#ruby red inky blue

[woahpip]

sleep until the sun goes down

happy secret santa @ruby-red-inky-blue! i tried writing lots of things with your prompt, but this one stuck. I hope you enjoy <3

*

Jyn hadn’t seen constellations until Lah’mu. Even though they lived on one of the highest levels of Coruscant, the skies were full of smog and cars and defense systems, all working together to blot out the shine of stars. Mum weaved the stories of them for her though, interspersing her own science lessons of what they’re made of between folklore. Storytelling gave Mum her shine back, and for a short while mother and daughter, with the help of the stars, carved out a few moments of true peace amongst their forced home with the Imperial military.

The stars on Lah’mu were not the stars of Mum’s stories, and there were few on the island who knew them well enough to share.

The island was freedom for Jyn, even though she was lonely. Mum and dad were constantly adding new wiring to their home. New alert systems for safety and for their farming, locked cabinets that opened via fingerprint with weapons for any occasion. When her parents weren’t working to keep them alive, they were plotting, heads always pushed together, voices brisk with quieted arguments. They drilled Jyn on several plans– one for another escape, for one or both of them being hurt. For someone coming to find them. Jyn played along and tried to understand why they needed to do this; the importance was there but she couldn’t quite get it. Things felt safe, so she was safe.

And since she was safe, she gave the stars their own names and stories. They didn’t have to run; they could fight. Little girls swung between their parents, eyeballs twinkling like flickering fire. People kissed, like mummy and daddy did on happy days where low clouds weaved over the island like a protective shroud. One day she would be kissed, she thought. She wondered if they would see her as stardust, like her parents.

(read the rest here on ao3)

[spacepandar]

Do you have other creative outlets/hobbies or does it all go into your visual art?

Yes! I’m not really any good at it, but I do enjoy photography, which I suppose is still a visual art… I do consider journaling a hobby even if I’m very inconsistent with my entries (I think the last entry I did was in November???) there’s also fashion. you probably won’t see me sharing photos, but i can try to pick up my daily “what i wore today” doodles again.

[andorerso]

"Sunbeam", "Waves" and/or "Wet Paint"?

sunbeam: don't know why my mind went to angst with a prompt that sounds so happy, but I think this would be a short canon-verse whump fic, where Jyn has been captured on a mission by some local gang who keeps her prisoner for a few weeks... underground in a dank cavern where no sunlight reaches in and the only source of light comes from the guards. sometimes. yeah, knowing Jyn's trauma with the darkness, I'm very mean for this. but of course, Cassian eventually finds and rescues her, and she's not injured but she's badly dehydrated and malnourished after weeks in there, so she almost thinks she's hallucinating the whole thing as he takes her hand and helps her stumble outside. it's only then, when those first rays of sunshine hit her face and she looks at Cassian, so bright with the sun behind him, that she realizes this is real and he found her. and she can finally feel safe.

waves: beach fic! I understand the headcanon that they'd be averse to beaches after Scarif, but I personally always liked the idea that they reclaim it. maybe they're undercover tourists on a mission but they already assessed the location and have a few hours before their meeting with the contact so they're just passing time... there's a beautiful ocean nearby and they decide to take a walk on the shore, and they're both a little apprehensive at first, both thinking about Scarif, but not saying anything. but they're pretending to be newlywed tourists on their honeymoon so they're acting carefree and happy and enamored, and eventually it gets easier. it's different than it was on Scarif, there are people around, kids screaming and splashing in the water, music streaming from somewhere, a dozen little stands along the shore selling food and drinks and souvenirs, and most importantly: no death star on the horizon. so they sit down in the sand and watch the waves crash against the shore and make new happier memories.

wet paint: a quick fluffy established relationship fic. modern au. Cassian recently lost his job, and finding a new one has been a pain in the ass (same buddy). but he's going a little stir crazy cooped up inside the house so he started the project of renovating their little home. after all, there's a lot of things they always wanted to do but never had the time yet. so Jyn says nothing when he plants tomatoes in the garden or repaints the walls in each room. she says nothing when he repaints the doors to match their new color scheme. she's glad he's occupying himself because she knows how much he hates sitting still. but then she comes home one day from work, excitedly rambling about something cool that happened earlier, getting herself a huge plate of whatever Cassian's cooked for them that evening. meanwhile he's been trying to interrupt her to say something too but she's so caught up in her story that she just barrels on without realizing and sits down, taking a bite of her food. and then looking around, she finally notices that something's different in the kitchen, but Cassian's now really quiet, watching her with a pained expression. "did you paint the chairs?" she asks, and he winces before answering, "yeah. paint's still wet."

[rapha-reads]

4,5,11,18 ❤️

Hi Carrie! So nice to see you :D

4. favourite dish specific for your country?

My favourite Moroccan dish, and favourite dish in general, is called marshoush in Moroccan Arabic, but it's commonly known as rfissa. It's made of chicken and meloui, Moroccan crepes, with fenugreek seeds and spices. A delice.

5. favourite song in your native language?

One of the most famous Amazigh (Berber) artist is the legendary Idir, and I would recommend all of his songs. But I'm also very fond of a Moroccan band called Saghru Band, from a little village in the Middle Atlas. The leader of the group, who died, is rumoured to have been assassinated because his songs and speeches were too political. I recommend:

Yell-is N Medden, a beautiful, beautiful love song

Tabrat i Obama, "a letter to Obama", a very politically charged song

Riru, Roru, Reru, a traditional lullaby.

11. favourite native writer/poet?

My father, if he ever decides to clean up his 25 year old manuscript and send it to a publisher. I've read it, I've read the beginning of the sequel that he started during the lockdown, it's a beautiful, very poetic narration on his (our) village, his memories growing up, the disappearance of an entire way of living. I really hope he gets to publish it one day. But in the meantime...

Baba doesn't really like Tahar Ben-Jelloun, so I won't say that (but he's got some good books). The two big names of Moroccan literature, and the ones I've read the most, are Driss Chraïbi and Mohamed Choukri. They're excellent writers, I definitely recommend looking them up and seeing if they've been translated into your language.

18. do you speak with a dialect of your native language?

Excellent question, yes, I do! So, my native language is not Arabic (that's my third language), but tamazight, commonly known as Berber, tho berber is actually a slur coming from "barbarians". Tamazight exists in a variety of dialects all across North Africa. The most well known is Kabyle, which is located in Algeria. My dialect, in the Middle Atlas in Morocco, is tachelhit, or Chleuh, or chilha (if you look it up, the maps will tell you that it's spoken only in the south of Morocco, but the maps are wrong). If you're fluent in one dialect of Tamazight, you can generally understand all the other dialects, what changes are pronunciations and some words, like any other dialect. I am sadly not fluent (biggest shame of my life, that), so I can barely understand my own dialect (my family would scoff and say that I can talk and understand perfectly fine).

Thank you so much for the questions, they were really good!

Send me a not-from-the-US ask, and maybe I'll talk about France, maybe about Morocco

[chilledcrookedmuse]

these tags say it all: #godd i love this beat so much#(and i'm still peeved that andor didn't pick up this thread#this is a man who hates his orders and hates himself because HE WILL FOLLOW THEM ANYWAY#this is not a person used to putting his own interests first#this is not a person who had to be tricked and bribed into the fight late in life#this is a burned out soldier who hasn't known anything but shutting off and soldiering on for a LONG time)#anyway#all hail diego luna's acting choices#cassian andor#rogue one#diego luna#i love this film so much

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 5: Turn Off The Lights And Turn Off The Shyness]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, Otto being the worst (per usual), violence, serious injury, cryptic Helaena prophecies, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), dragons, demented flirting, a late-night surprise, Larys Strong returns. 😞

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Of All The Gin Joints In All The World” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.3k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

The sun would burn him, but moonlight is kind. You’re on the balcony of Aegon’s bedchamber, two chairs, two cups of wine, another full pitcher on the table between you, a glass bottle of warm rose oil like amber, like gold, freckled with curled ruby petals. You’re dressed in your usual attire, simple designs and neutral colors, greys and creams and dusky pinks; tonight your gown is a flat, inky blue that matches the night sky. Aegon is wearing his unpretentious cotton trousers—stained with splotches of pomegranate juice, his recompense before you allowed him the wine—and a tiny braid in his shaggy, silver hair.

“I look like your house’s sigil,” Aegon says as he massages rose oil onto his forearms, his palms moving in large sloppy circles over a patchwork of scar tissue; you would do a better job, but he says he wants to learn how to care for his wounds on his own. His dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—gleams in the cool, ghostly moonshine. His words are teasing, but his tone is dark, troubled, weary. “Some red, some white. All ugly.”

You smile. You aren’t agreeing, just playing along. “Our motto is better than our flag.”

“I might have been inebriated during that lesson.”

“Perpetual Resurrection.”

Aegon looks at you, confounded. “Quite the mouthful.”

“Crabs molt throughout their lifetime. They crack their own skins open and climb out. If they get stuck, they die. If they get attacked before their new shell hardens, they die. But if they live…they’re a brand new version of themselves. Larger, wiser, more powerful.”

“Spiders,” Aegon says. “You’re trying to placate me with some rousing metaphor about what are essentially aquatic spiders.”

“They’re tasty too,” you say, grinning. “Especially when their shells are still soft. The cooks would serve them fried and us kids would sit around the table ripping the legs free and throwing them at each other.”

“What, you can eat the crab whole?!”

“Yes. Once the faces are cut off and the organs scooped out.”

He pretends to be repulsed by you. “Harrowing. Revolting. This is why Targaryens have always refused to breed with your kind.”

It’s funny, but it isn’t, because it’s a little too close to what you’re both thinking. Under the moonlight, you watch Aegon with the words caged behind your teeth: What do you want most? Who are you in your bones? Where would we be if the world wasn’t crashing down around us?

He slathers rose oil on his scarred right cheek—carelessly, distractedly—and accidentally pokes himself in the eye. “Ow.”

You ask: “Why do you want to do that yourself now?”

“To prove I can. To feel ever so slightly less like an invalid.” He takes a swig of his wine and gazes out over the nightscape ocean, stars in the sky, stars reflected on waves. “I am a study in irony. I spent my whole life waiting for it to be over. I poisoned myself, wasted years, resisted any semblance of usefulness. And now I finally have things I want to accomplish, I finally have reasons to live…and I’m trapped in the flesh of some pathetic, deformed, calamitously weak stranger.” He shakes his head, despondent, still not looking at you. “I can have a body that works. I can have a soul. But I can’t have both at the same time. It’s so fucking unfair.”

“I like you exactly as you are. Body and soul.”

“Everything I own, everything I’m given…” He stares down at his palms, open and empty. “It is destroyed, gets killed, goes mad. I ruin causes. I ruin people. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“I think I’m going to be ruined either way. I’d rather you be the one responsible.”

“Angel,” he says, low and serious. And now his gaze comes back to meet yours. “Who are you supposed to marry?”

You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want it to be true. Your voice is a whisper, almost lost in the night wind. “Cregan Stark.”

His eyes shoot wide, not just startled but terrified. “Stark?!”

You nod miserably. “My father took me and my sisters to Winterfell as part of a trade mission. Cregan decided he wanted me. I never encouraged it, I never desired it, I swear I didn’t—”

“No, I believe you,” Aegon says. He swallows a gulp of wine noisily, his hand shaking. “You were right. I can’t touch him. I can’t stop it. Not unless I win.”

“You don’t want the Iron Throne,” you tell Aegon, already knowing it’s true.

He snorts, a harsh derisive sound. “Who would?”

“Lots of people, I think. But not you or Rhaenyra.”

This intrigues him. “She doesn’t want it either?”

“Not from what I’ve seen and heard. Or, at least, she didn’t until Luke was killed. It changed her. I’m still not convinced she wants to be the queen, but she wants vengeance. And absolute power is a sure path to it.” And so the suffering continues, it goes around and around like a wheel, it is a debt that is never satisfied but only spread like plague.

“I don’t understand why Aemond did that,” Aegon says. His words are hushed, like he’s never spoken them to anyone but you and never will. “When he returned from Storm’s End, I held a feast for him. I had to, someone had to, someone had to pretend it was a victory instead of a murder. But it didn’t make any sense. Arrax was an inconvenience, not a threat. Luke was far more valuable as a hostage than a corpse. Aemond has always been the disciplined brother, the strategic one. I won’t claim to be clever. But I can’t find any strategy in what happened there.”

“Aemond has a temper. He is haunted, I believe. He is not above reckless fury.”

“No, evidently not.” Aegon sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair; again, his dragon ring glints under the moonlight, silver reflected off gold. “I’ll try to win,” he says. “For my family. For you.” Then he smirks, a grim attempt at humor. “Though I pity Cregan Stark for the paradise I will deprive him of.”

You do not return Aegon’s smile. “Don’t have too much pity for him. I have no expertise and I’m scared to death of it. I’d probably end up hiding under his bed, gripping the legs for dear life. He’d have to drag me out and tie me down.”

Aegon is alarmed; his storm-blue eyes are now focused, seeking. He is aware that he has wandered into a quagmire. He treads carefully. “When you say no expertise, you mean…none at all?”

“None.”

“But what about all of those anatomically-correct cock illustrations in your medical books?”

Another joke you can’t bring yourself to laugh at. You drink your wine to stop your lips from quivering, smooth the silk of your gown with a trembling hand. You see it no matter where you look: the pool of red on Theodora’s bedsheets, the dawning and inescapable realization on her face. This is her life now. This will always be her life.

Aegon says gently: “You have no expectation of pleasure.”

“It seems…inherently violent. For the woman. Even if it isn’t meant to be. Being overpowered, being invaded. The man decides when and how it happens. The woman endures.”

Aegon stares at you—biting his full lower lip, deeply somber—but doesn’t speak. He gives you the impression of someone with so many thoughts swimming around in his skull he is struggling to choose just one.

You smile dimly. “I’m sorry. I’ve made you sad.”

“I’m, um…” Aegon pauses to collect himself; he drains his wine cup and sets it back on the table. He is uncharacteristically cautious, like he thinks one unwise word will break the spell of whatever exists between you, this temptation, this need. “I’m saddened by the fact that you think of it that way. Because it doesn’t have to be…distasteful. Frightening. Coerced. It shouldn’t be, in fact.”

“I suppose I’ll find out if the Blacks win this war and Cregan Stark comes to claim me.”

Again, Aegon is exceptionally circumspect. “You’ve never wanted any man?”

“No. Never. Not in that way. Until…” You look at him, willing him to understand. I want you, but I’m so goddamn afraid to. I’m afraid of this world, I’m afraid there’s no hope left in it.

Slowly, Aegon smiles, soft and warm. And without any grasping, animalistic greed, he reaches over to rest a palm on your thigh, night-dark silk draped over skin that doesn’t flinch away from him, doesn’t even have to fight the instinct to. You place a hand on his. Your fingertips trace the gold wings of the green-eyed dragon ring he never takes off. And it is sealed like a covenant under the stars, this allegiance that neither of you could begin to explain to anyone else.

Footsteps are coming through Aegon’s bedchamber, heavy and purposeful. Otto Hightower appears in the balcony doorway. He fills the space like storm clouds flood a clear sky, like blood saturates linen. “You’re getting fat,” he tells Aegon gruffly.

“You’re getting ever more wrinkly and close to the afterlife.”

Otto glances to where Aegon’s hand still rests on your thigh and snaps: “If you’re well enough for that, perhaps you would deign to join us in the council chamber. You could shock everyone by actually acting like a king.”

Then he’s gone, taking those last echoes of the moment with him.

~~~~~~~~~~

“They know she’s here,” Larys Strong says. His audience is gathered around the table: Otto, Criston, Daeron, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, the knights of the Kingsguard, Aegon slumped way down in his seat and you beside him feeling his forehead worriedly for fever. Because Aegon and Daeron are in attendance, the council chamber is one chair short. Aemond has elected to be the person to stand; he lurks, severe and silent, in a corner of the room half-lit by torchlight. Daeron is dressed in a vibrant teal, Aegon in black; Aemond wears green, dark and brooding like envy.

Criston Cole asks: “How is that possible?”

Otto sighs irritably, rubbing his forehead. “We have spies. I’m sure Rhaenyra does as well.”

“Someone apparently glimpsed the prince regent…um…” Larys searches for the diplomatic word. “Escorting her through the streets of King’s Landing.”

“Dragging is what he did,” Aegon says, glaring at Aemond. “Abducting. Attacking. Imprisoning.” Aemond, arms crossed over his chest, studies his boots and pretends not to have heard him.

Larys continues: “The Blacks don’t believe that she is here of her own volition.”

Otto’s eyes narrow. “What, they think we’ve detained her as some sort of…healer? Hostage?”

“No, my lord,” Larys says, hesitantly, awkwardly. “They don’t imagine the king’s motivations to be that honorable.”

Otto is losing his patience. “Meaning?”

Larys toys with his restless, rodentlike hands. “They think she is being…violated.”

A stilted, scandalized hush falls over the table. “Good,” Aegon says, invoking gasps and gapes. “If Green supporters believe her to be my captive, they won’t harm her. And if the Blacks think she is being held here against her will, she would be safe with them as well. No matter who wins, she is not in danger.”

“That is hardly beneficial for your own reputation, Your Grace,” Tyland Lannister says.

Aegon grins beneath cold eyes; he shows his teeth like a wolf, like a dragon. “Was my reputation so pristine to begin with, Lord Lannister?”

“No, perhaps not,” Tyland mumbles. Still, he should not have said it aloud. Otto huffs another sigh and rolls his eyes.

“So you intend to keep a Celtigar daughter in your service?” Otto says to Aegon.

“I have no doubts concerning her loyalty.”

Larys adds: “My lord, I must say, I cannot see a tactical advantage in her saving the king’s life if she retains any loyalty to Rhaenyra’s cause.”

“Then why save him at all? Why bother? He was lying there half-dead, soon to be properly dead, and she brought him back practically singlehandedly. Why?”

“Mercy,” Aemond says quietly from the corner, and everyone turns to look at him. “Many people have none of it. She perhaps has too much. And now they have grown…” He gestures vaguely, perhaps bashfully. “Attached to each other.”

Jasper Wylde is dismayed. “But the king has a wife.”

Daeron snickers. “Yes, and that has always proved to be such a deterrent in the past.”

“Daeron,” Aegon cautions mildly.

The youngest Targaryen brother obediently sobers and shows the palms of his hands in contrition. “My apologies.” He hides his face with a slurp of his wine cup.

“And what about Cregan Stark?!” Otto exclaims. “You’d encourage his outrage, his Northerner savagery? Seven hells, he thinks you’re spending your days raping his betrothed, do you imagine that will not invoke fiercer wrath, put all of us at greater risk?!”

“Lord Stark was never a reachable ally to our cause, in my estimation,” Larys says calmly.

“That’s not the point, Larys! The point is—!”

“I can offer you something in return for the heightened danger you have assumed,” you interrupt, and these men stare at you as if suddenly remembering that you are here in the room with them, not a phantom or a myth or a cautionary tale but someone real. Aegon glances over, one eyebrow raised on his drawn, perspiring face. He doesn’t know what you’re going to say either.

Otto peers menacingly across the table. “What could you possibly have to barter with? The king is well enough now. He will live with or without you.”

“I have information. I know the workings of Rhaenyra’s council in the leadup to Rook’s Rest.”

“You attended her council meetings?”

“No, but I spent evenings with my father and brothers as they discussed them.”

Otto sits back in his chair, pondering you. After a moment, he nods. “Go on then.”

“I want one concession before I reveal what I know.”

“Besides being permitted indefinite room and board in the Red Keep, which you are in no way entitled to?”

“Not negotiable,” Aegon says.

Otto chuckles, humorless, incredulous, shaking his head. “Fucking insane. Alright. What is it you want, girl?”

“If any member of House Celtigar is taken captive, I want them to be given the opportunity to swear fealty to King Aegon and receive a full pardon for their sins. If they refuse, they are to go to the Night’s Watch, not the scaffold.”

“That’s your price? That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Otto is amused. “Nothing for you? No gold, no land?”

“No.” The prospect hadn’t even occurred to you.

“Not very self-serving. So unlike a Celtigar.” Otto grins, not kindly at all. “Your terms are accepted.”

You begin. “The Greens possess great wealth, now split for safekeeping between Oldtown, Casterly Rock, and the Iron Bank of Braavos. But Rhaenyra’s funds are far more finite. My father has enriched her coffers in part with taxes placed upon houses of the Crownlands. You are always seeking new allies, people you can turn from her side to yours, Corlys Velaryon, the Dragonseeds. Thus far, you have been unsuccessful.” Otto frowns, but he is listening. “I know there are families who have compelling grievances concerning my father’s taxes. Families who have become disenchanted with Rhaenyra’s leadership…or lack thereof, they might say. Rosby, Stokeworth, Cave, Langward, Bourney, Boggs, Hardy, Chyttering. Probably others as well now. They occupy a tactically significant position, being so near to Dragonstone and Driftmark. And I believe if you wrote to them, they would answer.”

“I’ll send ravens,” Otto says. He marvels at you, like a puzzlingly strange creature, a luminescent fang-toothed fish from the depths of the ocean, a direwolf from beyond the Wall. “You don’t want your side to win this war?”

“I want the killing to stop. For both sides.”

“Well, you won’t get that. The bitch will never surrender. That hope died with little Luke Strong.” Otto glowers bitterly at where Aemond stands in the shadowy corner, but he addresses you. “That is your impression as well? She was entertaining the possibility of a truce before he died at Storm’s End?”

You steal a glimpse of Aemond, and you are struck by an unexpected stab of sympathy for him, compassion that feels like a betrayal of your knowledge of the torture he had planned for you. But what is there to say but the truth? “Rhaenyra was considering it very seriously. She and Daemon quarreled over the subject.”

“Of course they did.” Otto looks at Criston, then back to Aemond. “When are you leaving?”

“Soon,” Criston answers for the prince regent. “Very soon.”

“Not soon enough,” Otto spits like venom, and everyone else averts their eyes.

“My lord,” Larys intercedes. “There is one more matter to discuss, and I believe it will be of great interest to His Grace the king.”

Aegon is struggling to concentrate. He blinks groggily at the Master of Whisperers, his brow creased with pain. You smooth his damp, white-blond hair back from his face, threading his braid through your fingertips; you refill his wine cup and give it to him. When Aegon lifts it to his lips, his hands shake so badly he spills scarlet beads like blood down his chin. He wipes them away with his sleeve. Grand Maester Orwyle offers him a small glass bottle of milk of the poppy, but Aegon refuses it.

“Is he alright?” Daeron mutters to you.

“He’s fine. He’s tired, that’s all.”

“Waste no time, Lord Larys,” Aegon says. “I fear Grandsire’s ire has exhausted me. He’s more ferocious than a dragon. We should find a saddle that fits, perhaps Criston could ride him to the Riverlands.”

“Keep guzzling wine, I’m sure that will improve your condition,” Otto bites back.

Larys continues: “It concerns Rook’s Rest.”

Now he has everyone’s attention. “What about Rook’s Rest?” Aegon says. Instinctively, he’s begun twisting the golden dragon ring on his left hand.

“I received word one hour ago that the Blacks have retaken it.”

“What?!” Otto shouts; the rest of the table is in uproar. Criston stands and goes to conspire with Aemond in the corner of the council chamber, urgent indecipherable whispers.

“Sunfyre,” Aegon says frantically. “I have to go to him, I have to get him out—”

“He is already gone, Your Grace,” Larys replies.

“Gone…?”

“Lord Walys Mooton went down to the beach to slay the dragon once his men had taken the castle. He was burned alive.”

“Perfect,” Daeron says, beaming radiantly.

“Lord Mooton’s men fled for their lives, and when they returned, Sunfyre had disappeared. He could not be found anywhere in the vicinity of Rook’s Rest. Moreover, his footprints in the sand stopped abruptly. Which means he must have departed—”

“Into the water…?” Tyland Lannister says, perplexed.

“No,” Larys corrects him. “Into the sky.”

“Sunfyre is flying again?” Aegon asks, his face childlike, astonished.

“That’s impossible,” Criston says. “His wing was broken, I saw it.”

Larys drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I cannot conceive of any other explanation.”

“Then he’ll find me.” Aegon smiles. Sweat snakes down his temples; his face is white, bloodless, barren like the moon. “When Sunfyre is ready, he’ll find me and we’ll be together again.”

“Oh, thank the gods,” Otto exhales. “The Old, the New, that ghastly Drowned one…” He waves a hand at you. “And do you have any to add, Lady Celtigar? Some crab deity your traitorous people worship?”

“I regret to disappoint you, my lord. To my knowledge we have none.”

“Three useable dragons,” Otto says, mostly to himself. “Three is good. With three, we have a chance. And if I can recruit Vermithor or Silverwing…”

“I should go with you when you and Criston march north,” Daeron tells Aemond.

“No,” Aemond returns immediately.

“If you’re going after Daemon, you could use me,” Daeron insists. “Tessarion and I can help.”

“You are needed in the Reach with Lord Ormund Hightower.”

“You just want him all to yourself,” Daeron realizes, exasperated. “You want to be able to say that you were the person to neutralize the Blacks’ greatest asset, that you won the war—!”

Criston says: “He’s not going on some suicide mission chasing Daemon and Caraxes all over the Riverlands. He’s staying with me and the army. He’s using Vhagar logically, responsibly. Right, Aemond?”

“Of course,” Aemond answers, entirely toneless.

Otto whirls to Aegon. “And when will you be able to fight again? Soon, I hope. Surely the culmination of your existence is not one single instance of utility before lapsing back into being some drunken, idiot degenerate.”

In reply, Aegon moans and crumples to the floor. Grand Maester Orwyle and the men of the Kingsguard rush to him, but Criston gets there first; when you cannot rouse the king, Criston throws him over one shoulder—increasingly difficult with each pound Aegon gains, softness and health that you consider a great victory—and ferries him back to bed. As you follow after them, you hesitate in the doorway of the council chamber. Now that Criston is gone, Otto has crossed the room and pinned Aemond to the wall. His large hands, heavy with rings, are pressed to Aemond’s chest; his face is snarling, wicked, callous.

“You have to fix this. You have to end it.”

“I know,” Aemond replies softly.

“Everything that’s happened is your fault.”

“I know,” Aemond says again, then rips free from Otto’s grasp and flees the room.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, Criston leads his army out of the city. They will meet reinforcements on the road between the capital and the Riverlands. There is infantry on foot and cavalry on horses; above them in a blue sky cluttered with vast, cottony clouds are Aemond and Vhagar. As they head north, Daeron and Tessarion fly south towards the Reach to rejoin Ormund Hightower and his men. In Winterfell, Cregan Stark is receiving word of where (and with whom) his betrothed currently resides. At Harrenhal, Daemon and Nettles are kindling rumors like dry wood in a fire. On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra is nursing her rage and paranoia like a hungry child, like a wounded man who has milk of the poppy poured down his throat. And you remain static here in King’s Landing, anchored, steadfast, something immoveable like the ocean or the shore it meets.

You can see Aegon’s bedchamber windows from the beach. You keep glancing up at them, though you know he won’t be there; the sunlight is too harsh today, the potential damage to his skin too great. In a month, he may be able to venture outside as he used to. In two or three, he might be able to fight again. He might be able to kill more than just one errant Norcross boy who dared to touch you.

“Helaena wouldn’t come down to join us?” you ask Autumn. You’re walking with her in the surf, the hems of your held aloft so the froth of the waves can wash over your ankles. Perhaps ten yards away and out of earshot, Alicent is kneeling in the sand and playing with Jaehaera and Maelor. They are her great comfort now; they are not the only purpose she has left, but they are the kindest. Their tiny hands are preoccupied with building a sandcastle and adorning it with seashells, pebbles, shards of driftwood, strings of seaweed like green ribbons. You’ve started to notice how much Jaehaera resembles Aegon, his murky blue eyes and his high cheekbones and his gentleness that no one else seems to recognize. You’ve started to see him everywhere you look.

Autumn shrugs, her face apologetic. Her hair is more than just copper in the afternoon daylight; it is fire, it is blood. “I really tried. You know how she is.”

“I’ll visit her afterwards.”

“She unnerves me,” Autumn says, stroking her round belly and shuddering. She earns her keep here by helping to look after Helaena, Jaehaera, and Maelor. Aegon treats Autumn the same way he treats his wife and children, which is to say he generally ignores her; on the rare occasion he is subjected to her presence for more than a fleeting moment, he becomes uneasy, irritable. Autumn does not appear to be offended. She says this is the best job she’s ever had. “She’s always muttering the strangest things. Caterpillars and crabs and dragons and only the gods know what else. Yesterday she told me not to dance with the half-year queen. What the fuck does that mean?”

“Helaena’s a bit different,” you admit.

“She’s inbred, that’s what she is. I can’t imagine what those kids are going to grow up to be like. A brother and sister for parents? It’s a wonder they don’t have feathers or tails.” Autumn taps the swell of her belly. “At least this one—if it’s a Targaryen after all—has had its bloodline thoroughly diluted.”

You watch her standing there in the fiery late-afternoon light, this body that has comforted, consoled, satisfied, suffered, known so many men. “What does it feel like?” you ask quietly.

“What? Being with child?”

“No, the…um…the act that led to it.”

“Oh, yes.” Autumn stretches with her hands on the small of her back and smiles vaguely, nostalgically. “That’s the strange thing. It can feel like heaven or hell or nothing at all. If the man knows what he’s doing, and cares enough to try, he can make it better for you.”

“Better how?”

She furrows her brow, shoots you a skeptical sideways glance. She is aware that you are inexperienced, but the extent of your blind spots continuously shock her. It occurs to you that perhaps naivety is a privilege; some cannot recall a time before they were acquainted with truths of the world that others consider forbidden. “You know. He’ll use his hands or his mouth to get you ready. Or better yet, both at once.”

“Ready,” you repeat, not understanding.

“Well, you see…” Autumn takes a moment to decide how best to explain. “Men change when they are aroused, yes? Women do the same. It takes longer, and it is not always so obvious. But it is vital. The more ready you are, the more comfortably he will fit inside you.”

“And what if he doesn’t get you ready? If he doesn’t have the skill, or he doesn’t believe it’s necessary, or he doesn’t even know that’s something women require?” Or he just wants to hurt you. He just wants to watch you bleed like something he goes into the woods to kill and gut and devour.

Autumn smirks cynically. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“The sizes involved. Some men are bigger than others, and women have different dimensions as well. Couples can be well-matched or not. Sometimes it isn’t too bad. Sometimes it feels like you’re being ripped apart. And that doesn’t necessarily stop after the first time either.”

“And you can’t say no.”

“You can say no all you want. But he doesn’t have to listen.”

You peer out over Blackwater Bay, sunbeams flashing on wave crests and gulls swooping in the reddening sky. But you don’t really see it. What you see are fingerprints of dirt or ash on your thighs, snow in your hair, books laden with dust, fur coats and evergreen trees, rust-stains of blood on bedsheets.

“I’ve heard that Lord Stark is a very large man,” Autumn nudges. She knows, everyone knows.

“He’s massive,” you say forlornly. “He’s taller than Aemond and twice as broad.”

“The king isn’t so big,” she says, pretending that the thought has just popped into her mind, as if she hasn’t noticed the way you and Aegon look at each other, speak to each other, find excuses to touch each other.

“No,” you agree in a whisper.

“And he’s not a brute. I can’t fairly speak to his skill, I never had him anywhere close to sober. But he has no appetite for women’s pain. That’s a valuable gem in a man, it’s like stumbling across a ruby or a pearl.”

You nod; but you don’t want to think about Autumn lying with Aegon. You don’t want to think about the child they might share. In a world so dark, it seems cruel to begrudge people creating life where none existed before. But when you picture Aegon touching someone else, that darkness seeps in through your skin like rain soaks the earth and can’t find its way out. “We’re going to the library together tomorrow, aren’t we?”

Autumn groans. “Did I agree to that? I don’t believe I did.”

She did not, this is true; you badgered, she deflected. “You’ll enjoy it.”

“I am illiterate.”

“I told you. I’ll teach you how to read.”

“Why would I want to stare at ink marks in a book all day when I could be outside in the sunshine listening to the ocean and herding inbred little freaks like sheep?”

“Because books can take you anywhere,” you say.

“I like where I am. I’ve never seen anyplace better.”

“Okay, Autumn,” you concede, smiling. “I’ll ask again tomorrow. Hopefully you’ll change your mind.”

“Say hello to Helaena for me,” she says, meandering back towards Alicent and the children. Her footprints in the sand are erased when the gurgling waves roll over them. “Maybe one of those fancy books can help you translate lunacy into the Common Tongue.”

Upstairs in her bedchamber, Helaena is standing in front of an open window. It doesn’t offer a view of the ocean; it is positioned over a courtyard of sandstone and chatting courtiers. Helaena does not seem to hear them. She gazes out into the sunset, celestial rage on her impassive face.

“He’s leaving soon,” she says, not turning to look at you.

“Who, Helaena? Aemond? He left days ago. He’s already gone, he’s on his way to the Riverlands. But he’ll be back soon.” You don’t know if that’s true—it probably isn’t, in fact—but you’re certain that Helaena misses him. Her children do too; he is more of a father to them than Aegon has ever been, not in body but in soul.

She only repeats: “He’s leaving soon.”

“Helaena, what—?”

“He’ll leave you. Then you’ll leave him. He’ll make you.”

At last, and very slowly, she revolves like the stripe of shadow across a sundial. In her cupped palms is a butterfly, shimmering gold wings and spiderlike black legs. It takes flight, flutters aimlessly through the vermillion air, escapes out the open window.

~~~~~~~~~~

A peculiar twist of fate: his palm on your forehead, his whispers through your hair. Now he is the one who has stolen into your bed when the moon and stars hang high in the darkness outside. There is a noise somewhere beyond him, disembodied and hazy, that reminds you of torrential rain: omnipresent, thunderous.

“Angel,” Aegon is saying. “Wake up. Please wake up. I have to go.”

Go? Go where? You murmur, still half-asleep: “You can’t leave.” He isn’t strong enough yet. He can’t fight, he can’t run.

“I have to. They’re here.”

“Who…?”

The answer comes from the sounds that you are only now awake enough to understand: screaming, pounding boots, slamming doors, the ravenous crackling of fire, the shrieking of dragons. You have learned all of their unearthly voices. That’s not Vhagar or Tessarion or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre… It flashes by your windows, a comet of gold and flames.

You bolt out of bed. “Rhaenyra—?!”

“Rhaenyra, Syrax, Daemon, Caraxes.”

Daemon shouldn’t be here. He should be losing battles to Aemond and Criston. “But he’s at Harrenhal!”

“Not anymore.” Aegon takes your hand and pulls you out into the hallway, the hem of your nightgown billowing around your legs, his short silver hair flying behind him. There are servants and guards rushing by you, weeping, shouting, searching for places to hide. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles towards the rookery to send out ravens. Several rooms away, you can hear Helaena wailing and Autumn trying to soothe her. Larys Strong intercepts Aegon and gives him a hooded cloak; Aegon yanks it over his bare, mutilated chest, whimpering as the rapid movement strains the red-and-ivory disarray of scar tissue that used to be his skin. “You have everything?” he asks Larys hoarsely. You notice now that the Master of Whisperers has a satchel slung over one shoulder.

“Yes, Your Grace. Milk of the poppy, rose oil, the crown.”

“Wine?”

Larys produces a bottle. Aegon gulps down half of it, then passes the rest to you. You hesitate before finishing the wine, red like the sigil of House Celtigar, like fire, like blood. “They are closing all roads out of the city,” Larys tells Aegon, speaking swiftly. “King’s Landing will be taken. We will surrender. We cannot fight a dragon, let alone two.”

“Aemond and Criston—?”

“Daemon must have outflanked them.”

Aegon grabs your hand again and does not let go as he trails Larys through corridors and down claustrophobically tight spiral staircases. “The roads are blocked,” Aegon explains to you breathlessly. “But there are secret passageways beneath the castle. I know them. Larys knows them. Daemon probably knows them too, but he has other places to be.”

And through a window of a staircase, you see him: Caraxes spiraled around the apex of the Tower of the Hand, screaming fire into the sky before descending the length of the tower towards the hoards of hysterical courtiers fleeing below, his claws jostling loose bricks that rain down on them.

The bottom of the stairwell opens up into a large, dusty, dirt-floored chamber with stone tunnels leading in every direction like spokes of a wheel. Alicent is there, sobbing wildly, and so is Otto. Otto is telling Jaehaera that she must be a brave little girl and go with Sir Willis Fell. Alicent is giving Maelor over to Sir Rickard Thorne, your once-alleged-kinfolk. The child is panicked and crying, flushed face and white hair. Aegon glances at the scene and then keeps moving, towing you along with him.

“Princess Jaehaera will go to Storm’s End,” Larys says. “Prince Maelor will go to Oldtown. They face execution if they stay. We must risk smuggling them out of the city.”

“What about Aegon?” you ask as the three of you hasten into a corridor thick with cobwebs and illuminated by torchlight. The stone ceiling is arched and perhaps seven feet tall; faintly, you can still hear the muffled turmoil of King’s Landing falling to Rhaenyra and Daemon.

“I’m going Dragonstone.” And it does not elude you that he didn’t say we. “If Rhaenyra is here, that likely means Dragonstone is vacant. I will go to the Crownlands families that you believe to be willing to betray her and beg them for support. I will take Dragonstone and prepare a counterassault from there. Hopefully Sunfyre will find me. Hopefully I’m not killed on the way.”

“Okay,” you say. “I’m going too.”

“You’re staying in King’s Landing.”

“No.” You stop dead, wrenching your hand out of Aegon’s. “No, what if you get hurt, or sick, or what if you get really bad again—?!”

“Listen!” he shouts with dire intensity, his eyes wide and pleading in the torchlight. “I can’t protect you. I can’t even protect myself. There could be bandits on the road, there could be Black soldiers, there could be animals, there could be fucking anything. I can’t take you with me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get to Dragonstone. But I know if I stay here Rhaenyra will murder me. I don’t have a choice. I have one option, and it’s not good. But you’ll be safe in King’s Landing.”

“Aegon, no—”

“The Blacks don’t think you’re here by choice. They think I’ve imprisoned you. Tell them that’s what happened and they will welcome you back. Your family will protect you.”

“Aegon, please don’t—”

His palm on your cheek, his braid coming unraveled in his hair. “You will wait out the war with them. And when it’s over I’ll find you.” Tears glistening in his eyes, his voice going soft and tender. “If I’m still alive, I’ll find you. I swear to all the gods I will.”

He’s leaving. He’s really leaving. “What can I do?” you ask, your words strangled; your throat is burning, your eyes wet. “What can I do to help you?”

And you expect him to say things you already know: Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve heard in the Greens’ council meetings. Instead, Aegon grins as he says: “Try to get one of your three superfluous sisters to seduce Cregan Stark.”

You laugh, the sound echoing off ancient, filthy stones.

“My mother and Otto are waiting for you. You will be with them when they are taken to Rhaenyra. They are high-ranking prisoners of war, they will be spared the brutality of the Black soldiers and so will you. They will corroborate that you were my captive.”

“I understand.”

“I have to go now,” Aegon says like an apology, swiping tears from your face with his thumbs. He breaks away from you and follows Larys Strong down the tunnel. They are shadows under the torchlight, cloaks and whispers.

“Aegon,” you call after him, and he stops. I never told you what I wanted. I never told you what I feel for you. “What if I never see you again?”

You don’t know what you want him to do or say. There’s nothing that could make this right. But he soars back to you, takes you roughly and desperately, buries his hands in your hair and kisses you deeply, tasting like wine and heat and the smoke filling the world outside. He means for it to be quick, but he can’t stop. His tongue darts between your lips, his hips press to yours, you arch into him wanting more, infinitely more.

What was I so afraid of? you think dizzily. How could I be afraid of anything with him?

“Your Grace,” Larys appeals regretfully. “Please. We don’t have much time.”

Aegon twists off his dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—and slips it onto your left hand. And you’re still staring down at it, mystified, as Aegon disentangles himself from you and vanishes into the darkness.

[rose-tea-and-strawberries]

𝖎𝖌𝖓𝖎𝖙𝖊

AKA: this one quote from Book!Frollo made my mind go crazy. 

Yes, I was listening to “It's A Dangerous Game” from the Jekyll and Hyde Original Concept Recording

(also, please forgive my Latin, I used google translate)

Reader/Yuu is female and has hair (which is implied to be long)

Masterlist

It was mesmerising, how perfectly your bodies melded and moved together, how easily and harmoniously you were brought to a hitherto unknown rapture. To be caught up in such a state, where you were free of the chains that bound you to the horrors of purgatory and had ascended you to heights you had never felt before, to feel him guiding you to a place where you had never even begun to dream about.

Minutes had passed since the twelfth ring of the Bell of Solace yet the two of you stayed in your tower, pressed against a shadowed alcove, away from everyone and everything, your hands wandering and blood singing as the rest of the city drifted off into their fanciful visions of the dusk.

With the Witching Hour descending upon you, veiling you in the covers of the night, you only had the stars and the spirits above as witnesses to this tryst, your secrets laid bare for their silent judgement.

But their judgement didn’t matter, nor did your schoolmates’, if the silent covenant between you and him were to be obeyed, if the unvoiced sermon in blue flickers that glowed against the scorching green of his eyes that seared into you as he took a lock of your hair and pressed it against his lips were to be acknowledged.

His cold touch, like fire, burning your figure as it trailed across your face, your neck, your shoulder before settling on your waist, pulling you closer - long, chilling fingers burned along your skin, setting ablaze every thought, every word, every semblance of rationality. 

“Pulchra,” you could feel his voice against your mouth, wafting and caressing like tendrils of smoke, sonorous to your ears, “puella pulchra, so pure, so perfect. Like a goddess in mortal form.”

You could do nothing but listen, to submit to the dark velvet of his dulcet tones, to close your eyes and let this fiery passion incinerate and eradicate the demons that plagued you. Ordinarily, you’d be against this, to let your shackled hands hand the reins of your petering control to another, but his providence proved otherwise. With your destiny enshrouded in so much unknown, the danger of staying and the risk of fleeing your perennial torment in the clutches of your captors yet with Rollo before you, you felt at peace. 

Fate, free-will, nothing mattered in this sanctuary he created.

His conviction begets your reprieve, his resolution ameliorates your soul from the horrors that had stained it with their inky fingerprints. The singing brushes of his fingertips cleansed you, and like a blazing phoenix, you emerged anew. 

With both great reluctance and great desperation his lips left yours and made their home at the apse of your neck, whispers of orisons against your skin, your name an endless epiclesis. 

Even with your sight inhibited, you could see the worship in his gaze, through the reverence in his touch, the cardinal way he regarded you in every action. His hands gentle yet formidable as they kept you against him, the golden shank of his ruby ring digging into you with the pads of his fingers.

“I wanted to see you again,” his deep timbre, dark, soft and smoky against your ears, “touch you, know who you were, see if I would find you identical with the ideal image of you which had remained with me and perhaps shatter my dream with the aid of reality.”

“And?” you hear yourself say, too lost in the fiery haze, too blinded by the flaming reds and golden ambers that danced under your eyes.

“At all events, I hoped that a new impression would efface the first, for the first had become intolerable to me. I sought you, Prefect, again to behold you. When I had seen you twice, I wished to see you a thousand more times, to always have you in my sight. You claim to be magicless, Angelum Meum, yet you have completely bewitched me. With you, I’m no longer my own master. You’ve become my salvation from perdition, shown me the true meaning of righteous. Please, I say in obsecration, grant me the blessing of speaking your benediction, of proving how far my devotion runs. Let me be your acolyte, your protector against the tainted crowd.”

His lips pressed against the apples of your cheeks, his hands on your waist, the fury of the flames within you.

It’s dangerous. But this fire won’t char you, won’t scar you, won’t leave you tearstained and broken.

It emboldens you, ignites the snuffed out hearth within you.

You nod once, a small jut of your chin through the keening of your throat and you slowly feel the ribbon of your nightdress tugged loose before it falls and pools at the ground at your feet.

[chameleon8]

If fablehaven was mermaids this is what I think their mermaid tales would look like: Kendra: Its color changes depending on the temperature of the water, colder is more sapphire blue, lukewarm emerald green, warm gold, and hot is ruby red (I say this because kendra’s favorite colors changes, as we see with the wizenstone, so her tail kinda reflects that). When she becomes fairykind, her scales are laced with some kind of ultraviolet bioluminescent color that only some fish can see Seth: he’d be like a ghost pipefish. They can camouflage very well into their environment and are very hard to spot in the wild. I think he’d blend in with the seagrass very often when he and kendra are playing hide and seek. When he becomes a shadow charmer, he is able to survive in colder water temperatures (ghost pipefish usually live in about 22.1-29 degrees C but don’t quote me on that) Lena: I think she would be a dolphin because they are very playful in nature, and I think that’s what naiads intend to be (though they think drowning people is their idea of fun) plus she goes to the surface a lot as a dolphin Stan: flatfish because he can’t stop making pancakes for breakfast 😭 Ruth: i think she would have a crimson-colored tail, and this is a dumb reason but it’s because I feel like the color red fits her character well. Like it matches her personality (or what I remember of it) Dale: Green like the color of kelp, as he tends to the farm all day Warren: a great white Shark. Probably has some scars because he’s literally a knight of the dawn. Idk what else to say Tanu: some color of koi because they remind me of splashes which reminds me of potions Vanessa: Multicolored betta fish, but her tail color could change depending on who she’s possessing Bracken: Pearlescent, icy blue, or some combination of the two Ronodin: Inky black with flecks of gold and/or maroon Calvin: some species of minnow. I can’t decide what because I don’t get a specific color vibe from him Eve: Midnight blue. She is literally the [Eve]ning Lemme know if I should add any other characters or if you have a different idea for what their mermaid tails would look like!

[bunnywip]

𝙒𝙊𝙍𝘿𝙎 𝙏𝙊 𝘿𝙀𝙎𝘾𝙍𝙄𝘽𝙀 𝘾𝙊𝙇𝙊𝙐𝙍𝙎

— PURPLE

Mauve.

Violet.

Lilac.

Magenta.

Plum.

Royal.

Lavender.

Grape.

Periwinkle.

Sangria.

Jam.

Heather.

Noble.

Berry.

Mulberry.

Orchid.

Amethyst.

Wine.

— BLUE

Navy.

Sky.

Turquoise.

Indigo.

Slate.

Deep.

Prussian.

Teal.

Ocean.

Peacock.

Cyan.

Azure.

Artic.

Sapphire.

Diamond.

Royal.

Ultramarine.

Aqua.

— GREEN

Pistachio.

Juniper.

Grass.

Parakeet.

Leaf.

Pine.

Basil.

Herb.

Lime.

Sage.

Chartreuse.

Fern.

Olive.

Emerald.

Shamrock.

Seafoam.

Moss.

Pear.

Mint.

— YELLOW

Canary.

Gold.

Daffodil.

Seed.

Lemon.

Butter.

Yolk.

Mustard.

Corn.

Bumblebee.

Sunny.

Honey.

Amber.

Blonde.

Banana.

Medallion.

Dandelion.

Platinum.

Buttscotch.

Dandelion.

Sunflower.

Saffron.

Dijon.

Fire.

— ORANGE

Yam.

Marigold.

Rust.

Clay.

Spiced.

Tiger.

Ginger.

Sandstone.

Apricot.

Carrot.

Amber.

Bronze.

Honey.

— PINK

Blush.

Coral.

Rosewood.

Lemonade.

Marshmallow.

Hot.

Magenta.

Bubblegum.

Fuchsia.

Rose.

Salmon.

Roseate.

Glowing.

Reddened.

Sanguine.

Peach.

Strawberry.

Punch.

Watermelon.

Flamingo.

Berry.

Rouge.

— WHITE

Milky.

Alabaster.

Pearly.

Cotton

Chiffon.

Egg-shell.

Bridal.

Snowy.

Bright.

Porcelain.

Chalky.

Creamy.

Ivory.

Empty.

Frosted.

Pale.

Lace.

Salt.

Coconut.

Silvery.

Tooth.

Daisy.

Porcelain.

Achromatic.

Delicate.

Fresh.

Bone.

Innocent.

— BLACK

Ebony.

Sable.

Crow.

Charcoal.

Grease.

Raven.

Midnight.

Pitch.

Dusky.

Inky.

Solemn.

Onyx.

Soot.

Jet.

Leather.

Obsidian.

Murky.

Cloudy.

— RED

Cherry.

Jam.

Sanguine.

Apple.

Rose.

Ruby.

Burgundy.

Maroon.

Crimson.

Merlot.

Scarlet.

Wine.

Brick.

Berry.

Blood.

Sangria.

Candy.

Blush.

Evil.

Imperial.

Ferrari.

Raspberry.

Carmine.

Chilli.

[sydneyadmu]

REBELCAPTAIN SECRET SANTA MASTERLIST

with RCSS 2023 coming to an end, I decided to make this post with all the amazing gifts made for the event! many thanks to @therebelcaptainnetwork mod team for organizing it <3

★ FICS

- Entre-Deux by @princessniitza (post-scarif getting together - rated E)

- when your hand is in mine. by @jaqobis (college AU)

- threshold by @astromechs (getting together + character study - rated T)

- i might as well be drunk in love by @imgoingtocrash (getting together under the influence - rated M)

- Love me like only you know how by @vesper-1898 (modern AU established relationship - rated E)

- A tribute to the Gods, both Old and New by @mistressorinoco (getting together + mission fic - rated T)

- It's You That I Hold On To by @frostbitepandaaaaa (post-war established relationship + love languages - rated T)

- Final Distance by @grexigone (developing relationship - rated E)

- so we could call it even, you could call me “babe” for the weekend (the road not taken looks real good now) by @youareiron-andyouarestrong (modern holiday season AU - rated T)

- It's a small galaxy by @annisthree (5+1 different meetings AU - rated T)

- when the night is over by @tonyvornskr (post war reunion)

- silver lining by @rebelrainfall (pre-relationship + whump - rated T)

- sleep until the sun goes down by @woahpip (character study + scarif rescue - rated T)

- All the Broken Hearts in the World Still Beat by @mosylufanfic (actors AU inspired by Persuasion - rated T)

- no other place to be by @incognitajones (newly established relationship - rated E)

- The Gales of November Remembered by @ruby-red-inky-blue (modern AU - rated T)

- Mint Chocolate Chip by @flyfreeskylark (modern AU, roommates - rated T)

- this mad, mad love (makes you come rushing) by @jyndor (getting together post-scarif - rated M)

- in this world (it's just us) by @oh-nostalgiaa (undercover mission - rated M)

- warmth by @lilting-aurora (bed sharing - rated T)

- choice by @youkailuvr (mission fic - rated G)

- Because (the reason is that there isn’t one not to) by @siachti (character study, thoughts on marriage - rated T)

★ GRAPHICS

- sweet & cozy art by @adeptnenyim

- amazing band AU art by @ninsletamain

- cute modern AU art by @eurydia

- lovely art by @onesingularartbean

- modern AU gifset by me

- gorgeous gifset by @bartowskis

- wonderful vampire!cassian & hunter!jyn AU comic by @pfirsichspritzer

★ FICS + GRAPHICS

- The Bodyguard (in universe AU - rated E) + moodboard by @agentjackdaniels

- The Go-Between by @quarantineddreamer (mission fic + getting together - rated G) & cute kyber creature art by @ninsletamain

- Should You Come Back to Me (in universe holiday season fic - rated T) & art by @nattyjae

- grace will lead me home & original child art (post-endor AU - rated T) by @luciechat -> (bonus spicy art)

- Tethered (to The Story We Must Tell) fic + moodboard by @dilf-din (witch!jyn AU)

- so much for stardust (imperial!jyn AU - rated M) by @andorerso + moodboard

if there’s something I forgot to include or something I need to change, please let me know!

[sarahscribbles]

𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐈𝐜𝐞

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐚𝐥�� 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐉𝐨𝐭𝐮𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐜𝐞

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟏.𝟗𝐤

𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝟏𝟐 𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“Are you ready?” 

You inhaled suddenly at his question, having been so lost in watching him, admiring him, that you had briefly forgotten to breathe. “Yes,” you answered, your voice soft and breathy and brimming with uncontained adoration for this man.

He had denied you this request on your first - and only - asking and you loved him enough to respect his no. You accepted that this was a part of him that he wasn’t yet ready to share with you, a part of him that he may never be ready to share with you, and that was ok.

Yet tonight, he had offered it up freely, almost shyly, and you could barely breathe with how beautiful he was.

The same inky black curls that you adored running your fingers through in moments of passion - and gently threading your fingers through when he rested his head in your lap - fell in gentle waves around his face, but tonight they danced across skin that was azure blue and out of which shone eyes of deep ruby red. He had wanted to shield you from this part of him, believing that you would see only a Jotun monster staring back at you. 

You saw no monster before you tonight, only the man you loved with every piece of your heart. 

He ran the inside of his index finger softly down your cheek by way of reply, but your shiver wasn’t from the chill it held. The familiar green silk was clasped loosely in his other hand and with all the gentleness as though you were a glass doll, he wrapped it around your eyes, the tips of his icy fingers brushing tantalisingly against your temples when they snaked around your head to tie the ends. Your world was now an endless midnight, but you could still feel those ruby eyes running over your naked body, drinking in the sight of you laid before him as though it were the first time he was seeing your bare flesh.

It was enough to make heat glow like burning embers beneath your cheeks. 

“Beautiful, my darling. Absolutely beautiful,” Loki murmured, almost reverently, and leaned in to press cold lips to your cheek. 

Although the shift in the mattress had given you prior warning, you still inhaled sharply at the surprise of his sudden touch and pulled weakly against the restraints around your wrists. “You’re beautiful,” you replied stupidly, instantly feeling his warm breath fan across your cheek when he laughed.

“Hush, now, darling. Don’t make me gag you,” Loki said, his tone playful but tinged with a quiet note of warning. 

The mattress dipped beneath you as he reached to the side and you heard the quiet clink of glass on wood. The glass of warm mulled wine that he had carried through to the bedroom, enchanted to stay warm no matter how long it sat on your bedside cabinet. You heard the quiet sip of the liquid passing his lips and the louder clink as he returned the glass back to the side. You shifted slightly on the bed. You knew what was coming, knew what Loki had planned, but no amount of knowing could have anticipated the feel of his warm mouth latching around one peaked nipple while ice cold fingers pinched the other. 

A gasp, stuttered and broken, was pulled from the very depths of your lungs and you arched off the bed in almost a perfect bow. It was too much and not enough at the same time and the blindfold still snugly around your eyes only magnified the opposing sensations. 

“Oh, that feels so good!” The words left your mouth in a breathy rush of sound, barely encompassing just how good it felt, and Loki answered with a sharp bite to your nipple while roughly twisting the other. “Fuck!” you moaned, arching even further into him.

“I take it back, darling,” Loki purred, releasing both your nipples and allowing you to sag back against the bed. “I have no intention of gagging you if you’re going to sing so beautifully for me.”

He gave you a moment’s reprieve while you heard him reach for the glass again, taking a moment longer than before, and then switching the position of his mouth and fingers. You pulled against the restraints, this time so firmly that the wooden beam of your bed gave a quiet creak, and whined delightfully at the heady mixture of sensations wracking your body; the warm, wet heat of his mouth and tongue wrapped around one nipple, the biting cold of his thumb and forefinger twisting the other, and the gentle tickle of his hair as it fell forward over the slope of your breasts. 

His tongue was so warm as it lapped around your nipple that you strained to try and push it further into his mouth. At the same time, the icy coolness of his fingers wrapped firmly around the other made you want to do nothing more than pull out of his grasp, and when he sank his teeth into one nipple while roughly twisting the other, your sharp yelp of pain echoed off the walls of your room. 

He was drowning you in pain and pleasure. 

It was almost intoxicating.  

Much, much too soon his lips left your breast to begin a trail of loud, wet kisses down your stomach, each press of his warm mouth making the muscles beneath jump and ripple in response to his touch, though small ripples became a violent shiver when icy fingers then ghosted over the lingering traces of warmth, feeling as though a pool of cold water was trickling down your stomach. 

For a brief moment you were rendered mute, the lack of sight wildly intensifying the trace of his fingers. “Fuck, Loki! Do that again! Please!” you begged him at finding your voice, the flames of arousal already licking tempestuously at your core.

His quiet breath of laughter hit just below your belly button, sending another surge of arousal shooting through you and causing your hips to snap towards him in response. “I am your servant, darling. You only need ask and it’s yours,” he purred quietly, shifting on the bed to hover over you again.

For a pause, there was nothing, long enough that you wriggled against the cool sheets, and then his warm mouth was gloriously against your skin again. He worked slower this time, letting his lips linger on your skin, almost like an act of worship, to lull you into a false sense of warm security before the iciness of his fingers followed. The same broken gasp as before was pulled from your lungs at the chill, a gasp that quickly became a whine, long and high, as every downward movement only twisted the coil in your stomach tighter. 

“I could listen to those lovely little noises of yours all night, darling,” Loki said, the warm breath hitting your skin teasing you with how close he was to where you burned for him. “How else can I make you sing for me, I wonder?” 

His touch left you completely and you listened as he reached for his wine for the third time. Patiently, you waited, waited for his touch, warm or cold, to return to your hypersensitive skin, but nothing came. You would have believed he had left the room had it not been for the quiet sound of his breathing and the coldness radiating from his legs still between your thighs. 

You bucked your hips as best you could against the cool sheets. “Loki, please. More,” you begged, your voice little more than a pitiful whimper. 

The glass returned to the side with another quiet clink, followed by Loki’s soft growl of laughter. “I’m nowhere near finished with you, darling, I promise,” he said, so softly that a trail of goosebumps erupted over every inch of your skin.

Without any warning his warm mouth hit the column of your neck, wasting no time in biting and sucking his marks onto you. You responded with an almost perfect arch into the cold expanse of his chest, craving more of him, craving every part of him that made him who he was. There wasn’t any part of him he could show that would make you love him any less. 

His lips remained firm against your throat, still holding the warmth of the wine as they ghosted over your flushed skin. You were almost high on the feel of his mouth alone, your mind so filled with how good he felt pressed so closely against you that you were entirely unprepared for what he was about to do. 

Two slim fingers, cold as freshly fallen snow and so starkly contrasting his warm lips, slipped slowly and intimately inside you, and the deep cry that left your lips had you thanking the heavens that Loki had placed a silencing charm around your rooms. 

“Glorious little thing,” he murmured into your neck, punctuating his words with another sharp bite just below your jaw. 

A single deep breath filled your lungs when he began to move his fingers inside you, the Jotun markings and ridges providing a new type of friction that had your hips instantly rolling to meet every thrust of his hand as they pulled deliciously against every nerve. A groan vibrated in the back of your throat when two fingers became three, the fullness mixed with the pull of his ridges sending your eyes to the back of your head.

“I can’t…I can’t believe…you kept this from me,” you breathed out, sending a curl of his hair floating above you until it fell against your cheek. “You feel…so good.”

You knew that if you could see him, and if he were still in his Æsir form, a faint pink blush would be colouring his pale cheeks. As it were, you had to settle for the brief faltering of his fingers as indication that he was glowing at your praise. 

“Mmm. And what about now?” he hummed against your throat and curled his fingers up expertly inside you. 

Your entire body curled into him, fervently seeking more. “Fuck!” It was barely a sound, the pleasure he was bestowing on you so great that even speaking was an effort. “Please, Loki, yes! Keep…I…more!”

His mouth trailed down your collarbone to latch on to a nipple once again, lapping, sucking and biting while skilled fingers sent you hurtling towards the edge. Every thrust and curl of his fingers had you pulling against the restraints, had your eyes scrunched closed behind the blindfold and your jaw slack. 

It was pleasure you had never before experienced and you were all but drunk on it. 

“Loki…I’m…’m close…please,” you begged not long after a cool thumb had began to stroke your clit. The pleasure was building like an impending tsunami, at any moment threatening to drown you in a glorious wave. “Loki…’m gonna come…,” you warned him, bracing for the blinding bliss. 

It was robbed from you a mere moment later when Loki’s fingers came to a sudden halt. 

“Loki, no! Please! Please, no!” you cried, a single, heavy tear of frustration threatening to leak from the corner of one eye. He couldn’t edge you. Not tonight. 

You felt the wicked grin that was on his face. “But, darling, those little noises are so beautiful I simply must hear them again,” he teased, but just as quickly stretched up to claim your lips in a searing kiss. “Once more. Once more and I promise you will have me completely. Can you do that for me?”

Weakly, you nodded. There was nothing you wouldn’t do for him. 

His lips met yours once more, this time tinged with cold but still kissing you with just as much passion. “Precious thing,” he murmured against your lips, resting a chilled forehead against yours. “I can’t get enough of you.”

Tags: @sailorholly @joyful-enchantress @muddyorbs @ozymdias @fandxmslxt69 @trickster-maiden @lokixryss @silverfire475 @wolfsmom1 @lokisgoodgirl @cake-writes @vickie5446 @lokidbadguy @unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men @all-envy-suyu @erynion-rogueofthegreenwoods @gortycs @katehawke @123forgottherest @fictive-sl0th @lovingchoices14 @peanutbutter-y-jams @wintermischief @gigglingtigger @kinky-faerie @simone818283

[andorerso]

this is the last i'm bothering you with tonight I promise (I'm so sleep deprived it's making me weird...) but thank you for your fantastic gifs, you're very talented, and a joy to have in the notes as well! (Not everyone has good tags but yours are On Point)

no, you're not bothering me at all! thank you, it means a lot 🥺 I must admit I've never been complimented before on my tag game and now I feel weirdly proud about it! I'm glad you're enjoying them.

you get a Diego as well!

[mosylufanfic]

writing patterns tag game

Rules: post the last sentence from your 10 most recently posted fics (less if you don't have 10 is also fine).

All fics are rebelcaptain

The Best Part of Waking Up (modern AU, fluff) - Bodhi grinned to himself and pulled up an apartment-searching website. He had the feeling his sister was going to want her privacy back pretty soon.

Things Unsaid (canon, hurt/comfort) - "I love you. Idiot."

Booty Call (modern AU, lightly smutty fluff) - The last thing she did, before she snuggled into his side to fall asleep, was to find her phone and change his name in her contacts from BOOTY CALL to CASSIAN.

You Need a Good Partner (canon, fluff) - Some minutes later, Kay called out, "If you must kiss, put away the weaponry first."

Role Playing (canon divergence AU, smut) - Cassian settled himself into his own bunk and said what he said every time: "None of your business."

As Long as It's You (modern AU, smutty fluff) - She pretended to think about it although she knew her answer. "Well, as long as it's you."

I'll Take What I Can Get (canon, angsty smut) - Just as he had every time before, Cassian stared into the dark and told himself he was going to put a stop to this. 

All the Broken Hearts in the World Still Beat (modern AU, longfic) - He's saying something in her ear, and she's laughing.

Linen and Kisses (modern AU, fluff) - "Don't forget the kisses."

A Mere Trifle (modern AU, fluff) - "Thanks," Jyn said, shrugging, dealing the next hand. "It was nothing."

Tagging @hedgiwithapen, @youareiron-andyouarestrong, @rifle-yes, @ruby-red-inky-blue, @incognitajones, @astromechs, and you if you like!

[novankenn]

Rage of a Child (II)

(Previous)

Headmistress Goodwitch, sat behind her desk kneeding her temples. She had a migraine and it was only getting worse as Ruby Rose and Qrow Branwen gave a report on their findings. It had been close to seven years since a lucky accident gave one Jaune Arc the insight to end an eons old shadow war. How he had ever managed to find the Relic of Choice was still a mystery.

But that was neither here nor there. What was important was the fact that the small Hamlet that Jaune and Pyrrha Arc had retired to had been utterly annihilated... to the soul.

"So you saw them? You saw their bodies?" Glynda asked, her voice weary, and strained.

"Yes." Qrow replied as it was obvious Ruby was still having a hard time coming to terms with the fact two of her friends were now gone, because huntsmen and huntress teams were too late to arrive.

"And there were no survivors?"

"None that we found, though there were some... fresher bodies."

"What do you mean? Fresher?"

"Still in rigor, and the wounds... the wounds where not Grimm."

"Slavers?"

"That or scavengers, but it makes no difference, someone killed them." Qrow replied as he leaned against the wall near the window overlooking the Emerald Forest. "And it happened after the Grimm had rolled through."

"That makes it sound like there was a survivor." Glynda commented.

"Can I be excused?" Ruby asked, her voice wavering. "Someone should let Ren and Nora know... know about... them."

"Of course. Please pass on Beacon and my condolences."

"Okay." Ruby stopped, "Should I inform Jaune and Pyrrha's families as well?"

"No, I will take care of letting the Arc and Nikos families about the loss of their son, daughter and granddaughter..."

"Annabelle..." Ruby's face looked almost terrified at a thought that jumped into her head.

"Rubes?" Qrow asked, as he pushed off the wall.

"Annabelle... she wasn't there." Ruby stammered out. "Annabelle wasn't there!"

"Ruby? What are..." Headmistress Good witch started to ask, only to get caught off.

"Annabelle! Jaune and Pyrrha's daughter! She wasn't there. Her body wasn't there! She must still be alive!" Ruby's face grew red and her hands clenched into tight fists. "AND WE LEFT HER OUT THERE!"

"Qrow?" Glynda looked to the aged huntsman. "Is what she's saying true? Could..."

"It could... but... I... I... don't know."

"We have to get back there and start looking for her!" Ruby screamed at the top of her lungs.

/==/

Annabelle whistled a light tune as she skipped through the forest. Floating in the air propped up on what could be only be described as fluctuating strings of green energy... the Seamstress and the Barber scanned the surrounding forest with dull unblinking button eyes. A crimson stained steel knitting needle and pair of heavy fabric shears at the ready.

Annabelle paid none of that any attention, as she continued to skip through the forest. Her once strawberry-blond hair faded to nearly pure white with a blue tint. Her once slightly fair completion having also faded becoming deathly pale. All she cared about was that Mommy and Daddy where with her. That was all that mattered... well that and hurting those that let her get hurt.

The crack of a branch caused Annabelle to stop and just turn her head towards the sound. Leading the way through the underbrush the slavering maw of a lone beowulf. Annabelle giggled sweetly as she turned her palms skyward and then flicked her wrist forward.

The Barber struck from the right while the Seamstress hit from the left. Razor edged shears severed inky flesh as a steel needle buried itself in the beasts red eye. The animated dolls, now puppets returned to their perches, as Annabelle tilted her head to the side and watched the fell creature's corpse dissolve.

"Bye, bye beastie."

[notasapleasure]

WIP game

Rules: You will be given a word. Share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that start with each letter of that word.

I was tagged by @stripedroseandsketchpads with the word NEAT. Thanks so much for the tag, Kay!!

I started at the end of my draft and worked up and back from T to N. There wasn't much with N and I had to go a way back through a couple of chapters

"Nah, I think you're just jealous."

Everything that happened next did so in the blink of an eye, even as I reeled to my feet to intervene.

As though he'd been holding her up, Biks, too, collapsed.

The shield, sword, and brace of spears were too old to be of use, the wood crumbling and the metal soft and easily bent.

Tagging @ruby-red-inky-blue , @notabuddhist , @boatcats , @elwenyere , @batri-jopa and anyone else who would like to join in! Also, optimistic for scraps of magaluf or other aus, I tag @distressednoise :3

Oh YES and you all need a word...I tag you with: WORD