#that belongs to whoever conjured it up

[booksandchainmail]

continuing my read of Anne Lister's diaries, now up to 1820 (part 1 here).

It has to be incredibly awkward at these houseparties where Anne has had liaisons with multiple women there, but I'm given to understand this is also how modern lesbian socializing works

It gets brought up that the only thing preventing Anne and Mariana from living together (at least in retrospect) was money, with Anne needing to be able to provide ~30 pounds a year for Mariana, which sheds a new light on how focused Anne is on her financials and potential inheritance

Class keeps coming up! Mariana would be okayish with Anne having a lowerclass girl on the side, but not someone in their social circles

Notably Anne did not encode this passage: "Sat up lovemaking, she conjuring me to be faithful, to consider myself as married, & always to act to other women as if I was M---'s husband." And from then on she does! They talk it over a bit more through the next few days, and from then Anne focuses on how in time they may live together, and refers to Mariana as her wife

Mariana's later letters also reflect this: "I shall not lose you, my husband, shall I? Oh, no, no. You will not, cannot, forget I am your constant, faithful, your affectionate wife."

It is noted again that Anne has a gentleman's manners towards other women, and there's a bit where a woman stops to visit Mariana and says that other girls are scared of Anne, particularly citing her "deep-toned voice as very singular"

"Yet my manners are certainly peculiar, not at all masculine but rather softly gentleman-like. I know how to please girls." No one every accused Anne Lister of lacking self-confidence! Also, interesting to see the Takarazuka-style butch ethos of "woman who is better at being a man then men are" already present here.

"Musing on the subject of being my own master. Of going to Buxton in my own carriage with a man & a maidservant. Meeting with a elegant girl of family & fortune; paying her attention;taking her to see Castleton; staying all night; having a double bedroom; gaining her affections, etc. Mused on all this but did not let it lead to anything worse."

one of Anne's acquaintances mentions a local cook/housekeeper, Mrs Ruspin, who after several years "turn[ed] out to be a man", and then eloped to London with the housemaid and opened a shop

The most common word in this book is probably vulgar. Anne thinks everyone is vulgar: her neighbors, her family, random townsfolk, girls she's flirting with...

We now come to the house party from sitcom-hell: present are Anne Lister, Isabella (her longterm ex who she's trying to extricate herself from), Isabella's sister Charlotte, Nantz (the sister of Anne's wife, who Anne had a brief fling with), Nantz's sister Harriet, and Miss Vallance (new and pretty).

I truly cannot summarize the amount of fuckery going on in this section. Anne spends every evening hanging out for a bit in someone's bedroom, then she'll switch rooms and whoever the new room belongs too will pout about her having been somewhere else beforehand. Anne is paying a lot of attention to Miss Vallance, Isabella and Nantz are jealous, Anne is trying to console Isabella without changing any of her behavior, Charlotte is indignant on Isabella's behalf, Anne is half-heartedly and smugly sleeping with Nantz, etc

And of course Anne caps this off by starting to flirt with Harriet, meaning that she has now hit on all four of her wife's sisters

[limarieb]

i come around (when you least expect me)

Pairing(s): emo!Wanda Maximoff x fem!reader

Summary: After a one-night stand during a party, you find yourself in an odd gray area with your best friend's sister. It just so happens that your best friend's sister is also the person that has been making your life a living hell for the last few years... all without your best friend knowing.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, cursing, mentions of drinking/parties, high school au, Wanda lowkey kinda mean but i SWEAR its lowkey, non-graphic scenes of kissing/making out (no smut... yet...?)

Word Count: 3.5k

Author's Note: sorry for my lack of posting, but i promised it would come soon(ish)! here's that 100 follower special i promised — oh, and thank youuuu all for the follows and support... i love you all <3 (title from 'heartbeat' by childish gambino) ... also, requests/asks are still open!

Main Masterlist | ao3 | Wattpad

...

Pain. Throbbing, aching pain. The discomfort from your current hangover surrounded every inch of your mind, physically and metaphorically. Well, almost every inch... because memories from last night were finally reaching the surface now that you have awoken, conscious and, unfortunately, sober.

The sweet lips on yours.

The feeling of skin, hot and sweaty, against your own.

The perfect dichotomy of soft hands on your body as they gripped at your skin roughly, almost primal in nature.

And they all belonged to your best friend's twin sister.

You started to get ready for the day — whoever talked you into attending a party the day before the school year began should be arrested and fined for such a disservice.

Thankfully, you planned enough ahead to bring clothes to the twins' house for today. The outfit you had chosen was relatively casual: the worn-down, navy blue sweater that had been your father's during his college years and the comfiest pair of jeans you could find.

Venturing downstairs to the kitchen, you finally felt the extent of how poorly your stomach felt due to the heavy drinking from the previous night. You opted for something easy, pulling the first box of cereal that your fingertips touched out of the cabinet. You never liked cereal too much, but anything went during difficult times like these.

As you poured yourself a bowl of the bland cereal, footsteps sounded throughout the house. They were coming closer and closer to your location. You assumed it had been Pietro.

You were... close — it was her.

When you looked up from the bowl to see who the person was, you were displeased to find the girl standing there, simply observing you with a smirk on her face. It reminded you of the villainous expressions from the television: conniving and mischievous.

"Stop staring at me like that," you sneered, trying to keep your volume low enough that Pietro would not hear you but loud enough that she would sense the harsh seriousness of your tone.

Wanda maintained her gaze, simply tilting her head as if to challenge you, "Like what?"

"Like you know what I taste like."

The faux innocence in her expression slightly faltered. Her eyebrows rose, the shock from your words evident on her face. As Wanda opened her mouth to form another witty remark, the sound of a door opening made the two of you go effectively silent. Wanda looked toward the direction of the sound, awaiting his entrance in a way that demonstrated her indifference toward last night's events. You, on the other hand, completely averted your gaze from both of the twins due to the shame that coursed through your veins.

The rational part of your brain begged for you to tell Pietro about what happened last night; it would resolve the guilt that clawed at you with each passing minute, lifting the weight off of your shoulders entirely. Yet, each time that you began to plan the exact words of your apology, any ideas you had conjured seemed to fall short. It was not as if you could search the internet for a script concerning "how to tell your best friend that you mistakenly (but not so mistakenly that you stopped it) hooked up with his emo, bitchy twin sister at a party."

Your eyes swiftly returned to Wanda, watching her inch closer to where you stood by the counter. She reached her arm behind you, leaning in close enough that your breath mingled with hers. If asked, you would completely and utterly deny that part of your mind was anticipating the vibrant feeling of her lips on yours again; however, the fleeting glance at her lips revealed otherwise.

Wanda noticed. Of course, you would fall into her trap, and she noticed. She smirked in response to your reaction before leaning away and taking a few steps back. A banana was in the hand that had been behind you. Scoffing at yourself, you cannot believe that you let her tease you again.

"See you at school, Y/N," she declared with narrowed eyes, looking you up and down once more before waltzing out of the front door.

You took a deep breath, attempting to recuperate your mind for the day ahead of you. As soon as Wanda had left, Pietro walked into the kitchen, ignorant of what had just occurred.

Standing still as if in a daze, you could only sense Pietro race around the kitchen, grabbing various items he needed for the day ahead. After a few minutes, he slowed to a stop after closing the door to the fridge. He must have sensed your unusual stillness, then he asked, “You okay? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You shakily nodded. “All good,” you forced yourself to stutter out. Not even you believed your words, but it seems as if Pietro was too busy in his own world to truly notice the lack of honesty in your reply. “I’m all good. Now come on, we’re gonna be late.”

The two of you scurried out the door in the hopes that you had not missed the bus. It was a bad habit that you both had been trying to break for years now but remained relatively unsuccessful.

As the two of you approached the classic, yellow school bus that sat on the corner of the street, Pietro raced ahead in order to save you the extra minute of running. He gracefully entered the bus, climbing its stairs with ease; meanwhile, you were audibly out of breath and tried to ignore the glances the bus driver gave to the two of you.

Pietro, like most mornings, found himself sitting with some of his friends from the cross country team, leaving you to fend for yourself. You quickly scanned the bus for an empty row so you could sit by yourself, but you quickly realized that was a luxury you could not afford after such a late arrival. While you could not find an empty row, you were about to find a single empty seat towards the back of the bus.

You shuffled your feet to the empty seat but stopped as soon as you noticed its other inhabitant: Wanda.

Bile suddenly formed in your throat at the thought of having to spend more time with her — more specifically, without her brother, your friend, and coincidentally the only person to keep her dangerous, spontaneous nature in check, present. You approached her, simply attempting to take the bus ride silently and one minute at a time. You swore to yourself internally that you would not respond to her, irrespective of whatever she may say or do.

The bus slowly pulled away from the stop and started its route toward the high school. For the first few minutes, everything seemed to be going unusually fine. Wanda sat silently beside you, wired earphones trailing from her phone to her ears. As her gaze remained fixed toward the window, you wonder if she had even noticed that a person had now occupied the seat next to her, let alone that person being you.

You naively took her initial lack of response as a victory. With a sigh of relief, you allowed your body to relax in the seat and closed your eyes for the remainder of the ride.

Then, you felt something.

The brush of something on your thigh.

You opened your eyes to scope the scene, making sure you had not imagined the sensation; however, it seemed to be just that: nothing. The only thing positioned in your lap was your backpack filled with your books for the upcoming year. You closed your eyes and began to drift away once again. Maybe you were going crazy, you pondered. (Maybe you could blame your irrational behavior last night on such insanity. Would the insanity defense work for things like that, too?)

Then, you felt it again.

Without much hesitation, your eyes shot open once more. Only this time, you were met with the sight of a hand, decorated with several rings and chipped, black nail polish, situated comfortably, almost possessively, on your upper thigh. You peered toward Wanda's face, which was still facing the opposite direction, attempting to gauge her reaction. Yet, you saw nothing; her expression was rather unchanged, leaving you more confused than anything.

Before you could think about what to do about the situation, the bus drove over a mountainous bump on the road. You internally cursed the local government officials for the obstacle, for whether it occur by accident or intention, Wanda's hand flew directly into the apex between your thighs. Eyes widened in shock, your lips drift open as you gasp from the sensation.

It finally gave you the courage, however, to shove her hand away, but not without seeing the signature smirk she acquired in the process. Anger began to boil inside you. You repeated to yourself that it was because the brunette's touches were unexpected — not that she had been victorious. In the end, you just silently thanked yourself that you had chosen jeans, or else that could have ended much differently knowing the Sokovian.

Days turned into weeks, each bringing the routine of snide comments and less-than-playful banter between you and Wanda. You still had not found a way to enlighten Pietro about your issues with his sister (both the endless torment and... that night), given that (1) she was his twin sister and (2) she always seemed to be around. The cynical part of your brain believed that her unusual proximity was purposeful — she probably just wanted to see the fallout.

While the two of you had not gone further than your typical banter again over the past few weeks, though, you still felt incredibly agitated. (You chalked it up to anger because it definitely could not be the possibility of pent-up sexual frustration between the two of you.)

However, one day differed from the rest.

You noticed early in the day that Wanda was being extraordinarily quiet. Part of you was thankful, praying that her silence would continue until the end of the school day.

It was a Thursday in late October. Like most days, you followed Pietro to his home after school, venting to him about how you were excited it was Friday tomorrow because you were simply over all of the midterms being assigned and just wanted time to relax.

(You continued to ignore the underlying guilt that sat in the pit of your stomach from remaining silent about everything that happened with his sister weeks before; you attempted to ignore it even more by rationalizing your silence, stating it was "only one time" and a "mistake that would never even happen again.")

As you entered the house, Pietro immediately drops his bag on the floor and runs up to his room. You rolled your eyes at this typical, teenage-boy messiness, and opted to place your bag on the hooks that Agatha designated for such items.

Feet padding across the wooden floors, you wandered into your happy place of the home: the kitchen. You opened the fridge, looking for a small snack that could satiate your hunger until dinner. Finding nothing of interest, you closed the door. Your body jumps, though, at the figure that had been hiding behind it: Wanda.

The patience you once had had officially worn invisibly thin.

“What the fuck, Wanda? What do you want from me?” you asked exasperatedly, the energy you once had for such shenanigans having become completely depleted after a difficult week of school. "Listen, I don't know what I ever did to you for you to treat me like this, but I'm over it."

“Are you…” She started but quickly cut herself off. Her head tilted, trying to figure out if you really did not know the answer. You noticed the way her mouth opened and shut out of pure bewilderment; while you normally would make a comment about it in an attempt to tease her in return, you figured now was not the time. When Wanda found no evidence of lies in your expression, she continued to speak, “You really don’t remember, do you?”

You threw your head back, a chuckle escaping from the back of your throat, primarily due to the exhaustion caused by this long-awaited conversation. “No, Wanda, I don’t remember! If I had, don’t you think I would have apologized by now! Don’t you think that maybe, just maybe, I would have given you an “I’m sorry” so we could have avoided all of this? So that I would not have to deal with your bullshit for the past decade? So tell me, Wanda, what did I do to deserve this?”

“First day of school. Second grade. Recess," she spat out. Her words were so quiet but uttered with such venom.

Your brows furrowed in confusion at the seemingly random series of words, "What?"

She rolled her eyes, clearly frustrated with your lack of memories. While you could not remember what made her act this way, it had evidently stuck with her for years.

"It was my first day at this school," she began, her expression turning from red, hot anger into a stoic and collected nature. "Pietro and I had just moved to the States after losing our parents a few months before. Agatha was the only family member, albeit a distant family member, who was alive and willing to take us. So, we left everything behind and moved here."

You already knew the majority of this information, mostly after hearing it in brevity from Pietro. He had never truly talked about his time in Sokovia in depth, finding it distressing and uncomfortable to recall. You only discovered this one day when you both were 9, and you had followed him to his house after school for a play date. In a state of innocent curiosity, you asked him why he called (what you had assumed to be his mom) by her first name upon entering the house. He explained the basics, and that was the end of that. You understood and respected his quietness on the subject since then.

"Pietro has always been the better twin — better at school, better at sports, better at making friends. And, I'm just... me. So, he has always been better at the whole 'socializing' thing, even as an immigrant child with little knowledge of the States. Everybody seemed to like him, I guess. I, on the other hand, refused to talk... well, for the most part, at least. Anyway, on the first day of the second grade, my first day of school here, I was sitting on the edge of the concrete, picking at the grass."

She paused her speech, shifting her gaze to meet yours. "Then, this girl approached me. I thought, 'Wow, maybe I will have friends, maybe I will have friends and will finally be like Pietro.'” Wanda shook her head, shutting her eyes as if to remember each minute, each second, of that fateful day. Her accent was unconsciously growing thicker by the minute. “So, I greeted them, introduced myself like our mama had taught, and asked if they would like to play with me. You want to know what she did, Y/N?"

She opened her eyes, locking them with yours in a harsh stare. "'You talk funny,'" she hissed. "That's what the girl had said before running back to her group of friends. Truthfully, it's not even that deep of an insult, but it somehow spread like wildfire how the 'new girl' was abnormal, how she couldn’t even talk normally, how she was dirty with her dirty shoes and probably had fleas from her even dirtier home country, how no one could touch her or else they would be 'infected' by her."

“Why are you telling me this?” you stuttered out. “What does this have to do with you being a complete and utter bitch to me for the past ten years?”

Wanda huffed, “That girl was you, Y/N.”

Every breath you had suddenly left your chest. Your eyes widened, unsure of how to respond, “What?”

“You say I made your life a living hell? Bullshit. You ruined mine. You have everything I have ever wanted: friends, good grades… parents,” she said, her tone becoming soft with insecurity toward the end. “You even got my brother, my fucking twin brother! For fuck's sake! And yet, you still had to ruin my life."

"Wanda, I'm..." you began, but all of the words you have acquired in your seventeen years of life were failing you. "I'm sorry. I- I don't..."

This time, Wanda laughed, but it was not the depressed, low chuckle like before. No, this was something else entirely, a burst of maniacal laughter that indicated an unfound level of absurdity. Your eyebrows furrowed.

"'You don't' what, Y/N?" the brunette taunted.

You decided to be honest with her, "I don't know what to say."

"Of course not. 'Little Miss Perfect' never knows what to say when she finds out she's not so perfect after all."

Your sympathy gradually faded to the original anger you had been feeling. Your eyebrow involuntarily quirked, "Hold on, now... I never claimed to be 'perfect.'"

“Oh, please,” she replied, belittling your attempts to argue her predetermined notion of you. She began to mock you, “My name’s Y/N. I have the best grades in the entire school, all my friends love me, and, at night, my parents tuck me into bed and call me their little princess…”

Slowly but surely, your vision turned red. You stepped closer to Wanda, hoping the proximity would deter her from making additional snide comments about you.

“We all have our shit, Wanda,” you sneered. “You better quit now before I give you a reason to.”

She scoffed, “Oh, really? What are you gonna do? Tell mommy and daddy I…”

Her words were cut short by the placement of your lips on hers.

Truthfully, you were unsure of why you decided that this was the best course of action; perhaps your brain was simply shut off by the rage coursing through your body. Yet, that confusion did not stop you from continuing. In fact, it did not hinder either of you from continuing.

The kiss was forceful, containing all of the emotions you both have felt since that fateful night. Her mouth pushed and pulled roughly against yours; you returned the energy just as much. There were no thoughts, no rationality, behind both of your actions — only pure lust and passion.

Your hands started at her jaw but slowly drifted upwards toward the roots of her brown, messy hair, gripping and tugging at the strands. Parting from your lips for the first time in what must have been minutes, she released a moan from the sensation and continued to drift southwards toward your neck. As her teeth scraped at your pulse point, you were finally brought back to the reality of the situation.

You used the hands that were still threaded within her hair to pull her away from your neck; although, neither of you immediately stepped away from the other. You took the opportunity of your closeness to note how swollen her lips had become, how hot she looked under the dimness of the kitchen lighting.

"What are we doing?" you mumbled into the open air, not exactly expecting a response from the Sokovian in front of you.

She remained quiet, eyes flickering between your eyes and your lips. Her tongue darted out briefly, licking over her own lips in (what you assume to be, at least) preparation for more.

So, you seized the opportunity of her quietness to continue, "I'm not... I'm not perfect, okay? My parents... it's complicated. Sure, they're alive and whatnot, but... they don't care. Honestly, half of the shit I do — the grades, even — I do it so that they might finally pay attention. So, like I said, we all have our own shit to deal with."

Her lips parted, eyes stilled and staring into yours.

"And, l am sorry that that comment fucked you up as a kid. If I had known, even as a kid, I would've not said anything like that. I know I can't reverse time but..."

This time, her lips effectively ended your speech; however, the kiss was much softer than earlier, showcasing a newfound appreciation and, perhaps, feelings.

"I know," she acknowledged in a whisper after pulling away. "I'm... I'm sorry, too, by the way. I shouldn't have acted like that — it was cruel. We can talk more about it, about our... issues, later, but um- I just want to start over. Just us."

You nodded in affirmation, a blush flooding your cheeks.

"Just us."

The two of you sealed the agreement with a soft peck.

The sound of a glass shattering on the floor captured the attention of both of you, ending the kiss with the redirection of your heads in order to discover the culprit.

In the doorway of the kitchen, Pietro stood surrounded by broken glass splattered across on the wooden floor.

With widened eyes, you said the first and only thing that came to mind: "Oh, shi—"

End.

[psychotrenny]

When it comes to plagiarism everyone can agree that it's a type of theft but I've noticed this fundamental disagreement when it comes to what is actually being stolen; is it the theft of labour or the theft of property? Some people talk about plagiarism in terms of the labour hours and effort it takes to produce a piece of creative work and how cruel and unfair it is for someone else to profit off that labour without fair compensation. Meanwhile other people talk about creative works as if they are some piece of brain property that belongs to whoever first managed to conjure said ideas out of the ether and bring them into this world, with plagiarism treated as if someone swiped some physical object the creator owns. The former is an essentially Proletarian way of treating creative/intellectual work while the latter is an essentially Bourgeoisie worldview.

For the record I consider the first point of view to be the far more serious and useful one and I this can be observed in the form of specific incidents that end up being discussed. Treating plagiarism as labour theft means the conversation largely focus on the important issues of the ways that people, especially marginalised ones, have their work taken and monetised without permission or remuneration by more powerful and privileged groups or individuals; it focuses on the real material issues of people's livelihoods and fits into a broader framework of social analysis. Meanwhile reifying the concept of private intellectual property, granted by some innate genius or higher power, removes all this material context is just as likely to get you dragged into petty arguments about how someone's OC got totally ripped off by another random person because they drew a character with the same eye colour and like a vaguely comparable haircut. Like I think it's pretty obvious which lens should be used if we actually want to get anywhere with all this

[orienteddreamerrr]

Okay so…this past Saturday, I did the fire trial ONCE again with my friend who had helped me last time…we were going through it to get candles…but I must say, WHOEVER designed this kind of level needs a raise lol…

Below I’m expressing myself and my tension here so if you wanna read, feel free:

As you enter this big black ball of nothingness, everything goes dark…certain areas burn you up…there are these menacing looking ball-like creatures with “glowing” eyes roaming about with unknown trajectories…bend around a certain corner and BOOP, you’re DEAD! (Start over)

But my friend had suggested (told me) that I should always do this trial with somebody and not do it by yourself…and I agree cuz…yeesh! My whole body gets tense when I’m doing this! My pits sweat and my fingers go cold! The atmosphere is so ominous…you can’t see anything, you have to light candles as you go to carve a path…technically make landmarks as you go about the maze…and the music! OML! Adds more of the tension!

The music sounds so nightmare-ish to me it almost sounds like it belongs in a movie…a thriller…or something…interesting! I’ll try to find it on YouTube somehow! But it’s FUN nonetheless! Pro tip from my friend, as you navigate the maze, stick close to the wall, light a few candles here and there to keep the ball creatures away…if you’re with a friend, ask them to conjure the white candle for you to carry, it’s more brighter and you can see more better than your original…plus, I feel “safe” when I do it…heheheh!

Either way I’m super glad I discovered this game! And I think my friend I befriended is one of those so-called “veterans” where they have been playing for some time now…I think she has been playing for minute!

If I had missed anything or worded a fact wrong, just let me know!

[inglorionamy-ammy]

Of Home and Haven (Ch5/6)

Chapter snippet:

Gale, the sweet husband he is, has tried everything to cheer you up. From an enchanted musical box sent to your workplace at Aurora’s that turned the shift into a night of ballroom dancing through the aisles, to a quiet evening stargazing on a conjured four-poster bed at the outskirts of Waterdeep, Gale’s seemingly endless ideas have been admirable.

The aftermath of a departure, musings on grief and love, and one step towards the finale.

Summary: A tender tale between an outlander barbarian and a scholarly wizard, navigating life, love, and belonging (aka. What "being together" means for them) in Waterdeep and beyond.

Pairing: Half-orc Barbarian F!Tav X Gale Mature

Word count: 3.2k

@senualothbrok: As always, my first reader and beta.

AO3 link: Here

Chapter Four: Here

[This chapter's illustration hides at the end ;)]

Two tenday have passed.

Since Da’s departure, you can’t shake off a lingering sense of…stillness, as if time itself is on halt, stuck heavily on your skin. You are slumped on the couch opposite Gale’s working desk, sluggish, fingers idly playing with the necklace Ma gave you.

Gale, the sweet husband he is, has tried everything to cheer you up. From an enchanted musical box sent to your workplace at Aurora’s that turned the shift into a night of ballroom dancing through the aisles, to a quiet evening stargazing on a conjured four-poster bed at the outskirts of Waterdeep, Gale’s seemingly endless ideas have been admirable. Nevertheless, two days ago, you decided to hold both of his hands and solemnly asked him to work on his teaching duties first. Somehow, him trying so hard to please you, almost as if to fit himself into the void that your father has left, makes you feel…apologetic.

Logically, you know that you shouldn’t feel such emptiness — Your father did specify that you should not grieve him, and there truly is nothing to grieve. Anyone would agree that he lived a life worth celebrating, be it by half-orc or human standards. You trust that, as a great warrior, he is now probably a terrifying sight out there on the battlefield, terrorizing whoever he chooses to fight.

But something must be done — You swear to yourself as you catch Gale’s worried glance across the room the third time, brows deeply set but refraining from commenting. He is supposed to be head-deep in grading his apprentices’ reports, stacked up tall on his desk since he took leave for the wedding. You know your mood is certainly affecting his efficiency in catching up.

With a heavy sigh you tear your fingers away from the golden necklace between your collar bones — which has become part of your daily wardrobe along with your marriage earring — and push yourself off the sofa, commanding Gale’s full attention.

“I’m heading to Ma’s place,” you explain, deciding action is the only way to set things going again.

“Oh. Allow me—” He sets down his quill immediately, but you still his hand with your own and set a kiss on the top of his head.

“You stay and work,” another kiss as you attempt to smother his disappointment, “we will come back for dinner. And I will take this,” you slip the previously unused teleportation scroll from his drawer into your pack and add, “thank you.”

He stares at you. A moment later, he huffs, resigned.

Before you can turn to leave the room, however, he catches your wrist deftly. You tilt your head. The deep breath he takes suggests a lengthy speech, so you try your best to settle your heart to listen, pushing away the tickling impatience, the bubbling annoyance.

“…Ta’V,” surprisingly, he only utters, “please send my regards to your mother, alright?” He squeezes you lightly.

You lift his hand to your lips for a kiss, pressing a smile into his skin.

----

The teleportation scroll takes you straight into a lazy afternoon in the misty forest, right in the middle of your father’s old training ground.

The humanoid shape nearby startles you, until you realize it is just your Da’s training dummy, built and rebuilt so many times that it carries the scars and marks of a true warrior. Something stirs in you, but you push it down before it can take hold of you. Similarly, you avoid the upraised bit of land where your Da grappled you just tendays ago, or that nick on the tree where he first taught you how to use a crossbow. Instead, you opt to close your eyes.

You let yourself drift in the sound of the churning water wheel for a moment, punctuated by an occasional soft metal clinging sound. Eventually, you follow the latter and find your mother, harvesting the last of her home-grown herbs in the garden.

“Gale sends his regards.”

She pauses. “Did he?” she asks, her voice airy. “A sweet boy he is.” She does not turn towards you, only resumes her task.

“I should be able to move the last batch to Waterdeep today.” You glance past the windows of the hut, assessing the interior that is largely empty now.

For the last few days you have been assisting your mother to move, newly freed from your duty at Aurora’s. The conversation with your father at the city gate was the push you needed to finally resign, much to the annoyance of the manager. Perhaps you will find something more suitable for you in the city later. Polite society or not, you have decided to come to terms with your inclination towards physical labour over intellectual ones, even if they seem to be less valued in the social circle you find yourself in. And who’s to say that fighting isn’t intellectual? Your mind definitely feels more alive in combat than standing between aisles. You have scheduled a meeting with Jina’s cousin, a city guard, who is well placed to pull some strings for the Hero of Baldur’s Gate. Maybe you can even land yourself a consultant post if you are lucky.

You are not the only one who seeks change. Your mother has long understood that with Da gone, it’s unrealistic to live in the misty woods alone, without assistance with hunting, farming, and guarding the place. After some consideration, she declined Gale’s offer of setting up magical wards for her safety and decided to use Da’s saved treasures from the basement to buy a small place in Waterdeep recommended by Morena. It has no garden, but you know Tara and Gale are secretly planning to set up a magical greenhouse for her in the tower you share. Needless to say, it’s also an excuse for Tara and the two mothers to visit you two more often.

Everything is planned and being executed accordingly. But somehow, the stillness lingers. You stare at Ma’s back, who when kneeling amidst the plants, seems uncharacteristically hefty. You don’t know what else you can do.

Then suddenly, you remember her language, the poem. With a deep breath, you recite,

White sheep, white sheep,

On a blue hill,

She pauses. When she slowly turns towards you, the sun at her back masks her face in a deep shadow, her expression unreadable. You continue,

When the wind stops,

You all stand still.

When the wind blows,

You walk away slow.

White sheep, white sheep,

Where do you go?

Your voice cracks as the last word falls out of your mouth. A sudden loneliness floods your heart, leaving you helpless.

“I don’t know what to do, Ma,” you quietly confess, hoping that she will understand. For the first time, you are the one who watches the sheep go.

She finally stands up, and you feel more than see her soft gaze. “Oh, Ta’V,” she whispers. “Will you come with me?”

You follow her into the hut, scanning the last of the artifacts and tomes, now packed in chests, shrouded in shadows. She runs her fingers over them as if mesmerized by the patterns etched on the lid, before sitting down on it. You choose a sturdy one to follow.

Her gaze falls upon you, feather-light, all-seeing.

“Oh, my girl, you have truly grown so much.” She sets her palm gently on your knee. “Do you remember when you were just a little girl, how hard it was to sit you still just for the time to sing a verse? And yet there you are, reciting the song I taught you on your sixth birthday.”

She chuckles, full of nostalgia. You know she has drifted back to that hot summer night, cradling her half-orc daughter in her lap, counting the stars as you began to fall asleep. But now you are wide awake, and you sense her words turning solemn, thoughtful.

“I could tell from the looks you gave me. You thought I gave up a lot to be here, leaving civilization, nobility, whatever past life there was, to stay with your Da, with you.”

Her tone commands attention.

“But my girl, nothing is further from the truth. He was the one who suspended his desires for glory and warfare to be domesticated with a frail, disgraced noblewoman like me, living only a fraction of his old life in the training ground, until you came along. It will always be my honour to have spent a life with him and with you, my wild, wild love.”

She holds your gaze. “So I say thank you. I thank him for the time he devoted to me. For the prime years that he spent not for bloodshed but to build us a home and shelter us within it. And as he needed to leave, I celebrate the fact that even though his time is up, he will always remain the light of my life, a part of my soul.”

You are captivated by how the warm afternoon sunrays shower her, tears unmistakably shimmering on her face that she makes no attempt to wipe away. She wears them with dignity, almost regally, as she holds her head up high and welcomes the waves of grief as the price she pays for love.

You suddenly know what you must do. You stand up and stroll, revisiting every corner of your childhood home and allow the memories to wash over you. You walk past the kitchen counter, where your father taught you how to prepare a beholder tentacle for roasting, your Ma tutting disapprovingly but soon adopting it as her favorite meal. You walk past the bathroom, where you hid and cried after you lost a fight with your father, blocking your worried parents outside the locked door. You walk past the empty bookshelves, which were once full of books, and remember how your mother would hum as she chose one to be your bedtime story, even though you were already half asleep. Suddenly, the stillness, while still lingering, seems easier to bear.

With gratitude, you extend your hand to Ma. “Let’s finish this. Gale will be cooking tonight.”

At that, she breaks into a smile, matching your own.

Later that evening, Gale opens the door and is greeted by two women with red, puffy eyes, his own widening in concern. But before it can turn into full-fledged panic you crush his train of thoughts with a squeezing hug.

“Thank you,” you whisper in his ear, where the sapphire earring is glimmering.

“Of course, but what for?” He pulls back with a frown and a smile, equally confused and amused.

“For sharing your life with me.”

And that is why as nighttime approaches and Morena and Tara arrive, they are greeted by three people with red, puffy eyes. Even in tears, each of you feels so joyful, so tranquil, so deeply in love.

----

Another two months have passed.

You are used to Gale losing himself deep in thoughts after receiving messages delivered by his apprentices. Even though he complains about the cohort a lot, he is at heart a devoted teacher who spends night after night thinking of ways to improve his tuition.

But the letter today has sent him into a frenzy, so much so that you have to physically stop him from pacing around the room. You hold him by his shoulders, eyes soft but insistent, demanding him to come back to you. Eventually, he looks up and meets your gaze.

“Ta’V, my love, there’s something I have to tell you.” He starts cautiously, and you briefly wonder whether you will have to stomp Blackstaff. “Do you recall that day, almost a year ago now, when you told, or rather, wrote to me, expressing that you want to be a part of the Blackstaff Academy?”

Uncharacteristically, in his anxiety he still waits for you to answer, rather than just leaving a pause before continuing his speech.

So you consider. Ah, the day you were denied entry. Since then, you still haven’t had a chance to visit the campus, busy working at Aurora’s, preparing for the wedding, and now training the city guards and occasionally helping the Harper network. Not that you would ever admit that when the patrolling leads you close to the Academy gate, you still feel a slight hint of embarrassment. You slowly nod that yes, you remember, although now you think of it, it was more a desperate cry for a home, for belonging.

“Well,” he clears his throat, “I wonder if you…uh, still feel the same?”

As your eyes widen in shock, he quickly continues, “it’s not confirmed yet! What I received is an invitation to an…interview. You see, after your surprising request, I did spend some time forming a plan, supported by ample research, of course, and came up with a rather convincing proposal for the school board.”

Looking at his proud face, you realize that this was what he had been doing all along when you were out at Aurora’s, and Tara complained he was not getting enough sleep.

“By analyzing your leadership and battle prowess during our shared adventure, as well as the mercenary stories from your past as anecdotal evidence, I argue that a skilled martial fighter like yourself could in fact both pose great danger or be of great assistance to magic users. It would be immensely beneficial if the Academy could prepare the students, often overly confident with their own arcane skills, to embrace a more multi-disciplinary worldview.”

You frown. While you are more used to his monologues these days, this is still a lot to take in.

“But I don’t know magic,” you drawl with hesitation.

“Oh, but you do!” he exclaims. The once arrogant wizard now eager and genuine, his hands gesturing as if to disperse the nervous air that surrounds the both of you. “You know how to fight it.”

----

A tenday before the interview, Gale is forbidden to have any contact with you until the test is over. After a long, passionate kiss that leads to a very enjoyable session before the well-lit fireplace — which might or might not have coaxed the tiniest hint of tears from not only him but you as well — he reluctantly lets you pack and move to the designated dormitory in the Academy. You know that it is guarded against any attempts to communicate with him or anyone who might leak the details of the interview.

Gale protests this. You have to remind him that it is only a tenday, not an eternal separation. But from the clinging force of his embrace by the door of your new room, you are not entirely sure he understands this. As the door closes, the reality sets in. After being among friends for so long, once again you are in solitude.

You spend your days preparing for the test. The term “interview” does not do justice to the fact that it is going to be a battle against a mysterious magic user at a gigantic elliptical amphitheatre, the center of the Blackstaff Tower. Looking out your window, you can see students walking around with increasing joyful chatters, and you know that their semester is drawing to a close. The day of your fight, which will be open to all, is right before the Midwinter holidays. You expect a full house of audiences looking for entertainment as their own exams and deadlines are over.

Stilling your heart, you decide to sharpen your chosen weapons and count the potion flasks you have. You are allowed to choose your own equipment with one exception—scrolls. External spell assistance is forbidden. You will have to resolve to mostly physical means to counter the magical attacks, so you draw on your past experiences against powerful magic users.

Will your opponent be like Lorroakan, a small man with a huge ego who summoned four distinct elementals to fight alongside him? Will they be like the hag, who fought nastily and specialized in cruel mind control? Will they be like Gale, your beloved strategist who always gains the best position with misty steps and invisibility, and blasts powerful lightning attacks when the enemies least expect it? You fight them mentally, over and over again, alone.

The night before the interview you have a nightmare. In your traitorous mind, Gale of Waterdeep glares at you with estranged contempt as you both stand on top of Blackstaff Tower. You shout as his fingers dance, and suddenly you are pushed off the surface, falling down, down, down back onto your mattress. You jostle awake. Gasping desperately for air, you realize it is the first time you remember a dream. This damned place surely is doing something to your nerves.

Still, you are now awake, three hours before the battle as planned. It’s time.

----

The arena is humming.

Standing behind the gate with two guards, you can already hear the audience’s excitement inside. Your opponent is behind the gate opposite to yours. You two will greet each other from opposite sides of the massive field when the fight starts. With any spellcasters, closing the distance is the key to defeating them.

Suddenly you are reminded of how Shadowheart took on the trials of Shar. She must have felt as restless as you are, eager to prove herself. But back then she believed she was blessed by her Goddess, destined to pass, and you are under no such illusion. In fact, you are quite certain that save for Gale and whoever he convinces to come with him, the whole crowd is rooting for your defeat. A non-magic user, a half-orc barbarian, who dares to venture into the heart of the most esteemed arcane institution.

But isn’t that what you have been facing since the very beginning? Neither fully an orc nor a human, for the longest time you wandered the wild, fought day and night, to forget the rejection, the fear that settled people threw at you. You are used to being excluded, suspected, and ridiculed. The thought ignites a rage inside you, fueling your body but clouding your mind.

Then you remember this is no longer the case. You have found your home, your haven, in the arms of the most ridiculously loving man in the world, your very own talented wizard. If you fail, he will no doubt be disappointed, but he will also be fussing over you, taking care of you, together with Tara and Morena and your mother. Perhaps the next day you will be back at the city guard camp, training, feasting, and laughing with them about your little adventure in the prestigious college. You are thankful, for the people you have found, the life you now live.

So you take a deep breath. If a show is what they want, it is what you will provide. You will be the threat that they deserve. That Gale deserves, after spending so many sleepless nights defending your name against his people.

“You can start,” the guard instructs, but you stop him from opening the gate. Instead, you ROAR. Your presence is now amplified, echoed, inescapable.

The arena goes silent.

It is now that you push open the gate, letting its squeaky hinges scream, savoring every second. As you step forward, you intentionally drag the Nyrulna on the dusty soil, stirring up a misty veil to wrap yourself in. You know what they see — A silhouette, an almost seven-foot-tall barbarian, with a great trident as tall as herself shining in the sunlight. Tense, ready to parry.

This time, big rocks are not against the rules.

Chapter 6 (ending)

Hey readers, long time no see! I can't believe it has been a month. For this chapter to make sense I highly recommend rereading the previous chapters for callbacks, Ta'V's growth as a person, and as someone in a network of relationships! (I am truly like a proud mom here hehe) <3

Next chapter - finale.

As always, love to hear your feedback!

[our-blood-is-our-ink]

Hello I was just wondering when chapter 2 of Careful creatures will drop! If there will be a chapter 2 at all, (I really hope there will be)

Ope, not me dropping off the face of the planet fic writing wise. The depreseeion really gets to you. Anyways, here's FINALLY, Chapter Two 💚💜❤️

Careful Creatures: Chapter Two

Ship(s): Hela x Agatha, Agatha x Wanda, Wanda x Hela, Hela x Agatha x Wanda

Summary: Three powerful beings broken down back to the start somehow find themselves brought together as they relearn themselves and each other.

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: angst, descriptions of being burnt, mild gore, mention of sexual assault/non-con/rape, abuse of alcohol/alcoholism/addiction, amnesia, split personality but make it ✨magic✨

Disclaimer: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI!

A/N: Please READ THE WARNINGS before proceeding. If this were on AO3 it would be rated E for explicit material later on in the series, and M for mature material for the heavy content this story deals with.

Hela groans, her head pounding.

The second thing she registers is how much pain the rest of her body is in.

“Sh…” A soft, sweet voice soothes. “You're going to be okay, let me finish cleaning out your wounds.”

Distrust immediately floods the goddess, but her limbs hardly even respond to her internal command, her fingers twitching pathetically as she tries to call forth for her twin blades.

She can't even get her eyes to open.

When a cool cloth is pressed against one of her numerous burns, she nearly whimpers, the pain cutting sharply through the duller agony she is in.

“I know it probably hurts.” The sweet voice says, tone gentle and quiet. “But at least it hopefully won't get infected. I don't know if you're awake or not, but I hope you can hear me either way and that it's helping.” A pause. “I like helping people, I think. It feels… That feels familiar.”

Hela’s head hurts too much for her to decipher what the voice means by that, and instead focuses on the rhythmic motions the cloth is making over her cracked and blistered skin.

More than anything, once the sharp bite of pain fades, the coolingness of it soothes the way Hela still feels as if her skin is aflame, burning and burning and burning.

An unconscious whine slips from her lips when there's a pause, and the sweet voice shushes her again.

“I'm just dipping it into the water again. I'm trying to be very careful, these wounds look pretty bad.”

Hela has enough of her thoughts together to keep herself from whining again, but just barely.

Her lips do part in a throaty sigh of relief as she feels the cloth once more resuming its motions across her heated skin, but the action makes her aware of just how thirsty she is.

“W’er.” She attempts to croak out.

It hurts. Her throat hurts so bad, like the rest of her.

“Hm?” The voice hums in question.

“Wa-er.” Hela tries to carefully pronounce, but her tongue and mouth are so dry, she can't get the ‘t’ sound out.

“Oh, yes! Of course.” The sweet voice sounds… Embarrassed, perhaps? “Let me prop you up, so you don't choke.”

Hela nearly whimpers again as soft hands grasp at her, her skin still feeling as if it's on fire, and the pain spikes as she's manhandled into a more upright position.

How low she has fallen.

No family, no friends, no allies.

None but whoever the voice belongs to.

When water drips down onto her lips, she parts them and greedily sucks down the water being tipped into her mouth.

It hurts to swallow, but everything will hurt worse if she doesn't.

A sigh of relief expels itself after a few minutes, and Hela can feel her head loll back.

“You can rest.” The voice says. “I won't leave.”

Distrusting as Hela generally is, she has no choice but to trust.

If she wasn't suddenly flooded with exhaustion, she would be furious at how helpless she has become.

As it is though, she can barely conjure two words in her mind to string together.

She falls back to darkness.

—»•«—

She leans against the kitchen counter, letting the other woman ransack the cabinets in search of coffee as she smiles viciously, enjoying the enraged yelling coming from the other room.

“Seriously, where's the coffee.”

“You'd have better luck just grabbing a beer, dear.” She replies. “Or a cooler.”

Darcy Lewis lets out an exasperated sigh.

“You can drop the flirty neighbor routine, I just saw you beat up, like, six different guys.”

Agatha huffs, and doesn't deign to respond.

Ralph shouts another threat.

“You're gonna have to do something else with him. You can't just keep him tied up forever.”

Agatha shrugs carelessly.

“Take him into custody for all I care.”

“Oh, um. I don't exactly work with S.W.O.R.D. anymore. Or… Any government branch.” Darcy mumbles.

She quirks a brow, and Darcy blushes harder.

“They might've put Dickward into prison, but they said that crashing a vehicle into him was ‘reckless’ and ‘needlessly risky’.”

“Of course they did.” Agatha snorts. “This is why I've stayed under the radar.”

“You mean until you thought trying to kill a wanted fugitive was gonna be beneficial for you.”

The older woman scowls.

“That was not what I was trying to do.”

“Sure looked like it.”

Agatha scowls harder and distinctly does not look in the direction of any alcohol.

…

Fuck.

She pushes herself away from the counter and opens the freezer, pulling out a margarita mix pack.

“Um.” Darcy sounds a bit startled, looking up from where she's crouched, victoriously clutching at the canister of coffee she finally found. “Do you really think more alcohol is a good idea?”

She ignores the other woman, and wobbles a little as she begins to walk around the kitchen, pulling the various things she needs to make the drink to her liking.

“Agatha..?”

“Agnes, hot stuff! I don't know why people keep trying to call me Agatha!” She smiles brightly, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Darcy seems frozen while Agnes whirls around the kitchen, determinedly ignoring the shouting coming from the other room.

The bubbly woman continues to smile with false brightness as she places the finishing touches on her drink, shrugging good-naturedly when Darcy shakes her head at the offered second glass Agnes holds out to her.

“More for me, dear!” She laughs, before taking a long drink from the first.

“I, um… Hot water?” Darcy asks weakly.

Agnes’s face shifts into a slight scowl that's gone almost as soon as it appears.

“You'll have to boil a pot.” Her tone is pointedly not cheery, and she drains the first cup of alcohol in her hand before moving on to the second.

Darcy steps in her way when she moves to grab another mix.

“I don't think more is a good idea.” The other woman says, flinching nervously as Ralph bellows again.

Agnes trembles slightly and tries not to let her anger get the best of her.

Being angry meant making mistakes and making mistakes meant getting punished.

“It's just a little something to help with the day!” Agnes attempts.

“How about some coffee instead?” Darcy offers.

Agnes does truly scowl now, and she crosses her arms.

“You’re in my home, dear.”

Darcy latches on to that.

“Yeah, exactly. I'm your guest. It wouldn't be polite of you to get smashed while I'm here.”

Agnes’s scowl deepens for a split second before a forced smile returns to her face.

“You're right, hon! I'll take some coffee too if that's what you want to have. Just make mine an Irish.” Agnes throws in a wink for good measure.

Ralph yells a string of crude words from the other room and both women exchange a glance.

“Maybe we should gag him,” Darcy suggests.

Agnes shudders.

“I– no. No, thank you, dear. I don't want my fingers anywhere near his mouth.”

Darcy very clearly decides not to ask.

Not that Agnes would have answered.

Ralph… Well, he is her husband.

Her husband who gave his friends permission to have sex with her. Who didn't care if she wanted that or not.

Agnes hisses with pain as a stabbing pain shoots across her head, right behind her left eye.

“I… I think I'm going to go lay down for a spell, dear.” She mumbles, not completely aware of her surroundings anymore. “I suddenly don't feel so well.”

Agnes doesn't know if Darcy answers her or not. Her ears are buzzing too much to.

—»•«—

…an…y…u…e…ar…me…?

—»•«—

Wanda sits and watches the mysterious woman diligently, her eyes roving over the places where her outfit is torn and burnt.

Pale skin is marred by angry red, and in some cases, a blackened soot color that only causes her to feel nauseated with guilt and fear.

She doesn't know why.

Raven locks, shining nearly blue, are a knotted, tangled mess, the long, straight strands seemingly determined to create a bird’s nest.

Wanda doesn't doubt that well taken care of, her mystery woman would be very, very beautiful.

Her heart twists painfully, and she scowls.

Her memory refuses to return, but not the echoes of the emotions. It's impossible for Wanda to make sense of what she's feeling without the memories attached to why she would be inclined to feel a certain way about any specific thing.

It's stupid.

She groans and thunks her head gently back against the tree trunk she's sitting against.

She hopes the pale woman wakes up again soon.

Wanda is beginning to feel restless, a creeping dread slowly overcoming her.

She doesn't know why, only that something in her, deep down, is pushing her, tugging her feet somewhere not here.

[breannasfluff]

Kelpies and Nuckelavees

Whump Rating: 4/5 (mainly for violence to the monster) TW: Injury, violence and gore to a monster, mention of blood

This AU belongs to @dark-angel-of-muses! It's based on Scottish mythology. Twilight is a kelpie, Legend is a selkie, Wild is a ghost, and Ravio is an ace succubus. I encourage you to check it out; but you shouldn't need further context to enjoy this.

Kelpies have a reputation for danger. They stalk the riverways, luring children and travelers onto their backs to drown them. Wailing from the river heralds incoming storms. They could even summon floods to sweep away travelers.

In Twilight’s opinion, most of the rumors are horse dung. He doesn’t stalk the river, he lives in it. Where else would a kelpie go? Land houses mean little to a water horse. He gives Legend a warning of storms if there’s a shift in the water temperature, but that is common sense, not magic. And summoning floods? He’s never conjured an ounce of extra water in his life.

Twilight is content to live in the river, giving rides to the children who visit the banks. In exchange, they give him gifts and offerings filled with gratitude magic. There is no need to eat human flesh when what they offer freely is so sweet.

In his wolf form, he is free to roam as far as he likes. He generally keeps to visiting Legend’s house; Ravio will scratch his ears in just the right spot, tail winding around his.

Wild keeps him company; as happy out of the water as in. Sometimes he'll drift off to visit Legend alone. Other times, the two will set out along the river, exploring up and down the banks. There are all sorts of interesting magical surprises to find.

Yet no matter how docile he acts—how sweetly he hies his fangs—Twilight is still a kelpie. And when it came to protecting those he loved? There is no challenge he wouldn’t face.

“Have you noticed anyone strange hanging around the shop?” Twilight shakes his head, tossing hair and seaweed out of his face.

“Strange? What do you mean?” Legend tracks Ravio, who has his pelt slung over his shoulders. He’s playing with Wild, although from here it’s unclear what the game is.

“There’s a scent lingering around your house. I noticed it as Wolfie. It doesn’t go into the yard; Hyrule’s puzzles probably scare it off. But it’s thick enough to be a worry.”

“Fae? Hylian?”

Twilight shrugs, shifting a few inches closer to the water. He doesn’t need to be in it, but the call of the river is a low hum along his senses. “Can’t tell. Wanted to see if you noticed anyone hanging around.”

Legend shakes his head. “I haven’t, but I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks for the warning.”

“Of course.”

They stand together, watching Ravio’s tail wave in delight as he picks up rocks along the bank and holds them out to Wild. The selkie softens when Ravio glances back at him and waves. Then the succubus skips up the beach and presses into Legend’s side.

“Hi, Twi! Wild was telling me about some of the exploring you’ve been doing!”

“It’s fun to explore the river bank. This is a deep river for—well, as far as we’ve gone, so there’s plenty to explore. Glaciers carved out these paths eons ago.

Ravio rolls his eyes. “You’re making that up.”

“I swear! Wild told me.”

This gets a flat look from Legend. “And you believe everything Wild tells you?”

Twilight shrugs and grins.

“He told Rav that he should try feeding on lightning to understand how peppers test.”

The kelpie’s smile fades slightly. “I stand by my statement, even if I regret it.”

Wild joins them at the sound of laughter and thoughts of mysterious visitors are forgotten.

The scent is back. Wolfie sniffs as he circles Legend and Ravio’s house. It tingles against his senses, even in this form. The charms and protection spells are slowly layering into a stronger barrier. It won’t keep out everyone, but it’s enough to make a fae think twice about breaking in.

Whoever is leaving this scent certainly knows so. The path circles the property; sometimes dipping closer and sometimes edging away. Yet this time, the scent is strong in his nose as it leads away. Whoever was here left recently.

Wolfie glances at the house one more time, then sets off, nose to the trail. Until now there’s never been a strong enough trail to follow before it’s lost to the overlapping scents of visitors. The trail leads deeper inland and quickly straightens. Whoever this is, they know where they are going.

The countryside is beautiful in the moonlight. The grass under his paws springs back with each step. The air is rich with the lush smell of greenery, along with the path he follows. The scent of a rabbit crosses the path and the wolf pauses for a moment, before continuing.

The trail continues strong, leading ever deeper inland. A faint twinge of worry starts to build. In wolf form, the call of the water is even less than as a human or kelpie. But even a wolfish curse can’t erase the magic of his blood. Water flows through his veins. The further he goes, the more it prickles.

He’s starting to question his decision to come out this far when the scent veers into a dell. Wolfie nearly stumbles over his paws as his body catches up to his nose. Ears pricked, he heads into the dell.

It’s small—just a dip between high hills. A structure is built half into the hillside, made of branches and sticks. Something that might have once been thatch covers the top as a makeshift roof.

It’s…well, hovel is a word that comes to mind. Wolfie tries not to judge people on where they live; not everyone is blessed with cool, clear waters. But this? It reeks of disuse and age. Whoever is living here is a recent addition.

Warily, the wolf creeps up to the entrance. It’s dark inside, even for his eyes. The scent he’s been following is stronger now and it mixes with others. Herbs, old earth, and arcane spells.

Wolfie freezes and looks down. His paw is just inside a magic circle. Hidden under a thin layer of dirt, it now glows faintly with magic as it activates. He pulls back but is unable to move. The spell holds him frozen.

“Well, it seems I’ve caught myself a meal.” From the darkness extends a hand. The arm is too long and—oh, muscles flex over white bone. It has no skin.

Wolfie whines and pulls backward, but his paw is trapped. His muscles tremble with the effort of trying to move.

“None of that. I’ll be taking this bracelet, even if you’ve managed to wrap up a curse with it.” The fingers, too nimble for their size, unhook the silver chain around his paw.

A kelpie’s servitude is tied to the silver bridle of their horse form. When in human form, it sits as a necklace against his breastbone. As a wolf, it forms a bracelet on his paw. The curse hangs from it. The magic is too entangled to unweave and he’s grown used to roaming as a wolf.

The crystal, however, needs to be on his body to keep his wolf form. The moment it’s unlatched, the curse magic releases its grip on his body. The change, unprompted by Wolfie, tears over his limbs. His howl of pain morphs into an equine scream, then a human one.

By the time he’s stuffed back into a body, Twilight is shaking. His hand is still trapped in the magic circle. The kelpie form pulses in the surge of water through his veins, but he’s too far inland. The shift to human was instinctual to protect himself.

The bracelet vanishes into the darkness. A moment later, the magical shackles tied to it lock firmly around his body. The magic under his palm dims, then vanishes. Twilight skitters back on instinct, teeth bared.

Out of the darkness, the creature finally emerges.

Read the rest on AO3!

[cosmicjoke]

I have just come to notice something about this fandom from seeing your comments and reblogs about the reactions to the discussion of bad boy as well as seeing other reblogs from other blogs. My realization is that some if not most self shippers are no different from some radical shippers out there. When you, cosmic, complain about the mischaracterization of Levi, I know it is from a genuine place because you have always only discussed canon Levi. I once thought that was the same about self shippers who come at and attack non self shippers for mischaracterizing Levi's character whenever he's put in a ship with other characters in the show, but after bad boy and their weird reactions to the discussion of Levi's trauma in bad boy because for whatever reason it somehow affects the way they always potray Levi as a walking sex God domineering 24/7, I have come to realize that their cry of mischaracterization was simply jealousy of the characters Levi is shipped with(which is crazy because imagine being jealous of cartoon characters) and not genuine dislike for mischaracterization of Levi's character like they use to hide behind and it's interesting to see such self exposure to say the least. Because why else are they so adverse to Levi's canon trauma if they are such champions of keeping Levi's character in the canon realm.

Yeah, it's interesting.

I'm sure it's a minority, just like with people who ship Levi with other characters. But, as always, it's a LOUD minority, and they give a bad name to the entire community in the process of acting the way they do.

But this is partly why I've never enjoyed shipping discourse, or talking about ships, whether that be self-shipping or shipping Levi with other characters. Because, outside of all of it, Levi isn't romantically involved with anyone, and in truth, shows no romantic leanings or inclinations toward anyone. He's one of the ONLY characters, in fact, who doesn't. Almost every other, major character is shown, at some point, showing some sort of romantic interest in someone, or having reference made to a past romantic interest.

But not Levi.

I can't think of a character, then, whom shipping discourse, of ANY kind, could apply to less.

It has literally zero bearing on his character.

And so I don't understand the obsession with placing Levi into romantic fantasies at all, or seeing him through the lens of romantic interest, or why these people insist on bringing their shipping fantasies into discussions revolving around Levi's ACTUAL canon character. There's no place for it there, at all.

If Levi's actual, canonically established character contradicts whatever version of him you've come up with in your head while shipping him with... whoever, then you need to be able to admit that Levi himself isn't who you're fantasizing about, whether that's with yourself, or another character.

And if you can't do that, and instead you rage against anyone for daring to discuss who Levi actually is in canon, and what he's been through in canon, because it disrupts your ability to envision him in your preferred ship, then you need to take a step back and engage in some self-reflection.

I get the feeling sometimes that shippers think Levi belongs exclusively to them, and so they can mold him into whatever they want him to be.

But Levi is a character completely separate from any of us. He exists in a fully established world, and is a fully developed person within that world.

People engage in so much projection, and it's incredibly irritating. They can't see past themselves, and often treat Levi as an avatar for their own thoughts and feelings. They think Levi should be whatever they are, or whatever they desire him to be. But, again, Levi isn't any of us. Levi is Levi.

If these people can't accept that, then maybe they need to move on to some other character that more closely resembles themselves, or whatever fantasy they've conjured in their heads about him.

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

Hooked

Summary: Written for AI-less Whumptober 2023 Day 29. Set in a Modern-ish AU. After a storm, Eret spends his time finding the merman who saved him from drowning.

Warning: /

Rating: General

Characters: Eret

Pairing: Minor Eretcup

Words: 823

Fandom: How to Train Your Dragon

Prompt: “The easy way or the hard way?”

Whumpee: Eret

Author’s Notes: I originally had a different idea for this one, one that was way more intense and was actually Hiccstrid instead of Eretcup. But this is the fourth year in a row that my (AI-less) Whumptober time did not go as planned because of things entirely out of my control. This month is cursed. :)

So I had to keep that (relatively long) idea for a different day and come up with a shorter idea.

And thus this AU was born!

I honestly only got to write it because I FINALLY got the time to.

Enjoy!

@ailesswhumptober

XOXOX

Today, just like many days, Eret finds himself staring at the sea. Leaning on the edge of his fishing boat, he stares down into the water. He should be paying attention, he should be casting his nets for today's catch, but instead he's wasting his time staring into the abyss.

About a month ago to the day, Eret's boat got caught in a terrible storm. He knew it was coming, but he still went out anyway, figuring he would be back in time. So instead of the catch of the day, he landed himself in trouble. The waves were wild and merciless, throwing his boat around until it capsized and he found himself in the dark depths he’s now staring into.

It was impossible to tread water, he couldn’t even reach the surface. Legs kicking, arms swinging, lungs burning. He found himself in the exact kind of position no one swimming in a large body of water wants to be in. Desperately reaching for the surface and yet not gaining an inch towards air.

Needless to say, Eret thought he was going to die.

Until…

A shape.

It was almost impossible to see in water so dark, but he could vaguely see it moving. He could’ve sworn it was shaped like a man, yet swam as fluid as a fish.

The last thing Eret remembered were the hands that grabbed him and the eyes that they belonged to. They were distinctly human and yet the pupils said something different. They were too large and they were that way to soak up what little light there was.

The next thing Eret remembers is when two paramedics loaded him into an ambulance to be taken to the local hospital. Obviously he made it or he wouldn’t be here today. But it’s the story behind his survival that adds another layer of weirdness.

Eret was found on a beach. There was a lot of junk left on that beach after the storm, Eret didn’t stand out even a little bit, yet he was found with ease.

Because apparently, someone approached a passerby, led her straight to him and that’s how the paramedics were called.

And now, a month later, Eret still searches for him. The one who saved his life, the owner of the hands that pulled him from the depths and those strange eyes.

Minutes pass by as Eret stares down into the dark water, minutes of seeing nothing below. Whatever or whoever he saw that day, they haven’t been seen since.

He sighs and straightens. Eyes closing, he conjures up the mental image he has of his savior. He can’t help it, they’ve been on his mind for the past month now.

According to the descriptions given to him when he asked around , he was a guy. A tall guy, a lean guy. With a head of auburn hair and striking green eyes. All of that and that he wasn’t wearing too much. A jacket, Eret’s, and that’s it. It was as if he'd “stepped right out of the ocean” as he was told. But there is one part that always seemed to stand out to people; how striking those eyes are.

It’s strange. While Eret’s muddled memory doesn’t allow him to remember every second of his rescue, he doesn’t remember seeing any green.

He just remember his pupils, his hands, and that odd fish-like movement.

He’s been left with questions and a lot of them. He tried to find him on land, he wanted to thank him. While he has no idea what he would be doing swimming in the ocean in the middle of a storm, Eret is grateful.

But it didn’t matter who he asked, he couldn’t find a sign of him. Not on the mainland and not online, a place he doesn’t traverse much anyway.

Or maybe he hadn’t tried hard enough, because there was a part of him that kept telling him that he was just not looking in the right place.

So every day following his last search, Eret took to the sea with his boat- it’s a rental until he can afford a new secondhand one- to catch fish to sell and instead he spends his time staring down into the water. Not for fish, but for something more mystical.

A mermaid. Or merman, he supposes.

The thought almost sounds too crazy, but dragons are real, so why not merfolk? Those who come from a sailor lineage like him know they were real once.

Eret walks over to the wheel and grabs it, planning on moving on. For days on end, he’s been posted in the general area he almost drowned in, hoping to get a glimpse of the one who saved him.

He’s not ready to give up. Whether the easy way or the hard way, Eret will find him somehow.

In a weird way, though he’s the fisherman, he’s also the one who’s been hooked.

[autopsified]

·:¨༺ ♱ ༻¨:· @kcrlcv's last wish ; underrated female starter call

Even now, her fourth trip since Frenchie France, Sister Irene is not thrilled about the title of exorcist. Aside from the fact that she isn't even sure if this is the kind of title allowed for a nun, there's so much more to her work than that.

Perhaps it's ignorant of her, but the word exorcism conjures up images of a victim tied down- the demon inside rendered useless but to threaten and thrash- in a circle of men chanting ancient text and spraying holy water everywhere. It seems like a much more controlled and regulated process compared to what she's doing.

She's still never quite sure what to expect whenever she arrives to a new location, but as she steps into the infamous abandoned Ontario house Irene just feels... sad. Most of the stories connected to the house are old wives tales that have branched off into countless variations over the years, but all of them start with a tragic story of a young girl.

Sister Irene wanders off upstairs while the rest of her small party remains in the foyer, and the room she finds herself in seems to be that of a young girls. Does she have any way of knowing if it's one who might be extremely relevant to what's brought her here in the first place? Not at all.

But there's a stack of records in the room she gently thumbs through, finding that whoever they had once belonged to has a very similar music taste to her own. "Oh, nice," she breathes out to herself when she recognizes a Buddy Holly record she had once owned briefly, only getting to listen to it once or twice before it was somehow ruined in a way she can't quite remember.

[naffeclipse]

I’m about to ramble so much, please forgive me in advance

Ok as if I didn’t need another idea added to the drabble pile, but the ask about Y/N switching places with their past self has got me thinking. (And you know I’m always going to spin this in a way to write Eclipse lol). Maybe not so much them switching places wherein there are two existing versions of Y/N, but due to tomfoolery and unexplained shenanigans, Y/N finds themself right back in their old shoes, working under Afton. In the present time, Y/N has completely vanished, and the detectives are frantically searching for them with no luck. Nothing in the morgue, nothing in the news. But there is something notably different in the mafia world, and after some digging, they find that there is also no Eclipse. He’s presumably vanished at the same time as Y/N, and the detectives fear the worst.

Back in the past, Y/N has to quickly learn how to walk in their bloodied shoes once more and fool everyone that nothing has changed about them. It’s three times more difficult this time because now they realize: Do they need to do the exact same thing again, follow their exact same horrific actions in order to get back to where they belong? If they do something different, will that mess up everything? Do they have to kill the same people again?

They’ve already started to pique the suspicion of Vanessa, and if they don’t fall into line seamlessly again, they know they’ll draw the all-seeing gaze of Afton too. They can’t risk it. They didn’t go through all of their trauma just to find a moment of peace and then lose it all. But as the days bleed past, they almost start to really wonder if maybe it was all a fanciful dream. Something their mind conjured up to escape their reality. The only things tethering them to that present time—to their detectives—are the bells and ribbon still wrapped in their hair. So there’s no way they could have imagined it all, right?

Not too long after, there’s word on the streets. Whispers of a figure interfering with Afton’s gang, sniping the mob one henchman at a time. Almost like a playful message. Y/N is sent to take them out. Lure them in, set a trap, eliminate.

It feels oddly… familiar, the place they’ve chosen to set up and wait. A newer warehouse, away from prying eyes and ears. They’re careful to make sure mention of another deal will be going down, but it’s kept hushed and travels very lightly. Y/N knows it will be enough though. Afton’s gang has found a shadow, after all. The mob boss wants to get rid of whoever’s toying with his gang, so unfortunately for whoever’s been taking shots at them, this won’t end well. Y/N tries to not think about how they’d much rather let the person continue if maybe to give them an out from Afton’s control.

They lie in wait in the warehouse, waiting with their gun. It should be a simple mission. In and out. And it certainly shouldn’t be Eclipse they meet there, who upon finding them at last and watching keenly with hungry, bright eyes, is so elated both that Y/N is falling right back into their role—that burning hate taking hold once more (as he so claims to see)—and also at how fitting it is to meet in the very same building they first met once upon a time… but now in the past.

And all I’m saying is possible teaming up with Eclipse and Y/N? Very reluctant teaming up because Y/N pretends they don’t know Eclipse at first, but that bluff hardly lasts. And maybe Eclipse wants to stay there in the past, not concerned about returning to his and Y/N’s time because this could be their chance to finally work together, claim what’s theirs. Y/N just wants to go home, and maybe after a long course of arguing that stretches on for days, they come to some workable agreement. Because it becomes plainly obvious that the detectives did not also make it back to where they are, and in fact, they aren’t anywhere to be found at all. And try as he might, Eclipse hates not having total control over the situation, of whatever sent them back, and what’s stopping it from messing with the time yet again? And how dare something else take his brothers from him when that should be his own right. The temptation of taking over Afton’s gang is strong, but doing so then wouldn’t be perfectly to his standards or desire. He just needs to figure out how to craft this in his favor while slowly cajoling Y/N to working with him.

Anyways, I just like the thought of those two being a reluctant team and trying to find their way home because that would be hilarious IMO. Them against the Afton mafia XD

Also potential for backstabbing and then feeling hurt and betrayed by that, but also, why are there even feelings of hurt and betrayal in the first place?? It’s not like they have a relationship or anything 👀

Also also, whenever I get the chance to read the bounty hunter drabble you posted, I just know I am going to be the furthest thing from normal. Adding it to my list of things I need to read from you when I have the chance, which is growing quite a bit lol

AHHH I LOVE RELUCTANT TEAM-UPS!!! Especially with Y/N and Eclipse. You won't fight a more deadly duo. It really would allow their banter to shine hehe

The backstabbing though, mmm, I can smell the angst from here! The messy tangle of feelings coming in clutch as well, I see.

Ahhh, I can't wait for you to read it!! I hope you enjoy some Bounty Hunter!Eclipse because, boy, is he ever at his best (worst).

[funnels-art-storm]

Every now and then on the edge of the autumn woods a mysterious figure dressed in a worn cloak and boots can be seen perched on an old stump playing a tune that time forgot. The forest appears to respond to her song as the mere strumming of her instrument seems to conjure up a fresh breeze. Her presence emits a warm and inviting aura, but something about her instills an instinct in observers preventing them from getting too close. It's unknown who she is, just that she lives somewhere deep in the autumn woods and only makes herself visible when traveling to the nearest markets to purchase food and textiles, after running these semi-routine errands she plays her song before disappearing into the woods once more. Some say she's a witch, others say she's just a crazy lonely woman, few have more strange and out there theories, but regardless the Lady of The Forest has become a familiar sight to the people of the autumnlands, whoever or whatever she may be. -- Wow, I am really proud of this one! Took me a good part of a week to do! :3 Done using a traditional sketch + Clip Studio Paint + Wacom tablet on Windows 11 PC. Character belongs to @forgotten-midgard

[irenadel]

And if the devil… 9/10

Aemond Targaryen X Maid!Reader I do deeply apologize for the surprise tenth chapter but the nineth chapter was growing too long AND thematically muddled, so you are getting bonus Alicent and Otto not being paid enough to deal with this shit next chapter. Meanwhile enjoy Aemond being very dramatic and justified in his dramatics for once. Thank you to @barbieaemond for letting me use her beautiful gifs to make this lovely fic banner. As promised am tagging @prettyduckling22

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 10

The night he had lost his eye, there had been pain, so much pain he thought he would die of it, dissolve in it. He thought he would stop existing and only pain would be left behind… then there had been nothing. The oblivion of milk of the poppy. The velvety unreality that had let him say it when not a bone in his body believed it.

It was fair. An eye for a dragon.

There is no milk of the poppy for this wound

So he is glad, today, when the pain does wash over him and there is nothing left of Aemond Targaryen.

Nothing left to mourn a child that never was.

When he follows your aunt through the streets of King’s Landing, that is what he says, nothing. Someone else is speaking he knows, again and again and again: The blood and the darkness and your wedding bed.

There is no Aemond to answer them.

They walk for hours, your aunt and he. They go through the entirety of the neighbors. To the Sept and the Street of Silk in desperation. To the surgeon’s, though you yourself had taken no coin to pay even a barber with. When they speak to the shop owner, he seems to feel a spark of something inside his hollow bones. A thought of maesters who would never attend you… but he cannot even conjure up hate when he realizes this is the stinking, dreadful place you’d have to go to if you could manage it and what it would leave of you, if they can ever find you. There is almost enough Aemond to wish you well of your own annihilation when the pain takes over.

When they question the miserly merchant who employed you, he does not know who it is that breaks the man’s mouth after he calls you an ugly dullard of a wench for not arriving to work today or yesterday. It cannot be Aemond One-Eye. That boy is dead.

Whoever it was, he does not hurt the butcher. He is too old and kind, telling them what little he knows. Even bids them good luck. He has the grace not to mention how transparently royal your aunt’s companion looks, a young man hiding silver hair underneath a black and green hood. But Aemond almost wishes there was enough left of him to gut both aunt and butcher when he learns from her heaving sobs that she regrets advising you to marry the old man… instead of immediately dragging you back to the Red Keep.

Back to him.

But in this world of ugly, small houses and ugly, small people there is space to dissolve and it is easy to let it happen. After all, what use is Aemond here? Unable to fix anything by taking flight on Vhagar and burning it all to the ground. Your aunt had not come looking for Aemond’s sword or his dragon or his love for you, but only for the coin to pay off the people she questions.

She uses it to buy him something to eat. He looks that poorly, enough that this nameless woman should feel afraid for what is left of him. She sits him down first on a barrel by the docks, where the butcher had sent them, in a gesture so like your own that there is nearly enough of himself left to fall into her arms and weep. But even that belongs to another life. Whoever he is now, he finds it easier to sit and stare at the dirt.

It’s there he sees the roses bloom.

His head between his knees, the stench of fish guts all over his mouth and nose and he fights hard to remain gone, to stay away from being Aemond Targaryen, because that man has brought him nothing but sorrow. He fights the scratching of Vhagar’s fury in the back of his mind, sweeping flight over the failing light of the evening, demanding her rider’s attention. Her rider is gone, he thinks wistfully.

Gone into the blood and the darkness and the sea.

Gone like the flowers blooming red on the streets of King’s Landing.

And he is Aemond in that moment again, because Aemond Targaryen knows his sister Helaena and her strange moods. At least he does now. He has begun to know her enough to hold her words dear and remember them. Aemond Targaryen can see fish blood on the dirt, spreading its tendrils out like petals. He’d seen the roses bloom outside your home, just as Helaena had. The flowers made of your blood and the knife he had already lost…

He is almost gone in the pain again. His babe, the secret hope that it had survived in spite of it all, dashed against Helaena’s urgent pleas and his comprehension, his bitter, bitter realization of the meaning behind her words. His face in his hands and the tears so hot they burn, he remains Aemond, resisting the siren call of dissolution, because only Aemond Targaryen would weep for this child. This knife. A blade to cut both himself and its mother.

The sheath she had said, his sister, his beautiful sister who he had never loved half as well as she deserved. The sheath lost to the tide, to the sands and the darkness at dusk. Not yet. Not dusk yet. Not time yet for the crabs to come take you away into the sea…

And your aunt sees only the blur of his cloak and its windswept hood, silver hair behind him like a mirage, before Aemond Targaryen is back and gone again. Off to find his wedding bed.

You dream of the Dothraki Sea.

No stench of iodine. No sand sticking to your clammy legs. No roar waves and dragon.

You dream of grass and the sun baked earth. The smell of horse sweat and fresh mare’s milk and the day your father had tried and failed to teach you the bow. Strong enough to bend it, even at five, but your aim is too poor to hit a target without his instructions.

“Blind as a man with both eyes plucked out.”

Your father had never said that, had never been so cruel. He’d been patient that day, but even through a veil of unshed tears and poor eyesight, you had still seen the fear and disappointment in his face. You knew he wondered what would become of you, a dothraki who could not aim a whip or bow or arakh.

“Even you see it,” you hear Princess Helaena say tiredly. “Even you see the rivers of coin he’ll drown us in, when blood is the only currency the realm knows. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe you should lie down to sleep.”

That’s what I’m trying to do, you wanted to answer them, father and princess. But the stones of the cave are harder and less comfortable than you remember, without a royal coat to cushion them, without a warm body wrapped around yours.

“The water isn’t. The water will welcome you in.”

But you don’t listen. You dream of the Dothraki Sea and the sun beating on your reddened skin. You dream of running into the grass. Your mother’s voice, so long ago you forget it in the waking world. She sings songs of stone houses and steel dresses and khals that set the sky on fire.

You dream of putting a bow in a boy’s hand. In your dream he looks like your father, down to his black hair. You dream of hoisting a girl up into the saddle… dragon or horse you cannot tell. In your dream, her eyes aren’t dead as her parents’. They are alive with purple flame.

It’s a good dream. It cannot possibly last.

“You cut off your braid.”

You do not want him in this dream. You do not think you can hear his voice and not weep until drowning in the tide is better than drowning in tears. Go away, you want to tell him, go away if you’re not staying Aemond. Go away unless you are coming into the sea with me. I am tired of thinking of you.

You do not know how much of it you have said out loud. But he does.

“Take one step out of the cave and I will cut you down.”

It sounds so like him that you almost double over in pain. Your dreams should not sound so like reality. They should offer you kindness at least. A lie of comfort.

“You shouldn’t have cut off your braid.”

And that is how you know it is not a dream. Because you never heard Prince Aemond sound like that in the waking world. You have no memory to recall, to make him sound like that in your dreams. Like he’s ten years old again, crying to his mother that they gave him a pig, choking on the words of comfort he would have offered Laena Velaryon’s girls if he had only known how to.

When you open your eyes he is standing by the mouth of the cave. You almost see the boy he was, in a green doublet, red cheeks and windswept hair.

You look at each other and there are angry words blooming on both your lips. There is a fight that was never won by either side, shouted recriminations, none of them fair. You should have told me. I would’ve killed him for you, for me, he would have said. You left me to die. You knew where you were sending me and you left me to die, you could have answered.

But your dress is stiff with dried blood and Aemond is staring at your shorn head like he will go mad from it. Like defeat has ground him down to dust. Like he would tear his own silver hair out if only it mattered. If only it made a difference. And you know in that moment that you will forever swallow down whatever hatred you could have had for him because he looks at you like he knows. When he reaches for you, you nearly recoil from his embrace, but he doesn’t even try to offer it. He falls to his knees and lays his head upon your lap, upon the dried blood on your dress. He does not scream but you hear the dragon scream for him, so awful a sound, the whole world reverberates with it. You cover your ears to keep out Vhagar’s long low moan of pain and loss, but it is no use. It washes over you, smashing the dam of your sorrow to pieces and you are crying. You are screaming with her. With Aemond. Your hands are tangled in the silver strands of his hair, reaching for him, for whatever else is left for you that is not comfort. There is no comfort left for either of you in the world… but there is this.

Because you know for certain that no one else will mourn the child you had unknowingly carried in your belly. No one else will dream of putting a bow or arakh in their hands or a dragon’s egg in their cradle. No one else will regret their death. Because for the rest of the world it will be better this way. A shame, but simpler like this. But not for Aemond One-Eye. Nor for you. Foolish though it had been. Impossible dream. Still he had wanted it, now you know, had wanted you and the child and all of it. He had come looking for both of you, his face on your bloodied skirts tell you, mother and babe. And for this moment, that is enough. For if there is no comfort left for you in this love, then there is at least joy. The fierce joy of shared pain.

Aemond feels the moment your legs buckle under you, heaves you up, close against his chest. You are still half-conscious and he drags you to your feet even as through the press of your face against the crook of his neck, he feels the fever burning inside you.

He chokes back the sob in his throat. He wishes he had angry words for the gods. Some snarled bitter thing to spit back at the world as he held you in his arms hauling you off the ground. Something other than what he is when stripped bare, as his sister had named him, all awful fear and longing. Longing for the promise of safety you and he had created together, where you and his sister and the children of his blood had been able to shelter. But it is a lie. As damnable a lie as any in his life.

Aemond knows no safety but the shadow of Vhagar’s wings.

She calls to him still through the roar of the sea and darkness and it is her outrage, her own heartbreak for her rider’s grief that lets Aemond swallow the wild, animal panic clawing at his throat. He kisses your burning forehead and takes you to the only home he has ever known.

[forgottenyear]

I get a break from feeling things for a while, which is nice, until I have begun deacclimating and feelings start to return.

I know what I feel. I may not know it by name, but I know the feeling. It may not be my feeling, but I know it.

I am safe. (A different phrasing would probably inspire greater confidence.)

[long text >700 wds]

--

The feeling is not mine.

I am not sure if I am stating a fact or incanting a wish.

Is there another part, to whom this feeling belongs, or do I conjure another part to take this feeling for me?

I remember reading, although I have forgotten where, about soldiers on night watch, just before whats-his-name defeated whoever-they-were to found Italy or Rome or whatever. (Not to be homerphobic, but it was not Homer. I think it was the Aeneid, but I am not sure. I read too much of that rubbish at one time [poking fun at a friend].) The two soldiers are talking about how they are afraid to go into battle. One says something like, “is it a god that creates such fear in me, or does such fear create a god?” (It explained a lot of ancient theology in one sentence, for me.)

So, I ask the question, “is it a part that holds these feelings, or do I create a part to hold these feelings?”

Six of one, and all that. Maybe it does not matter.

As Giordano Bruno said, “se non è vero, è molto ben trovato.” (I think I looked that up a year ago, or maybe two. It has been in an open tab long enough for me to have developed something of an emotional attachment for it.) His Italian words translate to, “even if it is not true, it is a very good fabrication” (according to Wiktionary). My personal bend on this quote is that there is a need and there is a part that the developing brain made to fill the need, or I cannot satisfy the need myself and so I conjure up a part to do so in my stead. The former is dissociative, and the latter is dissociative. Six of one, and all that.

--

I still question the existence of parts. Not the unfused part, of course, but only the system.

If that makes sense, please explain it to me.

It would be nice if life would make sense, for once.

--

I question the parts because of their convenience. It is very convenient to delegate unpleasant feelings. Maybe too convenient.

Would it be healthier to accept these feelings for my own? Would it be healthier to admit that I feel this because

Words go here. If they are my feelings, words go here. If they are someone else’s feelings, where are their words? If I must put up with the feelings, why am I denied the explanations?

--

But I feel nothing. I was rude, maybe?

I would rather feel nothing.

Let them feel the thing. I would rather not.

--

I feel nothing, and I should have compassion for those who do.

“Compassion knows no ‘other.’”

I am not convinced the rabbi had DID in mind with these words.

My doubts say there are no ‘others,’ and so I do not feel compelled to feel compassion for myself.

Again, if that makes sense, please explain it to me.

--

I get angry at myself. I think if I would be less stupid, I could be healthy.

I get angry and I think Angela never was real. She never existed and this is just some stupid fantasy that got out of control. I think that if I would just stop believing in Angela, everything would be okay.

My partner did not know Angela was a part. But my partner knew Angela.

I forget that my partner dated Angela first. I forget that I did not just fade into existence in this house. That there had to be some way for me to get from childhood to here.

I forget and it is easier.

I forget and it never happened.

--

I just reblogged the comic about living with dissociative disorder.

I do not know.

It would be nice if life would make sense.

It is not the best night for me.

I will go watch shows.

[bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus]

Snippet of Baying Dogs Chapter Two!

Here's a little sneak-peek at Chapter 2! Enjoy!

Warnings for mentions of blood.

She stared blankly at what remained of the doorway to the forgotten canteen... where Weir had been slaughtered where she stood. Her blood had left its mark, faint winestains clinging to the concrete, desperate to be part of this place's memory.

Dougs swallowed down the rising bile. Kneeling down before the exact spot where they had found her body, she squinted a little, hoping to find some distortion in the bricks and stone... hoping for indication of struggle. She could work with anything here. Anything!

Give me a sign, come on.

It was daylight now and whilst there was a dismal overcast accompanied by a humid fog, Dougs could see well enough to spot something. All she needed was something to point her in the right direction. Weir had looked like she had died fighting and the medic hoped she would find that on the concrete floor.

I can't be here all day... I'm needed, you know!

Eventually, after almost boring holes into the scenery, it gave way. Dougs finally found something to confirm the struggle.

Scratches.

It started almost right under her feet, concentrating in number across from her, in the corner.

These were bizarre, they were thick in the middle before tapering off at the end. Definitely like claw marks, though they were also surprisingly precise.

There was intent here.

There was pattern.

She began nibbling at her pen again as she wondered what to make of this discovery.

Again, she was toeing between animal and human.

It seems she had no choice but to put Gaz's theory in the lead.

Especially when Dougs realised the number of claws belonging to each hand.

The woman counted five lines to each bout of scratches.

Five lines.

Five claws.

Five fingers.

Quickly, Dougs sketched out the empty crimescene before her. She drew the corner, the cracks in the concrete and then the claws. The way they were spread was interesting, with the one sitting furthest from the rest on what was left of the doorway, like whoever was responsible for these had leant on it, needed it for support.

Hmmm.

As Dougs was about to doodle down a potential figure to fit the scene, a droplet of water landed on her page. It made her ink bleed a little into the parchment.

She rubbed away the spot of rain... only for something wet to land on her shoulder. Then, on her nose. Then, on her page again. It got more and more frequent.

She looked up to see the sky was ready to open the heavens onto her, rain using every gap it could find in the torn-up roof to pelt her with icy droplets.

The woman retreated, keeping her notepad close to her chest as she made for a more sheltered part of the building.

Flurried feet found themselves at the barracks.

Price looked up at the sound of her entrance, surprised.

Dougs froze as she stood before them at the threshold. Price, Soap, Ghost and Graves had made a circle, huddled around a pile of playing cards.

"Were you just out in the rain?" The captain asked, taking his cigar out his mouth.

"Yeah." She chuckled, wiping the water off her face with the back of her hand.

"Aren't you cold, love?"

'A bit."

He raised an eyebrow.

"What were you doing?"

"... Birdwatching."

"Birdwatching?" Soap turned around, looking mighty confused.

"Yep."

"What birds did you see?" Price asked, genuinely curious.

Shit.

"Err..." She looked around as she tried to conjure up an answer.

They had all swivelled round to face her now.

"Chiffchaff?"

"Are you asking or telling me?" Price's eyes narrowed.

"Telling."

"Right..."

He didn't believe her for a second but he couldn't be bothered to try and wrap his head around as to why she'd want to go out into the freezing winter rain.

Whatever strange habits or rituals she had, he didn't care. Price just hoped she wouldn't catch a cold. The last thing they needed was an out-of-commission medic thanks to a sodding cold.

[stellar-chrondrite]

StellarC’s Vega Team Masterpost!

I felt like making a compilation post about my Vega team because I’ve recently rediscovered why I love them sooooo much! Designing Gijinkas for them is a ton of fun so I’m going to link them all here. Keep reading to find all the info!

Pokémon Vega Wiki (please feel free to contribute if you have info!) Keep an eye on the links below; they’re constantly being updated and I’m trying to complete as many Fakemon pages as possible.

Main Game Team

Rushlink - Syleafid - Gijinka Design Chaos - Serplant - Gijinka Design Penelope - Yunesis - Gijinka Design Mayhem - Dizasol - Gijinka Design Seto - Solarisen - Gijinka Design Light - Hantama - Gijinka Design

Other Pokémon

Delboy - Houndoom - Gijinka Design coming soon! Blizzard - Nymphrost - Gijinka Design coming soon! Toxicity - Komoragon - Gijinka Design coming soon! Shroud - Jarmit - Gijinka Design coming soon! Sophia - Kinegasus - Gijinka Design coming soon! Iccina - Aurostice - Gijinka Design coming soon! Wallace - Basilux - Gijinka Design Sonarz - Feroceros - Gijinka Design coming soon! AR - Bakeko - Gijinka Design coming soon! Mokie - Guldawn - Gijinka Design coming soon! Cecilia - Gardevoir - Gijinka Design coming soon! Bladen - Glamarde - Gijinka Design coming soon! Amaterasu - Kaminary - Gijinka Design coming soon! Ghostly - Porygon - Gijinka Design coming soon! Lola - Wikken - Gijinka Design coming soon!

More Pokémon coming soon! ObeyWallaceForIfYouDon’tHe’llAbductTheOneYouLove