#the tower of ash and graves

[the-avaricious-meddler]

It has blood on its hands that can never be washed clean- oh wait never mind that's just all the ink. It's fine.

But it also has blood on its hands.

[the-avaricious-meddler]

Rowan was born pre-fall and is in her 60s-ish. Both Vil and Namkuzu are beyond human lifespan- however Namkuzu appears in their mid to late 30s, and Villanelle appears in her 40s-50s.

All my curator OCs are beyond human lifespan, as are The Violet/The Orchidous Regent, The Grey/The Spiraling Monarch, and The Tower of Ash and Graves.

Glaszen (Namkuzu's failed attempt to create an artificial fingerking) and The Forgotten Meddler (weird Irrigo clone) are younger than Namkuzu but still beyond human lifespan. The Forgotten Meddler resembles Namkuzu when they were about 40 (albeit as a silhouette). The Dream-Watching Showman is in his late 30s.

The Overworked Assistant/The Overworked Enforcer, one of the POV characters in you are loved by the city, is in his mid 50s.

And The Not-Drowned-Zailor (SSeas PC) was in his 40s when he became a drownie.

How many people here have ocs that are over the age of 30?

Doesn't have to be a PC, can be any character within the universe

[acourtofquestions]

Kingdom of Ash Chapter 49🚨

He had just been crowned the khagan's Heir. With Nesryn as his potential bride. Potential, to Aelin's amusement, because Nesryn herself wasn't so keen on being empress of the mightiest empire in the world.

But what Sartaq had said— Elide blurted, "You mean to not go to Terrasen?" Aelin kept still, her fingers curling at her sides.

"Terrasen needs aid," Rowan said, his face the portrait of steely calm as he surveyed their new allies and old friends.

"And yet Terrasen has not called for it," Hasar countered, utterly unfazed by the wall of Fae warriors glowering at her. Exactly the sort of person Aelin had hoped she'd be when she wrote to her all those months ago.

Chaol cleared his throat. Gods above, Chaol was walking again. And married to Yrene Towers, who had healed him.

A thread in a tapestry. That's what it had felt like the night she'd left the gold for Yrene in Innish. Like pulling a thread in a tapestry, and seeing just how far and wide it went.

All the way to the southern continent, it seemed. And it had rippled back with an army and a healed, happy friend. Or as happy as any of them might be at the moment.

Aelin glanced sidelong to Rowan. Found him already staring at her. We'll convince them to go to Terrasen, her mate said silently.

"It's back," he panted, gaping at Nesryn. "For days now, I swore I felt something, noted changes, but today it just all came back."

Nesyn angled her head, her curtain of dark hair sliding over an armored shoulder. "Who…"

Borte squeezed the young man's arm. "Falkan. It's Falkan, Nesryn." Prince Sartaq stalked to Nesryn's side, graceful as any Fae warrior. "How." But the young man had turned toward Aelin, eyes narrowing. As if trying to place her.

Then he said, "The assassin from the market in Xandria."

Aelin arched a brow. "Hopefully, the horse I stole didn't belong to you." A cough from Fenrys. Aelin threw the warrior a grin over her shoulder.

"I was always young," Falkan muttered. "I just didn't look it." His gray eyes again found Aelin's. "I gave you a piece of Spidersilk."

For a heartbeat, the then and the now blended and wobbled. "The merchant," Aelin murmured. She'd last seen him in the Red Desert-looking twenty years older. "You sold your youth to a stygian spider."

"You two know each other?" Nesryn gaped.

"The threads of fate weave together in strange ways," Falkan said, then smiled at Aelin. "I never got your name."

Hasar chuckled from the other side of the desk. "You already know it, shifter."

Before Falkan could figure it out, Fenrys stepped forward. "Shifter?"

But Nesryn said, "And Lysandra's uncle." Aelin slumped into the chair beside Chaol's.

Rowan laid a hand on her shoulder, and when she looked up, she found him near laughter.

"What's so funny, exactly?" she hissed.

Rowan smirked. "That for once, you are the one who gets knocked on your ass by a surprise."

Aelin stuck out her tongue. Borte grinned, and Aelin winked at the girl.

But Falkan said to Aelin and her companions, "You know my niece."

"Lysandra is my friend, and Lady of Caraverre," Aelin said. "She is not with us," she added upon Falkan's hopeful glance toward the tent flaps. "She's in the North."

Not their considerable beauty, but their size, their pointed ears, their weapons and elongated canines. Aelin whispered conspiratorially to the girl, "Make them roll over before you offer them a treat."

Lorcan glared, but Fenrys shifted in a flash, the enormous white wolf filling the space.

Hasar swore, Sartag backing away a step, but Borte beamed. "You are all truly Fae, then." Gavriel, ever the gallant knight, sketched a bow. Lorcan, the bastard, just crossed his arms.

Yet Rowan smiled at Borte. "Indeed we are."

Borte whirled to Aelin. "Then you are Aelin Galathynius. You look just how Nesryn said." Aelin grinned at Nesryn, the woman leaning against Sartaq's side. "I hope you only said horrible things about me."

"Only the worst," Nesryn said with dead flatness, though her mouth twitched.

But Falkan whispered, "The queen," and fell to his knees.

Hasar laughed. "He never showed that sort of awe when he met us."

Sartaq lifted his brows. "You told him to turn into a rat and scuttle away."

Aelin hoisted up Falkan by the shoulder. "I can't have my friend's uncle kneeling on the ground, can I?"

"You said you were an assassin." Falkan's eyes were so wide the whites around them gleamed. "You stole horses from the Lord of Xandria—"

"Yes, yes," Aelin said, waving a hand. "It's a long story, and we're in the middle of a war council, so..."

"Piss off?" Falkan finished

Aelin laughed, but glanced to Nesryn and Sartaq. The former jerked her chin to Falkan. "He's become our spy of sorts. He joins us in these meetings." Aelin nodded, then winked at the shifter. "I suppose you didn't need me to slay that stygian spider after all."

But Falkan tensed, his attention going to Nesryn and Sartaq, to Borte, still gawking at the Fae males. "Do they know?"

Aelin had a feeling she'd need to sit down again. Chaol indeed patted the chair beside him, earning a chuckle from Yrene. Doing herself a favor, Aelin indeed sat, Rowan taking up his place behind her, both of his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. His thumb ran along the nape of her neck, then drifted over the mating marks again scarring one side thanks to the seawater they'd used to seal them. But as her muscles soothed beneath that loving touch, her soul with it, her breath remained tight.

It didn't get any better when Nesryn said, "The stygian spiders are Valg."

Silence.

"We encountered their kin, the kharankui, deep in the Dagul Fells. They came into this world through a temporary crack between realms, and remained afterward to guard the entrance, should it ever reappear."

"This cannot end well," Fenrys muttered. Elide hummed her agreement.

"They feed on dreams and years and life," Falkan said, a hand on his own chest. "As my friends have said the Valg do."

Aelin had seen Valg princes drain a human of every last drop of youth and vigor and leave only a dried corpse behind. She wouldn't put it past the spiders to have a similar gift.

"What does this mean for the war?" Rowan asked, his thumbs still stroking Aelin's neck.

"Will they join Erawan's forces is the better question," Lorcan challenged with a face like stone.

"They do not answer to Erawan," Nesryn said quietly, and Aelin knew. Knew from the look Chaol gave her, the sympathy and fear, knew in her bones before Nesryn even finished.

"The stygian spiders, the kharankui, answer to their Valg queen. The only Valg queen. To Maeve."

[wondereads]

Weekly Reading Update Catch-Up (04/29/24-05/20/24)

The Sunshine Court by Nora Sakavic (8/10)

As I've made very clear, I have a complicated relationship with the All for the Game series. Part of that has to do with the fact that the original trilogy, while incredibly entertaining and with some super interesting characters, is not very well-written. However, reading The Sunshine Court, I can see how much Sakavic's writing has improved. While this book is on the slower side, the pacing is much better, there's less awkward wording, and the way she addresses trauma and mental health is astronomically better. There's a great build-up with Jean's character, Sakavic has maintained her strongest suit (groups of characters that are close friends with good chemistry), and it's great to see some diversity in her LGBTQ+ rep (this book introduces our first sapphic relationship and trans character). Like I said, it's on the slower side, and I wish we'd gotten a bit more about Jeremy--I kept forgetting he has a past since it was only hinted at a couple of times. This was a great continuation to the series that improved a ton without losing its unique charm.

More reviews under the cut

The Sacrifice by Emily Shore (18+, 4/10)

This started off fun, the sort of thing I enjoy in a fantasy romance, but it quickly devolved. A lot of books pitched as 'smutty' are usually highly exaggerated with a couple of scenes, but not this one. In fact, I don't think there's a single stint of twenty pages that doesn't have a sex scene. It got to the point of ridiculousness, especially since this book was still trying to execute a semblance of a plot. Surely this can wait until after the looming threat is dealt with? Also, a lot of this smut involves things I'm not personally into, so I ended up skimming a lot of the scenes (~70% of the book). There was some interesting stuff going on with the main character and her shadow, but very little of it is explored in favor of making the characters bang...again.

The 100 by Kass Morgan (8/10)

This is a reread, and to be completely honest, I don't actually think this book is a full four stars in terms of quality. However, I have so much fun reading this book, and I am so insanely attached to Clarke and Bellamy that it boosts the rating a bit. This is a pretty typical YA dystopia, and it really scratches that itch for stories of teenage survival. It is very different from the show, so don't go into this expecting that. The main cast is different, those who are the same have slightly altered personalities, and only the most basic premise is shared in terms of plot. I always enjoy this read, but I must admit that way too much time is spent in flashbacks when things like power dynamics, side characters, and general detail shmould be getting way more attention.

Alpha Inmate by Liliana Carlisle (18+, 6/10)

This was a very quick read in my Unhinged Romance Marathon, and it honestly wasn't that bad. There's a lot of consensual non-consent vibes, but that's mostly in the dirty talk. While the main character, Ellie, is constantly talking about how she shouldn't be doing this, how bad it is, it's made very clear that she does want this. It's built to be a darker story with a serial killer love interest, a physical power imbalance, and Alpha Influence, this thing where alphas can just make their mate do...whatever they want. But when it actually comes down to it, the male lead is very insistent that he needs the main character's consent before doing anything. The Influence thing is used to make her open up about her trauma and nothing else. I feel like this reflects a lot of the psychology around sexual assault fantasies with women feeling they must be pure but still craving sex so they construct a fantasy where they are 'forced' to do something. It's really not that dark. The couple is very insta-love, or just insta-attraction, but this book is only 174 pages long. Overall, a vaguely entertaining read and pretty much just smut.

Brutal Prince by Sophie Lark (18+, 8/10)

This was actually a lot more fun than I thought it would be! A lot of contemporary romances are pitched as enemies to lovers when they would be better suited to the rivals or just annoyance label, but these were true enemies. After all, they attempt to kill each other on their wedding night. The banter was a lot of fun, and I really liked how Aida and Callum played off each other. There are three major things stopping this from being a 9 or 10 for me. First, it kind of loses momentum two-thirds of the way through, moving through the "to lovers" part a little too quickly for me. Second, despite the title being Brutal Prince, Callum honestly isn't that brutal. If anything, Aida is far more prone to violence. Third, this book comes with illustrations and they are god awful. I'm sorry to the illustrator, but the art was so weird, like caricatures of what "sexy" people should be, and I had to ignore it to get through the book. Still, this book honestly made me laugh at some points, and there's sizzling chemistry, so it stays up there for me.

Empire of Storms/Tower of Dawn Tandem Read by Sarah J. Maas (8/10, 6/10)

This took a lot of work to get through, partially because of the sheer length (~1300 pages) and partially because of the Tower of Dawn parts. Starting with EoS, it had a lot more action than I typically see from SJM novels. I also really enjoyed a lot of the romance, mainly between Aelin and Rowan, who are probably the characters I care the most about. I liked how much plot development there was, and it finally felt like there were actual consequences toward the end. However, there were a few plot threads that felt like padding instead of necessary information, often ending in last-minute deus ex machinas. Also, SJM has chronic pair-everyone-up-itis, regardless of whether that romance has any merit or chemistry (looking at you, Aedion and Lysandra).

In comparison to EoS, ToD is astonishingly boring. Half the book is Chaol walking around, moping about his oh-so-terrible conditions (which I have no sympathy for considering I was seeing this right after reading about Aelin and the others fighting for their lives). Most of the time I forgot about the main mystery at hand, because very little happened with it overall, and I was practically skimming toward the end. This book still gets a decent score on three accounts. One, I like Yrene. Two, I'm so glad Nesryn gets to be with her hot prince and not boring Chaol. Three, there is a reveal in this book that actually shocked me, so points for that.

The Sea Witch by Rebecca F. Kenney (4/10)

This one is just way too drawn out and contrived. While not exactly instalove, there is instant attraction, and everything past around the midpoint feels like desperate attempts to prolong the plot and keep the main characters from getting together. For example, the Sea Witch's motivations for leaving Averil a human forever are so stupid. Oh, it's part of his revenge--surely taking over the kingdom is plenty revenge. Also, it was so predictable that the prince would end up being an asshole. It would have introduced so much more emotional conflict if he had been just a regular person but Averil ends up falling in love with someone else. Or, to adhere to the original tale, it would have been a moment of heartbreak for her to realize he was in love with someone else, rather than the anger and revenge it's played for. There are just a lot of lost opportunities in this book, playing into overdone tropes instead of creating something new.

Kingdom of Ash by Sarah J. Maas (6/10)

It's a bit unfortunate that a story with such a long build-up would end as disappointingly as it does. First of all, as is standard with SJM books, this could easily have been 200 pages shorter. The constant back-and-forth, particularly in Aedion and Lysandra's perspectives, of preparing for death, then it's prolonged for an extra day, but it's not quite enough, was exhausting. Dorian's whole interlude with Maeve was so weird, making no sense character-wise for Maeve, who has been utterly ruthless up until this point, and most of the relationships read as rushed and forced, particularly Aedion/Lysandra and Lorcan/Elide, which have pretty much the exact same story going on. I enjoyed Aelin's escape and her healing process, and her and Rowan's relationship is always entertaining to read. However, my biggest critique is a major one. MAJOR SPOILER If you're going to introduce magical items that the characters spend no less than four books hunting down and collecting that are supposed to be a solution to their problems and then have them finally use them only for it to result in the main character losing her magical abilities and it not even doing the one thing it was supposed to do? That's bad writing, and incredibly unsatisfying for your audience. MAJOR SPOILER END Overall, I didn't get the sense of closure that I wanted from this book, and the series as a whole was mediocre, with my average rating across all the books being a 6.5 or 3.25 stars.

Kingdoms of Shadow and Ash by H. R. Moore (DNF @ 11%)

I DNF'd this so astonishingly quick because of one major issue, and that is the main character. Something that is a plague upon particularly fantasy romances are characters with shockingly modern sensibilities--despite no backstory or explanation as to why their outlook would be so different from everyone else. This book opens on a queen who has just finished conquering five kingdoms, and she promptly begins ordering people to hire women, pay income-adjusted taxes, and all sorts of progressive reform. Lovely sentiment, but why does the medieval-land queen have these sorts of ideals? And then there's the issue that these orders lose some of their appeal when you realize that as morally correct as they are, they are still issued by an absolute monarch who just finished a bloody military campaign to secure power for herself. Sometimes you can just let your main character be shitty.

Island of Graves by Lisa McMann (DNF @ 34%)

I've been working through The Unwanteds, and I must unfortunately say that I've lot interest in this series. I love a good middle grade series, and I understand that they are, of course, a bit more simple. However, I still expect a modicum of character development over the course of four books. Alex and his friends have stagnated for multiple books with any potential moral dilemmas (the seaweed, redeeming Aaron, or even just the trolley problem in a different format) either skirted around or just never presented to them. I feel like I've been reading the same story for at least four books, and Alex has become less of an awkward teenager trying to carry a community on his back and more of a flawless leader who seems to only have superficial problems. The morals are all out of whack (it's okay to kill someone in an ambush but not when they're unconscious, even if the person in question in canonically killing multiple people a day), and I just have no more motivation to work through these books anymore.

Captivate by E. J. Lawson (CR, 53%)

This isn't even a part of my romance marathon, it's just something I picked up on a whim, and it's sort of boring. There's obviously good chemistry between all the main characters, they've even had sex, and yet the most inane, stupid reason is given to keep them from getting together. I can see how this particular issue (a fatal, uncurable disease) might affect their choices, but that's not even the problem! The problem is that the female lead is refusing to tell anyone about it, despite having basically no reason to keep it from them. Utter nonsense.

365 Days by Blanka Lipinska (18+, CR, 14%)

Rest assured, I am not reading this book of my own free will and will likely be DNFing at my self-imposed 20% threshold. I cannot imagine someone writing this and thinking that this was how real life people behaved. 40 pages in and the main character is already intensely unlikable with seemingly no personality outside her permanent makeup and bold fashion choices (which far too much description is given to), and the love interest has some sort of stupid mystical connection to her, which he deals with by fucking other women in highly coercive situations.

[damneddamsy]

renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part ix)

a/n: Silverwing being ride-or-die is my new favourite trope

Princess Aemma Velaryon's death reached Dragonstone only after her forlorn brother, Prince Lucerys, feverishly searched the seas and skies alike for any sign of her or Silverwing. All he came upon of her was the shredded length of her velvet cloak by the shores of Shipbreaker's Bay, his sister's sweet lavender perfume lost to the salt of the sea. He had clung to it like it was his lifeline, and that's how they found him in the Sea Dragon tower, within Aemma's chambers—crying his eyes out and calling out to her.

Luke sobbed deeply, pulling at his hair. "It should've been me."

Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon walked in on Luke, eager to see her children again, and eventually registering his undone suffering. Once the mother noticed the familiar article of clothing—formerly her own—she went insensate. Her shoulders shook, composure gone to ashes, and sank to her knees. Daemon was stoic to the scene, save for his hand that went to direly fist at his sword.

The older prince spoke first, relieving the tension. Despite his grave face, his tone was forbidding, intending to burn. "Who the fuck did this?"

Luke's upper lip curled, his hands clenching at his sister's cape. "Him."

Nothing else needed to be said. The reality of who was capable of executing such treason was well understood, though uttering his name was like spitting venom.

Rhaenyra roared out with the visceral fury of a dragon, and once that drained, she was but an empty vessel. She heaved a solemn breath, palming at her abdomen. The misery that wracked her labours was far less cruel than whatever this was, the anguish overwhelming, her chest aching with the burden of mourning two daughters, their deaths igniting the flames of war.

When she tearily looked to her side, Daemon had disappeared.

Prince Daemon had been conditioned to barbarity and grief, so much they were welcome drinking companions of his. Aemma was no different to this addition. In her, he saw echoes of his own turbulent youth—the same steely determination, the same unpredictability, the restless drive to remain an enigma to those around her. Perhaps it was this reflection of his own wild spirit that spurred him to seek out grisly revenge.

Daemon's warpath toward Caraxes suddenly stopped as he saw him standing before the painted table. The hollow swordsman. The one-eyed kinslayer. A mirror of Daemon's worst motivations. Here stood the rider of the beast that had slain his daughter.

Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister without hesitation, the Valyrian blade slicing through the air with a menacing swish.

"Poetic justice or self-destruction?" he muttered, masking his fury.

Aemond bore a black smile, barely lifting his lips. "Depends on which of us you ask, uncle."

X

Rumours had begun to spread that Aemond Targaryen had defected to the Blacks. Some even called it a surrender. Perhaps it was the stabs of a prickling conscience, the blood stains of love in his hands, or the affliction of sorrow that had overtaken him, making him ready to face the wrath of a grieving mother—and his own death. Bereft of his truest calling, shattered by dreams he had destroyed with his hands, the one-eyed prince swiftly concluded that life held no meaning without his princess. He intended to follow her footsteps soon enough, to fulfil the conclusive detail of their promise: never to part from Aemma henceforth.

Without Aemond and Vhagar, King’s Landing had become perilously vulnerable. The soaring pall of the largest and most terrifying dragon no longer loomed over the capital, and it was clear to all that their strongest defence was now absent. The Greens' was evidently morale staggered. With Vhagar’s absence, Rhaenyra’s forces could bring the fire with seven dragons and fewer consequences, and rumours of dissent spread throughout the city. The Greens were losing their grip, outmatched in numbers and firepower, leaving the smallfolk exposed and the city teetering on the edge of defeat.

Terrible fables spoke of King Aegon and Aemond One-Eye’s grandiose schemes to slay the false queen under the guise of begging for mercy. But these tales were discredited when it was revealed that Aemond had been imprisoned in the chambers of the late princess—a ruthless move orchestrated by Queen Rhaenyra. It was, in every sense, a final sentence.

“If that savage snake truly loved her,” Rhaenyra had said vengefully to her husband, “then that place will drive him mad. Let his evil haunt him. I want to see the fear in his eyes when I burn him.”

Yet fear was not something Aemond would entertain. He would sooner fall on his sword than show terror before his wretched half-sister.

Over time, however, he did fall—deeper into madness consumed by the unfamiliarity of being locked in the space that had once been Aemma’s. The burden of memory became the iron bars and chains of this prison. Numb to everything else, he wandered her chambers aimlessly, haunted by her absence. She was everywhere and nowhere at once—in the vanity, where strands of her hair clung to her hairbrush; in the bureau, where her meticulously folded maps and lists remained undisturbed; and in the faint perfume that lingered in the air, forever scenting her dresser.

A full moon's cycle passed before Aemond began hearing her voice. A breathy echo, a laughing whisper, a figment of his broken mind. With each crash of the waves against the jagged rocks beneath her balcony, he would catch that soft, familiar sound: My friend.

The echo eased him in ways nothing else could, drawing a smile to his face. If this was madness, it was madness he welcomed. My love, he thought, and in that moment, he would’ve gladly surrendered to it.

Jace was the one who finally confronted Aemond, his vengeance boiling over upon his return from the Vale. Sword in hand, he cornered the one-eyed prince in his sister's chambers. What was surprising was how the captive did not baulk at the sight of the angry prince. He simply tilted his head, offering his neck and awaiting the onslaught.

"Fucking murderous cunt," Jace spat, barely above a whisper, trembling with restrained fury.

Aemond was inured now. It resounded in his mind with every breath, a constant reminder of what he'd become. His gaze remained distant, vacant as he met Jace's stare.

"Mount your dragon," Jace ordered, dripping with disdain. "I only spare you this avail because of how dearly Aemma loved you."

Aemond didn’t even blink. It took more effort than expected to form words after days of silence.

"I will not fight you," he muttered, voice gravelly from disuse. "So, get it over with. Finish me."

But Jace wasn't about to grant him that release.

"You're coming with me," he growled, eyes blazing with wrath. "I won't believe my sister is gone until I see it with my eyes. Find me Silverwing, and only then will you get what you so desperately crave."

Aemond turned away, blinking back a rare sting of emotion clouding his vision. He had been so benumbed, that the sensation sliced him raw. His jaw clenched, forcing his voice through the anguish tightening his throat.

"Silverwing sank beneath the waves."

"Then she should've washed ashore by now," Jace snapped, his tone sharpening. "Or been spotted near Storm's End, or found by sailors off Driftmark. Someone would've seen her. I will not grieve with my family until I know for certain. Until I’ve seen damning proof."

Aemond’s teeth ground together in frustration. "My hope ended with her."

"Hope?" Jace sneered, the word wresting bitterly in his mouth. "Know this, uncle—gods forbid I find what I seek, you won’t just be dead to the realm, you’ll be nothing more than a relic of a prince no one will remember."

X

We cannot know the ancient minds of dragons. They were not merely instruments of war—they were beasts of chaos, as unreliable as the gales they rode. A bitter reminder of how little command Targaryens truly held, even over their own beasts. Yet, the Good Queen's Silverwing had always been distinct from the others—gentler, some would say, with a serenity that belied the strength coiled within her shimmering, pale-scaled body.

Her loyalty to her peaceful rider ran deeper than bloodshed or battle, for it was not assumed upon command or duty but of a friendship that transcended power. It was instinctual, a mutual loneliness that they shared. Silverwing had intuited Aemma’s presence since her first touch upon her scales, the soft whispers of affection, the implicit trust.

Following Aemma's descent from her dragon's saddle, the waters hit her hard, churning her into the abyss. Just as the waves threatened to pull her deeper, Silverwing cut through them, her talons outstretched, and in a swift, precise motion, she plucked Aemma from the depths before the sea could claim her entirely. Silverwing’s grip was painstaking, cradling her rider’s limp form between her sharp talons, ensuring she was protected. With a great struggle, Silverwing battered her wings against the storm, fighting the ocean’s pull, lifting them both back into the air, finding cover above the storm clouds.

And now, in the quiet of this remote sanctuary, camouflaged against rocks, their bond held firm, even as Aemma lay unconscious amidst the mud and grass, suspended between life and death.

The old dragon sensed more than the warmth of her rider's skin when she nudged her snout against her constantly, letting out a low, concerned rumble. She felt the pulse of her heart, flimsy but steady, the rhythm of her breath, shallow but resilient. Every beat, every rise and fall of Aemma’s chest was a call to Silverwing, one that she refused to neglect.

Silverwing would shift her body closer at night, nestling Aemma to the earth, her massive wing folded protectively over the young princess' limp body like a shroud of safety from the bitter storms and the chilliness of dusk. Her fiery breaths ghosted over Aemma, keeping her warm.

Days turned into nights, and nights into days, but Silverwing never left, only venturing far enough to find sustenance, returning quickly, her eyes scanning the skies for any threats that might approach. But none came. The world remained unaware of the little hidden firth by the hills and the fragile life it cradled.

Silverwing’s troth was not just an animal instinct—it was a devotion to the one person who had never treated her as a mere beast. For nigh on a week, Aemma had doted on her, spoken to her in the tongue of Old Valyria, just as Alysanne did, with the same reverence and care, and Silverwing, in turn, had taken her into the skies, free from the burdens of the mortal realm.

In this isolated place, far from the throes of war, Silverwing held the last vestige of hope for her rider’s survival. It wasn't until a dark-haired sailor had stumbled upon their refuge that the mighty she-dragon let out her first roar in a while.

Addam of Hull hadn't expected much that day. He had set out on his small boat with nothing but the hope of catching enough fish to feed Driftmark's shores. The oceans had been restless ever since the bloodshed over Shipbreaker's Bay, and his mind had drifted as the waves lapped at the sides of his skiff. He cast his net, whistling a well-known sea shanty, letting the salt air fill his lungs, when something unusual caught his eye, beyond a small inlet of water rambling away from the beach.

A flash of silver. A rustle in the trees.

As his little skiff crept closer and into the currents of the slight strait, Addam’s heart surged. There, nestled within the protective embrace of the rocks, lay a great silvery-blue dragon that was the name on everyone's fuller lips—Silverwing. Her glittering hide was unmistakable, though it bore the wear of days spent at the mercy of the weather. She lay low to the ground, her immense wings tucked tightly around something as if guarding a prized jewel.

Addam wasted no time. He rowed forth, with all the strength he could muster, his mind racing. Could it be? Could Princess Aemma have survived the hand of fate, the cruel sea, her murderous husband, and the relentless storm? Could it be that Rhaeynra's heir was very much still alive?

As he drew nigher, disembarking his boat and clambering up the rocks, Silverwing raised her head, her auburn eyes locking onto him with a vicious intensity. She cautioned him with a low rumble, ready to spew out her ire.

For a moment, Addam feared she truly might lash out, mistaking him for a foe, but she did not move. Instead, she took a prudent sniff and juddered her head, softening almost.

Eventually, she unfurled her wings narrowly, revealing the motionless form of Princess Aemma cradled beneath her. She was drenched, emaciated, tattered, bruised, and her silver hair matted to her gaunt face, but her chest rose and fell.

There was yet life in her. Barely. All alone. No one else. Just Silverwing standing vigil over her as if she’d been guarding the princess all these days. Ten days.

"Gods be good," Addam murmured.

Silverwing shifted away, stooping into the rocky niche, as if to offer her rider to him, but kept her weather eye on him. Addam made quick work of it, lifting her carefully into his arms off the wet ground. She was light, too light, but she stirred faintly at his touch.

"Princess?" He was unsure if she could hear him.

As he carried her back toward the boat, shrouded her in the coils of his nets, her fiery guardian observed the sailor, her vigilant eyes never leaving Aemma’s form.

She pierced a startling trill at her rider's saviour.

Addam jerked in shock, nearly dropping his docking ropes.

Silverwing rose off the ground, and shook herself off, wings beginning to unfurl as if preparing to take flight.

"You—er, stay," Addam stammered, desperately gesturing with his palms, trying to convey some form of command to the dragon.

He knew full well he was speaking to a creature that answered to no man but her rider, and she was not going to let just anyone snatch the princess away unless she was certain they meant no harm.

Carefully, Addam took a step closer, heart thudding in his chest as he bowed his head to the dragon.

"I'm not here to harm her," he said softly as if Silverwing could understand his plea. "I want to save her."

For a long moment, the dragon stayed unmoving, watching him closely, casting her own unfamiliar judgement. Then, with a slow and deliberate movement, she backed away scarcely.

"Thank you," he whispered, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was thanking the dragon, the gods, or fate itself.

X

Returning Princess Aemma in such a state to her kin on Dragonstone would have them questioning Addam's heartening intentions toward her. Rather than have them cast their vile aspersions on him and taint his shoddy name further, the brothers knew it was only proper to nurse the princess to health before anything else. The secret of Aemma's survival would remain closely guarded for a while longer.

"She thinks I'm her father," Addam quietly shared with his brother, Alyn, upon the fifth evening of secretively nursing Princess Aemma in their meagre home. It had been a total of sixteen days since she was believed deceased.

Alyn raised an eyebrow, glancing over at the small, makeshift room where their heir to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms lay in a thrifty cot, wrapped in linen blankets and tended to with great care. Her condition had steadily improved, but she remained barely conscious and frail.

"What do you mean, ‘she thinks I’m her father’? Is she delirious?" He asked.

Addam leaned against the doorframe, picking off the herbs from his thumb. "Perhaps she seeks comfort. And she finds it in the late Laenor."

As they spoke, a soft groan emanated from the cot, interrupting them. Aemma stirred, her dark eyes fluttering open briefly before closing again. Her lips moved silently, murmuring incoherent words. Addam and Alyn exchanged a glance, their choices harshening.

Alyn's brow furrowed. "How is she then?"

"Better than expected," Addam replied, shaking his head. "Her fever broke, I've stopped feeding her milk of the poppy. She recalls her mother often. The poor thing had nearly cracked every rib in her chest, the healers had to brace her spine with wood until yesterday. The blood of Old Valyria heals quick, I suppose."

Alyn nodded, absorbing the solemnity of his brother’s words. "And the dragon?"

"Stays close, hovers around the Driftmark groves. I've been feeding her, too," Addam said, shaking his head with a small, wry smile.

Alyn clapped his brother on his back, grateful for him. "How are you faring?"

Addam shrugged casually. "I’m doing what I can."

"Good. Keep watch," Alyn instructed, nodding at him. "On the morrow, I’ll prepare a fresh supply of herbs and check on the guards. There's only so long that we can keep her out of prying eyes."

Addam sat by the firelight in the hearth, his eyes constantly drifting to the young girl as she lay nestled beneath the heavy blankets, adjusting them around her again, his movements careful, almost tender. Every now and then, Aemma would stir, her brow twitching in her sleep, speaking illegibly. The flicker of the flames stained her face in hues of gold and shadow, silvery hair glinting, making her seem almost unearthly, untouchable. She could not have been older than fifteen, an age no child should have to raise battlements in a war.

“She’s strong,” Addam murmured, more to himself than to anyone in particular. “Stronger than I imagined.”

"A future queen," Alyn said. "There's hope for her yet."

X

The second sons of the Blacks and Greens, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and Aemond Targaryen, were unlikely allies as they scoured the realm despite their bitterness, united on a front to find a whiff of Aemma or Silverwing, searching high and low, from the misty mountains of the Vale to the shadowed peaks of Harrenhal and the foggy forests of the Riverlands. Every whisper of a silver-blue dragon sighting raised their hopes, only to be dashed moments later.

The weight of Aemma's absence dangled over them like a blade. Jace was fierce, relentless in finding that damned dragon himself, dead or alive. Maybe they were on a wild goose chase, led astray to not confront the reality that awaited them. Every dead end with clueless lords and fishermen was a new wound, yet he never yielded.

Their unwavering trepidation whenever the folk and lords saw Aemond cut deeper than a lash of a thousand scorpions. Each glance was a reminder, a searing echo of his own words to Aemma that fateful night: "Better to be feared than scorned." But now, as their suspicions pressed down on him, the question gnawed at his memory—was it really? The cold satisfaction he once sought had curdled into something far more bitter, and he found himself wondering whether 'fear' had ever truly been the answer, or if it had only left him more isolated, more empty.

Aemond, however, wore a stoic mask over his understanding of the truth, though beneath it, the torment tore at his soul. If Aemma's room had been perfect chaos, this was his purgatory. His nights grew sleepless, plagued by the recollections of his mistakes, the sight of her empty saddle still burned behind his eyes. He carried the guilt like a second skin, abrading when it got too thin. A little part of him was driven to heed Jace, an insignificant confidence, not by burden but by desperation—a need for redemption, to see her alive, to prove to himself that she had somehow survived.

Now, close to five nights, it had become custom for Jace, drunk on grief and rage, to drag his feet outside Aemond's pitched tent, embracing his shining sword, fighting his morals. Fighting the inevitable. Jace never spoke to Aemond directly, but his accusations found a way into his earshot.

"Aemma was good. Peaceful," he would hear Jace lament. "She had dreams. She was our sunshine. Now she’s out there somewhere, alone in death. Or worse. And you, of all people, claim to be the one who loved her? You never did. You fucking murderer. Selfish cunt."

This night, a familiar darkness flickered alight in Aemond. Unfailing despair powered him to react. He walked out of his tent, stepping forward in a threat until Jace's raging face was inches apart, his sword slipping from his grasp. His single eye narrowed.

"Say it again," Aemond dared, his voice low and cold. "Say that I do not love her. Say it, bastard."

Jace shoved him by his chest, his rage boiling over. "You threw her away like she was nothing! For your treacherous family! You never gave a fuck about her, and that is the truth!"

Aemond stumbled back but didn’t fight back. How could he, he had nothing left to withstand. His mouth twisted in pain, but his voice remained hard.

"Hate me all you want. Blame me. Strike me down. Your words hold facts. But don’t think for one second that your fury burns hotter than mine. Or that your love for her transcends mine own."

"Fuck you!"

Jace shoved him again, shouting out his rage, this time harder, the power of his wrath pushing Aemond back a step. And again and again, until Aemond fell back into the mud. Back again to ten years ago, when a spiteful Aegon had towered over him, Sunfyre peering over his shoulder mockingly.

Jace met his gaze, the two facing eye to eye, the consequence of years of rivalry and betrayal still fresh between them. But beneath it, there was something else now—shared desperation, grief that only they could understand. The closest brother of Aemma and her husband.

Aemond's breath hitched, bearing himself with his palms, the words barely escaping through his gritted teeth. He looked Jace in the eye, his jaw tight.

"I have nothing left. Seize your sword and end it all."

Jace leaned down, seething, his voice trembling with scorn. "Look at where your absolution got you. Begging your foes for death. Pathetic."

Aemond’s hand twitched toward his dagger on instinct, his face a storm of rage and remorse. He had been so accustomed to being on his back, bearing through the punches thrown, facing defeat, now when he was made to encounter this yet again.

"Yes. That is all you see," Aemond agreed, his expression darkening. "All you ever see. Aegon, Rhaenyra, you. A pathetic boy too sightless for power. I've belonged nowhere but with Aemma all my life"—his voice cracked—"and now she's gone, too. And I am left trapped in this resenting world."

Jace stayed quiet, breathing deeply.

"I could not save her," he whispered, the words hollow as they left him. "No atonement will ever free me from this, even while I chase forgiveness from a ghost. I will never know peace again until my last breath."

His trembling fingers unsheathed his dagger and threw it to Jace's feet. "Make your shot count, nephew. Plunge it into my other eye, and take what is due. I do not care anymore."

Jace’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He took a step back, torn between fury and pity, his expression unreadable. He looked away, blinking back tears as if the significance of Aemond’s words was too much to bear. He couldn’t bring himself to speak—there was nothing left to say.

"You don't deserve peace, not even in death," Jace eventually whispered before walking away.

X

The air was dense with the scent of salt and damp wood as Aemma lay in a bed draped with soft linens, the faint sounds of the lapping waves against the rocky shores of Driftmark echoing in her ears. Her body felt heavy, as though weighed down by an invisible force. Pain coursed through her like a vicious tide, abrupt and relentless, yet there was a warmth surrounding her that whispered of safety.

Fingers of consciousness began to weave their way through the fog enveloping her mind. Flashes of memory flickered like distant constellations—Silverwing’s fierce wings, the chaos of the storm, and Addam’s urgent voice calling her name. She struggled against the haze, her heart pounding with the remnants of fear and desperation.

"Aemma." The voice broke through her reverie, softer now, tinged with concern.

She fought to open her eyes, the effort feeling monumental. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered, and the dim light of the stuffy room began to emerge. A figure stood at the foot of the bed, cloaked and hooded, shrouded in shadow.

A wave of shock washed over her, and before she could fully grasp the situation, he lunged forward, pressing a warm hand to her lips to silence her gasp. Heart racing, Aemma’s gaze narrowed, the edges of her memory sharpening.

"Ssh, my love," he shushed her.

She recognized the intensity in his gaze, even from beneath the hood. He hovered close, his presence both alarming and strangely familiar. His silver hair rolled off his neck and shoulders, catching the light and casting shadows that accentuated the depth of his expression. One striking violet eye shone through the darkness, piercing and filled with emotion, while the other was shrouded in shadow.

“Aemond,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, like the faintest breeze. It felt like a lifetime since she had last spoken, her throat dry and cracked.

He flinched at the sound of her voice as if she had struck a nerve. Slowly, he lifted his head, an indigo eye swirling with a charged storm—pain, regret, and something darker lurking beneath the surface.

His voice was as firm as steel, yet equally gentle. "We've done our parts here. You’re coming with me, and this time, forever."

X

[haruchi-slit]

BAD (GOOD) IDEA!

synopsis: Summoning a incubus, Sukuna

warnings: Sukuna has horns, he's a demon/curse, monster fucking, Sukuna has 2 pps and a mouth on his belly, dub con, MENTIONS OF BLOOD AND CUTTING (IT'S FOR THE RITUAL) fucking against the wall, THE RITUAL THINGY ISN'T REAL! English isn't my first language so please forgive me if my grammar's wrong and yeaa a lot of other kinky stuff ˊ⁠ᵕ⁠ˋ

a/n: might do a Higuruma, Gojo, or Toji smut/ff/fluff next, any ways isn't Sukuna's just such a cutiepatootie i also tend to use complete English words for sukuna instead of Contractions, like: isn't - is not cause, get it? he's a 1000 year's old tee-hee this is a late Christmas present ;>

After you applied and got accepted at the company your friend's working, you visited your local library to read, and maybe borrow some books, a particular book, caught your attention, it's designed with eyes and plant vines, so curiosity got the better out off you.

"Miss can I borrow this?" you asked as you put the book on the counter,

"Oh hi!, yes, yes you can ma'am, but be really careful" she said, not paying attention to what the librarian, you carelessly dug your own grave, or maybe..not.

"Your Id please, ma'am" the employee says

"Yeah, here" you said looking for your Id in your wallet, once you found your Id you gave it to the librarian.

You got home, completely tired, you placed the book down on your study table, you sat down and decided to read it once you opened it, you realized that the pages only contains pictures, you saw a four armed human with horns, you're not quite sure if it was a demon or a human, while looking thru the pages, a particular page had your eyes dazzling.

it was an instruction on how to summon the

"human" in the book.

You knew it's not a good idea to build and set a little shrine to summon the "human" in the book, but you thought,

"Curses, demons, or other evil spirits don't exist" you scoffed "what else could go wrong"

you shrugged snickering to your self.

You deeply cutted the tip of your finger, you watched your blood drip to the palm of your hand you drew a box with a mouth and four eyes on the paper, As you were doing the ritual, the little shrine you made lits up and turned into ashes, as a portal appears on your bedroom floor, it was the "human" in the book,

he wears a woman's kimono, he has horns, four eyes, you can't help but to look on his stomach with a huge mouth, his about 8ft tall, he has tattoos all over his body and only two arms?, you we're taken a back as you screamed in terror, which made the demon shot the deadliest glare.

"Is that how you greet your guest?, humans." he rolled his eyes as he unclasped his arms,

"F-fuck!" you exclaimed, while you ran fast as you could to unlock your door, but unfortunately the demon appears in front of your bedroom door in a matter of second, which results you bumping on his muscular stomach,

"Summoning me and then running away?, that is quite rude for a lady is it not?, come on do not be scared of me, brat." the demon said forming a devious smirk.

"What-what in the hell are you!?" you breath uncontrollably.

"What do you think human?, I'm a Incubus, you did not read the book?"

you tilted your head, "A what?" you asked, he chuckles at your naive response.

"I'll show what an incubus can do" he once again plastered his devious smirk.

He throws you on your soft mattress causing you to lay flat, you were completely frozen, he towers on top of you, with his muscular and obviously strong structure, you knew you were hopeless.

He lightly sat on your knees, traping you, making sure you can't move,

he removes his kimono, revealing his other set of arms

"Hey- what do your think you're doing!?" you stutter,

he shot seductive glares and you can't lie he's damn fucking attractive!, he acted like he didn't heard you, as he remove his undergarments and tossed it to the ground, he then shook his head as he shushes your mouth, he lifts you up and makes you sit on his lap, you were still in shock so tried to look away, he grabs your jaw forcing you to look at him.

"Eyes on me little one."

you bit your lips trying not to cry, but it was no avail your tears dripped down your cheeks and the demon found it pathetic.

"Humans are so emotional" he chuckles as he leans close to your face, he then licks your tears of, "I'll make you cry in pleasure too" he said and kissed you, you responded to the kiss, you don't know why but the kiss was sloppy, rough, he was dominant, and he doesn't hide it, he bits your lower lip to open your mouth in which he succeed, he roams his tongue in your mouth transferring some of his saliva in you, tongues currently fighting for dominance, you were so lost in the deep kiss, so he took the opportunity to slide the tongue on his belly in your shorts taking you by surprise, you let out a breathy moan as you once again latched your mouth on his lips, his belly tongue draws up and down licking every cornee of your vagina, your short were completely wet by how the demon was spitting on your pussy and abusing it, you broke the deep kiss as soon as you felt his dick erect, you looked at your back as you realized he has two dicks you gasp, you couldn't believe a living being could have two!

"What?, are you surprised little human?" he asked his tongue still moving down your pussy, "Nnn~ ha!" you whimpered as you nodded several times, "feeling good brat?"

"Ha! ugh hah!" you nodded once again, your hand going up to your tits squishing together,

the demon, once again, laughed at your pathetic state

"still not enough?, human are soo greedy" he says as he stood up and lifts you up high against the wall then tore your shorts and panties off, he uses his lower set of arms to hold your lower thigh as the upper set of arms was used as a support to your waist, he leveled your body to his mouth and remember his 8ft tall, so your literally high up against the wall, he spreads your legs wider as he latched his mouth on your pussy, sloppily eating it, focusing on your clit more, so you'll lose your mind faster, he fucking knows how to work that tongue up, his a 1000 years old curse after all, you were above the cloud, in how fucking good he was,

"oh fuuhh!!~ demon, hah! incubus! what ever you are nnn~ so fucking good!" you moaned

"Don't call me shits you brat, Sukuna or Ryomen your choice, little human."

he said while you didn't respond, he latched his mouth on your pussy again, burying his face furthermore making your back arch, against the wall, the room was filled with slurping sounds, whimpers and moans, you feel your walls starting to twitch you knew you're close, and Sukuna noticed so he fasten his pace flicking your puffy clit, spitting on your pussy with no remorse.

"R-ryomen!~ Fuck!" you screamed, as you orgasmed on his long tongue,

"You like that hmm?~" he asked but you couldn't respond cause you were still high,

"ok that's enough foreplay." he said as he aligns his dicks on your pussy and ass.

he slams his dick in you while his arms still supports your little body, he pins your whole body against the wall, his cocks were thick, and quite long, "So- f'king big! i can't!" you cried out "you'll tear me up Ryo!" you added scratching on his shoulders and back,

"oh come on little human, you can do it" he laughs as he pushes his dicks in you,

"my dicks just half way there don't pass out"

penetrating both of your holes

"Ryomen Oh my!" you bit your tongue in result it bleed, "shushh" Sukana says as he kissed your lips, you tasted the metallic taste of your blood while kissing him, as his dicks finally enters both your holes, you can feel his other cock moving in your ass, making it more ten times good, tongue lolled up, saliva dripping from both ends of your mouth, eyes almost crossing, his cocks hits every spot, with every thrust, you scream, and each scream was punctuated,

"Ah~hah, your pussy won't let me move that much, so t-tight" Sukuna states, as he buried his face to the crook of your collarbone, you can feel your pussy latching on his cock like it was it's life source, like if it disappears it would die, "Sukuna nnn!" you moaned your brain turned into a mush with all the pleasure, his cocks hitting each and every g-spot in your body, his cock kissing your womb with his thrust after trust, he lifts you up once again toward your mattress making you sit on top of him, letting you take control,

"come on little human show me what you got."

you bounced up and down holding on to his horns for support as his lower set of arms is buried deep on the flesh of your hips, as his top set of arms was on top of his head,after bouncing on top of him non-stop he came after, your eyelid fell after that, and then you woke up, with heavy breaths, you observed the room your in, you're still in your bed room, fully clothed under your blanket, you looked at your digital clock beside your bed, and realized it was time for your work,

"Thank god it was just a wet dream haha~" you yawned,

"oops, can't be late for my new job" you lightly laughed. Unfortunately you we're late.

Upon arriving at your workplace, you we're 20 minutes late. your friend, Geto greets you after coming out of the elevator,

"oh good morning~, the boss is waiting for you" Geto says and points a the door, that you assumed the boss's office,

"uh-oh, is it because im late?" you asked

which made Geto shrug " I don't know" he says "just goo aheadd, I'll grab you some coffee, see you later" added.

You knocked on your Boss's office

"Come in" a familiar voice, as soon as you opened the door, your boss greets you,

"Did you have fun last night, little human?"

"Ryomen..."

a/n: no part two👹

[auspicioustidings]

Firewatch Part 14

Summary: You visit a grave as our story comes to an end.

Words: 1.9k

You wondered if Johnny had snuck into bed with you. He had done it the last time Simon was on watch and it had been admittedly sort of nice waking up bundled in him. He was pretty cute when he was sleepy. 

He hadn't, the warmth was from Dosia which was strange because these days she usually was either outside or cuddled up with Price if Simon wasn't around like the little traitor she was.

This was not Simon's bed.

–

“You've been through quite the ordeal! Can't believe you were in the forest all this time. Surprised you never came across our Firewatch, they live out there. Or they did I suppose.”

“I- sorry, what do you mean?”

“Didn't you ever notice that tower from your old place? It was a watchtower for wildfires, the men who ran it had a cabin out there as well. Shame about what happened.”

“The fire…”

“Ah last I heard between air support and the trucks coming in to help from all over it's looking like they have it contained, but these things tend to burn for days or weeks before we can really relax.”

“What about the men in the forest? What happened to them?”

The sheriff blinked at you.

“How exactly did you survive out there all this time?”

–

It wasn't as bad as it could have been was what people kept saying. The tower was gone, but the fire had never ripped through the town thanks to quick detection and action to contain it. 

In the span of six months you had lost your home to fire twice over. You were living out of the little bed and breakfast while paperwork was sorted. There was a lot of red tape involved in bringing someone back from the dead, although it was curious how much easier it was made by the sheriff having not properly filed the death certificate in the first place. You weren't as officially dead as you should have been. 

Everything would be wrapped up soon and then you didn't really know what you would do. You had money from the Insurance claim on your cottage (that had been a wild series of phone calls to increasingly senior people as you tried to explain that you were the owner who had perished in the fire), but you had no clue what to do with it. 

You knew you had been putting it off, but it was time to go visit the grave. Maybe then you'd figure it out.

–

It wasn't anything fancy, just a rustic headstone set in the ashes. Dosia wasn't super interested, instead going to rub up against your visitor. Wonders never ceased.

“Knew she'd come around eventually.”

“They do say absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“Does it?”

You glanced over at Kyle and your heart thumped. The last time you had seen him had been weeks ago when he was disappearing into smoke and embers.

“Yeah, yeah I think it does.”

You both stood and stared at the gravestone, Dosia's ears pricking before she took off towards the treeline. You weren't worried, you were pretty sure you knew who she was in a rush to see. She completely ignored the man walking towards you and Kyle on her way. 

“Ouch.”

“She still hasn't forgiven you for saying I should've got a dog you know.”

“Still think ye should swap her for one.”

“He cried when we thought she didn't make it out.”

“Away and biel yer heid Gaz.”

You had missed them. You had really, truly missed them. It was overwhelming being on your own after always having them around. You were angry a lot at little things like how difficult you found a busy shop now. They had done that to you. It didn't make your stupid feelings any less complicated. It didn't make you feel any less like kissing the new scar on Johnny's arm or the bruises healing on Gaz.

“So you buried your girl in the end huh?”

“A few weeks before the fire. We were planning on bringing you to see it.”

“This close to town? Bit risky no?”

“Aye, reckoned ye were worth the risk.”

You took a deep breath to calm yourself. It was a strange thing looking at your own grave. Why put it here to bring you to see it? To prove that they weren't holding you to some impossible dream girl standard anymore?

“Was supposed to be a birthday present, but we're a bit late now aren't we little bird?”

Price looked tired as he emerged from the treeline. It must have been an awful few weeks for him. There was still the remnants of the fire to be looked after incase it blazed up again. It had taken out the cabin and the tower, nothing left but smouldering wrecks and a nasty looking burn creeping up his neck. All of those drawings in Simon's room gone. You don't know why that was one of the things that made you the saddest.

“Didn't feel much like celebrating anyway” you answered truthfully. 

Your birthday had been 5 days after the fire and you had spent it for the most part staring into the void and napping. You hadn't felt like celebrating your new found freedom at all. 

“We did actually get you something. Still have it, if you'd like.”

You wondered what it was. As far as you knew nothing survived the fire. But they were just things and things didn't seem all that important anymore. Not when Simon finally joined you, a purring Dosia in his arms. He was slow due to a bad left leg it seemed like. 

“OK.”

Simon let Dosia down even though she was very reluctant to go so he could take something from around his neck. He handed you the corded necklace. It had a key on the end.

“Happy birthday sweetheart.”

“What's it for?”

“Havnae given it a name yet, thought we'd leave that for you tae do.”

“It's a 20 minute drive out the other side of town, just on the treeline.”

You stared at them. You knew what they were talking about. There was a crumbling cottage out there, you knew because you had considered buying it when you had first moved here but it was more expensive than the one you had went with and you couldn't afford it. You had completely forgotten it was there.

“Hope you don't mind sweetheart, but we took the liberty of getting the electrical work done.”

“And the roof, sorry luv I know you're a good roofer but my heart cannot take watching you do that again.”

“Tae be fully honest the whole thing is already done. Got a wee bit carried away.”

All those trips into town. The way they'd come back looking tired. They had been building you a home. 

“But… no wait, that's not… you were going to let me go?”

“Couldn't keep you in a cage forever little bird.”

“You'd have gotten arrested!”

“Would we aye? For what?”

“For kidnapping me!”

“Funny thing sweetheart, nobody in town is talking about the fire because they're too busy talking about the miracle girl. Apparently survived months in the forest on her own, told the sheriff she was quite the survivalist.”

“Yeah well! You! I!” you huffed, trying to come up with any reason that you had lied that didn't sound like “I love you”. “It was a cooler story.”

They laughed and it made you smile. You couldn't do it in the end. They were not bad men, you couldn't tell the truth knowing it would see them punished and put away. When you didn't know if they were dead or alive it had brought your feelings a stunning clarity. You had fallen stupidly in love with them. 

“So what's next?”

“Don't know honestly. We're camping out and keeping an eye on things. Once the danger has passed we rebuild” Price said, hand massaging at his shoulder.

“I'm pretty handy with a hammer.”

“Yeah?”

“Suppose I could help out” you offered, fighting to keep the stupid grin off of your face as you held up the key  “after all my cottage is pretty nearby right? And this guy is going to be useless with that leg.”

“Watch it sweetheart, my teeth are still intact.”

–

John liked to joke that you would combust if you didn't have a project. Once the cabin was rebuilt (5 bedrooms, incase they had visitors obviously) you helped where you could with the tower, once that was done you wanted to redo the kitchen in the cottage, after that you talked him into taking in an abandoned dog (honestly very easy what with you and Kyle both giving your best puppy dog eyes). Dosia surprisingly seemed to enjoy the new addition, bullying the german shepherd into doing whatever she wanted. The pair of them mostly came and went as they wanted between the cottage and the cabin, thriving running wild in the forest in between. 

Simon tried to get you into football which you sort of did. You had no interest in the big games, but you'd both go and cheer on the local team when they had home games. Inevitably you both looked a mess having gotten into a bit of a paint fight when you had insisted Simon have a little flag on his cheek. You threatened to de-fang him at least once a week. Both Dosia and Riley were absolutely in love with him which both you and Johnny sulked about. You thought maybe, for Riley at least, that Simon felt safe. His leg never quite healed right so he was more cautious and slow moving now, something you thought she might find comforting. 

When Johnny wasn’t grumbling about the animals wanting nothing to do with him, he was whining at you to not get out of bed. You had never met a lazier creature than John MacTavish on a duvet day, he just wanted to cuddle and watch movies. When he was on a hyper day he wanted to redecorate which almost always ended in a fight because you disagreed on what would look good. Everytime a big video game release rolled around the two of you (and sometimes Gaz depending on the game) would just hole up for a weekend and do nothing but play. Luckily Price indulged you and usually kept you fed and watered. 

Kyle had only been half kidding about making a fire fighter out of you. It started as therapy really, a way to try and control the nightmares. He took the lead in teaching you about all the equipment, letting you observe drills and even buying you custom fitted kit. While you never did want to be near a fire again, you learned to be less scared of the idea, you learned to believe that you would know what to do if anything happened. When you hadn't panicked at a little bin fire in your cottage and instead had just dealt with it, you had showed up at the cabin bursting with excitement to tell them. 

The Firewatch went from 4 to 5. You enjoyed it, the peace and quiet and the stars as you sipped hot chocolate and looked out onto the forest. You didn’t really know what the future held for you, but against all odds you had found a family and you were well and truly happy. And if sometimes you found yourself looking through the binoculars just to check on said family, you figured that was just karma.

[thecampjuicebox]

Feeding the Raph stans today. Enjoy ~

The Deal

Pairing: Tav(f) x Raphael

POV: 2nd person (Reader being Tav)

Rating: 18+, Minors DNI

Warnings: SMUT, fingering, overstimulation, spitting, biting, Dom Raph x Sub Tav, bondage, slapping, piv intercourse, GAME SPOILERS - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

You wipe the sweat from your brow and scan the room carefully, the Orphic Hammer weighing heavy on your back. This heist was no small feat, and boy, are you feeling it. Stealing from Raphael was incredibly stupid, and you're sure you'll feel his wrath soon enough, whenever the devil decides to return home. As long as you make it out of the House of Hope, you'll have your back-up. You sigh and shake your head, kicking yourself for telling your team to stay back at the Devil's Fee just in case things in the city went south. In reality, you're the one in real danger. Raphael is not the devil to mess with, surely. You shimmy into the darkness of the hall and make your way towards the portal back to the Lower City. Just a few more steps.

You pant quietly from the heat and swipe the tiny beads of sweat forming on your upper lip now, wiping your hand off on your leathers. "Gods, I can't wait to get out of this.. Hell hole." The final door lies ahead of you. Tall. Daunting. Anything or anyone, could be behind it. You gulp and brace for the worst, reaching for the handle. Giving the door a gentle tug, you crack it just enough to peak inside, spotting the empty portal room. "Fuck yes." Little steps take you towards the portal and you stop. The portal disintegrates to ash before your eyes, leaving nothing but a dusty pile on the lavish marble floor. Time seems to slow around you, the air thickening in your lungs and you gasp for air. Raphael is coming. Hot flames swirl around you and the devil appears, eyebrows knitted together in an expression of pure rage.

"You."

Your heart pounds audibly in your chest and you freeze, eyes fixed on Raphael.

"There are many things I despise from your world. Kittens, the laughter of children, the chaos of it all. Here, in my HOUSE, there is order. There is decorum. You came here uninvited, and you stole from me. You brought the chaos of YOUR world into mine. I will NOT abide it."

His words burn hot like molten metal, searing your ears. You chew your bottom lip for a moment and choose your next words carefully, hands coming to rest on your hips now. A sudden bout of confidence overcomes you and you quirk an eyebrow up at the devil, crossing your arms over your chest, leaning your weight onto one foot. A devilish smirk curves the corner of your lips upward.

"Your house in in complete disarray, Raphael. It was entirely too easy for me to slip past your guards."

Raphael takes a step closer to you, eyes burning like the fires of the very hells surrounding you. You gulp, staring up at him as he towers over you. Confidence gone, you consider running. Your fingers tremble and you pray that Raphael would take pity on you. But you dug your grave. Now you'll have to lie in it.

"You would have been a hero, had you only dealt fairly with me. Instead, you're not so different from the doomed Karsus. Steady over-reaching your limits and burning your world to ash. Your skull will make a fine trophy. Any last words? It will only take a moment to finish you."

You grit your teeth at his words and shake your head, firmly standing your ground against him now. He won't win this. He can't. His expression remains the same. Seething. Ready to tear your limbs off one by one. You ponder your options and move your eyes over Raphael.

"Wait.. I have one more preposition."

"It's too late."

Raphael pauses, lips thinning into a smirk and his eyes travel over your curvy frame, following the lines of your hips and up to your breasts before settling back on your deep eyes. He crosses his arms, drumming his fingers against his forearm, tongue flicking out against his bottom lip to moisten the skin there.

"There is only one thing you can offer me and I doubt you'd be willing to oblige."

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes squinting at the devil. What is his game here?

"Wanna bet?"

The devil steps even closer to you now, leaning in to just barely press his warm lips to your ear. You shudder at the sensation. His fingers reach out to trace your collar bones, little goosebumps raising on the sensitive flesh. His breath coasts along your earlobe.

"A night of pain and pleasure. Ecstasy unimagined. You may not leave here alive, but I suppose that's a risk you're going to have to take isn't it, little mouse? Do we have a deal? Or shall I kill you right here, right now."

Your jaw falls open slightly at the gentle caress of his fingers against your aching skin, shaking hands finding the front of his coat. You crumble at his words. His change of demeanor lights a fire inside of you that you can't control, flames licking deliciously at your core. You groan quietly into his ear and nod. A large hand moves up to your throat, closing its grip tightly around your airway and you grunt at the sudden loss of oxygen.

"Use your words."

"Deal."

Raphael grins and snaps with his free hand, the one grasping your throat tightening ever so slightly. The deal is signed, your soul is his for the taking. He revels in watching you squirm beneath his touch, your eyes rolling back into your head as you fight for consciousness. With a firm shove, he releases your throat and you collapse to your knees, struggling for breaths, your lungs burning. You cough, hands flat on the marble floor for support.

"I expect to find you in my boudoir. Remove your clothes and wait for me on your knees."

...

Raphael's boudoir is as lavish and expensive as you'd expect, perfectly crafted furniture adorned with jewels and gold leaf scattered about the room. A tall, large bed sits neatly made up against the far wall, sheer red tule cascading down and around the sides like a romantic shroud. You step carefully, eyes scanning the opulent paintings of Raphael hanging on the walls. He's so full of himself. What a surprise. With labored breaths, you begin to undress, the devil's words ringing in your ears. "Wait for me on your knees." You slide off the last garment and leave them in a neat pile on the floor, pale skin shivering with anticipation. Sliding to your knees carefully, you place your hands on your plush thighs and lower your head, waiting just as the devil asked you.

Raphael saunters into the room, chalice of red wine in hand, a confident air about his posture. He spots you on the ground and smirks, approaching you slowly.

"Such an obedient slave. You're going to be such a joy to play with."

Your core aches. Arousal coats your inner thighs and you squeeze them together tightly, lest you make a mess on Raphael's nice rug. Your knees burn from the rough surface beneath them and you shift uncomfortably. A small whine escapes you as Raphael moves to the side of you and grabs a fistful of your hair, tugging your head back roughly to make you look up at him, his free hand moving the chalice in small circles to swirl the sweet smelling contents inside.

"Hm. Open."

His eyes point at your lips and you obey, opening your mouth for him. He brings the chalice to his still smirking lips and takes a small sip of the wine, swishing it around his mouth. He leans over you and spits the wine into your mouth, little splashes of red landing on your cheeks and chin. You lap at the liquid, swallowing while keeping your eyes on Raphael, your tongue moving around your lips and chin to clean the droplets you can reach. Raphael growls quietly and tightens his grip on your hair.

"Good little mouse. Stand up."

You nod against the tension on the back of your head and carefully shuffle to your feet, thighs still squeezed tightly together. The devil eyes you carefully and releases your hair, beginning to circle around you like an owl bear stalking its prey. He reaches a hand out and presses it between your thighs, moving them apart. He groans at the warmth there and slides his hand upward, collecting your slick on his fingers.

"Already so wet for me. Open up. Now."

Your mouth opens quickly, tongue dropping out and he slides his now wet fingers against the drool covered surface, swiping back and forth. You mewl at your own taste and close your lips around his fingers, sucking them clean. His eyebrows tilt downwards and a moan escapes his gritting teeth. His fingers slide further into your mouth, prodding at the back of your throat now. You gag and he tuts quietly, pushing further. Tears well up in the corners of your eyes. Raphael grins and removes his fingers from your lips with a soft "pop", a string of drool connecting the two of you. You keen at the emptiness in your throat, looking up at the devil with glossy eyes. Your expression twists to one of need. Your eyes are begging. Absolute submission. Something you've never given anyone before, and something you definitely didn't initially plan to give a devil. Raphael made you feel things even the first time you met him. His deep voice makes your head spin. The subtle smell of cherries and smoke that lingers even after he leaves sets fire to your senses and you crave him. He's intoxicating, and you want to get drunk. Raphael considers you his only weakness, your supple curves tempting him regularly. Every visit to you is purely for his enjoyment at this point. He craves you too. Carnally. Cock twitching in his trousers when you disobey him. He often thinks about the way your hips sway when you walk, your voice sweet like honey when you question him. His lust for you goes far beyond depravity. And he intends to show you just that.

"On the bed, little mouse. Get pretty for me."

Climbing carefully on the bed, you sit up on your knees and Raphael shakes his head, following you up onto the silk duvet. He pushes you backwards onto the cloud-like surface, grasping your ankles to spread your legs as far apart as your hips will allow, each foot pointing towards the bottom corners of the bed. Thick leather straps lock onto your ankles first, Raphael humming quietly to himself as little gold padlocks click into place. He gives the restraints a hefty tug to test the integrity. The devil straddles your waist and moves your arms up to the upper corners of the bed, trapping your wrists the same way. His fingers fiddle with the second set of gold padlocks, a proud chuckle leaving his lips as he leans back to admire his work. You chew your lip and stare up at the ceiling, a large gold-framed mirror showing you a glimpse of your pathetic fate. Wet eyes blink up at your reflection and you whine at the tight restraints.

"Shh, this is all very necessary. Wouldn't want you running away now."

Hot lips press sloppy kisses to your thighs, needy fingers following close behind to grope the skin soon after. Your back bows off of the bed, limbs tugging at the restraints holding you down so perfectly. "Gods.." Raphael grins against your skin and squeezes your inner thigh. "None of those here, love." You grind your hips up into the air and cry out as Raphael bites into your sensitive skin suddenly, drawing blood. He laps at the red fluid carefully, his tongue tantalizingly hot. Pulling away, he admires the deep bite marks in your thigh and kisses them sweetly, moving up your thigh to sink his teeth into the skin just beside your dripping cunt. You throw your head back, jaw falling open and you cry his name loudly, tears stinging your eyes. He coos, moving his fingers up the rub the backs of his knuckles against the outside of your folds. Sticky arousal coats his fingers and your skin.

"Such a mess, mouse. Such a sweet mess. You've been so good so far, I think you deserve a reward."

Without warning, Raphael plunges two fingers into your quivering hole, earning a loud moan from you. Your walls tighten around him and he pumps back and forth slowly, ever so slightly curving the tips of his fingers upwards to just miss your g-spot. His thumb rubs clockwise circles into your swollen clit. He watches you carefully, taking inventory of each of your moans, whimpers, and cries. Your legs tremble at the sensation, arousal dripping onto the bed and creating a puddle on the silk each time Raphael slides his fingers almost all the way out of your cunt before roughly plunging them back into your warmth. He hisses, fingers prodding at your cervix. You gasp for air, a delicious mixture of his promised pain and pleasure knocking the wind out of you with each of his harsh thrusts.

"That's it. You're doing so good."

His deep voice sends a shiver down your tight spine. The muscles in your abdomen wind in a ball each time Raphael's fingers scrape your walls, thumb still working furiously on your now aching bundle of nerves. You cry out once more, nearing your end rapidly. His pace quickens and your entire body tenses in response, sweat beading up all over you, your pale skin glistening in the lanternlight of the boudoir. Raphael leans down and licks a long strip from the top of your mound to your sternum, the salty taste of your sweat blurring his vision. He bites into your hip, earning another cry. The rope of pleasure in your belly tightens further and further, little twinges of pain making your eyes roll back into your skull. Jaw falling slack, you ball your hands into fists, your toes curling and and causing your calves to cramp.

"Raphael.. I'm so close.. C-Can I.."

Raphael climbs up near your head, leaning in to nip at the tip of your pointed ear, breath hot against your skin. His fingers quickly slide out of you, your walls fluttering around the emptiness. Whining loudly, you wiggle your hips at your fleeting orgasm, tears freely streaming down the sides of your face and into your ears.

"Aht aht. Not yet. I'm not finished with you."

The devil slinks off of the bed, undressing in front of you slowly. He slides his coat off and tosses it onto the velvet bench at the end of the bed, silk shirt following soon after. He kicks his boots off and reaches for the laces on his trousers, cock straining against the tight fabric. You drool at the sight of him. Gods, he's beautiful. With careful attention to your reactions, Raphael tugs his trousers and underwear down simultaneously, thick cock springing out and upward. You groan, blinking at him with intense need. The need to fill you up with his girth. To hear him moan as he absolutely ruins you. You buck your hips up off of the bed and whine for him, cheeks burning a sweet shade of red. Your face burns hot. Your belly aches, core awaiting his inches. He saunters back to the bed, snapping his fingers and all 4 little padlocks click at the same time, falling to the duvet beneath you. You wiggle your fingers and toes, awaiting your freedom. Gentle hands work at the leather straps to carefully undo them. With close movements, Raphael climbs back onto the bed, warm body sliding carefully up yours before settling on top of you, weight pushing you into the mattress. You hesitate for a moment, blinking up at him.

"M-May I touch you? Please?"

"Since you asked so nicely, you may."

You lower your arms from their previous resting place above your head and carefully run the tips of your fingers down Raphael's sides, his skin breaking out in goosebumps at your feather light touch. He groans quietly, head lowering so his chin rests on your shoulder. You shiver and continue the movement of your fingers to his back, nails digging daringly into his flesh and dragging downward in one long, rough line. He grunts and bucks his hips forward, one hand planting firmly on the bed beside your head, the other grasping your cheeks roughly, squishing your face so your lips pucker open. He sneers, gathering a decent amount of saliva before spitting directly into your mouth. You choke and writhe beneath him, the taste of wine and your own blood still lingering in his spit. He chuckles and sits up on his knees between your thighs, grasping your hips to carefully pull your lower body closer to his, dripping cunt resting against his painfully erect cock. You test the waters once more, rolling your hips upwards against him.

"So impatient, little mouse. You're going to get yourself in trouble acting like that."

Raphael grips his member in his hand, spitting into his palm and giving it a few slow pumps before lining up with your slit, quickly slamming himself inside. You gasp and shriek out loud, arms reaching to push yourself away from him. He expertly grasps your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, the other hand wrapping perfectly around your sore throat, thumb pressing into one side, fingers following suit on the other side. Little black spots float through your vision and he thrusts into you again, the tip of his cock brushing your cervix. Your hips twitch beneath him but you do your best to hold still now, your vision going blurry as you fade in and out of consciousness. Raphael holds you in that position, head dizzy from the way your walls grip his cock. His hips find a steady rhythm now. A single finger points upwards towards the large mirror you noticed earlier.

"Look at how pathetic you are. Watch me fuck you. Watch me ruin you."

You mewl when you finally adjust to his size, eyes flicking upwards to the mirror. He releases your throat, hand dropping to grope at your breast. You push your chest up into his touch needily. Gentle fingers stroke back and forth over the tender flesh, flicking a few times over your nipple before rearing back and landing a firm smack. You grunt, a red handprint quickly raising on the skin of your breast. Raphael continues to thrust into you, pausing for a moment to lock one of his legs with yours and flip the two of you over, settling you on top of him. His hands find yours, lacing your fingers together.

"Ride. And maybe I'll let you cum tonight."

You nod sheepishly, knees planting firmly on either side of his torso. Your hips roll back and forth with perfect rhythm, hands gripping onto Raphael's tightly for stability. He hisses, head tilting back into the soft pillows beneath him. You lean forward to press a soft kiss to his Adam's apple and giggle at the strained whine he lets out. Making the devil himself crumble under your touch. How brave. Raphael's honey colored eyes meet yours and you smile sweetly down at him, you hips taking on a slight bounce now. The devil grits his teeth and releases your hands, his own moving to your hips to guide you up and down on his weeping cock, his hips thrusting roughly up into you now. Sharp nails find purchase on Raphael's chest, scratching long thin lines into the burning flesh, little droplets of blood dribbling up through the fresh wounds. You throw your head back in ecstasy, Raphael digging his nails into the firm skin of your ass.

"By the Nine Hells, I'm so close.."

His voice is strained, pitch wavering as he nears his end. You double down on your movements.

"Cum for me, Raphael."

His eyes burn bright in the lanternlight and he switches positions again, rolling you over and pulling your ass to him, a large hand gripping the hair on the back of your head to shove your face into the mattress. He shoves his cock into you once more, fucking you into the silk, free hand landing a loud smack against the flesh of your ass. You jolt forward, walls tightening subconsciously around him and he gasps at the sudden change of sensation. He yanks his cock out of you swiftly and begins to pump it with his hand, hot ropes of milky white cum spewing onto your ass and back, making a mess of you. You grin, obediently keeping your face pressed to the bed. "Fucking shit!" Raphael cries out, hand slowing to a stop before letting his cock fall limp against his thigh, still twitching from his earth shattering orgasm. You turn your head slightly to peek up at him, his chest heaving. He swipes his fingers through the mess on your backside, collecting a reasonable amount before shoving his fingers into your mouth. You mewl and swirl your tongue around the digits, sucking and licking them clean.

"You vixen.."

Raphael pulls his fingers away from you, immediately shoving them into your cunt. You jolt forward once more, rocking yourself back and forth on his fingers, desperate for your own release. "P-Please.."

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. You'll have to speak up."

"Please, Raphael.."

He shakes his head, free hand reaching between your legs to rub your clit with his palm, the coverage and friction sending you into a moaning frenzy.

"Louder."

You cry out at the movement of both of his hands, hands grasping for the silk duvet. Your back arches inward, churning belly pressing tightly to the mattress.

"Fuck, please, Raphael! Please let me cum!"

"Much better, mouse."

His hands pick up speed. Your moans and whimpers silence to airless gasps, legs shaking uncontrollably under his touch. His fingers slide carefully out of your cunt, other hand still furiously working your overstimulated clit. He's determined now. The rope in your belly begins to tighten again, winding itself into a big knot before snapping all together, your vision going white as your orgasm nearly knocks you all the way over. You scream the devil's name, along with many other incoherent words, your legs kicking and arms flailing as Raphael continues rubbing. Your clit burns beneath his fingers, your walls fluttering around nothing. Emptiness. Using the edge of the bed as leverage, you pull yourself away from Raphael's fingers, panting heavily as you squeeze your thighs together. "Fuck.. Ow fuck.." Raphael grins down at you, reaching forward to firmly press his palm against your clit again. You sob, trying to squeeze your thighs together to no avail. He palms at your clit roughly, free hand swirling soft circles around your slit. He's torturing you now, relishing in the way he can make you spasm. Tears stream down your cheeks and you wiggle yourself away from him again. Raphael chuckles and sits back, allowing you your small moment to recover.

"I believe we've both delivered what we've promised. You're free to go now."

He motions towards the door of the boudoir, eyes narrowing on you, waiting on a response. You stare at him, blinking the tears away. After a moment of contemplation, you shake your head and climb up towards the pillows at the head of the bed, settling on your side. Your fingers trace little shapes into the sweat soaked silk.

"I don't know.. I think I could get used to this. Staying here, with you. As long as you help my friends and I with this little-"

You point to your temple, illuding to the tadpole that still angrily wriggles behind your eyes.

"-Problem."

Raphael's eyes widen and he ponders for a moment, tired body slinking up to rest next to you. He reaches out and trails a hand over the highs and lows of your curves, licking his lips hungrily.

"I think we could arrange something."

[justaguyeatingpie]

[p-ranking 6-2, attempt #54] a gabv1el one shot, 1.6k words (~8 mins), see the ao3 version here.

As always, the starry sky houses the moon in the same spot. Tilts it at the same angle, down to the very degree.

As always, the trees draw the same oblong shadows upon the forest floor. Never an inch too thick or too wide, and permanently slanted one way in spite of perspective.

As always, the campfire crackles the same few notes, a bassist in the forest’s melancholic song. It’s grown predictable, the rippling water, the creaking wood. The pitter-patter of wildlife in a freshly empty world liberated in humanity’s absence.

As always, the moment lies in stasis. Unchanged from when he first sat upon this log with his wings slumped low, strung dejectedly to his back with threads of shame, guilt and regret.

Most humorously, his introspection is all that ever changes. When did it grow from silent reflection to the deepest, most relentless rounds of brooding? The fifth time? The fiftieth?

Is he doomed to mope here forever? Arrive freshly wounded from another gratifying defeat, only for the real pain to come from his actions?

Who can wash sins dipped in the thickest tar? Is there a confessional mighty enough for his crimes, mightier than the council who assigned them to begin with?

What is the verdict of a fool puppeteered for eons? A tool for uprooting all supposed evil save from his own, arguably the worst of it all? 

He is a fool. A murderer. A monster. 

Even so, it is not enough to sulk. There are wrongs to right, a pompous head to sever and a tyrannized heaven to set free. And that is just the start of it, his penitence. It will be profound. He will make the greatest amendments for his worst sins. Stop at nothing to rectify the ills brought by his zealous hands, even as his life spills away in pathetic litres. Then, with the very last of his strength, he will pray. Not to God, whose death mirrors his own untethered, declining existence. Rather, to those stirred by his smallest transgressions. The ones just big enough to be felt somewhere, somehow, yet still too miniscule in all he’s done to be brought to memory. 

He will die somewhere quiet, somewhere alone. Dance in a pleasant slumber while his body flakes into ashes, sparks into white flame, or whatever else. A deserved fate, yet one not nearly harsh enough.

The plan is in his grasp, a mere untipped domino away. But time won’t permit him to go much farther from here. It never does.

He has cleaved the councilman’s head enough times to decorate a metaphorical castle wall, each taxidermied mount a broken link between Gabriel himself and God. It is unbearably heavy, his own unsupported body. Yet he drags it to the coliseum regardless, if only to yet again soothe the people with the unlit eyes and agape jaw of an imperious fool.

As always, their applause comes to the most abrupt of stops. As always, just as he’s about to leave and do something about his mounting guilt, the coliseum is gone. The rest of heaven along with it.

Again, the organ. Again, the towering cathedral. Again, the chromatic wash of red on everything from the floor to the ceiling.

He does not need to turn around to know it's there. To see which shadows compromise its boxy frame, and how each dark pane symbolizes its obvious, programmed intentions.

Is he doing something wrong? Is there a grievous error in his plan, one that’s making time loop around in frustrating circles? Are his sins too grave? His repentance too inconceivable for the universe to allow?

And if the universe isn’t at fault, is this the machine’s retribution?

Rusted metal against smooth marble: footsteps. Fast. Impatient. More efficient than they’d been last time and the time before that — exponential. Soon, Gabriel hears that click. That steadfast, deadly sound, universal across the machine’s ever-expanding arsenal.

It’s been too many times to be phased by the device pointed at him. Whatever the machine has in its grasp whirs; a rhythmic, dangerous invitation. Already, Gabriel can taste the coppery sputter on his teeth; feel his chest plate fracture inwards and stab between his ribs; hear that sweet, deafening ring that peaks alongside world-tilting ecstasy. 

He swallows hard, anything to curb the temptation. The machine stares expectantly all the same, its fluorescent iris that same drawing yellow.

He mustn't. He cannot. All fighting the machine has done has cemented him in stasis. Culprit or not, attempting the same thing and expecting any change would be insanity. 

A holier reason: indulgence is gluttony, and gluttony is a sin. Whatever that word means anymore.

The other vice indulgence brushes up against is also a sin, but it can’t be that. Not towards a machine.

“You can descend farther without contest. There’s more for you down there, machine.” he offers, displeased with having to barter Hell’s remaining population around; they are people he’s coming to realize, but the machine will not see reason lest there’s blood involved.

It stares blankly at his shoo-ing hand, unbudging in its confusion. If Gabriel had any easily definable features they’d be twisted in a scowl. “You can understand me, can’t you?”

It nods.

“Then leave. You’ve had your laugh. My defeat,” my tantalizing, thrilling defeat, “—doesn’t satisfy you, hasn’t been.”

Regardless, it does not budge.

“A whole world down there — yours for the taking! Throw that insatiable hunger at those who will reciprocate it, not me!” His hands gesture about in exasperated motions.

Still, that persistent gaze. At its apathy, Gabriel whines.

When Lust’s denizens broke at his feet, stuck between one world of pain and another world of tortuous winds — winds that for so long had felt like the gentlest breeze — did they feel this same helplessness? This sinking, crushing feeling of being trapped in a situation?

Airborne or grounded, he towers over the machine. And yet, he is still so terribly small.

What he does next is humiliating. Blasphemous. 

The machine flinches as he kneels. 

“Please,” a whisper against the plating of its legs. Then, more to himself than anything, “I need to make this right.”

His helmet rests against its midsection, impossibly smooth iron against corroded steel. Its wires vary in size and segments. Gabriel tries to hear the static and blood pumping throughout them. Wonders, sinfully, how hot both can get. Does the machine burn for him, as he does it? Can the entropy of a system equate to ecstasy? 

From this angle and despite the dim lighting, there’s a glare obscuring the machine’s optic. Not like its face is indicative of much anyway, but Gabriel wants to pretend that it’s in thought. 

Airborne or grounded, he towers over the machine. And yet he peers up at it bashfully, like he would to God.

For the first time since he’s met it, the machine chooses mercy. 

He does not realize it at first. He thinks the hand that cups his chin, then lifts him up is a sardonic gesture, a mockery to end all mockeries. Just as he objects to being gently walked to the center of the room — courted, — the machine raises a finger. 

You can decipher meaning without expression or words, he’s learned, so long as you know your subject enough. What the machine means to say is ‘just one more.’

Gabriel’s laugh is a breathy, ugly thing stuck between frustration and anticipation. They’re both in their places now, slot in position like actors in a play. Already, he can feel the unfurling of his being. The white-hot spikes of pain that blear the corners of his vision the same color. What about the machine makes temptation, something he’s resisted for eons, so alluring?

What’s one more?

Ironically, unsheathing Justice and Splendor is an act of surrender. With no lips to speak of, the machine takes a hold of his hand again and leans down. Its optic is warm, like a kiss should be. Then it steps away, the reserves of its gentleness assuredly dry. Gabriel doesn’t know what he likes more; its unthinking and brutal programming, or its occasional, endearing deviancy.

The courtesies are over, the machine takes aim. He’s been missing that muzzle.

There is blood and there is pain. There is divinity and there is parodied humanity. There is Gabriel crying out loud enough to tumble the heavens and quake the Earth. There is the machine and its searing heat sink on the precipice of eruption. There is love.

He towers over the machine, dwarfs it. Outshines it in every possible category. Has more grandeur, glory and honor than it can even begin to compute.

And yet.

The fight is won. The victor, obvious. The machine looms over his limp body, like one would a squashed but still moving bug. All Gabriel can muster are shallow breaths against the cathedral floor, life a mere bullet away.

The machine’s iris jolts from one corner of its optic to the next. It kneels over him, straddles him, a sick curiosity tied to its every move. Gabriel winces, convinced for a moment that even if its promise meant anything, it was overwritten by some vindictive line of code. When the machine puts its revolver to the side, his hacked shoulders go lax.

For a while, he and the machine are all that is. It cups his jaw again, rubs circles onto his helmet, tells him he’s so good and deserving and capable of redemption, then promises to never leave.

When it’s gone, he realizes too late. The stars and trees are back. Far away, he can hear the crackling of fire. He drags himself to it, hopefully for the last time.

u/iheartpancakes42069 on r/ULTRAKILL:

guys i swear this isn't a mod but if you play through 6-2 enough times in a row there's a cutscene??? thankfully it didn't affect my time but holy shit this game has so many easter eggs... is gabv1el canon now?? hakita?????

u/fuckmykappachunguslife_2

Definitely a mod, lol. How much did you pay Gianni for this?

u/fuckmykappachunguslife_2

Wait what the fuck

u/iheartpancakes42069

SEE??

[the-once-and-future-love]

The Witching Hour: Spooky BBC Merlin Fic Recs

A Modern Pygmalion by supercalvin

A Warlock's Blood by Lullabylily

Ain't No Grave (Can Hold Me) by Val_Creative

All the Dead Are Here by Footloose

all our dead, unfinished selves by schweet_heart

An Ox on the Tongue by seapotato

and with my opened mouth i join the singing light by intothefirewego

Death is Only the Beginning by Val_Creative

Deliquesce by BeautifulFiction

Dying to Return by StormDancer

Feeding Grounds by N16  [gen]

From Darkness Comes Light by beren

From The Ashes by RandomSlasher

Gibraltar May Tumble by shes_gone

Grave Mistake by kickflaw

Haunted Ride by Sage_Owl

How It Will Be by Trojie. 

Hunter's Blood by Shadecat

I'll Be Your Fire (The Dragon Dream Remix) by claudine

In It For The Thrill by TheCourtSorcerer

Into the Dark by kriadydragon

i will always pick you up by daffodilprince

It Will Have Blood by kayura_sanada

London Tower by significantowl

Mating Call by orphan_account

My Breath In Your Lungs by Zaharya

Quickening Days by Fahye

Resurgam by La_Temperanza

Seeds of Darkness by N16 [gen]

The Devil's Table by kriadydragon [gen]

The Beast of Winter by linaerys

The Fallen by ArtemisPendragon

The Kingcraft of Arthur Pendragon by SauraUnderscore

The Maze of Malus by beckybrit

The Tomb by kriadydragon [gen]

The Washerwoman by schweet_heart

You Can Be King Again by asuralucier

[mx-metronome]

Meditations on Eden 1

Writing for the sake of writing. Eden spoilers under the cut (also it’s long, oops)

Imagine you are a star in the sky, having only known the indifferent twinkling of your distant siblings and the loud silence of the universe.

Now imagine that you fall from such a comforting nothingness, at a blazing speed, towards a solid something below. You’ve been pushed out of your cradle of Light & Song and into a land of coldness and chaotic noise.

Imagine that you’ve been born. Would you not be angry? Would you not feel betrayed that a caring Mother would do such a thing to you, to remove you from your comfort? Perhaps that is why babies cry. Perhaps that is why many moths so quickly abandon their journey.

You settle into the terrible noise, learning the sound of the waves crashing on a shore and the sensation of wind whistling past your ears, and then out of the senseless noise you hear the tolling of bells and feel the vibrations resonate through you. Imagine that the star at your core trembles in response: it sounds like Her beckoning you back home.

All the while, you think, Why cast me out from the stars if only to call me back home again? What purpose does this serve? And yet She calls; and yet you trust Her.

So you follow.

You are told that all is given breath by starlight. Was I not breathing before?

You continue to follow Her voice.

Imagine that time passes, and existence becomes more bearable.

You find other fallen stars like you, other Children of the Light. Some are much taller, some much shorter, many in all shapes and colors adorning their vessels.

They sing songs of the Eye of Eden, the place of salvation, where Her Warmth proves itself true to those who have fallen to darkness. Have I fallen to darkness? Did she send me into this darkness, or was I dragged down by force?

The children gesture towards the Mountain crowned with a halo that She had been calling you to, an intense light extending from the summit back to the stars. That is where She is, She will save me and bring me home when I get there.

The children urge you to collect winged light, for these are the key to salvation. They caution that the Darkness wishes to reclaim these and that you must keep them safe. I will take these wings to Her to gain her favor.

So you continue to follow Her voice.

You pass through troubled lands devoid of the creatures’ songs, replaced instead by heavy air and the dead ground. Large creatures of not-Light swim through the thick air in endless circles, hunting for Her essences. They seek your winged light, your tickets home. You guard them jealously as you slip past, you refuse to give them up.

You ascend a mighty tower, full of graves and old stories and the dangers of hubris and ambition. The dreamlike void swirling with particles of light make you feel the closest to home you’ve ever been. These wings will surely be enough to get me home.

You continue to follow Her voice.

She leads you to the base of the Mountain, the Holy Site, irradiated with darkness, clouded in ash. Surely this must be a mistake? This doesn’t look like salvation at all!

And yet, in all your doubt, She calls; and yet, in all your apprehension, you trust Her. You continue to follow Her voice.

You scale this peak, cloaked in a storm of stones, patrolled by more of these dark creatures. You make a dash towards the open hallway, where She is calling from. You want to trust Her.

A gust of wind pushes you backward just a few inches, and your foot slips. Enough lost momentum for a torrent of rocks to pelt you, knocking you to your back. Helplessly you watch as the winged light that would surely bring you home scatter to the winds, dwindling and then fading to nothing, like candlelights in a hurricane.

Why? Why did She bring me here? This place is only pain, only anger. She couldn’t possibly dwell in a place like this, a place of absolute darkness. How could I possibly trust Her?

And yet, She calls.

You crawl between flung rocks and dragons’ eyesight towards Her voice, the loudest it’s ever been. You have no choice but to trust Her.

As you enter the hallway littered with winged light, you wonder if this is the salvation the children meant, the ultimate reward for your troubles. But it isn’t home. She beckons you further inward, Her sound is almost deafening now.

You hesitate a moment before continuing to follow Her voice.

You follow the voice into the Eye of Eden, the place of salvation.

~~

A crystal of darkness so intense that it’s poisoned the land for miles around it.

A shattered palace whose tile floors are now strewn with the petrified corpses of children who came before you.

Imagine that She has brought you here to a place reeking of death, dissonant with the scraping of stone against stone.

A place that children sang about.

Now imagine, right then, that you can’t hear Her voice anymore. You call out, just in case you’re missing something, but you feel no response.

Would you not be angry? Would you not feel betrayed that a caring Mother would do such a thing to you, to lead you to the place where you’d die again with no further explanation? Was falling away from the warm stars not enough?? You tried your best, you brought the light here, you did as you were told. Why couldn’t you be saved? Why isn’t She here???

You let out your anger and pain in a fiery scream, but the red crystal screams louder. You feel the darkness begin to slow you down and the threads holding the winged light to you begin to fray. Resigning to your arrogance and greed for answers, you step out into the downpour of rocks and kneel before the nearest stone child.

As you succumb to the intense darkness, you feel your remaining winged light tugging you, as though it were reaching for the fallen child. Reluctantly, you cradle one of your precious light in your hands and place it against the statue. Immediately, a golden light peeks through the cracks in their stone skin as the winged light combines with the child’s soul. You see your winged light count fall by 1.

They sing songs of the Eye of Eden…

You understand.

…the place of salvation…

You cannot save yourself. That is not why She brought you here.

…where Her Warmth proves itself true to those who have fallen to darkness.

The winged light was never yours to keep. Your salvation was never yours to claim. Love was never meant to be taken.

Realizing that time is short and your light is waning, you arise to your feet one final time and trudge through the storm and the sludge, reaching out and touching the damned with the light you had protected all this time. One by one, the winged light shine gold through the cracks in the stone like an ore vein, and the rocks begin to rain harder, as though the Darkness is punishing you for daring to be selfless in this final act.

As you reach out to the furthest sky kids in the darkest places, you feel the polluted water burn the soles of your feet, the pointed stones in your lungs. Your winged light reserves grow emptier and emptier, and the darkness begins to seep into your eyes and your joints and your heart.

As a loose stone clobbers the back of your head, your last winged light violently tears away from you, shattering instantly against the intense radiation. With your core now devoid of light and your soul emptied of all your achievements, you feel the darkness coat your body like a thick skin. The vessel you took on becomes heavy and movements laborious. The searing pain is unbearable.

You feel so hot, like your body is burning away, and as your heartbeat slows to a crawl, you grow cold. Is this the salvation? Will I spend eternity in a void?

What will become of them?

And as you exhale your last breath, the cold dissipates, and you feel nothing.

It is almost like falling asleep.

~~

It is almost like waking up.

Imagine you were a star in the sky, having only known the indifferent twinkling of your distant siblings and the loud silence of the universe.

Except now that twinkling is far gone, and the silence is even louder. You left your nonexistence and fell into existence. You left your cradle, learned to point, learned to charm the butterflies, learned to laugh, learned to cry, learned to dance, learned to fear, learned to pray.

And in your final moments of existence, you learned to love. Truly, wholly, and with wild abandon, even without the guarantee that it would benefit you somehow in the end.

Yes, another child comes along on the same pilgrimage and saves you too. You’re reborn, you get to reenter the world you’ve come to love again. But that’s not necessarily what this story is about.

Imagine that She is you. Imagine that you are Her. You are Her Warmth, Her Salvation made manifest, Her Guiding Light. You are the Voice that She led you along, and you are Her Kindness.

When the children sang the songs of the Eye of Eden, they were singing about Her, and they were singing about each other, and they were also singing about You.

[the-avaricious-meddler]

7: Spiral Like A Whirlpool

8: Spiral Like A Tornado

9: Spiral Like A Hurricane

10: Spiral Like A Dying Galaxy

11: Spiral Like A Black Hole

[stesierra]

Okay! Since people are asking, here's some of my writing. I'm not used to sharing because on Twitter no one really cared... 🥺 Please let me know if you're interested in learning more about this book or being added to a tag list for my stuff! I love questions about my stuff too... This is new adult fantasy even though publishing says new adult isn't real.

(please excuse my MC's attitude because she is depressed! We've all been there when we released a plague of skeletons.)

The Bone Queen

Chapter 1

When I fell in love with Aubrey, I never thought I'd dream of killing him one day. Why would I? He was already dead.

Now, two years after he’d won my heart with lies, we stood alone in my dimly lit parlor, between its lion-footed couches all in pine green and gold and blood red, Queen Idony’s colors. The golden tapestries that thickly coated the walls depicted Bandrum Palace as seen from the streets of Asteraxe: a many-floored edifice that sprawled across the top of a hill, half hidden behind a mighty wall.

The enormous skirts of my dress weighed me down like I was dragging my own casket around. The bodice hugged my ribs and the corset I didn't need, embellished with lace and embroidered birds, and the sleeves poofed around my skinny arms. It left my scrawny shoulders bare, and even with the fire that crackled in my fireplace, the winter air inside the palace chilled me.

The dress was ivory. The same ivory as my fiancé’s bones.

He clenched my hand, his icy finger bones pinching my skin, and his touch revolted me. But I didn't draw away. I'd learned by now that there was no escape. What point was there in trying? Besides, I deserved this unhappiness. I'd brought it upon myself. Upon the entire kingdom of Sweelough.

When I'd met Aubrey, he'd been nothing but a handsome ghost on Lake Langlyn’s shores. But since I'd freed him—freed them all—he’d become something more. Not alive, even Queen Idony couldn't do that, but she'd given him back his skeleton with which to wield swords and write notes and touch my vulnerable skin. His ghost hadn't gone anywhere; it wrapped around his skeleton like transparent flesh around bones. Now, when I looked into his face, I saw both sharp gray eyes and yawning sockets, both a full, cleanshaven mouth and a skull’s grinning teeth. And the clothes his ghost wore echoed the very real doublet and hose he'd pulled over his bones. Green and red and gold, of course. He honored the queen in everything he did.

He bent close to me, brushing the top of my fashionable tower of hair with his jawbone. He stank of potpourri and dust. “Tell me you love me, Elise.”

I said nothing, just breathed and thought about hitting his bones over and over again with a hammer. In my mind, he crumbled into bits, nothing but ashes in a grave. Of course, it was a fantasy; no one could kill someone who was already dead. I knew because so many people had died trying. Because I had hit him with an axe down on the shore of Lake Langlyn, and it had only torn his clothes.

He said again, “We are to marry in a month. Tell me you love me. Smile at me and say my name, the way you used to.”

“Aubrey,” I said. I didn't love him, but what good would it do to tell him again, when he would only yell at me? It was pointless. Everything was pointless.

His ghostly eyes narrowed, and he crushed my hands in his. “Smile, Elise. Thank me for taking you to wife. For when we met, you were nothing but a serf too stupid to write her own name. Now look at you. Aren't you grateful?”

Tears stung my eyes. When I'd met him, at sixteen, I'd been happy. I'd had parents and four brothers who loved me, and it hadn't mattered that none of us knew how to read or write. What did farmers need letters for? Now, two years later, life was meaningless, and it didn't matter that the tutors he'd forced on me had taught me to scribble my name and read a handful of poems.

Aubrey sighed and leaned down to kiss the back of my hand. For a horrifying second, his lips passed through me, and his teeth brushed my skin. “I'm sorry, Elise. I know I push you too hard. You'll be a good wife. Docile and obedient. Quiet. A good mother to my children.”

If I was docile and quiet, it was only because I'd given up. But his last sentence made me whip my head up. “Children? What do you mean, children?”

He smiled up at me, his spectral mouth matching the grinning teeth of his skull. “Why, Elise, didn't you think I would want a heir?”

“Why would you?” I cried. “Lady Kinburg tells everyone how she had no choice but to hang her descendents when she came back, because they wouldn't return her lands. The dead don't want heirs. You're planning to rule forever. Aren't you?”

“Of course,” my fiancé agreed, straightening up. “But I would still want children. Offspring who will love and admire me, just as you do.”

Unless they inherited my ability to see and hear ghosts, all the children would see was a skeleton that couldn't even talk to them. They wouldn't admire him. They'd fear him, just like I did. Somehow, that didn't matter, not when there was a bigger issue. “Aubrey, you're dead. You can't sire children. It's impossible. Are you planning to have some living man bed me?”

He scoffed, reaching up to seize my chin. “I'll kill any man who lays a finger on you. You're mine. Forever.”

I ripped my face out of his grip. “If we adopt children, they won't be able to see you.” No other living person in Asteraxe, the capital of Sweelough, saw and heard the dead like I did. They just saw skeletons, awful and deadly. It was my gift and my curse to see more. A curse that had doomed me and all of Sweelough.

He let me retreat to sit upon one of the couches. “But children born of your body will, my love. And it's not impossible. Do you have so little faith in the queen? In one month, on the day of our wedding, she will cast spells upon me to give me the ability to lie with you. With her magic, she'll quicken my seed in your belly. And nine months later, you'll bear me a perfect son.”

Aubrey was going to have sex with me. He was going to force me to bear his child. My thoughts ran in terrified, anguished circles. My limbs grew weak, and I sank into my couch. I wanted to vomit all over his pointed shoes. If I could've, I'd have bolted out into the halls of the palace and straight out the front doors. Running for my life had never sounded more appealing.

But the queen's magic brand wrapped my ankle like a jagged red tattoo, and even now I felt it burning against my skin. She'd promised me, when she enchanted me two years ago, that if I ever tried to escape, it would punish me. And Aubrey had stood beside her, smiling because I could never leave him.

“You look faint, my love,” Aubrey said, stepping up close to me. “Come to dinner tonight. Sit at my side and display your beauty to all the court.”

“I'm not hungry,” I said, and it was true. I was never hungry, and after the horrible news he’d just dropped on me, I might never be hungry again. If I accompanied Aubrey to the Great Hall, where the nobility gathered over feasts of roast beef and fish and fresh fruit, I would only sit uneating in front of plenty, just like all the dead who wanted to pretend that they were still alive. Aubrey couldn't eat, being nothing but bones. I had a stomach and all the equipment needed, but I'd lost my appetite with my family, and now that he’d threatened to impregnate me, it was doubly gone.

He took my hand and kissed it again. “Very well. I will send your maids in to tend to you. But after dinner, I will come fetch you. Queen Idony wishes to speak with you.”

My stomach dropped, and I tore my hand out of his. “What? Why? I haven't done anything wrong.”

He patted my cheek, and his bones were so cold that surely they'd never belonged to a living man. “Fear not, Elise. She doesn't want to punish you. She merely wishes to tell you your new duties in the days ahead.”

“Duties? What duties?” Dread constricted my throat. Duties, whatever they were, would take me away from my rooms and safety. They'd put me in the eyes of the living nobles, and all of them hated me. Not because I was a peasant pretending to be one of them. Because it was my fault they had to bow to a dead queen. I didn't blame them. I hated me too.

Aubrey beamed at me. “Great events are on the horizon. Do you remember that the queen made overtures to our wealthy neighbor to the west?”

Only one county bordered Sweelough to the west. “Ahheleisa. But you said nothing would come of it. That the living were too superstitious to see a gift when the queen offered it.”

He waved a hand. “The living are cretins. But in this case, I was wrong.”

“I’m still alive, Aubrey,” I reminded him. For now. Every other night, I woke from nightmares that the queen had stripped me down to nothing but a ghost and dry old bones.

“Yes, yes. That doesn't matter. We have news now that an ambassador and his party are coming here to Asteraxe. In fact, they are nearly upon us. And so Queen Idony has plans for you. But she’ll tell you the details tonight, I am sure.” He patted my leg through my layers of skirts and petticoats. “Now, promise me you'll eat something.”

“I'll eat something,” I lied. But after he'd left and sent my maids in to check on me, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing. Thoughts kept sneaking in of a dead man's touch and a dead man's children, and I had no peace at all.

[anathemafiction]

Fiz bandeira de um velho ditado

Alessa stares out into a deep, red sunset. Clouds shred the skies in strokes of gold, and a band of pigeons flies overhead, the sound of their wings flapping like the whispers of forbidden gods. 

She can hear the murmur of a dozen voices behind her, muffled by the walls of the brightly-lit inn but no less boisterous. 

Ahead, there's a view fit for a painting. Alessa inhales the fresh air, blue eyes watching the last light of a dying day. She is used to being cold, but Alessa finds herself shivering at the approaching night. 'Tis a beautiful view. 

And she has none to share it with.

Melhor só que mal acompanhado

One hand grips a patched satchel.

The other holds the only possession Harian could take with him. His black sword. He's panting, sweat drips from his forehead, and the blood pounding against his eardrums yells at him to keep going. But when Hadrian reaches the apex of the hill, he comes to a stunned stop. 

The land opens before him. 

Behind, too close, so far away, are the high walls of his Order. Hadrian almost looks back; he almost goes back. Instead, he makes his legs take another step. And then another. And one other after that. For the first time in his life, Hadrian walks alone.

 Nem pensava em apoiar, Os pés no chão

She crawls out from the ashes, lungs burning, eyes watering, throat like the hottest pit of hell. Her skin is red agony, her muscles shredded, her tendons torn, her heart beating out of pure spite. 

Neia, the former Dawnseeker, takes a deep, ragged, pain-filled breath. And then, she screams. 

A dark cloud of crows scatters away from her.

A specter rises to her feet, scorched, blood too dry to bleed, yelling still. When Neia has no more air left in the pitiful excuse for her lungs, she looks at her grave — the charred remains of a holy pyre. There is no one else. 

She's reborn alone.

Olho em volta, Agora estou sozinho

The ocean is a flat, moving plain, stretching to impossible horizons. 

A dozen, two scores, half a hundred vessels surround him like a curved wall. The Pirate stands at the bow of his ship, the figurehead braving the waters, nine fingers holding the damp-wooden railing. Lights shine from a hundred different windows, replicating the cold glow of the millions of stars above.

The ocean breeze is calm. He inhales the salt-filled air. 

His armada. 

The Pirate smiles, but his dark eyes do not glint. His armada, and his alone.

Não liguei às placas do caminho

On the top floor of a high, impossible tower, two windows sit on opposite ends. One faces south, the other north. There is no corridor connecting the two, no hidden passage, no hall or arched hallway. The rooms are sealed in the impregnable way only dreamed rooms can ever be. 

In the room facing north sits a young, brown-eyed girl with curls for hair and a beautiful golden gown for clothes. Ysbaella sits with her skirts spread around her and stares out her window, watching the world below move and go on and on and on. 

In the south-facing room, a young boy twirls a broken quill between too-short fingers. He sits by the window, but he doesn't look outside. He stares instead at an empty journal. Alain can't find any ink to write. 

The twins wait for dawn, for the dream to be over. Each of them alone.

Nem parei p'ra perguntar a direção

The door closes with a thud that spells finality.

Rafael slumps on his chair. His body is a distant thing now, beyond the grip of pain. Exhaustion closes in, and Rafael wants to heed its siren call, for it would be so easy. Close your eyes. Close his eyes and let go. Let go...

Distantly, he feels an ache on his side. It's not pain; he can't feel pain right now. Rafael looks down and sees the red expanding on his wraps. Blood. He was stabbed. His eyelids half-close. It would be so easy...

But Rafael twists his lips in a hateful sneer and clings to consciousness. Clings to life. To hell with them all. He's lived so far; he can cling on a little more. 

The would-be thief looks around the room — his cell. Dark and cold.

And completely deserted. 

Olá, Solidão

You raise your chin and face the mirror. 

Candlelight glows from behind, casting your silhouette in warm golden lines. Shadows play with your chin and jaw, your forehead, and the ridge of your nose. Your hair is wet, clinging to your neck, and your mouth is but a faint streak in the gloom. 

The whites of your eyes glint with the scarce glow as if they hold a light of their own. 

You stare at the mirror, but it's not your face you see. 

It is hers. 

Olá, Solidão

The bard puts the lyre aside, the last remnants of the song echoing like ghosts in the air. 

Lance unfolds his legs and rolls his shoulders, getting rid of the soreness of his muscles. His left hand is cramping, but he pays it little mind. The pain pales in comparison to the one pulsing from his back. 

He is proud of this song, but there is no applause. 

Lance looks around the small, narrow room with a sad smile. It is empty, of course. He plays for an audience of one: himself. 

- - - 

Song: Olã, Solidão by Os Quatro e Meia

[animebw]

Short Reflection: The Boy and the Heron

Is there a single artist on the face of the earth more tortured by their own legacy as Hayao Miyazaki?

You'd think he wouldn't have much to complain about. This is a man who's spent his life creating some of the most enduring works of art of the modern era. From Nausicaa to Totoro to Mononoke to Spirited Away to Ponyo, Miyazaki's filmography has enriched our world with timeless masterpieces that have redefined what animated storytelling is capable of and still stand as the high-water-mark of this art form decades later. He's jumpstarted the imaginations of countless impressionable children, made adults rediscover their own joy of creation, crossed language and cultural divides to unite people all over the world in their shared love of the worlds he's built and the people he's placed within them. He isn't just a great artist; he's the great artist, a once-in-a-generation master who's name and works will be remembered and revered long after he's gone. Anyone would kill for a life like that.

And yet. For all the joy Miyazaki's movies have given the world, it's impossible to ignore the sense of fury that has pervaded his work lately. The Miyazaki who appears in his movies today is not a man facing his twilight years with the grace and contentment of a life fully lived. No, his late-stage work feels wracked with torment at the effect he's had on the world, scared and resentful and grappling with what he's actually leaving behind now that his time is ticking to a close. For god's sake, The Wind Rises has him comparing his own artistic drive to the man who engineered Japan's warplanes in WW2, casting a life spent on creation as the source of untold destruction. And somehow, even that isn't as self-critical as The Boy and the Heron, a sprawling, surreal fever dream of a movie wherein Miyazaki condemns his artistic legacy to the ashes of history and suggests we may well be better off forgetting he ever existed in the first place.

I realize some may find it pretentious to focus so much on the creator when talking about a movie or TV show. Death of the Author exists for a reason, there's only so much outside factors should influence your opinion of the work itself, all of that I agree with. But this movie in particular practically demands to be read in context of Miyazaki's life and work. The whole thing practically feels like a remix of Ghibli's greatest hits at points, the building blocks of his storytelling sensibilities repurposed and smashed back together. Like The Wind Rises and Grave of the Fireflies, it's about the horrors of World War 2: the protagonist Mahito loses his mother in a bombing run. His father remarries his wife's sister and takes them to live in a countryside villa straight out of Arrietty or Totoro. He's then Spirited Away to a magical otherworld in search of his stepmother after she goes missing, with a dreamlike surrealist tone reminiscent of Howl or Earthsea. There's even a focus on sea imagery like Ponyo and a scene with little puffball spirits that wouldn't feel out of place in Princess Mononoke. If you've watched a single Ghibli film before, you will feel its echoes rippling through this one.

But these are not gentle references or nostalgic callbacks, oh no. The world Mahito is drawn into is explicitly a world of death and entropy. The first place he visits is the door to a towering graveyard. Gentle spirits are ripped from the sky by carnivorous birds. The sea bulges and ripples like it's constantly on the verge on overflowing and swallowing the land whole. This isn't just an amalgamation of all Miyazaki's work; this is the corruption and degradation of his attempts to build something beautiful. The closest comparison I can make, oddly, is Dark Souls 3, a work that feels like a creator's legacy crashing in on itself, themes and aesthetics and concepts smashing together in some kind of apocalyptic spiral as the worlds they were born from are stretched past their breaking point. This world is dying, dying, dying, and as we find out near the film's end, only one man's stubborn refusal has kept the proverbial First Flame's embers flickering as long as they have. But soon, even that will be snuffed out as well, and this exhausted carcass of a landscape will finally slip back into the darkness.

What's most striking about this portrayal, though, is how explicitly The Boy and the Heron condemns Miyazaki in the approaching apocalypse. Spoiling as little as possible, we come to understand that the reason this world is so off-balance is because of its creator's attempts to fill it with joy and whimsy. But all his efforts turned sour, his creations that should've been sparks of imagination instead turned carnivorous and insatiable, ravaging the land with unquenchable hunger sparked by his own innate malice. The creator of this world, in other words, the man who just wanted to make something beautiful, only ended up creating nightmares poisoned by his own inner darkness. He wanted to give his gifts to the world, and all those gifts have done is lay waste to it. And now all he can do is fiddle away as the Titanic goes under, hoping that someone better than him- someone untainted by the world's darkness- can create something better from the scraps he leaves behind.

It's a nihilistically dark self-portrait from Miyazaki, to the point it's almost comical. Like, you're telling me My Neighbor Totoro is a poison you unleashed upon our world? Sure, grandpa. But the film argues that point with such raw agony it kind of makes you believe it. As typically gorgeous and jaw-dropping as the animation is, the whole film feels drowned in stillness and sorrow, even before we reach the mystical otherworld. Mahito's big introduction to his new house is almost completely devoid of music, long stretches of time going by without so much as a line of dialogue to alleviate the crippling dread. So many of the early scenes portray his grief and rage not through dialogue or action, but the silent, subtle changes to his numb expression. This world is already so steeped in darkness, the movie seems to argue, that trying to create anything out of these poisoned building blocks will inevitably cause nothing but misery. Even when the titular heron shows up, there's no fanfare, no sense of discovery or whimsy at the reveal of something magical intruding upon the normal world like you'd get in other Ghibli movies. Mahito just confronts it as if he'd known it was there all along, as if this mystical otherworld is just one of the many diseases that make our world such a hell to live in, so intimately familiar and intrusive it's more akin to a tumor we can never fully carve from our souls.

If it seems like I'm talking a lot about the themes without discussing the actual story, well, there's a reason; it's kind of a mess. Once Mahito fully crosses the threshold into the otherworld, The Boy and the Heron very quickly devolves into Miyazaki's loosest, most surreal narrative yet. It operates on heavy dream logic, floating from one set piece to the next, introducing new concepts and characters seemingly out of nowhere, not paying much heed to how any of these parts would form any sort of whole. And that's fine in concept; this world is very clearly designed as an outlet for Miyazaki's angst more than a piece of credible worldbuilding. But at times it feels the narrative is swimming haphazardly amidst that current, bobbing in and out of focus as it struggles to maintain a clear line of thought. By the time the movie's over, it feels like more than one thread was dropped somewhere along the way. What was the Parrot King's deal and why did he only show up at the very end? What exactly turned Mahito around on his stepmother? Why is there no thematic resolution for his overbearing dad and what he might represent? At its worst, it reminds me of what a mess Howl's Moving Castle was, and that's not an experience I'd ever like to repeat, thank you very much.

But maybe asking for coherency is beside the point. This is, after all, a catalogue of its creator's psyche first and foremost. And if there's one thing The Boy and the Heron makes clear, it's that Miyazaki has in no way come to terms with the demons that drive him, even after pouring so many of them into this project. It's art therapy taken to its furthest possible extreme, an outpouring of grief and anxiety and despair and hope spilling like paint across canvas in an effort to purge the darkness within. I can't claim to know what's in Miyazaki's head, why he feels so disillusioned with his legacy, what the exact point was for each and every symbol. But if nothing else, I can tell this is exactly the movie he wanted to make, warts and all. It's a staggering, lumpy, uncomfortable mess of a thing, but it's raw and honest in a way that's impossible to tear your eyes away from. If this is Miyazaki's farewell to the life he's leaving behind, I can only hope his next work will bring him the joy he seeks in whatever time he has left. But until then, I give The Boy and the Heron a score of:

7.5/10

And now? Time to pick which anime I'll watch next...

[tarnishedinquirer]

Beneath Stormveil

Here the damage seemed the worst. In places, the walls were red and raw, almost as if they were bleeding. I continued down and reached a room with a very interesting painting.

It was Stormhill, before Stormveil Castle was ever built. The world looked so much wilder and more vibrant back then. The colors were deep blacks and rich greens, not the washed-out greys and pale greens of current Limgrave. The place that would once become the Chapel of Anticipation was part of the mainland, separated by a waterfall rather than a chasm. There's no trace of the black stone pillars that underlay the entire land. The Stormfoot Catacombs are open, with no door. And, while something was gleaming gold, it sure didn't look like the Erdtree.

Yet the Divine Tower and bridge were already there, and already so ancient the bridge had started to crumble. Curious.

After examining the painting as much as I could, I unlocked the door back to the Site of Grace and continued downward.

This was by far the oldest and most neglected portion of the castle. It's unlikely it would get any light except at high noon. The only creatures down here were vermin. Giant bats and rats, the scavengers and dwellers in the dark.

Now that I was down here, it became clear that this was a dumping ground for the castle above. Specifically, it seemed that all the statues removed in the various ideological purges were just shoved into the abyss.

There's the expected statues of women holding ewers or missing their hands, but there's a few statues that stand out to me. They're almost completely buried, so possibly the oldest statues ever dumped down here, and depict hooded figures either holding a book or holding a dagger. Unfortunately, I don't have any context to interpret them. Maybe I'll find some more later.

A scarab almost misses my notice, were it not for the sound they make. I track it down and it's carrying an unusual Sorcery called Rancorcall.

I say it's unusual because using it would require almost as much faith as intellect. That unnerved me a little. Sorcery is supposed to be the result of consistent, observable phenomenon. Concrete things that may be more difficult to observe and comprehend, but are ultimately just as real as a sword. To apply your intellect to the task of how best to surrender it to a higher power seemed perverse to me.

The voice said:

Sorcery of the servants of Death. Summons vengeful spirits that chase down foes. Once though lost, this ancient death hex was rediscovered by the necromancer Garris.

Going on my theory that scarabs only appear where abilities like ashes of war, sorceries, or incantations are used, and somehow they gather up some invisible residue to make their spheres, I would suspect that Garris must've been here at some point. Perhaps this is where he even developed his techniques? I doubt he's still here.

To draw a connection, I found the Rancor Pot recipe in the Tombsward Catacombs. It has a similar effect of summoning vengeful spirits, though different methods. Am I to assume Garris might also have been there? That might explain how Deathroot got inside...

Now I came to a cliff overlooking a root-choked and damp chamber below. Bones littered the floor. Some were stacked up in drifts, but there were also complete skeletons resting in what looked like old, rotted canoes. Perhaps a vestige of some water burial in the past? At one time, they might have sent the dead over the waterfall that once ran through here. Once that dried up, they instead just buried the dead in their canoes.

But what interested me most was the grand baldachin, now rotted and torn, draped across the chamber beyond. Something important must be there.

Before I could approach, a terrible creature burst out of the ground. I'd seen its ilk once before, in the Fringefolk Hero's Grave. An Ulcerated Tree Spirit, a great writhing snake-root, like a serpentine mandrake. Even as I knew its movements, it was still so erratic that it was hard to predict at times. As it slammed me against the walls, I knew now where the drifts of bones had come from.

Once I had slain the beast. I was free to recover its treasures, both here and in the chamber beyond. Much like the last, it dropped a Golden Seed.

As for the chamber... I can scarcely describe it. I'll try to sketch it but I don't think I can do justice to the sheer presence of this thing. Despite looking like a stone carving, I knew on an instinctual level that it was alive.

It was a face, or approximation thereof. Yet it could not have been more inhuman. It at once looked floral, fungal, and animal. The lower half of the face was like an oyster mushroom, and from there emerged thick tendrils like thorny vines. The upper half had a disturbingly human nose but two oddly angled eyes, or at least eye sockets. The lids themselves were empty.

The whole thing burst through the stone wall on a thick body like a salamander, though if it had arms, they had not emerged from the wall. And its was very clearly a violent entry, with rubble piled up around it. Nearby, there was a bloodstain, and a corpse holding an item in its hands.

Oh hell. The bloodstain was Rogier. If he can't see Grace anymore, then can he even come back? Is he just dead for real now? I couldn't even see what got him but it looked bad. It lifted him up and seemed to impale him from multiple angles. I hope he's okay. I actually kinda like the guy. It was rare to talk to someone both intellectual and down to earth like that.

The corpse had a... Prince of Death's Pustule?!

A fetid pustule taken from facial flesh. It is said that this pustule came from the visage of the Prince of Death, he who used to be called Godwyn. As First Dead of the demigods, it's said he's buried deep under the capital, at the Erdtree's roots.

It is said, it is said, it is said. I hate it when the Voice uses weasel words. Who says?

If Godwyn was the first to die, then it is his death that created the Deathroot. Deathroot sprouts similar faces to the one on this pustule. The same milky white eyes, the same thorny tendrils... There was a couple things that puzzled me. I noted fish fins on the Deathroot growing in various catacombs and Summonwater Village. Despite its aquatic appearance, this face held no trace of such details, resembling an amphibian more than a fish. Second, while the Deathroot and Pustule share the milky white eyes, this visage does not. Instead, its sockets are empty.

Third, if we take the voice at face value and say that Godwyn actually is buried under the capital... why did this face burst out of the southeast wall? The capital is to the northeast. I can buy the Greattree roots spreading throughout the Lands Between, but I'd still expect such a creature to burrow through from the correct direction. The only things off that direction are the Stormfoot Catacombs and the Fringefolk Hero's Grave. And since the painting confirms that at least one of those was here before the castle, I find myself doubting if this is even Godwyn at all, or some other, forgotten Prince of Death.

I'll review my notes about those places and see if I can gain any insight, but arbitrary skepticism doesn't do any good. I have to assume that this is Godwyn, or at least an aspect of him, until strong evidence presents itself otherwise.

Still, to quote the only cleric I ever got on with, "Doubting is what I do."

With my investigation concluded, the only way to go was up. Thankfully there was a conveniently placed, if alarmingly tall, rope ladder. I began what was sure to be a very long ascent.

I had at last gotten answers on the rot infecting Stormveil, but they only left me with more questions.

Who are the dagger and book statues? Why were they purged?

If Godfrey built the earliest Stormveil, who built the tower and bridge?

Is that face Godwyn? If not, who could it possibly be?

If it is Godwyn, why would it come from the wrong direction?

Why does this face look so different from the other faces? Why is it missing its eyes?

Who is Garris? What was he doing beneath Stormveil?

What happened to Rogier?

Why was he looking for this?