#lest she set the house on fire

[singedbutter]

.

[heirofnight]

pendulum

an azriel x reader thought dump that may or may not become a series but is really just me needing to unload a bunch of thoughts and feelings that i have

ok enjoy <3

the late afternoon light cascaded through the chiffon curtains that billowed gently against the large windows.

your rooms at the house of wind had become a sanctuary - your safe place, secluded from the hustle and bustle of the main two floors below you.

you'd spent months curating your chambers, collecting pretty trinkets and beautiful art that were all now dutifully placed around the room. you'd made sure that each item had elicited emotions from deep within your chest each time your eyes happened to fall upon them - sadness, joy, longing, adoration - you'd been infatuated with simply allowing yourself to feel.

you'd acquired bookshelves lined with novels including the widest range of genres you could get your hands on. you loved to learn - aspired to fill your mind with as much knowledge as possible. your eyes snagged onto the spine of one of your favorite classics - a romance, of course. you were always drawn to romance. your heart was consistently perched right on your sleeve, dreaming of the day that a lover may pluck the beating organ right into their own hands - cradling it and worrying over it as if it were their own.

you sighed at the thought, gently sprawling your current read across your chest. layers of cloud-like bedding encompassed your frame - you were already curled into your mattress for the evening, body adorned in a silk pajama set comprised of a camisole and shorts. the smooth fabric boasted dainty embroidered roses - it was your favorite ensemble to wear to bed, airy and light.

you peered around your space, the fire lit in the hearth providing the coziest blanket of warmth. the bursting sunset allowed pools of golden, pink light to pool across your hardwood floor. you felt, just for a moment, like you were solely existing in a dream.

and, like in most of the dreams that nestled their way into your mind's eye while you were asleep, azriel's face made an appearance right at the forefront of your thoughts - uninvited, but never unwelcome.

your eyes fluttered shut as you allowed every part of you to succumb to every bit of him.

you adored being a romantic to your core, and often found a lovesick, drowsy feeling always trailing right behind any thought of the shadowsinger that resided right down the hall.

you'd pined for him, which came as no surprise to you at all. he was so kind, so gentle with you. and you longed to give every ounce of love that you'd been collecting, saving, nurturing, growing for the right moment - the right lover - over to him.

you knew he deserved it. and deep down, you knew he'd been longing to be loved just as much as you'd longed to love.

you curled your legs in tighter to yourself, opening your eyes to cast them to the tall ceiling above your head, but only momentarily.

you never allowed yourself to give into these lovelorn feelings for too long, lest you actually make yourself feel ill. your body would begin to itch with the urge to bound northward through the halls, until your bare feet found themselves right at the threshold of azriel's wooden door.

and then what?

then things - feelings - would become too real, and azriel struck you as the kind of male likely to bolt as opposed to stare down the barrel of that gun.

so, you clutched onto the book that was still spread across your chest, stretched your bare legs out before you, and continued to read. about love, and happy endings, and a male that loved the main character just as much as she loved him. if only.

azriel, on the other hand, decided that he loved you about fifteen minutes later. and by decided, it moreso felt like he had been hit in the chest by one of cassian's training shields at full-speed.

his shadows had been skittering about his large frame, following him up, up, up the stairs, and down the hallway towards his rooms.

he was lost in thought, momentarily attempting to work out the details of a mission he was set to embark on later in the week, and also contemplating if he should ask the house for a plate of chocolate cake to indulge in before sharpening truth teller.

he watched as a tendril of shadow darted ahead to unlock his door, and all it took was one absentminded craning of his neck to the left to stop him dead in his tracks, literally - his heavy boots almost making an audible screeching sound at the abruptness of it all.

the door to your rooms was ajar, just slightly. he wasn't even sure if you were aware of it.

but right in his line of sight, was you. laying atop soft bedding, bare legs in silk shorts, long hair undone and cascading around your shoulders like a halo. the evening glow through your windows mixed with the flames from the hearth and surrounded you in a haze that made you look like an angel - like you were a figment of his imagination that had conjured itself when he was in need of it the most.

you were so peaceful, reading a book with a dreamy-looking expression painted across your features. he couldn't have asked the most skilled artist in prythian to create a more beautiful piece of art.

now, of course azriel knew you. he'd conversed with you plenty of times. you were often around the rest of his family, present at most meals and gatherings. and he'd always thought you were beautiful - achingly so, at times.

however, he'd forced himself to place a mental barrier where you were concerned. you were too precious, too kind, too bright. so bright, in fact, that he'd always made sure to hide his shadows away from you.

but seeing you this way, right now - he felt those mental walls crumbling under the weight of your exquisite existence.

should he knock?

should he inquire about what you were reading?

should he honestly just skip all of that, and instead rip his heart from the confines of his chest and offer it over to you on the spot?

no, surely not. his shadows were lazily orbiting around him now, and his wings had relaxed to the point of lightly trailing along the stone floor. he was mesmerized, and you hadn't even noticed - hadn't even seen him.

which, he thought, was probably how it was always going to be.

his hand twitched, his fist clenched, and his shoulders drooped - all for only a moment. and then he continued forward, dejected and craving isolation.

back to the shadows, where he belonged. not worthy of your warm, bright light.

a/n: sad girl + sad hours = sad writing

lmk what u think PLS, this one feels a little pointless but i wanted to share it anyway <3

[startanewdream]

A small Harry and Minerva moment, set after the final battle, in honour of Minerva's birthday.

*****

"I am not coming back," Harry blurts out. Next to him, Minerva's only reaction is a flicker on her spell: for a moment, the broken chairs of the Transfiguration classroom get extra pairs of legs that make them look like spiders.

When the chairs go back to normal, she turns to Harry with an impassive look.

"I imagined so."

Harry blinks. "You did? You never mentioned anything."

Minerva shares his surprise. "It was not my place to say anything. You are of age now."

"So all this time I've been helping here at Hogwarts, you just knew and went along with it?"

"Would it please you if I say I do not agree with your decision?"

"Yes, actually."

There's a hint of a smile on Minerva's lips. "I think you should come back to school."

"Oh." Harry looks down at his feet before moving to fix the bricks on the wall. Despite what he just told her, it's undeniable that this was not what Harry wanted to hear. "You think I am not ready?"

He sounds young. It's difficult to match this adult Harry — nearly eighteen-year-old, tall like his father, and spotting too many scars for his age — with the eleven-year-old who was sorted into her House, but that's the memory that resurfaces: Harry is eleven and he was caught out of his bed at night, losing 50 points to Gryffindor. He'd looked upset at the idea of being a disappointment.

That's how he looks now.

"You are of age," she repeats, her voice more tender than she allows herself around him, lest she betrays her soft spot for him. Harry's eyes are hungry as he turns to face her. "You faced more than any exam could measure — you faced things that cannot be measured." She thinks about the unconfirmed tales of a sacrifice and master of death, and it's not easy to match this with a boy worried about homework and deadlines. "From an educational point of view, I believe your time at Hogwarts has concluded."

Harry watches her. "But?" He guesses.

She allows herself a little smile. "But education is not all Hogwarts has to offer." She remembers seeing that scrawny kid laughing as he first took flight on a school broomstick; three friends sitting outside on a winter afternoon, bundling up next to a warm blue fire and sharing tales; a boy and his girlfriend, walking hand-in-hand through the halls, oblivious to any gossip. "I would be glad if you returned only to enjoy your Seventh Year as a common student. No threat. No drama. Just school."

"Just school," he repeats, his gaze far away now as if he could see it. Then Harry blinks. "Hermione and Ginny are coming back. Ron is not, though."

Minerva nods. She won't say it, but sometimes she wonders if the fact that Ron Weasley isn't returning isn't what's weighing most on Harry. Inseparable like brothers. Like father, like son.

"Do you think my parents would be okay with it?"

This time, the question baffles her; she's glad she wasn't transforming anything because it might have been disastrous.

"I do not believe I am qualified to answer this, Harry," she says.

"Ah, it's just —" He holds the back of his head, ruffling his hair, unaware that this was what James did when he was embarrassed. "You are one of the last people that knew them."

And this, as far as Minerva is concerned, is a terrible thing. James and Lily would be only thirty-eight if they were alive. She has lived now nearly four times what they did; how is it that there are now so few people that knew them?

Harry looks young once again. She knows he's made up his mind — and like Lily, he's adamant once he's decided something —, so this need for validation isn't what she associates with the young man she saw standing up to Voldemort one month ago.

But for all his deeds, Harry is just a boy who grew up longing for his parents — parents who had loved him fiercely, she knows. She doubts Harry might ever do anything that James and Lily wouldn't support — God knows Minerva supports him, and she isn't even his relative — but she also thinks they would insist that Harry return to his final year.

Seventh Year. That had been the year when James and Lily were Head Boy and Head Girl, and the future had looked promising to both. That had been the year when they had started dating; when the darkness of the war hadn't yet tinted their lives. When they had been the happiest. How could they not want the same for Harry?

But that's not what she tells him. "Yes," she lies calmly. "James and Lily would approve it."

Harry breathes easily. "Thanks." He moves to fix another desk, not noticing how, a long time ago, someone carved JP+LE in the wood.

Harry's spellwork is good. He might enjoy some refinement, but she doubts he will be fixing desks in his future job, so instead of commenting on it, she just lets it slide.

"Of course," she notes with a hint of humour, "if you came back, it would not have been all fun. I would have high expectations for you."

"Quidditch?" Harry guesses. "I'd say that Gryffindor is safe in Ginny's hands."

"I enjoy the Quidditch trophy in my office," she agrees. "But alas I was thinking about another responsibility. A Head Boy badge would suit you." Harry's eyes widen; she is once more sorry for not insisting harder with Albus that Harry should have been made prefect. "As it did your parents."

Harry smiles. "I would enjoy that."

"There are tons of paperwork, I might warn you — though not unlike being an Auror." Harry chuckles. "But either way, Harry, your parents would have been proud."

As I am proud of you, she thinks.

[kckt88]

ñuhon naejot gūrogon.

Summary:

In the aftermath of Rooks Rest, a King's life hangs in the balance and Aemond reveals his true intentions.

Warnings - Angst, Drama, Langauage, Disagreements, Vulnerability, Confessions, Brother/Sister Incest, Kissing, Smut, Oral Sex (F Recieving), Loss of Virginity, P in V, Breeding Kink.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x O.C SISTER.

A.N - ñuhon naejot gūrogon - Mine to take.

Word Count: 4645

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9

Daena sat quietly at the bedside of her older brother Aegon. The room was dimly lit by the flickering flames of several candles, casting long shadows on the stone walls.

The scent of burning incense filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the faint, pungent odour of burnt flesh.

Aegon lay on the grand canopy bed, his body broken and battered from the battle of Rook’s Rest. His once-proud form was now a fragile shell, swathed in bandages and ointments.

Most of the skin on the left side of his body was severely burned, a patchwork of raw, angry red and blistering black. His breaths came shallow and ragged, each exhalation a reminder of his tenuous grip on life.

The maesters had worked tirelessly since his return, their faces etched with exhaustion and worry.

They had done all they could, setting his broken bones and applying salves to his burns, finally dosing him heavily with milk of the poppy to numb the pain.

Now, all they could do was wait and pray.

Daena reached out and gently took her brother’s hand in hers. His skin was clammy and cool to the touch, a stark contrast to the feverish heat radiating from his wounds. She squeezed his hand lightly, her heart aching with a mixture of love and sorrow.

Aegon was far from perfect; he had made many mistakes, and committed many sins, but he was still her brother, and she loved him.

Her violet eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she watched him, hoping he could sense her presence, feel her unwavering support. The once-vibrant King now lay vulnerable and fragile, and Daena’s heart ached for him.

“I’m here, Aegon. Please, hold on.”

The heavy wooden door creaked open, and Daena glanced up to see her other brother, Aemond, enter the room. His tall figure was framed by the dim light from the corridor, casting a long shadow into the room.

He walked silently to the foot of Aegon’s bed and placed his hands on the wooden frame, his one eye, sharp and calculating, observing the scene before him.

Daena remained seated, her hand still holding Aegon’s, her gaze never leaving their wounded brother. The tension in the room was palpable, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words and long-held grudges.

After a few minutes, Aemond finally broke the silence.

“Someone will have to rule in his stead,” he said, his voice low and measured.

Daena’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Let me guess, that will be you.”

Aemond’s expression remained impassive. “That will be for the council to decide on who will take on the duties of ruling the realm.”

Daena scoffed, her eyes flashing with defiance. “There is no one else but you. Even though Helaena is Queen, we cannot have a woman rule lest we be labelled as hypocrites, as we can’t forget the reason why Aegon was crowned instead of our older sister”

Aemond’s gaze remained steady, but there was a flicker of something—irritation, perhaps—behind his eye. Daena continued; her voice sharp with accusation.

"So, whose idea was it to parade the severed head of Meleys through the streets of King's Landing?"

"It was Ser Criston Cole’s idea," Aemond replied, a note of defensiveness in his tone.

"And you allowed it," Daena said, her eyes blazing with anger. "How could you let the symbol of our house be desecrated in such an appalling manner? Not even Maegor the Cruel would have resorted to such measures."

"It was to show strength" Aemond argued, his voice rising slightly.

Daena laughed bitterly. "-I very much doubt it. The only thing you’ve done is sow the seeds of rebellion amongst the smallfolk- that the power of the dragons isn't infinite"

Aemond's face grew taut, a mixture of frustration and anger. "It was necessary”

"For whom exactly-” Daena countered. "Rooks Rest cannot be counted as a victory. Sunfyre is gravely injured, and Aegon may never recover-how do you know that our sister will not have her dragons descend upon us”

“We have dragons too” replied Aemond.

“As I said, Sunfyre is injured-so he’s out, and I don’t exactly foresee Helaena riding into battle on the back of Dreamfyre-all we have is Vhagar and Silverwing”

“Tessarion?”

“A fledgling dragon with no battle experience and a rider who’s been sheltered at Oldtown for so long that he practically doesn’t exist”

“Daera-” sighed Aemond.

“It’s all worked out rather nicely for you, hasn’t it? Now that Aegon is incapable of ruling, you’re ever closer to getting what you want.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm. “What exactly are you implying?”

Daena finally looked up, meeting his gaze with a cold, hard stare. “You know exactly what I’m implying,” she said, her tone dripping with disdain.

She pressed a kiss to Aegon’s hand, her touch gentle and full of sorrow. Then she rose from her seat, her gown rustling softly in the silence.

As she moved to leave the room, Aemond followed her, his steps echoing hers. The door closed behind them with a heavy thud, leaving the room in silence once more, the only sound the faint, laboured breathing of the broken king.

Daena strode into her chambers, her heart pounding with a mixture of anger and sorrow. Aemond followed closely behind, shutting the door with a decisive click and turning the key to lock it.

The sound echoed ominously in the room, filled with the faint scent of lavender and the soft glow of moonlight streaming through the window.

Daena whirled around to face him, her eyes blazing with accusation. “Did you do it?” she demanded, her voice low and fierce. “Were you the one who attacked Aegon?”

Aemond’s face contorted with a mix of hurt and anger. “How could you ask me that?”

Daena’s gaze remained unyielding. “I’m not a fool, Aemond. I know you’ve always believed Aegon was unfit to rule. That he’s a wastrel who’s never taken any interest in his birthright. Meanwhile, you, ever the good soldier, has spent hours training with the sword, studying history and philosophy. Aegon has had everything handed to him while you, the second son, have received nothing.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his eye flashing with barely contained fury. “Do you have any idea how it feels to be teased for being different? To be a Targaryen without a dragon?”

Daena’s expression softened slightly but remained firm. “I was once without a dragon too and it was only because of Aegon that I managed to claim Silverwing. Do you not remember how furious Mother had been when she found out?”

Daena’s mind going back to that day, oh how wonderful it had been. Aegon had taken her flying on Sunfyre, and they had snuck onto Dragonstone, their older sister left unaware as the two of them entered the dragon mount.

Aegon had been so proud of her when she claimed Silverwing, their mother-not so much. She had slapped Aegon to within an inch of his life, shouting and screaming about how he had been so reckless.

Their father had been indifferent to the whole situation, his wheezing breath may have whispered proud sentiments, but his heart and his mind were never present, not for them anyway. That was exclusively reserved for his precious Rhaenyra.

Aemond’s lips twisted into a mocking smile, and he began to clap slowly, the sound filled with derision. “Well done, sister. You were one of the lucky few to escape Aegon’s teasing japes and drunken slobbering.”

Daena’s eyes narrowed, and she took a step closer to Aemond, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You think you’re so much better than him, don’t you? You think you deserve the throne more than he does. Tell me dear brother, why do you deserve it?”

Aemond’s face hardened, and for a moment, the room was filled with a tense silence, the air thick with the weight of their unspoken grievances.

Finally, he spoke, his voice cold and measured. “I am what this realm needs, Daena. A ruler who is strong, who is capable. Aegon has shown time and again that he is not fit for the crown.”

Daena shook her head, a sad smile playing on her lips. “And what makes you think you’re worthy? Because you can swing a sword, recite ancient texts and ride the largest dragon in the world? There’s more to ruling than that, Aemond. There’s compassion, wisdom, and the ability to see beyond one’s own ambition.”

As Aemond turned to leave the room, Daena’s voice cut through the silence, stopping him in his tracks.

“Do you ever feel guilty?”

Aemond froze, his hand still on the door handle. He turned slowly to face her, his expression guarded. “What?”

Daena took a deep breath, her voice trembling with emotion. “For killing Luke. For what happened to Jaehaerys. You were responsible for it. Your actions led to the death of an innocent child. How can you even dare to look Helaena in the face, knowing that it's your fault? That you’re the reason she lost her son, why Aegon lost his son?”

Aemond’s face contorted with rage as Daena’s words hit him like a blow. His fists clenched at his sides, and his eye burned with a fierce intensity.

“Do you know they came here for you that night?” Daena continued, her voice steady despite the tempest brewing in the room. “But they couldn’t find you, so they took Jaehaerys’ life instead.”

Aemond’s expression darkened further, his jaw tightening. “Where were you that night, Aemond?” Daena pressed, her eyes piercing his. “-What were you doing?”

Aemond remained silent, his face a mask of defiance.

Daena’s gaze softened, tinged with sadness. “I know exactly where you were” she admitted quietly.

Aemond’s eye widened in surprise and anger. “If you already knew, then why did you ask?”

“I wanted to see if you would lie,” Daena replied, her voice tinged with regret. “After all it’s not exactly something you’d want everyone to know about, given your open disdain for Aegon’s repeated visits to the whores on the Street of Silk.”

Aemond’s face flushed with fury and humiliation. “Let me guess, Aegon told you, and the two of you had a good laugh at my expense.”

“Aegon did tell me,” Daena said softly, shaking her head. “But I didn’t find it amusing. If anything, I found it quite sad. That you have to resort to such a place to find the comfort and love you’ve been denied-”

Aemond’s anger flared even hotter. “I am not weak!” he spat, his voice trembling with rage.

Daena took a step closer, her eyes filled with empathy. “Seeking comfort doesn’t make you weak, Aemond”.

“Y-You wouldn’t understand-”

Daena took a deep breath, her voice steady but filled with emotion. “Tell me the truth, Aemond. Did you deliberately harm Aegon at Rook’s Rest?”

Aemond’s expression hardened, his eye narrowing. “Aegon shouldn’t have been there in the first fucking place,” he replied, his voice cold and dismissive. “But he interfered and suffered the consequences.”

Daena shook her head in disbelief, her eyes filled with hurt and anger. “You’ve been plotting with Cole behind Aegon’s back and undermining his authority in the council meetings. The only reason you have a place on that council is because Aegon granted it to you, he thought he could trust you and this is how you repay him? By attacking him with Vhagar and grasping for his crown?”

Aemond’s face twisted with a mix of rage and frustration. “Aegon is weak. He’s never been fit to rule. I did what needed to be done.”

“What’s next, Aemond?” Daena demanded, her voice rising. “Are you going to take Helaena as well-”

Aemond's face twisted in rage, and he stepped forward, his voice rising. "No!” His hands clenched into fists, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. "She is not the sister I desire"

Daena's eyes widened, and she took a step back, her heart pounding. "W-What?"

Aemond’s face was a mask of conflicting emotions: anger, longing, and something darker. "You think I plot and scheme only for power? You think I care only for the crown? You're wrong. I want you, Daena. I've always wanted you. And I will take you, just as I have taken everything else that was denied to me."

Daena backed away from Aemond, as she watched him remove the belt that held his weapons in place, the loud clang of metal upon stone as it slid from his hands and hit the floor made her jump.

His fingers quickly occupying themselves with removing the bandolier strap before moving onto his green leather riding jacket.

"This isn’t you. The brother I knew would never hurt our family like this. Please, Aemond, let it go”

Aemond's expression was a tumult of emotions—anger, longing, and something darker. He moved closer to her, his presence overwhelming, and reached out to gently place his hand on the back of her neck. He pressed their foreheads together, his breath warm against her skin.

"Kostilus lēkia," Daena whispered, her voice trembling. (Please, brother)

Aemond smiled, a chilling blend of affection and possession in his gaze. "Ao issi ñuhon, se nyke jāhor emagon ao," he murmured. (You are mine, and I will have you).

Daena shook her head, her heart pounding as she tried to back away from Aemond. But he wouldn’t let her, his voice dropping to a whisper, his words caressing her ear.

"I may have one eye, but I'm not blind. I see the way you look at me. I know you desire me the same way I desire you." He leaned even closer, his breath warm against her skin.

"Aemond-"

"Tepagon isse dōna mandia, se nyke jāhor gūrogon ao hae issa ābrazȳrys, se mazverdagon ao issa dāria” (Give in, sweet sister, and I will take you as my wife, and make you my Queen).

Daena's heart ached with a confusing mix of emotions. "It's wrong, Aemond," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Aemond's smirk was both confident and predatory. "How can it be wrong when it feels so right?"

Daena's mind raced, searching for something to anchor herself. "What about your promise to marry Floris Baratheon?"

Aemond's smirk widened into a grin, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eye. "A boar is no match for a dragon."

Before she could respond, he pressed his lips to hers, the kiss searing and insistent.

Daena pulled away, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and desire. But the intensity of his kiss, the depth of his longing, was too much to resist.

With a soft moan, she gave in, winding her arms around his neck and kissing him back passionately.

Aemond’s hands slid down her back, pulling her closer, his kisses growing more fervent.

Aemond's kisses grew more insistent, his hands roaming over Daena's back as he slowly backed them towards the bed. Their lips never parted; each kiss more fervent than the last. Daena's breath hitched as she felt his long fingers deftly begin to untie the laces of her dress.

As the laces came undone, Aemond's hands brushed against her bare skin. Daena shivered at his touch, her heart racing with a mix of excitement and trepidation.

When the back of her legs touched the edge of the bed, Aemond paused for a moment, pulling back to look into her eyes.

"Are you sure?" he whispered, his voice rough with desire.

Daena’s answer was in her eyes, in the way she pulled him closer, her fingers threading through his hair. "Yes," she breathed.

Aemond smiled, a rare, genuine smile that softened his usual intensity. He leaned down, capturing her lips once more as he guided her onto the bed. His hands moved with purpose, sliding the dress from her shoulders and down her body, exposing her skin to the cool air and his burning touch.

Daena’s hands found their way to Aemond’s own clothing, eager to remove the barriers between them.

Once she had removed the out layers of his clothing, her fingers explored the hard planes of his chest and abdomen. Aemond groaned softly at her touch, his lips trailing down her neck as he pressed her back against the soft sheets.

Aemond positioned himself above her, his expression a mixture of vulnerability and determination.

Daena’s breath caught in her throat as she gently cupped his face with her hands. Her fingers brushed against the rough texture of his scar, a reminder of the pain and loss he had endured.

Slowly, she slipped off his eyepatch, revealing the sapphire he had placed where his eye once was.

With tenderness, Daena leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his scarred cheek. Her lips lingered there, as if trying to heal the wounds that had marred his flesh and his soul. She felt Aemond’s sharp intake of breath, a moment of pure vulnerability passing between them.

Her fingers moved to the tie that bound his long, silver hair. With a gentle tug, she undid it, and his hair cascaded down, framing his chiselled face. Daena smiled as she ran her fingers through the silken strands, marvelling at his beauty.

“So beautiful,” whispered Daera, her voice filled with affection.

Aemond’s gaze softened, the fierce intensity giving way to something more tender, more real. He lowered himself closer to her, their faces mere inches apart. His hand came up to rest against her cheek, his thumb brushing gently across her skin.

“Daena,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

"Aemond," she began softly, her voice trembling, "Will I be enough for you? I cannot love you if you seek out others."

Aemond's expression softened, and he stroked her cheek "My visits to Sylvi are over. I won't go back there anymore. I promise-"

Daena smiled and silenced him with a gentle kiss. Aemond responded with a fervour that matched her own, his hands tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss.

“My love-my sweetest-” whispered Aemond as he pulled away and descended down her body, kissing and nipping at her skin as he went.

“W-What are you doing?”

“I want to kiss you-here” replied Aemond as he pressed forward and ran his tongue over her warm wet folds.

She bit the back of her hand to keep herself from screaming as Aemond began using his long fingers to slowly tease her entrance.

“None of that. I want to hear how good I make you feel” growled Aemond as he began moving his tongue against her, in rhythm with his fingers.

“A-Aemond. Oh god. Please” moaned Daena, as she writhed against the sheets.

“That’s it-such a good girl for me” growled Aemond.

“OH-” whimpered Daena, as Aemond continued to move his tongue and fingers over her centre.

“I know your almost there. Let it happen. Come for me” whispered Aemond, his tongue moving across her pearl.

Daena arched her back and let out a scream as her pleasure erupted.

Aemond slowly crawled up her body, placing gentle kisses on her skin as he moved higher and higher.

Daena blushed furiously when she saw that Aemond’s chin was shining with her slick.

“Calm yourself issa zaldrīzes” muttered Aemond, as he swiped his fingers over his chin and then placed them in his mouth, sucking off her slick. (My dragon).

Goosebumps erupted over Daena’s skin as Aemond removed his hand from his mouth and then took hold of her breast, his fingers gently teasing her rosy bud.

“W-What are you doing?” asked Daena as Aemond’s hand slid down her body and began teasing her folds.

“I-I need to prepare you a little more” whispered Aemond.

“P-prepare me?” whispered Daena.

“You are a maiden-I don’t want to hurt you” replied Aemond.

“Aemond” exclaimed Daena as he slowly slipped a finger inside her, the slick from her first peak easing the way.

Aemond buried his face in Daena’s neck as he began peppering kisses along her smooth skin as he added another finger, moving them in and out slowly.

“So warm-so wet for me” rasped Aemond, his hot breath tickling her skin.

“I-I think I’m ready” whispered Daena.

Aemond removed his fingers and then moved between her open legs, supporting his weight on his left arm as he reached down and took his hard cock in his hand and placed the tip of it against her slick entrance.

“A-Are you sure?”

“Yes-” replied Daena as she felt him running his cock along her entrance.

“Y-You must tell me if it hurts” whispered Aemond.

Daena nodded and shut her eyes tight, taking a deep breath as Aemond sheathed himself within her.

“Your doing so well-” muttered Aemond trying to control himself.

“I-It h-hurts-“ whimpered Daena, the burning sensation bringing tears to her eyes.

“If it’s too much I can pull out-” offered Aemond.

“N-No just give me a moment” replied Daena softly as the tears ran down her cheeks.

Aemond leaned down and pressed gentle kisses to her cheeks, his tongue catching her fallen tears.

Aemond’s cock twitched and throbbed with need, and he released a shuddered breath while Daena sighed in relief. 

“Are you ok?” asked Aemond.

“I-I think you can move now” whispered Daena her hands running along the smooth plans of Aemond’s back.

Slowly Aemond withdrew and then moved forward, his cock reaching deep inside her.

“Are you ok?” repeated Aemond as he thrust inside her.

“Y-yes-I think you can move faster”.

Aemond rested his head in the crook of her neck as he thrusts faster, his moans muffled against her skin.

“Ooh Aemond-that feels good” whined Daena.

“Your perfect-” whispered Aemond.

Feeling a spark of pleasure Daena dug her fingers into Aemonds back, holding him close.

“P-please Aemond. F-faster. H-harder” exclaimed Daena.

“Daera-” moaned Aemond as he began to pound into her, his hips slapping against hers.

“-I-I f-feel-” whimpered Daena, an odd sensation creeping across her stomach.

“-Let it happen-my sweetest, peak for me” exclaimed Aemond.

“DON’T STOP-PLEASE”

“Fuck-that’s it-that’s it” muttered Aemond as he slipped his hand between their bodies and slowly began rubbing her pearl.

“AEMOND” screamed Daena as her peak exploded, making her entire body shake.

Aemond stopped, and rested for a moment as he allowed Daena’s peak to subside, his teeth grazing her shoulder.

“Did you enjoy that?” asked Aemond his voice quiet and raspy.

“Yes” replied Daena, fidgeting as she felt his hard length twitching inside her.

“Good-” said Aemond as he withdrew and quickly manoeuvred Daena onto all fours.

“What are you doing?”

“Now-I’m going to fuck you until you scream” said Aemond, delighting in the way Daena began nodding and whimpering as she pushed herself backwards against him.

“P-Please-Lēkia” whispered Daera (Brother).

“FUCK” groaned Aemond as he took his cock in hand and began rubbing it along Daena’s wet folds.

“Please. I want it-I want you, please don’t make me wait anymore” begged Daena.

“Fuck, that’s it” moaned Aemond his hard length filling her cunny in one smooth stroke.

“God. Yes. Aemond” sighed Daena.

He began to thrust in and out of her in deep achingly slow thrusts.

“Your cunt is dripping, it's so beautiful” sighed Aemond.

Slowly thrusting back and forth. Over and over, withdrawing further each time, until his cock entirely withdrew from her warm wet entrance.

Aemond marvelled at her body. Such a beautiful, succulent thing his sister was. Allowing him entry into the most sacred parts of her body.

He was her first and he would be her only. There would be no others.

Aemond began to fuck her in earnest, plunging his cock into her cunny over and over, thrilling to hear Daena’s moans of need echoing around the room.

Bracing her arms, she pushed against him so he could shove his cock in. Harder and faster, his fingers digging into her hips.

Aemond felt his stones draw in; his peak was fast approaching. Gods he wanted to keep going, the feeling of her tight wet heat wrapped around him was just otherworldly.

But he supposed he could always take her again; he knew it wouldn’t take long after he spilled his seed for him to be ready once more.

He planned to take her many times, he needed to ensure that his seed had a chance to take root.

He couldn’t wait to see her all round and swollen with his child, for everyone to know that it was his son that she carried inside of her.

Part of him and her together-nourished by her mother’s body, her milk swollen breasts-fuck he could feel it building, he was going to spill, he was going to fill her up.

But he didn’t want to, not like this, he wanted to see her face.

Aemond quickly withdrew, ignoring Daena’s whimper of protest as he rolled her onto her back and sheathed himself inside her again.

She wrapped her legs around Aemond’s waist, drawing him closer as he began to thrust inside her, his cock reaching deep inside.

“I-I’m going to give you my seed-see you all round and swollen with my child- moaned Aemond.

“Yes-yes. Aemond. I want it-” babbled Daena as his thrusts became more frantic.

“Fuck-” groaned Aemond as he felt the heat shooting across his abdomen.

“-Aemond” whimpered Daena.

“ñuhon, ry ñuhon” moaned Aemond pushed into the hilt for one last time, his cock throbbing as he spilled rope after rope of his seed (Mine, all mine).

“Ry aōhon” whispered Daena, as Aemond rested on top of her (All yours).

“A-Are you ok?”  Aemond as he gently pulled his softened cock from Daena, he looked down and saw the mixture of his seed and her maidens blood dripping onto the sheet.

Daena nodded slowly, as she allowed him to enfold her in his arms and hold her close.

As they lay together in the dim light of Daena's chambers, their bodies entwined and their hearts beating in sync, a sense of peace settled over them. Daena's head rested on Aemond's chest, her fingers lazily tracing patterns on his skin. The silence between them was comfortable, filled with the unspoken promises of their newfound bond.

After a while, Daena broke the silence, her voice a soft whisper. "What will we do now, Aemond?"

Aemond's arm tightened around her, his gaze thoughtful as he stared at the ceiling. "First, I will wait for the council to name me regent. Once I have their backing, I will declare my intentions to marry you"

Daena lifted her head to look at him, her eyes filled with a mix of hope and concern. "And what about the war?”

Aemond's expression hardened, a determined fire lighting up his eye. "I will make plans with Cole. We will see an end to this war and to Rhaenyra and her brood of bastards”

"What about Aegon? If he recovers, he will no doubt resume his place upon the Iron Throne."

Aemond's face darkened for a moment, but then a small, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips. "Yes—if," he replied, the word hanging heavily in the air.

Daena's heart clenched, and she bit her lip in an attempt to stifle a sob. The reality of what she done crashed over her like a wave.

She had given into Aemond, and by doing that, she had set herself against Aegon.

Aemond noticed her distress and gently cupped her face, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. "Don’t worry my love, all will be well in the end-you’ll see”

Daena smiled slightly, but deep down inside, a part of her realised that she had just made a terrible mistake.

The monster had been unleashed and she had no idea how to stop it.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

Alternate Series Finale - Protective Lillian AU

When Lex takes Lena, he's quick to lock the anti-magic device around her wrist. Lena immediately feels the effect-- a weight on her chest, her energy sapping away. But she pushes through it, refusing to let her brother see any weakness. Thus contained, he's confident enough to thrust her into the chamber where he's stowed Esme without further restraint.

"Lena!"

Esme flies into Lena's arms the moment she lays eyes on her aunt. Lena bundles her close, carrying her to sit on the bed as Esme sobs. She soothes her, closing her eyes against the drain of the device on her wrist.

"It's okay," she promises. "I won't let anything happen."

In that moment, Esme's relief is so great, and she feels so loved, that the love totem transfers to Lena. Neither of them notice the change, until Lex comes to check on it, and finds the totem is no longer on the back of Esme's neck. He quickly puts the pieces together.

"You will always fall into the light," he echoes, smirking at his sister.

When it comes time to make the trade for the allstone, Lex does bind Lena's hands, lest she try anything foolish. Regardless, Lena still hoists Esme into her arms, whispering for the girl to hold onto her, and not let go.

At the rendezvous point, Lena stands with Lex and Nyxly, watching the rest of the team gather at the far end of the bridge.

"Release them," Kara orders, her voice stern and fierce as Supergirl.

Lex smirks. "You can have the girl," he allows. "As a show of good faith."

He nods at Lena, who regards him for a long moment before deciding that chances were good he'll honor his word. After all, Esme is no longer of any value to him, now that the totem has chosen Lena.

Lena crouches, setting Esme on her feet. "Go on, sweetheart. Your moms will keep you safe."

"What about you?" Esme asks, her chin wobbling.

Lena gives a reassuring smile. "I'll be okay. I promise."

She presses a kiss to Esme's head, before giving her a gentle push towards the center of the bridge where Alex and Kelly wait. Esme walks hesitantly towards them, then sprints the rest of the way until she's swept up in Kelly's arms and shuffled to the back of the group, out of the line of fire.

"Now the allstone."

"Lena first," Kara demands.

"I don't think so." Lex lifts a small remote in his hand, and clicks a button. In an instant, electric fire arcs through Lena's body, making her scream as she falls to her knees. When it passes, Lena is left gasping, and nearly rolling her eyes.

Of course the device on her wrist would serve a dual purpose.

"The allstone," Lex repeats.

"Supergirl, don't--" Lena's plea comes too late.

Kara reluctantly opens her fist, and the moment it comes into view it flies through the air to settle into Nyxly's palm. She and Lex share a mutual grin of triumph. With a twist of Lex's watch, a portal opens behind them.

When Lex hauls Lena back to her feet, Kara cries out. "You have what you want! Let her go!"

"And let you have her?" Lex tsks. "You should know me better than that, Supergirl."

With that, Lex and Nyxly step back through the portal, dragging Lena with them. The last thing Kara sees before the portal winks out is the fear in Lena's eyes.

----

They shove Lena back in the same room as before, but this time, without Esme to put on a brave face for, Lena falls into the bed, exhausted. With her magic dampened, part of her life force is no longer accessible, and she declines quickly.

By the time Lillian comes to speak with her, she finds Lena feverish and pallid, her sallow skin slicked with clammy sweat. Her eyes barely flicker open when Lillian cups her cheek, smoothing the damp hair from her face.

Lillian is livid. She takes Lex to task when he comes in to visit, but he remains unfazed. "You should know better than anyone how dangerous magic can be," he says. "Isn't that why you hid all those talismans around the house?"

"She's your sister," Lillian reminds her son.

He shrugs. "And my murderer, remember."

When he leaves, Lillian remains. Because what Lex doesn't know is that his mother has pilfered Lena's signal watch. Gazing at her daughter for a long moment, she makes her decision.

She activates the signal.

[mysticwolfshadows]

Taken - Zutara - Part 1

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So, as far as I know, we don't know much (if anything) about Azulon's wife. And I have a soft spot for fics that set up her as the origin for much of Iroh's (eventual) kind nature. Knowing a bit about world building and government structure (thanks DND), Azulon being a very militaristic leader means that the Fire Nation, to survive, would need a second in command (Fire Lady) that kept things stable on the home front. I love fics that include this, too. And we do see hints of that in ATLA. The polluted river? What smart leader puts a factory shooting chemicals into a river right housing a floating town???

Anyway, the fic that I was working on had Azulon's wife (who I called Ilah) as a main character. Basically, Fire Lady Ilah has fallen ill, and out of desperation to keep the balance of their power, Azulon managing the war front while Ilah kept the mother land alive, Azulon searches for something that can be done to save her. The only thing that was suggested that could work was a water bending healer. Of course, the Fire Nation had no access to any water benders. They executed all of the prisoners after Hama's escape, and an assault on the North would take to long to be effective. Thankfully, word had just come that there was a new waterbender spotted in the South.

Some worry its the blood demon (Hama) returned to rally dark spirits. Others hope it is a potential healer for their ailing leader. Either way, an investigation must be made. They must find the waterbender in the South.

When the ships arrive, led by Iroh (maybe Lu Ten, or with Lu Ten aboard), the tribe is helpless. Hama is not there, and hasn't been in decades. No warrior, no matter how many there are, could stand to the well equiped soldiers of three high class cruisers. So when the leader steps out, wanting to see the waterbender, the village can only cower. Hakoda tightens his grip on a spear that will be useless against so many. It's when an officer mentions a rumor that waterbenders instinctively save themselves from drowning, and suggests holding each tribesman under water until the bender is found that Katara, only 8, screams out that its her, so the Fire Nation won't hurt her family.

She's taken, her family screaming, onto the ship. There, she's kept by Iroh and/or Lu Ten, who sits with her and gives her tea. Iroh or Lu Ten explain why they came, how his mother/grandmother is ailing, and needs a healer. He tells her that, while she may be young, she's their only hope of a healer. Katara has no choice but to promise to do her best, knowing her village would take the punishment for her failure.

They dress her in Fire Nation clothes, which she hates, and as they sail back to the Fire Nation, Iroh and/or Lu Ten do their best to trian her. They have her practice on soldiers that are injured either from training or work accidents. She becomes surprisingly competent in a short time, all because she had a master (even though a firebending one) to guide her.

When she finally reaches the Fire Nation, she's taken by how bright and colorful everything is. She's amazed by how load and plentiful the people are. And when she's taken into the Fire Palace, she's shocked by how big everything is.

When she's brought before Azulon, the Fire Lord rages. A peasant child? This is the hope of the Fire Nation?! Iroh asks his father to trust, and they take Katara to the Fire Lady.

And, by some mix of sheer force of will and some miracles, Katara succeeds.

Ilah is able to recover, at least partially, and Katara is placed as her 'ward', always at the Fire Lady's side, lest the sickness return. But Ilah is a gentle soul. She won't have a child acting as a nurse full time. Whenever there is a moment, she makes sure to be where Katara can be around others her age will be. In the Fire Palace, that is anywhere Zuko and Azula will be.

Katara spends a lot of those first weeks stiff and cautious, hesitant to go near the Fire Nation royals. But Azula constantly pokes at her with Mai and Ty Lee. She bites back, snaps when Azula sneers. It is only because Ilah is there that Azula doesn't try to burn her. Later, Zuko starts to come by. He's awkward and kind of rude, but it's not meant in a mean way. Ursa encourages Zuko to be kind, to make friends with her, so Zuko does his best.

After a couple months, Katara isn't skittish or cautious. She surrenders to the fact that she's never going home. Ilah doesn't need her as much, so she is mostly locked in her room, a small room attached to the Fire Lady's personal chambers. With little to do, Katara begins to despair. It's Zuko, still trying because his mother asked and he would never disappoint her, that becomes her ally.

He brings her snacks, books, even trying toys and things, to get her to brighten. Eventually, she opens up, relying on Zuko as her only friend. It brings out more of Azula's spite, and Zuko becomes worried about safety. He asks if Katara would maybe like to come with him to practice instead of sitting around in her little room, hoping to keep her closer in case Azula tried anything.

It's at these firebending practices that Katara starts to learn combat bending. She mimics and mines certain moves when she thinks no one is watching, slowly learning what does and doesn't move the water. She learned, if she loosened her stance, made her body just a bit more fluid as it moved instead of sharp like firebenders, she could waterbend. Slowly, she adapts, teaching herself to fight by changing firebending moves to fit her needs.

It's about a year after Katara arrives in the Fire Nation that it happens. The sickness returns with a vengeance, and Fire Lady Ilah needs full time care again. Katara, attached to this woman whose life she holds in her hands and has been at the side of for over a year, weeps when she realizes she's not enough to save her. At 9, Katara must tell Fire Lord Azulon that she is weak and can not do the one thing that they kept her around for. She cowered as the Fire Lord raged, knowing that it could be the last thing she ever sees.

"It is only by Fire Lady Ilah's will that you live," Azulon tells her after the funeral. "It is her memory that stays my hand. Do not sully it, lest I forget why you are here."

Katara is put into Ursa's care, and is placed in lessons. She attends private classes, learning Fire Nation history, math, and literature. Her life becomes so busy, she barely has time for anything but her studies. Zuko is her only reprieve, and they share their wants and desires. Zuko wants to become someone that his mother and father can be proud of. Katara just wants to go home. Zuko promises that, some day, some how, he'll make that happen for her. Katara thanks him, but she knows that it's impossible.

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[lucygxybaird]

a spooky season AU sequel to my shootout fic

The wind is whistling around the house, sneaking frigid fingers inside wherever it can find purchase — under the door, in between the boards of the walls, even boldly finding its way down the chimney. It’s been a surprise to him to watch the mornings thaw slowly into sunny afternoons, the sun gathering strength again, as if he can’t quite believe that so much time has passed. The seasons changing, especially from winter to spring, has always seemed gentle to him, a reminder that things will come good again. 

But now, it saws at him like a knife, the edges serrated and hungry, severing the time when his life mattered — the time when you were with him — from the rest of it, however many years he’s forced to eke out before he can be with you again. 

“Billy?”

It’s not the first time he’s heard your voice since you left him — it has infused his dreams since the moment he laid you to rest, weaving in the way smoke will cling to clothes, to skin and hair, to any and everything it touches — but it’s the first time he’s heard it like this. Which is to say, wide awake, staring at fingers of moonlight slide across the planks above his head. 

“Billy…”

It sounds so clear, so pleading, and God help him, it sounds so close. As if you’re just on the other side of the window, instead of resting beneath the tree in the yard, the willow whose branches cast their protective shadow over you. He hopes you like the place he’s chosen for you, the marker he carved himself. It has your name and the day you were born, but not the day you died, because he can’t bear to set that day down in his own hand — 

“Billy!”

His eyes have drifted shut without his own permission, but now they fly open as he sits upright, as if someone has pulled him up by the collar. Billy’s hand steals under his pillow, where he keeps his gun, but he doesn’t draw it out. 

He would know your voice just by the way it travels on the air, without even having to hear it, a silent song to which his own blood would cry in kind. What he doesn’t know is how he could be hearing you so clearly right now, when he’s all too aware that you’re just one more person who has been dealt the ultimate punishment just for trusting him. For loving him.

Tick, tick, tick—

The sound, like a rapid-fire series of pebbles hitting the window, draws his eyes over to it. He can’t make sense of what he’s seeing at first — not just because it’s impossible, but because he’s wanted it so much that his mind rears back from the sight, like a frightened horse bucking in panic. He cannot lose what he does not have, and so he is afraid to grasp this possibility at all.

He shakes his head, his eyes blank and staring as he fights the urge to blink.

When he was a little boy, he had a recurring nightmare, where he would cry out for his mother and she would come to him, sitting on the edge of his little cot. “Don’t blink, Billy,” she’d urge him, grasping earnestly at his hands. “Don’t blink.” And he would try so very, very hard, his eyes burning, but every time, he would fail. 

And every time, she would disappear, a wraith melting into the air. Billy would wake up crying, stuffing his fist into his mouth lest Kathleen hear, afraid that she truly would disappear if she actually came to him. The dream was so vivid that he’d never been entirely sure if he was awake or not, and so he would lay awake, staring at the ceiling until he saw the shadows flee to the corners as the sun began to rise.

His eyes are starting to burn now, tears gathering, as he stares at your face framed in the window. Surely, if he blinks, you’ll disappear like his mother did.

“Billy,” you say again, and you put your hand against the windowpane. 

Your voice is muffled, your face swimming behind the warped, frostbitten glass, but you're here.

You're here.

He’s out of bed in a moment, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste to cross the room. Wrenching the door open, ignoring the cold, he stumbles around the corner of the house, grabbing at your shoulders. He expects to grasp at nothing except wintry air, but he finds you, solid and real, if not chilled to his touch.

He doesn’t think anything of it, except to immediately draw you into his arms, trying to warm you up. The snows have melted by now, but spring is still weeks away, if not longer; cold lingers long, and it sticks, turning the skin to marble and soaking into the ground. You’re both in bare feet, but you aren’t shivering; instead, you’re still, staring at him as if you’re trying to drink in the sight of his flushed, shocked face.

“I don’t…” Billy croaks, burying his face in the crook of your neck. It’s as if he has to assure himself through every sense he has that you’re really here, even if it doesn’t make any sort of sense. He can feel you in his arms, he can smell you as he grips greedily at your waist, although — 

You don’t smell like you. 

He remembers your perfume of lavender mixed with orange water. He knows, because he bought it for you himself, and you wore it every day since then. Or you had.

But now you simply smell like…well, earth. Dark, rich, ancient, shot through with cold. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Oh, Billy, I’m so sorry. I…I want to tell you everything, but I’m…” 

He lifts his face to look up at you, and your face is white, your eyes rimmed with red and filmed with fear. “Baby, if this is real, if I ain’t dreamin’, you can tell me anything,” he says. “I just…I…god, honey, I missed you so much…”

His voice cracks, and you immediately take his face between your hands, as if you can hold him together. “I missed you, too,” you say. “You have no idea.” 

You hesitate, looking at the house. “What’s wrong?” Billy says, and you look back at him, taking a deep breath.

“I need you to invite me in.”

Billy’s startled into laughing, looking between you and the house as if he expects to find another structure standing there. “What are you talkin’ about? Baby, this is your home.”

“I know,” you say, smiling tentatively at him. “But things are different now. I’ll explain it all, I promise, but I just need you to invite me inside.”

“C-come in?” Billy says uncertainly, as if all the manners his mother instilled in him have simply flown out the window, and you smile. 

“That’s fine,” you say.

He smiles back at you, still utterly stunned, not fully able to believe that this is real and not some strange, beautiful dream. “I love you,” he says, as if testing the waters. Surely, this is where a dream would fall apart; you’ll disappear, too, or you’ll laugh at him, or you’ll fall to the ground, your wounds bleeding fresh. 

Instead, you reach out to cup his cheek in your icy palm. “Oh, Billy, I love you so much,” you say. “Please don’t forget that.”

His brow furrows. As if he could ever forget. 

Billy takes you by the hand, leading you inside, and he immediately pulls you into bed. In part, he just wants to get you warm, but he also doesn’t know what else to do. Even in the midst of his joy, he feels unmoored, uncertain. This bed, with you in it, has always been his safe haven. No matter the hellfire he walked through, no matter if he bent under a hail of bullets or over the grave of a friend, as long as he knew he had you, waiting in the warm oasis of blankets and your arms — he could withstand anything.

“Billy,” you whisper, nestling into his chest just as you always did. He closes his eyes, his arms looping tightly around you. It helps, laying here, like he thought it would. He can pretend, at least for a moment, that none of it happened — finding you too late, your body little more than a shell, broken, everything that made you you spilled out into the air. Gone. Burying you, wishing he could be with you. 

You’re here now; he doesn’t understand why, but as long as the two of you are laying here, entwined, peaceful, he can tell himself it doesn’t matter. None of it happened. It wasn’t real. This is real, this moment, right now. Before and beyond is meaningless. 

“Love,” he says softly, as if it’s your name. And it might as well be. 

You burrow into his arms, and despite pulling the blankets up around the two of you and holding you as tightly as he can, Billy can still feel how cold you are. You aren’t shivering, but it’s as winter itself has rooted in your skin. He rubs at your back, and he feels you press your face against his neck. You do shiver then, once, but then you’re still, pliant in his arms. 

“Billy, I…I have to tell you something,” you say, and you sit up, propping yourself up on your elbow to look into his face. “I just — I’m afraid. I don’t want you to hate me.”

“I could never,” he says, immediately, without a whisper of hesitation. 

Your mouth trembles. “Or you’ll be disgusted by me.”

“Never,” he says again. 

Another tremor of your lips. “Or you’ll be frightened of me.”

This time, he just mutely shakes his head. He can’t imagine being frightened of you, or disgusted, or anything except so in love with you that he wears it like a second skin, as vital and intrinsic to him as the skin he was born with, beautiful and fragile and apt to bleed him dry if it’s ever torn away from him again. 

“Just tell me,” he says. “Whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as losin’ you. It just can’t be.”

You rub at your eyes with both hands, and you speak with your eyes covered like that. “I can’t die, Billy,” you say. “Not really. I can be hurt, and badly, yes. That’s what you saw, that day.”

He grits his teeth. Your words aren’t sinking in yet, not fully. I can’t die. But he saw you. He’ll never forget that moment for the rest of his life. 

“I lost so much blood,” you whisper. “We can bleed, you know. It’s just…it takes so much more for us to really be injured. I was just a husk by the time you found me.”

That much doesn’t surprise him. He remembers how light you felt, how empty. He’d known then, at once. 

“It was good that you buried me where you did,” you say, and he feels a spark of happiness, absurdly pleased that you like where he lay you down. “I can’t be buried in sanctified ground. It was a lovely place to rest, Billy. I liked hearing the wind in the branches.”

He’s so glad that he’s done right by you that it takes him a moment to understand what you’re saying — sanctified ground — and then it all rushes over him at once. What you’ve been trying to tell him. He sits up, and you flinch. 

“Billy…”

“Wait,” he says, holding up a hand. “Wait. Just gimme a minute.”

You press your lips together. 

He tries to run his mind over what you’ve been saying, trying to connect the pieces in a way that fits, that makes sense. He looks at you, your beloved, perfect face, and he shakes his head. “You don’t gotta tell me any more, unless you want to,” he says. “I understand. I don’t need to know anything else. If this is is how you came back to me, that’s all I need.”

Your lower lip wobbles. “Billy…”

“I don’t care,” he says softly, gently. Trying to offer you a promise, hoping you’ll take it. “Baby, I love you, just as you are. As whatever you are. All I need to know is you love me, too.”

“Of course I do.” You smile at him, but then you shake your head. “But I need to tell you, at least once. I need to say it.” 

Billy feels a weight settling on his chest, but far from driving the breath from his lungs, it just makes him feel steady, like a ship dropping anchor. He nods. 

You fold your hands together in your lap, a posture of prayer or perhaps penitence. “I’m…” You worry your lower lip between your teeth, as if you’re chewing on the word before you say it. “I’m a vampire, Billy. I don’t drink from humans unless I’m suffering and need the extra sustenance.”

“Like now?” he asks, and you nod. He hesitates just for a moment. “Who?”

You smile thinly. “Let’s just say Jesse and his gang are going to need a few fresh graves of their own.” 

He feels a savage leap of pleasure in the pit of his stomach at the thought. He doesn’t ask — it feels oddly intimate — but he hopes you got the man who took you away from him. 

“It’s why I was gone for so long. I needed to get my strength back, so I had to go slowly at first. I wanted to come back to you at once, but I couldn’t risk being around you when I was so…” You pause, grimacing. “So weak. So hungry. You wouldn’t have recognized me. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.” 

“You’re here now,” he says, giving voice to the mantra that has been carved into the metronome of his heart since he first saw you in the window. Here now — here now — here now — everything else is just lilies in springtime, when all he really needs is the warming, fertile earth and the sun on his face. 

He smiles at you, and it seems like you take solace from it. You clear your throat and go on. “I was born in Beverly, in the Massachusetts colony, in 1674. I’m…” 

You pause again, although this time it just seems as though you’re calculating. He can tell already that you feel easier just having actually said it. 

“I’m 204…no, 207 years old,” you say, and he nods, as if this isn’t entirely mind-boggling information. You look at him for a moment, as if bracing yourself for an adverse reaction, but he just offers you a grin.

“Good thing I like older women,” he teases, and you laugh. 

“Since when?”

“Since now.”

You smile and shake your head fondly. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

He hesitates for a moment. “Would…would you ever…” 

It doesn’t surprise him that you guess what he’s about to say before he actually says it. You’ve always been good at that.

“If that’s what you want,” you say. “But I want you to really think on it, Billy, alright? I know tonight has been…”

“Tonight has been the greatest night of my life,” Billy interrupts firmly, and he watches you try — and fail — to fight a smile.

“I was going to say a lot,” you answer, and you both laugh. 

“That’s true, too.”

You frame his face between your hands, looking at him earnestly. “I mean it. Think on it. I want to be with you forever, but you’re asking to give up a lot. More than you know right now.”

“But not you,” he says. “I don’t have to give you up.”

You smile softly. “Not me.” 

That’s all he needs to know, but he promises you he’ll think on it, because he knows that’s what you need to hear. He isn’t sure you understand that he simply does not care what he would be giving up, not as long as he gets to keep you in the bargain. If you asked him about heaven, about God and his immortal soul, all he would say is that he would throw the keys to the pearly gates over his shoulder without looking back if it meant he could stay with you forever. 

You reach for him, and he moves into your arms, laying his head against your chest. You’ve never held him like this before, and now he understand why. Your chest is still, and there is no drumbeat beneath your skin, no pulse of life. But he knows your still heart belongs to him, just as his beating one belongs to you.

“Sleep, Billy,” you murmur, carding your fingers through his hair. “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He closes his eyes, softening in your embrace. Melting.

For the first time in months, he sleeps, deeply and sweetly, and without dreaming. All his dreams have come true, anyway. 

You’re here. 

[shinynewboots]

Sweet Nothings: An Alastor Story (18+)

Summary: Alastor loved his wife. His beautiful, angelic wife with the perfectly imperfect chip in her front tooth. His poor wife, who whispered sweet nothings into his ear as he killed a man.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT: Angst, assault, implied sexual assault, murder, blood, gore, mutilation, death, corpses, hallucinations, decomposition, Alastor before Hell

AN: Definitely one of the darkest things I've ever written. I hope you all enjoy it!

AO3

Alastor entered the house, discarding his shoes as he always did lest his wife playfully scold him about the dirt and mud he was liable to track into the foyer. She was right, of course, as Louisiana found itself stuck into the crevices and empty spaces of his shoes, skin, and soul. His mother used to scold him for the same thing (never his father however, and so she spent most of her days sweeping the house free of the bayou rather than face his wrath). 

He dutifully went to the kitchen and began to prepare them a pot of coffee to wind down and discuss their days over. The kitchen was tidy, as his wife preferred it that way. 

“What if we have guests, Alastor? I can’t have them thinkin’ we’re livin’ in a pig stye.” She replied whenever he felt she was working too hard on the housework and expressed as much to her. They never did have guests, but he appreciated the sentiment 

He grabbed the two mugs of coffee, his black and hers a creamy tan color (5 sugars and 2 dashes of cream). She preferred the sweeter things in life. He had no idea why she had chosen to marry him, as his soul was as bitter as the black liquid he held. 

“Here you are, darlin’,” He said, dropping the ‘g’ like a sticky southern night as he set the coffee beside her chair. She sat quietly, watching the fireplace. The radio that sat on the side table played gentle static. 

“How was your day, cher ?” He asked, dropping in the chair beside her and facing the fireplace. He looked over at her and took in the delicate softness of her face, the gentle lines that crinkled when she smiled at him. Her wispy blonde hair glowed against the fire and it took everything in him not to brush it behind her ear just as an excuse to touch her. 

She didn’t answer him. She rarely did when they were alone anymore. Not that this bothered Alastor, he could talk enough to appease the both of them. She preferred it that way anyway, listening to him talk. She was always more reserved, a bit of a wallflower. 

“Well, the show went well, darlin’, as always. Though I know you listened to it. I did play a new song by that Ellington fellow.” Alastor said, taking a sip of the bitter liquid. “ Mood Indigo. A tad somber, but I found I quite liked the mystery of it.”

She didn’t respond, but he could tell by her expression towards the fireplace that she agreed with his assessment. 

“I did also run into Mimzy, oh don’t give me that look,” He jested as he thought he saw her expression drop. “You know she adores you. She asked why she hadn’t seen us at the club in a while.”

Another sip. “Oh course, I gave her your condolences and alluded to your health. I hope you don’t mind darlin’.”

Of course, she didn’t mind. She would be up in arms if she had. 

Alastor smiled at her, a bright brilliant smile, more genuine than the one he wore around town. He reached across the table and grabbed her hand, his large hand completely covering her small, bony one. 

“I do so enjoy our evenings together, darlin’.”

His enchanting wife had been eager to accompany him on his unsavory nighttime activities. She always had an eye for finding his newest victim. Her preferred targets of choice were men who harassed women on the street. Men who got a little too handsy with a young lady who was too far deep into the giggle water. Men who found pleasure and little shame in antagonizing the women of New Orleans. 

Alastor found he agreed with his wife’s choices. Even if she hadn’t egged him on, he would have come to the same conclusion of victim himself. He could still remember the day he had saved her from being a victim of an unsavory character himself. 

He had heard her call out from a New Orleans sidestreet and by the grace of some divine being, he had managed to find her with a man’s hand around her throat and his hands under her dress so far that he could see her cotton slip. She had screamed and struggled against the assailant, her cherubic face contorted into terror. 

The noises, the high-pitched scream she made as the man attempted to violate her in the most unimaginable way would visit Alastor in his sleep. It was the worst noise he had ever heard in his life and they haunted him. The fact that he was almost too late to save his beautiful mourning dove haunted him (in an even worse way than the way his mother enduring his father’s abuse stuck with him deep in his bones).

She had been radio silent since the assault, except when she went with him on the prowl for their latest victim. Alastor relished these moments when his angel of a wife would whisper her sweet nothings in his ear, goading him into murdering these dregs of society. 

“Slit his throat, my love,” She whispered, her breath sweet like muscadine wine as she stared at Alastor with the reverence reserved for a saint. “I want to watch’m bleed.”

And what could Alastor do but oblige when his wife asked him so sweetly, her doe brown eyes afire with blood lust. 

“Please,” The pathetic man begged in front of him. Alastor stared down at him, his smile wide and maniacal. How he loved when they begged for their worthless lives. She never said as much, but he knew his wife loved it as well. “Please don’t kill me.”

The man in front of him had followed a girl, no older than 17, as she walked down the street in the moonlight, out of the safety of the street lights. The man had approached her, leering at her as he pulled the girl closer to him, his hand cupping her breast as she cried fat tears and let out panted breaths.

“A perfect victim,” His wife had said as she pointed out the man. And that was all it took. 

“You’ll have to beg better than that,” Alastor laughed, his knife teasing at the man’s throat. Alastor had already cut at the man’s thighs, striking him down to save the poor girl. Blood seeped through the man’s trousers, and he could swear he could smell piss as well. 

“Please, please sir, let me go,” The man cried. 

“Alastor, please,” His wife asked. And like a good husband, he did as he was told, and slid the knife across the man’s throat. Blood poured from the man’s neck as he let out a distraught scream and tried to fight against Alastor who moved to stand before him like the devil himself. 

The man struggled, crawling towards Alastor while he held at his slit throat. His efforts were in vain as she crumpled to the ground, his eyes turning glassy as he stared into the New Orleans night sky. 

“Stand back darlin’, wouldn’t want to dirty that pretty white dress,” Alastor said, moving towards the man to gather the body and take him to their dumping grounds. His wife smiled sweetly and moved so that the blood pooling in the alley wouldn’t dirty her. 

Alastor’s brown suit was utterly stained, but his wife had been good about teaching him how to get out the best of stains. She would accompany him on his kills but never clean his clothes of their evidence.

“Your mess,” She would say with a teasing shrug. 

Alastor gathered the body as his wife stood in the shadows and the two made their descent into the bayou to gut and dispose of their latest victim. 

Like the skilled precision of an untrained surgeon, Alastor would lay the victim in the mud of the bayou and begin extracting the organs. He had always been fascinated by anatomy as a child, and perhaps if his family had enough money he would have gone on and become a surgeon. But as it were, he was a radio host and so he would have to make do with the diagrams he learned from in the anatomy books. 

“And what’s that, my love,” His wife would ask, bending down while he worked. The victim’s abdomen had flayed open (with the use of a midline vertical incision from the xiphoid process to the pubic bone). Alastor had gone to work, taking stock of the organs at his disposal. He had learned that he typically had about 2 hours before the body began to stiffen, so he would make work as quickly as he could. 

“That, mon cher, is the liver,” He said, pulling the large organ from the abdominal cavity. “It’s the largest solid organ in the body.”

“Well now, you’re just showing off.” She said, laughing with her mouth open wide enough so that he could see the small chip in her front tooth that he loved so much. She had always been self-conscious of it, and would rarely smile with her teeth out as a result. But he loved that endearing imperfection that added character to her features.

Blood coated his arms, his legs, and his abdomen as he laughed along with his wife. Blood had spattered on his face, drying with the air and beginning to flake. 

He and his wife would continue their morbid trivia, her asking about a particular body part and he answering until the man had been completely gutted and buried beneath the bayou.  

The truth of the matter was that he did not save his wife that night.

No. 

He had found her body splayed out for all of New Orleans to see in an alley when she had been on her way home from the butcher while buying ingredients for dinner. 

Her doe brown eyes looked up at his with no thought, no emotion. Glassy and dead. Her throat held angry purple bruises as he realized she had been choked to death by an unknown bastard who deserved the eternity of hellfire. 

The beautiful white dress she had worn was filthy with blood and dirt. She would have hated being found in such a state. Embarrassed. Full of shame.

And the blood. The warm, copious amount of blood that had poured down her legs told him everything he needed to know about what had transpired. And so he had gathered his beautiful wife in his arms and cradled her close. 

His heart was broken when his mother died. His heart ceased beating as he held his precious wife. His large tears began to coat her face as he sobbed against her body. Blood coated her mouth, trailing down to her chin and dripping on the beautiful white dress. 

He leaned down and kissed her bloodied masterpiece of a mouth, and felt her taste upon his tongue for the last time. The iron and copper taste filled his senses as he tasted the last evidence he had of her being alive at one point in time. 

The last tears fell from his cheeks before he wiped his eyes and cleaned the blood from her mouth. He shrugged off his overcoat and used it to cover her body, gathering her in his arms to take her home. She would want to be at home.

With her covered and his arms, it was as though she were asleep. 

Of course she was asleep. 

He had carried her in such a way many times when she had fallen asleep in front of her beloved fireplace. This was no different. 

He had gotten her home with none the wiser and ran the tub. He knew she hated being dirty and so he would remedy the situation. 

“My day was rather subpar, darlin’. You know Night & Day by Fred Astaire has been one of the most requested songs even this year, and I must confess I tire of it, my darling.” He said as he scrubbed the blood and dirt from her body. Her head had fallen back against the head of the tub, as though she lay in relaxation while being pampered. 

He took great care to clean under her fingernails, scrubbing until the blood was gone. Bruises dotted the inside of her thigh in the shape of handprints. He chose not to see that. He cleaned the dried blood from her wispy blonde hair, already fretting about the styling that would need to be done once she was out of the tub. 

Perhaps she could fix it later. 

He continued to tell her about his day as she gently cleaned her. The water ran a rusty color and the dirt collected at the bottom. He would have to scrub that out once he was done. She despised a dirty tub. 

He pulled her from the tub and dried her off. Her body was already beginning to stiffen and so he had to work fast. He grabbed one of his favorite dresses of hers from the closet, a beautiful red number that paired beautifully with the rouge and red lipstick she wore. 

He set to work covering her body with her undergarments, the brassiere covering her perfect pale breasts, and the bloomers covering her unmentionables. He had even been proud of his attention to detail as he slid the stocking and garter up her legs. He threw the slip over her before finally finishing the outfit with the red dress and red heels to match. 

He tried his best to apply the rouge and lipstick as he had seen her do a thousand times. He was somewhat proud of himself, though he knew she could fix any imperfections.

He sat her in her chair in front of the fireplace in the family room. She loved to relax in front of the fire when he came home from work and ask him about his day. 

She would be happy there. Content. 

Alastor never did know who had broken and murdered his perfect wife. However, the week after finding his wife, he came across his first victim, a piece of shit man harassing a woman on the street. And his wife had appeared for the first time and begun to whisper her sweet nothings in his ear. 

“Maybe this was him, my love,” She said, her words tickling his soul. 

And he would kill every man in New Orleans if it meant he avenged his beautiful wife.  If it meant he could see her one more time. 

On the night Alastor died, he felt more at peace than he had felt in months. 

He stood in the dark of the bayou, shoveling to make a hole deep enough for his next victim. His beautiful wife stood to the side, watching him with a peaceful smile.  He had killed fourteen men since the death of his wife. 

The news outlets had started catching wind of the disappearances, especially when Alastor became particularly sloppy with one fellow and had buried him too shallow.

The Bayou Butcher, they called him. 

The notion caused his wife to tease him in his hallucinations, and laugh at the moniker. He could only grin at the sound of her laughter. Her voice had started to fade, become distorted like the lost signal on a radio broadcast.

His memory of her voice had begun to fade, and he found himself growing more brutal in his kills just to hear that twinkling sound once more. She always talked to him more the bloodier he got. But the sound of her voice still began to fade. 

He had been rather surprised when he was shot in the head. The gunshot rang out through the trees, quickly followed by the sound of hunting dogs. 

Alastor’s eyes widened as blood began to drip into his eyelashes, distorting his vision. But he could still see her. His beloved wife who had driven him to madness.

“Alastor,” She whispered, her voice fading and her small smile turning into a frown.

“My love,” He tried to say but the words wouldn’t come out. His vision grew black and he could no longer see the ghost of his beautiful wife.

“Goodbye, Alastor.” The wind whispered as he fell into the half-dug grave of his last victim. 

The Bayou Butcher had a total of fifteen victims, according to the newspaper. Once the police had found the identity of the despicable man, they raided the house and found the horrible sight of his last victim, his wife. 

The corpse sat in front of the fireplace, the decomposition of her body pooling around her as she rotted into the chair. Her body was dry, almost mummified as she was positioned in such a way that it looked as though she were simply staring towards the fireplace.

Her eye sockets, the eyes long gone, stared forward as though to gaze at the wedding photo of her and her husband, Alastor.  In the photo, Alastor stood brightly at the camera, his grin wider and more genuine than any could ever remember on the man. And to his right stood his beautiful wife whispering sweet nothings into his ear. 

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Whumptober snippet

we’re still several days off from Whumptober, but i thought i would post some snippets occasionally to tide y’all over. this is what y’all are in store for!

this is from day one!

—————

Perrine had a nightmare about freezing to death once.

It was the first winter with the Lark as a group, and she didn’t know if they, a bunch of very young children without adult supervision, could survive on their own.

In the nightmare, there was a blizzard raging outside, making it impossible to get more firewood. Of course, there was no need to get more, as they had stocked up generously the day before.

However, they went through the firewood surprisingly quickly, and soon, there were only a few logs left.

Panic began to set in.

Clémentine said they would brave the wind and snow outside and go get more firewood from the pile they kept in the small shed just off of the side of their cottage. While they were gone, Perrine, Cole, and Kingsley started to hack up any piece of wooden furniture they could- chairs, tables, shelves, even parts of their couch. They tossed it all into the fire, watching it burn, but they were still rapidly running out of fuel, and it was only getting colder. Worst of all, Clémentine had yet to return.

It had been thirty minutes.

Perrine told Cole and Kingsley that she would go find Clémentine, so she suited up in her thickest furs and stepped out into the white abyss waiting outside their door. With one hand on the house to keep it in sight, she began to slowly trudge around its perimeter. She was soon facing the direction of the shed, though she could not see it, even though it couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet away. It took all of her courage to pull her hand away from the house and fully embrace the whirlwind.

She found the shed with surprising ease. Or, more accurately, it found her, as she bumped right into it. Regardless, she had reached her destination with only minimal difficulty, and she peeked inside.

Clémentine was nowhere in sight.

She saw the collection of firewood, chopped by herself the day before, dusted in frost. And she saw the shuffled footsteps in the snow, a telltale sign of someone having been here. But she didn’t see Clémentine.

“Clém?” Perrine had called out, but her voice was quickly swallowed up by the storm. Even still, she tried again, “Clémentine?”

No response, aside from the howling of the wind.

Perrine was worried. Where was Clémentine? Were they okay? She was starting to panic, but she pulled on the reins of her composure and chomped down on the bit, choking back her rising anxiety. She needed to stay calm.

Maybe Clémentine had already gone back to the cabin. Maybe they just missed each other; it wouldn’t be surprising in how limited the visibility was.

Perrine collected as many logs as she could carry and started back toward the cottage. For a terrifying moment, she thought she had gone in the wrong direction, but then the wooden walls swam up through the pelting sheets of white. Home.

She shambled her away to the front door and heaved it open against the wind. Scrambling, she hurried inside.

It was dark. The air was cold and silent. Her own breath formed a cloud in front of her face, even though that shouldn’t have been possible. She was back inside, she was safe, they were safe.

And yet…she was cold.

The logs in her arms fell from her grasp, clattering to the floor. She began to look around, desperate. Her mind was foggy, and she didn’t know why. Anxiety, she thought. That was all.

It wasn’t difficult to locate her friends.

Cole and Kingsley were huddled together in front of the hearth, but it wasn’t their own desperate need for warmth that had them pressed so close, rather the frost that had accumulated over their bodies, freezing them together in their final moments and making it impossible for them to pull away, lest they tear the skin of the other with them. Their flesh was faded to a horrible blue color, rime clinging to their hair, and their faces… Oh, their faces…

Cole had their eyes screwed shut, tears still frozen on their cheeks as they had been sobbing until their last breath. Kingsley’s eyes, on the other hand, were impossibly wide, glued to the front door, like he was waiting for her to come back.

The fire was burned out into embers. Dead, just like Kingsley and Cole.

Perrine was in shock. How did this happen? Had she really been out in the storm for that long?

She tried to rouse them, but it was futile. They were long gone.

Strangely, she didn’t remember crying. She wasn’t sure why. But she did, vividly, remember the terror.

The cold was coming for her next.

Putting the corpses of her friends out of her mind, Perrine scrambled to start a new fire, but she couldn’t feel her hands. Her fingers fumbled clumsily, unable to grasp the match no matter how many times she tried.

Perrine slumped back, panting. She felt so tired…

She thought about Clémentine. They weren’t here, so they must have been outside somewhere still, most likely lost. She liked to think that they were rescued or found by someone, brought into a nice house and given some hot tea, but that was just wishful thinking. They were probably dead. Just like Kingsley and Cole. Just like she would be.

Perrine died, alone and afraid, and it was only after having to sit through and feel the slow torture of freezing that she finally woke up in a cold sweat.

Living life is a lot like playing dominos. Each new day is a new domino set up. And at any moment, any one of those dominos could fall, causing an unstoppable chain reaction until there were no more dominos to tip over. The end of the line. The end of a life.

For Perrine, her first domino fell exactly one year later.

[giverobinagfbrigade]

What if Steve took up pottery after everything.

He’s spent 4 years destroying things, tearing things apart with his hands and once it’s all over he wants to turn those same hands to something positive. To turn them to making something instead of pulling it apart. He cycles through hobbies, sketching making his hand cramp and the constant re-drawing tearing holes in the paper, the permanence of paint on canvas to terrifying and embroidery causing an ache in his eyes with it’s miniature stitches. All until he reaches pottery, it never make his hands cramp or his eyes ache and he could work the clay and re make the pots over and over, shaping and reshaping until it was just right.

So it sticks. At first he used the wheel in the studio at the school but with gentle encouragement from the party and Joyce he buys a second hand potters wheel and a small kiln from a house clearance. He sets them up in a corner of the garage furtherest from the house and late at night or rather, early in the morning he sits and works the cool clay over with his hands, the hands responsible for so much destruction, until it’s pliable. He takes it and forms it into whatever shape he can feel it trying to be. Over the weeks he creates many items, pots, jugs, mugs, cups, plates, bowls, dishes, stands and occasionally, when the spin of the wheel isn’t what he needs he sculpts tiny creatures and people with his fingers.

The first of these creations are plain and rough to the touch, unable to be washed as they were left unglazed. When Steve realised that you can’t use an unglazed mug for actual mug things, he purchased glazed, at first just clear and 5 colours, black, white, red, yellow and blue, but slowly he expands his collection, amassing all manner of different colours and finishes.

After the first couple of months practice, when the cups are even and the lids fit their pots, Steve begins to make things to give to the people he holds dear.

The first gift he makes is for Robin. It’s a little bird on a ships wheel, painted onto a mug, it’s slightly wonky and the paint is a little wobbly but it’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. She cries when it’s first handed to her and she treats it like the smallest breeze will break it. But she still drinks her coffee from it every morning and cleans it the moment she’s done, lest the drink stain the glaze.

The second is for Dustin. This is a little jar, with a tiny cats head sculpted onto the lid. Painted with little scribbles of equations and formula, planks constant painted slightly thicker than the rest. Dustin hugs Steve so hard it makes his bones creak when it’s handed to him and he holds it in his palms like it might disappear in smoke if he lets it go.

Third is for El, he throws her a plate and spends hours painstakingly glazing the sunset from hopper’s cabin onto it. It’s a little thicker than it probably should be but it might not shatter so sharply if it ever breaks that way. She hugs it to her chest like a teddy and kisses Steve’s cheek. She tells him she loves it, and he knows she isn’t lying.

Number four is given to Erica. Unlike the others this one wasn’t thrown it was sculpted by hand, smoothed and stretched until the clay formed a tiny horse. He paints it the colours of the rainbow and places the fires piece into a tiny box. Erica sniffles when she opens it but she still calls him dickweed when she thanks him. He knows she adores it when he sees her wearing it on a chain like a necklace three days later.

Five is for max. This one the result of hours of research. Steve first throws a mug, then with the help of Robin and 2 books on braille he adds tiny lumps of clay to write two phases on the mug accompanied by their English written counterparts. First is “Max’s mug touch at your own risk “ the second is “ handle “ followed by an arrow in the opposite direction of the handle. Even through her heavy glasses he can see her tear up, but before he can reach out to hug her she reads the handle sign and cracks up, laughing so hard the tears track down her face anyway when she realises the arrow is misleading. The thick black lines of the writing a stark enough contrast against the white mug that she can see there’s writing rather than just feel it.

It’s a little while between the faith and sixth pieces but it makes it even better when it’s finally handed over after the end of season game. The sixth piece is for Lucas. It’s a little person holding a ball aloft like the Statue of Liberty, standing atop a goblet style cup that Steve took an age to throw quite right. Lucas tackles him to the floor and says it’s the best trophy he’s ever won. He sheds a couple tears when he reads the inscription on the bottom plaque.

Number seven is gifted to will, technically it’s two pieces. Created after hearing him talk of the perils of painting and drinking after hellfire one night. Two cups, different in size and shape as well as design, both painted a beautiful gradient, one of purple to green and the other blue to gold, with the purple and green with “paint water”written in curling letters across it and the blue and gold with “drinking water” in the same letters. Will thanks him sincerely and hugs him for far longer than normal. A week later he hands Steve an envelope containing a painting of a knight that looks suspiciously like him wielding a familiar bat like club. Steve is the one crying this time.

The eighth piece is given to Johnathan. It’s another piece shaped without the help of the wheel. This time a pipe, glazed in shining oxides and bright colours, painted over in tiny white stars. Few words are exchanged when it’s handed to him but even when struck speechless Johnathan finds a way to communicate his gratitude, holding open his arms to Steve. When he gets his words back, Jon invites him to christen the pipe, Steve politely declines. He’s sure the pipe receives much use.

Nine is handed gingerly to Hopper, a near perfect plate with “best dad I’ve ever had” painted i swirling letters across it, coloured a beautiful red. Hop clears his throat, tells him it’s beautiful then hugs him with almost too much force, cracking a joint in Steve’s back which sends them both chuckling. It’s on display in the cabin the next morning.

The tenth is presented to Mike. A small box which seems to confuse the boy until he opens it to find a version of his character laying inside. He stares down at it for a few moments, mouth open like he’s not sure what to say. Then very tentatively he wraps his arms around Steve in the first hug he’s ever given him. He speaks, a little muffled my Steve’s shirt “ You really are amazing Steve. “ . Steve pats the kids hair and beams.

Piece eleven is given to Joyce. It’s the biggest piece he’s made yet. A large round thrown plant pot, made in lovely terracotta clay he found specifically for this. Made after Joyce confessed she’d been trying out gardening. She kisses him on both temples and both cheeks and tells him she wouldn’t mind a third son. Steve cries again this time.

The twelfth is given to Nancy. It’s another hand sculpted piece, this time a beautiful pen holder, painted a soft pink and decorated with gold filigree work. He wrapped it in pink tissue and places it gently in her hand, Nancy is so quiet Steve starts to panic but as he opens his mouth she drags him into a rib creaking hug. “Oh Steve it’s beautiful.” He just smiles and tells her this way she’ll always know where she put it when inspiration strikes. She squeezes him a little tighter.

The penultimate piece is given to Wayne Munson. With everything that’s happened, and the slowly growing relationship between Steve and his nephew, Wayne is almost his second adoptive father. Steve takes a little while deliberating on what to give Wayne, a mug for certain but he wasn’t sure what to decorate it with. But after being startled awake for the third night in a row the idea finally seemed to materialise. When Steve handed him the finished mug a week later he clapped him on the shoulder, placed the mug on the table and wrapped him in a hug. He called Steve son and this time they both shed some tears. The next time Steve entered the house the “ best uncle in law “ mug was proudly displayed with the rest

The final piece, well pieces, were given to Eddie. It was a slowly growing collection, crafted over the course of several months. The first of these was a simple cup, painted a marbled red and metallic black courtesy of Steve experimenting with oxides. The second a mug proudly displaying the words “fuck Mordor” in beautiful curling script across one side and a painted mountain the other, created just after he and Eddie began reading the series together, taking it in turns to read a character aloud. The third and final piece was far more sentimental a small replica of a human heart, created after much study of library references, painted to look like a sunrise. This he placed into a little box with a note reading “ to my sunshine, you’ll always carry my heart with you .“. Steve placed these three together in a bag, each wrapped in tissue. He took them with him on a quiet Tuesday night on a visit to Eddie. And with shaking hands he held the bag out towards him. Eddie took it, looking perplexed until he opened the first wrapper, revealing the mug. Eddie had watched all the others slowly be gifted pieces of Steve’s pottery, even his uncle, and wondered if and what he would receive. He held the mug reverently in cupped hands, “ Oh Stevie, it’s beautiful-“. Steve only smiled, biting his lip and gesturing back to the bag. Carefully Eddie removed the second gift, the cup. Holding it just as carefully as the first, stroking over the surface with his thumbs, before placing them both and the bag down onto the table and holding Steve’s face in his hands. “ There’s one more. “ Steve smiled at him “ I need to kiss you till you can’t see straight first.” Steve only laughed and leaned in, meeting Eddie halfway. It was a soft kiss, full of unspoken affection, and when the two separated he gestured back at the bag. Eddie smiled and shook his head before taking the last piece out of the bag. Slowly he began to unwrap the tissue, then he opened the box. He went dead still, exhaling a shaking breath “ Oh sunshine -“ he reached out to cup Steve’s cheek with one hand, cradling the tiny ceramic heart with the other, “ that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.” Steve beamed “ It’s a human heart baby, it’s not exactly cute.” Eddie shook his head “Oh it’s plenty cute, you made it it’s gotta be.” He paused “ I love it. Nearly, nearly as much as I love you. “. “Yeah?” Steve bit his lower lip, smiling. “ Oh definitely honey, I love you so much.” And if that same heart had a permanent home in a picture frame above eddies bed next to the note it came with, then no one mentioned it.

//AN : Okay if you made it this far holy shit thank you, I apologise for the gifts being cheesey as fuck or kinda shitty but I tried. This was born after watching the great pottery throw down with my parents.

[multimilfs]

Morticia Addams x Fem!Reader: Dark Hearts, Dark Desires

Summary: Morticia Addams + 35 -- "Stop laughing at me."

AO3

Prompts found here!

A/N: This is short and sweet. I wanted to imagine a little moment in the Addams household and this is what came to mind. I hope you enjoy!

Full Ficmas List

Tag List: @escapetodreamworld @multifandomfix @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @leftoverenvy

Warning(s): Poison mention

“Oh—oh my!” 

Flouncing into Wednesday’s room on your weekly weapons roundup, you haven’t been paying much attention. The door being open usually meant Wednesday was at school or off reading. 

So when you walk in and witness her in a bright pink dress, you’re stunned to say the least. Your grim little girl looks miserable and not in a fun way. 

“It’s delightful, isn’t it?” Wednesday asks, voice dripping with disdain. 

“Certainly, darling. Very bright.” 

“It’s hideous.” 

“Don’t be so hasty. Do you like it?” 

Wednesday hesitates. She turns slowly and stiffly in the mirror. Tugging her braids to the front, she turns again. You wait. 

With her getting older, you knew it’d be a matter of time before she began to experiment; you just hadn’t expected your first run-in with her experimentation to be related to clothing. She’s preferred black as long as you can remember. 

You despise the pink. It’s bright and cheery and the very opposite of what you’d expect of an Addams; but you want Wednesday to be secure and supported in whatever she chooses. So you wait patiently while she takes in her appearance. 

“I hate it.” She decides. 

A laugh leaves you. You’re relieved more than anything. 

“Stop laughing at me.”

“Oh, darling, I’m not laughing at you,” You assure, kissing her forehead, “I was laughing at myself. I was very concerned about how I’d wash something so pink when the rest of us wear black.” 

Wednesday hums, nodding, “Can I burn this?” 

“Only if you let your brother assist.” 

She pauses. Hands folded in front of her, she hums for a few, long moments, as if weighing the pros and cons. 

“Fine, but I get to start the fire.” She decides. 

“I’ll inform him of your terms. Any weapons you need returned?” 

You motion to the metal chest under your arm. Daggers and short swords glint in the dim firelight, some not at all, covered in rust and what looks like dried blood. 

Wednesday produces a few daggers; one from under her pillow, one from her desk, and one you somehow missed buried in the wall. She’s careful to hand them over hilt-first. 

“Thank you, darling. You remember our fire safety rules?” 

“Don’t set anyone on fire without their consent and no summoning the dark forces until I’m fifteen.” She recites. 

“Very good.” 

Wednesday runs off to find Pugsley and you continue your sweep of the house; you find more than half of the missing lot in Mamá’s room. Satisfied, you walk downstairs, peering into the kitchen and stopping short.

Morticia—goddess she is, bathed in shadows—stands at the counter, mixing something in a bowl furiously. You raise an eyebrow. 

“Something the matter, Tish?” You ask. 

“Not in the slightest.” 

“You’re mixing that like you’re trying to torture it. I’m not jealous, but is there a reason for that?” 

She sighs, “I didn’t pick enough nightshade berries to make the mixture black.” 

You smile fondly and round the counter to kiss her. Her lips taste faintly of Belladonna and you have to pull away, lest you find yourself distracted. Looking into the batter, you hum sympathetically; it’s a deep purple rather than a midnight black.

“Simple,” You say, “I’ll go pick more.”

“Are you sure, darling? Ever since we used the wrong potting soil, it’s been trying to eat us—even Mama. You must promise you won’t let it get you.” 

“Never without you, Tish. I’ll take Lurch. It likes him.” 

“He’s the only one it couldn’t hope to digest.” Morticia nods. 

“I feel like there’s a beautiful metaphor in there somewhere,” You say, admiring Morticia as she goes back to her work. 

“To be certain. We always want what we can’t have.” 

“Except us.” 

Her red lips part in a smile, “Except us, my dark heart.” 

[hismercytomyjustice]

I AM POSTING EARLY AGAIN BECAUSE I AM EVEN MORE SAD THAT THIS IS THE LAST CHAPTER. ｡°(°.◜ᯅ◝°)°｡

Happy Wednesday-eve-eve, my fellow Mind Flayers to-be!

Time for a sneak peek of the eighteenth and final chapter of my Bloodweave fic Ancient Books and Horror Stories!

Hope you enjoy!!! ദ്ദി ꒦ິ꒳꒦ິ )✧

—

He made another few of the pancakes before offering the pan and spatula to Astarion, who gingerly accepted them. This time Gale poured the batter in, forcing himself not to chuckle at Astarion’s rigid posture or how closely he watched it for any changes. He’d seen him more relaxed on a battlefield with impossible odds than he was right now.

“...is it ready to flip?” Astarion asked, holding the spatula defensively.

“Almost. Just wait until you see the bubbles.”

“How many bubbles? There’s one right now!”

“A little longer.”

Astarion worried his bottom lip. “...is it easy to flip? If it’s not cooked enough, won’t it just fall to pieces?”

“It’ll be fine,” Gale insisted, wrapping his arms around his middle from behind.

He absently rubbed soothing circles into the vampire’s side and some of the tension gradually eased from his lithe frame.

“Gale! There are more bubbles!”

“Almost there. You see how the sides are starting to firm up and the bubbles are popping? Now you can flip.”

Astarion took a steadying breath as he eased the spatula under the edge of the pancake with the same precision he dedicated to disarming a trap. He carefully turned it over, sighing in relief when it settled once more in the pan.

“Gale!”

“Hmm?” he prompted, resting his chin on Astarion’s shoulder.

“...how do we know when it’s done? There are no more bubbles.”

He hummed as he considered the question. He didn’t think Astarion would appreciate a ‘practice’ or ‘you’ll know’ answer. “A bit of trial and error? You can lift the edge of the pancake up to check underneath to see if it looks done. This side cooks much faster.”

Some of the tightness returned to Astarion’s shoulders.

“I won’t let you burn it. Or catch my mother’s house on fire,” he said, pressing a light kiss to the side of Astarion’s throat. “Why don’t you check it now?”

He slid the spatula under to study the opposite side. “What do you think?”

“I’d say it looks done! Now we just put it on the plate with the others.”

Astarion lifted the frying pan from the fire, lest he drop the pancake en route otherwise. He carefully extracted the pancake and set it down on top of the others.

“...gods that was stressful…”

Gale chuckled, stepping back. “Not many people can say they got it right the first time!”

Astarion shot him a sultry look. “Well I do have an excellent teacher.”

“And I, an excellent student! Thank goodness because I would hate to have to cull you!”

They met one another’s eyes, expressions growing serious, before simultaneously intoning, “What a perfect sacrifice you would make.” They barely made it through the words before they were both howling with laughter.

“Whatever is going on between the two of you, I’m glad you’re having fun,” Morena said with a shake of her head, shooing them away from the cooking fire so she could finish the last of the pancakes.

[residentficdm]

By Morning’s Light: Part 1

Charred wood crackles and bursts beneath his feet as David treads through the once-familiar Hollow. Beneath the thick shrouds of blackness lies a town he almost recognizes. The soft shape of the house he was born in peeks through the shadows—an invitation beckoning him. It’d be invisible if it weren’t burned into his brain.

He reaches a hand out into the darkness, finding grasp on the front door handle. Inside, lying face-down on the floor, is a woman. It’s almost too dark to see the brown curly hair he gave her, but despite the obscurity of the night, he knows who she is. He’d know her without touching his shaking hand to turn her over, know she’s dead without feeling her empty pulse.

He does it anyway.

Help them, Dae’valdin, is the last thing he hears in his mind before his vision goes white.

David shoots up from his bed, chest rising and falls rapidly, sweat on his chest glistening in the moonlight.

Third night in a row waking up this way. Third night in a row with the same dream.

Third night in a row having his mother’s dead body flash through his mind.

You cannot keep ignoring me, Dae’valdin, a voice sighs through his head, though no one is actually speaking.

David squeezes his eyes tightly. He’s felt inklings of this presence before, almost-thoughts lingering in his mind, but never with this much presence.

“It’s David,” he corrects the voice, dragging his palms down his sleep-numb face. A quick glance out the window tells him the sun is about to rise. No point in going back to sleep now. Might as well get an early start on the day’s chores before Snyder decides to chew him out. “And I can ignore you as long as I damn well please.”

You’d be wise not to speak to me like that, lest I revoke your gift.

“Fine by me,” he retorts, slipping into his work trousers. The so-called gift has caused him nothing but trouble.

Though, the voice is right. It’s more than simply unwise to mouth off to a goddess, it’s downright stupid. But David can’t find it in himself to swallow down the bitter ball of Why me? Selune has hundreds of devout servants across Faerun, maybe even thousands. Dutiful followers who can afford to sacrifice half their dinner plate into a fire as an offering to the moon goddess, clerics all but raised in the purest of monasteries.

And yet she has decided that David—a poor farmhand who can barely afford dinner most days—must be the one to shoulder this burden.

Trust in me. I have a plan for you, comes Selune’s voice through his mind, as if she can detect David’s thoughts.

“I would love for you to get out of my head.”

And I would love for you to show me a hair more reverence. And yet here we stand.

David’s plan of getting an early start on chores proves more difficult with a voice ringing in his head all morning.

Selune’s nagging accompanies him as he collects eggs from beneath sleeping chickens, mends some boards of fencing in the goat’s pens. By the time the sun’s properly risen, he’s collected six pints of goat’s milk and two dozen eggs.

He keeps two—for Sarah and himself—and stashes them in the kitchen while he goes out searching for kindling.

The stars are still out, perforating the navy early dawn sky like dollops of precious stone. Sinking down into the horizon, the moon is still visible. Selune’s domain.

Radiant, isn’t she?

David startles and drops the pile of wood he’s gather. “Holy fuck, I forgot you were there.”

Such divine language in the presence of a goddess.

“Apologies. It will likely happen again.”

I only jest. I have much more pressing matters than monitoring, much less caring, if my devouts swear.

David bristles at being called one of her devout. There are clerics, out in the city temples, who have dedicated decades of their lives to Selune’s cause. He doesn’t think he’s earned the right to be considered at the same level as them.

A full ten minutes pass by without the goddess intruding into David’s thoughts. In his reprieve, he sets the kindling he found ablaze and starts a breakfast for himself and his sister. Because he’s nothing if not a good brother.

“You didn’t wake me,” Sarah’s groggy voice calls behind him. The porridge he’s whipped up falls into the two serving bowls with a splat.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, taking the bowls to the table. It’s not a complete lie. “Thought I might as well put my insomnia to good use. Get an early start to chores.”

He digs a wooden spoon into his breakfast, careful to avoid Sarah’s studious gaze. A single strand of her unbrushed hair falls in front of her face, and she tucks it back behind her shoulder, but David still isn’t free from her scrutiny.

“No,” she finally decides. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

David releases a labored sigh from his lungs. If he brings up his dream—the Hollow, their mother—Sarah will never let it go. David isn’t sure he wants to deal with that just yet.

On the other hand, if he lies to her and she finds out—and David trusts she will, either through her uncanny ability to read him or some twin telepathy—she will be equally as insufferable.

PLAYING AS: David

[ann-writes-universes]

Memento Vivere (Azriel x Reader)

A/N: I wasn't going to give a part 2 to "Memento Mori" but here we are. Hope this mends the heart ache a tad <3

Warnings: Angst (ish)

W/C: 2.2k (short and sweet <33)

Pain had never been so palpable, so real. 

You had experienced grief, had felt those inky tendrils wrap around your heart and squeeze until you were sure you too would die. But never, never had you grieved for someone that was still attainable, still sitting here in front of you scooping peas and lamb onto their plate. Dinner was going as it always did. Wine was flowing and laughter was echoing amongst the walls of the river house dining room. Yet it was so different, so raw. Azriel sat across from you, silent and unnervingly still as he ate. 

From her spot near the end of the table, Mor watched, watched as you watched him and bit your tongue. She had heard the argument in the kitchen days before, they all had heard it. Yet no one commented, no one pried. What could they have even said? 

“(Y/N)?” She spoke, everyone quieting a bit when she addressed you. You hummed as you looked up, peering at her over the rim of your crystal glass. Smiling softly, she cut into her food and watched it as she continued speaking.

“Have you thought about my offer?”

Clearing your throat you glanced at Azriel who was now staring at you, and placed your glass down. 

“Uhm. Yes, I have actually. I’ll go.” You nodded with a smile, pushing the carrots around on your plate. Everyone else was smiling, nodding softly. Azriel just looked confused. 

“What offer?” He spoke around a bite, looking at his food once more. He was cutting the lamb with a stiffness that was foreign to him.

Everyone watched the two of you with bated breaths, poised to up and run if you erupted once more. 

“Mor asked me to travel with her to the Steeps to survey some camps. Make sure they are following the laws.” You replied, not once looking at him as you replenished your glass and quietly asked Elain to pass the potatoes. His silverware clattered to the table top and his hands were clasped in front of him, squeezing together so hard his knuckles were white. 

Rhysand let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair, effectively pushing away from the firing zone if you decided to throw something at his brother. 

“Absolutely fucking not.” Azriel grit out through clenched teeth. Raising a brow you looked up at him, twirling the dark liquid in your glass. 

“Excuse me?”

“I said absolutely not. You won't be going with her.” 

“Since when are you making decisions for me Azriel?” 

“Maybe we should step outside.”

“No.” You replied firmly, setting the glass down and staring straight at him. He held your gaze as you flattened your palms on the table and leaned towards him, highly aware of the eyes on you, “I’m going with her to the steeps, because it is my job. Lest you forget I have one.”

“(y/n)...” Elain called softly, reaching to gently grab one of your flattened hands. You shook it off, perhaps a bit too violently. The Archeron sucked in a breath and retreated into her seat, you made a mental note to apologize later.

“What was it you thought I did again?” You asked, getting some sick form of satisfaction from the way his eyes shuddered and he leaned backwards in his seat. Scoffing, you stood from your seat and began to clean up your plate. Without bothering to ask if he was through you snatched his plate and glass from in front of him stacking them with your own.

“Oh thats right!” You laughed, fighting off the angry tears that burned your eyes. They were all watching you, looking utterly defeated. “Play Housewife. That's what you said I do. Well let me just do my fucking job then.” You growled before exiting the dining room with a slamming door that had Feyre jumping in her seat. Azriel sighed and slumped in his chair, rubbing his temples to ward off some imaginary migraine. Cassian whistled slowly with his brows raised as he and Nesta stood and made their leave, Elain following shortly after. 

Mor watched him with narrowed eyes, absolutely itching to take her dinner knife and lodge it in his thigh if the pain would just open his eyes. Had he not heard the hurt and anger laced in your words? You had been practically pleading for him to listen to you, to fight back, to do something. 

“Youre a fucking asshole.” She whispered, meeting his gaze for a moment before stalking off to find you. He watched her go through the corner of his eye, and stiffened as Rhysand and Feyre leaned impossibly closer. 

“On with it then.” He spoke with a sigh. Rhysand’s lips thinned into a tight line and Feyre smiled sadly at her friend. The trio sat in silence for a moment before Rhysand spoke. 

“Have you spoken to her?”

“The other day, yes.”

“No Az…” Feyre butted in, her voice urging his eyes to meet her own. The look she was giving him reminded him much of a sorrowful mother, unsure of how to help her child. “Have you spoken to her.” She urged, folding her arms on the table. The spymaster made to retort when Rhysand cleared his throat and fixed him with a pointed look. 

“Speaking at her and speaking to her are two very different things brother,” Rhysand looked to Feyre then with a soft smile “Take it from me.” 

~

Mor had found you in your room, and had stayed with you until she was sure you wouldn't break into sobs or begin to break the nearest items you could set your hands on. When she had left you weren't sure those options were entirely out of the picture. 

How could he opt out of your life for months and then be upset that you were finally picking it up again? 

Going to the steeps with Mor was risky, yes, but enforcing laws set by Rhysand was your job. A job you hadn't done in full capacity since the end of the war. It had been too hard, too heartbreaking to go into those camps and see those girls be brutalized and maimed. Agreeing to go and seek out wrong doings was a step in the right direction. A step in living your life again instead of taking the backseat position you had reduced yourself to. 

After the argument you had in the kitchen with Azriel you had begun to lose hope that he would ever be present again, found it useless to keep mourning someone who had no interest in coming back despite how badly you craved him. 

You curled further into your sheets, let their silky coolness envelope you and wrap around you tightly. Perhaps if you crawled far enough beneath them they would swallow you whole and the issues of the months past would cease to exist. 

He had told you no.

Azriel had never been a fan of you dealing with the Illyrians. He had hated it before you were mated, before you loved. He knew you could handle yourself but hated the idea of you being caught off guard nonetheless. You wanted to cling to the anger he had shown tonight, the concern. But it had been so fleeting, so semipermanente that you shrugged it off and closed your eyes.

“You can't go.” Azriel spoke into the darkness of your bedroom, effectively having you sit up right with a gasp. He was leaned against the door, watching you through hooded lids. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his trousers and his wings were pulled tight. He looked nervous.

“I'm not doing this right now.” You muttered, rolling away from him to watch the stars outside of your window. You heard him move towards the bed, felt his side dip as he sat with his back to you, hunched over to rest his elbows on his knees. 

“Just talk to me. Please?” He whispered. 

“I have been trying to talk to you, Azriel. I'm beyond talking now.” You whispered, eyes racing between constellations beyond your room and the floor, unable to turn and look at him. He took in a shuddering breath and reached a hand backwards, resting it mere inches from your body. 

“I know.”

“Why did you leave?” You asked, letting the question slip through. Your breaths were coming in achingly fast and the cavity in your chest was twisting with anxiety thick as tar. His hand retreated and if at all possible he sank further into himself, his wings falling around him. Rolling over you tucked your own hands beneath your head and watched him. Studied him. 

Azriel swallowed thickly and turned his head to watch you over his shoulder, his eyes were roving over your own looking for something. 

“Because I was terrified.” He breathed, eyes open wide and glistening. You swallowed your words and sucked in a breath. Terrified? Had you not all been? The fear that permeated the river house for weeks after the war had been so fresh. You had all been terrified that it wasn't over, that Hybern was not truly dead but laying in wait for the world to settle. Yet-... yet none of you had left each other. 

He frowned knowingly. He had watched as your family stuck around for one another, laid awake with each other at night when the nightmares were brutal and the sobbing was too strong to handle alone. 

“We all were Az.” You sat up then, tucking your knees into your chest. Suddenly you reminded him of a wounded fawn, retreating into the corner of the bed and beholding him with such wide eyes that he felt nasty and horrifying. 

“I didn't want…” He trailed off, brows furrowing and mouth falling open as he searched for the right thing to say. “I didn't want you to see me terrified. I'm not supposed to be that for you.” 

He straightened and a muscle in his jaw ticked. You realized then that he was still terrified.

Slumping forward you gently grabbed the hand he had laid out once more, noted the shuddering of his arm as you touched him for the first time in months. His eyes fell to your intertwined hands, and stayed there, studying. 

He let it rope its way down the bond then, those inky tendrils of fear that had been wrapping around him for so long. It was hurt and despair so thick it nearly threatened to suffocate you. When you gasped in surprise the feelings faded completely, and his fingers tightened around your own. 

“That's why I closed it off. I couldn't-” He looked away from you, towards the wall but kept his grip on your hand firm “I couldn't control it. I didn't want you to feel that.” His voice was hardly a whisper in the dark of your shared room. Barely breaking over the sound of the wind beyond your window.  

“This isnt about me going to the Steppes is it?” You muttered then, refusing to break eye contact when his amber eyes found yours once more. Lips thinned into a tight line he shook his head ‘no’ and you only nodded. Using the grip you had on his hand you pulled him towards you. He relented but relaxed, allowing you to pull his body into your own. Legs still planted firmly on the ground you cradled his head against your chest, wrapped both arms around his shoulders and rested your chin in his inky black hair. He shuddered as your breath fanned his forehead and your fingers traced the patterns of his tattoos. 

“We were made for one another shadowsinger. And that doesn't just mean we were made for the good of one another-” You silenced the words he threatened to speak with a hand gently pressed to his lips. “We were made for it all. And I promised you that much ten years ago.” You let the bond crack open on your end, let the love and aching pain you had felt leak through and wash over him. Highly aware of the tears spilling down his cheeks you pressed a firm kiss to the crown of his head and hugged him close. He wrapped his arms around your own and sucked in a shuddering breath, letting his fear crash like a tidal wave into the bond once more. 

“I dont know how to come back from this.” He whispered into your arms, his words cracked with a sob. You stretched your legs and wrapped your body around him, curling your limbs until they were twisted safely around his large frame. He too pulled his aching body onto the bed and melted into you, allowing you to be his safety. 

“We’ll figure that part out together, Azriel.” You pressed into his hair and squeezed your arms impossibly tighter around him. “For now we rest.” 

And you reveled in the feeling of him relaxing against your body, in the thud of his boots hitting the floor as he kicked them off, and the slow thrum of his heart as he fell into sleep for the first time in months. Tucked into one another you laid awake, watching the moon pass over the Velaris and the stars twinkle brightly beyond your curtains. You pet his hair and whispered to his sleeping form for what felt like hours before you too fell into sleep. And for the first time in months you were blissfully unaware of the humming sidra outside. Replacing its harrowing melody was the steady beating of Azriel’s heart and the soft rise and fall of his chest pressed into your own.

TAGS:

@brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @younxii @momlo @morelovemorepeacemoretattoo-blog @highladyofillyria @crimsonandwhiteprincess @purplevitagen @isthataknuck

[telndas]

It is small, yet bare. After setting her staff against the wall as she entered, Suhani looks around herself at the place presented to her as Merrill's home. New home, that is. One only years old, she assumes. The roof, at least, is high. There is room to grow still, but the floorboards squeak in missteps, and the walls have nothing upon them. The fire is warm, giving it to the much needed room it sits in. There are things for Merrill, to live, to be herself without the need for another's gaze to turn judging. Suhani supposes it is enough. The lifestyle of the Dalish are often sparse anyway. Take only what you can carry. Take nothing in the event of running away lest it cost you your life. Yet just like the alienage that sits right outside the door, Suhani feels a creeping sensation of unwelcome.

Old thoughts. Thoughts of Denerim. Thoughts of what she could not control. What she could not help. Old thoughts that will turn to poison soon enough if she dwells further.

❛ I’ve learned to like it here. It’s quiet. I can be alone, ❜ Merrill says. / @saovaene !

At the very least, this one in Kirkwall has no walls and holds a tree of their own. Great and shade-giving. To remind them all of what they had before. What their ancestors were able to cultivate when they were not underneath the boot of another. When Merrill speaks, Suhani's thoughts cut off as her gaze is found upon the fire. She turns towards the other, an old friend. It has been years, and still there is much the same to be seen. Perhaps a little worn. A little tired. But it is Merrill, and Suhani is contented with that alone. She is glad to see another face that knew what life was like before the Blight, before the Grey Wardens.

❛ Is it preferable? ❜ Yet Suhani does ask because she knows that the Dalish thrive in communities. Alone, they are picked off and killed with more ease than if they were together. Yet she is no better. Merrill has a house, Suhani does not. ❛ To before, that is. ❜ She clarifies quietly, curiosity glinting in her eyes.

[ravendruid]

Food, Friendship and Comfort

This fic is part of the @critter-genfic-events Bingo to fulfill the Comfort and Cooking slots. [Check my bingo card and other works here.] Set post-Campaign 2 and Mighty Nein Reunited. Read on AO3

Beauregard Lionett’s days as a Cobalt Soul Expositor are either dreary and dull with endless paperwork or exhausting with back-and-forth trips to Rexxentrum to track the Cerberus Assembly. Today is one of the latter days where she trades a warm, sunny Zadash for a gloomy and cold Rexxentrum. 

Beauregard scheduled to meet her friend Caleb for breakfast this morning, so as soon as she steps out of the teleportation circle connecting the Rexxentrum and Zadash archives, she speeds past the guardians and archivists without a word and exits the dimly lit library onto the bustling street of the capital of the Dwendalian Empire. The feeling is immediate as the cold hits her uncovered skin and makes her curse between her teeth. Beau doesn’t have time to linger, so she follows the familiar cobblestone streets, ignoring the people rushing to and from work, the colorful buildings, and the heavy presence of crown guards in the more seedy areas.

The cottage that appears when Beauregard turns on another crossroad is a sight that makes the corners of her lips curl and her skin tingle in anticipation of warmth. She should have known better by now and brought a warm jacket along. The two small planter boxes out front are still full of tall, green plants, possibly kept alive in the cold by some arcane means from the owner of the cottage, and as Beau approaches, she notices that it either has recently been harvested or is yet to produce green beans. 

Beau knocks at the rustic door, and where the motion would usually be followed by the sound of a chair scraping the wooden floor, it is now followed by silence. Weird. Caleb knew she was coming. Even if he is still in his arcane tower, he would have certainly set up alarms that would have triggered by now. Beau knocks again, louder this time, but still, no answer comes from the other side. She tries to peek in the side window through the small gap in the curtain but can’t see anything out of the ordinary. The house is intact, with no signs of a struggle (or worse, an attack). Beauregard doesn’t want to expend the single use of her sending stone yet, lest it be needed later. However, the cold is bothering her right now, so she does what any good friend would do if they suspected their friend might be up to something or in a difficult situation: she picks Caleb’s lock. What are the chances that he has arcane wards against thieves? Highly, Beau tells herself as the lockpick clicks. Too late now. However, the door opens with a creak, but nothing explodes in her face. Beau sighs in relief as she steps into the musty interior and relocks the door behind her.

“Caleb?” She calls out to the empty house. It’s cold inside. The hearth is full of ash, and there is a layer of dust on every surface as if someone hasn’t cleaned in weeks. Beau inspects every room, each darker and emptier than the one before until she finally reaches the back room where she knows Caleb often tutors children who didn’t get accepted to the academy. This room, too, is empty and dark. Dust covers the desks and chairs, a few pieces of old parchment are spread out, and empty and dry bottles of ink sit forgotten. At first glance, this would be an average room. Messy, yes, but ordinary. But Beauregard knows better. She knows what to look for and finds it in a corner, slightly obscured by a tall bookshelf, a shimmering door that leads into Caleb’s tower. 

Beau is welcomed by a lit fireplace in the study, a spectral Bengal cat rubbing at her legs, and a mess of Caleb lying on the soft, plush couch by the fire, reading a book about Dunemancy. He is alive but looks almost as bad as he did when they first met. Caleb’s shiny red hair is full of knots, although still in a ponytail, his beard is shaggy and unkempt, his clothes are wrinkly, and there are a few coffee stains on his shirt. Caleb is indeed a mess, which can only mean one thing.

“How long?” Beauregard asks in a harsh tone that means she will take no bullshit. Caleb lifts an eye from his book, finally acknowledging his friend’s presence, but he doesn’t reply. “Caleb, how long has it been?” Beau presses on. She strides confidently to where the man lies on the couch and effortlessly removes the book from his hold, closing it with a thud. Caleb stares at her for a moment, then finally greets her with the hoarse voice of someone who hasn’t spoken in days, “Hello to you too, Beauregard.”

Beau does quick math in her head. It hasn’t been that long since they last saw each other, perhaps two months, not even that long. She remembers Caleb saying then that he was waiting for a visit from Essek, but those were usually short and never resulted in a depressive mood like this. Something must have happened during their Xorhasian friend’s stay, and if the empty look in Caleb’s eyes is any indication of it, then Beau is determined to help and comfort him in any way she can.

“Clean up before I message Jester to tell her you smell and look like a hobo again. Just when she was starting to let it go away…” Beau threatens, scrunching her nose at him. Caleb nods and rises from his nest of pillows and blankets with the groan of someone whose joints are stiff from being in the same position for a long time. Beau shakes her head in displeasure and stares at the back of the man’s head as he lifts through the arcane elevator and disappears above the central iris.

Caleb meets Beauregard an hour later, freshly clean and bear-trimmed, in the dining room, where they plan their day over eggs, pancakes, and pocket bacon. Caleb doesn’t mention Essek, and Beau doesn’t ask questions about the state she found her Empire friend, so the only names said aloud are those of the Cerberus Assembly, particularly Ludinus Da’leth, who is up to no good. Caleb shares with Beau the detailed information he gathered since their last time together, information that cannot fit the 25 words of the sending spell they use for their daily reports. Beau is glad he took the official position at the Soltryce Academy, not for his proximity to the Assembly members, but for how much happier Caleb has been since he was allowed to teach and shape young minds.

When they separate hours later at the gates that lead up to the school, Caleb’s shoulders are lighter, and his smile brighter. Beau knows whatever happened is still lurking in the shadows, but she won’t pull unless he wants to push. So, before she turns her back to him and returns to the archives to fill out report after report, Beau throws her friend an invitation, “Why don’t you stop by later to have dinner with Yasha and me? She would love to see you.” 

“I’ll think about it,” Caleb says, but from the look in his eyes, Beau knows he will knock at her door with a bottle of wine and apple tarts. So be it. She waves him goodbye and leaves.

—   

Caleb is happy to find that Zadash isn’t as cold tonight as Rexxentrum. The smaller city’s lights are already sparkling against the dusky sky, and the aromas of food and burning wood fill the residential area around him. He knows he could have teleported directly to Beauregard and Yasha’s house, but he would hate to intrude on them, so Caleb teleported into a narrow alleyway not far from the center of town and strolled to their friends’ abode. The house is just as he remembers it. Not large, but cozy. The garden that Caduceus has been teaching Yasha how to care for is dormant as the first signs of winter approach, but the ivy growing up the front of the house is still there, larger and taller than the last time Caleb saw it. He stops at the iron gate, peering through the open curtains to see Yasha stirring a pot on the stove. He knows she has been learning how to cook from a neighbor, not always successful, according to Beau’s reviews in the few words they share about their day. Meanwhile, the tall Aasimar’s wife is just finishing setting the table for three people. How Beau knew Caleb would show up, he doesn’t know. Maybe she hoped? Perhaps she just… knew. Either way, Caleb is here now, crossing the iron gate, walking down the pebbled path towards the ivy-framed door, and knocking twice.

Beauregard opens the door with a smirk. She is wearing different clothes than Caleb saw her wear in the morning—more casual, comfortable clothes—her hair is still up in her signature bun, and she is still wearing some of her golden jewelry. The woman in front of him is not an Expositor of the Cobalt Soul anymore, but his friend from adventures that have been almost forgotten in time.

“Hello, Beauregard,” Caleb greets her sheepishly. Beau’s smirk gives room to a bright grin as she greets him back and steps away to let him in the house.

It’s a cozy, lived-in house (although a bit too messy for Caleb’s tastes) that smells of stew and sweets, where a small fireplace crackles in front of a comfy couch and a shaggy rug. The walls are adorned with art, paintings done by their tiefling friend of the Mighty Nein and their allies. Caleb’s favorite piece is definitely the large painting above the mantelpiece of their group of misfits, one that includes Mollymauk at one end, Kingsley at the other, and Essek smiling next to Caleb. Caleb has the same painting in his office in his small cottage (Jester painted one for everyone so they wouldn’t forget about them. So they could look upon it and smile, remember the memories of what they have been through, and soothe the sorrow of missing their friends).

“I’m glad you could join us, Caleb,” Yasha greets him, bending to give the man a bear hug. Beauregard must have told her wife the situation she found him in that morning because he sees compassion and comfort in Yasha’s eyes. Caleb merely nods and drapes his coat over the back of the couch. He produces a bottle of wine and a plate of apple tarts—not homemade today, though—that he kept in his private pocket dimension and hands it to Beau, who tuts at the wine label reprovingly but promptly uncorks it nonetheless. 

Dinner doesn’t take long to be served, and it’s not half-bad (a vegetable stew with harvests from Beau and Yasha’s garden with a side of rustic bread also made by the latter). The conversation flows nicely between the three, sometimes pausing to sip on wine or to change the subject. Caleb listens attentively to Yasha’s tales about their neighbor, Martina, who has been teaching her new recipes to use their produce (she was, apparently, the one who taught Yasha the stew recipe they are eating). The conversation changes again to Beau and Caleb’s work tracking the Assembly, and the three discuss and share theories about Ludinus’s plans. Through it all, no one mentions the name of their drow friend, the war criminal who has been running from both the Empire and the Dynasty, which makes Caleb relax. 

Essek doesn’t get the opportunity to visit often, and when he does, it’s in disguise, so Caleb has learned to cherish those fleeting moments. However, things seemed to have calmed down for a while, and Essek’s stay was extended to over a fortnight before chatter began, and the man departed again under the light of the moon. He hasn’t heard from his Xorhasian friend in weeks, which is not uncommon, but this separation has taken a harder hit on him. Beau clearly saw it that morning. She guessed from the state she found Caleb’s house in but didn’t ask, and neither did Yasha. Caleb knows the women will wait until he’s ready to share, and he’s thankful for that. He makes sure to give them a smile to convey his gratitude, and, in response, he is offered a place to stay overnight so he doesn’t have to return to his empty house and empty cold bed. Here, surrounded by two of his dearest friends, chatting happily about vegetables, fertilizer, and power-hungry mages, Caleb is still far from healed but on the mend, and the dark loneliness in his starts to vanish.