with her babies.

I’ll be back around late afternoon, and I expect to hear all about Monsieur Neuvillette from you (I still can’t believe he’s part of our family now!!!!)

Love, Justine

“A flying tour...and a ball?” you said incredulously as you finished reading the letter. “I don’t think I had that much energy when I was her age.”

Still, you were happy that she was having a grand birthday celebration. Even if you had mixed feelings about a ball. Well, I suppose it’s fine if it’s just a village ball, you told yourself. If worst comes to worst, I can volunteer to play the role of musician all night.

Indeed, you shouldn’t let your personal feelings cloud such a happy event. Even you enjoyed listening to the music, watching others dance, and eating the refreshments. Though, it was a shame that Anne, your best friend, couldn’t be there, as you hadn’t seen each other in ages.

Neuvillette’s dodged a bullet by having to be in court today, you wryly mused to yourself. He frequently received invitations to balls and dinners, but almost always declined them.

“The guest list is here, Madame Neuvillette,” Mrs. Bernard said, handing you a list of names. As your sister had written, all the families in the village were invited, and almost all of them accepted. The unfamiliar names, you assumed, were Dominic’s friends.

“That’s a lot of guests. Did Mother hire any help for you?” you inquired as you followed Mrs. Bernard into the kitchen. Your family only had one housekeeper, but sometimes temporary help was hired from the village when it was needed. “Oh, and you don’t have to call me Madame Neuvillette, you know.”

“I am merely calling you by your proper title, Madame,” Mrs. Bernard said, unsmiling. You could count the number of times you saw her show emotion on one hand. “And no, several of your mother’s friends have offered to help prepare the refreshments. I am only baking the birthday cake and Conch Madeleines.”

“How far have you gotten with the cake?” you asked, rolling your sleeves up and putting on an apron. You usually helped with the measurements and the mixing, as Mrs. Bernard’s eyesight had worsened slightly over the years.

The housekeeper stopped and gave you a look. “What?” you frowned.

“The wife of the Chief Justice has no place in a kitchen, especially after a long trip. I would advise you to rest in your room until the night’s entertainments.”

“Oh, come on, Mrs. Bernard, I’m not too good for kitchen work now just because I’m married to someone important. And you know how things are with our family. We need all the help we can get.”

It wasn’t uncommon for members of the rural nobility to do work that their urban compatriots wouldn’t even deign to do, particularly if they lived on a meager income like yours did. You had grown up accustomed to mending your own clothes and helping with meal preparation.

“It is because I know our circumstances that I cannot approve of you helping me,” Mrs. Bernard replied curtly. Suddenly, her expression turned stormy. “Are you running into any issues with the staff at Monsieur Neuvillette’s household?”

“No, no, not at all,” you said, waving your hands in denial. Mrs. Bernard had been working for your family since your grandfather’s time, when there was still wealth and a fully staffed household, so she remembered a time when young ladies of the family didn’t need to lift a finger for anything except to ring the bell to summon a servant. “I’ve never run into any trouble there. Everything’s being done for me.”

It was the truth. In the beginning, you had tried to help out with the cooking and cleaning, but was firmly turned down every time. “You are here as Monsieur Neuvillette’s wife, not a tenant,” Marie had said. “He would be greatly aggrieved to hear that you feel obliged to do chores in his household.” Personally, you didn’t really understand the problem. You weren’t actually his wife and it wasn’t an obligation to help out in the house that you lived in. To go even further, you thought he ought to hire more staff if he were to live in a house of that size, even if he didn’t dwell there all that often.

Come to think of it, there wasn’t much difference between the two households, particularly in the number of staff. But you decided that it was wiser to keep that to yourself.

“I’m glad to hear that. You must remember that you are of an old, noble bloodline and entitled to all the dignity and respect that entails,” Mrs. Bernard said, fixing you with a steely look. “Do not shrink yourself, even if your husband is the Iudex.”

“I know, I know,” you said, biting back your comments about all the good that a noble bloodline had done you. You knew Mrs. Bernard meant well, though a part of you shuddered at how she would react if she knew the truth behind your marriage. “I’ll be in my room, then.”

Mrs. Bernard nodded and turned back to the kitchen counter, which was fully taken up by mixing bowls and baking ingredients. You studied her stooped back and gray hair tied neatly in a bun. Had she gained more white hair since the last time you saw her?

You went upstairs with those uneasy thoughts in your mind. Mrs. Bernard had stayed loyal to your family even as family heirlooms and parts of the estate were sold to pay off debts, and servants quit in succession. In a wealthier family, she would probably be retired by now and settled comfortably in a cottage, receiving an annual income.

If I were to truly comport myself with the dignity of a noble, then I would be giving money to my family to hire more servants, you thought as you gazed at a faded patch of wallpaper. An oil painting had once hung there, though you had no idea what the subject was or where it was now. The wall there had been bare ever since you could remember. At least one or two people to help in the kitchen and with the laundry, particularly now that Justine is out in society. Ah, come to think of it, she also needs a lady’s maid. And a footman... And...

You did have money from Neuvillette, but it wasn’t enough to pay the yearly wages of a few servants. You would have to ask Neuvillette for more.

Wasn’t this the point of marrying rich? To help one’s family? If only this were a normal marriage, if only you weren’t married to the one person in Fontaine who you didn’t want to ask anything more of...

You shook your head, clearing the thoughts away like cobwebs. You had gotten into this marriage of your own accord and knew exactly what it was. It was pointless to have regrets about it now.

Pushing open your bedroom door with more force than you intended, you breathed in the sweet-smelling air of your room. It was kept dusted and polished even after you moved out. Even the plants on your windowsill were watered. Seeing your familiar wooden writing desk and floral bedspread filled your heart with overpowering gladness, as though you were a weary traveler who had finally come home.

Your bedroom was about half the size of Neuvillette’s guest room and didn’t have a window seat or its own bathroom, but it had always served as your sanctuary. If a room could be the embodiment of one’s soul, then this one would be yours.

You went over to the window. The morning glory vines hanging from the eaves hadn’t been trimmed, so the visibility wasn’t good, but you always liked the way the vines framed the window. When you were younger, you pretended that it was the overgrown window in a crumbling castle. The house was practically covered in ivy and morning glory vines. It lent a wild and rustic appearance that you found charming, but your mother always complained about the “overgrown weeds.”

I think Neuvillette’s house would also look lovely with a bit of greenery on the outside. Not excessively, of course, But a window box of flowers never hurt anyone, or perhaps a wisteria tree near the front door...

You turned to the tall bookcase that housed your carefully cultivated collection of books. Living in a small town far from the city meant that your means of buying new books was limited, but you made do. Your eyes drifted to the leather-bound spines occupying the middle shelf. Those were the albums and journals of your late teacher which she had bequeathed to you. She had more books, but they were donated to the school and local library. While you had brought your favorites with you to the city, you didn’t bring any of these with you out of fear of losing them. And because it still hurt too much to look at them.

But now... You ran a finger across their smooth, cracked spines. You hadn’t visited your teacher’s grave in a long time. You should find time to do it today. There are a lot of things I want to tell her about.

Before that, you decided to take a little nap. The trip here had been rather taxing. You changed into a shift and closed the curtains on the blue sky beyond. It won’t be blue for long though. I hope it doesn’t rain during Justine’s tour.

The thought of rain reminded you of Neuvillette. He was probably still in the middle of a trial, as it hadn’t rained yet. You felt a little guilty, knowing that you promised to attend one of his trials. I’ll go to the next one for sure, you told yourself. I hope he doesn’t stand in the rain for too long. You had grown accustomed to the sight of him standing in the garden as rain fell upon him and readied towels for him whenever he came back indoors. He never talked about it, but you gathered that standing in the rain was soothing for him somehow.

You climbed into bed and slipped under the covers, then stared up at the ceiling. Sleep wasn’t coming easily.

Birdsong sounded outside the window. Faint shadows played on the wall opposite your bed. You could hear Mrs. Bernard moving around in the kitchen downstairs. Everything was so familiar and unchanged that you could almost fool yourself into believing that you had never left your village at all. The woman who had married the Iudex, petted a vishap’s snout, got attacked by a drunk at night (O Archons, how were you going to bring that up to your parents?), and spoke to the Hydro Archon, seemed to be someone else entirely.

I feel like everything that happened in the past few months was a dream, and now I’m back to reality...

You could even sense the difference between your two lives in the bedding. The sheets in my room in the city are silkier and smell like detergent, while these sheets are more worn and stiffer, and smell like wildflowers...

You blinked at the intrusive thought. It would not do to compare. Or to grow accustomed to this, because it would all be over in the blink of an eye. The life that awaited you would be difficult, so it was better to prepare for it beforehand.

You tried to think about things that were more relevant to your future, like how you would advertise yourself or do some networking (perhaps you could ask Neuvillette to do some inquiring for you), but for some reason, your thoughts kept straying to other things. Like saving two slices of cake for Neuvillette and Marie. Marie would love the cake, and even though Neuvillette rarely ate sweets, you were sure he would enjoy it as well. It should be moist enough for him. The only question was, how were you going to keep the cakes fresh on the way home tomorrow? That reminds me, didn’t Neuvillette promise to take me to a restaurant? I hope he hasn’t forgotten about it. Well, he’s so busy these days that I wouldn’t be surprised if he had. Still, I was really looking forward to it...

A little voice in your head asked you if you were perhaps thinking about Neuvillette a little too much, but it was soon pulled under by a wave of drowsiness.

“I hope you’re not going to hide away in the corner with the piano all night.”

You glanced up from the sheet music for a high-spirited country dance as Justine strode into the parlor. Her hair was up in curlers, and she was wearing her bathrobe and a facial mask.

“Who else is going to play the music for all the dancing you and your friends are going to do? There’s no one as skilled on the piano as me in town, and no one else willing to take on the role of the musician all night.”

You weren’t bragging. You had plenty of practice playing reels and jigs for Justine and her friends, who lived for dancing. Though, you had been a little rusty as of late, which was why you were warming up right now.

“Mr. Guillaume will be playing the violin, and Mrs. Allen has agreed to lend her harp. And Mother can take your place on the piano. You have to take a break at some point,” Justine leaned against the piano. “Just do one or two dances, please?”

“Oh, all right.” You supposed you could dance a cotillion or a longways set.

“You can practice with me, if you want. ...I doubt Monsieur Neuvillette danced much with you.”

“How do you know that?”

“It would have made the headlines of all the newspapers if he attended a ball with an unknown woman on his arm,” Justine said, as if it was obvious. Then, her face brightened. “Unless those secret evening balls the tabloids talk about are true...?”

“I wouldn’t know about that.” Though the thought of Neuvillette sneaking off at night to go dancing was rather amusing.

“Why wouldn’t you know? You’re his wife!”

“Well...just because two people are married, it doesn’t mean they have to know everything about each other,” you said. It occurred to you then that this was the perfect opportunity to “foreshadow” your eventual divorce. “To be honest, we don’t see each other all that often. His job keeps him very busy, you know, and he comes home very late. We live separate lives, and neither of us has much interest in each other. It’s not exactly the fairytale marriage you’re hoping for, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I know that,” Justine waved her hand. “There’s some kind of circumstance behind it, right?” Your expression must have been comical because she let out a snort of laughter. “Come on, my serious and level-headed sister suddenly getting married to the Iudex in a secret wedding within a week? You have to be an idiot not to see something’s up. I think Mother suspects it as well, but she’s choosing to ignore it.”

“I see...” Now you felt foolish. “Um...you must want to know--”

“I won’t pry. As long as he’s good to you and supports you in every way, then it doesn’t matter,” Justine peered at you closely. You were surprised. She had always been a romantic and, like your mother, devoured romance novels. “He is good to you, right? He’s not cold or neglectful? Everyone says he doesn’t like humans and is only kind to the Melusines. If he's cruel to you, then--”

“No!” you said, a little too quickly. Justine raised her eyebrow. You cleared your throat. “I mean, he’s been nothing but gentlemanly and considerate. He’s very kind and gentle--nothing at all like how he presents in court. I don’t think he hates humans at all. It’s just that he...keeps a distance from most people due to the nature of his work.”

You thought back to all the conversations you had with Neuvillette, and what you had observed of him. He simply didn’t give off the air of someone who hated humans. Would someone like that sit in the seat of the Chief Justice for centuries?

But you couldn’t say he wholeheartedly loved them either. There was a deliberate distance there, but the reason for it was unknown to you.

“Mm-hmm,” Justine made a sound. She was grinning. You then realized that you had fallen into deep thought. “So, tell me more about my brother-in-law.”

“B-Brother-in-law?” you spluttered.

“Isn’t that what he is?”

“Well...yes, but...” It had only occurred to you then that Neuvillette was technically related to your family now. You had never gave it much thought before, so focused on other aspects of the marriage. You cleared your throat again. “What do you want to know? Just so you know, I don’t know his true identity or anything.”

“I don’t care about that! I want to know what living with him is like. He’s so mysterious, after all! Ooh, I don’t know how you can bear seeing that handsome face every single day!” Now she was sounding more like her old self.

You had a feeling that she would keep pestering you if you didn’t throw her a bone. What’s the harm in telling her a few things, you thought. Plus, you did kind of wanted to talk to someone about him.

“You get used to it after a few months,” you started, and Justine leaned forward in rapt attention.

“So...he’s an old man, basically?” Justine said after you finished talking. You were currently in the kitchen, watching Mrs. Bernard icing the cake. The three-tiered butterscotch cake was decorated with pink and blue roses (“Didn’t I tell you? It’s to celebrate your wedding!” Justine answered when you asked about the blue roses) and looked every bit as delicious as something you’d see in the window displays of the fancy cake shops in the Court.

“What...? How did you get to that conclusion?” you whirled around to her. Mrs. Bernard let out a quiet snort.

“According to you, he enjoys long, solitary walks by the water, has a preference for moist foods, and loves talking to his daughters and asking about their day. That sounds just like Old Man Julien,” Justine replied matter-of-factly. Old Man Julien was an elderly neighbor of yours who had no teeth. And he did enjoy long walks and chewable foods.

“...No, it doesn’t,” you said, even as you inwardly thought that you might have inadvertently ruined Neuvillette’s image. Although, he is old...and a man...so she’s technically correct...wait, why am I thinking about this!? “So what? Is that a crime? Nothing wrong with having distinctive tastes, is there?”

“Never said there was,” Justine was still grinning. You turned away from her with a huff, and she hopped around to face you. “And Sister, you’re a terrible liar!”

“What do you mean?”

“You are interested in Monsieur Neuvillette! I’ve never seen you talk so much about someone who isn’t some musty old historical figure!” Justine clapped her hands together.

“And smiling at that,” Mrs. Bernard added. You didn’t recall smiling.

“That’s because he’s an interesting person. Like you said, he’s mysterious. No one knows what he is or where he came from. And he’s hundreds of years old, and...” Realizing that you sounded far too defensive, you clamped your lips shut.

“Oh, Sister, you should just be honest with yourself,” Justine shook her head.

“I do not know what you are talking about. I did not lie about a single thing. And you should watch how you speak about your brother-in-law.”

“I know, I know... Ooh, I have an idea. Let me do your makeup! And then I’ll take pictures and send them to my brother-in-law, and then he’ll be so awestruck by your beauty that he’ll be eager to take you to balls every night!”

“Please don’t do that. It’s a secret marriage, remember?” you reminded her as she dragged you upstairs.

But she wasn’t listening to you as she chattered to herself. “...And then I’ll tie blue ribbons into your hair, to match those blue things in his hair.”

“Actually, those are horns,” you couldn’t help but correct her.

“They are!? ...I bet he let you touch them, didn’t he?”

You suppressed a groan. You were beginning to regret telling her anything at all.

I hope Neuvillette’s having a more relaxing time than me, you thought.

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literaryvein-reblogs · 18 hours ago

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Hey, there. Can you help me with this? I am stuck on creating with this motivation for my WIP.

Those who seek death shall live, and those who seek lives shall die How do you create a character with this type of character motivation? either is an important side character, villain, mentor, or even main character?

Hi! Some writers like to use character tropes as inspiration when they get stuck with a certain idea. Here are some examples I found for you that you can use as a guide. And alter as needed for your story:

"Death Seeker" Trope

At some point in the past, some characters have had a traumatic experience, found themselves dishonored, committed a crime they could not repay, lost everything worth living for, caught an incurable disease or just became bored with continued existence.

For whatever reason, rather than turning to suicide, they went off seeking battles to fight, hoping to find an enemy who would kill them, and achieve an honorable, heroic, awesome, or otherwise acceptable death, sometimes going as far as outright surrendering and offering their life to their enemies.

Martyrdom Cultures may regard such a character as a role model, even if upon closer examination they might seem like a Martyr Without a Cause.

In cases of cruel Irony, the characters who snap out of it and find something to live for often end up dying or getting killed shortly afterwards anyway.

A real life example:

Jeffrey Dahmer frequently expressed his wish to die for his crimes while in prison. When he was attacked by another prisoner who attempted to slit his throat, he refused to press charges and requested to be returned to the general prison population. Only a few months later, he was beaten to death by another prisoner. His last words were, reportedly: "I don't care if I live or die — go ahead and kill me."

"I Cannot Self-Terminate" Trope

Perhaps they've just been wounded in a vital area and know they are going to die slowly and in agony, and just want to die with dignity/end the pain quickly. Perhaps they are prisoners and being tortured, and the hero cannot break them free but could shoot them.

In any case, while they're ready or even eager to die, they cannot do it on their own. This can also count as a Heroic Sacrifice, sometimes.

If the character is robotic, this may occur due to influence from Asimov's Laws. Specifically, the Third Law states that a robot may not harm itself, or through inaction allow itself to be harmed, unless doing so is required to uphold the First or Second Law. Even when not following the hierarchical laws of robotics, it could still occur if a robot is simply programmed for self-preservation.

The victim may plead for death even when it is possible for them to be saved, owing to the pain. The hero is likely to override that, often saying No One Gets Left Behind.

Accidental Murder: Occurs when a situation that wasn't intended to be lethal ends with the death of someone anyway.

Anyone Can Die: This is easily defined as definite Truth in Television, because all living organisms are mortal and are bound to, by statistics at least, eventually die for any number of reasons, with no fiction writers to determine how it happens. When used poorly or too frequently, this trope can cause Too Bleak, Stopped Caring, possibly with audiences uttering the Eight Deadly Words, as the audience won't see any point in getting attached to characters that they expect to die sooner or later. A good way to check if this trope applies is to see if who survives is an important plot point, rather than only how they survive.

Cheated Death, Died Anyway: When a character narrowly escapes death on occasion (and perhaps more than one occasion), only to die shortly thereafter anyway…in a completely different way. Exactly how close the two incidents have to be varies, so the important factor in this trope is the presence of irony. This can apply in a matter of minutes, months, or even (in rare cases) years; the deciding factor is the Bait-and-Switch element of the death.

Death Is the Only Option: The only way to achieve victory is to die.

Forgiveness Requires Death: In order to be forgiven of their crimes, the character must die.

Heroic Sacrifice: Sacrificing your own life for the greater good.

Jumping on a Grenade: Sacrificing oneself by using one's own body as a shield against a deadly threat in hopes of sparing others.

Metaphorical Suicide: A despondent character willingly resigns themself to a fate similar to death without actually dying.

The Problem with Fighting Death: …is that even if you win, you'll still eventually lose. Killing or imprisoning Death might not offer protection either, as his sister Entropy goes around making everyone grow old and wish to die while Death Takes a Holiday or cause a plague of ghosts as the souls of the dead get stuck on Earth. This is the problem with fighting Death, Hades, The Devil, Psychopomps, Anthropomorphic Personifications or even God; you just can't win. However, a draw may be possible with creativity. If all that matters is that there be a Death, then replacing him with someone friendlier or someone with whom deals can be struck and honored can be a way to go. This can be done by appealing to someone higher on the divinity ladder, getting someone else to kill and replace Death (or doing so yourself, if you're willing to accept the job for the rest of eternity), and flying out of Hell are all possibilities. In this way, one can say Living Forever Is Awesome.

Who Wants to Live Forever?: If an immortal being grows so sick of eternal life that they just want it to end already.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Hope this helps inspire your writing! You can look through the sources for more information on each trope.

#anonymous #tropes #character development #writing inspiration #writeblr #literature #writers on tumblr #writing reference #dark academia #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #fiction #writing ideas #light academia #writing tips #writing resources

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vesseloflukola · 17 hours ago

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Lukola Love and the Adjacents:

When things get quiet, people tend to want to spiral just a little bit. It’s Christmas time…well, actually, it’s that weird time in between Christmas and New Year’s, where you just feel a bit lazy, you aren’t quite sure what day it is, you don’t really have any plans until NYE, but you know you need to finish eating your sweets and maybe start thinking about your New Year’s Resolutions.

Nothing new is being posted by the main players in the fandom. They are all spending time with their loved ones, and for the most part staying off of SM. So, the fans are left to speculate with the crumbs that they have left us. Did someone come on and tag a picture that was not previously tagged? If so, why? Or is there some kind of glitch happening on Instagram? It’s hard to say. Different people are seeing different tags on different pictures. So that is interesting indeed.

My opinion is that Nicola and Luke are currently in a relationship, and have been since the World Tour. I believe they may have even gotten married sometime in September or October. I also believe that they are currently together spending time with their families.

I could tell that they were in love by what they showed us on the WT, but at first I didn’t think they had admitted it to themselves yet. In hindsight, I think they were already together for most of it, if not all of it.

Let’s talk about how Antonia fits in, shall we? I think she was exactly the person Luke introduced her to be when she showed up unexpectedly to the New York Premiere, a friend of a friend. I think she was introduced to Luke’s friend group and started hanging out with them.

I know he kissed her on NYE last year, but I don’t think that means a thing. I think they were both there, both single (probably drunk), and the clock struck midnight. What do you do at midnight on NYE? You kiss the person you are with. It’s just a kiss. A kiss at midnight on NYE, when everyone around you is kissing someone. It’s honestly not a big deal.

I fully believe Nic and Luke had feelings for each other that were brought to the surface while filming Season 3. I think either because Luke had just broken up with Jade after a 4 year relationship or maybe because of their intimacy coordinator telling them to take a step back to make sure their feelings were real, I think they did take a step back. I think those feelings came back (maybe stronger) when Nic and Luke came back together in December 2023 to film some reshoots. I think those feelings were in the back of their minds, but they didn’t talk about them until maybe sometime in January.

I think they knew their feelings for one another would show up in their interviews, so I think they came up with a plan and presented it to Antonia. She was an up and coming dancer and could use more visibility. She had already been seen with Luke’s friend group. Luke could offer her some visibility by liking her posts and maybe getting her some more followers. She could post stories that make it look like she is dating Luke as a beard for him to see Nicola.

I think she agreed to it and he made sure to help plan things like the In Style pics and Soho house pics. He didn’t want her to actually post him though, just post hints of him.

However, I think she got greedy and went rogue. She decided she wanted to be seen with him. She wanted more. She showed up to the New York Premiere and Luke was pissed at her, and Nic got pissed at Luke. Then she went rogue again and we got Papgate 1.0 after the London Premiere after party.

I am not sure if the hot boy summer 2.0 outings with her and their friend group were part of the original arrangement, or if she found out something sensitive about Nic and Luke that they didn’t want out and renegotiated their deal, but it definitely looks like after Papgate 2.0 in Sorento and Luke’s “friends” broadcasting his location, he got away from them pretty quickly, and has not been in her presence since. It looks like all she gets from him until their contract runs out (which I hope is soon) is some instagram likes.

I realize that some pictures were “released” today to make it look like Luke and Antonia were at his family home over Christmas. These photos look VERY fishy indeed and quite planned out. Also, how INTERESTING that they were posted on a brand new Tumblr account right after we got a surprise drop of an old (unreleased) article from Nic and Luke and some new photos we have not previously seen. What strange timing! Yeah…I am not a bit worried about those pics. I don’t believe for one minute that they are from this year. We know they were L & A were in contact last year and we know that A is friendly with Luke’s sister as well.

Let’s move on to Jake, shall we? Jake Dunn has actually been around for a while. He has been a part of Nicola’s friend group for quite some time. Nic spends a lot of time with her friends. They go to concerts, out to meals, out to bars, or house parties. We know she loves to celebrate achievements and birthdays with her friends. She also takes different friends with her to events she is going to, because who wants to travel alone, when you can take a friend?

Well, while on the WT, gossip columns were brought up (Nic IS Lady Whistledown after all). She mentioned that she used to enjoy reading some gossip columns herself. She said she used to read DeuxMoi, until she read some things about a friend she knew to be untrue. Then she said that they posted untrue things about herself. She said nobody should really believe anything they say. Of course this made her a target with them.

In August, Nicola was papped at a music festival being her normal physically affectionate self with her friend Jake. DM posted the pictures and said she was dating her friend Jake.

Those of us who already knew who Jake was (as part of her friend group) were a bit confused, because 1) He had presented himself as a gay man up to this point and 2) Nic had said several times that she likes to keep her romantic relationships private, and in fact has done so up to this point in her career.

To the first point I will say, no, Jake does not come out and say anywhere that he is a gay man or have a gay pride flag on his profile. However, there is NO requirement to do so. He IS in the entertainment industry and there are plenty of people who discriminate still. He, and his friends have described himself using gay terms. He, and his friends have tried to show (without saying the word) that he is not interested in women romantically.

To the second point, if Nicola, who has both said and shown that she likes to keep her romantic relationships private were to suddenly change her mind about being private, and she somehow WAS dating Jake (despite he and his friends telling us he is not interested in women and both her and other friends deleting posts and comments about her and Jake dating), what would be the point of not telling people she is dating Jake? She is already getting photographed with him. People are already talking about them. What would she have to gain by NOT confirming they were dating, if they weren’t? Don’t you think if they WERE dating and they confirmed that the fandom would quiet down? Don’t you think the people trying to sneak pictures if them would go away quicker? I do.

I think, not only is what Jake and his friends trying to tell us true, I think Nic still has the same philosophy as she did before. She wants to keep her romantic relationship private. I believe that relationship is with Luke. I also believe how that relationship is staying private right now is that the fandom is divided.

Antonia trying to constantly try to show that she is breathing the same air as Luke is helping Nic and Luke have some privacy. Nic continuing to hang out with her friend Jake and DM sometimes sneaking photos (and them posting photos themselves sometimes) is giving Nic and Luke some privacy. Sometimes, having friends post misleading photos in their stories is giving Nic and Luke some privacy.

I think Nic is taking a cue from the title of the new book coming out, that she narrated, to keep the fandom Mis-directed.

#nicola coughlan #luke newton #adjacents #lukola #relationship #privacy #misdirection

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casino-lights · 2 days ago

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So I wrote a love letter to the Wigmaker Job.

If you ever saw that snippet I posted with Illario putting on eyeliner and playfully roasting Lucanis, this is part one of that full fic! This is also the first meeting between Illario and Lidia. There's at least one swordfight, some rooftop parkour later, and perhaps most importantly, the Dellamortes fucking around at a party. A typical Saturday night for an Antivan Crow.

you can read some here or the full thing on ao3 here!

Somehow, Lucanis agreed to let his cousin help him again. Even after the mess the wigmaker job had become, he still buckled when faced with Illario’s knowing smile and a chant of please, cousin, think of all the fun we had last time! He had to admit, Illario’s presence did help time go by faster, and this job could require a lengthy wait. And besides, Lucanis couldn’t possibly keep his socialite cousin away from a ball in their home country even if he had refused.

So there he stood, dressed in the Antivan Crows interpretation of a sharp black suit, beside Illario as he peacocked in front of the mirror in the attic room they shared in the inn. Lucanis watched his cousin trace a finger along his own jawline, turning his face left and right, before smugly straightening his back and adjusting the collar of his navy brocade vest. He preened the sleeves of his silver silk shirt until they billowed just right, dangled the chain of his watch tantalizingly from his breast pocket, and fastened a feather-shaped, gem-set silver pin to the opposite lapel.

Lucanis sighed and turned away, pacing the room as Illario tightly lined his waterlines.

“You know, nothing says you can’t take pride in your appearance too,” Illario said, his voice deepened by the angle of his chin as he fanned out his eyelashes. “You could make those eyes stand out, maybe pick up more than just a target tonight, eh?”

“If you fuss over your face much longer, we won’t even get that far,” Lucanis muttered before fastening his cape to his shoulder with a silver crow skull clasp.

Illario scoffed. “Some of us actually like to display what the Maker gave us rather than hide it with that scruff you call a beard.”

“I think it suits me.”

“And I thought your jawline suited you, too, but clearly you disagreed.”

“I can still see it.” Allowing himself a smirk, Lucanis added, “You just hate that you never liked yourself with proper stubble.”

Illario rolled his eyes and turned away from the mirror. “Ah, but you did take my advice on the cape. Excellent. Shall we?”

“If you’ve finished admiring yourself, certainly.”

“I’m never finished admiring myself, cousin.” Illario winked and pulled on a pair of supple leather gloves stitched with silver thread. “But we should go before our ‘fashionably late’ becomes ‘actually late.’”

The inn was sparsely populated as they left, but the streets, as always, were bustling. Antiva City was always densely packed, especially at night, and despite the merchants’ ball being hosted nearby, plenty of people were still making their way through the district. Clearly, none of the expected guests were important enough to warrant shutting down even the nearest avenue.

As the Crows approached, they noted several carriages stopped outside the stately hotel hosting the ball. Lucanis nodded toward an especially luxurious one, lavishly decorated with purple curtains, gold trim, crystal drop ornaments, and oil lanterns.

“Our target?” Illario asked eagerly, subtly glancing into the carriage.

“Possibly.”

“You will tell me who we’re after eventually, won’t you?”

Lucanis hummed. “He’ll be upstairs in one of the state rooms. We can go up now or scan the ballroom for him - your choice.”

Illario sighed through his nose. “I would be better able to identify him if I knew who he was.”

“You never read my dossiers,” Lucanis complained. “Devi Santuono. Merchant prince - made his fortune selling jewelry to nobility, then married into it later. He deals in magical artifacts now, but he’s been known to sell fakes to less discerning clientele.”

“So… a mage?”

“Not according to my findings.”

Illario flashed a smile at the doorman as he followed Lucanis into the foyer. “Why hire the Demon of Vyrantium?” he asked, voice low enough and smile tight enough to avoid suspicion. “Seems a waste of your talents.”

“Perhaps. But Caterina mentioned a special request and a tidy sum.”

“Hmm. Upfront?”

“Upfront.”

A second doorman, guarding the entrance to the ballroom, checked their tickets and nodded at them approvingly. Illario thanked him as he held open the heavy doors for them, and they crossed the threshold into the warmly-lit, sweet-smelling room. The banquet had yet to be served, so the long tables were instead laden with punch, wine, and untouched porcelain plates, and the chairs sat mostly empty as the guests took the opportunity to mix and mingle.

Several of them turned to look at the Dellamortes as the doorman announced their pseudonyms. They resumed their conversations promptly thereafter, paying the two no mind as their chosen names were unremarkable in Antiva City’s merchant circles. Still, more than a few smiled back at Illario when he met them with his own dazzling grin.

Lucanis scanned the room, noting the many exits, clear sight lines, and profound lack of choke points. He saw no sign of the target so far, but the night was young and the crowd was thick. They had plenty of time.

Illario glided effortlessly through the ballroom, making his way toward an elven servant with fresh glasses of wine and punch on a tray. He collected a red and did a sweeping circuit of the ballroom before returning to Lucanis, and sipped his drink before frowning slightly.

“Hmm. Cheaper than I’d expect for such a nice ball.”

“Poisoned?”

Illario chuckled dryly. “It might taste better if it were.”

“No sign of the target,” Lucanis murmured as he scanned the room again. “And I think that woman over there is the passenger of the carriage we saw outside.”

Illario raised his eyebrows over the rim of his glass. “Oh?”

“Her crystal earrings and brooch match the carriage decor. Likely new money - perhaps even a client of our jeweler.”

After a swallow and another small grimace, Illario offered, “I can ask. Newly rich women love being asked who did their jewelry.”

“Also, Lady Josephine Montilyet is here,” Lucanis added, casting his eyes toward an attractive woman in a striking lavender gown surrounded by at least half a dozen enraptured guests.

“I noticed,” Illario replied. “Looking especially lovely this evening, too.”

“And a fine draw for any wandering eyes.”

Illario barely contained a cough and smacked his lips quietly. “This gets worse with each sip.”

“Then stop drinking it,” Lucanis said with an irritated edge to his voice.

“I can’t make it obvious that I know better wines.” He drained the last of his glass in one large swallow before setting it down on the nearest table. “Here’s hoping the punch is better.”

Lucanis glared at him. “Don’t get drunk before we find Santuono.”

“Relax,” Illario soothed with an easy grin. “The evening has only just begun. Didn’t you say he’d be in his room? Why don’t we just slip out while everyone is enraptured by Lady Montilyet, kill our man, and be back in time for dinner?”

After a look in Josephine’s direction, and satisfied by the amount of attention she commanded, Lucanis nodded once, and he and Illario followed the wall to the nearest exit.

AO3

#illario dellamorte #lucanis dellamorte #dragon age: the veilguard #oc: lidia valisti #gracewrites #fic: the false contract #x: how easy you are to need #since it's their first meeting and all

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niuttuc · 1 day ago

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Hydra's Tear

Recently, I've created a magical item for one of my MtG characters, and I tend to spend a lot of time refining unnecessary details for these, so I felt like writing down what I've got on it. Feel free to include it or a variation on it in your own creations. I'll put up the story side of things with the historical model and a short description first, then go into the unnecessary details under a read more.

The Myth:

The legend associated with the Hydra's Tear harkens back to days long past, and long forgotten, on the plane of Theros. It is but one small part of the tale of the Founding of Meletis, the story of the Aesthelith. It is known to only a few yet, woven as it is into the story of Kynaios and Tiro, the Guardians of Meletis.

After defeating the tyrant Agnomakhos at the goddess Ephara's behest, the two lovers founded a city who the goddess would be the patron of. To show their love to each other and devotion, they declared that the first ceremony to be conducted in Ephara's temple in Meletis, as soon as it would be finished, would be the kings' wedding.

Ephara was pleased by their dedication and success and delighted at this announcement. She set forth to find a wedding gift fit for two kings, and for a goddess to grant as well. After giving humans magic to fight in the war against Agnomakhos, she wanted to show the good magic could also bring in peace.

Knowing his skills with magical crafts, Ephara went first to her cousin Purphoros, god of the Forge, with her requests. Purphoros assented to help her, but only if she procured for him the centerpiece of a creation he had in mind, but escaped the grasp of even the god: a tear from a hydra. Cunning Ephara assented, with already a plan to extract it from such a beast.

In Nyx, she found the great hydra Polukranos in its lair hidden in the stars. There, she waited for it to sleep, then started telling him the story of Kynaios and Tiro, of their bravery, but more than anything, of their love. The story was so beautiful that the sleeping hydra wept a single tear. The goddess was swift to claim her prize and return to Purphoros's forge.

In Purphoros's hands, the tear became a gem, and holding it firmly, the god split the green stone in twain. From its halves, Purphoros fashioned two gold brooches to his and Ephara's design. She thanked her cousin, and took the jewelry to the city of Meletis, where a wedding was being arranged.

When the day came, the goddess officiated the wedding herself, and gave to each of the kings one of the brooch. "Behold," she declared, "by my word, you who were two are now one. These are a symbol of your love, and of mine. While a brooch can fasten clothes, these will fasten people together. Like the hydra it hails from, for as long as you keep it against your skin, you will be as two heads of the same body. You shall see what the other sees, hear what the other hears, and feel what the other feels. Never again shall you be alone, in life or in death."

And as she spoke, so it was. Through the magic of the brooches, even when their duty sent one of the kings to a far-off country, they were never alone. Never separated from the other's voice, or touch, for the rest of their lives.

Then, as it does for any mortal, their time came. Tiro died first, and on that day, Meletis wept, and Kynaios grieved. And nowhere on his body could the brooch be found. Ephara had spoken true, and the brooches, created by the gods, were not impeded by death. By the next night, Kynaios smiled once more, hearing his husband's voice, seeing through his eyes the groves of Ilysia, and feeling his touch.

With his husband's counsel, it is said that Kynaios reigned in his last few years with wisdom beyond compare, for he had seen sacred Ilysia, and could through his husband seek advice from heroes past. When his own turn came, he passed with a smile, and once again, his brooch couldn't be found.

Legend tells that they used their magic still that day to find each other in the vast and lush groves of Ilysia. And that they still wore them in the centuries thereafter, their love as strong or stronger as the day of their wedding.

In Practical Terms:

Hydra's tear sensory brooches, or Aestheliths, are pairs of rare magical items that allow the wearer of one to share one of the primary senses of the other, and vice-versa. The main uses are to share hearing, sight and touch, but taste and smell are also possible. Some more nebulous uses might be possible, but if they are, their use isn't as simple. All the current examples known of the items can only share one set of senses back and forth at once.

Having two sets of sensations for one sense is quite disorienting and overwhelming at first. It takes days of training with any one before one can learn to act normally with it active, and weeks or months before being able to make reflexive use of it.

It is entirely voluntary on both ends, and can be used by anyone, even if they cannot wield magic. While the item can be controlled with a hint of magic with thoughts, it can also be set and used by hand. It is done by turning parts of it to select the sense, and pushing lightly on the gem to activate it or accept the activation from the other of the pair. The effect can be interrupted from either end with a directed thought.

Despite being called brooches, these typically sit directly on the body of the user, under any clothes in the way. They don't have traditional pins or clasps, but they stick to one's body magically, and can be moved around their skin easily with a finger to slide it around.

Besides the lack of magic necessary to operate them, they are notable against other forms of magical communication devices because of their incredible reliability. They are almost impossible to disrupt or intercept, instantaneous, and can work even through planar boundaries and other magical limits. On Theros (and probably Kaldheim and other planes with similarly physical afterlives), this includes allowing direct contact between the mortal realm and the Underworld, which is otherwise particularly difficult. Of course, getting it there involves someone dying with one of a pair, and still wanting to contact the person on the other end after their deaths, so that makes exploiting it a bit harder a task.

The Unnecessary Details:

The Gem:

A Hydra's Tear is some form of magical gem. Whether or not it actually originates from hydras and their tears is unknown. It has a rough appearance due to its property to regenerate from its largest fragment when splintered or cut, a dark green lump of irregular shape. As such, extracting it from rock is fairly easy, you can just smash the rock and get the bit that regenerates from there, but further sanding or cutting it into shape is impossible, and each Hydra's Tear will have a unique natural shape.

When cut into two exactly equal pieces, the magic of the stone doesn't regenerate it, it instead acts magically as if the stone was never cut in the first place. This link transcends distance, Realms and Planes, and is almost impossible to disrupt, offering room for interesting enchantments.

However, cutting such a stone exactly in two is an incredibly difficult task, and has only been achieved by Gods or master craftsmiths with a divine favor. Even for those, it has required a lot of trial and error and sometimes days of work. As a result, the following experiment of further cutting the two halves into exact halves (quarters of the full thing) has so far never succeeded. It might not be fully impossible, but since each stone is unique, it would require succeeding in this arduous task twice in a row, and it's impossible to tell whether a failure is due to it being outright impossible or just the result of a minor mistake. The gem is pretty rare in the first place, as are those able to cut it once, so experiments such as those have been few in numbers.

Notably, once a gem is cut in this way, it doesn't lose its regenerating properties, but as far as its magic is concerned, it is still a single gem, so chipping or breaking it doesn't cause the link to fail or anything of the sorts. It simply regenerates whichever half got chipped or broken into its proper half.

The Brooches:

The most common (but still incredibly rare) item created from cut Hydra's Tears are brooches modeled and enchanted after the mythical pair, though not all those that have made them knew the myth. Those are called Aestheliths after the Theran term, or sensory brooches. As was mentioned earlier, they allow the wearer of both brooches to pick a sense they both have, and experience at the same time their end of that sense and the other wearer's. It is disorienting at first.

It does not function when the sense only exists for one of the wearers due to different species, but it does function if one of the wearers has that sense impaired but would otherwise have it, such as with blind or deaf humans, who can see or hear through the other wearer's senses. If both wearer share a sense but differ greatly in its characteristics, such as being able to perceive different wavelengths of light or a much wider sense of smell, it will still function but will be even more disorienting and difficult to parse for both people involved.

They technically can work with any sentient creatures, but are only really practical with sapient ones. Training an animal to wear, activate the brooch and then not immediately panic at the flood of sensations and interrupt the connections has proven beyond the skills of any who have tried it.

With the typical design, as far as manual (non magical) use, a ring of sorts surrounds the gemstone, and can be turned to select a sense, then pushing on the gem sends a "call" to the other wearer that makes them aware of the initiated link, that they can accept with a push of their own end of the gem, or dismiss with a thought. The sense shared is always the same on both ends, and there can only be one shared at a time.

The brooches adhere to skin, but can be slid around freely on there, like a magnet would behave on a large magnetic surface. They are impossible to pry off without removing the skin they're attached to when active, and require quite a bit of effort to remove by a third party even when inactive. The wearer can remove their own with much less effort if they want to. Much like other controls, they can be moved around one's body with a though and a hint of magic channeled at it, if the wearer is able to channel magic.

Here are some notes on stuff to expect with the typical senses.

Sight:

Sight is perhaps the most disorienting of senses to share at first. It helps to acclimate someone to it to start with both people involved keeping their eyes as close to each other as possible, and looking in the same direction. Learning to move your body according to a point of view that is not centered on your own head takes practice, and when that point of view is itself moving, it can lead to nausea at first.

While the brooches allow one to focus on a different part of the other's vision than they are, it doesn't allow one to move the other's eyes, or head. As a result, it can be a confusing and frustrating experience to want to look at something at the edge of the other's vision, when you physically can't turn your head or pivot your eyes to see it better.

Because sight can only be shared on its own, communication is difficult with it while in different locations. Many pairs of wearers eventually develop a code, often based on blinks for humans and similar, for some common actions... Or to switch to hearing for more complex discussions.

Between species with similar sight characteristics, there can be slight differences of color in how the world is perceived, or large ones in the case of some color blindnesses.

Between species with different sight characteristics, the mind of each will eventually adapt to recognize more colors they wouldn't usually perceive, but the process can be slow and headache-inducing.

Some have reported an unusual feeling upon seeing themselves through the eyes of another, likely linked to the fact people usually only see their own face through a mirror, whereas the brooches do not mirror the images they show.

Hearing:

Hearing is possibly the most often shared of the senses with Aestheliths. It allows conversations at any distance or simply seamless eavesdropping.

It is not typically as disorienting to share hearing as sight, though it can be when trying to locate the source of a sound. Your mind will associate the location depending on the position of the ears of the other wearer, not your own. This is even more disorienting when standing in the vicinity of the other wearer, but looking in different directions.

One of the quirks of sharing hearing is that both wearers hear a different voices than they expect for the other (and themselves), but not any other person. Because people hear themselves through not only their hear but the resonance of their own body, the voice they hear for themselves and the voice others hear are different. As a result, when sharing hearing with someone else, one will hear the "internal" voice for the other when they speak, and the "external" voice for themselves as well if they speak anywhere the other can hear. The speech of any third person will be heard the same as normal.

Due to sound moving relatively slowly in air, there can be a slight feeling of echoing when speaking and listening while sharing hearing, particularly as the distance between the two wearers grows larger (but still within range of hearing the same sounds).

When hearing is shared between two species with different hearing ranges, similar to sight, the mind slowly expands to understand sounds beyond the normal reach. But, similarly, those sounds can only be heard through another's ears still.

Touch:

Touch has a lot of unique traits as far as being shared. It goes beyond just being touch and some other characteristics are shared as well. Some elements of proprioception as well: sharing touch involves knowing the position of the other's body and how it feels in many places, though the mind will try to assign that perception of the other person's body to the wrong position in space. This can be changed with trust and training, and a learned pair sharing touch can move around each other without ever getting in one another's way or looking at each other.

While touch will share many physical sensations, be they pressure, temperature and pleasure, it also has a special handling of pain, that is... Othered, in a way other shared sensations through the brooches aren't. When sharing touch, you *know* the pain the other is in, but you don't feel it as your own. This peculiarity of the enchantment is very purposeful, and one of the reasons replicating the enchantment is an intricate and involved process.

Touching the other wearer while sharing the sense of touch with them feels like touching your own body in many ways, since you receive both the feeling of touching and being touched at the same time. A fascinating experience.

Smell and Taste:

Smell and Taste are separate, but I'll address them here together, as they're similar in being more rarely used, and less unique in their handling.

Smell can be very useful if one of the wearers has a much more developed one than the other, such as when a human and a leonin are paired. Similar to sight and hearing, one learns to decode those new signals with time and headaches. Unlike with hearing and sight however, some of those might become recognizable without needing to be sharing smell anymore eventually, as faint but present. It might even allow one to become receptive to pheromones they normally do not notice or react to.

Taste has a bit more to it being shared, like touch, in that you can also get the texture and warmth of what is being tasted through the link. Interestingly, individual preferences also are translated through the shared sense of taste. If something is found delicious by one of the wearers and disgusting by another, how it is experienced by both will depend on who actually eats it, it will feel either disgusting to both or delicious to both.

Other senses:

Beyond the five traditional senses, some might be able to be shared with the brooches, though they might require being able to magically choose the sense to share, as the selector ring doesn't typically cover anything beyond the five main ones (and an standby position to avoid accidental activations.)

Other senses that can be shared this way include magnetoreception (the perception of magnetic fields), thaumasthesia (the perception of magic), vestibular sense (perception of balance and acceleration, generally pretty useless and nausea-inducing to share with another), and more... As a reminder, both wearer need to have the sense, or the potential for it, to be able to share it this way.

There are rumors that one can also share a sense of self through the brooches, in a way that would allow two people to perceive each other's thought processes. While there has been successful activations with this idea, the process is so overwhelming, disturbing and disorienting that everyone that tried it ended the connection after a fraction of a second at most. It is possible something like that could be sustained, but it would take years if not decades of very brief and lengthening contacts to be able to maintain a usable link for any reasonable amount of time. And there are worries that doing so would permanently alter both wearer's personalities and thoughts to match the other closer in the process.

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