#⭒✧ — weapons do not weep » study

[inarretable]

Zabraks are carnivores and therefore have sharp teeth and clawed fingers. Karitza’s teeth and claw-like finger nails are often concealed by her helm and gloves, but can be used in a fight if need be. Due to her biology, she tends to favor meat. But she is not particularly selective with her diet. Growing up on a bounty hunter’s ship meant adapting quick meals, pub grub, and whatever was available. She is a woman of practicality rather than luxury.

[toxiicwcste]

Mobile tag dump

[toms-cherry-trees]

Cracked || Jacaerys Velaryon x Twin!Wife! Reader

Summary: No one ever said duty would hurt like this

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: Twincest targcest (Velaryoncest?), angst, spoilers if you haven't watched S2E2, for anti hating purposes is not explicitly stated but all characters are above 18.

Author's note: Won't you look at me, 7 months since my last HOTD fic! That scene with Jace tearing up definitely did something to me. My very first time writing for Jace, hopefully won't be the last!

Also a massive massive thank you and all my devotion to @moris-auri for beta reading this!

No one welcomes him when he lands in the Dragonmont. 

The flapping of Vermax's leathery wings is amplified, booming throughout the massive cavern, swirls of steam rising from the cracks on the dark stone. The only ones to witness his arrival are the dragon keepers, but even they are distracted, their focus on the exhausted dragon and not his equally drained rider. When they stride past him, they don’t acknowledge him at all, almost as if he doesn’t exist. Jace wonders if he is a ghost, because only in death could someone feel the agony that seeps from his bones and still be standing. 

He feels like a foreigner in this place. 

Even though he has lived on Dragonstone half his life, he feels like a foreigner. The fortress is not theirs. He doubts it never truly has been. They are just keepers of these ancient walls and the history they carry within. Dragonstone is a relic that will stand on that island for a thousand years to come, as welcoming as a gush of Northern wind on bare skin. The only warmth comes from its very core, from those who habit it and who've made the great fortress a home. 

But the home he left weeks prior is not the one he now returns to. The warmth has been snuffed and the hearth has been shattered. 

He walks with his head held high and his back straight, gaze always ahead and chin lifted in a gesture of near arrogance. He walks like an heir, because he is. He is now his mother’s heir and he must play his part, even if all he wants to do is lay his head on her lap and weep like a boy of ten. 

A moon ago he was just Jacaerys Velaryon. He was a son, a firstborn son, but with no more responsibility than studying and learning, mastering skills that would serve him purpose in 30 or 40 years. His greatest concerns were training Vermax properly, what desserts would be served after supper, and how to avoid falling into another of his siblings’ silly pranks. He had been betrothed long ago, but marriage itself was something distant, something that could wait out a few more years.

He was a brother of five with another sibling on the way; a sister. While most in the castle pined for a son, another boy, he secretly supported his mother’s longing for a little girl.

And now he is Jacaerys, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to his mother’s throne and crown. He is more Targaryen than Velaryon now. He is an envoy, a messenger, a warrior if needed be. He is a strategist and a politician. He is an asset and a threat; someone who has forged great alliances, but also has found strong enemies, their weapons aimed directly at the target behind his head, target painted there by his grandsire many a year before his birth. A wedding , hastily arranged, to strengthen their cause and their line of inheritance. 

He is a brother to just four now, and the crib has been left empty. 

Cregan Stark had been the one to break the news to him. Standing on a cramped lookout on the edge of the world, nothing but whiteness as far as the eye reached, Lord Stark had said that the Wall did more than keep savages and ice at bay. It held back death.

But death came nonetheless.

Jacaerys had managed to maintain his stance as a man and a Prince, receiving the news with unyielding stoicism, even when his knees felt weak and his body chilled, like ice had spread down his spine. But this ice was nothing like the one surrounding him, there on the edge of the North. This one burned, burned like dragonfire while stabbing him with a thousand knives, leaving him to bleed out while not allowing him to die. It stole the air from his lungs and the blood from his veins, and filled him with snow. His lungs couldn’t breathe, his heart couldn’t beat yet somehow he didn’t drop dead right there where he stood.

He recalls little of what occurred after, nothing more than brief, precise memories. Receiving Cregan’s condolences, and feeling the firm squeeze of the older man’s hand on his shoulder. Northerners parting silently to make way for him in the courtyard, where a restless Vermax awaited, his screeches rattling the windows of the nearby towers. Someone handing him a parcel, hastily wrapped, containing a sleek wolf pelt as a present for their Queen. The thunderstorm he traversed in the Riverlands, and the toll it took on Vermax to fly through it. 

The painful tightening on his throat as he wondered if he had encountered a similar one, not far from home.

Servants and courtiers make way for him, as he approaches his mother’s chambers. They bow and curtsy, and offer words of courtesy, lamenting the loss of the young Prince. Some stare out of the corner of their eye as he passes, waiting to see if the new Prince of Dragonstone will crumble like sand before their very eyes. But he never betrays himself; not a tear brimming in his eyes, not a wobble of his lips. The occasional flaring of his nostrils is the single telltale of the sorrow that simmers just beneath his skin. 

He hesitates briefly, pausing at the end of the vast hallway where the royal apartments are. Up the winding staircase, past the single set of double doors to the left, his mother awaits. No, not his mother, the Queen. She stopped being his mother the day the crown was placed atop her head, and the court of Dragonstone bent the knee before her. Grief and loss shaped her, morphing her into the leader and ruler she had been born to be. Jace can only admire her, and hope that he will be able to embrace his new role as effortlessly as she has done hers.

The double doors are pushed open by Ser Erryk. The Queen sits alone, gaze downcast and thoughts troubled, that much Jace can tell by the nervous fidgeting of her hands, twisting her rings almost compulsively. When her eyes rise to meet his, Jacerys sees in them a mirror of himself, the same exhaustion, the effort to push back and bury the wrenching misery, the bleeding wound left behind by their loss.

They are alone, just the two of them in that silent alcove. Jace could break down, weep like he hasn’t done in years and lay his head across her lap; let her slender, motherly fingers card through his hair as she assures him that all will be well in the end. But he can’t, he can’t because she’s more Queen than mother now and she’s grieving too, grieving deeper than he is and if she can keep it together then so can he, because he is her heir and he has to make her proud and be a man worthy of respect. 

The Prince doesn’t cry; the heir doesn’t cry. 

A man remains immovable and imperturbable.

He straightens his back, head held high and hands laced before him as he recounts his triumphs, the Houses he convinced to pledge for them and what each one has offered and asked them in return. This moment should have been his shining glory, with himself striding through the castle with pride and confidence, ready to announce to the council how he had secured the allegiance of the Vale and the North for their cause. He would bask in his wife’s admiration, drink the praises from her lips and show her he was ready to one day be a great King, with a great Queen by his side. 

Instead it is just them two, hidden behind doors, picking up the pieces falling from their carefully built masks before they completely fall apart. He brings good news, great news, but they matter little and now taste like ash in his mouth, burning and bitter. His victories mean nothing to him because his little brother is dead, gone 60 years before his time, and they don’t even have a body to burn and Jacaerys feels it should have been him, because he is the eldest and he should have protected him better. He should have faced their rageful uncle and died instead, but he didn’t and now he stands there, moving and doing because if he stays still the grief will swallow him whole and bury him in a pit of sand.

And then his voice breaks, the facade cracks and they both stop pretending, because pretending hurts, like gripping a white hot rod with both hands and refusing to let go even if it’s hurting you.

Her embrace is warm; her arms feel like home. With his head tucked under her chin, his cheek pressed against her chest, he feels young again. He feels the sobs racking her body, the tears dampening her face and his hair, her fingers digging on the fabric of his cloak. They sway slightly, rocking from side to side like when he was a babe of just a few days old, fussy and restless, keeping the whole holdfast awake at night because he refused to settle anywhere but on his mother’s arms. 

But now Jace suspects the motion is meant for her more than for him, to transport her to days past when she held her babes in her arms and they were safe under her wing and no one could harm them because she would sooner tear the world to pieces. Discreetly the places shift, now it's her forehead against his shoulder and his arms holding her steady. Jace feels the tears stinging his eyes and the lump blocking his throat, but he cannot break down because his mother is broken and someone must stand strong and whole and it has to be him. 

Soon, too soon,  his mother has dismissed him, sending him to his chambers to bathe and rest because they will have the funeral at sunset and they must not show weakness before the court. The cracks must be patched and hidden, no matter how deep they run. Not a single piece can fall out of place.

He drags his feet now; the weight on top of him has grown heavy. His posture slackens, his shoulders slump, the pretence is harder to hold. Sunset feels like a death sentence, because a funeral makes it real. It makes it true. Burning what they have because there is not even a body left behind to burn. That way he can no longer pretend that is not happening, that is all just a tale. And then, he will crack. No willpower will keep him whole because his brother, his little brother is dead and he has to face a future where Lucerys will not be a part of it.

He pushes his chamber door open with one shoulder, his mind blank of any thought; the encounter with his mother affected him deeper than he had anticipated, because even she is cracking and now is just him holding it together because he has to. 

And then he sees her. 

His wife sits before the hearth, so ethereal with the glow of the fire illuminating her face. Her head turns as soon as the door opens, and he immediately notices the red around her swollen eyes. At first he thinks she’s mourning, but she’s had her time to mourn and Jace knows she’s crying for him, crying because she feels the agony straining to break through his flesh. Just like they have felt each other’s every emotion for as long as they have lived, have anticipated each other’s words and read their thoughts. Connected by a bond that runs deeper than marriage, because they are of the same blood, come into the world together.

The last time he saw her before his departure, they had an ugly fight. Jacaerys had convinced their mother to keep her at Dragonstone rather than allow her to fly as an envoy, claiming they could not leave the fortress unguarded and with the larger dragons going in and out on their missions, they had to pile up their remaining strength. The Queen had agreed, and her word was final. 

She could not argue with Her Grace, but she certainly made Jacaerys know how she felt about what she perceived as a betrayal and lack of trust in herself and her abilities. Jace pleaded with her to see reason, to see things from his perspective. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in her, he would never dare to doubt her strength. But he didn’t trust the men she would encounter on her journey, nor did he want her to risk taking a long flight on her dragon and run into danger. She, always the hot headed one, had called him every name under the sun and refused to see him off, choosing instead to sulk in her chamber. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, to leave on bad terms with her, but he trusted they would talk it out upon his arrival. That all would be well and their problems would be solved.

He stands silently before her, and for the first time he feels small. So small and diminished, unwilling to look her in the eyes. His gaze is fixed on the floor because the tears are winning the battle and if they do he will crack open like a dragon egg, but no great beast will emerge, only his insecurities and his failures.

His lower lip wobbles, and he bites it so hard he leaves the imprint of his teeth. His nails dig deep in his palms in his attempt to steady their accusatory trembling. He breathes in and out, slow and steady, his eyes squeezed shut as he feels himself losing control. He cannot allow himself to lose it, not in front of her of all people, not when he is supposed to be her pride, not her embarrassment.

He hears the sharp drag of the chair as she stands, the thud of the heavy tome she had been reading being thrown rather carelessly over a table. Her steps are slow and calculated as she moves across the stone, approaching him cautiously like he is some wild beast ready to lash out. Like he is some fragile thing, so fragile that a gush of wind could break him apart.

Her hands are soft and warm as they cradle his face, gently coaxing him to look up, to meet her eyes. But he can’t, he fears he will see disappointment in them, he will see accusation, he will see her blame him for Luke’s death, for forcing her to remain back when it was their little brother who needed his protection the most. 

For failing the family.

He succumbs in the end, brown eyes gingerly rising to meet her own, bracing himself for the worst. But he sees nothing of what he expected. He sees no anger, no resentment, no pity. Just worry and tenderness, and a desolation that matches his own.

The first tears he has been holding back since Winterfell finally escape the barrier of his willpower and roll down his cheeks. He attempts to blink them away but they cannot be stopped, nor does he have the strength to stop them no more. His wife brushes some away with her thumbs, and smoothes back his hair in a tender gesture

“Jace.”

That little world, the call of his own name coming from her lips is all that it needs for the dam inside him to burst. The violent sobs rack his body, tears blurring his vision and he chokes on them, while also feeling like he’s breathing for the first time since that raven arrived at the Wall. He tries to hide his face but she won’t let him, and tears shine in her eyes too and that only makes the crying worse, because his wife is suffering and he cannot console her because he’s also suffering.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

His legs weaken and his stance falters. The same apology falls from his mouth, the small words tumbling over each other and getting lost in the incessant weeping. His knees falter and he drops down; his forehead rests against her body and his hands are on her hips, fearing he will lose her if he lets go. He sobs onto her dress, not caring anymore about being the perfect Prince and heir, about being the man everyone will respect and be proud of.

His wife drops to her knees too and holds him close, allowing his head to lay against her shoulder. The scent of her body fills his nostrils, aroma of camellias and toasted sugar. It smells of happy memories and easier days, and it evokes a sense of safety in him, of tenderness, of the happiest days of his short life. His cry doesn’t stop, but it is not only for Lucerys now. It is for his mother, for his younger brothers, for himself and for all the losses to come. He cries for his twin, his wife, for now the fear of harm coming her way has increased tenfold, and the mere idea of her being cruelly ripped from his side tears a gash on his heart.

He cries until he’s sure there are no tears left to cry. Until the weight has been lifted from his chest and he is sure he can breathe again. They remain there for what feels like mere seconds and a lifetime at the same time, locked in each other’s embrace. Her fingers card through his hair and her lips press tender kisses to his temple; his arms wrapped around her, hands pressed against her back to keep her close, as close as he can to his own heart. He would gladly stay there forever, spend the rest of his days encased in her warmth and basking in her love. But the moment is broken all too soon when a servant knocks on the door to let them know that courtiers are already gathering in the outskirts of the castle for the funeral.

Jace lets himself be guided by the hand like an obedient child to sit before her vanity. She moves around him silently; unneeded words would only break the feeble spell of calmness surrounding them.

She takes care of everything for him. Wipes his face clean with a damp cloth, presses a cool spoon to his eyes so they will not appear swollen and bloodshot. He changes into a fresh tunic, and allows her to comb his hair and powder his face to disguise the redness of his cheeks and nose. 

They stand together before the ornate mirror, both of them dressed in matching red and black. She helps him pin the cloak onto his tunic, fastening it to his right shoulder with a silver dragon brooch. Jace holds her gaze in their reflection, hoping to convey with gestures the emotions words fail to do. She understands; she always does.

He is rewarded with a kiss on the cheek, and while it does not manage to coax a smile out of him, it fills his veins with a pleasant tickling warmth, the same he felt after their first kiss and the one he hopes to feel until his last breath. 

Her fingers run up his arms gently, tracing the embroiders and trimmings of the doublet. They come to rest on his shoulders and gently push them back, straightening his posture and puffing out his chest. The right index continues the ascent, tracing the curve of the neck and the still sharpening line of the jawline before settling under his chin, pushing upwards ever so slightly to lift his head. Urging him to hold himself with pride. To unapologetically show the world that he is cracked, but not broken.

She comes to stand before him at last, smoothing down nonexistent creases from his clothes until nothing but pure perfection remains. They hold each others’ gaze for a few moments, before she reaches up to steal from him a gentle kiss.  

“All ready, My Prince.” 

This time, he smiles.

[jesuistrestriste]

girl you're literally the best writer here. Please please pleaaaaaaase can you do a part 2 of fwb Art who gets attached to you quickly 🛐 I'M BEGGING YOU

< pt 2 to this >

well.

you caved.

goddamnit, you caved quick too.

as soon as those tears spilled down his cheeks and into the crook of your neck, it was over. you wonder if maybe he weaponized his emotions a little to get you to stay, but it doesn’t really matter now, does it?

you did as he begged for you to do; you stayed the night with him. you expected that maybe he would try to have sex with you again, but it never happened.

as soon as you agreed to not go back to your own bed, he pressed kisses over your neck and held you tight. he gave you one of his loose stanford tennis tees and a pair of his boxers for you to sleep in, and then he coaxed you under the sheets. no grinding, no handsy touches, nothing.

he just laid there with you, breathing softly and comfortably as he rested his head on your chest, and fell asleep. you stared at the ceiling for most of the night just thinking ‘what the hell have i just gotten myself into’. if only you’d had the strength to refuse him before, because now you could tell he was in it.

bad.

you wake up in the morning after a night of inner turmoil and feel a comfortable weight behind you. a ghost of warmth pressed up against your back, and oh god, he’s spooning you. his arms are wrapped around your torso and his legs are tangled with yours.

you try to very quietly shift out of his hold, grabbing onto the side of his bed and pulling yourself towards it, but he just whines softly in his sleep and then tugs you right back flush to his chest. you sigh. you cave again, and let him keep you.

the both of you stay that way for another thirty minutes before art nuzzles into your shoulder and starts to stir. he presses three kisses to your neck as he sits up, and then gazes lazily down at you with lidded eyes as he takes in the sight of your features in the sunlight creeping through his blinds.

he’s only ever seen you in the dark; after parties and in response to your 1 AM bootycalls. how could he have ever gone this long without seeing you like this? the way your skin shines, the depth of the color in your irises, the little crevices and dips in your nose and cheeks and chin that make you look like you were lovingly sculpted by the hands of an artist. like you were someone’s muse.

you can see it in the way he looks down to you.

there’s going to be absolutely no (easy) way to get out of whatever you just started with him. one night changed everything. at least in his mind, you were sure of it.

he reaches a hand up and brushes his thumb over your lips, studying you before he knows you’ll turn away.

and then his lips are pressing down to yours. a soft, sweet, tender gesture that says so much more than you necessarily want from him. he only pulls back to whisper one thing, his eyes holding the same—almost nervous—vulnerability that they had the night before when he had weeped a plea into your frame.

“so..” he chews the inside of his cheek, “can i make you breakfast..?”

…

oh boy.

[grandlinedreams]

hi i literally love all of ur posts u nail all of the characters its crazy.

one of my favorite tropes is hidding an injury and getting the classic “who did this to you.”

if ur still taking requests and are in an angsty mood would u plzzz write this with zoro?

Hhjg I try, thank-you!! But also mood it's just so GOOD and I hope that I can do this justice for you!!

[Heads up!: mentions of canon typical violence, blood/mention of an infected wound, angst]

Staring down at the gash in your side, you bite back a hiss as you prod at it, the weep of milky fluid from it. The split skin is puffy and an angry red, heat eminating from it ㅡ it doesn't take a genius to know that it doesn't look good.

Normally you'd have the little handful of supplies from Chopper, tucked away in your backpack ㅡ but it's gone, along with everything else beyond your weapon.

At least you're not wandering around by yourself, though. As if on cue, there's the sound of footsteps behind you, and you drop your shirt back over the poorly bandaged wound.

"What are you doing over here?"

"Just fine," you answer as you turn towards Zoro. "I wanted to see if we could reach a clearing and get a good read on where we are."

"Fair enough." Zoro studies you for a minute, and you worry that he's going to know about the wound on your side ㅡ the one you'd casually "forgotten" to mention to him. "So which way should we be heading?"

"West," you answer, glancing up at the sky. The sun has begun its slow arc of descent, and you sigh. "We need to hurry, or we'll end up needing to camp for the night."

"Right." You turn to watch Zoro go, feeling the irritated twitch of a muscle in your jaw.

"Zoro. That's east."

ㅡ

By the time the sun has set, it's clear that something is wrong.

There's a fine layer of cold sweat on your face that you scrub at, trying to ignore the heaviness of your limbs and throbbing ache of your side. "We should stop for the night," you hear yourself say, "it's useless to try and navigate after dark."

Zoro grunts his agreement and turns to look at you, brow furrowing. "Are you sure you're alright?"

You want to answer him, you really do. But your ears are ringing, mouth full of cotton when you try to answer. Dark spots dance around the edges of your vision, and you're distantly aware of Zoro's noise of alarm when your legs finally give out.

"'m fine," you finally manage before the dark spots expand, sinking you down into the silent black of unconsciousness.

ㅡ

You wake to the awkward bulk of a backpack under your head and the smell of woodsmoke. Sitting up, you blink when a damp cloth drops from your forehead into your lap.

"Finally awake?" Sitting nearby, Zoro prods at the fire with a long stick before he turns towards you. "You have a fever."

Your hand slides to your side, feeling the stiff press of bandages underneath, the answering throb of the gash beneath.

"Took care of that too." Zoro's gaze is sharp. "I'm not Chopper, but it'll do for now. Mind explaining who did that and why you didn't bother telling me?"

It's clear he's far from amused, and you look away, feeling guilty. "Happened when we all got separated," you say, "and I didn't think it was going to be that much of an issue."

Zoro wants to scold you, but he knows he'd be a hypocrite if he did given the amount of times he's blatantly ignored his injuries. Instead he sighs, watching the logs crackle for a moment. "Hope you killed the guy who did it."

"Of course I did," you answer with a hint of pride, and Zoro smirks.

"Good."

ㅡ

"I think this is a little excessive, Zoro."

"You still have a fever," Zoro says as he adjusts his grip on your legs, "and we won't get anywhere if you collapse on me again." He feels you tense, and he frowns. "How are you feeling, anyways? And don't lie."

"A little better." You rest your forehead against his shoulder, and though he won't admit it out loud, the fact he can feel warmth radiating from your skin worries him. "I'm sorry about this."

"Still should have told me," he says, though his tone is softer, his grip tightening on your legs. "Idiot. We're crewmates, aren't we? We're supposed to trust each other."

"I do trust you."

"Then act like it." He stares ahead, footsteps steady. "Don't go getting hurt and then hiding anymore, you hear me?"

"I hear you." You pause. "Zoro?" He grunts in answer, and you exhale softly. "Thank-you."

Zoro tells himself that his heart doesn't pick up a little bit at how soft your voice is, the cling of your body against his. And that he definitely isn't blushing, just a little. "Yeah, yeah. Can't have you die on me and leave me to deal with that stupid cook all on my own."

[thelov3lybookworm]

Weeping heart (Part 3)

Part 1 Part 2

Summary: She's so over today.

•○●⛦●○•

A/n: i like this how this chapter ended up lol, ill try my best to post the next part sooner my loves mwah 😘

anyways, enjoyyyy!!

•○🌑○•

She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck as she discarded her blanket on the cot in the middle of the tent, trying to prolong the reprieve before she inevitably had to address the other presence in the tent.

Y/n was going to kill someone, hopefully Herb.

Rolling her neck, she walked towards the small table that sat a few feet away from the bed and bent to pick all the remaining weapons that sat on the table.

"Are you trying to ignore me?" Cardan questioned, his tone so genuinely confused that Y/n felt bad for trying to avoid him, but she could no say she regretted it.

After all, she was just trying to protect herself.

"What makes you think that?" She mumbled, her focus fixed on the weapons she strapped to herself.

She could hear him moving around, shuffling. From how close she'd been to him, she knew he was under pressure and was starting to get protective.

"You have been gone for months now, and you didn't even smile at me when you saw me and now you are not talking to me at all-"

"I've just been stressed, Cardan." Finally, after she finished checking her body to make sure she had all her weapons, she turned to find him frowning at her.

She wanted to smile at him, but she didn't have energy to even blink.

"I'm sorry, but I have to leave. It might be night time when I return, so don't wait up."

His frown deepened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Y/n swiftly turned on her heel and made her exit, not bothering to even pretend she really was getting late.

She was just too tired now, and all she wanted to do was run away, live in a mountain home and maybe terrorize children by pretending to be a witch, but alas, that was not possible.

Yet.

•○🌑○•

The late afternoon sun was glaring down at Y/n and Herb, and despite the snow still blanketing the ground, the weather was hot. Too hot to be comfortable in an armor.

The thick silence was also not helping as Y/n and Herb made their way to the bar in the middle of town, having just finished the job they had come to get done.

That meant they could've returned to the camp, but Y/n had insisted on getting something to drink, not yet ready to face Cardan again after the shit show that had been her morning.

Y/n could tell Herb had questions he wanted to ask, but he knew that opening his mouth would probably end up with her scolding him, so he kept quiet as he stalked along next to her.

Y/n tried to relax as the bar came into view, rolling her shoulders.

It only got her more tensed up.

The bell jingled behind the pair as they walked in, a soft breeze cooling the back of Y/n's neck as the door swung shut behind her.

The car- tavern, really- was mostly empty, an hour or two left before it started filling with patrons wishing to wind down from their day's work.

A couple sat in a corner, leaning close together as they giggled and chugged their drinks, and Y/n eyed them before turning and following Herb to a table near the far wall.

As she settled down, she eyed the male standing right in front of the counter, laughing at something the owner said. Y/n's eyes narrowed as she realised it was not any male. It was one of her soldiers.

What is he doing here?

Sure, the soldiers were free to roam and explore the towns the group visited when not on duty, but they never came to taverns in the middle of the day, lest they have to fight later. It was only when they were certain that nothing would happen or if they got permission from Y/n that they would visit these places.

Blinking, Y/n turned to find Herb studying her, his arms folded on the table as he leaned forward.

"What?"

His eyes did not waver at her sharp tone. "I'm sorry."

Y/n grunted. "It's okay."

Y/n did not like the way he stared at her, his eyes seeming to read her like an open book. "Is it really?"

Y/n rose a brow. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He shook his head, his eyes so serious Y/n was concerned for a moment. "Nothing."

"It does not sound like nothing."

He sighed. "Look, I know there's something going on with you. I've known you for years now and you were never the one to just up and leave for a mission. You always took up missions that at the very least gave you the time of a week before leaving. So there's definitely something you're hiding."

Y/n straightened, looking away.

Herb was not the type of person to be serious. In the twenty years she had known him, since that first day when she had walked into class and befriended Cardan, and sat next to Herb, the male had never spoken a word if it was not meant to make someone laugh.

He was like that, Herb. He cared for people around him, and because he never seemed sad or serious, y/n had just assumed he was a little dumb.

She realised now how foolish it was.

"What are you trying to say Herb?"

"Just that I figured it has something to do with the High king, and if you ever need someone to talk to, I'll be there."

There was something indecipherable in his eyes as he spoke, the way he refused to break eye contact and the way he spoke so confidently, no traces of humour to be found in his soft, deep voice that sent chills down Y/n's back.

Y/n gave a curt nod, turning her eyes to stare a hole into the cheap wood of the table they had settled at.

Y/n could tell Herb still studied her, and it was another moment of heavy silence before he spoke up, his normal self back.

"So, have you heard of the toad that ate the horse?"

•○🌑○•

Y/n knew her suspicions were right when she stumbled into a raging revel in the camp after a day of wasting her time, everyone gathered around the huge fire in the middle, singing bawdy songs as Cardan looked over them like a pleased cat.

She had not wanted to return to the camp after her visiting the tavern, so she had told Herb to go by himself. He, of course, had decided to stay with her and laze about the small town.

"What is going on here?"

Cardan's eyes flew to where Y/n stood, glaring at them all as Herb stood at her back.

Cardan grinned, the smile Y/n had been in love with.

"We are celebrating!" One of the soldiers- clearly drunk- called out, giggling.

Y/n glared at him, then at Cardan.

His smile faltered, then slowly fell off when Y/n did not smile back.

Y/n stared at him a moment longer, letting him know that she was not pleased, then turned, heading into her tent.

She was so over today.

Tired, sleep claimed her the moment her head hit the hard mattress, and she slept deeper than she ever had, nothing able to wake her.

Not the sound of the night birds, not the sound of the soldiers screaming their hearts out outside, not the loud crash when one of them fell into her tent as he tried to navigate his way to his tent.

Nothing woke her up, except for the sudden hand that covered her mouth in the dark of the middle of the night.

•○🌑○•

Cardan Greenbriar Taglist: @kennedy-brooke @hnyclover @minnieoo @sidrapotter @123345566 @mp-littlebit @tele86 @riddlesb1tch @bubybubsters

Taglist: @dreamsarenicer @kennedy-brooke @123345566

[cozage]

The Daughter's Return Part 3

Chapter 25: Decisions

Start From Beginning | Next Chapter | Table of Contents | Read on AO3

Characters: female reader x Portgas D. Ace Word Count: 1.5k

“Do you want to go back?” Ace asked, studying your face. 

“Back where?” You focused on the newspaper in your hand, aware of his watchful eye. 

It had been a few days since Ace had woken up, but you still hadn’t made the call to Marco or the others that you all were safe. He had been making great progress since then-he could sit up almost completely on his own. His back was still heavily wrapped, but most of the tubes and wires were no longer connected to his body anymore. 

“Back home.” You winced at the word, which didn’t go unnoticed by Ace. His voice was softer when he spoke again. “To the Moby Dick.”

You stayed silent, staring intently at the paper in front of you. 

“We don’t have to,” he said, gently laying down on the bed and staring at the ceiling. He groaned at the contact between his back and the sheets, and your eyes reflexively darted over to him at the sound of pain. 

“Luffy’s not awake yet,” you reasoned. You didn’t want to have to make a decision yet. “We can’t leave him.”

“Luffy will be fine on his own.” Ace chewed on his lip, deep in thought. “If we leave before he wakes up, it’d be better.”

You scowled at that. “You can’t mean that. Luffy risked his life to save you! You can’t even stay around long enough to-”

“What if he didn’t save my life, though?” Ace’s dark eyes looked at you, waiting.

You let out a shaky breath. Certainly he wouldn’t be suggesting the same thing you had offered when he was unconscious. There’s no way Ace would want to leave…

“What if we were dead to the world?” His voice was so quiet, you could barely hear him. “We have the chance to start over. To leave everything-”

“What about the people we love? What about our family?” You argued. 

“My family is in this room.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He was right. It had been the three of you for so short of a time, and yet all you wanted was a quiet life with them. 

Still, you found yourself shaking your head in disagreement. “We can’t just leave them.”

“We can.” He reached out and grabbed your hand, giving it a light squeeze. “We will never have this chance again. We have to make a decision. Don’t think about anyone else. What do you want?”

You thought about how peaceful life had been in Wano, when you had established a life, a routine. You had made friends. You never had to look over your shoulder in the market. Nobody knew who you were or what you were capable of. Could you really have that again?

But your life had always been on the high seas. You had never grown bored of island life in Wano, but surely that was only because you had goals. If you were confined to a life on the ground with no end in sight, how would you feel in five years?

“I can’t do that to Marco,” you said. “He can’t lose everyone in one day. That’s not fair.”

“So we tell Marco,” Ace shrugged. “I think he would agree we’d be making the right choice. And he’s not exactly one for gossip.”

“Don’t you think we’d grow to hate it?”

Ace quirked up an eyebrow. “Do you think you would hate it?”

You wouldn’t. He knew that, and so did you. The thought of a place to call your own made you want to weep with joy. It sounded like something you could never achieve, and yet here it was, serving itself up on a silver platter. 

“I’ll go speak to Law.” You rose from your chair, striding to the door. “It sounds like he has a call to make.”

--

A few days later, you were wrapped in Marco’s tight embrace, sobbing into his shirt. 

He had come alone and boarded the metal ship without any weapons, like Law had demanded when he initiated contact via the transponder snail. And they had vanished beneath the waves before Law had led him to your and Ace’s room. 

He had been cussing up a storm and threatening to rip the ship apart before the door opened to reveal the two of you. And then his entire demeanor changed, and the two of you hadn’t stopped holding each other since. 

Ace cleared his throat gently, trying to get your all’s attention. “Marco-”

“How’s the baby?” Marco asked, redirecting his attention. “Is it alright after Marineford? You really shouldn’t have-!”

“He-” you gave him a knowing smile. “-is completely healthy, thanks to the doctor.” You gave another nod of thanks to Law, but Marco’s was more focused on the words you had spoken. 

“He? It’s a boy?”

You gave a tearful nod. “It’s a boy.”

Ace shifted in his bed. “Marco-”

Marco ignored him. “And nothing is wrong? I mean, you used your powers for at least-”

Law stepped in, handing him a folder. “You can read all about it, Phoenix. We’re kind of on a tight schedule here.”

Marco’s brow furrowed. “Schedule? Aren’t I here to pick you up?”

The pain on your face was enough to spread panic across his as he looked between Ace and you. But slowly, miraculously, the panic melted away.

“You’re disappearing, aren’t you?” Marco asked softly, looking at Ace. 

Ace gave a simple nod. 

“We need your help,” you interjected. “We want to offer our protection to an island that Pops protected. In exchange, we just want to live there peacefully. Surely we can make the World Government believe their assassination attempt was successful. They’ve been reporting as if it was.”

Marco nodded as he wiped the tears from his face. He could switch into strategy mode almost as fast as you could. “It shouldn’t be hard to convince the world that the two of you are dead. We’re having a burial for pops in a few days.” Marco glanced at you nervously, but you kept your face blank. 

“You’ll need to take some of our belongings,” you said. “For the graveside. Take anything from my room.”

“My hat,” Ace choked out. “You can take my hat. It’s too much of a distinguishing feature anyway.”

Marco shook his head. “I can’t-”

“You can,” you said sharply, trying to keep your bottom lip from trembling. “We only have one shot at this, Marco. I need to know that you can do this.”

Your uncle let out another shaky breath, but he nodded. “I can do this. For you to live a happy, peaceful life…I’d do anything.”

You handed him a sheet of paper with a list of names. “These people have vivre cards-”

“Most of the cards were destroyed during the war with the ships, but I’ll make sure they’re all disposed of.”

“Keep one,” you whispered softly, your voice threatening to betray you. “In case you need to find us.”

Marco gave a light laugh. “Kind of defeats the purpose of erasing yourselves, doesn’t it?”

But one look at your shining eyes stifled his laughter. “I’ll keep one,” he promised. “Go to the island of Ontau. They’ll accept you. You don’t have to tell them everything, just let them know you were one of Whitebeard’s underlings. It’s far enough in the Grand Line and it’s such a small island that the Marine’s won’t bother you, but it won’t be hard for you two to defend.”

“Marco-” you whispered.

“I have 50,000 berries on me, take them all to start over. It’s not a lot, but you can buy a small cabin and some things for the baby.”

“Marco,” you said a little louder. He was blabbering to prolong his time with you. 

“And make sure you all find a nice place near the ocean. You can fish and live off the land, or get a job in town. Don’t live so far away that you isolate yourself. You need to make friends, both of you-” he gave you a pointed look. “You can trust people there. They’ll have your back when you need help, but you need to ask. Don’t be so prideful that you-”

You lunged toward him, wrapping your arms tight around him. It would be the last time you would see him for a very long time…maybe ever. 

“I don’t want to leave you,” you cried into his chest. 

“You have to.” He brushed your hair out, softly patting the top of your head as if you were still six years old. “You’ll live a better life. That’s all any parent wants, you know.”

“I wouldn’t be who I am without you.”

“You wouldn’t,” he agreed. “But now you can figure out who you are without me.”

You nodded into his chest, but you kept your arms locked around his torso. You needed to remember everything about him. Because if this was the last time…

“Look after each other, okay?” He said. You gave another nod. 

“I swear it,” Ace’s voice came from behind you, and you felt his hand on your shoulder.

You gave Marco one last squeeze and finally broke away from him.

“One last thing,” Marco said, his hand enveloping in blue flames. “Let’s see how much I can heal those pesky burns, Ace.”

Tag list! @taeyoge @teiza @tojislawyer @trafalgardnami @bloopbopsblog @dancingnewcat @dxestyi @flooofity @nyxthedragon01 @deadsnothere @h-rhodes1598  @morgyyyyyyy @trafalgardvivi  @fiestynatureweeb @frogpogjoghurt @beepboopcowboy @ms-portgas @luvyallbabes @appalost @zuchkaa @saybeyonce @stray-npc @kitsunechan707 @theyluvmesblog @heartysworld @aira-needs-sleep  @mothmomjay @ophelias-flowerss @aqualein @sehyojae @fanficwriter5 @forgotten-blues @amberash05 @firefistnoct @depressed-but-make-it-cute @stuckinthewrongworld@lizpoir

[maaikeatthefullmoon]

This week I have mostly been reading...

May 20-26th, 2024

Hooray, I’ve managed it for the second week in a row! *If you have written/illustrated one of the works I've mentioned and I've not tagged you, please let me know!*

Completed works I've read this week:

Under Construction by @summerofspock Rated E – Honestly, this one can be summed up by the rather excellent tags ‘there was only one wifi’, ‘weaponized coziness’, ‘erotic woodchopping’ and ‘emotionally significant flannel’ (as in the shirt, not the miniature towel for cleaning one’s self…). It’s cosy, it’s Hallmarkian, it’s disaster puppy Crowley, and Aziraphale has a beard. 10/10 no notes.

Temporal Adjustment by @ukcalico & @vavoom-sorted-art Rated E – Written by Calico to accompany the ever-wonderful vavoom’s art, it’s a Post S1 Ritz scene which plays with time and some *very* spicy scenes. Three chapters of mild D/s content – mind the tags if you’re new to that world.

Sweet Dreams: A Companion Fic by @sixbynine-da & @vavoom-sorted-art Rated E – went down a vavoom rabbit hole, which is truly a delightful hole to go down…pun erm…not intended? But perhaps it was. Anyway. The tags initially had me hesitant to read this one (blood drinking, blood as lube) but it was a much more minor point than I was worried about and it ended up being a beautifully accepting, tender, loving story. I shed a couple of tears at this one.

You Can Stay At My Place, If You Like by AstroGirl Rated T – A lovely, touching piece about the moment A & C switch corporations/bodies and get to experience each other’s thoughts and feelings. Both POVs are written throughout the story, which adds a richness and emotion to it.

If It Looks Like A Duck, And Buzzes Like A Duck, It’s A Sex Toy by @quefish77 Rated M – Look at me bring the tone down after the last recommendation, but ho hum. This one had me weeping with laughter. Once again, the tags tell the story for me: ‘Look if you’re here for medical advice I got bad news for you’, If you don’t say WTF and laugh at least 3 times I’ve failed’, ‘Tags Are Fun’, ‘How many will you read before you roll your eyes and read the fic?, ‘Congratulations! You made it to the end of the tags’, ‘I lied there are more tags’. Yes…there were more tags. I laughed continuously throughout the entire fic, so I’m not sure if that counted as more than three times, and I read all the tags before I started reading, but I can guarantee this does not disappoint, but then none of Quefish’s work ever does if you’re looking for humour.

Aziraphale’s Diaries series by azzfell & @fellshish Rated T – This is a four-part series of humorous, fluffy diary entries written by A. 1. Empirical study on the principles of snake care – A tries to look after C as you would a snake…be ready to cringe and facepalm and giggle 2. Experiments of an angel who has read entirely too much fanfic – A finds fanfic. Tries some of what he’s read on C. Yikes. 3. How to be a demon: a brief history of the Arrangement – I can’t describe it any better than the authors’ description: “The Arrangement: the hard and challenging life of an angel who tries to make a demon do good deeds, and in turn has to perform temptations and wear devilishly sexy outfits.” 4. Adventures of a mystery shopper in the bookshop – this was by far my favourite. A puts C in charge of the bookshop…and then mystery shops. I laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

Lit by @fellshish Rated T – C decides to take a Uni course on literature (for absolutely no reason whatsoever…definitely not because he wants to impress a certain angel with his literary knowledge, nope, nuh uh)…but it turns out to be slightly different to what he was expecting…and they’re discussing Good Omens. Shit.

If You Touch Me You’ll Understand What Happiness Is by locketofyourhair Rated E – It’s no secret I like a bit of angst. You need only read what I write to get smacked round the side of the head with it. This one’s got it in spades. C confesses their love for A – repeatedly – through time. To keep them safe, A erases the memory of the confession each time. But A never forgets. Ouch. It does have a happy ending, though. Phew.

Lace And Gold Braid by @elsajeni Rated M – After rescuing A from the Bastille, C went to bed for 70 years. He never actually said he was sleeping. This fic goes into lots of delicious detail about A’s slutty, slutty outfit. The imagery is really well written and it has a podfic!

WIPs which have updated this week (which I devour as soon as I get the update!)

There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out by @phoen1xr0se Rated M - A is a researcher (puffins!), C is a lighthouse keeper on the island where A has run away to to escape his problems and do his research. The author has recently spent a week studying puffins - which is the ultimate dedication, if you ask me. Ch 9/26 posted this week

Find The Light by @klikandtuna Rated E - Headmaster A and Rockstar C. The story teases out a fraught history between them whilst keeping a tension between them in the modern day. Ch 6/? posted this week.

Terminus by @emotional-support-demon-crowley Rated T - Astronaut A is guided back to Earth by controller C after 92 years in space. There are many difficulties both of them have to face and they develop an amazing rapport. Ch 16/17 posted this week.

Oddity by @tsyvia48 Rated E - Actor C is contracted by (useless) Gabriel to guest curate an exhibition at the museum where A works. After getting off on the wrong foot, can they work together to pull off this show? Ch 23/26 posted this week (note increased chapter count!)

Under The Summer Stars by @pannotbread Rated E - This wonderful fic has taught me more about physics than school ever did (mostly because I never did any physics, but...well). A & C have to share their time at an observatory because there is Only One Telescope. Not only will you learn about astrophysics, astrobiology, and astroecology, you'll also read some of the most poetically, beautifully written masturbation scenes I've ever seen. *ahem* Ch 7/13 posted this week.

Exodus2 by @tismrot Rated E – Human AU set in a dystopian future. The summary says it best, really: Ezra studies programming at the University of ha-Gan. He’s as determined as he is damaged, as fastidious as he is precise, and likes to believe he'll stop at nothing to achieve his goals. His beliefs are challenged when a new student appears late to the first Ethics module lecture - and his life is changed forever. It's the future, it's dystopian, it's cyber and it's punk. It's political, grimy and slick with tears, lube and chemical snot. TW: Sex, drugs, trauma. Ch 28/35 posted this week.

Free by well, me: imposterssyndrome Rated E - A & C meet (again?) in an acute mental health ward after both having had mental health crises. A runs a bookshop but is very much under his parents' control. C has been homeless since childhood and has struggled his entire life. They do not trust each other when they first meet, but feel strangely drawn to one another all the same. Where will this lead them? This is a passion piece for me. There is a lot of lived experience in it, and extensive research from both professionals and peers. It has been a real journey for me to write it, and as I'm coming closer to the end it's becoming very emotional for me. Ch 45/? posted this week

Want more recommendations? This is last week's list.

[theship-thewalrus]

the third time's the charm {1/3}

ser harwin strong x fem!reader

twice you have tried to confess your love to ser harwin, you could only hope the third time's the charm

word count: 853 reading time: around 5 minutes warnings: mentions near-death experience part 2 part 3

1st attempt

Moving through the rushing bodies of the many knights and squires that have gathered on the ground near the tournament. The dress you had decided to wear flows just above the grassy ground that many erected their tents upon. Clutching the leather-bound book close to your chest, you tried to weave through the people without bringing too much attention to yourself. Rhaenyra asked you to bring her a certain book as she awaited the jousting to begin. The young princess's mind was hard to keep on track of at times, always needing something to stimulate her brain. As her handmaiden, it was your duty and honour to aid in her every whim and want.

As you move around you began praying a horse does not crush you or a stray swing of the sword cuts you, knowing how dangerous such a large mass of people can be. The sound of clunking armour and the horses was overpowering. Many squires run back and forth from various tents and weapon racks, just like you addressing their knight's every need. Head cast downwards and eyes trained to the ground you moved swiftly hoping to get back in one peace. Yet in this position, you could not see everything nearby, but you were able to study each blade of grass you passed. You failed to notice the cries of worry and anger, the loud neighs of a horse and its hooves bounding across the ground. Only registering something was wrong, until it was far too late to do anything about it, only being able to pray your impending death was swift and the Gods show you a sliver or mercy. But a hand reached out from the crowd, pulling your body into them and away from the charging horse. Your heart was pounding in your throat and everything sounded so far away yet so close, body shaking uncontrollably from all the adrenaline in your system.

"Are you alright, my lady?" The voice of Ser Harwin Strong filled your ears, a man you found yourself talking with often. The man was always kind to you, at times even going as far as helping obtain whatever Rhaenyra may desire at that moment. Despite trying your best to hide the clear bias you had towards the man, it was clear as day to many people. "...y-yes, thank you." came your shaky reply and small but fake smile, something he had seen right through. Though it was clear to even a blind man that you were not fine, the exact opposite instead. Your mind was still racing at a million miles an hour at what could have happened if Harwin had not been there. Would anyone care that a simple handmaiden lost her life due to a rogue horse? Would people weep for your death or simply move on. Would Rhaenyra even care or would she recruit another handmaiden before your body was even cold?

"You must keep your head up when walking around. Why are you walking around here anyhow?" His soft, but firm voice pulled you from your thoughts and back into reality. Only now did you notice how close the pair of you were, his hands trapping you close to him, keeping you both out of the way of the various other people moving around the area. The book still clutched tightly in your hands was the only barrier between both of you, something you were almost upset about. "Rhaenyra wanted this book, you know how easily she bores" At your words, you tap the top of the book against his broad chest softly and a much more natural smile appears on your face, a similar one mirroring his own face.

"I see, well it seems you need an escort. To ensure no other near-death experiences befall you." Despite rolling your eyes at his words you nod your head, wanting to spend just a few more moments with him. Linking his arm with yours Harwin leads the way, effortlessly walking through the groups of people. People seemed to even move out of the way of the large man, knowing if they did not they would simply be shoved aside. A part of you wanted to speak, to thank him once again for helping you and confessing your feelings for him. Clearly, he felt the same, why would he rush to save you if he didn't? But as a knight, it is his sworn duty to protect those who can not protect themselves. He would have saved anyone, not just you. What a foolish idea thinking it was all about you.

But it seemed just as quickly as your walk began it had ended, not leaving you enough time to make up your mind on what to do before the small trip ended. "I thank you, Ser Harwin. I doubt I would've been able to make it back without some help." You bow your head slightly, a smile on your face and a light pink dusted on your cheeks. In return, he bowed slightly to you as well, a grin on his face "It was my pleasure, my lady."

[the-lonelybarricade]

A Blaze in the Dark - (4/8)

Chapter Title: In From the Snow

Summary: On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, Elain uses a spell to meet her true love in her dreams.

A contribution to @elucienweekofficial Day 4: Courtiers.

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist・Previous Chapter

-

Elain had never struggled to sit comfortably in silence.

Silence had been expected of her since the moment she was born, when her mother would hand Elain and her sisters off to a nursemaid the moment they began to weep. Elain had grown up watching her father urge Nesta and Feyre out of his study when they couldn’t keep still, and she had learned that the trick to never being pushed away was to keep silent.

There was a weapon to silence. Unlike her outspoken sisters, Elain often traded speaking her mind for observing the world around her. It was easy to slip by unnoticed, putting people at ease in her quiet and unassuming nature while she pilfered their words and countenance for the truth they did not know they were revealing.

If you are going to speak, her mother used to say, then your words must not be empty.

Even then, there were rules to obey. Speak with purpose, but never too clever, never too bold. So Elain watched and observed and weighed every word to ensure it was dignified and poised. It was a meticulous effort, being perfect. Use wit and humor to be interesting, but not so much that she be deemed unserious. So Elain listened and observed so that she could disguise every word beneath the thin veneer of perfection.

She did not mind the silence, except that she found herself struggling to leverage it to her advantage when there was nothing to be won. No one to impress besides her indignant husband, who seemed intent on prolonging the silence as long as possible. It sat unbroken for hours, past hills and valleys and the endless seas of bluebells. It was only towards the end of the trip, when the sun was hanging low on the horizon, that it fractured from Elain’s lips in the shape of a startled, “Oh.”

Lucien raised his head, as if drawn from a daze. He blinked, eyes going first to Elain, then following her line of sight out the carriage window. A small laugh escaped him, before he rapped his knuckles against the wall that separated them from the driver. Elain heard the footman call out, and soon the steady clop of hooves slowed.

The carriage jerked to a stop.

“Go on,” Lucien said, nodding towards the carriage door.

Elain set her hand towards the bronze latch, then paused. Retreated. “Will it be cold?”

“Yes.”

“Will I like it?”

“Only you can decide that, Elain.”

“Do you like it?”

Rather than answer, Lucien began unfastening the buttons of his jacket, beginning to strip himself to his burgundy waistcoat and undershirt.

Elain, feeling a bit delirious, asked, “Do you intend to coax me from the carriage by threat of undressing?”

He only smiled. “Would it work?”

She might very well leave if only to escape answering that question truthfully. “At present, I’m not sure which unnerves me more.”

“My pride is relieved,” he said dryly. Once his fingers pushed the final button free, he slid the fabric gracefully off his arms and held it out to her in offering. “It will be cold,” he said. “You will be grateful to have this.”

Elain accepted it with exaggerated reluctance. It was heavy, still warm from his back.

“Will I be going alone, then?”

The question was partly a means of stalling and partly because she was too proud to ask him directly if he could come with her. But she wanted him to.

All he said was, “Put on my jacket.”

His eyes said the rest. They watched her, gold and russet burning with surprising authority. No more questions.

That tone of voice. It was command, laced with something warmer. Something that felt like drinking a glass of the amber liquid her father kept in his study. She felt the prickling heat on the back of her tongue, slowly slipping down. She pushed one arm through his jacket, then the next as a new warmth was spread over her. She was beginning to feel a bit woozy, not helped by the strong scent of the jacket and the overwhelming urge to tuck her face closer for a whiff.

“Good girl,” he said.

And she realized what that tone of voice reminded her of.

Open your mouth.

Elain was grateful for the way her breath hitched—smothering whatever embarrassing sound built in her throat. The metal latch bit into her skin by how hastily she grabbed it to shove the carriage door open, because suddenly what waited for her outside was much more inviting than examining why those two words evoke such an intense physical reaction when they came from someone other than her true love.

A cool breeze brushed against her flushed cheeks. Good, Elain thought, swallowing every freezing breath in large, greedy mouthfuls. She flexed her fingers, marveling at the strange bite of the air, and how quickly it was alleviating her racing pulse.

Elain pressed her foot tentatively to the carriage step, and her improper thoughts were quickly chased away by the anxieties of what awaited her. She was certainly wearing the wrong footwear, but any clothes that had been brought in preparation for the Eastern Kingdom were in the trunk at the back of the carriage. Really, how bad could it be if they were just stopping to look?

On the next clouded breath, Elain pretended that she was exhaling the timid voice inside saying: what if it doesn’t live up to your expectations?

Then she jumped from the carriage.

The snow crunched underfoot. Her mouth parted open in surprise. She hadn’t been expecting a noise. In her mind, she’d always imagined winter as a silent assassin. The frost brought death to flowers and trees and sometimes the living creatures that could not survive its harsh conditions. It was a brutal, unforgiving force of nature.

What Elain didn’t know was that the snow banks glistened in the low-hanging sunlight, reflecting the gold and pink of the sky above it. There were no chittering birds, no chirps of crickets or cicadas.

The world around them was entirely undisturbed. Tranquil, yet stagnant.

“What do you think?”

Lucien stepped down from the carriage, irritatingly dashing in his fitted waistcoat—which cut to his body tightly enough that she could mark the incline of his chest, how he was slightly slimmer at the waist. A playful wind danced against the billowing sleeves of his undershirt, which he was stretching towards Elain to offer his hand. She placed her fingers atop his, though she hadn’t the slightest idea why they needed to be holding hands.

“It’s so…” she glanced back over the landscape, surveying it for a word that could describe all she was feeling. “Unsettling.”

“How so?”

Elain tightened her hand on his as she took a careful step away from the carriage. He followed, clearly having no direction in mind with which to lead her, making the offer of his hand all the more curious.

“Everything is dead,” she said. “For miles and miles there is only cold, silent snow.”

“That is unsettling, I suppose,” he conceded.

“Yes, but that I was not finished.”

“Oh?”

Another step, further and further from the carriage she tugged him, where the snow became deeper, and she had to lift her skirts to venture forward. Already, she could feel the cold seeping through her stockings.

“There is no sound,” she said, “but the wind. And there is no soul around, but for you and I. There is no one here to observe us, no expectations to cater to but our own. I am left to confront my own existence.”

Lucien made a small sound of understanding. His fingers tightened. “Harrowing, indeed, one’s own existence.”

It was said like a joke, but she didn’t laugh.

“Do you ever think…” Elain trailed off. Would he even understand? She didn’t want to reveal something vulnerable only for it to be written off as ridiculous.

He squeezed her hand. “Go on.”

“It’s all so strict. The things we cannot say or do. There are so many words inside of me that have been smothered. Do you ever think that we spend so long curating these facades, that we forget ourselves entirely?” Elain scraped her eyes over the barren snow. “What I mean to say is, I scarcely know who I am when there aren’t others around to perform for.”

Wind picked up, gentle in speed but vicious in the chill it wrought against her exposed skin. Elain had never been so aware of her body before—how it tingled with the strangest burning sensation, one that she had always associated with heat. How curious, that the cold could burn.

Lucien, despite having surrendered his jacket, seemed unaffected by the weather. His free hand didn’t curl the same way hers did, attempting to protect her numbed fingers. Posture unguarded, he seemed to be welcoming the snow as he stared at her quizzically.

Having suffered in silence long enough, Elain said, “If you don’t agree—”

“I do agree,” he said. “I fear I know exactly what you mean.”

Oh. Voice soft, she asked, “Then why do you seem so puzzled?”

“I can’t figure out why I would be excluded.”

“From what?”

“The people you need to perform for.”

For a moment, Elain felt equally puzzled. That sentiment hadn’t been intentional, but… she supposed that was what she implied.

Lucien said, “I can’t decide if I should be flattered or offended. Is it because you feel comfortable with me, or because you find my opinion so detestable that you don’t care what I think?”

Either case seemed absurd, considering they’d only met that morning. And yet even from the first moment she saw him, before she had known he was Lucien Vanserra, she had felt strangely and uncommonly comfortable speaking her mind with him.

“You are my husband,” Elain said, as if that were a straightforward answer.

His lips quirked. “Detestable, then.”

“No,” Elain said, finding that his expression was making her feel lighter. “You are my husband, which means that it could be either, depending on the time of day.”

“What about now, then?”

She pursed her lips, turning away from the blushing horizon to marvel at Lucien. He was remarkably unflushed from the cold, but the pink and gold of the setting sun rested across his cheekbones as if nature were blushing for him. He was watching her with an attention Elain was not unaccustomed to. But there was a warmth to it, a gentle curiosity that didn’t make her feel overly self-aware. Instead, it made her feel… seen.

“Comfortable,” she said.

Lucien smiled, bright as the snow at their feet. He used their joined hands to tug her closer and, as if it were a dance, he raised his arm over her head to let the momentum spin her forward. The fabric of her dress was becoming heavier, sodden from the snow, but even so it twirled with the motion, dusting up the loose powder on the surface.

He caught her gracefully as she came out of the spin, dipping her so low that the tips of her hair scraped against the snow. There was laughter in his voice as he asked, “And now?”

“Detestable,” she said. With the way she was grinning, it was not a convincing assessment.

Lucien leaned closer. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

A challenge flickered in his eyes. “Do you want to see how destable I can be, Elain?”

Her good sense told her not to indulge. But Elain was feeling bold and lightheaded and wanted to see just how deep that mischief lay beneath the surface.

“Yes,” she said again.

With a cruel smile, Lucien dropped his hands. Elain barely had time to register what had happened before she plunged into the deep snow. She sunk through the surface, cold powder rising over and around her as she gasped, flickering belatedly between her surprise and anger.

Lucien peered over at her. He was smirking. “What do you think of the snow?”

It was much less pleasant to be encased in it, she thought agitatedly. Elain kicked out her legs, uncertain how to rise without getting her hands any colder. Lucien watched her struggle whilst looking far too proud of himself, and what was worse is that he seemed to find the situation more amusing the longer it went on.

“Do you need help?” He asked.

With a shriek, Elain grabbed at a handful of snow and lashed it towards him.

He chuckled. “That won’t persuade me to help you.”

Taking pity on her, he leaned over to extend a hand. She grabbed it. Then, with all the ferocity she could muster, she used her grip to tug him off balance. Lucien fell forward—nearly on top of her, if it weren’t for his hands quickly shooting to catch himself, braced on either side of her head. His hair fell into her face, a tangle of red silk that had her spluttering, thrashing her face inelegantly as she attempted to get it out of her mouth.

Lucien was too busy laughing to be any help. Elain was forced to reach up, collecting Lucien’s hair in a fist so that she could get it out of her face and, in doing so, peer directly up into Lucien’s. He was much too close. It was like being back on the altar, except now she could see the clouds of their breath tangle together.

Had he been breathing this quickly then, too? Or was that the adrenaline from falling?

“You know,” Lucien said. He was studying her face, attention flicking from her eyes to her cheeks. To her mouth. “Typically a wife reserves this sort of behavior for the bedroom. And I took you for such a modest lady, too.”

The joke sobered any thought she had of pressing their mouths together. Their position was certainly… compromising.

Elain flushed. “Praytell what opportunity I’d have for such behavior? From my understanding, you and I will be sleeping in separate rooms.”

The heat in Lucien’s expression died, too. He reached up to pry her hands out of his hair. “Cauldron,” he swore once his hands closed over her fingers. “You’re freezing.”

“You dropped me in snow!”

“An oversight,” he said, withdrawing easily from their position. This time when he offered his hand, Elain allowed him to pull her to her feet. “Come, let’s get you out of that dress before you catch a cold.”

She hesitated, looking down at the ruined hem of her skirt. Then back to Lucien. “You don’t mean…”

“Mother-forsake-me, of course I don’t mean now, Elain. Once you’re in the privacy of your own room. We’re nearly to the inn, we can make haste.”

Indeed, Lucien was already rushing towards the carriage, hardly a thought of the wife who had to bundle her wet skirts in her arms to keep up. She couldn’t help feeling that he’d emphasized your own room on purpose. It was their wedding night, and they would be staying in separate rooms, and she of course had known this.

Yet the reminder felt raw. Cold, somehow—like the snow and her limbs and Lucien’s changed demeanor.

He opened the carriage door for her, at least, offering a hand to help her climb inside. But he closed it forcefully enough that she jumped. Then he sighed.

“I’m sorry.”

Elain did her best to square her shoulders—a difficult task, now that her body had begun shivering. “About which part?”

“Dropping you in the snow,” he said. “I was being…”

Playful. She’d like it, until he’d withdrawn from her.

“Unkind.”

She snorted, turning her head towards the window to watch as the valleys of snow passed by. “I’ve heard a rumor that Prince Lucien possesses kindness in short supply.”

“A pity for his wife,” he agreed with a wry smile. “I’ve heard she is extraordinarily kind, and in future I will strive to reflect her kindness back on her.”

Until he proved it, it was all talk. Elain said nothing. She was not prepared to dignify his behavior with forgiveness just yet. Not when she was still trembling, and no amount of wrapping her arms around herself was helpful. The air in the carriage might have been warmer, but the cold still clung to her wet clothes.

“The inn is close by,” Lucien said. “But I can help warm you up, while you wait.”

Elain offered him a flat look.

“Oh, stop.” He wrinkled his nose. “Not like that.”

He stretched his hand toward her, flexing his fingers expectantly. Elain stared for a moment, before she cautiously placed her hand in his. Lucien shut his eyes. It’s what drew her attention to his face—initially because she found it odd, then because she realized she had an opportunity to survey him without triggering that smug, infuriating smile.

In its absence, she could freely admit that he was beautiful. Strong jaw and high cheekbones, Elain searched his face for any sign of King Beron—because surely, if she could look into Lucien’s face and see a glimpse of his father, that would be enough to temper the strange, fluttering feeling that gripped her each time she looked at him. But, fortunately or unfortunately, he was unique in his beauty.

His lips parted open, as though in concentration, and it was only then Elain actually paid any attention to what he was doing. His hand, wrapped around hers, was becoming warmer.

Elain stiffened. “What are you doing?”

“Warming you up.”

“How?”

“Magic.” She yanked her hand away, holding it protectively to her chest. Lucien’s eyes were open, now—wide and confused. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” She echoed. “Magic is…”

Well, forbidden is what she wanted to say. But that wasn’t the truth anymore. That was her father’s rule and now that she was no longer in Archeron manor… she didn’t know what magic was, anymore.

“It comes at a cost,” she said, echoing the familiar refrain of Nesta and her governess.

“Yes,” Lucien said patiently. “I’m paying it.”

“What’s the cost?”

“Energy. I’m going to heat up your hands and take a nice, long nap afterwards.”

“That’s all?”

He looked bemused. “Yes, Elain, that’s all.”

Slowly, she placed her hand back in his. Magic. To think he used it so casually, like it was nothing at all. She didn’t know how much she could press him on the subject. Could she ask about the true love spell without arousing suspicion?

Lucien hummed as though in afterthought. “Though I suppose I should mention that a curse may fall on your firstborn child, but that shouldn’t be a problem considering—”

“That’s not funny,” she snapped.

She knew he was teasing, because he’d been smiling. Now, he was studying her, as though it were shocking to him that she would have such a severe reaction to something he’d said so lightly. Elain could practically see him trace over his words, connecting them with the stern lines of her frown.

He winced, finally, like his meaning caught up to him. “You’re right, lady. It was not funny, and I apologize. All I mean to do is help you.”

Elain pulled her hand away, folding it into her wet lap. “I think I’ve had enough of your help today, your highness.”

She told herself that though there was remorse in his expression, that didn’t mean he was owed her forgiveness. To speak so tactlessly about having children when he was the one denying them to her… Elain thought she at least owed him the silence he had paid her for the majority of the day, when she had acted insensitively.

“Very well,” Lucien said, bowing his head to her. He looked pained. “We’ll be at the inn shortly.”

-

Soon enough, Elain was welcomed by the sound of the carriage wheels rolling over loose stone. They slowed to a stop, the horses whinnying as the lulling clop of hooves finally quieted. Elain was so frozen in her dress that she wasn’t certain she could have moved quickly if she wanted to. Lucien had no such excuse, but he still seemed to hesitate for a moment before exiting the carriage.

Elain ignored his outstretched hand. She didn’t care if she looked graceless climbing out of the carriage—her stiff and soaking dress would mean she looked graceless, regardless. Nevermind that she was still wearing her husband’s jacket, which was equally wet and hardly keeping her warm, yet she couldn’t find it in herself to return it. She would keep it, if only to be spiteful.

“Ho there!” A man came rushing out of the inn, clutching a handheld lantern which he raised to cast them in better light. When he caught sight of Lucien, he scrambled into a bow, “Your highness.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, I request we make haste inside.” Lucien gestured to Elain. “The lady is freezing.”

“Certainly.” The man, who Elain presumed to be the innkeeper, fumbled at his breast pocket for a ring of keys before gesturing them inside. “Right this way.”

They followed him through a series of wood paneled hallways, then up a set of stairs. Lucien had to duck so as not to hit his head on the ceiling’s wooden beams. Elain, still cross, let herself smile at the idea that he might.

Her smile fell away when they stopped in front of one of the doors, and the innkeeper unlocked it for her. “This is your room, my lady. And his highness’s room is just down the hall.”

Elain glanced back at her husband, unsurprised but still disappointed.

“Enjoy your wedding night,” she said, frigidly, before walking into the bedroom and shutting the door.

Why not lock it, for good measure? It took more effort than usual, the key trembling in her fingers. Some warmth was returning to them, now, and she could feel each of them throb with their own tiny heartbeats. Maybe she would lock it later, once the footsteps faded. Elain rested her forehead against the door to listen, but all she could hear was her own heart splintering in her chest.

Alone. On her wedding night. It was a blessing, she assured herself, but that didn’t chase away the cold, lurching feeling of rejection. Maybe sitting in front of the hearth would.

She turned the key in the lock, listening to it click. The footman could deposit her trunk outside, or better yet, with Lucien. For now… for now she just had to get out of these Cauldron forsaken clothes. The ice leached all the way through, so Elain stripped herself bare before she settled atop the fur rug before the hearth.

The absence of the wet fabric was a relief. Whereas the absence of company… that still stung.

Elain angled her head towards the heap that had become of her dress and petticoats. She supposed she didn’t need to be alone. The innkeeper would likely be bringing dinner soon, but he could deposit it beside her trunk. She had no appetite in her state.

She wanted to pretend that it took her longer to consider it. That she waited there for hours deliberating over the morality of seeking the butterfly wings Nesta had given her. She wanted to have reservations, on her wedding night of all evenings, but it was horrifyingly easy to slip her hand into the pocket of her petticoat and withdraw the pouch of wings.

The only difficult part, really, was placing a bug’s wing in her mouth.

After that, it was only a matter of falling asleep. And waking to darkness.

Elain pressed a hand to the cool, silk sheets beneath her. A far cry from the fur rug she’d fallen asleep on. She wondered, briefly, where the dreams took her. Was it her old room from Archeron manor? Having never wandered further from the mattress, it was difficult to tell. But she didn’t think so. The feel of the bedding, the smell… it was different.

“You’re here?”

Thoughts of their location quickly abandoned, Elain scrambled to the edge of the bed, trying to peer in the direction of the voice.

“I’m here,” she said to the darkness.

“On your wedding night?”

The question caught her off guard. She faltered, uncertain how to answer.

“My apologies, lady, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I only mean to say… I suppose I’m just surprised you came. A-are you okay?”

Elain pressed her lips together. She knew what he thought happened, and she supposed she should assure him that her husband had not forced himself on her. He was, in fact, not the least bit the monster that she had expected him to be. Would that be consoling to her true love, or the opposite?

“It’s been a long day,” she said. It was honest.

“I’m sure it has been.”

His footsteps echoed as he tentatively walked towards the bed. She had the sense he made them louder for her sake, so that she was not startled by his approach.

“Is… Please tell me, is there anything I can do?”

Elain was certain that he was close enough now she could reach out and touch him. She recalled how warm his touch had been last night. And the cold still clung to her, even in sleep. Was he capable of soothing it?

“Could you just—hold me? Please?”

Though she had tried to maintain her composure, her voice cracked involuntarily on the please. And maybe the snow had turned her brittle, because that small crack was all that she needed to break. Elain pressed her hand to mouth, trying desperately to smother the sob building in her throat. She hadn’t wanted to come here to cry.

“Of course I can.” He sounded distressed. By her voice, or something else? “I’m going to touch you now. Is that okay?”

Elain nodded, but of course he didn’t see.

“Sweetheart, please. You need to tell me ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

Answering him meant removing her hand from her mouth. She didn’t want to speak—she didn’t trust her voice not to crumble. If she spoke, then the tears would surely come, and she wanted to fight them off as long as possible.

“In here, my love, you only get touched on your terms. If you can’t speak, why don’t you grab my hand? I’m standing right in front of you.”

With her free hand, Elain reached blindly into the dark. It didn’t take long to find his waiting hand—warm, like she remembered. Gentle.

“Good,” he said. “Now, do you want me to get on the bed with you? Squeeze once if you do, twice if not.”

She was already feeling calmer just from the way he was speaking to her. In all of her bouts of emotion over the years, no one had ever braced them with such patience. Such… kindness. Elain lowered her hand from her mouth. Her voice crackled as she said, “I’d like for you to get on the bed.”

“Ah, she found her voice. I’m glad.” The bed shifted slightly beneath his weight. “And if you ever feel like you can’t speak while we’re in here, just remember: one squeeze for yes, two for no.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for. Do you want to lie down together?”

She searched the question for any underlying meaning. It had been nice when he’d touched her yesterday—more than—but if that was what he was offering, she wasn’t certain that was something she wanted. Not tonight.

It seemed like he responded best to honesty. “I don’t want to… to…”

“Of course not,” he said. “I won’t touch you anywhere unless you explicitly ask me to.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

He moved himself further onto the bed. She could feel the weight shift towards the middle, where he’d presumably stretched himself out, head against the pillows as if they would be going to sleep.

“Come here,” he murmured.

It was a tedious game not to accidentally nudge him somewhere delicate as she crawled towards him, feeling ahead with her hands. She gently patted his stomach, then his chest. It felt oddly catlike, pawing her way to lay down, though she could only hope she had half the grace of a feline as she laid herself down beside her true love, head resting against his steady heart.

“There,” he said. His arm came around her shoulders and he began rubbing slow circles against her back. “We can stay like this as long as you want.”

“Forever?”

It was a suggestion filled with melancholy, since they both knew that regardless of any promises made here, in the morning they would have no choice but to be ripped from each other all over again.

“Forever,” he said back.

Because what was a lie, when the truth would only break their hearts? And what was forever, when between the measly hours of dawn and dusk, she could listen to her true love’s heart beat in time with her own? Forever was overrated, anyhow.

[deathlysilent13]

DPxDC Fic Snippet: Clockwork Sets Up a Meeting

(So, I can't call this one what I want to because that would be telling af, so for now it'll stay a premonition via Clockwork. What happens after this? WHO KNOWS! lol)

Standing in this particular location is absolutely not on the list of things Danny wanted to do today. He levels the fifth glare of the hour at the calm, vaguely smug ghost floating next to him, purple cloak impeccable as always. They bypass the obvious rooms, going lower and lower down staircases that appear to simply pop into being as needed. Danny's so lost at this point he doesn't dare lose sight of Clockwork.

They come to a massive metal door. Bolts are dotted like sprinkles across it, and thicker beams cross diagonally across the whole thing in a strangely plaid adjacent pattern. There's two keyholes, one on each door, and a mounted metal head of some creature or other above each slot. This is definitely a door designed not to move.

Clockwork pulls two keys out of nowhere and one at a time sets each into it's hole and twists. The hum of the released locking mechanisms seems as complex as the door itself, but eventually it swings open. Danny expected a lot of things. A torture chamber. Mountains of gold like that cave in the beginning of Aladdin. An army waiting for Pariah Dark to wake and send them forth. A weapon's cache that would make Skulker and Danny's dad both weep with delight.

He was partially right. One wall does actually have piles of treasure looking like a pirate's haul. Youngblood can never know. But there's a wall of somewhat haphazard bookshelves filled with leather bound tomes. Words are etched into the spines in what Danny can only call holographic ectoplasm green. It makes him vaguely nauseous. Piles of scrolls, files, and objects surround these bookcases, all labeled in some form or another.

Danny follows Clockwork to this wall, skimming the titles. The names. There are names on these tomes. "Clockwork, what is this?" he asks softly, voice echoing.

The Master of Time doesn't look away. "These are the souls contractually bound to the King," the old ghost answers gently. "All are yours now. Some belong to Pariah by name, some simply to the King. By defeating him in single combat, your acceptance of your right to the crown means all things once belonging to him, even to his name specifically, are now your domain."

He pulls a tome down as he speaks, handing the book to Danny. Danny looks down at the cover, embossed square swirls lining the edge all the way around. In the middle, almost a window is embossed, the frame a thin line tracing the outermost edges of each of eight rectangles, four on top and four below. Each rectangle looks like shattered glass, the lines somehow both delicate and chaotic.

Clockwork lets him study the design in silence. "There is a braided leather bracelet embedded into the inside front cover," the old ghost says softly. "It was the binding for this contract, an odd one to be sure. Wear it, and never remove it." He says nothing further.

Danny furrows his brows, but opens the cover and pulls the bracelet from where it rests and slips it on dutifully. "What will it do?" he asks, curious. He doesn't want to read the tome, most are done in the language of demons and he hates looking at it.

Clockwork merely gives him that weird, knowing, vaguely constipated smile. "All things in time, dear Kingling," is his answer, and he leaves before Danny can say anything further. He sets the tome down and scrambles to catch up lest he be well and truly lost, only barely registering how the doors automatically close and lock behind him. He knows he's not getting anything else out of the old ghost, so he asks him slightly more general questions about the other tomes and some of the other things within the vault instead. It occupies their path out of the castle, and Clockwork bids him farewell before disappearing into a swirling blue portal, dramatic as ever.

[inarretable]

Karitza’s conflict with other jedi at the Academy was likely centered around her belief in leveraging the dark side for things like healing. In which one can drain life from another to heal someone else. And the fact that she is not against leveraging the dark side to enhance one's power during battle. She was leaning a bit toward the darker side of gray before the fall.

[accidentalbi]

pinterest quotes that make me feel an indescribable itch in my brain

" Weird hill to die on, but at least you're dead. "

" In a fight, they're lethal. Around each other, they melt. "

" Two broken souls scarred with the wounds from their demons, playing a dangerous game of trust and love. "

" Have you ever seen the hell in someone's eyes and loved it anyway? "

" Breathe through the fear and walk through the fire. "

" I sat and sat. Something was wrong inside me. I felt it inside my stomach and I didn't know what to do. So I laid down on the floor. "

" I aim to be lionhearted, but my hands still shake and my voice isn't quite loud enough. "

" Every angel is terrifying. "

" I'm extremely devout, but nobody can figure out what I'm worshipping. "

" Evolution was a mistake. I want fangs. "

" The eighth deadly sin is actually being mean to me, but they keep that one a secret. "

" My house is haunted because I live here. "

" She has angel eyes, the devil's grin, and tattered wings. "

" I don't study, I consult the lore. "

" If I cannot bend Heaven, I will raise Hell. "

" Your movements are so cryptic and wraith-like. You've got, like, a precise and deadly energy. You seem unkillable. "

" The horrors may be beyond your comprehension, but I comprehend them perfectly. "

" This man can't be fixed. I can fuck him, though. Maybe that will calm him down. "

" Finally the demon is down and looking peaceful. "

" I'll fuck you eventually, relax. Let me be funny first. "

" I want him broken. I want him resentful and tired. I want him uncontrollable with anger and vengeance. I want him irreversibly unhinged. "

" Oldest daughters are some of the toughest men you'll ever meet. "

" Throw me to the wolves and I'll come back leading the pack. "

" I know she is unhinged, responsible for multiple atrocities, and a danger to herself and others. But have you ever considered that she is tiny, and sad, and I love her? "

" Hold the fuck up. I'm the fuck up. Hold me. "

" I wasn't born to be soft and quiet. I was born to make the world shake at my fingertips. "

" You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature. "

" Is this what I get for loving a god? "

" You're a little tragedy, aren't you? "

" You and I both know this ends in blood. "

" They made you into a weapon and told you to find peace. "

" Nobody smart plays fair. "

" Anything you can do, I can do bleeding. "

" You want battle? I'll give you war. "

" I saw magic in his eyes. Dirty, dark, beautiful magic. "

" You're a weapon, and weapons don't weep. "

" I fear no evil. The shadow is mine, and so is the valley. "

" What doesn't kill me better run. "

" I might be a sinner and I might be a saint. "

" Not a god's chosen, but a god's cursed. "

" Sir, that's my emotional support knife collection. "

" What, pray tell, the fuck. "

" We can simultaneously be human and monster. Both of those possibilities are in all of us. "

" Looking half a corpse and half a god. "

" Be the reason why the lights flicker when you enter a room. "

" I don't take orders. I barely take suggestions. "

" The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me. "

" I like storms. They let me know that even the sky screams sometimes. "

" Are you praying again? How raw are your knees? How often will you repent? "

" The hands that cradled your face and tilted it upwards to kiss your forehead are soaked in unfathomable quantities of blood. "

" Loyal to few, ruled by none. "

" If this is to end in fire, then we will all burn together. "

" Am I a boy? Am I a girl? It doesn't matter. I'm going to burn your house down. "

" I hate when people ask me what sign I am. Bitch, I'm a sign from god, start running. "

" His grin was always halfway a smile and halfway a threat. "

" The fastest way to a man's heart is by tearing a hole through his ribcage. "

" Crooked grins, sly hands, and one dangerous voice. "

" True evil is, above all things, seductive. "

" Bite the vampire first to establish dominance. "

" My immense self-hatred vs my delusional god complex. "

" I'm not in danger. I'm the danger. "

" Bare those teeth and snarl, baby. "

" This howl… isn't from a dog. "

" You want to play dirty? Fine. Let's play dirty. "

" Your hands are scarred from murder and yet I trust them completely. "

" You got a taste for blood when you were licking your own wounds. "

" Rome wasn't built in a day. But it burned in one. "

" I like to have powerful enemies. Makes me feel important. "

" How many centuries deep is your wound? "

" Just like the moon, half of my heart will always love the dark. "

" I don't think you're truly mean. You have sad eyes. "

" It is not Hell if you like the way it burns. "

" The sun watches what I do, but the moon knows all my secrets. "

" Yes, it's dangerous. That's why it's fun. "

" Fuck therapy, I'm becoming a knight. "

" Only a monster can deal with another monster. "

" Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word. "

" I could set this world on fire and call it rain. "

" I swing both ways. Violently. With a bat. Come get some, motherfuckers. "

" I suck at apologies, so unfuck you… or whatever. "

" Ah, there he is. That motherfucker. "

" I love you is a death sentence in my mouth. "

" It scares me sometimes, the emptiness I see in my eyes. "

" You walk a fine line between beautifully macabre and uncharacteristically psychotic. "

" He smelled of strawberries and depression. "

" Let's cause a little trouble. "

" Keep your head high and your middle finger higher. "

" Get in, loser, we're living past the end of our myth. "

" We sin as devils, we love as angels. "

" Like it's my fault my love language is acts of service and all I know how to do is kill. "

" I have learned that pleasing everyone is impossible, but pissing everyone off is easy and funny as hell. "

" Liking angels in an atheist kinda way. They're just pigeons to me. "

" Why the fuck am I not a slightly ominous forest entity that you only see out of the corner of your eye on a foggy day? "

" Maybe we can find out what the hell your problem is over dinner sometime. "

" Cute first date ideas -- hand to hand combat. "

" Third base is me telling you about my father. "

" Honey, I… bought us matching swords. "

" Family isn't who you're born with. It's who you die for. "

" RIP to everyone killed by the gods for their hubris, but I'm different. And better. Maybe even better than the gods. "

" I'm not really a househusband or a housewife, I'm more like a house beast. I'm in your walls, causing mysteries and stealing your things. "

[unusual-raccoon]

@greeksorceress, @handsome-wise-strong

A little Jacelaena viking/seer thing:

She has foreseen his arrival in her dreams, each night for the past three nights. She heard the destruction he and his men had wrought beyond the safety of her chambers. She knows of the pile of household guard that lay barricaded against her door, struck down.

She does not search for a weapon, she merely clings to fistfuls of her skirts to keep her hands from trembling.

The door opens and she lowers her gaze, studies the blood spattered state of his boots as he strides into her rooms. He bears an axe on one hip, a shortsword in his hand, more crimson than iron.

There is a steady drip, drip, drip upon the floors.

Briefly, she thinks of her husband, she ponders if he yet draws breath.

She looks back at her nephews shoes.

He sheathes the sword within a scabbard upon his hip.

His steps are soft, measured, wrapped in doe hide and blood.

“Has he taken your tongue?” He asks, voice hoarse, deeper than the boy she recalled from her memories and more lasting than any dream.

He, she thinks, Aegon.

Helaena shakes her head, briefly raised lilac eyes toward her nephew, to his square jaw and bearded face.

He tilts his head, the motion is boyish and coy, bits of dark hair fallen loose from numerous plaits.

“If it is wealth you are after-“

“I have taken your wealth, dear aunt,” her stomach twists, her grip upon her skirts tightens.

“You must know I am not here for wealth alone.”

Heat throbs in her cheeks, hisses against the cold that billows in from the open door.

Her eyes find his and warmth burgeons in her belly, pulses hot.

“I am in want of a seer” and a woman, the words are unsaid, but she feels their enormity in the prickle of his dark stare.

“You are heathen, nephew,” she says, the words are more her mother’s than her own and they usher forth a laugh from him.

“Because I do not believe in the seven? Because I revere our true gods?”

She averts his gaze.

“Tell me, dear aunt, have you seen this day?”

For three nights.

Her grip curls painfully tight and she avoids his gaze.

“Then you are heathen as well.”

Then we are heathen together. A bastard and a witch.

She bites her tongue. That is how they would be seen, as nothing more than blasphemers. She blinks back the tears gathering in her eyes and finds a weathered hand outstretched before her, colored from the sun and thickened with calluses.

“Come with me,” he says and her heart leaps, how long had she longed to hear such words. For three nights.

She does not object, nor does she weep as she is taken from her home - she gasps when her fine slippers meet the snow, the air is brisk and stinks of iron and waste. Yet all she can do is smile, her hand in his.

A heavy fur mantle is removed and draped around her shoulders, it smells of blood and him.

“Helaena!”

Aegon howls upon the snow, upon his knees and surrounded by jeering filthy northmen.

Jacaerys guides her gently forward.

“Shall we kill him, lord?” One his men asks, a seax pressed readily to Aegon’s throat, swiftly silencing his cries.

Her fingers flex in Jacaerys’ grasp.

“Bind him,” he orders, before grabbing a fistful of Aegon’s hair, “we shall bleed the silver from you and your wretched kin.” With a shove he releases Aegon.

Helaena flinches, clinging to Jacaerys side when his men erupt in raucous cheers at the talk of ransom.

“And the princess, lord?” Another northmen asks.

She had never seen beyond the span of her chambers, beyond the hand outstretched, her throat tightens.

Lilac eyes find his, dark with the touch of amethyst in torchlight.

“Nephew-“

“The princess…stays with me!”

She shudders against him, nails catching upon the leather scale of his armor.

His breath beats warm against her chin.

“I shall have your head, bastard!”

Helaena flinches.

Jace’s hand squeezes gently around hers.

“Gag him and bind him.”

She is led away, on cold snow in warm hands. A horse awaits, and Jacaerys lifts her effortless upon its back before joining her.

They ride for some time before reaching his hall. The hearth is alive and mulled wine is served alongside their supper.

When he takes her, it is gently upon furs, inspiring pleasure so great she had wept, crying out his name.

They laid upon the furs, his body warm atop hers, hair loose. Her fingers threaded through dark curls. His mouth meanders over her breasts, like a hungry child. She giggles against the back of her hand.

“Jacaerys,” she calls, his head lolls softly, tongue flicking over a nipple as he hums in affirmation.

Her thighs press together.

“Thank you.”

[nightingale-ghost-writer]

By the Grace Of [Sorcerer Rogier x Fem!Tarnished] - Chapter Six

Summary: Delia flees the Hold after a hurtful comment, only to be blindsided- twice- by the people once closest to the sorcerer she’s grown to care so much for.

Author’s Notes: 1.6K words! This is where we start bending the rules. 😈 I’ve tried to keep the timeline fairly accurate thus far. However, this being a fix-it fic, some manipulation is involved. Also the chapter I’m most iffy about. I’ve rewritten it multiple times and I’m still not sure, but I think I finally got it right.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Elden Ring

Warnings: canon-typical violence, mild language, suggestive content, unedited (basically), unfinished story- read at your own risk!

Delia stormed through the Hold to the room she had claimed for herself. She bowed her head to Diallos and D as she passed, offered Roderika a tight smile. Hewg, bless him, didn’t even raise his head.

She made it to her room without incident, sliding down the door after it was shut. She drew up her knees, resting her arms and head on them.

She knew she was being unfair. She’d seen the look of recognition that flitted over Rogier’s face when she’d been unable to control her own. She knew he hadn’t meant the words the way they’d come across.

Still, it was good to have a problem she could sulk over, rather than swing a sword at.

And so she let herself sulk, to the count of 100. Then she raised herself to her feet, opened the door, and walked out again.

As she passed Fia’s room, the other woman’s clear voice reached her.

“My dear... Have you ever heard of black knifeprints?”

Delia turned, shaking her head. She stepped into the room, meaning to kneel as she often did.

“Dear Rogier likes to talk of it when abed.”

That stopped her in her tracks. Fia went on, but Delia heard only a steady drone. Only Rogier’s name snapped her back into attentiveness.

“-began to weep as he spoke… In truth I've heard tell from someone else, about the black knifeprints that fascinate dear Rogier so.” Fia reached forward, pressing a scrap of paper into Delia’s limp hand. “It wouldn't be right to give this to him, stuck as he is in the Roundtable Hold. Perhaps you could make use of it?”

Delia looked down at the paper- a bit of a map- and then back up. She studied Fia’s face. It was carefully blank, but there was a sly glint in her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide.

“Why give this to me, then?”

That seemed to catch the other woman off-guard.

“I heard that you lent a hand to dear Rogier. He seemed positively elated. He must be possessed of great mental fortitude. It anchors his will, and sustains him, despite his grievous wounds.You truly are a champion. To dear Rogier, and myself, too.”

Delia narrowed her eyes. There was a game here that she couldn’t see.

Nonetheless, it might serve as an excellent distraction for Rogier…

“Fine,” she said. Fia’s face broke into a smile, and Delia softened her voice. “Thank you.”

It was a long ride along the lakeside to the cave on Fia’s map. When she got there, the catacombs were dank and dark, musty and not a little frightening. She fought her way through, slashing about herself with Rogier’s rapier in a way that probably would have greatly dismayed him.

He did seem prim enough to know how to use it properly.

She wasn’t, but a blade was a blade. And with a little faith and a little trial and error, she was able to cast the phalanx of knives tied intrinsically to the weapon. The spell saved her more than once, knocking away skeletal hands while she hacked and stabbed at desiccated corpses.

At an opening bathed in a putrid yellow mist, she paused to collect herself. It was a strange magic she didn’t understand- some marking of the Two Fingers that she’d learned spelt a fight.

She braced herself, and then a step echoed through the passage. She whirled to see, of all people, D. Delia’s mind spun, searching for an explanation. She wasn’t often inclined to deception, but something about the way D spoke of his once-friend made her loathe to divulge any word of Rogier, no matter how trivial.

And she feared this was no trivial matter.

“Are you here to weed the Deathroot of the shade here?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly, grateful for the easy excuse. Behind his mask, Delia couldn’t see D’s expression. But she felt his eyes narrow in suspicion. She held his gaze, careful not to give any indication of discomfort. Daring him with her expression to challenge her.

“Well I’ll help you fight. But,” he gestured to the passage behind her. “It’s not in there.”

Delia looked over her shoulder, realization dawning on her. He couldn’t see the veil. She cocked an eyebrow at D. “Something is.”

He turned to survey the doorway, head moving slowly up and down.

“Right, then. Let’s get going.” He strode forward, blade raised confidently over one shoulder. Delia scrambled after him, drawing Rogier’s rapier and raising it. D’s helmet flicked toward her. Her mind supplied an image of the side-eye she couldn’t physically see.

“You’ve been using that?”

“Does everyone have something to say about my choice of weaponry?” she grumbled.

D snorted. “I’ll let you know once I’ve seen you fight.” And then, they were fighting. A shadow, it would seem. Delia caught glimpses of a dark figure, flitting in the corners of her vision.

Some sixth sense made her move, but not quite quickly enough. Her cheek stung from a shallow cut she was just too slow to avoid. She stabbed out, attempting to picture the way Rogier had wielded the blade. She’d only watched him from the corner of her eye, but it had seemed an extension of his arm. She, on the other hand, felt like a fool. The thin spine was ill-suited to her sweeping cuts, and her fencing skill was sorely lacking.

She felt another slice across the back of her shoulder, catching the fabric of her jerkin as it went. She rolled back, putting some distance between herself and her attacker, trying to pinpoint the wraith.

She caught just a glimpse as she was rushed, throwing up her sword to block the hooked blade flying toward her. She shuddered when she realized that beneath the hood, her opponent seemed to have no face. Again, she rolled, trying to get distance. She took another cut to the back of her hand as she did. She had been fighting for some time, down the lakeside and through the catacombs, and she was growing tired. Dangerously so.

D seemed not to struggle at all. For all of Delia’s paltry blows, he unerringly turned to face the shadow as it struck, parrying and slashing in perfect synchronicity with the ghostly assassin’s movements.

He spun opposite the shadow, and Delia saw her opportunity to strike as the Black Knife turned her back. She lunged forward, driving her sword through the assassin’s abdomen. She could feel the moment the life left her. The body sagged, sliding off the rapier with a slick hissing noise.

“You need a new sword.” The bastard wasn’t even out of breath.

“Why? Because you dislike this one’s previous owner?”

D stiffened, and Delia squeezed her eyes shut. The day she’d had had sapped what little diplomacy she possessed.

“Because,” ground out D. “That is a sorcerer’s blade. Meant for staving off opponents who get too close, not fighting armies.”

“Of course,” said Delia. She dropped to the ground, resting her head in her hands. “Please, forgive me.”

D had already turned to go, Deathroot seemingly forgotten, but stopped in the doorway. “He cares about you,” he said. Delia sat in stunned silence. “He’ll never say it aloud, but I can see it. Don’t let his obsessions get you killed.” He paused. “Or his sword. He wouldn’t want that.”

He swept out, leaving Delia reeling. She was still shaking when she finally stepped forward, carefully wrapping her fingers around a blade that seemed to absorb light from the room around it. She turned it over in her hands, studying the characters hewn into the flat of it.

Hopefully Rogier would be able to make more sense of it than she.

She reached for the magical thread that would warp her back to the cave mouth, and then paused, looking at the Black Knife’s corpse. She nudged the body with her toe, half expecting it to rise from its prone position.

It didn’t.

She set to work pulling off the shifting armor and held it up to herself. She couldn’t tell it it would fit, but this seemed like a safe enough place to find out. She peeled her own warrior’s garb off, piece by piece, laying it carefully aside. Then she stepped into the greaves.

The boots seemed to mold to her feet.

She made short work of donning the rest of the gear, marveling at how the pieces seemed to stretch and constrict themselves to her form. When she took a step forward, she heard nothing at all. A slow smile spread across her face.

Since waking here, she’d felt as though she could hardly keep her head above water. Fighting alongside the likes of Nepheli Loux had crippled what little confidence she’d had. The other woman had swung her axes about her as bludgeons, forcing her enemies back by the sheer force of her will. Delia had always coveted that raw physical power. She favored stealthier combat, something all too rare in these hostile lands.

But with this armor…

She spun on her heel, raising Rogier’s blade to eye level. The steel sang in the air, but her foot on the ground made no noise.

She had to show him.

She took herself through sets of stances.

She’d be wasting his time.

The moves were meant for a heavier, wider blade, but she had yet to find one better than the blade in her hand.

She shouldn’t be cruel. She knew he hadn’t meant anything by it.

She sighed, dropping her guard.

She wanted a hot meal and a good night’s rest.

She’d go to the Hold. She didn’t even have to talk to him.

She wanted to talk to him.

She set her shoulders, raised her hand to the wisp, and was off.

Off to the Hold and the man that were becoming her home.

[melishade]

Number 16? What if Optimus appears in episode 1?

This ask game

When the Survey Corps heard about Optimus' arrival in Shinganshina and see the aftermath of Optimus' intervention.

The Survey Corps was having a bad day. Well, they've always had bad days. It was never easy for them.

They had always suffered heavy losses when they came back from their expeditions from outside the walls. But when they returned, and they had given the arm of Moses to the weeping mother, something inside of their Commander Keith clearly snap. He broke. He broke down in front of everyone and walked away in shame. The next thing they all new, Erwin had become the 13th Commander of the Survey Corps.

Erwin had to go through protocol. Appoint scouts to leader positions, inform Zackley about the change, but then...they heard about the wall being breached. About a large Colossal Titan with no skin that was as tall as the wall, kicking the gate in and letting titans inside.

"Five minutes after you get this shit show, Shinganshia's under attack," Levi had remarked.

"Yes, Levi, the irony is not lost on me," Erwin sighed.

"More like a bad omen," Mike added.

The report was a mere hours ago, considering that information had to be transferred by horseback. But the Survey Corps were on high alert. They immediately got their supplies, their 3D gear, mounted their horses, and headed towards Shinganshina.

But Erwin had also heard an extremely conflicting report, everyone heard the report: the titans were fighting each other. An Armored Titan was fighting a Metal Titan. The titans were fighting each other. Both had displayed intelligence, and the Metal Titan had killed the Armored Titan, protecting Wall Maria from falling to the titans. Other reports were still hard to accept, but a titan protecting humans instead of killing? What could that possibly mean for humanity as a whole?

When they arrived to Shinganshia, the Garrison reluctantly opened the gate to allow them into the walled city.

"The Metal Titan's at the entrance, killing titans with his strange weapons," a soldier, Hannes, informed.

"Did you just say he?" Hanji started to grin.

"No," Mike warned them.

"He's been trying to prevent more titans from coming into the city, but we don't have the resources to get everyone else out," Hannes continued.

"What do you mean by 'he'?" Levi demanded, "There's no way a titan is sentient."

"Check for yourself, but we need help getting people out," Hannes requested, "Some are still stuck in their homes."

Erwin turned to Nanaba. "Help with recovery and evacuation."

"Yes, sir!" Nanaba saluted before addressing her fellow comrades on what to do next. Erwin immediately flew over the ruined houses of Shinganshina, followed by Levi, Mike, and Hanji. The quartet examined their surroundings and were internally horrified. The day that they had all feared: the titan's invading, had come true. But...where were the titan bodies? The decaying corpses? Where was the corpse of the Armored Titan? They were practically non-existent. There was rubble and human remains. But nothing else.

"Sir," Mike called out as he pointed ahead. The four of them landed on the houses near the broken gate, and were stunned at the sight. A giant, metal, titan adorned in red and blue stood in front of the damaged gate with a glowing blue gun for an arm. A titan started lumbering through the entrance, but they all witnessed the sight of the gun glowing brighter before firing at the titan before him. The titan was shot in the head, but instead of regenerating, it's body began to erode and fade away. It collapsed on the ground before turning to bones, and then smoke.

"Holy shit," Even the captain was taken off-guard by the sight. They had just witnessed a titan kill another titan without even touching the nape of the neck! How!

"I must study him!" Hanji tried to leap forward, but Mike quickly grabbed them and wrestling them back. Hanji yelled in protest, but their cry quickly got the attention of the titan, who looked back at them. Erwin had noticed the being wearing a mouthguard of some kind, and the blue of its eyes mirrored that of the weapon for an arm.

"Hello!" Hanji greeted with a wave.

"Are you the reinforcements the others have informed me of?" the titan asked them. It speaks. It actually speaks! It didn't have a mouth but it spoke!

"Yes," Erwin spoke, trying his best to keep his composure, "My name is Erwin Smith, the newly appointed Commander of the Survey Corps."

"I cannot move from my post, Commander," The titan explained, "I wish to aid the humans that need to evacuate the city, but if I leave, more titans may come in. Can you provide assistance in removing the civilians from the area?"

"We are currently working on that, but there is concern about your intentions-!"

"I do not consume humans," The titan automatically replied.

"That was quick." Levi narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"My race requires a different fuel source for consumption," the titan explained as he shot at another titan, "One that I will need to locate in a different time. For now, I wish to focus my attention on the task at hand."

"I need to take notes," Hanji grunted as they tried to get out of Mike's grip once more.

Erwin did his best to assess the situation with what he had, but he ultimately came to a conclusion. "Assist the others in evacuation."

"Erwin, you can't be serious," Mike said.

"This is an opportunity we can't waste," Erwin whispered to him before turning back to the titan, "If you are truly a sentient being, do you have a name?"

"My name is Optimus Prime," the titan answered.

"A name," Hanji squealed.

"Thank you for your assistance," Erwin said before turning to his comrades, "Play along for now."

(So someone asked for 30, but everything else is on the table.)