#thanks for the prompt spire!

[theother-victoria]

an eye for an eye

SYNOPSIS: what happens when you stick your nose where it doesn't belong?

CHARACTERS: dr ratio

TAGS: major character death, small town horror, murder mystery, 2.6k+ wc

TAGLIST: @tragedy-of-commons, @mitsvriii, @harque, @akutasoda, @hazyue, @gabile18, @khoncore

NOTES: I procrastinated real hard on this and managed to thug it out in the span of like.... four days

written for @/stellaronhvnters’ stellaween festival event! I chose the prompt skeletons

special thanks to my dearest pookie @tragedy-of-commons once again for proofreading this for me so last-minute!

It’s never a good sign when a small town ends up on the map, for one reason or another. Small towns are small for a reason. They keep to themselves, its residents living peaceful, crime-free lives and concern themselves with their own problems.

So when news of skeletons being discovered in people’s yards in a small town that isn’t even listed on the maps makes it onto national television, it takes the entire nation and even the world by storm. 

It’s all people can talk about as the case unfolds. Reporters are flooding into the town until they outnumber the residents living there. With the sudden spotlight, it was revealed that the town was so small it had a police force that consisted of a handful of members and a single car. And with a police force that small, a proper forensics department was out of the question. 

Hence, where you and your colleague, Veritas Ratio came in. The town council had called in for a detective and forensics team to assist with the investigation. When he saw the state the lab was in, he had sighed louder than you’d ever heard him.

“The absolute disarray of this place! Barely any equipment either! How in the world do they expect me to properly work with this lack of resources?”

You have to pointedly glare at him.

“Veritas, have you forgotten they’re painfully underfunded…? They probably had no need for police and forensics either.”

He merely clicked his tongue and glared back at you. 

There’s not much that points toward a bright future for this town. It’s so isolated up in the mountains that the nearest town is an hour drive away. There’s only one stoplight and one stop sign. (Not that there was much traffic to begin with…) The largest store around is the dollar store at the end of the only street running through town. Restaurant options are equally limited. There’s a 24/7 diner that’s staffed by one person, a twitchy-looking waitress, along with some fast-food options here and there. A second-run movie theater is the only option for entertainment around here. A single-track railway with a train that only stops once per day is the only way in or out of here besides car. Coniferous and evergreen trees surround the town like a cage and it’s always foggy. Sunlight rarely peeks through the thick cloud cover and there’s a persistent smell of smoke from something burning elsewhere on the mountain. The most important building is the church located on Main Street. Sometimes, its spire is the only thing visible amidst the heavy fog and smoke. 

There’s only one place for lodging- a run-down motel with a flickering neon sign and always vacant. A dingy room quickly becomes your home away from home. It always smells mildly of mold and mildew with a strong floral smell that seemed like an attempt to cover up the neglect, but failed miserably at doing so. The electricity frequently spikes or cuts out, meaning you’ve already fried the motel’s hot water kettle that you relied on for your morning coffee. The room itself looked like a relic from the past, with its yellowing pastel wallpaper, an uncomfortably lumpy mattress that the two of you are forced to share, floral sheets, and threadbare patchwork quilt. The cheap carpet looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since it was installed and the heater hacks and shudders to life like it’s on its last legs. There’s always the distant hum of fluorescent lights and it’s like a persistent itch at the back of your mind that you just can’t scratch and it’s driving you insane. 

This town is unwelcoming, and so are its residents. Silence follows you and Veritas wherever you go. Shopkeepers are as rude as they can be without getting a complaint filed. When passing through a neighborhood, mothers rush to get their children inside the house and openly glare at you from their rotting porches. Witnesses were downright uncooperative during questioning, even rude at times. 

This town is hiding something, and you don’t like it. 

But even with the increased police presence in town and nightly neighborhood watches that have been set up, the cases kept piling up. Every morning a call would come in from a panicked resident about a fresh mound of dirt in their yard that only meant one thing. Someone would head over to dig it up and sure enough, there’d be a skeleton there. Some were yellowed with age, but most of them were new from their glistening ivory hue,  Some of them were pristine while others still had bits of flesh and blood clinging to them. Forensic analysis revealed that the skeletons belonged to people of all ages too. No one was seemingly safe. 

Some of these victims had been alive the day prior too. Meaning that not only were you dealing with a potential case of illegal exhumation, but also first-degree murder. 

A small team of forensic scientists working with Veritas would accompany you, where they’d gather samples before heading back to the lab while you and your partner would spend the rest of the day questioning people. 

But while he was in the lab, you had discovered something very interesting during questionings.

“Madam, it would be in your best interests if you would cooperate.”

You fixate the trembling woman before you with a piercing, unblinking gaze. She pointedly avoids your eyes, but you’ve always had a way with extracting information from the most uncooperative of witnesses.

“...”

“...”

“F-Fine! I’ll speak! That man was a longtime business rival of ours! He died several years ago of a heart attack, but I have no idea how he ended up in my front yard, I swear!”

So the deceased all had some connection with where- or rather, who- they were found. A victim of a greedy loan shark drowning in interest, a bitter and jealous ex-husband, and so on. It keeps popping up so often that it’s not a coincidence anymore. 

Still, there’s one thing that sticks out to you.

“Were all these bodies exhumed? I noticed that cremation is almost unheard of in this town in the coroner’s reports that you sent me, despite the crematorium being conveniently located in the church and a cheaper alternative to a traditional burial,”  you say one night as you’re cross-examining testimonies with newspaper clippings. Veritas looks over at you from where he sits on the bed. “Do we have a potential gravedigger on our hands?”

He pauses. 

“Perhaps a visit to the town cemetery is in order.”

The next day, the both of you arrive at the cemetery soon after the gates open.

The first thing that stands out to you is how small it is. It’s smaller than the average cemetery, with very few tombstones. The only thing breaking it are the small farms here and there. 

“Well, this certainly doesn’t line up with the amount of skeletons that have been discovered as of late,” you grumble as you get out of the car. Ratio nods and shields his eyes from the early morning sun that’s already beating down onto your backs. 

The weathered faces of some of the tombstones as you walk by makes you pause. They’re ancient. 

You shudder. You try not to think about decomposing bodies inadvertently becoming fertilizer for the farms next door…

Clearly, this town has had a long history. Perhaps it was prospering long ago. But now, it’s on the verge of becoming a ghost town with only spiteful, suspicious people left. And in a place as small as this, history must be traceable for at least several generations back. 

As you walk amongst the tombstones, you notice that very few of the graves have had the earth in front of them disturbed.

“So maybe we don’t have a gravedigger after all,” you murmur as you pull out your phone. A quick phone call to the church later and you learn that yes, the church is aware of what’s been happening. No, they did not receive or approve any requests to exhume a body, much less several. 

You click your tongue irritatedly after hanging up. There goes that hypothesis. It’s clear that while some bodies have been exhumed, most of them were not. 

So now what?

Later that night at the 24/7 diner, you discuss your findings so far while sipping on reheated instant coffee and trying to stomach dry pancakes. The sun has already gone down and the street lights outside flicker weakly to life. 

“The biggest discovery my team and I have made is that this all seems to be the work of several different people, but that was at the start of the case. There has not been anything groundbreaking since then.”

You raise an eyebrow. He senses the question in your gaze. 

“Forensic testing has revealed that maceration has occurred through several different ways. Bleaching, boiling, and crude hacking are the three most common ones. There have been some attempts at more sophisticated methods, such as enzymatic and chemical maceration, but those have been crude at best. It got the job done, but the bones had severe surface damage and were shrunken. Meanwhile, some were in pristine condition and barely damaged.”

“So they know about the various techniques, but they don’t have the knowledge and experience to carry it out properly?”

He nods. “Precisely. And even within the three most common methods, there were varying degrees of success present.”

“That… certainly doesn’t seem like the work of one person.”

You sip your now-cold coffee and wince at the sour aftertaste before pulling out your findings. 

“Here’s what me and my partner have discovered. The biggest thing is that every skeleton seems to have a connection to where they were found.”

“Elaborate.”

“All of them have been found in people’s yards, and it turns out the deceased had some sort of connection with the homeowner while they were alive. A bitter ex-husband, a family feud that has stretched back generations, the sole surviving member of a family that was murdered several years ago…”

You sigh. “The connections are endless. I could go on forever.”

You cast your gaze around the diner. Your nails drum against the red formica tabletops and you tap your foot absentmindedly against the checkered floors that are slightly greasy and sticky. The only other people there are a family of four with shifty eyes and the waitress that’s been here since you arrived. She jolts and looks the other way.

“For a town this small, it sure is harboring a lotta desire for revenge,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. Your gaze lazily drifts around before landing on the lighting fixture above the bar and settles there. 

…

Your eyes narrow as your tired mind begins putting the seemingly unrelated pieces together. Veritas’ sharp eyes don’t miss it.

The actions of several different people with varying degrees of success… a collective desire for revenge… 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“This is just a thought but…you don’t think it’s the whole town that’s in on this, right…? I mean-”

He suddenly shushes you as he gets up. It’s only when you return to your room that he gestures for you to continue speaking.

“- I mean, the one thing unifying everything is the desire for revenge, which every resident seems to harbor a bit of,” you continue as you get ready for bed. “Cremation is an unusual option here. Most people are buried instead. But the cemetery is also surprisingly small. But why is that? The answer is that most people are not dying of natural causes. Most people are being murdered out of a desire for revenge with no hope for any sort of burial or funeral. So my earlier gravedigger hypothesis is incorrect now. Did your analysis reveal signs of skeletal trauma on some of them?”

“Many of them,” corrects Veritas. 

Despite the late hour, your mind is fully awake as all the pieces finally start falling into place together. 

“Relationships are messy and the residents of this town are no exception. The deceased often had multiple conflicts and grudges with other people. What I suspect happened is they were murdered and then dumped into someone’s yard that the deceased also had connections with to pin the blame on them. Which begs the question: where were the police in all of this?”

You pause to catch your breath.

“But the police mean nothing if everyone is in on it, even if unknowingly, correct? This also explains the absolute disrepair the police and forensics department are in as well.”

Veritas meets the knowing glint in your eyes.

“Let’s say that I’m the murderer. I killed you because of a grudge I bore, stripped you of your flesh until only skeletal remains are left, which I then buried in your neighbor’s yard that you also had some conflict with to pin the blame on them. The neighbor then calls the cops, but both they and the cop at the scene have done the same thing before, even though they don’t know of the other’s actions. Someone will be sentenced to jail, but they will inevitably end up getting killed by someone else for another grudge before they’re off to jail and out of reach for good. The body gets hacked away and planted into someone else’s yard and the cycle repeats. Everyone has gotten their hands dirty. There’s no way for this to be closed because everyone has played a part in it. It’s like trying to untangle a never-ending knot.”

The exhaustion of the day is beginning to catch up with you. You climb into bed next to him, shifting to avoid the lumps in the mattress that’ll give you a backache tomorrow morning. 

“Revenge is a scary thing. They’ll wipe themselves out at this point,” you sleepily murmur. 

Veritas doesn’t meet your gaze. You can see the gears rapidly spinning in his mind before arriving at the same conclusion. 

“... It’s best if we leave as soon as possible,” is all he says. 

The next morning, you authorize a search warrant on every household in town. There, they find incriminating evidence. A butcher knife and cutting board with dried human blood seeping into its cracks. A stock pot with bleach still in it. Scissors, knives, and scalpels with hardened chunks of human flesh still stuck to them. Guns, knives, and other weapons of murder. 

A mass arrest is carried out to the flashing cameras and interest of the nation. You and Veritas are congratulated on your work and rewarded with a shiny promotion. You’re finally able to head home, much to your joy. You’re eager to leave that unsettling place behind for good. The case is closed and it’s time to relax before moving onto your next assignment. 

At least, that’s what you had anticipated. 

The town’s residents wiped themselves off the map. It’s now a ghost town. Cars rust from the assault of the elements and ivy begins to overtake the brick buildings. Shops and houses are broken into and pilfered. In a matter of weeks, the town is forgotten by the few that still remember it. The only people its shattered windows see now are curious urban explorers. 

But nothing stays buried for long. Bodies, grudges, secrets. They stay buried for a reason though, until an unfortunate soul decides to wander along and unearth them to satiate their burning curiosity. 

And who said grudges were confined to one region only?

So is it really that surprising when your body ends up in his yard, neatly diced up and packaged into a box, miles away from that cursed town? 

An eye for an eye. That’s the town’s motto. Nothing stays buried for long. 

He stumbled upon something he shouldn’t have seen. Now, they took something equally valuable from him in return.

enjoyed my work? the taglist is open!

@ theother-victoria, do not copy, repost, modify, translate, or feed to ai

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

🎃 Kinktober 2024: Ravenous

Ravenous: You have never allowed your boyfriend to touch you when your period comes, in fact, you avoid him. Morpheus has a problem with this and wants to know why.

Warnings: Explicit Language, Explicit Material.

To Note: Morpheus x AFAB!Reader

Prompt: Bathing

Word Count: ~5.5k

You wander through the ever-shifting landscape of the Dreaming, your feet crunching over crystalline paths that morph beneath your steps. A glowing butterfly flits past, its wings trailing stardust. You pause, taking in the incredible beauty, but there's a knot in your stomach that beauty alone can't untangle.

Morpheus' palace looms in the distance, an architectural marvel of swirling spires and shadowy alcoves. Usually, you'd find yourself pulled toward it, eager to see him. But for the past two nights, you've kept your distance, skirting around the edges of his domain like a thief avoiding a guard.

You know he's noticed. The Dreaming has an uncanny way of reflecting his emotions. Tonight, a thick fog curls around the trees and the sky carries an unsettling shade of indigo.

You make your way to the edge of the Dreaming, where the landscape turns darker and more mysterious. Cain's house stands tall and menacing, shadows clinging to its corners. Abel's house is smaller, cozier, though it exudes a melancholic air.

You knock on Abel's door. The creak of the door echoes in the silence as Abel peeks out, eyes wide with curiosity and a hint of nervousness.

"Y/N? What brings you here at this hour?" he asks, voice soft but tinged with surprise.

"I needed a place to stay for a while," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

Abel opens the door wider, ushering you inside with a welcoming gesture. "Of course, you're always welcome here."

The interior is cluttered with books and oddities, each item telling a story only Abel could narrate. He offers you a seat by the fireplace, its warmth seeping into your bones.

"You know," Abel starts, fidgeting with his hands, "Morpheus has been... different lately. Brooding more than usual."

You nod but say nothing. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words. Finally, Abel speaks again.

"He's been wondering why you avoid him every month. It weighs on him."

A pang of guilt twists in your chest. "I just... need some time alone sometimes," you murmur.

Abel nods slowly, as if understanding more than you say. "We all have our secrets," he says gently.

As you sit by the fireplace, a sharp pain twists in your abdomen. You grimace, pressing a hand against your stomach. Your arm trembles with the effort to hold steady.

Abel notices immediately, his eyes widening with concern. "Are you alright?" His voice carries genuine worry.

"It's just a mortal thing," you manage to say, attempting to brush it off. "Cramping, it'll go away in a couple of days."

Abel's brow furrows, not entirely understanding but empathizing nonetheless. "That sounds unpleasant. Wait here."

He hurries to a small cupboard, rummaging through its contents. You lean back in the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the cramps persist, each wave of pain more insistent than the last.

Abel returns with a variety of herbs and begins to prepare some tea. His movements are careful and deliberate, each action imbued with a sense of purpose. He glances at you occasionally, concern etched into his features.

"This should help," he says, setting a kettle over the fire. The water begins to bubble almost instantly in the Dreaming's peculiar way. Abel's hands move deftly, mixing herbs into a small teapot.

"Thank you," you say softly, appreciating his kindness despite your discomfort.

"You're always welcome here," Abel repeats, more firmly this time. He watches as the tea steeps, its aroma filling the room with a soothing scent.

You close your eyes for a moment, focusing on your breathing. The cramps ease slightly as the warm atmosphere of Abel's home envelops you. He pours the tea into a delicate cup and hands it to you with a reassuring smile.

"Drink this," he instructs gently. "It should help ease the pain."

You take the cup and sip slowly, feeling the warmth spread through your body. The tea has a calming effect, and gradually, the cramps begin to subside.

"Thank you," you say again, more earnestly this time.

Abel nods, settling into a chair opposite you. The fire crackles softly between you, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

"Is this why you spend a couple of days avoiding Lord Morpheus every month? Because you don't want him to see you in pain?" The tea cup pauses against your lips.

"Something like that," you quietly murmur, eyes dropping to your clenched fingers resting in your lap.

You sit in silence, the tea's warmth slowly easing your discomfort. Abel sits across from you, his eyes kind but curious. The fire crackles, filling the space between you with its soft, comforting sound.

Your mind drifts, thinking of Morpheus and the tangled emotions that swirl around your relationship with him. Each time the cramps start, you retreat into yourself, unwilling to show this vulnerable side to him. You know it causes him pain, but the thought of him seeing you like this makes you feel weak. Your periods have always been so messy, bloody.

The air suddenly shifts. You feel it before you see it—a ripple in the fabric of the Dreaming. Abel's eyes dart toward the door, and your heart sinks.

Morpheus strides into Abel's home with a fury that makes the shadows tremble. His presence fills the room, making it hard to breathe. The stars in his eyes blaze like distant suns, and you can feel his anger radiating off him in waves.

"Y/N," he says, his voice low but filled with a barely contained storm.

Abel rises quickly, almost knocking over his chair in his haste. "Lord Morpheus," he begins, trying to placate.

"Leave us," Morpheus commands, not taking his eyes off you.

Abel nods hastily and retreats into another room, leaving you alone with the Lord of Dreams. You set your tea down carefully, your hands trembling slightly.

"Morpheus, you can't just kick Abel out of his own home,” you begin, but he cuts you off with a look that silences any words you might have had.

"Why have you been avoiding me?" His voice, cold and laced with an undercurrent of hurt, cuts through the air.

You swallow hard, trying to find the right words. "It's complicated," you finally say, looking down at your hands.

"Complicated? Every month you vanish without a word. Do you think I don't notice? Do you think it doesn't affect me? How you intentionally avoid me?"

"It's messy!" You blurt out, the words tumbling from your mouth before you can stop them. "I'm on my period, okay? And every time we're together, we usually end up having sex. I didn't want you to be turned off by—"

His eyes blaze with an intensity you've never seen before. The stars in his eyes flare red as his expression shifts from intense confusion to anger. He steps closer, his presence almost overwhelming.

"Do you think so little of me?" His voice is a low growl, each word dripping with insulted fury. "That I would be turned off by a naturally occurring event that signifies fertility?"

Before you can respond, the world shifts around you. In an instant, you're no longer in Abel's home but in Morpheus' palace. The sudden change disorients you, and you find yourself lying on a bed with pristine white sheets.

You're naked.

A wave of mortification crashes over you, but Morpheus is far too insulted to care about your embarrassment. His eyes are dark and stormy as he stands at the foot of the bed.

"Do not ever presume to know what I find acceptable," he says, his voice a mixture of command and raw emotion.

Before you can process his words or your surroundings, he's upon you. His movements are swift and deliberate as he parts your thighs and lowers himself between them.

"Morpheus—" Your protest dies in your throat as his tongue flicks through your folds. The shock of it sends a jolt through your entire body.

His touch is skilled and unyielding, his anger fueling every movement. He devours you with a hunger that leaves no room for doubt or hesitation. Each flick of his tongue is a statement, each caress a declaration.

You gasp and writhe beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity of his actions. The pristine white sheets crumple beneath you as your body responds to him in ways you can't control. There is no room for embarrassment, no space for hesitation. Morpheus' hands are iron bands on your waist, pinning you to the bed as his mouth works relentlessly against your cramping cunt.

You feel the wetness of your own body, the slick heat of your arousal mingling with the blood of your cycle, and you tense, anticipating revulsion. But it never comes. Instead, his grip tightens, and he delves deeper, his tongue lapping at you with a fervor that sends your thoughts scattering. The taste of iron doesn't deter him; if anything, it seems to spur him on, his movements growing more aggressive, more demanding.

The white sheets are a canvas for the passion unfolding, staining crimson with each passing second. Your hips buck against his face, seeking more, seeking release. Morpheus' eyes, those twin stars, gaze up the length of your body, piercing and unyielding. There is no pity in his eyes, no disgust—only a raw, untamed desire that takes your breath away.

His fingers dig into your hips as he holds you down, the pressure of his touch sending shivers up your spine. You can feel the moisture of your period mingling with the wetness of your arousal, your body responding fiercely to his aggressive dominance.

His tongue is relentless, lapping at your sensitive flesh with a hunger that seems insatiable. Each flick and stroke sends waves of pleasure coursing through your veins, replacing the dull ache of your cramps with an intensity that leaves you gasping for air.

You squirm beneath him, the sensation of his mouth on your cunt overwhelming. But Morpheus is unyielding, his grip firm as he keeps you pinned to the bed. You're powerless to move, your body at the mercy of his skilled tongue and the pleasure it wields.

You're aware of the smeared blood on his face, a stark contrast to his porcelain skin. It's streaked across his cheeks, his chin, even his lips are tinged with red. The sight of it should be grotesque, but it only serves to heighten the raw, primal desire that's taken hold of you both.

The white sheets beneath you are a now mess of red and wetness, a testament to the fervor of his actions. You can't help but marvel at the way he's thrown aside all sense of propriety, his need to claim you, to mark you as his own, outweighing any concern for the physical evidence of your cycle.

The room fills with the sounds of your gasps and the wet noises of his mouth on your cunt. His tongue darts inside you, tasting you deeply, before moving back to your clit, where he sucks and nips at the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Pleasure builds within you, a tightening pressure in your lower belly that threatens to snap with each passing second. You're teetering on the edge, your body wound tight with need.

Morpheus senses how close you are, his movements growing increasingly frenzied. He redoubles his efforts, his tongue lashing against your clit with renewed vigor.

With a final, drawn-out moan, you succumb to the overwhelming pleasure. Your orgasm rips through you, a tempest that sweeps away all thought, all reason. Your body convulses beneath his unyielding touch, waves of ecstasy crashing over you as you ride out the intensity of your release.

Morpheus rises above you, his face smeared with the evidence of your shared passion. His eyes, those distant stars, are alight with a hunger that seems to consume the very air around you. You can feel his gaze like a physical touch, tracing the lines of your body, marking you as his own.

"This will be the last time you hide away from me when you are on your period," he declares, his voice resonating with the weight of his authority.

Before you can fully process his words, he bends down and sweeps you into his arms. His clothes melt away as if they were never there, leaving him as naked as you are. You can feel the coolness of his skin against your own, a stark contrast to the heat that still lingers in your core.

He carries you effortlessly through the palace, each step a silent promise of what is to come. You find yourself in a room bathed in soft, golden light. At its center is a large bath, steam rising from its surface in tantalizing swirls. The scent of perfume fills the air, soothing and intoxicating in equal measure.

Morpheus steps down into the bath, holding you securely in his arms. The water is the perfect temperature, hot enough to soothe your aching muscles but not so hot as to scald. He lowers you onto his lap, your back pressing against his chest, your body cradled by his.

Under the water, his hands glide over your skin with a tenderness that belies his earlier fervor. He takes his time, washing away the evidence of your cycle with gentle strokes. Each pass of his fingers over your thighs sends ripples of pleasure through you, the sensation heightened by the warm embrace of the water.

You can't help the soft moans that escape your lips as he caresses you, his touch both a comfort and a tease. You're hyper-aware of his hardness pressing against your back, a reminder that he is far from sated.

His lips find the nape of your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His teeth graze your earlobe, nipping lightly before soothing the sting with his tongue. He's smearing more of your blood on your body but you don't even care. You shudder in his arms, your body responding to his touch with an eagerness that leaves you breathless.

His hands continue their exploration, fingers tracing patterns on your inner thighs. Each touch sends sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins, your arousal building once again under his skillful manipulation.

The water laps at your skin as he shifts beneath you, his own need evident in the way his breath hitches when you unconsciously grind against him. His fingers delve between your legs, stroking your sensitive flesh with a maddening slowness that has you panting for more.

His fingers slide through your folds, slick with your arousal and the remnants of your cycle. The water around you turns a delicate shade of pink before evaporating as he continues to stroke you, his touch both gentle and insistent.

"You will never hide from me again," he murmurs against your ear, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine. "I will have you, all of you, whenever and however I please."

His fingers dip inside you, curling in a way that has you gasping for air. You can feel the stretch as he adds another finger, your body yielding to his relentless invasion. Each thrust of his hand is a reminder of his dominance, his ownership over your pleasure.

"Look at you," he breathes, his lips brushing against your neck. "So responsive, so eager for my touch. You're mine, Y/N. Every part of you belongs to me."

Your hands clutch at his arms, your nails digging into his skin as you ride the waves of pleasure that crash over you. The water sloshes around you, the sound mingling with your desperate whimpers and the wet noises of his fingers pumping in and out of your cunt.

"Morpheus," you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper. "Please..."

"Please what?" he teases, his fingers slowing to a torturous pace. "Tell me what you want, Y/N."

You can't form the words, your mind too clouded with desire. Instead, you grind against his hand, seeking the friction that will send you over the edge.

He chuckles darkly, the sound vibrating against your back. "So impatient," he chides, his fingers resuming their relentless rhythm. "But I suppose I can indulge you... just this once."

His thumb finds your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with a precision that leaves you breathless. The dual sensations of his fingers inside you and his thumb on your clit are too much to bear, and you feel the familiar tightening in your lower belly as your orgasm builds.

"Come for me, Y/N," he commands, his voice resonating with the weight of his authority. "Let me feel you shatter in my arms."

His words are your undoing. With a cry that echoes off the walls of the bathing chamber, you succumb to the pleasure that courses through your veins. Your body convulses around his fingers, the intensity of your release leaving you boneless and gasping for air.

As the aftershocks ripple through you, Morpheus withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his lips. You watch, entranced, as he licks your bloody release from his skin, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Delicious," he purrs, his gaze filled with a hunger that makes your heart race. His hands grip your hips, lifting you effortlessly above his lap and closer to his chest. He positions you above his hardened erection, the tip of his cock prodding against your entrance in demanding need.

"This is just the beginning," he promises, his voice a low rumble that sends a thrill of anticipation coursing through you. "I'm going to take you, over and over again, until you understand that there is nowhere you can hide from me. You are mine, Y/N. And I will claim you, in every way possible."

With that, he thrusts upward, sheathing him cock inside you in one swift motion. The sensation of being filled so completely takes your breath away, and you can't help but cry out, your voice echoing off the walls of the chamber.

He sets a punishing pace, each thrust of his hips driving you higher and higher. The water around you splashes with the force of his movements, the sound mingling with your cries of pleasure and the wet slap of skin against skin.

"Morpheus," you moan, your body trembling with the force of his onslaught. "I can't... it's too much..."

"You can," he insists, his voice harsh with need. "And you will. You will take everything I give you, and you will beg for more, for your indiscretion again me."

The water in the bath churns around you, the once-calm surface now a tempest of white-capped waves as Morpheus' hips piston beneath you. His cock plunges in and out of your body with a relentless intensity that leaves you gasping for air. Each powerful thrust steals the breath from your lungs, your cries of pleasure echoing off the tiled walls of the chamber.

You can feel the erotic friction of his cock as it drags against your inner walls, the slick glide of him coated in the blood and tissue of your uterus. The scent of your favorite perfume mingles with the metallic tang of blood, an intoxicating blend that seems to heighten the raw, primal urgency of Morpheus' claim on you.

His hands are like iron bands around your waist, holding you in place as he takes what he wants, what he needs. You can feel the coolness of his skin where it meets yours, a stark contrast to the heat that radiates from his body. His breath is hot against your neck, each harsh exhalation sending shivers down your spine.

You are powerless to do anything but take the punishing rhythm he sets with a sob, impaled on his cock as he drives into you again and again. The water around you is a frothy pink from the evidence of your shared passion, the visual testament to his dominance over you for only mere moments before being carried away by magic.

"You belong to me," he growls in your ear. "Every part of you is mine to claim, mine to pleasure, mine to punish."

His words shatter any remaining resistance you might have harbored and your cunt clenches like a vice around his cock. You surrender to him completely, your body yielding to his relentless demand. You can feel the tension in you straining for release, threatening to snap with each punishing thrust of his cock.

Your hands clutch at the edges of the bath, your fingers scrabbling for purchase against the slick tile. The sensation of being so utterly at his mercy is both terrifying and exhilarating, a potent combination that sends your senses spiraling out of control. And the thoughts of your period cramps far, far away.

The sound of your bodies moving together fills the room, a symphony of wet slaps and desperate moans. Not to mention pleased grunts. You can hear the splash of water as it spills over the sides of the bath, the droplets hitting the floor in a staccato rhythm that matches the frenzied tempo of Morpheus' hips.

Your back arches off his chest as he hits a particularly deep angle, the tip of his cock brushing against that secret spot within you that sends stars exploding behind your eyelids. You cry out, the intensity of the sensation nearly too much to bear.

"Morpheus," you wail, your fingers digging into whatever you can find. Flesh, tile, hair.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice a harsh whisper in your ear. "Give in to it, Y/N. Let go and let me feel you come undone around my cock."

His words are the final push you need. With a scream that echoes off the walls, you shatter in his arms, your body convulsing around his cock as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. The force of your orgasm triggers his own, and with a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he fills you with his seed.

You gasp while slumped within Morpheus' arms, your head leaning back to rest on his shoulder. The steam from the bath swirled around you, mingling with the lingering scent of perfume and the faint tang of blood. Your chest heaves with each ragged breath, your body trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Morpheus hold you securely, his grip firm yet gentle. But you knew he isn't finished with you. He is never one to let a slight go unpunished, and in his eyes, your attempt to hide from him during your cycle was an affront he wouldn't easily forgive.

His breath is hot against your ear as he whispers, "You thought you could escape me? That I would let you hide away when I desire you most?"

You try to form a response, but all that escapes your lips is a choked moan as his hands began to move again. One hand slides to cup your breast, fingers teasing and pinching your sensitive nipple. The other hand moves lower, fingers brushing against your clit with maddening slowness.

"You belong to me," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that draws squirms from your body. "And I will remind you of that until you can think of nothing else."

His cock is still hard inside you, a constant reminder of his unyielding need. You can feel him pulsing within you, each throb sending ripples of pleasure through your already sensitized body.

His hands return to your waist, lifting you effortlessly from his lap. The water around you is frothy white, no longer tinged by your blood. He rises from his seat and positions you so that you're bent over the side of the large bath, your hands braced against the cool tile. Your lip quivers and you whimper knowing what is coming next.

He is a passionate lover, but also very, very petty.

You feel his fingers trace the curve of your ass before he gives it a sharp smack, the sound echoing off the walls of the chamber. You can't help but yelp, the sting of his hand a stark contrast to the pleasure that still courses through your veins. Your nails scrape the bath tiles as your cunt clenches.

Your breathing quickens as Morpheus' hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh. The anticipation builds within you, a delicious tension that coils in your lower belly. You are acutely aware of the cool air on your skin, the remnants of the bathwater dripping from your body in a steady rhythm that matches the pounding of your heart.

He positions himself behind you, the tip of his cock nudging against your entrance. You feel a momentary stretch as he pushes forward, your body yielding to his relentless advance. He fills you completely, his cock buried to the hilt inside your cunt. A low moan escapes your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls of the chamber.

His thrusts start off slow and measured, each one sending waves of pleasure rippling through your body. The water in the bath sloshes around you, the once-calm surface now a churning storm of white-capped waves. You can hear the wet sounds of your bodies moving together, the erotic symphony punctuated by your desperate moans and Morpheus' answering grunts.

"Hold it," he commands, his voice a low growl that resonates with the weight of his authority. "Do not dare to find your release until I give you permission."

You can feel the tension in your body build, your muscles straining as you fight against the rising tide of your orgasm. Each powerful thrust of his cock pushes you closer and closer to the edge, the exquisite friction threatening to shatter your resolve.

Your fingers clutch at the edge of the bath, your knuckles white from the force of your grip. The coolness of the tile is a stark contrast to the heat that radiates from your body. You can feel the sweat beading on your forehead, the droplets trickling down your face and mingling with the water that splashes around you.

Your cunt clenches around his cock, the sensation of being filled so completely overwhelming your senses. You can feel every ridge and vein of his hardened length as he drives into you again and again. The sound of your bodies slapping together fills the room, a testament to the raw, primal fucking that he is subjecting you to.

"Please," you beg, your voice barely above a whisper. "Please, I can't..."

"You can," he insists, his voice harsh with need. "And you will. You will hold your orgasm until I decide you've earned the right."

His hand moves to your clit, fingers circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with maddening precision. The pleasure is almost too much to bear, the tight coil of tension in your belly winding tighter and tighter with each passing second.

You sob in ecstasy, your body trembling with the effort it takes to hold back the inevitable. The water around you turns frothy and pink once more, a visual testament to the brutality of his claim on you. Your cries of pleasure echo off the walls, the sound mingling with the wet slap of skin against skin and the relentless splash of water against the sides of the bath.

His cock plunges in and out of your body with a relentless intensity, each thrust driving you higher and higher. You can feel the pressure building within you, a delicious ache that threatens to consume you entirely.

"Morpheus," you moan, your voice a plea for release. "Please!"

"Not yet," he growls, his fingers working your clit with a ruthless efficiency. "You will wait for my command. You will surrender to me completely, or you will not come at all."

The tension within you is almost unbearable, a tightly wound spring that threatens to snap with each punishing thrust of his cock. You can feel the beginnings of your orgasm stirring deep within your cunt, a fiery ball of need that claws its way to the surface.

But you know you must wait. You must endure the sweet torment of his dominance, the relentless push and pull of pleasure and denial. You must hold your orgasm in check until he deems you worthy of release.

And so, you bite your lip and force yourself to breathe through the overwhelming sensations that flood your body. You focus on the rhythm of his thrusts, the feel of his cock moving within you, the sound of his voice as he commands you to obey.

You are his to command, his to pleasure, his to punish. And you would endure a thousand agonies if it meant earning his approval, his affection, his adoration.

With a final, desperate sob, you cling to the edge of the bath and wait for his command. The tension within you builds to a fever pitch, each passing second a sweet agony that threatens to unravel your very soul.

"Now," he says, his voice a harsh whisper in your ear. "Come for me, Y/N. Let go and let me feel you shatter around my cock."

With his permission granted, you let yourself fall over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave. Your body convulses around his cock, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain. You cry out, your voice echoing off the walls of the chamber as you surrender to the ecstasy that courses through your veins.

His own release follows swiftly on the heels of yours, his cock pulsing within you as he fills you with his seed. You can feel the heat of his orgasm as it spills into your body, the sensation sending aftershocks of pleasure rippling through your cunt.

As your body finally relaxes, the intensity of the experience leaving you completely spent, your knees give out beneath you. But Morpheus is there, his strong arms catching you before you can collapse against cold tile. He lifts you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest as he steps out of the bath.

Water cascades down your bodies, the droplets tracing the contours of your skin as he carries you to a plush chaise lounge set against the far wall of the chamber. The fabric is soft beneath you, a stark contrast to the hardness of his body as he settles beside you.

His hands move over you with a gentle touch, washing away the remnants of your lovemaking with a warm, wet cloth. You can hear the soft rustle of the cloth against your skin, feel it's gentle caresses on your over sensitized body.

Morpheus' movements are slow, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin as he cleans you. His touch is both tender and possessive, a silent declaration of his claim on you.

You watch him through half-lidded eyes, your gaze drifting over the sharp planes of his face. His hair is damp, the inky strands clinging to his forehead. His eyes, normally so distant and unreadable, are soft with affection as he looks down at you.

His lips curve into a gentle smile as he catches you watching him. "You are exquisite," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that resonates deep within your chest. "Even more so when you are thoroughly ravished and sated."

You can't help but moan at his words, the heat creeping up your cheeks a stark contrast to the coolness of your skin.

"No thanks to you," you moan out. "Was this really necessary?" His smile widens at your response, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

"Indeed it was, beloved," he murmurs, continuing his ministrations, his hands moving lower to cleanse your most intimate areas. The cloth is warm against your sensitive flesh, the sensation sending ripples of pleasure through your body. You can't help but squirm beneath his touch, your cunt clenching reflexively at the erotic stimulation.

His fingers brush against your clit, the barest of touches that sends a jolt of pleasure coursing through your veins. You gasp, your hips arching off the chaise in response to his touch. His smile takes on a wicked edge as he repeats the motion, his fingers teasing and tormenting you with maddening precision.

"Morpheus," you whimper, your body already responding to his touch despite your recent climax.

"Shh," he soothes, his voice a soft whisper in your ear. "I am simply ensuring that you are clean and comfortable. There is no need for such eagerness... yet. I am not so cruel to not allow you to recover."

His words send a shiver down your spine, the promise of what is to come both exciting and terrifying. You cringe inside, realizing that you are in for it tonight. But for now, you relax into his touch, allowing him to care for you in the aftermath of his irate passion.

His hands move over you with a reverence that takes your breath away, each touch a testament to his love and desire for you. You can feel the tension draining from your body, replaced by a languid sense of contentment that seeps into your very bones.

As he finishes his task, he leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Rest now, my beloved," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "You have pleased me greatly this night."

"Yeah, yeah," you mutter, "you made your point."

Date Published: 10/22/24

Last Edit: 10/22/24

Morpheus Masterlist

Kinktober 2024

[tanzdoesthings]

Birthdays

for the Ancient AU. Five Pebbles and Seven Red Suns celebrates a birthday.

a gift for @ardienothesieno !

“I thought you didn’t do birth-cycles?” Pebbles said as he tilted his head and looked to Suns. His cup clinked against the smooth table, drink sloshing a bit, letting the ice clink against the straw. The room was filled with the low hum of conversation, casual and yet refined. Suns fit in better than Pebbles ever did.

They sipped their drink, as poised as the cycle they met, embodying a silent holiness that Pebbles could never dream of achieving. “No, it is not my usual style,” they reply, “but it seemed valuable to celebrate.”

Void below. What is he supposed to say to… this? All of this! Seven Red Suns taking time out of their busy schedule just to take him out to lunch? He’s an artist and lab tech, for wyrm’s sake, and yet they continue to meet, discussing anything under the sun, and then lower as well. Religion, philosophy, paintings, life, their work on the lifeblood of their civilization. Turning Spires is activating soon, and they’re here. Celebrating his birthcycle.

“Pebbles?” they prompt, bringing him back to the moment. “Is everything alright?”

He nods, taking another sip of his drink. “Just thinking about all that’s happened.”

They raise their glass in agreement, tipping it towards him and then taking another sip. “It’s incredible, really. We always wonder if the cycle has us trapped, and here we are, celebrating it.”

“Tradition, I suppose,” he contemplates, holding the cup on the table.

Suns seems to have noticed the oddities, to his dismay. “We don’t have to celebrate here, you know. I thought it would be nice to take you up here, but you seem… uncomfortable.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious, Suns,” he bites back, harder than he really meant to.

Smoothly, always elegantly, in a single motion, Suns sets their cup on the table, taking Pebbles by the arm and pulling. He almost falls, but manages to keep step with his friend. They travel down the elevator, out onto the street, moving between the flowing crowd.

It takes until they are standing in front of the rolling door to Pebble’s workshop that he realizes what Suns is doing. “Hey- I thought you said no work today!”

Suns unlocks the door. They’ve known the code for many cycles now. “Where do you keep your paints? And an apron, preferably.”

Little Pebbles, standing in the doorway where he was left, stares. “You want to paint?”

“It’s your birthday, yes? You enjoy doing this. I want you to show me.”

It takes another moment before Pebbles snaps back into action, collecting two aprons and moving to hang his mask on the hook- until he remembered Suns was also there. Should he take off his mask-? It would be more difficult to paint with it on- would it be weird?

Maybe it would, except Suns had moved behind him, taking an apron in one hand and holding their own mask in the other, hanging it. Oh. He tries to stop thinking, pulling off his own mask and hanging it side by side. They are smiling at him- have they always been? Their eyes are so vibrant- focus. Paint. Cans are pulled from the cabinet, nozzles fitted and set in front of a blank wall in the workshop.

“It will take some getting used to,” he says, picking up a red can and shaking. “Keep your hand moving, or else the paint will pool and drip.” A piece of paper is handed to Suns, and they reach down to pick up another can. Purple.

They shake it as well, trying a few sprays across the paper. The first two drip, but the third is relatively even. Pebbles watches, and void below is it different having Suns in this workshop. They’re tall, he’s always known this, but even without the mask Suns towers over him. He nods at the test sprays, pointing to the wall.

“We start with a sketch. This will get covered up later, but it’s good reference.” He takes a deep breath, stepping up to the wall. Scholar symbol. That will do. It’s bubbly and big, and Suns moves to add some pearls in around the character.

“Is this good?”

He’s always painted alone, this is so different. It’s good. “Yes, very. I like the way it frames the subject.”

Five Pebbles gets into the rhythm of painting. Shake-shake-shake, spray. Step back, see the big picture. Next color. Repeat. Suns works on the pearls, and they almost glow on the wall, colors weaving together. They’re picking this up well.

“You’re quick,” Suns observes, adding gold to one of the pearls.

“I’ve done this for a long time,” he replies.

More painting. Outlines are added, highlights giving emphasis to the shapes. Suns steps back at this point, letting their friend finish the work.

He steps back, dropping the near-empty canister on the ground. “Well. We did it.”

“Thank you Pebbles.”

“Oh-“ He really had needed to get something on this wall, this had just been a good excuse to-

Suns puts their hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

He nods. It was still so surreal to see Suns without their mask, but there they went, picking the cans up off his floor. He hastily followed, putting caps back on and throwing out the empty ones. It all cleaned up quickly, and they both returned to the cabinet to put away the cans and aprons.

“It’s a shame we must wear these bulky masks and not be able to properly appreciate all the artwork on the walls.” Suns states as they pick up their mask, inspecting it before putting it back on.

“Yeah.”

Suns glances to Pebbles. “Let’s get home. It’s been a long day. Oh- send Moon my regards! I’m still writing a response to her last message,” they laugh, standing and walking to the door.

“Yeah, I’ll make sure she knows.” He follows suit, closing the door behind the two and locking it.

Many cycles later, when he’s running for his life, he’s going to come in this workshop, looking for supplies. He’s going to see the mural, made with the one who set him up to fail. The burns on his hands, his face, all from the void fluid that Suns gave him. And he is going to swallow his despair, and run.

Run far away.

[lostcybertronian]

MegaSound Week - Day 5

Thanks again to @mega-wave-superior

Prompt: Regret

Sorry this is so short and unfocused, I didn’t have much time this week to really think it out.

Set post-TFP Beast Hunters movie.

—-

Megatron transformed and landed heavily on an outcropping, stumbling. He was still unused to his new body, but, like with everything else, he would soon master it.

In the distance, New Iacon, still in a state of reconstruction. Its half-built spires glittered under the rising Cybertronian sun. It was the Autobots’ doing, he knew. The Autobots and whatever Decepticons were left, after all was said and done.

Idly, Megatron wondered if Soundwave was there, living and working amongst them. A laughable concept; Soundwave was most likely dead. He was not at Megatron’s side, and there were no circumstances in which he would defect. Executed, then, for his crimes.

Regret, lately, had come in waves. This one hit him like a tidal wave, crashing through his spark and making his shoulders slump slightly, the modified spikes catching the sunlight just so.

Soundwave had been a loyal and formidable officer, fiercely devoted. Megatron had allowed that devotion to unfurl, encouraged it, even. Had never let on that it wasn’t entirely unrequited. But Megatron as he was then would never have tolerated loving anyone.

Couldn’t fathom it, even now.

He watched New Iacon for some time, saw as it awakened, a flurry of activity arising amidst its gleaming architecture. Finally he leapt into the air, transforming, engaging thrusters, soaring away from what he’d dreamed for himself and the Decepticon cause, back to his exiled life alone in the wastelands.

[formerlycookierunauprompts]

I’m not sure if this is how I should ask for prompts so I apologize in advance! Could you do and AU where the Beast Cookies practically adopt a kid? Like this mid teens child lives with and is smothered with affection around five literal deities and that’s just a Tuesday to them. Thanks in advance!

-Sleepy Cupidromantic <3

hey so i decided on a baby instead because i thought it would be funnier. I hope you don't mind!

Requested Prompts #24 - ✦

" Burning Spice Cookie, what is that?" Burning Spice looked at the baby on his hand. " Well, it's a baby." " I can see that," Shadow Milk stated, " Why is it here?" He asked with a display of his arms. Yes, the baby was not something planned, nor was it any of theirs, but Burning Spice had it now... for some reason. " Well, it was in the wilderness," Burning Spice began. " Mhm," " And it was alone," " Well, pretty stupid of their parents to leave a baby out in the wilderness but-" " And everything was on fire!" " ... I beg your pardon?" Shadow Milk crooked up an eyebrow at Burning Spice, looking at the baby. " So you mean to tell me... That there was this random baby surrounded by fire, and you decided to pick it up and take it HERE of all places?!" " What else was I supposed to do?!" Burning Spice argued back, " Leave the baby there?" " Take it to an orphanage or something! You do realize that we are currently the WORST five people to take care of a literal baby!" Shadow Milk argued back. " I vote we keep the baby." Mystic Flour cut in. " WHY???" " It pisses you off, and I think that that's funny." Mystic flour said, cracking open a smug eye. " Of course you do." Shadow Milk groaned. " Well, it's still three against two-" Silent Salt raises a hand. " That better be a question and not a vote for the baby." It was not a question. " I also wanna keep the baby, it could be fun." Eternal Sugar popped in, raising her head from her cloud. " You do realize we'll be the ones who have to care for it, right? And, oh I don't know, we might accidentally crumble it?" Shadow Milk argued back. " We're literally the size of mountains compared to this tiny little thing! One wrong move and it dies! Did any of you think of that?" Silent Salt raises his hand, again. " And you still want to keep the baby." Shadow Milk asked, glaring at the helmet-clad cookie. Silent Salt nodded. " It's four against one, Shadow Milk Cookie." Mystic Flour chimed in, " That means we get to keep the baby." " Fine! Okay, we keep the baby!" Shadow Milk reluctantly agreed, much to the elation of the other four within the room. Realistically, Shadow Milk believed, the baby wouldn't last more than a few days if left in the care of the others. Maybe a week or two with Silent Salt, but only that. So, of course, primary care of the child would fall to him. Because only the Spire of Truth and Deceit had accurate defensive measures in place to prevent people from getting to it's main rooms with ease and- God dammit.

[saintmurd0ck]

Congratulations, rhi!! 🥳

86th st

Prompt: “why are you really here? to mock me? to... make me hate you more?” “no. none of that. i came to be a friend, because it really looks like you need one right now.”

Character: Matt Murdock

Also, I don't mind if a confession or smut is involved somehow 🤣

glass ceiling

join my sleepover | main masterlist

pairing: matt murdock x vigilante!reader

warnings: canon typical injuries, brief mention of religion, angst, tinyyyyy confession

a/n: ok nonnie i couldn't fit the smut in cause matty low-key friendzones you in this prompt butttttt enjoy the mini confession 💗 thank you so much for participating !! (ps this is low-key unedited but hope you enjoy nevertheless)

There’s a coppery tang to the air as you drift  in and out of consciousness, akin to a wave receding upon a shore. Your eyes shutter open, unable to take stock of exactly what you’ve injured, but at least you have a faint idea of where you are, and how you ended up in this position. 

“Ow,” you wince, twisting onto your side, desperately trying to staunch the gash above your eyebrow. The pain in your side has faded to a dull throb, but a quick glance at the blood pooling beneath tells you the cut is anything but superficial. 

It’s a balmy night, but the wind dries the rivulets of sweat on your skin in cold increments. The cement rooftop is even more frigid underneath your spent body, seemingly siphoning your energy with every sawed breath. Anything remaining of your once ironclad resolve ebbs to a bare whisper. 

The constant ringing in your ears blots out your efforts in concentration, rendering your attempts to move, to sit up, utterly futile. You know your neurons stopped firing the second your assailant decided that this was the end, except the asshole didn’t even have the decency to finish the job. To make sure you wouldn’t come after him.

It was your luck he was cocky enough to leave you up here. 

You wiggle your toes, but even that action makes every muscle and bone in your body scream for help. The cracks in your defense widen to a chasm, and so you resort to basics. To your default programming.  

“Please,” you grit, jerking your chin up to the light-polluted sky, “make it quick.” 

You don’t know who you’re aiming your prayer towards, and you’re foolish enough to believe that someone would care enough to listen, to send an aide, but you hope nevertheless that it catches the attention of some benevolent force, deity or not.

The peals of a police siren shatters your  fantasy, making you whip your head to the side. Instead, it speeds off into the distance, carrying with it any last fragments of survival. 

This is it, you think. This is how I go. 

That’s not what happens, though.

As you settle into the ground, your fingers coming away sticky from the laceration in your side, you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stick up. A warning, maybe, but you’re too fatigued to tell. Still, it alerts you, causing your arduous eyes to widen.

Your head smacks the concrete listlessly, because all you see is the skyline of the city stabbing into the indigo sky, the lights haloing your vision. Jutting out amongst the landscape are the spires of a church, lackluster compared to the twinkling highrises. Your mouth contorts into a grimace at the irony it presents.

The lack of discovery doesn’t explain why goosebumps continue to prickle your skin, or why you hear the rustle of fabric carried with the wind — the sound too soft to notice to the untrained, unobservant ear. 

There. A glimmer of movement catches your eye, a crimson shadow dancing in and out of your sight. 

Out of the vestiges of darkness, a saviour emerges.

Him.

Matt bounds towards you, closing the distance in four short strides. He falls to his knees beside you, hands scrambling to triage your body. 

His expression goes grim, sweat forming a thin sheen along the exposed part of his face as he speaks. “This isn’t good.”

Your weak chuckle turns into a wet rasp. “Tell me the other guy got off worse, at least.”

Matt pauses for a moment, his tongue flicking out at the corner of his mouth. His voice dips to a murmur. “He’ll never make that mistake again.”

You nod slowly, training your gaze on Matt as he takes off his helmet, setting it down on the concrete before putting pressure on the wound in your side. White hot pain blossoms throughout your nerve endings, exploding behind your eyes, but he ignores any markers of your discomfort. 

Gritting your teeth, you lift one of your arms to push the lock of hair that’s fallen across his forehead. There’s an inexplicable familiarity about the gesture, even though you haven’t seen him in months. Even though your final encounter was precisely that: your last. 

“I thought you said I had to get out of your way, Matt.”

“I know,” he says, his face irresolute.

“Then why are you really here?” Your mouth twists into a scowl as you shrug his hands away, blinking away the tears welling in your eyes. “To mock me, for coming back to Hell’s Kitchen? To… make me hate you more?”

Something between disconcertion and indignation crosses his face. “What? No. None of that.” He wrestles you back down, compressing his hand over the wound again. “I came to be a friend. Because it really looks like you need one right now.”

You hold onto his words, acquiescing his comfort, his company, but all that comes out is an incoherently grumbled response, one that pulses in time with your darkening vision. It’s as if the second he showed up, your body has finally relinquished to the tranquility of rest, knowing that despite your past, Matt is someone to be trusted. 

Agony radiates throughout your body as he hoists you up over his shoulder, your heart fluttering at the gentleness of his touches, the soft cadence of his voice. You barely comprehend what he’s saying, but you cling onto “apartment” and “I’ll look after you”, like a beacon of hope. God-sent, if you consider your prayers answered. 

There’s something else you catch as you’re dragged under. He’s talking to you, soothing you, settling you. It feels like he’s explaining something to you, but whether it’s for him to get it off his chest, or simply to lull  you to sleep is indistinguishable. Yet, your attempt continues to listen. 

“I never wanted you in my way,” he starts, slowly becoming a jumble of noise, “because I was falling in love with you.”

But you’re too tired to contest him. To ask if he’s confessing that because you’re on your deathbed, or if they’re pointless words, said just to appease. 

“I heard when you called,” he finishes. “I always do.”

[tobythewise]

I recently read a fic by @broodwolf221 featuring Solas/Anders and now I'm lowkey hooked on this ship! This DAtober prompt is Path to Nowhere featuring inky Anders, pre-relationship Solas/Anders, set during Cole's personal quest!

Anders has never seen Cole like this, all dark clouds and righteous fury. 

“You,” Cole says, pointing at the man in front of him. “You killed me!” 

Dark clouds wrap around Cole as he moves to behind the man, his dagger at his throat before any of them can even think to stop him. “You forgot. You locked me in the dungeon in the Spire, and you forgot, and I died in the dark!”

“Cole,” Anders calls out, holding out his hand to make Cole pause. “You’re alive. You’re here and you’re okay. Take a breath.”

“Cole, this man cannot have killed you. You are a spirit. You have not even possessed a body,” Solas says from beside him, his voice gentle just as ever. 

“A broken body, bloody, banged on the stone cell, guts gripping in the dark dank, a captured apostate.”

The words are rushed, fulled of pain and emotion. They hit Anders square in the chest. He can’t breathe. He can’t think. Everything goes white with panic as memories he’s tried to bury resurface. Justice explodes with fury.

“They threw him into the dungeon in the Spire at Val Royeaux. They forgot about him. He starved to death. I came through to help… and I couldn’t. So I became him. Cole.”

They left him all alone. They forgot. That could have been Anders. That could have been him when the Templars locked him away for a year. 

The edges of his vision fade and he finds himself moving. Fuck. He needs to focus. He needs to help. But he can’t think past the way his heart hammers against his ribs. Breathing is coming harder and harder. Justice tries to soothe but it’s all too much. 

Anders runs. 

Footsteps follow him and when he finally finds somewhere to stop and sit, someone sits beside him. 

“Anders?”

He looks over, still gasping for breath. Solas takes his hands in his own, a grounding presence, a grounding touch. His eyes meet Solas’. He matches the other mage’s breathing until he feels like he’s not coming apart at the seams. 

“Solas? What happened? Why aren’t you with Cole?”

“You needed me more.”

Anders shakes his head. “I’m okay. I know how important it was for you to guide Cole. You can go to him.”

“Varric is taking care of him. Let me care for you.”

A shaky breath leaves Anders’ chest. “Cole’s story,” Anders manages to get out through parched lips. “It hit too close to home. That could have been me.”

“I, for one, am glad it was not,” Solas says, squeezing Anders’ wrist. He leans his head against Solas’ shoulder as Solas speaks to him in soft elven, the words washing over him, soothing the chaos within him. 

“Thank you,” Anders whispers when he’s finally feeling more like himself. He’d feel embarrassed if Solas wasn’t looking at him so softly. Anders’ chest aches for an entirely different reason now. 

By the Maker, he hopes Solas won’t break his heart.

[rythasbrenelle]

Prompt #21: Shade

“Hot, hot, hot.” Locke swiped his hand over his eyes, rubbing stinging sweat from them, and brushed his bangs back. It offered the slightest bit of relief from Thanalan’s arid weather, exposing his skin to the air and letting it breathe, but it did nothing for the shaggy mess sticking to his neck. He’d have to get a hair tie next time he found himself near a market.

Whenever that was. The dirt road twisted through the hills, dry and cracked beneath the midday sun. Stubby trees and stone outcroppings dotted the landscape, but they offered little shelter from the heat, and he saw nothing promising before him.

“Gods help me,” he muttered. “Would like some shelter. Or rain? Settle for rain.”

It wasn’t a proper prayer, really. He wasn’t certain how those worked here.

But somehow, it worked anyroad.

The sun had traveled a couple bells’ worth further across the sky when Locke spied a spire jutting up from the stone. He shouldered his pack and quickened his pace, moving briskly down the road and closer to the spire.

As he drew near and stepped into the open, more spires reached up from the stone and from buildings arranged across the hills. They loomed over the path, rocky fingers beckoning him to a shaded cavity below.

Locke spared a glance toward one of the buildings as he passed, eyes following the stairs leading up to the door. Though old and worn, it didn’t appear to be in disrepair.

But his gaze was quickly drawn back to the cave. Flanked by columns nursing lit candles and adorned with glittering red and blue ornaments hanging over its mouth like teeth, it had the look of a holy site, though he knew not to what or who.

What he did know was the cave offered shade and shelter, exactly as he’d prayed for.

It seemed rude to decline.

Locke stepped into the tunnel and followed it, the metallic click of his boots on stone echoing all around him with each footfall. Candles and columns lit the path forward, guiding him until he stepped into a chamber.

A stone statue stood at the far end, hooded head bowed, carved eyes shut. Swathed in long, flowing vestments and bearing a sword almost as long as the statue was tall, it towered over Locke. Behind it stood a massive door, carved into the rock.

He crossed the lonely cavern to the altar at the figure’s feet. Smoky incense burned in a censer, rising up in lazy curls and setting Locke’s nose twitching. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand and sniffled before lowering himself to sit before the altar.

Locke stared up at the sculpture for a while, pondering it. There was no question that it was some sort of deity. Surrounded by lamps and candles and glittering ornaments, watching over an array of urns and their contents, its frame carved so meticulously and maintained despite its age.

If he spoke, would it hear, as his master had once claimed the woods did? And would it speak, as his elders certainly still claimed the woods did?

But his god and his ghosts were half a star away. What questions could he possibly have that wouldn’t be a waste of this foreign deity’s time?

He closed his eyes and let himself rest instead, rousing from his not-quite-sleep only once he felt the worst of the day’s heat had passed. He rose to his feet and stretched before collecting his swords and his pack, returning them all to their proper places.

His eyes wandered up the statue again to peer at its face, composed and at peace throughout its long vigil.

He set a coin on the altar.

“It’s not much,” he apologized. “But thanks for the shade.”

Locke flashed a smile at the keeper of the dead and left the temple, continuing on his way.

[greenconverses]

I suddenly missed your stories and stalked your writing tag for a while and wow, the roman Percy thing goes back to 2013? I was around only for the 2016 wave. Anyway, just passing by to tell you that 1) your fics are amazing; 2) your commitment to the story is awe spiring and 3) the universe, the characterization, all the little details you put on roman!Percy au is one of the most amazing things this fandom has ever created, up there with burge art.

So thank you. For sharing your creativity (and ur smut writing skills hehe) with us. Thank u for not giving up on the story and surprising us with an update when we least expect It. You're amazing and i hope life has been treating you kindly

Hi! Thank you for your kind comments.

Yes, I guess I did start growing seeds of the roman!Percy AU back in 2013. You can thank the inbox prompts I was filling at the time for that! I probably pulled some aspects of what would it really kill you turned into from whatever pieces of those ficlets I didn't get around to finishing.

I have been considering putting those little prompt fics as part of the roman!AU collection since they're not too off the mark. Maybe I'll get around to it in December.

[jedidragonwarriorqueen]

summary: Callum's nightmares have changed again

tags: angst, little bit of comfort, nightmares, references to violence

word count: 1,136

Gritting his teeth, Callum presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. It’s not like nightmares are anything new . They’ve been his stupid brain’s favorite way to process emotions and experiences since the uncertainty of life after his birth father died, since moving to a castle more immense than a four-year-old could imagine. Since his mother left for war and never came back. Since the battle of the Storm Spire. But this one . . .

for the Rayllum Bad Vibes Rodeo 2023 event, prompt two, "possession"

read on AO3!

Thanks as always to my fantastic beta, @arnieb95 💙

[kanerallels]

Finally, I have a fic worth posting for @jacensyndullaweek! (although I do have one thing that I'm gonna end up posting late that I want to share)

Prompt: Culture/Heritage

Rating: G

Read here on AO3!!

1. Sabine

“Are you sure Ezra’s gonna be okay with this?” Jacen frowned at Sabine as they headed into the cockpit of the New Dawn.

“Rule number one of art as a Mandalorian,” Sabine said. “Never ask. Just do. Unless it’s Hera’s room. Then you ask. Besides, the Dawn needs a little brightening up. No ship should be entirely gray.”

The boy wavered for another second, then grinned. “Okay, cool! Where are we starting?”

“That’s more like it.” Sabine paused, turning in a circle. “That wall,” she said, pointing. “You start there, and I’ll start on the other side.”

“What should I paint?” Jacen asked as she passed him the box full of small finger paint cans she’d bought just for this— it was a good place to start for a beginner.

Pulling out her paint guns, Sabine said, “Whatever you want. If you don’t know, start with a feeling. Or something you know. Just don’t hesitate. When you’re doing graffiti, you need to be confident. Got it?”

Jacen nodded, his eight-year-old face screwed up into a serious expression as he pulled out green and blue paint. “I got it.”

“Good. Let’s get started.”

2. Zeb

“Okay,” Hera said, pinching the bridge of her nose. Zeb recognized this expression— she’d worn it about a thousand times while lecturing him and Ezra back in the day. “Run it past me one more time. How in the name of the Force did you break your arm, Jacen?”

Wincing, Zeb said, “It was an accident, I swear.”

“It was!” Jacen agreed earnestly, struggling to push himself upright in the hospital bed and wincing slightly. Hera pressed her lips into a straight line— never a good sign.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” Kanan offered from next to Hera. His expression was serene, and he brushed a gentle palm against Hera’s arm, which seemed to calm her a little bit.

“Right,” Zeb said. “So, I was talking to the kid about some of the old sports they had back on Lasan.”

“And there was this one where the greatest warriors would jump from rock spire to rock spire, show off their climbing skills,” Jacen said, his eyes gleaming. “So I asked Uncle Zeb to show me—”

“—and he asked to try it out—”

“—and I fell,” Jacen concluded.

Throwing her hands in the air, Hera said, “And you didn’t even think about the fact that Jacen could get hurt doing that?”

“Well, Lasat cubs usually didn’t,” Zeb offered. “I guess I forgot that humans have more fragile bones. No offense.”

Kanan let out a choking noise that Zeb immediately knew was a snort of laughter, and hastily disguised it as a cough. Hera shot him a sideways glare, but her expression softened a few seconds later as she sighed.

“Thank you for trying to teach Jacen, but you do need to be careful. Next time, maybe start with something a little easier? Or make sure Kanan or Ezra are there to catch him?”

“Absolutely,” Zeb agreed. 

As Hera turned to talk to the approaching doctor, Jacen leaned towards Zeb. “Can we try it again when my arm gets better?” he whispered.

“Only if you get better at not falling,” Zeb whispered back. “I don’t want your parents to skin me alive.”

“Deal!”

3. Kanan

“Hey, Dad?”

Kanan lifted his head, pulled out of his meditation trance by his son’s voice. Tracking him to the doorway to his and Hera’s room, he waved for him to come in as he said, “What’s going on, kiddo?”

He heard Jacen move into the room and drop down into a similar posture in front of him. “I’m doing this school project— we’re doing family trees,” he explained. “And I need your help.”

Kanan chuckled. “With this family, I’m not surprised. Where’d you get tripped up? Miss an aunt or uncle?”

“Nah,” Jacen said, his matching grin clear in his voice. “Grandparents, actually. I got Grandpa Cham and Grandma Eleni on Mom’s side, but I don’t really know any on your side.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Kanan said, “Well, you and I are in the same boat there, actually. I never knew my biological parents.”

“Okay— so should I just leave it blank?”

Kanan frowned, stroking his beard. “You could,” he said slowly, turning the question over in his mind. It might have been easier just to leave it that way. But the point of these family trees— he assumed— were that the kids didn’t forget where and who they’d come from. The people who’d shaped their lives before those lives had even really begun. “Let me show you something,” he told Jacen, getting to his feet.

He knew the layout of the room well by this time, and it was a matter of ease to step over to the shelf nearby and pull down one of the holodisks stacked there. Turning it on, he let it rest in his palm and held it out to Jacen. “What do you see?”

“Um, two people— a man and a woman. Looks like they’re posing for a picture,” Jacen said. “The woman has braids, and she’s laughing. The guy’s more serious, but he’s smiling a little. He’s taller and bald, looks like he has darker skin than the woman.” He paused, then said, “They’re both wearing Jedi robes. Are these—”

“The woman is my master, Depa Billaba,” Kanan said, turning off the holodisk. “And the man is her master, Mace Windu. A friend recovered this holo for me a year or two ago. It’s the only thing I have left of them.” Reaching out, he pressed it into Jacen’s hand. “They are as close to family as I ever had.”

Jacen was silent for a moment, and Kanan waited, knowing his son was thinking. “Thanks for showing me, Dad,” he finally said.

“Any time, kiddo.”

4. Ezra

“Why are we going here again?”

Ezra glanced at Jacen, who was bouncing on his heels with impatience. “I thought you said we were going to do Jedi stuff,” the fifteen year old pointed out.

“We are going to,” Ezra said truthfully. “We’re just making a stop first.” Looking both ways, he started across the street, keeping one eye on Jacen as he followed him. The kid had finally outgrown his habit of forgetting to look before he leapt— mostly. At the very least, he looked both ways before he crossed the street now.

He was still willing to throw himself headfirst into situations, though, not unlike both of his parents. That included Jedi training, and Ezra knew that he should be just as excited as Jacen was for this.

And he was, really. He was just also pretty sure Kanan had chosen wrong, and that his old master should be training Jacen himself. 

But that wasn’t the point. Right now wasn’t actually about that. Right now was about visiting somewhere he hadn’t been since he’d gotten back from the Unknown Regions, and showing Jacen a new piece of Lothal.

Turning a corner, he spotted the old warehouse. Even just the outside looked different than it had in the years during the war— no guards, and the door was wide open.

He looked at Jacen. “Did your mom and dad ever tell you about this place?” When the boy shook his head, Ezra explained, “During the war, this was where the main black market congregated, particularly around Life Day. I used to come here all the time— mainly when I was by myself, but I came with Kanan and the others a couple times.”

Starting towards the entrance, he continued, “But Lothal doesn’t really need a black market any more— so now it’s just a regular one. One of Lothal’s hidden treasures. I thought you should see it.”

They stopped at the entrance together, and Ezra took in the familiar sights. He recognized some faces— the elderly owner of the stall selling woven blankets, the Gotal who pretended not to notice when he’d stolen a few kebabs every now and then— and noticed others missing. 

The war had changed everything, but they were putting it back together, slowly but surely.

He looked at Jacen, who was taking in the place with wide eyes. “So. Lunch, then training?”

“Sounds good,” the boy said with a grin.

5. Hera

“And you’re sure you’re ready for this?” Hera checked as she, Kanan, and Jacen headed towards the small building awaiting them.

Her son gave her a grin. “Mom, we’ve talked about this like twenty times now. I’m seventeen— I’m ready. You got your tattoos way younger than this.”

Wincing at the memory of the needle’s sting, Hera said, “I know. That’s why I’m checking. I don’t want you to do it just because someone said you couldn’t, like I did. It was terrifying—”

“And you were like eight,” Jacen pointed out. “Of course that would be terrifying. But trust me— I want to do this. I already got Dad’s looks, and I want to honor your side, too.”

Kanan, who’d been silent thus far, spoke up. “He’s right, Hera. Besides, he’s almost eighteen. Even if you put your foot down, he’d only be delaying it for a couple months.”

Letting out a sigh, Hera said, “I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

“Nope!” Jacen said cheerfully. “Besides, you let Dad get the tattoos.”

“Your father is a full grown man,” Hera said. “And incredibly stubborn, I might add.”

Kanan let out a snort. “I think we all know who the stubborn one is in this relationship, Captain Hera.”

Grabbing the door handle, Jacen said, “Yeah, I know better than to get involved in this argument. Come on— Ivri’s already inside!”

Hera followed his nod to where Jacen’s friend, the half-Mirialan boy with a perpetual smile, was waiting for them next to the Twi’leki tattoo artist. “Alright,” she said reluctantly.

“Go ahead, Jacen,” Kanan told him, catching hold of Hera's arm. “Your mom and I will catch up with you in a minute. Don’t choose anything obscene or too embarrassing while we’re gone, okay?”

Grinning, Jacen said, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As he ducked inside, the door swinging shut behind him, Kanan lifted an eyebrow at Hera. “What are the odds of him listening to that?”

“Well he has your genes, so about fifty-fifty.”

“Harsh.” Kanan paused, then said, “You okay about this?”

Unable to hold back a wry smile, Hera said, “You know me well, love. But… yeah, I am. Mostly. It’s just…” she looked through the window where Jacen and his friend were chatting with the Twi’lek. “Our little boy is growing up,” she said with a sigh. “It’s strange.”

“You’re telling me,” Kanan said with a sigh. “At least he’s less likely to shoot himself into the Unknown Regions than the last one is.”

Hera snorted with amusement. “He’d better be, or we’ll be having words.”

“I believe it.” Offering her his arm, Kanan said, “Shall we?”

Taking a deep breath, Hera looped her arm around his. “Okay. Let’s do this.” She let him lead her into the tattoo parlor, trying not to think about just how much her son was growing up.

We’re proud of him, though, she thought with a twinge. And he’s still our son. 

+1. Trill

(set a few weeks before the last chapter of Disproving The Love At First Sight Theory)

Jacen sensed it as soon as Trill woke up. Generally speaking, he wasn’t terribly skilled at sensing living beings— not the way his dad or sister were, and definitely not the way Ezra was. His master was one with the living Force in a way Jacen never had been.

But this didn’t seem to be true for Trill, for whatever reason. Jacen could always sense it when she woke up, and could track her pretty easily throughout the ship. It was like he was attuned to her, more than he was to anyone else.

Sometimes he wondered why that was, but since he was currently living in close quarters with not only her, but also the galaxy’s nosiest Kalleran, he decided not to spend too much time on it.

It was about ten minutes after she woke up that she made her way into the New Dawn’s kitchen. Stifling a yawn, she said, “Morning— what’s that smell?”

“Good morning,” Jacen said cheerfully. “Remember that mysterious package I… picked up on Cantonica yesterday?”

Trill arched an eyebrow at him. “You mean the one that you stole from the hotel and smuggled out under your poncho?”

“That’s the one,” Jacen said. “But the people there are corrupt and tried to kill us like four times, so it doesn’t count. Anyways— behold! Our new waffle maker!”

He flourished a hand at the maker, which stood on the counter, emanating the delicious smell of cooking waffles. Trill frowned at it, then directed the expression at Jacen. “You stole a waffle maker?”

“You’re focusing on the wrong thing here,” Jacen told her. “Remember, they tried to kill us. But also, yeah. Now we can have waffles for breakfast!”

Settling at the table, Trill swept her loose hair out of her eyes, and Jacen tried to pretend like his gaze hadn’t followed the movement, and lingered for just a moment. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s so important about waffles?”

The iron beeped, and Jacen turned towards it. Rolling up his sleeves, he flipped it open and started to remove the waffle with a fork, responding to Trill’s question as he did.

“It’s a family tradition. My dad makes the best waffles in the galaxy— Uncle Zeb makes the second best, tied with me. We always used to eat them whenever my mom would get back from a dangerous mission, or before Ezra and I would leave, or any special occasion like that.” Maneuvering the waffle onto a plate, he slid it towards Trill. “And I guess… I wanted to share that with you. If you’re interested.”

She looked surprised, in that way she always did whenever Jacen said something like this. It was the kind of surprise that made him think maybe, just maybe… she’d stick around. 

For a minute, Trill held his gaze, then offered him a smile. “I— I am. Thank you.”

Don’t read into it, Jacen ordered himself, ignoring the way his heart skipped a beat at her smile. Aloud, he said, “Good. Cause I have a feeling Kasmir’s gonna be here soon, and he’ll be hungry. So you’d better get started on that waffle.”

“Will do,” Trill said, hopping up to grab a fork. Turning back to his work, Jacen felt himself grinning. Starting out a day with waffles and Trill? It really couldn’t get much better than that.

[justanotherconfusedman]

Thanks to @a-roguish-gambit for giving me the prompt that I spired me to write this! Had to do a bit of research on the cowboy genre.

Basically, Gambit is a werewolf and he and Logan are trans vampire hunters. Rogue is a vampire that happens to make Gambit lose all his bets on her.

Anyways read it!

[romeoandjulietyouwish]

Chapter 1: Proposal (Waiting for Heartbreak)

Are you ready for some fake dating???? Summary: When Essek's mother insists that it's time for him to marry, he thinks he's doomed to spend the remainder of his life in a loveless marriage. That is until Caleb volunteers to pretend to be his fiance until Essek can find another solution.

The green lights of Rosohna illuminate the streets, despite the darkness, it isn’t yet evening. As much as Essek Thelyss is fond of his homeland, it takes talent not to lose track of time in a perpetually dark city.

That is why he can’t say how long he’s been standing looking out at it. From his tower, he has a rather excellent view of the sprawling city, the tallest spires to the streets that run below. The man he used to be would stand here thinking of all the ways he would claw his way to the top. He would dream about one day living in the highest tower, for everyone to look up and know who he was. 

Now, older and wiser, the city is nothing spectacular. It is just as fucked up as every other city on Exandria. At least that’s what he thinks at this moment.

The reason for his melancholic thoughts is held in the letter held in his hand. Summons from his mother. When he first read it, dread filled his stomach like lead. 

Deitra Thelyss is a severe woman. There is no warmth in her message, just a command to her eldest son, bidding him to an audience with her. He reads over the words once again, just to be sure of the words. He is not mistaken. 

The reason for his mother’s summoning is unclear. She gives him no clue in the wording of the message. It could be den business, he tells himself. It could be as simple and boring as that. But a shrewd voice in his head reminds him that he is keeping many secrets. It is entirely plausible that she has found out about one, or all. 

This could be an ambush. He could be taking one step along the plank, putting his head in the noose. 

Essek swallows thickly and tucks the note away, pulling his mantle more firmly on his shoulders. The Shadowhand doesn’t need to fear his mother nor his den. The Shadowhand has no secrets to keep. 

Pushing his hair out of his face, Essek allows himself one more breath before floating down the stairs to the entrance of the tower. He doesn’t give himself time to second guess his actions before he opens the door and floats out onto the street.

When Essek enters the Umavi’s chambers, he finds her standing by the window. 

Deitra’s hands are held behind her back, a passive expression on her face. Her long white hair is pulled back in many traditional braids, some woven through with gems. She looks the same as she has every day of Essek’s life. An unchanging statue. Deitra is an imposing figure, her mantle only broadening her shoulders and adding to her height. 

Her chambers are pristine as always, not a thing is out of place. The room is dark, filled with dark leather furniture and deep blue curtains. Bookshelves line the back wall, ones he knows to be full of den documentation and business. 

“Umavi,” Essek greets, bowing to his mother, “I received your summons.”

Deitra turns to him, her expression not changing as she looks upon him. “Thank you for your promptness.” For as long as he can remember, his mother has spoken to him in this formal tone. Even as a child of only a few years, she spoke to him like any other member of their den. Affection has not once passed between the Thelyss family.

With a broad gesture, Deitra tells him to sit on one of the stiff chairs. He does as told, sitting properly before his mother. He expects her to sit as well, but she doesn’t. Instead she stands before him, towering above him. He feels far too much like a child this way, he’s certain that that is her intention.

Trying not to let his discomfort show, he says, “It is not often the Umavi requests my presence.”

Deitra nods, pacing slowly before him, “It has come to my attention that I have let something pass for far too long without intervention.” 

She knows, Essek thinks, she knows I’m a traitor. He has years of practice in disguising his emotions, his Shadowhand mask stays in place. “What is that, Umavi?”

“Your marital status.” For a moment Essek is dumbstruck. Of all the things that she could have said…why this? Why now? Before he can ask, she continues.

“There have been discussions among the dens as of late.” She folds her hands in front of her now. “Many children of those dens have been wed for several years and with children.” Essek is sure he’s going to vomit. “People are wondering why neither of my sons have found that yet, why they both remain unmarried.”

Finish reading on ao3! Please consider supporting me on ko-fi!

[lcdrarry]

5 May | LCDrarry Double Feature | Fic

see the steeple (trace to the spire)

Prompt: "God's own country", 2017, Francis Lee Prompted by: @orange-peony Author: Anonymous Word Count: 33,857 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: None

Notes: First of all - a huge, huge thank you to my team of beta readers: C, S and D. You all were integral to this fic and also made me feel like my first foray back into writing after years wasn’t a complete dumpster fire. You all spent your valuable time and effort helping me bring this story to life and I am so grateful. Secondly, thank you to the LCD Discord for just being the best place on the planet. Would this fic even have materialized without all of you being the most wonderful, incredible individuals? Probably not. Third - thank you to the mods: Tami + Suzi. Thank you for organizing this and just being the best. Seriously. Peony - I hope you love this fic and it’s what you wanted. If you have watched God’s Own Country, this fic is a love letter to you. And if you’re reading this and haven’t seen God’s Own Country, please watch it!

Summary: Harry’s sure about it being Draco’s fault, just like he’s been sure of any other part of his life. Harry wants to spend a week assisting with the birth of a rare magical creature. He doesn’t want to spend a week at Malfoy Manor assisting Draco with said birth. It’s been seven years since Draco was sentenced to house arrest without magic and now he’s running a farm. A week isn’t a long time, but Harry finds himself distracted by this Draco who is so different from the one he used to know.

Read it now on AO3.

Please help promote the fest by sharing your favourite submissions, so more people can enjoy all the amazing new Drarry works of LCDrarry. Thank you!

Creator reveals are on 15 June.

[echo-bleu]

hi!! if you're up to it, 'indis and nerdanel often went to the theater together, and to the mountain trails; it was good to be with someone to whom grief did not need to be explained.' pls? thank you for the ask!

Thank you very much!!

As I decided it would have to be set in one of my AUs, that didn't leave me with many options! This is in the bark of our bones.

Indis and Nerdanel often went to the theatre together, and to the mountain trails; it was good to be with someone to whom grief did not need to be explained. Anairë had sometimes joined them, especially in those terrible years after her husband’s death, but she had gone forty years ago with the army. There were little news, since. And so, it was together that the messenger found them, quietly ambling back to Tirion after a month-long hike away from all the noise. King Arafinwë was back, she said. His fleet had docked at Alqualondë, and he had brought back with him Lady Lalwendë and three of the princes—two sons of Nerdanel, and one of Anairë. There was to be a trial for the kinslaying at Alqualondë. Indis pressed a hand to her mouth, and embraced Nerdanel, relief flooding her open mind at the return of her children. Nerdanel dismissed the messenger with a nod and hugged Indis back, but as she watched the sun reach the spire of the palace’s central tower, she couldn’t help but wonder. They had all changed so much. Would Maitimo and Makalaurë still be the sons she had said goodbye to, so many years ago?

(The answer is no, but it could have been so much worse xD The third prince to return is Fingon, and the trial is going to be covered in an upcoming fic if my brain ever decides to cooperate.)

Send me first sentence prompts!

[mundanemoongirl]

Paintings and Peace

For @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt #251

This was actually originally part of my wip's first draft but I rewrote the whole thing. It's from Daron's pov. She's trying to help a spirit.

“How was your trip?”

Though her words sounded light, her eyes were heavy. Sweet Irene, she suffered so much yet still was more concerned with everyone else’s feelings. My hands twitched with anticipation of showing her what I found. 

“I brought something for you.”

Irene immediately brightened up. “Really? For me?”

I opened my bag and pulled out the painting of the Nightbeam Palace since I knew it was somewhat familiar to her. She scampered so close to it that if she had skin, I was sure her nose would touch it.

Irene greedily studied every detail, and I could see why. The paint looked much more vibrant illuminated by more than just moonlight. I saw now that the shadows on the palace spires and on the full moon that I before thought were black were actually blue, and the ocean had shades of frothy green in it.

Irene tore her eyes from the painting to look at me. “This is what it really looks like?”

“Yes.”

“It’s just like you described.”

“That is not all.”

I pulled out the next painting. The one with the mansion made of black bricks, imposing in the misty grounds. The dark, roiling sea in the distance a completely different view from the serene waters in the first painting.

“This is where I grew up.”

“You taught yourself to read here,” Irene mused.

“Right.”

I showed her picture after picture of all the different landmarks in our country. Irene covered her mouth. I thought if she could cry she would have.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ve known for a while now that I’ll never leave this room. You tried so hard, but sometimes there’s nothing anyone can do right? I’m so glad you gave me the chance to see a bit of the world.”