#Wip: War of Wrath

[sweetmapple]

A typical "I got carried away while practicing anatomy and the allure of rendering shiny gold was too great" WIP

Also jesus christ he's holding the little cloth that's attached to his belt. I am putting this here just to cover my back in case anyone thinks I am much bolder than I actually am. That's not his dick, I'm just bad at rendering bunched up fabric

And even then, I will always maintain leaving things up to the imagination is infinitely more tasteful like 65% of the time

[winds-of-zephyr416]

Okay, I have to inquire about "exsitential. eldritch. they're still gay tho" from that WIP game, because! Existenial, eldritch, and gay happen to be my favourite categories for anything basically :D

Oooohh, this is one of my favorites!!

"exsitential. eldritch. they're still gay tho" is a pre-Arda meet-cute where Mairon follows Melkor around on one of his many wanderings into the outer Void. I wanted to try writing something with very little description and a lot of dialogue, so I figured a setting where they don't necessarily have bodies would be a good place to start :P

This fic is fun because I have to figure out how to refer to space without naming stars, and a progression of events without too much time. It's a challenge, but I kind of like it. It makes everything feel very open and primordial, very much so the vibe it's supposed to be! It isn't as space-oriented as the other WIP right next to it, but it's a vast setting all the same.

Melkor is a bit of a loner type here, but he flirts in his own way <33 (He's the first line)

(Mairon calls Melkor “Majesty” in this. It’s very gay and cute)

[lordgrimwing]

I was tagged by @thescrapwitch to share part of a WIP. Since I worked on it last night (re: wrote 1 sentence), I'm going to call the sequel to Foresight an active WIP and finally share it! @nighttimepatrons demanded to see all of it so here goes.

"Ah, hello Elrond," Gil-galad said, looking up from the letter he'd been reading.

The boy stood just inside the command tent, one arm wrapped around a bundle of blank scrolls and the other one clutching a quill and stoppered inkwell. He summoned Elrond nearly an hour ago, advising the messenger to go first to the peredhil’s tent, guessing he would still be hiding there. 

Two weeks ago, Gil-galad stopped there himself for a late conversation with the camp’s new arrivals. He’d gone intending to discuss some of his expectations and the ways his camp might work differently than the Fëanorian’s; namely that the twins should not impersonate each other and certainly not in front of their king. Instead, he discovered Elrond’s affliction which his brother tried so hard to keep secret, going so far as pretending to be his brother in public. He’d explained to Elros (Elrond was not in a state to follow a conversation at the time) that there was no need to hide among his people, and that Elrond should not be hidden away from everyone. He also promised to talk to Eönwë, for he felt certain the boy's struggles with foresight were a result of Melian's legacy. He suspected the boys' Fëanorian captors taught them to distrust anything from the Valar, including the Maiar, though, so that promise meant little to them.

Suffice all that to say he'd expected to see Elrond around the camp now that he knew he would not be punished for some perceived weakness. At the very least, he'd thought he'd see the boy accompanying his brother in his duties: carrying messages, fletching arrows and sharpening swords, and any other task he could convince someone to let him do. Yet, Elrond proved as elusive as ever.

Gil-galad finally decided to handle the situation in the most practical way. He summoned the boy to the command tent. That hadn’t worked so well last time, with Elros arriving in his brother’s place and adamantly insisting he was Elrond, but the king believed that if nothing else came of that late conversation with the peredhel, he had at least conveyed that he did not appreciate such behavior. He was gratified to see that Elrond answered the summons, even if tardily. 

“My king,” He said, clutching his load tighter and bowing.

Gil-galad waited patiently for him to rise. When he did not, he offered a belated, “Rise, and enter.” He put little stock in court formality, perhaps because he hardly set foot in one before his coronation and until recently spent his reign leading the last remnants of a people in a hopeless and doomed war. Even now with aid from Valinor, most of them might yet die before Morgoth falls. He would not guess it from Elros’s behavior, but the twins did spent most of their lives living with two past High Kings of the Noldor, and thus may be more familiar with courtly customs (though he imagined the dwindling Fëanorians were too few to make up an actual court).

Elrond stood up and walked into the tent, heading for the low scribe table off to the side of Gil-galad’s own, unobtrusively placed to permit an assistant to work without disturbing the king. He set the scrolls down, carefully placing the inkwell where it couldn’t be knocked to the floor if any of the scrolls began to roll. Tugging at the end of the dark braid sitting over his shoulder, he quickly took a seat on the stool behind the desk before looking up.

“I am ready, your grace,” He said, uncorking the well and taking up the quill. 

“Ah,” Gil-galad said, slightly wrong-footed by how quickly the other settled down to put himself to work. He hadn’t told the messenger the reason he wanted to speak with the peredhel, merely directing him on whom to fetch. The boy, it appeared, filled in the details for himself. Collecting what he needed, paper and quill, likely caused his tardiness. 

“I wished only to speak with you. You needn’t write this down,” He added quickly when the quill started scratching across the page.

Elrond looked up, eyes wide as his hand stalled halfway through the flowing tengwar.

I'll toss the game to @bizzybee429, @tar-thelien, and @sophiegreenleaf (a quick look at your blogs suggests y'all possibly write stuff, but if not perhaps you have some other WIP to share?)

[the-californicationist]

✨Masterlist✨

This is the masterlist for The Californicationist's Tumblr & AO3 texts.

All works should be considered 18+ only. MDNI - no exceptions.

CALL OF DUTY

Novel-Length Works

Gunslinger Price/Reader - AO3 - 100k - Complete You open your home as a safehouse for the 141, and your relationship with John Price unfolds into an epic love story.

Guardian Konig/FemaleOC - AO3 - 45k - Complete Konig, inexplicably working with SpecGru, clears out a Konni base and finds a hostage with amnesia, only to fall hopelessly in love with her.

Guile & Guilt Soap/Reader - AO3/Tumblr - Complete Your best friend has warned you to stay far, far away from her younger brother — infamous party boy, Sergeant Johnny MacTavish. However, when she asks you to be her maid of honor in her wedding, you and Johnny end up closer than you ever expected.

The Sin-Eater Price/Reader - Co-Author: @vampirekilmer - AO3 - WIP Captain John Price is a loving husband, a dedicated soldier, and a good man. But, that’s not all he is. Underneath his controlled exterior lurks something dark, something hungry, and something wholly inhuman. You’re his only solace during his wrath, and only you can consume the sin from his shifts.

One-Shot Works

Gauntlet (Kinktober 2023) [External Post] Price/Reader - AO3/Tumblr - 58k - Complete TW: too many to list here 😈 A collection of 30 kink-focused one-shots

Budapest Price/Reader - AO3 - 1.2k - Complete TW: major character death, explicit sex Captain John Price comes home to you a changed man.

Going Home Gaz/Nova - AO3 - 4.3k - Complete TW: explicit sex, voyeurism Gaz and Nova spend their leave together at his childhood home. This is set in the Gunslinger universe.

Gravitational Shift Price/FemaleOC - AO3 - 2k - Complete TW: Space AU, includes the Force from the Star Wars fandom, force-bond sex Captain Price senses a disturbance in the force, and when he bonds with her, he decides he's never letting go.

Ground & Pound Konig/FemaleOC - AO3 - 5.8k - Complete TW: NC/CNC, bondage, violence Konig's ex-girlfriend shows up to the base, and Konig loses his absolute mind over her...and takes things too far.

Growl Price/Reader - AO3/Tumblr - 2.5k - Complete TW: pegging, femdom When you agreed to come over to John Price’s house for drinks, you had no idea it would escalate so damn swiftly.

The Orchard Price/Reader - AO3/Tumbr - 3.8k - Complete TW: CNC, primal play, bondage John Price chases you through the woods to make sure you learn your lesson.

The Fisherman's Knot Price/FemaleOC - AO3 - 2.9k - Complete ABO AU - Captain John Price rescues a pretty Alpha from a kayaking accident in his fishing cove, his body betrays his gentle nature.

The Honest Man Mace/Reader - AO3/Tumblr - 2.5k - Complete TW: Breeding kink Mace tries to convince you to build a life with him again, especially if it means adding another baby into the mix.

The Missed Deadline Gaz/Reader - AO3/Tumblr - 2.7k - Complete TW: Virginity loss You and Kyle had a virginity pact.

The Fourth of July Alex Keller/Reader - AO3/Tumblr - 3.5k - Complete TW: Blow job You and Alex get a little carried away in the pool house.

The Fox & the Hound Soap/Reader - AO3/Tumblr - 4.5k - WIP(?) TW: Literal porn, exhibition Your first porno shoot doesn't go exactly to plan. Your co-star, Johnny "Dangerous" MacTavish, sets his sights on you and makes you his personal project. (Labeled WIP because I'm considering a Chapter 02 moment).

The Green Light Price/Reader - AO3/Tumblr - 1.8k - Complete TW: Dubcon/CNC John Price comes home with only one thing on his mind: you and those bright green panties. Even though you're sound asleep, he just can't stop himself.

The Dealer’s Choice 141/Reader - AO3/Tumblr - 4.4k - Complete TW: Gangbang The 141 are stranded and you’re the safe house manager. You have fun playing strip poker.

The Simple Mistake Ghost/Soap - AO3 - 1.4k - Complete Soap and Ghost have to hide together, injured and desperate in a shelter until their rescue party arrives.

The Devil's Summer Konig/Named Reader - AO3/Tumblr - 3k - Complete TW: Rape, non-consent, assault, corpses, violence, named reader A tall, foreign stranger comes to town with his masked crew of bandits. They rob the train station and the bank, but the big one… he has his sights set on a different sort of prize: you.

The Advent Calendar Ghost/Soap - AO3/Tumblr - 1.9k - Complete Soap gave Ghost an advent calendar this year. It's a little more romantic than he realized.

The False Alarm 141/Reader - AO3/Tumblr - 1.9k - Complete TW: Gangbang Cleaning the pole in the firehouse was hard work, but someone had to do it. But, when your harness broke and you were left dangling there, free to use for a firehouse full of men… you were in charge of cleaning a lot more poles than you bargained for.

There’s more, but I ran out of room! I’m trying to figure out how to fix it. Sorry 😣

[crystalflygeo]

two long dragon tongues down your throat is better than one <3

So I was going to answer this like a normal ask just fangirling and screaming yes but then it kinda reminded me of this abandoned wip I had sitting in my docs and IT WAS TOO GOOD TO LET IT PASS.

So sorry this sat on my inbox so long csvajckwxbhaj I promise I am not ignoring :c <3 work is just killing me and also this got out of hand HAHA WHAT A SURPRISE

it was written before 4.2 dropped (maybe before 4.1 even I can't recall) so there are some little things here and there that are technically not canon anymore//hit

Neuvillette is absolutely fascinated.

The chief Justice of Fontaine has lived for many many years, seen, learned and experienced a lot of what the world has to offer, at least within the confines of his beloved hydro nation. Always a diligent man, carrying out his role and job at the court to perfection. Yet there was something he’d always… disregard.

Some more basic instincts pertaining to his true draconic nature.

He’d had enough in his plate as it was, practically managing the nation, keeping lady Furina both entertained and out of trouble, taking care of the Melusine, and a myriad of other duties in between. Truth be told, he was a tired old dragon not having much time or interest in the pursuit of a romantic companion.

So how did he end up here? Having a sample of the most sacred and valuable treasure of another dragon. Their mate.

Neuvillette is mesmerized at how your body reacts, jerking and trembling in unadulterated pleasure. Entranced a how your lips part with labored puffs and cute little sounds he didn’t know humans were capable of. High pitched whines, long drawn-out moans. Hypnotized by your eyes, usually so alert, so smart and playful… now glazed over, clouded with euphoria yet so raw and sincere in their emotions, begging him not to stop.  

And your scent… oh, the most decadent sinful scent he’d ever sensed. His pupils dilating and turning back to slits as his stare focused on your drooling pussy. His mouth dry, his fangs aching. He wanted to drown all of his senses in you.

Darkened fingers slide across your folds, a little colder than normal for a human which is why he’d always wore gloves, but you mewl appreciatively and gladly accept them. Clenching warm and wet around the digits.

And his breath catches.

“Hmmm… you’re doing so well, baobei.”

The Iudex’s eyes flicker momentarily at the other man, or should he say, other dragon. The former Geo Archon Morax, quite literally a mythical figure exuding an aura of power far greater than his current own. He is older, wiser, stronger, a deity once involved in the likes of the Archon war and the Cataclysm. In this little… exchange, Morax is certainly the dominant dragon, simply letting Neuvillette please you.

Morax holds you close to his chest, purring contently in a display of affection towards you and confidence towards the other male, as if he needed not to worry about another taking what is his. Neuvillette knows if he were to even remotely try something funny, he’d likely face the infamous wrath of the rock. Under normal circumstances, he’d find it a little insulting to be treated like this. If he had his full authority…

But these are far from normal circumstances.

And he’s currently rather… ah… enchanted by you.

“Curl your fingers towards you and pump slowly… she likes that.” Morax explains, voice deep and rich like syrup. His hands roam your shoulders and chest, massaging softly at your exposed skin while he plants kisses at your neck, occasionally nibbling of a few past marks from his own fangs.

Neuvillette does as said, experimentally, and is rewarded by a sultry moan and a buck of your hips towards him when you feel those fingers wiggle and rub at a spot deep inside you.

“Oh? Got it on your first try Chief Justice, why you may be a natural.” Morax chuckles.

The younger dragon appreciates the praise underneath the teasing lilt.

“Now, you may use your thumb to rub at that little pearl, it’s just begging for attention.” Your mate nuzzles against your cheek, his own thumbs rolling over your perked nipples. “Slowly, careful… she is very sensitive.” He adds with amusement.

He does so again, the pad of his cool finger brushing over your puffy little nub, the spark of pleasure is immediate and you toss your head back and squeal.

“Please please please…” You gasp out, breath shuddering, body trembling.

Tears gather at your eyes and roll down your cheeks, it’s so much it feels so good.

The younger dragon stops and blinks at you, his demeanor shifting suddenly. His hands slip over your thighs to you hips, as if trying to cradle you, hold you closer.

Morax’s eyes narrow if only a bit, curious but wary of Neuvillette’s sudden… protectiveness over you.

“You’re crying… have I hurt you? Are you ok?” He asks softly, attention solely on you.

Your heart could melt at that, who knew the ever serious and imposing Iudex could be so gentle? He truly reminds you of your mate sometimes.

You nod, catching your breath a moment. “I-I’m good. Feels good.” You mumble, cheeks heating up with the confession. Your body already lays bare and presented for him, in it’s most vulnerable. But to open up your feelings too… “People… cry when they’re happy too, you know?”

He seems to consider it for a moment, you can practically se the cogs turning in his head, it’s rather endearing, his brow twitches the same way Morax’s does when he’s pensive, perhaps it’s a dragon thing? “I have observed that before, yes, but why-”

“Emotions are powerful. When y-you feel… so much… you need a let out. Be it angry, sad, even happy… our tears leak out, like emotions overflowing.” You smile and shift a little, hiding your face towards the crook of your mate’s neck. “Weren’t you the one who said waters carry emotions?” You nuzzle there and Morax responds accordingly, his hands once again massaging and roaming your body, knowing you’re still pent up and the sudden stop was probably a little frustrating.

Golden fingers slide over your folds and sink in carefully, thumb circling your clit once more and you whimper. “That’s it, my love… I want you to feel good. We want you to enjoy, isn’t that right?”

Neuvillette straightens up a little to meet Morax’s gaze. Not challenging (not yet) but there is something.    

“Indeed.” He leans in to nuzzle at the other side of your neck, the soft skin there unmarked. Morax tenses his hold on you, a slight growl coming out from deep within his chest.

“Careful Chief Justice. Remember our agreement.”

“Of course. No kisses, no marks, no claiming. No strings attached.” His lavender eyes a dark purple now as he follows the soft slope of your jaw. “I wouldn’t dare break a contract with the deity that presides over them.” He chuckles. “I just want to test…”

Or rather taste. His draconic tongue laps up softly at your tears, his hands tease your nipples as if trying to get more reactions out of you and you whine, arching towards him as Morax’s hand keeps working at your core.

It’s so… intense. They are both so clear about their desires, slow and reverent, kind in their methods, but so assured in their dominance that they will get what they want.

And oh, to be desired by two dragons truly is something…

“Interesting…” He mumbles pulling back. “So sweet.”

Morax nips at your mating mark then and tilts your head to press your lips together, your mouth happily parts for him and you let out a muffled moan as that long split tongue slides down your throat. Your feet kick and your fingers claw at whatever is closer.

Half-lidded golden eyes stare down at you with satisfaction, blown with lust. A third finger sinking in on your sweet pussy, faster, your juices gushing obscenely around them.

That tongue teases and chokes you and more tears come out of your glazed eyes, eagerly caught by another one. Bodies pressed together, hands roaming, Morax’s tail curled around your ankle keeping you open, Neuvillette’s swaying after him with excitement, cool fingers pinching your nipples, massaging your breasts…

“Mmphff…!” You squeak, high pitched and tense as the pleasure tips you over the edge and your body locks up in a delicious powerful orgasm. You sob and whimper as they work you through it. Shuddering. You see stars. Can’t think only feel.   

Once it settles Morax pulls back and you melt against him, chest heaving, legs weak, muscles aching just a little, they continue to pamper you with affection and attention.

Your mate’s fingers retreat with an embarrassingly wet noise and much to your further mortification he brings them up to his face and that sinful slip tongue once again comes out this time to lick them clean.

Neuvillette stares transfixed.

You groan quietly, it’s obvious what he wants…

Morax on his part only lets out a short laugh, possessive instincts seemingly more at ease now. “Oh? Want to have a taste too? I can assure you will not be disappointed.”

Archons, the way those sharp eyes shift to you.

“O-okay…” Your voice is barely a whisper. “P-please be gentle though I j-just…”

Your breath catches in anticipation as Neuvillette’s hands rest on your inner thighs.

And then your dear mate pulls you back into a kiss.

[serenni]

✨Between the Mountains and the Sea - WIP✨ Little back-story below!

Soooo this all started because I noticed how Gil-Galad often keeps his hands in front of him one on on top of the other in a strong grip.

I see this detail as being nowhere near to convey a relaxed stance, but rather possibly indicating him feeling anxious and troubled by his thoughts (P.S. the man needs a vacation :( ).

Séredhiel and Gil-Galad will slowly build and deepen their relationship on mutual trust, understanding and feeling safe in each other's presence, and this would be one of those moments setting them in that direction.

Around the first years of Second Age, with the decision of Elros leaving to lead the Edain to Elenna recently spread, in a quiet corner of Lindon along the riff overlooking the Great Sea and with hardly any visitors, Gil-Galad would be lost in his thoughts. He would be concerned about the political consequences the departure of Elros would have, how the relationship with Men might evolve from that moment, and also the emotional toll of parting from Elros, as he grew accustomed to the presence of both Peredhel twins since their youngest years.

Gil-Galad's eyes would be set on the distance over the sea, and his hands clasped strongly. Séredhiel would happen to get into that same place, which happens to be one of her favourite spots to find quietness and reminisce, most of times her thoughts going back to her brother, who fell in the War of Wrath.

She would realize too late that Gil-Galad is also there, he would have already noticed her presence and will ask her to step forward, and they would start to talk, inquiring about what brought them there.

As they speak, Séredhiel will notice his eyes being clouded by worry, his clasped hands… and she will place her hand on top of his and offer him a listening ear.

He will be surprised at first, but a part of him will feel like he can release the grip with her...and will take her hand in his, and will confide in her. He will find out that sharing the thoughts troubling his heart with her was easier than he could ever do with anyone else before.

And talking, they will discover that they both reached that same spot to let their thoughts wander about the same issue: Séredhiel will also be troubled by the news of Elros leaving, and having to say goodbye to him would be like separating from a member of her family. Since the beginning of the War of Wrath, on the Isle of Balar, Séredhiel took care of the Peredhel twins, taking them under her wing and becoming a nurturing figure for both (as I imagine Gil-Galad would be, too), and their bond would reach depths no different than those of a blood one. Both Gil-Galad and Séredhiel had experienced the pain of being separated from their families, so the news concerning Elros' departure hit hard both of them, at the same time leaving them unable to talk about it to anyone. But in this moment, they would feel like they could share their thoughts and burdens safely with each other, Gil-Galad starting to realise how around Séredhiel he can drop the walls he build around himself from the duties of being the High-King, while her, being the one who often listens but seldom speaks about what troubles her, finding someone who would listen and understand her feelings.

[sekhmetswrath-if]

The Wrath of Sekhmet is based on the 1999 film ‘The Mummy’ and follows the original story of Sekhmet to the best of my research abilities, but also includes highly fictionalised elements.

DEMO (01.09.23) | CHARACTER APPEARANCES

As the archivist of the Museum of Antiquities in Cairo, you’ve collected a lot of knowledge over the thirteen years you’ve worked there. Yet, there has been nothing that fascinated you more than the story of Sekhmet.

A goddess of love turned goddess of war with a bloodlust so deadly that her father, the sun god Ra, was forced to fashion a necklace that Hathor could wear in order to contain Sekhmet.

The necklace glittered with gold and diamonds, but it was the single ruby that sat nestled at her throat that was the real treasure.

Said to contain a drop of Ra’s blood, it was a gem so powerful that it could grant lesser creatures invulnerability when the necklace was worn.

And now, your brother thinks he’s found the legendary Temple of Sekhmet. A temple that was supposedly built to house the necklace.

This could be the adventure of a lifetime and you refuse to be left behind.

This is an 18+ wip due to violence, depictions of blood and gore, optional sexual content, death, elements of body horror, and abduction.

FEATURES

✧ Play as a female, male, or nonbinary mc with cis and trans options. Choose your pronouns and titles separately.

✧ Romance the suave archaeologist, the stoic leader, the bubbly best friend, or the calculating adventurer. Poly routes are available.

✧ Personality stats: sarcastic/genuine, stoic/emotional, reckless/cautious, grumpy/jovial, kind/indifferent, shy/bold.

✧ Skill stats: intelligence, charm, sword fighting, and agility.

✧ Set features of the mc: they’re at least half egyptian and as an archivist, mc is intelligent, studious, and knowledgable about history. While they can be grumpy and indifferent, there will not be the option to be unnecessarily cruel.

CHARACTERS OF INTEREST

Maddox [M]

The bane of your life and one of the only people you trust to always have your back. He’s more of a lover than a fighter and has a silver tongue that could get him out of any situation, but don’t underestimate his protectiveness over you. Older brother prerogative and all that.

Elijah/Elodie Caddel [M/F] [RO]

El is charismatic, quick-witted, and familiar with the temple of Sekhmet making them the perfect companion on your quest. However, for all their charm, they are notorious for keeping everyone but Aksel at a distance, so it is a surprise to all when they quickly seem to develop a deep fondness for you. As well as a wicked protective streak.

Menna Bakir [M/F/NB] [RO]

As a Medjai Chieftain, Menna is responsible for the lives of many. For that reason, they have learnt to show little emotion, although it is noted that they soften around animals and now it seems, you. Once their trust has been earned and they become more comfortable with your group, you’ll see a much more relaxed and even teasing side to them.

Nakia/Nubia Hassan [M/F] [RO]

N can be utterly ruthless when it comes to getting what they want for the museum, but with you they're almost always very bubbly and friendly. They're your childhood best friend and your biggest supporter, and without them, you wouldn't be taking this trip across the desert to discover the secrets that lie in wait.

Aksel Madsen [NB] [RO]

While they seem lazy and unbothered, it doesn’t take long for you to realise that there’s something not quite right about them. They’re too observant, too intelligent, and too calculating. Despite this, you wouldn’t class them as a bad person, especially not when you’ve seen the way they look out for El and, on occasion, you.

Poly routes

N/Aksel | El/Menna

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Stricken 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, violence, ostricization,and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you were scarred by a storm years ago and its bringer has come to upheave your life once more.

Characters: God of War!Thor

Note: I did this finally.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You always know when a storm's coming. The hairs on your arms stand and your skin burns hot. The smell of rain is tinted by another scent. That of burning flesh and ash. Your scars raze as if struck again and for a moment, you cannot hear or see. 

Slowly, the scent of rain returns to you and the noise of the patter, sometimes more a hammering, as if to remind you of its bearer. The thunder is his war cry. The lightning his wrath. You do wonder why then it should’ve come down on you. 

You keep your hood up, your chin low. Though you hide, the villagers know who you are, they know of your misfortune. The calamity wrought into your flesh in veined scars. Your face is marked with the storm, zigzagged with lines as your left eye is struck blind and white. 

Yet it isn’t your name they whisper as you stop at a stall to buy grain. It is his. The Prince of Asgard. The might God of Thunder. The monster who made you like this. 

The air is thick, roiling with unspent moisture, and the clouds threatening in a grey ripple. You should have come yesterday. You should not have waited so long.  

You trade your coin and move on, gathering the small rations you can afford. You’ll return to your hovel, gather what you can from the garden, and check the traps for rabbits. It should get you through, though the frost does eat away at your harvest.  

As you have it, between the chirping of your disfigurement, there is worse creeping from the north. The snows have fallen heavy and whole lakes have frozen to the silt. You do not believe all you hear but you know better than to disregard the nip in the air. 

Your basket remains like but you’ve spent your limit. Your cloak shifts with your movement and you shrink lower as you near the group of adolescents feigning at battle with sticks. Their audience glimpses your passing and you hear their voices mingle with laughter. 

“It’s that crone. The burnt one,” comes a bit louder than is meant. 

You don’t stop. You don’t show that you’ve heard it. There is nothing to be said.  

“Cursed, by Thor’s hammer,” another chortles, “it is said he was forging and struck the blade too hard. In his wrath, he sent a storm. A mongrel like her drew it upon herself, broken like the sword.” 

Certainly, that too is a story to be met with skepticism. One cannot guess at what the gods do in Asgard nor why they bring only misery and chaos to Midgard. You cannot disagree that the storm was no favour to you. A curse, certainly, though the meaning can never be known. 

You move along, leaving behind their whispers and their sneers. Off to your solace, to your safe. Out of the path of any wandering soul or any blowing storm.  

⛈

A storm rages without. Water swirls and batters your small abode, built against the wall of a cave on a carpet of peat. You cover your ears as the winds whistle and wail. You quake beneath your cloak, eyes locked shut as you cower away from the tempest so much as your own memories. 

The blinding white flash and the scalding hot pain. Your fingers creep up to your chin and feel the rigged scars. You can never forget, no matter how you try. You can never be as you were. You are marked, you are damaged, and as the villagers have it on their tongues, broken. 

Even your family would not have you. You remember your mother’s wail as your father drove you off like some beast. ‘The gods have smited you themselves. You cannot remain or you will wreck ruin upon us all.’ 

Days of walking and tears, like the very storm that scarred you, a haze through which you trod until you could go no more. Until your head would split and the burnt flesh began to weep. A woman found you on the forest floor, rotting away from the corruption spreading through you. 

You don’t remember much of her. Only her touch and how she healed you. She bid you off with the cloak you wear and some food for your travels. Then you were alone and thus you remain. Not even the thieves will steal from you, nor the criminals darken your door. A curse is worth no piece of gold, no drop of blood. 

The pounding of rain relents. A chill creeps beneath the slats of your door and seep into the walls. You fill the earth with what kindling you have, the clay chimney puffing smoke up through the center of the roof. You hold your hands out to warm but find little comfort. 

You settle on your side beneath your cloak and stare into the flames. You shiver. It’s cold. Very cold. Typically, the rain chases away the chill but this is different. You can feel it in the ground. You curl up tight, clinging to your warmth, let your eyes close. Sleep comes but for lack of and not peacefully. 

Your dreams are a maelstrom. There a flames and ice, one after the other, sometimes together. Sharp pointed shards frozen and hanging, then licking tendrils of heat from below. You are lost in the land of sleep, tortured by a world built of your own fears and follies. 

You wake stiff and frigid. The fire has gone out. Not even smoke remains in the pile of ash. You move carefully, bones aching, scars tingling. You touch the hard ridging along your cheek and your fingers pulse from the cold. You can see your breath. 

How can it be? It was sunny before the rain. You get your feet under you and stand with a groan. Near the door, a strange dusting of white powders around the door, flecking in from beneath and around the edges. Snow? 

Were the tales true after all? You wince as suddenly your scars singe and sting. Ow. You recoil and cover your face with your hands, hissing and wheezing through the pain. It hurts terribly. Worse than even the first strike.  

You pull your hands away as your eyes water and you blink through your tears. You can see, at least in your good eye. There is no lightning, it is only in your mind. You shakily turn and search around. You cry out again as the agony surges once more in your head. 

Why? 

Your legs quake. Something is amiss. The frost has come and this meagre hut cannot withstand it. You take your rucksack and put what you can carry into it. Your water skin is strung across your chest and your pack upon your back. You wrap your boots with rags and your hands too. You haven’t the clothing for the cold but you will need to find something. Perhaps skin a hare or two. 

The door blows inward almost as soon as you touch it, another gust nearly bowling you over. You sway with the wind and cling to the crooked doorframe. You shove yourself out, just as quickly flattened to the wall by a flurry of snow. It dusts your face coldly and you pull up your neck scarf over your nose and pull your hood into place. 

You set off, hunched, reaching with your arms as you lift your knees over the treacherous heaps. You keep close to the rock wall. The thought of turning back stops you but it seems as foolish an idea. The hovel cannot hold for much longer. You need to get to the mouth of the cave and chance a sleeping bear within. 

You sidle along, slowed by the snow and the wind, the former soaking through your clothing as the latter whips around your hood. Suddenly, a roll of thunder, like war drums, churns in the air. The word dims and the furor sounds again; louder, closer. 

You cry out and lift an arm to shield yourself instinctively. You curl your hand into the rockface and holler even louder, closing your eyes as your memory summons another storm. No, it cannot be. Not again.  

A deafening boom shakes the ground and knocks you to your knees. You crawl along, keeping low near the ragged stone, those hidden beneath the snow jabbing against your palms. You whimper and whine, blinded by the thickening curtain all around you. 

Yet you never heard of the god raining down snow upon the lands. Only the slaking rains and the hot violence of his bolts. Never this. What sword has he broken this time? Perhaps it was his very own hammer.

The thunder overhead continues its horrid thrum as more pulses in the earth. Boom, boom, boom. You feel it beneath your hands. Your knees come down clumsily as you scramble through the piling powder. You open your eyes and still cannot see. The world is smudge in gray white and black, the sky flashing and darkening from one moment to the next. 

You cry out again as your scars burn. You push yourself back on your heels and grasp your face as you shriek. It hurts! So bad! Your eyes well and flow over. Your body trembles and collapses. You writhe in the snow, contorting with the agony as your flesh feels as if it is splitting. 

Beneath the incessant pounding comes a rocky noise. Like laughter it curdles in the air and chases after you like the steady boom, boom, boom. Closer and closer, louder and louder, the earth quakes in tandem with the cacophony. 

“I’ve found another,” the deep voice scoffs and snickers, “ah, Heimdall, you must see this--” 

The craterous voice halts and the air still. The snow drifts but the wind stops and the thunder relents, the world seeming to hum. You scratch at your face as the flames grow unbearable. You must be alight. It can be the only reason for such pain. 

The large figure, a blurry silhouette in your skewed vision, looms like a mountain. He steps over you, sliding a foot between you and the cave wall and flips you onto your back. You stare up at the sky, rolling in sheets of grey and black, the dark figure standing above, blotting out the clouds. You sob and plead. 

“Make it stop!” You beg as your hood falls back, “kill me! Kill me! It hurts.” 

He bends as your eyes roll back and he grabs your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face. He pulls you half off the ground, not a single grunt for the effort. You feel whoever, whatever it is, looking down at you; upon you. A rattle rises in his gritty throat. 

“And what are you?” He breathes. 

You feel another surge and babble, reining in your wild eyes as you quiver uncontrollably. You make yourself look at him. You shudder and shake your head. Shaggy red hair, a braided beard, and eyes so blue they jolt you. Ink marks one side of his broad face as he wears fur upon his soldiers beneath emblems of the godly lands. 

“It hurts...” you rasp, “I am dying.” 

“You...” he grabs your chin, holding you by your shoulder. His thumb extends up your face to touch the scars and you let out a shrill howl as the agony piques. You latch onto his thick arm and thrash. 

“It buuuuuuuurrnssssssssss,” you scream as your spine arches. 

“Hmm,” he hums and throws you into the snow. You continue your desperate wriggling, the fire softening but not leaving you completely, “Heimdall!” He calls out like a war horn, “get your skinny ass over here!” 

There’s a tinkle of coy laughter and lighter footsteps that land on the boulder above. Your eyes drift over and you see another shadow, this one hazier but smaller. A dusting of snow flies up beside you as the other man lands beside you. No, not a man. 

Heimdall? Son of Odin. 

“Oh, Thor, what trouble have you found--” 

“Another one,” the other growls. Not the other, Thor. The God of Thunder. The beast who marked you. “Father says they all must come.” 

“This one?” Heimdall muses as his voice spikes with humour, “why look at her. Pathetic—wait a moment... brother, is this your handiwork?” He squats to see you closer and snickers again, “why how very peculiar.” 

“Bring her,” Thor barks and spins on his heel, swinging his hammer, “we haven’t time--” 

“You bring her, brother. As you say, you are so much stronger--” 

“Just do it!” Thor snarls and a peel of thunder breaks through the clouds. “I need ale.” 

[rainbow-nerdss]

WIP Wednesday

A little bit of Buck and Chris from the Bucktommy fic 💙💙💙💙 (Aka: you can pry couch theory from my cold dead hands, actually)

“Why were you asking about me and Tommy, anyway?” He asks. “No reason.” Chris shrugs “Dad just mentioned it, that's all. Tommy's pretty cool.” “He sure is. Even if he's got terrible Star Wars opinions.” “Hey!” Chris protests again.  Buck just shrugs. “I said what I said.” He thinks for a moment, then adds. “I guess I never really talked to you properly about me and Tommy, huh? I'm sorry about that, bud.” “It's okay. Dad explained it. I mean, obviously I know what bisexual is already, but he explained how you didn't always know. How there can be things some people learn about themselves as a kid, and other people learn when they're old.” Buck gets a little choked up by how simply put it is. Sure, he's always known Chris to be intelligent, and he's a proper little teenager now, but the way he says it so plainly, the way Eddie explained it to him, it's… Well, he's pretty sure it's love. “I'm not old,” Buck says, just to be a shit, and also to keep himself from bursting into tears. How'd he get so lucky to have this kid in his life? Chris shrugs. “That's just what dad said! Take it up with him.” “Your dad’s older than I am!” Buck protests, and Chris cackles.  “Okay, so maybe I paraphrased a bit. Can you go away now? I'm trying to concentrate and you don't even have math superpowers to help anymore.” Buck sighs dramatically, but he does get out of Chris' chair. He sits on the couch, which is still perfectly fine, thank you.  Usable, at least.  Okay, so he'll probably need a new one soon, but he's sure the people at the furniture store will recognise his face by now and he just can’t deal with that. He turns the TV on low and flicks around for a while, then starts scrolling on his phone, just waiting for Chris to finish his work. They spend the evening playing video games—no more than two hours, Buck knows better than to incur Eddie's wrath on that, then they cook together, eating at the table like grown ups with good table manners.

tags below the cut:

@dangerpronebuddie @wildlife4life @theotherbuckley @wikiangela @daffi-990

@theotherbuckley @diazsdimples @bidisasterbuckdiaz @exhuastedpigeon @aspecbuddie @thewolvesof1998 @neverevan @loserdiaz @goforkinard @kwills91 @trenchcoatsandtimetravel @spotsandsocks @devirnis @steadfastsaturnsrings @sunflowerdiaiz @lover-of-mine @liabegins @lovelettertothewise @slowlyfoggydestiny @buddieboos @shitouttabuck @pirrusstuff @jesuisici33 @nmcggg @elvensorceress @eddiebabygirldiaz @your-catfish-friend @eightpackdiaz @gigi-gigi @bisexualbuckleys @loveyouanyway @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @arachanae @dangerpronebuddie

[alastor-simp-page]

#wip wednesday

Context: old gay men yaoi however not radioapple. SATAN X LUCIFER. Or lucitan. idk trying to come up with a ship name. Takes place after mastermind and spawned in after a what if question.

also two hot demons? millennia old beef? two big egos? a power struggle? (again, speculation)

SAY LESS

also gimme some time tho i'm desperately trying to fight my way out of writer's block STILL

without furthur adieu the yapping has ceased (under the gif is the little pathetic attempt at writing)

Lucifer POV (for context):

Did those fuckers even miss him? He hadn’t received a single text message about these Infernal Trials.  

Lucifer picked up his phone and swiped into the 7 Deadly Sins Group Chat. A chat that had been silent since 1669. However, the mini group chat without that ass wipe, Mammon constantly being a huge douche was not. As a matter of fact, his little “friend group” were chatting about an upcoming meeting. In…”THIRTY MINUTES?”

He still didn’t have a clue why they kept including him in these chats. Ah, and douche bag numero dos is typing. Satan was rambling on about the trail, the time, the place, the venue, the seating, blah, blah, blah. Who cared? Well…what people cared who mattered? Lucifer blinked a few times, his fingers hovering over the message bar. Did he matter to them anymore? 

That thought struck a rather nasty chord in his heart. His face twisted and he tossed the phone a few inches away from his head. It had been a while since he had done…anything. Anything remotely important. For the last few hundreds years he had been killing time…and it never seemed to fucking drop dead. His gaze scanned over his embarrassing messy room. The dresser had overturned makeup supplies with used makeup removers balled up into a mountain next to it. The work station, God, he didn’t even want to talk about it. It was all in all, a safety hazard with multiple razor sharp tools on the plush and unvacuumed floor, open paint bottles, stale paint water glistening under the Hell Sun and about a few hundred half finished rubber ducks glaring back at him. 

He wanted to scream yet he couldn’t find the voice. How fucking pathetic was he? His wife left him, his daughter estranged, his once close friend group he willingly isolated himself from. And the sinners? Fuck the sinners. Naive Lucifer all those thousands of years ago thought he could make a change for humanity however they fucked it up. He let them run wild and they burned down the world. The worst part? Dear old weary Lucifer was forced to live amongst the ramble even if he chose to distance himself as much as he could. 

There was no avoiding the Hell grocery store which, by Golly, was real Hell. The parking lot, the screaming children, the constant honking and bitching customers. He had to give it to the Wrath hellborn A Team for creating such a horrid thing, nothing beats a grocery store parking lot on a Sunday morning. 

Well, maybe war crimes and mosquitos but that was beside the point.

And that reminded him: Satan. The other deadly sins. The downright audacity to not invite him to an Infernal Trial in God knows how long. 

“You know what…FUCK IT!” Lucifer declared, digging into his shirt for his smushed pajama collar and straightening it out with his claws. With a skip in his step, he leapt up to his feet and crossed eagerly over to the dresser. Sitting there in all its glory: his wondrous iconic hat. Licking his fingers and slicking back his fluffed up blonde hair, he set the hat upon his head, smirking into the ever so flattering mirror that ogled back. “It’s about time I show them who's boss, hm?” 

[thecoffeelorian]

Fandom Friday, 12/20: Fan Art!

Hello again, everyone…and welcome to another installment of Fandom Friday, the two-post series where I go off to find new and interesting fanworks that might need a bit more visibility.

Before we get started, I think I have a few quick things to say to you all, so here goes--first; I'd like to thank everyone who voted in this poll, and who also helped me decide on a slightly more solid direction for this project.

Second, as that same poll decided not too long ago, I will be switching the showcase content from one week to the next...so, while this week will show off fanart, the next week will show off fanfiction, and so on.

And third, as it's a bit close to Christmas in my part of the world, there might be a few choices in winter clothes and/or Santa costumes as a result.

Anyways, before I get too distracted or lost...here, now, are my picks of the week.

THE CLONE WARS

The Clone Wars Fanart--By @carrion-art:

The Clone Wars Fanart--By @gingermaybel:

THE BAD BATCH

The Bad Batch Fanart--By @moonkrab99:

SKELETON CREW

Skeleton Crew Fanart--By @unlaww:

Skeleton Crew Fanart--By @ars-de-elysium:

THE MANDALORIAN

The Mandalorian Fanart--By @samscarr1985:

The Mandalorian Fanart--By @faivsz:

AHSOKA

Ahsoka Fanart--By @timetodiverge:

THE SEQUELS

The Sequels Fanart--By @reylosaurus:

The Sequels Fanart--By @artbyjasonleung:

In conclusion, as part of my mission to poke around the Star Wars fandom and highlight those artists who might otherwise go unnoticed…I hope you will check out the links I have included for yourselves and like, comment on, and reblog them, as well as also giving the artists a few more followers to their Tumblr pages.

Please also like and reblog this latest installment so that these links can be spread around to as many other fans as possible, just in case not all of them can tune in at the same time.

An additional thank you goes to @djarrex for making the divider I used earlier in this post, but still want to give credit for.

And finally, so that I do not forget…thank you, stay safe, and I’ll see you in the next post!

No Pressure Tags: @melymigo @algo-o-nada @the-osborn-way @everybirdfellsilent @skellymom

@leos-multifandom-corner @maggie-dylan @leenathegreengirl @gun-roswell @tazmbc1

@bluedeedeedoop @its-time-to-rise-above @tlmtwelve @apocalyp-tech-a and anybody else who might be on the lookout for new SW fanart.

[of-sinners-and-seas]

A Song of Spirits

OF SINNERS AND SEAS - BOOK ONE

A WIP INTRO

From the minds of @isabellebissonrouthier and @lady-grace-pens !

GENRE: adult. high fantasy. dark fantasy. dark romance.

POV: third person limited. past tense.

STATUS: writing.

CW: gore. strong language. explicit sexual content.

VIBES: ruby hearts and obsidian eyes. crashing waves and thundering skies. the bile of regret. the seduction of sin. tired eyes. heavy sighs. old photographs. tarot cards whose edges are worn by love. a broken body in a black room. clashing swords. a dusty throne. secrets exchanged in a back alley where the only judges are the street lamps that blind the stars above. pearls. jazz. rusted bars of a once-gilded cage. self-proclaimed godhood. bruises from lips that used to berate you. fresh ink from a letter scrawled in the dead of night. hidden longings. confessions. voices in the wind uttering words of destiny.

clotted emotions. a journal in tatters. flashes of light in the corner of your gaze. a pair of stilettos echoing down a rain-slick street. the stench of death. creaking wood. weapons that belong in your hands. the ache of nostalgia. the weight of the present. the sharp cracking of autumn leaves. milking blood from a wound that won’t heal.

THEMES: fate vs dreams. loyalty vs betrayal. history. secrets. self-worth. loneliness. mysticism and fortune telling. power and control. what do you want and how far will you go to get it? where will chasing it land you? In a better or worse position? Could you even handle it? How can you be sure?

SYNOPSIS:

Seven pirates. Seven thrones. Seven deadly sins.

All vie for dominance over their fantastical world, thinking themselves to be as close to immortal as could be. But the question of what, exactly, they are remains elusive, as is the reason why they crave a seat atop the world’s throne, battling to be the most dangerous sin of them all.

Some long for power. Some lust for a sense of identity. Others simply chase the thrill of the war they’ve locked themselves into.

Is not the root of all clashing swords a wretched cry for one’s own purpose?

It is for Katty, mistress of Envy. Her interest in the eternal war has been waning, and the figures roaming the streets of Eiffel have captured her attention more and more.

Families. Friends. Couples unscathed by the tests of time.

Her presence on her own pirate ship has become a rarity. Her lover, Delvan of Greed, has waxed on about his disapproval of her flippant desires, stressing the importance of what truly matters in their lives.

Fortune. Power. Status.

Katty knows this. And yet, she aches for more.

When the cards of fate unfold for her a passionate affair with the prince of Pride, Braven, behind the backs of their allies, Katty remembers the spark that being Envy once carried for her.

It’s only natural she chose him to accompany her on a secret mission to infiltrate the ship of Gluttony, also known as Flint. While Braven seeks information regarding Flint’s relentless search for who they are, Katty seeks a chest of personal valuables he’d stolen from her. More than either of them bargained for, Braven is captured and Katty is filled with regret. Sooner than she could even think to fall back on her own allies for aid, Flint captures them, too.

Katty must rescue them. And she must rely on Braven’s twin sister, wretched Morannah of Lust, in order to stand a chance against that giant, hulking man.

When the girls invade, cruel revelations are sparked: one calls into question the sins’ immortality, and the other permanently alters the nature of their war.

After all, what is an ally worth when all ends in betrayal?

•••

Pinterest Board | YouTube Playlist

INTRO TO THE SERIES

MEET THE SINS:

Envy | Pride | Lust | Greed | Wrath | Gluttony | Sloth

EXPLORE THE WORLDS:

Eiffel | Polarys & Lorallyn | Geldour | Valoma | Guisse | The Desolate

MEET THE FIRST MATES:

Gigi | Mikael | Désirée | Alusia | Marigold

•••

TAGLIST: @the-inkwell-variable @fifis-corner

[conundrumoftime]

thinking:

So in TROP canon Galadriel would have fought in the War of Wrath alongside her father & the other elves from Valinor, right? and as this is after Finrod's death she would have still been set on Sauron specifically? So there is a chance she already met this form of Sauron when he was begging Eönwë for forgiveness:

And would presumably not have been allowed to stab him because Eönwë did give him a chance to return to Valinor, and had to trust the assurances of others over her own judgement, and then when the host of the Valar returned to Valinor and Sauron was missing again, well... clearly nobody else can be trusted to hunt him down. Clearly even the herald of Manwë is too easily fooled. Clearly, she has to stay behind and hunt him down herself because she is the only one she can trust.

Or: she honestly believed him, she honestly thought he'd go as Manwë told him to. She won't forgive herself for it. Maybe she demanded to be one of his guards herself, and the not forgiving herself is because... she didn't watch him closely enough? allowed him to distract her? noticed something he did or said that she wrote off as insignificant, that wasn't?

Many thoughts! many thoughts. (mainly, to be honest, that I like the idea that when she first meets him he's looking like this and kneeling in the mud at Manwë's feet.

(I do not need another fic WIP I really don't... and yet...)

[tanoraqui]

Teen and Up Audiences | Graphic [but often poetic and/or supernatural!] Depictions of Violence | Gen

Words: 8,619 | Chapters: 1/1

Relationships: Finarfin & Galadriel, Finarfin & Maedhros

Characters: Finarfin, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor, Galadriel, Anairë, Maedhros, Eönwë, Maglor, Celebrimbor, Celeborn, Amarië, Irimë |Lalwen

Additional Tags: War of Wrath, I tagged everyone but really it's about Finarfin, kingship, and personal and collective vengeance/justice/trying to kill an unkillable dark god

“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” Lalwen complained in greeting. “Two brothers I have already lost, blindly charging that place. Must you add a third to my tally?”

“Maybe,” Finarfin said bluntly. It was still gentler than the truth on his tongue: It’s my turn.

(Or: in which Finarfin is, after all, the third son in the fairy tale.)

I worry that I’ve hyped this up too much by having it as a WIP for so long, but Here it is at last: Finarfin’s due shot at 1v1-ing Morgoth (more or less), a cornerstone of my personal elaborate tapestry of Arda headcanons! (I regularly forget that the sword isn’t a canonical legendary weapon.)

[raointean]

TAGGED BY: @runawaymun - thank you!!!

THE RULES: Make a poll with the titles of all your current WIPs. For whichever one wins, write 300 words and share a snippet if you want.

I may actually have some time to write tomorrow, so here goes!

March to the Sea: Waterfall fic with Elrond whump and Elrond & Galadriel friendship

Hope of A Thousand Moments to Come: Rivendell plague fic. All the peredhil get sick, suffering abounds, it's great but I got distracted by other shiny plot-bunnies and never finished it 😬 Featuring Celebrían/Elrond/Glorfindel polycule

Elrond and Gil-Galad: Currently just a plot in my notes app. Explores their relationship from the War of Wrath onward, keeping in mind that Gil-Galad was a teenager during the WoW and Elrond COULD have been his greatest political opponent

Adarond fix-it fic: Exactly what it says on the tin. Elrond exchanges himself for Galadriel as Adar's prisoner and is so damn charming that Adar allies with the elves. Explores uruk culture and Elrond makes friends with some of the healers because he is INCAPABLE of not helping people.

Tagging: @kirbys-lover @celebrimbor-apologist

[bloomingdarkgarden]

WIP Wednesday | What Bloomed in the Darkgarden.

Estimated posting is 10/17. Enjoy this snippet for now. We've breached cinematic warfare, people.

Lucien Vanserra staggered on his feet as he winnowed to the fevered battle unfolding in the Wakefold. All inherent grace long-since drowned in the riptide of this infernal night.

His vision was wholly blurred, even through his mechanical eye, as he took in the erratic, bloody state of the dark Day Court valley. Eris, too, appeared within a moment- Nesta Archeron at his side, though she tore away from the Vanserras as soon as they materialized. The wound at her side was far from healed, but she had managed, by the grace of the forgotten gods, to survive. Eris had reached her, gotten her out of that blinded, flame-wrought city just in time.

Only to stumble into another version of hell.

Chaos was unfolding at every angle.

A pale steed charged before them, black eyes manic with fear. Her rider sported the armor of a Day Court commander, slumped bloody and lifeless on the horse’s winged flank.

A pegasus, Lucien quickly realized.

And not just any pegasus, but the very same he had once intended for Elain.

An enemy soldier made for the moon-white mare, but Lucien was quicker. He drove his blade through the soldier’s spine from behind with a grunt, and tugged the reins acutely before anyone else could snatch her.

Fallacy was tittering with battle nerves, but calmed instantly with Lucien’s familiar, steady touch and low, gentle murmur.

“Where is Feyre?” Nesta hissed, peering through the dark havoc. “Where are the others?

“Cauldron knows,” Lucien breathed, handing Nesta the creature’s reigns. “Take her and find out.”

Nesta needed no encouragement. She heaved herself upwards, hissing as that wound aside her abdomen wept a steady trickle of blood with the movement.

Eris murmured something inaudible at his other side. Russet gaze scrutinized the savagery and disorder surrounding them, and deeply lined worry was ridden in his pale, regal features. Its source was palpable in the air between them.

There was no way of knowing what turn the blood duel had taken.

But Eris had not ascended. Which meant that Beron was still alive. And more than likely, that Helion was not.

Lucien chose not to dwell on the fact that he himself had not ascended. It wasn’t a burden he had ever particularly longed to shoulder. But the weight of what it could all might mean pressed upon him as war continued to unfold with brutal, sanguine hands before them.

Were their respective fathers still seething it out within the city’s bounds? No one could know. Something inevitably strange and haunting clouded the air surrounding the thought, evading him with a wry smile. He could have sworn only minutes ago that he had felt the unnamable might of ancient magic hush over him, measuring him as a choice.

Lucien swallowed and began to muster together a string of words to breach the subject with his brother, who seemed just as battered within as he himself did.

But it all was stifled as a piercing cry sliced through the smoke-choked skies overhead.

Pernatural stillness fell over the battlefield in its wake.

“Was that-” Nesta uttered, peering up through the dark.

The thought silenced as a raging firebird tore through a break in the black, plummeting towards the enemy line.

Illuminated from within, Vassa raged through the skies above.

Lucien’s wretched, wrecked heart staggered beat for the first time in what felt like decades.

Too many questions fractured his mind- how it was again possible- why- for how long- but they were all lost as she decimated those dark legions in a furious sea of hellish fire. The cull of her captivity fuming every spark of relentless flame.

She was here.

And she was fighting, of all things, to protect his home, his people. Vassa blazed directly overhead and Lucien craned his neck, tracing the flaming heart of that living forge in wordless wonder.

His heart steadied, beating in time with her winged wrath now.

He drew his longknife, pivoted his sword in his hand, and tore into the fray before him.

Again, a piercing cry ripped the skies ablaze, as if she knew, as if she were calling through it- you face no battles alone, should I have anything to do with it.

Ash cascaded from the heavens, soaking the battlefield in the warning of her fury like the first drops of rain in an autumnal storm.

Wild of wing, and wilder of heart, she burned through the night.

He had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.