#WIP: Broken Thrones

[bluebellhairpin]

I need to get back into my royal medieval au fics. Those plots were fucking cinematic.

[arcielee]

My body was bruised and I was set alight

Summary: You decide to pay your husband a visit. Paring: Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader Word Count: 3.6+ Warnings: AFAB Reader, mentions of Targcest, infidelities, kissing, oral (f receiving), p in v, creampie, overstimulation. Author's Note: Thank you my beloved @zaldritzosrose for beta reading and helping me decide how this arc should end! 💜 This is part 3 of my Only If For A Night, my accidental short-series. I would advise you to read part 1 and part 2, but do what you want. I finished this WIP base on the poll created to celebrate hitting 2k followers! (Thank you, my loves! 💜) This is the final part for the Aemond arc. Title comes from Florence + The Machine. Valyrian translations: ābrazȳrys is wife and dōna ābrazȳrys is sweet wife

You were standing out on the terrace with an iron grip on your chalice, half-drunk, watching the slow rise of the moon and its silver spill streaking out over the dark blanket settling over the horizon. Below, you could hear the swell of the night life for Flea Bottom, the amber glow of manmade lights lining the streets, but your focus remained on the broken surface of Blackwater Bay, the salt air licking your face. 

Another somber sigh was followed by another swallow of bitter wine. Favor, you were learning, was something that could change as quick as the currents that now propelled the waters to crash white against the cliffside beneath you. 

It was an almost poetic view from your gilded cage, a place where your confinement began eight days prior after a misdiagnosis from the maester. Worry thrummed of your delicate condition, but you knew the only reason you fainted was caused by the constricting corset you happened to be wearing when your husband made his gallant return to the throne room. 

You had not seen him, much less spoken to Aemond since that night. It was something of a sinful replay in your mind, and it left you with an ache that the king could no longer sate. 

That did not matter since whatever was between the two of you, you knew that you did not love Aegon nor did he love you. It started as something more primal, more insatiable, but it also allowed you a new freedom within the castle grounds. 

It was a freedom you wished to keep, and the coupling was pleasant enough. It was why you cinched your waist on that day, another means to entice the king, to hold his attention while the lords of the realm paraded new skirts to try and sway his grace. 

You were lovely, but it restricted the air from your lungs, and what little you had was wrenched away with your audible gasp at your husband’s grandiose entrance.  

The doors swung heavy when his arrival was announced. Aemond was poised, as always, and his eye searched for you. You felt your blood searing to the surface and your vision narrowing to a pinpoint. The world pitched and you last saw his long gate crossing to catch you, the warmth of his palms moving to lift you into his arms. You felt the rumble of his chest as he called for the maester. 

As Aemond carried you back to your quarters, your head lulled against him, eyes fluttering, enveloped by his scent of dragonback and sweat, a woodsy musk that held onto his riding leathers. Your cheeks warmed from his intense proximity, from the steady beating of his heart, and the elder master–who struggled to keep with the prince’s pace–voiced his concerns of a possible fever. 

You felt your husband smirk, and you kept your eyes forward. 

The handmaidens were stunned to the stone when you entered, watching as Aemond moved to place you on the bed. He seemed well aware of the eyes on you both, and he reached to take your hand, bringing it to his lips, so close you felt his exhale, this ghost of a kiss. He then moved away to allow them to fret and your eyes followed after him, taking in his stilted posture, his hands crossed and rested on his lower back. 

The heat of his gaze was melting you into the linen. 

“You must rest.” The elder maester was flustering, mistaking the close scrutiny of the one-eyed prince. His skin was blotched with reds as he called crow that you were clearly with child; he was insistent on bedrest. 

The blood drained away from your blank expression, a scalding pour into your heart that was slamming against your ribs. You felt sick from his words, muted as the maester turned to offer his congratulations to your husband. 

Aemond kept his gaze fixated on you. His jaw steeled with a tension that spread to hold him in place. “You must do as he says,” his tone was leveled, tight, “ābrazȳrys.” 

You were commanded to remain in bed, left with a searing panic that stricken your bones and left you pinned to the mattress, a fear that throttled your throat of your paternal doubt for the babe you carried. There was ill-comfort in the memory, a silver haired child all the same–it only churned your insides. 

You were isolated as neither your husband, nor Aegon, visited you. Only once did the Lord Hand come by to express his pleasure at the prospect of another princess or princeling to be added to the growing lineage. 

No one else came. 

But you did not flourish with life. Instead your cycle came with a vengeance, and it was the same damn maester who returned with his sheepish admittance that he may have been wrong. “You can always try again, princess,” his eyes crinkled with his well-intentioned words while your insides curdled with its white-hot pain. 

Rest, he insisted once again, along with a cup of wine to help soothe your nerves. 

Alone again, the silence was near deafening until you decided to embrace the reprieve from the courts. Your days were spent abed while warmed stones were rotated from the hearth and pressed against your lower abdomen. You had a cup of Arbor Red for breakfast and supper, listening to your handmaidens' gossip about the latest skirts sent to the Red Keep to ensnare the king. 

You were not bothered by this, as you felt certain you could reclaim his affection again. And when your moon cycle finished, you requested a hot bath with oils from Essos and rose petals that floated on the milky surface. You asked for your silk finery, adding touches of exotic scents dabbed behind your neck and on your wrists. 

After you dismissed them for the night, you slipped on your robe and slippers, moving to the passageway Aegon had shown you. 

The torches were lit and low, a soft amber light to guide you. Your hand pressed to the cobblestones and cobwebs, your mind flitting to when Aegon first showed you this secret, how he pressed you against the very same wall, the heat of his body pinning you and his mouth capturing your own–

You blinked when you saw a Cargyll knight posted. 

“Forgive me princess,” he said with a pity that shimmered in his eyes. “The king has company tonight. I have been told he will not be interrupted, under any circumstance.”

The White Cloak then returned you to your room, leaving you to pour your sorrow in the chalice you now held. In truth, you were not mourning the inevitable end, but more so the freedom it had allowed you within King’s Landing. You would not fault Aegon–you knew firsthand that his passion was insatiable, notorious throughout the kingdoms. You also knew that the lords were desperate to catch his violet gaze, anything to align their house within the growing Targaryen dynasty. 

Your second cup soured your blood and you felt your vexation pouring into your heart, smoldering. You blamed Aemond. It was his fault that his infidelities pushed you to find your own pleasure, and his unjust jealousy kept you isolated–your own handmaidens had been shy to admit your lord husband guarded every entrance during your bedrest.

A dragon hoarding, you fumed. 

And for what purpose? He still had not even visited you since the day you were bedridden. 

This curiosity burned alongside your ire, something overwhelming that mixed with the wine that flushed your skin. You finished the last bit, grabbing your silk robe once more and throwing open your door to find the other Cargyll knight posted. 

He paled. “Princess.” 

“I wish to see my husband,” your tone was curt and left no room for negotiation. 

The soft clinks of his armor shadowed your steps, stopping once you arrived at Aemond’s door. It was unguarded and you recalled that fateful night. You were frozen, your muscles tensing and ticking before you regained enough control to give a sharp look over your shoulder. 

“You are no longer needed.” Your words felt thick on your tongue. The White Cloak was quick to leave and your skirt billowed with your final steps to move and open the door. 

Aemond was seated in a leather armchair placed in front of a large, oak desk. He was hunched over with his same studious furrow of his silver brow, a collection of parchment and ink, old books and tomes sprawled across. The glow from the hearth poured golden over him, touching the hard planes of his chest that peeked through his unbuttoned cotton nightshirt, and a yellow hue to his silver hair worn in a single braid, slung over his shoulder. 

He stopped and looked up to you, his bicolored gaze focused–one lavender and one sapphire–as though he had been expecting you.

You felt unnerved, the thought of returning to your room fluttering through your wine-addled mind. Instead, you closed the heavy doors behind you. “Lord husband.” It spilled thick from your stained lips, your liquid courage coaxing your steps closer towards him. 

He turned to face you, wood scratching the stone floor, his svelte slouch back in the chair that allowed you to see how far undone his shirt truly was. Your eyes trailed, your blood warming. 

He smirked. “Good evening, ābrazȳrys.”

It cut through you with the same acidity as the last night he sought you out. Now you were the one unforced in his chambers–pristine and dark and decorated with his ancestry–watching the cruel curl of his lips as he continued. “Perhaps you are lost? I know that the king handles your affairs these nights.” 

Your face twisted, blood rising and tears threatening with his chosen words. You managed to hold your tone. “I do not wish for the king,” your voice was soft, “but I wish for my husband.” 

He scoffed but it only emboldened you, burning hot through your veins and spilling from your lips. “I come to fulfill what is expected of us, but also for you to finish what you teased the last night we shared together.” 

Aemond looked at you, stunned by your boldness, a rose dusting across his sharp features and his lips pursed. 

You could not stop. The dam was bursting. “You dared give me a taste of something I did not think even possible within this marriage, and now I want it, I crave it.” Your tone rose. “I want that passion that you tormented me with. I want that same passion that you poured into the queen–!” 

You made a soft noise, your fingers flying to touch your lips, to scoop up what was said and swallow it again. The wine betrayed you and all you could do was watch, wide eyed, for how your husband would respond. 

Aemond held still, carved marble poised. His fingers touched his chin while his one eye flitted to you and then away. “You have no idea what you are saying–” 

It was your turn to scoff. You moved closer, your fingers touching the edge of the desk and following around, forcing yourself in his line of sight. “I saw you.” Your voice cracked with emotion, with a betrayal that ran so hot and so deep, surfacing again in the privacy of his quarters. “I saw you with her.”

You stopped yourself to gather the sorrow that threatened to release, pulling your anger back by the fistfuls and holding it tight behind your ribs; it burned. “I just…” you swallowed. “Well, it does not matter now. But know your actions are why I sought out my own comfort. I admit my sins, but I also know yours, husband.”

Silence settled thick, punctuated with the sounds of the embers, of the drawers opening and paper rustling, the clink of the top of the inkwell placed back. Your eyes were drawn to his slender fingers that fidgeted to straighten up the desk. When he finished, only then did Aemond look back to you, reconsidering you, his severity set beneath the red that now stained his cheeks. 

“What is it that you want?” He was not angry, but almost curious. 

You had not been asked this before. It was a torrid rush of sequential memories that poured over, pulling you to this moment–your initial optimism when you first came to King’s Landing, carrying your girlish idylls and romanticism that came knitted with the announcement of your betrothal to a Targaryen prince. You mistook his dutiful acts and his diligence for acts of devotion.

How you had wished, how you had hoped that it would become more–!

His touch grounded you, those same slender fingers wrapping around your wrist of the hand resting on the desk. You tilted your chin to look at him, a forceful rhythm of your heart trying to burst from your chest. 

You swallowed again. “I am your wife,” you moved closer, closer with your velvet tone. “I am yours, Aemond. 

You dared touch him, your hand breaking his hold and your fingers pressing to his chin, following the unmarred side. His lips parted, a moment to understand the affection shown and he surrendered to it. His face turned to your open palm, his breath tickling your wrist. You felt a heat that began to curl at the base of your spine, gooseflesh prickling your skin. 

His breath hitched as you leaned forward, allowing your neckline to dip, showing a hint of what was prepared beneath your silk. Your lips touched his ear. “I want you to show me what it is that you truly desire.” 

It erupted and he pushed from the desk, his composure cracking and his chest heaving, caging you to the edge with his hands pressed on either side until his knuckles showed white. You remained rooted, unflinching, unafraid to watch as the fire seared throughout, his nostrils flaring with whatever he battled within his mind. 

A decision was made with a kiss. Aemond crashed against you with a passion that you were quick to reciprocate. His arms moved to wrap around and pull you into his chest, his heat burning through the cotton, a clash of teeth and lips and his tongue–the same that carved into your cunt with a precision that allowed you a glimpse of the heavens, now curled to pull a moan from the back of your throat. 

His mouth moved, hot and demanding, open-mouth kisses that trailed your jaw and nipping on the curve of your neck. You were panting, you were alight. “What I desire,” his voice husked against your skin, in-between the assault of his lips, “I desire your taste on my tongue.”

You mewled, your fingers carving into his shoulder blades to hold yourself upright. His large hands roamed to the softness of your backside, lifting you enough to set you on top of his desk. You were breathless as his fingers dimpled into your plush thighs, splitting them apart to knit his slender waist between, claiming your mouth once again. 

Aemond settled into the cradle of your hips, pressing at his seams with a hardness that rubbed against your core. You moaned again, louder, your legs lifting to wrap around him and pull him closer, but he pulled back, kneeling in front of you. “Aemond–?”

His hands tore the silk so your legs would spread further, and you leaned back, propping yourself on your elbows. Your chin tucked to your chest, rapt to watch the black that swallowed the lavender of his eye, the slow rise and fall of his chest, his hummed satisfaction to see that you were bare beneath; the night air was cool against your cunt, your arousal surely glistening in the candlelight. 

You pushed up again, one handful of his shirt to pull him closer for another kiss, slower, softer, searching until he groaned against your mouth. You broke away, your lips swollen. “Who am I to deny my husband what he desires?”

His lips curled as he lowered himself, his hands slipping underneath your thighs to hold, moving close enough to lick up your slit. It jolted through you and you shuddered with his kiss to the bloom of nerves above. 

“Relax,” he breathed against your sensitive skin, and you rested back onto your elbows.

You watched the shimmer of his hair as his head tucked between, his tongue pressing to split your folds and curling upwards. You moaned, your back arching, and his fingers bit into your thighs, holding as he pressed closer, until his nose rubbed against you in a way that elicited a reborn passion that seared through your veins.

You lifted your legs to press the soles of your feet onto his broad shoulders, and he moved one hand, pressing to the inside of your thighs and trailing closer towards your heat. He suckled his fingers before they pushed into you, a new intensity that curled your toes into his skin. 

“Aemond–!” Your hands grasped to hold yourself closer, your fingernails combing through his hair with a light scratch against his scalp. 

He hummed against your cunt, pressing his fingers deeper with a delicious stretch, with a familiarity that made you whine. He touched something within you that reborn the very passion haunting you for weeks, something your core craved ever since that night… 

Aemond pushed you towards that precipice and your lungs ached with your bated breath, allowing enough for his name to spill like a fevered prayer, begging with your unabandon want. “Please, please–”

It was a delicious tandem of his mouth and tongue and his slender fingers splitting you open, a blossoming release that sparked at the base of your spine, a euphoria ripping through you and pulling you from your body. 

Your legs were still shaking as Aemond moved to drape them over the edge of the desk. He towered over you, his sharp chin gleaming from your release. He looked at you. “I believed I married a shy and demure girl from a noble house,” his tone was dark, but teasing. He leaned over you, his eye glittering like the sapphire stone in his scarred socket. “I tried to be careful and courteous, as though you would break.” 

You reached for him, your fingers carding through his hair and curling into the nape of his neck, pulling him close for another consuming kiss. Passion rumbled your bones with the taste of yourself on his lips, heating the marrow and pouring into your core once again. 

“Break me, Aemond,” you breathed against his lips. 

His drawstrings were loosened enough, shifting to press himself to your silken folds, his length spearing you through to the desk. Your body was pliant, wanting, but you still stretched to mold around him. Aemond groaned, another powerful thrust to sheath himself fully into your heat. 

You shuddered, your nipples pebbling, and you clenched. 

Aemond paused, his jaw tight as he looked you over. His silver hair spilled from the braid, cascading over his shoulders, and he leaned forward to kiss you again, his tresses tickling your skin. 

You sighed, you shifted, wrapping your legs around his narrow waist, and he pressed forward, pressed deeper. “Gods,” his head tucked into the curve of your neck, his words rumbling through you, “you were made for me.” 

You could only mewl in reply, overwhelmed with the powerful pace he set, sparking bright in front of your eyes as his hip bones bruised against you. It pulled something deeper and you swore it was too much. “Please, Aemond, I cannot–”

“You can and you will, until I am finished with you.” You felt his smile curving against your neck, prickling your skin with the pleasure that thrummed beneath. “But I promise, dōna ābrazȳrys, I will never let you go now–”

He pulled back, his hands grabbing into your hips to hold as he snapped against you. Your cunt suctioned to bring him closer and he complied, a brutal pace that sparked a new euphoria that simmered to the surface. You felt drunk on the pleasure threatening, a slickness that was spilling between your thighs. 

“I can feel you,” he taunted, breathless and flushed. His hand pressed to your lower abdomen, his fingers spreading lower until his thumb slipped between your folds, slow circles to your bundle of nerves that increased with his thrusts. “Have you been so deprived, dōna ābrazȳrys–” 

You could not hear him, not with how your blood roared in your ears as that passion imploded with a white-hot rapture. You shattered beneath him, a pleasure trilling through your nerves and your veins, spreading to every fiber of your being, a thousand pieces strewn across the oak desk. 

Aemond groaned above you, spilling hot, his cock throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat. You blinked to focus, your lashes wet from your tears. He looked down at you, bending over until his face pressed to your chest, his lips littering you with careful kisses as he softened and slipped from your cunt. 

You felt the spill, sticky between your thighs, your skin aflame with every press of his lips. Aemond pushed up, but not before slipping his arm under the arch of your back, pulling you up with him. His hands moved to cradle your face, another kiss to draw your breath. 

“Stay,” he whispered, “but only if you want.” 

You nodded in a daze, watching as he moved around you: a damp cloth that wiped away his spend, his fingers curling beneath your chin as he placed another kiss on your forehead. He pulled away the last of your silk, and you nestled under his sheets, your body bare and molding to your husband, enjoying the heat that permeated from him and the rhythm of his heart against his skin. 

It was a new beginning with the same characters, that which included the damn maester who would later announce that you were, in fact, pregnant.

Only this time, you would hold no paternal doubt for the silver haired babe you were surely carrying. 

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[cissyenthusiast010155]

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Fanfic writer interview

Thank you @emmanuellececchi for the tag!! 💖 I've been tagged on this game a couple of times in the past, but I never answered them because looking at my Ao3 Stats just made me feel sad.

Stats are a little better now, and I have thicker skin about it, so here we go! :)

How many works do you have on AO3? 23

What's your total AO3 word count? 72,658

Your top 5 stories by kudos/likes:

Taken (Eomer x OC) *most popular by a large margin!

Greenleaf's Day Out (Child Legolas and family)

The Task of Living (Thorin x Reader)

Breathe (Boromir x Reader)

Dandelions (Boromir x Reader)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? Umm. I am shamefully REALLY bad at responding to comments. More often than not, I just don't get around to it! I know that's a terrible thing to do as a writer, because commenters deserve so much appreciation! It is definitely one of my resolutions in the coming New Year to improve on this flaw.

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending? The Broken Shield - It's a Thorin fic set during the War of the Dwarves and Orcs, and shows the death of both Elvenqueen Maereth and Frerin, brother of Thorin.

What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending? I like to think most of the fics I write have happy endings, but I've received feedback about Dandelions being particularly "feel good".

Do you write crossovers? Crossovers are not my thing, BUT I did receive a fic request for one from a friend, so I'm going to deliver it just because they asked.

Have you ever received hate on a fic? Never, thankfully. I don't think my reach is wide enough to attract the notice of haters.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Nope, I leave smut to the experts. M-level spice is the most I can manage.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I know of.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Nope, and I can't imagine anyone would want to.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? @scyllas-revenge and I sorta accidentally co-wrote a sort-of fic. LOL. Maybe we'll formalize the partnership eventually. @heilith and I have been discussing a (her)Lindir x (my)OC collaboration for ages now, but we're both so busy offline! I would love to co-write fics, but only with friends I'm confident can tolerate my slowness and focus issues.

What's your all-time favorite ship? I enjoy MANY ships across different fandoms, but none really stand out. On a personal level, I really love my Thranduil x Maereth ship. It means so much to me that I will forever be insecure about sharing it with others, for fear of rejection or criticism.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will? I want to finish ALL my WIPs and I don't think about ditching any of them. Hope springs eternal!

What are your writing strengths? If you ask me? Worldbuilding and integrating my AU into canon. If you ask others? I've been told I can deliver a decent gut-wrenching piece of prose or dialogue here and there.

What are your writing weaknesses? I am the SLOWEST WRITER YOU WILL EVER MEET. Tons of WIPs. Updates on long fics are a miracle. I honestly question whether I'm cut out for multi-chapter fics, but I keep trying anyway.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? I only do it sparingly, usually using short phrases here and there.

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to? I am chomping at the bit to write for ASOIAF/Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon! I have fic requests waiting for HotD; I just need to get my butt moving on them.

What's your favorite fic you've written? I have yet to write a fic that stands out above the others; I love my fics equally for different reasons.

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Tagging: @hobbitwrangler @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras @heilith @lathalea @missiemoosie

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....and anyone who wants to share! I'm not sure which of my writer Moots are on Ao3 or just on Tumblr. :)

[nessataleweaver]

FIC: By right of blood (Game of Thrones)

RATING: PG

FANDOM/PAIRING: Game of Thrones; Jon/Sansa (implied)

SUMMARY:  Robb Stark’s return to Winterfell has been a long time coming.  But to his dismay, his homecoming is not the welcome he expects.

NOTE: show!verse, but the Red Wedding went slightly differently. It also diverts Sansa’s canon storyline at the same point it’s still currently stuck at in the books, with her in the Vale posing as Alayne Stone. I actually expanded this from a WIP I never got around to finishing back in 2020, so the jonsa is only implied here; let me assure you it’s quite real though.

PROMPT: for jonsa-halloween for their 2024 event, using the October 29th prompt  ‘Came back wrong!’ In this story, that can be taken several ways...

This story can also be read on AO3

Robb Stark, King in the North, couldn’t hold back a sigh as the imposing view of Winterfell broke over the horizon.

He’d been away too long.

“Is that Winterfell?” Talisa asked quietly, from her seat in the carriage that rolled beside Robb’s horse.

“Yes,” Robb nodded happily.  “I have to warn you, I don’t know what shape it’ll be in.  I haven’t been back since before the Ironborn attacked.  Roose Bolton recommended his bastard as castellan, but given that we now know he was behind what happened at Uncle Edmure’s wedding...”

Robb bit his lip to hold back un-Kingly tears.  The only reason Robb, Talisa, and the child that swelled her belly like a full moon were alive was because of his mother’s suspicions - and her sacrifice.  Along with many of Robb’s bannermen, she’d died during what was already being called ‘the Red Wedding’.  Robb had managed to bring home most of the bannermen’s bodies, but he’d left his mother’s remains in a burning boat in the Trident, like her Tully ancestors before her.  Robb and Talisa had already agreed that their first daughter would be named in tribute.

Robb’s first hint that perhaps he wasn’t as well-informed on the state of affairs as he should have been came when he saw Winterfell up close. 

It was... perfect.  There was no sign that the seat of the Starks had ever been attacked, except for a few fading scorch marks here and there on the walls.  It was better than perfect – the Broken Tower had even been repaired.

The second hint was when Beth Cassel came to meet him, wearing a Yi Ti-styled tabard bearing the Stark crest. She swept a graceful, exquisitely correct curtsey.

“As the steward of Winterfell, I greet you, King in the North.” With a respectful nod to Talisa, she added, “and his Queen Consort.”

His third hint came when she offered them bread and salt.

* - * - * - *

Robb was furious, and only barely hiding it.  This was only tempered by an ever-increasing sadness, accompanied by an also-ever-increasing feeling of trepidation.

Talisa had been ensconced in a set of beautifully furnished rooms that Beth had told them had been designated for them whenever they cared to visit, and would be called the Royal Suite in their honour.

It was in the guest quarters.  Not the family wing. Alongside those offered to the few bannermen who’d accompanied him to Winterfell, the rest who’d survived the war peeling off from his entourage to return to their own homes, eager to put matters into place for the approaching of winter.

Robb didn’t recognise a single person in the halls besides Beth.  Every enquiry he made about a member of staff he remembered from before he left received one of two responses:

“He/she died fighting the Iron-Born.”

Or the even more popular “He/she was killed by the Bolton bastard.”

The only exception was Mikken; when Robb had glimpsed a tall, strong youth who oddly reminded him of Robert Baratheon in the smithy, Beth had remarked to Robb’s joy that Gendry had made his way to Winterfell on Arya’s recommendation.

“We don’t know where she is currently, but we’re sure she’s alive.”

This had been followed by a dismal variation on a depressingly familiar refrain.

“Mikken was crippled by the Bolton bastard, so he’s instructing Gendry further while he supervises the smithy, now that the rebuilding is done.  We still have a lot of preparation to do for winter, including expanding the glass houses both here and at Weeping Water castle.”

“Wait - Weeping Water Castle?” Robb knew the Weeping Water river, of course, but wasn’t that right next to-

“The former Dreadfort, your grace.  With Roose dead at your hand for his betrayal, and his Frey wife and last remaining legitimate child slaughtered by his bastard, everyone thought that it was only fitting that the bastard’s wife be awarded the Bolton holdings as recompense for her suffering, and to keep anyone who might have supported the Bolton’s out of the seat.  Even Lady Dustin agreed.” 

“But who is she?”

“The former Jeyne Poole.  The Bolton bastard married her, claiming she was Lady Arya, in order to strengthen his claim on Winterfell.  We’ll need you to confirm her in the position before you leave, as well as confirm that she can hold it under her maiden name.  Given that she’s highly likely to die childless, Lady Jeyne will probably ask you to designate one of your children as the heir.”

With that surprising comment, Beth opened the side door to the Great Hall.  “Please excuse me not announcing you with due heraldry, your grace, but Lady Sansa is in the middle of the Day of Judgment and Appeals.  We prefer not to interrupt the hearings.  I’ll announce you as soon as the current hearing is done.”

Robb stood and watched as Sansa, in an elaborately carved rosewood chair placed on the bare dais where the family tables sat during feasts, presided over the people of Winterfell as if she were a queen. A very good one.  Beth had cleverly avoided answering any questions about what Sansa was doing in Winterfell instead of King’s Landing, and Robb found his curiosity burning almost as hotly as his anger.

Less than ten minutes later, Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell and King in the North found himself standing before his younger sister feeling like a supplicant, trying not to puke at the detailed list of what Roose Bolton’s bastard had done to his people.  Trying to digest the news that his silly little sister, who spoke of nothing but songs, sewing, and suitors, had stolen his rightful place from under him while he’d been avenging their father’s murder.

"I am Lord of Winterfell, and King in the North!" Robb thundered, his voice echoing off the stone walls of their ancestors.

"Yes, you are King in the North, by right of acclamation," Sansa agreed.  "You were chosen as such by your bannermen." Then her expression turned to mirror-blank ice, and her voice became harsh as the depths of winter.  "But you are no longer Lord of Winterfell.  You lost Winterfell to the Ironborn.  You lost it because you trusted Theon, and he betrayed us all. He murdered our brothers, leaving me as the rightful heir.  Then you gave permission for the Boltons to take it.  You approved of that monster coming to Winterfell. You allowed that monster to torture and slaughter it's people.

"So I did what you were too busy elsewhere to do.  I took back our home.  I made an alliance with our cousin Robin Arryn; I brought warriors from the Vale and I freed the people here from death and terror.  Winterfell is mine, by right of conquest.  It's people support my right of blood.  I am the Stark in Winterfell now, and so I shall remain.  After all, I'm the only other candidate. And I have the support of our only remaining family."

Robb looked at her incredulously.  "Wait - Jon?  You went to the Night's Watch?"

A shadow moved from behind Sansa's chair, and Robb nearly jumped out of his skin.  It took several heartbeats for him to recognise the black curls and pallid face.

"Jon? What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the Wall?"

Jon reached for the neck of his black leather jerkin, and slowly unfastened it.  He wore no shirt underneath, and Robb stared in utter shock - not at his scandalously bare chest, but the several livid, still blood-red scars.

How could any man have taken a blade to the heart and live?

"My Watch has ended," Jon told him solemnly, as he re-fastened his clothing.  "I serve the Lady of Winterfell, now."

He laid his hand on Sansa’s shoulder... and something dark in the back of Robb’s mind recognised it as a touch of possession rather than simple support. The Sansa that Robb knew would have shrugged off any physical contact from Jon with a scandalised look.  This Sansa leaned into it.  Jon had always been pale, but now the skin of his hand looked downright ghostly in contrast to the deep blue of Sansa’s gown, the sparkling wolf emblazoned across her chest seemed to dance as she reached up to place her hand on top of his.

"Unfortunately, Winterfell is still being repaired from being sacked twice in as many years, so the King in the North will have to make his royal seat elsewhere, I'm afraid.  Might I suggest Moat Cailin?  It's location is highly strategic, and it's one of the few holdfasts where you won't have to rob a noble family of their home in order to take it for yourself.”

Robb looked around the assorted people in the Great Hall, and realised that he was surrounded not simply by Winterfell’s people, but Sansa’s congregation.  Judging by some of the glares, if he raised a single word of objection or insult to Sansa, he might not make it back to the Royal suite alive.

He would be able to do nothing to regain Winterfell until he left it.

Sansa continued, her voice cool and soft as snow, “I negotiated with the Iron Bank for the funds to rebuild and make the needed improvements, but if you wish to do the same, you’ll have to send your own representative.  I’m happy to provide a letter of introduction to ease their way.  I’m sure you can ask our Tully relatives to help, or leverage your wife’s dowry as security.  After all, you had all the same teachings about marrying to the benefit of House Stark that I did; I’m sure you knew better than to spend one of your most important political assets on a bride who could bring nothing of benefit to our House.”

“And what of your own husband?” Robb snarled.  “I hardly think the sons and daughters of the North will enjoy being ruled by the Lannister Dwarf.”

Sansa’s eyes glittered like icicles.  “You refer to the marriage made under the Seven in a Sept, not by a weirwood by blessing of the Old Gods?  A marriage I was forced into by threat of a sword through the back, before my courses were regular enough for me to be deemed fertile?  That marriage was without my permission, or the permission of my parents or guardian, and unconsummated.  I have already applied for it to be set aside by the Church of the Seven.  Given that my husband is currently under sentence of death for kin-slaying and regicide, I don't think there will be much objection, even if I do not become a virgin widow by the time my application is judged.  Though since half the northern nobility have died in a war you lost by not keeping your breeches fastened, the available candidates for my husband are limited.”

Sansa gave a long look at Jon, standing devotedly by her side.  “Who knows?  The Lady of House Mormont states all her daughters were fathered by a bear, and they are acknowledged by all as her heirs.  Perhaps mine will be fathered by a wolf?

“I suggest you act quickly, my King.  Winter is coming... and very soon.”

AFTERWORD: Robb quickly realised that most of his own support literally died off in the War of the Five Kings.  He never got around to doing anything about Moat Cailin; Robb lost heart after Talisa died in the aftermath of childbirth, followed very swiftly by needing to present a united front for Daenerys Targaryen, deciding that the War for Dawn was more important. He did at least manage joyful reunions with Arya, Bran and Rickon. While Jon got to kill the Night King (otherwise what was that stupid prophecy even for?) Robb still managed to die as a legendary hero, becoming the only Stark to die by dragonfire after shoving a sword through Daenerys to save Jon from kin-slaying. There was just enough left to bury in the crypts at Winterfell, complete with crown. 

Sansa was formally crowned as his successor, the first Queen in the North, with the support of all her siblings. She orchestrated a new golden age for the Kingdom of the North, becoming known as ‘Sansa the Glorious’. Jon finally gained the Stark name as her Prince Consort, choosing to forego the title ‘King’ so no one would get any ideas about Sansa not being the one in charge.

Robb’s daughter Catelyn grew up in Winterfell surrounded by loving family, including lots of cousins always ready to fight anyone who insulted her foreign heritage. As a young teen, Catelyn volunteered to give up any right to the throne in what she saw as atonement for Robb’s mistakes that gave the Boltons the opportunity to cause so much harm. Jeyne Poole instantly demanded to adopt Catelyn as her heiress.  Catelyn became so highly regarded in the North that she ended up holding a tournament to decide her husband out of a dozen worthy suitors from the North, the Vale, the Riverlands and even one of the Tarly’s, becoming ruling matriarch of the Starks of Weeping Water. She later started what was to become the first school in the North devoted solely to the healing arts, open to anyone regardless of birth or gender.  Now called The Talisa Stark School of Medicine, it still operates today.

[pursuitseternal]

Wip Wednesday🖋️

So… in classic pursuits style, I have… 6 WIPs

“In Private, Darling:” based on a delightful audio by the infamous Ogy, his Consort has been away all day, and Lord Astarion has plans for some fun to be had in public… and in private.

“Judgment Day:” Also inspired by Ogy’s plethora of porn, Archdevil Supreme Raphael sits in judgment of the souls bound to him… and you, his beautifully broken hero, his erstwhile angel, worship at his feet

“Liars’ Night: Devil in Disguise:” Astarion and Cordehlia receive their mission to give Gale aid… and assume some delightful disguises. “This is going to be fun,” Astarion decides reluctantly.

“NWTA:” Lady Lumina watches the preparations for the feast. While Lord Astarion revels in revealing his Bride, Lumina concocts a plot of her own… revenge.

“Unholy: Chapter 2” Dawnmaster Ancunin returns to Selûne’s chosen for further trials and tribulations. And this time, he won’t be quiet or quite as neat.

“A Life for a Life:” prompt request by @wtv-my-current-hyperfixation , AU first time feelings confession and smut, Kinktober

Tagging to share your WIPs if ya want: @nyx-knox @snowfolly @bardic-inspo @marlowethebard @vixstarria @bellasmumblingsandmusings @mouldering-casket @pinkberrytea

[lets-try-some-writing]

Time Locked: Snippet #1

Did you lot think I only had one WIP? Nah, I got more. And again, its shipping angst. Well its not nearly as bad as the other, and this one has a happier ending, but nonetheless, its a kinda sorta angsty thing.

Enjoy. Ratchet has been the muse as of late and I have no intention of stopping it.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

Arrogance was his downfall. He saw himself as above his fellows. He thought nothing could stop him. For vorns he studied, dragging himself from the bottom rungs of society up to the lofty position of CMO. He was on top of the world, known around the planet and respected for his unparalleled skill in medicine. He hardly ever lost a patient, and when he did, it was because of the incompetence of others and a lack of additional servos.

He had no doubts about his abilities. Why would he? 

Of course his fellows were not fond of him, but what did their opinions matter? His achievements spoke for themselves. He needed no aid, nor did he need to adhere to their thoughts on the happenings in his hospitals. He was the greatest Doctor on the planet, and he had his rank to prove it. Even the Quintessons acknowledged his skill, to which Ratchet always tended to scoff.

He knew he was the best in his field. He had all but killed himself in an effort to study to reach his place. Forging friendships was useless, a waste of time. Being delicate and soft with patients was ridiculous. He had better things to do, more cases to look over. Patience was not something he could afford, and pride kept him firmly above the criticism thrown his way. He was young, but he was no fool. He knew his worth and he would flaunt it. He had long ago earned the right to be a little arrogant after all the work he put in.

When the Council called him to assist in what they called ‘Project Regen’, Ratchet had no concerns. They were testing a new type of portal and wanted him there to scan the unlucky fool being sent through. He got in his gear, stood behind the protective glass, and waited for the project to activate. 

Something went wrong with the controls and the portal wasn’t activating. The original tester stepped away to figure out what was wrong and Ratchet sighed. He had better things to do than stand around. There was work to be done. Thus, he didn’t think twice about stepping out from his protective vantage point so that he could march across the lab and leave.

That was the biggest mistake of his entire functioning.

Just as he stepped into the open, the portal bloomed to life. The stabilizers promptly failed, and Ratchet, along with a few assorted items, were dragged into the portal. He only had time to scream before his world began a mess of color and the portal exploded around him. Darkness surrounded him, and within that void, he heard a chorus of voices speak in perfect synchronization.

“You who sit yourself upon your throne of pride, the will of the world condemns you.”

The voice echoed all around him, digging into his very core like frigid ice. He wanted to scream as invisible blades cut into him, marking his very essence with a brand he instinctively sensed as it burned itself into place.

“There is a part you still must play, but no longer shall you wander freely. Arrogance has corrupted your spark and disdain for your fellow children of Primus has broken your purity.”

Chains dug into him, binding him on a fundamental level in ways he failed to comprehend. 

“No longer shall this world be yours to command. Only those who seek you shall find your domain. Time shall be your tormentor and eventually, your savior.”

Ratchet tried to cry out, but as the voice deafened and dug into him, he was met with blinding light instead of any sort of relief. When he came to himself again, he was within the ruins of a devastated building, long since burned to ash. 

“What in the Allspark…” He wheezed as he stood. It took a moment, but it was clear he was within the remains of the facility. Distortion in the portal evidently caused some sort of long scale warp, perhaps redirecting him and leaving him in the void for a time. He was no expert on portals and their workings, but that was the most logical assumption he could come to. He was going to sue the Council to the pits and back for this mess. 

Something had gone wrong, and now left in the middle of nowhere, he needed to get back to civilization and make sure everything was as he left it. The facility had been located about a cycle out from Iacon, a safe distance from any civilians who could be caught up in a blast if things went south. It wouldn’t be a far walk. Ratchet had endured worse coming out of Polyhex and traversing the wilds during the early cycles of the Quintessons occupation of Cybertron. 

He wrote off the voice that spoke to him in the void as he gathered his bearings, and marched toward the edge of the burned remains of the facility. Most of the structure had already fallen to pieces, with only a few pillars and pieces of wall jutting out from where nature had already begun its reclamation. Ratchet cursed as he noted at least a vorn’s worth of crystal growth from the sprouting spires. The Council was never going to hear the end of this. He wouldn’t let them walk off scott free after such a horrific accident. Being absent from his position for a whole vorn had likely had him written off as dead. 

“Those absolute fraggers! I better receive the best compensation the planet has to offer after all this!” He growled as he quickened his stride, moving without regard for everything else as he contemplated how to get back at the Council. However, the closer he came to the edge of the fallout zone, the heavier his limbs began to feel. He tried to write it off, but every single step grew harder to handle. His vision began to falter, and before he knew it, just as he reached the edge of where the last crystal had begun to grow, he fell to his knees in unnatural exhaustion. 

“This… isn’t right…” He managed to choke out as he looked down at his shaking servos through blurred optics. His servos never shook. Why was he shaking? Everything felt so fuzzy, his limbs so heavy they were impossible to ignore. He could only withstand it for a moment longer before he fell face down on the ground, recharge pulling at his very spark.

Darkness again claimed him, and in what felt like a mere nanoklik, he found himself again back in the center of the ruins, surrounded by crystals and other flora that had grown an exceptional amount. Panic grew within him as he frantically tried to access his comms only to be met with static. His internal chronometer was a mess of ever changing numbers and all of his system alerts were just a string of errors. Whatever the portal did was far worse than he anticipated. 

He got up and tried to run out of the ruins once more, but again the exhaustion forced him to fall and recharge consumed him. He woke again in the center of the ruins, once more finding the flora around him to have grown dramatically larger and more prolific. It had to be a dream, a horrible and fragged up dream. And yet as he looked up at the sky, desperate for some sort of reference for time, he could only shake in pure shock.

Luna 1 had turned three degrees, and Luna 2 was already through its fifth rotation. Three vorns, it had been three whole vorns. The moons did not lie in that regard and Ratchet was sure his optics weren’t lying. He grew up in the middle of nowhere, he knew how to tell time from the moons. Somehow, be it due to the portal or whatever that voice was, Ratchet was stuck within the ruins.

He tried again and again to leave the ruins. Every attempt ended in failure. But through his efforts, he learned the rules of his newfound confinement. 

He could not step beyond the bounds of the farthest crystal spire without being pulled into the void that was recharge. He tested the limits, edging closer to the border and calculating how long it took him until he fell through marks on his armor. Those marks always vanished when he woke, along with any other injuries he obtained during his tests. At one point, he stabbed himself with a piece of the nearest crystal spire just to confirm his theories. When recharge took him, he awoke good as new once more.

He attempted calling for aid several times, but nothing he did proved successful. His internal systems were totally useless. All he had was his medical coding and the basics needed to keep going. Anything that gave him range was offline, and when he tried to get attention from anyone by building a haphazard SOS sign, he found out about yet another rule regarding his situation.

He spent the whole cycle building his sign, hopeful that all would go well now that he knew he could not leave without causing time to pass around him. He was wrong. As soon as darkness set in, that same pull that overcame him when he went too close to the border dragged him into recharge. And just like every time he went to the border, when he woke, the moons had turned and another vorn had passed. His sign was destroyed by time and plant life. He could not escape, nor did he find himself able to live out more than a full cycle without the void recalling him.

The words that he heard played in his mind more frequently as his surroundings changed and he remained all but completely static. He only had a single cycle each vorn to do what he could, and so he used that singular cycle to build what he hoped would one day become something permanent enough to aid him. He did his best with what limited time he had to guide the crystal spires so that a few would grow into more platformed shapes, giving him a decent vantage point from which to observe the cities in the distance. His SOS sign had proved fruitless, and while he tried to write it off as a byproduct of his location, in the end he couldn’t help but partially blame his fate on the words spoken to him when the portal consumed him.

His domain could only be found by those who sought him out. He wanted to curse as the words spoken to him became more and more apparent as being true in some form. He caught sight of shuttles flying over his garden more than once, but even when he finally guided the plants around him to grow into a vaguely organized shape to hopefully draw attention to his situation, not a spark paused to come see what was happening. 

 Perhaps due to the phenomenon that kept him bound to his location, a garden had flourished in his prison. Spires rose high into the sky, wiry vines pulsing with energon crawled along them, solarium bushes with leaves reaching up toward the sky like blooming stars, and so much more all grew around him. Most notable, a techtite tree grew around where Ratchet always woke up. Its roots ran deep and developed in an almost protective manner around Ratchet’s resting place, shielding him from wind and rain with mighty branches and long hanging branches that glowed when the skies grew dark.

He was no gardener, but by Primus he threw everything he had into trying to learn if only so that someone, anyone, would come to save him from his living torment. He could see the cities growing, he could see the world changing, and yet he was locked in his little pocket. He could not leave, nor could he age significantly. He had his garden, his anger, and enough determination to burn a world to keep him company. Despite the growth all around him, no creatures wandered his garden. He was alone.

Somehow, that was more frightening and spark breaking than the idea of dying.

He did everything to try and find a way out, but the borders never grew and he never had nearly enough time to build anything of use. Time was his enemy and his jailer. And as the world passed him by, he could only wait beneath the cover of his garden and pray that someone would come to get him out since obviously, he was unable to do so himself.

He waited.

And waited.

Vorns were counted with marks on the crystal spires, records being kept in the only way he knew how as he bitterly endured his torment. A few passed by his gardens, some drawing near enough to see him before moving on in a hurry. Nothing was ever enough to free him from his prison. All he had was himself, his garden, and his thoughts.

There was no escape, and as much as it hurt him to accept that, it was the truth. He was trapped, and the most he could hope for was to hear another mech’s voice. If Ratchet, the best doctor on Cybertron, was unable to find a way out of his situation, Primus knew if any other could. His expectations were lowered, and with every vorn that passed, he stopped wishing for freedom and more so for someone to talk to. He wanted to know about the world and hear about the changes outside.

He just wanted to hear the voice of another…

Eventually, after what he counted to be six hundred and seventy two waking cycles trapped in his prison, someone finally found his domain. The sheer joy he felt was beyond description when a mech of red and blue curiously wandered his garden.

━━━━━

“Hello? Is this your property? If I have intruded, I apologize.” Ratchet stood up from where he was seated below his techtite tree. His optics were wide and coolant threatened to gather there before he scrubbed his face and schooled himself. There was a real mech in front of him, an actual person.

“Your garden is quite lovely. You take excellent care of it.” The mech, a tall red and blue civilian, smiled slightly awkwardly as he stepped further into the garden. Ratchet reset his audials and optics a few times before he smiled and gestured for the mech to continue forward.

“Thank you. I have had little else to occupy myself with over the vorns. My domain… requires constant attention.” Ratchet settled on commenting as the mech drew near enough that he stood underneath the tree alongside Ratchet. The mech’s optics were wide, but not overly so as he curiously examined the space. Ratchet all but shook with excitement as he tried to keep himself in line long enough to not scare the mech off.

He had so many questions, so much he wished to know. How much had the world changed in his absence? Surely he had long been written off as dead, but he had to have left a legacy.

“My designation is Ratchet, formerly one of the greatest Doctors on Cybertron. I received my education in Iacon central and my caste designation is MID-MEDICAL-298.” Ratchet blurted out as he held out his servo in what he hoped was a friendly manner. He never was good with socializing, and while he tried to smile, he most likely held a slightly less aggressive frown than usual. 

“I am Orion Pax of Iacon, a data clerk in the Hall of Records and serving under Alpha Trion. Your caste designation is… unique.” Orion Pax’s helm tilted ever so slightly and his finials twitched as he shook Ratchet’s servo. An archivist was in Ratchet’s garden. There could have been no better mech to give him information.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve left this place. You are the first mech who I have spoken to in vorns.” Ratchet quipped somewhat sharply before internally kicking himself. He needed this mech, he couldn’t afford to drive him off now. 

“That would explain your attitude.” Pax noted as if he were observing the weather. Ratchet frowned at the tone but did not comment as he settled down on the ground against the trunk of the tree, gesturing for Orion to do the same. 

“Good that you understand. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to know about all that has happened within the last few dozen vorns back in Iacon. A data clerk would have access to such information, am I correct?” Ratchet tried to hide the desperation in his tone, but he was unsure if he succeeded. Orion observed him in silence for a long klik before slowly settling down onto the ground beside him, the archivist’s long legs brought up close to his chassis in order to not get caught on the roots.

“You are not particularly polite, but I will adhere to your request. The garden is pleasant enough.” Ratchet scoffed as Orion’s words reached him. Data caste mechs were usually soft creatures. But it seemed this one had some spine. Out of all the things that had likely changed, Ratchet could find it within himself to be fond of this particular shift in trends.

“There is plenty to cover, but luckily for the both of us, today is my cycle off.” A certain light entered Orion’s optics as he dove into the most recent changes in Iacon. Most of it was so strange that Ratchet had no idea what was being said. Cultural differences he no longer knew and government officials he was totally unaware of were apparently huge players in the new world. Still, he listened with rapt attention as Orion spoke and quickly found himself wrapped in the mech’s voice.

Orion, despite the hint of snark that laced his tone off and on, had a pleasant voice. It was almost too easy to lose track of time. It was only as shadows began to creep that Ratchet interrupted the archivist to put forward what he hoped did not sound too much like a desperate plea.

“My time here is almost up. However, I wish to know more. If you have the time, please, come here again on this cycle one vorn from now. That is the only time I will be able to interact with you as I am now.” Ratchet’s voice took on a pleading undertone despite his best efforts. The archivist looked at him strangely but ultimately nodded as he stood. Ratchet sagged in relief as Orion flipped open some sort of device on his forearm and imputed what Ratchet hoped was a reminder.

“Odd as you are, I have enjoyed this interaction. I shall see you next vorn Ratchet. Perhaps you will elaborate more on your inability to converse at other times during our next meeting.” As it was, Ratchet was willing to give an arm and a leg for Orion to come back to speak to him. He nodded and bid Orion farewell quietly as he watched the light of the nearest star fade. Exhaustion that he knew all too well began to overcome his will, but as it did, he found himself hopeful.

Someone had found him in his prison. If Orion kept his promise, then Ratchet would at least have no information to mull over in his ever static environment.

[ruanbaijie]

🍑 art

[x] hualian by @mmagurro

[x] mo xuanyu by @kkarmin

[x] nightless city by @ann-mauriii

[x] betrayed...? by @bxbxbx0

[x] it hurts by @juicedpeachy

[x] xianle trio in battle wip by @mooncakebun

[x] hua cheng new sketching style. by @mooncakebun

[x] jjk 251 panel by @innaillus

[x] jjk season 2 by @sonialiao

[x] shi wudu by @mariauri

[x] wangji-xiong. wangji. lan wangji. lan zhan! by @apothecaresa

[x] to die for you in battle is my greatest honour by @roremy

[x] one of my favourite panels from another angle by @obliviani

[x] hua cheng by @kuropii6

[x] when our eyes meet by @kuropii6

[x] a commissioned illustration for "no water is enough" by boomchick by @auchrauch

[x] start and end of a blue spring by @xo-romiiarts

[x] oh, starboy by @mochipong

[x] hualian by @ghironda7

[x] the boy who swallowed a star by @tamberella

[x] "... and broken dreams" by @blackwhitefeatherart

[x] shuangxuan by @cruelnemothesis

🍑 edits

[x] a tribute to mork methas pankhamdee, the last spark of hope in a world gone dark by @morkofday

[x] pov: you just asked your friend who's still on tumblr about... the untamed by @itstrikesback

[x] jabami yumeko by @izuku

🍑 gifsets

[x] the days are coming that she'll never forget by @buzzcutseascn

[x] nam seonho + first light by hozier by @pondsphuwin

[x] game of thrones characters as taylor swift songs by @reputayswift

[x] percy jackson by @jakeyp

[x] seasons by @jakeyp

[x] good omens by @maines

[x] regina george by @gloriapritchetts

[x] in turning divine we tangle endlessly like lovers entwined by @tommykinrd

[x] itadori yuuji by @cal-kestis

[x] this is jujutsu kaisen by @cal-kestis

[x] jujutsu kaisen by @queenrojpag

[x] the han joo won 'seasons 계절' collection: out now! by @khaotunqs

[x] i ought to stick to another man, a man that surely deserves me…but i think you do by @khaotunqs

[x] "run boy run! this world is not made for you." by @black-dread

[x] omg it's blorbo bleebus by @chinzhilla

[x] an eight word story by @eddiediaaz

[x] I owe her a love worth sixty thousand years by @baifengxis

[x] lilacs by the sea by @kimtaegis

[x] you wanna know how I know your daddy, don't you? by @speakviolence

[yeetus-feetus]

tangled au (WIP)

Inspired by this ↓ post

Created by this ↓ account

@dragonpyre (I hope this is okay, you just really inspired me is all)

So here:

Jason, second heir to the throne of Gotham, was a happy little boy with a very loud personality. A former street kid, he was adopted into royalty at the age of 3 following his mother’s death, much like his older brother Richard, by the current King of Darkness. Make no mistake by the title he holds, Bruce Wayne is a very Just king though he cloaks himself in the fine fabrics of midnight and gold emblems that glitter like the stars.

But the young prince Jason was a ball of energy with a smart mouth and a baby as he were, often got on the wrong people's nerves. There was one man in particular, the Jester of the court– who was perhaps something more than a simple Jester to the King, maybe even a friend– had joined the Royal staff after a terrible accident that disfigured him many moons before Jason himself was even born.

On this day, Jason was only five when he trod on the odd man’s toes. He can’t remember what he’s said to the man, but it was something with loud youthful ignorance behind it, maybe something about his permanent smile and moon-pale skin. It wasn’t anything nice, to say the least, but who can blame a child of such brutal, unthinking honesty without the better knowledge on how such things were hurtful.

Maybe a man with a soft heart, and the belief he could give everyone in his Kingdom a better life and a second chance, should be blamed on keeping criminals and the insane in his company. Maybe a toddler in bright mocking colours shouldn’t have been left unattended to in the palace halls after a silly disagreement regarding his mother.

The wicked Jester did not return to the King’s court after that night.

Nor did the young Prince Jason. The boy was found in a puddle of his own bastard blood in a storeroom downstairs by the cellar, in teeny tiny shackles with his small bones shattered, tear streaks still wet on his cheeks as he lay limp on the cold cement floor.

The King had wept, cradling his broken body close to him, wailed and begged for the boy to come back to him, pleading for forgiveness from a child who was no more. The King of Darkness caressed the soft face of a lifeless shell, and that was when the shadows spoke.

A deep eerie voice had filled his ears from all directions, reminding him of a tale he had believed to be only myth. The story of the moon when she wept for her own son once very long ago …

A single tear of moonlight had fallen from the heavens, and from this small drop of sorrow bloomed a magic, glowing flower. It had the ability to heal the sick and injured– and in extremely rare cases, even raise the dead if the moon wished it so.

“However, the Flower of Lazarus is protected by a Demon whom hoards it for its youth restoring power”, the low voice warned. “And you have only until the fourth day, beginning when the sun breaks over your Kingdom at dawn, to retrieve it. For when the sun sets on that day, the boy will remain in a tomb forever.”

Bruce, because he is no King down here with a dead son in his arms, remains speechless and confused. Before he could gather his thoughts and interrogate the validity of this supernatural voice, a flock of bats screeched and swarmed and then the voice was gone.

And a man was left in a cold empty room with his beaten bloody son, fear and determination filling his heavy heart. A hope that in four days time, his son will be returned to the earth and fill the Palace with his laughter once more.

⧫

The quest carried out by the King’s Guard had proved successful, and the magic of the Lazarus Flower, brewed into a glowing green liquid potion heals the dead Prince’s body on the morning of the fourth day. A new tale of rebirth bringing the kingdom together as the King launched a floating lantern into the darkness of the night sky, a symbol of prevailing hope and new life, to celebrate the return of his beloved young son.

For that one moment, everything was perfect.

And then that moment ended.

A cloaked woman had entered young Jason’s room that very night by way of the balcony, silently creeping towards the boy’s bed where he slept soundly, unknowing to the threat of her presence. The woman pulls back her hood and strokes a deadly gentle hand up over his face until she reaches his soft baby curls as she sings in hushed tones.

“Flower gleam and glow”

And glow the child’s hair did, a bright green hue filling the room. She pulled a long lock of the glowing hair taught between calloused fingers, reaching into the deep green of her garments for the jewelled hilt of a small sharp knife as she continued.

“Let your powers shine”

The blade glinted in the unnatural light as the woman’s tan hand brought the sharpened knife up…

“Make the clock re–”

But as the knife sliced through the strands of hair it turned lifeless and lost its colour, turning moon-white and powerless. The shock and confusion was clear on the woman’s face, a frown carving its way into her beautiful features as she realised what she must do in order to fulfil her father’s wishes.

Just like that, Jason was stolen. Gone.

The Kingdom searched and searched, but their attempts at recovering the small boy proved nothing but futile and the King lost all his hope. They could not find the Prince of Gotham.

For deep within the forest, in a tall hidden tower, far away from his home, the woman– Talia Al Ghul– raised the child as her own.

[silentxsymphony]

Seven Sentence Sunday

It’s Sunday, so I am once more bringing a small offering from my Loki/Don variant WIP that I'm still chipping away at. Loki healing from the trauma of captivity following a different unfolding of events after the Battle of New York. Slowly learning to experience comfort in his own skin again. And maybe even accept affection from others.

aka a remix/elaboration of trauma!Loki from @dreamycloud’s stunning “i bet on losing dogs.”

This week’s snippet features Loki learning about the realities of American product placement. Also, it's more than seven sentences, but rules are made to be broken!

Don laughed when he noticed Loki’s eyes narrow as they locked on the soap bottle’s label featuring Captain America and bold text proclaiming the scent Red, White, and Blueberry Mint! “Usually I don’t fall prey to product placement, but the boys really did behave all week and were a big help at the grocery store.” He let out another little self-effacing chuckle. “What can I say? Capitalism won today.” He shrugged before adding, “At least it smells good.” Loki began to wash his hands and took a closer look at the label, Steve Rogers’ sanctimonious smile beaming up at him with a tagline of “Germs don’t stand a chance! Be an Avenger of health!” underneath. He noticed his brother featured in miniature in the background, as blond and perfect as ever, along with the rest of his tedious troupe of do-gooders. He felt an irritating pang in his chest at the sight and realized how badly a part of himself wanted to reconnect with Thor one day without trappings of the throne or their father or the effects of the Mind Stone between them. He wasn’t sure if Thor would ever have any desire to do so, but the thought warmed him just slightly regardless.  He dried his hands with the towel hanging by the sink and went to start preparing the green beans at the kitchen table. As he sat down, he gave his hands a cursory sniff. Begrudgingly, he realized Don was right.  It didn’t smell terrible. 

Tagged by @elodiah @lokimobius @thosegayoldmen @impulsemuppet @kcscribbler <3

No pressure tagging @dreamycloud @mirilyawrites @in-my-loki-feels @doomed-spectacles @whiteleander @atimefeeler @loki-is-my-kink-awakening @ilaytrapsfortroubadours @natendo-art

[howwebeginfest]

How We Begin Fest: Masterlist

Thank you to everyone who participated and cheered during our fest! How We Begin is now wrapped up and you can find the complete masterlist of entries below:

►For Once by Excited_Insomniac rated T, 3321 words summary: A series of moments between Leon and Gwen, from their first meeting as children to just after the Battle of Camlann. Canon compliant.

►Eyes Aglow, Wailing by Zorbo_Jorks rated G, 811 words summary: Merlin’s first day in the world was one only Hunith and two other women in Ealdor knew with any truth. She had made sure of it— swore Elfrida and Wynn to secrecy between groans as soon as she saw the candleholder begin to float beside her head. | In which Hunith's son makes an unexpectedly magical entrance into the world.

►Gwaine & Lancelot first meeting by guiltyscarlet art

►Ygraine & Nimueh first meeting by guiltyscarlet art

►What We Become Together Is Greater Than Us Both by thesongistheriver rated T, 5024 words summary: "My mother was a maid in Sir Leon's household. We grew up together." --- Sometimes, friendship sets you on the path to your future.

►Orders, curly hair and fake nobles ~ how Leon and Gwaine met by HadrianPeverellBlack rated G, 656 words summary: The Knights learn how Leon and Gwaine first met. Gwaine is still insulted for that meeting.

►A gift and a lady ~ how Gwen and Morgana met by HadrianPeverellBlack rated G, 877 words summary: Gwen and Morgana first meeting

►Of Princes and Pitchforks by s0mmerspr0ssen rated E, 6259 words summary: Arthur meets an insolent stablehand, and they end up tumbling in the hay.

►Yet When the Other Far Doth Roam by Zorbo_Jorks rated M, 10137 words summary: “Sorry,” Elyan breathed, eyes flicking to the third of their company. His thoughts froze right there, and he barely registered it when Arthur asked what had happened. He stared into light brown eyes that were just as surprised as he felt and wondered if Gwaine’s heart hurt to see him as well. | They meet in a tavern and fall together quickly, splitting disastrously some brief months after. Reunited by chance amid the scourge of Camelot by Morgause's immortal army, Elyan grapples with his lingering hurt and feelings for Gwaine. As they fight for Arthur's kingdom, they reacquaint themselves and tentatively begin to heal what had been broken. ►You're so young, that's your fault, there's so much you have to know by PapySanzo89 rated G, 3986 words summary: The first time Arthur sees Morgana they both find themselves in the throne room packed with people applauding the king for his good heart in accepting a girl orphaned by her mother and father. Arthur doesn’t know how to feel about this. Arthur and Morgana's first meeting. ►An impressive show of strength by where_the_kissing_never_stops rated G, 1415 words summary: An interpretation of how Percival met Lancelot. ►How We Begin: Revenge Path by GuiltyScarl3t not rated, WIP summary: In a world where Balinor never left Hunith, raising their son together and changing places frequently, tragedy strikes early. Follow Merlin as he meets different people and bids his time to enact his revenge. ►Treason or Loyalty (Or Maybe Both) by reelin_writer rated G, 948 words summary: “I’ll give you a tip,” he said quietly. The sound of polishing stopped, and Leon heard Merlin look up. “When you meet a nobleman,” Leon said, turning around, “don’t introduce yourself.” A canon compliant first meeting between Leon and Merlin, set just after S1E4 "The Poisoned Chalice."

►Leon and Arthur first meeting by likeapaperplane art

►Destiny Quickens by s0mmerspr0ssen rated M, WIP summary: After a plague ravages Albion, an orphaned Merlin arrives in Camelot, where he falls in the hands of the criminal Kanen. Too afraid to use his magic, Merlin has no other choice but to join Kanen’s gang of child thieves and steal to survive. Ten months later, Prince Arthur returns from a mission to a crime-infested city and disarrayed court, with King Uther paralysed by grief over Morgana’s death. Determined to restore order, Arthur tackles the task of cleaning up the Lower Town, where he meets Merlin—only to learn that the problems in Camelot run far deeper than he had first thought… ►The Way I Am (Not Strong Enough To Be Your Man) by BeBraveDearHeart rated E, 13461 words summary: The sheer size of the first of the two men that walked in caught everybody’s eye but none more so than his. Leaning on the bar again and not hiding his appraisal, Gwaine cast his eye from long legs to broad shoulders and the arms to match, uncovered even in the cool of the evening outside. To threaten or entice, Gwaine couldn’t tell, but he knew which side of that line he was on. Written for the How We Begin fest, this is the story of Gwaine's first meetings with the people who would change his life. ►Arthur & Cenred first meeting by guiltyscarlet art ►making friends (and maybe enemies) by EachPeachPearPlum rated G, 1079 words summary: Percival never intended to get involved. He was there for a drink, and that was it. (Or: Percival makes a friend) ►The Rise and Fall of a Kingmaker by MayaPleiades rated M, WIP summary: In a land of myth and a time of magic, the destiny of a great kingdom is seized by a young girl. Her name: Nimueh. Or: Nimueh’s story, from child to kingmaker to fugitive, told in a series of first meetings. ►How We Begin by Dylan_writes rated E, 5882 words summary: Percival meets Gwaine for the first time the day of his coming of age. Gwaine meets Percival for the first time as he joins the fight against Cenred's undead army and he doesn't understand why this beautiful men is acting so strange towards him. ►New Blooms by Sage_Owl rated G, 889 words summary: Ygraine takes a private stroll through the royal gardens, and is captivated by a new arrival. ►of mouthy manservants and prattish princes by egeria rated G, 2468 words summary: When a mouthy, obstinate boy comes to Camelot, Leon finally begins to see the future he's been fighting for. He'll just need to make sure said-boy doesn't get his head lopped off first.

►Timing of Fate by Salamandair rated T, WIP summary: What if Gwaine and Percival didn’t first meet at Camelot? What if they had a different first meeting? What if Gwaine wasn’t first saved by Merlin and Arthur, but by Percival? What if their first meeting led to something more? Would that first meeting change their destinies?

►For Him, For Her by Mischel rated G, 752 words summary: Three months after Ygraine’s death, Uther is finally ready to meet his son.

►Lovely by Mischel rated G, 1255 words summary: The first time that Gwen met Morgana, she was nervous. The first time that Morgana met Gwen, she knew she had found a friend.

►What if Hunith and Balinor met waaaaaay before the execution of sorcerors in Camelot? by monoisbored art

[magic-is-something-we-create]

The Millennium Saga Book Three: Goddess-Touched - a (redone) formal WIP intro

This is book three of the Millennium Saga! Intros for the first two can be found here: Firebreathers [x] and Echoseers [x]

The branch beneath the behemoth shivers as it raises its wings. Two pairs, each broad enough to blanket an entire street lengthwise. It doesn’t seem to notice that the ones on the half of its body nearest to Impalfahr have withered to twigs of bone. Doesn’t seem to feel the wind that whistles through the half of its skull that has rotted away. Doesn’t seem to recognize that the branch strains under its weight, veins of charcoal lacing up the bark. Doesn’t, at least, until it’s too late. The Shadewing falls before it can try to fly. Its desiccated wings dance behind it like bare branches in a blizzard, the muscle too weak to even twitch against the force of the air. The impact sends up another plume of ash, its final cry broken with a snap of the spine bigger around than I am tall.

Genre: High fantasy/Steampunk

Target Audience: New Adult/Adult

POV: First person present, Multi-POV

Themes: Anti-Imperialism, trauma and recovery, hope and hopelessness, the stigma surrounding mental illness, the differences between vengeance, atonement, and justice, the separation between faith, religion, and deities, death and life and which one defines humanity more, and the struggle to rebuild after disaster.

Draft One complete at 126k words as of October 23rd, 2024.

The ocean has run red.

On the heels of a calamity that has turned the greatest city in the world into a grave, countless ships have been ripped apart by nightmares only now rising from the depths to turn the seafoam pink. Waterways the world over are mauled, deaths compounding exponentially over the course of a single day, and the recovery is impossible to imagine.

This year will forever be known for the sea swallowing us whole.

And as the dust settles, the Archer doesn’t wake. The Wiremaster convinces himself his only hope is buried in the sand. The Survivor seeks answers from even the most dangerous sources, as his own power grows. The Detective and the Healer fight to keep themselves sane.

The King has lost his throne. The Knight has lost his mind. The Matriarch has lost contact.

The Fourth Eternal is risen.

The ocean has run red.

The ocean has run red, and the Deepfolk will never let the Goddesses forget their part in destruction.

Taglist below the cut; ask in tags, comments, or inbox to join!

@ladywithalamp ; @lavenderrosewrites ; @47crayons ; @writeblrfantasy ; @ashen-crest

@dragon-swords-prophecies ; @faithfire-writes ; @lexiklecksi ; @writingrosesonneptune

[amethystfairy1]

OH I WILL GO NUTS THEN!

Will send multiple at the time to not trash your ask box

So!

1. Broke/broken

2. Cry/cried

3. King

4. Moss

5. Blood

6. Purr

7. Phone

8. Ask/asked

9. Kid

10. Ball

That's all I can think of for now, and yes, I am indeed thinking of angst

Welp, I did say go nuts! 😆 so let's give this a try and see if we can't fulfill your angsty needs...

From a TT WIP-

If they saw him as a pathetic, broken thing that needed fixing, they wouldn’t expect him to take advantage of that kindness. 

From a TTSBC WIP -

He’d cried enough this week, hadn’t he? 

Ok so the only WIP I have that contains the word 'King' is my ongoing Haikyuu fic Parallel thrones so here's one from that!

“Can’t recall ever leaving, your majesty. If you’re intending to take the same stance with the Inner Court as our wise and mighty King here, you ought to prepare yourself.” 

For this one you you get a TWO SENTENCE TREAT!

From a TTSBC WIP -

Sprinting out from the arch of the labs was a teenage boy, wearing a white long sleeve and dark jeans, a red headband holding back a frizzy shock of dark brown hair. When he spotted them, streaks of white shot through his hair and his eyes seemed to glow silver from their typical deep mossy green. 

From a TT WIP -

Prominently pointed ears emerged from orange hair, still loose and frizzy from the night, having gone untouched since being forcefully yanked out from the braid for a quick wash to free it from blood and gore.

From a TTSBC WIP -

He bit the inside of his cheek, nearly breaking skin, to avoid any purring starting up.

From a TTSBC WIP -

Scott’s phone began to ring in his back pocket. The clattery keys of a typewriter, a ringtone set for one person in particular. 

From a TT WIP -

“What is it?” He asked, his tone far less congenial.

From a TTSBC WIP -

Not when you were a kid on your own, cast from your so-called family for your weakness. 

And finally from another TTSBC WIP! -

“Are you kidding me?” He set the crochet piece alongside the fuzzy ball of yarn on his desk and stood up, gesturing toward the shelf.

Ok, there you go! Have fun dissecting these! 😆

[writerscafehub]

𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀: 𝐕𝐢𝐜

@sunflowersteves || @sunflowerstevesmain

From one to five stars, how would you rate your writing? (No downplaying yourself!)

3.5 bc I read an old fic the other day and I’ve improved soooooo much but there’s always room for improvement!

2. What do you think makes your writing stand out from other works? I feel like I’m really good at requests.

Sometimes I think it’s hard to imagine what someone is asking for, but as a daydreamer I feel like I can visualize it so well. 

3. Are there any writers that inspire you?

Famous authors include Toni Morrison, Stephen King (minus the cocaine💀), and Neil Gaiman. In the server, literally everyone inspires me all the time and is so so supportive. Some mutuals that I so aspire to write like are @moonlightprose, @fushic0re, @darkficsyouneveraskfor, @fluffyprettykitty

4. What’s the fic you’re most proud of?

I would have to say first time (a carmen berzatto x reader) or broken hearts (eddie munson x reader). I think I really capture Carmen and Eddie’s characterization, especially how they would act in a relationship. Also, for sure my best angst. 

5. Which character(s) do you find easiest to write and which do you find most difficult to write?

I’m a hyperfixation girly so the easiest are ones that I’m currently obsessed with (joel, miguel o’hara, etc.) and the most difficult are the ones that I still love but have fallen off the obsession wagon (Steve Rogers, geralt, din djarin, etc.) 

6. Who or what do you find yourself writing about most?

Smut bc I’m a hoe ✨ also it’s been a year and joel miller wont leave my mind, so 

7. Tell us about a WIP you’re excited about!

This has literally been on my WIP for over a year, but it has to be a notting hill AU with Sam wilson. I’ve been excited to write that for ages. 

8. First fandom you ever wrote for?

Marvel. I wrote a spider girl fic when I was in middle school lmao

9. Any guilty pleasure trope(s)? jealousy fics and protective fics,,, yum 

10. A trope you’ll never, ever write for.

Prolly the divorce trope bc I get so mad at characters. 

11. Wildest fic you’ve ever written?

It was a request but eddie munson x reader with a guitar head in the coochie and it was great.

12. Favorite pairing to write for? (platonic or romantic!)

I love poly fics! Love Stucky x reader and steddie x reader are my fav. they’re just so good. 

13. Do you listen to anything while you write?

I usually have to listen to classical or lofi beats bc I’ll get distracted soooo easily. 

14. One-shots or multi-chaptered works?

One shots 

15. Have you ever daydreamed about side adventures/spin-offs from your fic? Tell us about them!

As a certified day dreamer, absolutely. Any longer fic I’ve written, I literally day dream how it’s gonna play out. I did that a lot with ain’t no sunshine (joel miller x reader). 

16. Is there anything you’ve wanted to write, but you’ve been too scared to try?

I am so bad at angst and I would love to write action/violent fics but I always feel like I can’t describe it for the life of me. 

17. What’s the nicest comment you’ve ever received?

Someone commented that they turned my notifications on so that they could see when I posted the fic and that made me giggle and kick my feet. 

18. Have you ever gone outside of your comfort zone for a fic? How did it turn out?

It’s currently a work in progress, but it’s a period smut fic. It’s not necessarily out of my comfort zone but more of I’ve never written a fic like that before. It’s for Miguel. I’m so ready 👀

19. Tooth-rotting fluff or merciless angst?

tooth-rotting fluff 

20. Do you have any OCs? Tell us about them!

I do not ❤️ 

21. If you could enter the universe of any one of your fics, which would it be and why?

I would die in literally every sci-fi or fantasy world that I love (star wars, game of thrones, lord of the rings, the last of us, attack on titan, etc.) so I’m gonna have to pick marvel. I’d have a fighting chance. 

22. Is there anything you wish your audience knew about your writing or writing process?

tbh the hardest part for me is starting. Introductions tear me down every time rip. Sometimes, I just start in the middle because it’s so much easier. 

23. Copy and paste an excerpt you’re particularly fond of.

You pause, just for a moment. You could feel the adrenaline kick into your system, and a numbing pain flushed out your senses. The blood felt warm and sticky—prompting the sleepiness to feel calming, and it urged you forward into its safe surroundings. But then you felt it. Panic. Panic rose in your neck as you looked around for someone. Your hand darted out to try and find them, but your mind was starting to become blank from the fuzzy warmth of pain. Joel. You needed Joel. 

24. Ramble about any fic-related thing you want!

Ok listen, I wanna write so bad. The last fic I wrote was in March and I’m feeling that writing withdraw. My brain needs to get into hyperdrive so my fingers can type all day long. I have so many fics planned

[renthony]

[Image Description: A banner graphic with yellow text that reads "The Star's Ascent" laid over a background of stars. End description.]

It's Patreon update time! This one's just for my paying Patrons, but if you're interested in learning all about my WiP The Star's Ascent, and my deadline for the next development phase, you can access this post by pledging just $1/month!

Here's a little teaser in the form of a blurb, though. 😉

A homeless young trans man named Corin escapes the streets when he discovers a portal to another world, where magic is real, fairies make contracts with humans, and leaders are chosen by an enchanted throne. When a contract made with the faerie courts is broken, Corin must work together with new friends to preserve an ancient alliance before it falls apart and destroys his new home.

[the-pen-pot]

Would you like to get ahead on King and Court, or read more than 100,000 words of draft chapters of various stories in the Merlin, Sherlock and Hobbit fandoms? How about casting your vote in project polls to help me focus my efforts, or getting your hands on exclusive printed books?

Check out my patreon for free trials, excellent rewards and a little bit of joy 💖

My fanfiction will always be free to read over on Ao3.org eventually. This will not change!

More info and links under the cut 👇 or click the link above 👆

Current Main Project

King & Court (Merlin:) - Loneliness is an insidious thing. When Merlin looks at Arthur, he sees not just a prince waiting for his time to rule, but a young man struggling to find his place in the world, with little help from anyone else. Finding loopholes in Uther’s laws is no easy feat. Court life is a dangerous game, but it’s one Merlin has every intention of winning so that Arthur can have knights of his choosing by his side. And then there is the matter of his magic…

(Posting on AO3. Advanced chapters updating weekly on Patreon - $2 and up; drafts of an additional 20+ chapters - $5 and up)

Current Draft WiPs ($5 and up, first chapter free to read):

Sigh No More (Merlin) - Prince Arthur Pendragon, Captain of the Llamrei, would far rather spend his days patrolling Camelot's Waters than assume his place on the throne. Yet when he finds the wreckage of a vast ship and one lone survivor on board, nothing can prepare him for the path his life will lead, nor the demands his heart will make.

Love Is Never Lost (Merlin) - Uther Pendragon has never approved of Arthur’s friendship with Merlin. There had been disappointed sighs and whispered warnings, but Arthur had never thought it would come to this: scars on Merlin’s back and a manservant made hollow and thin by cruelty. When Merlin disappears, Arthur is left questioning the true honour of the crown and the value of a kingdom forever stained by his father’s tyranny. Will he answer the call of duty, or will he sacrifice everything to chase the cries of his heart?

What We Might Be (Merlin) - When Arthur succumbs after the Battle of Camlann, he is given a choice: to go to his rest and rise again, or to try and set the path of his destiny right once and for all. Will he and Merlin be able to work together to correct the mistakes of their past, or were they always doomed to tragedy?

L'Appel Du Vide (Sherlock) - Hunters were a rarity. In fact, there was really only one family that knew what they were doing and became a name to fear, but the last Van Helsing had died in 1886. Well, the last male Van Helsing, anyway. Still, that did not mean their unique genetic gifts had not been passed down the female line, holding steady and sure even Sherlock is a vampire, John is a Van Helsing. What could possibly go wrong?

Guard Of Diocletian (Sherlock) - 'What's his Shift?' John asked, frowning to himself. Sherlock had not mentioned anything about another form. That in itself was not unusual. A lot of people were rather private about their alternative shapes. It was frowned upon to ask someone outright what creature they were when changed, but Mike was like him, baseline, and if he was going to live with this man then he needed to know what he could wake up to find one morning. Shedding on the furniture was one thing, but he had no real desire to find a strange, threatening animal in the living room one day.

Where The Heart Is (Hobbit) - 'There was an attack. Raiders. There was no warning of their coming.' Gandalf sighed: the broken sound of someone who has failed in their duty of care. 'They took everything they could carry, and burned everything they could not. Bilbo is not among those who live.'

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