#white stag story line

[jacks-dark-oc-stuff]

The Husbands™️

(Celie's fine he can't be killed in a way that matters)

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

To Hunt a Silver Stag (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Knight!Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Fae Princess!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 6.9k

WARNINGS: Arranged marriage, talks of childbirth, traditional views of women & men in medieval times, talks of war, death, heavy religious imagery/symbolism, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wore a crown of deer antlers atop your head. Charms were woven into the gaps between the tines, attached to golden thread; jewels of starlight strung like teardrops from the moon. Your feet, staying still on the hard stone of the Great Hall, are bare though attract no dirt or dust—it is as if the very ethereal aura that coats your gown of pure white repels any such thought of uncleanliness or corruption of this mortal plane. 

You are so very far from home.

Standing in the center of your soon-to-be husband’s court, your eyes seem not to be on the man himself, who watches you greedily from the throne of black iron, but instead behind him. Blank of any emotion, your long lashes blink in the direction of the stained glass windows with a horrible longing. Whispers from the multitude of court attendants go in one ear and out the other—useless to you. Their time would be gone in a blink, and yet here you would remain, immemorial. Their words were nothing, and their utterances would turn to dust faster than their bodies would.

You can’t help but wonder if those colorful depictions in that glass window, of God and his valiant angels, are mocking you as you blink at them slowly. Not only for what you are and where you now find yourself in the kingdom of your enemies but for being so full of the very qualities that would normally resign a woman of this age to the stake. 

Independent, confident, and curious, among others. 

A voice raises above the rest, and your eyes blink elegantly, the silver hue to them unnatural in all senses. Yet, you do not look away from the mighty white stag, its soldered bits of thin glass a patchwork of an overwatching Lord. Saint Eustace is there, staring at it, just as was told from generation to generation.

A pagan man converted to Christianity, the symbol of a cross set between antlers very much like the ones adorning your head. Humming under your breath, your eyes dip down, chin moving. Below the window, there stands a tall knight, and your gaze locks with his softly. 

“Today,” the King’s voice echoes over the crowd as brown orbs stare at you, blinking. “We are here to celebrate the joining of two great bloodlines!” He stands with a grand cape over his shoulders, falling to the floor as his boots stand at the top of the stairs to the throne. Yet, this knight holds your attention more than your Promised does as the cheering starts, loud; making your ears twitch.

At your waist, a golden belt is engraved with expert attention, stories woven into metal that even seem to move with the magic embedded into it. It seems to hum with an energy that makes your eyes narrow in confusion upon this stranger.

He had brown eyes, the knight, and the hues reminded you of brown that you could see in the trees of your home—those old beasts that grew still with the magic of your line and your gentle touch. Surrounding him, there was silver armor and a strip of red fabric that went over one shoulder, hanging beside the items of his station; a sword and a dagger on a brown leather belt.

Brows furrowing, your head tilts slowly, unblinking, as the eye contact persists. 

A bold man, it seems.

The knight’s eyelids slightly widen, as if realizing he had been staring, and his face swiftly moves to the side, his short hair close to his oval skull. You hear the faint clearing of a throat come into the shell of your pointed ears.

Sighing, your focus returns to the matter at hand, the crown’s adornments clinking together as your head rotates. The speech. 

King Michael spreads his hands out, a man far into his older years but still had the gleam of malice in his eyes. Those beady things. They remind you of a rat—a small creature, while intelligent, that cannot win unless through tricks.

“We all know that magic has slowly been disappearing from the lands,” the King utters, voice echoing off the walls. Your hands are holding themselves near your abdomen, grace embedded into your bones. Watching how he speaks, you can’t deny he was influential. But influence didn’t matter when you had no wife—no children. He has a dying line, and that means weakness…which is why you’re here, after all. “And in that time, our war with the Fae has fallen into a stalemate.”

Your expression sharpens, fingers twitching. Stalemate? There were humans in your lands—spreading their fires and swinging their defiling iron swords. There was no war here except the one that this King was perpetuating. 

But you held your tongue, even if your silver eyes narrowed in an ancient, bitter, anger. Your head raises itself higher, hanging gemstones swinging. The knight near the stained glass is back to watching you—his feet shifting from under him, hands behind his armored back with loose shoulders.

“...Today, myself and the King of the Fae have come to an agreement in confidence, and in the fashion of old, I am to be wed to his daughter, a princess!” Gasps, cheers, clapping. They spring up from all corners of the Hall, bouncing. Your body longs for nature, to be away from rock and metal, these suffocating walls that close in with the gaggle of wretched corpses walking. “Peace shall be beholden to all of us! Magic shall come back into my bloodline through our many children, and all will share in its wealth!” 

You had compared yourself to a broodmare when your father had given the news of your journey here. A womb to be filled until you could give no more; restrained to a bed—away from any privilege and right.

And you’d been sent here anyway. A price needed to be paid, your father had told you. A daughter to stop the war. A child to bring back mortal magic and keep the peace through generations. Was your head to be put to the block for that? Who was to say that children would bring peace? That there weren’t more conflicts to come?

This was a momentary sacrifice, and here you were wearing white.

You hum under your breath and feel shackles tie themselves to your ankles; tying you to this place. But what other option did you have?

Your ears listen to the loud rapturous cheering, the exclamations of love that mean nothing to you—you do not love these people, do not love their need for violence and their pride. You want to go home, to find where you can rest among glades and grass. Converse with the birds and the beasts to learn of their news of far-off lands; run your hands through clear streams and watch plants grow where you walk.

As your stone body stays still, silver eyes unblinking, the knight near the window is the only man in the room not gazing at you like he wants something from you. While Lords have their eyes filled with lustful envy of your age-less skin—your finery and wealth; the promise of strong children, the knight is the only one with an open expression. 

He only watches, handsome face holding the whispers of stubble and eyes that would make many moral women wish to be his wife. 

Admittingly, your attention keeps going back to him, just as his own is stuck on you even as he tries to look professional. Back straight, armor glinting, sword pommel fiddled with by long fingers. 

The King is walking down the stairs, one withered leg at a time. You don’t offer any help.

“My bride,” Michael licks his lips when he’s in front of you; but he’s more fixated on your stomach than all else. What it will hold for him. “My beautiful Fae bride. My wedding will be known through history for ages to come.”

My. 

The world holds its breath. The knight’s jaw clenches, though no one sees it. 

You take a heavy breath into your lungs to hold back your snapping tongue. As the words meet the air, they come out as unemotional as a wave at sea. Wind holding mist.

“Certainly.”

���

As it turned out, the castle itself was even less homely than the material that was used to build it. You walk slowly through the halls, hands behind your back and your crown glimmering—the trail of a thin and flowing gown making you look like a specter. One crudely carved window after another passes by your right shoulder, and you look out of every slit; seeing the silver shades of moonlight. In contrast, everything on your left was washed with firelight from the blazing iron sconces, your ears twitching to the pop of wood and fabric saturated in animal fat. 

Everything here was horrible.

A prison, you think, slowing near one of the larger windows in the hall. A cage.  

Staring outside, trying for only a moment to understand the disgusting castle and adjoined town you look at, there’s a faint noise from far down the corridor. 

Wasting no time, your head moves slowly to the side, blinking. There isn’t anyone to be seen, but yet again, your slightly pointed ears twitch. 

A firm heartbeat. 

Bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump.

Staring at nothing, you listen for a moment, taking it in as your visage fights with blue and red light, shadows littering the small cracks and the marks of stone—your hands slightly tighten, but you hold no fear. 

You refused to be afraid here; you would go to your spiritual death with a high head, and nothing less. 

“It’s unbecoming to stalk as if a wolf,” you call, voice smooth and even. A beat of bird’s wings. “Four-legged beasts have perfected it, yet, the same cannot be said of you.” 

There’s a lapse of silence—a swirling of slight tension that comes not from you but another. The heartbeat in your ear lightly skips. Startled. A shadow cusps one of the connected hallways, a gleam of silver armor. You blink slowly.

“Apologies, Ma’am.” The Knight. The one from the Great Hall. “I…didn’t mean to make you nervous.”

His lithe form doesn’t try to hide from your accusation, instead, his body moves to the middle of the stone floor and straightens—one hand going to his heart and the other behind his back; bowing. The darkness of his complexion seems to glow in the light, smooth skin besides the marring of small scars along the left cheek. Tiny things, only two lines.

For no reason at all, your body lightly turns towards him, watching.

“I’m not nervous,” you respond. “Please, stand straight.” 

He does so without hesitation, though his eyes are avoiding yours. A guilty pull is to his lips that you can’t help but quirk a brow at. Yet, you remain emotionless, and outside the shadows of flying birds shift past.

“What is your name, Knight?” You see his expression slightly tense at the question, but you continue easily. A test, perhaps, if this man was worth your time. “I recall your face.” 

“I can’t give you that, My Lady.” Brown eyes go to meet yours, and the silver flecks in your orbs glimmer. “My orders were clear.”

“And were those orders also to follow me?” 

He clears his throat, feet shifting. “...Maybe.”

You hum, moving your body slowly and walking forward to him. The man blinks in surprise, straightening even more but a firm set to his eyes. His attention never wavers, unless it’s to glimpse your crown and belt, perfect pieces of artistry lost to this section of humanity. No mortal craftsman could imagine making something as such. He liked them, you notice at the light impression of awe in his gaze.

Anyone with sense would.

Stopping just a few feet away, you tilt your head. 

It was common knowledge that you never gave your name to one of the Fae, your betrothed would have told everyone close to him to avoid doing so. Just as you would never tell your real name to anyone—not even under dire circumstances. Names hold power, and no person in this castle would make you even more of a prisoner than you already were. 

You know the names of beasts and plants, flora and fauna—they bend to you, let you manipulate them to your will, though you often find no need to. The animals from any land prefer your company, anyway. The castle’s hunting hounds have already become well acquainted, just as the messenger birds had. 

But mortals? No. No, there were no names that you knew besides the King himself, and even then it was a fake one. Second names and such, are common. 

“Your title, then,” you say to the Knight. “If you’re to be a constant face to me.”

“Gaz is just fine, I’d say.” He nods his head, a slow smile moving his cheeks. Your brows furrow. Strange fellow. “A pleasure. I really do need to say that I wasn’t following you for long—I was only concerned you might have lost your way.”

You stare. 

“Lost?” Owlishly, your head shifts.

Gaz makes a noise in the back of his throat, one hand coming up to rub at the base of his neck. “Yeah—lost. It’s, uh, it’s a big castle, My Lady—”

“Stag.” Wide eyes blink, this meeting is only awkward on his part and not yours. In fact, for how humans go, he was acting far better than most. Usually, there was iron being brandished by now.

“What was that?”

“My title,” you explain, your crown’s gems bright in the light. The fire crackles, popping. “Stag. I do not need my status stated. I know what I am, Knight.”

“Then I’d say the same,” your fingers twitch, liking the word game he plays. Inside of your sockets, the unnatural makeup of your eyes shimmers. 

“Very well,” you pause, picking your words. “Gaz. A strange choice to be sure.”

He chuckles, nodding in a very stoic-like way despite the nearly boyish nature of him. “Well, Stag isn’t exactly common, either.”

You hum in your throat, unblinking; staring. Your intrigue grows the longer the man talks. Just like in the Great Hall, his form attracts all of your attention to it, against all laws that you seem to know in your soul. 

“Pray tell,” you shift, moving back to the window with your feet not making a single sound. Gaz watches on, eyes flickering between the hanging gems and how you tread over the stone as if you had wings. Your form slips back to the window, and your focus once more goes outward. “Has the King told you to spy on me, Gaz?”

The title, even if not the one of his birth—not the one written on his soul like a brand—still made the air quiver with might. You were older than most of this kingdom, the Knight knew. Older than the oak trees of the nearby forest; older than rock and wind and air.

Power dripped off your tongue like water to a leaf. 

But it wasn’t your influence that made the man answer you. It was his own nature. 

“Yes,” Gaz says, taking a few steps to where you stand, watching a flock of birds dance above the courtyard, silver moon-drips illuminating white feathers. “But I wouldn’t call it spying. Officially, I’ve been put in place to keep you safe, Princess.” His dark brows crease when you don’t pay him any mind. “I take my job very seriously, yeah?” 

“I can see that,” you utter, eyes still on the birds. “The only thing I need protecting from is the iron ring on your right hand.”

He startles, blinking for a moment. 

“...Parden?”

Silver eyes pierce him, watching; waiting. 

Gaz looks down, locking on the hand that has been resting on the pommel of his sword. Cape swishing, he makes a noise in the back of his throat. His sigil ring—the one that had been given over at his dubbing ceremony sat on the first digit, the engraving of his King’s coat of arms glimmering back. 

A wolf; a snake caught in its fangs. 

Brown eyes dart back, and he sheepishly smiles, huffing a chuckle of sorts. 

“Comes with the job, unfortunately,” yet still, his other hand easily grasps and slips the thing off, tucking it away into the leather pouch swinging from his belt. “I thought that was a myth—the Fae being harmed by iron. Conjured up to give people something to cling to.”

“I can name a million things that men and women like you consider myth,” you mutter, starting at that pouch, deep in thought. You hadn’t expected him to give in that easily. Your shoulders loosen their rigidness, but your chin never drops its high pride. “Every story comes from somewhere—be it reality or wives’ tales. Who’s to say that the words don’t give them life in one form or another?” 

“Bloody hell. Not a discussion to take up with me, I’m afraid,” Gaz huffs a chuckle, smirking. While still hesitant around you, the conversation wasn’t anything that made him want to not be around you. Everyone deserved to have their character shown, and what he was seeing so far wasn’t ringing any alarms. “Sound more of a scholar than a Princess, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Your lips quirk. “I prefer philosopher.”

“And what’s a Fae philosopher doing out in the middle of the night, then?” A breeze wafts through the window, blowing on your dress and making Gaz’s cape flutter in its bloodish tint. The torches whip and dance. You take a low breath, bird chips coming closer. 

“Speaking with an old friend.”

A white dove lands on the stone opening of the window, fluttering wings coming to fold along its sleek form until it shakes and settles all at once. 

“Lysander,” you say in greeting, nodding your head. Gaz watches, barely moving as his lips part in astonishment. 

Your hand extends itself, bearing no rings or bracelets. All you needed was your crown. Tiny eyes blink as an angular head turns to the side, tiny coos sparking from a rounded breast. Pale feet grasp your perfect flesh, such a tiny weight settles before you lift effortlessly; wings flapping to keep balance. 

“What news, then?” You ask in a whisper, bringing the beast to your crown. Lysander settles on one of the tines, head dipping down as feathers puff. Into your ear, words take shape. 

You hum in answer, blinking at every clicked sentence; tapping talons. 

Gaz stares blankly, eyebrows pulled up on his head and unable to articulate himself.

So many stories about your people—he hadn’t thought half of them to be true. While he’d been stationed in many places during the duration of this war, he’d never actually encountered one of the Fae before. Gaz had been told they were like a plague; they came in when you weren’t looking, spoke magic into your ears, and forced you to come back to their home and live as mindless beasts. Cupbearers and entertainment. 

Of the countless knights he’d been in line with, he knew the true names of none of them. A precaution. Forethought. 

Yet…you don’t look dangerous. 

But the man is far from stupid. 

“He says the fires from your forges burn his eyes,” your voice snaps him back to you, and he straightens, fingers twitching. Gaz finds your face already turned his way, owlish in its movements. “The smoke makes his throat ache.”

“I,” he pauses, mouth opening and closing. Brown eyes dart to the sharp-beaked dove; the thing very much like you in the way it watches him. “I’m…sorry?”

Your lips pull in a frown, sighing with a shake of your head. 

I can never survive here, you find yourself thinking. I believed this is what I had to do, but if this is how I’m going to live…

“Tell me about your King, Gaz,” your body swiftly turns, feet carrying you down the corridor once more with long, even, steps. “If I’m to marry him, I will know of his nature.”

The man clears his throat and follows after, where you hear the clinking of silver and the scabbard against his thigh. He glances over at you, walking if not a bit behind yourself in proper fashion. 

“What do you want to know, Ma’am?”

Your unnatural orbs shimmer, and the bird on your crown hunkers down; puffed contently and eager to rest his wings from a long flight. 

“Everything. I will not be unaware of my fate.” 

“Well,” Gaz sighs, rubbing at his chin with his opposite hand. He licks his lips, mind running to answer the best he can. “You’ll not want for anything—finery and wealth will—”

“I do not care about mortal revelry. I need neither fine things nor wealth.” Your voice curtly moves along the open air. The Knight’s boots connect with stone while your bare flesh emits nothing. “His character, Knight. Is he fair—just?”

Gaz’s face tightens, glancing from you to the hallway as he takes a moment to think.

“My King has…become troubled with the turning tides of the war. I’m sure when your marriage is official, he’ll go back to how he was before.” He doesn’t seem certain, but loyalty is a trait that a knight knows well. You had been set as his charge, of course, not under the best of circumstances, but he would do his job how he believed would benefit all parties. Even if his guts were stiff at the thought of a forced marriage. 

“My Lady Stag?” He asks, and your heart jerks unexpectedly at the muttering of your title. 

Blinking in confusion, your hand coming up to rub at your collarbone like a willow branch, you almost miss the question entirely. 

“Where you come from, if I can ask, of course, what’s it like?” Your mind strays from marriage ceremonies and consummation—momentary peace slipping in on waves of this man’s smooth accent. 

Mouth opening, only to close once and open again, you decide to indulge this man with your answer. If only because he speaks of your home. 

“Green,” is the soft utterance of your answer to him. “It’s green. More trees and rivers than you can count in your lifetime. Animals each more fantastical than the last; all of which your people now call nothing but hearsay.” 

You can sense his attention, sucking up knowledge as if he had the years to know and understand it all. 

Lysander coos, shaking his feathers out, and you glance upward without moving your head. You chuckle like a blade of moving grass. 

Blinking, Gaz slowly begins to smile, cocking his skull to the side boyishly. “What’s so funny, then?”

Your high nose twitches. 

“He says you’re as if a Wyvern hatching. A curious thing.” Brown eyes drift to your companion, whose peaked eye pierces like black fire-stone. Gaz’s mouth releases a puff of a chuckle, chest jerking. 

“Hell, never thought I’d get insulted by a bird.” 

“Humans have not the ability to speak with beasts,” you ease out, walking on. “On that, I have to say you are at a sure disadvantage.”

“What?” Gaz’s amused voice is in your ear. “Minus the whole immortality thing?”

You side-eye him, visage calm with decades of understanding. “Not everything is built to last forever.”

A momentary silence falls between the two of you. Eyes locked, you both stare, legs carrying bodies across the unfeeling stone until the area Lysander had told you about takes form. You shift a slow right and exit into the inner courtyard, large stone walls making a small square of patchy green grass and dying plants. A fountain sits still. 

“If this is to be a game of equal exchange, Knight, I desire to ask the next question.” Your eyes take it all in, hand moving out to capture the blackened leaves of a Medlar tree. Frowning at the dead fauna, you hear Lysander take to wing, flapping until his ghostly form lands on the far-off fountain’s edge. 

“Alright,” Gaz nods, looking around at the dying place with a frown as well. He’d never come here before, but the state of things was…sad, really. “Ask away.”

“When you leave the castle—the town,” you let power move to your fingertips, and you feel the tingles of it running the lengths of your arms like ice and fire; taking a low breath. “What do you see? I admit, I’m not used to having company with humans. I know not how their souls feel.”

Gaz walks into the small enclosed space, humming as he taps the pommel of his sword. His shoulders shrug as his head tilts up, blinking at the stars. 

“I wouldn’t see it as you would, I gather.”

You look over your shoulder, amusement in your face mixed with a slice of intrigue. “That wasn’t my question. But, no, you would not.” 

“Figured,” he chuckles, nodding at you. Gaz articulates himself dutifully. “I see a place far more peaceful than the one here. Outside the stone and smog—it’s beautiful, truly. Calm. You can actually think above the noise, you know? I usually find myself wanting to get out more often, but my duty ties me here.” 

Your eyes soften slightly, thumb running the face of the leaf as you take in his words. Lysander stoops to take a sip of water. 

“You’re…” You lack the words, only humming and stopping yourself. 

“Why are we here, Princess?” Gaz asks you, gazing around. “I had only expected you to walk to the kitchens—the library, even. Don’t get me wrong, you can go as you wish, but I’m not sure this is the most…” He grunts. “Sightly place to end up. Everything’s dead.”

“Nearly,” you whisper, a tiny smile taking over your flesh. “Not quite.” 

Gaz’s frown is lost to you, as is his comment that he mutters, “Looks it.”

Leaning forward, you press your lips to the leaf you hold as if a precious object. Into its blackened and shriveled form, you whisper its name—its true name, one you had learned through years of patience and trust that bordered on an entirely trance-like state. A Medlar is a tough and stubborn thing, like the fruit it bears, it will hang on until all else is gone to dust. Its roots are strong, and from them, you had listened to the earth sing its songs one buzzing note at a time.

All things speak, you just have to know how to listen. 

There’s a surge of wild order, a dichotomy of will and freedom; the sing of an axe and the memories of young saplings just gracing their leaves to the sun. A circle of death and rebirth as old as the stars that still shone in a sky of black. 

You know many names, but those of the trees were the first to come to you, and it was only proper. Before anything, there were trees. 

The Medlar shakes, its leaves dropping down one at a time until they come in groups, in clusters—bare branches shiver like dogs do until creaking ballads move over the air. 

Starling, Gaz had taken a large step back, hand snapping to the handle of his sword, the blade half drawn. Lysander flies past his face, blunt talons skating the close-cropping of his hair before the bird grapples to your crown. Flinching, the knight watched with a mixture of horror and pure wonder.

The tree was sprouting new greens. 

You step back, and from your feet, the dead grass quivers, before the smell of groaning earth makes his nose twitch; fresh blades show themselves anew. The dove atop your crown jumps from one sharp tine to the next, dodging lines of gold—eyes glinting and wings flapping excitedly. 

Life is in the very air. 

You smile to yourself, silver eyes moving as a nearly ancient-looking spark flares to life in them—a long breath entering your lungs. 

Gaz’s face begins to heat as he watches, his heart pounding with something he can’t understand. He stares at your bright face before his fast-blinking eyes move to the grass growing all around; the bushes dancing, flowers opening up and turning to you. Birds gather on the edges of this verdant and fertile land, darting one by one to the fountain and to the trees. Singing.  

The knight steps back, feet dancing over the ground with an airy laugh stuck in his throat. 

“Holy hell…” he breathes, nearly panting. 

Wide eyes move back to you, expression open, innocent. This was a moment when you truly believed you’d never seen a face more bare than this; more giving. 

“You…” He laughs. “You’re tellin’ me you could always do that?” You chuckle, and it is a sound that could make roots grow in his heart, flowers bursting from his lungs. “I…I’m speechless, really. This is,” he laughs once more, turning a full circle, with his hand going to the back of his neck in shock. It was entirely new—all of it. Ivy climbed the stone, and the animals spoke and flew in the air; excitement something that transcends species. “This is extraordinary.”

You were something incredible. 

Chuckling, you raise a slow brow, feeling a foreign heat move over your cheeks. It’s a moment before you speak, taken aback by the reverency.

“My thanks, Knight,” your head nods his way, a simple dip of your chin and nothing more. “But this is only a small courtyard. A fraction. If I so wished, forests could grow from ashen ground.”

“How?” He asks you, eyes glittering more than the moon. 

Smaller birds join Lysander on your head, finches, perhaps, and sparrows. They tweet and chip, speaking their thanks. You reach up and let one move onto your finger, bringing it back to eye level as you move to softly connect your forehead to its own. Moving back, you hum and watch the bird fly off.

“Ages of practice,” you elegantly tip your head his way, careful of your cargo. “Quite verbatim.” 

Gaz is speechless, unable to recall something in his life that had made him feel so special to be able to witness it. Magic to humans was a dying thing—you’d be surprised if he’d ever even seen it in this magnitude before. 

“...Amazing,” he utters under his breath, smiling like a fool.

For all of your Fae trickery, your games, you had to be honest. “I don’t believe I thought you’d be this moved by it.”

“Really?” He blinks at you, a boyish twist to his face. “How could I bloody not be, Love?”

Your air gets stuck in your throat, eyes minutely widening. 

Gaz quickly comes back to himself, straightening and clearing his throat as your face suddenly blazes in a way that startles you. Heart pattering like a horse’s hooves not only at the…different title but his awe at your magic as well. 

“Forgive me, My Lady,” you choose not to correct him. “I overstepped.”

His body bends forward in a deep bow, hand to his heart, resting over his armor as the cape drapes its crimson fabric to the now vibrant grass. 

It had briefly eluded you that you were to be married soon. A comment like that could get the Knight and his tree-bark brown eyes put to the sword. You hold back a long sigh, eyelids fluttering shut softly. 

“Is he kind?” Your question is small, but it moves like a knife.

Gaz stares hard at the ground, once dead and nothing but a reminder of nature. He clenches his jaw, a worry swirling in his gut. The man knows who you’re asking about, and he holds the same dread he did in the Great Hall as you were led like a sacrificial lamb to the altar. 

Maybe the Knight was broken, but even if he’d never met one of your kind before, he knew that no person deserved to be bartered for the illusion of peace—forced to give children like they were only objects. But maybe he was also just a man not meant for this lifetime.

It was the way of things.

Gaz swallows the tension in his shoulders. He will not lie. 

“...No.”

—

This tall knight had become a constant at your side. Officially, he’d been placed for your protection, but you knew it was because the King didn’t want you to cut and run. 

But unless there was a very good reason to, he should have known that you were not the running type. It was a battle of wits, and even into your marriage, you would always come out on top.

It started easy enough—Michael would invite you for tours of the castle ‘making it a home’ he’d said in front of his court. It was a power trip. 

He’d talk about his wealth like it would make you swoon; like you cared at all. You could only hide your sneer for so many hours, even with your infinite amount of patience. Time had mellowed you like the rocks of the ocean, but even they cracked when the storm was strong enough. 

Yet still, you considered yourself too intelligent for baseline insults.

“My palace was much the same, your Highness. Our towers rose high—nearly gracing the clouds themselves.”

“Oh, lovely, my King. Pray tell, do you also have pet dragons? Oh…unicorns, perhaps? My, I had the most lovely unicorn companion when I was just shy of my two-hundredth birth year. A little thing—all legs and neck. Beautiful creatures.” 

“Gorgeous little trinkets. Tell me, do you have a coffer for fallen stars? They create the most magnificent illumination for late-night reading.”

Gaz nearly lost his composure at times, even if no one else could tell except for you and your pointed ears; twitching at every breath that was fought to keep still. The over-the-lip huffs and chuckles. In fact, you found yourself perpetuating the back-handed insults just to hear those noises. Such small and meaningless things, in the grand scheme. 

You took…enjoyment from it.

Seeing the effect it had on the King was also a bonus—his raging eyes, snapping tongue held back for only his reputation and little more. He wanted to take you by the arm and shake you, you knew, yell in your face. 

Kind, King Michael was not. Gaz had been correct. 

In the nights, you would discuss with the Knight—sitting in the dense and growing courtyard with your body comfortable on the grass; Gaz’s on the fountain’s edge.

You have much of the same confidence in one another as you do tonight. 

“Do knights marry for love?” Your voice wafts out, petting Lysander with a single finger in your lap; itching at his neck as he coos. “Do they get to choose?” 

Gaz fiddles with his cape’s clasp, fingers dancing over the silver make. He has made a motion to always take off his ring when it’s just the two of you, easily slipping it away until he was forced to put it back on. He doesn’t know if you feel it, but he believes the two of you to be well-off acquaintances—perhaps even friends. 

The man enjoyed speaking to you. He reveled in the limitless knowledge that spilled from your tongue, your stories and tales. Gaz, unlike so many others, enjoyed your company not for the power that it offers in a physical sense, but for the words that you freely give. Often your sentences were like honey to him, seeping into his head.

A princess speaking with a knight? Unheard of. A Fae princess? Blasphemy. 

It was easy to forget that you were older than many generations of his family line. 

“No,” he says, glancing over. “All knights take a vow of chastity when they commit to service. None of those alive in this kingdom will wed unless they willingly break their oaths.” 

Your head tilts, crown resting comfortably a small distance away on a rock.

“That sounds lonely.”

Gaz smiles, “Worried about me?” 

You stare, eyes traveling the little deaths on his face—the lines, the scars. “If it’s what you wish to do with yourself, who am I to tell you any different?” 

The man’s face softens, lips pulling as his cheeks heat under the moonlight. “Figured you’d have some opinion of it.”

You hum, raising a brow. “It’s your life—it’s so fleeting. Tread it as if water between your fingers. Before you know it, it’ll be gone.” Lysander leans into your flesh, shivering. “Live it.”

“For someone who says they don’t know humans that well,” Gaz grumbles, though his chest is light. “You sure know a lot about them.”

“Intuition,” your mouth twitches in a smile. “And a bit of reality.”

Delicate looks are shared. 

You do admit, you liked these conversations with Gaz. The long nights and the feeling of grass under your flowing dresses; the horrid contraptions that your betrothed had tried to make you wear stuck far back into the wardrobe of your room. Heavy items—suffocating corsets, unlike the simple but elegantly sewn one you wear now. You could feel it trying to sneak in when the days drew on. 

Control. 

It was all becoming more and more apparent. You did not want to live like this. 

Your face goes troubled as the calm silence moves over the Medlar with its reaching branches. Fireflies hang like miniature stars as you take your crown and slip it back on; to feel the comforting weight of antlers. 

The knight pauses as he slips his cape off of his shoulder, blinking over at you in a slow confusion. You look troubled. He’d never seen that expression on your face before.

“Stag?” Your head swivels, as if in another world.

“Just thinking,” your voice moves into his ears, making them hum with energy. Gaz’s brows furrow, a frown taking over. After a second, he stands, moving closer on quiet feet. 

You watch him as he goes to kneel near you, one arm moving over the bent nature of his leg while the other holds fabric—letting it cascade over the earth. Brown eyes narrow, and a joking tease moves with the undertone of slight concern.

“I’m usually the talker, I know, but when you look a bit like that it makes me nervous.”

You frown. “Look like what?”

“Like someone’s got a sword to your neck, Princess.” The air is cool here, the deep throws of night taking you by the breath in your throat. A smooth smirk. “It’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen, yeah?”

If you leave, if you find a way out of this…the war will never end. It will go on until stone cracks like glass and generations forget why it even started in the first place. 

But why were you put to the axe because of it? Why must you take the blade to the stomach—an object of greed? 

Gaz’s amused voice moves lower at your immobile lips, going serious. 

“Hey,” a hand outstretched to your arm, hovering. “Really, is everything alright?”

“Gaz,” you pause, voice still level despite your heated pulse. It’s like a snake curls itself in your guts, roots growing in your veins. The courtyard seems to shiver all by itself, leaves curling into themselves from bushes and trees. Lysander’s feet shimmy, head moving about. 

This knight had been kind to you as well as honest about his intentions. Chivalrous. Such qualities are hard to come by anymore.

“I don’t believe I want this.” It’s a breath more quiet than a lapping of waves. Gaz stills, fingers above your flesh twitching. “I can’t live in a cage. I refuse.”

Silver meets brown, holding it firmly. 

“I will not be a prize to be chained to a birthing bed.” 

The man’s face pulls at that, tightening. 

You don’t know what to expect. It isn’t fear in you—no, nothing like this could make you afraid. Apprehensive? Perhaps. Age made you cautious. At any moment he might flip his tune; run off to tattle to a King he, seemingly, likes just as much as you. Which is to say, very little. But there’s still the possibility, the knowledge stacked over ages and ages of strategy and mind games. 

A knight of a tension-ridden kingdom, swearing fealty to a King whom you’re betrothed to. You’d just expressed treason, in a way. It could put you to the sword; to the rope. To irons. Your mind runs through the millions of possibilities, not able to settle on a single one before—

A cape settles over your shoulders, startling you. 

Hand snapping to grab the front, your head snaps up, eyes wider than you can remember them ever going. 

Soft browns meet you, a thin smile. Fireflies buzz about, and a dove sits under your still finger, watching with beady orbs intently at the scene. A Medlar quivers. 

A stag and a knight breathe the same air. A godly creation and a saint ensnared in a song far larger than they intend, as the world shifts past all around them. Silver starlight leaves long reflections breaking from the hanging glory of your gems, but the patches of light on Gaz’s face capture yours in that instant far more than they should have. 

Impossibly so. Unnaturally so. 

Does this mortal have magic of his own, perhaps? You have to ask yourself. There was no other possibility. 

And when he speaks…it’s like whatever ice has been layered over your antediluvian heart breaks into fire. There wasn’t even a fight from him.

“Then tell me what you need.”

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 1 EPISODE 10 || BY THE PRICKING OF MY THUMBS ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

The realization of Jamie’s imminent departure was deeply depressing; I suddenly realized just how much I looked forward to seeing him at dinner after the day’s work, how my heart would leap when I saw him unexpectedly at odd moments during the day, and how much I depended on his company and his solid, reassuring presence amid the complexities of life in the castle. And, to be perfectly honest, how much I liked the smooth, warm strength of him in my bed each night, and waking to his tousled, smiling kisses in the mornings. The prospect of his absence was bleak. He held me closely, my head snuggled under his chin. “I’ll miss you, Jamie,” I said softly. He hugged me tighter, and gave a rueful chuckle. “So will I, Sassenach. I hadna expected it, to tell the truth—but it will hurt me to leave ye.” He stroked my back gently, fingers tracing the bumps of the vertebrae.

“Jamie … you’ll be careful?”

I could feel the deep rumble of amusement in his chest as he answered. “Of the Duke or the horse?” He was, much to my apprehension, intending to ride Donas on the stag hunt. I had visions of the huge sorrel beast plunging over a cliff out of sheer wrong-headedness, or trampling Jamie under those lethal hooves. “Both,” I said dryly. “If the horse throws you and you break a leg, you’ll be at the Duke’s mercy.” “True. Dougal will be there, though.” I snorted. “He’ll break the other leg.” He laughed and bent his head to kiss me.

“I’ll be careful, mo duinne. Will ye give me the same promise?” “Yes,” I said, meaning it. “Do you mean whoever left the ill-wish?” The momentary amusement was gone now.

Perhaps. I dinna think you’re in any danger, or I wouldna leave ye. But still … oh, and stay away from Geillis Duncan.” “What? Why?” I drew back a little to look up at him. It was a dark night and his face was invisible, but his tone was altogether serious. “The woman’s known as a witch, and the stories about her—well, they’ve got a deal worse since her husband died. I dinna want ye anywhere near her, Sassenach.” “Do you honestly think she’s a witch?” I demanded. His strong hands cupped my bottom and scooped me in close to him. I put my arms around him, enjoying the feel of his smooth, solid torso. “No,” he said finally. “But it isna what I think that could be a danger to ye. Will ye promise?”

“All right.” In truth, I had little reluctance to give the promise; since the incidents of the changeling and the summoning, I had not felt much desire to visit Geilie. I put my mouth on Jamie’s nipple, flicking it lightly with my tongue. He made a small sound deep in his throat and pulled me nearer. “Open your legs,” he whispered. “I mean to be sure you’ll remember me while I’m gone.” Sometime later, I woke feeling cold. Groping sleepily for the quilt, I couldn’t find it. Suddenly it came up over me of its own accord. Surprised, I raised up on one elbow to look. “I’m sorry,” Jamie said. “I didna mean to wake ye, lass.” “What are you doing? Why are you awake?” I squinted over my shoulder at him. It was still dark, but my eyes were so accustomed that I could see the faintly sheepish expression on his face. He was wide awake, sitting on a stool by the side of the bed, his plaid flung around him for warmth.

“It’s only … well, I dreamed you were lost, and I couldna find ye. It woke me, and … I wanted to look at ye, is all. To fix ye in my mind, to remember while I’m gone. I turned back the quilt; I’m sorry you were chilled.”

“It’s all right.” The night was cold, and very quiet, as though we were the only two souls in the world. “Come into bed. You must be chilled too.” He slid in next to me and curled himself against my back. His hands stroked me from neck to shoulder,waist to hip, tracing the lines of my back, the curves of my body.

“Mo duinne,” he said softly. “But now I should say mo airgeadach. My silver one. Your hair is silver-gilt and your skin is white velvet. Calman geal. White dove.”

Cap 24 ~OUTLANDER

[atopvisenyashill]

imo rhaenyra’s “madness” being that of a cult leader capable of convincing her followers to do ostensibly insane things cuz she’s just that charismatic & self-assured in the correctness of her beliefs is way cooler and less sexist than the typical ‘she went crazy’ targ nonsense, "ohhh ‘mad queen’ daenerys she’s so crazy it’s that classic targ madness just like her ‘mad’ ancestor ‘mad’ king aerys you never know with those ‘mad’ targaryens" that’s so boring lol, give me something believable

YES i honestly don’t understand and have been increasingly annoyed by these really disingenuous “oh so when rhaenyra slaughters innocents it’s totally fine bc she has the divine right 😒” criticism when it couldn’t be more clear that’s not what’s happening. i mentioned this with the white stag before, how people are taking the most bad faith reading of it imaginable and saying that’s objectively what the writers intended when….it’s very clear the writers are intending for a more nuanced exploration of the entire concept of the white stag, YOU (general you, not you anon) are purposefully taking it in a negative way because you like being pissed off. what an obnoxious way of engaging with the story!

and i feel the same here! the main criticism i see of rhaenyra is that a) she’s not allowed to get her hands bloody/she’s always in the right and b) they’re making it seem as if she has the divine right to commit violence due to the prophecy. there is absolutely no narrative basis for these readings though, it’s COMPLETELY people projecting.

the reason she doesn’t do anything earlier in the season is because she also isn’t doing anything in the BOOK during this section because of her grief. i think criticism of HOW they wrote that is valid - the fact that she doesn’t speak at all in the first episode was a heinous choice, i get what they were going for, but it fell so flat that as Professional Writers they should have realized they were missing the mark there - but this constant “rhaenyra doesn’t get her hands dirty” “rhaenyra is too perfect” is so fucjing obnoxious. they’re ✨building up to it✨ guys, it’s why they did the stuff with Aemond not meaning to kill Luke and then actively attempting to kill/harm Aegon, it’s why the Green Council goes from squabbling to actively suppressing Alicent’s voice, it’s why Rhaenyra's convos with Jacaerys have gotten increasingly more angry, on and on. Sorry you all wanted Rhaenyra to be a Born Evil Queen, but if they’re not doing that with Alicent, why would they do that with Rhaenyra? "Oh they only had Jacaerys call the dragonseeds mongrels because-" my comrade in christ they took Alicent making the decision to lock the smallfolk into the city and gave it to Aemond to make her look better and make Aemond look worse it's the exact same thing and they're doing it because they're trying to have a conversation about the cyclical rot of feudalism and the way these people are completely trapped by their own design in this cycle of violence!!!!

and YES very much, this gets into point b which is like....THIS is Mad Queen Rhaenyra, THIS is Rhaenyra the Cruel! It's Rhaenyra holding onto this prophecy that gives her the divine right to be violent, that represents her father choosing her over everyone else, that represents her own worthiness as a ruler, that every single fucked up thing she's suffered is worth it because the fabled hero will come from her line, because Jacaerys will follow her onto the throne and there will be unending peace, because Viserys chose HER he loved HER he only ever loved HER, and she HAS THE RIGHT but what does "have the right" even mean. "oh they always portray her as morally in the right" NO THEY DO NOT YOU ARE MAKING THAT UP. Rhaenyra thinks she's morally in the right and the show is constantly making her face the consequences of her own actions, and showing that (again, and I cannot overemphasize this enough, just like Alicent, just like Viserys, just like Aegon, and while they do it sloppily with them, just like Aemond and Daemon!) Rhaenyra will close her eyes to the glaring faults of the people around her and the violence she is helping to perpetuate because to her in the end, all of this suffering has to be worth it and she has this fancy little prophecy that is showing her it is worth it. That's so interesting! It's fascinating! "Well I think she-" Well that's just your opinion man! I'm having a fucking ball watching her step closer and closer to the edge and insisting that she's staying still, she's playing safe, it's everyone else that is taking the leap. That's fun, that's engaging, that's a good way of depicting that dichotomy of how greatness can so easily turn to madness.

[starlightrosa]

The Night Before Sinsmas

Welcome, one and all, to my very special Christmas fic. Grab a blanket, come get comfortable near the fire and listen to Auntie Rosa tell you a lovely story on this lovely Christmas Eve.

*opens the book up and clears throat.*

Summary: Sinsmas Eve holds some funny things in store for a certain deer Sinner.

Word Count: 1.2k

Enjoy the rhyming fun, and have a lovely Christmas Eve filled with all the joy you can have, my sweet little stars 💖

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

‘Twas the night before Sinsmas when through the abyss of Hell, one could hear faint noises of merriment coming from the Hazbin Hotel.

Charlie and Vaggie were busy hanging up the Sinsmas lights, that sparkled like pixies in the dark of the night. Angel and Husk were making eggnog with the radio warbling a chorus of blues, as the two Sinners made their batches of booze. Niffty was scrubbing the chimney free of its soot and its dust, so the fabled man himself could come in without any fuss.

But one specific Sinner was not joining in the Hellish cheer. Have you guessed it? That’s right. Our story begins with a certain grump of a deer.

Alastor sat, his red eyes watching the Sinners fuss and crowd. “This silly old celebration is just too darn loud.”

“Come on, Al! Come have some fun!” dear Charlie did implore. But Al’s response?

“I’m going to my room. This disgusts me to my core.”

With that, the deer demon ascended to his chambers, soon closing his eyes tight. And though Charlie was downcast, the surprises were far from over that night.

For when the hotel’s clock struck midnight and each resident was lying snug in their bed, none of them noticed the nightmarish creature flying in Saint Nicholas’s stead.

“Here comes Krampus!” the flying creature called. He was Hell’s version of Kris Kringle, sent to demons every Sinsmas Eve. He wasn’t a white-bearded man, like you or I might believe. Krampus was here to punish the Sinners who acted out of line, alerted by the ring of a bell each time.

“Ding-a-ling, ring-ding-a-ling!” came the trademark sound of the Sinsmas bell, designed to alert Krampus to ill-behavers all throughout Hell. And the very location of this particular bell? Coming right from the Hazbin Hotel.

As Krampus flew to the hotel and landed on the crest, he sensed from one room a lack of goodwill and jest. “Oh me, oh my. I don’t smell fear. But Krampus can smell a grumpy soul here.”

And with a speed that could rival Saint Nick, Krampus flew down the chimney lightning quick.

The horned figure was quick to ascend to the second-most floor, grinning to himself as he heard Alastor snore. Krampus entered the room to find Alastor asleep, the covers pulled up taut. The horned creature grinned: it was this one he had caught.

“Well, well, Alastor. A foolish mortal corrupted by what he strived once to gain. The path to your power littered with wails of pain. Such a horrific thing, badder than bad could possibly do. Cannot wait to finally get these hands upon you~!”

The teasing words roused Alastor, his red eyes slowly coming alive. And that was when Krampus began to squeeze each side.

Alastor bucked, being completely unprepared for such an attack. “Ah! Oh, stop it! Stop!! Who on earth’s doing that?!”

A chuckle from the Krampus as he whispered in Alastor’s ear. “You’ve been bad. So the Krampus is here. You’ve been grumpy on a day where in Hell for once, there’s happy jest. So take your punishment and don’t wake up the rest.”

Alastor tried to protest, but Krampus just ignored his half-baked demands as he began to trace his claws on Alastor’s hands.

“I should warn you now little deer. I will not be kind, nor do I intend to be a rule-following nag. But that’s what happens when you behave like a grumpy old stag.”

Alastor’s ears flattened, and he hissed out a reply. “I am NOT any of those things.”

“Little deer, it’s not clever to lie.”

Krampus’s talons dug in, Alastor’s cackles filling the room as his ribs were ruthlessly clawed. “A good place already? Perfect. Your punishment goes till I get bored.”

Tickling Alastor was a want, not a need. And that was just fine, as Krampus picked up the speed. His claws darted and zipped around Alastor’s bony cage, the Sinner laughing like a child more than half his age.

“Hahahaha! Oh, goodness! Oh, it tickles! Stop it, y-you wicked tease! Just – hahaha! – Let me go! St-Stohohohop it, plehehease!”

“Begging already, Alastor? So quick! Why, the moon hasn’t even set. Settle in, little deer. I’m not done with you yet.”

Alastor cackled, pushing at the wicked digits that were tickling with no kind of relief, his smile so wide, it showed off his yellowing teeth.

“Please, Krahahahampus! I swear I’ll stop! I’ll join in the fun!”

“Good idea.” Krampus said. “But your punishment is nowhere near done.”

When Krampus got bored of the deer’s ribs, his tactics did switch when the nightmarish monster chose to aim for Alastor’s hips.

Alastor screeched at the new touch but a hand clamped over his smile, silencing the ticklish deer for at least a little while.

“Now, now.” Krampus tutted, his own smile shining through. “Don’t wake Princess Charlie or the others. That’d be most inconsiderate of you.”

“I cahahan’t help it!” Alastor cried out. “You’re the one who’s tickling me!”

“Then I guess you should see how much worse it could be.”            

Alastor didn’t get a chance to plead or to beg, as up went his shirt and down came the Krampus’s head. And Alastor’s back arched, for the Krampus had a new source of fun. Which was blowing a raspberry on Alastor’s tum.

Alastor screamed through the Krampus’s hand, bucking every which way as the Krampus used Alastor as a new kind of play. “AAH! AHAHAHA, NOHO! Thahahat tihihickles! This is torture! You wicked old billy!”

“Who knew the Radio Demon would enjoy being tickled silly?”

The teasing remark turned Alastor’s cheeks a bright burning red, his tail thwacking like a puppy’s against the covers of his bed.

“I-I do NOT enjoy this!” the deer did deny. But Krampus just grinned.

“Your tail betrays thee. Like I said, not wise to lie.”

Then a second raspberry. Then a third, followed by a fourth and fifth. And even then, the Krampus went for a sixth.

As each laugh from Alastor was rapidly released, he became tired and his squirming soon ceased. The deer just laid there and took each tickle that the Krampus dished out as he went, the Radio Demon’s energy completely and utterly spent.

He could only giggle tiredly, no longer trying to fight or fend. So Krampus decided to finally bring Alastor’s punishment to an end.

At long last, Krampus finally took his wicked hands and mouth away, as night was changing slowly from darkness to day. Alastor was fighting to stay awake, for he was a stubborn Sinner. But in the case of slumber, the need to sleep would be crowned the winner.

Krampus settled Alastor back under the cover, and pulled the blankets up in a fashion not unlike a mother.

“Goodnight to thee, Alastor. You better behave.” Krampus warned as he finally took his leave. Alastor didn’t even hear him, the deer deep asleep with ease.

Ascending the chimney, Krampus looked at the rising pentagram sun.

“Another year over.” he said. “My work here’s done.”

As the nightmarish goat took to the skies for what remained of darkness slowly being overtaken by pinpricks of light, he had time for his call. “To all a fair night, and Merry Sinsmas to all!”

When Alastor awoke the very next morn, he looked out of his window at the bright red dawn.

Alastor recalled Krampus’s warning, and maybe the monster had altered one of Alastor’s behaviours at the very least, as he walked downstairs to join the others for the Sinsmas Day Feast.

The End!

Sweet dreams, my lovelies. Have yourself a wonderful Christmas Eve, and enjoy your holidays <3

[nostalgiclittlespace]

Request: Care giver! Lilith and little! Lucifer (Hazbin hotel)

Plot: Lucifer being in little space and Lilith taking care of her baby (he’d be 0-2 years old), just lots of fluff please 💕

Thanks so much for the ask, anon! Sorry for the short delay in getting this out, but I hope you enjoy! (Also it seems like all of my agere fics end with sleepy cuddles 😭 aka Self indulgence. Luci was also very neurodivergent coded. Again, self indulgence)

SFW AGE REGRESSION FIC, DNI IF KINK, NSFW, PROSHIP, OR SIMILAR. DO NOT REPOST.

Title: The Cutest King of Hell

Word Count: 1249

Pairing: CG! Lilith x Little! Lucifer

Description: Playtime and a picnic for Little Luci! (Fluff!)

The Cutest King of Hell

Lucifer.  A daring, intelligent, cunning creature.  The first to introduce evil and disobedience to the so perfect human kind.  He had once been an angel, hand-crafted by God, and cast away from his first home.  But now, he was a king, the most powerful being in Hell…

But he also happened to be the cutest.

Lilith huffed affectionately as Lucifer pushed his rubber ducks along the floor.  Laying on his stomach, pacifier between his lips, white and yellow onesie equipped–no one could argue that he wasn’t just the sweetest, most innocent being Hell had ever seen.

Especially not Lilith.

She too sat on the floor, pushing the rubber ducks back towards Lucifer, as if they were swimming back down the lake of his pale blue playmat.  There were many other creatures along for the adventure too of course.  Some frogs, fish, and even a couple plastic dinosaurs had made it into Lucifer’s imaginary world.

Lilith knew all about the fallen angel’s imagination and creativity of course.  Perhaps it was the thing she adored most about him.  He could create infinite stories, creatures, and worlds in that perfect mind of his.  Even when regressed as young as this, he managed to maintain a clear enough objective in his play.  If his babbling was anything to go by, the ducks were meeting the dinos and toads for a picnic on a faraway island.  Called Ducky Island of course.

“What’s the duck say, Luci?” Lilith quizzed with a smile as she pushed one towards him to join the other rubber figures at their meet-up.

“Qwak!” the baby exclaimed, pushing it along.  “Qwak, qwak, qwak!”

Though the mimicry was muffled by the silicone in his mouth, his confidence and pride in the answer was evident by his eyes crinkling into a smile.

“That’s right,” Lilith smiled as well.

The Queen of Hell reached for the toy bin, where they kept all of Lucifer’s play toys.  FIshing around, it only took a moment for her fingers to land on yet another duckling.

“Here’s James Pond.  Is he going to the party too?”

“Yeah!” Luci giggled.  “Swim, swim, swim.”

“Off he goes, swimming and swimming,” Lilith agreed, pushing the tuxedo-wearing rubber duck in a circle then towards Lucifer.

Lucifer took over, gliding the duck in smooth patterns across the playmat.  Lilith watched, enjoying the play’s serenity.  Hell, a place of violence and punishment, didn’t see moments as simple as this.  If she were to simply step onto her doorstep, blood, swears, and devastation would greet her.  Inside however, in the nursery she had designed to protect from the horrors, the R-rated nonsense wouldn’t exist.  Here, the most complicated thing was figuring out how to keep Lucifer entertained for more than ten minutes.

“Looks like that picnic needs some food, Luci,” Lilith remarked, pointing to the congregation at ‘Ducky Island.’  “What would they like to eat?”

“Apple,” Lucifer replied, lining up several frogs with the other guests.

“How about apples with peanut butter?” Lilith suggested.

“Yummy!  And cookies?”  

“Of course.  Would you like to help me get it?”

“Mhm!”

Lucifer smiled behind his pacifier, placing the very last duck at the picnic gathering.  Then, using his hands for balance, he pushed himself to his feet with the grace of a baby deer.    

Lilith stood along with him, borrowing the elegance of a great stag.  Lucifer immediately grabbed her hand.  Holding himself close to her, he lightly leaned into her side for balance.  Lilith took it in stride, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze as they ambled towards the kitchen.

  The plush carpet beneath their feet, the perfect crimson walls, and the occasional abandoned toy paved the way through the castle.  Lucifer’s babbling filled the royals’ desolate hallways.  An innocent, adorable sound, a stark contrast to the endless curses that would envelop anywhere else in Hell. 

Soon, Lucifer and Lilith arrived at the kitchen.  Like the nursery, it held all Lucifer’s essentials.  Baby bottles lined the countertops.  Several sippy cups and plastic plates had been abandoned in the sink to be washed.

“Let’s get your picnic and bring it back to Ducky Island,” Lilith said.

Even if he would inevitably make a mess of crumbs and peanut butter on his playmat, seeing the joy Hell’s little king derived from his picnics and play made the mess worth it.  

So, Lilith grabbed a couple apples from the pantry, along with a jar of peanut butter and a package of his favorite cookies.  Lucifer watched with big eyes and a smile beneath his pacifier.  He already extended his hands, silently requesting a sweet treat.

“Not until you finish your healthy food,” Lilith chastised lightly, tapping his nose playfully.  “Come on, let’s get your picnic ready.

Luckily, Lucifer wouldn’t have to wait long.  Within a minute, Lilith had sliced the apples and arranged them in the shape of a swan.  Luci’s eyes grew wide and lustered as he watched the snack take shape.  With a scoop of peanut butter plopped beside it, it was ready to be enjoyed. 

(The cookies, despite some pouting, remained in their box for now.)

Revitalized by the prospect of a delicious snack, Lucifer tugged on her hand, pulling her towards the nursery.  He was already babbling about how all his duckies would be thrilled to see the apple duck she had created.  Actually, it was a swan, but she didn’t bother correcting him; not only would it be pointless, his cuteness was too much to even remotely diminish.

As soon as they arrived at the playroom, Lucifer broke free from her hand holding; he rushed back to his toys on loose, uncoordinated steps.  He plopped down right in front of the ducks and dinosaurs, then popped his pacifier out of his mouth.  Mumbling incoherently, he patted his hand on the spot behind him–clearly demanding that snack time begins.

“Yes, I’m coming,” Lilith smiled, placing the dish on the mat beside him.  

Happily, Lucifer snatched an apple slice.  He took a bite before showing it to his toys.  He continued his baby-talk, and made dramatized munching sounds as his toys also digged into their lunch.  Lilith also may have stolen a couple sweet slices.

As predicted, peanut butter stickiness covered the mat.  Apple juice dripped off Luci’s chin.  Once the cookies were brought out, an ungodly amount of crumbs covered his onesie.  Nonetheless, the endearing giggles made the mess seem small enough.  As the snack slowly disappeared, Luci’s energy did the same. He yawned, scratching his eyes as his sluggish a hands and slurring babbles poked at his toys. Lilith, knowing naptime would soon follow, strode from her place on the floor over to the nightstand, where she wound his music box. By the time Lucifer had noticed she had temporarily left his side, the gentle notes already drifted through the nursery.

Lucifer stared up her, taking long and slow blinks as she scooped him off the floor. It seemed that playtime had sapped all his energy. Duckling picnics were very tiring work after all. As soon as his pacifier was replaced in his mouth, his head rested on her shoulder. The sound music box would last long enough to get the little king to sleep. But not without his lullaby added onto it. Soft lyrics danced with the ringing song.

“More than anything, more th anything, I’ll shelter and adore you more than anything. More than anything, more than anything, need you to know I love you more than anything.”

And every word was true.

[17panicattacksinatrenchcoat]

writemas day 2!!!

merry writemas everyone! writemas is a holiday writing game by @agirlandherquill ! anyone is welcome to join in!

today my prompt was "ice". this sorta came to me all in one piece... hope you like it!

content warning: panic attacks, broken bones, a traumatic brain injury, death, and hypothermia

writemas day 2 feeling prompt: ice

The last day I saw you awake was the day we went ice skating: the February of our senior year. It was twenty degrees outside and puffy white clouds socketed the perfect teal of the sky. Mounds of snow glittered on the ground. Our town was bite-sized and surrounded for miles by encroaching masses of trees. In summer, these woods terrified me: brimful with animals and oak branches that reached out over the roads in a manner that seemed carnivorous to me. That day, though, the trees had all lost their leaves save for the pines, and we had a yearly tradition of skating on the frozen lake half a mile from town. I came to your house that morning to get you. You had on too few layers for the cold: one chic black coat, a red scarf, cargo pants, boots. But you were used to the cold because you went to our town's one --albeit dilapidated-- skating rink every chance you got. You'd twirl for hours while I shivered alone in the stands: rail-thin, you were so quick on the ice that it looked like you were flying. I was late picking you up because it was a weekend and I'd had work in the morning. This was my first mistake, though I didn't realize it at the time. It was still mid-afternoon, hours before it would get dark. I thought it would be safe. We walked down the road with our fingers linked together. The sun was shining and its light gilded the power lines a blinding yellow. On the annual skating checklist: hot chocolates payed for at the gas station at the top of the hill, then dumped into our thermoses from the flimsy paper cups. A snowball fight on the way down to the lake punctuated by our laughter. Then skating in laps around the lake. Every time we went you tried to break your previous year's record. I had to drop out after fifteen laps or so and catch my breath, watching you. When you passed me each time, I waved at you, but you didn't see; your eyes were distant and set on the sky as if preparing for takeoff. I knew how badly you wanted to fly: as a child you were obsessed with winged things, fairies and vultures. You'd broken your arm by jumping off the top of a jungle gym. You wanted to overturn the laws of human anatomy. And you did, minutes later. You flew.

Because watching you made me dizzy, I'd turned around to look at the snowy woods. A stag stood far off. I was mesmerized by him, but he bolted away when he became aware of us. When I looked back, you were finishing off your lap and speeding around the sharpest curve of the lake. The bank was drawing too close too quickly, and you realized you had to turn to keep from crashing face-first into the snow. But you made your move too late, and your ankle gave at an odd angle. There was an audible pop. You lurched to your side and soared away from the bank. The first part of your body to slam into the ice was your head. Later, I would learn from the doctors that the impact fractured your skull, and an artery in your temple burst. Sitting beside your bed in a metal folding chair catatonic and shivering, I pictured a wave of red overwriting the functions of your brain. Whatever I expected a breaking skull to sound like (an egg being cracked wetly into a bowl? a shattering beer bottle?) it wasn't a dull, final thud: too much like shutting a book, like ending a story. I forgot I was wearing skates and tried to run. I slipped and spilled the contents of my thermos down my coat, and I slid towards you on my stomach and knocked into your body. I scrambled to my knees. Your eyes were open but they lacked their usual mischievous light. A bruise tinged the side of your face grey-blue. I said your name, and you did not respond. Then I said it louder. Then I did something that I am not proud of: I seized your shoulders and shook you. Hard. The wind and the wetness of my clothes addled my mind. I realized whatever I was doing wasn't helping and stopped. Your mouth had fallen open in the struggle, which gave you a dazed look. I'd heard about CPR and rescue breaths but had never learned how to do them. My phone was cobwebbed with cracks from my fall, and when I pressed the power button, it failed to turn on.

I sat on the ice for a long time trying to figure out what to do. I recovered my senses when I registered a new presence in my peripheral vision, and I jolted upright, thinking it was a person who had happened upon us by chance, and who might be able to help. But it was a shadow: the sun was sinking into the west, and the sky was tinged a violent red at its horizon. Soon night would descend. I would have cried if I hadn't been so numb. My face was stiff with cold. My eyes felt hard-boiled. Some animal, adrenaline-fueled instinct told me I had to move. Whatever it was it got me standing up. I took your scarf and towed you as best as I could to the shore, where I removed my skates, hefted both our packs onto my back, and lifted your broken body into my arms. You were heavier than I thought: though you were so much smaller than me, the winter layers and your slack weight did their toll. Before I was halfway up the hill my arms burned with exhaustion, and my vision shifted in and out of focus like a cheap camera lens. I remember having the alarming notion of laying down in the snow for a rest, but I did not give into it. It was less my will to live that propelled me forward but more this idea that I had to deliver you somewhere; I'd forgotten where. By the time I crested the hill I was dragging you and shambling. I did make it to the gas station; it was about thirty feet from where I emerged from the woods. I do not remember much of the walk other than how the 24-7 lights wavered in the distance: a beacon. The red-haired cashier, who at that moment was finishing her shift, looked up when she heard the doorbell jingle, and stared at me in noncomprehension and then in alarm. What I remember the most is the way that the heated air melted on my skin. I dropped you and crumpled onto the tiled floor. I could hear the cashier calling 911. Her voice sounded distorted, like she was speaking through water. Lights flashed outside the glass door and refracted onto the snow. Red. Blue. Red. Blue.

[just-eyris-things]

Eyris's outfits masterpost

So at the beginning of May I started drawing Eyris in various outfits that she wore throughout her life. Adding a Read More because this will be a long post.

NOT SPOILER FREE

We start with casual clothes she wears for the first year before she grows her first plant set.

STARTER OUTFIT / CASUAL OUTFIT 1

I added the Hero word card, which I later on regretted - I should have added it on the second outfit (plant armor), but I will elaborate on that later. She can be seen wearing a similar outfit in her early teens in my comic.

In the first year of her life, she studies under Caithe, learns how to wield daggers and a bow and also acquires a fern hound, which she later on names Airost. The two are inseparable. They are almost like one being in two bodies.

FIRST PLANT ARMOR 1: HERO/NOBLE

Eyris wears this plant armor when she's still the Valiant. As mentioned earlier, she studies under Caithe and is preparing for her task of slaying Zhaitan next to the two Firstborn. Eyris completes the White Stag story line alongside Tiachren storyline. Her eye scar comes from Gavin. Thanks Gavin :) I still love you, even if you are the reason Eyris is scared to trust people and that's why she chooses to go with Tiachren instead of saving the village - she doesn't want to lose a friend to Nightmare again (babygirl Gavin was NOT your fault...)

She then attempts to help the Order of Whispers to retrieve Caladbolg, but she fails. Eyris slowly loses faith in herself after that failure. She uses it as an excuse to escape and become a Soundless - if she cannot retrieve a sword, then how can she possibly battle a dragon? Furthermore, that failure only quantifies her fear of death (reminder: she's seen in her Dream that a dragon consumes her and as a result she wakes up prematurely from shock and fear). So, she thinks that as a Soundless she will be safe.

She stays with the Soundless for a while until their village is raided by the Nightmare Court. Eyris is one of the very few that manages not to get caught. She does not wait for her fellow villagers to escape - she packs her bag and leaves to travel the road.

SHIVERPEAKS!

During her travels Eyris eventually reaches Shiverpeaks. She is not as "green" (pun not intended) as she used to be when she first began her journey, but she's still quite young, naive and inexperienced. She meets Ragnar Bjornskin, who adopts her and teaches her not only important survival skills, but also a bit about the world, especially about norn culture. Eyris sees Ragnar more as a parent figure than she sees the Pale Tree.

Unfortunately, Eyris and Ragnar get ambushed by the Sons of Svanir. Eyris gets her nose broken and Ragnar... Ragnar dies, which devastates her and eventually... leads her down the path of crime.

CASUAL OUTFIT 2

Eyris still travels, but her most common "hunting" ground for goods and money is Lion's Arch. She becomes quite infamous there at some point, but more as "the unknown person that we KNOW is responsible for all of THOSE crimes". Eyris, girlie, you're using the skills that Ragnar's taught you the wrong way... he would NOT be proud.

But it would make someone else proud, and by someone else I mean...

THE ORDER OF WHISPERS

Eyris is recruited by the Order of Whispers. She uses them as a kind of "reputation reset" card. She is good at her job, and after she gains trust of her coworkers, she begins plotting. She betrays the Order many times by selling classified information or using the Order's resources for side hustles, or other stuff. When she's caught, she knows she has to disappear - The Order chases after her in every possible way.

Around that time Eyris meets Freya - a vigil soldier with whom she has Beef TM. The Beef TM doesn't last long though.

Eyris then switches between Casual Outift 1 and 2 most of the time, when she's forced to join the Zhaitan war she wears a slightly more fortified Casual Outfit 2 (to protect herself from the undead bites and scratches, as well as to protect herself from weird Orrian weather). And then... we're back to plant fits.

PLANT ARMOR 2: IN THE JUNGLE

Eyris doesn't really show up during LWs1 and we see her come back in LWs2 right before the Summit. She is accused of bringing the Mordrem in, despite her actually coming to warn the attendees.

After that Commander Airell has to do a lot of work to get her in their ranks - they believe they could use her skills but they also want to minimise the risk of in-fighting within the Pact ranks.

Eyris also wears this outfit during HoT - Eyris plays a minor role in the expansion, in LWs2 she mostly chases after Caithe and the egg, and after she gets the egg in the expac she just stays in Tarir until LWs3. She doesn't participate in it much, she heads to Divinity's Reach for Head of the Snake, where she is supposed to attend a wedding as Freya's plus one in this lovely dress:

After the wedding, Eyris travels to Elona with Canach and we get...

THE DESERT OUTFIT 1

Eyris heads to Elona to find Vlast, she considers that task an extension of her Wyld Hunt that she clearly can't escape. She reunites with Kasmeer, Rytlock, Canach and the new commander, Nia Furaha at the time of Vlast's death. Eyris does not tag along with the group, but they meet again in Kesho. After that, Eyris and Nia face Balthazar. Nia escapes, Eyris...gets burnt to a crisp, which brings us to...

NECROMANCING EYRIS BACK TO THE LAND OF THE LIVING, COURTESY OF AIRELL!!!

When Airell rejoins the group in the desert and learns of Eyris's death, they go to the place of her demise to pay respects. Since Airell is now, unknowingly, the new Jungle Dragon, and they also absorbed Zhaitan magic....yeah, they accidentally bring her back by accidentally sprouting a blighting tree. Well, the tree doesn't get enough nutriens from the rock so when Eyris falls out of the pod...she's a bit unstable, and her body is covered in necrotic energy that keeps the body safe from harm and lets it finish regrowing. Since, yknow....there was nothing left.

Death still leaves a mark on Eyris - she now has a big scar around her waist, at the place where Balthazar has cut her in half. In the Necrotic Form, the wound glows ominously. The extra eyes were added as a simply stylistic choice to point at her connection to Airell (the connection replaced the Dream), just like this flame that's in the middle of her stomach. Hands are in a different colour just because I wanted to draw them like that, so probably not canon.

Anyway, eventually Eyris is done regrowing her body, especially her face, which leads us to

THE FALLEN HERO ARMOR

Eyris wears this post resurrection and during Joko arc. This is a simplified version of the haunted armor outfit, I was at Tyrian Pride so I'll admit that I got lazy with drawing the outfit perfectly and just simplified it.

The hole in the armor glows with Airell's magic (I might get rid of this part). For majority of time, Eyris wears a skull mask to hide her face which is..well, gone for majority of the story. She has a Grand Face Reveal during the final Joko Face-off. Yes, the differences between the eyes on the face close-up were drawn on purpose. Also new hairstyle, more accommodating the desert heat.

I'll update the post with the last 7 outfits when I'm done drawing them :) For now - enjoy some Eyris content.

[marvelmusing]

An Era of Power

Part Nine

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x Fem!Reader

Summary: Armed with knowledge from the library, you’re ready to face Aleksander now that he’s returned. But when a young Grisha faces a frightening ordeal, you end up confronting Baghra instead.

Word Count: 1.8K

A/N: this has taken me ages to get right so I hope you guys enjoy this next part, I’ve missed writing this story.

My Masterlist • Series Masterlist

The sun is setting as you walk through the hallways of the Little Palace, sharp golden rays of light illuminating your path.

Even now, hours after Baghra's revelation, your mind is muffled by nervous thoughts and frayed emotions. There's a dull ache behind your eyes, no doubt caused by reading for far too long. But you couldn't stop.

Answers still allude you, but two things are certain. Baghra doesn’t deserve your trust, and as much as it hurts, neither does Aleksander. The books in the library hadn’t outright confirmed the word of either of them.

The Kirigan line had been documented perfectly, something that was a surprise given the Little Palace’s lack of an archivist. That alone made you suspicious. Perhaps there was some truth to Baghra’s accusations.

But just because Aleksander was older than he had told you, didn’t mean that anything else she had said was true. After all, you hadn’t told him how old you really were. It doesn’t mean he’s planning to use you, or the Fold.

Your thoughts continue to tear you apart as you open the door to your bedchamber, but you still notice the envelope that had been slid under the door by someone.

There’s quite some weight to the parchment, and Aleksander’s handwriting is recognisable immediately. You read over the words carefully. He briefly explains that he’s been called away to deal with an issue in Chernast.

Before you can help it, you’re thinking about the stag. Baghra’s words echo in your mind: it��s likely he will search for it himself and simply return with your new collar. Something painful twists in your chest at the thought, and anxiety fills you. What if there is no emergency in Chernast? What if he’s on his way to kill the stag?

Tilting the envelope in your hands, you tip it to one side and a silver necklace slips out onto your waiting palm. A thin chain, with a circlet of silver - the sun in eclipse. His symbol.

The ache in your heart softens, and you clasp the piece around your neck. The metal is cool against your skin, and you ignore the shiver that runs down your spine and the twisted thoughts that goad you. A placeholder collar.

You fall into an unsettled sleep that night.

»»---------------------►

A week later, Aleksander returns.

You cross paths with him in the entrance hallway to the Little Palace. He has snowflakes in his hair, bright white against the darkness of his raven locks. The snow on his kefta melts quickly, dampening the fabric as he looks over you.

“General Kirigan,” you say in quiet greeting, and he inclines his head, saying your name with a softness that has the entire week worth of anxiety and overthinking fading away.

Everything will be okay.

Your lips are parted, the question already on your tongue, asking him for a moment alone to talk through everything you have learnt since the last time you saw one another. To demand the truth from his own lips.

Then an Inferni - Polina - comes rushing into the hallway, gasping for breath with a frantic expression on her face. She nearly slips on the floor as the wetness on her boots meets polished marble.

Aleksander halts her, encouraging her to share what’s wrong. Both yours and Aleksander’s expression drops as she explains that a young tidemaker had fallen into the ice of the lake during a lesson with Baghra.

She’s barely finished explaining before Aleksander orders her to fetch a healer. His voice fades into the distance as you rush out through the hallway, gravel crunching under your feet as you run towards the lake.

The snowfall is light, allowing you to make your way to the lake without too much difficulty. There’s a few Grisha at the edge of the lake. They share panicked looks and anxious words as they try to figure out how to reach the boy.

The child in question is almost in the middle of the lake, his arms clinging to the ice as half of his body is already submerged in the freezing water.

Panic clouds your mind for a moment, but the sound of Aleksander’s voice pulls you out of it as he asks whether a tidemaker had been alerted of the situation. Had he run after you? Turning, you see him beginning to remove his kefta. Grasping at his sleeve, you stop him.

“I can keep the ice from cracking. I’m the only one who can reach him safely.”

Aleksander holds your gaze for several seconds, studying every emotion swimming in your eyes. The fear and the panic. You’re certain that he remembers the nightmare you had shared with him. He knows you’re thinking about your childhood friend, the boy you couldn’t save from drowning under the ice. But you’re stronger now.

You won’t let any more Grisha children die.

Aleksander nods, settling his palm over your fingers. His touch provides a surge of confidence as his power brushes against yours.

Then you’re turning away, focusing your power on the ice in front of you as Aleksander issues orders to the Grisha standing on the bank. There’s a powerful heartrender attempting to keep the boy’s body temperature up, but he’s too far away and she won’t be able to reach him for much longer.

Drawing your power into your hands, you keep your palm steady as it faces the ground you stand on.

Then you take a step onto the ice. There’s a sickening crack as the ice begins to break, but you don’t allow it to shatter. It remains frozen in time by your power and a shaky breath of relief falls from your lips.

Despite the pounding in your heart and the anxiety urging you to hurry, you step evenly over the ice. With every snap and groan of the ice you push down your fear.

Once you’re close enough you begin to speed up the freezing process of the ice beneath your feet, creating a solid floor for once you pull him out. Now you’re close enough to see the boy properly.

“What’s your name?”

There’s tears glistening in his eyes, but he swallows quickly and answers you,

“Georgi.”

As you settle down onto your knees carefully, you tell him your name.

“The ice around you is quite thin, it won’t stay frozen for long without me holding it. To pull you out, I have to use both of my hands.” Georgi nods in understanding. Very few Grisha can use their power without their hands. “When I grab onto you, I need you to wrap your arms around my neck really tight, okay?”

“You’re going to get me out?”

The fright in his voice tugs at your heart, and for a moment you imagine the ice breaking, plunging you both into the water. You nod.

“It’s going to be alright, Georgi.”

You solidify the ice surrounding him as much as you can, but with Georgi moving constantly to stay above the water, the ice doesn’t remain frozen for long.

“Ready?”

He nods.

“On three.”

You’re mostly speaking to yourself, preparing your power to hold onto the ice for as long as it can.

“One, two, three.”

As you finish your countdown, you grasp hold of Georgi and pull with all your might. His clothes are heavy with water, but he clings onto you tightly. You hear the ice snapping under your knees as the cold water soaks through the arms of your kefta as you fight to pull him free.

Once he’s clear from the water, you pull his body against yours and throw the two of you onto the ice you had thickened. Georgi is shaking as he grips onto you.

With one hand, you summon your power, keeping the ice completely still, frozen at a thickness akin to mid-winter. Relief fills you, but you can hardly process it as your heat beat echoes in your ears. The snowfall is heavier now as it lands in large clumps that cling to your frozen kefta.  

Slowly, you manage to carry Georgi back to towards solid ground.

Once you finally reach the edge of the lake, your legs give way. As you stumble forwards, a handful of Grisha take Georgi. Someone wraps a kefta around him and a healer steps in to examine him before they begin walking him back towards the Little Palace.

When you sink to your knees, exhausted, Aleksander is by your side. He wraps his kefta around your shivering body, and despite the chill of the frozen air some of his warmth spreads over your skin.

His fingers curl around your wrist, his thumb smoothing over your pulse point as it continues to pound violently. The soothing feeling of his amplification has your eyes growing heavy as your forehead presses against the warmth of his neck.

Struggling to keep yourself from falling into him, you force your eyes open. Then your gaze falls on Baghra. Displeasure twists at her features as she observes you and Aleksander, and anger thrums through your body.

“You’re still here I see.”

A startled scoff leaves your lips.

“Did you think telling me running was useless would make me try it just to spite you?”

Aleksander looks between you and his mother, confusion barely visible in his eyes as you stand to face her. A demeaning smile twitches at the corner of her mouth before she nods towards Aleksander.

“He will find out what you are soon enough.”

At that, you go still. Aleksander has always told you how incredible you power is. That it is a gift. Baghra has done nothing but shame you for being different – deep down you’ve always feared that she’s right.

There is a darkness in your soul. An anger you have never forgotten, made dangerous by the magic ripped from the making at the heart of the world and forced into you. The merzost is still there inside you, all it would take is one tug.

Now, with your adrenaline running high, it begs you to answer its call, to release it all. The pain, the fear, the anger. Centuries worth of it.

He will see what you are. An abomination.

Darkling’s have been a source of fear and suspicion among the otkazat’sya for centuries. Perhaps it’s time you give them something new to fear. But you cannot do that if you spend your time cowering from an old woman, even if she has the same power as the man beside you.

She must see the shift in your expression as you step closer.

“He has his Grandfather’s eyes,” you say in a low voice. When her brows draw together you tilt your head towards him in clarification. “Aleksander.”

The corner of your mouth twitches with a smirk as you catch a glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes, you can practically see the questions flying through her mind as she processes your words. Understanding dawns on her, that you had met her father – Ilya Morozova.

Taking another step closer, you raise your chin as you hold her gaze.

“You have no idea what I am.”

The smirk lingers on your lips as she stands in stunned silence, and you step back slowly.

“Think about that, the next time you underestimate me.”

With that, you turn and walk back to the Little Palace.

»»---------------------►

marvelmusing Tag List: @dreamlandcreations @blanchedelioncourt @idaofinfinity @slytherheign @ellooo0ooo @vixenofcourse @dumb-fawkin-bitch @jane-arthur @ilikefictionmen @budugu @watersquirtpewpewboomm @mysweetlittledesire

AEOP Tag List: @budugu @agentstarkid @seraferna @watersquirtpewpewboomm @marvel-ousnesss @venomsvl @cynthianokamaria @dumb-fawkin-bitch @intothesoul @rainbowgoblinfan @000rpheus

Aleksander M Tag List: @nyctophiliiiiaaa @jazmin2211 @wooya1224

BB Characters Tag List: @rachlovesactors @noortsshift @aikeia @weallhaveadestiny @two-unbeatable-beaters

»»---------------------►

-

[m4r5h4ll]

religious hannigram where Hannibal is a deity and will is a devout worshipper. kinda follows along the lines of that little story where the true love of a statue touched it and it comes to life, yeah. that, but hannigram and religious ties as will as a devout worshipper on his knees kissing the knuckles of the statue of his god before him, the god of the hunt and feasting(like the white stag hircine from skyrim), for the first time. only for the stone hand to turn soft and caress his face, running His thumb over the dark but soft facial hair and features of his most loyal follower.

the one who called His name during pleasure and panic. the man who called His name with his spine arched and pleasure rocking his body. as well as the very same man who cried and begged His name after he spilled the first blood he ever had poured onto the marble, killing a fellow worshipper, leaving the man’s daughter, abigail, to try and find Hannibal’s light herself.

Hannibal’s hand caressed his will’s face. Hannibal had chosen this man, as to why he calls out his name during his most vulnerable. Placing the seed to sprout in will’s mind that Hannibal is all he needs. That single hand is soon joined by another on the opposite side of his face.

could will’s eyes deceive him? was this his god before him? living and touching him? did he deserve this treatment from Him? Was he worthy? Apparently enough for his god to run His thumbs over his cheeks and jawline, His hands slipping behind his ears and grasping a fistful of will’s unkempt and shaggy hair, yanking it back to force him to look up at Him.

the way will would grunt softly as Hannibal pulled his hair to force him to look up. He leans in and licks a stripe across will’s face. no words were needed. will was all He wanted and more. he was the most exquisite flavour to ever touch Hannibal’s palette in centuries. He wanted him all to Himself. His hands let go and rub the base of his skull before trailing His hands back to their previous placement. Hannibal’s hands would leave will’s face only to return to the same position as they were before, set in stone.

to others, will was deep in prayer.

to will, his god had chosen him, marked him as His. will felt the blanket of comfort he sought for years finally rest over his shoulders and protect him from any other outside forced that wanted to oppose His mortal.

[jacks-dark-oc-stuff]

MINORS DNI

I'm Jack (he/they) +18,

Just some whump, smut, and overall dead dove content.

P.S. If you ever get the itch to write or draw these guys in a situation, feel free to do it. Just tag me so I can consume it.

P.S.S. If you think of a scenario you want to see my guys in, feel free to send it to my askbox, and I'll write or draw it!

Rules

Feel free to chat with me

Dubcon and noncon is fine

I'm fine with most hard kinks

No scat, but piss is fine for the most part

No under age or bestiality stuff

Main OCs

Nori (berserk)

Rowan (berserk/argenti)

Adonis (berserk/argenti)

Arlo (beserk/argenti)

Celie (white stag)

Beltran (white stag)

Nori Stuff

Timelines

Leashed Au

Main Info

White Stag Stuff

Main Info

Argenti Stuff

Canon Lore

Broken God Au

Lost King Au

Dementia of the Soul Au

Original Story Character Info

White Rose Au

Ages

Shattered Mind Au

Caged Stuff

Aurelius Info

[gojuo]

https://www.tumblr.com/gojuo/718200545869021184?source=share

I know that it's too early to tell but it's way obvious they will portray Rhaenyra as this misunderstood figure by misogynistic historians

It's not too early to tell because they've already done it.

The manipulative show!canon-only storyline of Aegon's prophecy about the White Walkers, marking Rhaenyra as basically "The Chosen One" or "The Rightful Heir" or "The One Whose Actions — No Matter How Evil Or Awful — Will Always Be In Service To The Greater Good". This was added into the show to whitewash Rhaenyra's original book characterization where her quest for the Iron Throne was nothing more than a way for her to satisfy her fancies and caprices. She cared not a single whit for duty nor responsibility, and she always put her personal pleasure and desire ahead of the realm and its laws.

The White Stag scene also serves this change to her character and push the "Chosen One" trope. That stag was nowhere in the book.

The manipulative way the show refused to stand still on the question of her heirs' bastardy and explain why what she did was so severely damning. They introduced the Strong boys with the last bastard, not the first one. I call this manipulative because this plotline is integral to her character and the story overall but the first introduction to it is when in-universe the shock and dismay over it is no longer fresh. The court's reaction to the first female heir's heir being a child that looks like neither parent but suspiciously like Rhaenyra's favorite knight has been blown over by the show. They did this to soften Rhaenyra's original book characterization in which this passing off bastards as trueborn (which is, according to Archmaester Gyldayn, high treason) was the extent of Rhaenyra's belief of her own supreme power that (she thought) allowed her to claim unprecedented privilege by getting her boys acknowledged as trueborn heirs based on her own say so. It was also to show her willingness to flout the law and jeopardize the integrity of the line of succession for the sake of her own pleasure. The show refused to characterize her in this way by completely glossing over this scandal at court by introducing this plotline at its tail end. They glossed over the fact that this decision of hers to have obvious bastards not once, not twice, but three times was a future succession war waiting to happen, Dance or no Dance.

The Vaemond one as well. It was so egregious...

The Driftmark succession question is being privately discussed on Driftmark itself. Vaemond urges Corlys to name him heir since the three nominal Velaryon princes are not Velaryons at all. Rhaenyra catches wind of this and flies to Driftmark specifically along with Daemon to behead him and then feed his desecrated body to Syrax as a show of what will happen to people who repeat the "Strong" rumors > Changed to Vaemond making a public petition in King's Landing where he calls Rhaenyra a whore (never happened in F&B) and Daemon beheads him with no order from Rhaenyra (no, a random shot where she vaguely looks at him does not count) and no body feeding to Syrax either.

The new rumors of her sending food to King's Landing is also one. Rhaenyra blocked the Gullet and Blackwater Bay with the Velaryon fleet to block any ships from going to and leaving from King's Landing. This led to a food shortage in the city. She starved the people. Nowhere in the book has there ever been a mention of her helping the smallfolk out with this issue because, well, frankly, she can't. The Greens rule the city. No provisions she's sending are gonna be able to get through the walls. This random ass scene is being added to the show to whitewash her of that starvation issue in the future, where in F&B, she redirects resources away from the populace she had already starved through the blockade and to a "lavish" party for her last bastard son, during a time of winter, war and hunger, for sure.

There's more obviously but let me keep it this answer short. I've talked about the hard rewrite of her character many times before.

[mumms-the-word]

Could I see 2 and 3 of your wedding prompt? Of either or both of the general or specific moments.💕❤️🎉💐

I don't have the time to write out full scenes this week alas but I can give you some headcanons/glimpses!

2 & 3 from the details list:

Proposal

Gale proposed to Dani, obviously! I've dabbled with the idea that maybe they had a different proposal than the one shown in the game, but I find that it works really well for them. I like the idea of them waking up the next morning after saving the city, and he says those lines, "I understand your purpose lies here, but I fear if I return to Waterdeep alone, my heart would remain here with you. And so, if you're at all amenable to the idea, I thought I could, perhaps, stay. There might even be room for two Dekarioses in Baldur's Gate?"

I love that it's a little informal, that he doesn't have a ring to give her, that all he's asking is that maybe there could be the two of them, two Dekarioses, a new clan of Dekarioses there in Baldur's Gate. Dani doesn't need all the bells and whistles, she just wants family all around her. So a sweet, informal proposal in the middle of an Elfsong Tavern room, well, it suits her just fine.

Bachelor/Bachelorette parties?

Dani absolutely has a hen do/bachelorette because her foster sister, Liara, positively insists. But it's less of a hen do and more like a party for Dani, her mom, and her Merry Rovers to celebrate together before she officially gets married, so it's not girls-only or anything. Shadowheart, Lae'zel, Astarion, and even Jahiera join for parts of it, and Dani desperately wishes Karlach and Wyll could be there, but otherwise it's a fun night of drinking, games, stories, and music for Dani and her bard family.

Gale gets a somewhat less chaotic stag do, which he probably prefers. If Wyll were around, Gale would have had a much wilder time (you know Wyll would be dragging Gale out for a traditional pub crawl like any former bachelor's best friend would do), but since he's not he simply goes out for some drinks, planning on a relatively quiet night...until Shadowheart and Astarion find him and drag him over to join the Merry Rovers and Dani, officially turning their separate stag/hen dos into a mutual "celebrating our last days that we're not married" kind of event. Fun for all!

~*~*~*~*~*~

2 & 3 from the specific moments list:

Getting Ready

Gale gets ready with the help of Morena, Tara, and running commentary from Astarion (who does deign to fix an errant thread on his coat but is otherwise just there sit, chat, and judge). It's relatively uneventful, aside from some teary-eyed moments from Morena and some gentle nagging from Tara about how he should have shaved his beard for his special day. Dani sends over a white embroidered sash for him to wear around his waist, an important addition to his outfit that comes back into play later in the ceremony/reception.

Dani gets ready with her mother, her best friend/adopted sister Liara, and Shadowheart. She really wishes Karlach could have been there, but Karlach is in Avernus. Lae'zel is traveling in from somewhere on the Sword Coast, so she arrives later. There's a special moment as Dani is getting ready where Liara brings in the other Merry Rovers, who each give Dani a sash for her to wear with her dress (a bardic custom I came up with for them). Gale also sends over a little gift, one gold hoop earring for her to wear (he's wearing the other one, replacing the Mystra earring). The little box with the earring also contains a sweet poem and a little note saying he can't wait to see her.

The First Look

I really ought to write this scene because it's exactly the kind of romantic fluff that I'm a sucker for. Maybe I'll do it later!

But for now, Gale and Dani have their first look at each other before their ceremony. They get married in a park so it's a little hard to avoid each other entirely while going from some park-side building to the actual place where everything is set up. So Morena and Maeva (Dani's mother) arrange for them to see each other privately in a little corner of the gardens, just before everyone sets off to go start the ceremony.

Gale tears up immediately, of course, and Dani teases him about it, even though she's also getting a little emotional. She helps keep him smiling by talking about how hot he looks in his wedding outfit and how she can't wait until she gets to take all of it off tonight, you know, the usual flirting. And then after a second, after they're both dry-eyed and calm, she looks up at him and asks, "There's still time to change your mind, you know."

His response is a loving smile and a gentle touch on her cheek. "I'm not going to change my mind. Even if I could go back in time and make entirely new decisions, I'd do everything exactly the same so that I can be here, getting to marry you."

(He'd say it more elegantly than that but you get it)

And Dani would smile, at first touched and emotional by his words, and then her smile would turn teasing again. "Sure, but there's still time to cut our losses and elope, too. We could grab Withers and run."

He just laughs and says, "Not a chance. My mother would kill me."

[kimberly-earthfriend]

Here’s a quick look at my wizard throughout her entire story in the spiral. More in depth under the cut <3

Edit: oopsie, added an arc 4 outfit. My pen just ran away with me ✨

So this is Kimberly before she got sent off to Ravenwood, when she was still running about Dun Dara and the Weirwood without a care in the world. The outfit isn’t based on any specific gear, but takes inspiration from the designs of the foxes all over Avalon. The boots are the Spellwright’s Druidic Boots and will be consistent throughout every design except the paradox, since I headcanon them to be shaped around her hooves, and therefore the most comfortable option with every outfit.

Upon arrival in Ravenwood, Kim was fitted with traditional wizard city robes. Here you can see her wearing the Fairy Cloak in dark green and gold, and the Daredevil’s hat in the same colours. Her wand is Gravewynd’s Earth Staff, one of my favourite early game wand models.

In Kimberly’s fifth year at Ravenwood, she was selected to compete in the spiral cup. Here, you can see her wearing the Vestment of Earth, to represent her school while she duels in Wysteria, and carrying the Wand of the Oasis (the life school’s wand for a spiral cup competitor). She did, however, refuse to wear the hood from the Wysteria uniform, and instead opted for the Widow’s bewitching hat in dark green and gold. She finds it easier to fit a beanie around her antlers than a hood.

After her success in the spiral cup, Kimberly was chosen in her seventh and final year at Ravenwood to represent wizard city in the immortal games. Here you can see her wearing the Vestment of Zeus’ Aegis, adopting the traditional dress of Aquila out of respect for the tournament. Her helmet is the Pixie’s Mask of Encanta, which might seem a bit strange. In my personal wizard101 canon, competitors in the immortal games are challenged to acquire or (ideally) make a helmet which best represents them to wear while they compete. Kimberly was raised by the Fae and has a strong connection to life and trees, so this helmet was perfect for her. The wand is the Aquilan Velite Lance, which was gifted to her as a congratulatory gesture for winning the tournament.

One thing Kimberly enjoyed about the magical tournaments far more than just competing in them was teaching and coaching other students. With that in mind, she moved to Wysteria after she graduated from Ravenwood and began to teach the young wizards from every world how to duel. Here, she’s not wearing any sort of helmet or hood, since she finds it more helpful for the students if they can see her face. The hairstyle is “The Mists Dun Dara” as a tribute to her homelands. The robe is the Greenwarden’s energetic shroud. The wand is the rosewood persuader. All Avalon-sourced gear to make her feel more comfortable and at home.

This outfit is from around the time Kimberly was first recruited to aid the young wizard on their quest, so around the beginning of dragonspyre in arc 1. Like the previous outfit, the gear is all from Avalon. She wears the Spellwright’s Druidic Cowl and the Stag Lord’s Cape in green and gold. The wand is the sword of kings, although prior to acquiring it during the Avalon quest line, she was still using the Aquilan Velite Lance.

This outfit hails from the beginning of arc 3, when the schism first start to become a problem. She stole a schismist robe of the first and wears it around the arcanum to freak out the scholars. The helmet is the Burrower Helm of Ardor. The wand is Zander’s focussed staff. As the child of light and shadow, black and white streaks have begun to grow into her hair.

Ah yes, the scion of Bartleby. Here, Kimberly is wearing the Lively Liaison’s cloak, as per her promotion from Arcanum Initiate to Liaison. Much like when she competed in the spiral cup all those years ago, she refuses to wear the ridiculous hat issued by the arcanum and instead opts for the lofty alphoi mantle. Her wand is the Branch of the World Tree. I know it’s a bit odd to give her a level 45 wand at this point, but I thought it made sense since she is the Scion of the World Tree in question. With the advancement of her powers, the streaks in her hair have grown more noticeable. All this time channeling both light and shadow magic is bringing her closer to becoming the Paradox.

I think this one is pretty self explanatory. It’s the Paradox gear from the end of Empyrea, except I coloured it green instead of blue to represent Kimberly’s life magic. Her hair has completely grown out into the colours of the void. At the moment I don’t have a solid design for her in arc 4, but maybe I’ll work on that next.

[thewingedgoat]

Alcea Rosea

P0laroid fanfic chapter 2

Leshy sleeps in long. After a night spent hunting who could blame him? Especially since he lost track of time too easily, he goes out, he finds his prey, and he drags it out. Yes, Leshy loves the hunt, he makes sure it lasts as long as possible until he inevitably kills his prey. He doesn’t enjoy his kill’s suffering of course-okay maybe he’s a bit of a sadist he has to admit that, but he doesn’t make death unnecessarily painful. It’s the hunting he enjoys, not the killing.

He got lost in his thoughts again, he has to get up, it was about 11 am already, as comfortable as his nest of pelts, feathers and dry shrubbery may be to him, he has to go get things done. He lazily sat up, stretching, and shaking his head to rid his hair, beard and fur of any unwanted dirt. It’s been a while since he was brushed last, he put that on his mental checklist before getting up fully. He supported his weight on a nearby wall, his legs were still a slight bit wobbly, no wonder at his size.

Standing at about 8’9 when standing up straight, it was no surprise it took him a bit to balance himself out in the morning.

The feeling of sore joints although, that is now an all too familiar feeling. He is not a young stag anymore, aging affects him differently of course, being a forest-spirit and all, but it’s still been getting to him. His bad posture probably doesn’t help considering he is currently walking through his cabin hunched over, his spine building a spiky line that ripples through the fur on his back.

His hooves clicked on the wooden floor of the cabin as he slowly walked into what he considered his living room, some mice scurried around on the floor as he walked in, he did not mind them, not ever, he does not mind any beast.

First thing he does, as any morning is look out the window, he can sometimes see beasts moving along in front of the cabin. As today, he is surprised by what he sees, a white buck moved along the tree-line. He would have taken a photo but his camera was out of reach, and until he gets it the animal would most likely be gone. So Leshy just watches, the buck stops and its head turns to look in his direction, piercing blue eyes seem to stare right into his soul before it runs off.

Now, Leshy does not fear beast, he has learned to coexist with them, he was high up on the food chain, he didn’t need to fear a mere deer. But those eyes-something about that gaze brought back a lot of memories. That blue reminded him of no one other than the robot he once turned into a stoat. His ears pinned back at the memory, Poe, the unthankful thing, to live as a beast would be the biggest honor in the world. Yet, the machine only complained about it, it did not truly appreciate the gift Leshy gave him.

Then Leshy remembered the calmer moments as well, when Poe was calm, when he used to let Leshy pet him, tell stories of the forest. As much as it pains him to admit, he did quite enjoy Poe’s company, It was nice, and he was sure that Poe enjoyed it as well, he always caught it purring and basking in the warmth of the fireplace when no one was looking. Yes, sometimes Leshy does wish that Poe remembers him in a-less horrible way…

chapter 1

chapter 3 (in works)

[shebeafancyflapjack]

Defiled

(Just me torturing my oc Silver some more to vent some feelings. Tw: this story has some clear SA allegories. Nothing explicit but yes it's intentional. Warning for homophobic and sexist slurs).

Boys will be boys.

Kids will be kids.

It doesn't matter if they're in their twenties. It doesn't matter if they are old enough to drive, to drink, own property or even have kids of their own. Some men will always be boys, the world little more than a playground for their amusement, rules there to be broken.

The five of them are on a stag weekend. Johnny boy is getting hitched to the barmaid in town, who he also happened to knock up a year ago. Tied down already but might as well make it official for tax benefits. His last few days of freedom, him and his pals are doing an epic crawl across Surrey, grabbing any taxi they can and crashing the nearest pub to drink themselves stupid, annoy the country bumpkin locals, and then move on.

No taxi rank at the last place, so they're taking the journey on foot, hiking across woods and fields in the dead of night. Simon and Chris are using their phones as torches to light the way, though everyone is stumbling and falling arse over head every seven steps.

"SWEET CAROLINE! WOAH WOAH WOAH!" They croon, ducking their heads to not bump into the branches of the trees. "GOOD TIMES NEVER SEEMED SO GOOD! SO GOOD! SO GOOD!"

"Oi, ain't we near that fancy golf hotel? I 'ear they got a members bar, bet they do shots!" Kyle pipes.

"It's half ten, ya numpty, they ain't gonna be open are they!" Chris slapped him on the back of the head.

"Posh arse place like that won't let the likes of you chavs in anyhow."

"Ey, who you calling a chav? I earn more than you, ya prick!"

"All about style, not money, bruv, and that's where some of us got class and some ain't!" Simon swaggered, while the others made mocking hoots as he tilted the stripper's police cap on his head.

They decided to cut across the golf course to reach the main road, very little in the way of fencing. A few decided to relieve themselves on some of the holes and bunkers, writing messages in the sand for the greenkeepers.

"Clean me." "Thanks mate!" "Hole in 1!"

Along with some dick images of course.

"Sure you don't wanna try breaking into that members bar? Ain't a good stag do unless the groom to be ends up in jail."

"Sod that. Let's just get on the coke already. Ey, look, some benches near them trees." Pointed Kyle.

"You wanna do lines off a bench, you scummer?"

"Think we're gonna come across another surface soon? You got us kicked out the last place by grabbing that waitress. She weren't even fit! Who ate all the pies, ey?"

Laughter from their group sent the squirrels running into the trees and the deer to their dens. But the boys had enough sense to keep the volume down enough not to be picked up by the hotel, all the way across the course.

Only a few lights were on in the building, mostly upstairs for the residents watching TV.

An hour later, the bench is covered with white powder as if it had been snowing in July. The boys are daring each other to climb trees and pose for stupid pictures, Simon trying to chase a poor deer to make Johnny try to snog it.

"Ey lads! Check this out!" Kyle called them over, rubbing his nostrils.

"What the fuck is that?"

They gathered around the weird ass shrine. Lots of flowers and little statues set up as if around an invisible coffin.

"This a grave? In the middle of the woods? Who does that?"

"Maybe it's for someone's dog."

"Nah, look here." Simon pointed to a sketch on the tree, above a plaque; "Some bird who croaked here. Silver Ravenstar. What kind of fucking name is that?!"

"Check out all the symbols. Must have been some hippy, tree hugging witch bitch."

They'd all attended good, Christian schools, not that it would be easy to see, or that any of them seemed to give a shit until tonight.

"Says in brackets 'Louise Smith'. Died about twenty years ago."

Kyle whipped out his phone; "Give us a sec." Quick Google search, though he misspelled a little in his coked state; "....Fuck. Only one newspaper from years back about a girl who was found here dead. No suspicious reason. Suspected....Ha! Suspected drug usage but most likely natural causes. Bitch was some crazy little junkie."

"Fuck that! My old man gets his leg blown off in Afghanistan - he kills himself two weeks later and gets fuck all 'cause we can't afford a decent funeral for him. But this devil worshipping cunt who no-one heard of gets this set up?!" Johnny spat against the picture.

The boys shared similar looks. Anything that made Johnny boy think of his dad was a touchy issue.

"She was probably the daughter of the hotel owner. Or some rich golfing twat who comes here." Despite not being anything close to poor, the lads were middle-working class enough to hate on both those above and below in wealth.

Simon laughed and lay atop the flowers, on his belly.

"You reckon she's buried here? She probably died a virgin! Reckon I can pop her cherry in the afterlife?!" He unzipped his flies, as if ready to begin humping the ground.

Johnny kicked his sides; "Nah, look at that sket. Bet she had already been with all sorts before she snuffed it. I met some freaky Pagans in college, d'you know they do all their spells naked? Sometimes even have orgies? It's manic!"

Chris grabbed at the little bisexual pride flag hung up; "Of course she was a fucking dyke as well!"

He laughed as he crumpled it up and threw it to the dirt.

"Let's make this little memorial more fitting, shall we lads?"

Simon tossed Johnny a can of spray paint. He shook it up, the contents light as they'd used most of it on the bus stops in the village.

Kyle picked up a rock and scratched the name from the engraving. Simon then sprayed over the tree with the more appropriate name.

No hammers or knives. But they found what they needed in the Earth around them, ironically.

False idols were to be broken, Johnny remembered from Sunday school, though Chris made a show of snogging and pretending to thrust into the statue of some goddess welding a bow, the crescent moon as her crown.

A few more lines snorted on the log chair set up close by. More words carved into the trees.

And then Johnny boy struck the match.

"BURN THE WITCH! BURN THE WITCH!"

"Fuck yeah, burn in hell, you little slut, you fucking nobody!" Johnny dropped it upon the mound of flowers.

The alcohol from the cans of beer they'd been swigging as they danced and trampled over the site made the flames spread rapidly. Within three seconds, every bit of colour, every petal and stem, had been devoured. The boys stepped back as the smoke rose into a thick pillar escaping through the tree tops.

"Shit! Put that out! Before someone sees, then we're really gonna be in it!" Simon hissed.

The boys stomped their boots on the ground until every flame was snuffed.

"Get them fucking embers, man!"

All any of them had in the way of non-alcoholic liquid was a half-full can of Monster Monarch, which Kyle tossed on the last few glowing specks.

"That all of them?"

"Think so. Quick, let's get the fuck out of here."

"Where to next? Wanna piss on Stonehenge?" Chris asked, to which all the lads laughed, their arms around each others shoulders as they stumbled into the night.

Many people had barbecues this time of year. Burning was such a common smell that Robin paid little attention to it. His nostrils flare as he enters the woods, noticing it's getting closer. But there's no sign of any flames that would be easy to spot on a night like this.

And yet, there is smoke....

"Sorry me late!" He called out, sure she had to be awake by now. The sun had set nearly an hour ago. "Got too into Stompy's horror movie 'bout creepy clown....Moonah girl?"

Had she already gone off to the hotel? Wait. He sniffed, smelling her close. No trail. He was in the right direction.

And then, a tiny sound. A snuffle. A cry.

"Moonah girl?!"

He rushed forward. Then he saw.

"Oh...No...."

The mound of blue flowers surrounded by Alison's added lilies and roses was now a large patch of grey ash and black, shriveled stems. Fragments of smashed white resin and porcelain and glass littered the site. Sketches and flags had been shredded and now became caught by the night breeze. Across the tree barks surrounding the bed, sprayed in red, were the words...

Whore. Slut. Dyke.

Burn The Witch. Burn in Hell. Burn. Burn. Burn.

And there, laying upon the ash, was the witch herself. Sobbing, curled into a fetal position around the smashed framed sketch of...

Robin's fists curled at his sides, knuckles turning white. His jaw clenched.

How. Dare. They.

Silver continued to weep, her body racked with aching sobs, one hand next to Alison's drawing of Mary.

"....Who?" Was all Robin asked.

Static fizzled between his fingertips.

"Who?! Who did it?!"

She didn't answer. She didn't care. Not really. They were most likely gone now. They were nobody. Just as she'd been nobody to them. And yet the mere idea of her enough had encouraged such cruelty. Such perverse abuse upon a girl already long dead.

Her gods. Her bed. Her...Her Mary. Destroyed.

The caveman gingerly reached his paw to touch her arm. Only then did she finally scream.