#dash: roderick

[multi-oc-tourney]

Free For All: ROUND 1

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Roderick von Dash

(he/him)

oc by: @angelfishcake

Propaganda:

Handsome lad. Very wholesome. Very eager and friendly, probably too friendly he's just so excited to talk to people and hopefully they like him he craves validation and acknowledgement haha jk unless Will do anything for a quest. You need basilisk skin? No problem. Need to learn basketball in one day to join the school team? He knows nothing about basketball despite being a giant but he'll do his best. Want him to go to the Headless Valley? He'll do it if you offer some bacon and head pats as a reward. He will literally die for you. That is not an exaggeration. i fricking love this guy <3

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Mint & Cedar

(They/them & he/him)

oc by: @sentient-softdrink

Propaganda:

2 idiots who are so so depressed:> Mint's parents are rich and quite frankly awful Mint is very ill . They can no longer do the one thing they were good at(running) so they are just spiraling at all times. The parents being awful does not help Cedar is stupid and he is an awful influence on Mint/pos They get to do vandalism together Specifically on Mint's parents' property Somewhat healthy ways of dealing with trauma Both of them are trans and aro/ace And also stupid

[who-do-i-know-this-man]

⚠️Vote for whomever YOU DO NOT KNOW⚠️‼️

[angelfishcake]

i know that the coral blue meme is old but I thought this OC art turned out really well! This is Roderick and Anita, two cursed idiots who make everything worse before it somehow gets better!

[humanpurposes]

Sweet Dream

The Sandman AU

Her father means to summon and capture Death, but ends up with the wrong sibling. She becomes fascinated with their prisoner // Main Masterlist

Dream!Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, spells n shit, mild gore, death, lowkey Lima syndrome, smut

Words: 8000

A/n: For my fellow Morpheus and Aemond lovers. Also available to read on AO3.

Roderick Burgess had always been a terrifying man. In grief he has only become more irritable and less predictable. 

The telegram came in the early days of July. She delivered the news to Roderick herself, while he was in his study. Her father did not like to be disturbed and he might have beaten her to remind her of the fact, until those fateful words slipped from her mouth. “Randall’s dead.” Shot down by a German machine gun at the Somme. In the end he had been one of thousands, his body buried in a neat line of tombstones somewhere in France, his name engraved on a plaque in the church at Wych Cross, ultimately unremarkable and indistinguishable from the other men and boys who had lost their lives.

But it was not so for Roderick. He let out a sudden groan and clutched his chest as though his pain was tangible and terrible. He shed no tears– of course he didn’t, but he gritted his teeth, crying out in fury as he dashed his hands over his desk, sending papers, books, fountain pens and empty whisky glasses tumbling to the floor. 

She stood frozen, waiting for his hand to descend on her for being the one to tell him, but it didn’t.

When they held a memorial service for him, Roderick handed her a piece of paper, to read before the crowd of faces she didn’t recognise. 

“Randall was our family’s happiness. He was the bravest, the wisest, and kindest older brother I could possibly dream of having.” Her hands and voice trembled as she read because she knew it was all a lie. In truth, Randall was like their father. They had the same short temper, the same stubbornness and the same cruelty. 

But Randall being dead meant she could reinvent him.

Lately, she dreams of happier memories and looks back on them fondly, knowing they can never be contradicted or disproved. 

While her father has dreamt of Death ever since. 

It’s a brisk afternoon in October when a man in a suit, bow tie and bowler hat arrives at Fawny Rig. He clutches a leather briefcase in front of him and introduces himself as Dr John Hathaway, a curator from the Royal Museum, travelled all the way from London to this quiet corner of East Sussex. She leads him through the panelled halls of the manor, to her father’s study.

Roderick barges in behind them, in a shirt and waistcoat, already smelling faintly of whisky and waving his cane in her general direction. “Tea for our guest,” he orders.

She has the pot ready and strains the dark, reddish liquid into two delicate china cups while her father and Dr Hathaway settle on opposing leather sofas in the centre of the room.

“I take it you have reconsidered?” Roderick says.

“After our meeting at the museum… I know what I said, but–” Dr Hathaway takes an unsure breath. “I received a telegram this morning. My son, Edmund, his destroyer was sunk last week off Jutland.”

It’s a loss Roderick can share, even if he doesn’t really understand how other than a few quick words of condolence. “I lost my son, Randall last year. He was my greatest joy.”

She pauses as she reaches for the sugar bowl. She has never been under the illusion that her own existence has given her father any joy, but then what sort of person would she have to be to earn his respect? She places the sugar on a tray, along with the small jug of milk and the cups, and brings them to the small table between the sofas. The pair don’t spare her a word of thanks or even a brief glance.

Dr Hathaway’s hand lingers on the clasp of his case. “If I give you this, could you truly do it? Could you really–”

“Capture the angel of Death?” Roderick says. “I believe I could.”

She shudders unexpectedly. The old groundskeeper used to say a sudden chill meant someone was walking over your grave.

Dr Hathaway clicks open the clasp and takes out an aged, leather bound book. It has no title on the cover, just gold markings in square, geometric patterns. 

“The Magdalene Grimoire,” her father mutters, his eyes wide in an ominous sort of wonder. “With the spells recorded in the book, we will see our sons returned to us.”

The next night is a full moon. She stands by the door with Sykes, welcoming men and women dressed in midnight blue robes to the manor and directing them towards the door that leads to the cellar. They’re all part of Roderick’s ‘Order of Ancient Mysteries’ which as far as she can tell is a cult of fanatics who still believe in witchcraft. They come to Fawny Rig once a month, to listen to her father read from so-called ‘spell books’ as though he is a preacher.

The fanatics pull hoods over their heads and descend the narrow stone steps into the cellar with lit candles grasped in their hands. Roderick leads the way, the book Dr Hathaway gave him tucked under his arm. 

She shoots Sykes a concerned frown but he just shrugs. He’s paid to organise the household and guard Burgess’ collection of relics, not to ask questions. Questions are a dangerous game with Roderick.

She trails after them and shuts the iron lock on the door behind her.

The cellar is more like a crypt, an expansive room sprawling under the house, held up by pillars and arches. In the low candlelight she makes out a set of markings on the floor in the heart of the room and this is where the Order of Ancient Mysteries gathers.

The shapes and symbols are unfamiliar to her, painted onto the flagstones, twisting and curling over each other to form a circle. Roderick stands at the very edge of it by a brass lectern.

She watches, half hidden behind a pillar as they stand around the circle and Roderick opens the book, his desired page already marked and studied in the hours since it has been in his possession. 

“Tonight,” her father says to his congregation, “we will achieve what no one before us has attempted. We will summon and imprison Death.”

His eyes meet hers through the shadowy space, heavy and sunken with age, grief and months worth of sleepless nights. They glisten slightly too. 

He holds his hands out and looks down at the markings on the floor. “Here, in the darkness.”

The others echo his words, softly and melodically at first. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

And so the ritual begins.

“I give you a coin made from a stone,” Roderick says, presenting the object to the ceiling as though the eyes of God are looking down from the heavens, through the house and the earth, and drops it to the floor, inside the circle of markings.

“I give you a knife from under the hills.” He holds up a thin blade and lifts his other arm so the sleeve of his robe drops to his elbow. “I give you the blood from out of my vein.”

She winces but does not look away as he draws the knife along the skin of his forearm, until dark droplets begin to fall and stain the markings. 

“I give you a song I stole from the dirt and I give you a feather,” he says, raising a white feather that almost seems to glow through the gloom, “pulled from an angel’s wing.”

And all the while the voices persist. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

He drops the feather and it drifts gently down, landing in the very heart of the circle. 

The room is still and she holds her breath.

The feather starts to move. It twists in a circle and floats up, lurching and turning as though it’s being blown about by a breeze she cannot feel or hear.

The voices raise to an urgent chant. Here in the darkness. Here in the darkness.

She clenches her fingertips against the stone of the pillar. She tries to meet her father’s eye again but he is fixated on the feather flying above their heads.

He calls over the chanting, “I summon you with poison,” and the moment he does the feather flickers like the striking of a match. “I summon you with pain! I open the way! I open the gates! I summon you in the name of the old Lords, we summon you together! Come!”

A noise, like a cracking whip splits her ears. The feather bursts into white and golden flames like the flash of a camera. The heat of it rushes over her face and burns her eyes.

And from the flames a body falls to the floor.

It thuds as it hits the ground, silencing the voices save for a few gasps and murmurs. She feels the flagstones rumble under her feet, sees the edges of a black cloak spilling across the floor and a head of long silver hair trailing from its head.

This isn’t an illusion. Roderick Burgess has brought forth a tangible entity, plucked from God-knows-where, lying motionless on the floor. For a moment she wonders if he is dead, until she sees a slight movement in his chest, but even then she fears she could be imagining it.

She takes a few unsure steps to where Roderick stands and the man– he is a man as far as she can tell– is further revealed to her. She can see his face now, his pale skin, the angles of his jaw and cheeks, the curve of his lips, but beyond that she finds herself unable to look away from the jewel that sits where his left eye should be. It is a bright, deep shade of blue and dotted with silver specs, like the vast expanse of twilight when the stars are out but the sky is not quite black. The eye is framed by twisted, red flesh and a scar, slicing from his brow to his cheek. It takes her a moment to realise his other eye, closer to the ground, is closed. 

The only other parts of him she can see are the tips of his fingers, clasped around a small pouch.

“Is this… Death?” she utters.

“That remains to be seen,” Roderick says. He points to the pouch. “Get that for me.”

She stares back at her father. How he can speak so flippantly when a man has been conjured, seemingly from thin air, is beyond her. But he glares back, his dark expression only more formidable with his aged frown.

So she steps forward and begins to lower herself beside the man.

“Careful, girl!” Roderick barks, “don’t break the binding circle.”

She stops and looks down, where her skirt is inches from brushing over the markings on the floor. She shuffles back and, with trembling fingers, reaches for the pouch. It’s not hard to take, the man hardly resists, twitching his fingers to keep it in his grasp. It feels wrong, stealing from someone too weak to hold onto what is his.

She looks into the jewel-like eye. Can he see through it? Perhaps it has something to do with the scar? Did he place it there himself, or was he simply made this way?

Someone snatches the pouch from her. She looks up at her father as he undoes the strings and peers inside. “Sand,” he mutters, and stows it away inside his robes.

“And the jewel,” he says to her.

She means to protest, but finds she cannot.

She avoids the markings as she leans forwards. She presses her fingertips beside the man’s eye. His skin is cold and firm.

She swallows her guilt and the nauseous feeling in her throat, nudging her fingertips into the socket. It takes her a few attempts, but she pries the jewel free, wincing when she feels it come loose. If he feels any pain he hardly shows it. His brow furrows but his other eye remains closed, and he makes no sound.

She stands and offers the jewel to her father.

Roderick holds it to the light of one of the candles, giving a curious hum before he pockets that too.

“Move,” he mutters to her, pushing her out of his way as he stands over the man. He tugs on the black cloak and it falls into fragments that fade away, like dust on a breeze. The man’s body is bare, pale skin running over details of muscle and bone. He shivers and twitches like he has a fever, but still he does not speak, or even let out a breath.

“We’ll let our guest recover,” Roderick says, “and then we shall make our demands.

They leave him there for days. He does not move, or ask for food or water.

She doesn’t dream in the nights since they captured their ‘guest’. In fact she hardly sleeps at all. Each morning she wakes, already exhausted, having felt like she’s only closed her eyes for a few brief moments.

Then come the stories in the newspapers. They call it ‘the sleeping sickness’. People all over the country, and in fact the world, have been plagued, either to not sleep at all or never wake up.

On a cold, drizzly morning, a stranger appears at the door to the manor.

She listens and watches from the top of the stairs, crouching by the bannister to stay out of sight as a man with choppy silver hair and pale skin strides into the entrance hall, with Roderick following closely behind.

“Do I know you?” her father asks, furiously.

“No.” The stranger’s voice is low and almost seductive. “But I know all about you, Roderick Burgess, and the being trapped in your basement.”

“You mean to intimidate me?”

She sees a flash of a grin and a pair of pale purple eyes through the wooden balusters.

“I am here to help you,” the stranger says. “There are benefits to keeping one of the Targaryens in your confinement.”

“Targaryens?” her father echoes.

“Did you think Death was the only one of her kind? Death has family. Destiny, Despair, Desire…”

“And who have I got?”

“Dream,” the stranger says with a smile that bares his teeth.

A shiver runs over her shoulders. She keeps her jaw tight to stop herself from reacting to it.

Roderick scoffs. “What good is a God who governs dreams?”

The stranger's voice darkens. “There was a saying in the ancient times of humanity, that said the Targaryens are closer to Gods than men. But they are not Gods. They are more than Gods. They are Endless.”

He tells Roderick of Dream’s vestments, the pouch of sand and his sapphire, both of which he says Roderick may manipulate for his own influences. He says the binding circle will not be enough to contain their prisoner, that they must construct a sphere of glass within the circle.

Most crucially of all, he says no one must be allowed to fall asleep in Dream’s presence.

“Why are you helping me?” Roderick finally asks.

The stranger runs his tongue over his teeth and smiles to himself. “Little family dispute, I shan’t bore you with the details. But for your sake, and for mine, he must not escape.”

He offers his hand to Roderick, who returns the gesture after a moment of hesitation.

Before he heads for the door, the stranger’s eyes trail up to where she hides. Her heart leaps with a sense of dread, like she’s seen something she wasn’t meant to. 

She doesn’t trust him, not by the look or sound of him, but her father does. He follows the stranger’s instructions, ordering the construction of the glass sphere, to be welded around their prisoner as it is made. Finally, he arranges a rota of guards to keep watch over him, under strict orders to never fall asleep, lest their prisoner escape into their dreams.

The details of his face are etched into her memory, even after months, the angle of his jaw, the curve of his upper lip, the silver falling over his shoulders. If she could dream, she is sure she would dream of him. Instead she holds onto the flashes of images that appear before her waking eyes, the pale skin of his bare body against the floor, the stars in his sapphire eye, now kept locked away in her father’s study.

She knows Roderick has tried to bargain with him, and each time he returns from the cellar more furious than when he entered it. “He will not speak a word!” his voice bellows through the quiet halls of the manor. “He will not even look at me!”

When she dares to ask questions, Roderick glares at her and tightens the grip on his cane.

The stranger with silver hair was right about something, wealth and admiration have come to Roderick Burgess in droves since he acquired the Lord of Dreams. It’s something about the sapphire, or the sand, something she doesn’t understand, but their family comes across good fortunes, which is almost entirely spent on lavish parties to entertain Roderick’s ever expanding crowd of admirers.

She wakes with the sunrise, from a void and dreamless sleep. The manor is littered with empty bottles, full ashtrays, plates of half-eaten food, odd shoes and playing cards. Her father must still be asleep, which is odd. He is usually an early riser, even after a night of drinking.

A rumbling in her stomach has her heading through the entrance hall towards the kitchen, but she stops when she sees two men waiting by the door to the cellar– two of the guards her father has hired to watch the prisoner, dressed in smart suits with service revolvers just poking out of their jackets. They look restless, peering their heads round corners, shifting their weight on their legs, not wanting to step too far from the door.

“We can’t just leave,” one mutters to the other.

“I’m not staying down there with that… thing one second longer than I have to–”

“Good morning,” she calls.

They look at her in unison, and frown.

“Have you seen Noel and Mauirce?” one of the men asks. “They’re nearly half an hour late.”

The rotation of the guards. They take eight hour shifts in pairs.

Her eyes glance to the cellar door, opened only a fraction. “I could watch him until they get here,” she says, “if you want to leave.”

It doesn’t take them long to agree.

They leave through the front door. When she hears it shut, she finally lets herself reach for the handle to the cellar door. The handle is cold, untouched for hours at a time, and a little stiff. She pushes on it slowly, carefully, making as little noise as possible. 

With the cellar door closed, she shuts out the light and warmth of the morning. A silent, icy draft drifts through the narrow stairway. She follows it down, all the way to the dull, eerie light of the main chamber.

The sight takes her breath away, the glass sphere, suspended above the ground, still within the circle of markings that keep his power contained.

He sits in the centre, still bare, his knees tucked into his chest and his hair falling around his face like a veil.

As far she knows, no food or water ever passes the threshold to the cellar, and the cage is never opened. How does he breathe? How does he eat? How does he not wither away? He just sits there, stoic, his face frozen in time like a statue, like the image of a god cut from marble, to be preserved and admired.

A man like that cannot be real, and yet there he is.

“Hello,” she says. 

He does not react to her voice or the sound of her footsteps as she walks further into the chamber.

If he can even hear her. She wonders how thick the glass is, if sound can permeate it, or does he just hear the sound of his own breath echoed back to him, endlessly.

She comes to lean against one of the pillars, tracing her fingertips down the cold, rough surface of the stone.

“Are you really the Lord of dreams?” she says. 

His gaze lifts and turns to her, just enough that she can see his chin, his nose, and a single violet eye. It is not like the stranger’s, it is far more vibrate, burning with with a silent fury that makes her heart flutter and her skin feel tight.

“I have not dreamt since that night.”

She knows it isn’t just her. It’s the sleeping sickness, the war, the cloud of darkness looming over the rest of the world.

“The groundskeeper has a son, he’s only ten years old. He’s been asleep for months now. He can’t even eat. If he doesn’t wake up, he’ll die.”

He does not react, but his eye follows her as she takes a single step away from the pillar, towards the sphere.

“This is my father’s– our doing, yes?”

Her eyes dip to his chest, to the movement of his lungs underneath skin and muscle, a steady rise and fall with a deep, patient breath. 

“My father is a reasonable man, if you could give him something, anything, I am sure he would let you out.”

He tilts his head, until she can just see the point of his scar on his cheek and the edge of his empty eye socket.

He is simultaneously the most terrifying and most beautiful thing she has ever laid eyes upon. The low light only accentuates the harsh angles in his face, the ridges and lines in the muscles and tendons of his neck, torso, arms and legs.

She takes another step closer. “I would let you out, if I could,” she says quietly, like a secret.

He blinks softly, and when her eyes flicker to his lips she sees them curled into something almost like a smile, but not quite. 

“Oh you would, would you?”

Her blood runs cold at the sound of her father’s voice. She whips her head around just in time to see Roderick marching towards her with his hand reaching out. His fist grips at her hair, and when she yelps in pain he hisses at her to be quiet. He drags her back up the steps, away from the cold cellar, to the warmth and the light, to the world without dreams.

She bathes before dinner, wincing as she runs her hands over the fresh bruises that mark her skin. Most of them are red, others are set deep and already turning a greyish purple. 

Her father’s fury still rings in her ears. “Stupid girl! If he escapes he will slaughter us all!”

Leaning on her back is especially painful, it’s where her body took the brunt of his cane. She brings her knees into her chest, hunching over herself.

She hasn’t cried over her father’s cruelty in years, not since she was a small child. He’d always call her weak for it. Randall never cried when he was disciplined, because he knew, deep down, it was good for him. Perhaps she is simply not as strong as Randall was.

Her tears are hot and stinging in her eyes. She blinks and lets them fall onto her knees, to become the dew that lingers on her skin.

“Do you want to die, girl? Because it can be easily remedied!”

She doesn’t wear anything special, a white satin dress, with long, billowy sleeves, and applies some rouge to her cheeks, to make her seem more awake, more alive.

She reaches the bottom of the staircase as the clock in the entrance hall starts to chime. Five times. Marking the start of another shift rotation. 

Two men appear from the hall that leads from the cellar, vaguely nodding as they pass her.

She can see into the dining room from the stairs, an enormous table set with silver cutlery and china plates, for just two of them.

The door to her father’s study is closed, obstructing the voices within. He’s arguing with someone. 

Before she can stop herself, she’s walking towards the cellar. She tries the handle to find it unlocked. With one final look to the door to the study, she descends back into the darkness.

Two guards sit on wooden chairs by the entrance from the stairway, and immediately stand to attention as she walks into the chamber.

“Miss,” one of them calls, “you cannot be here.”

And she seems to have caught his attention too. He looks up from where he sits in the sphere, his forearm resting on his knee. His hair is pushed from his face, and his violet eye is wide, curious.

“This is my father’s house, I will go where I please,” she says, shakily, continuing until she comes face to face with the glass.

He stares at her, somewhat furious, but in a way she knows it is not meant for her.

The men behind her are muttering to each other, she doesn’t hear their words, but she hears their panic.

“It isn’t right for him to keep you here,” she says. “It isn’t right for him to think he can play with mortality. And I am as bad as he is for letting this happen.”

The tendons of his hand flex as he clenches his fist, his fingers restless as he stares at her, intently.

“If I let you out,” she whispers, “would you harm me?”

His face softens as his eye moves over her face. 

He’s studying her, she realises. She imagines him noting the curves of her cheeks and chin, the shape of her mouth, perhaps the faint teartracks and the dark circles under her eyes.

What does he make of her, the daughter of his captor, the one who pried the sapphire from his eye? Roderick could be right, he might slaughter her the moment he is free from his cage. 

“I would like to believe that you wouldn’t,” she says.

His expression gives nothing away.

Suddenly he shifts. His muscles tense as he comes to his feet and uncurls his spine to stand before her. Something about his movements are distinctly inhuman.

The guards behind her are shouting now, telling her to step away, calling for Mr Burgess. Their voices are inconsequential to her, muffled as though spoken behind a closed door. Her heart pounds in her ears. All she sees is him, the intense gaze of his eye, a wide palm reaching out and pressing against the glass.

She reaches up slowly, his eye growing wider with every inch she comes closer to touching the glass that separates them, but not quite meeting it.

His brow furrows as if to question her. Why are you hesitating? What are you afraid of?

She won’t be dragged upstairs again. She won’t be thrown to the floor with nowhere else to go. She will not suffer at the hands of Roderick Burgess any longer.

So she presses her hand to the glass.

Her skin is feverishly cold, her arms weightless. She can almost feel the shape of his palm through the glass, but not quite, like she is reaching for something she will never touch, clawing to the memory of a dream.

She can feel herself slipping into numbness, her eyes and her limbs becoming heavy. She presses her fingernails against the glass, silently pleading though she doesn’t know what for. An escape? An end? Anything.

His face is strangely gentle as he pouts his lips, hushing her, lulling her panic. She can feel her breathing and her heartbeat slowing, but it does not frighten her.

The glass shatters, her knees give way. She is awake enough to know she is falling, but too far gone to stop herself.

But she does not need to.

The world around her is silent– no, a gentle breeze drifts over her skin and whispers in her ear. Sunlight beams onto one side of her face and the other rests against bare skin. She feels a weight around her waist, something propping her body upright.

She tries to steady herself but the ground shifts beneath her. The arms around her only tighten their grip when she stumbles.

Finally she lets her eyes flutter open. They are in a desert, a vast expanse of dry sand, reaching as far as the eye can see.

Her head is moving with his breath, against his chest.

She tilts her gaze up, close enough that her lips barely brush over the base of his throat.

His eye is already fixed on her, holding her firmly in his arms, pulling her into him.

Wordlessly, he releases one arm from her waist, and reaches down, keeping his eye on her face. When he brings himself back up, she looks at his closed fist, where sand slips from between his fingers. 

Her confusion must be visible on her face because he smiles softly at her, letting out a low “hmm” as he does.

She means to blink, but when she opens her eyes the world has changed again.

She lies face down against the ground of the cellar, dust and dirt pressing into her cheek, broken glass littering the floor around her.

She blinks again through the haze of sleep still clouding her vision. She makes out a figure in a long black coat with silver hair falling down his back. He stands over two bodies, lying lifeless on the ground, and stalks towards another.

Roderick is at the base of the stairs. He raises his cane and cries out as the prisoner reaches into his coat.

Her father’s voice fades into a spluttering, retching sound. Then he is silent. His body slumps to the floor with a gut-wrenching thud. When the stranger walks away, she sees her father sprawled out on the floor, blood spurting from his throat, seeping into his shirt, pooling on the floor around him.

She pushes herself up, leaning on her hands as her vision is blocked once again by a black coat. He stands over her, blood dripping from a knife he holds in his hand, his eye a brighter shade of violet than it was before.

He kneels beside her, taking her chin in his fingertips.

“Are you hurt?” he says. His voice is a hypnotic blend of soft and harsh, low and light, chilling in a way that sends a wave of warmth through her stomach.

She looks past his shoulder, where Roderick’s skin is turning from white to grey. “What did you do to my father?” she utters.

He jerks her head back to him. His expression is dark, lips upturned into a sneer.

Does he expect her to be grateful?

“My tools,” he says.

“You’re… what?”

“My tools. The sapphire and the pouch.”

The items that were stolen from him, that her father has now paid for with blood.

“Are you going to kill me too?” she says, digging her fingertips into the stone and the shards of glass beneath her.

He tilts his head and his lips twitch in a flicker of movement. His voice is barely above a whisper. “Tell me where they are. I will not harm you.”

Three men lay dead mere feet from them, and yet she finds herself wanting to trust him.

He offers her his arm as she stands, gripping at the thick, leather sleeve. Her palms are covered in small cuts from the glass, droplets of bright red blood pearling at the edges. He takes her wrists in his hands to have a look and tuts to himself.

“Quickly,” he says, moving towards the steps, leading her along with him, past the bodies of the guards, and the body of her father.

She brings him to the study, her hands shaking, bloody and outstretched before her. The door is wide open, a stack of papers thrown carelessly to the floor.

Roderick’s safe sits in a black cabinet in the corner of the room. She uses her fingertips to open it, wincing at the pieces of glass still stuck in her skin, but she swallows down the pain.

She guesses the combination on the first try. 1895– Randall’s birth year.

There, in the centre shelf, above the Grimoire, below a stack of banknotes, is the pouch of sand and the sapphire.

He reaches for the gem first. She turns away as he fixes it back into his socket, remembering the weight of it in her palm when she took it from him. She sees him reach forward again, but not for the pouch. He takes a hold of her wrists.

With no magic words or spells, he waves a hand over her palms. For a moment she sees a glow in his sapphire eye. The pain vanishes, so does the blood, the glass and the dirt. 

She blinks a few effortless tears from her eyes. Tears for her father, tears of relief, she cannot place a cause.

Cold fingertips meet her skin once more, as the Lord of Dreams wipes her tears away, bringing her gaze to meet his.

He leans in closer, until his forehead meets hers. “Sleep,” he whispers.

She falls into him, to find herself wide awake, clinging onto him as she had done in the desert.

But they are somewhere else entirely. The sky above them is a pale yellow, like daybreak, painted with swirling grey clouds. The land here is… dead. Dead trees, barren mountains and hills, and in the distance, beyond a dried lake, is a castle of red brick, decrepit, falling into ruin.

“You see the damage that has been done to my realm?” he says. With her ear pressed against his chest, his voice is cavernous and she feels everything, the way his words drag through his throat. She feels his pain at being confined, the loss of his home and his creations.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“I do not forgive easily, that is why Roderick Burgess had to die. But you…” he pulls away from her so he might look at her properly, cupping the sides of her face and swiping his thumbs over her cheeks. “I do not need an apology from you. We are free of him now.”

“Is that what you think I wanted?” 

He hums with tight lips. “I have seen your dreams, as I see the dreams of every mortal. I see them as clearly as you perceive the waking world. It just so happened that our dreams coincided.”

She had never dreamt of her father’s death and she had certainly never imagined that she might have played a part in it. But she cannot deny the weight now lifted from her shoulders. She will never have to earn his approval, she will never have to endure him again. She is free of him.

“Go now,” he says, “I am sure you have your own business to resolve.”

He releases his hold of her and brings his hands behind his back. As he walks towards the castle the world around her starts to fade. She can smell the musk of the manor, the lingering smoke of her father’s cigars, the distinct scent of a winter evening.

“Wait!” she calls.

The ends of his coat swish around his legs as he turns back to face her. “Yes?” he says, the corners of his mouth curling up into a small smile.

“I want to know your name.”

“I have had many names,” he says.

“And how would you have me know you?”

“Aemond,” he says.

She echoes his name, letting her mouth linger on the final syllable. “Will I see you again?”

He draws the tip of his tongue between his lips. “Perhaps,” he says.

When she wakes she is laid out on one of the leather sofas of her father’s study. She looks down at her hands, traces her fingertips down her face, now free of the dirt and dust. 

She wonders if she might have dreamt all of it, the beautiful man in the sphere, the glass breaking, her father’s blood on the floor…

Her life is never the same after that. With her father dead, his estate passes to her. For the first time, her life is hers to do with as she pleases.

And yet she feels an absence, a hollow longing in her chest.

Her dreams come back to her since she set him free, and each night she dreams of him.

He only appears in brief moments, like lighting, bright and brilliant, but gone in a heartbeat, before she can truly see him. She sees the movement of a leather coat, flashes of silver, violet and sapphire blue. Sometimes she is met with darkness as a pair of lips ghosts over her neck with a contented sigh and a warm breath.

She cannot bear it.

As she lies in the empty manor house, she traces her fingers over her body, her lips, down her neck and her chest, underneath her cotton nightgown, to her navel and the pool of wanting wetness between her legs, trying to imagine they are his. 

She pictures the way his hair fell around his face, the coldness of his skin, the curve of his lips. She imagines them parting in a small sigh, the sound of his breath, the way his chest hummed as she circles over her bundle of nerves. Pleasure sparks at first but it keeps slipping from her grasp.

She circles faster, harder, searching for a spot that will finally give her the release she craves.

She feels heat and a sheen of sweat settling on the surface of her skin, her breathing hitches, her hips twitch under her touches. The pleasure heightens, then fades.

With her eyes tightly shut, she spurs herself on with thoughts of him, breathlessly chanting his name into the empty space and cold air of her bedroom.

“Aemond… Aemond…”

Something changes.

The mattress shifts beneath her and a weight presses against her body, her legs, her stomach, her chest.

A hand clasps around hers, ceasing her movements, and bringing it to rest by her side.

She laments the loss of the friction against her bud, her pleasure pulled away from her, but in its place anticipation blooms within her.

When she opens her eyes he is above her, against her, hovering his face over hers so that all she sees are his eyes, one violet, one sapphire.

“You have my attention,” he says in a soft but unsettling voice.

A thrill ripples through her body.

She whispers his name on an exhale of breath, running her fingertips over his arms, tense and toned as his props himself over her. 

But she is somewhat dazed, her senses numbed by fatigue and the echo of the pleasure she had been chasing.

“Is this real?” she utters.

Aemond leans further into her. She feels a weight between her hips and an unmistakable hardness prodding at her centre as he brings his lips to her neck, pressing a slow, teasing kiss against a sensitive spot of skin that has her body tensing and her fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Does if feel real?” he whispers against her skin.

How much has he truly seen of her dreams, her desires, she wonders? Perhaps she should feel some kind of shame, but she cannot, not when she is on the precipice of something bright, beautiful and damning. She can hardly stand being on the edge of it, having him so close but not close enough.

She wraps her arms around his neck as he teases her with his lips, crosses her legs around his hips, meeting his movements as he torturously grinds his hardening cock against her cunt, dripping with arousal, twitching and clenching around nothing at the anticipation.

“Needy little thing,” he mutters, dragging his nose along her neck as he comes to kiss the hollow of her throat.

His voice sends a shockwave through her body. Her hips buck against his, determined for relief as her fingers thread through the soft strands of his hair, and tug. 

He lets out a quiet growl against her skin. A hand rests upon her thigh and trails up, bunching the hem of her nightgown to her waist and adjusting the other side. 

He sits back, watching her with the same darkness and intensity as when he was trapped inside the cage, intrigued at the least, fascinated if she is presumptive. 

The irony of being laid half bare before him and at his mercy does not escape her.

“I’ve heard you crying out for me, little mortal,” he says. 

“You said you can see my dreams,” she says, “how?”

“Your dreams exist in my realm,” he says, “in The Dreaming. I see your dreams as I see the dreams of every other being. I feel them, as clearly as you perceive the waking world. But you…” he muses, settling his hands on either side of her waist. “You are incessant.”

She shivers and writhes under his touch, a pulsing heat settling within her.

She traces her hands over his, where they grip at her waist, along his smooth skin, the tendons and veins. His fingers are long and lithe. She knows they would feel so perfect, wrapped around her throat, stroking over her skin, pushing inside of her wet heat to coax her pleasure.

Aemond smiles to himself as though he can hear her thoughts.

He grips harder into her flesh and pulls his hips back, only to let his cock slide over her slick folds with teasingly gentle thrusts.

Every stroke pushes her closer and closer to the edge, but not enough to find release. She feels the frustrating want pulsing through her body, the coil getting tighter and tighter, her cunt clenching over nothing.

“Aemond…” she says with a breathless mewl, “please…”

“You really want it, don’t you?” Aemond growls, resting his forehead against hers. “Just feel how wet that empty little cunt is for me.”

Her eyes trail along the angles of his face, the line of his scar, the night sky in his eyes as he stares down at her, the gentle curve of his lips and how they settle into a soft expression. 

Her gaze slips further down, over his throat, his collar, his pale, bare chest, the ridges of the muscles on his abdomen, the slight dip in his waist, the trail of silver hair to his cock, long, hard and flushed with need, transfixed by the way it moves against her.

She holds her breath each time he withdraws, stifling her whines into his mouth when he only keeps teasing her.

“I want it,” she groans, “I want you. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.”

He lets out a contented hum as he leans down to kiss her. The movements of his mouth are slow and consuming, claiming her with lips, tongue and teeth, wetness and warmth.

She holds him close by the sides of his face. In his violet eye she sees his hunger, his rage, his lust. In his sapphire, she sees oblivion. 

And finally, he eases himself into her. 

He fucks her delicately, dragging his cock through her gently, slowly, deeply. His lips ghost over her skin, her temple, her cheek, back to her mouth with light kisses and strained but soft breaths. 

With a few deft circles over her bud she feels herself come undone around him. Her climax burns through her and she holds him closer for purchase, digging her fingertips into his skin as her resolve melts and her legs tremble around his hips.

Aemond doesn’t stop. He holds her against the mattress with a determined grip, fucking her through her peak until her pleasure settles and simmers once more.

Being kissed by him, held by him, fucked by him feels light a dream, that weightless, numb feeling of being between consciousness and sleep coursing through her limbs. It feels good, it feels deep, it feels perfect.

She cannot be sure how many climaxes he draws from her, she just feels him, his heat, his hands and his skin as he repositions her legs, guides her onto her front, brings her up to her knees, pushes her back down again, until she is a blissful, mindless mess.

He meets his own end when he has her face down on the bed, her face turned to the side against the pillow, his mouth on the underside of her jaw as he pounds into her. 

“You’re doing so well,” she hears him rasp, “you’ve been so good to me… fuck, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

Her mind is beyond words and coherent thoughts. She utters the only thing she feels, the only thing she can think of, “Aemond… Aemond… Aemond…”

He stills his hips against her rear with a guttural moan, pressing his face against hers, squeezing her waist under his hands. He allows himself a few more shallow thrusts until he is spent. She feels his cock pulse within her, a warmth pooling, his spend dripping from her cunt once he has pulled away.

The weight dissipates from her back and for a moment she lies there, basking in the afterglow, feeling her chest rise and fall against the bed, the softness of her sheets under her fingertips.

She wakes to a gentle breeze running over her skin and slipping down her spine.

She allows her eyes to flutter open and recoils at the pale sunlight beaming through the spaces in the curtains. 

She holds her breath.

She hears no sound or sign of life other than her own pulse. 

She twists herself to sit up, noting that her bedsheets are neat and the hem of her nightgown is where it should be. 

Is it possible that she dreamed it? She remembers it so vividly, but the mind has a way of playing tricks. Perhaps it was only a dream.

“Your dreams exist in my realm,” he had said. “I feel them, as clearly as you perceive the waking world.”

How do we determine what is real? she wonders as she pulls on a robe and goes to open the curtains. The morning floods her bedroom. It brings no warmth, but it brings light and life back into the room. 

To dream is to live beyond ourselves, why should that be any less true than the world around me? 

She seats herself before her vanity, reaching for the drawer for her hairbrush.

But something catches her eye, a glint of colour against mahogany wood, a small gem catching the sunlight.

She takes it between her thumb and index finger and brings it before her eyes; a sapphire, the size of a pearl, a deep and vibrant blue. Its edges are uneven and dull, uncut, as though plucked straight from the earth. 

She turns it about between her fingers. It could be a trick of the light, but there is depth to it, a vastness within. The sapphire seems to capture the night sky, dotted with glimmering stars.

His was the same.

As the dazed state of sleep wears off, she feels the satisfied ache between her legs, the spots on her skin marked by him. She smiles to herself and holds the gem in her palm, this precious gift, this reminder, this promise from the Lord of Dreams.

Tags (comment to be added)

Sweet Dream taglist: @solisarium @sirenangelroyal @sabrinasstar @shygardengalaxy @aemondsfavouritebastard @wintrr13 @thedamewithabook @lexwolfhale @rainyforest777

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya @dreamsofoldvalyria

[gaymarasov]

f, j, t, y!

Answering Fandom Alphabet for @sapphicscience. Prompts here x. Chosen Fandom: General/Yellowjackets

F - What’s the longest you’ve ever been in a fandom?

Oh, christ, this depends heavily on what you consider a fandom. If we're talking "community that is still actively producing content on a regular schedule", then it's going to be Destiny (1 & 2), to which I owe my URL and also literally my marriage. In that case, ~10 years. If we're talking "media that has captivated your attention for an extended period of time" then it's going to be the Tunnels series of books by Roderick Gordon and Brian Williams, which is genuinely my special interest. Tunnels has owned me since 2005, so approximately ~20 years, which is insane to think about. It still has a few extremely dedicated fans that all hang out together in a micro-discord server that's active like, once every six months. Wouldn't have it any other way to be honest.

J - Name a fandom you didn’t think about until you saw it all over Tumblr. (You don’t have to care about it or follow it; it just has to be something that Tumblr made you aware of.)

Hacks!!! I want and need to watch this show, but trying to sit down to watch a new TV show is a lot like being waterboarded to me for some reason. I need someone to literally strap me down in a chair and make me watch the first episode- then it's all downhill and I binge without fail if it catches my interest. Don't ask me why I can't cross that first step without help- I have no fucking idea LMAO.

T - Do you have any hard and fast headcanons that you will die defending? 

Going to be literally stoned in town square for this one, but Shauna Shipman is a switch that would tend to lean sub with brat tendencies if she was literally ever in a healthy relationship where she was actually fulfilled (not just thrill-seeking or desperately grasping at control). This one baffles people when I say it because it doesn't seem to align with what I've written of Shauna so far myself, but counterpoint, I have not written Shauna in a healthy or fulfilling relationship yet, so. Checkmate. Sidenote: I hate top/bottom sub/dom discourse in general as (tumblr post voice) you guys are very certain about things sometimes, like idk guys I think sometimes it depends. But anyway.

Y - What are your secondhand fandoms (i.e., fandoms you aren’t in personally but are tangentially familiar with because your friends/people on your dash are in them)?

My fandom-in-laws! Uhhhh, off the top of my head: Hacks, Succession, FFXIV, Taylor Swift RPF (looks directly at the camera), Marvel (looks to the left of the camera irritably at my brother), Mass Effect, and Dragon Age! There are many more but those are just the ones I've seen most recently.

[choccy-zefirka]

New writer game! Go through your fics and find things that some silly gooses would mistake for "AI red flags" because they think detecting AI is all about superficial quirks (which AI learns from humans!) and not factual contradictions and lack of real substance.

Note: the purpose of the game is not to diminish your confidence because "Oh no, I write like AI", but to laugh at people who throw AI accusations around like a baseless gotcha (often betraying their own ableism and disdain towards non-native English speakers).

I'll start!

Em dashes

"Allow me," Abelard says — nearly pleads — looking up at her.

[Chancellor Roderick] tries his best to draw himself to his full height — which has not gotten any less... modest under the weight of his years.

[Rook] laughs, tucking a strand of long black hair behind the delicately carved conch of her ear, and the rush of blood to her helix darkens it from the usual grey — with a subtle tint of green, like the noble patina on the Necropolis statues — to a rich purple.

Lists of three

Only the Lady Navigator lingers. Only the Lady Navigator wonders. Only the Lady Navigator raises her silvery talons to pale lilac lips, and gasps in understanding.

Of course I am hers. As the ship is hers, as the sacred Warrant is hers, as the colony worlds we are yet to reach are hers.

[the creature's arm] resembling the pincer of an oversized crab, bulbous and heavy and sagging down till it vanishes in the purple fog.

"Unnecessarily big/smart words" that "normal people" do not use in everyday conversation"

Their skeletal forebears [are] watching over them, in kindness and understanding.

There's only her and, across a distance she cannot even measure, two floating, hungry embers, with a waiting maw below — a slit of billowing glow crossed by silhouettes of teeth.

[The letters] are laid out before him, unfurled, one pressed down by his impeccably polished obsidian inkwell, the other by the massive ink blotter with a procession of dancing skeletons carved into its side.

"Weird" metaphors that "do not make sense"

[Her name is] a poem crumpled into a breathy gasp, when he pins her wrists down and her legs close around his back

The sky is a bowl of swirling tinted water. The little droplet of blue ink that was eye-dropped into the rich streaks of orange and peach, somewhere far at the horizon, has now begun to spread. By the minute, it grows more saturated, more condensed. The vibrant mix of sunset paints is now velvety dark, all the more so in contrast with the first shimmer of the stars.

But then, at last, he feels it, like a spring flood roaring down a river that has been left cracked and dry through an endless, cruel winter. That spirit of mischief, that desire for pleasure.

What about you? Do you express yourself in cool and unique ways that those silly gooses would dismiss as AI because their worldview is too narrow? Do you match any other "red flags" that I missed? Let's have a cheeky fun time!

[eirinstiva]

C'est la vie~

What ho! Jeeves and Wooster are back from France!

Amazing how one’s always running across fellows in foreign cities⁠—birds, I mean, whom you haven’t seen for ages and would have betted weren’t anywhere in the neighbourhood.

Bertie and his friends go to the same cities. A good idea would be to visit the countryside.

Did Jeeves sense something in Old Biffy that he didn't like it? Does Jeeves own a problem detection system? Maybe, because Charles Edward Biffen is... just like many of Bertie's friends:

“What do you mean, lost?” “I came out for a walk and suddenly discovered after a mile or two that I didn’t know where on earth I was. I’ve been wandering round in circles for hours.” “Why didn’t you ask the way?” “I can’t speak a word of French.” “Well, why didn’t you call a taxi?” “I suddenly discovered I’d left all my money at my hotel.” “You could have taken a cab and paid it when you got to the hotel.” “Yes, but suddenly I discovered, dash it, that I’d forgotten its name.”

The fact that compared to him Bertie is a lot smarter Biffy is says a lot about him.

“What on earth are you doing in Paris?” I asked. “Bertie, old man,” said Biffy, solemnly, “I came here to try and forget.” “Well, you’ve certainly succeeded.”

Another case of broken heart? And I thought we will free of love affairs after Bingo's wedding. I think I'll need a coffee too to deal with this case.

How can somebody forget too many things in one day? How can Biffy forget the surname of his love? How can...? Whatever, Bertie needs somebody at his side and it's not Biffy.

Which, after I had listened to his story, struck me as pretty low-down. However, the longer you live, the more you realize that the good old sporting spirit of give-and-take has practically died out in our midst. So I boosted him into a cab and went off to lunch.

Wait a minute.

Biffy got engaged to Honoria Glossop? THE Honoria Glossop? The smart and athletic Bertie's ex-fiancée? No way!!! I understand how Wooster feels relief and pity at the same time, he got free from Honoria but now Biffy is engaged to her. Maybe you don't like Honoria but she seems to be an interesting woman.

“And it sort of happened with me. You know how it is when your heart’s broken. A kind of lethargy comes over you. You get absentminded and cease to exercise proper precautions, and the first thing you know you’re for it. I don’t know how it happened, old man, but there it is. And what I want you to tell me is, what’s the procedure?”

Biffy is still heartbroken and in the claws of Honoria, but as always, Bertie helps a friend in distress. He's the one who has Jeeves as a valet. "(...) when there is a chance of helping a pal we Woosters have no thought of self."

I don't know why Jeeves doesn't want to help Biffy, but at least Bertie has experience dealing with Sir Roderick. Will his plan work? Wait until the next letter. Pip pip!

[forgottenarthur]

The Witch of Kil-kennar

(@forgottenarias as promised, witch hc's i was talking abt incoming!)

The Siege of Kil-kennar

Kil-kennar was an ancient castle, even said by some Astairans to be a site of religious significance, but it most assuredly was a strategic location. Roderick saw this straight off, early in the conception of his Conquest of Astaira, drawing up a thousand rolled scrolls and carefully drawn maps. If one wished to place a stranglehold on movement through the nation of Astaira, one needed to hold the ancient site of Kil-kennar. Yet, situated towards the center of the nation and controlling perhaps the most formidable river in the nation at its bend, it was a citadel from which and to which all trade circulated -- making it at once a place which was easy to reach -- and difficult to take.

The Varmont march took near a year to come towards its shore but, as soon as it did, it was a mad dash: whichever force first arrived there must seize it and hold it, come what may, if they were to conquer. When the first opportunity arose, it was Arthur's contingent which was in position to march on Kil-kennar and, receiving his orders, Arthur did not hesitate to do it.

Nestled up amongst mountain peaks, Kil-kennar was no easy place to capture, but it was not merely a military outpost. Before the war, it had been a bustling center of trade, making it both fort and citadel, a place boasting families and merchants as well as soldiers and, known for its religious qualities, quite an outcropping of true believers as well. Still, a siege was a siege and, even from the outside, Arthur had far more experience in war even at his young age than did most of those inside the fortress. For twelve harrowing days, Kil-kennar held out, but on the thirteenth, they surrendered. The challengers for the victors, however, were only just beginning.

Seeress of Kil-kennar

As Arthur instilled a military rule over the residents of Kil-kennar, he set up instilling the kind of rule that his father always did in occupied cities -- the great walls of the fortress which once had protected them now transforming in prison walls for the Astairas civilians within. Distressed and afraid, many turned to Áine, Seeress of Kil-kennar, a strong-willed and unswerving woman who was revered amongst her people for her bravery and her ability to speak with the guardians.

From the start, Arthur knew he must root her out, but the people hid her and gave her shelter, often at the risks of their own lives, as quietly she became the ringleader of a resistance from within. Áine was determined to do all in her power to thwart the Varmonts, and she began in utterly unswerving dedication.

Though the siege had lasted less than two weeks, holding the city was far more troubling and Arthur soon dedicated himself to rooting out the chief: the witch-woman Áine of the Weirding Way, whom his soldiers soon came to fear not merely as an opponent but as a prophetess and a mage of great power. While the priests of the one god insisted all her powers were merely for show, many whispered that the truth of her abilities could not, in truth, be disputed.

Fearing for his hold on the strategic city, Arthur turned his attentions to rooting out the witch, which he ultimately did with ruthless efficiancy yet, once he had her, a religious figure and a heroine to her people both, Arthur realized, first, that killing her would likely bring down a full-scale revolt on their heads, such that they would soon find themselves fighting a battle both from within -- and without. But he realized something else as well, she was no mere soothsaying, some icon of idolatry, but a woman of flesh and blood and, while he knew that his father would burn her at the stake, when Arthur looked into her eyes, he wondered if he could, indeed, do so. Would not a more merciful end prove better, if end she must? And, indeed, was it so very necessary to kill her at all? In truth, he grew not simply to see her for a human being, but to admire her for her bravery, her loyalty, and her unbending will.

The Purple Missive

Arthur could not long conceal that he'd caught her, however: not from the populace, and not from his father, either. After a particularly daring escape attempt, a messenger arrived at the gates of Kil-kennar, wearing his father's livery. "Kill the witch," his father. ordered. "Or you are not my son." The messenger then immediately ordered that a pyre be constructed at the heart of the town and informed Arthur that he would be Roderick's eyes and ears. If the witch were not dead within forty-eight hours, he would report to the emperor that Arthur had turned traitor to his father.

She was his friend, but Arthur marched Áine to the center of the village square, his soldiers forming an iron ring around the hastily constructed platform upon which they stood. He read out the order for her execution clearly and without pause and then, in one swift motion, he drew his sword and beheaded her in the sight of all.

"Go," said Arthur, her blood dripping from the sword still clasped in his hand. "Go now and tell the Emperor all that you have seen."

This decision, though adhering to the letter of Roderick's law, did nothing to please anyone. While the seeress was dead, she had been decapitated rather than burned to death, and in his fury, Roderick made a point -- on his own battlefield some miles away -- of rounding up everyone so much as rumored to be a witch. He then set his soldiers out uprooting trees which he turned into stakes lining either side of the the main road to the capital. Without any sort of trial, Roderick tied a suspected witch to each pillar and burned them all, lighting the march towards Malconaire in a butchery that became known as the Pyre Walk.

Meanwhile, within Kil-kennar the citizens rose up in rebellion, their leader having been brutally murdered without trial before them and, while Arthur managed to hold the city and beat down the insurrection, many lives were lost on both sides, a devestating loss for which Arthur was held as directly responsible by both sides. Furthermore, even many Astairans who acknowledged -- whether for good or ill -- his mercy in the means of dispatching Áine, still held him as responsible for the Pyre Walk as they argued that burning one woman, there, might have spared hundreds, many of whom were not even witches. On the Varmont side, many viewed his actions as having exposed a dreadful weakness: an unwillingness to do what must be done and make the hard choices.

Nonetheless, there are those who see his actions as heroic. Some Astairans believe that his merciful action was good in itself, and he ought not to be held responsible for his father's terrible actions afterwards, though many argue that who could have better foreseen this outcome than Roderick's own son? On the Varmont side, some are also sympathetic to Arthur's actions, though for varying reasons. Some believe that mercy, in itself, is good, while others take pride in him boldly executing a witch, himself, rather than leaving the deed to an executioner's flame.

The Butcher of Kil-kennar

Given his reputation of having cut down a woman with a blade, spilling weirding blood on a sacred site, and all the subsequent bloodshed that resulted, the governor of Kil-kennar who did this is sometimes known as the Butcher of Kil-kennar. However, it is not universally known at this individual was Arthur. Once his fury at Arthur's act of semi-rebellion had cooled in the Pyre Walk, Roderick realized that any weakness in his son's readiness to fulfill the letter of his laws might reflect as weakness in himself.

As a result, Roderick quickly set up the messenger he'd dispatched to Arthur as a fall man, spreading it about that the envoy had been a secret Astairan sympathizer and had delivered a garbled message to Arthur, wishing to thwart the Varmont cause, and executed the messenger as a traitor.

Not entirely satisfied with this explanation -- though beginning to believe that it was, indeed, the truth as Arthur had rarely before rebelled in anything, and thus wishing to exempt his son from the ill effects (though only after he'd punished him, himself) -- Roderick further explained that, while Arthur had held Kil-kennar, the messenger had not even reported to Arthur, himself, and it had indeed been someone else entirely who had received the orders and -- thus -- that, despite the fact that they civilians of Kil-kennar had seen Arthur do the deed with their own eyes -- this had merely been confusion based on the fact that many Varmonts looked the same to the Astairans and it had simply been a confusion. The Butcher of Kil-kennar was not Arthuar, at all, but someone entirely.

Arthur is not entirely aware of all of his father's machinations which took place after the fact in arranging not one, but multiple, fall men. His feelings, if he did find out, would be very complicated. On one hand, it would be the most his father had ever done for him. On the other, Arthur would not believe that anyone else ought to take the consequences of his actions -- for good or evil.

I also want to note that, while Arthur felt like in hindsight he should have, Arthur did not foresee the Pyre Walk, at the time of Áine's execution. He ~did foresee a rebellion within Kil-kennar but he couldn't see a way around it if he didn't want to turn traitor and, yes, he very much did choose his father over Áine and the poeple of Kil-kennar.

What, or if, your character know of any of this is entirely up to everyone, individually!

[heylavellan]

Hi!!! Happy Friday 💕 Would No. 3 from the fwb prompts work for Ser Gilmore x Cousland? (A takes off their shirt, exposing scratch marks from a recent session… B hides a sly grin as A is questioned about who they’re with)

bwah, just realised i forgor to post this last night!! this was so fun to write, just imagining a cheeky cousland slipping away with gilmore and the consequences of that. read under the cut!

(using ramsay cousland, who is genderfluid and uses any pronouns!)

rating: m

words: 694

tags: morning after sex, scratches from sex, bite marks, secret relationship, pre-da:o, genderfluid cousland

part of @dadrunkwriting

"Shit, that was good," Ramsay whined, stretching out now that they were finally disentangled.

Roderick had his back to them, which was perfectly fine because they could admire their handiwork there. Scratches, bites, bruises. He looked pretty all marked up for them. They whistled at him, just to make sure he knew.

He laughed with a huff, before sorting out their clothes. "It better have been. I take pride in my work. My service," he commented, tossing a lacy pair of smalls onto their thighs.

They sat up after they tugged them on. "As you should Ser Gilmore. At least I appreciate your services to Highever," they teased, swiping the tunics off the ground. They tossed one over to Roderick and put the other one on.

"Well, I'm as ever at your service Lady Ramsay," he replied, bowing in an excessive fashion. He'd already tugged on his leggings and was starting to strap on his armour.

"I like marking you up," he added in a husky voice. "Doubt that anyone gets to see it besides me. But it lets anyone else know that you have been thoroughly enjoyed."

Ramsay was glad they were sitting down, lacing up their boots. If they were standing, they expected they would become fast friends with the floor. So instead, they blushed and pretended he hadn't said that.

Before the two set off, they shared a few more kisses. "Find my room tonight? I'm not done with you," Ramsay whispered between kisses.

"For you, my lord? Anything," he murmured in response, placing one last kiss on their lips. He slipped off first, heading back to his shift.

Ramsay slipped out a few minutes later, pretending they had full control of their senses again.

---

Today was a quiet reading day for Ramsay. Father was busy hearing from his arls and banns, while Fergus was taking care of logistics. Since Mother was visiting a friend, it left Ramsay to their own devices.

Deep into a saucy book about dragon hunters, they heard someone at the door to Grandfather's study. They should look like they were doing work, but they figured the other person would be more embarrassed than them.

Of course, Ser Gilmore was escorting their brother to find them. His eyes were fixed on their neck, where a small hickey peaked out from their tunic.

"There's my favourite sibling!" announced Fergus. Ramsay threw a nearby wad of paper at Fergus.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm your only sibling asshole," they retorted, standing up and stretching. They felt their tunic drag up and expose skin they knew was all marked up from Roderick earlier.

Any hope their imp of a brother hadn't seen were dashed when he started snickering. "Looks like someone's been enjoying themself recently," he teased, gesturing to their waist.

As confident as they were, they had little desire to tell their brother about their sex life. Especially considering the man warming their bed had escorted Fergus here. They glanced at Gilmore, who was smirking, waiting to see how Ramsay would respond.

"I don't ask what you and Oriana get up to," they responded, tugging their shirt down.

"Yeah, but she's my wife. Everyone knows you've been rejecting proposals for years," he responded, reaching over. He managed to get his finger in their shirt collar and tug it down, revealing a plethora of hickeys.

"You ass!" Ramsay hissed, swatting his hand away. Then, they looked up and made eye contact with Ser Gilmore. "Look, it's fine. He takes good care of me and makes me feel good. That's all you need to know."

Ser Gilmore's smirk softened into a smile, adjusting himself in his armour. A bit like a bird, in that moment. Preening. He was preening.

"Well, good for you whelp. Just, don't make any children because I really don't want to explain that to Mother and Father," Fergus responded, raising up his hands and backing out of the room.

Both Ramsay and Roderick were blushing messes. Ramsay returned to their book, squirming at the fact they had been caught. But their frown quickly warped into a smile when they heard a shout from down the hall.

"RODERICK, YOU DOG!"

[forgotteneilionora]

OOC | Singature Scents

ok so like...this is neither here nor there but i wanted to note each of my kiddos' scent profiles! (did i look into real and historical perfumes? you betcha! and i had a BLAST! this has been a v long time coming honestly...if you wanna go on a similar journey i highly reco [ this ] website to get you started!! i esp enjoyed reading their history tab v well documented and, at least through the ancient, middle ages, and renaissance eras -- which is as far as my best knowledge goes -- v accurate!)

godfrey calainon -- godfrey smells like success: rich, warming herbs on a bed of musk. Sweet and balsamic notes of [ storax and cassia ] lie on a bed bed of musk and amber attended by frankincense, myrrh, saffron, and sandalwood.

tristan calainon -- tristan smells warm and clean, like [ pine, ivy, bay leaves, myrtle, and rosemary ] from the soap he uses (tis really the one luxury he does go in for big, that soap ngl laskdjfdf)

eabha calleary -- eabha's scent of reminiscent of the sea: light, refreshing, uplifting, and deep, sporting notes of spritely salt and seductive jasmine, beech leaf, and seagrass augmented with a hint of briny mint, zesty bergamot and pomegranate, and herby seaweed amidst grounding and woody cypress with lush labdanum and finished with a hint of brown sugar evoking the salty-sweet air of a fine day's sea breeze

cormac calleary -- cormac's scent is a heady, and overwhelming thing (he def has cologne on and def applied -- aka dumped -- waaaaaaay too much on this morning!!!!) but it does take some ocean notes, and might be interesting if applied less liberally: ozone, brine, oud, sandalwood, minerals, camphor

ronan forst -- ronan smells like the woods and a campfire: woods, smoke, cedarwood, rosemary with a bright citris finish // citrus heavy with notes of lavender, rosemary and thyme // Dry juniper berry, patchouli, green leaves

cillian frost -- cillian smells like fresh-picked crops and earth // rosewood, thyme, sage, bergamot, basil, vertiver, ambergris

saoirse frost -- clean, airy, and, warm: iris and lilac, with hints of fresh greens and citrus w a woody bed // elderflower

alistair grey -- fresh cotton, metal, and leather // artemisia, caraway, honey, bulgarian rose, narcissus, iris butter, beeswax, cederwood, vetiver, patchouli, oakmoss, leather

valentina malconaire -- heady rose, cardamom, clove, nutmeg, tuberose, ambergris

roisin malconaire -- light, fresh, green, and bright: rain, ivy, vetiver, orris and violet, a dash of sage, and a squeeze of citrus on a bed of white oak // + cypress, grapevine, amber

rian stafford -- gourmond vanilla for a comforting and alluring quality, like the soft glow of a distant star w musk as its sensual and alluring base, like the faint scent of the night air and twinkling fresh pear and cinnamon for warmth and a touch of mystery, like the deep space between stars

eilionora stafford -- smells like starlight on a velvet night: frankincense, sage, w a benzoin bed // top notes of of bright, clean, and shimmering bergamot and spicy cardamom, middle notes of almond, cinnamon, and cloves, and a base of amber and cedarwood.This fragrance is described as warm, sensual, and alluring, with a slight gourmand quality

roderick varmont -- top notes of basil, rosemary, mint, lavender, and lemon, orange, and neroli. middle notes of complex palisander, jasmine with aromatic spices of black pepper, juniper, and fir. anchored by a back base notes of warm, woody oak and grounding earthy vetiver for a sophisticated, masculine scent

amira varmont -- amira smells like the god-kings of kolchis, wearing a heady combination of [ pepper, spikenard, cinnamon, aloeswood, ambergris, musk, frankincense, myrrh, balsam, indigo, dyers’ herbs, lapis lazuli, fustic, and storax ]

arthur varmont -- lily of the valley, saffron, and rose, petrichor, air-dried linen // fresh and herbal, with the clarity of Thyme Tea, evoking purity and calmness. As the scent evolves, the heart reveals a delicate balance of Lily-of-the-Valley, the exotic richness of saffron, and the timeless romance of rose, creating a perfect harmony of softness and power. As the fragrance settles, the warmth of white suede and musk envelops the composition, adding a smooth, comforting layer. To further enhance its mysticism, sandalwood, and olibanum contribute a sacred, resinous depth that gives this fragrance an understated yet noble feel

[pansywinkle]

call me ada 🧠

💌 artist, archivist, admirer

💌 a girl who likes boys ❤️

💌 18+, warnings for all manner of madness and melodrama

💌 Here to contemplate what I find captivating, ramble about kink nonsense, be both overly personal and overly vague, a digital diary of sorts, creating a playground for just me and those morbidly curious.

💌 Ask and I may answer

a sense of what I ship 🧠

Steven/Lapis (Stapis/Lapiven)

Finn/Marceline (Finnceline)

Tomoko/Tomoki (Kurokicest)

Derek/Casey (Dasey)

Asriel/Kris (Krisriel)

Dexter/Debra

Sunny/Mari (Sunshine)

Vi/Jinx (Vijinx)

Violet/Dash

Alice/The Cheshire Cat

Sarah Williams/Jareth

Reagan/Brett

Greg/Roderick (Gregrick)

Amy/Victoria (Guts & Glory)

Louise/Logan

Wednesday/Pugsley

[sansloii]

“...”

[angelvings-archived]

i've      had      one      single      glass      of      wine      meaning      i      will      shamelessly      facechase      so      under      the      cut      you      can      find      a      list      people      i      would      love      love      love      to      write      against      and      who      i      generally      don't      see      enough      on      my      dash      </3      .      feel      free      to      hit      me      up      in      the      ims      or      like      this      if      you      wanna      throw      some      of      these      people      at      me      !

zendaya      ,      laura      harrier      ,      riz      ahmed      ,      paul      mescal      ,      ryan      destiny      ,      pedro      pascal      ,      alisha      boe      ,      mimi      keene      ,      nick      robinson      ,      margaret      qualley      ,      manny      montana      ,      evan      roderick      ,      saoirse      ronan      ,      mike      faist      ,      mia      goth      ,      emma      mackey      ,      arón      piper      ,      andrew      garfield      ,      logan      lerman      ,      ashley      more      ,      megan      suri      ,      timothee      chalamet      ,      alexa      demie      ,      ayo      edebiri      ,      harris      dickinson      ,      dev      patel      ,      rachel      weisz      ,      taylor      russell      ,      oscar      isaac      ,      david      harbour      ,      sarah      snook      ,      alex fitzalan , elle      fanning      ,      zión      moreno      ,      charlie      hunnam      ,      odessa      a'zion      ,      odeya      rush      ,      lakeith      stanfield      ,      alex      wolff      ,      austin      abrams      ,      daisy      edgar-jones      ,      josh      heuston      ,      jon      bernthal      , riley keough , sophie thatcher , robert pattinson .

[gabessquishytum]

An idea that occurred to me while I was singing to myself: Dreamling Corpse Bride AU with a dash of Omegaverse

Victor = Hob (omega)

Emily = Dream (alpha)

Victoria = Eleanor (beta?)

Lord Barkus = Roderick (alpha)

Black Widow + Magget = Jessamy + Matthew

Roderick used Alex (Omega) to get Dream in a place where he could kill him and steal what he brought with him when he thought they were going to run away.

It ends with Dream coming back to life due to his vow being completed coupled with true love or something. The idea won't leave me alone now

- 🐺

Omg I haven't seen this movie in so long I've almost forgotten the plot BUT Dream truly has that Tim Burton character rizz. Also love the idea of it being omegaverse because why not?

And honestly it's very in character for Hob to accidently summon a ghost while practicing his wedding vows. That's definitely the kind of thing that would happen to him, let's be real. He's trying to be a Good Omega because Eleanor deserves to have a perfect wedding day, Hob doesn't want anything to go wrong...... oh dear now he's married and bonded to the ghost? reanimated corpse? of an alpha who is very possessive over him now. Oops.

And Dream finally found the omega he's always wanted... and he doesn't intend to lose Hob to anyone. It's not like he can die twice - he's going to stay by his new husband's side and protect him from whoever might wish him harm...

[rodzrick]

era uma vez… uma pessoa comum, de um lugar sem graça nenhuma! há, sim, estou falando de você jordan roderick. você veio de londres, inglaterra e costumava ser meteorologista por lá antes de ser enviado para o mundo das histórias. se eu fosse você, teria vergonha de contar isso por aí, porque enquanto você estava se questionando como teria sido caso tivesse escolhido um caminho diferente, tem gente aqui que estava salvando princesas das garras malignas de uma bruxa má! tem gente aqui que estava montando em dragões. tá vendo só? você pode até ser determinado, mas você não deixa de ser um baita de um idealista… se, infelizmente, você tiver que ficar por aqui para estragar tudo, e acabar assumindo mesmo o papel de o soldado na história phantom of the opera… bom, eu desejo boa sorte. porque você vai precisar!

informações básicas sobre jordan.

nome: jordan roderick.

idade: trinta e três anos de idade.

sexualidade: questionando.

estado civil: solteiro.

ocupação: meteorologista (na realidade passada), desempregado (na realidade atual).

a vida nunca sorriu de verdade para jordan durante seu crescimento. cresceu em uma família distante, com trabalhos que tomavam os dias e o silêncio que gritava entre os cômodos. não foi uma real surpresa se sentir desconectado dos genitores, nem ter dificuldade em se aproximar socialmente das pessoas porque não sabia como. acreditava que sua realidade seria diferente quando saísse de casa, quando começasse a conhecer o mundo e formasse uma nova família onde não cometeria o mesmo erro que seus pais cometeram, porém se desiludiu rápido até demais com o amor. se casou com uma mulher que conheceu na faculdade e as expectativas de ter alguma emoção, alguma aventura, foram morrendo com as diferenças gritantes entre eles. até que duraram mais que o esperado, deixando afeto e cicatrizes ao longo dos anos. se não fosse pela descoberta da gravidez, provavelmente não teriam mais contato hoje em dia. com a chegada dos filhos, foi como se o mundo de jordan ganhasse cores que ele sequer sabia que existiam. tentava ser maior, tentava ser melhor e se tornar um exemplo que poderia ser seguido. demonstrava interesse por vestidos de princesas e maquiagem, já que era o que o aproximava das brincadeiras da filha, enquanto criava histórias de super-heróis sem pé e nem cabeça para estar próximo do filho. algo que uniam os três eram as histórias que jordan lia para os gêmeos antes que eles dormissem e foi em uma dessas situações que foi transportado para o livro. ainda não acredita que não está vivendo em um sonho, por isso passa mais tempo dormindo do que deveria em uma tentativa ilógica de voltar para a sua realidade e para os filhos. se está sonhando no mundo real, pode voltar para ele sonhando no mundo fictício também, certo?! errado.

& detalhes a serem acrescentados.

informações importantes sobre a player.

ahri, ela/dela, 25 anos e triggers envolvendo borboletas.

( 1. ) não consigo entrar todos os dias e, quando entro, dou preferência pras interações. caso eu demore a responder seu chat, por favor, não estranhe. eu ainda tenho interesse no nosso plot e espero desenvolvê-lo na dash.

( 2. ) não escrevo smut, prefiro que conteúdo sexual permaneça em headcanon.

[eldesperadont]

i opened a random IWA-MS match cause it said Alex Shelley vs Bryan Danielson in the thumbnail and the full card for that event also includes Punk, Chris Sabin, Samoa Joe, Roderick Strong, Claudio, Nigel McGuinness, Chris Hero, AJ Styles, Mercedes Martinez and Jimmy Jacobs

nearly 20 year old show and the card is basically what my dash looks like on the regular