#toeing the line of treason [about]

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PolySJM Week: Day One

Prompt: Whose Court Is It Anyways?

Pairings: Eris / Azriel / Fem OC

Summary: Trying to balance a fresh mating bond is hard, even harder when Enora wants to settle down and live her life but her two mates can’t stand each other.

Word Count: 1588

Tags: Angst, Fluff, Arguring, Make-up sex mentioned.

PolySJM Week 2025 Masterlist | Acotar Masterlist

A/N: This went absolutely in a different direction I was going but hey here we are. Happy Poly Week!

Aiding and Abetting traitors or anyone outside of your own court for harmful purposes was treason. 

Trading illegal information with another court was treason. 

Harboring criminals and spies was. treason. 

The Winter Court’s lawbook didn’t technically say anything about hiding The High Lord of Autumn and the Night Court’s spymaster in my bedroom and technically I didn’t aid them, share any sensitive information or harbor any spies but I was pretty sure it was still treason or at least toeing the line. 

Especially since my brother had no. fucking. clue. 

God help us all if he somehow found out about it. Kallias despised the Night Court, and he thinks Eris is a bumbling shit-for-brains dickhead. 

Paranoia about my brother finding out about the two popular political frenemies in my room, at nearly three am, had me straightening my spine. 

“Be quiet.” I snapped for the millionth time as Eris and Azriel were at each other’s throats. Again.

Gods as if this mate bond wasn’t already a political nightmare I had to be mated to two people who loathed each other more than anyone else on the face of this planet. 

They didn’t even hear me over the sound of their bickering -for a spymaster and high lord you’d really think they’d be more mindful about committing semi-treasonous behaviour- and I huffed out an annoyed breath grabbing Azriel’s wrist as his hand moved towards his blade and tugged him away from the red-headed male  

I stepped in between them, giving them an equally harsh glare. “How many times do I have to tell you to be fucking quiet! Do you want this whole damn castle to hear you?” I whisper hissed, rubbing my temples. 

Our love story wasn’t a romantic, soft and gentle one. No, in fact it had been blades, sharp tongues, death threats and blood. It had been attacks and countermoves. All in the name of destroying each other and protecting our respective court’s. 

But eventually I got over my distrust, and so did they. My relationship’s with them slowly blossomed into something beautiful, but it happened singularly. One on one.

Because no matter how much I tried, Eris and Azriel were fine sharing me (after a lot of work and scheduling) but in no world would they ever be in a relationship with each other. 

They hadn’t even acknowledged the golden string tying them together. Unless it involves me or trying to kill each other they simply weren’t interested. 

It hurt to say the least and I was tired. Tired of being dragged halfway across the continent because they refused to have date nights together, tired of all the constant traveling, the lying to my friends and family and worst of all I was tired of them making this mateship -something I’d dreamed of and fantasized about, something that was supposed to be beautiful and sacred- a chore. 

I already have too many chores. I’m Kallias’ emissary and advisor, a princess, and now a soon to be aunt. I didn’t need this extra stress in my life, which I had told them, deciding it was time for us to just pick a place to live and settle down together so I could take some burden off my plate. 

But because I had made the naive mistake of trusting them to act like adults and pick the best spot for me to live -I’d hoped they would overcome their grievances and choose a place and court all together- and because The Mother said nothing can ever be easy for me, obviously that statement turned into a midnight tryst in my chambers where my mates are currently fighting tooth and nail for the spot. Azriel want’s it to be his court and naturally Eris wants it to be his. 

“I’m sorry love.” Azriel spoke, softening his voice and pulling me out of my thoughts he quickly pressed a soft kiss to my cheek as he turned the wrist I was carrying and now cradled my hand to his muscled chest. Eris’ eyes blazed at that and quickly pressed a kiss to my other cheek, brushing a piece of my snow white hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry too sweetheart.” He mumbled, we’re still working on his ability to apologize to others. If I hadn’t felt his pang of guilt through the bond I’d assumed he’d only done it because Azriel had. 

“It’s the middle of the night if my brother catches either of you in here. We’re all dead.” I emphasized the last part. My eavesdropper-protectant charms had broken nearly a week ago and I’d been too damn busy to fix them. 

“You’re right Enora, I apologize for my part.” Eris started.

“Thank you-”  

“Azriel, However? For a spymaster you’d think he’d mastered the necessary skills to be silent by now. I’ve always suspected you were incompetent but now I can prove it.” 

“I don’t need proof to know you’re an egotistical bastard who runs his court with a fresh manicure every week.”

Oh for the love of gods. 

They were arguing for a few more minutes. Their hushed tones lasting all of thirty seconds. I rubbed at the headache building behind my eyes, my pleas for quiet going unanswered until I finally snapped. 

“All right. That’s it.” I whisper-yelled. Glancing at the door as a quick safety measure before ensuring my mates eyes were on me. “I. Am. Done. With all of it! With your constant whining and bickering and ambushing me when I’m with the other.

 As if there are only two faes instead of three in this mating bond. If you ignorant, blinded, self-absorbed alpha males got your tiny dicks out of each other’s uptight assholes you’d see how much you're hurting me. Parading me around the other as if it’s a competition, it’s not a competition.  Instead of you picking where I’m moving, I’ll decide. I’m staying here, in my house, in my castle, in my comfortable bed, in my court since you smug pricks can't act like adults and communicate. This wasn’t supposed to be like this. Everytime you fight it kills me. 

Courting is supposed to be flowers and handwritten letters and-and gifts! and soft spoken words and fun dates not whatever the hell this is! I am tired of the constant traveling, of the back and forth, of leaving a shoe in Eris’ house and the other in Azriel’s. I’m tired of listening to you fight and bulldozing my own emotions in the process. I'm tired of all the lying. gods. Now you are both going to go spend a nice week or two in Eris’ lake house. You’re going to bring me my motherfucking favorite shoes and that stupid bracelet I left there and you are either going to fuck each other or kill each other. - Because sweetheart’s, let’s face it, even a blind man could see you two wanna kiss each other- No. other. options. Because I am exhausted of being yanked around the continent as if. I. don’t. have. work. to. do.” 

Finally, for the first time in an hour silence enveloped my bedroom. 

The only sounds were the quiet breathing of my ragged inhales as I fought to regain my breath after spewing so many words at once. 

A weight lifted off my chest at the words. Long months of dealing with this, and saying nothing, long months of trying to comprise and fix issues that were never mine to solve. If they wanted me they were going to have to learn how to be around me without making me miserable. Because I loved them both so much it hurt. 

A mixture of emotions passed over their faces. A whirlwind of guilt, regret, shame and anger flooding both sides of the bond at once it nearly knocked me off my feet. I reached down for the small decanter sitting on the side table and poured myself a drink. 

Then another one. 

Then all of a sudden the damn burst, both of them recovering from shock. 

“But-” 

“Shush.” I snapped. 

“I-”

“Shush!!.”

“How are we-”

“Don’t even want to hear it.”

“supposed to bring back-” “-kiss him?! As if-”

“Zip. it.” 

“-if we kill eac-”

“Shut. Up.”

“Enora!” “Enora!” They both bit out in frustration. 

“Uh. Uh. I do not want to hear a single peep from either of you. I have a meeting tomorrow with some members of the Court and I swear to the Mother I need at least eight hours if I have to listen to Lord Hennings talk one more time about his stupid new boat.”

“But I-”

“I can’t do this anymore.” My voice broke at the words. “You either go figure your shit out like the plus five hundred year old males you are or as far as I’m concerned I don’t have any mates.” 

The words tasted like bile on my tongue and the weight of them had both of them flinching. Another few minutes of silence passed before Eris took Azriel’s shoulder. Winnowing both of them away, leaving only the heaviness of my words. 

I finished my second drink and walked into the adjoined room. Ignoring the few tears that unwillingly fell and jumped into bed, hoping sleep would soothe my aching soul. 

—— ⭒ ——

Two weeks later, a bouquet of snowdrops appeared on my desk, along with a heartfelt apology letter, smelling of sex and a written promise to figure things out and to take me to the orchestra. 

With both of them in attendance. 

[rebel-hunk-enjoyer]

I don't think Kallus is a great spy!! Here me out, though :)

I like the idea of him being fairly competent at spying compared to your average rebel, because of some of his experiences in the ISB, but the ISB isn't exactly an intelligence bureau in the traditional sense. They're law enforcement and internal intelligence, they are the not-so-secret police who are internally investigating things like treason, disloyalty, thought crimes, etc within the Empire.

To get into the gritty details: the ISB is a part of COMPNOR or the Commission for the Preservation of the New Order. This commission grew out of the Clone Wars Era COMPOR or the Commission for the Protection of the Republic, a hard-line loyalist group that lobbied the Galactic Senate to give more authority to the Supreme Chancellor and promoted wartime propaganda that aligned with their agenda. When Palpatine became Emperor, the New Order absorbed COMPOR and reorganized it into a government agency that served as the Empire's propaganda wing. The Imperial Security Bureau is a part of that because it used to be the Internal Security Bureau of COMPOR. They were already shady af and trying to root out disloyalty within their ranks during the later stages of the Republic and just shifted that over to rooting out disloyalty within the Empire at large through the ISB.

Which means that the ISB is ultimately tasked with making sure the New Order's agenda is advanced: enforcing the state-sponsored political religion to maintain control, order, rule of law, uniformity, Imperial civic pride, and so on. COMPNOR supported xenophobia and the Empire's humanocentric policies, advanced the human 'natural right to rule' nonsense, minimized the accomplishments of alien species, and pushed anti-alien xenophobia to the point of sowing distrust throughout the Empire. The ISB is their agency that does all of that in the name of security. In fact, the ISB has an entire division for interrogation and another for re-education, just to underscore the New Order's dedication to the bottom line of thought conformity and the role the ISB plays in that. They aren't just the not-so-secret police, they are the not-so-secret police who have the authority and means to brainwash loyalty into Imperial citizens.

Now, Kallus worked within the enforcement, investigations, and internal affairs divisions of the ISB throughout his career and by the time we see him in Rebels, he's clearly operating as a part of the enforcement division. He specifically states that "as an agent of the ISB, [he] follow[s] the letter of the law" and I imagine that he has the ISB Loyalty Manual memorized backwards and forwards. But knowing the letter of the law when it comes to hard-line New Order political religion conformity doesn't automatically translate into knowing everything, right? He's ignorant about larger scale operations to the point that he seems almost disinterested in them on Bahryn while talking to Zeb about Geonosis, actually.

This, I think, is what makes Kallus very interesting as a defector. He isn't just some guy who changes his mind when presented with new information, he's some guy who has dedicated his entire career to toeing the party line and rooting out the mere suggestion of anyone, anywhere within the Empire not doing the exact same. He's the thought cop and he's suddenly thinking thoughts he has never had before, he's suddenly doing things that he's only ever seen done by people who were arrested and re-educated if they were lucky, he's suddenly the thing that he's spent his entire career trying to stop.

But that's also why I think he wouldn't be a good spy specifically in S3 against Thrawn. He's used to finding traitors to the Empire, that's what all of his skills are honed toward. Now he's the traitor to the Empire, surrounded by a bunch of hard-line Imperials who are all focused on stopping the rebels, and he's ... trying to get information from them? To pass along to the Rebellion? With a repurposed MSE and some sleight of hand with Lyste's code cylinder? This isn't to say that he didn't give the Rebellion valuable information, he did that on several occasions, but when it came down to the wire, when it came down to the actual spycraft of keeping himself safe, he did not perform well. He got the job done, he covered his ass, but he did not cover his ass in such a way that he was able to fool Yularen or Thrawn. They were onto him immediately, they left him in his position with the intention of using him against the Rebellion, Thrawn even waited until he had Kallus dead to rights, caught him right in the act of sending a message to the Rebellion.

All of this is to say that I think Kallus might have been a better spy if he hadn't been ISB and that being ISB maybe set him up to be terrible at spying on Thrawn. Because I can't imagine spending nearly two decades hunting down people for non-conformity, then suddenly finding yourself on the other side of that and not being really, really nervous? He probably saw accusations of treason on his own face every morning in the mirror, he was probably sick about it constantly, worried that he might slip in a way that would be meaningful to an ISB agent, thinking more about his performance of being an Imperial than on the actual spying itself, than the MSE or the code cylinder or whatever else. I imagine him worrying so much about his Imperial Mask and not thinking as much as he should have about the rest.

Because first and foremost he was a cop who policed loyalty, not actually a spy.

Now, of course, this changes once he gets into the rebellion at large, because I do think a lot of his ISB skills would be adjacent to spycraft, but I think before that he was more backed into a corner like a wounded animal about it than anything else because of the political atmosphere surrounding the Empire and how it polices loyalty.

[yanderes-galore]

I'd like to see a yandere concept of Rhaenyra Targaryen. Either romantic or platonic is fine.

I'll do a general pairing and spill my thoughts, then! Sorry for the long wait, I have a lot to get through, lol ^^; I am having fun though, so that's all that matters. Can't wait for HOTD Season 2! I'm so worried her character isn't right but I wanted to lean in on her more unhinged side.

Here's an older concept I did for her.

Potential Fire & Blood/HOTD Spoilers Below

Yandere! Rhaenyra Targaryen Concept

Pairing: Romantic/Platonic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Manipulation, Controlling behavior, Condescending behavior, Possessive behavior, Murder, Blood, Violence, Mature themes, Possible sexism, Delusional behavior, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, Mind break, Dark content, Threats, Trust issues, Forced companionship/relationship.

It's been a while since I've seen HOTD, so pardon me if anything is too off personality-wise.

Rhaenyra is described as strong-willed and independent.

She's always hated being a traditional lady and prefers to fly on her dragon, Syrax.

She wants to choose her own destiny and take her birthright on top of the iron throne.

However, something noted in the book is that her personality is similar to Maegor.

Which implies Rhaenyra is rather ruthless, cruel, and entitled.

Rhaenyra would bond well with someone she knew in childhood, like a childhood friend.

But I can also see her attached to a personal servant or loyal supporter of The Blacks.

That or there's some drama that could happen if you support The Greens when the war comes around.

I feel if you knew her in childhood you can clearly notice her change in behavior.

From child to adult, the whole world has been against her.

Combined with the death of her child(ren), Rhaenyra grows into a cruel queen for The Blacks.

While she holds care for you, she's deceptive and every word carries a threatening tone.

It's said in Fire and Blood that Rhaenyra has trust issues, feeling the whole world is plotting against her due to The Greens.

That along with the betrayal of the Velaryons later on.

So you can imagine she wants to cling to her obsession... but worries they'll work against her.

Due to this distrust, you're forced on your toes.

After all, it takes one order for her to decide your fate.

She could have all you hold dear burned by Syrax.

She could imprison you for treason.

Or even worse, she can have you killed to keep you to herself.

You should know that Black Queen Rhaenyra is unhinged due to what she's gone through.

She'd do anything to keep her obsession and their loyalty.

Every word she says towards you feels like a subtle threat, a warning to keep in line.

Rhaenyra is a dangerous yandere, especially as she begins to lose her mind.

Regardless of if you're a loyal follower or not, ahe worries her obsession will go against her.

Considering how obsessive she is... she may snap completely without you.

If you're loyal to her, she often tries to test it.

She gives you tasks or forces you to make promises with her.

If she loves you romantically, she may make you prove yourself by being... intimate.

One way or another she wants you to kneel before her.

She's desperate for your attention, sometimes even holding your face as she whispers how she can't continue without you.

I only imagine she gets worse when her kids are dead, all except her Aegon.

She keeps you at her hip.

If platonic, she may make you her Hand.

If romantic, you're her secret partner.

If you support The Greens, she's determined to change that.

I'm talking about kidnapping, Imprisonment, and psychological conditioning.

You're fed propaganda, you're threatened, and Rhaenyra no doubt guilts you onto her side.

She wants to make sure she has you on her side... making you reliant on her by neglecting resources so you can beg for her.

A side I imagine Rhaenyra having is a more ruthless and sadistic side.

She hates The Greens, in this case she feels they stole you from her.

She has to find a way to get her dearest obsession back... even if it means breaking you.

She's mentioned to be cruel, so her doing such a thing seems plausible.

She's already burning countless people who oppose her.

You might as well submit.

If you just listen to her, support her, she'll give you everything.

If you don't, she'll find other methods.

If Rhaenyra can't break you, I can definitely see her having you killed.

If she can't have you, no one can.

She's already spilled a ton of blood, by this point she may be delusional enough to think this is how she keeps you.

Otherwise, you'll be forced by her side until she dies.

It's hard to escape from The Black Queen, Daemon and her other supporters no doubt wish to keep her happy.

She loves it when you take care of her children, she loves it when you show you're loyal.

If she has to trust anyone, she wants it to be you.

You're her beloved obsession, a dear friend/partner.

She refuses to give you up...

No matter what it takes.

"Pledge yourself to me... show me I can trust you... show me you'd give your life to keep me happy...."

[tadpolesonalgae]

Demon!Azriel x reader: Teeth and Talons - Part 7

A/N: might be sprinkling in a little foreshadowing for what the next chapter will be about :)

Warnings: biting?

-Part 6- -Part 8-

As usual, you’re left to yourself throughout the day.

As usual, you pillage the bookcase for something new—anything new to read.

It’s been fifty-fifty with the books so far, some have been written in your tongue, while others are indecipherable—scribbles and runes and strange illustrations of caves and creatures and blood. Well, it’s ink on parchment, so you don’t know it’s blood. All you can really tell is that it’s a dark liquid, but knowing Azriel, it’s probably blood.

A couple have proven interesting, in the sense they make you question your faith toward the gods—in a careful toeing-the-line-between-gentle-prying-and-outright-treason sort of way.

Others have contained less heathen-esque content: tales of worlds without deities (how you lament!), stories of chivalry and justice (how romantic!), erotica—you don’t care to comment on some of the passages you’ve unfortunately read.

But it’s been a while since more have oh-so-mysteriously appeared, so you’re left to flip through the illustrations of the books you’re unable to read. You’re more than content to lay on your stomach, but something shifts in the air. It’s difficult to put your finger on the exact change—similar to when Azriel returns near nightfall. That ripple of power that rushes through the room. Like some sort of pulse. Boots scuff on the floor—you’ve never seen another soul in the castle, but have also rarely ventured beyond the confines of your room. Mostly from a mix of fear, and contentedness in the room.

Blood rushes round your ears as you slip out of bed, padding quietly to the door. Pressing your ear against the wood, you listen, holding your breath incase you miss something. It’s completely silent.

You swallow, taking a step back. The door suddenly seems much larger, as if it’s looming over you. Your eyes drop to the small keyhole beneath the handle…

Not allowing any doubts, you quietly step back, crouching down as you peer through the tiny hole…only to be confronted with those familiar hazel eyes.

You exhale heavily, heart pounding with relief as you raise to your feet, turning the handle to greet him, half wondering why he’s back so early—and why he was peeping through your bedroom keyhole. Your shared bedroom keyhole.

“Azriel,��� you begin, opening the door, “please don’t do—”

You freeze.

Terror strangles your throat as you stare into two sets of blacked-out eyes, each at least a head taller than you. A female on the left, a male on the right. You scream, scrambling back, slamming the door shut on them.

Hands fly across your mouth as you attempt to regulate your breathing, sight blurring. Boots scuff on the floor, and the handle dips, as if they’re trying to get in. Your stomach lurches as you spin on your heel, nearly flipping over the rug on the smooth stone floor in your haste. You dart to the bed, slipping beneath its large wooden frame, and hold your breath.

Hot water drips down your cheeks as you keep your hands over your mouth, shifting to make sure you’re as concealed as possible, shifting further and further beneath the bed until your feet brush something…granulated. Like sand.

Salt, you realise, but why is there a circle of salt beneath your shared bed? And why is there something drawn across its centre? What looks to be a—

Mother fucking boil and burn.

Thoughts eddy from your head as you realise your lower half is across a pentagram. A pentagram formed with black salts.

A deep snarl sounds from outside the door—raw and beastly, laced with fury. Two sets of feet scramble away, fading into the distance. You don’t dare release a single breath, not as you hear the door snick shut, and something enters. Something scary enough to send those two running.

Your teeth find your lip, and you bite down to keep from whimpering with fear. Four paws stop beside the bed, and you nearly vomit with terror. You squeeze your eyes shut, tears rolling down, splashing on the floor. It’s enough noise to be picked up. The beast stalks closer, until it’s at the edge of the bed—it’ll be able to see you.

“Get out from there.”

You stiffen at that cold command. Voice razor-sharp, merciless. You nearly weep with relief as you recognise him, opening your eyes to take him in.

Sheer horror greets you, mouth dropping as the whites of your eyes bulge at the sight of him. Three-pronged paws, quadrupedal, hind joints—where his knees should be—inverted. Like some hell-beast. You scream, his milky eyes snapping closed, then opening to reveal total black. Snapping bone sounds, and then he’s right again, hand gripping your forearm as he forcefully drags you out, across the smooth stone. You kick and thrash against the brutal grip, salt spraying at your feet, then reforming back into that neat, satanic symbol.

He grips your shoulders with both hands, fingers biting into your trembling muscle as you stare at him with wide, shining eyes, flicking between him and his knees, checking they’re back to normal. “What—?” You stammer, peering at him, hands lowering from your mouth, shaking.

He growls low in his throat, gripping you tighter with displeasure. As if he’s silently reprimanding you for taking too long, for appearing such a state before him. “Spit it out.”

You stare at him, utterly bewildered. “What were—who were those…?” You don’t know what to call them. “Were they more of your ilk?” You manage, focusing on the bite of his nails in your shoulders, the unforgiving glint his hazel eyes.

But he doesn’t answer you. Instead, his brow narrows with what you could swear is anger—rage. “Why did you open the door?”

You stiffen beneath his bruising touch.

His grip tightens and you whimper, instantly covering your mouth. Something dark and evil glints in response to the small noise. Something ancient and predatory—instinctual.

He leans closer, hot breath curling with his lip. “Why did you open the door?”

“I thought it was you,” you stammer softly, peering at him beseechingly. He snarls at that, as if insulted. “How stupid can you be?” You reel back at the harsh words, staring.

“It had your eyes,” you mumble, blinking back tears as you attempt to steady your breathing, “I thought it was you. Don’t call me stupid.”

Just like that, he surges forward, tipping you backward onto the stone floor, pinning you down. His lip curls back from his teeth, then they’re sinking into your neck.

Words and sound are ripped from your conscious as pain lashes through you. It’s not like before, not when it sent aching pleasure singing in your blood. This is punishing—agonising stinging. Muscles seize, fingers tremble, eyes wide. Your back arches into him at the onslaught of blazing brutality he’s stamping into your skin.

Surely its no more than a few seconds. No more than mere moments, but it blares through your mind, hammering your bones, crushing your skin as he retracts his teeth. He pulls back, wound already sealed as he grabs you by the hair, yanking you up so your throat is again exposed.

“Never,” he snarls, so gutturally you can barely understand him. “Never do that again.”

Tears spill as more fractures appear. Splintering deeper, cracking open something so raw you don’t know what to do. He’s panting, fury blazing in his pitch black eyes, razor-like talons slicing at your back as they slide from his knuckles, cutting through your clothes.

“You…” You hiccup, hand raising to your neck, feeling the two small indents of scars. “Why…?” He snarls again, and you flinch, eyes squeezing shut, bracing for another wave of that soul-splitting pain. The snarl cuts off, hands stiffening over you.

A beat passes.

Then another.

No pain.

Then he’s pulling away, and you fall back against the stone floor, watching as he stands, looming over you. He stares down at you, distaste shining in his eyes as he looks at your crumpled form. You hate that look. Hate it for everything it stands for, hate it for everything it’s done to you. Hate it on him.

“If I disgust you so much, you know you can just return me to my home,” you cry weakly, “nothing’s keeping you from doing so, so just put me back. Find someone else. We clearly aren’t suited for one another.”

Pain blazes through his chest, contracting, tightening, suffocating the air from his lungs. He can hear your hummingbird heart, can scent the fear drumming through your blood, can see your arms are on the verge of giving out from their trembling. Why are you so weak? Why don’t you fight back? Why are you giving up on him?

“You want to see your home?” He snarls, fury lighting his skin on fire, rage riding his mind, “fine.” He grabs you, hauling you against him roughly, talons slicing at your arms in neat little cuts. Then darkness swirls around the two of you and that weightless feeling overtakes his body, as if he’s plummeting deeper and deeper into that unfillable void.

You hate how you cling on to him despite the small lacerations he’s gifted you, pain stinging your skin as you squeeze your eyes shut in attempts to keep your tears inside. Then the dark clears, and you feel sand beneath your feet—bare feet. And it burns like it’s been heated by the scorching midday sun.

Granules bite at your skin as the wind picks up and Azriel steps away. And vanishes.

You barely had time to raise your hands to reach for him, but now he’s gone. And you’re stranded in the middle of the citadel in nothing but your night clothes. Mortification burns your insides—already people are staring: at your bare ankles, naked collar bones, unclothed arms.

You duck your head and scuttle beneath the overhang of a building, the scalding sand cooling beneath your soles as you try to figure out where he’s dumped you. All it takes is for you to spot the well in the square, and you know. You spin on your heel, and run.

————

Cinders and ash mix with the sand. Fragments of bespoke vases spike the wreckage. The smell of smoke still clings to the desolated site.

Aside from the crushed wall that stands no higher than your calves, nothing remains of your home.

You look around, but everything is in correct relation to your house as you remember it. You’re in the right place, but there’s nothing left. It’s been torched, ruined, and wrecked. At the entrance, the sand is still stained dark from where a cleansing sacrifice would have been made.

How long has it been like this? Left in pieces?

The winds die out, and the world goes silent.

Your feet make no sounds as they crunch over the sharp fragments. The sand doesn’t hiss as you step within the site, neither do you make any noise at all as the granules burn your soles. One step after another you track the obliterated halls and rooms of your home, burned to the ground.

Anything of value has been taken—the coloured stones, the small pieces of softened stained glass you’d found in the river beds. Either the dried plants and herbs were set ablaze with the rest of your home, or they were taken and relocated.

Stolen, a small, wicked voice whispers. Stolen, desecrated, destroyed.

You walk to the tiny room you’d slept in, the heart of your home. Charcoal is all that’s left of the small cot, the sheets and covers long incinerated. You don’t allow the tears to drop, don’t emit anything. The faintest breath dies on your lips, cracked and filmy.

A hand grips your upper arm, sharp nails grazing the small cuts as they turn you. He’s not wearing boots—his feet have shifted to paws, the skin thick enough to brave the scorching sands. Yours must be covered in welts by now, but—nothing.

He shakes you roughly, your teeth clacking together, making your head ring. Then he’s gripping your chin, raising you to look at him. Still, everything’s quiet. His eyes are blazing, not longer that cold, merciless hazel, but burning with something. Something you’ll never let yourself match.

His lip pulls back from his teeth in a flash of white, and it occurs to you his mouth is moving. He’s saying something, but the edges of your vision are blurry, as if muffled by something. In the back of your mind, in the depth of your repressed feeling, something twinges, reaching up a small hand from the crushing pile of guilt and raw emotion. Barely alive.

You shove it down.

You step back, and he releases you, watching.

You don’t look at him, lowering your gaze as you step around him, not even acknowledging him. What is there to acknowledge, anyway? The ruin he’s brought upon you?

You once swore you would survive him, that you would weather him. Well, that’s all you can do. You don’t have a choice but to take everything he gives. It’s not like you have darkness glittering at your fingertips. It’s not like you can shift into a monstrous form, or have skin tougher than leather to protect yourself with. It’s not like you have great, powerful wings, or razor-sharp teeth and talons.

You’re human, and he’s painfully other.

Skin crumbles like sand, bones snap like twigs.

One step at a time, you trace the familiar steps. In desperate need of refuge.

One step at a time, away from him.

————

Enough sound has returned to the world that you can hear the scuff of his paws behind you. Looming at your back like a cursed wraith, set on haunting you until your last breath rasps from wet lungs.

You reach the steps leading to the temple, and the footfalls stop; you do not. One step at a time, you ascend the marble stairs, and it’s only when you reach their peak that you’re approached by one of the acolytes. The devout worshipers who dedicate their lives to the temples and the gods. You’d often found yourself considering giving yourself over to them, too.

“What troubles have you come by, sister?” The acolyte does not touch you, but offers a patient smile, reeking of warmth and soft femininity. Gentle, and welcoming. The tears are falling before you can stop them, but the young woman does nothing to clear them. Merely watches and waits.

“I would like refuge for a few days,” you murmur through quiet sobs, “I have been favoured by malignant misfortune, and she has not treated me well. I would request a cleanse.” The woman’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly, “follow, child.”

Relief sweeps in so heavily you almost crumple then and there, but then he’s manifested before you, wreathed in thin shadows that make him appear as a reflection in water. He’s displeased; angry. “You think an exorcism will take you from me? You torture yourself needlessly.” You stare at him silently, watching warily. “I’ve been through enough at your hand,” you mumble. “You brought me here, and I will gladly rid myself of your presence in any way I can. Let me go.”

Beside you, the young woman stiffens, observing silently. You miss the way she catches another’s gaze, gesturing subtly toward your one-sided conversation.

“So affixed with your religion. Has it ever occurred to you to question it?” You narrow your eyes at him, considering the merit of engaging in this conversation. “What would I need to question?” You ask, “the gods had been merciful toward me until you entered my life.”

“Blind faith counts for nothing,” he counters, “you are good in exchange for exemption from the silver fires of hell. Your insides rot like mine beneath your pristine skin, bride.” You recoil at the title—he hasn’t used it in such a while it had managed to slip your mind.

“I am not your bride. No longer,” you manage, taking a step away from him toward the acolyte—who’s been joined by a similarly robed young woman. Both of them watch on warily. “Let me go—we are not suited for one another.”

“We are,” he insists, “if you would let go of yourself for one damned minute, you would see.”

“I. Can’t. Trust you. Azriel,” you grit out, finding it hard to look into those cold eyes of his. “You belittle, hurt, and taunt me every chance you get. Why would I ever let myself be when you’re around. It’s not like you make it easy for me.”

“You were fine in the air,” he snarls, stepping forward, “and you were fine on top of me, too.”

You’re lucky that someone interrupts, because you have nothing to say to him. No barbs to reach for, no verbal weapons to hurl at him. He’s right. You did enjoy the flight.

A woman—cloaked in the robes of a priestess—steps forward, the two acolytes now dismissed. “I have been told you seek refuge here. Come inside.” You turn to the voice, only to be met with a woman who can’t possibly be older than you. She appears to be slim, and tall, with cascading silky hair that curls lightly in spirals. Her deep cocoa eyes are warm, and open.

Beside you, Azriel has gone rigid.

“Elain.”

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020

[starchants]

FORTNIGHT

buffy summers x female!reader ; reader grieves buffy.

word count — 664.

themes + warnings ; we’re in for an angsty one tbh! buffy has been officially dead and in heaven for two weeks currently in this fic! mentions of mental health problems, mentions of drinking alcohol to the point of toeing the line between a normal individual and borderline alcoholic, also this is a pre-established relationship!!

author’s note — this fic had originally started my anthology series for the tortured poets department by taylor swift but i had scrapped the idea due to a mental health crash.

support mention ; if you feel like supporting, a nice ‘like’ will suffice on my blog, i know some writers love to ask nicely if you could reblog or comment etc. yet on my blog (no hate towards them as everyone likes appreciation in different ways), but if you’d like to reblog or comment feel free after all this is a safe space for any fan-individual to have fun :’)

masterlist

a fortnight had changed the fate of everything. a simple two weeks had destroyed y/n y/l/n. she was supposed to be dragged away by the police, upon a legal order that her own mother had called in — out of worry for her own daughter, but no one ever cared to even show up to drag her kicking and screaming to the nearby psych ward in the sunnydale hospital.

her mother only noticed how even more quiet her daughter had become and how she became a hollow version of herself but never tended to notice how much alcohol that she was consuming in unhealthy amounts.

in fact nobody had. not even her dear friends or even frenemies had noticed it despite how much time she had spent with them. living more similarly to a phantom then an individual.

everyone simply assumed why y/n had become more quiet than ever was due to her grieving as everyone else happened to be. they didn’t notice that she would wait til she was alone in her family home during the night and scream as loud as she can, slurring her words and nearly tripping over her own feet, as she would go on and on about how the love of her life had performed her own quiet treason. how buffy summers refused to listen to her girlfriend’s own pleas to not sacrifice herself, once again, especially with the knowledge that she would never make it back alive.

buffy went behind her back and she blamed her. but, oh, how she loved her unabashedly and terribly all the same.

it was ruining her life transforming her into a terrible shell of the woman that she used to be. the treason made her damage everything that made her who she was and made her lose herself to the point of her dreams, whenever she would blackout from the alcohol, were filled with all of what she wished to tell buffy anne summers.

“you finally got me to be yours after years of me pining after you! years of you going to other men, having other lovers, while knowing for a fact that i’ve been in love with you since i met you! it only took that damned weekend trip to florida as you didn’t wanna be alone and you kissed me near the mailbox! you looked so damn cute wrapped up in my favorite sweater and yet i only held you and had you as mine for two weeks! two damned weeks buffy! then you go and ruin it all for what?! saving your sister when we could’ve gone down a different path if you just listened to me for once and didn’t go on to sacrifice yourself like you always do for others that don’t even care for you doing this repetitively!”

just another drink. just another sip. just another blackout sleep. that’s all y/n told herself as she stumbled upon the staircase upon her journey to her bedroom. then she’d stop and let buffy go.

she’d stop loving buffy for the first time in years and just let the pretty blonde slayer go with her very last blackout sleep. one more night to see her in her dreams where she could let all her feelings out. just one more step and she’d be in her room. just one more step and she could let go of everything in the comfort of her bedroom. just one more step.

just one more step and her sorrowful heart could stop beating it’s depressing drum. just one more step and the wooden door creaked open to reveal the pretty deceased blonde sitting upon her bed with soaking wet hair from her shower and grave dirt still underneath her fingernails solely dressed in y/n’s favorite sweater.

just one more step and she could feel her heart starting to sway away from it’s depressing drum. just one more step and she could reach out to touch her again.

[emeraldspiral]

Sometimes I wonder about the amount of Zimfluence there was in Avatar.

Like, I've already talked about how Aang defeating Ozai through sheer willpower is reminiscent of Zim overpowering the Control Brains with raw insanity in The Trial, how LoK's ending resembles the post-cancellation ending comic where Zim and Dib leave earth to go frolicking in space together, and how Mai's sour, apathetic attitude being the result of feeling pressured to behave herself all the time to please her parents is similar to Gaz trying to win her father's approval by being the Good Child to Dib's Problem Child.

But like, more than a few people at Nick, including co-creator Bryan Konietzko, worked on Zim before Avatar, and members of the Zim crew have expressed regrets about the show being cancelled and not getting to explore things that they had wanted to. So it'd honestly be more weird of Zim didn't have an influence on Avatar.

So let's consider some of the similarities between the shows and elements that may have been inspired by things people wanted to explore with Zim but never got the chance to.

Like, to begin with, the premise of both shows is that there's a war instigated by an Imperial colonizing force that wants to wipe out and/or enslave all other races and take everything over. It's not a super original concept but there are more specific similarities.

Both shows, rather than just having one protagonist that the story centers around, have a protagonist and a deuteragonist, who both have their own stories which are separate yet interconnected to form one large picture integral to the overall narrative. Both sets of characters are both boys who due to circumstances are pitted against each other on opposite sides of the war but have the potential to be great friends if they didn't have that conflict in the way.

Both Zim and Zuko are banished for stepping out of line and sent on a fool's errand at the beginning of the story to keep them from interfering in the war and embarrassing their leaders. Both are determined to succeed and willfully deceive themselves into believing that the ones who sent them on their missions really do expect them to because they're so desperate for their love and approval. Zim and Zuko both have a second rival (Tak & Zhao) looking to make a name for themselves by stepping on their toes, and Zim & Zuko both end up committing treason by teaming up with their main rivals to stop their secondary rivals from succeeding and robbing them of the victories their self-worth hinges on.

Dib and Zuko are both obsessed with capturing a singularly unique individual in their world in order to win their father's love, but even if/when they succeed it doesn't get them what they want. With Zuko, he realizes that his father only loves him conditionally, and that's not real love at all. With Dib, he realizes that his father does love him unconditionally, but in ETF, the comic Dib's Dilemma, and the Zimvoid storyline it's made clear that Membrane will never believe Dib or respect his chosen field of science, regardless of whether he defeats Zim or not. So defeating Zim isn't the key to his happiness either, although Dib has yet to come to that realization.

The Membrane family and the Fire Nation Royal family both have a single dad with two kids, a boy and a girl, with the boy being the eldest. The boy is supposed to be his father's successor but he and his father disagree and his father refuses to accept his son's dissenting opinions and makes the son feel that he has to earn his father's love and approval by accomplishing something great. The daughter resents her brother and tries to prove that she's more worthy of their father's love by being a Daddy's Girl who acts more like the child he wants. The son is known for being a loser while the daughter is known for being incredibly scary. Both are strong and talented, but the daughter seems to better at everything with less effort while the son is unfairly maligned. The daughter gets treated better by their father, but he's still not really being a good father to her. Although the son is motivated by a selfish desire to prove himself to his father and fueled by a lot of anger, he has a good heart deep down and cares about doing the right thing while the daughter doesn't really care about anything except pleasing her dad and her own gratification.

Dib and Gaz are also somewhat like Sokka and Katara in that they have to more or less raise themselves because their mom is gone and their dad's preoccupied with important world-saving work that keeps him away from them. Katara feels that she has to step up into the role of a mother, despite being the younger sibling, while Gaz is often tasked with wrangling her brother. Sokka and Dib both fantasize about being heroes and making their fathers proud, but are a bit too cocky and get in over their heads their first time facing a real enemy combatant and have to learn to think more strategically and sort out their priorities.

Many fans see Zim as a victim of the society that created him, who's just doing what he does because it's the only way he can feel valued or loved, and wish that if the series had continued he would realize he was being played for a fool and turn his back on the people he'd been trying so hard to please, realize what he'd been doing was wrong, befriend his rival, and become a hero fighting back against the Imperialist regime. And that's exactly what Zuko ends up doing. Also, something at least one of the writers has said they would've done with Azula had the series continued.

Azula is mostly shown as cold and ruthless throughout the series, but near the end she starts to show more vulnerability, starting with the Beach episode. In that episode, her obsession with competition and asserting dominance to affirm her superiority is played for comedy, which makes the similarities between her and Zim stand out much more than it normally does when the series frames her as dead serious. The scene where she awkwardly flirts by telling a guy they could dominate the earth together in particular always gave me Zim vibes from the first time I saw it. There's also one scene where she makes one of her only friends cry and actually feels bad about it and apologizes, similar to the scene in Walk of Doom where Zim thinks he's made GIR cry and tries to make him feel better. Both scenes stand out as rather uncharacteristic for two characters who are usually cruel and callous and don't care about anyone else's feelings.

Zim and Azula also both have huge, but fragile egos, believing themselves to be better than everyone and unable to accept being less than perfect. They both derive their sense of self worth from having power over others and believing that they were just born better, regard themselves as above the need for genuine friendship, view love as a weakness, and consider everyone in their orbit as either an asset to be used and discarded or an obstacle toward getting what they want.

One of the most popular concepts to explore in Zim fanfic is the idea of Zim's ego being broken by the realization that his mission is a lie and breaking down over it, and that's exactly what we get from Azula when she realizes the control she thought she had over her friends and the prize her father was dangling in front of her the whole time were just as fake as Zim's mission.

Bonus: The most popular ship in the fandom is a Red/Blue ETL ship which the creators hate but board artists draw fanart of in their free time and the voice actors are willing to indulge for the fans. Also, it used to have a large hatedom that was just upfront about not liking it because it got in the way of other ships, but then a new generation discovered it on Netflix and now people dress up their petty reasons for disliking it with purity culture BS about it being "problematic".

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

Jurgen was enjoying a peaceful morning of deep contemplation in his chambers when the sound of a fierce argument arose just outside of his door. Long experience with his compatriots gave him the wisdom to arise and begin to drag his desk in obstruction of the entrance, but alas, he was too slow; the wooden door was thrown open with a violent clatter, and the incarnate of fury roiled into the room.

"I've had enough of her!" bellowed Hoag. The dark, diminutive man was practically frothing at the mouth, frenziedly waving about something Jurgen couldn't quite see. "Enough of her, Wind-Caller, she ought to be stopped! She ought to-- she ought to be put down like a dog!"

"You're over-reacting!" Barfok shouted from further down the passageway.

Jurgen briefly contemplated whether he could push Hoag back down the stairs, but in that moment of hesitation, Hoag had already forced his way past the desk that had meant to keep him out, penetrating Jurgen's previously-serene sanctum. "Deal with her, Wind-Caller!" Hoag spat, "Deal with her or I'll-- I'll--"

"My King," Jurgen interrupted him, pinching his own nose. "Let's all calm down for a moment. What has she done now?"

"I'll tell you what she's done!" Hoag shouted. "She's gone and anthropomorphized my lunch!" And he thrust his hands towards Jurgen.

The object in Hoag's hands was a haunch of roast ox, but it held itself with a dignity that surpassed its humble origin. In the light glinting from its marinated surface it surveyed the room with calm acceptance, observing its crude surroundings with the plain-hearted absence of judgement that set all of Skyrim's peasants apart from their supposed betters. It remained steady as Hoag waved it at Jurgen, unperturbed, as if thinking: 'And you are the so-called leaders of this Empire? You are the men I should call Lord?'

"He's over-reacting!" Barfok had finally appeared in the doorway, panting from the long climb, her pale hair disheveled and falling out of its braids. "It's a joke," she protested to Jurgen, "A silly joke, a prank, that's all!"

"A joke!" roared Hoag, pivoting around. "You bitch, it's a guilt-evoking metaphor for the lowest of my subjects! How am I supposed to eat it now!"

"If you get queasy when your lunch alludes to the petty-folk you send out to die into battle, well, that says more about you than it does about my pranks, doesn't it!"

The ox haunch regarded this argument with bemusement. As did Jurgen.

"She's been at this all day," said Hoag through gritted teeth, returning his attention to Jurgen. "She went and messed with Chemua's soup--"

"Oh that was funny," Barfok guffawed.

"-- Turned it into a complex metaphor for shame. Put him in the foulest mood. And now she goes and ruins my lunch! You've got to make her quit it, Jurgen. Morale's bad enough out there without her turning things into allusions and euphemisms and such!"

Jurgen exhaled through his nose. "Barfok," he said patiently, "Stop turning people's food into literary devices."

"Hey!" Now it was Barfok's turn to push her way into the room, crossing her arms defensively in front of her chest. "Don't you take his side because he's a wimp! It's a joke, Jurgen, a silly little goof-about to make the men laugh. He's the only one who's got a problem with it!"

"Yes, well, he's louder and more irritating. We don't stop a baby bawling because the baby's in the right."

"I'm no babe!" Hoag interjected. "I'm your King even now, Wind-Caller!"

Does this man deserve fealty? the roast ox seemed to say, when Jurgen's gaze fell upon it. He closed his eyes briefly.

"Barfok," said Jurgen, "Please, just-- stop."

A shadow fell over Barfok's usually-jolly face. She narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin at Jurgen, staring at him coolly from over her round cheeks. "Why should I?" she said slowly.

"I'm begging you, Sister in Kyne! Do me a favour and keep the peace?"

"Aye, you hear him? Keep the peace!" Hoag directed his wrath once more at Barfok. "You're toeing the treason line, sabotaging us like that! We're getting our arses beat by the elves and you think it cheers anyone up when their saltrice is a biting allusion to the evils of occupation? Get a grip, woman!"

"Stop yelling at me!" Barfok snapped. "I don't take orders from either of you! Nay, not even you, Wind-Passer! And I ent standing here while a couple old nannies squeal at me to mind my manners! Look, Hoaga, even your ox thinks you're pathetic!"

The ox haunch did, indeed, seem to have taken on a scornful air. It had borne witness to the discourse of Nirn's most powerful men, and it had come away disenchanted with both the airs of power and those that bore it. Its scathing observation was enough to bring them to shame.

"Hoag," Jurgen said tersely, "She has a point. I can't control her. Why not go to Ysmir about her?"

The hue of Hoag's face had deepened to a striking crimson. "Because he agrees with her," he said through gritted teeth.

"Ysmir has a sense of humour," Barfok said with pride.

"He encourages her tomfoolery!"

"I framed his chambers with subtle imagery of a forsaken homeland, and you know what? He liked it."

"Traitors and soul-sick fools, both of you!"

"Well," announced Jurgen, as calm as a man being judged by a haunch of meat could possibly be, "That settles it. You just have to let her do as she pleases."

Hoag's face flushed, somehow, even redder. "Let her!" he roared indignantly. "Let her lose this war with japes!"

"And what can you do about it?" Barfok asked smugly. "I'm the stronger Tongue."

"We can't command her, Hoaga," said Jurgen. "So. You'll just have to live with it."

"Damn you! You're meant to be the peace-making one! Can't you negotiate with her?"

"Oh, keep whinging, Hoaga, I'll turn your trousers paradoxical next!"

"The matter is settled," said Jurgen firmly. "Now, both of you, get out of my chambers."

"To Apocrypha with you, Wind-Caller! You know what?" Hoag turned his attention to Barfok, waving his accusing haunch in Jurgen's direction. "Why don't you mess with him this time? Hey? Why don't you, I don't know, fill his desk with symbolism or something!"

"Why, Hoaga, you know I'd do anything you ask!" Barfok said cheerfully.

Jurgen blinked. "Wait--"

He had barely begun to inhale for a counter-thu'um before Barfok sung out three crisp dovahzul words. Nothing happened, but everything was subtly, slightly different, as if they had just slipped from one dream to another-- disconcerting non-transition.

Jurgen blinked again. "Barfok," he said slowly, "What did you just--"

"Oh, would you look at the time, Hoaga!" Barfok butted in. "I'm late for my lunch! Good talk, Jurgen, dremyollock, make sure to shut your windows!" And before Jurgen could intercept her she had lurched out of the door and was rushing down the stairs, leaving behind only the receding sound of triumphant cackling.

Hoag looked from the doorway, to Jurgen, and then, finally, to the large window that dominated one side of the room. He drew in a breath. "Now that's just grim," he muttered, before taking a morose bite of his ox haunch. And, without further explanation or farewell, he turned and followed Barfok out of the room, leaving Jurgen in much-desired solitude.

For several seconds Jurgen stood facing the doorway. He pressed his fingertips to his temples. He contemplated whether he had the courage to turn around.

Finally, he turned to face the window.

The curtains hung limp against the pane, like the sails of a ship bereft of air, betraying a stagnation, a stranding, a loss of all will to go on. Though the window was open, no breeze stirred them, as if Kyne herself had abandoned the sorry scraps of fabric. Against the backdrop of the clear sky outside, the faded blue of them was outright depressing...

[kosherkept]

i complain a lot about how leftists will think that because they disagree with a law or policy that it automatically doesnt apply to them anymore, and that acknowledging that the law is very much so still real is somehow perceived by them as being unconditional support for said law. and the deportation of khalil is a great example

when you receive permanent residency of the united states you are obligated to uphold the constitution. you do not have the privileges of a citizen but you have all the same obligations, if not more, because you must prove you are worthy of being welcomed into the USA as an outsider. citizens' worthiness is assumed, but prospective immigrants have to work for it. if you break a law, violate certain rules, etc, you will have your green card revoked and you will be deported to your nation of origin. and believe it or not, loudly supporting anti-american terrorism that has been responsible for the slaughter of tens of thousands of people in the past few years alone is in fact grounds for removal. it is quite literally toeing the line of treason.

agreeing with this process or not doesnt change the fact that equal treatment is conditional and a permanent resident is a very easily deported non-citizen. i have no fucking clue why anybody would be eager to fuck around and find out with the united states of america of all entities, but if you want to get yourself deported by publicly praising violence against minorities and the citizens of the country you wish to make your home, go ahead

[fidothefinch]

From Hull, Hell, and Halifax

Whumptober, Day 13: "Til death do us part" Read on Ao3

Dick watched the executioner from his prison cell window.

The masked man was sharpening the guillotine blade in long strokes, the sching, sching, sching ringing in the cobblestone courtyard. The machine was equally beautiful and horrible; a weapon for quick and efficient death.

Dick hoped it would be quick.

The door to his cell opened. No knocking – prisoners were not paid that manner of respect. Still, Dick had been expecting this visit, and he did not turn from the window as several pairs of heavy, metal-laden feet marched inside.

“Kneel for the king,” one of the soldiers commanded.

Dick bit his tongue, straining to keep his posture unbothered as a pair of deceptively quiet footsteps entered. The back of his neck prickled at the feeling of all eyes watching him. He wondered what they saw – the layer of grime on the clothes he had worn since being thrown in this cell? The bruises and dried blood mapping his time in captivity? Or were they focused on the blue bird stitched across his shoulders, a symbol of hope for the community and a source of shame for the throne?

Nobody moved.

When it became clear that he did not plan to turn, and pair of cold armored hands clamped around his shoulders. They forced his gaze away from the window, and slammed him to his knees. Dick barely managed to avoid biting his own tongue. His knees split against the rough stone.

“Bow to your king,” the guard commanded again.

Dick glared. In all of his missions, he had never been so close to the man. He looked remarkably like Bruce – dark hair, the same jaw line, the same nose. Dick tried to imagine his guardian wearing similar attire – heavy velvet, pearls and gemstones, the finest silks. A sickening display of wealth. But the king’s eyes held none of the warmth that his brother’s did. No, Thomas’s eyes were cold and cruel.

“I do not bow to tyrants,” Dick said, voice surprisingly steady despite his weariness.

The hit came so quickly he had no time to dodge, and it landed squarely across his cheekbone, whipping his head to the side. This time, his teeth snapped briefly around his tongue, and blood began to pool in his mouth.

A harsh yank on the chain connecting his shackled wrists to the floor sent his upper body sprawling forward, arms outstretched. “You would do well to show respect to His Majesty, traitor scum.”

Dick craned his neck up to spit thick, red blood out of his mouth and took great pleasure in the disgusted backpedaling of the guards. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asked.

Fine leather shoes glided forward and stopped in front of him, toes spreading the drops of blood. “So this is the little bird who has been causing so much mischief?” The king sounded the same way Bruce did when he identified a rare medicinal herb, but with a touch more condescension.

Dick would hardly call his theft, sabotage, and acts of treason “mischief,” but he wasn’t about to confess to his crimes. The chain slacked just enough for another guard to tug his head back by his hair. He grinned without humor, hoping it showed off his bloodied teeth. “Who, me?”

The corners of the king’s mouth tugged down. “Tell the servants to bring a bath,” he told one of the guards, somehow making eye contact with Dick while still not addressing him. “And to mend the clothes.”

Dick’s stomach churned, and for the first time in several days, it wasn’t from the hunger. “I would have cleaned up, if I had known to expect a visitor.”

“Silence.”

Dick’s mouth snapped shut at the word, conditioned by years of hearing it in the same tone from his mentor. If the king noticed, he did not draw attention to it. Instead, he leaned down and gripped Dick’s chin. He tilted Dick’s face side to side, like he were inspecting a prize horse.

“You bear a remarkable resemblance to your parents,” he observed.

Dick’s heart stuttered in his chest.

Something in his face must have shown his surprise, because Thomas’s lips curled in a self-satisfied smirk. “Yes, I saw them several times as a younger man. It was such a shame, what happened.”

He was being deliberate in not revealing Nightwing’s true identity, and the fact only made him more wary. The king had a plan, and Dick was beginning to feel more and more like a pawn.

“Your execution is scheduled for tomorrow.”

Dick swallowed past the urge to vomit.

“I am sure you have seen the guillotine in the courtyard. We had it specially erected, just for you.” The king’s fingers found the divot between two of his neck vertebrae and pressed down, sending a chill down Dick’s spine. It was the position of the cleanest decapitation. “You are well known for your showmanship, so I took the liberty of inviting the entire kingdom to watch.”

Dick stiffened. He knew, logically, that his execution would be made public. It could serve two purposes: a thinly-veiled threat to the Batman’s sympathizers and bid for loyalty from his enemies.

“Of course,” and Thomas stepped back, fingertips leaving burning stripes where he had touched Dick. “There is still time for me to reconsider. You just have to answer my question.”

“I work alone,” Dick ground out, voice steady despite his rising fear.

“Oh, wretched boy. I know that is not true.” Thomas’s thumb wiped away the blood that had dried under Dick’s nose and mouth. “Tell me where your little team of vagabonds is hiding, and I will stay your execution.”

This, at least, was easy. “No.”

“Give me a name, then. Just one name will—“

“Nightwing.”

Thomas was not amused. “You have proven yourself clever. But cleverness will not free you from your fate.” His eyes darkened. “Farewell, boy. Let your guards know if you remember where your friends are located.” His expression took on a dangerous edge as he continued, “I do so hope that they come to tomorrow’s showing.”

The tone sent a chill down Dick’s spine. He felt that he was missing something.

But with nothing more than a final, lingering smirk, the king and his guards left. The heavy wooden door thumped shut, and the lock turned with a thunk similar to that of the guillotine’s blade.

[psychiatry-and-poetry]

Letters of Desperation - Neris

Part 1 - Nesta | Part 7 - Eris | AO3 | ACOTAR Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

Word Count: 499

Beloved Nesta,

I could not help but chuckle at your attempt at writing a poem about me. I cannot decide if I should be flattered or offended. Though, seeing as it is my wife who has written about me, perhaps flattered would be the wiser choice. I must say, it was quite an attempt. You truly have managed to capture the essence of Eris Vanserra in your eight lines of poetry, though I’m not sure I agree with the part about your broken heart.

You are not broken, Nesta. Not a single part of you is broken. Some parts might hurt, they might be bruised or painful. But you are not a broken doll in need of mending. You have never been. If the world chooses to paint you as that, it does not matter. We can both be painted as the villains in their stories, while we are the heroes in ours.

On a lighter note, I’d never have pinned you down as a romantic writing poems by firelight, certainly not that day in Dawn at the High Lords’ meeting, when it seemed like you were the one holding Court, despite your being Emissary. I’d never have known your growing, infernal love for literature had you not been living in Autumn. With me. Beside me. My equal, who will never be downtrodden or treated as a breeding mare. 

Whatever my father may say, Nesta, whatever garbage he may spew, it does not matter. I care not if it is treason to speak against my own father like this, my High Lord. But you must realise, he has never been a father to me. Not truly. He has been absent all my life, as I was handed off to midwife after midwife, none willing to care for me should they face the wrath of Beron Vanserra.

He has been like this for as long as I can remember. But the worst part about him is perhaps how he treats the ladies of this Court. You have witnessed it firsthand, Nesta, how they are seen as nothing but the dirt on the bottom of his polished boots; sometimes even less, depending on how foul his mood is that particular day. It is an ever-changing line, that I somehow always manage to toe. 

But enough about that bastard. Even hell does not deserve him, let alone the pages of my notebook. For the sake of brevity, Nesta, I want you to know that no matter what he says, you will always be loved and respected by me and by the people of this Court. I will not tolerate any disrespect against my wife. Anyone who says a word against you will find that I can be every bit as cruel and cunning as my father. I know you do not relish in violence the way I was brought up to. But I simply cannot, and will not, tolerate a word said against my radiant wife. 

Avec l’amour plus le pur,

Eris

Part 8 - Eris

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings

[scarlet-doll-13]

Dulce Periculum - Danger Is Sweet

Lizzie Glass has been running from her family and their empire for many years. Upon hearing her baby brother was in a coma and the world has gone to shit, Bobby Glass drags her back into the chaos once more.

Prelude

Edward was surprised to see a woman with Bobby Glass in the birdcage. She looked a little like Susie from the back, with the same dark hair. But as he approached closer, he could tell the difference. This woman was of similar height but much broader across the shoulders, dressed in ripped jeans and a leather jacket Susie would never be caught dead in. 

“You got some bollocks, ain’t ya? Coming here. Giving my money to the man who battered my son?” Bobby feeds his pigeons. 

Eddie sighs, “I’m sorry about Jack.”

Bobby scoffs; Eddie was toeing a little close to the line in the sand.

“That had nothing to do with me. But I wanted out, so I went to Henry Collins, and that’s why I’ve gone to Mr. Stanley Johnston.”

That little fact intrigued Bobby, “To do what?”

Eddie stands relaxed, hands in his pockets. “To help him acquire your business by obtaining the names of the other lords in your stable so he can take them over. Whoever holds that list holds the keys to the kingdom.”

Bobby turns to face the Eddie, “So you’ve come here to tell me you’ve fucked me twice?”

Eddie tries and fails to hide the brazen look on his face, “Not exactly.”

Bobby turns, gesturing to the woman in the corner. “Eddie. This is my eldest, Lizzie.”

“Susie never said she had a sister.” Eddie held his hand out to shake. 

Lizzie took his hand, shaking with a firm grip. “Technically, I’m dead. But I heard about Jack, and Dad called me back.”

Bobby directed them outside to the table, “Now, tell me your plan.” 

~~~~

Lizzie was impressed by the speech the Duke had given. After some pause and thought, Bobby Glass had agreed to Eddie’s plan. Now the pair stood outside the prison. The clouds parted, and the spring sunshine shone down. Eddie couldn’t help but watch how Lizzie’s hair shone copper in the light. 

He watched her pull a cigarette from the carton with her teeth. “What you’re about to do could be accused of treason in Susie���s eyes. Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I do.” 

She lights her cigarette with an aged Zippo, and Eddie catches a hint of menthol. She takes a deep breath, savouring the rush of nicotine, before exhaling. 

“Well, good luck, your grace.” Lizzie hands him a folded piece of paper, pulled from her jacket pocket, “my number if shit hits the fan.”

Just his luck, shit did hit the fan. Susie was far from amused to hear Eddie was dealing with Henry Collins. One phone call was all it took for his stroke of bad luck to start snowballing out of his control.

~~~~

You can also find it on A03: Dulce Periculum - Danger Is Sweet

A.N. - If anyone can help this old gal with story formatting, would be gladly appreciated. It's been awhile since I've posted on here.

Tag List

@alexa-rae-dreamz

@sabrinareno

[caeli0306]

Violet POV chapter of TFTAB

I mentioned last week I think that I was going to write a Violet POV chapter of TFTAB, and now that I finished chapter 13 of Swan Song, I'm officially getting around to it. A lil unedited blurb below for those of you who I know love this fic as much as I do :)

---

Those eyes of his are trained on me, and I find myself fascinated by them, not for the first time. They’re so dark, they’re practically black, with flecks of gold throughout, and they only add to the unfair beauty of Xaden Riorson. He reminds me of a predator - all sleek lines, powerful muscle, and elegant features. He could be a model with those kinds of looks, but instead he’s committing treason.

My kind of man, I muse to myself without much thought.

I have no doubt in my mind that he knows who I am. I don’t have definitive proof, but something about the way he looks at me changed since he returned from the back of the plane. The intensity of his stare has a very familiar warmth coursing through my bloodstream.

I’m toeing a dangerous line between duty and desire here. My rational brain is telling me to either kill him and go on with my life, or spare him and pray to Zihnal he has the information I want. The less rational part of me is telling me to drag him to the airplane bathroom and find out if he’s as good at kissing as I think he is.

[powdermelonkeg]

I don't know if this has been asked yet, but why is Nellie in Thalmor Jail? What did she do? Why do they hate her?

(I am so excited about her and WILL be adding her to my party as soon as I can, she looks so cool!)

The Direnni clan and the Summerset Altmer don't get along. Summerset Altmeri philosophy, and in turn the extremist Aldmeri Dominion, is based almost entirely around racial purity—something the Direnni clan all but ditched ages and ages ago. They're the elves that are the reason Bretons exist, not to mention that Nellie herself had a Breton grandfather. So, in the eyes of the Thalmor, the Direnni are (for lack of better term) man-blooded mutts. And in the eyes of the Direnni, the Summerset Altmer are stuck-up, prickly, and entitled.

But the Direnni ARE still Altmer. So with the Thalmor closing in on control of Tamriel, they fully expected their "lesser" cousins to fall into line and do their part to extend their influence to Direnni territory. Which has led to some extremely condescending, patronizing, and infuriating talks between Clan Direnni and Thalmor ambassadors that can barely be called "negotiating." (This part isn't canon in vanilla lore, but it can very easily be implied to be so, and a spinoff book mentions that the Thalmor are taking prisoners on Isle Balfiera, which means they're at minimum stepping on Clan Direnni's toes)

Cirinel sat in on one of those meetings at her dad's insistence.

Cirinel is not a diplomat.

She is impulsive, she is dramatic, she has a temper.

So, after watching her dad (whom she loves) be told to stay in line by some two-bit Justiciar, in HER manor, on HER island, Cirinel decided to commit a treason. She messed with Thalmor interrogations and organized a prison break; not out of any sense of charity towards the prisoners, PURELY out of spite. Which then placed her as an easily-identified fugitive of the Thalmor.

She fled to Skyrim to avoid the heat once her impulses had run their course, figuring that the civil war would mean the Thalmor presence here was too tied up to chase her. So she tried to go into hiding, but was caught, interrogated, and tortured.

And that's where you come in! You get a chance to break her free, and when you do, she's in your debt.

And a Direnni always repays her debts.

[backjustforberena]

If Rhaenys had been Queen and Laenor her heir and Laenor and Rhaenyra are still matched, I can guarantee that Queen Rhaenys would put the fear of the Seven into Rhaenyra about any notions of illegitimate children. Any notion of an affair or pursuing personal pleasures before an heir and a spare are born healthy. Even if Laenor consented. Rhaenys would not stand for even the thought or possibility. She'd nip it in the bud before vows were even spoken.

Rhaenys would threaten a teenager if it secured her son's happiness and the future of her line. She wouldn't care if it took years before a trueborn heir was made. She wouldn't prioritise Rhaenyra's happiness, she'd tell her that if she steps a toe out of line, she's committing treason. So be very, very careful and understand your role.

[vengefvlx]

CHARACTER BASICS

Faceclaim: Jennifer Connelly

Name: Josette "Josie" Myers

Age: 50

Gender: Cis Woman

Home: District 7

Role: Former Lumbar Worker, Current District 13 Refugee

Personality: Compliant, Co-operative, Hardworking, worrisome, cynical

Song: Unwritten – Natasha Bedingfield

CHARACTER BIOGRAPHY

Death TW

Life in District 7 was hard. Life was difficult in all the districts really. But Josette was unaware of this. The Capitol disliked the districts communicating. So apart from a little in history class, where she'd learnt that the districts were bad and the Capitol was great, she knew barely anything about the other districts. If she had been curious she probably would have wanted to find out more. But she wasn't curious. Or well, her father had told her not to be curious. Josie was to not be curious, to stay in line, and do what she was told.

Those orders came from personal tragedy. Though the Capitol wouldn't call it a Tragedy. They'd call it treason. Her father wanted them to stay in line because of the past. The past where her great uncle had not wanted to toe the line. Josette doesn't know what had actually happened. Her family didn't talk about it. It was almost like they were ashamed of what had happened. But since then her family had been good citiizens. Whatever that meant.

As was not unusual in 7, once she was done in school Josette joined the lumbar industry. It was physical work, involving long days. She went to bed most days exhausted. So even if she had been curious, she probably would have been too exhausted to do anything. Reflecting upon this, she wonders if this is what the Capitol had wanted all along. Tired citizens made compliant citizens since they were too tired to do anything. It was a good plan.

Josette still doesn't really know how she ended up in 13. She hadn't really been watching the games that closely. They still had to sort out all the lumbar after all. And she was used to District 7 never doing well anyway. They were just a District that did not do very well. And so, Josette didn't want to waste her time on watching her fellow district people die. Of course, it was the evening on that fateful day, but for once she wasn't actually at home.

Maybe if she hadn't been at home, she might not have made it onto the hover. She still doesn't really know how she ended up on the Hover. She just did. And the rest of her family did not. They didn't really live in the most central location of 7. If she had been at home she wouldn't have been on the so called rescue.

But she was. And now she is in 13.

Josie is still processing the whole rebellion thing. Her father wasn't here. She couldn't talk to him. But she's been thinking more of her Great Uncle, and his death. Was that due to believing in a rebellion? And if so, maybe that was why her family had never talked about it. But the rebellion was in full force now. And Josie needed to find her place in it.

She just didn't know where to even start.

[seigephoenix]

Happy Friday!!

How about ‘“You’re my best friend.  I love you, I always have.”’ For whichever pairing is inspiring you tonight?

Happy Friday!! For @dadrunkwriting. I was in an Alissa x Garrett brainrot this evening. So here we go!

Content Warning: gets a little hot and heavy, does feature Trevelyan and Hawke's child, ends on a hilarious note Length: ~1k

Alissa grumbled as she gently massaged her arm, wincing at the sharp ache there from where her arm had been taken off.  She was thankful the Anchor was no longer killing her, but now she had to learn to live without her dominant hand anymore.  The loss of her art cut at her the most, she was slowly relearning with her right hand but it was slow going.  Garrett did what he could, but she knew that this would have to be a battle of her inner strength.  She looked at the canvas and tilted her head.  She could see the weakness in the lines in Zephyr’s sketch but she was improving.

Alissa chuckled as the door slammed open behind her and a whirlwind burst through.  She scooped up her toddler with her right hand, tucking him against her side with his squeals of delight bouncing throughout the room.  “Mama!  Mama!”

“I see you escaped your father once again.” Alissa looked up as Hawke slid through the door looking so completely frazzled.  She had to laugh at the look Garrett sent their son.  “You take after your father more and more these days.”  She adjusted her grip and Zephyr climbed up her back and clung to her as Garrett made a grab for him.

“It is time for your bath child.” Garrett’s grumbling had Zephyr laughing and keeping the game going.  Alissa grinned and stepped to the side as Garrett grabbed for him.  “You are helping him commit bathtime treason madam.”  He stood toe to toe with her and she merely grinned at him.

“Well, if I’m already being charged with a crime…” Alissa laughed as she wrapped her right arm around Zephyr and they bolted past Garrett.  “I may as well earn the punishment!”  Zephyr’s peals of laughter trailed after them as they dashed away.

“Get back here damn it!”

Zephyr hung over Alissa’s shoulder and pointed at his father.  “Bad word!”

“You’ve heard your mother use worse than me!” Garrett told him as he followed them down the hall.  He reached out and nipped Alissa around the waist and pulled them back against him.  “Gotcha!”  He eased his arms around Alissa and scooped Zephyr out of her grip.

“No!  Mama!”  Zephyr reached for his mother.

“Nope.  Papa caught you fair and square.  Time to take a bath.  You know the rules, Zephyr.”  The toddler huffed and crossed his arms as Garrett carried him to the bathroom.  She turned to the living area and began to pick up the toys and general mess from having a toddler.  She looked up at the ceiling and spotted some of the remains from dinner and just shook her head.  Alissa truly didn’t want to know how that happened.  Garrett could clean it later.

She sat on the bed going through the reports from her still loyal agents and sighed at the grim findings.  She wanted to make sure Solas didn’t make a damn mistake like he did centuries ago as Fen’Harel.  Was that so awful of her?  Tearing down the Veil wouldn’t do anymore good than raising it did.  Surely there could be a balance struck before the disaster unfolded.  Alissa looked up as the door opened and Hawke stood there looking as though the world weighed down his shoulders.  She set the papers on the small nightstand and turned to her husband.

“Come here.”  He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his head on her lap.  She ran her fingers through his hair as he let the stress from everything melt away under her fingers.  “I take it the meetings with Varric didn’t go well today?” Hawke groaned and buried his face in her thighs.

“No.  Sebastian is still demanding justice for what Anders did.”  Alissa sighed and leaned back against the headboard.  “Even after Aveline and the Inquisition trounced him.”

“Perhaps I should attend the next meeting?” Alissa asked and Garrett’s arms tightened around her waist.  She chuckled as she heard him grumbling about it.  She thought back to that misunderstanding back in Kirkwall when Hawke thought she was getting engaged to Sebastian.  She was thankful they learned to communicate with each other now because she truly didn’t want to go back to that point in time.  “Don’t pout.”  She poked his cheek and he opened one eye to glare at her.

“A man does not pout.”  Garrett huffed at her.  “I am sulking.”  He turned his face into her stomach as she laughed.

“Alright then.  Stop sulking.”  She brushed his hair off his temple and he huffed.  She suppressed the squeal when he rolled them to the side, shifting until her back was against his chest.  Garrett was so broad that he practically surrounded her, and Alissa loved it.  She felt safe when she was with him.  Her lips turned up in a smile when she felt him brush his lips across the top of her head.

“You want to know something?” Alissa tilted her head back to look at him.  His lips kissed her forehead as she laughed.  “You are my best friend.  I love you, I never stopped.”  Alissa smiled and flipped over to face him.  Her hand reached up for his face, stroking his cheek with her thumb, enjoying the warmth of his skin.

“And I love you.” Alissa smiled when he leaned down and kissed her.  Her body ached at his touch, she wanted more than just a kiss.  Garrett’s hand slid under her shirt with his fingers brushing the underside of her breasts.  Alissa shuddered as he leaned over and pressed a knee between her thighs.

“Mama!!”  They both froze at the cry coming from Zephyr’s room.  Garrett dropped his forehead to hers and sucked in a fortifying breath.

“Let me go see what he wants.” Alissa murmured as she gently nudged Hawke’s shoulder.  He rolled off with a heavy sigh.  “Don’t sulk.” Alissa reached over and tweaked his nose.

“We haven’t had any alone time in forever.”  His fingers closed over her wrist and he kissed the palm of her hand.  “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.  Look, Bethany, and Matthew are visiting soon.  I’ll bribe your sister and my brother to babysit.  How about that?” Garrett perked up and agreed.  “Good.  Now let me see what our son wants.”  Garrett didn’t release her wrist to her surprise.

“I love you.  You are my family.  The heart of it for me.  Don’t forget that.” Alissa was speechless at the wealth of emotion in Hawke’s voice.  She leaned over and kissed him.

“You and Zephyr are my heart as well.  Now, unless you want Zephyr to sleep with us tonight…”  Hawke’s hand flew off her wrist and he rolled over to face the wall.  Alissa grinned and smacked his ass.

“Woman!” Garrett hissed at her over his shoulder but she had stood and headed down the hallway chuckling at the irritation in Hawke’s eyes.