#lord of wind and flame wip

[dreadfutures]

apropos of nothing here's something I wrote for an original fiction project aka first original IP thing I've written in. years.

"Tane," she says, and his hands fall still on his sword.

In the polished steel, she looks down at him with brown eyes so warm they would surely catch fire at the slightest prompting. There is a brittleness there, too; he can feel how she has hollowed herself, carved up her insides to muster the emotion with which she spoke his name.

His name. A most precious secret, and, he now knows, a potentially deadly one. She could bind him with that name or command him to demonstrate his godhood on her enemies.

Enemies she does not have.

He does not worry that she will use his name for such profane acts, nor does he worry much that through her his name will fall into the wrong hands. Even now, he does not doubt that he was right to tell her his truest name, though she has no way of knowing the weight it carries.

To her, Tane is her assigned protector, a fixture of her life furnished by the Temple just as much as the table she studies at or the bed she sleeps in. Tane is an unknowable, alien presence in her mind; he can feel the shape of himself in her thoughts and in her heart, and it is like a gift to him--this precious knowledge she has, that no other god or creature ever before possessed.

The god disguised as a boy turns his face up to the Kindled Girl as the flower does to the sun. He does not smile, but he blinks slowly, basking in her attention. Whatever has preoccupied her so much to bring her out of bed at this hour is serious, but nevertheless it has brought her to him, and he is more pleased than he wanted to admit to have her by his side.

"What stirs you, Ember?" he asks.

She looks away briefly, her nose scrunching with annoyance, then looks back at him with a blush rising to her fair cheeks. "I cannot stop thinking of those stories," she says. "Of what happens to all the maidens like me."

His interest mounts. "The stories from other lands?"

She nods and fists her hands in her nightgown. Her lip is clutched a moment between her teeth, and that moment lasts longer in his memory than it should. He settles his eyes responsibility on hers instead.

"I know they are allegories, but. I need to know," she says hesitantly. "Why...that? How many layers of allegory are there to their fates, before it is simply a fact of the world that we--that they--are simply devices to be used and acted upon?"

"Do you feel so disenfranchised?" he asks. He is curious to know if it is empathy for the girls in his stories that has moved her, or if she has awakened to the prison walls around her at last. The Greeks, the Romans, and countles others held their women in two opposing hands: the sacred, the sullied--all sacrificed, just as she would be one day. He told her the stories because they were entertaining, and she had asked for stories of adventure in the world outside. But he had also told her the stories because she was in so many of them.

She is still chewing her lip. It is chapped, snd soon it will bleed if she does not relent.

"How could I be?" she shrugs, snd suddenly turns her face away. "No cruel god will come to ravish me out of some jealousy for my lover's heroism and glory. And I know that any would-be conquerer would hardly make it past your blade long enough to lay eyes upon me, let alone touch me. I will never have a lover, and I will be the one to deliver myself to the pyre...as you know."

Her voice has quickened, a tinge of sarcasm bleeding in as she tried to mask her embarrassment, and Tane wonders for a moment if the security he has given her by being her Protector has actually strengtheners the walls of her cage rather than poke holes in it.

But then she glances at him, and there is s strange kind of panic in her eye.

"What I mean to ask... What happens to them... The act itself. The way they are claimed...? It is something many people do, and the need has driven men to madness and women to desiring despair, but..." She is wringing her dress now in both hands, wrinkling it irreparably; her cheeks are so red he could nearly feel their heat. "Is it always a violent conquest? A domination and an acquiescence?" She seems to grow more troubled with each spoken word, and she grimaces, bracing herself for her final question. "Does the world think claiming a woman brings them power, and status, and...? Is that all my life would be good for, if it were not my fate to burn?"

To burn, to bring power and status to a greedy soul? Tane thought wryly. But he also thought, with a sudden blinding warmth: Your life will be good for much more than that, when it is directed by your own hand. It is a promise burning in me, and one day it shall warm you.

Instead, Tane says, gently: "Oh, Ember."

He lays his sword aside and stands, and it saddens him some how she deflates in his presence.

"To some, to a not insignificant number of men, the answer is yes," he says, still gentle in voice and mein. "But 'tis not always so. The act itself can bring true pleasure between kind partners, giving to one another as united equals. Love is as real a force in the world outside as it is here."

Her lips part, breathless as his words envelop her. When she looks up at him, there is both fear and awe in her gaze.

"Is... is there love here?" she asks hoarsely, a voice barely above a whisper.

The question grieves him more than he expected it to, but he immediately knows the answer. God he may be, but to a god, knowing the depths of his unfathomable self is a trivial thing. The very moment he considers it, he knows the truth.

He loves her. More than any mortal could comprehend.

Tane raises a hand to her face, tucking a strand of hair that had come loose in her restless slumber behind her ear. Then he allows himself to cup her round cheek fully in his palm, and he marvels at the softness of her skin as he brushes his thumb near the corner of her mouth.

She hardly seems to breathe as she stares up at him. The fear has grown in her face with every moment that she waits for his answer.

But he has a question of his own, now. He had not cared to ask it before this moment, for he had not realized that the strength of his affection was not merely due to proximity and familiarity. Now, however, he is interested. Has the precocious crush of her childhood grown beyond the yearnings of adolescence?

"Do you love me, Ember?" he asks.

How can she know if she loves him?

"I don't know what love is, I think," she whispers as unshed tears burn in her eyes. "Tane... I... If you were... Would you show me?"

He considers her wide-eyed countenance a moment, how she trembles beneath his touch

Perhaps he had been showing her all along. But of course, she did not know what she was truly asking.

Tane bends, a flame pushed by unseen winds, and rests his forehead against hers for a moment. She is scalding hot, from her skin to her breath against his face, and he is hopelessly drawn to be closer and closer to her.

"I would like to, if that is your wish," he murmurs, and before she can voice her reply, he closes the last distance between their lips in a kiss.

She does not know how to respond at first, though she grips his wrist and his shirt tightly to make sure he doesn't pull away. He has all the time in the universe to wait, and he hardly needs to breathe, and the taste of her lips is sustenance enough that an eternity sipping at them would be quite acceptable. Sip he does, lips parted just enough to invite her closer, to taste, not simply to feel.

His eyes are closed, but his other senses have ignited.

The moment he touches his lips to hers, he feels every inch a god, but not in the haughty way he has so often carried himself. No, this kiss has nothing to do with power or superiority or even experience. It is about domain, responsibility, kinship--an indelible bond between devotee and their focus, mirrored across a veil of Belief.

He believes in her, and he knows he will die if she does not believe in him. In love, in freedom, in choice, in pleasure.

[aethon-recs]

This Week (x2) in Tomarrymort (8 – 21 November 2024)

Hello! We have three multi-chaptered fics finishing this week, highlighted below. In addition, I made a rec list for Tomarrymort Necrophilia Fics 💀🤍 in support of the Tomarrymort Necro Fest hosted by @magical-menagerie-server, which kicks off in January.

Completed Fic:

Memories of a Killer by @chemfreak89 (M, 47k, complete) Age catches up with everyone. The infamous serial killer Voldemort now spends his time reading newspapers and making trips to the local library in search of a new crime novel. But one day he makes an interesting new acquaintance that shakes his quiet life and rekindles old flames and unknown desires. What quickens me is the violence in thee by @i-dream-of-libraries (M, 17k, complete) Harry is sold at auction to a man who is clearly in some kind of disguise - Lord Riddle isn't as charming as he looks, and the way he looks at Harry... A Regency AU inspired by the magnificent artwork of @stolenviolet. If I were you by @onehitpleb (E, 9k, complete) It is 1945 and Tom is eighteen, freshly graduated, and working a non-reputable job as a store clerk in Knockturn Alley. Somehow, he grows attached to the worst sort of person - an idiot.

In addition, a recap of the author notes from last week! (Please feel free to add some extra context to your fic update in the reblog, such as a little bit about the chapter(s) updated, and I’ll throw it in the update for next week!)

A Simple Request by @shyinsunlight (E, 70k, WIP) “As for the new chapter of A Simple Request, Harry tries and (unsurprisingly) fails to keep his personal life private. Some are having the time of their life, some others, not so much. Lifts can take you up, but going down is more interesting.” Wish by @sri-verse (E, 3k, WIP) “Wish is set after Harry's fifth year where he gets the ownership of Bellatrix's vault along side the Black vault. Looking at a gold goblet, he remembers his childhood wish of buying a gold cauldron and brings back Helga Hufflepuff's cup with him to fulfill that desire, unaware that he has freed the horcrux living in it.” To the Hilt by @izharmilgram (E, 28k, WIP) “To The Hilt is a royal arranged marriage au featuring nontraditional a/b/o, political schemes, ancient greek and abrahamic religion references, feral harry potter, and lots of power play and worship. It's neither only tomarry or only harrymort, but tomarrymort—meaning the core relationship is Tom/Harry/Voldemort. This includes Tom/Voldemort.” we made universes out of bitten lips and broken hands by @boyneptunee (M, 50k, WIP) “The consequences of Harry's Time Travel seem inconsequential, at first. Until they stare right back at him with vicious eyes. There's trouble brewing in every direction, and the Future is not as certain and set in stone as one might think.” Time Stumbler by @wintumnly (T, 102k, WIP) “Harry is stuck in 1937 and spends the holidays with almost-eleven-year-old Tom Riddle. On the first day of Christmas, they both anxiously wait for Tom's Hogwarts letter together. Fluff, humor, and Tom Riddle is not good with feelings." 7 by @moontearpensfic (E, 44k, WIP) “Harry goes back in time to raise Tom AU: the boys discuss what might have happened to make Voldemort go to "sleep."” Anytime, Anywhere, Always by @moontearpensfic (E, 22k, WIP) “Harry corrupts Tom AU: Tom and Harry celebrate Christmas--and something more! Your Wish, My Command by @moontearpensfic (E, 8k, WIP) “Hinny adopts Tom AU: Tom finally gets Harry to crack. 🔥”

*

Tomarrymort One Shots and Completed Fic

Complete | Chapters 8 and 9 of Memories of a Killer by @chemfreak89

Complete | Chapter 6 of What quickens me is the violence in thee by @i-dream-of-libraries

Complete | Chapter 4 of If I were you by @onehitpleb

Complete | Chapter 19 of Sits the wind in that quarter by @mosiva

One Shot | To be Imagined by @cyandenial

One Shot | god's hands by @curioushabitforarivergod

One Shot | bad behaviour by @milkandmoon-ao3

One Shot | two ways of being: the noun & the verb by cycloalkane

One Shot | set my soul on fire by @wynnefic

One Shot | Beach Episode by @crowcrowcrowthing

One Shot | First Duel by @being-luminous

*

Tomarrymort Ongoing Fics

Chapter 12 of Ills of Murder by @shadow-of-the-eclipse

Chapters 7 through 11 of in the silence by @satflesk22

Chapter 4 of friend of the devil (a friend of mine) by @shyinsunlight

Chapter 15 of Embryo by @cannibalinc

Chapter 4 of As It Begins by @duplicitywrites @moontearpensfic

Chapters 7 and 8 of Stygian by @crowcrowcrowthing

Chapters 15 through 17 of Saint Harry by @alenablack @chaos-bear

Chapter 1 of the night is cold in the kingdom by @girl-with-goats

Chapters 5 and 6 of you speak of the devil (like he's not your friend) by @amuria

Chapters 131 through 134 of Liquida Tenebris (Remastered) by @dymis

Chapters 1 and 2 of Small Mistakes by Crisis_Brewing

Chapter 5 of Hit 'N Run by @dragonaireabsolvare

Chapter 11 of Days always end in sunsets by @d00medbythenarrative

Chapter 25 of Time Stumbler by @wintumnly

Chapters 8 and 9 of Venom or Valor by @lightningant

Chapter 21 of Outrunning the Villain in You by @zenyteehee

Chapters 6 through 8 of To the Hilt by @izharmilgram

Chapter 9 of Do It Over by @marrythemonstersao3

Chapter 2 of Infinite by @moontearpensfic

Chapter 2 of Prizefighter by @dragonaireabsolvare

Chapter 8 of Fetters of the Damned by @sc0rpiflow3r

Chapters 13 and 14 of Hole in the Wall by tomrddle

Chapters 23 and 24 of Learning to love by @l-archiduchesse

Chapter 13 of He Who Shall Not Be Changed by @moontimefilter

Chapter 17 of Last Son of Black by @treacleteacups

Chapter 6 of Dreams Beyond Blood by @hikarimeroperiddle

*

[jilyawards]

March

take my hand and drag me headfirst (completed, 3.3k) by @thejilyship. Rated T.

Lily has been avoiding James, and she's been doing a find job of it considering that he always seems to know where she is. Who cares if she told a little white lie and now the entire school is gossiping about James? That doesn't mean that he should be hunting her down and demanding answers from her. Honestly, how dare he.

a woman taken by the wind (completed, 7.7k) by @littlefoldedpaperstars. Rated T.

“What?” James asked, slightly offended that he was being kicked out. “What are you guys doing?” “Performing human sacrifices,” said Marlene, heavy on the sarcasm. “Drinking the blood of men,” said Lily, notably less sarcastic than Marlene. James didn't have a vampire fetish, but if that was what Lily was into, he would be cool with it. - Or: James is immediately enchanted when he meets Lily and her one-eyed cat. Lily thinks she'd be better off alone (not counting her four cats).

Knickers On The Ceiling Fan (completed, 7.7k) by @petals2fish. Rated E.

Lily's devout Catholic mother makes an unexpected visit to her flat, triggering a high-stakes game of "hide the boyfriend" as Lily scrambles to smuggle James out undetected. Chaos ensues, holy guilt levels rise, and Lily may or may not be naked for most of it.

In Search of Something More (WIP, 50.4k as of 31 March 2025) by @kay-elle-cee. Rated M.

In the sunlit garden of her sister’s home, Lord Potter had promised Lily a life of her own design, with minimal expectations—her presence at community events, companionship, and an heir. As the two stumble into the routine of marriage and work to make a life together at Stinchcombe Hall, unsolicited feelings provoke each to start wondering if this is merely a marriage…or if it could be something more.

incendium (completed, 941 words) by @petalsandantlers. Rated T.

lily and james — a love that flickered, clashed, and burned brighter than the flames that kindled it

no plan (completed, 2.1k) by @juniperpyre. Rated T.

Lily has a simple mission almost go badly. She and James contemplate adulthood, love, war, and duty. or Lily is feeling very “how can a person know everything at seventeen and nothing and nineteen?”

his wife (completed, 2.8k) by @juniperpyre. Rated M.

James interrupts an Order meeting to argue that Lily shouldn't be sent into the field under any circumstances. Lily is pissed, but kind of turned on. or Lily: you should be addicted to shutting the fuck up James: you wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid

Find the previous months' recs: November & December | January | February

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 22

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: this week isn't going great but we're hoping.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You peer up at the silhouettes of the vultures perched on the peaks of the castle. Your return is met by a clear sky as the snows recede to crawling clouds across the slate expanse. The king lets you down outside the stables before he walks the horse within. 

You stand just inside the doorway, outside the gathering winds that whistle through the passes and hidden crevices of the mountain. You hug yourself, shivering endlessly as you struggle to chase the cold from your bones. Once the chill creeps in it is near impossible to expel. 

King Geralt’s rocky voice carries through the stable as he speaks to Roach. You glance over as another mount huffs and gives an impatient whinny. You slip further inside, letting the door shut completely. You trod along the edge of the aisle and turn down the next row. There you find Daisy’s speckled nose. 

“Oh, girl,” you greet her softly and untangle a mat in her mane, “there you are.” 

She sniffs you as you pet her neck. She nuzzles the collar of your cloak and you feel along the thick tendons beneath her fine hair. There is comfort in her familiarity. You long to stay there with the horses. You belong more than you do in the king’s chambers. 

“Treasure...” he calls for you as you still and keep your hand on Daisy. He speaks your name next as you hear his footfalls march down the next row, harrying faster with each step. The door swings in then clatters back against the frame as Daisy knicks. “Little maid?” 

You pat Daisy’s nose and retreat. You shuffle to the front and turn to follow the wall, “your highness.” 

King Geralt backs out of the doorway and it snaps shut with the wind. His eyes blaze a moment before they dim. He pushes his gloves over his hair, stray strands puffing out around his hairline. 

“There you are. I worried you might have blown away,” he steadies his timbre. Was he truly afraid? Did he think you would try to escape? 

“Apologies, I was checking on Sir Bryce’s mount,” you explain. 

“Bryce, yes,” he reaches for you and takes your hand, “he has kept you safe, has he?” 

You nod, “he is a good man.” 

The king’s cheek ticks, “he is my man. He only does as I bid. I commanded him to see after you. Me.” 

You take a breath and bow your head, “certainly, I know so, your highness. Thank you for your protection.” 

“Do you see, so long as you are close to me, you won’t need to fear,” he girds. 

For so long as he keeps you close, you will only be afraid. You will fear him, you will fear his courtiers and his enemies, and you will fear the day he no long wants you near. Every flame must burn itself out and every flame will singe those who get too close. 

“Yes, your highness,” you answer and look up at him again, his eyes glimmering, “Geralt.” 

Your voice shakes, with more than just the cold, and you let the shiver spread through you. The king brings a hand to your chin and brushes his leather glove against your cheek. He draws you into him, holding you again his chest. 

“I forget, my summer treasure, the cold is new to you,” he embraces you and bends to speak against your hat, “we must warm you before an ague might creep in.” 

He lets you free reluctantly and grips your hand instead. He takes you out of the stable and towards the rear entrance of the castle. You slip in the snow, keeping you footing only for his hold on you. He stops and turns to you, tugging you near as your feet kick through the powder. 

He sweeps you up in his arms without effort. He is strong and holds you across his body, cradling you as he stalks to the door. You wriggle as angles to hook two fingers through the loop and hauls open the door around you. He sidles inside and turns you, bidding you to pull the door shut. You obey and close you both in dim unlit corridor. 

“Thank you, your highness,” you pat his chest lightly, “will you let me down?” 

“I don’t mind. You are hardly a burden,” he grits. “Having you in my arms has me feeling much lighter.” 

You drag your hand to his shoulder and squeeze through the layers, “but what if someone should happen upon us?” 

He’s quiet. He keeps you aloft, shifting one way then the other, peering up and down the darkness. 

“And what if they did?” He asks. 

It’s your turn to be silent. 

“I am king, what should they do, treasure?” 

You fidget and pull your hand away from him. 

“You speak true, your highness. You are the king, you may do as you will.” 

He sighs and his chest heaves against you. He clicks his tongue and slowly shifts you down until your feet meet the floor. As he straightens, he drags his touch over your figure, his hand delving between cloak and dress. 

“You fret very much,” he rebukes, “though I suppose caution is wise.” 

“I think of you, of your reputation as king,” you assure him, “I wouldn’t want to tarnish your name. I serve the crown and I wouldn’t bring shame to it.” 

“Shame?” He snarls, “never.” 

He hooks his arm around you and spreads his hand across the back of your head. He pulls you into him and kisses your forehead as you tremble. He holds you like that for a moment before he parts.  

“We must warm you,” he proclaims, “this way, treasure.” 

He nudges you along with him. You follow his footsteps down the corridor, towards the lantern light that light the main ways. He takes you through the castle without pause, not tarrying for soldier or lord alike, though few appear in the halls. It is much too cold to leave their hearths. 

You climb upward and he leads you to the winding tower. He let you up ahead of him as he holds the door. He touches your lower back through the cloak. 

“You will wait for me. I have some matters to attend to,” he says, “it shouldn’t be very long at all.” He trails up your back, sending a flash of heat through you, “sit close to the hearth.” 

“Yes, your highness,” you dip your head and press on, ascending as you lift the hem of your cloak and dress over your feet. 

The lower door shuts only as the hinges at the top whine at your entrance. You close the chamber door and look around the space. The hearth burns still, fed by servants at intervals, and the lantern on the table shines through the steel slats that shade its flame. 

You remove the cloak and hang it from an iron hook. You sit in the chair and strip off the hat, mittens, boots, and stockings; You leave the damp layers nears the hearth and lower yourself before the flames. You close your eyes and hang your head forward. You could sleep then and there. 

Your peace doesn’t last very long. You raise your head as you hear someone on the stairs. You stand, readying yourself to face the king, but instead are met by a pair of pinch-faced maids. The resident servants carry steaming vessels and cross to the tub stood to the other side of the bed. They pour the water into the thick wooden walls and retreat without a word. 

You spin and fold your arms. You’re taken back to the day it was you and Merinda filling a tub. Before everything became so muddled. A simple existence where you knew exactly what was expected of you.  

Your heart rents when you think of your estranged companion. Merinda would know what to say. She could ease your fears, she always knew how. Ever since she came Debray, she always kept you from worry. Without her, you are lost. You only wish you’d realised then all she was to you. You were more than just maids, you were friends. 

You stare at the cinders beneath the licking flames. You don’t look again as the servants come upon their second trip, and a third, and a fourth... anon and anon until the chamber thickens with the steam of the tub. You daren’t remind yourself again how much you’ve lost; how much you didn’t even know you had to lose. 

You’re left in silence, facing the fire. The winds batter the tower from outside and the shuttered windows rattle. Heavy steps come up the winding staircase and you know without looking who enters behind you. The king’s sigh confirms your assumption. 

“The water will ease the cold,” he says as the door shuts, “and the aches of the road.” 

You shift so your stand sideways to him, “thank you, your highness.” You swallow and cough out the lump in your throat, “Geralt.” 

He hums at your correction. You stand still as he moves around the chamber. He unbuckles his cloak and hangs it next to the one he gifted you. Then he nears to remove his gloves and boots, lining them up before the burning fireplace. As he stands straight, he faces you. 

“You should bathe. The water is hot,” he says. 

“Thank you,” you nod and reach behind your nape to untie the single lace of your dress, “so I should.” 

You whisk away from him, pacing towards the tub as your hands clash clumsily. The thought of undressing before him makes you numb. You stop as the steam plume around you and drop your arms. You can’t get a grasp on the fabric. You grip the edge of the tub and stare into the water. 

“You needn’t be meek,” you hear the subtle creak of his leather coat as he removes it. You peek over as he drapes it over a wooden chair. “The cold is dangerous for summerborn, you shouldn’t let it get too deep.” 

You can't. You're trying to find the will. You think of all you've done. Faced the Duke and his clan, travelled to the capital, the  to hinterlands, you've done it all without doubt, but the layers of fabric are too heavy a task. 

You flinch as you feel a tickle along your side. You push away from the tub, dropping your arms as he king bends behind you. He raises the hem of your dress and the air is crushed from your chest. You serve, you obey, and the king’s will is plain. 

You lift your arms as he strips the dress up your body and over your head. He swipes it towards the bed as your shift rumples at your hips, the unhemmed edge along your thighs. He steps even closer as he curls his fingers around the undyed linen.  

You keep your arms up as he guides the fabric higher. He keeps his thumbs hooked in the cloth and turns his hands so his fingertips brush your shape. Bumps bristle over your skin and have you even colder than before. You quake as the linen blinds you for just a moment and in another, you're naked.  

Your shift flaps through the air to land on your dress. The king's breath wisps out through his tight chest and he frames your hips with his large hands. He's shaking too. 

He draws away slowly and you feel a rustle against you. You stand frozen as he undresses at your back. Don’t look, you can’t look. If you look, it’s real. If you look, it’s over. His clothes pile at his feet as he shifts you gasp as he presses his hot body flush to yours. 

He brings his hands up your arms and along your neck. He frames your head and kisses your crown, his thumb toying with a shank of your uneven hair. You bite down as he urges you closer to the tub.  

You move without without resistance, one leg over the edge then the other. He follows, thick legs plunging into the roiling water. He keeps you snug to him as he lowers himself, easing you atop him. You rest over him and his need makes itself known between you. You stare at the stone wall and steel yourself, the water adding fire to the ice inside of you. 

He exhales as he relaxes under you, letting his hands crawl over your stomach and hips, feeling every inch of you. From the crook of your neck to your thighs. He smears water over your face as he touches your cheeks and traces your jaw. He quivers as snarling breaths escape him. 

“This is how it should be, treasure,” he wraps his hands around yours and folds your arms, resting his clutches over your chest. “I suppose you’ve never heard the tale of Cerill and Wynifred.” 

You stare at his knuckles, the hair that trims his rough flesh, the grip in his paled joints. 

“Never,” you assure him. 

“Cerill was a warrior. A loyal soldier. A man who served his king with all his being. He was knighted on a battlefield. Once a stablehand, then a hero. The king, Fazon, he had a wife, Wynifred. A queen who was kind and sweet. They were ill-matched for every misfortune he aimed at her, rather than its true crux,” he regales you as his voice fills the chamber, wafting with the steam. 

“But she was obedient. She lived by her vows. For years. But she was mortal as any woman might be and the cruelty of her husband weakened her. And Lord Cerill was valiant and strong and gentle. Everything her husband was not. How could she restrain herself from the comfort he offered? Neither meant to betray their king but some things, some forces, are strong than those writ by men and their quills.” 

You listen, certain of the purpose of his telling. You are not legendary lovers, you are not lost to wives’ tales and children’s stories, you are here, you are alive, and there is nothing fantastical about any of it. He might believe whatever but you haven’t that luxury. He will not hear the doubts, you will feel them. 

“And what happened to them?” You ask with foreboding. There are stories similar in the summerlands; of pages and their masters’ wives or daughters. 

“Yes, well, we know of them because they were found out, I suppose. They knew they would not evade the king’s vengeance but they refused to bend to it. So, they fled into the forest and found a sacred root. That plant is meant for the sickly, to ease their end. They consumed it together and died in each others’ arms. Just as they were found.” 

You lay in silence. The forbidden love hardly tweaks at your heart, but more, you tremble to think of the king’s wrath. Of how a king might wrought his temper upon any and all. Even a wife, even a knight. It is no romantic tragedy; it is a lesson in the power of men. 

“Apologies it is not a happier conclusion,” he says. 

“The stories are never very happy,” you murmur. Or the truth. 

He hums as squeezes your hands. The water is still as you lie in his mercy. This cannot last. Just as in his story, there will only be pain. 

As if to confirm your unspoken dread, a knock sounds on the door. The king jerks, the water sloshing around him as he sits you up with him. 

“Geralt, King of Rivia and the Hinterlands,” the growl cuts through meanly, “come rule your people!” 

[jules-writes-stories]

WIP Wednesday | Nocturne |

Azriel x Eris

I plan to start posting this one in the fall, hopefully in time for Eris Week. It takes place post-canon, but the first chapter is a series of canon scenes with Azriel and Eris, set as flashbacks. It starts with the infamous, "Tie me to a tree, Rhys" scene.

I'm nodding my head towards @mistandmemories who over nine months ago reminded me that Eris was mortally wounded in the Northern Flank battle. Brilliant, big-brained, iconic connection to make. Here is the opening scene (written in January) of Nocturne, my Arranged Marriage AU/ Eris in the Hewn City fic.

. . . .

The Mortal Lands, Second War on Hybern

this amber light whittled down by another war is all that pins my hand to your chest —Ocean Vuong

If the world was to end in fire, Azriel would not sit idly by. A thousand Illyrian warriors had been struck from the sky, their ashes falling to scorched earth like snow. The Shadowsinger led his legion through the fray of arrows and smoke.  

Unexplained terror pulled him northward, towards the crested treeline. Another urgent tug at his shadows, his ribs. It tore at the fabric of his world. “I’m going in.” 

“No,” Rhysand snapped. 

Azriel spread his wings, the sunlight stark on raw half-healed flesh. “Chain me to a tree, Rhys. Go ahead.” He began checking the buckles on his weapons. “I’ll rip it out of the ground and fly with it on my damned back.”

Violet eyes traveled from the spymaster to the Night Court's decimated aerial forces. Any chance of victory was waning. 

Rhysand spoke low. “Lead the remaining Illyrians on the northern flank. I need eyes on Autumn and Spring.” Beneath the guilt and fear lacing his voice was a calculated edge and the tinge of desperation. 

Azriel shot upward before his High Lord could reconsider. His wings beat hard, carrying him toward the scrambling forces. Everything hurt. The newly fused skin was too sensitive in the midday sun; the tender, scarred membrane and torn tendons strained. His head pulsed with the pressure of the shadows’ voices.

“Get into formation.” Azriel barked out over his shoulder. The winged legion moved as a single organism, even as Hybern’s arrows bounced off his cobalt light-shield. 

Beron’s burnt orange livery became visible within minutes, the banners snapping in the wind like ruddy flames against a gray feathered sky. 

Their two-pronged attack was a classic Illyrian strategy. Half of Azriel’s forces would hold the line, landing in a gap between Autumn and Spring’s defenses. The other half remained hovering above, picking off Hybernians with quick Siphon flashes or dipping into the fray wielding short swords. 

Azriel reinforced his own shields and lifting his Illyrian blade, roared above the din, “Qulu nafsin zaikatul maut.” 

The winged warriors at his back unsheathed their blades and repeated the ancient battle cry, this time in the common tongue of Prythian. “Every soul shall taste death.” 

Every Illyrian was born for war. It was their worth, their calling, and purpose. And each one was prepared to die on this field. 

Steel sliced through flesh and bone. Time passed in the killing rhythm of thrust, parry, shield. It became a second heartbeat. His boots sank into blood and earth. Azriel ran his blade through the soft flesh of a soldier’s armpit, expertly aiming for the armor gap. Red bloomed down the male’s chest piece. 

Barely more than a youngling, the Hybern soldier cried out, “braithim uaim momháthair.” The shades whispered a translation: “I miss my mother.” 

Disgust and sadness rose with bile. Azriel ripped his blade from the soldier’s side, and in a downward arc, offered him a clean death. 

He tried to ignore his wrenching ribs and pushed his blade into another soldier, then turned. A flash of red. 

Eris Vanserra, general of the Autumn Court and first prince of Autumn, threw himself at a Hybernian general. Blood flowed freely down the pale column of the male’s throat. Azriel could smell it from where he stood. He hated it.

The shadows swooped low, moving at a frantic speed. yalla, yalla, mughaniy. They pleaded haste in their many voices, feminine and haunting.

Azriel didn’t stop to consider why the shadows were preoccupied by this male, or to question the terror burning bright in his chest. 

Even injured, Autumn’s general was fierce– a true warrior. He moved like flames set across water, with grace and speed. If war was a brutal dance, Eris Vanserra was swept up in its song. 

A second Hybernian came swinging at the prince’s blind spot. This one wore the armor of a general.

Azriel acted out of pure instinct. Flying on half-healed wings, he landed behind the first Hybernian and sliced across his throat. Warm blood splattered his face; he tasted its iron on his lips. 

Without another thought, Azriel turned and rammed his sword forward to impaled the Hybern general’s throat. Both were dead within seconds. 

Eris’s face was streaked with ash and blood; his amber eyes were clouded in pain. He swayed as the Shadowsinger pulled him into the cobalt ring of light. The shades blanketed the Autumn Fae, taking inventory and hissing at the blood leaking down his silver chest piece. 

As much as he hated it, the lying snake of a prince had allied himself with the Night Court, had worked behind his father’s back to rally troops against Hybern. Eris kept his word and Azriel’s honor demanded he not let the fireling die in the mud. Not today.

There was a screeching roar and his shades whispered of Night-dark talons and a massive black maw tearing Hybernians apart. Its feathered and golden Day counterpart had joined the fray. Helion and Rhys had shifted to their Beast forms in a final stand.

It was now or never. Azriel barked out an order to his lieutenant, then lifted Eris’s limp form and took off towards the Autumn camp. The male’s copper-red head lolled to the side and his skin was so pale, blue veins were visible. Another wet breath. His heartbeat was sluggish and labored. 

“Don’t you fucking die. Do you hear me?” Azriel gritted his teeth at his unexpected panic, even as the words passed over his lips. 

He landed before a tent bearing the green livery of Autumn’s general. The male in his arms was frigid, his pouting lips thinned in pain. 

“Eris, I swear to the Mother. I’ll go to Hel and drag you back.” Azriel whispered into a pointed ear.

He snapped open the tent’s flap and rolled his eyes at the large pallet covered in pelts. Only a spoiled prince would bring a mountain of bedding into a warzone. His shadows fussed, winding through Eris’s blood-matted hair.

There was a fluttering from behind. The Illyrian turned to see a High Fae male in brassy Autumn armor. Green eyes glittered in the lantern light. The male’s beauty was undeniable--golden tan skin, high cheekbones, and a lush mouth. He gasped at the sight of Eris and rushed forward. 

“Get your general a healer,” the spymaster spat out. Something mean and sharp tore its claws into his gut. It coiled low and nested. This soldier who barged into Eris’s tent acted like he belonged there.

“I am his healer.” The male met the Shadowsinger’s gaze with trembling courage. Few were so bold. “L-lay him on the pallet. And remove his armor.” He spoke like he was trying on a role, but Azriel was impressed when he moved with confidence along the edges of the enclosure to gather supplies.

Azriel lay Eris down as gently as able and loosened the buckles at the male’s sides. Shadows hovered as he ripped off the metal chest piece. The blood pooling beneath the armor was concerning, but the gash on his neck was slowly healing. He moved to the tunic, but it was fully saturated and sticking to the flat, muscled torso. With a frustrated growl, the Illyrian tore it away, continuing to shuck the leather chausses down the male’s limp form. Boots were tossed with a thunk into the corner. 

In his frenzy, he’d not registered that he was undressing Eris fucking Vanserra. He hated this male for his arrogance and duplicity, for how he’d left Mor in his woods to bleed out centuries ago. 

The Shadowsinger stared down at the lithe form, the flat planes of his stomach that led to slightly rounded hips. Azriel could admit only to himself that the male possessed a wild and powerful beauty. 

Gods, this war truly had taken its toll if he was ogling a half-dead son of Autumn. Sunlight and the din of battle streamed into the tent as several sentries entered with a basin, linens, and bandages. 

The healer slowly wiped the vicious wound. “I can take it from here, Shadowsinger.”

Still unconscious, Eris moaned low, and Azriel growled at the sound, his shadows darting forward. The healer’s head shot up at this, his mouth set in an unimpressed line. He continued to clean Eris’s bloodied skin, then with a quick wrist flick, the pink, cloudy water cleared. He submerged his hand and steam rose as the male poured a packet of herbs into the tub. 

Without looking up, he murmured, “He’ll live. Won’t even scar thanks to your haste” 

“Good. Wouldn’t want your princeling maimed on my watch.” Azriel stomped towards the tent flap. His voice came out sharp, even to his own ears.

Outside, he inhaled the acrid air. Smoke and death hung above, but that was to be expected. What he hadn’t counted on was his body’s reaction to the Autumn male lying atop a pile of pillows. That Night’s spymaster had been half-holding his breath to avoid inhaling the scent of warm spice and earthy musk. 

He tucked his wings back and hissed in pain as a half-healed suture tore. 

Fuck Eris Vanserra, with his long, pretty throat and bratty hips, his amber eyes smoky with pain, and his graceful warrior’s speed. 

It did not matter that the male had come through this time, had acted with honor. The Autumn prince was a viper in wait. And when he struck, Azriel would be ready. 

Please let me know if you ever want on/off the taglist 🖤

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[cheollipop]

soybean stew

navi | taglist

pairing: choi san x afab!reader

w.c.: 5.5k

tags: smut, fluff, so much fluff, and even more fluff, established relationship, reader is not gendered, san is so in love, he's so in love!!!! and it's so fluffy!!! and he can cook, but he's a little clumsy, did I mention the fluff?

trudging back home after your final exam, wanting nothing but to sink into bed and sleep through the next three years, san welcomed you with a warm bath and a home-cooked meal. and even as the moon fell to make way for the morning rays, he continued to shower you with his never-ending love.

warnings: beware!!! the fluff may be deadly, reader is not gendered (afab), morning sex, lovemaking, oral sex (f), fingering (f), unprotected sex (👎), multiple orgasms (m), multiple creampies, overstimulation, praise, edging, orgasm denial (only for a bit), nicknames (sannie; love, darling, sweetheart, baby), very sappy, so many kisses, like....a lot, san gets so desperate at one point...oh lord, so whiny too, and so in love :(

A/N: this has been a wip since april and I kinda abandoned it because uni was beating my ass,, buuut I figured it would be a great (belated) birthday fic for san!! (´ ε ` )♡ and happy birthday to my favourite himbo ^^ happy reading! please consider reblogging/leaving feedback if you enjoy my work~ ><

nsfw under the cut - minors dni!! 🔞

Your soaked sneakers slammed over the pavement, splashing into the puddles of rainwater showering the Earth. The umbrella you held onto for dear life did nothing to protect you from the downpour, your lower half left helpless to the droplets the wind pushed at it, darkening your jeans to match the overcast sky under which you were walking. The revision notes felt heavy in the bag slung over your shoulder, and you wanted nothing but to burn them and have a barbeque over the flame to celebrate the end of your semester.

Dragging your sore body through the streets and into the shelter of your apartment building, you found yourself out of breath by the time you arrived at your front door. Your arm felt like deadweight as you raised it to unlock your door with languid movements. You lugged your body through the entrance and into the joint living area and kitchen, eyes falling on the tall figure of Choi San, all broad shoulders and glowing skin, swaying his hips to the music playing from his phone, masking the jingle of your keys. A sudden rush of energy – though miniscule – pushed you towards the man, your arms snaking around his waist, his body jolting in your hold and the ladle in his hand rising in defense with a throaty scream.

“Ah! (Y/n)- Fuck-” He slumped over the stove, the steam from the bubbling pot brushing over the smooth skin of his face. “You scared me, sweetheart,” he laughed breathlessly.

You managed a half-hearted apology and a giggle as you pressed your head to his bicep to watch as tofu and an array of vegetables danced in the brownish broth, the pleasant aroma making your stomach rumble against San’s back. He laughed to himself, dropping the ladle into the pot and twisting his body to face you, his arms encircling your shoulders and bringing you closer to his body.

“The jjigae needs a while longer to be ready,” he brushed his hand over the back of your head. “I should’ve started cooking earlier, sorry.”

You leaned in to press a kiss to his pouty lips and shook your head, an easy smile stretching your mouth. It baffled you how you were barely conscious a few minutes ago, but upon laying your eyes on San, wrapping yourself up in his arms, inhaling the uniqueness of his scent – a blend of bergamot and sage, with a hint of baby powder – you felt revived, ready to conquer the world (even though a certain man with broad shoulders and a pretty smile would fight every entity that opposed you before you had the chance to lift a finger).

“I don’t mind waiting,” you pressed your lips to the corner of his mouth before leaning away to admire the stupid smile on his face, his eyes glowing with unrivaled adoration.

“How about I run you a bath, hm? Dinner should be done by the time you finish.” His fingers rubbed small, warming circles over the damp material of the coat you didn’t bother shrug off upon entry, too engrossed in greeting your boyfriend.

You nodded, an easy smile twisting the corners of your lips as you swayed gently in San’s arms. He took you in, from the way the wind had left your locks dishevelled to the dark circles under your weary eyes. San could see your mismatched socks through the slight gap separating your bodies. They weren’t even similar colours—proof of how exhausted you actually were. He cupped your jaw, and you felt the drag of the bandages wrapped around two of his fingers across your cheek. You grabbed his hand and held it in front of you, shooting a glare at him while he sheepishly looked to the side. Injuries were inevitable when you leave a man who can’t even walk straight alone with a sharp knife. Though, scolding San for hurting himself while doing something so thoughtful was not within your capabilities. The guilt would eat at your insides for weeks until it left a hollow cavity brimming with rue and self-condemnation.

You brought the bandaged fingers to your lips, pressing tender kisses to the wounded skin. “Thank you, Sannie,” you gently spoke. For everything you do for me, you silently added. And the smile on San’s face told you he understood.

He had every little detail about you engraved into his mind, from the blemishes decorating your skin to the way your eyes spoke to him when putting your thoughts into words proved to be a task too difficult. You sometimes felt like San knew you better than you did yourself, recognizing exactly what you need before you even had the chance to think about it.  And whenever you felt self-conscious about not being as perceptive, San was quick to assure you that you did more than enough for him, that your smile alone could solve all his predicaments.

San led you to the bathroom, turning away from you as you began to strip. He sat at the edge of the bathtub, switching on the water and holding his hand under the tap until he deemed it warm enough, plugging the drain and getting up. Turning back around, San’s eyes fixed on your exposed skin while he blindly reached for the cabinet, tracing the swell of your breasts and the curvature of your waist, blinking slowly as he felt saliva pooling in his mouth at the sight of you before him.

And then he met your eyes, freezing in place when you raised a questioning eyebrow at him. He cleared his throat – a little louder than he’d intended – and hoped you wouldn’t notice the bright red tinting his cheeks as he desperately scrambled to grab onto the handle, flinging the cabinet door open and effectively hiding his face behind the wood. You stifled a laugh, shoving your clothes into the laundry basket while San rummaged through the items stored underneath the sink, pulling out a rose-shaped bath bomb. He stood back up, smiling like an idiot when he turned to face you again, the previous timidity nowhere to be seen as he ogled your bare body with newfound confidence.

“You’re insufferable,” you grimaced, shying away from his gaze.

He breathed out a laugh, the fondness glimmering in his eyes sending a wave of warmth through your body and straight to your heart, sensing as it swelled with adoration. You wondered what you might have done in a previous life that deemed you deserving of Choi San—a man who never failed to make you feel loved, cherished, wanted.

“Stop it,” you whined when San’s eyes remained on you, though not moving off your face.

“It’s hard to look away from you, darling,” he swooned, putting his arms up to protect himself from the towel you threw his way, a soft chuckle echoing in the bathroom.

You waited for him to turn his back to you before allowing the smile you’d been holding back to sneak onto your face, tilting your head down to shield it from view. San didn’t bother hiding his own, dimples sinking into his cheeks as he dropped the bath bomb into the tub, watching it fizz and leak a soft shade of pink into the water.

“Let me know if the water’s too hot,” San spoke, making his way back to you.

He held your face in his hands, pressing his lips to your forehead before pulling away with an easy smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes. You hummed a ‘thank you,’ passing San to step into the water, jolting when a warm palm landed on your ass, the sound reverberating between the walls.

“Yah!” You yelled and watched as the culprit escaped, leaving behind a trail of high-pitched giggles to keep you company.

You shook your head, a smile on your lips, and continued your descent into the warm bath. You relaxed your body, sighing contently when the water brushed the tip of your nose, feeling the weariness of this past month melt away into nothing.

--

San placed two bowls of rice down on the dining table beside a pair of empty ones, walking back to the stove to grab the bubbling pot of stew. The distant roar of the hairdryer stopped, and the bathroom door swung open down the hall. You walked out, a trail of steam following you as you made your way to the kitchen to watch San place the pot down on the wooden table. He straightened up and an easy smile took over his lips when his eyes landed on you—dressed in one of his hoodies, your cheeks flushed from the warm bath. You found yourself rushing into his open arms, burying your face into San’s chest and making a home in his cordial embrace. He nuzzled his cheek against the top of your head, inhaling the scent of your shampoo and pressing a kiss to your hair.

San placed another peck to your temple before pulling away and leading you to a chair, pulling it out, and waiting for you to sit down before pushing it back in. You shook your head and huffed out a laugh at the simple, yet endearing gestures engraved so deeply into San’s mannerisms. You’d thought they would’ve stopped after a couple months of dating, but here you were, quite a few years in and he remained the gentleman you had fallen in love with on a windy autumn afternoon.

San walked around the table and took the seat across from you, reaching for the ladle and pouring stew into one of the empty bowls, handing it to you before filling up his own. You smiled, inhaling the steam dancing above your bowl, exhaling with a deep, happy hum. You picked up your spoon, scooping up some of the rice and dipping it into the stew before bringing it to your mouth. You blew on it, aware of San’s eyes on you, gauging your reaction as you chewed on the food.

“Be honest,” he spoke, the smile on his lips carrying a hint of tension and anxiety.

You knew he cared the most about your opinion, and wanting nothing but to see the dimples sinking into his cheeks, you fluttered your eyes shut and swayed your body from side to side while humming exaggeratedly. “Mmm! Sannie, this is the best meal I’ve ever had!”

You reached across the table to cover his hand with your palm, and he didn’t waste time flipping it over and giving yours a squeeze. The smile stretching his lips nearly split his face open, a bright red colouring his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “It’s my mum’s recipe,” he scratched at his nape with his free hand.

You felt your chest well up with infatuation, fondness, love. Choi San occupied every inch of your being, and he was wholly unaware of it all—the effect he had on you, how you melted into putty in hands whenever he smiled your way. The gentle touches, the sappy flirting. He drove you crazy at times, and you wondered when you became greedy, wanting to rob the dimpled man of every last drop of his love.

“Well, you did it justice. It’s delicious,” you mirrored the smile he was giving you.

Your fingers remained entwined throughout dinner, even when San directed his spoon towards you, shoveling half of his own portion into your mouth despite your complaints. You tried doing the same, but for every spoon you pushed past his lips, he fed you two back until you were on the verge of exploding, swearing on every living family member you had that another bite would make your heart stop. San only laughed, extending his free arm to brush away the grain of rice stuck to the corner of your mouth, leaning back and sucking the food off his thumb with a coy smile.

You cleared your throat, ignoring the flash of warmth coursing through your body at the action. You were so adorable, San thought, getting up when you did, plastering himself to your back and waddling with you to the living room. You held onto his arms where they were crossed around your chest, stopping by the couch before unwinding your limbs and twisting around to face him. With his hands on your waist, San urged you closer until your arms wrapped around his neck, leaning down to press his mouth to yours.

The kiss was soft, your lips slotting perfectly over each other while you shared your body heat, your fingers tangling in the hair at San’s nape and lightly scratching at the skin. San parted from you only to place tender pecks over your pouted lips, trailing his own over the plushness and to your cheeks, nuzzling his nose against them before pulling away. He walked you backwards until the backs of your knees met the couch, dropping you gently onto the cushion. You found yourself wrapped in your favourite blanket before you could complain about San's hands not being on you, tucked into the corner of the couch with a movie playing on the TV. With a kiss to your forehead and a whispered “I’ll be right back,” San walked back to the kitchen, giggling menacingly at your displeased grumbling.

San’s hips swayed while he loaded the dishwasher, his thoughts revolving around a certain individual impatiently waiting for him on the couch. An individual he was helplessly infatuated with, having built his future in his mind around them—around their interests, their occupation, their preferred paint colour, their desired pet, whether he’d have to build a cot at some point in his life. He rinsed down the spoons while thinking back to the first time he saw you—sat on a bench under the yellowing tree, bright red and orange colouring the dying leaves. How lucky he was, San thought, to still be looked at the same way by the person he was in love with. All starry eyes and warm smiles, as though he’d built you a kingdom with nothing but his calloused hands.

Slipping off his bright pink rubber gloves, he made his way past the dining table and into the living area, his bare feet padding across the carpeted floor and stopping right in front of your sleeping figure. He mooned over your resting face for a few moments, the TV playing idly in the background as he studied the soft furrow of your eyebrows, the gentle grip you had on the corner of the blanket in which you were wrapped up in, the thin line of drool seeping from the corner of your mouth and onto the cushion under your head. San's fist tightened in resistance, the squeal tickling the base of his throat fighting to be let out as he barely held back the aggressive stomps. Everything about you drove him insane, even when you were doing something as simple as fulfilling a basic human need. He took you in for longer than he’d wish to confess, trailing his eyes over every inch of your face before snapping out of the trance he’d found himself in, a dribble of saliva leaving his own mouth while fondness brimmed in his chest.

He scooped you up in his arms, careful not to awaken you, small, light steps carrying him to your shared bedroom. Abruptly stopping in the middle of the hallway, San bit down on his bottom lip and squeezed his eyes shut when you nuzzled your face into his chest, resisting the urge to cover your face in kisses. His grip on you tightened and he willed his legs to move, taking a few – slightly hurried – strides through the hallway and into your room.

Delicately placing you under the covers, San untangled you from the fluffy blanket and threw it over the duvet—the night grew cold now that winter was inching closer.  He made a quick work of his clothes, throwing on a hoodie not strained with splotches of soybean paste before slipping into bed. His arm naturally slid under your head, his other arm snaking around your waist and tucking you into his chest, a satisfied exhale blowing out of your nose. Sleep found him fleetly, hints of rose mixing with your natural scent to surround him with familiar amenity, your body soft and pliant against his. Pressing his lips to your forehead, San wrapped himself around you and allowed the gentle tugs of slumber to shut his eyes, his last thoughts circling around the person in his arms, hoping the next day would come quickly, wanting nothing more but to drown them in his affection.  

Streaks of gold filtered through the chiffon curtains, the sheer material futile against the aurous beams of light revering the start of the new day. Peeking your eyes open, you blinked away the contrasting brightness of your room, shadows splayed over the disordered sheets and a warm body plastered to your side. San’s head lay lower on the pillow, his exhales blowing over your neck, features softened in tranquility while his chest rose and fell with each breath. You wondered if he was dreaming of you.

Your shoulders felt light, your breathing easy, and the stress of assignments and exams gone with the moonless night, the new sun casting shadows over the face tucked into your neck. San had been so patient with you, planning dates around your busy schedule and racking up the phone bill as he pulled recipe after recipe from his mother every evening. While you were too immersed in reading articles, San made sure you didn’t skip meals, that your water bottle was always full and sitting on the right side of your desk, that your shared home remained clean, that the knots in your shoulders never wound too tight, his delicate fingers working over your muscles as you clung to his torso at night. And though he never deprived you of his affection, you felt an untamable need for him, a wildfire burning in your gut as you took in his resting features.

You started off gentle, your lips feathering over San’s temple and down to his cheekbone, quickly growing frustrated at the continued evenness of his breath. So the needy, openmouthed kisses began, leaving a thin sheen of saliva in the shape of your lips reflecting the morning rays, your fingers brushing dark strands off his forehead to plant kisses there as well. You felt his nose twitch as you pecked down the bridge, the subtle pouting of his lips curling the corners of yours.

Your hands made their way under San’s sleep shirt, your nails dragging over his spine before splaying your palms out to feel the warmth of his skin. You threw your leg over his hip, shuffling closer to his body and trailing your lips down to his cupid’s bow. “Sannie,” kiss, “wake up,” kiss.

He peeked an eye open to look at you, quickly shutting it as he stretched out his limbs, a deep groan echoing in his chest. He relaxed back in your arms, blinking his eyes in quick succession to peer at you with hints of his dream still playing in his head.

“’Morning,” he mumbled, the rasp in his voice only adding to your need for him, his knuckles running over the slope of your jawline.

You leaned down to kiss him again, a slow dancing of lips while the thrushes and blackbirds sang a melody on your windowsill. San was still waking up, you knew that, yet you couldn’t help but nestle closer, holding his face and nuzzling your nose into the side of his as you deepened the kiss. It took him a few seconds to notice your restlessness, your hand slipping off his jaw to run over his sides, sliding under the hem of his shirt and squeezing at the flesh of his waist.

Shaking the last of his drowsiness away, he rolled your bodies sideways until he had you on your back, looking up at him with a mix of confusion and lust. San knew you better than you knew yourself, you remembered as he leaned over you to press a firm, closemouthed kiss to your lips, followed by a trail of tender pecks down your neck. “What’s got you so needy this early in the morning?”

You could feel his smile on your skin as he peppered your neck with kisses, dragging his teeth over your pulse point. “Missed you,” you breathed out, fingers curling around the material hugging his broad shoulders. “Want you.”

San hummed, low in his throat, “I’m here, I’m all yours.” His hands coasted over your sides and down to your hips to hook his fingers into your waistband, slowly sliding off your bottoms and panties in one go, his lips pressing over every inch of newly exposed skin.

Your pants and his haphazardly thrown behind him, San ran both hands down your inner thighs to spread you open, slotting himself between your legs and leaning over you to dot kisses over your jawline and cheeks. “Can I taste you, my darling?”

The rough material of his boxers pressed against your mound, your vision blurring at the friction. “But I want you,” you whined, sliding a hand down his back and resting it over his firm ass to pull him closer.

“Just for a little bit,” he kissed at your pouty lips, grinding his hips into you, the hard outline of his cock straining against the thin fabric. “Please? ‘Wanna feel you on my tongue.”

A shiver ran through you, and you nodded hesitantly, watching as San descended your body with a muttered ‘thank you.’

--

‘Just for a little bit’ faded into the illuminated dust swimming in the air around you, your mind disconnecting from reality the moment San’s lips found your pussy. It felt like hours in a realm of ecstasy, hot arousal gushing out of you with every suck to your clit, your vision blurring when thick fingers breached your entrance. San lapped at your cunt like a starved man, his tongue flattening over your swollen nub while you desperately rolled your hips over his face, exhaling breathy moans as you neared your high for the nth time, only for him to anchor you down on the mattress with an arm over your lower belly, retracting his tongue to press tender kisses over and around your slit.

“No, no,” you whined as your orgasm dwindled, tears pooling in your eyes and your hands tugging at his dark strands, attempting to push his face back onto you. His fingers curled inside you, pushing up into your g-spot to remind you of their presence, hips slowly rutting into the sheets under him. “Sannie, please.”

He slipped out of you to trail soft kisses along the heated skin as he journeyed up your body, pressing his lips to the pout on yours before pulling away to take you in—all teary eyes and slick skin, gilded under the early rays. Strong arms enclosed around you, soft tufts of dark hair tickling the side of your neck as San dipped his head onto your shoulder. Inhaling deeply, he breathed in the familiar scent of your bodywash, a hint of your shampoo tickling his senses as he basked in your warmth. A muttered echo of his name broke him away from you, his lips parting off your skin to allow a string of curses exit, his leaking cock now burrowed between your folds, cockhead teasing over your clit. “Are you ready for me, love?”

Your frantic nodding and pleas brought a smile to his face, lowering himself over you again to gather you into his arms, his hand sliding between your bodies to align himself with your waiting cunt. Your hips jumped when his thick girth breached your entrance, your nails dragging down San’s spine at the gradual stretch. Feathery pecks turned into open-mouthed kisses over your face, San’s heavy breaths interrupted by the comforting gesture. He trailed his lips down your jaw to nuzzle his nose into the skin below your ear, his pants growing into shaky moans when his cock fully sheathed within you, the gentle squeeze of your walls around him shaking his body with violent shivers.

“Please move,” you tried, rolling your hips in protest, and San’s hands scrambled to stop you.

“W-wait, fuck-”

His body convulsed atop yours, a gravelly grunt ripping through his chest as a familiar warmth spread through your lower belly. His cock twitched inside you, spurting pathetic ropes of cum while he curled in on himself, shuddering as his orgasm washed over him unexpectedly with repeated apologies on his tongue. Your hand smoothed over his back, rubbing soothing circled into his skin while he recovered, imagining the bright red coating the cheeks he was hiding from you.

“San?”

He hummed, his voice small.

“Can you look at me?”

He shook his head, soft strands grazing over your skin at the motion.

“Why not?”

He paused, and you could feel the warmth of his face on your shoulder, “’m embarrassed,” he mumbled.

Your palms cupped his heated cheeks, prying him off your skin and holding his head above you to look at him properly. Teary, half-lidded eyes stared back at you, flushed cheeks squished inwards and his lips pouted in chagrin. You guided his face down to yours, pressing comforting kisses over his eyebrow and temple, “no need to be embarrassed, love.”

He huffed out a breath, tilting his head to slot his lips over yours, leaving a chaste kiss on your mouth before wrapping his arms around you to bring you into his chest. His hips began rolling into yours before you could question it, a breathy moan blowing over San’s collarbone as his cock glided over your walls.

“Missed you so much,” he planted a kiss on the side of your neck, “couldn’t help it, ‘felt so good,” he rambled into your skin.

You could feel his cock chubbing up inside you again, San’s soft grunts echoing in your ear as he pushed through the overstimulation. Languid grinding turned into pointed thrusts, rough palms running over the outside of your thighs and guiding them around his waist, waiting until your feet locked at the small of his back before readjusting his angle. With San’s body covering yours and his mouth on your neck, he aimed his cockhead at your g-spot with shallow drives into your sopping heat. He grazed his teeth over your pulse point, a shiver running through you as he littered an array of faint bruises over the column of your throat. In a couple hours, your skin would become a palette of blues and purples, and San would sheepishly scratch at his neck while you reprimanded him for his messy colouring.

San’s cock stilled inside you, moving only to glide the remainder of his length between your fluttering walls. “Where did you go?” Of course he’d caught you zoning out. “I thought I'd get you all to myself now that you were done with exams,” the pout on his lips pulled at your heart strings.

Your fingers ran through his hair, and you leaned upward to peck at his lips, “you have me, Sannie, I’m all yours.”

San smiled, sliding a hand under you to cup the back of your head, catching your lips in a kiss laced with the thick essence of yearning and lust—as though he couldn’t bare part with you ever again, not even to grab a glass of water. “Mine, mine, mine,” he recited against your lips, moving down to pepper kisses over the bruises painting your skin. “Gonna fuck you so full, sweetheart, ‘make sure everyone knows you’re my sweet baby.”

Your hand reached down to his thigh, grazing the soft skin and trailing upward until your palm cupped his plump ass, urging his hips forward and into your cunt. “Want it, please, want you so bad.”

His lips found yours, parting to run his tongue over your cupid’s bow before planting soft, delicate kisses over the corners of your mouth. Your nails dug into the flesh of his ass, eyes rolling back as he pounded into you with boiling desperation. Utterances of ‘missed you’ vibrated over your skin, your chests flush and nipple grazing over each other every time San bucked into you, his words broken-up by airy moans. Through the thick haze coating your brain, you recognized the tingle in your stomach warning you of your impending orgasm, San’s frantic hands touching every patch of skin available to him, his teeth nibbling on the skin of your collarbones while he fucked into you uncontrollably.

“Gonna cum,” he breathed out, lifting his head to take you in with glassy eyes. “Hngh! ‘Missed you so fucking much,” he pulled you into his chest, only to lean back two second later to admire your fucked-out expression—staring back at him with hooded eyes, pleasure soaring through your body and disrupting every thought, San’s relentless pace as he hammered his cock into your pulsating cunt barreling you closer to the edge. “So perfect,” he pushed the damp hair off your forehead. “Gonna fuck you full, darling, can I? ‘Wanna give you all I have,” he babbled, slurring his words as tears welled up in his eyes, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“Nghh! G-give it to me, Sannie,” you tightened your legs around him, pushing him further into you and clenched around him.

San’s hips stuttered, his steady rhythm replaced with erratic pounding, his cock filling you up before slipping out, only to thrust back into you without relent. The edging, San’s mouth on your clit, his fingers stuffed inside you, only to pull away every time you came close to an orgasm, and now, his cock pressing into you g-spot while his pelvis grinded over your sensitive nub—you weren’t sure which factor pushed you over the edge, except you found yourself tumbling down a verdant, sunlit hill, wildflowers and dandelions sweeping over your skin in your descent. Your vision blurred, the silhouette of a man brimming with adoration going in and out of focus, the soft melody of moans and echoes of your name reverberating in the back of your mind as your orgasm finally rushed through you, your nerves aflame and body jolting over the soiled sheets.

For what felt like hours, he guided you through your high. Leisurely grinds of his hips, rocking back and forth with his cock sheathed deep within you, even after ropes of white joined the previous load he’d fucked into you, your bodies spasming together as tinges of overstimulation mingled with pleasure. His eyes scanned your face, studying the subtle shifts in your features while his hands roamed your body—from the twitch of your eyebrow to the upward curl of your mouth; palms dipping into the contour of your waist, and curving over the slope of your hips, holding you delicately while you trembled in his arms. He slipped out of you at the first whimper leaving your lips, his muscles slackening as the shots of pleasurable pain subsided.

The mattress jumped, San’s body falling sideways into the space beside you, his arms instantly working on tugging you closer to him, inhaling the flowery scent of your shampoo while digging his fingers into the knots in your back.

San’s soft humming carried on until the sun found its locus in the cloudless sky, the rays sharp where they snuck through the gap in your curtains. You slipped in and out of consciousness, the warm body cradling you and the patterned rise and fall of its chest spreading a veil of tranquility over the quiet room. The peacefulness resided even as San pulled you out of bed and into the shower, washing off the sweat and grime with wandering hands and impish touches, high-pitched giggles and squeals echoing between the tiled walls.

It felt like deja’vu, finding yourself curled up in a fluffy blanket on the couch, except this time, San’s firm body enveloped yours while you sipped on your coffee, feline eyes moving off the TV every time you brought the mug to your lips, watching their subtle pout as you swallowed down the steaming liquid. His gaze flitted lower, examining the splashes of purple and blue decorating your neck with a fond—and slightly cocky—smile stretching his lips.  

You remained entrapped within each other’s warmth, the sunlight shifting hues every other hour, from a burning yellow to a warm orange, mixing with magenta and rose when the orb of light neared the horizon. Characters moved around on the large screen: Mulan, then Rapunzel, and now Ariel, the baritone of San’s voice harmonizing with the various ballads blasting through the speakers, your hearty giggles filling up the room when he slipped away from you to dance along with Sebastian to ‘Under the Sea.’

Securing him back in your arms, you watched the rest of the movie in peace, humming the remaining songs and arguing who would get to be the purple mermaid next time you went swimming, the empty bowls of leftover jjigae resting idly on the coffee table, their ceramic reflecting the changing hues of the dying sun.

reblogs/feedback are very, very appreciated!! apply for my tag list here (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

[cailjei]

The game: you will be given a word. Then you share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word.

I saw @silivrenmiriel post of this game, so I wanted to try my luck with her word, FROST.

Frigga smiled at her sons, looking up to her from where they were sitting cross-legged on the floor. Little hands reaching for the colourful yarn, even as she told them off gently, laughing softly at their antics. The sweater she was knitting, a red one for Thor, must be ashes now, along with the rest of their house, the entirety of their crumbling world. “Mother, tell us a story, please!” Thor shouted joyfully. Frigga’s smile did not falter. She set the needles aside, gathering the both of them to her lap.

Untitled Post-Apocalyptic AU

Rustling sounds as the estate woke, the servants indolently toiling, as yet another day began. The sun was dawning, setting the world around Loki ablaze with its warm, orange hues. The large windows of the corridor allowed for a splendid view, which he utterly ignored, rushing through the shadows cast by the elaborately decorated columns between them. The archway led through Frigga’s gardens, which she so regularly tended, with or without the servants’ assistance, no matter if judgemental tongues –dripping with venom– whispered how unbecoming an occupation that was for a Lady. The air was crisp, just on the right side of cool, carrying with it the sweet scents of nearby flowers. He barely noticed them, heading to the stables with long, decisive strides, the inevitability of his aunt’s visit weighing heavily on his mind, as pressing as an executioner’s axe on the throat of a prisoner. The stables were quiet but for the soft sounds of neighing. One of the stable boys (Oscar, was it?) was tending to the horses. Wide-eyed, he bowed his head at the sight of Loki. “My Lord,” he mumbled.

Untitled Victorian AU

Odin had brought here his youngest for a purpose. Night birds sang their sweet, lulling melodies, and warmth radiated from the soil, damp with the humidity of bygone rain. Flowery fragrances permeated the air, as the breeze passed through the canopy of the trees, the leaves’ gentle murmurs lending their serenity to the forest. Small, trembling hands cupped, barely visible in the moonlight. A green flame flickered to life and died off prematurely. Odin swallowed a sigh. It was clear to him why Loki had such a difficulty calling forth fire. His Jotun heritage should mean that in elemental seiðr, his affinity laid with ice rather than fire. “Once more,” he said patiently. The youth’s brow furrowed in concentration, as his hands shook with strain. “Relax your posture. You should be casting spells with the mind, rather than the arms,” Odin corrected softly.

Second Chance (A Timeloop Fic with Odin PoV)

Something inside Loki snapped. “I won’t flee, if that’s your concern,” he replied icily. A detached part of him understood that he was being unfair, but at the moment he couldn’t care less. “I’ll do my duty to this Realm, whatever the cost.” Byleistr’s crimson eyes narrowed. “That’s not what I meant. Laufey may not care, but I do. Helblindi too, even if he is too much of a bull-headed bilgesnipe to show it properly.” A smidgen of guilt, but Loki wasn’t ready to concede defeat. He scoffed. “Our brother cares for nothing but his pride.” “I think you know him better than that.” Eyes sliding shut, Loki breathed in deeply. “I do.” “You won’t be gone for long. Not if I or Helblidi have any say in it.”

All The Warmth Held By An Icy Winter (Jotun!Loki AU)

The skies were overcast, yet no wind blew. The pale streetlights illuminated the snowflakes as they fell heavily onto the empty streets of Arkham. They built upon one an other, covering the ground like a shroud, the otherworldly silence broken only by the sound of Thor’s footfalls, a light crunch that appeared deafeningly loud in his ears. The cold was merciless, piercing, seeping through the clothes, making him shiver in spite his heavy way of dress. He crossed his arms, hands desperately searching for warmth in the crooks of his elbows, as he made his way through Arkham. Apprehension was a near ever-present companion on his journey to Arkham. Were he honest with himself, Thor would admit that he was yet unsure if there was a correlation between the... unpleasant incidents and Arkham. He only knew that, once in Boston, things had seemed to right themselves. He couldn’t shake the feeling that, as much as he had told himself otherwise, returning to Arkham wasn’t a wise choice. But it was barely even a choice, given that his job, and his distraught brother was there as well.

...And Of Those Amongst The Stars (a cosmic horror au, continuation to Of The Shadows Amidst Us...)

As a next word, I propose CROWN. I tag (with no pressure at all) @delyth88 @worstloki @black-feather-fiction in case you are interested, and of course everyone else who wants to can do so as well :-)

[themalhambird]

Hiii - coming from your post about the WIP Game/Ask Game, and as a fan of both Adar and Celebrimbor, I'd love to read about your "Kidnap is quicker than Siege" AU, the title and premise sound incredibly interesting! :D <3

Have our first Brimby POV! (and possibly the opening scene...)

Sulphur. Shadow. Flame.

Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion, readied himself for bed in the hope that the ritual of preparing himself to sleep would summon an ability to lay himself down and do it. He changed into a nightrobe, pulled cold water over his face-

And pulled on his dressing gown, rather than climb between the sheets, ignoring his bed in favour of collapsing at his writing desk and picking up the ring he'd confiscated in wake of Mirdania's earlier accident.

A small thing. Well crafted, but that was a given- any smith who worked in the great forge with regularity was a Master of their craft, and Mirdania as competent as any.

If she had been hurt-

She hadn't been. She had been- shocked, yes, badly frightened, and that was a kind of hurt,  but it could have been-

No, it couldn't. "There is not," Celebrimbor muttered, "a balrog in your forge. If there was a balrog in your forge, we would all be dead."

He stood up again, scooping the ring off the table and dropping it into his dressing gown pocket before crossing to the window, pushing it open and letting cool air and the smell of rain rush into the little chamber. He closed his eyes.

Sulphur. Shadow. Flame. The reek of death, Mirdania said-

He's at Mithlum, still a child more or less, and Uncle Mauklaüre is having nightmares again, his screams weaving echoes of brimstone and a whipcrack like thunder, Fëanor going up in smoke and breaking down to ash.

He's on the battlefield and it's a cacophony of panic and frenzy worse even than when the dragon came- Uncle Ma- Lord Maehdros and his forces should be here, they're supposed to be here, and  that, that giant, wreathed in flame...he needs to bring the ballista to bear, he designed the machinery for dragon hide but Aüle and Nienna, it's heading for the King and--

Fingon's dead. Celebrimbor is in Gondolin and-

He snapped his eyes open and found that his nails were digging little crescent indentations into his palms. The wind had picked up, and the rain was being blown in; his face was wet and his dressing gown and his hair were both a little misted with damp.

Likely, what Mirdania had seen was an- an echo. A balrog had fallen near or at  Khazad-dûm- fragments of its broken Song might ripple out, drawn to sources of extreme heat- like a forge only rarely left to go dark. A remnant, unpleasant but not dangerous, more frightening than harmful. At Gondolin, Celebrimbor had worked tirelessly to try and find some technique or other, some trick to working metal so that it could withstand what neither Fëanor nor Fingon had been able to withstand- Ectheillon had some luck with the prototype, or at least it hadn't hurt- Celebrimbor had given Idril his notes to gift to Ereinion, thanks for the aid he and Cirdan were giving to the survivors of the City's fall. They were filed somewhere in Lindon's extensive libraries, no doubt. Perhaps Celebrimbor should ask for them back. But then he would have to explain to the King why he wanted them, and that would require explaining Annatar's thrice bedamned attempts at forging Nine Rings for Men, and although Gil-galad hadn't explicitly forbidden the making of Rings for Men he would understand, even if Celebrimbor did not confess, that the continuing of ring-craft in this manner could only follow on from the making of the seven, which he had forbidden-

With a snort, Cemebrimbor wheeled away from the window and back to his writing desk. He pulled a spare scrap of paper towards him, snatched up his quill and wrote

Galadriel-

Intercede with Ereinon for me, cousin, I've committed a flagrant act of treason! As you've some not insignificant experience In disobeying our High King's direct instruction, do you think I ought to grovel do you think, or will a bottle of first age whisky be sufficient? Or perhaps you might help me avoid the sacrifice of either my dignity or my good alcohol, and come to Ost in Edhil yourself with my notes from Gondolin, neglecting to tell His Majesty about the latter if not the former...

Snorting again, with far more amusement this time, Celebrimbor tossed the pen down. The exercise in nonsense had relieved his spirits somewhat- really, he was being ridiculous. Nightmares better left in the first age brought back by worry and over- tiredness. Most likely, what Mirdania had glimpsed in the unseen realm was some kind of minor fire-spirit, nothing more. In the morning, he would take the ring to the forge and  see for himself.  When it was clear what was there- if anything- it might be dealt with, but otherwise-

His ear flicked. Was that a thud, on the stairs? Annatar perhaps, wishing to discuss the accident, to badger about helping with the rings again, leveraging the incident with Mirdania to do so...

Celebrimbor sighed, flipped the lid of his desk open, and pulled out not a first age wine or whisky, but his bottle of Narvi's best Dwarvish moonshine.

[adelaidedrubman]

new year same old fucking wednesday

i was tagged today by my darlings @socially-awkward-skeleton @galaxycunt @direwombat @corvosattano to share a wip in the year of our lord 2024! here. have some short (sfw) parts of this same stupid fucking wip that i was working on in 2023 and rewrote to be new year’s eve themed then didn’t fucking finish for new year’s eve. what the fuck ever

As with all holidays, Jestiny would ideally prefer to spend her New Year’s Eve outdoors. 

She would gladly take her midnight kisses whilst guzzling craft beer and watching fish leap from the water rather than sipping champagne and watching pixelated footage of a ball dropping — if only the temperatures of December bleeding into January in Montana would agree with her preferences. 

And sure, a sharp chisel and a thick jacket could guarantee she would still be taking home her share of trout from a frozen solid pond. A good set of crampons strapped to her favorite hiking boots was all she needed to scale the highest mountain peaks, even covered in ice. A durable tent and well-insulated sleeping bag meant she could still feel wind-nipped cheeks warmed by the flames of a real campfire no matter the season, instead of settling for the store-bought logs currently crackling in the hearth behind her.

But even a rugged outdoorswoman the likes of Jestiny had to admit the blistering, unforgiving cold Big Sky Country winter required some activities be strictly indoor-only until the wildflowers of spring began to poke their first bright blossoms from the hard, frozen earth. 

sending no pressure, good for the year tags out to @poetikat @blissfulalchemist @deputyash @confidentandgood @captastra @voidika @inafieldofdaisies @just-another-wasteland-merc @strangefable @8bitpizzacoupons @unholymilf @orionlancasterr @v0idbuggy @jackiesarch @strafethesesinners @henbased @simplegenius042 @clicheantagonist @firstaidspray @quickhacked @miyabilicious @stacispratt @nightbloodbix @thedeadthree @shellibisshe @wrathfulrook @fourlittleseedlings @cassietrn @florbelles @g0dspeeed @belorage @shallow-gravy @roofgeese @afarcryfrommymain + like/unlike this post to opt in/out of wip day tags!

[idkwhyimhere5462]

Random Ice Emperor WIP that I’ll never finish

Vex walked through the frigid castle, his breath visible. His teeth chattered as he wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, the animal pelt it was made of giving little to no relief from the chill. He’d get better clothes made soon.

He turned the corner, finding the doors to the balcony wide open. Outside stood the Ice Emperor, his inhuman metallic skin shimmering in the afternoon sun, and his similarly colored hair fluttering in the wind.

Vex begrudgingly stepped into the piercing wind, shivering. The Emperor was without his armor and his scepter, a strange sight to see. “My Lord,” Vex called over the wind, “for what reason are you out here?”

The Emperor spun around, his glowing, pupiless eyes briefly wide in surprise. He cleared his throat, “Ah, Vex,” the Emperor’s bizarre, echoey, but soft voice rang out, “I was simply overlooking my empire.” He gestured to the cold, lifeless land below him which just a few weeks ago had been flourishing with life. Now the temperatures were too low for much of anything to survive.

Vex looked up at the much taller man, carefully reading his facial expression. “Is there something on your mind, My Emperor?”

The Emperor’s eyes widened the tiniest bit before a small smile was shown on his face. “Vex, you truly know me well, it appears you really have spent years with me, even if I have no memory of it.” He ran his finger along the banister, wiping off frost as he did so, “I was wondering what to do next. I have taken back my family’s throne from the usurpers and reestablished my rule throughout the valley, what more is there possibly to do?”

Vex pointed directly into the snowy landscape, “We destroy those barbarians, the Formlings, it is the only way to bring true peace to our land. They sow nothing but chaos and every action is intended to harm.”

The Emperor nodded as he abruptly turned around grabbed his scepter that had been leaning on the wall next to the door inside. The usual otherworldly blue flame burst to life on his head, his eyes somehow getting brighter. “If it must be done, so be it.”

—---------------------------------------------

Vex watched as the Emperor explored the courtyard, dead plants crunching under his metal soled boots. He was happy to see the Emperor wearing his armor, it had been a lot of work to even get him to put it on in the castle.

He stepped forward, “This is where you would play with your siblings when you were very young, My Lord.” The Emperor turned around, the hand not frozen to his scepter clutching a handful of dried up vines. “Is that so? How many?” His usually gentle voice warped to sound deep and gravelly from the snarling metal mask on his face.

“You had four brothers and a sister.”

“Hmm, what were their names?” The Emperor dropped the vines, giving his full attention to Vex who was now tensed up. “It-it has been so long I can hardly remember.” He felt no remorse as the deceptive words left his mouth.

“How unfortunate.” The Emperor wrenched his mask off, shards of ice flying every which way. Vex shuddered at the most recent injury his master had sustained, a piece of his metal cheek having been ripped off, revealing his back teeth.

“Were we… happy?” The Emperor asked softly. Vex pulled his eyes away from the injury. “Of course, it was those wretched usurpers who took that from you.”

The Emperor ran his hand over a dead tree. “Everyone has a name, you have a name, Grimfax has a name, every single samurai of mine has a name, even the Formlings do, why don’t I?” Vex grimaced, how had he forgotten, he had been the Emperor’s advisor for more than a year now and he hadn’t given him a name.

“You have a name My Lord, I could’ve sworn I told you it.”

The Emperor looked back at Vex, his eyes metaphorically and literally brightened.

“Your name is Unesdala.”

—————————

Vex tightly wrapped his arms around the Emperor’s torso from behind, General Grimfax doing the same to him. He tried not to look down as they soared thousands of feet in the air on the back of Boreal, a giant wyvern made of ice that the Emperor had concocted a few years back.

The Emperor sat so calmly in front of him, hands laying freely in his lap, holding no reigns or stabilizers. Boreal already knew where they were going, she was connected to the Emperor, much like Grimfax and the other samurai.

Vex buried his face into the Emperor’s back, instantly regretting it, getting poked by the cold, hard armor. He supposed it was better than being fully exposed to the piercing wind.

He let out a sigh of relief as they finally landed, practically falling off of Boreal. The Emperor and Grimfax joined Vex, Grimfax pulling Vex to his feet by the scruff of his robes. They were in a plain full of tall spires and littered with assorted animal bones.

The Emperor moved to Boreal’s head and gave her a thankful pat before holding out his hands, letting her spit out a large chunk of meat into them. Vex shrank back, unsure of how the Emperor acquired that.

The Emperor brought his fingers under his mask and let out a shrill whistle, a loud flapping noise soon getting closer to them. The Banshee came into view, the biggest bird Vex had ever laid his eyes on.

The Banshee landed right in front of the Emperor, excitedly hopping around and chirping. The Emperor tossed the meat up to the Banshee’s mouth, who caught it and gobbled it down in an instant before ruffling his feathers and hopping towards Boreal.

Boreal started to run off, inviting the Banshee to chase her. The Emperor eagerly shuffled after them leaving Vex alone with Grimfax. Vex groaned as he sat down and leaned against one of the pillars. He looked up at Grimfax, taking in his blue gray skin and unbreathing figure all because of the Curse of Ice.

Grimfax was the former Emperor that he and the Ice Emperor had overthrown, now under their control with the Curse. They had originally kept him around due to his superior strategic skills, but the Emperor had grown to like him.

Vex pulled out his Crystal, a mirror-like piece of ice that he used to survey anywhere in the land. He watched the Emperor through its surface, seeing him duck behind rocks as both Boreal and Banshee tried to catch him.

“Spying on the Emperor again, are we?” Grimfax murmured as he peered over Vex’s shoulder.

Vex gave him a pointed glare before he ghosted his fingers over the surface of his Crystal, “This was a gift from the Emperor himself of his own choice, he perfectly understood the implications of giving it to me.”

“Did he?”

Vex sneered up at Grimfax, “Shut your mouth, puppet.” He spat. Grimfax’s mouth snapped closed, clearly against his will. He grunted with annoyance.

Vex smirked, knowing that Grimfax absolutely despised that fact that he was forced to listen to him. With his mood soured, they sat in silence, Vex getting bored at some point and moving his view from the Emperor to a random settlement.

Eventually, the Emperor staggered back over, his breathing ragged, time had not been treating him well. Thankfully, he was still able to do the majority of things with little problem. He collapsed next to Vex, his eyes fluttering shut.

Vex tucked his crystal away, “My Lord, do you wish to leave?” The Emperor slowly shook his head, “They are having fun, let them have it.” Vex made a small noise of confirmation, his eyes landing on a bird, much smaller than the Banshee, digging around in the snow.

Vex sprang forward and snatched the bird in his fist. The Emperor and Grimfax were both alert now, warily watching Vex. “Is it…?” The Emperor whispered.

Vex examined the bird for the mark of the Formlings. He came up with nothing and released it. “No.”

—---------------------------------------------

The doors to the throne were flung open, making Vex flinch from where he was sitting, the stairs leading up to the Ice Emperor's throne. A gasp resonated throughout the room as the Emperor jolted awake, ice cracking around him.

Grimfax and a few other samurai barged in, dragging someone behind them. One of them tossed the person by the arm right in front of the stairs and stepped on his back, pinning him down. It was a Formling, a ferret by the looks of it.

“We caught an assassin infiltrating the castle, My Emperor.” Grimfax’s gruff voice filled the room. “What shall we have done to him?”

Vex looked up at the throne, the Emperor prying himself from the ice glueing him to his throne to stand up. The large spikes of ice surrounding him glittered in the skylight right above. “An assassin, you say? What do you have to say for yourself?”

[encrucijada]

10 songs tag.

tagged by @downtoithaca ! the rules are: use your wip playlist and put it on shuffle. write the first 10 songs that come up and quote your favourite lyrics from each song and/or the lyrics that fit your wip best (they might be the same lyrics), then tag 10 people.

continuing my trend of not explaining forest with teeth... here are some songs and lyrics!

smother by daughter: i should go now quietly / for my bones have found a place to lie down and sleep / where all my layers can become reeds / all my limbs can become trees

in the woods somewhere by hozier: what caused the wound? / how large the teeth? / i saw new eyes were watching me / the creature lunged / i turned and ran / to save a life I didn't have

i of the storm by of monsters and men: i feel it biting / i feel it break my skin, so uninviting / are you really gonna need me when i'm gone? / i fear you won't

abstract (psychopomp) by hozier: darling, there's a part of me / i'm afraid will always be / trapped within an abstract from a moment of my life / the weeds up through the concrete / the traffic picking up speed / all my love and terror / balanced there between those eyes

into the unknown from over the garden wall: but where have we come, and where shall we end? / if dreams can't come true, then why not pretend?

meet me in the woods by lord huron: i took a little journey to the unknown / and i've come back changed, i can feel it in my bones / i fucked with forces that our eyes can't see / now the darkness got a hold on me

tomorrow by daughter: by tomorrow we'll be lost amongst the leaves / in a wind that chills the skeletons of trees / and when the moon, it shines, i will leave two lines / just find my love, then find me / don't bring tomorrow, 'cause i already know, i'll lose you

as it was by hozier: just as it was, baby / before the otherness came / and i knew its name / the love, the dark, the light, the flame

unknown / nth by hozier: it ain't the being alone / it ain't the empty home, baby / you know i'm good on my own / sha-la-la, baby, you know, it's more the being unknown / so much of the livin', love, is the being unknown

francesca by hozier: do you think i'd give up / that this might've shook the love from me / or that I was on the brink? / how could you think, darling, i'd scare so easily?

tagging: @cream-and-tea @moonssugar @coffeeandcalligraphy @dallonwrites @kiki-is-writing @filmografo @saltwaterbells @teddywriting @onomatopiya @subtlefires

[valiantvillain]

WIP Wednesday

Chapter 3 of Duty, Diligence, Devotion (The Bastard of House Cordaign)

Snippet from my more Miraz-centric chapter for this fic. Also I meant to do this earlier today but totally forgot so sorry for late night tags to my mutuals.

-----

One would think they could get used to walking into nightmares at this point. Everyday another corpse. Everyday another tragedy. A raging fire seemed so mundane compared to the slimy stinking bodies of mindflayers and the violent depraved delights of goblins. It inspired a most shameful relief in the knowledge that the screams were the result of smoke and flame and not broken bodies bursting with the snapping of bones and shifting of sinews. You could help someone from a fire and leave them in tact. Disturbed and changed in spirit, but still themselves, minds and bodies yet their own. The mindflayers offered no such mercy. 

Fires Miraz could handle. Even if the ghostly tendrils of gray were more akin to tentacles than she would have cared to admit.

With Wyll, Karlach, and Gale not far behind, Miraz strode into the still burning ruins of Waukeen’s Rest with purpose. She saw the wide doors of a building and the line of Flaming Fist straining against the burning wood and hissing iron. From there she did not think. Only acted, guided by the unerring flow of experience. Without hesitation the paladin joined the struggling soldiers and, clasping her hands, bore the weight of her broad shoulder upon the door. Heat flared against her cheek, wrought forth beads of sweat upon her brow, as it gave with a groan. Miraz was vaguely aware of Karlach’s bulk beside her, adding her strength to the chain. A flash of memory. Of breaking down similar obstacles with Armand gritting his teeth at her side, synchronizing into a rhythm of one…two…three. This door proved no different, caving in on itself in a shower of splinters as it surrendered to their collective assault. 

Miraz drew in a long, acrid breath before she followed the lot within, the party close at her heels as she followed the lot inside, up the stairs. Then they repeated the process twice more to allow a slender elven woman to race out to safety and a poor fellow far more injured to be guided along until the mere sight of a sliver of blue sky spelled safety and he stumbled off on his own. 

So busy had they been with freeing those trapped within the flames that Miraz had hardly bothered to look at them save for the passing realization that the woman had been dressed too splendidly to be a commoner. Perhaps even a distant inkling of familiarity in her low voice swiftly forgotten in the chaos. She had not expected to recognize the elf that stood before them as they exited the building, coughing smoke from their lungs and half-heartedly shaking ash from their hair. She had not expected Counsellor Florrick, even less so that she would recognize her and Wyll. 

The shock at his new fiendish appearance however, was sadly a little too expected. She called upon him first and so it was revealed that the Blade of Frontiers was in fact Duke Ulder Ravengard’s wayward son who had been whispered to have been unceremoniously exiled from beloved Baldur’s Gate. A shock to say the least, but it made sense, when Miraz thought about it, followed the path through the years past. When she and her old crew had returned from a job dealing with a group of Shadow Druids trying to breed manticores to find hushed whispers of the boy’s forced departure abound. You could have scarcely stumbled from one market stall to the next without catching wind of another wild theory or speculation. It was a matter of great interest to Lord Cordaign at the time, Miraz remembered. Or rather the potential for political gain, the subtle poking and prodding of a powerful man nearly as aloof as he to find a newly received chink in his armor. A sliver of grief to seize and exploit. She had always been rather pleased to know he had come up with little opportunity. 

Now the boy of rumor stood shoulder to…well, not exactly, more like shoulder-to-some-unclear-point-on-his-jaw with the boy of legend. Now a young man of age with her second brother and with a career of heroics behind him. Who would have thought that the Blade of Frontiers and the young Ravengard had been one in the same all this time? 

It begged the question of whether Mizora might have been involved. How very like wily patrons to isolate their charges. 

Miraz offered a silent prayer to Helm that the reunion between father and son would be far warmer than any she would have with her own family. Provided avoiding one entirely was out of the question. 

Rescuing the duke. Yet another reason to pursue the trail of this Absolute cult, if the glowing members of bodies of drow and goblins were any indication. What was another item on the list of impossible tasks? 

Then the Counsellor turned her steely gaze on Miraz. Instinctively, her spine straightened, shoulders rolling back as though a soldier awaiting orders. Instead, the woman’s eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her an instant before something like a knowing relief eased the creases in her face. 

“Saer Miraz Cordaign,” she said, letting each word fall with a gravity befitting of something more dignified than a bastard. “How fortunate I am that you bear little in common with the rest of your family. Though I rather imagined I'd not see you again, given the circumstances of your departure.”

Shame tore through her, burning and white hot. The phantom of fear, however, gripped her heart with icy fingers. The shattering of bones and screams rang in her ears. She had not thought then either. Only acted. Only swung her hammer. Up, down. Up, down. Until her arms were nearly numb. 

It hadn't been justice. It shouldn't have been justice. It should have broken. Why had it held? Why was it guilt that haunted her and not a broken path?

Miraz’s hands clasped behind her back, then squeezed one hand around the other's wrist. She sensed the eyes of her companions upon her. The astonishment of wide-eyed revelation bore into her skull at three angles. She stared straight on at Florrick, just as she was taught. Muscles made rigid by memories of blue-veined hands manipulating her posture until it was acceptable and made to stand still as a statue. 

“They were most regrettable circumstances, Counsellor.” Miraz’s answer was level, formal as befitting one of Florrick’s lofty status. Though if she knew of what Miraz had done, than regrettable was a gross understatement. The paladin swallowed a sudden hard lump in her throat. “How does Aldred Cordaign fare?”

Her jaw clenched at the thought of his death. Tighter when Florrick arched a brow, her own face as meticulously unreadable as that of Miraz. 

“Your brother yet lives, if that is what you are asking. Though if there exist healers capable of restoring bones from dust, then they are not to be found in Baldur’s Gate. He will never walk again. As well as a fair few other things. Some, given his reputation, might consider it a just punishment. Would you agree, Saer Cordaign?” 

The briefest bubble of relief to learn that her brother had not succumbed to his injuries. But then Miraz’s grip tightened around her wrist, so hard she could already feel the steady bloom of a bruise like a flower unfurling under sunlight. Tension hung thick in the air, thicker than the smoke that burned her nostrils and irritated her throat. 

“I…am not sure I can say, Counsellor. Judgment was warranted, I will say that much. Whether the one I gave was fitting however, of that I have my doubts.”

“Does your oath still hold?” 

Miraz nodded. “It does.”

“You are certain?” She asked, the tentative shadow of skepticism creeping across her unlined features. 

“With all due respect, I am a paladin. I would know if I was an oathbreaker.” 

A half-truth. In the heat of the moment it was easy to mistake the sick sensation of guilt rising in your gullet for the sundering of an oath. Yet all the abilities granted to her by the oath of devotion had been just as present as before even after days of doubt had gnawed at her heart. Miraz certainly did not relish the thought of losing them, of losing that which had defined her by the virtue of her own deeds, her own will, the one thing that had always been well and truly hers to claim. But it seemed so very, very wrong to consider what it meant: that violence, raw and angry and uncontrolled, unburdened by restraint, had been justice. 

The elven woman’s shoulders sagged incrementally, almost imperceptibly, with what looked like relief. Why would she be relieved? What did a single inconsequential bastard of a disreputable noble house matter to her? Especially one who had fled before the blood could stain the carpet.

“Should you rescue Duke Ravengard, I shall ensure you may return to Baldur’s Gate without being accosted.” Florrick’s words were sharp with the edge of an offer, likely an additional incentive should Miraz consider the duke’s rescue low on the list of priorities. If there was one thing the Counsellor had in common with her grandfather, it was that they were both shrewd. “From the Flaming Fist anyway. I unfortunately cannot say the same for whatever sellswords Gaetan may have hired.” 

Of course he had. She had finally given him reason to retaliate in full force, hadn’t she? All these years spent loathing her ugly illegitimate existence and now he could justifiably persecute her in the eyes of the coin-swayed law. 

A rueful grin worked it way across her lips with a snort. “So he’s already set his sights on arresting me.” 

“To the fullest extent of what the law will allow, from what my people have told me.” 

In a way it was a relief, to have the breadth of the animosity laid bare. The threats would be veiled no longer, all the aggression divested of the passivity he’d displayed for so long for fear of a broken jaw. 

She supposed it was too much to hope that Aldred would have grown a conscience. The sigh that left her lips tasted of cinders and regrets. 

“I thank you for the generous offer, Counsellor Florrick but such promises will not be necessary. I would have agreed regardless, with or without Wyll. Nor do I intend to return to the city once our work is done.”

“You would prefer a self-imposed exile? When even your oath sees fit not to condemn you. Most in your position would argue their innocence far more vehemently.” 

“My intent is not penance,” replied Miraz, shaking her head. “Merely to get out from under the Cordaigns’ long shadow. Nor was I innocent. What that means for my oath, however, is something to ponder in time.” 

Preferably when her head was blissfully absent of a parasite. 

Florrick, however, seemed to remain unconvinced, frowning haughtily. Truthfully, Miraz had only seen the woman a handful of times when her grandfather had dragged her to those cursed balls and events of the Gate’s rich and powerful, and always at a distance. Standing near the walls, ever in the backdrop like a piece of crudely hewn decoration someone had placed there more for the novelty than any sense of aesthetic pleasure. Yet it appeared that the Counsellor had taken more notice of the bastard of House Cordaign than she once thought. Did Miraz dare to consider such interest may have carried a touch of admiration? That an illegitimate half-orc such as her could garner enough of a cutthroat patriarch’s respect to yank her out of the temple to which he had given her at his discretion? To sculpt and chisel her into his version of perfection? 

Nonetheless, in that moment the woman did not yield, only nodded in an imitation of acceptance. 

“Be that as it may, the offer will stand,” she eventually said, after having given Miraz one last appraising once over. Perhaps trying to catch a hint of trepidation, an uncertain shuffle of her feet or an instant’s aversion of her eyes but finding nothing. “Baldur’s Gate may yet benefit from your strength.” 

You mean my hammer, Miraz thought to herself. Such was always the case, wasn’t it? Both beneath notice when all was at peace and yet vital when something needed doing. Either way, some form of ridicule or reticence usually came with it. At least when it came to nobles anyway. 

“Of that I have no doubt, Counsellor. Rare is the city that does not have a use for strong arms and stronger wills. May Helm watch over you on your journey.” 

“You as well, Saer Cordaign, Wyll.” 

It wasn’t until the Counsellor and her retinue of Fists had passed beyond the smoldering outer gate that a long exhale released from Miraz’s lungs. Her eyes briefly shut with relief and the muscles pulled taut in her shoulders finally relaxed. A faint soreness ringed the wrist she had held for the entirety of their conversation. Even so, her heart thudded knowing that she still felt the weight of her companions’ stares. 

No pressure tags: @poetikat, @arendaes, @captastra, @perhapsrampancy, @isobel-thorm, @mxanigel

[amberskywrites]

Not of This World - WIP Intro & Masterpost

Summary / Plot

Waking in the world of [CONTINENT NAME], we are told that you are the chosen one for a prophecy to bring about Lord Asonze - a tyrant king who forces his subjects to become monsters - to his knees. Traversing through the world, we choose to learn magic and find companions to aid us in our journey, until we finally enter [DK] and confront Asonze.

Not of This World is a hypertext fiction, choose-your-own-adventure story set in a fantasy world. With many branching paths that the reader can take, and each decision resulting in a different outcome, the story truly is in the hands of the reader.

Progress: Writing draft 1

Current Word Count: 4,966

Main tag: #wip: not of this world

Snippets, Side Stories, and other fun things

Side Stories

Blacksmith Blazes

The Forever Watched

Weeping Winds | Flickering Flames | Errant Earth | Lilting Leaves | Opulent Omissions

Snippets

None Yet

Character Explorations (visual and written)

Vio Doodle (tw eyestrain)

[askbeastdemonslayerkazato]

I am Kazato Aldun Kazaki, the Beast Demon slayer. my title is a bit more accurate than many believe. the Lord who runs the Corps gave me his direct approval when showing my power yet knew of my condition. it turns out humans can breed with demon kind and as a result very rarely does the offspring live. However the living ones are pure humans whom have a demon's magic mine was a wolf-like demon. Whom had very odd style of magic. It mostly involved his own powers being trapped into a fang he lost during his initial rampage which was turned into the very blade which slew him after he killed my mother years later. I have learned three techniques of my donor's killer, the Blades of Blood, Iron Reaver Soul Stealer, and Windscar attacks. Mother told me these attacks were called Beast Demon Arts. I became like the swordsmith/slayer's champion as he was growing older and protected our village. He taught me that with this unique style and the enchantments of the blade adaptation is key. My blade was dubbed Tessaiga (alternatively tetusaiga) in honor of the swordsman's house. It wields a power even I'm not sure of yet but I heard rumors that if a slayer were to truly train with this blade long enough they could slay 100 lesser demons all at once in a single stroke of the blade or equivalently around upper 5 for just one demon. I have met many a slayer during my trials and even final selection and hope to become a Tsuguko to any who'll take me in even multiple hashira to learn some new power. The other enchantments are that demons can't take up his blade without suffering a special blue flaming burn inflicted and the blades true strength is sealed. The sheathe can retrieve the sword from a distance of 25m (upwards of actually probably 250m but initial weakness grows to better control situation).

Secrets

The first time kazato used the windscar his emotions of a blind fury towards demon kind unleashed it's true power and destroyed his home village killing all there by creating a short canyon albeit still definitely counted as a canyon and the demon was completely ashed by the energy produced.

Ch1 pt1:

Ch1 pt2:

Ch1 pt3:

Ch1 pt4

Ch2 pt1 (takes place Jan-mar off screen)

Ch2 pt2 (apr-jun off screen)

Ch2 pt3a (the shinobu introduction/interaction) (still wip I think) (jul-sept off screen)

Ch2 pt3b (tengen interaction/introduction...not available yet) (oct a)

Ch2 pt3c (minor mission) (oct b)

Ch2 pt3d (wind down from mission/mitsuri and Kazato relationship announcement) (oct c)

Ch2 pt4(rest of the hashira at once. Not available yet) (rest of nov off screen)

Ch2 pt5 (fight with Mazoku the puppeteer demon followed by wedding of kaz and mitsuri. Dec. Wip)

Mod: here's the rp info

Straight

Directly XXX moments are permitted in DMs whereas non detailed teasing/fanservice bits for posts.

Polyamorous (definitely dating Mitsuri now in his cannon, possible second girlfriend character on the way.)

Male

19-24+ (character agr I'm 24)

Only info of the sword is needed but have some Inuyasha knowledge please.

If oc X cc is a thing mitsuri is the goal for that but would prefer oc X oc

All alt demon slayer blogs

@the-puppeteer-demon

@ask-the-spirit-siblings

@shina-kumatsi-dskyn

My awesome friends

@askmitsuri-kanroji

@paintoreos

@mamaandherfamily

@katanafoxdrawsthings

@ask-the-insect-hashira

@the-godof-festivals

@ask-spider-mother-kny

And more I'm not currently remembering the tags for or met and will add as I remember them

[viiisenyas]

WIP Whenever

I finally have edited enough of a section from my little AU and I am so stoked to share it 💗

Brief Summary/Context: Elaena has travelled with her father and brother with Robert Baratheon by sea to meet Ned Stark in Winterfell. During the feast, she meets Jon Snow.

CW: none :)

Tagging: It’s 3 AM, I won’t tag any one haha.

Tagged by: @oxygenforthewicked my beloved 💗

A wave of vertigo passed through Elaena as the mixed sounds and smells in the Great Hall became too much for her to bear. Her gown suddenly became too tight, and she huffed as sweat began to bead upon her brow.

She looked at Monterys again, pouting ever so slightly before she tugged gently on his sleeve with a pleading expression. She wanted to leave, but for the second time, her brother dismissed her, wordlessly, with a wave of his hand as he continued his conversation with Lord Poole.

Elaena pressed her lips together, drawing in a breath before she mustered the courage to leave alone, and headed straight for the courtyard, ignoring the gazes from the Northmen as she passed them.

She pushed open the heavy wooden doors, and the cold air was refreshing. Elaena let out the breath she was holding, relieved as the nausea slowly dissipated, and the doors to the Great Hall clattered shut behind her.

The courtyard was desolate, save for the stable master, and a dark-haired boy hacking violently at a training dummy. He spared a glance at her over his shoulder, and her cheeks warmed when she recognised him from earlier that day.

She never had the chance to ask his name, but as the thought pressed into her mind, the boy turned back to resume his task, and Elaena frowned.

Of course… What did I expect? she thought.

After taking a long moment to regain her bearings, Elaena shivered as the chilly air clung to her skin. But she had no intention of returning to the Great Hall so soon, and she began to walk towards the brazier across the courtyard.

The warmth of the flames caressed her face, and she sighed softly as she closed her eyes, and listened to the stillness of the night. It would have been perfectly peaceful if she couldn’t hear the boy’s steel or the distant music overpowered by the sound of celebration.

Elaena braced her hands against the stone as the sound of steel faded in the background, and in the flames of the brazier, the face of the dark-haired boy she’d seen in the courtyard earlier that morning appeared, dressed in the black armour of the Night’s Watch.

A massive wall of ice was distant behind him. Snow cascaded around him as he rode away from it on horseback, and the image changed. A banner bearing the sigil of House Stark drifted in the wind, burning, before a dark shadow cast over it.

The boy appeared in the flames again, and a look of worry painted his features when he looked back at the ice before he proceeded his path forward.

Elaena leaned closer to examine the fire more carefully, and the images began to change once more. Her eyes widened as she saw the gruesome sight of a white wolf viciously attacking a lion cub, and its crimson gaze drifted towards her. Blood-stained teeth were bared as it began to draw closer and the vision faded to a crown of blades.

She recoiled in shock, gasping, before the sound of hoofbeats captured her attention, and she turned to see a man armoured in black galloping into the courtyard.

“Is he dead yet?” he called with an air of humour in his tone, and she followed his gaze to the boy with the sword across the courtyard. The stable master moved past her to collect the stallion as the man dismounted his horse.

“Sorry, milady,” he said, politely.

“Uncle Benjen!” The boy exclaimed, and she watched the amicable exchange for a moment before looking down at her hands.

“You got bigger, I see,” Benjen laughed as he hugged his nephew.

“What are you doing here?”

“I rode all day. Didn’t want to leave you alone with the Lannisters.”

Kindred spirits, she thought, and a quiet laugh escaped her.

Elaena traced over the lines of her palms, absently, before she gazed back into the flames as she continued to eavesdrop on their conversation, and the same images of the boy appeared again.

“…Well, you’re always welcome on the Wall. No bastard was ever refused a seat there.”

“So take me with you when you go back.” An air of excitement laced the young man’s tone.

“Jon,” Benjen huffed in disapproval.

“Father will let me if you ask him,” he countered, “I know he will.”

“The Wall isn’t going anywhere…”

“I’m ready,” the boy pressed. “I’m ready to swear your oath.”

The Wall, she thought, and tilted her head with a furrowed brow as she watched him riding into the night again through the flames.

Elaena looked up at the two in realisation and frowned.

“He’ll have to turn his cloak,” she sighed, in both disappointment and relief when she saw nothing else.

Elaena crossed the courtyard towards the larder, and the familiar voice of Tyrion Lannister captured her attention.

“My lady,” he smiled, swaying, before he brought a skin of wine to his lips and Elaena lowered her hands.

“Oh, hello, Lord Tyrion,” she replied as she met glazed blue eyes before looking back down.

Elaena found herself stumbling into his presence by chance more often than not since his arrival in King’s Landing just three months past, but he was the only Lannister she felt remotely comfortable speaking to.

“I must say, I’m surprised you’ve chosen the company of a man of the Night’s Watch, and the bastard of Winterfell. Tell me, are the festivities so dull?”

Bastard of Winterfell? she thought. Then that must mean… oh.

Elaena shook her head and clasped her hands in front of her. “On the contrary, it’s the opposite, my lord. But I prefer the stillness outside, and the cold is rather refreshing. And I needed some air,” she spared a glance over her shoulder, gazing at the red flames dancing, and Tyrion hummed in understanding.

“It is a bit overwhelming isn’t it?” He smiled again as he took another sip of wine. “Being in the presence of the strangers who are all as grim as their overlord.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she replied, quietly.

Tyrion didn’t seem to hear her, and her mind wandered. The vision of the wolf and the lion cub flashed again. Then she remembered her dream.

Elaena’s expression fell and she clenched her eyes shut, attempting to forget it.

She hated how violent it was, and for weeks the unpleasant images had plagued her mind at every waking moment.

Seven hells, what did it all mean?

The only two things that had been clear were Jon’s midnight flight, and her journey to Winterfell. Everything else had been a mystery, and it was folly to confide in anyone to make sense of it all.

“I will never father a bastard!” Jon shouted, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Never!”

She was startled by the unexpected change in volume, and her violet gaze snapped towards Benjen and the bastard.

Elaena watched as the older man’s shoulders moved, and he patted Jon’s shoulder before he turned to walk away.

The music grew louder as Benjen opened the door of the Great Hall, and Elaena watched his tall figure disappearing behind the wall before the door clattered shut.

“Your uncle’s in the Night’s Watch?” Tyrion swayed as he stepped forward, wordlessly offering Elaena the wine.

“What are you doing back there?” Jon asked, raising a brow and Elaena looked at Tyrion, owlishly.

It was bad manners to refuse despite not wanting any, and she hesitantly accepted the skin, taking a large sip. The taste was sweet like honey, and she recognised the familiar and pleasant scent of the Dornish vintage as she handed it back to him.

“Preparing for a night with your family,” the dwarf replied, flatly.

Jon moved his gaze to Elaena, and she took a step back, clutching her arm.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the feast?” he tilted his head.

“Erm…” she flushed, and looked away as her words escaped her.

“Lady Velaryon is simply enjoying the peaceful night,” Tyrion leaned against a post, taking another swig. “Apparently, it’s too hot and too noisy in your Great Hall for her liking… one of the many things we both can agree on.” The dwarf offered another smile as he passed the skin back to Elaena.

“You’re Rhaegar Targaryen’s niece?” Jon tilted his head to the opposite side with curiosity.

She pressed her lips together as a coldness passed through her, and she looked away, insulted.

Cousin would be more accurate, she thought, and her brow wrinkled with contempt. But it was far worse than being a niece by marriage, and she kept the blood relation to herself. She loathed the tie she had to him, nonetheless.

King Robert was very kind in reminding Elaena and her brother of what Rhaegar had done on many occasions after indulging in too much wine during the day, and her uncles held the same scorn.

It was the same tired story, over again from both parties. Rhaegar betrayed Elia. Rhaegar abducted and defiled Lyanna Stark. And somehow she ended up becoming the subject of Robert’s verbal wrath when rumours resurfaced about her mother being Elia rather than Belandra, and she wasn’t willing to relive the torment.

Dragon spawn, was what Prince Joffrey told her Robert called her when he was feeling particularly cruel. ‘It’s a shame my father didn’t let my grandfather finish you off.’

If only the idiot knew who his great-grandmother was.

Elaena indulged herself in another large sip to suppress the intrusive thoughts as Jon’s gaze settled on her, and her inhibitions numbed.

“And you’re Lord Stark’s bastard.” Her words came bitterly and without thought.

Jon gave her a hurt expression, and turned on his heel, walking away with long strides before she realised how cruel she must’ve sounded.

Her cheeks burned with shame when she thought of what Ellaria and Oberyn might’ve said if they were there. What her cousins might’ve said. Using his status against him to balm her own wounded pride was beneath her, and the girl looked down.

“I’m sorry,” Elaena anxiously drew a breath as she began to fidget with her braid. “That was… unworthy of me.”

Jon looked back, and audibly sighed.

“You are the bastard, though,” Tyrion interjected with an amused tone.

“Lord Eddard Stark is my father,” Jon gritted his teeth as he turned around, placing his hands on his hips.

“And Lady Stark is not your mother,” the dwarf shrugged. “Making you… the bastard.”

Tyrion stepped closer towards Jon. “Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not.” The dwarf turned to look at Elaena, and he offered a sympathetic look before she realised that he was addressing them both. “Wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt you.”

She looked down, and took another long sip of the wine.

“What the hell do you know about being a bastard?” Jon retorted as Tyrion began to walk back towards Elaena.

“All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You can keep the wine, my lady. I think you’ll need it more than I will before the night is over.”

“My lord,” she nodded, and Tyrion moved towards the Great Hall, leaving the two of them alone.

Jon picked up his sword, and flourished it. He let out a frustrated huff before he swiftly and skilfully struck the training dummy a few times, and he raked his fingers through his hair before turning back around.

His eyes widened as if he was surprised that she was still standing there.

“Is there something you need, Lady Elaena?” He emitted an agitated sigh.

Elaena pressed her lips together, casting her gaze downward.

“I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to bother you,” Elaena said quietly. “You’re very good,” she offered a sweet smile, attempting to make up for her rude introduction, and Jon averted her gaze. “And… I only wanted to—”

“Why are you still out here?” He interrupted, tone dismissive.

Oh… The blatant rejection of her company made her stomach knot.

She had grown used to the passive aggressive remarks in the capital; insults veiled with honeyed words that were difficult for her to decipher until the last moment. But the bold and direct way of the Northerners had completely thrown her off, and somehow, it hurt more.

Elaena wasn’t sure if he wanted an answer, but the wine overtook her senses.

“I-I’m not much use for conversations, I’m afraid. Everyone’s been glaring at me and I don’t think your brother likes me very much,” her voice gradually lowered in volume, and Elaena anxiously squeezed the skin of wine as she looked down.

“I can’t imagine why,” Jon said, flatly.

Elaena frowned when she heard the sarcasm in his tone and a pause settled in the air, uncomfortably, before she turned to leave. She clutched the half-empty skin of wine tighter, debating on whether she should drown her sorrows right then.

Her tears stained her cheeks, and she quickly brushed them away attempting to maintain what remained of her dignity as she sniffled softly.

“Wait,” he called. “I’m sorry, It’s just…” Jon huffed. “It’s been a long day, my lady.”

Elaena turned around, blinking slowly as she raised her eyes to the boy. She acknowledged his apology, but did not extend her forgiveness. Instead, she simply nodded and drew a breath.

“Did you want to join us for the feast?” she asked.

Jon sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Lady Stark thinks it might insult the royal family to seat a bastard in their midst. Which is why I’m out here in the first place.”

“It can’t be any more insulting than King Robert’s foolish attempts in leaving a few bastards in the North,” she said, quietly and without thought.

His eyes widened and he let out a dry chuckle before she realised what just came out of her mouth. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, and Elaena sighed heavily, placing her palm against the side of her face.

Gods, damn this wine… I shouldn’t have said that.

Jon sheathed his sword, and Elaena wordlessly offered the wine to him. He looked at her curiously before he met her halfway, and accepted the sweet drink.

As his fingers brushed against hers, she cringed inwardly when the violent vision of the wolves flashed in her mind once more and she turned her head, clenching her eyes shut.

“Is something the matter?” He asked as he brought the wine to his lips.

“I’m fine,” she nodded and huffed softly, taking a step back. “I-I don’t… I don’t think Lady Stark will care much if you sit among the benches with the small folk,” Elaena pointed out. “I could sit with you, if you like.”

The boy looked at her incredulously as he finished off the remainder of the flask, and she began to reconsider the offer. But before the doubtful and intrusive thoughts could return, Jon offered a tight smile and nodded.

“All right.”

[dashofmonsters]

Summary Catalogue pt. 4

Open Window Rhapsody: Axolotl Merman (Bekkr) x F!Reader:

Since your father's passing it's just been you, his guitar, and your lonely apartment in Crainn city. Everyday you crack open the window and play whatever tune comes to mind after a long day of work. One day as you're mindlessly strumming a voice joins in, humming along loudly as you play. After that day he sings along with you as your mysterious "voice guy". You two never really talk save for song requests but that all changes when he asks about your birthday.

WIP

Runway Runaways: Male Chimera (Adrik) x F!Reader

Things have not been going as planned for you. You're behind on rent, you have classes you need to pay for, and your vehicle's loan to pay off. Both jobs you've been working for have let you and a few others go and now you're panicking to find work. While leaving one interview to go to the next you bump into a young woman and she begs you to come to her studio to help with a photoshoot (you'll be paid of course). Needing the money asap you madly agree to the proposition and find yourself being lead into a studio occupied by one of the hottest male models of the year... Adrik.

WIP

Unprophesied: The living embodiment of darkness (Itzal) x F!Reader

You grew up hearing stories from your father and the priests that Darkness will rise one day to take over his armies and blah blah blah. What no one in the castle knew is that Darkness was your only friend and that you two have been growing up together. He really didn't have a name when you met him and calling him His Darkness was a bit odd so you started calling him Itzal. You shared a lot with him and in return he offered you the only real companionship you've ever had. However that's all about to crumble apart now that you're of marrying age.

WIP

The Fairy Godfather Dilemma: Male Fae (Sorley) X F!Reader

Being a princess means having restrictions, however being the third means you have less. With that sort of freedom trouble is sure to follow and it most certainly does in the form of several very steamy dalliances with one of the guards. However, all good things must come to an end as it turns out that guard was a dragon and the hero you're supposed to marry kills him shortly after you find out you're pregnant. Just as you're starting to feel like your world is about to cave in, a very handsome and strange man appears during your child's birth claiming that he is your baby's godfather.

WIP

As Luck Wouldn't Have It: The living embodiment of Chaos (Drefan) X F!Reader

You're the best gardener in town, at least you were until a few days ago. Random things have been happening with your plants lately and you're starting to wonder if you somehow got cursed. Everything starts to make a little more sense once you catch wind of chaos mages hanging around town looking for the Lord of Chaos. Well, to your bad luck you find him in all his nakedness in the middle of your rose garden that is now upside down.

WIP

To Dance with Fire: Male Fae (Cináed) x F!Reader

You're in hot water. No, literally you are in hot water thanks to freeing yourself and a very angry fire fae. The ship that the both of you were being held captive on is now up in flames and now you and this Cináed fellow are floating adrift in the open ocean. But you're not going down without a fight and neither is he, you both have to fulfill your ends of the agreement that was set so drowning is not an option. After all, you are a water witch.

WIP